Expectations. . .

It is puzzling, indeed, to find ourselves where we never, by any stretch of the imagination, expected to be. Although, sometimes I’m not so sure what it was I expected…or if I had expectations. I just know it wasn’t “this” -- finishing out my life as half of something. I sometimes feel like I am taking the “road not taken.” Even so, there is pleasure to be found, if I choose to look for it. I am assured I have purpose, God is good and I will continue moving forward, one step at a time, further down whatever road He leads me, thankful for where I have been and in wonder of what lies ahead.

Sweet serenity. . .

Rachael and I are back inside, having been out and about, tending to morning chores at her house. I'm always glad when duty beckons me out of bed before sunrise since my own willpower has never developed to the point of my greeting that part of the day "just because." Bob, who was forever programmed according to the discipline of farm time--later, military time, would often say (about folks who sleep in)--"they're missing the best part of the day." It is, I believe, the most inspiring time of day. Time for refreshment of body and soul. Even in a day that might hold some dread, there are those moments before the day's timeline begins to unfold, when there is the opportunity for near perfect peace. Especially on a crisp, snow-white morning such as this, with soft billows of snow being blown in the breeze, glistening in the sun as it rises, sprinkling themselves here and there, whispering of sweet serenity.

There would have been carrot cake. . .

Outside, the snow is deep and bright. The snow gauge measures eighteen inches. There are just a few fine flakes adrift in the air now but earlier, there was what resembled a blizzard. It took me back. How, I wonder, can I be taken back to a memory that is not really my own, but someone else's, that took place even before I was born? That is something to ponder. For now, I will simply lay claim to it. It was on this day, February 12th, seventy years ago, that a baby boy was born; right on the farm across the highway. Being a home birth was not intentional. Since the road had drifted closed, traveling was not an option. And so, Bob (Robert Allyn) made his debut right there in the farmhouse. Three years (three years!?) ago, he began an even greater, unfathomable (to us) eternal journey. In between, his contribution to the world mattered to him. Someday, I hope to write about his in-between but that is for another time.
The farmhouse, itself, is gone now. But the terrain--the lay of the land, the mountains and hills, the valleys, and even some of the trees are the same. I am often awed by consistencies like this that link us in time, from one generation to the next. I find it quite soothing to meditate on ideas of this sort. It is a most genuine opportunity for closeness with those I love and to experience the beauty of the earth through their eyes. Of course, it's possible to experience some of that purely from memory, too. But I rather like the idea of being physically present in this place where others' memories have mingled with so many years' worth of my own. I miss Bob. I feel his spirit in unexpected places--trees, clouds--soaring on the wings of eagles. In the past, whenever I had heard the expression, "love does not die," I would think, "how nice, what lovely words." But now I see clearly. I understand.
Today is one of the more difficult ones for me as I swing back and forth from the "now" to the "what-if's." While the practicality of "now" is crucial to healthy well-being, I think it is important not to avoid the "what-if's," completely. Rather, to invite them in, indulging them briefly, then letting them go, knowing they will be invited back another day.
Today, on this milestone birthday, there most certainly would have been no less than 70 candles! There would have been laughter and jokes. There would have been a ruckus in our house today and lots of noise, instead of the quiet hum of the refrigerator. (Although...the wind chimes are giving their best effort, today.) In spite of everything, though, I count myself among the very blessed--and even lucky, for that matter. I give thanks each and every day for the grace of God, Who has given me the gift of seeing my life in terms of all I have had, rather than all I have lost. And that has made all the difference!
Oh...and there would have been carrot cake. Made from scratch. Lots of nuts and raisins!

Snow stories. . .

I enjoy winter mornings, peering out my windows at daybreak and seeing all the fresh wildlife trails in the snow. They reveal what a busy place my yard has been all night long. A story unfolds as I visualize the deer meandering here and there, nibbling away at plants I carefully nurtured all summer long. If I examine the deer tracks more closely, I notice if they have been made by a buck or a doe--depending on imprints near the rear of the hoof. Mouse tracks are cute little prints and usually include traces of tail lines between the footprints. Sometimes, I have an "aha!" moment when their trail leads to the discovery of mouse entrances, leading either into my house or other buildings on the property. "Silly mouse," I say, as I make a mental note of where to set a baited trap. Not surprisingly, the mouse tracks are often criss-crossed with those made by the neighbor's cat! (Mine are indoor cats.) Perhaps, if I were more astute in my nature studies, I might be able to determine the timing of each. But, for now, I simply surmise that cat and mouse were on different schedules when I see no signs of a tussle. Or blood. Bird trails are a little more difficult to follow since they seem to hop about in a flurry of no particular direction. I suppose the continuous movement might be a means of self-preservation. Or, maybe it's just hard to keep those disproportionately round bodies balanced on those spindly little legs with too few toes.

When winter is over and the snow all gone, I sometimes look out at my yard in the morning and wonder what invisible night stories are left untold.

Thoughts on Winter. . .

These January days are bittersweet. I am so awed by their snowy beauty that, at times, I think my heart will burst from my attempt to absorb the peacefulness of it all! Then, there is the unsettling restlessness that accompanies the unpredictable interruptions in all that--the forever memory of broken hearts in winter. I do not immerse myself, indefinitely, in this sadness but I do think it's important to acknowledge when it occurs and even to invite it in, so to speak, and to take the time to honor (what I call) the nudge. In this case, the nudge is to take an opportunity to "be" rather than "do."

As I already mentioned, it is never a good idea to become immersed, indefinitely, and that is not always easily avoidable. It takes a certain amount of strength and practice. Or should I say practice and strength? Probably the latter, since strength is more likely to be the outcome of practice, rather than the other way around, I believe. (It would seem, therefore, that we must begin a practice, based on faith, since we can only know the result through hindsight. But that's a whole other topic.)

To be continued. . .

Backward Tracks. . .

I smiled as I traipsed through the snow, following my own footprints, going to and from the garage this morning, thinking of Thoreau. He mentioned how methodically he used this procedure to make his way between his cabin and Walden Pond to procure his winter mornings' water. Facetiously, I said to myself, as I stepped carefully into each of my own backwards tracks, "Thus, eliminating the need to fuel up the snow-blower, I suppose." As that thought developed further, I imagined what an intrusion our (then) futuristic world would have been on the solace he sought. Which is the more deprived Era? I wondered. Then? Or Now?

While I am a firm believer in the art of moving forward, lest we wither and stagnate, I think it is a shame that, in the process, we sometimes deprive our souls of the nurturing that Simplicity has to offer.

Candle wax. . .

This morning, while I was removing candle wax from its container, using boiling water, I had a flashback. One frigid winter day, early on in our marriage and while I was still under the veil of my lack-of-experience youth, I melted wax and thought it was safe to dispose of it by pouring it down our kitchen sink--because it was "liquid." At the time, I even prided myself in the fact that I "knew" to run hot water after it, to flush it through the drain. Well, I guess you know what happened! It was almost instantaneous. Bob, of course, being a jack-of-all-trades--master of many, immediately donned his plumber's hat and resolved the issue.

I learned the valuable lesson that day that sink drains and wax, even in liquid form, are not compatible. More importantly, though, I marvel now as I did then at Bob's restraint as he patiently went about his unexpected task. I hope I told him that enough. Even so, I'm sure he gleaned some satisfaction, himself, by adding it to his comedic material, under the subject, "Stupid Things my Wife has Done." (My own terminology.)

How fondly I have tucked the incident away into the corners of my memory, reserving it for days like this.