the only explanation…

And then, every once in a long while, you have a moment:

You’re walking with a friend. And you’re about to tell her the name of the song that has come to mind. But instead you start to sing. And instead of thinking you are odd (which, of course, you are), she joins you. You think, “We sound pretty good!” You sing louder …

I’m on the top of the world lookin’ down on creation

And the only explanation I can find

Is the love that I’ve found, ever since you’ve been around

Your love’s put me at the top of the world

*song credits to The Carpenters

here

I was listening to a Lectio Divina podcast as I settled into the office. An intense dislike of rush hour traffic motivates me to make my commute well before the majority of the working world is out and about; an added benefit of this is the ability to quietly settle into a workday.   

“Put your finger here; see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it into my side. Stop doubting and believe.”  (John 20: 24-29, NIV) I listened to the words, wondering what the invitation was to me for this day, as the reader posed the question.

Then, seeing a new email from some old friends of ours, I opened it up to read the words: 

“Hey Tom, come close. Stick your hand in my wounds.” (paraphrase credits to Vance and Bethyl)

Well that’s interesting, I thought, though I wasn’t immediately coming up with anything concrete so far as a take-away goes. I could not, however, let go of the suspicion that something, somehow, was meant for me in this strange congruence of messages.

That day ended up being full of challenges–so much so that I lost track of time in the midst of the trouble-shooting and ability-stretching aspect of it all. And it was good. I felt like I had expended myself, in the best way. I felt useful. I felt needed.

What I know to be true is that my feelings are not the important thing; just because I may “feel” needed means little in the grand scheme of things: it is pure presumption for me to imagine that others just, if not more, capable than myself would not be able to step into any particular task if I were not there to do it. But what mattered, in this moment, of this day, is that I was there to do it. And so I was the one who got to experience that exquisite knowledge that I had done something good.

I cannot help, in writing those words, but conjure up my inner Julie Andrews, singing softly to myself:

“. . . so, somewhere in my wicked, miserable past, I must have done something, some (imagine a long, drawn-out, melodic voice)-thing good . . .”

Anyhoo 😉

That was Monday.

Come Tuesday, my state of mind was markedly different. I was back in a state of feeling underchallenged and understimulated. I felt that feeling, and realized how great a difference others’ assumptions of us make. May I be one who resists judgements, who helps others rise to their full potential . . .

Towards the end of the day, my coworker knocked on the door of the room I was in, asking for help. I handed off to her the patients I was processing and went in to see about a blood draw for a little one. He was scared, having had an unsuccessful stick already, and I was grateful to have been given a pocket of time to connect with him. I wowed him with the fact that I had lived in Paris for a time, after hearing him tell his dad about his favorite Parisian sports player. I may, or may not, have given him chocolate, both before and after his blood draw. He smiled through his well-earned tears as I waved him goodbye, waving back with a puffy-cheeked, chocolate-sucking smile.

And I said a little prayer of thanks for the gift of being, in this moment, of this day, here.

Frankly, I’m still not sure what Tom and I have in common this week. But I’m leaving those words where they are, open. Here.

*dogwood, foraged while walking the dog-a joint effort by Peter and I

technology, shmechnology

Walking into her house yesterday, I warned Sarah,

“I have a weird annoyance I would like to vent about…”

Perhaps thinking to herself that this was actually par for the course in the world of our friendship, she smiled graciously and offered a listening ear.

While we walked I explained that I’ve always thought of my phone as my tool, and assumed it would respond to me accordingly. I’ve also habitually asked for the oldest model I can get, liking it with the least amount of bells and whistles possible. But when my phone suddenly bit the dust last week, I was forced into a sudden purchase of a phone way more advanced than I’d like because, technology moving forward as it is, they don’t make older ones compatible anymore.

Not able to transfer directly from my defunct old one, the salesperson suggested iCloud. I’ve ignored the warnings that iCloud wasn’t updating for years now, but had some vague knowledge of it from decades of using a MacBook. I reset my password and figured it might load a few photos onto my phone, forgetting about it. The next day I looked at an oddly familiar image on the screen, automatically touched it with my finger, and was then gobsmacked, and slightly horrified at the slideshow, complete with grating techno tunes, of forgotten images from a village trip we took in Ghana. Almost 10 years ago. That was weird, I told Peter.

The next day I decided to look for a photo for my background and discovered, in scrolling, pages. And pages. And pages. Of an old textbook. At the time, I thought I was making my life easier by photographing, one chapter at a time (to be promptly deleted afterwards!) of my book so I could study without carting around the book.

Never did it cross my mind that I would then, 4 years later, be stuck with an entire MEDICAL TEXTBOOK, in low quality images, on my phone!

While ranting, it occurred to me that what bugs me about all this is that it feels as if technology is controlling my memories. I do not need to be reminded, at random times, of things I already stored away for myself in a hard drive, in case I ever wanted to be reminded of them.

And I certainly don’t need to be revisited by things I never wanted to hold onto in the first place!

After the previous week’s frustration with electric issues on my car, this is me, feeling like a wannabe-Luddite. Or maybe this is just me being an old and persnickety woman.

It seemed appropriate to share this particular image that Sarah and snapped on said walk.

Saturday

Patience. Patience.

 Thursday I waited for 2 hours for repairs on a flat tire. I walked to the neighboring hardware store and wandered, a sort of retail therapy devoid of any interest in purchasing; I was simply soaking in the soothing sights and smells (am I odd in my love of Lowes? The idea of a shopping mall gives me a cold sweat … but a hardware store? Yes please!)

When the tire shop informed me the tire was not patchable, I sighed and nodded, unsurprised. Thanks to the Poopy Pallet People on our street, as I have “fondly” nicknamed them, my little Honda is no stranger to nail punctures. 

Friday, on my way home from work I stopped to pick up the party platters I had ordered the week before for our church. Wires were crossed and my order was not there. They pulled it up online and offered to put it together while I waited.

Patience. Patience. 

I strolled the aisles. I thought about my last patient of the day…

I’d just given the 5-year old her vaccines, that she had bravely bared her arms for, smiling at me. 

I had walked out of the room, telling them the doctor would be in to see them soon. Closing the door, I heard the girl’s mother answer her phone, and, almost immediately I heard a loud wail, followed by cries from the other family members in the room. The clinic room door opened and they stumbled out. “Mi hermanito, mi hermanito!,” she wailed. “My little brother. My little brother!”

“You need to leave…?” I asked, holding her arm while she leaned into me. I walked them to the front office and told the receptionist what I had pieced together. “Go!,” she told them, waiving checkout procedures.

When I charted the vaccines afterwards I realized I’d given the previous set to the child—her new immigrant vaccines—back in January. 

And then it occurred to me: today’s Good Friday. This unknown-to-me young man had just died, on Good Friday.

Today my great aunt tells me her brother-in-law died this week. She holds up 4 fingers of her left hand as she counts off the number of cemeteries she takes flowers to for all those she has lost. “I didn’t take as many flowers as I used to this week, though,” she admits. “Prices have gone up so much.” The price for flowers to lay on the grave of a loved one.

When she tires of talking I clean up her Word Search book, finding the words she’s given up on and then putting a large check mark on the corner of each completed page as I go. I have to pee. But I’m so close to finding that last word.

Patience. Patience.

I get home to find a single tulip in bloom amongst my rows of daffodils. I do not even attempt to delay the gratification of cutting it and bringing it in for the dining room table. I hope for more of the bulbs to bloom. I wait. 

Patience. Patience.

Tomorrow we will flower the cross at the end of the morning service. It will be an extravagant, exuberant display of glorious color, to celebrate the resurrection.

We wait for Sunday.

soup

By early afternoon, I was already solidly in a “terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad day” mindset.

First off, my mind had been preoccupied with the state of things at work: a seemingly impossible situation, over which I have no control, and which has been going on so long that the hopelessness is draining my energy along with my cheer.

Secondly, I had committed to taking care of my car’s AC that day, knowing they car business is all the way underground on the totem pole of things-I-enjoy-doing. But having been assured that it was likely a simple Freon-adding affair, I figured I’d better just suck it up and get it done.

An hour later, the mechanic said “so the good news is …”

Uh oh, I thought.

Turns out I had plenty of Freon, and not enough compression. I paid my bill and called the compressor service the mechanic referred me to, scheduling a day next week. Then I called Peter to try to figure out the logistics of work-drop-off and pick-up for the all-day affair this repair will purportedly require. 

But my mood could not help but lift when I got home and smelled the wafts from the kitchen. Earlier this week (as one does), my husband had received a text from a friend. “I have a rooster that needs to be taken care of.” Peter had obliged.

Sitting down late to dinner, we were soon oohing and awing over the intensity of this large bird’s flavor, and over the great deal of tasty soup it had cooked down into, even though I’d added no liquid to the pot. In between happy bites, Peter told me about the farm news of the day: our adopted kid has started nursing from the mama goat, which means we are relieved from bottle feeding. My sense of well-being inched up. We smiled at each other. “Good enough?” I ask, in our habitual post-meal pattern. “Good enough,” he responded, and we started cleaning the table. 

I put the lid back on the crockpot (which is actually my favorite bowl to eat out of, that fits the lid-less pot and so does double duty). Opening the door of the fridge to slide it in, I watched in horrified slow motion as the pot slipped out of my hands. The lid shattered, and chicken, in A-LOT of fatty broth, spewed all over the kitchen floor. Our quirky slanted floor aided its ability to spread far and wide, centering itself underneath the refrigerator. “I’m so sorry!” I gasped, grabbing a handful of rags. Peter knelt down to help me, reminding me that he has habitually been the one to cause the demise of large numbers of dishes in the house. Bart trotted over, generously leaving the comfort of his bed to assist in the clean-up.

Once most of the mess was gone, I looked at the years-encrusted lines going down the side of the stove, and at the smudged wall that the fridge had been hiding. “While I’m here…”. I attacked the grime. “Didn’t we say we wanted to deep clean our kitchen tonight?” I ask. “Yep,” Peter nodded. “According to plan.”

Today, walking along the river, I tell Sarah the story. 

She laughs with me.

She then tells me how her cat was trying to climb on her shoulders while she cooked her eggs the other day. They had ended up in a strange sort of dance around the kitchen as she’d attempted to avoid him while he persistently followed her. 

I laugh with her.

And I marvel at the miracle of companionship to bring lightness to the darknesses of life.

colors

There are 10 gazillion “productive” things that I am quite sure I should be doing instead but, for this moment, I can’t think of a one of them. I’m on my back in the grass, feeling the warmth of the sun and stretching my happy-noodle-muscles. I still can’t quite believe that they conquered the broken-heater lap pool just now but, somehow, they did. I did. Conquered.

While I know that nothing will be different at the workplace the next morning, I also know that the knowledge of a small victory in one realm of life can positively impact my state of mind about facing the challenges in another. 

So I lie on the grass, at peace in the midst of the life turmoil. I stare in awe at the glowing brilliance of blue and green, and I take a single photo.

A small white petal flutters above me, carried by a gust of wind that then dies down, dropping the petal onto my face. I sit up, brush the leaves out of my hair, and make my way back to my car.

After a short drive, I’m kissing my great aunt on the cheek and wishing her a happy 90th. “I never thought I’d live this long!” she says, smiling widely and surrounded by us: friends, children, grandchildren, great grandchildren. A great-niece. She wears a cardigan embroidered with pink roses, and clip-on pearls on her ears. 

A bit later, I’m home and walking barefoot through my yard, collecting just-bloomed yellow daffodils, bulbs we planted 4 years ago when newly settling into the homestead..

“I see your true colors shining through . . .” I laugh at myself, wondering why I’m suddenly singing something I enjoyed back in high school. For some reason I still know all the words so I keep singing. It occurs to me that, lack of deep philosophical significance notwithstanding, I find comfort in the words. 

“…so don’t be afraid, to let them show . . . your true colors . . . they’re beautiful . . .”

Am I simply noticing the loveliness of Springtime? Or am I pep talking myself into some semblance of confidence as I face the next week?

Maybe both. 

and …and …

And then there is the day when it all feels so bleak, and you don’t know how to keep moving forward. And just then the surprise new addition to the homestead comes up to you for cuddles, and her head starts to loll back in sleep while in your arms…

And the sun is shining through the cold wind…

And you think, maybe “all shall be well” after all.

*Julian of Norwich, partially quoted 

weathering, Part II

“Geez Louise!,” I say, gasping as an arctic blast stung my cheeks, “This is for-real winter . . . not even Southern winter!

We are struggling, here on the farm. Peter’s given up on trying to keep the animal waters refreshed; instead, all water containers live in our bathtub and he has a schedule for water-catering to each critter. Who knew we were in a catering food service biz, eh?

Our rain water catchment tank burst its pipes, at the moment frozen solid with its busted spout sealed: we are anticipating a potentially dramatic flood once the sun comes out enough to thaw the water.

After struggling to move my fingers for several milkings, we decide to carry the goat inside the house this morning, Peter holding her on his lap while I milk her. Rudely awakened from her straw bed, she struggles at first then quiets down in the warmth of our living room, making for one my easiest milking sessions yet . . . what was that about special treatment for farm critters?

We have to carry water out to car doors in order to open the ice-sealed rims (one of my coworkers tells me she miscalculated when using this same trick. The water that she had poured on the doors spilled back behind her wheels, so that by the time she got back out to get in the car, she had a skating rink behind her car. She had to go back inside for another pot of hot water, which she poured on the ground, rushing to jump into the car and go before it froze back up.)

Now I know that this is nothing special so far as winter weather goes: other parts of the world deal with such logistics on a regular basis. I do think, though, that it carries a bit of an extra burden here where infrastructure is not set up for this. 

Peter and I have been a bit closer to the land for the past few years, but this region of the world lives, for the most part, as if weather is beside the point. We cool our cars and homes when temps rise, heat them when they fall, and transport ourselves in climate-controlled vehicles to get from one insulated building to another. Nothing keeps us from being as fast, efficient, and busy as possible . . .

Until it does.

Until we cannot get out of our icy homes, and we are forced to 

S L O W

D O W N

My commute is easy this morning: the early morning roads are dark and quiet, and I get the impression that most homes and businesses are still hunkered down. I wonder if patients will show up. After days of clouds, the sun rises clear and strong, but the air still bites. 
We wait.

Whatever the weather . . .

weathering

Last night we celebrated my husband’s 50th. Truth be told, I was not interested in partying. “You know I’m not looking forward to this,” I’d admitted to him, spoiling the surprise. “I love you. But I don’t love these things… never mind with all the uncertainties of weather and work tomorrow!” He knows. 

As the meal wound down, mom asked me to take care of the cake, gesturing to the table next to ours on which she had placed a large homemade sheet cake (thank goodness for a mom who does things like baking. If I can put a meal in a crockpot, perfect. Baking? No thanks!). A package of birthday candles lay next to it, so I opened it up and began to lay out the letters. H, A, P, P …. I stopped, looked again at the letters in my hand and thought, “Where’s the fun in that?”

Moments later, I was dancing around the table, singing my traditional Zambian song, while Peter stared quizzically at the cake  blazing it’s bright letters in front of him. He looked at me then, “Hippy Bart Day”? I shrugged. “Well, we couldn’t bring Bart to the restaurant so I figured he should be in on the fun somehow.”

And just like that, I realized that, yes, this was fun. I had so thoroughly convinced myself that this was not where I wanted to be that I almost didn’t notice that this – surrounded by family- was the perfect place to be… and not in-spite of the circumstances, but because of them.

When we got home we tag-teamed with shovels and buckets of leaves, making record time at wintering the garden. We had milked the goat earlier, so as soon as Bart was taken care of, I plopped on the couch, happily worn out and eager to escape to by bookish happy place. 

Today has proven the weather-guessers correct, and the slushy snowflakes blur my windshield as I make my way home this afternoon. I glare at the pickup tailing me, and grip my hands more tightly, 10:00 and 2:00, the way I was trained, my body hugging the steering wheel in my old-lady fashion that others have always teased me for. Relieved when the truck passes me, squealing its hurried annoyance, I think about my grandmother.

 Oma once told me that, as a poor child growing up on a farm in Russia, she and her siblings would rush to freshly-dropped cow dung, plunging their bare feet into it for its warmth. I cannot imagine weathering winter in Russia, a century ago. Our current wintery mix lost its novelty, for me, before it even started. Maybe people were just hardier back then … or maybe it’s just me who’s the total weather wimp.

This past Saturday, the morning after a frightful day of relentless rain and tree-demolishing winds, I awoke to a bright, hope-filled sunrise. It was so lovely that I took photos of the tree lines on either direction of our house-on-a-hill. I breathed a prayer of thanksgiving, humbled by the realization that just when I thought I might lose hope, I looked up, like a mole emerging from the ground, to blink at the discovery of a blinding sun.

Today I wait for what tomorrow might bring. 

Whatever the weather …

2023 in the books

It is perhaps no great shocker for you, my readers, to hear my admission that reading is a huge part of my life. It is a routine, a joy, and a lifeline-a way I wind down at the end of each day, a way I find delight in my inner life, and a way I find purpose in the big and little bits of daily life.

I used to track my books in goodreads but at some point this year I gave up on its clunkiness and decided to just stick with my physical reading notebook. Here, then is a breakdown of my 2023 reading list.

A few explanations may be helpful before I begin:

a. Only books that I finished have made it to this list, as there are many that I started but then crossed off as “abandoned.”

b. I have to separate audiobooks from physical because, for me, the experience is different, so that a book I may have never read in physical form could be a fabulous listening experience. The fact that I can do other things while listening but not while reading also separates the experiences. That is why I kept these categories separate in my list.

c. I generally have 3 books going at a time: 

1. a “classic” (something that I would like to be knowledgeable about, so far as literary interest goes) that I read a chapter-ish a day of.
2. a nonfiction that I read as I feel the urge, and 
3. a fiction that is my “meaty” reading each night.                      Enough already-let’s just get to the list, eh?

2023 Year in Books 

Audiobooks: 4

Physical books: 78

Top 13 books: 

Audio: 

Surrender, by Bono

Physical: 

-Deal of a Lifetime, by Fredrick Backman

-Hello Beautiful, by Ann Napolitano 

-Malibu Rising, by Taylor Jenkins Reid 

-The Summer Book, by Tove Jackson 

-Covenant of Water, by Abraham Verghese

-Lila, by Marilynne Robinson 

-The God of the Garden, by Andrew Peterson 

-Empire Falls, by Richard Russo 

-Let us descend, by Jesmyn Ward

-The Vaster Wilds, by Lauren Groff

-The Heaven and Earth Grocery Store, by James McBride 

-Dean’s Watch, by Elizabeth Goudge 

And there you have it. See photo for my final round of elimination 😉