Moments

Sparkling with morning freshness, drops of dew pick up rays as the sun peeks over my back fence. I’m struck by bold shots of light, and realize this is a fleeting beauty.

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I think about how every moment — whether beautiful, ugly, horrifying, uplifting, or unnoticed — is fleeting. The sun behind a cloud takes the sparkle away.

I wonder where these moments fleet. Can a moment be more?

If it hits you just right, a moment can get into your mind and look around for something to grab onto. Or, it can whirl aimlessly in there until it turns into something that matters.

We all have them: moments of clarity that teach, moments that startle you and make you think, moments that will affect the rest of your life.

I keep mine in my head in a “photograph album” full of snapshots that matter.

• an inchworm on a picket fence

• a chameleon changing color

• a tear on my son’s cheek at his brother’s funeral

• an injured baby rabbit in my son’s hand as his eyes beg me to fix it

• the look of shock when my sick little boy finds me checking into a book called What to Do till the Doctor Comes

• watching a pig give birth on my grandfather’s farm

Sadly, I know some who look at me strangely when I talk about things like this. It just doesn’t make sense to them. All I know is that my whole life I have paid attention to things that move me. This is distracting when, for example, I turn my head towards a bird song or notice a whiff of fresh breeze while engaged in a conversation. I am paying attention; it just doesn’t look like it. It’s not multi-tasking; it’s storage.

I just don’t want to miss anything. Call it curiousity or imagination or restlessness. It’s where I find what feeds and guides me.

 

 

Idle Hearing

Amid the confusion of random sounds,

I rest my eyes and let the din recede.

Single sounds emerge.

A child cries: “look Mommy.”

A dog barks sharply.

Birds’ wings rustle.

A car door slams.

A cell phone rings.

An angry discussion approaches and fades..

A baby’s rattle falls, jingling.

A customer exclaims over tomatoes.

Someone comments on the weather.

I drift, as a

Police siren knocks me off my chair.

Choosing Hope

I’ve been watching a live nest camera streaming night and day from an osprey nest in Maine for the past five years. I was so moved by what I saw that I attended a camp at the Audubon site of the nest a few years ago.

Things have changed since the first year I watched the osprey pair raise three nestlings to migration. We were devastated the following year when, watching from computers across the world, we witnessed eagles take all three of the chicks. Since then, we have witnessed more eagle attacks, midnight Great Horned Owl attacks, and even a chick chased off the nest by a colony of wasps!

While this stark evidence of Nature’s ways shocked me, I was dismayed to read the numerous demands for intervention and expressions of despair from some on the chat group. One year, a nightly prayer vigil formed to exhort heavenly intervention!

“It’s just not right that all this work and nurturing [referring to the pair of ospreys] takes place only to be a snack for the owl who will be back like he was last year till there were none left…”

OK, that one did it for me. This thoughtless person forgets that we are privileged to have a view into this nest. We are watching one piece of the enormous puzzle that is Nature. Sad as it may be to watch, the owl is feeding its own young. No one seems to criticize the ospreys as they bring live fish after live fish to feed their chicks.

I am saddened by the frequent reminders that humans think we are superior to all life. Obviously, wildlife cameras do have a downside: the very ability to see inside the wild gives some the misguided feeling of ownership. We must realize that human intervention is only rarely permitted, and prayers won’t change the natural inevitability we see here. If I were to stop watching any camera, it would be to avoid the human behavior, not nature’s.

When I see cries for intervention that span from the absurd to the ridiculous, I grow weary of those who don’t see the bigger picture: much of what we see in Nature that distresses us is the very behavior that keeps the balance. Intervention to save a weak chick tips that balance in future generations. Many are horrified to see an animal parent let an offspring starve without realizing that the female parent must survive to keep the species going.

To the person on the chat who dismissed the “work and nurturing” of the ospreys to create a “snack for the owl,” I would ask her if she can apply that premise to the family of a fallen serviceman or a couple whose young child dies of cancer.

Years ago my father, exasperated by whatever was happening in the world at that time,  told me “you have no business bringing children into this world.” I quickly replied “that is my business because if we don’t have children, then that is the end of the world.” I was much younger then, but I knew what I believed in.

The natural urge to procreate is an act of hope; a belief that there will be a future; a willingness to “plant trees whose shade they know they shall never sit in.” *

When I read apocolyptic novels such as The Stand or Lucifer’s Hammer, I always see myself as a survivor. I choose hope.

*Anonoymous Greek proverb

 

 

 

 

My Kilter is Missing

 

I can’t sit still inside my head. Has the world lost it’s tilt?

Things feel either fuzzy around the edges or sharply sparkling with demanding auras, like night-driving that has me searching for the real center.

Curiosity bumps into daily schedules, spinning my brain off after unfettered wonders.

The havetas fight with the wantas, causing some part of my left brain to stamp its feet.

Persisting for days, this chaos has beckoned my kilter to return.

I resist the persistence, wishing to pursue whimsey when I most need to plant myself to figure this out. There are, after all, real problems needing my attention; commitments I must attend to.

How can I answer duty amidst summer breezes, bird songs, and conflicting calls to play?

Like a pendulum, incapable of perpetual motion, the arc lessens with each swing, and clarity arises on my horizon.

Silence, contemplation, calm whisper comfort and peace. “Attend to yourself; back off; and sort this out” arrive from inside me. I wait and think, losing sleep, petting cats, drinking wine.

Every concession is a compromise; every step toward fixing this drags one foot. But I push through to some big changes that promise to turn chaos to kilter, with just a few flicks of the pendulum that won’t let it stop. Kilter-light, not stasis, is what I need.

I proceed:

  • one foot in front of the other sporting mis-matched socks;
  • taking the shortest path from here to there with only one skitter around that tree back there;
  • avoiding pitfalls but pausing to look into each pit;
  • tempering every “must” with a dash of “need.”

And there it is. Once again, I have balanced myself. A couple good nights’ sleep restore my strength, and I hit the ground ambling. After all, running is bad for my joints.

Simple Happiness

There was some magic at the farmers market yesterday, and I woke with tingling remnants of it this morning.

First, a sweet older man with a fiddle case asked politely if he could set up his stool and do a bit of fidd’lin’. And soon, the music from his bow set a new mood for the day. I’m sure he stayed longer than he thought he would, but he was enjoying talking to the vendors and shoppers too. Turns out, he is a member of Old Time Fiddlers. He just loves to play, and, he said: “It just makes me happy, so maybe I can spread a bit of that.” And there was dancing.

But wait, there’s more. Sometime later, a woman bearing a huge backpack and carrying a weathered walking stick, wandered the market. She stopped to talk to fiddler Truman, now a friend of the market, and ended up taking a video of him.

As she came in my direction, I said I wanted to know her story. Now, understand, I don’t think I’ve ever greeted a person that way. Her story is incredible. She has been “walking for happiness,” and was on about mile 5,400…walking…alone! She will continue on across the top of the country to home in Massachesetts.

Why? I asked her. And she told me of her quest. In a troubled, troubling world, she and some friends were asking people what makes them happy and recording answers. She is the only one walking the country. When she asked me if she could record my answer, I said yes. We talked some more and she said she had to be on her way.

Irony alert: While Paula is searching the country to find what makes people happy, she is also spreading some. Her open, friendly curiousity opens people to seek their own.

So, what makes me happy? I told Paula that, after more than 30 years of professional life, which sometimes felt like constantly fighting to be heard because I knew stuff, I found happiness in running a bed and breakfast. Following that, it is the very fundamental task of baking. Bottom line, it’s about the serving, of providing comfort and good food, and finding that these are the things that connect and nurture people.

It’s not money; it’s not power; and it’s certainly not the things we acquire. I’ve written here about why I bake, and I find truth in it nearly every day.

There’s magic in the connections we make.

What makes YOU happy?

 

March for Life

Listening to Joan Baez’s 75th birthday concert, singing “I am Just a Poor Boy” with Paul Simon, knowing of the tickets my son has for one of Elton John’s last concerts, I realize a whole generation of music is about to retire. So many have announced last tours, Simon among them, we may be left with only The Rolling Stones still gathering no moss.

My heart beats to the music of legendary musicians. I can still be moved to joy and tears by the ballads of resistence and hope and pain and peace. At least two generations have been born and grown since she first sang. The magic in the music has captured the hearts, minds, and imagination, of many of today’s youth.

In part, the music resonates because the battles have not been won. The struggles continue as though never fought. We must continue to work for the cause of the poor, of minorities, of the wounded and disabled, human rights, and groups still oppressed by ever new despots and tyrants. Since the first Earth Day in 1970 we still have a gravely endangered environment, perhaps in greater danger because what we have learned since is being ignored by those who reject science.

I echo what I’ve said here before; hadn’t we taken care of this in the 60s and 70s?

Old wounds are being opened; holocaust denial is spouted; our American Constitution is being used as a weapon…against children; dictators are snarking that “size matters”; and extreme evangelists are proclaiming nonsense, gleefully egged on by those in power.

I cling to the music. Although I will resist absurdity as loudly as I am able, I work hard to find peace in my heart and hope for our magnificent world.

I turn to nature, where life has only the choice to continue. And it does for the most part. We have brought many species to the edge of extinction, yet many persist. There is hope in what we observers anthropomorphize, but Nature pretty much ignores us and goes about its business. The natural world is too busy adjusting, adapting, and nurturing the fittest to be bothered by our fighting.

There will still be failures, but if we could only pause long enough to listen to the anthems ringing down the years, we might see how naive humans are about managing a world — our only one.

“We are just an advanced breed of monkeys on a small planet orbiting around a very average star. But we can understand the universe, and that makes us very special.”                                — Stephen Hawkings

 

Where’s the truth?

Today, #45’s top communications person, Ms. Hicks, said sometimes she has to tell “white lies.” I almost threw up.
     Forty years ago, I started my career in public relations, way before there were any degrees — other than journalism — supporting the practice. I joined the Public Relations Society of America, studied everything I could find, and went to every conference I could afford. In 1980-something, I studied for and earned my APR — Accredited in Public Relations — from the PRSA, and I was really proud of that. I had posters made of the PRSA Code of Ethics and tried my best to live up to it. Anyone who is interested in learning what public relations is supposed to be about, here is the PRSA Code of Ethics page:
     https://www.prsa.org/ethics/code-of-ethics/
     In 1980-something, my tiny PR firm in a small town in NJ won a Silver Anvil award from the PRSA, the highest industry award there is.
     Today, I am so glad to be out of this profession. Communications professionals, whether for business, professional practices, non-profits, or governing bodies, is a public relations job. I see hideous distortions of the practice everywhere I look.
    I quit my last job, after having been the senior professional in PR at four universities, because my boss told me to lie. The president was a scholar, but he was not an ethical person. I sat in months of Monday senior staff briefings, where worry about loss of enrollment was the main topic. When the enrollment numbers showed a sizable drop, here’s what I was told to say to the media:
“We planned for this drop in enrollment so we could keep our rising costs down.”
     I looked this man in the face and told him NO. Under no circumstances would I lie. His face got red and he dismissed me. And by “dismissed,” I mean it looked like I could keep my job and title, but he would be handling his own PR. This is a common practice in higher education; people are hardly ever fired, but are simply put aside and ignored.
     Within two weeks, I resigned. I should not have had to do this.
     Today, if anyone in #45’s staff tells him “no,” that person will be out the door. What this means is that there is zero credibility for anything — news, statistics, explanations, policy statements, tweets etc. — spewing from that office. We must assume it is all lies, white or otherwise.
     Anyone want to argue with me on this?

My Nervous Bakedown

Good morning, World.

Just before starting the baking race to the last farmers market for me this year, I admit I’ve been asking myself for months why I have neglected my writing. I’ve given myself a splendid excuse: must concentrate on making nourishing goodies for everyone else.

Oh, but wait. Isn’t that what so many of us have done in crafting our lives? Myself…for everyone else. Offer comfort, care, love, appropriate expressions of love. There it is: having given myself permission (I know now I’d never needed to ask) to lead my life boldly the way I want, I realize I’m still making excuses for not tending to my most fundamental joy.

I notice a conflict here. The baking and the community I’ve found at the farmers market both give me joy, but agreeing to let myself feel there isn’t time for anything else is still an excuse. I’ve been hiding inside a small, but satisfying, world. Yet I know there is a larger space I can enter. I’ve been there.

Who am I, then? If I were a baker, I’d have a bakery downtown, and become famous for my incredible scones, and actually make a living at it. Well, that’s not going to happen. I love baking, but it’s an interesting hobby I shall not leave behind.

Two weeks ago, I had what I cleverly called a “nervous bake-down.” Suddenly, for a day, I was forgetting ingredients, dropping little blueberry handpies on the floor, scattering flour much further than I ever had, and running to the store because I had run out of SUGAR! In my mind, the one that stands aside and watches me, I got a quick and vivid picture of the Muppet Swedish Chef, tossing a salad everywhere, and woke up.

I am most fundamentally, a writer. The simple truth is: writers write! I have not been writing, but the gears have been running constantly, impatiently, waiting only for me to engage. So, today while I bake, I will be paying attention to what is happening “upstairs,” where far too much dust has gathered.

Warning: I may suddenly disappear into the universe where my imagination magically flows onto the page. I’m packed and ready to go. I promise to send postcards from whatever brink I am teetering upon.

Why I Bake

There’s a spirit in my kitchen. She sends sparks through my doughy fingers kneading life into an ancient bread. I feel her swirling around in clouds of flour making scones light enough to float.

She is at once my mother and my two grandmothers. I am inspired to form breads from times when recipes came from tradition, not written, but carried across worlds to keep family threads unsevered.

“Bread is life,” my spirit tells me.

Indeed, bread is a gift beyond history, from the weathered hands of the poorest peasants fleeing oppression. Travelling as a living family member on pioneer wagons, gathering sustenance from the air as it goes, it was both the travellor and the welcoming host upon finding home.

When someone keeps coming back for more, I know I have offered more than food. I’ve had people tell me of things that happen when they eat what I bake.

This the scone I’ve had dreams of.”

“I closed my eyes and was sitting at my grandmother’s Passover Seder.”

“This brings me home.”

A cousin, after making a corned beef and swiss sandwich from my sourdough rye bread said she “was transported to Sardi’s in Times Square.”

Bread is so much more than ingredients; it is a loaf of time travel, connection, family, love, and comfort.

And that’s why I bake.

 

I’m not here because of you.

“I’m not here because of you,” I answered to yet another demand in my head. “No. I really don’t want to do that today.”

Look, I’m 70 years old, healthy, smart, and still looking out at life. During my life, I’ve lived through the Cold War, fights for civil rights and women’s rights, environmental concerns and fears, and wars in places I had never thought about, to name just a few upheavals.

What all that means is that I’ve spent a great deal of time preparing for or fighting for or just waiting for something to happen. I ducked and covered, fought the fights, eschewed phosphates in my soaps and dyes in my toilet paper, and protested against useless wars. And what did I get?

Well, I wasn’t dissolved by atom bombs (Whew!). I was proud that we had won greater civil and women’s rights. No phosphates gave me grimy clothes proudly worn. I lived in a country with a government that was strong enough to weather the protests and come out stronger. I felt good about raising children who saw me as a fighter for righteous causes and who joined me in some. I spun around once, clicked my heals, and…

Here we are, almost three generations later.

• We are still worrying about atomic and hydrogen (and worse) bombs and the lunatics who have them. It may well be that the unjust wars we fought to bring “democracy” to peoples whose lives are steeped in ancient beliefs, have spawned the international terrorism we cannot stop. The genie is out of the bottle!

• Civil and women’s rights are being eroded by men and women and religions, claiming they know better.

• The environmental concerns are turning out to be much worse than we imagined. It seems that the more we learn, the less we know, as science and superstition battle for our understanding.

• The current political scene is one I don’t recognize as anything remotely good for America.

Having dedicated myself to causes, fears, outrages, and children; and being proud that I did; I stand today wondering where and who I am. In the past 20+ years, I have found that I can survive well. I’ve moved from New Jersey to Georgia to Iowa to Oregon; I’ve had four executive jobs, run a bed and breakfast, dabbled in antiques, written a novel, and now am starting a small baking business. I’ve had friends say I’m amazing, one who says I’m his role-model; and a sister who thinks I don’t know what I’m doing just bouncing around aimlessly.

What this is, I’ve concluded, is the result of longer looking out. Without really knowing it, I’ve been looking inside myself to find the strength and will to move along with confidence to do what makes me whole and happy.

I return to my early morning thought: “I’m not here because of you.” I don’t depend upon anyone to live, nor do I exist at the will of anyone else. Let me explain.

All my life, I thought that aging meant increasing dependence…on children and other relatives, on spouses and friends. To some extent that’s true. I don’t like to think of it as “dependence” because that has a cost. Now, this will sound selfish, but the cost is being available to everyone else. The cost is me, and how I am defined. I’ve always been a giver and helper, so that’s not going to change.

But it’s going to diminish. In the time I have left here, I intend to stay healthy and independent, to keep creating things that satisfy and excite me, to be a person others want to be near and to enjoy.

I don’t want to be the mother whose son sighs about before answering his phone. I don’t want to talk to friends and relatives by appointment or obligation but because we genuinely care about each other. I don’t want to be that person whose conversations are mostly rants. I don’t want to be someone whom people cross the street to avoid.

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A week in Maine studying birds and nature helped me find myself.

I want to embrace the me I’ve spent 70 years nurturing, a whole person with more stories to tell. And, with a grateful nod to Robert Frost, “miles to go before I sleep.”