Worth the Wait

Therapy.

 

Spring break

offered hours and hours

of unscheduled time

for projects in process

presently focused

on the forthcoming

critter-theme show

at a favorite

grooming shop.

 

While their business

revolves primarily

around dogs

and I'm working on

doggy pieces

today my mind is on my cat

who ate my bird this week

and is sitting

highly precariously

on the cliff of my heart.

You might say she is

balancing there

in a most miraculous way.

 

I loved that little bird.

I cried when I found

the little clump

of yellow feathers

one skinny leg

and a teeny tiny

beak

on

the dining room floor.

 

Of course

Chuck

guardian of my bedside nights

is not talking.

 

 

I get it. He's no snitch.

So I'm just

choosing

to move on.

 

 

Color and getting messy

always helps me feel better.

Throwing around

materials

and slopping them

with glue

and paint

and momentary

odd choices

in media

is more than my

chosen form of

therapy.

 

It's the only therapy that works for me

dialing my soul back

to a happy place

and reminding me

it's all about the moment.

 

Not yesterday.

Not tomorrow.

The moment. 

 

 

Works in progress.

You'll notice

maybe

some spaces

still drying.

 

Over my little

break yogurt

I'm smiling

maybe actually

laughing a bit

at how much

I think my mom

would like

the colors

and the use of her fabric

and the reckless abandon

with which

I've buried

her neatly-appointed

sort of French-country

living room

in

creative debris.

And I'm feeling better.
Not perfect.
And I honestly
really
truly
don't like this cat.

But I'm better.


Coincidences.



Three Seasons.

 

 

Love never gives up

never loses faith

 is always hopeful

and endures

 through every circumstance.

 

I Corinthians 13:7

Ratty Old Blankets

You might not guess it

but these

are my people.

 

They show up in

trucks and cars

on weekend mornings

from spring through fall

rain or shine

to sign in for a

bidding number

and position themselves

before the auctioneer

begins to call the sale.

 

 

I love

estate auctions

where you can find

anything from a nested set

of metal measuring cups

to a cardboard box

full of old Tinkertoys.

 

I'm nearer the

having-my-own-estate auction

stage of life

these days

but

many many fine weekends

in years gone by

I stood in rain

slogged through mud

baked in the sunshine

and squinted my eyes

against blowing dust

waiting

for the auctioneer

to get to things

which caught my eye.

 

I like old stuff.

I like used stuff.

I like stuff that had a life

before it met me.

Old stuff can tell you a story

if you listen really carefully.

 

I bought this ratty

quilt at an estate auction

maybe thirty years ago.

 

 

It was tucked into a stack

of unremarkable but cozy-warm, fun blankets

and was pretty much in perfect condition.

I bought the whole stack for five bucks

on a cold and rainy day in

rural Illinois.

 

My kids slept under the cozy-warms

we wrapped up in them

on winter nights

in front of the woodburning stove.

They served us well.

 

My quilt

full of memories.

 

 

 Beautifully

exquisitely

worn threadbare

through years and years

of storytelling.

 

 

It's old and ratty now.

Hand-stitched on white

with so much care

by someone whose name

I've never known.

 

Finally

it's reached that perfect stage

something along the line

of the Skin Horse

who was loved so much

his fur rubbed off.

 

I adore ratty blankets

because they wrap you

in a story.

I think being wrapped

in a ratty old blanket

with a story

is the perfect way

to fall into

a really lovely sleep.

 

 

 

 

 

 



Praise As Acceptance

 

When I was a teenager

I bought a little

paperback book

that changed my life.

 

I read it over and over

underlining passages

and highlighting points.

 

Somewhere along the way

of raising a family

and all the frenetic

activities clustered

around the project of

growing older

the little book was lost.

 

I found it on Amazon

this month

and ordered a used copy.

 

I've been digesting it

like the finest of meals.

It's texture and flavor

so familiar

even after

all these years.

 

The meat of it

still so very satisfying

in reminding me

God has a plan

and he hasn't forgotten me

and he always keeps his promises

and I'm not alone

in these things

over which I trouble

and worry

and wonder.

 

Thankful I live in a

technological world

where amazing things

like ordering a favorite book

( a dear old friend}

can be done in a few

short minutes

in an evening

and be delivered to my

front door

days later.

 

For a couple bucks plus shipping.

Awesome!

 

Thank you, God.

For this little book

which speaks to my soul

in such a personal way

at a time when I

really really

need it.

 



Bailey's Bargain

Well now.

This is sad.

Just plain sad.

 

All those dang Irish

early-birds

got to the

Bailey's-on-sale

before I even

knew

there was a price

worth dancin' for.

 

NOT to be deterred

I drove all over town

to three different

grocery stores

and to Walgreens

asking them to price

match.

 

Which they would not.

Whaaaaaaaat?????

Doesn't EVERYONE

price match?

 

Apparently not.

 

Finally found my sale bottles

after likely

eating up the entire

amount saved

in gas.

 

Whatever.

 

I can justify it.

NOT because I like

a little taste of

Irish Crèam

now and then.

 

Ohh no.

My bottles have an important mission

every morning.

 

I use them to hold my pita pockets

after they come out of the toaster

steaming hot

so they'll

cool and crisp

into a

sweet little pocket.

 

 

Into which

I neatly tuck

my morning

egg salad.

Sometimes

stuffed up

with spinach leaves

too.

 

Mmmmmm.

Mmmmmm.

 

The second bottle?

Well.

I do like a little taste y'know.

Just a sippy bit of a taste.

Every now and then.

Not necessarily

in the morning.

 

 

 



Trusting Our Instincts

 

I knew so many things

when I was younger.

I just knew them.

 

But I didn't trust

what I knew.

 

My instincts hadn't

been tested yet.

I wasn't sure

of my inner voice.

 

I had yet to learn

to listen

and trust it.

 

 

One of the gifts

of experience;

of climbed mountains

and stormy seas

navigated.

Of getting wet

but not drowning;

growing weary

but not giving up.

 

The gift of just knowing.

And trusting what it is

you just know.

 

Trusting it enough

to do

and to say

and to believe

and to act

and to prepare

because

you just know.

 

 

Little Pals

 

Three nights a week

my office hosts several

tiny people.

Preschoolers.

 

They visit me

in the front office

while their older siblings

participate in their

gymnastic classes

and competitive team practices.

 

They are

the little gifts

God sends me

because my granddaughter

lives so far away.

 

Tristan and Chelsea

were my little guests tonight.

They are both hovering right around

three years old.

Tiny teeth.

Mom still makes sure

to ask if they need to go potty.

And since our business

is a gym

they're pretty much always

in stocking feet.

 

Little

itsy biddy widdy

tiny stocking feet

so cute

you wanna cry.

 

Tristan brought his

bright red

Lightning McQueen

backpack tonight

smushed full of

toy cars and one big,

plastic dump truck.

He claimed my

plastic desk dinosaur mascot

as their playmate too.

And some yellow

critter thing.

I don't know what it is.

But the legs are bendy

and the kids have fun with it.

 

This was my opportunity

to whip out my

scissors and

join in their fun

on the floor.

 

So I built them a drive-up garage

for the vehicles

and a nearby house.

Chelsea thought

all those little toy cars

needed a gas pump.

So we built one of those too.

Complete with

removable nozzle

on the end of a

dental floss hose.

 

We are nothing

if we are not

the MacGuyver

of paper

neighborhoods.

 

Thank you

Dreamsicle wall

for providing a

sun-settee

sort of background

for the buildings.

 

 

Dinosaur in neighborhood.

Yellow animal-thing....beware.

 

Tristan

whose sweet little face

shall remain anonymous

fuels up

the hotrod.

 

"Das my DADS car!!!!!"

he tells me.
And a fine car it is
my very short man
in tiny Transformers stocking feets.

The next night
more little friends stopped in
and we fancied the place up a bit.

Apples in the trees.

And some snazzier wheels, too.

 

Thanks to my little pals

and their bright

imaginations

for making my evening

so sweet.

 

Embracing Technology

Straight from my Journal........

 

So. In my continuing wrestle with all-things-technologicallish, I have no little pod thing with music but I was wise to birth a son who told me I could LISTEN TO MUSIC ON MY I-PHONE!!! Whaaaat!!!????? Yeah. So. The past few days when I hit the gym, I faithfully take my phone and my ear-thingies and I pull up Pandora and yes indeed, he is a smart one! MUSIC!! Like, whatever I want to hear. A.MAZ.ING. But.....there are no pockets in my gym... clothes. Oh dear. OHHH dear.

 

 

 

 So I spend the first ten minutes of every gym visit in the locker room trying to .....secure...my phone in the only place I can find to tuck it. And, if you get my drift here, those two spaces are already fairly well occupied. NEVERTHELESS!!! We persevere, the girls and I. We are at the gym. And we are going to listen to music because we walk further and pedal faster when we do! So, we get Mr. I-Phone all snuggled up in there in such a way as it doesn't look like I've got an implant shaped like a graham cracker....and we hit the treadmill. And finally, at the end of my visit....I jump on the bike. And I hear a special ringtone on my phone so I know who is texting me and it's someone I adore so I gotta check out the text....thus, having to dig for the phone all kinda nice and pillowed in there.....AND at that very moment,

I look up and I realize,,,seriously this was a

lightbulb moment...........................

 

 

THERE IS A LITTLE HOLDER THING ON THE CONTROL PANEL OF THE BIKE AND IT IS JUST THE SIZE TO HOLD A PHONE AND IT IS SHAPED JUST LIKE A PHONE!!!!!!!

 

Ohmygoodness. And I jump off the bike and I go over and I check out the control panel of the treadmill. Uhhh Y E S. There IS a holder on the treadmill too. HOLY. SMOKES. I drove back to work thinking...... ohmygosh I am LIVING IN JANE JETSONS WORLD.

 

 

Ruh-roh.

Seems to prove, once again, we are living in a caboose

on the freight train of technology, GURRRRRRL.

 

Honestly. I am in awe.

Who invents these things.

And why don't they announce them so it doesn't take some of us so long to figure them out.

 

 Life changing, I tell you.

Life changing.

 

 

Ordinary People / Extraordinary Moments

 

It bein' Sunday and all

good day as any for a bit

of confession.

 

I was at a restaurant

last week

tucked into a booth

with some nice comfort food.

I had just begun to sip my coffee

when a waitress

seated a couple

in an adjacent booth

very near mine.

 

They were ordinary people

maybe a few years younger than me.

He was tall in a flannel shirt.

She had a scarf wrapped

all around her neck

and looked tired.

Across the table from one another

I would likely have paid them

no special mind

but I happened to see him

reach for her hand

across the table

shortly after they had ordered.

 

She hesitated.

I saw him smile

and heard him say

"Give me your hand."

 

And she did.

 

 

From that point on

it was hard to turn away.

There was something about the kindness

in his smile

when he reached for her hand.

There was something about the

look on her face when she hesitated.

I had no idea what was going on

but I could tell it was big

and it was deep

and it was important

to them both.

 

I don't think it's a sin

that I eavesdropped

on two strangers

on a cold winter night.

But I think it would be a sin

to treat the things I saw

and the things I heard

with anything but

reverence.

 

The threads of their

conversation

loomed before me

the rough draft

of a love story.

 

My breakfast came

right about the time

I heard her say

"Can I plant flowers? I love to plant flowers.."

and he laughed

reminding her the deer would really enjoy that.

They both laughed.

 

It was their laughter

and their smiles

to which I was drawn.

They were real.

Sincere.

While I had no idea

of the meaning of this evening for them

or the story behind it

their laughter and their smiles

told me everything I needed to know

about these two.

 

I couldn't leave.

I sat there longer than I would have

but I couldn't bring myself

to do it
I couldn't get up and leave them
I was

so completely lost

in their story.

 

Even as I hung

on their every word

the two of them were oblivious to me.

They joked and laughed

with the waiter

but other than that

the night belonged to the two of them.

What a joy it was

to peek into

their world.

 

Just before they left

I heard him say to her

"I have a dream....can I share it with you?"

She laughed.

These two laughed lots.

Not gut-busting stuff

but the easy laughter

between people

who are comfortable

together.

 

She laughed and I actually think

she got a little bit shy when he asked

but she said, "Sure".

 

(And yeah, at this point I thought

shame on you Debbie

this is really personal

you shouldn't be listening

but I listened anyway.

After just a few minutes

I really 

kind of felt like

it was

the three of us

in this whole

love story together.)

 

He told her

he could see the two of them

growing old together.

 

(WAS I was tempted to jump up,

shove her out of the way

and beg him to marry me?

Yes.

If fate leads us to cross paths

in line at Walgreens

some afternoon

I still might.

Is that the sweetest thought

he could have shared with her?

I mean, ever??)

 

They got really quiet for a few minutes.

They looked out the windows.

I could tell they were both

just lost in the moments

and doing some thinking.

 

Then he asked her

one final question.

I'll never forget it.

Not as long as I live.

I'll hear it in his voice

I will see the smile on his face

and the tears that welled up in his eyes

and I will see the look of peace

and wonder on hers

as he said it.

 

 

"Can our home be filled with

laughter and with love and with

family and friends?"

 

(Tears in my eyes at this point.

Drink your coffee, Debbie.

Just drink your coffee.)

 

I heard her exhale

at the question.

It was like she

released every pent-up thing

she had trapped inside her

and letting it out

felt so wonderful

I could just see it on her face.

She smiled

as big as can be

and said,

"That's exactly what I want, too.

Yes. You and I will fill our

home with

laughter

and with love

and with

family and friends."

 

Really.

I've never heard anything

more innocently beautiful.

It was a sacred moment.

Why God allowed

me to hear those words

and to see the smiles

and to feel their hearts....

well, I really don't know.

But I did

and it touched me deeply.

 

They slid from the booth

and left into the night.

 

I think of them often...

these ordinary people

whose lives intersected with mine

in such a lovely

and unexpected way.

 

I think of them as a gift.

I remember them in faith

that the beauty

of their simple shared dreams

will come to life.

 

And I pray for them all the time.

 

Fear.

Fear

is Satan's greatest tool.

There is no need

to assault

and harass people with

physical circumstance

when a

suggested

whisper in the ear

brings paralysis.

 

You'll fail.

You failed before

you'll fail again.

You are weak.

You've been defeated before.

You'll be defeated again.

 

You'll get hurt.

You'll hurt someone else.

 

That's pretty much all it takes.

Just a whispered suggestion.

 

 

I'm scared, too.

Let's walk into the fog anyway.

 

 



Tuesday

Scraps from Mom

My mom was a hoarder.

A fabric hoarder.

 

She died a year ago

but the stashes of

folded fabrics

were no surprise.

Every time we were

at her house

and opened a drawer

or a closet

or a random box on the floor

fabric would spring forth

or spill out.

 

Colors?

Ohhhh baby.

Every color.

And pattern.

On fabrics

of all type.

Mostly your basic

cottons and blends

but the collection

also includes

tapestry-like

embroidered stuff

I swear came straight

from exotic ports

around the world.

Silk, too.

 

Inspired by the collection

I've been fussing around

with collages

implementing her material

with my love of

nature interpretations.

Today I finished

the big one I've been

messing with all winter.

 

 

My parents house

where I now live

was full of framed photos

and a variety of artwork.

 

None of which

was anywhere near

my taste in the kind of things

I love to see

on the walls

that hug me

when I arrive home.

 

So I've been dismantling

them, flipping the art

and doing my own thing

on the other side.

Fun.

 

My step-dad loved images of

tall sailing ships.  

So the first piece

is a big print of

some famous ships

or something....

 

 

...flipped over

and turned into

a collage

I really like.

 

Good, bright colors.

Images

reminiscent of the yard

in which my parents planted

and mowed

and pruned

and raked

for years and years

and years.

 

It's my tribute piece to my parents.

When I look at it

I think of them

and the yard

and the home

where we shared

good memories

surrounded by the

beautiful things they grew.

 

They lived a really simple life.

You wouldn't know it by the accumulated junk

of 50+ years in this house

but at the heart of it

they just enjoyed life

side by side

doing simple stuff

like fussing over

flowers

and pulling dandelions.

 

This one's for you, Mom.

 

 

I think you'd like it.



So Much Peace in the Ordinary

Blessed by Friends

So.

I've been a little under the weather.

Not to belabor the whole post-operative thing

as I realize

bazillions of people

go through lots worse

every day of the year

and persevere to their own style of

glorious recovery.

 

My experience is nothing special.

Nothing unique.

I've not suffered more than expected

not agonized in ways I hadn't expected.

 

That said

the recovery thing

is exhausting and pretty lonely.

Especially if you

send the dog

and the cat

and the bird

away to critter camp

and you live

on the South side of town

which most people consider to be

a good hundred miles beyond

the far hinterlands

and as many miles

past the nether regions

of my home community.

 

Seriously.

It's like ten minutes from downtown.

 

So my thanks

to those of you who made the trip

and those of you who checked in on me

and those of you who just whispered a prayer

or wished me well on Facebook.

Bless yer damn socks off, people.
I love ya more than I can say.

 

As I told my sister this morning

"Angels appear when you need them."

And that's the truth.

 

Sooooo.....

let me introduce you to three of my angels

all of whom

happened to send their own

particular style of

hug

on the very same day last week.

 

In the earliest hours of the still-dark morning

a text-message arrived.

Short and sweet.

It was a Bible verse reference.

 

And boy oh boy

was it ever

what I needed to hear that day.

 

A guy I love so much sent it.

I talked to him on the phone last night.

Why did you send that Bible verse to me?

I kinda want to keep what he said to myself.

I kinda want to keep what I said back

to myself, too.

But it was good.

And we laughed.

And it helped me lots

to know he was there.

 

~ ~ ~

 

Later that morning

I went to the mailbox

to find this postcard

waiting for me.

 

A guy I love so much sent it.

He can be counted on to lift my spirits and make me smile

holiday after countless holiday

and lots of days in between.

He has been entertaining my postal carrier

and likely earning me

close scrutiny by the NSA

over the years

with postcards bearing the most suspect of photos

and handwritten messages

all of which I have saved

and love to read over and over.

Don't care

even if it I end up in prison

at the hands of a liberal regime

worried over my activities

as outlined in these messages,

I love everything he sends me.

This postcard made me smile.

It helped me lots

to know he was there.

 

~ ~ ~

 

Later

the same day

I opened up my email

to find the following message

of wisdom and good cheer.

 

 

A guy I love so much sent it.

He can always be counted on to

paint whatever dire situation I find myself

with the most unique of colors

as to make it

laughable.

I never take myself too seriously

after a good, solid reminder

of just how good I have it

from him.

How could ones heart

not be stirred

by such sweet, sweet

thoughts?

 

 

I think of these guys as the drum majors

in this weeks parade of lovely

and supportive men.

What's not to love??

 

Add their efforts the visits, calls, meals, offers of help, rides,

encouraging words....overnight stays at my sisters....

all-night hospital vigil by my daughter..

pet-sitting and visits from my boys...

...plants, flowers, balloons and

a NOTEWORTHY

supply of Snickers bars

and I just feel

BLESSED.

 

One more knee to go

and we'll be dancing!!!

 

 

 

Fire in the Morning

 

Years before I knew it would be

important to me

I learned a little something about the

glories of woodburning stoves.

 

My mom married my step-dad on a

hot June day

and we immediately loaded up the blue Volvo

with coolers and suitcases

and headed out

on a "new family" vacation/honeymoon

to Yellowstone National Park.

 

After the long drive

across three states

we arrived at the park

to find temperatures

hovering just below freezing

every night.

 

We loaded the necessities

of the four of us

into a cabin just like this one

arriving near dark

and confronted with the frigid reality

in short order:

the place had no heat

other than the tiny little

woodburning stove.

 

 

That night

as we hurried back from the bath house in winter coats

our new step-dad stuffed the woodburner

with wood and all manner of kindling

with great care

to keep his new brood of

family women

warm through the night.

 

I remember pulling quilts up over my ears that night

looking down towards my feet

just beyond which stood the little stove

happily pressing warm air into the room.

 

I fell asleep,

noticing I could see stars

outdoors in the night sky

through cracks in the roof of the cabin.

Cool enough, I thought as I drifted off.

Cool enough.

 

At some hour

buried deepest in the wee ones

of the early early morning

I remember waking to whispers.

And discomfort.

And sweat.

Beads of it.

No......not beads.

More like rivers.

 

My sister

who shared my bed

was kicking me.

Well, I thought she was kicking me.

She was kicking blankets.

And I realized

I was kicking mine too.

 

And the whispers I heard

were that of my parents.

They were both up,

one at the window

and the other at the door,

fanning the cozy little cabin

by opening and closing them.

 

At some point

my step-dads

fabulous fire-building skills

unfolded into full bloom

sending waves and waves

of heat...

blistering, sweltering heat....

into every corner

of the tiny cabin

and deep into our pores.

 

I suspect we were all

nearing

spontaneous combustion.

My mom's face was flushed.

And I just wanted to smack

my sister for no reason.

(This was an impulse often attributed

to over-heating

in my youth.)

 

Over the ensuing years

my parents would

recollect the moment

and the heat

with laughter;

it became an important footnote

on the page of our

new family relationship.

Our first

noteworthy

group memory.

A sweet one.

 

A warm one.

Definitely a warm one.

But sweet, indeed.

 

Years later

I kept my own family warm

through years and years

of judicious

management of a

lower level

woodburner

in a 70's

split-level tract home.

 

Grandma taught me how to

bank a log at night.

Not gonna sugar coat

the truth

when there is truth

to be told:

I was a kick-ass

fire-builder.

 

Eventually

hauling logs

and risking cardiac arrest

over the parade of spiders

that crawl from warming logs

as you haul them into the house

won over the economies

of heating with wood.

 

Shamefully

yes, I know, green young people,

we returned to the allure

of the convenience

of fossil fuels.

 

Fast forward.............

wayyy, wayyyy forward....

 

 

Today started grey.

It started grey

and overcast and even if the thermometer

says it's warmer than a few days ago

it's still cold.

 

So I built a morning fire.

And even though the sun found it's way

past the clouds this afternoon

the heat of the early flames

reached out and licked at me,

warmly ministering not only

to my shivering skin

but sinking in

and sending warm, comforting waves

through all of the empty

drafty

spots in my heart.

 

 

Fire warmed our new little family

all those decades ago.

Fire warmed my own little family

through my kids growing-up years.

 

Fire warms me still.