Crazy, I Know!

 Growing up, I didn’t have a lot to spend on luxuries of any sort. I certainly didn’t buy clothes since most of what I wore were hand-me-downs or bought new by my parents. I was trying to remember as a college student and young adult whether I bought clothes then. Hmm. I did buy those purple hot pants and leggings when I left college to sing full time, second billing to a hard rock band. (Never wore them on stage, though, since long hippy dresses were more the thing in Christian rock circles.)

No, I didn’t shop a lot. My biggest expenditure other than food and rent was stationery and empty journals. There was just something about the blank page.

As a young mother busy raising kids, I didn’t buy much for myself. Part of it was thrift, part of it was busyness. I did sew some, but my needs weren’t great. When I got into quilting, I did spend money on fabric, but that is art, so it doesn’t count. Maybe.

When my husband and I retired, we allotted ourselves mad money accounts, and most of that has gone for photography equipment, which is indeed a luxury. But every expenditure came with a twinge of guilt–like this was unnecessary, and what about all those worthy causes out there, and what about all the needs and wants of my kids and grandkids.

A couple of weeks ago, I bought myself an air fryer. I don’t need an air fryer. I mean who needs another appliance to cook a better French fry? I have gone back and forth about its usefulness, my worthiness, my . . . who knows what! But I have decided it is just plain fun to have something new–something to experiment with. I went on Amazon and bought myself two 100% cotton nighties (not made in China!). And I am thinking that though I don’t need it at all, I may just go out and buy myself some expensive non-stick frying pans! And I may even buy the domain for this blog rather than just using the freebee.

It’s not that I am throwing caution to the wind, but I have decided I might deserve a little extravagance that goes beyond need. Crazy, I know.

Grey Moments of Life

 

The whup, whup of the medivac helicopter matched the beat of blood, pulsing in my ears. I couldn’t breathe. My hands were clenched in front of me. A position of prayer, I think. A blur. Help, Jesus.

They were talking to him in his shredded blue Grand “Was.” He was alive, but he looked dazed, moving in slow motion, or else I was seeing in slow motion.

The officer kept asking me stupid questions, keeping me from running to the car. I answered with one part of my brain as the rest of my soul and mind searched the accident scene for hope that my boy was going to be okay.

*********************

It was a long journey, but he survived. That was one of those grey moments of life, though, when peace and ease are exchanged in a moment for panic and desperate prayers.

I Want to Return

 

I want to return to that place—

the comfort and ignorance of childhood,

the rooftops, the trees, haylofts, and attics,

the fast river and railroad tracks that led nowhere and everywhere,

green fields and barbed wire fences, and salt licks for sampling.

Free days.

I remember the scent of my father, the oil and hay, stale manure, and Old Spice.

In church, I explored weathered hands with blackened nails,

sucking Lifesavers while adults thought about Jesus.

I remember mum in floral house dresses with sensible shoes,

baking cookies, tender crusted pies, and fried bologna we thought was a treat,

berry picking and chauffeuring to Jeffrey’s Lake for a muddy swim with leeches.

Free days, happy days—at least for a child.

I want to return to that place before the angry shouts of opposition parties,

the heated debates about border, fentanyl, and sex trafficking,

the hot tears and anger with mass shootings and invasion robberies.

To the place with unlocked doors and no coded security systems,

to the place where every neighbor was a friend and helper and

not suspected of being on some sex offender’s registry.

Free days, ignorant days.

But there is no going back, I guess;

there is no unknowing and unseeing what the world has become,

and we would desperately protect our own,

hold off the darkness as long as possible; but

somehow it seems we have dragged our little ones along to this troubled place.

But I would return if I could.

 

 

Color Me Winter

 

Respect

 

I have been thinking about respect lately—given and received. I guess I often thought of it as shouldered up against love. The admiration and thoughtful regard that had any meaning, any authenticity, would be so close to love as to be almost indistinguishable. But I have changed my mind about this.

Someone can love me and yet show disrespect in how s/he treats my ideas, my feelings, my needs. I have felt the distinction, and I’m sure have been guilty of doing the same.

It is not easy, though. Not easy to disagree emphatically without showing a disregard for a person’s feelings and particular point of view. The tricky thing is that when disrespect is consistently practiced, love diminishes. It becomes a word used in meetings and greetings, but a word that weakens with use because the soul food that nourishes love is poisoned by the criticisms and insensitive barbs.

Respect is the doorway to real relationship—the foundation of genuine love.

 

Poets in a Blender

 

I think my barbaric yawp can sound

not only on Walden’s Pond,

in a metro, or

beside a red wheelbarrow, but can also sound by a mended wall,

near a road less travelled, and even in front of Herbert’s altar.

Nameless here and evermore one of Emily’s grand nobodies.

Roseate Spoonbill in Motion