Waiting for spring

 

The windows reflect my movements as I set up my natural light box on the table. The bulbs are a poor substitute for the morning sun but they will have to do. The long nights of darkness and endless days of clouds wreak havoc on my psyche. A light box, exercise, vitamin D and outdoor walks are my weapons to combat these dreary Montana winters.

Yesterday I could see the sun ever so slightly through the blanket of clouds. The wet snow descended on my windshield as I drove towards the light. Maybe, if I drove up the mountain high enough, I could rise above the mantle of grey and feel its rays. Too quickly the cover thickened and vanquished any brightness emanating from the sky.

But I had seen it. If only for a moment, I had witnessed a glimpse of blue and the shape of the sun through the veil. It was a promise and a reassurance that the sun will return and spring will arrive soon enough.

I am reminded to be patient. I cannot push the seasons or change the natural progression of time. Season will come after season, regardless of my actions or emotions. This is not the time to use my will to force an outcome. There is a time to plant and a time to harvest, right now is not the time for either. It is a time of waiting. Passing the time can be done with frantic pacing or in quiet contemplation. No matter what my thoughts, time will pass the same.

 In my class, I caution my students not to plant too early. If the soil is not warm enough, the seed will rot in the cold, wet ground. If the soil is walked on while it is still wet, it will compact and ruin future plantings. Starting seedlings in the windowsill before the time is right, does not insure a jumpstart on the spring garden. They become gangly and pale and will not survive when transplanted. Having been a grower all my life, I know these things and yet, I still find myself yearning for spring instead of accepting and relaxing into the winter.

The dancing of the candle flame in front of me brings a smile to my face. I see him as a light in the dark, one more sun behind the clouds. “Have faith and trust”, he offers me. “All is right in the world.” There is a Divine order even though I cannot always see it. For some reason, when the sun is on my back and I am making progress, it is easier for me to remember this. When I am forced to be still, I feel powerless and unproductive. But then what of the wheat field as it lays under the winter snow? It is resting and recuperating in order to provide once more in the proper season. 

I will sit myself down and drink my coffee. There are no windmills to battle or mountains to climb this morning. Spring will come, the days will be long and there will be plenty of time to till the soil. The buds will swell, the trees will green, the soil will warm – and then, it will be time to plant. Today, I can select my seeds, plan my rows and dream my dreams. All is in Divine order. I will sit calmly today, waiting for spring.

 

shoe shelf helper

Harvey Carroll was the man that helped me with the shoe shelf. He was my neighbor on Ashley drive and is still a dear friend.  Incorrect speculations mave been made.

Calendar

Each year begins with unwrapping a new calendar. Hopefully, I have located one with the moon phases and signs. It usually takes me a few trips to find just the right version. Next, all the birthdays are added and a note a couple days ahead to remind me to buy cards on time. After the birthdays, the calendar is taped onto the side of the refrigerator where I can see it when I am doing dishes or making the coffee. Dentist appointments, upcoming birthdays, and social events accumulate on the once pristine squares.

The calendar from the previous year is difficult to part with. Flipping the pages, I go back to the rafting trip on the Middle Fork, the party in the hops yard, trail rides in Herron Park, my daughter’s wedding on the Atlantic, the long awaited visit from my sister, a retreat in California, the Halloween costume party and the Christmas Stroll in Kalispell, to mention a few. These events were initially just a note on the calendar to reserve the time in a crowded schedule, then came the planning and arrangements. The laughter and joy are now a memory, a few notes in my journal and a scribble on the jam packed page. Yet, the recollection lives on in my heart with related tastes, aromas and sounds.

Every year has its ups and downs. It’s unavoidable. It’s a part of life on this side of the turf. In spite of any loss, these scratches on my calendar help me recognize how lucky I am. I had more opportunities to join in activities than time to do them, more invites by friends than days in the week. My life is brimming with potential. Not reflected on these pages were the quiet mornings with Aries at the lake and the evening rides with Lakota. These treasured moments need no reservation. The solitary wish I have is more time with my daughters. Lately, our calendars have intercepted around holidays, weddings, graduations and birthdays. I am humbled by the amazing women they have become and grateful when I have even a minute to share with them. This too, is a part of life once our fledglings have flown the nest. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

This blank calendar holds the promise of new adventures and untold stories. What will I be reviewing next year at this time? What color threads will I have added to the tapestry of my life? Will I visit somewhere new? Will I make a new friend? Will I find my new house? Will family find time to visit this majestic place I call home? Will I take up a new hobby or return to an old one?

My intention for this year is not the eternal lose ten pounds, keep healthy, call my mother more often. It is to be a light in the world. There is a great deal of strife and conflict on the planet right now. I look at it like an infection. How can anything or anyone heal if there is a festering wound that has been lying hidden, undiagnosed? It must rise to the surface to be treated. Hatred is fear. It can only be addressed with compassion. Let us all seek to be mindful of those right around us. Can we be more aware of our fearful, judgmental thoughts? Can we turn them around and be more understanding?

At the end of next year, when I look back, I hope that I have given something of myself each day to another person that benefitted them on their journey. Maybe it is as simple as a smile in the grocery store, gardening advice in the office or taking an aging friend to dinner. Let me be an instrument of peace. Allow me to be a part of the solution. I set my intention to be even more than I am this year, to continue to grow into the Divine Being I was born to be. Permit my freshly unwrapped calendar to reflect a life of goodness and joy, easily shared, continually optimistic, weathering the storms and loving as wholeheartedly as possible.

Happy New Year!

Best wishes,

Pat

What's on your tree?

Each year we would wrestle the giant cardboard box out of the attic and down the fold-up ladder to its place of honor on the toy box to be gently unpacked. At first, as toddlers, my daughters were only allowed to watch as each ornament sprung forth from its tissue paper cocoon. Their eyes danced with excitement as one by one the characters, buildings, animals and sparkling pine cones were revealed. It was as if old friends came each year to share and add to our holiday joy.

The Christmas tree had been carefully selected. Sarah and I preferred fat trees that barely fit through the door. Kate and Jim preferred tall thin trees that dared the angel to find room at the top. A compromise was always found and we hauled our treasure up onto the front porch for its trim and mounting into the wrought iron stand. The ever present cat and dog gave the final inspection and approval before the intruder came into our home.

The lights were strung, multi-colored and festive, before the gold beaded garland. Now it was time to hang the ornaments. A tradition of telling the story of how each ornament had come to find its place on our tree had been established my mother and my grandmother. The girls would sit with rapt attention as each tale was told as it had every year.

There was the tiny glass church that looked exactly like the place that Jim and I had married. A tiny angel made of gold safety pins and glass beads had been made by Grandma Kid, our neighbor. On family vacations we had purchased a seagull and sailboat in Rockport, a golden leaf was from Vermont, a Mickey Mouse was from Disney World. My mother had given me a silver spider whose Christmas legend had been lost a long time ago. Sarah selected ornaments that reflected her sweet tooth: sugar coated cupcakes, fruit slices and shiny lollipops. If there was a penguin, that would be hers, too. I had acquired a fuzzy sheep, a Santa hugging a cow and a stack of chickens. Kate possessed a soft ball pitcher, horses and snowmen.

As the girls got older, they would recite the stories. Each detail had been committed to memory. It was if there was a sacred wisdom being passed down from generation to generation through the telling. The girls knew the rich history of my mothers and my grandmother’s ornaments. My grandmother had glass ornaments from England, tarnished real silver garland and hammered brass leaves from Germany. My mother’s ornaments were beautiful. Her favorite was a long glass hand painted Pinocchio. I could never understand her affection for this pointy fellow, but there he was, always front and center.

My assortment of ornaments has changed through the years. The girls have taken many of theirs with them to seed their own collections. The construction paper and dried dough decorations have long ago departed. The majority of our favorites were lost when several years ago, the tree slipped out of the stand and fell onto the hard wood floor. There were not many survivors. Over time, some of my mother’s and grandmother’s items have joined mine. A cloisonné teardrop followed me home from a trip to China. I was gifted with a deerskin horse made here in Montana. New friends mingle with the old.

There are years when I travel back east to visit family for the holidays and the ornaments stay in the box. There is no tree that year. They wait faithfully in their wrappers. I have the same rush each time I bring them out. It does not matter how much time has passed. I smell the orange peels and cloves that I used to keep boiling on the wood stove. The girls are once again covered in frosting and sprinkles decorating Christmas cookies. The music is playing Oh Holy Night. Presents are hiding in the attic ready to be wrapped. The stockings are ready to be filled with Santa’s treasures.

This cardboard box is worth the world to me. It is a container of cherished memories. I may be old fashioned, but I’m ok with that label. There is no price that can be placed on a little felt angel with button eyes and ric-rac trim that says “Sarah 1992” on the back.

I can’t wait to unpack my old friends again this year. I will tell myself the stories in front of the fire in the cabin. It’s a Wonderful Life will be on my screen. Somethings change, somethings stay the same.

Shoes

A friend helped me put up a couple shelves in my mudroom in order to better organize my shoes. It’s difficult to hold the level and the board, while screwing in the brackets single handed. I carefully measured my tallest boots for the bottom row to maximize space. My knee high dress boots are first, one pair black, one pair brown. Then the fleece lined snow boots, one pair black, the other cream. I bought the fleece-lined, cream pair when I was on the east coast for Christmas several years ago. They were such a bargain and I pictured wearing them every day in Herron Park walking my dog. When I packed to return to Montana, they would not fit in the suitcase so I was forced to wear them on the plane. Total lace ups from ankle to knee, insulated and hot, oh my gosh. It’s always three flights back from New York. I had those boots laced and unlaced so many times, six foot laces dragging behind me. The black pair has fake laces up the front and an easy zipper on the side so you know which ones I use more often. Next on the bottom row are my cowboy boots. A red pair, I got at the consignment shop, a black pair at least 25 years old but with new treads, one pair with turquoise stitching for dancing or dating, two brown pair – one for work and the other for riding. Then there are the Ariat ropers. The oldest pair are over 30 years old. They are all beat up and wear Army Navy bicolored boot laces. Twice I’ve had them in the truck to take to the dump but they manage to find their way back to the shelf. So many memories of hunter jumper classes and the “fossils over fences” we had labelled ourselves, camping trips with the horses in the Adirondacks with daughters and crossing the Cornell campus when I returned for my graduate work. In a place of honor at the end of the row are my best friends, the L.L. Bean pack boots. I’ve had these boots most of my adult life. Every winter morning and evening for over 20 years they joined me in farm chores: feeding sheep, cleaning horse stalls, carrying water, and tending chickens. I had a tortoise cat that would follow me each day to the barn. She’d jump in and out of my boot tracks all the way up the long drive. The liners could be pulled out, if they got damp, and dried by the wood stove. They look tired and worn but are as faithful and protective as my German Shepherd Dog.

The second shelf is only 12” tall. I started with lining out my steel toed work boots. These I now use for inspecting over a thousand acres of hay each year. Originally, Cornell purchased them for me as protective equipment while I worked on a biomass research project. I smile when I hold them and examine the repair job visible only to me. Aries was a puppy the summer I had that job. The boots were only days old when she decided they were a chew toy as I slept. The ankle padding and top grommets had been neatly removed by scissor like teeth. Thankfully my supervisor could not see the damage under my boot cut jeans. Eventually, they were restored good as new. Next are my hiking boots, they haven’t seen as much wear as I’d like. They are a reminder to take some time off next summer. Rubber bottom moccasins sit alongside the hiking boots. They definitely look brand new. My mother bought them for me and my daughters one Christmas. Mud is an issue on the east coast but rarely in Montana. Maybe I’ve worn them twice but they are from my mom and I see them as a symbol of wanting me warm and dry. Next are a variety of clogs: red patent leather for the holidays, Ariat western, brown suede with a buckle, plain black and fleece lined. These are for the office in the winter when I change out of snow boots.

The top shelf holds my dress shoes. I should just leave them all upstairs for as much as I wear them. A single, agriculture agent doesn’t have a lot of opportunities for heels. Maybe I just like to look at them and imagine pulling on stockings and fancy shoes. Several of these were purchased for special events and I remember them fondly. I go back to pulling on long gloves, a gown from Madrid, a wedding feast and bottles of champagne. I arrange three pairs of sneakers towards the end of the row. One pair is dedicated to mowing the lawn. The lining is falling out and grass stains cover the toes. My gym sneakers are reserved for indoor activities and never touch the soil. The last pair make me chuckle. I have never liked them. The advertisement said that the sloping sole and rounded heel helps strengthen leg muscles as you walk. I have always felt off balance in them and afraid I’m going to twist an ankle. But of course, they remain on the shelf because I paid good money for them. Crazy, I know. At the end, are my slippers. Fleece lined leather buddies.

The sandals have all been taken upstairs to reside in a bin until spring: some with sparkles, some rubber for rafting, and some simply to wear into town. I don’t use them regularly. Owning a horse and working in agriculture does not lend itself to open toes shoes very often. The only boots that rest up in the attic near the sandals now are the leather, knee high lace ups I had in high school. I have never been able to let them go. They have been meticulously oiled and tended. I slid them on yesterday. Yes, 45 years later and they can take me back to Tully in a nano-second. I wore them my first year of college when I was so homesick. Funny, that was 120 miles away and here I am over 2,500 miles away now.

My shoes remind me where I have been and how I became the person I am today. I cant say I am a fashionista. My wardrobe has been practical and durable. I think this is a reflection of me. I am down to earth, steady, centered and occasionally red open toed with sparkles. I challenge you to look at your shoes with an eye on what they say about you. Are they piled high in boxes to be worn once and then tossed aside? Or are they your closest amigas traveling with you on your path? There are women’s shelters who need your no longer treasured shoes. I find great satisfaction donating my previously worn items to them. I invite you to share this pleasure.

Have a wonderful day.

Wrong

Wrong

I sat in the backseat of that old Chevrolet with my sisters packed in near me. Of course, I had a window. I was the oldest. My patent leather shoes were polished and gleaming. My white sailor dress with the navy trim had been meticulously starched and pressed. Lace embellished the dainty socks that peeked over my ankles. My hair had been permed into tiny curls and a barrette kept it pinned to one side.  Nails cut short and cleaned with a brush. Grass stained knees whitewashed with Comet. The girls looked identical. Matching shoes, matching dresses and matching hair. “This is the way girls are supposed to look,” said my father. “Don’t move, don’t get dirty and don’t speak. You are to be seen and not heard.” The welts from some infraction my father had imagined still burned into my backside. My five year old mind could not comprehend the laundry list of shoulds and should-nots demanded by our leader. This one thing I knew today. We were visiting my father’s parents. We all had to be perfect. I felt my life depended on it. There would be cousins at my grandparents but we were not allowed to play. We might get dirty. We would sit together as trained, in order, oldest to youngest on a bench. Others would play ball, or play tag or run up and down the stairs to look out the bathroom window that overlooked the lawn, but not us.

As we rambled along the country roads up and down the hills, I stared at the meadows and the sky.  The sun poured into the window and the vinyl seat became sticky under my legs.  The feint whiff of exhaust seeped up from the back of the car.  My stomach twisted and lurched the further we traveled. I rested my head on the door to cool my face. I shook, I tremored and then it happened. I began to gag and my parents began screaming at me.  “Oh no you don’t!” Pull over!! Out I was yanked onto the roadside where I emptied the contents of my interior. “Don’t get it on your sisters! How could you? I worked so hard to make you perfect and look what you have done?!You are going to pay for this, Missy.”

Once again, I was wrong. I was wrong for being sick. I was wrong for spotting my dress. I was wrong for upsetting the schedule. I had disappointed my parents one more time simply by being me.

Fifty years later, this memory still elicits nausea and heart racing. I can feel how deeply it has invaded my walls and hides within my core. “See, I am being perfect. I am following all the rules. See, I got an A in all my classes. See, I am wearing my hair just right. I am hiding my tom-boy desires to run and fall and get dirty. I am sitting on the bench while the others rough house and tumble.”

Being wrong brings about pain and suffering. It is to be avoided at all costs. This is the indelible writing on my psyche.

How can I swim with my creativity when this anchor of fear drags me down? Creativity by its own description dares to be wrong. Not everyone will agree with the creator’s design and that is acceptable. Someone will pioneer a new way of thinking or being in the world. Unique paintings, futuristic architecture, imaginative storylines are expressions of creativity that break the mold for others. It is the creator’s imagination brought into the physical.

My words are my play. They are my freedom. My life is my joy and my words are my expression. The child in me craves acceptance and reassurance. The adult knows that to embrace happiness and find peace, I must face being wrong. If not, my world collapses and imprisons my thoughts and yearnings. How can I be all that I imagine if I stay on the bench? Too often I have felt the welts of criticism from bosses, lovers or society. Staying orderly was my attempt at staying safe. If I sit here quietly maybe then I will not earn the lashings of their disapproval.

Brilliant scientists and famous inventors courageously defied naysayers.

Thomas Edison the inventor wrote about himself: "I have not failed. I've just found 10,000 ways that won't work." Henry Ford failed and went broke five times before he succeeded.  The director of the Blue Book Modeling Agency, told Norma Jean Baker, "You'd better learn secretarial work or else get married." Norma Jean, of course, became Marilyn Monroe. Today’s technology companies encourage their employees to take shots in the dark. Sooner or later one of these ideas will be a hit. If you aren’t failing then you aren’t trying, you are not thinking out of the box. I was encouraged, in the job I have now, to design my own programs and set my own agenda. At the same time, I was told, “just don’t screw up.” How was I to be innovative and creative while guaranteeing my supervisor that I wouldn’t make a mistake?

I enjoy seeing older, retired women who have been designated “eccentric” by the rest of the community. What a hoot. These ladies have just stopped caring if people want to disapprove or make them wrong. They are wearing outlandish accessories with crazy makeup. I don’t think its dementia at all. I envy their lack of adherence to admonishments by roving fashion police. They are no longer restricted by a performance appraisal or risk of unemployment.

  

I release myself from the weight of responsibility of never being wrong. I allow my hair to be untethered and my thoughts to follow suit. I will stop corralling my dreams and let them wander the countryside. I roam within the parameters of my job description aware that not all my efforts will be appreciated or understood. I follow my heart and do my best to be of assistance to others. My intention is pure. I will make mistakes. I will try and at times I know that I will fail. I welcome my creativity back into my life. I dare to be wrong. I cannot have one without the other. Welcome home inspiration. Welcome home. 

June Evening

I've been feeling the peacefulness of surrender the past few months. It has been a time of rejuvenation and recharging. The striving and struggle of the past few decades have simply melted into a sense of calm serenity. Is it the time of my life or the timing of the Universe? I cannot tell. I know that I am here and that is enough.

I had to question this unfamiliar emotion. Was I depressed? Was I ill and not feeling energetic? No, that's not it. My lawn is mowed, the house clean, the career going well, my body getting more in shape each day.

I realized I am in complete trust. I have faith that all is well in the world. The Divine has my back.

My efforts at trying to control and think that I have the answers stems from my conditioning as a child. One by one, I have challenged the beliefs that I was given in my youth. Reward and punishment. The white hats and black hats. Right and wrong. The rules of living were handed down from generation to generation.

It was 94 degrees today in Kalispell. The sun hangs low while a breeze kisses my face. I sit in the shadow of the cabin and write with my cat, Frank, asleep under my chair in the pansies that have volunteered bursting from the cracks in my sidewalk. The finches cling to the thistle tube and occasionally drop down to sip from the birdbath. I await the bluebirds that arrive in the backyard each night about 8:00 pm. The colorful flowers that I planted yesterday nod and smile back at me gently caressed by the wind. The peonies and lilacs have finished blooming and the poppies and hollyhocks race to take their place on the cabin wall.

It was as if the new year set me on an uncharted path. I let go of the search for a house, the desire for a companion or the need to publish my stories. So many times I have been sure of my road and it has twisted completely or made a 180 degree turn. Each time, I have grown and become more of who I am meant to be. People have come and gone. Dreams have dissolved. I have learned to surrender. Eastern philosophers have stated that pain is attachment. Attachment to any person, place or idea will eventually create distress. When life does not unfold according to the promises we were given we have two choices. We can move on in grace or fight the windmills. We can accept that there is a higher purpose that we cannot see or keep trying to push the river in futility.

My soul is at rest. My heart is at ease. I am a child of God and loved unconditionally. I am grateful for my life and all the blessing that have been bestowed upon me. The bluebird has arrived 15 minutes ahead of schedule. Thank you for this beauty.

There is a hater that stalks my blog. I pray that love may shine into her heart and replace the fear that abides there. Anger is secondary to fear. Let her fears be removed that she can walk freely through life without judgement and pain. Amen