At the south end of Beeks Road between Hollonville and Williamson on the backside of Nowhere and just a little over a quarter mile from my front door, there is a pond positioned directly in front of the stop sign at the T intersection. It puts a smile on my face and an incredible feeling of joy in my heart each morning on my way to work when I see the still undeveloped rural countryside, this little lily pad edged pond with mist rising as birds dart down to catch minnows. I know it’s a pond teeming with life, undisturbed and simply there for its sheer beauty.
Steam rising at the intersection pond
I’ve always been that early bird, catching moments, seeing the world through rising sunlight and steamy mist and wondering why anyone would choose to sleep late and miss all the beauty so full and rich in these hours. To be fair, though, I miss whatever beauty happens after my 9 o’clock bedtime each night.
May morning on Lake Delanor in F D Roosevelt State Park in Pine Mountain, Georgia
When we are camping and I don’t have to spend my morning hours getting ready for work and rushing out the door, these scenes of nature – God’s paintbrush at work in real time – are what inspire me to get up, get dressed, and get outdoors to hear the birds, to watch the woodpeckers kissing the trees, to see the sun and steam rising, to admire the way the strokes of sunlight bathe the morning landscapes. Some call it a curse, this internal clock of mine that rarely lets me sleep past 5 a.m.
From the rising of the sun to its setting, the name of the Lord is to be praised!
Glorious textured four-dimensional painting by God himself as creator and artist, Pine Mountain, Ga Morning in May on the Johnson Funny Farm, east side
Photograph by Kim Douillard entitled Half Dollar, selected by Margaret Simon to inspire poetry
Broken Sanddollar
tiny stars spill forth offer possibilities in such brokenness
Thanks to Margaret Simon of Reflections on the Teche for her prompt on This Photo Wants to Be a Poem, featured in May 2022. The broken sanddollar photo is by Kim Douillard.
Psalm 34:18
The Lord is near to the brokenhearted And saves those who are crushed in spirit.
I’ve never been one to stop everything like the British and steep tea between 3 and 4 o’clock straight up, but I think I was in fact meant to be a proper sipper. Maybe it started somewhere in my childhood at Christmastime when my mother made instant spiced tea with Tang, tea, lemonade, and spices that awakened all my senses.
About four years ago, I developed a sudden surge of fascination with hot tea, and realize that despite my denial, I am in a strange coffee-to-tea transition at this stage of my life.
On my kitchen counter, I keep a large woven basket heaped with three tiers of tea bags (from trying new ones all the time), yet I always reach for the same variety – the orange box of slightly spiced Constant Comment by Bigelow. Does it go back to my mother’s instant hot spiced tea with orange? I wonder.
Imagine my surprise when the Amazon Treasure Truck’s daily noontime feature of a steal of a deal offered a tea sampler 3 weeks ago. Twinings. A full box of 6 bags of 8 flavors, presented in a colorful cardboard box kind of like those fancy dark mahogany wooden tea boxes you see in Europe and on cruise ships where they walk around and show you the selection and you pick one and tell them honey or lemon, or one lump or two.
I bought the tea sampler and left it wrapped in its shiny cellophane for the feelings of hope and discovery it offers in its newness.
It thrills me, it does.
My 23 and Me Ancestry spit results explain my persuasion for tea: I’m 99.5% European (97.5% Northwestern European, predominantly British and Irish). My life is coming full-circle as my plane circles the airport in a holding pattern the way a teaspoon swirls and sweetens. I approach retirement age and consider the china tea cups and saucers of my future sitting room beverage. It simply wouldn’t do for a proper British descendant to sit around drinking soft drinks from a can or water from a thin clear plastic bottle when the chromosomes scream otherwise.
And so I’ll sip, pinkie extended upward, as my ancestors from across the pond straighten their hats with their white gloves and look down approvingly with their tight-lipped smiles of pride at me on the davenport, spine straight, feet crossed at the ankles, celebrating my true heritage.
Fruit trees of all kinds will grow on both banks of the river. Their leaves will not wither, nor will their fruit fail. Every month they will bear fruit, because the water from the sanctuary flows to them. Their fruit will serve for food and their leaves for healing.”
There was a wind advisory in effect until 9:00 p.m. for PIne Mountain, Georgia on Friday, May 6th as storms made their way east from Alabama. All day, the weather had been threatening our weekend plans, but we decided to hold out hope that the sun would punch holes of light through the clouds and the weatherman would be wrong again.
We arrived at our campsite, leveled the camper, set up our chairs, built a fire, and lit the grill to cook our steaks. I’d left the A-1 at home just to keep the peace with my beef bully, and was delighted to discover that these tasted good enough without sauce. We sat on opposite sides of the picnic table as we enjoyed our meal together.
About halfway through dinner, something green and glimmery caught my eye in a tree on a neighboring campsite.
I decided to keep it to myself, wondering whether I was seeing things. I didn’t want to tip my hand to any hallucinations just yet, but I suddenly began to understand after all these years how Gladys Kravitz on Bewitched felt every time she hollered out to Abner to come see if he saw what she was seeing.
But it happened again.
And again.
The little flickers of light looked like tiny green fairies dancing on the tops of the leaves. I kept watching, thinking maybe it had rained and the water was sparkling at a reflective angle on some ultra-green leaves as Mother Nature was putting on a show.
Maybe the steaks had come in contact with some kind of hallucinogenic mushrooms or something. Surely not.
Fireflies! They had to be fireflies. Mystery solved.
But why were they swarming that one tree and nowhere else?
My husband caught my expression of wonder and asked what was happening behind him.
“Turn around,” I urged him, wiping my eyes, “and see if you notice anything in that tree right behind you.”
He looked. “I see little green lights. Hmmmm…….looks like some sort of a laser show…..wait, now they’re turning red.”
Fireflies and ladybugs? Red and green laser lights? What was happening?
As it grew darker, the lights danced faster and more brilliantly. Dog walkers and cyclists stopped to admire the tree of lights.
“It’s a laser projector” the campers next door explained to a passerby. “They’re really for Christmas, but we like them all year.”
My husband and I sat for hours, mesmerized by these lights. They were fascinating. Thrilling, really, like a troupe of magical fairies dancing, skipping across all the leaves, clinging to some before hopping to others.
“Think I can find it on an Amazon search?” I asked my husband.
“Ha! Is that even a question? What have you never found on an Amazon search?”
In less than two minutes I had the laser projector in my cart. “Happy Mother’s Day to me,” I announced with delighted anticipation. “It’ll be home before we will.”
Years ago, I told my children to save their money and not to buy anything for me. It gives me the freedom to pick something I’d like to have and order it for myself, taking the pressure off of them to try to figure out something they think I would like. I usually call them and thank them for something very practical, so this year they will be surprised to discover that I bought a box full of magical emerald green dancing fairies to unleash on the breeze of the nighttime trees.
And God said, “Let there be lights in the expanse of the heavens to separate the day from the night. And let them be for signs and for seasons, and for days and years….
In an educational leadership conference about 12 years ago, the keynote speaker took the podium and began, “You all will not remember my name, and you won’t remember my message years from now. But you will always remember this: when I get in the shower, the first thing I do is lather my washcloth, and using my right hand, I start washing myself beginning with my left shoulder. I work my way down my arm and then wash the other shoulder and arm. Then I go from there. How many of you also begin on the left shoulder?”
Almost every hand in the room went up. He pointed out that those without hands in the air were probably lefties who began with their right shoulder, opposite side of the body.
He was right. How many times since that conference a dozen years ago have I thought of the showering process? His message was about the process of doing things. I remember that, too. But I have forgotten his name. And, if I must be honest, I have (thankfully) finally forgotten the imagery he created letting loose first thing like that. I’d made a note to myself: never, ever, under any circumstances, conjure up the thought of nakedness in any public speaking engagement.
I think it’s a lot like that “favorite stove top burner” revelation. It has to do more with our handedness. Starting with a shoulder has a lot to do with the way we would drizzle a cake with icing – gravity works well when we start at the top and let it seep its way down the sides of the cake, the same way suds making their way down our bodies in the shower give our legs a pre-wash. It just makes perfect sense that the only place in life where we really start a thing at the bottom is a climb.
I think organizationally a good bit of the time: that top-to-bottom, left-to-right approach works for me, just like the words on the page of a book. Always has. And I think the speaker knew that most of those in the room were leaders who have systems and processes in place that tend to use sweeping strategies so we don’t leave any dirt on the floor. Choose a corner spot, begin there, move from one side to the other, and don’t miss any spots of dirt on the floor or words on the page.
Wordle, too, has a logical process. Begin with the vowels in a word like adieu and keep track of the shading of the letters already used and their green correct positions.
As a testing coordinator, I often administer one-on-one testing, as I will today to begin the process of closing out the school year. And I will begin at the top of the roster and work my way down, checking off each name as we complete this work. I will not start at the bottom and work my way up, nor in the middle in a random hit-or-miss fashion. I will start with the left shoulder, as I have learned works best.
Our actual handwritten pass-it-back-and-forth campfire playlist game
We were driving along a short stretch of forested Highway 354 on the north side of Franklin D. Roosevelt State Park in Pine Mountain, Georgia, where we were camping for the weekend on site 107. We’d gone to The Corner Store to get a couple of longneck Blue Moons and an orange to enjoy by the campfire after dinner as we searched for stars through the smoky haze of evening. We know this place – we forget something every time we camp here, so we know where to buy essentials like water hoses, beer, aluminum foil, fruit, and matches.
On a long and lonesome highway, east of Omaha
You can listen to the engine moanin’ out its one-note song
“See, I just never hear any music coming out today that’s really good like this,” my husband preached, shaking his finger at the dashboard screen revealing in large blue letters: Bob Seger & The Silver Bullet Band Turn the Pagebefore looking at me for agreement.
“You’ve got that right,” I confirmed from my AMEN passenger seat of his pickup truck.
But your thoughts will soon be wandering, the way they always do
“This generation will never know the good stuff. I know every generation says that. My parents said that. But it’s true,” he went on, as we crept campward along the drive.
Earlier in the afternoon, I’d proposed a game – knowing full well he does not like games. But I thought he might play this one.
Here I am, on a road again
There I am, on the stage
Here I go, playing star again
There I go, turn the page
I’d turned the page of my journal and explained the rules (there really weren’t any to speak of, but still…). “I’m going to start. We’ll each add a song for a campfire playlist, and then pass it back and forth until we’re finished. And then I’ll load the songs.”
He’d agreed to this one, this man of mine who comes home from work and unwinds by pulling up music videos on YouTube to songs of the ‘70s on his iPhone in his recliner, dogs flanking him on both sides and the back of his chair behind his shoulders – listening, too, immersing themselves in this afternoon routine of his.
And so it went, until we had the playlist completed; we were listening to it on the way to town and back to our peaceful little haven on the backside of nowhere.
Out there in the spotlight you’re a million miles away
Every ounce of energy you try to give away
Red sockeye salmon grilling, broccoli florets and wild rice simmering, and one single longneck into dinner, we rethought the evening campfire since we’d enjoyed one all morning. We decided instead to call it a day and finish watching another replay of Expedition Happiness on Netflix.
Here I am, on a road again
There I am, on the stage, yeah
Here I go, playing star again
There I go, there I go
And I realized – – we have become our parents’ generation. We’ve turned the page.
Is it surprising at all that the first three letters of moments – my monthly theme for May – spell Mom? Motherhood ~ it presses tresses of hair to lock time, scrapbooks the stories, photographs the milestones, encapsulates moments that become memories. Mothers teach us that our most valuable resource is neither money nor toys. It’s time. Mothers show us how we should spend it with each other, how we share space and emotions and experiences as we carve a life by whittling joys into ropes we can hang onto when life gets tough. And I must share my humble opinion that not all mothers are the women who brought us into this world; for many, the mother figure may be a man – or more than one person.
My own mother savored moments. Her dreams of traveling with my father were short-lived, and she realized this when she was diagnosed with Parkinson’s Disease. Although she had spent time as a flight attendant and had seen some of the world on her own, it wasn’t the same without Dad there to make memories with her. That day of riding off into the sunset with the luggage in the trunk, going off to enjoy the world cannot wait until retirement, cannot wait on projects to be complete or all our ducks to be in a row (they rarely, if ever, are). I learned many things from my mother, most of them just from watching her. But in those final days leading to her last breath on December 29, 2015, when her energy waned and took her mind along with it the vast majority of the time, she taught me that waiting to do the dreamy things in the living of life? …..isn’t always the best plan.
We have no guarantees of tomorrow, no guarantees that the retirement days will ever come or that if they do, we will be physically or financially able to go and see the world and do the things we love at a fraction of the energy and income that we have today. To live, we have to seize each moment and make the time to tie some knots in the rope, to carve some joy and memories to hold onto in our final days.
The day for living is today, in each moment.
Moments
Opportunities for
Memory-making
Everyday~
Not saving the dreams in a jar for
Tomorrow – but
Savoring the now ~ while it’s here
At my son’s wedding in Sevierville, Tennessee, May 25, 2013
Strength and dignity are her clothing, and she laughs at the time to come. She opens her mouth with wisdom, and the teaching of kindness is on her tongue. She looks well to the ways of her household and does not eat the bread of idleness. Her children rise up and call her blessed; her husband also, and he praises her: “Many women have done excellently, but you surpass them all.” …
1 Corinthians 15:51-52 Behold, I tell you a mystery; we will not all sleep, but we will all be changed, in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trumpet; for the trumpet will sound, and the dead will be raised imperishable, and we will be changed.
Feivel visiting the Johnson Funny Farm, Christmas 2021
My brother lost his dog recently – the dog that really was his child, as it was his only companion for most of the past 14 years. Feivel had been born on his front porch on his 18-acre farmland in rural Georgia. We all grew to love Feivel, but one morning it was clear that it was time to be merciful and let him go when the dog’s cancer had won.
Crossing Guard
to raise a puppy walk him across Rainbow Bridge ~ love and grief at once
Common Threads 