Tag: Gratitude

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Saguaro Cactus

In February, we traveled out west to visit one of our daughters in Nevada. We saw beautiful deserts with sunset skies in violet purples, tangerine oranges, buttery and vibrant yellows, and deep rose reds. Many of the cactus plants looked as if they were singing praise to their maker. I painted a watercolor picture, but it did not turn out at all, so here is a photo I did not take that shows better what I had tried to capture in color.

Silhouette of a tall cactus with two arms in a desert at sunset with colorful clouds

Holy Hands

Saguaro Cactus

praising purple sunset skies

raising holy hands

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On the Day I Was Born – July 8

During the last week of June, I had the amazing privilege of traveling to Portland, Oregon to visit the archives of the poet William Stafford at Lewis and Clark College as part of The Stafford Challenge Poetry Conference. I learned that people often ask to see the actual hand-written notes and poems that he wrote on the day they were born, and so I did the same.

Archive Haiku

William Stafford:

I visited his archives …

my birthdate writing:


Here is my best transcription of this page from his handwritten notes on the yellow pages in the photos that follow, below.

8 July

We thought leaves waited, without
winds. But their work flourished, then.
Lost as leaves are, in the fall, each
has all its guarantee: sun, air wind.
I take the fall.

Maybe someone found all this language
the world brings. Not a snake but a stream
through the air, or maybe little waves
nothing holds — anyone in this town fear
news the ants work on? News peeled off
the yellow car that left here this morning; news
trotted among sounds, under the bridge. I felt
the snake across my feet in the bus. And watched
the conductor act calm, as required by the state.
The fox I stole gnawed : inside my coat. Men
act so free: “No fox I stole has ever bitten
me.”

Forsaken liberal, I stamped the curb:
every cause I ever found

has had my vote. Now the animals
prefer their keepers to the kept or freed.


8 July 1966

Seasons mark the brain: a shaft
of spring has always hurt what winter
held. I see beyond the plate and
feel the foxes well. No angel, no
prophet rides with me, but animals.
Keepers are enough too and they live well;
To feed that fox I commit to walk through hell.

every day
Lizards and liberals both low and

adaptable, come back to their holes and love it there.

Such great song scared the birds;

they tiptoe – winged away

Pascal fell through a million windows,
a little kid too smart to be saved by
stupidity.

Though the handwriting is challenging to decipher and does leave some questions, I hang on the first two lines:

We thought leaves waited, without
winds. But their work flourished, then.

Yes, these periods of waiting often seem frustrating, challenging, and even pointless at times. Some days we feel we are merely holding on. But we wait, knowing our work is flourishing. Knowing that the best is yet to come.

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Travelin’ Shoes

I remember buying a new pair of white Keds as a young adult and someone saying, “they’re so blinding white, you might wanna kick some dirt on ’em.” That has stuck with me every time I see a pair of new white shoes, not yet traveled or broken in. And as a lover of well-worn shoes, this photo shared with me by my daughter-in-law sparked joy when I saw the love of living in one of my granddaughter’s shoes as she was fishing on the muddy brink of a pond.

Our shoes tell a story about the living we do!

Muddy Livin’

always have a pair

of well-worn travelin’ shoes

for muddy livin’

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Independence Day Camping – 1971

In 1971, we lived in Reynolds, Georgia on Robin Hood Road and the corner of Friar Tuck. Mom was pregnant with my baby brother, Ken, and Dad was pastor of the First Baptist Church. We lived here in the pastorium, and those were days filled with such fun of childhood – it’s where I learned to ride a bike without training wheels. I’m still looking for pictures of my favorite Keds sneakers – Red White, and Blue. Those were my favorite colors in those days, and I can see it in the campground pictures where we camped over the Fourth of July holiday. Mom always proved that she could outfish anyone, even times when she went fly fishing.

I’m still sifting through old photographs as I digitize them and share them with other family members. It’s fun walking down memory lane.

Our house in Reynolds, Georgia at the corner of Robin Hood and Friar Tuck Roads
Mom, Fernandina Beach, Florida in 1971, pregnant with my brother Ken

Camping Out

Red, White, and Blue stripes

camping at Fernandina

with my family

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Happy Independence Day!

Happy 250th Birthday, America! It’s a great day for watermelon, and a great day to be born. My son, his wife, and their children await the birth of a son and baby brother. Whatever we do today, it’s day to celebrate.

Watermelon Seeds

soon there will be six

in this growing family

he is due today!

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Yellow Jacket Sweatshirt

Uncle Robert and me, 1969, making Yellow Jacket buzzing smiles

Yellow Jacket Sweatshirt, 1969

Uncle Robert

Georgia Tech Engineering Grad

gave me my first Georgia Tech

Yellow Jacket sweatshirt

and my first gerbil, Brownie

in a cage with a wheel

which lasted longer than the sweatshirt

I still haven’t outgrown small critters

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Chapel Allium

After six days of travel to Portland, Oregon for a poetry conference at Lewis and Clark College with Stafford Challenge members, I am back home in Georgia and attempting to transition back to my regular time zone. I made myself get up at 5:45 this morning for coffee and yogurt and a snuggle with my schnoodles. I stepped outside to check the world, and the birdsong assures me the harmony on the farm is still in tune here in the quiet hush of the rural countryside.

It’s my first day home being off contract for summer before I officially retire in August, and I have two goals: write/post, and get myself back in the zone. I might push it and do a load of laundry just to have clean socks. Memories are swimming in my head, full of the love and exhaustion of travel – the best kind of tired that tells you you made the most of it all and came home changed in a way that only travel and friends can change you. How truly Steinbeck the journey, the best kind that leaves you stumbling around with a cup of strong coffee trying to recover from one trip while simultaneously and secretly plotting the next.

But whatever the day holds, my heart and mind will carry all the fresh air and green trees and memories of the Pacific Northwest. I’ll read poems and remember my time there, holding it all close with a foot on both sides of the country today.

Allium at Lewis and Clark College near Agnes Flanagan Chapel – Portland, Oregon

Be

there’s a bench beyond the allium

nestled beneath a tree

beside the cobbled sidewalk

come sit and be with me!

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June Open Write Day 3: Souvenirs

Today’s host of the third and final day of the June Open Write at http://www.ethicalela.com is Leilya Pitre of Louisiana. She inspires us to write poems about the souvenirs we bring home from trips. You can read her full prompt here, along with the poems of others and the feedback given. I have written mine today as I await a flight home from Portland, Oregon to rural Georgia, fresh on the heels of a delightful writer’s conference trip with my friend Glenda Funk of Idaho. I’ve used the style of Ada Limon’s Instructions On Not Giving Up.

img_9636
Horsetail Falls

Souvenirs from Portland, Oregon

more than the t-shirts and canvas bags

more than the keychains and shot glasses

more than that obnoxious prayer request card

cussing to God about the souls

of His other children

in the pew back compartment

someone intentionally forgot

to put in the offering plate

that I claimed as a bookmark

so I can pray the same sort

of prayer for Sam, Gavin, Kellen and all of us sinful humans

(yes, all of us !*(^ing %*m#@$$es)

more than the signed books of other writers

more than the leather shopping treasures,

it’s the photographs that really get to me

that keep the memories alive

stances of trees, slants of slate rooftops,

smiles of strangers and those we love

(yes, all of us !*(^ing %*m#@$$es)

standing beneath waterfalls

in the bend of the rainbow

God’s promise of hope for all His children

cloaked in the prayer shawl of His grace and mercy

(yes, all of us !*(^ing %*m#@$$es)

yes, I’ll take them. I’ll take them all.

Actual prayer request found in a church pew back in Portland, Oregon
Bridal Veil Falls

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Family Pictures: Childhood Kitchen Table

Here we are, my brother Ken and I, November 1972. He was turning 1, and I was helping him celebrate at the round oak kitchen table where we shared so many childhood memories. Ken was the non-morning kid who hid behind the cereal box, daring anyone to look at him in the mornings and promptly growling at those who stole a glance. He turned out just great – – I couldn’t ask for a better brother, and we are blessed to be close siblings in adulthood when so many brothers and sisters aren’t. Even though he was the proverbial Grinch of his morning domain as a child, today he is in the top two percent of the most loving and giving adults I know. Kind, smart, and cool under pressure – – a very level-headed person, especially compared to me – – not always kind, not nearly as smart, and certainly not cool under pressure. Level-headed is debatable.

We’ve spent the past year cleaning out our parents’ home of long-held treasures (and some we found in seven storage units that were picked up at estate sales along the way for a retirement plan antique store they never quite got off the ground once Mom got sick). Somehow, I was fortunate enough to end up with our childhood breakfast table, and while not every memory right now with Dad brings warmth because there is a certain amount of anger in all the grief, the table is the ONE piece of furniture I can look at and actually smile and remember nothing but the happy times, including the way my brother grumped to the table in his “footer things,” pajamas with feet, slumped his blanket up in the chair, climbed up and moved “his” cereal box into a shield position like a morning cheerfulness boundary between him and the morning people family he was born into. It was an unspoken rule in our home to look anywhere but in his direction, because he was vigilantly guarding the air space on his side of the table, like a soldier in a trench with a growl gun propped and loaded.

And I think of all the coffee and conversations, decisions, laughter and tears throughout the years.

Table Tanka

today I sit here

with family history

faded memories

running my fingers along

the edge of present and past

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Family Pictures: Christmas Flower Show

Sometimes the picture speaks in ways we cannot. I’ve been sifting through tubs and tubs of family photos, digitizing them and organizing them in folders to share with family members who, like me, would rather have them on a flash drive than taking up prime real estate in photo albums in the back of the attic. In some cases, I’m sharing via Facebook Messenger if I find those taken with friends who would enjoy the throwback. On a random weekday morning last week, I sent this one to my childhood friend Nancy so we could both remember the years we created floral arrangements with the help of our mothers as we competed in the annual Garden Club’s Christmas Flower Shows.

My friend Nancy (right) and me at the annual Garden Club’s Christmas Flower Show, early 1970s

I wasn’t expecting this response, and it showed me how the power of the photograph can often reach back through the years and find the places that older generations can remember – – like trying to scratch an itch that you never quite can find, and then suddenly you find the sweet spot of relief. This is Nancy’s reply:

Screenshot

How to Make it Count

you’ve bought the shoes

you’ve worn the dress

you’ve taken the trip

now….

send the picture

tell the story

share the memories