What I learned this week...

Years ago, a wise man taught me a little trick. It had to do with writing a letter that you would never mail.  I've written a few over the years since.  It has a weird way of clearing the mind and laying toxic situations to rest when there is really no other way to address them.

Yesterday, I wrote a letter that filled a notebook page.   It was about situations that had presented themselves over the past week, and what I had learned from them.  It was not pretty.  It was full of some very negative things.  In the end, it was about how choosing to live by the Golden Rule is full of risk in this day and age.

It is such a simple rule.  I don't think I can or want to give up on it.  If I have to write a letter every week that I will never mail, then so be it. 

Overnight...almost.

The last time I visited the blogosphere, I had just returned from a mini-retreat to the beach.  This time, the retreat was practically in my backyard.  A little over a week ago, I hiked through the gardens, looking for signs of spring - a bud here or there, or a tender shoot of a brave tulip or paperwhite testing the possibility of coming out of hiding.  The tree in the photo above was full of buds, but they still seemed fairly tight and fearful.  I took pictures of a few little perks of green to share with my preschool story-time charges for the week ahead, and thought we might still have a bit of a wait for the glories of spring.  Then on Tuesday, one of the staff on site sent pictures of the very same trees in full bloom.  Practically overnight,  everything had awakened in an absolute explosion of pink.

That means that today, on my weekend time with no duties to distract me, I will return to the gardens with my camera, as I always do in the spring, and record the exuberance of the tulip magnolias, and their rain of petals down to the gravel pathways of those treasured 9 acres.  And I will say to myself, "This is what my hard work is about," and I will be ready to take on the challenges of the new year.

Retreat...

So, it has been awhile since I added any little mini-bursts of inspiration here.  I admit it.  I mean, who can argue with the evidence, correct?  The truth is that, in the back of my head was that reprimand, or warning, at least, heard from a parent who said, "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all."  I've had my moments of being in a funk over the past few months - one of those times when I'm asking lots of questions of myself, and trying to sort out how I feel about many things going on in my life, and how I'm going to handle them.  Lots of "me" stuff that is way too boring or seemingly self-absorbed for other people, so I have retreated. 

 

Knocking around in my head then, for a few weeks, was the notion that, if I could just get to the ocean and stretch my vision out to the horizon, and watch the surf roll in, I could re-charge.  That has always been the case before.  There is something infinite and eternal in the ocean - different from any other natural setting - that reboots my brain and soul.  Every time.  And last weekend was my time to finally be able to drive the 50 miles to the shore on a sunny winter day, and smell the salt air, ride the ferry chased by hoards of seagulls, and then finish off the day with some fried shrimp - all the while, keeping the water and the horizon in sight.  There was actually little to no surf.  It is almost bizarre to look at an ocean that is calm as an early morning lake, but that was the case that day.  However, even the minimum 15 freight ships waiting offshore did not obstruct the view of that glorious line between the earth and sky that reminds one of the immensity of our world, and puts life in better perspective.

 

I have not yet solved the puzzle of what 2014 will bring.  I know it will be an adventure, and will mean stepping out of my comfort zone a bit, but I have faith that the Lord will be alongside, as always.  Ever faithful.

 

 

It's Christmas Eve...

And the presents are wrapped, the leche quemada cooked, the green bean casserole assembled, and the times of arrival for various family events have been verified.  The weather is clear and with a nip in the air, and in the midst of all of the busy-ness of the season, I felt the need to go record the fall color which arrived just in time for the holiday.  We have been blessed with stunning yellows, reds, and oranges this year - all due to the timing of the first cold snap, and it all just drew me out of my four walls.

And then, something drew me to this one brilliant leaf by itself on the mulch.  Alone, but striking in its alone-ness.  I've had plenty of days over the past few months, and in my life in general, when I've felt very much alone, and so, I guess, my eyes were drawn...  Nature has always been a balm to me when sadness, and "missing," and loneliness were unavoidable companions.  Some say that loneliness is avoidable, but I'm not so sure. It is often dealt with a whimsy that is hard to understand, except that human beings are always in the mix, and so it is subject to their whims.

Nature, on the other hand, makes few demands of us, except to respect her.  She welcomes us no matter what our station or status, and rains, or shines on our parade with no concern for "who" we are.  There is the comfort of consistency in that.  And there is consistency in what we have been told of our Father in Heaven and His love for us - His ongoing concern and hope that we will turn to Him always.  How that is reflected in the church on this Earth may be an entirely different thing, due again to the whimsy of human beings. It is way too easy to speak in platitudes, and in terms of "should," and to forget the use of very tangible signs of presence/recognition - a kind, personal spoken word - the lack of which leave so many feeling lonely even in the midst of thousands.

Oh well...  Loneliness can be a palpable thing at Christmas, but there is also the brilliance of hope, the enormity of the Gift we have been given, the Grace of what can be, and the Peace that comes from being sure of the Creator.  Opening the door and letting that light fill the dark, sad, empty places - that is what we need to be about.

Sharing gifts...

Last week at this time, we were finishing off Thanksgiving Day, and the next evening, in the house inside this window, I played Christmas carols and a few interspersed simple classical guitar pieces for guests as they spent a few minutes in what used to be the library.  There was a faux-fire crackling in the fireplace, a beautifully lighted tree in the bay window, and an air of coziness brought in by hooked rugs, pieced quilts, and plenty  of greenery and bows on the mantel.  The guests and the docents seemed to very much enjoy the addition of the live music to a tour that usually does not have it.

Sometimes we who have music as an integral part of our souls and beings, and play, or have played professionally for many a holiday program, can find ourselves hard-pressed to explain what it can mean to perform at this time of year.  Sometimes, it's just a straightforward performance of the "Messiah", sung by a choir who have practiced for months, have great hearts, sing to a half-filled room of stalwart supporters - and sometimes, it is a stunningly miraculous experience of hundreds of factors coming together in an indescribably beautiful success.  Sometimes, the professionals who have done hundreds of performances over a lifetime let themselves forget the magic of what they are being allowed to do, and sometimes the audiences have no clue that - for the musician - playing or singing and getting paid to do so comes only at the end of years of practice, and from deep inside a sensitive heart which had to fight many battles to make playing professionally work in life.

Almost always, though, at the end of the day, the musician is offering a gift from the soul, because that's where music comes from.  The "professional" part comes from the years of practicing the craft and developing technique, but never be fooled.  The part from the soul is a gift that money can't buy.
Please find a way to value it as such.  And to my fellow musicians, may you have at least one shiny moment of magic enter your holiday gigs this year!

And the music runs through it...

Yesterday was an adventure day.  A day spent exploring the Texian Market Days at a local living history museum.  What a wonderful event, on a gorgeous fall day in Texas.  Yes, we do have a fall of sorts, and it is a dearly appreciated time when the air is cooler and drier, and the air is clear and the sky crystal blue.

Today, I organized pictures, and put a few on Facebook to announce my whereabouts to the masses.  And today, because of the what seemed like miles walked yesterday, I have spent a good part of my time reflecting on that, and rediscovering some of the music stored right next to my pictures in the wonderful Windows invention known as the Library.

I had forgotten some of the tunes hidden therein.  Many have brought tears because they carry memories with them - memories of having sung or played them myself, or having wished I had written them, or that they were favorites of beloved people who have earned their heavenly reward.  The entire fabric of my life is wrapped in music, and it often brings me to tears.  I celebrate, grieve, rejoice, mourn, and generally live my life wrapped in this fabric.  Right now, many of those threads are tied to my sweet mother, and the loss of her leads me to tears of gratefulness for life, and tears of missing.  So, it is hard to sing.  Have you ever tried to sing and cry at the same time? This has happened to me before, and I know will eventually be able to sing again.

A couple of times since August, a fellow choir member or two has asked where I've been.  I will likely be gone for awhile.  The musical river is running with strongest of current right now, and it just keeps overflowing.  The flood will ebb.  I know it.

Change of season...

It's that welcomed time of year again. The temperature outside - 61 degrees.  Overcast with the chance of rain.  A gentle breeze, and the crepe myrtle has dropped its leaves for the winter.  Yes, I know that for some, 61 degrees is a heat wave calling for a trip to find tasty and decadent ice cream.  However, in Houston, that same change in the weather is cause for release from the heat stress of the summer, and just sets our inner beings to want to go run around the park 2 or 3 or 10 times.

It does bring to mind the fact that there could be a Thanksgiving around the corner, even though Hobby Lobby has been screaming fall and Halloween at us for weeks already, and in some corners of town, and shame on them, the Christmas decorations are already being attached to the buildings. Whoa!  Can we not just relish in the signs given us by nature?  The change in the light, the onset of showers, and noticeable ups and downs of barometric pressure that make our long-since healed broken bones ache, the thrill of wondering whether we need a sweater to walk outside (and not just to help us survive the air-conditioned workplace?), the tinge of a smell of fallen leaves and dampness of the earth, the availability of puddles in which to stomp our feet - even if we don't?

I will choose in the next weeks to get outside as much as possible - maybe even to take a walk in the rain.  I would like a HUGE umbrella, like that of the little lady in the picture.  And if anyone comes across me walking, they might think that I, like the girl in the picture, look a bit sad.  They will be wrong.  I will choose to interpret that look as a reflective one.  Being reflective might have a twinge of sadness in it, but it is more about sorting out the world, and what you are doing in it.  In my mind, doing that with a walk outside is much more likely to be successful than by doing it anywhere else.

More so as the seasons change.