And then it rains

Seasons are more than just changes of scenery and temperature for me and many others like me.  They operate an emotional calendar as well.  This morning I woke up and said “Why not run regardless of whether it’s raining?”  Well it didn’t take me long to answer that.  I’m out of shape anyway.  I’ve not been running or swimming or dancercising or even walking to the top of the hill everyday whether it rains or not.  It’s been winter and now it is raining.  I’ve neglected my dog’s training and so the run becomes a wrestling match whether it rains or not.  I know it’s not really his fault.  But the thought of facing the struggle and the rain leaves me snuggled under my cover or cuddling with a throw in one of those big chairs I made for the sunroom, waiting for the dawn instead of out welcoming the day with a brisk walk or run up and down the surrounding hillsides.

This grey sky, high-low temperature, foggy dawn, housebound time of year always has the same effect on me.  I'm like Charlie Brown thinking I'll kick that ball to the moon and landing on my back or face in the mud. I was reading through some other posts from this time of year and I found evidence that it’s not a new struggle brought on by the advance of years.  The short stories are full of melancholy and unnamed dissatisfaction. The poems are generally darker and more introspective in nature.  Even my journaling suffers the same malady.  And as I look at it, I find that my quiet times frequently struggle for meaning and often end up with unresolved issues of spirit and heart.  I do understand why, but I can’t force change to happen.

I know God answers the prayers of his people.  The other day as I listened to what should have been a soothing rhythm on my sunroom roof with a bit of impatient dissatisfaction, I thought “He’s giving me the rain I asked for last fall –and last summer and the fall before, just in case I felt slighted.”  Yes, of course I’m joking.  God gives good gifts and he gives them when we need them.  I’m confident of that.  But there's little comfort when people keep saying “We’ll be wishing for this come summer.”  I understand that this is the time for the ground water to be resupplied for the hotter, dryer days to come, when the tree roots get the bulk of what’s down there and the watering schedule is barely enough to keep the flowers fresh.  It’s all part of the cycle of life. 

Of course, for it to fill the aquifer, it must first make slop out of my yard and hillside.  It must turn the newly tilled garden into a mud pit that is impossible to plant until the sun of May dries it out.  So I start the seeds inside knowing that the poor plants will be behind when the time comes.  And I pay crazy prices for established plants to fill in the gaps in mid to late May.

I must admit that on the days when I do get up the hill, the views are stunning.  Fruit trees and vines have bloomed, set on and are developing fruit.  Iris are abundant as are the periwinkle and a few left overs from the wisteria.  Dianthus and sweetpeas have exploded into bloom after struggling to maintain foliage and two or three small blossoms through the winter.  The dew berries are almost like snow and quickly moving into forbidden territory.  The four o’clocks are a long ways from blooms, but their foliage is developing nicely.  Spikey leaves announce the coming of sprays of gladiola and sweet calla lilies.  The later varieties of azalea are showing off their spring outfits and gerbera daisies are uncurling.  The passion flower is sending vines up into the mass of other vines already on the pergola. 

The tree frogs scream their invitations to courtship back and forth.  A large variety of birds chase each other through sky, bushes and trees as part that other cycle of life.  Everything is fresher, louder, clearer, more aromatic in the spring.  Snakes, skinks and a variety of other things that slither and scoot surprise me in the few efforts I can make while the skies allow.

The pool is uncovered to the joy of a crowd of insects –well until I add the chemicals that render them lifeless to be sucked off the water and into oblivion.  The softness of the pool lights and the solar lamps beckon me to come sit in the fresh evening to listen to the night song I’ve been denied since last fall.  I consider building a small fire and breaking out the deck cooking supplies.  I finally give in to the idea all this sweetness and then it starts to rain.

I feel tricked, thwarted, stymied, unfulfilled.  I know the time is coming for nights on the deck and around the pool.  Laughter and soft talks, splashing and barbecues are waiting in the wings of time.  Swimming laps at dusk, soft towels, cold drinks with warm fires await.  Breakfast in the early morning breeze with the scent of flowers and the soft noises of life will undoubtedly happen, but not tomorrow; tomorrow and the next day it’s going to rain.  Sigh.

Thoughts on Sirens

I’m a person who loves being in the country.  I love the air, the sounds, the critters, the sky at night.  I visit the country often, but I don’t live there. I’m not really a small town sort.  Lived there, done that and gave the t-shirt to charity years ago.  I live in a city.  In fact, if you dropped a pin in the exact center of Fort Smith, top to bottom, side to side, it would probably fall within a very short distance of my little plot in town. 

I know the vibe of my city.  The fireflies and nightsong are similar to that of the country, but when I sit on my deck or float in my pool in the summer, I also hear the sound of my neighbors in their own spots.  Mariachi music sometimes pours from the deck a couple doors down and often I can hear distinctly the conversations of the people on the hill beside us as they sit out on their deck in the evening. I watch as the bats come out at dusk and fly about catching their evening quota of mosquitoes and such.  I cheer them on understanding fully why the city has installed bat houses in various wooded areas of town. 

The lights from the mall illuminate my hill when I’d really like to watch the stars fall or examine the moons of Jupiter or the rings of Saturn.  Sometimes when I’m cooking out in my fire pit, helicopters fly over and seem to be sampling my smoke to see if they should land for supper. Military and commercial planes come and go from the airport nearby with deafening clarity day and night.  But we can also sit on our parking pad in the front yard and watch a variety of personal firework celebrations on New Year’s Eve.  And frequently after we return from the mayor’s 4th of July celebration, we can sit on our deck and see the fine display put on by the country club at the end of our street.

Our city is a sanctuary.  People say “Oh cool,” but don’t realize it means sometimes my cat will share his food, bed and such with a possum until one of us can convince it to leave.  It means my dog got sprayed in the face by a skunk –which taught him a valuable lesson and made him quite ill for a good little while.  It means that the bunnies, groundhogs and raccoons will wander into my yard and hole up under the brush pile my husband has made beneath the huge old pear tree on the hill.  And regardless of the fit my dog throws, they don’t have to leave their vantage but will watch my garden and its produce while the dog comes and goes.  It means that periodically, I will chase geese and ducks from my pool and clean and sanitize –again.  It means squirrels and other critters will carry off my grapes and peaches at the moment of ripe.  Yet it is home and I do find this zoo endearing.  We manage.

We live about half way between two large hospitals, close to a storm shelter that is tested every 2nd Tuesday at noon and a few blocks from a fire station.  Sirens at any time of day or night are a given. The other day, I was visiting with a student’s parent after the lesson.  We were standing on the front parking pad and I noticed her reaction to the siren that went by on the main throughway up the hill.  She commented about how close we were and how loud it was and I thought, I hadn’t even noticed it until she reacted.

Issues that have been driving everyone I know crazy for a bit, regardless of their sides of the proverbial fence, have made me ask myself a lot of questions of late.  One of them is “Why sirens?” 

They alert us; they warn us; they help us react.  About a week ago, I was headed down Rogers in peak traffic when everything came to a standstill.  Sitting there with thousands of other people who could not get out of the way, I waited and watched while a police car streamed by, sirens blaring, lights flashing in the center turn lane.  The accident was a long way up the road, but it was peak traffic time.  I waited and inched and waited more and eventually got over into the right lane where I could detour around it when my turn came.  The siren was not much benefit to us that day.  We could hear it, but we were already stopped, we were in a clogged herd unable to react to any warning. 

Thinking on this brought another event to mind from many years ago.  When I lived in Hot Springs, the hospitals were at the end of the main street going through the busiest part of town.  I was young and not extremely versed in anxious driving and was trying to parallel park when I heard the siren. I got so flustered that I ended up crossways in the street and sat there embarrassed while the ambulance found its way around me and on to its destination. Luckily I was the only novice on the road that day.

My brain is constantly cluttered with choices.  Spiritual and emotional sirens go off regularly.  They are there to warn me, to alert me to a situation that is coming, to help me prepare and cope.  But often I find myself as I did traveling down Rogers at peak traffic.  I can’t get off the road.  I can’t move to the right.  I’m already at a standstill.  I could have chosen the back road, but I didn’t.  I could have been earlier or later, but I wasn’t.  Truth be known, I’m so used to the sirens that I barely noticed it until it was going around me.  I’m speaking in metaphor. 

We are conditioned to the changes, to the spiritual noise.  We’ve listened to the arguments against what we believe is right until we just aren’t sure what is right to do, if we could do anything at all.  We’ve begun believing the lies and often they had to get really bad before we realized they were lies.  I walk or stand still in a crowd of ‘we’ until I’m part of a herd that can neither help nor move away.  I’m conditioned to ignore the siren until it means nothing at all.  It’s where I live.

One of my entries in my prayer diary is “Give me ears to hear; give me eyes to see.”  I’m trying to sort it out and trust the Spirit within.  It’s not easy.  It’s imperative. 

A Vision of my Aunt

I was probably around 12 when I first recall meeting my aunt Roberta.  I’d heard about her for years.  They called her Bertie which I always heard as Birdie.  Aunt Birdie sounded like a fun, nice sort of person though she seemed to always incur ‘discussions’ by the adults in my dad’s side of the family.

My dad had two sisters who were a good bit older than he was.  The other sister’s name was Rose.  That was a cool name as well, but as an 8 year old, Birdie was more memorable. 

My dad, grandmother, brother and I were on our way to Kansas to see my aunt Rose and her husband Frank.  They had a son around my age.  I was an active, noisy child and it was a long drive.  I was excited about this cousin I’d never met.  We’d drive awhile and I would ask “How long til we get to Aunt Birdie’s?”  It was, in the beginning, a child’s mistake, but the more my grandmother scolded and corrected, the more firmly “Birdie” was planted in my consciousness.

“Her name is Bertie not birdie and we’re going to see your Aunt Rose.”

“We are going to see Rose not Roberta, Bunny.”

“Do not, do not call your Aunt Rose ‘Birdie!’ It’s not birdie anyway, it’s Roberta.”

“You must not –NOT- call your Aunt Rose birdie. She would not like that –at all.”

Dad began to chime in.  “We’re going to see Rose, Bunny.  Say ‘Hello, Aunt Rose.  I’m Bunny White’.”  I complied.  “Say ‘I’m glad to meet you, dear Aunt Rose.”  His voice was taking on a fun sing-song character I knew well.  I mimicked him.  “Say what a lovely house you have, Aunt Rose.”  I began having fun.  “Say what lovely brown eyes you have, Aunt Rose.”  I giggled and repeated.  “All the better to see you with my dear,” said my father. 

I retorted “My what a big Jewish nose you have, Aunt Rose.” And my father replied “All the better to smell you with my dear.”

My father obviously got his sense of humor from my grandfather.  “Willie, stop it!” my grandmother ordered. “She’s not the big bad wolf and we don’t need the child insulting her.”  That was a shock to me.  It was probably the first time I’d ever heard my grandmother talk to daddy like he was a little kid in trouble.

My dad smirked and continued “My what lovely teeth you have Aunt Rose!”

“William Howard White!”

Ooooooo.  Grandmother had pulled out the middle name.  Dutifully Dad complied.  I fell silent for a short, short time.  “How long till we get to Aunt Birdie’s?”

“We are going to see Rose.  Do not call her Birdie.”

Later I would learn that there was some bad blood between the sisters, though it was the wounded Rose who came out the better in the end.  I would also learn during that trip that my cousin was adopted but that Frank was his grandfather.  I would learn that Robert’s birth mother was Roberta’s daughter.  I’d never been convinced not to ask delicate questions.

The funny thing about it is, when I met Rose, she didn’t really seem like a “Birdie” anyway.  The trip went well and was memorable for things other than an 8 year old insulting her aunt.

Roberta had a reputation within the family.  Meeting her went much differently that meeting my Aunt Rose.  The main thing I remember was how she looked.  She was in her 60s.  I was raised in a conservative era, in a conservative community, in a conservative church, in a conservative family.  The vision of my aunt was forever burned on my brain.  She had bright pink hair well coifed. She had very meticulous, but striking make-up.  It wasn’t like a model’s make-up, but more like stage make-up: expressive and way over-done. She had on skin tight capris – we called them ‘pedal pushers’ because they made it easier to ride a bike, though probably not if they were that tight- and a halter top.  I’d seen my neighbor in a halter top before when she mowed the yard.  Most of our neighbors just closed their curtains. She wore, with the afore mentioned attire, high heels with straps that circled her legs up to the bottom of the pants.  No one I’d ever seen dressed like that –not my sisters, not my friends, not my cousins.  And besides, she was old!  I’m sure I gawked.  I remember years later seeing “Grease.”  When Olivia Newton John came out dressed as a bag girl, that was my Aunt Birdie–in her 60s.

In this era of skinny jeans and fringy things, I looked in the mirror the other day as I was getting ready to leave the house.  Starting with the roman style sandals with heels I checked my reflection moving up through skinny jeans, a slightly fitted tunic with a discrete contrasting cami to reduce the exposed cleavage but not totally eradicate it, a fringed open crocheted shrug, a sparkly necklace and matching dangly earrings.  It was a very cool look –until I got to the face.  Some how the age of the face always shocks me.  Except for the pink hair, I was my aunt!  Not Rose.

Stupid mirror.  I took my stuff and left the house.  The youth of my day can just deal with it.  I’m dressed.

A different day, a different road.

I ran into him in a pizza place. Not a proper pizza place but one with a kiddy area and buffet line.  TVs blared in the background playing an array of current forgettable sporting events and cartoons. I was weaving my way toward an open table before anyone else could claim it when he spoke my name. 

In another life he had been a good friend and the father of one of my daughter’s good friends.  He was one of the few who stood beside me when others believed the worst.

I relinquished the table to another and smiled at the couple who were obviously nearing time for the desert line.  We exchanged ‘what if’s and ‘remember when’s and ‘how are you doing’s while I held my food laden tray above the head of a rambunctious child who was waiting to abandon food for coin eating machines.  Out the corner of my eye I saw another in my large family party snag a couple of empty tables.

With the family seating secured, I took time to really look at my friends. My, how they had aged; they were looking quite old.  Well, yes they were old.  They had children my age as well as the age of my daughter who was now grown with children of her own.  It was obvious, now, that the recent years had not been kind to the man. At a break in the conversation, the woman said “We need to let her get to her food before it’s cold.”

I smiled and said I was glad we’d had a chance to catch up.

Then came the dreaded question from the man: “So where can I come and hear you play the piano?” to which I replied that I only played for my own enjoyment these days and didn’t think my playing was fit for public ears anymore.

He replied, “You were the best I ever heard. I have always hoped I could hear you play one more time before I die.” 

My heart caught in my throat and I replied “You’re too kind, but that’s just not my life anymore.”  His eyes clouded and soon I was with my noisy, happy family downing more food than should be consumed in a single day because it was a buffet.

I’ve often thought of that encounter.  It was the last time I saw my friend.  Several years later his daughter told me of his death.  I felt a kind sorrow that I never got to play for him again.  So many things have changed in my life.  Through the years life has moved me in and out of abilities, opportunities, difficulties, and blessings.  One thing I do know is change happens.

For awhile I tried to force the music to come back.  A friend with whom I had shared musical moments told me it would when I ceased to need it so badly.  He recounted a story of his own struggle with music and how when he relaxed and accepted who he was and how he was created everything fell into place.  Well that’s not my story.  What’s funny is that recently I ran into that friend and he has moved out of the ‘music’ scene completely.  What I will say is that I still love music and I still enjoy the times when I sit on my own accord and allow it to wash over and flow freely in time and space.

I’ve done many things –some of them I’ve done well.  I’ve learned to lighten up.  I’ve learned where the disputable things lie and how to allow myself freedom to live life the way I believe it should be lived without pressure, just because.  I’ve learned to identify the indisputable truths and value them regardless of the society I live in or the images and ideas I’m constantly fed by media and others.  I’ve learned to center down and refocus.  I’ve learned to realign and trust.

Mostly I’ve learned that this day is different.  It is the only now I get. This road inside me is mine to travel and I will not pass this way again.  I’ve learned that’s okay.  God is big enough for tomorrow as well.