The Memo

I stood outside and watched wispy white clouds finger paint the blue sky. It was a warm, but still a beautiful day and the sun was quite playful. That was then-this afternoon. Now, just two hours later the evergreen trees are dancing to music with a rolling drum beat like a tympani approaching the peak of the crescendo. The sky is dark, the sun hidden behind the storm clouds and a tornado warning has been issued. An over exuberant wispy cloud must have knocked over all the finger paints and they have spilled across the sky creating a most unusual color. The evergreen trees are now black silhouettes, almost like skeletons with long spindly arms extending towards each other in their dance. The squirrels have left the bird feeder. Uh, did I miss a memo? Did someone change the channel with the remote when I was not looking, leaving me puzzled trying to figure out who these characters are and what do they have to do with my movie?

There is no danger but like a child with grand plans for the day, standing and looking out the window dripping with rain, I feel miffed. My thoughts, caught in the wind currents, roll across each other like the clouds. Look at the monitor then the trees and back to the monitor. I have headphones on and it occurs to me that the trees are dancing in rhythm with the music playing. Nature is playing, a bit rough, but is having quite the time this evening.

Part 2

There are lyrics to songs I truly get lost in but because of the music around the lyrics I am unable to enjoy their genius. Nature and seasons have a rhythm. No matter what they bring, there is a rhythm to them. I believe that. Like the music, sometimes the lyrics of nature’s frolicking have a rhythm that makes it difficult to dance or sing. Tornadoes have left destruction and death. What had been a very surreal moment watching the storms come in, quickly changed as sirens blared their danger for almost two hours.

So how does one reconcile the before and after photographs in your mind? You cannot ignore the destruction. It happened. Sometimes its unavoidable. You cannot, however, ignore the beauty of the dance before, the splendor of the visual display during and the calming colors when the storm passed. Somehow, we have to find the rhythm and the lyrics and not forsake one for the other. To remember the rhythm of the seasons. And maybe that’s the memo.

Clearing away clutter.

One of the easiest ways to get organized and to clear away clutter is by taking out the trash. If you want to start organizing and clearing away clutter, start by clearing away what you know is trash: junk mail, flyers left on your door or mailbox, empty food and/or drink containers, empty boxes from mailed or bought items, empty grocery bags, dry cleaning plastic, old magazines, etc.

As you clear these items away, you might want to consider how you can cut down on some of this type of trash that enters your life. Perhaps removing yourself from catalog mailing lists and investing in reusable grocery bags could be a start. Then as you sift through and release this trash, start identifying other items in cupboards, drawers, and the refrigerator that can be considered trash and remove these items. Start on one element at a time.

Then as you move through the process, move to larger projects; for instance, closets, attic, garage, basement, and rooms. Start with trash first and be honest with your items. Unless they are holiday items being stored yearly for holiday usage, if you have something stuck away that hasn't been used for a year or more, it is most likely trash, or at least something to donate.

Often just by going through and removing trash that we hang onto in our lives we can make a huge leap in getting organized, and the removal of the trash that clutters our environment can go a long way in clearing the clutter of our minds.

This is just a beginning step and a metaphor for clearing out the clutter of one's life. What is cluttering your life? What steps can you take to clear out the trash, cut back on allowing trash to enter your life, and clean up your environment, your mind, your body, and your spirit?

I Hate Housework!

It's tedious, monotonous and infinite! I resent the fact that Hagar doesn't do as much as me and has somehow managed to morph a relationship founded on equality to one of segregated conjugal roles! How did this happen? At the same time, I know that I lead a privileged existance and inside my soul I should be pleased to serve my family and create the nest that they all need to function to the optimum. Yet, I can't help it - it really pisses me off that it's me that has to be the slave!

My gran, Betty, was the guiding light of my life. She was one of 14 children. She grew up in a country village near Peterborough. My great-grandfather was a drunk, and had drank, and gambled, his father's fotune away. Gran lived in a tumbled down cottage, she and her siblings would have to collect the family's water from a pump in the middle of the village square. At 14, she left home and moved to Coventry to live in lodgings with her sister Pearl. She worked as a secretary to an army officer.

At 16 she met my grandfather, Ginge, (a redhead - the clue is in the nickname), he had been dragged up working on the docks in York. His father was murdered with a dockers claw for his wage packet. He slept rough around York docks until he was 15. When the war came he was called up and enlisted to the RAF as a rear gunner. According to my very uncharitable father, he was a big boozer and spent most of the war in the brig for drinking offences, hence the reason he managed to survive a role, where death was almost guaranteed.

After the war, Ginge and Betty married, and moved to York, where they were issued a council house at 49 Tenent Road. This is where they lived until they both died. They had four children. My mother was one of them. She was the eldest and born in 1947. Life at 49, as it was always known through my raising, was pretty turbulent. Gran and grandad had come from nothing and they had nothing. The house was furnished with filth, orange boxes and love. Grandad was now working at Rowntrees Macintosh as a painter and decorator; a job he held until he retired at the age of 60. Ginge was a drinker - he loved his booze. He could open his throat and pour the amber nectar down his neck in voluminous quantities. His greatest achievement was that he could drink a pint in under 5 seconds.

He could be found in The White Rose most nights, drinking and playing dominos. My mum quite often would have to pull him, and his bike, out of the hedge in the morning and make sure he got to work on time. Betty kept the home fires burning, stoically and cheerfully - held together by tots of brandy and many fags. He was a womaniser as well. When Ginge's fancy women would turn up at the back door, gran would shriek, "Gin-ner! There's a women here, says you are leaving me. Are you going?'

"No Bette," would be the sheepish response.

"Did you hear that?" Gran would spit at the doorstep daliance.

"Now sling yer hook."

Betty's darkest day was when my mother committed suicide at the age of 26. She could never speak of it. She put it in a secure vault and buried her grief deep inside her soul, never to be unlocked. In fact it took until I was 18 years old before she could put a photo of my mum, amongst the collection of family memoribilia, framed and set amidst the vast array of porcelain birds.

Through this rollercoaster of a life, my gran served her family and her grandkids and others as well. She cleaned, washed and ironed - singing terribly, crooning. She fed every stray dog and child in Tenent Road. Many kids sought refuge from life at Betty's house. You would never know who would be living there and for how long. She couldn't bear to see a child in pain.

She worked as a barmaid in The Mania Bar at York Station Hotel. She was straight out of Andy Cap - lacquered blonde hair, bright pink, powder and paint, back skirt, white shirt, with an ample cleavage and killer patent leather heels. How she worked shifts in these shoes, I have no idea. On day shifts, she would sneak me in and hide me from the management. Whenever, the bosses came down I would scuttle behind the crisp boxes, under the bar and wait for them to leave. My reward for silence and stillness was 10p for the fruit machine, that would often multiply magically into a £1.

All she did was work, smoke, sing, dance and celebrate life. She waited on all of us. She said she was born to serve. 'You come to my house to relax', she would say to me. She was proud to serve her family. Her house was a real refuge. My refuge. I called it the 'bosum'. The bosum of Betty.

Betty Smith

Like a shining star,
A blooming flower,
Early morning and a face that is sour.

She can be bright and gay,
Like a sunny day.
She has a twinkle in her eye
And a sparkle in her smile.

She is loaded with love,
She is armed with style.

With a life full of pain,
It is from her that I gain,
That at the end of the day,
When it is all said and done
And push comes to shove
There is no one like Betty
She defines the word love.

I think of my gran and the spirit she inspired me within me. I give myself a little pep talk. I am blessed to have such a wonderful gift with my life, two gorgeous children, the handsome Hagar, a beautiful nest to raise my kids and yet no matter how much I try I still can't help hating housework!!! It's so boring and pointless!!! When Hagar comes home and I have cooked a fabulous home-cooked meal, with fresh ingredients, from scratch, and then I end up doing the washing up, and putting the kids to bed as well. The nagging 'I am not born to serve' battle unleashes itself. I blame Thatcher! She was a false icon - she had staff and a millionaire husband! I need me some of those. It's no good, I can't help it - I hate housework. Right, that said I have to go and make the beds. The battle continues on.......

"Someday I’m going to do and say everything I want to do and say, and if people don’t like it I don’t care." - Scarlett O'Hara


First written by me at my new blog:

http://amodernmilitarymother.wordpress.com/

You can't hurt me

Someone flashed me. I didn’t feel a thing...


I spent a glorious day yesterday with a group of friends I do not see as frequently as I would like, but it seems we always pick up where we left off. You know those friends; the ones that you may not see for days, weeks, or years, but some ripple in time does not make it seem as long as it has.

Upon driving the hour-long trip home, I enjoyed a brilliant light show from nature warning us that it was about to christen us with a healthy rain. Soft melodic music set the ambient background as the wind burst in and out of the window with my arm “surfing” the bluster. T’was a blessed evening indeed.

The drive along the dark highway with only the soft “whish” of damp tires was eventually interrupted by civilization. Bright street lamps, glowing signs, and hustle and bustle of people getting where they have to go eventually encroached upon my serenity set to cruise control.

I approached the light; one option for left, one for straight/right. You know the one where the arrow goes forward and also veers right in the same vertical column separating our choices. I chose straight/right.

I admit I was not aware of how important the guy was behind me. Nor was I aware of his urgent schedule. I mean I did not plan to be where I was when I was there; I just arrived at that light at that time. I stopped at the red light as my choice, once narrowed from the straight/right to only desiring the straight, halted my progression momentarily. “His Highness” behind me must have desired to go right, despite his cosmic tardiness now placed him behind me. I stopped, coincidentally he did too. He flashed his brights at me. I didn’t feel a thing.

I kind of chuckled as once upon a time, the illuminated “call-to-arms” could have led to a good old fashioned redneck smack down. Not tonite. I now find the folly in what people allow to derail them. No I am not talking about any physical contact as I could see if someone punched you, pulled your hair, flicked your nose, gave you a “noogie, Indian burn, or wet-willie” which could cause a commotion if undesired, but the simple things we have allowed to become unnerving. It is quite comical actually.

“She rolled her eyes at me, can you believe it?!”

“Did you kick her ass?”

“No, but I really wanted to.”

This one I have heard and I am sure somewhere the outcome did transpire into violence.

Who also started the “I will harm you and disrupt you with a loud exhale” tactic? Ever had one of those moments in line somewhere; you cannot make up your mind between the chicken or the beef? I mean a burrito can be a commitment as they do truly stick with you for a while. You pause, you vacillate between the two. Then you hear it from behind you: “Huhhhh!” “Crap, give me the beef.”

Someone ever “raise their eyebrows at you? You know the: “Did they really just say that” with the accompaniment of the “OMG” sneer? Ouch. I mean that one is usually saved for the most severe of social indiscretions. I find it practiced frequently among pre-teen girls. At least in my home.




I find the “Slow-shaking-of-the-head-in-disapproval” is another tactic with its own venomous barb.

“What did I do? I mean I looked over and this dude was shaking his head at me!”

“Oh my gosh man, did you shake your head back?!”

“Damn! I didn’t think of it fast enough.”

“Maybe you ought to take the day off tomorrow to recover.”

All I want to know is how many people have died over time from the simple extending of a digit? Make a fist. Now, extend only your middle finger. Good. Now raise that hand at someone. What happened? I know; can you believe it? The simple extension of a digit. If this ever happens to me, I have fun now. I act as if I did not see it correctly, and nod in excitement mouthing “Thank you”, and raise my index finger as if they just told me “I am number one!” It really frustrates the “Flipper.”

I guess I find these things funny now. These gestures are just that, and have no more power than I give them. What does that say about me and my character to let these simple little movements and behaviors take me down. Funny how they can have a tendency to linger if you let them.

“Remember last week at the grocery, when I was trying to dig the change out of my purse, the lady behind me exhaled rudely?!”

“What? Uh, no.”

“Well, I would have said something if I didn’t have the kids with me.”

Now when confronted with these behaviors, I simply smile. Maybe that is my own passive aggressive retaliation subliminally, but not necessarily my intention. And to you “Mr. Brights-you-from-behind,” if you would like to email me your social and travel schedule, I will try to avoid your chosen path. If not, that will be me smiling at you through the rear view mirror.

Repost from: Artisan of the Human Spirit

Grasshopper thoughts, Vol. I, Part I

You're wondering what in the world 'grasshopper thoughts' are, right? This is my way of describing how my mind works. If you've been outside on a hot summer day, walking through a field, then you know that grasshoppers possess a remarkable ability to jump in the most bizarre, unexpected ways and angles seconds before you walk upon their location. This is how my brain activity functions. I have several blogging friends who label these blog posts things like "Popcorn Posts" (Anahid Boghosian's Fireside Moments) and "Pleasantly Disturbed Thoughts" (Duane Scott). These posts happen when we writerly types have a slew of thoughts that don't really settle into one nice, cohesive, smoothly communicated line of prose.


As I admit that I am, at times, more serious than I need to be, I decided after a couple of conversations with the two friends mentioned above that I would adopt this format and make it unique to me. You may enjoy the disjointed thoughts that take sudden, quirky jumps in a completely unexpected direction, only to fly off at another bizarre angle moments later. You may not like this format at all - I just know that I'm enjoying the sheer freedom this concept provides, so here goes...the first Grasshopper Thoughts epistle!

Golden raisins - who, other than myself, is a fan of these little jewels? Do many even realize they exist, overshadowed by the more traditional dark raisins? Golden raisins are actually called Sultanas, a fact I just learned by going to my old friend, Wikipedia. Take a moment to click on the link and learn some fascinating information! I just happen to prefer these golden lovelies because they're not so overpoweringly strong in flavor and lend themselves to various foods better than the darker raisin variety.

Spinning wool into thread - I just have to wonder about this one. Who was it that was musing in the fields of sheep one fine day and decided, "I do believe I'll shear those critters, do complicated things to the wool and even more complicated processes to produce this thin filament and call it 'thread'!" Whomever this intrepid soul was, my hat is off to him/her. This then makes me ponder the next thing in line, which is who came up with the concept and design of the spinning wheel. See what I mean? A typical grasshopper line of thought.

Dark chocolate & raspberries w/ salt. Need I say more? I think there is no more sublime a combination than melted dark chocolate - of at least 80% pure cacao - and ripe raspberries with a sprinkling of sea salt. I'm not really a sweets eater as a general rule, but when I do want something sweet, this is it.

Honeysuckle mornings....ahh, nothing better! You are not reading the blog of a true Morning Person, just know that right here and now. On the rare occasion that I'm up with daybreak, it is generally due to the fact that I've been on a writing jag through the night and haven't gone to bed yet. This post is being written in the midst of June 2010 and East Tennessee is in the grips of an early, hot summer. Humidity is thick enough to cut with a knife, stealing oxygen from the air we breathe, stifling the lungs as we step outside. In the wee hours of dawn, however, that same humidity coaxes delicate, heady fragrance from the honeysuckle that climbs the hill behind my patio. I sit, eyes closed and breathe the fragrance in as I listen to the day awakening around me....and my heart is still....my mind, for a brief moment at least....calmed from grasshopper thoughts...temporarily.

Mascara - it's all about the brush, people. Ladies, I have no doubt that you get this immediately. Gentlemen, I doubt you get it at all and that you probably don't care to learn! For those of you who worship cosmetics with gleeful abandon (I'm guilty, yet proud to be in this sisterhood), you know that perfect brush is the secret to long, full, curled-just-right eyelashes. I am on an eternal hunt for the next best creation, but I always come back to a tried and true favorite. Thankfully, it is one that has a cult following and has been on the market for close to twenty years, so I believe I am safe from the dreaded "DISCONTINUED" disease that is rampant in high end cosmetics!

I declare this to be as good a point as any to stop with my grasshopper journey. Never fear, this will be a continuing post. I'll be curious to see how it is received and how many of you out there have similar jumbled thoughts running through your minds at any given moment! There is absolutely no unifying theme or purpose here, other than to jot down my thoughts as these topics flit with maniacal grasshopper gymnastics along the fringes of my conscious mind.

I think it's healthy to give these grasshopper thoughts voice - I'm sure, in fact, that my gray matter is probably breathing a silent sigh of relief that I'm bestowing some semblance of order here. Yes, I know...our brains don't breathe sighs of relief, per se. Which brings up a grasshopper thought......to be continued in Vol. I, Part II....
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If you enjoyed this post and would like to read more, you can find me at Healing Morning blog.

The Joy of Flying

“Cabin crew to your stations for takeoff.”

Even after 28 years of being a loyal patron of the airline industry, the announcement for cabin crew to take their seats never fails to evoke a thrill within me. After all, the captain’s request for the crew to be seated is usually the final announcement before the aircraft’s exhilarating rush across the runway and graceful leap into the sky.

Some days ago, on a flight from Delhi to Mumbai, I thought about my fascination for flying. What is it about flying that captures my wonder so much that no matter how many times I fly, I still look forward to the next flight? I mean, it’s not like I’m new to flying or anything. My first international flight was barely a few months after I was born, and that was the first of tons more to follow, across cities and even continents.

I’ve flown so much that I recognize all the mechanical sounds and events that now seem routine during a flight. Like the wheels wrapping up after takeoff and being lowered down when the flight is cleared to land. Or the bright beam of light that comes on below the plane shortly before it makes a final descent towards the airport at night. Or the extension flaps that miraculously grow out of the wings as the plane negotiates its landing in stormy weather. Not to miss that very slight but noticeable drop in altitude accompanied by a lowering of the engine noise about forty minutes to a half hour before we’re due to land, that tells me we’ve begun our descent even before the seat belt sign is turned on and the descent is made official.

I have a feeling that if studying Math and Physics weren't pre-requisites, I might just have become a pilot!

But back to my pondering on the reason for this fascination. What is it that still makes me pine for the window seat, like a child sitting in a plane for the first time does? I’ve begun to acknowledge that flying is a deeply spiritual experience for me. And that’s why I love it so much. That’s why I would choose a flight over a train ride, any day. It’s the whole deal of flying away from the world, up into a realm where all I can see is an expanse of “nothingness.” Where the shades of blue always make me gasp with wonder, and the multitude of pink and orange hues painted across the evening sky elicit that familiar “wow” reaction from me, every single time.

As I look out the window, I am reminded of the greatness of this Universe. Of how much there is to it, and of how small our world really is, in the larger scheme of things. Out there in the stratosphere that we are racing through at 800 kilometres an hour, I see a realm that we humans cannot occupy with our ugly buildings, and pollute with our plastic trash. Finally, a place reserved only for the Gods. Well, and for planes too! This is a realm of the Universe that is so close to us on Earth, yet, so very still. Such a contrast to the restless lives that we lead down below.

Stillness… what I attempt to experience during my meditation sessions. Now here it is, right outside my window.

As we approach Mumbai, we’re greeted by huge monsoon clouds. At first, the clouds look like isolated clumps of cotton candy and we rush in and out of them within seconds. I look into the distance, and see a cloud float past in the shape of an angel. She’s lying on her back floating through the air, gleefully playing with fluffy lion cubs who sit by her side.

I am humbled. Reminded that I am a guest in the realm of the Gods.

As I continue to look ahead, I see a dark grey cloud hurtling towards us. I turn to Saraswati who’s sitting beside me, and I announce to her with a very serious face, “We’re heading for some serious clouds.” My obsession with the goings-on outside the plane window has always baffled her, ever since we were toddlers flying on late night Emirates flights from Dubai to Mumbai way back in the 80s. While I preoccupy myself with angels floating outside the window, her meditations are with her books that she voraciously reads on flights.

Our plane leaps into the “serious” cloud cover. We’re tossed around for a bit, and then “Shoom”… the cloud is gone. Just like that. There’s sunshine again. I turn to her and clarify, “Never mind, it was just a passing cloud.” As I hear myself say that, I smile. I love the little insight that I just stumbled onto. The “passing cloud” metaphor that we freely use for life’s experiences couldn’t have made more sense than it did right now.

“Crew to your stations for landing.”

The city of Mumbai beckons to us from below. As the plane descends into this great city, I am reminded that our holiday has only just begun. Yet, as I return to the bustle of Earth below, I feel like a part of the holiday has just ended – the part that took place up in the heavens.

(Also posted on my blog)

Introducing: "Pay it Forward Fridays"

At the suggestion of a new blogging friend, I have been inspired to include a new meme at A Dose of Positivity.  A "meme" in the world of blogging is another catch-phrase for creating a specific theme - usually one specific day of the week -  devoting the posting for that day entirely in support of the meme's message and purpose.

Kelly at Blue Frogs Legs initiated a most wonderful idea for Fridays - "Pay it Forward Fridays."  Being a devotee of the novel, movie and mantra of the same, I couldn't help but be drawn into her idea and dream for this movement to move into more of the blogging world.  We bloggers have so many ways to touch the hearts of many, and whether we write about family life as mommys, review books or movies, keep travel logs or anything, I think we can all agree on one thing...random acts of kindness - in any form - when paid "forward" are contagious, and now within the world of cyberspace, we writers have infinite possibilities to touch lives the world over!

I have touched on this "theory" several times in past postings, (see "Smiles - At A Bargain" ) and usually try to incorporate a message as often as I can on how very simple things can make a huge difference in another person's life.  Seeing Kelly's post and new idea was a "light-bulb" moment for me, and I'm honored to take up the challenge. 

Recently, a very close and personal friend of mine was presented with an opportunity to actually put this "theory" into practice.  About a week ago, my friend had stopped at a convenience store/gas station within the city to purchase gas and some snacks before getting on the expressway for his long ride home from work.  As he was leaving the store, heading back to his car, a man who definitely appeared to be "down on his luck" came up to my friend and asked him if he could spare a little money, because he hadn't really had anything to eat in a while.   My friend knew by looking at him, and the tone of his voice, that this man was probably truthful.  Quickly looking around, my friend noticed a fast-food chicken restaurant directly across the street, and made a quick - yet monumental - decision.  Telling the man to get into the passenger's seat, my friend then drove him across the busy road to the restaurant, where he took the man inside and purchased him a full meal.  He left the man inside to eat his meal in peace, never knowing exactly just how long it had been since this humble person had actually had a meal.

I've been thinking about my friend's experience for quite a few days now, and reading Kelly's post, I knew that I could finally write about this amazing little story of generosity.  While I won't embarrass my friend by posting his name, I have to say how proud I was to hear of this story, and how grateful I am to personally know someone of this caliber - for it really did happen, and I know deep within that at the moment, my friend wasn't even thinking about the "pay it foward" movement - it trully was a random act of kindness.  Moments like that are usually unexpected, but when we are faced with them, they not only change the outlook of the recipient, but in the blink-of-an-eye, they change us.  Sure, many people might walk away thinking in "today's world" such an act of faith would be very risky...would you, when faced with a similar dilemma, invite a seemingly homeless stranger into your car, even though it's only across the street?

Maybe most of us aren't presented with opportunities such as this to perform such a selfless act, but all of us are usually given many moments where we have an occasion to share something. Usually, it doesn't even have to cost us anything - as I've posted before, sometimes taking the time to offer someone a handshake, welcome or smile, can mean so much more....  why does this seem so important to me?  In a nutshell, I firmly believe that continuing to pass on a spirit of kindness - of any kind - offers us hope.  All of us, when on the receiving end of a selfless and generous deed know that there is, indeed, still kindness and love remaining within the world.

In this spirit, I would like to begin posting examples on Fridays of those who have "paid it forward."  Ways other readers are - or have experienced - paying it forward, and even notes on how I, myself have strived to exercise this belief.

I sincerely hope that you will join me and my new friend Kelly in promoting the dream.  One blog, one story at a time, each of us can make a difference for positive change within the world! 

"Carry out a random act of kindness, with no expectation of reward, safe in the knowledge that one day someone might do the same for you."

- Lady Diana

Looking for ideas, additional thoughts, stories and inspiration on how you can get started?  There are many links to visit on the Internet, offering tons of suggestions, tips and information.  Here's a couple to start:

The Pay It Forward Movement:   http://www.payitforwardmovement.org/

The Random Acts of Kindess Foundation: http://www.actsofkindness.org/

And be sure to check out Kelly's blog at:  http://bluefrogslegs.blogspot.com/2010/05/pay-it-forward-fridays_28.html

I look forward to sharing some memorable and inspirational moments with you on "Pay It Forward Fridays!"

Pay it forward - spread a smile!

Photos courtesy of Google Images.