Sunday, June 18, 2017

Been There; Done That

Only in the past few months have I begun to think of myself as old. I felt equal to life until the back operation in March. It derailed me. In an effort to get out of my self-absorption, I began to blog again back in April. Eager to find out what others were doing, I delighted in reading posts about walking and hiking, volunteering, gardening—all sorts of interesting activities.

As I read the postings, I found myself thinking “That would be a fun thing to do. Why am I not doing that?” I began to feel like a wimp. “Others do these things, why don’t I?” became almost a mantra for me.

Then an epiphany was given to me this past Friday evening.

While watching the Great British Baking Show with Matthew purring on my lap, I suddenly said, “We have such a good life.” Stroking his fur, I began to think of the days when I’d baked yeast bread and quick bread, cookies and scones all winter long.

That led to my thinking about my whole life and all I’ve gotten to do.

While in my thirties and early forties, I rode my bicycle in the countryside around Stillwater for ten miles a day before driving to work. After a bicycle accident landed me in the hospital for three days and in recuperation for ten weeks, I began to walk. During my late forties and my fifties and sixties, I walked three to four miles a day in the nearby 1849 cemetery—up and down its hills and in the shadow of its tall, overarching trees. So I have exercised.

Throughout my forties, fifties, and sixties, I taught reading to adults and helped prep them for the GED. For ten years during that time, I took an elderly, homebound woman out to eat three times a week. So I have volunteered.

I fought the weeds in both vegetable and perennial gardens from the time I was 37 to age 73, when I moved to Missouri and settled for a shrub garden. For thirty-six years, I delighted in watching nature share its vitality and beauty with me and the neighborhood. So I have gardened.

I could go on, but the epiphany is this: I’ve been fortunate. I’ve lived long enough to have done many things: gardening; walking and bicycling; baking and trying new recipes for twelve to sixteen guests who came bi-monthly for a sit-down dinner; crocheting, knitting, and macramé-ing; painting and potting; trying out Pilates, yoga, and Tai Chi Chih; camping for fifteen years in the North Woods and along Lake Superior in Minnesota; traveling; being a part of book clubs; protesting the Vietnam War and getting involved in animal rights; working as an election judge for ten years and knocking on doors for for three years; teaching and writing. 

The list could go on, but you get my drift. When we are fortunate enough to live long lives—and I’m 81 now—we have a lot to show for them. Just because I can’t do what I used to do, I did do those things once. I am reminded of the words from a poem I memorized my senior year in high school. The last lines of “Ulysses” by Alfred Lord Tennyson are as follows:

Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho'
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.


Photo of Alfred Lord Tennyson from Wikipedia.

Sunday, June 11, 2017

Is Beauty Ever Ordinary?

Last weekend, a friend and her youngest daughter came to visit me. Sarah, whom I met through blogging, has become a daughter to me. Age-wise she is more like a granddaughter, but the feelings of mother/daughter seem mutual. Her four children call me Grandma Dee, and that is such a gift to someone who has never had children.

Their visit delighted me in many ways, but it was two typical Missouri evenings I spent in their company that gave me something to ponder and embrace. Here’s what happened: Saturday evening, Sarah and I sat talking on the patio when suddenly she looked beyond me. The expression on her face mixed wonder and concern.

“Dee,” she said, “see those sparks by that fence? Is it on fire?”

I looked and saw that the lightning bugs were out. “Sarah,” I said, “there’re just fireflies.”


“Fireflies. Lightning bugs.”

“I’ve never seen anything like this before!” she exclaimed. Then, “Katie, come and see the fireflies. Hurry!”

Seven-year-old Katie came running through the house, thrust open the patio door, and burst outside.

“Look!” her mother said, “Look at the fireflies!”

Katie stood still as a statue, gazing outward. When several fireflies twinkled at the same time, she yelled, “Mom! What are they?”

“Fireflies. Bugs that light up!”

As dusk became dark, Katie chased the lightning bugs. I got her a clean mayonnaise jar and punctured its lid so she could engage in the game I’d so enjoyed as a child. Her mother and I sat on the porch, watching her run from one side of the back yard to another in her excited hunt. It was like watching a ballet. She ran and leaped and twisted in the air in her attempt to capture fireflies without squashing them.

“I got another one!” she cried out as she came running to where I held the jar. Carefully, she placed the lightning bug in it and I screwed shut the lid.

For over an hour that night and the next, she became acquainted with the wonder of fireflies. The second night she caught eighteen. One by one they twinkled in the jar that she held up in the dark night.

When the lightning bugs returned to their own homes and left the yard, Katie examined her jar carefully, commenting on their red heads and their yellow tails. Finally, she screwed off the lid of the jar. Wishing them good-bye and good luck, she watched as they flew away.

Those two evenings, wonder captured her and her mother and me. Fireflies didn’t live in Idaho where their home was. They’d never before seen these wonderful bugs. Their awe prompted mine. For years, I’d seen fireflies as an adult and never felt the wonder of childhood. Katie gave that back to me.
The evening of the day they returned home, I went out into the backyard and looked up at a sky lit by stars. There, too, was a wonder I’d forgotten. So much beauty that has become so ordinary. I want to reclaim the miracles that surround me.


Photographs from Wikipedia.