It's All About the Journey

Today is your future. Live in the moment!


Fanning My Flame

Surrounded by the comforts of my ancestors, words from the philosophies of Emerson and Thoreau, I am reminded of who I am and where my soul thrives. All of the outside world fades, for just this brief moment of time, and I fan the flame called my soul, into a roaring fire that drives me forward into 2019 and shows me that happiness is right here, inside of me.

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Mary Poppins is My Middle Name

I have chosen this because I somehow believe that I am “practically perfect in every way!”

Nonsense.  Push it aside and you find an older woman (not even middle aged by definition, although I still consider myself in that age range) who tries so much to be practically perfect and be it to everyone.  STILL.

I actually chose the title of this article today because my great striving this holiday season is to go see the newest Mary Poppins movie.  I love Mary Poppins.  I want to be Mary Poppins.  Mary Poppins has every hair in place.  She wears wonderful hats.  She has a carpet bag that houses a mirror, a large plant, and all things magic.  She has an image that competes with her in the mirror!  Mary Poppins jumps into chalk drawings and creates an adventure. Mary Poppins sees the humor, and rolling her eyes, joins in as eccentric Uncle Albert rolls with laughter on the ceiling.   Mary Poppins spouts wisdom.  Mary Poppins looks at adults and says things like “supercalifragilisticexpialidoscus.”   Nonsense that no one understands, but eventually accept  and not grudgingly.  I want to dance on chimney tops with my Bert (yes, my Bert and I actually DO ballroom dancing)!

I love my grandchildren and want to be their Mary Poppins.  I want to look at their parents–my children–and have them see a crazy old woman who zips up and down staircases with their children, doles out sweet tasting goodies that are good for you to awe those little children into thinking their grandma is magical, when really she is just a crusty old lady with acceptance issues!  But the crusty old lady thinks her grandchildren are the cats’ meow and will do anything to love and entertain them.  Anything to leave her mark on their lives.  Anything to become a historical creature, without doing anything illegal, of course.  And when I leave, whether temporarily through the clouds, sporting my umbrella, or forever on that day, I want to be remembered.

That’s why I do the things that I do.  I write letters that I hope my children (and grands) read, I write journals, so they know who is living in the hyphen, and I become an historical person that actually LIVED, not a vague name on an ancestry listing.  I may never be a national figure, or international figure like Mary Poppins, I will never be a notorious queen, such as Mary, Queen of Scots, or poor Ann, who lost her head over Henry VIII’s whim.  But for what I am hoping is that, for two generations to come, I am.

So let me strip that Mary Poppins middle name from the title, and be Grandma.  Perfect in every way.  And not even practically!


You Pop!

I think I may have had a revelation in the wee hours of this morning.

Now and then I read about slowly waking up and becoming aware of your surroundings. I don’t. I just POP and I’m awake. I never even realize I’m awake, I just am. My thoughts do not idly turn toward the day. They just are. A mile a minute. Then the cats come up to pretend their snuggle, when in reality they want to be fed now. I’ve got to hand it to them, they are shrewd!

Anyway, I’m thinking that this is what happens when you die. You don’t slowly and painfully realize it, you just are. You don’t even arrive bag in hand and say “where am I?” You just are there. It’s so ordinary it’s probably too profound to realize.

I’m guessing that my friend, Ruth, went through that. She had a cold (flu?) and wanted the comfort of her cot by her wood stove. She had her tea and her daughter helped her lay down. She shuffled to become comfortable. She slept. I can just see her now popping up and saying, “oh!” and looking around her. And then she got up and, I don’t know where she went, but assume she resumed her journey into afterlife. It would be nice to run into her and talk about it, but I’m not sure that happens. I know I will find out!

“Oh shoot! I should write about this! Let others know!” are my first thoughts (hence this post). Heck, I bet you don’t need me to tell you that. We will all find out on our own! I’m only letting you know in case you have concern, and just want you to rest easy. It will be okay.


This Old House, cont’d

Remember this old house? Still working on it.

I cannot say “we,” but he has been working onward with this house. Walls have been stripped to the board, windows removed, flooring taken up. Electrical wiring (mostly) removed. Exterior siding and tin roof removed.

This has been an experience and a long walk down memory lane for this man. Perhaps just short of a spiritual experience as he tears down this childhood home, to prepare for our future.

I’d love to take this into the woods and become Thoreau. Wouldn’t you?


2018 The Year Ahead

What is our world, if we have not the encouraging word?

Act singly, and what you have already done singly will justify you now. The force of character is cumulative. –Ralph Waldo Emerson

Step out. Be true to yourself. Do not hurt others, do good to all. Then peace will come.


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Stuck in the 60s Tonight

I got stuck in the 60s tonight. I watched one of my favorites: The Newlywed Game. All of them. On YouTube. I admired the bride’s hair: the big beehive ‘do. The mascara and eye shadow. The California lifestyle.

Do you remember that game? We would play it by the hour. You’d draw a chart, naming your choices of places to live, boys’ names (to marry), a car to drive and a career. I cannot remember the counting formula, perhaps one of my readers can. Anyway, count away and you’d find your destiny.

I think I always had choices of California, Florida, or … I don’t remember having any other! Maybe I chose Hawaii. But certainly not my home town.

I’m not sure of his profession, but it was the man’s profession, for sure.

I do not remember the rest. I’m sure a color and a car were significant.

I will always remember how I thought the best place in the world had to be California. I was definitely a California girl. In my dreams.

I’m 61. My dreams have changed. Oh sure, I have visited California. A Californian friend even stated that there is no other place in the world to live! But I do admit, i love my small village I returned to, I love my farm and I love (even more) my farmer, who makes life worthwhile and every day a priceless treasure! (Thank you, Ross).

Still, there is a little girl…and her little girl dreams….


Setting Pace with Nature

A friend pointed out to me an article in The Conservationist, a circular that encompasses New York State wildlife.  An Emerson fan, she thought of me when the author of an article spoke of Emerson.  Naturally drawn to Emerson, I looked up the article, Chomping at Nature’s Bit by Eli Knapp.  There it was.  “Adapt the pace of nature, her secret is patience.”  

I can agree with this concept.  Nature is very patient.  She wait for us to mess up, then she calmly takes over.  Paved roads break up while she takes over.  Brush grows up in fields that the farmer has kept plowed, our neglect becomes her tapestry.

I have forbidden the groundhog hunt here on our civilized patch.  Build more garden, share it, I say (I’m not the one building the garden, easy for me to say).  Then again, if you need to remove them, do not ever let me know.  I cannot bear the thought.  I’m definitely a human heart here, while they live on instinct, and the reality of the world is that, if we want to keep our crops for harvest, we need to limit their “help” in harvesting!

Back to the subject at hand, Emerson and Nature.  I encourage you to read his essay.  Absorb it.  Be patient with it.

In patience, I seek a word from this essay to inspire you, my readers, to seek.  Difficult at the least, I send you this:  Nature is loved by what is best in us.  It is loved as the city of God.  I dare not say more, at least, not now.  Emerson is difficult in that we cannot take mere quotes and have them realized in and of themselves, they must be coupled with the rest of the essay.  The one thing I have learned from Emerson can bring my defeat as his follower:  Lay this volume down.   You had better never see my essays than to be warped by their attraction out of your own orbit and be made my satellite.  Then let me lay this volume down, and step outdoors where my dog absorbs nature, she is my lesson.  As are the birds, the groundhog, and the breeze which blows against my face.

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