Little Bits of Truth

 

 

This morning's errand running is a lot more fun because someone left WXPN (FM 88.5) on the radio.  The station is playing 885 Countdown- the greatest songs of the new millennium.   You are in for a treat if you check it out today.   http://www.xpn.org/music-artist/885-countdown

 

I forgot how much I like this station.   Great song writers, great singers, some thoughtful lyrics and interesting music composition happening on WXPN.   I am not super partial to music styles as I like just about anything, yet WXPN intrigues me because it's more than fluffy pop tunes and mindless lyrics all day long.

 

As I am driving, tapping my finger on the steering wheel to the beat of the music, I heard phrase after song phrase with the word, God,  or references to Bible stories.  Like 'no one laughs at God'...'deep in the belly of the whale'... 'when God left the ground to circle the world.'   Interesting!  

 

My ears become giant receptors filtering out all other sounds in order to magnify the God speak. Despite so many worries that the world is becoming Godless, that others aren't following the right religion, the right political party, the right way......artists, philanthropists, lovers, theologians, philosophers, scientists and comedians quietly and not-so-quietly go on writing, singing, loving, creating things having to do with 

           

            wonder

 

                                love,

 

                                            God,    

mystery, sometimes even using sacred scriptures or lines from parables and myths.  Sometimes I smile with over what I hear. Sometimes, I question, often I cringe.

 

Yet, I find myself intrigued, happy even, that folks are still writing and pondering God. I like to think God hides God's self in the place few people ever bother to look: deep inside themselves.  Deep inside every single being.  Every one, every thing has a little bit of God, a little bit of Truth. 

 

Following are my two favorite songs from the morning.  The first because I love the lyrics as well as the music and singer's voice.  The second because I have no idea what the song means.  I'd love to hear what you think.

 

Enjoy!

Sharon

 

 

 

 Laughing With

 

No one laughs at God in a hospital
No one laughs at God in a war
No one's laughing at God
When they're starving or freezing or so very poor

 

No one laughs at God
When the doctor calls after some routine tests
No one's laughing at God
When it's gotten real late and their kid's not back from the party yet

 

No one laughs at God
When their airplane starts to uncontrollably shake
No one's laughing at God
When they see the one they love hand in hand with someone else
And they hope that they're mistaken

 

No one laughs at God
When the cops knock on their door
And they say we got some bad news, sir
No one's laughing at God
When there's a famine or fire or flood

 

But God could be funny
At a cocktail party when listening to a good God-themed joke or
Or when the crazies say He hates us
And they get so red in the head you think they're 'bout to choke

 

God could be funny
When told he'll give you money if you just pray the right way
And when presented like a genie who does magic like Houdini
Or grants wishes like Jiminy Cricket and Santa Claus
God can be so hilarious

 

No one laughs at God in a hospital
No one laughs at God in a war
No one's laughing at God
When they've lost all they've got and they don't know what for

 

No one laughs at God
On the day they realize that the last sight they'll ever see
Is a pair of hateful eyes
No one's laughing at God
When they're saying their goodbyes

 

But God could be funny
At a cocktail party when listening to a good God themed joke or
Or when the crazies say He hates us
And they get so red in the head you think they're 'bout to choke

God could be funny
When told he'll give you money if you just pray the right way
And when presented like a genie who does magic like Houdini
Or grants wishes like Jiminy Cricket and Santa Claus
God can be so hilarious

 

No one laughs at God in a hospital
No one laughs at God in a war
No one laughs at God in a hospital
No one laughs at God in a war

No one laughing at God in a hospital
No one's laughing at God in a war
No one's laughing at God
When they're starving or freezing or so very poor

 

No one's laughing at God
No one's laughing at God
No one's laughing at God
We're all laughing with God

 

Songwriter:
Regina Spektor

 

~~~

 

Boy With A Coin

 

Boy with a coin he found in the weeds
with bullets and pages of trade magazines
close to a car THAT flipped on the turn
when God left the ground to circle the world

Hey--- Oh----

Girl with a bird she found in the snow
that flew up her gown, and that's how she knows
that God made her eyes for crying at birth
then left the ground to circle the earth

Hey--- Oh----

Boy with a coin he crammed in his jeans
then making a wish, and tossed in the sea
then walked to a town that all of us burned
when God left the ground to circle the world

Hey--- Oh----
Hey--- Oh----
                             Iron and Wine

Pumpkin Patch Outhouse

No, no, NO!  No ucky potties!” 

 

Three year old Railynn has no holding power left.  She wails loudly as tears fall in torrents down her sun reddened cheeks.  We are standing in front of two port-a-potties.  Rae loudly repeats her disdain for ucky potties just in case I hadn’t heard.  She is very close to meltdown.  She has to go badly and she will not, under any circumstances, go in a port-a-potty.  Even standing near one dissolves her into a puddle of horror. I remember utter dread of our cabin outhouse, when I was little, so I sympathize.

I'm horrified now too, for other reasons.  Not only am I baffled about what to do, but I can’t believe we’re reliving this exact port-a-potty drama from last year's foray into the pumpkin patch.  Back then, her 2yr old wails flustered me so much I was almost rendered useless.  It happened near the end of our adventure so we just made a mad dash home after foiled attempts to find relief. 

This year, I reminded her about the no bathroom policy at the pumpkin patch and she made sure I observed how she took care of business before getting in the car.

And yet, here we are in front of the ugly boxes of dungeon-toilets.  Again.  Again, I am pondering the options. Duck into the corn field and risk getting chased out by the barrel train driver like last year.  No thank you! Have her squat right in front of the port-a-potty. Don’t think so. Tell her to hold it, and hope she can!  

Stupidly, I choose the last option.

“Oh Rae, I’m so sorry but if you can’t go in the port-a-potty, you’ll have to hold it.” I lead her away from the horrid outhouses.  She cries harder.

“The gwass, Nana, I’ll pee in the gwass. Wite here, Nana, please, I can just go in the gwass.” 

“Railynn, you can’t just pee on the grass.”

But, I’m so tempted.  Thoughts ping pong in my head.   Who cares if a little kid pees on the grass?  She’s three; not two anymore – there’s less grace for a 3yr old. What is worse – a 3yr old girl going on the grass or wetting herself in public?  People will think I’m an incompetent grandma.  People will know it’s an emergency. It’s only been an hour since she went potty back at my place – she can hold it.   

We make it halfway up the barn hill. Ahead of us the open barn is full of kids slopping paint or blasting glue all over pumpkins, covering them with color, pompoms, pipe cleaners and sequins. I make eye contact with Papaw, imploring him –please help!-  he shakes his head.  He’s busy juggling 6yr old Avery’s demands for exotic paint colors with toddler Jude’s desire to pull the glued pompoms off other kids’ pumpkins.  

Rae yanks me to a stop, pulls at her jeans and screams.

“Nana, wite now, I have to go wite now!! ” 

I’m in a panic. We're too far gone to dash home. I glance around desperately – there has to be creative way to end to this crisis. To our left is the hay tunnel.  No, don't even think about that.  She won’t go in there anyway, without a flashlight.  To our right is the food stand, no possibilities there. Behind us is the barrel train. One part of my brain frantically scrambles for a solution, another part is paralyzed like I'm the one about to wet myself. Who is watching this melodrama?  Are the sweaty, tired moms and dads noticing and feeling my pain?  Are the other grandparents tsk, tsking?  

Suddenly, I don’t care about anyone but my grand-daughter.  I know exactly what to do. I march her down the barn hill and tell her to sit in the grass.

“Wait one second, honey,” I say as I quickly arrange some things.

“Huwway,  I have to go weally, weally bad. Huwway.”

I shield her left side with Jude’s diaper bag, and use my own body to shield her right side.  Her backside is shielded by the bank of the barn hill.  She helps me wriggle her clothes down and out of the way.  

“Ok, GO.” I smile encouragingly. 

“I’m going Nana, I’m going,” she sighs.

She smiles up at me all adoration and gratitude. 

My heart melts.  What a pathetic piece of grandmother, I am sometimes! This beloved tiny person is only three but she knows her body.   How can I be more concerned with propriety, or what others’ think, than her body wisdom.  Of course I’m not saying propriety is unimportant.   I’m just chagrined at how I just encouraged this little one to ignore body signals or feel ashamed of them.  I remember how I used to postpone my body’s needs for rest, nourishment, water, exercise, relief, solitude or stillness in order to be ultra-polite and not inconvenience anyone.  

By now, the young guy driving the garden tractor that pulls the kiddie barrel cars strains his neck to look our way.  Thankfully, there are no kids waiting to ride the train or parents lolling about. It’s only the driver gawking. I smile and wave, then make a big display of getting the diaper changing pad out of the diaper bag. He quickly looks away. He owed me a favor for ratting us out of the cornfield last year. 

Next year, if the grand kids want to do the pumpkin patch again, I’ll come with my own options.  Rae could wear pull ups (that might be a meltdown of another kind)  She could wear a long, pleated skirt. If she has to go, we’re walking behind the port-a-potty. There she’ll squat as I spread the skirt all around her and we’ll pretend to look at an incredibly cool caterpillar crawling on the ground.  If a long, pleated skirt, sized 4, can't be found, there’s always my beach sarong. 

Come to think of it, I'm signed up for a pilgrimage in two years.  A three day walk through French fields and woods.   No bathrooms or port-a-potties available there either.  I just might want to start looking for an extra wide, pleated skirt for myself.

 Cheers! 

Sharon

 

 

 

Bittersweet Mornings

sunrise on the beach

Dawn glows softly in 

    peach and pink...

looking out from my garden bench under the pine tree

 

deep

      blue
 
             flowers 


shout glory of the morning,

 

 

 

 

 

Sunflowers  s t r e t c h  towards the sun. 

 

Oh, that I would do the same!

 

                                         Awaken my heart.   Awaken and open.

 

        

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

May beauty

 

always set me on

 

fire.

 

                        

          Set me

 

             AGLOW,

 

 

 

       

                                                 

      and stretching 

 

                   towards Love.

 

 

                                     I love mornings in the fall.  Bittersweet mornings saying goodbye to summer, anticipating the color of autumn.

Mornings are soft, secluded and peaceful under the pine tree where I do centering prayer while sitting on my prayer bench. I mediate. I send gratitude, joy and peace out to the world. I hope my kind thoughts touch people somehow, and those people touch other people, until kindness settles over the earth like the gentle morning mist. I pray for the expansion of awakening and kindness. Not knowing how such things work, I simply pray my little prayers and trust the Mystery. 

I feel frustrated over all the violence, the earth groaning with disasters, pollution, starvation and all the other ills affecting our world.  So I do what I can do, pray, and make sure I love the earth in my corner of the world, love the faces in front of me each day, including the one I see in the mirror.  

My best buddy, Burren, helps me greet each day enthusiastically.   

Isn't she darling?

                                                     

sad little angel dreads winter too :)

In the fall I always become fascinated with light and shadow. Perhaps I'm drawn to this as the waning light reminds of the lessening of summer brilliance; the shadows remind me of the coming darkness of winter. There is a time for every season under heaven.  

My body and soul know how to move in rhythm with  the seasons, even as artificial lights come on indoors and out, even if my mind refuses to slow down or acknowledge the shifting patterns of sun, moon, and darkness.   If I pay attention and heed my body's wisdom, hibernate a little more and push a little less, the winter doldrums aren't quite so overwhelming.  

Yes, I can embrace autumn; I can prepare body-mind-soul for winter!




I'll end this blog post with a few more morning garden photos....

Joyfully,
Sharon

Dawn lights up the garden glass tower

garden basket - so beautiful in the morning sun

Anticipated these flowers all summer. They began blooming in September, just in time for my birthday!

 

 

 

Birding is NOT for Sissies

We sleep till the last minute.  Sleepily, hubby makes a pot of coffee and fills our travel mugs. I slap together peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. We’ll eat in the car. We grab our gear and head out.  No getting up early enough for the morning constitutional, no stretching, no waking up first.  We figure a short walk in the woods, the Nature Center with restrooms open, a no brainer all around.  It’s our first trip with the local bird club to Middle Creek. We’re ready for some easy entertainment.

After the parking lot gathering, the meet and greet, we set out high on anticipation.  The morning is misty cool and softly lit.  There is nothing better than quiet camaraderie with people, sans small talk, and beauty everywhere.  Meadows glisten with rain from yesterday’s storm.  We wander through the grasses and wildflowers

pphotography-blog.blogspot.com/20212/01/loosestrife

as dew and raindrops tickle our arms and legs.  Fields of color explode before our eyes like exotic ground fireworks, a spike of Goldenrod here, Purple Loosestrife there and off in the distance, a patch of pink Joe Pye weed.  Our guide begins calling out birds as he spots them.

 “Goldfinch, hummingbird, cardinal, downy wood pecker.”  

We’re right with him, binoculars up. Yes!   Cormorants perch on stumps in a pond far in the distance, wings stretch out, drying in the sun.  Nothing we haven’t seen before, but it’s wonderful to be here.  

“Over there, juvenile bunting, little bit of blue…or a male with breeding colors fading.”

I see it; marvel over new knowledge.   

Then up to the woods, climb the hill slowly, looking, looking.  Not so pretty up here, lots of mud.  Shoes getting wet. No birds.  Is it really possible to walk this slowly? Wait, what is that? Sounds like the rasp of a big bird.  Oh, the guide is making a whistle-whisper in an attempt to flush out birds. I lower my perked up eyes and ears and look around sheepishly.  No one noticed my newbie-ness; they are all looking through field glasses. 

Two hours later, it’s a hot, humid, steamy day in the Pennsylvania woods. We’re still on the same trail. The 30min trail.  We’re going slowly. 

S-l-o-w-l-y.   

The man ahead of me has interesting pants, pockets everywhere.  He has black straps all over his back and chest with handles and hooks, packing bottles, books, thermos, and binoculars.  Is he spending the night?  With all those harnesses he looks like a service dog.

“Oven bird on trail to the left,” guide says. 

Five people lean left and block my view. The big powerful binoculars I am so proud of now feel like they weigh 20lbs.  Arms and shoulders tightening, I trade with Jay; his binoculars are lightweight. 

“Ovenbird, now to the right.”

Six people move right, one steps on my toe.  We smile and excuse each other.  I move purposely off the trail for a better view and pocket man points to poison ivy five inches from my foot.  I move back quickly, to my no view spot, and wish I had pants with pockets full of anti-ivy wipes. I can’t maneuver into a good position, or spot an ovenbird. I can’t even spot the trail as the field of view in these tiny binos is microscopic.  My back hurts.  My feet hurt.  My whole body wants to break out into a strong hike. Standing in place is strenuous.  

The trail opens up into another meadow and we hear the guide calling, warbler. 

Thank goodness for movement! We all jockey for position.  Again, I’m in the back watching all the birders with big guns look first.  It’s rather pointless to try with this wretched little pair, anyway.  Hubs and I listen to talk about wing bars and yellow and song and finally the experienced decide the little bird is a Canada Warbler.  Once identified, the crew begins looking in other directions.  I move in.  I look and look.  And look and look.  The guide watches me and suggests ‘follow the dead tree branch right here in front, turn left, follow the vine up and the bird is at 9 o’clock’.   

Which dead tree branch, there are hundreds?  Which vine, there are thousands?  Is the tree top the clock face, is the whole tree a clock face?  A woman birder sees my blank staring and gently moves my binocular laden hands slightly to the left. She points and encourages.   She points again.  And again.  I must have birding dyslexia.  My eyes are locked, and so is my body.  I’m frozen, arms raised, neck cocked, head thrown back, hands gripping a pair of tiny binoculars, and sweating.  Oh the sweating!  Minutes pass. The woman shifts her weight around, despairing.  The guide makes uncomfortable noises and moves away.  She persists.  I imagine whispered prayers “Please God, let her see something…anything …and let her think it’s the warbler.” 

And then there it is, a little yellow bird wearing a black dotted necklace.  Whooeee!  A tiny squeal escapes my lips and the woman breathes in sheer relief. I grin and sense her smile in response even as my eyes remain glued to the lens.  Amazing this extra sensory perception birders possess.  My first Carolina, uh, I mean Canada Warbler sighting.    

After more very slow walking, a chucking sound thrills me.  Oh, it's just the guide making noises again. 

An hour later we’re grouped in front of a cluster of trees.  Walnuts covered in wild grape, poplars, and pines. The guide calls out bird after bird: Nuthatch, Redstart, oriole, catbird, titmouse.  Warblers.   The experienced ones are all mumbling happy nonsense, seeing things.  I frantically search with minuscule binoculars, spotting leaf after leaf after leaf.  I glance at hubs; he’s not paying attention, shoulders slumped and head lowered, his binos dangle uselessly mid-belly.  He’s given up.  Or the weight of those high powered hunting binoculars is pulling him down.  

Good golly, when will this end?  My back kills. My legs are numb, can’t feel my feet except for the mud and slop covering them.  I can't lift my arms. My neck feels broken.  I need to find the girl’s room.  Much to my delight, someone says peewee and I picture an outhouse in the woods.  Pocket pants pulls a thermos from his leg and drinks.  The handsome man next to me notices my pinched look and explains a Pewee bird. Don’t any of these people have to go?  How long can they hold their coffee?  And, if we don’t start walking faster I’m going to die.

“Black and white!  Magnolia at 3 o’clock!”

What the heck is the guide talking about?  Black and white what?  Magnolia what?  And what, for cripes sake, is the clock?

I grip the binoculars and pretend to see.  I scan up and up and my lenses fog.  I’ve seen my own magnified eyebrow hairs through the lens before, am I now seeing sweat?  Peevishly, I lower the binos; rub the lenses with my T-shirt.  I take off my glasses and give them a rub too, stopping myself from asking pocket man if I could borrow some anti-fog spray. I’m positive he has some in his leg parts.  I adjust the knobs on my binos and have another look.  I see more fog.  Bugs are chewing the few spots of leg skin that isn’t numb. 

“Red Eyed Vireo song again.” 

I hear the song.  We’ve heard it many times during the morning and it’s still exciting. The woods have been almost void of sound.  I usually love silence but find it a little creepy crawling through brush with strangers and hearing no sounds.  Besides, I still hope to see this exotic sounding vireo. I never saw a song bird with red eyes. It has to be awesome.  I’m eager to get home and look it up. 

Finally, after three and a half hours on a trail that takes 30min, 20 at a brisk pace, we crest a grassy hill and I spot the best sight of all.  On the parking lot, all green with a red ball on the antennae, our Chevy Malibu at 6 o’clock! 

The guide and a few others are heading out to another place to watch for more birds.  The hubs and I express our thanks and exchange goodbye pleasantries. I try to keep my eyes from caressing the green bird with wheels.   We fairly fall into the car, gulp our stale coffee and inhale apples from the backpack I forgot was on my back the whole time, and wipe the sweat from our eyes. My back and neck may never be the same again.  Hubs is groaning something about his back between apple bites.

At home, we look up the red eyed vireo on Cornell Lab of Orthinolgy website, and snort.   That little brown bird is about as exotic as we are. Then we can’t help ourselves.  We pull out our list and gloat over the new birds added from this morning:  Canada Warbler, Common Yellowthroat, Scarlet Tanager, Field Sparrow, Red Eyed Vireo (okay, we didn’t see it but they say if you hear it and someone properly identifies the song, it counts).   We smile over all the repeat birds: cormorant, Green Heron, Indigo Bunting, Catbird, titmouse, woodpeckers, song sparrows, cardinals, goldfinches, orioles, robins, catbirds, flycatchers, nuthatches, wrens, bluebirds, jays, swallows.  We lust after the birds we heard about but didn’t see:  oven bird, redstart, white eyed and red eyed vireos, blue winged warbler, Magnolia Warbler, Black and White Warbler, Pewee, thrashers.

We look at each other and grimace.

 

                                     We simply must go birding again!

 

 

Joyfully,

Sharon

 

hubs and grand daughter birding

 

 

 

Growth, Change, Happiness, Acceptance

I'm looking forward to tonight.

Tonight, like every night for the past month, I look forward to collapsing on the Adirondack chairs out in the pasture to watch the sunset.

Yes, we actually dragged my favorite chairs out to the pasture.  After the first snuffles and rounds of pawing over  'what are these new things in our yard?' the mini horses pretty much leave them alone.  Jay and I sit on our chairs with a bug candle flickering between us, with the newspaper or a book, a cup of tea, and read or watch the sky as Burren happily bounds about.  The  whole neighborhood can drive by and see us sitting there in all our flat-lander hillbilly glory, while our hound dog races buggies and bicycles to the corner of the fence.

Sounds lovely and it is.  But, sometimes I'd rather be kayaking or hiking or sitting on the beach or exploring the Grand Canyon or visiting Maine.

Growing up in a large family, I knew work.  Weeding, gardening, endless preserving of fruits and veggies, babysitting siblings.  My sanity came from breaks to the shore or the cabin.  We did both routinely; even in the winter we went to the cabin.  My hubby also knew work early on.  He grew up on a farm. Work was farming; farming was life. He loved the farm enough to stay.  Forever.  Always. Day after day.  He doesn't need breaks if you catch my drift.

It makes me a little insane.   

If I want to do anything, I often have to go myself.  Or bribe someone to go with me.  Since I strongly dislike driving, this turns into more of a problem than it needs to be.  I have stretched in my willingness to drive away by myself about as much as he has stretched in his willingness to go on vacations.  So we're stuck with each other's issues.

At times I'm grouchy about our lack of adventure, but I'm leaning into making the best of it.  Not everyone has a partner who likes sitting side by side, not saying or doing much, just watching the stars come out.  Not everyone has a cool hound dog.  Not everyone has a farm.  Not everyone has grandchildren who think it's the cat's meow to run around after a dog running around in a pasture while Nana and Pawpaw watch and grin.  Not everyone has such privileges.  I can choose to be content.

Last night, the stars were taking extra long to come out.  So I sneaked a peek on Facebook in between chapters of my kindle book. I found a link to an article about  'glamping'  in New York City.  Glamor + camping = glamping.  For $1000 a night you can sleep outside and watch the stars come out in the middle of the city, on a roof top or secluded balcony with a luxuriously made bed, a soft chair or two, a fire pit to roast marshmallows, and room service.

I laughed out loud.  Literally.  I can have all of that for free here!  Minus the luxury bed and servers, of course.   (oh my...sounds exactly like something the farmer would say)

Anyway, Burren, our cool part hound dog, is anticipating going out to the pasture tonight too.  She's hovering near the door.  She demands a walk first.  It's our agreement: she will walk nicely on leash if she gets to RUN out in the pasture.

Burren seems to be adjusting well without "Jeff" to her "Mutt".  Since Massey's gone Burren doesn't even bark when she chases buggies and cars to the corner of the fence; most don't even notice her as she races silently through the tall grass.  What I thought would be horrible is actually rather nice. There is a level of crazy that has dissipated from our place.  I miss Massey every day, but I do not miss his hyper-bad-energy vibes.  I'm utterly grateful that Jude is healing well, and has no dog trauma.  And, Burren is much gentler, much more attentive to us than she was with Massey around.  

She howled only once at being alone, and that was after I left her for 8 hrs and then took too long to take her for a walk. So, we're all adjusting. There are perks to having only one dog.  Cheaper.  Less training.  Less filling of the water bowl.  Less canine sibling squabbles.

I may really like having one dog. 

I may really like not spending money on vacations. 

I may really like how life unfolds.

Reminds me of a note from God I got in the mail one day. It said:

"Growth comes from change.
Happiness comes from acceptance.
Merrily, you're built to do both, at once."

2 Point Oh, baby -
      God

PS:  Good thing you have fast reflexes!   

Joyfully,
Sharon


(Note from the God is and adaption from Notes From the Universe - the wit and inspiration of Mike Hooley)