When I was a girl ---not that I'm a boy now, getting new toys was a very rare occasion. My sister and I spent so much time taking care of our younger siblings that toys seemed like such a waste of time. She and I spent the years of our childhood being little grownups, doing grown up things with grown up responsibilities.
However, our little hometown had a little store called Lankford's Variety Store. We didn't enter the store very often because the ladies that worked there followed you around as if you were going to steal something all the time. But--every once in a while my mom had business in there and we would walk to town with her so we could at least look at the toys.
One day, for no reason at all, my mother bought us a Lemon Twist Toy. Have you ever seen one? It was a plastic, hard lemon at the end of a plastic tube that had a ring that you could slide over your foot onto your ankle. The object of the game was to twist the lemon and jump over the lemon in rapid progression. I can't really tell you the purpose of the toy as you don't really win and it doesn't take any true intellectual capacity---it mainly depends on coordination and skill.
My sister and I had to share the toy but we didn't mind because we shared everything and we had accepted that that's what sister's do--they share.
We loved that silly little toy. We would play for hours and hours. That summer went by with us playing outside trying to see which one of us could jump the lemon the most times. Of course, she always won--she has always been a better athlete. I would always claim that I needed to start over because I had messed up, or she was talking to me, or the wind was blowing, or some other made up distraction that could possibly give me another chance.
I can see her now with short little black hair and nimble little legs, jump, jump, jump, 50, 60, 70; ---she wouldn't even break a sweat. Her little legs would have ashy spots because she needed lotion but she didn't care. She would smile her cute little smile with perfect teeth or sometimes she'd even stick her tongue at me when I tried to mess her count up. Oh, we had so much fun!
My legs of course, had many bruises where I would whack myself with that stupid, ridiculous lemon. Who the heck thought of such a silly game? People can get hurt! I would be jumping with my mouth open because my buck toothed self couldn't fully close my mouth. My glasses would be slipping down, and my crazy thick, barbed wire braids would be slapping me with each jump.
Of course, I got use to losing because I lose all competitive sports, but I was always up for playing with her again the next day.
I miss the Lemon Twist Toy not because I want to whack myself with a plastic lemon, or get beat by my little sister again but because I miss my sister. I miss the days of just hanging out and laughing. I miss being able to be free to lose in front of the person who always treats me like a winner. I love her so much because she is such a good person.
I miss the moments of our innocence that we took for granted----I wish I still had a Lemon Twist toy:)
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Something beautiful ...
I would be remiss not to mention the situation in Haiti. I really couldn't do so until today and even now I'm not completely sure that I can do justice to such an overwhelming topic. As image after image are displayed on my TV screen and story after story bleed through my radio, my heart becomes heavier and heavier. I don't know where to put such sadness, such grief. At first the shock would not allow me to understand how I was feeling or how I should feel. I make no claim to begin to really understand the depth of such pain and tragedy. But as I sat there trying to take in what I was witnessing, something beautiful happened.
There was an image of a lady lying on the ground with visible injuries as blood stained her shirt, face and arms. At her feet, standing over her was a man attempting to cover the woman with a blanket. He was going around her legs trying to tuck in the ends of the blanket so that she could feel some degree of comfort in her obvious state of pain.
The woman raised herself up on one elbow and felt for the man’s hand. She found it and brought his hand very slowly to her face. She held his hand to her face as she lay back down and they both began to cry.
And then I began to cry. I cried because it was beautiful.
I found that gesture profoundly beautiful because so often we underestimate the value and healing power of the human touch. A kind hand to just hold when you need it most makes the most potent drug pale in comparison.
Every day we are with people living in pain and oh, the good a kind word or soft touch could do! As much as we would like to go to Haiti and make a difference there, I do believe we can make a difference where we are---one sweet, meaningful touch at a time.
There was an image of a lady lying on the ground with visible injuries as blood stained her shirt, face and arms. At her feet, standing over her was a man attempting to cover the woman with a blanket. He was going around her legs trying to tuck in the ends of the blanket so that she could feel some degree of comfort in her obvious state of pain.
The woman raised herself up on one elbow and felt for the man’s hand. She found it and brought his hand very slowly to her face. She held his hand to her face as she lay back down and they both began to cry.
And then I began to cry. I cried because it was beautiful.
I found that gesture profoundly beautiful because so often we underestimate the value and healing power of the human touch. A kind hand to just hold when you need it most makes the most potent drug pale in comparison.
Every day we are with people living in pain and oh, the good a kind word or soft touch could do! As much as we would like to go to Haiti and make a difference there, I do believe we can make a difference where we are---one sweet, meaningful touch at a time.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
The art of handwritten messages...
My daughter loves to check the mail because she loves to receive mail with her name on it. She has even said that she is planning to write to herself just so she can get mail. I totally see her point. I fondly remember days of receiving handwritten letters or notes. I love stationary and fine writing instruments so why don't I write to others more often? There is just something about people taking the time to hand write a message that seems so romantic and sentimental. And then to receive it with your daily mail, a little spark of kind , gentle love in the midst of unsolicited fliers and bills---refreshing! One day soon, I am going to send a letter to my baby girl---she deserves it!
Just the same, a lost art it cannot be. We must revive it ---surely someone means enough to us to send them a handwritten note. I was thinking of the pieces of handwritten correspondence I have received in the past and one piece is particularly special. It is a card I received from my mother–in-law shortly before she passed away in 2006. I remember her giving it to me and her asking me not to read it until later. At first I didn’t understand her request, but when I read it, I understood.
Sometimes we can put in writing what we cannot say out loud. Additionally, the written word remains long after the person is gone and the memory begins to fade. To see the twists and curves of one’s personal writing has a unique way of feeling a person’s presence. So lovely.
Has a handwritten message ever impacted your life?
Just the same, a lost art it cannot be. We must revive it ---surely someone means enough to us to send them a handwritten note. I was thinking of the pieces of handwritten correspondence I have received in the past and one piece is particularly special. It is a card I received from my mother–in-law shortly before she passed away in 2006. I remember her giving it to me and her asking me not to read it until later. At first I didn’t understand her request, but when I read it, I understood.
Sometimes we can put in writing what we cannot say out loud. Additionally, the written word remains long after the person is gone and the memory begins to fade. To see the twists and curves of one’s personal writing has a unique way of feeling a person’s presence. So lovely.
Has a handwritten message ever impacted your life?
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Thank goodness it’s been so cold!
The high for today was a whopping 38 degrees and we have been duly informed that tomorrow will be all of 28 degrees. Brrr. In the past I’ve never been a fan of cold weather but I think the cold weather has exposed me to glimpses of time that I will hold dear to my heart for always.
You see, because I don’t like to be cold I have added a few extra layers of blankets to my bed, and I go to bed with my pjs, hat , long sleeve shirt, sweatshirt , and big, fat , leopard print slipper boots. Of course, my husband thinks I have lost my mind but I don’t care because I don’t like to be cold! At any rate, I get between the flannel sheets and try to get comfy with all the extra clothes so I can doze off to La-la Land (one of my favorite places). I try not to move too much because then I’ll feel cold again. So there I am, facing the ceiling with the blankets up to my nose and pillows surrounding me, just listening to rest of the family trying to get to bed. I hear running up and down the stairs, I hear my husband’s electric toothbrush, the water running as he washes his face, his yelling at our kiddos and telling them how gross they are for not brushing their teeth, the kiddos continuing to falsely claim that they did brush their teeth and that he can check their toothbrushes.
Our dog tries to stay out of the drama by wandering around with her dog tags clanking until her favorite person in the whole world (my husband) yells, “Up” to her to which she responds by jumping up on our bed so she can settle down on his pillow so she can be near him as he falls to sleep. Then my husband climbs into bed and attempts to snuggle with me which is no easy task with all the extra stuff. No later than two minutes later my son will walk in and explain to us that tomorrow for sure he will sleep in his own bed. My husband and I both yell, “NO!” but of course the boy completely ignores us as he climbs into bed with us all the time grumbling that it’s too cold to sleep in his room anyway. In the background , my teenage daughter says that she will be joining us later---to which she holds true. For around 5:00AM she will also crawl into bed with us ----so there we are my husband, my son, my daughter, my dog and me all in the same bed! AND WE ARE WARM!
And now for the glimpses of time I find most precious--- the time between five and six thirty. It is during this sweet precious time when I can’t go back to sleep that I lie their listening to them breathing in and out in deep, peaceful slumber. On my left-hand side I hear my husband breathing in deeply with thick, heavy breaths –I know he is so tired because he works so hard and he internalizes so much stress and worry. He has been through so much and he never complains. He just endures. I hear my daughter breathing light, long breaths that are uniformly measured in duration and repetition. She rarely moves during her sleep and does not like to be moved. She lies next to me on the right-hand side because she likes me to hug her till she has to get up. Then there is my son, who breathes loud, short breaths because his allergies keep him pretty congested. He moves a lot during his sleep and has been known to stick his toe right into my left nostril! He dominates the bed so we all have learned to put him on the “Cowboy -Side” which is my husband’s left-hand side. Oh, and the dog, well that spoiled little thing she stays near my husband no matter what but if we get on her nerves she will crawl under the blankets and sleep at his feet.
So I listen to them, I listen to the loud silence of the cold house, I listen to the sounds of the occasional car go by as the world starts to wake up for another day of work and duties. I can hear the wind blowing its cold wind through the trees. I hear my blood flowing through my veins. And I whisper to God, “Thank you for this beautiful family and this beautiful life and even though I am going to have to get up soon and re-enter the world of chaos and blah, I honestly believe that life is good!”
Yup, those are times I will never forget----so, thank goodness it’s been so cold!
You see, because I don’t like to be cold I have added a few extra layers of blankets to my bed, and I go to bed with my pjs, hat , long sleeve shirt, sweatshirt , and big, fat , leopard print slipper boots. Of course, my husband thinks I have lost my mind but I don’t care because I don’t like to be cold! At any rate, I get between the flannel sheets and try to get comfy with all the extra clothes so I can doze off to La-la Land (one of my favorite places). I try not to move too much because then I’ll feel cold again. So there I am, facing the ceiling with the blankets up to my nose and pillows surrounding me, just listening to rest of the family trying to get to bed. I hear running up and down the stairs, I hear my husband’s electric toothbrush, the water running as he washes his face, his yelling at our kiddos and telling them how gross they are for not brushing their teeth, the kiddos continuing to falsely claim that they did brush their teeth and that he can check their toothbrushes.
Our dog tries to stay out of the drama by wandering around with her dog tags clanking until her favorite person in the whole world (my husband) yells, “Up” to her to which she responds by jumping up on our bed so she can settle down on his pillow so she can be near him as he falls to sleep. Then my husband climbs into bed and attempts to snuggle with me which is no easy task with all the extra stuff. No later than two minutes later my son will walk in and explain to us that tomorrow for sure he will sleep in his own bed. My husband and I both yell, “NO!” but of course the boy completely ignores us as he climbs into bed with us all the time grumbling that it’s too cold to sleep in his room anyway. In the background , my teenage daughter says that she will be joining us later---to which she holds true. For around 5:00AM she will also crawl into bed with us ----so there we are my husband, my son, my daughter, my dog and me all in the same bed! AND WE ARE WARM!
And now for the glimpses of time I find most precious--- the time between five and six thirty. It is during this sweet precious time when I can’t go back to sleep that I lie their listening to them breathing in and out in deep, peaceful slumber. On my left-hand side I hear my husband breathing in deeply with thick, heavy breaths –I know he is so tired because he works so hard and he internalizes so much stress and worry. He has been through so much and he never complains. He just endures. I hear my daughter breathing light, long breaths that are uniformly measured in duration and repetition. She rarely moves during her sleep and does not like to be moved. She lies next to me on the right-hand side because she likes me to hug her till she has to get up. Then there is my son, who breathes loud, short breaths because his allergies keep him pretty congested. He moves a lot during his sleep and has been known to stick his toe right into my left nostril! He dominates the bed so we all have learned to put him on the “Cowboy -Side” which is my husband’s left-hand side. Oh, and the dog, well that spoiled little thing she stays near my husband no matter what but if we get on her nerves she will crawl under the blankets and sleep at his feet.
So I listen to them, I listen to the loud silence of the cold house, I listen to the sounds of the occasional car go by as the world starts to wake up for another day of work and duties. I can hear the wind blowing its cold wind through the trees. I hear my blood flowing through my veins. And I whisper to God, “Thank you for this beautiful family and this beautiful life and even though I am going to have to get up soon and re-enter the world of chaos and blah, I honestly believe that life is good!”
Yup, those are times I will never forget----so, thank goodness it’s been so cold!
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Can you hear the music?
On most days I take the Metro to and from work. Many mornings I will have my headphones on to either listen to an audio book or listen to songs that I have heard a thousand times. I have even worn headphones with no sound so that strangers won't be tempted to talk to me on my morning ride. When I arrive at my stop I take the escalator up to the ground level so I can start my fast paced walk to my office. Sometimes I see a young man playing a violin at the foot the escalator. This young man is a handsome, thin, African American man between 20-25 years old. He plays his instrument with his eyes closed. I see him smelling the music, just breathing in deeply, slowly and wholly. Even though everyone around him is running around like chickens with their heads cut off in the direction of the closest Starbucks, he does not move faster.
Notice that I said that I see him; I didn't say that I hear him. Why don't I hear him? One reason may be that I don’t want to take off my headphones---that would take effort. Maybe I don't want to slow down. Doesn't he know that I have to go to work? I've even thought that I shouldn't listen to his music because then I will feel obligated to drop a little donation into his violin case. That would mean that I would have to stop, take off my gloves, dig in my briefcase looking for cash that I never carry. Then I would be late to work or worse, the line would get too long at Starbucks. So no, I don't dare allow myself to enjoy his music. It would feel wrong--at least that's what I tell myself. I have denied myself the pleasure of his music. I will not hear the music. I do not accept the beautiful gift of his time and talent. WHAT THE HECK IS WRONG WITH ME?
So fast forward to the end of my work day when I walk back to the Metro to start my trek back home. Many times I run into a different musician. This man is in his late 50's early 60’s, African American man that plays a trumpet LOUDLY! I can't help but hear his music. No one can escape his music. I think he only knows a couple of songs because there is very little variety in the playlist. The blaring, out of tune honking of his horn make me want to either run onto the escalator at full speed or if the line is too long I want to dig into my bag for any money I can possibly find because I know if I drop it into his case, he will stop playing long enough to thank me and make some kind of small talk that last long enough for the line to shorten. I asked myself why I do this---the answer: I do not want to hear the music. Or is it that I cannot hear his music? Maybe my ear is messed up and I cannot appreciate his gift. I see others stop to listen to him, and when they do I wonder what they are thinking. Are they thinking what I'm thinking? I'm thinking that I want him to stop playing---please! WHAT THE HECK IS WRONG WITH ME?
In one case I won't listen to the music, and in the other case I don't want to listen to the music ----perhaps
I should drag my daughter’s keyboard out there and play it fearlessly and loudly and maybe then I will know what it feels like. What would I gain? I might gain courage, pity, scorn, spit, laughter, and maybe a few bucks---that I can then use to buy my next coffee at Starbucks!
Seriously, WHAT THE HECK IS WRONG WITH ME? ---DON'T ANSWER THAT:}
Notice that I said that I see him; I didn't say that I hear him. Why don't I hear him? One reason may be that I don’t want to take off my headphones---that would take effort. Maybe I don't want to slow down. Doesn't he know that I have to go to work? I've even thought that I shouldn't listen to his music because then I will feel obligated to drop a little donation into his violin case. That would mean that I would have to stop, take off my gloves, dig in my briefcase looking for cash that I never carry. Then I would be late to work or worse, the line would get too long at Starbucks. So no, I don't dare allow myself to enjoy his music. It would feel wrong--at least that's what I tell myself. I have denied myself the pleasure of his music. I will not hear the music. I do not accept the beautiful gift of his time and talent. WHAT THE HECK IS WRONG WITH ME?
So fast forward to the end of my work day when I walk back to the Metro to start my trek back home. Many times I run into a different musician. This man is in his late 50's early 60’s, African American man that plays a trumpet LOUDLY! I can't help but hear his music. No one can escape his music. I think he only knows a couple of songs because there is very little variety in the playlist. The blaring, out of tune honking of his horn make me want to either run onto the escalator at full speed or if the line is too long I want to dig into my bag for any money I can possibly find because I know if I drop it into his case, he will stop playing long enough to thank me and make some kind of small talk that last long enough for the line to shorten. I asked myself why I do this---the answer: I do not want to hear the music. Or is it that I cannot hear his music? Maybe my ear is messed up and I cannot appreciate his gift. I see others stop to listen to him, and when they do I wonder what they are thinking. Are they thinking what I'm thinking? I'm thinking that I want him to stop playing---please! WHAT THE HECK IS WRONG WITH ME?
In one case I won't listen to the music, and in the other case I don't want to listen to the music ----perhaps
I should drag my daughter’s keyboard out there and play it fearlessly and loudly and maybe then I will know what it feels like. What would I gain? I might gain courage, pity, scorn, spit, laughter, and maybe a few bucks---that I can then use to buy my next coffee at Starbucks!
Seriously, WHAT THE HECK IS WRONG WITH ME? ---DON'T ANSWER THAT:}
Monday, January 4, 2010
Containers
January 4, 2010
So I had this dream about containers! Containers of all kinds---they are everywhere. Think about it --little babies are born and immediately placed in containers. Car seats, cribs, playpens, wagons, etc. Then we start growing and we want new boxes to put stuff in and who can walk away from a basket without wondering what we can put in it? There are cool bags, purses, wallets, frames, refrigerators, houses, journals. Let's see what other containers can we think of? Socks contain feet, eye glasses contain lenses, noses contain snot, mouths contain teeth and tongue, bodies contain intestines (and other stuff), hearts contain love, lives contain value, words contain meaning, mistakes contain lessons---you get the point. I had a dream about containers and I just feel that we don't really appreciate containers. What do you contain? What do I contain? I need to know what I contain? Is what I am containing the real thing I'm supposed to contain or do I need to empty my container and refill it something more meaningful? How do I fill my container? I fill it with the things I eat, drink, read, hear, see, the things I expose myself to such as my environment and my friends. Are my contents determining what I believe and value or is what I believe and value determining what I choose to contain?
I must say I love containers because the sheer emptiness reminds me of the blessings that are sure to fill the vacuum. Of course, sometimes I fill things with the wrong stuff, but you can't throw out the container on account of that. Of course, if you use plastic the container may retain the smell or taste of the mistake or the item that stayed in there too long. Sometimes the item leaves a stain. But the stain doesn't render the container worthless, does it?
So I had this dream about containers! Containers of all kinds---they are everywhere. Think about it --little babies are born and immediately placed in containers. Car seats, cribs, playpens, wagons, etc. Then we start growing and we want new boxes to put stuff in and who can walk away from a basket without wondering what we can put in it? There are cool bags, purses, wallets, frames, refrigerators, houses, journals. Let's see what other containers can we think of? Socks contain feet, eye glasses contain lenses, noses contain snot, mouths contain teeth and tongue, bodies contain intestines (and other stuff), hearts contain love, lives contain value, words contain meaning, mistakes contain lessons---you get the point. I had a dream about containers and I just feel that we don't really appreciate containers. What do you contain? What do I contain? I need to know what I contain? Is what I am containing the real thing I'm supposed to contain or do I need to empty my container and refill it something more meaningful? How do I fill my container? I fill it with the things I eat, drink, read, hear, see, the things I expose myself to such as my environment and my friends. Are my contents determining what I believe and value or is what I believe and value determining what I choose to contain?
I must say I love containers because the sheer emptiness reminds me of the blessings that are sure to fill the vacuum. Of course, sometimes I fill things with the wrong stuff, but you can't throw out the container on account of that. Of course, if you use plastic the container may retain the smell or taste of the mistake or the item that stayed in there too long. Sometimes the item leaves a stain. But the stain doesn't render the container worthless, does it?
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