WHEN THE UNIVERSE SENDS A GIFT~~~

 

I accept with gratitude

 

I have been following a blog of a folk artist and her home improvement specialist husband for a few years. These can-do folks also have two glorious cats and a lovely old dog. The pictorial tales of how and what they do to make their already near perfect home become pristinely perfect, is a spot of bright light in what otherwise could be a drab world.

 

Lorraine doesn’t call herself a folk artist, but I could call her nothing else. Her painted-rocks hobby and sometimes business, which she named I’VE GOT ROCKS IN MY HEAD, bespeaks of golden hands and a big heart.

 

One day, out of the blue, I got a text from Lorraine asking for my home address. We only know each other from the blogosphere and she wanted to send me a rock.

 

Why? And why me? I certainly had done nothing to earn it.

 

The gesture made me happy. Perhaps especially because it was unearned.

A few days later, this brilliant hand painted treasure joined my rock collection, made of much more humble painted stones left by the side of the road over the last three years.

During the pandemic, when we were admonished to stay inside and go out only if we had a dog to walk, (I don’t) folks around my neighborhood took to placing painted stones with signs like “take one” for passersby. These were testaments of compassion for the existence forced on us and the wish to connect even if not in person. Sometimes one of the stones touched me in some way and I’d bring it home. But for the most part, I left them there for another who had greater need for a pick-me up.

 

Lorraine’s gift now sits as a glowing tiara over the memories of those lonely walks. They make me feel remembered, touched, and that in the end— connectedness is the real gift.

 

You can see more of Lorraine’s work (as well as other glimpse into her life) here:

https://clamco.blogspot.com/

The Silent Pulse

Ever have a day where nothing goes right? If you can relate to Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day by Judith Viorst, then you have and you know.

But what about the other kind of day? Imagine this: you wake up after a restful night’s sleep and the backache you had yesterday had vanished. Your cat greets you, and your dog wags his tail and they seem fine with each other, for a change. The coffee tastes delicious, and when you open your computer, an acceptance of an article you submitted eons ago comes in. You leave for a scheduled dental appointment, and where usually there are no parking spaces— the perfect one right in front of the dentist’s midtown office awaits you and, behold, the meter is already paid for the next ninety minutes. Your dentist is full of cheer and so are you, because, after she looks inside your mouth, she declares it looks marvelous and then she adds, “no cavities!”

And so it goes for the rest of the day.

Call it YOUR DELIGHTFULLY BRIGHTLY VERY GOOD DAY.

Many years ago, I attended a book launch where the author George Leonard spoke of his new book, THE SILENT PULSE. He explored this seeming perfection suggesting it can be created. It’s been on my mind ever since, though it remains mysterious. I experience these sorts of days as if I’m a character in someone else’s story, and I thank the author for this exquisite sweet very good narrative arc, even if it cannot last.

The day of Mad Reckoning*

*a.k.a. Retunes (or exchanges)

We don’t “do Christmas,” unless you count the general good wishes of Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays and homemade cookies. It’s been years since I spent time in department stores scouting for gifts in the month of December.

But what I do hold onto this time of year is to not go anywhere near stores the day after the holiday. I have made that mistake twice, but no more. The first time, long ago, I was lured by promises of uber sales. The second time I did it by mistake. I forgot the madness of the day and thought it might just be the time to look for something that could have waited. I should have.

The day after national gift giving, hoards descend on stores with gift certificates that fell from the trees or were handed in office parties. They make a rather joyful bunch. They were not the problem.

The ones that got to me were the other faction crowding the stores— the people with return receipts to exchange gifts they refuse to use. They never seem joyful. In fact, they seem angry, cantankerous, and garrulous.

That first year I saw a young woman in tears that the bathrobe she got cost so little there was nothing she wanted to get for it in exchange. She had some choice words for the gift-giver who was not present. I saw a child who got a toy he already had, in tears because his mother would not pay for something he wanted as she would have to add too much $$$ after the exchange. The worst was an older woman who refused to take anything other than cash for her return, because she said she hated that store.

It was not pretty. The energy was the most unhappy and unspiritual that I could recall. I vowed to accept gifts from now on and only return them, if I felt an overwhelming inkling, sometime later. From then on, this was the day to NOT go anywhere near stores. It was the day to count one’s blessing that I was here, and not there.

The day after Christmas. That’s today.

REGRET is a Useless Emotion Unless...

It Prompts to Do Better Going Forward

I’ve heard actors and musicians say they don’t care to look at their own performances because they cringe at how they did something they should have done differently. For writers, the printed first edition can yield a similar emotion. There is much we’d change, rephrase, or cut. Now it’s set, and we can’t.

Life is like that. Once something has passed, regret can take over about the many things that we could’ve and maybe should’ve, and now we can’t do over.

I know people who are raked with regrets. It’s a useless loop that serves to paralyze. The functional among us “let it go,” which usually means we try to forget and move on.

But forgetting, while serving the purpose of getting the wheels to move, isn’t the best way. For my own process, there were times I wished I could be as good at forgetting as many people I have known. There’s at least one typo in each of my published books that gnaws on me, and I can’t do a thing about it. There are chapters in my life I would never “do” the same way.

I found a way to mentally handle these sorts of cant’-fix ‘em. I am not a Catholic, but I borrowed it from the Catholic confession, when at the end the priest says, “Now go and sin no more.” This echoes Jesus’ saying. (John 8, 11) The brilliance of confession is not the telling, or the penance. It’s an awareness combined with learning from mistakes and resolving to not repeat.

Nothing wasted— if we learn from it.

I will look at my performance. I will stare at these typos and awkward phrasings. I will remember where I dropped the ball. Then I will resolve to pay attention and to try not to repeat. Of course, I will repeat. But maybe not the same mistakes or sins, and maybe I will catch them earlier when I can fix something. It’s a process, and a mighty beneficial one.

In this way, regret becomes useful.

GRATITUDE in Many Ways

It’s almost that time again, the time to give thanks, a.k.a. Thanksgiving.

There are studies that show living in gratitude makes a person happy(ier), healty(ier), and more productive. Did we need these studies to confirm what all cultures everywhere have long enshrined into their fabrics? Apparently we do. What the pious knew all along, the freethinkers needed academic research to prove.

Jews interject TODA LA’EL = Thank G-d into every other sentence.

Muslims do the same, only pronouncing it IL HAMDU L’EEL-LAH.

Catholics of yore used to say it in Latin, DEO GRATIAS

Hindus say BHAGAVAAN KA SHUKR HAI

Budhists just say THANK YOU.

I will do my best to remember that Thanksgiving is not a meal or putting up with irritating relatives, as the modern ethos reports on it. It’s a way of being.

I thank G-d for enabling me to write here, and I’m grateful to you for reading this. 

Thank You, GOOD People

The other day someone snatched a laptop from a café close to my neighborhood, jumped into a car and drove off. The laptop owner, a talented local musician who had his work stored on it, pursued the thief by clinging to the fleeing car, with tragic consequences. He was dragged, and died of his injuries.

This was an exceptional result of something that has sadly become all too common. Laptops, cell phones and IPods taken in full view of others because someone thinks they need not work or pay for what they want.

Only two days later, DD had gone for a walk with a friend in a nearby town. While visiting the Berkeley Rose Garden, now fragrant and in full bloom thanks to a good rainy season, her IPod managed to evaporate. At first, she assumed she had possibly left it at home. But when she returned, the whole family scoured the house and, no IPod.

It seems very possible, in light of the oh-so many swipes and snatches, that someone may have helped themselves to her pocket when she was distracted, smelling the roses, so to speak. But it was also possible, just maybe please –let-it-be, that it fell out of her pocket, and was still somewhere on the ground.

But if so, what were the odds it wasn’t picked up and pocketed after that?

DD remembered that the Rose Garden closes after dark. But she and DH drove there, and with the help of flashlights, it took but a minute to see that although the garden gate was indeed locked, someone had left her IPod off the ground right next to the gate.

And there was more. When an IPod is locked, apparently there is no way to open it and see who the owner might be. But there is one thing you can do, and that is take photos with it. The people who found it and left it so thoughtfully where she could come back for it, also left their faces by way of saying Hello.

We don’t know this family, but we love them. If you know them, thank them for us. Small acts like this make up for a lot. I’m also thankful for the many passers-by in Berkeley who chose not to take the IPod as it sat, waiting for DD by the gate, for five hours.

I will make sure to pay it forward, somehow.

The Rich Man’s Omelette

A few days ago I wished my picture book critique group a good summer and sent this as a good omen for getting lots of reading done—

© Summer Reader by SHELAGH DUFFETT

One of my critique buddies  responded with, “I want to be where this gal^ is.”

I thought how I am exactly where this reader is.

I mean, almost.

I do have cats, and one of them will jump on my lap, though never when outdoors. She’s too dignified for that, I think.

I do have a view of the bay if I walk a few blocks up the hill.

I have good books to read. Maybe I would read more if the to-be-read pile by my bedside was not so dauntingly tall.

And when I’m sitting by the blooming plants, it’s not to read, but to weed. I told you it’s an almost.

I do have a tree in the backyard I lean against. I do so when I’m tired of yard work.

All of that got me thinking about the old story of the rich man’s omelette.

A poor man returned home and told his wife he’d had the most amazing meal at a rich man’s house. The wife, eager to replicate it, asked what it was.

“We’ll need some eggs,” the man began.

“We’ve got that!”

“And some butter,” said the man.

“Well, we don’t have butter. But I can use margarine.”

“And some French cheese, such as Boursin or Pont-l'Évêque, ” the man added.

 "We don't have anything like that, " the wife said.
"What do we have? " the husband asked.

“We’ll use Velveeta,” the wife said.

“And we'll need fresh shallots,” the man continued.

“Onion power will do fine,” the wife says.

As they sat to eat, they had to agree that it was, well, almost.

 

This made me resolve to at least now and then try and narrow the gap between the summer reader above, and my life.

Be nice to yourselves, out there.

SHHH... Sweet Spice Surprise

DS just had a birthday. As he’s about to embark on the rest of his life away from here, I relished the opportunity to make him an honest to goodness non-virtual birthday cake. Who knows when I’ll get to do it again on his actual birthday?
 

 

In years past, it was easy. The choice was always chocolate. Sometimes it was chocolate with chocolate chips and dark chocolate frosting.
 

 

“Chocolate, right? “ I said.

“No,” he said. “Not chocolate this time, and please surprise me.”

They do grow up, don’t they.

But then he added, “Make it something weird. And don’t tell me.”

A weird surprise. Okay, maybe he’s still a kid at heart.
 

 

But what should I make?
 

I did not want to make something weird for weird’s sake, as a sort of joke that after a brief chuckle will not be edible. Weird is one thing, but if I make a cake I want it to be good.
 

 

I remembered that years ago I made just such a cake. It was popular briefly across the land. It was good, surprisingly so. It was a spice cake made with a full can of condensed tomato soup.

It seemed a bit weird even then. But to the millennials it qualifies as uncanny, pun intended.
 

 

And so I made a Tomato Soup Spice Cake, with cream cheese frosting, and added candied angelica and cherries glace on top.

 

 

 

Result?

 

One good cake—

 

And one happy son—

 

 

 Recipe:

• 2 cups all-purpose flour
• 1 1/3 cups granulated sugar
• 4 teaspoons baking powder
• 1 ½ teaspoons ground allspice
• 1 teaspoon baking soda
• 1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
• ½ teaspoon ground cloves
• 1 can (10 3/4 ounces) Condensed Tomato Soup
• ½ cup butter
• 2 egg
• ¼ cup water

 

Step 1

Heat the oven to 350°F. Grease two 9” inch baking pans.

Step 2

Stir the flour, granulated sugar, baking powder, allspice, baking soda, cinnamon and cloves in a large bowl. Add the soup, butter, eggs and water. Beat with an electric mixer on low speed just until blended. Increase the speed to high and beat for 2 minutes. Pour the batter into the pans.

Step 3

Bake for 25 minutes or until a toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean. Let the cake cool in the pan on a wire rack to room temperature before frosting.

 

 

Why Do I Love My Cats?

It’s not a state-secret that I like cats. But I LOVE my cats.

I have some dear friends who do not like cats. One doesn’t like animals, period. A second has always had a dog and just doesn’t care for cats. A third loves dogs, but only English bulldogs for some reason, and cats are “aloof to the point of being appalling,” so sayeth he. A fourth professes to like cats a little, but is allergic. 

I don’t have to explain my admiration for domestic felines to avowed cat-fanciers. But I do find myself justifying my admiration of the species to many of my friends. Why do I like cats? They’re beautiful, graceful, smell good, and, what can I say-- are self-cleaning. Most admirable.

Why do I LOVE mine?

Because in addition to all the above, I take care of them.

It was a revelation to discover that at the root of abiding love is the experience of taking care of the beloved. Not what they did for me, but what I did for them.

That explains a lot. We take care of young and very old humans in diapers. We pick up after them and let them scream at us. And then, when they have worn us out, we love them even more.

It isn’t what is most glorious or glamorous; it’s the care they made us extend.

For once, I have some insight into the divine love for creation.

And before I get too sappy and waaaay too lofty here, I’m heading to clean the litter box.

I’ve Died and Gone to Heaven

Almost ten years ago, when my daughter (though only ten years old then) already set her path as a pianist, I told her what I wanted her to play at my funeral. It was not a morbid conversation, but rather my way of pointing an exquisite piece of music to her attention.

You can hear it on this link, played with beautiful restraint by Dinu Lipatti—

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-fhqqxEQRRY

Fast forward ten years, and DD, back home between semesters, had a recital scheduled in Berkeley for the last day of her break. She had programmed this chorale, J S Bach chorale prelude bwv 639, to be included in the concert. 

She polished it on our piano, and for ten days, it seemed that every time I walked into the room, my funeral music was playing. 

On Saturday January 7^th 2017— she played it for the audience, and it was magnificent.

I figured that now I don’t have to go to, or even be at, my funeral. I can skip it, because I got to hear it already.

Take the Day

In the Jewish Home, where my mother passed her last eighteen months, I met one of most magical people ever. Ben was a marvel. He was a resident who, by the time my mother moved in, had been there a few years.

On set days and times, Ben played the pianos on every floor for other residents. It wasn’t official, but he had a job—making music for those who were not mobile and couldn’t leave their floor. Sometimes he played the grand piano at the common area on the first floor, right next to his room. He’d shuffle over carrying his sheet music, sit down at the keyboard, and make marvelous music just for himself, with the whole house watching.

He shared my mother’s birthday month, and at the luncheon for all the residents who had a birthday then, he sat next to my mother. She glowed. I did, too. Ben was not only handsome; he was radiant. Ben was beautiful.

Wanting to make conversation, but already suffering from dementia, my mother made a valiant effort to connect with him and make a friend. It must be a Jewish trait, for he answered every question with first repeating it. The conversation went something like this--

My mother: “Are you very old today?”

Ben: “Am I very old? Just old enough.”

My mother: “What is that?”

Ben: “What is that? Ninety-two.”

My mother: “That is too old.”

Ben: “Too old? Yes, it is.”

My mother: “How long will you live?”

Ben: “How long? They give me a day, I take it.”

This last line stayed with me. My mother lived for another year and four months, and passed away eight years ago. Ben still lives. He is one hundred-years-old.

 I try to begin each day by saying what he said. I’ll take it.

Let’s consider these famous quotations about LOVE

St. Valentine’s Day, with the heart-shaped chocolates and musings about love, is shortly upon us.

 

Years back, DS asked me why almost all the popular songs are about love. I answered that love is, well, popular. The accoutrements and trimming attached to love have always been popular. Speaking about love is a perennially popular topic, and singing about it is “the popularest.”

 

This got me thinking about famous quotations from venerable sources that, when you stop to think, don’t quite hold water. Don’t get me wrong, they all contain some truth. But in the main they come short.

 

“Love means never having to say you’re sorry.”

 

Erich Segal

Really? Me no likey this one.

 

“Love isn’t something you find. Love is something that finds you.”

 Loretta Young

Very nice Loretta, but it ain’t so, darlin’.

 

“Let us always meet each other with a smile, for the smile is the beginning of love.”

 Mother Teresa

Oh, brother! I mean, oh, mother—sometimes yes and mostly no.

 

“Love is composed of a single soul inhabiting two bodies.”

 Aristotle

And I thought Aristotle was the earthbound thinker. Really, Ari.

So while all of these are nice enough, though sorely lacking, I find this last one, not as pithy or as poetic, to be much more satisfying:

 

“Love is friendship that has caught fire. It is quiet understanding, mutual confidence, sharing and forgiving. It is loyalty through good and bad times. It settles for less than perfection and makes allowances for human weaknesses.”

Ann Landers

~~~

 

My sixpence-worth is that Love is a mystery. Just like life, and all of creation.

Keep singing, and send chocolates. That part is all good.

BEST GIFTS I EVER GOT

Whether you are a Christian or not, it is impossible to ignore 
the frantic gift-giving/receiving/contemplating/hunting/gathering/chasing that sweeps the land at this time.

And would you want to? I do my version of it and enjoy every bit. 
Giftation, or Giftatis, take your pick. It’s in the air, and I’m not holding my breath. I’m taking it in.

But I got to thinking what makes a gift really great. For me, it turns out to be the same whether on the giving or receiving end of it. It has to do with purpose and thought. If something I do involves concentrating on the person and their needs, it is fulfilling. If I sense the same in something I’m given, it is rewarding.

Generic does nothing for me.

We say, “it’s the thought that counts,” and mean the gift was a dud, but at least the giver thought about us. I think this saying is a dud.

A good gift conveys the thought was directed and specific. I can feel the joy that went into it, and this joy is akin to the joy I have experienced giving in the same way.

A long time ago, in what could have been a galaxy far away, a little boy who knew I had always wished I had an older brother growing up, made me an older bother. He made my older brother by drawing him, almost life size, and giving him a birthday, (three years older than me) and a face. His name is “Mirka’s Older Brother,” and he hangs inside my closet and greets me every day to start my day right.

It didn’t cost; it was all thought. That little boy was my son, way back in kindergarten.

His little sister, not yet four at the time, taught herself to draw what she knew was my favorite animal. She practiced feverishly on hundreds of pieces of paper until she felt she had it. 

She gave mom a pet no one else had.