Sights of Autumn

Late this afternoon, I was driving home through a less populated part of the county.  I had an open view of the November sky.  Up ahead of me from an open field, a small flock of geese took flight.  They flapped frantically and zigzagged across the highway ahead of me as they made their way heavenward in a helter-skelter fashion.   When they reached their desired altitude, they suddenly spread their collective wings with a graceful elegance and formed themselves into one leg of the chevron, their well-known configuration.

The line slowly undulated as the leg of the chevron switched from left to right and back again.  They would flap their wings again but not in the wild way they did in the beginning.  Then, they would spread their wings and ride the upper level air currents and the wake created by their flock mates.  Watching that supple line going up and down and back and forth, I found myself mesmerized by the beauty and poise of their movements.   As I overtook them and they fell behind me, I realized that a flock of geese flying in formation was one of my favorite fall sights.

Then, I remembered a funny story involving another flock of geese.  About 20 years ago, my parents had come to visit us and my dad was in the backyard barbequing with my husband.   This is the story my husband told me later.  As they stood by the BBQ pit, my dad nudged my husband with his elbow and pointed to a flock of geese flying overhead in that age old pattern.

“Do you know why one side is longer than the other?” Dad asked Armando.  Now, Armando knew my dad came from country folk, as did Armando’s parents and grandparents.  So, in anticipation of hearing some words of country wisdom, he solemnly responded that he didn’t know why one side was longer than the other.

“Because there’s more geese on that side.” 

Armando realized he had been had and I’m sure Dad was delighted that he had sucked him in.  Armando had a good laugh about it when he told me the story later that same night. 

Dad always loved a good joke.

The Diner Cup

A while back I put away my cup and saucer collection because my daughter and her 2-year-old came to live with us for a few months after they lost their husband/daddy in a tragic accident almost two years ago.  This morning I decided that it was time to bring them out again.  My daughter and her son have been back out on their own for quite a while already and he is almost four.  He now understands about leaving certain things alone.  So, I got the step stool and brought my friends out of their hibernation in the upper shelves of the kitchen.

As I soaped them up, rinsed them off and dried them, I enjoyed the different textures, weights and shapes from fine china to handmade pottery.  As I arranged them on the window sill and counter, I thought about how this little collection started and I reminisced about each set as I prepared it for display.

For example, this one was a gift from one of my daughters-in-law.  It's handmade which makes it highly respectable in my eyes with a rugged beauty about it.



This one was purchased at Williams Sonoma (well, la-tee-dah) on sale, of course, because it was square and on sale.

But of these and all the rest, here’s my favorite today as I arrange these pairs in my home—the diner cup.  I bought it at an estate sale at an old home in Navasota, Texas, several years ago.  I would imagine that if it could talk, I would hear some interesting tales.

As I looked at it, I began to ponder why it appealed to me.  It’s not pretty, at all.  No interesting shape or pattern here.  It’s plain and simple, ah, but oh so durable with a good heft to it.  That’s it!  That’s what draws me to this duo.  This cup and saucer were probably thrown into many a bus boy’s tub and, then, callously dumped into hot, soapy dishwater or thoughtlessly loaded into many a dishwasher without even chipping.  Today it says to me, “Sure, I’ve had a tough life and I may be a little stained but I’m still serving my purpose and I’ve brought countless people comfort over time.”

So, I gathered inspiration from this humble little cup and saucer and vowed to do a better job of standing strong in the face of life’s challenges and continuing to serve my purpose as it unfolds.    

The Piano

In 1977 with my first marriage ending and because I was moving from a house into an apartment, I had to get rid of my piano.  Quite honestly, I don’t really remember much about that piano now.  I know it was an upright and would certainly be an antique by now if it wasn’t already one then.  However, I remember vividly the scene as it was wheeled out of my house and down the street to a neighbor’s house.  That event made me sad but, then, there was a general sadness at that time that pervaded my life making nuances of sadness imperceptible.

Over the following years, I longed for another piano but, with a young family, there never seemed to be enough money for that “luxury”.  From time to time, I would price pianos to see how far out of reach one remained.  When there was still a piano store in the mall (you know, right there on the main corridor), I would wander in and run my fingers over the keys raising the hopes of the salesman which wasn’t too cool on my part.  But I couldn’t help the longing.  Then, when I got laid off in 1995 in a corporate downsizing, I took a portion of the money and insisted on buying an electronic keyboard. 

I was naïve to believe that an electronic keyboard with its circuit boards, shorter keyboard, smaller keys, and whatever else it had could effectively imitate the organic feel of wood and felt as those strings were physically struck and silenced, the sound vibrating through the instrument, through my body and out into the air around me.  While  the electronic keyboard with all the bells and whistles was a lot of fun, it didn’t satisfy the yearning for a piano.

But, you know, time has a way of slipping by and we forget those things that once were so important in our lives as we learn to live without them.  We don’t allow ourselves to linger on what can’t be.  Then, about a month ago, I’m sitting with Armando and from nowhere I say, “I sure wish I had a piano.”  I can’t tell you what prompted that comment.  I don’t remember what we were doing at the time but I had a sudden longing for a piano in my life.

A couple of weeks later, I got a call from an old friend.  Her former mother-in-law had passed leaving a piano that no one in the family wanted and the family had contacted her to see if she knew anyone who would be interested in having a piano.  Having remembered over the years that I had wished I could have another piano, she called to see if we could line up some piano wranglers and get the piano from where it was to where I was.  From that moment until the piano was safely installed in my house a few days later, I lived with an active undercurrent of energy that I couldn’t turn off.  The first thought upon waking and the last thought before sleeping and most of the thoughts in-between were about THE PIANO.

I was out of town on the day the piano had to be moved which is probably a good thing.  My perverted visions of it careening from the back of the pickup truck and splintering on I-45 while I watched helplessly from another vehicle in the piano delivery caravan would have probably triggered some sort of infarction or such.  So, I was a couple of hundred miles away while some wonderful men in my life saw to it that my new gift was carefully brought to me.

Until I saw the piano in my home and sat down at it for the first time, I couldn’t really believe it was true.  Then, over the first few days it was a part of our household, I would be surprised by its presence and in awe of its being there.  It wasn’t just a piece of furniture.  It was a being, an entity, a force, an energy.  I would run my hand over its smooth cabinet and virtually caress the keys.  I’d like to report that playing again was like picking up where I left off in my teens after many, many years of formal study.  But I’ve grown rusty and stiff.  I can see that I’m going to have to loosen up and relax into it.  Fortunately, the theory side of the process came back almost completely (thanks to Mrs. Barfield who insisted on teaching theory to a reluctant student who just wanted to make music).  I just need to loosen up the old digits and shoulders.  I’m getting better every day and I don’t need anyone to remind me to practice like I did as a teenager.

So, I say all this to encourage each who reads this to stay the course with whatever it is you’re praying for or manifesting or wishing for.  I’m living proof that never giving up means ultimate reward!

1978 and an Omelet is Born

So, I'm up early listening to Pandora radio.  Bob Seger starts wailing We’ve Got Tonight and I’m thrown back to 1978.  For a few minutes I am that young woman again reliving the feelings I was having when that song was a regular on the playlist that was the soundtrack of my life that year.  As I listened today, I remembered the bad feelings—my life taking a turn that seemed to nullify everything I’d ever been taught or had believed in; and the  good feelings—new love discovered.  I took some radical steps in the eyes of friends and family in the summer of ’78.  I wish I hadn’t hurt loved ones.  But what’s that saying about omelets and breaking eggs?  Yeah, that one.  It’s true.

So, here I sit listening to Bob Seger and reliving those feelings from those days and seeing with much greater clarity the reason for so much that went on.  All in all, it’s been a pretty good omelet.

The Rose of Hope

I had a powerful déjà vu when I sat down and began to upload this picture—as if in the past I had dreamed the sequence of actions I was taking in the present.  Usually, that’s an awesome feeling but today it was so powerful as to seem a little scary. 

Anyhow, I just want to briefly say that, while looking at the roses my man planted for our family, I can’t help but be filled with awe and gratitude.  Not just for the rose bushes but for what they represent.  Over the last seven years my family has found our way to the peace that everyone deserves.  While it’s true that we still face a monumental challenge as a family, we speak only words of positive energy over that impending challenge and gather strength to deal with it.

This beautiful little flower growing in my backyard says more than any human could ever muster about the power of God, our Higher Power, the Universe, whatever you call it.  Don’t despair, fellow sojourner.  There’s a power, a source of strength, ready to take on your life’s challenges.  Just don’t give up before you find exactly what “flavor” of spirituality suits you best.  Then, when you find it, trust it implicitly. 

Love Affair with the Gulf of Mexico

Today the subject weighing heavy on my heart is my much-loved Gulf of Mexico.  My first memory of the Gulf of Mexico was when I was a child.  Several families from our church went down to the beach in Galveston for a day.  Although our family participated in that outing, my parents generally were more inland types and going to the beach wasn’t their idea of fun.  So, I didn’t get back to Galveston until I was a teenager. 

It was on the rolling waters of the Gulf of Mexico that I had my first spiritual experience, my first encounter with God, the Universe, the cosmos—whatever you label that energy that lives in and throughout every living thing.  I must have been in my late teens when a group of us went to the beach for the day.  I don’t remember much about that day except for the blue and red canvas air mattress and what I experienced as I bobbed up and down on the swells out in the water.

First, I would paddle out pretty far.  Then, I would lie on my stomach on the air mattress and let the waves wash me ashore again.  I don’t know how many such trips I had made that day, as I was on my way back into shore, lying on my stomach, chin on my stacked hands, looking towards the beach.  Back near the shore, people were splashing about in the water and moving around on the sand and cars were rolling back and forth on Seawall Boulevard.  Yet, I realized I couldn’t hear any of the cacophony of sounds I knew were being generated by such human movement.  As I lay there, I recognized that I couldn’t hear anything but the gentle splash of the water around my air mattress and the occasional cawing of a seagull.  When I closed my eyes and could no longer see human activity onshore, it was as if I was one with that awesome energy that is the Gulf of Mexico.

I felt isolated but not alone.  In that silence, I felt this amazing energy, this powerful force.  I was so moved by the overwhelming supremacy of the entity that we’ve named the Gulf of Mexico that I fell in love that day.  As I write this today, a scripture comes to mind that would fit perfectly with my experience.  The scripture goes something like, “Be still and know that I am God.” 

Over the 40 years since then I haven’t been as faithful to the Gulf as I should have been.  While I’ve never lived further than an hour away, I haven’t visited nearly enough.  With the increase in the local population over the last four decades, the beaches became too congested for me and raising a family took my attention and… well, whatever.  I didn’t get down there as much as I wanted but every time I went, I would draw on that raw energy.  Sitting for hours as wave after wave after wave rolled in, I would never tire of watching.  Finding a spot where all human noises were blocked, I could feel my spirit heal as I listened to the organic sound of the Gulf.

So, as I hear the real news cover the sad, sad—sad beyond description—rupture that has occurred in the BP pipe, my heart fills with fear.  Normally I enjoy The Daily Show when they poke fun at some of the most serious political and social issues of our time but Jon Stewart hasn’t managed to provoke one giggle when he talks about the Gulf of Mexico.

As much as I try to shelter myself from the poison that is our modern-day media, I have seen images of the mess that is being created by this manmade blunder.  The predictions by the scientists of the potential damage to the environment are heart breaking.  The fear of what could happen if we got a major hurricane while all this oil continues to bubble up out of the broken pipe takes my breath away and not in a good way.  Underlying all of this is a fundamental sadness that comes with the prospect of the inalterable changes in my beloved Gulf of Mexico. 

But, then, being a glass-half-full kind of gal, I remember the feeling I had that day floating out there, just me and the Gulf.  The power I felt made me understand how small I was and I was awestruck in the process.  While viewing the horrific damages occurring because of human bungling in the present, I can’t forget the awesome power that I experienced all those years ago.  I trust the Gulf of Mexico has the ability to recover from whatever damages mere humans can inflict.

As I hear sound bites from the pundits, the scientists, the experts and the naysayers, I can’t help feeling that the Gulf of Mexico is greater than all of them put together.  I have faith that the Gulf of Mexico will heal itself.  As amazing as our modern science is, it pales compared to the raw energy that is our universe.  We can scurry around in our human state and put forth ideas, one after the other, on how to solve this problem, and well we should.  But I would wager that the Gulf of Mexico has already begun its transformation to deal with our stupid gaffe in ways we can’t see.  I have no doubt about that.

Spice and Seasoning Sprinkling

Over the 40 years that I’ve been cooking, I’ve developed a feel for certain things, like the way to season or spice certain dishes without measuring.  For example, when I cook carne picada con papas (that’s ground beef with potatoes), I know that a light sprinkling of comino (cumin) over the entire surface of the food in the skillet will render just the right taste for me.  As well, I add ground cinnamon to my ground coffee in the basket before I brew the pot.  It’s about as much as I sprinkle on a piece of buttered bread to make the second layer of toppings for cinnamon toast, the third being granulated sugar.

Having made the three items mentioned above countless times in my adult life, the sprinkling process, in many cases, has become second nature.  It goes something like this:

• grab the bottle of spice;
• double check the label (very important step unless you want to add cinnamon instead of cumin to the carne picada; we ate it but it wasn’t very good);
• unscrew the outer cap;
• sprinkle through the sprinkle cap (the plastic cap underneath the outer cap with the holes to allow the spice to be sprinkled.)

So, to sum up my technique—grab, check, unscrew, and sprinkle.  However, something has happened in the world of packaging seasonings and spices to force a change in that technique.  The manufacturers of the bottles used by my favorite seasoning/spice companies have redesigned the bottle caps. 

Please understand I have no problem with the fact that the cap has been redesigned.  Now the outer cap and the sprinkle cap are one with the outer cap being attached by a hinge to the sprinkle cap.  So, now the technique becomes grab, check, flip and sprinkle.  Actually, it’s a timesaver for the efficiency-minded cook because a flip of the thumb gives you access to the sprinkle step and you could conceivably grab, check, flip and sprinkle with just one hand.  Also, for the record, I don’t have much trouble with change.  I find it challenging.  Sort of keeps me on my toes.

As I said above, I’m all for the redesign but I’m curious.  I know enough about corporate America to know that nothing gets changed without a series of meetings where every conceivable variation of the concept is discussed.  I’m curious to know something about those cap redesign meetings.  I'm curious to know if they discussed what would happen if my technique of grab, check, unscrew and sprinkle was applied to their bottles with the redesigned caps.  I'm curious to know if they laughed because it could be pretty funny for someone to dump a whole bottle of oregano into the spaghetti sauce.  Thankfully, I realized what was happening just before I did it.

The Spiritual Journey - First Installment

An exchange over the weekend with an old friend got me thinking about my spiritual journey.  Then, last night, I dreamed that Park Place Baptist Church was gone and the property where it had once stood was a nice lawn with a few trees that had evidently survived the demolition.  Park Place was the church I grew up in and the place I spent most of my first 20 years of life after home and school.  It is the source of some of the most wonderful memories of my life.  However, what I learned there also served as the source of some of the strongest spiritual conflicts in my life—conflicts that I couldn’t resolve until the 5^th decade of my life on this earthly plane.

So, this morning, I’m reflecting on my spirituality and what it looks like now that I’m finally comfortable with it.  You see, growing up I was surrounded by wonderful, well-meaning people who taught me what they believed.  I listened.  I processed.  I questioned.  Although I quickly learned that questioning wasn’t such a good idea, there was no doubt that for the most part these were sincere, thoughtful people who worked at living their faith.  Some met with more success than others. 

One of the main themes I couldn’t accept was the idea that if one didn’t find our particular brand of religion, one was doomed to an eternity in hell.  I simply couldn’t reconcile that with the image of God the Father who loved us enough that he sacrificed his only son so that we might avoid the burning pit.  I especially bristled at the idea of the poor people in the jungles of Africa dying and going to hell because the missionaries we were frantically dispersing around the world didn’t get to them in time.  Our goal was to save the world.  Talk about biting off more than you can chew.

As an adult, I would find myself tearing up when singing some of the words to the old hymns.  It just felt so wrong for me.  As a teenager, I just couldn’t accept these concepts of our religion being the official religion of entry into heaven.  I mean, I knew Catholic kids.  I even knew a Jewish girl, yeah, in Houston, Texas, in the 60s.  As well, I knew a variety of kids from other religious belief systems and some who were unaffiliated.  And, yet, these were some pretty great people.  So, how does this fatherly God work again in a world where so many of my fellow human beings, and good ones at that, were doomed.  I can remember a study program in Training Union (wherein we were trained to be good Southern Baptists) when I was in high school where we looked at a different religion every week to see what was wrong with that religion and why ours was so much better.  What happened to judge that ye be not judged?

So, at the turn of the century, I began my spiritual journey in earnest.  More about that next time.

Worthwhile Words

"Put it before them briefly so they will read it, clearly so they will appreciate it, picturesquely so they will remember it and, above all, accurately so they will be guided by its light."  So said Joseph Pulitzer.

Take Backs

Today I decided to give the ol' blogging thing another whirl. In looking over the blogs I had created, I narrowed the list to the main Evolution of a Painter. Then, as I went about my day, I decided that I might have been too hasty in deleting this one. I like that name, Stream of Consciousness.

So, I've reactivated it and I'll see what part is plays in my pathway of enlightenment. You'll notice I didn't say pathway "to" enlightenment. I've come to believe that enlightenment is a journey, not a destination. I know I'm not the first to come to that determination. It's just that now the concept feels most comfortable to me.

If enlightenment were permanently attainable and not a daily adventurous journey, there would be no need for wisdom or inspiration along those lines. But since the human mind is so easily distracted by the worries of this existence, it's helpful if we constantly bolster one another and encourage our co-sojourners (I made up a word?) to avidly pursue the pathway of enlightenment.

I truly believe we each have our unique path to follow. So, while no one can tell another exactly what steps to take, we stand a better chance of advancing if we cheer each other on to just take the next step, whatever it may be.

So, it is in that spirit that I will use this blog to put out energy into the cosmos. What an exciting prospect to tap into the universal energy and jump on that cosmic current that will move each of us where we need to be if we only open ourselves to the potential. Come along, fellow discoverer.

Today I leave you with the words of Bill or Ted, not sure which, "Be excellent to each other."