A DIFFICULT TIME

Winter Holly

It's such a difficult time.  Our President is a convicted felon. We who wouldn't vote for him--half of all Americans, praise God--are stuck with him too.   How many of the Ten Commandments has he kept?  Can we count to zero?  We are often encouraged to try to understand the minds of his voters, if only to sway them.  I admit, I'm not up for that.  Life's too short to decode the allure of an autocrat. 

Remember the Duke and the Dauphin in Huckleberry Finn?  A duo of shysters just chased out one town after another, they board Huck and Jim's raft claiming to be royalty.  No amount of failure or backlash seems to lessen their greed, which culminates in their stealing the runaway slave Jim and selling him off.  Yet in each town, the gullible do come to their senses. Tarred and feathered, the con artists are finally run out of the last town on a rail.  In those days, exposing a fraud was enough.  People knew when they were made fools of.  Today not so.  The duped and the duper dig in and deny.  Grifters are in power; at least two are on our Supreme Court.  Some others are being sworn in as I write.  We have a President/Billionaire bromance.  It's almost too much.  Like I say, a difficult time. 

And yet, out my kitchen window just now the robins and cardinals are assailing the holly trees laden with berries, diving in and out.  Here and there a blue bird joins in.  Stuffing themselves with the red fruit, finally just the right degree of ripeness.  As delectable as a tasty worm.  At first I thought the robins were getting fat from gorging, but then I checked:  no, they're just fluffing their feathers to create air pockets of insulation against the cold.  My husband pours boiling water on the frozen birdbath.

The snow we seldom get has melted quickly.  I use the blower to clear the mess the birds have made on the walkway, bits of berry, leaf and stem.  Yesterday at dawn I was at the same window to see the deer foraging amongst the holly litter for any bite to eat.  They are hungry this time of year.  All foliage beneath the deer line is stripped, as they're digesting ivy, verbena, any winter green but cedar.  Only the hellebores are left alone, poison as they are. 

"Don't let the meanness of the new/old president eat your soul, your heart, your mind," I tell myself.  Resist, but don't be consumed.  Earlier this week, our book group discussed Elizabeth Strout's Tell Me Everything   A Mainer and perfect author for a winter read, Strout creates a fictional town that carries through her oeuvre. In Tell Me, a character questions the value of the "unrecorded life," i.e. lives of  ordinary people, such as we, that hold trauma, grief and love.  The telling of these lives, she decides, gives them meaning.  The book is spare (the group wanted a shorter read after The Covenant of Water, a saga of Indian life) but the inner lives depicted are deep.  I like the idea that you can validate, or redeem, a life simply by telling about it.  I have so many stories about my mother, the Nina Naomi of this blog. 

Last year our book club read Middlemarch, another saga, by George Eliot. Eliot writes, "The growing good of the world is partly dependent on unhistoric acts...[by those] who lived faithfully a hidden life and rest in unvisited tombs."  That is most of us, isn't it?   My parents' ashes are in our church columbarium.  My son's body, a graveyard beside a country church.  My husband, a writer, published a book about our son's death, a parent's instinctual effort to preserve a record.  But our other family and friends remain unrecorded, including the four close friends we lost since Thanksgiving, each with their own achievements. 

So this is a difficult, serious time.  We have more to do with our minds and hearts than lament our fellow Americans and their idol.  I went to a memorial service for a friend this weekend.  I will tell her stories.  She is, as will be each of us, held steady in the mind of God. 

We will resist, in every way available.  If we have a sphere of influence, we will use it.  Our country will weather this dictator. As he has learned, so have we.  We are, after all, a freedom-loving people. The Republican-led Congress cannot run scared forever.  In the 1950s Sen. Joe McCarthy was an agent of chaos too, causing harm similar to what we are confronting today.  He lies in history's grave.  

Blessed are the poor in spirit, blessed are those who mourn, blessed are the meek . . . .  Nowhere, nowhere are the greedy blessed.  

Tomorrow at my house and yours, the birds will awaken hungry and with great spirit.  Strangers and friends will need our help as we need theirs. Sadness and joy, fear and hope, dark and light will continue their dance.  Those who lived faithfully and lie in unvisited tombs will rest in the eternal and in our memories until our day too is done.                  In peace, Nina Naomi   

  

  

SIMPLE LIVING IN SCOTLAND AND AT MY HOUSE

Oban, Inner Hebrides, Scotland

 A few midwinter days at the beach have left me time for new reading.  I found (or it found me) Scottish Stories by Molly Ella on Substack.  She writes about her slow and simple life in the Scottish Highlands.  Well, three falls ago we spent some time in Scotland in the Inner Hebrides, some absolutely wonderful time staying in Oban on the Bay and taking ferries all about to islands and eating langoustines whenever possible.  My grandmother was a Chisholm, the clan whose dress plaid is red and whose hunting plaid is brown.  It's not easy to find the Chisholm plaid but we work at it. Then just two falls ago our grandson entered St. Andrews University and is biking to class and enjoying living by the North Sea.  So how could I not be attracted to Scottish Stories by Molly Ella?

She writes about frugal living.  I too was raised that way.  We did all home repairs ourselves.  We took staycations (not a word then) more often than not.  We ate out, if at all, at cafeterias and burger havens.  My mother made hodgepodge almost every night.  A real summer treat was a mug of frosty root beer at A&W drive-in. We went to free movies in the park in summer and skated free on the pond in winter.  The public schools had free summer enrichment classes in which I was unfailingly enrolled. We went sledding on local hills and public golf courses.  The St. Louis art museum was free, the Jewel Box Botanical Garden and the St. Louis zoo the same.  My mother got something new to wear once a year and that was at Christmas.  I'm sure she didn't own a pair of boots other than galoshes.  She waited for the school bus with her students and was beloved by them.  Somehow, then and now, none of this was a deprivation.  Materialism had no place in my childhood.  Education, yes, but not consumerism. 

Molly Ella says that living frugally can be positive for our mental health and cites the research (see Journal of Consumer Psychology).  I agree.  Thrift originally meant to thrive.  Lessening or eliminating the stress of debt is emotionally freeing.  Savoring and appreciating  (I did not chug that root beer) stretches the positive experience.  Spending less usually means working less which ups our work-life balance.  This is true even as a retiree:  if I'm not scrolling the outlet sites or running up to TJMax, I have more time to garden, read, chat, you name it.  

Somehow, without planning, I have been having a low-buy year.  Last July when my husband had surgery and I became an at-home caregiver, I realized how little of a wardrobe I needed.  And that's when I decided not to buy any new clothes this year.  So far I am not failing. 😊  The upside, besides time and money saved, is that I'm making all sorts of combinations with what's in my closet. I'm being creative.  The time I'm saving also leaves more room for knitting and I've finished a neck warmer that enlivens every sweater I have.  Then too, knitting goes well with movie watching which is great on winter weekends.  My alcohol-free January (which started late December) fits in with a low-buy year--great savings there--part of which I have dedicated to flowers or candles when I pass by the wine section at the grocery store.  With no wine on the menu, I'm losing weight (slimming, as the British say) which means some lovely trousers in the back of my closet now fit, so more variety at no cost.  

So of course, with all this going on, I am attracted to a newsletter by a young Scottish woman on her intentional living.  Simple, intentional, frugal, slow . . . a good fit for me right now.  Maybe for you too.  

                                        Thanks for reading, Nina Naomi

WINTER THOUGHTS

Winter Sea

This is what's been happening.  We come to the beach for a wintry escape and it is wonderful, cold and bright, waves lapping, starry nights and fresh mornings. Nothing is open, but we bring necessities from home and stop at Friendly Market on the mainland for their prepared chicken-wild rice and shrimp and grits casseroles.  The house is cold, the window cranks need repair but while we were unable to be here the pipes did not freeze and the heat pump did not break.  Only the kitchen faucet is spewing and we need a plumber but that is all and we are relieved. We are so glad to be here.  The bedroom refuses to warm up and I put on extra blankets.  I'm missing Mr.Wiggles, our little maltipoo who the last time we brought him, fifteen and with only months to live, could no longer do the stairs.   

At the same time, the fires in Los Angeles are still burning.  So much suffering.  Our own western North Carolina has not rebuilt yet.  Many lives there were lost.  My husband and I have friends moving from this life to the next, three in these past months, all from cancer, two after long debilitating treatments. These are serious times in our life and maybe in yours too.  I would not be surprised.  We fear power-bloated billionaires and warmongers.  Many diseases do not wait for us to age. Anxiety is in the air.  Fragility abounds.  

And yet, life goes on. That's what life does.   From the ashes like the Phoenix the sun rises daily. The moon as well. All is not vanity. The most miraculous things continue to happen.  We see on TV the gratitude of those who, yes, lost their homes but not their lives.  We see the superhuman bravery of the firefighters.  We see goodness and compassion.

Each morning we all find something for which to give thanks.  Tea or coffee, children or grandchildren, jobs to do and friends to see.  Here the day is bright and cold again. This visit the shore is wide, the dunes rebuilt by last year's storms. Some visits no shore at all, steps and decks washed away.  The wind alone decides whether to take or give. The sea can be as dangerous as fire.  

Precarious as life is, who isn't grateful to be alive?  Who wouldn't be grateful to take a walk, even with a bad back, by the windy shore, bundled and dodging the incoming waves?  We rebuild after hurricanes, floods and fires, not just shelters for our bodies but places of friendship and love for our hearts. We try our best to keep our families safe, even as they grow or diminish.  With each loss we recommit to life. 

When someone dies, we are thankful that they didn't suffer.  If they suffered, we are thankful that their suffering is over.  We are thankful that they lived, however long or short.  We would never trade the joy in their living to avoid the pain of losing them.  Our love is strong, and deep.  It abides.

It is a miracle how we are made.  It is a wonder how two people can make a love that lasts a lifetime, from young love to old age, neither straying, nor wanting to, from one another.  It is a wonder as well how two people can meet at any age, after most any disappointment, and find nothing but love and compassion between them.  It is a wonder how we feel for strangers and want to help them, how we see our lives in theirs, how we know that, "There, but for the Grace of God, go I." 

It's not that we manufacture good, I don't think. We're not Pollyannas.  But sometimes the good simply won't let us ignore it.  I've read that we're "hard-wired" (a word I don't like) to look for the negative.  I don't think that's true.  If it were, how in the face of natural catastrophes and greed, would we continue to take such good care of ourselves and others? We have survived because of our better angels. 

Something about the ocean gives rise to these winter thoughts. Something about the vastness of our world, sky, land and sea, makes space for us to look for any blessings we can.  And lo and behold, we find them.  

  

WHAT'S YOUR SIMPLE WINTER THING?

I buy The Simple Things  at my local Barnes and Noble.  Or you can visit www.icebergpress.co.uk. It's a lovely magazine for UK aficionados like myself. I've mentioned before that people write in what their "Simple Thing" is.  Ordinary things like "cold toast with a thick slathering of butter."  Nothing's more British than cold toast (or the word "slathering").  Brits even use a cooling rack to make sure not one bit of warmth is left after toasting.  Perverse, isn't it?  Our simple thing corollary might be "A fried egg on hot buttered toast."  Yes, much more American.   

Winter is such a wonderful time.  When it's not too frigid outside, a lovely simple thing is the outdoor fire pit and a woolly blanket as darkness falls.  Or if the temperature is colder, like it is today, then a crackling fire indoors is the best simple winter thing.  Of course, not everyone wants or has a fireplace.  Candles and fairy lights are good too.  Then watching a movie with the kids or maybe even better, watching something that only we want to see.  My Netflix list is long.  

Remember when Dumbledore said, "One can never have enough socks.  Another Christmas has come and gone and I didn't get a single pair.  People will insist on giving me books." (Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone)  New socks are a simple winter thing. Or old favorites. Last year I got a pair in my Christmas stocking, and sent out a bunch.  My sweet New Jersey nieces said, "Some people think they are corny but we like them," then sent me this fuzzy polka dot pair by return mail: 

Still, books may be the best winter simple thing. Transporting us to another age or country or emotional state.  Challenging us, absorbing us, every sentence a pause, leading us to thoughts we may never have had before.  Reading the classics does this, Bronte, Dickens, Salinger, Flaubert, Kate Chopin. . . .  Just choosing one to read or reread will transform the whole winter on its own.  Our book club chose The Awakening (1899) set in New Orleans where Chopin's heroine struggles against turn-of-the-century attitudes about femininity and motherhood.  I can't forget that book. 

Of course we can combine a plethora of simple winter things into a glorious day or afternoon or evening--cozy socks, candles lit, with our book, under a woolly throw, tea and hot buttered toast at our side, dog at our feet. . . . Or playing a game with the family in front of the fire while supper simmers. 

What are your simple winter things?   Outdoors or in?  Active or sedentary?  Planned or spontaneous?  Relaxing or invigorating?  There's not a bad choice, is there?  It's a wonderful season!

THE NO-GUILT SEASON

Wishing for Snow

We're in the no-guilt season and I love it.  January is our time to slow down.  We can't hibernate in December.  There's too much to do, too much between Thanksgiving and New Year's.  But not now.  Year-end work rush is over.  The children's excitement has peaked and settled.  Family is gone, guest rooms empty.  Calendars have cleared.  Gardens don't need us.

Fridges have space and we start fresh with simple winter comfort food, stews and soups, roast meats and vegetables.  We're wearing our new sweaters, not shopping for them.  There's nothing to buy or decorate or plan or get ready for.  It is pure and simply time to find what comforts we can and reset.  We can slow life down a little without any guilt.  We can go to bed early.  Oh my.

Where I am it is 5:30 and dark.  The geese have passed overhead and are quiet.  The deer are still grazing about but will bed under the cedars shortly.  The bobcat a relative spied at dusk a day or so ago may still be on patrol, but then so are the coyotes.  We might hear some noise later from those predators.  In all, it's a chilly perfect mid-winter evening. 

What can we do during this less-hectic time?  There's so much.  We can go for bundled-up walks in nature.  My husband and I took one yesterday, January 1st, a day off.  We can start our winter routine, the most un-fancy dinners we can think of, meatloaf and jacket potatoes, or waffles, or cabbage soup.  Early baths or showers, a little reading or journaling, TV or podcast and bedtimes for everyone.

Winter has such charm with little effort, don't you think?  Birds at the feeder.  Bare, sculptural branches, winter berries, brighter stars, air with a freshness you don't find in any other season.  Even the train whistle is clearer as it fades.  People leave work earlier too, if they can.  Schools close for snow and everything stops.

At home, too.  Blankets and throws about, clusters of candles (we have a Scrap Exchange where you can buy fistfuls of used candles for 5¢ each), warm drinks, old flannels and knitwear, cozy socks.  I read more in winter than any other time of year.  Someone said that reading is to the mind what exercise is to the body, and that seems right.  We drink hot chocolate before bed, too, a treat saved  just for this season.  

It's good for our children to see us slow down, to have time for real conversations, so when they are adults they will know how to slow down too.  They see us make a living.  They can see us make a life.  A slower pace helps us care for our souls and theirs.  

We need our winter pause.  We need a month that doesn't rush, but lingers. That month is here.   

                        In peace, Nina Naomi