"THERE IS NOTHING NEW UNDER THE SUN," ECCLESIASTES 1:9

Every year June 21, the longest day, is shortly followed by the anniversary of my son's death from cancer, July 17.  We all have anniversaries like these, when we remember--maybe with hard-won peace, maybe with brought-to-your-knees pain--the day someone we love began their eternal walk with God.  These are the people who matter to us both in their presence and in their absence.  They are repositories of love wherever their bodies lie.

The very strong memories of my son's last days begin their march to the foreground on the Summer Solstice because in our side-yard sits the cast-iron sundial my son and his wife gave to my mother, their first gift to her as newlyweds.  She kept it in a garden next to the creek behind her porch.  Six years later cancer took them both, she at 82 and he only 33.  

This year we were at Stonehenge just a week before the Solstice.  We weren't there at sunrise and it wasn't the longest day, but it was a reminder of the turning of the wheel as the earth's axis tilts at its closest point from the sun.  Awe and curiosity might be the most common emotions in the presence of these stones.  But I also felt the movement toward my heightened annual pangs of loss and thanksgiving.  Who hasn't had these? 

Like Stonehenge, my precious marker is both clock and calendar.  But for me the time it marks is liminal.  The young man it recalls is eternal.  The promises it keeps are strong.  The way the sundial sat as a sentry to my mother's leafy nook, it sits next to our side door, wed to the moss at its base.  I haven't moved it in the 18 years since my father said, "Please keep mama's sundial."  

The grandchild born just days after the death of her father will be 18 herself soon.  When we lose someone, new life often follows.  That's the way it is.  New babies, new relationships, new blessings follow even the hardest parts of being human.  We never stop living until our own sun sets.  And even then, the wheel keeps turning. 

What I am writing is not confined to any one age.  The insights, if there are any, are ancient.  When you see a site like Stonehenge, built during the Neolithic period, or Angkor Wat in Cambodia or Machu Picchu in Peru or others I haven't seen as well, the message is continuity.  "There is nothing new under the sun," saith the preacher. "What has been will be again; what has been done will be done again."  (Ecclesiastes 1:9) This may or may not seem consoling.  But I tend to think that, as Godly wisdom, it is.  Others have been where we are now.  God has been where we are now.  We are not alone.  Never alone.  AMEN

CHASED

Blowing Rock, NC

 Chased by the sunset, chased by the moon  

Chased by the morning coming too soon 

Chased by my thoughts as I open my eyes

Pushing back covers confronting the whys

Feeling my blessings as arms hold me tight

Loving the warmth that has sheltered the night

Sometimes the memories confound morning's peace

Leave my mind hoping their circling will cease

Why, I now ask, have they have lasted this long 

But the touch and the breathing can right an old wrong

If I let it, I help it, I sing our true song

    by Nina Naomi

WINTER NOSTALGIA

 

One thing many of us have learned is that even though we live our lives forward, we still can't help thinking about the past.  Nostalgia is bittersweet, yet most of the time it's rewarding.  Nostalgia can make us feel that our lives have roots and continuity. It can make us feel good about ourselves. It provides texture to our lives. After all, the past is just the present a few days, months or years later.  Would we ever want to feel that today won't still be valuable tomorrow?  

What I'm feeling nostalgic about now are winters past.  I bet we all have fond winter memories from our childhood. During the months of November and December as each night grows longer, nostalgia is the perfect antidote to loneliness, boredom or anxiety.  I love to share memories with my brother, and with my cousin.  My husband and I have memories that go back to high school.  Daily we recollect together.  Sharing a memory is twice blessed.   Even the sense of wistfulness and loss that accompanies the past can be enriching.  Winter is a time for nostalgia.

My earliest winter memory is sleigh riding with my father.  My mother must have been pregnant since my brother was born in midwinter, so it was my father who took me out after work in the early darkness to sled down a shallow hill.  I was 4 years old.  What's your first snow memory?  Were you trained as I was trained to love snow?

Later, we neighborhood kids rode our belly-busters down steep icy streets lit by porch-lights and the occasional street light.  We'd come in with frozen hair, mitts clotted with snow, and dump our gear on kitchen heat vents to dry before the next round of sledding.  Friends would hang out together in sock-feet stretched out on the floor while someone's mother made hot chocolate.   

On my husband's and my second date we took our sleds to a nearby golf course and by moonlight sailed down hill after hill until we were soaking  wet and out of breath.  I still remember the shadows the trees cast, holding hands in our thick mittens, and what a fun time we had.  We got carry-out hamburgers and ate them in the car with the engine running. I was 15 and he was 16.  The next morning, roads were impassable.  St. Louis has hard winters. Years later, after marriage, we lived in Cleveland and went bobsledding.  Winters there are even harder.

When our daughter was only three I pulled her up and down the Midwest country road in front of our parsonage in what felt like near-blizzard conditions.  We both just needed to get out.  She wore a red snowsuit and sang "The Twelve Days of Christmas" in her baby voice the whole time.  

When they were grade schoolers, the children would pelt their father with snowballs as soon as he got home.   They'd wait and plot for hours and he always responded with great surprise, "Oh no, you got me!"  Our son's cocker spaniel would  ride on the sled with him down the hill in front of our house and stay out 'till her fur was clumped with ice balls. She was a trooper.  

Now my granddaughter and I take our rudderless sleds and saucers over to the neighbor's hill as soon as the flurries start.  Here in the North Carolina Piedmont we're overjoyed with whatever sticks. She narrates videos of our mishaps.  

Such a good time for memories and reflections, for taking what is good and trying to make it better.  We need to be more generous in winter, to neighbors, friends and strangers.  Even the birds need our help. 

Of course a memory can be depressing.  But for the most part nostalgia brings to mind cherished experiences that remind us we are valued and have had meaningful lives.  Let's let the memories flow this winter.  And feed the memory bank with new things every day.  Something to look forward to.                      Nina Naomi

 

 

 

HOME IS THE NICEST WORD

"Home is the nicest word there is."  Laura Ingalls Wilder

This is our last beach trip of the season.  Just a few days at the North Carolina coast enjoying a small bit of sun and much rain and wind.  The flags have been red most days, High Hazard for swimmers.  And with the Delta variant now spreading among the unvaccinated, of whom there are many in Eastern North Carolina, we're being careful.  Eating outdoors again and masking indoors.  Most people here aren't.  Still, we're loving our time. This is home, too. 

Pine Knoll Shores, North Carolina

Yesterday we woke to a window leak and water splashing--indoors!  It reminded me that as a child in St. Louis I loved to sleep with my head facing the open sash at the foot of the bed, rain in my face or just cracked with very cold winter air. 

What is your memory of home?  To me childhood means spacious old rooms, crumbling plaster, back stairs, piles of laundry and dog hair wafting. We had a coal furnace, a window air-conditioner and year-round, scratchy music on the turntable.  Always living within our means, never too hectic, never wanting more or being dissatisfied. What a luxury.  Four people all invested in eachother.  And Sheba, an amazingly-shedding mongrel dog. 

We've been nesting here at the beach because of the rain.  Mr. Wiggles hates his walks when it's raining, of course, but loves to nest too.  August brings the last days to savor the season we wait for all year.  Summer can almost never live up to our expectations, can it?  I didn't see my grandchildren quite as much as I'd hoped and have more home chores than I want (things fall apart; it's a motif). More seriously, I didn't quite comprehend how ferociously the unvaccinated could keep the pandemic alive.

But on the whole we'll make the most of August.  And prepare to spend the Fall again in another home--a three-room furnished apartment in Princeton, NJ, with busy sidewalks out the windows, laundry in the basement and a fire escape out back ("Home, Not So Simple," Mar 12, 2018). There, like everywhere, we'll nestle into whatever preserves us: the things we love; maybe our past and our memories; surely our hopes.

Alice Walker

                                               

TOO MANY THINGS TO DO

 

I've got too many things to do

On my list, in my head.

Real things, imagined things.

So I've run away to the beach, to the woods, under the covers,

To clear my head of silly lists and chores,

Of memories, disappointments, hauntings. 

That circling spy me out, in a dream.

Wheel upon wheel of interpretations and reinterpretations.

Endless quests to understand 

What Happened and Why.  

Does it matter, still?

Someday. 

Out here beyond the shore, the trees, the bottom of my bed

Is only love.

All within my body, so soft, so forgiving.

Nothing to do but breathe.  

Hydrangeas and White Sky

 

WINTER CONTENTMENT

 

Do certain things remind you of your childhood?  Winter reminds me.  Some of the reminders are not particularly happy.  One time I told my parents:  "I will NOT walk to school when the temperature is below than 20 degrees!"  It was probably an eight block walk and my nose was running, my fingers stiff, my bones sore from hunching against the cold by the time I reached the equally chilly high school.  We lived too close for the bus and I had no car.  My best friend and I tried singing, skipping, everything to keep warm.  Nothing worked.  St. Louis has cold winters. 

But most childhood winter memories are good ones.  You too?  On our second date my husband and I, then teenagers, sneaked into a country club and sledded by moonlight.  St. Louis is also hilly.  We shared a sled.  I had no complaints about the cold that night.

Do you agree that a wonderful thing about childhood is that our pleasures were simple?  I lived in a drafty house, had my own room and we had a dog.  The warm air from the coal furnace blew the dog's hair everywhere.  My job was to sweep it up.  A mix of collie and super-shedder, she lost large tufts of hair year-round.  I got an allowance for my chores.  I kept a diary which was mostly about boys I liked who sometimes liked me back. 

My first dog's name is still my password.  I bet something from your childhood is your password too.  I wonder if anyone has researched that. There's a reason security questions often have to do with our childhoods.  I can't articulate it, but someone can.  Some memories don't fade. 

One thing winter brings is time for introspection.  The quiet that accompanies the cold leaves more room to think.  The coronavirus has certainly left time for contemplation. Even with home-schooling and all the rest, winter is a slower season.  Let's be content.  

REVERSE BUCKET LIST

Photo by Pia Tryde

I've mentioned that I don't like the term "Bucket List" ("About Awe," 10/18/19), because it refers to "when I kick the bucket," i.e. when I drop dead.  There are some things I'd love to do in the future, wonderful things--trips to take, virtues to acquire, goals to reach, mementos to leave--but every time I make progress toward one of these I don't want to be thinking about the brevity of life.  Ugh!   

Some people, however, make a Reverse Bucket List and that's an idea I like.  A kind of way to gain perspective.  When we're feeling like we're not where we want to be, or haven't achieved enough; when our "bucket list" is becoming intense and making us feel overwhelmed (make partner in my firm; safari in Zambia; write a best-seller; have an HGTV kitchen. . .) the reverse bucket list might be just the thing.  It's an encouragement.  It reminds us what we have accomplished, what we're proud of.  It's a  kind of grateful recounting of what we're thankful for. Obviously a very positive thing to do.  

My first few entries have to do with education.  I'm a bit over-educated (BA, MA, PhD, JD)  My mother was a teacher and that's what she wanted for her children.  My father didn't start college until I did, but he had the same respect for learning.  He became a librarian.  So I have a "Hey-that-course-sounds-great" gene.  As an inheritance goes I can't complain. I made partner in my law firm.  No complaints there either. My other entries have to do with travel.  We did do the safari.  We've started visiting our National Parks (and plan to continue when it's safe). Then there are the more important entries. Raising two children, grandparenting, preserving a loving marriage, being a good daughter. .  . .  Then the psychological entries:  surviving traumas, serious ones; being brave when I needed to be; recognizing wrongs.  

I've sort of listed big things here, at least big to me.  But how we rank things differs by person.  I also love that I began this blog over 3 years ago, do collage art and practice meditation.  Isn't this nicer than feeling bad because I probably (definitely) will never see the Pyramids or Machu Picchu?  Or feeling bad for some other unmet goal?  Zero books published.  Zero any number of things.  Especially these days, who needs feeling bad?  

So I'm recommending the Reverse Bucket List.  Give it any name you want. 
What I've accomplished so far. . .
Things I'm proud of. . .
What I like best about my life. . .
Little things I've done. . .
or just Reverse Bucket List. . .


Little things, big things, any amount of detail or specificity.  Hey, I even feel good for giving myself a haircut and a mani-pedi.  Especially the haircut.  

I haven't been bored during this pandemic and I haven't been lonely.  But I've certainly been anxious.  Are all the people I love protecting themselves?  Some people seem meaner rather than kinder; what can we do about that?  Why aren't we remembering the dead with national days of prayer and mourning?  Shouldn't we scroll their names like we did after 9/11? 

Psychologists say that revisiting positive memories and experiences is good for us.  We become more generous when we're satisfied with our own lives.  We can see the progress we've made.  Our greatest hits, so to speak.  Ten, fifty, any number.  If my mom were alive I'd ask her.  "Mom what do you think are some things I've accomplished?"  She was the best for boosting confidence. 

So take a few minutes to travel down your lane of good memories and see what you encounter.  Whether big milestones or meaningful moments, I bet something good.                       
                                          Nina Naomi

A Good Memory:  Arches National Park, Utah (10/19)

    

THE GOODNESS OF MEMORY

Leaves burning remind me of Fall
The kids playing on the swing set while I rake
Matching green sweaters with hoods, pumping, out and back 
Sarah with her little bones, happy; Adam in boondockers, whirling  
We're feeling the chill, our hands and cheeks as the sun sets 
Damp earth, smokey air
Dinner at McDonald's, baths, soft pajamas, little feet, wet hair
Fragrant life
There's nothing wrong with my memories, nothing at all 


Sometimes it feels calm, the movement of life, the blessing of the surrender to time. 

Nina Naomi

BEST BOOK FOR SPRING --"Anything good you've ever been given is yours forever."

Dr. Rachel Naomi Ramen ends her book with this sentence.  I wrote about her book My Grandfather's Blessings in the Post "Best Book for the Holidays about Blessings (12/8/18).  Now I have read her earlier book, Kitchen Table Wisdom: Stories that Heal.  It is a perfect Spring read because Spring is a time to open our hearts and embrace life, to perennially renew ourselves with the trees and the grass and the flowers, to heal with the warm sun and a soft breeze. 

This book has so much to offer.  Some gems are just snippets.  In her Preface she says that writers are people born to write, while authors are people who do something else and then write about it.  Where do diarists fall, or those of us who journal or blog I wonder? Probably some in one category and some in the other.  Or a bit of cross-over.  But an interesting distinction.  Dr. Ramen says, "Because I am not a writer, when I sat down to write, all I had were my memories."  Isn't that encouraging?  

We all have memories that are stories to be savored and celebrated, especially if we pause in our minds to interpret them, to remember them fully.  And then perhaps tell them or write them down.  Even a painful memory may include something to celebrate:  our bravery, our perseverance, our survival, the way we behaved under pressure, those who helped us, those who love us through thick and thin, how we have grown to help others. . . .

Some issues stay with us our whole life.  Living with chronic illness is one.  Losing someone at a young age is another.  Our children's suffering.  An insecure childhood.  Our own limitations.  Each time we pass through these issues we understand more.  "Most of us live lives that are far richer and more meaningful than we appreciate," Ramen says. 

Because she is a physician, much of the book is about healing.  Not being cured . . . being healed.  And about grieving and loss.  Protecting ourselves from loss by avoiding grief is not the route to healing, she thinks. Avoiding grief distances ourselves from life.  Professionally it leads to burnout.  Grieving, she believes, is a way of self-care even in a work setting.  I've found this in my law practice.  As a lawyer I've met people catastrophically injured by preventable medical errors.  I remember the baby born after prolonged oxygen deprivation; the nurse failed to notice the alarming signs on the fetal heart monitor strip.  The doctor said she wished the nurse had called her earlier.  I cannot forget being racked with sobs over that baby's future.  "We burn out not because we don't care but because we don't grieve," Dr. Ramen says. Grieving is healing.

She also explains that for our wholeness, approval is just as destructive as criticism.  I did not understand that before.  But it rings true.  

"To seek approval is to have no resting place. . .

Like all judgment, approval encourages a constant striving. 

This is as true of the approval we give ourselves as it is of the approval we offer others.

Approval can't be trusted.

It can be withdrawn at any time. . . .

Yet many of us spend our lives pursuing it." 

Ramen also explains that our wholeness can be whittled down by family, cultural beliefs (boys don't cry; neither do professionals; girls don't speak their minds), or spiritual beliefs. It made me question whether I have to judge myself against a yardstick of Christian acceptability that always finds me short.  I expect God never intended that.  Such a blessing to outlive our self-judgments, to let go of a standard of excellence.  All love is unconditional Ramen states.  Anything else is just approval.  What a message for us parents, spouses, lovers, friends. . . . 

According to Talmudic teaching, we do not see things as they are, but as we are.  The author calls this a trap.  "Life usually offers us far more than our biases and preferences will allow," she says.  Isn't that wise?  This book is full of wisdom.  Inner peace as a spiritual quality rather than a mental quality.  This fits with the way I practice mindfulness and meditation.  It fits with our weekly liturgy that includes the prayer for the "peace that passes all understanding." 

I am only touching the surface of the life-affirming nature of this book.  This post needs a Part II.  Buy or borrow the book if you wish.  Or just ponder what is written here.  Like My Grandfather's Blessings this book is a slow read.  So much to absorb.  To enjoy this Spring.      Nina Naomi