What’s love got to do with it?

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Is it my fault that I’m better at starting projects than finishing them?

The more I live, the more I realize that fault has nothing to do with it.   The simple truth is that I’m okay with unfinished business.   Tying up loose ends, for me, is analogous to eating canned spinach, something I might do, only because it’s good for me.

I’m not one who needs closure.  If I’m not enjoying a television show, I’ll just walk out of the room.  Sometimes, for the rest of its television shelf life.  But  while I don’t need closure, that’s not the kind of world I live in, either here at home — with a husband who happens to love decisions and lining up ducks in a row —  or in this great big beautiful world, where we pursue high school diplomas, college degrees and all sorts of certifications.

If my husband were here, looking over my shoulder as I write, he would be nodding his head in agreement.  My husband loves to have a plan to execute, while plans for me, are nothing more than one possibility.  Life was once tense until we figured out we each  regarded “plans” differently.  Now when I causally mention a movie I might like to see “this afternoon,” he knows I’m only dreaming out loud, that I’m not really making definite plans to go buy tickets and sit in a theater.

Pity my poor husband who believes in the holiness of made beds every morning and a well-ordered kitchen.  Though I finally bought in to his way of thinking on the bed, my kitchen is never orderly when I’m in the business of entertaining with food.  My wonderful husband has cleaned up my kitchen messes since the beginning days of our marriage, where it seems my goal is to dirty every bowl and pot in the kitchen.  Almost twenty-five years into our marriage, we each, by now, know our roles and lines:

I apologize for the mess and say, ‘Thanks, Honey,” as sweetly as I can.

He in return smiles, shrugs and says with matter-of-fact acceptance, “That’s my job.”

It’s good to know and accept our lot in life.  And perhaps it begins by knowing and accepting ourselves (and each other) for who we are…. and for who we are not.  It begins with knowing ourselves, followed slowly by self-acceptance, followed by a steady diet of prayer, mostly of the canned serenity variety:  God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can and the wisdom to know the difference.

This thread of thoughts is helping me sew up one large loose end that has been hanging and dangling in the wind since Daddy died.  When Daddy decided it was time to tie up loose ends here, I was in the midst of writing a research paper, a  final requirement to complete  my spiritual direction coursework.  But after-wards, words and thoughts wouldn’t come, no matter how much I wanted them to.  The writing part of me  just shut down for a while, that’s all.

But tying up loose ends is very much in my business plans right now.  Both at my sister’s place as well as completing that final bit of writing for class.    Words are finally coming and I’m so happy I could weep.   I go to bed thinking about the project and wake up with new ideas.  Then I write.  Steadily.  I’ve almost got a first draft.

I’m writing on a subject that has attracted me for more years than I can count,  with an eye toward how self-knowledge (specifically, knowing our spiritual type) ties into spiritual direction.  The coupling of spiritual direction and self-knowledge is as old as the hills, of course.  It’s scattered upon most every page of the Bible, from Eve to Noah to Moses to Jonah to Peter to Paul  to Doubting Tom.  Dick and Harry too, I imagine, though their stories never made it to print.

Spiritual direction and self-knowledge are natural  companions, in any encounter between God and humans.  Even beyond the pages of the Bible, we find in  the fourth century B.C. writings of Plato that everyday Greek saying, “Know Thyself”, said to be one of three inscriptions carved into the walls of the Temple of Apollo at Delphi.  The apparent wisdom lying beneath this Greek proverb was this:  seekers had to first know themselves before they could properly apply guidance received from Apollo’s mouthpiece, the priestess called the Pythia.

Then and now, self-knowledge is good soul food and a good meeting place to encounter God.  Tying up loose ends has evolved into a spiritual practice for me, for there is always something of God in it when I’m picking up a loose end.  God knows that loose end will be tied strictly out of love for others:  My husband;  My children:  My sister.

And speaking of my sisters… in that photo at the top, showing my sister’s newly renovated kitchen, where Sis is busy preparing for her first dinner party and I’m busy snapping photos…. well… about those lovely kitchen cabinets.  Would you believe me if I told you that they’re not quite done.  They need another coat of paint.

But just between us — aren’t they pretty anyways?

Sideswiped and Shaken

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A jogger ran into this evening.  Literally.

It happened while we were on our way home from a fast-food dinner.  My husband had just stopped our car at the intersection of Northwest 18th and Walker.  We had almost cleared Walker when out of nowhere, a jogger sideswiped us.  He hit our front driver’s side window with enough force to shake our moving car, leaving an imprint of his sweaty forearm.

“What was that?,” I said.

My husband replied.  “Someone ran into the side of us.”

My husband pulled our car to the curb.  We stopped directly in front of the first house on the north side of the block.  My husband rolled down the window to talk with the runner.

What?  Is he okay? Where is he?”  When excited, one question never does it for me.

Looking into his rear view mirror, my husband said, “He’s behind us.”

The runner was busy taking a photo of our vehicle license plate.   He didn’t make us wait long.  The runner jogged back to the rolled down window, and while continuing to jog in place, started yelling and cursing at my husband.

He began by accusing my husband for f—king running the stop sign.  My husband said, “I did stop.  Did you?  You also had a stop sign.”  My husband pointed his hand at the four-way stop sign at the intersection.  Before crossing 18th Street, the runner should have stopped.

The runner replied, “Pedestrians don’t have to f—ing stop at stop signs.”

The runner was young.  Mid to late twenties, maybe.  Definitely hot and sweaty.  He may have been tired.  By the looks of his ear phones, perhaps he was distracted by whatever device he was listening to.   Was it an I-phone?  Maybe.  It was probably the same device he used to snap that quick photo of our license plate.

Had the runner not been tired and distracted, surely he would have realized that it was he that ran into us.  Not the other way around, as the young runner accused.  Our car doesn’t travel sideways.  Had we hit him, the runner would have been hit by the front of our car.

After a few more cross words, the jogger ran off into the night, continuing his northerly path up Walker Avenue, seeming no worse for his running into us.  By the speed at which he left us, nothing appeared to be injured.  Other than his pride.

I hope he makes it home okay; he was wearing hard-to-see dark jogging attire.  Black, I think.  It would be so easy for any car to hit him — he blends so well with the night.  His parting shot was that he’d be “in touch.”

Was it his words or his tone that I found so ominous?   All that searing.  Raw emotion.  Accusations.  It leaves me feeling threatened.  Shaken.  So sideswiped by his words.

Still, I’m thankful he wasn’t hurt.  If only “our” jogger could feel the same.

Passalong Thinnings

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Guests wander out to my cottage garden, even in the horrible heat of summer.

The garden is showy right now, even though it claims such little space.  Hollyhocks grow next to tomatoes.  Lambs Ear competes with Black-Eyed Susans, to see who can claim more space.  Both are prolific and haven’t learned to make do with what this gardener has granted them.

It’s human nature too, to want more space than we really need.  My sister’s newly renovated home is a perfect size — 1104 square feet to be precise — where mine is around 2600.  I’m of the mind these days to downsize my house and up-size my garden space.

Two of my three bedrooms are rarely used.  Bryan borrowed “his” for about a month after graduation and I expect, upon his return from southeast Asia, Kyle will once again use his.  But these borrowings will be nothing more than brief interludes.  Soon, Kyle will claim his own space and my husband and I will become true empty-nesters.

Today my husband turns 55 with me following suit in October.  When I look at my husband, I don’t really see a man growing old;  instead, I see my husband, no worse for the wear and tear of 55 years of living and the raising of four children.  I hope he can say the same about me.

But my children already see me different; yesterday, during Bryan and Amy’s move, I was protected from most heavy lifting.  I guess my children regard me as fragile.  Is it because I don’t hear as well as I once did?  I confess to knees that creak as I walk down the stairs, and getting stiff when I sit too long on my sister’s floor, painting walls near baseboards.

During one of those hard-to-rise episodes of painting low to the floor, my sister shared a story of a local Shawnee woman, aged 80, who still gets on her riding lawnmower to mow her own lawn.  God willing, I pray to be like this ‘old woman” too.  I don’t want to stop living as long as I have breath in my body.  I want to be active.  I want to contribute to others welfare, to make life better for those whose paths I cross, even if it means just leaving an extra nice tip when dining out.

Soon, I will thin out my garden.  I’ll divide perennials, remove greedy hogs like that Joe Pye Weed — whatever was I thinking, to add a plant in my postage stamp garden, that is brazen enough to calls itself “WEED?”– and dig up some of those naughty Cleome that have seeded themselves throughout the garden.  I’ll pass along my thinnings to someone else to the benefit of both of our gardens.

And maybe, just maybe, I’ll be able to do the same with myself.  Maybe I can continue to pass along the best parts of myself,  so that even as I grow old, I won’t be regarded as old and useless but more like a treasured antique — worth holding on to, worth spending time with.

The roses outside are in all stages of life — some newly bloomed, others in their red prime and still others growing pink and papery dry along their edges.  But all are beautiful to my eyes.

Lord knows we can’t control how others regard us.  But we can control how we regard ourselves.  And somehow, in a hard-to-explain way, these views are inextricably linked — one feeds off another.  The state of my physical health is in part what I see and feel about myself, but is it not also, how others view and see me?  God knows I would not have rushed off to Urgent Care about my Brown Recluse Spider bite had it not been for others telling me to go…

I need to live planted in the firm of both perspectives —  mine and others who care for me —  for somewhere in the middle, truth exists.  Somewhere in the middle of that love, God exists.  And there, grounded in truth and humility, I can continue to thrive to passalong thinnings of my best self.