THIS MOMENT

Welcome to a little writing exercise I was assigned yesterday.  I've decided we might as well work through it together, since I'm convinced we may all be in the same boat on this subject. And, the subject is TIME.  Yes, time.  I know that some of you have heard me lament the way in which time flies.  I often say that I can literally see it whiz past my face. Whoosh...(feel the breeze?) and another day is gone.  Where did it go?  And, where was I while it was happening?

I used to think I had this time thing figured out.  I once decided (or maybe just read) that, as we age, any single hour, day or week becomes a much smaller percentage of the total time we've been on earth and so, becomes less and less important to our world.  For example: When we were five, and our birthday wasn't for six more months, we had to wait 10% of our entire lifespan for that day to arrive.  No wonder we cried and kicked the furniture.  Today, a wait of six months, is somewhere around seven tenths of 1% of my lifespan.  I think.  Oh well, it's short no matter what the measure, and I have long since stopped kicking and crying about it.  I do get a bit snippy every time another seven-tenths falls off the time clock, but we just call that Age and Stage.

I've recently been introduced to a new concept for better living that I'm studying and exploring and reaching toward, and, now, extending into this time conundrum of mine.  The concept is this:  As human beings we spend very little conscious time in the moment--this moment--the very brief here and now.  Instead, we are generally consumed with rehashing the past or projecting the future and, in that process, missing the very precious present.  Totally missing it.  No wonder we think time is flying by.

I know, for example, that if I'm dreading an appointment next Tuesday, I can sit on the patio and sip a little wine with BC, or watch the sun rise through the fronds of our pineapple palm, but remain relatively untouched by all of it, or any of it.  Why?  Because I'm so engrossed in next Tuesday, I've missed this Tuesday.  The same thing happens in reverse when I'm wrapped up in last Wednesday's meeting, because maybe, I think, it didn't go well.  I might have said too much...or was it too little?  I think I laughed at the wrong time (it was an odd joke) and I know I spilled my coffee.  Could it be worse?  Well, yes, as a matter of fact, it could be worse.  Much worse.  Because I have just allowed today to be hijacked by concerns about last Wednesday and, in the process, I'm another day older with nothing to show for it. What a waste!

Does that make sense?  I hope so, because I'm just beginning to begin to get it and I want to pass it on: Being (or living) in the moment.  Not the old '60s version of "living in the moment" complete with diaphanous flowered skirts, bare feet and funny cigarettes.  No.  This is totally different.  This is grabbing on to each instant and understanding this is as good as it gets.  This is here and now and it deserves all my attention.  Every bit of it.  No more multi-tasking.  It was a great strength years ago...or so I bragged, but today we're learning multi-tasking is simply divided attention which, unfortunately, yields very few dividends.

I'm not thinking that achieving mindfulness (being in the moment) will be a particularly easy task, but, as with anything we attempt, it should get easier with practice.  Especially when we find that this moment, fully appreciated and not disturbed, has made our day richer.  Has made our week more memorable. And, moment upon moment, our life better lived.  I even have a reminder from Eckhart Tolle:  "...the present moment is all you ever have.  Make the now the primary focus of your life."

Well, having said all that, I'd better get started--right now--to remind myself of the moment I'm in. I will not worry about the lengthening list of tasks due tomorrow, nor the negative "Why did I do that?" or "What was I thinking?" that so often takes over my brain.  No!  I will reach for the here. I will hold onto the now.  I will pull myself back into and reside in this moment.   After all, this is the only moment I have, and I plan to live it fully, appreciate it, and remember it in my heart.

PS:  One more Eckhart Tolle...I couldn't decide between them earlier:  "You create a good future by creating a good present."     Amen.

AMERICAN HISTORY

April has landed in our part of the world with a great blast of early a.m. sunshine pouring in our east- facing kitchen windows.  The sun always seems very close in Arizona and, at this time of year, energizing.  I love to get up early in the spring, when the outside temps linger in the high 50's and low 60's.  It's the perfect time for a cup of coffee, al fresco, and a wake-up read.

On the lazy days when time allows, I read an entry from The Intellectual Devotional: American History.  Today I learned that Eiffel, of Eiffel Tower fame, designed and built the interior framing that holds our monumental Statue of Liberty together.  I visited Liberty Island when I was a senior in high school and remember going inside and climbing up, I'm not sure how far, but I do remember we couldn't go all the way.  Something about crumbling and unsafe conditions.

It just dawned on me that my paternal grandparents may have come into this country after the Statue of Liberty was erected.  I wish I knew, but since I don't I'm going to believe they did....because I want to be part of the poem attached to that great lady:

Give me your tired, your poor,

Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,

The wretched refuse of your teeming shore,

Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me ... 

Talk about "wretched refuse:" My maternal great-grandmother came to these shores, alone in a coffin ship at the tender age of 12.  She sailed from the shores of Ireland where the poor farmers, in the midst of the potato blight, were starving to death, and the English were letting them.  To the English, the departure of one little Irish-Catholic girl was "good riddance" indeed.   

On my paternal side, Grandfather and Grandmother Weigel were Volga-Germans--descendents of Germans imported into Russia by Catherine the Great for the purpose of teaching the Russians their farming methods. Catherine promised them 100 years free of taxes and military conscription and, until the 1870s, that promise was honored.  When time ran out, the future grew dim.  Russia began pulling the rug out from under the Germans, but when they looked to the west, neither Germany nor Europe could offer a peaceful future. America became, quite literally, the promised land offering a home to these who were now homeless.  My grandparents, gratefully, answered the call.

So, wow!  Obviously, I come from very strong stock...as do we all if we think about it.  That's the beauty of a country grown with immigrants.  When the lovely granddaughter of that little Irish girl met the handsome son of those Volga-Germans, their love created a family with traces of Wales and Mexico and Germany and England and on and on and on.  You've got to love it!

           

SOLITARY TIDYING

My sister has been e-mailing with some regularity regarding my recent interest in tidyness. Being the older sister, she can remember the years in which I was nothing but a giant pain in her rear end, and a complete and unrepentant slob.  Slob as in "Taken to the Extreme." Fortunately for her, our home had two secondary bedrooms and, shortly before she reached the point of cracking, she was allowed to move out of the room we shared, and into the BIG bedroom and accompanying three piece bathroom.  The en-suite, so to speak.  Had I been the parent, I would have told her to suck it up, moved to the en-suite myself and created a cozy office in the abandoned master bedroom.  But, those were the '50s.

Both Mary and I can remember that our dear mother, for all of her good traits, was a habitual clutterer. An empty flat space (a table-top for example) made her nervous until she was able to cover it with something.  A flower arrangement, a set of placemats, a stack of magazines, last week's mail...it made no difference.  She breathed better when her spaces were cluttered.  My sister and I (I had an epiphany some years ago) breathe only when our spaces are either completely empty, or artfully arranged.  Mary is artful, I'm simply spare.  I'm suggesting we were traumatized by the clutter that surrounded us as children.

However, the more I look into Marie Kondo's book, the more I'm beginning to think that real Life. Changing. Magic. may only be possible if one lives by oneself.  Or, with someone who is even tidier than oneself.  Mine would not be the case in either of those scenarios.

As sweet as BC is--as smart, funny, thoughtful and loving--he (as my mother before him) has a deep-seated urge to cover every surface with stuff.  His stuff.  Stuff he found in the yard.  Junk mail that looks interesting. Magazine articles he will get to next week, or month, or never.  Or (and this is important to the subject) stuff he is currently working on: sorting and organizing and arranging and discarding (rarely) or any other number of important actions that demonstrate his intent to make me happy. These sorties into sorting bring a great sense of accomplishment to him but, so far,  haven't done much for me.  Marie Kondo is silent on this issue.  I believe she does not suffer clutterers gladly.

So--that's it for Tidying.  I will finish the book but, with a heavy heart.  Whereas, I will continue to tidy quite faithfully, I will also realize that only a small portion of my world will contain Life. Changing. Magic.  A shelf here, a drawer there; perhaps, even within the storage boxes under the guest-room bed. But, then again, even a little Magic is better than no Magic at all...      

SEVENTY

I grew up in an era when 70 was not the new 60.
70 simply meant you were damned old.
And feeble.
And forgetful.
And just the slightest bit irritating.

But not everyone reaches 70.
I know several classmates who didn't.
I'm one of the lucky ones.
I will, in all probability, awaken to see the sun rise tomorrow.
I hope I pay attention.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                     .                                                                                                                        

SOMEDAY

If, reasonably speaking, you had a good decade or two ahead of you before the lights went out, how would you live?  I set myself up for that question in a moment of deep thought somewhere on I-40 between Gallup and Flagstaff.  I worded it differently because I was feeling poetic at the time and it came out:  "I choose to live my life based on the expectation that I have ten good years left. And, I choose to live each day as if it were my last."   OK.  Now what?  Damned if I know.  I've been trying to figure it out ever since it popped into my brain.  Introspection may not be all it's cracked up to be.

It's got to be the aging thing.  When you hit a milestone such as 70, your life does change.  There's no kidding about it...you will not have the opportunity you always counted on to start over as a budding journalist in 1965 New York City.  You will not have the opportunity to enroll in 1962 Kansas State University, study harder and major in something business-like.  Nor will you throw caution to the wind, transfer to Kansas University, take up a literary lifestyle and spend your weekends in dark and smoky watering holes in Kansas City.  Those days are gone, done, disappeared, dead.  You've had your chance, you chose what you chose and, now, here you are.  Or, as I dare to exhibit ownership--here I am.

I'm among the millions in my generation who spent a lot of years putting everything off until Someday.  There is a definite complication, however, in waiting for Someday until you are seventy. When you're ready, Someday may have gotten tired and wandered off with the sixty year-old chick down the block who just started her own jewelry business.  Or, Someday might have flown to Costa Rica with Judy for two weeks of zip-lining and bird watching.  There's no way around it:  Someday won't wait forever, no matter how much we expect it to.  Someday has a shelf life, and at seventy, it's bumping right up against its "Use By" date.  Someday, it seems, is perishable.

Actually, Someday is a common dilemma for all of us.  It's the rare bird who isn't hanging onto Someday for some unfulfilled hope, dream or expectation.  I shouldn't feel badly or sorry for myself or consider myself unique.  So, let's consider this exercise my little push for you to remember the Someday you're carrying around in your purse or pocket, and pull it out for some serious conversation.  Some really serious conversation because, as Karen Lamb has said:  "A year from now you may wish you had started today."  Let's get cracking!        

 

ENDINGS

On Thursday, January 15, 2015, my "Seven Habits" Franklin Planner suggested that I write my own eulogy.  (That would be Habit Two:  "Begin With the End in Mind.")  The "Seven Habits" don't fool around.  I was directed to be specific, but I was also to "involve as many emotions and senses as possible."  I'm not exactly sure how the senses fit in here, but the emotions are running pretty high right now.

Practically speaking, I would have to agree that having a eulogy on hand would be a good thing. I mean, really, why leave something as important as your record here on earth to chance?  In all honesty, your kids are busy and may only have time to fly in shortly before the funeral service, then drive directly back to the airport. If your eulogy hasn't already been written and edited, it could get very short shrift.

Finally, my Franklin Planner also notes that "This [writing of my eulogy] can be a very enlightening exercise." Well, I'm sure that may be true, but do I really want to be enlightened in that way?  I don't know.  I'm just a little ambivalent.

What should be included in this document?  Some might desire a lengthy list of accomplishments, while others would prefer a simple, quiet retelling.    Then again, a pack of outright lies could be entertaining. Would anyone really know the difference?  In my neighborhood, probably not.  We've all moved here from somewhere else at an advanced age and, if we're imaginative enough, can be anybody we damned well please.

My mother wrote her own eulogy when she was well into her 80s, or early 90s.  It wasn't long, but it covered activities and experiences important to her.  It was part of her funeral service which she had also detailed.  In all honesty, my Mom always intimidated me to one degree or another and, being the dutiful daughter, her eulogy--word for word as she had written it--was read by the priest at her service.

But, he never saw how gorgeous she was in college when she was nominated for Queen of this or that.  He had no idea of the professional men she dated in her 20s, finally throwing them all over for my quiet and unassuming dad.   This well-intentioned priest could never imagine how intelligent she was, reading, understanding and leading Great Book seminars.  He only knew a weak and wizened woman in a nursing home obsessively repeating a garbled Hail Mary.

I wouldn't suggest that "Seven Habits" is wrong, but eulogies may be best when they're written in love and remembrance.  In the small thoughts that made an afternoon brighter and a fever more bearable.  In the lopsided birthday cakes and the handmade doll clothes.  In the love and pride of a daughter who still believes her Mom was the prettiest in all the world.

I'm throwing caution to the winds, "Seven Habits," and I'm going to let friends and family express what they remember about me and what was important to them.  For better or for worse, that's the end I choose to have in mind.

Amen.
         

"STILLE NACHT"

On Christmas Eve evening, we were seated in the third row of a lovely Methodist Church located in a small farming community near the Kansas-Colorado border.  The church was decorated for Christmas--greenery and ribbons on each window sill, a crèche in front of the altar, and glowing stars sprinkled above.  Lights were low, altar candles were lit, and the spirit that is Christmas surrounded each family as they waited expectantly for the service to begin.

We'd had a busy day.  The Pastor of this church is BC's daughter, and the family had spent the afternoon baking and frosting sugar cookies.  Each year, Pastor Cyd gifts her congregation with a Christmas Eve gathering immediately following the service.  The cider was bubbling in its pot, and the cookies and candies were laid out as carefully as we could manage.  With a quick nod, Cyd signaled the organist and the congregation began a rousing "Hark the Herald Angels Sing..."

After Luke's beautiful gospel, a short sermon and Communion, the lights slowly sank from dim to none and, one by one, we began lighting our small individual candles.  A young man rose from his pew somewhere behind us and walked toward the front of the sanctuary.  According to our program, he would  sing "Silent Night."

As the organist began, the young man looked calmly over the congregation, then began:  "Stille Nacht, Heilige Nacht.  Alles schlaft..."  I hadn't expected his beautiful voice, nor his choice of language.  In a heartbeat I was seven years old again in the living room of our little house on Oak Street.  The lights were dim there also, and my father stood near the record player.  He carefully placed the needle on the spinning, over-sized 78 record and crossed the room to sit in his favorite chair.  Slowly, he closed his eyes.  The rich, if slightly scratchy, contralto voice encircled us:  "Stille Nacht, Heilige Nacht..."

My father's first language had been German, although he had no trace of an accent.  His parents immigrated to the United States early in life and, some years later, settled in Victoria, KS, where he grew up as part of a Volga German community.  His school lessons were taught in German in the morning and English in the afternoon.  He always prayed in German and I have his childhood prayerbook given to him in the years when he was known as Wilhelm rather than William.

I have no idea when or where he acquired that recording of "Stille Nacht...", but he loved it.  I don't think I'd thought about it for a long time...until that moment.  Tears came, love and peace and warmth and comfort filled my heart, and I hugged daddy one more time in my imagination.  And, yes, that night I did "sleep in heavenly peace", and God blessed us, everyone.