Posts Tagged ‘Love’
Warm Reception
For the past four days, Delilah has been up at the lake with Cyndie. Yesterday, after work, Cyndie’s mom, Marie, met me at our house and I drove her car up to Wildwood. Based on the affection I received from Delilah upon our arrival, our dog must have really missed me.
I was a little surprised by how much she wanted to be in my space. When I got on the floor with her, she tried to sit on my lap. I may have to take back some of those mean things I’ve said about her now that she is showing me some love.
A little later in the evening, she showed she hasn’t lost her penchant for barking at the world around us. I can never tell if it is something she hears or something she smells that suddenly startles her up from a cozy curl-up on the floor with a flourish of energized barking toward whatever the trigger was.
Maybe her dog-shouting will dissuade the geese from perching and pooping on the floating platform in the water at our beach. Cyndie reports her experiment of a plastic owl perched on the raft already seems to be helping.
Some extra barking can’t hurt.
The geese don’t receive near the warmth of a reception I was awarded when we got here.
Speaking of awards, we polished off the evening with a viewing of the NBC prime-time feature of Olympic competitions. The USA women’s beach volleyball pair won gold just as we were all beginning to run on fumes, very ready to head for bed.
Delilah had already found her way to her “den” in a crate draped with a light blanket cover.
I would say that all of our beds offered us warm receptions when we finally got around to falling on them.
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Alive
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morning
at the lake
quiet
filtered sunlight
leaves
green
trees
woods
calm
energy
peace
tranquility
love
family
awaken
heartbeat
spark
breakfast
stories
eventually
opportunity
arrives
life
comes
alive
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Goodbye Again
I’m back in reach of my computer again, but I am not at home yet. After saying goodbye to precious friends riding the Tour of Minnesota this week, I am up at the lake with Cyndie and our kids, and almost all of Cyndie’s family, for a few days of saying goodbye again to Cyndie’s dad. Yesterday was the one-year anniversary of his death.
We are together telling stories, playing games, feasting on incredible meals, and swimming in the lake –all things Fred loved to do– to honor this incredible man, husband, father, patriarch.
As darkness descended on the day, we wrote messages for Fred on the paper petals of flower luminaries, lit candles, and floated the memorials out on the lake where he loved to swim laps.
It wasn’t the first time we’ve said our goodbyes and it won’t be the last, but on the day that marked the first anniversary of his passing, the family as a group lifted up several particularly significant salutations of parting.
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Resonance
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I was trying to find an idea somewhere
looking under the stacks of accumulated papers
among the shoes on the floor in the closet
mixed among the randomly sorted silverware in the drawer
might as well look in the junk drawer, too, while I was at it
in the basement room I otherwise never visit
hidden in plain sight in the kitchen refrigerator upstairs
on the list of things we always intend to do someday
tucked in one of the many books I never get around to finishing
lost in the collection of well-used dog toys that no longer excite
buried in the saved emails from more than a decade back
deep in a lifetime of fading memories
or a line of some lyrics from every single song
from the shapes and colors of each different day’s clouds
in the sounds out the window of so many birds and frogs
Eeeee eeee Eee EEE eee eee eeep
but the last p is silent
just a closing of the lips without escaping any air
in the blades of green grass that invisibly grow so dang fast
in the absence of chickens and the happiness they once cast
I looked toward the horses finding too much there to grasp
on the overflowing shelves of junk in the shop and adjacent garage
along the trails through our woods and the paths around our fields
in the silence when I notice it and pause for a moment just to hear
an idea that feels a little different than the ones already formed
wrapped up in the whacky climate calamity continually playing out
publicly flaunted prejudices propagating like a raging contagion
pernicious social networks emanating a sickly stench
mindless rampant greed with its selfish intent
all battling the effervescent aromas spring hope brings once again
the voluntary charity bursting forth from entrepreneurial brilliant minds
the love most people are conveying from the goodness of their hearts
the science on display in helicopters flying around on Mars
an idea so much bigger than some guy’s stupid big lie
one that could actually make universal sense
except it’s obviously deeper than mere words can explain
communicating clearly and simply to each separate person’s mind
through fields of heart energy and the wisdom living in our guts
an idea that is more like a sound
one our instincts recognize
one we together can amplify
one that is love in resonance
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Tool Marks
I’ve reached the phase of my latest wood sculpting project where I’m happy with the shape and am ready to sand it smooth, but that goal is hampered by the straggling tool marks that remain. Each time I move to a finer grit of sandpaper, the next level of imperfections become apparent.
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I used a grinder to rough out the shape and then some rasping with a metal file to refine it before switching to hand sanding. Inevitably, there ends up being one bothersome spot where the previous tools went a hair deeper than anywhere else. That spot pretty much ends up defining the point of completion.
At least, in that spot with that grit of sandpaper.
Usually, as I move to the next finer grit, several new scuffs appear. Rinse, repeat.
It’s very meditative for my brain, despite becoming a bit of a burden on my aging arthritic grip.
If I don’t have a bright sunny day to illuminate the finest detail, I resort to a headlamp. Otherwise, it looks just fine the way it is to my old eyes.
The prefectionist in me would never settle for that.
While working to clear snow off the roof a few weeks ago, I resorted to repeatedly telling myself that perfect is the enemy of good enough. Any snow removed was better than none at all.
When it comes to a polished wood sculpture, my feelings are just the opposite. I can’t quit until tool marks are gone. At least, on the primary features, anyway. I grant myself some leeway where my design transitions from the rough unfinished bark to the smoothly shaped and polished wood grains.
I have the advantage of not being faced with time constraints in my sculpting projects. That makes all the difference, allowing me to work as fast or slow as I choose to reach the end result I seek, infusing love into the piece all the while.
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Love Lots
My tendency is to downplay the import of special dates. That isn’t meant to detract from the days themselves, but to point out the benefit of celebrating the gist of each special day on every other day all year long. Our birthday marking a year passing could be celebrated every day because each day is a year beyond 365 days before.
Of all the days I should really adopt as deserving my attention, the day celebrating love should really be the primary one. At the same time, of all the special days assigned a particular day on the annual calendar, love is probably the one more appropriately distributed across all other days to the end of time.
February 14 is all red hearts and gushing over crushes. I’m all for doing that every other day just as much.
Grow your love today for yourself and others. In so many ways, there are no “others.” We are one.
We should behave as such.
Every day.
Love you!
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Never Over
When I looked last night, the COVID-19 death toll for the U.S. was beyond 450,000. Multiply each individual death by the number of people who loved them and the total is easily beyond two million.
While I pine for the day when we can look back and realize this pandemic is officially behind us, the harsh reality remains that for all who will have lost a loved one to the disease, it will never be over.
This moves my impatience to a much more humbled perspective.
To everyone coping with the permanent loss of a person to the virus, I pause to contemplate your grief and lift up my heartfelt love as a soothing balm for your pain.
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Not Thinking
Some people use meditation to clear their minds. Shut out the thoughts. What fun, I thought, …without thinking.
There is a trick that writers can use to stop all thoughts. Here’s how it works. First, sit down at the keyboard. Well, that’s about it. That’s all it takes.
BOOM! The mind is blank.
It’s like magic.
But that didn’t happen to me today. Nope.
Okay, it did. But I got over it. The day is dawning with a zero degree (F) chill, but otherwise quiet. We don’t have a lot going on today, beyond the wonderfully entertaining chicken jigsaw puzzle and keeping a cozy fire burning in the fireplace. Tomorrow we expect it to start snowing and Sunday I plan to shovel and plow.
I saw a news item about conspiracy theorists (paranoid delusionists) seeing “signs” in a variety of ways and places and it has me thinking two things. Part of me laughs over how many signs could be found everywhere we look and a more mischievous part of me wants to start putting out some secret signs of my own for people to discover.
Not sure what I could point them to. Love, I suppose. Maybe I could start a conspiracy that everything is about love and there are signs supporting it everywhere! You just have to look for them.
Think about it.
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