Missing Blessings

This morning quickly went from my normal get ready for work routine to something unplanned as turning the key to start the car resulted in nothing but silence. I tried again and there was not a click or sputter. Thankfully, there was another vehicle available and the silent car was left behind as I headed to work. When the key turned and the engine didn’t, I had an opportunity to choose my response. I could either let this moment completely throw off my entire day, or I could take a breath and regroup. I can honestly say that I have responded well to these unexpected moments at times, and not so well during others. However, this morning as dogs were barking and I was scrambling for a different set of keys before heading out the door again, a friend’s words came back to me about gratitude for blessings that are often missed during each day, those that we are completely unaware of. 

That thought has lingered with me all day. What blessings am I missing? What am I oblivious too and taking for granted? My world is alive with the nature around me, bright flowers greet the day as I walk down the block; intricate forms that seemed to have caught sunshine’s light. From the darkness of the day after the sun slips around the curve of the earth until the orbital trek is made again, the sky is steeped in beautiful light of the greater and lesser. I have food to eat that is both nutritious and tasty. The house is a sturdy shelter, warm in the winter and cool in the summer. Three beautiful, though noisy, dogs greet my every arrival with great excitement that leaves me smiling in return. Friends near and far offer hands of help and let me help in return. They are all blessings.

But these, though I can certainly take them for granted at times, these seem too obvious. I think I miss the blessings that are more of the kind that hold the next breath, the next heartbeat. I’m aware of them, but don’t spend much time thinking of them, let alone praising God for them. I think I miss the blessings for the events I don’t understand or when things don’t turn out as planned. When my path is turned in a direction I didn’t anticipate and cannot predict, I think there may very well be a missed blessing there.

As I hear tomorrow about the car and the repairs, I will endeavor to continue to both seek to see the missing blessings and to praise God for and through them.    

Pause, Stop, Recess, Suspend, Breathe and Listen

 Mondays seem to be synonymous with busy; emails, phone calls and deadlines approach and I start to tackle my to-do list. In the midst of the hectic schedules, it can be so easy to forget to take a moment to appreciate the beauty in the moment.

So… I stopped to smell a rose. It only takes a moment to pause and smell this beautiful little bloom, breathing deeply to take in the sweet scent. Small lines of pink need to be appreciated in the midst of the swirl of yellow. Beauty of glossy leaves made me pause to admire their deep green color.

And… I listened to the rain, watching it land drop by drop on the branches of a small tree. Leaves danced with the landing of the drops; shimmering in the late afternoon light.  Small drops held by surface tension cling to the edges of leaves.

Busy moments are all well and good; I really don’t care to be bored. I simply work to remain the balance in the small moments to breathe in the scents, listen to the rain, and enjoy the pause. Giving myself that pause not only makes the day a bit more enjoyable, but lets me appreciate the beauty created around me.

Route 66

   A series of highway cut across the country, opening up territory to those who would explore the many beautiful miles of territory. It cut through small towns, and in many places created an economy based on the traffic of the road. I think that that must have been an exciting time, as these small towns flourished and grew. The first time that they would have seen the immense spaces of the western dessert, the rolling flats of the plains states, or the rows of plants in the fields must have been so exciting.

   It has been several years since I found myself on a highway headed west, but I remember being captivated by the scenes outside my window. Sharp bluffs and sudden ravines held herds of cows. Windmills would be around the water troughs, bringing up fresh water for the animals gathered around. Wildflowers grew up in patches in slowly rolling hills, and people could be seen gathering the blooms in a few locations. Fields lined with purple wildflowers went on for miles and smelled so sweet. Trains carrying supplies across the country interlace with depots to add more textiles, corn, and other materials.
   In our own little town, it is easy to forget about the other places, to forget about the miles and miles of beauty that surround us. Every once in a while it’s worthwhile to just get out of town and spend time enjoying the sights.

Through the Lens

   I had several moments in the last few days that made me wish that my camera was handy. Through the view of the lens, the world takes on a different perspective. I would have taken pictures of…

   Three oriental rugs hung up to dry after being cleaned over a large wooden privacy fence. The patterns and colors stood out in stark contrast to the light colored wood. Each rug was a bit different, and in the midday light, the contrasting colors were beautiful.
   The dust from the farm vehicle swirled from the road, over the green wagon, and down the next bank. Corn stalks, just shreds of the golden leaves, would occasionally make their way through the air. As the sun starts making its way lower in the horizon, the remaining corn in the field took on a dusty golden hue.
   Whirling and dipping, a large red tailed hawk landed on a perch of tangled brush. It bobbed its head left and right, examining potential prey scurrying on the ground below. Wings holding a rusty red show of feathers and a beautiful snowy white underneath stretched out powerfully. Lifting into the air, it found the air currents and swirled through the columns of wind.
   Such beauty through the lens.

Mayella

   Her hands were dirty, her clothes mussed, her countenance plain and without any adornment. Her home was full of broken things, mismatched furniture, chipped and peeling paint. Her life was much the same. The people who saw her judged her and excluded her. The people she saw she judged and she excluded them. It left her without much hope for change and very alone. In pots, flaking and damaged, there were red geraniums, carefully tended to. Amidst the squalor and terribly sad conditions, there was some part of this young woman crying out for beauty.

   She had a beautiful home. Every spot perfectly designed, every item in place. Her clothes were at the peak of fashion, moving with the seasons. Her life appeared much the same. The people who saw her judged her and included her to maintain their political status. The people she saw she judged for their lack of decorum and her rampant paranoia that they do not really care about her. She was surrounded by beauty and crying out for true friendship.
   She was the ungraceful misfit. She was always seemed to trip over her own feet, said the wrong things, and never knew which fork she was supposed to use. She wanted to please so badly that people took advantage. Then in a fit of anger and the abuse, others would shun her. The people who saw her judged her for her awkwardness and discomfort. The people she saw she judged for how she thought they perceived and used her. She was surrounded with discomfort and crying out for an elegant dignity.
   She was the graceful one, the one full of talent. She could seem to do anything with ease and confidence. Inside, she felt completely unsure and checked and rechecked her stage presence of life to make sure that the character she was playing was maintained. The people who saw her judged her for her seeming stress-fee and laissez faire life. The people she saw she judged for how she perceived herself, not for how they saw her. She was capable and polished and crying out for reality.
   She was a young woman in a book, a story character, or is she?

Dream Town

   I live in a small river town, where the cliché downtown has unfortunately become the truly economically depressed downtown. Though a few restaurants and stores have survived, there are many more empty places rather than full now. The buildings have some beauty to them still; the architecture that survives shows the wear and tear of years of rain, snow, ice, and sun.

   When I walk the sidewalks on this street (it’s a one street downtown), and dream about what could be done there. First of all, the buildings are restored. Clean off the plank wood, repair the old architecture, new paint, new plaster, and new bricks. Then, from the repaired buildings, put in beautiful wooden floors and crystal clear windows.
   I imagine this as I walk down the sidewalk, and imagine elegantly decorative signs showcasing artisans who have taken up residence here. Glass blowers, wool felters, sculptors, painters, photographers, writers, architects, craftsman, would slowly fill the buildings and take up residence for studios. Soon, beautiful pieces would be shown in the windows. Music would be heard on cool spring days drifting from open windows. Clinics would be held and people would gather to learn about different types of arts. Children would have a place that is safe for them to explore texture, color, and new things.
   Wouldn’t it be beautiful?

Staged Face

She stood on stage. She had the smile perfectly practiced. Her poise came through and she seemed to speak calm and sweetness. Every movement was practiced, the way the microphone was held, the tilt of the head. To the most casual and even slightly mediocre observant watcher, she appears content and happy. It is in the eyes that you can catch a glimpse of the girl who is hiding behind the stage face. The doubt of her self-worth, the pain of hurt, and the uncertainty of growing up are present behind the mascara and eye-liner.
She is beautiful. And she doubts this. She is capable. And she doubts this. She is loved. And she doubts this.

I saw through the stage face. I have worn one as well at times. It is the face you put on when you don’t want people to comment, to state the platitudes which are well known and overly used. They are handy things, perhaps not good – but handy. Especially when having to face a crowd that is hostile, overly emotional, or just blasé. It is a helpful skill when stage lights are in your eyes and you can’t see the crowd at all. Yet, they think that you have singled one of them out specially. It is useful even when dealing with other tasks, which are unpleasant and require some sort of interaction. Yes, useful – but not always good. It isn’t always good because there is no one to disrupt the influence of the lie, to help us relearn truth.
Look beyond the stage face, look in the eyes. Let someone see past yours. Then, the healing can begin.

The Procession

I was part of a funeral procession earlier this week. It was traveling from the graveside to the church, to celebrate the life of a good man and the beautiful legacy he is leaving his family. It struck me as the cars moved along, that this procession is such a fitting thing to do. Cars moved out of the cemetery and onto the road. Cemetery’s are sad places, but for those who know Christ it is more the grieving of change as the believer is taken to heaven.

I was in-between a white car and a bluish grey car. We pulled out of the cemetery onto the road. We traveled together, headlights on. Then, at our first intersection, another car was added. It turned off a short while later. A few more cars and a truck were added shortly after. One pulled off and another traveled on with us for a while more. Others just passed through the line, moving across the intersection and never joining us. We turned at the road for the church, found parking spots.
It struck me that this is so appropriate for life. Some people are with us from the beginning and to the end, through the entire journey. Others join us along the way and then travel with us for a little while. Some just pass through in a moment and then are gone again. Some join us part of the way through and then stay the rest of the time. Impact can be had throughout, even with those shortest of encounters.

Joy in the Morning

I have been having strange dreams lately, which is not all that strange for me. They are rather unsettling and I wake up feel disconcerted. They seem to center around conflict, which I also find unsettling. I have come a long way in learning to deal with conflict, but it still not my favorite thing to deal with. The thing that strikes me each and every time, is that my feelings of being flustered and a bit tense in the stomach from a dream fades in the morning.

I am reminded that the new day is truly new. It is not promised, it is not mine to claim. It is a gift and unique. I am also reminded that though there are effects which carry through from the day before; this is not necessarily a bad thing. There are good things that carry through to the new day. A gift of grace, friendship, life, and possibility all carry into the new day. I am reminded that though the new day is not promised, that that the things which are are rock solid and carry through each moment. There is joy in the morning, even when there are bad dreams in the night.

Small Towns Small Things

America is made up of small towns, lots and lots of small towns, with a few large towns tossed in for variety. Each small town has some commonalities, but they are all unique as well. Each has its own flavor and personality. There is an incredible cook, an artist, a story teller, playgrounds, schools, churches, and flowers. But, each one is a little different and each is special.

Life is also made up of many small things with a few big things tossed in. Remember that saying a few years ago which became so popular? Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff – and its All Small Stuff. Well, they got it somewhat right anyway. It isn’t all small stuff, and some small stuff shouldn’t be sweated and worried over. There are some great big things thrown in there as well. The majority of my days go by with small stuff, little things, minute gestures, seemingly trivial and insignificant decisions and conversations. Then, you look back over years of the small stuff with a few big moments thrown in and realize, it was all important!
I watched the sky clear over the Mississippi River last night. The rain came and then went, the clouds parted and then gathered again, hanging lower and greyer. Sparrows came and watched from the eaves of the shelter, hoping that there was food to be shared. A light rain pattered onto the pond and was caught in the light. Ducks splashed in puddles and their muffled quacks rang just above tapping of the water rain onto the water pond surface. Small moments, but important - enjoy the small stuff, it’s important.

Grow Up

A fan of Disney movies, Peter Pan is right up there, especially the one with Robin Williams. They are flying all around, a then a great food fight. Or the song, Young at Heart, crooned by Frank Sinatra, those words are wonderful as well.

I just celebrated my birthday. Birthdays really don’t bother me. The only one that really has is 25, because it was a quarter of a century mark – which led to a few minutes of thinking. But, all in all – they really don’t bother me. I did receive the inevitable question several times though, “What are you going to be when you grow up?” I have to grow up?
No, not the Peter Pan type of staying away from growing up, where the actions and thoughts are childish, I don’t really want that. I think it’s more about being Young at Heart. Let me take the lessons learned, continue to dream, and still hold joy in my life – young at heart! Now that really doesn’t answer the question though. Let’s see, I want to be a friend, a woman, a Christ follower, a daughter, a cousin. I want to be accomplished in my profession, I want to be an author, an artist, a philosopher. I want to be someone who has the nerve to explore and the wisdom to know how to do that. I want to be a help, a leader, and a source of inspiration. I want to be creative, analytical, and independently dependent. I want to teach and to learn. I can’t grow up right away – I have a long list of things to do along the way!

Shadows and Freedom

Have you ever noticed how two thoughts which seem unrelated can wind themselves together, twining this way and that to form a vine? I had two thoughts and over the last few days, they have sort of twined together.

I live in a small town; it’s a nice little town on the river and home to several large companies. It’s a typical small town with typical small town structures. There are restaurants and a fire department, homes and schools. I enjoy during the school year watching children walk to the elementary school as I drive to work. In the summer, it is replaced with afternoon skateboard and bicycles. An ice cream truck can be heard often during this hot time. I know my neighbors names and they are lovely neighbors. It’s not a perfect town; there are problems inherent in every area. There is crime and poverty which I wish wasn’t there. It is the longest I have ever lived anywhere, over 12 years! It is the longest by far (by over 8 years). So, I have lived here long enough to know that if I go straight at that one road and turn at another, that I will pass a patch of beautiful black-eyed-susans. And, it is an odd reassurance to know that my pharmacist, who knows my name, can also quote Shakespeare. I know that there are many who feel stifled here, they look around and see the limits. One such asked me not to long ago why I didn’t just take off and declare “freedom”. But, I’m not sure that that is what freedom looks like to me.
The other was just a moment, just a few seconds. On my way home from work, I needed to stop and run an errand. I drove up the street and the city jail was directly in front of me. I saw a shadow of a large bird move across the small high panes of glass in the jail. I wondered in that ephemeral moment if that was a sad reminder to the men and women in the jail. If that shadow passed through the window, the shadow of a bird epitomizing freedom, passed through the window, would it be something that rips their heart a bit?
The freedom of a bird, the freedom of choices, freedom to be and do and live and love – what is freedom? Is freedom the bird that flies from spot to spot? The sparrow which alights outside my window and splashes in the water with great abandon has a type of freedom. When my dog gets up she has a day full of naps and playtime and running, a different kind of freedom. I do have freedom. I have freedom to make a go of my job or not, to make a friend or not, to be pleasant or have an attitude, to work hard or hardly work. I also have a freedom to be what I was meant to be. Not the meant to be of romantic Victorian novels and the fates. But, meant to be as in the gifts and tasks and plans God has for me that are just for me, and those for you that are just for you. When I spurn those gifts, I feel more like the prisoner watching the bird out the window. Instead, I want to be more like the sparrow, splashing about with joy and abandon in the water. Thus, the two thoughts twine together and form something a bit more coherent, a bit stronger, as I define freedom for me.

High Winds and Rainbows

Recently a friend reposted something on her blog (which I highly recommend because she writes as if she is the best friend and neighbor you never had and really wanted), but she inspired me to write about something in my life.

We have had quite a few storms here lately, torrential downpours where the streets gain a layer of silt filled dirt flowing down them in small torrents of water. Lightning has pierced clouds and trees, lightening up the night brilliantly with sharp crackles of light. Then, thunder that has rolled follows. There go the tornado sirens again. I’m to the point where I’m just keeping some things in the basement in preparedness so I don’t have to gather them each time. One afternoon this week, after the storm clouds had passed and it was starting to lighten back up, a friend called on her way home from work.

“Did you see it?”

“See what?”
“The rainbow!”

I stepped outside and saw the sky filled with a beautiful rainbow. What a wonderful promise God gives us in a rainbow. Noah was given that sign as a reminder, something like a great big visual sign post that says stop and pay attention. The rainbow was God’s personal promise never to flood the earth like he did in the great flood.
As for me, I have never been a huge fan of storms. I don’t like the unsettled feeling I have with them, not knowing which was the storm will turn or what will come of it. But, the rainbows that sometimes come after are a poignant reminder to me of God’s promise. Not only to Noah, but how he used a rainbow as a sign to me that he was there, present in a stormy time.

I stood at the door of a dorm at the University of Southern Mississippi. I had been there for a week and it was one of the worst weeks of my life. I had never had panic attacks before, but I did there. I won’t go into the long story of it all, but needless to say, I had had an exhausting and anxiety filled week. I was there just for a week for drum camp before the start of school. This was the college I had chosen to go to. Upon arrival, I could feel panic wash over me. I’m not sure why it started then, but it did. A trip to the campus nurse made it worse as I was given something for motion sickness which made me – that’s right – sick. A few animal crackers and cans of Coke were all I had that week, and then a can of chicken broth which tasted wonderful at the time. I remember laying in the bed, feeling very weak and exhausted and crying. In between the crying, I would try to read my Bible, I was seeking for solace where I knew I could find it. On the last full day there before I headed to meet my family in transit to their new home in Ohio, there was a storm. As I said, I’ve never been a fan of storms, but I was so numb by this point, I didn’t care much. It was after that storm, when the dark blue sky stopped throwing rain and thunder and lightning at us, that I looked out. A rainbow! A beautiful, bright rainbow! That storm had passed, but I felt like it had stormed just for me so that I could see the rainbow. It was a reminder to me of God’s promise. I may feel that I’m drowning, but I’ll be safe from the flood.

That was years ago. Many days and storms have passed since then. But, each rainbow I see holds a special meaning for me.

Light in Your Eyes

I had an eye exam yesterday, just a yearly check of eye health. I can’t say that I mind going, I happen to like seeing clearly. They have all sorts of very cool tools, one of which is a camera that takes pictures of your eyes. The photos were taken, one for each eye and then they quickly downloaded onto the computer screen sitting on the nearby desk. Each photo looked something like the sun. There were areas that reminded me of where solar flares shade different colors, where veins of burning lights flash across the star.
Have you ever heard someone talk about the light in their eyes, the brightness of their personality and spirit, energy and drive? I can’t say that I normally consider that it really does look a bit like a sun in those same eyes. There are lots of parallels like that out there, light in your eyes with eyes that look like suns, daisies that have centers that look like tiny stars, fireflies that dance light filled dances in the grasses of summer.
Look for the light in someone’s eyes, for the light around you. It’s a beautiful thing.

Chords

Walking up to the top of the Fannin Eldgridge Cemetery, you climb and climb the hill. Walking on a dirt road, there are trees and ferns, wildflowers and moss, on both sides. Thick green growth with butterflies who fly more like dive bombers than the expected flitting creatures are accompanied by a few bees buzzing about. If you come a little late, or are a slower hill walker-upper than others, when you near the top third of the climb, the sounds of the singing occurring at the top seems to just be a sweet breath of air. It washes over you, flowing past and into you as you climb.

Yesterday, I made such a climb. We started out on time. Then, the realization hit that the box of hymnals that had been packed so that everyone could sing along, had been forgotten at the church. A quick trip back to retrieve those left us walking up the hill and listening to that singing. It’s not about how fast you climb the hill; it’s not even about how easy it is to climb the hill. Instead, this hill seems to be a badge of honor. The elderly used to state that if they could climb the hill one more year, then they must be doing all right with their health and would live another year. At the top, there was a small service with a short message and then more singing. Tall pine trees stood like sentinels around us, green and fragrant. Mosses of different kinds created soft and cushy spots on the ground. A rosebush was blooming pink blossoms. The tombstones needed to have the old flowers removed and the new flowers placed.
I enjoy the whole process, except perhaps for knowing that there are snakes in those woods. But, it is the music floating back down the rough dirt road that is something that stands out. Voices blend in different harmonies. Some voices are on key while others are off. Staccato or legato phrasing can be heard, with either sharp and quick words, smooth pronouncements, or something in between occurring. Some voices are very pure, others are nasal. The bass is present, the tenor, the alto, and the soprano. The harmony bends and sways with the music depending on how familiar everyone is with the piece. Sometimes notes are off and do not blend or perhaps are not resolved well. Others can barely be heard as they try to be invisible in their vocal contribution. The words are not always known, or how the parts split out to do their own thing. This can result in a momentary confusion and unsure sense of what to do next.
It wasn’t until later in the day that I really thought about the music and how family is a lot like that. Some come into this world with a beautiful tone, on pitch and pleasant to the ears. They are the encouragers, the ones who can make children laugh, or can speak softly to those who are frightened. Others can squall out a tune which will make the least of the vocally trained dive for cover. Sang with great gusto and absolute disregard for the others around them, the pitch wavers and jumps up to hide the softer. Those who are barely making any sound at all are there, even if they are difficult to hear. They may have the most beautiful harmony of all, but without additional courage no one will ever hear it. Harmonizers can move between parts and add an additional layer to what is there, building the strength of the music.
Family is a lot like this. Perhaps you can realize yourself in the midst of that. I watched children play and they were in a moment of harmony. Their squeals and laughter, mixed with the sound of the creek running around their toes was beautiful. It was a part of the music filled with little bubbles of sweetness and joy. At other times, the music was more somber. A cemetery was looked out over and those who had finished singing their music here and were leaving only their echoing themes were remembered.
There are signs commonly found about not getting to pick your family. Well, that is true. There will be discord from time to time. The very quiet one may grow louder and be tired of the one who always sings loud claiming all of the part. They will have to determine the new blend and start a new theme. Family is messy; there are many discords, many unresolved notes. But it is a symphony of sound, of tightly interlaced chords.

Can’t I Pack the Kitchen Sink Too?

Yesterdat was the day to finish all the preparation for the trip before the trip actually begins. That wouldn’t be too bad if coming home from work, I had actually the bags upstairs and had things in them. I did however, have a list of what needs packed. I love lists, actually I love crossing things off lists. As the to do’s get shifted into the all done it is a happy thing.

      But, I digress…
I am leaving for the better part of a week, heading home to Ohio and Kentucky. Ohio is where I was born and where the majority of my family lives. Kentucky is the family home. I know I have never lived in that part of Kentucky, but somehow that mineral rich soil has soaked into our blood stream and made it home. There are reunions planned, visits with grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins. Cleaning off the head stones from last year and putting on new flowers for this year, the children will be brought into the process as this helps them learn to remember their ancestors and history. So, what do I take on such a trip jumping from suburbia to the beautiful foot hills? Well clothes, toothpaste, shampoo, and socks of course. And lotion, my camera, bug spray, and make up as well. But, there are other things that get packed – a shovel and trash bags to sit plants in and bring home. Music for the van is an absolute necessity, but it requires forethought. Not only does something for the road demand energy, but when we pull around the bend and watch the foothills appear – that is when the correct music must be available, something delicate and yet strong.
There are some other things that get packed, stories of the past, memories, hopes for renewal during family times, and time to just stroll around grandma’s yard breathing deeply of the pines and snowball bushes. So much is going to be stuffed into that van, surely the kitchen sink will be in there somewhere as well.

Memories

Recently I had the privilege of attending a high school choir concert, and though I enjoyed it very much I found my mind wandering past the music and into my memories. I was remembering my own high school performances, with band- not choir. I was remembering the friends and laughter, inside jokes and camaraderie. Trips and competitions, stories and band parents, rehearsals before and after school…. As the seniors lined the stage in their choir robes and fabulous high heels (sorry guys, your shoes aren’t as catchy), I hoped that they took a moment to really take in the moment and form the memory. I have similar moments, standing looking at a crowd after a performance, looking over the band from the sidelines as we in the pit watched them practice the same moves over and over and over and over. Giggly moments where we tried so hard to remain straight faced and other times when our directors made us so mad, they were all part of the memory.

The choir did a great job, and I thank them for the music and the accompaniment as I journey down the lane.

Joyful Noise

Make a joyful noise! I love to sing and may be found humming around just about anywhere. I have heard many people state that that just can’t sing. But, if you check out the psalm, when there is discussion of praise – it is not to make a beautiful noise, but to make a joyful noise. So, you can’t sing? Don’t like to sing? Okay – what kind of joyful noise can you make? A baby’s first cry to a new parent is a joyful noise. A honking horn to a kid who just got sight of their first car is a joyful noise. Pots and pans banging along with some internal tune is a joyful noise to the toddler. The joyful noise may sound different to different people. Words of affirmation, encouragement, coaching, teaching – joyful noises!

No matter what kind of “instrument” you use, make a joyful noise today.

Row of Flowers

Sitting in church Sunday, in the pew row directly to my front and right there were several little girls sitting together. Made up of sisters and friends with the age range spreading throughout elementary school, the pew was soon covered with a variety of toys, coloring, and other little girl things. They were such fun to watch. During the worship, they were combinations of movement as they sang and danced, colored and wrote. My mother referred to them as a row of flowers. In many ways, they were just that.

A row of little lives, small but important, precious and unique moments caught and made up in their movements and actions. Planted in the love their parents have for each of them, watered as people pour themselves into them, fed with care and hope – such a beautiful little row of flowers indeed. Perhaps a hyacinth, a lupine, a daisy, a lavender, and a peony all in a row. Each has its own color, fragrance, structure, and distinctiveness. But, they are each beautiful flowers in the garden.
Looking at these little flowers in the row, I found myself wondering who else would water them, prune, weed around, and feed them. Who else will recognize their beauty and potential and pour themselves in, in an investment of future of growth? They are special flowers, will you help them to grow?

Ash

Wood, given time and heat, creates ash. There is a large wood burning stove in the family room. The first time I saw it, I fell in love with it, the way it was shaped and had such presence in the room. At the bottom of the stove, there is a handle and a door. It opens up to a tray where the ashes are collected. They fall as the wood burns and collect in the tray. Then, as they tray becomes full the ash tray is removed and dumped outside. Ashes have been placed in the outside fire ring, the garden, and gravel driveway. The ash provides a good base for the fire ring. It can give and restore nutrients into the soil. As for the driveway, I was surprised at how well it held the gravel in during the spring melt. Even prepared ash can become something which is used to make art.

Sometimes life can feel the same way, as if everything is burning away and leaving only a messy pile of grey and black bits behind. The heat, while great during cold Iowa winters, is not so pleasant when we are walking through the fire. So, what can we learn from that? Ashes have purpose. When we are left with ashes, we now have new materials to make art with, to build up our loose gravel, and re-nourish the soil.
If you are left with a pile of ash, let’s prepare it and make art.