Peeled Carrots and a Kissed Cross

Recently, I spent nearly two months in Slovakia. While there, I became enamored with village life, especially for the short season in which I was experiencing it during my mini-sabbatical. Dunno how I'd be if I had to live there long-term. Think I might miss coffee shops and cinemas and worshipping in English.

But I believe there will likely always be a part of my soul that yearns for respite in Slovakia every 2-5 years. That village has a home in my heart. You see, I was so warmly welcomed into the community; I found that though few people spoke English fluently and I, of course, do not speak Slovak fluently... effective communication was still possible

Now, that I've left the village, there are still a set of images that have been coming back to me as onward I've sojourned.

I met a friend's elderly mother while I was there. She was visiting the village for a week or two. This woman has had a hard life, especially in the past. She was married to an alcoholic. They lived in Eastern Slovakia, known to be the poorer part of the Slavic nation. Her family did not always have running water in the house. Some of her seven children have made poor marriage choices ( which have included alcoholism, questionable businesses, ambivalent relationships). Yet life does not have to be so hard for her, now, as modern additions are possible and some of her children have the ability to provide differently for her. Her husband has passed on, and she has numerous grandchildren who could bring her joy.

She has always attended mass daily when possible, and while in the village, she would often hold onto her rosary beads and pray in the quiet of the day. One day as she was cleaning windows, I gave her a cross hand carved by Slovak artisans. The cross was not a crucifix, rather it was empty, which for me, beautifully signifies the freedom that can be found because of the Resurrection. That afternoon, I trusted in the language that was not spoken, but eternal, to communicate my care for her and my desire to find common ground between her world and mine. When I gave the carving to her, she smiled broadly (a rare event) and and immediately brought the wooden cross to her lips and kissed it.

But she wouldn't use a peeler for her carrots.

Let me explain: there was a compost bucket where she was visiting. It was on the floor by the trash can, and was covered with a lid to keep the smell from wafting into the kitchen and the wine flies from congregating around this bio fertilizer in the making. Most people in the house would peel and prepare fruits, vegetables, etc. on the counter so they could stand upright. Then, they would uncover the bucket briefly and dump in the scraps and peels before quickly replacing the lid. But not this babka.

After she pulled carrots out of the ground from the nearby garden, she took a knife, bent over the opened bucket on the floor and labored to scrape off the carrots of their soiled coverings. When I saw her thus involved, I shuffled through the utensil drawer and found a ceramic peeler - the newest and best in food prep tool ware - internet ordered from abroad. With the newer invention in hand, I tapped her softly on the shoulder and indicated to its potential. She immediately shook her head to the offer and continued to double over... knife-scraping the peelings on the carrots into the questionably aromatic compost bucket. She was unwilling to experience the delights of modern kitchenware.

My heart aches for all of us who stay uncomfortably mired in areas of our lives that are not perfumed with freedom when it's right there tapping on the shoulder of our souls...

My prayer is that there is a continuance of letting go. May we let go of all the ways we bend over double and slowly scrape away at that which could be deliciously free of yuck... and may we reach out to accept what has been lovingly offered, relishing in the rewards of alignment with the Spirit.

I Walked the Other Way

I've been taking more walks recently. As much as I enjoy variety... in color, in friends, in food, in life... I have a tendency to be a creature of habit in some areas. Walking is often one of them. I find a route that I like. I see if it's smooth pavement (because I'm inclined to stumble or trip around lifted pavement, sunken crevices and so forth). Then I put on my music player and set off. While I'm walking, I don't want to have to look at my feet. I just want to walk, think, pray.

While in the Slovak village where I've been taking a mini-sabbatical, I found such a path. I'd walk down my friends' drive, turn right and use the sidewalks and a few parking lots until they stopped right past the village's historic church. Then, I'd turn around and return the way I'd come. I liked the familiarity, and I loved that I didn't have to pay close attention to my steps; I could just move. Walk. Think. Pray.

Then, there came a day midst the recent days when there was a change. I walked to the end of my friends' drive, started to turn right, but stopped instead and thought: "I'm going to walk the other way."

Now, that might not sound so profound. It might seem a simple thing. And in some ways, 'twas. However, in all the other ways, it was literally and figuratively a significant choice. When I walked the other way, I was walking in to the unknown. I passed goats, chickens, barking dogs, a ceramic mermaid on wheels, old Eastern European cars that were put out to field and a railroad track that seemed stuck out in the middle of nowhere.

I also walked into Nature instead of population. I walked past berries, and cat-of-nine-tail-like plants, flowers, and dying leaves on trees that were weaving in the wind. I walked toward the windmills I'd being seeing out my window for all the weeks I'd been studying at my friends' house. Then, I meandered into fields of crops I could not name.

When I walked the other way, I had to pay attention. I couldn't just move. I did think. I did pray. But most of all, I just relished being in the current moment. I didn't wish to be elsewhere. I soaked up the "now" of it all while breathing in the fresh air, un-perfumed by the tailpipes of passing cars. I noticed little details on the horticulture around me. My spirits lifted and endorphins became my friend.

On that day, I made a decision. It's one that's very likely changing the direction of my life. And it all started when I walked the other way...

The Attention Dimension a.k.a. Happy Brain

I have a hard time concentrating. Don’t know about you, but I get restless reading the same type of information for more than 30 minutes or so…. Unless it is a novel, and then I can read all night. My mom will attest to this. She’d find me under the covers with a flashlight on a school night if I had not finished a fiction story when I was a schoolgirl. I’ve literally lost 2-3 nights of sleep reading a mega book given to me by a friend. Hence, why I seldom choose to have big books of fiction on my shelves. They tempt me too much. I must avoid their allure if I want my beauty rest.

But back to the restlessness issue, better put… my attention dimension. Yes, I know that if I had been going through grade school in recent years, I would have been the poster child for some sort of attention-deficit-hyper-something-or-another label. Even now, I refuse to call it a disorder. I can be very orderly in my thoughts… they just have a creative order that confuses most other people.

I remember a boss who told me that ADHD was a gift. This was the same boss who created a dysfunctional working environment shrouded in friendliness but lacking in trust… but hey, everyone has their flaws. (see, there’s one of mine: incorrect noun and verb agreement). This boss’ comment about “giftedness” resonated, so I hold onto it midst the myriad of thoughts that race into my brain in any given time frame. When I talk, stream-of-consciousness becomes an art form. It’s a good thing I have people in my life who appreciate (or can put up with) that kind of art.

So while I’m in graduate school, I’m finding out the depth of the dimension of my attention. That translates to: it is so flippin’ hard to stay focused on one topic for a long period of time no matter how much I love the topic. (and I do Really Like the subject matter I’m studying). So would that mean that I have shallow depth? Could be, but I’m inclined to think there’s much depth in my brain… it just has to be handled like a ocean diver who doesn’t come up fast from a really deep sea swim without getting the bends, as I think they’re called.

My brain has reverse bends. While diving down into new material or reviewing old material, I can only go so far so fast, without getting the bends of boredom or having my synapses seize. So, instead of wearing a psychological hair shirt and berating my brain… over the years, I’ve decided to embrace my mental idiosyncrasies and find the blessing, yes, the gift, of them all.

My mind is a mosaic. A smorgasbord of color and... thoughts of chocolate. Whatever. I've found a system for focusing on what needs to be done.

Instead of reading one thing for an hour, I read three to five. Instead of working on one project, I keep connected by prioritizing the most important one and weaving in several others simultaneously. Works well when I have big chunks of time. Works fair to middling when I don’t. Regardless, I can multi-task with the best of 'em.... oftentimes... if I've had enough sleep...and my hormones aren't hopping. In the end, I can get a lot done in a short amount of time if I have to. And yep, due to my multi-layered thinking process that carries me down paths far far away... I often have to. Ha.

But all in all, my brain is happiest when it’s not forced to focus on one thing for interminable amounts of time. Okay, I understand that 31 minutes might not be interminable to you – but to me, it can be an eon. Wait a second, I’ve been working on this blog for 29.5 minutes, or is that 39.8? Either way, it’s time to get back to the textbooks… so hi ho, hi ho, it’s off to work I go… Now where are those dwarves?!?

☺

Short Stuff from Slovakia

~The Slovak sidewalks are my new gym.
~Shadows on the sidewalk create interesting artwork.
~The transition between evening and night is so dazzling delicious.
~Swimming in my friends’ therapeutic pool has taught me some life lessons:
*If the water’s cold (zima) – Dive in and swim; activity warms you.
*When you can’t see, you swim in zig zags.
*Zig zag swimming can result in head trauma.
*It’s better to wear contacts and goggles; who cares what you look like if you can see clearly?
*When there’s current, you build more muscles.
*Swimming against the current takes more time and energy.
*Faster is not always better.

Vanilla Yogurt and Clothes on a Line

My maternal grandmother died in 1995. Fourteen years later, I still have sensory recollection of the woman who inspired me to travel the world. Henrietta Phillips was not a warm fuzzy kind of grandma. In fact, one of my cousins looked at me askance when I actually called her “Grandmama.” Most of her 15+ grandchildren knew her with the formality of “mother” status. I understand. She gave all that kind of vibe. I just didn’t always succumb to it.

She was a brilliant woman. Attended Duke. Had more education than my granddad did. Both my grandmothers married highly intelligent, successful men…with less formal education then them. Who cares about degrees when you can have the real stuff of genuine intellect that leads to true familial provision and genuine care?

I never knew my maternal grandfather, though I hear my dad is a lot like him, and well, I’m a lot like my dad… so I can imagine his strengths and acknowledge his weaknesses. Granddaddy Phillips drank too much alcohol. Still provided for his family, but hurt them with his choices when he was drunk, too. He died in his 50’s. Dad and I don’t drink much. Alcohol isn’t an issue with us – food might be ;) – but not alcohol. I wish alcohol hadn’t been an issue for my mom’s dad; I would have liked to know him.

However, his wife, I knew. And loved with a depth that even now is hard to give word to. She could be cold. I remember leaving her house in tears as a child. She’d criticized me, and to this day, I internalize others’ opinions too much. But God was gracious. He let me grow up and know my grandmother as an adult. And, oh, the difference age can make. My grandmama Phillips was definitely “iron sharpening iron” to me. She was one of the few people I could be sarcastic with, and it wasn’t the lowest form of wit; it was an insightful knowing of the world and its ways.

Once she reared her own six children and my granddad’s sister’s twins – whose parents both died of cancer within a year or so of each other – she began to travel around the world. I think she visited six of the seven continents, even countries that were still Communist and not the safest places to be as an American (Go, Grandmama! ☺ ).

I will ever acknowledge that it was her postcards from different spots in the world that influenced my own wanderlust. It was her house décor from around the globe that still tickles my memories and leads my choices of what to bring home from other places. She, like few people in my world, would understand my favorite framed saying: Travel – I am not the same having seen the moon rise on the other side of the world.

My grandmother read multiple books at a time, and was an advocate of women’s rights before it was the politically correct thing to be… though she held on fiercely to her rights as a married woman as well. I can remember her not wanting me to address letters to her personal name, but rather to her Mrs. (my grandfather’s name) Phillips. Ticked me off a bit at the time, but I so appreciated my grandmother’s blending of ideas and marching to the song of her own cymbal. She set the tone for my own life’s mix of meshed ideology.

And my grandmother liked vanilla yogurt and clothes that looked pretty on the line. This week, here in Slovakia, my tongue tasted the plain flavor of unsweetened vanilla enhanced by muesli and bran. As it did, my heart welled with the sense of my sitting in Grandmama’s kitchen for breakfast, especially during the summer we lived together when I was in college. I think members of my extended family wondered if there’d be fireworks with us sharing the same residence, and there were.

We were both hardheaded and liked doing things our own way. But I think, like her, my head’s obstinacy couldn’t overtake the tenderness of my heart, and I learned a lot from her that year and those that came afterward. My mom’s mom was definitely a chocolate with a hard shell covering and a delicious soft center. Love melted her protective outer defense; she cared passionately for her family and her community.

She also cared deeply about how clothes were hung on an outside line. As an environmentalist (who recycled and conserved before it was the “in” thing to do), she appreciated nature; as such, she preferred to have her clothes dry in the crisp N.C. mountain air rather then tumbled about in an electric dryer. I preferred speed over the spice of outdoor drying (still do usually).

However, when I was living in her house, I learned to do as the Romans… so out on the line the clothes went. As long as they were hung to where the air could have at ‘em, what did it matter if they were balanced beautifully on the wire taunt between two trees. Right? Wrong. Grandmama Phillips was an artist, and it offended her creative eye to see clothes hung haphazardly on her line.

She seriously took me to task about any crooked clothes I put out to dry. I didn’t relish having the hassle of a teenager and a geriatric dispute (tho’ she was never your typical elderly woman – she was known as “Road Runner” in her community, all the time up until cancer came as an unwelcome visitor into her colon and her brain). Therefore, I learned to create a clothing canvas of sorts - ready for her to approve and frame. Truth be told, I never did it as well as she did. She had a heart for it; I did it out of grudging obedience.

This week, something clicked for me. I was hanging clothes on the wire racks my European friends use to dry their clothes, and my senses dashed back to recall my grandmother’s predilection for pristine-looking clothes lines. I found myself trying to perfectly balance the sheets and the shirts, the towels and the trousers… and I grinned while water sprung up in my eyes. No longer did I find myself begrudging the practice. In fact, it reminded me that obedience isn’t a dirty word when it’s done out of love…

Toothy Truth

I've visited England and Slovakia in the last two months. These countries often have citizens with crooked, missing or yellowed teeth. I've had American friends ask me about people's (bad) teeth in other countries. I've had European friends chuckle at the unrealistic "perfection" of so many American "TV Teeth." (y'know, so white, straight and filled in that one wonders if they are real).

In the small village of Jablonica, Slovakia, I have been blessed by the big hearts of numerous women missing teeth. Though we don't even speak the same language -- the love comes through in waves... and in a variety of freshly prepared food. I -- who have continually struggled with not letting my insecurities about my image (complexion, weight, double chin, etc.) be at the forefront of my mind -- have wallowed in the wonder of being caringly embraced by these women... and so many others in my two home-away-from-home countries. While doing so, I am re-recognizing an indelible truth. Love trumps teeth.

Who cares about teeth? Literally, we all know that dental health is important; good, strong teeth and gums actually protect our bodies of the invasions of all kinds of icky stuff. But, figuratively -- especially as it relates to image -- why are teeth so darn important to our sense of self?

They're not, if your name was "Uncle Lamar." My dad's brother was born with Down syndrome. He was born in an era when doctors told my grandparents to institutionalize him. They didn't. Grandmama and Granddaddy were then told he would only live to be 16, then 25. My uncle passed away when he was 56. He lived because of love -- his for others, and others' for him.

He did all this, especially in his adult years, with absolutely no teeth. Somewhere along the line, Uncle Lamar discovered he liked going to the dentist; as I understand it, he would go about loosening his teeth until they needed to be pulled. We can chuckle at this. We can picture a toothless man with Down Syndrome and say, "yeah, well, but that's different." But is it really?

What I mean is: "how much do we care out our own self-image that we let it become too big of a deal to us?" My uncle cared not one whit about his image. Uncle Lamar cared about loving and being loved. In fact, any ability I have to love without condition was strongly influenced by how I saw God's love permeate my uncle's life in layers.

Being healthy is good. I'm not encouraging us to gain un-needed weight, never exercise or not brush our teeth. I'm certainly not advocating loosening our molars just to sit in a dental chair. However, we in the wealthier parts of the world -- America, Western Europe, some parts of Asia, etc. -- really emphasize image over identity. Whose are we?

The women of Jablonica don't need all their teeth to share all their love. They don't seem to care about my red face, double chin or added hip dimension. They just delight in loving and sharing from their abundance (which isn't material wealth, let me tell you). I hear echoes of my uncle declaring his care while I relish the reality of God's everlasting love[1].

Yes, I think that’s the meat of the matter. Love is the toothy truth.

---

[1] Jeremiah 31:3

A Small Breath Beginning

I’ve had a number of people ask me if I would write a novel. I’ve decided to start with a blog. I’ve tried blogging before… briefly. I’m starting again, and since it’s been said to not “to despise small beginnings,”* I’m choosing to commence.

I’ve decided to entitle this blog: “Fresh Air.” Now, before I or others get too assured and assume all my writing will be creative and fresh -- like a breath of pleasantly fragrant air -- let me include a caveat. Sometimes I feel fresh; sometimes I don’t.

Hmmm, maybe I should change the wording of that caveat so as not to be confused with any items on the personal hygiene aisle, but no, I think I’ll keep it “as is.” Why? Because the more I grow, the more I want to be transparent… and therein lies a reality: not all of my life is pure and clean, and that includes my thoughts and my actions.

So, my blog will be occasional, and not always consistent – but it should rarely ever be closed for comment. Feel free to chime in as the spirit leads you.** Because the Spirit leads me, I can claim that my own murky meanderings will most often be filtered through a faith sieve. I am grateful that my own refining doesn’t negate the most important reality: I and all others are so beloved by our Creator, that He made a way for us to spend eternity in His presence… regardless of how impure is our earthly existence.

That’s a pretty cool concept, and one you’ll view me explore at differing times within this blog. You see, my relationship with the One Who Calls Us Beloved is my plumb line -- so it can’t help but weave itself into the tapestry of this Todd’s time on our rotating round ball in space. Yet I can say with certainty that there will be times when it’s just life observations I write about, or even worries and concerns of myself and others. Laced throughout the colors of my days are also responses to current events, geographical locations, traditions, readings, relationship and so forth.

Yes, sometimes, there are dark things that need to be exposed to the Light and to be seen for what they are. There are times when the Wind of Change needs to blow away are the remnants of refuse that cling to the topics we don’t want to touch upon. But, we’re not put on the planet for only our own pleasure. All of us have a calling, and I believe that calling includes shining light where there is darkness, giving hope where there is despair, extending comfort where there is heartache, and letting the sweet aroma of love be the perfume of our days. Those who understand hanging clothes out on a line grasp the benefits of a “fresh airing.”

So today is a small beginning. A blog. Entitled “Fresh Air.” May it become what it has been called to be.

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* Zechariah 4:10
**I reserve the right to filter comments, so as not to open the blog up to inappropriate or offensive information.