And above all, watch with glittering eyes the whole world around you because the greatest secrets are always hidden in the most unlikely places. Those who don’t believe in magic will never find it.
Roald Dahl
“We are now faced with the fact, my friends, that tomorrow is today. We are confronted with the fierce urgency of now. In this unfolding conundrum of life and history, there is such a thing as being too late. Procrastination is still the thief of time. Life often leaves us standing bare, naked, and dejected with a lost opportunity. The tide in the affairs of men does not remain at flood — it ebbs. We may cry out desperately for time to pause in her passage, but time is adamant to every plea and rushes on. Over the bleached bones and jumbled residues of numerous civilizations are written the pathetic words, ‘Too late.'”
It is Martin Luther King Day, and those are his words. Words of a wise man, who is so often in my heart and mind, inspiring me, guiding me, providing the gentle voice of encouragement and strength. And so it is today, a brand new day. Each one is, yet sometimes I forget how marvelous that simple fact is. Yesterday is exactly that. I am alive today. Right now. Now is the time for abandoning the insane repetition of the old ways, to shed all that doesn’t serve me, to rattle the cages, to sing at the top of my voice, to dance, love, create, and move forward.
See the light, and be it, too. Won’t you?
Tags: Quoting
I stayed up well past bed time finishing this book, it so engrossed me. It’s the kind of story that takes the reader to the precipice and holds them in trepidation, page after page, at what ghastly occurrence is surely just beyond.
The story is set in the Ozarks, a hardscrabble land of immense beauty and sheer violence, the people living very near the precipice themselves, getting by in ways lawful and otherwise, mostly the latter. It’s a place where blood and names matter, determining histories and futures, yet aren’t nearly enough when times get desperate. The main character is Ree, a tough as nails seventeen year old who wears thin cotton skirts with combat boots in the dead of winter. She’s a high school dropout, but not for wanting more for herself. She aspires to a military life far, far from this existence, but, for now, this is where she finds herself, caring for her younger brothers and a mother lost to mental illness. Her father, Jessup Dolly, possibly the best crank cooker in the vicinity has disappeared, left the family without anything, and worse.
Ree gets a visit from the local sheriff warning her that Jessup’s court date is one week hence, and if he doesn’t show, they will lose the house and land that have been in the family for generations. Even more, she will lose any opportunity to flee this life, to make something for herself, for how can her brothers and mother get on without her and a place to stay. Despondent, she sets out to find him, walking through hill and dale to pay visits to some pretty scary characters, anyone who might lead her to him. No one will talk, save to deliver dire warnings of impending doom if she doesn’t quit, though she never does, even when she reaches the end of her rope.
It’s a thrilling, page turning story that took me to the back of beyond and home again, though travel weary. I highly recommend it. It’s also, as they say, a “major motion picture.” Put it in the queue.
Tags: Books
At times, our own light goes out and is rekindled by a spark from another person. Each of us has cause to think with deep gratitude of those who have lighted the flame within us.
Albert Schweitzer
I’m a day early to say –
Hey Brother – Happy Birthday!
Bon Voyage to Aaron and Lisa, Matt and Kelly! Safe and happy travels to you all…
Tags: Quoting
Ceci n’est pas une pipe. Do you know that painting by Magritte? Well, it’s kind of in alignment with today’s post, as it really isn’t about pitas, though I did make them today, from, you guessed it, the book pictured above. I love home baked bread goods of all kinds, and the way these puff somehow make them even more delicious. Maybe it isn’t steam filling that interior but magic, the kind that you make with your hands. Make your own sometime, and see if you agree. I have a feeling you will.
So to what is not a pipe, but does, figuratively, have to do with the oven. The baby oven. If deciding at the age of eight goes far enough back to be considered never, I have never wanted children. While other girls played with dolls and chirruped excitedly about the day they would become mothers, I did not share their enthusiasm, save for anything but the play. Oh how I loved the play, and, come to think of it, I rarely pretended I was a mother, giving a baby her bottle. I preferred playing grown ups, arranging various blankets and scraps on the floor of my bedroom to serve as a house. I could go on for hours in this fashion (on my own or with any willing party – anyone? Please??) – sending someone off to work, making dinner, getting dressed up for parties. It’s actually a bit like my life now. That’s something interesting, too. Save for the part about me not making money (in my youth, I always thought I would have a successful career, though I didn’t ever imagine myself married, but living with my best friend – which is true, really), my life and house are pretty much as I imagined: I am happy. I travel. I cook. I do what I want. The house is old and has character. Each room is decorated differently. There is art, lots and lots of art.
The part that surprises me is that this decision arrived in a period of relative calm in our household, at least as calm as six loud talkers in a small space can be, anyway. Later, though not terribly so, external forces would add to the laundry list of reasons I needed to confirm that having babies was more problematic than anything:
1. A mentally unbalanced sister who would run away more times than I can remember. Beat anyone who crossed her, including me. Get caught stealing. Get brought home by the police. Get pregnant very young.
2. An equally mentally unbalanced grandmother who would disappear for days only to be found dancing on table tops at a Holiday Inn. Make up lies to send a SWAT team to a perfectly innocent woman’s home. Verbally abuse me for not being complicit in her “lies” (they were real to her).
3. Suffer through my own depression, shame, and heartbreak.
4. Be forced to be an adult by parents doing the best they could.
5. See the “giving birth” film in 10th grade biology. Oh god, that film!
For a while, it was all about the list. I had to defend myself. It had to be more than deciding as an eight year old, even though that’s what it was. I no longer need a list or a reason. I just never wanted to. It seems to me that I should want to have a baby in order to have one. It is not something one tries. Despite what seems to be pretty sound logic, I have been belittled, berated, and called hopelessly selfish, but I don’t and didn’t care. You’re not the boss of me! Besides, I’ve been called worse by people I thought were my friends. And then that day in May of 2009. My junk is no good. It would be a miracle for me to even get pregnant. Seriously?! After eighteen years of condoms? Do you know how much money we could have saved? Such a frugalista!
I owned the decision fully, held it as fiercely as a flag of victory, yet it was never truly my own. God decided long before I did and whispered it on the clouds, in a dream, somewhere, in 1979, saving me the infinite pain of wanting and wondering before the truth. For that and my ever determined nature not to fold under the pressures of society, I am truly grateful. I have seen that sadness and frustration. It has not stopped me from wanting for children, however: their good health, to smell them after spitting up, to ease their cries, to swaddle them in blankets of love, to see their eyes of wonder, and hear their raucous laughter. It’s funny isn’t it? “God plays with us!”
