A First

A friend invited us to the Dallas Opera; for weeks, I anticipated seeing the whole production that includes a favorite aria: Nessun Dorma. I came to love the music from a YouTube performance by Paul Potts.  No, my grasp of opera is at best, limited.

Doug printed out the libretto – and I read up on the narrative and wondered how such a grim story could produce such wonderful melodies.  Turandot and all the characters had serious issues!  It would never make a good Disney movie. Even though the guy got the girl – what a guy, and what a girl! Talk about dysfunction!  

Unfortunately, I read the review of the first night's performance shortly before we were supposed to leave for the matinee – the critic in the Dallas Morning News; Scott Cantrell was not enthusiastic, describing many points in the production and performance that went over my head – but his comments dulled my enthusiasm.  My impression was now that it would be incompetent and substandard. 

 Perhaps it was on the night he saw it; maybe that production was disappointing – but the performance we saw was charming – more than competent – and enjoyable. (As long as I didn’t think about the meaning of the words that were being sung.) In Italian, the words sounded mighty, noble, romantic – thrilling. Reading them in English, I kept thinking – “Seriously, did she just say that?”

All in all, my first opera experience was wonderful, nonetheless. While I can’t say I will become an aficionado  -- I admire the talent and discipline of so many artists and musicians who managed to engage our attention, while telling a tale of betrayal, revenge, murder, suicide and narcissism.  It was like “Dallas” in Italian.   

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News from the Garden 2012

 Any color geranium makes me happy; but red ones are my favorite. I don’t remember when or why exactly they are so pleasing. No one I knew growing up grew them. Somewhere along the line, however, their jolly colors made me smile.

Is it daydreams of thatched English cottages they invoke?  Or memories of our trips to Southwest Harbor Maine they ignite?

Whatever connection they make, they evoke joy.

 Gladly I paid the purchase price for this year’s hanging basket; carefully I am tending it so that its glory will not wilt too quickly in Texas heat and sunshine.

I can report that the freesia bulbs I thought the squirrels devoured survived their foraging and the winter.  They bloomed even as the winter pansies faded away for the very reason the bulbs thrived – Not much cold weather!

Moreover, the Christmas bulb – the late bloomer – flourished outside, and gives every sign of blooming perhaps in a few weeks?

The roses are also returning, having endured a severe pruning the end of February.

And the square patch of earth that has heretofore appeared scraggly is yielding full and luscious colors – than for now delight.

This year I mean to properly plant my pink flamingo plant stands – with something that will withstand the heat or drought.   Can you spot them in the photo of yard? Maybe a lush pink elephant ear caladium will appropriately draw attention to their whimsical design? Though they are one step removed from tacky – barely -- they too make me smile.

A garden is a good thing – this one that was so well-established before is a humbling delight.  So many others have made it possible for me to putz about and get a great deal of credit for something in which I play a small part.

Knit, Knit, Knit

Though the proverb has more to do with working, it applies equally to squirrely thinking: Idle hands are the devil’s workshop. So, to keep from driving others and myself nuts while we awaited news about our son’s son, I searched out a knitting shop – a time warp back to the seventies when boutique craft shops seemed a way of life.

The one I found was in Bethesda, up a steep flight of stairs, the climbing of which gave me a completely new set of worries: either me falling up them or down them.  The shop had several windows and dormers and was filled with cubbyholes of glorious colorful and luxurious yarns: wools, cottons, silks, alpaca, and blends. Two or three knitters sat about a large heavy wooden table, working on their projects.

I quickly settled on a plan, thread and needles, guided by a clerk whose passion for knitting did not obfuscate her ability to help me. Her care so impressed one of the knitters, that she came up to us at the cash register and complimented her guidance and my receptivity to help – and she identified herself as a professional counselor.

Desperation can make for   more receptivity to help, no doubt.

The clerk had sketched a pattern and I set about trying to remember how to cast on stitches. My fingers fumbled – as if pleading amnesia; but the counselor and another clerk cheered me on – and I cast on 150 stitches for a small blanket. Making sure the count was correct took several attempts – I kept losing count. But finally, I knitted several rows. 

At no time did my busy hands impede the fears and worries – but the activity left the calming impression I was doing something for somebody – that, and I didn’t want to alert the professional I might be her next patient!    

Now, I’ve come to the point in the design of adding in different colors – four of them. This will be interesting – I don't know how to do this without creating knots or bumps. 

Whoa: Is my knitting project now a metaphor for my life? 

In the past three days, however, the knitting has been useful – so has the happy reality that this new little grandbaby is at home with his parents – opening their minds and hearts to all kinds of wonderful thoughts and feelings. They won’t have time for knitting anytime soon. But crafty little projects like this blanket will help me from having too much time to be too helpful!

• Knitting is a boon for those of us who are easily bored.  I take my knitting everywhere to take the edge off of moments that would otherwise drive me stark raving mad.  ~Stephanie Pearl-McPhee, At Knit's End:  Meditations for Women Who Knit Too Much
• All my scattering moments are taken up with my needle.  Ellen Birdseye Wheaton, 1851
• Sewing mends the soul.  ~Author Unknown
• From the manner in which a woman draws her thread at every stitch of her needlework, any other woman can surmise her thoughts.  ~Honore de Balzac

(Thoughts from the quotegarden.com)

The End of Summer

 

September 23, 2011 is weeks away, the official end of summer. But today is Labor Day – and the temperature is 69 degrees – with an anticipated high of 86! However many hot days may come, the triple digits appear to struck their tents and departed.

A photograph from last Labor Day shows a few of the roses we enjoyed through out the end of August and into September. What a difference a few months of 100+ days can make, huh? Perhaps the cool weather will comfort those old rose bushes . . . until rains can deeply revive their roots? Living through an almost record –setting time  has been a wee bit wearing, and expensive.  But because of air conditioning, perhaps a contributor to the high temperature according to some, we did better than the roses in our back yard.

Growing up, I dreaded Labor Day; it meant getting back into academic harness again. It also was the day our community pool closed, ending the days of unstructured hours, and all the promises spring made as she slipped into summer. When we were ourselves pool owners, I felt daring keeping our pool open beyond this holiday – as if I were breaking an unwritten rule.  Keeping it open staved off the feelings of regret about all I did not accomplish [again] with so much free time.

By the way, those unwritten rules about the end of summer still affect me; they include no white or patent leather shoes. And today I am somewhat anxious to set aside summer purses, summery jewelry, and all the linen apparel, although the anxiety is manageable with another cup of coffee and the prospect reading a good book, outside on our patio. 

Hope your day, dear reader, is blessed with relief, rest and renewal. Some borrowed thoughts to share on this refreshingly cool (but dry) Dallas morning:  

• Take rest; a field that has rested gives a bountiful crop.  ~Ovid
• God give me work, till my life shall end
  And life, till my work is done. ~Epitaph of Winifred Holtby (a 20^th century English novelist)

Keep Moving!

 Summer officially arrived Tuesday, but had been warning of its arrival for days before. All the cool dry weather evaporated two weeks ago, replaced by humidity and heat. Most days, a steady breeze has kept things tolerable.  But like many of Dallas’ residents, “it is fixing to leave”  for a spell.  And yes, if the temps dropped to 85, it would feel like a cool snap.

The forecast for the foreseeable future is heat – the description of which Sydney Smith (no relation – he was an English clergyman, critic, philosopher and wit.) perfectly captured in Lady Holland's Memoir (1885): “Heat, ma'am! it was so dreadful here, that I found there was nothing left for it but to take off my flesh and sit in my bones.”  

But I have kept walking – both in the morning and at night. Though days are now supposed to be getting shorter, it’s possible to leave the house at 8:15 P.M. and get a thirty minutes walk in before it’s too dark.

Summer nights still remain my favorite walking time  especially on streets whose oak trees tower and spread out, whispering when a light breeze shakes their foliage.  On Friday evening we opted for a part of town whose houses are imposing, and trees, majestic – their branches form a canopy that blocks sight of the sky.  Plus its streets have a slight incline for better exercise.   Ah, surely the air is more rarefied in this neck of the woods?

The next morning we returned to this area and pursued some estate sales. Always arriving at the tail end, our picking through the remains reminds me of the scene from “A Christmas Carol” when Scrooge and the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come see the charwomen disassembling his possessions.  I suppressed thoughts that imagined  what others might think of all the “gently used” treasures.

The weather, my walks, and our “yard sailing”  -- and all those thoughts whose companionship reveal my incomplete prayer life implore me to make the most of what God gives – holding oh so lightly to the reins of my life:

I looked long and hard at what goes on around here, and let me tell you, things are bad. And people feel it.  There are people, for instance, on whom God showers everything — money, property, and reputation — all they ever wanted or dreamed of. And then God doesn't let them enjoy it. Some stranger comes along and has all the fun. It's more of what I'm calling smoke . . . (Eccl 6:1-2from THE MESSAGE.)

Today is not a dress rehearsal for tomorrow, wise people have said. What I do, when, why and how   is  still important! As one astute commentator  urged: “Remember, people will judge you by your actions, not your intentions. You may have a heart of gold -- but so does a hard-boiled egg.” (See Christians Quoting. ) 

Stuff

Another move looms . . . Less than forty-eight hours until we settle in to our next home . . . Boxes, empty cabinets, empty walls – and rooms that echo slightly because the curtains are at the cleaners. Yep, I've moved a bunch . . .

My first move -- just a couple of suitcases: I left  Baltimore for Ocean City – to work for the summer before moving to a college dorm, then, into two different apartments in the same building, before I moved two more times around the College Park area – acquiring stuff, discarding stuff –  never having enough of what the next living space required.

Next, I moved into an apartment near the zoo in DC; within a year I moved onto Capitol Hill, NE. From there I moved to Ecuador for a year – moving around the country, twice.  Illness and revolution sent me back to South Carolina, with little more than what I had in a suitcase to recover before returning to DC – the outskirts of Capitol Hill, this time in SE. Then I moved to Georgetown . . . from whence I married and moved to Annapolis. I left most all my stuff for others to use.

In Annapolis, we moved seven times in twenty-four years; we accumulated stuff.  Lots of it was other people’s downsizing. God gave us children, and our stuff really multiplied! The moves became more complicated – and we needed storage lockers.

We’ve moved three times so far in Texas, each time acquiring stuff – and now we are fixing to move the fourth time. We have let go of a great deal of stuff; photographs remind of us of our real treasures: people and places.  An assortment of images, freezing in time people, who are no longer precious babies, toddlers – or teens; of people who now know what is on the other side of this life; rooms we loved in, argued and cried in; holidays, vacations – I see the colors, smell the smells and hear their voices. They all go with me -- 

So, I am  used to moving . . . and the sadness and excitement that fill the minutes and hours of moving day.   Forty-eight hours until we settle into our next home . . . Boxes, empty cabinets, empty walls – and rooms that echo slightly because the curtains are at the cleaners. And in the upcoming abode – the scenario is the same . . . packing up, sorting, tossing, saving for another time to dispose of, . . . my life is still in moving boxes?

Coping with Pain -- two views:

In 1895  Andrew Murray was in England suffering from a terribly painful back, the result of an injury incurred years before. One morning while eating breakfast in his room, his hostess told him of a woman downstairs who was in great trouble and wanted to know if he had any advice for her. He handed her a paper he had been writing on and said, “Give her this advice I am writing down for myself. It may be that she’ll find it helpful.”

This is what he wrote:

“In time of trouble, say, ‘First he brought me here. If it is by his will I am in this strait place, in that place I will rest.” Next, say, “He will keep me here in his love, and give me grace in this trial to behave as his child.’ Then, say, ‘He will make the trial a blessing, teaching me lessons he intends me to learn, and working in me the grace he means to bestow.’ And last, say, ‘I am here by God’s appointment, in his keeping, under his training, for his time.’”

(Quoted in _Calm My Anxious Heart_ by Linda Dillow, p. 171)

And from a one who also knows pain, this reflection:

anything but that

“Send anything but that,” I cried,
and still the thing I feared did come;
I watched its shadow rise
and shrank in terror from the blow:
“Oh, Lord, this thing I cannot bear!”

And yet Thy tender love did send it me
in answer to my prayer.

My prayer! My cry Thou heedest not
and leav’st me sick, in pain.

And still Thy presence sears and binds –
is all my praying vain?

And still it comes, this fearful dark;
I cannot stem the tide.

“No more,” I cry, “I know my strength!”

And then, Thou, God replied,
“Thy frenzied strength thou knowest, ah
but thou dost not know Mine.”

Barbara Black 1991 (Taken from her poetry, In Affliction)