“When the world wearies....”
What a way to label a post, eh? Especially these days, in the midst of a pandemic.
Perhaps I should clarify up front. The words in this post’s title are borrowed from 18th century poet Minnie Aumonier. The full verse appears below:
Boy, do I love/hate that verse! For one thing, the world—this pandemic—it is making me weary. (Ironically, in the midst of this big ol’ cluster, pollution rates are down in New York City, Los Angeles, and too many other big cities to name. Before and after illustrations show we’re reducing our carbon footprints and cleaning our eco-systems. Is the world perking up and saying thank you for the respite?)
For another thing, society is failing to satisfy. I mean, COVID-19 continues to suck, and people’s responses to it can be, well, jarring and unpredictable. Just listen to all the armchair public health experts, the conspiracy theorists, the battling politicians, and the burned-out-people-merely-trying-to-get-by. Everyone’s tweaking the rules. Nobody’s exactly satisfied.
The best part of the verse for me is this: there is always the garden. I understand that for some, that garden is meager. For others it might be a metaphor. Or maybe a mere memory. But everybody must have some sort of garden, no? Even in death?
For me, at present, my garden’s a whole big fat juicy yard—and life—that Rice and I tend together. With crossed fingers and yellow thumbs, we’ve made it into a place of refuge, a backdrop to plenty of spats but also to moments of sunshine that can burst a heart.
But I can’t totally love the garden part of this verse because it reminds me of the world’s inequities. For people like me—recently retired, physically and fiscally okay—this pandemic has mostly been an inconvenience. When I tend my garden, I can almost forget we’re in a crisis. Yet to forget would dishonor the lives lost. To forget would disregard the millions who are sick, frightened, out of work, forced to work, hungry, facing business failure, fretting over bankruptcy, exhausted from front-line response, burned out from providing endless care....
I don’t take lightly the messages from former co-workers, still doing battle on behalf of public health:
“We are working overtime, six days a week, no leave, no flex.....”
“All I want to do is sleep....”
“It is hard to sleep. I keep waking up in a panic....”
“Please pray for us....”
Of course, I can and will pray. As I tend my garden, I’ll remember those who keep fighting the good fight. But is there a way to honor them, aside from prayer? I’m not quite sure. I don’t have millions to donate to humanitarian efforts. I don’t have boundless energy to volunteer. What I do have is faith in humanity, coupled with positivity and gratitude.
In the spirit of positivity, here’s a stab at a Top Ten Gratitude List, prompted by living in these times of COVID-19.
I am grateful that:
10. Scoring a roll of toilet paper can be an exhilarating experience. Who would have ever thought that?
9. Disconnecting can be good. I know, clicking off those news briefs is a bit like turning away from a train wreck. It’s possible, though. Just. Press. Off.
8. Zoom is now my friend. Shoot, I don’t just use it. I subscribe to the Pro version and facilitate socials and meetings with it.
7. There really is an upside to being an introvert.
6. Being a packrat has its upsides, too. How else would I have been able to stuff bears into our upstairs window so neighborhood kids could enjoy going on a bear hunt?
5. Walking the neighborhood can be as invigorating as an Olympic event if you put enough oomph behind it. Or, it can just get you out of the house and moving.
4. One can worry about the food chain supply but still enjoy eating well. (That has a downside, too, but let’s not bring the scale onto this list.)
3. Life goes on. Not for everyone, mind you. For most of us, though, plans get spoiled (big ones like spring break trips, weddings, proms and graduations, family reunions and retirement parties),,,but life goes on.
2. Nothing beats the small wonders: ...the sly spectacle of a bird nesting under a painting on the patio, ...the twitter of baby birds coming from that nest, ...the magical mystery of family sagas, like The Case of the Misplaced Purple Playdough Poop Nuggets.
1. For me, the small wonders include this promise: when the world wearies..., there is always the garden. Wishing you positivity, gratitude, and safety in the shelter of your own garden.
Peace ~ J
- Mar 13, 2020
(This post could be dedicated to soooooo many people, but I choose my sistas—Lynne, Susan, Tina, and Lisa. In case I haven’t told you all enough—or maybe even ever: I love you!)
Happy Friday, the 13th to all! February rushed out the door before I could fit in a post. I hate that. A monthly post is a promise I made to myself, for myself, in 2018. Mostly I’ve been faithful to it.
Sometimes I’m not sure it matters. The writing. Then again, it matters to me. Perhaps Flannery O’Connor put it best: “I write because I don't know what I think until I read what I say.”
Today I want to write about love. Yes, pastel-colored flowers dot my front door wreath, having replaced last month’s red hearts. February is a rearview memory. But my thoughts on love—specifically, on saying the words “I love you”—those thoughts have continued to steep.
In Baby Butch: a memoir (in progress), Rosaia Shepard writes, “... when you love someone, you must say the words for them to bask in it. You must say, “I love you.” Rosaia’s work is lovely throughout, but those words in particular resonate with me.
I don’t think she’s talking about an “I love you” cooed in a starry-eyed, passionate context. That can be scary to say, sure, when hearts are young and love is new and you want to say the words but what if they’re not echoed back? Rather, I think she’s talking about saying “I love you” to the people who live alongside you, the ones you care about, the ones who irritate you but also lift you, the ones who are part of your big fat messy everyday life.
Rice, our kids, and I are big on “I love you.” I admit, saying it can get rote, like a mindless habit. A few years ago I realized this when I ended a co-worker’s voicemail message with a quick "I love you". It tickled him, but I was embarrassed. Maybe I needed to get a grip. Maybe I should stop parroting it back if I wasn’t feeling it at that very moment? Later that day, Rice called. “I’m picking up milk,” he said. When he added, “I love you,” I didn’t say it back. It seemed so silly. He was talking about milk, not love. So why’d he say it? I’m not sure if he noticed I didn’t say it back. It didn’t feel good, though. As much as Rice, the kids, and I are big on “I love you,” my mother Grace wasn’t. She was part of the Greatest Generation. Her ancestors championed big families, likely to help tend the fields. Survival was key. Telling offspring “I love you” was not. Grace continued that tradition with her daughters. Actions spoke louder than words, she believed. I don’t think we sisters felt unloved, even if she never said the words. Of course, I should let each sister speak for herself. Still, one recollection haunts me to this day, even if only a little. In my mom’s final year, she battled ovarian cancer and dementia, and poor balance caused frequent falls. At one point, she needed surgery for a broken hip, and I worried she might not come through it. She did, although she was loopy as hell in post op. I knew she still poo-pooed “I love you,” but somehow I thought the time was right. As I left her room for the night, I called out, “I love you, Mom.” Her response? “Okay.”
Through the years my sisters and I have laughed about that exchange. Our mom’s comeback was totally “gracious,” as we girls called it whenever she grew...well, she could be cantankerous. But I didn’t find this particular response out of character or mean-spirited. It didn’t feel good, though.
So here’s the deal. We’re living in tough times, what with divisive politics, a world pandemic, a tumultuous stock market. What’s the harm in saying I love you? If you do, that is. It might feel a little awkward, maybe rote, perhaps like a mindless habit. Failing to say it won’t feel good, though.
Speaking of love, I love sustaining this blog. It helps me process my world and clarify what I'm thinking. I’m pleased any time someone tells me something on this site has resonated with them. To those who visit to read and maybe even share, I thank you. Or perhaps I should say, “I love you”? I do, you know. I love you for connecting and wish you a splendid day.
(Final note to my sistas: pssst, see below.)
Cheers ~ Jan
(This post is dedicated to the memory of my mom Grace. I think of her often, particularly in January, her birth month as well as a time she liked to roll up her sleeves and get organized. Happy 87th in heaven, G! Hope you enjoyed some cut-throat Euchre with the angels. And that you won, of course.)
Dear Grace (NOTE: We girls called her that, or G, with no disrespect, truly):
You’re messing with me again. You know you are. You’re probably feeling a cross between irritation and glee about it, too.
Call it the January conundrum. The New Year inspires me to tidy up, to get rid of the old to make room for the new. You used to do this, too, I remember. I need to tell you something, though, G. This annual tidying-up business isn’t what it used to be.
For starters, today’s home décor style leans more than ever towards minimalism. You know how you liked to warm up your walls with lots of pictures? Or how you relished collecting and displaying ornate little frames, antique dolls, and vintage shoes? (Yes, I mean dolls like Annabelle, pictured below, which you picked up heaven-knows-where and is now perched on my computer desk.)
Well, G, minimalists are sending a loud message: “We are a culture drowning in our possessions.” They’re encouraging folks to get a grip on all that collecting. Their mantra is that owning fewer possessions, owning with intention, is freeing.
A couple years ago I became familiar with a minimalist named Marie Kondo. Let me tell you about Marie, because I think there are quite a few things you’d like about her. I know you’d admire her petite, pretty image. You likely would have embraced some of her “KonMari” methods, including her kick-butt way of folding and storing clothes. No one knows better than I how much you loved to feel organized.
Yet here’s where it gets complicated, G. Marie is a minimalist. KonMari provides a surefire system for paring away items that cause clutter. If they “spark joy,” keep them. If not, get rid of them. In my dreams I can see Marie gently lifting an antique pair of spectacles off the entry table, placing them in your hands and asking (in Japanese, of course), “Do these spark joy?” And I can envision your likely reply (in English, of course), “You bet your ass they do!”
Now, G, I know you always said you hate clutter. I believe you believed that was true. But you can’t deny you were a collector. You had a mad passion for certain collectibles, which, unfortunately, you passed along to me. Why is this unfortunate, you ask? Because I now have an abundance of collectibles and antiques to pass along to my adult kiddos. And guess what? They don’t want ‘em. With the exception of Grandma Pearl’s sewing machine (on which both girls have called dibs) and the baby grand piano (which Daniel might want, if he doesn’t nix it for something newer and shinier and smaller), the other items aren’t in high demand.
Personally, I’m okay with the kids paring down. I agree that we, as a culture, have way too much stuff. But G, when I say that other items of yours aren’t in high demand, I’m being polite. The real deal is this:
Nobody gives a shilling for or about antiques anymore.
Blasphemous, I know. As a kid, I remember you frequently bringing home new furniture or art (which was actually old, of course, but new to us). When you grew tired of one of your collectibles, you’d sell it back to the dealer and bring home something in its place. Guess what? Today antiques are passé. Mid-century is all the rage. Or Scandinavian minimalism. I kid you not. If your space isn’t spare, it’s square.
Sigh.
But I get it, G. Tastes and trends change. I’m trying to respect that and break the habit of keeping things just because they were gifts or they elicit memories or they’re still practical and we have the space. Part of my battle I chalk up to The Endowment Effect: the tendency to overvalue things we own, which in turn explains why we are so unwilling to give them up. The other part of the battle is more difficult. The other part is knowing how much certain items truly sparked your joy.
How can I get rid of items like your oil painting of the old man and his pipe? You told me it was the first piece of art you ever bought, and it filled you with tremendous joy. When you were downsizing, you asked me to be sure it remained in the family, and it now has a spot in my keeping room. But where will it go next? I wonder about so many items passed along from you (like that painting, or the side table and the nautical lamp, or the zither and the sketch of me from a high school trip to Paris, all pictured below). Will they all end up in the landfill?
The pragmatic part of me asks, what does it matter? Isn’t everything eventually just ashes to ashes, dust to dust? Yet my struggle continues, especially when it comes to figuring out what to do with all your pictures and photo albums. (Yes, G, I still have your albums, plus other old pictures begging to be archived. The albums still bring me joy. Bulky joy. But joy.)
So, G, I hope you can understand that some of your stuff must, well, go. Here are my thoughts on that. I’ll continue collecting memories and experiences we shared. Note: that might mean saving a photo of something rather than saving the item itself. For instance, I now have photos of Annabelle and the items in the keeping room, which I might opt to save in lieu of the real deal. If I choose, I can store these memories in photo albums along with notes like the one below, which reflects on a mid-1990s family sleigh ride in Michigan. Yes, it was below freezing, and, hellz, yes, you always managed to snort when you laughed, which totally tickled the kids and got a mention in the note. These are memories and experiences I want to save. These are what I want to share.
Sure, there’s still the issue of how and where all these photos are being stored. The old-style bulky photo albums (pictured below) are magnets for dust in and of themselves. Then again, in this digital age, bulky albums can be converted into sleeker packages, like on-line albums or space-saving photo books (also pictured below).
But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. A whole new year awaits, filled with more firsthand memories and experiences I’ll want to collect. How and where will I store them all? Let’s just say that’s part of the January conundrum. January 2021.
Miss you, G. Cheers, all! J
