“do all the good you can, by all the means you can, in all the ways you can, in all the places you can, at all the times you can, to all the people you can, as long as ever you can.”(my sweet momma, but originally, john wesley)
my sweet momma would have loved his friends. like i mentioned in blogs last week, they – and strangers – surrounded us at PRIDE with hugs and conversation, bottles of water and gatorade. they laughed and danced and applauded and volleyed the beach ball. solicitous, they paid attention to those around them, even us. they made us feel like it mattered to them that we were there. it was fitting that one of our son’s friends wore this hat. doing good – being kind – choosing kindness without hesitation – seemed the theme.
it is surprising – with all the touting of goodness that is preached in various places on our globe, the pontificating about generosity that permeates, the statements of mission written and proclaimed in mighty boardrooms – that it is in the simplest of places that you find goodness. it is in the humblest of people you find generosity. it is in the groups – marginalized and demeaned – you find mission. it is sometimes just absolutely missing in those other places – the places where you would expect all of that. irony is alive and well. or would that be hypocrisy?
they weren’t tryyying to do good. they just were.
it takes just seconds to decide how to respond to someone else’s question, comment, action, behavior. in that moment – just before responding – i would hope – if at all possible – to choose to be kind, to do good.
my sweet momma loved to whoop it up at parades and concerts and sporting games. any chance to be boisterous and she’d take it. i can just imagine her at PRIDE – putting on a rainbow lei and a “do good” hat, waving her arms in the air yelling, “wowee!! wowee!!”
i wear one contact lens. it’s in my left eye and it is to correct minor nearsightedness. wearing only one contact allows me to use my other eye to see close-up – to mostly be able to read without the aid of readers. somehow my brain figures this all out and i don’t have to close my right eye while driving or my left eye while reading – because all that would be awkward and weird.
clear vision – particularly at night in the rain with orange construction barrels and no streetlights and lane lines worn to little or no paint – is essential. it’s my least favorite set of circumstances to drive in, discounting white-out snowstorms and ice. it’s nice to be able to see.
and for those days when contacts are not working – the days of allergies or tired eyes – i have a pair of backup john-denver-glasses to don while driving. because it’s essential to see.
we just read the little prince aloud together. i don’t remember crying at the end any other time i have read this book. but this time i did.
as the prince’s soul was whisked away – his body dying on the earth by snakebite – back to his tiny planet where his tiny beloved rose waited – i wiped tears from my eyes.
this simple book – supposedly a children’s book but so much a necessary read-every-once-in-a-while adult’s book – was just the thing. the nature of love. of relationship. of responsibility toward each other.
the louisiana governor just declared that the ten commandments shall be displayed in every school in his governance. for heaven’s sake. how is it that we have become this narrow? for starters, how audacious he ignore every other religion’s tenets. this is not visionary. this is not seeing.
perhaps he would be better served to declare the little prince essential reading. he would be better served to encourage his populace to look with their hearts, to value the basics of goodness and fairness and loving one another. but in these days of politicizing every single thing, i guess he just decided to go with narrow bigotry to see where it might get him. narcissistic power is on the rise. as is the popularity of meanness and aggression. and the little prince shudders.
i’m pretty sure the little prince made me cry because of just that. there is so much – out there. we are hearing every single horrid thing. media is having a field day and it’s horrifying just to phone-scroll the “news”. what we see…what we find there…unconscionable.
instead, we will find the richness in the elderly woman pushing her walker on the trail, her son by her side, chatting. we will find the generosity in the gift of a garden flower. we will find kindness in the invitation of inclusion. we will find concern in the check-in text of an old friend. we will find hope in the little-less-lonely uplift of voice on the phone. we will find resilience in the planting of trees, the naming of stars, the grieving expression of loss. we will find forgiveness in time spent together. we will find healing in turning toward and not away. we will find love in another’s eyes.
the little prince – tiny, tiny. but with a giant and sighted heart.
we need to really look and see – what is transparent, what is truth, what is life-giving, what is equitable and not limiting, what is sustaining, what is fair, what is kind, what is loving – with clear eyes and whatever wisdom of the ages we might summon. we need to ponder and sort and be honest. what we may lose otherwise are the essentials. the basics. the geared-down actual heart of humanity.
read the little prince. you’ll likely weep a little.
“just kickin’ down the cobblestones. lookin’ for fun and feelin’ groovy…”(simon & garfunkel)
it would probably be easier to pick up the phone, call magical scraps in breckenridge, talk to jess and ask her to ship this sweet towel, but i’d much rather drive there, walk down main street, take a time in the oversized adirondack chairs on the sidewalk next to the coffeehouse, devour an ABCLT at breckfast, climb the steps to marigolds, hike up the mountain forest at the north end of town, watch the river go by and the bright sun floating.
then we could wander into magical scraps and admire the artisan handiwork there. and – ultimately – purchase this kitchen towel that we should have purchased when we first saw it. i mean, it’s just a towel. sigh.
i am not an impulse buyer so sometimes, well, things get lost in the shuffle of the decision. lots of times that is easy to correct – run back to the store, pull the website back up, click on purchase. but sometimes, it’s not as easy and the best solution – the most satisfying solution – is to get in the car and drive 1114 miles (and that’s not even our preferred route) to the door of the shop. yes, we are pretty dedicated to those mountains, that air. “life, i love you, all is groovy…”
breck doesn’t have cobblestones – that i have seen anyway – but it is our place to be kickin’ down the road, lookin’ for fun and feelin’ groovy. there are places you feel like you fit and places you feel like you don’t fit. sometimes, places you feel like you don’t fit at all – or even at all-all. those mountains and breck – well – we fit there.
in the same way this peony bud waits – tightly budded – absorbing the sunshine and the rain, glomming onto every gift nature offers her – i write this ahead, in great anticipation of being in the mountains.
i am a peony bud – wrapped up and waiting to unwind. ready to stand in the sun, soak it in, my breathing a little off as i adjust to altitude, weeping at the first sight of the range in front of us.
and in the same way this peony will soon glimmer in blossoming, i can feel it in anticipation. i can feel standing on a crest or tucked into the aspen forest along the trail or sitting in the brook on a rock. i can feel the petals relax, unwind. i can feel the air brush past me. i can feel my heart beating.
“i am here now,” i will remind myself, “stay here in each moment. don’t go anywhere else but here right now.”
and all that will come – all that will happen – whether ants or good weather or bad – i am nevertheless a bud that will open, unfurling petal by petal. nature and time will have its way. no matter. unconditionally. like goodness and love.
and i will stand today in the mountains – grateful – for peony lessons, for patience and fortitude, for all things unconditional.
it never fails to amaze me. even the familiar turn in the trail. even the familiar trees. even the angle of the sun which has shone on us so many, many times here. even the sky, this midwest sky, sometimes ornery, sometimes brilliant. still. still, i love this curve of path. still, i love these tall pines. still, i love the tease of sun through the highest branches of needles. still, all of it.
in a world that presents unexpecteds every day – some of which are more difficult than others of which are tiny or enormous gifts – there is this. there is the still-all-of-it.
and so we go here. and we process life here. we are silent and we talk-talk-talk. this woods has kept us company through it all. this path has led us when our feet didn’t know where to go. these trees have wrapped us in scent and held us in strength, towering over us. this sky has graced us with all weather.
and we have always arrived back at the trailhead, safe. we have been freezing and sweltering. we have been covered with snow and sopping wet. we have been exhilarated and bone-achy tired. but we have always been safe.
so it shouldn’t really surprise me. this place is a haven, a sanctuary, shelter for our hearts and minds. i imagine one day – if we might live elsewhere and no longer hike in this place – we will look back, remembering and reminiscing. and we will nod our heads and agree – yes…it was all of it, all of that place. every single time.
there are people who are immersed in negativity. they eat it, drink it, breathe it, live it. i have learned – that it matters not what truth is if they can convolute it into their own narrative, if they can spin it as negative, if they can lift themselves up by pushing someone else under water – or, in some cases – under the bus.
life
is too short for that.
is too much a gift for that.
is too interdependent for that.
is too precious for that.
has more potential than that.
and we can all choose differently.
we drove away from negativity. walked down the hill, got into littlebabyscion, drove out of the parking lot, made a right and a left and a right and drove on. away.
and behind us – far behind us – we left the scourge of scowling faces, of spinning stories, of agenda-riddling, of adversarial contention.
and we drove further, further.
away.
i opened the window of littlebabyscion.
the cold air rushed in and swirled around, pulling negativity out.
and i could breathe.
and my sweet momma – through the filament of dimension between us – whispered, “live life, my sweet potato.”
and the deadened stalks of underbrush began to show signs of life. instead of the greys and browns of winter, its lack of light and its deep shadows, the sun has drawn out buds of newness and there is a slight glow of green in the woods.
soon, that green glow will grow and it will push out all the shadows of what had been, of the eradication that had happened in the preserve, of the fires and the heavy equipment’s tearing and grinding of buckthorn and other invasives. soon, the green glow will reflect back the warmth of the sunlight of spring and regrowth and we will walk in places that are not heavy with the press of toxic plants or trees. soon, the green glow on stems of underbrush, on trunked branches of trees will distinguish goodness from that which chokes out life.
walking – in the woods – last summer, last fall, early winter – it was hard to imagine – almost impossible – to really grok – that the beauty of the underbrush and the forest was being overrun by that which would utterly ruin it.
walking now – in the woods – in late winter/early spring – still with its juxtaposition of the echoes of the dark and the light, new vegetation and old chokemonsters, goodness and destruction – it’s ridiculously easy to see the difference.
and, just like thistles, prickly people tend to stick together. at least that’s been my experience.
one wonders what the point of thistles are in the world. what good might they do? the nectar and pollen are of nutritional value to pollinators; the seeds are feed for songbirds. but ouch! the packaging is a bit rough.
sandspurs were a way of life in florida. any time you stood on the swale of the road you would expect to encounter them. they were present on the coast of hilton head too, sticking to the bottom of your flipflops as you walked to the water’s edge. we encounter them on the trail – particularly if you step off, into the underbrush. sandspurs, like thistles, are unwelcome hitchhikers on socks and the bottom hemline of jeans, backpacks you laid down, beachtowels. they are about as prickly as thistles – and about as nasty.
i suppose if people were to assign flora to our personalities, none of us would prefer to be “thistle” or “sandspur”. i’m thinking more along the line of peony or daisy, sunflower or orchid or even cattail or meadow grass. definitely not thistle. definitely not sandspur.
and yet, there are people – out there – who seem to relish their prickliness. maybe it’s to stave off other people. maybe it’s a protective shield of some sort. maybe it’s the result of others’ prickliness to them. or maybe it’s the truth – they are just damn prickly.
and, as we know, thistles attract thistles. nasty attracts nasty. mean attracts mean. sandspur and thistle posses can be powerful, keeping out – repelling – anything softer, anything into which they can sink those stickers.
each day – as we continually learn of the challenges of others – i think that there is not enough time to be prickly, not enough time to be nasty like that, not enough time to be unkind, not enough time to be uncaring. we barely have enough time to be loving, to be kind, to care about those around us, to have compassion for those we don’t know.
and despite the many advantages of the thistle, the many advantages of the sandspur, i’m thinking that an outer shell that may or not may belie inner goodness is kind of a waste of precious time. it may be good for the underbrush, good for the meadow, but it’s not so good for humankind.
it can’t be easy to be the lone tree in a big, big farmfield. the wind will batter you. the sun will parch you. the snow and ice will pile next to your trunk and bend your limbs down low. the rain will pummel you. you will be tested and you must be steadfast. your very presence may be questioned; it would be easier to plow straight lines than to plow around you.
but consider this: the birds will flock to you. any creatures needing shade or shelter will curl up under your canopy. you will exhale clean oxygen. and wildflowers and grasses will grow at your base. you will interrupt the horizon line with your very beautiful tree shape. you will give visual perspective to the vast fields.
and so you stand there – alone. ready to greet the next day and the next. despite it all.
you know it would be easier if there were other trees standing with you – perhaps a simple stand of trees or maybe a small woods or forest. you know it would be easier if there were even just one other bush or plant holding vigil with you in the big field. you know it would be easier if the west winds would not assail you, you with nothing to block their assault.
and even if the elements push on you, if the farmer ponders your value, if the aloneness feels void of hope, you keep standing.
because you know that you are a tree and that your truth matters and that your presence counts.
i would be remiss if i said this sign wouldn’t come in handy sometimes. we all need this reminder from time to time. being a turd covers a lot of ground – it’s an umbrella-heading for a lot of bad behavior. and it would make a really good personal commandment, if we all were to have those (and actually pay attention to this one in particular).
googling this phrase, i can see that there are plenty of “don’t-be-a”s for sale. i just hadn’t run into this one before.
it’s not like we don’t run into sayings – bits o’ wisdom – inspirational messages – funny quips – like, everywhere. you can’t avoid them. they are on people’s facebook pages, on instagram, on social media platforms across the board. they are on office walls, bathroom mirrors, over-the-highway signs, in gift boutiques, on daily calendars. everywhere. and sometimes they are exactly what you needed to see, precisely what you needed to read – some sort of uplifting gift of a few words.
other times, they make you roll your eyes. it all depends on where they are posted, who has posted them, when they are posted. it’s the irony of it, after all. we can all point to a message posted by an entity that just screams hypocrisy (or a cauldron of other nouns with colorful descriptor adjectives). in those moments, it would seem no words would be better than words, nothing would be better than something. that posting some spouting antithesis of how something/somebody actually is would be a ruthless attempt at obfuscating their real essence, their real agenda.
“but it’s just a positive message,” you argue, thinking i am – perhaps – being a turd about this.
well, perhaps so.
but – as i wander about my days and you wander about yours – as we encounter wonderful optimistic messages wherever our journeys take us – online or in real life – i would suspect that in an overarching way – gearing down – in a message to laud it over many, many other messages – you might agree: that the best message that could be put out there – in every place, on every wall, in everyone’s heart – the one overall message that could maybe change lives (?!!!) would be:
reverse threading 