On sensing the seasons

“Be the designer of your world 

and not merely the consumer of it.”

~James Clear, Atomic Habits

It's fall, y'all! Where you live, that might mean cooler temps, crisp air, trees ablaze with fiery autumnal glory, and -- my favorite part of the season! -- sweatah weathah. 

But not here in Alabama. The temps climb into the 80s most days, the trees still boast their bright green hues, and we might throw on a sweater in the early morning when the temps are a chilly 70° but we're still wearing flip flops and shorts, because... it's the South, y'all.

What do you do when you are desperately ready for the change of seasons but it simply doesn't feel like fall? 

Normally, I'd be making my way to Hobby Lobby and Michael's and Target to buy ALL THE THINGS related to fall decor: pumpkins and gourds and cotton boll stems; grapevine wreaths intertwined with fall foliage; mums and corn stalks and hay bales (for the outdoors, of course); and maybe a few gossamer spider webs and black paper bats in a nod to All Hallow's Eve.... because it might not feel much like fall right now in the Yellowhammer State, but I can make my house look like fall, by golly.

Except... not this year. We are in the middle of a never-ending renovation project and simultaneously prepping for a major estate sale, and I could pen an entire novel about the stress of that chaos but frankly, I'm too overwhelmed to even think about it let alone write about it, and all that to say -- I'm not buying any new decor or bringing out any seasonal decorations until this home improvement project is complete. 

At the same time, my soul desperately longs for fall. It doesn't feel like fall, and I can't visually create the feeling of fall inside my house, so I'm tapping into the other senses: the sounds, the smells, and the tastes of fall.

Frankly, I've always done this, I just didn't realize I was doing it. We are sensory beings, and we associate sights, sounds, smells, and tastes with different seasons of the year -- and with different seasons of our lives -- and we tend to keep them compartmentalized as such.

• We don't listen to Winter Wonderland in July.
• We don't drink hot apple cider in April.
• We don't fill our homes with the scents of lilacs in December.
• We don't don delicate pastels in October.

We certainly can do those things, but when we do it can feel... jarring. Out of sync. Incongruent. We can't always put our finger on it, we just know deep in our bones that it feels wrong somehow. 

Many of these sensory associations are universal. Some are very personal -- a particular scent, sound, taste, or sight may evoke powerful emotions and awaken memories, either good or bad. Most of these sense-season relationships, however, are completely subconscious.

I want to develop positive connections in my life on every level, and so I've decided to be very intentional this fall about using my five senses in a constructive way to create peace and harmony and well-being in my soul. I want my home to reflect that same sense of calm and comfort for others who enter -- even in the midst of construction and chaos.

Over the next few blog posts, I'll be sharing my favorite sounds, smells, and tastes for the fall... but until then, a question for you: 

What makes fall feel like fall to you?

On making a fresh start

 

"Life starts all over again when it gets crisp in the fall."

~ F. Scott Fitzgerald

Changes. Fresh starts. New beginnings. 

These are things we typically associate with New Year's Day -- a new year, a new you, new habits, new routines. But for me, nothing inspires a feeling of opportunity, of change, of fresh potential quite like the fall. 

Even though it's been 30+ years since I graced those hallowed (brick-and-mortar) halls as a student, I still equate September with the start of a new year. And today -- being the autumnal equinox, the official first day of fall -- I'm feeling inspired to make changes, to dream big, to explore new possibilities. 

More importantly, I'm ready to leave behind old thoughts, ideas, perceptions, and processes that no longer work for me, that I have outgrown.

What fresh starts are you making this fall?

On remembering God's faithfulness

“Nobody ever outgrows Scripture; 

the book widens and deepens with our years.”

~Charles Spurgeon

I've never been one of those who subscribed to the idea that if I needed some divine guidance on a particular issue, I could simply close my eyes, say a prayer, open the Bible, and voila! There would be the exact passage of Scripture I needed for whatever challenge I was facing. And if not, I could just keep turning pages until I found the answer I was looking for.

OK, that might be a bit of an exaggeration, because I doubt anyone really believes that's how it works. It's Holy Scripture, not a Magic 8-Ball. 

Lord, should we sell this house now or wait a few more years?

:::opens the Holy Book to a random page:::

Reply hazy... try again.

But I absolutely do believe God's Word is alive and active and, as the Apostle Paul wrote to Timothy, that "All Scripture is God-breathed and is useful for teaching, rebuking, correcting and training in righteousness" (2 Timothy 3:16)... and so, when I find myself led to a certain passage of Scripture over and over again, perhaps I should sit up and take note.

That's exactly what happened today. Twice in less than an hour, I found myself in Psalm 61. And I found in Psalm 61 an outline for what to do when I feel overwhelmed, fearful, isolated, or under attack. And let's face it. Who hasn't felt one or more of those emotions lately during these -- brace yourself, I'm about to write that overused phrase we've all come to hate -- unprecedented times? 

In these "unprecedented times," we still can't attend church for corporate worship. Well, actually -- we can now in my home state of Alabama, but our church was limiting the number of worshippers and you had to "sign up" for one of the services and we didn't realize that until it was too late and all the seats were "sold out" for this Sunday... so all that to say, it was another day of online church for us. 

We decided to tune in to the live streaming service of a church we attended eight years ago when we lived in New Jersey. We enjoyed the exegetical preaching of that pastor and figured if we were going to have to do remote church again, we might as well "visit" one of our former churches. And yes, I'm sure you guessed this: The message was based on Psalm 61.

Later, as I was getting ready for the day (what? don't you do online church on the couch in your pajamas at your house? #dontjudge), I was listening to my "Read Through the Bible in a Year" plan and y'all... today's reading was Psalm 61.

OK, Lord. You have my attention.

First of all -- who can't relate to David as he expresses himself in the Psalms?!

It's OK to not be OK... and based on many of the psalms he wrote, David was definitely not OK during various seasons of his life. And yet, in the midst of his pain, fear, confusion, grief, and isolation, he wrote beautiful, heartfelt prose to God. 

(Oh, that I could learn from that right there! More often than not, when I am feeling pain, fear, confusion, grief, or isolation, I turn to everything but God. But I digress.)

Look, I am no Bible scholar, and nothing I'm going to share about this particular Psalm will be that... revelatory. But maybe -- just maybe -- God took me to this Psalm twice today not just for my sake, but because He knew I would be moved by the experience and feel the need to share it and maybe -- just maybe -- it's something you needed to hear today, too. 

Or maybe I just needed to record it for myself, because a big part of this is remembering God's faithfulness. 

First, take a quick read of the psalm here (don't worry -- it's short): Psalms 61.

The takeaways for me today:

1. Call out. No matter how "lost" you are, no matter how far from God you might feel you are -- you can call out to Him and He will hear you. You may be far away -- but He is not. (Psalm 61:1-2a).

2. Remember His faithfulness. During times of struggle, remember all the times He has been faithful to you in the past. (Psalm 61:2b-3).

3. Know that He is your refuge. He will bring you under his wing; you belong to Him and will be with Him forever! (Psalm 61:4-5)

4. Believe His promises. Remind yourself that "all the promises of God find their 'Yes' in Christ" (2 Cor. 1:20) and recall specific promises of God to help you remember what He has done, is doing, will do for you. (Psalm 61: 6-7) God's promises for us include (among many):

• He will not leave you or abandon you. (Joshua 1:5)
• He will give you abundant and eternal life (John 10:10)
• He will be with you always. (Matt 28:20)
• He will set you free from sin. (John 8:36)
• He will bring goodness form every broken and twisted thing. (Rom 8:28)

5. Praise His name. Do the work He has called you to do, and glorify Him! (Psalm 61:8)

This probably spoke to me primarily because of #1 and #2. I, too, found myself a long way from "home" a while back, and frankly, I wasn't sure if God could -- or would -- hear me if I called out. Remembering His past faithfulness was a challenge, in part because I hadn't journaled it like I wished I had and in part because my own unfaithfulness made me wonder if I'd "used up" my allotment of grace and mercy.

Thankfully, "the glory of God's faithfulness is that no sin of ours has ever made Him unfaithful." (Charles Spurgeon) A recounting of His faithfulness -- even when we have NOT been faithful -- helps us to remember that. 

In a world of uncertainty -- and regardless of your situation, this is most assuredly a world of uncertainty -- we can turn to God's word for assurances that He hears us when we call to Him... that He is faithful... that He is our protector... that He keeps His promises... and that He is worthy to be praised.

On the unexpected gift of time

“Nearly all the best things that came to me 
in life have been unexpected, unplanned by me.”

~Carl Sandburg

It's spring 2020 and America has been experiencing a long, pregnant pause in the everyday hustle and bustle of life thanks to the coronavirus. 

Schools closed, colleges sent students home, concerts and sporting events and all theatrical productions were canceled, churches went to online services only, office workers found themselves "telecommuting" from their kitchen table, and (with the notable exception of a few key service industries) it seemed we had all been suddenly gifted with something we often claimed we long to have more of: time. 

I am not naive or obtuse; I realize that this unprecedented shutdown of our country has created huge financial burdens and other hardships across just about every sector and segment of our society. But there is no denying that, at the same time, most of us have found ourselves with extra time on our hands. 

Time we didn't expect. Time we have desperately longed for. Time for rest. Time for play. Time for special projects. Time for hobbies. Time to learn something new. Time to perfect something learned long ago. Time for our partner and family.

During this time, I was searching old computer files for some homeschooling resources to share with my daughter-in-law and I ran across a letter of sorts -- one I'd written 20 years ago, in the year 2000. We were living in Ankara, Turkey, and had a day of unexpected time on our hands. It was just a single Sunday, whereas this shutdown has been a whole year of Sundays... but the feeling is still the same. All this time on my hands... what will I make of it?

I'm not sure I made the best use of that unexpected day at home back in 2000, and I for sure have not made the best use of these unexpected days at home in 2020 -- but perhaps there is still, well, time to remedy that.

Here is the letter (really, a blog post of sorts) that I wrote back in 2000 -- well, a portion of it, anyway:

Ankara is, by far, the largest city we have ever lived in, its population numbering roughly four million. It is crowded and congested, plagued by the problems most major cities face – homelessness, excessive noise, poverty, overflowing garbage dumps, and pollution so severe that on most days we cannot see the northern wall of the valley opposite us, which is only a couple of miles away as the crow flies. 

Our apartment building is on the southern wall of the valley, in an area inhabited primarily by foreign diplomats, the politicians of the city, and the extremely wealthy Turks who have carved out a fortune that is nearly incomprehensible to their fellow countrymen. 

... 

In all parts of the city, however, the streets are crowded, clogged with taxis, buses, school vans, and more automobiles than there are parking spaces. The only rule of the road seems to be that there aren’t any rules, as drivers make right-hand turns from the far-left lanes, left turns from the far-right lanes, while the cars in the middle make perilous attempts to simply drive straight through the intersection. Stop signs, one-way streets, no passing zones, no parking zones, dashed traffic lane lines, and other traffic signs seem to be merely suggestions and are routinely ignored.  

Taxi drivers trolling for business in the right lane think nothing of locking up their brakes right in front of you in order to stop for a fare. Actual bus stops are also a rarity, as most of the buses simply stop for anyone flagging them down or for passengers wishing to disembark. You cannot predict when this might happen, so you must always be on the alert.  

Four million people, buses, taxis, cars, pedestrians, and the general sounds of the city – perpetual construction projects, garbage trucks, screeching tires as another driver slams on their brakes to avoid hitting a pedestrian or stopping taxi, political vans loudly broadcasting music and announcements as they pass, honking car horns pressed angrily by frustrated drivers, peddlers calling out their wares and services as they push their carts up and down the streets – all add up to a noise level that, when we first arrived, kept us awake long into the night and woke us early in the morning. Now it is merely “white” noise to us, background music that lulls us to sleep in its ordinariness.  

Today, however, the streets of the city have been eerily calm, as though some great tragedy has struck the metropolis, leaving it barren and deserted. The silence is deafening. Not a single vehicle has passed our house. No strolling street vendors hawking bread, potatoes, or onions. No buses ambling by. No children passing noisily on their way to the park. In fact, no sign of any life outside our window; the sight of our security guard the only proof we have that the entire city hasn’t mysteriously disappeared in the middle of the night. 

As for us, we are housebound –  not because of inclement weather, not because of illness, not for lack of transportation, not even out of a self-imposed curfew. Rather, we are here at home for the day because, should we venture past the confines of our garden, we could be arrested, jailed, or heavily fined. 

This is national census day in Turkey, and except for extreme emergencies, the entire nation has been restricted to their homes for the day. Between 6 a.m. and 7 p.m., no one is to leave their home for anything other than a medical emergency – and even then, the police will make the decision as to what constitutes a medical emergency. The Ministry of .. what, exactly? Labor? Domestic Affairs? … has issued permits to a select few who must be at work on this day. Hospital staff. Firefighters. Turkish military generals, perhaps. The rest of the populace – foreigners included – must remain at home under threat of imprisonment. 

This bizarre mandate, which had those of at the embassy muttering and shaking our heads at the absurdity of it all, has been an unexpected blessing. A forced day of rest. Unlike any holiday, even Christmas Day in the States, where you could still go to the grocery store, gas station, even the movie theater, today any possibility of this is out of the question.

No stores are open. No gas stations are open, since no one should be driving. No trains are running. Even those folks who arrived at the airport today had to sit in the terminal and wait until the curfew lifted at 7:00 p.m. before they could go to their hotel or home. 

As for the silence – well, it was amazing how quickly we adjusted to this new sound. Or lack thereof. We lit a fire in the fireplace. Paul taught Ryan the game Risk. As the boys busied themselves with world domination, Olivia visited our fourth floor neighbor, a single woman who simply adores Olivia and spoils her rotten. I curled up on the couch with a short novel that I actually read in one day. Austin played dress up (“Army man” is his current fave), watched Barney, and found new ways to drive his brother and sister crazy. We all took naps – almost unheard of for our family – then continued the lazy day with more of the same.  

This was better than a holiday. There were no expectations for a huge family feast. No presents to purchase. No pressure to go anywhere or do anything. It was almost as though this were a “bonus” day – like the hour we “gain” at daylight savings time, we suddenly “gained” this extra day for which nothing was planned. We didn’t quite know what to do with the day, so we did nothing, and we reveled in it. 

The darkness fell almost unexpectedly tonight, as we had not been marking the hours pass as we usually do on the weekends. The beautiful quiet was sharply interrupted by a passing car. As we glanced at the clock, we saw that the curfew was over. The city was beginning to stir. By 7:30 p.m., the noise of the street burst through the silence like a jack-in-the-box springing free from the confines of his container, jarring us out of our dreamlike stupor and bringing us back to the reality of life in a city of four million people.

On rediscovering myself

“Who in the world am I? 

Ah, that's the great puzzle.”

~ Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland

Tap, tap, tap... is this thing on?

It's been a hot minute since my last post. I'm aiming to change that.

I lost myself for a while. Lost sight of the things I truly valued. Lost sight of the people I truly loved. Lost sight of the things I loved most to do. Lost sight of my purpose in life. I fell down a rabbit hole and couldn't seem to find my way out.

The funny thing about getting lost is that it happens so gradually. You're busy taking in the new scenery, not realizing that it is growing increasingly dark and dangerous. You often don't realize all the wrong turns you've taken until it's too late.

If you're lucky, you have people who love you -- people who keep searching for you, who are worried about you, who are calling out for you. Their voices cut through the swirling fog. You look around and realize just how lost you really are.

The journey back isn't easy. You're finally aware of the dangers surrounding you.... but you've grown used to the dark rabbit hole and the bright light of freedom seems both blinding and impossibly far away. You look around and notice that there are others like you, trying to scramble their way out of the pit. You grab their hands, they grab yours, and together you make your way to freedom.

Along the way,  you begin to find bits and pieces of yourself that you thought you'd lost forever on that dark journey. Those bits and pieces are now damaged, dirty, trampled, and shattered... but many of them can be repaired and restored over time.

For a time, I lost my creative spark, my passion for learning, my joy in life, among other things. I found fragments of them on my journey back to sanity. I've been cleaning them off, gluing them back together, polishing them up, making them useful again. They are a little cracked. Terribly imperfect. But they are mine. They are... me.

Whether anyone ever reads this blog or not, I want to keep writing. I've missed it so much.

It feels good to be home again.

On calling a spade a spade

“We can ignore reality, but we cannot ignore 

the consequences of ignoring reality.”

~Ayn Rand

I was watching the most recent episode of The Walking Dead last night, in which one of the characters -- who had, until this point, been shielded from the worst of the zombie apocalypse, living in a well-protected enclave where they still had electricity and running water and medicine and where their most pressing concern was the fact that they had to ration chocolate -- came face-to-face with the realities of the current world, when evil men invaded their utopia and ruthlessly attacked these peaceable people who had done nothing to provoke this violent group.

Her friend was left for dead, and then became a zombie, which she had to kill. The shocked townspeople stared at her in disbelief, that she could so calmly and coldly kill her friend-turned-zombie (before her dead former friend killed her). The woman turned to her neighbors and said:

"I used to not want to see the way things are. It’s not that I couldn’t. It’s that I didn’t want to. But this is what life looks like now. We have to see it. We have to fight it. If we don’t fight, we die."

It made me think of the liberal West... ignoring the growing terror of the Islamic Middle East, because we are safe in our enclaves, where our most pressing issue is getting the government to pay for free stuff and where we delusionally believe we have a "right" to "safe spaces" where no opposing viewpoints can enter our precious, fragile consciousness.

On Twitter, I saw several people referring to the terrorist attack on Paris as a “criminal act” -- as though it was merely a random act of violence. I saw another group calling the dead “victims of gun violence.” No, people. No. We can’t end this by downplaying it. When I called out one Twitter user for calling the terrorists a criminal group, he replied with: “I prefer peace over war.”

What the heck? Who doesn’t prefer peace over war -- except for terrorists? Do people really think they can end terrorism simply by calling it something else?

Believe me, I want peace. I’m a mom with one son on active duty in the Army, and another son contemplating the same. I don’t want war, The thought of war terrifies me. But we have to stop refusing to see the truth. Whether we want to acknowledge it or not, war is being waged against us.

We have to see it. We have to fight it. If we don't fight it, we die.

On my own grief, observed

“Grief is like a long valley, a winding valley 

where any bend may reveal a totally new landscape.” 

~ C.S. Lewis, A Grief Observed

This is how it happens, so suddenly, so unexpectedly: 

A scene in a TV show reminds me of a funny moment from childhood, a story that features my dad. I tell it. We laugh. "I can just hear your dad saying that," hubs remarks. 

I chuckle. "Yeah... " I start to muse, "he was..." 

Chest tightens. Throat closes. Words fail. For the next hour or two I'm lost in bittersweet memories, sorrow spilling down my cheeks, my heart once again in a million little pieces. 

Melancholy dreams fill my night. Tears stain my pillow. Morning brings puffy eyes, a swollen face, and a heaviness in my soul, as if I'm hearing the news again for the first time.