Holiday

 We had a wonderful Christmas Eve. All our five living children were home that day and evening, along with our four grandkids. We had vegan chili for supper and opened presents. Our grandson, Andrew, led us in singing “The Sounds of Silence,” which he had just performed with his fifth-grade choir at school.

I decided to take Christmas week off, just take a full holiday. It was wonderful, including yesterday when, for the New Year’s Day (observed),  Sam and Savannah, Eliza and Link, came for a supper of Alexander's Pizza and a game of Five Crowns. I don’t even remember who gave the game to me, many years ago, but I’d never talked anyone into playing it before this holiday.

But today dawned, drizzling and grey, and yet again I didn’t have enough time to do all the things I hoped.

I realize, yet again, that it has been a story of my life: always fantasizing about doing more than humanly (or at least Mary-ly) possible. A few months ago, I sat in an Adirondack chair, gazing at my fall garden. I realized that sincere gratitude is a huge piece in the quest to find calm and peace. I trust that the serenity gained from deep gratitude will help me as I let go of the false idea that I can do everything.

This is a perennial topic between Jim and me. Jim has been self-employed since 1986. I've been a homemaker since 1981. You'd think we'd have figured it out by now, but we haven't. "Whereever you go; there you are." We realize we are bad bosses to ourselves. If an employer treated his staff the way we treat ourselves: constantly setting up unattainable goals and expectations, the employees would quit and the business would fail.

I don't have any answers. But it's a new year. I'll get up tomorrow and try again.

The Bees' Knees

 Exactly three years ago I wrote an elbow-appreciation post. I had weeded in short sleeves and developed painful poison-ivy rashes on both inner elbows. For several days I couldn’t bend my arms. I realized I had taken my arm joints for granted for 61 years.

Now I must discuss knees. On Memorial Day I worked creating a raised garden bed with Conor, the teenage boy I’ve hired as a gardener, and Caleb, Jim’s nephew. We worked for over four hours, digging trenches and installing a border of pavers. I was in constant motion, kneeling and standing back up. By the end of the session, my left knee, a problem since high school, could hardly tolerate weight and I limped into the house.

For the next several days I rested, careful not to twist the knee. I took the stairs one step at a time. My mom taught me the drill: down with the bad, up with the good. (This puts all the stress on the healthy knee.) But then I got careless and on Friday I was in worse pain than ever.

Monday was frustrating. I had to go up and down two flights of stairs multiple times with laundry baskets. It was so tedious. But I stayed true to my resolve to care for my knee. Down with the bad, up with the good. The tedium paid off: today I have no pain. I even ventured out for a two-mile walk on the Battle Road in Lincoln.

Speaking of the Battle Road (preserved in the Minuteman National Historical Park in Lexington, Lincoln, and Concord): on April 19th, Patriots' Day, I completed my walking Paul Revere's ride (having walked from Paul Revere's house in Boston to Lexington the Saturday before). That Monday I started at Lexington's Hancock-Clarke House, and followed Mass Ave to the old Battle Road. There's a curving stone wall at Revere's Capture Site, where Revere was nearly shot and the British patrol confiscated his borrowed horse. From there, in the early morning hours of April 19, 1775, Revere walked back to the Lexington Green where the Battle of Lexington was about to erupt. He walked in the pre-dawn; I walked at dusk. I'm grateful for knees.

Congregational singing

 Jim’s nephew, Caleb (David and Michelle’s oldest), flew in last Saturday night to spend the summer with us. He has an internship in Boston. The job is remote, but he is hoping to be able to go into the office at some point and see his co-workers. And I think he just wants to live in the Boston area (who wouldn’t?).

Sunday morning Caleb said he wanted to attend church with me. Attendance is capped, so I had to check with the executive secretary, who said there was a built-in cushion and it shouldn’t be a problem.

For the second week in a row, we were allowed to sing with the organ, albeit with masks on. Last week I could barely sing, a combination of a very rusty singing voice and the emotion of savoring an activity we haven’t been allowed to enjoy for fourteen months: congregational singing. This week my voice was a little stronger, but holding the cherished green hymnbook and singing still brought tears to my eyes.

Church attendance has been a constant in my life, my whole life. The first time I attended church in person during the pandemic, it felt strange and isolating. No hymnbooks and only every third pew occupied. Twenty-five people spread out in a seemingly cavernous chapel. Now every other pew is used and soon the attendance cap will be raised.

Asking permission for Caleb to attend highlighted the wonderful religious freedom I have enjoyed all my life and taken for granted until last year.

The weather was gorgeous, so we were able to meet outside and chat after sacrament meeting. I’m fully vaccinated, so I’m no longer worried about infection. The soul-numbing isolation is coming to an end. Hallelujah!

Cottage Fruit

My phone alarm woke me up from a sound sleep this morning. Groggy and without my glasses, I saw the display: ‘Minuteman’. What? Patriots’ Day is past (and technically the men on Lexington Green in 1775 hadn't formed a minute company; they were militia). When I woke up enough to put on my glasses, I looked again: ‘Meditation’.

Khare had asked us to bring a small snack. Cottage fruit is my name for cottage cheese mixed with fruit cocktail. We had it several times a week while I was growing up. I often mixed it for supper, in a metal mixing bowl with a thumb ring attached. For our 30th wedding anniversary, we bought our own set of bowls. They have a beauty only objects from a childhood possess.

Khare guided us in ‘mindful eating’. Slow down. Look at the food carefully. Notice texture and color. Smell it. Feel it on your lips (hot or cold, rough or smooth). Take a mouthful and savor it. Let it rest on your tongue.

It brought up nourishing memories of childhood. My children did not grow up with this humble delicacy. Cottage cheese was much more expensive than homemade yogurt made with powdered milk. Nowadays I stock it and remember my mom every time I eat it.

I have not been practicing mindful eating. I shovel things in my mouth, desperate for some quick sensory input: a full mouth. To slow down, really taste the first food of the day filled me with delight. I hope to do more mindful eating soon.

Gratitude for Soles

I am grateful for my soles.

I wish you could hear the sleep meditations I listen to. There are five of them, each fifteen or twenty minutes long. I choose among them every night. They all include variations on the standard meditation fare: mindful breathing, an affirmation or two, visualizations, and a body scan, “I will name a body part. Focus your mind on that body part. You will remain completely still: only your mind will move.”

I wish you could hear her describe the soles of my feet, how they carry me around from place to place and bear up soooo much. She puts such empathy into describing those neglected, unappreciated feet.

I walked sixteen and a half miles yesterday. It was glorious. Around mile ten, I became aware of a rubbing on the pad of my right foot. About a mile later, my left foot developed the same slightly painful sensation. Since it had been snowing that morning when I left home, I had worn my hiking boots, instead of sneakers, and thick synthetic sox. I regretted the sox, but I don’t own woolen ones (yet.). I trudged through the woods for six miles walking more and more gingerly. By the time I made it home, I could barely walk up the exterior stairs to Jim's office.

Upon examination, I discovered that the blisters were not serious and my feet feel much better today. But last night I hobbled around, not able to put any weight on the blisters. Walking up or down my flight of stairs took several minutes. Unfortunately, I had to use the stairs several times last night. I was relieved that I wouldn’t have to go to church, since all meetings are video-conferences right now. I couldn’t imagine walking from the parking lot to the chapel.

It’s a little thing, really, soles without blisters. So easy to ignore, take for granted. How often do I think about them?  Rarely. But today I am truly grateful for them. Blisters are a minor inconvenience, even in the not-so-grand scheme of things.

I just want to say, I’m grateful for my soles.