Books

I grew up with this attitude reinforced by parents and teachers.
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Truth, what is it anyway?

I read a quote:

Truth does not mind being questioned; Lies don’t like being challenged.

It got me thinking, which can be a rabbit hole, I will admit. Truth is an elusive thing. I guess I understand what the quote is getting at but I don’t accept the black-and whiteness of it. I don’t accept the implication that there is truth or there are lies, no gray in the middle.

Given the current social/political climate that probably makes me an outlier. Oh, well. Familiar territory anyway.

I see beliefs and opinions too often mistaken for Truth. Sometimes I wonder if there is even such a thing as Truth — so much is a matter of perspective, conditioning and life experience.

I believe quite stongly that there is life after death and that spirits (angels, whatever) occasionally attempt to give me guidance. Certain experiences in my life have informed this belief. Lot’s of my family and friends challenge that notion. I am sure there are people who would out and out deride the idea. It doesn’t bother me in the least and I am not out to convince anyone it is true. I don’t mind being questioned so does that make my belief true? If I got upset and had a tantrum every time someone challenged me on that, would it prove a lie?

Lost Things

Recently I read a poem by Rebecca Lindenberg, “At the Museum of Lost Objects.” If you’d like you can read it here.

It made me think and it reminded me of a beautiful book.

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I believe it was written a children’s book, but I believe anyone who who grew up appreciating the natural world of childhood would appreciate this book and it’s illustrations.

The Goodreads site describes it well:

From Acorn to Weasel: a gorgeous, hand-illustrated, large-format spellbook celebrating the magic and wonder of the natural world.

All over the country, there are words disappearing from children’s lives. Words like Dandelion, Otter, Bramble, Acorn and Lark represent the natural world of childhood, a rich landscape of discovery and imagination that is fading from children’s minds.

The Lost Words stands against the disappearance of wild childhood. It is a joyful celebration of the poetry of nature words and the living glory of our distinctive, British countryside. With acrostic spell-poems by peerless wordsmith Robert Macfarlane and hand-painted illustrations by Jackie Morris, this enchanting book captures the irreplaceable magic of language and nature for all ages.

The words in this book were eliminated from a child’s dictionary from the Oxford University Press to make room for the vocabulary of technology. The reason was the notion that since kid’s spend less time outside and more time in front of screens, the lost words were less relevent and, therefore, expendable. That makes me sad.

Conversations with Mother

I stop at my mom’s on my way home from work

bringing her dinner each night. As we eat

Hmm, good cooks use more salt. Then

Come here. I have something to show you.

She opens her closet door. This dress

I want to wear this dress in my casket.

I wonder if there is something I should know.

My brain was programmed for 75 . . . I’m 82.

I spend Saturdays with my mom. She tells me, again,

the convoluted story of my sister’s birth — feet first 

the wrong way and maybe she had a Caesarian,

so much blood . . . a hysterectomy . . .

and that’s why I had a nervous breakdown.

She adds, I cancelled Better Homes and Gardens

I told them I won’t live for the whole year so

I asked them to send my money back.

I relieve the women we hired to provide daycare.

We pay her the going rate, but it isn’t much.

She sits and watches TV while Mom putters.

I spend the evening cooking, hiding stove knobs,

cleaning up spills, washing the laundry, coaxing

her our of the six or seven dresses she has on,

steering her into the bath. Help! She’s hurting me!

She tells my brother, That women is stealing money.

I visit my mother in the nursing home every day.

She doesn’t seem to know me although she 

claps with joy when Sergio comes in to sing.

I talk about grandchildren she doesn’t remember,

great grandchildren she never even knew.

I push her in her wheelchair and we sit outside.

She listens to music. eats vanilla ice cream

Conversation fades, fades until it is gone.

Breathe

Was there really any other conclusion that could have been drawn?

It is a sad day. BUT . . . It is also a new day.

Had the Chauvin verdict been any other, Black people in this country would have no expectation for justice ever.

My prayers are for all hearts to open.

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Always be kind.

A Bad Day?

Sure, sometimes I have a bad day. It makes me feel cranky and out of sorts. I try not to inflict my mood on those around me. I have learned to ask myself;

Have I had enough water lately? Do I need a snack?

Am I spending too much time in front of a screen?

Do I need to go outside, go for a walk, work in the garden?

Do I need a nap?

These days, have I showered, brushed my teeth and gotten dressed?

Do I just need a hug?

Never once have I thought I’m so cranky and out of sorts that I will just have to go on a homicidal rampage.

Because that is not a bad day, that is a bad life. That is hatred for self turned inside out. That is wrong.

It’s enough to make the angels weep.

(On March 16, 2021, a young white man self-described as sex-obsessed entered three Asian staffed spas in the Atlanta, GA, area and shot nine people, killing eight of them. A police spokesperson said that Long “had a bad day.”)