Flagstaff, AZ

Dad.

Thinking about Dad today.   I think he would have liked Arizona.   I think he would have liked Flagstaff.  I know he would have loved this house with the mountains surrounding the meadow it sits in.  

He loved the peak district in England.   I’m told as a young adult he spent much time climbing the “peaks.”    Christy was telling me last night as we drove down the road warned as “primitive” on the yellow sign that the big mountain her house faces, are called the “peaks” of Airzona.  The highest height in Arizona.  

So Cheers Daddy.    Cheers to you today as I look out at the peaks!   Altitude, heights nor even your body can hold you back now…  the peaks are all yours.  No matter which peaks they might be. 

my 30th birthday picnic in Castleton of the Derbyshire Peak District.

benefits.

so I checked the mail this evening as usual and in it was the below piece of mail.    Now I’ll preface this and say, I still do receive mail for mum every week – all junk mail but this one left me thinking, seriously? 

Mum died over five years ago why on earth would someone send me the eligible death benefits for “Jane Chambers” in 2009.   Seriously?

Seriously  in this day and age with more modes of storing, offering and exhanging information that would have even seemed fathomable 50 years ago, we are lousy at communicating.  

But alas? This post-modern epidemic?  is not restricted to companies that insist on sending me death benefits for my mum who is now well beyond death.     Nope,  we’ve all forgotten how to use our words and all their benefits.

my salute

I grew up traveling around the world.    Before the age of 10, I had three countries that I had spent significant time in – three countries had been “home.”   And though I’ve spent more time in the US than either of the other two, I still don’t think I’d say that I have ever developed a patriotic spirit -  no offense intended to anyone.   I am highly respectful of any country I happen to be walking but patriotic?  no, not really.   

That being said, I did grow up hearing stories of the war and from the war.   Stories of children evacuated to the north of england from London.  Stories of “bevin boys” and of gas masks.  Stories that described the sound of the “doodlebugs” dropping out of the skies.    Stories of a German parachute hanging in the trees of Chatsworth Park one evening.   And stories of my great uncles fighting in battles like El Alamein in Africa.    In fact I new the stories of war so well that I remember the day the US bombed Afghanistan after 9-11, I went to an older gentleman at the church and asked: does this mean we’re going to get bombed now?   It was the only stories of war I knew.  

Today is veteran’s day.   I’ve never been to a veteran’s day parade before today on either side of the pond.    It was really moving.   I might even say I danced close to being “patriotic” for that half an hour.    I watched a handful of our community at church provide music and salute as they lead the veteran’s down Main St.    I cheered them on.   I gave them my salute as they passed.   What really got me though was watching the ROTC from the high schools dressed in uniform – some even dressed for combat.    What a sight, especially knowing a few of them.  

I know I’ve never been to one before.   I know I’m not particularly “patriotic.”  But I’m not sure I’ll miss another veteran’s day parade – I wouldn’t miss the opportunity to offer my nod and smile to those who have defined duty and service.

sardines

Never let it be said that we are ever too old to need community.

Today I was sandwiched in the back seat of a  little car (I’m not so sure it was really so little) with four other dear colleagues and friends.    For an hour and a half each way we were like a tin of sardines – scrunched together.   Lifting our gludes so seat belts could be fastened;  arms into our sides; carefully adjusting our legs; trying to be as small as we possibly could to give the others a little more elbow room.  — all while talking life and work.

And it was good.   Really good.   One of the best days of work, I’ve had in a long time!

You know, I’ve done my job for so long now, that I’m used to it.   I have rhythm and rhyme in the way I do it.   I loved today cause it was done in community.    Sure I work and meet with folks all the time as part of my job but my old friend who told me long ago that ministry is a lonely place, an isolated place was so right.    I love what I do.   I’m really not sure what else I’d do if I didn’t do this.   But today was nice.   A nice change.   Nice to be in community.   Nice to breathe, relax, laugh, pick and work.    To quote the creator of such things:  it was good.

I think it would do most “grown-ups” I know good to be squished like sardines into a little car for a little while!  Maybe I can be an instigator of such happenings – make a new game out of it  – a new version of sardines!   A game for grown-ups to play….

 

 

Use Your Words

I learned for the first time this summer, the apparently well-used phrase to toddlers: use your words. I was at a family gathering and being exasperated in jest the way that only family can. Apparently I was so befuddled that I couldn’t formulate any words — and so the comment was made again in jest and with much laughter: come on Sally, use your words. Which of course escalated the laughter and my lack of articulation.

Today sitting on the couch with my sister-in-law (whoo hooo for the new Mrs. Chambers) and Janey was in a huff. We’re still not sure exactly why but almost four year-olds don’t need a reason to be all haughty. She finally lifted her head from a pillow fiercely pouting. She looked straight at her mother and then pointed to her bedroom, mouth sealed shut. Clearly laughing wasn’t appropriate or helpful. After some cajoling, Brenda firmly said: Janey use your words. And eventually she did.

Janey is almost four. I get why she needs a little help remembering to not only use her words but how to use them. I really wonder though why it is that we as adults still need so much help using our words.

Pumpkins

I was never particularly a big fan of pumpkins.  I’ve never liked pumpkin pie.   But come to think of it I’m not sure I’d like anything made with what pumpkin looks like when it comes out of a tin.   It’s not that I was anti-pumpkin or anything just didn’t really get into them.   That was of course until I had a niece who fell in love with pumpkins.  I carved my first one ever last year with her.   And though still not a fan of “pumpkin filling” I discovered that I love roasted pumpkin seeds (not sure I’d buy them but I love making them).   Last year I even made a “sukkot” thanksgiving bowl out of a pumpkin with my home-made trail mix.   Last year pumpkins became fun – one of the cool parts of fall along with all the leaves.

This year pumpkins – though I confess I never got to go to the market to buy one until last week – are bringing a strange sort of comfort and ironically carve out space for joy.

Who would have thought?

you could actually buy a pumpkin called a “fairy tale pumpkin.”     There was one called a “Cinderella” pumpkin too, I might have to go back and look at that one.    But who doesn’t feel warmly better, comforted, amused and content when you have a “fairy tale” pumpkin sitting on your patio…. makes you start to wonder if a fairy godmother isn’t too far off?  or at least the road to a happy ending.

and who would have thought?

I could actually carve this!!! well let’s be honest who would have thought I would have carved the time to carve this?   Well I guess that’s what happens when no one shows for a church “sabbath” … the staff get sabbath

pumpkins.   good stuff.   I may still not really enjoy eating them but my eyes enjoy looking at them, my patio is filled with them and my mouth grins with pleasure.

I never really know through what the comfort and joy will come.  But it always does.   It always does.

Bibbity.  Bobbity.  Booooooo!

yummy yum yum

My first experience making home made tomato sauce with Bradley tomatoes from nearby in Tennessee!!!!! Far healthier than the things I usually make.

skipping queen

Fall has finally hit middle tennessee – yipppeee (don’t worry I know we’ll have spells of summer again, we always do at least until January).   And it is gorgeous.  I swear it seems like everybody comes out of hiding ’round here when fall hits (it’s like springtime after the winter – I know backwards – hibernating from summer humidity).       Energy.  Life.  Glory.  People.  Trees.  It’s all over the place.   It’s  really like it’s spring outside only it’s fall.  

Three years ago about this time of year, I wrote this blog about “dancing man.”   I was in the “turn-only” lane heading to the light almost home and I saw this man dancing on the sidewalk as he moved along.   Fall of 2006  and the image of dancing man is still engraved in my mind.  

Well this evening all sorts of things came full circle -  I found myself playing along with the backwards hibernation business.   And this evening I found myself  busting at the seam to skip – and skipping of course turned into wanting to dance.   It happens sometimes when I’m home, when I’m baking but I was neither.   I was in the middle of walking Bugs in a corporate parking lot next to a high-volume,  rush-hour street.    

What has happened to me?  Want had nothing to do with it, cause I actually did it.  I  started skipping.   You know maybe it was the excitement of pulling out my fleecey vest to wear, maybe it was the ipod in hand and music ringing in my ears.  Maybe it was the surprise visit of a friend and her baby boy to the office today or the courtyard chat with a coffee and a young friend.   Maybe it was the beauty of the vesper light and the clean feel of the air.  Maybe it was the thrill of pending weddings and concerts next week. 

I don’t know what it was — but I skipped.  And then I skipped some more.  Then I kept on skipping.   And then it occurred to me that it was quite possible that someone driving, in the same turn-only lane as I when I caught sight of “dancing man,” could see me and think “dancing queen.”   Because it is highly possible I should admit that at certain moments my skip looked a bit more like a dance.     

Now don’t ask — I still have no desire to perform my little skipping queen routine upon demand.     I don’t really like the stage regardless of how high it is especially the lights that are part of the package.   But I do like my own little world sometimes.  My own little world with only my pup, my ipod, the trees and my pursuer.   In my own little world, I think the stage might reach to Heaven as well as the turn-only lane.

labor day weekend art.

brownies.    I don’t like boring.   I like fun and creative !

my attempt at a french wedding cake: croque bouche.
my attempts to carmelize sugar bombed Saturday morning but chocolate and heath bar melted together seemed an even better sustitute – they cracked in the mouth a little, too like the name suggests.    If only all my failures ended up as sweet!