September

September is upon us. In Starkville, we are having cooler weather already–a little unusual for Mississippi. That transition is always nice after the heat and humidity of Summer. Those first few mornings when the breeze is actually cooler usually lift my spirits right away. I know I’ve shared that Autumn is my favorite time of year.

As I was deciding on a theme for this month’s desktop wallpaper calendar (click to download if you like), it occurred to me that often there is no other time when we more readily embrace transition than September. In fact, at this time of year we are sometimes even eager for the changes that come. As I mentioned, September brings the end of Summer’s heat and the first hints of more pleasant temperatures. It celebrates the beginning of a new school year for so many youngsters. It sets in motion the warming up of nature’s color palette as we begin to see subtle shifts in the blue of the sky and the fading of green on tree leaves. These transitions shake us out of the tired landscape where we’ve spent the summer.

In September, Summer’s luxuries of play and rest and taking breaks give way to renewed motivation to get back to the tasks at hand. We re-adjust our schedules with more focus. We outfit ourselves with new “necessities” that will spur us on to accomplish new things. We shake off the doldrums and attempt to get ourselves moving again.

I’ve written about the many changes that have been happening in my life over the last few months. Transition should be old hat to me by now. Yet, I find that the doldrums of complacency in my heart still need a little shaking free this month. So often, the heart moves at a different pace than the rest of us in making a transition. Sometimes it leads the charge. Sometimes it lags behind and needs a little coersion. Sometimes it just grows wayward in avoidance or denial. But, the realities of change and transition are just that. Realities. Just as surely as seasons come and go; the cycle of life changes can not be denied.

In thinking about the resistence I sometimes feel in my own heart when faced with transition, I was struck by one little line in the Wordsworth poem I included in my wallpaper design.

“Unfaded, yet prepared to fade”

That observation of September is so appropriate. Summer’s verdant colors still largely remain this month. The cooler temperatures reminiscent of Fall will be sporadic at best. Summer remains unfaded. Yet. [That's a big word for only three letters.] YET, in September, Summer is “prepared” to fade. For in September, just as in any situation ripe for transition, you never know which season you’ll get moment by moment. At a breath’s notice, Summer and Autumn are just as likely to appear. Perhaps it’s nature’s way of coaxing us into the change.

It’s becoming more and more apparent that this particular season in my life is one of transition. I want my heart to be prepared. I want my heart to be ready to embrace it, to accept it, to shine through it. As chapters fade and new ones open, I want my heart on board. Completely.

Winding Roads

The shortest distance between two points is a straight line–or so the saying goes. I’ll bet that’s absolutely true in pristine geometry. In life, I’m not so sure it always plays out that way. In fact, I’ve realized that the winding path can sometimes yield unexpected rewards, and get me to my destination to boot.

A week or so ago, I was traveling to south central Mississippi to visit with a Small Pond Graphics restaurant client and ended up spending most of the day on the road–MS Highway 31 South, to be more precise. Oddly enough, Google thought the best (and fastest) way to get from Starkville to Magee, MS was through the curvy, two-lane highway route–a fact that may be uniquely indicative of Mississippi. Because it was true. It WAS the fastest way to get there, although 4-laned, 70mph speed limits were only a small part of the itinerary.

Stepping out of the four walls of my office and out of the mindset of the digital world proved to be quite a sigh of relief that week. One I’m still relishing. It’s interesting how a simple change of scenery can offer much-needed refreshment, even if that scenery is mostly seen from the front windshield. More interesting still is the new perspective that comes in releasing yourself from the need to get there as fast as possible.

I left early for the trip because I didn’t really know the way, and while Google may be the quintessential authority on most things, I wasn’t convinced that the back roads of Mississippi were actually included in that knowledge-base. I’m sure I have traveled that part of the state a few times in my adulthood, but the last time I really remember paying attention to it was when I was a child. That was the trip I took with my Grandmother to trace the roots of her growing up years around Smith County where I was photographed religiously beside many personal landmarks. And, I have the goofy, mis-proportioned, knee-socked, pre-teen, girl-standing-by-a-road-sign Polaroids to prove it. This time I only passed BY the sign to White Oak, MS. I didn’t actually stop to recreate that childhood photo op. But I did take my camera. And, I took my time.

The trip was an exercise in stopping–to smell the figurative roses, perhaps. Although, I suppose the sense of smell isn’t the one that got the most refreshment. (Unless, of course, you include the distinctive scent of chicken houses as a source of inspiration.) My senses of awareness and appreciation were the ones piqued along this journey. If you’ve poured over the Junkie tags list (and I’m SURE you have), you may have noticed a tiny one called “vernacular typography”. It’s a big ol’ phrase that, for me, just means hand-painted signs. Searching them down and recording them is sort of a haphazard hobby I’ve had since college. I just enjoy seeing the ingenuity and creativity folks put into communicating themselves without the benefit of cut vinyl. For the unindoctrinated, winding roads and small towns in Mississippi are the mother lode of hand-painted signs, y’all. I’m beginning to share some of the images I found over at Plop! my company blog, if you’re interested.  But, here, my mention of it is more an acknowledgement of the process of stopping. And capturing. Of driving and winding. And stopping. Of turning around and driving back where you came. To see something again. And to mark it in time with a snapshot. Whatever oddity it represents or what interest of the “designer” it communicates, the act of stopping and paying attention to something that caught your fleeting fancy is a phenomenal experience. Yes, my senses of awareness and appreciation were more than awakened.

In addition to capturing quite a few hand-painted signs, in this trip I saw turkeys. I saw rows of hay bales recently rolled and ready to be stored for winter sale or cattle grazing. I saw rows and rows of chicken houses representing one of the farming profession’s staples in this part of the state. I drove through the Bienville National Forest that boasts no cell service but stands of pine 12 feet from the road without the tell-tale reddish brown dying undergrowth produced by herbicides used to keep the normal summertime Mississippi roadside vegetation at bay. I saw the shade of those trees pierced by moments of sunlight. I saw the curves and the mailboxes and the road signs bearing the names of county folks. I saw Good Hope and Lena and Forkville. Morton, Polkville and Puckett. Yes, Grandmother, I saw White Oak.

I saw my need to get somewhere fast vanishing. I saw my own peripheral vision come into focus. I saw the journey grow just as valuable as the destination.

Cardinal Rules

I spotted this guy in my backyard this week. I glanced out the back door as I was walking through the kitchen, and I could see him clear across the lawn even though it was cloudy and just before twilight. It’s hard to miss that red in the sea of gray and evergreen at the back fence. It was like he was screaming at me; his presence was so vibrant. But, he wasn’t shouting. He was perfectly silent, and his only movements were those slight fluffing of feathers and jittery turns of the neck birds do.

His color was so bright that I wanted to get a picture. I grabbed my camera, slowly opened the back door and eased out onto the back steps. I took my zoom lens as far as it would go to capture him, which probably accounts for the slight blur in the photo. When I realized I couldn’t focus as well as I wanted to, I decided to try to get a little closer. Sure enough, as soon as I made a move down the steps toward the patio, he’d had enough. Off he flew, and the moment was gone.

I’m tempted to say this bird is a sign of Spring, but he’s not. He’s actually a sign of Winter. The cardinals have been spent the entire Winter with us like they do every year. I suppose Starkville, MS offers just the right blend of mild Winter weather to make it a good “snowbird” locale for the red birds. This one’s plump physique is an advertisement for the luxury accomodations available in our particular yard with the berries, the evergreen trees, the vinca groundcover and the tall bird feeder we try to protect from overzealous (and very acrobatic) squirrels. The only drawbacks in our bird paradise are the rowdy boys that sometimes populate the backyard as well. Still, we usually have two or three cardinal families– brilliant red males and duller brown females–that hang around throughout the year, and we’ll probably get to watch them teach their babies to fly this Spring.

It’s an odd phenomenon–how much more I seem to notice the cardinals during Winter, even this time of year, than later in Spring or Summer when they are more prolific. I suppose it’s the sheer contrast of their color and movement against the seeming monotony and stillness of the Winter landscape. As Spring gains prominence, their bright red becomes just one component of a rainbow of other saturated colors–greens, reds, yellows, blue skies. Their flight gets lost in the cacophony of other activities going on outdoors. It’s interesting how much more easily we recognize things when they are sparse, how much more significant to us they become when we aren’t saturated. When we feel deprived of something, we tend to recognize its value more poignantly. Its presence gains power, perhaps because scarcity tends to focus our attention

It’s Saturday, and I’m usually totally immersed in a flood of laundry and housework and catching up. But, I’ve been thinking about this little cardinal all week. His vibrance. His stunning addition to our backyard in that one moment. His power to capture my attention so completely. I hope I can live by the “cardinal” rules today, recognizing and giving attention to those things and people that matter to me, even on the days when their presence is crowded by so many daily occurences. I don’t want to notice them only when I’m lonely for their prominence.

Flying Cheesy Dogs and the Art of Perfection

Makes you wanna cuss. And, I don’t mean “curse” in that polite and grammatically correct way. I mean cuss. In the vernacular.

The other night (seriously) I made “cheesy dogs,” the quintessential kid-friendly dinner composed of hot dogs stuffed with cheddar cheese and wrapped in crescent rolls. The parts are out of their respective packages and on the table with presto combined deliciousness in under 20 minutes flat. The pervasive opinion of the preschoolers in my house is that they are best accompanied by tator tots. No, preparing them probably doesn’t actually constitute cooking, and they don’t have much true nutritional value. But, they’re popular, and they can be a Mommy’s salvation after a long day of work.

So, last Friday I took full advantage of my own need for a quick fix at the end of a busy week. I made cheesy dogs. Eight of them. They were fresh out of the oven, and I was prying them from the pan with a spatula in my usual “grip with the pot-holder and scrape with all you’ve got” method. They always stick for some reason. The first one is the hardest to remove from the cookie sheet because of the close quarters produced by eight wrapped hot dogs arranged on about 180 square inches. Plus, the melting cheese always eliminates any space left between them.

I was holding with the pot-holder. I was scraping with the spatula in the upside-down position that almost always works. Almost. Before I could say “beefy jumbos,” cheesy dog #1 flew off the pan and onto the tile floor.

I told you. Makes you wanna cuss.

Don’t you just love the best laid plans? The table was set. Little Drummer Boy and Bug were in the living room announcing “I’m hungry!” I don’t remember, but I’m sure Baby Girl was on top of the coffee table. The week of a thousand heart-filled preschool parties was finally over. Tator Tots were on the table and ice in the glasses.

Just to recap: Cheesy dog #1 was ON THE FLOOR. And no one else was in the kitchen. So, what did I do? NATURALLY, I picked up #1 from the tile, blew it off and gave it a prominent location on the yellow serving plate. I popped those other seven suckers off the cookie sheet in short order, and “Dinner is served.” (Please send Martha Stewart Living subscriptions. Quick. And, Mama, just forget you read this.)

The bad news: Sometimes things just don’t work out the way you planned. The good news: No one has ever keeled over from a little grit on their cheesy dog. Honest.

Life isn’t perfect. In fact, perfection is an overrated and hopelessly flawed pursuit. And although I hate to play the role of the realist, realistically, a life lived in whatever moment of perfection I might enjoy is perhaps a life spent waiting for the other shoe to drop (or the other cheesy dog, as the case may be.) Perfection just can’t be maintained. And, TRYING to maintain it can be a nerve-racking, tension-filled, white-knuckle attempt. It’s simply not sustainable.

Sustainable perfection implies that the people achieving it are perfect. It assumes that those folks will always make wise choices, that they will always take into account and avoid the pitfalls (and clumsy spatulas) of life. It means they will never make mistakes, or at the least, they will always learn from their all-too-brief mistakes immediately and completely. Funny, I don’t see that person when I look in the mirror. I don’t know ANY people like that. In fact, the reality of those traits is pretty much universally disproved by the popularity of Wiley Coyote, don’t you think? Yeah, or at least by flying cheesy dogs.

Now, if you’ve never experienced your own cheesy dog epiphany, let me assure you that it’s coming. It’s a fact, and there is no fruit in denying it. The lesson learned from my own cheesy dog experience was that I can really shift my body a little to the left to block that whole flying off the pan thing, and this: Real life happens in the grit.

Thank God for the grit. It’s the stuff that lets us know we’re human just like everybody else, bound in a commonality of error. It’s the dust that reminds us of our own inherent needs, our own blessed short-comings. It’s the crunch that protects us from the trap of arrogant assumptions and exclusive palates. It’s the road-worthy flavor that ensures we are flexible and patient and willing to change and aware of the unexpected and able to embrace a surprising life.

Sure, plans are better made. They’re better laid with the best of intentions and wisdom and effort. They’re worth thinking about and following. But, from the poster child of plan Bs, let me just say that into every life a little cheesy dog must fall.

Blow it off and bon appetit!

Tangibility

8:26pm
On a common Tuesday, this post might be replaced by some alternately witty, profound, silly or introspective list of ten things. It would be some concise presentation of what’s been going on in my mind–something boiled down to a few words or a few descriptions. Sometimes it would expand itself to a Tuesday twenty-five or morph into a Thursday thirty–fruit of an overzealous mind or a week procrastinating about more important things. The concept for the Tuesday Ten series was honestly conceived as a way to facilitate a quick post, a catalyst for easily writing something during the middle of the week. Not so today.

8:30pm
Try as I might, I couldn’t even come up with a measely list of ten today. I’ve written before about the smoke and mirrors afforded to me by WordPress Dude. You know, the ability to germinate on posts in my queue while giving the impression that something described as “last night” actually was so. It’s not always true. (gasp!) No, sometimes when I say “tonight” it actually means several nights ago, or several months ago. I know. It’s a little opaque, and I usually try not to deceive in that way, but I’ll admit that sometimes the time markers are just a flat out lie. The sentiments are real, to be sure. It’s just the time frame that is occasionally all wonky. I’m working on such a post right now, one that describes an occurence from last Friday. I intended to write it that night, but alas, I lost my motivation. So now, several days later, the “last night” is no longer really “last night.”

Admittedly, this confessional paragraph is probably a little over-cooked and unnecessary. Nevertheless, I’ve included it to underscore the fact that tonight’s post is different. I’m writing in real time.

8:38pm
I tried this experiment once before during my 12 Days of Thanksgiving last year. I used it then–like I’m using it now–to provide a little self-intervention, coaxing myself into a better frame of mind. So, while I’m distracted by checking the score of the Mississippi State/Kentucky basketball game and starting the dishwasher and listening to one of the many updates about the car chases happening on the coffee table, I’m also writing to redirect myself.

8:44pm
I feel disconnected today.

I spend much of my time connecting things — marketing budgets with preferred advertising opportunities, brands with their favored potential customers, little boys with their juice cups and stuffed animals, a little girl with her “poppy” or board book, hamburger meat with the appropriate spices, etc. Yet today, I find myself disconnected. From myself. I’ve been in that solitary place of being at a safe, but uncomfortable distance from my own thoughts, from my own hopes, from understanding what matters to me, from the tangible realities that motivate my passions. Does that ever happen to anyone else?

I’m lonely today, lost in that place where I can’t put my finger on any one thing, any one feeling, any one desire. I find myself distracted by the constant motion of my own wandering, and removed from the tangible connections of real living. I’m avoiding. Hiding. Shielding. Hedging.

I read a statement yesterday to the effect that LIVING is more than simply breathing in and out. That one stuck. While  the inhale and exhale of life is necessary, the fact of its involuntary nature lacks the intention that moves me beyond mere existence. It’s quantity, but not quality. It’s a breath, pure and simple. And while pure and simple may fulfill the body, it doesn’t speak to the sigh or heave or gasp or laugh or whistle or sniff that could touch my soul and spirit. Today, I’m not feeling the expansion of my lungs that a deep breath should afford. I’m not feeling the expansion of my perspective. There’s a disconnect somewhere–somewhere between the ordinary of existence and the extra-ordinary of living. I’m afraid the breakdown occurs in my own attention to detail. I need a fresh view of even the monotonous and seemingly insignificant gestures that really connect me to people and relationships and experiences (both near and far)–those that connect me to the world I live in, to the LIFE I want to really live. I need a shot of tangibility, something that brings me back to myself, something that reconnects me with what matters. To me.

9:06pm

10:17pm
I feel myself wanting to experience freshly, or for the first time, the little everyday tangible things that constitute living, familiary and connection. The things that bring near those who are far. The things that remind me of important times. The things that show me what’s changed. What’s the same. The things that cause me to see what’s right in front of me. The things that let me know life is alive.

10:30pm
For the next 15 minutes I’m making a Tangible Life list and checking it twice. Hello, intervention!

Handwriting. A four-year-old boy lingering in my lap. The smell of whole wheat pasta cooking. The inflection of a voice. The subtle shift in a smile when it’s tired. A well-chosen phrase. Finishing a conversation. Hearing something you need to hear. Hard-working hands. Vibrant color. Blue cloudless skies. Rinsing a little girl’s hair. Being asked to play with trains. Playing with trains. Turning the pages of a book. An unencumbered grin. A hearty laugh. Postage stamps. Little boys who “help.” Singing songs. Moving to music. A phone call with my mother. Hearing my father say “I love you.” A familiar quilt. A good vocabulary. Three-year-old arms around my neck. A dishwasher that works. A little girl’s giggle. Wooden spoons. Dinner at a restaurant. Chocolate ganache. Sweetened iced tea. A crisp February. Shiny earrings. Soft sweaters. Honey mustard. Drools. Car chase sounds. Dinosaur fights. The sound of a saxophone. Wiping a tear. Blowing a nose. Washing a blanket. The sound of a laptop keyboard. Blue jeans. Black boots. Soft touches. Kind words. Wide open smiles. Down pillows.

10:45pm
These things and experiences let me know this day is real. And, this day is all I know I have. Connection made.