Guest blogging today on Wichita Area Romance Authors site. http://warawriters.weebly.com/blog
(I began this series many years ago. However, the lessons bear repeating.)
Three years ago during the holiday season, I was impressed by the Christmas-light-wrapped evergreen trees in what used to be called Pelican Park, just north of the swimming pool. To me that Christmas the variety of the trees and the lights called to mind and celebrated the diversity of humanity.
This year, the trees are showing me a different lesson — the fact that, despite our diversity, we all share certain commonalities, that the differences between us blur as life passes on. For instance, with the passing of time, the bulbs faded, to the point that the pink and red are almost indistinguishable. You have to look close to tell the difference between the white and yellow, or the blue and green. As they burnt out, bulbs have been replaced on the strings of lights. When the proper colors were not available, substitutes were used. Therefore, this season, we have some white lights among the pink, some yellow among the orange, some green among the blue. This is exactly the way humans are becoming. Very few of us, especially in the melting pot we call America, are of pure heritage. In fact, some of us celebrate the diversity of our ancestors, serving the lutefisk of our Swedish heritage alongside the tamales of our Mexican forebears.
There are other blendings not so obvious. Some of us come from a farming background, but may share more of that childhood in common with a city child from Arkansas than we do with a child from today’s family corporation farm. That child may have more in common with the child of a Wall Street banker than with my father, who farmed from the twenties to the sixties. Those from around the world who are alumni of a particular school may be more similar, at least on game day, than they are to their neighbors. Single parents across the country, even across the world, share concerns that the married couple across the street will never experience. All parents, married or single, share common fears and hopes. All children, from toddlers to octogenarians, who have lost a parent feel a common loss.
And there is a deeper lesson, beyond the trappings of the now imperfect lights. Once those trees were just saplings, twenty or thirty feet apart. Now, not only have their root systems intertwined, the trees themselves touch. They are growing closer together, and they will continue to do so. As humans age, we also grow closer to those around us, if we allow ourselves to do so. As youngsters, we distrusted those different from us. They appeared different, therefore they could not be at all like me. Yet, as years go by and experiences shape us, just like the wind and rain and lightning and heavy snow shape this grove of trees, we grow closer together, no longer isolated individuals, but a cohesive group that draws shelter from our similarities and no longer fears our differences.
Just as it did three years ago, the same sun still shines on these trees, and the same Son still shines His light for all humanity. These trees still draw their nourishment from the source underground, and all humankind has the opportunity to draw on the same stream of Living Water. The Bible says that every man shall acknowledge Jesus as Lord. Until that day comes, I hope that we can all continue to grow together and find our common ground. And that is lesson two of the evergreen grove — harmony and hope.
(Author’s note: This post first appeared several years ago, before the lights were changed to white, before the hospital was updated, back when there was a Christmas truce in wars. But despite change, I think it bears repeating.)
They stand near a busy intersection in Pratt, America. Just north of the empty, snow-dusted swimming pool, they serve as a stepping stone in a path of parks stretching from the highway that borders the south edge of town to the capstone park adjoined by Highway 54 as it cuts Pratt in half. They must be visible from some of the hospital windows, just above them on the hill, these seven stately evergreens, each wrapped in a different color of festive lights.
As I drove past them last night, intent on just where on the racks and shelves of the busy stores I would find each item on my list, I was stopped short in my mental rush by the simple beauty of the arrangement. Each tree is unique in its own right. Though all are old and tall, some tower above the others. Some are full and round, others tall and spindly. Some cluster together, but two stand aloof at opposite ends of the grove. Some have branches that drape down, others’ branches sweep upwards as if in praise. Each is a testament to the glorious diversity of evergreen trees.
Then the lights — white, yellow, red, orange, pink, green, blue. Some are spaced precisely around the trees, others splashed on with a hurried hand. The orange lights blaze out for all to see. The blue ones are so subtle, they can’t be seen until night is well advanced. Together they present the same colors that make up the spectrum and the rainbow.
Shopping finished and more at peace, I drove back past the lights — and there it was. Glorious diversity. God made each of us as unique as this grove of evergreens, the tree that symbolizes the never-failing quality of His love for us. Some of us are round and full, others tall and spindly. Like the trees, some of us gather together, while others stand aloof. Some of our shoulders droop, while others of us lift our hands in praise. We are covered in many colors of skin, just as the trees wear different colors of lights. Yet each of us is a testament to the glorious diversity of the world we live in.
As this Christmas season rushes by us so fast that the bright colors begin to blur, I hope we can take the time to appreciate the world God made for us — the glorious diversity and the marvelous complexity of it. Each year near midnight on December 24, the entire world does seem to pause, to hold its breath for just a moment. Warring guns fall silent, and people around the world stop. Some give thanks that a baby was born nearly 2,000 years ago, just so He could die for us. Some people may even look heavenward, wondering when that bright star may come again.
Until it does, maybe from time to time we can remember the lesson of this grove of evergreens. Although each of them is different, they draw their nourishment from the same source underground, where their roots intertwine to help each of them stand. They all draw warmth and life-giving light from the same sun. They’re not so very different from us, this grove of trees. And as they stand together to celebrate this season, their lights send a message to all of us.
I’m guest blogging November 11 on my editor’s website: http://aliciadean.com/alicias-blog/ Every Tuesday, she posts a Two-Minute Writing Tip. With several books to her credit and a job as an editor for The Wild Rose Press, she gives some good advice. The interview will let you learn more about me, What the River Knows, and my writing process.
All systems are go for launch of What the River Knows on October 14. Validation of a dream I’ve cherished since I was 14 years old. For more information beyond what I have on this site, go to http://www.wildrosepublishing.com/ for the e-book or What the River Knows-paperback for the paperback. The e-book will download on October 14 and the print book will ship soon after. Here’s also a QR code for those of you who know how to use such things. You can also find it on Amazon and other sites
If you read the book and like it, please do me and the publisher a huge favor and leave a review. A lot of folks buy books based on what total strangers think of it. I know I buy them based on recommendations from friends or “buzz” I’ve hear.
Thanks to all of you who have supported and encouraged me on this journey. The next books starring Detective Scott Aylward is in planning stages right now. The working title is A Little Shame, such as when your mother used to admonish you when you had done something that probably embarrassed her (I’m using imagination here; I never did anything like that!) “A little shame is a good thing.”
Being a writer is a great job. Even when we are not BICHOK (Butt in Chair, Hands on Keyboard), we are writing. No experience is ever wasted on a writer. Bussing tables, driving cattle, building skyscrapers, working in an office, driving a truck: writers can draw on any of these experiences to write to the heart of the matter.
When people call, writers have an automatic “get out of jail free” card. “I can’t go to the tea with Great Aunt Grenadine. I’m writing.” Writing also serves as an automatic door opener. “Of course, I need to talk to the President. I’m a writer.” The problem with this world-changing power is that it is so invisible and subtle that almost no one recognizes it.
Friends call up. “Whatchadoin’?”
“No, you’re not. You’re mowing your lawn.”
“I’m working out plot twists while calming my mind with physical activity.”
“Oh. You wanna work out more plot twists and mow my lawn?”
Or a neighbor walks by as you are sitting on your porch steps watching birds and trees.
“Hey, neighbor. Whatchadoin’?”
Why is that always just one word? “I’m writing.”
“No, you’re not. You’re goofing off sitting on your porch.”
“No, really, I’m observing birds in flight. It’s research for my current work in progress.”
“Oh, what’s it about?”
Think fast. “Kinda like Jonathan Livingston Seagull meets Dirty Harry.”
“Hmph.” He starts to wander off. “Sounds . . . interesting.”
“Yeah.” Guess I won’t count on him as a beta reader.
Or the boss calls. “What are you doing?” Why are they never casual?
“No, you’re not. You’re on the beach in Fort Lauderdale with your family.”
“On the beach?”
“Yeah. Observing the interactions of various species of shorebirds.”
“Yeah, gulls and terns. And how the white gulls sneak into the back of a flock of dark gulls.”
“Yeah. And I just spent twenty minutes observing the rhythm of the waves.”
“Yeah. They try to suck you out into the ocean. Very hypnotic.” Truly inspired, I share some of the fruit of my inspiration. “When the waves break over the shallow part of the beach, they make me think of a herd of school kids all trying to get through the door to the playground at the same time, each one of them wanting to be the first to get there.” Lost in my art, I don’t notice the long silence on the other end.
“I think you need another week. Don’t rush back to work.”
See? Being a writer is a great job.
The Wimpy Dog takes me places I would not go otherwise. On my own, I would not visit the Boston terrier across the open field. Nor would I venture around the lilac thicket that once surrounded a home in our city park. Now it is home to who knows what creatures that have made obvious paths and bedding places within it. I would not have discovered that the clumps of cedar in our park would be secure places to shelter in snow and wind. Of course, his travels to these places often make me nervous we’ll encounter wild kitties somewhat different from the ones we feed on the porch—those black and white striped ones! But so far, Bart’s all-seeking nose has not brought us into danger.
Further, after a recent walk outside our usual routes, downtown to pay bills, I suspect Wimpy Dog might not be so wimpy if danger did confront us. Though he crosses streets as if all cars want to be his best friend, when we came to an alley, he paused, sniffed and glanced around the corner of the building before crossing. Then his nose led him to a door at the bank. He went right up to the door, as if waiting for it to open. How did he know that my daughter-in-law went to work through that door two days before? Further down the street, he followed the same trail I had when I visited her that day. Yet he didn’t go up to any other doors as we traveled on down the street. The only door he showed interest in was a garage door that workers had apparently used that day. He ignored the restaurants and shops that had to be full of delightful scents.
It occurred to me that, as much as I make fun of how he wants to be babied, maybe he is not as wimpy as I think. Whether he would protect me from intruders I don’t know, but I do know that his deep loud bark and his huge size could make someone believe he would defend me. And that’s enough to earn his dog biscuits. Enjoy your snooze, buddy.
Why do summers feel so busy? I mean, there’s not that much more to do than in winter. Is there?
It only takes me about two hours a week to mow my yard. That’s not much. Unless you add in the rests and naps I take between mowing sessions. Still, it’s only one or two evenings a week. And then the trimming takes a couple of hours every other week or so. And then the lawn maintenance: weed killer, fertilizer, aerating. Of course, the shrubs have to be trimmed at just the right time. And there is always a tree limb or two that must come down. Then when your neighbors are outside, it’s only proper to introduce yourself and chat a bit.
The garden doesn’t take much time either. Well, if you don’t count the multiple evenings and weekends it took to get it set up and planted. I have my hoses and sprinklers set up so I just turn on one spigot and let it run for about an hour. That gives water to the flower beds next to the house and yard, the Bobo Memorial Garden, the vegetable garden and the planter under the maple tree. Well, I still have to take a hose or a watering can to the hanging baskets, the pots on each step, and the planters by the stairs. And the flowers by the mailbox. The althea bush, Charles’s tree and the lilac bush need watered once in a while. There are still a few trees of heaven sprouting that need cut and treated with herbicide. There are holes yet to fill, as well as soil testing to do in preparation for reseeding the dog yard this fall.
Then the vegetables begin to ripen and it’s time to make zucchini cake and zucchini bread and zucchini everything, then you shred or chop zucchini for the freezer. And you have cucumbers with ranch dressing, and hummus, and with onions and in salads. And then you make pickles. And then finally, you can’t stomach another cucumber. Then the tomatoes start.
And when the yard is done, there is also the house to paint. Ten years ago, my house saw its last coat of paint; it’s time. But first, I need to scrape, sand, fill and prime the window frames. And rebuild the porch rails. I have all the pieces, but need to paint the house first.
I must always hurry through the yard work, too, because I need to go visit my children, or go to meetings or work. Friends and family come to visit me as well, so there is yard and house tidying to do. I seem to have more laundry in the summer, too. I wear fewer clothes at a time but change more often. There are birds to watch and listen to, as well as wild kitties to try to tame. Bart needs walked more often, for his health and mine.
I don’t even have kids in summer sports, no traveling teams or schedules to meet. But it seems I don’t have time to write, to sew, to cook. I turn down invitations to dinner in order to mow. And yet, already I notice the days getting shorter. My gauge of the passing seasons is the length of time I must wear my sunglasses from my car to the office door. By mid-winter, the shadows are so long in the morning, that only a shaft of sunlight about a foot wide bothers my eyes. In mid-summer, I leave them on until I get inside the door.
Yes, summers seem busier. But are we really busy, or do we simply convince ourselves we need to do things outdoors in order to stay in touch with the natural world? I really don’t know, but for now, I need to go turn off the water and weed the flower beds.
Bart the wimpy dog turned 10 years old today. You can see it when you look closely at him. Much of the gold on his face has turned to silver, but he wears it well because he’s blond. He shows his age when he goes down steep stairs and the wrinkles around his jowls. He’s in no rush to get up in the morning, content to stay in the warm, thermal foam mattress topper rather than jump down to the cold floor. When I leave for work, he settles himself on the couch, where he stays till I come home—unless he goes back to the bed. He no longer bounds to meet me at the door when I get home, instead waiting for me to come to him on the couch or the bed.
And yet, when he gets a human on the end of a leash, he’s a puppy, bounding ahead with joy, tail waving like a flag. He explores the news on every tree and bush, and approaches people on the trail certain each one wants to be his new best friend. Every task I undertake finds him at my side, eager to help. Just today, as I ate my 6” sub sandwich for lunch, a worker came to the door to mark utility lines so I could avoid hitting the lines on a fencing project. When I came back in ten minutes later, Bart appeared happy, and my sandwich was no longer on the kitchen table. The only evidence was a piece of lettuce and part of the wrapper on the floor.
Happy birthday, Bart. Here’s to many more years of being my exercise accountability partner, my cuddle buddy, my confidant and critic. Sorry I didn’t put a candle in that sandwich for you.
The dog boots I ordered during the blizzard came the day after life went back to normal. Snow had been cleared from the roads, melting began and I went back to work. Then the dog boots arrived.
Anxious to see Bart’s reaction, I slipped the boots on his front paws, which was about as easy as putting shoes on a two-year-old child that wants to go barefoot. Finally, both boots were cinched on. He lowered himself from the couch and began to paddle his way to the front door, lifting each paw up around his ears with each step. When I could stop laughing enough to find the leash, I snapped it on him.
Evidently, his trek from couch to door had told him the boots cushioned his feet. He bounded down the front steps, still covered in snow, and pranced all around the snow in the driveway and yard. His paws hitting the snow sounded like a shod Clydesdale on a brick street. I told him “short walk,” and he trotted across the street to make our usual circle of two trees, a fence row, an alley and a big tree. That’s when I discovered that the boots helped him stay on top of the crusty snow, while my shoes, plus the fact that my weight was concentrated on two feet instead of four, caused me to break through. I was huffing and puffing by the time we made it to the alley at the top of the hill.
When we got back to the house, I stood with my sides heaving like I had just run the Kentucky Derby. Which is a whole lot easier to train for, at a mile and a quarter, than a marathon of 26 miles, but that’s another philosophical discussion. Bart paced into the bedroom, plopped down on his dog cushion, and immediately began to gnaw on his boots. I guess even dog boots need breaking in. I took them off him and put them up for the next walk.