Celebrate!

July 4th is Independence day in the U.S.  We celebrate the victory of the early founders of our nation in their struggle for liberty, peace and freedom.  It is a noble and honorable commemoration of their valor and courage.  Plus, the fireworks are spectacular.

If one is to believe that independence is a worthy state of being, I wonder if interdependence could be recommended as another very valuable concept.

If you believe that humanity originated from simple, singular beginnings then ultimately human beings everywhere are essentially one species, regardless of physical differences.  However you define good people, people of poor means, the noble, the unkind, those who are cruel and those who are saintly, all would be of the same genesis.  

But here is the amazing thing about this concept.  Interdependence as I understand it means I am not alone in my experience of the world, nor am I insignificant.  My personal goals and desires are part of the greater whole and my life-time-share is a component of what balance exists.  We are all connected.  

Peace, love and understanding do not flourish everywhere obviously.  Compassion is not a guarantee in any situation.  So then, I have asked myself, “How do I reconcile my heart and mind to the vast disparities of the human condition?”  Is there an approach to the people around me that I can rely on to help me comprehend the world, no matter what the circumstances? 

The best answer I have come to so far is based in compassion.  What I can give to loved ones, friends and community grows out of a place of balance and joy that self compassion germinates that then blossoms outward.  Is it easy?  Sometimes.  

I suppose it is called work by some, but I would rather think of it as a way to bring a sense of playful sincerity and creativity into my life, so that my actions are wise and right.  Bright, and uplifting, fresh and new, genuine and heartfelt.  How I align myself and respond to the energy that surrounds me makes a difference in outcome I can celebrate.
  

  

The Flag

On my way home from work my commute takes me past a hill upon which the American flag has flown since shortly after 9/11.

The first time I saw the flag there, I felt it spoke to deep and heartfelt commitment to freedom, liberty, courage and justice.  Our nation was reeling in shock, anger and grief over the devastation of 9/11.  Life in the United States would from that day forward, be reframed by those horrific images of terrorism.  Safety within our borders would never again be taken for granted.

This week as I drove by I was again struck by the quiet presence and inspiration of the flag.  The flag had been flying there all day in the hot summer sun.

Who protects it from harsh elements and shields it from harm?  What must be done to enable it to withstand foul weather?  What is it made of that gives it such resilience?  The noble values that our flag stands for must endure hardship too.  Humanity can produce abject failure in its efforts to survive.  Gross missteps sometimes linger on for generations.  Fear and ignorance often produce disturbing and painful history.

There are rules that govern the proper display of the flag.  There is such a thing as “Flag Etiquette.”  Displaying what the flag represents is also a kind of etiquette that can become a part of who we are as a country.

Honor.  Respect.  Duty to community and service to country.  Justice.  Liberty,  Peace and compassion.  And, dare I add, Love.  The symbols we hold dear are best displayed in the actions that we exhibit towards those around us. 

My Dad

My dad was born in Kentucky and was 25 years old in 1945 when he was hired on at the then called, David Taylor Model Basin.  He took me there once before kid-to-work-day was fashionable, and showed me the huge tank used to test model ships for the Navy.  I thought it was spectacular.
 

Dad taught me to look broadly at the world and he made it a point to spend time with me on a regular basis.  On frequent trips to the museums in Washington, D.C. he would say to me as we entered, “Go wherever you want,” and he would follow me around, letting my curiosity guide us. 

He took me fishing.  Once.  That story ended with me giving away our bountiful catch to the people fishing next to us.  

I owe my love of photography to my dad.  He bought everything needed to develop pictures at home and I monopolized our only bathroom developing my black and white photos.

I watched as he struggled to care for my mom as she suffered the agonies of mental illness.  Such a confusing, conflicted time when it must have been tempting to cut and run.  But he didn’t.  He was a reliable presence in my life.  After I left home and his children no longer required anything from him he stayed with mom, as difficult as she was to live with.  He sheltered and supported her until she died in the home they shared.

Of course he wasn’t perfect.  Mistakes were made and apologies for them came as his own death confronted him.  But I will always be deeply grateful for the balance, stability and assurance that adulthood would be attainable when I was ready to get off the teeter-toter of childhood.

What Moms Do

Several weeks ago I noticed a couple of robins defending a nest in the scrub oak behind my house.  They were being tormented by two scrub jays who seemed intent on ruining the domestic ambitions of the robins.  I surmised that the jays had helped themselves to the robin’s eggs.  Part of the whole “mother nature” thing.  I’m not sure how I feel about the term “mother nature”, considering...well, the stuff that mother nature is capable of.  

But anyway, back to my warm fuzzy mother story.

One day after work, earlier this week, I noticed a female robin perched on the edge of the same nest and ensconced snugly inside it were three baby robins.  They were juveniles really, spotted as robin teenagers are and tumbling around awkwardly, barely contained within their once adequate home.  How did I miss seeing them for so long?

Mama robin was doing the right thing of course, flitting back and forth with morsels for the youngsters and making sure they were tucked in for bed.  One of the settings on my camera generated a flash and it made mama sit up straight and look around in my direction.  I apologized immediately.

The next morning we had a lovely thunderstorm complete with lightning and an hour or so of showers.  When I came downstairs and looked out at the nest, mom was there with wings spread, keeping the kids dry.  I grabbed the camera and took a few pictures.  

I left for work hoping that I would get to see the babies take their first flight in a day or so but when I returned home later that day the nest was empty.  That soon.  All the busy, sleepless hours spent nesting and feeding, all the days of sheltering and protecting were over.  Just like that.  Or so it seemed.  The days just do what they do and so do Moms.  The kids grow up and everyone can fly.

Plants

I have not had much success over the years, at growing plants that need a lot of attention.  I could blame busy days filled with a full time job, meals to prepare and household chores for the neglected and withering foliage gasping for relief.  Then there were a few that refused to thrive even when doted upon.  I've no green thumb for the finicky and fragile.

My feline roommates are also a threat to indoor horticulture as they deem it their inalienable right to nibble flowers and prune leaves until the plant is gradually relieved of its growth and future potential.  I eventually stopped buying new plants as it seemed I was unfit for the responsibility and my household too hazardous.

Not a complete failure, I have managed to sustain two plants that are are hardy and independent of regular human intervention.  An aloe and a jade plant are my true survivors.

The jade is thick-stalked, sturdy and balanced.  Its leaves are plump and dark green. Although a victim of frost two winters ago, the cut back damaged places have revived.  The base of the jade is dense with new growth and short of being tossed into the burn pile nothing seems to diminish its penchant for life.  It is one of my favorite plants for this reason.  This spring it decided upon tiny flowers at the tips of several stalks.

The aloe plant is long limbed and lanky.  I have actually used the gel of it's leaves for burns.  Great stuff!  And never really asking for much, left on its own in the dead of winter, it seems to draw in on itself just slightly.  When the air surrounding it becomes chill and lifeless, the aloe pales softly and as most plants do in winter, ceases to grow.

Pulled indoors in winter, both plants cheer quietly and accept offerings of water and the artificial warmth of my entryway.  Staring into the glow of the sidelight they sit waiting for some future rendezvous with the open sky.  They seem happy enough as things unfold around them and the season peaks and wanes.

Both plants sit on the front doorstep.  The sight of their pleasant vigilance often brings a smile to my spirit at the end of my work day.  Returned to the outdoors when the sunshine of spring beckons, both plants urge little replicas of themselves to emerge.  Given freedom once again they thrive unencumbered.

Plants and people.  Growing with the elements that surround them.  Damaged by extremes and prolific when well fed and nurtured.

Eyes Wide Open

It is annoying to find yourself awake at odd hours when you know you have a full day waiting, which by the way, comes with the expectation that you show up with an ability to think and participate with others.  There should be no mystery involved when it comes to getting to sleep and staying asleep.  Babies are so good at it.

They might fuss and howl first, but inevitably babies will close their little eyes and just sleep.  And while they are deeply asleep, an infant in the same room that has succumbed to slumber will be oblivious to you, your voice or the dog barking outside.

At some point in the game this affinity for sleep no longer happens.  For some people, sleep deprivation and unwanted wakefulness is a chronic issue that has its own name.  We call it "Insomnia," and although there are many, many causes of insomnia, for your reading pleasure here today, I blame parenthood.

I recall years of my young adulthood spent sleeping in on the weekends, my eyes closed, my mind totally offline until the sun had been up for at least 3 hours.  With no where to go in any hurry and no one waiting for me to provide them with their first meal of the day I was queen of my own castle, captain of my own ship, ruler of the roost, sleeping when I chose to.

Then I got all misty eyed and maternally inclined and decided to satisfy my longing for motherhood.  Along with the pure joy of welcoming a child into the world to nurture, love and care for I found a depth of feeling I had never before experienced.  The tradeoff however, was the ability, inclination and opportunity to sleep through the night and sleep in on weekends.

Who knew there were so many sounds in the dark of night that would mimic the stirring of a tiny human being?  And I was not aware that my tiny miracle was capable of screaming so persistently at 2:00 AM.  No one told me these things.  We worked it out, but a heads up might have been nice.

So now, these many years and 5 children later (no I am not Catholic or a Mormon I just love kids), I have either broken my sleep "On" button or I have just never re-learned sleeping like a baby.  Oh, I confess to stretches of time when, with good sleep hygiene I have managed a succession of nights with 6 or 7 hour stretches of sleep.  But truth is, after parenthood I have not recovered either my cherished late adolescence sleep-coma, or my wild and crazy 2o-something up until 2:00 at work the next day at 8:00 then sleep for 10 hours recovery.

The sleep cycles of my maturity are a charming pattern of sleep and wakefulness followed by sleep and wakefulness.  Early to bed, early to rise has new meaning and is often combined with the question, "Have I slept since 3:00 AM?"

Golden

On a warm, sunny spring day when I was maybe 7 years old my Dad took me fishing. He took me fishing once, and only once.

The fish were running so thick on the Potomac River you could just about scoop them out of the water with a net if you wanted. We loaded up our gray Rambler with fishing gear and the night crawlers I had dug out of the soft brown soil in the flower bed. We drove to a stretch of river access with easy parking against a grass lined paved walkway dotted with benches. A railing separated the walkway from the water. We set ourselves up on a bench and I was given a pole and directed to bait the hook. I spent several minutes fumbling with the hook and out of concern for the safety of my fingers Dad took over and skewered a large earthworm for me.

I was more interested in skipping back and forth along the railing, looking at the fish teeming just below the water’s surface.   When our lines were ready I was given a casting lesson and standing patiently along the railed walkway I waited for the action to begin. When it seemed the waiting was unproductive given the obvious presence of plenty of fish in the water, Dad had me jerk on the line as I walked along the edge of the railing which resulted pretty quickly in a snagged fish! I squealed with glee with each catch and it took little time for me to fill our bucket.

I had no idea this bucket full of wriggly fish was intended to be the evening’s fish fry. So, I gave them away. Dad reacted visibly but did not overrule my gift giving. I offered them to the folks that were fishing next to us when they admired our catch and they were happy to receive them. Indicative of my parents’ approach to child rearing it was assumed that I knew what was going on and that we were going to eat the fish Dad and I caught. In all likelihood there most certainly there had been some conversation to this effect that I had tuned out. The white noise of parental pontification was often the background noise upon which I staged my juvenile thought life. They must have questioned my sensibilities often.

Dad was quiet on the drive home.  I’d had a great time, and I suggested that a hamburger and fries from that snappy new McDonald’s drive-in would be a fitting end to the day. When we stepped through the front door Dad’s proclamation regarding my generosity betrayed his real feelings. I didn’t see the problem, but like I said, he only took me fishing once.

Fish fry? Not for me - but thanks anyway.