A clever turn of phrase

For the past month I’ve been ruminating on a snippet from a sea shanty song I heard while weaving through small coastal towns in Nova Scotia on a tour bus. After a demonstration on lobster fishing and a quiz on the largest lobster ever caught (44 pounds in a nearby harbor), the tour director played a CD on which a regional artist sang that the the air off the ocean is “perfume for my soul.” That poetic combination of words has haunted me, causing me to ponder what spritz, what diffuser is perfume for my soul.

Three weeks after that turn of phrase caught my attention, I was reading a book on Benedictine prayer and was challenged to “listen with the ear of the heart.” Ah, another wonderful concept, I thought, and began considering those in my life who frequently model that unique skill of listening and wondered if listening with the ear of my heart is something I ever show to others.

Nursery rhymes, Dr. Seuss and Disney introduce us to catch phrases early in our lives.  Well crafted marketing campaigns, tag lines and the like continue that work, often, I’m sure, with the help of focus groups. A clever turn of phrase can sway our votes and where and how we spend our dollars. In literature I’m drawn to characters and plots where the flow of the words seems effortless while being intelligent, sharp and savvy. I believe it shows in my writing when I simply try to be clever but not when something on the page also comes as a surprise to me. The next time a clever turn of phrase causes you to notice it, pay attention to what about it appeals to you. Context or content? Topic or timing? Meanwhile, I challenge you to join me in trying to listen to others more with the ear of the heart; we’ll get to the core of what people are saying to us quicker. Oh, and by the way, this time of year, the perfume for my soul would be burning leaves or warm apple cider.

Marilyn

Semi. Retirement.

A musing in June used the meteorological terms isolated and scattered, which deal with the percentages of the likelihood of rain, in describing the potential for frustrations or joys at certain points during my day. Then I challenged readers to think about their own isolated or scattered issues. Here I’m focusing on the words semi (partly) and retirement (withdrawal from one’s position, occupation or activity) to describe a switch I’m making to what has been a routine aspect of my life for eight years. Perhaps you, too, will find something from which to experience a semi retirement, regardless of your age.

By my most recent calculations, this is musing number 384. Longtime readers may remember that my Monday Musing evolved from a weekly update email that I sent to people in my circle concerned about my recent layoff. But, my words quickly switched from assuring folks I was finding enough contract work to commenting on something that happened that week. Then the musings led to an opportunity to write a book. Soon someone told me my musing should be a blog, and here we are today. Some encouraged me to go for broader exposure with a different format, say FaceBook, but I’ve been content in my little world, composing for those who have been interested.

For the next couple of weeks I’m looking forward to some adventures. Travel, whales, turning 70, a celebratory gathering bringing people from all aspects of my life together, seeing if I’ll reach the goal of collecting 70 cookbooks. (BTW, if you are local and may have missed the invitation, please get in touch so you can stop by if you are able.) But, to finish where I was going, I am semi retiring from my Monday Muser role. As long as you remain subscribed, when I post a blog, which will be when I really have something to say, you should still receive it. Just don’t look for something every Monday morning.

It has been a joy for me to have this vehicle through which to realize my long suppressed aspiration to be a writer. It has been sometimes frustrating, nerve wracking, and always a surprise. Those musings which I sweated over and which I though would draw comments rarely did, while others that just flowed out of my fingertips often sent emails my way. I learned to deal with my inner critic whose voice would often emerge as soon as I hit ‘publish.’ My heart was frequently warmed when someone would say, “that was exactly what I needed to hear today.” I thank you for this opportunity to enter your inbox every week. You’ll still find me there sometimes, for this is only a semi retirement. Let me know if you also find something from which to semi retire, for new plans are always more fun when shared.

Marilyn

“Don’t underestimate the value of Doing Nothing, of just going along, listening to all the things you can’t hear, and not bothering.” Pooh’s Little Instruction Book, inspired by A.A. Milne

The tangled webs we weave

For a few weeks this summer an industrious spider wove a nightly web that connected a bush on one side of the walkway to the back door on the other side. That meant every morning I had to destroy its work in order to get to my car. Finally it tired of that routine and traveled the length of the house to the front stoop, where it connected both railings, which again blocked my way. That spider’s daily work got me thinking about the threads that we send out and the threads that are sent our way. Those threads, those webs, connect us to people and things and often define where the control of our lives rests.

Some of the threads are actually strong sturdy ropes, steadying our feet and our view of the world, but with enough elasticity that grounds rather than confines us. Others are single threads, sometimes tiny and tenuous. Other threads may fray, never to be darned or repaired, or, if and when rewoven, can be stronger than the initial tie. Many have a push/pull tension, as both ends vie for control or when one side wants the connection to be stronger than it needs or should be. A few are burdensome and take attention away from ones where we would like to spend more energy. Some we’ve allowed to attach themselves to us willingly, knowingly. Others, not so much. And, it’s not just people. We sign mortgages, car leases, credit cards, student loan papers. We’ve allowed electronics into our web. We pursue passions, hobbies and windmills. 

In our seven degrees of separation world, it is prudent to take an occasional inventory of all the webs of which we are a part. To evaluate the tension, even the necessity or desirability of each thread. We can sever some, lessen the control on a few to make room for new outreach or to be available to new threads sent our way. It may be time for us to do that as we head into autumn. Perhaps like some trees, we can add color or let some connections fly away.

Marilyn

Unused words

While listening to a book on my way home from work one day last week, a character in the story mentioned that something had become their lodestone. I puzzled on that word in that context and liked it, and then thought that I was one hundred percent sure that in my eight years of writing these musings, I have never used that word. For the rest of the week I paid attention to see what other words might fall under that same umbrella. The list I compiled included clavicle, pagoda, bamboozled, turbine, camel, hickory, instagram, journeyman, weathercock, and pathos among others. 

I’ve always admired people whose vast vocabulary made the use of unusual but very apt words seem so natural.Those of us of a certain age may remember Word Power, a regular piece in The Reader’s Digest designed to help grow our vocabulary. Or, perhaps you are a fan of the word-a-day app or calendar, something to keep increasing our knowledge of and understanding of the power of words. A cursory google search told me that on average people speak 16,000 words daily, that we may know 50,000 words but commonly use only 2,000.

Then I looked at my list again and wondered how many of those I had never used. Ever. Even in conversation. And, you know what? I ended up back where I started. Lodestone. A thing that is the focus of attention or attraction. Like words. Maybe you’ll enjoy playing a similar game for a week and see what words start to intrigue you, but don’t let me bamboozle you into it.

Marilyn

Don’t know about you, but...

Our house only had a bathtub and we took baths on Saturday night and maybe once during the week. The showers at summer camp were a novelty. My dorm at college had showers on each floor and one bathtub that we had to sign up to use. Sometime over the last few decades the norm requires daily showers in fancy spaces. With seats. Of marble.

Growing in Buffalo we called tap water Lake Erie. On our vacations up in northern Canada there was a water pump. As a kid, I thought it was so cool to pump and drink from the aluminum cup that hung there. Lunch boxes came with a thermos which was used mostly for soup. Sometime over the last few decades the norm requires bottled water of all sorts. Plain or flavored. In plastic. Easy to carry. Easy to discard.

I’m probably a typical recycler, trying to remember to put my empty bottle in the right bin. Trying to remember to not run the water the whole time while I’m brushing my teeth. “We all live by robbing nature, but our standard of living demands that the robbery will continue,” wrote poet Wendell Berry. Now, there’s nothing wrong with a refreshing daily shower. There’s nothing wrong with bottled water. Perhaps there is something wrong with our norms. I read somewhere that the next world war will be over water rights. Before it comes to that, there are probably some things we each could change. Don’t know about you, but I intend to give those norms some more thought and reevaluate my expectations and needs.

Marilyn

Out of balance

Ceiling fans were a great invention and, in my opinion, are a necessity. They are a practical alternative or boost to air conditioning on a warm, breezeless summer evening. They provide some psychological comfort that the air actually is moving. But, to work best, to do the job they were intended for at any speed, they need to be balanced. When they are not, they shake and are noisy. Not the hum of the refrigerator background kind of noisy, but more the rattle in the car engine kind of irritating sound. The kind of rhythmic thumping that is like a brain worm that keeps one from being able to relax, let alone fall asleep. 

When something is rhythmically thumping in one area of our lives, it can be very hard to feel that there is any type of balance. We spend so much time and focus so much energy on that one thing that everything feels out of whack. Now, some of that is normal. Think of major events. New parents. A sudden death. Changing addresses. With all of those, we ultimately find a new balance. At least, that is the hope. But when we suddenly realize that we’re feeling sluggish, blah, stressed, cranky, snarky, anxious, or a litany of other states, most likely things are out of balance.

I’ve lived in a couple of places where my ceiling fan was fine, but the one in the apartment below me wasn’t, and that was even more troublesome because it was out of my control. My floor and bed trembled and the annoying machine ka-flunk was audible and it was necessary for me to ask others to deal with their own imbalanced fan. Similarly, when we notice things are amiss in the lives of those around us, we have to gently invite them to reflect on what’s out of balance. We don’t have to be engineers or mechanics or electricians to fix our own or another’s imbalance. We just need to be aware, open to some self examination and exploration, and willing to act. Thomas Merton said, “Happiness is not a matter of intensity, but of balance, rhythm and harmony.” May your week ahead be balanced.

Marilyn

4:44 a.m.

It’s funny how we remember certain small things. Years ago I had invited a couple of friends over for dinner and, at the last minute, included a woman we’d just met. She had recently married a widower we knew and he was out of town. She mentioned her routine of getting up at 4:44 a.m. for some quiet time before her workout on the treadmill. Shortly after that meal, they moved away so we never spent time with her again. I don’t even know if she is still alive, but as an early riser myself, if the clock reads 4:44 a.m., I think of Peg. There are other people who have moved on and we’ve lost touch, yet, every year on their birthday or some other occasion, I think of them, again, without knowing where they are or if they are in this world. That would be okay if they were all folks I want to remember, but there are a couple whom I’d prefer had moved on all together, not to be thought of again.

There are also small instances, like times I screwed up, reacted poorly, downright lied, was bruised or hurt that periodically reappear. Even if the wounds are healed, forgiveness asked for and given, an echo remains, a shadow lingers, and I am again in that emotional spot for a split second. 

These small moments aren’t festering or continually running like ticker tape across my brain. It’s that they occasionally flash, shedding a spotlight on them once again, like an unconscious nudge. If it was something I said or did - or didn’t say or do - then it’s a gentle reminder that, while still a flawed human being, I hope I learned from the experience and have grown. It’s surprising that it is not the heartbreak or major disappointments that haunt. Maybe some morning at 4:44 a.m. I’ll try to discern why it’s the little ones that pop up. If I get an answer, I’ll let you know.

Marilyn