Golden Windows

As the sun comes up in the east, its light rising over the roofs of the houses and the trees, it bounces off the windows of the houses on the hill to the west of my window where I sit at my desk in the mornings.

Do you remember the fable of the little farm boy who worked hard alongside his father all day long? He labored all day, working the fields, waiting eagerly for the moment at the end of each day when the castle on the hill on the other side of the valley would glow golden, its pure gold walls shining in glory. He longed to go, to see, to touch those walls, and he spent long hours imagining the beauty, the glory, the wealth that would create such a glow.

He asked and asked and asked his father for a day off, to walk to the other side and see for himself the splendor of that castle.

Finally, his father said yes, and the boy headed off, a crusty sandwich tucked into his haversack.

Late in the afternoon, as he climbed the hill, he paused to rest and turned to look back toward his own farm. It looked tiny and dingy and insignificant. He could not wait to arrive at the castle and see real beauty.

The path led through the trees, zig-zagging up the steep slope. Around one bend, when he expected to come up to the castle, he came upon a small house with a small garden and a small barn, enclosed in a small pasture. A girl, about his age, came out of the barn leading a cow. She smiled at him, and came over to the fence.

He asked her, "Where is the castle that is on this hill? I seem to have been following the wrong path."

"Castle? Our house is the only one on this hill. Where are you coming from?"

He turned and pointed across the valley. "From the little farm, over there, on the other side."

"Oh! Do you live in that house with the golden windows that shine with glory every morning?"

Confused, he tried to explain. "No, it is just a little farm, like yours, maybe a little bigger. We do not have golden windows. I see a castle on this side of the valley every afternoon that has golden windows. I wanted to  look at them and touch them and see them up close. It must be near here, somewhere."

"Yes," she said. "This is it." She waved her hand toward the front of her own house.

Still confused, he looked at the simple cottage with four windows, a few flowers, a stone path, a few chickens wandering around. Smaller than his own house. This could not be the golden castle. This was not the castle of his imaginings, of the hours of his visions of glory as he worked in the dirt with his father. It could not be.

"Don't you see?" she asked him. "In the morning, the climbing sun shines on your windows, making them glow with gold from my perspective, here. In the afternoon, the setting sun shines on my windows, which, from your house, makes them shine golden. We both live in golden houses, and do not even know it."

"Oh, yes, I see." Embarrassed, he turned to leave. Disappointed. Ashamed of his foolishness.

"Please, sometime, may I come and see your golden house?" she said.

"Of course, but don't expect much. It is just a dirty farm." They chatted about their farms and animals and crops and families and homes, each realizing how much they had, and became good friends.

Contentment. It is a trick, isn't it, when those around us have so much. When it appears that others have so much more.

The art of contentment is in looking closely at all we do have. At finding, and seeing, our own golden windows.

Count It All Joy

"Consider it all joy, my brethren, when you encounter various trials, knowing that the testing of your faith produces endurance. And let endurance have its perfect result, that you may be perfect and complete, lacking in nothing."

The King James Version uses the words, "count it all joy."

This list, my counting.

James 1:2-4

a quiet Sunday with www.jumptandem.net

Gift Moment

Friday Five, together with others inspired by www.thegypsymama.com. Write for five minutes, free to think quickly and simply. Just write. The word this week:

Gift

Begin. The obvious gift, a present, beautifully wrapped and bowed and tagged and given, handed to you, or you handing it to another.

A gift, though, goes to the heart, from the heart. Why we give. To whom we give. Not really what we give, but the why - that is so much more important. From a heart of caring, loving, enjoying, appreciating, wanting to share something we have with someone else.

A gift, wrapped up. The thrill, maybe of surprise. Not an expected gift, but an unexpected that catches us off guard. Makes us catch our breath with the happy thrill.

And, the gifts that aren't always happy. Sitting in a hospital room with a son, realizing the gift moment, even in that. He is alive. He is being cared for by people who care and know how to care. His unique needs, also a gift, a gift that says, "Hey. Pay attention. Be alert. Be aware. Be awake."

 A gift moment, laughter even in the middle of pain. A smile, in the middle of a tough situation.

Gift Moment.

Time is up. Done.

My Dream Garden

This painting is my dream garden. It hangs across from my desk, and when I stare off into space, my mind wandering, it is either gazing out the window at the trees and the hills, or into this garden, sitting on an adirondack chair in that grassy spot, sipping lemonade, reading a book and listening to the doves coo.

I've always wondered what the front of that house looks like.

A page from one of the home decorating picture books I picked up at the library, the type I love to browse through for ideas and inspiration in our home, caught my attention. On the wall, hung this photo:

It is a little blurry because it's a photo of the page in the book. Doesn't it look exactly like the front of the house would look? It even has the big tree. I can "see" the walkway down the side of the house, leading to the garden in back. Pretty cool.

My dream garden becomes even more real imagining the lawn in front, the split rail fence, the shrubs and the dark shutters around the white windows. Ahh, a peaceful place to be.

In case you're wondering the book was Coastal Living's Beach House Style.

Last Tuesday I wrote about sunrises and sunsets. Accepting the sunset as it falls. 

I did not see the sunset that day. An afternoon trip to the Emergency Room with our son, a rapid decline in his condition, a need for specialist evaluation. By the time he was stabilized enough for transport, it was two o’clock in the morning. Dark, the sunset long past.

Sunrise came through the hospital window, muted by the shade, but enough to cast shadows of the tree leaves outside in the courtyard. A huge hospital, downtown Los Angeles, with a morning parade of specialists. Evaluate. Consult. Watch. Ask questions. Probe. Test. Puzzle. Analyze.

One more sunset, one more sunrise watched through that screened window. The tree branches blew in the breeze, tapping, fluttering. The sun moved across the courtyard, illuminating the windows on the other side. We waited, watched. Hospital time. It moves slowly.

A hospital. A place where everyone has a story. You hear them in the elevator, in the halls, in the cafeteria. I don’t think about it in the grocery store, though of course it is true there, too. Everyone has a story. But hospital stories tend to the dramatic. Life changing. Affecting families and friends. Like day and night. One day, then a different day. Everything different, just like that.

My story, from this hospital stay, has changed, too. Focused. Clarified. Prioritized. On Tuesday’s post, I used the word, “tethered.” But it’s not like that, really. It is a choice, a choice I gladly make. Freely make. A choice to live for these people, this family I have, here and now. To appreciate all that fills our home, now, today and tomorrow and the coming days. A calendar of hope. To be grateful, awake, alive, now.

Today.  To not miss today, working toward some dream of tomorrow.

I will never tire of sunrises and sunsets. The unique and the ordinary joys of today. Brilliant or subtle, light and dark, happy and sad, health and pain, strength and weakness. Cycles.

If you happen to compare this post with last Tuesday’s, there are many similarities. What I wrote then has new, deeper, fresh meaning to me. I repeat:

For now, today,

• ·         Pay attention
• ·         Listen
• ·         Breathe
• ·         Be here
• ·         Watch the sunrise lighten the day
• ·         Accept the darkness as it falls

Yes, our son will heal with careful care, and without surgery (yeah!). Time, patience, quiet waiting. His kitty was very glad to get him home and doesn’t mind at all that he will be spending more time on the bed next to her.

The cycle of days, the bright of each new day, the rhythm of light and dark, of life. Even when everything is not perfect or comfortable, each sunrise and  sunset comes with hope.

The Greatest

"...faith, hope, love, these three; but the greatest of these is love."

1 Corinthians 13:13

a quiet Sunday with www.jumptandem.net 

Sunrise, Sunset

Pain, in its many forms, causes me to skid to a stop. To pay attention. To change plans.

When I want to be free to soar, I am tethered by pain. Sometimes mine. Sometimes another's.

Physical pain. Steps toward healing.

Emotional pain. Conflicts, poisoned words. A hope for healing.

Time. When I want my priorities to be chosen - by me. But they are chosen by others, with needs beyond mine.

Instead, I find a different path to soar. The time to slow down, to breathe, to set aside my agenda, my busy doing. To appreciate the guys gathered around the game table. To look at their faces, hear their laughs, be together, in this moment, here, now. To be grateful, awake, alive, now.

Today.

Sunrise, sunset. I never get tired of sunrises, sunsets. Each one is unique. The ordinary, the gradual wash of blue to gray to dark, or the cycle from dark to milky to pale blue. The brilliant, exploding colors, or a subtle change, each day, each night in its time. Time revolving, blending day into day, reminding us of light and dark, happy and sad, health and pain, strength and weakness. A cycle, day in, day out. Even in the days when it seems everything is all wrong.

For now, for today. Pay attention. Listen. Breathe. Be here. Watch the sunrise lighten the world, and accept the darkness as it falls.