Four Seasons in Rome

No, I'm not headed off to Rome for a year.

Anthony Doerr did, as part of a year-long artist fellowship he won. He, his wife and six month old twin boys traveled from their home in Idaho to an unknown apartment in an unknown city in an unknown culture speaking an unknown language (except the four hour crash course in Italian he took on a Saturday morning before they left). The journal he kept during that year became this book, Four Seasons in Rome.

"A good journal entry - like a good song, or sketch, or photograph - ought to break up the film that forms over the eye, the finger, the tongue, the heart. A good journal entry ought to be a love letter to the world."

The stories of their walk through the four seasons there, a few blocks from the Vatican, is subtitled, On Twins, Insomnia, and the Biggest Funeral in the World. Beyond recording the events, the adjustments, and the challenges, the book, for me, is a lesson in How-to-Journal.

"A journal entry is for its writer; it helps its writer refine, perceive, and process the world."

The five senses are recorded throughout - a means he uses to process his memories, and a vibrant way for the reader to be involved in the scenes he records. Sights, smells, tastes, touch, and sounds - all carefully, thoughtfully woven through his words. Standing shoulder to shoulder with mourners as the pope dies, and later, pushing their double stroller through the crowd of celebrants as the new pope is chosen. Describing to a baker, the rich bread smells around them, the focaccia bread he wants to order, misunderstanding the frustration, realizing later he was asking, in his broken Italian, for grapefruit sauce. Discovering new foods, making new friends, listening to the language, learning to understand it. Hunting down those vivid details, linking them together to build a sequence of thought, to "stay alert to the miracles of the world."

"A year is an infinity of perceptions: not just the shapes of starlings and the death of the pope and watching our sons learn to walk, but the smell of roasting meat in an alley, the dark brown eyes of a beggar on a church step, a single dandelion seed settling soundlessly onto the habit of a nun who is riding the train. This year has been composed of a trillion such moments; they flood the memory, spill over the edge of journal entries. What is it physicists tell us? Even in a finite volume, there are an infinite number of points."

In a way, this is discouraging. An infinite number of points? How could I ever catch them all? But that's not the point. Grab one. Grab two. Catch three. Record those vivid details, link together the sentences that help a reader (and me, the writer!) to see, smell, touch, taste and hear a world of beauty and miracles.

Anthony Doerr quotes Marilynne Robinson,

"There are a thousand thousand reasons to live this life, every one of them sufficient."

I think of Mary Oliver's poem,

"PAY ATTENTION
BE ASTONISHED
TELL ABOUT IT." 

Keeping a journal has been important to me for years. I have a box of old journals stashed in a closet. Never for publication, but for me to thumb back through if I am looking for notes, or find when something happened, or just for browsing. This book, Four Seasons in Rome, is not only an interesting read of their year as a family, as an artist, as an author, as part of a community, but also of the way he perceived and responded to the world around him, brilliant at capturing those images, and how he stayed alert to the miracles of the world. Now, when I write in my journal, I pay attention - not just recording feelings (as in emotions), but capturing a moment in time, using the senses as a means of paying attention, and searching for the right words.

I tried to find a good example of how he incorporates the senses in his sentences. It is an overall impression he leaves. I would call his journals, Impressionistic Journaling. Like the impressionist painters that paint in various dots and smudges and blends of color, but leave a distinct image on the canvas, he paints images with his words that leave a distinct image. Powerful, beautiful writing.

"Everything is radiant. Distant trees toss, faraway walls gleam. The mountains at the horizon have switched on like streetlights, stark and defined, giving way to more distant ranges.
Then everything goes dark again, the clouds knitted together, the mountains sucked back into silhouette, Rome sinking into shadow."

The Road Less Traveled

The Road Not Taken

"Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference."

This poem, by Robert Frost, is a favorite. I have probably quoted it here, before.

We found this painting at a thrift store, and "had" to add it to our collection of mountain paintings, destined for our cabin walls once they are finished, beyond the stud stage.  

Since the time change, I have noticed new lighting patterns, the shift of the sun's position and the timing of the sun glow across the walls and floors. Right now, the evening sun shafts across this road, framing it in gold, making what is around that corner almost visible.

Our cabin in the mountains could be right around that corner, the road, its invitation to come and stroll, to welcome the quiet, or hear the wind waves through the trees. 

Signed Stanley Awbrey, 1973, it could have been painted on the road we take, the road to our cabin, one autumn day. I imagine a few deer strolled by while he sat and painted, a chipmunk paused a moment to watch, and blue jays chattered overhead at his plen-air intrusion into their quiet world. I have no idea who Stanley Awbrey is, or where he is now, or what he was like, but I am grateful he took the time to create this moment, preserved in time, for us to enjoy years later.

If I could be like Edmund and Lucy and Eustace and jump into a picture, this would be it. Oh, wait. We do jump into this painting when we go to the mountains, creating our place, there. This reminds me what a privilege that is, and I am grateful.

A Friendly Year

Love the title of this book. Aren't we all looking for a friendly year?

Three hundred and sixty-five daily entries were compiled from Henry Van Dyke's writings, published from 1887 to 1905, this book published in 1906. The front page says, "From Ralph, xmas, '07." Would that be 1907 or 2007? Hmmm, I wonder.

I rushed the reading, anxious, I guess, to find that friendly year, reading two pages each day, four entries at a time. I tried to pick a favorite quote - the one I posted in January, A Footpath to Peace is probably the favorite, but there are many, many choices.

Because this book is out of print, I will share a few others with you.

"And if some of the rich of this world (through the grace of Him with whom all things are possible) are also modest in their tastes, and gentle in their hearts, and open in their minds, and ready to be pleased with un-bought pleasures, they simple share in the best things which are provided for all."

"...ready to be pleased with un-bought pleasures..." - love that line.

What a surprise to find pressed flowers, placed in this book over a hundred years ago?! You won't find that in a Kindle or a Nook (sorry, had to put that plug in there for books with pages you can feel). Was there a special quote on this page that inspired these flowers, which look like Johnny Jump-Ups? Maybe this one, from April twenty-fourth:

"By the breadth of the blue that shines in silence o'er me,
By the length of the mountain-lines that stretch before me,
By the height of the cloud that sails, with rest in motion,
Over the plains and the vales to the measureless ocean,
(Oh, how the sight of the things that are great enlarges the eyes!)
Lead me out of the narrow life, to the peace of the hills and the skies."

Henry Van Dyke makes reference to the fast pace of the age, the distractions and clutter of their busy lives. What would he think of today?

"Let me but live my life from year to year,
With forward face and unreluctant soul;
Not hurrying to, nor turning from the goal;
Not mourning for the things that disappear
In the dim past, nor holding back in fear
From what the future veils;
But with a whole
And happy heart that pays its toll
To Youth and Age, and travels on with cheer.

So, let the way wind up hill or down,
O'er rough or smooth,
The journey will be joy:
...My heart will keep the courage of the quest,
And hope the road's last turn will be the best."

May your journey be with joy, your year friendly, and the flowers you press last a hundred years!

Did You Eat a Rainbow Today?

What is that supposed to mean?

Think of it as a visual reminder to eat a healthy variety of fruits and vegetables. Every day.

Red. Orange. Yellow. Green. Blue. Violet.

Daily, we should eat a variety of colors. This is something I am learning, working towards each day, paying attention to the colors I choose to eat, and choosing colors other than brown - dark brown for chocolate and lighter brown for the breads and grains I love to eat. The health benefits, especially if we replace less healthy choices, are many.

"The nutrients that studies show have anti-aging, disease-fighting, and skin-protecting properties number in the thousands, and the colorful fruits and vegetables found in the grocery store contain combinations of them all. Building your daily menu around these nutrient dense foods will earn you a health trifecta: whittling off unwanted weight, staving off the diseases of aging, and rejuvenating your complexion."

                                        -7 Years Younger, The Anti-Aging Breakthrough Diet
                                                        by the editors of Good Housekeeping

I was surprised how many of the colors I had in the garden and the refrigerator. Sorting them, thinking of them by rainbow color gave me a fresh perspective of the better choices I can make.

An innovative company where a daughter works sets up a health challenge for their employees each summer, challenging them with exercise or nutritional competitions. This summer, they designed a program monitoring the colors and categories of daily servings of fruits and vegetables. Each employee entered their daily servings of the color varieties on their computers. She shared her charts with me. Each day, they marked the rainbow chart for R, O, Y/W, G, B/V. (The W is for white, including apples, pears, onions, jicama, potatoes, etc). Beans are also included because of their health benefits: pinto, kidney for red; lentils, wax for yellow; black beans for blue/violet. The key is to find the flexibility and the beauty in the challenge. A colorful plate makes eating interesting and pretty. I admit, I have a long way to go. Brown seems so much more appealing and yummy and satisfying to me. But I am learning to choose red, orange, yellow, green, blue and violet instead.

Learning. In process, not there yet.

What colors of the rainbow did you eat today?

Keep Your Face to the Sun

"Keep your face to the sunshine and you cannot see the shadow. It's what sunflowers do."

                                                                                                                          -Helen Keller

Reading aloud is a critical part of our home teaching day.  I love the moments when the older guys are drawn into the story we are reading, moving away from whatever they were doing in another part of the house to come listen as I read aloud to our youngest.

We are beginning this school year reading an autobiography by Helen Keller. Over and over again she uses words like see or listen or look or notice or visible beauty. A woman, blind and deaf. Sometimes, as we are reading, I have to comment on a sentence, to stop and realize that the author can neither see nor hear, yet she describes "the shimmering light of a Christmas tree," or "the noisy-throated frogs."

In June, I read The Music of Silence, an autobiography by Andrea Bocelli, a popular Italian singer, blind from age twelve. One of his teachers, "Dr. Marcuccio, also blind from an accident...had explained that even darkness was a visual sensation, and therefore, a perogative of those who have the gift of sight. 'The blind,' he added, 'cannot see darkness, just like the deaf cannot hear silence, which is an auditory sensation, the antithesis of sound.'"

Those of us with the gift of sight still need to learn to see. Even with the gift of hearing, we need to learn to listen.

 Helen Keller described the smell of an incoming thunderstorm. Do you know that scent? She described a scene, meeting people in a crowded room, shaking hands with "frosty finger tips, it seemed as if I were shaking hands with a northeast storm. Others...whose hands have sunbeams in them, so that their grasp warms my heart. It may be only the clinging touch of a child's hand; but there is as much potential sunshine in it for me as there is in a loving glance for others." Have you felt such awareness to touch?

 As a child, she loved the orchard, collecting apples and fuzzy peaches in her apron, the taste still warmed by the sun. Reading this autobiography aloud, together, gives us many opportunities to discuss the five senses and the beauty of our world. This gift, this perspective, seen through the eyes of a blind woman, gives us a deeper appreciation for the riches around us.

Thirty-Eight

A moment out of moments

of a life,

thirty-eight years together.

We still ask, "What do you want to do?"

More a time to be, be together,

than to do.

To look back to the hike that day

when he asked,

and I said, "Yes,"

thirty-eight years ago.

Today's hike,

plan, dream

wonder at life, together.

Still say, "Yes."

The scenery ahead,

mountain highs

valley lows

storms brewing

 turbulent waters

clear skies.

Wander through the next thirty-eight years,

together,

hand-in-hand.

scenery from our anniversary weekend at Rocky Mountain National Park, Colorado

Pollyanna

We finished reading Pollyanna, by Eleanor H. Porter, aloud, together, again. It is one of my pet peeves that this book has become a tool to make fun of those who attempt to keep a heart of gratefulness. Her name has become associated with the definition, "an excessively or persistently optimistic person" (Webster). Is that really a bad thing?

One friend of mine wouldn't allow her children to read the book because she said it made fun of church. Well, yes, it does make fun of the Ladies' Aid Society and their bickering and fussing about new red carpets and their ultimate concern in having their name at the top of the donation list. Yes, it does poke at actions done for the sake of righteous duty without a heart of love. At its core, this book is deeply Christian, about the love of Christ and His heart of love reaching out to each of us.

Pollyanna, with her childlike heart, only sees the love and beauty in those around her. She hangs prisms in windows to splash rainbows across the walls. She fixes up a sick woman's hair and adds a flower to make her pretty. She connects with people she meets, talking openly and making friends with those considered unfriendly. She bounces from one home to another, spreading laughter and joy and gladness. With her sunny smile she laughs and talks her way through the days and into the hearts of the townspeople.

Not because her life is simplistic and easy. Orphaned. Sent across country to be dumped on the doorstep of an unwilling aunt. Of the scanty possessions she brings, the most important is The Glad Game. Her father, a missionary pastor in the west, taught it to her before he died, and together they sought to have a perspective of gratefulness no matter what happened. He told her that he found eight hundred "rejoicing" verses in the Bible, and that if the Lord told us that many times to be glad, He must have wanted us to listen.

From her perspective, all is good. She never questions that her aunt doesn't want her. She never doubts that he aunt's generosity won't extend to cats, dogs and little orphan boys.

The test of Pollyanna's Glad Game came when she herself was bedridden. She cried as she learned she was paralyzed, "...if I can't walk, how am I ever going to be glad for - anything?"

The friendships, the connections she made, the lives she touched, all came together to encourage her and open an opportunity for her healing, and for the healing of other strained relationships. Because of her bubbly enthusiasm, even in (especially in) tough circumstances, homes were restored, families strengthened and hearts encouraged.

"...he told me to tell you that he hadn't stopped being glad over those eight hundred rejoicing texts that you told him about. So you see, dear, it's just you that have done it. The whole town is playing the game, and the whole town is wonderfully happier - and all because of one little girl who taught the people a new game and how to play it."

Need some encouragement? Read Pollyanna. She'll make you smile. Maybe even glad.

Halcyon

My one word theme for 2013 is quiet. I meant to write more about it, delving deeper into various meanings, but this past month I have felt, well, quiet. Haven't posted as much as usual. Not sure exactly why, but my excuse is practicing quiet.

When I think of my ideal quiet day, I think of the beach. The beach, however, is not a quiet place: waves pound on the shore, wind roars across the sand, seagulls screech, sand blasts against your face, your clothes are blustered and hair whipped by the wind. I had to laugh when I thought of it that way. Why do I think of the beach as a quiet place? Perhaps because it marks some of my favorite get-away destinations. Visits with families who had a beach house gave us moms time to chat and breathe while we kept a quiet eye on the kids. House-sitting opportunities at a beach house gave us the luxury of living in a place we could never afford. There are memories of beach-side hotels that offered pleasant retreats for my husband and I. Visits with distant family meant beach trips in Hawaii and the Gulf of Mexico. One house where we lived was close enough to the beach to take frequent afternoon trips for the kids to play in the water and the sand. Even with the wind howling, the waves crashing and the seagulls screaming for our food, beach days were quiet days.

At one beach house where we visited friends, a storm moved in. The tides were predicted extremely high, swallowing the sand, up to the low brick walls protecting the patios. Over the afternoon we watched the ocean turn from blue to green to gray to violet to indigo to navy blue to black, and the storm was on us. A quiet afternoon? Not in the forces of weather, but the kids all played outside as long as they could, tossing the tennis ball into the water and watching for the waves to toss it back, their sweatshirts wet in the cold spray.

From our house where we lived in the central California coast area, we would drive to the Pacific Coast Highway, turn north, and travel about thirty minutes to Pismo Beach. It was a great kids' beach. A long, slow, gradual slope, waves that came in gently at low tide, hard-packed sand perfect for playing and building. We loved to go mid-week, a benefit of home teaching, after the morning school work was done, a quick lunch packed, and often, the beach was practically deserted.

One drive, I don't remember why, we turned a different route off the Pacific Coast Highway, left on a street named Halcyon. At that point, we were still on the bluffs, the homes high, overlooking the coastline. After a block or so, the road appeared to drop out from underneath us. It plummeted, seemingly straight down for several hundred feet. The kids all screeched, some in panic, some in delight, like on a roller coaster ride. (I admit, other times when we drove this route, I would crest the top of the hill and let off quickly on the gas pedal to create a greater feeling of anti-gravity and increase the fun.) The road dropped quickly to sea level, to fields of strawberries, lettuce and broccoli, crops that flourished year-round in that perfect sea climate. Never too hot, never too cold, ideal for growing.

Halcyon looped across the green fields and joined the road that took us along the coast to the section of beach we liked. The dictionary says the word halcyon is from the name of a legendary bird that "had a peaceful, calming influence on the sea at the time of the winter solstice." The afternoons at the beach created for us a calming influence. A time to relax and play, to enjoy being with each other. I would take a book, but rarely read it, choosing instead to gaze at the waves and the kids playing together, and watch for the occasional dolphin or sea lion. We loved to go in the winter when the beach was pretty much guaranteed to be empty. The water was too cold to swim, but they would play, tossing a football or frisbee. Or, they would build sand creatures or castles. Or sit and enjoy the scenery, no responsibilities, nothing to do but relax. Or collect seashells. Or bury each other in the sand and take silly photos.

"Halcyon days," is a phrase from literature and music, denoting nostalgia and remembrance. Our granddaughter, when she was little, knew to go to her "happy place" when something frightened her. We were at a lively restaurant with animated animals displayed in the jungle scenery. When the elephant above our table trumpeted, she quickly retreated into her happy place, her eyes shut tight, humming a little song to herself. Then she cried and a kind waitress let us move to a table less populated with four legged creatures. For me, the beach is my happy place, a place where the tranquility and beauty soak into my soul, creating a sense of deep quiet.

When I realized, however, that the beach is really not a quiet place, I also realized that the sense of quiet can be achieved in the middle of a normal day's chaos. The noise of a normal household, the clashing personalities, the challenges of learning and growth, the demands of duty and responsibility all create wear and tear, like the waves pounding out their rhythm on the ever-changing sand. Even here, there is calm and beauty and peace and halcyon days.

We do not live near the beach anymore.  I am learning that a state of quiet is from within - not a result of idyllic external circumstances. It is rooted in a tranquil heart. At any time I can choose to retreat to my quiet place, a place of trust and love and being loved and grace and being deeply grateful. There, always, there is quiet. My biggest surprise in understanding quiet is that it is not about stillness or quantity of words or volume of sound. There is an energy in quiet, like the ocean waves surging deep below the surface, powerful. And I still have much to learn about quiet.

I Want More

Does this seem an odd title when my theme is traveling lighter? When I wrote last week about minimalism?

Dissatisfied isn't always about things. Sometimes it is discontent with me.

When I lie in bed at night, I think of all I should have/could have/ shouldn't have/said/done. (Take your pick. There are always regrets to mull over. This girl is far from perfect.)

I want to be more awake, more aware to each moment.

In this moment, what do I want more?
          This cookie, this second helping? Or, more health, more strength, more energy?

In this moment, what do I want more?
           The satisfaction of a caustic reply? Or the emotional confidence to love and give? Do I want more strength to give up what I want to gain more love, or do I choose to snap back a "smart" retort?

In this moment, do I skip daily Bible reading and turn on the computer to read emails?
           Or do I want more, the deep satisfaction of quiet moments with the Lord, preparing my heart and mind for the day?

In this moment, our son returning a painfully slow answer (that takes Forever...) do I show patience and kindness?
         Or do I bleat a hasty, impatient response that is all about me and my time, not understanding or acknowledging or meeting his needs?

In this moment, I want more. More awake, more aware of others.

In this moment, the setting sun fading the air to peach, to gold, to navy, do I see it?
           Am I aware of the beauty of the deepening day?
            Or am I too absorbed in dinner preparations, clearing up a daily load of clutter, or fretting over all that didn't get done that day?

In this moment, do I see the amaryllis bulb unfolding a tiny bit each hour, soon to explode in a firecracker of blossom?
           Or do I settle in the secure familiar of haste and hurry of anxiety over [anything] [everything]?

What do I want more?

I ask a lot of questions.

The answers are a process. Part of being awake, aware, realizing I have a choice.

And the calm beauty of the season is there. Here.

If I look for it.

More love.

More kindness.

More patience.

More strength.

More beauty.

I want more.


Emily Freeman, "Chatting at the Sky", is hosting a series for December, "Tuesdays, Unwrapped."
"Celebrate the lovely, the messy, the unexpected."
"Unwrap the small, secret gift of the everyday."
Linking with her, today, to unwrap the beauty, the gift of this Tuesday.

Wandering Wonder

Five Minute Friday, today. The next one will be January, 2013. Sigh. Oh my. A deep breath, quick, before panic sets in. Before the unsettled nerves of all that has to be done in the next month, and all the unknown that spreads ahead in the new year...

But, today. Five minutes, right now, this moment.

Today's theme word, Wonder.

Go.

I wonder as I wander out under the stars...These words to a familiar Christmas song ring true to my heart.

I wander. I roam aimlessly through the days, the weeks, the months, the years. I keep busy. I do the next thing. I make lists (oh, I am good at lists!). I search to find a path. I blaze a new trail. I sit down and wait for someone to - please, oh please - show me the way. And, I get up and wander again.

As I go, I learn. I grow. I discover. I travel. I stay at home. I explore. I draw in tightly within my shell, keep my wanderings close, internal.

As I wander, I grow in wonder. The ocean waves unsettled on the shore. The mountain peaks, dusted with powdered snow. The sunsets coloring the town with peach and yellow and pink. Baby toes, growing quietly inside mama. A petal, unfurling into a splash of deep red. The full moon, glowing, illuminating across the dark sky.

So much, if I just open my eyes, awake to the wonder of it all. When I wander, my focus is down, on my feet, the path, trying not to trip. When I wonder, I look up, look out beyond myself, see so, so much more.

His mercies are new every morning. Ah, the wonder of it all.

Time is up.

A Painter of Light

Thomas Kinkade, known as a painter of light, passed away last week. His paintings, popularized through prints, calendars, cards, books and local galleries, are said to be in 20% of the homes in the United States. We are one of those homes, with several of his prints on our walls.

In another house, these climbed up the stairwell. Here, they work well following the line of the high ceiling. One day, our youngest was sitting on the couch, looking up at them. He said they told a story. "You go in through the gate, walk along the path into that garden in the middle painting, sit and rest awhile in the gazebo, then keep climbing on the trail, through the trees by that stream, up the hill until you get to the top and can look back down on the valley below." I hadn't really planned it that way when we put them up, but it works.

One of our daughters, in a college class, heard the instructor severely criticize his paintings as unrealistic and fanciful. Yes, we have lived in beautiful areas, but we have seen, many times, sunsets and sky and ocean scenes as spectacular as those he paints. For real. Cloud forms, sunrises, sunsets, light reflecting across water, ocean waves, cozy cottages, busy city streets, mountains, trees, all are scenes he painted. The next time it rains, watch for the lights reflected onto the streets, like in this painting. For real.

I love the houses and cottage scenes he paints. He said at one gallery, a woman came up to him to say one of his paintings got her through a very depressing time. She would look at the scene and visualize herself sitting on the porch, comfortably rocking in the chair, looking out over the field. By imagining the peace and quiet and calm of the place, she was able to rise above her conflict. This is one of my favorites. The dappled sunlight across the roof and courtyard, the abundant flowers, and the indoor lights shining through the shutters make it very inviting and comfortable. I could sit there, in my rocking chair.

His books, also are inspiring. Simpler Times is my favorite, a book easy to browse through, or to read and absorb. My book has crinkled, wrinkled pages from a time it got wet, but that does not dampen its message of creativity and joy and beauty. My favorite quote is from the chapter on romance.

"Contrary to popular opinion,  romance is not a relationship - although it can add fullness and spice and excitement to a connection between two people...Romance is instead an attitude, a set of habits, a way of encountering the world. You are a romantic when savoring experience is a priority for you, when you are willing to invest time and energy into making your experiences more vivid and memorable...We live in a beautiful world, one that is shimmering with romance. It's all around you, rich and lovely and exciting. It comes into your life when you open yourself to savor your moments - happy and sad, beautiful and mundane, alone or with someone you love."

In Lightposts for Living, he writes about planning and living a fulfilling life. He challenged readers to write a ten word summary of their life goals. At first, I thought that was impossible. Ten words? All of life purpose in ten words? Right. It came to me, one night, after I had worked and re-worked it.

People and places are improved because of my influence. Surprisingly, I fit it into nine words.

This artist, with his human frailties and struggles, just like the rest of us, expressed his creativity and encouraged us with scenes of joy and peace and love and beauty.
 I am inspired by him, and grateful.

Luxury

In a  favorite book of mine, two of the characters discuss how they define luxury. Not fur coats or fancy cars or showy jewels for either of them. Their lists were of qualities, characteristics, experiences, not things.

Her list of luxury integrated all five senses at the same time. Like digging your toes into the warm sand at the beach, looking out across the span of the ocean, smelling the seaweedy air, tasting the salt on your tongue, and hearing the waves pounding, the seagulls screeching. Or sitting on a slope of freshly mowed grass, clinking the ice in your cold glass, and gazing out across the distant hills.






His list was about contrast. Being out on a brisk, damp day and coming home chilled to the bone, to step into a hot, steamy bath. Or, being at the race track all day, hearing the cars rev and race, stopping at a cathedral on the way home and "listening to the silence."

"How awful it would be to crave for sables and Rolls-Royces and huge vulgar emeralds. Because I'm certain that once you got them, they would become diminished, simply because they were yours. And you wouldn't want them any more, and you wouldn't know what to do with them."

                                                                           -Penelope Keeling (character)
                                                                           -Rosamunde Pilcher, The Shell Seekers


This got me thinking. What are my luxuries? I have no desire for furs and jewels either. I'll take a sweatshirt over a fur coat any day. My luxuries would center on plants and books. But still things. It was more challenging than I thought to get away from the hold of things.

The afternoon sunlight streaming through the petals of my orchids. That is luxury. Time to read and learn and enjoy and listen to developing characters, sitting in a comfy chair, the sunlight shining through the window. That is luxury. An afternoon with the kids and grandkids, playing games, talking and laughing, together. That is luxury.

What are your luxuries? What do you think of? Does this make you think of ways you can travel lighter?

Negative Spaces

From an artist's perspective, negative spaces are just as critical to draw as the object itself. What are negative spaces? Between the chair legs. Between the bent elbow and the waistline. Underneath the horse, the air around his legs. The shape of the sky around the tree and the sunlight between the leaves. As a non-artist, I asked, "How do you draw air?"

My artist friend, Jane, patiently explained that if you draw the shapes around something, between, you will draw the shape of the object. A different perspective. I see a house, a chair, a tree. She sees light and shadows and motion and shades and shapes and details unnoticed by me. She sees and draws the empty space that to me would seem a non-space. To her, it appears full of details.

To an artist, the folds of the shirt and the shadows on leaves are a contrast of negative space and shape, dark and light, color and tone. She takes an object and is able to interpret the details on to a paper or a canvas and give them dimension and life by accurately describing the negative spaces.

In this photo, look carefully at the shape of the spaces between the rungs, between the stair rails, between the stairs and the floor.

Don't look at the letters, look between them, around them

How we look at things, at life, makes a big difference in our perspective. This week, as families are gathering for the Thanksgiving holiday, remember to check your perspective and notice that even the negative spaces around us are critical to the whole picture. The sad, empty places of our lives give form to the full, happy spots.

Have you thought of any comparisons to life? Our choices not to do something are just as critical as what to do. The spaces in our lives that feel negative or empty, are what actually give definition and shape to the rest of the days. We are as dependent on our negative spaces as on our full, positive times. How we use our down-times, the spaces in our homes, how we choose to fill our minds, all are influenced by the positive and the negatives in our lives.

Look between the lines that mark the spaces in our lives, find the color and beauty in a fresh perspective.

If you can stop being mesmerized by the eyes, look at all the negative spaces defining the shapes in this drawing.
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