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Wonderlust

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When I saw cover of Wonderlust, I felt a magnetic pull. Travel books charm me.  A Spiritual Travelogue for the Adventurous Soul appeared to be a valuable passport.

Vicki Kuyper has visited 40 countries. And she can write. But I found the format of this book off-putting. Each chapter, 4-5 pages, is a vignette about a particular place (Cambodia, California, Peru, China, etc.) with a spiritual lesson attached.  Each chapter begins with “A Journey to _______” (e.g. Self-Acceptance, Forgiveness, Wholeness, Identity) and ends with a list of questions (which I admit I skipped) intended, I suppose, to help the reader go deeper into her personal journey. The book seems to be a hybrid between a travel memoir and a devotional. The tidy faith lesson came abruptly and didn’t seem organic to the story.  It ends with a neat resolution.

Perhaps I rebel at this style because I tend toward it myself. Because I grew up reading and hearing engaging stories with a Bible lesson tacked on the end like a ruffle, I can slide effortlessly into this model. It’s didactic; it’s facile.

I would love to spend an evening over dinner listening to Vicki and Mark Kuyper’s stories. I suspect that I’d hear some of the lessons they learned, but they would be naturally woven into the stories. Frances Mayes’ A Year in the World: Journeys of A Passionate Traveller isn’t a spiritual travelogue; but it is better reading.

Here are some sample Wonderlust quotes:

[Describing a Grand Canyon sunset]
Never before, at least not in my experience, had silence so eloquently shouted God’s name. It came in a chorus of color, from soft ginger to warm butterscotch, burnt sienna, and flaming auburn. Tones of cappuccino swirled with espresso. Layers of ocher and amber–alive–fluidly changing shade and hue before my eyes. As the warm tones began to cool, tiers of cobalt and plum melted into velvet indigo. Shadows caught in a slow waltz danced to the music of light and rhythm of time.

[A Cambodian guide’s story]
“I was thirteen years old when everything changed,” Som said softly, a dramatic change from his usually vibrant, lighthearted tone. “First the Khmer Rouge killed the soldiers. Then those who were educated. Then the rich. Then anyone they wanted. I was pulled away from my family. They separated us into groups by age. The first lesson we learned is that we could no longer use the word my. No more my father, my mother, my brother…”

[St. Petersburg, Russia]
I’d heard that in Russia there are only two seasons: expectation and disappointment. After only one week, I discovered a third: resignation.

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Exile in a Cellular Land

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When I travel, I inevitably get the request. 

“I need your cell number.”

Yeah.  I mean, no.  See, I don’t own a cell phone. 

I’m not morally, philosophically, environmentally, esoterically, aesthetically or fundamentally opposed to cell phones.

It started as a financial decision.  We really didn’t need a cell phone and not incurring that monthly charge was like having Weight Watcher bonus points in our financial diet.

It’s evolved into a game of How Long Can We Last? with a bonus round of Think of What We Can Do With That Money. The average monthly cell phone bill is $60/month.  Hmm.  That’s about 20 books (I buy them used); a good pair of sandals; an elegant dinner out. Or, if I bundle a year of not paying for a cell phone, it is two plane tickets to visit a sibling.

Not only does it save money, not having a cell phone saves time answering those “Wassup?” calls.  

I believe that cell phones make us (the collective us) less independent, less confident, less decisive.  And, while they are certainly more convenient, I believe they make us, dare I say it, less connected. 

I don’t want to be presumptuous. If travel were a constant in our lives, it would make sense   be wise to have the means to communicate.

I have a resident curmudgeon inside me: if I’m honest I’d admit it’s fun to be eccentric. I take joy pointing out that what seems impossible today was simply normal thirty years ago.  

One of the ironies of not packing a cell phone is that I lug around our laptop, allowing me to send and receive emails (and update my Facebook status) when I’m traveling.

We will pole vault over the digital divide when the cost and benefits of cell phones outweigh a land line.  I’m content without one for now.

After I wrote this, I read the quote below, which was just too rich to omit from this post.  It is from Matthew Algeo’s delightful book, Harry Truman’s Excellent Adventure.

A cell phone isolates its user from those around him. That’s why people on cell phones are comfortable discussing, for example, the explicit details of a doctor’s appointment in a roomful of strangers. They feel like they are alone.

Celebrating a Simple Conversation

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Because I see my doctor once a year, more or less, I was surprised that she remembered me.

“You are a writer, aren’t you?” was her cheerful greeting.  Of course, I was *writing* in my journal as she came into the exam room.

[My first impulse is to refute her.  Well…um…not really. I snapped my fingers at my internal skeptic. An internal finger snap, don’t you know.]

“Yes,” I smiled, “Yes, I am.”

[Come on! Are you serious? Who is going to believe that? It looked like snapping wasn’t enough; I think my alter ego needed a slap down.]

The nurse joined the conversation: “What do you write about?” 

A quick breath, a smile…

“Well, I love to read and review books. And I like to search for truth, beauty and goodness in life…and write about what I’ve found.”

[Oh, great! You sound like a corporate mission statement.  My inner skeptic rolled her eyes.] 

“…and highlight simple pleasures…”

[Stop! That’s enough!! It was now a good time to obey that inner voice.]

I closed my mouth.

“I think it’s great,” my doctor replied, as she donned her latex gloves.

And that, my friends, was a simple conversation worth celebrating. 

My Rock Star Drum-Playing Sister

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The room was the size of a small gymnasium. The audience grew as the residents were wheeled in by caregivers. The band set up, plugging in cords, playing chords, adjusting levels.  Several clients took delight in the sound check, chirping “check, check” in an unintended call and response.  The pre-concert buzz was nonexistent.  Most folks stared stoically at the wheelchair ahead of them.

The magic was palpable when the music began.  The Front Porch Band–a guitarist named Moon, a drummer, bass player and harmonica/lead singer–plays country, gospel and bluegrass. The set had songs that looked back on better times like Tennessee Waltz and King of the Road and tunes like I’ll Fly Away and Never Grow Old that held a future hope. The lady on my left kept her eyes closed but sang her heart out. A handsome gentleman in front of me repeatedly jabbed his index finger in the air whenever the lyrics resonated with him.  After I’ve Got a Mansion Just Over the Hilltop one white-haired woman pumped the air with fists upraised. Yep, passion still resides in these residents.

I was at this nursing home gig because the drummer/back up singer is my rock star sister-in-law. As she approached sixty, Karyl Lynn wanted to do something. What to do? When she told my brother she had always wanted to play the drums, he encouraged her to pursue her desire. She found a drum teacher in the classifieds, posted a notice on a radio station–Grandma taking drum lessons, needs drum–, installed her new used drum set in the corner of the parlor, next to the grand piano.  A few years later, when The Front Porch Band asked Karyl Lynn’s drum instructor to play in their band, he recommended my sister-in-law.

They play Monday morning gigs at nursing homes. Jim’s song introductions have perfect pitch: straight-forward, moderately upbeat, genuine. When the bass player sang a solo, Jim coached the audience to say, “Good job, Bob.”

Music is magic. It travels up hairline fissures of our emotions and reaches places we had forgotten about. Here are people with cirrhosis of the soul reduced to tears by a familiar tune. The sight of music stirring people moved me. After her first gig, Karyl Lynn said, “While I was fulfilling my dream, I looked into the eyes of people who had lost theirs.” When this gig ended the band members worked the room, shaking hands, looking into eyes, thanking residents for their attention. Playing the drums for an hour sapped the energy from Karyl Lynn, but facing the fatigued and diminished spirits of people was even more draining. Yet in giving folks a respite from their cares, she takes great joy.  

No wonder this new avocation is so satisfying: it provides a challenge, an avenue to explore a new skill, a team to belong to, and the fulfillment of serving others. It makes me immensely proud of my rock star, drum-playing sister.
  

A Fitting Farewell

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Grandson pallbearers.


The honor guard

In a culture where casual is cool, the formal ceremony of military honors is arresting. It is sobering. It is potent.

Every note of Taps, every fold of the flag, every word in the presentation of the flag is crystal clear, separate and distinct, heard and viewed while we all seem to collectively hold our breaths.


I’ve written before about clean grief.

Sorrow can be such a complicated thing. It easily gets muddied with regrets, splattered with the wrong actions of the deceased, splotched with omissions, and speckled with questions.

One of the gifts we can give to those we leave behind is the gift of clean grief. The difference between clean and mucked-up grief is the difference between the cut of a surgeon’s sterilized knife and the puncture of a rusty nail. Both are incredibly painful, both require a time of healing, and both leave scars; but the puncture requires much cleansing in order to avoid infection and heal.
 

It is remarkable how satisfying a good funeral is. Harold’s four sons spoke of their father, noting who he was, what he did, what he loved, how he loved.  They were proud of their dad, privileged to praise his life. When it came down to one phrase, my Uncle Harold’s life was characterized by faithfulness outside the spotlight.

The best funerals are the ones which leave you inspired to imitate the life of the deceased.  We will never know the full extent of my uncle’s generosity, but I asked God to give me Harold’s eyes to see needs and his heart to respond to them.  Although he loved golf and achieved one of his lifetime goals of a hole-in-one during his retirement, his sunset years were focused on serving others until his final days. He wrote letters, corrected correspondence courses, led Bible studies, connected with people. I want to be as other-oriented as my uncle was. 

“Whenever I spend time with extended family, I learn more about myself,” my young cousin Ashlee remarked.  I learned and laughed about my Harper traits: stubbornness, odd frugality, obsessive book acquisitions (I had to force myself to walk away from the boxes of books in the garage) and fondness of ice cream. 

I came to Philadelphia to honor my uncle.  The friendship of my cousins is the only reason I have to return. It is, however, reason enough.   

~       ~     ~

My Uncle Harold was three things to me.

First, he was a bridge.  There was a time when my father and I had a little estrangement thing going.  Communication between us stalled, sputtered and stopped.  Uncle Harold loved both of us and used every opportunity to bridge the gap between us.  He did nothing heroic, but in his quiet way he worked for peace. [A cancer diagnosis was all my father and I needed to reconcile, which we did, thankfully, before he died.]

He was a beacon. Uncle Harold’s faith informed his opinions and decisions. His interest in my spiritual well-being was constant. I loved him for that.

And Uncle Harold was a bonus. The uncle/aunt-nephew/niece relationship is much less complicated than the parent-child relationship.  There are not the same expectations or obligations.  Sometimes it is as simple as “I know he loves me, and I know I love him.”  That’s how it was with my uncle. He was not obliged to come see me.  But he did.  Because he always picked up the tab of a shared meal, it was not until ten or fifteen years ago that I realized that Harold was not rich.  His life enriched mine, and I will always be thankful. 

Edward’s Abdication

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Because we loved The King’s Speech, my husband knew
I would enjoy reading the December 10, 1936 edition of the Oregon Journal.

Um…yeah!

The news of King Edward’s abdication takes up six full pages.

 The “Queen-Apparent” Elizabeth received her share of the focus.
The 10-year-old’s newest accomplishment was climbing trees.

She is beginning to understand the motto
which her mother taught her almost as
soon as she could talk–
“duty first, self second.”

I wonder how Kate Middleton’s experience compares to the Queen Mum’s:

Her final love match with Albert and his acceptance
meant the beginning of a period of hard work for her.
Every morning at 6:30 Lady Elizabeth arose and spent
an hour studying private books dealing with the history
of the royal family, reading works on the the constitution
and other matters. At Buckingham palace each day she
was taught all the important angles
of precedent, formality and dress.

Does anyone else like to read vintage books/publications?

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Home organs were la-de-da!
Do any of you know of a home organ that is being played now?

~     ~     ~

Ever curious, I went online to see what happened to Wallis, Duchess of Windsor.

She is said to have summed up her life in one sentence:
“You have no idea how hard it is to live out a great romance.“

Wooden Spoons That Make You Sing

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My kids/grandsons gave me a set of wooden spoons for Mother’s Day.
Yay! I love wooden spoons.




  Spoons with style!




Drumsticks on the end!
Hooray!
Now you can stir your Puttanesca sauce,
flip the spoons, and lay down a cadence as
you merrily fling Puttanesca all over your ceiling.



I love my Fred Mix Stix.

Synchronicity, you make make heart beat!
My husband’s words matched the kids’ gift.

Your joy pushes us onward,
expecting and anticipating more blessings up ahead.
Keep singing your song
and telling your story.
We are honored to be included
in your harmony and script.

A Twice Blessed Dress

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This is a blessing-saturated story.

It is a story of a search for the perfect dress, of joyous overlapping friendships, of mothers, daughters and sisters, of a dress twice blessed by a beautiful woman wearing it, of the smack down cancer got, and how Facebook facilitated the fine exchange.

The story begins one year ago when Katie became engaged. There are two major decisions after a ring finds its home on the bride-to-be’s finger: the date and the dress. Katie’s wedding required an abundance of dresses. Each one reveals a story: Katie’s splendid wedding dress that Jan, Katie’s mom, insisted on buying.  Jan’s elegant mother-of-the-bride dress that Katie and her sister Abbey spotted, loved and made Jan try on. My ruched bridesmatron’s dress that Abbey found.  The eight unique flower girl dresses that Abbey sewed. (See these wonderfully whimsical dresses at Katie and Jeff’s Wedding Journal).

In California another family was anticipating a wedding.  Two sisters, Jean and Joy, were searching for the perfect dress for Ernestene, their mom, to wear to Laura’s (Jean’s daughter) May wedding.  When Curt and I began our married life in 1978, Amos, Ernestene, Jean and Joy were family to us; their home was our home-away-from-home.  They fed us dinner at least once a week; we shared holidays; we were companions.  I can still hear the laughter that rebounded around their table.

Amos and Ernestene’s golden wedding anniversary in December was tarnished by a serious cancer diagnosis.  A lifetime of love, care, and compassion which Ernestene had cheerfully dispensed returned to her in effusive expressions of love and concern.  Chemotherapy, however, was nastifying Ernestene’s life, making the basics like eating and drinking a challenge. “We just give her a variety of things to dislike.” 

Chemotherapy kept Ernestene from shopping.  Finding a dress meant finding hope, hope that joy and beauty lurked beyond this dire moment. Even a woman like Ernestene, who has cheerfulness woven into her DNA, who as a sick patient concerns herself with how her nurses are doing, needs occasional infusions of good cheer. When Joy saw Katie’s wedding pictures on my Facebook page, she noticed Jan’s elegant dress.

And so began a fabulous correspondence through Facebook messages. 

I copy and pasted like crazy.  Joy asked the label of Jan’s suit; I sent it to Katie. Katie replied Jessica Howard including further details; I messaged Joy.  Joy: “Carol, I’ve looked and can’t find THAT dress… crazy idea, but potentially the best…would Katie’s mom tell us the size and be willing to sell or rent it to mom if it is a fit?”  Some of Joy’s messages were written from the hospital by Ernestene’s bed.

It was a fit!  Less than a month after first message, Ernestene had a dress hanging in her closet for her granddaughter’s wedding. Sweet relief! Jan had been wondering how long to keep a dress she didn’t expect to wear again and was glad to send it to Ernestene.      

When I saw the picture of Amos and Ernestene, two strong towers in our formative years, walking down the path to Laura’s wedding, I wept. 

Don’t both women–who look alike and whose hallmark is kindness–look radiant in that Jessica Howard suit? 

It’s true that Facebook devours time, immobilizes people, and can keep us from partaking of the succulent bits of life.  But in times of distress, Facebook can disseminate information to people everywhere.  It allows friends to share pictures of their kids and grandkids. And it can bring blessings in the form of a dress.

My search for a mother of the groom dress
The dress I wore
A dress I wore the day I got married

Because I love weddings:

All I ever wanted was a Cinderella dress and Gerbera daisies.
She wore cowboy boots under her grandma’s wedding dress
Flower girls flinging flowers
I particularly liked Queen Elizabeth’s canary suit for the royal wedding
The defining moment of Jon and Lindsey’s wedding
The most courageous wedding picture ever taken…before the ceremony
An extraordinary lover’s knot in a wedding
Jackie came down the aisle to Non Nobis