Author: Bev

I’ll start off right at the bat with, I’m into acceptance, except when I’m not.  Oh, and there’s the concept of acceptable.

This is a missive with more questions than answers.  Can you accept this?

So, acceptance is in one sense, to accede to. To accept or receive, accommodate or reconcile oneself to.  Acceptance presumes that what you’ve got is not necessarily what you want.  “It is what it is,” comes to mind, and that is acceptance.

I have taped to my computer monitor a sign that says, “Do what you can.  Accept what is.  Bee happy.”  This is a reminder to myself, to calm down my predilection to try to fix everything, to control everything.

Were you ever deemed not acceptable as a boyfriend or girlfriend?  Were you not accepted into the first college of your choice?  Do you accept the trajectory of your life?  Have you accepted one job offer over another?  How about compliments?  Do you accept them or dismiss them?

Is acceptance the same as compromise? Is compromise a bad word? Concession is a synonym of compromise.  This whole concept, I think, is akin to a mutual give and take, to reach a satisfactory middle ground, a path that is deemed minimally worthy to live on, but acceptable compared to at least two options, neither one of which we can fully agree to.

Or, is acceptance acceding to “whatever,” fate serves up?  What is existentialism and is it opposed to faith, belief, or hope?  If making a meaningful choice in an irrational world is existentialism, then I accept it. However, this in my mind does not void faith, belief, or hope toward a more rational, common-sensical world to work within.

Maybe acceptance is a kind of exchange program between anxiety and peace, struggle and relinquishment, the status quo and change.  Acceptance may be necessary for moving forward in life.

The definition of acceptance as, “the state of being accepted or acceptable,” reminds me of “adequate” which is not always enough.  Adequate, like “competent,” is clearly more than acceptable if on a bad day you feel below average or under par.

Another definition of acceptance is “the act of receiving what is offered.”  Who’s offering? Is it easier to give than receive?  Scripture would have it that it is more blessed to give than receive.  But is it easier?

The reason, I surmise, that it is easier to give is a matter of control.  You’re in control when you’re giving to others.  Allowing others to give to you or help you in any way may be a matter of pride.  You can easily receive, only with the assistance of humility and acceptance that you too are a mere mortal.

“You’ve been approved,” is a more than acceptable reply to any application.  Approval is yet another definition of acceptance. 

Receiving a stamp of approval in all manner of endeavors, including your very personality, may never be offered.  Why do we need the approval of others?  Many of us have for a lifetime, unsuccessfully sought the approval of someone or some group.  Even the nouveau rich are unacceptable by “old money” standards.

I wonder what the origins of the concept of approval are.  Is acceptance ancient?  May it have originated in the Garden of Eden, the Modern Age, the advance in productivity through the Industrial Revolution, or were Hunters and Gatherers competitive and judgmental, disapproving some and accepting others?

Is the opposite of acceptance into a group or status, rejection?  Not many of us would prefer rejection, if the group is worthy.

We all want to be chosen, favored, the most loved one. When we have not been obviously accepted, a scarcity mentality or fear kicks in, “there isn’t enough approval to go around.”  Well, acceptance is not finite and even though some people have been readily approved, that doesn’t mean all the rest of us are rejected.

Rabbi Sacks (Not in God’s Name) reminds us that when others are loved, we are not in turn, unloved; and to be blessed, no one must in turn be cursed.  God’s love doesn’t work in such opposites and nor does the acceptance of most people. 

Acceptance is particular and specific toward others, according to our personalities, character, and calling.  We are accepted for who we uniquely are; not as a matter of degree (less or more).  We each have our own blessing and we don’t need someone else’s blessing.  The choice of you does not mean the rejection of me.  I may not be chosen, but neither am I rejected. 

I accept this.

Well, it happened, poison ivy got my spouse in earnest about a week after me.  So, the saga continues, plus one.

It has been said by roughly half the population that “man-pain” is felt much more deeply than “woman-pain.”  I’m just sayin, this has been the case since the beginning of time even in spite of the whole childbirth thing.  Oh, but in a day when medical schools are beginning to refer to breast-feeding as chest-feeding…. I just don’t know where to go with this….

I’m trying to keep the whining to a minimum, at least publicly, but for mercy’s sake!  “Misery loves company,” is attributed to English naturalist and botanist, John Jay (1627-1705); a naturalist, who might know a tad more about the misery associated with plant allergies than most.  So, I want to thank those of you who have shared your stories having at some time in your life felt my pain in the aftermath of this creepy, crawly, stinging, burning, irritating allergic malady.

After a five-day stint on a steroid, which sort of eliminated the blisters provided by my own excellent immune system, I developed a sore throat.  I nearly collapsed at the possibility that I may have passed on some virus, any virus, to my senior-plus loved one whom I have been visiting daily for several months.

However, my common sense established that the temporary sore throat was a result of my lowered immune system’s inability to fight off my regular allergic reaction to among other summer culprits, our once damp basement, now fortified by an immense dehumidifier and fan.  I work out in that space when the outdoors is inhospitable via humidity, storms, or heat in excess of the lower 80s, all the while singing at the top of my lungs to my playlist.  Thus, the scratchy sore throat.

It is not a good idea to work out in the basement wearing one of my “Covid-masks.”   My dumb thought was to exchange the minuscule retention of my own carbon dioxide trapped in the mask during my work out for the potential of breathing in vestiges of leftover mold from the depths of the cement block basement walls, during exertion.  There was a half-day of severe allergic congestion following that bright idea.

Right when I thought I was on the downhill slope, I discovered a sore patch on the back of my neck, right at the hairline.  Hubby sprayed this new line of poison with his friend, calamine.  And a sort of secondary red and stinging allergic reaction, not worse but equal to the blisters, appeared on my mid to upper arms, both arms.

I have discovered that if you can’t find rolled gauze in the store, 4×4 gauze pads can be cut in half, unfolded and they work similarly as the rolled stuff (soaked in boiled Jewel-weed stem broth) to serve as your wet/dry dressings.  Did I say that my husband is totally enamored with calamine in the spray can?  And I’m liking a bit of cornstarch baby powder, as I slowly heal.

I have been doing my best to not cross contaminate with myself or my spouse, so towels, wash cloths, bedding, and clothing; in short, everything I touch, has been washed daily.  After doing laundry so often for the last three weeks I wouldn’t be surprised if our water provider either made a special visit or sent an urgent phone call to our residence asking why the uptick?

I wondered if the new, or ongoing, I don’t know, feeling of irritation on my skin, which literally feels like gentle but constant contact with an unused dryer sheet, might have started a new allergy from said laundry product.  I even replaced my lifelong habit of using these and tried using a benign tablespoon of white vinegar in the wash and a baseball sized aluminum foil ball in the dryer which does not, as promised, prevent static cling.

In the near future, I guess I’m off to purchase wool dryer balls.  No holds barred here.

Besides daily oatmeal baths and cleansing showers, calamine lotion is my caregiver.  Cousin Vaughn suggested a novel application method utilizing a farm-grade spraying apparatus filled with said calamine.  A shower in it sounds good to me, about now.   I’ve tried all manner of home remedies.

Thank you, Harry for the Jewel-weed reminder; something else important that I forget from year to year.  Thank you, Bernie, for the tip for prevention, so there is no next time.

Thanks to Layne and those others who have prayed for me, some of whom are covert in your pleas on my behalf.  And, toward Eleni, who created a soothing mix of essential oils which are balm to my appendages and her prayers balm to my soul, I am always in a state of thanks and love.   I am receptive and grateful for all of your feedback and thoughtfulness.

I will always love the outdoors and this hiccup in the space of time will not deter that.  In fact, my step count on Fitbit testifies that my outdoor work has commenced, as usual.

It remains a Covid-crazy year folks and this is a summer to remember, at least in my neck of the woods. I’m personally looking forward to Autumn.

Have you heard the saying, “no good deed goes unpunished?”  Or, “kindness brings its own punishment,” credited in 1927 to Marie Belloc Lowndes?  And in 1938 Leo Pavia gets credit for “Every good deed brings its own punishment.”  Well, however you say it, I have a case in point.

I was performing a good deed for a beloved family member.  It was my idea to clear her pine grove of long overgrown weeds, shrubs planted by squirrels or birds or the wind, and vines, some of which had grown up the pine trees, toward the light of day.  I aimed to have it looking “park-like” for her.

After one long day, and then another, before the sunset on day two, a familiar rash began to appear in earnest up my forearms and around my ankles, oh my!  Just the day before I said to my companion in crime, “Does this look like poison ivy to you?”  Don’t we have a way of dismissing some of those impressions that we kind of knew in the back of our minds, were relevant and that we should have heeded?

Have you ever done something dumb, foolish, or heedless, and said to yourself just after you did it, “I know better than that!”  Oh, to turn back the clock and listen to your own sense.

That’s me, and poison ivy.  We have a hate, hate relationship.  Why do I get it every year?  I know better than that.  Poison ivy, oak, or sumac are best prevented than treated.  I know that too.

I’m of a certain age, and I know better than this; and I’ve known it for quite some years.  I declare every year that I will wear long sleeves and long pants when excavating weeds and overgrown areas of our own property or that of family.  But when summer comes around and the temperature heads toward 90 degrees my plans seem to vanish into vapor, very warm vapor.

I like cleaning up those overgrown outdoor forgotten places.  It gives me a warm and cuddly sense of satisfaction.  But, thinking of “no good deed goes unpunished,” I got instead, a crawling, and oozing sense of foreboding around day three.

I’m aware that my skin is sensitive to plant oils, even green bean plants send me right to the shower or I feel eaten alive.  So, one could expect that exposure to known poisonous plant matter would inspire allergic fallout, right?

The ER doc said, “I’ll admit, you’ve got an impressive case.”  That was on day six, when after a cool bath in soothing soft soap, the oozing, blisters and spreading gunk had become too much for the buckets of calamine lotion, alcohol, and hydrocortisone cream to affect.  I even tried applying dastardly smelling cider vinegar, to no avail.  At wits end, and bordering on tears, I needed professional help; even if they could only say “there, there, you simpleton.”

Now, all you young kids out there, “do what I say, not what I do;” and know that “prevention is better than cure,” especially when it comes to poison ivy.  Even with the compassion and the medicines from medical professionals, it feels like forever to heal from a bad reaction to poisonous plants.  At least three weeks….

The 1959 Coasters song, Poison Ivy, compares its titled, itchy malady, to measles, mumps, chicken pox, whooping cough, all of the diseases of the time yet to be vaccinated away, and the common cold.  “She comes on like a rose but everybody knows…She’s pretty as a daisy but look out man she’s crazy…Late at night while you’re sleepin’, Poison Ivy comes a creepin’ around…She’ll really do you in…You’re gonna need an ocean of calamine lotion…”

My case was the muscle car of cases that skipped the itch and went straight from touching the plant to a myriad of blisters that burst on their own, procreating in multiples, alongside indistinguishable clusters of sores.  A little itchy rash this was not.

You know, we often don’t appreciate those body parts that most of us possess until they’re inoperable for some reason.  Then wowzah, we value how much they do for us, in their covert mechanization’s.

I’m talking about my arms, specifically my forearms.  What to do with my arms?  Covered with blisters, I had held them, using my now quite muscled traps, in an inverted U, not a jazz dance move by the way, until a familiar burning sensation took over my shoulders and I had to find a new position.

There is an expanse of happy functioning skin on the top outside of each arm.  I’ve tried every possible use of that clean skin but those positions just don’t fit into my repertoire.

Years ago, I heard something quasi-medical that one shouldn’t sleep with one’s arms over your head, that it adds stress to the heart.  True or not, I trained myself to avoid that sleeping position.  So, now it’s hard to get comfortable like that.

So, wet/dry dressings helped post ER night one, but again I’m not so comfortable with wet, aside from showers, pools, and places where wet is a clear requirement.  From humidity, to rain, to being splashed, dunked, dampened, or squirted on, I’m not terribly keen.

My spouse happily banished me to the guest room to cope with what we’ve come to lovingly label “our very own Bev-Ebola.”  This is the closest thing we could think of to call the nasty blistery, red rash clusters, outside of a fictitious name from a movie, called Contagion, Outbreak, Pandemic or some-such horror film, by the way.

My next strategy for sleeping was to bathe in calamine lotion, let it dry well and slip into bed, or better described as a senior-leap as far to the middle of the bed with a soft mattress, as I could without the assist of arms.  If you’re laughing too hard right now, try scooching onto a soft mattress without the assist of your arms.  I wrapped a clean hand towel gently over my arms so as not to brush them accidentally.

Don’t get poison ivy, my friends. “Do as I say, not as I do.”    

 

In a 1639 book of English and Latin proverbs, John Clarke wrote, “Early to bed and early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise.”  As with all proverbs, they only tell part of the whole story.

There are always exceptions to correlations, such as those in this proverb.  For example, what about the night-owls who are healthy, wealthy, and wise; or the unhealthy, poor, and foolish people who get up at dawn and go to bed before sunset?

Don’t we all want to be beautiful, wealthy, healthy, know-it-all, famous, and slim?  In reality maybe we’ll be one or two of those things.

I can hear some of you exclaim, “speak for yourself, woman.  I’m all of those and more!”

If the facts be acknowledged, we don’t really want all of those things, exactly.  Maybe if we clearly possess one or two of them, let’s say, health and fitness, what we want is for our life to have purpose, and meaning; to be loved.

Wasn’t it the Dalai Lama who said, “if you find a meaningful job, you’ll never work a day in your life?”  I know it was he who said, “Remember that sometimes not getting what you want is a wonderful stroke of luck.”

How many times have you wanted something really badly, even desperately?  And, you were nearly devastated that it didn’t materialize for you.  Been there, done that!

Perhaps not getting that thing, situation, occasion, etc. was lucky, as the Dalai Lama said.  Or, maybe it was a blessing in disguise.  A step to the side of the path you were trodding, an alternative course may have been the divine plan all along, as opposed to your well-plotted course.

About that desire to be one of the beautiful people, let’s rethink that.  “Beautiful people,” in the popular sense, love to complain about their physical beauty getting in the way of their other attributes.  All they’re valued for is their obvious beauty, negating other perhaps more lofty traits.  What else, they ask?

Wealthy people live in some fear that they are valued only for their money.  “What if I lose all of this?” They are at constant risk of being taken advantage of, exploited, and live primarily in defense of what they “have.”

Slim people, fit people are, well sticks in the mud of a planet filled with frustrated and envious, not-so-slim beings trying with all their might and their money to be them.  If you want to be envied, being slim is one path to your goal.  However, slimness does not wholeness bring.

“Know-it-alls” are given that moniker of derision, because they’re disliked for their font of knowledge; something slightly different from wisdom.  In fact, “knowing it all” is an illusion.  Humility, a more beloved characteristic, is associated with the the best of knowledge, wisdom.

Fame, or to be known by multitudes.  Do you really want that?  What happens when you want just a moment of privacy but all of you, your time, and your space, is filled with those who want to see and know more and more of you?

Being known is ever so slightly different from being seen.  Being seen verges on the point I’m attempting to make, that living a life that has meaning, is the primary want of most human beings.  We want to be acknowledged, seen, valued just for being who we uniquely are; not for our beauty, fitness, wealth, knowledge, or build.

• I see you, my friends.

When jogging indoors to my thematic playlist, including a song titled, Breathe, another one titled, Mercy, and one of my favorites which I belt out in private, Kyrie Eleison, meaning, “Lord have mercy.” 

“Kyrie Eleison down the road that I must travel.”  God have mercy, and protect me from myself, my choices, my words….  The 1985 song performed by the band, Mr. Mister, includes the words mountainside, highway, road, sea, choose, heart, soul, body, among others, and references growing old.

“Have mercy!”  I grew up hearing this exclamation, or was it the extended version, “Good God, Have Mercy!”

Speaking of “the road that I must travel,” the song on my list, called Mercy, sung by Welsh artist, Duffy, is one with special significance to me because I first heard it while resting in a French hotel, at the end of a long day of travel. Duffy articulates the classic, man who done me wrong hook, which thankfully doesn’t speak to me, but the song’s title means something altogether different to my soul.

Have mercy as I go along my path, whether it’s rocky, sandy, through valleys, shadows, swamps, rivers, or mountain passes.  I’m reminded of the Scripture from Isaiah 52, “how beautiful upon the mountains are the feet of those who bring good news of good things, who publishes peace.”  Having received mercy, my end-game is always to publish peace.

But, sometimes even those beautiful mountains pose a seemingly insurmountable challenge.  Thusly, we cry out with a prayerful plea along the lines of Kyrie Eleison. Or more colloquially, “give me a break!”

Duffy croons, “You’ve got me beggin you for mercy, why won’t you release me; My morals got me on my knees, won’t you please stop playing games….”.  I’m reminded when singing along with this song that one of the King James Bible phrases I recall from growing up is, “I beseech thee O Lord…”. 

Having grown up and learned a few things along the way, I’ve discerned that beseech means, to beg.  One form of prayer most of us are familiar with, is the begging prayer, beginning with the word please, usually in rapid succession, “please, please, please….”  In this prayer our hearts are crying out for mercy.

What is mercy?  A victim being tortured cries out for mercy.  Duffy begs for mercy from a vicious circle of game-playing and I don’t mean Monopoly, more like a manipulative and sinister game of cat and mouse, not fair-play.

Have you heard the saying, “there but by the grace of God, go I?”  This original saying is usually attributed to John Bradford, who said it when seeing criminals being led to their execution in 1553.  Ironically, his grace was limited to two years, as he was executed two years later for heresy, being a Protestant in Roman Catholic England.

Grace, meaning unmerited favor; and mercy being compassionate or kindly forbearance toward someone under a powerful other, points to the kind of begging prayer mentioned above, “Could the ‘powers that be,’ kindly give me a freaking break?!”

I had a vision of Scarlett O’Hara or some such southern belle gasping quietly in the summer heat, whispering, “Lord, have mercy,” as she fans her lightly perspiring face.  In my northern bluntness, I’m more likely to speak to the heat, while wiping my sweating face, “would you please cut me some slack, dude!” 

Even more popular than the begging prayer of desperation is the Lord’s Prayer, the pastoral poem of faith, Psalm 23, wherein we expect that “surely goodness and mercy will follow us all the days of our life.”  The prophetic book of Micah suggests something even more socially equitable: that we refrain from staying angry forever, but delight to show mercy to others, having received mercy ourselves.

We all have our way of begging for mercy. 

Do names matter?  Can a name define us, at some core level?

Along with gender, the first thing everybody wants to know about a new baby is their name.  The gender thing is under fierce debate these days, but I think we’re all agreed that our children are still given a name, at or shortly after birth.

Don’t we consider, carefully the name we choose for our offspring?  We’re giving our children their first identity marker when we give to them their name.

Some children are named after a favorite aunt or uncle or a “family name.”  Other names are made-up names, pulling together parts of names or place-names, with some sort of significance to the parental units.  Yet other names are of ethnic origin and again hold some sort of meaning.

In terms of name-meanings, there are books and internet references dedicated to name-origins.  Some parents-to-be consult these resources in order to select a certain just-right cadence to the name and/or character traits they hope to see their offspring realize.  For example, my name derives from the very industrious, beaver.  And so, I am.

Hope was one of my chosen names, one of those teenage fantasy exercises engaged in by some of us.  Anne Shirley from “Anne of Green Gables,” my favorite book series, stipulated she preferred to be known as Anne with an E, because it was “so much more interesting.”

Tara, was another one.  I guess I was a “Gone with the Wind” fan at some point in my youth.  “As God is my witness, I’ll never be hungry again,” said Scarlett O’Hara; and Rhett Butler’s famous line was, “Frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn.”  These industrious folks called their farm, Tara; probably after terra, for earth.

“Name that tune,” has been a game-show for eons.  I mean, what’s a song, without a name?  Name-dropping is key for some folks looking for a job.  It’s all about who you know.

What about name-calling?  When I was a kid, we learned to chant: “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words (names) will never hurt me.”  If you’ve ever been bullied, you know this isn’t true.  These kinds of names, now called labels, hurt a good deal, sometimes for a lifetime.

Are you a name-brand kinda person?  From tea to jeans, consumer goods have names.  Designer names enjoy high status.  Generic names, usually unpronounceable, are inconsequential; it’s the item, not the name that sells.  Some people like a label blazoned across their bottoms and their handbags; others refuse to buy an item with a name on the outside.

Key to this column, is the name game.  Names are essential to our mind being able to describe, categorize or classify information. Names are therefore, not inherently good or bad.

Using language demands we name things.  But when we attribute meaning to names, we risk social or cultural misunderstanding.

As to nicknames, one name in particular that I and probably a good number of my generation, have had to uncomfortably revert back to its original, is Dick.  Until recent years, this was the casual name for Richard.  But this use has gone by the wayside and is now considered archaic.  Dick, was also in the olden days, short for detective.  But, today, the word is understood in popular culture as a pejorative for a stupid, mean, or contemptible person, especially a man.

Short for Beverly, my nickname is Bev.  This is my preferred moniker.  As with most children, who kinda know they’re in trouble when mom uses their full name; I think I’m being monitored by the government when someone calls me Beverly.  However, when talking on the telephone I usually say I’m Beverly because in that context, Bev is often misheard as Beth.

Beverly has archaically been gender-neutral.  There was George Beverly Shea, Canadian-American Gospel singer, famously known for “How Great Thou Art” and “Just as I Am.”  My surname, Barton has been, as a given name, attributed to a number of aristocratic English gentlemen, meaning “from the barley settlement.”  No wonder I’m a fan of Sting’s, “Fields of Gold;” all about loving sentiment and the Barley Field.

Just so you know, what does your name mean?  More specifically, what does your name mean to you? 

The title of this column mimics the title of a composition we publish in our business.  The content of that piece has nothing to do with dust or household cleaning, but it was on my mind, so here we go.

Rabbits and bunnies; it’s summer and these critters breed and inhabit our rural yards.  My husband has replanted beans thrice, now.  Next, its chicken wire, I guess.

Today, as I write this, it’s a welcome sunny day, after a long stretch of rain, clouds, and darkness.  I noticed in our kitchen, exposed to the morning sun, that dust bunnies have proliferated beyond my comprehension.

There are nooks and crannies from wall to rectangular wall in our kitchen.  Maybe they aren’t technically nooks, but I’ll bet you they could be called crannies.

From a lay person’s point of view, these spaces that collect dust in our kitchen are places where cabinets don’t quite meet the wall or appliances butt up against a cabinet.  It’s probably a finish carpenter’s bane.  At any rate, they exist and there is just enough space for dust, cobwebs, and cat fur to collect, and my ordinary cleaning tools don’t suffice to easily eradicate them.

To some people, dust bunnies are temporary visitors.  But they seem to be family pets in our house.  In fact, they had taken up residence on the dust mop, no less.

Dust on the dust mop seemed unreasonably cruel to me.  I almost cried, but decided to laugh instead.

I’m aware that some folks are in to cleaning in a way that I can’t fit into my list of priorities.  I have friends, acquaintances, neighbors and loved-ones who keep immaculately clean homes.  Kudos to you.

I keep a tidy house and I “clean it up” when messes are made.  I live with a man who spills, daily.  Don’t call the doctor, it’s not an illness; just an atavistic trait he seems to have inherited from his dad.  But I’m used to cleaning up.

Have you ever heard someone say, “you made the mess, you clean it up?”  It seems like a reasonable thing to expect.  But I am the delegated rescue-person, called to the crime-scene to “clean it up.”  If I don’t clean it up now, I’ll have to come back later and do it, when its effects might be worse.

Preemptive cleaning is okay.  I do it to keep things orderly and hygienic, yet don’t take it so seriously as to be considered fanatical.  Our house isn’t dirty, it’s lived-in.

In fact, I’m a tad uneasy around perfection. Show-homes are just that, for show.  One usually doesn’t feel welcome or at home in these places.  Everything is placed.  Nothing is real.  How do you unwind in a place that is so tightly wound?

Have you ever been the cause of a grocery-store announcement, “clean-up in aisle 9?”  I confess I have once or twice been the culprit; darn those flimsy blueberry cartons, or was it grape tomatoes?

So, I’m not always the cleaner.  But somebody must clean up after us in every aspect of life.  It’s as inevitable as death and taxes, as the saying goes.

To clean something up means essentially to free it from a whole bunch of unwanted stuff.  We can free ourselves from dirt, soil, stains, pollution, extraneous matter, marks, roughness, defects or flaws, encumbrances or obstructions.

So, clean it up and set yourself free, my friends.  If someone sets you free by cleaning it up for you, use your words and say please and thank you.  They’ll appreciate it.