Author: Bev

Like a certain young singer-songwriter that we all know (unless you’ve lived under a rock for a while), who writes and sings about her romances gone awry (T. Swift) – an essayist, such as I, writes about our everyday experiences.  So, here goes.

As my Facebook friends will recall, I posted a couple of weeks ago that in one of my walking forays in an industrial area near the woods and the entrance to a couple of trails, after having picked up a discarded plastic bag, and filling it with equally discarded bottles, various food wrappers, cigarette cartons, and such, on my way to a dumpster to discard said trash, I was stopped by a worker at an industry, and asked if I had a home.  Apparently he thought I was homeless and “my” bag of trash was either my only possessions, or my only source of income.  LMAO, at the time.

However, something similar happened this week, and my funny bone wasn’t tickled this time, but my contemplative mind went into overdrive and into the deep I dove.  Why do I pick up trash?  Why do I return other people’s shopping carts to the store?  Why do I let people in front of me in the checkout line?  Why, when I’m out and about, do I engage strangers in random conversation?  Why do I hug when I want to hit?  Why am I silent when I want to scream?  Why am I awake when I want to sleep?…

I pick up trash along my walks as an act of stewardship of the earth, and devotion to God, it’s Creator.  I don’t expect thanks or applause (thank God, because I’d be gravely disappointed); but instead of asking me about my motives for picking up their trash, would it kill some people to just say, “thank you.”

I do stick my foot in it, stick my neck out, and never learn about some things.  That is, I try to extend goodness, mercy, kindness, and help toward my fellow men, women, and children; but most attempts lately seem to backfire!?!?

For example, this week when walking along a macadam road surrounded by both woods and industry, I spied with my two eyes, a piece of large equipment with its lights on – sitting next to other equipment; like a transformer ready to come more and more alive!  I continued my walk, thinking somebody from one of the buildings with employees still around, would notice it and tend to it; or maybe it was new enough that it had a built-in memory to turn the lights off after a bit.  Not so much.

On my way back around, I thought I’d seek somebody out and alert them to the lights-on situation.  You see, in my thinking I was doing a “good deed” – I was a girl scout, after all.  I thought that if that equipment was like an older vehicle, and it had a battery, powering those lights, it might drain the battery and present a problem to its operator, tomorrow.

I popped my head into a couple of open doors in one building and saw no one.  I didn’t want to trespass, so I figured I’d done all I could and started to walk away, when a young guy, no more than 19 or 20 years old, called out to me from his car; presumably on a break.  He asked if I was looking for someone.  I pointed out the equipment with the lights on and he mumbled something about the fact that if it were some other type of equipment he could just turn the lights off, but he’d have to find somebody to deal with this particular piece of equipment.

I walked away, sort of trying to explain to him that he’s probably seen me walking the road this summer…that I’m not some crazy lady, or homeless…  He called after me and said, paraphrased: “I’m curious. Why do you walk here, when there are other, beautiful places to walk?”  He didn’t wait for a reply, so I guessed it was either a rhetorical question or a critical judgment that indeed I am a crazy lady.

So, in my defense:  In the summer, wearing shorts, I avoid some hiking trails (and my husband’s vegetable garden) because the plant matter irritates my extremities and inevitably I end up with some sort of poisonous mass of itchy, unsightly, stuff crawling up my legs or arms and Prednisone, here I come!  Instead of the trails, I walk next to them, surrounded by trees to the north, south, left and right of a macadam or gravel road or earth and rock path, well clear of weeds and spreading plants.

I am well aware that there are other places to walk.  For example, many people walk or run through my neighborhood (a lovely place with lots of friendly people, and barking dogs in every other yard).  Other people drive to the head of a trail and walk from there (drive-to-walk).  And, beauty is – as we long know, in the eye of the beholder.

On my walks, I see wildlife, run across few people (with the exception of those couple of workers), and visit with God. I’m often alone with the trees, rocks, animals, and my thoughts; just the way I like it – beautiful!

Everybody who went to high school with me knows I had cystic acne and sensitive skin as a girl.

In the second half of my life I see it less as the plague that it was to me then than as a prerequisite to what is now the developed, seasoned through time and testing, gift of a sensitive spirit and soul.

What my flawed skin once covered over, is now released – liberating me to live – “adulting” in the deep where I’ve always belonged but couldn’t have known while shackled in the shallows of adolescence.

The Aging of Mushrooms & Men

Mushrooms in
decay                                                                           A special kind of beauty                                                                         Aging is more than okay                                                                            It’s kind of creative duty.

Their colors are muted but deep
A testament to
age                                                                               Their story is something to keep                                Something of value – a sage.

Rubbery and
brown                                                                           Bites out of them some                                                                           Wear red – why wear a frown
Where their substance comes from.

Something about their state of decay
Their obvious imperfection                                                                 Their richness, I beg to stay
Their essence and insurrection.

Aging milkweed no longer attracts
Butterflies are drawn to the young
Fruitfulness is happy to relax
Content to remain unsung.

A celebration of life                                                                                No need for a funeral                                                                          Their legacy sharp as a knife
In words, verse, even numeral.

Sleeping butterfly ended too soon                              “Miles to go before I sleep”                                                                      Life protracted maybe ’til noon
Frost said when thinking thick and deep.

Some mildewed green from too much rain
Others I passed, camouflaged were they
Still more baked brown from sun that then came
Why I delight in them I cannot say.

Mangled by the very nature that gave them birth
It takes a village she said                                                                        With light dancing about them with mirth
Some choose hiding instead.

Like Alice in wonderland                                                                 Under the mushroom cap
Life cannot be bland                                                                           When you live in such rich sap.

Seeing Through the Window to Soul

Everyone can be reduced to our eternal and infinite soul – our one and only, highly original core, which is covered over with a readily recognized flesh and blood costume which is known to ourselves and others as “who I am.” It is this costume that we all recognize as “me,” and “I.” We muddle through life guided by perceptions that we’ve borrowed from the finite and limited culture into which we landed at birth.

If we choose to go there, and linger for a while – past our surface costume, deep into the soul – if we’re interested or compelled to philosophically know, we can answer the questions, “Who am I” and “What is my purpose?” And, the answer is not Descartes’, “I think therefore I am.”

In fact, thinking will get us nowhere; because the endeavor has a goal to be attained and usually wants definitive, problem-solving answers – so that we can hurry up and move on. These are not the answers soul gives; it’s more likely in the answering to ask more questions – ever the therapist, always digging in order to unearth more treasure. Usually soul reveals a portion of, a glimpse toward knowing, and invites us to additional rumination, contemplation, and struggle.

Soul is a circle, and we’re used to thinking of life as emanating from the straight line of a bell curve – with ups and downs but going forward in a linear fashion. The circular stuff of soul can in comparison, be confusing; sometimes down right maddening in its mystery and ill-delineated direction. We thought we were supposed to be moving progressively forward when that d___ circle appears to be pulling us around its axis to a place where we recognize as already having been – I guess in this case, soul wants to review, or find a treasure we missed the first time around.

The perceptions we’re all guided by, are formed by culture, unique life experience, and a pinch of history, or genetic predisposition. A given, from my point of view is that God is the Author and Finisher of all these – but He is not directly the subject of this essay.

It’s difficult to get past our retinue of perceptions; to bypass cultural dictates; and to reinterpret life experiences that have landed in our laps as defining principles of our character, personality, and agenda. But, to unravel who we are, we can dig to the depth – far below the surface which is culture, life experience, and perception – to find that treasure.

Would that we could do this, though – and cut easily right to soul. If we could reduce all the compounding, over layers of our culture, perceptions; and distill our history – like when in the kitchen we reduce liquid juice into a thicker but greatly abridged paste, we might be enabled to see the soul more purely and honestly.

I was able to do this in baby-step fashion recently, via cues planted in my mind from reading Thomas Moore’s Care of the Soul. From this remarkable book, I was able to look, not only at my dreams, but to several childhood experiences, with a new perspective.

Moore’s psychology is counter-intuitive to the traditional psychology I learned in college. The psychology I learned is pathology-oriented.   So, my long-held understandings and analysis of my childhood experiences – like so many others from the same school of thought, called attention to various defense mechanisms I had developed over time, such as perfectionism, self-control, problem-solving, and an array of accompanying and skillful fixes of what had gone wrong in my world.

Moore’s psychology is oriented toward the archetype – the mythical prototype or anti-hero, and to story. These tools which deny anything has gone wrong – everything that happens is intended – have enabled me to examine dream images as mythological beings and my life experiences as stories – rather than my dream images and life experiences as problems to be solved or puzzles to decipher and interpret. Therefore, I can welcome my circumstances – all of them, both negative and uplifting, perceiving them equally as God-given apparatus’, perfectly in place, for my benefit.

In fact, during a walking church moment with God in the woods, I blurted out on Facebook, “’There is a reason for the season.’ It occurs to me that that saying does not apply only to Christmas. It explains purpose in every spiritual, emotional, mental, physical, and relational season we pass through. We can give thanks for ALL things as all things are permitted by God to benefit us in some way. We can mine each circumstance for the treasure that surely lies beneath.”

This new way of seeing, flung open the panoramic window to my soul, exciting and renewing my vision of how things are and where I’m headed. The word – revision has a whole new meaning.

Revision of my perception led to a rekindled passion for covering (i.e. I Peter 4:8 “Love covers sin”) the fault, missteps, failures, or my own expectations of how I and my loved ones should be.   Rather than choosing anger or judgment against myself or a loved one for having disappointed my expectation of myself or them; or taking it personal, as an affront or offense, I’m choosing to just throw a blanket over the fault – cover it over entirely; out of sight, out of mind – like an infant operating on a blank slate, from moment to moment.

Revision doesn’t happen overnight. I clearly need practice in this – it hasn’t come naturally and I mess up every day, at least once. The temptation is to be offended when my ordinary vision is challenged.

Along with this new fleeting perception has come a hint of the release of control over the people and circumstances that weave in, through, and out of my life daily. I think it’s natural to want to direct the course of events that drives us, in life. Everybody wants to steer; to drive, not ride along; to decide our direction; even control the television clicker.   But, I’ve found, the instinct to control and direct things objectifies everything organic around me – until nothing is free to evolve on its own power and I’m equally bound to the inanimate.   Stuck and stagnant.

Soul, on the other hand is fluid, mystical; light and dark together; incapable of being defined, understood or pinned down – the epitome of freedom and liberty. When I delve deep into soul; pitch my tent in that realm beneath the surface of culture, history, experience and perception – I am free to be me (but there is always a price – I’ll talk about that later).

Speck-hunting – “Another” Perspective

I don’t know. I don’t know if it’s a personality trait of an introvert, or an “orange.” On social media, I took a personality test (Note: I answered honestly, even though I was tempted to choose the answers that would make me look better, well-adjusted, more socially acceptable and a nice person; in other words, put my “date face” on), and found I’m an orange – who knew; respectful of rules, organized and orderly, benevolent and kind.

I already know I’m an introvert, more inclined to contemplate the idiosyncrasies of my own navel than to notice yours, let alone find fault with your navel.   When I notice something – anything, my first reaction is to hit the inward search bar and examine myself for fault. Yours is yours – I’ll let you be, but mine, I hone in on.

“Search me O God, and know my heart; try me, and know my anxious thoughts. See if there is any offensive way in me, and lead me in the way everlasting” (Psalm 139:23-24, mixed versions). Moments when I’m stymied about why things in life aren’t going my way, or the way I expect, I cry out with this Scripture. What’s wrong with me? And, the hymn, Search Me O God, is a favorite of mine – I’m liable to be humming it, with the words reverberating in my head, at any time, any day.

“Speck-hunting” – Defined

So, after a social media exclamation, that saying OMG is a sin; not just a shortcoming, fault, miss-deed, or less than creative use of the language, but a sin; I started thinking in overdrive – and hit the search bar. Yes, I say “OMG,” “O my,” “O my goodness,” and more.

Speck, found – congratulations, you found the speck in my eye.  Mission, accomplished.

Guilty? I don’t know.  Noticed the log in your own eye, yet?

Jesus’ words, in the Matthew 7:1-5 part of His Sermon on the Mount, “Do not judge and criticize and condemn others…. (AMP) Why do you see the speck that is in our brother’s eye, but do not notice the log that is in your own eye?” – screams myopia, on our part.

In another essay, Eyes to See, I noted my own inability to quickly perceive eye color when I see into the eyes of another or even my own. I just don’t see precisely, or in sharp focus – eye color, I see something else.

I don’t think this seeming obtuseness is really a lack of observation or alertness, but a different kind of perception, akin to marching to the beat of a different drummer. For example, I’m not sure sin is always sin. Maybe in a black and white world, but not in the Kodachrome world we live in. I think maybe sin has more to do with intent and where the heart is than what we do, or say. (Note – I’m just as familiar as you are with the Scripture that says, “They will know you by your fruits.”- But, I believe fruit is born from your heart, not your behavior.) “What I said, is not what I meant.”

More specifically, “O my God,” might – depending on where your heart is, be a prayerful plea, albeit desperate. “O my God,” might be genuine praise for an everyday miracle such as a beautiful sunset, an animal’s extraordinary or anthropomorphic act; an expression of delight, gratitude, or surprise, etc.

Speck-hunters, on the other hand, have an eagle-eye towards sin and wrong-doing, the things they see on the outside of a human being, but God sees and thoroughly knows the heart, the motives, and intents behind the behaviors and visible acts of us all (I Samuel 16:7; Proverbs 16:2). That’s why all the judging needs to be left to God because He and only He has all the information needed for justice to be served; we see through a glass dimly.

Jesus pled with us not to be speck-hunters, but to first examine the log in our own eye. Romans 2:4 says that the goodness of God leads to repentance; not preaching, teaching, battering, belittling, threatening, or witnessing, but goodness.

When, years ago, I taught Marriage and Family courses to college students, I was particularly struck by the then, novel idea of studying healthy marriages as opposed to the usual focus on what was wrong with the family. The trend, prior to positive psychology’s genesis, was to study the dysfunctional, then back track; find the root of wrong-doing, fix it, then teach and counsel, “what not to do,” to achieve fluent families. We took Freud’s tack of studying prostitutes in order to define healthy sexuality. Speck-hunting.

I’m grateful for the well-meaning speck-hunter on social media who brought my attention to the use of OMG as a “curse word,” and therefore the sin of using our Lord’s name in vain, or frivolously. She called attention to my intent, and sharpened my focus when tempted to thoughtlessly use any words for God or substitute words for Him; flippantly.   I’m more alert and repentant, when it’s called for. (Note, you know, it is a Jewish tradition not to write the word for G-d, out of respect and reverence for Him.)

Perhaps, however, our speck-hunting days ought to be numbered, in favor of a logging operation. The following is a comparison of the speck-hunt with the summer camp initiation of newbies, via the snipe-hunt.

I was once the recipient of a snipe-hunt* practical joke, or prank. I’m not a fan.

Frankly, I’m a rather serious person, by nature, and I’ve never witnessed a humorous prank. In fact, “joke” is a total misnomer, in my opinion, for a prank, because they are never truly funny; unless, by “funny,” one means “making fun of,” or intending to embarrass, isolate, perplex, confuse, humiliate, or make someone feel foolish – in front of a group; laughed at. Isn’t that called bullying?

*snipe-hunt = a practical joke originating in the1840s, wherein an unsuspecting newcomer to a group is duped into hunting for a non-existent animal (snipe) in the dark, outdoors, alone, making noise and holding a bag, until the “joke” is discovered.

Snipe-hunt > non-existent animal; in the dark; make noise; embarrassing discovery

ILLUSION    SIGHT IMPAIRMENT     OUTCOME

Speck-hunt > speck vs log; judgment; rebellion or revelation

There must be a kinder, more benevolent way to initiate a newcomer into a group. As there is a better way to alert people to sin and lead them to repentance; it’s the goodness, kindness, and patience of God (Romans 2:4). Speck-hunting is one way, but it isn’t the better way.

 I think when most people think of the introvert personality they think, in error – shyness, or more accurately, social avoidance. Social avoidance is one aspect of introversion, but we tend over time and with acceptance of our personality quirks, to grow adept at maneuvering around social occasions; because they’re indeed occasional by design, and not constant. We learn to prepare for social stimulus.

The personality trait I struggle most with, on the other hand, is a continuous barrage of thoughts and ideas – the forgotten stepchild of many an introvert personality. Even though ideas are our fuel, an incessant bevy of them can be as exhausting as making small talk for more than a minute.

My mindset seems to never tire, nor fully accommodate this bipolar pattern of “thought-sweat.” We’ve all heard someone say they’re mentally tired – that’s what I’m talking about; and this kind of exhaustion – the feeling of being spent, is every bit as legitimate as physical tiredness.

We introverted types are often pigeon-holed by others as quiet, all the time. In actuality, I’m at times, so mentally loquacious, I experience an enormous spillover compulsion and have to talk and talk and talk until I’ve spent everything that’s been building, brewing, stewing, steeping and growing inside me. Or I write.

Thank you, dear spouse for taking on the loving role of holding tank for my insights – and genuinely appreciating them. Part of what makes you – ambivert that you are – my perfect and forever partner, is the fact that you are sometimes the only person who gets my sarcastic humor and you understand my psychological need for space, often when your extrovert side wants “contact.”

Frequently, quiet times are the introvert’s moments of renewal for the next overflow of insight.   Silence prepares us for the energy needed to think imaginatively again.

Often, I’m overstimulated with ideas and exhausted by over-thinking. I cannot tell you how many properties over the years, I’ve imagined owning and re-imagined for one purpose or another; how many imaginary trips I’ve taken; jobs I’ve imagined; imaginary speeches I’ve made; academic programs I’ve completed – even dissertations I’ve written, in my imagination.

The flow of many an introvert’s imagination is incredible, thorough, detailed, structured, and full of possibility.  For example, in the blink of an eye, my thoughts might go like this:

• “There are so many things I would like to have been; it’s mind boggling. Like an English teacher. So, could have Mom. She was my model grammarian. I probably love writing because of her. Then there was that letter I received in the 9^th grade inviting me, “on good authority that I would make an excellent journalist,” to join the Press Club.
• I should have been a conservationist or preservationist like Beatrix Potter (also a notable writer – one of my favorites, and illustrator). I love nature; walking in nature, not hard-core hiking or backpacking or Appalachian-trail-type stuff, but strolling, pacing, or lollygagging, for the purpose of clearing my head, changing up the scenery, exercising, or generally hanging-out with God in the stuff He created.
• Speaking of God and creation – He created me an introvert – and that’s a good thing. I love that poetic Scripture from Psalms that says God wondrously knit me together in my mother’s womb. He made me the way I am, on purpose. I wonder why God gave me intuitive gifts, that seem not to bear fruit or benefit throngs of people.
• Speaking of people – I should like people more.   Truth be told, I actually love people, but prefer to love them in writing, not as much in person, or especially in groups.
• I frequently find myself wanting to be a medical professional, then I remember the blacking out at my several attempts to assist in the medical process.   I also remember that the fantasy of being in medicine is all I need to fulfill that psychological longing – (checkmark).”

I’m reminded that fantasy, a gift to us introverts, allows us to be all of those things we imagine. Similarly said of reading books, all one needs to be rich and full, is an extravagant, unrestrained imagination; visionary ideas; and brief indulgences in illusion.

Speaking of illusion – often when I’m walking in or near the woods in my neighborhood, I’ll see at a distance something that at first thought, is a wild animal; a deer, porcupine, weasel, fox or bear, only to be corrected when up close, the animal turns out to be an overhanging branch clinging to dead leaves or a clump of dried grasses; or a black, Angus cow, escaped from a nearby farm. But the illusion, like any fantasy provided a rush of possibility; and along with it a spark of hope, in general.

With time, learning, and the gift of acceptance, I’m relinquishing the slippery slope from fleeting, creative fantasy to a deeply fixed and fanciful belief, or delusion. Having gone through an intense period of fundamentalist Christianity (traits which carry over to any fundamentalist tradition – Christian, Muslim, political liberalism or conservatism), I developed firm convictions and walked around in complete confidence in the truth of my beliefs; only to come around to a more peace-led, balanced system that celebrates my fallible imagination, gifted by God-within. I’m humbler now, and liberated.

I’ve settled, not unhappily nor by the acceptance of a lesser state, on being a generalist, not a specialist – and to write about everything, anything, that comes to mind – and that’s a lot. So, I’m a personal essayist – it’s settled.

There is a point when I come to a complete halt – experience a tilt in the pinball machine of my mind or hear the buzzer of an off-balance washing machine. I can’t take anymore thought and have to find my feet or hit the ground, whichever process stops the abundance of ideas swirling around inside me.

The things that bring me out of the overflow – once reverie, of thoughts that have turned brown and limp, troublesome, and empty, are chores or jobs that are mundane, un-skilled, and I’m sadly good at, but productive, concrete, “sh—work” – like hand washing dishes, doing laundry, cleaning anything, reorganizing a closet, tidying up a room, sorting papers, answering a matter-of-fact email or prioritizing or obliterating my inbox of tasks I didn’t have the emotional energy to deal with yesterday or last week.

The spigot has effectively been turned off – for now. It’s time for quiet and respite – until next time.

“Moss village”

I was thinking about the Greater One (God, the Provident, Sovereign, Leader of my life) dwelling inside me and bugger if a clear example didn’t present itself.

Sunday evening I had intended to watch Victoria on PBS.  Poised to watch, with auto-tune at the ready, a familiar and dastardly message came across the Channel 3 screen.  The notice, bounding across the television was the “don’t call us” we’re having technical difficulties and will resume airing scheduled programs when the problem is resolved, message.

My experience with this message is that programming doesn’t return anytime soon.  I was annoyed.

My brain, growing older, rebels slightly when I have to turn on a dime – turn my focus, change my mind, or redirect my attention.  I try to exercise flexibility, both mental and physical, but it takes effort – when it was once fairly automatic.

So, I turned the channel to a show I hadn’t watched in a while, preferring Victoria, in that time slot.  It was NCIS: Los Angeles.  I figured I could watch Victoria online later in the week or maybe catch a re-run.

As it turned out, that NCIS episode was the last performance of Miguel Ferrer (Owen Granger), taped before his January passing from throat cancer.  Having seen a few episodes over the last year, I noticed Ferrer had been increasingly (authentically as Ferrer, not in character as Granger) slurring his words.  I assumed that maybe he had a mild stroke but I hadn’t taken the time to google it to confirm.

This episode had Granger, in the hospital, in stable condition after an agency-wide attack.  His slurred speech had accelerated dramatically.  Good move CBS.

At any rate, I googled Ferrer Monday morning and learned the facts about his passing.  I instantly felt a twinge of gratitude for the PBS station guffaw Sunday evening and my re-direction to watch NCIS: Los Angeles.  I was thankful to have seen that special episode.

I know, to some people, what I’m going to write next may seem a bit of a stretch of the imagination, but, whatever.  I think, as insignificant in the scheme of things (life and death); that redirected television schedule was in a small way a divine navigational re-direct.  Not monumental or earth shattering, but kind and helpful and a good-hearted dance-move from the divine.

If I hadn’t noticed that same kind of redirection in a truly significant way in others – strangers, I wouldn’t have even picked up on it Sunday evening.  Many people label this kind of thing and file it under “things happen for a reason.”

I’m not a fan of that phrase because it seems redundant – this coming from a woman that can see meaning in just about everything.  Of course, things happen for a reason – somebody’s reason, ultimately, probably God’s provident reason.

For example, when people have been delayed in getting out the door, late for a meeting or for work, or an event of some sort – and were mightily annoyed by it, to find out that in being late, they missed a fatal pile-up on the highway they would have taken.  Or, the missed flight that crashed.  Or, the sickness that kept them home from work at their twin towers office, on the day they fell.

God-within, God-led, not-your-time-yet providence.