Author: Bev

I’ve often wondered if it’s a tad rude to voice openly that I’m thankful for my various blessings.  Please note that I’m all about gratitude, as a virtue which I attempt to cultivate, even more than usual in this season of harvest.

Gratitude isn’t one of the traditional or orthodox Christian virtues, but it does seem to go hand in hand with one of those traditional virtues, kindness.  Saying thank you and please, pump you up with happy hormones.  And I think people receive those words as acts of, not just courtesy, but of kindness.

Just recently a man pushed in front of my husband and me, to get an answer to what must have been an urgent question, from a customer service representative.  She quickly and efficiently answered his question and he walked off to his destination, without an “excuse me” or “thank you” to be heard.  My husband, the kind man that he is, said “thank you” to the CSR.

The reason I wonder once in a while if it’s kosher to voice my gratitude is this.  There are people out there unbeknownst to me, who are struggling with anti-blessings in the same vein as my blessings.  Not everybody gets a rainbow at the end of their rain-storm.

Is it kind of me to voice my joyful gratitude around someone who is coping with misfortune in that same area of the human condition?  I’m sort of uncomfortable with it.

You see, I’ve been there when someone said, for instance, “I’m so blessed that I’m not sick.”  This was right after someone else shared with them that they’re struggling with some sickness.  Okay, or someone said boldly and with genuine delight, “I’m thankful we are completely debt free,” when I knew that people within hearing distance were struggling with debt.

I observed that these expressions of gratitude seemed viscerally cringe-worthy, insensitive, or they just plain weren’t listening in the classic, people don’t listen, they’re waiting to talk, vein.

In fact, one of the best ways to express your gratitude is to actively listen.  Active listening is when you delve deeper into the words being said, into the realm of hearing what the speaker may actually have meant by what they said.

For me, I feel more genuine in voicing my gratitude in generalities, rather than the more specific ways I mentioned above.  “Today, I’m grateful to be alive and kicking;” because presumably the person you’re speaking with is also alive and kicking.

Or maybe those sentiments above that make me cringe could have been more specific.  It’s always better to parcel your honesty with some humility; your brokenness with beauty; and your uncertainties with possibilities.  For example, the debt-free person could have said, “some debt is good for the credit report, but mine was too much and I’m happy to be getting past it.”

Perhaps the best way to give thanks is to always combine it with kindness.  For instance, we all know that the expression, “thanks for nothing,” is clearly not gratitude mixed with kindness.  “Thanks for that,” is probably sarcasm bordering on offense, rather than thanksgiving.

I’m still on the fence about whether “thanks” and “thank you” are equivalent.  Saying “thanks” sounds to me a smidgen like you’re in a hurry and you have to say something, so you eek out the word “thanks.”  And since, you’re in such a rush, there is no need for or inclination for the recipient to reply.

“Thank you” on the other hand, is a bit more formal, polite, and connotes that you genuinely mean it.  After a “thank you,” most people want to keep the social encounter going with a reply such as “you’re welcome,” “no problem,” or in texting shorthand, “no prob,” or “welcome.”

One of the better ways of expressing gratitude is to write a letter.  Has the “thank you” letter died out in the quick and efficient days of texting, emails, and social media?  I hope not.  Hopefully it continues on even if it’s a changed version sent via text, email or on social media.

I’m thankful for many things.  In fact, I attribute two hymns which we sang at our church every year around Thanksgiving, to my deep appreciation of God’s bounteous provision in America. One is, “Come, Ye Thankful People, Come,” which sets before us in lyrical form a picture of peace, with all the thankful folks, safely gathered, with wants supplied.

The next hymn has helped to nurture in me a vast appreciation for our earth’s natural beauty.  It’s “For the Beauty of the Earth,” which is a hymn of “grateful praise,” specifically for the beauty of the earth, the glory of the skies, the beauty of each hour of the day and night, the hills and vales, trees and flowers, sun and moon, and stars of light; the joy of human love, and “friends on earth and friends above.”

That hymn is kind of the total Thanksgiving package and I’ve always loved it.  However, I’m a realist and I typically mix my gratitude with “whaaat’s up.”  I do not sugar-coat the reality of what’s going on from day to day, for the sake of sentiment, but I do temper it with “hope for the best.” 

What better moment, than right here and right now, to thank you for reading my column.  I appreciate you.

I have very mixed feelings about the weather these days.  I’m one of those people who treasures jacket-weather but shudders a bit at the anticipation of winter.

In my mind, a jacket or sweater completes an outfit.  I feel under-dressed all summer long without a jacket.  But, coat, scarf, glove-weather is just too much stuff to juggle and feels a tad stifling.

I guess I’m just a weather-Goldilocks.  My husband is too.  Is it ever just, right?

I seem to always be rushing my husband through the seasons.  He lallygags, procrastinates, dawdles, and postpones winterizing, in my opinion.

I presume that the feeling is, if you put off preparing for winter, maybe it won’t arrive any time soon.  I personally don’t hate winter but there is an expiration date on my patience with it and if its arrival should be delayed, I’d be okay with that.

I find that with age, I’m not as thrilled with the exercise of shoveling snow as in times past.  It used to be that snow-shoveling for me was just another form of winter cardio.  However, the last year or so, my body has rebelled to this form of activity, much preferring a gentler, prolonged walk, for its fitness.

The “hard work” of stacking fire wood, push-mowing the lawn, and shoveling snow seem to have become less rewarding both physically and emotionally than even a couple of years ago.  Apparently, there is a difference between work and exercise; at least my body has deemed it so.

So, back to the concept of jacket-weather.  When a light jacket is just the right outdoor apparel, I can be said to “love this weather.”  I would be happy as a clam, tickled pink, and as satisfied as a pig in mud, if the temps would hang around in the mid-sixties and the humidity would stay low, all year.

A tree-hugger in every sense of the word, I equate Autumn with falling and fallen leaves.  I grew up jumping into massive piles of leaves and would do so now if, well, you know why I can’t do that now.  But I love the look of yellow, red, orange and brown leaves piling up all on their own with the assistance of hefty breezes now and then.

I can let my hair down in Fall weather, literally.  And, I guess this weather frees me to also figuratively let my hair down and not do the “uptight” up-do that controls the frizz and the extreme effects of summer weather.  Fall weather means liberty, to this individual.

But winterizing brings with it an altogether new tension of preparedness.  My spouse particularly doesn’t love turning off the outside water faucets.  Draining the line feels way too permanent to him.  He washes the car at home about twice a year but he wants to be able to do so whenever he wants to and somehow flipping that lever and opening the faucets is a step too far for him.

All too often we’ve had to cope with the unpleasant alternative to winterizing the outdoor faucets, burst water pipes in the garage.  Accordingly, winterizing has become preferred over the alternative.

We also clean out my husband’s man-shed twice a year.  Among other things, this involves transitioning some heavy equipment such as a log splitter, mowers, spreaders, various saws, and such.  This year after he and our grandson split an epic amount of firewood, he was delighted to give the log splitter a rest and put it away.  In exchange, he retrieved from hiding, his “man-shed heater” to prepare for his greatly anticipated hours of winter-contemplation, rest and shed-solitude.

The deck umbrella has gone into storage and the chair and table covers have been unearthed, much to hubby’s chagrin.  He wants to be able to sit out there in fifty-degree weather, but never will, remember that shed heater?  He gets cold nowadays when he used to wear short sleeved T-shirts all year long.

For many people, winter is bleak and dark.  Don’t get me started on why Congress tabled a bill to leave us in Daylight Savings Time all year.  Instead, we’re back to Standard Time with its darkness at five o’clock in the afternoon.  At least with DST we  felt alive, not to mention awake, until six o’clock.

Maybe it’s the thought of winterizing and the nostalgia of summers past that initiates a subtle dread in those of us of a certain age who are embarking on the winter of our lives.  Poets have often opined about the beauty of winter.

Among my favorite “winterisms” are these from Naturalist and Philosopher, Henry David Thoreau:

“Summer is gone with all its infinite wealth, and still nature is genial to man.  Though he no longer bathes in the stream, or reclines on the bank, or plucks berries on the hills, still he beholds the same inaccessible beauty around him.” – November 22, 1860

“The dry grasses are not dead for me.  A beautiful form has as much life at one season as another.” November 11, 1850

“Live in each season as it passes, breathe the air, drink the drink, taste the fruit, and resign yourself to the influences of each.” August 23, 1853

“Nature now, like an athlete, begins to strip herself in earnest for her contest with her great antagonist Winter.  In the bare trees and twigs what a display of muscle.” October 219, 1858

So, don’t be afraid to winterize.  Count the days if you have to, but spring is surely to come in due time.

If you want to learn something deep about life, get to know a newborn baby.  I’m rather certain that the parents of a newborn don’t have the luxury of time to observe some of the things we grands can, what with feeding, changing, soothing, not sleeping, physical recovery, showering, working, and all the other things parents of newborns are called upon to do.

It’s been my pleasure lately to spend a few hours at a time cuddling my delicious grand-baby, and I observe some stuff beyond my aching jaw which is permanently stuck in the smile position.  He emits sounds that are something wonderful between a purr and a snore.  I believe those sounds are a, perhaps innate, mechanism of self-soothing.

With mama’s heartbeat, no longer a constant in their life, newborns develop self-soothing mechanisms, such as the little gurgles, grunts, groans, and chant-like sounds little ones make.  While they are feeding, sleeping, or just contenting themselves while taking in their enormous environment, newborn’s make such amazing sounds.

We, as adults self-soothe through some other operations, some of which are human-made, and many of which are unnoticed.  For example, religion, in the sociological literature is considered a social construct created by humans for self-comfort.  In fact, Karl Marx said that “religion is the opiate of the people.”

A former sociologist and a Christian, I say “what better opiate, than religious belief to provide solid foundational principles for life, as well as the ultimate in self-comfort.”  Frequently, we seek any kind of numbing agent, ranging from drugs, alcohol, overeating, tobacco, and a multitude of other substances, to help us through the hard times, rough days, challenges that we can’t easily overcome, or pain that is too much to bear.

Why not pray, for comfort?  Why not read a passage that speaks directly to your discomfort, that lifts that pain even slightly?

Social media wisdom is like glitter and coffee grounds.  It spreads everywhere, instantly.  But it is not always accurate.

In fact, this column idea was instigated by a fake Ralph Waldo Emerson quote, “to know that even one life has breathed easier because you lived.  This is to have succeeded.”  I saw it of course on social media, and immediately thought, “how comforting.”

This quote however, was not Emerson, it was written in 1906 by Bessie A. Stanley as a contest entry, defining success, in the Emporia (Kansas) Gazette.  It was attributed to Emerson in error in 1951 by a syndicated newspaper columnist, Albert Edward Wiggam and has spread like herpes all over the Internet, since.

Comforting quotes, biblical passages, and religious rites are all balm which thwart the blues that accompany most of us mere mortals from time to time.  Certain intellectuals, Karl Marx included, feel that such self-comfort is platitudinous and encourages us to accept the brokenness in our culture rather than forge new alternatives to the system which is in place, including religion.

Some folks who are considered religious, take issue with the concept.  Because religion is human-made, there are people who have strong religious beliefs but don’t consider themselves religious.  They consider themselves spiritual.  They further believe that spiritual things have little to do with societies’ institutions but everything to do with the things of God.

Who’s to say that self-comfort in the form of reading, taking a walk, shopping in moderation, praying, singing, dancing, even working, or such practices are not the adult way of self-soothing or searching for the closest thing we can concoct to match our most comforting past, mama’s heartbeat.

To spiritual people, self-comfort is a byproduct of a spiritual life, not the purpose for it.  Maybe, in fact, we’re striving to recapture the heartbeat of God, who most of us believe, created us.

I had begun this column when after three years of writing, I was compelled to tidy-up my column clippings and put them into proper storage.  If I hadn’t had that tidy-up, I would not have known that I already titled a column, “Clean it up, Please.”

So, I re-read column number sixty-seven, from July, 2021, just to see what I had to say back then about cleaning-up.  As it turns out, I have more to say about the subject.  This, then is basically the same thought, but a different tangent on the matter.

Apparently, I repeat myself on occasion and as age would have it, I don’t remember.  I did pause, however to wonder if cleaning up is a personal hangup, quirk, or obsession concerning whether I clean up too much, not enough or just carry around guilt about the effort.

It was Barney, the lovable pink dinosaur from PBS TV in the 90s who taught our little ones at the time, to “clean up, clean up, everybody, do your share;” at least I think that’s how it went.  And, I am quite familiar with a musical composition set for snare drum, which bears the title, “Clean it up, Please,” reminding the player to mind their technique (Robin Engelman).

At any rate, it is during the transition seasons, Fall and Spring, that we tend to do some cleaning,  If not cleaning, we at least do a little bit of redecorating.

Both cleaning and decorating are relative to the observer as well as the cleaner and decorator.  Other folks may wish we would “clean-up” this or that if it disturbs their definition of “cleaned-up.”

If your idea of “cleaned-up,” is perfection: no blemishes, flaws, defects, irregularities, and perfectly neat and complete; you may be setting yourself up for anxiety out there among the rest of us.  Everybody is flawed, behind their perfectly coifed facades.

I would go so far as to say I am a minimalist as to my redecorating for the seasons.  I usually go with a few subtle symbolic reminders of the seasonal change.  It’s enough to suit my sensibilities.

Some people, however, go all-out.  Their decorating is on a whole other level.  It’s not just one pumpkin, rabbit, scarecrow, strand of lights, or wreath, but multiples, in every color, texture, and shape.

What some people think are nice decorations, are over-the-top for the next guy.  My idea of seasonal decorating is rather subdued, gracefully spare, if you will.  But some guys like ornate and that should be filed under, “to each, his/her own.”

And, have you ever felt rather proud of yourself for cleaning-up a room, a landscape, space, or nook, gone somewhere else and observed their “cleaned-up” space and suddenly felt inadequate?  There are people, ordinary friends or family members who are professional caliber cleaner-uppers.  Sadly, I am not one of these persons.

I do, however, have a thing about putting stuff away.  My spouse is unfamiliar with the habit, just sayin’.  He gets the concept and values the reasons, but can’t seem to coalesce all of that esoteric stuff into practice.

To me, it comes naturally.  When I say naturally, I am assuming that I was brought up putting things away, hubby was not.

In case you are unfamiliar, the idea of putting things away, or “in their place,” is founded on several principals.  One, is that if every item has a place and one puts it in its place every time it is pulled out and used, you know exactly where to get it again when you again need it.

If an item is not put away after use, it inevitably gets misplaced and “lost.”  When you need to use it again, there is a whole circus of maneuvers trying to find said item.  You waste time trying to find thus and such every time it was used and not put back in its place.

Secondly, when you don’t put things away, the law of accumulation is set into motion.  Clutter and chaos ensue when things are not put away and a mole-hill truly becomes a mountain of stuff.

The thing about stuff is it becomes dated, unnecessary, a haven for dust, dirt, and decay.  Stuff is meant to benefit our daily lives, whether it’s pleasing to the eye as in decoration or collections that make us happy.  Or, stuff is utilitarian, intended to ease our existence in some manner.

The main purpose of stuff is not just to “have” it, “keep” it or store it.  There is something in the Bible, known as the “parable of the rich fool,” about building bigger barns for storing more stuff; as in, it’s not recommended for the wise among us.

Okay, give me another three years, and I’ll probably write about cleaning up again.  I can’t see at this point that I’ll get over my proclivity toward cleaning up the stuff that tries to fill up my life when I’m of an age where paring down and cutting back seems to be imploding from within.  God help my husband.

“Where is the wisdom we have lost in information?”  I heard this T.S. Eliot quote in one of my favorite British murder mystery television shows, “Inspector Lewis.”

The show is set in Oxford England, one of the world-famous centers of intelligentsia where classical knowledge is rampant and the detectives frequently quote philosophers, well-known scholars, composers, and thinkers of every ilk.  It’s a detective show for thinkers; Ooh la la.

Today’s culture is glutted with information, but it is not my lone opinion that all this available information has not led to a culture filled with wise folk.  In fact, we seem to have a dearth of wisdom to draw upon for inspiration to shine.

Most people want just the facts and don’t take the time to ponder, sift, churn or ruminate the information they obtain in order to glean wisdom, something akin to gold or diamonds.  Too many are willing to settle for dirt, ordinary stone, or coal rather than dig for the gems.

Pete Seeger’s 1955 song, “Where have all the flowers gone?” speaks specifically about war, but generally to the cyclical nature of things.  That song was penned the year of my birth, so it talks my language and reminds me of the cycles that have turned during my lifetime.

One of those cycles which I have lived through is the character of learning, knowledge, and wisdom.  I ask, where have all the intellectual miners gone?  Again, there has been a turnabout from respect for the classical thinkers of Oxford England and our aspiring to understand them, to the instantaneous nature of “Wikipedia-knowledge,” where facts are bantered about as if they’re “the truth and nothing but the truth.”  

I wonder, are we even looking to find answers to the questions we all should be asking?  I think it’s perhaps an old person thing, but do most people these days expect others to do all the intellectual work for them?

My husband and I are in a business where we occasionally receive emails from some college student asking for information which one once went to a library to research for oneself.  It’s as if Wikipedia isn’t even easy enough to access, some folks just go to another expert source and ask outright for the answer. 

Have these people not been taught to do even the simplest of research?  They seem not to want to search for answers, they prefer being spoon fed something that resembles fact.

Must it be either a quick fix or give up; a tell me the answers or I’ll move on to someone who will, cultural environment?  Is T.S. Eliot timeless or what?  His intuition about the failure of information to automatically transform to wisdom was penned in 1934.

There is no wisdom in straight-out information.  It’s just the raw materials, so go to work and make something out of it, already!

Information is not the end of the matter.  It’s just clay.  You must sculpt information into something useful to humankind.  Information is not a finished product.

Because we live in an era of unprecedented access to information, access alone does not result in knowledge or even further, to wisdom.  In order to become wisdom, information is combined in a stew of knowledge, experience, perception, comprehension of the difference between right and wrong, judgment as to when and how to act, and a pinch of common-sense. 

The accomplished race-car driver, Mario Andretti said, “Circumstances may cause interruptions and delays, but never lose sight of your goal. Prepare yourself in every way you can by increasing your knowledge and adding to your experience, so that you can make the most of opportunity when it occurs.”

In some ways, all the information in the world, impedes knowledge because apparently, we’ve not taught the generations how to process, sift, and understand the morass of informational stimuli we are bombarded with.  More is not better.

I’m told that in digital as well as analog communications, there is something called SNR or a “signal-to-noise ratio.”  That’s a technical phrase specific to the field of communications, but it is useful to this discussion of information-processing, or FYI, “for your information.”

Simply put, “signal” is the meaningful information that one is actually trying to glean.  “Noise” is random, unwanted stuff that interferes with the signal.  It’s my judgment that the signal to noise ratio in our culture today has got to be a generous 20/80; twenty percent signal to eighty percent noise.

Therefore, I’m not picking on anybody for trying to simplify the process of information gathering, and often getting it wrong.  There’s too much chaff floating around the environment, to see through it to glean the grain of value.

But let’s not stop trying.  As I am told that one should aim above the mark, to hit the mark, it’s probably smart to aim high toward wisdom, and strive to get there, but be content with compounding knowledge, in the process.  W. Clement Stone put it this way, “Aim for the moon. If you miss, you may hit a star.”

It’s a personal quirk of mine to dig to the depths, in fact my website (deepthoughtsonrandomstuff.com) testifies to this tendency.  It might be that one of my targets has always been wisdom, and depth of thought is part of the process.  I will leave you with a favorite quote by an anonymous writer, “To reach a great height, a person needs to have great depth.”

 

 

 

I’m not sure why we wait until we’re struggling or hurting, to heed the universal advice for mental and physical health.  Live one day at a time.  Take one step at a time.  Put one foot in front of the other one.

Maybe it’s that life is so fast paced and we automatically move from one thing to the next until difficulty stops us in our tracks.  Until challenges shock us out of our routines and expectations, we forget to live in the moment.

Have you ever awakened to a fresh new day with a positive outlook and some plans for how you expect your day to play out?  Then you got up.

After assessing the brand-new crisis that faces you as you roll out of bed, you utter to your partner: “this is not how I envisioned my day, how about you?”

You’re forced into problem-solving mode and all the while in the back of your mind you’re mulling longingly over the day you had expected.  You move fluidly inside your fight or flight adrenaline-flooded bubble, from one step to the next.

Scripture says in Matthew 6:34, “Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own.”  That Scripture-writer sure hit the nail on the head.  Just maybe, I can tackle today if I can just stick to only this complicated day and not ponder tomorrow just yet.

You’ve successfully faced the loss of your vision, and its plan B instead.  You’ve already adapted to the new plan and you’ll overcome both the sense of loss of the original plan, and the crisis that took its place.

You’re in the marines now, the one of “adapt, improvise, and overcome” fame.  You’re a true warrior.

I didn’t feel much like a warrior, however, on one Monday not long ago when our elderly cat decided to throw a wrench into our plans for the day, not to mention the weeks ahead.  He relieved himself quite extensively under our bed.  And yes, we store sundry things under there, don’t you?

Oh my.  The entire room had to be cleared and the wood floor pulled up with a chunk of it, destroyed.  Needless to say, I had other plans for that Monday.  But needs be, we adapted but it’ll take a few weeks, to overcome.

Today when I got up with those familiar feelings of expectation and plans for the day, I quickly switched my expectations to hopes.  I hope for a few things, at least, to “turn out” the way I envisioned.

“Just put one foot in front of the other,” we say to assuage the hurt in stressed-out friends and loved ones who’ve encountered sickness, pain, procedures, fear, failure, loss, or anxiety about what’s next.  How obvious is the sentiment, “put one foot in front of the other?” However, few of us walk so deliberately.  We scamper and slide from one thing straight into the next, unless something happens to call us to attention.

Then there’s “one step at a time.”  Martin Luther King Jr said, “You don’t have to see the whole staircase, just take the first step.”

When pondering the concept of “one,” I noticed that “one” is always first, the lead.  A baby learning to toddle or an adult learning to walk after a trauma of some sort, are examples of the first step as the first of forward momentum, and possibilities galore.

“One” can be an only, or followed by another.  So, one and only reminds me that “alone” and “lonely” are not the same.  Harry Nilsson’s 1968 song, “One (is the loneliest number)” which might make us think that being a one and only is lonely, was really penned when the songwriter tried to make a phone call and got a busy signal.

It’s not such a sad song after all.  It really is up to you to define “one” and to take courage while doing anything for the first time.

Edward Hale puts it into perspective by saying, “I am only one, but still I am one.”  One person can make a difference.  You’ve got this one life, what are you going to do with it?

Then there’s “one love.”  What a wonderful anomaly.  In fact, there are many kinds of love and I think most people encounter more than one love in their lives.  There is eros (romantic love), philos (friendship), and agape (unconditional/religious love).  Take your pick, but like Nike, do it.

“Looking out for number one” is either the most self-centered of outlooks or it is an act of necessary self-love in the biblical sense of “love your neighbor as yourself.”  It would be nice if looking out for number one were just the beginning of an outward spiraling concern for all of humankind, not the selfish kind of oneness.

So, if you’ll wait one minute, please, or if not exactly a minute, then wait one moment of indefinite length and I’ll just conclude this tome with a “once upon a time” tale.   One time, there was a brand-new day and I took it one step at a time, putting one foot in front of the other, to see what this day would bring. 

We’ll deal with tomorrow, tomorrow, thank you very much.  Today is day one.

Do you ever wonder about random things?  I do.

For instance, the other day I wondered if aluminum foil has any aluminum in it at all.  That random thought took me back to a moment when I read a sign at a recycling center, saying that they don’t take aluminum foil because “cans are cans and foil is foil.”

Because that sign was so adamant, I wondered if foil is maybe just paper coated in aluminum.  As it turns out, aluminum foil is ninety-eight-point five percent aluminum, created in an interesting process where “the molten alloy is rolled thin and solidified between large, water-cooled chill rollers. During the final rolling, two layers of foil are passed through the mill at the same time…” (U.S. Department of Agriculture).   There’s probably a factory or two somewhere where one could observe that interesting creation.

I’m enamored with manufacturing, and people who make things with their hands.  Although it causes me and the go-zillions of others who buy the things others make, feel a smidgen useless at times.

Inventors are the most fascinating of people.  Is “necessity the mother of invention”, and “if there’s a will there’s a way?”

I think if I’m not mistaken, since the 1950s we in the U.S. are known as a service economy rather than a manufacturing one.  I wonder if that’s true.  Yep, pretty much, with the service sector hovering around eighty percent of the economy.

I wonder how they keep cling wrap from clinging during manufacture.  I guess I don’t wonder enough to spend time watching a descriptive YouTube video.

I wonder which came first, chop sticks or forks.  Actually, I think the Chinese have us on that one.

Who decided that dandelions are weeds and should be eliminated?  Who decided that lawns should be continuous masses of blade upon blade of grass?  Doesn’t the Bible say blades of grass wither and fade?  I wonder if perhaps everything is temporary.

Some people work tirelessly to eliminate any odd plant coming up in their yard, while others nonchalantly throw litter into other people’s yards.  Go figure, people are funny.

I wonder how they make wax paper.  You’ve gotta love the U.S. Department of Agriculture who tells me, wax paper is really tissue paper (like I thought aluminum foil was), and “made with a food-safe paraffin wax which is forced into the pores of the paper and spread over the outside as a coating.”

I wonder if the stuff I put into the recycling bin is really recycled.  Sadly, I heard somewhere that some recycling really just gets dumped into a landfill.  But then I read a list of the things that are, or can be made from recycled materials.  For instance, aluminum cans and milk bottles become new cans and bottles; cardboard becomes toilet tissue, paper towels, etc.

I wonder how they used to coat bath tubs and sinks in that glorious eternally shiny ceramic before they flooded the market with the fiberglass/plastic ones.  I imagine a big crane of sorts dipping them into a vat of liquidy mud kind of stuff and hanging them to drip dry.

How do they keep super glue from adhering to the tube?

I wonder why you prefer earthy brown and beige and sand and I prefer sky blue and yellow and green.  In fact, why do we have preferences at all?  Why isn’t lavender, honeysuckle, or gardenia a pleasant aroma to everybody?  And why doesn’t garlic turn everybody off?

How do they make paper into cardboard?  In fact, how do they make trees into paper, into boards?  And what’s that smell that used to come from the paper mill?  I know the answers having lived shouting distance from “the paper mill,” but I’ve wondered.

I wonder what mechanism allows some people’s bodies to dismiss heavy humidity in the air and others of us to nearly drown in it with wet air sticking to our skin like white on rice.

How does bluing make fabric white yet permanently stains a glass jar?

I wonder why some people are curious to know and others are satisfied to be told.  For that matter I wonder who decided that cats represent the curious and cows are “fat as,” clams are happy, pigs like mud, bigger is better, there are answers to every question, or money solves every problem.

When there is so much to learn, I wonder why so many folks can dismiss wondering.  I wonder if wonder causes some of us to wander or even if the two words are at all related.

Please don’t feel you must set me straight in all these and other things that I wonder about.  Because first I believe there’s not a thing wrong with crooked things and not everything or everybody needs to “straighten up.”

Secondly, I think maybe the act of wondering isn’t the bit of stimulus in this world that makes life worth living.  So, I’m thinking that a modicum of wondering never hurt anybody.