This bunny hopped into my backyard early Saturday morning.
Cute bunny, right? But my reaction to the furry friend was not charitable, because last year this bunny, or one just like her, ate the tops off all my tulips. My Canada 150 tulips, no less. I was not impressed.
And my front garden has become her favourite place to poop. Yuck.
As my tulips come into bloom this year I will be keeping a close eye on bunnies. My red and white blooms will be guarded, and I posted a comment to that effect on my Facebook feed. One of my friends commented: “Okay, Mr(s). McGregor.”
I laughed out loud, because I did sound like Mr. McGregor chasing Peter Rabbit about the garden.
But, I love my tulips.
Bunny, I’ve got eyes on you. And I’m not afraid of being called Mrs. McGregor.
I don’t. The frugal former farmgirl part of me is uncomfortable with impractical spending. Why spend money on a luxury that will die in a few days?
Praises be, I raised a city daughter who thinks differently. She willingly spends money on touches of beauty: plants with character, fresh flowers and unique throw pillows. (Frugal former farmgirl says, Throw pillows? Useless!)
Last week my daughter brought home pussy willows.
Boom! She transported me back to my childhood farm near a wooded area where pussy willows grew wild. In my barn-chore gum rubber boots, I’d walk through the soggy marshland in the spring and run my fingers over the soft pussy willow buds.
I wondered how many people in our oh-so-urban society are lucky enough to have such a beautiful memory. I felt privileged and full of gratitude.
My daughter, spending her money so willingly, bought more than fresh flowers. She bought a long-forgotten cherished memory, an appreciation for my carefree childhood, and gratitude for how her different approach to life makes mine richer.
Those aren’t luxuries, and they won’t die in a few days.
Sometimes when words won’t flow, I use a writing prompt. One of those prompts involves finding a certain page, in a certain book, on a certain shelf.
“Top shelf, third book from the right, page 56.”
I went to my office and looked at the top shelf. Among other books were some that contain short stories of mine. “Huh, what are the odds that the third book to the right is one of those?” I asked myself.
I counted and the Blood Is Thickeranthology, which contains one of my short stories, was third from the right. “That’s pretty amazing,” I thought, “but what are the odds that my story is on page 56?”
I opened the book and flipped to the right page. Yep. My story was there.
The line that stood out: “NOTE TO SELF: Those are pretty good odds.”
The title of my story?
Beating the Odds
I guess I’m supposed to write that even if something seems unlikely, if you set yourself in motion, you might beat the odds—and have a laugh while you’re at it.
There are days when I wish more people could say, “It’s not about me.”There are days when I wonder why people think life should only be about what they like.
I am guilty of it too. But I try to think: “It’s not about me, but there’s something for me here.”
I use it at the grocery store when I’m in a hurry and the person ahead of me is paying cash, counting out every nickel. Patience.
I use it in tense meetings. Conflict resolution lessons.
I use it at church every week.
I’m a member of a progressive, affirming congregation. The foundation of our group is that love and grace are available to all people, but beyond that we don’t dictate what anyone should believe. On any given week an atheist could be sitting down the row from a person who believes in the virgin birth. It’s fantastic!
Our conversations are authentic, and deep, and heartwarming,
And challenging. How to balance the content of a church service for people on such different places on a journey?
A service about an Old Testament story:
“Why do we even use the bible (small b) anymore? It’s thousands of years old, written by men in a patriarchal time. What does it have to do with me? “
“Thank goodness we’re finally talking about the Bible (capital B). It has timeless lessons, and it’s the foundation of our faith.”
“It’s a sacred ritual for me. A reminder that I’m not alone and that I have purpose.”
“It’s meaningless to me. A little creepy if you want to know the truth.”
“It’s barbaric. I would never wear one because it brands me as something I don’t want to be associated with.”
“It’s a symbol of connection with something greater than myself, the reaching and the grounding.”
“The music resonating through the pipes moves me to the depths of my soul.”
“How can people endure that horrible screeching?”
A short sermon:
“It’s about time. No need to go on and on about things. Just get to the point. “
“The minister needs to delve more deeply into the topic.”
Children in church:
“Oh, the noise, noise noise!”
“It’s good to see so many children. They bring the place to life.”
“We need to sing more of the old, familiar hymns.”
“Enough of the blood and the sin songs. Let’s sing something new.”
“Oh my God, the prayers are long. My mind drifts off.”
I need prayers. They are my time of centering. It’s when I connect with God, and when we connect with each other and the world.”
Every Sunday something happens that I would not choose to include if I were a member of a church of one. (And what fun would that be?) Every Sunday I have to remind myself that the thing I dislike is exactly the thing that someone there—maybe right beside me—is needing. Every Sunday I say to myself: “It’s not about me, but there’s something for me here.”
There always is. Something authentic, deep and heartwarming.
My children are young adults now so I don’t do their laundry anymore, but when they were younger, this drove me bonkers. On laundry day, I would find the top sheets either removed entirely or balled up at the foot of their bed. And washing a duvet cover is five thousand times more irritating than washing a simple sheet. (I’m not exaggerating there, right?)
I did’t understand why my children did this, and I thought it was a weird familial quirk. I would growl and grit me teeth and ask “Why? Where did I go wrong?
My friend has a theory that it’s because of the climate controlled comfort of our homes. She could have a point.
The farmhouse I lived in as a child had no central heating. My father, bless him, was first up in the morning. He lit the wood furnace and heated the lower floor while the rest of us — weighted down by layers of our grandmother’s quilts — watched our breath condense in the cold of air of our bedrooms upstairs. When he thought the house was warm enough, my father yelled up. My brothers and I would count, “1, 2, 3,” throw off the quilts and run as fast as we could from the frigid upstairs to the warmth below.
I grew up in a generation that needed layers for those winter nights, and the more the better. The top sheet (flannel in winter) was another much needed layer. And it protected the quilts, of which every stitch was sewn by hand.
On the flip side of that, without air conditioning the upper floor of our farmhouse could be suffocating on sweltering humid Ottawa Valley summer nights. The thin top sheet was all we could bear. It gave us the feeling of being covered without causing heat distress.
Even though the thermostat in the house I live in now is set to reduce automatically to a lower temperature at night, our home never reaches the biting cold of my old farmhouse on a winter night. And even though I’m not a fan of air conditioning and use it seldom, the times I do choose to use it are on the kind of sweltering hot days when a single top sheet for sleeping would be the choice.
As a result, for my children and others like them, the top sheet has become superfluous. They kick it off. Tra la la, I’m free.
Bonkers, it drives me.
But wait. To add insult to injury, my Facebook feed these days is filled with advertisements about weighted blankets. Some of these blankets promise that they have been “re-engineered” to guarantee sleep that will solve everything from ADHD to restless legs syndrome to my menopausal symptoms.
The same generation that kicks off their top sheets is now paying extra for the sensation that mounds of my grandmother’s quilts provided.
My grandmother never had to “re-engineer” her quilts.
As a parent, there are many things I would like to go back in time and do over. Some of those things “weightier” than others.
One thing I would rectify for sure would be the top sheet thing.
I would turn our furnace WAY down at night, load up their beds with quilts and not turn the heat back up in the morning until they had a good dose of watching their breath condense..
“Yesterday, while I was vacuuming my house,” Jackie Hawley said, “the truth came to me.”
Hawley is the Artistic Director of Cantiamo Choirs of Ottawa, a group that uses our church as a practice facility. She was invited to speak to us about her purpose and the work of the choir, and she told us that when she first started thinking about what to say, she focused on the music education, the performances, and the work in the community.
Then she vacuumed.
The repetitive physical act that required only muscle memory and no mental exertion opened her mind and invited inspiration. Her vacuuming body and open mind allowed her to realize that her purpose wasn’t really the education, the performances or the community work. They were all part of it, sure, but there was a deeper truth.
“I love through bringing music and beauty into the world,” she said.
She realized the truth about her purpose in life by cleaning her house.
Some people say they do their best thinking in the shower. Same idea. I once received a story idea while stirring cooked pudding. Many writers go for long walks every day for the same reason.
Body movement that doesn’t require mental exertion allows the mind to open to ideas, truths, plot resolutions or comforting thoughts.
Suddenly, I feel an urge to do some vacuuming . . .