Giving Candy to Strangers

photoMost of us are taught from when we’re very small to avoid all contact with strangers. Don’t look them in the eye; don’t make friendly overtures, don’t speak to them, and don’t go running up and hugging random unknown characters. Above all, don’t accept the offer of candy or other lures from those who might turn out to be very lurid indeed.

All of that is mighty wise advice for little persons. They have no experience of the world, no basis for comparison or judgement, and no inner criteria to help them have a good chance of accurately assessing the situation. But when are we Big enough to learn that unfamiliar people are not only not all bad and dangerous but possibly in great need of any gracious and friendly contact they can possibly be given? When are we smart and experienced enough to realize that others around us are not always up to something nefarious or trying to sell us something we neither want nor need if they approach us out of the blue? When are we large-hearted enough to make a more hospitable evaluation of the risks or rewards in approaching the unknown with openness and warmth?

I have been told several stories recently that remind me of the opportunities that constantly surround us for making moves, both large and small, that have the potential to do anything from brightening someone else’s day to saving a life. Most of us fortunates have at some time and place in our lives ‘entertained angels unawares’–had a few of those moments of unexpected, extraordinary, beautiful contact with persons we didn’t know and understand that there are such agents in the world, even if we can’t immediately recognize them. Why not look for places where we can be those agents for no reason other than that we know from experience how powerful and life-changing, healing or hope-renewing, or just plain day-brightening such moments can be.

It is possible to be misinterpreted or rebuffed, true. But the vast majority of times that I’ve seen this sort of subversive joy-sharing happen without any ulterior motives, even if the recipient–sometimes me–is not altogether receptive at the outset, the end result is an astonished recognition that life is rather wonderful, that people, on the whole, are good and genuine and caring and fine, and that we have in our own small hands and hearts the astounding power of remaking ourselves and the world into better things by the simplest and least extravagant of means. A hug, a moment of patience where there has been tension. A donated dime or a pint of blood. A proffered packet of food or bottle of water that had been meant for something or someone else. Handing off the little trinket that was mine but that I can see another one admires or opening the box of treats I was saving for the family and sharing it instead with someone I don’t even know. Opening doors and assisting with chairs and lifting the parcel that’s too heavy for someone else.

They may seem tiny and insignificant enough. For those of us who choose to give them, they amount to easily made gestures. But insignificant? Hardly. For those of us who dared not, who may not have even known we could, ask–this one little mark someone offered to make on our day may mean, after it all, the whole world.photo

The Way It Ought to Be

graphite drawing + textI’m not what you might think of as a big traditionalist in the ways of romance–at least, if you think of those things packaged in the way that American commercial enterprise would have us think the norm or the appropriate mode. It may be that I’m a little too tomboy at heart and in physique to wear either the girly or the sexy look with any credible panache. There’s more than a small chance that I’m too lazy and cheap to buy cards and flowers for my nearest and dearest with any regularity. Chocolates, yes, but you know that I’m going to expect to share in their consumption. I’m far from selfless enough to be a true romantic either, I guess. Otherwise, around our place the romantic expressions are more often found in filling an empty gas tank, caulking the shower door, making lunch, washing socks. All of that sort of glamorous stuff.

I’m so unromantic in the popular sense, in fact, that despite being both shy and kind of prudish, I moved in with my intended life partner before I married him–yes, before I even warned him of my intent to marry him. Or to stick to him like glue for the rest of my life if he was shy of the whole getting-married thing, having done that before. Despite my love of pomp and circumstance and ritual, I was prepared to forgo the whole dress-up extravaganza and either commit to the partnership in heart and hand only or just keep the legal transactions simple and stand in front of a Justice of the Peace somewhere and then party later with family and friends. (Because, let’s face it, any excuse for a good and love-filled party is not entirely to be passed by, wishes for simplicity aside.)

As it turned out, we had a pretty spectacular wedding day, but it was really icing on the proverbial cake. One of the central beauties of that day was an anthem composed for us by our dear friend, with a text my intended chose from the enigmatic and marvelous Song of Songs that includes the phrase ‘love is as strong as death’–this accompanied by other close friends playing organ and horn and a superb choir of yet more friends (also conducted by the composer). Hard to get more romantic than that. But that was all well after I’d realized that a big spectacle wasn’t necessary to validate the spectacular thing that had already happened within.

All of this because at some point pretty early in our relationship, I knew with complete and unshakeable conviction that when I was with this person I was where I ought to be. It was so clearly and plainly the place and state in which I was meant to exist that I felt it in my bones. I was at home in his house the first time I stopped by for a visit–even though you all know full well that I reinvented that physical space from Day One around the two of us. The music that I heard was not just the glorious sound of his choirs welling up around me but was also a new rhythm in my heartbeat that was more confident, more joyful, and more purely contented than it had ever felt before, in those days before I even knew it could feel this lovely new way. A new sense of the world skewing into proper perspective that suffused my brain.

And that, to me, is how true romance ought to be. Genuinely loving and playful and silly and passionate and supportive and all of that, yes, but most of all, merely having the recognizable quality of a homecoming, every single time we come together. Flowers and candy and frills and thrills are all very welcome in their own right, but they have nothing on a sense of wholeness that only grows with time and no matter how it evolves and changes iterations over the years, will not go away. It is both transcendent and, when it’s so well ingrained and incorporated in the truest sense, also wonderfully, perfectly ordinary.

Today, on my beloved‘s birthday, I have another reason to remember all of the reasons why I am grateful for him and his place in my life and my love–and I in his.

Beloved Mysterious

Beloved Mysterious, if you could see

The blood-dark river hid inside of me

With longing deep as chasms unexplored

Through which, from which, in which that love is poured

In endless flood of hope and of desire

As hot and wild and dangerous as fire

Then you would know the depth, the liquid breath

That carries love for you beyond my death.

A Touch of Blue

 

photoJoy has a funny way of residing in our hearts: it’s never completely untouched by sorrow or the knowledge of trials and struggles. It requires a measure of trouble, in fact, for joy to exist. How else can we begin to know and appreciate the depth and breadth of true joy?

I was reminded of this today by one of my little hummingbird friends. They are frequently identified, these tiny flying powerhouses, as being most strongly attracted to red flora, to bright red and orange and sometimes yellow flowers. But they’re not that exclusive, really. They are aggressive and territorial and mercurial, all colors we tend to happily equate with so-called ‘hot’ colors, of course, but it hardly proves that red flowers are actually the best available attractants for hummingbirds.photo

The hummingbirds that hang around my back patio have other ideas. Not least of all, that their pleasure, and their urge to imbibe a grand zing of energy-booster, can come from what is presently their very favorite treat back there: the blue-blooming sage. It’s a hot color too, that it is; the blossoms on the lovely Salvia ‘Black and Blue’ practically scream for attention from amid the bold lime-green foliage of the plant, so nobody with a modicum of visual acuity, hummingbird or human or otherwise, is going to buzz by without giving it a good, longing look of admiration.

With what do we credit the boldest of blues? ‘Cool’, we call them. But just like the wildest, hottest of reds and yellows and oranges, intense blues are attention grabbers. They grip us by the heart just as easily as any other high-hued beauties. But the existence of both is necessary for us to understand the differences between them, and the power each has. Is ‘cool’ the metaphor for melancholy and The Blues a name for sorrow? Perhaps. Are red and those other ‘hot’ colors present in warming flames, in sunlight, in the brilliance of joy? Possibly.

Do all of them enrich our lives? Absolutely. Ask a hummingbird.photo

 

Little Things that Make Me Happy

Having Gotten some Stuff Done around the house is high on my list of everyday joys. It should be noted that I don’t say ‘getting some stuff done’–that, to be fair, would be slightly disingenuous, as I’m lazy enough at heart that I prefer the finished product to the process much of the time. Not always; I can get off of my haunches and get active, it’s just a rarer occurrence than that I’m pleased to perch on them surveying my handiwork as an end in and of itself. So I’ll just show off a few of those chores and projects that have given me that sort of pleasure, and perhaps inspire you as well: after all, some of the enjoyment, as you’ll see, comes from the knowledge that each of these items succeeds in making my daily work simpler, and thus, my laziness more tenable. Which, not to be too tautological about the whole thing, is the point of the Doing in the first place.

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Putting latches on closet doors that, no matter how they’re hung or how the hinges get adjusted, refuse to stay fully closed. I apologize to the poltergeists whose chief form of entertainment this may have curtailed, but not so much that I am going to remove said latches.

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‘Customizing’ the laundry room on the cheap. I’m the sort that teeters between an out-of-sight = out-of-mind mentality, generally, and liking my tidiness too, and since like many homes mine’s most frequently entered through the laundry room (the garage entrance lies there), I can’t abide a junked-up laundry space. So I have over-the-door hooks for quick hanging and access when it comes to day backpacks and *nearly* dry laundry, wall hooks for baseball caps when it’s time to dash out in the blast of sunlight, a wire shelf cut to fit on top of the two opposing door jambs so I can put my laundry basket out of the way but in reach, and my favorite new tweak, replacing the hall door that used to overlap the garage entrance one when they were both open (every time we left or entered the house) and was wont to grab my fingers and scrunch them nearly every time they met. The new door is a bi-fold, and so sits neatly out of reach of that garage exit door and unable to do its dirty deeds any more. I was seriously cheap on this one and bought a closet door that’s unfinished on the laundry room side (plain Masonite), but when I paint it I am planning to use some blackboard paint I have around, and I figure we can use it as a coming-home message and reminder board after that.

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While I think it’s nice to have a bookshelf with an assortment of books and magazines in the guest room, ready for any visitor, I know too that many of our guests are en route elsewhere when they stay here, so I like to keep a shelf of it filled with books, magazines and pamphlets about any of the sites, sights and adventures available in this region, in case they’d like to plan further while here. If they happen to open a box with a little sweet treat in it while rummaging, that can’t hurt much either, can it?

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Having illogically arranged spaces tends to make me *un*happy. So after a couple of years of being piqued that the cupboard door over the kitchen peninsula, which happens to be the one closest to the kitchen table, open the wrong direction–thereby making the cupboard unreachable and useless–I decided it might be time to cash in on the open shelving trend. Now my drinking glasses are reachable both from the sink and from the table, and are in visible proximity to the tea-and-coffee mugs hung simply on the end of the cabinet. Much easier all ’round.

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One of my pet peeves in a kitchen is not being able to find towels for hands or dishes when I need them. But I don’t like having them hanging where they can be schmutzed or pulled down accidentally by any passing person or pet, nor do I appreciate when they block drawers, doors, oven windows and the like from their normal uses. So I took advantage of the sides of the cabinets flanking my kitchen sink window and put up hooks for towels that I think are reasonably identifiable for their respective uses on either side–the hand towel over the side of the sink usually used for hand-washing and the dish towel over the side where the drying rack lives perpetually on the counter. Yes, I am gifted with enormous work spaces in this kitchen and can spare the room for air drying dishes. That, of course, makes my lazy soul happy too.

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I’d be lying if I said that having the thermometer outside the kitchen window makes me *happy*, exactly, since it usually tells me nothing more than that It’s Boiling Hot Out There. But forewarning or at least a reminder that the great outdoors might not be as splendidly inviting as it appears here is valuable, at that.

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Admittedly, a dish towel hook may not seem like such an impressive possession, but if the one thing it simplifies in my life makes me more willing to actually *do* the dishes, that’s worth something, isn’t it. Having a pleasant view out the window there doesn’t hurt either, even if it’s always a work in progress itself.

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My stack of well-worn flour sack dish towels is evidence that doing dishes is not anathema in my kitchen. The wholly holey character of a few of them, I’ll admit, is not dish-related but due to their also making perfect straining cloth for fresh cheeses and home-brewed broths and ideal for drying all sorts of leafy greens and fruit and veg as well. Many trips through the bleach load take their toll, no matter how kindly I try to treat the cloths otherwise.

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Replacing what has given its all for many years of intensive use is a source of happiness, too. While it may make interesting textures and patterns and colors, a pot whose nonstick surface has finally converted to everything-sticks status and whose base has warped into a minimal-contact bowl that teeters on the cooktop is facing retirement as soon as I can get my hands on a choice replacement.

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On the other hand, being able to refresh the old geezer items with new life is worthwhile and can be fulfilling in its own way as well. A lamp with wiring that has officially hit the half-century mark is probably best not turned back on until I rewire it. The one I have on my work table just now may prove to be an intriguing enough project that I’ll share it with you–when I disassembled it I discovered it was made from a commemorative Jim Beam decanter. Oh, the little things that can bring me happiness. Hmmm. Suddenly I’m inexplicably thirsty. Wonder if there’s any whiskey around.

Mostly, We Just Want to be Noticed

digital painting from a photo

Look at Her

If she could give you nothing but

A wink, a wave, a flounce,

A sashay showing off her legs,

She would not stint an ounce,

For she desires, requires, aspires

To flirt with you anon

In hopes that with these wiles of hers

It’s she on whom you’ll fawn,

Because she has a crazy crush

That cow-eyes cannot cure

And wants no more in life or death

Than be your cynosure.digital painting

When Great Characters Meet

The other day we were fortunate to cross paths with a charming little wild rabbit. It was clearly a destined meeting–the rabbit, lunching late right in broad daylight, wasn’t the least bit discomposed by our walking right up to it and merely sat up to have a look around when we got close. Then it went back to its placid munching pretty much as though giving the nod of approval to our proceeding on our way.photo

The way things look in the news most of the time, it seems someone has to be doing gigantic deeds, especially if they happen to be wildly nefarious or weirdly ridiculous, for any meeting to have any meaning. I have to disagree. Isn’t it a wonderful enough thing, I ask you, simply to have shared a wordless moment of colloquy, two great beings on this little old planet meeting without any purpose or plan at all? I like to think that a mild-mannered nobody or two and a cute little feral bunny catching up with each other while out on their divergent afternoon errands, while such a convergence may not shake the foundations of the earth, is plenty pleasing and worthy of at least a moment’s note. I know it’s nothing notable, but still it made a happy mark on me.photo

Foodie Tuesday: Gets the Juices Flowing

digital image from a photo

photo + textphoto + texttexts x2

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Rowdy Rascals Rollicking

digital image from an original acrylic latex painting on paper (9'H x 6'W)

poem text

With a Full Heart

graphite drawingA Song of Farewell
Ends Only the Beginning

A fond farewell should only end the start
Of what emerged from nothing to become
Much greater than its origins, a home
For all that’s good and gracious in the heart–

What had begun in silence has grown deep
And richer than imagining could guess,
A tapestry of joy and tenderness,
A score of blended notes that time will keep–

Whose voices came together first in this
True confluence of sound and sweet accord
Cannot again move aught but closer toward
Such harmony as, now it’s found, is bliss–

For in love’s benedictory refrain
Awakens what all hearts must sing again.

graphite drawing

With gratitude to all at the Episcopal Church of the Incarnation, Dallas, Texas,
and especially to the choir, for welcoming us so kindly during this past year.

Kathryn Sparks
August 2012

Thinking on a Thirsty Thursday

digital painting from a photoAs another Summer slips toward her torrid latter days, I thirst mostly for a sense of serenity amid the ache and struggle that transforms everyday deeds into Herculean tasks by mere virtue of the sizzling sun. And as I do, and sip the simplest glass of cold clear water, I recall that Summer has a range of beauties all her own. Contemplating them can bring a water-clarity to my heated thoughts and gradually, I find that slipping sense of refuge in the burning day has righted itself again, if only for a moment or two, and that is quite enough.

Here, then, I salute the summer. I salute water, and the wealth that lets me have it in cold clarity almost whenever I should want. And I salute, with deepest peace, the calm that comes in recollecting all that’s good and fair and simple in that harshest place, the burning midst of the high season of the sun itself, knowing it is its own sort of beautiful and will be missed again some other day.photo

campfire photo

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