The P Word

I sat down to write, and started many sentences only to backspace them letter by letter into oblivion.

Procrastination is the thief of time. ~Edward Young

I want to write. I truly do. I put it off until I have time.

Tomorrow is the day when idlers work, and fools reform. ~Edward Young

When I'm going about my days, I often think about things I'm doing, or observing, or hearing, or tasting, and consider them as I would if I were to write about them. And then I never seem to do it. As does work for idlers and reform for fools, my thoughts onto paper is never accomplished.

I'm not sure why. I used to write quite often. There has been a portion of me that has dried up a little. A portion that does not care to be vulnerable.

And I find myself mourning the loss.

If it weren't for the last minute, I wouldn't get anything done. ~Author Unknown

Perhaps, this is why. Everyone who knows me, knows that I work well at the last minute. I like to plan, and I plan early in anticipation, and then I get sidetracked, and put off the inevitable until it REALLY NEEDS ATTENDING!

I need a goal.

So, without further hindrance, I am hereby resolving that I shall write, even a sad attempt if need be, every day for one week.

To think too long about doing a thing often becomes its undoing. ~Eva Young

We'll see how it goes.

If you want to make an easy job seem mighty hard, just keep putting off doing it. ~Olin Miller

Starting tomorrow.

haha.

Touch Hands

Steve watched a 15 year old die in the street last night from a gunshot wound in his side, shot from close range.
"Were his parents there?"
"No. It was one o'clock in the morning."
"Well, I thought maybe it was in front of his house."
"No. I'm sure he was out causing trouble."
It made me think. I suppose chances are the assumption was close to the truth.
I wonder why he was out in the middle of the night the day after Thanksgiving. At what point did he make the decision that would lead to the event causing his unfortunate death? Did he sneak out of his house? Was he hanging out with friends? Was he the sidekick hesitant to be out there in the first place? Had he sat around a table with family for a Thanksgiving dinner just the day before with people that looked in his face and said to themselves, "Thank you, God, for having this boy in my life"? No familiar face was there when the shallow gasps for breath ceased; I wonder who was there when he took his first breath?
I won't know because it wasn't Steve's gig, but it makes me thoughtful about the decisions I will make today, and tomorrow.
Forward, forward, ever forward. Life keeps moving; time is in God's hands. I can't ponder too long on the decisions made, by me or by others, that brought unfortunate events to my loved ones.
Today I will decorate the Christmas tree with the ones I love. Not all of them. But the ones that have chosen to keep me in their lives. I'm thankful.

Ah, dear friends, as years go on and heads get gray,
how fast the guests do go.
Touch hands, touch hands, with those that stay.
Strong hands to weak, old hands to young,
around the Christmas board, touch hands.
The false forget, the foe forgive, for every guest will go
and every fire burn low and cabin empty stand.
Forget, forgive, for who may say
that Christmas Day may ever come to host or guest again.
Touch hands!

~William Henry Harrison "Adirondack" Murray (1840-1904)

What Shapes Us

I was haunted all summer by a fractured, but clear memory that has stayed with me for 40+ years.



I'm four, maybe five. It's summer. I've come to the favorite place in our large backyard in Boise, Idaho - my mother's garden. The memory begins here, in her garden, as I'm walking between the jungle of tomato plants that tower over me, pushing the branches away from my face. I feel a little like the men who stumbled upon the pyramids in Egypt - I'm searching for treasure. I step deeper into the jungle and I find the biggest, reddest tomato I have ever seen. I have to use both hands to pick it from the vine, and time freezes for a moment as I contemplate whether I should eat the tomato, warmed by the sun and sitting in my hands, here and now, or step out of the secret, quiet jungle to enter reality and find the salt.



I bet you can guess what I did.



I began attending school soon after, and my involvement in my mother's world promptly ended. I never enjoyed the magic of her garden again, even though she gardened all through my school years. But the memory of that tomato, that tomato warmed by the sun and so huge I had to use both hands to hold it, has lingered with me, pestering me to grow my own tomatoes. And somehow it never happened . . . until this past summer.



Steve made a planter for me, I filled it with dirt, and I planted a number of plants, but it was the tomatoes who spoke to me. I actually went out in the mornings and sat in the grass next to the planter to stare at those tomato plants. It made me happy. I waited for the flowers, and when little green peas began peeping from the dried buds, I was thrilled. It seemed to take forever for those little peas to grow into green tomatoes, and even longer for them to turn red. I was waiting for the day when my fractured memory could breathe again, almost forty years later.



It did finally come, multiple times. Faxon enjoyed many of those rebirths with me, as he is the only one of my five that enjoys a fresh tomato, warmed by the sun, and picked from the vine to be eaten immediately. Because as in the fractured memory, I didn't leave the jungle for the salt. I ate the tomato, right there in the garden.



Today, I looked at my garden and realized it was time to let it go. The last tomato was picked and eaten just before it began raining. The season has ended. The plants need to be torn out.



I'm already anticipating next year's garden. What seeds - of plants and of memories - will be planted next season?

Thank You, Basses

"Wow. I'm going 15mph without half trying. My legs are getting stronger. I'm making progress!"

So ran my thoughts as the mile markers flew by while pedalling east toward Folsom on Thursday. Usually, I can do the hilly terrain between Lower Sunrise and Folsom doing 12-13mph, but on Thursday, I was sailing around the curves and up and down the hills without over exerting myself. Smiling, I mentally patted myself on my back.

"Woohoo! Watch out. Speed demon coming through!"

Reaching my turning point, I only rested for half a minute to swig down some water before making the trip back, which is easier and quicker because the decline is greater than the incline. Besides, this was the new Sarah, the speed demon Sarah, the Sarah who now does 15mph on her bike without much sweat, yes?

No.

I never consider the wind until it's in my face.

My easy speed demon ride back to the van suddenly became a fight against an invisable force pushing at my chest and hampering my speed even while slipping into higher gears to gain momentum on the downhills. With a bit of humility, I realized that my triumphant and exhilaratingly quick ride to Folsom was the work of the wind at my back, which I hadn't noticed, nor respected, until it was in my face hindering me.

It reminded me of listening to the kids' choral practices and never noticing the bass support until it wasn't there. My habit was to revel in the melodies, carried by the sopranos and enhanced by the beautiful, soulful tenors, forgetting that the basses give the root of the harmony. December taught me to listen for the basses. Without the basses as the foundation of the harmony, the pitch falls apart. Easy to miss, the bass notes are usually pretty mundane and repetitive, but they are always there, keeping the music where it should be.

As my leg muscles ached for respite while fighting the wind and the inclines, I questioned how many times in life when feeling savvy and sharp, my tasks completed, accolades ringing in my ears, had I been ignorant of forces supporting my momentum. And on the flip side, do I show grace when others happily overlook the support I've given them? Or, have I grumbled that they could have at least said thank you?

Honestly, I could not recall an example of either, but that really isn't saying much considering I have entered into that fun new phase of existence where short term memory lags so much it is frightening. Afterall, I had that wind in my back (HOORAY!) and then in my face (DANG IT!) just the other week with similar conclusions and then forgot all about it on the way to Folsom on Thursday. Hopefully, I'll ride my bike enough to have the lesson sink in. Meanwhile, I think I'll write a post-it note reminding me to thank the kids for putting up with me on my bad days, and my good ones.