Rooted
I pass a parked car on my daily walks through the neighborhood and am always drawn to one of its window decals: an outline of the state of Montana with roots extending from the bottom. The owner of the vehicle must feel rooted in Montana, as I’ve tried to feel. I looked in a few stores for a similar decal so that I, too, could show what I considered my home. Alas, I was unable to find one. But now, it seems that would be an unnecessary accoutrement as we are poised to move on. We came here to be close to our daughter and her family, but her husband, having left his federal job, is moving to the eastern part of the country. The East is where I’ve spent most of my life, my familiar stomping grounds, but how I will miss the beauty of Montana. I am in awe of this...
The Scent of Color
When eleven-year-old Hannah finished one of the songs she had practiced for her piano lesson, she pointed to a particular section in the musical score and said, “That measure sounds like yellow.” I looked quizzically at my granddaughter. “The music sounds like yellow?” She nodded and went on to explain that she and her younger brothers had been assigning colors to things. She gave the days of the week as an example. “Mondays are blue. Light blue.” “Interesting,” I said. “What else?” “Fridays are green.” “Green as in go?’ “Yes. Fridays are green…and skinny.” I gave her comments a lot of thought and then finally turned to Google to see what I could learn about senses triggering other senses. It’s an actual thing, called synesthesia. Webster defines it as a...
Water Rescue
I’ve never been a swimmer. Childhood swim lessons didn’t take, even with three tries. Sure, I learned to float and to tread water, but I could not—no matter how hard I tried—put my head under without holding my nose. I was told to take a deep breath, then exhale slowly while submerged, but I couldn’t get the slowly part. My breath would be gone in a second and then the water entered my nose unhindered, filling every cavity in my head and overwhelming me, not only with water, but with extreme fear. In other words, I panicked. Big time. My fears grew in my teens when I nearly drowned in the ocean. I’d dogpaddled out to a sandbar one day with no problem, but when I attempted it the next day, the tide was in, the water deeper, and I tired before reaching...
Letting Go of Bub
My precious cat, Bub, is dead. After four days of not eating or drinking, his failing kidneys finally gave out. We awakened several mornings during that final week, expecting to find him gone. My husband George even dug a small grave in the back field. But Bub hung on, though moving very little, pink-tinged drool dripping from his mouth. When he stopped purring, I knew he was giving up. I once read that a cat’s purrs release endorphins that help to heal its body and reduce inflammation. Amazing creatures. Not only that, the purrs even release endorphins in nearby humans. All I know is that his purring calmed and comforted...
Talking Makes My Hands Move
Actually, talking doesn’t affect my hands, but I can’t say the same for lots of other people. I recently passed a woman talking on her cell phone as she ambled down the street, one hand holding her phone, the other gesticulating wildly through the air. I think of using hands in a conversation to emphasize a point, to clarify the importance of something to the listener. But with no listener present, what can gestures accomplish? Do they help the speaker speak? Do they help the speaker think? Do they calm or quicken the emotions the speaker is trying to convey? Is the speaker, unbeknownst to the listener, using sign language to add to his message? There must be a switch in the...
New Life
Alive and moving inside my daughter’s body, my new grandchild is simply waiting to make her debut. She’s a miracle, the very best kind. “For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother’s womb. I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well. My frame was not hidden from you when I was made in the secret place. When I was woven together in the depths of the earth, your eyes saw my unformed body. All the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be.” –Psalm 139:13-16 NIV I press my hand to Jen’s full-term belly and...
Dropping Like Flies
At age fifty, I decided sixty was my limit. Why grow old and face a decaying body if you can die young? Reason enough to jump out of an airplane just before the big 6-0. But wouldn’t you know it—I survived. Now, I’m coming up on seventy. Yes, my body is deteriorating, but it’s more about the deaths happening around me that make me consider my mortality, the loss of people within the periphery of my life. Landy, age 40; JC, age 98; Gary, age 75; Tim, age 49; Geneva, age 88. They’re dropping like flies, life expectancy not always a predictor of longevity. Of course, there’s no comparison to the tremendous loss of life in war zones around the world. But these deaths, all within a few weeks, impact me personally, making me aware that life is, indeed, fleeting. Why, I...
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