Sea Shell's and a Book

I was pleasantly surprised the other day when my friend Paula gave me a book and little bag of sea shells that once belonged to her mother, Dori. Dori passed away a year ago, making Paula's gift to me even more dear, especially since I know Paula and her mother were very close.

Paula suggested I read the book in one setting, periodically pausing to pick up one of the sea shells to observe and connect them with the author's life living comparison. My friend lifted me  futher by telling me Anne Morrow Lindbergh's memoir, "The Gift From the Sea" reminded her of my style of writing. Whoa ! I could hardly wait to open the book and start reading.

The original 1955 copyright was re-published in 1975 as a 'Twentieth Anniversary Edition'. Paula was right to have me read it in one setting; Once I started I couldn't put it down. I found Lindbergh's memoir both poignant and practical: Her words of wisdom aimed towards women, timely and timeless.

In Chapter III, titled, 'Moon Shell' Lindbergh writes, " Now, instead of planting our solitude with our own dream blossoms, we choke the space with continuous music, chatter,and companionship to which we do not even listen. It is simply there to fill a vacuum. When the noise stops there is no inner music to take its place. We must re-learn to be alone. Actually, these are among the most important times in one's life - when one is alone. Certain springs are tapped only when we are alone. The artist knows he must be alone to create;the writer, to work out his thoughts; the musician, to compose; the saint to pray. But women need solitude in order to find again the true essence of themselves;that firm strand which will be the indespensable center of a whole web of human relationships."

I believe Lindbergh is saying, we are daughters and wives; Mothers and grandmothers; Employees, entrepreneur's and faithful friends. But in order to be who we are, what we are, we must retain a place of solitude and quiet within ourselves. For without taking the time to renew and refresh our spirit, how can we continue giving all we have to give?

Concluding chapter VI, "Argonauta" ( a certain rare beach world creature), Lindbergh writes, "Perhaps this is the most important thing for me to take back from beach living: simply the memory that each cycle of the tide is valid; each cycle of the wave is valid; each cycle of the relationship is valid. And my shells ? I can sweep them all into my pocket. They are only there to remind me that the sea recedes and returns eternally."

I pause now, as Paula wanted me to and pick up Dori's bag of shells, holding each one in my hand. I sit for several minutes studying the way they look, all different shapes, and sizes and colors; one round and smooth, another rough and prickly, one twisted and turned in, another wide open. For me they represent the the people and times of my life. I smile and better understand Lindbegh's words, "They are only there to remind me that the sea recedes and returns eternally." Not unlike the special people I have known throughout my life - those special ones who recede and return eternally. A very comforting thought.

Seasons Change

Winter cold , life is dormant;
Recessed , almost laid to rest
Dreary, dark days -
grey the only outside color;
The ground frost and ice.
But seasons change,
then spring; Like birth
the earth comes alive
Crocous  bloom, baby  birds sing
hope renewed , love renewed
hearts lifted , our spirit takes wing
and once again we fly high

The Answer

In saying my prayers tonight  , i wonder what my life has had to offer. Cousins and friends  so well to do -  talented  writers, artists,  and singers -  making  theirs a life of  glory and fame;  While mine so  plain and ordinary.  i pondered and thought more deeply, asking again, "what have i to give" ?  The answer  found in the quiet of my heart;  Fellowship, encourgement and  love - sharing with others the life they live.

A Lovely Irish Day

Drinking a Guinness with my friend Liz at  Kelly's  Pub on March 17,   and reading poems   our grandparents wrote long before either of us were born   made for a  memorable St. Patrick's Day and  happy celebration of all things Irish. 

With a wee bit of  the blarney,  Liz and I  discussed  other world  things -  faeries ,  leprechauns and the such and  how important we felt the connection to family is- to those both living and dead.

While my Irish ancestors came from County Cork and immigrated to America, Liz's family hailed from northern Ireland and immigrated to Canada.  Her great-grandfather, Albert Ernest Stafford Smythe published his book of poetry, "The Garden of the Sun" in 1923.   Although no longer in print, I highly recommend his work and encourage those interested in poetry to search for a copy in  used book stores or on line.  A fine example of Smythe's  writing  is the last stanza of  his poem,  "The Pilgrim's  Journey" where  that   longing for  new adventure  is felt; Until coming at last  to a place of solace and contentment.

"So the joys of the pilgrim's journey
are the summits that never cease
the crests of renewed endeavor
and the valleys of rest and peace"

The poems I chose to share with Liz are ones my Grandma Vera Cooney wrote in 1915  while she was still in high school.   The poems aren't published,  but hand written on a yellowed  old style notebook.  Grandma wrote poems on every subject - or so it seems - long verse, short verse, silly and serious.  I think " Log Cabin School" is one of her best during that period.   Seven stanza's in all,   this one  can stand alone in describing an early American log cabin school.

"In those days, no glass windows were found at all
just a hide or skin over a hole  in the wall,
The hard packed ground served as a floor
and the only opening was one little door"

Before leaving ,  Liz and I raised a  pint and clinked our mugs together  for one final toast;  To Vera  E. Cooney and   Albert Ernest Stafford Smythe. We cheered their poetry and their life, and   thanked them for sharing St. Patrick's Day with us.

WEARIN' OF THE GREEN

Long before 'Wearing of the green' was proclaimed by environmental devotees,  'Wearin' of the Green'  was meant for the Irish , and the  wanna be Irish - at least for a day.  St. Patrick's Day brings happy thoughts of  leprechauns, shillelagh's, shammrocks  and a pot o' gold, but primarily it's a day  set aside by the church to   honor the man who  brought the faith to Ireland, and according to folklore rid the land of snakes.   The building up  of  the Christian communities which he found on his arrival, and the planting of the faith in new regions give him his place as the patron of Ireland.

St. Patrick's famous Lorica (meaning breastplate in Latin)  is one of my favorite prayers:

I arise today
Througth God's strength to pilot me;
God's might to uphold me,
God's wisdom to guide me,
God's eye to look before me,
God's ear to hear me,
God's word to speak for me
God's hand to guard me,
God's way to lie before me,
God's shield to protect me,
God's host to save me
From snares of the devils,
From tempations of vices,
From everyone who shall wish me ill,
Afar and anear,
Alone and in a multitude.

I arise today
Through a mighty strength, the invocation of the Trinity,
Through belief in the threeness,
Through a confession of the oneness
Of the Creator of Creation.

*************************

St. Patrick's Day (part 2)

I've always been proud of my Irish heritage and like  my Irish name. My son Gavin has a good Irish name, too - after my maternal great-grandmother whose maiden name was Gavin,  and Patrick for the Irish saint.  My husband likes to say he's Irish, but Dobbs' is really  an English name, but not Cooney.  Cooney  is all Irish, so is Norton on my mother's side - giving me a double dose of the Irish to celebrate. 

My dad loves music, especially an Irish tune. My grandpa Cooney  liked the Irish song, too and used to sing to my dad when he was little. Dad wrote the poem below telling of this sweet memory.


 MY IRISH SONG
 by Ron W. Cooney

I’m Irish heritage so I’m told,
But my mother, she was English.
Born and blessed with an Irish name,
Never had I another wish

As a boy, my dad, I’ll never forget –
Sang to me the Irish  song
I listened and learned and never forgot –
To me they’ll always belong

I always thought so Irish
I was raised to think in green
I liked all things of Erin –
All the Irish lore I’ve known and seen.

Finally I went to the emerald isle –
How long had I dreamed of this?
A personal experience that meant so much,
In my lifetime I would never miss

I visited the Ring of Kerry,
I kissed the blarney stone.
But never did  I find the poet Yeats;
Not even Molly Malone.

I walked by the river Liffey,
Went to Killarney too –
It’s a long, long way to Tipperary –
How to get there, I had no clue

Found Shamrocks and Guinness and Jameson –
Found pubs and the Book of Kells;
Found the history and culture and legends -
How I love the land of the Celts!

As I met the Irish people –
And listened to their music glad –
My heart went back to my boyhood,
To Irish songs sung by dad.

He now lives in my memories,
Where I sat upon his knee
A voice as sweet as an Irish lilt –
His singing folk songs just to me

Mothers, Daughters, a Grand-Daughter and Friends

Friday was a fun and happy day.  My mom n' me  drove from her home in Clarkston to Pomeroy. The weather completely cooperated  as there was no wind, rain or fog - but  skies bright and sunny, with warmer  temperatures than the day before.

It's not unusual for mother and me to have a fun day together,  but this day was particularly special because we met Sandy, her  darling daughter Kristen and grand-daughter, Josie  - who could easily be mistaken for one of those picture perfect 'Gerber Babies'; That's no exaggeration.   With her big blue eyes, round rosy cheeks and sweet smile, Josie is a charmer.  She makes anyone standing near want to pick her up, hold her close to their heart and  simply love her.

Sandy and I have been friends since our early high school days  - dating the same boys, going to Friday afternoon  football games  , attending  school dances   and  part of the same clique.  While I have seen Sandy several times over the years, it's been 40 years since my mother and Sandy last saw each other. It was  a tender moment to hear Sandy squeal , " Mrs. Cooney ! ", and  as they embraced,  my mother's reply, " Sandy!, how happy I am to see you !"

As we lunched, shopped and enjoyed each others company, my mom said to Kristen, " I see so much  of your mother in you". Then turned to Sandy and me, " It's almost as time hasn't passed. Watching you two  laughing and talking  together warms my heart; It's like seeing you when you were teenagers having so much fun".

Time does pass, however,  and we have grown older - much closer to 60 not 16,  but we're blessed in the connections that bind us, the memories that keep us together,  and the present we still share.

THE WOMEN

I know one woman  who is celebrating her 95th birthday today and another who will celebrate her 94th  on Saturday.  If my maternal grandmother was still alive, she'd  be celebrating her 94th birthday this year,  too - in July.  In remembering  Mrs. Wagner, Gladys and Grandma Viv I'm drawn to think about all the women  who have touched my life; Each leaving their imprint, their impact, their influence with me.

The first, and most important is my mother.  From the moment I entered the world I  knew her unconditional love and have always been guided by her words of wisdom and understanding heart. Also near were my  grandmothers, great-grandmothers, and aunts imparting to me  in  their light hearted, good natured way the lessons of joyful living.  Each of these women were courageous, persevering, kind, and easy to laugh. Traits I admire and wish I practiced more.

 After my great Aunt Nor was diagnosed with Glaucoma and her sight was dimming, yet not totally gone, she  went shopping at Brandeis's - a  department store in Omaha, the city of my birth.   As she told the story , I could picture  my slim and trim, well manicured,  classy  aunt    approach  the escalator then suddenly stop;  Frozen like an ice sculpture, unable to move and  gripped with fear  that if she stepped onto the escalator 'going up'  she would  stumble and fall. 

 After a few minutes, Aunt Nor  chided herself, " If I don't use this  escalator now,  I'll never  use  it again".  At that moment my great aunt  made a  life changing decision. She  mustered her courage,  made the effort and took the step onto the escalator.  Not a 'giant step for mankind', but certainly a giant step for my aunt,  and one for her niece as I recall my aunt's tale of courage whenever I'm frozen with fear and afraid to take that step forward.

Women  love their  dads, husbands and brothers but what would we be without the women in our lives ?  Those who gave  us guidance, encouragement and example of  life experience well lived .   I'm ever grateful to the mothers of  girlfriends, mothers like Mrs. Wagner who remained  steadfast and true during our   growing up  years -  to  Sisters of Notre Dame, the order of nuns who selflessly gave me my  early education and helped foster  my Catholic faith,  to women coaches who saw in me something special,  pushing  me to  excel to the best of my ability;  To women work friends like Gladys,  and Doris Outz  who constantly reminded me not to take myself too seriously, just  to be myself and I'd find success ; To life long family female friends, both living and dead; Women I dearly love  - wonderful and whimsical women who made a definite  difference in my life, helping  me grow and  become the woman I am today.

TODAY

                                                       
Read a book
sing a song
dance a jig
carry on

Write a letter
tell a tale
live life sweetly
let peace prevail                                                             

                                                                                                                          

ANTICIPATION

The light of day has been peeking through the bedroom window
earlier these past few days, and lingering longer before the
dark of night appears.
When I take my afternoon walk, I hear loud and clear a
chorus of birds chirping from their nests,
nestled in tall  pine trees -
and see a snow white rabbit hippity hop
across the thawing field; Each of us anticipating
the changing season and  warmth of Spring.

IN THE END

For many Christians Ash Wednesday begins the first day of  Lent - a time set aside by the church  for the faithful to repent, and reflect on the passion of Christ  that ultimately leads  to His glorious resurrection on Easter morning.

From a  very young age I remember attending Ash Wednesday services and having  the parish priest  mark   my forehead   with blessed ashes   while he intoned the passage from scripture, " From ashes you came, to ashes you shall return".  I must admit, it wasnt't until I was older and gained spiritual maturity that I understood this practice was to remind us of our own  immortality.  A rather sobering thought.

 Perhaps that's one reason so many of us study geneology, Scrapbook, blog and journal; Even try to connect with others on Face Book, My Space and pursue certain long lasting  endeavors.  It's an effort to  be remembered, to leave something of ourselves on this earth after we're no longer here. But in the end,   it won't mean a thing what we leave behind,only how we've lived our life; Loving, sharing, caring. Believing in God, trusting in our Maker.

Glorious Handiwork

I sat on the old log swing today, gently swaying back and forth and  saw a different view of the lake from yesterday and the day before. It was a   calm, tranquil water,  deep gray  in color;  Shaded light to dark, a single  ray of pearly white  separating the two. The sky overhead , a lovely robin egg blue.

The ground all around was muddy and wet, not from melting snow like last year and the year before, but from every day February  rain .  The rocky , rounded terrain close to the rim is covered with  green moss. I've never walked the moors of  Scotland, but imagine this is what they might look like.

After a while, I stop the motion of the swing and sit  perfectly still.  I heard no sound, only the quiet all about me. Not a wisp of breeze, the tall trees stand silent, unmoving - like guardsmen at the  Queen's gate.

Beautiful. Serene. I ponder the natural artistry that surrounds me,  and am moved to pray out loud and joyously proclaim David's psalm from of old , " The heavens are telling the glory of God; and the firmament proclaims His handiwork".

PERFECT RELECTION

 I started  off walking  at my leisure today, criss crossing down the hill to the old log swing. Once there  and seeing the view of the lake and how it  perfectly reflected  the clouded sky,  I was immediatley awed and    loudly inhaled, as one might gasp when pleasantly surprised.  I wanted to take a picture and was frustrated I left my camera at the house ; The best I could do was   turn around and  hurry back   as fast as I could towards home to grab  the Nikon. So that's what I did.  

A short time later , with sore knees and labored breath, I  returned  to the swing  to get my  picture; To capture forever the  natural beauty my eyes beheld.

The separation of earth and sky seemed to oblivate and melt into one.  Only the slow passage of a single  small boat seemed to differenciate where one ended and the other begun.  I couldn't help but ponder if the captain and his crew saw what I saw, and was reminded of  Field's  Dutch Lullaby " Wynken, Blynken, and Nod".

A WALK IN THE WOODS

Most  of  the morning, into early afternoon I sat at my PC placing  ads  on the Internet to help promote our HealthQuest Nutrition web site (www.healthquestnutrition.com); not a difficult task, but time consuming and tiring.

After spending two hours on one site writing copy , trying (unsuccessfully) to upload a picture and hitting a key to continue, only to lose the page due to some kind of input error,  I finally had enough. I  threw my hands up and  shouted  a few unsavory expletives.  In a few minutes I  turned my head towards the window to  see two deer standing near; The openness, the freedom of the outside calling me forward.

My response was immediate. I got up from my chair, slipped on my North Face fleece, grabbed my Patagonia light weight rain jacket and knit gloves then headed out the front door. The early days of February are still cool, but no mounds of snow like last year and the year before; Only soft, muddy ground from too much rain and no sun.

For me, whatever the weather, walking in Dobbs' Woods always cheers me and makes me glad. I think about the pilgrim wanderers of Walden's Pond and Muir Woods and wonder about their delight in seeing the breath and bounty of the land in all its natural grandeur. This day I traverse back and forth across the treed slope , forging my own path to the ragged rim overlooking Rockford Bay. The low laying clouds and pastel colors highlighting portions of the lake make it appear other worldly; Mystical. I breath in the cool, fresh air and am awed by its beauty.

Coppery looking pine needles and broken tree limbs from winter winds are scattered across the wet earth; tiny sprouts of green grass have started to push forth, hoping for spring.

A few days ago I observed what I thought were cougar tracks on the long rock road leading to our home, so I keep my eyes downward, searching the ground to see what I might find; Sometimes even kneeling to get a closer look. Nothing out of the ordinary,though. Only the usual deer and dog prints.

It is quiet. Still. The only sound , the clicking of my camera lens when I stop to take a picture. I'd like to linger, hike another trail, but it'll be getting dark soon so I turn and head back. No longer frustrated or feverish with angst, but refreshed and relaxed.

JACK

Memories of my youthful past came rushing forward today when I spoke with an old high school friend I hadn't heard from in years. Our chatter back and forth was at once familiar and knowing; Easy. Comfortable. Confiding. Ours a remembrance, a connection tightly wound of moments shared (clandestine, and otherwise) with another, we both held dear.

"How is she", he asked. "Just fine", I said.

In that second we were teenagers again, reliving the first time he asked me that question, and all it implied. Young love. First love. Secret love.

Recalling our long ago comraderie and Robbers Roost after school, we laughed at our revelry way back then and smiled kindly, remembering
who we were
what we were
where we were
thinking the world was ours to hold and mold; Seeing ourselves as hip and cool.

With his white hair and my wrinkled skin we're no longer young, but growing old. More mellow. Mature (though hopefully, still hip and cool). Grateful for our past, more grateful for what we've become, recognizing
who we are now
what we are now
where we are now
was all in God's plan.

GROWTH

Love
laughter
joy
care;
hurt
anger
sorrow
dispair
Changing emotions
twisted round
bring you up
then tear you down;
Stages of growth
out of chaos comes
like the planting
of seed; Then spring
colorful tulips and mums.

WHAT TO WRITE

The yellow lined paper
and ballpoint pen
are waiting
and waiting
for a flow of
words to begin;
At my desk
i pause
and ponder
for what seems
forever
without a thought
in my head

what to write
what to write
what to write

My mind is blank
like an empty tank
ready to be filled
with something useful
to share

what to write
what to write
what to write

Stories of nature
or friendship old ?
Love and family
wealth untold.
Something lively
something bright
A Harrier hawk
taking flight, or
the soaring high
of a long tailed
kite; The cold
dark sky of
a starry, starry night ?

what to write
what to write
what to write

COFFEE TASTE TEST

Saturday morning. I'm sitting at the PC with my cup of decaf - freshly brewed. A mixture of Kirkland's Dark Roast and Peet's Major Dickason's. A combination my husband, Gary came up with. A pretty good one, too. Not only is the full bodied flavor good , but by combining Kirkland and Major Dickason's , we save on the cost of coffee as it lasts much longer.

For years we were strictly Starbuck's coffee drinkers, but Gary never cared for what he called, "the bitter aftertaste" of Starbucks , so we finally agreed to find a specialty coffee we both could savor. Because we drink decaf, our choices were somewhat limited as most blends are caffineated. None the less, we pursued our coffee hunt , and for months partook in our own private 'coffee of the week' taste test. We drank cup after cup of varied coffee's , including Kona, Craven's , Tully's; Ultimately it was Peet's that met our criteria, "bold, but not bitter".

The irony in our choice of Peet's, is Peet's and Starbucks have a shared hisory. Alfred Peet introduced specialty coffee to Seattle; The founders of Starbucks worked at Peet's so they could learn all they could about how to roast, buy and sell specialty coffee, and Jerry Baldwin, an original founder of Starbucks is still director of Pete's.

According to the "Passion for Coffee" web site, Pete's coffee tends to be a little darker than Starbucks House Blend because it is roasted longer.

" That's okay", my husband would say, " I still choose Pete's. Roasted longer is fine. It's the bitter after taste (of Starbucks) that I don't like".

I'm reminded of the famous Coke vs Pepsi taste test and conclude taste, like beauty, is in the eye of the beholder (or in this case, mouth of the partaker of drink).

PATSY AND LINDA

Earlier this week while out taking my afternoon walk with Sam E. Beagle and Missy dog, I thought about a recent email from my childhood friend, Linda. She told me of her New Year's Eve trip to the neighborhood we grew up in ; A quiet, quaint cul de sac in the plain Jane suburb city of Bell. Hers was a bittersweet path to the past, not only because she revisited long gone days of youth, where we spent day after day roller skating, riding matching pink and white Schwinn bikes and playing with baby dolls, paper dolls and Barbie dolls , but because two days later it would mark the 21st anniversary of her mother's death.

We have a long history, Linda and me; Only 4 years old when we met, becoming instant play pals and life long friends.

From the start, our mothers were the very best of friends. In fact, I learned about the meaning of friendship from observing my mom and Patsy - their joy in being together, their faithfulness and fidelity one to the other: Good times and bad times, no matter what - they stuck like glue .

In her email Linda wrote about turning onto Southhall Court and Southhall Lane , and for just a moment envisioned her mom standing at the fence like she did so many years ago. I recall a similar image of Patsy. It was the late 1950's and my family didn't have a phone, so if someone needed to reach my parents they'd dial Patsy's number. I can still hear Patsy hollering from her driveway, " Lenore , the phone's for you". To some , it may seem quirky and unsophisticated, but in truth it was friendly and familar. Endearing and sweet.

It was sitting in Linda's driveway that her mom taught us how to play " Jacks", and the first time I ate a taco was at Linda's when her mom made homemade tacos - long before Taco Bell, Del Taco and a hundrend other taco stands on every southern California corner. To this day, Patsy's taco's are the best I've ever had.

Patsy also  taught me to crochet.  And my brother, Walt remembers she and her husband Lawrance bought him his first pair of cowboy boots when he was only six years old.  In later years Patsy  hosted my wedding shower and baby shower. It would be impossible to think about the highlights of my life without including Patsy. She loved us, and we loved her. It was heartbreaking, and seemed unreal when Patsy died at the young age of 55. Younger than Linda and I are now.

As I walked along the wooded trail , I continued to think about Linda and Patsy , wishing Linda was nearby so I could give her a hug . I wanted to tell her how special I think her mother was, and how proud I am of her for carrying on through the challenges of her own life in such a strong, positive way; knowing her mother would be proud of her, too.

No loss ever compares to the loss of a loved one. While it's true the sun will continue to rise each and every morning , just as its done for hundreds of years, nothing is never, ever quite the same after the death of one we loved so dear; A small part of us dies, too. It's only in the remembering we keep them near.

Something Good

January first , the sentiment "Out with the old, in with the new" repeats itself over and over again, as folks from all corners of the earth resolve to be
steady
steadfast
dauntless
daring;
Uncompromising
courageous
unflinching
unfailing
in the promise they've made to faithfully follow through with their
New Year's Day resolution
To retire
relinquish
and dispose
of bad habits, bad manners, bad food, bad relationships
To reshape
reform
restore
something good to better themselves, their family and the world.

A Winter Night's Walk

Late Christmas eve, after celebrating Mass and the festivities of our fun home-spun get together, my friend Jeanne and me walked down the long wintry road near my home - slightly ahead of us , our dogs gleefully raced one after the other. The outside smell was clean and fresh. My lungs expanded as I took in a deep breath. The cold, clear air felt good. Bundled up in outer wear designed to keep one warm in freezing temperatures, we stopped midway to take in the beauty all around us - to admire the bright moon giving light to the night time snow covering the ground.

We agreed that looking across the field was like looking at a billion Swarovski crystals sparkling on a sheet of silky white. Breathtaking. Brilliant. Wonderful.

It was so peaceful. In no hurry to move from where we were standing, we let many minutes pass before we started walking again

All was quiet; Still. No sound to be heard, but the sound of our own voices as we exclaimed the natural splendor of this north Idaho scene, and I couldn't help but wonder if this silent night was so unlike the night the Christ Child was born.