Wednesday's Word -- Miracle

I'm not really a die-hard, devoted user of Philosophy products, but I do like reading the product labels.  This miracle worker label caught my eye recently:  "find the miracle in every moment, the beauty in every day."  Good advice.

I've been thinking about how our lives are full of "miracles" if we are actually looking.  (My recent fire ant-scipade, for example.)

How fitting then that the word "miracle" means something that "excites admiring awe."  It comes from the Latin word miraculum, meaning "object of wonder."

But the best thing about the word?  Its indo-european root means "to laugh, smile."

Lately I've been thinking that sometimes the ability to laugh and smile in the face of the circumstances is a miracle in and of itself.  

And I Shall [Not] Have Some Peace There

Andre Jordan

I recently finished reading Margaret Roach's memoir And I Shall Have Some Peace There, trading in the fast lane for my own dirt road.  I mean, how could I not read a book that takes its title from a Yeats poem and lets me peek inside the brain of an executive who walked away from her high-powered career to go live in the woods?

The style of writing is a bit too stream of consciousness for my taste, but I enjoyed the metaphors woven throughout -- the frogs that are "twice-born" (first an egg and then emerging from tadpole to frog), the snakes in her garden (a little Book of Genesis for you), and many others.

At the beginning of the book, she references a cartoon by Andre Jordan (she linked it on her gardening blog here) that I love.  Beneath five white tree trunks are the words:

"I've decided to go and live in the woods (it's for the best)."  

As you may know, I've long been enamored with the idea of ditching the trappings of my life and retreating to the woods.  The problem is that if I did in fact go to the woods to live "deliberately," my children would still be asking me "what's for dinner" and demanding my fight mediation services every five minutes.  I would not, in fact, "have some peace there."  (I would not have it here or there.  I would not have it anywhere.)  Roach is not married and has no children.  Yeats was likewise single and childless when he wrote this poem . . . .

I'll likely need to wait until I'm old and gray to "have some peace" here or there.  And by that time, I'll be missing the lack of it.    

Two Good Ideas



Sabbath Manifesto

 1.  National Day of Unplugging (sundown tonight until sundown tomorrow). (discovered via Motherlode)

2.  This online art class from Pineapple Paintbrush.  The class doesn't actually start until Monday, but you could get a head start. Think what you could create with your children (or even on your own) while you're unplugged! (discovered via Bloom)

A Closer-to-Perfect Day

For my birthday this past Saturday, I decided to start a new family tradition:  Project Perfect Day.  Here's how it works.  On the Saturday closest to your birthday, you get to come up with an agenda for the day.  Want to stay in bed?  You can.  Want to eat cake for breakfast?  You can.  Want to have the rest of the family wait on you hand and foot?  Well, you can't if you're the mom.  Anyway, here's my agenda for this year's birthday.  It wasn't quite "perfect," but it was the best day I've had in quite some time.

Wednesday's Word -- Monotony

I took a break for the long holiday weekend.  You can see what I was up to over here.

Now it's back to the grind.  While the origin of that phrase is uncertain, perhaps it refers to going back to work at a mill, grinding grain?  In any event, "back to the grind" is no fun, whatever it is.  Here's a word I'm thinking about today:

Monotony

I'm sure you know what the word means.  I'm sure you know how to use it in a sentence.  It means "wearisome routine; dullness."  "Tedious sameness or repetitiousness."  It means Groundhog Day (ala Bill Murray).  Do you ever feel like your life is a Groundhog Day?  I must say I do.

Monotony

And I don't really mean to complain, because my repetition cycle is full of good things.  But here's what I really like about the word monotony, it also means "uniformity or lack of variation in pitch, intonation or inflection."  A monotone is "a sound that has a single unvaried tone."  Broken down, the word monotone is monos, meaning single or alone.  And tonos, meaning tone.  One single, solitary tone.

If you speak to a group in a monotone, no one will listen to you.  You will put the audience to sleep.  I worked as the adult leader for a group of children at my church for a few years, and each year we put on an end-of-the-year program for the parents with singing and speaking parts.  Every year, I devoted much effort to encouraging the children to speak with life in their voices.  To use inflection.  I would demonstrate by reciting one line in dead monotone, and then recite the same line with energy.  Even the youngest children (3 and 4) got it immediately.  

Living life in monotone has the same effect, doesn't it?  We put ourselves and those around us to sleep.  So if you're a one-note Nancy or single-sound Sam, you might think about adding some inflection to your life.  A note up there and a note down here, and you've got music.    

Wednesday's Word -- Sabbatical

Today's word is inspired by my life.  Well actually, pretty much every word I ever choose is inspired by my life, but this is a word currently near and dear to my heart.  

Sabbatical

The word "sabbatical" means "of or appropriate to the Sabbath; pertaining to a sabbatical year; bringing a period of rest; any extended period of leave from one's customary work."  Another dictionary defines it as "an extended period of leave, once every seven years and often one year long, taken by an employee in order to carry out projects not otherwise associated with the employee's job."  

"Sabbatical year" means "a year, usually every seventh, of release from normal duties."  To the Jews it was a yearlong period once every seven years, during which all agricultural labors are suspended.  (See Leviticus 25.)  The idea was that the field would produce a better crop if given a chance to rest.   

"Sabbath" is the seventh day of the week, set aside as a day of rest.     

So, after 13 long years of hard work as a lawyer, I have finally qualified for a three-month sabbatical.  Never mind that the fact that it took 13 years and will last only 3 months flies in the face of the meaning of the word sabbatical.  I was scheduled to be on sabbatical from May through July 2010, but then it crept to June through August, and now (alas), this period of rest will last only 21 days, because I can't swing a 3 month rest right now.  

But I will make those 21 days count as best I can.  I will suspend my normal labors and take leave from my customary work.  I will carry out projects not associated with my job.  We leave for Europe (with three young kids in tow) on Tuesday morning.  If you're interested, you can read about our trip preparation and (I hope, international internet connections allowing) some of our adventures in the Mediterranean, here.    

For now, here's a quote from the ancient poet Ovid that I just love:

"Take a rest; a field that has rested gives a bountiful crop."

Wednesday's Word -- Deliberately

I left home at the age of sixteen.  My family was away that day at a church Memorial Day picnic that I refused to attend.  I packed some food and left a note that simply said:  “I’ve gone to the woods to live deliberately.”*  (I had been reading Thoreau’s Walden and was enamored then (as I am now) with the idea of “living deliberately.”)  It wasn’t difficult to find the woods.  I grew up in northeastern Ohio, and the trees were everywhere.  The challenge was living deliberately—or living on my own at all for that matter.  I did go to the woods, but of course I came back.  I think I stayed away for a whole eight hours.  


Upon my return, did they kill the fatted calf to celebrate the return of the prodigal daughter?  (See, I still insist on misusing this word a bit.)  No.  Were they wringing their hands with worry?  No.  I found my note on the counter with my mother’s simple retort:  “Don’t be so cryptic.”  I had to look “cryptic” up in the dictionary.  I clearly wasn’t ready to live on my own.  Grown ups don’t have to come home for dinner, and they certainly don’t have to look up words like “cryptic” in the dictionary.  


*As Thoreau put it:  “I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.”  I know, I was a melodramatic teenager.  

So, the word for today is one of my all-time favorites:

Deliberately

Deliberate comes from the Latin delibero, which means "I consider, weigh well."  It is related to libra, which is a balance.  I just discovered this link through my research today and think it fitting that I was born with the astrological sign of Libra, with the zodiac symbol of the scales.  I'm not one to pay much attention to astrology, but this somehow pleases me.  (I also happen to be a lawyer and have always liked the symbol of the scales of justice.)

If you do something deliberately, you do it on purpose.  You consider.  You ponder.  You ponder some more.  You carefully weigh the consequences before you act.  If you are deliberate, you are not sudden or rash.  Like a jury deliberating to reach a verdict, you consider the evidence and try to do the right thing.

This word describes both my best and worst tendencies.  A desire to be more observant of the details in my life rather than living on autopilot, paired with a desire to stop measuring my life in coffee spoons.

But back to Thoreau.  A web search for deliberate living mostly pulls up information about people trying to recreate Thoreau's experience at Walden Pond to some extent.  These people tend to grow their own food and make their own clothing, and often seem to shun modern conveniences.  Don't get me wrong.  I respect that lifestyle and ingenuity.  But personally, I think I should be able to live deliberately and still shop at Nordstrom (or wherever).  Deliberate is not sequestered.  Deliberate is not impoverished.  Deliberate does not require woods.

Deliberate pays attention to the drive to work, 

rather than pulling out of the driveway and then suddenly finding herself in the parking garage.

Deliberate takes time to read and think and write things that are not required,

instead of spending all her time on things that may be required but bring no joy.

Deliberate pays attention to people she cares about,

rather than hoping they just know.

Deliberate counts her blessings,

instead of her challenges.                  

So, here's to learning what life has to teach.

Reaping

Van Gogh, Reaper, 1889

I've been thinking all day about Leo Tolstoy's Anna Karenina.  I read it this past summer, mostly because it seemed to me that it should be read, and not because I had any particular burning desire to read it.  For one thing, it spans some 800 pages and does drag in parts.  While I had to persevere through some portions, there are certain images and impressions that stick and come to my mind unexpectedly.

There are many characters in the book (and so many of them have names that end in -sky and -vich, it seems), but the two main protagonists are Anna Karenina and Konstantin Levin.  My purpose here is not to provide a summary or analysis of the book, so I'll get to my point.

Anna Karenina irritates me.  She is beautiful, passionate, elegant, cultivated, educated, determined, creative -- and completely irresponsible and selfish.  You might disagree.  She lives by the guiding principle that love is stronger than anything else -- even when her actions fly in the face of duty.  She insists on following her heart at any cost.  (I suppose part of my problem with Anna is that at the time I was reading the book, the wife of a good friend decided to up and leave her husband after nearly two decades of marriage, in the name of following her heart and passion . . . .  I kept thinking over and over, "You are Anna Karenina.  And you should know what happened to her.  It involved a train.  It was not good.")

Konstantin Levin, on the other hand, is the character I have thought the most about after finishing the last page.  He really isn't a very interesting man, and he has his irritating characteristics as well.  But his search for self-definition and happiness resonates with me.  My favorite scene in the book describes Levin (who has his own Russian estate with many peasants working the land for him) spending an entire day mowing the hay alongside the peasants.  The exertion and rhythm of it is pure bliss.  Here's how Tolstoy describes it:

The longer Levin mowed the oftener he felt the moments of unconsciousness in which it seemed that the scythe was mowing by itself, a body full of life and consciousness of its own, and as though by magic, without thinking of it, the work turned out regular and precise by itself.  These were the most blissful moments.  

As I go about my days -- so often feeling overwhelmed by the seemingly mundane repetitiveness of my existence -- I sometimes find myself thinking about Levin, scythe in hand, struggling to keep pace, fighting with the tool and tearing at the grass with such energy that he nearly collapses at the end of each row.  It's rapture.

And that's what I love about Levin and about this scene.  Even the completely ordinary moments of our days contain goodness and joy.  As we struggle with our tasks, there is satisfaction in an evenly mowed length behind us.  There is satisfaction in children that are scrubbed clean, fed, and tucked into bed.  There is satisfaction in a gleaming kitchen floor.  There is satisfaction in work (of any variety) well done.  

Like Thoreau, I so want to "cut a broad swath* and shave close."  But what I am thinking tonight is that you need not be Anna Karenina in order to do it.  You can "live deep and suck out all the marrow of life" and be more Konstantin than Anna.  As much as I would love to throw caution to the wind, do something drastic and go live deliberately in some remote corner of the world, I'll keep mowing my field, finding bliss in the rhythm of the scythe.  

*Isn't "swath" a lovely word?  It means the width of a scythe stroke or a mowing-machine blade.  A swath is a path made in mowing.  I like to think of myself swinging that sickle as well as I can, cutting a path as I go.

Fulfilling the Measure of Your Creation -- and Then Some

My last post left me a bit sad, reflecting on the loss of my cat, the loss of my grandpa and the loss of opportunities that time won't give back.

Then, out of the blue, the image from a book popped into my head and I went on the hunt in the bookshelves that are placed in many rooms throughout my house (as well as in book bins under beds and stacks in corners and populating everywhere else throughout my house like breeding bunnies) to find that book.  It has been over a decade since I pulled it out, but it came to me in a flash of inspiration as just what I needed to put some joy in my heart and a laugh in my throat.

I found it tucked away on a shelf, spine not even facing out.  All I had to do was look at the cover, and I was already smiling -- no, more like grinning.  Here it is:

The truly fabulous thing is that this cat on the cover looks JUST like my Minino, and that's what first drew my attention to Why Cats Paint  when browsing the Barnes & Noble shelves so many years ago (my copy was published in 1995, but I see that the book was republished in 2006).  Then when I flipped through the pages of the book, I was actually laughing out loud and simply had to have the book.  For me, the effect is just as joyful today as it was back when I discovered the book in the mid-1990s. I rarely "lol" as they say, but this book makes me "lol."

Take the description of "Bootsie," one of the feline painters featured in the book.  Here is his photograph, so you can properly visualize him while you read the description of his style (notice the paint on his furry paws):

Bootsie is a Trans-Expressionist who "uses a vigorous, sometimes aggressive style to explore his inner feelings and perceptions."

"To watch him paint is pure delight.  As soon as the easel is put up on the lawn and the paints are laid out next to it, any hint of feline disdain, any trace of detached hauteur, vanishes completely.  He almost pounces on the paint as if he must trap its fleeting vibrance before it escapes, and the moment it is on his paw he springs up to apply it.  Consideration appears minimized, while concentration is intense and the strokes are vigorously rhythmical."

Bootsie's owner, though, described him as "liking to leap about and put different colors all over the place without much caring how he does it."

And here is the photo of Bootsie that makes my heart happy:

Bootsie in full flight during painting of Hands Up!  Mr. Rooster, which sold for $15,000.  Note the rough sketch he made for this work on the back of the canvas.

Ha!  Doesn't just looking at the photo make you want to make something more of your life?!  As Thoreau put it, to "live deep and suck out all the marrow of life"?  (Thoreau, Walden, "Where I Lived and What I Lived For.")  Now, that Bootsie is a creature who is magnifying his allotment (even granting that this Why Cats Paint  is pure crazy nonsense)!  (I must also tell you, as an aside, that the same authors have published Why Paint Cats and Dancing With Cats.  I have not reviewed either one, but they appear to take crazy to a new level.)

And to close, I just have to share Bootsie's Cocking for Cockatoos, 1993, "in which a long-nosed green dog attempts to urinate (yellow), on a small flock of low-flying cockatoos (white)."

Are you smiling?  What makes you feel as alive as Bootsie twirling through the air, paint dripping from paws, trapping the "fleeting vibrance" before it escapes?  Have a great day!