Category: Simple Observations and Musings

           “The moment a child is born, the mother is also born.  She never existed before. The woman existed, but the mother, never.  A mother is something absolutely new.”—Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh

 

          

           This weekend, I will be traveling, once again, to the Wheeling/Bethany, WV area.  My husband, John, and I will be making this trip together in order to pack up our daughter, Madelyn’s, belongings for the summer.  She will remain at Bethany College with the few items she needs for the next few days in order to study and take her final exams before returning home mid-week.  

           A few weeks prior, when Maddie came home for a rare and quick weekend visit, it occurred to her, as we discussed the plan, that we would be moving her possessions on Mother’s Day weekend.

           “Sorry, Mom, that’s not much of a Mother’s Day present,” she said half-laughing, but I could see the remorse in her eyes.

           “Sure, it is,” I replied.  “I am spending time with you—Best. Present. Ever.”

 

           

          Maddie, being Maddie, rolled her eyes at me, but I spoke the truth—at least for the most part.  Did I look forward to lugging totes, boxes, and bags out of her dorm room, into John’s truck, and into the house once home?  Well, that is not exactly the most exciting part, but I am glad to do it. In fact, I am happy to help move her belongings for many reasons.

           First, and foremost, I am spending time with my daughter, the young woman who birthed me into motherhood.   I still fondly recall those nine months of pregnancy. Okay, the morning sickness was not that fun, but everything else was filled with wonderment.  

 

          

           Pregnancy in the late 1990s meant no gender-reveal party, no 3-D ultrasound images, no social media blasts, and so forth.  John and I did not even own a computer at that time. Instead, I went to the library often, and checked out multiple books on pregnancy, purchased the classic book, What to Expect When You’re Expecting by Heidi Murkoff and Sharon Mazel (now in its fifth edition and considered to be one of the most influential books of the past 25 years), and eagerly called family to share to the news once we found out we were having a girl.

 

          

           As my belly expanded, I would gently caress it, thinking about the new life growing inside of me.  I talked, sang, and even read aloud to her. John would lean down in the evenings, put his hands on my stomach, and speak to her as well because, “She needed to know her Dad’s voice too!”

           The first time I saw her foot pressing against my stretched mid-section, I cried—such a miracle of life growing inside me.  It was a time in my life when I felt as if I was God’s assistant in creating and caring for life. Thus, why would I mind helping her move most of her things out of her dorm room nearly 19 years later?

           Secondly, helping my daughter move out at the end of an academic year is an act of celebration.  After all she successfully completed her first year of college as well as her first year of semi-adulthood.  (I say “semi” in that, we hold her accountable for and respect her decisions, but she is not yet 100% financially independent.) That first year away from home in college is not an easy transition.  Maddie, not only made it through, but also achieved a few significant milestones along the way for which John and I feel extremely proud.

 

          Maddie always loved to draw pictures for me as well as leave me notes when she was small.

 

           Thirdly, helping her move her out allows me to feel part of her life-away-from-home.  While there, we will have the opportunity to connect with her friends, walk the paths she daily ambles, and perhaps gain a bit more insight into life at Bethany College.  I don’t mean to imply I wish to hover; rather, it’s more about a genuine interest into the person Maddie is becoming, the person who made me, “Mom”.

 

                     In fact, she still leaves me notes.          

 

           Finally, while the trip will be a whirlwind of activity that will most likely create some fatigue, John and I will have some down time together.  The trip to and from Bethany traverses some beautiful scenery that we both enjoy sharing. It will grant us an opportunity to talk without interruption.  Plus, it will also give us the gift of shared quiet—something that is often undervalued in our society.

 

                    Maddie certainly “baptized” John and I into parenthood!          

 

           It’s funny, while writing this; a memory has repeatedly popped up in my mind’s eye.  It is a fuzzy, movie-like image of driving to work towards the end of my pregnancy. May was in its full-glory as the morning sun glowed through my windshield.  While waiting at a rather long red light, I began to rub my distended belly, as I was less than three weeks away from Maddie’s birth. Unexpected tears of joy began streaming down my face in that moment at the thought of soon meeting my daughter.   Now, I get to feel that sensation again as John and I drive to see and embrace our child once more. Life is good, and I am blessed. What more could I ask for on Mother’s Day?

           

           

 

            “A person’s a person, no matter how small.”—Dr. Seuss

 

“To deal with individual human needs at the everyday level can be noble sometimes.”—Jimmy Carter

 

 

“Mamaw, Can I have one of those books?” asked the ingenuous boy of about four or five years.

 

He was wearing YMCA soccer clothes, and by the look of them, he had already played in his morning youth league game. The boy and his grandmother were in line in front of me at the Starbuck kiosk inside of a grocery store. There was a kid’s book section directly across from the coffee area, and it was filled with colorful, inviting books.

 

As a current middle school Language Arts teacher and former kindergarten teacher, I was impressed that the young fellow was interested in books as so many kids are far more interested in screen time. Oh, how I would have enjoyed walking him over to the bookshelf and allowing him to read, or at the very least, look through, a few of those books as I would have done years ago with my own daughter when she was his age.

 

“Mamaw, please.  Can I just go look at the books?” the young lad implored this time carefully patting his grandmother’s arm.   She ignored this request in the same manner in which she had ignored his first by incessantly talking to the lady behind the Starbucks counter.

 

 

From my vantage point, I perceived the slightest flicker of irritation cross the Starbucks’ employee’s face due to the grandmother’s persistent barrage of questions, but then, quickly fade. Despite the fact the employee was politely answering the questions based upon Starbucks’ policies/products, the grandmother kept debating with her.  Nevertheless, I will hand it to this employee; she remained patient even as the grandmother continued her demands.

 

“Mamaw, can I please look at the books?” The boy tenderly tapped his grandmother’s arm once more.

 

“No!  Now, stop bugging me!”

 

The boy hung his head, and his face turned bright red.

 

“I was just kidding, Mamaw,” stated the boy after a few moments in such a way to show contrition, and he returned to patting his grandmother’s arm once more as she ignored him again.

 

You can bet Champ, my mom’s oldest great-grandchild is not ignored by his grandmother, my sister, Rachel, or his great-grandmother.

 

Her questions and demands to the meek employee continued, and I felt my own frustration grow in this situation. I wanted to take the boy over to the book area, tell the grandmother to give the kid and the Starbucks’ employee a break, and just place her order while I read to her sweet grandchild. Instead, I remained quiet.

 

“Mamaw, I was just kidding,” implored the boy once more as his eyes looked up at his grandmother seemingly with the hope of her to noticing his remorse, but she remained focused on her questions.

 

It was then I saw a tear trickle down the little boy’s face, and my mom-heart broke.   It was a silent tear that I recognized as his soundless hurt, and I sensed this was not his first time to be ignored and/or treated badly by an adult.  I was so absorbed in watching the boy; I had not realized the grandmother had finally placed her order until she jerked the kid by his arm.

 

 

“Get over here with Mamaw, now!  Can’t you see we need to move over here so I can get my iced tea?”

 

The little fellow said, “Sorry, Mamaw,” hung his head, and obediently began walking.

 

Stunned, I stood there for a moment, and before I could say anything, I noticed the Starbucks’ employee reach into the bakery counter, pull out a pink cake-pop, gently place it in a crisp white bakery bag, and hand it over the counter to the grandmother.

 

“Can he have this?” the Starbucks’ employee sweetly asked.

 

The grandmother snapped it out of the employee’s hand, impatiently passed it to the boy, and said, “Here you go,” with no hint of gratitude or consideration in her voice, and she resumed her nonstop complaint session with the employee.

 

 

“Can I eat it now?” the little boy asked with a bit of hope as he once again gently patted his grandmother’s arm and longingly looked up at her.  He was never answered—at least not in my presence.  I watched as he clutched the bag tightly in one hand, looked down at it, glanced up at his grandmother, and then looked down again as his shoulders sagged.

 

 

As I contemplated the scene driving home, I was reminded of an article I had read earlier that same morning entitled, “The 6 Human Needs for Fulfillment,” by Cloe Madanes.  The reading was part of my yoga teacher training.  My teacher, Katrina Mailloux, had encouraged us this month to spend time reflecting upon these needs and noticing how we can share these needs with others.  These six needs include: certainty/comfort, uncertainty/variety, significance, love/connection, growth, and contribution.

 

 

Clearly, the little boy longed to feel certain in his relationship with his grandmother.  He seemed to yearn for the variety, and perhaps growth, that a book might offer him.  Additionally, he displayed his desire to feel significant and important in his grandmother’s eyes as he did not look at any one else but her.  He plainly desired love and connection—a hug, a smile, or a tender pat on his head—yet, he received none of those.

 

 

John and I have both had the privilege of working with special students as pictured her left to right, Kaity Brumfield with John and Brenna Chapman.  Teaching is reciprocal experience in that we meet many needs of fulfillment with our students, and likewise, they meet many of our needs.

 

Sadly, this child’s emotional growth has the potential to be stunted if the grandmother’s behavior is a reflection of how he is frequently treated.  And, while the young boy would not be able to articulate this, I do sense he was trying to contribute to his grandmother’s needs by remaining compliant and obedient.  Furthermore, instead of the grandmother going beyond her own personal needs, it was the Starbucks’ employee who attempted to contribute a bit of positivity into the youngster’s day.  It struck me as both sad, but somewhat refreshing—at least with regards to the employee’s behavior

 

It is worth remembering that every person we encounter has the same needs as we do—even that grandmother.  The Starbucks employee exemplified this to me in her every action.  She remained calm, kind, and considerate to the grandmother’s demands.  Additionally, her behavior reflected her recognition of the grandmother’s need to feel significant.  At the same time, she noticed the boy’s need for comfort, significance, connection, variety, and growth.  While she could not give him a book, she gave what she could. And, that, in the words of Jimmy Carter, was indeed a noble event.  One from which we could all benefit if we would interject more of that understanding and behavior into our daily interactions and practices.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

            “No person was ever honored for what he received. Honor has been the reward for what he gave.”—Calvin Coolidge

 

The year was 1987. 21 years wise and freshly graduated from college, I was ready to begin my teaching career.   After making the long walk from the main part of the building that contained classrooms and administrative offices, through the cafeteria, past the concession stands area used during basketball season, through the entire length of the gym, up the back stairway that led to the underside of gym bleachers, through two other makeshift classrooms, separated by rolling chalkboards, I finally arrived in my “classroom.” I sighed, in a state of shock and dismay.

 

 

One “wall” was literally the underbelly of the gymnasium bleachers. Another “wall” was the rolling chalkboards by which I had passed. A third wall, across from the bleachers, was a painted concrete wall stained with yellow mold; and, the final wall, was a padded medal door that I would later learn was filled with weapons used by the Greenup County High School ROTC students. And, with those students would enter a man I would come to know as Marine retired Lt. Col. Vance Huston—a man I would consider a mentor during my first year of teaching and during his last year as an educator.

 

However, on that first day, weeks before students arrived, I looked around this so-called room and wondered if I had made a huge mistake. Was this the job meant for me? How could I ever be expected to teach in such dismissal surroundings with no window or source of natural light? I sat and stared. This was not the setting for which I prepared in the idyllic world of textbooks, professors, and idealistic future teachers.

 

Nonetheless, I threw back my shoulders and began the task of cleaning, tidying, and arranging the room as best I could. I was able to hang a few colorful posters/charts on the two-door metal cabinet that stood along the concrete wall, stacked a few battered textbooks that my 9-12 grade special educations students were supposed to use, as well as a few of my own reference books. I would make the best of the situation.

 

Thinking determined thoughts on that long ago end-of-July-day, I was startled by a man quietly entering my room.   While I do not recall his exact words, I do remember his kind, twinkling eyes and warm smile. He said something about the fact that he wasn’t used to seeing teachers in their classrooms so early before the start of school. Then, he introduced himself as, “Col. Huston,” and offered his hand to shake.

 

 

He was relaxed, confident, and warm. Sitting on the top of a student desk, he began asking questions, seemingly eager to figure out who I was. As I answered, I remember the way he would nod his head and simultaneously close his eyes as if trying remember each word I stated. He smiled frequently, and continued to engage me with questions.

 

After asking numerous questions, he launched into a personal story meant to serve as a mini-life lesson for me. That was the beginning of what would become a nearly daily occurrence at the end of each school day.

 

“Ms. Musick, how are you today?”

 

“Ms. Musick, did the kids treat you well?”

 

“Ms. Musick, how are you getting along?”

 

“Ms. Musick, how are you liking it here?”

 

No matter what question with which he began our conversation (after he was certain the padded door to the weapons rooms was locked and secure) he managed to turn my answer into a story/mini-lesson.

 

 

During these conversations, he revealed he was originally from and educated in California, and that I, too, must one day acquire a Masters Degree in Education as he had earned. He frequently talked of his Marine service that followed, for which he was commissioned in 1955. Never once, however, did he reveal that he was White House Helicopter support for Presidents Eisenhower, Kennedy, and Johnson from 1960-1964. He did certainly share that he flew Marine C-130s during two tours of Vietnam from 1965 (the year in which I was born) to 1970. And, while I knew he had survived a horrific helicopter crash that ultimately served as a vehicle for his deeply convicted faith, I never realized how bad the crash was until recently viewing the picture of mangled, twisted, and warped metal that was once the helicopter from which he, and the other men, miraculously walked away.

 

After his service in Vietnam, Lt. Col. Huston was a Commanding Officer of a wing equipment and repair squadron at Cherry Point, North Carolina. Next, he served as Executive Officer, Marine barracks, Subic Bay, Philippines. Finally, he rounded out his Marine service in Public Affairs at Marine Headquarters, Pentagon. Even with all his honors and experience, he spoke more often about his love for his wife, his children, his extended family, and his profound faith than anything else.

 

 

No matter what had occurred during a school day, I could count on Lt. Col. Huston to end my day with a smile. On days I was down, from lack of appropriate supplies, facilities, or plain of feeling isolated and lonely, Lt. Col. Huston was there to offer a quick story and smile. I never shared with him how lonely I felt that year, but I think he knew. In fact, I am fairly certain he was responsible for ensuring that one of the Assistant principals, Mr. Lyles, invited me to his office at least twice a month for coffee to “see how I was doing.”

 

When I began to show an interest in running and biking as a hobby, Lt. Col. Huston encouraged me. He offered tips as he was an avid runner, running 5-6 miles at a time, several days a week. In fact, it wasn’t unusual to drive down US 23 and see Lt. Col. Houston running alongside the road in grey sweatpants and a grey sweatshirt. Fitness, he stated, was an important discipline for the mind, body, and soul.

 

 

 

Near the end of my first year of teaching, I shared with him that I had met man for whom I felt deep love and affection. His eyes truly shone then. From that point on, he gave me daily advice on how to make a relationship work and how to, one day, be a good parent.

 

“Put your spouse and children first. That is the key.”

 

After my first year at GCHS, Lt. Col. Huston retired, but he would regularly drop by school for visits just to, “see how I was getting along.” When he learned of my engagement to my now husband of nearly 30 years, he simply smiled and said he hoped I was as blessed as he had been in the love of his wife.

 

 

June of 1989, Lt. Col. Huston honored me by making the 45-60 minute drive to attend my wedding in South Point, Ohio. He was stunning in his Marine dress blues. For a wedding present, he gave my husband and me an electric carving knife attached with a note of advice: “The words of the reckless pierce like a sword, but the words of the wise brings healing.”—Proverbs 12:18

 

 

Lt. Col. Huston recently flew, this time on eagle’s wings, to meet his Creator, on March 1 of this year. He was 85 years old.

 

 

On March 7, my husband, John, and I made the 45-60 minute drive to pay our respects to his wife, Ella Mae, of 65 years, and the rest of his family. I learned upon his retirement from GCHS, he had not stopped mentoring others. His ministry continued through service to Meal-on-Wheels, Prison Ministry at the Federal Penitentiary in Summit, Bible study groups in the Greenup Country Detention Center, Gideon’s International, and at his beloved house of worship, Green County Methodist Church.

 

I was blessed to have been under Lt. Col. Huston’s watchful eye, even for a short time; and based on the number of people attending his viewing—there were hundreds, if not thousands more, that could also consider their lives enriched because of this honorable man.

 

May Lt. Col. Huston’s wings of faith eternally fly as inspiration and example to all.

 

 

 

 

           

            “The river is one of my favorite metaphors, the symbol of the great flow of Life Itself. The river begins at Source, and returns to Source unerringly. This happens every single time, without exception. We are no different.”—Jeffery. R. Anderson

 

Beginning in her first year of life, my husband, John, and I traveled frequently with our daughter, Madelyn. The road trips took us to locations all over the United States and several locations in Canada. It was common, when Maddie was a young girl, for her to break down and cry dolorously for an hour or so, on our return drive home from these trips.

The first time this occurred, I asked her, with great concern, what was wrong. She explained that she did not want the vacation experience to end, and she wanted to remain in the location in which we had stayed.   John and I would attempt to explain that the place would no longer seem special if we lived there. We further encouraged her to focus on all the good memories we created, and how wonderful it was to spend time together in such a special way. Despite our best efforts to cheer her, she was attached to her feeling, to her story. She had to cry as a way to release her grief and her attachment to the illusion that life should always be like vacation.

 

 

Likewise, the Ohio River has risen due to frequent and heavy rains and snowmelt. In fact, the mighty Ohio has risen to such levels that I recently watched with great interest as the floodwall gates, along the Ohio River in Huntington, WV, were closed to the public and sturdy-looking metal inserts were tightly locked into place. Furthermore, streams, such as nearby Symmes Creek, a 76.4-mile-long tributary of the Ohio River in southern Ohio, began to overflow their banks and spill out into roadways making travel challenging if not impossible.

 

 

Numerous residents were trapped in their homes unable to report to work due to road closures. Those who could get to work were often spending double, or even triple, the amount of drive time traveling to and from work. Additionally, there were homes either destroyed or damaged by floodwaters. These stories filled the news each evening as more predictions of rain filled the weather headlines.

Even as the waters began to recede though, other negative concerns have arisen. Roads that were already pocked with the small potholes from the freeze-thaw cycle of winter are now burgeoning with ever expanding potholes caused by the erosion of floodwaters. Furthermore, trash, debris, refuse, and junk litter the river and stream banks as well as the roadways. While our tendency is to focus on such negative implications of floodwaters, we tend forget that by their nature, rivers flood. It is part of their natural process; and, yes, there are actually benefits of a flood.

As best I understand it, the right amount of flooding is good for the flood plain lands that are often used for agriculture. Flooding makes these grounds more fertile and productive by overflowing the soil with vital and enriching nutrients. In return, fresh nutrients from the soil are also infused back into the rivers, lakes, and streams thereby improving the vitality for the fish and other wild life contained within. Sometimes, floodwaters relocate fish and other living organisms into other water bodies. This often improves and brings increased balance into the ecosystem as new predators and prey species are introduced into the aquatic population. Floodwaters also recharge the groundwater, which has overall benefits for humans and wildlife alike. Finally, I have to believe that the powerful way in which floodwaters spew out the physical trash also offers an overall benefit to the health of the water. Despite these benefits, it is human nature for us to resist flooding in the same way Maddie sorrowfully resisted the transition from vacation to normal life.

 

 

Both of these stories are a metaphor to an issue with which I have been wrestling– attachment to the story: How life should flow as written by the great know-it-all Steph. Life, like the Ohio River, should flow smoothly and remain within its known boundaries. Sure, the river bends and curves, but you see those ahead of time and know how to prepare for them. The fallacy with my attachment to this story is that if I were to really examine the river, I would see that it is in state of continual change. Some changes are almost imperceptible while other changes occur dramatically and sometimes cataclysmically.

Like the flooding, life’s so called catastrophes, as bad, as awful, and as troubling as they can seem, often have a positive side—even if those positives may not be recognizable until years later. Sometimes, the benefit may be as simple as an enhanced appreciation for health, family, and/or friends, while other advantages may include a more resilient immune system, mind, or emotional-well being. In spite of all of Maddie’s tears at the end of a vacation, she still grew and gained insight from each new place visited; and, as a result, she is more knowledgeable, open-minded, and can adapt easily to new situations.

When we attach to the story of how things should be, we actually create more personal mental suffering and anguish. Thus, we often cry and/or mourn what we perceive as loss, losing sight of all the good and wondrous events occurring all around us. It is often through those watershed moments, life is infusing us with nutrient-rich experiences that greater inform us, introduce new people and understandings, create more balance and harmony, as well as clears mental and physical debris and clutter.

Meanwhile, during all of our collective worry and focus on the flooding, the cycle of life renewed itself. Spring peepers can now be heard at night, hyacinths have quietly bloomed, grass is beginning to grow, and our willow trees are sprouting new green leaves. When we detach from the story, we are able to see our watershed moments do indeed lead to our own spring-like renewal and return to us our source in the same way the river starts and ends at its source.

 

“February 15 is national gumdrop day.”—Foodimentary

            “Gumdrops, a fruit or spice flavored sugar coated gelatin candy, usually conical in shape. Other shapes and flavors: orange slices, licorice babies, and spearmint leaves.”—Foodimentary

The glow that hovered over the valley area in which my home sits became more luminous as the garage door gradually lifted, bursting through the opening as if there was a nearby three-alarm fire creating brilliant radiance. Instead, it was the light of sunrise filling the air with a soft blush. Glancing toward the hillside over which the sun was rising, the sky was filled with color like that of the interior flesh of a blood orange, then gradually became a more vivid orange—like biting into the middle of a candied orange slice that my grandfather, called, “Papaw” kept by the back door at the end of the kitchen counter.

Over the past two weeks, I have been fully blessed to bear witness to several blazing sunrises much like I was witnessing on that particular day.   For whatever reason, these spectacular events of flame have recently been filling my heart with memories of Papaw and his candied orange slices. It is fitting, that on the day after Valentine’s Day, a day devoted to love, is National Gumdrop Day—which is what orange slices, by definition, are.

Still, I cannot talk about Papaw without also talking about his wife of over 60 years, the woman I called, “Grandmother.” These were my maternal grandparents with whom I spent a plethora of time during my childhood, teens, and even my young adult years. The mark they left still flows profoundly through my spirit much like the sunrise I described. Copious happy memories tied up in a simple house, with simple, but deeply proud, genuinely faith-filled, and ever loving people. Were they perfect? No, even in my idealized memory, I can recognize their flaws, but that does not reduce their love or my love for them.

What was once my grandparents house.  My Papaw was so proud of this home he built on “high ground” as he had been flooded out of two other previous homes.

“Stethie,” my grandfather could never seem to say, “Stephie,” correctly. “Be sure and get you an orange slice as you go out the door. They’re good and fresh. Your grandmother just bought ‘em yesterday.”

I now recognize that was my Papaw’s way of he saying, “I love you. I am sorry to see you go—take something sweet with you as a slice of sweet love from your ol’ Papaw and Grandmother.”

My Grandmother, Helen, (middle) and my Papaw, Check, (right) sitting with one of their son’s (Leo) mother-in-law, that I only knew as “Nannie.”  (Left)

Papaw loved to talk with strangers. In fact, in his later years, there were a few times I would take Grandmother and he grocery shopping. It seemed during those visits, Grandmother and I would often “lose” him. Grandmother would send him to get some particular item from across the store, and he would not return.

“Oh Dear, who is Check (my grandfather’s nickname) talking to now?” she would say after some time had past with worry and aggravation in her voice.

“Stethie, would you go see if you can find him?”

Papaw and Grandmother one Christmas at my childhood home.

Sure enough, I’d walk up and down the aisles and eventually spy Papaw with eyes a’twinkin’ as he talked-up another shopper. Sometimes, he knew them; most of the time, however, he did not. His fine, long-boned fingers, empty of the grocery item for which my Grandmother had sent him, gesticulated this way as he attempted to make his point. I would approach with respectful, polite caution, especially once he was in the early stages of Alzheimer’s, as I never knew what he would be saying.

His faded blue-gray eyes though never failed to light up upon seeing me approach as I often took him by the forearm and attempt to lead him away. Sometimes, he would stay put insisting upon introducing me to the person I rarely ever knew. Other times, he would nod his head as if that were his signal to suddenly remember what he was supposed to be doing and politely excuse himself.

Papaw on the front porch of his home with one of his great-grandkids, Wesley, from Texas.  Wesley is wearing a blue suit sewn to match Papaw’s.  

One time, I found him near tears, having dropped an egg and broken it on the grocery floor. I was reminded of a long ago story in which my middle sister, Traci, was a mere child and had accidently broken eggs while tagging along with Papaw at the grocery store. She cried so much, I am told, that it caused Papaw to cry too.   There he stood, looking around, much in the way Traci must have looked as a child, guilty, shamed, and extremely sorrowful. I tried to get him to laugh it off, but it bothered him, as it was one of the few times he realized his mind was changing. Even as I type these words, my heart breaks for him in that moment.

There were a couple of other times in which he suspected the claws of Alzheimer’s were beginning to burrow into the recesses of his brain. His eyes would click, he would pause, shake his head, and return my gaze as if to say, “I am trying, Stethie, to clear the fog, but I can’t. Help me.” Sadly, I could not.

I was the first family member to recognize that Papaw had Alzheimer’s. At first, I was doubted, written off, or simply dismissed. I get it. Who wants to believe the gray cloud of Alzheimer’s had infiltrated their loved one’s brain like an identity thief stealing a credit card number. Where did the memories go? How could this happen?

It wasn’t too long after I took this picture that I began to realize Papaw was in the early stages of Alzheimer’s. 

The gift of these sunrises reminds me of Papaw’s love. I was “his girl,” he would often say as he grabbed my arms and looked lovingly into my eyes. He told me to be like his sister and become an educated woman, because in his words, “Your ol’ Papaw here, only made to fifth grade, but I was the teacher’s pet! She kept me near her desk, and tied a string from her finger to mine, so I couldn’t get too far from her.”

My absolute favorite picture of my grandparents taken in the side yard of my childhood home.  They drove all the way to Athens, Ohio to watch me graduate from Ohio University.  The pride written all over their face in this picture brings tears to my eyes to this day.

He loved his church, football, National Geographic magazines and learning random facts of trivia; traveling and gardening; railroading (CSX proud) and clipping coupons; Boy Scouting and collecting coins; saltines crumbled in bowl with milk poured over them on Sunday nights after church, sorghum on buttered canned biscuits, glazed donuts, and candied orange slices in a glass jar on the kitchen counter beside the back door. It is his memory, bound up in the orange-slice sunrises that have been warming my mornings of late. I feel his heavenly smile. I know he is telling Grandmother, “There goes my girl,” as I drive towards the embrace of the rising glow of love.

As seen on Instagram at meditation_mum.

Written with great love for Chester Arlen Slater aka “Papaw,” aka “Poppy-Check.”  May his memory and love forever shine.

“It is better to keep the top half of the gas tank full.”—My Dad

 

“That is why we never give up. Though our bodies are dying, our spirits are being renewed every day.”– 2 Corinthians 4:16

 

This past week was Catholic Schools Week at the school in which my husband, John, and I teach. A special, fun-filled week with daily activities for students.    The culminating experience occurs Friday with the annual 8^th graders-versus-teachers event. Lasting a little more than an hour at the end of the school day, the students cheer, applaud, and yes, scream for their favorite “team.”

 

John and I can be seen in 8th graders vs. teachers:  Who can eat fruit by the foot faster?  Ultimately, an 8th grader won; and, sadly, I was pulled out for fear of food allergies.

This past Friday was made extra special as members of the Marshall University Football team stepped into the role of teachers for a flag football game. Energy, enthusiasm, and excitement were palpable—making this year’s closing occasion even more loud and frenetic!   By the end, as we walked out of the gym, my ears were ringing, and I observed numerous exhausted students. Many of the students that I teach were resting with their heads down on the tables as they waited for their parents to pick them up. Their tanks were visibly empty.

 

When I was a new driver, I recall my Dad instructing me on the importance of never allowing my car to go much lower than a half-tank. I can still hear his advice.

 

“Steph, you never know what you might encounter on the road. You could get stuck in a traffic jam, or you could get stranded on an empty road late at night. Never let your gas gauge dip below half a tank, especially in the winter.”

 

Do you really want to stop and fill up a half-full tank on the way home from a long day of work, especially when the temperatures are dipping below freezing?

 

Of course, as a teenager, I doubted my Dad. It wasn’t like he was a professional mechanic. I mean, really, he worked in an office all day. What did he know?

 

It turns out, there are several valid reasons for keeping a vehicle’s gas tank above the half-full mark. These include avoiding mechanical issues; increased gas mileage; increased safety, especially during the extremes of summer and winter conditions; saving time; and ultimately, saving money. It occurred to me how very similar this is to life.

 

Huntington St. Joseph Catholic School 8th graders playing flag football with players from Marshall University.

Mechanical issues. As best I understand it, gas not only serves as fuel for the car, but also as a coolant for the fuel pump. Additionally, a nearly empty tank can cause the fuel pump to overheat. Furthermore, it can also increase the amount of gunk and sediment in the car’s tank, which can foul the fuel filter or clog the fuel injector. All of which can contribute to mechanical misfunction.

Likewise, our bodies need to be fueled with quality foods rather than processed. In the words of Michael Pollan, “Eat food. Not too much. Mostly plants.” Processed food (think bright, shiny packages) are usually full of “gunk and sediment,” such as excess sugar, preservatives, chemicals, and food colorings that foul up our body, and ultimately, our health. Just as we put our car’s health in mechanical jeopardy when we run our gas low, feeding our bodies processed foods runs our bodies low on nutrition while increasing the risk for a health break down.

Huntington St. Joseph Catholic School 8th graders playing flag football with players from Marshall University.

 

Gas Mileage.   Increased fuel efficiency is another reason to keep the gas tank of a vehicle filled. Likewise, our bodies’ tanks need filled with 6-9 hours of sleep. Our body downshifts into repair-mode as we sleep, keeping our “engines” running more smoothly. A full night’s sleep fills our life-tank with copious benefits, including, increased memory; decreased inflammation; reduction of depression/anxiety; increased focus/attention; decreased likelihood of accidents or mistakes; reduction of stress, increased ability to maintain a healthy weight; increased longevity; and promotion of healing to name a few. Therefore, living a fully productive life requires nightly fill-ups of sleep.

 

Safety. Running a vehicle “on fumes” puts you, and any passengers with you, at risk for engine failure. Engine failure can cause a whole host of mechanical issues including loss of brakes and power steering. Plus, you risk becoming stranded—potentially in an unsafe situation.

 

Likewise, allowing our spiritual health to run on fumes not only weakens our mental health, but also deeply affects our soul. Regular routines of scripture reading, prayer, meditation, and participation in your house of worship continually refuels the heart and soul with abundant love and inspiration. Without a heart-centered faith connection, we too, run the risk of being spiritually stranded in a world filled with soul-sucking distractions. Divine Providence does not demand perfection, it just asks for regular faith-full fill-ups.

Gathering for a picture at the end of the flag football game.

 

Save Time. Sure, stopping to gas up takes time—not something you exactly want to do on the way home after a twelve-hour shift with an outside temperature below freezing. However, filling half a tank takes less time than refueling a whole; and, it’s much faster than the time needed for repairs if you perpetually run your car on fumes.

 

Likewise, skipping exercise seems like a perfect time-saver. However, in the long run, taking time to exercise will benefit you with increased energy; increased ability to maintain or lose weight; stronger bones and muscles; increased cardiovascular health; reduced risk of disease; improved skin health; increased sleep quality; increased brain and memory function; as well as reduced stress. People who do not exercise spend more time sick, visiting doctors and/or therapists, or even time in the hospital. Thus, taking time to top off your tank with regular bouts of moderate physical activity, in any form, is like making regular deposits of quality time towards the longevity of your life.

The official picture of our 8th graders to the MU football players.

 

Save Money. Regularly skimping on the expense of gas fill-ups until the last possible moment will not save money in the long run, especially if you end up needing a costly repair. The same is true for our own proverbial life-tanks. In our consumer driven world, we are repeatedly assaulted with images of the “good life.” From decked out, over-sized vehicles, to expansive, multi-roomed homes; from the current fashion trends, to the perfectly outfitted child; from the latest, greatest personal devices, to the newest, technologically most advanced home gadgets, from the picture perfect cup of coffee, to the over-the-top dining experience—the message is clear, in order to be happy, one must spend and spend a lot. Does all of this spending really fill our life tanks? Or do loving connections, both at home and with friends/loved ones, mean more? In the long run, I believe, regular doses of time spent with family, friends, and loved ones, even in the simplest of settings, is far more fulfilling than any non-human thing that can be purchased.

 

To be certain, living a full life is not as easy as filling up our car’s gas tank. Life is never perfect. Often, like the roads over which our cars travel, life can be filled with unexpected curves, congestion, and tie-ups. Nonetheless, just like lack of proper car maintenance can shorten the life and quality of our car, so can our life choices. I guess Dad knew what he was talking about after all—keep the tank full!

 

As seen on Instagram by postivenergyalways.

 

 

 

“It’s never too late to start something new, to do all those things that you’ve been longing to do.”—Dallas Clayton

 

“You’re never too old to set another goal or to dream a new dream.”—C.S. Lewis

 

 

By the time you are reading this, Dear Reader, I will have embarked upon a new journey, well, semi-new. I have had many passions in my life as well as many dreams. I am blessed with the love of my family who has always supported the exploration of my passions. From teaching to traveling, from reading to once-upon-a-time running, from writing for the local newspaper to creating my own blog/website, from cooking-up recipes to learning about nutrition, and all my other past and present pursuits, my family has repeatedly said, “Do it.” Therefore, when I began to talk about pursuing Registered Yoga Teacher training (RYT)—they once again rallied around me, and said, “Yes, do it.”

 

 

Now, my new journey begins, and I couldn’t be more excited and more nervous all at the same time! Questions full of doubt fill me head: Will I be the oldest person in class? Can I manage working full-time, and keep up with my writing/blog, and study/read for RYT? Will my body hold up to the long stretches of sitting combined with long sessions of practicing yoga? Can I memorize and understand anatomy, biomechanics of movement, Sanskrit, foundational teaching methods, and all the other new information that will be required of me? What will my classmates be like? What about the instructors? Oh, the list could go on . . .

 

 

Still, my husband, John, says, “I’m excited for you! I think this is your calling.” My daughter, Madelyn, encourages, “Mom, you’re going to be great! I’ve been telling my friends about what you’re doing.” My mom, dad, siblings, and other extended family members have chimed in their encouragement as well. Therefore, I am taking a leap of faith; I will step out of my comfort zone, and embrace the unknown.

 

 

RYT began with a long list of assigned readings. The first of many, I am told. I have read, underlined, highlighted, and written notes. Some of the readings were technical and filled with new vocabulary, and I struggled to understand them. However, I am going to put my faith in the instructors’ abilities to shed light on those subjects. Many of the readings were eye opening, while others were quite deep and profound. All of the material, however, inspires a sense of excitement over learning new information!

 

 

 

I have encountered several people who are under the impression that yoga is a religion. It is most certainly not, nor is it associated with any specific religious affiliation.   That said, I have read about, as well as encountered a number of people, such as priests, pastors, and lay people of various faith backgrounds who practice yoga for the sole purpose of settling and clearing their mind in order to strengthen and increase their ability to focus during prayers and the readings or studying of scripture. In fact, I have a friend who just recently shared with me that one of her pastors from a few years ago, was regularly required to participate in yoga classes, along with his fellow classmates, as an integral part of his Christian seminary education.

 

Additionally, I have yet to find any conflicts between my faith/belief system and the practice/teachings of yoga. If anything, I continue to discover many parallels. For example, part of my readings and practices for this month are centered on the ideas of nonviolence and purity in thoughts, words and actions. Next month’s lessons will focus on truthfulness as well as contentment and gratitude. Other months will concentrate on lessons of nonstealing, self-discipline, nonexcess, self-study, nonpossessivenes, and surrender. All of these ethical guidelines are worthy and noble, in my mind, no matter your religious views.

 

 

To be certain, the names of traditional yoga poses are rooted in one of the oldest, if not the oldest forms of recorded language, Sanskrit.   Furthermore, while the numerous Sanskrit words can be found in religions other than Christianity, the names of the poses are not tied to those religions. They are quite simply the names of yoga postures and nothing more.

 

By becoming a yoga teacher, I will be able to share with others the one form of exercise I have been able to consistently practice for over 20 years. It was the only type of exercise for which I was given clearance to do for over a year after doctors discovered I had three bulging discs and an extra-vertebrae. Yoga increases the ability to focus, strengthens muscles and bones, increases flexibility, decreases stress, reduces reactiveness, and can calm and clear the mind just to name a few of its benefits. Additionally, yoga can be practiced in nearly any location, including home, and can last a short as five minutes to two hours or more, and all times in between.   The workouts can be quite gentle, moderate, or rather vigorous; and, yoga can even be practiced in a chair!

 

I am eagerly anticipating the day for which I will step off my own yoga mat, and into the world as a certified yoga teacher. In a world full of stress, anxiety, and busyness; a world in which we frequently sit more than we stand; as well as a culture that often promotes the “no pain, no gain” philosophy, especially when it comes to exercise, I am extremely energized and enthused to soon be able to offer an alternative to the traditional grind, pound, and push workout. I look forward to sharing a form of exercise more than 5,000 years old that will enhance overall vitality and health of mind, body, and spirit. Therefore, I will study hard, read much, listen carefully, and keep my mind, as well as my heart, wide-open as I come full-circle within yoga.

 

You’re never too old to learn . . ..