Keeping Up With The Times (When Did I Turn Into A Fuddy Duddy?)

My kids swear we are the last people on earth to not have a data plan with our phone service. They might be right too. Having just a regular cell phone—texting option only—is such a rarity that when I recently tried to replace my old phone, the Pink Dinosaur, as my daughter called it, I couldn’t. AT&T offered only one model of phone without data plans. I call it extortion, a phone company’s empire forcing me to comply with their money-making scheme. My kids call it keeping up with the times.

My daughter, a senior in high school, is quietly hopeful that we will finally enter into the new millennium and get a data plan when our current phone contract runs out. Last night at the dinner table, my husband and son looked at plans available with and without smart phones. My husband asked me, “Do you want a smart phone plan or just a regular phone and plan? We can get that pretty cheap.”  I think he’s hopeful I’ll continue on in my inexpensive ignorance and stick with my dumb phone.

“What can you do with a smart phone?” I asked. I'd been listening to the discussion debating if I really needed to make the costly switch. “Can I get Pandora?” My needs are simple.

“Mom,” my daughter said patiently, “You can check your email, check in with Facebook, and yes, access Pandora.”

“Does it take up a lot of data to do that?” I asked, having no idea, really, what I was asking. My son assured me the plans we were considering would probably be more than enough to cover usages like Pandora. I began to think about always being able to check in with my email or Facebook or Twitter, not being dependent on available wifi connections. On second thought, I’m not sure that’s overly appealing to me.

I’m struggling to find a reason to switch to a data plan yet feeling like I’ll be missing out on something if I don’t. After all, all the other parents have one.

When I was a kid, our phone needs amounted to pocket change. Really. My mom and dad always made sure I had spare coins when I went out with friends in case I needed to call home. I realize if you’re under a certain age, you won’t remember the Ancient Ones’ reliance on public phones… phone booths… you know, the thing that Super Man went into to change into his super tights and cape… oh never mind.

While I’m waxing nostalgic on “when I was a kid”, I still remember when we got our color TV. It was a big deal. Other families already had one, but my dad never saw the need to switch from the black and white—it worked just fine. We had a hard time convincing him the wonder and splendor of Saturday morning cartoons in full Technicolor glory was worth the financial investment. But I’m sure once he caved and bought the state-of-the-art console TV, he enjoyed the MacNeil Leher News Hour in color as much as the next dad.

I also remember his reluctance to install air conditioning. Instead, we placed box fans in the windows so that they blew outside-- the theory being they would suck in the cooler night air. It was a hypothesis my pre-adolescent body knew was false from every sweaty pore it possessed. Night after night, during sticky summer heat, I lay on top of sheets, barely breathing, hoping even a light puff of air would cool and relieve my searing flesh. It rarely happened. It was stifling. But my father's conservative fiscal habits and ethics about not always having to keep up with the Joneses meant we made due with fans.  

My reluctance to buy into the newest, "bigger and better" gadget is an inheritance bequeathed to me during my own exasperated youth. Do I really need a data plan? Did I really need that DVD player a couple years ago?  I'm still mourning all my obsolete VHS tapes and wondering what kind of craft project I can make from them.

But perhaps the bigger point I should really be pondering is, when did I become so much like my dad and feel proud about that? On second thought, yes, I do want a smart phone. But here's to my dad, maybe looking down at me from his after-life location with a bit of satisfaction: At least I made my kids wait a year or two after it was a trend before caving.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I must not be alone in my fear of technology. BlogHer has picked up on this post. Fuddy-duddies unite! http://www.blogher.com/wrestling-technology-i-have-become-fuddy-duddy

Just Say Thank You and Shut Up

Angels among us.

To quote an over-quoted Charles Dickens, “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times…”  

Holidays are always filled with hustle and bustle. While I usually refuse to settle into a hurried feeling of to-do lists and hoopla, this year I felt the anxiousness simmering, barely concealed beneath my skin. There were December birthdays to celebrate, gifts to buy, a house to decorate (I skipped making cookies this year. Who needs more sugar?), school concerts and church services and a few holiday parties to attend. Oh and there were two weeks of daily drives over mountain passes to finish up medical appointments for my son.

Somehow, in the midst of it all, I still managed to have fun, enjoy my family, a visit with my son’s delightful girlfriend, and the magic and meaning of the season. It was the best of times.

One day—the only day it snowed and obscured our drive on the way to the medical appointment...the same day I gripped the steering wheel so hard my fingers went numb...the same trip that took us almost an extra 40 minutes because I knew my little Toyota Corolla could skid like a hockey puck across the icy mountain roads if I wasn’t extra careful—we planned a shopping trip. It was just days before Christmas, and I hadn’t even bought anything for stockings yet, the one, real gift we give our kids. 

After rolling a sticky-wheeled cart around Target for a couple of hours, I managed to fill it with videos, cans of nuts, candy, make-up for my daughter, flashlights and novelties for my son, socks, lip balms, and random little fillers I thought might be fun, I pushed my cart to the line and waited my turn. I knew how much I could spend, and as I stood in line I did a mental calculation of the items, plus what I would need to buy for Christmas dinner. Our budget was tight this year. Medical expenses and multiple tanks of gas had stretched it to the limit. But we’d be all right.

Finally it was my turn and I unloaded all the items, glancing through them. Did I get my son enough? Would my daughter like those earrings? I still needed to pick up a few more things for my husband’s stocking. The checkout clerk cheerfully scanned each item and gave me a total. I gulped. It just seemed like so much for such silly stuff. I slid my debit card through the little scanning machine. Rejected. What? I even checked the balance with my husband before I left. We had plenty! I sighed, feeling the heat of bodies lined up behind me waiting their turn. 

“Let me try my charge card,” I said, totally embarrassed. Declined. That can’t be! I knew that was paid up. The cashier looked at me patiently. “I don’t understand,” I muttered trying yet another charge card.

“I’m sorry,” she said, almost as uncomfortable by now as I was, “That card's expired.” Great. I hadn’t put in the new card.

Another cashier came up and took a few people from our line. I was so embarrassed. “Never mind,” I muttered. “I’m not sure what’s going on. Just…I’ll leave it. I’m sorry. But thank you.” I walked away from the bagged items, my face hot, not meeting any eyes.

It was the worst of times.

“Ma’am?” the clerk called me back.

“Yes?” I said wishing she’d just let me walk away.

“These people behind you just paid for your purchase. You can take your bags.”

I’ve read about things like this happening. I’ve even wished I had the money to pay it forward like this before, but I’ve never had it actually happen to me. I was… horrified. Embarrassed. Mortified. “No, no,” I protested to the couple, probably both close to my age, the lady, a pretty blonde in a long, full-length fur coat. I had seen them in the store earlier as I was cruising aisles. With big grins they were filling several carts with Christmas goodies.

“It’s all right,” the lady said. “We are happy to do it.”

But I couldn’t let it rest. “No, no really. We are okay. We have the money. I just need to transfer it or something. I’m not sure why the cards didn’t go through.” Maybe if they had paid for needed groceries, or we truly were hurting for money, but this was just for bags full of trinkets and doo-dads for stockings. I couldn’t let them pay. They insisted. I wish I could say I was gracious and graceful. Although I thanked them profusely, I felt horrible inside. I wanted to crawl under a rock.

All the way home, I felt sick about being in a position of accepting charity;  for allowing someone to pay for our bags full of… stuff.  

As the day wore on, the reality of what had occurred and my ungracious response continued to sicken me. Slowly I realized I had to stop and adjust my attitude. Someone had wanted to gift us, to help alleviate my stress. They didn’t know we’d had a rough year with my son’s battle with cancer. They didn’t know our budget was tight. It didn’t matter. They wanted to do this, and I almost denied them their joy by allowing--let’s name it for what it is--my pride to ruin their gifting.

By the time I wrapped each little trinket to place in a stocking, I had softened and allowed the gratefulness and awe of what had happened to penetrate my heart. Being grateful--receiving--is, in my opinion, far more difficult than giving. I learned a tough lesson in humility, graciousness and gratefulness that afternoon. I hope they are lessons that won’t go unharvested. Although I trust this experience will remind me to pay it forward when an opportunity allows, I also hope it will teach me to recognize and name my pride more readily, and just learn to say thank you. And truly mean it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Thanks BlogHer for the feature of this article. I'm in good company in my need to learn how to be graciously grateful. 

Deck the Halls... And Every Other Available Surface

I’m not typically a kitsch person. I like my surfaces clutter-free and have a strong aversion to dusting lots of knick-knacks. I admire the collections and tasteful decorating techniques of others, but just can’t seem to pull it off. You could say I have a minimalist approach to decorating – like the Hemingway of interior design.

However, when the holidays roll around, I haul out boxes of Christmas decorations and I become a Kitsch Queen. I think it goes back to my own childhood. I remember being so excited when my mom would decorate for the holidays. There were always favorites I forgot about from year-to-year. She’d pull out the Santa sleigh with his reindeer and set it on the table, and I gently played with it, making up pretend stories about their Christmas adventures. There were ornaments, too—the little elf (the original Elf on the Shelf) that we stuck in the tree, our crazy tree-top star with its sporadic and seemingly non-pattern blinking, the little stockings we hung on the tree that might contain a silver dollar on Christmas morning! Each unique decoration would make me feel warm and cozy inside.

We had other traditions I savored too. It seems like there was always a box of that horrible ribbon candy on the coffee table during the holidays. Arranged like pastel ribbons of jewels, I broke off a little delicate piece, sucked on it and then remembered why it remained in the box, uneaten, for the remainder of the season. Every year, my parents would pull out the old Firestone albums-- the ones they received at gas stations (back when they were full-service). We'd play them on the stereo console and listen to Bing, Sinatra or another crooner fill the air with dreams of a white Christmas and chestnuts roasting on open fires. Of course, there were the T.V. specials-- pre-DVD. Oh, the anticipation of the chosen night when Rudulph or Santa would fill our sets with stop-motion animation of pure delight.

So each year I too drag out the boxes, open them and lovingly place the collected pieces around the house. I hope my kids are building memories, admiring the old tin Santa that was Dad’s when he was a boy, or the ornate ceramic pieces a friend of mine made for me over twenty years ago. Some collections, like the snowmen, started very unintentionally. It seemed like for several years they were very popular gifts and ornaments from friends. I now have a mantel full of various shapes and forms of the white, three-tiered fellows. Over the years, I’ve collected a few decorative reminders of the manger scene. I love each one, because, for me, they are the reminders of my religion and why I celebrate the season.

Truthfully, all these kitschy decorations still fill me with warm feelings. The old-fashioned ceramic angel winds up and plays Silent Night. My great aunt painted her and gifted it to me when I was a little girl. I balk at the idea that she looks like an antique, until I remember I will be 50 in the coming year. It is an antique. My sister created a couple of my angels and snowmen—a result of her talented crafting. They are dear to me, too.

Ultimately, it’s not about the stuff, though. We pared down quite a bit, shedding almost two boxes worth of decorations a few years back. The things didn't have significance to me and it was just too much to store. It’s the decorations that remind me of a friend’s love and gifting, or the little homemade ornament my kids made in grade school that fill me with the warmth of the season. And, for me, it’s the reminder of the guiding star in the sky and the baby in the manger that makes my heart sing.

So Merry Christmas, my friends. No matter how you celebrate the season or what meaning it has for you, whether it be Christmas or Hanukkah, may all the little knick-knacks you put out, the decorations you carefully unpack with tenderness and fond memories, remind you of the warmth and love of the season.

Our Daily Bread... and Cookies... and Pies...

Food.  So many people have a love-hate relationship with our daily sustenance. 

A few, rare souls give very little emotional or mental energy to what they put in the systems because they have the metabolism of a chipmunk on a treadmill and can eat whatever they want. I admit, I don't get these folks at all. I have a complete lack of understanding or empathy for them, and maybe in my meaner moments, even dislike them a bit. But there is another category of eaters I envy—the ones who love and celebrate food and have made a peace with the role it has in their lives. I don’t profess to understand this group any more clearly than the previous, but it’s a concept that resonates with me, and I constantly strive to achieve.

I’ve never had a peace with food or my body. Ever. There have been periods throughout my life when I seem to have triumphed over the scale, but still many more when the scale raised its numerical fist with mighty numbers and triumphed over me. I fully confess, I don’t have a friendly relationship with this adversarial and esteem-crushing instrument.

This "weighty" topic (can I have a groan, please) is fresh in my mind as I both approach the holidays--a season of celebration in the form of delectable feasting--and a trip to Florida in February where I’m hoping the weather will invite the wearing of shorts, tank tops, and bathing suits by the ocean. Oh the conflicted bliss of both events!

I believe special celebrations of feasting are a God-ordained invitation. Throughout the Bible, and in most religions and regions of the world, celebrations are manifested in the form of breaking of fasts, abundant treats, family, friends and creative expression. And what screams creativity more than a plate full of gorgeous holiday cookies decorated with care, especially the kind with colorful little sprinkles or maybe a chocolate kiss in the middle…ahem, I digress. But my point is, holidays are a legitimate time to take joy in culinary treats and delight in those we love and share life with.

The problem, of course, isn’t in the day of feasting. It’s in the season of feasting—days, weeks and in the case of Thanksgiving and Christmas so close together, months of excessive and rich noshing. It’s in the non-celebratory, over-eating that I engage in year-round. It’s in having lost the distinction between joyful nourishment of my body with foods that are tasty and healthful, and eating to stuff my emotions and satiate my every taste desire. Therein lies the cycle of binge eating and dieting I get caught up in, the very one that beats up my self-esteem and makes me cringe if a camera is directed my way. Sad.

The other day I read an online article, Eat Like A Buddhist in 10 Easy Steps. The content isn't anything startling new, but it highlighted a contemplative, grateful and disciplined approach to the act of eating that struck me anew. And it reminded me of the category of people I mentioned above—the ones I wish I could truly emulate—those who have made peace with the delights of food and their body. It suggested savoring the tastes and textures of food, recognizing treats as exactly that—rare exceptions, and entering into a mindful quiet with my eating, which is, I admit, in direct contrast to my usual hasty and distracted snarfing.

Mostly, at least for me, it reminded me that eating is a communion with family and friends, a source of enjoyment in life, not a whipping post for my emotional insecurities and fears or a way to dull my inner pain. Of course, while my head grasps the concepts and my heart longs to be among those who have made their peace, actualizing it--putting it into practice in the face of ongoing temptations like pumpkin pies, gifts of baked goods and eggnog with rum--is the crux of the matter.  

I can use Florida as a sunny, warm catalyst for my motivation, but ultimately, I need to make a new emotional, mental and spiritual relationship with my daily bread (and maybe not so much emphasis on the bread). 

May our holidays be filled with the mindful and joyful celebration of family and friends and may our day of feasting be a break-- not the norm-- in our diets, a time to rejoice and be thankful for our abundance. And may the new year, full of healthy intentions, begin today. 

Wonder Bread and Recess

Today for lunch, I ate a peanut butter and jam sandwich. When I was a kid, my mom bought loaves of Wonder Bread. The wrapping alone-- primary colored dots covering the bag-- was enough to convince you the bread was going to be delicious. The white, soft bread was marred only by the tougher crusts around the edge. In truth, it was probably the only part that had any flavor, but I still envied the kids whose moms cut off their crusts, allowing them to savor the fluffy goodness without crusty distraction.

I remember fourth grade lunches. We’d get to play outside on the play ground for recess. At the time, we lived in Napa, California, back in the early 70s before it was the swanky community it is now. But it was at this playground, at an elementary school nestled in our small neighborhood, where I learned to play Four Square and Tetherball. Four Square was a game involving a big, red rubber playground ball, four large squares painted on the asphalt and lots of complicated rules, which somehow I managed to learn. We also played a lot of Tetherball—a game with a big pole and a long rope with a ball attached to its end. The idea was to hit the ball past your opponent until it wrapped all the way around the pole and you were the triumphant winner, all while being careful to avoid being slapped on the side of your face by the ball.

I don’t think Tetherball exists on playgrounds anymore. The long rope and potential head whomps probably were set-ups for litigating parents whose little ones were the hapless victims of an errant ball or rope. But back then we lived on the edge: riding see saws and deliberately jumping off them while our partner was still high in the air so they’d come crashing down on their bottoms with a thump, or spinning so fast on the merry-go-rounds the centrifugal force flung us off into the dirt in a laughing  heap. (We didn’t wear bike helmets back then either.)

Playgrounds were the hot bed of school fads. At recess, kids couldn’t wait to show off their latest Duncan brand yoyos, or clackers with the brightly colored glass marbles, or the latest Guinness Book of World Records. Some years, Chinese jump ropes were popular. Groups of girls would stand around forming complicated weavings with the stretchy rope and their feet. Other years, a string was all we needed to demonstrate our talent for forming cats’ cradles and other complex finger designs. We also chose partners and played ornate clapping games with each other, entertaining ourselves with our expertise for entire recesses. Miss Mary Mack, Mack Mack, all dressed in black, black, black. This little rhyme troubled me. Why did Miss Mary always wear black? Was she some strange recluse?

One year, I got the latest Guinness Book of World Records, hardback edition, for Christmas. I took it to school and for two weeks I was the glorious center of attention while we thumbed through the pages to find the world’s tallest man or the biggest rubber band ball in the world or the woman with the longest fingernails. (I still remember being particularly fascinated and simultaneously horrified viewing her winding and curling fingernails.)

Picking out each year’s lunch box was a big deal with our annual back-to-school shopping. Sometimes we’d have to reuse the previous year’s box, but if last year’s version was too dented up, (yes, they were metal back then), we’d get a new one. As big a deal as this was, I don’t remember many of my boxes except a Partridge Family one I had at some point. David Cassidy, Susan Dey and rambunctious Danny Bonaduce and their super-cool travel bus adorned its lid. The lunchbox came with a matching thermos that fit snugly inside the box, complete with a lid that could be used as a cup. Thermoses were made of glass back then and when they broke, which the inevitably did, you could shake the thermos and hear the glass—it sounded like sand stuck in the walls of the container.

By high school, lunches were reduced to a showcase of insecurity with kids vying to be at “cool” tables and the cafeteria food nondescript--a rotating menu of doughy pizza squares, iceberg salads and mushy spaghetti.

As I munch my PB&J today, I will have a glass of milk in honor of all the pints of lukewarm milk and chocolate milk I consumed over the years. Although my sandwich now is made with homemade bread and all-natural peanut butter, I’ll pretend its Wonder Bread and Jiff (the choosy mother’s peanut butter). I’ll even eat a slightly over-ripe banana just to complete the culinary flashback. And afterwards? I might just go to a playground and climb on the monkey bars and not wash away my milk mustache! 

The Tales in Crosses, Mint Juleps, and A Store That Sells Tack

Kebler Pass, CO

Glorious mountain majesty, aspens of gold, peaks reaching to the heavens glazed with a frosting of snow.  This is how I often talk about where I live.The mountain community I call home, nestled at 7700 feet in Colorado, certainly fits all this lush description. However, there is another side to our community that defines our local culture.

Gunnison was originally inhabited by the Ute Indians. During the mid-1800s, settlers came to the valley in hopes of cashing in on the rich minerals believed to be in the soil. Mining soon busted, but the community continued in a ranching tradition. Because of our climate—long, cold winters and relatively arid—successful ranching required leveling of land and irrigation systems. But the lifestyle took hold. Today, we still have a 114-year-old national rodeo tradition and 4-H thrives. 

Cattlemen's Day Rodeo

One of the things I love best about traveling across the US-- our own "homogeneous" country-- is noting how different and unique it really is. The businesses, graffiti, religious institutions, landmarks, sports, arts, billboards and traditions, the symbols and icons, all provide a visual story and breathe life and spirit into each region.

This past summer when we drove through the Midwest, I was fascinated with all the obvious religious influence. From huge crosses outside Missouri to billboards with giant Bible verses juxtaposition to warehouse-sized, highway-side, porn shops. One of my favorite signs was a billboard, no words, just Jesus in the midst of a corn field. I wished I could have got a picture of it. It wasn’t near a place we could pull off, but what a reflection of the values and culture of the area.

The  huge cross somewhere in the Midwest.

One of my favorite destinations is Santa Fe, New Mexico. Embedded in the art culture is a religion imbued with mysticism. Even the Christian religion takes on a more mystical quality. The famous Loretto Chapel and its miraculous, winding staircase is a great example. It’s as if the ancient beliefs of the Indians and Catholicism swirled and blended together.

A hand-painted cross from
Santa Fe. 

Of course, unique attributes of a region aren’t all religious. I’d never heard of a Bob Evans restaurant or biscuits and gravy until I went to college in Indiana. I grew up in Pittsburgh, which is still strongly associated with the steel mills and working class, even though the industry hasn't darkened the sky or buildings for decades.

I loved visiting Louisville, KY—an area where horse races, mint juleps and bourbon are the symbols of the city. 

I spent a long weekend, several years ago, for a work-related conference, in Memphis, TN—home of Beale Street, blues, great BBQ, and the restored Lorraine Hotel, where Martin Luther King was killed.

A sculpture in Louisville, KY

About a month ago, a new store--a chain store no less--was built in town. Now while this may not sound iconic or even vaguely startling, it was kind of a big to-do here. A huge Tractor Supply Company warehouse now sits at the end of town. I’ve never lived in an area that could support or would have use for this kind of store before. Today, my son and I went on a “field trip”, as we call our little outings, and took a gander at the new place in town. I was in awe. Plaid shirts and Wrangler jeans, overalls and Carharts, feed for livestock, pet supplies, rabbit hutches, all kinds of tools and parts for tractors, bits and bridles, and even an array of books on farming, canning, raising dogs and building cabins. An entire store devoted to the symbols, supplies and preservation of a lifestyle.

Aside from all the ranching stuff, foreign to my background and knowledge base, I realized that, in a sense, this is a part of our culture—a consumer-directed icon of our heritage in this area, as much as the fly and tackle shops, “welcome hunter” signs on sporting good and liquor stores and the various ski and snowboard rental shops.

I don’t hunt, or snowboard or ranch but I'm interested in and proud of all the bits and pieces that make up my community, its history and spirit, and that somehow we've managed to retain our unique flavor and not succumb to a mass-commercial, blase personality.

What does your area have that you would say represents its culture or heritage? Maybe I'll plan my next adventure out your way. 

The Prayer Shawl

It’s 4:30 in the morning. I ease myself out of bed, careful not to wake my husband. I get up, throw on my robe and pad out to the kitchen for my coffee. The hot liquid stimulant is as much a part of my ritual as any other aspect, and on some mornings, much more needed. At this hour the house is still and quiet. I can hear the clock tick and the refrigerator hum. This is my meditation and prayer time, before the sun rises, before the clutter of the day attacks my consciousness.

I like to open the curtains on the window so I can stare out to the sky. If it’s cloudless, I can see the stars. This week, I’ve been able to see Orion’s belt from my east-facing windows. I always hope to see a falling star, like a sign God is joining me, but I rarely do. It’s been cooler in the mornings, the chilled breath of fall seeping inside. I throw a blanket over my legs and settle in to "my chair" with my coffee mug warming my hands. Then I reach down for my prayer shawl, holding its sacred length tenderly.

When my son was first diagnosed with Hodgkin’s Lymphoma, we were cruelly launched into a whirlwind of appointments with specialists and life-altering conversations and decisions. One Sunday, when I felt like I was drowning in all the medical hoopla and worry, I grudgingly showed up for church, feeling more like hiding and skulking than "fellowshipping."  Despite my furtive demeanor, a friend approached me. Catherine, dressed in a long skirt, peasant top, and sandals, walked up to me and handed me a small, brown bag, “I have to go to work, but I’m glad I caught you,” she said.

I smiled. Reaching into the bag, I pulled out a lovely crocheted scarf.

“It’s a prayer shawl,” she said.

I knew it was her creation; I’d seen her handiwork before. It was made of the softest of yarn, a lovely subtle green, like the color of lichen, with bands of purple and turquoise and mossy brown decorating it. I gasped. “Oh, it’s so lovely!”

“I hope it brings you comfort.” She smiled and gave me a hug before leaving.

Once home, I looked up the meaning and tradition of prayer shawls, sometimes called a mantle, peace or comfort shawls. Prayer shawls come from an ancient Jewish tradition, rooted in the Bible. The word tallit, the Hebrew word, is made up of two smaller words, tal meaning “tent” and ith meaning “little”.  A prayer shawl is meant to be a hiding place with God, a covering and protection while praying.

According to the Shawl Ministry, green symbolizes the earth, healing, prosperity, fertility, clarity, sympathy, hope, renewal, health, balance, confidence, abundance, growth and life. 

As I snuggle in my chair with my coffee and reading material, watching the sun awaken the sky, I finger the soft mantle, draping it carefully over my shoulders. It's leaf-like hue is appropriate for the many emotions and needs brewing in my heart and unsettled mind.

When I cover my shoulders in this shawl, I think of Catherine and all the friends who have reached out to us, and I feel wrapped, not just in yarn, but in sweet love and comfort. I feel their prayers.

As the yarn’s journey starts,
It becomes a prayer that comes from the shawl maker’s heart,

The yarn becomes a journey of silent prayer,

Through it’s twists and knots, the prayer is still there,

The quiet clicking or the swish of the yarn,

Tells you the prayer is still going on,

The Shawl maker adds on another skein,

The prayer is anew and doesn’t wane,

As time goes by and the shawl maker’s mind sometimes wanders,

The yarn goes on and prayerfully ponders,

A prayer is said and the stitching subsides,

The yarn comes to an end and is knotted and tied,

It begins a new journey and given with prayer,

It’s Hope, Faith and Love the recipient wears,

But in the silent echoes you can prayerfully hear,

The prayers, the quiet clicking, and the swish of the yarn,

The yarn never ceases and its silent prayers are still going on…
(prayer source)