Get busy

This painting began with an offhanded conversation between my husband and the somewhat younger neighbor. The two of them had been standing in our driveway, talking cars or engines or something like that. Apparently the talk turned to age, because the next thing I knew, the two of them were strolling around the back of the house, the neighbor in the lead, joking about living in the geriatric wing of the street—declaring unapologetically that my dear hus was old.

I immediately reminded this neighbor that I am even older than my husband (which sadly did not quell his commentary whatsoever.) My husband explained that he had just remarked that in 14 years, he'd be 60 years old. The neighbor's wife and I took this in; it was one of those "aha" moments, and in the second or two that followed, you could almost hear everyone within earshot performing a quick calculation in their heads. I don't think anyone who stops for a moment to do that math is terribly pleased with the answer, especially if you're over 40. It's disturbing to realize just how close 60 really is. And if you're reading this and you're already over 60? Then you might be plugging in a higher number, and figuring that ever-shortening distance between current age and the unwanted goal...

Either way, it made me stop and ponder that I, too, am fast approaching 60—that is, if I am blessed with that many years on this earth.

Which in turn reminded me of the quote from a fabulous movie, The Shawshank Redemption (the Stephen King novella was even better), when a freshly paroled character—Red—comments that he'd better get busy living, or get busy dying. He's absolutely right. Every day, if we wake, we are given another day, another chance at bat, another breath to take in with gladness and purpose.

...Which is why this very picturesque morning found me loading my foldable easel into the trunk of the car, along with a slightly minimized collection of paints and brushes and a too-small canvas. It was the largest blank canvas I had. There wasn't time to go purchase larger—I needed to get busy living, see? Because I yearn to improve my plein air painting skills, and I can guarantee that I will never get better at it if I never do it. Inactivity and lack of effort, my friends, ensures stagnation.

So, I did it. I emulated my local art crush, Ron Donoughe (please Google him and join me in my adoration), and I packed my stuff and hauled it out to a scenic "rails-to-trails" path near our home (the Panhandle Trail—I highly recommend it—this view is a detail of the quarry wall). I gimped to a good spot (sore knee, doc appointment next week); then I fought at length with the easel's intricate setup mechanisms. And then, I did what I came to do.

It isn't my finest work, and it isn't quite finished. I took a photo before the lighting changed too dramatically, and I will try to refine it a bit at home tomorrow, perhaps. But today, I reveled in the morning, the developing sunshine and accompanying warmth, the passers-by, the cacophony of birds, the impossibly blue sky. I claimed it for my own in that pretty little spot with brush in hand.

Get busy living. Don't wait. Even if you're gimpy, or the canvas is too small, or you know the result might not be pretty. There will never be a better time than right now!

Less is best

I think I'm finally feeling almost normal today. Christmas holiday, New Year's, extended vacations for my son and my husband, then a ridiculous cold front that caused more unplanned time off—all that mayhem has meant no time for me to enjoy the silence and build up my introvert reserves. Even today was tarnished by yet another school delay. I love my son, but when we can't even step outside for fear of frostbite...? Enough.

At this moment, at last, I am flourishing in stillness. The swish of the washing machine in the basement is the only sound to accompany my tapping on the keyboard. Blissful. Soon, the symphony of rushing heat from the vent will start again, offering a variety in my minimal auditory stimulation. Perhaps I'll turn on some music in a little while, but not yet. Not yet.

I visited Macy's recently (an item to return, an unused gift card—these are the things that are required to get me into the mall). I stood in that vast space dedicated to consumer culture, and I gaped at the innumerable items around me. Modern, classic, work-out, work-wear, young and hip, old and proven. And that was just the petite section of women's clothing. Are you kidding me? How's a person supposed to choose from such a plethora of options? I don't have the energy to narrow down the categories. At least, I don't want to expend my precious energy doing something so pointless for very long. I know I've written about this before, the ludicrously large number of choices we have when purchasing anything, and I'm still wound up about it. More and more, I love thrift stores. Now I can add this reason to the list: fewer choices to have to make. Limited options simplify my life; too much of anything is not pleasing.

I can carry that argument back into the Christmas season, which finally limped out the door while I kicked it and hollered with glee. I love Jesus, yet I despise a lot of Christmas. And you know why? Because there is too much of everything. Think about it. Too many parties, too many dinners, too many cookies, too many responsibilities and gifts to buy and people to remember and time off and even too much red wine. Excessive revelry, even excessive fellowship, makes me antsy and short of breath, eager only to retreat.

So, I grasp with new depth why I steer clear of Macy's and places like it, and why I sing joyfully to myself as I take down the Christmas decorations. It's not just a new year, or even a new start that lightens my heart.

It's the promise of LESS.

Pondering other people's youth...

So, a few years back, my husband and I scanned a ton of old slides for my parents. We watched as each tray-full revealed painfully young, gangly versions of the people I call Mom and Dad. We saw faraway places (my dad did a stint in the Navy during the Korean War), we saw nattily dressed youngsters who turned out to be elderly aunts and uncles and family friends, and we marveled at how America had gotten a lot more big and full of itself in the past twenty or thirty years. It was a sentimental journey because we knew some of the travelers. It was nostalgic. It was mostly fun and light.

More recently, we scanned a bunch of slides for some of my parents' neighbors. They, too, are family friends, but not quite on the same level of familiarity as many of that first bunch of images we handled years ago. To add heft to the occasion, these slides were being scanned for an upcoming sober family occasion, when family was gathering around a very ill, fading member. These films were full of many strangers, at least to me. Over and over, I popped the slim cardboard squares into position, hit some buttons, and waited while the pictures contained therein were magically transformed into digital images. The act was performed quickly, because the task was somewhat urgent, and yet I found myself staring at the pictures that appeared on my computer screen. Children, dressed in past clothing styles, sporting old-fashioned hair cuts; yards and homes now mostly gone, or changed beyond recognition. People in a small town, riding ponies on the street (my goodness, when was the last time you saw that around these parts?) Men working on and posing with their cars, showing off, hamming it up for the camera. Women in swimsuits and pretty dresses, smiling at the viewfinder.

My husband and I scanned slide after slide, marveling at the likely correct assumption that many of the featured faces had departed this earth, that the children we studied in the pictures were now older than we are. We grew quiet and thoughtful. At one point, he turned to me and said, "What do you want out of life? What do you want to accomplish?"

And I lazily replied, "I don't know." I didn't want to think about it, the impermanence of my time here, the fact that we are all just passing through. Even as a believer, even while I consider myself a citizen of Heaven, I still want my time here on this little blue planet to matter. I don't want to end up a 2-D image so removed from this moment that it seems fictional. What do I want to do? To be? To accomplish?

I still don't know. I should probably say that I want to lead others to our Creator, and I do. Is that enough? Does any of it really matter? We're just blips on a radar, really. Dust. Not to God, but to this world. It's a sobering thought, yet also refreshing in the same way that realizing no one is watching my show was liberating. We're all going to be pictures on a screen someday, and likely not the Big Screen that many in this media-saturated culture are shooting for.

Let's just live, and be kind, and give our best, and bite back the things that maim others. Ours is but a fleeting moment on Earth, after all. A snapshot, if you will.

The dangers of kidspace

You’ve heard of MySpace, right? That huge, frighteningly addictive website that contains excruciating details (many of which are lies, I might add) about millions of people? Well, today I’m inventing the word kidspace. It’s not even remotely related to MySpace. Or perhaps it is, since the wide availability of kidspace opens up countless hours of time dedicated to MySpace…among other pursuits.

Kidspace is the alarming amount of space given to young people who not so long ago were considered to be children. And I’m not talking about literal space here—I’m talking about the amount of time these kids spend unsupervised or, worse, alone in a home or apartment.

I grew up during the end of a different era; my mom stayed home with us when we were tots, and then after we were all safely ensconced in school, my mom picked up part-time work; the stipulation was that the work must always allow her to be home with us after school and in evenings. It was wonderful when I was small, and frankly, it probably kept me out of trouble when I was bigger. We didn’t eat out much but we ate well, we had plenty of acres and hobbies and pets to keep us busy, and I am thankful to this day that my childhood was so idyllic.

Too often, this is not the case nowadays. A lot of folks have lots of new stuff, take big yearly vacations, are involved in more activities than you can count…and their children are first reared by strangers, and then when of age, are abandoned to their own pursuits for many hours each day. Summertime brings this situation to a head. I’ve heard many parents long out loud for the start of school, not so they can send the kids back to classes for education, but so they don’t have to pay the sitter every day. You can see Mom or Dad counting the years until their darlings will be self sufficient enough to stay home unsupervised for hours at a time.

Case in point: We have neighbors, a couple, and they have kids. The youngest is in high school. She’s 16; her boyfriend is in college. Both of her parents work. All day. Every day. This gal’s the only one still living at home. And nearly every morning this summer, her boyfriend’s car has been parked outside the house from 9 or 10 a.m. through lunchtime or beyond. Now, I want to believe the best about this young lady. But I dimly recall being 16, and I clearly recall the goal of just about every boy between the ages of 14 and 35.

No one has ever checked with me about what goes on there during the day, even though they’ve commented more than once about my being “home all day.” I don’t go out of my way to notice, but there’s that car, morning after morning. What’s going on? And I can’t help but wonder: wasn’t there some way to get that girl out of the house? A job? Day camp? Something? And if not, then why isn’t there any level of curiosity from her folks? I’d be curious. It seems they’re more concerned about buying the girl her own car, a plan they’ve shared with us a few times, than they are about whether said car can accommodate a baby seat. They both work, a lot, the mom more than one job… Is it worth it? I’m sure they know more than I do about this young lady, about the situation. Right?

I want to trust, but I don’t want to be a fool. I will do everything in my power to keep my son from ever having an empty house at his disposal when he’s a teen. At least that’s my plan now. Perhaps I, too, will someday be lulled into a comfort zone where I feel perfectly okay about leaving him unwatched, unchecked, for hours each day. I hope not. It’s no accident that America’s insatiable desire for “things,” and how it’s come to outweigh family time, also coincides with the increasing baby boom among our teens. If you take an alcoholic to a bar, he or she is likely to fall off the wagon. If you give a shopaholic a credit card and drop him or her at the mall, that person is likely to spend. And if you leave a teenager alone, free to entertain members of the opposite sex, they are likely to delve deeper than they should into a world that has some pretty heavy consequences. And pregnancy isn’t necessarily the most heavy of those consequences. Think about it.

Too much kidspace is not good. This neighborly example is one of many—and I’d guess a lot of the kids in question are younger than this particular chica. Even if these kids emerge, unscathed by pregnancy or disease, from this premature freedom, I’d venture to guess they are scarred anyway. Kids are not adults. We shouldn’t confuse them with adults. And even when it’s easier for us as parents to grant freedoms, that doesn’t necessarily make it the best thing for those youngsters. I pray that this nation will open its eyes wider and start shouldering the responsibility they accepted when the burden was new and squalling and smelled like baby powder.

Perhaps I’m being too harsh. Am I?