Alas – the fall memoir class for the Field Station was canceled.  However,  I hope you will join us this Saturday, October 16, for the program “One Vision: A Fusion of Art & Poetry in Lake Country.”  It is an inspiring collaboration of 15 artists and poets  – they have created some amazing work!  Doors open at 6:30 p.m. at the Oconomowoc Arts Center next to the high school. Poetry reading and comments will be at 7:00.  Refreshments and music, too!  The event is sponsored by the Pewaukee Area Arts Council, which endeavors to bring cultural experiences to the community.  Be sure to check their website.  Hope to see you there!

I want to share with you that I will be facilitating a class on what I call personal writing – journals, memoirs and blogs.  We’ll discuss how each type of writing has a different purpose and audience, and provide writing prompts for you to practice.  My teaching partner will be Anjie Kokan from Palmyra.  We’ll be meeting at the lovely setting of the UW-Waukesha Field Station, south of Ocononmowoc.  With an indoor lodge, there’s also walking paths, a fire circle and open fields – a great place to think and be inspired.  The class will meet from 9 to noon, Saturday, October 2, 9 and 16, with the last class being held at the UW-Waukesha campus’ computer lab, where we’ll help you get started on setting up your own blog with photos and images.  You can register online at www.waukesha.uwc.edu/Continuing-Education or call 262-521-5460.  Hope you can join us!

 In my second childhood (that is, anything over 50), I have taken an interest in trying new things that I’ve never done before.  Or, to put it from a different perspective, I am considering all the things I’ve yet to do in my life before I am too old (ie., dead) to do them.  So, when we received free tickets through a promotion for a Brewers game, I thought, “Why not?”  Thus, it was with a sense of adventure and curiosity that I attended my first live, professional baseball game at Miller Park this week. 

Now I know there is nothing particularly remarkable about attending a professional baseball game – millions of people do it every summer day.  Nor it is unusual not to have attended a ball game, even as there are those sports fans who’ve never been to the opera, or seen the ocean or the Grand Canyon (another thing on my list).  There are all sorts of experiences that are everyday occurrences for somebody.  Yet, there is something refreshing and even child-like about experiencing something for the first time no matter what your age.  Everything is seen with new eyes and a kind of wonder.

We picked an ideal summer evening, clear and balmy enough that the famous mechanical roof on Miller Park was open to the night sky.  The outfield truly looked like an emerald of color and richness in the setting sun.  Since the tickets were free, we were relegated to seats in the uppermost section, which gave a panoramic view of the field and stadium.  I’m sure my husband was amused as I twittered about each new thing I saw:  the huge video screen and live organ music (I was surprised they really did that!); the eager staff who ran out and swept the dirt of the infield after an inning; the ‘bat boys’ who chased stray balls; the racing sausages (only in Milwaukee); contests and sing-alongs; and the innumerable traditions and nuances of a big ballpark game.  Looking around the stadium at all the people watching the game, I was astounded to think that there were more people in this one place than in our whole suburban city! 

The players all looked sparkling and clean in their uniforms, perfect in their precision of movement.  I watched, fascinated.  When our team made a home run, I nearly clapped with delight as the brief fireworks shot off at the top of the stadium.  So this was what a real baseball game was like!  Certainly not the rather tedious games I’d witnessed at the local park and rec. 

My only disconcertment was the rather blasé disinterest that some of the audience around me seemed to have: one person was sketching in a notepad, another texting on the phone, nearly everyone munching or slurping something and not particularly focused on the game.  If they weren’t going to watch the game, then why come?  Didn’t they appreciate this awesome spectacle going on before them?  But, I suppose that was just my newbie perspective on an activity that was common to many. 

To top it off, the Brewers even won that night as a full moon graced the top of the stadium – a celebratory mood to end the evening of my latest adventure.  I might even do it again sometime.

Next, onto another first:  a polo match!

Not many people read the J.B. Phillips’ translation of the New Testament, but it has been my favorite version since high school.  I was reading today his rendering of Matthew 5:4 from the Sermon on the Mount:  “How happy are those who know what sorrow means, for they will be given courage and comfort!”  This is not how it is usually translated, though it’s not inaccurate either.  What is most intriguing is the addition of the word “courage” to the commonly used “comfort;” no other translation that I could find adds this.  Now, I know Phillips was a smart man who knew Greek, and he wouldn’t have added that without a reason; so, I did some amateur digging on the actual word used.  

Being a word lover and poet, I pay attention to the subtle nuances of words.  In English the word “comfort” conjures up in my mind some sympathetic hand-holding, pat-on-the-back kind of action, making you feel somehow “better” or consoled in the face of sorrow (or the more common “mourning”).  The definition of the Greek word used (parakaleo) has a lot more to it, and can also mean to encourage, strengthen, or exhort.  It’s also related to a form of the word used to describe Jesus in 1 John one who entreats or advocates for us. 

 So then, to use “courage” adds power to the blessing of enduring a sorrow.  One who has never experienced a tragedy is always fearful of it; but once God has helped us live through it, we are no longer afraid of that sorrow, but can move forward – that’s courage.  I like that picture!

The festivities of the Fourth of July are past, and the summer air hangs heavy and humid, almost as if with some kind of message, some bulging secret that is festering in the heat.  There is the potential of rain for four days now, but none has fallen yet.  The mosquitoes are thick and relentless in their attacks, so that I don’t even want to go out for the mail.  There is a waiting in the air…waiting for something.  For Wisconsinites, we are waiting for a change in the weather, for the pregnant clouds to birth the rain and get it over with so more temperate, less humid summer days can return.  Even the trees are still, unmoved by any breeze, like the musicians of an orchestra waiting for the conductor to raise his baton and begin a thunderous symphony.  I watch the stage of the sky, hear the far off rumble, see the dimming of the lights, inhale the rush of cool notes drifting through the house.

As I’ve gotten older, I’ve become more concerned about beauty – inner beauty, that is.  Contributing to this desire is the fact that external beauty becomes less attainable as one gets older and is replaced with the more practical “good grooming.”  That is, clean and combed hair, brushed teeth, and anything that will disguise my varicose-veined legs.  (At least in the winter I can wear tights which reveal that I do, in fact, have legs, while hiding my spidery skin).  I am thankful, too, that with acne no longer a constant worry, my make-up regimen has become more simplified, as in none much of the time.  Actually, with graying hair I can embrace my youthful days of the hippie era when the “natural” look was touted as the supreme value in personal appearance (although I’m still not ready to forego shaving legs/armpits; I experimented with that one summer – not a pretty picture).

 Rather, now is the time to assume my status as a mature woman, kind of like an elder statesman only with unwanted facial hair.  Now is the time to examine my character, that true measure of beauty.  Lest I sound like I am grasping at straws, consider this:  have you ever seen a picture of Golda Meier in her later years? or Mother Teresa?  Certainly no one would doubt their influence for good upon the world, though external beauty was not one of their strengths.  In truth, when I read about such women, the whole issue of “looks” seems rather trite:  no one really cares what their physical appearance was because their inner beauty (ie., character) transcended such consideration. 

 The question comes down to not how do I look, but how do I act?  What kind of person am I in my day to day life, and how have I made a difference in the world?  The reality is that a person in need doesn’t care how the giver looks on the outside, but what their heart looks like on the inside.  That is a quality that can and should be pursued at any age – with or without the wrinkles.

As I dropped off to sleep last night, I told myself to remember to write about “death” on my blog the next day, as I had some insightful thoughts on the topic.  And while I remembered the topic today, I can’t recall what brilliant comments I wanted to make.  So, perhaps this entry will be less brilliant than I envisioned in my half-sleep last night, but nonetheless, meaningful.

So, what about death? 

Recently I listened to a book on tape that told the story of a small town over a span of nearly sixty years beginning after World War II.  Lead characters inevitably aged and died, younger characters matured and took their place in a world that had changed since their childhood.  While I enjoyed the story, I was irked by a passage near the end of it where the now-grown boy of the beginning of the novel pines nostalgically for the life of his childhood in that small town, as if nothing of value exists in his present time and age.  I found it depressing, and thought the character foolish for going on and on about his idyllic childhood. 

I would surmise that most people go through yearning reflections for the past every now and then, whether it is your childhood, college days, or family times with your own children when they were younger.  I am not completely immune to such yearnings, I admit.  But to dwell there, to cling to every vestige of the past as if it were “better” (does anyone really think outdoor privies are better than indoor plumbing?) is futile and unproductive to living life fully. 

This “looking backward” disregards the reality of time moving forward, where the topic of Death awaits us.  It is coming, no doubt about it.  And the question is not, “What am I going to do about death?”, but rather, “What am I going to do about life, today?” 

I have a friend who is dealing with a chronic illness that is literally life-threatening; any day her condition could worsen to the point of no return – death.  I admire her “forward” view of life, the way her choices are prioritized by the knowledge that her time is very limited on this earth.  She pursues her most precious dreams with all the energy she can muster each day; spends time with her children and grandchildren; everything else falls by the wayside as unimportant.  There is no time for pining over what was – only to do all the things she really, really wants to do; she lives in the fullness of life every day that she is able. 

Though it sounds a bit morbid, this is the usefulness of death: to show us the importance of life, to clarify what is most important to our own calling and not waste time on lesser things.  There won’t be time later, there are no do-overs, now or never, you only get one chance.  All of those phrases take on new meaning and urgency for my friend, and I see a vibrancy to her daily living that I want in my life, too.  So, yes, death is on my mind, not years from now, but soon enough to urge me to live fully today.

With the plethora of written material out there, sometimes it can be too much.  It feels like my eyes just can’t read another word or my brain process any more information.  This, despite my profession as a writer, is where I sometimes find myself in this modern world.  There’s the subtle pressure to keep up, read everyone’s blogs, make comments, link in, face up, connect with all sorts of groups.  What to do? 

 The first thing that comes to mind is painting.  Even though I’m not an artist, the thought of smearing colors on a blank space has the appeal of releasing my mind from the intellectual work of thinking and making sentences – just be free and create!  Even coloring with crayons has a certain attraction of relaxing my mind and doing a “comfort” activity of childhood.

 Then there’s digging.  As in the garden.  The trouble is it’s been cold and rainy for days, and even though I bought flowers to plant, it’s much too soggy to play in the dirt.  I go outside and look about a dozen times a day to see if anything’s coming up yet, but so far nothing. 

 For a longtime housewife, there’s always the mindless cleaning that can be done.  Washing dishes while dreamily gazing out the window gives my mind a break (so long as there’s not too many dirty dishes!).  I can even find a kind of satisfying therapy in ironing, especially if it’s something I like to wear.  On a rare day, I might even enjoy scrubbing the kitchen floor just for the pleasure of seeing it white again. 

 Of course, the irony of all this is that here I am posting another thought on my blog – that is, writing.  But as soon as I’m done, I think maybe I’ll take a nice hot bath or perhaps play the piano for awhile – anything but read another blog!

We’ve all heard of the heat-seeking missile or radar that finds a target just by the temperature of it.  But, wouldn’t it be useful if we all had truth-seeking radar that could inform us when something (or someone) was right?  We read the newspaper, magazines, watch television, listen to the radio, look on the internet, but how can we be sure that what we read and hear is factual? is the literal truth?  For the most part, we can’t.  Reporters and commentators all have different slants on events, so it’s often difficult to get a 100% clear picture of news events.  Even the most objective reporter can’t help but interpret things through his own lens of experience. 

What about our personal life?  We certainly want friends and family who are real and honest with us, persons we can trust to be truthful.  Many a heart is injured and disappointed by deceit in another person, someone we counted on to be the person they appeared to be.  Truth-seeking radar would have been helpful then! 

 But, do we have an inner radar that tells us the truth about ourselves?  Whoa….that’s a bit deeper.  I don’t know about you, but I know that it’s sometimes hard for me to see, much less admit, the truth about myself.  It’s much more comforting to pretend that everything’s fine, to sort of gloss over those weaknesses.  To put it bluntly, though, that’s telling and believing a big fat lie.  There.  Most people would say they don’t want to believe lies, they want the truth.  That is, until the truth pinches them, makes them squirm a bit.  

As much as we think we desire truth, it takes a lot of courage to really look truth in the eye and accept it, believe it.  Fortunately, I believe there is a truth radar that can help: the Spirit of God living in me.  Check out John 8:32: “You will know the truth and the truth will set you free.”  That’s what I want – freedom in the truth, whatever it takes.

Today is the beginning of people-watching season. It’s the first warm April evening, the daffodils are fully blooming, the weeping willow has fuzzy, chartreuse tendrils. I have a prime location for watching life from my balcony just above street level on the corner of Park Avenue and Main Street – glamorous sounding in this provincial looking village.

 As I rock in my white, wrought-iron patio chair, I am hidden from passers-by behind the brick wall of the balcony, but well able to view all the activity along the four intersecting streets. The multi-generational family of granddad, grandma, daughter, son-in-law, and three grandchildren stroll by, the grandfather in a pale blue windbreaker, hands clasped behind his back. A young women in khaki capri pants struggles to push the double-loaded baby-stroller, a third child clinging beside her.

 From the serious bicyclist in matching racing shorts, top and helmet whizzing by, to the carefree teenage girl slowly pedaling, wind fluttering her hair, there is a constant parade of movement. I chuckle as I count how many drivers come to a “rolling” stop as they coast through the traffic sign. Grim looking men and women wearing uniform leather jackets with bandanas on their heads rumble by on noisy motorcycles – the roar surely irritating my retired neighbor, Roy.

 Every time I think I’ll go inside, something else catches my attention:  the long-haired boys coming up from the basement tattoo shop across the street jamming on guitars on the park bench; the jittery chirping of evening sparrows; a perky middle-aged woman straining to hold onto the leash of the rambunctious white husky; the low-bellied beagle with the matching balding owner; kids in shorts and flip-flops; seniors in sensible long pants and sweaters, knowing to expect a chill as soon as the sun is down.

 This is what makes for contentment – just the small events, the little stories played out on the sidewalk, the everyday, seen every day.  Then, to draw the shade, leave the window open a crack, and snuggle into my place on this revolving globe.