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starry nights, sunny days, a little rain

When I ponder the future, I imagine it to be much like, and yet nothing resembling, the past.

Starry nights, sunny days, a little rain. The sun will rise, the sun will set, and the sun will rise again.

Crystal BallBeyond that, I haven’t got a clue. Well, a bit of a clue. I’ve watched my parents get older and see myself following in their footsteps. I’m likely to experience back problems like my mom and loss of hearing like my dad. My hair is already white underneath the expert coloring services of my stylist.

The physical changes are about the only things that seem predictable, and even those can surprise or downright shock me. While plenty of things remain in my control, many others do not, and most of the future is a mystery I can plan for yet never be totally prepared to deal with adequately.

The day-to-day likely will be much the same. It’s the split-second life-changing moments we can’t predict, that come hurling at us unseen and knock us over with such force we’re afraid to get back up. Some are wondrous, some disastrous. I’ve lived through a few of the disastrous days as well as the weeks & months that follow, and I’ve learned you survive them, battered, bruised, but intact.

The wondrous days can seem more fleeting, or perhaps their beauty is easier to recognize in retrospect. I don’t know. Maybe they’re taken for granted, or maybe I’m still catching my breath from the dark times when they’re rolling by. Whatever the case is, they do happen, and their memory sustains me.

Starry nights, sunny days, a little rain. I’m thankful for all of it.

Six of One, Half a Dozen of the Other

Image Credit: (crystal ball) © freshidea — fotolia.com < blue background) © geargodz — fotolia.com
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a world where magic happened

Little House
The book that begins the series by Laura Ingalls Wilder, with its wonderful illustrations by Garth Williams.

I have been blessed (or cursed) with a vivid imagination, and as a child my thoughts often took me to the world of the books I was reading — most often, the Little House books, of which I had a complete set, in hardback. Good thing, too, because I read and re-read those books so many times any paperback would have fallen apart, been replaced, and fallen apart again…and again.

So when I was eight and saw a pattern for a dress from roughly that era (how would I know a one or two decade difference?), I was thrilled. My mom made all my clothes, so I didn’t question her ability to make me that dress. Technically, it was my Halloween costume that year, but in reality it became my passport to a bygone era. I’d come home from school, put it on and sit alone imagining what my day would have been like 100 years before.

Yep, that's me, age 8, at a Halloween costume contest at school. No, I didn't win.
Yep, that’s me, age 8, at a Halloween costume contest at school in the dress and bonnet my mom made. No, I didn’t win.

I never really outgrew those books. If I still had them, I’d read them today. However, eventually the books that would steal me away into a different world became the Nancy Drew mysteries. At first I imagined I was Bess, the slightly overweight, somewhat shy (imagine that) comrade, then I insinuated myself as myself into my own mysteries, still with Nancy as the one in charge, the rest of us following her lead.

Eventually I moved beyond those imaginative worlds, and while I suppose psychologically that’s probably a good thing, there’s a part of me that misses that creativity. Was I really trying to escape my own world, or was I just an inventive child who needed an outlet for her dreams and fanciful thinking? Sometimes I fear we take away an important part of childhood from those who need to let their minds run free.

So Laura, Mary, Nancy, George and Bess, you’re welcome anytime.

Just for the record, this is not a picture of my collection. If it were, they'd be in order.
Just for the record, this is not a picture of my collection. If it were, they’d be in order. But I appreciate that this picture is available!

Photo Credit, Nancy Drew books: © Celeste Lindell — some rights reserved

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waterloo, oh, I needed you

vinyl-records-isolated-on-white_f1ZNpkvd lrTalk about guilty pleasures. I was certain I was going to hell.

Back in the 70s, I was deeply involved in an evangelical church that told me virtually any pop or rock group that didn’t sing praises to God was of the devil. And the group ABBA, well, that was a name for the Lord, not a group of singing sinners.

But, how could I not be captivated by their bouncy, upbeat music? Their enthusiasm for what they were doing, and those godawful outfits?

Years later I was working in Europe and found myself trapped one Saturday morning in a hotel on the outskirts of the city of Alkmaar, the Netherlands. This hotel could have been on an island for all of its lack of access to anything, and I didn’t have a car. I was stuck while waiting for a ride to the train station.

So I turned the TV to the only station of any remote interest, MTV Europe, where they had a three-hour marathon of ABBA’s greatest hits, that is, any song that boasted a video. There aren’t as many as you might think. Within 45 minutes I was ready to scream. For some reason I had no books, no magazines, nothing, and this was long before laptops, smart phones or anything else I could have used for diversion.

Silence with nothing to fill the time was worse, so for three hours, I watched and listened to Sweden’s pride and joy. There were perhaps seven songs, played in an eternal loop.

As a result, for years, I couldn’t listen to ABBA. But this week I was perusing You Tube and found they’re back for me, a celebrated guilty pleasure. To commemorate the occasion, here’s one of their signature songs.

Photo Credit: (record albums) GraphicStock.com

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Stop blaming and start helping those with mental illness

I know many of my followers have a strong interest in mental health issues, and if you haven’t already watched this clip from John Oliver, you’ll want to make the time.