M. I. A. (Maybe I Am or Mostly I Am)...

Jeremiah 6:16

New International Version (NIV)

¹⁶ This is what the Lord says:

“Stand at the crossroads and look;

    ask for the ancient paths,

ask where the good way is, and walk in it,

    and you will find rest for your souls."

 

M. I. A. generally stands for "missing in action" or as defined by the Urban Dictionary, "one person who usually hangs out with a crowd is not there", while both of those statements apply to my lack of presence and participation here in the land of blog I am taking liberties with redefining M. I. A. to sum up my recent activities and somewhat explain my absence.

Maybe I Am...strolling along a distant shore...

  collecting mermaid trinkets...

  and wishing I could fly or sail away from present circumstances...

 

or  Maybe I Am...rambling along a lily lined country lane...

picking posies of Blackeyed Susans...

  and Queen Anne's Lace...

while sorting out the fuzzy details of this summer...

which seem to be like some over bright, larger than life, technicolor dream that has been brought into sharp focus with its contrast to reality...

or Maybe I Am...perched on the edge of taking flight...

 spreading my wings towards new horizons not of my own choosing...

 wondering what dizzying heights of emotion and change are in store for this next leg of the journey...

Mostly I Am...steeped in the heightened awareness of the delicate fragility of life as we know it moment by moment, its rare exquisite beauty...

 how swiftly it changes from new and fresh, tender and young, ripe and crisp with possibilities...

to aged and life worn,  yet wiser and more wonderful, despite its tattered appearance ...

Mostly I Am...trying as best as I am able to maintain a sense of normalcy, rhythm, and routine in escaping on occasion to my happy artful place...

taking even the smallest leftover tidbit of time that I can find to reflect on the things that delight and entice me, luxuriating in the tender healing beauty of the natural world that surrounds me...

Mostly I Am...trying to come to terms with what I once knew and what currently is as I look into the blurred reflection of her eyes...

 trying to find that one gossamer sprig of who she was amid the tangled bramble of the mind that is known as Alzheimer's... 

Mostly I Am...trying to anchor myself...

 against the incoming overwhelming tide of circumstance and emotion that threatens to consume me...

as I quietly seek direction, looking right...

 and left...

before stepping off into midair of the uncertain and the unknown and somehow in the midst of this madness finding small spatial rests for my soul...

This summer has left me slightly battered and weather beaten, a collection of tears like a strand of glistening crystalline pearls have been my adornment...

I stepped away to give myself time to adjust and time to grieve the changes taking place.   While she is not gone from this world in a physical sense, mentally the disease is rapidly progressing.  We have been prepared for what lies ahead and it is not a pretty picture.  Home care is no longer an option and we have moved into a new normal of visits to a nursing facility. 

Mostly I Am...counting my blessings...

 Behold, I stand at yet another of life's crossroads and look at my circumstances and the world around me.  I examine where I am and where I could be, my lot in life at the current moment is certainly difficult but it is also not as bad as it could be.  I ask for the ancient path of grace to pave the way.  I seek the good in this situation as we move forward.  I graciously accept the small rests for my soul, a very brief trip to the shore in late spring, a leisurely stroll through a botanical garden mid-summer, rambling along dirt roads to and from the farm, the legacy of my grandmother's garden, snippets of studio time, and even my own backyard.

I've decided to give myself a break regarding my life and my activities, particularly when to push ahead and when to pull back, living quietly and consistently, collecting steam for the future.  I cannot say why this mad hatter of a path has been chosen for our family but I can say that I live a most extraordinary life these days.  I am a wife, a mother, a grandmother, a caretaker, a friend, an artist, a writer, an amateur photographer, and a memory keeper.  I am indeed blessed!

Blessings,

Sandy

TIME PASSAGES...

Time it seems to me is a very precious commodity

One that is spent far too quickly

While I am unaware

Scurrying from here

To get to there

Between "tick" and "tock"

I suddenly age

My life book turns a page

I blink as if it 'twas a dream

Seconds, minutes, hours

Slipping from my grasp

These time passages

Life is being lived swiftly here at the Quill.  I know I have MIA here in the land of blog and I am not sure that will change much in the near future, I hope to catch up with you all soon.  I wanted you to know that I was thinking of you all today and wishing you a very wonderful weekend.

blessings,

Sandy

THE BEAUTY OF A MEMORY...

I stood leaning against the gate, fingers absently tracing the age lines of the slick silver cedar post...

The memories were everywhere; like the trees, they seemed to draw nutrients from the earth, pushing themselves to the forefront of my mind just as the new greening leaves pressed themselves from the tree tips making me take notice of them after the weight of winter shadows had lifted... 

 I didn't decide to move, didn't want to, but before I knew it, I was walking through the gate...

Winding my way along the old stone fence on a feet familiar rut that led to the old home place...

It drew me like a magnet, around the bend to the top of the rise and finally descending the hill that led to childhood.  Each footfall was like stepping into beauty.  The beauty of the natural landscape...

The beauty of the unexpected...

(The fire bush beside what was once a stack of stone steps and a postage stamp porch still bloomed)

The beauty of a memory...

(Where an old green shingled roof covered a silver gray sliver of a house that sheltered some of the most precious times of my life)

The rusty hinge of my memory bank loosed itself...

Swinging open and shut...

Like the damper on granny's old wood burning cook stove, letting in droughts of beautiful swirling airy scenes accompanied by whispers of voices and noises of the past.  The beautiful sound of squeaky old bed springs...

Accompanied by childish laughter and fits of giggles, the fleeting feeling of flying, long hair splayed out like wings, bouncing higher and higher on granny's old iron bed.

What is it, I think to myself, that keeps drawing me to this pile of rubble?

 My heart quickens as I realize it is because I am of the last generation to remember.  Its stories and times and memories will fade when I and the cousins do, we are the last with the ability to step into the beauty of seeing not what is but what once was.  We are the barer of its tales.  We are the keeper of its secrets.  Although it pinches my heart I must respond to urging whispers that guide my steps.  I am compelled to tell the old houses tales, the ones that I can remember at least.

I believe that every life, even the most ordinary one, is like a good book, a page turning tale that unfolds day by day, and is just waiting to be remembered or told.  Each life is full of twists and turns, secrets and surprises, a narrative of threads that weave themselves into a fabric of intersecting lives.  My story revolves around an old house nested on the steep edge of a hollow in the Foothills of the Ozarks where primitive living in modern times created some of the most beautiful childhood memories imaginable.

I come here to pause and listen.  Somehow sitting with the rubble, listening for the whispers of my personal past, opens my heart to the tenderness and exquisite beauty of life.  It teaches me cherish what I have or who peoples my world in any given moment for far too quickly those things change.

The old tree that used to overshadow my play house holds out its hand for me to take...

 Inviting me to fill my heart and head with memories of profound joy.  The past and the present converge in those quiet moments, I step forward and clasp hands with my childhood playmate.  My story, our stories, will continue.....

blessings,

Sandy