Easter is a celebration of life, hope and new beginnings.  Christians commemorate the joyful culmination of Holy Week on Sunday.  Churches throughout the world are adorned in white, lavished with lilies, azaleas and tulips all signs of rejoicing.

Much like Christmas, the holiday has prevailed as an opportunity to market goods to those who recognize the spiritual implication of the day and to those who do not participate in the traditional religious observances.

Stores are filled with baskets, colorful plastic eggs and loads of sugary candies.  The Easter bunny is a name nearly every child recognizes and the center of attention on many television commercials.

Does the commercialism of Easter diminish the importance of the season?  When I reminisce about what Easter meant to me as a child, I remember the joy of an Easter egg hunt and baskets filled with plastic grass and goodies.  I also remember the solemnity of Holy Week and the journey of the cross.  Those visions were instilled in me through scripture readings and church services and have not faded over time.

In the fifties, little girls attended church dressed in frilly dresses, tiny white gloves and patent leather shoes.  An adorable bonnet, secured firmly by an elastic band under a chin, adorned a youthful head and a small ivory purse, containing a prayer book and rosary, dangled from her arm.

Little boys wore sharply pressed pants and colorful dress shirts.  Stiff, well-buffed leather shoes were laced tight on their feet.  Many sported fedoras that mimicked their father’s.  Some even wore vests, giving the impression that they soon would be young men, ready to take on the world.

The tradition of dressing your best for church has faded over the years.  Shorts, soccer uniforms and sneakers are acceptable attire in many churches today.  Hats and gloves are nearly obsolete.  It is a reflection of our changing world.  While sometimes I would not be opposed to turning back the clock, I recognize change as necessary, inevitable and occasionally, an unexpected and pleasant surprise.

On Palm Sunday, the church pews were more crowded than usual, something I remember from years past.  It is a cause for jubilation in itself.  It is a sign that those who have drifted away from the church feel a sense of need to return.  It gives me
hope that faith will prevail though all the chaos of our troubled world.

The Catholic Church recently initiated numerous changes to the wording of the Mass. It is challenging to remember to alter responses instilled in me since kindergarten.  I accepted the modifications and try hard to remember to not recite the wrong words.  Change is not easy.

When the priest announced that the vocal reading of the Passion would not take place, I was concerned and confused, fearing another change would somehow diminish the importance of the readings.  I couldn’t have been more wrong.

No words were spoken by the handful of young performers as they delivered the significant story in such a manner that caused me to choke back tears.  The silent play gave me a deeper appreciation of the story than a thousand recited words.

The service refreshed my spiritual core and reminded me of the importance of the need to plant seeds of faith in our offspring, to ensure future generations will not lose sight of the meaning of Easter.  It also encouraged me to embrace change.

May each of you have a blessed Easter and may you celebrate life, hope and new beginnings.

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A dog is a man’s best friend.  I’ve heard that said many times over the years.  Recently, someone sent me a photo of a black lab with the following caption:

Put your dog and your spouse in the trunk of a car for an hour.  When you open the trunk, which one is really happy to see you?

The more I thought about it, the harder I laughed.

My fear of dogs kept me from appreciating the love and affection provided by these four-legged companions for many years.  My anxiety was so strong that hearing the chain from a leash approaching behind me would send me into a panic.  Friends and family knew that I would remain sitting in the car until their extended family member was locked securely behind a door.

In full disclosure, I must admit that I even offered up my daughter for protection when a Doberman came charging at me while completing a 10K walk.  What can I say, fear can make a maniac out of a normally protective mother, besides, Laura loved dogs more than people when she was a teenager.

About three years ago, my husband brought home a black lab pup for my daughter.  He was the runt of the litter and cute as any kitten I ever held.  We bonded.  I now have a grand dog who visits on a regular basis, all sixty pounds of him.  He can be playful and affectionate and I am completely comfortable in his presence.  He is definitely a man’s dog, though.  There is an order of precedence, Daniel (Laura’s mate), Wart (my husband), Laura and if no one else offers him the attention, me, but that is ok, because at the end of the day, he is always happy to see one of us even if he has been locked in his cage for an hour or more.

You can read more about Hammie and his playful antics in my book, Peaks and Valleys, which is available on Amazon.com and Kindle.

Flowering trees, delightful daffodils, grape hyacinths, these are the joys spring bestows upon me.  My husband, who is an avid gardener, takes pleasure in most colorful blooms that emerge from Mother Nature’s bountiful basket, too.  I say most, but not all.

When small yellow buttons randomly appear in his luscious green lawn, he transforms from cheerful caretaker to the Tasmanian devil.  The moment the first green blade of grass sprouts, he arms himself with a knife in his hip pocket.  At any given time, one can see him charge across the yard, thrust his weapon into the ground, and gouge the persistent intruder until it expires.  With a snarl and pensive grin on his face, he stalks, much like a cat preying on a bird, until he finds his next victim.

It doesn’t help that the neighbor next door does not share the same aversion to what my husband considers a weed.  In fact, the gold perennials camouflage the crab grass quite well in his yard.  My husband, frustrated to the point of taking action one spring, purchased an extra twenty pounds of eradicating compound.  With his trusty spreader in hand, he unfurled the treatment as far as his outstretched arm could reach.

I’ve never quite understood the uncontrollable fury of seeing a dandelion.  To me, there is something quite endearing about the simple floweret.  My heart nearly burst with joy the first time my toddler picked a bouquet and presented it to me with a grin that clearly showed her innocence.  Each spring, the freshly-picked yellow indulgences floated in a bowl of water until they grew limp and were discreetly discarded.  They brought me a delightful diversion as I washed the dishes or cooked dinner.

Are you a lover or hater of dandelions?

My most favorite season of the year is upon us.  Spring symbolizes hope to me.  The drab gray sky that deprived me of the sun’s radiant glow for so many days is now cloaked in azure.  The frigid blasts that kept me prisoner inside a cave of boredom have drifted away leaving occasional gusts of floral bouquets.

The Bradford pears and tulip trees burst with color as the maples and red buds challenge them in a sprint to display their finest apparel.  The robins and cardinals sing merrily as they search for worms to consume.  Crocus and daffodils that had inched their way up through the thawing ground add splashes all around.

There have been enough days into my retirement that such simple images consume my thoughts as I stroll leisurely through the neighborhood.  Pleasant, unrestricted, simple thoughts accompany me under a cloudless sky, warmed by the seventy-something degree temperatures.  Life is good.  I am blessed.

It is only after I return to my house and settle comfortably at my desk, with my laptop and cup of java, and begin to think about my next blog, that the insignificance of my being becomes as clear as the chirp of a nearby bird. 

A dear friend posts a message from her cell phone as she waits in the intensive care unit of a local hospital while her husband balances precariously between life and death, awaiting a new liver.  My heart aches to wave a wand and make things right, yet I have no control, no impact upon the outcome, except to pray.

Another friend directs me to his son’s blog posted from Afghanistan.  A US soldier kills villagers for no apparent reason, escalating the tensions in an already volatile location.  Still fresh on the front burner is the unfortunate burning of Qurans by our country.  No hint of spring surfaced in the words he wrote.  Yet, there was a sign of hope in his son’s stories.  Most significant to me, International Woman’s Day was celebrated in Kandahar.  The concept of this event taking place in a country unaccustomed to affording women rights, gives hope that the influences our country has made will continue to grow like the tulips that thrive during a early spring snow fall.

Like a snow globe shaken vigorously, the perspective of my intentions is clouded by the unsettling emails.  How insignificant my attempt to touch a world that yearns for so much more than I have to offer.  Doubts about my blog stir in my mind as the messages settle into my thoughts.  I hear an old familiar voice call out “Who do you think you are?  You are nobody.  You are nothing.”

Fortunately, I have learned to dispel the words once embedded within me.  It has taken many years to erase the recordings left by others. 

Every person has worth; every person has the opportunity to make a difference.  I may not be able to save a life or defend our country on foreign ground.  I admire and appreciate those who are called to do that.  Each of us has been given a gift.  What we choose to do with it is what counts.  For me, I write; I write from my heart.  It is my responsibility to share it, not keep it to myself.  My hope is that something I publish inspires another person who needs encouragement. 

My words are simple.  Spring is my favorite season of the year because it represents hope.  What does it mean to you?  I’d love to hear about it.

What now?  (continued)

I had only begun to contemplate what retirement might mean to me: leisure strolls through quaint little towns, early morning fishing trips, exploring the Redwoods in California or staring into a star-lit sky in Wyoming.  These hints of a relaxed, comfortable life with my spouse were just beginning to take shape.

A mere two months slipped by before the waters muddied.  My spouse’s heart attack wiped the board of expectations with one quick swipe, leaving only a bleary film of what might have been. 

Blessed is the only word that describes the reality that my husband’s life was spared.  Not once, but twice, his heart stopped.  A skillful hospital staff, a magnificent defibrillator and the grace of God brought him back to life.

Much like retirement, the first few days were filled with joyous appreciation of possibilities.  Soon, reality set in and changed the direction of my sails.  Survival mode consumed the following year.  Unspoken fears crept into the recesses of my mind until the depths of normalcy were no longer familiar.  Sleep became a gift offered in increments of an hour or two at a time.

Blood pressure cuffs and nitro tablets became the tools that occupied my hands instead of casting rods and fishing bait.  Unexplained chest pain, mid-section spasms, a surge of adrenalin that triggers unexpected responses, sends us to the emergency room.  Instead of deciding locations for our next vacation, we labor over when to call for an ambulance or risk the ten minute drive to the hospital. 

Even the simplicity of grabbing a bite to eat became diminished by the limited selection of food while adhering to a special diet.  The complex balancing and timing of medicines dictate the hour on the clock.  Day trips and weekend get-a-ways are things of the past.  The circumference of our world is limited to the time it takes to reach the Emergency Room.  Doctor appointments fill the squares on the calendar.

There are good days, when visits with friends and relatives bring laughter and distraction from the new norm.  Walking provides a daily source for burning the unused energy that escalates the anxiety building inside.  Sunny days offer an escape drive to the river and provide a break from television and computer games. 

The bearings of my new course have brought many exciting rewards in addition to precious more time with my husband of forty years.  A renewed focus on writing emerged as I became intimate with my laptop.  One book published, Peaks and Valleys, one on the way, Burning Embers.  A friendship developed from the Pen to Paper Writing Club opened new avenues for reaching readers and writers.  I had never read a blog, much less wrote one, before I met author Amanda Bretz.  New possibilities surface on the horizon.

What now?  I have no idea, but I can’t wait to find out!

What now?

 I often ask myself that question when I am sitting still for more than five minutes.  There is a constant need to keep moving, to keep advancing toward an invisible mark on the journey of my life.  Unexpected twists and turns, and retirement, have brought me here, to unfamiliar territory, an area that is sometimes frightening, sometimes comforting.  

What now?  There was no time for contemplating this thought provoking question just a heart beat ago.  Nearly every hour, every minute of my day seemed to be filled with obligations.  A career consumed forty hours or more a week.  An aging parent in the late stages of Alzheimer’s disease squeezed fragmented hours in between.  A husband, pressured into retirement too soon, devoured the crumbs of my day that remained.  Forget the household tasks that beckoned my name the moment I entered a room.  If there were any seconds left, I filled them with volunteer commitments made in the weakness of a pressing moment.

In the dark of night, when all energies were spent and expectations fulfilled to the best of my ability, I’d search for the perfect companion to help me fulfill the passion that ached within me.  A pen that could flow as fluidly as the thoughts in my mind brought the comfort of a lifelong friend.  Whether in a poem or on the pages of a journal, unspoken truths spilled forth like ink from a toppled well.

In some ways, life was easier then.  I knew my roles.  I knew what was expected of me.  There was no need to form a dream, to envision another way of life, to design a plan to fill the hours that ticked away like a time bomb ready to explode. 

My life roles defined me.  I was the supervisor, in charge of an office that never slowed.  I was the care taker for a mother who needed my help.  I was the experienced Girl Scout volunteer who facilitated classes and directed events.  I assumed the matriarch role of the family for gatherings.  I was whatever someone else needed me to be.

Sixty years of adjusting to the challenges of life have taught me to change the direction of my sails when the wind sends me into unchartered territory.  Like a raging river, the course is often filled with obstacles and debris that cause me to detour around my original plan.  Seldom does the route I map out take me directly to my destination.  Decisions made by invisible forces send waves, like the wake of a passing boat, rocking my world and forcing me to reset the bearing of my course.

Congress devises a plan that ends careers.  Nest eggs disappear as the economy falters.  A stroke steals the last breath of a loved one.  Progression alters the direction of an organization obscuring the role of a veteran supporter.  The ripple spreads until the waters no longer settle with the original banks, all the while the heartbeat of the world continues around us as if nothing has changed. 

Like a young pup freed from his leash, I feel a brief moment of ecstasy in being released from the restraints.  There is no need to set the alarm for five o’clock, no need to unlock the office door and position myself to make the tough decisions, to keep the cog in motion.  There is no mother to visit in a nursing home, to pay her bills or buy her goods, to worrying about every waking moment.  A day holds twenty four hours again.

Just as quickly, a sense of abandonment settles in and darkens the sky like a threatening cloud.  I am left with my pen and my discretionary thoughts.

What now?