An autumn trip to West Virginia

A dear friend of mine Linda Mills has a sister Marty in White Sulfur Springs, West Virginia, and knowing how I love mountains and white water rivers, Linda had asked me to go visit Marty for years. I had already met Marty many times when she came to visit Linda here in Kingston Springs.

Last week we (Linda and I and another friend Patt Dillon) drove the ten hours to visit Marty. And what beautiful countryside West Virginia is this time of year! In contrast to Middle Tennessee, the leaves were already undergoing their colorful transformation on the West Virginia mountains.

Marty's lovely house is on top of a mountain with decks all around and beautiful views of other mountains. She has a sauna and a hot tub, and we each had our own bedroom and bath.

This is not Marty's house, but the inside of the Greenbrier Hotel.

Besides White Sulfur Springs, West Virginia has Salt Sulfur Springs, Blue Sulfur Springs, Green Sulfur Springs, Warm Springs, and Hot Springs, to name a few of the towns in that area. And the area is filled with resort hotels--some of which are a couple hundred years old. We visited the Homestead and the Greenbrier Hotels and were pretty much blown away by the large-scale beauty of the old buildings and the grounds.

We hiked the 2 and 1/2 miles Cascades Trail, filled with the most incredible natural beauty of waterfall after waterfall. Then we went to soak in the famous Hot Springs 200-years old sulfur bath house. Built over a bubbling hot springs from the tiniest seeps over volcanic rocks, the old wooden house was round with a view of the blue sky at its top. That late afternoon we four women floated in the baths for nearly an hour.

This is not us women, but just a picture of how large some of the rapids were!

On our last day there, we rafted the white water of the New River, which, despite its name, is actually the third oldest rivers in the world. The river itself is a class IV river, so we were brave to go on such a big river especially in mid-October. Thank the river gods that no one in our raft got flipped out. At the end of the 7-mile river trip, there was the most magnificent bridge spanning the New River. The New River Gorge Bridge is the third highest vehicular bridge in the United States and the fifth highest in the world.

All in all, 'twas a really a wonder-filled trip, and we made lasting memories and strengthened our already strong friendships.

The Writing Life: one word: reconciliation

Reconciliation. In the beginning was the Word.

‘Twas in Walt Whitman’s poem by the same name that I first encountered this word many decades ago.

Most of my late adult life, I have been trying to reconcile--to re-establish a close relationship--

To myself.

To accept myself as is, to resolve the perhaps irresolvable parts of my life.

Why is this need to reconcile so strong in me?


As a child, I was fully reconciled to myself, loving and accepting and approving and cherishing and embracing myself all the live-long day.

Then something dark swooped in and stole away my essence--my confidence--my beauty.


Reconciliation tastes bittersweet. Bitter on my tongue, yet sweet in my heart.

Lately it smells rotten to me, a cloying, decaying odor--like rotting flesh--

As if it is taking me too long to puzzle out my life and to put the pieces back together.


Once I’m fully reconciled again, won’t I die and rot and be forgotten?

But isn’t that it, like Whitman writes in his short poem,

That I will “draw near;/I [will] bend down, and touch lightly with my lips the white face in the coffin.”

My own face in the coffin.


Perhaps the most horrid of wars is, after all, the war inside ourselves.

What reconciliation looks like to me, feels like to me is dying.

The only sound is of silence. Albeit a white, bright silence, which hurts my sensitive eyes.

Reconciliation is like being raked over the sharp points of my life.

It cuts into my skin. I bleed tears. It leaves the tenderest of scars.


Whitman thought reconciliation to be a word as “beautiful as the sky,” and I want to see its beauty, to know its beauty.

But sometimes that sky is dark, filled with storm clouds.

Reconciling feels scary. I have come to fear it.

Will it be another dark storm coming to take away the essence of me?


But here’s the crux:

Robert Anderson tells us that

“Death ends a life, but it does not end a relationship, which struggles on in the survivor's mind seeking some resolution it may never find.”

And still, right now, today, I am a survivor.

If I don’t reconcile myself in this life, will I struggle on in the next life to be reconciled?

Will I be incarnated again to live another unreconciled, irreconcilable life?


And what of those others whom I was at odds with?  Those who have fought against me? Some covert, some overt “enemies”?

Some of which are dead now, some not so--

What am I to do with them when they haunt me?

Perhaps it is in naming them that I am free of them.

My mother, my father, my sister, Shelley, John, Jamie, some teachers, some students and their parents, others I know not about--

But not necessarily to see these people again,

But to let go of them . . . to let go of the idea that the past could have been different.

Why did I not “get along” with people?

Was I too self-absorbed in my own pain? In my own tapestry?

My life has been a tapestry of rich and royal hue
An everlasting vision of the everchanging view
A wondrous woven magic in bits of blue and gold
A tapestry to feel and see, impossible to hold

I do want reconcilement to be the story of my life.

I want its connotations of healing and forgiveness to be the story of my life.

I want to reweave the tapestry in the threadbare places of my life and wrap it around me like the softest and warmest of fleece blankets.

I want to live again in the childlike, reconciliatory atmosphere of pure unadulterated love.

I want to love myself again with wild abandonment.

Even if

It means I die.

Now my tapestry’s unraveling.  He’s come to take me back.

The Writing Life--my newest class

I want to tell y'all about a class that I'm taking and that I'm so-o-o excited about. It's called The Writing Life, and it is taught by a Victor Judge, a Vanderbilt professor of literature and religion. Well, that is right up my alley of interests.

Having tried to get in this class for years, I was put on a waiting list this year, and I got in! The class consists of twelve people, and it last for twelve meetings--every other Tuesday morning between now and April. Twice a month, except for December. We are creating a writing portfolio for ourselves. Our writing will be our text for this class, according to the professor.

Dr. Judge tells us that we are conduits for writing, and that's the way I've usually felt--that something was using me to write through. I feel the same way when I really get into painting--when I get in the zone--that something is painting through me. That I believe is the way the creative life works for most of us.

The professor also told us that everything that we write is always a rough draft. And that is so true for me. I have trouble letting a piece of writing go to my readers because I keep working on it, keep adding or changing a word here or there to get the right effect. It's the same with a painting--always asking when it is really finished.

So our first assignment was predicated on one of Emily Dickinson's shorter poem:

A word is dead
When it is said,
Some say.
I say it just
Begins to live
That day.

Our assignment was to choose a word and to write about it. To tell when we first came across the word. To tell how the word feels, looks, sounds, tastes, smells. To tell what color the word is, etc.

So that's it. I've had fun with this assignment these last few days. It's not due until next Saturday, but I had to get it done early because I'm leaving soon for West Virginia for a few days--to view the autumn foliage, to hike to waterfalls, and to raft the New River.

I e-mailed my piece into my teacher this morning, and boy, was I nervous! What I think will happen is that he will make copies of our "homework" that we will share with others in our next class who will act as peer evaluators.

So I decided to share with you gals and guys in my next blog post my first assignment for this class. Any feedback that you want to give me would be greatly appreciated. I will post it for y'all on Monday.

Sunday--a day for a different rhythm

 

I'm retired now as most of you know. So I can have endless "free" days when I can sleep in late, do exactly what I want with the day, even do "nothing" with the day if I choose.

Even so, somehow the days have still fallen into a rhythm. 

Monday through Friday are days for appointments and classes--whether art or writing classes, or the classes that I take from Vanderbilt just for the fun of learning. And they are the days for cleaning the house--especially early in the week. Or maybe for a big project--like last summer when I painted the exterior of my house.

But Saturdays, and especially Sundays, have a different rhythm from the week days. When I used to work five days a week, the weekends were often too full of chores and errands. Now though, I can have peaceful, restful weekends. 

Sometimes on Sunday, I go to church, sometimes I don't. I'm not so tied into going as I was when I taught Sunday school, so I get to choose. Usually I do go to church when my granddaughter Tessa visits because I want to give her some good old Christian background, and I generally enjoy church.

Other times I just let Sunday envelope me and delight in it. I sit out on my back screened in porch on the porch swing and notice things more. Like the sky and the trees and the hills and the flowers and the birds and the bugs and the spiders. How I love spider and their intricate webs!

Then I come in and make pancakes or French toast or some other scrumptious brunch. In the afternoon, I may decide to go kayaking or to take a long hike with my dog. And on that float or that walk, I will not be in a hurry. I will notice more. I will see more and hear more and touch more and smell more and be more present in God's nature.

Yes, that's how the rhythm changes on Sunday for me. Don't I allow it to slow down to God's rhythm? 

To end this post, I wanted to share an Emily Dickinson poem with you. Enjoy. And enjoy your Sunday! 

Some keep the Sabbath going to Church –

I keep it, staying at Home –

With a Bobolink for a Chorister –

And an Orchard, for a Dome –

Some keep the Sabbath in Surplice –

I, just wear my Wings –

And instead of tolling the Bell, for Church,

Our little Sexton – sings.

God preaches, a noted Clergyman –

And the sermon is never long,

So instead of getting to Heaven, at last –

I’m going, all along.

What's your manifesto?

When I first came across this Holstee manifesto, I loved it! Manifesto means a public declaration of principles or intentions. The following half dozen statements are probably my favorites from this manifesto:

"Do what you love and do it often." By all means, be led by your passions. If you enjoy something, you are probably good at it, and it is what you are supposed to be doing with your life. Trust that principle. Trust your gut. "Follow your bliss," Joseph Campbell tells us. And definitely do not be led by money. It will not matter how much you make if you don't love what you are doing. Thank you, God, that I followed my passion into teaching high school English.

"Stop over analyzing." Oh wow, that's me! Thinking, thinking, thinking way too much. I'm a contemplative person by nature, and that's good to a certain point. After that, let it go, let it go, let it go. You can decide not to think about something anymore. You are not your mind; you are in control of your mind.

"When you eat, appreciate every last bite." Therefore do not eat in front of the TV! Except for popcorn, of course. But even then, you are apt to eat too much of it and not to enjoy every last bite. Even if you eat alone, set up your meal on a kitchen table with candles or flowers, a pretty place mat or table cloth, and your favorite china. Relish every bite. You will generally eat slower, not overeat, appreciate and taste every bite. This also includes not eating in front of a computer, in a car, etc. I bet this one thing would keep us from gaining weight.

"Open your mind, arms, and heart to new things and people. We are united in our differences." I still believe that teaching about the major religions of the world was one of my best contributions to teaching Senior English at Harpeth High School. That kind of study can really open up our minds and hearts. Understanding is the key to compassion. Also a key word in the statement above is new. Keep introducing yourself to new things and people; keep trying new things; and you will be more mindful and alive and aware.

"Travel often; getting lost will help you find yourself." I always like to have a trip planned to look forward to and to save up for. Two friends and I are traveling to West Virginia in mid-October to see the autumn leaves, to hike, and to raft the New River. Early next autumn 2014, I am planning a longer trip to Montana and Wyoming to see the Tetons and Yellowstone. I love to visit national parks. I'm sure that I will be hiking and rafting there, too. I discovered quite a few years ago that I prefer an "active" vacation!

"Life is short." All of a sudden, I'm 64 years old. And I want to ask, "When did that happen?" or "How did that happen?" For some reason, time seems to move faster and faster the older we get, or at least that has been my experience. It's odd how well I can remember being a teenager in high school and in college or a new teacher in my early 20s or a new mother in my early 30s or a new kayaker in my early 40s, and again the operative word here seems to be new. 

That's interesting. Perhaps that speaks to us about one way to slow time down--try new things. Have an adventurous spirit. Even at 64, there are still new adventures ahead. In the poem "Ulysses,"Tennyson admonished us to be "A bringer of new things . . . To follow knowledge like a sinking star, /Beyond the utmost bound of human thought." He further encourages us that "'It is not too late to seek a newer world . . . [to be] strong in will/To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield."

Tennyson's words, too, are a part of my personal manifesto. "To strive, to seek, and not to yield." I like it. It is good.

A memoir--my first memories--in Chattanooga, of course

I adored my beautiful mother. We got to stay home together for three years after my older sister Lynda started school.

Some of the threads of the tapestry of my life have been woven by the twelve places that I lived as I was growing up. From Charleston and Camden, South Carolina, to Chattanooga, Tennessee, ere I was five years old. Early childhood was a happy time for me.

I do not remember South Carolina--not Charleston nor Camden--but I loved Chattanooga. We must have moved there when I was three or four. It was surrounded by those tall, misty mountains that I still love today. Constantly, I played outdoors there, sliding down the clay red hills. If memory serves me well, the neighborhood where we lived was even called Red Bank. Much to my mother’s dismay, my shorts’ and pants’ bottoms were forever stained red.

At four years of age, I rode my stick horse with my best friend and next door neighbor Marshall Cook. Actually my first boy friend, Marshall left me a big chocolate candy heart on the back stoop on Valentine’s Day that year. Back then, we kids didn’t get much candy, so I loved Marshall immediately.

This snapshot was actually taken in Richmond, VA, once we left Chattanooga. My sister was three and one half years older than I, but because she was always tall and I was always short, she looked even older. Here we are at six and ten. I had forgotten that my mom used to sew our clothes and dress us alike at times. We were all very proud of our shiny, new Buick.

All summer long I ran my heedless ways, but when my older sister and the other older kids in the neighborhood went off to school in the autumn, not even Marshall’s company could console me. Indoors, I would play paper dolls with my mom, and when she was busy with housework, I would set up all my dolls and teddy bears and play school, with me always as the teacher, of course.

But the outdoors would beckon me once again, and out I would trot to the red hills behind our house. One of the neighbors had a old swing in their backyard hanging from a tree--a swing on which the whole neighborhood played--and this one day, Marshall was not around, and I was playing by my lonesome. I had seen my sister and some of the older kids swing high and then when the swing was at its pinnacle, they would jump out and come back down to earth, landing on their feet! I thought that that was the coolest thing that I had seen them do.

It must have been in Chattanooga that I began to develop my love of animals. We got our first pets there, a couple of cats. Later we almost always had a dog. Our first one was a red cocker spaniel named Candy. Still later I got hamsters and guinea pigs. Mom even had a blue parakeet named Luke. Look at that little plaid suit that I'm wearing! My legs still look exactly like that!

I felt particularly brave that day, so I climbed into the swing and began to pump it as high as my short legs would carry me--which was higher than I had ever gone before! Then at the swing’s zenith, I screwed my courage to its sticking place, and I let go of the ropes and jumped down, down, down! There I stood on the ground and on my feet, and for a few seconds, I felt so proud of myself. Yes, proud for as long as it took the swing’s wooden seat to swing back around and strike me with its full force on the back of my head, for I had not noticed, or forgotten, that the older kids ran after their feet hit the ground!

The impact of the swing at least knocked me out of the path of its next circuit. Somewhat in shock, whether by my stupidity or the blow, I don't know which, I stood there and reached around to the back of my head and felt the warmth of the blood and then saw its deep red color dripping from my fingers--a color that rivaled the color of the red clay. Boy, I knew that I was in big trouble then! And I was afraid--petrified--not of my injury--but of my parents’ wrath!  They were going to be so angry at me!

I slowly made my way through several back yards and went up the stoop to our back door. I knew that I had to tell and to show my mother what had happened. The superficial head wound was bleeding profusely. Of course, when my mom saw me bleeding, she was frantic. It was 1954, there was no 911, and we had only the one car that dad had taken to work. On that black phone that sat on a small table in the kitchen, she called my father, who drove home immediately. They took me to the local hospital, where I got a shot in my head and a head full of stitches!

Apparently, my sister and I were still sleeping together at four and seven. I recall my mother converting her sewing room into my own bedroom in our next move to Richmond, Virginia, when I was six or seven.

And I never, ever even so much as got in any trouble that day! But it was soon after that experience that my mother enrolled me into White Oak Presbyterian church kindergarten (there was no public kindergarten in Tennessee in 1954), where she felt that I would be safer. It was the only private school that I ever attended, and it awakened in me a lifelong love of school and of learning.

Here I am nearly 60 years ago at a birthday party in kindergarten, looking quite much like the contemplative teacher that I would become! From kindergarten on, I pretty much loved school!

There I am in the middle with the plaid dress. Story time out of doors in kindergarten.

Ah! mountains, hiking, and white water kayaking!

It was the late 80s, and I was nearly 40. I had buried both of my parents that same year and ended a horrendous marriage. I had a friend who kayaked and another friend who wanted to learn how. I, myself, had no idea what a kayak was!

A most unlikely candidate for white water kayaking, I generally only exercised in a gym to stay in shape. The rest of the time I was dressed and made-up to look quite feminine. To look pretty, if you will. I wouldn't go out in public without my makeup, nice clothes, jewelry, etc.

But my two friends insisted that I go kayaking with them, first in the Harpeth and later to the white water of the Hiwassee in Southeast Tennessee. I was scared. I wasn't a swimmer, didn't like being under water, and didn't really know how to do much more than dog paddle. I didn't like being without my makeup; at first, I even wore eyeliner and lipstick on the river!

I had never camped in my life. And of course, white water kayaking meant camping beside the river. It meant a tent, a sleeping bag, and camp fire cooking. So many new things to learn all at once! I didn't take to camping right away, but eventually, I became comfortable with it. Though I still prefer a bed and breakfast most days, I can appreciate the stars coming out at night and the sun coming up in the morning and the river or creek running nearby and the quietude of nature all around that only "true" camping can give us.

And so I went and went and kept going kayaking (and camping). And eventually it got in my blood--white water kayaking. I was often afraid on the rivers, but still I kept going for some reason, and they and kayaking saved me.

Right before I got into kayaking, a marriage therapist had asked me, "What do you do for fun?" I was still married to my drug-addicted and philandering husband, still caring for our small child, still receiving long distance phone calls for help from my unhealthy parents, still carrying a full teaching load, and still trying to keep a perfect house and be perfect myself.  And I answered the counselor, "Fun? What is that?" Was life supposed to be fun? I never knew.

And so began my foray into kayaking in the rivers and hiking in the mountains of western North Carolina.

“Nature never did betray the heart that loved her,” Wordsworth tells us. I had been a lover of nature when I was a child, playing outside long into the evenings with my little friends. My mother would call me to come in for dinner, and I would guiltily pretend that I didn’t hear her. Still later as a preteen, when there was trouble at home, I would hide away in the woods, climbing up an old maple tree and sitting on my special branch, where I felt safe.

So in my 40s, I was rediscovering my love of nature. I was rediscovering fun!

On this latest kayaking trip to western North Carolina this past weekend, I met my old friend Bobby the first night at Lost Mine Campground in a campsite surrounded on three sides by a mountain stream, and we roasted hot dogs on the camp fire and caught up with each other. Then the next day we joined Paul, Dick, and Jonathan on the Tuckaseegee River. That evening we all gathered around for a delicious spaghetti dinner, with sauce filled with fresh green zucchini and yellow summer squash and baby bell mushrooms. Then the next morning onto the rollicking Nantahala River, where we enjoyed a spontaneous picnic by the river. Both days were the most perfect sunny September days, filled with friends and fun.

Some people love to go to the sea; they love the sandy beach and the salty waves. But I prefer the mountains and the trails and white water rivers that they create. I will continue to white water kayak and hike as long as good health and Spirit will allow me.

Nature is a wonderful teacher. A few of the things that she teaches us are to slow down, to be mindful, to accept the seasons (of our lives, too). Also she teaches us to live simply, for she never takes more than she needs.

Emerson writes in his book Nature, in nature we experience “the perpetual presence of the sublime.” Nature can “awaken a certain reverence” in us that allows us to clearly see the hand, the mind, and the heart of God. “In the woods, we return to reason and faith,” according to Emerson. In the woods, a person can “cast off [her] years” and become child-like again. In the woods, one can discover that child-like faith that Jesus speaks of, and one can have fun once again.