Z is for Zest

Do you have a zest for life? Do you wake each morning eager to greet whatever the new day will bring? Do you set out, anticipating the coming hours hold delightful experiences? If so, then you are to be envied.

Many people live lives of quiet desperation. Dreading the morning alarm’s call to rise and face another twenty-four hours of drudgery. For some, life has lost its zest.

But there is hope.  All it takes is looking at life from a different perspective. Our daylight hours are filled with a constant barrage aimed at creating a state of discontent. Our media sources are swelled with images and messages designed to produce a state of wanting ‘something else.’  And that something else shape-shifts into an unlimited variety of forms.

We’re urged to envy those who have what we don’t want; to desire those things not needed in our lives. The challenge is to refuse to surrender to that state of wanting what we don’t have. I challenge you to develop a state of contentment, to be satisfied with what you already have. 

We who live in these United States have so much more that so many in the rest of the world. There should be no cause for discontent. Consider the riches that surround you and be grateful. Rebuild your zest for life.  

I had prepared a posting about yurts for today's blog for 'Y'. Took the time to locate a couple pictures to illustrate the point I wanted to make about how yurts are used all over the world. It looks like that draft got eaten by the computer.

So, now I'm having to free-fall something else. It's nine-thirty at night and I've had an almost twelve-hour day attending NETWO's writers conference.

So, all I can say is YES.

YES, it was a fabulous event. Our new venue, the Civic Center in Mt. Pleasant more than adequately served our needs.

YES, the new caterer served us the most delicious meals. Thanks Hershel's of Mt. Pleasant.

YES, all the presenters gave us super info and encouragement.

YES, even the feedback resulting from my meetings with New York agent Weronika Janczuk, Publisher Vivian Zabel and Editor Liz Ragland was extremely helpful.

YES, will I attend the conference next year? A most definitely YES!

What's with X?

When it comes to “X”, there aren’t many choices to work with. The Oxford American Dictionary lists only twenty words beginning with ‘X”. Nine on the list are simply one or two-letter words. So, today’s blog posting became a real challenge.

I could go with X – to cancel by writing a series of x’s over. Or I could mention xi – the fourteenth letter of the Greek alphabet.

The longest word in the group is X chromosome – a chromosome in which the number of cells of one sex (in human, the female) is twice that of the other sex.

Or how about Xe – symbol xenon? Now what did you learn from that information?

Here’s one that I can comprehend, not that I’ve ever fell victim to it: xenophobia – a strong dislike or distrust of foreigners. Hey, did anyone ever tell you we are all foreigners to someone else?

Before I go x-rated (not to be seen by persons under seventeen years old), I think I’ll end this.

Why East Texas?

Why did my husband and I deliberately transplant our family to the piney woods of East Texas? There are many reasons. When we previously existed in a cookie-cutter suburb of Dallas, the at-speed-limit rush of an ever-grasping culture drove the lifestyle we lived. All the while, our souls hungered for a place where we could stop and savor being alive.

Our move to the Longview area and subsequent settling in a farmhouse nestled on seventeen acres outside of Big Sandy brought us the satisfaction we desired. That was thirty-seven years ago.

We chose to live in East Texas because the stillness of our nights is now punctuated by a distant train whistle, not the wail of a speeding ambulance. Now, missing is that subliminal hum of a motorized society restlessly on the move, always chasing they knew not what. Instead, I'm lulled to sleep by the cooing of mourning doves.

Free from the anxieties imposed by a society striving to exceed itself, we take time to drink deeply of each day’s offering. We can pause to hear treetops rustle as the wind passes through, or smile at the raucous squawk of a noisy bluejay. We can sit on our front porch at night without fear of invisible dangers lurking in the blackness.

We don’t miss our former life. Our days are filled with soul-satisfying work and we are surrounded by people who take time to really care about each other here in East Texas

V is for Valor

The Oxford American Dictionary defines the word ‘valor’as courage in defense of a noble cause.

The 9/11 Heroes Medal of Valor, awarded by the government of the United States, was created specifically to honor the 442 public safety officers who were killed in the line of duty during the September 11, 2001 terrorist attacks at the World Trade Center and The Pentagon.  

Several states, including Maryland, New York and Texas, have established a Medal of Valor which is presented to those serving the public for acts of outstanding personal bravery.

But many acts of personal bravery go unnoticed. I am thinking of a recently-made friend who is deserving of a Medal of Valor. Although restricted by the wheelchair that dominates his lifestyle, my friend faces life with a bravado of wit and humor. He is just one of so many who daily overcomes challenges in their lives to reach out and touch others with the goodness within.

U is for The Unending Love

Lying in the examination room, an idea took hold. It distracted Cathy, helped to while away those wasted hours spent awaiting appointments that always ran late. She would make a flower bed; smack-dab in the middle of her lawn to be viewed from several areas of the house. She’d cram it full of flowers in shouting colors; each time she saw it, she’d be cheered.

Through all the tests and examinations, she escaped her surroundings by envisioning the garden with her mind’s eye. By concentrating on the garden, she blocked out the cacophony of monitoring machines that surrounded her. She shifted its shape, changed color combinations, imagined this and that until the design seemed perfect.

The day of her first radiation treatment, a neighbor dug up the area she’d staked out. All the while her body was being invaded and bombarded, she focused her thoughts on planting her new garden. In her imagination, she could feel the crumbly earth slip between outstretched fingers. Taking deep breaths, she could almost taste the satisfying fragrance of newly-turned earth. She couldn’t wait to begin.

Several weeks passed before she recovered sufficiently to begin work. The summer sun caressed her pallid skin as she sank to the grass beside the kidney-shaped area. A gaily printed bandanna, her badge of defiance, wrapped a balding head. Eager fingers reached to pluck away stray bits of uprooted foliage and remove stones marring the garden’s smooth surface. Beside her lay a yellow mesh plastic bag bulging with promise. As her fingers curled around each odd-shaped bulb, she could almost feel the throb-beat of life enclosed within.

From high overhead, a melodious tune floated down and she paused to locate the songbird. Among the hickory tree’s branches, she spotted a flash of red and flashed her appreciation toward the serenading bird. As probing rays of the sun’s heat penetrated her blouse, she felt the knob of bone-cold at her center melt into a warmth that dispersed throughout her body. She disdained a trowel, preferring to plunge her hands deep into the waiting soil. With bits of earth clinging, she scooped out a hollow for each bulb, then nestled each promise of life into its place, pausing often to catch her breath.

Spasms of pain would interrupt her efforts and cause her to halt until they pass. Yet she savored each moment for its simplicity and pure enjoyment. She looked forward with anticipation to when tiny shoots of green would break the bounds of their brown covering. Her thoughts flew to the future, to the promise fulfilled, when this patch of earth would bloom in a riot of colors.

Tomorrow would come; another day in another week spent battling this relentless enemy. But even on those days when she couldn’t rise from her bed, a turn of her head would bring the garden into view. And, yes, even if her struggles ended in defeat, she could pass along hope and a vision of God's beauty to others through this garden.

It’s been four years since my friend lost her battle against cancer. Soon afterward, her home was sold and a new family moved in. I pass by frequently on my way to the post office. What I saw today brought a smile. A mass of blue Salvia spears poke up above a patchwork of zinnias. The garden remains a tribute to her memory. I smile, remembering Cathy’s spirit and I feel Cathy’s spirit smiling back.

Time for the Thymes

'Thymes Square' reads the hand-painted, wooden sign my sister made for me. Proudly it proclaims one of my favorite spots in the herb garden - a  patchwork of alternating squares of 12-inch concrete blocks and open spaces bordered on three sides with narrow raised beds. A primitive post-and-board-fence arrangement that supports the sprawling growth of grapevines provides dappled shade from a hot summer sun that bores down at mid-day.

Even their names evoke a fragrant melange - Coconut, Blue Balsam, Caraway, Camphor. The staid English and  frivolous French halt their feud and share the sunshine with Creeping Red, Woolly and Golden. One of my favorite thymes is 'Odena's Kitchen' named for Odena Brannam, my mentor. It was she who introduced me to and educated me in the world of herbs, just as she has done for many, many others here in East Texas.

My assortment of thyme varieties spill over the neighboring stones. As long as I remember to provide adequate water, these sturdy herbs thrive in their sandy soil, tucking their spreading, shallow roots beneath the protective shade of nearby concrete slabs. Most prolific of all is the green variety of Lemon Thyme and in its persistence, it has sprawled its dense mat to encroach into the gap up to the fence-line. One of my favorite uses for its lemon-tasting leaves is to mince and add a teaspoon or two to a melt-in-your-mouth sugar cookie recipe.

This is the earliest thyme each season to offer its pale pink blossoms for my pleasure - another reason for favoritism. I'm careful to share the tiny blooms with busy bees who add their accompanying hypnotic hum to the melodious rendering of a nearby wren. And abundant pleasure I receive, even when I'm hard at work pulling weeds with the blazing sun boring into my bent back. The still air is filled with a delicious blend drifting upward from the disturbed plants.

Through an unhappy experience, I've had to concede that Elfin Thyme is too fragile to withstand the fierce onslaughts of our Texas summer sun in the open garden. After watching its minute growth struggle and finally shrivel away in August's intense heat, I decided to give a new plant special attention. Tucked into the soil of a large clay pot, it is protected beneath the sheltering arms of a rose geranium. Just like some people, this herb chooses to 'walk a road seldom traveled.'