My last column here dealt with issues of time and busyness. I received so many heartfelt emails from readers that I want to revisit that subject and delve a little deeper than the first 675 words allowed me to do. This isn’t a subject I have mastered, but one I struggle with almost daily. Apparently I am not alone.
Once upon a time when someone asked, “How are you?” the expected answer was, “Fine.” Today, of course, the expected reply is, “Too busy,” uttered with a weary sigh and brief eye contact followed by a nod from the questioner that communicates, “Yeah, me too.” It is a moment of commiseration, for most of us are too busy.
Sometimes big events coincide in single years, as they did for us in 2011 when Peter’s 60th birthday and our 30th anniversary passed within a month of each other. Peter retired to the farm and we convinced our daughters to throw us a party at the Murphey School. We had a lot of fun there with family and friends.
It wasn't a New Year's intention but a new morning inspiration that got me back into yoga class last week. I've written this column about yoga before, but despite all the endorsements I've given it in the past, I had let busy-ness and stress overtake me, and I had stopped going.
Christmas 2013 has come and gone and the New Year is poised to enter our reality. Every year people ask, “Are you ready for the holidays?” I ponder that question and the things we do to “get ready.” Why do we do them, and what are their consequences? What is the meaning behind our actions?
I want to emphasize, at the outset, that no one has ever told me I should write a cook-book.
People have asked me for recipes, though, and that is where I get into trouble, because I don’t work from or towards recipes. If I open a cookbook, I use the formula more as a “suggestion” than as a mapped-out procedure. I often add or subtract, based upon what I have at hand. Things usually work out.
Patricia Jones’ doctors told her “There is nothing you can do.” They continued to prescribe medications and watch her diabetes worsen until, finally, they told her there was nothing more they could do except put her on insulin. “There is no cure for diabetes,” they said.
On the second Sunday, most every month, a few cars make the long trek down our gravel driveway at 2:30 in the afternoon.
In one of my favorite scenes in an old-favorite Clyde Edgerton book, the elderly Mattie Rigsbee makes her lunch and attempts to settle in and eat while watching one of her favorite “stories” on TV.
As the daughter of one photographer and the mother of another, I am steeped in the language of cameras, with words like “aperture” and concepts such as “depth of field.” These days most of my pictures are taken with my smart phone, but I own an old Minolta 101 Single Lens Reflex (SLR) and know the basics of how to use it.
I remember when I was quite new to this column, just a month or so in, and someone asked me what it was like to be a columnist. I literally turned around to see who they were talking to before realizing it was me…a columnist!
As a kid I took swimming lessons, and for the rest of my life have been considering myself a swimmer. We spent long summer days at the pool and water-skied on the lake, and I never thought much about what it took to propel myself through the liquid.
Many years ago, I went on a vacation with our two young girls and another mother-daughter duo. It was a lively excursion and a long drive during which all three girls told family stories.
A new group of Johnson Interns will arrive this week to spend a year of service in our area. They will live together in a monastic model of community life that will require some adjustments, especially around food.
Even when my mother’s brain was tangled with the plaque of Alzheimer’s, she always remembered the stairs.