Just Passing Through . . .

As a kid, family vacations were always, always, always (like it or not) an adventure.  No two could possibly be alike.  And taking one's chances was written into the deal.

It was before the age of franchise.  

Limited safety.  Little predictability.  Utter adventure.  And memories never to be rivaled.  

Growing bored beyond bored in the back seat of our big car lead me to creating intricate fantasy stories  of being a pop star (Cher, perhaps) on tour with her band.  Learning to tune out "the news" on the radio, along with Dad's cigarette smoke (even though the window was cracked) required a variety of strategies.

Stopping to eat was a lifesaver.  It meant a new place to explore.  The little roadside diners along the blue highways we traveled were as varied and unpredictable as America herself.

Can you imagine . . . not knowing what the menu (nor its ethnicity) would be?  Anything from German to Mexican to what I call Country.  Delicious?  Ummm . . . probably better than a 50-50 chance.  Worth it?  Oh, yeah.  Even the grumbling after a less than satisfactory roast beef sandwich was interesting to observe.  And, for a kid, there was almost always something good for dessert.  Big cookies, a milkshake, some whole new kind of pie.  

Arriving at the destination began another leg of the adventure.

Trolling the town from place to place, getting a feel for the motor inn (motel) from the look of the sign and all it promised.

The heart-sinking feeling of coming across what looked like the MOST fun place with the best pool in the nicest spot only to see the "NO" lighted up on the (NO) VACANCY neon sign.  Then, finally, Mom would spot us a good one.  Dad would agree, and we'd move in.

Again, one never knew quite what to expect  . . . in terms of decor, facilities, playgrounds, and so forth.  But, that was sort of the point of being away from home, actually.

I love all that.  Individuality.  Folks.  Little glimpses into other lives.  (Often the motel owners had their own little home attached to the office and I could see in and see their dog sitting on the couch.)  A funky bell would ring telling them someone had arrived.  They'd visit with mom and dad.  Wanting to hear about road conditions or wheat harvest.  It was cool.

Looking back, we were fearless.  We never even stayed in Holiday Inns (too expensive).  And, thank god for that.  We got the richer, realer, warmer version of America.  Of which we happened to be a part.  And, if we occasionally had to suffer the disappointment of a creaky bed or unheated pool, well, we sucked it up and looked forward to the next stopping place.

That's a pretty satisfying way to live if you ask me.

Square One

What to do when things fall apart?  Big things.  Put-my-whole-heart-in-it-and-it-went-kaplooey things.

Nobody knows.  Not really.

First, there's the flattening.  After a time, propping up on one knee.  Then, a sucker punch, for good measure.  Finally, on two feet.  Staggering about.  Disorientation.  And so forth.

But, here's the odd thing.  What seems to happen next is that I find myself willingly doing something as a complete beginner.  It may be quite tiny.  It may be in private.  And, it may not amount to a hill of beans in terms of a tangible achievement.  BUT -- it reconnects me to life.  Right where I am.  At square one.

Which is how I've come to dabble in watercolors.  I know nothing.  So, I come empty-handed and just experiment.  And sometimes the radio is on.  And there's a lovely glass of iced-tea.  And it may get very late before I realize I've spent a Saturday night absorbed in the process.  And that is the magic.  That is the healing.  That is the reassurance that life goes on. . .  with me, somehow, still in it.

After all, that's what my heart is being asked to do.  To just go on beating.  To start out empty.  To experience life the way it is now.  Makes sense that it would feel right to do it on the outside, too.

That is what I have today.  And, oddly, it's everything I need.

A New Viewpoint

The miraculous and amazing. That's what a new viewpoint can reveal.
Want to delve deeply into the soul of an experience?
Go spelunking into the cave of wonder and mystery lying just beneath
the surface of the ordinary?
Good! Then do it!
What better time to explore than right now -- when
budgets are pinched and time is precious?
Let's take this opportunity to slow down to the speed of life.
Heighten our senses to perceive the beauty that is.
Let's journey to the heart of heart of the moment
Now. In the space that is here.
Dare to discover the wildly
exotic, the deeply sacred in what we call "ordinary".
You might just fill up and spill over with gratitude.
It could happen. How do I know? 'Cause it happens to me.
And it feeds my soul.

Glass Half Full

It's a beautiful thing. That we choose. Know it or not. A wild and difficult freedom. "Create your life" - the world says, every morning, every minute. The power we wield over our own experience, our own consciousness is incomprehensibly enormous.

During a recent visit, a relative (upon observing the dog's great joy in greeting him) remarked, "Wouldn't it be great to be so stupid that everything made you happy?" Spoken like a true intellectual. And an appropriately miserable one.

Saying nothing, I had the following internal response:

"Wouldn't it be great to be so wise that everything made you happy?"

Either way.

Drink deeply.

Welcome to Summer . . .

a perfect time to taste the sweetness of life.

Here are some words I found: "When you do the same tasks over and over, you can go beneath the surface, beyond the task itself, to the landscape of the soul."

I love to water plants, fill the birdbath, dry the dishes, fold towels. Smell laundry fresh out of the dryer. Light every candle in the house. Sing the same songs. Visit the same mountains. Love the same people. Sleep in the same bed. Because the blessed familiarity rests my mind, deepens my senses, and opens the doorway to soul.

Norman Rockwell said, "Commonplace never became tiresome. It is WE who become tired when we cease to become curious and appreciative. "

Summer is here. And appreciative is easier than ever. Delicious. Irresistible. Enjoy, my friends, enjoy.

Summer Is A Country . . .

and when I was four years old, I was the Queen . . . of Summer.
Mom and Dad had the audacity to create an oasis in the middle of the Great Plains (Wichita, Kansas) and to name it "LaGuna Beach".
A huge, sand-bottomed lake, surrounded by golden beaches and clattering cottonwood trees.
Angled turquoise corrugate shade shelters all around. High dive, zip line, rope strung with vividly painted wooden buoys separating shallow from deep. Cute lifeguards, including my 18 year old brother.
Mom and Aunt Blanche wore Catalina wrap-aaround swimsuits and rubber thong sandals while serving up scrumptious pulled-pork barbecue sandwiches on soft Rainbow buns, fresh iced-tea and all kinds of frozen candy bars (the white Zero bar was my favorite). I could stand on tip-toe, dip the cold metal scoop down into the shaved ice and pull up a cupful any time I wanted. Oh, and there was soda on tap. Did I mention hot-dogs?
Later in the evening, when most of the guests had packed up their beach-bags and headed home, the place was all mine. Mom and Dad and friends would be in the back of the concession stand playing cards and laughing. I would sit on a picnic table and watch the stars light up and twinkle across the cottonwood leaves. Listen to the lapping of waves (it's windy out there in southern Kansas) on the shore.
Eventually, I'd take my little terry-cloth clad self over to the open-air dance pavilion, also painted aqua (as were the bath houses). The cement floor was partially polished (stopped in mid-task as mom and dad realized that wet feet and slick floors might not be a good match), and there was a friendly, pot-bellied juke box at one end. We, of course, had the key to it. Meaning I could play music, A7; C3; D9, and dance to my heart's content.
When I tired of that, I'd wander into the back end of the concession-stand house where the folks were hanging out. There were always cots in there because we often spent the night. And, I generally fell asleep to the sweet lullaby of affable voices and my mom's luminous laughter.
This was my normal.
Sounds like I made it all up doesn't it. Well, I didn't. This is factual. My mom and dad -- THEY made it up . . . then made it real . . . then sold "season passes" and spread the fantasy around.
While making money (sort of an afterthought, it seems).
So, this is my expectancy. My baseline. Summer is a country. And I am its queen. And every single year of my life, I feel it. I love swimsuit cover-ups, beach balls, flip-flops, barbecue pork kept hot in the slow-cooker with onions, shaved ice, tree leaves shimmering under the stars, dancing, and sandy bare feet.
LaGuna Beach. Proof that the material world is much more malleable than conventional thinking would have us believe. That beauty is harnessed in the great unmanifest -- just waiting to run rampant. And that my mom and dad were magicians who loved each other like crazy.

(postlude)
Many years later, the City annexed the land and plotted a Landfill there. Dad went around town and got enough petitions to shut that down. The land is now part of "Sedgwick County Park."
The lake glistens and sways in the wind, those big old cottonwoods continue playing their rapturous tunes. And, guess what? The dance floor is still there! My sister and I recently found it as we trudged off-path to get up close to the lake.
And it is still half polished.

__ __ ___
LaGuna Beach Legacy; Jeannie Hund Jackson

Fairy Dust

This is me.  The little one in the middle.

Firmly supported between strength and tenderness.

And sprinkled daily with fairy dust.

The Western Kansas soil is barely tethered to the Earth.

Constant, ethereal winds lift, bless and sprinkle it back in place.

Dirt and Wind.  Earth and Heaven.

All swirling around the One Real Thing.  Love