"Go West!"

The legend of Johnny Appleseed, thanks in part, 

to Walt Disney, has come to children of all ages and it has planted more than apple seeds. I love the songs that made the movie come alive with lessons easy to learn. One of the songs has been teasing me lately. It’s the one that starts, “Get on the wagon going West, out to the great Unknown...Get on the wagon going West, or you’ll be left alone.”

Even the sun appears to go West and I’m thinking that the famous Christmas star led the “Wise Men from the East” westward in their search for the Messiah. So, would that mean progress leads westward literally? 

Without getting too tangled up in geography, let’s assume that the progress of mankind is symbolized by the West. In our time it would seem that progress has led to greater freedom. Tying in to the story of the prodigal son in the Bible could it also mean that the freedom to go west, even into a “far country,” can teach us through trial and error the true definition of freedom? Western society with its broad offerings of right and wrong

 often presents a wide path to destruction. It shows that happiness is lost in “riotous living,” licentiousness behavior, lawlessness and wickedness. Yet that very extremity can prove to be God’s opportunity. 

The grand awakening to a kingdom of heaven within is something we can learn of and live by. We often chafe at the restrictions of law, but experience shows us the freedom that obedience to divine law, while seemingly restrictive at first, opens onto a highway above the dangers of selfishness, ignorance, hate and the ills of error. It bridges over the catastrophes we cannot avoid with a willingness to awake to divine answers. 

The saying, “Go West, young man!” is controversial in origin, and no doubt the literal implications of betterment can be argued, but I’m going to see what I can glean from the idea of a westward way. We could literally avoid the night if we did not stop in our western path. What does it mean to “Go West?” Are we following the Star of Bethlehem, the promise of a birth of our own divinity, preceded by that of the prophets of old and Christ Jesus, or the lure of the fool’s gold of our own selfish desires? 

When I weary of how the world seems to be going according to today’s media, I can only try to figure it all out with the help of the wise men and women of all ages. It’s good to believe that the kingdom of Heaven is within us as Christ Jesus declared. In the lives of most of the survivors of old age I’d like to know we can rise above any circumstance with that promise and “get on the wagon,” West, East? Or within? 

So, when that old demon calling itself death stalks me with questions like when, where and how? I say, “I have no time for you! I’m on the wagon going West! You can just stay in the ditch!” 

Of course, like Johnny Appleseed, I’ve got to see what good I have to plant along the way. Seeds of Love? Truth? Compassion?  And I need to watch out for seeds of weeds like ...well, you know what I mean. Leave them in last night’s bonfire.

Day Dreaming Again of Feathers for Me?

Sometimes when I get tired of doing what I probably should be doing I turn to day dreaming. Then one of those day dreams may flag me down saying, "Blog about me!" So, I may consent and see what comes of it. What shall I write about now? The subject just came to me, as it usually does the minute I ask. But why feathers? Because if I were destined to come to earth next time in another species after my sojourn here as a human what species might I choose? I am quite sure I’d choose to be a bird.

Not a big bird but a smallish one that sings beautifully. I’d like to be a part of a community of its kind. I’d like to go to sleep at night in a tree where many others of my kind gather at twilight to exchange stories of our day and cuddle up on a branch next to others with our feathers all puffed up to shut out that day and say goodnight with a thank you to our bird-God for seeing us safely through. 

I used to watch that happen on evenings when I waited for Wally G, my Marine husband. After a day’s work he was ready to serve as a counselor at the little white chapel on the Marine base at Cherry Point, No. Carolina. That’s when he’d talk with the enlisted men and women who needed some comfort after a hard day of drills and exercises meant to toughen them for real battles to come. They were young and strong but they were barely out of boyhood and the comforts of home and family were sorely missed. Wally was good at helping them find fresh acquaintance with God and the spiritual rest and assurance needed in that rugged path they’d fallen into. He’d been through those feelings, hiding pain and needing the comfort he himself was learning to find in the Holy Bible's spiritual refuge. 

I, on the other hand, would have had a busy day myself as a mother of three, keeping house, laundering clothes, cooking, taxiing kids to music lessons, ball practices, gymnastics and such. Only a homemaker mom can know how many are the little and large tasks that confront a mother’s day. My relief often came in the form of finding a peaceful place to day dream. A few minutes would do it. That small sanctuary of time waiting in the car with the windows down gave me nothing more to do than watch the birds settle into the big tree across the path and listen to them as they exchanged accounts of their day in lively bird chirp fashion. Or were they merely jostling for places? I’d wish so much I could know! What was it that animated them so? The tree was fairly alive and jumping!

Then gradually, stories told, positions claimed, things would quiet down until only a few chirps could be heard. At last, though I couldn’t see them, I knew their little heads were being tucked under their wings because all the urgency and excitement was toning down except for those few who had to get in the last word. Then I got a taste of the meaning of serenity! What peace!

I wish I could find a tree like that again where birds gather to spend the night. I felt privileged just to be there listening and watching and feeling a-kin to the feathered flock. Maybe if I could find such a tree again the birds would tell me their secrets. What is it like being a bird? 

Tommy, my canary, has been with me for nearly five years and he hasn’t been able to tell me even though I’ve asked him over and over. But he does greet me with a special double chirp when I come home. And he talks to his image in the little cage mirror and at times even scolds that fellow. If I’ve forgotten to bring him his afternoon apple treat he lets me know with a repeated chirp that sounds increasingly demanding. 

Dogs seem to do best at communication with humans. But I don’t want to be a dog. To be honest, not even a bird. But I’d love to feel a little more a-kin to Tommy and if I could sing like him? Now that would be a feather in my cap! Somewhere in my yesteryear I heard a man at a county fair who could do that. I was so impressed! Does anyone imitate bird song nowadays? If so, why haven’t I heard them on U-Tube or anywhere? 

Time to stop day-dreaming. It’s a quiet day here in my neighborhood. What are the others doing? Maybe I’ll find out at dinner tonight. Come to think of it, the dining room where we show up at five p.m. for dinner often sounds a bit like that bird-tree. Do you think for a minute a bird might wonder what we talk about? Or ask us in bird language what it's like to be human?

In a little while I’ll be wishing I could tuck my head under my wing to shut out the evening news on TV. If only I could find a tree where the birds gather for the night, I’d gladly go there and listen to their news instead of ours. And just think of how beautiful I'd be, already dressed. in the morning  in colorful feathers that take me on a fly-by of the neighborhood! 

  

"Go West!"

The legend of Johnny Appleseed, thanks in part to Walt Disney, has come to children of all ages and it has planted more than apple seeds. I love the songs that made the movie come alive with lessons easy to learn. One of the songs has been teasing me lately. It’s the one that starts, “Get on the wagon going West, out to the great Unknown...Get on the wagon going West, or you’ll be left alone.”

Even the sun appears to go West and I’m thinking that the famous Christmas star led the “Wise Men from the East” westward in their search for the Messiah. So, would that mean progress leads westward literally? 

Without getting too tangled up in geography, let’s assume that the progress of mankind is symbolized by the West. In our time it would seem that progress has led to greater freedom. But tying in to the story of the prodigal son in the Bible, could it also mean that the freedom to go west, even into a “far country,” can teach us through trial and error the true definition of freedom? Western society with its broad offerings of right and wrong often presents a wide path to destruction. It shows that happiness is lost in “riotous living,” licentiousness behavior, lawlessness and wickedness. Yet that very extremity can prove to be God’s opportunity. 

The grand awakening to a kingdom of heaven within is something we can learn and live by. We often chafe at the restrictions of law, but experience shows us the freedom that obedience to divine law, while seemingly restrictive at first, opens onto a highway above the dangers of selfishness, ignorance, hate and the ills of error. It bridges over the catastrophes we cannot avoid with a willingness to awake to divine answers. 

The saying, “Go West, young man!” is controversial in origin, and no doubt the literal implications of betterment can be argued, but I’m going to see what I can glean from the idea of a westward way. What does it mean to “Go West?” Are we following the Star of Bethlehem, the promise of a birth of our own divinity, preceded by that of the prophets of old and Christ Jesus, or the lure of the fool’s gold of our own selfish desires? 

When I weary of how the world seems to be going according to today’s media, I can only try to figure it all out with the help of the wise men and women of all ages. It’s good to believe that the kingdom of Heaven is within us as Christ Jesus declared. In the lives of most of the survivors of old age I’d like to know we can rise above any circumstance with that promise and “get on the wagon,” West, East? Or within? 

So, when that old demon calling itself death stalks me with questions like when, where and how it may get the best of me, I say, “I have no time for you! I’m  going West! You can just stay in the ditch!” 

Of course, like Johnny Appleseed, I’ve got to see what good I have to plant along the way. Seeds of Love? Truth? Compassion?  And I need to watch out for weed seeds like ...well, you know what I mean. Let's just leave them behind in last night’s ashes of our bonfire.

My China Pig and Other Things I Love

My mother once told me I should not say I love things. “You love God and people,” she said. “You just like things.” But I’m not so sure Mother was right.

There’s a small fat china pig on four tall wire legs standing on a small table in my living room. She brings a smile to my face whenever I stop to look at her. I found her in a little out of the way shop called Hog Hollow in St. Louis County about fifteen years ago. My hubby thought me silly to spend $16. on that pig but I couldn’t help myself. She looked so whimsical and she still does. She needed a home and love. I just had to buy her.

I’ve always liked pigs and at one time I might even have considered getting one of those small sized real pigs as a pet, but I never stumbled on one. I’m afraid dear hubby would have balked big time at that idea!

My china Pig has made it through many moves since then and she’s just one of the many things in my home that gives me smiles. My real live red (really carrot-red) canary whom I named “Tommy Tucker” sings beautifully and not just for his supper as the nursery rhyme Tommy. He’s simply a happy little feathered fellow who sings for reasons of his own and his song makes me happy. 

All the things I treasure in my home, the pictures and lamps, the pillows and clocks, books and other memorabilia are more than things to me. Each has a living memory to be cherished.  I remember where and when it came into my home and now and then I take a few minutes to give each one the loving attention it deserves. I have moved too often to have kept anything that doesn’t spark a tug at my heart. Although all my things may seem like too much to the casual looker, I insist I’ll take them with me into heaven itself unless I can give them to others who will care as much. You can imagine how I feel when I step into a thrift shop where the orphaned ones dwell for a time and are crying out to be loved again! Nearly as pathetic as going into an animal shelter! 

I have no apology for loving things. They are so quietly persuasive. Of course I love people more, but people as my housemates? Not many would fit into my little nest. Still I seldom feel lonely. I have only to look around and if I find a broken heart among my souvenirs I let divine Love mend it so that it will never know it ever had been broken. 

They say “You can’t take it with you.” Not anything. I’m not so sure about that. I have a big attic in my heart’s home where I can find any number of things that aren’t here anymore. There’s my little red tricycle and my Radio Flyer wagon. My sled, my dolly that I called Flossy, my collection of children’s books, my first grade class room where I proudly claimed my first desk. The French horn I played in the high school band. The house I grew up in that stood a-top a country hill. And the wee chapel where I was married in the Riverside Mission Inn.

If you ever think life is barren, broken, gone, just sneak into your memory attic and look for all the good things you’ve ever had. They are still there. Never mind the ghosts. They can’t stand the light of love.  

The Laguna Tic Bit Me Again!

I went back in time yesterday. That’s what it feels like whenever I wind down through the canyon road that leads to the other side of the rim of foothills behind Laguna Beach. There are four houses in the Cliff section  that I’ve called my home at times ranging from 1937 through 1975. Do I wish I’d stayed in any one of them? How would my life story have read today if I had?

Well, my favorite town definitely was Laguna Beach. Even though it has kept much of its charm from my childhood days it is polished and still the same “ten miles long and six inches wide.” That is simply a geographical fact and no doubt one that has helped to keep it unique.  

“Where shall we go for lunch, Mom?” My weekly date with Robin, my daughter, hadn’t taken us to Laguna Beach in a long time so we decided quickly. Lunch at a special place is usually a part of our day.

“If I could have my pick of places I’d choose Trotter’s Bakery,” I said. 

Robin agreed. “Me too. Who could forget those ham and cheese sandwiches on rye bread we used to take to the beach? They were warm and so filled with thin slices you could hardly open your mouth wide enough to take the first bite.”

“And don’t forget the aromatic mustard and delicious giant dill pickle too!” I added. But many years ago Trotter’s had been taken over by a fancy gourmet restaurant. “It might seem traitorous, but let’s try that one,” I said. And we did. We sat right by the sidewalk with only a half partition to keep us separate from mothers with baby strollers, friendly dogs and shaggy old-timers as well as young laughing teens clad scantily and heading toward the beach. The ambiance, service by a charming young woman and superb food were great.

Afterwards we went shopping and I bought a pair of shoes that cost me what three pairs might have in my usual shops, but they promise to be easy on my feet and they’re not clunky but good looking as well. In quest of a garden watering can we ended up at the old Coast Hardware store that “has everything” we were told. I didn’t buy one but went out with a new clock, a potato masher and two paperback books about Laguna Beach in the early days.

“There’s a picture of me and my mother in this one,” I told Robin. “We’re in the crowd standing on the curb as President Franklin D. Roosevelt went through town back in July of 1938.” With the help of a magnifying glass Robin found me. “Yup, that’s you all right, Mom! You must have been about twelve then, right?”

I couldn’t decide between the books so I bought both and now I’m going to have to ration my time perusing them because, well, it’s been so long since I spent my junior high school days there I want to savor every page and picture. 

I’d gladly have lived in Laguna Beach all my life if I could have but we did land there at the end of Wally’s Marine flight career and stayed for fifteen years when our three kids were going to school. We all picked up the “Laguna tic”as the old-timers said we would. 

But had we stayed I’d have missed those eight years on our Oregon ranch, the three in our lakeside home in Bellevue Washington, the seven near Robin’s little family in Laguna Niguel after Wally G. died, the three in my old hometown of Preston, Minnesota, the eight with Robby, my second hubby, in Chesterfield, Missouri, the four in Santa Barbara after he passed, and my latest five in Laguna Hills. 

Laguna Beach now shares its first name with all the other Laguna cities that have sprung up where bare hills, strawberry fields and orange groves claimed the lands in back of the hills behind Laguna Beach. What has grown up here since those early days? Cities, suburbs, and spreading crops of skyscrapers, not to mention the labyrinth of packed freeways and an international airport. 

My little community here at The Willows is quiet and homey and lovely. I’m glad to be near my beloved Laguna Beach so I can see her, reminisce as I taste the salt air, bask by the beach and stroll her quaint streets. Through all the years she has managed to keep her charm, but golly those books I bought sure make me feel old! (But better!)

The Game of "What If?"

I don’t know if there is a game called “What If?” This little piece of mine is not meant to plagiarize the name if there is, but it sounds like it might be a fun parlor game. On the other hand, if you bother to read this you may agree that my particular “What if?” would take more time than an after dinner fun game. It’s far too serious than that. My question would be, What if Eve had not eaten of the “Tree of the knowledge of good and evil” and tempted Adam to do so too? Would they have become bored to death having all things handed to them on a platter? Not needing to labor either in the fields for food or in procreation to have children? Would they still be living in an old age of 6,000 and some years of relative retirement? Or might they have then eaten of the “Tree of Life?” Would they have found all children born of God?

Silly questions I suppose, but they bring to bear another question. Would it have been the loss of that thing called “free will” we think so highly of? Sure, we’d have been spared the pain of wrong choices and chance, but would it have made us practical robots of a “Lord God?” 

Knowing the world’s constant dangers and warfare, strife and terror, would we choose the better option of foregoing the fruit of the tree of knowledge of good and evil and passing it up for the tree of Life? 

In thinking about this I know my choice would be to be obedient to the Lord God’s warning. Only, I’d have to ask, “Why did you allow the good and bad tree to grow in the garden in the first place? Why did you present such a temptation to snare your children into slavery and a world of pain and short-lived pleasures? If You are the good God you’d like us to believe, why would you make life take place in a wild and dangerous wilderness? Even I am a kinder soul than to put my kids into a school where there are countless wrong options to every one right one.”

Now I’m asking myself what can I learn from this allegory which is so unlike the record of creation in the first chapter of Genesis? That God was not some tribal “lord” but a good God, a one and only God, who sees darkness as only a first impression on the “face” of creation, sort of like a cloud or mirage that presents an initial misconception needing only light to penetrate the darkness and ignorance and reveal the truth of being.

I’m thinking now that this earthly schoolroom is merely the way God, divine Truth, Life and Love encourages His children to take on more of His light in order to get through the initial "dark glass" so we can see clearly out of the “Valley of the shadow of death.” Maybe we’re like His children playing in the streets but learning in both school and home. We find here that we must daily choose the paths to take but it’s not hard when we are obedient to maps the successful pioneers have drawn for us. 

The Bible says that God rewards us for choosing His way and following it as they did. With long life will I satisfy them and show them my salvation, He promises. To me that implies that if we need more time and are given it, I’ll buy that. I’ve done my share of lagging behind. I want to be ready for the next grade in this "school." I’ve got some make-up homework to do. I’ll need a good lamp as well as my own light and plenty of extra oil because it’s beginning to look a bit dark out there!

So you won’t find me complaining about old age. There’s time for me and you too if we keep shining. Our light comes from on high but we need to do a lot of letting it be! A friend of mine, well along in years, once said to me, "These are good years to figure out the meaning of life." I agreed then and especially now.  So, get out your old rockin' chair too. Or think about it with your hands in the dishwater. When you're in the shower or saying your good night prayers. I'm finding it beats solitaire or old movies. And it keeps your mind on pleasant prospects. 

Old Rocking Chair's Got Me

What’s happened to that old-school kind of girl who used to blog? Well, she’s been taking time out for simple sitting sessions. When the days are sunny and the air is so still you can hear every bird within a block or two, then I’m beginning to see the virtue and honor of that old rocker’s company.  Along with gentle rocking comes a sort of rhythm of the universe. No need to think too hard. No need to figure things out by myself. Just relax and soak up all things that speak harmony. Declare along with the old song, “He’s got the whole world in His hands, He’s got the whole wide world in His hands. He’s got the whole world in His hands, yes, the whole world in His hands.”

I go out to the patio to give the rocker the kind of company it wants whenever the weather is pleasant. When it’s more comfortable to stay in I have another rocking chair. Whatever comes to mind that might worry me or distress me, I just do some letting go in one of my rockers. This involves exactly what it says. I don’t try to sweep the current worries, the “elephants” out of the room, I just refuse to be concerned about them. If they are things I should be concerned about I simply acknowledge that I’m willing to do what needs to be done when the time is right. Patience and promise don’t mind a little procrastination. Someone once said, “The right thing at the wrong time is no longer the right thing.” I don’t believe we need to feel guilty about things yet to be done. Just let the spirit move and when it does you’ll feel sincerely good about doing them. 

A great religious leader, Mary Baker Eddy, has said that “God rests in action.” We know He never sleeps, so He must. Ego of the right sort need not push us around and wear us out. Life is a great ride when we do the right thing at the right time. Will power is not the virtue it’s cracked up to be in my book and a good rocking chair session can inspire me to do or not to do as well as how and when to do the good thing.

So, frequent sessions with my rocking chair have been recharging me. They’ve helped me let in the light of gratitude and love and truth and I’m inspired, well on my way without pain, prodding and punishment. 

My patio rocker I bought at a small wild bird feed farm in southern Minnesota near where I grew up. The proprietor and owner was a young man whose farm served to provide him and his family a simple country life, a thriving business and contact with customers who didn’t mind traversing the winding and rugged dirt road to get there. 

When I saw the plain wooden rocking chair in his barn sales room and commented on how great it would look on my porch he said, “Try it out and see how comfortable it is. It was made by an elderly Amish fellow who constructs only one a year in his spare time.” That was in 1993 and of course I felt myself to be the one that year it was built for. I never met the crafter but can easily picture him, long white hair, long beard as well, and work-worn hands. I wonder about the others he built. Mine has been on my porch or patio ever since and is still as sturdy as new. but now it’s in need of a fresh coat of varnish or paint. As I take out times to rock in that chair I feel the time to get it refinished is not far off but am I the one to do it? We’ll see. 

The new leather rocker in the house is also used for watching television or reading. It is far less simple and, yes, even spiritual, than the weathered wooden one. The job of giving the Amish man’s chair its due may find its answer in one of my sunny sessions as I rock in tune with the angels. I’ll let you know when and how it happens. In the meantime my old rocker will never complain. It's just not in its nature to do that, and when I'm  sittin' and a-rockin' with it, even I have not a care in the world. I'd be ashamed to complain!