Things Matter Too

I just finished reading a book - "The Things That Matter" by Nate Berkus, an interior designer made famous by his own work and his frequent appearances on the Oprah Winfrey show. Something he wrote struck a cord with me - enough that I copied this paragraph and stashed it in my "Think more about this File." He is talking about the things we have in our homes, the objects we choose to display:

"Each object tells a story and each story connects us to one another, and to the world. The truth is, things matter. They have to. They are what we live with and what we touch each and every day. They represent what we've seen, who we've loved, and where we hope to go next. They remind us of the good times and the rough patches and everything in between that's made us who we are."

Often we hear that things aren't important, that we shouldn't become attached to "stuff" but I have always been a little suspicious of this thinking and am feeling quite vindicated by his words. Several years ago I terminated a relationship with a decorator after she suggested that I " clear out" a shelf area of my living room where I continually rotate the "things" that matter to me. As I recall, she wanted to replace these things with "statement pieces" which she would select!

While Berkus doesn't write specifically about the things of Christmas, as I was decorating the house this week I certainly reflected on his words. As we unboxed the objects of Christmas, I was struck by how the history of our Christmas' unfolded before me: the felt banner I made the first year we were married; the angel that has topped every tree since I made it in 1971, the year we moved to our first house; the wreath I sewed using scraps of fabrics from other garments I had made. And then there are the tree ornaments - enough to cover several trees - gifts from friends and family, paper ornaments made by the girls in childhood, ornaments carefully carried home from faraway travels - each one tells a story, carries a memory.

As I carefully unwrapped each figurine of the Hummel Nativity set I inherited from my mother, I thought back to how joyfully she built this set in her later years, once commenting how happy it made her to know that I would treasure this collection and pass it on to my children. The only crèche we had while I was growing up was the cardboard set of the 50's - so many families had this fold-out stable that became worn and tattered by the love of many little hands through years. In addition to the Hummel set, I have acquired other nativity sets in travel and enjoy displaying them all.

Santa Bears are among the biggest "things" of Christmas at our house. First sold by the Daytons store in 1985 and issued every year for 20 + years after, these bears came to be the heralders of the season for us. They appear on St. Nicholas Day and disappear on Twelfth Night, all 28 of them! Each Santa Bear has a unique costume and it's hard to have a favorite, but I lean toward the "baker bear" who occupies a spot in my kitchen

Other "things that matter" at Christmas time include our collection of Swedish figurines. J and I bought the first ones in 1976 when we were in Denmark. We have lovingly added to the collection over the years during other travel and at annual visits to Ingebretsons Scandinavian Market in Minneapolis where we get our Christmas ham and lefse. N especially has delighted in these figurines and recently she asked if she could have the collection someday. I am pleased to know they matter to her, as much as they do to me!

And then there are the angels! Mother gave me Anri angels for several years during the time she worked at a religious store in Austin. They are beautifully crafted, but delicate, and a few show the years of display by sporting carefully repaired wings and halos! I also have a set of 6 angels, each standing no taller than an inch, each holding a musical instrument. These were given to me by my "secret Santa" during one of my college years and have been displayed during Christmas in some room of our home for the past 40+ years.

Looking around I see other things that matter - the needlepoint Christmas goose picture from good friend, G ; antique candle sticks made from parts of an old loom, a gift from P&R; a bird carving from D&M; Grandma K's antique sewing machine.

Things don't matter just because they've been around for a long time; there are more recent things, like the beautiful glass candle sticks from C, the amazing coffee table book of crèches that N gave me, or the growing collection of snowmen that occupy the display spaces in my kitchen. Just gazing on these things evokes a feeling of connection - to the people who gifted me, or to the places I've been, or the people I've met while acquiring these things.

These people matter - and so do these things.

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Soul Soothing Serenity

It's difficult to find serenity anywhere in this hectic world ( think economy, world chaos, election season) but we oohed and aahed our way to the Gunflint Trail on Tuesday taking in the magnificent fall colors around every bend of the North Shore drive. And when we arrived, serenity was waiting in our little log cabin on Loon Lake.

What matters is that we took the time to do something we have talked about for years. Every summer when we leave canoe country we talk about how nice it would be to see these land and lakescapes in autumn. We knew the vast outdoors would be ablaze in fall colors, and the air would be crisp and quiet, minus the people of summer. It was so.

We canoed one morning on the glass-like waters of Loon Lake, framed by golden aspen and birch made even brighter by the sun against a clear blue sky. Another cooler, cloudy, windy morning we hiked on the Border Trail to Crab Lake. I was struck by the changing landscape: fires in the area left some spots bleak with charred stumps and yet, a short walk beyond and we were in dense forest with all the colors and sounds of fall.

Driving further north along the Gunflint Trail, we were shocked and saddened by the devastation of the fire of 2007. We haven't been in this area since 1981 and were totally unprepared for what we saw. When these fires happen, they make the news for a few days and then are forgotten by those of us who only visit. Gunflint Lake where we once stayed was then surrounded by hills covered with trees - I remember the green was endless. Now these hills are nearly bare, with only "sticks" of tree trunks standing, looking like bones.

Continuing north along the trail, fire damage is visible as far as the eye can see. It is only when you stop to walk in the woods that you see the new growth and realize that nature survives and we mortals must only appreciate it in every form. It will take generations for all to be restored as it was, but there is still much beauty to savor as we wait.

It matters that we spent quiet time - reading, or just sitting in front of a wood burning stove in our cozy little log cabin, built in the 1920s. We marveled at the irony of wifi and playing scrabble on our cell phones in a log cabin approaching 100 years old. And I will remember (positively, I hope!) that it was on my iPad, in this cabin that we watched the first Presidential debate of the 2012 elections.

Our journey was complete with a stop for a blueberry pie at Betty's Pies on the North Shore, a stop for ice cream at Scoop's in Minong, and a final spectacular drive down rural roads of color in Wisconsin.

Every minute matters.

 

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Missing Mother

On the eve of my mother's first posthumous birthday, I realize that the real grieving for her is over, but the real missing her will never be. When a loved one suffers for a long time, close survivors experience a guilty sense of relief at the realization that their pain, and yours is over. My grief took the form of self-doubt and second-guessing: Did we make the right decision in moving her to assisted living in the last months of her life? Did we miss the signs that death was imminent and consequently failed to provide what she wanted most - to die at home, watching the birds at the feeder outside her front window? Did we fail to address her psychological needs because we were so fixated on her physical needs? I'll never know the answer to these questions and in letting go of my grief about how her life ended, I am most comforted by the words my sister-in-law, Angel spoke to me early last summer. Reflecting on her own experiences with the death of her parents she told me to learn to accept that no matter what I did, there would be regrets. And so I have. Missing mother is another thing. I was an only girl and sometimes that resulted in her being both mother and sister to me, especially at times in my adult life. I hadn't thought about this for awhile because in her last years of failing health she wasn't able to take long conversational walks with me, or shop endlessly for the right shoe, or even swap recipes or a good read. But when I see healthy, high-functioning women in their 80s and 90s, I can't help wishing that for us. Yes, I have an abundance of happy memories of my long and satisfying relationship with my mother and like the multitude of sympathy cards said, these memories do erase the pain of those last weeks. I'll be pouring over photo albums and scrapbooks tomorrow as I celebrate her long life, and realize how blessed I really am to have had her for 88 years.

What's a Good Catholic Girl to Do?

I've been thinking a lot lately about my beliefs, my life long Catholic faith and how we have been on a collision course for years. This latest crisis - the Archbishop's position on the proposed marriage amendment which is on the ballot in Minnesota this fall, and the recent papal attack on religious sisters in this country both sadden and dismay me.

A daughter of "staunch Catholics, " a product of sixteen years of Catholic education, I seldom questioned this part of me while I was growing up. But faith never comes without doubt and certainly I have had my share through the years. I remember my mother's reaction the first time I came home from college and told her that religion on a Catholic college campus surprisingly allowed debate, something that just didn't happen in our house as far as Catholicism was concerned. She was uncomfortable with the idea that I could disagree with my priest instructors, or argue points of their Sunday sermons. But I was attracted by the advancing liberal thinking of the late 60s, and even though I remained steadfastly on the sideline, I was appalled by my Catholic and supposedly Christian college that expelled a pregnant classmate and banned another from the graduation ceremony for witnessing a friend's wedding in a non-catholic church.

Married to my high school sweetheart, raised and educated in a similar Catholic manner, we slipped easily into what we thought would be a family faith life like what we had experienced. We moved to our first home and immediately offered to teach religion to parish kids who were in public school. We were amazed that only a couple of kids showed up and our efforts to really become a part of this new church failed on all fronts. We "parish shopped" for a few years and didn't find a real faith home until 10 years later, when our first child was born. Nothing connects you to a faith community like the baptism of an infant, and this was our way in. For the next 10 years we were solidly Catholic, immersed in parish activities and inspired by a pastor who gained the respect of our family. He was the only priest our girls ever really knew and with his help and a close parish community we navigated Catholicism successfully during those turbulent growing up years.

Of course there were doubts. N challenged my faith when she questioned being confirmed in a religion that denies real roles to women, getting right to the key issue of women priests. C once turned her innocent face up to me and asked if I really believed that small piece of bread was actually someone's body. I survived the terrible knowledge that priests abused innocent children and church leaders enabled this to continue by covering it up for years. I find myself at odds with other issues too: divorce and annulment, abortion, and other sexual rights issues, including homosexuality, contraception and now same sex marriage. We still financially support our parish but no longer will give money to the Archdiocease, not trusting the top leaders of our church who seem more focused on their own political agenda than the needs of their flock. And more and more I have come to believe that the real issue here is power, the male clerical hierarchy's ability to retain absolute power rests in it's success in controlling women.

I keep turning back to the life of Christ - isn't that what we Christians are really all about? I am compelled to read more about His life, to pray and to strengthen my relationship with Him through New Testament scripture in an effort to reconcile the big disconnect between what Church leaders today would have me believe, and what I believe Christ would do.

Recently I read a comment that those of us who disagree with current Church leadership should just go away, and find a religious congregation that shares our views on many of these contentious issues. But to deny me this Church is not possible. I am a baptized Catholic, confirmed in this faith, and sustained by the Eucharist. My Catholic Church does not "belong" to the clerical hierarchy and I am Catholic in ways that cannot be changed.
Thinking about where I go from here, reminds me of the bracelet people were wearing a few years ago that asked "what would Jesus do?" Right now prayer seems to be guiding me more in the direction of what He would do, than in what they say.
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Feng Shui or Phooey Shui

One of the metaphors my Feng Shui friend uses is that water represents money, and so perhaps the water flowing INTO my basement means I should buy a lottery ticket! More than likely though, this water is "moneyed" only in the sense that this drain tile project is costing us $7000!

The project actually went quite well. I arranged to be away for much of the day because I really couldn't bear listening to the jack hammers or seeing the utter destruction of the lower level of our home. There is a fine layer of dust on absolutely everything including the inside of the medicine cabinet in the UPSTAIRS bathroom. So, that's the downside of all this.

But there is an upside! It is yet another opportunity to continue on our mission to de-clutter. Forty-three years of marriage, two houses and two daughters later we have acquired a lot of stuff. And much we don't use or need any more. We acknowledge that the LPs and 45s we saved from our youth aren't really ever going to be worth much, judging from the thousands just like them listed on eBay. If we get rid of the vinyl there is no need to save the Fisher-Price record player, the only turntable we still owned. And the dishes, appliances and household items we held onto for our "someday" cabin can go too. J likes to say our cabin is in our kids, and more precisely in the tab for 16 years of private school tuition, times 2. It's a sure bet if we could ever afford a cabin, we could certainly afford to furnish it - and not with castoffs! The amazing thing is how united we are on this effort to downsize: Wall storage unit we have had since 1974 - gone; unused desk - out with it; extra toilet seat - who needs it; suitcases that don't twirl on wheels or for that matter, even roll - not taking any more trips with us! We have been almost giddy, cleaning out closets and clearing shelves. He questions my need to keep sewing patterns from the 70s and I wonder about the huge assortment of old clothes he keeps for camping and working out, but overall we have agreed on the three loads he has taken to Goodwill.

Is my house trying to tell me something?

I have a high school classmate who has become a successful Feng Shui lecturer, author and practitioner. She has an attractive website that I have visited a few times, more out of curiosity than real interest but one thing that caught my eye was the discussion of her book "Conversations with your home." I haven't actually read the book (not available at my library...) but it seems to be about the connection between us and our homes - how our lives are impacted by structural and spatial aspects of our living spaces, as well as the "stuff" we have and how it is organized and arranged. I admit to a few snickers at some of what I read.

But not any more. About a week ago we awoke to find our basement rec room carpeting soaked by water seeping in due to some eroded landscape and a blocked gutter. If my house is trying to tell me something, I have to confess to being a poor listener because this is the third or fourth time I have been in this situation, having lived in this house for over 30 years. I am feeling like I really should have parted with the $20 for that book!

All joking aside, it has been a stressful week. After our initial attempts to lift the very heavy carpeting and drag out the even heavier soaked padding we admitted defeat and called in the professionals. And after 24 hours of tough talk with ourselves we decided to really listen this time and have the basement drain tiled.

Right now I feel like I have prepped my house for surgery. Absolutely everything is boxed, furniture is moved to at least 4 feet from the perimeter and covered. The carpet is pulled back and the floor exposed, awaiting the jack hammers. I sure hope I heard my house right this time because it is too late to turn back now. Let's get this over with so we can all begin to heal our happy home.

Does a Birthday Matter?

Well, I suppose it really matters, and especially if you run out of birthdays! When I woke up on my birthday (April 2) earlier than desired, I didn't realize right away that it was my birthday. I was having a hard time falling back to sleep so I decided to think of each of the important people in my life, and try to recall a memory of a happy time with that person. It quickly turned into a fun exercise but I soon drifted off, with the sweet memories of cuddling the infant Benj and rocking him to sleep on sunny afternoons that first summer of his new life. When I awoke again it was at the sound of the ringing iphone and a call from N, and Facetime with her and Benjamin. His happy face appeared on the screen and he babbled something in a two year old voice that gets clearer everyday, and I am sure I heard him say "happy birthday, grandma." Nothing matters more than that.

Soon plans were in place for exercise, lunch with C and a visit to the Como Park Conservatory. C surprised me with the exercise/walking poles I have been wanting, and N sent a lovely vase of flowers. J encouraged me to schedule a massage. It was a fine birthday! (Let's leave out the call from the garage about the $400 car repair bill, and the clogged sewer in the basement bathroom!)

But I thought more about the the "happy exercise" that started my day and I think this merits revisiting often. We all have happy memories of special moments spent with family and friends and these are the times that matter. Like all the happy summer Fridays I spent shopping and then lunching out with my mother at the Woolsworth lunch counter, or maybe the Townhouse Restaurant on Main Street. She often let me pick out paper dolls, or maybe some new clothes. I could never understand how she would totally outfit me for Easter Sunday, and get nothing for herself, claiming she didn't really need or want anything. I realized in later years that she probably didn't have two Easter outfits in the family budget. It was during those days together that I grew to love her not only as a mother, but as a friend - a bond that lasted throughout her long life.

Or how about dad? How many of his pancakes have I eaten? And who else would even consider letting his college age daughter drive off in his brand new car to six weeks of summer school?
I wasn't close to my dad growing up, in the ways Jim was close to Nicole and Claire but our adult relationship has been very satisfying.

J - I picture him in our first year of marriage, my young husband hiding all his fear as he joked about my balding head - the grim result of several weeks of radiation treatment for cancer. I was depressed on that bright spring day and he suggested that maybe if I sat in the sun, and he watered my head, my hair would grow.

N brings a smile to my face in countless memories but none matters more than the day Benjamin was born and she turned to me and said, "mom, this is just about the best thing I have ever done."

And C once erased all the doubts I had about interracial adoption which she told me that she didn't mind so much that she didn't look like me, her sister, or her dad. "I just wish you all looked more like me." It matters enormously to me that she is happy as an adopted daughter in a family that doesn't share her ethnicity, but loves her unconditionally.

These things matter.

Pulling for Suleika Really Matters

Today an article in the New York Times "Life Interrupted, Facing Cancer in Your Twenties" flooded me with memories and prompted me to post on the young woman's blog. Suleika Jaouad is only 22 and has been receiving treatment for leukemia for the past 7 months. I am reminded again that a fully lived life embraces not just the joys but finds meaning in the sorrows too. She is a total stranger, but she matters to me a great deal:

"I was 23, a new college graduate, only months into my first professional position and one year into my marriage with my high school sweetheart when I was diagnosed with Hodgkins Disease in 1969. Now at 66 I look back at a life long linked to the medical world - the disease itself, years of treatment and then more treatment for the problems resulting from the treatment! A second, and third cancer. It's a terrible way to grow up fast and I will never know why I was one of the "lucky" ones to survive. I vividly recall those memories I have about my peers at the time - I had no desire to share in their adventures and happy times, no wish to hold their newborn babies, fearing I may never have my own. But you sound like a survivor and it is important to keep hope alive and have faith in the advances of medicine, the love of friends and family, and believe in yourself.
I was prompted to write these words today because once when I was in the hospital someone asked me "what is the most encouraging thing people can say to you?" And I remember my response: "Just tell me about someone who survived all this - about someone who got better and lived to go to graduate school, have a career, travel, buy a house, bear a child, adopt another." I took such hope and strength from stories of survival and there weren't as many back then. I want to bring you hope - that you recover your well-self and live the life you dream, and contribute to this world in the ways we all need you to.
March 29, 2012 at 11:59 a.m.

Little Black Bag

Dressing up isn't something I get to do very often. Now that I am retired I miss getting dressed up the way I did every day for all the years I worked in the library. Once retired, I even took a job working a few hours a week at a local department store so that I could have a reason to get dressed up and go somewhere. I was very disappointed when a rule went into effect last year requiring sales associates to wear all black to work.
That's why I really look forward to the annual black tie fundraising event (Merrie Market) which is held at Visitation School. It's a chance to bring out the pretty dresses and shoes, and even wear hose! For months I have been watching a faux fur leopard jacket at work go slowly down to the "price is right" and it was the perfect topper for my little black dress.
But the real"piece de resistance" was my black beaded bag. When I carefully removed it from the box where I store those special things I treasure, but rarely use, I had a flashback to my sophomore year in college and the Christmas that my roommate gave me that bag. I remember at the time it seemed like such a random gift, something I really didn't need and couldn't imagine using. But now, looking back on nearly 45 years, I realize how many times I have clutched that bag, stuffed it with tissues for tears of joy or sorrow, and remembered my friend.

What's in a Name?

It matters that we get to see B every month. That was the goal we set when N first announced her pregnancy, knowing that having our grandchild live in Chicago would be a challenge. But after 22 months and many miles by cars, trains and planes, we are making it work. He has been calling J "Papa" for awhile but only during our last visit did he "name" me when he clearly said "Ahma." This was after I slipped him a few m&ms and I believe what he said was "Ahma? Candy?" I am not above resorting to such trickery to win the affections of my grandson!

I have often been amused by my friends who discuss what they wish to be called in their new role of grandparent. Amused, because it seems we will be called what the child decides! B has a bigger task here because both of his grandpas are Jim, and so far they are both "Papa." I have noticed that B can actually say "grandma" but I find Ahma utterly charming and hope he sticks with it!

Location:Bohland Ave,St Paul,United States