Pamela Stead Jones

“An intense anticipation itself transforms possibility into reality; our desires being often but precursors of the things which we are capable of performing.”

— Samuel Smiles

Maybe it is because I spend a good portion of my waking life dreaming, but I rarely remember my dreams.  I know that I have them, because there are so many times when I will awaken in the morning with a solution to a problem in my mind.  I can only assume that my mind is working while I sleep and using that time which is free of distractions to put the pieces together. Last night I had a very restless night.  I don’t remember dreaming in the few hours that I actually slept, and I didn’t wake up with any profound answers today.  Instead, I spent the night in a state of anticipation; and the excitement kept me awake.

For the past month, I have been focused on a project.  Today just may be the day that I wrap it up and complete the process of transforming possibility into reality; and there was no room in my mind for anything but the excitement and anticipation of what today would bring.  If I were a child, I would say that it felt like Christmas Eve, when I would awaken at 3:00 AM with the realization that morning was still hours away.  I would lie in the darkness and will the clock to tick faster, knowing that the sand in my hourglass had turned to molasses that clung to each second and tried not to pass.

Anticipation, as part of the creative process, is like the labor that precedes the birth of a child.  It takes place at the end of a long season of gestation, a lot of planning, and a sharp focus that keeps us ever looking toward the outcome.  By the time we reach the onset of labor, we should be tired; but something kicks in that sends adrenaline coursing through us and prepares us for the moment of birth.

As I awoke from my last hour of restless sleep today, I was filled with anticipation.  To a degree, I feel this every morning; but today it was so palpable that the air around me seemed to hum with the energy of being truly alive.  Great things lie ahead today, I can feel it.  May you know the wild energy of anticipation today.  May your possibilities become realities.  May your dreams come true.

Every now and then I run across a word whose sound carries more for me than a finite meaning.  One of those words is “fallow.”  It is often used in explanations of crop rotation to describe a plot of land that is plowed but not planted and then allowed to rest for a time in order for its fertility to increase or return.  It rests so that its potential to nurture and grow and create will expand.  When applied to agricultural science, the meaning is very specific.  When the melodious sound of “fallow” touches my ear, its meaning expands.

I see my mind as a field.  It has been plowed and is ready for planting.  I have chosen carefully from my past experiences and decided which seeds to sow in orderly rows.  They will produce the crops that interest me — ideas and stories and songs and poems.  The soil is rich and filled with all the good nutrients needed for these plants to grow and flourish.  It requires a bit of self-discipline, but I stop planting before the whole field is filled.  I leave a part of the soil to wait and to rebuild and to grow future crops, the ones I have not yet chosen.  It lies fallow.  Fallow means empty of crops.  Fallow means full of potential.  The fallow mind is the place where nothing is known and anything is possible.

We must keep a part of us fallow so that when the winds of mystery blow they might carry an unknown seed to the waiting soil.  If it is rested and restored and fertile, there is no telling what might grow there.  We have no need to plant in the fallow field.  It is a quiet place that rests instead of working, that listens instead of speaking, that opens itself to more than the plans we make and the ideas that already have taken root in our lives.  Walk softly today to your fallow field.  Feel the breeze that blows mystery all around; and if you are lucky enough to discover something beautiful growing there, pay attention.  Water it, nurture it, and see what wonder can enter your life if only you remember to leave the space for something unknown.

“Love built on beauty, soon as beauty, dies.”

— John Donne

It happened again yesterday, as it does from time to time.  I walked past a full-length mirror and caught a glimpse of myself at the start of my seventh decade.  ’How did that happen?’ I thought as I surveyed the lumps and bumps and sags and bulges that now adorn my body,’ ‘and where is that porcelain complexion that I took for granted fifty years ago?’  I suppose it’s the curse that comes along with not seeing people based on their external appearance.  I suppose it would be to my benefit to face the mirror a bit more often and make a bit of an effort not to offend the eyes of others who must gaze on my beauty.

I look back to the days when I lived in a body that was untouched by all those years of living.  My muscles were taut, my skin fit them perfectly, my hair flowed blonde and shining in the sunlight.  My clothes were much smaller back then; and I must say that I was confident that I met the standards of acceptable appearance.  It never occurred to me at the time that such things might get in the way of finding lasting love; but I can see now that great outer beauty might present such a distraction that it would be difficult to allow our true beauty to outshine it.

We live in a culture where the emphasis is always on youth and beauty.  Women my age who bear the sags and wrinkles of having lived many years, are encouraged to cover their appearance with makeup and plastic surgery.  We are told to remake ourselves in a youthful image so that we can continue to be accepted as worthwhile members of society.

I face the mirror once again.  I see the apron of skin that sags below my waistline and find myself filled with memories of the babies who inhabited my womb and stretched my skin to accommodate their growth before they burst into the world.  I see the not so perky breasts that fed those babies and no longer are full as they were in those days.  I see the lines in my face, indelibly etched by laughter and smiles and then carved deeper by tears of loss.

I have lived a beautiful life; and now that I am unburdened of wearing my beauty only on the surface, I spend most of my days exploring its depths and boring tunnels to bring it to the surface.  When the deep beauty of the soul no longer is masked by the transient beauty of the body, its light shines with such a radiance that there is no need to mourn the loss of our youth.

Let your beauty shine.  Shed the skin that hides it and release your burden.  Build your love on that which cannot die.

“Memories are the treasures that we keep locked deep within the storehouse of our souls, to keep our hearts warm when we are lonely.”

– Becky Aligada

Today is a day of remembering.  One-hundred-twenty-six years ago today, a tiny baby was born.  She was tiny because it was not yet time for her to arrive.  Nobody expected her to live.  She was born in the winter of 1886, in the plains of Illinois, and her parents lined a small shoebox with a blanket and set her by the fire to keep her warm.  The doctor stopped by the next morning, death certificate in hand, prepared to enter the time she had died on his paperwork.

I suppose you have guessed by now that the baby made it through the night.  Actually, she made it through nearly ninety-four years of days and nights until she died on my birthday in 1979.  She was my great-aunt, Ethel Matthews, known to us as Essie.

There are people who come and go in our lives and touch our hearts in special ways.  Essie came and then departed from my world, and she left her mark indelibly etched on my soul.  We connected in ways that transcend age.  Our personal music seemed to resonate in harmony through our shared love for all things in nature, for words, and for puzzles.  We shared a family, a home, and even a bedroom for a time; and I carry her with me still.

Each January 23, when the cold of winter blows all around, I think of the baby so tiny that her father’s wedding band could slide over her elbow and fit on her arm.  I think of the way that this baby who was given no chance to survive the night outlived her whole family and built a life and a home for the people she loved.  I think of all the warm memories she created out of her love and grace and faith in the goodness of simply being alive.

Happy Birthday, Essie!  I pull a sweater around my shoulders, close my eyes, and carry a little stool over to your fire.  Ahhh!  The memories are nice and warm and fill me up with joy.

I slept in this morning.  This is a rare event, and it only occurs once or twice each year.  As I think back to the other times, I realize that this often takes place when it snows overnight.  There is something hypnotic about the way falling snow muffles the sounds on the street that puts me deep into a dreamy state of sleep.  I awoke to four inches of white covering everything.  My first thought was how nice it was to have this snow on a Saturday when we have nowhere to go.  My second thought was the realization that my Favorite Child had left at 7AM for an early shift at work, which meant that it was my responsibility to take the puppy for his morning walk.  I pulled the covers tightly around my chin and tried to will myself back to sleep, but I knew there was no escaping it — I would just have to layer up and make my way to the park.

I have to admit that once I was on my feet, which were in double socks and insulated boots, I felt a bit excited to step out into the first snow of winter.  Patches led the way; and the minute his paws hit the white stuff, I knew this would be no meditative walk that would lead me into the quiet inner spaces of my winter self.  With a leap and two bounds, the cocker spaniel catapulted into the backyard.  He jumped so high that for a moment I thought his leash might be a kite string and that I would have to reel him in when our walk was done.  I gave a tug, and caught his eye, and soon we were moving on all six feet toward the park.

Cocker spaniels lead with their noses, and soon Patches’ nose was crusted in snow.  It didn’t seem to bother him one bit, and I have to admit that I soon forgot about the snow that was collecting in the hair along the edge of my ski cap.  We spotted one of his puppy friends, and soon the two dogs were frolicking and leaping, their paws leaving trails over every square foot of snow in the park.

As I watched them play, fully committed to the moment, it reminded me of the years when my children were small and they would come to the kitchen door looking like abominable snowmen after fifteen minutes of rolling in the snow.  I also remembered my own childhood and the excitement of waking in the morning to a world turned white.  Without a silly puppy to lick my face, I probably would have missed out on the wonder, the thrill, and the unbridled joy of blazing the first trail through the first snow of winter.

Someone once asked me if I knew how to eat an elephant.  As I sat and pondered the question, she shared the answer:  One bite at a time.

There it was.  She had presented a seemingly imponderable question and then provided the obvious truth that would lead to completing the task at hand.  Wisdom sometimes tells us that there are very large tasks that need to be done; but wisdom is only the beginning of accomplishment.  Next comes skill, and skill must be developed through practice.  We must try and fail, try and succeed, until we become adept at the art required to take us through the task.  Wisdom and skill provide us with the plan and the tools for approaching our life’s work, but they are only the beginning.

How often do we spend years pondering the truth of wisdom and then become comfortable in the company of our own philosophy, adding to it each day but never letting it move into action and be tested?  How often do we make the decision to put our wisdom to work and then become stuck in a perfectionist loop of practicing our skills over and over so that when we approach the challenge we will do it flawlessly?

This is why we need virtue.  Virtue grows in the sort of character that can accept that flawless only exists in the land of thinking and planning.  Virtue lies in accepting our limitations and then forging ahead toward the challenges of life with the satisfaction that our wisdom and skill will be enough to see us through.  Virtue rises from its chair, rolls up its sleeves and begins to nibble at the elephant, one bite at a time.  It refuses to give up, even when it needs to stop and catch its breath from time to time.  It doesn’t fret about the scraps of pachyderm that may lie under the table and need a cleanup.  And the best part of all is the way that Virtue, with all his practicality and elbow grease teaches us more about the wisdom that gave birth to our effort and more about the skills necessary to complete the job.

Whatever your elephant might be, tie on your napkin, grab a fork, and dig in.  There is virtue in learning that although we are not perfect, we are more than good enough to face a challenge and see it through.

2012 is now eighteen days old.  It is nearly impossible to be alive and alert this year and not hear predictions that the world will end when the Mayan calendar expires.  Doom and gloom prophecies seem to pop up everywhere these days, and it sometimes seems that there are people who would take comfort in the idea that their struggle may soon be over.  Throughout history there have been people who have predicted the end of the world again and again, yet here we still stand on a planet whose changes are undeniable and whose challenges can cause us to wonder whether this just might be the time when the prophets are correct.

If 2012 has our attention, I say that is a good thing.  Like others my age, I have lived a life buffered by the human inventions that shelter me from the harsh realities of nature.  I awoke this winter morning to a warm house, and I didn’t have to search for firewood last night to assure that my heat source would burn until morning.  Last summer, I could turn on the air conditioner and take a break from the heat if it became uncomfortable.  My region of the country, and even my part of the world, has been free of nature’s fury for most of my life.  Now the planet seems to be going through some changes.  Call it climate change or call it global warming, it really doesn’t matter what we name it — what matters is that our attention is being drawn to the fact that, in the end, we do not control the universe.

As one who makes a point of stepping outside of the unreal world of my controlled climate, I welcome the rumblings that draw my attention back to the power of nature and the vastness of the universe.  Like Pooh and Piglet, we have been sitting in the sheltering shade of a huge tree.  Now there are cracking sounds coming from its branches, and suddenly we begin to worry that the tree might fall and crush us.  Nothing has changed but our perspective; and I also welcome a shift in the way we see the world.  Perhaps when we begin to remember that the tree that brings shelter also could be the tree that falls and crushes what lies beneath it, we will pay attention to caring for the tree and looking out for all who enjoy its shade.

Does 2012 have your attention?  It certainly has mine.  Already I can feel the rumblings of change in my world.  Already the people I meet seem to be shifting their view of life.  When it seems that the tree might fall, we suddenly realize how much we value all that lies around its trunk.  2012 may not mark the end of the world, but it could be the beginning of the end of life as we have known it.  May we all be open to the awareness that life is precious and that the earth is ours to care for and not just to consume.  May we all look around us at the others who live in the shade of the sheltering tree and renew our love and appreciation for all who share our world.  Perhaps, one day, the tree will fall.  None of us can predict when or if that might happen.  But perhaps it won’t; and we should feel comforted by the thought that we can make the world in its sheltering shade a more loving and peaceful place to be.

If you really want to appreciate what you have, just try to clean your closet.  You know which one I mean — everyone has one — the closet where you store the boxes of things that you don’t want to look at and simply can’t part with.  When the time comes to make a clean sweep, we see those items through different eyes.  Maybe it would be a good idea to pull them out of the boxes and put them into use or on display where we can really see them and remember why we love them.  Maybe if we pulled them out of their hiding places and saw them next to other items that lurk in the corners of our lives, we would think twice about which things we should hold onto and which ones we should let go.

Our world bombards us with mixed messages.  One is to renew, reuse, and recycle and one is to keep up with the latest technology.  We are told all the time that the top notch gadgets we bought last month are now obsolete and must be replaced by the newest version.  We can get so caught up in the race that we forget how well things serve us that we already own.  It was not until our daughter’s cell phone was damaged last year that we discovered all the features of one that we already had retired from use.  It might not have been at the top of the line, but it served her well and provided everything she needed.

We must learn to look closely at our lives and discern between the things we need and the things we simply desire.  When we look closely, we may discover that our longing is actually for the things we already have.  When we discover the beauty that lies all around us, we may find that we can clean our closets and simplify our lives, making way for the things that really matter.  Take a closer look.  Discover that you already possess the things you need.  Cherish them and fill your life with the glory of simplicity.