Silence, the Soundtrack of Solitude

"Hello, darkness, my old friend,

I've come to talk with you again..."

My memory naturally summons the strains of that old Simon and Garfunkel song when I consider the sound of silence. Does silence even have a sound?

In the absence of television, when no music is providing background noise, the sounds that would normally go undetected seem incredibly loud, reminding me how alone I am in the early morning darkness. 

When I am still enough to listen for it, there are so many sounds to be heard in the absence of my own noise. The cadence of the clocks interrupts the quiet, and as I become even more still, I notice my breath, and as it becomes more soft, my awareness grows. 

There is a soundtrack of solitude. The small clock on the mantle, ticking in the offbeat of the clock in the kitchen, is the first thing I notice. The loud click of the central air before the rush of air pushes through the vent overhead startles me, initially. The occasional muffled hum of a passing vehicle heading out of town retreats in the distance. The coo of the mourning dove outside my window is the only birdsong to be heard this early. 

These particular sounds can be quite soothing when I am tired, and need to rest. The house seems to comfort me with its rhythms, feeling like a haven of relaxation. There are few distractions as I type at my computer, willing words and phrases into existence.

"People writing songs that voices never share,

And no one dared

Disturb the sound of silence."

Later in the day, though, the silence seems deafening. Each movement of the clock's gears, noted with staccato clicks, seems to mock my loneliness, reminding me of the empty bed in my room, the unoccupied chairs around me, and the absence of another voice. Then, the silence becomes the soundtrack of solitude. 

"Fools," said I, "You do not know;

Silence like a cancer grows.

Hear my words that I might teach you.

Take my arms that I might reach you."

But my words like silent raindrops fell

And echoed in the wells of silence.

Sweet Surrender

When confronting challenges, we always have choices. We can try to control all of the variables, or we can recognize our limitations, and release our expectations. 

There have been times in my life when I have felt despair in my circumstances. I have tried to imagine myself in a better place, but more often than not, my imagination is limiting. When I'm in a dark place, any hope of a brighter tomorrow flickers dimly.

Over time I am learning that if I let go, and release my expectations, blessings greater than any I could have dreamed come into my life. When I see my trials as opportunities, I free myself to explore the possibilities, rather than focus on the problems. When I see challenges for the gifts that they are, I am blessed beyond measure.

There are hidden gifts in our trials; it is our job to find them. If I am willing to admit that I have no control over the outcome, I am humbled by the experience. The only control I really have is over my attitude. Each time that I surrender to what is, instead of fighting it, I discover blessings of strength, knowledge, and peace.

I don't know how my story is going to end, but I have to believe that it is going to be an adventure with a happy ending. There will be conflict along the way; every good story has to have that. I just have to trust that things are going to work out just the way they should. I will do my part by not fighting the present moment, and surrendering to it. There is so much to be gained by experiencing each moment as it comes today, releasing all of our expectations for tomorrow. Accepting what is without struggling against it is the first step to opening ourselves up to the limitless possibilities of tomorrow. 

The secret to surrendering to what is lies in not giving up, but in being willing to let go to allow the miracles to take place. Have faith that things will work out just as they should. Accepting what is, and surrendering to it, is the first step toward peace.

"There are two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle." 

-Albert Einstein

We Laugh until We Cry

My brother called last night. I could hear his smile through the phone. Things are going well for him, and that makes me happy. His family has seen their share of trials, but he told me things are looking up. I asked him what was different.

"My attitude," he replied. That's Danny. Leave it to him to distill the essence of a happy life after a long series of difficult situations. He makes me smile. 

Before long, after we'd updated each other on the recent events of our summers, Danny started chuckling, which meant I was going to be laughing my butt off before our conversation ended. I can always count on him to make me laugh.

Daddy started the Beidler laugh, in my recollections, but maybe his dad or granddaddy is where he got it from. Whenever Dad would tell a joke, his eyes would survey the room, making sure he had everyone along for the ride, and then they would flash as he led up to the punchline. His face would break into a grin, and he would have to pause right before he delivered the ending, to keep himself from laughing. Once the punchline was successfully delivered, his laughter would fill the room, and the rest of us would follow suit. It's an infectious thing. Once we Beidlers start laughing, it's hard to stop. Doubled over, falling into each other on the couch or standing around, tears streaming down our cheeks; we would laugh so hard our bellies hurt. Once we would recover, all it would take is for someone to make eye contact with another, and the whole thing would start again.

We have a silent version of the Beidler laugh, too. This is useful in solemn occasions, like events that take place in a church. Oh, my word...just thinking of Dad leaning forward, establishing eye contact in a very pointed way to let you know he noticed whatever irreverent thing we Beidlers find humorous, and the silent laughter would begin. Shoulders would shake, eyes would squint shut with the effort of not making a sound, all the while, facing forward to avoid looking at each other. Then the tears would begin. Laughing until we cry is our specialty.

When our stepmom talked to Danny recently, Jackie told Dan that she missed hearing the Beidler laugh. I smiled at the memory. The Beidler laugh is something I miss, too.

My brothers are good joke tellers, just like Dad, as long as they can stop laughing long enough to finish the story. Get the two of them together, and laughter is sure to follow.

When Danny and I were talking last night, we were laughing so hard, I couldn't even understand half of what he was telling me. There I was on my couch by the window (the only place I get good phone reception here at Green Acres, unless I want to climb the telephone pole out in the yard...) I was laughing; Danny was laughing. I had no idea what he was even saying half the time; we were both doubled over on our phones.

That's what happens whenever Beidlers get together. Dan was giving his best impression of the comedian John Pinette. I had heard him before, but I liked Danny's version even better, probably because he was laughing so hard.

Here's Pinette's version of the story. I wish I had a video of Danny's telling it; it's even funnier to me. 

What a great way to end a weekend. I'm already looking forward to next Sunday's phone call from my little brother...

Loving Myself Enough to Listen

The chalky feel of Tums coated my molars as I crunched them quickly, and chased them with a glass of water. It was still early evening, but I felt queasy and exhausted. After brushing my teeth, I crawled into bed before dusk turned to dark, listening to the booms and pops of the fireworks in the neighborhood. I tossed and turned for hours, it seemed. What was wrong? My body was treating me like an enemy. Finally, sleep overtook me.

While writing the next morning, my stomach gurgled and churned. Afraid I would feel even worse later, I decided to head out for my morning walk, before the day turned hotter, and I felt any worse. Feeling sick is so foreign to me, I felt slightly offended that my body was letting me down like this. Where was my energy? Where was my enthusiasm? What was happening to me?

The concept of "extreme self-care" came to mind as I walked along the trail, and I realized that a little exercise is good, but when I am feeling like crap, it's probably okay to take it easy and only go a couple of miles. I slowed down enough to enjoy some of the flowers in a neighbor's yard, and then I went back home to rest.

What would good self-care look like? How could I make the most of this time? What if I took care of myself the way a mother would nurture a child, or the way a friend would take care of another? 

I decided that since I wasn't at death's door, maybe I should sauté all of the veggies I'd bought for the weekend, so they wouldn't go to waste. My kitchen smelled like somebody loves me. Somebody does. I am learning to love myself, and to see it is not a selfish thing to take care of myself. This weekend, I would nourish myself with healthy choices, and allow for an indulgence or two, if that's what I needed.

Not feeling much better, I decided to lie down. A friend, aware of my blah day, sent cheery texts. Another offered to chat. I could handle that kind of interaction. After awhile she had me laughing, but my stomach still hurt. After we talked, I went in search of food. Maybe I was just hungry.

Very ripe mangoes were waiting in the fridge to be eaten. I peeled one, and bit into its sweet, tender flesh. It had been years since I'd had a good mango, and I savored every bite. 

My tummy began to settle down, and as it did, I was hopeful hunger was all I was battling. I had a late breakfast, and then later, snacked on a handful of Junior Mints and some Tootsie Rolls and Frooties. That may have been inadvisable. My stomach began to complain again.

My friend had suggested I try reading something FICTIONAL, since I'd been plowing through Brené Brown's The Gifts of Imperfection. I grabbed a small stack of humorous lit, and crawled back into bed. My mind struggled to concentrate on the words. My eyelids kept drooping.

The rumbling of my stomach coincided with the thunder rolling across the sky. The neighbor's dog seemed to be protesting the incoming summer storm with his incessant barking. This was the cacophony to which I finally succumbed to sleep. A couple of hours later, I awoke to a semi-darkened room. The rain still hadn't arrived, but the skies were growing in intensity. 

What if my body weren't letting me down? What if my body were making me slow down, to allow time for reflection and learning to take place? What if I were being forced to dwell in the moment more fully? 

Not having the strength to run at full tilt, and having to stay home from planned activities gave me the time and space to consider that there was internal conflict taking place within me. I could keep ignoring the troubling thoughts, and feel miserable, or I could confront them, with care and concern, and continue to learn lessons the old Denise would have avoided. 

As my tangled thoughts unraveled, and I was able to make sense of my confusion and internal conflict, I found my body returning to a more relaxed state. Anxiety lifted, and simple answers replaced complicated problems. I was getting to know myself instead of denying who I am. 

Yesterday was hard. And uncomfortable. And quite painful. Was my body letting me down? No, it never will. I am finally recognizing the signs of conflict between what I feel, what I know, and what I do. I am learning some things about myself that I am still mulling over in my mind. 

As I went through the day, I treated myself as a friend would, giving myself permission to stay home, and do things for myself that would feel comforting, as I struggled to make meaning of my thoughts. Eating good food, laughing with a friend, reading, and resting, gave me some time to see that my mind/body/spirt were out of alignment. 

"Leaning into the discomfort" is such a counterintuitive thing for me, and yet I am learning if I am willing to face it, and endure it, there is greater understanding, and comfort waiting on the other side of my fears. My body didn't let me down; it was reminding me to listen to my spirit, my thoughts, and my heart. I am finally learning to listen, and to love myself in the process. 

Don't Worry about the Dishes

When my children were little, I rarely accrued extra sick leave days. All three of them battled ear infections, tonsillitis, and the the typical childhood illnesses. It wasn't until the older two were out of the house, and the youngest was in the intermediate grades that I actually began to see my sick leave bank grow.

Sick leave days were usually productive days for me. In between playing nurse maid, and rocking my little one, I was able to clean the house, read, and get caught up on my to-do list.

There was one time I remember that I was truly sick. It had been a miserable day of lethargy, discomfort, and symptoms that kept me on the couch. The house was a wreck. Dinner consisted of whatever the kids wanted to fix for themselves. The kitchen counter was cluttered with the debris of the day, and the dishes were piled in the sink.

The one who shall not be named took one look at me, and took pity on me. 

"Why don't you just go to bed?" he suggested. Aw, he noticed. After a dozen years of marriage, and the births of three children, I finally heard the sweetest phrase wives everywhere long to hear. 

"Don't you worry about the dishes," I was told. My mood brightened somewhat. I couldn't believe it; he'd never volunteered his services in the kitchen before.

"They can wait until tomorrow when you're feeling better."

Thank you. Just... thank you.

"Celebrate Your Independence!"

Happy Fourth of July! The blasts from the cannon at Joseph's community center just shook the windows of my little cottage. It must be time to celebrate Independence Day in our small town.

Today will be a day for families filled with community breakfasts, parades, races, and fireworks. There's something for everyone on Independence Day in small town America, and Richfield is no exception. 

Traditionally, our family always found a parking spot on the east side of Main Street in downtown Richfield to watch the parade. We preferred to have the sun at our backs instead of in our eyes. We'd bring camp chairs and blankets so we all had a place to sit, and the kids would run to gather the candy that was thrown from the parade entries. The kids would fill their dad's ball cap with Fruities and salt water taffy. We would watch the procession of farm tractors, simple floats, old cars, and the high school marching bands as the sun climbed the sky, making us glad the parade wasn't any longer than it was.

Today will be different. Today I am alone, and the big kids will celebrate the Fourth of July in their own towns. Bridger will march in the high school band himself this year. And I will proudly watch from the crowd, taking pictures as these teenaged musicians parade past, friends of Bridger's and former students of mine. 

This morning, I was reading and responding to comments left on my blog. A fellow blogger had left this comment: "Blessings and Happy Fourth. Celebrate your independence!"

Once again, I am reminded that it is all in our frame of reference how we respond to our circumstances in life. Am I going to see this day for the gift that it is, or am I going to wish away the hours as they pass? Is the glass half full, or half empty? Am I going to see the clouds, or the silver lining?

The decision is mine, and I'm not going to waste a moment; I'm going to celebrate my own independence. Today will not only be a day for parades and fireworks, but also an opportunity to reflect and be grateful. 

It's summer. That long, lonely winter is behind me now. I've grown as I've struggled to learn the lessons life brought my way. I'm stronger; I'm smarter; I'm happier. My circle of friends has grown, and there are those to whom I'll reach out today to feel that sense of connection that feeds my happiness. To be surrounded by the crowd of friendly faces in town today will be a good change of pace, and then I'll enjoy some time to myself at home before joining friends for a barbecue tonight. 

Lonely or independent? Independent sounds good; sounds strong. I'm leaving the loneliness behind. Today will be a day of celebration. Happy Independence Day, indeed!

Making Myself at Home

"Honey, I'm HOME!"

What a great feeling, to pull up to a place of my own, and to know that I am home. It's not big, and it's not fancy, but it's MINE, and I love it. This is the place that has become my refuge from life's storms, and I am so grateful for it.

Back in February of 2008, my little house wasn't much to look at, and I have to admit, I didn't have much in the way of a vision for it. I just needed a place to land after my divorce, and it provided that. It took some serious "DE-CLUTTERING," as I pared down belongings from two homes in preparation for my move into my LITTLE COTTAGE. With the inspiration of the 40 Bags in 40 Days Facebook group, the daunting task was accomplished right around Easter. We painted and re-carpeted, and moved in.

2008

There has been a great transformation taking place, in my home and in my heart. As my house has gone through this process, I have been changing, too. I'm not the woman I once was. I'm stronger; I'm happier; I am coming to understand my value and worth. I would no longer be content to live in a house that looked like this one once did. 

My house is a metaphor for my life. It took an investment in time, money, and work, but it has been worth it. At times it was uncomfortable, but the lessons learned were worth the discomfort. The differences in this little building, and in me, are noticeable. I'm making myself at home, literally and figuratively.

This time around, it's different. When we moved to Joseph last April, I was very happy with the inside of the house, but the outside, let's face it, was kind of "ghetto." Bridger remarked that he had never seen a house with such a sharp contrast between the outside and the inside. It was true; the inside was cozy and happy; the outside looked drab and dreary.

Enter MacGill Contruction Company in Marysvale. Those guys whipped the inside into shape so I could get moved in as soon as possible, and then this last week, they did their magic on the outside, and made my house a home.

It's amazing what a new sidewalk, front door, and siding can do for a house. My son and I have a cheerful little place of our own, and it makes me smile with contentment to be here.

My house and myself; we're works in progress. Feeling comfortable in my little cottage, and in my own skin, is the best part of this whole process. There is more work to do on both of us, and I know it will all be worth it. Making a house into a home was not a small undertaking. Loving myself enough to become the woman I was meant to be has not been easy, but I'm grateful for all I have learned lately. Life is good, and it just keeps getting better.

And the Loser Is...-

My confidence as a good speller has been with me all of my academic career. I spell well not because I studied harder than anyone else; I came by it naturally. I'm grateful for the Dick and Jane readers we had as children at Amherst Academy, and for learning phonics in first grade with Mrs. Ware. I was marking words with diacritical marks happily in my phonics workbook when I was six years old. I just got it; it was easy; it was fun. 

That being said, there have been times my confidence has gotten the best of me. I am NOT a perfect typist, and auto-correct has seen to it that I've sent some doozies for text messages. When others catch my mistakes, I can laugh it off, but inside, I'm mortified. My children take after me, and I think nothing makes them happier than catching their mom's mistakes in her blog!

7th grade, actually

There was one time, as a young teenager, that I had my most embarrassing experience with spelling. It was the Nelson County Junior High Spelling Bee, and I was an 8th grade participant, proudly representing my homeroom.

The competition saw to it that most of the contestants were dinged out of the competition by that gleaming, silver bell. We had come to the final two; my brother Kevin, a mere 7th grader, and me, the older, wiser 8th grader. This would be a piece of cake.

The auditorium was quiet. The announcer was ready to give me my word. I smiled under the bright lights of the stage. I was pretty sure I had this. 

"Plastic."

Hah! I couldn't believe it! This was my lucky day. How could I get such an easy word during the final round? I'd seen that word every single day for the last four years in our old farmhouse kitchen. In the pantry, there was a large box of assorted plastic forks and knives. PLASTIK CUTLERY, the brand-name was emblazoned on the box. This was my big moment.

The Winner with Minnie Mouse

"Plastic. P-L-A-S-T-I-K. Plastic."

To say I was shocked when the judge's hand hit the metal bell would be an understatement. NO WAY! I'd seen that word every day of my life. It was ingrained in my brain. The word was PLASTIK. My face flamed red. My shoulders slumped. 

I looked at Kevin standing confidently beside me, his hands held together in front of him. My little brother simply spelled PLASTIC, and then his word, and it was all over. I was devastated.

Miss Smarty-Pants had her comeuppance that day. Lucky for me, Kevin was a good sport; I'll give him that. I learned more than one lesson that day. And you can bet I never spelled "plastic" wrong again.

Fanning the Flame of a Young Writer

My sixth grade teacher was Mrs. Cynthia Scibal, a fresh-faced, college graduate from the University of Virginia. My memories of sixth grade are strong ones. 

In her class, we did so much more than worksheets. I built a prehistoric diorama with my Barbie dolls and G.I. Joe. When the weather was cold, my teacher would let a few of us stay inside to draw. My fascination with the middle ages began that year when I made a castle, and learned the basics of calligraphy. I thought Mrs. Scibal was the most beautiful, exciting woman I'd ever met. And then she introduced us to poetry.

Yes, I kept a few mementos from 6th grade.

That sixth grade year, I was a horse lover, through and through. My fascination with horses lasted until my fascination with boys overtook my life. I drew them; I read about them; I coveted them; I rode them; I loved them...the horses, I mean.

When a stray pony showed up in our yard one winter's day, our parents were puzzled about what to do. There was no question in my mind; we had to adopt him straightaway so he didn't miss a meal, and he knew he was loved. I began a desperate plea on the pony's behalf. I needed him as much as he needed me.

Since my teacher had assigned us a poem for homework at about the same time as the stray pony incident, I was thrilled to have a topic so dear to my heart about which to write. It was rather a long poem; simple in rhythm and rhyme, and I couldn't wait to show it to my teacher.

As soon as Mr. Wolf stopped the yellow school bus in front of the school, I pushed my way to the front of the bus, and ran all the way up the cement stairs, and across the creaking wooden floor to my classroom. My notebook paper was slightly wrinkled in my clutches when I breathlessly entered the room. Mrs. Scibal looked up from her desk, and her face broke into a wide smile.

"I did a poem last night!" I told her, placing the paper in front of her on her desk. She flashed me a smile, and began to read.

"Oh, Denise, this is good stuff," she said as her eyes moved down my paper. "I love this. Wow. Super cool." Yes, my teacher was very generous with her praise. "We need to show this to Mr. Drumheller."

I couldn't believe it. We were going to the principal's office to show him my poetry. As we waited outside his door, I shifted nervously in my Converse high tops. What if he thought it was just dumb?

"Mrs. Scibal! Denise! Come in," Mr. Drumheller boomed in his cheerful voice. We walked into his office with the infamous "Board of Education," a paddle with holes in it, hanging behind his desk. I was pretty sure it was supposed to be a joke; I couldn't imagine our jolly principal actually using that on anyone's backside.

"Mr. Drumheller, we have a poet here. I would like to share Denise's poem with you," Mrs. Scibal told him. She beamed at me as she handed the rumpled sheet of paper to him. 

As he read, he stroked my blossoming ego with his enthusiastic words, "Good job! Well done!" I thought I would burst. 

There are many turning points along our life's journey. This was one of mine. From that day on, in my mind, I was a writer; a poet, even.  No one could tell me any differently because my teacher and my principal had confirmed it when I was 12 years old. 

Was the poem exceptional? Was it an exemplary piece of literary work deserving of this sort of praise? Well, actually, no. My teacher had seen a young girl, struggling to find herself, wanting to be accepted in her new school. She had gotten to know me, and knew of my parents' recent divorce, the move to a new county, a new house, and this new school. She knew I only had a handful of friends, Audrey Kay Phillips, Laura Ann Hall, and Bennett Saunders. My teacher wanted more than anything for me to feel appreciated and accepted, and she went out of her way to make sure that I knew my value and worth.

This snippet was in my scrapbook:

The poem driveled on and on, building tension and emotion, the conflict evident of a young girl's desire to have a pony, and the unlikelihood of that ever happening, and it ended happily when the owners offered to let the family keep the pony since he seemed so happy at the young girl's house. 

It was a dreadful first attempt at rhyming couplets, but my teacher saw something more. She fanned the flame of a young writer's heart with her compassion and love for me. That turning point taught me less about writing, and more about being a good teacher. 

When I became a teacher with a classroom of my own many years later, I tried to find ways to motivate my students by capitalizing on their own strengths. Instead of using empty threats of being sent to the principal's office for bad behavior, I tried to reward good behavior with a quick trip to the principal's office. We never know how far our influence will reach, but I personally know the power of having two adult role models praising a child for a good job.

Mrs. Scibal and Mr. Drumheller, I have no idea where you are today, but this writer is so grateful for the moments you took out of your busy days to honor the poet within her. It truly changed my life, and I know I will never forget how important praise is in the life of a child. I only wish I could thank you in person, but this will have to do. 

Finding the Sacredness in this Moment

Living in the now is more about dwelling in the possibilities of the moment before us than it is about throwing caution to the wind, giving no thought to the consequences of our actions. If we can immerse ourselves in the present, and let go of our regrets and worries, our lives become more rich and complete. Each day ends with a sense of satisfaction as we become more aware of what is most important to us.

I love this quote from Eckhart Tolle:

"There is sacredness in everything you perceive when you are present. The more you live in the Now, the more you sense the simple yet profound joy of Being and the sacredness of all life."

Our challenge is focusing on each moment as it comes, enjoying it for what it is, a gift of time. In each moment there are blessings to be discovered, if we are able to discern what is uniquely available to us in the now. Is there a lesson to be learned? A task to be completed? A sensation to be savored? A sacrifice to be made? A relationship to be nurtured? 

It is so easy to get caught up in multi-tasking, fracturing our focus on more than one activity or person at a time. The results are not always pleasant when we are distracted or consumed with worry.

When I find myself overcome with sadness or anxiety, I know that my mind is not where it should be. At times like those, I know I am either lost in thoughts about the past, or worrying about the unknown. It takes practice to bring my thoughts to this moment in time, but every time I do, I find the hidden gifts available to me. I cannot rewrite the past, and I cannot control the future.

We all have the ability to let go of regrets and fears by bringing our thoughts back to where we are right here, right now. We allow ourselves to live with joy and freedom when we focus on the present.

You only have today. Dwell in this moment. Let go of the past. Tomorrow will take care of itself. This moment is all you really have. Live and love wholeheartedly, without fear or reservation.

What will you do with the gift of your day?