Threshold/ Update

[It's hard to believe I have not written here for a week. Life does get busy. This isn't really writing in the sense of creation, but it is sharing something in which those who follow this blog might have interest.]

Here we have it- a classic, good news and bad news. The good news is that I've met another goal in my weight loss program. The bad (for me) is that I'm about to throw out some pretty embarrassing numbers.

I began a serious weight loss/conditioning/ better health program in mid-June of this year. At that time, I was nudging too close to 250 pounds. Scary. I was OOO-bese. The program has been going quite well, as I've commented about before in my blog, and I've enjoyed it thoroughly. This morning I passed another threshold and hit another goal. In my original goals, this was the one for Homecoming, which was last week. I was hovering, but didn't quite make it. So I'm a week late, but I'm there!! Today it's official. I'm in single digits- in other words- 2-0-something. I was actually 209. This is the first time in about 10 years that I have weighed in the 2-single digits category. VERY exciting. So in the 4 months since June 14th, I've lost 35-40 pounds.

In a few weeks to a month, I'll break through the MAJOR goal/threshold which is getting out of the 200's altogether. (And, I might add, KEEPING out!) I cannot wait for that, and honestly, don't know how long it's been since that has been the case. I suspect it's close to 20 years. (I'm 6'1" by the way, for those who are curiously calculating!)

I would like to thank all of you who have helped me in this program. And it has been quite a few. Even those who simply say, "Wow- have you lost weight? You look great!" And frankly, even the nay-sayers who ask suspiciously, "Are you keeping the weight off?" They certainly spur me on with greater determination! So many have helped, but I must express my deepest gratitude to my cherished companion in all things, Sharlet. For the past 6 weeks, she has been walking WITH me (She's lost quite a bit of weight as well.) and has been helping me with moral support. She's also become quite a phenomenal Smoothie maker!

Keep your cyber-calenders open, because in a month or so there's going to be a BIG (well- formerly BIG-) party. Under 200!! Thank you all.

Wordsmith

[I have loved writing for most of my 48 years. Like many things closest to us, we sometimes take for granted that which we hold dear. I have recently renewed my relationship with writing and have loved the second honeymoon! I must give thanks to my friends who have helped in the renewal. Having said that, I've been pondering over the craft of writing...]

One of the finest compliments a writer can receive is to refer to him or her as a "wordsmith." Like an athlete "in the zone," this conjures up images of the great ones and allows the newly great or someday great to feel hope and confidence.

I've been pondering over this word and as I did so, it struck me....

I have an uncle who is a blacksmith. Really. He lives in the country and creates glorious works of art in his shop- with heat, anvil and iron. And his eye for creating beauty from those simple things. From his dark sweat and grime emerge light and beauty. His works are sold at fine art places and the finest hotel shops along the east coast. He doesn't make horse shoes, he creates fireplace sets and kitchen hangings and beautiful pieces to grace a home and make it a more pleasant place to be. He twists and pulls the iron to milk every ounce of beauty from its simple strength. He evokes beauty from simplicity.

So it is with a wordsmith. From the simple and plain he extracts the beautiful and evocative. He has no need of verbosity or the ornate language of those who write to impress. He stretches and pulls and twists and wrestles with the words and brings forth a well-crafted sentence- and evocative paragraph- a thought-provoking idea. The key is the eye and the ability to forge the simple into the lovely. A turn of phrase. A spectacular image. A thought which demands an even greater thought from the reader.

Let us, as writers, make beauty from simplicity. Let us twist and wrestle and heat up our language that it might take on a new life in the mind of a reader. Let us forge spectacular, heart-stopping beauty from the lovely simplicity all around us. Let us be wordsmiths.

Training Wheels

The young boy wobbles less on his new bike,
And the training wheels disappear,
Leaving joy and doubt remaining-
both within and without.

The Father now assumes their role-
Supporting, lifting, providing safety.
But he continues to add encouragement, love and faith-
Things training wheels could never provide.

Yet so quickly, even the father is no longer needed.
Riding solo- wind in his face- free to fly or fall-- on his own.
Ecstasy of accomplishment and joy of freedom!
No outside influence or support from training wheels.... or dad.

But the faith, encouragement and love remain-- at the ready.
Both newly confident rider and anxious but proud observer know this.
And they find quiet comfort in the knowledge.

Now, the young man heads off to his first homecoming dance-
Taller, straighter, stronger- almost taller than Dad.
No training wheels.
No parents--- on his own.
Wind in his face again....Free!
To fly or fall.
But with the secure knowledge that
The love and faith and encouragement
Will always be there.

Training wheels- on call.

Two Chairs

In the fuzzy edge of my memory, where oft-told stories now ingrained co-mingle with true recollections, I see them there. In the chairs. They didn't LIVE there, like so many immobile couples, but they retired there each evening, to review the day's happenings, entertain whichever fortunate family member happened by, or just to hold hands and visit. The chairs sat as thrones for an everyman king and queen. I remember still the first time I sat in HIS chair; it felt so big and comfortable, as if it would completely envelope the small boy who deigned to take upon him that seat . But the envelopment was not one of fear, but one of love. It was as if the love my grandfather oozed every day of his life had somehow been transferred into that old chair, and then to me as my body sat where he had rested and my mind played over what I imagined were his thoughts. My curious hands couldn't help but touch his assorted necessities of life on the shelves next to the chair. A pipe, some tobacco, an ash tray, the obligatory assortment of pocket knives and the cornucopia of prizes bequeathed to and from the treasured grandchildren, one of whom I was so very happy to be.

He loved me- this I never doubted. Whether it was his incredible patience as I putzed around his workshop, or the truly admiring glances he shot my way as I out shot the relatives -even him sometimes- on the rifle, or just the stories he would tell- just to me, as if I were the only one who would ever hear or ever care to hear. He loved me. I know that, and I treasure that knowledge. But just as I know he loved me, I know that, with a depth I do not know, he loved her. Oh how he loved her.

They were together more than 60 years. How many evenings were spent in those chairs?! Reaching out- holding hands- but more importantly, reaching out emotionally. He would tell one of his stories- oh he was a story teller. She, his rudder in so many things, would remind him who he was. "Amos, you're not as funny as you think you are." Yet the loving twinkle in her eye shone through with a light only 60 plus years can produce. He'd throw his head back and laugh- that silent laugh we all adored- head back, mouth agape, and no sound whatsoever. He loved to laugh. And she with him- but hers were always closed mouthed, and a bit shorter- more proper for a southern grandma. That IS how it should be, after all. Then the warning, "Amos....." And his eyes would reciprocate the twinkle.

Today, though, tears etch grooves on his marble face. No head back in silent laughter. A different silence fills the air and acts to suck it from the room. No twinkling eyes and soft edicts. No stories told and stretched and re-stretched into the funniest and tallest of tales. Today, she is gone. He reaches to her chair as he has so very many times before, but his companion cannot reach back, cannot issue her warnings. We hear no "Amos..." She cannot touch his hand or call his name now. The sweet silent laugh is replaced by sad silent tears. Her chair is empty.

But there is hope, for their souls are united, and deep, deep in his heart, he can still hear her call, feel her touch, and know that their love still burns. Her chair is empty, but their hearts are full.

Write the Love

My friend the writer, who, without malice or even intent, inadvertently puts writers such as I in their place with his vivid portrayals of passion and love, leads a life seemingly filled with drama, excitement and intrigue. He sweeps ladies off their feet and gallantly rides in on his pony of passion to elicit romance known only to those few who brave the waters of torrid love and lingering lust.

I commented to him on my perception of the the excitement of his life and, what I was mistakenly feeling was the boredom of my own. I write, for goodness sake, about apple cake!! (See earlier post- if you dare.....) In his kind and gentle reply, as he has done so many times before, he provided sage advice: "Write what you see. That’s all I do. I write what I see. You see it. You can write to record it. Or you can write to right its wrong."

Right now, in my life, I see love. I feel love, and, I hope, I radiate love. I've decided, at least for today, I'm going to write the love.

I love my small town, which cradles me in its arms and helps me feel safe and happy. I love the nip in the air in the mornings as we take our walks and take in - not see- not view- but try to take in the raw and expansive beauty of the mountains, the river and the daily dynamic of clouds and mists and sunshine which act as an ever-changing lens on the beauty of this region.

I love this time of year, when as my wife said yesterday on our walk, "The breezes tickle Autumn right through your clothes and into you." Some leaves already explode with color and beauty as they signal their oncoming drift into another phase of life. The wind aids them as they cavort with one another, playing tag and footsie in the trees, savoring this resplendent time of love and life and beauty.

And I love, oh how I love, my family. They provide me daily with joy unbridled and soft peeks of the eternal happiness awaiting. They lift me up and praise me and help me through the rough times of doubt and discouragement. They love me when I'm most unlovable.

I live a short five minute walk from my work, so my family is never far away. Just today, my 15 year old daughter came up to hear an author speak at the University's weekly forum. He was funny and inspirational, and Kathryn and I shared a father/daughter time of joy and happiness as he signed the newly purchased books from two of his newest fans. Joseph and I share an evolving set of father/son bonds. Kicking the soccer ball used to suffice; now we need talks about things and jobs and girls and life. Those talks are often short, arising just after negotiating who will be driving to our next destination, but they are poignant, and, frankly, what a father longs for. And Granger, our 8 year old, brings me such deep joy and love each day. He is a spark to our smolder, a breeze to our doldrums and a purpose to our drift. We all love him so, and that love brings a greater unity to every other aspect of our family. And the joy, love and pride I feel for our exceptionally wonderful 23 year old, Elizabeth, is immense. She teaches special needs children and is not unaccustomed to coming home from work with bite marks or bruises. The love she feels for her work and her students is inspiring, and I'm sure it will be evidenced in her interactions with everyone she meets throughout her life.

Finally there is Sharlet, my wife. She has been by my side for almost 26 years, and has stood by me through the storms of life and the inherent drama of international moves, part time graduate studies, late in life doctoral studies and the myriad of tests and complications which make a 26 year relationship a 26 year relationship. She is my rock, my anchor. She brings me home- not with a look of distaste or a harsh word, but merely with a soft touch or knowing glance of love. Recently she and I have discovered the joys of text messaging, and it is truly thrilling to feel my heart skip just a bit at the sound of a new message from her. She holds my soul in her hand and has the power to do so many things to it. But her choice- and this says so much about her- is to sweetly, quietly and gently adore it and hold it to her breast.

She is the mother of our 4 amazing children. She has raised them to be wonderful souls who serve those around them, and seek to leave every person they meet a bit better, whether it be by a gentle greeting, a small act of service, or even a kind look which can say so much. Her motherhood has dropped the pebble in the pond of familial joy from which the circles will spread for generations.

When my shortsightedness brings darkness to my life and our lives, she is the light which remains, unwavering, ready to reach out and console and love and cherish. I cannot describe the debts I owe to her nor her willingness to waive all debt that we might simply enjoy life as two who act as one. We are united in life and love, and therein is my truest joy.

I feel so blessed and privileged to be living this life right now. Of course there are problems and concerns- but the love emanating from our marriage and home is a force not to be ignored. Today, it is one to be praised and written of. Please pardon what some may consider sappy ramblings. I love sap. I live for sap. For me, right now, sap is love and life and home. I may not be able to write drama and sexual intrigue, but I can sure try my very best to write the love.

On Being "A Writer"

The question of what exactly constitutes being "a writer" crops up with dramatic consistency amongst those who write. One can only imagine the Eagle and Child on Thursdays at 11:00, with Lewis, Tolkien, and the other Inklings pondering and debating the very same. So what does it mean to be...."a writer?"

I think, like most true answers, this one comes from within. If the state of being a writer is allowed to be bequeathed by those external to one's self, it will eternally come and go as the tide or the moon, waxing and waning in the spotlight of the uninitiated. It will be as ephemeral as the good wishes in a receiving line or the political cause du jour.

If, however, one draws a sense of self and "writerhood" from within, it becomes a state which means more than just a status- more than the transient dusty robes of academe- more than the whimsy of the Times critic or the inking sanctions of an overwhelmed editor. To be a writer, one must deign to acknowledge, first and foremost to self, that writing is what breathes air into tired lungs, sweeps the cobwebs from a mind thick of spreadsheets and reports, and fills the soul with a vibrance and awareness that comes only through the written word. A good wrestle to find the "mot juste" becomes a welcomed workout- not a distasteful labor in language. And, upon finally seeing that well-crafted, neatly polished and timelessly immortal sentence, a writer knows that the hours of paper balls or backspaces have been well worth the effort. Even if no one else ever sees it.

A writer writes- not just for others- but so he or she can breathe.
copyright @2008

Apple Cake

Our family has several close friends. (I know that might be surprising....) Certainly among, if not the, dearest, are the friends who brought us to our current job and town. Way back when, the father, with whom I share a birthday and a very close friendship, said, "Joe - we've just got to have you here." Twelve years later I'm still here, and we have loved it. They are celebrating their 40th wedding anniversary. What an amazing achievement in today's society! I've barely LIVED for 40 years, and they've lived together- married- happily --for that time. It's is truly awe inspiring to me.

Well, in honor of their anniversary and our friendship, we (Sharlet, my wife, did the lion's share, but I actually helped a bit- quite romantic, don't you think?) baked one of their favorite desserts- Apple Cake. (My friend doesn't eat chocolate. I know, I know- but we can still be friends....) We took it over to them last night and had a brief chat and just enjoyed being together as family and friends and doing a little good deed.

Now, here's the funny part. When we got back from doing that- we'd been gone maybe 40 minutes total-- on our doorstep was.... an apple cake.... from our wonderful friends who live two doors down. It was heavenly- a different recipe, but heavenly all the same. How did they know? And why apple cake instead of chocolate or white or yellow? I love the serendipitous moments of true friendship.

The circle of friendship is a tightly woven one, as our thoughts revolve around those who have come to own a piece of our hearts. Last evening this circle of friendship was evidenced by a synchronous circle of apple cake. And what a delicious and delightful circle it was. I do love small town life, and I especially love friends who know when a little apple cake is just what you need.