When Everything Goes Right

Do you ever look back over a period of time, or series of events, and delight in how everything went right?  People enjoyed one another's company, the weather cooperated, the event(s) went off without a hitch, and even an unexpected surprise sneaked in, just in case you weren't already happy enough. For slightly more than 48 hours last week, Drew and I experienced just that.

Our nephew, Lt. Colonel John Wesley Spaid VI, known to the family as "Wes" and to his squadron as "Ugly," (can't imagine why) assumed command of Marine Medium Tiltrotor Squadron 365 at Marine Air Station New River in Jacksonville, North Carolina on Friday.

We, along with extended family and friends were invited to attend.  We didn't think twice. I have known Wes for 40 of his 42 years, while Drew has known him from birth.  We were present at his wedding to Nicole, celebrated the birth of their three children, and have watched with interest and pride his distinguished twenty-year career in the Marine Corps. Of course, we would be among his supporters!



Neither of us had ever attended a military ceremony and had only a vague idea of what to expect, except that it would be impressive -- uniforms, flags, precision marching, spit-and polish -- came to mind. As we took our seats behind Wes, Nicole, a colonel, a row of lieutenant colonels and their wives, the sight on the tarmac was dramatic. Three huge Osprey aircraft were front and center, flanked by more in the background, while gleaming instruments and stirring melodies of a military band filled the air.

 


Then in a seamless transfer of leadership, Lt. Colonels Harshberger (right) and Spaid met, and placed their hands on the squadron flag. The outgoing commander relinquished the pole, while the incoming one held fast. As quickly, as peacefully, and as symbolically as that, lives changed.


       


Following the ceremony, a slew of Alexanders - mother DeLyla, cousins Jeff, Grace, Steve and Andy, along with Uncle Drew and Aunt Twylla - gathered around Wes and his family for a picture.
Our presence, another symbol. Support. Respect. Love.



Before an evening celebration, we scattered for a few hours of leisure time.  I went to a nearby park to soak in the warmth of North Carolina spring.  There were at least ten benches dotted around the green space. I could have picked any of them but decided on one, for no particular reason. I was getting ready to sit down and looked to my left, again, for no particular reason.  A white concrete path led to a large circular design, which looked more than vaguely familiar.  A labyrinth!
(For those of you who know about my labyrinth journey, you will understand my surprise and excitement.)

 

And on this day, when we had witnessed Wes embark on a new path, I entered the labyrinth with a smile and deep gratitude.    



  

No Car, No Problem. . . An Urban Solution!

So, what do you do if you need to go to Home Depot to buy a large pot for your overgrown Norfork Pine, plus a couple of bags of (heavy) potting soil -- and you don't have a car? No friends or relatives live nearby to give you a lift; no neighbors with a car, either.  Home Depot is only a half mile away so walking is easy enough, but what about on the way back?

You might feel stuck, unless you live in a public transportation mecca like New York City, or across the Hudson in Jersey City, like Drew and I. The subway is 8-minutes away, a ferry to Lower Manhattan a brisk 12-minute walk, and taxis are always an option.  But the subway and ferry are in the opposite direction from Home Depot, and a taxi?  No need. We're young-ish, fit-ish, and we have. . . a handcart!

When we lived in Moscow, the vast majority of people pulling a handcart were babushkas, older women, much older than I, who ambled slowly down sidewalks pulling their carts behind them.
"Never!" I thought. "I will never be seen pulling one of those carts."
A tote bag or sak purse were stylishly acceptable, but a handcart? Give me another twenty years.

Then we moved to NYC.

Whole Foods, the most upscale, preppy, organically and sustainably fashionable place to grocery shop in Lower Manhattan - where we first lived -  actually sells handcarts. Young parents and professional Wall Streeters buy and use them.  Can it be that babushkas have been years ahead of the game, trend setters in schlepping, all this time?

Finally recognizing the coolness of a handcart, I bought one. The loveliest color, of course. My shoulders, biceps and triceps, which had been begging, relentlessly, for one, thanked me profusely.

The Home Depot trip this weekend was the test. Could the handcart handle heavy, fragile and BIG, at the same time? Uneven sidewalks, jarring curbs, sneaky pot holes? We would see.

(Drew - Schlepper, Twylla- Photographer)

Step One -
Pack up and check out
Will it fit?

YES!

Step Two -
Over the first curb,
So far, so good!

                                                 

    

Step Three -
Maneuvering traffic. . .
Take a right before
the tunnel!

                                                 

Step Four -
SUCCESS!

 Not only did the handcart do a 100%, A+, totally terrific job, but it looked sharp at the same time!

 Not nearly as sharp, though, as the man pulling it. 

Even babushkas would be impressed.  

  

The Elephant In the Room Needs Our Help

My husband, Drew, and I spent an evening recently learning about elephants, specifically African elephants, killed for their tusks. It's not an event we would have routinely attended had it not been for an Arkansas connection, Chelsea Clinton. Although she and her parents now live in New York, we shared the same state when President Clinton was Governor Clinton.  We have seen Chelsea grow up in the media and respect the work she does and causes she supports, particularly as Vice Chair of the Clinton Foundation. Partnership to Save Africa's Elephants is a Clinton Global Initiative.

(photo credit Joshua Young)

The panel discussion, moderated by Chelsea, was held at the Deepak Chopra HomeBase at ABC Carpet and Home Store. This unique gathering space on the mezzanine of a busy retail store, is where I attended the exhibit of Thich Nhat Hanh's meditative calligraphy in December.  For the current event, the walls were lined with photographs of elephants taken by National Geographic Explorer in Residence, Beverly Joubert.  Elephants going about the daily business of their lives, unaware that their ivory tusks have marked them as targets by poachers.

 *Facts are staggering:
- The population of African elephants has dropped from 1.2 million in 1980 to 420,000 in 2012.
- Approximately one elephant is killed every 15 minutes for its tusks; at this rate, African elephants could  become extinct within the next decade.
- Savannah elephant tusks sell for up to $1000 per pound, with forest elephant ivory often fetching an even higher price.
- Within the last ten years, 1000 park rangers in 35 different countries have been killed in their efforts to stop poachers.
(*All facts reported and cited in Chelsea Clinton's blog, "How We Can End the Elephant Poaching Crisis.")

When I listen to such grand scale devastation, so far away and complex, I feel helpless -- as when I hear  of children killed in Syria, women raped in the Democratic Republic of the Congo,  rainforests destroyed in Africa, Asia, South America. . . and on  and on. I'm grateful that people with name recognition, power and resources heighten awareness and work toward change.

The African elephants' influential friends include the African Wildlife Foundation, World Wildlife Fund, Conservation International, Wildlife Conservation Society, International Fund for Animal Welfare, other NGOs, governments and concerned citizens.  All coordinated under the Clinton Global Initiative Commitment to Action.

Together they are dedicated to:

• STOP the killing
• STOP the trafficking
• STOP the demand

To halt the decline of African elephants by the end of 2016.

Yet, the elephants need more friends, "everyday" friends.  As one of the people in the room that night, who is now aware of the situation, I have a choice. I can walk away, or commit to doing something, anything to help.

My feeling of  helplessness only becomes a reality if I choose to believe the whiny voice that says, "You can't do anything. You're just one person."

So I developed my own two-prong action plan --
- I will not purchase (or accept) any ivory products and will encourage others to do the same.
- I will write a blog posting (this one) to share what I have learned.

Now that you are aware, please consider passing on what you know to at least one other person. 

Share Chelsea's blog. 

Share this blog.

If you're in NYC, attend a function and learn more:

March 24, 6:30 pm -- "Living with Elephants: Stories From the Wild with Beverly and Derek Joubert"

Through March 31 - The African Elephant - photography exhibit (free) by Beverly Joubert 

 Both events at ABC Home in Deepak HomeBase - 888 Broadway

Thank you!

  

     

Giants Born in Tiny Houses

I've recently become interested in tiny houses. In fact, I bought a book titled, The Tiny Book of Tiny Houses.

They're intentionally built to be tiny. That's their appeal. I can imagine one in our backyard in Arkansas, among a gathering of oak trees. . . my writer's house! A desk, chair, woven rug, cute curtains, a window box, porch. I can totally picture it in my mind.

On my trip to walk labyrinths in Kentucky, Tennessee and Mississippi last week, I detoured to visit two tiny houses.  Not the architecturally appealing "dollhouse" versions of my imagination, but structures that real people called home. As I snapped pictures, I tried to visualize living in them, with a family.  Cooking, sleeping, eating, playing, bathing, even toileting when a trek to the outhouse seemed like too big a bother.  These houses were tiny out of necessity, not design. They were all the occupants could afford.

A boy was born in each house. One in Hodgenville, Kentucky, the other in Tupelo, Mississippi - 168 years apart.

Each boy would grow up to become icons of American history and culture. 

A president and a "king."

Abraham Lincoln and Elvis Presley.

 On the surface, they certainly have little in common. Yet "humble" is a descriptor that appears repeatedly at each man's birthplace, "humble beginnings."  Humble which could more accurately be translated as "poor."

Abraham Lincoln's boyhood home (replica) - Knob Creek, Kentucky

Lincoln's story has always intrigued me. A boy who walked two miles to school with his sister, Sarah, for two years. . . only. Two years of formal education in his entire life. Self-taught for the rest. A man who wrote some of the most eloquent words in history and whose leadership held a divided country together.
I stood at his boyhood cabin, about 10 miles down the road from his birthplace, and looked out at the same fields, mountains, and creek that he looked at.

Elvis Presley's birthplace - Tupelo, Mississippi

Elvis' story was less familiar. A boy who finished high school but never received formal music training. He learned to play guitar from relatives and his pastor. A man whose unique blending of the music that surrounded him created a whole new style and transformed the culture of a budding generation.
I sat in a pew at the Assembly of God church where he sat with his parents on Sunday mornings and listened to music, that he listened to.

At each place, I wondered. . .
What did two young boys take away
from their tiny houses,
from the families with whom they shared them,
from the worlds of Knob Creek, of Tupelo?

What did they take away from those humble beginnings that shaped who they were, and who they became?

Perseverance, Resilience, Determination -- to be sure. But as I walked away from each house, I felt something more, something stronger. . .

their ability to dream.

      




























 

Visiting Labyrinths Before the Next Winter Blast

(For more information about my 50-state labyrinth journey, please click on the "Labyrinth Journey" tab above. Visits to Kentucky, Tennessee and Mississippi make #38, 39 and 40, with 10 more to go by my July 1st goal!)

It was a risk to plan a labyrinth trip in February (17th-19th), with the Polar Vortex pounding parts of the country that could affect my travel.  I intentionally visited Minnesota, North and South Dakota when it was so hot that my sunscreen was challenged to keep up. Saving Kentucky, Tennessee, and Mississippi for winter seemed like a safe bet.  Not this year.

Three days before I left, I received an email from Clarice O'Bryan in Owensboro, Kentucky, whose labyrinth I planned to visit on the 18th. .

"I awoke this morning to over three inches of snow.  The labyrinth has disappeared.  Hope we have a clear view on the 18th."

Gracie Regen in Nashville said that her labyrinth was covered with leaves - soggy, heavy leaves.  More rain, with the potential for severe thunderstorms, was in the forecast.

And who would have thought?  Snow and ice in the Deep South, including Mississippi, where I was visiting Nancy Bridges' labyrinth on the 19th. 

 With delays and cancellations occurring on a regular basis at Newark Airport, would I even be able to get out?

Should I take a chance. ..  or reschedule?

With a three-day window of opportunity in the five-day forecast, I decided to go!  My journey to visit a labyrinth in every state, is never solely about the labyrinth. It's, equally, about the woman who envisioned and built it. It's about her story. The three women were available; I would keep my fingers crossed about the labyrinths.

My labyrinth-traveling friend, Marian Levine and I, flew out of Newark Monday morning, on time. (The next morning brought more snow, and multiple delays/cancellations.)  By that evening, we had driven from Nashville to Owensboro. 

It was raining.

I brought my rain boots. 

"Clarice, this is Twylla." I said the next morning as Marian and I were leaving the hotel. "I should be at your house in about 20 minutes."

"The rain last night cleared a lot of snow off the labyrinth.  And the sun is shining this morning, the first time in about 10 days!" Her excitement matched mine. 

Placing my feet gently on stone, mud and ice, I made my way to the center of Clarice's labyrinth and back. Yesterday, the path would have been impossible to discern. Today, I  walked each step with gratitude.

As we drove back to Nashville that afternoon, signs of snow gradually faded. Under partly cloudy skies, I hoped to walk Gracie's labyrinth before the predicted rain began. 

Tucked in the valley at the back of Gracie's house lay her Man in the Maze Labyrinth.

Thankfully, moss-covered rocks outlined the path, barely visible under a dumping of autumn leaves. I had never seen this configuration before, except in pictures, and was eager to walk it. Gracie showed me the entrance, pointed the way to the first turn, then left me alone to 

walk. As with every labyrinth, I could trust that the path would lead me to the center and back, no matter what the design, nor number of leaves.  It did.

In Tupelo the next morning, all vestiges of ice and snow had melted into a humid 50 degrees. I looked for Nancy's labyrinth as Marian and I drove into her driveway, remembering the 100-foot dimension on the Labyrinth Locator. It should be easy to spot;  but it wasn't until Nancy walked us to within a few feet of the labyrinth's edge, that I saw the faint outline of pavers.  Her "Harmony Labyrinth" blended in with the brownness of the season, as if it were resting.  Wild onion shoots, freshly mowed by Nancy's husband, littered the path, and smelled of spring. The labyrinth was waking up.  

Back to Nashville one last time, we checked in at the Southwest counter. Our flight had been cancelled. 

"At least we did it; we visited them all before we were stopped." I said, as Marian and I walked away. 

"Oh, wait!" shouted the ticket agent. "Flight #45 from Houston is making an unscheduled stop to pick up 40 of you going to Newark. I've never known that to happen before."

"Ummm. . ." I smiled. "It doesn't surprise me."

   

  

  

The Gift of a Poem

This week I received an envelope filled with poems from my friend, Mary, in Idaho.

Her yoga teacher shares a poem at each class, and Mary thoughtfully passed on a few of them to me.  I have savored them, reading one each day, writing down lines in my Quote Book that I want to remember.  Lines like. . .

. . .So I've thought about it tonight,
With the new moon dark
and double draped in cloud cover.
I will live.
I will live now.
I'll try to do better than I did yesterday.
I'll love better, cleaner, kinder, easier.
I'll give away little things.
Things I love.
I'll talk to strangers. . .
~Jan Sarchio from her poem, "Dire Predictions"

When I visited Mary and her husband, Doug, at their home in September, they turned on the radio each morning to listen to "The Writer's Almanac" with Garrison Keillor.

Warmed by the wood stove, we sipped tea at their kitchen table, while Keillor's distinctive voice kept us company for five minutes. On each program, he recounts highlights of significance, mostly literary, that occurred on that day in history, then reads a poem.

I've adopted my own version of Mary and Doug's morning ritual, not at the kitchen table but in the bathroom, while putting on my make-up. I place my laptop on the counter, download the day's program and listen. When Keillor begins reading the poem, I always pause, whether in the middle of mascara or blush, to be fully present to the poet's words. I bookmark my favorites and return to listen.

Many of the poets are unfamiliar to me, and I'm eager to read more of their work. Where could I possibly go to find collections by all of these poets, under one roof? Where else? New York City.

I can actually see Poets House across the Hudson River from our apartment. I can hop on a ferry and be there in 15 minutes, which is what I did yesterday.

I sat in a comfortable cushioned chair, facing the windows, with a book of poetry in hand and read. It felt like meditation.








Poets House contains 60,000 volumes of poetry. It is free and open to the public. Its collection "is among the most comprehensive, open-stacks of poetry in the United States."

Poems for adults                                                               Poems for children

                                                                               

                              Mary has inspired me to pass along favorite poems to others.

                          In the mail, with a handwritten note - just as I received hers. 

                                           After all, I have the perfect place to find them!

Meditation 101

You know the expression, "I'm losing my mind?" Do you ever wonder where the mind goes when it gets lost? Or when the mind wanders, does it stay close to home or strike out to parts unknown?
I've never paid much attention to where my mind goes, except for the fact that it's often absent. I continue to function - eat my morning Wheat Chex, walk to the nearest PATH station, change the sheets on the bed - but my mind, my thoughts, may be on a beach in Hawaii 6 months from now, or in the doctor's office last week. Rarely, do my thoughts stay put.

I've been monitoring my thoughts more lately as part of a six-week beginner's meditation class at New York Insight Meditation Center.

Wanting to lead a more mindful, present-moment life is not a new goal for me. I have attempted sitting meditation several times, tried eating meditation (chewing a raisin as slowly as humanly possible), and walking meditation as I follow a labyrinth's path. But in each instance, my body is doing its job - sitting, chewing, walking - but my thoughts have left the building.

I was inspired to try again when I attended the exhibit of Thich Nhat Hanh's calligraphic meditations at the Deepak Chopra's HomeBase in December. In my blog about the event, I posted two pictures which are particularly meaningful to me.

But how? How to live the only moment I truly have to live, more fully.

I discovered New York Insight through a connection with a book I'm reading, The Force of Kindness by Sharon Salzberg.  Googling the website, I read the philosophy, further benefits of meditation beyond  those I knew, and learned of opportunities to participate.

"Insight meditation is a way to develop wisdom and compassion.  The core of the practice is the cultivation of mindfulness." 

The next series of classes started within two days. I signed up.

Each Monday a group of about 20 other beginners and I gather in an open-spaced room on 27th St. from 10:00-12:00.

 In a circle of chairs we meditate, listen to our instructor, and share our experiences.

After four weeks of weekly instruction and daily practice, I am encouraged. I am learning to guide my wandering thoughts back to my breath and body, experiencing what it's like to be present in a moment. I feel more moments of calm, mindfulness and patience in my daily life, whether that's standing in line at the post office or brushing my teeth.

My mind is still doing its own thing 90% of the time, but as Elaine, our meditation instructor says, "That's just what minds do." I continue to gently invite mine back, hopeful that She will hang around more often. Or maybe I'll join Her at that beach in Hawaii.

I'm wondering. . . what are some practices that keep you centered?