Mary's Heartbeats

I went through all of last year with the phrase in my head as "57+."  I defined my life to a number and a symbol.  Perhaps that was my pause, "what now?"  I often wondered, "what does life look like for me ahead?"  I could absolutely not see a thing, but my continual "daily-ness."  I attended a conference for developing resilience while working in the health fields, and the first exercise was to draw a picture of your present life.  I was stumped for several minutes, as nothing came to mind.  All I could think of was "57+" and that wouldn't take up too much space on the white blank in front of me.  So I began to push the purple crayon starting "in the air," drawing leaves, then eventually a branch and tree.  Yes, I felt like I was out on a limb, so unsure of what next may follow.  With the comments of those at my table, I heard that my sidelined tree not only showed stability, but did have the hope of new things ahead, w...

A rose is a rose is a rose. . . but not . . .especially by today's standards.  We are living in a time when individuals are more free to embrace who they are even if it doesn't match their skin color, their birth place, their gender, or their culture.  In that process, one always comes face to face with their own prejudices and duplicity.  I find myself unfortunately, tending to be judgmental of the one that doesn't fit in the box, and must remind myself always, "I could be wrong, I just don't know." A prime example of this was in the news this week, that a leader for the NAACP wasn't really Black.  My first response was that this was a mark of a leader being not genuine and dishonest with the very organization she was working for.  Yet, with better observation and discussion, I discovered that being Black has never been a criteria for leadership in the NAACP, and furthermore it is not required to disclose your race or ethnic group.  Individuals ar...

I started blogging at the time of my golf hero's descent.  It was 2009 and my first post was about my sadness over his infidelity.  Tiger Woods was the greatest golfer to hit the greens, and I had been privileged to even watch him twice at Torrey Pines.  He had been my inspiration to get out there and learn the awkward sport.  I had certainly put him on a sky high pedestal.  But within a couple of days, the tragedy took its toll and he has never been quite the same, at least not on the golf course.   His body is one that time has ravaged with injuries and wounds.  He seems to be facing the sport he revolutionized as the "has been."  Saturday was one of those days that he showed his Achilles heel.  Every golfer knows how difficult it is to get out of your head the negativity when your game goes bad.  Each hole seems to reinforce the painful fact, no matter how much sweat and effort you put into your swing and putt.  There is al...

Here we are in the last few hours of the year 2014.  I have not blogged for months, often citing my own fatigue and fear.  Who really wants to read what I have to say?  What do I really have to say anyway? And yet in the absence I have realized an inner healing of my heart and mind.  There are reasons for pauses in life, when hope can only be found in solitude and silence, when pen and keyboard need to be put aside.  But now I am ready to move ahead, even in spite of my own self doubt. . . These winter days are especially challenging to get through, as they leave hardly any daylight hours to accomplish much.  In fact, my home seems to be like the land of the midnight sun in Alaska.  Even in spite of all of our windows, darkness and shadows rush throughout all of our rooms.  It's hard to get up, it seems to take so much longer to complete tasks because night is just around the corner.  Even Goldyn is ready to come inside by late afternoon ...

So the story goes that Ruth, the foreigner, travels back with her mother-in-law, Naomi, to the town of Bethlehem.  Ruth takes to the local barley and wheat fields to pick up leftover grain to provide food for them.  In the process, Ruth gains the favor of Boaz the owner of the farm.  He specifically instructs his workers to purposely drop handfuls of grain that can be picked up by Ruth, as they are tying up their harvest bundles. . . Gleaning is hard work, especially bending over to pick up a few grains here and there.  But finding a handful or clump of grain would certainly be encouraging and rewarding to find.  Sometimes I am too focused on the task of gleaning.  I find myself tired of stooping, bending, scavenging for small strands of grain.  Maybe I am missing the "handful of purpose" dropped right before me. . . I look outside at my garden and have to admit that that there are numerous "handfuls of purpose".  The hanging jasmine on my...

I am not a big meat eater, even though I was raised on that foundation as a child of the Midwest.  Potatoes and beef provided sustenance for our family.  Vegetables were just tolerated and usually existed only as corn, peas or beans.  No wonder constipation was always an inevitable!  Yet, even in spite of that, there is nothing like a Sunday dinner with Mom's roast beef, gravy, mashed potatoes, along with Dad's favorite Lima beans, and oh, don't forget the gelatin salad.  Perhaps there would be  crescent rolls too.  Sharing it with family including wives or girlfriends or grandchildren that made it even taste better . . .  Just as you could always count on meat and potatoes, there are people that have graced my life that have given me that same savory satisfaction.  Individuals who were who they said they were;  "what you saw was what you got"; basic, down to earth, without pretense, humble, simple and kind.  Individuals who e...

Stepping up on my footstool, I rummaged through my shelf of purses.  My large quilted bag held my scarves, but now I knew it was time for it to serve a better cause than just being a scarf bag.  Plus, it was brand new, so it would be perfect to give for the donation.  Spreading out all the scarves on my bed, I began folding and sorting them in an orderly manner.  Underneath the pile, I found the "black bonnet" of my Mom, the one she always wore when riding in the car.  It was made of fine thin, net like material, with small gold dots, and had a pearly oval clasp that adjusted to her neck when she put it on.  She never liked to have her hair blown with the windows rolled down in our car.  Nope, she worked hard each day in putting her thick silver/black hair into a french roll, and had it shaped just right around her face, so no matter how hot the car would be, no wind was going to undo her doo!  Year after year, she faithfully wore that bonnet, a...