Somewhere Over the Rainbow

Wow! I can't believe how long it's been since I last posted a blog. I'm not even going to try and recap everything that's happened in the last eight years, but suffice it to say A LOT!

I'll just start from here going forward.

Once again, I'm ending a life chapter and turning the page to a new one. Change is never easy, but always necessary if one is to continue growing and maturing. Sometimes it's easy to embrace change; sometimes I go kicking and screaming...but change always wins in the end.

I'm learning to be okay with that. I've recently had to let go of a lot of things, but mainly the idea of how I thought my life was going to look at this point and the direction I was going. I heard someone ask the question once "what is it that you're trying to hang on to so hard, that your knuckles turn white?"

For me, it was about having a large house and big yard. I just recently sold that house, after some recent health issues caused it to be an unsafe place for me anymore. It was a bi-level house and there's just no way to modify that design to avoid stairs. After a couple scary falls, I was faced with the painful decision process of letting it go. But it wasn't just the house I needed to let go. It was the IDEA of the life I thought I'd have with that house. It was my "somewhere over the rainbow" house.

I envisioned that place being where friends and family gathered and shared meals, children played in and out of the house, and dinner parties were given. Hospitality and a sense of welcome would always reign. Flowers would be planted to adorn the yard at springtime, fruit trees and berry bushes would be planted to provide sweet treats in the summer, multiple piles of leaves would be racked in the fall for children to jump in, and the abundance of snow in the winter would be used for the most awesome snowballs and Frosty Snowmen, complete with a carrot nose and pine tree branch arms.

But...life changed. And I had to change with it.

I have to say that it was the letting go of the idea that was the hardest. Once that decision was made, I was free to develop a plan. Thanks to so many friends and a wonderful realtor who helped make that plan a reality, the house was put on the market on a Friday and was sold by the following Tuesday. I found a wonderful community to live in and kind friends brought meals, got groceries, and donated hours to help sort, pack, and move until everything was done. As hard as it was, it couldn't have been any easier.

A couple years ago, I remember sitting in the driveway of that house in my car, listening to a song that had just been released. It was "Home" by Phillip Phillips. I cried as I listened because I thought that was meant for there. Here are the words:

Hold on to me as we go
As we roll down this unfamiliar road
And although this wave is stringing us along

Just know you're not alone
'Cause I'm gonna make this place your home

Settle down, it'll all be clear
Don't pay no mind to the demons
They fill you with fear
The trouble—it might drag you down
If you get lost, you can always be found
Just know you're not alone
'Cause I'm gonna make this place your home

I still love that song...heard it just this morning, as a matter of fact. And it hit me that it was still applicable. This new place could still be a place where hospitality and a sense of welcome could exist. Just the location had changed. 

And I had changed in the process. It's not so much the house that makes people feel welcomed, safe, peaceful, at "home." It's the people who live in the house. I don't need a house "over the rainbow" anymore. All the things I've wanted have been here all along. 

Wanted: Direction

I’ve been thinking recently about what direction my life should be taking. I feel like it’s time to ask that question and, although to be perfectly honest, I’m a little apprehensive about asking, I still feel the need to ask. It’s not that I’ve been living my life randomly or without direction, but I sense a change. I read this recently, although I can’t remember where:

“The spiritual life is oriented toward God, rather than toward the immediate satisfaction of the material needs of life, but it is not, for all that, a life of unreality or a life of dreams. On the contrary, without a life of the spirit, our whole existence becomes unsubstantial and illusory. The life of the spirit, by integrating us in the real order established by God, puts us in the fullest possible contact with reality—not as we imagine it, but as it really is. It does so by making us aware of our own real selves and placing them in the presence of God.”

It is that life in the spirit that compels me to ask the question about my life’s direction. I don’t want to be on the outside looking in at reality—I want to be smack dab in the middle of it!

I have a kitchen window sill full of the most perfect red tomatoes, given to me by my new neighbor, Mary. She grew them in her own garden and I look at them every day because they’re right there above the sink. I decided to take one and eat it with breakfast this morning. When I turned it over, I noticed that it was beginning to rot from sitting too long. Now, it’s not that I think my life is going to rot and turn bad like the tomato, but I did see a parable.

I think there’s a big difference between living on the edge like that tomato, and living on the edge as in a life of expectation. I also think we tend to get what we expect. If we expect bad things to happen or have the mentality that we’re never going to get a break, never going to get ahead…then that’s probably what we’re going to get. On the other hand, if we believe good things will come our way, that working hard has benefits and rewards and that life is full of adventures waiting to happen…then that’s probably what we’re going to get.

I choose to believe that life is an adventure waiting to happen and I want to be right in the middle of it!

On Deep Voices, Butts and Finding a Mate

Sometimes headlines crack me up. I’m always on the lookout for great headlines, especially if it’s a catchy one that gets my attention or a funny, misleading one like “Father Feeds Alligator with Child.” Two get the prize for making me laugh out loud this morning.

The first one was on Yahoo News and was entitled, “Deep-Voiced Men Have More Kids.” I’m the first one to admit that I’m a sucker for a deep voice, but I never thought about it being an indicator of reproduction. Yes, my deep-throated male friends out there…there apparently is a connection between men with low voice pitch and a higher reproductive success rate, including having more children born to them. This is according to new research released by McMaster University in Canada. Previous studies there have shown that women are more attracted to men with deeper voices, judging them to be older, healthier and more masculine than their higher-pitched rivals. What made me laugh was that the research was conducted by studying the Hadza tribe of Tanzania. Maybe it’s just me, but I struggle with the relevancy of comparing one of the last hunter-gatherer tribes of Africa with men in our Western culture. Perhaps this study suggests that we really don’t move too far from our evolutionary roots. The study also said this could give insight into the evolution of the human voice as well as how we choose our mates. Anyway, that’s the good news.

The bad news is that whether or not voice pitch and quality is part of the mate-choosing process, guys just seem destined to get the short end of the stick. Why? Because in a second related article, “Men Pay the Ultimate Price to Attract Women,” the jist of it is that competition among males to find a mate can kill them!

We’ve known for some time that women generally live longer than men. That’s been statistically proven for years, although in recent times the age gap between men and women has been closing because of various factors—increased stress, environmental factors that effect health, etc.

“Women live longer in almost every country, and the sex difference in lifespan has been recognized since at least the mid-18th century," said Daniel Kruger at the University of Michigan. "It isn't a recent trend; it originates from our deep evolutionary history."

Using his experience with chimpanzees, Kruger says the males start competing for females around age 13, which happens to the peak age for mortality for these frisky fellows. Gives you a whole different way to look at “monkeying” around, doesn’t it?

Think of rams butting heads. Whichever ram wins the head-butting contest, wins the right to be top stud, not to mention having the biggest headache. And don’t forget male birds that strut their bright plumage around impressing all the girls with their “Hey, chickie baby, look at me” attitude. All that finery uses energy and shortens lifespan.

The bottom line is that males exhibit more aggression and are bigger risk-takers when seeking a mate than at any other time in their lives, and this is true whether you’re a chimpanzee, a ram or just plain human.

There is a ray of sunshine in all this though, guys, and a reason to keep on laying on that deep voice, butting those proverbial heads and strutting your stuff. You get the biggest prize of all—us!

But in case you need more proof, there is the study about how men and women rank attractiveness based on smelling armpit sweat…

In Love with the Music - Part 2

I'm not much for New Year's Resolutions, mostly because I think it's just something else I'll eventually fail at and feel guilty about. And I hate feeling guilty. But I did make a resolution in January that I mean to see happen this year--and that's to have more musical experiences in my life.

My first experience was in January when a friend gave me tickets to hear the TranSiberian Orchestra for my birthday. I've been familiar with the group for several years, mostly because my son Aaron is a big fan of theirs. I think he has every recording they've ever made and has seen several concerts.

The concert I attended was the last one of the season and the finale of their Christmas show. It was awesome! All my senses were stimulated by the lights, the sounds and the smells of being in a place where so many talented musicians were gathered. My favorite part of the show was near the end when the band announced that it was their last show and just started to jam for the crowd. I love it when there's spontaneity like that. It was a night to remember for certain.

In Love with the Music

I went to my first Pat Metheny concert last night in Harrisburg, PA, and I have to tell you, I’m totally hooked. To be honest, the hook had already been inserted when a good friend introduced his music to me several months ago. I’d started listening to Pat’s unique style of guitar-playing and interpretation of jazz and when the opportunity presented itself to attend one of his concerts, I jumped at the chance.

For those of you who don’t know who Pat Metheny is, a visit to his website is definitely in order. (www.patmetheny.com) Pat’s been around forever, it seems, and his influence on modern jazz has been demonstrated over and over again.

The concert last night was phenomenal. Joining him was bass player and Philadelphia native, Christian McBride and drummer Antonio Sanchez from Mexico City. All three men are gifted musicians in their own right, but together…well, I just have to say it left me speechless and that’s not an easy thing to do.

One of the things that impressed me most about watching Pat play was the way he totally got into the music. From the way he seemed to personally interact with each guitar he played (and there were at least four, including a custom-made Pikasso that combined the sounds of guitar, harp and mandolin) to the expressions on his face, it was a treat to watch him because he is clearly in love with the music.

The thing I love about jazz is that it’s unsettling and comfortable at the same time. It’s sweet and seductive and penetrates your very soul. And it’s, well…sexy!

If you’re new to jazz or Pat Metheny and want some suggestions for exploring this amazing genre of American music, I’d suggest one of his first collections, “Bright Size Life.” You won’t be disappointed.

October 5, 2007 Journal Entry

I just finished listening to the song, “Penny Lover,” by Lionel Ritchie. It’s one of the songs I have recorded in my iTunes library and a favorite. Of course, it has nothing to do with the fact that it has my name in the title. *smile* I can’t help but sigh every time I hear it. It’s the kind of song that I would love someone to sing to me. I would definitely take it personally. Not because it’s the best example of classic music, but I think I like the song because it has a wistful nature to it. He’s thinking to himself and having an imaginary conversation with a girl he has an obvious attraction to. And when he thinks about her, he misses her. I want someone to miss me. There are fewer words sweeter than, “I miss you.” Not “I miss this,” or “I miss that.” but “I miss you.” Those words convey a lot. They say that there’s something worth missing. I guess that’s what everyone wants, really. I would love to come home and be greeted by a warm, “Welcome home, I missed you.” Okay, I know I’m belaboring the point, but it’s how I feel.

Maybe I’ll get a cat.

Remembering Our Past

I was looking back at some old photos I had and found these of my grandmother and her sisters. They were sent to me by a distance relative in Canada who saw an inquiry I posted on a genealogy website a couple years ago. I feel very lucky to have them because I never saw them before and I don't know anyone in my immediate family who had these pictures. In fact, I didn't even know my grandmother had sisters!

To the best of my knowledge, these photos were taken in England when each of the girls became engaged. Since they were all taken around 1900, the clothing they wore and the fact that they had photos taken at all says to me that the family had money--at least by the standards of the day.

The first photo is my paternal grandmother, Charlotte Pearson Ashdown. I never knew her because she died before I was born, and my dad didn't talk much about her. I think he had bittersweet memories of her because he loved her a lot and he missed her.

I remember him talking about her fig pudding (an English favorite) and how she used to fix it at Christmas. I remember him saying she had red hair when she was younger, too. I'm surprised no one in my family has red hair, at least no one I knew.

But by far the best story about my grandmother happened when they were preparing to come to America. My grandfather had already come over by ship to find work and a house. He sent for my grandmother and their six children: Silas, Nellie, Frank, Ivy, Florence and Stanley (my dad). They had two little girls who lived with them, too, but since they were only foster-parenting and hadn't legally adopted the girls, they couldn't come with them. I never heard any stories about these girls except that it broke my grandmother's heart to have to leave them behind. After I was in London and visited Kew to research family history, I discovered that my grandparents had two other children, little girls, who died within their first two years of life. I often wondered if that's why my grandmother opened her home to the other little girls, but since there's no one left in my family to talk about it, that will forever be left to conjucture.

Anyway, back to the story about coming to America. My uncle Silas, who was at that time 16 years old, went with my grandmother to purchase the tickets for the trip. When they got to the ticket office, the salesman tried to sell my grandmother tickets on a brand new ship that was setting sail on her maiden voyage. Did I mention that the year was 1912? Can you guess what they name of the ship was? That's right! The Titanic! My grandmother would not hear of it, arguing that the ship was too large and was for rich people, not them. She absolutely would not be talked into buying those tickets, but bought ones for the U.S.S. Philadelphia, which set sail in August of that year. (Good thing Grandmum had that gut feeling about the ship or else I wouldn't be here and you wouldn't be reading this blog!)

I don't know much about my aunts in the next photos, except that they were sisters. The Thwaites settled in Canada and one of their relatives is who sent me the photos. The first photo is Alice Pearson Chappell and the second is Rebekah Kate Pearson Thwaites. I have a story about Rebekah, but I'll save that for another time.