How is it that I know how to cast a fishing line? Or hoe and plant a garden properly ... that okra likes it hot and dry ... that squash plants like a little mound on which to grow? How is it I know how to change a tire and to create a wireless network of my computers and printers?  Why do I know a defensive driver does not crest a hill on a divided highway in the left lane? How is it I can recognize signs of trouble in a car engine, could lay roof shingles if I had to, and know what makes pancakes nice and fluffy. Why can I tell when someone looks peaked (pronounced peak-ed)?

I've been thinking lately of the things I, or any of us, know without even "trying." Of things learned without being taught, but simply by being present. It has to do with time spent ... time spent paying attention, or just being present with someone though we may not be fully engaged in the moment. This is why what we do with our time, especially as children but all of our lives, is of such great importance. It was during some of my most irritating times such as blackberry picking with my grandmother in the sweltering, relentless heat of a buggy summer, or stringing up beans in samesuch summer that I now realize I have gained the most. I know things that matter simply by my having "been there." 

Though I applaud the premise, we need to know more than what we learn in kindergarten. We need the knowing of what those three leaves actually look like. We need to know how to sit on the porch every evening before bed at the end of the day ... which actually does end, by the way, for those of us who want to believe and behave as though time is limitless.

And, we all need to realize that we are all teaching with the lives we live and messages we send. Make it worthy.

"Woman." There. I said it. I think I must have been in my late thirties or early forties before I could even say the word. I remember finding ways to avoid using it. Felt so uncomfortable - almost like an obscenity. What's up with that?

Could it be that it meant something that few people, especially me, could really figure out? I mean, we all know what to do with a girl and maybe even how to be a girl. But, a woman? A woman is something that we can't quite fit into a comfortable box. A woman is established, rooted, knows herself and her mind. A woman has lived long enough (regardless of the number of years) to know that life is more than sexuality or physical attractiveness. A woman knows that the opinions of others are of great value, but are not to inflict any feelings of self-consciousness or abasement. A woman lives secure.

I believe men need courses in how to relate to a woman, and women need courses in how to be a woman. It is not an easy thing to grow old, especially as a woman. To know how to claim value beyond youth is critical.

I used to say "you go, girl!" But, I think I'll change it to "you go, woman!"

Ouch. That hurt.

The Pruning has occurred. Financially. Physically. Spiritually. Much of what was is no more, so that the abundance of what is can be fully claimed, separate and Holy, and standing to receive in new ways.

I declare that I will perform a sort of exorcism on myself. Get it out. Get behind me. Be gone.

RE: Get it out.
It has been said that I am a person of little to no initiative. I have been called cold, uninteresting, and ridiculous. My voice has been described as machine like. My parenting skills have literally been "called" into question. My husband has been advised to give me a talking to for the venom I spewed in a conversation. And though I have been taught all the right responses, though I find my value in Jesus Christ, though I live in affirmation and encouragement every day, there is a part of me that still runs those chiding observations through my head many times a day.

RE: Get behind me.
You cannot sway me to believe what you say. No initiative? I have found a way to go to college through full music tuition scholarships and BEOG grants (an attempt to find a way for the seemingly impossible and ask as little as possible from my parents for my education); I paid back to my parents the purchase of a bassoon that paid for said college education; I taught myself to play piano, saxophone and flute; I have performed professionally as principal bassoonist for many years with Huntsville Symphony Orchestra and played 2nd and contrabassoon as well to maintain that love as well as the care for my children; I have stood steadfast beside those three children as they launched into the world; I have founded two music education programs that offer music education for children who could not afford it otherwise; I have created professional positions that have not existed previously - youth director and personnal manager for a regional symphony; I have followed a call to study at Vanderbilt Divinity School; I have driven to Houston to seek medical care for the dreaded disease diagnosed in my husband; I have insisted the physician get me to a surgeon knowing my symptoms were not benign and have said yes to bi-lateral mastectomy without immediate reconstruction so that I would still have the strength to care for a chronically ill husband whose home health care was me; I have taken the reigns of a household budget when I realized the sharp mind of my husband was failing in the final stages of cancer; I have stood bedside and birthed him into Heaven and created a funeral service that brought dignity and honor to him and to Jesus Christ; I have sold a house and moved away and built a house to be caregiver for my aging parents who were struggling and to enjoy life near my brother and sister; I have "come back from the brink of obsolescence and auditioned to win a position at ETSU as bassoon instructor and bassoonist and personnel manager with Johnson City Symphony Orchestra; I have given all that up in faith and returned to Huntsville to be near a grieving daughter; I have called a man I love for coffee because I am not cold. I am passionate. I have initiated reconstructive breast surgery, well into its 15th month now and another six months to go. As for being ridiculous? Good for me. Life without laughter is unbearable and unfulfilled. As for the venom? It's called truth.

RE: Be gone.
This is the hard part. Why do you stay in my mind? Why is it your words that resonate in my head? Why is it that when I doubt myself and need bolstering it is your criticism that I hear and validate?

This is a reminder to self and to others. Speak what builds up. Not what tears down. Words stay in the mind. Mocking becomes sinister. Smiles become evil. Be silent or be true. Be gone.

The "Big Daddy." That's what it was called. A phenomenon similar to the rotisserie chicken incident. That happened when I came off being a vegetarian after 10 happy years. But something changed in me that screamed that I needed meat, so I went to the grocery store and bought two rotisserie chickens - one for my family, and (yes indeed) one for me. Stood at the island in the kitchen and ate the whole thing. And I am not a large woman.

Today it was chicken tenders. Another scream for protein, for healing, for sustenance, for filling a hunger that had not been quieted for several days. I went to Tenders and ordered the "Big Daddy," six chicken tenders, fries, slaw, and a thick piece of buttery toast. I got the "Big Daddy" to have enough to share with Frank ... but ... he'd had lunch, oddly, earlier in the day at a meeting. So we sat at the table and talked while I ate the Big Daddy, politely sliding the Styrofoam box toward his side of the table every few minutes. He took maybe a bite of a tender, and maybe a spoonful of slaw, but I ate the whole thing. Even the bread. I ate the "Big Daddy" all by myself.

They say it makes no sense to name a car. I say if that's the case "they've" never had more than one of the same make or color in the driveway.

The first of mine to be named was a 1987 yellow 240 Volvo wagon. In it, we found ourselves zipping around all over town and in carpool lines to the point that it became known as Zippy to differentiate it from Slick the 940 Volvo, gold in color but enough like yellow to breed confusion. And I nip fixable confusion in the bud. Slick was un-ding-ed (undonged???) and suave and parked at the outer edge of parking lots and then straight home to the garage.

Came time to give Zippy to the first of the children who would drive it and my choice of cars was a Subaru, but that didn't happen when I found a Suburban, so commanding that she became Queen, which helped because Subaru/Suburban ... which are we talking about? Another confusion nipped. A few years later, once the hauling of children and friends and jazz bands and volleyball teams had passed, came the downsize and this time it was a Subaru ... aptly named Superoo!!!!

Funny, then came another car, another Subaru, a stick which represented the freeing of Rhonda, but it had no name. I loved it more than any other in what it meant to me, and seems sad that it merited no name. Is it true after all, that naming a car represents some sort of unfortunate condition of the owner? That once I "found myself" I no longer needed to find a part of my own identity by naming my car? ... naaaaaaaah!! Next car was a sturdy Volvo wagon, black and shiny and a working mule of the automotive world for me, willing and able and not to be pampered ... she's Big Girl.

I recently married a man with a problem son ... a silver Mazda Miata convertible. This car's troubles are not entirely its fault though, I'll give you that. Rear ended at high speed by a drunk driver it's just never been the same. Over the course of about 14 months or so of being in the shop for body and engine repair, and about four months of being stranded in my hometown of Greeneville TN 280 miles away, the day this car became serviceable and Frank pulled in the driveway with it nothing else could be said but, "Bad Boy has come home."

And now's where it gets complicated and I think I prove my point. Still owners of Big Girl, within 24 hours we bought two more Volvos. There are differentiations - 1986 vs. 2002, sedan vs. wagon, 240 vs. v40 - but they are both red, and "the red Volvo" is going to be the prevalent ID and the major source of energy leak and confusion in defining which one. Easy solution ... let the naming begin. I, merely for my intents and purposes call one "Happy," the 1986 240 that has brought something back to us that is needed and grounds us. The other, the red wagon found by Frank for me, is, as I am to him, "Cinnamon Girl."

Insert happy face here.