Self-Discovery

It is the night before we return to America, so my husband exchanges every EU dollar minus the small amount needed for the short taxi ride to the bus stop and train tickets to the airport in Amsterdam. The bus tickets that will take us to the train station were already purchased in an economical book of ten fares.

We have come to Holland to bike the tulip season and to celebrate more than two decades of marriage and my forty-fifth birthday. Our home base is Noordwijk aan zee. We have a beautiful room with doors that open to the sea.
Each day we pedal to a different destination; Haarlem, the home of Carrie Ten Boom, Keukenhof, the garden with millions of tulips; Leiden, the ancient village with the oldest running outdoor market.

Each day is series of discoveries or take-your-breath-away moments such as when we turn a corner and see an unexpected ocean of yellow and red tulips. However, it is the morning that our taxi pulls up to the bus stop that I have the most enjoyable surprise, for travel is as much a discovery of self, as it is of people, of culture, and land.

Through a series of unfortunate events led by a national holiday that closes banks, and changes bus schedules, my husband and I are stranded at the train station without Eu dollars. Our carefully calculated money was spent on the taxi that agreed to bring us farther than expected and for less than the charge.
The train ticket vendors will take neither credit cards, nor American dollars. We have one commodity: our unused bus tickets. There is only one option and after a moment of self-reflection, I am standing outside the station trying to sell our tickets. The comedy is that today is my birthday and I couldn’t have imagined a scenario like this.

A wonderful thing happens when you reach the mid-life meridian or so I’ve been told. Well-wishing friends expressed this in tenets such as: “I love middle aged women because they know what they want and they are not afraid to get it,” or “When I turned forty-five I finally didn’t care what other people thought.” These are words of encouragement as I stand in a foreign country desperate to sell some bus tickets.

Finally, a young woman allows me to tell my story. She recognizes the bargain, and hands me enough euro for two train tickets.

With relief, we board the train.

It is almost fate’s purpose to remind or reward me for this forty five year old awakening. As I previously wrote, we left Holland on my birthday. When we arrive home the next morning, with the change in time zones, we have gained a day and it is my birthday all over again!

After The Storm

We arrived on Sanibel Island on a Saturday evening and the first thing I did was walk to the beach and see if it was the paradisaical shelling glory I had read about and imagined. Littered and glittering in the sand was an abundance of shell pieces and a full scallop here and there. My homework before coming to the island, had taught that the real shell seeker had to get up early with a flashlight to find the best shells. I wasn't ready to do that yet.

We awoke Sunday morning to wind and overcast skies. It rained furiously through the day and the ocean was angry; one could almost imagine Poseidon stirring it with his trident. We hunkered down in the condo and watched the rain pelt our windows. The gale force winds and the blue evacuation signs that dotted the roads led me to wonder if it wasn't the beginning of an early hurricane.

Monday was a delightful surprise. The sea was calm and we were greeted with sporadic springtime showers between the sunshine. It was later afternoon when we headed to the water to search for seashells. The tide was low and there was an abundance of shells. We soon discovered that ankle deep in the light surf, we could reach down and scoop up a handful of seashells. In that scoop was at least one lightning whelk or a fighting conch. It was cold and we didn't stay long, but I left the beach with a million plans for the beautiful shells I would be taking home.

The next afternoon, full of hope and expectation, I again waded into the water, ankle deep. My mechanical probe toes, searching for piles of shells, felt nothing but the cold compacted sand and the occasional seashell fragment; the plethora of yesterday was gone.

That night I set my alarm for 6:30 a.m. . Having tasted what could be found, I would become one of the early morning beachcombers with flashlight in hand. I came home a little embarrassed with myself and only a few shells in the pocket of my not-so-discreet pajama bottoms.

It was the next day that we learned from a frequent visitor to Sanibel about the shelling glory of the day after the storm. In his thick southern accent, he explained that Monday was a shelling day like "no other." The storm had whipped up the sea, dislodging, picking up the discarded homes of the ocean dwellers.

The storm unleashed the beauty for which I had come to Sanibel. It was only after the storm that the most beautiful shells could be found. I thought of my own trials and pressures and the question I always ask myself amidst adversity: What kind of person will I become from this experience?

I walked away from Sanibel with more than a handful of shells.

May All Your Fences Have Gates

“Meet me at the fence,” was the most common telephone phrase shared between our neighbor, Helen, and the baking members of our family. During the 1960’s, last minute shopping wasn’t always an option as our family had one car and dad had taken it to work. We met our neighbor at the fence for a cube of butter or an egg and the conversations that I took for granted as a child, but remember fondly as an adult.

When one sister inquired of the other, “Where’s mom?” the other would answer “check the fence.” More often than not, mom was standing at the low fence talking and laughing with Helen. My grandfather, a mason by trade, built our fence, creating this knee-high meeting place where pathways from each house greeted each other naturally. He learned his skills in Switzerland where fences were built to last centuries. The rest of the fence was a six foot high wall of cinderblock that surrounded our house like a fortress. And perhaps it was to my parents, the protectors of their three little girls.

I hadn’t thought about my childhood fence until last spring when I discovered a neighbor building his own fence. I was moved by the beauty of his design and was reminded of Robert Frost’s poem, Mending Fences. The poem describes the author and his New England neighbor meeting in the spring to mend the stone fence between their properties. On the surface, it is a joyful retelling of a necessary chore, but the poem has become a metaphor for a myriad of human relationships and experiences. President John F. Kennedy is said to have quoted the first line from Mending Fences when he visited the Berlin wall in 1963, “Something there is that doesn’t love a wall.”

A fence is a part of our language as well as our landscape. To mend a fence means to resolve a conflict. To put up a fence describes an emotional barrier. To hurdle a fence defines a success. August Wilson wrote a Pulitzer Prize winning play about racism that was entitled Fences. As an African American man born in 1945, Wilson encountered the fences of prejudice first hand. Disgusted by the racist treatment he endured in school, he dropped out but was determined to educate himself in the local library. Wilson knew it was possible to overcome fences that others may erect, and to dissolve the fences that we may create. When asked to sign a copy of his play, he wished his young fan well by writing, May all your fences have gates.

Years ago, I followed a pathway along the cliffs of the Scottish coast. It was an enchanting world of vibrant green grass, grazing sheep and baby lambs. Along the way, I climbed on the ruins of an ancient castle and ate my sack lunch on its stone steps overlooking the North Sea. The sky was overcast and every breeze carried the scent of the sea. Every half-mile or so, my hiking companions and I would come to a fence. Fences are an integral part of the Scottish landscape given that grazing and farming at one time covered three quarters of the land and boundaries were an important part of building good relationships. But in spite of the fences, the hike was possible because there was either a gate or a rough wooden step to hop over.

In the past few months, I’ve thought a lot about fences. I cannot drive my car or ride my bike without noticing fences. Fences can be works of art or expressions of creativity, but mostly they serve as boundaries, to keep children safe or to keep the dog confined. Fences have shown me the kindness of strangers who allowed me to enter their yard, take a photograph and hear the story of their fence. Given the prevalence and power of fences, whether they are mental or physical, whether they hold back, hold in, divide, unite, or inspire, I think of Wilson’s phrase and try to implement it often. To you, the reader, I pass along the wish: may all your fences have gates.

If You Want A Good Table, Present Yourself Well

We had, if we were lucky, 45 minutes to clear customs in Dallas Texas and make our connecting flight to a different alphabetized section of the American Airlines concourse. Half the people surveyed, believed it could be done, the other half did not. With an on time departure and favorable wind support, we landed with an abundance of 50 minutes. We were some of the first people off the plane and jogged to retrieve our luggage. As the big tongue of the luggage carousel burped up her bags, we were thrilled to see bags one and two. Expecting luggage number three any second, I called to my husband, “I’ll get in line for the customs inspector.” I pushed my cart slowly to the front of the line where I eventually had to pull off to the side, like a troubled car on the freeway. Watching the clock, I knew we were now down to 39 minutes. I returned to the carousels to nervously wait at my husband’s side.

After convincing Tony that we could replace our snorkels, masks, fins, beach shoes, for less than the cost and hassle of missing our flight, we dashed through customs, jumped over low barricades, pleaded with unhurried people in front of us at a security checkpoint, to arrive at an escalator. Bypassing the crowded escalator, I headed up the stairs with my nose planted downward, unaware there were six(?) flights of stairs ahead. Tony reached the monorail first and unaware that I wasn’t right behind him, he jumped on just as the doors closed. The monorail whizzed off with me on the other side. My husband’s last deciphered words “Gate B-25!!!”

We eventually reunited, at a different gate and moments after they had given away our seats.

We waited 2 hours for the hotel shuttle in the dark, rainy Dallas night. A series of urgent phone calls were made to take care of children and Tony’s PHD candidate who had flown in for his final meeting the following morning. During this wait, Tony decided to inquire again as to the whereabouts of the lost luggage. This time, the American Airlines representative found a notation attached to our computer information. The missing piece of luggage was left behind in Belize because there was not enough room on the flight!!!

Now the beauty of this story could not be realized without seeing the discarded luggage that caused such heartache. But first, it must be stated that I have pleaded with Tony for years to throw it away. A discussion ensued as to why OUR luggage was discarded instead of someone else’s. I think the photo answers the question.

We leave for Florida tomorrow with our daughters. Tony announced this morning that he was packed and could I please make sure the girls packed tonight. I walked into our bedroom and found his usual quality suitcase packed with his own belongings. The second suitcase that he always packs for the family, filled with wetsuits, snorkel gear and fins, was sitting alongside the first. I didn’t recognize it at first. I went to the basement to check for the hideous suitcase. It was sitting out as if Tony actually contemplated bringing it along. I photographed it for proof and carried it out to the trash.

Charlie

It was one o’clock in the morning when I was awakened by the sound of a howling dog—and again at 3:30.

The next morning, in a different state of consciousness, I wondered if I really had been awakened by a howling dog. I called my neighbor to ask, “Were you awakened in the night by a howling dog?” “Yes,” my neighbor answered in an irritated tone. I called another neighbor who confirmed that she too heard the dog. None of us were sure where the howling originated from; we only knew that it came from below. We live on the rim of a hillside overlooking a cul-de-sac of houses referred to as the bowl. The bowl is known for its amazing acoustics and long before homes were built, the bowl was used as a stadium for the rodeo and other events. When I stand in my backyard, I can hear clearly the conversations of my neighbors and they can hear mine. We’ve had some fun with this over the years. A visiting tenor and member of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir sang the Star Spangled Banner on the deck overlooking the bowl on the fourth of July. My daughter has played her violin for unseen listeners on spring days when windows were open. Above the bowl, I have been entertained by heated baseball games among brothers and a drum concert from a talented percussionist. Wonderful acoustics aside, it is a pernicious environment for a howling dog in the middle of the night.

The next evening, the howling starts at eight o’clock and continues in fifteen minute intervals. Accompanying my fear of impending sleep deprivation is my fear that there is actually a dog in distress. I decide to get in my convertible and drive around the bowl. Hopefully, I will easily locate the dog and inform the owners. But first, I will look over the bottom deck to try and pinpoint the exact troubled-dog location. My step into the chilly night air coincides perfectly with the dog’s howl. I am startled by how close it sounds, and my eyes are drawn into my own backyard. There he is! A beagle I recognize and he is locked in my own backyard!!!

A few phone calls later and the story emerges. Charlie, the offending beagle has been missing for two days. Its owner has been searching the dog pounds, shelters, and the surrounding hills. The owner’s four children have been praying every night for Charlie’s return. I think of the neighbor’s below, irritated and complaining that I have let my dog howl for two nights; my immediate, yet justified blame of someone else’s negligence. Two days worry about someone else’s problem when it was really my own. I have a good laugh because there is little else to do, but, I do keep the age-old adage in mind for the future, “Clean your own backyard before you clean mine.”

When Your Heart and Body Are In Different Places

I’m a warm weather woman with a passion for the sea. As a child, my first glimpse of the ocean was from the backseat of my parent's car. My head hung out the window, the salty air whipping my hair into my open, smiling mouth. I was lifted to a new level of contentment that increases every time I step into the surf. My current passion is ocean kayaking, but I live in the Rocky Mountains and there are no imminent change-of-venue plans.

On a recent return home from the sea, I unpacked my damp wetsuit, swimsuit, hat and fins. I laid them out to dry on the sun-filled west facing deck. As I looked out my kitchen window I thought “what a beautiful sight.” I could imagine that I used the swimsuit and fins in my own backyard,--that I swam up to the dock, took off my wetsuit and hung it on the deck on my way in to make dinner. It was wishful imagining and in the morning I was jolted to reality. I looked out the window to the deck and my ocean playclothes were surrounded by snow. The contrast brought sadness and I realized that my soul and my physical presence were in two different places.

With the practice of yoga, I have learned that the right side of my body is stronger than my left. I strive each week to balance as I find my body leaning to or depending on the strength of the right. I’ve tried to become more conscious of combining these two halves into one whole. Working together I will be stronger and more balanced. The effort has already improved my skiing, my posture and my mind/body awareness. When I think of my heart longing for the ocean and my physical reality in the cold dry mountains, I sense that I am spiritually divided and therefore spiritually and physically weaker.

When I realized the division in my heart and body, I recommitted to gratitude: thankfulness for the eyes to see the sea, thankfulness for the ocean itself, thankfulness for a husband and children I love and live with. Gratitude helps me see the abundance and not the lack. My second goal is to enjoy my presence. When I am home, I will embrace the details and security that enrich my life. When I am paddling in the sea, I will savor the seal that surfaces unexpectedly, the salty taste on my lips and the laughter after cutting through a wave.

Foremost, I am comforted and encouraged by what I saw painted, in French, on the wall of a home I visited. Translated, it is a familiar phrase: “For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.” Mattthew 6:21

Where's Your Sense of Adventure?

It was a dark and stormy night… (really) in the wild interior of Wyoming. My friends Dave and Jeanne were sitting cozily in their home, when Jeanne remembered that she had an errand to run. The errand wasn’t an absolute necessity so she hesitated until her husband Dave said to her, “Where’s your sense of adventure?”

Jeanne jumped in the car with her sense of adventure leading the way, unaware of how bad the weather really was. Her destination was approximately ten miles away on a dirt road. The rain was coming down in torrents that made driving on the muddy road similar to driving on ice. Jeanne slid back and forth until she slid into a deep ditch. She couldn’t determine whether she was closer to home or the nearest neighbor. She climbed out of the car, into the muddy earth, and was pelted with rain. When Jeanne reached the nearest neighbor she was totally drenched and equally miserable. The neighbor pulled her car out of the ditch and Jeanne cautiously ventured home without her sense of adventure.

Some years later, Jeanne retells the story about the night she lost her sense of adventure. I’m thinking how lucky she is to know where she left it. As adults we may not even realize our sense of adventure is missing; but if we pause and listen the evidence may be blaring: Are we too cautious, too boring? When was the last time we vacationed? Made a new friend? Took a class?

When I look at this photo of children I love, I remember watching them climb on the water banana with their sense of adventure leading the way. Can you see it on their faces? More importantly, can you see it on your own?