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Potbelly stove - Wikipedia

Picture of rusty, brown pot-belly stove

At the physical therapy center last year, I sat on a table, getting TENS unit therapy for the pain in my legs. 

There were several patients there that day, and most were pleasant enough, considering we were all in various levels of pain.

An older man named Steve was getting treatment for his neck on the table next to mine. “Women always let themselves go after marriage,” he said to his physical therapist. “They never put themselves together with hair and makeup. And the worst part is, they always gain weight.” He shook his head.

There was silence as the other patients and physical therapists around him — all women — processed what he’d just said. Lying on the table there, his own gut was what one would call “voluminous”. He had the girth of a pregnant woman carrying triplets. As he stood up, it occurred to me that he resembled a pot-belly stove: short, squat, and kind of rusty.

That insult to women hung in the air until finally, his physical therapist said something to the effect of, “Sometimes, we just can’t see ourselves as others do,” which I thought was just the right amount of diplomacy and wisdom. Nothing else needed to be said.

This time in history may be remembered for many negatives: the pandemic, divisions based on race and politics, and most notably, an alarming deficit of empathy.

Whatever negativity you encounter today, rise above the visceral instinct to “put someone in their place.” Remember, Comeuppance Coordinator is not an actual job, even though it’s a way of life for many on social media. Keep in mind that everyone is an amalgam of humanity and divinity. This mindset will help the world find its way back to grace again.

The giving of thanks
brooks no exceptions.
Conjunctions, those buts,
those yets and whethers
have no place at the table,
festooned as it is
with the fruits of our year.
We do not qualify these gifts
for smallness or imperfection,
but look only with eyes that see
peel, stem and leaf, the curve
of the orb, each freckle and seed,
without censure.
It is perfect.
It is what we have.
Give thanks.

This past week I’ve been watching a lot of documentaries. One on the Cuban Missile Crisis really drove home the importance of communication.

Photo by Miguel u00c1. Padriu00f1u00e1n on Pexels.com

For those of you who don’t remember the historic specifics, Russia put missiles in Cuba. These missiles made the US a viable target. Kennedy announced that any Russian ship trying to approach Cuba with military weapons would be considered hostile.

A Russian sub was detected by the Americans. The agreed upon method to tell an enemy sub to surface and surrender was to drop charges. What the two sides hadn’t agreed on was how many charges should be dropped to send that particular message. The Russians expected a three charge memo. The Americans thought it took five charges to send the message, so that’s how many they dropped. Oddly enough, the Russians were hesitant to surface.

World War III nearly started because no one had thought to discuss how many charges should be dropped to signal a request to surrender. Never mind that it might be smart to find a better way to communicate.

This really spoke to me. How often do we assume that everyone sees things our way? After all, our way is logical. It is rational. It is natural and right. And if everyone we talk to agrees with us, that only reinforces our delusions. Then when someone doesn’t do what we think they should – BOOM.

The next time someone seems to be ignoring you or doesn’t give the answer you want, take a deep breath. Ask God to open your ears and heart. Maybe just maybe, you are talking past each other and none of us meer mortals has the complete picture.

As if we were submerged in a big, old can.

–SueBE

Squeaky the cat sleeping peacefully on a forest-green, chocolate-brown and cream-colored blanket I knitted.

The clock in my kitchen stopped working at exactly 6:35 on a day many years ago. Removing it is one of the things on my to-do list, but because its cord is incorporated into the trim, I’d have to hire a contractor to punch out part of the wall to take it down. 

So there the clock sits, not working, but also, not going away. 

Isn’t it a lot like the problems in our lives? 

Every day seems like a dance in which you step back and forth, trying to strike a balance between what you should be doing and what you could be doing.

What if life stopped at 6:35 like a train pulling into Splendor Station and let you out to toddle around? Would you be able to savor life if you literally had all the time and resources in the world? 

Many days, I find myself saying, I’ll just plow through my to-do list and be “in the moment” later. 

Tomorrow, I’ll look at the autumn leaves wafting onto the ground in the backyard. Those two bluebird pals sky-diving from the fence to the feeder. Wait, there’s a deer in the backyard. Here comes his friend, bounding playfully. Now they’re running back and forth. Are they racing?

The cat bumps against my leg and slow blinks at me. 

“I’ll be right there, Squeaks,” I tell him. But I’m already there. Aren’t I? We’re here. At home. Where the heart is. 

Let’s not wait until time runs out before realizing it’s not about getting “there” before everyone else. Or acquiring things so you’ll have some way to measure your accomplishments. God’s metrics are simpler: be yourself. Be where you are. Be grateful for your blessings. Be centered in your soul. Breathe. Be.

Just last night,
the trees shrugged off their leaves
as if to say, We are done. Done,
as we all are, with this
annus horribilis.
Still. Under the piles of russet,
of red and gold and brown, there is a sliver
of silver new hope. Can you see it?
We need a God who can take a spark
so small and fan it, with gentle breath,
into a conflagration of love.
Add your own exhalation,
even if it is only a sigh,
and perhaps we will work up
something to warm ourselves by.
And, with time, others will come,
drawn in from the cold.
Here is our directive:
Fall into winter
with a clash of cymbals:
something new is coming soon.

blue and white signage on green grass field
Blue picture of placard with white lettering saying: “I’m so gonna vote” on a green lawn

Today is election day in America, and the world is abuzz. SueBE covered everything that matters in terms of what this election means in her eloquent post. Let’s talk about what happens after the votes are counted.

Your candidate may win.

Do you:

  1. Strut like a peacock and crow like a rooster?
  2. Put your hands together and pray that our leaders take care of the people.

As the captain of your own ship, the CEO of your own family, what do you stand for? Don’t wait for politicians to decide which way the wind blows. Continue to do the right thing even during this strange time in history. 

Your candidate may not win. 

Do you: 

  1. Dig in your heels and get riled up?
  2. Roll up your sleeves and get to work.

The causes that are important to you still matter. The need is still there. Stick to your own platform. Your beliefs aren’t part of a stump speech. It’s who you are. If the powers-that-be don’t step up, that’s when someone else needs to show up and speak up. It’s always the right time to do the right thing. Do what you can to make a difference.

So you say you’re a Texas billionaire and you want to donate funds for college scholarships? Great! Uh-oh. But you laundered that money and now you’ve been indicted for the largest tax fraud scheme in US history.

You’re committed to helping victims of domestic abuse? Terrific! Uh-oh. But you took a massive salary, while the center you opened wasn’t even safe for the women and children who depended on you.

It goes without saying that you shouldn’t do the wrong thing, as these people did. But what is the right thing? 

Do small things with great care. The little that you can do will add up over time. Others will show up, too. Before you know it, we’ve got a groundswell of goodwill. A windfall of warmth.

Once the election is over, my vote is that we get back to who we really are. We’re better than this. It isn’t us vs. them. It’s the US. There’s no them. Let’s come back to our senses and be who we are again: one nation under God.

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