An Author's Purpose

Time off means time to think. I'm enjoying the leisure that comes with the beginning of spring break even though it doesn't feel like spring yet.  Four days ago I tromped with Madilyn and Sophie through layered snow amidst a path of trees out behind our house.  Beyond the greenbelt, train tracks were covered in ice and glistening white powder. Snug below a canopy of trees, we felt as if we'd wandered into Narnia. We traveled into one of those surreal moments that come few and far between.  I pondered over purpose.  Now, in this moment, the snow has melted, the sky remains grey, and I will write — today. 

 Some call it ADHD

         Others call it creativity

My friend calls it "diversified talent"

       I call it confusing.

There are those who know,

know why, know who, know purpose.

They ask the flight attendant for scotch

and she answers with cheap whiskey. 

The Knowers prophesy perfection,

but,

       do they ever question the blueprint?

In dark hours before dawn

           Does Doubt visit the architect?

I crave the frenzy,

     I swim in stormy waters,

               to catch the wave

of promised change.

Lenka says, "all I want to be is everything— 

at once."

Me too.

..........................................................Since the age of I don't remember,

the stories are of mothers, homemakers, writers, teachers, lawyers, poets, business owners, hairdressers, copywriters, postcard creators, interior decorators, fashionistas,  story builders.

Curiosity is the giver,

and the taker;

didn't he kill the cat?

My grandparents lived in the same house for fifty years.

I've lived in thirteen.

My grandmother, a preacher woman,

her profession was dedicated to helping others:

HER ENTIRE LIFE.

             I am what I am.
     

Study and obsess until I get good, at least proficient. 
Put in the time until time slows.

Then boredom sets in,

or I pass by greener grass, 

that damned grass!

Who tends the grounds?

How long has the landscaper scaped?

I pass another lawn,

     as green as the last,

         and I forget.

Tales told,

a cruel narrator who makes and murders.

Characters evolve, the setting moves,

onto the next.

I am the curator of my life.

Author Unknown.

SUPER easy Chicken 'n Dumplings

Snow days call for warm, comfort food like chicken 'n dumplings.  I make a SUPER easy recipe that was told to me by my dear friend Tiffany.  She shared this one with me years ago, and it quickly became one of our family favorites.  

Ingredients: 

Rotisserie Chicken

Celery-2 stalks

Onion- half yellow

Chicken Broth-4 Cups

Grands Biscuits-1 can

Milk 

Butter

Directions:

Pick up a rotisserie chicken at the grocery (told you, super easy) and remove skin and pull the meat off.  Set aside.  Next chop onion and celery and sauté in 2 tablespoons butter inside dutch oven.  Cook until translucent and add chicken broth.  Add water to the pan until half full of liquid.  Bring to a boil.  Cut biscuits into quarters and drop into boiling broth.  Reduce heat to low, cover, and stir occasionally to keep dumplings from sticking together.  Cook for 10-15 minutes until biscuits are no longer doughy.  Add chicken to the soup along with 3 Tbsp butter.  Stir.  Slowly add milk to make the soup the right consistency.  Add salt and pepper.  Simmer until thickened. 

Fill pan with broth and water

Cut Grand Biscuits into quarters.

Add biscuits then chicken.

Enjoy!  Yummmm.

All Is Well

With shimmering white hair, she sits in her recliner, rocking slowly, each sway moving her closer to Jesus.  My Nana has counted her blessings and thanked her Maker every day, all 38,450 of them. She told me this weekend she doesn't know why God has let her live this long and after living 105 years, she feels tired. These days she prays for strength. "I tell God that I'm grateful to be alive, but if he is going to leave me on this earth he will need to give me the strength to live here," she said to me as I walked her to the kitchen on Saturday morning.

   I know why the good Lord has let her stay: to bless the rest of us.  She loves with intrepid kindness, the kind of honest love that people rarely share anymore. She's funny and insightful.  She's full of wisdom. She's a straight-shooter and she's opinionated, but she respects those whose opinion differs from hers.

   She's political. The last democrat she voted for was Jimmy Carter, and as far as she is concerned, he was the most "honest Christian man to serve our country."  She has repeatedly mentioned that "it's a shame he wasn't reelected for a second term." Reagan turned out to be a "fine president from Hollywood," and Clinton should have "kept his pants on but I guess he did an okay job running the country." She has an autographed picture of George W sitting on her mantle.  She not only remembers most of the presidents from this past century, she also recalls significant historic events.

    She remembers the dust bowl and the New Deal, the roaring twenties and the WPA.  She can recall both World Wars.  She lived in Alamogordo during the Manhattan Project and at one point worked in an artillery plant to support the war.  She was living in Texas when Kennedy was shot, and she mourned the loss of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. when many white southerners did not.  During her lifetime, she watched technology change our world.  She went from living on the farm with no electricity or plumbing to owning a cell phone.  Hers is a flip, but she asks me why my phone is so smart. She understands that I can use my phone as an encyclopedia and she's curious. "How can it know that information? Does it pull it from up there?" she asked me and pointed to the sky.
Honestly, I had never pondered the inner workings of Google.  I gave her the best answer I could, "it's magic, Nana."

   The magic lights the lamp, illuminating Nana's words.  In a phone conversation last week Nana told me she wasn't feeling well but at the risk of complaining, she changed her mind. She said she would say what the woman in the Bible said, "all is well." She asked me if I knew the story and I told her no.  She proceeded to give the account of the woman who proclaimed to the servant on the street that all was well when in truth her son lay dead at home.
     Nana continued on and said, "The woman kept her faith in the midst of turmoil. Once she reached the prophet..." she paused momentarily, searching for the word.  "Oh, you know the prophet...I can't remember his name, but you know who it is."
    "Isaiah?" I answered.
    "No, no.  Well, anyway, the prophet, Mr. What's His Name, brought the boy back to life.  The woman believed God would restore her son, and so I will say the same--all is well."
    "Which book is that story in, Nana?"
    "I don't remember."
 
    This past weekend while I visited her, I told her that I had looked up the details of the woman and read it for myself.
   "I found it in Kings," I explained.
   Astonished she quipped, "You mean you found it on that?" She pointed to my phone.
   "Yes.  It's in second Kings, chapter four."
   "I don't understand how that thing works," she thought for a moment.  Slowly shaking her head sideways she retorted, "I don't belong to this world; it has passed me by."
   I thought for a moment how it might feel to live in her world. A world that was built on the backs of her generation but then to be left behind when sore bones could no longer keep up. I wanted to assure her she was okay and she always had a reservation as long she wanted the room.
  "Nana, don't worry.  I don't understand how it works either. All is well," I said, hoping to believe it.
 

Our sweet Nana.

   
 

New Year, New Perspective.

Why bother making New Year's Resolutions?  We all know that we will break them, right?  We vow to eat better, work out, spend less money, but why do we make the effort when we know by late February we'll be back to our dessert eating, tired, on-line shopping ways? HOPE is the reason we make our resolutions, and a life without hope is a dark one indeed.  So, I say rejoice in those resolutions and even if you break them, at least you've attempted to create a better life for yourself, because isn't that the point? Isn't improvement of ourselves the goal of our many trips around the sun?

My resolution:  Maintain a positive perspective in regards to myself and others.  Here are my three new mottos:

1. Compare not.  
• I compare myself to EVERYONE I meet and I am not even slightly joking.  I think my heart starts in the right place; I want to become the best version of myself, but in doing so, I constantly assess my place among others I know. This practice places a person on a quest that can never be fulfilled. Why? Someone will always be prettier, smarter, skinnier, richer, and overall more successful than I and knowing that makes me feel bad about myself.  But in the same sentiment, someone will always be less fortunate than I and that view is worse than the first.  It leads to a prideful heart. And anyway, why should I decide who is what?  So instead of all this comparing, I strive to remember that we are all God's children, and we all have our place and purpose and the superficial stuff doesn't matter. So, instead of coveting, I choose gratefulness and change my envious thoughts to a prayer thanking the Almighty who gave me blessings beyond measure. 
2. Live and let live.
•  I have my life and you have yours.  Why do I want to meddle in your business when I can barely manage mine?  I think others, including myself, attempt to control another out of fear.  Let's focus on helping others instead of telling them how to live, which leads me to my last motto.
3. Love, don't judge.
• I've found that if I shift my view and if I question why I'm judging another, I can get to the real issue bothering me, which usually has nothing to do with the other person or group. People judge for all sorts of reasons; fear, misunderstanding, insecurity, and sometimes judgement comes from a genuine desire to help, but it is fueled by a misdirected perspective. Instead of wasting negative energy by judging,  I can create positive energy by loving.  

~Truly, Cinderella (the middle-class, thirty-something, working-mom Cinde, of course)