Gratitude | Telling the Truth

February 28, 2023

In Our Woods, Sometimes A Rare Music | Mary Oliver

Here’s another lovely poem by Mary Oliver. It caught my eye and my spirit this morning. My comments follow.

Every spring
I hear the thrush singing
in the glowing woods
he is only passing through.
His voice is deep,
then he lifts it until it seems
to fall from the sky.
I am thrilled.

I am grateful.

Then, by the end of morning,
he’s gone, nothing but silence
out of the tree
where he rested for a night.
And this I find acceptable.
Not enough is a poor life.
But too much is, well, too much.
Imagine Verdi or Mahler
every day, all day.
It would exhaust anyone.

From A Thousand Mornings, Poems by Mary Oliver
Published by Penguin Books 2013
© 2012 by NW Orchard LLC

This morning I woke up to a songbird greeting the day. I also woke up to promises of rain and more frigid weather. Most importantly, I woke up. Alive and grateful for sleep, on the other side of last week’s highlight—getting a new pacemaker–Lucy II!

Mary Oliver’s poem reminds me that I don’t need an entire day of bird song, or even sunshine. Just being alive and able to hear one songbird is quite wonderful.

Last week I had Lucy (my pacemaker) upgraded to Lucy II. The hospital experience was distinctly less than I remembered. Imagine waking at 5am and getting to the hospital by 6:30am. We made it! That meant I would be home just after lunchtime. Except I wasn’t. Thanks to scheduling issues, I lay there all prepped, stomach empty since midnight, waiting with everyone else for the anesthesiologist to arrive. As it turned out, the fault wasn’t hers.

On the bright side, I haven’t been in such a lively, entertaining place since Covid lockdowns began. The entire surgery team was just there across the way, talking, laughing, obviously enjoying themselves while they too waited for the magic moment.

It came about 3 hours later. I’m glad to say I was out of it in a jiffy, had a good long nap before I woke up, and have been dealing with post-op instructions for nearly a week. I’m weary, prone to sleep anytime of the day or night, grateful for D and for Smudge, and slowly regaining my bearings.

As Mary Oliver points out, I don’t need a concert. I just need a bird song in the morning, a place to lie down and sleep as needed, a cat who loves to sleep with me, and D who makes a wonderful home nurse.

Thanks for stopping by.
Elouise

© Elouise Renich Fraser, 28 February 2023
Photo of wood thrush; found at Wikipedia.

21 Comments

February 20, 2023

Life with Lucy

Seven years ago, in early 2016, two events changed my life. First, I got a pacemaker to help with my heart issues. It went well. I was relieved and slightly ecstatic to have this new gadget that has helped keep me alive for the last seven years.

As some of you already know, Lucy (as in “I love Lucy“) is the name I gave my new pacemaker. She’s been with me through all kinds of ups and downs. That includes breaking my jaw in 2016, just two weeks after getting my pacemaker. There aren’t words to describe how devasted I felt. Especially because I’d just met Lucy and was on my way to a much-needed hair cut!

Suddenly I was living with wired jaws for about five weeks, followed by rehab exercises and drastic food changes. I’m not a party animal. I am, however, a people person. I know beyond a doubt that Lucy, along with D, Smudge, music, family members and friends got me through days and nights of despair and pain.

Two days from now I’m scheduled to get a replacement battery for Lucy. I’m told it’s nothing compared to getting the pacemaker. We shall see.

Do I still love Lucy? You bet I do! Right now I’m looking at a lovely Valentine’s Day card from a member of my church. The front of the card says “Love is patient and is kind.” Sometimes I wish I could blame my body for the pain it causes me. Thankfully, I’m learning to be patient and kind toward my various bodily aches and restrictions.

That’s my news for today! We’re in a mess here in the USA. All the more reason to be patient and kind with ourselves and with neighbors and strangers near and far. Right now.

Thanks for stopping by!
Elouise♥

© Elouise Renich Fraser, 20 February 2023
photo found at wallpaperweb.org

18 Comments

February 11, 2023

Through the valley of the shadow of death

On 28 December 2005, I wrote a letter to my sister Diane. After more than nine years, ALS had done its worst. After an emergency visit to the hospital, she chose to return home to die. During the long wait, she was surrounded by family, friends, and caretakers. I’m grateful I could fly from Philadelphia to Houston once more before she died. I’ve reformatted most of my letter into poetic form. I still tear up when I read it.

Dear Diane,

I can’t stop thinking about the way Jesus’ birth was, for him,
a valley of the shadow of death—
leaving the most glorious home he’d ever had,
taking the final and first step all at the same time—
leaving heaven and stepping into earthly reality.
Did he have time to get ready?
I imagine him choosing this new form of life
without struggling against it
as God’s fullness of time approached for him.

I wonder how death is unfolding for you.

I pray you aren’t struggling to hang on,
and that your faith is growing as things keep falling relentlessly away.
I pray the steady sound of your breath
moving through the ventilator
will calm your mind and your heart.
I pray fear and anxiety will give way to
peace in the midst of pain, grief and deep sorrow.
I pray the Christmas tree in your room will remind you
of the tree of life—a small sign of Jesus Christ
who is with you and for you.
I pray the willingness of your beloved family members
to bid you farewell will be nurturing and sustaining—
A small sign of Jesus Christ who is with and for you.
I pray the loyalty, skill and tenderness of your caretakers
will comfort and cheer you on.
I pray the small dogs and the big human animals egging them on
will have you in stitches from time to time.
I pray your grandchildren will plant sloppy kisses on your cheeks,
and the adults, too!

I wonder—
Do you hear angel choirs singing from time to time?
I pray you’ll hear them more and more—singing over and beneath
your fears and the emotional pain of saying goodbye
to the wonderful friends and family members God has given you.
You have been a wondrous gift to us.
I’d like to think you were given just to me!
But I know you were given to an entire world of people
whose lives have touched yours and been touched by you.
If you can imagine us as an angel choir—
or at least a faint echo of that—
I pray it will bring a smile to your heart and a tear to your eye.
We’re singing God’s praises for giving us time on this earth with you—
God’s beloved daughter child.

With love, from the only oldest sister you’ll ever have,
Elouise♥

Thank you for stopping by. There’s so much heartbreak these days. I pray you’ll find peace and comfort as we watch and participate in these days of uncertainty and sorrow.

9 Comments

November 15, 2022

What I’m FOR today

Here’s my short-version report about my health and wellbeing. I am alive; I am reasonably happy most days; I am unreasonably crabby at night when I can’t sleep so well; I have several unresolved health issues upon which I will not dwell at this time. I am, however, Alive! And coming up on my 79th birthday.

I first posted this piece in August 2018. Just looking at this photo, reminiscent of my childhood home in Georgia, makes me happy, though not equally happy for every day of my life. I pray this finds you reasonably at peace with yourself.

~~~

There’s so much going wrong today that I decided to make a roll call of what I’m FOR on this remarkable day. Remarkable because I lived to witness it! Including, in my past, the Vernon River, and dock-life when I was growing up. Plus at least the following other items for which I’m grateful:

this beautiful world in places increasingly touched by human tragedy
family members more distant in miles than ever, yet close to my heart
churches standing up to tough challenges without capitulating to visions of grandeur, glory or isolation
real places that offered me refuge and peace when I needed solitude and reassurance that my life matters
our son who lives reasonably nearby, and reminds me why I risked everything with my parents on the eve of my 50th birthday
our daughter who lives on the other side of the USA yet is present to me in ways I was never present to my mother
the Carolina Wren, Chickadees and Cardinals singing and chirping, plus the small ground squirrel who sits on our back yard wall surveying his spacious kingdom
courageous women, men and children who speak out and work for a better world for all of us
my neighbors: Roman Catholic, Muslim, Jew, Protestant, or Nothing at All who greet me, invite me into conversation, groan and smile with me, and sometimes offer me tea
my dear husband whom I sometimes thought might be the wrong man for me, yet has become precious beyond words
my local church with its challenging mix of cultures, ethnicity, political persuasions, youth and decrepitude
days of such unexpected delight that I don’t want them to end, yet can let go because I love my water-bed and the partner swimming in it with me
my body and the way it’s leading me deeper into and out of myself in these early days of autumn

And of course, I’m for you, my wonderful readers–an invisible family loosely held together somewhere out there beyond our control.

Elouise♥

©Elouise Renich Fraser, 22 August 2018; lightly edited and reposted 15 November 2022
Photo found at pinterest.com

9 Comments

October 27, 2022

The view from my attic

Two days ago I retreated to my attic. It was a cloudy, windy, cold day, late in the afternoon. Not the kind of weather that invites a lovely outdoor walk. So there I was, making do by walking up and down the attic, wondering why I’m still here.

The last several months have been difficult. Living with peripheral neuropathy is a mystery. Some days I feel normal; other days I feel like a stranger in a body that doesn’t seem to be mine. And I wonder how much longer I have on this earth.

But back to walking in the attic. The curtains at the back of the attic were open. Without warning, the sun came out, and the maple leaves suddenly came to brilliant life. Yes, they were being blown around, falling to the ground. But they were also a gorgeous reminder that beauty is in the eye of the beholder.

So what beauty is there in me? In you? Especially those of any age who don’t have the options they used to have. The leaves are going to fall, no matter what. So I’m working on enjoying each day as it comes, laughing and crying as often as needed, bidding goodbye to parts of my life that were wonderful. And being grateful for the bit of wisdom I’ve learned along the way.

All things considered, I’d rather be the woman I am now than the woman I was before I began blogging.

Gratefully,
Elouise♥

© Elouise Renich Fraser, 27 October 2022
Photo taken by me on 25 October 2022

17 Comments

October 20, 2022

Don’t Hesitate | Mary Oliver

I feel a tug of anguish these days. It’s in the air. It’s in my body. It’s in the newspapers. It’s in deluges of unsolicited email from candidates frantically running for office. On some days I just want to crawl back in bed and do absolutely nothing but hibernate.

On the other hand, I’ve been reading this short poem by Mary Oliver. Given our national and international anguish, plus my current health issues, I can’t say it’s easy to follow her wisdom. Still, I’m doomed if I curl up and shrink to nothingness.

Here’s the poem. I hope you find it as compelling as I do.

Don’t Hesitate

If you suddenly and unexpectedly feel joy,
don’t hesitate. Give in to it. There are plenty
of lives and whole towns destroyed or about
to be. We are not wise, and not very often
kind. And much can never be redeemed.
Still, life has some possibility left. Perhaps this
is its way of fighting back, that sometimes
something happens better than all the riches
or power in the world. It could be anything,
but very likely you notice it in the instant
when love begins. Anyway, that’s often the
case. Anyway, whatever it is, don’t be afraid
of its plenty. Joy is not made to be a crumb.

Thank you from my heart for your visits. I’ve been overwhelmed by how many visitors I’ve been getting in the last several weeks. Especially given my inability to post or visit as often as I would like. Which, of course, has been part of my anguish.

Writing is one of the most challenging and joyful things I do. Sort of like playing the piano or watching birds flocking and fighting around the bird feeders each morning.

Praying we all find space for joy (or even more joy!) in our lives today.

Elouise♥

© Elouise Renich Fraser, 20 October 2022
Photo of Smudge birdwatching taken by me in September 2022

8 Comments

September 10, 2022

Letting Go

How hard can it get? Pieces of my life surround me day and night. Always reminding me of something I don’t want to forget, or release just yet.

Tons. That’s how much it seems I’ve already let go—books, do-dads, clothes, cards and letters, kitchen utensils, Tupperware, cookbooks, dishes, and plates. Plus files and records from years of teaching and being a dean, boxes of still usable toys for children, and pictures that decorated the walls of our six homes from the East to the West Coast. Still, some days it seems I haven’t even scratched the surface.

In addition, I’m having to bid farewell to pieces of me. I never dreamed I would be so housebound as I am now. Yes, I get out to walk several times a week (when the weather cooperates). However, I don’t leave the house now without my very nice cane, and the added burden of having to step carefully. No more running up or climbing steep hills. No more wandering through the meadow at Longwood Gardens.

Then there are daily choices I didn’t anticipate. Instead of having a plan for each day, I do what I can and leave the rest. Sometimes it’s a relief; other times it feels like I’m losing part of myself in ways I never anticipated. Especially when I want to read or write or visit my blogging friends.

Letting go. I’ve almost always known that each day is about both life and death. Yet until now, I’ve thought of life as the major component of each day. Now, however, there isn’t a day that passes without reminders that death could come at any moment. Mine, or David’s.

For the last several months, I’ve been uncertain what to write about. Perhaps I was avoiding the obvious? Maybe. Still, I’m not sure where I’m going with this. I do, however, know that the community I’ve discovered on WordPress has given me great joy, a little grief, tons of affirmation, and a place to be myself.

Thank you for being there. I don’t know how things will work out, but I do know that I need to be writing about life as I experience it now. Not because it’s so great, but because it’s unspeakably precious.

Gratefully,
Elouise♥

© Elouise Renich Fraser, 10 September 2022
Photo taken by DAFraser at Longwood Gardens, September 2021

15 Comments

July 31, 2022

The Long and Short of it

A ping pong in my mind
Spins from one reality to another

Grounded
I know I’m not lost
But the feelings in my bones
And in my feet keep
Bouncing back and forth

Stricken
By the deaths of colleagues
And friends I feel lost in the
Immensity and beauty of life
Wondering how long this will last

Drunk
By the glory of nature
Around but not in me
My eyes and ears turn into gluttons
For the beauty this earth

The photo at the top was my best effort at finding a photo remotely like an old postcard I received from my seminary theology professor, Dr. Paul King Jewett. It’s dated 1 July 1977. It showed up in a drawer of personal items I’ve saved over the years.

This past week two of my seminary colleagues died: Dr. J. Deotis Roberts, and Dr. Ron Sider. In addition, one of my seminary students from the mid-1990s died. Then just yesterday, I attended (via You Tube) a memorial service for a prominent member of our church.

All of this pushes me to stay focused on the glorious and inglorious parts of my life. Especially peripheral neuropathy in my feet. I now have a spiffy cane that accompanies me on my walks around the neighborhood. I don’t always need it. Nonetheless, it gives me confidence. Especially when I walk across a field or stroll past unruly dogs!

Within the last week I’ve begun using a series of online exercises. They’re offered by an Australian physiotherapist at MoreLifeHealth.com. No drugs. Just simple, daily exercises to strengthen and relax my feet and legs. Free. He also offers help for patients with peripheral neuropathy in their hands. Here’s a link to all his videos for various health issues.

Hoping your week is both challenging and uplifting!
Elouise♥

10 Comments

July 26, 2022

the sound of silence

cascading waves break
in calm rhythmic procession—
fiddler crabs scurry

* * * * *

I loved trips to the beach on Tybee Island
back in the 1950s when it wasn’t famous, and
sunblock and skin cancer seemingly hadn’t been discovered.

Anyone could just drive out for the day,
slather oily suntan lotion all over,
soak in the beauty and vastness of the ocean,
and ignore the gritty sand that seeped into everything.
PB and jelly sandwiches never tasted better.

Today when I visit a quiet seashore with a beach
it becomes a little homecoming:
Nurturing, reconnecting, relaxing, larger than life itself.
Not unlike everyday homecomings
that mesmerize and ground me:

the hum of summer cicadas
the sound of wind rustling through trees
a steady heartbeat
slow rhythmic breathing
sunrise transforming the morning sky
moon and stars suspended in a crystal-clear night sky
clouds of gnats swarming in the air
sweet robin-song at dusk
fireflies flickering on and off
bats dancing in the evening sky
flocks of snow geese taking elegant flight
Canadian geese traveling noisily across the autumn sky
human voices echoing faintly across the water
multicolored flowers shimmering in a distant garden
clouds drifting across an Atchison blue sky
the sound of silence

* * *

Yes, I’m still here. Slowly but surely making progress on home projects I’ve put off for a while. They include a book of poetry I’ve published on WordPress. Not everything, but pieces that paint a picture of my life as I experienced it. I may not get through a review of all of them. Nonetheless, it’s worth taking time to look back and think about where I was and where I am now. The poem above is included in the collection I’m putting together.

Thank you for your presence in my life. Especially given today’s often strange, unpredictable world filled with pain, agony, and daily reports of things falling apart.

Elouise♥

11 Comments

June 20, 2022

Love Sorrow | Mary Oliver

Facing old age and death is no picnic. However, the post below still helps me re-imagine my relationship to my own sorrow. She’s a small version of me and needs to be loved day and night. Thank you once again, Mary Oliver.

This poem from Mary Oliver struck a chord in me. Partly due to the current pandemic, with its waves of sorrow. But also because of my personal history. My comments follow.

Love sorrow. She is yours now, and you must
take care of what has been
given. Brush her hair, help her
into her little coat, hold her hand,
especially when crossing a street. For, think,

what if you should lose her? Then you would be
sorrow yourself; her drawn face, her sleeplessness
would be yours. Take care, touch
her forehead that she feel herself not so

utterly alone. And smile, that she does not
altogether forget the world before the lesson.
Have patience in abundance. And do not
ever lie or ever leave her even for a moment

by herself, which is to say, possibly, again,
abandoned. She is strange, mute, difficult,
sometimes unmanageable but, remember, she is a child.
And amazing things can happen. And you may see,

as the two of you go
walking together in the morning light, how
little by little she relaxes; she looks about her;
she begins to grow.

© 2008 by Mary Oliver
Published by Beacon Press in Red Bird, a collection of poems
“Love Sorrow” is on p. 64

Dear Mary,

Your poem about loving sorrow brought back memories of my childhood and adult life. Especially things taken or withheld from me before I understood they were mine. Plus bits and pieces I lost or gave away throughout my life.

Sorrow, especially if it showed, was an indulgence I needed to give up. Or get over. What’s done is done. It won’t do to make my friends uneasy, or get into trouble with adults who wanted me to be someone else. I learned early to swallow or deny sorrow. Especially in public.

I think you would be horrified though not surprised at the world as it is today. We’re drowning in sorrow and anger, trying to figure out how this tsunami pandemic caught us so unprepared for death and dying, as well as living mindfully.

I don’t want to drown. I want to live and grow, especially now as time is running out.

Thank you for showing me how to befriend my sorrow. How to welcome her into my life, and learn to live with her as the child she is. And how to watch her begin to relax and grow into a strangely wonderful companion.

With gratitude and admiration,
Elouise

Tag: Gratitude

Like it? Pass it on!

Like this:

Like it? Pass it on!

Like this:

Like it? Pass it on!

Like this:

Like it? Pass it on!

Like this:

Like it? Pass it on!

Like this:

Like it? Pass it on!

Like this:

Like it? Pass it on!

Like this:

Like it? Pass it on!

Like this:

Like it? Pass it on!

Like this:

Like it? Pass it on!

Like this: