Perspectives

It is a curious thing in my observations,  how different people may see the very same thing, yet, there will be a slightly different opinion from almost every viewer.

If there are a hundred stores at the mall, each one seems to manage their success from a clientele that differs slightly from the other ninety-nine.

My personal conduct goal is to go positive to any negative.  Not in a showy, conversational comparative situation, that might be construed as confrontational or contrary. When someone says it is a horrid day, I respect that for their experience it is a horrid day.

But for mine, it is probably not a horrid day.  I might even find a way to consider it an excellent or beautiful day.

Excuse me please, but I like being happy, positive, upbeat, shrugging my shoulders in response to the presence of would be burdens.

Many years ago we had an example from Mr H’s cousin or aunt, or twice removed relation; (the specific relation title escapes me) who lost her home in a truly devastating storm.  After the monster weather system had moved up and away, she was seen by the neighbours dancing a jig in the middle of her front yard. “Thank you Jesus!” she said over and over and over again.

Her home was a loss, sort of, perspectively speaking. However, she had kept excellent insurance on it, with a modest deductible. Destroyed with her home was an awful (to her way of thinking) floor plan, interior colours she had grown to detest, and its placement on the lot wrong for the light and the driveway was too narrow.

The loss of her home was a gain; an opportunity to improve, go with new and better.

It is all about the perspective, the silver lining to the clouds, the help in the midst of hassles.

 

 

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DNA Wow- O -Wow

The quest to understand this hair led me to the testing of DNA. Genealogically I knew my ancestry, but the hair issue was/is perplexing.

Issue defined as a problem, after problem, after problem; Problem defined as one hassle after another in my hair care unless I allow it to be weighted down with all kinds of product for many days at a time.  Then it looks a lot like slicked down nasty mess.

Left alone; clean with no products, it becomes a frizzy mass like a huge halo that feels as if I will take flight at any moment.  If I were brave enough to attempt wide toothed combing it would be efforts in futility not unlike combing carpet.

Too, the heat from such dense, kinky, frizzy curls can be hot. Hot all the time hot.  Sweat-producing heat which makes the hair curlier even though at six plus decades of age, I am still surprised when this happens.

Spit in a cup, more or less, send off in a postage paid packet, wait.

Ta-da. Results. Mostly I’m Caucasian from the very most Caucasian clans on the planet. My family connections are prominently Nordic, Scottish, Welsh and a smattering of German.

Really, I’m surprised I see a reflection in the mirror.  I am not invisible.

No explanation for the kinky-curly, the tendency of hair matted like a felt hat.

Eeeek. So much for my understanding the hair issue, the problem however one wishes to define it.

But it does explain the teeth.  All my life I’ve wanted pretty American teeth. Considering I have documented double lineage to the ship Anna in 1692, by all rights I should have pretty American teeth.

But NO! These pearls for chewing have cost in the vicinity of many thousands of dollars. Yearly, recently even, a few hundred dollars.  Dingy they are, prone to cavities, no matter how much flossing or Water Picking I do, or holding horrid mouthwash in my mouth for a full minute; THREE TIMES A DAY.

Why? They are Scottish teeth.

 

 

 

 

 

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Watching the Decline

This will not be a work of lovely sentiments or humour or creative ideas to boost the dear reader along.  The following is a  more formal collection of memories in response to a question from a dearheart not seen for many, many years.  The questioner had moved far away a few decades past.

“What happened?” Was the question about the closing of a mutually loved dear church.  It was of a major protestant denomination that loses annually more previously avowed members than it gains.  The numbers lost are in the number of millions.

A long time thinking, and a long time reading my personal journals revealed the truth of the club of callous hearts and self-absorption.  People who are not inclined to personal conducts of honesty, loving, compassion, or self-sacrifice for other people.

The most recent reverend had been at the church two minutes early and stayed two minutes late every Sunday for a year.  Each sermon was well delivered and brought humour at times. His subject: His dog. EVERY Sunday the sermon topic was the dog, the dog’s antics, the dog’s breeding, and how sweetly the dog played with the children. Not the Bible, not John Wesley, not Jesus or Paul or John. Not one time.  However, he was well educated, and well placed in the opinions of the ‘church leadership’.

But, he was a slight improvement over the pastors just before him: a duo referred to as the warring retirees.  A man and wife pastoral team who couldn’t make their dollar’s ends meet on their various, multiple retirement incomes that went back and forth as a subject of boasting to cursing their pittances of amounts that were in the six digits annually. Too, they didn’t want to come into the Church’s county from their far away country estate for the middle of the week church meetings, or hospital visits either.  Funerals or family visitations would not be done either.

There were other pastors, other, numerous offences to the sensibilities so many as to fill months and months of posts.

Then too, there were the conducts of people of the congregation to be remembered.  Several handfuls of various cliques within cliques. Their hearts so cold, so callous that only words will reveal them.

When their church pianist took ill on a Friday evening with blood sugar readings in the four hundred group of numbers, the clique was offended that said pianist did not give them sufficient notice for Sunday morning service.  True she was still in the hospital and would be for several months into the future.  True that the ‘clique’ would luncheon after every Sunday service at a restaurant within a hundred yards of the Pianist’s hospital room.  Other than the visits and care of her family, not one visit was paid her by pastor or group or individual from that church.  Not one call was made to the pianist’s family, doctor or even the hospital nurse’s station. Not one

A sadness in action and inaction.  A continuation into the present.  An embarrassment without apology. Rude disregards without thought or an ‘excuse me’.

Different Sunday, different decade, same cliques, same cold, callous disregard for those people not ‘in’ the group. Scant numbers in pews once packed full. Frequent utterances from people bold and honest of their personal persuasion of bigotry and their commitment to intolerance.

Scant numbers in pews once packed full. Frequent utterances from people bold and honest of their personal persuasion of bigotry and their commitment to intolerance.

Inclusion? None. Embrace? None. Acceptance? None. Loving the neighbour in the pew? Not really.  Lip service, hand-shakes, and pats on the back all the utmost perfunctory and fake. As in phoney-baloney.

 

 

 

 

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Saying Goodbye

Transitioning to the other side of life some people call death is a subject of so many unknowns.

On the seventh of February one Beloved left.  On the tenth of March, her husband of nearly thirty years went to be with her.

She made her joy known by making a stunning rainbow in mostly pink shades around her daughter.

He played his favourite song, Over the Rainbow, just as his daughter turned on the radio.

The arrogant and ignorant and self-opinionated may use that word made for such events: Coincidence.

People ask me what are my thoughts on this thing called Transition, or more coarsely, death.

I ask them to show me Where, please, Where is this thing called death? I ask them also to tell me When?.

Many ancients speak that the death, the true death is when we, me, maybe you, are born into a physical body, on this planet called Earth.  We are then so disconnected from the Liberties of spirit that it is a kind of death.

I wonder and question the terminology: death equals gone, never more, kaput. But those are false, as in liars, liars, pants on fire-ars.

We, on beautiful Planet Earth, as it circles the Sun as they Spiral through the Universe, have no new anything. No new birth of anything either.

The air is the same as Cleopatra’s air. The water is the same (albeit more polluted). Mountains have sunk. Mountains have risen. We circle the same Sun. We share with the same other planets.

No thing is new. Every thing is changed.  moment to moment. Yet not ever new.

 

 

 

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New Passwords

New passwords all the way around.   EEEEk  What an undertaking!  New phones. New phone service provider

New phones. New phone service provider,  Tendonitis making the programming a challenge.

Hopefully, I will be in a position to write more often.

Thank you for your patience.

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Attitude Perspective

Mr. Horton and I were enjoying a popular tourist’s venue.  We paid a lot of money for each other’s ticket.The outdoor theater setting was a perfection of light and temperature. There were no disappointments for either of us. the performances were well done, the costumes brilliantly colored and uniquely creative.

For we two avid people watchers there were bonuses to see all around us. At the generous break time, we waited in line for our sandwiches and drinks.  Sprinkled about were tables and shades and lawn benches.

A man sat with his head bowed to the back of his hands.  His fingers, shoulders, and every part of him sagged, deeply to the ground.  A woman of unknown relationship,  leaned toward him and asked. “Do you want me to call the pilot and have the plane readied?  Side to side he shook his head, a frown consumed his mouth, his eyes, and his forehead. Seeing his motion, she hurriedly said. “We could go to Denver or San Francisco. Anywhere really.”

“No. There is nothing there, anywhere really. No.”

We took in their wardrobe of wealth. The woman’s expression was clearly on of loving compassion. Their skins glowed with vigor and health and a clarity in their eyes that could only be from physical health. Diamonds sparkled at her wrist and neck. Faint fragrances came from them each.

Yet he answered genuinely, and heartfelt from his perspective. “No. There is nothing there, anywhere really. No.”

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The day before Thanksgiving………

Friends are in from Virginia. We enjoyed a flavorful meal and lots of laughter interspersed with conversation last night.

Tonight will be a family meeting with the all-American, and a favorite of various Pizza choices. Thanksgiving and a birthday celebration are the reasons for the gathering.

Recently my thoughts have turned to people who are quite special on a planet of so many billions of folks. I’ve looked at the statistics of how many people are literate, who can read.  Then when I compare that information with how many people who can write, actually form letters onto a surface and use them to convey their ideas, thoughts, instructions, then the numbers drop, dramatically. To further refine the criteria and include people who draw and paint and compose music, design buildings, create world’s of fiction in novels, is to see a minute percentage of the global population.

I believe this teensy-weensy percentage of people are Divinely Appointed to use their words. Maybe I and we do not know what to do with those words, or how to use them.  Limiting or denying our story, our perspectives, is not an option.

Libraries are littered with texts written by people who had no intention publishing. Diaries and journals and mathematical calculations reach across centuries to speak into our awareness today.

I believe there are people who are special. They write of their experiences, some of which are thick with horrors and traumas and tragedy, yet they rise high and beyond the reach of the foul damning monsters and become stars to guide other people, people they will not ever meet or know of,  through the darkness.

So many times I’ve wondered ‘What is my purpose?’. Not a question asked by just me.  So many as to be countless are the people I have heard question the same thing.  Now, on this day before Thanksgiving, six plus decades into my life, I know the answer.  Finally, I put things together in my thoughts to come to a ‘Duh!’ moment.

I’m born into a nation of constitutionally protected freedoms and liberties I was taught. I read, I write, I paint paintings. I use my words to tell stories. I have the liberty to do anything I want.

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