Category Archives: Character

To a world starving for beautiful words

I love words.  I love the way they bump up together and create meaning. I love rhyme and internal cadence.  A well turned phrase – or a truly witty pun – brings joy and laughter. I heartily agree with the Proverb: words fitly spoken are like apples of gold in frames of silver.  Can you imagine the beauty?

Today, at weekend work, I received a bouquet of words. It is amazing how quickly good news can fly. Before the words of commendation reached me, at least three other pairs of eyes had seen them, so it was like gossip, only better.  The electronic note came through the National Park Service, to the lead ranger, on to my immediate supervisor, into my hands.

Less than 24 hours ago, I served an amiable customer at the Visitor Center. One among 990 that day. He was the perfect customer; competent and quietly confident-the type of person who is so open and kind, it would be impossible to not serve him and his party well.  Yet, he took the time and trouble to write a commendation, within 24 hours, while on a cross-country trip.

You know what? I want to be like that customer; to pursue everyday folks and bring out the best in them.  I want to spread positive gossip; to encourage people simply by my presence and well chosen words; to not only notice the best in others, but take the time and trouble to point it out; thus bringing hope for the future to a world starving for beautiful words.

A Friday Fiction Mashup wherein two speakers try on well known roles to make truth into fiction.

“She left me!”  the heart rending and spine-tingling wail echoed from the darkness of the cavern like Rachel weeping for her children.

“She’s gone!” No, make that like Gollum weeping for his Precious.

“She left me, my Precious.”

“There, there.  Calm down,” said the traveler.  Maybe it’s not so bad as all that.  Perhaps your precious is just lost and you need to go and find her.”

“No. No.  She left me!  My precious left me.”

“Why did she leave you?  Did you hit her?”

“No. No.  Hitting is wrong.  I would never hit my precious.”

There was silence in the darkness.  Then the wail began again.

“Make her come back.  Make my precious come back.  She left me.”

Patiently, the voice from the darkness asked again, “Why did she leave you?  Did you take another lover in her place?”

“She left me.  Didn’t you hear me?  She left me.”

The wail melted into heaving sobs like a scoop of ice cream slowly spreading into a puddle. The wail continued in a murmur,

“Happy we were, in our little cave, away from the noise and crush of the crowds.”

“Well then, was she isolated, lonely?” prodded the voice.

“No. No.  Not lonely.  We had each other.”

“In the darkness?”

“No, not always darkness.  She had a lamp. Only darkness now because I spend my days exploring the dark part of the cave. Around the corner and up about 50 paces there is a fissure in the rock where the sunshine streams in. Precious loved that place.  There is a back exit to the cave through a lemon squeezer. Precious used to climb through the lemon squeezer and go hike along the tiny stream.  She said the running water sang to her and showed her wonderful things.”

“So, Precious really loved this place?”

Oh yes, loved this place, did Precious. And I.”

“So, if your precious loved this place so much, why did she leave?”

“I don’t know.  She left me, my precious!”

“I know, I know, your precious left you,” said the voice with quiet annoyance.  “I am trying to figure out why.  If we can figure out why, perhaps we can take some steps to get your precious back.”

“She belongs here.  She should come back.”

There was a pause in the blackness.  After some thought, the traveler asked, “Did your precious ever get away from the cave?  You know, go down to Metropolis for concerts or shopping?”

“Every day!”  he wailed.

“What?  Precious went shopping every day?  This is an unexpected development.”

“No, no.  Precious left me and went to work every day. She didn’t love the cave as much as I did or she would not have been able to leave,” he stated petulantly.

“Precious left you everyday to go to work?”  inquired the voice.

“Yes, yes,”  he wailed, “Precious, stubborn Precious.  She wanted me to go to work everyday too.  She said the only way we could keep living in our wonderful cave was for both of us to work.  That’s not true. This cave belongs to me!

“So, you didn’t want to go to work?”

“No. No.  It is more important to hold tightly to the things you have than to work for something better.”  He paused for emphasis, then continued,

“It wasn’t possible for me to go to work.  I was busy working here in the cave.  There were so many tunnels I hadn’t yet explored. I found some fascinating stones and minerals in the lower tunnel and I needed to catalog them.”

“Are you a mineralogist then?”

“Me?  No. I’m a  horticulturalist….I just know a lot about minerals because, my precious, she came with a degree in mineralogy when I married her.”

“So, she went to the city every day to work as a mineralogist?”

“No, she was just typing orders for a bakery.”

“Do you think it bothered her that you got to stay at the cave doing research in mineralogy while she was away typing bakery orders?”

“Why would she leave the cave every day if it bothered her? What it all comes down to is, you do the thing you are interested in.  I had more heart for the cave than she did. You only do what you want to do.”

There was a moment of silence as the traveler shrugged along with the man.

“Besides, while my precious was doing her little bakery job, I was conducting an experiment and was deep in research.”

“Oh?” said the voice.

“Yes.  I noticed I had to stoop to bring the rocks from the lower tunnel to daylight to look at them.  I was collecting data to find which way of carrying rocks made me stoop least.”

“I see,” nodded the voice. “What did Precious think about your experiment?”

“See?” wailed the man, “I just realized she was never supportive of my work! She was a woman, so she was shorter. How could she know how difficult it was for me to bring up rocks?  She didn’t have to stoop.”

Again, there was silence.

“One other question,” began the voice. “Just out of curiosity, how did that work when your, uh, precious came home from the city each evening; did you have a fresh garden salad on the table for her?”

“What?” asked the man with a good deal of incredulity as though he had never heard the word salad before.

“A salad,” repeated the voice. “You are a stay-at-home horticulturalist.  Did you greet her with a fresh green meal at the end of the day?”

“I didn’t have time,” said the man indignantly.

“I worked hard at my research, right on into the evening. But, she never appreciated that.  Most of the time I wasn’t aware of her arrival.  At first when she came home from the bakery, she used to call down the tunnel, ‘Hi!  I’m home!’ But after a while she quit doing that. Once after she had finally fixed us dinner and we had eaten, she asked me to do the dishes.”

“Really?” inquired the voice.

“I told her it made me feel less of a man to be doing dishes.”

“Did she apologize?”

“Are you kidding?  She didn’t say a thing. The next night when I came up to the kitchen, there was no food on the table.  She should have been home for two hours already. The dishes were clean and neatly stacked in the cupboard.  She was gone.”

The silence was pregnant with profound thought. At least it seemed that way, until the man burst out,

“Maybe she wanted to be a Goblin Princess.”

“A Goblin Princess?  That is highly illogical.  Logic says Precious was more inclined to be Superwoman than a goblin princess.”

“It was those goblins who stole her!”

“What?  She was kidnapped?  Why didn’t you report it?  Set your ship at warp speed and go after her?”

“I did go after her.”

“Did you find her?”

“Not exactly, but I found out about her – more than I wanted to know. I waited a few months to see if she would find her way back on her own. Then, I told my friends and asked them what I should do. I wrote her a letter begging her to come back, but I couldn’t find a stamp. Can you believe it? She didn’t leave me any stamps in the drawer. Finally, somebody offered me a ride back to University Town where I heard she was living.”

“Did you go?”

“I went to University Town, but, I didn’t get to see her.  I ran into an old friend instead. We had been enemies for many years; but, when he saw me back in town, he slapped me on the back and was glad to see me. He said he knew things about what my precious had been before she found me.  He said she used to be a Goblin Princess,” the man fairly spat the words.  Then he added self-righteously, “Once a goblin princess, always a goblin princess, you know.”

“You were satisfied with that story?  You lived with her for over a decade and you think she actually left you to be a goblin princess?”

“I guess so. Why else would she leave me? It makes sense.  She always did have goblin tendencies.  They love rocks, you know. I remember now how she always loved rocks.”

The man sighed heavily. Once again the wail began to build.  The traveler with the questions covered his ears and retreated to the mouth of the cave and the sunlight.  When the echo subsided, he stepped back into the cavern.

“Say,”  he said. “I came through University Town yesterday. I was there for the gem and mineral symposium at the college.  I think I saw your precious. You might like to know that she is not a goblin princess.  She was the guest lecturer on the hidden value of gold and rubies and how to tell the difference between the real thing and the fake.”

Copyright © Cherry Odelberg, 2013

If you enjoyed this story, you might also enjoy Hell or Love and Let me tell you a parable, from Before I Went Crazy

It must be the fault of all those candles

Birthdays wouldn’t be so hard if it wasn’t for the candles. The cake looks more like swiss cheese or a mini gopher colony once the candles are removed leaving pocks and potholes where the frosting used to be. My three-year-old granddaughter seizes the candles, licking off the frosting and then double dipping as she waits for me to cut the cake.

This year my candles would be difficult to arrange in orderly rows and ranks; an odd number;  a prime age. Prudently and perhaps with a bit of thrift, my mother placed only three candles in the corner of the cake  – just for tradition. So everyone could sing by candlelight.  I took a breath and blew.  Success.  My grandchildren clapped and cheered and shouted, “Make a wish!  Make a wish!”

Suddenly, I was stuck.  Pop quiz!  Make a wish.  What do I wish for? Blank. Perplexed. It is such a heavy responsibility to have only one wish.  There is a fear and shame that goes along with wishes.  Fear that you might wish for something and be disappointed.  Shame that you are engaging in wishful thinking and should shake a leg and do something about it.

“Be careful what you wish for, you just might get it.”  What if I blow out all the candles and the magic works?  What if I wish for the wrong thing, and get it?  Let me think this through.   If I make a wish, have I committed myself? After all, it is pure laziness to engage in wishful thinking and then take no action to make the thing you want or wish for come about.

What do I want?  For me?  Wishing and wanting, doesn’t that sound selfish?  I have no wants. I don’t know what I want.  So then, what do I need? Nothing, really, I have learned to get along.  Poke me, I have no feelings.  What do I want?  I want to do the right thing; or rather, to not do the wrong thing. I want not to make a mistake.

Wait a minute, there is something deep inside that hungers for something more. What is it?  What is that niggling thought?  Like the spoiled little prince who cried out, “I want something hot as summer and cold as winter,” I am vaguely dissatisfied. I want, I want, something different; something new and wonderful.  A new life, a new love, a new location, a new job.  Really?  Am I wishing for those things?  What am I thinking of? What if the new life was just out of the frying pan and into the fire?  What if it wasn’t what I wanted and I was sorry I left my old life?  Do I even have energy for new love?  Do I want a new location?  Think, woman!

What is the right thing to wish for?  World peace?  World prosperity? Are those wishes I won’t feel guilty about?   But, can I do anything about it?

Happy Birthday!  You are thinking too much again. Who needs a birthday spanking when you can beat yourself up without even trying?  It must be the fault of all those candles.

 

A Wild Idea

DSCN5467archthrougharchTo begin with, I wasn’t even wearing my hiking shoes.  My friend had prevailed on me to  meet her at 8:30 a.m. to help sort recently moved boxes for a yard sale. Friends shouldn’t have to prevail, but Thursday morning begins my so-called weekend and I keep my mornings free to write and create. Late getting out of the shower, I headed to my phone to request an additional 15 minutes.  There was a message waiting for me:  Let’s make it 9 o’clock. At 10 after nine, I pulled in her driveway.  I was wearing my denim work shorts and a T-shirt, and my Chucks. She was sitting in a sunny living room window in baggy capris, with a cup of coffee, reading. She groaned, “I don’t really want to pull boxes down from the garage attic.  My head hurts.  My body is already aching.”

“Well, we could just go out of town instead,”  I quipped. “What I really wanted to do was go to Ft. Collins this weekend.”  Her face perked up. We discussed this novel idea for a few minutes as we have mutual friends in Ft. Collins, in addition to two of my children.  “But I don’t think we can get out of town before 10:00 and we would have to leave for home by 3:00 tomorrow afternoon -that’s hardly enough.”

She had a full tank of gas. In the end, we pooled our lunch, grabbed the first aid pack and an extra water bottle from my car and headed for Arches National Park in Utah. We didn’t take time to change clothes or run by my house.  I was wearing Converse low cuts and my last pair of clean white socks. That is why my toes hurt. We hiked 5 miles and decimated several bottles of water.  I was gone from home 12 1/2 hours.  And to think, I was going to do my laundry after I helped sort boxes.

If you had determined to live each day as though you have been given 365 days to live, would you have gone hiking – or finished the laundry?

DSCN5477cherryarch

When was the last time you felt, IN THE PRIME OF LIFE?

A few days ago, while searching for images to update and illustrate my writer’s profile, I came across a photo album titled, “Rancho.”  Flipping the pages, this thought escaped me unbidden, “Man, was I ever in my prime!  And I didn’t even know it.”

Scrapbook of one prime of life
Scrapbook of one prime of life

I was in my early forties when I co-wrote, co-directed, designed costumes, designed and constructed the sets for a children’s musical. It was a nearly charmed time in my life. At first I volunteered as pianist for a newly formed children’s choir, quickly became assistant / substitute director, costume designer, and organizational wizard.  What a ride.  Before the two year journey was up, I had organized and delivered a week of summer music camp activities, worked for a recording studio, helped produce four children’s church musicals and one Christmas CD.  When those years culminated in “Rancho Prodigolly,” it was no longer just the director and me, but a full team complete with wardrobe director, choreographer, and stage hands.

It can be difficult to look back, see an astounding success, notice things have tapered off, and worry you are now past your prime. It is somewhat consoling to take a look at prime numbers. You will notice erratic gaps between seven and eleven; 23 and 29.  The great thing about growing older is that I have seen enough to know that prime of life experiences come again and again. What makes it the prime of life for you?  Is it having resources, money to do what you dream? Is it completing an advanced degree?

Prime for me is when somebody sees my value, my worth, puts me in that position and gives me free reign to shine. Given this affirmation, I prove myself beyond their expectations. But I have to reveal a little bit of myself, at least the tip of the ice berg, before anyone knows, before they think of me. Often, this revelation happens through volunteering or taking entry level jobs.  Sometimes, it is an arduous journey between primes.

I don’t know about you, but I want another prime.

Does the prime of life refer to only a narrow corridor of years?

In my twenties, I was in the prime of life; entrepreneurial, physically more beautiful than I had ever been. In my thirties, I hit my stride writing scripts, musicals and getting other people where they needed to go.  My forties yielded hours in the music classroom  where I knew I was being fully she I was meant to be. Most recently, I have experienced prime moments, tiny snippets of time when I connected with a tutoring or piano student.

It can be an arduous and erratic journey between primes.  I am making the journey.  I feel another prime of life coming on.  How about you?  Where is your next prime?

Gratitude brings happiness

Some months ago, while car shopping, I posted on Facebook “ Red with a spoiler,…but will it make me happy?”  And my 24- year-old daughter responded, “Yes, yes it will.”  If you know my daughter and me, this exchange seems ludicrous, almost batty.  We both know that things don’t make you happy, that money doesn’t buy happiness. We are accustomed to live frugally.

I know some things that do bring happiness: a heart full of gratitude, time spent with those I love, the sweet feeling of success large or small.

Welcome home from your hike
Welcome home from your hike

Within a week of purchasing the vehicle, I was able to travel to Ft. Collins and visit my two younger children.  I had been desperate to see them for several months. I can take the car to work or into less accessible areas. When I return from a long hike and see my own *Red Pearl in the distance, it is like coming home.  My heart is filled with gratitude.

When I began car shopping, I knew just what I wanted; a dependable, fuel conscious Subaru Outback, preferably red, within the scope of my savings account.   The spoiler was unexpected lagniappe. So is the upgraded stereo system – literal music to my ears.

It is impossible to ever enjoy a feeling of success without having set goals – large or small. Reflection on goals met or sweet success brings contentment and confidence.  The confidence comes from being able to say, “I did what I said I was going to do.”

Andrea commences the rest of her life May 2012
Andrea commences the rest of her life May 2012

I got my children through school.  I finished my degree.  After much research, saving and shopping; I got the car I wanted. But these successes share some things in common. They all cost money, time, focus.

Money may not buy happiness, but it does augment the time I spend with those I love, the sweet feeling of success; and hey, money right when it is needed causes overwhelming gratitude.

This year, I’m going to do what I said I was going to do.  I’m going to write a book.  I’m going to live as though I have been given only 365 days to live.  That is going to take time and focus. Oh, and undoubtedly some money.

* Red Pearl – sorta like the Black Pearl, and captained by a woman.  The dealer certificate lists the color as regatta red pearl.

Who will share your 365 days?
Who will share your 365 days?

 

Dueling with the daily despond

Sometimes, I feel like I have only two settings for my moods; life is wonderful, or get me out of here.  I am constantly observing my habits for ways to take charge of the daily despond. I am not talking about major, long-term, unrelenting depression here. A proper duel doesn’t last long.  Someone wins.  The other loses. The day moves forward. When I take on the daily despond of rising and getting going, I want to be the one who wins.

Maybe these heart healthy habits apply to you too.

Looking up Monument Canyon from Independence
Looking up Monument Canyon from Independence

Walk or hike daily. Second only to getting a good night’s rest, walking or hiking is the most deeply spiritual thing I do.

Make music Making music is right up there with walking and hiking  as brain, heart and soul food. Singing or playing a wind instrument adds an aerobic bonus.

Read and Write –  Sometimes, life is dissatisfying simply because I have not spent time in the company of great thinkers via a good book. Other times, penning a well turned phrase or two in my journal will bring contentment

Eat well I have experienced the jubilant feeling of wellbeing often enough to know that’s what I want every possible day. Eating well includes on time, often and healthful.  Pinto beans are disastrous for my feelings; also, anything with caffeine – including chocolate.  Too little sugar makes me droop.  On the other hand, too much sugar is catastrophic. I suffer in body as well as spirit when I succumb to gorging on my favorite sweets.

As long as I make a beeline for the good things in life – apples, lovely salads, chicken and veggie stir fries, my body and my spirit communicate well. When I cave to the occasional temptation of carbonated drinks, an ice cream, wine or mixed drinks, I pay for it the the next morning – seldom with a headache, but frequently with a vague dissatisfied feeling of non-wellbeing.

Rise with the sun I like to let my body sleep in while my brain is waking up. Rising before dawn is a struggle. Whenever possible, I like to wake naturally with the dawn. Optimum for my frame of mind, is waking gradually  without alarm and having a few moments between sleep and full speed ahead. In these moments, my brain and heart process new ideas and revelations.  I notice what I really think or feel of a goal, problem or relationship after sleeping on it.

This idea is not unique to me.  Melody Beattie recommends paying close attention to your first thoughts and revelations on waking: “Morning Cues, There is an important message for us first thing every day.  Often, once we get started with the day, we may not listen as closely to ourselves and life as we do in those still moments when we first awaken.  An ideal time to listen to ourselves is when we are laying quietly, our defenses are down, and we’re open and most vulnerable. ..lay still and listen and then accept the message.”

Get outside fast When I must set an alarm, my next technique is to get outside as soon as possible, go to the door and stick my head out, open a window.  If the great outdoors is not available to me for some reason, my other option is to get into the shower and let an abundance of hot water cheer me up. Hot running water will forever be my modern luxury of choice. Usually, by the time I am dressed, made-up and out the door, I am invigorated.

Sleep well, rise with the sun, get outside fast, walk, make music, read and write – these all earn a Healthy Heart label.  What choices do you make to keep body and soul healthy?

The piano is not firewood yet

“The Piano is not firewood yet,” this phrase, from lyrics and music by Regina Spektor, is my new battle song – my new anthem.

I shout, “The piano is not firewood yet!” and it is the voice of John Paul Jones bellowing, “I have not yet begun to fight.”

StudioDSCN2750I hear the voice of God asking in the wilderness, “What have you got in your hand, Moses?” and Moses replying, “A rod.”
“Throw it on the ground, Moses.”
The voice calls to me,
“What have you got in your hand?”
I reply, “A Piano!”

For me, Regina Spektor’s lyrics are literal. Maybe for others, metaphorical. But here’s the deal, It is summer weather. I have four more months of warmth in this 365 days to live, so the piano is not firewood yet; though it has been dangerously threatened over the years. But, if it is not going to be dismantled to keep us from freezing, might it be taken from me another way?

Metaphorically, is it collateral? Capital? A sacrificial lamb? What possibilities does it present? Is it merely to attract more students? Is it to rehearse my fingers for performance? Is it setting there between me and my empty wood box, to inspire my stories (I can’t seem to keep the protagonists from playing the piano)?
Is it to point me constantly toward a heart of gratitude? Once, I did not even have a piano and this one was provided generously, almost miraculously, through a friend.

Regina reminds me to press on, to do what needs to be done.
“the piano is not firewood yet
but the cold does get cold
so it soon might be that
I’ll take it apart, call up my friends
and we’ll warm up our hands by the fire”

The Universe calls clearly, “What have you got in your hand?”

I answer joyfully, “A piano! My piano is not firewood yet!

What is this throwdown going to look like?

My life in pictures

Practice until you get it right
Practice until you get it right (Philip Shellabarger)

I used to be really bad at taking pictures.  Somehow, I could not get the hang of my 110 Instamatic. First, I had to buy the film. Then, feeling the strain of the expense of a roll of film, I severely rationed the use of 24 exposures.  When the roll of film was spent, it was either left in the camera to season, or removed and tossed in the center drawer of the desk to await a newspaper coupon for discounted developing.   18 months later, coupon  and cash exchanged for prints, it was disheartening to find my memories of the occasion fuzzy – and also my pictures.  What a waste.  My too frugal budget could not stand it. I gave up taking pictures.

For decades, my life was built on getting it right the first time. Experimentation that resulted in waste was not allowed. While excellence is a worthy goal; perfectionism or poverty are cruel and joyless motivators.  Failure to get it right the first time results in giving up because you cannot afford to give yourself a second chance.

Independence Monument in a late summer cloud
Independence Monument in a late summer cloud

I continue to live on a frugal budget.  These days, I have a smart little economical camera that allows me to take pictures with wild abandon; keeping or discarding at will at no extra expense. The freedom to practice away increases the quality of my photos. Even the batteries are rechargeable. News publications that used to be chary with color print and picture space now require a  picture – an eye-catching visual – to publish.  A camera is essential to my writing career.

If you are going to write about life; another essential is experience. Some experiences come via attending events. Events come with a cost; ten dollars, twenty, maybe even forty for a concert or show. Attending events is like taking pictures – you win a few and you lose a few.  Many times you just click the discard button. But you keep going because once in awhile there is a stellar surprise.  It’s a lot like life.

barefootWhat I really want is a digital budget – maybe even a digital life. I want to be a shutter bug, clicking away at memories, pictures, events – not missing out on a single thing.  But, I want to be able to delete the fuzzy, smudged, unfocused and undesirable.  I want to quit demanding my money back for the events that failed to meet my expectations; but I also want the freedom to keep practicing until I get it right.

The story from my tombstone

Must have lived nine lives
Must have lived nine lives

Cat extracted herself from the pavement, like a frugal parent peeling fruit leather from the paper; anxious to get every morsel. “Geeeeeaawd!”  she yowled, “Again?  Five lives I have lived and you still want more?  Why can’t I just lie down here on the asphalt and call it quits?”

“God isn’t finished with you yet!”  barked Pluto from the door of Hades, “Out, out damned spot!  Go get a life.”

“So when do I get the dog’s life?”  mumbled Cat.

“I never even got to have a normal cat’s life.  What happened to basking in the sun, purring languidly, stretching and strolling?  Oh, I have done my share of arching my back and whipping my tail – and my share of mousing.  There was that year of four and twenty deer mice I threatened to bake in a pie. Oh, yes, I used my keen ears for the cause of music and my instinctive sense of direction to get other people where they needed to go.

“There were masters who required me to play the part of Puss in Boots. There were times I  wore the pants for tom. I have been aloof and unreachable, and have played the role of pretty much every molly in the world. I have foraged for my meals like an ally cat; licked and groomed and preened – and, been neat about my business, with or without the luxury of litter.

“Meouch, I even played the demeaning part of a dog; the come when I whistle, sit, jump, follow me like a puppy, role.  What’s feline about that?

“Aaaah,” Cat purred, “there were two distinct and wonderful lives when I nursed my kittens and carried them by the scruff of the neck. I was good at that.  I enjoyed it so much, I even carried around others’ offspring for a few seasons, including a new generation. It takes a village, you know.”

Often, I walk the narrow ridge atop the fence. In truth, I usually land on my feet when I fall.  But, it’s those times when I get hit by a ton of bricks, or a two ton truck of slander and misunderstanding, that slay me.

Five lives I have lived – maybe six-I’ll have to get the count straight while I still have a life left to live to write about it.  It has been an incredible journey.

My headstone:  Always starting over – must have lived nine lives.

What does your headstone say?