Some really good stuff

 I’ve been spending time cleaning up my files. Sounds grim but I actually enjoying sorting, organizing, and, especially, tossing outdated papers, realizing that I don’t really need all those photo-copied handouts for a class I once taught and might again someday, but in all honesty, probably won’t. It feels good to throw it out.

I find that information that was once important no longer is: those recipes that I thought I’d try out but never did, letters from former students that no one else will ever want to read, summaries of books I once liked, a stack of publicity fliers for a book I wrote several years ago, song sheets, beautiful bird pictures, and on it goes. It might be initially hard to part with the bird pictures, but if I grit my teeth and just do it, I end up feeling better. It’s all part of downsizing, of trying to make life less complicated for my kids when someday it all goes to them to make the what-to-do-with-all-this decisions.

Most of my files are moderately well organized and alphabetized. They make sense to me and I can usually find what I need. But my intuitive brain can only handle so much logic and alphabetized organization. So I’ve developed some special folders for those items I don’t know how to categorize. It could be a good quote I heard on the evening news, a funny poem I found in the newspaper (often anonymous), a Reader’s Digest story—items that made me laugh, touched my spirit, inspired me to do some research, or broadened my perspective on a subject I was interested in. Items I don’t want to forget and lose, but just didn’t know where to file.

So here’s my system: I have files folders with the following titles: Stuff, More Stuff, Good Stuff, Really Good Stuff 1, Really Good Stuff 2, and Stuff To Think About. I realize that probably wouldn’t work for everyone, but it does for me. It lets my whimsical side tease my rational well-organized side, and the two end up getting along better together.

Every once in a while, I take out one of my Stuff folders and just go through it. I find ideas for poems or articles, illustrations for talks, funny memories, great ideas—in short, scads of snippets and tidbits. I love snippets and tidbits. So I’m going to share some of what I found today in one folder, the one simply labeled “Stuff.” 

*Here’s a news item that appeared in April of 1997 (sent to me in an email from a friend):

“Earlier this year, the dazed crew of a Japanese trawler was plucked out of the Sea of Japan clinging to the wreckage of their sunken ship. Their rescue, however, was followed by immediate imprisonment once authorities questioned the sailors on their ship’s loss. To a man they claimed that a cow, falling out of a clear blue sky, had struck the trawler amidships, shattering its hull and sinking the vessel within minutes.

“They remained in prison for several weeks, until the Russian Air Force reluctantly informed Japanese authorities that the crew of one of its cargo planes had apparently stolen a cow wandering at the edge of a Siberian airfield, forced the cow into the plane’s hold and hastily taken off for home.

“Unprepared for live cargo, the Russian crew was ill-equipped to manage a now rampaging cow within its hold. To save the aircraft and themselves, they shoved the animal out of the cargo hold as they crossed the Sea of Japan at an altitude of 30,000 feet.”

Not so good for the cow, but the confession freed the innocent Japanese prisoners. 

*I found a one-page book review for a volume called Oxymoronica: Paradoxical Wit and Wisdom from History’s Greatest Wordsmiths by Mardy Grothe. It looked good, so I just ordered the book on Kindle and am enjoying it now. A few of the choice oxymorons from the introduction: “The best cure for insomnia is to get lots of sleep” (W.C. Fields); “I am deeply superficial” (Ava Gardner); “Always remember that you are absolutely unique. Just like everyone else” (Margaret Mead).

*Here’s a gift idea: give someone an empty jar and say, “Here. I’m giving you space.”

*Some conversation starters (if you’re desperate):
--Coca-Cola was originally green.
--Barbie’s measurements if she were life size: 39-23-33.
--Intelligent people have more zinc and copper in their hair.
--A duck’s quack doesn’t echo, and no one knows why.
--It is possible to lead a cow upstairs but not downstairs.
--The youngest pope was 11 years old.
--The phrase “rule of thumb” is derived from an old English law which stated that you couldn’t beat your wife with anything wider than your thumb.
--An ostrich’s eye is bigger than its brain.

*Here’s how poet William Stafford answered the question, “What do you do about writer’s block?” He answered, “I lower my standards.”

*A definition of the manger: “a feeding trough large enough to contain the Bread of Life.”

That’s probably enough stuff for one day. I’m afraid I haven’t reduced the volume of my Stuff file today. What would I throw away? When I’m too old to laugh (which will be never, I hope), I’ll just let my great grandchildren deal with it.

Things I don't do well but can't give up

 It seems that much of growing older has to do with giving up. It begins with giving up our job, sometimes a life-long career, and that involves giving up part of our personal identity. Then we move on to giving up stuff (we call it downsizing), giving up relationships (more of our friends are dying), and giving up activities we used to be good at. We move on to giving up the car and, sometimes, giving up our teeth and other body parts. We fear someday giving up our dignity as people have to care for us as though we were infants.

Grim.

When my thoughts about all this become too grim for comfort, then it’s humor to the rescue. So I made a list of “things I don’t do well but can’t give up, at least not yet.” Here’s the list:

1.     --Cooking: Actually, I’m not sure I’ve ever done this well. I have a history of bland casseroles, substituted ingredients that didn’t turn out, forgetting the cheese, stuff burnt on the bottom of the pan, and so on. Hal and our grown kids reassure me they enjoyed my meals, but they are all very nice people and wouldn’t say anything else. At any rate, I’m even less fond of cooking now than I ever was. But I’m not ready to give it up. We have a kitchenette in our apartment, so I cook. And when I’d can’t bear the thought, we go down to the community dining room where other nice people fix our meals.

2.     --My guitar: This is another activity I’m not sure I ever did well, but it gave me a lot of joy. I got my first guitar in high school when folk music was the rage. I loved Joan Baez and wanted to be like her, and so—the guitar. I’ve plunked and strummed for many years now, but never arrived at any proficiency. There are two reasons for this: 1) I don’t have the musical gene and 2) I hate to practice.  Right now the guitar sits propped up against the book case, along with her daughter, a ukelele (which I also used to play). I keep thinking I’ll begin playing again and get really good at it. And tomorrow would be a good time to start. The thought of getting rid of them makes me sad.

3.   

--Tent camping: Hal and I used to do this. But the last few times we’d begun to wonder. Those air mattresses seem to be getting thinner and thinner, our backs in the morning stiffer and stiffer. Getting up several times in the middle of the night to wander through the trees to the camp bathroom doesn’t seem as adventuresome any more. To be honest, the last time we hauled our camping equipment to some lovely state park was before the pandemic. But the stuff still occupies much of our storage container—tent, tarp, air mattresses, pump, sleeping bags, propane stove, pots and pans, lantern, and numerous other essential camping stuff. From time to time, we talk about getting rid of it, but we just can’t bring ourselves to do it. Not yet.

4.     --Art supplies: These occupy space in our apartment and I also have a locker down in the community art room. I’ve never considered myself an artist, but after retirement I began to experiment and enjoyed it. I’ve even taken a few art classes here in the retirement community. So I dabble and sometimes I get it right. I’ve become good enough for personal greeting cards, including some really funny birthday cards for the grandkids. However, along with my missing music gene, I was not born with an art gene. When I say, “I’m not really an artist,” my friends tell me never to say that. But it’s true. Still, I’m keeping the art supplies for now and using them. It’s healthy. And fun.

5.     --House plants: Some people kid about murdering their house plants. But I won’t kid about it; I am that criminal. And yet I love the idea of filling my rooms with beautiful leaves and blooms—real ones. Plastic doesn’t appeal. So I’m going to keep trying. I’ll just stoically throw out the dead plants and buy more as needed. My plants look really good for at least a year.

6.     --Poetry: Like so many serious writers (even writers of humor), I periodically wrestle with doubts. Some days I look at my books and think, “Wow! I like these poems!” Other days I want to throw everything I’ve ever written in the garbage. Pathetic, right? I wonder if I’m losing my edge as I age. But then I think that if I write a poem a day, out of 365 poems a year, some are bound to be good. Really good. Simple statistics. At least that’s what I keep telling myself. I’m in no way ready to give this up.

7.   

 --Prayer: I used to think I had a special calling as an intercessor—praying for family, friends, enemies, against all sorts of illnesses, and, of course, for world peace. I still wistfully hope I have this calling. But then why do I fall asleep every time I sit down to pray? Pacing and praying makes me dizzy. Is there a new technique I need to learn? (I hope not. I’ve always resisted praying by technique.) I still want to go out on a limb as I pray, asking God for impossible things, like world peace. I just also need to pray that the limb doesn’t break. No, I’m definitely not willing to give this up.

This list could go on and on, but that’s enough for now. Life goes on. I probably will give up the guitar and the camping equipment. But for the time being, I’m hanging on to the rest.

I’m not giving up.

The prodigal son stays home

Downsizing is the name of the ghost that continues to haunt our apartment. His nickname is Books. But he has a twin sister named Keepers. I frankly play favorites and I like Keepers better than Downsizing.

I am making progress. Really, I am. And along with deciding which books to recycle, I decide which books are beloved enough to keep around a while longer. This are books I will likely reread. Right now I’m rereading Cry, The Beloved Country, the wonderful novel about a changing Africa by Alan Paton. Stephen Kumalo, beloved pastor of the village of Ndotsheni in South Africa, is one of my favorite literary old men, and one day I will write about him.

But today I want to reflect on another keeper, The Return of the Prodigal Son. This is my favorite Henri Nouwen book. It details Nouwen’s discovery of Rembrandt’s painting of the same name, a depiction of Jesus’ well-known parable.

Many years ago, Nouwen saw a poster of Rembrandt’s painting and he became entranced. Then he had the opportunity to visit the Hermitage Museum in St. Petersburg, Russia, where the original painting is housed. The museum curator provided Nouwen with a chair and he spent hours in front of the painting, in wonder and meditation. His reflections resulted in the book that so affected me and that still sits on my shelf. One of my keepers.

I was (and am) especially moved by Nouwen’s reflections on the love of the Father and how Rembrandt had captured this in the expression on the old man’s face and in the position of his hands. Nouwen observed that one of the Father’s hands was clearly masculine, the other feminine, two aspects of love, acceptance, and nurturing. He also reflected on how we can see ourselves in each of the three main characters. I saw myself in the wayward and repentant son, in the resentful and entitled older brother, and then in the Father himself reaching out in compassion. That book fed me and I frequently gazed at its cover, a reproduction of the painting.

A few years after first reading the book, I had the opportunity to visit Russia. This was not a tourist trip but a pastoral ministry assignment sponsored by the Friends Board of Missions. We spent time with our friends who were living in the country as “Friends Serving Abroad,” Johan and Judy Maurer. Johan and Judy knew Russia and loved Russians, so our time with them was rich and educational, much more than “seeing the sights.”

A few free days were an intentional part of our schedule, and Johan and Judy gave us some options and asked us what we wanted to do. I instantly spoke up. I suggested we go to St. Petersburg and visit the Hermitage. The others readily agreed, so one morning we boarded a speed-train from Moscow to St. Petersburg, a trip that gave us a taste of the Russian country-side. On arrival we found our hostel, enjoyed some of the local cuisine, and went to bed. I could hardly contain my excitement for the next day to begin.

My time in the Hermitage was outstanding on many levels, including the huge palace itself with its winding staircases, intricate furnishings, lush drapes, and beautiful floors—each room distinct. It was thrilling to come face to face with original paintings by Renoir, Cezanne, Goya, Picasso, and many others.

But as soon as I entered the palace, I was on the look-out for Rembrandt. A guidebook directed us to the right section, but even then, the multiple passages and creative arrangement of rooms made the search challenging. I was the one who spied it first (why is that factoid important?), in the distance, at the end of a long corridor. I walked as fast as seemed appropriate in that august place.

I was not disappointed. Quite the opposite. I knew the painting was large, but I wasn’t prepared for the reality. The only painting in that particular room, it covered the wall at 8 ½ feet tall and almost 7 feet wide. The figures were larger than life and very much alive.

The Father, hands on the shoulders of his runaway son; the son in his ragged clothes, bowing in sorrow and repentance before his Father; the older son off to the side, with a look on his face that expressed the complexities of anger, frustration, resentment, and suppressed longing—all this brought to life the story Jesus told the crowds over 2000 years ago.

It brought home to me the incredible love of God and his forgiveness of any human failure we can conjure up.

I stood before the painting transfixed for just under an hour, at moments in tears. I guess that’s what great art does. It touches us at a deep level and reminds us of what it means to be human. And what it means, in this case, to be forgiven.

I bought a canvas reproduction of the painting in the museum shop, and today it occupies a space on our living room wall. It reminds me of who I am, and how loved I am, as a child of God.

Thank you, Henri Nouwen.

Thank you, Rembrandt.

Thank you, Father.

Old journals

 The task of downsizing and discarding never seems to end. The treasures are the hardest things to tackle: the collection of letters my father wrote to me after I left home; the scraggly teddy-bear I once loved; the china doll that sat on my dresser; pictures the kids drew when they were little; and so on. You have your own lists.

Passing them on to the kids and grandkids seems the best option. I made a catalogue with photos and descriptions. I distributed it to the tribe, asking them to write their names under the stuff they wanted. I ended up with a few names here and there but was still left with boxes of old vases, paintings of Bolivian landscapes, my wedding dress, and thousands of photos. Why don’t they want this precious stuff?

The conundrum I currently face is the most difficult—what to do with my old journals. I’m a writer and I’ve been a faithful journal keeper all my life. Now, in my years of retirement, I’m left with boxes of notebooks dating back to my teenage years. They’re full of struggles, triumphs, complaints, and prayers. Full of stories. The conundrum—to leave for the kids and grandkids to read or to spare them the burden and throw them all out before I die?

It's enlightening now, reading them. It’s also sometimes distressing, even embarrassing, to remember how immature I once was. I’m thinking of purging the journals (the parts I want no one to read, ever), and selectively passing the rest along. But that seems a bit dishonest.

If I were famous there would be no question. I’d be obligated to leave the whole story to the researchers and literary academics to craft into biographies. But I’m not even close to famous, except to a small group of people (which contradicts the concept of “famous”).

I’ve decided to keep one of my high school diaries—a day by day list of which boy looked at me that day. I’ll keep it because I find it hilarious, and proof that I was once an adolescent.

Frequently I face my struggles through poetry. Here’s an old-journal poem, inspired in part by a paradox I found in the book of Isaiah about “the old ways.”

 

Old Journals
Isaiah 43:18-19; 46:9-10

1
Do I keep them, all the notebooks
of stored memories, stories and struggles?
Years of anecdotes and meditations—relational problems,
cute things the kids said, past resentments I don’t want to reveal
to anyone, spiritual highs and shadowed valleys,
dreams good and wicked. Will my kids and grandkids
really want to read this stuff, to know and fondly remember
their dead grandmother? Or will all this paper burden them?
To toss or to store in the attic? Guilt if they toss, loss
of storage space if they keep.
Remember the old things, those of long ago,
says the Lord God.
How seriously do I take that?

2
Why not unburden myself and spare the kids
a difficult decision? Do I really want them
to know how immature I once was? How petty at times?
How cast down and struggling to keep the faith? Not really.
But somehow, I can’t let go. Not yet.
It feels like destroying part of my identity.
Does throwing out old journals
erase the stories, mean I’ll be forgotten?

3
God once again muddies the waters,
seems to contradict himself by telling me to
Forget the former things, do not dwell on the past.
How do I apply that to my personal pilgrimage?

Why forget? Because, says the Lord,
I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up!
Do you not perceive it? I am making a way
in the wilderness and streams in the wasteland.

That sounds good. I could do with a fistful
of new about now. With a truckload actually.

4
Are my old journals a barrier to new life?
Remember the former things. Forget the former things.
Why do you so often send me mixed messages?
Is it either/or? Or both/and? How do I do that?

Once again I am perplexed by paradox.

Grace in an old photo

 I’m downsizing again. Although we took on this task before moving into the retirement center, we stored some boxes in our son’s garage, stuff I planned on going through later. Well, that’s what I’m attempting to do now. Last week we brought over to our apartment several boxes labeled “memory stuff.” That’s dangerous.

One box proved to be full of letters and old photos from my mother’s side of the family. It had been entrusted to me at some point in the past, and I had set it aside. Now was the time. I sat on the floor and began digging and sorting stuff into piles on the carpet.

Some of it was helpful information, some mildly interesting, and some destined for the recycling bin. I loved the photos of my grandparents, my mom, and all the aunts, uncles, and cousins when they were young.

Among all the musty black-and-white photos and crinkled letters, I discovered a few treasures.

I found a photo of a lovely young woman. When I turned it over and read the name on the back, I gasped. Nancy Jane Nichols. I had never seen a photo of my Aunt Nancy. I had never even met her. And I am her namesake.

My mom, Barbara Nichols, was raised with six siblings—four sisters and two brothers. Mom was the third-born, and Nancy followed her two years later. I understand that Barb and Nancy were especially close as kids and young women.

When Aunt Nancy was in her early 20s, she began behaving in ways that alarmed her family. She alternated between deep depression and erratic hyper-activity. She became delusional and had difficulty speaking. Happening to such a kind and friendly person, this terrified her loved ones.  As it went on for some time, her parents began taking her to different doctors. Finally, a psychiatrist diagnosed schizophrenia, a little understood condition at the time.

According to the American Psychiatric Association, “Schizophrenia is a chronic brain disorder that affects less than one percent of the US population. When schizophrenia is active, symptoms can include delusions, hallucinations, disorganized speech, trouble with thinking and lack of motivation.” Although there is still no known cure for schizophrenia, ongoing research has found humane ways to treat the symptoms and to care for the person.

But back when Aunt Nancy was diagnosed, institutionalization was standard practice. So, with broken hearts, my grandparents committed their daughter to a mental hospital. She lived there for the rest of her life. The family apparently stopped talking about her as they tried to deal with their loss and move forward. It became the Family Secret.

Schizophrenia is inherited, and a generation later two of my cousins developed it in their early 20s. My cousin Eileen was also institutionalized. My cousin John committed suicide.

My mom was devastated by what was happening to Nancy, and the grief followed her the rest of her life. As best I can calculate, Mom was a newly married woman at the time. Two years following her marriage, my parents welcomed their first born—me—and they named me Nancy Jane.

As I was growing up, my mom never talked about Aunt Nancy. And of course I never met her. When I got old enough to be curious about my name, I was told I was named after an aunt who was now “gone.” Even as a child I sensed Mom didn’t want to talk about it, so I left it alone. It’s only been since my mom’s death that I’ve been able to piece together a few details that saddened me. Sad for my aunt, but even sadder for my mother whose heart never healed.

And so my excitement at finding the photo of Nancy Jane Nichols, and discovering her to be such a beautiful young woman. I imagine I see her character in the photo—a kind, loving person I’d want to have as a friend, if that were possible. Maybe the photo shows who she really is, not the person the disease turned her into. I feel privileged to be named after her.

My parents apparently didn’t pay too much attention to the meaning of names. They were not Christians at the time and certain words might not have carried much significance. But both Nancy and Jane are derivatives of the work grace. I’ll accept that. A double portion of grace. God’s grace child. That’s something to hold onto, cherish, and live into with the Spirit’s help.

My mom died at the relatively young age of 57 after years of degenerative rheumatoid arthritis. Her limbs had become twisted and she could no longer walk. She kept her quiet and cheerful spirit to the end, but it hurt to see her suffering.

I imagine the sisters, Nancy Jane and Barbara Mae, together now, healed, whole, and flourishing. They have an eternity to make up for time they lost here on earth.

Grace.

 

Another look at my dangerous books

 Last year I wrote a blog on some of the books I am keeping, even as I’m on a campaign to get rid of much of our large collection. There’s not room in this small apartment. In that blog I referred to someone who said that women who love books and were born in the month of September are dangerous (author unknown). Well, that’s me. I certainly love books and I have no doubts as to my September birthday. I’m not sure about the dangerous part.

It’s probably the books that are dangerous, not me. Books take me away to far lands in other times. They fill my brain with ideas. They can wring me with beauty. Or make me angry. And most of them put up a big fight when I try to give them away.

I’ve made strides in downsizing our book collection since that blog last year. I parted with some dear friends. It wasn’t easy. But I’ve discovered that the library here in the retirement community or the town’s local library often has the same titles, should I need to read the book again. Or check out a new book.

And while there is considerable pleasure in holding a real book, smelling the leather and printer’s ink, turning the pages, feeling its heft, even though all that is true, I’ve taken to buying books on my Kindle. It’s not the same as a “real” book, but this medium is useful and doesn’t take up space.

In the first getting-rid-of-and-keeping-books blog, I shared a list of some of my keepers, books I won’t give away just yet. These are books I’ve read several times and will probably read again. They’re friends and I like to have them around.

I’m going to add to the list of keepers that I started last year.

Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life by Anne Lamott (1994): Like other writers, I find encouragement and instruction in books on writing, especially if they’re by people who are themselves good writers. Not only does Lamott give valuable advice, she’s very clever, sometimes laugh-out-loud funny.

The Cloister Walk by Kathleen Norris (1996). This book contains the reflections of Kathleen Norris (a Protestant) who became a Benedictine oblate and spent two nine-month periods living in a monastery. Among other things, I learned that my birthday, September 29, is the feast-day of the archangels in the liturgical calendar. Michael, Gabriel, Raphael and I have been celebrating together ever since.

Stories that Could Be True: New and Collected Poem by William Stafford (1977). This book was my discovery of the poems of William Stafford, who became one of my favorite poets. The book was personally signed by Stafford on the morning I spent in his house sharing poetry. (That’s another story.) The binding is broken and it’s now held together with rubber bands. It’s like the Velveteen Rabbit, scraggly but real.

Don Quixote de la Mancha by Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra (1605). This is another old book, with my parents’ names in the front. They bought it when they were newly married. Some of my favorite people are Don Quijote, Sancho Panza, and Dulcinea. I love the humor and the dance between idealism and realism. And the example of how love transforms. As I write this, I’m realizing that it’s been years since I read it. It’s time to read it again.

One Hundred Poems from the Japanese translated and edited by Kenneth Rexroth (1964). I have personal history with this book. I was a college junior and had applied for a Fullbright scholarship to study drama in Guatemala. I had traveled to San Francisco for the final interview. I was more than nervous and, consequently, flunked the interview. (I froze and couldn’t remember my own name.) As a consolation prize, I let myself enter the sanctum of a bookstore (of which there were hundreds on the streets of San Francisco) with the goal of buying one book. It was this one. I love the concise simple beauty of these poems. I’ve long recovered from the trauma of that interview, but my joy in these poems lives on.

Markings by Dag Hammarskjold (1964). This book was a gift from my father when I was a teenager. It’s underlined with my teenage observations written in the margins. Hammarskjold, Secretary General of the UN in the 1950s, kept a secret journal which he left to be published after his death. It reveals a man with a rich spirituality, held in humility. One of my favorite passages contains a simple prayer I’ve tried to make my own: “For all that has been, thanks; for all that shall be, yes.”

River Teeth: Stories and Writings by David James Duncan (1995). This is another of my books signed by the author whom I met at a writers conference. Duncan is a writer from the Pacific Northwest; the geography and culture of this region permeate his novels and essays. This book contains one of my favorite short stories, “The Garbage Man’s Daughter.” I tear up every time I read it.

Antología Poética, Vol. 1 and 2 by Pablo Neruda. Wow, could that man write! He was prolific; I’m continually discovering new (to me) poems. My favorite is “Oda a la claridad” (Ode to Clarity). I’ve tried translating it, but am not yet satisfied.

Well, that’s probably enough for now. I’d love to meet some of your friends, your list of keepers, your dangerous books. Send me a title or two.

Stuff

 Stuff is one of my favorite words. I like the round plump way it feels in my mouth. I like the way it starts with a hiss, slowly snaking its way toward the light, only to come to an abrupt halt (we call it an alveolar stop in linguistics, in case you wanted to know), then ending in a slow flat leak of carbon dioxide (a labio-dental fricative). There’s a lot going on in your mouth when you say the “simple” word stuff.

But more than the sound and feel of the word, I like what it means and, more importantly, how it means.

As with many words that appear simple, time spent in the Oxford English Dictionary quickly dispels that illusion. The noun stuff can mean a variety of things from supplies and possessions to textiles suitable for clothing, and even academic subject matter, as in “This teacher really knows his stuff.” It can mean something lofty, a fundamental substance, such as “the stuff of greatness.” Or it can be as specialized as the spin on a fast flying baseball (a new one to me). And, of course, we also have many verb meanings, derivatives (some very edible), and even a few expletives (among which “O stuff and bother!” is the safest for Quakers to use).

There’s a lot of “what” to the word stuff, but the “how” is perhaps more significant. Stuff, in short, is not a reverent word. It is not likely to ever be incorporated into a liturgical prayer, carved onto a memorial plaque, or sung at a wedding. It struts down the halls with a casual, cocky air. Look closely and you’ll see a twinkle in its eye. It’s crossing its fingers behind its back.

Let’s consider stuff in the sense of personal property or possessions. “Hands off! This is my stuff!”

It’s precisely because of the irreverent casual feel of this word that I like to apply it to my possessions. In my heart of hearts, I find myself attached to my stuff in a most unholy way. When someone threatens to take what belongs to me, my emotions flare up. I can become very distressed at breaking some valued pot. Little kids running through my rooms unnerve me.

Labeling my things as stuff helps me put them in perspective. I desire to become less and less possessed by my possessions, freer to value what’s really valuable (like little kids).

As missionaries in Bolivia, we stored our stuff in big barrels every time we came back to the States on furlough. These barrels had to be properly labeled in case something happened to us and the remaining mission staff had to sort, send, or sell our possessions. One time, in a fit of whimsy, I labeled our barrels “General Stuff,” “Specific Stuff,” “Favorite Stuff,” and “Stuff I could get along without if I had to but would prefer to keep if it’s all the same to whoever is reading this label.” (That one took five labels!) Fortunately, nothing happened to us.)

I have this recurring Walter-Mitty-type daydream where my house and all my possessions burn down, but we escape unharmed. I remain calm and spiritual throughout the ordeal. When someone, dripping with pity, says to me, “I hear you were wiped out by the fire,” I reply, serenely and cheerfully, “Oh no, I’m still here, as good as ever. Just my stuff got burned.”

In my saner moments I laugh at that daydream. I know that a real fire would devastate me, that I would lose not only my “General Stuff,” but also my family photos, the teddy-bear my daughter bought me, my great grandmother’s wedding dress, the stories the kids wrote when they were little, and other things I deeply value. I would need help in dealing with loss. This is reality.

Now in my retirement years, downsizing is an ongoing assignment. We simply don’t have the space for a lot of books, nick-nacks, cookware, extra sheets and blankets, and on and on it goes. We don’t want to leave a lot of these decisions to our kids (who, actually, would probably find it easier to dispose of our stuff). So we continue to shrink, both in terms of our bodies and our possessions. It’s not easy.

John Woolman inspires me to put my possessions in perspective. I am especially drawn to the story in his journal about his growing retail business and his struggle with the “stuff and bother” of material success. He finally concludes that “Truth required me to live more free from outward cumbers,” and simplifies his business so that he can give himself to traveling and encouraging his brothers and sisters in the Quaker family. Cumbers is another good word for stuff.

Jesus reminds us that God knows our need of adequate shelter, clothing, and food. Our Father is generous. We are to seek first his kingdom and righteousness, and he will supply all the stuff we really need (Matthew 6:33, Thomas version).

I need to be frequently reminded of this. I’m still far from John Woolman’s courageous act of throwing it all off. I’m still cumbered by more stuff than I need. But the desire for freedom and simplicity is growing. I pray God will help me to hold my possessions more lightly, and to know that, no matter how pretty, bright, or enticing, when all is said and done—it’s just stuff.

--Adapted from an essay published in The Evangelical Friend, 1992.

The cachi-wachi of Christmas

 A big part of retiring and moving to this retirement community was downsizing our stuff. I’ve written about this previously. This included all sorts of Christmas decorations: funny things the kids made, a collection of cross-stitched tree ornaments, gift ornaments from other countries, different creches, hangings, and so on. You know what I’m talking about. I actually managed to get it pared-down to one box of precious Christmas stuff. We’ve decided our small apartment won’t handle a Christmas tree, and that helped.

Marie Condo, the queen of de-clutter, to the rescue again, reminding us to only keep stuff that brings us joy. We have a word for that in the Aymara language of Bolivia. Cachi-wachi. Beloved stuff. So let me show you some of our precious Christmas cachi-wachi. This is part of the stuff we brought with us.

The first is a carved wooden creche made by an Aymara artisan in the small community of Juli, Peru. The shepherds are dressed as Aymara sheep herders, and the animals around the manger include two high altitude llamas. It reminds me that Jesus came as a baby to a culture similar to the Aymara people we served among for so many years.

The second manger scene is one I made from a pattern found in a woman’s magazine over 30 years ago. The figures are felt, glued onto an Aymara awayo, the cloth the women use to bundle their babies and carry them on their backs. I’ve made and gifted dozens of copies of this hanging.

The creche below comes from Rwanda, Africa, where our son and his family served for many years. It’s made of some kind of straw, hangs from the ceiling, and twirls around in a breeze. The angels seem like weird alien insects and they always make me laugh. If the real thing was anything like this, I understand why the shepherds were “sore afraid.”

The next "ornament" came as a gift a few months ago. I knew that the Christmas cactus sometimes blooms, but this one didn’t give any hints of being anything other than a nice succulent taking up space in our window. It surprised me. It probably shouldn’t have. The name itself is a clue. But it’s Christmas time and this plant opens up a new pink blossom every day. Soon it will be covered. I like to just sit, look at it, and smile. Like that baby born so many years ago, it stirs up hope from a deep place.

I love Christmas. I’d love it even without the cachi-wachi, but the stuff helps me celebrate. It’s all touchable. These things occupy space and brighten up the room with their colorful materiality. And isn’t that what this time of year is all about? God put on materiality. He became a baby and occupied space in a real place. We call it incarnation. God made flesh. Human. Real and touchable.

It's a miracle beyond my understanding. But not beyond my celebrating.

Dangerous women, dangerous books

 I recently ran across a quote claiming that older women who love books and who were born in the month of September are extremely dangerous. The actual quote is more memorable than this paraphrase, but unfortunately, I have this habit of writing interesting things on little pieces of paper and then, of course, not being able to find them. When I run across the real quote, I’ll send it your way.

It is now September and I was, indeed, born in this month. And I have loved books since before I was born, when my mother read to me in utero. I’m not sure about the dangerous part. You can decide that.

One of the rituals of aging is the difficult and much maligned task of downsizing. For Hal and me that primarily meant paring down our library, books we spent a life-time collecting. Before moving here to the retirement community, we actually found new homes for about two-thirds of our books. Yet we still have five bookcases, plus shelves above our desks, here in our two-room apartment. Clearly, we’re not finished with our task.

So, little by little, I’m deciding which books to give our kids (who don’t necessarily want them), which to donate to the community library, and which go to Goodwill (our last choice).

And I’m also determining which books are keepers. These are the books I really do re-read. Or books with such an emotional tie that I would feel pain at losing them.

I’ve decided to share a small part of my “keeper” collection with you, since many of you are also book lovers (whatever month you were born in).

--I’m keeping a dictionary. Not Webster’s (I’m keeping that too, for practical purposes—I’m a poor speller). This is a book I discovered while browsing in a Pasadena bookstore years ago. It’s called Mrs. Byrne’s Dictionary of Unusual, Obscure, and Preposterous Words (Josefa Heifetz Byrne). I’m a word-lover, and this book has given me much delight. Here’s a sampling: adoxography means “good writing on a trivial subject” (something to avoid); grammatolatry means “worship of words or letters” (is love the same as worship?); metrophobia, “hatred or fear of poetry” (dangerous stuff, that poetry); moanworthy, “lamentable, pitiful”; resurrectionist, “a body snatcher or grave robber”; and swelp, a perennial complainer (from “so help” me, God). You can see why I don’t want to give up this book.

--The Brothers Karamazov (Fyodor Dostoevsky), the 1946 Heritage Club hardback edition. This comes from my parents’ Heritage collection, and this particular edition contains 46 full-page lithographs by the German Quaker artist, Fritz Eichenberg. The art is wonderful and captures the haunting Russian mood of the book. Plus, this is a book I read and re-read, partly because it’s too difficult to capture in one reading. I love the psychological study of the human personality through the three brothers (body, intellect, spirit). Maybe on my fourth or fifth reading I’ll understand the book.

--Ender’s Game (Orson Scott Card). In fact, I’m keeping the first six books of the series. (After #6 I stopped buying them). The first is the best. It’s Sci-Fi, with excellent character development, and a compelling plot. I don’t usually go for violence, but I like the irony of this being the most violent book on peace I’ve ever read.

--The Return of the Prodigal Son (Henri Nouwen). I’ve quite a collection of books by Nouwen, most of which I’ll keep, but this is my favorite. It’s the meditations on Jesus’ parable that Nouwen thought through while standing before Rembrandt’s painting of the same name. I find the book profound. A few years after reading the book for the first time, I found myself in Russia’s Hermitage art museum, standing in front of the same huge painting. It was an unforgettable experience.

--A Book of Luminous Things: An International Anthology of Poetry (edited by Czeslaw Milosz). I discovered this anthology browsing in a bookstore in the Los Angeles International Airport, waiting for Hal to come home from a research trip to Guatemala. I was attracted first of all by the wonderful title, and second by the fact it was edited by Milosz, Nobel Prize winning Polish poet. It was an impulse buy that I’ve never regretted. The English translations are of poems from around the world, with a heavy preponderance of Polish writers. It’s a wonder and a marvel. I discover new favorites all the time.

Cry, the Beloved Country (Alan Paton), one of my all-time favorite novels. This lyrically beautiful novel tells the story of a Zulu pastor and his rebellious son, set in the context of the racial tensions of South Africa. I’m moved to tears every time I read it.

Pilgrim at Tinker Creek (Annie Dillard). This Pulitzer Prize winner first came out in 1974. My copy is much underlined, and I’m realizing it’s time to read it again. It gave (and gives) me a new way of walking through the natural world, both its wonder and its horrors. I’ll never look at a pond in the same way again.

Silence (Shusaku Endo). This sensitive and beautifully written novel gives a unique view of the spread of Christianity, its triumphs and, especially, its failures. Set in Japan in the 17^th century, it’s a haunting account of when a believer cries out to God and God answers with silence.

These are just a few of the books I’m keeping, at least for the time being. They’re dangerous only in that they frustrate my attempts to downsize. Other than that, they’re wholesome and healing in the way that only truth can be.

I would love to know about some of your keepers. Why not put a few titles in the comments?

Up with books!

Up with September birthdays!

Up with dangerous old women!