Summer Appreciation: Cicadas and Company

It’s the first official day of fall, so I had better write this now.

I love cicadas.

When I was little, we often found their exo-skeletons left behind on the trunks of trees in my grandparents’ yard. I suppose I must have seen these and played with them from a very young age, because I don’t remember ever feeling squeamish about them. They were just a normal part of life, and they fascinated me and were fun to play with—especially if you could find someone who did not regard them as normal and got scared by the sight of one appearing on their shoulder or elsewhere!

I think the cicadas themselves are beautiful, in an insect-y way. Kind of like plump dragonflies. I love their iridescent colors, and their amazingly complex wings.

But most of all, I love their singing. Or droning, as some would call it. And I love all the other insects who sing along with them on summer nights, and I’m sorry I’m not sure who’s a cricket, who’s a katydid, or even who’s a frog. I’m sure there are creatures out there making sounds, creatures whose names I don't even know.

In the summer, our front porch becomes a box seat in a concert hall, with the insects providing the orchestra.

It probably goes back to childhood again, because something about that music soothes me like a lullaby. It conjures up memories from Arkansas and Tennessee, of places that felt like home because they were home. Sitting outside on Grandmother’s terrace. Or just pulling up chairs to sit outside her back door and look at the stars and watch her moonflower open up to the night. Playing out in our yard in the country in Arkansas, until it was just too dark, and we had to go in.
And that background music of cicadas and their companions always there, humming the day to its end, providing yet another example of God’s creativity.

This photo is one I found on the Internet, and I chose it because of the symbolism. The new life coming out of the old shell, the intentional act of leaving behind that which is no longer needed. It’s not something I find easy in my life; who knows how the cicadas feel about it? But they do it, and their life continues.

Once my grandmother and I were in her kitchen and could hear the birds singing outside. “I wonder what they’re saying?” she said, as if she wanted to hear my answer.

“I think they’re saying, ‘God is good, God is good, God is good,’” was my reply. (If the heavens are declaring the glory of God, the birds must be, too, I’ve thought for a long time. And Grandmother was going through a very hard time then, hard to witness, so I think I needed to hear this myself.)

When I hear cicadas sing, I think it’s the same song. And that’s one thing I love about summer, and about God. He is good, and He will bring us through every leaving-behind we are faced with, until the Day comes when there will be no more leaving behind.

And now, welcome to fall, as we leave summer behind.

Small World

Disclaimer: This has nothing to do with anything I've been writing about.

I bought these dishes the first or second year of our marriage, in Zagreb, Croatia. They are still in our house in Croatia and haven't been used in a good long while.

The last time I was at my cousin Laura's house I noticed some dishes she had, and if I'm not mistaken, they are the same as my Zagreb dishes. It was the strangest feeling, seeing those there in her Middle Tennessee home!

So last year when I was in Croatia I took these pictures, but haven't been to Laura's since then.

So I'm posting them here for her to look at and see if they actually are the same, or if I was mistaken. (Also because I figure why pay for processing when I can put it here for free?)

If they are the same, it will be really interesting. Laura and I have noticed other things we've decorated our homes with that are the same, chosen completely independently. But this would be the most amazing "Oh, that's just like the one I have...." to date, as far as I'm concerned.

(It also says a lot about the global economy, I guess, but that doesn't excite me very much.)

Summer Appreciation: Mushrooms

After the storm and the rainbow, I was driving along and was distracted by a blur of white. . . .

I had to stop and see if it was what I thought. And it was! A cascade of mushrooms rejoicing in the humidity and softness of the earth. Though I couldn't linger at the time, I felt a compelling urge to get up early the next morning and go see them up close. So I did.

Can you imagine being an ant, or a ladybug, waking up to this overnight change in the scenery?

This one looks as if it might take flight in a strong wind--

And these look happy basking in the sun.

Could those photos of the moon's surface really be closeups of mushrooms??

I've been told that I have large hands, for a woman...

Is it possible that this little message was the reason I felt compelled to return? Was it calling out for someone to come and share in the love?

Well, now you've received the message, too.

Let all things their Creator praise. Even mushrooms.

Made in Italy, with Joy

Occasionally on my way home from work, I stop in at the shop Tuesday Morning just to see if what they have matches something we’re needing at the time. If so, and if the price is right, I might buy something. Most often, I end up leaving empty-handed but enjoy just browsing.

Maybe I should explain that I don’t shop much. I avoid malls, dread the traffic in shopping areas, buy most of my clothes via catalogues or at a thrift shop near my house. Besides the grocery store, bookstores and Hallmark are about the only places I go with any frequency.

But for some reason, Tuesday Morning appeals to me. It’s such an odd assortment of stuff, and usually has that rummaged-through look that reminds me of the outdoor markets of Europe. It doesn’t overwhelm me. And sometimes it has just what I’m looking for.

So, I stop in now and then.

On one stop, I came across the soap you see pictured here. The picture appealed to me immediately, and I was dangerously pulled in when I saw that it was from bella Firenze, that is, beautiful Florence, where I lived for two years.

But I knew I was in love and about to make a commitment when I saw in tiny print on the box, Made in Italy, with Joy.

Made in Italy, with Joy. How could anyone not fall in love with something so sweet? Of course I realized it was a marketing idea. Perhaps the person who thought of it has nothing to do with the making of the soap and sits at a desk all day. Or, since it is “artigianale,” made by artisans, perhaps not.

In any case, it brings to mind a certain street I used to take en route to language school, where I could see and hear the artisans at work, making frames, working with leather….chatting or singing as they worked, sometimes looking up to wave at the blonde American walking or riding by on her bicycle….

Made in Italy, with Joy. I guess in some ways I was made in Italy with joy. Those years were critical ones for my life, forming my faith in important ways. They opened the doors that led to my marriage and the life I have now.

And although my two years in Italy were not idyllic or struggle-free, they were full of an incredible amount of joy that made up for the other. I’m so thankful for my time in Italy.

Well, you won’t be surprised that I bought the soap. Soap wasn’t on my need list that day, and it’s rare that a material purchase brings me joy. But that one did!

How I would love to say with everything I make or do that it was made with joy. Maybe that’ll be my goal for this coming week. Feel free to join me.

Arrivederci!

And in case you're interested, this soap and others from Florence are available via Amazon, which is where I found the photo.

Hope in Strange Places

Recently I met with a teenager who was raped by a family member. She had not talked to anyone about it, except me. But everyone knows because it was in the news. They just don't talk about it.

The same day I saw a woman with a history of drug addiction who also has a severe mental illness. She has done well on medication, but has run out of some of her meds. Having moved to town recently and not having a car, she has had a hard time doing anything. She thinks she has enough money to pay for a psychiatric appointment, if I can help her find a place that can see her soon. Painfully shy, she almost begged me to continue seeing her, because she feels safe in a Christian place.

After that it was a young woman who answered "yes" to nearly all the symptoms I asked about, ranging from suicidal thoughts to headaches to anger problems to sleeplessness. The suicidal thoughts have been there since childhood. She says she has no friends. No transportation, no income. She stays at home to take care of a disabled family member.

Meanwhile, my co-worker was dealing with a situation I won’t even try to describe. It involves a long history of severe abuse from family members. Because of what has happened recently, we are trying to find somewhere for this person to stay. But because he is not addicted to anything, it’s hard to find an agency that will take him.

I left the office feeling drained that evening. The world I hear about in my office is sometimes a very ugly, sad, barren world. People who don’t believe in the existence of evil should sit in my chair for a few days. (Somehow that makes it more real than watching the news, I think.)

As I walked to my car, I was given a gift. Our blah, beige, concrete block building is bordered by hot, hard gravel. A width of beige-painted cement runs between the building and the gravel parking lot, which is surrounded by razor wire. Close to my car was a circle of charcoal ashes from the grill used for a July 4 lunch today. Nearby was a trash can used by employees who come outside to smoke.

And in a crack in that width of cement, right next to a drainpipe, a tiny spot of vivid purple and yellow caught my eye. I went closer and found a precious little viola growing there in the midst of that ugly, hard, utilitarian landscape.

The closest flowers to this spot are fifty feet away, so I’ve no idea how this little viola wound up growing in that crack. But it did, its beauty the more remarkable because of its surroundings.

And while the seeming wasteland I encounter in my office may seem ugly and barren at times, I have seen hope bloom there over and over. I’ve seen beauty grow there, and life and joy and peace.

"With God nothing shall be impossible."

(Photo of flowers growing in the ancient walls of Zadar, Croatia, from our trip last summer.)

Summer Appreciation: Rainbow

One day last week I was driving home and saw a rainbow. (We have continued to have showers since the storm I wrote about earlier.) I couldn’t see a lot of it, with the trees and buildings around, but it was wide, with intense color. Lovely.

Rainbows, despite their very scientific explanation, still have an other-worldly quality for me, and it was hard to keep driving because I wanted to pull over and just gaze.

For some reason I decided to take my sunglasses off as I looked at it. So I did, and do you know, at that moment, it almost disappeared. I could barely make it out by focusing very hard. I put the glasses back on, and there it was, as intense as before.

I wondered how many people were in a place to easily see that beautiful message from God, but weren’t seeing it because they didn’t have sunglasses on, and the brightness of the day kept them from seeing the colors? (And certainly many missed it because they were going in another direction. Or perhaps in the same direction, but more focused on their driving than I was!)

It reminded me of words from my high school English teacher’s chalkboard. Mr. Wright wrote out a saying each day, not as an assignment, but to enrich our lives. I can’t recall this entire quote, but the second part said, “Better to keep yourself shiny and bright: You are the window through which you must see the world.”

Certainly we are the only window we have for viewing the world. I don’t know about you, but I want to see rainbows through my window!

(I didn’t take this photo, either....you can see it's not Memphis! I’m afraid I also don’t know the rules about borrowing photos from the web. I’ve been assuming that people can make them “un-copyable” if they don’t want them to be copied? Can anyone enlighten me?)

Rated PG??

I just learned of a website you can go to and have your blog rated.

Mine rated PG because the word "gun" appears three times, and the word "hurt" appears once.

Today my aunt told me that she tried to look at my blog, but it was blocked by their computer's filter, which I think is called "BSafe." We were both bumfuddled, but perhaps this explains it!

Summer Appreciation: Storms

I love storms. I grew up in "tornado alley" in Arkansas, where spring simply didn't pass without a tornado coming through somewhere nearby. I respect storms, but I don't recall ever feeling afraid of one.

We just had a wonderful storm. I had migraines three days last week, so I should have known something was on its way. My neighbor this morning mentioned that it was "supposed" to rain a few times in the coming week. Well, it was "supposed" to rain yesterday, too, and it barely dampened the topsoil. So when he told me that early this morning, I thought, "Oh, great, now it will be 90-plus degrees and horribly humid all week, and I'll still have to water flowers."

Driving home after work, I noted a few drops on the windshield. Then a few more. Enough to say, "Hey, it's raining." (I confess, I was talking to someone on my cell phone.) And then, "Wow, it's really raining." Lightning flashed in the distance, but I figured any storm would move on and be over quickly. The sky was mostly light, after all.

After my third comment about the rain, my friend said, "I'll let you go so you can concentrate on driving." And not a minute later, after turning onto Poplar Avenue, I could hardly see to drive. I moved over and pulled into a parking lot to wait it out.

Ah, the wonder of rain pouring down in torrents! Especially during a drought, it is like music to the ears. This rain did not seem to be going along with my "over quickly" idea, so I turned off the engine, undid my seatbelt, moved my seat to a more horizontal position, and lay back to enjoy the show.

Quite a show it was. Cars were creeping along, water was flooding the sides of the street, and everything looked gray through the waterfall.

And the wind! It blew in forceful gusts, making for some serious sideways rain. I could hear it, and from time to time, I felt my car lifting with the force of the wind.

I'm not sure why I love storms so much. Growing up where I did, I've seen towns flattened. I know wind and water can be very dangerous, but something inside me comes alive in a storm, and it feels so good to be alive in that way. To feel so much a part of the natural world, and to be reminded how small and powerless we are. Storms are a reminder that human beings are not in charge.

Maybe that's part of it. No amount of skill or knowledge can prevent a storm, or even guarantee you'll be able to weather a storm. Sometimes you just have to hang on and trust.

Not that this storm felt dangerous, once I got out of the traffic. Truth be told, I was tempted to get out of the car, raise my hands to the sky, do pirouettes in the parking lot, and just get totally wet! It would have felt so good! But I had to go to the grocery store, and thought I ought not go in dripping.

So I stayed in the car and waited, enjoyed the music of wind and water, and for the rest of the evening have felt more alive than I had in a good while.

That’s something to enjoy about this summer.

For the sake of my blog's integrity, I feel I should mention that I didn't take this photo. I found it on a website all about storms.

Summer Appreciation: Roses

Surely one of the loveliest things about summer, even in the South, is roses. They and magnolia blossoms can pull me off a sidewalk, can interrupt a conversation, can convince me to get my shoes wet—whatever it takes to get to them for a close encounter of the scentillating sort.


My friend Joyce and I can spend quite a lot of time in the Rose Garden of the Botanic Garden, like little bees, going from flower to flower. I wonder if the bees have a way of saying to each other, “Oh, man! You’ve got to come try this one!”

The photos are of the cutting from Grandmother’s “sweetheart” rosebush, taken a couple of years ago. Sadly, it died last summer in the drought. I was very sad about that. I hope to get another cutting for next year, couldn’t manage it for this year.

So, here’s to roses—and to the wonderful ability of plants to survive (for the most part) these summers in the South.

Graduating into Summer

The photo is of my sister Lisa’s graduation ceremony a couple of years ago. Today it symbolizes transitions, like the transition of spring into summer. Notice the fans in the photo . . .

No, by the calendar it isn't summer yet. But anyone living in Memphis knows that the season has arrived ahead of the official date, as usual.

Summer is generally the hardest time of the year for me, at least when I'm living "down South." Which would be all but about six or seven years of my life. I get migraines from the heat and generally feel sapped of energy. I freeze in grocery stores and most restaurants. I sunburn easily and live continually with the knowledge that skin cancer runs in my family. I'm sure most of my eye wrinkles come from these summer months, even though I wear two pair of sunglasses most of the time. I tend to waken too early because the sun comes up so early (this, despite a room-darkening shade), and the lack of sleep can add up.

Summer is terrible for my gardener within, and for my poor plants without. At some point, I generally give up trying to keep them alive, because the heat and drought and slugs just overwhelm me. And then I feel bad for the plants, and start doubting my ability to persevere through trials, and it can become quite a morass if I let myself think too much about it (which I usually don't.)

And then there's the knowing that in Italy and other places, they shut down during the hottest part of the day and take a break like intelligent people--while we have to go on working, even when our circadian rhythm coupled with the heat is begging for a little siesta!

But this year I have made a resolve. I am determined to not merely survive this summer. I am going to find ways to appreciate and enjoy even this most punishing of seasons. I have already begun, in fact.

And I'll save that for another post. For now, if you'd like to share your main summer struggles/complaints, here's the forum. (I'll welcome positive summer comments later, but this is a place for people to feel free to lament the arrival of summer. I trust I am not the only one for whom this is an annual rite of passage.)

And maybe Lisa could comment on why this photo is so appropriate to a summer lament theme.