Kicking and Crunching in Autumn

Fall colors the neighborhood everywhere I go these days and my walks inspired the following poem.


Kicking and Crunching
By Judy Beaston

Leaves litter my path
wake memories
of walks with you,
those canvas sneakers
kicking and crunching,

I smile as I recall
another scene,
me on the sidelines
as you create
color storms
around the wheels
of your tricycle.

Autumn follows autumn,
time marches on,
finds me here today,
my feet alone
on these paths of fall,
remembering

when you were young
and our lives
held all the colors
of laughter

your canvas sneakers
kicking and crunching
fall’s clutter of leaves.

-->

Seventy Years Married

Today in 1945, in a Catholic Church in Chicago, Illinois, my parents laughed, smiled, dressed in their finest, and, surrounded by family and friends they exchanged wedding vows. This poem honors their marriage of 70 years.

Seventy Years Married

I remember the photo

stark in black and white,

young promises exchanged

before God and family,

held steady for seventy years

and counting.

On that day, he wore army issued

olive-drab, wool garments, pressed

shirt, polished shoes and a peaked cap

over a full head of thick black hair

his face covered by a boyish grin

ready to conquer the world.

She wore white, her wavy brown hair

cascading across shoulders caressed

by soft fabric, bodice angled to reveal

a silver cross draped around her neck,

face tilted towards his, deep dimples

enhanced by her joy-filled smile.

Sisters, brothers, parents, aunts,

uncles and multitudes of friends

gathered in the church, tossed rice

afterward, celebrations of family

long-life, many children, they danced,

drank, laughed, sang until night called.

Seventy years of marriage, a maze

of fascinating corridors, dead-ends,

children, camping, financial struggles,

long hours, sickness, health, disruptions,

arguments, forgiveness, shared adventures,

memories made, memories kept, faith

or something akin to that deep commitment

kept them together while all the marriages

of their children dissolved, steadfast

in their desire to help and assist others

and now, bonded in difficult times, stroke's effects

stealing her from him but he won't leave her side.

Seventy years and counting. Not many marriages

manage a promise this long and strong.

by judy Beaston

September 29, 2015

Poppa Troll

My grandkids love a Nick Jr. show titled: Paw Patrol. I watched it for the first time this past week on an evening when I was playing my Nana role with my grandson.

"What shall we watch?" I asked

"Poppa Troll!" he sung out, quite clearly to my ears.

Baffled by the title, but certain such an odd title could fit a child's fantasy animated show, I searched the numerous lists of shows available via cable television. Nothing similar was found on the pre-recorded and saved list. Nothing remotely close was found among the "On Demand" selections. I searched "KIDS" and then Disney, Nickelodeon, and Cartoons. Nada!

Meanwhile, I kept asking my grandson to repeat the title of this show, certain now that my hearing loss was playing tricks on me. I considered alternate possibilities, such as "Paw-Paw Troll" and "Paw-Paw Toll" and though the first makes sense, the second doesn't and neither currently exists as a show for kids.

And then I stumbled upon it, on the Nick Jr. channel: Paw Patrol. Lights brightened and I laughed. "Oh! PAW PATROL not Poppa Troll!" 

My grandson looked at me as if I'd grown a set of horns. Then we settled together on the couch and I soon understood his pleasure in this show where dogs play a role in rescuing other animals. Both of my grandkids love animals, though so far, in their young years, most of their encounters are with the stuffed-animal and at-a-distance zoo variety.

It still sounds like he's saying "Poppa Troll" when he calls out the show's name, but at least now I know what he really wants.

Being Mindfully Aware

-->

Being Mindfully Aware

We all have pet peeves, those little annoyances that have a tendency to balloon into something ready to sail around the world. I know I harbor a few that, try as I might, cannot be suppressed without conscious awareness.

Awareness: that's one of my themes for 2015. Mindful awareness--taking my awareness to a deeper level, one where I connect consciously to what happens automatically from my unconscious.

Over time, I've developed the ability and practice of shrugging off most of those little annoyances that come into my awareness. Perhaps a little bit of a huff of black smoke appears, but this is harmless to others. Not so much for me.

When I walk with mindful awareness through experiences that annoy me, I notice how each triggers sludge development. This, in turn, invites the presence of shadows and dissonance. Without mindful awareness, by the time I'm aware of feeling disquiet, the source is long gone leaving me baffled by my situation.

The key to inner harmony, it seems, rests in determining what makes some incident annoying in the first place. Why is some action by some other person so bothersome to me? And if what bothers me in others is a mirror of self, what behavior of mine mimics what I'm seeing?

For example, one of my pet peeves rises when others leave cabinet doors or drawers open. Seems a low-effort task to close them after the item sought has been removed. Or is it?

It seems that way to me because I have lived well over fifty years with people who demanded adherence to certain conventions. I learned that the best way to maximize peace and minimize discomfort was to adhere to their perception of perfection.

By forcing my self into the expectations of others, I buried connections to what I always wanted for me: freedom to breathe.

When others do something that annoys me, what I feel is the whip others flung at me. It's a variant of PTSD, mild in this type of situation, but still a variant of PTSD. I'm reacting and not responding. I'm in automatic mode from an unconscious perspective shaped, colored and tainted by others.

When I take time to reflect on what annoys me, I remember that I also behave in ways that annoy others, no matter how much I try to conform to all those rules and restrictions others have demanded.

Then, by stepping back, pausing, considering, I can be realistic. Every individual comes to this day colored and shaped by a lifetime of experiences. They've developed habits and behaviors that suit them just fine. I can't make them change. I can voice my thoughts on what seems dangerous to me or unsanitary or annoying. We can work on solutions and compromises.

In the end, for some of these annoyances, my best path is gratitude for the life I have and, with open doors and drawers - just shut them. Then smile.

summer pleasures

polished

feet, glorious feet

guide our walks from here to there

toes freed or toes crimped

inside socks and pointed shoes

or laughing with painted nails

by judy beaston

July 1, 2013

With summer comes the pleasure of exposed feet and toes and an opportunity to decorate toenails in bright colors, even add flowers. My feet smile when the weather allows for more freedom. There's just no breathing inside winter's socks, no matter how thin the fabric. 

The above photo represents three generations enjoying the fun, and we each included flowers on our toes. I must admit, that was/is a first for me. I'm not generally one to gravitate toward painted nails on either hands or feet, but the opportunity to share the experience with my daughter and granddaughter could not be passed up.