LOVE―Those Who Feed The Birds

“Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life (25)...look at the birds of the air;they do not sow or reap or store away in barns and yet your heavenly Father feeds them.(26) Can any one of you by worrying add a single hour to your life?(27) ...But seek first his kingdom and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well. (34)” ―Matthew 6:25-34

Pappy's Chickadee's

My grandfather was known to us as “Pappy.”  He was the teacher of driving slowly on the driveway.  The ferryman to Baskin Robbins.  The best pecan nut cracker that ever lived.  And, perhaps, the loudest snorer that ever snored. 

He was also a feeder of the birds.

It is winter time. The food is scarce...the nuts are past their harvest, the insects in hibernation, the fruits and berries absent or in short supply. The situation can be so bleak for some species of birds in fact, that they depend solely on food from feeders to get them through the winter―or so we are often told. 

And so it goes, during this bleak season called Winter, some of us―like Pappy―feed the birds. 

I was a curious child and avid “little helper.” Some of my favorite memories are helping Pappy feed the birds and fill up the many feeders that hung off their glassed-in back porch. During each session, many of the same factoids were repeated by my patient teacher as I inquired about information that had been repeated numerous times before―but that I had not actually remembered. I think I liked the telling of his stories and lessons so much that I (almost) intentionally tried not to remember them.  My chosen and conveniently poor retention ensured my delight of his shared knowledge would be renewed each time the lesson was taught.

Imagine this little girl sitting still…

“Pappy,” I would ask, “how many times can a hummingbird beat its wings in one minute? And how many times will its heartbeat in 1 minute?” Patiently, the answers were repeated over and over again during each session.  “As many as 200 wing beats and 500 or more heartbeats.” 

This would go on and on…long after the feeders had been filled.  "How far did that bird fly South from ?" "Where is it going?" We would come in and sit on the back porch sofa. From there I would watch the birds that had momentarily been scattered by our presence at the feeders, return and begin feasting again.  I would perch in his lap and chatter without ceasing.  

A busy day at the feeders on Southern Comfort Farm

Pappy didn’t always sit patiently with me. In fact, he was all but famous for his rebuttal statement towards the grandchild when he’d had enough. He would grunt the statement, “uh ah….guh-on now!” as he brushed us gently off his lap.  Any sting from being evicted from Pappy’s lap was quickly soothed by the busyness of old fashion games Ta and Pappy kept in the hall closet like Jacks, pick-up sticks, or Lincoln Logs.

But when Pappy fed the birds he was always in a patient state of mind the instant he got up and headed over to the old metal mini-trashcan that held the seed mix.  It was a special blend―a mix of several types of food he concocted to attract what he wanted to see at his feeders (one I still duplicate). I would sit there with him―and together we watched the birds come to the feeders. He looked like he was in the same place of peace I would see my Father reach in the woods or out fishing.  I guess it was this moment of closeness with creatures and critters that helped him find his “happy place.”  It was a place that seemed free from worry.  Almost as if the apostle Matthew was whispering his reminder of God’s provision in his ear during those moments… though, truth be known, he probably couldn't’ have heard anyone whisper anything in his ear over my non-stop talking.  But alas!...the peace would remain unless an unwelcome critter appeared―a squirrel.

A brilliantly colored female Cardinal

When it came to critters at the feeders, the squirrels were despised! Pappy viewed them as a restaurant owner of  an “all-you-can-eat” buffet would view a NFL offensive lineman.  They simply were NOT welcome. Pappy had a squirrel trap to help manage this problem.  It was baited with the most delectable “squirrel offerings” available.  No squirrel could resist. Nothing tickled me more than watching one get caught. The squirrel would creep ever so sneakily into the trap and then―BLAM! The cage doors would spring closed and the squirrel was immediately registered for the “Pappy Postal Deportation” to the park way across the other side of town. I would always pray that Pappy would have one caught and ready for release during my visits so I could assist in the Pappy Postal Deportation process. If you’ve never see it, no animal runs like a squirrel realizing it’s free from a trap.  In fact, I am not so sure that National Geographic doesn’t need to clock the speed of a squirrel during trap release against the speed of a cheetah for the fastest land animal speed.  

A curious Cardinal

As soon as I was old enough to have my own apartment, I started feeding the birds. Like other habits we learn from our “elders” (my mother and her mother also fed the birds), we often start repeating the habits of our parents/grandparents out of "expected habit development" (which is a highly technical psychological term that I just made up). We do this "expected habit" because we think we have to in order to be proper, well-adjusted adults―at first, that is….  Then we get a little older, a little further into adulthood, and we start to examine whether or not we want to claim these “habits” for ourselves.  

A goldfinch takes flight from the feeder

And so I thought about it the other morning...it was freezing and I walked out of my house (on my “first attempt” to get in the truck and leave for work...it always takes more than one attempt) and I noticed all three bird feeders were empty. So I stopped for a moment in order to fill them up.  After all, I had just spent twenty dollars of my hard-earned money on birdseed at Tractor Supply three days ago.  There was no point in letting it just sit in my little metal trashcan unused.  Once I finally left for work, I spent most of my drive reflecting on “the why” of it all. “Who are they?” I thought. “Those that feed the birds?” 

A Tufted Titmouse perches for seed

I could ramble on philosophically for long while in an attempt to compose the perfect summary of what some of the fibers are that comprise that “common thread.” But I won’t. It wouldn’t be good enough anyway.

The Blackcap Chickadee

What I know about birds is this: Their songs are so joyful they stop me in my tracks sometimes.  Their movements and quickness make my heart flutter.  I think of my grandfather putting on his black “driving cap” every time I see a black-capped chickadee.  And I can sit still for very long periods of time and just watch them―and it is STILL quite a big deal for me to sit still.

Ultimately, I end up where I started again: “Birds are a miracle because they prove to us there is a finer, simpler state of being which we may strive to attain.” ―Douglas Coupland 

There is a worry-free life out there waiting for you to find it.  If you don’t know where to start, try getting a bird feeder.

"I think I'm in love with you…"

Goldfinches enjoy a thistle seed sock

 

A rare find at the feeder for me―a Flicker

A Titmouse (tuft is down)

A Titmouse (tuft is up!)

A Woodpecker on a Pine Tree on the farm

A Carolina Wren settles on a branch near the feeders

PRAY―For Water

“We cannot look at the enormity of the problems that face the human family and capitulate in the belief that there’s nothing we can do.  We have the power. It is what we do with that power that determines our worthiness.”―Harry Belafante

It’s been a good while since I’ve had time to contribute an entry to this blog. I started it as a way for people to keep up with what I was doing while traveling and living in Fran (my motorhome).  Then...a little bit of life happened. Unexpectedly―I stayed in Virginia for a while. Unexpectedly―circumstances brought me back to South Carolina this Fall.  Do I intend to travel again at some point?  Yes. Have I learned to acknowledge and accept the “unexpectedly” in life? You bet I have. 

One of the reasons I came home involved the chance to get involved with some mission work two of my good friends were doing.  A local group has been focused on a specific people group in Peru for the past few years―trying to serve a variety of needs they had―of which there were/are many.  Most critically and notably the need for clean drinking water and improvements in basic sanitation needs.  

My mother has many...let be clear...MANY...wonderful sayings.  All of which she freely shares―sometimes with, sometimes without solicitation.  One of my favorites (often shared with patients with whom I work) is “the bathroom is ground zero.”  She has always acknowledged via one of her “sayings” that “if that’s not okay―nothing is.”  Though this phrase of hers can be extrapolated in many ways, perhaps in no greater way is its noteworthiness more highlighted than when it is used to reference independence with this task.  If you have ever been sick and unable to toilet yourself independently―you KNOW how right she is.  In Peru, I was particularly aware of the tie to clean water for drinking AND sanitation relative to her saying.  “Ground zero” was not available―period. CLEAN water = ground zero. The issue extends WAY past not having it to drink.  

Path to the "out house" in a village where we stayed

Let me take you back to September 9th, 1989. Hurricane Hugo swept through the state of South Carolina.  For the first time, I realized what it meant to have the privilege of drinking water, sewer service, hot showers, safe water for cooking with, and ICE―do you remember how hot it was in the days following the storm?  I will never forget my father shuttling in buckets of water to flush the toilet “manually” and the disgusting thought of having to “dispose” of toilet paper in the trashcan next to the toilet to minimize the need for flushes.  All of it, was a temporary inconvenience for us in the weeks following the storm.

In Peru―and many other parts of the world―this scenario is reality 24/7.  This past week, I saw first hand that children and adults there are living with chronic bowel problems from parasites, Giardia, Crypto/Cyclospora , Guinea Worm disease and other tape worms. They suffer from Typhoid, Cholera, E Coli, Dysentery just to name a few.  

Our group took many things to help the people we were serving that week. Some items included medicine and many other provisions to help with daily needs.  The smiles...the hugs...the relationships built made the trip worth every mile traveled.  

But I came home with this nagging feeling: Now what? How do I respond over the long-term now that I have seen what I have seen? 

A child receives medical care in a makeshift clinic set up at a church

Enter the Good Samaritan: I imagine him as he walked away from the inn where he took the man he found on the road the day before. What a day it had been...he’d found a man on the road half dead, tended to his wounds, carried him to safety for a night, fed him and nursed him (probably with little sleep for himself), but had to go own with his business the next day and leave.  He made one final gesture in his good deed by leaving money for the inn keeper to carry on meeting the man’s needs when he left―and even promised the inn keeper he would come back after completing his business to make sure it had been enough money. But the parable ends without really ever telling us if the man ever got to meet up with the Samaritan later and thank him.  Did the man that had been beaten and robbed ever “pay it forward” to someone else later?  Did they meet on Oprah for a tearful reunion years later?  

I guess we’ll never know.

What I do know is that Harry Belafante (one of the instrumental forces behind USA for Africa’s “We are the World” project) would have said that the Samaritan did not “capitulate in the belief that there [was] nothing [he could] do.” He knew he had the power to save ONE life. And what he did with that power determined his worthiness.  He made a choice to act.  A choice that two others before him did not make. 

And so I found the answer to my question about how I should respond.  “Go and do likewise” Jesus told his disciples. 

It’s not often we get a chance to save a life.  Heck, it’s not often we step back from our own lives and spend time helping our neighbors anymore―if we are really honest here―and yes, I am including myself. We are so wrapped up in our own “now” it’s no wonder that we have stopped hearing the cries of help from the truly needy places of the world.  

A mother is joyful that her children will be parasite free after medication received

Maybe the Samaritan was nobody special after all. Maybe he was not the “mother Teresa” we have made him out to be.  Maybe he was just as wrapped up in his own “now” as I have been. After all, it took a beaten, battered, half dead body thrown in the middle of his path to get him to respond...a wake up call so smack-dab in his face he could smell the stench coming around the bend and he would have had to really work hard to walk around it. Perhaps I should save one of my unwashed socks from the jungle and smell it every now and again? Okay, so that is a really bad idea...but how do I keep this experience a tangible call to action to “go and do likewise?” I find myself scratching my head again...

Children wave goodbye upon our departure

It’s the next day for me.  Time to leave the inn now, like the Samaritan did, and go about my business as usual.  Wait!  Maybe that’s it...the Samaritan was just “going about his business” in the first place, wasn’t he?  Perhaps, the call to act comes on God’s terms. The call to respond is the Samaritan’s choice.  My choice. Our choice.  

I have the power NOT to say “there’s nothing I can do” but instead to say “I am ready to serve.” And I will keep my eyes open for those in need on my path. 

The sunsets over a village in Peru

EAT--skinny people

An old Cherokee told his grand-son, “My son, there is a battle between two wolves inside us all.  One is Evil. It is anger, jealousy, greed, resentment, inferiority, lies and ego.  The other is Good.  It is joy, peace, love, hope, humility, kindness, empathy, and truth.” 

The boy thought about it, and asked, “Grandfather, which wolf wins?”  

The old man quietly replied, “The one you feed.”

The Shrimp Dock at Independent Seafood in Georgetown, SC

This past week, I went home and fed the old black southern woman that lives deep inside my soul.  I have evidence that this woman exist based on the simple fact that my back-side is revered by many to actually be that of a black woman’s. Well, let’s just be honest here.

Some people should―and probably do―(...but hopefully not) hate me.  My Attention Deficit Disorder medication has sped up my metabolism and curbed my appetite to the point of assisting me to “high school skinny.”  I am not hungry very often.  And when I do eat, I get away with consumption in the fashion of the skinny-fat-people that everyone hates. It’s not fair...I know it. 

Gathering some of life's treasures

I think food is the best of all of the treasures on the earth.  I love that God speaks of heaven in terms of a “feast” and that Jesus was often found feeding the masses. In fact, His last evening on this earth was spent feasting.  It must be important to eat.  

It is our fuel. 

I loved when reading the book ‘The Shack” that as the Trinity was represented God, the Father, was a black woman who loved to cook.  

Shrimp Creole!

I was reminded of this most recently when an old friend was wearing a t-shirt on a Facebook picture post that said, “I met God, she’s black.” For some reason this made sense to me. How could God be more loving than this image? The kind soul that would feed you with all the knowledge you could ever possibly need...and at the same time―smack your behind when you needed a good waking up via whipping?!?  Yes, I believe God may in-fact be a black woman. The humble, caring, calloused-handed black woman who always loved me in the best of ways. 

Where does the love come from? If loving people is expressed by feeding them (as I have written about before), my actions this past week suggest love at least starts in the farm fields of  South Carolina.

Peaches from MacBee, SC

This is what I brought home in several coolers from South Carolina (most of it from the Kudzu Bakery...the rest from farm fields...ocean included):

1 Keylime pie

3 containers of shrimp dip

1 container of crab dip

1 container of pimento cheese

2 boxes of Mepkin Abbey Oyster Mushroom Ravioli 

1 box of “select peaches” from the loading dock at MacBee

6 pounds of medium fresh shrimp from Independent Seafood in Georgetown

2 pints of shrimp creole base―home cooked from my mother

2 pints of fresh strawberries from MacBee

and a few ears of South Carolina Sweet corn

Crabs from the creek at Pawley's Island

This seems a bit ridiculous―if you’re ignoring your inner southern black woman. Why would one

 single person return to Northern Virginia with such a bounty?

The "sliver" I got up to get...

Well, first of all, the inner black woman likes to share. And since I choose to embrace her―since she is my best friend―I brought back a ton of food. This voice of reason is the one who says, “Honey-child...you goin’ ahead and eat dat shrimp dip!” and “Don’t you mind that third slice of pie...it's just a sliver!” I think I’ll break from writing and go get a slice now actually...

Not kidding...I really just did.

If you are what you eat, I am a key-lime shrimp slathered with mayonnaise (from all the shrimp/crab dip) and topped with fresh corn, strawberries, and pimento cheese this week. I wonder how my food coma will effect my ability to give a good PT treatments this week?

Yes...my inner black woman insured there would be plenty to share.  I have already given several peaches away.  I will share the famous Mountain Dew Peach Enchilada recipe this week. I will feed in the spirit of joy, peace, love, hope, humility, kindness, empathy, and truth. And the good wolf will win the battle―by way of my inner black woman. 

So if I may, I propose a toast...to the inner black woman in us all. 

LOVE―to go fast

“No one is so old as those who have outlived enthusiasm.” Henry David Thoreau

Enthusiasm for "toes in the water"

“Lucy!―you drive that wheelchair like you drive your car!” a fellow physical therapy school student yelled at me as I wheeled around the corner and about ran her over.  The near accident occurred as I was traveling at breakneck speed (surely I was running late) down the hall to my class.  

At some point during our spinal cord injury class we were all subjected to the experience of being “wheelchair bound” for a week. Unlike most students, who found the experience to be cumbersome, I found great joy in the speed with which the wheelchair provided on long straightaways.  I like to go fast!  

Amazingly, I have made it through my life with only one speeding ticket citation.  The ratio of citations to actual occurrences must look like the odds of winning the Powerball lottery.  1:13,578,892―or something to that effect.  

I have no idea why it took me this long to figure out the simplicity of this idea―especially in how it relates to so many facets of my life. Polo, skiing sports, BASE jump, skydiving, parasailing, surfing, sailing, roller coasters, biking, boating...all of it! These all have one thing in common.  Speed.  I love to go fast. I really love to go fast!  I REALLY really LOVE to go FAST! And with a level of enthusiasm that I feel sure I will never outgrow. I have a desire for new things and learning that I hope I never lose a passion for. 

And now, I have discovered barrel racing.  Wow!  What a rush!?!  My Mother used to summarize my speedy little self by simply telling people I had only two speeds: Stop. And Go Really Fast. At it’s basic core, that’s exactly what happens in barrel racing. You haul tail to one barrel. Stop to make the turn around it.  Haul tail to the next barrel. Stop to make the second turn. Haul tail to the last one. Then, after that last turn, you haul tail out of the arena. Oh yeah, I forgot to mention stopping at the third barrel―maybe that’s why I knock that one over the most...   I always have had a little trouble with STOP.  I need one of those Forrest Gump signs that says, “Run Forrest! STOP Forrest!”

The part I like about going fast is the wind in my hair, the exhilaration of the senses, the sound of the “rush” blowing by my ears.  That “rush-ing” sound is even my favorite part of duck hunting―there’s nothing better than the sound of the birds coming in at sunrise.  “Whoosh!” as they swoop down onto the water.  There is something magical about the air in all of these activities and the sense of speed I associate with all of them. 

I am a Gemini―an air sign.  I’m not a big astrology person. But I think there’s something to the whole thing. Let me just say that at the very least, when I read the description of a Gemini I find quite a few similarities to my own personality. 

In awe of the sky and air at Pawley's

Gemini: changeable, mutable, sparkling and light quality, enjoy being in the middle of everything, talkative (haha!), curious about lots of different things, big communicators, talented at writing, teaching, and public speaking.

If Gemini were a drink, it would be champagne. Bubbly. Fun watch. A refreshing change from the ordinary. Always changing. Light on the palate. A party in a bottle. Easy to get dizzy on when over exposure occurs. 

I do run life at a dizzying pace sometimes.  I am often asked, “Do you ever take the time to just slow down?”  

The answer: Yes. I do stop. I have been in a Pawley’s Island hammock for the last hour writing this entry. In this moment, one could say I am the bubble at the bottom of the glass of champagne. I am stuck to the bottom for just a few more seconds―then it’s off like rocket, up through the flute of the glass, to the surface with “POP!” What a ride! What a rush! It’s not for everyone. But it’s me.

Stop....go really fast.

A place I like to stop...

Love―for the duration

FRIENDS

“Friends are a strange, volatile, contradictory, yet sticky phenomenon. They are made, crafted, shaped, molded, created by focused effort and intent. And yet, true friendship, once recognized, in its essence is effortless.
Best friends are formed by time.
Everyone is someone's friend, even when they think they are all alone.
However, sometimes it takes more effort to make it work after all.
Stick around long enough to become someone's best friend.” 
―Vera Nazarian

Old friendships are like a fine wine, that keeps getting better with time...

I have been blessed with many good friends in my life.  Just like spring flowers vibrantly bloom and fall leaves turn bright colors―so too, certain friends have been more prominent during different seasons of my life. 

I love making new friends. It’s been one of my favorite things about what I’ve been doing the past year.  And how I do love my old friends as well!  These are the friends I can go weeks, months, or even years without much contact―then pick right back up with―as if no time ever passed. Both new and old, friends are a blessing. 

A good (old) friend once quoted to me a great line from the movie Sweet Home Alabama... “you can have roots and wings” ―as relative to my travels. Well, if that’s true―old friends are, at least in part, the roots of life. Our old friends know us like no one else.  They know the things we hid from our parents growing up. They know the depth of broken hearts we’ve had. The silly of our youth. The struggles of our growing up. The wishes that have come to fruition. The dreams that we have been forced to let go of. They know the blood and sweat of the pursuits of our adulthood. 

"You can have roots and wings..." Sweet Home Alabama

Old friends are very much the “mathematical constants” of life’s equation. By definition that would be: a special number, usually a real number, that is “significantly interesting in some way.” Old friends ground and define our equations.  And, quite often, when the equation of life is not working out as we’d planned, we scratch everything but those constants for a clean slate “do-over.” But the real, the special, the significantly interesting in some way...that all stays put―as we try to work the numbers again and succeed.  

I was reminded on one of my most special and dearest friend’s birthday recently of thoughts we once shared on this topic from the movie “City Slickers.” All of the characters were at some major crossroad in their life before heading out west to wrangle cattle for a weeks vacation. What the movie highlighted so well, was how old friends are a mirror of truth we can hold up (like a compass) when deciding how to navigate those crossroads. Who are we?  Where do we want our life to go? Not that our friends decided this for us, but that they are the best guides to show us our history and what has defined us thus far. 

I wouldn’t have made it past several crossroads of life if not for certain old friends. And I love the promise I share with one of these old friends (which most recently moved from the unspoken promise that was always there, to a spoken one when we coined the promise into a simple phrase): “for the duration.”

A beautiful "cross road" of life...

It was through this promise that I learned what the love of old friends is really about. Friends that go through broken hearts and share in the amazement that they didn’t kill us. Friends that make each other keep laying down tracks for dreams that seem far away―in hopes the train will one day come.  Friends that provide the emotional fuel to allow us to climb over the mountain to the other side. Friends that (symbolically) hit each other over the head with the cast iron skillet for wake up calls when needed. Old friends. Loyal friends. Friends―for the duration. 

WORK― at PROBLEM SOLVING

If the only tool you have is a hammer, you tend to see every problem as a nail.Abraham Maslow

It’s funny how one person can struggle with things changing so much and have someone so close to them struggling with them not changing.  The problem with life is so often bad timing.  Why is it that when we want things to stay the same they always seem to change?  And when we are dying for a change we find ourselves stuck in a maze―hitting brick walls at every turn―unable to escape to the new place we so desperately need to get to?

The problem of bad timing can manifest itself in many shapes, sizes, and forms. But Alanis Morissette’s song “Ironic” comes to mind as the best way to portray what I am talking about.  Lines like: “A traffic jam, when you’re already late...” (which is every day for me). And “A death row, pardoned two minutes too late.” That whole song is about bad timing.  My favorite line is: “It’s like 10,000 spoons when all you need is a knife.”  ONE KNIFE...please!  And isn’t it ironic? ...I was actually hunting for ONE plastic SPOON for my “to go” yogurt breakfast just this morning.

That’s where my quote comes in: “If the only tool you have is a hammer, you tend to see every problem as a nail.”  While this quote has many applications, when is comes to life’s timing issues I think it speaks volumes regarding our approach.  Bad timing can be navigated poorly or very well...depending on how we look at our available options for a solution.  When we choose to only see what is familiar to us (a hammer), sometimes that limits our vision for solving the problem to doing it the same way we always have (by hitting the nail).  

Me feeling the AWE of the HAMMER (apparently!)

I will never forget working on Habitat for Humanity project one summer at Camp Baskerville in middle school...mostly because it was about a thousand degrees outside everyday.  The contractor that led the project was a wonderful man who really took the time to teach us some building skills.  I think I was about thirteen years old, but with supervision and direction, I built a closet that summer.  

Two members of the family BEFORE the remodel was finished

Another member of the crew working hard.

It was part of a remodel that was done to a sweet and deserving family’s house.  There was a moment when I was trying to nail a cross support rod into a tight space with an old fashion hammer (no air hammer’s on this project) and there just wasn’t enough space to finish driving the nail because of the tight angle at the back corner of the closet.  I called the contractor over for help.  He walked right in, saw my dilemma, flipped his hammer over sideways, and used the flat outside edge (instead of the head) to tap-tap-tap the nail down into place.  I had a “blond girl moment” and thought to myself “now why couldn’t I have figured that out!?!”

Yes, that's me...Many thanks to wonderful friend and fellow Baskerville attendee Katherine Sabalis Miles for digging these old pictures out of her scrapbooks!!!  Who knew my "best feature" had been documented in white GUESS cut-off jeans!?!

The answer: Limited vision.  I only knew one way to solve the problem.

I was reminded of the above incident as the man who delivered my new sofa and chair/ottoman this past week struggled to get the bottom pin of the door to my house out from the hinge last week (the doors had to come off in order to get the sofa in).  I swear he would still be there trying to get the pin out the same way over and over again unsuccessfully had I not gently “suggested” that he flip his hammer over.  Ever heard that quote by Albert Einstein? “INSANITY: Doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.”

After the “suggestion” was followed, he just looked up at me like “Who are you Lady? Bob Villa’s daughter?”  

My point on bad timing is this: We can’t always fix our timing issues by hammering down the nail the way we know how to. Sometimes we have to get a little more creative.  And sometimes, we just have to wait until the right helper comes along to show us a new way.  

Duke―loving the new chair and ottoman...but still hating Monday's as much as me! (taken on 02-25-13)