Garden tour

Yes, the virtual garden tour. All photos taken today. Tomorrow it will look different--things come, things go. I lost some things over the very harsh winter but thankfully most of the hydrangeas came through and the old cherry blossom tree is still hanging in there.

Front door, crepe myrtle trees, spirea

 
Back door, climbing hydrangeas, a peek at my Tibetan prayer flags :)

Back utility enclosure--the Japanese climbing hydrangea is going crazy there

Back yard under the cherry tree--there are chickadees nesting in the bird house

Volunteer ferns (came up when I pulled up the overgrown ivy) under the cherry tree

Front step--hosta in a pot

Front--under my kitchen window

 Back patio

Patio view from inside the living room

The sun

Oakleaf hydrangeas on the brick wall from the road

Pillow with no name

There was a big, big Amazon box on my doorstep a couple of days ago. I pretty much knew what it was before I opened it. My body pillow had arrived.

I’ve spent years sleeping single in a double bed. In most respects it’s not a problem. Actually it has a lot of advantages—no one snoring or kicking off the blankets or encroaching on my side of the bed. I can sleep in the middle of the bed. I can get up and get back into the bed a thousand times without anyone shouting, “Donna! For the love of God, can you just stay still for more than 5 minutes?” Or worse, “I’ve had it with you and your coughing—go sleep in the basement.” (I had pneumonia when he said that. I slept in the basement for weeks.)

The body pillow is filled with genuine goose down and has a hypoallergenic cover. It’s nearly as tall as I am and I can manipulate it to suit my moods. I can throw my leg over it when my hip hurts. (I hear Taj Mahal singing, “Throw your big leg on me mama ‘cause I might not feel this good again.")

Last night I had a crazy dream about trying to find a place to pour water into my computer. I often confuse the coffeemaker and the computer, can’t remember which one needs water to function. So when I woke up from the dream, feeling a little too warm, I kicked the body pillow on the floor. Can’t do that with a man. Don’t even try.

Since it shares my bed nightly, I’m thinking my sleeping companion needs a name. It needs to be a male name—that’s just the team I’m on. I know the pillow is made of goose down and the source of the goose down could be my inspiration for a name. I’m thinking pâté de foie gras, the pillow must be of French origin so I’ll call it Alain. Nope—checked the tag. It’s goose down from China. "Damn, why China," she whined. I could call it Mao Tse-tung but I’m not in the mood to snuggle with Chairman Mao. Or I could risk punishment, tear the tag from the pillow, and give it any name I want. I’m working on it. I think it’s worth the risk.

The humble abode

Finally . . . I'm keeping a long-term promise to post photos of the inside of my house. (Not including the lower level--respectable in its own right--and the exterior. Garden photos to come.) It's always changing, chalk paint furniture coming and going, things moving around. This is how it looks today.

Living Room (I know you'll love seeing my laundry drying outside)

Dining Room

Kitchen (Miss Eva eating in the corner)

First Floor Powder Room (note that Frida Kahlo cannot be on the same wall as the Guadalupe--they don't get along well)

Random Hall Photos

Guest Room

Guest Bath

Master Bedroom (my tranquil place, the park outside the windows. . . )

 Master Bathroom (with my bracelets)

My Office

Mantra

My mantra . . . grace.

Your love never fails

It never gives up

It never runs out on me

He promised me that His grace is sufficient. I have everything I need, everything. I have salvation, the unfailing grace of God.

If I need to find a reason to be grateful, I need only go to one thing—the grace of God, God who never gives up on me. Anything else—everything else—will come and go and my heart may, probably will ache with the losses. But God’s love is unchanging, a constant presence, whether or not I feel it. So I must trust, accept the inevitable changes and keep my sight on the constant. In the midst of a chaotic life, look to Him, hang on to Him. Don’t be distracted by the turmoil in life—He promised me there would be trouble, didn’t He? Rest in His promise, rest in the peace that He is always with me.

It’s all grace.

A ruffle too far

The blouse kept getting shoved to the back of my closet. It’s a sleeveless piece from J.Jill, a small flower print on brown linen that I bought only a few weeks ago (at a thrift store, of course). Today I pulled it out and really thought about it, wondering why I even bought it if I never intend to wear it. Everything about it is fine. Everything but the ruffles.
 

I am not a ruffles person. Not big on sequins either, or other types of adornment that include studs, polka dots, and the dreaded embroidery on the back pockets of jeans. Embroidery on the legs of jeans is even worse. Embroidery with sequins is unbearable. If given the choice to wear embroidered, sequined jeans or go au naturel, I'd probably get arrested.

 
Blanket apology to anyone who reads this and has any of the aforementioned adornments on their clothing—I’m trying not to be judgmental. Let me just say they these doodads don’t work well for me. They make my butt look fat. I’m sure you don’t have a fat butt.
 

So I did what I had to do or I would never be able to live with myself. I got out my scissors and cut some of the ruffles off of the blouse. Just snip, snip, snip. I felt much better about the blouse. Maybe I’ll sleep better without those ruffles in my closet. Still I’m not sure I’ll wear it—to me it will always be that silly ruffled blouse and I just don’t do ruffles.

Prodigal daughter

I’ve got a headache. Not a respectable headache worthy of particular note or drama. It’s not pounding. I’m not holding my temples, writhing in pain, or buried beneath my sheets to avoid the light. It’s just a boring headache that feels like the inside of my head is stuffed with dirty diapers.

It has been a really quiet day. I never left the house, didn’t listen to music, and haven’t spoken to a single person all day. I’ve just spent the day inside my head with the dirty diapers.

This is my cry for help. Lord, I hope you’re listening. Things are difficult in my life right now, yet at the same time I’m feeling particularly far away from God. He hasn’t gone anywhere—He’s right where He always is, door open—but I simply haven’t bothered to stay in communication with Him. And now the guilt is getting worse—not just because I’ve been distant from God but because I’m a sinner, not a nice person, unworthy of the love and esteem of anyone, including my Creator. I’ve got this feeling of doom, expecting God to rain down some sort of punishment on me.

So, here I am, the prodigal daughter, begging for His mercy, asking Him to show me how to bridge the gulf between us. I’m scratching feebly at His door, without even the audacity to pound boldly. My well is dry. I don’t have the energy to shout so I just whine.

“Lord, it’s me. Here I am again. I’m sorry I'm such a shit. I miss you. Please let me in.”

Times like this make me yearn for a strong connection to Him. I need to feel His presence in my life. I am brought low to feel my indebtedness, to understand His unending forgiveness, that pure grace.

If I just ask, He will make me new again. My heavenly father will welcome me home again and again. It has not been a good season for my growth in faith. I have faltered and all the troubles of an ordinary life seem to be magnified when I’m not walking in faith.

And today I read in 2 Corinthians 1 that God will still deliver us. It was the word “still” that jumped out at me. No matter how many times I falter and fail, no matter how many times I wander away from Him, He will still be there to welcome me back with open arms, with no recrimination.

This troubled world

Yes, I cried. Tears dripping on today’s Washington Post.

By intention I live a tranquil, sheltered life. I picked up the newspaper today and read about the new Degas/Cassatt exhibit opening at the National Gallery of Art. Wow, I think, I have to see that—it might be enough to make me go the few miles into the city. Maybe I’ll even be wild and crazy and take the Metro into town. I was eager to read the Weekend section of the paper for reviews of local farmers markets to learn where I could go to find the freshest and most exciting delicacies of the season.

But it was impossible to miss the photo on the front page of today’s newspaper—a young Burmese mother holding her starving infant. I wanted to look away, to fold the paper inside out so I never had to be reminded that such an image exists and that it dare to put a dagger into my peaceful life. Tears welled up in my eyes. How could anyone with a heart look at that image and feel nothing?

The article with the photo described the situation in a refugee camp in Burma. Muslim refugees are being starved, virtually ignored by their government, barred from assistance by foreign relief agencies, and bullied by extremist Buddhists. Yes, apparently there are extremist Buddhists in Burma. Something I never imagined could exist. Isn’t that the complete antithesis of Buddhism? What people do in the name of religion never ceases to amaze me. But this one has risen to the top of my list of incomprehensible things about alleged people of faith.

My quotidian concerns include where I can find perfect raspberries this week. I fret about my technique for making coffee. I get angry when Whole Foods runs out of Power Muffins. Admittedly I am a self-indulgent middle class American woman who never had to worry about her babies getting enough food or health care. I hate the stereotype and there’s something I hate about myself for being so comfortable in it, for feeling that I deserve these things.

When I saw the photo I cried for the woman’s heartbreak. I cried for a world that never ceases to be cruel and unfair. I cried for myself, for all the times I have looked away from these photos. And I feel powerless in a world gone wrong, trapped in a humanity besieged by evil and pain. If I dare look at it.

Can you give me some solace, O Lord? Can you give me some hope in this troubled world?

 I have said these things to you, that in me you may have peace. In the world you will have tribulation. But take heart; I have overcome the world. 

John 16:33

Photo credit: Andre Malerba, Getty Images

My grace is sufficient

Mark was a big-hearted man who loved his family. He loved the Lord. He was my little brother and today marks that sad day he was murdered—shot in the back 3 years ago in his own front yard.

So I read scripture to try to make sense of it, to find some solace for my aching heart. I read 2^nd Corinthians, the section about Paul’s “thorn” in which Paul asks God to remove the thorn but God says no, the thorn stays. God’s words to Paul:

 My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness. 2Cor 12:9

I think about God’s response and how I can find some peace in His words. I suppose the Lord’s power is being made perfect because of my own incredible weakness. As if His power could be any more perfect. So glad I can help, that I can do something to make Him beyond perfect. Just doing my part being incredibly weak. But I digress. . .

For me, this message should be my mantra—“my grace is sufficient for you.” This is God comforting me when I feel the sadness, the loss, the anger, the endless questions about His plan and His goodness in light of this horrible human tragedy. My brother gets killed, it hurts, and I look to heaven and remind myself that He said His grace is sufficient.

So I suspend my lack of understanding. Nothing changes what happened. If I’m angry with God, disappointed in a life full of things that seem unfair, nothing changes. But if I trust the Lord, it changes my heart, it gives me peace beyond understanding because He has said to me, directly to me, “My grace is sufficient for you.”

 

Miss you, little brother.

 

Missing myself

Who is that old woman prowling around my house? She keeps opening the refrigerator, looking through the pantry, hoping to find a long-forgotten stale Frito or a moldy chocolate chip. She finds nothing so she goes down to the basement to take clothes out of the dryer. Then she walks upstairs (forgetting to bring the laundry with her) and looks through the bookshelves, trying to find the copy of Olive Kitteridge that has gone missing. Unable to find the book, she goes back to the kitchen and starts prowling for food again. Earlier she made herself a filling, healthy salad with grilled chicken for lunch. Then she had some Greek yogurt with blueberries. Still, she prowls. She eats the last two tiny sweet gherkin pickles and puts the pickle jar in the recycling bin. Then she decides it’s time to finish off that last tablespoon of coconut.

Oh, wait—I think I recognize her from another life. Yep, that is me. The old me would have had barbeque potato chips in the pantry and some frozen, home-made (it makes me weep just to think about them) oatmeal pecan date cookies in the freezer. In the refrigerator she probably would have had half a Lost Dog Cafe “pointer pizza” with whole wheat crust, feta, pine nuts, and spinach. I miss her. I miss the pizza.

I have been working hard to change my wicked ways. I got through Thanksgiving, Christmas, Ground Hog’s Day, Valentine’s Day, a trip to Austin, and Fat Tuesday. I haven’t had a single croissant. I had pizza once. I’ve almost completely given up alcohol and carbohydrates. I even got through yesterday—St. Patrick’s Day—without having a beer. And now, today, March 18^th, a day of no significance whatsoever, I’m losing my will.

Since the beginning of November I have lost 30 pounds. I’m nearly there, though I’m not exactly sure where “there” is. A former vegetarian, I am now eating mostly protein (i.e. meat—ugh) and vegetables. It feels like an alien creature has taken over my body. And where are my clothes, especially my 50 pairs of jeans, the staple of my wardrobe? Hmmm . . . donated to the thrift store because nothing fits me now. I had to get them out of my house lest I consider growing back into them. Nothing to eat, nothing to wear.

At this moment, the thing I miss most about her, the woman I used to be, is that she would be thinking about dinner right now. She would have a big bowl of capellini with olive oil (maybe butter and olive oil) with a ton of freshly grated Parmesan cheese. Undoubtedly she would have a glass or two of good red wine or maybe a beer. She might even have splurged on some Talenti Belgian chocolate gelato. (Insert the sound of weak, pitiful whining . . . )

I’m going to go prowl through the kitchen now, maybe steam some broccoli and cry. I miss her.

The stick

It’s the staff Moses carried on his way to the Promised Land, the rod St. Patrick used to chase the snakes out of Ireland, my defense against the ‘possum in the basement rafters, an obsolete security system. To me it's a thing of beauty—shoulder high, smoothed by hands over the years, with a lightness that belies its strength. Yet in the eyes of others it simply may be a big stick.

When he was a boy, my little brother Mark had a knack for finding things in the woods—extraordinary things like a motorcycle and ordinary things like the stick. The stick just appeared at our house one day when I was in my teens, and when I got married and moved away, I decided to take it with me. I didn’t ask him if I could take it. Mark was still a kid; he didn’t protest.

It moved with me many times over the years. It has been placed by the front door, in the corner of my bedroom, beside the fireplace. In every house it found a spot where it felt useful and it stayed there, standing watch, protecting me.

Three years ago my little brother Mark was murdered. Even the stick couldn’t have stopped the bullet that was fired point blank into his back. And Mark’s stick stays with me, my connection to my little brother, my defense against a cruel world. It always was and always will be such a special stick.

Lessons in grief and forgiveness

“Please, Lord, teach me a new way. Open my mind, my heart to your wisdom, not to my own failed, flawed thinking. Help me to learn from the example set by Jesus to forgive all wrongs. Yes, it’s hard. I want to own my hurts, to hold on to them, and I don’t know what replaces them. But it’s time. I don’t know how to do it. Just teach me. Please teach me.”

That prayer I wrote in my journal about a month ago. And I am writing this, here and now, to testify to the amazing power of God. He listened. He answered my prayer and my heart is filled with gratitude. God has been leading me further and further down this path I am trying to describe. I didn’t see it coming, but now I recognize that, all along, the pieces were coming together. He was showing me the way, teaching me how to forgive.

For the past few months I have been participating in a wonderful weekly Christian support group called GriefShare. I joined the group because I could not seem to get past the grief of losing my father, my brother, and my friend Mike in little over a year’s time. Three deaths in a row, including the murder of my brother, was a big load to carry. In late January the group worked on the topic of forgiveness. After the session, as I worked at home through the forgiveness exercises, I became more and more angry. Reading that God expects me to forgive others as He has forgiven me made me so furious that I threw the GriefShare workbook across the room. “What have I done that is so bad to deserve this injustice? Nothing compared to what was done to me—being mistreated by that SOB, my brother murdered by that lunatic, my father’s death, Mike’s death, my aloneness.” I seethed. But I began to sense that holding on to the anger and bitterness was only hurting me more. It doesn’t hurt God when I am angry with Him. It just leaves me frustrated, withdrawn, with an aching emptiness in my chest. I wanted to cry, wail, and scream. I wanted to punch God in the stomach, throw rocks through plate-glass windows, slam my car into something. I kept cycling through this little dance—retreat, move forward, retreat—without accomplishing anything, without learning how to forgive. The workbook said to keep praying about it, so I prayed. I realized that God is stronger than my feelings and I had to turn it over to Him because I can’t do it myself.

The following week, the GriefShare lesson was on getting stuck in grief. I knew that I was stuck and I didn’t want to acknowledge why I was stuck. “No, not that, Lord. Don’t ask me to forgive. It’s just too hard.”

Everything I have read and heard about forgiveness says that for me, a Christian, it is what God requires me to do. Forgiveness is what I need to be more Christ-like as well as what I need to heal emotionally. I don’t want to be a bitter, nasty old woman. Can I detach from and give up my “story” of heartache, my litany of woes, the list of all the wrongs done to me? I have developed a relationship—an unhelpful, sick relationship—with my story. But do I really want this sad story to define who I am for the rest of my life? Do I still need people to understand how deeply I was wronged? What good does it do me if it keeps me wallowing in the pain? O, the pain—how dramatic! Seeing the dysfunctional cycle for what it is was one step in the journey. Jesus knows my whole story. He has felt everything I have felt and He emerged triumphant. Can I aspire to be more like Him? There is nothing for me to gain from the retelling. Still I know so well how hard it is to forgive—it continues to be the most difficult thing I have ever done.

 “Everyone says forgiveness is a lovely idea, until they have something to forgive.”

C.S. Lewis

The following Sunday in church, the pastor spoke about why Jesus had to die; He died for our sins. And the root of our sin, of my sin, is living for myself and simply believing that I know best. My self-reliance, my stubbornness have not necessarily been good traits. Obviously my own perceived strength was not useful—it kept me stuck inside my grief and my sense of having been treated unfairly. Who am I to think that I know better than God? I have to stop stepping in to tell Him how to run my life. I don’t know best.

And then that moment—that one sure moment, the epiphany when I felt the Holy Spirit smack me upside the head. I was in the laundry room putting clothes into the dryer and thinking that the next day was my son’s birthday. As I left the room, it hit me—I had spent 38 years adding chapters to the sorry story of my life. That was it. I wanted it to be over. Not one more day. I fell to my knees at the foot of the basement steps and cried out to God to forgive me for my arrogance. Until I see my own flaws, my own sins, I cannot begin to forgive others, therefore never setting myself free of bitterness and resentment. I sinned by thinking I was too good to have bad things happen to me. I thought I had been treated unjustly. I had ignored God’s goodness, His multitude of blessings, the death that Jesus suffered on the cross for my sins. In my arrogant, self-centered life, only my feelings were important to me. I realized that I was not going to move beyond my grief and sorrow unless I forgive hurt that I’ve been carrying around for 38 years.

 

    “When the Lord shows us what’s wrong in our lives, He always provides a remedy for change.”    

David McCasland

 
I admitted to God that I could not figure it out by myself, that He would have to teach me, to show me the way. He gave me eyes to see so that I could trace back the sadness in my life, well beyond the deaths that I have been grieving in recent years. I saw that my own sheer willpower wasn’t working; it just kept me stuck in a cycle of feeling sorry for myself instead of trusting God’s will. I saw that I needed to do what I thought was impossible for me to do—to truly forgive. “I can’t do that,” I told myself. “That is just too much to ask. How can I ever forgive that?” And when I recognized that forgiveness is beyond my ability, I had to give it over to God. So I prayed that God would take this unforgiveness from me and lift the burden from my heart.

But he said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” Therefore I will boast all the more gladly of my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ may rest upon me.

2 Corinthians 12:9 (ESV)

When the Holy Spirit begins to move, just step back and watch the awesome power of prayers answered! I found a Christian book on forgiveness that is changing my perspective. A hand-out in the GriefShare group walked me through, step by step, what I needed to do. I saw that forgiveness doesn’t just happen. Time does not heal all wounds—Jesus heals wounds. Forgiveness is a choice. I chose to forgive, by name I prayed for the people who hurt me, asked God to forgive everything, and prayed that they would be blessed in their lives. No holding grudges. No hanging on to one little bit of the wrong and maybe throwing out a zinger at some point. I have to keep doing this again and again. I have to keep trusting that God’s way is infinitely better than mine.

 

See that no one repays evil for evil, but always seek to do good to one another and to everyone. Thessalonians 5:15

Note that it doesn’t say “to those you want to forgive” it says everyone. Everyone! This is reason enough to forgive, to hold no grudges, to wish no ill befalls those who have wronged me.

Every day I ask Him again to forgive my arrogance and to help me to choose to forgive those who have hurt me. Every day I ask Him again to renew my trust in Him. And every day I walk deeper and deeper into a life closer to Him. Ultimately it is this that will heal my heart.

Nothing means nothing

Everyone has been asking me why I haven't written much lately. Hmmm. . . . it's not that there's nothing going on. Actually something quite incredible has happened in my life, a shift that took me by surprise. But it's taking me time to process it. I'm processing, jotting down notes, processing some more, thinking, praying. I'm trying to make sense of it and write about it in a coherent way. It makes sense in my head, but since there's virtual yellow caution tape wrapped around my brain it seems best to wait.

No recipes either. I haven't been cooking much, at least not cooking anything interesting. Just healthy protein, veggies, some fruit, and a little dairy. Yes, I've lost a little weight thank you Jesus. I've been thinking about cookies, though. I want to work out a recipe for cashew ginger cookies. Maybe macadamia nut ginger cookies. Almond, ginger, toasted coconut cookies? Then there's the spinach artichoke pizza . . .

That's quite enough.

Philip Seymour

Since his death several weeks ago I’ve been writing something in my head about Philip Seymour Hoffman. After he died the Washington Post headline was, “Electrifying actor of moments great and small.” Yep, he was that and more. Everyone kept saying, “Such talent—such a waste.” But I am so strangely crushed and disappointed in him that I can’t add another word to what already has been written and said about him. So I’ll write nothing.

Weeks have gone by since his death yet still I’m shocked. It’s not like I knew him or even saw him in person. The closest I ever got to him was when I passed the theater on Broadway where he was playing Willy Loman in Death of a Salesman. I saw his name on the theater marquee. I was going to another play—an excellent play, but not the one with Philip Seymour Hoffman.

I remember where I was when I heard that Elvis had been found dead in the bathroom at Graceland. What a waste to lose Elvis, the king of rock and roll, the boy from Mississippi whose voice defined a generation. I was driving on Chain Bridge Road in McLean, Nathan was in the back seat, and I was almost at the stop light at Westmoreland Street when I heard it on the radio. I remember where I was when I heard that Marilyn Monroe was found dead, nude, in her bed in Hollywood. That sweet, sexy blonde—what happened to her? And such a waste that she died so young. I heard the news on a summer afternoon. I was sitting on the sofa watching television at a house in my neighborhood where I was supposed to be babysitting that unfortunate boy Michael Anderson. I was a terrible babysitter. And Philip Seymour Hoffman? I was driving my car, passing the town center at “the compound” where my mother lives. I heard the news flash on the radio. I stopped at a stop sign, so stunned that I couldn’t move the car. People probably thought I had a stroke.

Why have I had this gut-wrenching, visceral reaction to Philip Seymour Hoffman’s death? He was found in the bathroom with a needle in his arm. I think of someone I know and love who is addicted to heroin. He too has been found passed out in his bathroom. Luckily he survived. He has been in and out of treatment more times than I can count. Now he’s in treatment again. I pray that he never again puts a needle in his arm. Don’t die like Philip Seymour Hoffman. Such a waste.

Celebrities aren’t that interesting to me. To me Philip Seymour Hoffman wasn’t a celebrity. He was an extraordinary actor whose ego disappeared in the roles he played. That’s what I loved about him. I loved the frumpy-lumpy way he looked and I loved his cockeyed smile, and his fearlessness. I keep thinking about the priest he played in Doubt, a charming, seemingly kind and compassionate man who may or may not have had a very dark side. It seems that the actor may have had a dark side too.

It’s sad. Such incredible talent. Such a waste. And I can’t write about it.