BoldFinger

If you’ve been following What Next you are aware I’m laboring under some exceptional technical difficulties.

1) I’m awaiting parts for my four-year-old notebook which torments me by flashing like a slow-mo strobe in a discotheque (Gen X’ers, Gen Y’ers and Millennials click here).

2) In the meantime I try to keep abreast of the Blogging Community and Facebook via my not-so-trusty old (retired) cell phone.

What this means to you:

Typos. Many of them.

Commenting on the plethora of captivating posts by even more phenomenal bloggers from my phone is always exciting. Not only do my fingers fluctuate between bold, beautiful and entirely inept on the nanosized keypad, but it can randomly choose to further humiliate me by posting without warning – sans proofing, etc. Annnd lost signals. That’s always fun.

While this experience could be incredibly frustrating, I admit it’s actually become a source of amusement. I remind myself frequently how gracious this amazing blogging community is, in between praying for my new friend with mad hardware skills. Through it all I’m actually happy with the progress on my chapters lately on the very, very old Windows 7 laptop.

It’s good to slow down sometimes. Random House, get ready.

“Humble yourselves, therefore, under God’s mighty hand, that he may lift you up in due time. Cast all your anxiety on him because he cares for you.”

1 Peter 5:6, 7 (NIV)

 

 

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Forty-Third Ring

Most of my elders all contributed to instilling in me a healthy respect for trees. I remember with a degree of shame now how Roan and I rolled our eyes (behind her back, of course) as Mother wailed over taking down the dead birch tree outside her bedroom window.

So much more so, I deeply appreciate this, great piece from Stuart Perkins: https://wp.me/p3EzSK-l0

Halfway through the tedious count my eyes began to cross. I put a finger on one of the wider rings to mark my place.

“Ninety-seven… ninety-eight… ninety-nine.“ I said to myself as I finished counting. “Wow…”

Ninety-nine clear rings. Taking in to account questionable layers near the bark and several areas made uncertain by chainsaw damage, this oak was easily a hundred years old. But for last week’s ice storm it would still be living. Fallen across the park trail, the city had cut the hefty trunk into several pieces to remove the obstruction.

One hundred years.

That would mean a tiny acorn sprouted and began to form its first ring around the time Woodrow Wilson signed the Treaty of Versailles. Perhaps it emerged just as the Grand Canyon became a national park. Or maybe it struggled towards the light as Congress guaranteed voting rights to all women.

A year passed, a ring formed. Repeat. No matter what… years and rings. Years and rings upon years and rings and Amelia Earhart was flying solo across the Atlantic, Franklin D. Roosevelt was elected president, and wind whipped across the growing tree just as it did the flag that flew over the Winter Olympics in 1932.

The same year my father was born.

Passage of more time, formation of more rings. Growth was never deterred. Through the horror of the Boston Marathon bombing or NASA’s breathtaking photos of Saturn, a ring was forming. Even as the extraordinary life of Nelson Mandela came to an end, yet another ring formed, in 2013.

The same year my father died.

From the time it gripped earth as a sprouting acorn until the day heavy ice brought it down, the tree not only survived; it grew. Regardless. This majestic beast existed during years of peace and years of war. From its first to its last, so much happened between the rings.

As a sapling, it was already on its way to grandeur before my father was born and it continued to grow after he was gone. One ring the year of his birth, another the year of his death. All he ever did, and was, happened between those rings.

Touching the center of the cross-section of trunk, I dragged my finger towards the outer edge, moving slowly over each of those circular markers of time. I stopped for a second on the forty-third ring. If my calculations were correct, this one was the year I was born, 1962.

I’m unable to articulate what I felt at that moment. There I sat, straddling the trunk of a fallen tree, deep in the throes of profound thought due to the sight of a jagged circle inside a tree? I pressed my finger tight against that forty-third ring.

It was beautiful, I thought, as I noticed a young sapling growing nearby.

“It’s making rings.”  I said out loud. I glanced back down at the one beneath my finger.

My first.

Somewhere in the sapling will be another.

My last.

But what am I going to do between the rings?

Stuart M. Perkins

 

No Better Said

I can’t resist sharing another stroke of genius from the marvelous mind of Mitch Teemley:

Fallmost

Posted on September 20, 2018 by mitchteemley

We’re slipping into fallmost, almost fall, the not-quite season. Perhaps you think of it as notumn, not autumn. Whatever you call it…

Fallmost has a certain wistfulness, a sweet, fleeting uncertainty. It’s warm rather than hot, soft rather than sultry. Early quitter leaves flutter to the ground, and fallmost doesn’t know what to do with them. Indian summer rides through, and fallmost is afraid to ask it to stay.

Unlike the big seasons, it isn’t sure what to feel. It knows it can’t remain the same. It longs for change, but is afraid to welcome change, knowing it will bring an end to that which is familiar, if imperfect.

The imperfectly familiar. That’s where fallmost lives. And where we live.

But it’s not where we were meant to live.

Another Sword

I’m too far from town to walk to shopping now, but panhandlers occupying busy corners all over town remind me of a few summers back and

Sword from July 24, 2016

On part of my walk to the local strip mall I go beneath an on-ramp underpass rather than cross the busy highway above it. Somebody lives there – possibly a few people. I always look carefully, but never saw anyone. Still, each time I approach I pray; for safety, strength, wisdom but mostly for insight.

I step cautiously along that rocky, eerie path littered with bedding, clothes and rubbish; mostly empty alcoholic beverage bottles, cans and fast food refuse. I once crossed to the other side but it is dangerously narrow along the blind curve. So – no.

For most of my life I’ve carried a small Swiss Army knife, complete with handy tools – way before anyone heard of L.J. Gibbs or NCIS. I taught my sons to practice the same. Days after describing one of my mostly lovely walks to son Quinn, I found a package at my door – a note insisted I carry the content on my walks.

My son didn’t send a tool – it’s a conspicuous, lightweight, gruesome-looking weapon, with a lever to quickly release the serrated blade. I grew up with overprotective brothers and I’ve been through police training. Even with my training I felt uncomfortable about the ominous looking thing – not about carrying it, but having to use it in self-defense.

A few days later as I approached the underpass I realized I typically palm my little knife inside my pocket as I approach. Feeling the new bulge on my belt I distinctly heard from somewhere deep inside,

“…Those who live by the sword will die by the sword.*.”

I kept walking, but thought about the scenario Jesus addressed in that passage. He reminded his apostles His Father was in control and the coming events would actually fulfill prophesies in the coming hours.

My walks are hardly prophetic, but I understood the meaning. Shoulders squared, back straight, my empty hands casually at my sides, I began whistling, announcing my presence to whoever might have been hiding in the shadows. The smells were oppressive, the noise from traffic overhead deafening, so I was glad to return to the sunlight uneventfully.

Delighted to find some of my favorite produce and nuts on sale, I filled my canvas bag. But I kept thinking about the people sleeping on the rocks of the underpass.

By the time I finished shopping and set across the asphalt lot toward home heat already rose in waves.

Gazing up the path before me I ran the rules I’d learned over the years through my mind; maintain a safe distance, know where the shelters, soup kitchens and food pantries are in my area and never give strangers, panhandlers, money – “it ultimately prolongs their problems.”

But I also remember being homeless. Stuck by circumstances, I didn’t trade or abuse substances. Still, I doubt I’ll ever forget being sick with worry about my kids, the judgmental looks of people as I sought employment, the desperation, the longing for someone to give a care. More so, there was the reality that I too could be a paycheck away from homelessness again.

Feeling the weight of the bag on my back, perspiration beginning to form, I stopped beneath a shade tree in the middle of the parking lot. I put apples, carrots and some nuts into a separate produce bag and knotted it so it was airtight. Gazing ahead, once more I asked God to go before me and then started walking.

Approaching the underpass, I called out (in the most rugged voice I could muster), “I’m just passing through. I don’t want anything and mean no harm.” As I stepped around the dirty bedding I set the bag of fresh food on it without stopping.

Cars whizzed by yards away, oblivious to my presence as I stepped back into the sunlight.

When I arrived home I was glad Ellie was there visiting with Erin. As I put the groceries away I described the scenario leading up to the first crossing beneath the underpass. Then I asked for feedback. Ellie thought for a while and then said, “This may sound cliche, but I would ask what Jesus would do.”

She confirmed what I felt. Peace returned and I went on about my work.

The state of our society continues to disturb me, but my primary purpose is to pray, pay attention and obey the Master.

I’m not entirely ludicrous. I asked God about a stun gun. No answer yet. So, I carry the knife. But once in a while I tie up a separate bag of fresh food, take the short-cut beneath the underpass. As I walk along the highway side I place the bag on the wall and announce, “I’m just walking here. I mean no harm…”

 

“And the King will say, ‘I tell you the truth, when you did it to one of the least of these my brothers and sisters, you were doing it to me!’” Matthew 25:40 (NLT)

 

*Matthew 26:52 (NKJV)

Still Like

Upgrades and technological advancements, hmmm.

While I do my best to rest and regroup, I reflected on August 2016:

Like

I’m braining my way around a technical challenge, from beneath a pile of work (deadlines I can’t ignore); I should call my IT guy. But I really wanted to figure it out myself!

My challenge today:

Cookies.

 

 

Don’t get me wrong, I love some chewy yummieness. Still, cookies are not my friends – especially not in cyber world. It’s not that they’re villainous, I’m simply that picky about my privacy. I also like WordPress, but WordPress doesn’t appreciate my settings.

Temptation to change my settings (just so I can simply click “like” on a blog post) almost snared me – until I recalled the last time IT Guy had to “fix” my laptop. In that adorable, overly-controlled voice Quinn said, “Mom, do you remember me asking that you not change your security settings without first talking with me!”

One accidental drag across my touch pad cost Quinn a few hours of sleep. It cost me far more hours of compromised work time, two dozen homemade cookies, packaging, next day shipping and several more trips around the park (to burn what I had to sample).

Still, I’m grateful he found the malware and “fixed” my Pandora issue too. I was glad to pay up.

He also explained how, because my settings do not allow all cookies, I can’t simply “like” many posts from my laptop. Don’t get me started on blogs insisting I’m not logged in.

I get around it all on my trusty, old GS3 cell, despite the frustratingly tiny keypad. Tells when I post from the cell are obvious. Some of the typos have been entertaining. I.e., speech-to-text translated “Roo, I felt…” to “Roosevelt.” I like that, Roo Sevelt. But most errors are simply embarrassing.

I appreciate peer approval, and I sow where I like to reap. A well-timed “like,” notification or comment can refresh my perspective. So what if WordPress disallowing my pretty gold star trips me out sometimes.

Though great friendships have developed, that’s not why I write and I don’t blog solely for stats. Still, I appreciate friendly confirmation that my work’s worth reading. Disallowing cookies may cost me some effort and keystrokes, but the blogging community and my security is worth it. I hope my fellow bloggers also graciously understand my using WordPress with old technology.

I’m a somewhat obscure blogger, but God sees me. I can trust Him with my needs. Not that I couldn’t be content with a Surface Pro 4*! ‘Just watching for that Random House deposit to post… What? Oh, I must’ve dozed off. I was having that lovely dream – again.

*Update 2018 (in case anyone needs a charitable tax credit), my wish list includes:

• A Dell XPS 13,
• A Huawei MateBook X Pro, or
• An ASUS ZenBook Flip S UX370

“Not that I was ever in need, for I have learned how to be content with whatever I have.” Philippians 4:11 (NLT)

Images courtesy of Pixabay

 

Connect 2.1.0

Next month will mark my fourth year of blogging. While I prepare to touch bases with my loved ones around the country for the next few weeks, I’m taking a pause to review posts and progress. This could be fun!

From 2016July09*:

Connect

Have I mentioned lately I love the blogging community?

Imagine Heaven

I’m serious about that. Without getting all sappy here, the Blogosphere helps us feel heavenly at least now and then. A post rings in our souls, fills us with inexplicable joy (or at least makes us chuckle, think, rethink…) – reaffirms why we spend our time writing what we do. We comment and it goes on and on from there. Connection.

I’ve been blessed with friends I never would have imagined – and yet (unlike Erin and Roan whom I’ve known most of my life) we’ve never actually locked eyeballs. Still, these people get it. They make time to converse, explore different thoughts and perspectives. They not only work tirelessly to share life through their writing and blogging, but they Pay it Forward, help spread the good stuff around.

Today I am overflowing with appreciation for my friends. Somewhere in the blogosphere someone needs a ray of light and these folks are the brightest in my minuscule fleck in the universe.

So, this is me paying it forward today to only ten of the best of the blogosphere – from my humble perspective. If you haven’t met, stop by and say “Hi.” You won’t be sorry:

The delightful if sometimes slightly snarky CJ Hartwell at Feeding on Folly
The Great Thinker of Stuff, Mitch Teemley at The Power of Story,
The irrepressible Diane D. at Ladies Who Lunch Reviews…
Trailblazing life coach Michelle Malone at 2 R Better Than 1,
The gifted and gorgeous Jacqueline Oby-Ikocha at A Cooking Pot and TwistedTales,
Jacqui Murray at Worddreams, a military mom and my go-to friend for writing/blogging/publishing information on the spot,
Sweeter than ever, Oneta Hayes at Sweet Aroma
Mike Ridenour at New Hope for Dry Bones shares his from his no-nonsense, no excuses journey.
Let Adebisi Adetunji help you feel global empowerment at FeminineMaterz,
Anne Mehrling shares her life in the Mountains at Mehrling Muse

Sincerest thanks and love to each and every one of you – and especially those dears I couldn’t include today!

 

“He [God] makes the whole body fit together perfectly. As each part does its own special work, it helps the other parts grow, so that the whole body is healthy and growing and full of love.” Ephesians 4:16 (NLT)

*(a teeny bit tweaked)

Learning From Life – Repost

Beginning my fourth year with What Next; Behind Roo’s Ruse I’m amazed at all the changes since I began and what I’ve learned. From September 15, 2015:

Learning From Life – Extended Course

In the process of life the truly meaningful lessons stick with us and the seemingly unimportant ones redefine themselves along the way. The most significant ones seem to keep reaffirming themselves. Ten things pretty well sum things up for this Boomer:

1.  If people ever stop surprising me I will probably be dead.  1. a. I am a people.

2.  I alone am responsible for my choices. I may be influenced, but God help me, I choose.

3.  People want to categorize people.   3.a. Ignore the categories – no one gets out alive.

4.  People like people they can talk with about anything and are also comfortable sharing silence. 4.a. There’s nothing like ‘a good friend and a glass of wine.’

5.  Listen with body, spirit and soul; words are optional.

6.  When we are young we learn best from our elders. When we are old we learn best from our youngsters.

7.  Feel disconnected?  Stop and plug in.

8.  A single quote from a good movie tells an entire story.

9.  To think better, float face up on the water and breathe in the freshest air anywhere.

10.  Not much is better than waking up to the smell of coffee and bacon cooking on a campfire.

 

“Get all the advice and instruction you can, so you will be wise the rest of your life.” Proverbs 19:20 (NLT)

What Next #MyFirstPostRevisited

In response to the challenge from dear Oneta Hayes at Sweet Aroma, I’m humbly sharing my debut post, the way I threw it out there on September 11, 2014. I defer assigning anyone to do the same, but encourage all bloggers to consider taking a look back (Rules follow the repost). It’s actually fun (mostly) 😉 .

What’s Next

The world is changing. The changes didn’t start on 9/11/2001 yet that was a distinctive milestone.

Yet despite the many changes, some important things are the same as when I was a child – a very long time ago. I’m talking about what makes the world go ‘round; what makes us happy.

Above all the violence, tragedy and the madness, more than ever before I see people care about people. The technological advances in my lifespan alone, the blogosphere all have presented us with more opportunities, advantages that were unfathomable as I was growing up.

We have gone global. Our family, friends, and neighbors – our community has become immense.

Honestly, from my limited perspective life occasionally seems overwhelming; health issues, ecology, economy, strife… We all have dark days when the world feels hopeless. And yet the globe continues to turn, the sun keeps rising on a brand new day.

My dear, sage friend Zoe once said it best: “Every day, you walk out your door, really look around you and help the first person you see. Sometimes all it takes is a smile, say good morning or maybe help carry out the trash…

…The possibilities are endless and it all begins with simply getting out of our heads for a moment, pause, ask the simple, forgotten question, ‘Can I lend you a hand?’ You continue on your way, but you did something.”

Even when it feels like we’re at the end of our ropes, we can get radical and possibly change the course of a day, a life – the world. Like Zoe said, we start by simply responding to the question, What’s Next? What can I do to help, right where I am right now?

I suggest we keep doing the next right thing.

 

“I have told you all this so that you may have peace in me. Here on earth you will have many trials and sorrows. But take heart, because I have overcome the world.” Jesus, The Bible (NLT), John 16:33

Source: What’s Next

Obvious rules:

• No cheating. (It must be your first post. Not your second post, not one you love…first post only.)

• Link back to the person who tagged you (thank them if you feel like it or, if not, curse them with a plague of ladybugs).

Other rules:

• Cut and paste your old post into a new post or reblog your own bad self. (Either way is fine but NO editing.)

• Put the hashtag #MyFirstPostRevisited in your title.

• Tag…um…tentwotwelve five (5) other bloggers to take up this challenge.

• Notify your tags in the comment section of their blog (don’t just hope they notice a pingback somewhere in their spam).

• Feel free to cut and paste the badge to use in your post.

• Include “the rules” in your post.

 

 

 

Keep Juggling

A long time ago in a place far away an exceptional human became my friend. Arlene Powers has an infectious passion for living. We met when she picked me from a temp pool to work for her team of professionals. Months later we moved into different departments and then eventually left the Company, but God had glued us together forever.

 

I don’t recall why we both call each other Bert – it simply works for us. Though she never said it, I suspect Bert recognized I was not your average Accelerati Incredebilis when we met. Always strong, stable, and focused, one would never know she too was familiar with trauma.

I’m frequently thankful most people can’t see feelings and confusion, but Bert does. Pain doesn’t intimidate her, no siree.

Bert recognized the clown in me and patiently coaxed her out. Regardless of my issues, she loved and respected me even when doing so was challenging. In our professional circles our dings were our secret.

Clowning was different from other performing arts I’d ever done, demanding far more work and commitment than I ever imagined. Bert’s passion for it was infectious and I came to love it too.

But not like Bert did. As she typically accomplishes everything she sets her mind to, she designed and hand crafted the most stunningly, beautiful costumes for herself, her daughter and other clowns. Each one unique with lots of hidden pockets and props, they were works of fine, living art. Bert took the art of clowning to a higher level, mastering the craft and then collaborating on books about clowning, costuming and ballooning.

 

Fellow Clowns, audiences and charities throughout the Southwest enjoyed Arleenie Beenie’s talents for years.

With Bert’s coaching I went to clown camp, trained, developed and copyrighted my face and costume, created props, helped develop skits and routines, together, solo and with other clowns. Adding pantomime, juggling, face painting and balloon art, we were your basic, all-purpose clowns.

Learning to juggle, focusing upon only one thing, was difficult for me. For weeks Bert taught and coached me along patiently, employing an allegory that became my mantra:

A man weighing 190 pounds had to cross a bridge carrying three five-pound boxes. The bridge could hold no more than 200 pounds.

How did the man get all the boxes across in only one trip?

The answer of course, he juggled them.

The bridge is life. The boxes are our struggles, emotions and griefs. The only way across the bridge is to juggle the boxes. We can keep them all within our purview, but we must concentrate on catching each one as it drops. For me the allegory was a game changer.

Though Bert saw what I couldn’t, I’ll never forget the look on my teacher-Bert’s face as I added a third, and then fourth Hackey Sacks to my routine. She radiated the joy of accomplishment for us both.

I imagine that’s how God sees us; laughing with us when we’re just plain silly, and practicing our way through our challenges. Bert also coached me as I juggled my gushing thoughts and overwhelming feelings.

I gave up the Hackey Sacks, Nerf balls and rubber pet fish, but juggling became my personal foundational skill. While I occasionally drop some of my stuff along my way, I keep the boxes moving.

Though I stopped performing publicly after a couple of years, Annie Roo became the biggest part of me. Over the years I became grAnnie Roo. Bert remains the Bertimus Maximus and still creates beautiful art, mostly of birds and she donates all proceeds to Liberty Wildlife and other sanctuaries. She’ll tell you she’s just doing important Bert things.

I have a living example of God’s delight in me, remembering Bert’s face as I jumped the next hurdle, mastered the next challenge.

In loving memory of
my eternal friend, Arleenie “Bert” Beenie/Arlene Powers

Signed, Bert

“So encourage each other and build each other up, just as you are already doing.” 1 Thessalonians 5:11 (NLT)

Networking Works – Bliends

Stuck in town I was able to access the reader and came upon Jay’s post. I’m a fan of networking and Jay Colby; Life, Inspiration and Motivation. Stop, browse around and share:

Networking + Share Your Blog