Ivy Leaf Designs

A Gallery of Words & Images

Musings and Ramblings

Though many people have contributed to who I have become, there are a few who in their own unique ways inspired me to become the person I am today, they gave me special parts of themselves, and the gifts from these dear people mark the rings on my tree of life.

My Loving Family
Grandmother - her graciousness and spirituality.
Mother - independence and determination
Father - if there is something to be done, get it done
My dearest friends
Rachael - to live simply and quietly with strength and grace
Mark - years ago, taught me never to change just to please another, just be yourself
Sam - look deep within yourself for inspiration
David - allow the creative voices to flow through you and give them back

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RISK, Author unknown
To laugh is to risk appearing the fool.
To weep is to risk appearing sentimental.
To reach out to others is to risk involvement.
To expose feelings is to risk exposing your true self.
To place your ideas, your dreams before a crowd is to risk their loss.
To love is to risk not being loved in return.
To live is to risk dying.
To hope is to risk despair.
To try is to risk failure.

But risks must be taken, because the greatest hazard in life is to do nothing.
The person who risks nothing, does nothing, has nothing, and is nothing.
They may avoid suffering and sorrow, but they cannot learn, feel, change, grow, love, live.
Chained by their attitudes, they are a slave, they forfeited their freedom.
Only the person who risks can be free

(I found this online and liked it very much. If you know who wrote it please let me know)

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We all regret at some point what might have been - if only we had just....

said hello.

picked up the phone.

sent the flowers.

lent a hand.

smiled.

etcetera ad infinitum....

Monday I received word via a local email group of the passage from this life of a wonderful man from his battle with cancer. I actually did not know him - yet I did, in a small way.

Two years ago, I spent only "one hour" in his company - and the memory is still with me. Sitting at a table in a local restaurant/dancehall with friends I noticed him, and evidently, he noticed me, because when my friends left the table to dance he came over - introduced himself - asked if he could sit - and we talked. It felt as if we were old friends - it was so easy to speak with him. We exchanged cards, each talking about our work - each interested in what the other had to say. He had recently moved here, loved the area and the people - loved the dancing.

I've seen him around - not often - but in my shy way I tend not to put myself in anyone's face. This afternoon, I'm sitting here looking at his business card.... buried under other cards in my desk drawer... I think his card says a lot about him - it has an old illustration of the housewife at the door (impeccably dressed) and the salesman (impeccably dressed) in a suit with boutonniere, handkerchief and tie doffing his hat saying "Howdy, ma'am!" This is how I will remember him - a gentleman.

I've often thought about this "gentle" man, thinking I'd like to sit with him again and talk with him, get to know him better - but now, I never will. Life opens doors, if we do not pass through those passages time closes them and regret has a bitter taste.

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IS IT REALLY YOGURT?

I try to eat healthy foods. I slip and fall every now and again, but I do try.

Today, while I was out for a bit - checking the mail, stopping at the bank, etc. I stopped at the local Subway, where I feel if I'm going to munch on fast food it's at least a bit healthier than most - especially if I throw away the bottom half of the bread.

Usually, I cheat on my gluten free diet by getting 2 of those chocolate chip cookies (definitely not healthy but deliciously fulfilling) - but looking at the menu I saw I could substitute "yogurt". Great, I'll do that - much healthier.

Wrong decision. This stuff had the consistency of melted plastic, and the taste was not much better. It actually choked me up. I started coughing and I'm hoping I'm not congested in the morning (need to look for my pleurisy root tea - nasty stuff - but it does the trick).

My normal yogurt is a brand like Brown Cow or something similar - always plain, none of that non-fat stuff. I add my own fruit, sometimes a dab of Bonne Maman's Wild Blueberry Preserves - delicious.

How can they call it yogurt if it's not? I ask that about soup quite often, too. If you've ever made (or eaten) good homemade soup... just opening a can of soup will make you ill - it's not the same. I heard this on NPR one day from a man who owned a peach tree.... he said if you ever pluck a fresh peach off of a tree and bite into it, you'll never enjoy a peach you buy in the grocery store... there's that much difference. He went on to say that gradually we are buying into the fact that this is what it should taste like instead of knowing what it really tastes like.

What do you think? I'm thinking plastic and cardboard are not foods. 

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OOOOOPs!

Have you ever heard this from someone behind you or in the next room or the next aisle at the store? What's your first impulse? I think the nature of the word "oooops!!!" lends itself to "ok, something happened that wasn't meant to happened and it's probably funny." Am I right?

Here's what happened to me this afternoon. I've been working non-stop for several weeks, had a bit of a family crisis, and a little bad weather - all of which adds up to non-existent yardwork. So, my Mom shows up today determined to help me make a dent in my very neglected yard. What a lifesaver - thank you, Mom! And it was a gorgeous day, too.

One of the last things we tackled (not necessarily the last thing on the list - still plenty to do this weekend) was restaking two young river birch trees which Hurricane Gustave had knocked over. I had staked them up after Gustave, and then Ike and several other bad weather systems knocked them over again. I had decided I would need to dig them up - at some point - but we decided to try to save them.

After one was pretty well tied up, Mom was putting the finishing touches to her knots on the stakes for the second tree, while I trimmed some lower limbs on the first. Everything was going smoothly until I decided to cut just one more limb which, as it happened, was extremely close to one of the ropes holding the tree up.

"Ooooops!!!" I said as the poor tree flopped back into it's former resting place, while I fell backward along with the rope. I heard my Mom say "Oooops what?" Then laughter and more laughter.

I'm still wondering whether there was an imp on my shoulder who nudged my arm over a bit just to be sure that rope was cut. 

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QUIRKY PETS

My Jasper is a character, I've had many cats and a few dogs in my life. Jasper has been with me the longest.

He loves his walk with me. Everyday - if he can catch me. If I step out the door he heads out into the yard, stops in the dirt under the oak tree, sits and turns his head to look back at me. If I do not come right out to him, he will sit determinedly waiting, throwing a few come hither meows if I go back inside the house.

Once we start walking he cannot contain his happiness - you can see it in his every movement. Every few feet he will stop and stand on his hind legs for a long pet on his back and stomach, rubbing his head against my legs. He rarely tolerates intruders on "our" walk. Before we lost Cassie (her story later) last year she would sometimes decide to tag along and I could see the jealousy stir in those green eyes.

As we walk, he investigates everything, and in leaps and bounds catches up to me. There is always a particular point when I know his reaching up to me is more than wanting attention - he wants a ride. I'm certain in his world it is akin to our riding in a car or a plane. He gets to see everything from a different viewpoint - no effort needed to travel.

A few years back, on cold mornings, I started putting out warm water after Cassie and Jasper had their breakfast, and they would push and shove to get to the dish first. Now, if I forget and the water is cold, the bowl may be full, but he will sit by the bowl and call to me... when I look to see, he glances at the bowl and back at me. When I bring his bowl back full of warm water he will lap it up, take a bath, and drink some more.

Quirky pets.... we've all had them. We love them. And they rule us.

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THROW OPEN THE WINDOWS AND SHAKE OUT THE RUGS!

I know winter is not over by a long shot, but I had the urge this morning to open all the windows, clear out the rugs and give them a good shake.

The thing about doing this is it's not just good for your home - it's good for your soul. The soft breezes flowing through your home take the winter blahs from the tiniest corners, the remnants of flu you had last month from under your bed, the argument you had with a loved one from the arm chair in the corner.... and leaves you with the gift of freshness, healing energy and thoughts of love as you chase that Christmas card as it flies from under the cabinet on the breeze, open it up to read the loving wishes of the one who had not so long ago sat in that armchair.

As we shake out the rugs, beat them against a tree or hang them on a close line to whack with a broom releasing the dirt and dust that has settled into the fibers, we also release the dust and dirt that has settled in our body, mind, and spirit. The negativity flows out with each movement, as does the anger and the tension and when you are done you feel as if you were the one who had been whacked 20 times instead of the rugs. A quick shower to rinse off the remaining dust, and you will rest better than you have in days.

There is some wisdom in the saying "shaking off the cobwebs" don't you think?

JUST A RANT.... WELL, MAYBE A TIRADE....

I know this will do no good, but I need to get this off my chest or rather out of my head... and after this I'll go outside and clip and prune and rake and mow in order to get the frustration out of my head. I apologize in advance for allowing my frustration to spill over into this space.

I went merrily to the post office this morning and came out to find just what you really need on a bright sunny morning... a flat tire. Well, at least it wasn't midnight and wasn't raining. Now, if I had the strength to loosen those lugs that are put on the tires by machines - I would've attempted to take the tire off. But I learned one dark night I don't. So, I called Dad... thank goodness for Dads... there were a few friends I could've called, but he was first on my list. Ok... he had paint on his hands and needed to load his jack, etc... so he didn't arrive for about 30 minutes.

Now, that was 30 minutes of people zipping in and out of the post office - quite a few men - big ones, skinny ones, old ones, young ones - not one of them stopped. In fact before my Dad got there only two people asked me if I needed help. One very tiny, little old back lady who sweetly asked "Honey, do you need some help?" When I told her my Dad was on his way, she said "Thank you, Jesus." Smiled at me and went on her way. The next was an older white woman who came toward me saying, "Has anyone offered you help?" "Do you mean to tell me that in a small town like this, with all the traffic on that busy road, and the people going in and out of here, no one has offered?" She was horrified, for me, but also for herself and other women.

My Dad came up just then, and she said thank goodness for Dads, smiled and went her way.

A friend of mine happened along a few minutes later and offered to help but Dad said he had it under control. Though, of course my spare needed air, and he had to leave for a bit to take care of that. At that point there were 3 older men (70s-80s) who offered help and I politely declined, thanking them for at least asking.

I understand that most people figured I had a phone, that I had called someone, that I wasn't helpless... but I do have to wonder. One "gentleman" drove into the parking space next to my flat tire and me in his big truck, got out, leaving it running, would not look at me, went into the post office, came back out, got in his truck without a backwards glance.... his wife was sitting in the truck, she never said a word either.

Maybe it's just me, but I'd at least have asked if the person had help coming, or did they have a phone to call. But, then that's how I was brought up, that's what you are supposed to do - isn't it? Or, am I just wrong?

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IF I SPEAK IN AN EMPTY ROOM... WILL THE WALLS LISTEN?

There's been nary a peep heard in my house these days.... it's quiet - like when you arrive back home from a long trip and first open the door... listening for what may be stirring beyond the door. Then there's the moment you first wake up before the first bird chirps outside the window and the fridge kicks on.... or the moments just after a sudden rainstorm, before everything shakes off the water and scurries about their lives...

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I do.

That piece of embroidery in the next note... if I picked it up, held it in my hands, gazed at it for only a moment... I know that a moment from my past - a point when I was concentrating on the task of embroidery and near me someone spoke or moved, a television or radio show was on, Mom cooking - that moment would replay vividly, as if I had traveled back in time.

I can reread a book and one particular passage will transport me.

For myself, it is usually takes both the visual and physical (holding an object) senses for this to happen. It is always startling - some moments are very happy, others sad, but many times the imprint that returns is just a mundane, everyday moment.

So, tell me... does this happen to you?

Why do you think it happens? I tend to think it happens when I'm concentrating very hard and I've almost become one with whatever I'm doing... and the barriers fall away....

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NEW DAY, NEW HOPE, NEW JOY

Years ago, (oh my, can I really say that? I guess I can - 5 decades and counting) when I was a teen looking ahead with all the exuberance and sweetness of a woman-child, I did many things. One was embroidery, which I learned from Grandma and Mom. I never really liked crocheting, but making pictures with thread was right up my alley (even if I was following a printed guide).

Now, fellas I know you are just about ready to leave this little thread but sewing is not what I'm going to talk about. Rather, the process of stilling your mind through a simple repetitive task or activity.

Perhaps this is something that is being lost with all the marvels of today's technology.... but remember whittling, tatting, just snapping a huge basket of snap beans or shelling an endless bag of peas for canning. All of these things left our minds free to wander and reflect.

Do you have something that allows you to keep your hands busy while your mind roams freely?

Do you think that this "art" is being lost because everyone wants to be entertained, especially the young?

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SOMETHING'S BURNING IN THE KITCHEN!

My kitchen is quite small, just big enough for me. I love looking out the window over the sink to see the trees and sky, the small group of flowers and vines nearby....

Last evening I was preparing dinner for my friend, Alain, who is visiting from France, who had mentioned he had not had gumbo in quite a while - and please "Katy prepare pour moi". The gumbo was simmering, potato salad prepared, I had just put the rice on - everything was perfect.... the table set, the cheese out, along with bread for Alain... and my phone rang. My mother to see how my preparations were progressing... so I wander out the door to walk in the field, chatting about this and that.... 20 minutes later I come back in to find black smoke and the odor of charcoaled rice.... oh my....

How many times have I done this? Or left eggs to boil for too long? Or, dropped cakes on the floor as I carried them to the table.... each time when company was coming.

It seems though my feet may dance gracefully, my hands are like warm butter, and time means nothing to the cook in me. It always turns humorous, though.... why cry over spilled milk... it is only just milk or, this time burned rice.

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MY FRONT DOOR

There is a gravel drive and I generally hear my guests arrive... the crunch of the tires on stone, the low pluoomp of car doors closing... the steps on the wood of the porch. An open doorway, simple and inviting, no bells necessary - come in for a minute or an hour....

The screech of the screen door and the greetings and hugs. Perhaps, there is something new to be seen, some improvement to home, or special garden project.

Then, usually my guests find my kitchen table to be their favorite spot, though if the weather is agreeable the front porch.... I make the coffee in an old enamel coffee pot, as my Grandfather did years ago... for me this is a ritual I liken to the Oriental Tea Ceremonies. There is a spirituality surrounding the making of it and the satisfied murmurs of my guests at their first sips is wonderfully fulfilling for me.

Perhaps, someone asks "Do I smell your sweet potato pie, Kathy?" and so the visit begins....

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THE SEVEN TEACHINGS OF THE ANISHINAABE

I found this online and thought you might like it as much as I.

The Seven Teachings of the Anishinaabe

(The People-- the Ojibwe, the Odowa and the Potawatome)

Honesty - To achieve honesty within yourself. To recognize who and what you are. Do this and you can be honest with all others

Humility - Humble yourself and recognize that no matter how much you think you know, you know very little of all the universe.

Truth - To learn truth,  to live with truth,  to walk with truth, and to speak truth

Wisdom - To have wisdom is to know the difference between good and bad, and to know the result of your actions

Love - Unconditional love to know that when people are weak they need your love the most, that your love is given freely, and you cannot put conditions on it or your love is not true

Respect - Respect others, their beliefs, and respect yourself. If you cannot show respect, you cannot expect respect to be given

Bravery - To be brave is to do something right, even if you know it's going to hurt you.

 I also love this little story

Two Wolves

Cherokee Wisdom .

One evening an old Cherokee told his grandson about a battle that goes on inside people. He said, "My son, the battle is between two wolves inside us all. One is Evil. It is anger, envy, jealousy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, self-pity, guilt, resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride, superiority, and ego. The other is Good. It is joy, peace, love, hope, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence, empathy, generosity, truth, compassion and faith." The grandson thought about it for a minute and then asked his grandfather: "Which wolf wins?" The old Cherokee simply replied, "The one you feed."

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JUNK DRAWERS...

When I visited my Grandma as a child... one of my favorite things was when she let me "organize" her junk drawer. There were all types of treasures to be found in that drawer. Some I got to keep, other items were returned to the drawer. It was my very own treasure chest. Now, 45 years later, I have a junk drawer, a junk box, and a junk jar... to this day I'm always amazed what I find in my small treasure chests. Our junk drawers hold things we think we may need, things we hold onto and forget about.... some useful. most ... junk..... much like life experiences... you never know what is important until you need it. - and look for it - hopefully you can find it in a "junk drawer."

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[this was a response to a the words of a friend]

No man/woman is perfect. No man/woman can reach perfection. He/she can only strive for perfection in this imperfect world. There is a battle within you dear friend. I read it. I see it. I feel it. My need is to help, but I know that this is a battle only you can fight. Battle may not be the correct word, perhaps struggle is better. I see in my minds' eye two of you... one who hears the call of his God and the other who feels the call of humanity.

We are born into these frail bodies to live - and to worship our God. Our journey in this life is not always easy - the path is not always clear.

I began my journey believing I would be a wife and mother - that my home would be full of children, a husband and love - I'm 51 and I live in a 20x20 cabin, no children, no husband. It was difficult to come to terms with my life. To realize I may never have a partner in life. It was more difficult to let go of the children that should have been. I grieved and mourned time and again - but they never came - save one. Not young, but not old, I was given the gift of a life which was taken before I even felt it's slight stirrings within. Again grief. At this point I had to decide was my life not worthy, was I not worthy? Or, perhaps the path I sought for so many years was perhaps not the one I was to travel in this life? I choose the latter - I choose to find the brightness, the light in my life as I find it.... not to search and yearn for that which I cannot grasp.

If you sit quietly.... butterflies will rest on your outstretched hand... if you chase them and grasp at them they are crushed. I have felt the touch of butterflies.

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I honestly try not to rant, but this just needs to be said.

I have been dancing for years. I started late - I was 34 years old when I learned to dance, and after I got over my self-consciousness I had fun. I would never say I'm the best dancer in the world, though I have been told I dance quite well, and in fact, by a few, quite gracefully. Always a surprise to me as I feel I'm the "stumblebum" my Dad called me as a child. I tripped over everything, and actually still do. Not sure if it's connected to my fibromyalgia, but every now and again, especially when I'm tired one or both of my feet/ankles just doesn't make a step. The tips of all my shoes have scuffs from this... it's as though my foot drags - the signal is lost somewhere and so is my step.

I went out this evening - the first time in a long time. I met some friends, we shared news, toasted a glass of wine in memory of a friend who recently passed away.... we sat at a table talking and enjoying each others company - until someone realized none of us had danced yet and it was close to last dance time. My friends, an older couple slowly walked to the dance floor, the other lady in our group hurried off in search of a partner before the available men were snatched and I went to stand by the dance floor realizing - yes, they had all been snatched - at least the fellas I knew.

There was a tap on my shoulder, and a man I had not yet met asked if I would like to dance. He was nicely dressed, was not slurring his words and seemed to be in possession of all his faculties, so I said yes. And we started dancing - to my mind we were dancing quite well for a first dance. (If any of you out there dance you know that the first couple of dances with a stranger are not always smooth sailing... maybe not even the 10th or 20th depending on the partner). It was a fast dance, and the second time around the dance floor one of my feet just decided to drag a bit. Mind you, I haven't been dancing in awhile, I've been up since 4 this morning, had a glass of wine.... so, perhaps my foot had the right to drag.

I missed a step or two. Who cares? Evidently, this "gentleman" did and proceeded to tell me how to dance and started counting the steps out loud to me as if I were a novice. This is not a singular incident - it has happened before with other men and to other women.

What I try to understand is "what gives a man the idea that he is so good at dancing (or perhaps anything) that he can presume from half of a dance, late in the evening, not knowing me, that I do not know how to dance and need coaching." I would never presume to tell a fella how to dance - unless he asked me to - and that has happened. If I just could not follow him, he danced a bit too strangely - or roughly - I just decline future dances.

After this incident, it was actually harder to stay in step with him - I will probably not dance - if he ever asks - with him again. Why? because I saw the set of his jaw, he would not look at me after... he was irritated I did not allow him to show me what I already know how to do. I have met his kind before. If he had continued the coaching... he would have been dancing solo - I have walked off the dance floor before. Once my temper is riled - that's it.

I was so thankful that the next dance was a lovely waltz - and a good friend who is a great dancer - asked me to dance and it was like skating on ice.

So, the moral of this story is - never tell a woman while on the dance floor that she's dancing incorrectly, especially if it's your first dance with her - because you may not get a second.

I just wanted to have fun... it wasn't a test. :(

BTW: There is a second moral to this story - "don't judge a book by it's cover.”

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We've all asked ourselves this question - you do something that turns into a mini (or major) disaster and you know you knew better than that...

I probably could tell several stories like this - perhaps I already have, but this one just happened and it should give you a good giggle.... I've been pretty busy with work - I freelance - and little things like folding clothes are put off until a night like tonight. So, I poured a glass of wine, popped a pot of corn and went upstairs to my loft bedroom where the baskets of laundry waited to be sorted and folded. A movie, glass of wine, 1/2 a pot of popcorn, and four laundry baskets later and I'm done. Everything is sorted, folded and put away... I just need to bring bath towels and dish towels, along with remaining popcorn downstairs. (You think you know where this is going don't you?)

Basket with folded towels is on top of the bed, pot of popcorn is in my hand when I look down and see one sock lying on the floor... I put the pot on top of the basket of towels and bend over to pick up the sock and.... basket with towels and pot with popcorn fall on my head spilling onto the floor, unfolding the towels and washcloths, mingling popcorn on those as well as my head and the floor. So, I grumbled at myself and picked it all up - even the kernels, and headed downstairs with towels to rewash and popcorn to throw away - to find yet more popcorn on the floor downstairs.

I did say it was a loft, didn't I?

This morning I opened the freezer door on the fridge (an urge for the marshmallows on top of my coffee) and - picture this - popcorn cascaded over my hair, my robe and onto the floor... Did I mention that the fridge is located under the loft? Looking on top of the fridge I discovered still more popcorn lurking in and around the various glass jars I keep there.

Moral to this story: She (or he) who drops a 1/2 full pot of popcorn is destined to forever find popcorn as it seems to reproduce once out of the pot.