September 1, 2013September 2, 2013 by clumpaday

A Little Weeding and Reading

Clump #32: Tear out massive amount of weeds.

My last post featured pictures of snow to cool down a bad heat wave. Now, on September 1st, the unofficial end of summer, I have the urge to turn back the clock to a perfect spring day in order to start the warm weather all over again. I can’t seem to get with the program. My younger sister and I met in New York when the spring season was new, to share tea in the delightful Alice’s Tea Cup tea shop and restaurant.

We then walked by the Dakota Apartments (home of Yoko Ono and scene of John Lennon’s murder) to Strawberry Fields, a tribute to John Lennon and quiet-zone park. My sister told me that a musician is always there busking, and sure enough, this musician was playing “Hey Jude” as we walked by. How did he know my name is Judy? Magical.

The focal point of the park is this mosaic. I took a photo quickly, as many people wanted to do the same.

Our magical mystery tour (sorry, couldn’t help myself) continued through Central Park to witness the glories of nature within a teaming city. A white egret?

Gorgeous, old blooming trees …

Blossoms sprouting from bark? Wow.

These turtles sunning themselves reminded me of Eloise’s pet turtle, Skiperdee, “who eats raisins and wears sneakers.”

In fact, we ended up walking through the Plaza Hotel, home to Eloise in the books by Kay Thompson and illustrated by Hilary Knight. Here’s Eloise’s portrait hanging in the lobby (with Skipperdee and Weenie the dog).

So, it was a grand day of revisiting favorite classic children’s literature: from Alice In Wonderland at the tea shop, and of course this statue in the park …

To Eloise, and to Stuart Little, who I could almost see racing that fine ship in the model sailboat pond.

Remember?

I had to revisit the wonderful combination of writing by E.B. White and illustrations by Garth Williams: “One morning when the wind was from the west, Stuart put on his sailor suit and his sailor hat, took his spyglass down from the shelf, and set out for a walk, full of the joy of life and the fear of dogs.”

At home again in the suburbs, I crashed back to reality as I faced a daunting amount of weeds. Oh, so many weeds. At one point, while clearing the small forest, I saw this. Obviously it was left behind by one of the young boys next door … but could it be Stuart Little’s car, in which he traveled on his search for Margalo the bird?

This week I heard the John Lennon song “Imagine” played on the radio in a set devoted to Martin Luther King, Jr., in recognition of the 50th anniversary of his “I Have a Dream” speech.

“You may say I’m a dreamer/ But I’m not the only one. I hope some day you will join us/ And the world will be as one.”

Is Margalo the bird in that cloud? Magical. For now, I’m getting back to work, down in the dirt, but I’m buoyed by warm memories, dreams, and imaginings.

July 17, 2013 by clumpaday

Forgiveness

Clump #31: Confront and send old, old, school project.

As a public service for all of us suffering through summer heat waves, I will be inserting snow photos into the text of this post, unrelated to the subject above. I took them this past March when we thought Spring–and warm weather–would never arrive. Remember?

Alright, back on task. In my quest to clear our bedroom, I was avoiding the final frontier. Why? First I took down the darned ironing board (clump #29), that old stick-in-the-mud. On the other side, whether I was fully conscious of it or not, lay hidden another clutter mine. A landmine of guilt. The hidden bomb, in this case, nuclear.

And here it is. Not too threatening-looking to the naked eye, but inside, something I received long, long ago.

It’s a school project from a, then, nine-year old boy. He sent it to my older sister. Each recipient was to write something in his composition book about themselves and where they live, place a souvenir to represent their state in the envelope, and send it along to another person in another state. Fun. My two sisters contributed to it, as did my mom, who sent it to me. And then in the middle of moving … I lost it in the shuffle. Oh, the terrible guilt and self-loathing. By the time I found it, that school year was way, way over.

Here is why I am avoiding this area beyond all logic and sanity. To me that envelope says: “You are a horrible person.” Good reason to bury the thing and not go near it.

I finally opened the envelope and withstood the heartbreak of reading the note again (complete with an adorable school picture) from the nine-year-old, now twenty-something-year old, boy/man. Then I called both sisters to own up to my sin. My older sister, the one who originated the chain, did not even remember it. When she finally began to remember, she joked that the missed assignment must have started the kid on a downward spiral to delinquency. Ha-ha! It was actually so good to laugh about it.

I wish I could report a happy, satisfying ending to this story. I wrote a heartfelt mea culpa to the young man, a lesson about the dangers of procrastination rather than fun facts about U.S. states. I also bought a $9.99 copy of the movie Rocky to place in the envelope to represent the Philadelphia area (not the souvenir I would have sent when he was nine).

I had high hopes of reaching him, but, unfortunately, the envelope was returned to me looking like it had been run over by a truck, bandaged together with multiple stickers. Apparently neither he nor his family live at that address anymore.

This story will have to be continued.

I recently received news of the death of a friend’s father, after which, I hopped into the car and heard the song, Prayer of St. Francis of Assisi, sung by Dennison Witmer, on WXPN, 88.5. The beauty, simplicity, and profundity of the song really struck me. I sent a link to the friend, who said she had just put that song in the program for her father’s funeral service. Cue body chills.

The line, “It is in pardoning that we are pardoned,” especially got to me. Sometimes the hardest person to pardon is yourself (myself). But the result is much like the swift and transformative melting of a Spring snow.

Here is a link to the song:

http://grooveshark.com/#!/s/Prayer+Of+Saint+Francis+Traditional/r3j7r?src=5

July 5, 2013July 6, 2013 by clumpaday

Apron Nostalgia

Clump # 30: Throw out insulation blanket from old hot water heater.

We finally replaced our old hot water heater. No more flirting with disaster. The plumber who did the work told us to get rid of the insulation we had wrapped around it, as it was a fire hazard. Okay, water and fire disasters averted. Not too exciting, but aren’t we getting proactive!

Now for prettier pictures. My mother lives in a retirement community in Lancaster County, PA, an area home to many Amish and Mennonite people. I took this photo in the town of Strasburg earlier this year when the trees there looked like garlands of pink popcorn balls strung over the street.

Right after snapping the above shot, I heard the sound of horse hooves and lowered my camera to catch an Amish horse and buggy traveling through.

On a more recent visit, I couldn’t find my mom in her room or in any of the common areas. One of the aides told me, “She’s upstairs — the twins are here with their aprons.” Huh?? I went upstairs to find her in a group of residents listening to, indeed, two identical Mennonite ladies, dressed the same, and passing around a collection of aprons.

Now, you might think a presentation on aprons would not be very interesting, but, in this case, you would be wrong! As I sat down next to my mom, one twin was pointing out the “chicken scratch stitch” on the bottom of a gingham apron, a tactile and visual treat. The twins regaled us with aprons of all varieties: fancy, see-through voile ones worn over navy blue dresses by women serving as waitresses at wedding receptions that the bride’s mother would make (not sure whether this is still done); aprons made from feed bags, surprisingly pretty, floral fabrics; a “slop apron,” long, plain, and off-white, to be worn over your “good apron,” and so many more. A fishing apron had a hand towel sewn on one side for wiping your hands after handling the slimy fish, and a pocket on the other side. I asked what the pocket was for. “Your hankie,” a twin replied matter-of-factly. Of course.

The twins were so good-natured, patient and calm. I could have listened to them forever, and really just wanted to go home with them to what I imagined to be their simpler, kinder world. I asked a staff member for more information about them the next time I visited and learned that they live together, are known for their beautiful gardens, and that the first twin to wake up in the morning chooses what to wear for both. Someone else remarked, “You get the feeling that never a cross word is exchanged between them.”

After passing around an apron made for hanging out laundry, with a pocket for storing clothespins, they read the following rules:

IRONED??????? There it was again. And all the laundry-hanging rules in past-tense.

I am certainly not making the case for going back to more time-intensive housework, when a woman’s domain was solely in the home. Apron strings: the ties that bind, in more ways than one.

But today, as women’s roles expand and technology and information explode, I can’t help hankering for a time of hankies, hand sewing, and horses. And, maybe at the bottom of it all, feeling nostalgic for the days when my mom was a force in this world, more Julia Child than Donna Reed, decked out in her apron.

June 15, 2013July 6, 2013 by clumpaday

Tear Down This Wall!

Clump #29: Take down the ironing board as a permanent fixture.

“Clean up, clean up, everybody, everywhere. Clean up, clean up, everybody do your share.” –Barney The Purple Dinosaur

Quite a while ago, here, I set the goal of clearing out my bedroom as a statement of self-worth. Historically, I’ve given cleaning priority to public areas that guests might see (anyone from dear friends to unknown repairmen). Meanwhile, I neglect the rooms where I and my husband, dearest person of all, spend the most time. A force of instinct, not intention, but up-side down, indeed. Time to align intention with action.

Through previous clumping, most of the room is staying clear, and with less clutter it’s easier to keep clean. (…Remarkable.) However, we have an ironing board in our bedroom that never, ever gets Put Away. Let me rephrase that: I never, ever Put it Away. This might not seem like a big deal, but it has now become our own Berlin Wall separating East and West Germany. * On one side is my newly-clear Zen space; on the other is the flotsam and jetsam of a previous, unresolved clearing-of-public-area-of-the-house effort. Lots of shoes and boots and other dreadful, stubborn stuff. More like a toxic oil spill!

Keeping the ironing board out is also a subliminal message saying I am never finished with ironing. Yes, when rushing to get something pressed, it’s a lot easier to have the board right at hand, but the psychic toll is too high. Putting the ironing board away declares a clear and definite end-of-task.

Wow … I can’t believe I’m posting this photo to the world. The shame!!

My husband and I were on a plane recently and he was reading the book, Plato and a Platypus Walk into a Bar … Understanding Philosophy Through Jokes, by Thomas Cathcart and Daniel Klein. His shoulders were shaking from laughing silently, so he handed over the following story for me to read.

“On a transatlantic flight, a plane passes through a severe storm. The turbulence is awful, and things go from bad to worse when one wing is struck by lightening.

One woman in particular loses it. She stands up in the front of the plane screaming, ‘I’m too young to die!’ Then she yells, ‘Well, if I’m going to die, I want my last minutes on earth to be memorable! No one has ever made me really feel like a woman! Well, I’ve had it! Is there anyone on this plane who can make me feel like a woman?’

For a moment there is silence. Everyone has forgotten his own peril, and they all stare, riveted, at the desperate woman in the front of the plane. Then a man steps up in the rear. He’s a tall, tanned hunk with jet-black hair, and he starts to walk slowly up the aisle, unbuttoning his shirt. ‘I can make you feel like a woman,’ he says.

No one moves. As the man approaches, the woman begins to get excited. He removes his shirt. Muscles ripple across his chest as he reaches her, extends the arm holding his shirt to the trembling woman, and says, ‘Iron this.’

Here’s another book, courtesy of my husband, who spotted it in a book store. (I must note, he did not purchase it.) Further proof of the coming extinction of ironing as a woman’s domaine. Also of my feeling like a dinosaur (see above; even Barney has a more evolved view).

*In the time I’ve been writing this post, I saw a film clip of Ronald Reagan’s famous “Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall” speech while visiting The–wonderful–National Constitution Center in Philadelphia. Then, on June 12, I happened to hear on the radio that it was the 26th anniversary of the speech. Phew … synchronicity strikes again!

June 7, 2013June 7, 2013 by clumpaday

More Irony

Clump #28: Restart blog.

Time Flies (Sighted on the NJ Shore)

The non-act of not writing about and posting my clumps has, itself, now become a clump. When many days of not posting slip by and accumulate, the psychic build-up is akin to the massive ironing pile documented as clump #26. Ironically, my ironing pile is under control, but ironing-related posting material coming into my consciousness is piling up. I should be off the ironing subject but I can’t let it go … so I’m blocked, like steam trapped behind mineral deposit build-up on an iron (sorry).

You know the phenomenon of getting something in your mind and then seeing that thing over and over in the world? Here’s a sampling. Hasboro, the maker of the game Monopoly, recently ditched its iron-shaped game piece for a cat-shaped one. More than 10 million Facebook fans from over 120 countries voted the “depression-era iron” off and the cute kitty on. I feel this is an important cultural moment.

Apparently the niece of the game’s inventor suggested using the charms on her bracelet for the game pieces. Would a girl today have an iron on her charm bracelet (do girls still wear charm bracelets?)? Ironing is an endangered act, what with wrinkle-free fabrics proliferating in the marketplace. Was it once part of of a woman’s domestic or female arsenal of charms?

Stephan Pastis, creator of one of my favorite comic strips, Pearls Before Swine, http://www.stephanpastis.wordpress.com, had a good time with this in a series back in April.

I guess what I’m struggling with is the fact that I’m a throwback to another time. When I list my occupation on the various forms we’re all required to complete, I’m in the habit of writing Homemaker. It’s a title that calls to mind Donna Reed or June Cleaver. Now that my children have more or less grown up and away from home, the full-time mother part of the role is not as much the point of pride it used to be.

So maybe on some level I enjoy the drama of a monstrous ironing pile, since vanquishing it gives me a visible sense of accomplishment. See what I did?! Which brings to mind another comic strip, Mutts, by Patrick McDonnell, http://www.muttscomics.com. I had taped this in my little book of random notes on 9/12/11. On the facing page I had written, “The better a housekeeper you are, the more invisible your work becomes.” Hmm.

And … we’re back to a cat again, an animal Monopolizing the internet, but not necessarily know for its work ethic.

May 7, 2013May 7, 2013 by clumpaday

Ironing Deficiency

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Decluttering, Ironing, Life, Photos, Spring
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Clump #27: Ironing pile, take two; ironing solution, take one.

This is an update on the previous post. Yes, I vanquished the towering ironing pile of yore, but that herculean effort did not cure the underlying problem. Articles of clothing in need of ironing quickly started attaching themselves — like barnacles — onto a chair in our bedroom. Just reading the last sentence makes me laugh … as if I had nothing to do with the situation at all. That naughty laundry! Here’s a photo of the barnacle-like accumulation. The longer ignored, the stronger it’s adherence.

When I pried the pile off, this is what the top of the chair looked like. Crushed (fake) velvet. Ouch.

Okay. No further proof needed. This is, indeed, a very bad plan, if you could call it a plan. No more! I am now dedicating this laundry basket to ironing, using the small but powerful talisman(men) of labels. I love labels. This one says: Let it be known throughout the land: the ironing pile now has a home of its own … I command!

I cleared out a little bit of cluttered closet for its new home, no longer an eyesore in the bedroom, or an impediment/detriment to furniture.

As proof that good things come to those who declutter, I found my old dictionary in a pile of books in the closet. It was part of my going-to-college supplies … oh, about a million years ago … back when people looked things up in books, not computers. The sight of this old friend loyally waiting beside me on my desk is a comfort.

Guess what? While I’ve been focused indoors, Spring is busting out all over, outside. Here’s a glimpse. I love the one fully-open little bloomlet in this picture saying,”Wake up — time to open!” like the power of one clean spot in the clutter of a larger closet mess.

Happy Spring!

April 8, 2013April 8, 2013 by clumpaday

My Ironing Pile Is Eating My Meditation Cushion

Clump #26: Conquer ironing pile.

I swear I did not stage this photo. The meditation pillows are a little hard to see, on the lower left. My poor Chi! Here’s a confession about me and ironing. Subconsciously I know that the minute I iron the items in the ironing pile, they will be put into action, worn, and then — in a flash — will be back to the ironing pile again. By postponing the inevitable, I stop the cycle for a while. It’s not a good excuse, but it’s all I’ve got.

Here’s the basket hidden below, with poor Christmas place mats wondering when they will ever see the light of day. I guess that answers the question of how long the pile has been festering — not the whole pile, mind you, but certainly the bottom-dwellers.

And here is the “After” shot of mission accomplished (part of it), and another, more virtuous confession. When I finally start ironing, with a fluffy, romantic movie on to keep me company, I actually enjoy it. I watched The Holiday and Chocolat to help me through this ironing monstrosity. Another perennial favorite in my ironing movie collection is Pride and Prejudice. An ironing movie must be one I have seen previously, otherwise I wouldn’t want to look down at what I am doing. Also, the movie must have a happy ending. There is something very cozy about getting all the wrinkles out of the fabric at hand as the heroine of an ironing movie, inevitably, gets all the wrinkles out of her life.

I apologize to loyal followers of my blog who have wondered where I’ve been. I got off-track with a trip through different time and weather zones. Here are some photos from this year’s Philadelphia Flower Show, featuring a recreation of Big Ben (London calling, again!) to illustrate my boggled mind. On every hour, the clock would flip out in this way: here we are starting at 9:00.

And then the gears would crank the clock face out (digitally) …

To a garden-themed riot of all things British, with British musical accompaniment …

And changing colored lights …

Beatles popping out of the garden …

And other beloved British musicians …

Like Led Zeppelin …

And whoever this is. (?) (I guess I’m not as cool as I thought!) …

Mr. Bean and Freddie Mercury; Benny Hill, Monty Python (not pictured) and so many others …

Book-ending with the Beatles sprouting from the garden again, older and fancier.

Whether it’s stopping the clock, leaving reality for vacation, or avoiding the ironing pile, postponing the inevitable is never a good long-term solution. Excuse me while I meditate on this for a while.

February 28, 2013February 28, 2013 by clumpaday

Old Bags

Clump #25: Recycle plastic bags.

I’ve got to use our reusable bags more often. I do need plastic ones for garbage and kitty litter-box cleaning, but this is ridiculous. I recently read that people are getting food-borne illnesses from unwashed reusable shopping bags. So, O.K., use them more often and wash them more often.

I was driving the bags to the grocery store’s recycling containers and realized they were about the size of a person … like a houseguest who had long worn out his welcome. “Thank you, Bye Bye! This is where you get out.”

The subject of old bags makes me think of the time my husband and I were in Disney World for our younger daughter’s high school choir trip. It was our last chaperoning job for our kids (empty-nest pang). One morning we were entering the park, and, as usual, I was the one with the tote bag requiring a security search; my husband was free to go straight through the turnstile, unencumbered.

The words “Old Bag” were never actually uttered, but something about the smile and gleam in his eye when he pointed to where the “bags” had to go made the point clearly. At that moment, a Disney employee said to me, “You can come over here, Princess.” (No wonder they’re called Cast Members. They’re fluent in fiction.) I said, “Ha! This man called me Princess, while you were thinking Old Bag!” I saw this mug in a gift shop, and enjoy the memory each time I use it.

I’m reminded that both age and Princess-hood are states of mind.

February 26, 2013February 28, 2013 by clumpaday

Giving and Receiving

Clump #24: Bring bag of clothes to Goodwill.

In the same way I had (past tense!) a hidden to-do list under the layer of clutter on my bureau, there is a subliminal to-do list on our bedroom floor. I have returned the articles of clothing in this bag a million times … in my head! They were purchased for my older daughter. Since she lives far away, it took a while for her to try them on and decide that they weren’t right. So much time elapsing … and elapsing, and elapsing. The image of finally returning them, and the embarrassment of having to own up to the date on the receipt, was keeping the job in the stuck zone. I finally mustered up my courage, and then realized the receipt I had put in the bag was not even for those items!! To the Goodwill they go, with the much happier image of someone being ecstatic about finding such great, new items, with their tags still on. Another little bit of mental noise (nagging) has been silenced in our place of rest.

Confession: I don’t usually get a receipt when I donate items to the Goodwill. At the point of release, I’m often so disgusted with the items, I feel I should offer to pay Goodwill something for taking them. This time I knew exactly how much they were worth, got a receipt, and filed it in this year’s tax folder.

Here’s the back of the receipt. I hope my donation is a force for positive change in someone’s life. The act of giving away has already been one for me.

In the spirit of giving and receiving, and to brighten up the post, I offer this photo of an arrangement of flowers. My son and I were eating at a pizza restaurant on his recent winter break. A woman from a nearby florist shop came in with arrangements of flowers to advertise her business on the restaurant’s tables. She asked us, “Would you mind if I put this on your table?” What a question! “I would mind if you didn’t!”

February 19, 2013February 19, 2013 by clumpaday

The Sunlight of Awareness

Clump #23: Contact friend and record birthdays on two calendars.

Here’s another item from the hidden to-do list uncovered during the bureau-blasting of the previous post. An old, dear friend had sent me the address and phone number of another old friend on this lovely card. I had meant to contact the second friend right away. Putting the card on the bureau would remind me. As always, the longer anything is put off, the more prone to becoming lost it gets, the more guilt is attached, and the worse the detonation when uncovered. Clutter-mines are guilt bombs.

What was holding me back? Well, I hadn’t called this friend in many years. Does she want to hear from me? It’s a cold call, and the product I’m selling is myself. I guess fear of rejection is at the bottom of the pit, but this is mostly operating in my subconscious. It withers in the light of day, on the typed page. I finally called her and left a message on her answering machine. I wasn’t sure (from the odd sound) whether it recorded, so I followed up with a hand-written note. I’ve done my part; I can feel joy at the sight of irises again.

Next up: I had not entered birthdays in my 2013 calendar, and had missed my brother-in-law’s birthday. More guilt! Another friend gave me a perpetual calendar this year. Very thoughtful. I entered important dates on it and on the kitchen calendar with quotes by Zen Buddhist monk Thich Nhat Hanh. I’ll do better next year!

I sent my brother-in-law an article I had been saving since July 9, 2011! He is a Three Stooges fan, and I thought he’d enjoy reading about The Stoogeum, located in Philadelphia,”The world’s first and only museum dedicated entirely to the Three Stooges.” Occasionally treasure is mined from the depths of piles.

Our dishwasher is on the blink, so while waiting for the repair we are hand-washing our dishes. I guess the influence of the Thich Nhat Hanh calendar made me think of his profound advice against rushing through dish-washing to get to dessert. Mixed up in my mind, I thought it was rushing to eat an orange. (Another mindfulness exercise.)

But with the image of an orange in mind, I noticed there was one right next to me at that moment.

Here is the quote from Thich Nhat Hanh’s book, Peace Is Every Step: The Path of Mindfulness in Everyday Life

“To my mind, the idea that doing dishes is unpleasant can occur only when you aren’t doing them. Once you are standing in front of the sink with your sleeves rolled up and your hands in the warm water, it is really quite pleasant. I enjoy taking my time with each dish, being fully aware of the dish, the water, and each movement of my hands. I know that if I hurry in order to eat dessert sooner, the time of washing dishes will be unpleasant and not worth living. That would be a pity, for each minute, each second of life is a miracle! If I am incapable of washing dishes joyfully, if I want to finish them quickly so I can go and have dessert, I will be equally incapable of enjoying my dessert. With the fork in my hand, I will be thinking about what to do next, and the texture and the flavor of the dessert, together with the pleasure of eating it, will be lost. I will always be dragged into the future, never able to live in the present moment. Each thought, each action in the sunlight of awareness becomes sacred. In this light, no boundary exists between the sacred and the profane. I must confess it takes me a bit longer to do the dishes, but I live fully in every moment, and I am happy. Washing the dishes is at the same time a means and an end — that is, not only do we do the dishes in order to have clean dishes, we also do the dishes just to do the dishes, to live fully in each moment while washing them.”

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