Re-Define Neccesity

I am thankful.  I have more than I need.  I have more than enough.  My home is filled with stuff, my cupboards with food, my car with gas.  I have love, I have family, warmth, friends, joy.

I have employment, enough to live, not enough to immerse myself in conspicuous consumption. 

During my youth I embraced minimal living, reveled in it.  As I grew, I forgot the beauty of less, fell more and more into the trap of gain for the sake of having.

At this stage of my life, I am returning to the basics of life.  And I delight in this.  I am remembering gardening, canning, raising chickens, and glory in the prospects of the fantastic freedom of recreating my life in a simple, less hectic fashion.

 For Thanksgiving, redefine your necessity.  Give thanks.

My Grandma Schumacher

In the summers I stayed at my Grandma’s and Grampa’s home  (my father’s parents) for a week with my female cousins.  Honestly, for the most part I hated it, except for a few things.  I was homesick, and more than likely a little snot, and Grandma responded in kind with impatience.  My hair snarled and she cranked at my tears when she combed it.  Did not know my cousins well, never did get to know them.

Here is what I did like…

She had a wonderful wrap around screened in porch on her house and a spiked wrought iron fence around her yard.

My grandpa’s lap

the lonely yet exotic sound of the trains going past at night, while I sat by the window.

My dreams of flying high in the air, and looking at the world below.

And one time, one time only, Grandma unbending, sitting in her rocker, singing.

My best memories are the ones I keep.

The Bones of Me

We have history, us humans.  We have our own personal story and the heritage of the people before us.  We have the bones of the past that we can spend moments honoring and clothing in our own skin.  We have the bones of ourselves to cover, protect, and move into life.

There is an old story from many cultures about The Bone Woman.  This woman lives in the forlorn places of our world, deserts, ocean islands, mountains, and inner city ruins.  She collects bones.  Look closely and you can see her.  Perhaps shuffling down a cracked city sidewalk, carrying a bag or pushing a shopping cart.  Watch her and you notice her every now and again bend over, and pick up an object, maybe something shiny, or even cracked.  She  carefully wipes it clean on her shirt, or coat, or skirt, and places it gently in her bag or cart.  You may be a little afraid of this woman, she seems like someone you should not know, someone who does not live the way you are comfortable with.  Perhaps she mutters to herself, or smiles at you with no teeth, or smells not  the way you would want someone to smell.  She does not care that you disdain her.  Her thoughts and plans are on the one job she has, collecting the bones of the world.

At the end of the day she goes to her home, maybe a desert cave, or a tree house.  And in her home she takes those items she has spent the day collecting, and places them with reverence on the shelves that line her home.  Sometimes, when she has enough of the right kind of items, the right amount of items, she sits on her floor, and gathering these correct pieces around her, she arranges them, fastening them together, a colorful stone here, where a heart would be,  a bird’s nest fit right where it should go, bones fit together to form a marvelous skeleton of a living creature.  Humming softly and quietly a tuneless yet melodious tune she watches this creation stand, usually on four paws, but at times on two feet.  She watches and hums as a soft energy forms over this skeleton, and it begins to move, muscles and ligaments begin to grow, holding it strong, and skin or fur shimmer over it all, and eyes blink, and ears twitch, until finally the creature is living and ready to have a life of its own.

Opening her door, or the thin rags covering the entrance to her cave, the Bone Woman beckons to her newly born child, and watches as it bounds outside running free and alive.  Running over rooftops, through desert brush, rocky outcrops, wet ocean floors.  A story reborn.

We are like that.  We rebuild our lives, regain our own stories, hopefully daily.  Our lives are a process of  fulfillment and growth.

Blessings on your stories my friends!

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Tilly Evan Jones

“I want to think again of dangerous and noble things. I want to be light and frolicsome. I want to be improbable and beautiful and afraid of nothing as though I had wings.” ~Mary Oliver

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