May Your Days be Merry and Bright

May Your Days Be Merry and Bright

11 December 2011

Well, last night was bright enough certainly with that full red moon engaging the sky and our eyes. It was gorgeous indeed. Life is beautiful. So how could it be that everyone I know seems to be in a dither lately? It has been several weeks now, this dither of a mood which none of us seems to understand or have reason to explain it. It is bothersome. This is The Season set aside specifically to be merry and bright, and tho lo and behold and surely He says unto thee: we should be merry and bright and thankful year-round, still, sometimes, here on earth Life seems like the subway, where we need a token, some reminder that there is a cost as our travel in this Life speeds under the currents of so many footsteps.

Could it be this is to remind us the extraordinary price we pay to be alive, for Life?

Life is a gift, sure, but it does not come without cost.

My Aunt Margaret died November 8^th this year, 2011. This will be our first Christmas without her, as well as her husband, my dear Uncle Jack, who passed merely months prior. No, life is not free. Life takes time, and equally it will snatch time away from us just as quickly as it gives. Aunt Margaret was a mere 62-years-old, and Uncle Jack just a bit her elder. We all knew after they spent such a ‘long’ life together in the same home, the same bed, the same world, that it would not be long before they meet each other again in the great beyond, wherever that is. I knew. Yet I could not accept it, that she would pass. Still each day I see them together in my mind, alive, not just alive but skiing the Alps as they used to do. It is weird really. But who’s to say?

Take heed I plead unto myself, but I do not seem to be listening.

Without doubt, something in the air this time of year does make the season sparkle. Joy is sprinkled in every corner and curve, in every chilly breath we take, as if to amplify that special blessing of time, which only some of us are granted the privilege. Perhaps that is the case in your family too? Someone has passed, and you cannot forget their presence no matter what you do?

On the bright side, my favorite part of this season is to remind us of that child-like feeling of joy and eagerness, mirth and anticipation. That is the greatest gift of all.

My least favorite thing? That would have to be how life can be so short without warning. Even though in this case I had years knowing of the warning such a cancer sends; now, the warning is mute upon them meeting their end, on this earth, whereby I could touch them.

We know we must savor every day, and perhaps this is what creates our middle-aged indulgent sadness? By this time in life we have suffered Life’s incongruence. We have lost people we love, more than one, and it hurts. Period. Yes, it hurts. And yet as always as Pollyanna © would say, there is a bright side! J

The holiday season spells something magical, there is no doubt. Carpe Diem is to be carried to the extreme, now more than ever despite the strangely empty seats at our holiday table.

So what of the hustle and bustle of buying and spending? Save the economy? What does that have to do with the birth of Christ? So what of the anxious thoughts such as: Did I get my gifts mailed off to the correct addresses, and the etcetera of expectations of being the perfect Christmas person and guest? Do I want people to know I am the perfect Christmas person? Or, do I just want to be a good person year-round, loving my friends and family as I do?

I vow to let the season sing and bring its joy. Yet admittedly I am among those who have felt in a dither lately. Why? Beats me. Yet the fact remains We Must Overcome, and I vow to sing joy from the rooftops if I must, to let the season ring no matter the dithers this Life can and will bring.

It is unacceptable to me that I feel loss this year, despite the loss of my loved ones. It is not my first time, and I aim to discover some reason for this malady of mood-flavor I and my friends discuss.

It is important to note the company I keep, my friends, they are all people who are happy-people-by-nature, or else I could not participate in their relationships. I am weak that way:

Pessimism gives me the strength to run a 3-minute mile in the opposite direction of negativity.

So this makes it even more curious, why do some of us deem to feel so strangely ‘lost’ presently, in this joyous season? Why for example do I wake and feel my family, many of them gone to the great beyond … but yet they seem SO alive and with me still? Should that not be blessing enough? I feel it should. It could if I allow it. And so here and now I vow to allow it. Let the season ring!

Could it be that the heavenly stars do play so heavily upon our thoughts, just as it was in the time of The King of Joy, who suffered so, with whom He and we are all so surrounded, by stars and joy and suffering and most importantly, by overcoming it all?

Oye, lo, so so, so … so little I know. It is written in all the Christmas legends I know though…of how the stars told of this or that good tiding. All good tidings. This much I know and I cling to it. Cling.

So I am riddled with desire to feel the simple joy of the season this year. Child-like. It should be as simple as that, right? Child-like is gracious and heavenly.

So, it seems my only means to accomplish this is to temper my thoughts. Perhaps all we must change is our thoughts, especially if we tend toward a lowly feeling upon the Christmas season as odd as it is that so many people do feel lowly when ‘Tis the Season? Maybe our approach to the gala of the birth of The Savior is the only focus our families need? Perhaps to gratefulness only should we give heed, and to help others with less than we ourselves need?

So simple it seems, and yet my people and myself seem in a quandary of cold, dreary down-trodden-ness this Yuletide season. Among my family and friends I plead that we shall not let the darkness reign, indeed! Light prevails. Of this I am certain.

Because I know I know I know, we all feel the joy whether we can bear it, of Love, Family, Friendship and Kindness, of Giving and Receiving, of knowing we are here for a reason, to spread it, and to sprinkle joy as freely as a child will pour sugar on a cookie.

So let us go forth now in faith, and with Love, and enjoy the season. Please help me, best beloved, with your good spirit and faithful reasons. May your days be merry and bright each season, no matter the circumstance of our earthly plight; ‘tis the season.

Your days will be merry and bright each day you choose them to be thus with delight. This is my wish for you all. I say so only because I must. This is my flight. Into reason, for the season, and every day.

--PPM

Lascivious

Lascivious

26 August 2011

Lascivious. Now there is a word to ponder. Having used it freely in my life, my mis-use is yet another snafu I must live with all my days. Oye, there are worse things, yet this lil’ word forced me to reflect on what my grandmother must have thought when I was using it in the stories I told her. Only because I liked the word (and like it still) back then I would pepper it anywhere I could, because I thought it sounded so lovely. And it does. Say it out loud: Lascivious. Ahhh, the creamy curl of the mouth and tongue it takes just to say it is enchanting.

Unfortunately only today did I look it up in the dictionary, yes, a real hard-back, paper-turning dictionary, the OED at that. Now I am stumped. On this day I learned the innuendo that stellar word lascivious conveys, or rather what it is supposed to convey anyway. It just did not convey to me. Ooops but oh well, little did I know anything other than ‘oh what a pretty little word that is I can use and enjoy for emphasis.’ It seemed harmless enough for a pre-teen to use with her grandmother, as if it were a good substitute for a word like ‘fervor in great detail’ or something such as that. Now I know, or so am told, I was talking to my grandmother in terms she could have deemed way too saucy for such a ‘little young girl from B County’ as she used to call me.

Now I see how it drips sexiness just rolling off the tongue. Why have I not noticed this before now? Basically it carries LUST in its definition. How many times did I say something or someone was ‘lasciviously loveable’ or some-such to my grandmother I wonder? And what did she think I meant if and when I did? Oh well, she did not chide me for it. Maybe she thought it was just a ‘pretty word’ as did I? She knew I was innocent. Yet she knew the meaning of words as well as a child knows how you feel, no matter what you say.

Lascivious is pretty as words go, unlike say ‘putrid’ or ‘repugnant’ or ‘bile’ – you know, such words that do not roll off the tongue easily or beautifully?

Lust is not nearly as pretty a word as lascivious. So why does language make room for both I wonder? To trick me, that must by the reason. Yes, that must be it: to trick a silly unknowing teenager attempting to be eloquent.

Aahhh, the trickery of language has been my bane more than once. Words can be so strict. Perhaps that is why we need some words which are more subtle than others to suggest the same or similar meaning?

This American-English language is tripping me up constantly. As a youngster I actually said the phrase out loud, at the supper table of my very first boyfriend of all things, I said,

“Oh that was delicious. I am as full as a tick on a bull’s sack.”

I meant well, of course, praising this delicious meal Mrs. Penry had cooked. One could be no other than thankful for such delectable well-cooked meals, especially for me knowing they were as full of the love with which my grandmother cooked. Love true love cooking; that is our heritage. Yet alas, my comment: Talk about OYE! A hush ensued at the supper table followed by roars of laughter upon my ‘bull’s sack’ comment, which I had heard somewhere thinking it adornment, most likely.

“What is so funny?” I thought. Obviously I did not have a clue what a bull’s sack was, but you best believe I know now and will not forget it. Luckily, the people at that table are alive still to remind me: of fun, good meals, great family and the importance of laughter. Always accustomed to a good laugh at my expense, I am all for good-hearted laughter without malice, what ever the cause, so, it has been joy, this particular mis-use of language I picked up from my grandfather (somewhere?) inadvertently. We have enjoyed that language-snafu at my expense for more than 20 years. I am grateful for the memories…of childhood and all. Yet I cannot get my grandmother back to explain to her, I knew not what I said when I spoke of a boy and said “Lascivious” amid his description. Still something tells me, she knew, and she wanted me to discover for myself this one of many. She knew I loved words as much as she, and yes it took me a while but finally, dear grandmother o’ mine, I get it. And you know what? It is fine. It did not make me a young harlot.

It is not so strong as to defame a young Lady’s character in even the smallest of towns. So I am thankful she did not correct me or direct me. We must learn on our own the smallest of details. My brother told me upon having our child that I must learn to ‘choose my battles’ if I wanted to maintain a peaceful home as we rear/raise our child to become the best we can be. This has helped me in so many ways. I wonder how many things my parents and grandparents let slide, just to make sure I figured it out for myself, what is right and wrong? There are big issues and then there are simple things complex such as words. Simple words.

Words: they soothe, they heal, they can hurt and they peel. They peel back layers of understanding and, on the flip side include countless opportunities for misunderstanding. As for the concept of words and understanding: with the years I become more keenly aware, how the misunderstood words I use refine or undermine me.

--PPM

Kelley Green

Joy: Ink on my Hands

Please Honk if any other writer under the age of 40 understands the joy I feel because ink stains my fingers this morning? With the advent of computers it has been…years! Yes I realize I am showing my age rejoicing in ink-stained hands, but there is something decorative about it to me and ON me. There was I time, way before this year 2011 came to be that I did not emerge from a day’s work without ink covering my fingers, sometimes my clothes, my desk, or even on my face from where I might have wiped a tear from writing.

Everyone is typing on computers mostly now. I love my computer; do not get me wrong. I have saved more paper in the past 20 years than I can estimate. There is hardly any reason to print most things anymore, even, and this is a good thing. Articles, documents, letters, they can all be emailed or sent as ‘copy; or what ever they call it now? Ohhhh but there was a time, and it was not so long ago when a writer’s world was covered in errant ink. Those days are gone for the most part and good riddance I must admit. I cannot help laugh at myself with the correlation of our grandparents telling us how they used to have “walk a mile to the library” and all that corny stuff.

Well! Today I succumbed to hand-scribing words, and lo and behold, yes, I have ink stains on my fingers I want to lick them it is so memorable.

Nostalgic? Yes. Ridiculous pleasure? Perhaps.

No matter…I did my work by hand today, and I will revel in the ink-stained fingers such an old-fashioned writer dealt with in times long past. No one can tell my occupation anymore because my hands are so clean as a rule. That is just fine with me. Just the same I want to lick this ink from my fingers for old-time’s sake…except I do not want it gone, just yet.

--PPM

Friends

Me and Euphemisms (phrase coined by FCM)

12 October 2011

Friends are the best. My dear friend and cousin coined a phrase yesterday with which I will always be enamored. We were having fun chatting when unintentionally, out came a comment only she and I could have understood at that moment in context. Wish I could remember the phrase but it was worth the good wholesome gut-belly laugh it inspired. That would have been fine enough for me; laughing is lovely alone. Then equally inspiring her quick savvy mind quipped:

That is a me and you-phenism.

Thank you, Florence. If I had laughed any harder I would have split in two. We were doubled-over wiping the tears from under our eyes. Sweet joy! Brilliant I thought, simply brilliant. And of course she is brilliant.

A visual artist and Renaissance woman by Nature, she has a way with words which rival the master writers. Writing is not her occupation. She has a full-time job totally unrelated to the arts. Her talents have no boundary. She can design a glorious garden; toss pottery on a wheel; tell me why my dog is acting the way he is. She can paint a portrait, a simple sketch or an entire mural with panache, and at the same time, she can take on the responsibility of yet another down-trodden underfed horse and within months have that horse looking like a show-pony, snuggling with Love. Oh, and she loves to play. Despite her pockets being full of talents and tasks, still she will take time to fly a kite with our child, or fill up the kiddy pool or pull out the bubble-sets, etcetera. She does not hesitate to let the tools scatter when our friend’s children ask, “May we pull out every piece of art paper and crayon you have?”

How does she find the time?

She finds Time in the most important art of all: the art of caring. Among her many gifts, perhaps one I cherish most is her savoir-faire for engaging a listener into a gut-wrenching laugh with bliss. For this, dear reader, I am thankful for the love of all things loveable. I am grateful for friends.

--PPM

Tornadoes and Coffee

Tornadoes and Coffee

Written 30 April 2010

Both took the same amount of time. A rampant tornado blazed through Alabama killing more than 200 people at the exact same time I was getting angry pilfering through our cabinets looking for coffee which we were out of apparently. I had not heard the news yet of death and destruction. Coffee was on my mind. I was thinking about coffee?

Difficult to reconcile those two concepts to me now, but indeed they happened in tandem. Finally I know how ridiculous I am.

In that coffee-bereft moment, little did I know my native people were not pilfering for coffee. No. They were searching for lost loved ones, rambling through the rubble of their homes, their livelihoods, hoping for something, anything, a family picture, a memento, a scrap of life as they knew it a minute ago. Imagine! All this at that same time I was getting angry because we were out of coffee? That was a personal disaster in itself. I do not understand myself or anything else sometimes.

There is nothing simple about that moment in my mind. Like war, earthquakes, tsunamis and cancer and unrest, I must live with that message forever: how quickly an event can change life.

My lack of coffee became so selfish, so mute upon such news of Real Loss that day.

With luck, as I sip my coffee this morning, I have learned to be more grateful. I thought I was sooooo grateful for my peaceful life, and yet there is more to be grateful for, always. With luck, I learned the mere joy of being able to sip coffee, much less to have food to eat, people to love, and a loving home to greet. With luck I will retain a snippet of wisdom from such a tragic event?

Yet the truth remains about how I felt that morning. I am stuck forever with a moment that confirms I am ridiculous. Coffee? My home is in tact. My family is alive and well. Yet by being unaware of what was happening in the world around me I got miffed about absence of coffee. Please forgive me. Simple things bring me pleasure. But Life is not so simple when someone such as I, who craves simplicity, could be so disheartened because I am out of coffee one morning, unaware.

--PPM

Vignettes from the Neighborly-hood

Vignettes from the Neighborly-hood

By Paige Ponder Monaghan

One Knows One Lives in a Small Town Again,

When…

27 September 2011

A little green truck passed by

Oak Street

this morning. These oaks, ahhh these oaks! They drip with tendrils of sterling Spanish moss, a bromeliad relative of the pineapple family, and canopy a southern road called Oak Street, obviously. The image is embedded. The Spanish moss cliché would be over-done almost if not for its truly laden loveliness, for its old-roots timelessness, sparkling in the morning dew.

This morning I heard this soothing verbal transaction, which made me appreciate my native land which I left for college and after that, traveled farther, for nearly the same reason I returned: everything and everybody so connected. But there I sat on my friend’s front porch. We do not have a neighbor within earshot at my house now which is why I thank goodness for gunshot if needs be. But anyway…this is what I over-heard.

The driver of the lil’ green truck had slowed to a rooooowlling-stop, then hollered out his window at the neighbor next door to where I was rocking on the porch, watching the rain.

The little green truck driver hollered, “Hey, Will! Nora’s car window is down.” The man next door was outside pulling weeds while the rain held. Understandable, weeds give-way much easier from moist soil.

He lifted his head from the weeds in the rain just long enough to holler back, “Hey, thanks, Bill. I’ll get it.” And with that the lil’ green truck drove on its way. It was a ‘Good Morning to you’ of sorts. It just held more information is all.

I live in my native county now, after decades of traveling away from it. I live in a place I thought I would not ever be again, a place I love despite the grandeur of experiencing so many other, different places and countries. With such a huge family clan and distinct circle of friends I was flying home to visit most of the time anyway. Now, here I am, back again, LIVING here and I like it. At least I think I like it?

In a small town no one spats on the ground. Oh heavens no, at least not in front of someone who might tell their momma. I like that. In a small town, everyone says ‘yes, ma’am’ and ‘yes, sir’ innately. With that I have no bother. That moment struck me like lightning: the people in our sleepy town are kind enough to stop to say ‘your wife’s car window is down.’

It tugs at my heartstrings; it pulls them up to my mind, and I realize, my roots are here, every bit as deep as those weed’s roots are and perhaps deeper than the oaks.

I live in a small town again, and I like it here.                             –PPM

Polo at the Point by Paige Ponder Monaghan

http://alabama-magazine.com/node/213

Polo at the Point article in ALABAMA MAGAZINE this month, March 2011... please subscribe.

Ponder Publishing Company, LLC: Link List

Ponder Publishing Company, LLC: Link List

Ode to Langston Hughes

Ode to Langston Hughes

By Paige Ponder Monaghan
09 December 09, 9:11 AM Wednesday

I’ve know Rivers too, yet not the
same as some
alas!

Despite
I have to laugh
because
it takes so many times for me to learn
in life, at last
the words someone said which I probably
read because now
they are dead…
that it is true
You can never step in the same river twice.