Its Just a Potbelly Stove

It all started with the twist and pop of the cap.  The familiar and memory-inducing scent escaped that old can, and the memories flooded in.  The snapshots became visible in my brain. As I poured the thick liquid onto the soft, white cloth, more scenes from my childhood started playing on the movie screen that is always open for business in my head.

“Unlike the other senses, olfactory nerves go to two destinations in our brain; one is the frontal cortex, where we consciously recognize a scent. The second destination is the limbic area of the brain, which is a more primitive and ancient part of the brain dealing with emotion, motivation and types of memory.” Dr. Maggie Grotzinger.

We’ve all experienced it. It could be a flower, a food, a perfume, any one of thousands of smells that bring a memory into our heads and transport us back to that place, sometimes good and sometimes bad. Today, that smell for me was Brasso.  Oh yes, Brasso was a big smell in my house as a child.  My dad liked shiny things. He was always shining something up with the Brasso.  Here is the short list - barber chairs, spittoons, car bumpers, knobs and handles, old fire extinguishers, and the potbelly stove. The potbelly stove.  That’s what I intended to write about initially, or maybe it was the power of our sense of smell - oh well.  My mind is like the pachinko machine we used to have, little chrome balls bouncing from here to there and back again. Did he polish those little balls too?  Not that I remember, but I can see it happening. Anyways, back to the potbelly stove; that beautiful piece of décor that has adorned my dining room for well over 30 years that brings back so many great memories….

I’m selling it.

Yes, you read correctly.  I’m selling it. But I just wrote all those great things about the memories and happy times.  It fits my dining room like a glove and is a topic of conversation and beauty in the house. I’m selling it.

I appreciate it, I don’t love it.  It has served its purpose and the time has come for it to move to a house where the new owner loves it. 

Before my dad passed away, he did his best to help ease what he knew was going to be the hardest part of my life. He lived here during his last six months and we had a lot of great conversations.  Knowing he was leaving me with a mess of things, he talked a lot about my being able to let go and get rid of the things that belonged to him and my mom.  I listened of course, I always listened to what he had to say, but carrying through has been a whole other story.

Nearly seven years later, I still have a mess of things. I’m doing better with letting go, but it has taken me a very long time.  Enter – the potbelly stove. I kind of remember when we got it. I was maybe 10? 12? 15? Not sure.  I also kind of remember that he asked me to “go in on it” with him. Now I’m not really sure why.  I’m guessing it was some sort of lesson in investing or partnership or something, or maybe he just didn’t have enough money.  There is no way to ever find out.  So, one way or another, either through inheritance, because it was left here when they moved out in 1991, or I am the proud half-owner, the potbelly stove is mine, and I am ready to let it go.

I’m starting to let more and more things go.  Things my parents love, collected, and used.  Some are beautiful and have some monetary worth and some are simply just crap and I have no idea why I have continued to hang on to them.  But, it doesn’t really seem to matter which group the items are in, it is still difficult to let them go.

I’m grateful for my time with the old stove. I have my memories of smell and mental snapshots. Those I carry with me.  As my collection of material items becomes smaller, my mind and heart become more full.  I welcome the trade-off.

Want to buy a potbelly stove?

New View

Divided-lite.  Even the name suggests an unclear view.  Sometimes old, outdated views need to be replaced, and opened up to a clearer picture.

Windows? Yes.  Life?  Yes.

Part of our three-room remodel involves replacing 60-year-old windows.  The wooden, divided-lite windows that are currently in the house look great when you drive down the old, dirt road and glance toward the ranch-style home.  They blend, they fit, and they seem to be aesthetically pleasing.  Is that enough?  Am I o.k. with inefficient, outdated windows that restrict my view and cloud my vision?  No. Sure, 60 years ago they worked.  They don’t work now.  60 years ago that’s what people had, they didn’t have many choices and they were comfortable with them.  I want my vision to improve; I want my views to be as open and beautiful as possible. 

Windows?  Yes.  Life?  Yes.

Bill replaced the first window of the remodel yesterday.  The dining room window that looks beyond the crepe myrtle and toward to the yard, the little free library, and an old plaster building across the street.  I love looking through that window.  I see a lot of things I love when I look out there.  I’m used to it, I’ve been looking out that window for over 50 years.  A standard double-hung wood window, divided into eight parts by wood that has been painted over with many, many coats of paint; a screen on the outside restricting the clarity and taking away from the vivid and beautiful colors of the yard. The old glass is scratched, thin, and like the other windows in the house, has a slight wave to it, which adds some distortion.  In addition to the appearance of the old windows, they aren’t efficient.  They don’t work properly anymore.  They don’t fully open, some don’t open at all. They have been painted shut and the longer they (and we) remain comfortable with that stubbornness, cloudy vision, and inefficiency, the longer our beautiful visions will be blocked. 

Windows?  Yes.  Life?  Yes.

Its not always easy working on a remodel.  Sometimes it’s hard to let go of things that remind us of good times and how things used to be. Change can be difficult and scary.  Is the new better?  And what do we mean by better?  Is better about looks, efficiency, the new view we will have? Will the unknown make me happy or will I long to go back to what seemed to be comfortable even though it wasn’t the best. 

A new window.  A window divided only in to two parts, and then only because it needs those to parts to open fully and bring in lots of fresh air into the house.  Double-thick glass to keep the house cool in the summer and warm in the winter.  The new screen only covers the bottom half of the fully functioning window.  Why restrict the entire view when you can open your eyes to see more clearly?

The new window was installed with great care and precision. It looks great, it works well, and it is one more step in what will be a long process in remodeling.  Moving forward. That new window yesterday is not just a new window.  It kind of symbolizes how I’ve been feeling lately – wanting a clearer view, a new vision, one that will be more efficient and open me up to more beauty that the world has to offer.  Not every house can have all new windows.  Some need to work with the ones they have.  Fresh paint, maybe a little sand paper to smooth out rough edges, and sometimes the glass needs a lot of work to be able to see out clearly, but the view can always be improved.  I want to see it, and help open it up to others so that they may see it too.  No more divided-lites.

Windows?  Yes.  Life?  Yes.

“Better keep yourself clean and bright.  You are the window through which you must see the world.” 

~  George Bernard Shaw

I'm Writing a Book

Its 6:45 A.M. and my alarm has gone off for the second time today.  Its not because I’ve been hitting the snooze button since 5:30, its intentional.  I got up, set the alarm for an hour, and closed my eyes.

I just completed day four of a 90-day challenge – experiment – adventure, not really sure what the proper description would be, but I know it will be eye-opening. 

I’ve chosen to do three things every day for the next 90.  The first will be sitting quietly in meditation for one hour each morning.  An hour is a pretty long time.  You could get a cavity filled, watch two really dumb sitcoms, or get your film developed down at the drug store.

This new addition to my routine started on Sunday.  I know it’s going to be something that will open up my heart, sharpen my mind, and change my life.

Its interesting the sounds, smells, colors, light changes, thoughts, ideas, and memories that can be experienced by sitting uninterrupted with eyes closed for 60 minutes.

I will also be reading for 30 minutes each day, and writing for 30.  The reading part will be easiest for me.  Yes please, sitting and reading – sign me up.

The writing.  The writing is what I hope this new daily habit will open myself up to.  (Apparently its already working because I just finished my hour of meditation as I write this J.)

You see, I’m writing a book. There.  I said it.  I’m writing a book.  I am at a point in my book where I have encountered writers-block.  No, I haven’t gotten stumped on how to end the story, haven’t lost track of the character in the middle and aren’t sure which direction to turn next.  I haven’t written a single word.  That’s how blocked I am.  I have been “writing” this book of mine for years, but haven’t scribed a single word.  Boy, that really sounds ridiculous.  Its kind of like saying you’re running a marathon, but haven’t bought any running shoes and only own cowboy boots, or that you are going to make the world’s biggest afghan and don’t know how to knit, and haven’t figured out where to buy yarn.  Yes, that ridiculous.  What have I been doing?  Or more accurately, what have I NOT been doing?!  I have had countless people encourage me to write a book, some have offered such strong encouragement that maybe the word could be encourageTHREAT instead. 

I have every book-writing necessity there is.  I own an endless supply of yellow legal pads, ink pens from every business in Newhall, books on how to write books, books on how to find books on how to write books, books on why books on how to write don’t work, numerous desks in my house, a nice computer with the display set at 200% so I can see what I’m typing, Costa Rican coffee and inspirational coffee mugs galore.  Yes, I’m set up and ready to go.  Ready, set, screech….   At least that’s how it has been.  I’ve been blocking myself with every “ya but” there is. THE BUT STOPS HERE.  (ha! Get it? The but stops here?)

Everyone who wrote their first book didn’t know how ~ Kyle Cease

I’m taking steps, one step at a time. This 90-day adventure will be a great tool to open up my creativity.  I’m going to start each day with my heart and let the words flow.  Stay tuned….

Peaceful, Happy, Beautiful

Recently, a friend told me how great I look and asked if I had lost weight.  I had seen he and his wife a couple of weeks earlier also, and he told me that after Bill and I left their house, they commented on how good I was looking.  Interesting.  The fact is, I have gained weight, not a lot, but enough that it seems obvious that the weight is up not down. I also have not had my hair colored in quite a while.  Lets just say that my current hair color is well on its way to making it a great idea for me to be a skunk for Halloween this year.  Also, my dermatologist went on a freezing frenzy on me, leaving some scabbing and scarring on my face and ear. So, really, it’s a perfect storm of not-my-best look. So how on Earth could they think that I was looking great?

 It got me thinking about a dear friend who has recently gone through a beautiful transformation of her look.  And no, she has not done a single thing cosmetically.  My friend, Keri, has had a tough couple of years…no, she has had a tough decade. Actually, decade-plus.  Her husband passed away in May of 2015 after a lengthy battle with ALS.  She was wife, caregiver, mother, handyman, breadwinner, and anything else she needed to be to get through the day.  Six months after Jon’s death, her house was broken into, ransacked, and burglarized. She wasn’t able to go back to the house and was fortunate to have a wonderful friend welcome her into her home for nearly a year..  Her stress level had been through the roof for years.  She faced sadness, uncertainty, lack of sleep, and any other emotion you could think to insert.

Keri is a beautiful woman, and no one has a bigger, more giving heart than she does.  She has always generated love, but it has been just this past couple of months that I have seen her outside beauty glow and radiate.  Every time I see her I feel as if she is wearing a crown of sparkling stars.  Her smile lights up a room and her laugh; oh that laugh of hers. People want to be around her.  This beauty is not new to her, but reborn; a new birthday if you will.  I don't think its any coincidence that last week at a restaurant, after a funny mix-up about bread pudding (long story) the waiter brought Keri a birthday cupcake. Nope, not her real birthday, but definitely a birthday - a new day.  Just more proof that the Universe sees her transformation also, and is reminding us all that it will be o.k. and there will be light after the darkness. The lack of stress has taken years off of her appearance. The heartache, though it will always be there, has lessoned and joy has been coming back into her life – and it shows. 

Her face now looks relaxed and shines brightly.  She exudes peace and a sense of fun and playfulness.  It makes me happy to see her beautiful transformation. 

My mom passed away eight years ago Monday, and my dad 14 months later. Since that time I have been struggling to have my full life back. Without going into eight years of detail, lets just fast forward to the last couple of years when I have been making a conscious effort to be more peaceful, happier, and fulfilled. I have had counseling, taken workshops, gone to an herbalist, started using essential oils, used meditation, been surrounded by enormous amounts of love by friends and family, traveled, gardened, read, used creativity, and studied new types of spirituality.  It sounds exhausting, but it’s working, and I have enjoyed the journey.  I have recently felt so much better. I feel more open, more peaceful, and happier...thank goodness. My life is amazing and I love the space I’m in right now. My insides are feeling pretty darn good, and if that is showing on the outside, well then what a bonus.

I realize now that what my friends perceived as my weight-loss is also a bit of my own transformation. I think Keri and I are exhibiting some symptoms of inner peace.   

	Symptoms of Inner Peace   ~     Saskia Davis These are some of the most common symptoms of 'inner peace'... if you are       experiencing any or all of these symptoms.... you're doing something right! - A tendency to think and act spontaneously rather than on fears based on past experiences. - An unmistakable ability to enjoy each moment. - A loss of interest in judging other people. - A loss of interest in interpreting the actions of others. - A loss of interest in conflict. - A loss of the ability to worry. - Frequent, overwhelming episodes of appreciation. - Contented feelings of connectedness with others and nature. - Frequent attacks of smiling. - An increased susceptibility to the love extended by others as well as the uncontrollable urge to extend it.

Homelessness Has a Name

Tom and Sally.  No, that’s not their real names, but I do know them.

Like we occasionally do when Bill is off work, we were on our way to the Way Station for breakfast. As we walked up toward the door, I saw a couple sitting on the bench in front of the restaurant.  Next to them were a small duffle bag and a small flowered backpack.  I immediately got a familiar, uneasy feeling in my stomach.  During my time in Hawaii this summer, I was surrounded by the huge population of homeless people in Honolulu. I had to walk by quite often, and I always had a sad, uncomfortable, feeling in my stomach. I tried to smile sometimes and make eye-contact, a few times I said hello, but I could never stop.  Fear kept me from stopping.

When we were in front of the couple, the man simply said, “good morning.”  We said hello and went in for our breakfast.  When we sat down, my back was to the window.  Throughout the course of our meal, I kept turning around to see what was going on with them. At one point, Bill told me someone handed them some money and the woman got up headed toward the liquor store.  I wanted to give them money, but I didn’t want to give them money and have them buy alcohol. Why is it we sometimes allow ourselves to observe a situation and assume the worst?  It bothers me when I do that.  There was nothing that I saw that lead me to that assumption, and who am I to judge a life that I know nothing about?  When the woman returned she was carrying two Cokes.  I was relieved.  Bill of course knew what was going on in my head.  A couple of times during our meal he said, “Do whatever you want to do, Kel.”  I love him for that.  He knows what is going through my mind and supports my desire to try to help.

For some reason, I wanted to wait to see what they said to us on our way out. Was I testing them?  Again…who am I to judge?  They didn’t say anything – didn’t ask for anything.  We looked at each other, smiled, and I continued down the street.  About halfway to the car, I stopped.  I needed to go back.  Bill told me to go do whatever I needed to do, and said he would wait for me in the car.  I didn’t have much money with me.  I put a five-dollar-bill in my pocket, and headed back.  I was a little nervous.  I didn’t really know what to expect.  There is a lot of mental illness and alcohol abuse on the streets, but always there are people with a story – and I needed to find out what this story was.  I wasn’t sure I would find the right words.  What are the right words?  Are there right words?  “Hi, are you down on your luck?”  They seemed appropriate, but what did I know?  I haven’t been homeless.  I don’t know which words to use.  I didn’t want to offend, I simply wanted to find out what was going on, and see if I could help in some small way. 

I have been learning more about homelessness lately.  It’s a problem that has grabbed my heart.  A problem where I feel completely helpless, and like most people, and cities, have no idea what to do, or what the answer is; if there is an answer.  One thing I have learned is that homeless people often feel invisible.  People walk by them, not wanting to look in their direction, or acknowledge that they even exist.  I have seen interviews with homeless people who say that they just want to have a conversation with someone, want to talk to somebody and discuss things, and feel some human interaction.  Such a minor request.  Why is it so difficult for us to stop and talk?  I have walked by so many times and wish I had some strength to just stop and let them know that they are seen.  Fear.  I think fear keeps me from stopping. 

And with that simple, sincere question, I got their story.  We introduced ourselves, and I spent the next 20 minutes or so learning about Tom and Sally, how they became homeless, their families, their health problems, their attempt at getting help from local agencies, and how difficult the past four years without a home has been on them.  I think they may be my age, but the hardship has worn on their appearances.  Their eyes appear sad and without sparkle, their skin darkened by sun, and dulled by a thin layer of dirt, their clothes dirty from the fifth day in a row of wearing them without washing, and their sleeplessness apparent in their lack of energy. 

I didn’t find out everything, but I did find out enough to know that they are an engaged couple, together for many, many years, who truly are down on their luck.  She receives a death-benefit check each month from her husband, but it isn’t enough for rent on an apartment, in any part of town.  It is able to get them a couple or more nights a month at the Travelodge which gives them a good nights sleep and a chance to shower.  They have Facebook and are able to use the computers at the libraries to try to keep in touch with family, though none of them are apparently able or willing to help or reach out. They do have a phone.  They explained to me how many times they have attempted to get housing vouchers, and the many churches they have contacted for help with housing.  Unfortunately, the homeless shelter out here is only open during the winter months.  I also learned that he has early-stage bone cancer and that both of them have back trouble.  Carrying the duffle is difficult and Sally’s backpack wheel broke recently forcing her to carry what little she does have on her back.  I knew I wasn’t able to make all their troubles go away, but I was able to offer a little bit to help make their current journey a little less difficult.  I asked them if they would be open to my bringing back a larger, rolling suitcase and some toiletries, etc.  They were grateful and said they would be there all day.  I told them I would go home, gather some things, and return.  As I walked away, I wonder if they believed me.  By the looks on their faces, I think they may not have. 

I was able to return with a good, sturdy, rolling carry-on filled with clean t-shirts, some leggings, clean socks, a variety of toiletries, some food bars, crackers, stainless water bottle for refilling, a little money, a towel and two washcloths. I told them about the towels and said that if they didn’t need them and didn’t want them taking up space, that I would gladly take them home.  Sally with a twinge of optimism said that they would keep them because if they got their own place, it would be a good start. I couldn’t decide it that statement made me sad because all they would have to start a new home would be some towels, or happy because she was looking forward and hoping for a better future.  I showed Tom how he could wrap his duffle straps and carry it on top of the roller, then neither one of them would have to carry anything.  He kind of snickered and said he hadn’t thought of that and was happy for the tip. They were grateful for the new suitcase particularly, and the new, clean items.  We said our goodbyes and I told them that I would look for them around town and that if I saw them, I’d stop for some conversation and a cold drink.  They liked that, and so did I.  Are we friends now? Not really.  Are they a project for me?  Definitely not.  I don’t know how to explain what we are, or the impact that yesterday had on me.

Fear.  I didn’t let it prevent me from stopping yesterday, and I am so glad.  Just before I left, Tom thanked me by name.  He had remembered it from when we had our first introductions.  That made me happy.  I returned by using their names.  Homelessness has a name.

I expect to see them again and plan on stopping when I do. If you have a couple dollars and would like me to pass it on to them, I gladly will.