Vitamin Simple

 

The dishes are simple. White, embossed with a trim of 1960’s-gold blooms. I’ve gazed at them countless times, picturing the face of a monkey in a particular oval-shaped blossom, or wondering why anyone would purchase such a horrid design. True, they’re Corelle Ware: Made to last. But even my own mother opted for a prettier pattern after saving enough cash to start fresh. The new set, purchased sometime during my young girlhood, replaced almost all of the monkey/flower design, and I imagine we both breathed a sigh of relief.

We’d seen plenty of that pattern, after all. My mother's mother owned the same set, probably purchased when the styling was new. But with her characteristic thrift, Grandma nurtured those dishes until her death at age 92. And even then, they sparkled with the same dazzling brilliance as the day she first bought them.

And I should know. They’re sitting in my cupboard right now. I nearly rejected Mom’s offer to share them during the downsizing that followed my Grandma’s death, but something made me pause in mid-“no.” They’re simple dishes, after all. Easy to match.

“Actually,” I heard myself say, “I’ll take them. Thanks, Mom. Thanks a lot.”

And so, the pattern has come home. I wonder if my daughter stares at those painted blooms. I wonder if she thinks I’ve lost my already-meager sense of style. But the wondering doesn’t detract from my joy. They’re simple dishes, after all. And they speak to much more than my style. In their pattern, their very presence, I find peace. My Grandma was not given to bold public statements, yet her life-pattern fills my mind like a song. I ponder again on her faith. Her service. Her own sense of peace.  Grandma accepted what God provided, and found her greatest joy in quietly serving her fellow humans. A simple ambition, one I’ve often overlooked as I’ve churned my way through this life. But an ambition with staying power, all the same. Staying power, and a wisdom that beckons me home.

Home. It’s what I feel when I remember her, now. A smiling woman, full of grace. Generous and kind to a fault, yet possessed of an inner strength that sometimes snapped through her dark eyes, giving me a delightful, shivery surprise. She could crack a baseball,And so, the familial pattern has come home. I wonder, now, if my daughter stares at those blooms. I wonder if she thinks I’ve lost my meager supply of good taste. But the wondering doesn’t detract from my joy. They’re simple dishes, after all. And they speak to much more than my style. They remind me that although Grandma never aspired to influence or power, there’s another pattern - her pattern of living – that impacts my life to this day. I remember her unwavering reliance on God, and I turn to Him, just the same. I recall her pleasure in simple acts of service, and discover fresh joy in my own humble tasks. Her contentment. Her humility. Her faithfulness. Her smile. These and countless other habits of grace fill my mind when I see her soup bowls, her salad plates.

They’re simple traits, really. Not invented by Grandma, yet a part of her, all the same. Like the blossoms that bordered her dishes, they beautified her life, and blessed mine. I miss the woman that lived them. And yet, each time I glance at her dishes, I’ll remember her – and the patterns of grace that she lived. They’re her greatest gift, really. A gift so striking in its simplicity that someday, twenty or more generations removed, others will still benefit from the offering.

And that is the simple truth.  

Vitamin Love

Snow drifts down this evening. The sun, having long ago made its exit to warm others’ domains, has made space for the on-creeping dusk. Night hangs heavy over this silent world. Pools of light from low-crouching homes punctuate the darkness. The calls of two owls break the calm.

I wonder what they might discuss. Their hooting surely warns off their tiny, warm prey, but perhaps they’ve already hunted their fill. Scuttling bodies lack camouflage when it snows, after all. Maybe they’re just conversing for the love of it.

Perhaps that’s why I converse, too. On an evening like this, scarved in silence and shrouded in shadows, exchanging a few words feels like firelight, like blankets, like food. Solitude may satisfy me in the daytime, but when night falls and the light from my deck illuminates each tiny snowflake’s descent, I long for connection, for friends. Amid the thousands of unmarked arrivals that a snowstorm represents, I crave an arrival of my own, welcomed and recognized in a loved-one’s eyes.

And so, like these owls, I reach out. I text. I telephone. I bump shoulders with my teenage boys who, surprisingly, bump back. When I subside into silence, the owls’ discussion remains. I listen in, and their conversation lulls me to sleep. It is the sound of friendship, of shared life, of love.  

Vitamin Choose

 

I awaken to a crisp winter morning, the kind that calls for a jog. When I check out at Andy’s, I inform the cashier I’ll be parked in his lot for a while. Then I adjust my wool cap, don my thick gloves, and set out.

The sun, not yet committed to shine, hovers just above the horizon. It’s light outside, but just barely. People scurry down sidewalks in quick, jerky bursts: They’re too stiff to saunter, too chilly too chat.

I carefully pick up my speed, testing the frost for safe footing. On my left, traffic-sounds pulse beneath the podcast that drones my ears. I rarely listen to words, but today, with my plans to run far, I know the distraction will help me.

My body leans into a sprint, and I deliberately shorten my stride. Only during this, my forty-third year, have I discovered the magic of moderation. Until recently, I have approached life in one of my two preferred gears – Full Speed or Full Stop. It took a cancer scare, a surgery, long years of poor health, and the endless quiet of quarantine to help me discover this third option.

“I can jog long distances!” I crowed to my husband one day in late spring. “I just need to slow myself down!”

I know he responded with laughter, but this discovery has transformed my life. Choosing my pace gives me freedom! Now, I finish my runs with pleasantly tired lungs instead of the asthmatic puffs of my past. Now, when I run, I feel joy.

Today, that joy arrives through my senses. To my east, the dusky Blue Mountains shoulder the shreds of last night’s fog. Overhead, a houndstooth-patterned shawl of silvery clouds drapes half of the brightening the sky. In a field to my left, the sweetness of summer-baled hay fills the air, transporting me to my childhood for the time it takes to jog by. Frost formations lace the sidewalk at my feet, their delicate patterns miraculously unscathed by my steps.

Onward I run, steeping myself in this day, in this silence I share with the still-waking world. I reach the end of my route, nod to the long, waiting road, then turn around to head home. When I arrive at my car, I’m breathing a little from the exertion, but I feel like I could go on.

With a pang that feels like goodbye, I settle into my wide, heated seat. I shift my car into gear. I drive toward home.

The sun has decided to stay. It casts loving glances upon this small corner of earth, and a thousand frozen crystals respond. They shimmer and wink, and I sigh. This simple decision – the choice to move slower through certain hard tasks – has given me countless moments like this one. Moments when vistas of beauty unfurl like maps on a gray, grade-school wall. Moments when time, or me, or both of us, stand still. Moments when reverence is all that remains.

My breath catches, and I smile. Who knew one hour could contain so much joy? Like a many-movement symphony squeezed into one simple song, moments like this leave me wordless. Transcendent. Free.  

I cruise down familiar streets toward my home. The rest of the weekday stretches out like the road left untouched on my run. Will I race ahead in high gear, pushing for efficiency, dominion, and speed? Will I let boredom or fatigue stop me cold?

I shake my head. Today, I will not do either. Today I’ll choose that grand middle way.

I tap my brakes. Check the scenery. And move on.