The Good, the Bad and the Ugly

As I enter the autumn of (my) life I tend to focus on the coming winter rather than allowing myself to enjoy and participate fully in the beauty of autumn. And what a shame it is when I yield to that darker side, for autumn has always been my fondest season, even as a child!

Yet I believe that each moment in our lives is a gift; the good, the bad and especially the ugly. We can make of them what we will. Take them for granted, disconnect them from our lives as just "things" that happen, discount them as unimportant; fear them, hate them for the discomfort and inconvenience they cause, mindlessly plod through them, blame them on “Someone” simply being mean or cruel or uncaring, or even wish them away. I have done most of these things at one time or another. I'm certain everyone has. It is human nature, but is it wise? I, myself, have become more concerned, at times, about the state of the world and, more intimately, the state of my life. I seem more anxious at times, wanting things to be just so, wanting and needing to make amends, to live life to the fullest, to “fight the good fight”. It is only natural to feel concern and sadness in one's life, but it can sometimes be difficult not to let everything build into a full blown weltschmerz!

I don't think we live life to the fullest, add clarity or glean the importance of a moment in time (thereby discovering how awesome life is) and reap its benefits by just tossing it aside because we don't understand it or find it distasteful. If we try to hide from the bad and the ugly, we end up not recognizing what is good (you can't have one without the other, because all of these moments are part of a whole, and each is relative to the other). We don't appreciate the value of life and lose enjoyment in even the smallest of pleasures; we become bitter and resentful and sad; Our lives are made up of the amalgamation of all three. Each of these moments, our moods, experiences and cherished—or not so cherished—memories helps us to grow into the people we are meant to be.

There is comfort in knowing that each of us has a purpose, that we are not designed to go through life alone, mucking our way through the bad and ugly to realize that purpose and find the good. ("Therefore encourage one another and build each other up..." 1 Thessalonians 5:11). We have others with whom we are connected in so many ways we do not always recognize, and who are there to help us, sometimes in ways they do not even realize. To me, life is no accident. We have a watchful Guide, leading us on the paths we have chosen to travel. What better encouragement for embracing all the facets of our extraordinary human nature. So, perhaps a proverbial word to the wise?

It is no mere adage that time (seemingly) passes more quickly as we age. It has become so precious, and while there are days less perfect than others, I will never wish away any day, no matter how bad or ugly it may seem. All of my life I have heard “with age comes wisdom”. It could be that it is more accurate to say that as we age we become more aware, thereby learning the value of time. Perhaps therein lies the wisdom.

Synthesis 

Autumn has come quickly
It both startles and assures me
Hence I shall not be afraid,
For the path I have chosen remains
In perfect harmony with the seasons—
Unified, though each a part unto its own
Bursting forth in fluctuating hues,
From brilliant, coolest argentine
To the fiery red heat of vermilion

This mélange of moods and colors,
Experiences, memories and remnants
Of an earlier time varies from day to day,
Molding, reshaping who I am,
Enhancing my simple existence—
As a wild pumpkin might adorn
A quiet woodland patch of green

*(Along with this entry, I have made the decision to change the name of this blog from "Rantings of a Mad Poet" to "Menagerie". Since it is a collection of writings, poetry, thoughts and emotions, questions and, hopefully, some answers, I felt it should be aptly named. A complete collection of this blog may be found in book form in the bookstore at Blurb. Volumes I and II are available for purchase, and Volume III is in production now. I hope you like the name and enjoy the new setup)

*(Thank you to Connie Marcum-Wong, moderator of the PFT [Poetry for Thought] poetry group, for her poetry challenge suggestion to use the words mélange, remnant, argentine, vermilion, path, harmony, adorn, woodland, pumpkin, unified in a poem. These lovely and inspirational words led me to write "Synthesis", which, in turn, led me to deeper thinking, which led me to this blog entry. All of these actions together became, for me, another illustration that we are all somehow (and, at times, unknowingly) connected.

Comfort Food

Top, My Brother and Sister and I

Bottom Left, My Mother (coming to call us in for hot chocolate!)

Tired of the snow yet? I can recall lying in bed as a child, in the early morning hours, waiting with butterflies in my stomach for that announcement of the news I already knew: "Schools will be closed today!".  And they were, usually  for the next two days as well. Snow in Cleveland meant instant vacation back then. The type of snow we have experienced these past few days in much of the country was the usual winter fare in Cleveland "back in the day".

The excitement would build as I curled up in a warm bed, planning my day. My sister and brother and I would wake up to a good, hot breakfast—which usually included cream of wheat, our favorite on such a cold, snowy day. We would force our mother to promise not to stir it so that soft, chewy lumps of grain would form and then eat it with butter, sugar and lots of milk, something I do to this day. After breakfast we bundled in our snowsuits, leggings (what ever happened to leggings?), boots, scarves and gloves, and somewhat resembling robots, headed outside for most of the day. Once outside we began making a snow fort out of the entire back yard. We would each focus on a particular corner of the yard and built our forts as high as we could with ice "bricks" which were broken off of mountains of snow, and then tunneling through the crusty drifts to prepare for the snowball war to soon follow. 

We never needed to be told to "find something to do". There was a whole world of things to do, given birth by our imaginations. Winter, summer, spring, fall, we were outside all day until supper, interacting with each other and our friends, enjoying the world around us, simply being children. As children we didn't need "love lives" then, we didn't have an unhealthy obsession with sex or interest in drugs or  experience anxiety from societal pressures constantly bombarding us with "be more". Perhaps it is our self-complacency as adults which is ever-increasingly manifested in our children. We didn't need to hear TV commercials focused on telling us to "Get up, get up, get up, be a player" or "Play an hour a day". Does it not seem odd and unnatural to hear social advertisements telling children to play? It does to me and it makes me sad. What has happened to childhood? What has happened to us, that we would allow such destruction of childhood?

After the war ended, frozen and wet, we headed back into the house to change into dry clothes and drink the hot chocolate that was keeping warm on the stove, waiting for us. The house was always warm, even in winter. The love and security we felt as children warmed us as no blanket ever could. And, perhaps, this is what I remember most about my childhood. We would rest easily at night, ready for sleep after a full day, knowing we were loved for who we were, that nothing we might do could change that, never doubting that we were the priority in our parents' lives. It was never something that had to be verbalized. It just was.

My father would come home after work, and supper was soon to follow. On every Saturday, and especially on snowy, winter days, supper would consist of a huge pot of beef soup. It was my father's favorite meal. And when I cook that same soup today, the wafting fragrance serves up a feast of warm and satisfying memories which nourish me and keep me grounded.

Perhaps the word that best describes my childhood is "comfort". I did not know the pain or anxiety of having to take on adult roles. I was a child and concerned with those things befitting a child. My parents knew how to love, each other and us. Neither was overly concerned about place in life, and both were concerned more with their children's well-being than the views of the world. There were no power struggles, within the family or society. The focus was on our welfare and happiness and our growth as individuals. There was love. And there was consolation and solace in knowing it would always be that way.

And as we drifted off, sleep—and peace—came to us sweet and warm. It drifted down from the rafters with the love and laughter which protected us when we were children.  And as I sleep each night, the memories, sweet and warm,  ring from distant rafters, drifting down to comfort me, ground me, slow me down when this world begins to move a little too fast. 


Comfort Food

We always laughed
As daddy ate his soup
From a large serving bowl
Filled to the brim
With hot savory beef broth,
A mountain of thin noodles
And a dash of Tabasco,
Pausing every now and then
To wipe his perspiration-covered face
And sit back, gratified, proclaiming
"I like soup no matter what flavor it is!"

We would race to drain
Our bowls in order to be first
To claim the prize—the juicy bones
Layered with chunks of soft beef,
Chewy gristle and mouth-watering
Beefy marrow which we would
Spread on our heavily salted meat

This was Saturday supper
Every week, every month,
All the years of our childhood
And the contentment
Of those early years was not only
From young, full bellies
But the love and security
That seemed to hover
Around our table, cloaking us
From the elements
Of change, floating

Like the rich, golden bubbles
Swirling in our Saturday soup

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Cocoon

Laughter rose

And rang from the rafters

Drifting down softly

To comfort at night.

Sleep was sweet and warm

Within the cocoon of family

In my youth.

Laughter rose

And rang from the rafters

Drifting down softly

To comfort at night.

Sleep was sweet and warm

Within the cocoon of family

When my children were young.

Long-ago laughter echoes

And rings from distant rafters

Drifting down softly

To comfort at night.

Memories are sweet and warm

Within the cocoon of family

As I sleep.

Thank you for reading; and keep warm...