It's Cosmic, Baby

Ken boxing up what is left.

In a cosmic collision of two axioms, I have found my own. “If you love something, set it free. If it comes back, it is yours.” “Practice random acts of kindness.” Crash. Bang. Boom. “Set your love free through random acts of kindness.”

I have struggled with the setting what you love free thing since I first heard that saying as a teenager. One cousin was saying it to another at a family reunion. They were older and much wiser, eighteen, maybe even twenty. That age sounds so mature when you are the geeky younger cousin, left out of the adult conversations. I was struggling with puppy dog crushes and really didn’t understand love, as all it can encompass, at the tender young age of fourteen. I greedily wanted the affections of this boy or that. I really cannot remember who I was madly in love with at the time. It was probably the bad boy who sat in the back of English class, with his feet propped up on an empty seat, his sandy blonde hair all mussed up and hanging in his eyes. Oh, how I loved what could get me into trouble back then.

Hmm. Oh, sorry. I disappeared for awhile. But enough of the bygone daydreams of a teenage girl.

I have tried in the past to practice daily random acts of kindness, doing these little niceties anonymously as much as I could. That is a very steep asking for one person, making them daily. I failed miserably, and I felt that failure deeply, even though I had helped out many people in the process. My self-imposed sense of failure was only because I tried to build randomness into my to-do list. I discovered it is called random for a reason.

Lately, I’ve come to a new sense of philanthropy, without it really feeling like I am just giving hand-outs or just looking for another tax write-off. Instead of me searching for a need to fulfill, I relax. I let my heart do the leading, and then my hands complete the task. I pray for guidance. Compassionate giving cannot be forced. It must be allowed to bloom on its own. If it is something I love or cherish or covet that I am compelled to give, all the better. Then I know it is Jesus working miracles in my heart, for the joy I experience in the giving far outweighs any happiness I could gain from the keeping.

I can write a check to the Portland Rescue Mission whenever they send a request, but that, although generous and charitable, is not personal. I do write those checks, but actually serving meals or devoting my time and talents in some other way for the homeless would touch my heart even more. If I had it to give, I could bequest a million dollars to a worthy college, but it does not become real for me unless I read the winning scholarship letters myself. The joy, for me, is in the knowing, however briefly, the story of the recipients.

My acts are not so much anonymous now. That is not the important part, though I still do not need the public recognition to make me feel good about myself. In fact, recognition embarrasses me. It makes me feel uncomfortable. It cheapens what I have done, making it more of a human thing instead of the God-inspired act it really is. My recognition comes from knowing I helped an injured animal; seeing the sparkle in a little girl’s eyes; knowing that what I give is appreciated and will be put to good use; being allowed, even momentarily, into the lives, the stories, and the struggles of others, and knowing I can accomplish something good for them.

I have made a decision about our yard sale leftovers. My darling husband is letting me divide up the mess as I see fit, instead of just hauling it all away to the Salvation Army or Goodwill. Each of those two major charities has gotten its fair share today. My main mission this week is to make sure the little guy doesn’t get left out. A young man visited our yard sale a few weeks ago and made an appeal on behalf of his Haitian charity. Five large boxes of clothes, housewares, and bedding will go to his cause. I have been chatting on line with a desperately poor young woman who has recently lost a lot of weight. She hadn’t a thing to wear, until I gave her two bags of the clothing I had had for sale. The Portland Rescue Mission, one of my favorite charities, will get seven boxes of men’s clothing, coats, hats, and bedding. In this way, I spread my joy around. Ken, who will do just about anything to please me, gladly boxed the items as I directed. He really isn’t the toughie he pretends to be. My honey is a big teddy bear.

Now that the sales and donations are done for this year, maybe next I will work on world peace.

Oh, please.

Beep Beep, Blasted Jeep

Wasn’t I just saying that we shouldn’t make plans, because God can easily trump those silly human plans?

I am beginning to wonder if I am ever meant to leave the bounds of this country, let alone the confines of my four stark white, barren walls. I have never been to Canada. I have never been to Mexico. Heck, I have barely even left the western United States. Arizona is as far east as I have ventured, and that was on a bus tour to see the Grand Canyon. We were staying in Las Vegas and ended up leaving the Grand Canyon early because a snow storm was on the way. It was November, after all. Our bus driver did not want to be stuck crossing the Grand Coulee Dam because of snow or panicked drivers, scared of a few flakes. Okay, maybe it was a big storm. Who knows? We didn’t stick around to see, and we didn’t check out the news when we got back to our hotel, either.

For three years, I even lived a stone’s throw, well a measly ferry ride, from Vancouver, BC, and I never made it across our northern border. My kids have been to Canada, without me, of course. My grandmother, from whom I get my wanderlust, flew cross country—and out of the country—several times a year with her sister, gallivanting all over, that is, until Grandpa put a stop to it. He was rather a homebody. My grandmother had such an adventuresome spirit that, after her first child passed away (premature birth complications) and when her first marriage was failing, she told that first husband that she was moving out west, with or without him. So, on her own, with divorce decree in hand, she moved from chilly North Dakota to God’s Country (aka Washington State). I have long envied her daring and self-assured nature. I have a long list of excuses as to why I have not traveled much up to this point in my life, from finances, to health issues, to trying to raise two kids alone, to anxiety and fear overtaking my life for a time. Sometimes I ask myself, would Grandma have let those things stand in her way? Probably not.

In my last entry, you may recall that I was all excited about taking the Raven on her maiden voyage. Well, those plans are in the circular file once again. The Jeep, our TOAD (towed vehicle, in RV lingo), has broken down. I had hoped that last year, after we sunk nearly $3000 into it, that it might actually be in tip-top shape, aside from needing a new top. It’s a ’92 Wrangler with a pitiful soft top right now. We have been in the market for a hard top, but have not as yet found one. As happens with older vehicles, the clutch went out, as well as another major issue I cannot remember right now. So, our little red darling is once again sucking up all our savings. It’s not enough that my medical issues have repeatedly drained our slush fund, now the Jeep has to take its share? Not fair.

We have been diligently selling off all our treasures, squirreling away all our nickels, dimes, and dollars. We didn’t have much saved up, but it was enough that I felt secure enough to travel, with sufficient funds should an emergency arise.

Bleepedy, bleep. That blasted Jeep. It isn’t a cheap fix. And so, there goes all our squirreled away nuts. Maybe I’m nuts for wanting this life. Or maybe God is just telling us we would be better off with our first trip closer to home. . .

Downsizing Dilemmas: To Keep or Not To Keep

How many serving spoons do we really need? Do I really need to keep these extra platters? What about this extra set of towels that I hate? Who needs more than two vases—a bud vase and a bouquet? Well, those really aren’t the most difficult questions of downsizing. The most difficult have to do with my hobbies. I didn’t even have that much trouble getting rid of half of my clothes.

I have a lot of hobbies. Photography. Card making. Scrapbooking. Drawing. Painting. Knitting and crochet. Wire and recycled art. Writing. Sewing and quilting. I have to take a breath now, but I am sure there are things I am forgetting.

A few months ago, I downsized my office type supplies into one of those three-drawer plastic towers and my art supplies into a medium-sized bin (other than yarn, drawing, and scrapbooking). This past week I decided they needed further cuts, and it is now all in the plastic tower, with the same exceptions, of course. The scrapbooking stuff I trimmed by 50%, and it now fits in a nice, neat case, which could easily be an airline carryon, if I ever needed to take it on a plane, anyway. Other than my portable easel, again smaller than a carryon, my drawing supplies fit in a small shoulder sling bag and a large flat portfolio. Can’t seem to downsize that, as I do have some rather large original drawings in it still. I am having trouble with the yarn. It is all so pretty. I went through it about a month ago, determined to reduce it by half, but in the end, I had only set aside a few skeins to donate to charity. Feeling guilty, I put three pairs of knitting needles, which I hate anyway, in the sale. But that really isn’t penance for keeping three large bins of yarn, is it? My achy wrists and tingly, painful hands won’t let me knit or crochet much right now, either, so there is no hope of my going through it all by May.

What to do? What to do?

I know!

“If at first we don’t succeed, try, try again.”

We are having a huge yard sale this weekend, and today it went quite well. I would, however, like to see all of the little stuff go: kitchen wares, Creative Memories scrapbooking stuff, linens. I really don’t care about the toys and games, kid’s clothes, and old style phones. Who uses house phones any more, anyway?

I just want to get rid of the stuff and get on the road. I am promised that after this sale, we will be packing everything up and putting some away for a future sale and the rest will go for donation. After all, Salvation Army is practically right across the street from us. I am also promised that we will take the Raven on her maiden voyage, but I am not sure which direction we will be going. Beach or mountains? Beach or mountains? They are both so tempting. Then again, so is Canada. I am promised that we will be gone for two whole weeks. Oh, the glory of it all. I am so looking forward to leaving again.

What are you looking forward to?

How many red purses does one woman need?

"Mommmm, Daddy said we are gonna go bye bye."

"I give up."