Month: June 2017

Of Swamps and Other Watery Delights

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

ultimate-swamp-adventuresWe crowded together under the canopy of a flat bottom boat along with visitors from all over the world. It seemed a strange thing to be able to do in the middle of a bustling suburb of New Orleans just minutes away from the French Quarter. Under the shadow of concrete levees and three huge pumps we slowly drifted into a swamp filled with delights from Mother Nature hidden from the raucous tourists who flock to this strange below sea level area.

Cypress trees shaded the water and provided perches for the egrets who lounged on the protruding knees. Imported lilies triumphantly grew in spite of human efforts to rid the area of the plants intent on choking out all other forms of life. Maples and other trees lined and shaded our passage way as we drew farther and farther away from the signs of civilization. The only sounds were that of the motor on our boat and the occasional squawking of the feathered population. It was a strangely heavenly place in spite of the alligators lurking under the surface.

Occasionally one of the sharp toothed critters surfaced in hopes of garnering attention and a marshmallow from our guide. They came in all sizes and personalities. Some seemed to smile at us and others growled to chase us away. Now and again the our calm was intruded upon by other groups riding in obnoxiously loud airboats complete with guests shouting and cheering in what seemed inappropriate behavior for the almost sacred feel of the swampy environ. I was always relieved that they sped away quickly, vanishing into the undergrowth of one of the tributaries.

It was a cloudy day which somehow made our journey more spectacular. Without warning the sky opened up and a heavy downpour beat out a cadence on the roof of our conveyance. The spray soaked our shoes and spattered on our legs. A group from California jokingly asked what the precipitation might be, feigning an ignorance born from months of drought in their home state. As the laughter receded the questions centered on what hurricane Katrina had done to the watery preserve on which we floated. Our guide explained that it had been saved from any damage other than that from the power of the winds that blew through the trees.

On what should have been a hot and humid day we were cooled by a steady breeze and the continuous falling of raindrops. Somehow it seemed to be perfect weather for our exploration. Thankfully ours was a rather quiet and respectful group of humans who displayed our awe for the glorious sights we were seeing with silent reflection.

All too soon our tour was over and we were disembarking with a far better sense of our own places in the grand scheme of things. Our guide had helped us to understand that we are in many ways only visitors on our planet and as such we have a responsibility to leave it as pristine as we possibly can.

Next to the business offering the swamp adventure we had just taken was an open air fresh seafood market. In stalls lining a huge parking lot there were bins filled with shrimp and crabs just delivered from the boats we had seen in the harbor. We were taken by the friendliness of the vendors and their knowledge of how to cook and preserve the lovely gifts from the sea. We purchased five pounds of exquisite shrimp from a woman named Jerri whose Cajun accent delighted us as much as her warm and open personality.

One of Jerri’s customers was a man who had lost most of what he had owned in Katrina. His wife and children had moved to Houston and never returned. He still lived and worked in New Orleans and commuted back and forth on weekends between the two cities. He was unceremoniously proud that his daughter had just graduated from high school with honors and had received a full scholarship for college. In between guiding us in the selection of the best shrimp and explaining how to use it, he boasted that his girl wanted to be a doctor and had the smarts to achieve her goal.

That night we boiled some of the shrimp and froze the rest in the manner prescribed by the helpful folks at the market. There was something so special about sitting in our trailer munching on the lovely pink seafood while reliving the day’s remarkable events with our grandson Ian. I can’t say that I have ever in my life tasted better shrimp but I wonder if the gloriousness of our experiences had somehow colored my impressions.

I’ve got more of the shrimp that we purchased just waiting inside my freezer for a planned celebration with my family later this week. I’m certain that as we enjoy it I will think back on that lovely day in the swamp when I somehow felt an unlikely kinship with the beauty and the glory of a place so unfit for human habitation that it had managed to survive even as people carved up the surrounding land, sometimes damaging it with their hubris. It was a hidden world where things were as they should be, and it felt just right. The seafood market also spoke of a different kind of era when vendors gathered in a public place to hawk their wares in a friendly and intimate kind of business agreement. There was time to talk and get to know one another while making deals that made everyone feel good. Somehow we had stumbled onto a perfect day that we will undoubtedly never forget.

The Lights

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

2There are so many houses, so many people. I pass them as I go about my daily routines. I see them as I travel from one town to another. Some are so lovely and inviting, others not so much. I wonder who inhabits them and try to imagine what life is like for them. Of course I will never really know the truth of what goes on inside those walls. Experience has taught me that appearances do not always define reality, and yet I find myself imagining what is happening in those places over and over again.

We are a world of millions and millions of people. We have hearts and brains and blood coursing through our veins. We need food and water and love to thrive. We are so much alike, and yet we have our differences. What we see and hear in our homes influences us for the good or the bad. From the time that we are children we either feel safe and secure or frightened and bewildered. Not all homes are castles and not all castles are homes.

I remember a time when a woman living in River Oaks shot and killed her well known and renowned husband. Few who were familiar with the couple had any idea that she was living in a state of fear from the continuous abuse that she was enduring at his hands. Instead her life appeared to be ideal, the kind of existence that most of us dream of experiencing. It was shocking to learn the dark details of the happenings inside what should have been a haven. Even her closest friends were appalled when they heard her testimony at trial. I remember thinking that I might have been envious of her lifestyle of the rich and famous had she not ultimately shed light on the truth with her act of desperation.

I often ponder a visit to a woman that my grandmother Minnie wanted me to meet when I was only six years old. As we drove to the lady’s house Grandma did her best to prepare me for what I might encounter. Her words were insufficient in describing the abject poverty in which the woman lived. The house was what might politely be called a hovel. It literally appeared to be falling down around the family that resided within. The lady herself had the physical appearance of someone worn down by life’s continuous challenges, and yet when she smiled she had the face of a beautiful angel. She was transformed as she spoke so sweetly of her wonderful children and the love that she shared with them was apparent as she proudly introduced each of them and bragged on their abilities. After spending an afternoon with her I realized that she was a truly happy, optimistic and faith filled woman in spite of her circumstances, and my grandmother later told me that she thought that her friend was one of the grandest people that she had ever known.

We each approach the circumstances of our lives just a bit differently. So often our possessions or wealth have little bearing on how we will react to our daily trials and blessings. For some there is never enough, and so they stew in discontent regardless of how lucky they have been. For others little more is necessary to bring a sense of satisfaction than seeing the dawn of a new day. The happiest people are not those who pursue things, but those who embrace the simple act of living with an open and generous heart. It is not the dinner at a wonderful restaurant that brings us the most joy, but the sharing of that moment with people for whom we care. The food that sustains us best is love.

We are never in complete control of our lives. Things happen to us with or without our consent. A loved one dies. A flood destroys our worldly goods. We receive a devastating medical diagnosis. Someone we thought was a friend betrays us. Such things happen inevitably to everyone. It is in how we choose to address our realities that we become the true masters of our destinies. We each have the power to rise above the horrors that stalk us just as my grandmother’s friend seemed to have done.

We don’t have to be victims of circumstance wallowing in self pity. We can cry and rage just enough to vent the poisonous feelings that haunt us when things get bad. It is only natural to do so, but eventually we must show the strength that resides inside each and every one of us. It can be terrifying and lonely to do so, but in the end those who do truly find the happiness and contentment that we all seek. The light beaming from their homes comes not from incandescent bulbs but from the joy that resides in their souls.

Grit, determination, inventiveness, generosity, caring…these are characteristics that make a house a home for everyone who lives inside. When we see our role models striving day after day to make love the center of our personal universes we in turn learn how to deal positively with all of the difficulties that will most certainly befall us. When we only experience despair and hatefulness we often begin to emulate the traits of hopelessness that drive us into constant cycles of depression and loneliness. If we are fortunate we will encounter the hand up that we need to break the chains that have imprisoned us in our own minds. Luckily there are teachers, ministers and friends who often teach us how to be our better selves.

No life is ever a complete loss. Until the last breath is drawn everyone has the possibility of changing for the better. Jesus Himself taught us this wonderful truth as He was dying on the cross when the thief begged for and received God’s forgiveness.

I am one of the fortunate ones, but I have seen children enduring the ugly effects of tragically violent and loveless homes. I know from working with them that they can be saved, and I have time and again witnessed incredibly giving souls reaching out to the psychologically wounded and making a profound difference. I am always humbled when I witness such selfless acts of love, and I think of how wonderful it will be to have one more home glowing with the lights of optimism and hope simply because someone cared.

Just as my grandmother Minnie most likely expected I was changed by my encounter with her neighbor. It taught me not to judge a book by its cover and how to value the character of a person over possessions. I still treasure the memory of sitting next to Grandma after our visit and hearing the wisdom in her voice as she coached me on life. I suppose that she knew that there were many challenges ahead of me and she wanted me to realize that I would be able to endure almost anything as long as I remembered to draw on the gifts that reside in each of our beings. Now as I look back on the battles that I have won and even those that I have lost I think of the people who stood resolutely by my side and realize how wealthy I have been.

Be that life changing person for someone. Keep the lights of happiness burning brightly in as many homes as possible.

A Facebook Story

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

h0fvargheeyaybm4oyytI’ve been a member of Facebook for some time now, so I’ve watched it change. In the beginning it was a great way for me to keep up with friends and even to find people that I had lost along the way. Over time I accumulated a rather large following and I suppose that it was the same for most of the people who had signed up for the service. I understand that it would be rather chaotic if the posts from my hundreds of friends were to show up on my wall each day. It somewhat made sense that the folks at Facebook had to find a way to tame the beast so to speak. The result was the creation of various algorithms designed to ferret out the main people whose posts they thought I would most like to see. Unfortunately the rendering of a mathematical analysis resulted in my losing touch with a number of individuals with whom I had happily reunited. Facebook appears to think that I mostly want to hear from relatives and people who are my own age. While I have definitely enjoyed hearing from those individuals I have to admit that I am angry that I no longer see the posts from so many of my younger friends. The Facebook methodology is a rather presumptuous way of determining whose photos and comments I will see from day to day and who will see mine.

Since I write a blog each weekday I eventually created a special page on which to share the information. The idea was to find a larger audience for my stories. Admittedly it has been a bit of a bust in the last year or so, and I suspect that it is because Facebook is doing the same kind of things with that account that it does with my main one. In other words over half of the people who I number as my friends never see the post. Adding insult to injury is the fact that Facebook is perfectly willing to boost my reach if I pay them a certain amount each month. Since I am unwilling to give them any money we appear to be at an impasse.

I suppose that I should be happy enough that Facebook provides me with an advertising platform, albeit quite small, but a few years ago I was managing to inform around four to five hundred people a day in the same venue. Now I am lucky to gain the notice of a hundred. Perhaps it is the result of my writing having grown dull, or maybe it is because of another one of those strange Facebook algorithms, which leads me to another bone that I wish to pick.

Since setting up a page for my blog I have written over four hundred fifty entries, each with a special image attached. I tend to believe that a photo has a certain ability to entice people to read my thoughts, so I never simply use words. Awhile back I composed a piece about Heinrich Himmler. I had seen a documentary about him that prompted me to consider how often we have monsters in our midst whose physical appearance and background seems so harmless. The theme of my essay revolved around the horrors that this seemingly innocuous individual managed to perpetrate. My composition was in reality a verbal takedown of Himmler and his henchmen, and as usual I included a picture to illustrate my points.

For some reason out of the four hundred fifty odd other images that I had posted Facebook chose to single out the Himmler photo and display it prominently on my page as an example of what I have to offer. Seeing that horrible face again and again quickly began to irritate me, but I hoped that it would eventually be replaced by a newer offering. Day after day after day I had to look at that mugshot and wonder what someone who did not know me might think about that image being so prominently displayed on my wall. I began to worry that Facebook had some kind of algorithm designed to find right wing extremists and that perhaps they had pegged me as someone to watch because I had used that picture.

I’m a bit hard headed so I decided just to wait and see what might eventually happen, but the image never went away. They did not replace it with the lovely photos of my students or Mother Theresa or the heavens. Somehow the people who decide such things thought that it should stay. Finally in sheer desperation, and my own aversion to constantly viewing that mug, I simply deleted the entire post. He is gone forever from my wall but I truly wonder what kind of indelible and erroneous impression I may have made on someone who has never met me or read my ideas.

The world of social media can be a very scary place in which we take risks each time that we reveal a bit of ourselves. We never really know who is seeing our posts nor how they are interpreting them. I suspect that from time to time we all draw hasty conclusions about things that we see without ever bothering to read more about them or even to ask questions about why they are there. We fall for stories that are dubious without following up to determine their veracity or lack of it. We make instantaneous judgements and read between the lines overlaying our own thoughts on others. We question the intelligence of someone because of grammatically confusing posts and poor word choices when sometimes those errors are the result of autocorrect. What we think we see can be a real slippery slope of incorrect judgement, and in today’s world lots of people are being tried and found guilty in the court of public opinion without virtue of valid evidence.

I have so few visitors to my blog Facebook page that I’m probably okay, especially now that Himmler”s ugly mug is gone, but my own story made me think about how we all too often indict people without ever seeking explanations for the things that we think we see them doing. Mine is a good lesson in both being circumspect in how we present things and taking care not to draw swift conclusions. I have long held that our first recourse should be to give people the benefit of doubt. In most cases they are innocent of bad intentions. Only after we have assembled facts and evidence should we make judgements that might prove them guilty.

We are all too often manipulated by a steady barrage of opinions and innuendo from questionable sources. A good way to combat the propaganda is to always start by assuming the best and then put in the time and work to uncover the truth.

 

Time Flies

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

Time-Flying-By-For-Sunny-And-Her-Sweetheart-3-kraucik83-21592704-380-270Time flies when you’re having fun! I celebrated my fiftieth high school class reunion last October. This year marks the fiftieth anniversary of the Beatles groundbreaking masterpiece Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Heart’s Club Band. I’ve been attending countless seventieth birthday parties for friends. We are nearing the time when it will have been half a century since we traveled to the moon. News clips from my teenage years look like ancient history, and I find myself explaining what life was like back then to my grandchildren as though I am speaking of the Middle Ages.

Of course all of it seems like yesterday to me. I can’t imagine where the time went or how my contemporaries became so gray. I remember my biology teacher telling me that one day I might begin to shrink as my bones aged. I found his conversation to be bizarre at the time but now I measure my height and find that I have lost two and a half inches to the effects of osteoporosis. The arthritis in my knees has caused my legs to bow. My hair is thinner than it once was. My face is beginning to wrinkle. Time has visibly changed me and my long time friends, just as it has done to people for centuries. Our aging is as inevitable as the rising of the sun.

I do my best to stay in concert with the times. I had a great role model for that in my grandfather who read voraciously and interacted with the young people from his church often enough to keep his fingers on the pulse of the world. I myself attempt to be informed by staying involved with friends of all ages. I like to travel and observe. Much as my grandfather did, I read constantly. I talk with my grandchildren to learn about the current state of things.

Still I have a very difficult time accepting that I have traveled through so many decades. In my mind everything happened to me only yesterday. I suppose that I view myself as a fresh faced twenty year old rather than someone nearing her sixty ninth birthday. I literally forget that I am old in the eyes of most individuals until I experience the deference that people so respectfully give to senior citizens. I realize that nobody needs to check my driver’s license anymore to determine if I am of age. I often shock myself when I glance in a mirror. It takes me a second to recognize the older woman whose image is reflected in the glass. My brain and my body seem almost to be at odds.

What is the most remarkable to me is how quickly I have rushed through the many phases and milestones of living. I have been so busy that I hardly took time to notice the clock or the calendar. I’m still mentally sitting in a rocking chair holding my babies and singing to them, but the reality is that both of my girls are middle aged women with children of their own who are rapidly nearing adulthood.

I remember my first day of teaching as though it happened only minutes ago. I can see my students sitting expectantly in front of me not knowing that my heart was beating with fears that I would not be able to provide them with the guidance that they needed. One group after another came to me and I poured out my knowledge and my love in the hopes that I might somehow make a difference in their lives. All the while the clock was ticking and I never took note until one day I was walking away from a career that I so loved and handing over my responsibilities to a younger generation.

Wasn’t it just last night when I married the man who has been my best friend for decades? When did we come to think in tandem, so much so that we complete sentences for one another and read each other’s minds? How is it that he still makes me catch my breath now and again when I see him and realize that he has loved me faithfully for so many years? I can’t believe that I have lived with him longer than I did with my parents.

The world keeps turning through its twenty four hour cycles, its three hundred sixty five day years. We work and play, celebrate and grieve. We are but a small part of a history that moves relentlessly forward. What seemed like forever when I was a child now feels too quick. I want to squeeze every single drop out of time and all too often I feel rushed in my efforts. There is so much more that I want to see and do and experience. I worry that I won’t get to everything on my bucket list. I tell myself to slow down and linger longer over the moments that I have.

I more and more find myself enjoying the slower quieter times. Spending a few hours with my father-in-law seems like a gift. Sitting in my garden watching the birds is more exciting than attending a concert. Perhaps this is a sign of age, or maybe it simply means that I have learned to value simplicity and the true essence of living.

I think of walks that I took with my grandmother in the hills behind her farm. We did little more than stroll under the shade of ancient trees listening for the songs of the birds and breathing in the fragrances of the grasses and wildflowers. We were quiet and deliberate in our personal journey as though ours was some sacred quest not to be rushed or intruded upon. My grandmother was in her eighties by then. She had developed a wisdom that I did not yet completely understand or appreciate. It would be years before I would look back on the simple conversations that we shared and understand their importance.

Each day, each minute is precious. We take time for granted when instead we should treasure it. It won’t be long till we are wistfully looking back and wondering where it all went. If we have used our hours well we will also be able to point with pride to the purposes that we have fulfilled.

  

True Love

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

true-love_2767240He and his friend were giddy in an anticipation of their inside joke. It was a sibling setup, the kind of thing that big brothers sometime do to their little sisters for a laugh. It was supposed to just be all in good fun. He had agreed to go along with the impish brother’s plan to embarrass his unwitting sister, but he was unprepared for what would actually happen.

The two men sat at a table eating the dinner special. Just as agreed he demanded to speak with the cook, his coconspirator’s target. They winked at each other in anticipation of her reaction, stifling their amusement until the preplanned time. She seemed to suddenly appear, a tiny little thing with a puzzled look meekly inquiring, “May I help you sir?”

His chest heaved. His throat constricted. He had not expected to be so taken with her. Suddenly this was no longer a joke. He had never before been so utterly thunderstruck by another human being. His brain began whirring as he knew that he had to abandon the original plan. He took a deep breath and smiled at her. “I wanted to know who made this delicious food. I wanted to tell you to be prepared, because I am going to marry you one day.” 

She smiled and quickly glanced at her confused brother with the kind of knowing look that siblings give one another. It was a sweet moment, and little could she have known that the gentleman who had so complimented her would indeed one day be her husband.

Theirs would be a true love story. He called her his “buddy” and they not only shared the gift of parenting two children but also enjoyed just being together. He showered her with affection and she made him feel more of a man than he felt that he really was. They laughed their way through life’s ups and downs, sharing dreams and hard work and disappointments. They were a team as perfect as ever there was and then came the diagnosis.

She was very sick. The cancer had spread throughout her body. They dismissed her from the hospital and sent her home to die. He was by her side day and night, rarely leaving for more than a few minutes. He became her nurse, caring for her medical needs and soothing her when the pain became almost unbearable. He lay beside her running his hands through her hair and caressing her fevered cheek. He reminded her of how much he had always loved her. He silently prayed for a miracle that would never come.

He was bereft when she died. He never quit talking about her even as the years stretched from one to ten to twenty. His eyes would light up when he told stories of their time together. She was still the love of his life and never a day went by that he did not miss her. He kept her photograph on his bedside table. She was the first thing that he saw each morning and the last thing before he fell asleep each night.

Eventually he too became ill. Not even surgery helped. He slowly sank into a state of confusion that we thought had been brought on by the drugs designed to ease his pain. He told us that she had come to visit him and asked if we had seen her. He seemed happier than he had been in a very long time, and then only a few days later he died.

Love is a beautiful thing, and I am a sucker for stories and movies about romance whether they are tragic or comic. I suspect that I am not alone in that regard. The world has been savoring literature from Romeo and Juliet to Pride and Prejudice for centuries. Mostly the characters of such efforts are young and beautiful. Their’s is love borne out of the passions of youth. Rarely do we see the chronicles of older couples, and yet in so many ways those tales are far more moving. It is in the twilight years that the true ardor of a coupling often becomes the most apparent. Thus it was with my grandparents, and this was their story, one that resonates again and again. They had created a bond with one another that was profound.

Such moving partnerships tend to be quiet and seemingly ordinary and yet each of us has witnessed such unwavering love between people that we have known. These kinds of relationships are selfless and spiritual. They are examples of exactly how young couples should strive to be with one another. Such couples survive all of the challenges that real life throws at them because their partnerships are not shallow, but rather based on a deep and abiding connection between two souls that grows as the two share milestone after milestone.

Instead of watching silly reality shows about superficial people who look for love in all the wrong places we should ask the true survivors to share their experiences. We need to hear from the couple that makes the time to laugh and celebrate regularly with their children, grandchildren and great grandchildren. We would be wise to hear from the caring and devoted wife whose husband has been sidelined by ill health. How nice it would be to realize that love ultimately has little to do with appearance or status and that contentment may be had just sitting together in a backyard.

We all too often paint a very misleading picture of love and marriage for our young. They harbor expectations but rarely think of their own obligations. They forget the importance of their own kindness and patience. They don’t understand the power of being someone’s “buddy.” True soulmates walk with one another through rain, fire and glory. They grow together with all that such an idea implies.

I worry a bit about our world. The kinds of connections that were so visible between my grandmother and grandfather are no longer happening as frequently as they once did. So many are afraid to become committed to another. We have far too many broken and toxic relationships, and I wonder how our young will learn how to truly love as I did from my grandparents. It is in the role models that we see and the stories that we share that we form our own ideas of how to behave with someone that we love. Sadly of late we tend to be focused on the underbelly of marriage rather than the most beautiful examples of how it should be.

If we truly want to be the change that we wish to see then it is up to each of us to find the most incredible couples that we know and introduce their stories to the world. It is time that we once again see just how extraordinary love can be.