Mad Mary of Bath

The Roman Baths in Bath, England. 

In 2017, I attended my friends’ wedding in the beautiful English countryside near Bath. After the wedding, I spent several days in that lovely city learning about its ancient Roman history and touring its grand architecture and gardens. But, soon it was time to catch the bus for a short journey to my next destination. The bus station was bustling with people when I arrived. I found the bus schedule and located an empty seat on a three-person bench close to the terminal where I would catch my bus. I sat down on one end of the bench next to two young women. We offered up greetings to each other, then each returned to our own thoughts and tasks at hand. I am not antisocial, but I tend to keep to myself in new situations and am more of an observer than a talker.

A few minutes later the young woman sitting next to me left to catch her bus, leaving that seat empty. That was when I saw her. I guessed her age to be late 60’s or early 70’s and she walked with an awkward shuffle, shifting her ample weight from one foot to the other with each step. She was wearing burgundy sweat pants tucked into rain boots, a black sweatshirt, and a wool jacket in a red, yellow, and black Aztec print. A blue cameo pin rested on her lapel and her gray hair was peeking out from a green stocking cap. She looked my way. I immediately thought to myself, “Don’t sit by me! Don’t sit by me! Don’t sit by me!” I said it over and over in my head, but the gray-haired woman ambled over to the bench and quite literally plopped down next to me. I was relieved when she started a conversation with the young woman sitting on the other end of the bench. I felt myself relax a bit.

I watched as people passed by and called out greetings to the eclectically dressed woman next to me. It was obvious that she was a local and was well known. Business men in suits waved and said hello. Women corralling their children through the crowds called her by name. Her name was Mary. I was quite curious now and much more at ease. She was definitely considered part of the normal happenings at the Bath bus station.

Then the captive audience on the other end of the bench made her escape and boarded a bus. I was left alone with this very unusual woman. As if on cue, another woman walked over and struck up a conversation with Mary. She was quite thin and tall. Her attire was also quite eccentric. She wore a dark green canvas coat that hung heavy off her shoulders. It was several sizes too large. The hem of a purple dress hung out from under the bottom of the coat. It was a stark contradiction. It was an evening dress with sequins and sheer layers of fabric. It hung several inches below the woman’s knees, but wasn’t long enough to cover the patchy splotches of red skin on her legs. She wore heavy lace-up shoes and her appearance was haggard. 

I felt a bit guilty as I eavesdropped on their conversation. The thin woman was named Jean and she had lost a family member named Peter. She told Mary that she had taken Peter’s ashes to the sea to spread them back into the natural world. She took them on his birthday, and as she started to scatter the ashes, a group of turtles gathered around the boat. Mary questioned, “Turtles?” The woman replied, “Yes, turtles!” Jean continued her story by saying that the driver of the boat had never seen turtles in that location and that they were rare. Mary questioned again, “Turtles?” and the woman again replied, “Yes, turtles!” She continued, explaining that Peter loved turtles. Mary was getting more excited as the story progressed and she would repeat the woman’s words back to her over and over again. Restating that the turtles were rare and not common in that area, then questioning again that Peter loved turtles.

Then Mary spoke boldly to Jean, stating, “We are all connected in life and nature. The turtles were there to greet him.” Her voice became even more excited as her conversation with Jean transitioned into talking about her loved one who had died. They discussed his struggles in life and how Jean should work her way through her grief. At the height of the conversation, Mary said, “We can fly on the wings of doves, on chariots of fire. Our reach is longer than our grasp. We are very important, dear. All of us. We must blow our own trumpet, dear. And we must not judge the book by its cover.”

Her last sentence hit me hard. “We must not judge the book by its cover.” That was exactly what I had done when Mary shuffled over and sat next to me on the bench. Immediately, I made a conscious decision to set my judgments about Mary aside and be open to having a conversation. Right after I had that thought, Jean said her goodbyes and walked away, leaving the bus station.

That was when Mary turned toward me and greeted me with a hearty, “Hello!” It was then that I noticed her harsh eye makeup and rouge. It looked to be a day or two old. It was faded, but still indicated the heavy hand that had applied it to her skin. Blue eyeshadow, darkly drawn brows, and brightly colored cheeks……it looked almost clown-like. Then I saw a cluster of dark green, shiny leaves pinned to the front of her sweatshirt. Mary was definitely an interesting woman.

I returned her greeting and she pulled away from me slightly, turning her head to get a better look at me. She introduced herself as Mary. Then she added, “Actually, I am Mad Mary. That is what I call myself. It makes people wonder about me.” She let out a hearty laugh. I laughed with her and she became emboldened. Mad Mary continued, “It’s the truth!” She leaned forward, her eyes wide, and in a deep, rather sinister voice, said, “I am Mad Mary! You don’t know what I’ll do!” Then she laughed again, turning back toward me. “Of course, I am not mad. It’s just fun to make people think I am.”  I liked her more with every word she spoke!

Mad Mary told me about her son, who lived with her. He had fallen on difficult times and was currently struggling to find work. She said that she loved him and that he was a good person. He helped her around the house with chores and handy man things that she couldn’t do.

She then pulled a wad of British notes out of her pocket and held them up in front of her. She said that God was with her that day…..that He would provide for her. Mad Mary told me she was taking 20 pounds to the store and she had faith that she would bring back 40 pounds of groceries because God would take care of her. She trusted him and he provided for her every week. Every time she went to the market, He turned 20 pounds into 40 pounds of groceries.

There was a lull in our conversation when she leaned around again to look at me. With a serious tone she asked an interesting question, “There is someone in your family that is a preacher or tied to the church, isn’t there?” I felt a tingle run up my spine. Why did she think that? How did she know? I responded, “Yes, my grandfather was a preacher.” Mad Mary grew excited again. “I knew it! You have an energy about you. I knew you were a spiritual person. I knew you were from a family of spiritual people.” Again, I felt a little off kilter from her intuitive statement, but I told her about my maternal grandparents, Bob and Verna Sharp. I explained how they helped establish the foundation of my spiritual beliefs and how they set such a powerful example of living from a place of love.

At the next lull in the conversation, I asked Mad Mary about the leaves pinned to the front of her sweatshirt. She explained that she wore them to have nature with her at all times. The glossy green leaves were her reminder to look for Him in nature….to spend time in nature….and to stay connected to God through nature. “You don’t have to find Him in a church, you can find Him in nature.” I told her I agreed….that I was a nature lover also and that I felt the closest to God when I was outside in the natural elements.

Then she asked me another surprising question. Mad Mary asked, “You are an artist, aren’t you?” Again, I felt a shiver as I thought to myself, “How did she know that?” I replied, “Yes, I am an artist.” She exclaimed, “I knew you were an artist. You have the energy of an artist.” Mad Mary continued her questioning. “Do you paint or draw?” “No,” I replied. “I am a gourd artist and photographer.” She was unfamiliar with gourd art, so I showed her my Gratitude Gourds Facebook page. She oohed and awed over the photos and I explained how I dry the gourds and drawn the designed on by hand before burning the pattern into the shell of the gourd. Then Mad Mary asked if I would like to see her sketches. I quickly replied that I would love to see them. She dug through one of her bags and pulled out a sketch book. She flipped it open to a page covered with a beautiful pencil sketch of fish and seashells. Now it was my turn to ooh and awe! The next page featured flowers. Mad Mary proudly showed me page after page of lovely sketches of nature. She seemed appreciative of having an audience with which to share her talent. We discussed the challenges and rewards of creating art.

As the departure time for my bus crept closer, I started to gather up my belongings. I looked over at Mary and asked her if I could take a picture with her. She threw her thick hands up in the air and exclaimed, “You want to take a picture of me?” I told her that I take pictures of people I meet on my trips and that I would love to have a picture with her. She smoothed her stocking hat and straightened her jacket as I leaned closer and held my cell phone out in front of us. I took a couple of photos and then she pointed her index finger up into the air and said, “It’s all about Him….it’s all about God.” I took a few more photos then told her I had enjoyed meeting her and I hoped that everything weighing on her in her life would work out well.

I gathered my backpack and made my way across the station to my departure gate. As I looked back over my shoulder, Mad Mary had left her spot on the bench and was making her way to the exit door of the bus station.

I doubt that Mad Mary thinks about me or our conversation, but I recall it rather often. My encounter with her is one of the most beautiful interactions I have had with another human being. Neither of us had anything to prove. We were just two people sharing a bench and an appreciation for God, nature, art, and the intricacies of life. And, she also made me realize that it is okay if people think you are mad….perhaps it is even more than okay! Perhaps it is brilliant!

 

 

 

 

 

  

A Gift for Dan

I didn’t like Dan Case the first time I met him. He clearly doted on my sister, but there was something about him that made me uncertain. I perceived him as arrogant, but over time, I came to see him differently. I came to see the real Dan. I came to see him as a man who cared deeply and loved big, especially with my sister. They eventually married and he became a permanent part of my family. We all came to love Dan Case.

In early December of 2014, Dan was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer and the effects of the cancer and the necessary treatments hit Dan quickly. Over a period of months he changed from a bold, dynamic man to someone who couldn’t get out of bed. Following several hospitalizations and a brief stay in a full-time care facility, Barbra brought Dan home for the duration of his illness. It was the summer of 2015. Barbra was trying to balance caring for Dan with normal daily tasks. She was also working full-time in her floral design business while trying to negotiate its sale. She was exhausted and Dan was bored at home. I was able to visit him in their home every few weeks during the summer and early fall. We spent the afternoons discussing politics, good food, family, travel, and horses. Dan, and his family, raised racehorses and ran them at Remington Park. He loved to talk about horses. 

He continued to ponder future events and planned things he was going to do in the coming months and years. Only on a rare occasion did he indicate any acceptance of his predictable death. On one visit, our discussion turned to my upcoming trip to the United Kingdom. We talked about how exciting it would be to be surrounded by such history. Dan asked me to get his wallet off the dresser. He thumbed through it and handed me $200 in cash. He told me to bring him something from my trip. He wanted something old. He suggested a coin. Actually, he mentioned a coin several times, but he told me to surprise him. I promised I would find just the right thing.  

Dan died the next week. We threw ourselves into grieving and navigating the new normal as the departure date for my trip neared. I asked Barbra if she wanted me to use Dan’s money to buy his surprise gift or if she wanted it returned. She instructed me to buy Dan’s gift. So I tucked the bills into a separate section of my wallet and reaffirmed my intention to find the perfect gift for Dan; a remembrance gift.

The little stash of money was never far from my mind as I walked the streets of London and browsed the local shops of the Lake District. Nothing stood out or spoke to me. I stopped in multiple shops in Inverness with the sole purpose of finding the right gift for Dan. I held many items in my hands, but nothing resonated. I came up empty every time. There were a few moments when I was afraid I would not find exactly what he and I had discussed. But I quickly pushed such thoughts out of my mind and stayed focused on remaining open to the gift finding me.

After Inverness, I traveled to the Isle of Skye where tourist shops were almost nonexistent. In Broadford, I passed by a small metal building set in a parking lot in the middle of town. The sign on the building read, "Antiques, Bric-a-Brac & Curios". I pulled in and parked. As I walked up to the door, my steps crunching on gravel, I was greeted by a friendly black cat. This place had good energy. Maybe I would find Dan’s gift here. As I stepped into the store I chuckled to myself. Every surface was covered with treasures, knick knacks, and antiques. There was a narrow path that meandered among the possibilities. I looked carefully, but nothing stood out. Maybe I needed to look more closely. I circled back through the maze of jewelry, small furniture pieces, and pottery. I picked up a Beatrix Potter piece for a gift and a brooch of sterling silver with a beautiful black stone for myself, but nothing for Dan. The next stop on my trip was Edinburgh. 

I spent my first morning in Edinburgh dodging the rain and visiting traditional stops: St. Giles Cathedral, the Grassmarket, and Edinburgh Castle. After leaving the castle, I started the long walk toward my hotel. As I strolled down the Royal Mile, I glanced across to the other side of the street and my gaze was drawn to a small shop snuggled in a row of mismatched buildings. I really can’t say what drew me to the shop, but I felt an insistent need to stop.

The sign above the front window read, "Royal Mile Curios, established 1875" and I crossed the street to see what treasures were on display. As I stared through the glass, a medallion stood out among the exquisite jewelry and antique coins. The medallion looked to be silver and "For Best Foal" was engraved on one side. I caught my breath! This might be it! My hands shook slightly as I opened the heavy door and entered the tiny shop. I approached the counter and was greeted by an elderly Scotsman wearing a lovely wool suit complete with a vest and bow tie. I asked if I could see the medallion in the window….the one with the "best foal" engraving. The distinguished looking gentleman retrieved it and carefully laid it on the counter. It was secured in a smooth leather case. He explained, as he opened the case, that he also had its original velvet bag. He took the medallion out of the case and handed it to me. When the cool metal touched my skin, I felt a tingle of energy run through my hand. I turned it over and read the inscription, “For Best Foal, 1886”. My whole body trembled. I looked at the price and with a quick mental conversion from pounds to dollars, I realized the price was just under $200.

So there I stood, turning the medallion over in my hands, reading the engraving over again and again. I couldn’t believe it was real. Tears quietly ran down my cheeks, my legs felt weak, and my hands continued to shake. The kind man behind the counter said in his heavy Scottish brogue, “I am not going to ask, but this is obviously important to you.” I nodded and stammered, “It is. It is perfect.”  

The price of the coin was almost exactly the amount Dan had given me. It was old, just as Dan had wanted. It was a type of coin, just as Dan had mentioned. It was engraved with a horse, which represented Dan perfectly. This was exactly the item which I had been seeking.

The dapper gentleman carefully placed the medallion into the leather case and slipped the case into the velvet bag. I wiped my tears, retrieved Dan's cash, and paid for my prized purchase. I then slipped it into my purse along with the change. 

As I exited onto the bustling High Street, I was a bundle of mixed emotions. I was excited that after weeks of traipsing about England and Scotland….searching through antique stores and curio shops…..wondering if I would find the perfect item….I had found it! I also realized I was grieving for Dan. I wanted desperately to take this purchase home to him. I could only imagine what he would have said....what his expression would have been. I could only imagine the conversations we would have had about how I found his perfect gift.

I carried Dan’s horse medallion in my purse for the remainder of my trip, not trusting its safety in my luggage. It accompanied me through the streets of Liverpool, into the Welsh mountains of Snowdonia, and across the English countryside of the Jurassic Coast. At long last, I brought it home and presented it to my sister, Barbra. The exchange was a mix of emotions: tears of grief, hugs of joy, and exclamations of amazement about the appropriateness of the medallion. We both agreed that Dan would have loved it. It really was the perfect gift. And, without a doubt, I did not find it....it found me! 

 

Father's Day 2020: A Difficult Year

The bouquet of wildflowers gathered from my
property in memory of my dad. 

Many years the day comes and goes without any noticeable change in my energy level or emotion. This is not one of those years. Perhaps it is the added emotion of world events. Perhaps it is the sense of upheaval and heaviness that has been weighing on me for the past several weeks…..a sense of massive misunderstanding, disrespectful behavior, and a lack of compassion in the world. I truly don’t know why this year is different, but the arrival of Father’s Day has pulled the energy right out of me. I miss him. Every damn day, I miss him. My mother says I am a lot like him…..that I remind her of him. I will take that as a compliment.

It is so hard this year to not focus on everything we were denied. The weddings, holidays, special occasions that have come and gone since his passing. I feel a bit of anger and a whole lot of sadness. I think of him daily. This summer has been a “catch up” year on my property. I have been digging thistles and cutting dock with a vengeance. He is with me every time. When we were young, he would offer my younger sister and I a small amount of money for each thistle we cut or dug up. I sure wish he was here to pay me now! Actually, I would love to have him next to me with each step on the shovel or cut of the loppers. I would love to tell him about the huge buck that is grazing my property or about the wild blackberries growing in the fence line. He would have loved my place. I can see him fishing at the pond and walking the paths with me. He would have given me wonderful advice on how to be a good steward of this 21 acres.

My Dad sighting in his deer rifle. It had more
kick than he thought and he cut the bridge
of his nose. He didn't seem to mind!

There was a brief time after he was diagnosed with cancer that we thought he was going to recover. He received a great report with one of his scans….the original spot of cancer was gone. I stopped by their house the day he received that news. When he gave me the update, I ran to him as he sat in his recliner. I sat on his lap with my arms around his neck and my head buried against his chest. I was a child again. I wept. He pulled me close and we sat there for several minutes….relieved….grateful….feeling blessed. It was only a matter of weeks before the cancer returned.

I had stopped by to see how my parents were doing. My mother was not at home. I don’t remember where she was, but my dad and I sat in the family room and talked. He was telling me that he was getting rid of some coins he had collected. That was quite surprising, because the jar of coins was something we would take to the cellar with us if a tornado was coming. They were a valued possession. I was startled that he would be giving them away. I asked him, “What is going on, Daddy?” He said there wasn’t anything going on. I insisted that there was and that he tell me. After several exchanges, he told me that the cancer was back. It was located in several spots in his body and because it had spread while he was taking chemotherapy and radiation treatments, the doctors said there was nothing they could do. This was it. It was the final diagnosis. Terminal.

Then my dad said something to me that has haunted me to varying degrees ever since. He said, “Don’t tell your sisters.” I should have argued with him over that. I should have tried to convince him that it wasn’t fair to them to keep that secret. But I didn’t. I went along with his plan of secrecy and I have always regretted it. It is one of the reasons I am as direct with my words today. Lack of directness and honesty seldom plays out well in the end.

A few weeks later I delivered some items to my parents’ house on a Monday afternoon in mid-August. My mom was home and my dad was in town drinking coffee at the local convenience store with his group of friends. My mom and I were visiting when the back door opened. Through the door to the family room came two men assisting my dad. He could barely walk. He was nauseated. He was complaining of a severe headache. He looked awful. We asked them to help him to my car while my mom and I gathered up her purse and other things she thought she might need. Then we drove him to the local hospital.

My Dad and me at a school function for my daughter. 

The next hours are ingrained in my memory with great detail and yet the evening is also a massive blur. Nurses who didn’t pay attention….last conversations that I didn’t realize were the last….a doctor who couldn’t believe he hadn’t been notified of my dad’s condition….helicopter flights to a bigger hospital….the waiting room….attempts to notify everyone….a sister bringing a gift for her father only to collapse on the floor when she is told he is comatose and won’t be waking up…..family and friends supporting each other….change for the vending machine….denial….reality….saying goodbye…..holding his large, calloused hand in my own…..crying….regretting…..accepting…..knowing things would never be the same.

My sisters never got to tell him the things they would have said if they had known his terminal diagnosis. I cried many tears over that fact. They never saw anything to forgive, but it has taken me a long time to forgive myself. Truthfully, I am not sure that I have really done it. I simply sit in varying degrees of forgiveness with myself.

I loved his hugs. We are at my nephew's birthday party....
many years ago. 

Today is a rough one….this Father’s Day. I didn’t scan the cards at the store this year. I didn’t stand there imagining what one I would have bought for him. There is no family gathering, just a quiet drive to his grave with my dog, Pepper. He would have loved her as much as I do. There is the snack of a pack of cookies and a bottle of milk. That used to be the menu for lunch when we were on road trips with my dad……a big package of cookies and a quart of milk to share. He usually bought chocolate sandwich cookies. No cups….no napkins….no worries.

Yes, I am a lot like him. He called me his baby bull. I will own that. He used to tease me because I picked bouquets of wild flowers for my bedroom when I was in junior high and high school. He thought it was great that I found such beauty in the blooms of the thistle and other “weeds”. Today I remember him on paper with this post and by creating a beautiful bouquet of wildflowers for my living room. Each black-eyed susan, stalk of dock, yarrow blossom, and wispy bloom is a remembrance of my love for him and his love for me.

I miss you, Daddy. I always will.

The Ants Go Marching One By One....

I see the scurry out of the corner of my eye; dozens of subtle, but hurried, movements. A steady row of ants are traversing the taut, silver strands of a barbed wire fence. They are obviously on a mission. Their black and russet bodies shine as they retrace the steps of the comrade ahead. This is life. The tiny beings are doing what they do every day. My gaze follows them to the right and into the boughs of a massive cedar tree. Looking to the left, the line of ants travel along the barbed wire to a wooden fence post. This is where the two lines seem jumbled together….the north bound line and the south bound line. No doubt, there is more order than I can see or understand, but to my eyes, it is chaos at this junction. There, where the wire and the wood intersect, so too intersects the lines of ants. Then I see the south bound bodies. They have not lost any of their determination as they travel along the horizontal wooden post that anchors the corner of the fence. I follow their journey as the line marches down the angled wire and becomes lost in the tall, winter grass. There is water close by. Perhaps they are collecting water. I ponder for a while. Are they moving water to the cedar tree? Are they moving something from the cedar tree to their nest in the ground? Are they moving their nest? Watching the ants reminds me, once again, that Nature does not alter its design in response to the occurrences of the outer world.

I am basically “sheltered in place” as directed, to slow the pandemic spread. It doesn’t feel like a burden most days. I have the luxury of working from home, which gives me back an hour and a half of my day. I currently have a 10-second commute. I rise with the sun and enjoy a strong cup of tea on the patio or at my writing desk as I check in with my coworkers and start my work day. My lunch hour allows time to walk to the pond, prepare potato soup for dinner, or get in a training session in the barn gym.

It’s so easy to forget why I am getting to enjoy this temporary lifestyle as the last clumps of daffodils bloom at the edge of the yard. Their bright, yellow color cries out against the grays and browns of the trees and the rocky ravine just behind. Their only competition for attention is the bold fuchsia of the native redbuds. The song of the birds add another dimension to the rhythm of my days. How can there be such heartache and uncertainty in the world? How can so many people be hurting, ailing, and dying? The wrens are fighting over the birdhouses on the back patio. How can this make sense?

I allow myself no more than one daily hour of news. That keeps me current on new rules and regulations mandated by the federal and state authorities, but does not overwhelm me with fear and emotion. It’s enough. Too much news and I can begin to feel hopeless and helpless. That’s where the power of Nature comes into play. It grounds me. It always has.

Nature has long been my stabilizer. And I am not alone. I have had several conversations on this topic in recent days. Many friends have stated the healing power of nature in their lives. In the midst of this public health and economic crisis, Nature reminds us that some things are truly stable and consistent. Look for those things. Seek them out. Go outside, if at all possible. Search for the new growth of Spring….the call of a bird….the blooming flower…..the pattern in the bark of a tree. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.  Look for the design and architecture of the trees….how they lean into each other and reach for the sun. Lay on your back and watch the clouds, pondering their shape.

I remind myself that I can only make an impact within my circle of influence. That’s all any of us can do and that circle is different for each of us. I use my time in Nature to balance the outer world chaos with some inner world calm. I highly recommend it….because the ants still go marching one by one…..Hurrah….Hurrah. 

Journey Back to Jefferson

R.W. and Verna Sharp,
my maternal grandparent

The drive into the decaying Oklahoma town brings back a flood of memories. Most of them are good. The early ones are beautiful. The ones from the middle years are wonderful. The memories from the later years are more melancholy.

The once bustling community is an abandoned jungle of rusty cars and empty houses. They compete with young outlaw trees for attention and air. It is beyond sad. I recently returned for a family reunion in the church where my grandfather preached. This community was their home for many years and at several different times. My mother graduated from high school in Jefferson. Her former school only a derelict shamble of bricks and beams. Only a few walls remain,

My grandparents were so proud of their little house. Grandma Sharp tended her roses, iris, and lilies. Grandpa grew gardens of corn, peas, beans, and potatoes. He raised chickens and enjoyed watching them chase grasshoppers throughout the yard. It was a simple life. It was an honest life. It was a beautiful life. And it gave me a foundation for living that I continue to build upon today.

My grandparents cozy home years ago. They took great pride
in caring for the little house and gardens.




The same view of their house.....2019. It saddens me to
see it in this condition.  

The central hub of my grandmother's kitchen was the wooden pedestal table. The middle of the tabletop was home to all the necessities for doctoring a meal; shakers of salt and pepper, jelly, honey, napkins, and the current copy of a devotional book. Usually, it was the Upper Room. The stash of paraphernalia was draped with a worn cotton tea towel between meals; protecting the yummy contents. I ate many meals at that table; fried bologna, fresh green beans, orange salad with shreds of carrots, pie, and biscuits. Oh my word! Grandma's biscuits would melt in your mouth! You had your choice of toppings. You could add butter, sticky honey, or homemade jelly. Or...you could layer the flavors for a combination beyond description. That is still my favorite way to eat biscuits!

The RW and Verna Sharp home had a solid tradition of resting after lunch. Everyone rested. As a young girl, I didn't appreciate the forced pause in the middle of the day. However, I treasured it as I got older. Thirty minutes of reading, resting, or napping. Mandatory rest! What a beautiful notion.



The garage framed by the
garden.

I spent a week at their house almost every summer. As a young child, the days were filled with cousins, drive-in movies, Bible school, mud pies, and dress up. Everyone fought over the clear plastic heels because they reminded us of Cinderella. As I moved into my teens, I helped Grandma bake, prepare meals, and clean the kitchen. We snapped beans and shelled peas. When I was 16, she taught me how to tat following several failed attempts at crochet and knitting.

My time with Grandpa was just as enjoyable. We fed and watered the chickens and worked in his garden. One of my favorite memories is helping him rob the bee hives. I remember him cutting the thick comb out of the frames, dropping the chunks into layers of cheesecloth draped tightly over a large bucket. He broke the honeycomb up with his hands, the thick golden liquid oozing out between his fingers. After the bucket was full, the golden reward was carefully poured into pristine jars.



Grandma Sharp with her great-granddaughters, Karolyn
and Kathryn.

On my visits, I often slept in the attic. There was a bed in one end of the room, nestled among the purchases from dozens of auctions. The early morning breeze of summer cooled the space and skimmed the cotton sheets carrying the aroma of the dirt road and the pending heat. The roosters would announce the start of the day and soon after you would hear Grandma bustling about the kitchen. 

In one corner of the living room stood a bookshelf with volumes of Grandmothers books. The top shelf held a menagerie of turtles and roadrunners. They were presents to my Grandpa from his grandchildren. Every summer, a massive water cooler hummed in the living room window. It cooled the living room with heavy, humid air. It was enough to take the edge off the Oklahoma heat. It was wonderful.

My grandmother and me enjoying
her garden with my daughters.

A McCoy cookie jar sets on the shelf in my kitchen. It is a Dalmatian dog and her puppies snuggled in a rocking chair. The cookie jar was a gift from my grandparents. They bought it at an auction in a box of random items. I love that token of their love.

Their home was small, but it was filled with love. They saw the good in others. They saw the good in me. They set an example of helping others and giving of their talents. They gave when they didn't have much to give by typical standards. They made love a verb.... an action....They lived love.



The remaining structure of the Jefferson
schools.

Intellection Meditation

The thick grass compressed beneath my feet, the heavy dew an indicator of the impending mid-day humidity. My movement startled a solitary doe as she grazed in the meadow. She is a regular here....I have not been in recent months, perhaps even years. The big-eyed deer slowly walked away from me, over the hill to the north. I chose the southern route to avoid disrupting her further. The freshly mowed path led me toward the trees that guard the rocky ravine. They form a boundary of sorts and I followed it around to the west until the pond came into view. I was aware of the breeze on my face and the weight of my footsteps on the earth. Today was the first day of my renewed walking meditation practice. It is what I am calling my "Intellection Meditation".

These walks are not about burning calories or working out. They are about centering my soul and connecting to the energy of nature. It is a time to notice....to appreciate...to ponder....to become aware. It is an opportunity to slow down and see the dew drop on a single blade of grass. It is a chance to let the hundreds of dancing wildflowers and dragonflies catch my attention in the early morning sun. This sacred time is as important to my health as quality sleep and nutritious food.

A few months ago I completed the CliftonStrengths assessment at the nudging of my good friend, Dustin. At the end of the assessment I received my ranking of 34 talents with emphasis on my top five. These are meant to be your focus. You are encouraged to cultivate and develop your top five talents into powerful strengths. My top five strengths are Input, Strategic, Learner, Ideation, and Intellection. This report has changed how I see myself in many positive ways, one of which is my need for solitary time in nature.

The Intellection section of my report states, "You are fascinated by ideas.....You like to think.....You are the kind of person who enjoys your time alone because it is your time for musing and reflection. You are introspective. In a sense you are your own best companion, as you pose yourself questions and try out answers on yourself to see how they sound." Yes!! Those words describe how I feel when I walk the meandering paths of my property. Add in aligned....balanced....peaceful....centered....

Many may consider this slow-paced stroll a waste of time. After all, there isn't a tangible product to present upon completion. Earlier in my life, I walked in nature as a rebellious act....to get away from the restrictions of my life. Now, I walk in nature as an act of acceptance and to become more congruent with who I truly am. Through my Intellection Meditations I find inspiration for creative ventures. I ask myself "Who do I want to be today?" "How do I want to show up today?"

Today I walked past the pond as the dragonflies skimmed the waters surface. I took photos of flowers and seed pods. I practiced syncing my breath with my stride. I considered the possible scenarios of my day. I also considered their solutions. I analyzed my feelings on several life situations and waited to see what answers bubbled up. I shut my eyes and enjoyed the heightened awareness of my other senses. I paused and I pondered. Then I made my way back to the heavy pasture gate ready to make my way through my day. 

The email I had been waiting for....

The most difficult struggles are often those fought in private, away from the eyes of the world. The times where discipline goes unpraised and small accomplishments are known only to yourself. That is where the hero is born. That is where she fights her demons. That is where she slays her dragons. That is where she learns who she truly is.

To briefly recap part 1 of my StrongFirst story, I sustained an injury to my left TFL about 10 days before the certification weekend. The injury was due to instability in my pelvis. Squatting or getups on the left side were not possible. So I traveled to Philly at the end of July, 2018, for the StrongFirst Kettlebell certification knowing I couldn’t test all the skills. I made it through the three days of the certification,  passing my snatch test and all the skills except squats and the TGU. For the full story of that weekend, check out my previous blog post.

 https://viewsofgratitude.blogspot.com/2018/08/my-strongfirst-weekend.html

Team Hayes at the Philadelphia SFG I....they helped me thrive
during the three day certification, despite my injuries.

The three days of the SFG were filled with a wide range of emotions: excitement, joy, happiness, frustration, anxiety, and relief. The adrenaline of being with dozens of individuals who shared the same passion for kettlebell training was intoxicating. I was surrounded by an incredible network of support and concerned peers. If a negative attitude loomed, the encouragement of my StrongFirst team would buoy me up. They helped me keep my focus and never made me feel left out when I couldn’t train a skill. The camaraderie and sense of strong community helped carry me through the difficulties. But nothing prepared me for the mental and emotional struggle that awaited me after the SFG. 

I had three months to submit videos of my Turkish Getups and my double front squats. But devising a strategy to get there was not easy. I couldn’t train anything with a backswing. I could not perform a hip bridge or any leg sweeps. If you train hardstyle kettlebells, you know that almost every skill utilizes a backswing and Turkish Getups require a hip bridge and/or a low sweep of the legs. All of the traditional kettlebell exercises were off the training list. Instead, I focused on healing the injuries and implemented gentle stretches and basic mobility work. I scheduled appointments with my physical therapist where she taught me how to realign my pelvis and gave me a series of exercises to improve its stability. That became my training.

My Team Leader, Debbie Hayes. I will
always be grateful for her support during
and after the SFG!

There were bouts of frustration when my healing did not progress as quickly as I had hoped. I am not known for my patience and the three month deadline to test my skills was always in my thoughts. Would I be ready in time? It was certainly not a guarantee.

My daily training continued in its new format and I gradually added some half-kneeling work. But a month after the SFG, I still couldn’t walk without compensating my stride. I couldn’t step up onto a street curb or climb stairs without changes in my normal movement pattern. And that was often accompanied by pain. I began to get worried. Some nights I would feel optimistic after my training, but other nights I was on the verge of tears. The physical therapy and stability work were definitely helping, but I questioned whether the improvements were happening fast enough.

My squat pattern progressed much quicker than the getups. The angry TFL calmed down greatly, but at the one month mark, I still couldn’t perform a bodyweight squat without some pain. I elevated my heels and trained supported squats. After a few session of those, I managed a decent unsupported squat with elevated heels. Over the next few weeks I was able to add an 8kg bell, then bodyweight without elevation. Gradually I added small increments of weight to my goblet squat…8kg….10kg….12kg….16kg. With just under one month before my SFG deadline, I could again squat the double 12kg bells without pain! My hopes elevated.

Nadine!!! One of the assistants on Team Hayes...
she talked me off the ledge a few times during
the certification and I thought of her words
of encouragement while impatiently working
toward completing my skills.

 

Prior to my injury, I had been doing quality 12kg and 14kg getups on a regular basis with some 16 kg getups thrown in for fun. But with a month left to achieve competency, I still couldn’t perform the low sweep or the lunge to stand without sharp pain in my left hip and pelvis. At three weeks before the testing deadline, I could finally complete a Turkish Getup on both the right and the left side, but they were unweighted. To pass my skills tests, I had to complete both sides with a 12kg kettlebell. As my body would allow, I added a bit of weight to a few of the getups. I started with an 8kg bell, the lightest I had. After a few days, those 8kg getups felt strong and smooth. I added a few with the 10kg bell. The low sweep was difficult to perform without compensation in my foot placement. And moving from lunge to stand was even more difficult and often, it was accompanied by pain. To avoid loading a dysfunctional pattern, I trained the getup from the standing position down to the floor and then moved straight to the usual start position up to lunge. Progress came….slowly. But it was progress.

Team Assistant, Jay, was an
inspiration after the certification.
I watched him via social media
as he dealt with a serious wrist injury.
 It was motivating to see him continue
to train despite the hurdle.

Now, I was two weeks away from the deadline. I mentioned to my friend, Dustin, that my progress had slowed dramatically. I explained further that my pelvis still felt very unstable and I was having some pain with certain movements.  He suggested I add heavy rack carries and marches to my training. I felt a difference after the first session. It was a dramatic improvement. 10 days away from the deadline, I did my first 12kg getups….one on the right and one on the left. But they were still not up to the standard. My pelvis did not move well enough to allow me to keep my supporting foot planted on the low sweep and I didn’t have enough stability to move smoothly from lunge to stand. 9 days out…..I made the first videos for submissions, but each one had issues. I vowed to work diligently over the next week to meet the strict StrongFirst standards.

I trained the getups daily. The squats were good to go, but the getups kept me awake at night. I visualized each step in my mind. I felt the pressure of my foot pushing into the floor, I felt the tension in my body as I moved from lunge to stand, and I felt how every stage of the getup would flow into the next and how my body would feel in each stage. I fought away panic. I refused any thoughts except those of success.

With 7 days left before the deadline, I shot the video of my double 12kg squats. Then I shot the video of the right getup. I would hone my focus on the left getup....my only remaining skill. A sharp pain still presented on the low sweep or going from lunge to stand when I used the 12kg bell. Not every time, but often enough that it caused me to be hesitant and uncertain in the movement. 

With 4 days before the deadline, I headed to the training area in my guest room to try to finish my submission videos. I performed several less than stellar left TGU’s. I became frustrated. I walked out of the training area for a few minutes. I went back and did a few lightweight swings. Then I got angry. I just got angry. So many emotions came bubbling up. No tears. No words. Just silent anger. I walked back into the training area and started the video. I took a few deep breaths....rolled over and took hold of the bell....rolled into position and pressed the bell. Then, my body and my mind flowed through each step of the TGU with intention and purpose. Every aspect of the skill fell into place. As I finished the getup, I retrieved my phone to review the video. It had felt good. Now I just needed to critique it. I scrutinized each step, checking off the standards as it progressed. At the end of the video I gave out a celebratory shout. I had done it!! I had finally performed a 12kg getup that met the standards. I was elated! 



The email I had been waiting to receive! The words
of support will always mean a lot to me. Thank you
Debbie Hayes!!

I sent in my videos and waited to hear back from my StrongFirst Team Leader, Debbie Hayes. The answer came the next morning in the form of an email with the subject line of “Congratulations.” It was official! After months of worry and  rehab, concern and healing, impatient light training, and careful progressions, I had passed my remaining skills. A flood of relief swept over me followed by excitement and personal pride.

I have to admit, it was a mental challenge to stay positive and remain calm. At the SFG there were other people there to encourage and support me. Back at home, I had to manage my attitude and emotions by myself and for myself. I was flying solo. But, I learned a lot during that time. No camaraderie, no community, no coaching……just me putting in the work. There was nobody to impress, nobody to make me do what I should do, nobody to give me praise or reward. Often my training in solitude felt lonely. Other times it felt powerful. Some days....many days.... it was both.


The email reporting my success in meeting
the requirements to StrongFirst. More
greatly appreciated feedback.

But those three months changed my attitude about my training. I am more in tune with my body and my brain. I am in the driver’s seat with my training and it feels powerful to train intuitively. I am sometimes tempted to compare my current level of strength and conditioning to earlier times, but only briefly. Now, I appreciate everything that my body and my mind can do on a daily basis….right now….today. I understand what I am capable of more than anyone else….I know how a movement feels in my body….I interpret what causes positive outcomes and what needs to be questioned. I am continuing to move forward to greater strength, more agile movement, and enhanced health in a gradual, progressive manner. I am giving my body what it needs to heal and ultimately thrive.  And I am enjoying the journey.


Postscript: I have been waiting to receive my official SFG I certificate in the mail so I could add a photo of it to this post. However, there has been a glitch in the process and it hasn’t arrived yet. In the meantime, I completed 2,150 swings this past weekend with a 12 kg bell. It was for a Swing-A-Thon for Dustin Rippetoe, who is in need of a kidney transplant. I am happy to say that my body felt great with the low weight bell and high volume of swings. I have added 16 kg bells back into my training and my swings are solid with my 32 kg bell. The stability is improving and the strength is returning. I am grateful…..still a bit impatient....but incredibly grateful!