Twenty-one years of wisdom

     January seventeenth marked the twenty-first anniversary of the day my world changed forever. It was the day I proudly produced a combined total of five pounds of bluish-colored, wrinkled, practically transparent flesh. This came in the form of two very determined, albeit  three months premature, infants--one girl, one boy-- children so anxious to begin their struggle through this process called life that they chose to leave early the relatively safe environs of their mother's womb. And on that day, I realized I knew nothing.
    After an extended stay in the NICU, these now-pinkish, much smoother, and somewhat healthier two souls were released from their second relatively safe environ into my uncertain and quite shaky hands. They came with no instructions and were not even quite fully assembled. The nurses stuffed heart monitors and wires and battery packs and special formula into the back seat of our car, buckled the now 4.4 pound infants into their carseats, and shoved us quickly out of the parking lot.
      I was now expected to oversee their breathing and heart rates, their growth charts, their innoculation schedules, their daily medications, their feeding routines, their first playdates, their education, their health insurance, their bouts of chicken pox and flu and strep throat, their allergies and braces and broken bones, their acquisition of driver's licenses and first dates and beach trips and senior proms and Friday night football games and college acceptance letters  and safe passage into adulthood.  And on that day, I realized I knew nothing.
    The next twenty-one years, I searched for answers to questions I will never understand. As we came to discover that our daughter was going to have a life-long disability, I realized there were going to be a lot of blank spaces in the answer lines on my life exam.  I struggled with some basic philosophical questions: why do innocent children suffer? why is there pain in the world?  why are people cruel to each other? why does evil exist?
      Flash forward twenty-one years, and I am now sitting in a college philosophy class with my daughter, thinking that this is rather ironic that I am now watching her struggle to answer the same questions to which I have found few answers. Yet, when the professor prompted them to write an essay on whether they would choose a life of blissful ignorance or a life of facing the harsh realites of truth, I was intrigued to discover that my daughter would choose the less travelled road, the more difficult path, the rocky road of truth. 
     "Honey," I challenged her, "why would you want to go through life struggling and suffering, when you could just waltz through happy and blissfully ignorant?"  I knew there had been many times when I longed for blissful ignorance, when I wished I hadn't overheard the cruel remarks or seen the unkind stares directed at my daughter, when I wished I didn't know about the parties or trips or dances or gatherings to which she had been omitted, when I didn't have to face the reality of her life as a continual struggle to survive in a world where appearances meant everything and character meant less and less.   Blissful ignorance seemed like a soft place to fall, a welcome rest, a peaceful world.
       She shook her head in frustration that I didn't seem to "get-it."
      "It would have no meaning," she argued with me. "Why would anyone want to live a life that was just an illusion? If there is no truth, there is no reality and there is no meaning. You couldn't believe in anything if you weren't committed to the truth." And at that moment, I realized I knew nothing.
      My wise little one, my twenty-one year old philosopher, had once again taught me more about life than Socrates and Plato and Aristotle combined. It is in the struggle that  life has meaning. It is in facing the challenges-- overcoming some, accepting defeat by others, and  learning to live with the rest--that   real life is found.
    At that moment,  some of the blank spaces on my life exam began to fill in. Yes, suffering and pain and evil will always exist in this earthly world, but so does truth and goodness and kindness and love. The existence of one does not negate the existence of the other. We have to make a choice of whether we will choose truth and face the harsh realities of life or turn a blind eye in pursuit of  a vapid happiness.
     Even though life had played a cruel joke on my daughter by wrapping her in a cloak of physical disability, she is facing it head-on, eyes wide open,  and with honesty and integrity.  Her moral compass is set, her path has been chosen, and she is committed to the journey. And in the process, she is finding her way to truth. 
      And on that day, I began to learn something.

A Carolina Blizzard

     When in snows in the South, the world stops spinning and everything comes to a silent halt.  It is quiet, it is hushed, it is as slow and sleepy as life can get. You won't hear the grind of snowplows scraping against ice in search of asphalt. You won't see highway trucks spewing salt and chemicals up and down the highways. Anxious neighbors won't be hurriedly shoveling sidewalks and steps. Everything stops, as if time itself has become frozen, and we watch, and we marvel, and we wonder at the beauty of a world put to sleep with a blanket of white.

   

   If you thought Southerners moved at a different speed during normal weather, spin the thermostat down to freezing, throw in some snowflakes and ice, and you will see a pace of life not known to man in this modern-day age of hyper-speed and constant activity. You may laugh at our slowness, you may mock our simplicity, but we will smile politely because the joke is not on us. 

 We will not miss the irridescent red of a cardinal as he feeds in the brilliant white of a winter snow. We will not miss the cluster of crimson pyracantha berries as they glisten against a mantle of ice, or the green leathery leaves of the magnolia as it stands magnificantly draped in a silvery gown. We will regard the cedars as they bow to the ground, and hold our breath as we wait for the thaw to see which of those mighty soldiers will rise again.

     An average little town becomes a story book village. The soft covering of winter's frozen breath has transformed the mundane into the magnificent. Houses grand and small are dressed for a wondrous occasion, and they each wear their new gowns with a pride not seen in many years.. It makes us all step back and puff our chests as we gloat at the beauty of our home, our formally dressed little city. This is our moment to shine, so we stop, and we watch, and we wonder at the beauty of it all.

    When it snows in the South, we will be there to witness it and to enjoy it. It comes not often and we will not let this moment pass unnoticed. With a graciousness that lingers on, we will stop our busy lives and enjoy the company of the snow, visiting with it while it lingers, then fondly bidding it adieu when it disappears. This is our storm, our snow, our South, and we will not be hurried through an experience that will be too long in returning again.

     This is a Southern storm, a Carolina Blizzard, a storm that meanders across the lowland states and lingers and pauses and stays for a while.  It is like us... slow to come, slow to leave. We take it as the gift it is...a time to stop, and to watch, and to wonder at the beauty of it all. Oh, don't laugh at us, with our slowness and our drawling words, for we are revelling in a beauty that is missed by many, and it takes that wound-down pace to see it and to tell it and to appreciate it all.

     So don't laugh at us when it snows in the South. We are not ignorant. We are not lazy or simple or backwards. We are simply marvelling at the world, and we will not miss out on it's beauty. We are slow because we refuse to hurry and miss the moment-- the miracle of a world at rest, a world of peace and quiet. We calm our thoughts in the hush of the storm, we fill our lungs with the pure, clean air, we restore our souls with the peace of winter.

       Yes, we step slowly through our Southern storm, our Carolina Blizzard. We do not hurry, we do not rush, and  we do not miss the world at peace, the world at rest.
     We simply watch, we wonder, and we marvel at the beauty of it all.

Goodwill to Men

     Everyone has their dirty little secrets, their hidden obsessions, their dark habits. We do things that shame our families, embarrass our children, and sully our good name. But like every addict, we cling to these behaviors with a fierce loyalty and stubbornly refuse to become rehabilitated.  For many years, I have chosen to engage in a certain behavior which has caused my children to cringe and hide in the backseats of cars, driven my husband to the border of insanity, and made me the brunt of many family jokes. Like many addicts, I stubbornly refuse to conquer my obsession.  Instead, I  indulge myself as frequently as possible, looking for ways to feed my habit secretly, obsessively, consummately.
     I am a Goodwill girl.  I love thrift shops. I can't help myself-- the desire for a bargain boils in my Scottish blood, threatening to rupture an artery if I do not release the pressure.  Nothing thrills me more than to pull into an unexplored thrift shop, heart racing and as anxious as a hound dog sniffing out an early morning kill. I will wait in line with the masses, the unwashed and homeless, the illegal immigrant, the college student, the struggling young housewife, the retired book collector. I know no shame in standing in that line of the unproud bargain hunters.  We are a brotherhood, all differently motivated  but serving  a same purpose: find a deal, locate a treasure, meet a need.
      I was introduced to the magical world of thrift shops during my initial year as a Junior League novice. Part of the requirement of each new League member was to serve a certain number of hours each month volunteering in the Junior League Thrift Shop, a fundraising enterprise fondly called "The Clothes Rack."  We were required to not only volunteer our man-power, we also were asked to donate a certain amount of goods to the store, which in turn could be sold to bring in more dollars to distribute to worthwhile community projects.
     It didn't take many volunteer mornings before I realized I had stumbled into my wonderland. While most young women moaned and groaned about spending their busy mornings sorting through used clothing and discarded housewares, I could barely sleep the night before I was scheduled to pull a shift.  I would spend the weekend raiding my closets, basement, and attic to load up on my required quota of donated goods.  My husband would smile appreciatively as I cleaned out chests and drawers, purging bulging closets of unwanted apparel,  all for a worthwhile cause.
     I spent one morning each month driving downtown with a trunk of bags, depositing my unwanted apparel as quickly as possible, and completing my morning shift of sorting through boxes and pricing donations. I would then spend the next two hours as a merry thrift store shopper, snapping up items I had been secretly eyeing all morning, wonderful finds worthy of a good cause.  I would drive home with bags of housewares, children's clothing, antiques....all treasures casually discarded by some generous soul.
     And books! Oh, the books that pass through the shelves of thrift stores! I am an unabashed book-a-holic, and spending $1 on literature can't be questioned. I would buy boxes of books- classics, newly published novels, cookbooks, children's stories, gardening and decorating tomes, self-help manuals, study guides- anything printed and interesting would be added to my pile.  I would practically groan with pleasure as I hauled all those pages of words and stories and pictures  into my house and onto my bookshelves.
     My children couldn't understand why I was donating items for the needy, but then coming home with more than I donated.  My trolling through thrift stores humiliated them, and they spent countless childhood hours hiding on the floorboard of the car as I wheeled into the parking lot  and begged, " Just let me dash in here for a second and see if there's anything good. I won't be long."

     "Mom, that doesn't seem fair. You're supposed to be helping the needy but you're taking things they need."
       I patiently tried to explain to them that it was more helpful for me to buy these things, therefore donating money that could be used to buy food and shelter for a person in need.  Their precious little minds just couldn't understand that concept at all, and they still think that Mom is stealing from the homeless.

     When my husband questioned my good motives, I was prepared with an honest answer.
      "It's all part of the volunteer requirement," I would explain. "We have to purchase a certain amount of goods in order to meet the monthly sales quota of the store. It's all for a good cause."
     I don't think he believed me, but he wasn't willing to be the first man in town to incur the wrath of all women by questioning the noble motives of the Junior League.
     And so began my long love affair with thrift stores.  Those volunteer hours in the backroom of the Clothes Rack opened my eyes to the world of treasures that are lurking in the bowels of thrift stores. From that day on, I began secretly trolling the local thrift stores: Goodwill, Salvation Army, the Fan Thrift Store. I scored my first major hit when I bagged four "Maeve" Waterford goblets for $1.00. 
     The next big hit was an oil painting that I paid $4.00 for at a Goodwill store on Broad Street. The store was one block from my daughter's school, making it a convenient place to spend an hour or so waiting for the carpool line to diminish. I made it a weekly habit to stop by the store, peruse the aisles, scope out the merchandise. On my big day, a truck had just arrived to unload the contents of an entire estate.  Evidently, the heirs  had little need for the worldly possessions of a deceased relative, so the entire estate of the dearly departed had been unloaded at Goodwill.  I happened to walk in at the right moment, just as the contents were hitting the floor. Two large oil paintings were propped against a wall. I picked up one as another greedy shopper grabbed the other.  I was pleased with my selection...a scene of a young girl shopping in a French market, and the price couldn't be argued with. It would cost me twice that much just to buy a blank canvas at Ben Franklin, so I knew it was money well spent. 
     The next evening, I had to attend a non-profit fundraiser at the Crossroads Art Gallery. I grabbed a glass of chardonnay and began to stroll through the various artist's booths, examining etchings and sketchings and paintings, a variety of subjects and mediums on display.  I almost choked on my wine when I rounded a corner and there, in full display and commanding a price tag of $800 was the companion piece to the painting I had purchased the day before for $4.00.  The artist was listed as someone who had taught extensively in both the United States and Europe, and the painting was part of a series of scenes from a Parisienne market.  I wanted to dance a little victory gig right there in the aisle, so proud was I of my find.
     It only took those two victories to enstill in me a life-long addiction to thrift store shopping, and I think my college-age children are starting to understand.  My son has discovered the beauty of shopping at the local Salvation Army, having consistently been voted as having the "Best Halloween Costume" for three years in a row, all thanks to his thrift store finds. Yesterday, I dropped Sissey off at college so she could help with the spring orientation and registration. With an entire afternoon free, I did what was only expected, what was only right, and she knew exactly where I was headed.  I hit the Goodwill Store on Highway Nine.  I bought a couple of books for 80 cents each, a Ralph Lauren umbrella for $1.00 and a pewter bucket with a palmetto tree embossed on it for 99 cents. It was a very good day and I was pleased with my purchases, plus, it was all for a worthy cause.
        So as we begin 2011, I wish each of you peace on earth,  good health, prosperity, and most of all, expecially if you haven't experienced it before,  Goodwill to all men.
      I am, afterall, a very Goodwill girl.