The Lemonade Maker

Haven’t we all heard the dumb slogan “when life gives you lemons, make lemonade”?

I’ve always resented that slogan. When I’m neck-deep in financial difficulties, sick children and uncooperative bosses and authorities, I don’t want to hear it. I want life to be easier, to yield according to my will, to give generously. I’m not about to play nice, and I’m deeply suspicious of people who do. Or, I was, until yesterday, when I realized that a lemonade-maker has been in my life all along.

Like me, my father is a realist. He harbors no illusions and there is no Pollyanna trait in his personality. Yet, unlike me, he never gives in to despair or hopelessness. There is always a light in his eyes and he approaches each day with interest and curiosity. He recently turned eighty years old and deals with the usual human frailties of aging, but to me, he is still larger than life.

Dad believes in himself. He radiates a respect-commanding confidence in his own ability to cope with any and all adversities. Though he can be shy and retiring, underneath he is rock-solid. Whatever life throws into his path, he examines, acknowledges and files away. Then he devises a strategy to adjust or overcome the adversity. In all these years, I have never seen him defeated. Irritated perhaps, annoyed, even uncertain at times when he was unsure how to face a new challenge, but never defeated.

Dad has a subtle understanding of “how things work” and often manipulates chance to his advantage. He is an accomplished pianist and plays life like he plays his beloved classical music: with finesse and discernment and a fine ear for details. A former boy scout, he tries to be prepared at all times, one step ahead of his destiny. So when life presents him with lemons, he makes his lemonade, but sometimes surprisingly throws some peaches or oranges into the mix and spices it up with a generous shot of Vodka.

I wish I had his poise and resilience and I strive every day to reach it. And I wish for his talent to take what life hurls at me and alter it enough to make it palatable. While I inherited his satirical sense of humor, I lack his confidence. Of all the people I have met, he is one of the few I consider truly fearless.

I respectfully salute all the courageous masters of reality who rise up to best unusual challenges. I lift my glass with admiration to the confident who never lose their buoyancy or their sense of humor. And I joyfully toast all the lemonade-makers out there…especially the ones who, like my father, add Vodka.

A Thing Of Unexpected Beauty

In the middle of town, beside the main highway, a new slab of concrete glistens in the morning sun. At least fifteen men stand around it, hands resting on hips and admire their handiwork. They are dirty, all of them, with cement spatters on their clothes and boots covered in gray slush. They don’t gather in groups to talk or tell jokes, smoke or drink coffee. They just stand, looking down at the mirror-smooth surface and breathe pride and achievement.

The men are tired. They had a long morning already. Their work began when most of us were still sleeping. Much of it took place even the day before, when they prepared the site and built the temporary pour form.

The sound of a concrete truck has no equal. How exciting to listen to the heavy drum churn and the rocks clank against its insides! The world holds its breath. Something is about to happen. Once the arm swings out over the waiting form and concrete begins to pour, the workers launch into frantic activity. Bravely, they step into the treacherous goo, uncaring that their feet might bog down and become permanent fixtures. They spread the mass with confidence; bring it to a marginal smoothness, ready for finishing. The surfacing tool packs the rocks down and leaves the surface miraculously glossy and flawless. Like a quiet pond it gleams and sparkles in the early light.

Pouring concrete requires speed and precision. These men are well aware of their skill. They stand beside their slab, satisfied that they moved several tons of fast-drying material and froze it into a perfect, solid block. They will still need to knock away the wooden form, once the concrete is completely dry, but for now, they take time to watch and admire.

There is something fascinating about men and their relationship with hard labor. From my experience, most of them don’t really mind, although they may lament their aches and pains. There is an unspoken connection between them as they tackle a common task, confronting dirt, sweat and discomfort with bold determination. Perhaps they secretly challenge one another, as none of them dare lose face before their peers. Perhaps they merely enjoy the familiar feel of hard working muscles warming to the chore.

In comparison, few women venture into the world of crew labor. More likely, we face solitary drudgery in yards and households. Many of us never experience the solidarity of a concrete crew, cemented together by jointly conquered adversities and shared success. And we may not feel the satisfaction of a craftsmanship that few are willing or able to attempt, or of an excellence no outsider can hope to accomplish.    

While the men at the construction site are likely in daily competition over skill, strength and endurance, for a while their hearts beat in unison, as they rest from their efforts. The polished, shimmering slab reflects their camaraderie and professional competence. Its lasting strength honors their team spirit. In its perfection it is truly a thing of beauty. 

Changes

The nights are getting noisy again. Something is singing out in the darkness, perhaps crickets or frogs or cicadas. The warm air carries the sounds easily and imparts a friendly flavor to the nightly concert. The world feels different tonight. You can smell it too, if you step outside and raise your nose into the fresh wind. A sense of green assaults you, climbs up into your nostrils and wakens memories of spring: There are changes in the air.

I know the raccoons feel it. They appear more frequently on my porch, beady eyes trained on the door, waiting for cat food. Mostly, I don’t mind. They are welcome here. Their kind inhabited these woods long before I closed my real estate deal and acquired permission to squat on the land. Only one of them is bold enough to worry me. The others stay shy and only place marginal trust in the humans who feed them. I wonder, will they breed again this year and present us with a forth generation of bandit-faced offspring? And eventually, a fifth?

Newly hatched June bugs slam into the wall of my home and crash on the porch, legs up, spinning on hard, brown wings. The raccoons hurry to dine on the delicacy. My pity for the bugs is short-lived as one smashes into my forehead hard enough to leave a dent.

Changes make me feel alive and young. They re-awaken the promise and excitement of hope and expectancy, so easily captured as a child and so hard to come by in middle age. They stretch my imagination and urge me to reach beyond the mundane, toward unexpected adventures and treasure, stashed away in storybooks and dreams. There is more to life. I wasn’t always a keeper of time and a counter of deeds and duties. I was once magical.

Each year, the Earth gives us a chance to recapture our youth, when changes hum in the music of the air. Each year a new beginning, when grasses and leaves infect the night with their herby scent. There is never a better reason to pause and remember as on an early spring night, when the world is not quite sure of the mild weather yet and responds timidly, despite all the yearning. How far we have departed from innocence! And still, how easily we return to our childhood dreams! How fluid and natural the transition! There can be no deeper joy than the sudden recognition of our own magical nature.

I celebrate the changes in my life, even the painful ones. They bring me enchantment and truth and weave my story. In their flowing motion, I find the timeless quality of my authentic Self. Ever so often, I pause and connect the threads of my existence. The colors and patterns may change, but the fine silk and strong flax that make up the cloth of my life have not been altered. The change illuminates my consistency. The more I adjust, the more I remain constant. Chinks and chips fall off my outer armor, but the core emerges stronger than before.

The night wind ruffles my hair and a chill creeps down my back. A feisty raccoon is nipping at my toes, making me jump. I rattle a broomstick and he retreats barely a couple of feet. Not easily shaken, that one. I take one last deep breath of the moist, young night. Then I slip back into my cocoon and shut the door tightly against intruding visitors. I live in two worlds: The one I share with my friends and family and the other one, where animals rule and spirits dance in the dark. A strange world, that one, but it is my home. And I visit whenever I can…

Through The Eyes Of Love

My father had cataract surgery last month. On his second eye. My mother had both her lenses replaced a couple of years ago. The milky film that descended over their vision from years of exposure to sunlight is gone. With artificial implants, they see more clearly. Through the magic of modern medicine, nothing gets past them anymore.

I am their only child. Sometimes I wonder if they see me as clearly as they see the rest of the world. I am far from perfect, yet it is often difficult to convince them, now, that I am old enough to have accumulated a fair share of mistakes.

They were strict parents. Sometimes I chafed under the weight of their expectancy. Most often, I messed up out of ignorance. I was rarely downright bad. I didn’t always understand why they punished me. Later, in my rebellious teens and often angry, I stopped listening to parental reproaches and punishment was no longer effective. I was a wild girl then, but Mom and Dad seem to have forgotten those years.

The world I lived in as a child does not exist anymore. Progress has all but wiped out the inflexible morality of the past. My parents are still firmly rooted in its traditional soil and a part of me reaches back to it, even as I spent my youth fleeing its uncompromising severity. Solid, ancient Europe, which changed only little over the centuries, hovered over my childhood. Life divided into right and wrong and good and evil and my mother was a staunch advocate of that way of life. Today, she is not so rigid anymore.

What is the magic that turns parents into our most ardent supporters when we outgrow our childhood? What force transforms their vision to see us as no one else does? As one who will always succeed, whose struggles are worthwhile and who can ultimately do no wrong? I have not heard a harsh word from Mom or Dad in years, yet I’m sure they would have plenty to lecture me about. After two failed marriages and years of financial struggles, I still have little to show for.

While their eyes see more clearly now, their hearts seem to have acquired a loving blindness when it comes to my shortcomings. I’m not complaining. I’m grateful for the support and recognition. And it makes me humble. I pray that no ambitious scientist discovers a treatment or surgery to make them suddenly see reality.

My parents gave me a standard, by which to measure myself. Now that I am older, they no longer hold me to such rigid principles. The acceptance I always struggled to obtain, they now grant me readily. May they always look at me through the eyes of love, and may that vision always be a just a little dimmer than my own…

The Outskirts

I have four cats. And since I know what’s right, I also have four identical food bowls. At feeding time, I leave enough space between the bowls, so each cat can circle unhindered and freely decide in which direction it wants to hunker down and eat. I place equal amounts of Meow Mix in each of the four bowls. I’m very careful about that. And yet, we still have arguments over the food.

There are no loud or overtly aggressive displays, my cats are too cultured for alley cat behavior. Claws remain sheathed and rarely a sound is heard from a feline throat. But they all have an unlimited arsenal of indignant stares.

My cats are fairly democratic. Any one of them may rule on any given day and size is not always a factor. I don’t have any intact toms; everyone within the pride pads on equal footing. Dominance is only for the moment and they may sleep peacefully after dinner, only inches apart in the sunshine.

Human territorial behavior is less harmonious. While pleasantries are initially exchanged, once a group settles into its dynamics, the struggle for power begins. Human social order is rigid and permanent. It is based on the majority principle and enforces strict norms and standards. Like pack behavior, it celebrates the typical and predictable. And it has very little tolerance for the extraordinary.

The people who live with us, work with us, or go to school or church with us display various levels of social skill, determined by how well they understand and adhere to these standards. Those who move within them easily, find each other almost by instinct and form powerful cliques. The rest of us are expected to hover at the outskirts and beg for crumbs.

I know the outskirts. I’ve lived there most of my life. But I’m creative and resourceful enough, I have no need for leftovers. There is more room here, away from the cliques. Wide expanses beckon and tempt my sense of adventure. And the outskirts are populated by some of the most fascinating, impressive, and unusual individuals.

In a cat world, I would be floating in and out of power circles, but in a cat world it’s all about food. As a human, I understand the finer points of hierarchy, but I ignore them. I care little for scraps of tolerance handed out by the ‘in’ crowd. Although I understand cliques, I don’t need them and I have no desire to join. I enjoy living away from tightly knit circles. I feel comfortable here and I continue to meet the remarkable folks who have courageously carved their personal path into the fabric of society.

So, don’t pity us, clique dwellers. We from the outskirts live and dream in a rich world. We don’t require handouts. We don’t depend on your benevolence. And we really have more clout than you think!

The Birds

When I leave work in the evenings, my car seems as eager as I to get home. I rarely stop, except to fill up the gas tank and I don’t dally on the way. For one, I can’t wait to see my son, to pet my cats and to relax in my newly refurbished living room, but I also hurry each day, so I don’t miss The Event.

Each and every evening, between six forty and six forty-five, as I drive toward the setting sun, The Event takes place on the highway. My sun glasses mellow the golden sky to a fiery golden-red and against its glorious backdrop, hundreds of birds sail high above the tall East Texas pine trees across the highway in front of me. They fly in V-shaped flocks or in disorderly multi-flock swarms and they all fly at the same unhurried speed, light-winged as if floating on a stream of water. Each day, I ambition to count them, but give up after the first few flocks. And each day, I drive, spellbound, into the glowing sunset.

How is it that those birds know time? Do they travel by a secret schedule? Or do they simply wait until they spot my little gray MINI Cooper before taking to wing? Perhaps they swarm to honor some avian deity and paint the sky with their tiny wings. Or perhaps they greet the sun with their graceful dance.

The truth is probably much more prosaic, but it doesn’t take away from the splendor of The Event. They fly from feeding grounds to nesting grounds, where they sleep, perhaps on an island, heads tucked under wings and safe from predators. A change in the light conditions of the sky most likely triggers their migration and I just happen to pass through at exactly the right time every evening. Yet even in their mundane pursuits, the birds teach us something. As ordinary as our lives are, nothing keeps us from creating our own Event each day. Nothing prevents us from turning humdrum into inspirational, if only we open our eyes and hearts.

If we do all things with beauty and grace – not the commercial beauty that’s sold on TV and in department stores , but the true, long-lived grace of a magnificent soul; if we inspire with kindness our friends, family and co-workers, if we arrange our homes and lives thoughtfully, if we treat strangers with compassion, children and animals with love, and if over all our actions, a glorious sun-kissed disposition rules, we cannot help but bring beauty into our own lives as well.

Each small, insignificant bird covers only one inch of sky, but together, they form a painting that takes my breath away. If, like the birds, we humans weave together our color-rich fabric of experience and goodwill, we too can create such a painting. If we all step up to the challenge, some day, we will ourselves be The Event.

Mr. America

Mr. America

After living on a Green Card for thirty-five years, my friend recently became an American Citizen. The diploma on his wall represents another step in his mastery of life, another accomplishment, another building stone of pride.

Born in Saltillo, Mexico, he grew up hard and fast. He was one of fifteen children, whose family was not blessed with wealth or property. He spent his youth on the streets, learning the rules of survival, sleeping wherever he could find shelter.

His first visit to the US was brief and he was not able to stay legally. He was merely a boy then. Back on the dangerous streets of Mexico, his determination to return grew stronger and his dream of a better life persisted.

Once he obtained the proper legal documents, he arrived in South Texas alone, penniless and with no knowledge of the English language. “Weren’t you afraid?” I asked him once, but he shook his head.

“I had no time to be afraid. I had to work…for to eat,” he replied with his heavy Spanish accent.

I have done what he did, started life over in a new country, but I had distinct advantages: Money and a working knowledge of the native language. Even so, I can attest to the difficulties, obstacles and the unexpected culture shock. It boggles my mind how he managed to adjust with all the odds against him.

Unafraid of hard work, he has at times held several jobs at once, and with his equally hard working wife, raised five strong, healthy children. He owns property now, is politically savvy and much loved in the community. The family home is a favorite gathering place for kids and grandkids.

They call him “Tata”, a term of endearment for “Grandfather”, and his grandkids adore him. A man of short stature, he has the heart of a giant. He formed a special bond with my bed-ridden, gravely disabled son. I fight back tears when I see them smile at one another.

Now, “Tata” is an American citizen, and no man could be prouder of his chosen country. He called to tell me when he passed his exam. Tongue-in-cheek, he quipped, “Now I’m a white guy.”

It is wonderful that our country has a way for great people to naturalize into citizenship. They bring a richness of experience, a wide-open gift of the world. I treasure this part of our heritage. And I treasure “Tata”, the American, who proudly displays his hard-earned diploma on his bedroom wall.