![Diversionary Tactics – Recycled]()
by jphilo | Nov 1, 2011 | Walking Down the Gravel Road
The hunt for today’s recycled post ended when I found this one in the October 2008 archives. It made me laugh out loud because three years later, these diversionary tactics are still highly effective. Probably because they get as much practice in 2011 as they did in 2008.
Diversionary Tactics – Recycled
Confession time!
For the past two days, assisted by my mother who came to visit, I have successfully employed every diversionary tactic in my arsenal. I’m avoiding a writing job – preschool curriculum for a mid-week church club program – that needs to be done before Thanksgiving.
With my book manuscript in the hands of readers, this is the perfect chance to work on the curriculum, but you tell me how to rewrite the story of Abraham sending his servant to hunt up a wife for his son Isaac and integrate it into the theme of “Families Care About Each Other,” for preschoolers, no less. I’m thinking the servant’s camels, water jugs and Rebekah’s bangle bracelets are going to play big in this one.
With this daunting challenge ahead, is it any surprise I’m looking for diversions? Unfortunately, my supply is running low. I took Mom back to my brother’s yesterday, so that excuse is gone. And I put the last of the bushel and a half of apples friends gave us into the dehydrator this morning, so that one’s gone to. I dilly-dallied on my walk this morning and planned to spend as long as possible taking pictures of the wasp’s nest along the road, but the camera battery died after a couple shots, so that diversion tanked. The farmer down the road is harvesting his corn, and I’m sorely tempted to take pictures once the camera battery is recharged, but the excursion involves climbing around in ditches full of poking, diabolical weeds, so I’ll pass.
This diversion thing is common among writers. In fact one once said to me, “It’s amazing how important alphabetizing your spice cupboard becomes when staring at an empty computer screen.” Amen, sister.
Which comes first, cloves or cumin?
by jphilo | Oct 28, 2011 | Walking Down the Gravel Road
This goody two shoes,
This rule follower extraordinaire,
This former school teacher who freely wielded a red pen,
Is in love with a rebel.
A brand new,
Sleek and sexy,
Dressed all in black
Canon Rebel.
We went for a walk this morning,
Just the two of us,
Engrossed in one another,
Oblivious to the chill and darkness.
With the viewfinder snuggled close to my eye,
The lens roaming the landscape,
The auto-focus chirping away,
We exulted in the beauty of autumn.
We captured the images of
Blazing red leaves,
Sun rise glowing through the underbrush,
The reflection of a half-submerged log and a yellow leaf floating on water,
Beauty I only notice
In the company of my Canon.
That’s why this goody two shoes is in love
With a brand new, sleek and sexy, dressed all in black Rebel.
by jphilo | Oct 14, 2011 | Walking Down the Gravel Road
Words can’t do justice to the beauty of autumn leaves reflected in the skate pond in a park in our small town. But, one picture speaks a thousand words.
Enjoy!
by jphilo | Aug 30, 2011 | Walking Down the Gravel Road
Don’t let the photo accompanying this post fool you. This recycled entry is not about the last time the city worked on the asphalt section of our little gravel road. It’s about my camera’s uncanny ability to be absent when it would come in handy. This three year old entry wasn’t all that different from my action-packed morning walk yesterday. Not only did a fully mature and determined looking fox leap onto the path in front of me and gallop to the other side with amazing speed and agility, but also a doe and three fawns let me get within 10 feet of them before they hustled into the foliage. But once again, my camera was nowhere to be found. Three years later, carpe diem failure still plagues me. Sigh.
Carpe Diem Failure – Recycled
In one of my blog entries last week, I crowed about my initial success at seizing the day. But I must report that since then all my attempts at day seizing have been complete and utter failures.
On my walk a few mornings after my carpe diem masterstroke, a downy looking bird lay still and limp on the asphalt beside my neighbor’s driveway. My first thought was, “Get a picture.” My second thought was, “You don’t have your camera,” and my third was, “Jolene, you’re sick. You just posted a dead frog picture. People don’t want to see a dead bird.” I assured myself that the bird wasn’t worth seizing and walked on.
But on my return trip, the little bird was sitting upright and breathing fast. “Now this,” I thought, “could turn into a zippy, chirpy blog entry about overcoming hardships and clinging to hope.” So I walked home, strapped on my camera bag and went back to photography Tweety. When I got there, Tweety had flown the coop, and all I got was a picture of bare asphalt, a sort of seize-the-day/take-the-camera visual reminder.
Yesterday morning I crossed the little bridge and heard a slight rustle ahead. I looked up to see a baby fawn standing on the road not ten feet away. Once again, I didn’t have my camera. The fawn leaped away and joined her mother and sibling by the stream.
The seizing failures were mounting at an alarming rate, and I vowed to remember my camera this morning, which I did. No wildlife, healthy or injured, made an appearance, but rain clouds were moving in. At one point, a rainbow tried to form, but it was a pathetic little glimmer of a thing. Besides I was anticipating my mammogram and physical, both of which create more of a squeeze than seize mentality, so I kept walking.
By the way, mammograms are now digital, but I forgot to ask the rad tech if she would email them to me so I could post them on my blog. So add another tick in the carpe diem failure column. Or put one in the thank God for small favors box, depending on your point of view. In fact, put two ticks in the thank God box. Because I forgot to take my camera to the mammogram appointment too. For that, we are all exceeding grateful.
by jphilo | May 23, 2011 | Walking Down the Gravel Road
This morning’s walk was as close to perfect as possible this side of heaven. I was out the door before the breeze picked up, so there was no pushing against the wind.
It was early enough to watch the sunrise,
spy on the red fox bounding up the rise beside the stream,
watch the birds fight for their turf,
beat the road traffic and hear the quiet.
I was out the door before the morning news reports. So I didn’t hear about the tornado in Joplin, Missouri until after I arrived home, chalk full of gratitude for our lovely weather and the opportunity to enjoy it. Two minutes into the radio description of the devastation and my heart was sinking. A minute longer, and the joy of my town’s fresh spring morning – perfect for open windows, bird song, and breezes – became a weight on my shoulders.
How can I be happy when so many are hurting?
How can I thank God for beauty instead of rage against his destruction?
Am I devoid of compassion, totally selfish?
Why am I not wearing sack cloth, covered in ashes?
There are children dying in Africa,
people putting their lives back together after last month’s tornadoes,
houses about to be flooded in Louisiana,
families torn apart by terrorists’ bombs,
Afghanistan racked by war,
destruction, doom, gloom, and sadness on all sides.
The burden of calamity presses hard on my shoulders. But what can I do except offer prayers and money while hanging onto the joy of this spring morning?
No, I will do more than just hang onto the joy by my fingertips.
I will bathe in the beauty,
bask in the sunshine,
inhale the perfume of flowers,
store it in every cell of my body.
So I am ready when destruction draws near, wounds friends, even takes them away.
So I have a deep reservoir of joy to share with my neighbors who have none.
As they shared with me when calamity came to our house.
Today, I will store up joy,
joy to spare,
joy to share,
the promise of joy to come,
the joy of this perfect spring morning.
and pass it on to you.
by jphilo | May 19, 2011 | Walking Down the Gravel Road
We’ve had four days of sunshine IN A ROW, the absolute record for the entire spring. My Vitamin D production skyrocketing, and all things natural are moving at mach speed.
The birds are an unceasing riot of chirping and chasing. The tree frogs by the pond are gloriously loud, their noise level totally out of proportion to their size. The largest member of the red fox gang trotted brazenly down the paved street this morning, his coat sparkling in the light. The striped ground squirrels dragged their patio furniture onto the sidewalk and are sipping from tall glasses decked out with tiny umbrellas.
Hiram is running behind the mower, trying to keep ahead of the grass. The weeds have already conquered my flowerbeds. The lilac bushes are a mass of purple. They smell so heavenly I’m tempted to throw allergy cautions to the wind and inhale the heady perfume by the hour. The honeysuckle and purple columbine are blooming, the peony and daisy buds are swelling, the coral bells are tinkling in time with the breeze, the iris petals are straining against their green straight jackets.
Some parts of spring are already history. The daffodils are long gone, the magnolias a memory, with the tulips fading fast. Our neighbor’s sour cherry tree was a spectacular cloud of white blossoms last week, so sweet and full of promise I braved the rain and took its picture. A day or two later, the blooms had melted like snow. The blossoms on the plum tree across the road and to the west melted away, too. Though not until after they had perfumed my path during several damp and chilly morning walks.
Spring is moving so fast, I don’t want to close my eyes at night. I wake with the sun and jump out of bed, eager to discover what happened while I lazed in bed. What beauty did I miss? What splash of color went unnoticed in the darkness? What miracle of life awaits the awe and honor it deserves? What possibilities wait, quivering with excitement? What joy needs celebrating? I can barely keep up with this furious unfolding of new life during these days of rare sunshine and warmth.
Each morning I plead and beg with this swiftly moving time of year.
Slow down, spring.
You move too fast.
I want to make this season last.
She never listens, but I keep asking.
I want to make my favorite season last.
