Nature's Diamonds

Since living in the desert, I’ve become aware of a phenomenon I never noticed anywhere else--trees and other vegetation that sprout diamonds after it rains. Tiny droplets of water hang suspended from the branches and twinkle in the sunlight, red, blue, and yellow. When nearly all the vegetation in sight is glistening, our entire yard is transformed from a prickly, drab green, desert landscape to a surreal orchard of jewels. Usually the diamonds appear for only a few minutes--I’ve never known them to last more than thirty, but I’ve stared at them entranced. Never have I seen a diamond so able to capture my imagination so deeply. In fact the only diamond I’ve ever owned or desired to own is my engagement ring. It sparkles not so much for the intrinsic quality of the stone, but by the love it represents. I’ve never been one of those women who cherishes and must own precious jewels, especially diamonds. My jewels, I’ve said, are my children and grandchildren. They are more precious to me than the most expensive diamond in the world. Fortunately for me, I’ve never lived a lifestyle that required dressing or accessorizing with precious stones.

The other day, our orchard of diamonds appeared again and sent my imagination off to memory lane where I recalled similar encounters with nature’s diamonds. Staring at the images of Jack frost on the window panes when I was a child left me wondering and marveling at the unique and intricate patterns. I wondered then if there was a message in one or more of those lovely patterns on our windows.

Later, when skiing in the Rockies with my husband and looking out from the chair lift at miles of majestic mountains with peaks and crevasses all covered with freshly fallen snow, the crisp, clear air and the diamonds that twinkled beneath us from the lift all combined to make me feel rhapsodic with the joy of being alive.

Now in the latter stages of life, as I look out upon that sparkling desert landscape, I chuckle at the description of heaven as having a pearly gate for an entrance and streets paved with gold. That depiction never appealed to me much, certainly not enough to prevent me from engaging in my sinful ways. Now, however, as I stare enchanted, I wonder, perhaps, if heaven is a place where all the trees glisten with diamonds that reflect the colors of the rainbow, like tiny Christmas lights, and all the window panes are frosted with delicate lacy patterns, and all the mountain meadows are covered with white, freshly fallen snow that sparkles in the abundant sunshine.

I am sure there is a scientific explanation for nature’s jewels, for the composition of water in the snow and for colors reflected by sunlight, but I prefer to think of these moments as magical, as filled with wonder and awe, moments when we leave our tangible bodies and touch something beyond the physical. We earthly beings are fortunate to occasionally glimpse that awesome phenomenon. For “Now we see but a poor reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face (ICor. 13:12).

POPCORN

Walking in the rain the other day with my hooded jacket, I was reminded of popcorn. As the raindrops hit my Chinese-made, nylon hood, they went plop, plop and I was taken back to my childhood home in the 50s and to the rec room in the basement where my family gathered on Sunday nights to watch the Milton Berle Show. My Dad had finished off the walls with wood paneling; he’d added a tiny bathroom and, of course, a bar. But in the corner where my family sat, loomed our Motorola TV in a furniture-like console, adorned on top with an artificial floral arrangement in oranges and yellows. Shiny round knobs on the TV turned for adjusting the volume and changing the four channels. A simple button turned it on or off. No remote control.
We all looked forward to this regular Sunday night event, as our friends and neighbors also did, I believe.

Looking back on it now, I don’t remember any of the performers or performances on the Milton Berle Show. What I remember most is popcorn. My mother would be the last to descend the stairs to the rec room, carrying a tray with chipped, orange enameled bowls, white on the inside and rimmed at the top with black, also chipped. But the piece de la resistance was the large metal bowl (from the electric mixer) of popcorn. Of course we’d smelled it long before we’d seen it, and we’d heard Mother upstairs in the kitchen shaking the pan from which we’d heard many tiny explosions. Sometimes I’d be recruited to help with the task. We used the pressure cooker pan, without the rubber seal in the lid, and of course, without the rocking metal top piece. The heavy pan was also the only pan large enough. First, we’d pour in the vegetable oil and watch until it began to move ever so slightly, showing it was heated, but not enough to smoke. Then we’d add the kernels, completely layering the bottom. Because we had an electric stove, we’d push the pan back and forth across the heating element as soon as the kernels started popping. Sometimes, the white fluffy corn would overflow the pan and spill onto the counters and stovetop, making us giggle with excitement. It was important not to let it burn while trying to minimize the number of unpopped kernels, called old maids. We’d melt butter in a small pan, used only for that purpose. We’d pour it on, swish it around and shake salt on top.

Now when I want popcorn, as I did the other day after coming in from the rain, I place a sealed bag already filled with the necessary ingredients, into the microwave, hit the “popcorn” button and wait until the noise stops, remove the bag, open it, let the steam escape and pour it into a large transparent plastic bowl. The smell and the sound still please my senses, just as the old pressure cooker method did, but without Milton Berle, the old console TV, the innocence of the 50s, the taste is not as sweet.

Days in a Daze

“How long is the recovery period?” I asked my surgeon on the day I scheduled arthroscopic surgery for my knee. The one that had been bothering me with unrelenting pain for nearly six months.
“Anywhere from a few days to three weeks,” he replied.
Good, I thought. I’m betting on the three weeks. I knew, however that that was probably unrealistic, given my past history of recovering from surgery. I am lucky to be in great health, and once the anesthetic wears off, which for me always takes several days, I’ve generally been able to handle whatever pain the surgeon has inflicted. Nevertheless, I was hoping for a 3-week recovery. Not that I wanted pain or complications. No, I wanted pampering and a retreat from my frantic life.

So I set up my command center in the corner of the living room, the leather recliner with adjacent table upon which I stored the cache of books I’d been wanting to read. In fact, I’d started and hadn’t finished three different books and I had two others unopened but enticing me with their jackets. Here was my opportunity. In addition, the table also held the remote control for the TV, my laptop, the telephone, a glass of water, another of iced tea and a small bowl of jelly beans, which I referred to as my pain pills. Over the chair I placed two lap robes, one quilted several years ago by a friend in California and another crocheted by a friend in Minnesota. Those lap robes were my connection to far away friends, thoughts of whom brought joy and healing. I was ready.

The day after my surgery, I mostly slept. I’d be ready to dive into my books tomorrow, I thought. But the following day, though I slept a little less, I still felt too drowsy to read. The next day I was ready to dig into my sedentary amusements, but first, to re-establish a connection with the outside world, I turned on the TV. The History channel featured a program about all the prophets throughout time who had predicted a calamitous ending of civilization in 2012. I switched to CNN. There I saw pictures of screaming children fleeing the bombs in Gaza while black smoke poured out of homes in the background. I switched to MSNBC. Perhaps the economic situation that had seemed so glum a few days ago, had improved. Instead, I saw the banner scrolling across the bottom of the screen with nothing but red downward arrows. Commentators predicted further economic doom. I flipped to the weather channel. Pictures of knee-deep water filled with debris, on the streets in a flooded town in Washington filled the screen. I turned off the TV and took a nap.

On day five of my recovery, I finally felt able to concentrate on a book. I selected the novel that my book group was reading this month. It featured an American woman who was neglected and disrespected by her successful husband. Since my own husband had been bringing me my dinner each day, keeping my water and ice tea glasses refreshed, answering the phone for me when I was sleeping and frequently asking if I needed anything, the novel only made me feel guilty. I closed the book and took a nap,
Drifting toward sleep with thoughts about the good times we’d had with our lap-robe friends. I looked forward to enjoying life again with them and others after my recovery, still many days in the future.
By the sixth day, I was ready to do some serious writing. I had my laptop and here was my chance to compose one of the many essays that swam in my head ready to be transferred to paper. Of course my brain had functioned like oatmeal for six days, so I decided to exercise it by playing a game of Scrabble on Facebook, a website new to me. Navigating Facebook and playing Scrabble with electronic strangers was fun, I discovered, even though I lost the first game. But that only meant I needed to play another. Finally, I was involved in four different Scrabble games all at once. By the time I finished those games I was ready for a nap.

The next day, after my husband served me breakfast, I took a shower and did a load of laundry, then quickly returned to my recliner, telling myself I shouldn’t overdo it. I’d better take a nap.
“I’m going to the grocery store,” my husband said. “What do we need?”
“How do I know what we need,” I shouted, I haven’t opened the refrigerator in six days.”
“Precisely!” He replied.
I knew then that my recovery had ended. I got up from my recliner, cleaned out the refrigerator and the freezer, cleaned the bathroom, changed the sheets on the bed and put away all my sedentary amusements.
I still longed for more time to read and write, and I felt a tiny bit resentful that my husband wasn’t willing to pamper me a bit longer. Yet, I also knew how incredibly lucky I was to have good health and a good husband. I said of prayer of gratitude.

Reading and writing is something I do best, I realized, when I’m actively engaged in the world, physically mobile and mentally alert. I don’t need surgery; I need discipline.

From City to Suburb

I hail from the city and the suburb. In the city, my working-class neighborhood consisted of noisy kids who played outside on unkempt lawns and sidewalks that were often cracked by tree roots, but when stepped on, would break our mothers’ backs. We rode tricycles and bicycles on those sidewalks, making popping noises with the cards we’d attached to the spokes with clothes pins--clothes pins being a staple then, as few households had clothes dryers. Clothes lines adorned all the backyards, and, in winter, work pants and house dresses often hung like frozen scarecrows. In summer, we played kick-the-can, cowboys and Indians, marbles and mischief. At the nearby park, I was dumped off the teeter-totter and had the wind knocked out of me as my older sister who was babysitting me, stood in horror, believing I was dead. But later, I swung to exhilarating heights trying to make the swing go over the bar from which it was suspended.

Johnny, my best friend, lived across the street. His mother and mine were friends. Our fathers worked together. Mrs. Pettibon, his grandmother, sat in a rocking chair on the front porch and knitted while she watched us play. We knew all our neighbors and they knew us. One neighbor, Mrs. Clark, whose grown son worked for Standard Oil in exotic Saudi Arabia, held story hour. She sat in a chair in her backyard, while we kids surrounded her on the grass and listened to her read us stories of far away places. Through her stories, we escaped to places unlike our neighborhood, places where it was always spring and everyone was rich and beautiful.
In winter, we bundled up in snowsuits and made snowmen and snowballs or we skated on ice rinks in the park and on lakes. Afterwards, we sipped hot chocolate topped with miniature marshmallows.

When I was ten, my father was promoted to vice president and we moved to the suburbs. There we had a whole acre of lawn, gardens and an apple orchard. Instead of the 2-bedroom, one bathroom bungalow with makeshift bedroom in the attic, our new home was a 2-story mansion, 3 bedrooms, a den, a kitchen with a breakfast nook and a dining room, a bathroom on each floor and a finished basement. All the houses in the subdivision stood, like sentinels, far from the street and no children played on front lawns; sidewalks didn’t exist. Instead of walking to school, I rode a yellow bus. There were no parks, just manicured lawns, carefully groomed flower beds and tall trees that dropped their leaves in the fall, requiring hours of raking into piles, tempting my siblings and me to jump in and scatter, despite the knowledge that doing so would lead to a reprimand. Later the leaves were burned, emitting the sweet, iconic smell of fall. Instead of the sound of children playing, the silence of summer was broken by power lawn mowers or a barking, lonely dog. At night, with the windows open, the whistle of a distant train beckoned me to dream of the places in Mrs. Clark’s stories. My dog Pat became my best friend. I rode my bike; she followed and together we explored the creek that flowed several blocks away, or I rode to the school yard where I could swing and think. I picked apples and wild asparagus and I roamed the woods, and climbed the trees. Winter, I looked out the window to a brilliant white, but dead and silent landscape.

From the city I developed an appreciation for friends and community. From the suburb, I developed a greater appreciation for the outdoors. Together, I have been blessed with a love for nature, a love for family and friends, and a belief that life is an incredibly beautiful journey.

Desert Flora

A saguaro cactus in winter; a night-blooming cerus; Torch cactus