I read books and magazines. I read symbols and signs. I read labels and billboards. I read words and people. I wish I could read minds.
I used to be an avid reader, but now I’m a binge watcher. I think episodes are like chapters in a book, so it doesn’t surprise me that I used to stay up all night reading a book to see how it ends. Now, I spend endless hours watching to see how a series ends.
Sometimes I abandon what I’m reading. And sometimes I come back and try again. And sometimes I finish a book, especially when the story compels me to keep reading.
I have a secret. The best part of most non-fiction books that I’ve read is the introduction. It’s where most authors tell you what their book is about. You can save yourself a lot of time by just reading the introduction. You can save more time by just reading titles. Another secret love of mine is reading aloud. It is very satisfying, especially poems and plays.
I used to chide myself for starting more than one book at a time, now I know that’s just how I read.
What’s your reading style? What are you currently reading?
For the past several years, I have found serenity by living in the moment.
Living in the moment was an intention that provided a place to return, when I got too wrapped up in prodding the past for answers or too anxious longing for the future.
Disruptions were invitations to pause and center myself in the moment, a gift of observing and noticing that happiness can happen. Serenity followed me.
This current “disruption” feels different. I don’t want to talk about it. I want it to leave me alone, but it can’t and won’t and really shouldn’t.
When I feel frustrated or disappointed, I try to put a smiley face on it.
Going out on our boat is a welcome escape from the routine of life. The boat symbolizes retreat and refuge and often is our mode of vacation. This year vacation has been elusive. This year, I feel robbed of my chances to vacate…to leave home for a respite. To escape reality for a few days, maybe a week.
This year, our boat said no to one vacation. The engine needed unexpected repairs. Obviously, the virus deterred us from our plans, but once the boat was repaired, I told myself even if we can’t vacation, we can escape on the boat for a few days. I told myself this would work, but to be honest going out on the boat hasn’t been the same.
The river has also played a role in my disappointments. In the spring it was flooding, but we took the boat out anyway. And even though it wasn’t an ideal getaway, I thought we’d try again. The weather was perfect this time. And the river wasn’t at flood stage.
We’d take the boat out and enjoy the weekend. We’d extend our time on the boat by working from the boat on Monday. We were proceeding along with our planned escape, but something was missing.
We made it out onto the river, and let down our anchor for the evening. Yet, I didn’t feel serene. Everything was great, but I couldn’t escape my own inner angst. We thought the internet signal would be strong, but it wasn’t reliable enough to log into work on Monday, barely strong enough for me to post photos on social media. I was not happy.
We managed to relax on Saturday evening, but we both knew we’d have to make some kind of adjustment to stay put through Monday. Maybe the marina would have better internet, maybe another section of the river, maybe we should just go home. Sunday morning we mulled over these options. Disappointment lurked in my heart. I knew the marina wouldn’t be an escape from social distancing protocols and we didn’t have the energy to take the boat upriver.
Normally, I rally to the occasion and fight to stay out on the boat longer. But it seemed too much effort.
After breakfast on Sunday, we decided that we could spend the rest of the day on the river and go home in the evening. But first, we needed to pull up anchor and let the dog go ashore for her morning walk. We drove the boat over to the dock at Hideaway Harbor, where we also had parked the truck and trailer. The inlet is shallow, but this time the readings were at 1.5 feet, and we were worried that getting into the inlet later may prove problematic.
It was decided, pretty quickly that our escape was over. Time to load the boat on the trailer and head home. Relief mingled with disappointment, yet by the time we pulled the boat out and packed up our belongings into our truck, serenity had found us.
Serenity to accept the obstacles, courage to change our course, even when it wasn’t the desired outcome, and noticing that wisdom knew the difference it would make to say no. I realized that serenity can mean calm and quiet, but it can also manifest as confidence in light of making a difficult, disappointing decision.
I’m home now. Satisfied with our decision. Doing things I would have done if we were still out on the river. Relaxing, enjoying a rainstorm, playing with my art supplies. Contemplating serenity, and it’s various forms.
Hope deferred makes the heart sick, but a desire fulfilled is a tree of life.
(Proverbs 13:12 ESV)
Four winters ago, we were in Florida, staying on our boat in a marina right across the street from the ocean. One of the first nights there, I walked over to say hello to the ocean, and to my surprise the moon was rising above the waves. I came back to the boat to get my camera to capture the moon. I was too impatient to learn all the f-stops and aperture settings and ISO settings to get a photo that night.
We were in Florida long enough to witness another rising of the moon. This time, I captured the moon with my camera. There’s something illusive and mysterious about the moon, yet its familiarity also comforts me.
Fast forward, summer of 2020. I am still trying to capture illusive and mysterious things. With a camera, on a blank page, with images or words, I desire to bring to life what’s churning inside me. I want to paint a picture, develop an image, create a turn of phrase that speaks deeply of now and when and how and how come and what if.
I scan feeds, and someone else captures a phrase, I didn’t know that I wanted or needed. I try it out on my tongue, with my pen in my notebook. And a captured moment arises, and I think I will build upon that phrase and add some other phrases that I’ve read or heard or mused upon. And a poem of sort bleeds from the pen onto the page.
The poem is untitled. (Borrowed phrases in italics, with credits at the end.)
my own personal America, desires deferred today
this time, I choose drive-in fireworks: 10×15 viewing pods
arrive in time to be jammed in traffic, cars with 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 six people, no more, with DEMANDS to be responsible . . . and monitored closely
backed into our $20 dollar piece of real estate– happy little tree next to our space; an island retreat.
one couple in our pod, spreads their quilt on the grass– a burnt orange, rusty moon rises above the set.
eerily quite for our lot, a tarmac full of individuals
waiting for a display of bursting color and pattern upon the night sky
a cool breeze, as they sit remarking: such a pleasant evening
an often humidity laden event, remembering pasts–now songs play on the radio, lyrics echoing memories faint and not so poignant . . .
country road take me home? proud to be . . . free?
I stand for the anthem with questions under my hand that clasps my heart– my own personal America
Earlier this spring, I encouraged the students in my writing class to keep an observation notebook. As a teacher it’s often a good idea to do what you ask of your students.
Some early mornings, I run with a friend. On my way home I started a routine of pulling into a park to observe, but some days I didn’t take the time. However, I was tuned into observing, so I noticed peonies in a yard. I noticed them and descriptions popped into my mind while I was driving. I started “taking notes” with my voice activation on my phone. (It rarely works for me to wait until I get home to jot it down; I lose the turn of phrase.)
And then after some time— a poem emerged.
I kept these notes for several days; maybe a couple weeks. I am uncertain of the time frame, but the time was marked by the peonies.
Peony Collector by Kel Rohlf
Peonies that look like red, white and pink pom-poms.
Pink, white and red peony heads bowed down from the rain.
Now resting their frazzled heads on the ground.
Around another bend, disheveled fuschia peonies invite a shout of joy.
Now the peonies shed their petals like a shaggy dog.
Spent peonies, diminishing, leaving behind green foliage.
No more peonies line the path, now an empty bed; ready for summer’s rest.
Earlier this spring, I noticed a large leafed plant growing right where our gazebo used to be. Last year, we tore down my side yard retreat to create a parking place for our boat. That plan didn’t work as we had hoped, so we took the boat back to a storage lot, and the space next to the house was sadly barren.
The plant looked familiar. Was it a rhubarb leaf? I convinced myself that it had to be one. My reasoning meandered back to the garden that used to be next to the gazebo. One spring I had planted rhubarb, but it never matured, nor materialized. I guessed that maybe some critter buried the rhubarb root under the gazebo.
I noticed the plant in March, just about the time of the stay at home order. Since I was at home, why not plant a garden, where the gazebo once stood? I dreamed of strawberry rhubarb pie.
I borrowed my mom’s electric roto-tiller. Pleased with freshly furrowed soil, I fashioned a fence out of screening and bamboo stakes. I even equipped it with a makeshift gate. When the garden shops opened, I braved my first outing armed with face mask and gloves. I bought seeds and plants for my miniature garden. Planting herbs in an abandoned dresser drawer, gathering lawn ornaments to give some artistry to the plot, I gladly occupied myself with hopes of fresh vegetables and cut flowers for this summer.
As the rhubarb plant grew, something seemed amiss. Instead of spreading out, and the stems reddening, it just grew taller and more prickly. I asked my mom about it, and she suspected it was a weed called burdock. I did further investigation; it was not rhubarb. It was a case of mistaken identity.
At first, I was disappointed, but then I realized if I had identified the plant correctly, most likely I wouldn’t have pursued planting the garden. The tilling, the plotting and the planting brought me so much joy. And to be honest it’s been one of my best efforts at a garden. I’m sure there’s a lesson in there somewhere. I just can’t put words to it. All I know is my mistake led to an abundance of unexpected joy and lots of plants to tend and occupy my hopes and dreams this summer and into autumn. I’ve got marigolds, beets and hollyhocks to make into dye. I have zinnias for flower arranging, and herbs to add flavor to my meals. And soon eggplant, cukes and zucchini to eat.
See my Instagram feed for photos of the garden, as it progresses.
They seldom reflect on the days of their life, because God keeps them occupied with gladness of heart.
Intuition Diaries 