I’ve been painting again.  Not beautiful landscapes and inspired portraits of Aiken in Spring.  Unlike so many of my talented friends, I have absolutely no ability for that kind of artistic expression.  I’ve been painting rooms.  To be truthful, a delightful handyman named Paul has been painting them for me – what with my still-gimpy leg and better discretion about not climbing ladders.

The rooms are in my guest cottage.  A small bit of a place not more than a few yards behind my house, tucked into the far northeast corner of the property.  For years it was lived in and loved by a dear family friend.  But then it was time for her to move on.  And just as I was beginning to rethink the cottage’s purpose and possibilities, and refresh its walls and floors and furnishings, the dogs and I collided and I got badly broken.  And so I just turned the key on the little cottage door, and turned away.  It stood alone for almost a year.  

But now, I’ve very slowly gone back to poking around in it again.  I decided to start where I had left off – with painting.  And for weeks it had splotches of test colors dotting the kitchen cabinets, bedroom walls, bathroom backdrops and closets, even the floors.  Only the main living area walls escaped the color experiments.  Because only the main living area still sports its original 1950s-era wood panelling on all four walls.  In there, it’s all warm and glowing and retro-cozy, as if it were still listening to 45s on the hi-fi.  But there are cabinets at the kitchen end of the area, and they got painted first – a soft grey-green color – part library, part garden.  Very cottage-y.

I liked the color result so much I thought I’d try a version of it in the bedroom and bathroom as well.  I tried other colors, too – mixtures, blends, varying hues.  And, after weeks of wavering uncertainty, I told Paul, “just go for it” – using a version of the same color as on the kitchen cabinets in both rooms – with a very soft white on both ceilings. 

It rather breaks my DIY heart to have someone else get all up close and personal with my little cottage.  There is something about painting the rooms of a house that lets you truly claim it for your own.  Like putting a big sloppy kiss on its forehead, leaving lipstick marks behind.  So I didn’t watch.  I just kept checking in.

I trust handyman Paul completely.  He is a wonderful painter.  But when I saw the mostly finished walls in both rooms, I actually questioned the paint he had used.  (When you stand in the middle of the house, you can literally see into its three rooms at once.)  And we both started checking the paint cans again.  The colors on the walls looked not just different, they looked as if they weren’t even in the same color family.  They weren’t just variations on a theme, they were whistling entirely different tunes.  One room to the next, cabinets vs. walls, south vs. north, the colors looked like everything from green to grey to almost shadow blue.  Even the ceilings weren’t the same color as they were in the single can – one ceiling looked a grayish-white, one almost pure yellow (in the can, it was cream).  

I know what light can do to the appearance of paint colors, but this was beyond anything I’d seen before.  And it was indeed all about the light.  One room is filled with morning sun, while the other has only artificial light within it.  One is all corners and cubbyholes, the other is long and narrow and open one end to the next.

I suspect that much of life is like that, after all.  Part of it is twists and turns and corners, while other parts are long views.  And how we perceive it is all about the light.  Whether it’s a single color or a single event or a single situation, the light that we shine on it can make all the difference – the natural light we allow in, or the light we bring to it ourselves – as well as the darkness in which we may choose to keep it.  Even where we are standing as we look at it gives us a different perspective, a different perception, a different color.

I love my little time-worn, freshly kissed cottage, now wearing its new coat of many colors.  I suspect it’s because nothing is quite the same in every place and every time I look at it – one wall to the next, one room to the next, one hour to the next.  It’s about the joy of variations and shifting moods and interesting personalities and changing clothes and hats – and the almost infinite diversity and possibilities of it all.  

I can’t wait to paint the floors. 

“Whenever I look down at my hands, I see my grandmother’s rings.”  It was one of those random bits of overheard conversation among strangers that caught me off guard and played with my imagination.  I didn’t know the woman who said it.  I didn’t really see her.  I just heard the words with the edge of my mind as we passed.

I wondered if she wore her grandmother’s jewelry.  Or perhaps her own hands reminded her of her grandmother’s and she saw the rings in her mind’s eye from childhood memories.

I was never very fond of my own hands.  Too pudgy, short-fingered, sun-freckled, with nails that are never fashionable (just sort of places where the fingers suddenly stop).  Until one day, my sister said my hands reminded her of our mother’s hands – and I began to see them that way, too.  And I was glad for all their stubbiness, the plain-speaking appearance of them, their homeliness with a suggestion of strength.

On a recent PBS special, a woman forensic specialist was describing to the show’s host how the backs of our hands are as distinctive as our fingerprints.  In particular, she was observing the sun spots, the crisscrossing of veins, the minute scars and worn patches on them.  I found it particularly compelling that our “age spots” are one of the most significant ways our hands are unique – as if we don’t come into the fullness of our individuality until we are old enough to handle it.  The woman described how an entire branch of study was being developed that was devoted to this way of identifying us as individuals.  Because no two hands are ever alike.  Never.

Beyond just our fingerprints, the backs of our hands are apparently a proprietary blend of inheritance from birth and experience through life, genetics and life choices (our fingerprints are formed while we’re still in the womb, but all the rest has to come later).  Our hands are forever recording who we are and where we’ve been, what we’ve done and how we’ve done it.

Musicians and bread-bakers, nurses and artists, horse riders and race car drivers, athletes, dog trainers, bricklayers, tillers of the ground – all of us have hands that are shaped and informed by our talents and livelihoods.

Perhaps this humanity of our hands is why we instinctively hold each other by them at first breath and last.  Why we use them when we say hello and goodbye, crossing streets, giving comfort, expressing love.  We know each other in dark places by our hands and touch.  We pull each other to safety with them.  Perhaps that was one of the parts of being human we inherently missed most during the long separation of the pandemic – that hand-to-hand connection.  

I suspect there is no parent on earth who does not know their own child’s tiny handprints, brought home from school on a rumpled piece of colored paper; sometimes commemorated in cement near the backdoor.  Even our animals know us by just the scent and feel of our hands.

Apparently our hands are as unique to each of us as a zebra’s stripes and a leopard’s spots.  And only a few other creatures have such distinctions.  The individuality of our hands is the key to unlocking things like laptops and car doors and hidden rooms.  And for hundreds and hundreds of years before us, that individuality was used for sealing documents and signing contracts; with just the marks of our thumbs we kept secrets and promises to each other.  

And yet, I suspect with all the amazingly unique physical character of our hands themselves, the design of them doesn’t matter nearly so much as the awesome responsibility they hold within them – how we take care of one another with them, how we bless or curse the earth with them, what we choose to lift up or hold down with them, how open or closed they are when we share our stuff, how they record the past and shape the future.

Leonardo daVinci told us:  “When you put your hand into a flowing stream, you touch the last of what has gone before and the first of what is still to come.”

I suspect that when we consider the uniqueness of our own hands we are meant to always feel the touch of a child, and see our grandmother’s rings.

My friend James is a brilliant actor.  When asked in a recent interview about his career preferences, he said he loved Shakespeare best.  He said it was all about the words and how they feel in his mouth.  I’ve also come to believe that when you hear Shakespeare’s words spoken, it’s all about how the words feel in your ears, too – and your heart and mind, how they resonate through your whole body and being.

Of course, Shakespeare wrote his words to be spoken aloud – to be heard from the mouths of skilled actors.  But perhaps its a phenomenon of most well-written works – they take on new depth and connection when we read them aloud to each other.

I suspect most of us were read to as children – by mothers and fathers, babysitters and teachers, perhaps older siblings.  If we were lucky, they read to us from classic childhood novels and sometimes serialized stories printed in magazines.  Most were without pictures; the stories were created solely by the magic of the words themselves – words that became like shadows on the wall, animated and brought to life by the readers’ voices and our own personal imaginations.

Being read to out loud is one of the lasting pleasures of childhood we never seem to outgrow.  I suspect it’s the reason for the ongoing attraction of audio books and author book readings, poetry nights at the library and Shakespeare in the park.  I know couples who read aloud to each other on car trips and in bed at night and by firelight on cold afternoons and by flashlight in camping tents.

I think most authors would be pleased with the idea of their words being read aloud.  There’s no skipping ahead or speed-reading without meaning or tone, no jumping to the last page first.  The story unfolds the way it was meant to, the way it was put down on paper (usually with pencil or pen in hand scratching softly along the page), slowly, deliberately, with great thought and care, from beginning to end.  And then it receives the added voice and texture of the reader – colored as well by the sensitivity and curiosity and personal experience of the listener.  And the possibilities of it grow beyond the author, beyond the printed page.

There is a saying that I greatly appreciate (thoughts about the origin of this saying are rather mixed – variously attributed to a small child, a contemporary author, an ancient culture, even some Biblical texts).  But the saying is this:  “You can tell when a person loves you by they way they say your name; your name feels safe in their mouth.”

Perhaps there is something of this same sensibility when we read a story we love out loud – to another or just to ourselves.  How the words feel in our mouths, how they resonate in our ears, how they walk around in our heads and dance with our hearts, is a blending of the author’s words and our own souls.  And so the words become filled with new context, new understanding, a sort of recognition, a relationship.  Rather like holding hands.

I hope reading aloud never becomes a lost art.  I hope there are always words to read that feel good in our mouths.  Words that feel intriguing and experiential, complex and original, perhaps a bit heartbreaking as well as comforting.  Like Shakespeare.  But most of all, I hope the words in our mouths feel safe, like love.  And that we keep sharing them out loud with each other.

I have been watching her now for the past several minutes.  My short dog, Daphne, has the “zoomies” – running as fast as she can all round the front yard.  She is watching me watching her.  She likes an audience.  But since last June when she and the tall dog, Liam, took me down during a flat-out zoomies run, and left me in their wake as a pile of broken bits and pieces, she is not allowed to run like this too close to me.  Liam tries to make sure of it by standing guard in front of me.  I remind her with words of caution.  And she respects the restrictions.  But still, she likes an audience.

Today, as I stand watching her appreciatively, I’ve noticed a distinct pattern:  she runs all around the property at the edges.  She runs in circles, in figure-eights, leaping over rocks, dodging behind bushes, zig-zagging around trees.  She races like the wind.  But she runs almost exclusively along the edges.

Long before our collision, I noticed her running patterns in the backyard.  But the backyard is almost completely paved over (a former owner’s preference, not my own).  So I assumed this was why she ran the perimeter back there, keeping to the only grass and soft ground available.  But the front yard is almost entirely soft plant beds and lawn.  And still, she runs the edges.

I first came across the term of “edge walkers” in an essay about formal religion and the natural world and about living in the thresholds between them.  The author observed that edge walkers occupy a thin space, and called it a lonely place.  She further wrote that the majority of people inhabit the vast spaces on either side of the edges.  And that edge walking is as much a calling as it is a choice. 

In nature, these edges or thresholds between biosystems are called “ecotones,” which contain the greatest biodiversity and are the most resilient as a result.  It has always been a tradition of native cultures to “leave the edges wild.”  No matter how cultivated a field or manicured a lawn, it is good to leave the edges wild for the bugs and birds, butterflies and bunnies, and all manner of other creatures and seedlings.  And, most especially, for the sake of diversity itself.  

Perhaps Daphne can feel this wildness under her feet as she runs the edges of the property.  Perhaps the ground there is cushioned with hidden moss beds, moist with mud, cooler in summer, warmer in winter, leaf-thick, twig-crunchy.  I would suspect that the scents behind and beneath the bushes and trees at the edges are wonderfully compelling, that the shadows and sun dapples are perfectly intriguing.

But I suspect, too, that it isn’t only in nature that the most exhilarating and informative diversity exists at the edges.  Cultural, political, social, religious – perhaps all of these environments offer edges to walk.  Rather than getting swept along into manicured expanses of sameness, or trapped in cultivated rows of autocracy, the edges may be much preferred spaces in which to walk through all of life.

Edge walking may be, indeed, a lonely thing.  Daphne is terribly introverted.  But it must be a wonderfully liberating thing as well.  To be open to such otherwise hidden delights and possibilities … to be released from formats and fences … to be freeform and resilient in thought and step.  

Two millennia ago, a child was born who would spend his life walking the edges, bringing love and light and possibilities into dark places.  Ever since then, his followers have been tasked with carrying that invitation of Peace on Earth forward.  And if we don’t drop it, it may light the way for edge walkers through another 2000 years.

Perhaps Daphne is watching me watching her, not so much because she wants an audience, but because I am meant to have this Christmas reminder to always be an edge walker myself.

It starts with boiled potatoes – overcooked to the edge of mushiness, then peeled and diced into uneven chunks; and hardboiled eggs, sliced diagonally, cooked so long the yokes fall out and crumble as they are being cut; and chopped sweet onion and celery for crunch; generously salted and mixed with Miracle Whip – not mayonnaise – Miracle Whip.  Served from a very large bowl, still slightly warm and freshly made or quite cold from the refrigerator, it is still my favorite potato salad.  My mother’s potato salad.  Wonderfully simple and basic and imprinted on my memory and taste buds for so long I don’t even remember the fist time I tasted it.

According to a recent New York Times article, that’s exactly why it is my favorite.  The author of the article was writing about pizza choices, but I think potato salad serves as an equally strong trigger for imprinted preferences.  And chocolate chip cookies.

And music.  As an adult , I took a night class called “The History of Rock & Roll” offered on a local college campus when I lived in Indianapolis.  The first night the instructor launched into the lesson with the Everly Brothers and Buddy Holly and Fats Domino.  Within the initial few notes, I was in my early teens and living in California.  I could smell the beach.  Suddenly, this was my favorite music – music I could identify with.  Because it was the first music that was “mine.”  (I can also get that thrill of recall with old church music like “How Great Thou Art” and “Amazing Grace,” and a lump in my throat every time I hear “Jesus Loves Me.”)  

It’s all about the imprint – the first taste of something.  And therein lies the comfort of it.

We all have our favorite comfort movies, I think.  And books.  People are always offering me their newest book discoveries – great new authors and best-sellers.  But stacked up beside my bed are mostly my old favorites – Agatha Christie and Elizabeth Gouge and Ngaio Marsh and Margery Allingham and John Moore.  A highly talented actor friend of mine sinks into the comfort of Shakespeare – walking his house reciting it, reading aloud the plays and favorite passages.  I know many of us rejoice in the comfort of the woods and playing with dogs and riding horses and drawing with chalk and making small boats to sail down streams.  All because they imprinted on us first and most and remind us of things.  It’s like they have always loved us best.

Perhaps these things imprinted on us because they did so when we were in a place and time of innocence and vulnerability.  And they became memories that still delight us and touch us beyond reason because they make us feel safe, somehow.  I suspect it’s the flip side of PTS (post-traumatic stress) recall – where terror and horrific imprinting can paralyze us.  Rather, it’s that part of sense memory and pure remembrance that calms us and makes us smile.  It’s that part of memory that we too often forget to claim and enlist.  Perhaps we have simply become too accustomed to walking around in the dark places.  We allow them to take over.  We accept them when they move in and crowd comfort out, like new hard-edged furniture.

And yet, I suspect that now may be a time when our old imprinted comforts are rather more critical and precious than we realize, and need to be revived and revisited.  I suspect we should all go reread a favorite book, and dance to our special music, watch birds in a woods, hug a dog, sit astride a horse, craft a toy boat, draw in chalk on the sidewalk.  I suspect we should get out the big bowl and the Miracle Whip, boil mushy potatoes, and make our mother’s potato salad.

This is a truth to which I can personally attest:  when you have damaged legs or feet – for whatever reason – and you’re trying to regain your walking skills, you tend to watch your feet all the time.  Or at least you watch the ground around them.  Tripping and falling is such a dread that you constantly look down before you take a step.  Even with the help of a cane or walking sticks or even the hand of a friend, you can’t help but keep your gaze scanning your path for awkward stones and uneven places. more “Lifting up our eyes.” …

It’s an ordinary Wednesday.  You’ve done a hard day’s work on your farm.  You’ve fed the animals and put them up for the night.  You’ve fed your children and tucked them in.  You’ve kissed everyone goodnight and drifted into sleep yourself – on that ordinary Wednesday, September 2nd, 1752, England.

The sunrise awakens you the next morning.  And it is Thursday, September 14th, 1752, England.  Overnight you lost eleven days from your month and your year.  September 3rd to September 13 simply disappeared. more “Learning to dance with a limp.” …

And so, here I am convalescing.

It’s been eight weeks since the dogs and I collided on the driveway, which resulted in a broken hip, a fractured arm, a tangle of nerves in one leg and foot, and assorted other bruises, sprains and damages.  All mine.  The dogs escaped injury-free.

After eighteen days in the hospital, I’ve been homebound now for another thirty-eight days … and counting.  And feeling properly grumpy and cross. more “Words matter.” …

I’d been feeling it for weeks.  It would come over me in waves – like those first gentle breezes of summer dawns.  Again and again it came – a deep sense of inexplicable gratitude.

And it reminded me a little of the joy of a hug from a long-ago friend … or the way a certain swell of brilliant music can take your breath away … it was even a bit like the rush of a first bite of chocolate. more “Recognizing gratitude.” …

It rode in on a black horse.  And then it melted under a hot midday sun, and it circled about on a bit of breeze and voice and intentionality, and finally it leaned into the heart of the man who had been building a very powerful connection between himself and the black horse.  The man and the horse were now trusting each other completely, with silent breath and touch, with in-sync energy, a private exchange of conversation.  So here was pure “grace,” I thought.  Here was witness to a moment of true, perfect, grace. more “Moments of grace.” …