Life on the Grumble Track

Funny how little grumbles often turn into big gripes. Big gripes turn into major complaints. And major complaints can turn into chronic dissatisfaction.

Tuesday found me complaining about my cold garage, where my washer and dryer live. This time of year, when night temps reach into the 20s, it's not the place I want to be. Never mind that I don't have to haul laundry to a stream and scrub it against rocks. Never mind that I just have to push a couple of buttons and return in an hour to retrieve fluffy, dry, dewrinkled clothes.

When I'm feelin' grumbly, stand back.

So I sorted five loads of laundry in piles, and decided to get to it early the next morning. As I stepped back into the warm house, I revisited the same old thought: Sure would be nice to have a laundry room inside where it's warm! (In Summer, I grumble that it's too hot out there: Sure would be nice to have a laundry room inside where it's cooler.)

Fast forward to the sound of rushing water. I had stepped out into the garage to get something from my freezer, and discovered water gushing from the top panel of the 50-gallon water heater. It must have flowed for at least three hours, because when I discovered it, the garage was flooded 2-3" deep. After my initial panic, I was able to turn off the water and survey the mess. And you know what I thought?

Ohmygosh, imagine the damage this would have caused if it had happened inside! It's much easier to deal with a flooded garage (read: concrete floor) than flooded flooring and carpet.

Sometimes it takes a watery detour to pull me off the grumble track.

Seedplanter

Are You a Lighthouse?

"Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle." - Plato


I toured a lighthouse a few summers back, not intentionally, but because the tour guide happened to spot my husband and I during a lull in visitors and coaxed us inside for a look around. We climbed a dizzying number of stairs while he gave us his usual spiel--how supplies for the structure had been transported by ship around the cove, being careful to avoid the dangerous currents and rocky shore. He went into detail about the light itself, and described the fellow who weathered forty-something winters at the assignment.

I thought about life on that damp hill, and how the beautiful view must have faded in time, like every scenic wonderland does, once you see it a few times too often. And I wondered, what would drive someone to give all those years to sending out a signal to people he'll never meet? Was he ever tempted to leave and become a farmer or a plumber or an elevator service man?

Anyone who would stay that long, season in and season out, had to be committed to something greater. He must have found his calling in warning ships and fishing boats away from storm-churned inlets. He felt purpose in the results of his labor. And maybe, just maybe...he saved a life or two without even knowing.

Lighthouse people are like that. Maybe you know a few yourselves--special folks who look after your well being without lording it over you, like the neighbor who shares her garden vegetables just because, or the friend who checks in on you when you're sick. It could be someone who has lived several decades longer than yourself, who leans forward in her chair by the window to share an experience that may help you bypass a serious mistake. Could be a teacher or coach...a parent or protective older sibling.

And could it be that you're a lighthouse person, too, and don't even realize it?

Seedplanter

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Dixie-Cup Love

"A kind heart is a fountain of gladness, making everything in its vicinity freshen into smiles." -- Washington Irving

I've toured 15th-century castles in Europe, where royal families dined at thirty-foot-long tables surrounded by gilt-edged mirrors and wall murals. I've enjoyed catered conference meals with groups of writers, and shared a plate of peanut-buttered crackers with a contented 97-year-old widow who didn't realize she was poor.

I've had the pleasure of touring the White House, as well as the Catacombs in Salzburg, Austria, a dark cave on a hillside where early Christians buried their dead and also gathered secretly for worship services.

Both appreciation and misunderstanding have visited my life. Happiness and sorrow. A quiet peace, and room-pacing worry. I've been on the receiving end of beautifully wrapped gifts, but have been equally WOWed by a Dixie-cup bouquet of wildflowers from a granddaughter who loves me unconditionally--no strings attached.

Life is a myriad of experiences, a hilly road that meanders across uncharted territory, through blind intersections, and around sharp corners. None of us knows what a day will bring, but I do know this: A little Dixie-cup love goes a long way, anytime.