The Joy of a Lilac

The Joy of a Lilac

I have wonderful neighbors who have planted Lilacs in their yards.   I also have a pale lavender colored bush in the corner of my yard.  But the old bush in my back neighbor’s yard is something to see.  It must be at least 20 feet tall and spreads out like a deep purple carpet for all to enjoy.

The other day as I was trimming the verge out by the back fence I plucked a few low hanging clusters that were clearly wanting to come inside.  I put them in a vase and set them on the patio table to “debug” while I continued my work.  As I sat enjoying my afternoon break and cool water, the wonderful scent of those deep purple flowers gently took me back to a memory of many years ago.

When I was much younger than I am today, the primary children would gather during the week and learn of the Savior and his teachings. We would sing songs to reinforce these teachings and other pleasing things, like the earth.

One of my very favorite memories of “Singing Time” is the day we learned the beautiful song  “My Heavenly Father Loves Me” By Clara W. McMaster.  Our enthusiastic Music Leader, Lavinda Oppie had brought in the biggest bunch of these dark purple flowers I had ever seen.  I am sure we had some around our house but this was the first time I remember seeing them in a huge vase, displayed like real flowers.

How delightful they smelled, how gorgeous they looked all tucked into that vase.  What an impact they made on me. 

“Whenever I hear the Song of a bird or look at the blue, blue sky, Whenever I feel the rain on my face or the wind as it rushes by, Whenever I touch a velvet rose or walk by our lilac tree, I’m glad that I live in this beautiful world Heavenly Father created for me.”

I love hearing Lavinda’s beautiful voice singing those words over and over as we learned this song.  She had a picture of a red bird and the blue sky.  She had a single red rose, and those Lilacs.  She was a master music teacher, and I know that she was one of many who fostered my love of music.

Some things in our brains are inseparably connected.  Smell remains one of the greatest triggers for memory we have.  Every spring when they bloom, the pungent fragrance of those lilacs brings back so many happy memories of the Music of my Youth, Lavinda Oppie taught me so many songs about Love and our Savior, and the world in general.  Reinforced at home as my own Mother sang them while she worked, These songs became ingrained in the very fiber of my being.  I sing them in my dreams.  I hum them when I do not realize I am humming.  They are as much a part of my memories as the color of the trees I grew up under.   

          “He gave me my eyes that I might see the color of butterfly wings.  He gave me my ears that I might hear the magical sound of things. He gave me my life, my mind, my heart, I thank Him reverently for all his creations, of which I’m a part. Yes, I know Heavenly Father love me.”

What a kind and loving Father in Heaven we have,

 to give me the opportunity to find such joy is such a simple thing.

 A deep purple Lilac.

Ahhh  Spring

We went to the Seattle area for Spring Break and I was reminded of why I love living in the Beautiful Desert.  The Green Hue of pollenating Cedars and Scotch Broom, played such an April Fool’s joke on my Sinuses.  My Sweet family was so patient as I coughed and sniffled my way through the week. 

          But this is a conversation about choosing to be cheerful, so Let me share some of the Cheerful experiences I did have while off enjoying the Greens of Spring.

          I have a wonderful Granddaughter who laughs with the robust energy of someone who knows life’s secret.  This Delightful Child can embrace the joy of living like no one I know, except for perhaps her Mom.  As I was sniffling away one day sounding like I was the Frog Prince,  She smiled and said  “Nana, that is not your happy voice”   No child it is not.   But I can try to find it again.  Even this child whose love of life only knows two volumes, know what our happy voices sound like,  and why we are supposed to use them always. 

          I have a Grandson who thinks the whole world is here just for him.  And coming in at just 14 months, why shouldn’t he.   He was cutting some painful teeth recently and still had a smile for everyone.  He loves food.  Let me say that again.  HE LOVES FOOD!  If you offer it to him,  he will try it and usually he likes it.  Wouldn’t the world be a wonderful place if we all found food to be such a pleasure.  Not just something that keeps us alive or needs to be monitored for caloric value,  Something to be enjoyed, savored,  and yes even occasionally smeared all over the place.  Ahh Good  Food

          And then there is our Little Bear, Baseball loving Bear.  His dream is to play for the Seattle Mariners.  I told him when he signs his contract be sure they include your free tickets for you Nana and Mom.  He said he would.  We attended a Ball Game with him and His Brother on our last night there.  The local Team is a minor league team that feeds the Mariners.  The Tacoma Rainiers.  They had a great opening Day.  Winning in spite of some bad calls (Every team gets them) and Fireworks to send us off.  It was a great time, had by all. ( We can't seem to find the fireworks pictures)

          But this trip something wonderful happened that went almost unnoticed,  Our daughter has a very giving neighbor, and she gifted a pair of roller-skates to the kids.  We have a scientist in the family.  He gets dinosaurs and atoms and all that comes with being a bit nerdy.  He was not born with the Athletic gene his brother inherited.  He was given a big beautiful Brain and he loves to use it, But, he also was given patience, and when he chooses to be patient, he can figure out almost anything, including how to roller-skate.     

          Life is a choice, and our choices determine so much of who we are.  We can be only what is easy, or work hard to become what we dream of.  We can succumb to the green hue of misery ,  or revel in the glorious sunshine of laughter.

Life is a Choice,  Choose Cheerful.  Live Happy

The Bus

The bus was yellow, just like all the other buses, with its dirty windows, full of fingerprints and tracings that declared Johns existence, because he was here.  Windows  that we were never allowed to open, even though the  worn out, fake leather, plastic seats smelled of too many kids that almost made it home, but not quite before their bladders betrayed them. 

But this yellow bus was the short bus. The one they used to pick up those kids that were heading for that special class because they were different from everybody else. Maybe they didn’t read yet in spite of their thick, black rimed coke bottle eyeglasses or maybe they talked funny from some malformation that took place before they ever saw the light of day.  Whatever it was, they were those kids, the ones everyone teased and laughed at behind their backs and to their faces.  They rode that short yellow bus, and we sat next to them.

 The Cello? Who plays the cello? I could hear my Dad from the other room, his voice sounded strained, the way it sounded when he didn’t understand how an umpire could make that call and was talking to the TV because the stupid ref must be blind. I guess if your daughter plays the violin that’s OK, but when my brother declared that his instrument of choice was the cello, that was different.

It stood as tall as he did at first. The case for it was brown and made of canvas. It seemed like it weighed 40 pounds if it weighed anything at all. The case had a handle just below the neck for carrying, but it was useless because he was so short when he started. It took up the whole seat next to him like a greedy selfish little child with that single metal foot poking into the black rubber mat that ran down the aisle. It was laughable really, just like those kids on the bus. My case was not canvas; it was made of high quality plastic, with “a sensible carrying strap that you could put over your shoulder”.  I heard the man tell my mom so when she bought it.

Nerds, that’s who played the cello and the violin and that’s who we were.  Orchestra nerds who, way too early in the morning would have to ride that short yellow bus, in the grey mist that obscures everything around you. Like clouds that were too lazy to rise to the heavens, and in their slothfulness, make early in the morning colder and more dismal than it really needed to be. This is a good thing, this London pea soup fog, that tasted of cold steel, maybe none of the other kids will see that we got on that squatty yellow abomination they called the short bus. But they did see. They noticed that we packed up our cases and our music and mounted that undersized, laughed at, bus.

My brother lugged that cello onto, and off of that short bus for 3 years. Why couldn’t we just have orchestra at our own school? Why did we all have to be bused to one central school? Some kind of music school boot camp to see who would survive is my guess. Did you know that most cello music for beginners only has about 8 notes? They play the bottom of the music; the music that no one really heard back then, in the stone ages, before subwoofers.  Three years times 8 notes is not a satisfying musical career, nor is it worth riding the short bus for. Sorry Pachelbel.   

  Enter junior high, no go ahead walk through the double doors that are designed to slam shut at the slightest hint of a student struggling with a large, brown, canvass encased, expensive, piece of wood. Yeah, this becomes the new short bus. Those cold heartless metal doors, that greet you with the same warmth as your classmates as you disembark from the regular long bus.

Time to get something cool man, something hip. Time to trade in the short nerdy thing for a taller one, a cooler one, a jazzy one. Yeah man, a standup Bass. Nothing says “hey look, I’m cool now” like a bigger brown canvas covered piece of beautifully grained and polished wood the color of honey. One that sings like Ole Man River and knows what makes Ella smile. This sensual shape that you caress with your arms wrapped around, like new lovers in the night. This was cool.  And just like he would trade the short bus for the longer one, he traded his cello for that stand-up jazz bass and the much cooler, jazz bus.

Oh the bliss of that beautiful bass. Now it sits next to him on the bus, like Marilyn Monroe, waiting for someone to challenge her to move, knowing she won’t.   But he never really traded up and out of that place where he was a bit different. He never really arrived at cool until he put his big bass behind him in that seat with her viola. One day he just asked that cute little blue-eyed blonde girl to sit next to him, and she placed her black plastic protected viola next to his brown bass and joined him on his green leather seat.

That was 25 years ago, and they are still playing together. All through the valley whenever they need a stand in for the stand-up bass they call him.  Oh sure, inside he is still that nerdy music kid who still carries those 8 notes to Pachelbel’s Cannon in his head. And no, he won’t play it for you at your wedding, but, could he interest you in a little of the Duke?

I Knew A Man

     I knew a Man who spoke of Love with the fondness of familiarity in his eye.  The sparkle that told you, he really had known such a thing. It made a coy smile spread across his weathered face like sunshine spreading across the morning grass and expunging all traces of the night's storm.

     He spoke of the Softness of Love, and how in moments of grief too great for a mortal heart to hold out against, love, like a comforter on a winters evening would chase away all traces of sorrow.  Leaving you content to find them replaced with warm thoughts of friends and and family.  Faces now gone, but never forgotten

  

     He spoke of the Compassion of Love, tender feelings so intense that nothing but the best for others motivates you to do good.  Feelings of empathy so complete that you experience their joy and sadness

     He spoke of the Sorrow of Love, how your heart breaks when those whom you love turn away from you.  When nothing you say or do will bring them back because of the hardness of your works and their hearts.  When prayer,  and time, and love are your only hope. 

     He spoke of the Strength of Love, and how it holds you up when you feel certain that you can not endure.  Strength that flows through you like electricity, 

energizing the very fibers of your being, giving you the strength you never knew you had to face life's trials.

     He spoke of the Joy of Love that fills you with an anticipation that is so real, you feel the energy of their presence long before they become visible.  That just having them near makes you feel completely content.

     He spoke of his love for me and I could not wonder at his words A captive of his Strength and forever the beneficiary of his Joy, I had learned of the capability Compassion had to change a hardened heart.  I knew that His Joy and Mine were intertwined,  The ring of gold and cherished promise spoken years ago had long since made me his for eternity  

Dennis’ Story of being found

Dennis was adopted,  that is almost where this story begins.  He was adopted by two very loving and wonderful people who raised him in wonderful circumstances.  He was well loved and grew up knowing that he was adopted.   His parents were never secretive about that part, but all they knew was that he was part Native American, Born in Bremerton Washington, and that he was a ward of the state.  They encouraged him in his desire to learn about the Pacific Northwest Indians and fostered his love of all things ocean and beach.  

He was curious about his birth Mother, and a few times mentioned that he would like to know his heritage and medical history, but never went looking for her as he was also told, “Somethings are just best left alone”.  So He did.

In July of 2014  Governor Inslee in Washington State, declared that all sealed adoption records for persons who were adopted before 1993 should be unsealed.  Dennis filled out the paperwork and received his original birth certificate within a few weeks.  We started looking up the birth mothers name, Olive May George Costa, and after a bit of sleuthing,  located her in a censes in the tribal records for the Port Gamble Tribe.  Dennis contacted the Tribe in September 2014, and was given contact information for Patricia Rudd, who we would have to work through in order to get any more information.

Patricia was very happy to help and after looking at a copy of the Birth Certificate, found his Mother on the tribal rolls for the Port Gamble S’Klalams.  She was sad to report that his Mother had passed away in 1982, but was willing to help Dennis fill out the paperwork for enrolling in the tribe which his mother had belonged to.   In October of 2014, He started this process and while we were waiting for all the steps to take place, Dennis received a joyful piece of news.  In July of 2015 Patricia called to let him know that he was the youngest of 6 siblings, and that she had found contact information for the oldest Sister, Sharon Black.  Sharon and her Sister Cathie had been told by their mother Olive, before she passed away, that she had had another Baby and that they needed to find him.

The circumstances of this conversation are in and of themselves a tiny miracle.  Before Dennis was born, all 5 of his older siblings were put into Foster Care and then put up for adoption by their Father, while their Mother was recovering from domestic abuse.  They were, all 5, adopted by wonderful Parents, Dean and Alta Jacobson, and grew up as a group, thinking that they were all that there was. It should be noted that Dean and Alta had already raised children of their own and then adopted the 5 Costa children along with another Girl, Barbara. 

Upon the untimely Death of the oldest Brother Gary,  Olive came to the funeral at the invitation of Alta, and shared with the girls that she had birthed another boy after the kids had been taken from her.  This boy, she told the girls, she had named Donald, and they should go and find him.   They looked for about a year to no avail as they were looking in the wrong state,  Mis-information on the part of Olive whose memory was not in very good shape.

After some time, Sharon contacted the Tribe in Port Gamble and left her contact information, “In case Donald ever comes looking for his Mom”.    During the process of enrollment,  The Tribal member working on Dennis’ paperwork remembered that she had contact information for Olive’s son, Donald, when they realized that Dennis and Donald were one and the same, the passed this information on to him.  

Dennis sent an email to Sharon, and asked if she was looking for a Donald Costa,  She replied and said she had been looking for him since 1986, and asked are you he?  Dennis replied,  “I am he”, and the phone calls that ensued were joyful.   

There have been many tears of joy and love, and sadness in these last few months.  Joy at finding out that he was not alone, there are Brothers and Sisters who want him in their lives.  Sadness at the discovery that His Mother and older Brother Gary have passed on and he will have to wait for that reunion.

We attended the Tribal Council meeting in October of 2015 and Dennis was officially voted back into his tribal family.  We went up and spent Thanksgiving with his Uncles and Aunts, some cousins, and one of His Sisters, Cathie, who drove all the way up from Utah to surprise him for the holiday.   He has had such a warm welcome from the four remaining siblings. 

We are anxious to see what the future holds,  canoe trips in the sound in hand carved canoes that Dennis will be able to help make.   Salmon bakes on the beach of Point Julia,  complete with clams and oysters that seem to want to just walk up to your fire,  tribal stories and Artwork to learn, and then pass on.   So many cousins and Aunties to get to know and laugh with, and Uncles who want to pass on their skills and traditions,  all of this and more we look forward to.    Thank you for joining us on this journey and encouraging Dennis to follow his heart, it has led him to some pretty amazing people.   

What one thing would you hold that would represent your whole life?  

I belong to an heritage of work hard, play hard, live long, live happy and live well. I believe that part of what helps my family to live long and to live well is a combination of taking care of our physical bodies and the mental attitude that most of us live by.  I feel that our religious beliefs foster a positive approach to both living and to dying. I believe that my family continues after death and that on the other side of life, all my family will be waiting for me like one giant family reunion, full of love, continuing on the relationships we have formed here in our mortal life.  I believe that we take all our relationships with us into the next life; therefore, they are all vital to me.  This belief fosters a desire to cherish and grow and nurture all of my earthly relationships.   Friends and Family will all be reunited after death. In this belief there is no sorrow in death, only the sadness that for now, while I am still a traveler here in mortality, I cannot talk to, or see my friends and family that have gone on before me.  But I will be able to converse and enjoy their sociality after I have passed on from this life.  I feel that this belief helps me to not fear death or aging.  It is a part of the experience of living.  There must be opposition in all things.  This gift of faith and belief has been passed down through our family and I look to my grandmothers and my own parents and my husband’s parents as examples of living this belief and the joy it can bring.  

As my body ages I know that there are some things I will not be able to control. I think about losing my hearing, and know this would be hard for me. I love the sounds of things and people.  I know that eyes go as well but somehow losing my sight is not as worrisome as not being able to hear a child whisper a secret “I love you” and then giggle at the sharing of such a secret.  I also know that because as we age we become less agile, and I was never a graceful person to start with, I think about how I would cope with a fall or break.  I have watched as several friends have coped with the replacement of joints and the difficult time it is to recover. For some the resting and allowing things to heal is difficult, this would be me. And for some the physical therapy that follows the resting period can be painful and hard and so is put off resulting in loss of motion or muscle. I would like to think that would not be me. I believe to age gracefully a person must do all that they can for as long as they can and then accept when they cannot do something and allow others to serve them by helping when it is needed.  I loved having my husband’s father here in our home for his last 10 years of life.  He was a gift to our children as he allowed them to render service and he, in return was able to share his life with them in a deeper and more personal way.

I believe I will continue to live as I do now. Trying to eat well and walk every day and remembering to brush my teeth every night even if it has been an all-nighter at the computer. I would think that for me now if is more about my attitude and less about quitting a bad habit. I continue to try and learn about what new finding is coming down the health road and continue to pay attention to what my body is telling me, mostly get enough sleep.  But I also believe that God knows how long I am here for, and when he calls me home I will go knowing that I will not be alone for long if I die before My husband or that having been alone, I will no longer be so.

I have thought quite a bit about what I could hold that would represent my journey through this life.  How do you sum up a person’s life in one thing?  I thought perhaps some sheet music to represent all the music in my life, as a participant, and as a listener, and a teacher.  I thought about how my children and their friends and family through the years have gathered in my kitchen to partake of good food and good conversation from early morning to late into the night, and this could be represented by the pink rolling pin that was given to me after my first adventure with breast cancer.  I thought about a life of devotion to my family and my Father in Heaven.  How my religion is precious to me and how the words of the prophets have sustained me through many trials. Perhaps my scriptures would be appropriate in this case.  My son suggested I compose an opera about all of this and hold that.  I believe however, that if I had to choose today, it would be the hand of my husband.  He represents all that I am.  He is my forever family, my strength and my friend.  He is the reason I was blessed with such love in our children and such joy and laughter in our home.  I would be a different person were it not for the journey I have walked with him. And it has always been his hand in mine that has gotten me through all that I have traveled through. His hand I held, as I shed tears of sadness at the loss of brothers who I thought were too young to die, and parents who would not live to see grandchildren grow into young adults and parents.  It was his hand that never left my side through several surgeries and his hand that held mine as I received every diagnosis.  His hand has given me the strength to stand on my own when life was frightening and his hand that cheered and clapped for me when I did not fall on my face at some new adventure.   Yes I believe that I will hold his hand, now, always and forever. 

The Big C.

     When I heard the Doctor say that word with my name attached the first time, my only thought was how could this happen to me ? I am a  young person with lots of life ahead I can’t have Cancer !  But I did and after coming to terms with it and plotting a course for ridding myself of it I moved on.   I wish I could say that the cancer had done the same.

     Round two. Different places but the same faces.  This time more invasive and requiring a more invasive and aggressive approach.  I have battled the big C and have the scars to prove it.  How many fall in our lives to this enemy that we can’t see until it feels too late.  How many times can we put on that little black dress and tote that lacey hanky to the church before we begin to think that to have Cancer is to never be rid of it in your life.  It spreads to your loved ones and takes them when you refuse to go.  You hear the words coming from the other end of the phone “ the doctor says it is cancer” and you wonder ‘would they be spared if I had not cheated Cancer out of his victim the first time?’

     Then reason takes over and you know that you are not the cause of another’s fight with this nemesis. But you will be forced to standby helpless and watch as they battle for themselves this mutation and betrayal of one’s own body.

   Perhaps that is the worst part. To be betrayed by one’s own cells and in the most private of places.  Parts that, in our minds we believe define our gender, or make us who we are, parts that no one is supposed to think about when thinking about us as a person.  But like it or not, we need people to know that we need then right now, their thoughts and prayers and love and acceptance of who we are about to become.  Someone who has survived the fight. Someone who although we might be missing a part or two those parts did not define us, they were not the whole of who we are.  The spirit and will and cannot become infected or altered unless we choose to let them.  We are not defined by our body parts but by our whole selves with or without individual parts.

     I am a survivor, I know many who have fallen and cannot join me in this statement.  I know too many more who will unwillingly have to stand and join me in my quiet refrain.
                                                 I am a survivor.