How do I know I am loved? Let me count the ways...
Beans. Masses of green beans have kept rolling in from the garden since before Christmas. Starting with a small welcome handful and proceeding to flood proportions. I've eaten them - squeaky and gorgeous at nearly every meal. (What will we have with our beans tonight?) I've frozen them, taken them to family in Adelaide, given bags full to neighbours and friends (worth a small fortune if the $9.99kg price in the supermarket is to be believed.)
The cold weather comes and the vines wither but there are still green bits and the beans appear on the counter - just left there. A bit like when Millie cat brings in something in her mouth and lays it before me for approval.
Today there was just one bean. Some get lost where they climb the orange tree and the pods dry but being brought up in the depression ('Mum, you were not.' No but I was a product of that thriftiness) we use the inner white seeds in soups.
Yesterday there was something on the counter - not a word spoken.
How do I know I am loved? I've 'bean' loved.
Slowly roasting a chicken at 110°C for 6-8 hours sounded like a nice idea for a cold day. . Gently anointed with oil and with garlic tucked into appropriate places and apricot stuffing. (Well those dried apricots that went dark and had been lurking in the freezer had to go somewhere.)
It was going to be quite a cooking day. Florence Nightingale Soup using a recipe from a library book. Chicken and noodles and rice and a multitude of veg ready to share with the masses at Monday's soup kitchen. Sandwiches - of many varieties to serve at church lunch. Plenty in case people forget to bring stuff or for unexpected guests. Freekeh salad. (Who on earth calls a trendy grain freekeh? Especially when you have only just come to terms with the fact that quinoa is heaps expensive and is pronounced 'keen wha'. ) Then perhaps whipped apple jelly with custard on top. Not that I do desserts but the kids at lunch (and there are some older folk who are big kids) might like it.
So in the oven went the chook and off I went to the shower. Warm water, frothy shampoo ... and the piercing sound of the smoke alarm. Will he hear it in the garden and respond? The second alarm kicks in. So loud even the neighbours must hear it.
Surely it will stop. There can't be anything much going on. The oven is only on at 110° and I even cleaned it recently after a terrible smoke episode. Is that how everyone thinks before they burn to death?
So out of the shower, wrap myself in a towel and pad out to the kitchen. The oven is quietly smoking even though it didn't complain when I cooked quiches last week. Turn on exhaust fans, open doors, explain to him who has finally come in from the garden and then back to the shower.
And that's how come there is shampoo on the kitchen floor. Sigh!
Drat the early bird. What's so good about morning? Why do people look so smug when they say how early they get up and how beautiful it is and how much they get done?
Okay, I know the psalms talk about praising God early in the morning. And I often do some praying then, usually because I woke up way too soon to the song of the birds or sooner and it's a good thing to do when I'm tucked up in my cosy bed and it's way too early to get up.
But sunsets are wonderful too and does it matter when I do stuff as long as I accomplish what I set out to do? And does it matter if I do it in my dressing gown against the cold morning, waiting for it to be warmer before I dress for the day.
Maybe that early bird is in her nest soon after sundown while I burn the midnight oil. Somehow no-one looks smug about working on into the night hours. Those who do are more likely to be pitied than praised.
Besides even the birds don't get it right. For years we had chooks and because we raised our own chickens (Oh, the miracle of seeing those little chickens emerge from the eggs!) often we had more roosters than was a good idea. Roosters are early morning birds, right? Not in our back yard as the neighbours would testify. In the middle of the night there would be a cockadoodledoo as our rooster talked to the one across the block. You could have wrung its neck - and eventually one of our neighbours did just that on our behalf.
So surely there are times that suit different people (or chooks). What works for one may not work for another and why should one be thought of as superior unless of course there is a risk of neck wringing rather than hand wringing.
So, I'm not an early bird and I love my mornings - preferably in bed, with a cuppa, a good book and the cat at my feet.
"What is your purpose?" he asked.
I visit my doctor roughly every 6 months for the routine stuff. So this time he worked through his list: results of blood test, liver function good, cholesterol still improving, sugar levels dodgy; checked BP and lungs, whacked in a flu shot ("because I knew you needed one"); organised scripts required and a referral and papers for the breast cancer checkup.
But in amongst all that he asked, "So how have you been?" I hesitated a little. Physically fine but a bit measly a while back over all this retirement stuff.
Then that question about purpose. So what is my purpose in life ("What's it all about, Alfie?") Sure I love having more time to read, am enjoying Sing Australia and learning to conduct. I like slow starts to the day and have projects and church and so on. But purpose. My mum ended her days saying she asked the Lord every night to take her home. At the age of 95 she was ready and had done enough.
So is it all about doing? I have been reading The Path of Celtic Prayer by Calvin Miller which I got from the library. In one chapter he lisst three things which struck me as giving meaning to life:
- to live to complete the dream I have for you, God
- to live until my season of worship is complete
- to live long enough to bear a saving work to those outside of your grace
[The language reflects the usage of St Patrick.]
So we spoke of this and the fact that physical health does not stand alone but is part of the whole and the wholeness that we as humans long for.
In amongst the talk of what gives purpose I listed the things I do and heard myself saying how I'd intended to write (including blogging) more in my retirement, so her I am. Thinking out loud and realising that being is as important as doing. Who do I want to be? What do I want to do? What excites and energises and brings life?
So the longish consult ended. How grateful I am for my doctor who cares for me in such fullness.
And then when I went to the counter to settle up I discovered he'd bulk billed me. Thank you so much, dear doctor.
