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Writing

Paying Attention

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black and white photo of ABH with book

There is a story in my family about how, in the months leading up to Christmas 1962, my mother hid even the waste threads snipped after sewing the seams of an outfit she was making for me.  This was because I was such a nosy child, although I might say exceptionally curious or extremely attentive.

Earlier that fall, she had sewn a blue and white checked cape (reminiscent of scenes from The Sound of Music) for my best friend, Melinda.  That I already had a matching cape, did not sooth my desire for another something new.  And, with Christmas lists growing, I felt sure that my wardrobe had been forgotten.  As it happened, Momma only worked on my surprise gift when curious eyes were not around – during the school day and after bedtime.  Then, she would carefully put everything away, not even leaving the bobbin in the bobbin case of the sewing machine for fear that I might notice her using a different color thread and ask what she was making.  Her clandestine approach to that sewing project did give me a Christmas surprise.

Over the years, I have found practical applications for my attention to detail without sliding precariously into OCD obsessions.  From my days as a library page shelf-reading and putting books back in Dewey order to participating in library funding formula discussions, the outcome of which eventually become library legislation.

While paying attention is a useful skill when building a house or planning a new church, there can be downsides.  At the beginning of this second-time-around administration, I had planned to stay better informed by increasing the number of news sources and journalists I read or viewed each day.  And while I did this in January, I was quickly overwhelmed.  I found my logical brain simply could not manage the overt inconsistencies from day-to-day; contradictory statements or actions that sometimes occurred only hours apart or even spoken within the same paragraph.  By mid-February, I was relying solely on Stephen Colbert’s nightly monologue and The Late Show political guests for my news.  Obviously not a practical approach when striving to be an informed voter, and my news-junky to comedy-only approach to current events needed modification. As I shared in an early February blog post, “Red Hat Resilience” I now limit my news gathering and then balance the harshness of that day’s events with reading poetry.

Paying attention also has advantages like realizing after just one row of the sweater I am knitting (283 stitches wide) that I had been so attentive to the storyline of The Brokenwood Mysteries episode we were watching that I knitted the same wrong side row twice.  While not easily visible on my needles, this error would definitely have revealed an ugly break in the featured lace and cable design of the finished garment.  Today’s task – TINK (that is – knit backwards) the incorrect row and probably not while watching Acorn TV.

There are days when I prefer not to pay attention to the “real world.”  When I adjust the banded shades to allow in daylight but, still drawn, create a cocoon.  When the only activity I want to undertake is knitting.  Or knitting and baking.  Or knitting, baking, and reading.  When I am tempted to let every phone call (other than Momma’s number) go to voicemail.  And I admit there are days when I ignore my Gmail inbox.  But that always has unwanted consequences as I still need to read a flood of building correspondence about window placement, or the preferred number of stoves and refrigerators in the church kitchen, or the weight of 98-solar panels on the west roof.

And so, the challenge continues.  Just as yesterday’s vernal equinox provided celestial balance with equal hours of day and night, I will continue to strive for equilibrium – between staying informed about the harsh realities of US politics and our sedate day-to-day life on Solstice Place.

Knitting · Spirituality

Red Hat Resilience

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blue house with snow, Minnesota flag and wintery morning sun

In August 2024, I bought a Minnesota state flag to hang on our Kutzky Park front porch.  It was a point of pride that my Governor was a vice-presidential candidate.  I unfurled the flag again on that frigid Saturday last month, the day of the first of reoccurring ICE out of Minnesota NOW! marches.  This time the flag on our front porch is a subtle sign of protest on a quiet street in a new neighborhood but also a sign of resilience; proud that Minnesota residents will not be bullied.

Like you, I am experiencing the challenge of how to watch the news and yet stay sane.  How to be aware of the life and death actions happening in our community and just a few miles up the road, and around the country, as well as celebrate how good people are coming together.  Since it is easy to get caught up in the onslaught of news, I am trying to avoid the trap of doomscrolling.  As you know, that is tough when the most basic of American tenants are dismantled before our eyes.  When those principles – literally written in stone – “Give me your tired and your poor…” are discarded. 

I limit my morning routine to checking several reliable news sources but then shift to the arts – knitting sometime during each day and a daily dose of poetry, a gentle salve for a bruised soul.  Simple words on paper (or a screen) that capture the complexity of modern emotions.  There are times when the Poetry Foundation’s Poem for the Day is a good fit while other days, I dig a little deeper often returning to the words of former poet laureates Joy Harjo, Ted Kooser, or Amanda Gorman. 

Gorman, the youngest inaugural poet, an award-winning author, a banned book author, is an accomplished writer who captured our angst within hours of the murder of Renee Nicole Good and again after the fatal shooting of Alex Jeffrey Pretti.  Her words honoring Renee Good reminded us:

Change is only possible,
& all the greater,
When the labour
& bitter anger of our neighbors 
Is moved by the love
& better angels of our nature.

Some mornings, I listen as her lyrical voice recites poignant words that go with the quiet flow of fiber through my fingers; a meditative quality of one stitch after another, moving from skein to project to finished item which, at the moment, are red Melt the ICE hats.

I am an early participant in today’s red hat phenomenon.  You may have heard how the owner of a small yarn store in St. Louis Park wanted to re-create the visual impact of the sea of pink hats seen worldwide at rallies in 2016.  The design draws on Minnesota’s Norwegian heritage and that country’s resistance to Nazi occupation during World War II

The Norwegian Resistance Museum in Lillehammer has on display red beanies from that era and copies of the Nazi alert forbidding anyone, under threat of punishment, from possessing a red hat, regardless of age.  Red hats have become a worldwide statement.  Over 100,000 copies of the pattern have been sold to crafters in 43-countries and over $650,000 has been distributed to metro area non-profits supporting immigrants.

Today, whether we march, or sing, or knit, let’s follow Bruce Springsteen’s call to “take a stand for this land and the stranger in our midst.”  Words that universally resonate and are making this new anthem a number one song in countries around the world. May love unfurl and lead us wherever we go:  into the streets, into caucuses or voting booths, at public meetings or any place where love creates community, justice, art – and into a practice that makes the fibers of our hope into something strong enough to give us warmth, shelter, and resilience – much like red Melt the ICE beanies.

Writing

A Day of Prayer and Fasting

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raised fist painted in the two-tone blues and white north star of the Minnesota state flag

Unlike that classic line from Star Trek, proclaimed in synthesized Borg speech, that “resistance is futile” I still believe that resistance can effect change. It may be a Pollyanna-like personality flaw but, even in these uncertain days when thousands of armed, masked men terrorize Minnesota streets more reminiscent of a gun toting, wild west movie than 21st century modern life, I need to believe hope is not pointless.

Today, on this day of prayer and fasting, I will join thousands around my state in non-violent moral action. We will gather by ones and twos and thousands with the message: Ice Out of Minnesota NOW! Prayer vigils will be held from Bemidji to Blue Earth, in Mankato, Minneapolis, and Moorhead, as well as my town of Rochester. With rallies and marches, despite dangerous frigid temperatures; with fasting and prayers offered heavenward we send the message that the terrorization of quiet residential neighborhoods must stop. We send the message that trolling school yards is unacceptable. We send the message that using kindergarteners as bait to then ship father and five-year old Liam to Texas is wrong.

In the past, I always felt comfortable and proud expressing my constitutional rights. I believed that our most revered public text – the Constitution and the Bill of Rights – would keep me safe. I believed my First Amendment rights of free speech, assembly, and petitioning the government would protect me. I believed, as a gray-haired, white female, I would never be perceived as a threat. The shocking violent murder of Renee Good in Minneapolis disproved my hypothesis that my age and the color of my skin will see me home safely.

A natural reaction would be to stay home, tucked in like a child after a bedtime story. But no matter how snug the blanket may be, there are still wild things under the bed, and those monsters are shredding our representative democracy. And so, I join other Minnesotans and supporters from around the country to say: Ice Out of Minnesota NOW!

Writing

Labyrinth: a meditation on resistance in troubled times

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stone labyrinth set in a grassy meadow framed by tall trees

Three hundred ninety-eight stones planted on a grassy Rochester hillside.

Three hundred ninety-eight stones laid from outside to inside in a gentle arching path – a single path intended to provide a walker with a quiet, meditative journey. One sweeping movement – a unicursal path. And, even as it winds back and forth, that one-way is clear, never a maze of confusion.

I thrust the tip of my shovel between grass and concrete. Time and dirt, weight and roots resist my efforts. Another thrust, a little deeper, and the tempered steel blade coupled with the force of my muscle breaks the resistance and the stone moves. Another thrust with the shovel edge more deeply planted, the ground as fulcrum, and the concrete paver is free. I step to the next and repeat the process, breaking resistance another 58 times.

With gentle force we broke the earth’s resistance. We moved three hundred ninety-eight labyrinth stones from a grassy hillside. Now they rest on a different hillside while we wait for warm days to lay another circular path that will encourage quiet contemplation of resistance and resilience.

Photo credit: First UU Building Our Future-Beyond Ourselves, 2025

Reading · Spirituality

A New Year Reflection on Hope

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If asked to summarize my feelings about the year just ending, I would admit 2025 did not inspire confidence even as our personal lives were less chaotic and pessimistic than most.  However, just hours into this new year I am struck by the number of references I am finding on the theme of hope. Here are three –

This morning, I discovered an upbeat article in a most unusual source, The New York Times, where author Lauren Jackson urges the reader to move from cynicism to hope.  She cites research conducted by the Hope Research Center at the University of Oklahoma which specifies that hope is “one of the strongest indicators of well-being.  It helps improve the immune system and aids in the recovery from illness.”  Chan Hellman, Director of the Center, goes on to say, “while optimism is the belief that the future will be better, hope is the belief that we have the power to make it so.”

Today’s musical earworm is a favorite winter hymn, Come Sing a Song with Me, included in the Unitarian Universalist hymnal with words and music by Carolyn McDade, ©1976.  And, when we join in song, the chorus predicts: 

And I’ll bring you hope when hope is hard to find, and I’ll bring a song of love and rose in the wintertime.

And to conclude my triad on hope, I will give a nod to fellow bloggers, Bonny, Kat, and Kym who regularly offer poetic inspiration in A Gathering of Poetry every third Thursday of the month.  While I know it is only the first and not the third, it is a Thursday, so I am sharing an original composition by Jane N., age 9.  As we move into 2026, may we skeptical adults take inspiration from the children in our midst.

Hope

Hope winds its way
Through the branches of the bare trees 
Like silk ribbon.
 
It snakes through the villages
 And into the homes of the people. 
It settles into their hearts 
Lighting the way.
 
Hope.

I am enjoying my holiday and starting this new month with a cup of Chocolat Vitale made from Belgium and Swiss chocolate and curled up with my copy of Devotions: The Selected Poems of Mary Oliver ©2017. 

Happy New Year and may your days be healthy and hopeful. 

Other items of interest · Spirituality

Christmas Eve Reflection

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deep blue background with frosted plants in the foreground

I try and fool myself into believing that I am skipping news broadcasts because of my busy calendar. A schedule that included months of preparation for a move and then unpacking our life here on Solstice Place. And, once those tasks were complete, I shifted into everyday routines of knitting, baking, cleaning and, sometimes, even writing. Activities that admittedly require a degree of concentration and therefore provide a quasi-believable excuse not to turn to 24/7 reporting. But, if I am honest, my lack of attention is not attributable to mundane tasks, rather a weary knowledge that once I turn on the radio or the TV I will learn of yet another unthinkable injustice.

With lifelong experience living in the Midwest, I know the briskness of December. This is why I bundle up for my daily walk down the block to the neighborhood mailbox. I know that the winter temperatures in Minneapolis, St. Paul, or other quadrants of Rochester are certainly no warmer than at my doorstep. Yet, news coverage shows early morning raids by masked ICE agents as they remove Minnesota residents from their homes without coats, hats, or mittens. The recent scenes of a woman pinned down in the snow and dragged through the street prompted a public statement from Minneapolis Police Chief Brian O’Hara in which he said, “This egregious disregard for human dignity is appalling. It is deeply concerning that there appears to be a lack of accountability from our federal partners.”

Such masked behavior is not limited to Minnesota’s major cities; it also occurs in Rochester. Recently, an immigrant chef who, just months ago, prepared my dinner was taken into ICE custody. This is a man seeking asylum in order to escape Ecuadorian gang violence, violence that caused him to be shot in the head when, as an independent restaurateur, he refused to pay protection money. His location, well-being, and legal status are currently unknown to his family or to the church members who are sponsoring his legal efforts to navigate our complicated asylum process.

During this Christmas season when the gospels recount this ancient, yet well-known story, I can only wonder what might happen should there be another family seeking refuge on this oh holy night with stars brightly shining. 

Joseph went up from the town of Nazareth in Galilee to Judea, to Bethlehem, the town of David, because he belonged to the house and line of David. He went there to register with Mary, who was pledged to be married to him and was expecting a child. While they were there, the time came for the baby to be born, and she gave birth to her firstborn, a son. She wrapped him in swaddling clothes and placed him in a manager, because there was no room for them at the inn.
Luke 2:4-7

Photo credit: pexels-pixabay

Spirituality

A Sunday Reflection on Hope

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large stone gate at Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam

During my library career a favorite activity was introducing new library boards to their responsibilities. And, not just those duties required by Minnesota statutes, but those responsibilities entrusted to them as caretakers of a community jewel. While there are certainly those individuals who seek such an appointment (especially these days) with a goal of controlling the collection or banning certain books, over all the years, I found most people were interested in doing good within their community. People who believed in the importance of reading, the importance of a safe place, the importance of lifelong learning. They rarely recognized it, but library trustees are individuals of hope. After all, who but a person with hopes for the future builds a library, or a school, or a church? Who but a person hoping for positive change spends time and money supporting something that they might use only for a brief time but builds beyond themselves?

Acts of hopeful resistance take many forms:

  • When Richard and I submitted our Breaking Ground pledge form so that we can do just that this spring – break ground at Eliza Place.
  • When the offertory plate is passed and the funds we collect go out the church door to be shared with our social justice partners.
  • When we don our gold scarves and Side With Love t-shirts, whether on a sunny summer day or a frigid afternoon.
  • When we work side-by-side, shout out the injustice and work for change.

As this hectic month begins and I wonder how I will accomplish all the tasks – which cookies to bake, how to decorate the new house – last weekend’s snowfall served as a reminder to slow down and take a breath. To remember in these days of Advent that we are waiting for the gentle lights of Hanukkah, and Solstice, and Christmas. In these challenging days, I take solace from the poetic prayers of Rev. Victoria Safford, who reminds us we are at:

The gates of hope … The place of resistance and defiance.
The piece of ground from which you see the world
Both as it is and as it could be
As it will be;
The place from which you glimpse not only struggle,
But the joy of the struggle.
New House · Writing

Embracing Change: Our Move After 40 Years

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forest green headboard and yellow-orange stained glass lamp shade
whisical car clock, wooden sculpture, and green plant

We kept waiting to be sad. For that tsunami of nostalgia to overwhelm. After-all, we were leaving our first house, our abode of 40 years, where we had celebrated the births of nieces and nephews and mourned the death of beloved family and friends; undertook remodeling and renovation projects, planted and transplanted blueberry bushes and rhubarb, prepared countless meals (the menus for which ran the gamut from a quick bowl of popcorn to gourmet auction prep).

One person suggested that our move was not just a move but a life choice and that distinction felt accurate. This was a decision arrived at over time, necessitated by health challenges and softened by the hundreds of details that comprised our construction project which also served as salve to lighten the mental soreness of loss. While we missed the opportunity of a topping off ceremony on Solstice Place, we carefully monitored construction progress – from the hole in the ground to the final walk-through.  Each visit rooted us in the “rightness” of this change.

We spent a comfortable first night in the new house on September 25. We placed the bed slats on floor, having first put down an old flannel sheet to protect the new LVF (luxury vinyl flooring), followed by the twin springs and the king comfort mattress. The result – a tad lower than sleeping on the couch but higher than a futon. This odd predicament, of being bed-less (that is without a frame) was due to our decision to have the two antique metal bedstead that were once in my Grandma’s house, stripped via glass bead blasting and then dipped to powder coat them a rich forest-green. During their 100+ years, the color has gone from chocolate brown (the color in my childhood, as well as Momma’s memories of her early years in the 4th street house) to yellow, to creamy peach, and now to forest-green. Momma estimates these may have been her parents’ first purchase after arriving in the U.S.A. from Switzerland in July 1922, as by October Grandma was giving birth to Billie and most certainly had a bed for this home delivery.

Now, a month after closing, we have most (not quite all) of the boxes unpacked and flattened. Finding a place for everything has required expanding our decluttering skills yet again and each time we cannot find space we admit that we simply have too much stuff.

Still to be done – placing our eclectic collection of prints, paintings, and objets d’art. Once that is complete Solstice Place will be open for visits.

New House · Writing

We have a hole!

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large trough in dirt with houses in background
bare dirt trough with orange spray paint
large dirt pile and yellow earth moving equipment

Since March 6, when we selected Solstice Place as the location for our new house, we have scouted the neighborhood with a close eye for any progress on our lot. And today was the day for changes! The trenches have been dug for the footings and a nearby pile of dirt rests ready for future grading. Meanwhile, while waiting for the actual construction to begin, our days have been full of decisions, decisions, decisions.

Our first appointment was at the lumberyard for interior and exterior doors, door hardware, windows, and a hand-railing for the front steps.  This visit gave us a sense of what would follow.  With each visit there were offerings as bid and then the possibility to make choices from a broader selection outside the basic budget.  For example:  we were happy with the door levers as bid but opted for a different style kitchen faucet with the cost difference being our responsibility.

The tile store definitely lived up to the “and more” part of its title as we selected birch cabinets, granite countertops, sinks, LVP flooring, and (yes) tile for the bathrooms and the kitchen backsplash.  We needed two visits for all those decisions.  We even stayed within our allowance for flooring and tile but, I must admit, we went a smidge over in the cabinet category.  

As our construction package includes new stainless-steel appliances, we will leave our functional white appliances on First Street. But even at the appliance store there is a lot to consider: slide in or free-standing stove? freezer on the bottom, side, or top? range hood or cabinet fan? Plus, double checking consumer ratings for reliability.

It took two appointments to determine the location of all the disc lights, although we were steadfast in our choice of decorative blue fixtures for the kitchen and dining room, the brushed nickel for the bathrooms, and the exterior, prairie-style lighting.  From lighting we progressed to plumbing – from the kitchen faucet to the shower heads from grab-bars to towel racks the choices we made this morning will (hopefully) be the last, at least for a couple of days.  But, in the meantime — we have a hole!

Writing

Drawn to the Library

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I am a librarian and unabashedly proud of my lifelong career choices. While I was a frequent library visitor as a child, my passion for libraries began when I was ten. During the summer of 1962, between 4th and 5th grades, my mother and a group of her friends worked tirelessly, under the supervision of Mrs. Berlin (the head of children’s services at the public library) to collect and catalog a new school library. It was cobbled together from eight disparate classroom collections and a generous selection of new titles acquired during a successful parish-wide book sale. When school began that fall, along with my best friends Cindy and Jeannie, I began helping in the library after school. As that academic year ended, the PTA sponsored a school-wide contest. I wrote one of the winning essays about the importance of our new library. And, lest you think there as favoritism because Momma was the new volunteer librarian, the essays were submitted anonymously and judged by the PTA officers. I still have the prize – a hard cover copy of the Indian Ocean Adventure by Arthur C. Clarke.

There are those antagonists who claim libraries are no longer needed because everyone can simply buy their books through Amazon. While admittedly a quick source for just about everything from hoses to vitamins, book buying necessitates sufficient discretionary, disposable income. And, even for those of means, there is the practicality of borrowing from the library in solidarity with the 3-Rs – reduce, recycle, reuse.

With nearly five decades of practical experience, I can attest not everything is available through Amazon.

There was the distance learner who was able to complete her PhD. in nursing while employed in a small-town health clinic because expensive medical resources from the University of Minnesota were delivered to her local library though interlibrary loan. Interlibrary loan services that are at risk because the current administration has deemed federally supported intergovernmental library cooperation unnecessary.

The little ones whose caregivers brought them to the library for pre-school storytimes full of stories and pictures, rhymes and alliterations, enhancing early brain development through language.

The students who avoided the dreaded summer slump in reading scores because summer library programs energized curious young minds with books and reading, as well as thematic games and crafts.

The people who filed unemployment claims or submitted job applications at the library’s public access computers because their home situation did not afford internet connectivity, whether because of financial stress or the simple lack of bandwidth in the more rural parts of our state.

With the celebration of National Library Week drawing to a close, remember the times you have been drawn to the library and smile.