The healing power of gratitude and Thanksgiving.... #GiveThanks

We get to be with three of the six kids today for Thanksgiving...

 

Looking for the light in the shadows of our blessings...

                   

Balboa Island... Once upon a time, a young Wyoming boy asked a San Diego girl to a family reunion here. I said yes, even though he was a friend. He was majoring in chemistry and loved to climb mountains. I was a tennis-playing English major who loved to swim on the beach and eat Mexican food. I saw his family, who like my own family, loved one another and decided to become part of the clan. I feel blessed that almost 40 years ago on a Thanksgiving weekend I said yes to marrying him. 

We can all give thanks for the beauties of the earth and the majesty of the heavens that give us an inkling of the vastness of eternity.

We can give thanks for the gift of life, for our amazing bodies and minds, that allow us to grow and learn.

We can give thanks for art, literature, and music that nurture our souls.

We can give thanks for the opportunity to repent, start over, make amends and build character.

We can give thanks to our families, friends, and loved ones.

We can give thanks for the opportunity to help, cherish and serve one another, which makes life so much more meaningful.

We can even give thanks for our trials; from which we learn things we would not know otherwise.

Most of all, we can give thanks unto God, the Father of our spirits, which makes us all brothers and sisters — one great global family. --Russell M. Nelson

Some statues of David and Libby Maidenburg on a bench overlooking the harbor at Balboa Island. This is what it says on the bench to everyone who walks by, "Married for 63 years, never went to bed angry. We love and miss you, from 3 your children, 8 grandchildren, and 6 great-grandchildren."

One of my good friends, Minika, replies each time someone asks how she is doing, "I am grateful." Afterward, she might reveal a challenge she is going through, but her first emotional response is gratitude. She has lived through the dangers of a civil war in Nigeria. Later, she raised three successful boys as a single mom. As a highly educated African engineer, she has experienced prejudice and betrayal as she has lived in several countries. A few years ago she beat her dismal cancer diagnosis. Indeed, there have been tough times, but she always says, "I am grateful." She reminds me, not even on Thanksgiving, to be grateful.

This is the first Thanksgiving I have been in my own country since we were ex-pats for nine years. My heart is a little more tender and mellow as I reflect upon my blessings this season. For the past almost four months I have had the unique time to travel in America to see those family members and friends who we could not see for a long time--due to not being able to leave China. We have missed the weddings of children, and the birth of our first grandchild. There have been delays, deaths, illness, and overcoming some despair--just like everyone else in this world. Yet, underlying it all, I have been eased and comforted by remembering layers of a life of blessings. Seeing recently familiar landscapes and houses or being with loved ones has humbly reminded me that I have been a very blessed passenger on this journey of life. I never was really alone, after all. 

The gentle strokes of light of a sunset on a painting, each one, have made a beautiful landscape if I choose to appreciate it. Sometimes, I admit, I do not always see the light or full panoramic perspective. After all, to see the gleaming brightness, we must view the contrast between dark and light, and experience the tension to understand the light when it comes. Yet, in six decades of living, remembering, and acknowledging blessings, I have learned: gratitude fills our souls with light-filled healing. New hope is born when we see the good and are grateful. Peace and comfort grow, as we grant ourselves and others gratitude. Being grateful elevates our joy--even when we accept the shadows. 

 In a 2015 NYT article before his death of cancer, author and neurologist Oliver Sacks powerfully wrote about the gift of gratitude at the end of his life, "I cannot pretend I am without fear. But my predominant feeling is one of gratitude. I have loved and I have given something in return." To me, that is a beautiful life--one that has known and acknowledged blessings.

In our world of FOMO or (Fear of Missing Out), I don't want to not be aware of a lifetime of blessings, the people who cheered and loved me, and a God who accepts and gives me gifts I am sometimes blind to. I have learned the happiest people are grateful--not a chirpy, superficial optimism, but a person who knows how to obtain wisdom and peace almost anytime they desire. How? They remember to count their blessings, write a thank you card, call or tell a person thank you, and take the time to ponder stacked blessings in the closet. Whatever faith we espouse, we know more peace when we express our thanks to a God who is always giving blessings--even when we are oblivious. 

Happy Thanksgiving one and all wherever you live in this world. 

  

Happy Mother's Day and a love letter to mothering...

"I know I must have been loved like that, even if I can't remember it. I know my mother must have loved to comb my shiny hair and rub that Johnson's baby lotion up and down my arms and wrap me up and hold me all night long...so I'd have enough love in me to know what love was when I saw it or felt it again."   --Cynthia Rylant in Missing May

      The day our son, Elias, was born... Little did we know, he would change our lives for the better when he would be diagnosed with autism three years later...

Happy Mother's Day to all! On this Mother's Day, I am spending it in London with my first grandchild--a  new season of wonder and awe in the journey of life. Observing my own child become a parent, I am filled with memories of who I was when I became a mother long ago. Of course, there were anticipation, fears, and apprehensions. But perhaps more than anything, there was a willingness to plunge deeply into unknown territory--to give this unchartered work everything I had. Deeply, I knew it was a new sphere of understanding how to love outside of myself--in a way I had never known. 

Suddenly, with unexpected abruptness, I was content to be enclosed in a new world with my little daughter. Outside of our cloistered circle, the world outside continued to beckon. But I remember being content to stay wrapped in this newly formed cocoon with her and my husband. There was nothing I would not do for this new little babe. As I looked out of my New York City 24th-story view and heard the noise and rustling of the city, I wanted to crowd out the world for a while. Of course, I knew this exquisitely beautiful cocoon of time would not last long. There was so much newly-mint joy in that space of time. I suppose that is why we had six more children. 😀

Every child is a journey. They come with their own passport of where they will eventually go. Each of them has an unmistakable and individual divine nature that comes to imprint on your soul. Sooner or later you learn they were never yours to tightly hold on to and sequester. In fact, they cannot be endlessly protected; we are not our children's shield of safety. They were meant to fly away from the sheltered haven we tried to lovingly build for them. Yet, I have learned they will migrate back for you to hold and love again-- teaching us new things of their own journeys.

A few years ago, I met the mayor of a small village in Normandy, France. He was an older gentleman who was painting on a hillside overlooking his village. As we spoke to him, he told us a story I have always remembered: During WWII, his parents who were part of the French Resistance Movement, were caught and imprisoned in a camp. His mother, who was pregnant with him, was later delivered there by a very kind, compassionate doctor. On that night, she begged the doctor to save her baby's life and bring him clandestinely outside the camp to freedom. The doctor, knowing full well the parents could never see the child again, agreed. He knew of their impending death sentences. That night, in the dark, under a long trench coat, he swaddled the child under his cloak. He risked his life for a baby whose parents would never know their child.

A few minutes later, our French friend took us to see a picture of the mayor's parents. As I looked into their faces--so young, hopeful, and beautiful, I was and continue to be moved by their story. A young mother, knowing her fate and wanting to keep this child safe from the world gave him up to an unknown stranger--a doctor who happened to be on call that day in a prison camp. Perhaps I am further moved by the story because my own husband has delivered about 25,000 children and I know he would have gladly done the same deed on that night long ago in the early 1940s in France. But as I said, mothering takes you to places, both literal and figurative, you never thought you would or could go.

Here are a few thoughts on mothering I have had over the years:

--Give yourself a break. Mothering, especially in the first years, can be almost all-encompassing. When you daily try to fill the needs of little ones, carve moments to reset. And that means giving yourself permission to take a nap. That was always my own mother's healing balm of advice. Recalibrate. Rest. Relax. Every. Day.

--Reach out. Recently I heard of a young mother I know who has been having a difficult time because of the pandemic. Lift, encourage, and say a kind word. People so desperately need affirmations. We don't know the wounds or the current state of mental health of others, but we can connect and help out. Today when I was walking into Herrod's Department store in London, not one, but two security men opened the door for me as I pushed my grandson's stroller through the door. They smiled, nodded, and just made me feel better. We might think it is a small and inconsequential act, but kind gestures have a long shelf life. 

--Build on your interests, both former ones before children, but also be brave and bold to learn new things. Everything you know and love can be shared with your children. Hold onto those passions you have always cherished so you can inspire your loved ones. Those are some of the tender gifts they will always remember and connect to. Books, nature, swimming, tennis, music, art, and cooking are some of my interests. For example, I love art museums. When we lived in Baltimore, we would sometimes trek down to the National Gallery. By the time one of my daughters was seven, she could give family and friends an amazing tour. Blog on My Cello Love Story

--Gather. Become a part of a community of mothers who help one another. Many parents do not live by their families. It does not matter if women are much older or younger than one another. In my younger years, I had sage counsel from women who I looked to for advice. Now I am older, I try to do the same for others. We can always learn from one another--even if we initially think people are not in the same "stage of life" we are in. Learn from unlikely sources who can teach you how to think in different ways and give you new perspectives. I will always remember what my Muslim neighbor told me when I first moved to Qatar, "Don't make boundaries with me, Maryan." She said it lovingly, and I knew she meant it. I learned so much from a mother who wore a burka. My life would be so different if I had not been her friend. Learn from others who are different than you. Blog on Spilling Love and Celebrating International Women's Day

--Have fun! Be creative. Give lots of hugs. Have a fun game, art, and/or music nights. Laugh a lot and go out and see the stars or a sunset or a firefly.  Carve holy moments of time. I remember celebrating St. Patrick's Day with a friend. We all went on a picnic with our kids and dyed our hair that day. As we tromped through a park in Los Angeles, we sang and told stories with our green hair. We came home exhilarated, breathless with happiness to be outside laughing and frolicking with our children.

--You can do harder things than you realize because you have learned to love with no bounds. Being a mother of a child with autism has stretched and blessed me. Blog on My Autism Mountain Having a young baby die taught me to be outside of my skin. Blog on Traveling Through Time in a Day

Some of my South African friends are in China. The little girl told me, "You have taught me how to be brave and kind" on the last night before I left China. I teared up and told her I would try to live up to her estimation of me. Children's words, so pure and unfiltered, spark me to be better.

                                                                  A mother in India who I met

             A Cambodian mother who I often visited in the refugee camps when I worked there in Thailand and the Philippines in the 1980s. She was so grateful to be in a refugee camp and to have boxes for furniture and a hammock for several of her children to sleep in. At least now she knew they were safe from Pol Pot's genocide.

                                      A very special single mom with her triplets who my husband delivered 18 years ago. They have been like family to us. 

One of my best friends, Yoyo, is in Tianjin, China with her son. She told me, "I think my children choose me to be their mom before they came down to be on earth with me."

                                       A grandmother with her grandson at Ikea in Tianjin, China

Iceland: Painting the Landscapes of our Lives

 "I realized that the story of even so small a place can never be completely told and can never be finished. It is eternal, always here and now, and going on forever."   --Wendell Berry

The beginning of the painting of "Foss Farm" in Westfjords, Iceland

The finished painting this week...

A few weeks ago Elias finished a painting of a Westfjords, Iceland landscape. The painting is of some nondescript cliffs with a gushing waterfall that spills into a tempestuous river. The river flows and widens in a stone's throw to a fjord in the Greenland Sea--the far north Atlantic Ocean. If you want to be specific, it is called the 66th parallel north--the circle of latitude that is 66 degrees north of the equator.  If you have ever been to Iceland, waterfalls are almost as plentiful as the sheep that roam the fields and countryside. But this waterfall is uniquely special to our family. You see it is not just any waterfall. My great-grandfather, also named Elias, was born on this remote farm overlooking an inlet sea fjord. As I walked along the road in front of the farm, I imagined him daily hearing the roar of this waterfall while it supplied his family with constant water.  

It was early summer when I took the below photos at 11:30 pm. It would be a few hours before dusk would momentarily descend on the scene. The wind was not howling on that night. We could gaze out at the tranquil fjord's calm waters where my great-great-grandfather, Eggert, had left the farm in his boat to head to Norway. His motive to leave? He was a ship captain, trained in Denmark, and took upon himself the responsibility to leave the Westfjords to bring back food for the villages around him. They were practically starving that year so he turned his head to the wind and left his Westfjords farm. He would make the trip a few times in his lifetime. 

My grandmother told me the cliffs that rose above the farm hid puffin nests. My great-grandfather, Elias, would be tied up with a rope from his brother or father. and then dangle from the cliff to retrieve eggs. I can't imagine gripping a rope while my young child would be suspended in the air--probably swaying in the gusty wind. Puffins only lay one egg each year so it is not like there were abundant eggs in the nests But my great-grandfather and his family were hungry, and those eggs would give them some nourishment. Sometimes it was hard to get out to the sea to fish, and eggs were there on the cliff if you wanted to dangle above to fetch them. 

I grew up with these stories of "Foss Farm." Being there brought me a deeper connection to my ancestors--like they were almost there. I closed my eyes, yearning that those people who lived there long ago could be next to me. I wished we could share a cup of cool water together before the sun dipped down for a minute into the sea. I wanted them to show me where they found the puffin eggs and how they survived a Westfjords winter.

Sometimes I think of them and the landscapes of their lives that shaped them. I am sure my great-grandfather would never think his posterity would care that he perilously dangled above the air to grab one puffin egg. But I do. Or, that he would row for three days while the rogue winds and waves tried to blow him to Greenland when he tried to go out to get some fish. But I do. Because my grandmother and father told me the stories. 

Lately, we have not just been telling the stories, but painting the places where they happened. Elias wanted to paint where the other Elias long ago lived. Watching my Elias paint these skies and cliffs this week has made me remember to tell the stories of those who lived in those landscapes long ago. I might not have to swing on a rope to get a single puffin egg, row for days in a blizzard storm off the coast of Iceland, or sail to another country to get food for my community. Yet, I hope we/I can do some hard things too. Somehow, to paint the strokes of a waterfall, not just any waterfall, but the source of your ancestors' life, made us very happy this week. There are many ways to tell the stories of our lives...

What are the landscapes of your life? And how are you going to tell their stories?

Elias Shumway on "Foss Farm" where Elias Vatnsdal was born.

                                                    Looking out to an inlet of the Greenland Sea...

                                                      Wearing Icelandic sweaters--of course...

A very special night to be at Foss Farm

Stuffed puffins you can buy all over Iceland

Not too far from Foss Farm... 

        Looking out the fjord that Eggert Vatnsdal sailed away to bring back food in a near-famine for the community around him. 

                         Peter going up the cliff to taste the water from the same waterfall his ancestors drank from.

   

                                  The glacier water that streams down to the North Atlantic Ocean

                                                                     No one wanted to leave that night...

One of my mottos

Opening new doors in uncertain times, and. a lesson from Grandpa...

My two daughters at a colorful door in Greece. 

A few years ago on a trip to Madrid, we unexpectedly stumbled onto a Spanish artist's home and museum. His name is Joaquin Sorella and is pretty much unknown outside of his native Spain. He was an Impressionistic artist who was fascinated with light and very much influenced by Monet. On the day I discovered him, I was riveted by his luminous paintings. Somehow the light and sun in his paintings filled me up and gave me remembered warmth. In case you want to read more about Sorella, here is my blog: Joaquin Sorella: Painter of Light

Since I have spent some time painting, I was interested in what he had to say about how to navigate a painting or how to start the process on the canvas. A quote in his museum describes his approach to painting, "You do not need to know what your picture is eventually going to look like. Just watch the picture that is coming and emerging. It will come together, and you will be happy."

If I could make an analogy to art and life, it would be that we need to be more comfortable with the paintbrush or tools we have been given and blessed with. Life does not give us a manual for all our decisions. Will the painting be executed in the exact way we intend or want? Probably not. But we have it within us to make a grand, glorious, and gorgeous masterpiece--if we choose--much more beautiful than if we painted it by ourselves. If we push aside our tentativeness, we can open doors that bring us to places where darkness falls away and light descends in the crevices. 

I have to say in the painting (my son with autism) and I do together, we have gessoed a lot. Gessoing means you use white, thick paint (gesso) to cover part of the painting you do not like or want to be there anymore. Sometimes we have gessoed the entire canvas several times--starting over and over again. As I have taught young teenagers art, I reassure them with their discontent about their painting, "You can begin again. Nothing is really permanent." They look at me sometimes with a surprised or incredulous look and say, "Really? I can do it again?" The answer is yes, Just gesso what you don't want and start over. It is a liberating thought for them. And it holds true in our lives too. If we don't like the colors, perspective, or texture we have been using, we can change it. Another door can open. We don't have to stand outside dissatisfied and unfilled. There is a rescue on the other side of the door.

We need to be nimble and willing to see with new eyes. The process requires a tenacious determination to understand when and where we need to go in another direction--just like a painter works on different parts of the canvas. Perhaps we need to stand back and pause a moment at our emerging masterpiece--to recalibrate, recharge, and look for what is missing before we pick up the paintbrush again. Pausing to see the perspective is important as we live in the process of becoming. Perhaps we need to try another brush or mix a new color of paint.

One of the great friends of my life was my father-in-law, Hyrum Smith Shumway. He was blinded about six weeks after he landed on D-Day in Normandy, France at age 22. He helped to liberate several French villages that still celebrate and revere him today as he tried to lead his group of soldiers across France to Paris. He was young, fearless, and strong. But he was uncertain as he fought in France that he would ever go home again. However, he hung on, believing and having hope--even when he was blinded--that God had a purpose for him. He was brought to a make-shift hospital in Normandy, and then secretly taken across the channel to a hospital in England. Months later he sailed to America on the Queen Elizabeth ship with other wounded soldiers. For the next two years, he would be in rehabilitation in America. 

It is interesting to read his autobiography and see the developing character on the canvas in a young man who had experienced tremendous trauma. I am sure as he looked at his life, he saw so many doors closed to him that were beckoning before his accident. The emerging person, like a painting in progress, was taking shape. He later said that when he was lying on the ground after the landmine exploded next to him, that he wasn't sure he was going to live. He knew his life was in balance. But he said a prayer, and begged, "God, I want to live. I think it is possible because I took a breath. I want to live." 

At the time he was laying beside a hedgerow in Normandy, he did not know in his darkness that blindness would be his fate for the next 67 years. From his words later, he wrote that he became discouraged and frustrated with all the doors that seemed slammed shut for him.  It was a blow like a hammer to hear in an English hospital that he would have a permanent life of physical darkness. He had wanted to be a doctor and knew the dream was over. Nightmares of battles and warfare stalked him for many years. However, little by little, or brushstroke by brushstroke, he repeatedly turned to God in the uncertainties and darkness.

Much later, after he had learned to push and tug at some doors to be opened, he succinctly summarized his life, "I might not have sight, but I have insight." Indeed, he was happy, even joyful with his life,  and radiated an uncommon cheer I have seldom seen. His life was a masterpiece--created with ambiguity and darkness. With uncertainty and new doors, grasping for his answers, he found light. He continues to teach me that sometimes as we turn to the darkness, (and we must know darkness to know light), the light is switched on and dimness disappears. Yet, most of the time, our questions are answered by the sunrise/sunset variety. The door opens ever so slowly, little by little, impression by impression, and then we create a beautiful masterpiece.on our canvas of life. 

                                

                       My father-in-law,  H. Smith Shumway, who learned how to be certain in uncertainty. 

Thanks, Grandpa, for your example in complete darkness and in uncertain times. It makes me remember to pause, stand back, and see the whole perspective--to not be afraid to open unknown doors. And as Joaquin Sorrella said, the beautiful masterpiece we wanted all along will come.  

         A few favorite doors of mine... What doors are you planning                                                on opening soon?

     

The Alhambra in Spain

 Marrakesh, Spain

                                                             

                                                  A farmer's shed in Sierre, Switzerland

                                                           

                                            

                                   In front of Rembrandt's house in Amsterdam, Holland

                                                        

                                                  With this door, I received a new son...

                                                                 

                                                             The portals of Egypt

                                                                     

                                                                     Egypt beckons...

                                                  

                                                  At the  Shiek Fasel Musem in Doha, Qatar

                                                                

                                                         Notre Dame, Paris France

                                                                         

                                                                      Sofia,  Bulgaria

                             

                    Normandy, France--talking to an eye witness of World War II on his farm who knew                                                                                  Joseph's father. 

                                          

                                                           At the art barn, Teton Valley, Idaho

                                            Henry David Thoreau's house at Walden Pond, Massachusetts

                                                              

                                                       Shakespeare's house, Stratford, England

At Shangrila, China, on the border of Tibet

                                     Paris Temple for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints

         

                                          Meeting new friends in Doha, Qatar at their home

                                                     A welcome door in Stockholm

        Some dear French friends in Normandy who have taught us about the French generosity of spirit.

The colorful houses of Capetown, South Africa

The Ypres, Belgium cathedral that was burned to the ground in World War II, and then was built up again.

Beijing hutong or house. Red banners are put on the outside of houses for the New Year saying the family wants peace and prosperity. Often, they are left up all year long.

                              Shoes being left out of a mosque in Doha, Qatar during the prayer time

 

Istanbul, Turkey

My mother giving our sons a pioneer tour in Pleasant Grove, Utah

                         Doha, Qatar (This was not my house when we lived in Qatar). Ha!

                                                                            Marakesh, Morocco

One of the reasons I love the Middle East and North Africa so much was their rich motifs and designs. I was endlessly fascinated by how they fit geometric spaces together.

                                                                    Lake Como, Italy

   

                                                                        Lake Como, Italy

Marrakesh, Morocco

                                                                   Budapest, Hungary

                                                                   

                                                                       Seville, Spain

                                                            

                                                                The  Alhambra, Spain

 

                                                                        Marrakesh, Morocco 

Aix-de-Provence, France. What a door! I wonder how many times this door has been opened?
     

 

Our Doha house door, and our little, delightful neighbor who would always visit us to show us his artwork (even at 7 am) Of course, I adored his every effort. He was often rewarded with small gifts. I could never resist his dimpled smile. 

  

    My grandmother's house in Springville, Utah. This door opened to a magical and enchanting world--a                                 place where childhood was sacred and joy was always to be found...