Tis the season...

 December 18, 2024

Tis the season to be jolly! At least that’s what the popular media, as well as most if not all of the retailers would have you believe. For those children whose tradition includes the celebration of Christmas, the words wonder, and magic would seem to be synonymous with the Holiday. Yes, of course, they have visions of sugar plums – as well as the latest new game or gadget or gizmo – dancing through their heads. Childhood, after all, begins with a tiny human only being capable of thinking in terms of “me” and “my”. But if we do it right, they progress from that state of self-obsession, and eventually grow in the art of thinking beyond themselves to thinking of others.

I personally believe the litmus test for reaching adulthood is when one thinks of others before oneself. But I digress.

Part of the hustle and the bustle of this season of Christmastide is the growing excitement, lights, spectacles, and music. For many, especially those whose outlook is less “worldly” this truly is a season of joy. Christmas commemorates the birth of Jesus, and the Bible tells us that the angels, in announcing the Savior’s birth, brought “tidings of great joy which shall be to all people”.

But for many, this time of year can be an emotional mine field. Some people are grieving, and grieving is a valid part of the life experience. Others are teetering on the edge of solvency, and stressed by the constant struggle to put food on the table and keep a roof over their heads. In our early years as a family, David and I often struggled to provide a good Christmas for our children because our means were spare. We somehow always managed, but I can’t say we always did so gracefully. The effort to provide something special for Christmas often resulted in a scramble to catch up that lasted at least two or three months after the event.

However, I can honestly say that our children don’t recall a Christmas that wasn’t special. That’s a major source of quiet satisfaction for me. They never saw the worry or the anxiety back then. And that was one of our major achievements.

There are toy drives, and Christmas baskets, and they are amazing things. If everyone gave something, then a lot of people would be blessed: not just the recipients, but the donors as well. Give what you can, and know that doing so is a very good thing.

Christmas can be especially hard for folks grieving, because joy is the polar opposite of grief, and the more joyous something is, the more the contrast between the two can cut and wound.

It’s good to be mindful of the people in your orbit, to be sensitive to those whose lack of joy may be tied to circumstances not easily visible. They might not just be budding Scrooges, bah-humbugging their way through December. There may be something they’re struggling with, something they’re worried about or someone they are missing desperately, that you don’t know about.

Sometimes the best thing you can do – the best gift you can give – is one of your time and attention. Often, you don’t even need the right words to say. You may not even need words at all.

Sometimes all you need to do is listen. Even though we all have two ears and only one mouth, most of us don’t use them that way. Most of us don’t listen nearly enough.

If you know someone who may not be able at this time of year to “get into the spirit of the season”, perhaps you could take them for coffee. Be there for them, let them know they can say whatever they want, or even say nothing at all.

By giving someone who is hurting your time and attention, you’re showing them that they matter. And that you see them.

And sometimes that can be a most amazing gift.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

https://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury

I've never done that before....

December 11, 2024

Well, we had snow. We really did. It covered everything—more or less—and with the sun shining during the day and the freezing cold at night, we had ice, too.

Sufficient snow and ice decorated the out-of-doors that I asked my husband to attach the “ice claw” to my cane. I wait until it looks like I’m going to need it before I ask him to do that, because the device adds to the weight of the cane. It also turns the end of my cane into a potential weapon.

And then, just a couple of days ago, the temperature rose just enough that the precipitation we received became rain. And now, today, looking around my computer monitor out the window and at the wider world, no trace of snow or ice remains.

The greenery won’t last long, of course. We’re smack dab in the middle of winter, as this family defines it: October to March, inclusive. In fact, the weather forecast tells me we’re in for flurries today. Possibly.

Fifty-two years ago today, I gave birth for the first time. It seems just weird that I have a fifty-two-year-old son, but there it is. In fact, on the odd occasion I’m asked, these days, if I have any children, I do reply that no, I do not, but I do have grandparents.

Thanks to the presence of my two oldest great-grandchildren this past weekend, I can report that our Christmas tree is up and decorated. They stay over night one weekend a month, which gives my daughter time with her grandkids. We’ve gotten used to having them, and generally it’s a good, if tiring time for us.

Yes, Christmas is in the air, and for the most part, we’re ready for the small amount of hustle and bustle the holiday brings our way. The gifts that needed to be purchased are here in my office, and while I do have some special dishes to prepare, that’s week or so off yet.

We don’t host the Christmas dinner anymore, and that’s fine with me because I simply don’t have the stamina to produce a meal for a crowd. I think my largest was 16, and while it turned out well, I did need rest for some time afterward.

We continue to make the necessary adjustments dictated by the simple fact of getting older. I find I need to really pay attention to the little things—how I move, and that I’m not attempting to carry too much at one time.

But occasionally, no matter how careful I am, things happen. Sometimes, I’m very, very sorry. And sometimes, I can only giggle.

Yesterday, when it was time to get my legs up in my recliner for a part of the afternoon, I left the office and took with me my refillable water bottle, along with a few odds and ends that I carry to the living room in a cloth bag.

In the kitchen, I put the morning’s dishes into soak, as usual, so that in a half hour or so I could come out and wash them up. (No, I do not now, nor have I ever had an appliance for the task). Then, I took my bottle, emptied and rinsed it, filled it with fresh cold water, and capped it. Since the outside of the bottle was wet, I knew I had to dry it off. And somehow, while reaching for the towel and moving the water bottle into position so that I could dry it, that slippery little piece of plastic flew out of my hands, up into the air, and landed with a kerplunk into the sink of dishes soaking in dishwater.

The tiny splash missed my eyes and hit my forehead.

I stared down at the sink, the bottle visible, and gave thanks that I had tightened the cap well. And as I looked at that submerged bottle I knew with absolute truth and certainty, that here before me was something I had never done before in my entire, longish life.

I fished the bottle out, rinsed it off and then dried it. And a few minutes later, as I settled into my recliner, I was telling my husband that I had done something moments before for the very first time.

He nodded as I relayed the incident. Then he said, “Well, they say seniors should try new things.”

I’m grateful that sarcasm and humor are alive and well in our home.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

https://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury

 

 

It's December already....

 December 4, 2024

I’m not certain, but I think that we are living in an area that may exhibit some unusual meteorological anomalies. Or, in the words of our daughter, “we’re in a weather bubble”.

The only other weather bubble that I have experienced firsthand is San Francisco. I don’t recall the details, but we were instructed that, even though we were going there for the first time, and in the midst of summer, we should pack a sweater of three, as that city rarely gets hot.

They were right. The city of Haite-Ashbury and zig-zag streets was on the chilly side during the entire week of our one and only visit.

Where we are situated on the Ontario map is north of Lake Erie and west of Lake Ontario.

When the winds come from the west and create lake effect snow, we appear to miss out on that little thing. This fact doesn’t break my heart one bit. That’s not to say we won’t get more than the skiff of snow we currently have on the ground outside. I am well aware that we can and will this winter likely be up to our tushies in the white stuff at some point.

But not right now. And not for most of today, at least—if the weather network online can be trusted.

As I write this, that skiff of snow is almost completely hiding the debris on the ground that used to hang on the neighbors’ trees. We were not successful in marshaling the troops to get the second deluge of leaves raked and bagged this fall. That will now have to be job one come the spring—or sooner, if the snow melts as it has in past years, and we get a few days grace during which we can get folks here to do the work then.

It does sadden me that we can no longer do that ourselves. I used to enjoy yard work in general, and especially in autumn when there might be a slight nip in the air, turning my cheeks pink. I never minded raking, grass cutting, and garden tending. I loved spending time outside, and in my younger days would, in spring and summer, often sit outside to read, when time permitted.

Though I have lately not been as quick to spend time in the great outdoors, I’ll still occasionally do so, often with my lap blanket. No sense in courting unnecessary discomfort from drafts on impaired joints.

While we don’t have much snow it has been below freezing these last few days. No question of having the furnace on now, and so far, knock on wood, it continues to work well. Of course, it is a rental, which means we don’t have to worry about any looming expense if it needs repairs. Sometimes it’s just a good idea to anticipate possible challenges, and arrange things so they won’t be a factor.

It's the first week in December, which means we’re approaching Christmas, and the end of the year. I just barely got used to writing 2024 and now, in a few short weeks, I’ll have to get used to writing 2025. Talk about time seeming to speed by.

Believe it or not, I have bought all the “gifts” that we need to give already. Yes, I know that’s shocking and not at all indicative of my usual last-minute shopping habit. Gifts bought, it’s just a matter of stuffing a few dollars into a few Christmas cards, and we’ll be done. Then there’s the matter a smattering of decorations, and, of course, our tree.

You may recall that the tree we’re using these days is on the small side, about four and a half feet tall. When we purchased it, we also purchased several mini decorations to put on it. I’ve grown accustomed to this tree and can even say that I like it.

As well, this year we have our Christmas candle to light, on Christmas Eve. Not certain yet how when or how we’ll do it, but I am looking forward to reestablishing a family tradition that had slipped by the wayside.

Traditions are like the wisps of something ethereal that allow us to visit, if only in our minds, the joys of Yuletides past. And those visits, as insubstantial as they may  be, can be as necessary to the human spirit as food for the body.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury

My very own...renaissance?

 November 27, 2024

I’m not sure how it happened, but I realized some time ago that I hadn’t read a book in a few months. Months! Not that long ago I would have described myself as an avid reader. Now, I’m not so sure that label can apply to me.

Of course, I understand that on any given day I read a lot—just not in book (or eBook) form. Now, in the interest of complete transparency, I should tell you that I do begin each day with time spent in the Bible. I end each day that way, too.  This is a long-standing habit that I look forward to and consider a blessing, and not a chore. I could compare the habit to a pilot checking out their plane before daring to get in and fly.

I do spend a fair bit of time on the internet, and as you know, that can involve a lot of reading, too.  I look around to see how life is going for some of my friends who live far away, see if there are any amusing headlines—I do avoid those that seem too heavy. As an author I must try to keep my finger on the pulse of current events, trends and culture, and I find that scanning various sources online is an efficient way to accomplish that.

Using the internet is where I go if, during the course of my day, questions arise for which I have no answers. I sometimes liken Mr. Google to an old-time encyclopedia, only one that is constantly updated.

However, sometimes trying to satisfy one’s curiosity can turn into a rabbit-hole of its own. For that reason, unless I’m looking up how to do something specific, I tend to stay away from YouTube until about an hour before bedtime. It’s the second to last thing I use my brain for each day.

But what I’ve not been doing lately, (and what sent us down this particular garden path today) is picking up a novel, written by someone else, to simply sit and read and enjoy the journey.

A book must have only two criteria for me to indulge in its essence. The subject matter must interest me, and it must be well written.

“All right, Morgan. How do you define well written?”

I’m so glad you asked! For a story to be well written is, I grant you, a subjective thing and different for each reader. The author should have a sound grasp of language, and the skills needed to create a story with a beginning and a middle and an end that, knitted together, make some kind of sense.

And yes, dear reader, all those rules you learned in school about grammar, syntax and such, do matter, and even more so if you’re writing a book. I am a terrible speller at times. But I make very few spelling mistakes in my work, because I know how bad a speller I am, and I check this carefully.

Well written means that I become invested and care about the characters I’m reading about. And the plot must be cleverly seeded and executed.

When a story is not well written, one is pulled out of it by the errors, the absurdity, the whatever, and that is a very jarring experience.

The reason I insist that the books I read for pleasure, especially when I am in the midst of writing one of my own, be well-written may seem silly. Or superstitious. But I’ll tell you about it, because eventually we’ll get to the point.

If I read a book that is not well written, I—fear? —worry? —that it will infect the quality of my own work. Not that I think my work is so much better than everyone else’s, far from it. But it is better than some out there, and my goal, as an author is aiming for better,  not worse.

So, I haven’t been reading for a long time. But I have been watching too much news and investing my emotional energy where it doesn’t belong—in places where I have no power to effect change. And then, one afternoon, while I was trying to figure out how to quit that habit, I turned off the television and I opened a book.

And I rediscovered the pleasure of simply letting go my day-to-day grind and sinking into a world where, while there may be trials and tribulations, there are also moments of a skillfully crafted and eminently satisfying resolution. And in between the beginning and the end, there will be a smattering of loving and living and yearning…connections, if you will, to humanity. One can feel immersed in community and can identify kindred spirits—all without leaving home.

It does seem ironic to me as I write this, that I had to rediscover the magic I was missing. Because the reason I kept pushing on, writing despite the emotional toll of pandemic and wars, was to provide my own dear readers with a small, but sincere offered escape hatch within my own books.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Filing this under self-care...

 November 20, 2024

Here we are, about to begin the last third of November. Up here in my neck of the woods, the leaves have been falling at a steady clip, and it’s almost time to begin “the great yard cleanup”, hopefully completing the task before the snow flies.

Of course, one can only do the best that one can do. No one—and I mean no one—can accurately predict the weather. With any kind of absolute certainty. Condolences to TV weather people everywhere.

Looking across the way, I see that most of the neighborhood maple trees have been denuded of their brown, withered foliage. Our gardens are still full of dead and dying plants. And not a one of us is wanting to make use of the outdoor patio set we have in out back yard.

Within the next couple of weeks, with the help of our daughter, one grandson, and two great-grandchildren, we hope to accomplish all that needs doing. The operative word in that sentence is, of course, hope.

But I have lots of that, so I’m not worried.

Inside, I’m working at reassessing and reassigning my time. I am not an American, I’m Canadian. But that doesn’t mean that I am not a participant, emotionally at least, in the highs and lows experienced by my neighbors to the south. What happens in the halls of government in your country does affect my country, as we share a continent—and a hemisphere. And even if it didn’t, I have reams of good friends who proudly wave the Stars and Stripes.

It is because of my many friends that I care about the environment in which they live. Many of my prayers, nightly, are on behalf of friends I know and those not yet met.

Therefore, I’ve decided that I need to pare back the amount of time I spend each day taking in news and opinions and listening to pundits – from every quarter. It only makes sense that if one is suffering the ill effects of overindulgence, then one must restrict said indulgence and bring it to heel.

This is a wise decision for me, especially, since everything else I do—from reading to writing to doing household chores—has slowed down in the last few years. What I used to be able to accomplish in a couple of hours now takes most of the day! The solution for me is to pare down my own expectations of my own abilities, and to give myself more time on the clock to do what needs doing.

I am grateful that the one thing I don’t need to do is develop a more positive attitude. My positivity knows few bounds. But as it is my positivity, it’s probably best that I direct that incredible force a bit closer to home. I need to pour it toward me and mine, and what is both good and possible.

That doesn’t mean that I won’t still dream dreams of a better me and a better world. It doesn’t mean I won’t still by a lottery ticket here or there.

What it does mean is that I need to remember what I’ve always known, especially as it pertains to prayers. The first is that I can only ask God to change me, and not anyone else. And the second is even more basic than that.

I do believe that God answers every prayer. But I need to remember that He will give me one of three answers:

Yes, no, or not yet.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury

A bit of wisdom....

 November 13, 2024

Life—if you do it right—is full of twists and turns and unexpected results. And sometimes, unintended consequences.

If you’re a frequent reader of these essays, you know that I’ve often held that the purpose of life is to help you grow. I have never preached in which direction you should grow because that is way above my pay grade. But grow you should, so that when your course has been run, you can look back and see that the person you have become is not the same person as you started out being. And by that, dear friends, I’m not referring to having begun as an infant and become an adult. That is simply a function of our biology and nothing for which you can or should take any credit.

By growing I mean changing the inner human, refining the qualities that were gifted to you, so that your finished product, the artwork of your life, may be held forth for all to see.

During the course of living my life, and as I believe it is desirable to do, I have learned many lessons along the way. Some of them have been very, very hard ones and have literally and figuratively laid me flat. Some of them have been not so difficult to process. None of them have been easily acquired. All of them have been meaningful and in some ways, surprising.

One lesson that took me more time than it probably should have to learn—and I am still from time to time in need of a refresher course—is that nothing is ever as wonderful as we hope it will be, and nothing is ever as horrible as we fear it will be.

That applies to things like longed-for vacation trips and major surgery and anything in between.

I am not an oracle. I cannot predict the future. I can make logical conclusions based on the premises with which I am presented. I learned to do that in my first year of university, when I took Philosophy. If A, and if B, and if C, then it is logical to assume D.

The fly in the ointment of that small formula, of course, is the conclusion one reaches may be logical but, it also at the same time may not be a representation of truth—of fact.

We all, I’m certain, can recall decisions we’ve made along our life’s path, decisions that at the time we thought were the right ones, only to learn in the aftermath that we’d erred. Life has a way of using these mistakes to its best advantage. In that aftermath, we may suffer—emotionally, spiritually, financially…. well, that list is pretty much endless. Our suffering may be great or small, but the end result is, hopefully, a resolve to never make that mistake again.

And we are doomed to repeat that bad time if we don’t learn that lesson.

I know I am not alone in proclaiming that there are indeed a few lessons I’ve had to experience more than once in this life. I kick myself every time.

The exception of that rule is that I often open myself up to friendships, and I hope I always will. Because while I’ve been disappointed several times by those in whom I’ve placed my trust and invested my heart, I never want to be a person so cynical as to close that door. To experience a true connection with another, to share ideas, and pieces of myself, I am willing to risk that potential disappointment.

That is truly “one lesson” I will never learn. Because it’s not a lesson I need to learn. Cynic is not on my goal list.

The times ahead of us all have always been uncertain. The difference between this time and those in the past is that this time, we are fully aware of the fact. And in real time, too.

Yes, it’s stressful right now. Yes, it’s a challenge.

I’ve often told others to approach situations as if you’re on a plane, and I’ll repeat that advice to you all now. Follow the flight attendant’s directions. Put your own air mask in place first, before helping someone else with theirs.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury

 

 

A treasure found...

 November 6, 2024

As I grow older, I’ve noticed that my memory isn’t as sharp as it once was. My husband used to tell me—and not unkindly—that I had the memory of an elephant. It was a point that, while not something I took pride in, necessarily, was something that comforted me.

Now, those far away times that stick out, ready to be reviewed at my whim are fewer than they used to be. One thing I am having a hell of a time recalling lately are names! Is it ever frustrating not remembering the names of actors/actresses, people I used to know, occasionally people I do know…. well, you get the idea. I also, sometimes, have a challenge finding just the right words to say. Not so much when I’m writing, but if I’m speaking, those words like to hide on me.

I am, however, grateful that some of the memories I’ve always cherished—those involving loved ones no longer living—are still with me. And as we approach the year’s end, that’s particularly comforting as I can cast my thoughts back to special times past, even going back to my very young childhood. To the times that are the most essential to who I think of myself as being while yet a child. Particularly the one birthday party I had when I turned 8, and of course to my early Christmases.

That birthday party happened in the summer 1961. Prior to that summer we had been a family of 5 living in a two-bedroom house. We had an eat-in kitchen, a living room, a bathroom, and two bedrooms.  One bedroom was my brother’s; the other held two beds, one for our parents and one for my sister and me. That small house was in a rural area of southern Ontario. Out in the sticks. Our nearest neighbor was only about a couple of hundred yards to the north of us. The two houses, ours and the Simons’, an older couple, were separated by a field(theirs) that held lots of tall grass in the summer—and a small abandoned “garbage” pile with a home-made incinerator in the far back corner.

One day, I think when I was 5, Mr. Simons passed away. Their children had been long gone before I was even born, moved off and living their own lives. I do have a memory of looking out our side window in the little house toward the Simon’s house and seeing Mr. Simons on the ground, with an umbrella opened over him, shading him. I recall the sight confused me. Later of course, I learned that he’d had a heart attack and she’d done what she could to protect him from the sun while she waited for help. On that day, my parents were at work, while my brother looked after my sister and me.

Then in the summer of 1961, our parents told us that they’d bought that bigger house next door. And no, they weren’t selling our little house. They were going to turn it into a rental property—whatever that was (I was only almost 8.) Each of us kids was going to have our own bedroom! Shortly after we moved in, when I turned 8, I had my first birthday party, ever. All I recall of the event was that my daddy had used two sawhorses and a big slab of wood to make an outdoor table for the occasion.

Christmas was another thing that looms huge in my childhood memories. There are only a handful of details that were constant, for every Christmas. The special breakfast which was not only bacon and eggs, but orange juice and grape juice; the large orange in the toe of my stocking; church at midnight; and our Christmas Eve candle.

About eight inches high, red and nubbly on the outside, fatter than my little-girl hands could encompass, that candle was lit every Christmas Eve, and only burned during that evening. I recall one time, when we had my mom’s brother and his wife over, that someone made a joke about blowing out a candle, and I thought they had said they wanted the candle blown out. I was maybe 5 at the time. I remember yelling, “I’ll do it!” and reached up for that candle….and ended up with hot wax on my dress! I was lucky not to be burned. Don’t know if the dress survived.

That candle symbolized Christmas to me the same way the midnight Eucharist at our church did. It was sacred. It was special. Adding to its aura for me was that it had been my dad’s, who died the January after we moved into that big house across the field from the little one, way out in the country.

After my mother passed, there were items that had been set aside for each of us—she’d made a list. And there were items that were just taken by each of us, though not in a selfish way. We were all three too much in shock with our mother’s sudden death in her 57^th year to be greedy.

My brother took possession of the candle, and it gave me comfort each Christmas season, seeing it on his mantel. After he and his wife were both gone—in the fall of 2021, I contacted my nephews and asked if I could have that candle, and they quickly agreed.

And then they couldn’t find it. In fact, they couldn’t find any of the Christmas decorations, period. I mourned the loss of that candle, though not as much as I did the loved ones who’d had care of it.

Then, a week ago Sunday, I got a text from my brother’s eldest son. It was a photo of a red candle and the question, “is this it?”

Apparently, that weekend as they finally prepared their parent’s house for sale, they discovered some storage bins tucked up in an out-of-the-way niche. And inside of those bins were the missing Christmas decorations—and the candle.

I’m not ashamed to tell you I cried when I saw the picture of it. I just did. I know it’s because that candle is a solid physical connection to those who were and are no more. In a very real way, since it was cherished by my father’s family, and with him by his own, then my brother by his, it’s all I have left of those Christmases long gone. And all I have left of them.

As I write this, that candle sits in a glass-fronted bookcase in my living room—the same bookcase that my maternal grandfather, a furniture maker, had made for my mother. And waiting for Christmas Eve.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury