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