April 8, 2015
Whether you’ve just celebrated Easter or are currently celebrating Passover, I hope the holiday was and is all you hoped it would be. Customs vary widely, but all have some common elements. The largest of these is the inclusion of family and friends.
Whether we approach these special times traditionally, as our forbearers did, or we add our own modern twists, it’s the sharing with family and friends that makes these occasions memorable. And holidays observed without family close by are often spent recalling those memories made during earlier times.
My granddaughter, who is 14, asked me about Easter when I was a kid, and what it would have been like for her dad, our late son. From my childhood there are some traditions that stand out in my memory more than others. There were the candy baskets, of course, and the hunt for Easter eggs. In my house, both when I was a child and later, as a parent of young children, these were actual eggs—hard boiled by us the night before, and colored, and then “hidden” by the Easter bunny over night.
More than once as a young mom I had to spend time in the days following Easter Sunday hunting for that one egg that always seemed to defy being found. I wasn’t anal enough in those days to make a list of the hiding places.
The other thing I recall as a child was the whole, “get dressed up and go to Church” ritual that “Easter Parade” I used to hate. Today, going to Church isn’t the fancy dress occasion it used to be. I always figured too much emphasis was placed on the outside, instead of the inside where it belonged. I was raised Anglican (Episcopalian) and I’m old enough to recall that women and girls didn’t go into the church without having their heads covered. I never really knew why that was. But Easter Sunday was an even fussier occasion than normal, and the hats fussier still.
I recall a light pink dress, and a darker pink coat that was way too thin to be warm, and a hat that I really didn’t like. I would have been 5 or 6 at the time. Oh, and the white, for-Church-only shoes with the buckle in the wrong place and that were very uncomfortable. How could I forget them, or the socks with the itchy lace around the top? “Don’t scratch!” was an admonition that regularly interrupted the Easter liturgy when I was a kid.
Even being little, I understood the spiritual significance of Easter. That has never changed, but it’s the social rituals, shared with my family, that I look back on and recall so easily, rituals no longer observed. Right down to the colored eggs brought into the car with a salt shaker, for a treat to be enjoyed on the way home from services. In those days it was practically the only time we ate in the car.
This year, we awoke to a lovely gift from Mother Nature on Easter Sunday—about an inch and a half of snow, where none had been the night before. It was actually the only kind of snow I like, because as I looked out my front door, I saw white on the grass and on the vehicles, but not on the road.
My beloved, when he got up, looked out the window and then asked, “What month is it again?” Of course, this is Canada and we can both recall snowfalls as late as early May. I don’t want to think about that particularly, because I have green shoots breaking ground in my flower beds.
Soon I’ll have tulips and daffodils and narcissi, sweet spring blooms to fill the air with their fragrance. I’m on tenterhooks waiting to see if my lilies-of-the-valley, my lilacs, and my peonies survived. I’ve been hoping for some sign of life in my one and only rose bush, planted last year.
I know it’s a bit early for that in this area, yet.
March came and went nearly without consequence, not making much of an impression at all. The first week of April has been an unpredictable mix of cold and mild, and if it wasn’t for the fact that Easter is behind us, it would be tough to say, for certain, that spring had indeed arrived.
Not unpredictable is the reality that time marches on, regardless of our fussing about or the weather, in a cycle that in many ways resembles a rodent’s wheel.
And spinning ever faster with each progressive year.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
Wednesday, April 8, 2015
Wednesday, April 1, 2015
April 1, 2015
Do you recall the days when jokes were not only allowed, but encouraged? In this politically correct age, those sour pusses who seem to be in charge of all things societal ensure that laughter is a rare occurrence, indeed. And yet laughter is one underrated commodity that is so very important to human well-being. And here’s the other.
There’s the one about the two vehicles that get into a fender bender. Both drivers get out of their cars. One is a young man of average height, the second, a somewhat older man who, though fairly muscular, is height-wise, quite diminutive.
The shorter of the two drivers looks at the other one and says, “I am not happy!” Where upon the other driver cocks his head to the side and says, “No? Well, then, which one are you?”
You’ve often read right here in these essays that my firm belief is that the purpose of life is not to show us a good time. And I really do believe that. But I also believe that laughter, and happiness, are as important to us, and our journey, as is the growth we achieve through tough times.
But how do we balance things out? And how do we know if we’re happy?
Happiness is a concept that is misunderstood, in my opinion, very underrated. Some say the opposite, but to them I would point out that in one of the most important documents put forth by mankind, ever—The United States Declaration of Independence—the pursuit of happiness is one of the three “inalienable” rights given us by our Creator.
We have organizations that make as their cause célébré the right to life. We also have organizations dedicated to liberty—civil, and otherwise.
Do we have an organization, anywhere, dedicated to the pursuit of happiness?
Ah, but Morgan, you may say, how does one define happiness? It’s such a subjective concept! I agree, which was why the framers of the Declaration of Independence didn’t say, “life, liberty and happiness”, but rather “the pursuit of happiness”.
So what, then, if it is a subjective concept? That just means that in life, as in the clothing boutique, one size does not fit all.
Are you happy?
I Googled the word happiness, and the on-line dictionary offered these two definitions: 1). The state of being happy, and 2). Good fortune; pleasure; contentment; joy.
So, let’s think about this for a minute. And since I cannot speak to your state of being, I’ll speak to my own—and I’ll answer my own question. Am I happy?
Let’s see. I’m 60, and I am in reasonable shape for the shape I’m in. I’ve had one heart attack, thirteen years ago, and a triple-bypass of the same vintage. I have diabetes, and I have arthritis so severe in both ankles and knees that I walk with a cane, and am in considerable pain, every single day. As I await my gall bladder surgery, I’m reluctant to wander too far away from my home. In my home, I don’t have near enough energy, or stamina, to do all the things each day I want to do. I’ve lost my parents, a sister, a granddaughter and a son.
And yet, I am so aware of the many ways in which I have been blessed. I have a home, food on the table, a husband to whom I’ve been married more than 42 years. I have a son and a daughter-in-law, and a daughter, six grandchildren and two great-grandchildren. I get to live my passion, which is writing, and I know that people—many people, read my words. Every day is a new adventure, and I awaken each morning filled with gratitude for another chance to do something to help make someone else happy. I find pleasure and contentment in my daily routine, and in the various communications I have with people, some of whom I’ve never even met face to face. And when I hear that someone was down, but then turned to one of my books and felt better for the experience, my heart fills with joy, and yes, again, gratitude.
By the above definition, then, I’m happy. And do you know what? I really am.
What about you?
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
Do you recall the days when jokes were not only allowed, but encouraged? In this politically correct age, those sour pusses who seem to be in charge of all things societal ensure that laughter is a rare occurrence, indeed. And yet laughter is one underrated commodity that is so very important to human well-being. And here’s the other.
There’s the one about the two vehicles that get into a fender bender. Both drivers get out of their cars. One is a young man of average height, the second, a somewhat older man who, though fairly muscular, is height-wise, quite diminutive.
The shorter of the two drivers looks at the other one and says, “I am not happy!” Where upon the other driver cocks his head to the side and says, “No? Well, then, which one are you?”
You’ve often read right here in these essays that my firm belief is that the purpose of life is not to show us a good time. And I really do believe that. But I also believe that laughter, and happiness, are as important to us, and our journey, as is the growth we achieve through tough times.
But how do we balance things out? And how do we know if we’re happy?
Happiness is a concept that is misunderstood, in my opinion, very underrated. Some say the opposite, but to them I would point out that in one of the most important documents put forth by mankind, ever—The United States Declaration of Independence—the pursuit of happiness is one of the three “inalienable” rights given us by our Creator.
We have organizations that make as their cause célébré the right to life. We also have organizations dedicated to liberty—civil, and otherwise.
Do we have an organization, anywhere, dedicated to the pursuit of happiness?
Ah, but Morgan, you may say, how does one define happiness? It’s such a subjective concept! I agree, which was why the framers of the Declaration of Independence didn’t say, “life, liberty and happiness”, but rather “the pursuit of happiness”.
So what, then, if it is a subjective concept? That just means that in life, as in the clothing boutique, one size does not fit all.
Are you happy?
I Googled the word happiness, and the on-line dictionary offered these two definitions: 1). The state of being happy, and 2). Good fortune; pleasure; contentment; joy.
So, let’s think about this for a minute. And since I cannot speak to your state of being, I’ll speak to my own—and I’ll answer my own question. Am I happy?
Let’s see. I’m 60, and I am in reasonable shape for the shape I’m in. I’ve had one heart attack, thirteen years ago, and a triple-bypass of the same vintage. I have diabetes, and I have arthritis so severe in both ankles and knees that I walk with a cane, and am in considerable pain, every single day. As I await my gall bladder surgery, I’m reluctant to wander too far away from my home. In my home, I don’t have near enough energy, or stamina, to do all the things each day I want to do. I’ve lost my parents, a sister, a granddaughter and a son.
And yet, I am so aware of the many ways in which I have been blessed. I have a home, food on the table, a husband to whom I’ve been married more than 42 years. I have a son and a daughter-in-law, and a daughter, six grandchildren and two great-grandchildren. I get to live my passion, which is writing, and I know that people—many people, read my words. Every day is a new adventure, and I awaken each morning filled with gratitude for another chance to do something to help make someone else happy. I find pleasure and contentment in my daily routine, and in the various communications I have with people, some of whom I’ve never even met face to face. And when I hear that someone was down, but then turned to one of my books and felt better for the experience, my heart fills with joy, and yes, again, gratitude.
By the above definition, then, I’m happy. And do you know what? I really am.
What about you?
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
Wednesday, March 25, 2015
March 25, 2015
It really is beginning to feel like spring around here—sort of. Most of the snow has melted, with tiny mounds remaining only where no direct sunlight hits, or where those enormous parking lot piles lurk—the ones the snowplows made. The latter may not be gone until June.
I know it’s spring time, of course, because I’ve begun seeing ants here and there scurrying about in my kitchen. Not too many of them, yet, but they’ve begun. I think it’s still too cold out for them. And me, too. It is definitely still too cold out for my liking. Spring may have arrived but it is taking it’s sweet time to manifest in warmer days. Although I got teased one day last week. The temperature neared 50. On that day, the air smelled really fresh and clean. The scent reminded me of my childhood, when “fresh air” was not such a rare commodity as it is today.
Spring is my favorite season for many reasons. The lilacs and lilies of the valley bloom in spring, infusing the air with the most amazing perfume. The trees shimmer with an aura of green as they bud, and you know it’s only a matter of time before the leaves appear. Spring is nature reawakening after the dormancy of winter. It is fresh and clean and everything is new again.
In spring, hope becomes renewed as we embrace the concept that everything and anything is possible.
It doesn’t take us long, most years, to forget about the hard, cold winter just passed. It’s best, of course, for the most part, to do just that. We know it will come again, that dark, cold and inhospitable reality called winter. But we happily put thoughts of it away until there is no choice but to face it and endure it once more.
This one just passed was a bad one, of course. Even worse than the one before it and we would not have believed that was possible. A lot of people had horrid winter driving conditions for the first time in a long time, and for some, the first time, ever. I was heartsick watching the news, and seeing how many of our neighbors to the south were hurt or killed in car accidents—many of which could have been avoided if drivers had simply slowed down.
I guess I’ll take it back. Put away thoughts of the awful winter just past, but please, remember if—or more likely when—it happens again, drive slower, and with great caution. It is absolutely impossible to maintain control of a vehicle if you’re driving too fast for the road conditions. I don’t care if you have snow tires or even chains on your car. Speed equals catastrophe in blizzard-like conditions. Consider that a natural law.
My family all made it through all right—and this year it feels like a real accomplishment. As I write this I hear birdsong, another sure sign of spring. Don’t ask me what birds they are. I know we have starlings and robins and blue jays in the area. I’ve seen cardinals and wrens and red-winged black birds and even the odd hummingbird here and there. But I would have to listen to a bunch of YouTube videos of each one of them singing to be able to tell you which ones are out there now. I’ve never been overly curious about identifying my avian choir. I’m quite happy to call them “spring birds” and leave it at that.
It’s still not full-on spring. We’ll still likely get a storm or two before we can put our mitts and boots away. But at least we are completely done with winter storms until after October. Anything that happens in the next few weeks will be a spring storm. I’m not all together certain if that should make us feel better, or not.
Buck up. One day at a time, and we’ll get to summer. Just try not to complain about the heat when you get there.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
It really is beginning to feel like spring around here—sort of. Most of the snow has melted, with tiny mounds remaining only where no direct sunlight hits, or where those enormous parking lot piles lurk—the ones the snowplows made. The latter may not be gone until June.
I know it’s spring time, of course, because I’ve begun seeing ants here and there scurrying about in my kitchen. Not too many of them, yet, but they’ve begun. I think it’s still too cold out for them. And me, too. It is definitely still too cold out for my liking. Spring may have arrived but it is taking it’s sweet time to manifest in warmer days. Although I got teased one day last week. The temperature neared 50. On that day, the air smelled really fresh and clean. The scent reminded me of my childhood, when “fresh air” was not such a rare commodity as it is today.
Spring is my favorite season for many reasons. The lilacs and lilies of the valley bloom in spring, infusing the air with the most amazing perfume. The trees shimmer with an aura of green as they bud, and you know it’s only a matter of time before the leaves appear. Spring is nature reawakening after the dormancy of winter. It is fresh and clean and everything is new again.
In spring, hope becomes renewed as we embrace the concept that everything and anything is possible.
It doesn’t take us long, most years, to forget about the hard, cold winter just passed. It’s best, of course, for the most part, to do just that. We know it will come again, that dark, cold and inhospitable reality called winter. But we happily put thoughts of it away until there is no choice but to face it and endure it once more.
This one just passed was a bad one, of course. Even worse than the one before it and we would not have believed that was possible. A lot of people had horrid winter driving conditions for the first time in a long time, and for some, the first time, ever. I was heartsick watching the news, and seeing how many of our neighbors to the south were hurt or killed in car accidents—many of which could have been avoided if drivers had simply slowed down.
I guess I’ll take it back. Put away thoughts of the awful winter just past, but please, remember if—or more likely when—it happens again, drive slower, and with great caution. It is absolutely impossible to maintain control of a vehicle if you’re driving too fast for the road conditions. I don’t care if you have snow tires or even chains on your car. Speed equals catastrophe in blizzard-like conditions. Consider that a natural law.
My family all made it through all right—and this year it feels like a real accomplishment. As I write this I hear birdsong, another sure sign of spring. Don’t ask me what birds they are. I know we have starlings and robins and blue jays in the area. I’ve seen cardinals and wrens and red-winged black birds and even the odd hummingbird here and there. But I would have to listen to a bunch of YouTube videos of each one of them singing to be able to tell you which ones are out there now. I’ve never been overly curious about identifying my avian choir. I’m quite happy to call them “spring birds” and leave it at that.
It’s still not full-on spring. We’ll still likely get a storm or two before we can put our mitts and boots away. But at least we are completely done with winter storms until after October. Anything that happens in the next few weeks will be a spring storm. I’m not all together certain if that should make us feel better, or not.
Buck up. One day at a time, and we’ll get to summer. Just try not to complain about the heat when you get there.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
Wednesday, March 18, 2015
March 18, 2015
I got my very first computer – one that belonged to me right out of the store – back in 2004. That was a couple of years before I wrote what would be my first published novel. This computer was an IBM and had been on sale at a furniture store (a big chain furniture store). Since they didn’t have any more in stock, we got a discount because we were willing to take the floor model.
The staff at the store had installed Microsoft Office 2003 and, they’d downloaded a number of songs into the library of the installed media player. These, they graciously left on the computer. Not only that, they told me how I could download some more songs to add to the library. I did that for a while, but we were on dial up at the time, and it took too long. I think at most the total number of musical selections we had on that computer was about 100. I thought that was a ridiculous number, really. 100 songs? Who has time to sit and listen to 100 songs?
Eventually, as these things happen, that computer died. The next one I got was an HP (all my computers have been PCs, because that was what I’d used at work and what I knew). The only music I put on that computer I uploaded from CDs that I’d purchased at the mall. The media player didn’t tell me how many songs total I had, but there were a few albums that I owned, and had loaded onto my system.
I don’t listen to music every day, and I’m not one of those authors who writes while performers are singing in their headphones. Generally speaking, when I listen to music it’s for relaxation, or for a boost in mood. I discovered long ago that it is impossible to stay “down” when you’re belting out your favorite song of the moment, at full blast.
Flash forward (pardon the pun) to when I got my current cell phone. It’s an iPhone, which has many possible cool apps. Music is one, of course, so I went ahead and got an account at the iTunes store, and put a few songs on my phone. Imagine my joy when I discovered that I could also access those songs from my computer.
Ah, the iTunes store. Has there ever been a more convenient way to purchase music? I prefer to pick up my “iTunes” cards at the grocery store, as I need them, rather than using a credit card to purchase music online.
I’d hear a song, and like it and buy it. Or, I’d listen to a few from one artist’s album, and then buy the album. Easy, peasy. Didn’t think about it much. Also added into my iTunes library a couple of CDs I had purchased at Amazon, but only a couple. I’d started out with mostly country music in my iTunes library. The first album I bought from the iTunes store was Luke Bryan’s Tailgates & Tanlines. Then, I’d hear something and think, oh, yeah, I should get that. Then I began to diversify just a bit. Barbra Streisand came out with a new album, and I had to have that. We watched the movie Jersey Boys, and I was reminded how much I had loved Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons as a teen, and so I had to have all of those. I became fascinated by the BBC’s special recording of Brian Wilson’s “God Only Knows”, and so I had to get the original...and several other Beach Boys hits, too, because I’d really loved them as well.
One here, one there, just whenever the mood struck me. I learned how to create play lists, and that’s mostly what I use because it’s easier. I have a number of playlists of songs that I put together. Plus, if I’m in the mood I can go to the “album” section and play a whole album – either one of the several I now have by Luke Bryan...or Blake Shelton or Miranda Lambert or Tim McGraw or Brad Paisley...
Well, do you know that buying one song here and one album there can really add up? I wasn’t paying attention, but I had occasion to look at how many songs I have in my iTunes library because my daughter was boasting to me that she had 200 songs on her iPad.
Over the last couple of years, I have acquired, according to the bar at the bottom of my playlist, 516 songs. That is how many I have...um, as of this morning. By the end of today, who knows? To play them all would take roughly 29 hours—a fact I only know because that same information bar tells me so.
Now, if I could only figure out how to access my iTunes library from my lap top, which I use when I travel, I would truly be in music heaven.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
I got my very first computer – one that belonged to me right out of the store – back in 2004. That was a couple of years before I wrote what would be my first published novel. This computer was an IBM and had been on sale at a furniture store (a big chain furniture store). Since they didn’t have any more in stock, we got a discount because we were willing to take the floor model.
The staff at the store had installed Microsoft Office 2003 and, they’d downloaded a number of songs into the library of the installed media player. These, they graciously left on the computer. Not only that, they told me how I could download some more songs to add to the library. I did that for a while, but we were on dial up at the time, and it took too long. I think at most the total number of musical selections we had on that computer was about 100. I thought that was a ridiculous number, really. 100 songs? Who has time to sit and listen to 100 songs?
Eventually, as these things happen, that computer died. The next one I got was an HP (all my computers have been PCs, because that was what I’d used at work and what I knew). The only music I put on that computer I uploaded from CDs that I’d purchased at the mall. The media player didn’t tell me how many songs total I had, but there were a few albums that I owned, and had loaded onto my system.
I don’t listen to music every day, and I’m not one of those authors who writes while performers are singing in their headphones. Generally speaking, when I listen to music it’s for relaxation, or for a boost in mood. I discovered long ago that it is impossible to stay “down” when you’re belting out your favorite song of the moment, at full blast.
Flash forward (pardon the pun) to when I got my current cell phone. It’s an iPhone, which has many possible cool apps. Music is one, of course, so I went ahead and got an account at the iTunes store, and put a few songs on my phone. Imagine my joy when I discovered that I could also access those songs from my computer.
Ah, the iTunes store. Has there ever been a more convenient way to purchase music? I prefer to pick up my “iTunes” cards at the grocery store, as I need them, rather than using a credit card to purchase music online.
I’d hear a song, and like it and buy it. Or, I’d listen to a few from one artist’s album, and then buy the album. Easy, peasy. Didn’t think about it much. Also added into my iTunes library a couple of CDs I had purchased at Amazon, but only a couple. I’d started out with mostly country music in my iTunes library. The first album I bought from the iTunes store was Luke Bryan’s Tailgates & Tanlines. Then, I’d hear something and think, oh, yeah, I should get that. Then I began to diversify just a bit. Barbra Streisand came out with a new album, and I had to have that. We watched the movie Jersey Boys, and I was reminded how much I had loved Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons as a teen, and so I had to have all of those. I became fascinated by the BBC’s special recording of Brian Wilson’s “God Only Knows”, and so I had to get the original...and several other Beach Boys hits, too, because I’d really loved them as well.
One here, one there, just whenever the mood struck me. I learned how to create play lists, and that’s mostly what I use because it’s easier. I have a number of playlists of songs that I put together. Plus, if I’m in the mood I can go to the “album” section and play a whole album – either one of the several I now have by Luke Bryan...or Blake Shelton or Miranda Lambert or Tim McGraw or Brad Paisley...
Well, do you know that buying one song here and one album there can really add up? I wasn’t paying attention, but I had occasion to look at how many songs I have in my iTunes library because my daughter was boasting to me that she had 200 songs on her iPad.
Over the last couple of years, I have acquired, according to the bar at the bottom of my playlist, 516 songs. That is how many I have...um, as of this morning. By the end of today, who knows? To play them all would take roughly 29 hours—a fact I only know because that same information bar tells me so.
Now, if I could only figure out how to access my iTunes library from my lap top, which I use when I travel, I would truly be in music heaven.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
Wednesday, March 11, 2015
March 11, 2015
It shouldn’t matter to me anymore. I mean, it’s not as if I have to go to a job every day, working 40 hours a week, punching in and punching out. It’s not as if free time is at a premium, like it was fifteen years ago when I was working that 40 hour work week.
Filling my mind with all the logical reasons why it shouldn’t matter now, however, doesn’t change a thing. I still resent that “spring forward” advancing of the clocks we all endured early Sunday morning. We went from 1:59am to 3:00am in sixty seconds, flat. Poor 2:00 am and the fifty-nine minutes following it never got a chance to exist.
And I want my hour of sleep back.
I’m always a little messed up—more than usual, that is—when we move the clocks forward. I do recall when I was working outside the home, how those first several days felt strange because all of a sudden, the sun that had been beginning to rise as I drove my beloved and I to work in the morning was gone. Of course, it was nice not to be coming home in the dark. Still, taking that bit of sunlight from the beginning of our day and tacking it on the end never did seem right to me.
Conversely, it was jarring how, when we finally got that hour back, it meant the beginning of that long stretch of both going to work and coming home in the dark. David didn’t mind that so much, as he has always worked outside. But at one point in my working life, I toiled away in an office with no windows. It was always a horrible few months, feeling like we dwelled in the land of the midnight sun.
But I’m not that working person anymore. Here I am now, living the dream, able to go for a nap whenever I need to, and often if I just want to, and yet the disruption to my “normal” daily cycle is still quite noticeable.
My personal belief is that this happens—and to more people than just to me—because we’re still tied to the rhythms of the planet. In the totality of human existence, we’ve had artificial means of telling time for a very short period, really. We devised sundials, as a means of helping us regulate our time fairly soon out of the gate. But even sundials can be considered natural as they depend upon the sun. Of course, they did have one major problem: a sundial wasn’t much use on an overcast day.
We are still a part of nature, whether we like to admit it or not. And as a part of nature, our bodies respond to the natural environment, and especially the light—to regulate our circadian rhythm—our 24 hour cycle. Those who study such things report that it generally takes a day per hour of time change for a person to fully adjust—and this is something that applies not only to the change to daylight savings time but to changing time via travel. Yes, the difficulty I’ve had adjusting to the spring change is in fact a form of jet lag.
The worst part of the process for me happens when we don’t get all the clocks in the house moved ahead. Of course, the computer and the box from the cable company, and our cell phones all change without our assistance. Big Brother does that for us.
But we actually have battery operated clocks in our house—two of them—as well as a clocks on the stove and the microwave. This year, the clock in my office was somehow missed. So there I was on Sunday night, thinking I was doing well, getting ready to wrap up my day, and it was not even eleven at night yet! And then I realized the clock on the wall—which I tend to look at more than the “clock” on the bottom right of my computer screen—was wrong.
I was up past my bedtime, and maybe I was more tired than I realized because then and there I came up with a new adage all by myself.
A broken clock may be right at least twice a day, but a clock not moved forward is forever chasing the moment.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
It shouldn’t matter to me anymore. I mean, it’s not as if I have to go to a job every day, working 40 hours a week, punching in and punching out. It’s not as if free time is at a premium, like it was fifteen years ago when I was working that 40 hour work week.
Filling my mind with all the logical reasons why it shouldn’t matter now, however, doesn’t change a thing. I still resent that “spring forward” advancing of the clocks we all endured early Sunday morning. We went from 1:59am to 3:00am in sixty seconds, flat. Poor 2:00 am and the fifty-nine minutes following it never got a chance to exist.
And I want my hour of sleep back.
I’m always a little messed up—more than usual, that is—when we move the clocks forward. I do recall when I was working outside the home, how those first several days felt strange because all of a sudden, the sun that had been beginning to rise as I drove my beloved and I to work in the morning was gone. Of course, it was nice not to be coming home in the dark. Still, taking that bit of sunlight from the beginning of our day and tacking it on the end never did seem right to me.
Conversely, it was jarring how, when we finally got that hour back, it meant the beginning of that long stretch of both going to work and coming home in the dark. David didn’t mind that so much, as he has always worked outside. But at one point in my working life, I toiled away in an office with no windows. It was always a horrible few months, feeling like we dwelled in the land of the midnight sun.
But I’m not that working person anymore. Here I am now, living the dream, able to go for a nap whenever I need to, and often if I just want to, and yet the disruption to my “normal” daily cycle is still quite noticeable.
My personal belief is that this happens—and to more people than just to me—because we’re still tied to the rhythms of the planet. In the totality of human existence, we’ve had artificial means of telling time for a very short period, really. We devised sundials, as a means of helping us regulate our time fairly soon out of the gate. But even sundials can be considered natural as they depend upon the sun. Of course, they did have one major problem: a sundial wasn’t much use on an overcast day.
We are still a part of nature, whether we like to admit it or not. And as a part of nature, our bodies respond to the natural environment, and especially the light—to regulate our circadian rhythm—our 24 hour cycle. Those who study such things report that it generally takes a day per hour of time change for a person to fully adjust—and this is something that applies not only to the change to daylight savings time but to changing time via travel. Yes, the difficulty I’ve had adjusting to the spring change is in fact a form of jet lag.
The worst part of the process for me happens when we don’t get all the clocks in the house moved ahead. Of course, the computer and the box from the cable company, and our cell phones all change without our assistance. Big Brother does that for us.
But we actually have battery operated clocks in our house—two of them—as well as a clocks on the stove and the microwave. This year, the clock in my office was somehow missed. So there I was on Sunday night, thinking I was doing well, getting ready to wrap up my day, and it was not even eleven at night yet! And then I realized the clock on the wall—which I tend to look at more than the “clock” on the bottom right of my computer screen—was wrong.
I was up past my bedtime, and maybe I was more tired than I realized because then and there I came up with a new adage all by myself.
A broken clock may be right at least twice a day, but a clock not moved forward is forever chasing the moment.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
Wednesday, March 4, 2015
March 4, 2015
For the couple of weeks, Mr. Ashbury has had a cold. I’m sure by now, most of you have seen that British-made video on YouTube, called “the man cold”. I’ve likely even referenced it before in one of these essays, myself. I know I’ve shared it with several women friends, and to a one, they’ve all said the same thing: “oh, my goodness, that is so my husband”, or words to that affect.
The reason the video is so funny to women, is because men, for the most part, become helpless when they’re sick—even if that sickness is nothing more than a cold.
I’m not one of those people who thinks it’s anti-woman or anti-man to talk about the differences between the genders. There are differences between men and women, physiological differences, and anyone who doesn’t understand that is doing themselves, and all those around them, a very big disservice.
While there are some men who are exceptionally thoughtful, who will cater to their women with a degree of insight that can be considered uncanny, these men are not the norm. If they were, romance books, such as the ones I write, would have no market. Men and women were created for different functions, to ensure the best possible chance for the survival of the species. That is the truth and no amount of modern day revisionism is going to change that.
In fact, I wish we, as a society, would embrace the simple truth: men and women are equal, but different. We need to stop comparing men and women to justify our individual need to feel superior, one gender over the other. We’re equal but different. So let’s get on with it.
There are jobs and responsibilities that are better suited to men, because they call for the exercise of those qualities that are more innate in men. There are jobs and responsibilities that are better suited to women, because they call for the exercise of those qualities that are more innate in women. Does that mean only men can do some jobs and undertake certain responsibilities and vice-versa? Of course not. If you’re a woman and want to undertake what might be better suited for a man, or a man and want to undertake what might be better suited for a woman, you should be able to. Because if you want it badly enough, you won’t care that it doesn’t come as easy, or as naturally to you; you’ll work for it and make it happen.
But the differences are there, regardless. And the differences, when you think about them, really are quite splendid. It’s those differences combined that make the world go around.
I can recall an occasion, probably more than a decade ago, when I was driving and in the back seat, were my daughter, who’d just broken up with her fiancé, and my second daughter, who’d broken up with my son, Anthony. They were airing their grievances as young women do under such shared circumstance. They were each listing, one by one, the qualities they wanted their next love interest to have; specifically, they each wanted to find that lifelong mate they were certain was out there, waiting for them.
Of course, I wasn’t eavesdropping, as they were chatting quite openly. They wanted their mates to be sensitive to their moods, to listen when they wanted to complain about what was bothering them without making suggestions as to how the situation could be fixed. They wanted to find someone who would think of them often, who would be eager to share the minutia of their days, who wouldn’t be afraid to sit and talk about their feelings, and who would really be interested in the little things that they were interested in. The list went on and on, and as I listened, I began to smile and then, I’m sorry, I couldn’t help it, I laughed. They wanted to know what was so funny. Did I not think it possible for them to find mates with those qualities? Did they not deserve such spectacular specimens for themselves?
I assured them that they did indeed deserve, and could indeed find such wondrous people to marry, as long as they understood they would, in all likelihood, be marrying women. They thought about it for a bit, and then, somewhat dumbfounded, realized I was right.
Then I gave them the best advice I could think of. I told them that it’s easy for us women to want men to think and love and care for us in the same way we do them. It’s easy, but not realistic. What we really should want, and pray for, is for our men to think and love and care for us as real men should.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
For the couple of weeks, Mr. Ashbury has had a cold. I’m sure by now, most of you have seen that British-made video on YouTube, called “the man cold”. I’ve likely even referenced it before in one of these essays, myself. I know I’ve shared it with several women friends, and to a one, they’ve all said the same thing: “oh, my goodness, that is so my husband”, or words to that affect.
The reason the video is so funny to women, is because men, for the most part, become helpless when they’re sick—even if that sickness is nothing more than a cold.
I’m not one of those people who thinks it’s anti-woman or anti-man to talk about the differences between the genders. There are differences between men and women, physiological differences, and anyone who doesn’t understand that is doing themselves, and all those around them, a very big disservice.
While there are some men who are exceptionally thoughtful, who will cater to their women with a degree of insight that can be considered uncanny, these men are not the norm. If they were, romance books, such as the ones I write, would have no market. Men and women were created for different functions, to ensure the best possible chance for the survival of the species. That is the truth and no amount of modern day revisionism is going to change that.
In fact, I wish we, as a society, would embrace the simple truth: men and women are equal, but different. We need to stop comparing men and women to justify our individual need to feel superior, one gender over the other. We’re equal but different. So let’s get on with it.
There are jobs and responsibilities that are better suited to men, because they call for the exercise of those qualities that are more innate in men. There are jobs and responsibilities that are better suited to women, because they call for the exercise of those qualities that are more innate in women. Does that mean only men can do some jobs and undertake certain responsibilities and vice-versa? Of course not. If you’re a woman and want to undertake what might be better suited for a man, or a man and want to undertake what might be better suited for a woman, you should be able to. Because if you want it badly enough, you won’t care that it doesn’t come as easy, or as naturally to you; you’ll work for it and make it happen.
But the differences are there, regardless. And the differences, when you think about them, really are quite splendid. It’s those differences combined that make the world go around.
I can recall an occasion, probably more than a decade ago, when I was driving and in the back seat, were my daughter, who’d just broken up with her fiancé, and my second daughter, who’d broken up with my son, Anthony. They were airing their grievances as young women do under such shared circumstance. They were each listing, one by one, the qualities they wanted their next love interest to have; specifically, they each wanted to find that lifelong mate they were certain was out there, waiting for them.
Of course, I wasn’t eavesdropping, as they were chatting quite openly. They wanted their mates to be sensitive to their moods, to listen when they wanted to complain about what was bothering them without making suggestions as to how the situation could be fixed. They wanted to find someone who would think of them often, who would be eager to share the minutia of their days, who wouldn’t be afraid to sit and talk about their feelings, and who would really be interested in the little things that they were interested in. The list went on and on, and as I listened, I began to smile and then, I’m sorry, I couldn’t help it, I laughed. They wanted to know what was so funny. Did I not think it possible for them to find mates with those qualities? Did they not deserve such spectacular specimens for themselves?
I assured them that they did indeed deserve, and could indeed find such wondrous people to marry, as long as they understood they would, in all likelihood, be marrying women. They thought about it for a bit, and then, somewhat dumbfounded, realized I was right.
Then I gave them the best advice I could think of. I told them that it’s easy for us women to want men to think and love and care for us in the same way we do them. It’s easy, but not realistic. What we really should want, and pray for, is for our men to think and love and care for us as real men should.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
Wednesday, February 25, 2015
February 25, 2015
Yesterday a friend told me that my e-mail had been hacked. I think this is the second or third time this has happened to me. Of course, I immediately changed my password. But I got to thinking, and I guess I’m naive. I don’t understand why anyone would hack emails just to send out spam—especially spam that would take you to a website where you are invited to buy something.
My confusion comes from the one question that arises in my mind as I contemplate this scenario: who the hell is stupid enough to click on a link in an email, or to buy something from a website that we’re directed to in this way?
I mean, seriously?
It’s like those emails that I used to get a couple of years back from some phoney lawyer or bank executive in some third world country, telling me that I am the beneficiary of someone I’ve never heard of, and that said recently departed heretofore unknown relation left me millions of dollars.
I used to be deeply offended by these missives, because I couldn’t understand how anyone could possibly mistake me for someone stupid enough to fall for that kind of crap. But I’ve gotten over that. I’ve come to accept, though it’s hard for me to imagine, that there really are people stupid enough to fall for this scam, and many other of the scams out there.
I’m pretty sure that spammers wouldn’t continue doing what they do if there was no profit in it at all.
I do know that identity theft is a growing problem. I understand that. The other kind of email I get from time to time looks like it comes from my bank. This email typically will tell me my online access to my account has been restricted and I need to click on a link in order to have it restored.
My response, of course, is not only to ignore their instructions, but to forward the email in its entirety to my bank. They have a special email account that begins with the word “phishing.” I know that every time I do that I’m doing the only thing I can to help fight these con artists.
I also get emails from other banks telling me that my accounts are in jeopardy – but since they are institutions with which I have no connection, I just delete those.
I’ve heard lately of a really nasty kind of scam making the rounds—that people are contacted by phone or email and threatened with law suits or jail time if they don’t pay up dollars they don’t even owe. A lot of folks are so frightened by these calls and letters they do what they are told to do, to avoid this imaginary legal action.
I really feel sorry for the people who are victimized by these criminals. I feel sorry for them because this isn’t really a matter of their being stupid. No, this is a side effect, a fringe benefit if you will, from living in a society that in the last decade or so appears to be overrun with people in positions of authority who use fear as their medium of choice.
You know who they are. They are the politicians and bureaucrats who stir up their followers by playing on their worst fears—who do their best to convince us that their opponents are evil incarnate, that their political opponents are selling us out, are our enemies...when they really are only people with a different opinion, a different point of view, or a philosophy or religion that is not the exact same as our own.
I can hear some of you now sputtering. “Morgan, surely to goodness you don’t mean to imply that our community leaders and elected officials are in league with these con artists?”
In league, no. But sometimes we tend to forget there are such things as natural laws, and the existence of those kinds of cons are an expression of one such natural law.
Cause and effect, baby. Cause and effect.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
Yesterday a friend told me that my e-mail had been hacked. I think this is the second or third time this has happened to me. Of course, I immediately changed my password. But I got to thinking, and I guess I’m naive. I don’t understand why anyone would hack emails just to send out spam—especially spam that would take you to a website where you are invited to buy something.
My confusion comes from the one question that arises in my mind as I contemplate this scenario: who the hell is stupid enough to click on a link in an email, or to buy something from a website that we’re directed to in this way?
I mean, seriously?
It’s like those emails that I used to get a couple of years back from some phoney lawyer or bank executive in some third world country, telling me that I am the beneficiary of someone I’ve never heard of, and that said recently departed heretofore unknown relation left me millions of dollars.
I used to be deeply offended by these missives, because I couldn’t understand how anyone could possibly mistake me for someone stupid enough to fall for that kind of crap. But I’ve gotten over that. I’ve come to accept, though it’s hard for me to imagine, that there really are people stupid enough to fall for this scam, and many other of the scams out there.
I’m pretty sure that spammers wouldn’t continue doing what they do if there was no profit in it at all.
I do know that identity theft is a growing problem. I understand that. The other kind of email I get from time to time looks like it comes from my bank. This email typically will tell me my online access to my account has been restricted and I need to click on a link in order to have it restored.
My response, of course, is not only to ignore their instructions, but to forward the email in its entirety to my bank. They have a special email account that begins with the word “phishing.” I know that every time I do that I’m doing the only thing I can to help fight these con artists.
I also get emails from other banks telling me that my accounts are in jeopardy – but since they are institutions with which I have no connection, I just delete those.
I’ve heard lately of a really nasty kind of scam making the rounds—that people are contacted by phone or email and threatened with law suits or jail time if they don’t pay up dollars they don’t even owe. A lot of folks are so frightened by these calls and letters they do what they are told to do, to avoid this imaginary legal action.
I really feel sorry for the people who are victimized by these criminals. I feel sorry for them because this isn’t really a matter of their being stupid. No, this is a side effect, a fringe benefit if you will, from living in a society that in the last decade or so appears to be overrun with people in positions of authority who use fear as their medium of choice.
You know who they are. They are the politicians and bureaucrats who stir up their followers by playing on their worst fears—who do their best to convince us that their opponents are evil incarnate, that their political opponents are selling us out, are our enemies...when they really are only people with a different opinion, a different point of view, or a philosophy or religion that is not the exact same as our own.
I can hear some of you now sputtering. “Morgan, surely to goodness you don’t mean to imply that our community leaders and elected officials are in league with these con artists?”
In league, no. But sometimes we tend to forget there are such things as natural laws, and the existence of those kinds of cons are an expression of one such natural law.
Cause and effect, baby. Cause and effect.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
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