I don't want to brag, but Tom and I have our own private park on Lake Ontario.
Really, we do. Acres and acres of green lawn and huge trees stretching across the shore right beside a tiny ghost-town-like place. All of it belongs to us.
A hundred years ago Victorian families used to stay at a huge brick hotel right on the shore... and when settled, they would walk to the carousel further down the park or to either of the carnival grounds, both just steps away. And of course, they would sit beside the ocean-like lake for hours in their proper bathing costumes for the times.
In the 1930's, Glenn Miller and Tommy Dorsey--all those guys--used to bring their bands into this tiny country town. The farmers and their families, as well as the city-folk would stream-in to hear them play.
But now the town sits nearly-silent. Especially on the warm Tuesday or Wednesday mornings when Tom and I visit our park.
The Victorian hotel is gone. It was razed over 70 years ago and one of the fairgrounds has vanished, too. A shell of the other one still sits there, unused. But the carousel was restored just last year and even another carousel spins beside it, though only during summer and early autumn.
And the park is still there. Mostly the same as it always was--quiet and heavy with memories. Of course, The Lake still reigns and we love to watch the white sails of the boats and the seagulls out on the slanty concrete piers.
It's an incredible thing to have your own park. Tom and I pack up our 1950's wool blanket, the dark pink one with flowers, and our books. We stop at the same market on the way and buy a picnic lunch and then we drive further to our park and unload our things on nearly always the same patch of green grass overlooking The Lake. And we eat and read and take gulping breaths of lake air. But mostly, we dream.
Of course, we share our park with others willingly. But whenever we go, we usually notice only three or four other people during all our hours there. They sit or stroll with dreamy-eyed thoughts, too. One Sunday afternoon, there was even a Big Band Era concert in the park and that was amazing. It felt as though the music had returned after such a long time--and the trees recognized it and danced.
But most often, Tom and I are the only ones there beneath those hundred-year-old trees which saw and watched the Victorian crowds.
Tom and I have lots and lots of things which we do not own--things like the aging farmhouses and barns and farmland on our way to The Lake... the many Craftsman-house-lined streets in our town... and our 1920's theater built in grand style when money flowed free and easy for many... the streams and rivers... All those things are ours, yet we make no big monthly payments on them... nor do we pay exorbitant costs for their upkeep... and we do not run ourselves into the ground making repairs... I can even smile at the taxes we pay when I realize that, in a way, taxes make these things a little more ours.
But the best thing we have is our own park on the shores of The Lake. It is ours, but we do not own it. It belongs to us, but only in our opened hands.
It seems the best things in life are what we have, but do not own. That's the way that Tom and I are re-learning how to live. It's a good feeling to no longer want to pack up and move into every big, glorious farmhouse on the side of the road, but rather, to just be happy for the people who live there. And to just feel they are sharing their good fortune with those of us who are simply passing through.
***
Tom is at work and I am here alone-but-not-really-alone while one of my 1940's Big Band era records is playing.
And you know? Last night I crisply ironed all my old aprons and put them into a drawer I'd emptied during these weeks of tossing things I no longer love. I have a few empty drawers now, actually--that should be classified as a modern-day miracle, right?
I feel like I'm exactly where I belong.
Years ago I used to be a Big-Time Complainer. You know, one of those people who complained that Life today is not what it used to be and today's people aren't what they once were, either, especially concerning this homemaking thing and the lousy attitudes which the media shouts about. I complained about today's tv shows, music, vocabulary and hair styles.
I complained about others' bad attitudes while having a bad attitude of my own(!)
But somewhere along the way I learned that complaining gets you nothing except headaches and discontent which leave big crevices etched into your forehead.
Instead, we must decide to make our life what we want it to be. That is, while cooperating with God, not working against Him. Not working 'against the grain' of His map for us.
So I began collecting old floral and gingham aprons for me to wear instead of just complaining that no one wears aprons anymore. And I bought old record albums of the kinds of music I like, rather than complain about the kind of music 'out there'. I gathered old books and magazines which give honor to homemaking, friendship and taking time-out to love and examine the simple things. And I found old tv shows on DVD to compliment those ideals, too.
I even searched for and gathered some friends, like flowers, who enjoy the old-fashioned ways, instead of cramming my days with those who do not.
It's taken time, but years later, I'm living a custom-made life.
All worthwhile things take time--if only we wouldn't get so darn impatient, and instead, simply enjoy the building of an idea as much as the idea, itself.
But I had to stop complaining and meditating upon the negative. I had to knock-off the I'm-Helpless-Whining and the pity parties, for those things only whisked me further from the life I truly wanted.
I discovered God helped me carve this good life when I sought His help with a glad heart.
Gotta run. Glenn Miller's music will need to be turned over to the album's other side and I still need to slip on one of those crisp aprons so I'll have something to protect my skirt while I clean and dance around the house today. In joy.
******.
I mentioned in my last post that God sometimes speaks to me through movies.
Actually, I think God can use anything to speak to just about any of us.
The old standbys-- sunsets or sunrises, for instance. Oceans. Midnight skies. Autumn.
But He speaks in smaller ways through smaller things--
The smile of a stranger in the supermarket when we so needed a smile.
The book we'd wanted for 15 years, sitting there, upside-down, on a dusty second-hand bookstore shelf.
The line in a song we heard on another person's radio.
The comfort you knew after tragedy struck.
The walks you take when it looks like you are alone--but you know you are not.
The perfect sentence in a devotional book written hundreds of months ago, but just what you needed to hear today.
The urge to pray when someone far away needed you to pray.
The time you missed being in an accident by seconds.
The blog post with an answer which you stumbled upon on a lonely Sunday afternoon.
The perfectly-timed sermon.
The perfect, no-occasion gift from your spouse.
The way your day fell into place.
The extra key you'd placed inside your purse (or wallet), but had forgotten--and now needed.
The Bible verse which you'd read 4,000 times, and yet it showed you something brand new today.
The thoughts of peace you heard before you fell asleep.
And hundreds more which those who have learned to listen seldom miss.
******
