Angel Wheeler

Wabi Sabi

Yesterday I wrote about an avocado green canister that is banged up, rusted, and just plain ugly, but beautiful despite it’s imperfections. Rather than the reactions I was expecting to receive, several folks said they loved that canister.

I’m wondering if this green canister falls under the term Wabi Sabi. That word in itself is just fabulous to say. Wabi Sabi. Try it. It rolls off the tongue like Obi Wan Kenobi, not that I have any idea who that is. I’m much too young.

Or Ping Pong. Ying Yang.

Cheech and Chong.

Wabi Sabi is a Japanese philosophy of appreciating things that are imperfect, primitive, and incomplete. I understand it as a “less is more” mind-set. A place where non-essentials are weeded out and only essential items are left regardless of their imprefections.

Pared down to its barest essence, wabi-sabi is the Japanese art of finding beauty in imperfection and profundity in nature, of accepting the natural cycle of growth, decay, and death. It’s simple, slow, and uncluttered-and it reveres authenticity above all. Wabi-sabi is flea markets, not warehouse stores; aged wood, not Pergo; rice paper, not glass. It celebrates cracks and crevices and all the other marks that time, weather, and loving use leave behind. It reminds us that we are all but transient beings on this planet-that our bodies as well as the material world around us are in the process of returning to the dust from which we came. Through wabi-sabi, we learn to embrace liver spots, rust, and frayed edges, and the march of time they represent.~~architect Tadao Ando

Robyn Giggs Lawrence has written a book called Simply Imperfect: Revisiting the Wabi Sabi House. I read an article she wrote recently that helped me realize this is what I’m aiming for. This is the direction I’m heading. I want Wabi Sabi!!

The two words wabi and sabi have different meanings and have not always been used together.

Wabi means humble and simple. Someone who is perfectly herself and never craves to be anything else would be described as wabi. A common phrase used in conjunction with wabi is “the joy of the little monk in his wind-torn robe.” A wabi person epitomizes Zen, which is to say, he or she is content with very little; free from greed, indolence, and anger; and understands the wisdom of rocks and grasshoppers.

Can’t you just see that little monk’s weathered, aged, grinning face?

Sabi means rusty and weathered. It’s the understanding that beauty is fleeting. Sabi things carry the burden of their years with dignity and grace.

In home decor, wabi-sabi inspires a minimalism that celebrates the human rather than the machine. Possessions are pared down, and pared down again, until only those that are necessary for their utility or beauty (and ideally both) are left. What makes the cut? Items that you both admire and love to use, like those hand-crank eggbeaters that still work just fine. Things that resonate with the spirit of their makers’ hands and hearts: the chair your grandfather made, your six-year-old’s lumpy pottery, an afghan you knitted yourself (out of handspun sheep’s wool, perhaps). Pieces of your own history: sepia-toned ancestral photos, baby shoes, the Nancy Drew mysteries you read over and over again as a kid.

So yes, I’d say this green tin is very wabi sabi.

And I’m keeping it.

Words to describe a wabi sabi philosophy.

Simple
Uncluttered
Beautiful
Authentic
Slow
Clean
Quiet
Imperfect

I cling to my imperfection, as the very essence of my being.

Anatole France (1844 – 1924)

The Memory of a Sound

I recently purchased this magazine.
I say recently, but it was way back in 2010.

I have no idea why I would purchase a magazine called Do it yourself, since I don’t do anything myself. There must have been something that caught my eye on the cover, but now…..who knows? This is one of those mags that if you have nothing to do all day except create adorableness from egg shells and paper, this is your heaven.

It does have some extremely cute crafts in it.

See, I even dog-eared this page on crafting with felt. Felt makes me happy. Not that there’s even a remote chance I’ll be frolicking with felt in the future.

This is an old railroad tie used as a mantle. I love it. We have a similar piece of rustic roughness found in an old building that we are going to use as a mantle in our little trailer house on the prairie. Maybe in 23 more years or so.

But the point of this whole post is this:

These canisters.

My old grannie had an ugly-as-sin, avocado green tin canister just exactly like the one in the back of this picture.

It sat on her countertop next to the stove, and she sometimes stored goodies such as homemade peanut butter cookies in it.

I remember stealthily trying to lift the lid off to sneak a cookie or treat. The “swoosh” of the lid coming off the canister echos in my head. I would try not to make a sound, and inevitably always would pling, plang, and gong one against the other, giving myself away. Like sneezing during a game of hide-and-seek.

Sometime during my childhood, we got a new step cousin in the family. He wasn’t one of us, and I remember treating him as an outsider. When memories like these flood back, I always try to blame my sister. But truthfully, I don’t know who was the instigator of being harsh with him. It could’ve been my idea, or my cousin’s (his step-brother) or my sister’s, regardless I remember the four of us being outside huddled under a tree, being ugly to our new family member and telling him that “WE (the privileged real grandchildren) knew our grannie’s secret hiding place for goodies and that he had better be nice or we wouldn’t let him know.”

I wish I could go back under that tree and change that conversation. I hope he doesn’t remember. I’m ashamed.

Seeing these burnt orange canisters in a magazine stirred something inside me. I asked my mom, who now lives in my grannie’s old house, if she knew where that avocado green canister was. She said it was around there someplace. Then about one week later, I received a call, and lo and behold, the little criminal she has living with her (another story for another time) was cleaning out the garage and it turned up.

Here it is. On my kitchen countertop by my stove.

It’s not in as good of condition as the orange ones in the magazines.

Why I have this in my house, in my blue and yellow kitchen, is something that I must explore deep within my soul. And maybe discuss with my therapist, which happens to be Marie, my school librarian.

Why, when I am desperately trying to simplify and minimalize, did I bring this old junky, unfashionable, semi-unpractical item out from the dust and mire of a dirty garage to sit purposeless on my already cluttered kitchen counter?

Why do I sometimes go to my kitchen for no other reason but to lift the lid just so I can hear the pling from my childhood?

I know why.

It’s so I can see my grannie sitting in her chair with a poodle on her lap.

Or standing at the kitchen counter pressing out the peanut butter cookies. She would let me mash on the cookie dough with a meat tenderizer to create the little indented designs and then sprinkle sugar on top when they came out of the oven, soft and warm.

I’m suddenly having a peanut butter cookie hankering.

And I need a tissue.

Would you ever do this?

I’ve acquired new learning.

And anytime I have new learning, I must share it. It’s just something about me. Maybe that’s why I teach. I want everyone to have the same knowledge I have, regardless how inane, unimportant, or disturbing it might be. And I repeat disturbing.

Today’s new tidbit may fall in one or more of the previous categories. I repeat disturbing.

I was perusing some blogs about simple living etc. and I came upon a post that caught my eye. And made my mouth gape open. It was truly unbelievable to me at first. Then I read more, and more, and the more I read, the more fascinated I became, the more I wanted to know, so I googled it and found it to be a semi-common practice.

I guess I just need to come out and say it.

{Deep Breath}

Okay.

I’m ready.

{Exhale}

It’s the practice of placenta eating.

No need to reread that. I said placenta eating. As in afterbirth. As in eating afterbirth.

I KNOW!! I KNOW!! That was my reaction completely.

Can you believe this?????

The first time I heard about it, was on a blog of a lady who lives out in the boonies. She was having a complete natural childbirth in a water bath with midwives in her home. She said after watching her goat give birth, and afterward eating the afterbirth, she realized what a natural thing it was, and that she planned on eating her placenta. All mammals (except humans) do this. It’s just a natural instinct in the animal world. So her husband saved her afterbirth, cooked it down, and ground it into capsules for her to take after her childbirth.

After reading her blog, I was all like, *blink blink* these are a bunch of backwards hillbillies. Just look at what happens when people marry their cousins.

I was horrified. But then I began to question, what if? I’ve mentioned before that I believe there are healing elements all around us, in plants and in nature. Maybe just maybe, the civilized part of us Westerners hinder us from attaining it, because certain things seem so barbaric. Like say, eating our placentas.

After my initial horrification(not sure if that’s a real word) wore off, I began to see this as completely natural, and dare I say, even beautiful.

It’s actually called placentophagia and is practiced around the world, although discouraged in the western world. Why would women do this, you may be thinking? The potential benefits of eating the placenta include: staving off post pardum depression, replenishing nutrients, increasing breast milk production, and helping the uterus heal and tone itself back up.

In my google search, I found there are actually women who eat their placentas raw, and then others cook it up and make capsules.

Here’s a You tube video I found of a professional placenta chef.

The strange thing is, this isn’t the first time afterbirth has appeared on my blog.

And it’s not likely to be the last.

Pie-an-er

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I took pie-an-er lessons when I was just a girl.
I don’t know how many years I took, or what level I made it to. Let’s just say I ain’t no Chopin.

Or Liberace.

Or Elton John.

Or even Schroeder.

My first teacher was a sweet, soft-spoken Baptist whose home smelled of freshly brewed coffee, who smiled sweetly and encouraged gently.

After a couple of years with her, my mom decided to move me to a different teacher. One who might push me a little harder.

My second teacher was an old man, who worked from a studio that smelled of old men, who harshly rapped a baton on the piano to force me to keep time, and corrected harshly.

I left my piano lessons crying and begged my mother to allow me to quit.

Finally she conceded, but made me promise that I would take lessons again someday.

At nine years of age, with tears streaming, I promised.

I crossed my heart and hoped to die.

Stuck a needle in my eye.

And I never kept it.

I’ve lived with the guilt.

So about 2 or 3 years ago, just 24 years after my promise to my mother, I decided to take lessons again.

Only a child from my womb could make my mother any happier.

My third piano teacher is another sweet, soft-spoken Baptist whom I visit on Friday’s at 3:30. Most of my lesson is spent gabbing away with one another, since we just love to visit and catch up. That’s what makes it so special. It’s not just piano lessons, but a friendship.

But now I’ve quit again. When we bought our Little Trailer House on the Prairie, and started yanking up carpet, texturing walls, painting, laying floor, my time was swallowed up, and my piano practicing no longer fit in my day. I would show up on Friday’s to my lesson, hang my head in shame, tell her I’d do better next week, only to realize it had taken second fiddle and practicing piano just wasn’t happening.

So I told her I needed a hiatus. It felt like a break-up. I cried. She remained strong. I promised her I’d be back at the first of the year. I crossed my heart and hoped to die, stuck a needle in my eye. We made a pinky swear, then cut our hands and became blood sisters. Nothing would stop me from returning to piano lessons. As soon as we got the place finished, moved, and settled in, I would be back .

Now it’s the first of February, and we still haven’t gotten the place finished, much less moved or settled in.

I miss my piano lessons.

I miss my teacher Suzie.

I pulled out some music the other day, sat down to play ~~Row, Row, Row Your Boat~~ a beautiful concerto and couldn’t remember where middle C was.

Please don’t tell my mother.

Breaking Ice

I have a new BFF today.

He’s my good pal.

My buddy.

My friend.

He’s a little furry.

And maybe a little smelly.

But I don’t mind at all. Especially today, when he doesn’t see his shadow.

I’m ready for an early spring.

Here’s some pictures of our world.

Yesterday it was 5° at 5:30 p.m. with 30 mph winds. After you do all that meteorological mumbo jumbo that comes out to equal -15 below zero wind chill.

Notice all the wind breaks out here on the high plains.

The wind slices you like a knife.

Coming down the road, you can see that the cows are thirsty. Instead of getting down into the breaks out of the brutal wind, they are huddled around the drinking tub.

But this is a first.

My husband J-Dub has seen many cows, and many drinking tubs, but has never seen a cow standing on top of a drinking tank before. Frozen solid.

It’s a wonder she didn’t fall through. She weighs approximately 750 pounds.

When I stood on it to cross over into the other pasture to chase a rolling black Stetson, it began to crack under my weight.

Which means I out-weigh a cow.

Probably by 100 pounds.

Not a happy thought.

It’s a real wonder I didn’t fall through. I carefully held onto the post and tiptoed on the edge.

J-Dub had to break the ice for them to get a drink. If you wonder how he does that, it’s probably how you imagine.

With his brute strength!

And an ax.

This is hard work, I don’t care who you are.

Add the bitter temperature, this isn’t even close to being fun.

It’s tough being a cow.

And tougher being a cowboy.

Today my sweet husband had to break ice on 18 different drinking tubs across the panhandle of Texas.

Did you enjoy your hamburger today?

Be sure and thank a cowboy.

Wicked wind

The weather today is no joke.
I went with J-dub to go feed a little. We came upon a herd of yearlings huddled around a water tank attempting to drink from the frozen tank.

J-dub grabbed an ax and began chopping ice. I got out to snap a couple of pics and before I knew it, my legs about fell off due to frostbite.

The wind whistled and roared across the great plains and cut us to the bone. Then it decided to get smart and whipped J-dubs hat right off his head and landed it on the other side of the fence.

Being the helpful hand that I am, I attempted to open the gate, but to no avail. So as my hard working, hatless husband swung his ax and shards and chunks of ice flew and splattered, I, with much trepidation walked across the frozen drinking tub into the other pasture to retrieve his hat.

Just as I was upon it, that wench of a wind decided to have some fun with me, and snatched the hat and ran farther away.

I’m sure it was quite a sight. A black cowboy hat tumbling across the pasture with a dumb ninny chasing it.

It would’ve been funny if it hadn’t been so dangerous. Even bundled up and running as fast as I could in snow boots, it didn’t take me long to realize how fearful and dangerous a winter storm with a 14 degrees below zero wind chill can be.

But now we’re home, safe and sound, with hat on head, or at least on a hook, fixin to chow down on some beans and cornbread, and counting our blessings.

Stay blessed and warm.

The Old and Curmudgeonly SOAP #1

Okay guys, I recently joined up on an online Bible Study group via Facebook. There are some awesome godly ladies in this group and I’m excited about being a part of it. I have already been blessed and looking forward to future blessings. Part of the accountability of the Bible Study involves posting a SOAP. Instead of The Bold and the Beautiful, or the Young and the Restless, my soap is titled, The Old and Curmudgeonly. But really, I jest, it’s not that kind of soap. It’s a Bible study method using the SOAP acronym to help spend more time in God’s word and understand what He is saying to us. S stands for scripture that I’ve read. O stands for observations that I made while reading the scripture. A stands for application and how that scripture written many moons ago applies in my life today, and P stands for prayer which is a very personal prayer that I’m letting every one else hear.

I’ve been dilly-dallying around about this Bible study, worried about doing this on my blog, even though I do allow this blog to get all Jesus-y at times.
But we are here to please God and not man, so I pray that my weekly SOAPS will speak to you in some way.

God wants to speak to us, I know that fo’sho’. So I’m going to let Him.

I’ve been reading my Bible through in a chronological way in the order of events as they happened. So far this year I’ve read Genesis and Job, and now I’m in Exodus.

S—Scripture: Exodus 3:1-2 (The Message)Moses was shepherding the flock of Jethro, his father-in-law, the priest of Midian. He led the flock to the west end of the wilderness and came to the mountain of God, Horeb. The angel of God appeared to him in flames of fire blazing out of the middle of a bush. He looked. The bush was blazing away but it didn’t burn up.

^9-10 “The Israelite cry for help has come to me, and I’ve seen for myself how cruelly they’re being treated by the Egyptians. It’s time for you to go back: I’m sending you to Pharaoh to bring my people, the People of Israel, out of Egypt.”

^19-22 “I know that the king of Egypt won’t let you go unless forced to, so I’ll intervene and hit Egypt where it hurts—oh, my miracles will send them reeling!—after which they’ll be glad to send you off. I’ll see to it that this people get a hearty send-off by the Egyptians—when you leave, you won’t leave empty-handed! Each woman will ask her neighbor and any guests in her house for objects of silver and gold, for jewelry and extra clothes; you’ll put them on your sons and daughters. Oh, you’ll clean the Egyptians out!”

O–Observation: Moses was just hanging out being an ordinary person, doing his ordinary day-to-day job of shepherding his sheep when God appeared to him. He wasn’t anything special, just a regular ol’ Moe. God approached Moses and gave him a charge: Go to Egypt and tell Pharaoh Let My People Go! Which makes me start singing this song right here, which has some pretty awesome dancers in it as well.

And then God begins to tell him in verses 19-22 exactly, step by step, the troubles he will encounter, that God will intervene, and how it will end up when he obeys Him.

A—Application: God is all-knowing. God is ever-present. God is in-the-know. He knows our past, forgives our sins (after all Moses was a murderer), continues to love us and use us for His glory. He knows every hair on our head, and each step we are going to take. Nothing catches Him off guard. He is not surprised when life throws us a curve ball. Just like in this scripture passage, God knew that the Egyptians would not be agreeable with His plan. He knew Pharaoh’s heart would be hardened. He understood what it would take to change his mind. And it all came to pass. Just like in my life. He’s got my road map in His hand. He is directing me in the ways He wants me to go. Even when I don’t understand why events are happening or not happening, He is working behind the scenes, orchestrating my life. He will use me in my everyday life, in my job, or when I’m doing my thing, I can hear from Him.

P—Prayer: Dear Lord, help me to always trust in You. When You speak to me, help me to recognize your voice, follow your ways, acknowledge You in my life. You have my life in your hands, you are the author and finisher of my faith, your plans for me are for good and not for harm. Help me not to fear my future. Help me not to be afraid.

Got No Power Windows

Let me tell you about my yesterday.

We had to do some work on the chicken coop, so I needed my new, old truck to help haul some old wood for me. We tore down one side of the chicken coop that was just crappy old particle board hammered together.

We’re replacing it with some rustic looking wide planks that are in a pile of rubble from a torn down structure.

So me and my niece Ash loaded up in the truck to gather the planks and drive them to the coop. This was her first time to see this old heap of metal and as soon as she climbed in, one of the first things she exclaimed was how she loved those kind of windows. You know the kind. The crank handle kind.

It took some work to get the truck running. But once it did, it only died 3 times. But then it got warmed up, and it was ready to go. If only I could get it to go, that is.

Now I’ve driven a stick shift in my time, and once I re-introduce myself to the gears I can normally do just fine. So I put this truck in first, it jerked forward a couple times, and then died. My second attempt in first gear was a repeat of the previous failure. I then attempted to start off in second gear, and it jerked and died. I eased off the clutch more carefully, it still died. I tried and tried and could not for the life of me figure out why I couldn’t get this truck to go without dying. I studied the gear shift again.

I wasn’t really sure what L stood for, I don’t recall ever seeing it on a gear shift before. Ash assured me that it probably stood for Launch, so I slammed it into L, and sure enough that must be what it stands for ’cause away we went.

We gathered the boards up.

Then pulled all the nails out.

Then we took a drive in the truck. We rolled, and I do mean literally rolled, our windows down. We even pushed open that little triangle window that is next to the big window and let the wind blow through out hair as we chugged down the dusty country lane.

My old truck reminds me of a song that my daddy likes. It’s called Power Windows.

Louis drives a beat up ’69 Dart.
Swears it’s the statue of Mary that keeps the car from falling apart.
With Gracie right beside him sittin’ closer than a smile.
She’s got her head on his shoulder.
He loves to drive and hold her.

He got no power windows. Got no power brakes.
He ain’t got no power nothin’ but he got what it takes.
He’s got Gracie’s arm around him and a smile on his face.
He’s got the power of love.

That night, as I was saying good night to Ash, she remarked that it was the most awesome day ever. The most awesome day ever? How strange. We didn’t do anything but work. So I asked her what made it so awesome.

Her response made me smile. She said just being out at the place, tearing down the chicken coop, driving the truck, and having family fun.

It made me realize that we didn’t spend any money.

We didn’t see anything fancy.

We didn’t have the newest, high-tech $300 gadget to entertain us.

We got no power windows even.

Just the two of us, hanging out, enjoying the sunshine, laying on an old wagon gazing at the clouds, telling stories, singing songs, and enjoying each other.

Which reminds me of another song. This one my mama used to sing me when I was just a wee one.

Oh, we ain’t got a barrel of money,
Maybe we’re ragged and funny
But we’ll travel along
Singing a song
Side by side.

Don’t know what’s comin’ tomorrow
Maybe it’s trouble and sorrow
But we’ll travel the road
Sharing our load
Side by side.

Travel the road in our old blue truck with no power windows,

Side by side.

A Special Lady

Today, in just a few short hours, my family will be celebrating my grandmother’s 93rd birthday over in Tahlequah, Oklahoma. I couldn’t be there, but wanted to send her some happy birthday wishes.

{sending happy birthday wishes now}

Isn’t she beautiful?

Her name is Mattie Dimple Calico. If that isn’t the best name in the world, I don’t know what is.

She’s a gem.

The older I get, the more I realize how important family is. I cherish my grandmother and the memories I have of our times together.

Happy 93rd Grannie!

I am so thankful to be blessed with you in my life.

You’re a hoot and a tough old coot, and you’re always making me laugh.

I hope when I am old, I look and feel just like you!

I love you!

Peace!

Before and After #2

We’ve been diligently working away on our little trailer house on the prairie. Several months ago, I showed you our first before and after, and now, several months later, I have another. It’s a slow process.

Although the place we bought and are working on is a D-U-M-P, it does have some good qualities.

Like the wonderful fruitless mulberry that I am going to transform into my whimsy tree. A whimsy tree is a made-up word from my sister Jolea who first created a tree of whimsy in her backyard. It is simply a tree that is adorned with whirligigs and doodads and thingamiggers and whatchamacalits of all shapes and sizes. Jolea then began sending me whimsical ornaments to hang in my trees to create a whimsy tree. I have plenty of trees here where I live now, but none of them are whimsy trees. They’re either too straight, their trunk is too tall to reach the limbs, or they’re dead. It takes a special tree to be whimsy tree. And none of them fit the bill.

But I have one at our Little Trailer House on the Prairie.

A whimsy tree needs adornments hanging from it lovely branches, but I decided to add something to the base of my tree as well.

Base of Whimsy Tree Before:

Base of Whimsy Tree After:

I love my flamingoes!! A lady from my church named Susan paints these little boogers. I bought one for myself at a craft show. I figured if I’m going to be trailer trash, I might as well do it up right.

Nothing says trailer trash, like flamingoes in the front yard.

I giggled with delight when my sweet friend Suzanne gave me the other one for Christmas.

They’re perfect.

And whimsical.

And they make me smile.