So we’ve got the controversy about whether the Pilgrims were the first Americans at all. And we’ve got the truth that without the Native Americans, the pilgrims would never have survived their first winter. And I bet, at the time, neither group gave a thought to who was first or who helped who. Because when you’re in a situation, you put one foot in front of the other and do what you think is right. It’s us who come later who decide you were a hero or a villain.
Here we are in 2018, putting our feet one in front of the other, trying to do what’s right or lamenting the fact that we’re totally incapable of figuring out what’s right, much less doing it.
I think, because we have so much input from all over the world, that we spend a good deal of our time overwhelmed. And that shuts us down. But at this Thanksgiving, I’m going to blinder my gigantic screen, and narrow down to what I see in the real world. I think it will help me be more aware, and thus more outwardly focused.
I’m going to: challenge myself to love my neighbor, in my heart, but also with my actions; take coats to the homeless as the weather here gets colder; check on the widows down the street; slow and listen to people I love; purposely hug people who don’t get touched often. And I’m going to thank God that He made me able to do these things, a weak woman, who He makes strong.
The winds come up and the air cools. Little puffy clouds skip across the sky. Leaves fade from green to yellow to orange to red. Daylight shrinks.
My thoughts turn to pumpkins on the front porch, Indian corn on the coffee table and crunching leaves down the sidewalk. The action of summer slows to the last harvest. Apples are crisp and juicy. And my heart inhales.
If winter is dead, autumn is the sadness before the death. Why are it’s colors so happy, so warm? Is it because our Heavenly Father knew we would need the gold, amber and crimson to warm our chilly fingers and toes? Or is it His promise that spring will come again? Or maybe it’s His promise that death isn’t sad, but a new beginning.
(This post is an article that didn’t sell, but I like it so here you go.)
The aluminum albatross/shark lumbers down one of San Francisco International Airport’s runways, her fin cutting raindrops, and hangs a left. Breathtakingly, she morphs into an eagle screaming into the stratosphere toward Puerto Vallarta (PVR), Mexico. The sunseekers’ stress lifts with her climb.
About three and a half hours, a movie and a little light reading later, passengers gaze under thunderclouds at the green rainforest between the Sierra Madre and Banderas Bay. The eagle lands in the Mexican state of Jalisco. Passengers clear customs and take deep breaths before they navigate between the timeshare barracuda/buzzards caged inside taped-off floor areas. Pretending one is deaf works well. Outside, touristas head for white taxis whose natural air conditioning introduces visitors to PVR’s warm humidity. Comfort is now in the expert hands of the people of “mi casa es su casa,” who make every visitor’s whim their directive. Under coconut and banana palms, relax while the taxi races from Jalisco to one of the many resorts that have been meticulously researched, chosen and reserved online.
Paradise Village in the state of Nayarit, its Riviera catering to many international tourists, luxuriates just ten miles from the airport. Mayan-appointed Paradise Village can provide everything legal one might want. Their all-inclusive plan covers meals, drinks, boogie boards and kayaks. A fine Monkey Around under a pelapa (frond-roofed table with lounges and beach chairs) on the beach is relaxation personified. Continue reading