Taste, and See

On a wintry Saturday, I baked cinnamon maple scones at our cabin, using a new-to-me recipe. They were so yummy, I was eager to share them at our church potluck breakfast the following morning. But I coughed through the night, and it became clear neither I nor my husband would be attending church that Sunday. I was disappointed to miss blessing my church friends with my flavorful scones.

Before driving down the mountain, we parked our car in town to take a short walk around the lake. Two ladies we recognized sat at a picnic table across the road. “Do you want some scones?” I yelled through my mask with my hoarse, raspy voice. 

“Absolutely, yes, we do!” Kathy and Donna replied.

My husband retrieved the container holding the scones from the car and carried the treats across the road to our excited friends. “Take two!” I called over.

“Can we have three each?” they hollered back.

We continued our walk around the lake, and upon arriving back to our car, our friends let us know how much they enjoyed the delicious pastries. I don't know whose joy was more full, Kathy and Donna's in savoring the scones, or mine, in getting to share them. 

There’s a taste-and-see simplicity I experience when I share what I’ve baked. I don’t have weighty expectations on myself to “be somebody” in the kitchen, to become known as “Diane the baker.”  It is as simple as, “Here’s something I’ve made that is good. I hope it blesses you.” 

I was due to deliver a set of six benedictions this week for the Black Barn, an online community I belong to. I’d written and rewritten many and could not decide which ones to submit. The angst I experienced squeezed the joy out of writing and anticipating blessing others with my offerings. I tell myself, oh, but this is not a scoop of dough; it’s a scoop of my heart. Of course it’s going to be painful.

Perhaps my “of course” is off course.

I learned recently the word "companion" is derived from Latin and, at its core, it denotes someone who is present to you "with bread." As we are present to each other on this journey, we offer life-giving nurture and enjoyment, friend to friend. We bring who we are and what God has given us to offer. How good it is to have someone fully present to you; how much better when together you “break bread,” when together you unwrap and savor the good gifts God has given you. Together, we celebrate the Giver of the gifts. 

Again and again my thoughts return to the simplicity of baking something then sharing it, with a spirit of, “Taste and see the goodness!” 

I wonder what it would be like to experience such freedom as I weave words together and then share them. I wonder what kind of companionship I could bring to others, free from self-judgment about what I bring to the table. And I wonder whether God is inviting me to taste this kind of freedom, and to see that it is good.

diane mann, 2022

Inconvenient Truth

When I try to write, I feel like I am making myself do something, trying to manipulate me somehow. No matter how healthily I attempt to look at it, that several-foot distance between me and my keyboard is packed with dread.

I hate dread.

If I could bypass it, I would. Maybe I can. Maybe the answer is out there, the little previously unnoticed route around the dark valley.

It ought not be this way. I’ve been given a gift, to be received, delighted in, and shared. Instead I hang onto it like it’s a gift card, dreaming while I roam around Target trying to decide how to spend it. So. Many. Possibilities.

And what if I make the “wrong” choice? What if I spend it on toilet paper when I should have spent it on eyeliner? Hairspray? A new shirt? Batteries for my husband (he would be so happy)? I’m certain the giver of the gift intended that I find joy in it rather than angst. 

Meanwhile I gaze at others finding joy and freedom in expressing themselves, in first receiving then sharing what’s been given them. The cousin who can’t stop composing new music, her hands dancing across piano keys. The son who prolifically writes satire, word after clever word. The painters, the poets, the songwriters, the decorators, the choreographers, the gardeners—all producing something.

“Diane doesn’t DO anything.” I can’t even tell you whether this was ever spoken, but it’s a message from my childhood lingering way beneath the surface of me. To find its source seems like more digging than I’m up for. But then when one pulls a big weed from the ground, is it necessary to find out how it got there? Maybe not. Maybe let’s just get the weed out and plant something lovely in its place.

Diane dreamed. Diane thought. Diane danced and climbed trees. Diane observed. Diane giggled. Diane made up songs. Diane absorbed things in her heart. Diane sought and often found meaning in everything. Diane admired beauty. She pondered and played, her pondering being more her reality than her play. She swam. She enjoyed people. She loved. 

I suppose she couldn’t be put into a box. “This is our child who plays piano.”

“This is our child who enjoys animals.” “This is our child who reads incessantly.” 

No, there wasn’t one box to put me in. I was inconvenient in that way, perhaps.

How inconvenient that Diane is in drill team. That means we have to get her to the school early on Saturdays so she can march in parades. That means we have to buy her nylons at 7-eleven on the way (why were my parents always surprised I needed new nylons for every parade?). Frantic realization, followed by heavy sighs, followed by a rushed three-mile drive. 

My needs seemed a bit too much. I seemed a bit too much. And I wonder whether I now treat myself and my desires as an inconvenience. 

How inconvenient that I have ideas to write about some things, about many somethings, in fact. That means I have to step up and meet that need to express myself. That means I have to travel the dreaded “three miles” from where I sit to my computer. Frantic, followed by heavy sighs, followed by possibly dragging myself to where I need to be. A victim of my own gifts and desires? 

I don’t know. I know that my writer friend Ruth was seen and embraced by her parents. I wonder what I would be like now if I had been treated the same. Her dad, when she was eight years old, told her, “Write down the things God whispers to you.” He saw her and encouraged her to step into who she was.

I suppose I am angry I didn’t have encouragement to be who I am. I suppose I think it’s all rather unfair that my guiding factor was to see how little trouble I could be, to attempt to need as little as possible, to not overwhelm the already chaotic family (albeit fun) system in which I lived.

I needed to write this today.

It’s okay to need. And dream. And ponder. And be angry. And heal.

Diane Mann 2019

When Saturday Becomes Sunday

I sat in front of my computer yesterday morning, coffee next to me, my attention on the screen before me. I showed up, as I had promised myself to do each Saturday morning, but this time to edit someone else's words, rather than write my own.

It wasn't even really a choice. I had reported a job Wednesday--a difficult job--in downtown LA. The attorney who hired me let me know on Thursday he wants the job signed, sealed, and delivered by Monday. So Saturday morning I combed through each word spoken on Wednesday, referencing documents that were read from by muffled talkers during the proceedings, adding commas, semi-colons, proper spellings, all to deliver by Monday an accurate record of the deposition given on Wednesday.

Saturday morning was a lot of things, but reflective it was not!

Now it is Sunday, and I am here, and I wonder whether it "counts."

I went to my prayer spot early this morning, the loveseat near a sliding glass door at the back of the house. I saw Junior the Cat resting on the rug near my sitting space. Junior the Cat had not been seen for four days. Brent and I are catsitting two grand-cats for Kyle and Destiny while they and their children are transitioning between homes. Junior had snuck outside under our watch. We had some forlorn grandchildren over their lost cat (the family would have rather lost Autumn the Lesser Cat if they had a say in the matter). My daughter-in-law searched valiantly at the Humane Society and posted about the missing feline on social media. She stepped outside late last night and found Junior in the front yard. I am relieved.

Maybe I can't get Saturday morning back, but we got Junior back, and that just feels good.

Junior in the Guest Room

And I am thinking about space and wanting to write about space but keep writing about Junior and my lost Saturday morning. And I see Junior in my mind's eye, occupying the space of our newly redone guest room. New carpet, new paint, new bedding, a whiter-than-white chabby chic quilt, topped with pillows and a bright pink throw. The room is the best place in the house right now, uncluttered, fresh, and inviting. How does this animal know that this is "the place to be"? And what makes him think he can occupy that place without apology?

I wrote and published a book. My Bunco ladies, with a celebratory spirit, asked about it Thursday evening. I cannot recite the conversations, but the flavor of my responses was to make the accomplishment smaller than it is. "With apology," I said or implied things like, "It's just a little book. You should see how little it is! It's just a little something I had a desire to write for my aunt. Don't think you need to buy it, and by all means don't let it take up space on your bookshelf or space in your life by reading it."

I want to be proud of it. I want to treat it like my newborn babies. I invited others to behold the God-given bundles, to rejoice with me, to gaze upon them, to jump up and down with me in celebration, to be blessed also by my blessings.

An author friend wrote a beautiful foreword for my book. But before doing so, he expressed to me he would love to see me develop each chapter further. "Give us more of YOU," he emphasized over and over. "It's as if you are on stage holding the microphone and starting to share yourself then quickly lay it down." I read through my 108-page creation, and I do see what he meant. But I am proud of myself for taking the stage at all, for daring to hold the microphone for those few seconds. I am proud of me for taking the blankie off my baby's face and showing the lookers-on the beautiful thing God did for me.

And, no, I can't get Saturday morning back, but I can show up on Sunday. And I can't get the Bunco shrinking-my-accomplishments conversations back. But there will be more conversations about my book, opportunities to crawl into and rest on fresh, beautiful spaces, without apology.