A Checkered Present

The photograph hangs on the entryway wall in my dear friend's home. Dozens of others surround it, but my gaze rests on this one each time I visit. Her grandparents sit on a cloth spread out on the grass in front of a parked 1930-something automobile, smiles on their faces, a breeze blowing their hair. They're not her grandparents or even anybody's parents yet; they were engaged to be married at the time. A picnic basket sits between them. The picture is black and white, but I've no doubt the fabric I see beneath them is red-and-white gingham, because what says "picnic" more than that?

I say it each year as the last edge of spring ushers us into summer: "This year I'm going to bring back the picnic." Memories rise of my mom packing an ice chest and six children into the car, driving to a lake or a desert or anyplace with a picnic table awaiting us. We would make sandwiches, explore a bit, then drive home. The scenes weren't photo worthy—no woven picnic baskets or charming automobile, although a vinyl checkered table cloth did cover the picnic table—yet the light mood and simplicity of these days leave a joy-etched print on my memory.

My husband and I sat at a picnic table this week, plastic grocery bags and food containers decorating our space. We picked up takeout food then walked a path to a lovely park area a short drive from our home. "What a great idea," he kept saying, as we enjoyed the breeze, our meal, and each other.

A friend and I hiked on a trail in our nearby mountains yesterday, and not feeling safe about yet eating in restaurants due to Covid-19, we both packed a lunch. After our hike, we sat just off the road under a tree, a cement block providing our seating. She ate her salad while I drank my smoothie. My ukulele happened to be in my car, so I brought it over. I'd recently learned how to play "What A Wonderful World." She sang, reading the lyrics off my phone, while I played. We enjoyed our meal, a song, and each other.

Today finds me, at the end of May, looking forward to that quintessential picnic I say I'll bring back each summer. I look back, however, on the past week, these two meals shared with loved ones in the outdoors, and discover I've been living out what I'm longing for. While I still do want to put some effort into that more intentional, old-fashioned picnic (and have just the perfect gingham dress picked out to wear), I look again at my friend's photograph of her grandparents. The surroundings are charming—the basket, the vintage clothing and car, the checkered cloth—but what makes the photograph sing is the the love and light on this couple's faces as they enjoy the breeze, a meal, and each other.

Among Us

Fear is in the air
A virus spreading too
We step back from each other
More than we used to

We're full of care
Burdened by it, even
We try not to talk about it
But our efforts fail

News of outbreaks, numbers deceased
Make us edgy
Ill at ease
I don't know when the problem
Flipped from remote
"Out there somewhere" to
Right now
Right here
But it did

Where we once said
"Have a nice day"
To people we greeted
We now say
"Stay well"
No physical touching
But our gazes linger a bit longer
To let each other know
We mean it
And we do!
People say it to me
And I to them

I suppose we are touching each other
Now more than ever
The kindnesses are lights in the dark
Streams of goodness
Winding through
Harsh terrain

How can we help
The vulnerable among us?
People are planning
Looking for ways to watch out
For the other

Yes, fear is in the air
A virus too
It's almost palpable
But I notice the care among us
The most

Diane Mann 2020

Her Beads, My Words - Creativity Observed

Necklace and photo by Magpie Madness Jewelry, Etsy

Commitment to her craft
I see it in the jewelry maker
Arranging her beads
One after the other
The next
  then the next
Saying, it is good
And finished
  then creating again

Is each piece her favorite?
Certainly not
But by faith she 
Reaches for her tools
Trusting the idea-giver
Using the materials before her

I'm blessed to see what she's made
It spurs me to be
Working on my own creations
But when I stare too long
At her gifts
I neglect to open
My own

God, 
Make me
Not so frightened
To pick up my tools
Arranging one word with the next
  then the next
Until we create something
Together
And say how lovely it is.

Diane Mann, 2020

I'm Learning

He should have known.
He should have known me.
He should have known me better.

My husband this Saturday morning hands me a cup of coffee he made, for me. He offered to make it, he made it with love, he delivered it to me in bed.

I am so grateful.
I am so upset.
I am upset with me for the part of me that is upset.

"Is this the largest mug you could find?" I ask?
"I didn't really think about it," he said. "I saw you've been using this for your coffee."
"Yes," I say, "But I use the Keurig during the week. "When you make my coffee, I like to drink it from the bigger mugs." (You should know that, I imply.)

I couldn't not say it. I couldn't resist implying he should know better than to not use a giant mug when he makes me his custom coffee.

I sit up in bed sipping, but not quite enjoying, my morning brew.

I rewind to seven years ago, that October when my backpacking, solitude-loving, introverted husband took me to New York City for my fiftieth birthday. After an adventure-filled week, the morning of our departure we Googled Dunkin' Donuts and found one a mile from our hotel. The shop was a novelty for us, since at the time no DD's existed in Southern California, where we live. We had just enough time to squeeze in one last visit so took the mile walk. There I found a mug I wanted, and Brent bought it for me, an item celebrating both NYC and Dunkin' Donuts, a perfect souvenir.

While packing after hurrying back to the hotel, I was realized I had left the newly purchased mug at the donut shop. We phoned to verify it was indeed there, and Brent ran as fast as he could a mile, retrieved my souvenir, and ran back, mug in hand, to the hotel, where we caught our ride to the airport just in time to catch the flight home.

He was my hero, and I told him so.

This mug that brings back happy memories is the same mug I'm upset about this morning. It's the one he chose to serve my coffee in.

Even now, I see those words, he chose to serve, and I know I should be thankful!

I've been practicing gratitude, I really have. I know it should win over ingratitude, I really do. How I can see my husband go from hero to zero over such a thing, I don't know. But I sense it has very little to do with him and a lot to do with me.

I traveled a few steps (not a heroic mile, however) between the above paragraph and the one I am writing now. I found my husband in the garage and told him I had something I needed to ask forgiveness for. "Whatever could you have done wrong this early in the morning?" he asked. I stumbled through my apology. He somehow had failed to be offended by my remarks but accepted my apology, along with my thanks for his kindness.

"Next time," he said, "it's OK to just ask for a bigger mug."

I think I have some things to learn, about receiving, about receiving imperfectly the imperfect gifts given to me, about allowing even my gratitude to be imperfect.

Lord, I'm grateful. Help my ungratefulness.


Diane Mann 2020