“Why do you build me up, Buttercup baby, just to let me down and mess me around, and worst of all, you never call, baby, when you say you will, but I love you still….” Song by the Foundations (Want to listen: Clink this link Buttercup song )
I have liked buttercups since I was a child. I have loved buttercups since Doug and I were married. I should probably say that Doug and I married the weekend after my college graduation. We had summer jobs and I had a teaching job for the fall, but we had no money. Doug’s beloved uncle, Uncle Jack, had bought two cottages on Lake Chautauqua where for a month every summer Doug’s family vacationed. So, when Uncle Jack, as part of a wedding present to us, offered us a week at the cottage, we were thrilled. We could have a honeymoon.
Doug’s Aunt Carlie did not come with Uncle Jack to our wedding. Traveling was difficult for her, but when we arrived at the cottage, there in the center of the table was an enormous bouquet of buttercups. Aunt Carlie told me that at the moment we were saying our vows she was picking them as a gift for us.
Yellow is my favorite color and, as I said in my last post, I have a fascination with light. Somehow, at the moment we saw them, a shaft of sunlight illuminated their joyous cheerfulness. It seemed like a blessing, a prediction of a sunny life together for us.
Now, after many happy years filled with lots of sunshine and our share of rain, I have been committing sacrilege.
When we moved to Edenton, our backyard was nothing much. Surrounded by trees, including an immense long leaf pine, it had a lot of shade, 2 gardenia bushes, 2 camellias, and a lot of bare chain link fence. As I worked at turning it into a garden, the first buttercup popped up in the grass. I was thrilled…a bit of blessing, I thought, on our life here.
What a mistake! I always thought of fields of buttercups, but not that they could turn your lawn into a field! My sister and I would pick them in the meadows behind our house, and hold the flower beneath our chins to see “if we liked butter,” a golden glow from the pollen on our chin a predictor of that. I taught this to my grandchildren as they picked the spring buttercups in my lawn, and we held them under our chins together.
Only now, I know that abundant pollen is a warning: buttercups are invasive weeds, spread by pollen and by nodules below the ground in their roots. They are almost impossible to kill with herbicides because they intertwine their roots with the roots of the grass. Kill the weed. Kill the grass. Tenacious and treacherous! (…so why did I build you up, buttercup, baby – Why?)
By the end of last summer, I looked around at spots of bare earth and finally acknowledged that my beloved buttercups had reached the point of choking out the grass.
That’s when it hit me like a ton of bricks: life is filled with weeds. Not just buttercups. Different weeds. Addictive weeds. Life weeds. And just like my buttercups all are seductive. Many start by looking like flowers. Bad lovers, toxic family or friends, bad habits, the weeds of cigarettes, alcohol or drugs. overeating, overworking, all seduce us, make us think we need them in our lives, and make false promises of a happy sunny future together. But when anything starts to leave your life bare, taking over in unhealthy ways, it’s time to take action. If it limits you, redefines you, or hurts you, it’s a weed…no matter how much you love the color of its petals.
I can fight Buttercups. In the big picture, this is comparatively small and doable . Other weeds, life weeds, or addictions may need real intervention, someone or something to help, real recovery time. But all weeds have to be battled or they take over, do injury, even kill. It may be a step by step, one day at a time battle, but if you keep going you can win, at least today, at least right now.
So, this week, I have been on my knees painfully trying to dig them up individually. Hour after hour, carefully wiggling, leveraging, trying to untangle them from the grass, I have been removing them. It’s been one battle at a time trying not to leave any roots to regenerate while trying to tamp back down dirt around the remaining grass to save it, with the clock ticking down till when the buttercups bloom and blow their pollen everywhere.
After at least 15
hours spent over the last week, I have taken out hundreds, and more hundreds remain. (This is a pile of 2oo – yes, I counted them and this is just one pile of many!)The grass is growing making it harder, and I wonder how I did not realize this was a problem until it was an enormous one. Battling buttercups is more difficult than I could have ever imagined.
Yet in the midst of my battle, overnight it seemed, one plant managed to bloom. And guess what, despite all my effort, despite my aching back, my heart soared at the sight. Oh, I just couldn’t help it. You see, buttercup, “I love you still, you know I have from the start…”
I admit it. I still am so easily seduced. The first step to making a change is to admit the problem, and this is just a simple one. Real life problems, real addictions are much harder.
I don’t know if you are battling any “weeds,” or love someone who is. If so, be patient with yourselves and them. You cannot remove someone else’s problems or pluck out the weeds in other’s lives. You cannot get rid of your own weeds overnight, and one may pop up again. The battle may be a long one. That’s hard but true. But you can be a truth teller, you can call a weed a weed. You can refuse to plant any more weeds yourself, and you can offer support and caring to someone in the midst of the fight. Not easy, this is not easy…and not every battle will be won.
I have a laborious but easy one, so time to go back to my garden. I hope I win my battle. I pray you win yours.
Info on buttercups by agriculturist
“Only that day dawns to which we are awake. There is more to day than dawn. The sun is but a morning star.” Henry David Thoreau
Sitting with my dog in silence on our back porch, watching shadows, listening to birds, makes me feel at peace. Sometimes, thoughts and story lines float through my mind. Other times, I sit and nurse my coffee, just experiencing the sights and sounds in my garden as the day slowly unfolds until I can’t delay coming inside any longer.
It’s lovely, especially in spring. Then every day new life awakens amid the faithful pansies that have bloomed all winter.
Daffodils dance in the breeze with cheerful aconite. Lenten rose pushes up purple bells in the fairy garden along with bashful violet. Then, bushes and trees are wreathed in blossoms overnight, it seems.
Now, I know that this is a really different post for me, but I hope you will find something in it to enjoy…the above is the context of my love affair with light, and to what happened a week ago when we stayed at our son’s home.
My love is inexorable,
‘There’s work to do,” my mind protests.
“Taking a place at the table is not guaranteed. Not everyone makes it to a seat of power…Ah…but taking a chair at the forefront of your dreams, that is possible. And, it is necessary, even if our dreams can change and evolve over time, even if our dreams may be a subsidiary to our work life or family life.” Israelmore Ayivor
I believe we are called by the world, by our own inner yearnings, and to me, by God, to find a way to live our dreams, to be true to own selves, to find our passions. I think when we fail to do this we do ourselves injury. Larger than that, when we discount or diminish our dreams, we do a much larger injury as well. For if we hold a missing piece the world needs and we withhold it, the world is diminished by that loss. It certainly may take incredible effort and commitment to achieve a calling, live a purpose, or fulfill a dream. But whatever the cost of doing that, it is nothing to the cost of not doing it. Proverbs says, “Where there is no vision, the people perish.” I think that is personal and communal.
Phoebe Coelho says it this way, “It’s the possibility of having a dream come true that makes life interesting……Before a dream is realized, the Soul of the World tests everything that was learned along the way. It does this not because it is evil, but so that we can, in addition to realizing our dreams master the lessons we have learned as we have moved toward that dream. That’s the point at which most people give up…. [At this point] Tell your heart that the fear of suffering is worse than the suffering itself. And that no heart has ever suffered when it goes in search of its dreams, because every second of search is a second’s encounter with God and with eternity.”
Someone one said, the most important things we learn are those we already know, and I know all of this. Part of the reason I dedicated this blog to all who are trying “to find and live their call” is that I believe you know it, too. There are literally a million reasons to give up. I have stared accruing mine.
I don’t know where you are in your journey, your understanding of your call, or in your effort to live or fulfill it. I do know that however hard it may be, it is easier together. So, thanks to all who have been encouraging me, and I hope today brings you a sense of renewal in your efforts.
“A lobster lives within a rigid shell. As the lobster grows that shell becomes confining. The lobster feels itself under pressure and uncomfortable. It goes under rocks to protect itself, and casts off the shell, replacing it with a new one….which eventually also becomes confining…So, the stimulus for the lobster to grow is that it begins to feel uncomfortable…I think what we have to realize from this is that times of stress are times of growth.” Quote from a video by Dr. Abraham Twerski
When our children were two and six, my husband’s parents bought a home on Cape Cod. So, our vacations were spent relaxing at Harbor Beach in East Dennis. One of the kids’ favorite activities was to create their own pond, dug in the sand near the water, and then fill the shallow pool they created with whatever “denizens of the deep” we could find..


Unlike other crustaceans, hermit crabs, to put it kindly, are recyclers, or scavengers if you are less kind to them. They don’t grow their own shell, like lobsters do, for their vulnerable abdomens but rather find abandoned snail shells and move in. When they are little and first pick a shell, they can retreat all the way in. To move, they stick out their head, legs, and claws, pick up their new homes and skitter along.
As they grow bigger, they no longer fit in their shell, becoming vulnerable. A hunt for a new home is critical.
Those were the risks: keep the shell you knew though more and more of you grew exposed every day, or take a risk of locating a new home that was a good fit and offered more safety. That was tough enough if you had choices. We also saw what happened if the choices were few.
Lobsters, when they feel the stress of too small shells, have the ability to grow a new one. They undergo an internal process which is innate and done easily. Lobsters face no competition for shells and fewer risks than the hermit crabs. They go through stress, create new growth, rest for a bit, and resume their lives.
But some of us are more like hermit crabs. Change and growth may be very risky. In a world of limited resources, striking out in the hope that the choice will result in a new future can be like playing musical chairs and being the one without a chair in the end. Having worked with impoverished people with limited educations and unsupportive families, with the homeless, and those fighting mental illness, I have watched this struggle. Yet, many lobsters think everyone is a lobster and opportunities and stress are equal for all. They’re not.
Given that I saw the video yesterday and that yesterday was Super Tuesday, that may have shaped my thought. Sometimes it feels like everyone in our world is fighting over the same shell and our politicians tell us there aren’t enough shells to go around. Some of them even tell us our shells feel too small because someone else wants them.
We could go first. I don’t know about you, but though I would like to hide out in a comfortable shell for a while, I know growth is coming. It always does. I don’t know if you feel more like a lobster or a hermit crab. Maybe you have enough resources for the next change you face and just want to move forward. But I’ll take my place with the hermits, and go one step farther. I’ll give you my shell. All I ask is for you to have my back while I look for another, or maybe you have one to spare? Maybe, just maybe, you’ll help me look? And I can’t help thinking, if we all worked together, we could probably find one for all of us.
“In many European countries, especially in the upper classes of society, tradition dictates that a woman may propose to a man on February 29th. If he refuses, he has to buy her 12 pairs of gloves. The intention is that the woman can wear the gloves to hide the embarrassment of not having an engagement ring.” timeanddate.com
On Leap Year Day in Scotland, a woman can propose to the man she wishes to marry, but to be successful she must wear a red petticoat and allow a bit of it to show! Queen Margaret of Scotland passed a law that made any man who declined this invitation award the woman who asked a kiss and a silk dress.
So, though this is not about romance, just an update: I pushed the button again…the query letter send button. One agent last week, another one week later. By Friday, I will be working on my third try! No requests for a date yet…but my chapters are here, ready and waiting.
“Go for it, while you can. I know you have it in you. And I can’t promise you’ll get everything you want, but I can promise nothing will change if you don’t try.”
In my New Year’s Eve post, I resolved that I would do one thing each week toward my goal of getting an agent and getting my book published. Of course, achieving that goal is like trying to find lightning, captivate it, and entice it into a jar. But that is my resolution, and I am still working on it. Take that, February 10th.
And working on it has led to this observation: I have decided that the whole process of querying an agent is a lot like on-line dating. You create a profile, in this case a query letter, intended to show who you are (your book) in such a way that an agent falls in love …ok..ok.. maybe not love yet…but so they are intrigued enough to date you.
Additional individual requirements may vary by dating service…I mean literary agency and agent. For some you send, three, or five or ten pages of your book…for some a synopsis, for some both. If enticed into getting to know your book better, you may get asked for chapters, a real date. If the attraction grows, then, the whole manuscript. And if love blooms…a proposal, or a contract. But remember to be published, not only does your agent have to fall in love with your book, s/he has to think they can make a publisher fall in love as well….(wedding bells…lightning striking twice!)
But that is my resolution and the only guarantee of failure is not to try! So my research says: the best way to encourage the lightening to strike is to get to know your agent. That is the key on the kite. Start on their agency page. Does s/he like English majors, (your genre). If not move on to someone who does. Does s/he like English majors, but prefer brunettes to blonds? So, for example, likes fantasy but really only wants hard science fiction, (that would not be a fit for me.) So first genre and a fit there….but you aren’t done researching yet.
Do you write epic fantasy when s/he wants dystopian? Does s/he want a little craziness when you write from a realistic perspective? Does s/he want some darkness, when you are all about coming into the light? No yenta in the world can make a match like that, no matter how hard the fiddler plays! I am also pretty sure that if what you read about them doesn’t entice you, a date is equally unlikely. Ignoring this and adopting a scattershot approach to this Dating Game is like expecting the worst blind date you ever had to work.
So for my update: January: I decided on two agents I wanted to query by the end of the month. (For non-writers, a query is the one page pitch letter, with an intro paragraph tailored to the agent, then description of the new love of his or her life, your book, the three summary paragraphs, moving to an individualized conclusion.) I researched them, read their blogs and started the individual parts of the query letters, started the enticing summary stuff, and almost finished the synopsis one of them wanted. Then intermission – first bump – my husband went to the hospital.
So February: This month I finished the three pithy, tantalizing, irresistible middle paragraphs of my query intended to capture the critical elements of the book, introduce the main protagonists, and the intriguing conflict that they face. (Ok, I am a fantasy person!) These paragraphs are crucial. Not only may they entice the agent to ask for a date, but become the text on the back of a paperback (…or the flyleaf of a hardcover!) that convince someone to buy and read your book. So….I labored over them, writing, editing, rewriting, running them past my friend and writing partner, William Walton, and responding to his critiques as he pushed me on my deadline. (For more about writing partners and William, see his page on this blog)
“Your description on the XYZ Agency web page made me think, miało być, it’s meant to be! A liking for realistic high fantasy, medieval if not English, and a desire for Polish culture: I believe The Call meets your request. An epic fantasy set within a political struggle, laced with Polish words and wisdom, The Call draws on the history and folklore of Poland. Your blog portrays you as offering straight forward representation. That is what I seek.”
“Character develops in the stream of life.” Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
When we moved to Upstate New York, it was to the very beginning of a development in what had been farmland. We were the third house on he street. All around the cleared lots and partially built houses were woods and open fields. I was about to start First Grade.
I couldn’t wait for spring. I think it took one or two to figure out exactly when the violets would bloom, but most years found us stooped beneath dappled sunlight picking violets. The slender, fragile, almost translucent stems were carefully cradled at first. Ultimately, we picked so many we jammed them in until we couldn’t close our hands. The sweet airy smell was ephemeral, yet magnified by their abundance. What most amazed me was that not only were there purple and white flowers, but occasionally tiny, delicate, yellow flowers and more rare, green ones as well. Not as abundant, but there if you looked hard enough.
Spring was also the time to bring home pussy willows branches, the first indication that winter was finally over. Upstate New York specializes in winter! When the trees limbs were covered with the icing sugar snow of winter, they looked especially magical…and I can actually remember walking through them singing “Winter Wonderland” wondering why the snowman was “parse and brown.” Then one day, when the sticks of sear winter-barren weeds poked through patches of yellowed grass, we would run to check the pussy willow grove and see that the buds had finally swollen and popped open. We knew spring had arrived.
In the summer, there was a field where we played ball, and moss to lie in and tickle our toes with, and a berry patch at the edge of an abandoned farm where we picked buckets full of blackberries. Fall brought brightly colored leaves that we collected and waxed. Our woods really were a fairy tale come to life…but as I got older, I wanted to push the limits, go farther. I knew every inch of the nearby woods, but at the end of the fields that would ultimately define the very end of our street when I reached high school, there were more trees and a different kind of magic.
First, on the edge of the fields was an embankment. The ancient trees on its edge held hanging ropes, thicker than my wrists, aged vines of wild grapevine, black and fibrous. We would hold on to them and leap over the edge making Tarzan yells, then swing down to the lower forest floor on the natural ropes. There some of the vines formed swings created by their gigantic loops, and we each could swing to our heart’s content kicking our feet against the ferns that carpeted the forest floor. But better even than these wonders, the next path led to “The Creek.”‘
At the crick, spring started with rivulets tricking in the snow, then growing faster, whirling dangerously. As the melting water grew, it twisted and turned in narrow, rocky spaces and flowed beneath the ice of wider, smoother pools where only weeks before we skated. Spring at the crick was frigid, as the fast, furious water filled every bit of space.
So, one late summer day, as I teetered at the edge of childhood, I got everyone to agree to the great Crick Adventure. We would be Columbus, or Champlain, or Magellan. We would discover the source of the water…and still be back in time for dinner.With lunches packed we set off early, fearless explorers ready for anything!
Love is something you can’t describe. Like the Look of a Rose, The Smell of the Rain, The Feeling of Forever.
Valentine’s Day is about elegant paper cards that seek to capture the nuances of love. It’s about big bouquets of flowers meant to impress your friends…and melt your heart. Women, including me, love it.
He knew I was the one when we met. He says he decided then and there that he was going to marry me. He told me he could even envision me having his child.

So, don’t misunderstand, I love Valentine’s Day. Doug’s has cultivated florists and sent me gorgeous flowers for untold years. Of course, he has also accompanied them with things like a poem written on toilet paper! But what really made me the envy of my friends was that he not only sent flowers all year long, but that he left no doubt for anyone about how much I am loved. So, please, do enjoy this Valentine’s Day. Relish the smell of the roses, the lusciousness of the chocolates. Tear up at the sentiment in the cards. I will. Valentine’s Day is great! It’s fun and it can be very romantic.
But what I wish for all those I love, for all my friends, and for everyone who reads this, is more. I wish that you know real love – love from the depths of a “professional” heart that makes you feel treasured and special and complete.
What is the sound of one hand clapping?
So, it is not about thinking anything, especially not puzzling it out as if there is an answer, i.e. Sarcastic “the same as the sound of two hands,” clever “fingers popping against the palm of your hand,” or oppositional “whatever you want it to sound like.” It’s about knowing or experiencing.
, when I pray and meditate, the world with all its problems drops away, stress drains from my body, and energy and joy fill my heart. I am at peace. It both feels mindless (not fixated on self, problems, mind) and mindful (very aware, but with an awareness focused outward.)
The last step, doing this for yourself, I obviously can’t do. But a focus, or focal point tool can help. That’s not quite doing it entirely on your own….but can help get there by moving focus outward. Some people can watch a candle flame or stroke a smooth stone. Some chant a word to keep other words out of their mind (which really doesn’t work for me.) For some of my anxious clients, I have even given recordings of my voice to help use as an anchor to a previously relaxing meditation I have done with them.
I remember a retreat I once led where I was paired with a woman who had MS. When we discussed meditation, she said it didn’t work for her. She couldn’t “shut off her mind” or close off thoughts or worries or fears that popped into her consciousness when she tried it. I said my mind did that to me, too, but I stuck with my breathing, deepened and slowed it. Then, almost like I was a separate being from my brain, I could think, “Oh, ok,I need to remember to do that report at work tomorrow” and let that thought go…along with any other interruption bubbling up into my brain, “Yes, and Johnny needs me to sign his permission slip.” I imagine those thoughts drifting away from me, the ‘person’ breathing in the chair, as if a gentle stream flowed past me taking those thoughts away. I am aware of them, but let them recede from me.
Then, when there is finally only me, only silence, only breath, I can pour my spirit outward and let God’s spirit pour in. It is a moment of infinity in the finite.
“Disaster Strikes. Almost before the dust settles, the dog and handler teams are there, searching for victims alive and dead. With a sense of smell far more powerful than man’s and an ability to probe nooks and crannies that humans cannot penetrate, these dogs save lives and bring comfort to the families whose friends and relatives succumbed in the tragedy.” Canis Major.com
On September 11, 2001, the World Trade Center Twin Towers were attacked and fell.
By the 15th, we were working at an aide station set up on a dust-covered girder that had fallen from the South Tower (WTC2) providing food, water, and a listening ear when weary firefighters came down from “the pile” where, assisted by rescue dog teams, they dug with shovels and carried debris in buckets, urgently searching to find survivors.
Over the last few years, my husband has had a number of health issues which may have been caused by our exposure to the dust and toxic air at Ground Zero. Last week brought a trip to the ER and a hospital admission.
Then, I looked up the quote. As used in the movie, I learned the sheepdog reference was intended to indicate those willing to use violence to protect people. That is certainly true of our police and military, but not a real fit for Doug and me.
Doug and I, like the firefighters of FDNY, are more search and rescue dogs. We go after the sheep. We lead them to safety even if we risk our own lives. At our best, that is what firefighters, ministers, and social workers do.
The other event that really brought this metaphor home to me was a trip to the 911 Memorial. Right after Doug was discharged from the hospital, Gretchen and I went to New York City. (I went to have a medical consult there, last Thursday, again a possible residual from my time at Ground Zero.)
Firefighters, clergyman, police, FBI, iron workers, social workers, volunteers, and the military were everywhere working at Ground Zero. Noble dogs…ready to lay down their lives for the sheep. It is the greatest honor of my life to be among them…it was a gift to share that experience with Doug and all who served.