Joan Bauer's Journal

Words from an Old Box

I found this quote on a greeting card that I'd thrown in an old box:

"Whatever you can do or dream you can do, begin it.  Boldness has genius, power and magic in it."

-- Goethe

I have several things I need to begin. I have thought around them, but not begun them. I used to have this quote up in my office. I'm not sure why I took it down. It's like a firm hand on my shoulder leading me to step out and just begin. Beginnings don't have to be perfect or pretty, but they do need to start. But I don't have time, I'll say. Or it's late or it's early or I'm not sure I can...

I found another quote. this one by Frederick Buechner. It was stuck in the old box along with Goethe's challenge.  It always shocks me with it's power.

"The place where God wants you is where your deep gladness and the world's hunger meet."

And a third one jumped out at me.

"A man's got to take a lot of punishment to write a really funny book."

-- Ernest Hemingway

Well, they're out on my desk now -- these thoughts I've loved from years ago that now seem like a song in three-part harmony. I know one thing -- I won't be able to ignore them. It is good to rummage through an old box every now and then.  

Simple Treasures

There's something about hearing the right word at the right time. I have friends who are awfully good at sensing how I'm doing and speaking something to me that always encourages and lifts my spirits. Being an encourager is so important and it's something that everyone, young and old, can do. I think people are hungry for encouragement. The other day someone dear to me found out about a medical condition that could be serious. After we had spoken about it several times, I began to think of all the ways this person has made my life special. There were so many things I just took for granted; the power of this life came rushing at me with such clarity. I need to write it down, I need to share it. My mother just beat cancer for the second time and do you know what she kept praying for during the process?  A merry heart.  That would never have occurred to me. I would want the right medicine and the cancer to be gone and my pain to go away. It's not that Mom didn't want those things to happen, but she knew the power of joy and how it can lift the days.  

I'm interested in studies that ask what makes people happy. Again and again the answer isn't in the big things -- a new job, new house, etc. But real contentment comes in small, satisfying moments strung together in the days and weeks. I have a friend who understands the power in simple treasures. She'll find a shell on a beach and give it to me; she'll send me a special thought in an email. These are rich treasures of love and friendship and they are critically important because they are moments of encouragement. This week with banks failing and politics raging, I am looking at one of the best presents my husband ever gave me. It's a rock with the word LAUGH carved inside. He gave it to me years ago during a time when I wasn't laughing much. I don't know about you, but I need to laugh these days -- not at the hard times, but in spite of them. And with so much uncertainty in the world, I need to hold tight to what can never be shaken.    

Don't Give Up

I was in a car accident twenty years ago. A man in a Volvo station wagon rammed into my car. I remember that I had a two page TO DO list when I drove off that morning. I was convinced that my life would go down the toilet if I didn't get everything accomplished on that list. Nothing got done. I wish I'd kept that list to remind me of what's really important.

I thought about this when I got an email from a friend in Houston describing what Hurricane Ike had done. Early this morning the death toll was 28, millions are without power, thousands have been rescued, many are still trapped. The devastation can't be understood. Is it possible that Galveston, Texas is close to gone?  That seems to be the case. We're still reeling from Hannah, still broken by Katrina. So many people in New Orleans are still living in FEMA trailers, hundreds of thousands of school kids in Houston alone will have no schools for an extended time. We all know that life can change so suddenly. We know that, and yet when it happens, we're brought to our knees again and again.  Will the levees hold?  Will the cancer be cured?  Will more banks fold?  Will the pain of so much loss keep us down too long?

There is something about dark times that shakes loose a greater power if we let it. I continue to be astounded by the human spirit that keeps bouncing back. That's what we're seeing now and will continue to see in the weeks, months, and years to come. What can we do now? Write a check. Collect supplies. Pray to be used, pray for the flood ravaged areas. What can we say to those who saw the fury of this storm? We won't turn away -- we promise. Don't give up. Don't give up. Don't give up.

Lord, make us instruments of your peace.     

Holding Hands

Today I am remembering, from all the memories of September 11th, the first plane ride I took after the terrorist attacks.  It was two to three weeks after the attacks and getting on an airplane in New York was close to the last thing I wanted to do.  I don't remember ever being so frightened about flying.   

I got to LaGuardia Airport, so grateful for the bomb-sniffing dogs in their yellow jackets, the armed soldiers watching everything and everyone.  I got in line to board the plane to Chicago.  It was unusually quiet in that line.  We moved slowly toward the cabin.  Instead of the flight attendant there to greet us stood the pilot.  And this guy was from central casting.  Deep voice, chiseled jaw.  He said hello to each one of us, making eye contact, shaking our hands, and that helped because when Gregory Peck is flying your airplane it tends to make you feel secure. I found my seat -- it was next to an older gentleman -- and we instantly began talking, like so many on the plane did with their seat mates.  He was a retired art history professor from NYU going to visit his granddaughter for her birthday.  He looked at me and said, "You know, this is hard being here." I said, yes, it was for me too. We talked about the attacks, where we were, how we were trying to process.  It was good to talk about it, to not just keep it inside.  The door closed and a woman behind me was crying softly.  The plane headed for the runway and I thought, my God, please get us to Chicago safely.  Please.  The art history professor said to me, "I'm not trying to be fresh, but would you mind if I held your hand when we take off?"  We clasped hands as the plane headed down the runway and lifted into the sky.  We sat there for a while holding hands.  I don't remember who let go first.  

There are moments when we just need to be real and grab somebody's hand. That man will always be part of my road to healing.  

Life With Pie

I made an apple pie today to thank my husband for helping me with my website.  I made the dough from scratch, as always.  This dough is so flaky and thin, it's worth all the anxiety I feel when I begin to roll it out.  In fifteen years of making this pie, I’ve rarely achieved a perfect circle.  The first few times my dough was shaped like Texas, then it began to look like Australia, once when I used very old shortening the dough broke off into little sections resembling the Philippine Islands.  Once my daughter said, “Mom, it looks just like Lebanon,” the shape of which didn’t instantly jump to mind.  Pie making and geography have always been linked for me.

I learned how to make this pie from a friend in Connecticut.  Eugenia had been in a bad accident and lived with chronic pain. Sometimes I could see the pain she carried etched across her face.  But when she made a pie, she was happy.  It takes forever to make an apple pie from scratch, and whenever I do it I feel like I should be wearing a gingham apron and looking out over the back forty watching for Pa to come in from the fields.  My husband came up from his office where he’d been building databases for his clients.  His hands weren’t dirty from working the soil, but his back was sore.  He saw the pie just out of the oven.  His eyes got moist.  

That’s the thing about a pie -- it harkens you back to another time; it calls you to sit down at the table with a big glass of milk and dig in.  It’s not like a cake, and don’t get me wrong, I love cake--but a pie requires more of you -- more of your focus, more of your day, more of your emotions.  You can’t scarf down a piece of pie down standing by the sink or tuck it in a napkin and take it to your room.  That’s messing with the rules of heritage. A piece of pie has to be eaten at a table;  you need to give yourself to the experience. 

My daughter is a fine cook and for years I kept offering to teach her how to make a fruit pie.  “I’m not ready yet,” she’d say.  I suppose it was because she’d been an eyewitness to my dough angst.  But this summer my daughter and I made two pies together --  cherry and blueberry.  From the first roll of her pin, the dough seemed to obey under Jean’s hands.  We had to step over Max my puppy who loves to stretch out in the middle of the kitchen floor and look so cute you just can’t help but give him treats and rub his stomach.  It was one of those blessed afternoons that you want to seal up in plastic and keep forever.  

Eugenia died many years ago, but this is what she gave me.  And every time I make a pie I remember the night I sat in her kitchen and she wouldn’t let me leave until I got it right.  I got home that night at 1 AM proudly toting my first apple pie.  I don’t think we fully understand the power that’s released when we take the time to share something we love.