The Princess Bride

There is a line in the 1987 movie, The Princess Bride, which I have never forgotten. When Buttercup pushes Westley down a mountainside, he tumbles down the steep incline saying as he rolls and rolls, "As you wish..." which really meant, "I love you." He did indeed love her, and when she heard those words she knew he was her beloved farm hand, not the Dread Pirate Roberts he pretended to be. As you wish...I love you...Today, letting the three words play across my tongue, I imagined ways I could repeat that line. Like when someone asks you to go shopping and all and you want to do is recline on the sofa and read a good book. My higher self would get up off the couch and go to the mall. As you wish. A radiant sunset begins its descent, the beauty holding your breath hostage. You clasp the hand next to yours, giving it a gentle squeeze. As you wish. A neighbor takes ill and is recuperating in a nursing home. You water two lawns instead of one. As you wish. The storms of life cause you to stumble, and your world is turned inside out like a reversible poncho. When you cry out in despair, a vision of two arms raised and a crown of thorns blankets your eyes. I love you. In the movie, when the grandson asks the grandfather to return the next day and re-read the story, The Princess Bride, the grandfather replies, As you wish. In my imagination, the grandfather revisits as often as he is asked, and in a gentle yet excited tone, he repeats the same lines as if the boy had never heard the tale before.

Oh Sweet Lavender

The gentleman at the Farmer's Market offered me a slender sprig of lavender. Accepting the gift, I smiled and gave my thanks. Then I brought the bud toward my nose and inhaled deeply. The fragrance transported me backward in time, to a place where every daughter goes and needs to return to occasionally. The sweet smell filled my senses and with each breath I saw her more clearly. Her gloved hands holding the trowel, her eyes dancing with laughter, and her distant demeanor when I craved a gentle hug. I think I have a guardian angel who leads me to the aromatic flower when I need it the most. Like when life is unsettled and your feet can't find the right path. Or when your firstborn grandchildren will enter this world without a great-grandmother's touch. I read that lavender is resilient, hardy, and that most gardeners succumb to the urge to grow the plant. I have one in my backyard. My mother gave it to me. I wonder if she knew I would need to sniff the buds from time to time. To recall, to appreciate, to forgive. I like to think that the bond between a mother and daughter is as strong as a lavender plant. No matter the disappointments, the bruises, or unfulfilled expectations, the love between the two stands tall. And when secret memories are shared, whether through thought or word, they will always be framed by beauty, peace and undying love.

May I Have This Dance?

I stretched my leg across the black bar, leaned forward slightly to give my hamstring an extra tug. My gaze panned the gym, landing on a tall Asian gentleman moving ever so gracefully around the perimeter of the weight machines. He appeared oblivious to the people surrounding him, the grunts, chatter and piped music. He moved smoothly in fluid motion, his feet making deft half-circles, his arms extended like he was dancing with a partner in a ballroom. Continuing my stretching, covertly watching this stranger, I thought to myself, who does he pretend he is dancing with? Did he have a wife? Was he a widower? A girlfriend? Can he see me gawking his way? It got me thinking. Could I tune out the rest of the world for twenty minutes and pretend my moves were the most beautiful thing on earth? That it didn't matter if sweaty people stared at me? Then I took it one step further. If I closed my eyes, held out my arms, and pretended I was dancing with Jesus, who I believe would not make fun of me, how would I feel? Serene? Protected? Peaceful? I've never really considered the idea of physically dancing with Jesus. I wonder if perhaps He isn't already patiently waiting in the middle of the dance floor. His face illuminated by the glistening chandelier, his foot tapping to the beat, his heart praying for me to hear the music He planted in my soul. I don't know who the Asian man danced with, but I know his expression carried a look of pure contentment. Maybe I will pop in a CD, kick my shoes off and fox-trot around my living room. You just never know who might cut in.

Baby, Baby, Can't You hear My Heartbeat

How many ways can a heart break? A bad break-up with a boyfriend, or worse, your boyfriend dates your best friend. A divorce. A loved one dies all too sudden. You lost your job and cannot understand the reason. Or you don't listen to your heart, and live a life that leaves you bored, listless and frustrated. The Bible states specifically, guard your heart, for it is the wellspring of life. I wrote a line in my book...without the heart you can't find your way home. Greeting cards show pictures of red hearts with loving sentiments written inside. The heart is love. It is life-affirming. The other day I watched on a big flat screen two tiny hearts beat. Stunned, I moved closer to catch a better look. Yes, the technician said, that is the heart. I looked at my daughter, who had a wide grin pasted on her face. She is three months pregnant, and had the awesome experience of witnessing her twins' hearts beat. This made me ponder the magnificence of the human heart. These hearts were the centerpiece of the stage, they thumped, pounded, and were illuminated like shining stars. Yes, the hands and feet moved and yes, the spine shone like a fluorescent toy wand, but there was no mistaking the power of those two tiny organs. Before the doctor finished, she said, just think, those hearts could beat for ninety more years. I was thinking today of how I could guard my heart. To protect it and appreciate its goodness. For surely, it is the wellspring of life.

Super Hero Dogs

I saw a movie recently, where one of the characters owned a dog. Not just any dog, but a canine with the unique ability to detect ahead of time, the onset of an epileptic seizure. And I heard on the radio yesterday of dogs who aid people with diabetes. I thought about this for awhile. I chewed on the possibility of training my dog, Frazier, to help me out. I don't mean to belittle the importance of the helpful companions to all of those people who suffer from disabilities and illnesses. I simply wondered if I could get some assistance on a regular basis. Like when my husband hugs the car ahead of ours on the freeway, and I inhale audibly, causing him to jerk his head my way, the veins on his neck bulging. Or when someone enters my bubble at the grocery store, their breath brushes my neck, and I shoot them an icy stare. If my dog had proper training, could he protect me from myself? Would he then warn me when I am about to act in anger, fear, or just plain foolishness? Perhaps he would nudge me, lick my hand, or bark, distracting me from voicing a new complaint or a sarcastic remark. I believe my dog would be loyal to the end, even if I suffered momentarily from a sudden bout of road rage. His adorable head poking out of the car window would surely stop another driver from fits of revenge. This of course, is after Frazier gave me fair warning. My dog would be fully trained in back-up plans. After all, that is why they are called a man's (or woman's) best friend.

Can You Smell The Roses?

My brother is a gardener. He creates multi-colored beds, plants smiling marigolds, hangs plants galore, whose names I never remember. When I step onto his patio, the sound of water cascades from various water features. It reminds me of a mini Multnomah Falls. Beautiful yard decorations are ingeniously placed throughout. Sweet smells arise from the plants, the names escape me. Purple, sunflower-yellow, orange, violet and a rainbow of other colors dot the landscape. I sigh with envy, return home and spray my petunias for teensy black bugs. Because my brother told me to. I really care about my flowers, I really do. But recently I have wondered if I care a little too much. A number of years ago, God spoke to me and said...I am in the flowers you love. That shook me up. Maybe He meant if I fertilized more, my spiritual growth would pick up in a furious pace. Or, perhaps He meant I needed to plant extra flowers and worry about aphids, mildew and slimy slugs. Then the other day, I snipped off a pale pink rose, inhaled the rich scent and it hit home. I realized He already knew my deep appreciation for splendorous flowers. He understood that something so wonderful, so easily captured within our eye sight and in our senses, was a gift to be treasured. Not something to fret over or feed insecurities. I am not a master gardener, or even a plant enthusiast, but I have a greater respect and awe for the gifts in the midst of my every day life. Especially in my garden.