New Beginnings

Evidently, I’m nesting.  This insight literally dawned on me during an early morning cup of coffee on the back porch, while I was mesmerized by a couple of highly motivated, serious-minded sparrows working nonstop to fill a bird house as big as a shoe box with nesting materials for the purpose of laying 5 eggs about the size of jelly beans.  A bit of overkill on the birds’ part maybe, yet I recognized their flurry of energy as being much like my own this time of year.  The restlessness and regeneration urges I have been experiencing for a couple of weeks are a lot like my feathered friends and soon-to-be parents.  Not that I plan additions to my family anytime soon; it’s just that this time of the year seems to evoke new beginnings in all parts of my life.  I mean, it is a season of renewal and daylight saving time (even though it’s dark-thirty when I awaken and get out of bed now), when plants are budding and blooming, and my ultra self-motivated girlfriends are inspired to clean out their closets.  That morning, I was reminded that Spring has always been my second favorite time of year.  Yes, second.  You see, my family has had five generations to acclimate to the Texas heat, and as a result, I am plenty comfortable in 100 degrees, thank you.  So, that would mean I consider Summer as the golden season, however Spring is a close runnerup. 

The other day, I met a new colleague who sheepishly recounted his recent relocation from an East Coast state, having not been so blessed as to be born below the Mason-Dixon line, but explained that he got to Texas as fast as he could.  He was also quick to say that, despite warnings from northern friends about the intense southern heat, he had fared quite well during his first August in Texas.  He went further to admit that, while he would probably import snow to East Texas just for Christmas Day, he was otherwise happy with his new homeland and its ever-changing forecast.  It was reflective of the true saying that if you don’t care for the weather in Texas, just be patient and wait a day, because it will surely change.  Anyway, this optimistic soul is starting fresh in a strange land (not strange in general, mind you, just strange to him because it was different.)  As I remarked to him, especially for a Yankee, he had a truly exemplary attitude.  Good for him!

The undeniable truth is this: no matter what your preferred time of year, Spring presents a unique opportunity to soar to new heights.  So, I have decided to emulate both the sparrow couple and my Texas transplant friend.  I will rebuild my nest, take advantage of the change in seasons to walk through newly opened doors, and maybe even take a chance on something strange or different.  I thank the good Lord for the Spring flowers, the longer days, my replenished get-up-and-go, and baby birds that will soon learn to fly.  And I can’t help but look forward to a golden Summer.

If You Can’t Say Anything Nice…

Trash talking.  Talking smack.  Bad mouthing.  Back stabbing.  Name calling.  Cat fighting.  Telling tales.  Disrespect.  Gossip.  It’s all the same.  The generations change, but the meaning never does. 

One of my Momma’s most persistent verbal lessons to my baby sister and me was, and I quote from vivid memory: “If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all.” That advice rings in my head more than any other (and in my baby sister’s head, too, because I remind her of it whenever she points out one of my shortcomings.)  To some, it may not mean much more than an admonition to “be nice”, but it goes way deeper than that, my friends.  It beckons back to a genteel, mannerly way of life that my generational Texan ancestors considered natural.  It is a derivative of the Biblical law to “love thy neighbor as thyself.”  In other words, avoid negative talk about someone else that you wouldn’t want said about you.  Pretty simple and timeless, huh? 

From experience, I have come to believe it’s just a better choice in the long run to wear the white hat.  (For my transplant Texan friends, the good guy always wears the white hat in old western movies…)  You would hope that folks we depend on the most in our lives - our leaders - would be the first to wear the white hat, to treat each other in a kinder, gentler way.  Every morning, the television talking heads shriek with news of those in my federal government who have had the meanest sound bite in the past 36 hours.  Sometimes I shriek back at them (yes, I do admit to yelling at the TV), questioning what exactly did that mean or does the truth count for anything anymore, etc., etc.  Even on a local level, it seems that it is not always easy to keep the dirt off that white Stetson when you’re in the bull pen of life. 

 

Maybe this is one reason that, in the minds of many folks, politics is a dirty word, but I say the political world in its purest form is noble, respectable and one of my favorite fields.  I come by that naturally, as the product of a father who routinely wrote letters to newspaper editors, exchanged opinions with all of his government representatives, and had strong beliefs on just about everything - all without mud-slinging, I might add.  It was his grandfather who was our first Texan family politician over 100 years ago.  I came across a childhood diary recently where, on November 6, 1968, a little 10-year-old girl I once was wrote: “NIXON WON! I am so happy!”  While I don’t exactly recall penning that entry, I do remember having an opinionated encounter about my Daddy’s choice in the presidential race on the 4^th grade school bus, and being required to sit next to the bus driver for the ride home.  I also retain a vision of standing on a street corner holding my first “Vote For” sign at age 12.  So, it is probably genetic that I am fond of most things political, but in a positive way.  And being political does not rule out being civil. 

To this day, Momma maintains that highlighting the faults of others doesn’t serve to brighten the glow of your own halo - or your own white hat - same thing.  In other words, no trash talking.  Or, as spelled out by another great lady named Aretha (Franklin, that is, but then, is there really any other “Aretha”?) - R-E-S-P-E-C-T.