Good Friday

Today is a solemn day as we remember Jesus’ suffering at the hands of soldiers and a large crowd of Roman citizens who blindly joined in the fray perhaps not even having true convictions of their own. Simply because they were followers. Simply because since they heard accusations hurled at Jesus, they figured they must be true. Simply because they were angry.

We know there is a joyous ending to be celebrated in three days, but thinking about those roaring crowds watching the vicious treatment of a fellow citizen without fully understanding the so-called charges nor imagining the cruel outcome got me to thinking about anger. 

There are parallels to the Good Friday account throughout history; many others, martyrs, who were unjustly denied any kind of trial, innocents who suffered because of the orders of a leader who at the root of it all, was angry, a crowd who blindly followed. And we know the accounts throughout ages of imprisoned and tortured victims of war, the power of angry leaders who put them there with seemingly no conscience whatsoever and not a single ounce of regard for humanity. An entire race could simply be annihilated in Germany. Another race could be bought and sold into slavery, treated as inferior beings.

In what we think of as our civilized world, has much changed? Would the people in Ukraine, Gaza, Syria say it has? We still have the crowds who blindly follow a leader, an angry leader. Look at the images we see today, study the faces. Here and in countries abroad, you will see anger. And the consequences are always in the end the same.

Perhaps we’re slow to learn, slow to understand, lessons from the past. Is our society really all that different from Jesus’ day, the Good Friday of long ago? Do we have any power or ability to change it? My personal belief is a resounding YES. We can be in that crowd that insists on justice, peace, equality, kindness, generosity, compassion. That will always speak louder than anger.

Thank you for visiting and thinking I have something worthwhile to say.

Ironing

 Who irons anymore? 

I’m reasonably certain that my kids and grandkids don’t own an iron or ironing board. And today I’m trying to figure out what about me says that I need to iron my freshly washed and wrinkled clothing, some of which I wouldn’t think of wearing until I’ve ironed them.

The problem is, I usually don’t have time to iron on laundry day so my clothes get hung on hangers awaiting my attention. But then another laundry day comes along. More hangers. And another. More hangers. So today, given that I’m running out of clothes to wear, I’m ironing.

Remember back when the ironing board was almost like a piece of furniture? In our house, it was always set up, never taken down, at the ready for Mom’s basket of ironing. For a family of eight, that darn 🧺 basket multiplied until clothes toppled over, then another basket was filled. 

And, as the oldest of six, take a wild guess at whose job it was to do the weekly ironing. Mind you, this didn’t always mean just the clothing we wore. No, pillowcases, handkerchiefs, kitchen towels and more went into the basket too (although those always got ironed first because they were easy).

But, wait. Before ironing, everything was sprinkled with water from a pop bottle with a sprinkler top held firmly in place by a cork. You sprinkled, sprinkled some more, then rolled up the clothing to supposedly stay damp which supposedly made the ironing easier. By the time I got to the ironing, I never encountered anything damp.

But when the iron was heated and doing its job, steaming away on clean clothing as it made wrinkles disappear, the smell was heavenly. And there was a satisfying feeling as you finished one of Dad’s shirts, a house dress of Mom’s, a stack of pillow cases, your four sisters’ dresses. By the time the basket was empty, you felt as though you climbed Mount Everest. And you gave yourself several pats on the back for this major accomplishment.

Well, today my ironing chore pales in comparison to those days. But I can’t wear wrinkled shirts and my jeans and slacks need creases.

Oh, kids, you don’t know what you’re missing.

Thanks for the visit today and for thinking my random thoughts 💭 are worth reading.

Whirlwind

That’s the most apt description of my state of affairs since I’ve returned home from Arizona. Coupled with the busy-ness and the speed at which the days whiz by, everything seems to take me longer. I don’t focus as well and find myself taking frequent rests and breaks. 

This isn’t a malady exclusive to me. Others my (ahem) age have reported the same.

I have a problem with non-productivity. Not sure where in my past this comes from, short of my inherited work ethic. Thanks, Dad.

Contributing to the whirlwind is my tendency to take on too much, sign up for anything and everything, while underestimating the time and energy required.  

I joined a Facebook group of people trying to declutter with various degrees of success. They post their dilemmas, frustrations and tips for how they’re making it work. So after several days of reading their posts, I got the declutter bug and I’m going after it with fervor. And in doing so, I’m learning much about myself. 

Weeding through my collections of things, it’s little wonder I’m constantly overwhelmed. I have more stitching charts, fabric, threads and supplies than I could possibly use in several lifetimes. Scrapbooking and card making? Yep, paper, tools, ribbon, embellishments—more than it’s even possible to use. Knitting—you got me there, too. Every size knitting needles, yarn and patterns fill a cupboard and big basket. 

Do we have to talk about my books?  Bookshelves overflowing, stacks of books in various places, boxes of books under the bed. The more I try to thin them out, the more they grow. They’ve taken over the house. It would be near impossible to read them all.

So I’m trying to figure out how to declutter my mind. Having so much stuff and accumulating more and more and more takes up valuable real estate in my head. I’m slowly and painfully working on letting go and bringing my collections to a more realistic and manageable level. Why does that sound so good yet is so hard to do?

It’s tough getting there and it’s a slow process. There’s mourning involved in letting go. But I’m after the freedom that comes with the effort, freeing my mind, freeing my time, freeing my space.

Sigh….

Thanks for visiting today and reading my random thoughts.