 If you were to see this nutcracker, or similar version in a store, you might glance at him briefly and pass on by. Granted, he's adorned with some flashy gold glitter and sparkly glass, even gold braids and epaulets, but nothing extraordinary in the world of nutcrackers. Nothing sets him apart, and yet he is special. He belonged to someone special.   My mother collected nutcrackers. Each year she placed them around the house, sometimes at the base of the piano, others on the mantel, or scattered them from room to room where they royally greeted whoever entered. I never asked her why she collected them, which ones particularly caught her eye. Did she have a story to tell about one of them? I wish I had. At the end of each holiday season, she wrapped them carefully in the same scraps of newspaper and cushioned them in a large, blue plastic storage bin...the same bin I opened a few weeks ago. The same scraps of newsprint surrounded the familiar faces, now looking up at a daughter carrying on her mother's tradition. I added a nutcracker to my mother's collection about fifteen years ago when Drew and I lived in Moscow. We often visited Izmailovo, a combination flea market, bazaar, arts, crafts, antiques, souvenirs, Soviet memorabilia shopping extravaganza. During one visit, I happened upon an artisan selling his handcrafted nutcrackers. They looked nothing like the glitzy, polished versions in my mother's assembly. I wanted to ask the man about how he made them, whether he thought his creations might be truer to what Tchaikovsky, a fellow Russian, had in mind when he wrote the famous ballet. Unfortunately, my Russian and his English did not allow for that conversation to happen. When I gave the Russian nutcracker to my mother, I'm not sure that she fully appreciated his "plainness." She thanked me with her usual graciousness, though, and he showed up every year thereafter alongside his store-bought companions. After all, I had given it to her.
As I finish wrapping our family's Christmas presents this year, I fret (one of my mother's favorite words) about whether I have just the right gift for each person. The nutcrackers, in their collective wisdom, remind me - once again - that it's not the gift, but the love of the person who gives it, that makes it special. Wishing you love and peace, Twylla
2 Comments
 I was expecting an Amazon box as I glanced through the window onto our front porch. To my delight, there sat a rock – a good-sized rock with succulents growing from its hollowed center. Papers fluttered underneath one corner. To some people, the appearance of a rock on their porch might be strange, cause feelings of apprehension, alarm even. But I was overjoyed, and I knew exactly who had left it. I love rocks! They feel wise to me, holding records of our past, while continuing to evolve through eons of change around them. When I sit among rocks, I feel their patience and am reminded, once again, to be present. One of my favorite places to spend time with rocks is on the beaches at the Shrine of St. Therese in Juneau, Alaska. Our family lived in Juneau several years ago, and we return from time to time to visit good friends and familiar places. Drew and I were there a couple of weeks ago, and I wandered along the Shine's beaches, searching for just the right rocks to create a cairn...a balanced stack of stones, which has meaning to its creator. They're often used to mark hiking trails, to remember loved ones, delineate boundaries. But for me, the actions of searching, stacking, balancing, then reflecting is contemplative.  Among the many, I picked a few to bring home and re-create an Alaskan cairn in our backyard.  I added it to the new arrival, along with a few of my most treasured rocks.  Where did the front porch rock come from? Roberta, a dear neighbor and friend, gifted it to me from her father's sizable collection of unique rocks and fossils, arranged in her lovely backyard garden. The papers beneath the rock highlight the life of her father, Dr. Dean Blackburn, fondly remembered as a "Gentleman's Gentleman." He entrusted the collection to Roberta for its safe keeping. She, in turn, will pass it along to her family.
I am grateful for Roberta's gift, not only of a remarkable rock, but of memories shared. Each rock tells a story, its own, and the person who connects with it. Rocks remind us that it is the connections – the stories – that remain.   Most mornings I stick in my EarPods (the old fashioned kind) and head out for a 2-mile walk, plenty of time to listen to a few more chapters of the next mystery on my list. I usually pick a mystery or suspense novel because it keeps me guessing, eager to pick up the next morning where I left off. Sometimes I'll listen as I clean, cook or putter, but it doesn't feel the same. Part of my mind still needs to focus on the task at hand; but when walking, it's just the story and me, except for the occasional dog or crosswalk. I recently updated to a new iPhone. The first morning after my purchase, I scooped it off the table, grabbed my EarPods and proceeded to connect them as usual. But, as I should have guessed, they were not compatible. (Apple does this on purpose, you know.) What was I to do without a narrator to keep me company; nothing to fill my ears and fuel my imagination? Just the fact that I was asking this question was not a good sign. For the next 45 minutes or so, I followed one of my usual routes across the pedestrian bridge to the Hendrix College campus, feeling somewhat lonely, if one can feel lonely without a device. Again, not a good sign. I crisscrossed the sidewalks, beneath the shade of leafy oaks, past a quintette of fountains, red brick buildings waiting for students to return, flower beds overflowing with color, a koi pond with koi too timid to make an appearance, and the labyrinth, waking up in the early morning sunshine. I sat on one of the benches along the perimeter of the labyrinth, soaking in the scenes through which I had just passed. Free from competing distractions, my ears welcomed sounds of birds, cars, a passing train, fellow walkers in conversation – my own breath. The following two days, I walked in different directions, towards downtown Conway (Arkansas) then the local nature preserve, each time with the intention to pay attention. Retracing my steps home, I wondered, "Can I recall at least 5 things I just saw, heard or felt?" A straightforward question, but the answer would have been debatable on mornings when I was absorbed in a storyline; but when unplugged, there was no doubt. Not only could I remember details of the world around me, but many of my internal thoughts as well. Being the journaling person I am, I found a small, blank notebook in my desk and started writing..."5 or More Things I Noticed on my Walk."   My compatible EarPods have arrived, and I've resumed the heroine's search for clues to the murder, but not every morning. A Pause, uninvited and initially unappreciated, has created a change in my routine. I now listen to a book 3 days a week, leave my phone behind for 3 days, and have that second cup of coffee on day 7.
A Pause...an opportunity for intention (For background information about why I'm in Jeju, please refer to previous posts.) I'll be on a plane headed back to the U. S. on World Labyrinth Day, May 3, when thousands of people will be walking labyrinths all over the world. Walk As One At 1:00 is the annual theme, creating a rolling wave of peaceful energy which spreads across the planet, from time zone to time zone. According to the World-Wide Labyrinth Locator, there's not a labyrinth on Jeju island or South Korea, for that matter; so even if I were here, I would "walk" in a different way. I planned to print a paper labyrinth from the internet and trace the path with my finger that day, somewhere between Seoul and Dallas. Still, I knew I would miss the experience of an actual walk. If only... Can you guess where this is going? Let me tell you the story. On Good Friday I drove to St. Isidore Catholic Retreat Center, about 20 minutes from our apartment to stroll through the peaceful gardens and eat lunch at the small café. Never one to pass up a gift shop, I stopped by on my way back to the parking lot. It was filled mostly with religious items – rosary beads, crosses, art work of Madonna and Child – and an interesting display of woolen blankets, with a Chartres labyrinth on them.  "Why a labyrinth?" I wondered, rubbing my fingers over the familiar design. Surely other religious symbols would be more appropriate for this setting – unless – I hesitated only briefly before I picked up one of the blankets and walked to the check out counter where a clerk was waiting on another customer. While they spoke in Korean, I quickly typed my question in the Google Translate app, anticipating that she might not speak English. When it was my turn, I pointed to the labyrinth on the blanket and showed her my phone, "Is there a labyrinth in this area?" I waited, for what seemed far longer than the mere seconds it took her to answer, expecting that she would shake her head, look totally confused, or perhaps even laugh. But instead, she motioned for me to follow her to a wall map of the Center and its grounds. She pointed to a small circular pattern and said one word, "labyrinth."   I was stunned! What were the chances that there was actually a labyrinth, just across the parking lot? I bowed and repeated the only word I know in Korean, "Thank you," and walked toward a wall of lava rocks about 100 yards in the distance. I approached it slowly still convinced that there was not a labyrinth on the other side, that perhaps the map was old, had not been updated with current information, or that something had been lost in translation between the clerk and me. I took three steps beyond the wall and discovered....   A full-size,11-circuit Chartres labyrinth!!
Sudden rush of joy, disbelief, wonder. I felt like I had encountered a friend in an unexpected place. I circled the labyrinth's edge to a rock at the entrance and sat, simply sat in silence. In time I would journey the labyrinth's path, take photos of it, journal my reflections. But in that present moment, I savored the overwhelming emotion of gratitude. On May 2nd, I'll return and walk the St. Isidore labyrinth, a day before the official World Labyrinth Day. But ultimately, walking a labyrinth is a walk of peace, no matter what day of the year. I invite you to find a labyrinth in your area (check the Locator), print one to trace with your finger, download the app Labyrinth Journey on your phone or tablet, or join an online labyrinth walk with Reverend Dr. Lauren Artress of Veriditas. I wish you peace wherever your path is leading you. May you be open to possibilities, even in the most unlikely of places. Twylla FYI - I have submitted the St. Isidore labyrinth to the administrator of the Labyrinth Locator so others can easily find it.  I left Jeju last November as the days were growing shorter, the air cooler and the winds gustier. I returned two weeks ago to cherry blossoms, camillas, vast fields of yellow canola flowers and wind – always wind on Jeju – one of its Three Abundances. (refer to previous blog post)    By the time I leave in May, the island will have returned to the lushness of its green grasses, shrubs, dense forests and invasive kudzu vines. Drew will follow me home in June when he completes his year as interim high school principal at Branksome Hall Asia international school.  I'm on my own most of the time while Drew works, so I continue exploring the island in our subcompact (tiny) Hyundai Casper. The navigation system, which I've named Gertrude (who knows why?), is my loyal traveling companion. She's nothing if not efficient with exact directions and unending commentary... "watch out for speed bumps ahead; in 300 meters take the next left – be careful not to take the wrong road; slow down, you're entering a school zone, slow down." I would turn her off, but am quite certain she would take offense.  Last week I discovered the most delicious sweet treat I've enjoyed so far in all my explorations around the island. Even the sign – a swirl of ice cream wearing a hat? – distracted me from the main purpose of my visit to the village of Aewol, the ocean. With the help of Google Translate, I asked the clerk, "What is the name?" as I pointed to the sign. She replied, in Google Translate, "Bread and Ice Cream." What else? I immediately ordered one then sat at a nearby table savoring the sweet and salty combination, as the roll released its sea salt sprinkles. To my delight, the remaining 2/3 of the roll was hidden under mounds of rich vanilla cream. Maybe after a walk along the ocean I would work up an appetite for seconds. Aewol, a village on Jeju's northwest shore, is described in my guidebook as a "hidden gem," although the shortage of empty parking spots and bus loads of school groups and tourists were clues that it has been discovered. I took the remaining bites of my Bread and Ice Cream along as I located one of the entrances to the Handam Trail, a paved path that follows the curve of the coastline for 1.2 km. I will let my photos speak for the beauty, and simply say that I was mesmerized by every imaginable shade of blue, dramatic formations of lava rock and the interplay of the two by the ever-present wind.    I had no need to return for more ice cream. I had been filled.
 This gate has intrigued me ever since we purchased our condo in Portland, Maine ten years ago. It's only a block down the street, and I pass by it each day on my morning walks...as I did last week. I once tried to open it, but it was locked. Not that I would have entered the expansive lawn and sat on one of the inviting benches, but I was tempted. I still am.  When the snow is long gone and the foliage is lush and thick in autumn's glow, I experience a mysterious sensation as I walk past. I wonder who planted it. Who, if anyone, tends it? Does anyone ever unlock the gate, go in or out?  I allow my imagination to be fueled by one of my most treasured books, The Secret Garden, by Frances Hodgson Burnett. I've read it three times, listened to the audio book and watched the 1993 version of the movie. When the book was published in 1911, it was described as a "children's novel," but has since become a favorite of adults. I never tire of the engaging characters, some in need of renewal as desperately as the garden they befriend. I imagine myself the 10-year-old heroine, Mary Lennox – newly orphaned – living on the forbidding estate of my reclusive uncle on the Yorkshire Moors. While exploring the grounds, I come upon a locked door almost totally hidden by brambles and vines . With the help of a robin who shows me where to find the key, I open the door to discover an abandoned garden in desperate need of care. As I become friends with a Yorkshire boy who knows the "wildness" of nature , together we clear away the dead and decayed, dig deep in rich, fertile soil and plant new seeds. Seeds of hope and healing, of connection and friendship.  In the spring flowers peek through and over the fence lining the not-so-secret garden in Portland. Its green lawn and bright collection of flowers are clearly visible for all to see. And yet, as I linger to smell their sweetness and touch their gentle petals, I wonder...
Perhaps the next time I'm there, I'll knock on the door and introduce myself to our neighbors. I'll express my gratitude for their lovely garden. Maybe we'll sit on a bench and become acquainted. A locked gate, opened. This was my advent calendar on December 1.  For the past 10 years, I have filled the calendar the same way, placing one candy cane in a pocket each day, ending on Christmas Day. So on this 20th day of December, the calendar would traditionally look like this...  But this year, it looks like this...  ...because I had a helper. Our nine-year-old grandson Matthew took on the task from an entirely different perspective. He filled all the pockets, assuming that I would remove a candy cane every day, instead of add one. Matthew's method, which made perfect sense to him, took me totally off guard. "The calendar is already filled," I said. "So what am I supposed to do each day?" He looked at me with polite confusion, waiting a few seconds for the light bulb to switch on. Obviously, I was stuck in the "this-is-the-way-it's-always-been-done" mentality, which shuts down all other perspectives except one – my own. As if one perspective/paradigm shift weren't enough for a day, daughter Katherine added another...  "Or you could do it this way," she suggested.
Of course, all you blog readers are already a step ahead of me, but this possibility never occurred to me either. In Katherine's method, all I ever needed was one – mobile – candy cane! So what is the moral of this advent calendar story? Be openminded Think differently/creatively/outside the box Look for alternative solutions Break out of your routine Explore off the beaten path Ask people what they think; listen to their answers Be sensitive to the ways people see the world differently Be flexible Take your pick or create your own. At the threshold of a new year, they all resonate HOPE to me. May 2025 bring us together in our differentness. Peace, Twylla A few days shy of two months ago, I landed on Jeju island, South Korea as I noted in my last posting. I leave this evening, flying a total of 15 hours back to Arkansas. Arrivals and departures, especially departures, put me in a reflective mood – when some of what I expected and much I did not – are behind me. Since I had never heard of Jeju six months ago, I had little in the way of expectations, no list of "must sees." Only in skimming a VisitJeju booklet, did I learn of Jeju's Three Abundances, Stone, Wind and Women. The Women part didn't surprise me because of what I knew of the respected position of haenyo, who free dive in the oceans around the island for seafood to support themselves and their families. But that was only a small piece of what there was to learn. So I made a plan to explore the abundances –and more – each week. With international driver's license in hand and indispensable navigation system I named, "Gertrude," I headed out in our little leased car.   I quickly discovered that stones would be constant companions on every trip, volcanic rocks which have been present since the island's creation. They are everywhere – lining roads, separating properties, delineating rows of crops or simply laying around, waiting to be useful. Stone statues, or Dol hareabang (stone grandfathers) intrigued me the most. Dotting the island, they and their ancestors have guarded Jeju from evil spirits for over 500 years. Their solemn faces express the serious work they're charged to do, yet they seem approachable, even welcoming. However, as I placed my hand on this grandfather's shoulder in a friendly greeting, I felt the pronounced roughness of the rock and knew he was not to be trifled with. Stepping back, I assured him that I was no evil spirit and thanked him and his fellow guardians for their protection as I traveled around the island. The wind was fickle during my outings. Some days it was barely a breeze; others it blew with such intensity that if I didn't grab my hat fast enough, it would be lost in an instant. I wondered how some of the stone structures, stacked with no more support than the rocks themselves, withstood powerful blasts of wind. What else? The inventive builders simply leave holes among the stones so winds can pass through freely.  One of my favorite drives was along a coast lined with wind turbines, which rose peacefully from the bluest waters I have ever seen. Their graceful blades catch the incoming gusts and spin them into energy for thousands of Jeju households.  Women, the third abundance, became personal when I met three haenyo the day they visited Branksome Hall Asia, the school where Drew is working as high school principal this year. I listened in respectful silence with a group of students as the haenyo invited us to imagine what it is like to hold our breaths as we dive meters below often frigid seas, to harvest abalone, octopus, seaweed, sea urchins... for four, five, six hours at a time.  Of course, haeyno are not the only women on Jeju. There are thousands of others who exemplify the same characteristics symbolized by the lives of the haenyo – strength, courage, resilience, determination. Generations of women have worked diligently in the face of hardship, including unspeakably violent conflict on Jeju, to keep their families safe and well. On one of my final outings, I was exploring a coastal area known for its geologic formations when I came across a small building close to the beach. The door was open and I glanced inside as I heard women talking and laughing. Tubs of sea urchin and octopus were scattered at their feet. I timidly stepped one foot inside and said, "haenyo?" They nodded. I bowed and pointed to my phone, asking permission to take their picture. One of them gave me a brief wave, which I took as a yes, as she returned to their animated conversation.  Three abundances.
There are, of course, a wealth of others. I will add them to my list when I return in the spring. For now, I leave with memories, more abundant than I could have ever expected.  During COVID, the book club I attend read The Island of Sea Women by Lisa See. It is a multilayered story about haenyo, women who dive in the ocean for sea life – mollusks, seaweed, abalone, and more – their livelihood. They dive without oxygen, holding their breaths for up to two minutes at a time, at depths up to 20 meters (65 feet), often in frigid waters. I was captivated by the story, but paid little attention to the setting, an island 50 miles off the southern tip of South Korea. Jeju... (pronounced jay joo), a name I'd never encountered and promptly forgot as soon as I read the final page. I certainly never expected to come across it again. And yet, here I am, in Jeju – 6800 miles from, and 14 hours ahead of, our home in Conway, Arkansas U.S.A! I know. I'm surprised, too, although not flabbergasted. I am married to a man who thrives on adventure, even in retirement. Not the Amazon jungle kind of adventure, but the "let's move to a different country and teach school" kind of adventure, which we've done more than once... Singapore American School, Cairo American College and the Anglo American School of Moscow. Our initial move from Arkansas to Barrow (now Utqiagvik) Alaska might not have been to another country, but it was to a landscape and culture the "polar" (excuse the pun) opposite of what we had always known. In the years since Drew's official retirement, he's continued dipping into the adventurous educator lifestyle by filling interim positions as head of international schools in Tivat, Montenegro and Palto Alto, California. So the offer to serve a year as interim high school principal at Branksome Hall Asia in JeJu, was an adventure he was eager to experience. I must say I admire him for being a risk taker, a person who says yes more often than no, opening doors which could easily remain closed.  As for me, I go "to and fro," as one of my British friends terms it, during Drew's interim jobs. I'm now in Jeju until the first week in November, when I'll return to our home in Arkansas. While here, I become an explorer, a curious learner. With a map and reliable navigation system, I've visited (sometimes with Drew) the Haeyno Museum, Stone Park, Osulloc Tea Fields and Museum, Spirited Garden, JeJu Museum of Contemporary Art, Yeomiji Botanic Garden and the Starbucks down the street.  Osulloc Tea Fields Next week, The Island of Sea Women, comes full circle – and to life – for me. A group of haeyno will visit with students at Branksome Hall, and I've been invited to tag along! I will hear their heroic stories of diving and of being part of a vital community of women whose history stretches across the centuries on an island named...Jeju.
Today, August 10, Drew and I celebrate our 50th wedding anniversary! I'll let those words sink in for a minute... 50 Years I've rarely thought of myself as ever being old enough to celebrate 50 years of marriage. That was my grandparents, May and Harry Butler. I vividly remember the afternoon of their Golden Anniversary gathering, and thanks to my Aunt Carolyn, I have a photo of it.  Eyelet tablecloth, freshly cleaned curtains, silver service, petit fours. New pink dress and best Sunday suit. Dear, dear faces. And now, Drew and I – with gratitude, excitement (and a bit of disbelief at #50!) – have reached the same milestone. In our own style – with our own family – we, too, celebrated. In June, fourteen of us – children, spouses, grandchildren – traveled to Quebec City where we rented an Airbnb house for a week. 
On a cool, sunny evening, we officially celebrated our 50th –a couple of months early, but who's counting at that point? Our children prepared homemade pizza to recreate our first date and added charcuterie board appetizers, with samplings of local products, and luscious French deserts.  We sat around a common table after dinner and shared family memories. Matthew read his touching "Poem for Anniversary," that he wrote for Grandmom and Granddad. We blew out candles atop a raspberry mouse. It was joyful! I frequently stood back and marveled at our amazing family, which neither Drew nor I could have ever imagined on August 10, 1974 as we rushed out of the church into a new life.  Yet here we all are!
As we gathered, I felt the presence of family whose lives came before. We carry forward their legacies...and our own. |
Welcome to my blog!
After writing my books, Labyrinth Journeys ~ 50 States, 51 Stories and The Power of Bread, I knew I wasn't finished writing, or journeying. Please join me as I continue both and see where they lead me (and you!) ~Twylla Alexander |
RSS Feed