Flashes Of Light Summary

Not electric, not fire,

not weather in the heavens,

The light flashes appear

Not as I count sixes or sevens.

They can’t be seen by the eyes

Only evidence when I look back,

  Then I notice the ripples

And they become easy to track.

What are the flashes of light or spiritual inspiration I can track throughout my life?

• Even at 18 months old I could feel the love of a stranger who became my aunt.
• When we recall new learning within 24 hours it is stored in long term memory
• There would always be pianos in my life.
• Consider your audience. How can you communicate best in this situation?
• Serving through music is a life long gift.
• Being able to argue both side of an issue isn't always the way to find truth.
• Self- betrayal is a moral compromise, an ignoring how we should be.
• Heavenly Father can bless your choice of spouse.
• Heavenly Father gives sufficient for our needs.
• Part of growing up is taking responsibility for your body.
• The light doesn't come because the world qualifies you.
• Heavenly Father knows your children and what they need.
• Knowing your ancestors thins the veil between mortality and immortality.
• Teaching piano is my calling.
• The spirit can guide you to find the past.
• Teaching by the spirit means "jumping out of the boat".
• The Spirit can teach a different lesson than the one you thought you taught.
• Creativity is an inherited gift from Heavenly Father and Heavenly Mother.
• There is often resistance to moving toward a creative goal.
• All good comes from Jesus Christ.
• A sibling is a witness to your birth and place in your family.
• Replace the fear with curiosity.
• Study the scriptures with other women.
• Get used to change
• Write about the things you have inherited. 
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These thirty one days of writing have helped me so much to crystalize my memories and feel gratitude to Heavenly Father for showing me the way to negotiate my path through mortality. Even though the flashes of light are quick and fleeting I know they are real and will continue to light my way.

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Some Of My Things Part 4

The Bracelet

My mother, Marta, had some distinctive jewelry from Germany and also some she purchased in America. One piece is very memorable to me as I can visualize it on her left wrist all during my childhood. It was a simple gold bracelet engraved with flowers and leaves. It opened with a clasp and had tiny hook as second security.The jewelry was kept safe in a cedar wooden box, in her bedroom, which I enjoyed opening when I was alone in the house. She didn’t like me rummaging into her private things. If it was Sunday or a day to go out with my father the gold bracelet always adorned her outfit. 

  When I visited her for the last time before her death, I asked to have the bracelet. She was hesitant. I don’t really know why. Maybe because at 92 years of age she still believed she would live on and there were still places to go. Or, maybe it was because she wondered if I really valued this bracelet as much as I said I did. Nevertheless, it was gifted to me and I wore it proudly, still do, each time thinking of my mother. I should have asked for the ivory necklace as well but that would have been greedy. 

My mother enjoyed dressing well. At times I saw a streak of vanity which embarrassed me a little bit. Teenagers are often embarrassed by their mothers and mine was an immigrant who spoke broken English with an accent.  She trained in Germany as a seamstress like her mother. In fact, my aunt was a milliner and made hats in the later 1920s. All the women on my mother’s side followed fashion up to a point. Their style was conservative and refined. They loved fabric, lace, and matching jewelry except for my Aunt Hunni. 

Aunt Hunni came to America and joined a polygamist sect. That changed her way of living and dressing. The Amish lifestyle most closely matched her newfound way of living. Dresses were long, sleeves to the wrist, and no jewelry was allowed. In comparison to my aunt, my mother was now a fashion icon. Okay, that is an exaggeration. But after my aunt telling me my skirts were too short and my shirts too skimpy I appreciated the little elegance my mother demonstrated. But was my mother a little vain? Yes, a little bit and she modeled that to me. I like a good haircut and I do also value pretty things.

So, is the gold bracelet valuable? That is a good question for which I don’t really have an answer. I’m sure it is gold plated if not 10 carat gold. My father fully understood the value of precious metals having lived through the German recession where a wheel barrow of paper money couldn’t buy a loaf of bread. He liked having a small stash of gold as a hedge against inflation. Did they bring the bracelet from Germany? I don’t know. I have a a memory of it being on my mother’s wrist when I was a small child. Shall I make up a plausible story? 

The bracelet was purchased in Germany by my father on a solo return trip to Germany in the 1960's to visit his mother and sisters. The marking inside the bracelet is a typical German marking according to some research. He purchased it to give my mother a special gift.

 

When I wear her bracelet I finger the engraved flowers and think of the sacrifices she made in coming to America. I also fully appreciate the countless opportunities we had, as her children, to be educated and raised without fear of war and economic hardship. I so wish that for my grandchildren which is why I like to teach them about my family stories.  

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Some Of My Things Part 3

The Tapestry

In 1974 I got married in Salt Lake City, Utah. Of all the gifts I received, one has meant a great deal to me and has moved from house to house over the last forty-eight years. It is a hand-made wool cross-stitch tapestry scene of a courtyard in Germany. Window boxes full of geraniums made the image alive and it was so typical of homes there. The houses called Fachwerk in German, were a type of half-timbering consisting of the erection of a timber structural frame, the walls of which are then infilled with non-structural masonry panels. 

 Every village had a church and the steeple on the right side f the tapestry is characteristic of a town in Germany. 

The dark brown, velvet edging has a gold brocade insert and the back is expertly closed off with a woven material which makes the entire piece look very professional.

The maker is my father’s sister, Erna Titze Klose. She sent the gift from her home in Hannover, Germany. When I received the wedding gift I had no memory of her as I was a small child when we emigrated to America. 

She remembered me as a little blonde haired girl , her brother’s daughter, who was emigrating with her brother and family in 1955. She knew of me through letters and pictures and I knew of her through memories my father shared. The last time she saw me was in Hannover, Germany when we said goodbye and then drove to Hamburg, boarding the ship S.S. America.

 

When I visited Germany in 1998 I finally met Erna, now in her nineties, suffering from severe arthritis. She no longer did handwork but showed me the knitting, crocheting, and cross stitch work from years before. Her skill was evident and most impressive was the finish work. I reminded her of the village cross-stitch she sent me and I told her how much I loved her gift. She seemed pleased. Her living room had a courtyard out a large glass door. I saw the Fachwerk outside her apartment and felt even more attached to the scene on her needlework. Whenever I looked at it I would visualize my time with her.

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Some Of My Things Part 2

                                             The Violin

    In 1992, when our youngest daughter, Victoria, wanted to play the violin we rented a small violin of the right size for her height and weight. She began lessons at age eight. Thankfully, back then, our island had a very good Susuki violin teacher, who suggested that since I was a pianist, I might want to attend lessons and learn to play the violin myself.  I immediately agreed because I had a desire to learn a second instrument and I knew we had my husband’s grandmother’s violin in storage. 

As I dusted off the violin case I recalled the things I knew about Olive May Fowler Daniel. She was born in Carter, Oklahoma in 1894. Her father was a farmer but the Fowlers had some genteel southern characteristics. They appreciated the arts and wanted their children to learn to play music. There were two orchestras in the Fowler family and every child played an instrument, sometimes more than one. 

I knew this violin was from Olive’s days at Wayland College, in Plainview, Texas, a Baptist College.  She attended school there from 1915-1918. The college was new, just five years old, and housed primary grades up to college classes. They also offered private violin lessons.  

                                                Olive May married Carl Daniel in 1922 and she started life on a West Texas ranch. There was little time for music or music making. Her life was hard work and her husband was rough and surly. Nevertheless, the violin survived and was passed on to Elizabeth, her oldest daughter, my mother-in-law. The family story is that Olive was a beautiful, cultured woman who suffered from the sadness of losing her first child, Leonard, and then raised two daughters who loved her deeply. I wonder if the violin consoled her or if it was wrapped up and put away as Olive’s sensitive heart must have been during years of a difficult marriage?

                                                                                                          

                                                                        

Before I could actually play Olive’s violin we had to get it restored by fixing the bridge, a wooden part that supported the wire strings. The strings needed to be replaced and the bow restrung. I remember when we picked it up from the music store. I opened the case and gently fingered the strings. They felt tight and had a nice ring. Up to this point we didn’t really know what the quality of sound would be. Since I was completely new to the violin my efforts at learning didn’t reveal much of the tone quality either. My daughter’s violin teacher did play it for me and proclaimed that it had a good sound. 

My first piece was Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star. All Susuki method students started with this piece. The favorite children’s song had several open string notes. An open string note is one where the sound on the violin is made without pressing the fingers to the strings. Pitch is altered by pressing the strings along the fretboard. I was very frustrated by that. The piano was so much easier. Press a key and the sound was always the same. But the violin was harder. I had to put my finger on exactly the right spot with exactly the right pressure and then move the bow across the strings with exactly the right momentum. Here I was a piano teacher and I couldn’t play Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star in tune on the violin. No matter how often I rubbed the sappy smelling rosin across the bow, which created friction, allowing the bow to grip the strings and make them vibrate clearly, it never really felt or sounded smooth. This violin humbled me. It made me respect those little students lined up across the stage playing their pieces together. I was much more compassionate with my little girl as she struggled to learn.

 Our violin playing came to a halt after several years because my daughter refused to go forward. No matter how much I encouraged, scolded and bribed it was not to be. And then I slowly stopped practicing, too. I took the violin down to play less and less and then it stayed wrapped up on a shelf. Olive May Fowler Daniel is connected to my heart because of these years with her violin. I hope someone else might one day take out her instrument and learn to play with the joy I imagine she had for music. 

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Some Of My Things

What is the history of the physical things you have inherited? Will your children know where they came from or what they mean to you? 

These are questions I answered in an online family history class and like a flash of light I knew I really should document some of my things.

I found myself alone upstairs in my  Aunt Hunni’s house one summer day when I was eight years old. Hunni, Johanna Betterman Schulz, was the middle sister of three daughters, my mother being the youngest. I visited there often and always stayed a week or more during summer vacation. She and Onkel Albert owned a farm on the outskirts of Salt Lake City, Utah. The farmhouse was large with a few out-buildings on the acreage. The upstairs in the farmhouse was special because my grandmother lived there.  

 When I reached the top of the stairs my grandmother’s room was visible. As I stepped inside the light from the east window cast a glow on her chest of drawers. The wood was polished and in this light had a rosy glow. There were four large drawers and one shallow drawer on the very top. That drawer held a mystical, secretive aura. Oma, grandmother in German, didn’t allow me to explore her room. I could come in and sit on her couch but I was never allowed to peer into her closets or drawers.

I knew from previous peeking that this top drawer held her jewelry and combs which she wore in her long hair. Tortoise shell hair combs tucked into her gray hair were so interesting to me. Several times I saw her hair down as she sat before her dressing table in just a slip. I watched as she wound her hair around and around and secured the pins and combs carefully into her bun. Then she would push her jeweled combs into the sides of her head. It would take only minutes but I watched it carefully each time, always surprised by the process.

                                                                                                      

 I picked up her combs and smelled them. They had a oily, musty smell much like my Oma’s scent. At first the scent repelled me because it was too real. Oma seemed right by my side. But then I tried the combs in my own hair. They just slipped out. How did she anchor them so tight?

    Oma died in 1965 when I was twelve years old. The chest of drawers stayed in Aunt Hunni’s house until 1983 when I moved to Seattle. Tante Hunni asked if I would like to have this piece of furniture that so captured my imagination. Yes, I really did want this chest which held so many memories of my grandmother. 

In my own home it moved from the bedroom of my sons to the room of my daughters. It was filled with underwear, socks, shirts, hats, perfume, necklaces, and letters. It seemed to fit every occasion and every child. I had it in my own bedroom for a few years until I relinquished it back to a child who needed more room for their clothing. I think what made it so versatile and sturdy was its simple design, beautiful wood, and excellent craftsmanship. Uncle Albert, a farmer, handy with all tools, made it himself in the later forties when Oma came to live with them after emigrating from Germany in 1949.  

At seventy years old she came alone on a ship with two canes, results of a broken hip which didn’t mend correctly, and made the journey across the United States to Utah. She left West Germany after living as a refuge from Silesia. World War II resulted in Silesia becoming a Polish state and most Germans left to resettle in the West. She came to live with Tante Hunni and Onkle Albert in America because her other daughters were married, trying to re-establish themselves in different places in West Germany. Her only son was in East Germany and he was then behind the Iron Curtain.

Just like this chest of drawers my Oma was simple, made resilient and strong by years of war and trouble, and finely finished with faith and tenacity.

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Getting Older

 My sixteen year old piano student went to hear the rock band The Who this weekend and raved about the experience. Why would he go see some seventy year olds play music? Because they are cool he said.

Can I still be cool at seventy? I ask because I still have a year in my sixties and I see changes coming in so many ways. My body is a bit more rickety but my spirit is changing for the better. On every birthday I ask myself what my mother was doing at this age. At sixty-nine she was living alone as a widow of almost two years. She was often lonely but yet she was choosing to stay active by going to the temple with her sister every week, visiting her grandchildren, working in her garden, going for a daily walk, and taking a nap every day. She never had a driver's license or an outside the home job, but she was a hard worker with a hard and fast routine. Her routine kept her grounded. I had the impression that change was hard on her.

Get used to change! That is the knowledge I gained from a flash of light.

Don't run from it. Don't resent it. Don't over think it.

                                                                                       Change

When a new theme emerges

  Within a long sonata,

There is a measure just on the verge 

   That strikes a chord like a grand toccata.

It heralds the coming of the new,

   While transitioning from the old,

It tells the ear, wake up, be watchful, too,

   This melody could turn out to be quite bold.

As summer melds into Autumn

  Winds kick up and temperatures fall,

Listen for the notes at the bottom,

  They’re moving, up, upward they crawl.

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Gathering A Group of Women

“For me, trees have always been the most penetrating preachers. I revere them when they live in tribes and families, in forests and groves. And even more I revere them when they stand alone. 

Herman Hesse

For years I gathered with women to study scripture. It seemed forbidden in the past because there was a notion that false doctrine could be taught if a group gathered outside of a sanctioned church meeting. That was never my experience nor my focus. I gathered when there was a need. Sometimes it came about because I befriended a recent convert and she needed a smaller safe place to grow by asking questions, sometimes I gathered because someone new moved here and a few of us rallied to be a support. sometimes it came about with a granddaughter who agreed to read scripture everyday and send a small video back and forth about what we learned, and sometimes it came about because a sister agreed to talk scripture for a few minutes on the phone everyday. 

Always we gathered to support each other like trees in a forest, roots intertwined and canopies swaying side by side.

"Gather your women" was a flash of light which guided me. 

This year I lost one of my women to brain cancer. A year before her diagnosis we decide to gather once a week to discuss a book together. A slow awakening to God's love was kindled. You can know God's love and yet still be surprised to learn more. In the last months of her life our gathering was by her bedside, her hand in mine. It was holy and sacred. Her tree is gone but her roots are still growing beneath my feet. 

I remember when we decide to meet in person for the first time during The Pandemic. We walked a forest trail together and then rested on a bench overlooking the forest. With masks on our faces we laughed with joy. No other human was in the forest that day. We were alone and filled with our conversation of Heavenly Father, Heavenly Mother, and our friend Jesus.

“Our gathering—all it needs to be is two or three to qualify for Jesus Christ to be in the midst of that and the power that then comes into a room or into a home or into a community because we’ve chosen to live by that doctrine of gathering,” Emily Belle Freeman says referencing the scripture that says, “Verily, verily, I say unto you, …  where two or three are gathered together in my name, … behold, there will I be in the midst of them—even so am I in the midst of you” 

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My Walk With Cancer

“Do not partner with fear to help you make decisions.” —Jeannette Gregory

I can't talk about flashes of light without taking about my years in cancer treatment.

Two really big insights, bright as sunlight, came to me during these months.

1) Replace fear with curiosity.

2) Look into the faces of everyone you encounter. 

 Cancer is a six letter word that strikes fear into many hearts. Some of that fear is justified and some is based on a myth that life should always be happy. When cancer makes an appearance we feel betrayed. Why is this happening to me? As my granddaughter reminds me, why shouldn't it happen to you? Are you so special that all adversity should pass you by? What important lessons would you deny yourself if you could zap those malignant cells without consequence?

Here are my thoughts about this journey.

I can promise you that these posts will not be written to strike fear into your heart. I have been mainly positive on this journey. Join me if you are curious or if you have been there too.

I am a Christian and this faith walks with me everyday. Maybe you don't belong to a denomination or maybe your belief in God is more like a great energy force. My intent is not to convince you that my faith is more true than yours. My intent is to tell my story with as much truth as possible. 

1. Finding The Tumor and Holding Space For Truth
2. Inviting My Loved Ones To Weigh In
3. The Mammogram 
4. The Results Of The Biopsy
5. Meeting With A Surgeon
6. The MRI
7. Two Surgeries After Christmas
8. Remembering The Goodness Of God
9. Help From My Acupuncturist
10. Meeting With The Radiologist
11. The Oncologist
12. Putting In the Chemo Port
13. Then Covid-19 Became A Reality
14. A Time Of Waiting
15. The Whirlwinds
16. I Need A New Oncologist
17. My First Chemo Infusion
18. Vulnerability Is Tied To Wholeheartedness
19. How Covid-19 Changed Cancer Treatments
20. Losing My Hair
21. My Dream Medical Team
22. Hope
23. Ways To Cope With Chemo
24. What Is The Underdog?
25. My Last Chemo Infusion
26. The Stress Cycle and Burnout
27. The Radiation Journey
28. I Am Finished

So let's put aside fear and look cancer in the eyes.

The first time I was brave enough to look at a cancer patient with curiosity and openness I saw a beauty that took my breath away. There

 is beauty in vulnerability. 

I don’t think of all the misery but of the beauty that still remains. — Anne Frank 

 

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October 24- The Last Witness To My Birth

                                                        “Instructions for living a life. 

Pay attention. 

Be astonished. 

Tell about it.” 

Mary Oliver

There is one last witness living who was present at my birth.

Meet my last living brother. He was twelve when I was born. I was a surprise as my mother was forty-three when she conceived. I followed three boys so many years later. They treated me like a princess and at some point I became an adult in their eyes. 

Below you see my birthplace, a home built by my father and brothers in West Germany, some years after they left Silesia as refugees. The trees behind the house remind me that living amongst trees is my legacy. 

         

    Visits from my brother to this island are momentous events.

   He loves nature and always sets out on a walk within hours of arriving. Once he left for a walk telling me he was going to the water. Hours past and finally I jumped into the car to go looking for him. He made it to the water but walked so far along the beach that he couldn't find a path back up. He emerged on someone's driveway and trudged back to my house. 

     One year, when he came, we rode all the ferries we could because he loves standing on the front of the boat and letting the wind and sun rush through him. THIS is my brother. I love him!

Happy birthday to me, today. 

He will call and if he forgets I will call him. We learned that from our older brother who never once forgot to call us and reminded us when we slipped.

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No, Not One

Once when teaching a block of scripture from the Book of Psalms I had a questioning student ask why. 

Psalms 14:2 

​The ​​Lord​​ looked down from heaven upon the children of men, to see if there were any that did understand, ​and​ seek God.

​​​3 ​They are all gone aside, they are ​all​ together become ​​​filthy​: ​there is​ ​​​none​ that doeth good, no, not one.

His question centered on the point of why would God say that there were none of his children who were good. I didn't have time to explore the question in class but I kept pondering the discussion. To my surprise I found the same statement in every book of scripture.

Doctrine and Covenants 23: 4 

​And my ​​​vineyard​ has become ​​​corrupted​ every whit; and there is none which doeth ​​​good​ save it be a few; and they ​​​err​ in many instances because of ​​​priestcrafts​, all having corrupt minds.

Moroni 10:25 

And wo be unto the children of men if this be the case; for there shall be none that doeth good among you, no not one. For if there be one among you that doeth good, he shall work by the power and gifts of God.

My pondering brought me to asking the question in my mind during the sacrament on the next Sunday. "Am I good, Heavenly Father?"

The answer came as a thought, like a flash of light.

"It is not about you."

The reason why we can do good or be good is because of our Savior, Jesus Christ. We in ourselves, by ourselves, don't do good. The natural woman or man needs 'light' to see how to do good. Good comes through the power and gift of God. The Light of Christ is upon all the children of Heavenly Father and Heavenly Mother. The more we heed the light, the more we want to do good. The Good Shepard does the most guiding in our minds. His spirit invites us to do good. 

I have never forgotten that teaching. 

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Battling With Resistance

“Are you paralyzed with fear? That’s a good sign. Fear is good. Like self-doubt, fear is an indicator. Fear tells us what we have to do. Remember one rule of thumb: the more scared we are of a work or calling, the more sure we can be that we have to do it.” 

― Steven Pressfield, The War of Art: Winning the Inner Creative Battle

My biggest canvas to date was 3 feet wide and 5 feet long. I received it as a gift and it sat in my studio, taunting me. I finally laid a large sheet on the floor and squeezed the tubes of paint on the canvas. Do you know how much acrylic paint is needed to cover a canvas that big? Even more than you think. My first layer was varying shades of warm colors. When I left to let that layer dry it took days to get myself to go back upstairs. The resistance to continuing onward was like swimming through molasses.

I didn't understand this fear. What did I have to lose? 

The second layer of the painting was working with cooler colors. I tried spraying the paint with water to see the varying shades of green run into the warm colors. It was at this point that I could imagine the autumn foliage reflecting in a pond. I started working on the water, all the time sitting on the floor beside the canvas. At last the reeds coming out of the water emerged and for the first time I felt an ease in my body. I wasn't going to destroy this painting after all.

   The flash of light I received had to do with the strength of resistance. It is always there. it doesn't go away with acquiring additional skill. It doesn't go away with validation from others. It is part of the creative process. There is nothing noble about pushing through it like a suffering artist. I am not a victim to creativity, I am a participator. I am a humble, grateful friend of a God given gift.

“Rule of thumb: The more important a call or action is to our soul's evolution, the resistance we will feel toward pursuing it.” 

― Steven Pressfield, The War of Art: Winning the Inner Creative Battle

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