Debbie Burton is a children's author and award winning poet. Her books, "Buddy the Beagle on Blueberry Street," "Return to Blueberry Street," and "Truckload of Trouble." (Elk Lake) are available through Amazon and Barnes and Noble.
The countdown to 2024 has begun! What are you thinking about this week? Yesterday I received a text from a local gym encouraging to me to buy a membership for 2024. After all, a new year means a new me. The text made me step on the scales and scratch my head wondering, just how did I manage to gain those extra pounds in December?
This time of year we open our closets and cupboards to see they are just as stuffed as we are. The new year brings an urgency to downsize, organize, and exercise our way into a new reality.
Let’s be honest. The resolutions you make will probably be the resolutions you break. Do you even remember the goals you set for 2023? By April, the change you desired evaporated with the winter snow.
Something within our human nature makes us desire a “better” future. All of a sudden whatever happened this year isn’t good enough. We hope 2024 will be better. We think changing our appearance, buying a new car, or taking a vacation can fulfill us. Our focus remains on ourself and what we can do to make us happy. But is that how real happiness is found?
When we seek tangible things in order to be happy we can be let down if it doesn’t happen. And if we somehow achieve our goal, our happiness is short-lived. We find ourselves striving for the next achievement, no longer content with where we are today.
What do you want to take with you from 2023? Think about the wisdom you gained instead of the pounds.
I want to live the life I have instead of longing for the life I might have in the future. After all, how much of life is under my control? I can live my best life now. I want to look around and thank God for time spent with friends and family. I want personal advancement to take a back seat to my relationships with others.
Each day is an opportunity for something amazing to happen. I want to get up in the morning and wonder… “What does God have for me today?”
Keep your eyes and heart open to whatever God has for you. It might be something you never resolved to obtain. And that my friends, is the beauty of life!
We tend to think of home as the place where we live—our permanent residence and the people (and pets) who live there, too. Although I’ve lived in Orlando for over thirty years, it doesn’t take the place of Columbus, Ohio in my heart. Hmm… I wonder why?
Although I grew up in Ohio, I wasn’t born in Columbus. I didn’t go to grade school or high school there. The total amount of time I spent in Columbus was fifteen years. A lot of living was packed into that season of my life. It began by attending Ohio State, working as a social worker, and marrying my soulmate. You know the old saying, first comes love, then comes marriage, soon I’m pushing a baby carriage.
We bought our first house on the west side of town. I stayed at home with our two preschoolers and became involved in church and neighborhood activities. Our home was on a block of what you would consider “starter homes.” Half of the families had children under age six. It was a safe place for kids to learn how to ride a bike, with little traffic.
During those years I worked with a group of parents to petition the city of Columbus to develop a park for the children of our neighborhood. Twenty-four acres of land had been donated to the city in 1979 by Ruth E. Redick, a native of Columbus. Our efforts succeeded and by 1986 the playground was built, and given the name, Redick Park. My children enjoyed playing there for a few years before we moved to Orlando.
Herb and I visited Columbus in September. We drove around the city to see if any of the places we frequented, and homes we lived in are still there. Some of the buildings still stand. Some are gone. One house I lived in on South High Street was completely gone, and all that remained was the front steps. As we drove we talked about the past, the people we knew, the fun times.
When we visited Redick Park, I was pleased to see that the city is keeping up with it. The grass was mowed. They’ve added ball diamonds where a sand volleyball lot used to be. A feeling of contentment came over me knowing something remained of a project in which we were involved. I am thankful for Ruth Redick, who had the vision to create a place for families to enjoy the outdoors.
Contrary to the song “My City was Gone” by the Pretenders, this is one example of green space that has been preserved. “Way to go, Ohio.”
How about you? Is there a place you’ve lived which you remember fondly? A place you could never forget? Leave a comment. I’d love to hear from you.
Recently I celebrated a milestone birthday which marked the arrival of my seventh decade. Funny, I don’t feel old until the anniversary of some major historical event rolls around. Then I think, “Oh my, I was alive when that happened.” It’s frightening to realize the United States will be 250 years old in 2026. I clearly remember the bi-centennial. (For those of you who don’t, it happened in 1976.)
I’ve seen a lot of changes during the past seven decades. Texting and social media have made it possible to communicate with others in an instant. Many of these advancements have changed the fabric of our culture. Sometimes I wonder if we have become just as impersonal as the technology we’ve invented. Why is it we’re more connected than ever, but lonelier? We fool ourselves into thinking we have relationships, but are those relationships real?
Real friendships are formed by sharing life together, visiting each other at home, and having face to face conversations. Seeing someone in their home speaks volumes about their hobbies and interests. Sharing a meal allows meaningful conversation. Cooking for someone says, “I care about you.” A facebook photo of a plate of delicious food can’t compare with in-person fellowship. It just makes me miss having a seat at the table.
Social media posts do not allow for details. There’s usually much more to our travel experiences than what we share with a few photographs. When we meet someone over coffee we can ask questions and get the rest of the story.
If I see a facebook post about the death of a friend’s loved one, I usually comment with my condolences. Rarely do I send a handwritten note or letter. There are certain situations which demand a personal response from me. This means giving my time to show I really care. It also requires knowing someone’s physical address!
In many ways we are less mature than our parents and grandparents. Some topics should not be discussed through texting. For example, resolving conflict. When we have a rift with a friend, it’s better to calmly discuss our feelings face to face. Meeting with someone in person sends a message of “you’re feelings are important to me,” which can work wonders when there is a disagreement. Friendships can be saved this way.
As I age I’m discovering the value of real relationships. Ten years from now I might look at this post and laugh because artificial intelligence will be communicating for me. I hope not. I want to be real, human, and personal. Sometimes the old-fashioned ways of doing things are just better.
What is your opinion of the advancements in communication during the past thirty years?
In my day to day life I am frequently bombarded with distractions which stop me from writing. One day I scheduled all of my “important” errands in the morning so I could write in the afternoon. My errands took longer than expected. After spending a painful two hours at the dentist office, dropping off unwanted clothes at Goodwill, going to the bank, and shopping for groceries, I felt exhausted. When I finally arrived back home, I couldn’t string one sentence together if my life depended on it. My empty stomach growled, so I warmed a cup of soup and sat down to relax.
That cup of soup was the only good thing about my day. I felt irritated with myself for trying to get everything done at once. Sometimes I’m my own worst enemy. There’s nothing worse than a grumpy writer. Do you feel angry or depressed when you don’t write?
As I sipped my hot soup, I assessed my situation. What possessed me to try to do so much at once? I thought back to some of my childhood experiences and made some interesting discoveries. My parents taught me to work first, then play. This idea spilled over to my adulthood. Since writing is pleasurable to me, it should come second. And if I have a lot of work to do, I never get to play. One day slips into another and before I know it, I haven’t written anything for a month.
As a student, my teachers conducted class using the same philosophy. I had to finish my assignment before I could go to the reading corner. Those were the rules. As a teacher myself, I expected the same from my students. Every progress report included a box— “Student uses free time wisely.” Most students would receive a grade of satisfactory. But honestly, some students never had any free time. How sad.
Now I am seeing the importance of writing in the morning. I can focus better, and get into a creative flow. Ideas come easy to me when I am rested. If you are a writer, I’m sure you’ve discovered what time works for you. We must protect our time to write. This means scheduling appointments, errands, and chores outside of our best time to create.
As I write this blog, I recognize my strong work ethic. I place a high value on productivity. That’s fine as long as I can triage my efforts. When I plan my day I need to prioritize time to write. Writing needs to be first.
The word vocation comes from the Latin, meaning “calling.” A calling is initiated by God for his purpose. Since I feel called to write, my vocation is writing. If I look at writing as my vocation, the adult voice within me gives permission to write first and not feel guilty about it. I believe I am finding my way out of this maze.
How about you? Do you have a habit of checking off your to-do list before you sit down to write? How do you schedule time to pursue your artistic calling? Leave a comment. I’d love to hear from you.
Meet Mr. Anhinga. Sometimes he appears at the pond outside our apartment building. I felt lucky to snap this photo of him drying out his wings in the warm Florida sunshine. Some people consider him ugly. Do you?
I am attracted to the Anhinga because of his huge black wings. Notice how they glisten in the light. Here he strikes the perfect pose, and balances his wet, heavy, body on the pointy top of a cypress knee.
I shared this photo with two of my neighbors. One guy shook his head, “No, that’s a cormorant.”
My other neighbor, a fisherman, did not share my excitement. “Those birds are no good because they eat fish.”
The old saying is true. “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.” My neighbor’s comments motivated me to seek more information about this interesting creature.
First of all, the bird pictured above is definitely an Anhinga due to his long neck, dagger like beak, and long tail. A cormorant is much smaller and has a rounded beak. It doesn’t have silvery patches on its wings like the Anhinga.
However, my neighbor who fishes was correct. Anhingas are amazing predators and stab fresh water fish with their pointy beaks. After they harpoon their prey, they swallow it whole. These birds must have strong muscles in their throat to accomplish this feat.
The name Anhinga comes from the Tupi Indians in Brazil and means “devil bird.” (Apparently they had the same attitude as my fisherman neighbor.) Anhingas have several nicknames including darter, water turkey, and snakebird.
I understand the snakebird reference. When Anhingas swim they submerge most of their body, but raise their neck and head above the surface. I can see why someone might think they are a water snakes. And few people like snakes.
Although the Anhinga has webbed feet for paddling, the bird doesn’t have waterproof feathers. Its waterlogged feathers allow it to dive easily and search for underwater prey, such as fish and amphibians. Anhingas can stay underwater for substantial periods of time.
Anhingas need to dry out their wings between dives. Poor things, talk about body maintenance! They spend as much time out of the water as they do in the water. But they have an advantage of being able to fly. In fact they can soar through the sky and stretch out their wings in the shape of a cross. Perhaps their ability to fly can help them escape from their natural enemy, the alligator.
The Anhinga’s call sounds like a booming croak that reminds me of fingernails on a chalkboard. I’m thankful I’ve never heard one sing in our pond.
Do you remember the book “The Ugly Duckling,” by Hans Christian Anderson? There are advantages to being ugly:
″‘Oh,’ sighed the duckling, ‘how thankful I am for being so ugly; even a dog will not bite me.’ And so he lay quite still, while the shot rattled through the rushes, and gun after gun was fired over him.”
Unfortunately, my Anhinga will never change into a swan. I appreciate Mr. Anhinga for who he is. Maybe that’s because a poet can find beauty everywhere.
One beautiful spring Saturday I took a bike ride on the Cady Way Trail. I chose the Cady Way because it’s usually less crowded with pedestrians compared to the trail around Lake Baldwin. Seeking solitude, I rode alone. However, I made sure my iPhone was tucked into the small case under my seat. I had no specific time to return and I could go as far as I wanted on the 7.2 trail which links Orlando and Winter Park.
As I pedaled I took in the sights and sounds around me. Birds chirped loudly from high atop live-oak trees. Dingy strings of Spanish moss swayed in the gentle wind. Busy squirrels scampered along in search of their breakfast. One friendly cyclist waved hello as he passed from the opposite direction. I felt myself relax as I pedaled further. I felt free, and I absorbed my new found freedom like a sponge.
Eventually I neared the bridge which crosses Route 436. I powered up by pedaling as fast as I could before reaching the base of the incline. Here the trail becomes very steep. I pushed forward with all my strength in order to reach the top without standing or getting off my bike. Whew! I made it and glanced down at the busy traffic below me. People going here, there, and everywhere. My view shifted to the path ahead, and I let myself coast to the bottom. Elated, I felt like a kid again!
Then I remembered all the times I rode my bike as a child. We had a hill on our street which everyone called “Big Hill.” My brothers and I were only allowed to ride to the top of the hill and back. But what a joyful ride it was. We felt like we ruled everything around us when we looked down. We hooped and hollered as we coasted to the bottom. Today I didn’t scream. I didn’t think that was a very adult thing to do. I also wear a helmet now, which we never did as kids.
Lately, I’ve been trying to reach my inner child. The little girl within me, who somehow got lost when I became an adult. The child who loved to play and imagine. The child who was not afraid to take risks. The child who created.
Ten years ago I met my inner child when I started writing poetry. I had just retired from teaching, and had plenty of free time. I remembered I liked poetry as a teenager. So my inner child inspired me to write verse. It was her voice that helped me put the best words in the best order. I wrote because I loved to write. I had no other reason. My friends told me I had talent. My family was impressed. When my first poem was published inTime of Singing MagazineI let out a hoop just like the little girl who rode her bike down Big Hill.
I continued to write, I continued to be published. I continued to celebrate. I created a blog, I wrote magazine articles, and I authored children’s books. Now I’m editing a quarterly creative writing magazine. But all of these achievements came with a price. With each success I became busier and busier and somehow the voice of my inner-child became drowned out by adult expectations and the pressure to keep achieving. So that’s why I’m out riding my bike in search of my inner child who played all day— who left after breakfast and didn’t come home until dinner.
Julia Cameron, author of The Artist’s Way, refers to our inner child as our artist-child. She believes getting in touch with the artist-child within us releases new levels of creativity. This makes me wonder why are children more creative than adults?
Children think in the realm of possibility. They can imagine they can visit places they have only seen one time. They can pretend they are at an amusement park, and ride all the rides again, or even draw their own imaginary amusement park. Nothing is impossible for them. Is that why Jesus said the kingdom of God belongs to children?
As adults our imagination has been hampered by what we feel unable to do. The world of the adult is based upon compliance with rules and regulations. Adults have experienced rejections and failures. Maybe our creativity was scorned by our boss. Perhaps our manuscript was rejected by an editor. Unless we are Peter Pan, all of these life experiences cause us to doubt ourselves and prevent us from playing.
How can an adult become more creative? Julia Cameron believes we can get in touch with our artist-child by doing some of the things we enjoyed in our childhood. Try it. You might be surprised to see the world through a child’s eyes again. What seems impossible might become possible.
After forty-five years of marriage, I’ve come to realize I’m married to an adventurer. It all started in 1981 when Herb went sky-diving. I was eight months pregnant with our first child at the time. I remember staring into the cloudless sky when he dropped out of the plane. A tidal wave of fear rose within me and I wondered, “What if he doesn’t make it?”
Our responsibilities as parents put a damper on Herb’s adventures. After all, raising kids was enough of an adventure. But now that we’ve retired, we have more time to travel. Last summer, Herb discovered Zion National Park was offering a Christmas in July sale. The drawback to the deal: you had to visit the park in winter. The ad referred to winter as “The Secret Season,” a time when the park is less crowded. Since our other trips to Zion occurred in summer, we thought a February trip would be fun.
About a week before our departure, I checked the weather forecasts for the area. Highs in the fifties and lows in the thirties were predicted. Since we live in Florida, we don’t own a huge amount of winter clothes, but we packed several layers of long sleeve tops and thermal underwear, just in case.
We drove a rental car from Las Vegas to Zion and encountered our first surprise: snow covered everything. After we checked into the lodge, we picked up the key to our cabin. Surprise #2: The lock on the door was frozen. Since it was after five, and the maintenance crew was going home for the night, the management moved us to a different cabin. Breathing a sigh of relief, we hauled our luggage inside, lit the gas fireplace, and discussed our plans for tomorrow. We planned to hike every day for the next four days.
I knew I was in for trouble when we attempted our first hike along the Virgin River. The trail was snow-covered and icy. Herb had borrowed a pair of crampons (ice cleats) from my brother in anticipation of this condition. I had not thought ahead. Instead, I used my hiking poles to stabilize myself on the trail and my hands became very sore. The beautiful scenery along the river helped me forget my pain.
Later that afternoon, we drove to the Zion Adventure Company and bought a pair of crampons I could wear. More snow was forecasted during the overnight hours.
That night, I lay in bed, tossing and turning, all the while dreading tomorrow’s hike up the West Rim Trail to Angel’s Landing. We had hiked this trail in summer, but winter would be different. I imagined what it might be like to lose the trail under all of that snow. What if I stepped off the trail into thin air? The hike has an elevation gain of 1,000 feet and is so dangerous, people have to get a permit. Our permit was for February 26. I looked over at Herb, who was sleeping peacefully. “He doesn’t seem concerned, why am I?” I took comfort seeing him so relaxed, and finally dozed off.
The next morning we awakened to a winter wonderland. The rocks and trees were adorned with fresh white snow. After a hearty breakfast in the lodge dining room, we prepared ourselves for the big hike. I attached the crampons to my hiking boots and stepped onto the snow. All of a sudden my anxiety subsided. I felt comfortable, stable, and ready to begin the four mile strenuous hike.
After the first mile, I started to sweat. I took off one of my layers and tied it around my waist. We pressed on higher and higher up the side of the canyon.
A few hikers had blazed the way before us, and it was easy to see where the trail led. Once again, I appreciated my crampons, because parts of the trail had serious drop-offs. One false move and you were gone!
Danger can arise if hikers are approaching from the opposite direction. Usually the person ascending freezes in place and gives ample room for the descending hiker to pass. I appreciated this, because it gave me time to rest.
At one point I looked up to see a young mother coming toward me. She carried an infant in her pack, and held the hand of a young child. I felt shocked to think they were by themselves, without a father. She said they were turning back, and I thought that was a great idea. ( In fact, I wondered if I should go with them.)
Eventually we reached the part of the trail known as Walter’s Wiggles. Here the trail snakes back and forth, through a series of narrow switchbacks. I felt very tired and stopped several times to catch my breath. I met an elderly man descending from the upper level who encouraged me to keep going. His words inspired me and I pushed myself forward to Scout’s Lookout.
Posing for a photo finish with Herb. (Scout’s Lookout)
Scout’s Lookout usually offers a great view of Zion Canyon. But today visibility was limited because the clouds opened and snow pelted the area. Nearby, a group of four guys dared one another to climb up the chain rope to the top of Angel’s Landing. Common sense ruled. My adventurer husband also decided to turn back since we could only see about twenty feet in front of us.
After a literal pit stop, we turned around and began our descent. The wind blew the snow sideways stinging my face. The temperature had dropped at this higher elevation and I shivered in the cold. The middle layer of clothing I tied around my waist, was wet from the snow. I had one goal in mind: I must get back to the cabin!
A new sense of courage overcame me and I picked up my pace. Descending is always easier but I felt tired, and needed to be careful. The hike down was uneventful and I paused once to take Herb’s picture.
Of all of our hiking vacations, this is one trip I will never forget. Some people are content to visit a time-share at the same time every year. My adventuring husband wants to travel to wild places during unusual seasons. Why did I go? Sigh… the things I do for love. Besides I am always looking for good story material.
I hope you’ve enjoyed my story about Zion’s “Secret Season.” Now, it’s no longer a secret.
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