Hatness

Image: Ladies Hat Day at the Races

I don’t know where I first heard the term, “Hatness” but it’s been around awhile and here’s what it means: One who is wild about hats. If I'm not mistaken it originated in the literary world, but I don't recall the author who first used the word. I can remember that I joined the hat craze back in the eighties and resurrected the Annie Hall look with my own brand of Hatness. 

Here is the poster girl for Hatness. Lauren is the quintessential Hat Lady. She has a well-worn hat for every occasion, each and every hat she sports, a perfect symbol of charm and grace. 

What goes around comes around, they say. I believe Hatness is in the air again. 

Girls, I say we go ALL  IN and bring Hatness back to life forever. 

Who's with me? 

Grace Jolene is all in. Check out that sassy fall outfit. From the top of her head to the soles of her feet she has a flair for chic as you can well see. 

This is a shot of Girls’ Night Out with my friends Jane & Meg.  Jane, the one in the middle, always has a perfect hair day – always – so she’s exempt from hats. But Meg & I got it going on, don’t we? You may be asking right now, “Girl, where’d y’all find them hats?" Which I’m about to tell you. Hold your horses. 

First, wonderful, BREAKING NEWS: The perfect solution for bad hair days is here. Summertime frizzy hair days. Out-of-hand cowlicks, discolored roots and - best of all - dirty hair days. Forget the hairspray. Spend your cash on hats.

If a bad hair day or a dirty hair day keeps you from church or keeps you from going out on the town with your girlfriends or whatever, I declare unto you this day, freedom! Freedom, I say.

We must form a sisterhood alliance, a united front.

We must resurrect hats today!  But please, whatever you do, NEVER settle for a baseball cap unless you're just going for a stroll in the woods. 

Tips for Hat Shopping

Everywhere I go people ask where I get my hats. Why is that? Because hats have not been in trend for a while now.

My friend Judy (left): I love me some hats, but they haven’t been much in style lately.

Me: So let’s change that. Let’s bring back hats!

So all three of us (including Lynanne in the middle) agree to show up in hats next girls’ lunch. And that’s just what we did. Guy who took our orders admired our classy look; you could tell.

Guy: “Look at you, ladies, in those hats. Y’all look like you’re on the way to the Kentucky Derby.” Mind you, these are far from Kentucky Derby hats. Anyway, here we are.

To shop for hats you gotta know where to go. Your best bet is to make a beeline to one of the stores geared toward your soul sisters. They got it going on when it comes to hats, as Glennis will tell you shortly.

Go past the five-inch platform shoes and the rack of bling & costume jewelry, past a thousand racks of the latest wildest trends you’ve ever seen, and near the back of the store, voila! Hats, hats, hats!!!

Or you can skip the trip and go straight to Amazon and feed your hat addiction because here they have any kind of hat you can imagine – even Kentucky Derby hats galore.

~*~

For further instructions on how to wear your sassy hats, check out Glennis Redmond’s advice on endless possibilities: Glennis is the most delightful and magical poet you will ever meet. This is her Poet Laureate hat. 

 Hats

Sistahs have always been able to style in hats.

 

You know they got it going on.

Those woman can wear hats from dusk til dawn.

 

You’ve got to be bold and have snap to sport a hat.

You’ve got to have it and know where it is at.

 

You’ve got to stop and cock it to the side.

Check them out and continue with your stride.

 

Profile it. Style it.

Then let them wow it.

 

Tilt it, lean it, or wear it straight in place.

A well worn hat is a symbol of grace.

 

You have heard people say it. I have too.

“Oh, she can wear a hat.

She sho ‘nough knows what to do.

 

Oh, a hat can get those oohs and aahs.

If it is totally bad, it gets applause.

 

Some hats are so bad, they are just bad to the bone.

People stop and say, “that girl has got in going on.”

 

Or say, “You just go girl, you just go on, girl,

‘cause with that hat you’re the finest thing in the world.”

HATS

HATS

HATS

Big ones, tall ones, small ones, fruity ones,

pointy ones, veiled ones, flowered ones

sporty ones

polka-dot ones

plain ones

and kufis too!

 

Lean it,

cock it,

style it,

profile it,

tilt it,

tip it,

check it,

sport it.

HATS

HATS

HATS

Do you dare to wear?

How do you fare?

Do you want to be bad to the bone?

Then get you a hat and get it going on!

Copyright 2000 by Glenis Redmond

Used with the author's permission 

Who’s with me? Will you find the courage to help me on my campaign to reinstate hats? If you dare to be so bold, drop me a line and say, Yes, I’m in all the way. I will go buy me a hat today!

 Feel free to post your own hat pictures below. 

 

 

A Wild Goose Day

 

You beg the goose, come here, come here! But the goose runs along and beckons you to follow his pace wherever.

The trick is keeping your eyes fixed and never losing sight of his whereabouts. Remember: the joy is forever in the adventure.

One particular wild goose day I’ll share.

Destiny calling me to a man’s bedside, a one-legged man I’d only met once or twice. At first I couldn’t find him anywhere. But everywhere I went I picked up treasures just for him.

The first stop: a gift shop selling floral bouquets. The one I favored featured a pink bird amid a garden of pink and white roses set in a porcelain rose-covered teacup and saucer.

“Perfect,” said the heart.

“How silly is that,” said reason. “We’re talking a guy who wears a red cap and whose theme song is ‘Over my dead body will they take my guns away.’ And you’re seriously taking a pink bird to his bedside?”

Beware lest logic talk you out of a wonder.

Just go with the goose and the heart and land on one treasure trove after another.

Next stop: a hospital giftshop. The one-legged man wasn’t there, but who cares? The wild goose shows me the word Serenity on a stone heart, then a healing card that can’t go wrong.

At last I reach Harmony rehab and find the one-legged man sitting up in his bed.

“Just a little something to brighten your room,” I say as I hand him the pink bird bouquet. His eyes fill with delight at such a crazy surprise. 

He holds the heart stone in the palm of his hand as though gifted with a diamond and soaks in the single word.

“Do you know that whole prayer?” I ask. “Most only know the first part, that famous verse, those common four lines.” You know those, right?" And we say it in unison.

Lord, grant me the serenity to accept

the things I cannot change.

Courage to change the things I can

And wisdom to know the difference.

Then I go on about accepting hardships as the pathway to peace, surrendering to his will, and trusting that God will make all things right. I recite it all by heart until forever and ever amen.

Have you had a wild goose day too? Tell me yours. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

FOR AND IN ALL THINGS

 

A week ago today we celebrated Thanksgiving, a day that marked the beginning of the holiday season. Every day since I’ve contemplated the practice of gratitude for every blessing. 

I love prayer walks, a time of reflecting on the beauty of the earth, a time to ponder God’s amazing color scheme in fall leaves. And the winter sky on a cold day so blue it takes your breath away with childlike wonder – a wonder often lost in adulthood. 

It may sound cliché, the gratitude subject. I’d be like yeah, yeah, if I’ve heard it once I’ve heard it a thousand times. The old gratitude platitude.

But I’m telling you, this one practice changes everything. Not only in you, but in those around you. Many years ago my neighbor who looked to be 100 years old began ailing. One day she said to me, “I can’t complain. I count my blessings every day that God sends. He’s been mighty good.”

For some reason this left a lasting impression on me. It’s one of the memories I can’t forget because the Holy Spirit keeps bringing it up, rewinding the scene of this aged woman sitting before me who celebrated life and gave thanks in all things. Who lived out the practice until the day she died.

The daily practice of gratitude strengthens the spirit to withstand hard times and face perils you’d never have imagined you’d encounter. I’m reminded of a scene replayed a thousand times in my mind of Betsy Ten Boom in Ravensbruck concentration camp. Her gratitude for the first meal served there: watered-down turnip soup.

Corrie’s reaction: “God doesn’t expect us to give thanks for this?”

Of course he doesn’t, but the exercise of gratitude still stood for Betsy, for it had apparently been a long-held exercise: gratitude in all things.

What are you grateful for on this day that God has made?

As I reflect on the daily practice of gratitude, a song I wrote awhile back surfaced, a song I’ll share with you below.

https://soundcloud.com/debra-elramey/we-give-thanks

 

Eternity's Sunrise

Emily’s poem is a creed of mine. To ease suffering in this fallen world. To heal and tend to every creature that crosses my path.

But you know, if you have lived and loved, the steep price of attachment to the least of these in God’s animal kingdom: the ferals and homeless creatures that show up unbidden, hungry for affection and food, for shelter and warmth. Some at death’s door…

 After resurrecting a black kitten from the dead via dropper and prayer and tender loving care…

After watching her spring back to life and become a wild panther pouncing in the woodland behind the house…

After seeing her work up an insatiable appetite for storebought treats and delectables, pricey but worth every cent…

After observing her routine at nightfall, how she’d come in on time like clockwork, then curl up on my chair and sleep until morning light…

~*~

And after the memory months earlier of holding her close enough to hear my heartbeat and praying half the night with lit candle before us, certain that in her weak infant condition –

God would surely fetch her any minute and carry her like a little lamb in the crook of his arm across the rainbow bridge…

But instead she is miraculously healed and she turns into a spry panther stalking anything that moves. 

Until the day, three weeks ago on a cold windy Saturday, she disappeared. We called for days. Day and night we walked around calling, “Mitzi.”  But no sign of her.

The hardest part of life is the veil of tears. And with every new grief old wounds open like graves of resurrected souls.

Poetry is salve to heart wounds. Prose falls short amid sorrow. Mary Oliver still speaks to me in times like these:

To live in this world

you must be able

to do three things:

to love what is mortal;

to hold it

against your bones knowing

your own life depends on it;

and, when the time comes to let it

go,

to let it go.

William Blake, after centuries, still speaks:

What poems or scriptures

have most comforted you

in your times of loss and grief?

 

Juniper Tree

To Joanie of the Little Green Pasture:

 RE: The Branding Irons of Jesus Christ.

In sacred downtime I heard you speak on the subject of suffering. These are the messages that most express the needs of many, for no one is exempt.

If you’ve accrued a lifetime of scars and wounds that reopen every time your prison guard batters your soul again, you have the branding iron seared forever in your being.

Tell me, dear Joanie and flock if you have experienced any of the following:

Prolonged stretches where you’ve battled and won. Overcome the enemy by the power of the word dwelling richly in you. Long spells of victory and the witness of miracles – some of the miracles wrought by your own warfare –

Some on a par with Elijah’s Mount Carmel triumph. You’ve seen a demon leave a woman at your command. You’ve seen the winds and the waves stilled by the Word spoken through your lips.

You have used the keys to the kingdom time after time, so you know this stuff is real. You see now that you can’t make this stuff up. That truth really is stranger than fiction.

This kingdom walk is now experiential, no longer bound by the finite cerebral realm. Miracles happen every day before your very eyes. You see Christ in you up close and personal. You see the fruit of your suffering – the joy set before you, your only hope.

For a brief spell, your every prayer is answered – all your prayers answered because you know the promise and you believe with all your heart and you abide day and night, night and day, in the Vine. You feel almost invincible in those moments.

But you also know that you can’t escape your lot in life. You can’t escape the branding iron. It’s a package deal that goes with the territory. If you suffer with Him you reign with Him. Along with the glory comes the internal whips and nails and the cross as the false self is daily dying. 

Then one day out of the blue you find yourself under the Juniper Tree after a certain major battle is won. Whereas, before, you felt invincible, you now feel the agony of defeat and hopelessness. You sit under the shade of the tree weeping bitter tears of sorrow and grief as you wonder if you’ll ever find the strength to move forward again.

Because you’ve been so wounded in spirit by so many years of persecution and trauma that you are now spent. And you don’t even care if the fat lady appears onstage and the curtain is about to close. You no longer care whether you go to your grave with your music still within.

All those badges of courage you amassed from the fires of battle… And it dawns on you: it’s all been an uphill battle. You have fought the good fight against all odds. And kept going.

And now you sit under the Juniper Tree and examine all the scars, the lacerations, the arrow piercings, the bullet holes. A lifetime of warfare. And you can’t go another step as you are overcome with battle fatigue.

What is the point? You ask. Why can’t I just be done with the troubles of the world? Why won’t the chariot swing on down and carry me away? How can I endure this chaos and persecution another day?

I am immobilized, paralyzed. Can hardly do anything without a struggle. No invincible in my vernacular anymore. Then I hear your sweet message, The Branding Irons of Jesus Christ. And know I’m not alone.

It’s a new day now. The birds sing and the sun shines. I’m still hiding under the shade of the Juniper Tree, still crying, but there’s a hint of hope left that I can endure to the end by His grace and mercy.

You’ve mentioned that the Lord has spoken to you about being real. About coming clean and confessing the reality of struggles – which He has also shown me.

I can no longer wear a mask and pretend that all is well. I want to sing from my heart, It is Well with My Soul. But today I’d be an imposter if I sang it. Today I’m singing,

Nobody knows the trouble I’ve seen.

Nobody knows but Jesus

What song is in your heart today?

 

 

 

 

 

The Washer Woman’s Mission

I was a contemplative prayer evangelist at the time. Like Father Keating before me, I preached that you should shut up and listen for a change. God did not create Chatty Cathy. It was a zeal akin to tent revival preachers. People looked at me funny sometimes. Eyes glazed in puzzlement.

During that time, I taught at a spiritual institute. A woman in my class who stood out like a sneaker on a rack of dress shoes returned sad-eyed. “It doesn’t work for me,” she said. “I tried and couldn’t be still five minutes, let alone twenty. Besides, I have work to do and must be about my Father’s business. There’s a dying world out there.”

For some crazy reason she reminded me of the dry cleaner portrayed by Steve Martin – who could take your filthy garments and make them like brand new. I thought to myself, wow, when God made her he must have said, “Now there’s a piece of work.”  

 Not another soul in the world would start a mission in a coin-operated laundromat at a camp ground. No one but her – or a SNL skit writer. This image of The Washer Woman remained in my mind’s eye until I had the following dream:

It’s nightfall and we are sitting on her narrow front porch. As I leave and cross the street my glasses fall off my nose and shatter. And I’m thinking, now there’s nothing left to do but pray.

Really?! Nothing left to do but pray?  No reading or writing?  Just pray? Is this what my life has been reduced to now that I have no vision?

 

That’s when I changed my tune. Or rather my lens. I took the Washer Woman up on her invitation to visit her mission. More out of curiosity than anything. Then came home and wrote what I saw and heard. And just in case you’d like to come and visit too, here are directions and a heads up on what to expect.

 

Drive north down Highway 301, past the school where, weekdays, deaf children run wild on the playground. Keep going until you see the sign, “Snake Man,” then turn left into Kamper’s Lodge and swing on around pass the turquoise pool in front of the Laundromat and park your car. Get out and go inside – any wayfaring stranger is welcome here of a Sunday morning, rain or shine. Take a seat in one of the six pews painted white as the washers and dryers lined up in back of the room.

If it’s winter when you arrive, I’d advise you to bundle up in layers, and don’t forget your thick socks, gloves, and lug soled boots. The cold north wind creeps through these cinderblock walls like pneumonia into lungs. Soon you’ll meet the “Preacher Lady” and members of her flock, the snake man included, and Sister Kim, newlywed, along with her husband Blinky. Don’t worry if you’ve been drinking, just leave your bottle outside for the time being. You never know, this could be your lucky day.

If the weather is warm, short sleeves are fine. No need to hide the craters on your arms. To these folks, needle marks are common as acne on a teen, tractors on a farm. You won’t hear any Trinity chimes or sing the usual hymns, recite the Apostle’s Creed, drop a check in the offering. Just come as you are. You have nothing to fear, nothing to dread. There is no religion here, but for the laying on of hands and the resurrection of the dead.

 

What’s your story?

When have you needed new lens?

How to Lose a Sense of Wonder

I read a true story the other day that made me cry. Made me weep. A true story about a fragile old man who befriended a broken teenage girl and helped her regain her sense of wonder. For, as most of us know by our teen years, wonder has begun to fade just as surely as we’ve forgotten how to skip. What happens to that childlike amazement? Mark Twain had an idea:

 

“We have not the reverent feeling for the rainbow that the native has because we know how it is made. We have lost as much as we have gained by prying into that matter.”

 

In full cogito ergo sum mode I sat at my desk and tried to write a story about a rainbow. Not that you must be inspired to pen anything worthwhile but when the task is more tedious than scraping shell bits from a boiled egg, when the draft is more stagnant than a mudhole even though you’ve prayed for inspiration and nothing magical appears on the page, you might hear yourself saying, I’m so done here, and call it a day.

True story. Straightway I drove to the grocery store after a spring rain and pulled into the parking lot and behold! A giant double arc overhead. A glowing ribbon of color, array of bright shades, golden light. Am I alone here?

Does anyone else not see this amazing spectacle? People oblivious, passing in and out the store, sightless. Blind to wonder. Never had I felt so alone. Finally, after packing grocery bags in the back of his car, one man looks skyward, then prods his son to life.

“Hey look up there. A rainbow.” Unable to contain my excitement, I lean my head out the window and say, “Amazing, aye?” The guy in the tweed cap walks my way and says, “Sure is. You know what that rainbow means?”

“Sure. God’s promise to Noah.”

“Did you know there’s another rainbow surrounding the throne in the book of Revelation?”

“Oh yeah! When my brother was a little boy, he saw that scene in a dream! Saw Jesus in the sky with his arms outstretched, a rainbow over his head, saying, “I’m coming soon.”

All the while we’re gazing up at the sky, at the beauty that feels like a miracle. The teenage boy standing next to his father, smiling at us, two grownups carrying on like that. Totally enthralled by a rainbow. Beats all he’d ever seen.  

His father saying, “Why do you reckon there are two of them, one right on top of the other one?”

The boy replying, “I’ll ask tomorrow in science class and let you know.” 

End of discussion.                             

~*~

I don’t know about you, but I’m a slow unlearner. It took years to once more see life through the eyes of a child. As William Blake described it:

To see a World in a Grain of Sand

A Heaven in a Wildflower

Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand

Eternity in an hour.

Before it was educated out of us, we lived in wonderment. It was our natural state of being. We were our truest selves, living and taking pleasure in the moment. We were natural mystics, awestruck by the world around us. It was all amazing. Mary Oliver, who clearly held on to her sense of wonder, said it best in “Mysteries, Yes:”

“Let me keep my distance, always, from those

who think they have the answers.

Let me keep company with those who say                                                          

‘Look!’ and laugh in astonishment,

and bow their heads.”

 

What’s your story? When were you last awestruck? Seized by wonder?  What sight stopped you in your tracks and captivated you for a moment in time?  

Art: NC Wyeth