Author: Polly Hansen

When human cruelty and depravity depress me and fill me with hopelessness, I look to the mysteries of the Universe and feel awe, strength, and hope again.

This Sunday’s The New York Times Magazine features an issue all about Space—space junk, space exploration, space discoveries and miracles. Did you know that the Webb telescope discovered a 6,000-mile-long plume of water floating around in our solar system?

Water! In space! It’s the stuff of fantastic science fiction. You know what this means, right? That water—our human source of life—is out there, making long distance space travel plausible.

I read stuff like this and think of the destruction in Gaza—how Hamas attacked Israel, and now Israel seems bent on creating a holocaust of its own, and wonder: How can humans be capable of sublime creation and discovery of miracles, and in the same breath, be capable of the basest evil?

Because we are mirrors of the Divine—destruction and creation wrapped into one.

The Big Bang took place more than 13 billion years ago. This catastrophic event was the creation of all material existence. Earth was created by gas and dust forming round a young sun. Collisions of great violence of these masses created our planets. There was no intent; it just happened.

Is human violence of the same nature—a paradoxical act of creation? Except, we humans want to destroy. And therein lies the difference. We act with intent to smash the other into non-existence. So maybe in this way we do not mirror acts of divine creation.

A paradoxical act of creation?

What do we mirror then? How did we come to embody this hatefulness? Is our wish to destroy a desire for ultimate superiority? And once achieved, what would be the result? The ability to exist peaceably as one?

I doubt it. An “other” would arise from that sameness. Some individuals would think differently and evolve, attract followers, and become “other.” The cycle would repeat itself.

We are Sisyphus in our existence through and through.

Maybe God will let us destroy ourselves, but I think not. Not when we can be awed by the magnificence of wonder and mystery—the creation of the Universe.

And that is why, despite the bloodshed and inhumane acts of violence I witness every day in the news, I behold awe and wonder and hope in my heart. Existence is eternal, and we humans may yet evolve to comprehend our divinity and act accordingly.

My hope for us is not extinguished. Not yet. Maybe never.

Protection and strength, protection and strength, constancy, and miracles. These are the gifts bestowed on me by my four major spirit guides. They’re what I needed to survive my teenage years on the road without adult supervision.

And what I need today still. I consult my guides and they help me, support me, talk to me.

My other spirit guides (I have eight) provide balance and compassion, the blessing of sensual pleasure and rest, groundedness and reverence for Life on this ancient fertile Earth, and sacrifice through service to others.

Each quality comes into play at different times, comes to the fore as needed, though they hum along in the background at all times, ever ready.

Is there anything I need to accomplish?

Today in my meditation I received the message that my existence, my consciousness will never end, and if that is the case, how do I want to live on this Earth? What is it I want to accomplish? Is there anything I need to accomplish? The thought took the worry away over what I might do today—attend an online Zoom meeting with a human spiritual teacher and his followers, or make pancakes, clean up after myself, then dust and wipe the ceiling fan of grime that’s been an eyesore for weeks?

I did the later and feel spiritually fulfilled.

Now I’m out here on the patio on this magnificent Sunday morning in the cool breeze. Leaves scuttle across the yard and scratch the cement floor. My two black dogs are happily pacing. My husband is coughing up leaf dust in the driveway where he is raking and sweeping into yard bags. It is too hot to sit in the sun; not for me, but for my sensitive laptop.

It struck me today as I contemplated whether to join that spiritual session that people are so hungry for direction. We are hungry for answers about the mystery of us. Who am I? What am I? Am I doing the right thing? Am I on the right path? How could you not be because that’s where you are!

But what if you are stuck in a job you hate? What about that? Then that’s your path as well—an essential section of it. Perhaps there’s something you need to learn that you can only learn doing that job. Dig deep and see what is before you. Can you lean into it and discover what is at the heart of that experience? It will unfold for you, if not today, then maybe in the distant future when you will realize, finally, what that lesson was all about.

This moment is but a breath

You have Eternity to learn who you are. This moment is but a breath, a single star amongst trillions and trillions. Significant, important, meaningful. We all have meaningful lives. The Universe needs us, needs our tears and our questions, our angst and joy. Our love, our hatred—everything. We make this existence twirl in a lovely bath of creation that goes on and on and on.

Delight. That’s what life is, what creation is. Delight, joy, ecstasy, however it comes to us at this time. It is meaningful. You are meaningful and lovely and precious.

“I am free, playful and buoyant under Her tender glance and loving care.”

When I was little my sense of self was so great that when my sister told me I was a human being I stamped my foot and said I was not a human bean. I was a Polly. I knew in my marrow no matter how much she taunted me that spring day she was wrong.

We had climbed onto our front gate’s stone post to taste the honeysuckle. I picked the blossom and pinched its end, then pulled out the single stem with the gold head, pushing a tiny bead of clear nectar towards the narrow opening where I would catch it on my tongue. My sister and I nibbled away at a dozen or so flowers, comparing our harvest. I could tell the way the blossom resisted whether the drop would come out heavy and sweet or if the funnel end was too wide and the stalk would yield nothing.

Earlier, I had gazed into bright daffodils, filling myself in their glow, the delicate brown paper covering the root of the bloom like a napkin. The sky was blue and the air was crisp and I was in all of it, feeling the world with pleasure, as if all the world was alive for my enjoyment. I was the master of the world, complete in my sense of belonging.

My sister was the fool, telling me I was a human bean, but she was older and I was used to believing her, believing that she might be right and I wrong. But in this case I knew she was mistaken. I was a Polly through and through and nothing could change that ever.

Or so I thought.

The world had become a frightful place

It wasn’t too long after this exchange, no more than a year or so that my sense of self was shattered, only I wouldn’t remember the details of why until I was in my fifties. I forgot who Polly was and chose instead to hide. The world had become a frightful place full of barking dogs and forests of bewildering density and scope, dark spaces full of decay and rot, logs full of insects and spiders, puddles coated with slime. I was expected to walk through these woods to get to school for first grade after my sister and brother showed me the way.

Something had happened. Something I wouldn’t remember until nearly fifty years later. My sense of Polly was shattered. It was best not to know myself, to hide a part of myself because I would die if I remembered. A dear family friend who wasn’t so dear after all. My fear had become great.

Afraid of life, I hid.

Last week I was in San Antonio for a public speaking engagement. I was telling my life story to a group of people who have been adversely affected by someone else’s sexual behavior. Leading up to the talk, I worried that what I had to say was self-serving and egotistical and would help no one, fearful about how I would be received, that my story was too shameful.

That was egotistical of me. Why?

Because….

The event wasn’t about me!

The event was about people sharing and learning from one another. My being there was not about glorifying myself. It was about being of service. I understood that in hindsight with prayer and a change of attitude.

After my presentation several people congratulated me and said I’d done a great job. One attendee said, “That’s one of the best talks we’ve had for this event.”

I said, “Thank you,” but thought, Not the best? As if because there were other talks as good as mine, mine wasn’t good enough. Now, to me, that’s shameful.

I think it’s a matter of faith and habit. My Higher Power placed me in that room of damaged people because She knew I had something to say that could help them. How I helped was not up to me. How was in God’s hands. Several people came up to me afterwards and said, “That bit about [blank] I really related to,” or, “I’m so glad you said that because I thought I was the only one.”

Words take on meaning for the listener or reader

My presentation was about all the people in the room, not about me. And that’s what any speech or writing is about. An author’s words take on meaning for the listener or reader. That’s what makes the work valuable, not the author.

Now I realize that in my nervousness and self-doubt I was second-guessing God. In my journey as a writer and public speaker I hope never to second-guess God again. I am but a vessel, sharing my experience, strength, and hope. In the future, I shall perceive public speaking not as self-aggrandizement, but as an opportunity to do God’s will.

By waiting, and holding my tongue, I experienced good fortune. My husband recently invited me out to dinner with his colleagues. I turned him down. Not because I didn’t want to go. The date conflicted with my women’s group ritual. I’ve been a member of that group for 30 years, and, having moved out of state can longer attend in person. They were planning a hybrid meeting just for me, so I said no to my husband, but thanks.

It turned out that my friend hosting the ritual (lighting candles, honoring the four cardinal directions, speaking our spiritual truths) canceled. I forgot to tell my husband I was now free. While winding along the Blue Ridge Parkway above Asheville on our way towards a trailhead, he mentioned his dinner the following night. I perked up.

“I totally forgot,” I said. “Moon Group was canceled. I can go with you now.”

He looked irked. “It’s probably too late,” he said. His boss had already made the reservation, etc.

I thought to myself he could ask anyway couldn’t he? Certainly, one more in attendance wouldn’t be a huge inconvenience. But rather than suggest this I kept my peace.

I announced I needed a beak

We parked the car and huffed up the trail with our two black rescue dogs, surprised that at their advanced age they were doing better than we were. We hadn’t been out on a trail with them for a long while for a variety of reasons.

About a mile and a half in, huffing and puffing up wooden and stone steps built into the mountain curtesy of a conservation team, I announced I needed a break. While our pups lapped water from a doggie bag, my husband pulled out his cell phone. Thanks to towers even at 5,000+ feet he was able to leave a phone message.

“Hi Jenny. Is it too late to include my wife for dinner tomorrow night? Her event was canceled.”

I smiled at him. He smiled back. I figured he’d get there eventually. My telling him to call his boss would have irritated him and done nothing for my sense of wellbeing.

I like to think it was Higher Power’s way of taking care of me. I got what I wanted and needed most. Keeping ties with my old home group is important, but so is going out to dinner and meeting people here in my new hometown.

And my husband figured out his priorities on his own.

Me!

Our 40^th wedding anniversary celebration started with bickering. Was the entire weekend doomed?

My husband and I like each other and have a good time together, but during the long weekend celebration in Charleston, SC, I noticed we were bickering quite a bit. It left a bad taste in my mouth. I didn’t like the feel of this rancor and wanted to do something about it.

I was about to say, “We’re arguing with each other a lot.” Instead, and thankfully, at the last moment, I switched the focus to myself. “I notice I’m arguing with you a lot. I’m sorry about that. I’m going to try to do better.”

Bill said, “I was thinking the same thing about myself. I’m sorry too.”

The adage, “Let it begin with me,” had come to my rescue.

It took a while for each of us to adjust our attitudes before the mild bickering dissolved. Eventually we got back on track and enjoyed ourselves and each other’s company. The rest of the weekend went smoothly.

That slogan, “Let it begin with me,” is a good one.

Is my behavior completely irreproachable?

Anytime I’m feeling resentful or irritated with someone, I can take an emotional pause and reflect on my own behavior instead of someone else’s. Is my behavior completely irreproachable? If not, then I need to make an attitude adjustment and correct my ways. It keeps the focus on me, which is the only person I can change.

A dose of humility goes a long way towards harmony.

That’s a smart thing to remember because no one is perfect. And why would you want the burden of perfection anyway? Accepting my own faults makes it easier to forgive someone for having theirs.

We had a lovely 40th wedding anniversary celebration. As long as we each continue to treat ourselves and each other like this, I wouldn’t mind spending another 40 years together.

How to feel happy, solid, free-spirited, and grounded in the moment? Follow your heart’s impulses without judgement or hesitation and experience blessings, even simple ones. At a recent fundraiser, the speaker said, “Close your eyes. Think what you’re grateful for, then share it with the person sitting next to you.” I turned to the woman on my right and said, “I’m grateful for you.” It just slipped out. A perfect stranger. Her eyes teared up.

My sentiment was genuine. In that moment I was so grateful to be where I was, surrounded by committed, involved, caring people. In saying those spur-of-the-moment words, I felt connected to her on an intimate, vulnerable level. And, thankfully, I didn’t feel weird or self-conscious. I felt happy, solid, free-spirited, and grounded in the moment.

I felt connected to her on an intimate, vulnerable level

At evening’s end, she leaned over, squeezed my shoulder, and said, “Thank you. It was so wonderful to have met you.” I don’t know if we’ll ever meet again, but seeing as how we live in a relatively small town and seem to run in the same circles, I imagine we may. It’s sure to be a welcome encounter.

I love being taken by surprise by my own heart. That moment was such a gift to us both. When we allow Spirit to move through us we experience Grace–the unfolding of unexpected blessings.

Vulnerability is key to our intimacy, as is staying present and checking in with one another

And by the way, my husband, Bill, and I recently celebrated our 40th wedding anniversary. He is still my best friend. We work at it. Vulnerability is key to our intimacy, as is staying present and checking in with one another. Sometimes, with work and other passions, we get distracted. It’s easy to become separated in our day-to-day lives. If either of us is not available when the other needs or wants our attention, we apologize, saying, “I can’t right now.” We make plans to pay attention or have fun together later. A round of rummy or a game of Scrabble, or a lingering conversation after dinner. These simple things bring us back together. As does white water rafting down the Nantahala!

Do you know how precious you are? If you’re like me, probably not. Or you sometimes forget. I barely know how precious I am. I catch glimpses of my precious heart once in a while. When I look sideways at myself from the corner of my eye and see a golden light that is so tender and sweet and me, then I remember and relax.

Banging my head on the wall day in day out when I want something badly, like a literary agent and a book deal, crying in frustration “Not enough!” is, I admit, a little embarrassing. God just laughs and says, “Oh Polly, you are too funny!”

Little peon me doesn’t know how bright and shiny she is. Bright and shiny, that’s me. And you too. But do we act like we believe this? No, we don’t. We whine and complain, saying, “I hate waiting! I hate trying! I hate persevering in the face of uncertainty!” Like an impatient, hungry, and angry kid who wants what she wants NOW!

I once waited 36 years for a dream to come true

Except, I once waited 36 years for a dream to come true—to move to the mountains. It was a long, long wait. While waiting I thought, if it’s meant to happen, it will. And it did. Same with my publishing dream. If it’s meant to come true, it will and my obsessing about it won’t make it happen any sooner.

So, my prayer today is, dear Lord, may I have the grace to be grateful for all that I have and all that I am learning. If it is meant to be, my publishing dream will come true. In the meantime, let me fully appreciate and enjoy with humility the dream that has already come true—my life here in the mountains, my good health, and my abundant blessings.

This post is not my usual fare. A Twitter follower asked me for my cinnamon rolls recipe, so here it is. And when I say to-die-for, I’m not kidding. These cinnamon lovers cinnamon rolls require almost a pound of butter. My husband is a cinnamon roll aficionado. He compares all cinnamon rolls to mine and says a couple have come close, but still aren’t as good as these. I make them one day ahead so they can rest unbaked overnight in the frig.

Day 1 Prep time including rising: 2-2 1/2 hours

Day 2 Rising & Bake time: 60 minutes.

Ingredients for Dough:

3 ½ teaspoons active dry yeast (not fast acting)

2 teaspoons sugar

1/3 cup warm water

1 cup buttermilk

1 ½ sticks salted butter (6 ounces)

½ cup sugar

5 cups unbleached all-purpose flour (not bread flour–too much gluten makes the dough too gooey.)

(1 teaspoon salt)

Ingredients for Cinnamon Filling and butter drizzle:

1 1/2 sticks salted butter (6 ounces), plus ½ cup melted butter for drizzle

1 1/2 cup packed light brown sugar

3/8 cup ground cinnamon (I think Saigon cinnamon is the best but not necessary)

1 tsp vanilla extract

Ingredients for Cream Cheese Frosting:

4 ounces cream cheese (1/2 block)

2/3 cup powdered sugar

1  teaspoons vanilla extract

Instructions:

Dissolve 2 tsp. sugar into 1/3 cup warm water. Sprinkle in 3 ½ tsp yeast. Stir gently just until dissolved. Let sit 10 minutes. Yeast should foam. If it doesn’t your yeast is old.

Meanwhile, melt 1 ½ sticks butter with ½ cup granulated white sugar and stir. When almost all the butter has melted, remove from heat. Let cool until not too hot for your finger, but still warm. In a separate measuring cup microwave 1 cup buttermilk 30 seconds. NO LONGER OR IT WILL CURDLE! All this bother is to keep the yeast happy and warm – not too hot, not too cold. Too hot, you’ll kill the active yeast, too cold, it won’t grow.

Bread Maker

If using a bread maker, which I highly recommend, pour the butter-sugar mixture into bread maker canister, add warmed buttermilk, then add the foaming yeast. Add 5 cups flour. Add ¼ tsp salt into four corners of the canister on top of the flour. Close lid. Select dough option on your bread maker. Start! Should take 1 ½ hours to knead and rise. Don’t over rise or you’ll have a mess on your hands.

Mix Master

If you don’t have a bread maker, then I hope you have a Mix Master. I have never made these rolls completely by hand. Do everything the same way. Use the blender blade until the dough is just mixed. It will be gloppy and sticky. You probably should add flour gradually and use the plastic guards that keeps the flour from spilling over the sides.

Change to the blade that looks like the letter ‘J’ and stir or knead for 5 minutes. Then take out the ball of dough and knead it on a lightly floured surface for a minute or so. It should be pliable, soft and elastic, not tough or stiff. Pour 1-2 tsp tasteless cooking oil like canola oil  into a ceramic or glass mixing bowl (metal bowl from the Mix Master will get too hot for yeast), place your dough ball in it, then turn it over so that the oily side is on top. Cover with wax paper and damp tea towel and place in a warm oven on top of a potholder so the bowl doesn’t touch the hot rack. Turn oven off. Check in a half hour or 45 minutes. If oven temp is too cool turn it back on a few seconds to warm the oven again. Just don’t let the oven get too hot or too cool. Let dough rise for a total of 90 minutes.

Cinnamon Paste

While the dough is rising, melt 1 1/2 sticks salted butter in a medium saucepan. Add brown sugar and cinnamon, and 1 tsp vanilla. Should make a spreadable paste. Let cool while dough is rising.

Rolling the Dough

When dough is ready, lightly flour a countertop and roll out dough into roughly an 11’’x 17” rectangle. It doesn’t need to be exact. Your dough should be elastic and easy to roll. If it’s hard and tough, something went wrong.

Stir cinnamon paste and spread evenly over the dough. After spreading the filling, you may want to let it set a half-hour to harden a bit. Otherwise, it may be so runny that when you start to roll the dough the filling gushes out the front and sides. Or it may have cooled enough already.

Starting at the narrow end, carefully curl the edge in and keep curling until you have a long log. Cinnamon paste may ooze. Measure 1 ½ inch portions and make a small slit with a sharp knife to mark the spot. Don’t cut all the way through. The first joint of my index finger is one inch, so it makes a perfect ruler. Then take a long piece of thread that doesn’t break easily, or maybe unflavored dental floss? and use that to cut the roll by sliding the thread under it and then bringing both ends up and crossing them to cut the roll into 1 ½ “ pieces. Do not use a knife to cut the roll or else the paste will squish out and the rolls will tear. Place each piece on your baking pan. (I spray my pan lightly.)

Don’t pack the rolls in too tightly. You may have to use a small extra pan. I usually do. I can fit eight rolls to an 8″ x 12″ metal pan.

Melt the remaining ½ stick of salted butter and drizzle it over the unbaked rolls. Cover and refrigerate overnight. (I’ve never baked the rolls without refrigerating them overnight, but I suppose you could just stick them in the oven if you want them right away.)

Baking and Cream Cheese Frosting Instructions:

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

Take rolls out of the frig and let them sit uncovered at room temperature for 30 minutes. Place on middle rack in the preheated oven.

Bake for 30 minutes. If small pans hold only 4 rolls, bake 22 minutes and check.

Oven temperatures may vary, so keep an eye on them the first time you bake these. It’s okay to open the oven at, say 28 minutes for a look. Rolls should be golden brown like light brown sugar. Dark brown like dark brown sugar is overdone.

While rolls are baking, leave cream cheese uncovered at room temperature. When ready to eat rolls, microwave a 1/2 block of cream cheese 20 seconds, whip with hand mixer, add vanilla extract and powdered sugar, whip again. Voila!

Enjoy!

Nine women from my book club came over for dinner (salmon tacos with mango salsa). For dessert I read them my first anthologized short story, “Milk.” And then I listened and observed while they discussed it, uncovering insights and possibilities, each delving deeper into the story’s meaning.

And what fascinated me was that the story had a different meaning for each woman. One woman saw possibilities I hadn’t seen while writing it, and others saw completely different possibilities.

What I love about short story writing

That’s what I love about short story writing—you leave a gate open through which the reader can travel and take her own path, reach her own conclusions—the ones she needs to make. Ambiguity allows her to co-create with the author.

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