Morning's cold hand rudely woke me this morning. I'd that been dreaming that we lived in a huge old farmhouse with a great lawn, a beautiful garden and huge orchard. We had a party and we were just bidding the last of the guests good bye. I was so tired. I lay down on a white wicker summer couch with wonderfully soft cushions and start to doze. The last of the party goers leans down and gives me a kiss on the cheek. I wake, only slightly, to mumble a goodbye and air kiss the check next to mine. Then, real morning slaps me awake.
I stagger out to the kitchen. Two children and a dog come rushing toward me. I feel like a bear who has just awakened from a long winter slumber. I yawn. I stretch. Suddenly, I hear the roar of a freight train. I look down at my hind paws. I'm standing on railroad tracks. There is no time to jump out of the way. The train named Hyperactive Chaos strikes me. I caution real bears not to try this. Real bears can be killed by trains. Metaphorical trains will leave you dazed and painfully alive. I growl a quiet "Good morning." I know better than to fight against my fate. I pass out hugs and pets accordingly.
After breakfast, I don't want to go for a walk. I push myself out the door. Soon a random line pops into my head. "Cherish the life you have been given because the only way out is through." I'm not sure I like the sound of this but decide to let it become my walking mantra. It's too awkward sounding. It doesn't flow into the rhythm my feet desperately need. I shorten it to: "Cherish life." My inner bear snorts but knows the rhythm is right.
My mind wanders. Apparently, I want to be grumpy this morning. The words "cherish life" make that difficult. I reel my mind back in and get it back on track. It's soon off hiding in the bushes. "Cherish life, cherish life." I start to ponder the timing of this phrases appearance. My daughter and I had just decided to experiment with vegetarianism. For phase one, we eat no red meat. We both object to the horrible way that so many animals are treated in the massive stockyards. A few large corporations supply most of the nations grocery stores. The animals are not treated humanely. So different from the livestock, I'd seen as a child. Our milk cow was just as much beloved pet as she was a source of milk. Cattle owned by relatives enjoyed lives in sunny pastures. They took shelter in roomy barns. The same was true of hogs, goats and chickens. They had rather interestingly lives, wandering about pastures or barnyards. I never saw any one treat them with cruelty or indifference. "Cherish life" begins to take on new levels of meaning.
It wasn't long and I was hit with a meaning that was very close to the center of my heart. I remembered dark times in my life when I did not cherish the life I was given. I remembered moments when I struggled with fatal choices. In those darkest hours, I was always stopped by a voice that roared so loudly I was sure that the world heard it. "Your life is a gift. It is not yours to end. Live it." Often irreverant and rebellious, I knew when I had to obey. I cherished my life by not making a fatal choice. It took time before my heart felt like I'd done the right thing. My soul was trapped in the dark. I was chained to a proclamation that I sometimes hated, "Cherish your life. It is a gift." Yet, it was these words that saved me.
They save a part of me on a grumpy summer morning. I've been busy cursing myself out for walking so fast and hard that I made my back hurt. It telegraphs messages of pain down my legs. I slow slightly and begin to repeat the tired line that I can not escape, "Cherish life, cherish life, cherish life." Finally, the walking gets easier. I forget about my sore back and aching legs. The dark cloud that hovered round my heart suddenly lifts slightly. I feel happiness peak out from behind a bush ahead on the trail. I hear the song of a bird, the rustle of the leaves when touched by the breeze. I meet two moms pushing strollers. We all smile and say, hello. I walk on and finally greet my morning, " Hello life. Today, I'm going to cherish you, whether I like it or not. Life and everything in it is a gift. I may not like the wrapping. I may not always like the present but I need to be respectful to the giver of these gifts. It's the right thing to do. The only way out is through. Today I will cherish my life."
Monday, August 9, 2010
Sunday, August 8, 2010
A Cautionary Tale
Once upon a time, three people go for a morning walk. Four, if you count one walker's alter ego, the Evil Queen. But back to our story. One is a 12-year-old girl. The second is a 10-year-old boy and the third is their mother who will soon be 52. (This was not an ordinary Just 10 walk and you'll soon discover why.) The 12-year old girl wants to ride her bike. She soon discovers that the bike seat keeps turning to the right. She pedals ahead, standing up. When she is about a football field away, she stops and waits for the two walkers to reach her. The mother can live with this. It is the boy that makes the walk unpleasant.
Before leaving the house for their walk, the boy decides to outfit himself in full character regalia. The mother guesses that in his mind he is Anakin Skywalker but she is not sure. The light saber is a clue that his mind is hosting a Star Wars adventure this morning but he may not be Anakin. He will soon display some very non-heroic behavior. Mom is confused. The die had been cast when the boy had insisted on wearing a polar fleece-lined vest, long sleeve shirt and long pants. Outside the morning temperature was in the mid-70's. Humidity was high.
The mother tells her son to take off the vest. He whines and insists. She assumes the role of Evil Queen. She sees what will soon occur without need of a crystal ball or evil tell-all mirror. No poison apple or devious spell is needed to teach this child a lesson. Reality will do that on its own. The Evil Queen, voice smooth as silk, purrs a reply, "Ok, wear the vest." She smiles a sinister smile. The walk begins.
Within a very short time, the boy starts to lag behind. Mother is walking at a fast pace. The girl pedals ahead. Behind the boy wilts. At first, he tries running to catch up. He fatigues very quickly. The evil Queen enjoys the irony. A 10-year-old boy can't keep up with his clinically obese, almost 52-year-old, mother. Something seems so wrong with this that the Evil Queen is especially pleased.
She tells the boy to take off his vest. This time, he quickly obeys. He whines, "What am I going to do with it? She proclaims, "You get to carry it. You insisted on wearing it. It is your responsibility." This is the beginning of the end. His spirit is broken and the energy to continue is gone. All three reverse course. The Evil Queen is beginning to get annoyed. The boy has ruined a perfectly good walk. He has also made a Just 10 walk impossible. She had held a flicker of hope that quality time could be found this morning despite the polar-fleece vest and a stubborn boy. Neither, he nor the Evil Queen is in the right mental space to give each other positive attention. The Evil Queen clings to the idea of the lesson. She quizzes the boy, "What would you do differently the next time?" He pants a quick reply laden with pathos, "I'd stay home", he says while sitting on the sidewalk.
The Evil Queen disappears. A sad mom has taken her place. This wasn't really what she wanted. She wanted the boy to say that he wouldn't wear a vest next time. It seems that the Evil Queen was too busy seeking vindication. Maybe if the mom had been in charge and exercised a bit more compassion while still guiding the boy to learn from his choices, well maybe, he would have said, "I'd leave the vest at home." The mother ponders this. The ten-year old boy may not be much of a walker. He is, however, a master at generating a feeling of guilt in those around him. It's a defensive posture. He finds it very difficult to bear the burden of responsibility for his own choices. This is not ideal but it is a part of who he is. It is all part of his Ground Zero. It is the place where the feet hit the trail, the rubber meets the road and the proverbial waste hits the fan. It must be accepted before going on. He is stuck sitting on the trail in a heap of self-pity and disgust. The Evil Queen has been victorious. The mother has learned from the error of the Evil Queen's ways. Mother wants to harness the power of the Evil Queen for the forces of goodness.
Mother knows that tomorrow is another day. Just 10 requires that the Evil Queen be banished from the land. A search party looks for her. She seems to have disappeared, at least for now. Upon returning home, mother tells the boy to take a shower. She says, "It will make you feel better." The tiny guardian of the castle, the wee little dog, greets the three with much affection. The Guardian has spent 30 minutes without their collective presence. It seems like an eternity. The lights of her life have returned. They take turns showering, washing the residue of unpleasantness off each of them in turn. The Evil Queen and the faithful Guardian have taught the mother a lesson. All is not lost. The three walkers, travelers on the trail, have come home. They will try again tomorrow.
Before leaving the house for their walk, the boy decides to outfit himself in full character regalia. The mother guesses that in his mind he is Anakin Skywalker but she is not sure. The light saber is a clue that his mind is hosting a Star Wars adventure this morning but he may not be Anakin. He will soon display some very non-heroic behavior. Mom is confused. The die had been cast when the boy had insisted on wearing a polar fleece-lined vest, long sleeve shirt and long pants. Outside the morning temperature was in the mid-70's. Humidity was high.
The mother tells her son to take off the vest. He whines and insists. She assumes the role of Evil Queen. She sees what will soon occur without need of a crystal ball or evil tell-all mirror. No poison apple or devious spell is needed to teach this child a lesson. Reality will do that on its own. The Evil Queen, voice smooth as silk, purrs a reply, "Ok, wear the vest." She smiles a sinister smile. The walk begins.
Within a very short time, the boy starts to lag behind. Mother is walking at a fast pace. The girl pedals ahead. Behind the boy wilts. At first, he tries running to catch up. He fatigues very quickly. The evil Queen enjoys the irony. A 10-year-old boy can't keep up with his clinically obese, almost 52-year-old, mother. Something seems so wrong with this that the Evil Queen is especially pleased.
She tells the boy to take off his vest. This time, he quickly obeys. He whines, "What am I going to do with it? She proclaims, "You get to carry it. You insisted on wearing it. It is your responsibility." This is the beginning of the end. His spirit is broken and the energy to continue is gone. All three reverse course. The Evil Queen is beginning to get annoyed. The boy has ruined a perfectly good walk. He has also made a Just 10 walk impossible. She had held a flicker of hope that quality time could be found this morning despite the polar-fleece vest and a stubborn boy. Neither, he nor the Evil Queen is in the right mental space to give each other positive attention. The Evil Queen clings to the idea of the lesson. She quizzes the boy, "What would you do differently the next time?" He pants a quick reply laden with pathos, "I'd stay home", he says while sitting on the sidewalk.
The Evil Queen disappears. A sad mom has taken her place. This wasn't really what she wanted. She wanted the boy to say that he wouldn't wear a vest next time. It seems that the Evil Queen was too busy seeking vindication. Maybe if the mom had been in charge and exercised a bit more compassion while still guiding the boy to learn from his choices, well maybe, he would have said, "I'd leave the vest at home." The mother ponders this. The ten-year old boy may not be much of a walker. He is, however, a master at generating a feeling of guilt in those around him. It's a defensive posture. He finds it very difficult to bear the burden of responsibility for his own choices. This is not ideal but it is a part of who he is. It is all part of his Ground Zero. It is the place where the feet hit the trail, the rubber meets the road and the proverbial waste hits the fan. It must be accepted before going on. He is stuck sitting on the trail in a heap of self-pity and disgust. The Evil Queen has been victorious. The mother has learned from the error of the Evil Queen's ways. Mother wants to harness the power of the Evil Queen for the forces of goodness.
Mother knows that tomorrow is another day. Just 10 requires that the Evil Queen be banished from the land. A search party looks for her. She seems to have disappeared, at least for now. Upon returning home, mother tells the boy to take a shower. She says, "It will make you feel better." The tiny guardian of the castle, the wee little dog, greets the three with much affection. The Guardian has spent 30 minutes without their collective presence. It seems like an eternity. The lights of her life have returned. They take turns showering, washing the residue of unpleasantness off each of them in turn. The Evil Queen and the faithful Guardian have taught the mother a lesson. All is not lost. The three walkers, travelers on the trail, have come home. They will try again tomorrow.
Friday, August 6, 2010
Just 10 with My Son
Lately, many a day has gone by and I've missed giving my children their Just 10. The side effect of this neglect has been apparent in their behavior, especially visible in my son. He's been a royal pain in the gluts.
So yesterday, while driving over to a nearby town to drop off a job application, I took him along. Just 10 time was long over due. The child who has been the master of non-compliance was a perfect gentleman. No sulking or misbehaving. When he talked, he sounded much older than his ten-years of age. We were two people having a good time together, talking, listening. I wasn't mom and he wasn't troublesome child. We just were. It was almost magical. So hard to believe than I've spent the last two weeks, trying to mentally escape his whining and temper tantrums by crawling inside my own head and shutting the door.
When my children were much younger and I felt like I was getting dangerously close to becoming an abusive parent, I would load up the double stroller, pop them in their car seats and head off for somewhere really public. I knew that I would be a better parent under the watchful eye of strangers. They, in turn, were usually model children probably for a lot of the same reasons I was pretending to be a model mom. The eyes of the world were watching.
Being in the public view is a bit of a slippery slope. Big A. and I just watched this bizzarre documentary about this internet mogul-genius, crazy guy, who created a weird bunker in NYC with cameras everywhere streaming the goings-on to the internet public. That turned into a total disaster. Then he goes on to stream his life with girlfriend. He even put cameras in the toilet. As you might guess, that relationship didn't last long. I'm still trying to shake a few of the images out of my head. No body needs to share everything with everyone.
I still think some sharing can be healthy or at least helpful. Bloggers often are criticized for their "airing it all." Some of that criticism is deserved. Yet, today during my Just 10 walk, I realized that this blog is helping me be a better person. I have often kept a journal but the writing was very different from what I share here. It was for my eyes only. As such, it often degenerated into a pity-party or diatribe. I was the perpetually confused Don Quixote jousting at windmills. My journals weren't all bad. I did learn a lot about myself but the writing wasn't anything special. When I reread them I was a bit bored. I'm much more emotionally invested in this blog because it is read by others. I'm also much more invested in living up to what I write about here. I've set the bar and I'd better reach for it.
Often, as I go through my day, I'm looking for fodder for my blog. I try to elevate the commonplace, the simple conversation or every day experience to a higher plain. On this plain, I begin to get a better focus. I catch a glimpse of how important the simple things are, like having a good conversation and a pleasant afternoon with my son. I understand how important it is to acknowledge one's love for another with concrete action. From this vantage point, I can see how important it is for me to share this with others so that I am motivated to behave.
Does that mean that I never felt like smacking my children or running away to Canada to begin life as a spinster librarian? No, it does not. I have and I will again. The difference is that when I force myself to acknowledge my fatal flaws, I begin to see that I am not alone and that there is something much bigger at stake. Through the eyes of others, I find parts of myself, some of the best parts. After all, I'm not an island. Neither am I Jerry-Springer-guest material. I've still got some pride and dignity left. I'm determined to behave myself. People are watching. The two most important observers are my children. I've got to be a good example, especially when I feel most like perusing that Canadian librarian fantasy.
I blog on because it helps me behave myself. Dear readers, thank you for helping me be a better person. My quality of life depends upon it. I hope that once in a while, you see a piece of yourself in my ramblings. We are not islands unto ourselves. We are all in this together.
So yesterday, while driving over to a nearby town to drop off a job application, I took him along. Just 10 time was long over due. The child who has been the master of non-compliance was a perfect gentleman. No sulking or misbehaving. When he talked, he sounded much older than his ten-years of age. We were two people having a good time together, talking, listening. I wasn't mom and he wasn't troublesome child. We just were. It was almost magical. So hard to believe than I've spent the last two weeks, trying to mentally escape his whining and temper tantrums by crawling inside my own head and shutting the door.
When my children were much younger and I felt like I was getting dangerously close to becoming an abusive parent, I would load up the double stroller, pop them in their car seats and head off for somewhere really public. I knew that I would be a better parent under the watchful eye of strangers. They, in turn, were usually model children probably for a lot of the same reasons I was pretending to be a model mom. The eyes of the world were watching.
Being in the public view is a bit of a slippery slope. Big A. and I just watched this bizzarre documentary about this internet mogul-genius, crazy guy, who created a weird bunker in NYC with cameras everywhere streaming the goings-on to the internet public. That turned into a total disaster. Then he goes on to stream his life with girlfriend. He even put cameras in the toilet. As you might guess, that relationship didn't last long. I'm still trying to shake a few of the images out of my head. No body needs to share everything with everyone.
I still think some sharing can be healthy or at least helpful. Bloggers often are criticized for their "airing it all." Some of that criticism is deserved. Yet, today during my Just 10 walk, I realized that this blog is helping me be a better person. I have often kept a journal but the writing was very different from what I share here. It was for my eyes only. As such, it often degenerated into a pity-party or diatribe. I was the perpetually confused Don Quixote jousting at windmills. My journals weren't all bad. I did learn a lot about myself but the writing wasn't anything special. When I reread them I was a bit bored. I'm much more emotionally invested in this blog because it is read by others. I'm also much more invested in living up to what I write about here. I've set the bar and I'd better reach for it.
Often, as I go through my day, I'm looking for fodder for my blog. I try to elevate the commonplace, the simple conversation or every day experience to a higher plain. On this plain, I begin to get a better focus. I catch a glimpse of how important the simple things are, like having a good conversation and a pleasant afternoon with my son. I understand how important it is to acknowledge one's love for another with concrete action. From this vantage point, I can see how important it is for me to share this with others so that I am motivated to behave.
Does that mean that I never felt like smacking my children or running away to Canada to begin life as a spinster librarian? No, it does not. I have and I will again. The difference is that when I force myself to acknowledge my fatal flaws, I begin to see that I am not alone and that there is something much bigger at stake. Through the eyes of others, I find parts of myself, some of the best parts. After all, I'm not an island. Neither am I Jerry-Springer-guest material. I've still got some pride and dignity left. I'm determined to behave myself. People are watching. The two most important observers are my children. I've got to be a good example, especially when I feel most like perusing that Canadian librarian fantasy.
I blog on because it helps me behave myself. Dear readers, thank you for helping me be a better person. My quality of life depends upon it. I hope that once in a while, you see a piece of yourself in my ramblings. We are not islands unto ourselves. We are all in this together.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
My Sacred Ground
Today, as I left from my Just 10 walk, I decided it was time to pray and ask for something specific like, "God send money, ASAP." Part of me is embarrassed to admit that I pray all the time, often on my walks. Although, I bet some of you have already figured this out. I've always been very protective of my relationship with the Big G. for two reasons.
1.) Developing a close relationship with God was my way of surviving, the relationship with God that was being forced on me from outside. Confused? I was. My poor mother was blessed and cursed with me as her first child. I was spirited and full of scathingly brilliant ideas which I often tried in real time and space. She tried to control my behavior by telling me how bad I was and how God and His angels were keeping tabs on me. They had a giant book filled with bright white pages and every time I did something bad, they'd make an ugly black mark. My book was said to be covered with marks. This was the stuff of nightmares to an imaginative child. I soon coped with the fear by finding the child, Jesus out in the cow pasture. He was the best imaginary friend a girl ever had. We often played for hours.
Little J. assured me that my mom had it all wrong. She didn't mean to be so scary. She was scary because she was scared. He told me that a lot of people misunderstand God. God isn't about fear and doing things because one is afraid not to. God is about love. I thought Little J. was really smart. Part of me believed him but it took a long time before I was able to believe him with all my heart. I spent years motivated by fear. The memory of these early conversations with God have never left me. When I no longer saw my imaginary friend, he remained only a thought away. I protected my relationship with God by not telling anyone. I didn't want anyone to take Him away. Please note, I use the masculine pronoun because it's easy for me. Personally, I know that God is He, She and It but it just doesn't sound as nice to the good Catholic girl in me.
2.) My relationship with God has always seemed a bit abnormal. My God has a sense of humor, remarkably like mine. It is often irreverent, counter cultural and probably more than a little odd. I've believed that everyone carries a piece of God deep in their hearts. When in the first grade, Sister Some One said that, "If you're not Catholic, you'll go to Hell." I talked it over with God and we concluded that she was sadly mistaken. I told God I was worried about those Hindus in India who we were told were worshiping cows. God laughed and said that they have just as good a chance of getting into heaven as the next guy. That worked for me. Over the years, I've met agnostics who are better Christians than most Christians I know. I don't know if I've ever met an atheist. Maybe, I need to expand my circle. Oh, and as far as Sister Someone was concerned, by second grade Vatican II had us switch to coloring pictures of saints and talking about peace and love. No more memorization of black and white answers. God was now found in a box of crayolas.
So this morning, I pray and I ask for something specific, "Help, please send MONEY." I read recently that you will never get anything from God if you don't ask, so ask I did. I heard God laugh. Over the years, I've learned not to ask God for much. He usually says, "No, I've got something better in mind." Occasionally, I've spent years pouting over that answer, trying to give God the silent treatment. God is patient if He is anything. He always waits out my hissy fits. This morning God asks, "What happened to "My will be done? You know I'm not Santa Claus." God is referring to my Santa Claus theory. Long ago, I observed that some people treat God like He's some Heavenly Santa, just waiting to pull their request out of His big red bag. It was always too simple a theory for a complicated me. I was sure God was even more complicated and that my approaching God and sitting on his lap asking for things wasn't going to fly. He's got me.
"Okay", I say and switch the channel. I hear Paul McCartney sing the chorus from "Let It Be." "Very funny, God. It plays over and over while I keep walking. I spot a t-shirt on the side of the trail. It looks like an XLG. I'm hoping it might fit my significant other. It's torn almost in two but it will make a good rag. The image of a temple curtain torn in two on Good Friday pops into my head. "Geez!" I sigh, "always with these scriptural allusions." I smile inside at my Yiddish inflection. Soon, I meet my well-groomed dog walker. The dogs remember me and strain against their leases to come say hi. I take pity on the man who is trying to gently get them to keep walking. I don't stop even though I just want to play with the puppies. "Let It Be, Let It Be."
From behind me I hear the whirl of bike sprockets. My Mormon missionaries with neckties are here to greet me again. I don't stop but say, "Hi, you two stop me almost every morning." They reply, "How are you today?" I say, "Great" and keep walking. I tell them, "Keep up the good work. I'm sure there is some one out there who needs to talk to you." They get the message and pedal on. Inside, I feel a little sorry for them. They don't have an easy job. They've gotten to be such a familiar sight on the trail that if I don't see them, I feel that I'm missing something. I remember that I've got to get back to begging for God's help but familiar faces keep meeting me. The couple who walk together. I swear that he must have been a farmer who sold his farm and retired on the money. He's got a small, neat house in the suburbs. He likes to go fishing. Then there is the man with his elderly but spry mother. They walk every day and look so much alike. There is the woman with the short hair cut. She always wears the same work out clothes. They look expensive. There are a couple of familiar runners, ear buds pumping sound into their heads. They don't smile or even acknowledge the presence of other humans on the trail. For a moment, I envy their concentration, then realize they are missing out on connecting with their fellow travelers. I feel sorry for them instead.
God interrupts. I forgot He was still on the line. "Did you see Me in their faces?" He asks. I pause, "Yes, yes, I did." I give up controlling my thoughts and trying to focus on praying. I'm not doing a good job. I decide to spend some time just listening. There are few words in this space that I've carved in my soul but I know that God is there. I feel happy despite all the uncertainty in my life. Whether or not, God sends money isn't important. I decide that I need to write about this despite my own hesitancy to put so much of my prayer life on the line for all to see. I'd rather have my big bloomers flapping on a clothes line out in the front yard. God tries to tell me, "It's no big deal." I really don't to talk about my "sacred ground.
My sacred ground isn't very pretty. It's an abandoned field in a bad part of the city. It's covered with dirt and gravel. Patches of weeds are everywhere. There is a lot of broken glass. Street people use parts of it for a restroom. Off to the side, lies the rusty pieces of an old bike. The sprocket has spokes bent in strangely elegant angles. This is the place where my God intersects with my world. It's not pretty. It seems to lack potential. I'm more than a bit embarrassed by how it all looks and yet, I don't want anyone to take it away. There is a beauty here, when I remember how to find it. In the very back of this abandoned, empty lot there is a small corner with a view, a view into something beautiful beyond description. The only way to catch a glimpse of it is to make my way through the weeds and broken glass, past the bike sprocket and beyond.
1.) Developing a close relationship with God was my way of surviving, the relationship with God that was being forced on me from outside. Confused? I was. My poor mother was blessed and cursed with me as her first child. I was spirited and full of scathingly brilliant ideas which I often tried in real time and space. She tried to control my behavior by telling me how bad I was and how God and His angels were keeping tabs on me. They had a giant book filled with bright white pages and every time I did something bad, they'd make an ugly black mark. My book was said to be covered with marks. This was the stuff of nightmares to an imaginative child. I soon coped with the fear by finding the child, Jesus out in the cow pasture. He was the best imaginary friend a girl ever had. We often played for hours.
Little J. assured me that my mom had it all wrong. She didn't mean to be so scary. She was scary because she was scared. He told me that a lot of people misunderstand God. God isn't about fear and doing things because one is afraid not to. God is about love. I thought Little J. was really smart. Part of me believed him but it took a long time before I was able to believe him with all my heart. I spent years motivated by fear. The memory of these early conversations with God have never left me. When I no longer saw my imaginary friend, he remained only a thought away. I protected my relationship with God by not telling anyone. I didn't want anyone to take Him away. Please note, I use the masculine pronoun because it's easy for me. Personally, I know that God is He, She and It but it just doesn't sound as nice to the good Catholic girl in me.
2.) My relationship with God has always seemed a bit abnormal. My God has a sense of humor, remarkably like mine. It is often irreverent, counter cultural and probably more than a little odd. I've believed that everyone carries a piece of God deep in their hearts. When in the first grade, Sister Some One said that, "If you're not Catholic, you'll go to Hell." I talked it over with God and we concluded that she was sadly mistaken. I told God I was worried about those Hindus in India who we were told were worshiping cows. God laughed and said that they have just as good a chance of getting into heaven as the next guy. That worked for me. Over the years, I've met agnostics who are better Christians than most Christians I know. I don't know if I've ever met an atheist. Maybe, I need to expand my circle. Oh, and as far as Sister Someone was concerned, by second grade Vatican II had us switch to coloring pictures of saints and talking about peace and love. No more memorization of black and white answers. God was now found in a box of crayolas.
So this morning, I pray and I ask for something specific, "Help, please send MONEY." I read recently that you will never get anything from God if you don't ask, so ask I did. I heard God laugh. Over the years, I've learned not to ask God for much. He usually says, "No, I've got something better in mind." Occasionally, I've spent years pouting over that answer, trying to give God the silent treatment. God is patient if He is anything. He always waits out my hissy fits. This morning God asks, "What happened to "My will be done? You know I'm not Santa Claus." God is referring to my Santa Claus theory. Long ago, I observed that some people treat God like He's some Heavenly Santa, just waiting to pull their request out of His big red bag. It was always too simple a theory for a complicated me. I was sure God was even more complicated and that my approaching God and sitting on his lap asking for things wasn't going to fly. He's got me.
"Okay", I say and switch the channel. I hear Paul McCartney sing the chorus from "Let It Be." "Very funny, God. It plays over and over while I keep walking. I spot a t-shirt on the side of the trail. It looks like an XLG. I'm hoping it might fit my significant other. It's torn almost in two but it will make a good rag. The image of a temple curtain torn in two on Good Friday pops into my head. "Geez!" I sigh, "always with these scriptural allusions." I smile inside at my Yiddish inflection. Soon, I meet my well-groomed dog walker. The dogs remember me and strain against their leases to come say hi. I take pity on the man who is trying to gently get them to keep walking. I don't stop even though I just want to play with the puppies. "Let It Be, Let It Be."
From behind me I hear the whirl of bike sprockets. My Mormon missionaries with neckties are here to greet me again. I don't stop but say, "Hi, you two stop me almost every morning." They reply, "How are you today?" I say, "Great" and keep walking. I tell them, "Keep up the good work. I'm sure there is some one out there who needs to talk to you." They get the message and pedal on. Inside, I feel a little sorry for them. They don't have an easy job. They've gotten to be such a familiar sight on the trail that if I don't see them, I feel that I'm missing something. I remember that I've got to get back to begging for God's help but familiar faces keep meeting me. The couple who walk together. I swear that he must have been a farmer who sold his farm and retired on the money. He's got a small, neat house in the suburbs. He likes to go fishing. Then there is the man with his elderly but spry mother. They walk every day and look so much alike. There is the woman with the short hair cut. She always wears the same work out clothes. They look expensive. There are a couple of familiar runners, ear buds pumping sound into their heads. They don't smile or even acknowledge the presence of other humans on the trail. For a moment, I envy their concentration, then realize they are missing out on connecting with their fellow travelers. I feel sorry for them instead.
God interrupts. I forgot He was still on the line. "Did you see Me in their faces?" He asks. I pause, "Yes, yes, I did." I give up controlling my thoughts and trying to focus on praying. I'm not doing a good job. I decide to spend some time just listening. There are few words in this space that I've carved in my soul but I know that God is there. I feel happy despite all the uncertainty in my life. Whether or not, God sends money isn't important. I decide that I need to write about this despite my own hesitancy to put so much of my prayer life on the line for all to see. I'd rather have my big bloomers flapping on a clothes line out in the front yard. God tries to tell me, "It's no big deal." I really don't to talk about my "sacred ground.
My sacred ground isn't very pretty. It's an abandoned field in a bad part of the city. It's covered with dirt and gravel. Patches of weeds are everywhere. There is a lot of broken glass. Street people use parts of it for a restroom. Off to the side, lies the rusty pieces of an old bike. The sprocket has spokes bent in strangely elegant angles. This is the place where my God intersects with my world. It's not pretty. It seems to lack potential. I'm more than a bit embarrassed by how it all looks and yet, I don't want anyone to take it away. There is a beauty here, when I remember how to find it. In the very back of this abandoned, empty lot there is a small corner with a view, a view into something beautiful beyond description. The only way to catch a glimpse of it is to make my way through the weeds and broken glass, past the bike sprocket and beyond.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
Peace Treaty
On my Just 10 walk, a bug flew into my ear. Inside, my head the klaxon sounded, "Intruder Alert." I didn't need any intruders this morning. I was earnestly working on a peace treaty between my inner witch and the resident, I-want-to-taste-it-all hedonist. They seemed to have started fighting in deadly earnest before I woke up this morning.
Before my feet touched the floor, my inner witch was firing at me. She lives inside a dark, inner turret of terror and has been there for as long as I can remember. She spends her time firing critical volleys at my self-confidence, my chubby hedonist, my maternal instincts and anyone or anything. Nothing is safe. This morning, she is vicious. "What's wrong with you? Getting up at 9:20. You've got lots of things to do. You are so lazy." I quickly dive into a fox hole. There in the trench is my chubby hedonist. "Hi, there," she purrs. "Let's talk breakfast. You've got that wonderful artisan bread you just baked and don't forget the oatmeal cookies you defrosted. Just think of how that bread will taste, toasted, spread with butter so that it melts in all the nooks and crannies. You must top it with homemade strawberry jam." I jump out of the trench, braving the hail of the witches' taunts and race to the kitchen.
Two cookies and toast with jam later, the witch is firing like a crazy woman. Taking off for my walk, I duck out the door hoping to leave her behind. She's flying right behind me. The chubby hedonist jumps on my back so she doesn't have to exert herself. The two of them are driving me crazy. At first the witch is quite persuasive. She often speaks truth or at least pieces of it. She tell me that I lack discipline. I know she is right. I'm a kooky butterfly catcher always chasing after some new idea, book, laugh or taste sensation. I often flitter through my days, easily distracted, quick to forget my earnest resolutions. The taste-it-all hedonist loves that about me. I'm fed up with both of them.
I walk faster, a small rivulet of perspiration dampens my brow. The noise of battle eases. I sit on a hill far away from witch and hedonist who are still fighting. Out of ammo, they are locked in physical combat, rolling about a sunny meadow. I start to enjoy the show. The witch, complete with warts and black hat has her bony arms locked around the chubby little hedonist who has a face covered in strawberry jam. They make me smile. These two are a couple of feisty idiots. In time, I start to feel sorry for them. It's time to step in and break it up. The witch needs to take a time-out in her turret of terror and strawberry-jam-coated, hedonist needs to take a nap in her foxhole. (I bet she has her own kitchen there or at least a wet bar and hot plate.)
A wise inner mom emerges from hiding and separates the combatants, each to their own corner. They have to learn to get along with each other. They are both stuck here. They can even help each other. Enough of the fighting. Maybe in time, they can enjoy each others' company and even have fun on occasion. They aren't quite ready to believe that yet but I know it's true. The witch is often right. She can really help with the focus issues and self disciple. The hedonist knows how to enjoy what the world has to offer. She can ease the frown lines on the witches' face and share some of her tasty treats. (The witch could really stand to gain a few pounds.)
About this point, the bug enters my ear. I am vaguely aware of it. I naturally try to remove said bug and I seemed to have achieved that objective. I don't know if I can take much credit for it's extraction. It probably took one look at the battle raging inside my head and flew in the opposite direction as fast as its' little bug wings could carry it. If it had stayed just a wee bit longer, he might have witnesses the detente achieved over a kitchen table. There the witch and hedonist enjoyed chocolate chip oatmeal cookies and a glass of milk. If you look really closely, you can see the beginning of a smile on the witches' face. The hedonist passes her another cookie.
Before my feet touched the floor, my inner witch was firing at me. She lives inside a dark, inner turret of terror and has been there for as long as I can remember. She spends her time firing critical volleys at my self-confidence, my chubby hedonist, my maternal instincts and anyone or anything. Nothing is safe. This morning, she is vicious. "What's wrong with you? Getting up at 9:20. You've got lots of things to do. You are so lazy." I quickly dive into a fox hole. There in the trench is my chubby hedonist. "Hi, there," she purrs. "Let's talk breakfast. You've got that wonderful artisan bread you just baked and don't forget the oatmeal cookies you defrosted. Just think of how that bread will taste, toasted, spread with butter so that it melts in all the nooks and crannies. You must top it with homemade strawberry jam." I jump out of the trench, braving the hail of the witches' taunts and race to the kitchen.
Two cookies and toast with jam later, the witch is firing like a crazy woman. Taking off for my walk, I duck out the door hoping to leave her behind. She's flying right behind me. The chubby hedonist jumps on my back so she doesn't have to exert herself. The two of them are driving me crazy. At first the witch is quite persuasive. She often speaks truth or at least pieces of it. She tell me that I lack discipline. I know she is right. I'm a kooky butterfly catcher always chasing after some new idea, book, laugh or taste sensation. I often flitter through my days, easily distracted, quick to forget my earnest resolutions. The taste-it-all hedonist loves that about me. I'm fed up with both of them.
I walk faster, a small rivulet of perspiration dampens my brow. The noise of battle eases. I sit on a hill far away from witch and hedonist who are still fighting. Out of ammo, they are locked in physical combat, rolling about a sunny meadow. I start to enjoy the show. The witch, complete with warts and black hat has her bony arms locked around the chubby little hedonist who has a face covered in strawberry jam. They make me smile. These two are a couple of feisty idiots. In time, I start to feel sorry for them. It's time to step in and break it up. The witch needs to take a time-out in her turret of terror and strawberry-jam-coated, hedonist needs to take a nap in her foxhole. (I bet she has her own kitchen there or at least a wet bar and hot plate.)
A wise inner mom emerges from hiding and separates the combatants, each to their own corner. They have to learn to get along with each other. They are both stuck here. They can even help each other. Enough of the fighting. Maybe in time, they can enjoy each others' company and even have fun on occasion. They aren't quite ready to believe that yet but I know it's true. The witch is often right. She can really help with the focus issues and self disciple. The hedonist knows how to enjoy what the world has to offer. She can ease the frown lines on the witches' face and share some of her tasty treats. (The witch could really stand to gain a few pounds.)
About this point, the bug enters my ear. I am vaguely aware of it. I naturally try to remove said bug and I seemed to have achieved that objective. I don't know if I can take much credit for it's extraction. It probably took one look at the battle raging inside my head and flew in the opposite direction as fast as its' little bug wings could carry it. If it had stayed just a wee bit longer, he might have witnesses the detente achieved over a kitchen table. There the witch and hedonist enjoyed chocolate chip oatmeal cookies and a glass of milk. If you look really closely, you can see the beginning of a smile on the witches' face. The hedonist passes her another cookie.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Soul Dance
When I left for my Just 10 walk this morning, I was pursued by frustration. Number One Son rarely gets up in a good mood. This morning he was particularly unpleasant. He is an expert on "crapping on the happy." I coined this phrase some time ago to try and snap him out of his cesspool of morning sadness. It worked for a while. Then, the novelty of mom saying "crapping" wore off. I didn't want to bring it up a notch by resorting to more colorful expressions so I'm back at the drawing board. This morning, I wanted nothing to do with dreaming up new strategies. I wanted to escape. Racing out the door, I started my walk moving like the proverbial bat from hell.
Maybe I was more Incredible Hulk than proverbial bat. My pace seemed very halting and awkward. I felt like more a lumbering giant with poor motor skills. I didn't belong in this body. My soul is a graceful little dancer. Outside I was Hulk all the way. I was out of rhythm, an alien inside my own shell. Behind me were all the cares of my world, the lingering miasma of morning madness. I struggled to deal with it all. A huge green wall of negative self talk started to appear. The Hulk was unhappy.
Finally, I came to a full mental stop. Outside, the Hulk was still lumbering onward so as not to draw too much attention from passersby. Inside I knew that I had to practice acceptance. I had to say, "Yes" to my life, the good, the bad and the ugly. Of course the selfish part of me wasn't exactly happy with this turn of events and started to protest. Inside, I whine, "I'm just not feeling the love." Almost instantly, I hear a reply in my head. "LOVE IS NOT ALWAYS A FEELING." The stubborn idiot that lives inside me wanted to protest. I told her to keep quiet. It was time to listen but the universe/God had fallen silent again. There were no further instructions, no further comments or directives. I was alone, thoughts randomly streaming, waiting for more. Nothing else came. I still wasn't feeling the love but I was going to accept it.
There on the trail, somewhere between the high school baseball fields and the old highway intersection, I got to "Yes." The Hulk had gone. I'd been touched by love without feeling it. Instead, I knew it. Outside, I was not yet the graceful dancer but I was closer to it. My movements through time and space felt like my own. Now, I moved more fluidly like rushing water and like water I was a cleanser, washing out the dark corners of regret, cleaning away the residue of defeat, letting go of the morning madness that had chased me out the door. These unwanted pieces were still there, buoyed upon the water as driftwood floats on the tide. They were not the water. I was. These unwanted pieces will always be with me in one shape or another but I can let them float upon the surface. I don't have to swallow them whole but simply let them be.
Then, ahead on the trail, was a neatly dressed man, walking two dogs. He slowed and moved to the side to let me pass. I paused and looked at the dogs. One exuded youth. I asked the man, "Puppy?". He said, "Yes, 12 weeks." The dog loving the attention, placed paws on my kneecaps. Without thinking, I petted her soft head. Somewhere deep inside me came these words, "Ah, you're going to be beautiful someday?" I spoke them aloud to the dog. Later, as I walked away, I realized I was also speaking to myself. The outside will continue to age, I will have my Incredible Hulk days and through it all the inside is becoming just a bit more beautiful. "Yes," I said. "Yes, life make me beautiful." My soul was dancing.
Maybe I was more Incredible Hulk than proverbial bat. My pace seemed very halting and awkward. I felt like more a lumbering giant with poor motor skills. I didn't belong in this body. My soul is a graceful little dancer. Outside I was Hulk all the way. I was out of rhythm, an alien inside my own shell. Behind me were all the cares of my world, the lingering miasma of morning madness. I struggled to deal with it all. A huge green wall of negative self talk started to appear. The Hulk was unhappy.
Finally, I came to a full mental stop. Outside, the Hulk was still lumbering onward so as not to draw too much attention from passersby. Inside I knew that I had to practice acceptance. I had to say, "Yes" to my life, the good, the bad and the ugly. Of course the selfish part of me wasn't exactly happy with this turn of events and started to protest. Inside, I whine, "I'm just not feeling the love." Almost instantly, I hear a reply in my head. "LOVE IS NOT ALWAYS A FEELING." The stubborn idiot that lives inside me wanted to protest. I told her to keep quiet. It was time to listen but the universe/God had fallen silent again. There were no further instructions, no further comments or directives. I was alone, thoughts randomly streaming, waiting for more. Nothing else came. I still wasn't feeling the love but I was going to accept it.
There on the trail, somewhere between the high school baseball fields and the old highway intersection, I got to "Yes." The Hulk had gone. I'd been touched by love without feeling it. Instead, I knew it. Outside, I was not yet the graceful dancer but I was closer to it. My movements through time and space felt like my own. Now, I moved more fluidly like rushing water and like water I was a cleanser, washing out the dark corners of regret, cleaning away the residue of defeat, letting go of the morning madness that had chased me out the door. These unwanted pieces were still there, buoyed upon the water as driftwood floats on the tide. They were not the water. I was. These unwanted pieces will always be with me in one shape or another but I can let them float upon the surface. I don't have to swallow them whole but simply let them be.
Then, ahead on the trail, was a neatly dressed man, walking two dogs. He slowed and moved to the side to let me pass. I paused and looked at the dogs. One exuded youth. I asked the man, "Puppy?". He said, "Yes, 12 weeks." The dog loving the attention, placed paws on my kneecaps. Without thinking, I petted her soft head. Somewhere deep inside me came these words, "Ah, you're going to be beautiful someday?" I spoke them aloud to the dog. Later, as I walked away, I realized I was also speaking to myself. The outside will continue to age, I will have my Incredible Hulk days and through it all the inside is becoming just a bit more beautiful. "Yes," I said. "Yes, life make me beautiful." My soul was dancing.
Sunday, August 1, 2010
God is my Witness
Earlier this week, we took a mini-vacation up to Seattle. It's time to get back to my Just 10 time. I'm sort of lost without it. Our trip was a swan song of sorts, that last fling before the final curtain falls. We've come back to deal with the reality of being unemployed, eminent foreclosure, and the lovely middle-life crisis' search for purpose and meaning. Exactly what can I contribute to this world? I'm a financial quadraplegic without a wheelchair.
In the background of all this worry, this little clip from Gone with the Wind has been playing in my head. Yes, I know it's overly dramatic and that Scarlett, herself, sometimes casts morality aside. Yet, few characters embody determination and downright spunkiness better than Scarlett O'Hara. I admire her. I want to be her NOW. Several days ago, when the starter went out on the van, I felt numb with the shock of yet another problem, a problem that needed money to solve. Depending on the kindness of family, strangers and the state is not a position, I've ever wanted to find myself, yet, here I am. I owe them something. I can't ever really repay the many kindnesses that have been shown to me over the years. I'm humbled before them. The least I can do is to continue moving forward, to live as good and as full a life as possible.
While I'm a little numb around the edges and may remain so for some time to come, I find myself latching on to the hem of Scarlett's skirt. Like Scarlett, I raise my fist of dirt to the heavens and proclaim, "as God is my witness, I'm not going to let them lick me." I'll hold off on adding the "cheating, stealing and killing" part. That might come later.
Right now, I'm determined to find a way to live as cheaply and as happily as possible. It's time a few of us said, "Enough." Human's greed is poisoning the planet. Our mad consumerism is robbing people of compassion and a sense of satisfaction. We are not educating our children to be analytical and critical thinkers. We are raising an ignorant nation. We race through life alone always in a hurry to get nowhere. We've lost a sense of responsibility toward others and for ourselves. We lay waste our power. We drown our sorrows in a thousand different things but the pain is still there. We miss the beauty around us. We forget how to have fun. "Enough. Enough."
As God is my witness, they aren't going to lick me. I am determined to make the best of this situation. I choose to see this as an opportunity. My life needs a makeover and now is the time. I'll be damned if I'm going to let all the bad things that have happened defeat me. "As God is my witness. . ."
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