Despite being mentally committed to giving each family member Just 10 each day, I've had a really hard time crawling out of my own head long enough to give them the time. I took off on my Just 10 walk pondering the why's of this and hoping to uncover a plan of action to repair what I feel is lacking.
I look up and spot a neighbor unloading groceries from his car. Oh, I so hope he doesn't want to talk. He is a nice man, full of desire to bring the Lord to others. I'm not looking for a conversion experience or even tales of one this morning. He seems not to recognize me and he is busy repeating something to his wife who seems especially hard of hearing. Ah, back to brooding in silence.
My thoughts keep returning to the neighbor. I envy the neighbor's spiritual simplicity, his single minded, self-appointed mission to bring the Lord to others. I am also filled with judgment at what I believe to be naivete. Envy and disdain, all at once. I scold myself for not being a nicer person and then quickly come to my defense and argue for being a critical thinker. I am a soul, divided.
The steps fly by. I'm on the trail, walking quickly, headed nowhere. I meet other walkers. Three of them have hand and ear connected to cell phones. Three are wired for sound, music leaking from their heads. They are not easy to greet, especially those hooked to the phone. I am irritated that I can't make eye contact and smile a hello. They'll miss my dimples. Is it really all about me this morning? I answer, softly, to myself, "Yes, yes it is."
I have lost perspective. I inhabit the safe, yet lonely universe of ME. I seek distraction. I overhear a fellow, phone-head walker, say to the unfortunate person on the other end of the call that she has "reached the intersection and is now heading toward 117th." We've developed the ability to communicate more efficiently, then ever before and we're talking about where we are at that moment or calling home to find out which can of soup to buy. Something seems so wrong here. This "noise" is piercing my walk with unwelcome sound. What ever happened to really sharing ourselves with each other? Why haven't I been doing a very good job in that department? Why have I been avoiding my Just 10 time with the people I care about most? I keep walking, looking for answers.
I can't do this alone. I want to get God, the Force, my higher power, on speaker phone. I want a simple reassurance that everything will turn out all right. I want some hope. I want to look forward to the future, not dread what may lie ahead. There have been too many defeats, too many disappointments. I want a sign, the kind that my neighbor seems to be getting daily. It's a "me" kind of morning.
Suddenly, I hesitate, sigh deeply, and give myself permission to be me. Me, a prison and a temple, encasing a soul divided. "It is what it is." I am not my neighbor. I am not the cell phone talker walkers nor the walkers leaking noise out of their ears. Yet, I understand some of the same things that drive them, also drive me. They struggle to connect, to love, to keep hope alive, just like I do.
I keep walking.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Monday, June 28, 2010
Abundance
I left for my Just 10 walk this morning with some heavy baggage. I was pulling two heavy psychic suitcases. One was filled with worry over the lack of money in our lives. The second, almost heavier burden, the lack of patience. I took off down the sidewalk like a woman pursued. The train to the land of "What If" and "If Only" had picked me up and I was headed there at break neck speed. I walk faster.
I tell myself to focus on the word "abundance." The pessimist inside me scoffs and says, "Yah, right. Like that's going to help." I pick up more speed. My shins start to ache. I want to get off the train to crazy town. I'm having a hard time finding out just how to disembark.
I decide to take a leap and jump. I look up to see a Monarch butterfly fluttering over Oregon grape. Bushes heavy with dusty royal blue berries. A chickadee chirps a warning. A lone sweet pea vine punctuates the landscape with vivid magenta flowers. I think of the reclusive Emily Dickinson. "God's in his heaven. All's right with the world." If only that felt true to me now.
Thoughts turn to the lilies of the field, those "that neither toil or sow." Yet, they receive all they need. Might I be a lily for a while? Maybe in my next life? Today, I'm not enjoying being a human in temporal time with a significant cash flow problem. It looks like I might be climbing back aboard that crazy train.
"Think, abundance. Focus on all you have, not on what you don't." I try. Gosh, this is hard this morning. I pick up the pace and decide to focus on my breathing. The train roars on with out me. I stop trying to block my feelings. I let them go and walk on. Slowly, they leave me. I imagine a black pall lifting from me. I can hear the "what ifs" and "if onlys" and then let them go. I know they'll be back. I am hopelessly human, after all. It is possible to possess two opposite truths at once, to know abundance and great scarcity, to have everything and yet want everything you don't possess.
As illogical as that sounds, it gives me some peace this morning. I return, thirsty, sweaty and calmer. The mornings irritations that I was so eager to escape when I left for this walk, no longer really matter. I have it all but am always looking for more. I know this to be the heart of abundance for us humans. For a moment, I let myself feel and enjoy it. Scarcity will have to wait.
I tell myself to focus on the word "abundance." The pessimist inside me scoffs and says, "Yah, right. Like that's going to help." I pick up more speed. My shins start to ache. I want to get off the train to crazy town. I'm having a hard time finding out just how to disembark.
I decide to take a leap and jump. I look up to see a Monarch butterfly fluttering over Oregon grape. Bushes heavy with dusty royal blue berries. A chickadee chirps a warning. A lone sweet pea vine punctuates the landscape with vivid magenta flowers. I think of the reclusive Emily Dickinson. "God's in his heaven. All's right with the world." If only that felt true to me now.
Thoughts turn to the lilies of the field, those "that neither toil or sow." Yet, they receive all they need. Might I be a lily for a while? Maybe in my next life? Today, I'm not enjoying being a human in temporal time with a significant cash flow problem. It looks like I might be climbing back aboard that crazy train.
"Think, abundance. Focus on all you have, not on what you don't." I try. Gosh, this is hard this morning. I pick up the pace and decide to focus on my breathing. The train roars on with out me. I stop trying to block my feelings. I let them go and walk on. Slowly, they leave me. I imagine a black pall lifting from me. I can hear the "what ifs" and "if onlys" and then let them go. I know they'll be back. I am hopelessly human, after all. It is possible to possess two opposite truths at once, to know abundance and great scarcity, to have everything and yet want everything you don't possess.
As illogical as that sounds, it gives me some peace this morning. I return, thirsty, sweaty and calmer. The mornings irritations that I was so eager to escape when I left for this walk, no longer really matter. I have it all but am always looking for more. I know this to be the heart of abundance for us humans. For a moment, I let myself feel and enjoy it. Scarcity will have to wait.
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Date Night
Aware of the continued need to give my husband some quality time, we took time for a date night yesterday evening. Musicians of my husband's acquaintance, The Mike Branch Band were playing at a small bar outside of Kelso. This is the quintessential biker bar. Unevenly worn, wooden floors, an outdoor eating area with crude fire pit and what smelled like great food give this place an unforgettable ambiance. This little bar hangs on the side of a country road, suspended above a ditch filled with murky water. It has a perfect sense of what it is and who it serves. It's customers seem to be having a great time.
My husband and I shared few words on the drive up. Lost in my own thoughts, I gave him the gift of an easy silence. When we arrived, the building was packed . We parked at a bit of a distance, the van hugging the side of the road. I had to get out on the driver's side. I accidentally honked the horn with my derriere. I'd slipped on a summer dress that I had paid a whole quarter for at a garage sale. I soon saw that I was grossly overdressed. No one seemed to notice or even care. I liked this odd collection of middle-aged folks seeking to relive their youth, if only for a few hours on a Saturday evening. They were amusing and yet, endearing. They hadn't forgotten how to relax and have fun. Had I?
The band was good but so loud. I pondered on why middle aged men find it necessary to distort the quality of their music by cranking up the amp. Then again, my viewing it as too loud maybe more of a reflection of my age then theirs. A kind couple at the next table, offered some us bright orange ear plugs. They were my kind of people. Wearing the ear plugs, I could understand the words and hear the guitar solos. My ears rang less. The threat of a headache waned.
A few couples got up to dance. Women stretched various synthetic fabrics in interesting ways. Men seemed to do more kicking than dancing. Or maybe, it was some form of kung fu. Occasionally, a man whose eyes had almost completely retreated to the back of his head, staggered on to the dance floor, beer in one hand and a tall black stool with silver legs, in the other. I feared for the stool and then myself, as he staggered near. He would abruptly toddle away only to return to dance with his partner, the stool. A flash of irritation that they were still serving him flashed across my head. It was out of my hands. I let my anger go and said a quiet prayer that no one would let him drive and then forgot about him until today. Hey, Stool Dancer, I hope you're lost in fitful slumber and will awake with one heck of a headache. Consequences have much to teach us.
At about 9 p.m. someone lit the outdoor fire pit. The smoke from the wood fire filled the room. The smell of wood smoke always takes me back to childhood. For a moment, I stand before the furnace. I am feeding the fire with a log from the wood pile, the pile we carefully built every early autumn. The floor, vibrating with sound, breaks my revelry. I take in the dance floor, stools jerking through air, fabric stretched in unattractive ways, men kicking spasmodically. I realize that I really am having fun. I am observing. I am learning. I am a nerd and I'm happy to be one. No stool dancing for me unless carefully controlled and done among friends for a laugh. I may have fluked party but I'm doing what I enjoy most, watching and enjoying it all.
I hope that my husband is enjoying himself. With the volume and the ear plugs, we communicate with gestures and an occasional shouted word. I wonder if he is as content as I or if he needs to join some of the action to really have fun. When he asks me if I'm ready to leave, I don't answer with the "yes" I feel. I say, "Are you?" He hesitates and surveys the room. I ask, "Do you want to stay?" I quickly add, "I don't want to be a wet blanket." I can be and this evening is for him more than it is for me. After a small hesitation, he says, "No, I'm ready." I believe him. We head back to our sleeping children. Our son awakes when I check on him. He asks, "Did you have a good time?" I say, "Yes, we did." We really did.
My husband and I shared few words on the drive up. Lost in my own thoughts, I gave him the gift of an easy silence. When we arrived, the building was packed . We parked at a bit of a distance, the van hugging the side of the road. I had to get out on the driver's side. I accidentally honked the horn with my derriere. I'd slipped on a summer dress that I had paid a whole quarter for at a garage sale. I soon saw that I was grossly overdressed. No one seemed to notice or even care. I liked this odd collection of middle-aged folks seeking to relive their youth, if only for a few hours on a Saturday evening. They were amusing and yet, endearing. They hadn't forgotten how to relax and have fun. Had I?
The band was good but so loud. I pondered on why middle aged men find it necessary to distort the quality of their music by cranking up the amp. Then again, my viewing it as too loud maybe more of a reflection of my age then theirs. A kind couple at the next table, offered some us bright orange ear plugs. They were my kind of people. Wearing the ear plugs, I could understand the words and hear the guitar solos. My ears rang less. The threat of a headache waned.
A few couples got up to dance. Women stretched various synthetic fabrics in interesting ways. Men seemed to do more kicking than dancing. Or maybe, it was some form of kung fu. Occasionally, a man whose eyes had almost completely retreated to the back of his head, staggered on to the dance floor, beer in one hand and a tall black stool with silver legs, in the other. I feared for the stool and then myself, as he staggered near. He would abruptly toddle away only to return to dance with his partner, the stool. A flash of irritation that they were still serving him flashed across my head. It was out of my hands. I let my anger go and said a quiet prayer that no one would let him drive and then forgot about him until today. Hey, Stool Dancer, I hope you're lost in fitful slumber and will awake with one heck of a headache. Consequences have much to teach us.
At about 9 p.m. someone lit the outdoor fire pit. The smoke from the wood fire filled the room. The smell of wood smoke always takes me back to childhood. For a moment, I stand before the furnace. I am feeding the fire with a log from the wood pile, the pile we carefully built every early autumn. The floor, vibrating with sound, breaks my revelry. I take in the dance floor, stools jerking through air, fabric stretched in unattractive ways, men kicking spasmodically. I realize that I really am having fun. I am observing. I am learning. I am a nerd and I'm happy to be one. No stool dancing for me unless carefully controlled and done among friends for a laugh. I may have fluked party but I'm doing what I enjoy most, watching and enjoying it all.
I hope that my husband is enjoying himself. With the volume and the ear plugs, we communicate with gestures and an occasional shouted word. I wonder if he is as content as I or if he needs to join some of the action to really have fun. When he asks me if I'm ready to leave, I don't answer with the "yes" I feel. I say, "Are you?" He hesitates and surveys the room. I ask, "Do you want to stay?" I quickly add, "I don't want to be a wet blanket." I can be and this evening is for him more than it is for me. After a small hesitation, he says, "No, I'm ready." I believe him. We head back to our sleeping children. Our son awakes when I check on him. He asks, "Did you have a good time?" I say, "Yes, we did." We really did.
Saturday, June 26, 2010
The Death of the Candy Sprinkles: A Tale of Perfect Imperfection
There is a small family that lives in a modest home. This home is topped with shingles that flap in a strong wind. The north side of the chimney has seen too many Northwest winters. It needs cleaning and paint. In the yard, weeds threaten to hide the once tended plants living there. The floor beneath the master shower feels too spongy for comfort. Above the weathered back deck, several plants have sprouted in the gutter. This house is flawed and needs many things. And yet, it is still a home to the family that lives within. They don't want to lose it for all its needs and imperfections.
When the weather is warm and the windows are open, the family sometimes vocalizes its imperfections to the neighbors. Yelling bounces off the stone wall at the back of the small yard, allowing neighbors to hear some of their less than stellar moments. There was no yelling this morning. And so, we come to the death of the candy sprinkles.
The mother in our story often awakes slowly. In her half awake, half asleep state, she is calm and often blessed with inspiration. After she arises, she greets her #1 son, who seems to be hiding something behind his back. Filled with only curiosity, she asks, "What's in the cup?" #1 son dissolves into sobs. "It's candy sprinkles. I know I'm not supposed to have them for breakfast. I hate myself." This is too much angst for a small boy in the early morning.
Like a mother bear, awakening from a long slumber, this mother has yet to have all her wits about her. Better yet, her claws and fangs have yet to be engaged. She is touched by the weight of her son's self-loathing. She knows that not many young cubs can resist the allure of candy sprinkles. She is not angry. She knows that this problem can be easily solved. She says calmly, "I can fix this. I just won't buy candy sprinkles." This decision spoken aloud, causes the son to cry louder. This wasn't the desired effect. It's time for damage control. She "shshes" him and says, "Enough." No crying first thing in the morning." The son needs to emotionally regroup and gives himself a time out.
The mother knows that if this is the worst thing her son does, life will be good. She knows that many mistakes lie ahead, much worse than the consumption of candy sprinkles. She loves him in spite of his "theft". She loves him because of his theft. Hadn't she annoyed her own mother with similar and repeated theft? Mother knows first hand what the burden of shame feels like. It is too early for such a weight this morning. She can spare her son the full weight of this shame by choosing to let it go and quietly implement solutions that will benefit him. Candy sprinkles don't need to be year-round temptations in the pantry. Absent from our lives they can not cause this grief.
Young son returns and begs her, "Don't say anything to Dad. I don't want him mad at me." Mom agrees. It's best to spare Dad the frustration so early in the morning. She begins to talk of other things. The pain of the demise of the sprinkles begins to pass.
This family, just like the structure that surrounds them, is imperfect. As long as they remain a family, there is one perfectly imperfect thing they can do for each other: love one another. Their love for each other is often limited by the demons and angels that dance in their heads. But, as long as they, keep reaching for the love that lies just beyond human grasp, they will know and experience what it means to be a family, what it means to forgive, what it means to love. They are who they are, fragile, flawed humans whose lives are occasionally pierced by the divine. In their imperfections, they glimpse a perfect love.
When the weather is warm and the windows are open, the family sometimes vocalizes its imperfections to the neighbors. Yelling bounces off the stone wall at the back of the small yard, allowing neighbors to hear some of their less than stellar moments. There was no yelling this morning. And so, we come to the death of the candy sprinkles.
The mother in our story often awakes slowly. In her half awake, half asleep state, she is calm and often blessed with inspiration. After she arises, she greets her #1 son, who seems to be hiding something behind his back. Filled with only curiosity, she asks, "What's in the cup?" #1 son dissolves into sobs. "It's candy sprinkles. I know I'm not supposed to have them for breakfast. I hate myself." This is too much angst for a small boy in the early morning.
Like a mother bear, awakening from a long slumber, this mother has yet to have all her wits about her. Better yet, her claws and fangs have yet to be engaged. She is touched by the weight of her son's self-loathing. She knows that not many young cubs can resist the allure of candy sprinkles. She is not angry. She knows that this problem can be easily solved. She says calmly, "I can fix this. I just won't buy candy sprinkles." This decision spoken aloud, causes the son to cry louder. This wasn't the desired effect. It's time for damage control. She "shshes" him and says, "Enough." No crying first thing in the morning." The son needs to emotionally regroup and gives himself a time out.
The mother knows that if this is the worst thing her son does, life will be good. She knows that many mistakes lie ahead, much worse than the consumption of candy sprinkles. She loves him in spite of his "theft". She loves him because of his theft. Hadn't she annoyed her own mother with similar and repeated theft? Mother knows first hand what the burden of shame feels like. It is too early for such a weight this morning. She can spare her son the full weight of this shame by choosing to let it go and quietly implement solutions that will benefit him. Candy sprinkles don't need to be year-round temptations in the pantry. Absent from our lives they can not cause this grief.
Young son returns and begs her, "Don't say anything to Dad. I don't want him mad at me." Mom agrees. It's best to spare Dad the frustration so early in the morning. She begins to talk of other things. The pain of the demise of the sprinkles begins to pass.
This family, just like the structure that surrounds them, is imperfect. As long as they remain a family, there is one perfectly imperfect thing they can do for each other: love one another. Their love for each other is often limited by the demons and angels that dance in their heads. But, as long as they, keep reaching for the love that lies just beyond human grasp, they will know and experience what it means to be a family, what it means to forgive, what it means to love. They are who they are, fragile, flawed humans whose lives are occasionally pierced by the divine. In their imperfections, they glimpse a perfect love.
Friday, June 25, 2010
Days of Discontent
Truth is, I'm not always floating on a "happy bubble." The last few days have seen my mantle of contentment slip. I'm worried and generally unhappy. I know that this too shall pass and that feelings aren't reality. This has been a very hard lesson to learn, that of discovering how to honor and pay attention to feelings without let them ruin my life. So today, during my Just 10, I walked with my less than happy feelings to learn what they have to tell me.
Yesterday, I felt really disappointed. At first, I was disappointed in my daughter. The once straight-A student had ended the year with a few C's. I strongly expressed my frustration and demanded to know what had happened. I could see she was upset for disappointing me but that she really didn't care about the grade. This pushed a button for me. Fortunately, I knew enough to give myself a time out. I took a break and thought about why this was so upsetting.
I wanted her to be a straight-A student so that she stands a better chance of getting into a good college, especially given the fact that we won't be able to pay for her tuition. I wanted her to have something to fall back on, some source of validation for being bright. I soon realized that while I had a few good intentions, I really wanted her to have good grades for my sake more than for hers. This was an unpleasant fact to discover. I was no longer really disappointed in her as much as I was disappointed in myself.
I hadn't been checking her grades on line. If I had, I would have seen her uneven test performance, her failure to turn in several assignments. I would have know that she gets A's and B's with occasional C's and even an F or two. I would have seen that the potential is there but follow-through and perseverance needs some assistance.
I returned to her room, leaving my anger behind. I told her that it isn't the fact that she got a C- as an ending grade in math, it was that she wasn't consistent about following through. She didn't always turn in her assignments and she didn't ask for help when she needed it. I said I wasn't as mad at her as I was at myself for not being more attentive as to how she was really doing. She quickly, responded by acknowledging her responsibility for not doing her best. Next fall, I will also have to improve on my consistency and follow-through and pay greater attention to her school work.
For me, it's so much more than the C- in math. I, who has major math anxiety, was always handicapped by my grades in math. I don't want that for my daughter. I was always so self driven. I don't think my parents really cared how I did in school. They were always so preoccupied with the struggle to make ends meet. Have I neglected my daughter's education for the same reason?
Most of all, I am displeased with the quality of my children's education in the public schools. They've had good teachers. I fault the curriculum and the "dumbing it down for the masses" that occurs when you have a large number of students who come from homes in which an education is not valued. What I want most, is to homeschool my children. As long as the need to provide for their basic needs takes precedence, I must hold down a job. I can't do what I really want to do. Inside, I constantly struggle with this reality.
My work at the high school has uncovered some frightening facts. I meet students who can't figure out how to use a telephone to dial their parents. I meet students who don't know their home address. I listen to many bright students complain about how bored they are. I talk to teenagers who have spent an entire year in school and not have earned a single credit. I often see bright kids going nowhere or worse, going some where to rendevous with trouble.
I want something more for these kids and for my own. I want them to be curious about the world around them. I want them to learn how to find the answers for themselves. I want them to be critical thinkers. I want them to feel excited about learning and developing their skills and talents. I want someone to open the door and turn the light on. The world is depending on this future generation and we are failing so many of them. We have become complacent. We have abdicated our responsibility. We haven't been paying attention.
In exactly the same way, I failed my own daughter. It's not to late to open the door. It's time to pay attention and to follow through.
Yesterday, I felt really disappointed. At first, I was disappointed in my daughter. The once straight-A student had ended the year with a few C's. I strongly expressed my frustration and demanded to know what had happened. I could see she was upset for disappointing me but that she really didn't care about the grade. This pushed a button for me. Fortunately, I knew enough to give myself a time out. I took a break and thought about why this was so upsetting.
I wanted her to be a straight-A student so that she stands a better chance of getting into a good college, especially given the fact that we won't be able to pay for her tuition. I wanted her to have something to fall back on, some source of validation for being bright. I soon realized that while I had a few good intentions, I really wanted her to have good grades for my sake more than for hers. This was an unpleasant fact to discover. I was no longer really disappointed in her as much as I was disappointed in myself.
I hadn't been checking her grades on line. If I had, I would have seen her uneven test performance, her failure to turn in several assignments. I would have know that she gets A's and B's with occasional C's and even an F or two. I would have seen that the potential is there but follow-through and perseverance needs some assistance.
I returned to her room, leaving my anger behind. I told her that it isn't the fact that she got a C- as an ending grade in math, it was that she wasn't consistent about following through. She didn't always turn in her assignments and she didn't ask for help when she needed it. I said I wasn't as mad at her as I was at myself for not being more attentive as to how she was really doing. She quickly, responded by acknowledging her responsibility for not doing her best. Next fall, I will also have to improve on my consistency and follow-through and pay greater attention to her school work.
For me, it's so much more than the C- in math. I, who has major math anxiety, was always handicapped by my grades in math. I don't want that for my daughter. I was always so self driven. I don't think my parents really cared how I did in school. They were always so preoccupied with the struggle to make ends meet. Have I neglected my daughter's education for the same reason?
Most of all, I am displeased with the quality of my children's education in the public schools. They've had good teachers. I fault the curriculum and the "dumbing it down for the masses" that occurs when you have a large number of students who come from homes in which an education is not valued. What I want most, is to homeschool my children. As long as the need to provide for their basic needs takes precedence, I must hold down a job. I can't do what I really want to do. Inside, I constantly struggle with this reality.
My work at the high school has uncovered some frightening facts. I meet students who can't figure out how to use a telephone to dial their parents. I meet students who don't know their home address. I listen to many bright students complain about how bored they are. I talk to teenagers who have spent an entire year in school and not have earned a single credit. I often see bright kids going nowhere or worse, going some where to rendevous with trouble.
I want something more for these kids and for my own. I want them to be curious about the world around them. I want them to learn how to find the answers for themselves. I want them to be critical thinkers. I want them to feel excited about learning and developing their skills and talents. I want someone to open the door and turn the light on. The world is depending on this future generation and we are failing so many of them. We have become complacent. We have abdicated our responsibility. We haven't been paying attention.
In exactly the same way, I failed my own daughter. It's not to late to open the door. It's time to pay attention and to follow through.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
The Mission of the Night Vulture
The Just 10 Team just got back from a trip to the central transfer center, which is a fancy name for a dump. As we pulled in the driveway, our #1 son was creating a spoof of a Justin Bieber song, for the sole purpose of irritating his sister. His spoof was so funny, it had the opposite effect, at least initially. When he sings it repeatedly I guarantee you she will be annoyed.
None of us enjoy our journeys to the dump but it's necessary since we lost garbage service about a year ago. As to be expected, when trying to live on one part-time income, we got behind in our bills. Power, water and gas people will work with you. The local garbage carrier will not. One day our garbage sat alone, unwanted on the curb. The collection calls began. You would think that when you explained the situation and told the caller that full payment isn't possible, it may have some effect. It did not. They were rabid about wanting the full $98 we owed.
An especially aggressive caller got me on the line one day. We were getting multiple calls a day, every day. I guess they hoped we were lying or that somehow the money fairy made a visit over night. They were sure determined to get that $98 dollars. Normally, I'd learned to avoid these calls. There is little point when you can't pay and they aren't willing to work with what you can afford. Alas, somehow I picked up the phone one day and an angry woman was on the end of the line. Her first question was, "Do you know you haven't paid your trash bill? This was a hard fact to miss especially, when I knew the garbage was piling up next to the garage, sad, smelly and unwanted.
I reacted with a small chuckle. This angered her even more. She said, So you think this is funny?" Ok, now that made me mad. I said, "I so, wish I had the money to pay you and avoid these nasty calls." She then proceeded to demand payment of the $98. They'd already stopped service. Our credit rating was destroyed long ago. There really wasn't anything she could do unless it was sending out Guido to fit me for a pair of concrete overshoes.
There had been an article in our local newspaper that mentioned how many millions the local waste hauler had spent on brand new trucks and new bins for every customer. I laughed at the irony of how much importance this woman gave our $98. So, I told her what I found amusing. She didn't share my sense of humor and snarled, " That doesn't have anything to do with the money you owe us!" Oh, if only wishing for money were the answer. I would have so loved to pay them and never listen to her again.
Instead, I told her, that the money that they'd spent had everything to do with the $98 she was demanding. I told her that the other utilities seemed to understand the financial challenges of some of it's customers and did what they could to work with us. I told her that if their company hadn't spent so much money, they might be able to work with people like us and gain the $98 over time. She was as persistent as an old dog with a bone. She growled. I hung up. We haven't spoken since. They still haven't received $98.
We have solved our trash problem. We can take our recyclables to the transfer center. The center takes a greater variety than the curbside program, so we can recycle more. I pile our yard waste behind the shed. I compost as many kitchen scraps as I can and we have a resident trash hero who under the cloak of darkness shares our trash with the trash bins behind local businesses who always seem to have room for a little more.
Necessity makes this necessary and our resident trash hero seems to actually enjoy the cloak and dagger aspect of his night missions. I call him "The Night Vulture."
Humor is a way to cope and not such a bad way either. I'd prefer to laugh about something other than the situations we find ourselves in when living below the federal poverty level but it seems I don't have a choice, at least, not right now. Hearing #1 son, make up a silly song after a messy trip to a smelly dump, made us all laugh. I prefer laughing to crying any day. Now if "wishing could only allow beggars to ride", I could laugh all the way to the bank.
None of us enjoy our journeys to the dump but it's necessary since we lost garbage service about a year ago. As to be expected, when trying to live on one part-time income, we got behind in our bills. Power, water and gas people will work with you. The local garbage carrier will not. One day our garbage sat alone, unwanted on the curb. The collection calls began. You would think that when you explained the situation and told the caller that full payment isn't possible, it may have some effect. It did not. They were rabid about wanting the full $98 we owed.
An especially aggressive caller got me on the line one day. We were getting multiple calls a day, every day. I guess they hoped we were lying or that somehow the money fairy made a visit over night. They were sure determined to get that $98 dollars. Normally, I'd learned to avoid these calls. There is little point when you can't pay and they aren't willing to work with what you can afford. Alas, somehow I picked up the phone one day and an angry woman was on the end of the line. Her first question was, "Do you know you haven't paid your trash bill? This was a hard fact to miss especially, when I knew the garbage was piling up next to the garage, sad, smelly and unwanted.
I reacted with a small chuckle. This angered her even more. She said, So you think this is funny?" Ok, now that made me mad. I said, "I so, wish I had the money to pay you and avoid these nasty calls." She then proceeded to demand payment of the $98. They'd already stopped service. Our credit rating was destroyed long ago. There really wasn't anything she could do unless it was sending out Guido to fit me for a pair of concrete overshoes.
There had been an article in our local newspaper that mentioned how many millions the local waste hauler had spent on brand new trucks and new bins for every customer. I laughed at the irony of how much importance this woman gave our $98. So, I told her what I found amusing. She didn't share my sense of humor and snarled, " That doesn't have anything to do with the money you owe us!" Oh, if only wishing for money were the answer. I would have so loved to pay them and never listen to her again.
Instead, I told her, that the money that they'd spent had everything to do with the $98 she was demanding. I told her that the other utilities seemed to understand the financial challenges of some of it's customers and did what they could to work with us. I told her that if their company hadn't spent so much money, they might be able to work with people like us and gain the $98 over time. She was as persistent as an old dog with a bone. She growled. I hung up. We haven't spoken since. They still haven't received $98.
We have solved our trash problem. We can take our recyclables to the transfer center. The center takes a greater variety than the curbside program, so we can recycle more. I pile our yard waste behind the shed. I compost as many kitchen scraps as I can and we have a resident trash hero who under the cloak of darkness shares our trash with the trash bins behind local businesses who always seem to have room for a little more.
Necessity makes this necessary and our resident trash hero seems to actually enjoy the cloak and dagger aspect of his night missions. I call him "The Night Vulture."
Humor is a way to cope and not such a bad way either. I'd prefer to laugh about something other than the situations we find ourselves in when living below the federal poverty level but it seems I don't have a choice, at least, not right now. Hearing #1 son, make up a silly song after a messy trip to a smelly dump, made us all laugh. I prefer laughing to crying any day. Now if "wishing could only allow beggars to ride", I could laugh all the way to the bank.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Active Acceptance
Today, I returned from a 2-mile-Just-10 walk full of ideas. If you had told me 14 years ago that I would be the mother of two children and walking 2 miles, I'd have thought you insane. Fourteen years ago, I hurt my back jumping on a shovel in our backyard in Chula Vista.
At the moment it happened, I heard an audible pop. My first thought was, "you really hurt you're back." It wasn't long and I was in constant pain. A trip to the doctor was futile. When I complained of the pain, she scowled at me and said, "I have a patient with arthritis in her fingers who still tats. You have too much time on your hands. You're just depressed." I was after hearing that. Yet another doctor said "The x-ray shows nothing. It's just arthritis. Exercise." ( I didn't know then than you can't see a herniated disk with an x-ray.)
So, I exercised. After several days, I was in so much pain that I'd spend several days sitting on the couch. During those days, I often prayed for a quick end to this life. The pain interfered with my sleep. I had almost constant muscle spasms in my legs. I was a mess. This went on for a year with no end in sight. Until, one morning before dawn as I lay awake, wracked with pain, I heard a strong voice inside me say, "You can't fight this. This is your life now. Accept it. Focus on the pain, put yourself in it's center. It will make everything easier."
I didn't think I knew exactly what that meant but decided to give it a try. I allowed myself to relax into the pain. I focused my concentration on it's "center". The pain eased. I slept peacefully for several hours. Over the next days and months, I'd often have to remember my "ah ha" moment. When I was tired or did too much, the pain was strong. I had, however, found a way to live with it. Soon, we were pregnant with Shannon. My life had found a new meaning.
When she was a baby, my left leg would often give out. I was afraid I might drop her and decided to mention my back pain to yet another doctor. This doctor immediately ordered an MRI and sent me to a surgeon. When the surgeon entered the exam room upon my first visit. Holding the MRI report, he shook his head and said, "I can't believe you lived with this for over 2 years. Do you know how many grown men I see with the same issue who are in tears because of the pain?" How did you do it?" I blushed and found that I didn't have the words to tell him. I said nothing.
I was vindicated. I was not a whiner. Surgery soon helped relieve the constant pain. There is still some residual nerve damage. My feet sometimes drag. I often walk with a limp. I have to be carefull not to over do it. My back and legs often hurt but I have found a way to live with it and accept it.
Genuine acceptance is anything but passive. When I wrote about acceptance yesterday, I later realized that I don't want to give the impression that acceptance is a "roll over and play dead" state of being. Learning to accept the pain required a radical shift in my perception. I had to work at this new way of seeing. I still have to work at it, especially when I'm tired and hurting. Life offers many new opportunities to accept "the things that I can not change."
I have spent years of my life fighting against pain, physical and emotional pain. The harder I try to run from it the worse it gets. Pain is part of life. It's not an enemy. It's a companion that I have to embrace. When I accept this companion, I find that it has so much to share. It forces me to look at the dark corners of my life. It makes me strong and resilient. It opens my heart to the pain of others. It does these things only if I accept it for what it is and learn to listen to all it has to say. The struggle to accept pain has been the single most defining activity of my life.
At the moment it happened, I heard an audible pop. My first thought was, "you really hurt you're back." It wasn't long and I was in constant pain. A trip to the doctor was futile. When I complained of the pain, she scowled at me and said, "I have a patient with arthritis in her fingers who still tats. You have too much time on your hands. You're just depressed." I was after hearing that. Yet another doctor said "The x-ray shows nothing. It's just arthritis. Exercise." ( I didn't know then than you can't see a herniated disk with an x-ray.)
So, I exercised. After several days, I was in so much pain that I'd spend several days sitting on the couch. During those days, I often prayed for a quick end to this life. The pain interfered with my sleep. I had almost constant muscle spasms in my legs. I was a mess. This went on for a year with no end in sight. Until, one morning before dawn as I lay awake, wracked with pain, I heard a strong voice inside me say, "You can't fight this. This is your life now. Accept it. Focus on the pain, put yourself in it's center. It will make everything easier."
I didn't think I knew exactly what that meant but decided to give it a try. I allowed myself to relax into the pain. I focused my concentration on it's "center". The pain eased. I slept peacefully for several hours. Over the next days and months, I'd often have to remember my "ah ha" moment. When I was tired or did too much, the pain was strong. I had, however, found a way to live with it. Soon, we were pregnant with Shannon. My life had found a new meaning.
When she was a baby, my left leg would often give out. I was afraid I might drop her and decided to mention my back pain to yet another doctor. This doctor immediately ordered an MRI and sent me to a surgeon. When the surgeon entered the exam room upon my first visit. Holding the MRI report, he shook his head and said, "I can't believe you lived with this for over 2 years. Do you know how many grown men I see with the same issue who are in tears because of the pain?" How did you do it?" I blushed and found that I didn't have the words to tell him. I said nothing.
I was vindicated. I was not a whiner. Surgery soon helped relieve the constant pain. There is still some residual nerve damage. My feet sometimes drag. I often walk with a limp. I have to be carefull not to over do it. My back and legs often hurt but I have found a way to live with it and accept it.
Genuine acceptance is anything but passive. When I wrote about acceptance yesterday, I later realized that I don't want to give the impression that acceptance is a "roll over and play dead" state of being. Learning to accept the pain required a radical shift in my perception. I had to work at this new way of seeing. I still have to work at it, especially when I'm tired and hurting. Life offers many new opportunities to accept "the things that I can not change."
I have spent years of my life fighting against pain, physical and emotional pain. The harder I try to run from it the worse it gets. Pain is part of life. It's not an enemy. It's a companion that I have to embrace. When I accept this companion, I find that it has so much to share. It forces me to look at the dark corners of my life. It makes me strong and resilient. It opens my heart to the pain of others. It does these things only if I accept it for what it is and learn to listen to all it has to say. The struggle to accept pain has been the single most defining activity of my life.
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