Dream

Some of you may have heard me say that I have been put on this earth this go-round to learn patience. It's going to take the entire lifetime and then some, I'm certain.

I have pulled myself completely away from the situation with the prospective choir director, but it has taken tremendous willpower. Yesterday, I had a little email temper tantrum about the phones not being answered at church and when the minister emailed me about it, he told me a couple of things about how things were going with the choir:

1. The director and choir were so awesome at practice the other night that he cried at the beauty of it.
2. The director is having second thoughts about coming to our church.

Sarah Susanka tells us to pay attention to our dreams. This is the dream I had last night:

My husband and I are walking into the church. There is a tremendous buzz about the prospective director and the choir. The choir is dressed in navy blue and white, solids and plaids, which isn't the usual attire for a choir. On my way to the bathroom (gotta go, you know!) I pass some construction and stacks of plastic plates. One of the stacks is made up of heart-shaped plates, and I think, "Good, we won't need any more plates."

When I go into the sanctuary, I look up in the balcony and there is a lone black man standing in the corner. I know he is a friend of the director's and that he is there to support him. The air is palpable with excitement. Someone hands me a letter that the director has written. At first it looks like it says that he is not going to be able to come to our church, but then I realize that it is a very lengthy and detailed list of all of his accomplishments as a choir director and musician.

I wake up. The first thought I have is this: There is something about us that needs him and there is something about him that needs us.

I'm paying attention to my dreams.

Things of Value

This weekend, my husband and I spent the weekend with my eighty-five year old father. This was the first time I can remember that it was just the three of us. Here are some things I learned about my dad:

--He thinks the hymn, "Great is Thy Faithfulness" says it all:

Great Is Thy Faithfulness
Words: Thomas. O. Chisholm
Music: William M. Runyan

1. Great is Thy faithfulness, O God my Father;
There is no shadow of turning with Thee.
Thou changest not, Thy compassions, they fail not;
As Thou hast been Thou forever wilt be.

Refrain:
Great is Thy faithfulness! Great is Thy faithfulness!
Morning by morning new mercies I see;
All I have needed Thy hand hath provided
Great is Thy Faithfulness, Lord unto me.

2. Summer and winter and spring-time and harvest,
Sun, moon and stars in their courses above
join with all nature in manifold witness
To Thy great faithfulness, mercy and love.

Refrain

3. Pardon for sin and a peace that endureth,
Thy own dear presence to cheer and to guide,
Strength for today and bright hope for tomorrow,
Blessings all mine, with ten thousand beside!

Refrain

--There are many things of value in his house: two cast iron pieces, made in his dad's foundry and painted by his mother; a glass dish that was his great-grandmother's; his uncle's grade school slate; a few other things that he pointed out as we walked around his house Sunday morning. To a person coming into his house and looking around, these things would be nothing; to him, they hold the stories of his past.

--He has an incredibly extensive knowledge of the history of the city of Greensboro. We went through an advertising publication from the early nineteen hundreds and he knew all the names and businesses, where houses and factories were, whose family still lives around there and where they live. Some families' histories have to be clearer in his head than they are in family photo albums.

--He first saw my mother when she and her sister were getting off a school bus. He was in the navy. She worked after school at a shop on the boardwalk at Carolina Beach, and her boss let my dad stand at the counter and talk to her because he was willing to stand at the far end of the counter.

This isn't by any means all that I learned. Nor all that I could learn. His eighty-five year old brain is full of things that need telling.

Frederick Buechner

One of my favorite books in the world is a daily reading book by Frederich Buechner entitled Listening to Your Life. I have given away dozens of copies to friends and family, and my own copy is dog-eared with sheets of paper sticking out here and there. Buechner speaks the same religious language I do.

Today the reading was this (from a fiction book Buechner wrote entitled Brendan):

Cripples All of Us

Pushing down hard with his fists on the table-top he heaved himself up to where he was standing. For the first time we saw he wanted one leg. It was gone from the knee joint down. He was hopping sideways to reach for his stick in the corner when he lost his balance. He would have fallen in a heap if Brendan hadn't leapt forward and caught him.

"I'm as crippled as the dark world," Gildas said.

"If it comes to that, which one of us isn't, my dear?" Brendan said.

Gildas with but one leg. Brendan sure he'd misspent his whole life entirely. Me that had left my wife to follow him and buried our only boy. The truth of what Brendan said stopped all our mouths. We was cripples all of us. For a moment or two there was no sound but the bees.

"To lend each other a hand when we're falling," Brendan said. "Perhaps that's the only work that matters in the end."

Hunkering down

I wouldn't call myself a hoarder, but I do so love to "be prepared" for hard times. The threat of bad weather throws me into survival mode--my brain works really well in this state of tizziness.

My friends from Oriental were in Atlanta, where for the first time in decades they had a tornado hit the downtown area. The dental conference was cancelled, and last I heard they were walking around picking up very large balls of hail. We were in Oriental,and the storm was headed our way. With no television access, we turned on the marine radio, which sounded warning after warning. The whole eastern part of the state was vulnerable. How exciting! How stimulating! I knew just what to do.

I dug around in the many boat stashing places trying to find our foul weather gear. We had bought these two piece outfits--bright yellow pants and jackets the same as all the fishermen wear--on a trip to Charleston. It had rained all the way from Wrightsville to Charleston, and we had gotten soaked. Not wanting this to happen again, we walked two miles to the nearest store, paid probably three times what they sell for at Wal-Mart, and hiked back. We never used them. But we knew they were there, somewhere, somewhere, if only I could figure out where. After looking through two emergency signals, I gave up, got our regular raincoats which have never even purported to be waterproof, and set them by the door.

Then I got another boat staple, a large heavy duty garbage bag, and filled it with my pocketbook, new Nikon camera, and the computer. We didn't have any photo albums or important papers to save so this would have to do. I put my cell phone and keys on top of the bag which was on top of the coats. I worried that in my haste to get my coat out from under the bag I would dump the keys, but had to leave that (and the weather of course) to God and fate, whichever had the upper hand that night.

I hunkered down with a good book (Tony Early's The Blue Star, which I highly recommend). The radio continued its warnings, the counties getting closer and closer to Oriental. Thunder rumbled in ways I haven't heard before and the lightning seemed extremely drawn to the masts which clanged and whistled in the wind. My husband fell asleep which meant I had to be irritated and twice as vigilant because now I would have to wake him up and then do all the other gathering to rush out the door if I heard something that sounded like a train.

Eventually, after three hours of pounding rain during which we found all the leaks on the boat and the chairs which we had forgotten on the back got thoroughly soaked, the storm died down.

Needless to say it was with a mix of relief and regret that I went down to the V-berth to bed. Another opportunity to demonstrate my superior survival skills was foiled by Mother Nature, but the practice will come in handy, I'm sure.

woulda coulda shoulda

The "woulda, coulda, shoulda" has to be eating the hearts of many people today. The person who placed the file in the wrong courtroom, the judge who decided to delay the hearing, the investigators who missed the clues in the murder of the Duke student, the lawyers who got these two guys out of jail so they could hang around free while they waited for court dates. Also, teachers who saw the writing on the wall but were bogged down with paper work and more redeemable students and maybe even trying to figure out how they were going to pay their bills on their meager salaries, the aunts and uncles and grandparents and parents who saw these kids going down the wrong path but didn't or couldn't or wouldn't find a way to help. But I bet it's eating the hearts of the people who loved Abhijit Mahoto and Eve Carson with the most ravenous hunger.

We can't change the past, but it sure can change us.

gela, gela, klapsi, klapsi

Last week, the Thursday night girls continued our discussion of The Not So Big Life. I pointed out that "noise" was one of the items on my list of things that made me unhappy. As a kid, when things got noisy or rowdy, anger was waiting in the wings in the form of a parent, usually my father. And when my kids were young and we'd take trips, as soon as they started laughing and having fun in the back seat, my husband would get angry and threaten to pull the car over (whoa - shades of childhood fear in THAT statement). It got to the point where they would laughingly say when we got in the car to go somewhere, "Remember, NO FUN ALLOWED!" I say they laughed, but they meant it seriously too.

Sometimes I sat in one room of my house while the kids played together in another. I would think to myself, they're having a good time; can the tears be far behind? And sure enough soon one of them came crying into the room.

The title of this blog entry is a loose English spelling of an expression my friend said was used in her Greek household: Laugh, laugh, cry, cry. I don't know why our laughter often leads to anger or tears, but I've talked before about how closely related gladness and sadness are. Are we afraid of our happiness? Distrustful of our ability to sustain it? Does this distrust come from things that happened in our past that we have drug forward into adulthood? Or are we just made this way, the smiles and the tears very close together in our heads and connected tightly to our hearts?

I still think the best days are those in which I laugh a little and cry a little and there's not too much noise.

Not So Big Life

This morning, in preparation for meeting with the Thursday night girls, I have been reading Chapters 3 and 4 of Sarah Susanka's book. First let me say that my husband has no idea all the things he pays me to do. But I'll save that for a later post.

We are asked to make two lists:

1. All the things that make us frustrated, unhappy, or discontented.
2. All the things that make us happy, joyful, or delighted.

Easy, easy I'm thinking as I fill a page of each in about a minute.

Then BAM--the hard part. Take each item on the list and think back as far as you can to the first event or situation where you felt this reaction. Take your time, she says. Trace back.

I am moving along pretty smoothly until I get to one of my dislikes: Having too much to do. As I think about this one, something comes to my mind about being a child who had four younger siblings. And although I don't remember anyone ever saying, "Mamie, watch so-and-so" I realize that I was looking out for them. Protecting them. And I realize that this was "too much for me to do" and I get teary thinking about the child that was taking on this big emotional responsiblity. I'm finished working on the list for today in order to give myself some time with this.

This is twice that this book has elicited sadness from me. It all feels like some kind of loss--loss of time, loss of innocence. But I'm hoping that the end result of examining this will be a gain of epic proportions. I'm counting on it.

Short thought

The local beauty queen
Rides in the silver convertible
In the parade.
She smiles and waves at those of us
Who line the street.
Is she happy?

Today the garbage man
Hangs on the side of the truck
On his route.
He smiles and waves as I pass
On my way to work.
Is he happy?

Hold on to your hats!

More hot air coming your way soon--I have a lot to say and no time to say it right now. Stay tuned...

Overused phrases

Yesterday I was driving to work. For some reason I have this unnatural fear of being hit by another car. And as I was thinking about the possibility of this, the phrase "sickening crunch" came to mind. What a magnificant term - how definitive of the feeling and sight and sound of metal meeting metal. But of course, we cannot use that phrase in our writing because, well, because it's so cliched.

This led me to wish that I could come up with a description so profound that in short order writers around the world would shy away from using it because it had been overused. Something as powerful as "vague malaise" or "dog-tired" or "pitch black"--they just say it, don't they?

Please put on your thinking caps--oops, cliche--and see what you can come up with. Then I'll start using it in my writing, get my writing friends to use it in their writing, and before you know it, we won't be able to use it anymore.

Oh to be the inventor of a good cliche.

Methods of change

In the past four years I have:

1. Changed faith denominations after fifty years
2. Quit drinking
3. Quit smoking
4. Enrolled in a writing class
5. Started getting up early to write and exercise

Here's how I went about each one:

1. This was the easiest. I was simply feeling lethargic at my old church and the new one called my spiritual name. I left without a backward glance and am actively and happily involved in the new church.

2. After many years of thinking I might have a drinking problem and one night of falling around in a public bathroom, I decided it was time. I quit abruptly the morning after the falling around incident. The hardest part of this was going to my boat where drinking is the most important activity people engage in. I cried for about 30 minutes the first time I went after giving up the booze, developed some coping mechanisms, and now don't mind being a recovering alcoholic for the most part. And I know without a doubt that I would not have been able to accomplish #3 if I were still drinking.

3. I gave myself one year of sobriety before I undertook giving up cigarettes. When I went outside to smoke, I asked myself, "What will you do at this time when you are not smoking?" I picked a date of signficance - the date that I quit drinking - and prepared myself mentally for life without the ritual of smoking.

4. Finding out about the writing class was purely and simply serendipity. I ran into Angela, the teacher, at Whole Foods. She told me that she was teaching a writing class and I began throwing up obstacles to my taking the class. Every obstacle was overcome in the five minutes we talked. One week later I was signed up to take the class.

5. The early morning discipline took the most preparation. I had given myself one year after quitting smoking to ignore any weight gain which came about from substituting eating sugar for smoking. I knew that I would not go anywhere to work out. I knew that I would not do it after work. And I knew that I hated to wake up early, especially to the obnoxious sound of a clock alarm. So I invested in(practically had to go to the bank to buy) a zen alarm clock that chimes once at the designated wake-up time, then chimes again every five minutes until turned off. I set up a writing desk that is inviting. I bought some yoga tapes.

If you had asked five years ago if I saw myself doing or not doing these things, I would have raised my drink in one hand and my cigarette in the other, laughing and toasting to the absurdity of the idea. In some ways I feel that changing churches, breaking a fifty-year habit, led me to be able to break the forty year habits of drinking and smoking. Then I began to think about wanting to preserve myself rather than destroy myself and the writing and exercising were natural outgrowths of that desire.

How do you go about making positive changes in your life? I would love to hear.

Eclipse

My blogger image

Last night I started to tell my daughter about the prospective music director and she said she knew all about it because she had read it in my blog. "You read my blog? Do you think it sounds interesting or nerdy?" "Interesting AND nerdy, just like you," she replied.

The Not So Big Life

Twice a year my church does a congregational book study. The winter book is The Not So Big Life by Sarah Susanka. Last night she came to talk to us and it was enlightening and inspiring.

My Thursday night girls are reading it too. Last week we discussed the first two chapters. One of the exercises was to do the following (my wording without going back to the book):

1. Significant objects: Write down significant people, objects and places in your past.
2. Significant moments: Think of times when something important happened in your life, something that may have been life changing.

My interpretation of why she asks us to do this is two fold. We need to access the things that made us happy in the past, reconnect with them, uncover them from the layers of crap we call being grown-up. And we need to think about what our frame of mind was when we had a life changing or more-than-coincidental occurence.

One of the objects that I wrote about was the wooded area that surrounded our neighborhood. We used to pack food and go into the woods for hours. Although I wasn't a tomboy and didn't like to get dirty, I did get a thrill out of the hint of danger that skirted our play - picking up giant bullfrogs, getting wet when we knew we weren't supposed to, walking across creeks on mostly rotted trees that had fallen, being out of sight of "civilization" and adults. I'm not sure how to bring this forward to my present day life in order to make positive change. Hint of danger? Freedom? Bucking the rules?

Most of the significant moments that I could think of were recent. I think that's because I have recently become open to the idea that if I just quit trying to control my life things will go a lot more smoothly. I am reminded just about every day of the AA admonition to "Let go and let God" and of the book we did called "Get Out of Your Own Way" but DOING this is very hard for me. I have set it as a goal for this month to relinquish my tight-fisted hold on my future and just see what the Universe will do.

It's a start.

My Space

After our children were out of the house, we did an addition. We had already added space for them when we were a growing family, but this new space was definitely for us. It includes a den with large windows on three sides and a very comfortable sofa which is perfect for reading or listening to music. The downstairs of this new space, though, is what makes me the happiest.

It has evolved. We moved the treadmill down there first, then all my exercise videos. (I am reminded here of a quote: "Watch exercise videos and don't do them.") Then I started meditating and got meditation cushions and inspirational books and put them in there. I branched out from doing just photograph cards to making them with Japanese paper after visiting a store called The Paper Source in Chicago. So I set up a desk which stays covered in layers of beautiful paper and hole punches of circles and dragonflies and stars. I began a writing class and on the other side of the room there is a desk with a lamp, dictionary, grammar book, Frank Warren's Post Secret book for prompts, my meditation timer, and my writing journal. The writing desk faces the window where I keep orchids that are dormant. There is one orchid in bloom right now. It is what I call "my sobriety orchid" because I bought it the week I quit drinking and it bloomed constantly for almost two years. I want to keep it downstairs for only me to enjoy.

I go into this room for the first time at around six a.m. each day. I do a yoga tape and then write for fifteen minutes. I am now beginning to see the sun come up as I finish writing, and the birds sing. Today my cat sat at the door meowing to come in. I made him wait until the timer went off.

When I walk into this room, I feel inspired. The smells of the room, the sight of beautiful paper waiting to be made into cards that will grace the mailboxes of people I know and don't know, my writing desk with all the tools I need to make word art, the inspirational books and my meditation cushions - I bow in honor to this sacred space as I enter the door, and again as I leave.

Anniversary

Today is the twenty-fifth anniversary of my mother's death. I had no idea then that this many years from the event, I could still be brought to deep sadness missing her.

This morning I got up to do my yoga and daily writing, fully intending to address something in my short story that has been bothering me. Instead, I wrote about my mom. There are two things I wish I could rewind and redo. The first is the day that I've talked about before, the day our maid called to say that my mother had drunk a bottle of wine after five years of sobriety. Looking back at all she gave up for this relapse - the most public being that she was on the board of Fellowship Hall - I realize that something had happened to cause her to feel great despair. I wish I could ask her what happened that day.

The other thing I have also written about - the day before she died. That cannot be undone either.

When I think of the legacy of this loss, the cliched admonition to never go to bed in a fight of course comes to mind. But really for me the legacy is about taking time to examine other peoples' sadness and pain, see through their anger, pick at the emotional scabs until you get blood. And to listen, really listen to their anguish. You can't take it back, you can't do it over. I needed to get it as right as I could the first time because I'm still living with my regret and she's long gone.

I know my thoughts about this have bled into my daughters' belief system too. Last night my youngest daughter was on a plane getting ready to fly home from a weekend trip. As we hung up, I said I loved her and she said somewhat impatiently that she loved me too. Not a minute after we hung up she called back and said that she really did love me and was sorry she had said it so impatiently.

Legacy of loss. Pass it on.

A day of joy

Today I woke up feeling hopeful for what the day would bring, and it has not let me down. I needed to spend most of the morning at church. One of the most awesome singing groups that sings at our church - the Crazies for Jesus - was the music. This is a group of African men that have harmonies like angels. They sang the old gospel song, "When the Roll is Called Up Yonder, I'll Be There." I smiled the whole time.

The minister's message was around the book we're studying church-wide (and I'm doing with the Thursday night girls). As my sister-in-law said to me one time, "I can't always remember what he said, but I just feel good after he says it." That's how it was for me today. Since I attended both the 9 and 11 service, and since my minister doesn't read his sermon from written notes, I got a little different slant in each message.

I sat on a row full of people close to me - my sister-in-law, my husband, close friends, and...ta da...the prospective music director. I think he felt very welcomed.

After church one of the choir members came up to me. The choir has been circulating a growing list all week with the theme of what they want in a choir director. Evidently they got wind that we had interviewed someone and a few of them had looked him up on the internet. The person said that she could see that with his background we were going to have to resurrect the "lyrics police" and something in me went kerflooey. So after a long morning, I grabbed the minister for "five minutes" knowing that he and I were both hungry and wouldn't be able to think straight for long. You've gotten the message that I tend to go off (as the minister put it) half-cocked and he was able to help me calm down and put my thoughts into action that would have positive results. I sent the choir an email telling them that this interviewee was brought to us through some kind of intervention I didn't even understand and that when he comes to choir practice on Wednesday night I would like for them to leave their lists somewhere far away and welcome him with open hearts and closed expection.

I've tried to think why this is all so personal to me, and I know part of the reason is that his name came to me first and he seems so promising. But more than this I see incredible opportunities for all of us in the person of this talented man. And I hope that he will accept us. Accepting him is the first step.

Day of Love....NOT!!

Hallmark has completely set me up. Valentine's Day is the one day of the year that I can count on having a fight with my husband. This year it is because he was supposed to make reservations. When he didn't make them in an amount of time that I thought appropriate (ie he had not made any by 10:00 this morning), I got worried. Then things snowballed into an argument that involved a bunch of other people, and now I'm ready to forget dinner altogether. Even though he ended up getting reservations at one of my favorite restaurants. For eight people. At eight o'clock.

{sigh}

Man walks into a room

Get this: A man walks into a room full of people. He immediately turns about half of them off. This half swears they will not spend another minute in his presence. The other half sits around admiringly and listens to him sing and play guitar.

Get this: A man walks into a room full of people. As he talks about writing and death and finding your muse and feeling doubt and writing shitty dialogue, the people hang on to his every word. They write things down and consider putting the words on banners and hanging them where they can see them every day as they try to write something meaningful. Words from the Bible, Chekhov, Kafka, Shakespeare. Poems and prose and jokes.

Get this: A man walks into a room full of people. He reads from a book called Peace and has the people wondering when they can read more of this intriguing book. He reads a short story about a man with a face people like to pummel and a lying woman, and the people laugh out loud. He tells jokes, answers questions, finds that his upper lip is sweating because he's nervous. Gets a question he can't answer. The people fall in love.

Thoughts become...

One of the links on my blog is to Tut.com. Every day I get a daily reading which includes my name, sometimes first AND last name. It feels, to a sucker like me, very personal. But this past week, I had something happen that convinced me that what the Tut guy promotes, that thoughts become things, is very true.

At my church, we had a choir director that was full of life. He had been there for five years and gradually developed some habits that the minister was having trouble dealing with. There were warnings and contracts and more warnings, but finally he and the board (that includes me) had to make a decision about whether to let the guy go. It was agonizing. Although this is not my usual way of dealing with things, nor my usual language, at one of the final meetings where we discussed this, I said that until we closed the door on the past, we would never be able to open the door to a new director.

A few days after the old choir director left, I went online and put in "best gospel choir director triangle" in the search line. Two or three results down there was one for the choir director of a Baptist church in Durham. I read about him and said, "Oh my gosh, this is the guy we want!" I sent the article via email to the minister.

The minister is not the best email responder and a few days later I asked him what he thought. He said he hadn't read the mail but for me to contact the man. I called the man's church; he was no longer there but the woman who answered said she would try to get in touch with him and have him call me. Fat chance of all of that going through I said to myself.

A day later, he called the minister. He made it clear that he was already working with five choirs and couldn't take on another. I emailed him and asked would he just come talk to us about finding someone, maybe giving us direction; he said yes.

Last Thursday the minister and I met with this man. He is over six feet tall and has dreadlocks. He has the face of a mighty angel. And as we talked, we realized that he is at a crossroads with his faith. He was very interested in our church's philosophy and my minister took a lot of time to tell him what we believe. After we talked, we walked into the sanctuary so he could see the space. He sat down at the piano and started playing and singing the song "My Life is in Your Hands" and by the time he was finished the minister and I and the cleaning woman were all in tears.
Here are the lyrics:

You don't have to worry
and don't you be afraid
joy comes in the morning
troubles they don't last always
for there's a friend name Jesus
who will wipe your tears away
and if your heart is broken
just lift your hands and say

chorus:
Oh, I know that I can make it
I know that I can stand
no matter what may come my way
my life is in your hands

You don't have to worry
and don't you be afraid
joy comes in the morning
troubles they don't last always
for there's a friend name Jesus
who will wipe your tears away
and if your heart is broken
just lift your hands and say

chorus:
Oh, I know that I can make it
I know that I can stand
no matter what may come my way
my life is in your hands
with Jesus I can take it
with him, I know I can stand
no matter what may come my way
my life is in your hands

So learn your tests and trials
they seem to get you down
and all your friends and loved ones
are nowhere to be found
remember there's a friend named Jesus
who will wipe your tears away
and if your heart is broken
just lift your hands and say

chorus:
Oh, I know that I can make it
I know that I can stand
no matter what may come my way
my life is in your hands
with Jesus I can take it
with him, I know I can stand
no matter what may come my way
my life is in your hands

A few other things were discussed, one of which brought the man to tears. He promised to go home and pray about the situation and get back to us.

I was so high on my way home from this meeting. I'm impulsive and wanted to call him and email him and badger him until he said YES YES YES to my church. But the words to "Let it Be," "There will be an answer, let it be" came into my head and I knew I was going to have to let this develop on its own schedule.

Today he was in church, checking things out, and his mere presence made my heart sing. Thoughts become things.

Birthdays

I have told my dad before that it's not his age that's depressing him, it's mine. How does he feel when he says that he has a fifty-six year old daughter? Old, maybe?? Today my youngest daughter is twenty-three. And yes, that makes me feel old.

Doubt

The original intention (yesterday) of this post was to write something light-hearted that I was going to call "I Crack Myself Up." So I want to start with this.

The other day, I said something funny to my 23 year old daughter. After saying it, I laughed so hard that I felt lightheaded, like I was going to faint. In the playfully disdainful way that she has, my daughter looked at me and said, "You crack yourself up, don't you, Mom?" And I realized, that yes, I do crack myself up. I love to laugh at my own jokes (why would I say them if I didn't think they were hilarious??). But this self-appreciation goes even farther. I love to look at my photographs. I love to read my own writing. I love to pick up my handmade cards and admire them. Really, it gives me a seratonin lift, I believe, to like what I create. And I like to share all of this with other people, giving my cards to people, framing photographs as gifts, having people read my writing and laugh at my jokes.

But there is a dark side to this, and here's where I took a little detour from the original intention of this post. I don't like it when something I create turns out to be less than perfect.

Last night was critique night for me in my short story class. I was paired with two incredible writers--one I knew was great and one I figured out was great after reading her story. I went first.

I have had this image in my head of how a person looks during the critique process. First the good things about the story (person smiling, turning red with pleasure, puffing up). Then the suggestions for improvement (person getting serious look on his or her face, turning red with embarrassment, deflating). After the class, on my way home and later, I began to have serious doubts about my ability to write. There was a lot of work to be done on this story, and I felt overwhelmed at the task. I even thought, "Well, I'm just going to scrap that story and do another one." But that ain't how it works in this class. The point is to write a shitty first draft (mission accomplished) and then rework it into something readable.

This morning, when I got up to do yoga and free-write, I began writing about my feelings surrounding all of this. And then, the amazing thing that has happened since I decided to learn to write: I had a revelation. I realized that I was experiencing the same thing that the character in my short story was experiencing: DOUBT. Whoa. Soooo...the timer went off to signal the end of the free-write period and I went to the next clean, blank page. At the top of the page I wrote, DOUBT-THINK ABOUT IT. And that's where I'm going to start my free-write tomorrow morning.

Now I have to go back to cracking myself up. I'm going to need all the laughs and self-admiration I can muster up to get me through this process of learning to write!

Goodbye, Wrightsville; Hello, Oriental

Wrightsville Marina, where we've had our boat for the last eight years. It was sad having to say good-bye to our friends at the marina.
Durham realized that the heater on the boat isn't working. Should we stay or should we go? Go, he says...
It's a beautiful day.
I was able to make a huge dent in my reading for class - Richard Bausch is an awesome short story writer.
As the day gets cooler and later, we pull into the Oriental Harbor Marina, our new home for a few months. It takes Durham a long time to tie us up because there aren't any cleats and we have to tie up to the pilings.
As the sun sets on our new boat home, we head off to meet our friends for dinner.

Alligator

This is the alligator at the turtle pond on Bald Head Island. He has evidently had all the turtle he can stand, because the turtles swim all around him and he doesn't even seem to notice them. Once I saw a turtle swimming along on his back.

Bald Head Island

We are moving our boat this weekend to Oriental for a couple of months or so. For the past six years our home port has been Wrightsville Beach, and we've occupied the same front-row slip at Wrightsville Marina. But the slip has been sold and we are being asked to move so the new owner can use it. I'm excited about the prospect of being homeless boat people for a while. From Oriental, we will have easy access to Cape Lookout, which is one of the most beautiful places in North Carolina; Beaufort and Morehead City; and Okracoke. We've spent quality vacation time at all of these places. A couple who are our dearest friends have moved to Oriental, and I'm looking forward to spending time with them. I've found their new group of friends and acquaintances very interesting to be around.

But ultimately, I want to move the boat to Bald Head Island. We've spent many weekends there and I feel a pull to go back for an extended stay. Some of my finest photographs are taken there and I find new beauty every time I go. There's no cable at the part of the dock where we stay, and while we eat breakfast or dinner we listen to music or NPR or watch old Twilight Zone and Alfred Hitchcock shows, trying to identify the very young but familiar faces we see.

For those of you who have never been, there are no cars (well, mostly no cars - you can't build houses without a truck or two). We bought a couple of bikes - the old fashioned kind that you turn backwards to stop - and now that I've quit smoking I can make it from one part of the island to the other without feeling like I'm going to pass out. The restaurants aren't all that good, so we mostly forage around for something good to cook on the grill or in the toaster oven or on the two-burner stove. For shopping there is the grocery store, the hardware store, and a couple of women's boutiques - perfect! Oh yeah, and Turtle Central where you can buy any kind of turtle toy and T-shirt your heart desires, with all profit going to the Conservancy (for turtles!).

It took a while for the dockmaster to warm up to us, but now he loves for us to come and is very welcoming and accommodating. I think he'll be glad to have us as nesters at the marina.

It is so peaceful and beautiful there. With a few detours, I know we'll end up parking the Coatimundi on F Dock and spend our nights looking for Dick Van Dyke to peek around a dark corner in the Twilight Zone.

The Seine

Writing

Last week in my writing class, I read my story about a boy getting beaten by his father. It wasn't a full story - just what our teacher called an exercise in "creative wrong memory". Then today, for class, I read a story by Alice Munro entitled "Royal Beatings" where she took the same event - a beating - and crafted a beautiful short story from it. It reminded me of a couple of years ago when I wrote a story called "Reverse Lottery" about a man who was watching all of his friends die, anticipating his own death in the process. My writing friends told me that the writing was good, but that it wasn't really a story because it didn't have the elements of a story - beginning/middle/end with conflict. I wasn't enough of a writer to understand what that required of me. Then I read Philip Roth's Everyman, and I saw how an event could be artfully turned into a story. It was a revelatory moment for me, the last page of Everyman, just as the reading of Munro's story was today.

I haven't made much time for reading since I've been taking the writing class, but I can see that it's absolutely necessary to continue to expose myself to masterful writing in order to learn the craft of writing. Just as you can't read books about gymnastics and be a good gymnast no matter how athletic you are, you can't just read books about writing and be a good writer. It requires studying the literary gymnasts and going to the writing table gym in a disciplined fashion. I didn't realize it was going to take this much work, but I'm willing to do what it takes to build up my writing muscles.

Book Study?

My Thursday night girls may be grumbling a little tonight. The "little dictatress" (that's me) is insisting that we do a book study of Sarah Susanka's The Not So Big Life. Remember when I said it was nice to have a place to come to - my house - where nothing was expected except that you show up and have a good time? Well, sometimes we have to work too - on ourselves. Using the analogy of redoing a house, Susanka will lead us to a life renovation. Everyone could use a little sprucing up now and then, hmmm?

There is always something miraculous that happens on Thursday nights. One of the girls has a brother who is dealing with ALS. He has been the most awesome elementary school teacher in the world. But things are getting tough for him. Each week or so, we give a few bucks to a fund that we haven't named yet, and every time we get a little money in it, some need appears. Tonight we gave our friend the money to buy a CD player for her brother so he could listen to books on CD since he can't turn pages anymore. He has VERY PARTICULAR taste, so we went all the way, buying him a snazzy player that was expensive but half price at Brookstone.

There is just so much you can do to alleviate the sorrow and worry of others. This group is creative about finding what it is that will help and getting right to supplying it. If we don't know the right thing to do, we at least spend some time thinking and talking about the problem in an effort to gain understanding.

I am truly blessed to have these girls at my table.

On Cloud Nine

Homework

Today was the beginning of doing homework for my writing class and to tell you the truth, I was nervous. I wasn't sure I could come up with anything to write about. I was afraid that even if I came up with something, I wouldn't be able to write anything good. One of my daily readings from Tut.com said this:

"Evolution of a Dream

Dream is implanted into brain.

Dreamer becomes thrilled.

Dreamer becomes terrified.

If no action is taken, terrifying thoughts grow into flesh-eating monsters. Dream is considered unrealistic.

If action is taken, terrifying thoughts are revealed to be paper tigers. Confidence soars, miracles unfold, and dreamer begins to saunter.

Either way, Mamie, nothing remains the same."

And that's how I felt through the process: I was anxious to write, I was scared to write, it seemed crazy to think I could write anything worth reading. But I wrote anyway. And I am feeling kind of excited about sharing it with my class.

Experience (i.e. last semester) has taught me that what I wrote today isn't perfect. I'm going to have to work really hard to get it right. But that's okay. I've got a little confidence, and I swaggered up to dinner.

Two posts today!

If you read my earlier post about prosperity, you'll know that I rejoiced to see this as the Unity Daily Word today....

"Daily Word — Thursday, January 17, 2008

Prosperity

Divine abundance overflows into every area of my life. Prosperity is mine.

My prosperity is not only about the level of my financial success or the quantity or quality of my material possessions. My experience of prosperity moves beyond the physical to the divine. God’s blessings are endless—abundantly evident and available to me at all times and in all circumstances.

God is my source and my substance, and I am divinely supported with all that I need to live a full and prosperous life. Clarity and direction, compassion and forgiveness, peace and serenity, creativity and energy—as well as my physical needs and material comforts —are mine in abundance. Each of these gifts, and so much more, are here for me now. Divine abundance overflows into every area of my life.

Prosperity is mine."

Church

For many years, I led a Religion and Ethics discussion group at Quail Ridge Books. We explored faith through short stories, beginning with a book by my friend, Susan Ketchin, entitled The Christhaunted Landscape. Excellent book! In the past few months, the group has been exploring the ethics side with Clay Stalnaker as the facilitator. Clay is a brilliant Presbyterian minister who has caused me to pick my own brain for what a belief in God really is and how I have incorporated this into my faith story (or myth).

The other night I raised something that he said "disturbed him" and I would like to try to say it here. For so long religion has relied on making people feel bad to keep 'em coming back for more. At my church there are more recovering Catholics and Baptists than you can shake a stick at. And I wondered aloud why people would continue to go to churches where they are forced to feel bad, constantly referring to themselves as unworthy and sinful. I said that I want to go to church to feel good and that I don't want to constantly dwell on my shortcomings.

What Clay felt was disturbing, if I understood correctly, is that he thought I was using the word "good" to mean "comfortable" and he thought that church should make us feel uncomfortable in the sense of being challenged. And I will agree that I want to feel challenged, but I want to be comfortable and comforted by my faith. I want to go to church and feel elated and capable of facing the week's challenges and consoled that there is a God-light in me that enables me to send light into the dark places of my friends' and family members' lives. I want to use the strength I gain while meditating or learning from the minister's message to make positive changes in my life.

I don't want to feel bad in church. I don't want to feel discomforted. And if this is disturbing to someone, then so be it. Maybe he'll think a bit about what I said, just as I think about what he says each month. And we'll both be a little surer about what our faith is made of.

Random thoughts

I DID IT! I actually got up at 5:30 (yes, that is in the AM), exercised for 35 minutes, meditated for 10 minutes, and wrote for 15 minutes, saw the sun rise. The writing time flew by and I stopped in the middle of a sentence, hoping as my new writer friend said last night that I will still have it going on tomorrow morning. I smiled all the way up the stairs to begin the rest of the day.

I am now older than my mom was when she died. It's all new territory.

One of my daughters who lives in New York moved home Monday. It was a harried day - the tractor trailer couldn't park on her street so they had to go to New Jersey, get a UHaul, come back, move her stuff down four flights of stairs, take the UHaul to New Jersey and repack. Her original flight was cancelled, but she was able to book a flight that actually left earlier, and got home safely. She is sick and glad to be home in her old bed spooning with the cat.

Tomorrow is my birthday. When I was in the first grade, I couldn't wait for it to be January 17 so I could have a class party and get lots of recognition. Unfortunately, it snowed. And there was no make-up day for birthdays. I've never forgotten it - I have gotten over it though! It's supposed to snow tonight. If it does it will be the first time it's snowed on my birthday since the first grade.

My writing class started up again last night. I was worried for all the new people that they might feel left out - we're an aggressive tight knit group. I think they might've. We were especially ourselves.

Carpe the diem.

Catch!

On the church board (and in other places) I have a bit of a reputation as a person who likes to think things up but doesn't like to see them through. Set things in motion and walk away. Get people talking about something and then move on mentally to the next thing.

Some people who hang around with me might not like this. They could possibly think I'm lazy or unmotivated or unable to follow through with things. But personally, I think that I'm a great kind of person to have around. I keep things lively.

We cannot all be thinker-uppers. Which is good because if you're a thinker-upper, you have to have carry-outers and ponder-longers to sort out the snags and glitches.

It takes alot of will power not to be a thinker-upper who is also a pusher-picker, always checking to see if things have been done the way I thought them up. And this is where I really gain self-control, something I'm short on - I have to hold back from being bossy and controlling and just let others execute the plans the way they see fit. Ideas are often very changed from my first thoughts, but usually they are better and finer than if I had done them myself.

Are you a thinker-upper or a follow-througher? It takes all of us to get things done.

Scrambled Brains

I'm feeling a little fried right now. Usually everything about my life is easy and predictable. But right now there are so many variables that I'm not functioning very well. Work for one is unpleasant: every day I feel like crying (or screaming) at the work load waiting for me when I walk in the door. There are unpacked boxes of office supplies sitting in the lobby. The payroll updates aren't out of the mailing envelope. Property tax forms, census forms (God - where the hell did they come from and for both companies too with dire warnings about not filling them out), contractor's license renewal forms, insurance forms for my daughter. I had to deal with about 4 f---ups of other people last week which cost a good three days to straighten out. In fact, I'm not sure they're all straightened out.

In the past two days I have filled the Sunday calendar with performers through September. I received a lengthy email from one of my fellow church board members asking for input on an important congregational meeting. I haven't had time to read the email.

We have to move the boat because the slip has been sold. This entails finding a place to move it - no wait deciding WHERE to move it - then cleaning out the dock box at the old slip and taking the good part of a day to the destination. Rental car to the boat, bum a ride back to Raleigh from destination-arrange all of that.

Our renter has moved out and a new one due in at the end of the month. This requires painting and new carpet, a few little fix-its, but I'm having to leave it to my husband to take care of that. It is not easy at all to leave things to him. I have had quite a few phone conversations with the new tenant who has tried my patience by trying to squeeze money out of me every way he can.

A lot of my frustration comes from having to wait on other people to decide, schedule, look over, check with other people, etc.

A wonderful thing that happened: I had lunch with my writing group today and it was really therapy time! We always fit a little gladness and a little sadness in just the needed doses for me. The right words at the right time for all of us, I'm hoping, but for me for sure. And presents for Christmas and my birthday.

I got a lot done today too, but of course now I have to wait for Durham to do his part to do any more. Tomorrow I'm going to sit at the hospital while my sister-in-law has some surgery. I'm going to look over that email, and read a little while I'm there. That'll be good.

Fire

I think my Thursday night girls passed the ultimate loyalty test tonight. God I love them!! But they might not love me so much right now....

It was our first meeting of the year and we were doing dooneys (this is not how you spell it - it's Indian - but I looked it up every way I could and had no luck). This is where we burn a small piece of paper representing things we don't want to take into the new year with us.

The paper we use is this magic paper that when you light it on fire, you can hold it until it burns out to a small piece of corner. So I told my girls, "Don't drop it whatever you do - you think it's going to burn you, but it won't. Really, don't drop it because although it won't burn you it will burn what it falls on."

I go first and the paper burns instantly, leaving a small corner between my thumb and pointer finger. Sandra goes next and burns the shit out of her finger. Chalk it up to a fluke. Penny goes next and burns the double shit out of her thumb and pointer finger. Hmmmm, everyone is looking around. But Trish and Patrice do it too!! Except they don't burn their fingers.

There's alot of talk about the kind of thing you'd do if someone told you to (along the lines of "jumping in the fire") and we laugh while Sandra holds a glass of ice water with her fingers and Penny rubs ginger/honey/soy sauce on hers.

They went through fire for me and came out laughing. That's friendship.

Dreams

Last night I had a dream about my mom. In almost all the dreams I have of her, she is either emotionally distant or not emotionally accessible at all. One dream I was in this city (Paris?) and I saw her walking down the road in the rain and she wouldn't acknowledge me. Last night, someone was trying to get money we owed them and she had left without our knowing where she was. We were all worried about how to handle the money thing--we were very confused in fact because my dad always handled the finances and we weren't sure she was going to know what to do. Sometimes in a dream she's been away and comes back but she always seems very sad and depressed and alone.

I was thirty-one when she died so I was an adult and should have understood her on that level. But I really didn't. I like to think that she was a fun-loving, affectionate person who loved us all unconditionally. I know, though, that there are alot of questions I would like to ask her about her relationship with my dad, and her dad and mom, and how it felt when her sister died at 44 and her mom in her sixties of a brain tumor. I would like to tell her that I understand her addiction now, and don't see it as a weakness at all, but as something she was born with and couldn't help. I wish I could go back to the day that she relapsed and drank a bottle of wine, and instead of being disgusted, I would hug her and tell her it was okay, that tomorrow is another day and I was proud that she had been sober for five years and knew she could do it again.

These dreams are hard because all of the things I want to say add up to "I'm sorry" and without her attention I cannot say them. Even in my dreams.

New Year

I don't usually make resolutions at the beginning of a year.  I undertook my two biggest overhauls the week before Thanksgiving, because jeez, if you can stand the stress of the holidays AND change--WHOA YOU'RE AWESOME!  But this year I do have some things I'd like to undertake:

A regular exercise program that I can do at home (I have all the tools....)

A regular writing discipline (I have all the tools....)

Taking more time for myself and learning to ignore chores that need to be done (I do not have all the tools....)

One of my sisters says that I am addicted to activity.  Okay so it wasn't enough that I was addicted to booze and cigs.  Come on, addicted to activity???  I just love to be around people, learning about new things, taking advantage of what other people know and share, being wih my friends, cooking for my friends, going to church, being at the beach on the boat, meetings.  Is this addicted to activity or constantly seeking stimulation?  Is the frenzy of activity in my life a way of avoiding being alone?  I like to be alone too so I don't think that's true.

Many times when asked to do something, I have to reply that I don't have a night.  And I work during the day.  So time is a valuable commodity to me, always in short supply.  But I feel that I am living my life until I die, and if that's addicted to activity, I don't think I'll give it up quite yet. 

Happy New Year.  It's the clean slate that needs drawing on.  I think I'll start today.

Rabbit Rabbit

This day, New Year's Eve, is frought with stress for me.

The beginning of the year signifies a big ass work load that requires careful proceeding. One mistake and I have really got a mess on my hands. Now that I am doing the books for two companies, I feel doubly stressed. Setting up new files, taxes (quarterly and annual), 1099's and W-2's, insurance audits...god I feel sick just thinking about it.

Then we have tonight, the heaviest drinking night in the year. Every year for the past few we have gone to a party where there is lots of drinking and dancing; and when I quit drinking, I quit dancing so you can see how I worry about having a good time at this gathering. On my way home from work today, I said to myself, "Well, self, so what if you have a little glass of champagne? What'll it matter? You'll get a little high, and tomorrow you can resume your boring sobriety." {Sigh} if only it were that simple. But it's not.

Here are the good things about the party: the food is always excellent, conversation stimulating, music out of this world, setting is the most beautiful house we ever built. I get to kiss alot of good-looking guys after I kiss Durham and say "Rabbit rabbit" (family tradition from I have no idea where). And I'll remember everything tomorrow. And feel good.

There, I feel better already. But about that damn work load...

New York billboard

Saying goodbye to everybody has made me kind of blue. Thought some humor would help....

tick tick tick

Remember the tick tick tick? It blew tonight at my house. Everybody feeling kind of edgy about all the togetherness and scheduled events when we're used to living our own lives on our own schedules. Too much sugar and for some a bit of a big head this morning. One daughter accuses me of saying something a few months ago she didn't like and another gets pissed at Christmas Eve dinner; all three bicker over singing (or not singing) Christmas carols in the car. And that does it--I'm crying. And you know how it is once you start crying over the holidays: you're sad about every person who has died, every Christmas that you were disappointed, every slight that has been doled out over the past few weeks...it all gets dredged up and just spills over. When we get home I stalk to my room and slam the door.

Then one of the girls slips a cup of chamomile tea beside the bed while I'm crying and showering. The other two come in to say they're sorry. And I feel like we can start the timer over. Tick tick tick...

Good night and Merry Christmas. It's time to fill the stockings...and no lumps of coal because they apologized.

Countdown to Christmas

Today I felt like the holidays finally began in earnest.  All three girls home.  And tonight we had a few friends over.  At one point things were really cooking.  My middle daughter walked in after a four hour drive home and felt overwhelmed by the commotion, but I felt awesome--friends and family all together eating and drinking.  Some of our old neighbors stopped by. One of them had his son with him who now has a deep voice and looks eye to eye with me.  The food was great and the Whole Foods eggnog was a hit (why don't they carry that stuff all year round - it is so good!)

I absolutely love to entertain.  My style is to put it all out and tell people to help themselves to whatever they want.  Then I proceed to soak up the conversation and hugs and reminiscing. I especially like it when a few people stay after the others have gone and we can talk about how much fun it was before it's really over!

My youngest daughter had a few friends of her own here and they partied in the back long after the last dish was dry in the kitchen.

I love Christmas.

Oriental photograph

I would like your ideas about this photo. I have posted mine in the comments section.

Holidays

Brian Andreas has a Story People drawing with the following words: "Rules for a successful holiday: 1. Get together with the family 2. Relive old times (tick tick tick) 3. Get out before it blows."

It is very difficult for groups of people, no matter how much they really love each other, to be together for long periods of time when they're not used to it. We tend to revert to our childish behaviors around those who witnessed them and this adds to the drama. I was always labelled bossy by my sibs, and I am bossy at its best when they're around. And they too assume the familiar roles of our past. We expect it of each other no matter how much therapy we've had or time has passed since we were young and part of a group of people who lived in the same house.

One thing that I (as a bossy person preparing to revert when the family gets here) would like to caution: If you get mad at someone in your family, don't go home mad. Do whatever it takes to make things right before you go.

When I was pregnant with my second daughter, my mom called me to come and change sheets in preparation for a visit from one of my sisters. My mom didn't feel well. I, however, was irritated that she wanted me--pregnant with a 1 1/2 year old--to come over. After changing the sheets I stood at the bottom of the steps leading upstairs in her house, looking up at her. She said she wanted to hug us but didn't want us to get sick. I was still mad.

The next morning my brother called to say that my mother had died in the night. I have never gotten over the fact that I was angry with her the last time I saw her. It's been almost 25 years since she died, and I feel weepy right now writing this.

My artist daughter (the one I was pregnant with at the time) having heard this story, made me a tapestry. It shows the legs of someone standing at the top of a set of stairs. On each of the steps, there are things we say to people when we leave: Be sweet, be careful, call me when you get there, I love you. She sewed it with my grandmother's thread that she got when my grandmother died.

Things are not going to always go smoothly during the holidays. We're stressed, the people we deal with are stressed. We come home hoping for a little peace. This Christmas my hope for you is that you and your family spend some quality time together. And if you don't get out before it blows, put out the fire before you go home.

Amazing Grace

I believe if everyone in the world would watch this, we'd all be just fine. Amazing Grace

Portfolio and the rest of life too

Last night after delaying as long as I could, I drank two cups of regular coffee and put my mind on the portfolio for my writing class. And guess what? When I looked over the list of what needed to be in it, I realized that I already had everything I needed! EVERYTHING! I had done all that worrying about it for NOTHING!

After two cups of coffee, though, I still had a lot of hours left in the night. And I spent them thinking about several things. I thought about my artist daughter who told me that she knows she has everything she needs to create. I thought about the presents I've bought for friends and family and how it feels like just the right amount of giving. I thought about how people and money appeared for my other two daughters, just when they needed them. And I know in my heart that we already have everything we need and we can stop worrying about it and just put it all together so it makes some sense.

As I listened to Christmas music this morning, Pachelbel's Canon in D came on. This is the song I've told my family that I want played at my funeral - George Winston's version in fact - it begins so quietly and crescendos to fullness in the middle and then slows down to quiet again, just like a life does. And I said out loud thank you thank you thank you for the bounty in my life. I kept saying that over and over and I felt that "sad and happy at the same time" feeling I've written about before. It's the season of giving but I got a gift with this realization that the thing I say - "There will always be more than enough" - is really true.

Losing a loved one

This is an excerpt from an interview with Adyashanti by Sy Safransky in the December issue of The Sun.

Safransky: One of your talks on your website is titled “Gift for a Dying Friend.” You make a distinction between expressing our love for someone who’s dying and showing our attachment to them. Is there anything else you would say to someone facing the loss of a loved one?

Adyashanti: Usually, when I meet someone who’s in that situation, they’re trying not to grieve. Maybe they’re trying to transcend grief, or maybe they’re afraid of the enormity of it. So I often encourage them to open to the grief, and I let them know that grief is not unenlightened. It’s a natural way for our systems to cleanse themselves of painful emotions. It’s true we can get stuck in grief. We can become fixated in grief. But more often I find that people don’t open fully to it. When they finally do, what comes up is a tremendous sense of well-being. I don’t mean the grief goes away, but there’s grief and a smile at the same time. It’s just like true love. True love is not all bliss. As my teacher said, true love is bittersweet, like dark chocolate. It almost hurts a little bit. Ultimately all emotions contain their opposite.

When people are in the midst of grief, sometimes, if I think they’re ready for it, I’ll encourage them to think about what’s happened to their loved one: They’re gone. Everything you know about them is gone. Their appearance is gone. Their body is gone. Their mind is gone. Their persona is gone. There is nothing to relate to anymore. It’s all gone. Now, is there anything left? That’s the actual truth of them: what’s still there after a person is gone.

Years ago a woman wrote to me and said her mother was dying of Alzheimer’s, and it was tearing her up. The mother she knew wasn’t there anymore. I wrote her back and said, “Why don’t you sit down next to the bed where your mother is and just reflect on the fact that the person you knew is gone. Her mothering function is gone. The way she used to interact with you is gone. Her personality is gone. It’s all gone. Just sit there for a moment and allow all that to be gone, and see if there’s not anything else. Maybe that wasn’t all there was to your mother.” The woman wrote me back about a week later and said she’d sat next to her mother and let her disappear and thought, Is there anything left? All of a sudden, she knew there was an amazing presence that only took the form of her mother. And she knew that’s what her mother was; that’s what she’d always been. It brought this woman great relief. Then she took it to the next level and thought, If that’s what my mom is, I wonder about me. And she found she wasn’t the person she’d been pretending to be. She was the same presence.

Death is like that: it takes away appearances. It’s OK to grieve the loss of appearances, but it helps to recognize the presence that’s beyond those appearances.

No Class of 2007 at Oriental Christmas Parade

In Step

The past week and a half has been really crazy. Every minute filled with at least two things that needed doing simultaneously, both requiring all my attention. Work and school. Family and friends. Travel and decorating my house for the holiday. I needed to choose from one minute to the next the most demanding thing.

More than a few times during this chaos, I have had to say to myself that people have to come first. My daughters with emotional crises, my sister rejoicing over the "A" on her paper, another sister chiding me for sharing something that should have been kept confidential, friends who needed checking on, my dad and my mother-in-law. I have had to keep my attention on what they are saying and ignore the niggling voices that remind me of my portfolio due, bills to be paid, laundry and dishes. This type of fully executed attention is something I work on. It is something that I think I have been able to improve upon through my spotty practice of meditation--making myself stop what I'm doing and be in the moment.

I have not by any means perfected this. But I'm really really working on being present for those whom I love when they need me, not when it's convenient or when all the chores are done. Now. When they need me. My full attention.

Stretched

On the seventh day...

Sunday is not a day of rest. Period. Thank you for listening.

Cherry-pickin'

Back to Eat Pray Love:

Gilbert says, "I think you have every right to cherry-pick when it comes to moving your spirit and finding peace in God. I think you are free to search for any metaphor whatsoever which will take you across the worldly divide whenever you need to be transported or comforted. It's nothing to be embarrassed about. It's the history of mankind's search for holiness. If humanity never evolved in its exploration of the divine, a lot of us would still be worshipping golden Egyptian statues of cats. And this evolution of religious thinking does involve a fair bit of cherry-picking. You take whatever works from wherever you can find it, and you keep moving toward the light."

Not everyone's religious cup of tea, but I rejoice every time I read this.