New York Trip

This weekend we met our daughters in New York. It was a wonderful weekend with mostly cool and sunny weather. Usually on returning from a trip, I would call my dad and tell him all about it. He would love hearing the details. So this post is what I would tell him if I could.

First I would tell him about the view from the hotel, where every morning the sun came up, touching the tops of the high rise buildings. And about the sign that said, "Now more than ever, you need to be world wise."



We would laugh about the petty arguments and lengthy discussions we had about where to eat and shop. I'd tell him about what I learned: that we really don't have to spend every minute together for it to be a successful weekend. I would mention the museum where the exhibit consisted of things made from feathers and bones and dandelions. And the mall where a nude giant man and woman graced the lobby.



I would talk about the city lights and the fast-moving cars and people, the crowded streets and the alluring and repulsive smells of the city.



We met the girls' boyfriends, and we liked them, I'd say. Each well-suited to the daughter's personality. All three boyfriends are kind and good to them. He would know that a parent always wants the best for their kids.



Althought he never read this blog, I would talk about this post where I speculated about how my daughters' apartments looked, and how they were just as I imagined them.





I wish you could have been with us, I'd say, when we went to see the play Fela! The dancers and music were out of this world, and the story was disturbing (yes, children, it was disturbing!) and he'd say he bet he would have liked it. You need to go with us next time, Dad. Yeah, I will, he'd say, but we both knew he wouldn't go.



I'd tell him about the beautiful cathedral we went in...



...and that I lit a candle just for him.



At the end of the conversation, I'd tell him how hard it is to say good-bye to everybody after a nice weekend, and he'd know just what I meant.

C-r-a-s-h

This week, I feel like I've finally crashed from all that has been going on. I've been so tired I can hardly stay awake in the afternoons when I get home from work, and yesterday, on my day off, I did basically nothing except for a few loads of laundry. At 8:00, I'm ready to get in my pajamas and go to bed for the night.

I still have decisions to make about my breast cancer treatment and am ready to move forward with everything and get it behind me. It has been hanging over my head since right after my dad fell and broke his hip. I'm just now starting to say, "I had cancer". But I can't seem to gather the right or enough information to make a decision about which treatment to do. Tuesday is d-day for coming up with the plan; thank goodness for deadlines.

I've read one book in a month and a half (I usually read 3-5 books a month), and that was Suzanne Collins' book, Mockingjay, something I've been waiting for since December. It was a perfect re-entry into reading: rapid-paced and engrossing without requiring a lot of concentration, something I'm low on.

I need to get my groove back, fellas. Weary is not fun.

Long Weekend in Pictures

Thursday Night:



Friday Night:



Saturday Night:



Sunday Night:



A wonderful weekend.

Losing Memories. And Finding Them.

(Yeah, I know the photo is a little crooked - my dad took it!)

The other day I was trying to remember the name of my first grade teacher. I couldn't pull it out of my brain. I realized something: my dad is the only one who might have known the answer.

So it seems, that along with all the things I forgot to ask him about our relatives--like who are those people in the pictures in the trunk, why did you save this obituary, tell me about receiving this honor--there are a few things I needed to know about me that are now gone. The one person who remembers my childhood intimately is dead.

This gave me a very forlorn feeling.

I was talking to my youngest sister about this, telling her I had tried to find the teacher's name on the internet and couldn't. She said, "I know where you might can find it. There's probably a report card in the trunk from first grade."

I haven't looked yet, but it might be there. And I'm beginning to understand the value to a person's descendants of leaving behind papers and letters and pictures. Regardless of whether that particular teacher's name will be retrieved, I know that my dad was thinking ahead when he put each and every thing in that trunk. Thinking about a time when I might need to know something and he wouldn't be around to answer.

Night of Music

Next Friday night, I will be having my second photography exhibit at the Long View Center in downtown Raleigh. The theme of the show is "Music" and what a night of music it will be. Both Carl and I have chosen our best shots around the theme, there will be live music, and the storytellers that follow the reception at Tell It! will incorporate music into their stories.

The live music will be played by my husband; Frank, a guitar player who plays in a band with him; and Billie Jean Snuggs, a woman who has about the most beautiful voice I have ever heard. To hear her sing is to be moved to another sphere where sound is transformative. She sings from her heart and her soul.

Music has been an important part of my life. I love almost every kind except dirty rap as I call it, and have it playing from the time I get up to the time I settle in for the night. I listen to classical, soul, and New Age music most of the time, but will throw in disco and country and gospel when I need a lift.

I'm looking forward to this wonderful night of music displayed in our art, our spoken word, and with instruments and voices. It will be just the high I need.

In the Darkroom

Twice this month I've been able to go into the darkroom at Sertoma Arts Center. I've taken some old square black and white negatives that I found at my dad's house.

It takes about thirty minutes to get set up. My friend Jen has the chemicals ready, but I have to check my enlarger, timer, filter, and lens to make sure they're all working properly and are what I need for the negatives I'm using. There's always some kind of problem. For instance, last night, the enlarger I usually use had some kind of pink light coming down, and we couldn't figure out what was causing it. So I moved one station down. That enlarger had more light openings than I am used to so I had to fiddle with the dial so that I could choose F-stops in the mostly dark room. Then my timer was giving me four seconds for a three-second setting.

Finally I had everything ready to turn out the lights. I went into the lighted room and started looking through the negatives trying to decide which one to start with. I could tell that one of them was of children in their Halloween costumes, so I started with it.

Once you've chosen your negative, you put it in a slide carrier and focus it. Then you do a test print, exposing the paper to the light in three or five second intervals. You develop the test strip to find the best time and setting for the print. All of this takes anywhere from ten to twenty minutes. So by the time you actually develop your first print, you've spent around forty-five minutes in the darkroom.

There's nothing quick about the process. Your print takes one minute, one minute, three minutes, and three minutes in four different chemicals. On a good night, like last night, I may get four copies of four negatives.

I know I could just take all the negatives to a film processing place and get prints in a day. But there's something so magic about the darkroom process. In this case, I'm taking negatives from photographs my dad took over fifty years ago. He lined us up in our costumes or with our grandparents and great-grandparents, caught an uncle and baby cousin opening Christmas presents. One of the photographs I did last night is of a one-year-old me, sitting between my great-grandparents. Our love for each other shines through the print.

It is an act of meditation to develop pictures this way. As I said on Facebook last night, "In the darkroom, the past emerges."

Friday the Thirteenth

Normally, I stare straight at Friday the 13th and spit in its eye, but after yesterday, I'm gathering lucky pennies and four-leaf clovers and throwing salt over my shoulder next time one rolls around. Here's what happened:

Back in 2000, when things were rolling along nicely at our company, we splurged and bought a 1978 sport fishing boat. We named her Coatimundi after a reggae song we liked. Here she is:



The boat has about 200 SF on it. There is a salon/galley combination, a V-berth that sleeps two, a small bathroom with a toilet and a shower. We have used this little sweet boat so much. But lately with all that has been going on with my dad, we haven't been down much.

This weekend we decided to go, take the boat over to Bald Head Island, and have a little R&R. Time spent on the boat is time spent forgetting your troubles. So we packed food, clothes, linens from our last trip, books, videos, unread newspapers and left around 3:00.

When we opened the door to the boat, we realized that the AC wasn't working. The boat was hot and stale smelling. We decided to head on over to BHI and work on the boat there. When we disconnected the power cord, it was black like it had been burned. Not good.

The boat was shimmying and shaking on the way over and we figured the props were covered with barnacles from the boat sitting so long. We called the diver to come clean them. Easy fix.

At the BHI slip, we couldn't get the power to come on. We called the marina; no answer. Called the ferry terminal and they said they'd send over a supervisor. We were hot and getting grouchy and when he didn't show up after thirty minutes, we decided to head back to the home port. So we disconnected and untied and took off.

Once we were re-settled at the dock, we couldn't find the toolbox. Now remember, this is a space of around 200 SF and the toolbox is 2' x 3' at least, but it was nowhere to be found. So at 10:30 we headed over to WalMart and bought tools. I talked my husband into letting me buy a fan; he's always saying I'm going to sink the boat with all the things I bring aboard!

Back at the boat, my husband crawled into the engine room, which is about three feet tall. He has to be a contortionist to get into it, and I couldn't get in if the Yankees were coming. He got the AC running, but only warmish air was coming out. We waited, wiping sweat and swatting mosquitoes, but the air never got cool.

Around midnight, we realized that the AC wasn't going to work, and that without AC there wasn't going to be any R&R on the Coatimundi, so we packed food, bags, books, newspapers, DVDs, sweaty clothes and wet shoes into our air-conditioned car and headed home.

We arrived at 3 a.m., exhausted. Our cats were very confused. Audrey thought we were getting up for the day and stood at the door wanting to go out. Chippy followed us around meowing loudly as only a deaf cat can, ready for breakfast. We ignored them both, took our showers and fell into bed.

The good news is that it can all be fixed. The bad news? Have you ever paid to fix a boat? But I love that little vessel, and I'll forgive her one more time.

Something to Say

One of my faithful readers said she was worried because I haven't posted lately. I'm glad she missed me.

I haven't written because I felt that writing about my dad would be boring to you, and yet everything else seems too trivial to talk about. I'm busy, along with my siblings, with the business of the estate and cleaning out my dad's house and all the emotions surrounding that. I can go days without crying and then spend a day trying not to burst into tears at anything and everything.

Many times, I'll be crying, really crying hard, and the sound of my crying makes me stop. It feels foreign. I'm not familiar with it like I am the sounds of my voice or my laugh. That's good, isn't it?

Two months ago things seemed very scary. My dad was in the hospital with the broken hip, I had a questionable lump in my breast, and our business was in a very precarious situation. In their own ways, all of these things have been resolved. My father has died, but isn't suffering and never had to go a nursing home. He really lived until he died. My breast cancer has been removed and the next steps don't seem too scary. Our business is stable and we're busy. In the midst of the sad news of my dad's death, there is the comfort of friends and a new closeness between my siblings. There is the kindness of nurses and doctors. There is the support of my husband and children.

I see a picture of my dad or hear his voice on my answering machine and I just ache that I'll not see him again in this lifetime. But when the strangeness of the sound of my crying stops me, I take time to give thanks for where I am right now.

What's Important

I've spent the past two days cleaning out my dad's office and some of his house with one of my sisters and my brother. The box you see is just one of several boxes of cards and photographs and newspaper articles that my dad saved. Cards from us, articles about us, photographs taken when we all got together or sent to him.

In the cabinets, we found several such boxes of things that he got when his mother died, when my other grandparents died, when my great-aunt died. And in them, the same things: photographs, articles, cards, lists of people who brought food or made memorial donations. We've made a decision to throw a lot of it away, especially legal papers about things that happened in the past. Things like photographs of people we don't know and minutes from church meetings.

It has brought home to me that what means something to me, what I'm saving, the cards my children sent my dad, the church bulletins that he put in a drawer because one of the children was christened that Sunday, the newspaper pictures or articles about our family, may not mean anything to my kids. When I die, when my husband dies, they may go through the boxes of things I'm packing to bring home, look at everything perfunctorily, and decide they don't need to keep those things anymore.

It has made me ask how long something carries meaning for a family. Two generations or three, four at the most. There have been a lot of things I've thrown away fairly easily, but some of it I need to keep. For my children to keep or throw away.

I will say that the most meaningful things we've found are letters. And I wonder what people will find meaning in now when emails are the main form of communication and we delete them after we read them.

It has been a rough couple of days, but I've learned a lot about what I think is important. I appreciate my dad keeping all those things, so I could decide.

Let's Change the Subject

I haven't been able to think of much to post about that didn't have to do with my dad, but I've thought of something: MUSIC! Now you all know how much I love music, and I spent most of last Sunday listening to my husband's gospel band play at two different churches. Some time ago, on this blog, I mentioned that he sings "Stand By Me" and this seems the perfect time to post this YouTube video of him singing with two wonderful backup singers. On one of my computers, it played fine; on my laptop it had some streaming issues; but you'll get the idea.

This song is so meaningful to me right now because he has been a rock for me during the past two or three months. He has been under the same stress that I have, with work and my breast cancer and the death of my father, a man he loved and admired, but he has been there 100%. For me.

Standing tall by me.

Place of refuge

I never lived in the house that my father lived in when he died. The family moved there forty years ago, when I was a freshman in college.

During the two weeks that we stayed there last month, I made one of the bedrooms into a refuge. I brought my computer, my IPod, a few books to read, my journal. My husband brought me one of his copies of The Runner's Bible, and I put it on the bedside table. I had a fan to drown all the noises of the house. I hung my clothes in the closet with our old prom dresses and my mom's furs, and wedding presents from the seventies. I put my makeup and vitamins and hair spray on the dresser. Every morning I opened the shades to let the sun in, and every night I closed them for privacy.

When I would get home at night from the hospital, I would be totally buzzed. Literally vibrating. Tired, sad, worn down to the bone, I would enter that room. The music would be playing, the fan would be blowing cool air. In bed I would meditate or read or whatever it took to calm down.

This room that had never been mine became mine so completely that I didn't want anyone to come in. I was as protective of that space as a teenage girl with a room full of secrets. It became my room in a house where I'd never had a room.

I'm grateful that I had that safe space during such a troubled time.

Re-alignment

I guess you noticed the new look on my blog. I tried it on for size and now, though not completely happy with it, can't figure out how to get the old look back.

This is what my life feels like right now. There's been a change and I can't make it go back to how it was before. Every morning I get up and I think, My father is dead. In my mind's eye, I see him coming in from my driveway in his flannel shirt and corduroy pants, limping a little, carrying pimento cheese or oranges or a DVD he's made for me. I listen to his voice on my voice mail saying, "You don't need to call me back. Talk to you soon. Love ya," over and over. The church calls and asks could donations go to new choir robes and I remember the funeral, his seat in the choir draped with his robe, and I lose it.

People say, "He had a good life" and "You're so lucky he didn't have to go to a nursing home" and I know this is true, but I want to scream back that that isn't a consolation. I'm in this little cocoon; I don't want to talk to people about him or have visitors bring things.

My dad wasn't perfect. There were years when I was so irritated by him that it took a great deal of control to be nice to him. But in the past few years he was the father I've always wanted: kind, wise, compassionate, gentle. And that's hard to give up.

I won't belabor my sadness here. Others' mourning is not interesting. But I'm just going to say this and be done with it: I miss him. Damnit.

Being Born

During the time we spent at the hospital, much of it waiting for my dad to breathe his last, a few people compared the process of dying to that of being born. Moving from a known, secure place to the unknown. Long and arduous process. Hard work.

I would say that our role seemed like coaching a birthing mother. The day my dad died, as we were around his bed, it felt as though we were moving him on his way, helping him be born into his new life. We touched him and talked to him, let him know that we loved him and that we would be all right when he left. We breathed with him, quick intakes of air that left us feeling lightheaded. And when he breathed his last big breaths punctuated by seconds of silence, we breathed big breaths too.

Another thing about the dying process that has resembled birth is that I have forgotten how painful it is to lose a loved one. Just as I've forgotten how painful it was to have a baby. It seems new, this sadness. And I'm waking at all hours of the night and as weary as if I'd been taking care of a newborn.

I'm grateful to all of you for taking this journey with me. I've felt your love and prayers and empathy and sympathy. It has helped more than you'll ever know.

Courage to Do the Right Thing

My dad died this afternoon. When it finally happened, it was quick, peaceful, and all but one of his children were there. Because I'm still processing this, I want to tell you about something else that happened today.

My sisters and I will talk to anyone. My brother has teased us incessently since we've been going to the hospital about our need to say hello to every hospital employee who has done anything for our dad. Sometimes it can be embarrassing (and ridiculous) how forward we are.

Today the five of us were eating in the local drugstore. My sisters kept staring at this one table where a man, four young girls, and two older women were eating. One sister kept saying that the man was being totally inappropriate. Another said he was creeping her out. Finally I looked over and the man had the twelve year old in his lap and had his hand up her shirt in the front. Then in the back. Then he rested it on her rear end. It was very disturbing to watch.

One of my sisters is a therapist who specializes in women who have been sexually abused. She wanted to confront the situation. We were horrified and didn't want her to get involved. She said, "God, if you want me to do something, create an opportunity." Oh sure. In the crowded drugstore there was going to be a chance to talk about this to someone in that group.

A few minutes later, we figured out that the man was the father of the girls, and the situation assumed even more importance. The father kissed one of the younger girls on the mouth, then he and the girls and one of the women left, leaving the other woman there to pay the bill. She said, "See you tomorrow," so we knew they would not be coming back in. My sister said that she was going over.

She started talking to the woman. And for about three or four minutes the woman stood, protesting slightly, but attentive to what my sister said. After it was over and the woman had left, we talked about what had been said and I was astounded at the skill with which my sister had handled the conversation.

I would not have had the skills to do what she did. But beyond that I would not have had the courage. My sister may have changed the course of that young girl's life, and that of her sisters too. I can't give her enough credit for the risk she took. Hats off to her for standing up for that child. What an example she set today.

Stream of Unconsciousness

I'm going to be frank here and probably not very PC. Tough.

We're going on day four since they disconnected my father's life support. We've been cooped up, sometimes eleven or more of us, in hospital rooms since a week ago yesterday. At best, my family is capable of sustaining good relations for a day or two. And that's if other relatives are invited and there's lots of food. Tensions are so high that the F-word flies when two or more of us escape to blow off steam.

We've tried all the things the doctors and nurses have told us. Leave him alone. Tell him it's okay to go. Play his favorite music. Give him morphine. Give him more morphine. Pray. Read scripture. But my dad always was one who defied the odds (seventeen years on two heart valves with eight-year warranties for starters) and he just keeps breathing. Vitals all over the charts. Blood pressure good. Temperature 104-105 all day today. Oxygen levels high then low. Twice they've called us all to come to the hospital because his death was imminent.

I didn't want my dad to be in this position. I can't imagine what my life will be like without him. But this waiting is unbearable.

We've laughed until we cry to relieve the tension. There have been temper tantrums, disagreements, confrontations, silent treatments, stormy partings, manic shopping sprees, junk food binges, coffee practically through IVs. People are behaving lovingly, manically, selfishly, confusedly, exhausted.

It looks like we're going to have to think about a funeral over the fourth of July weekend. Not many people will be able to make it and it seemed important a few days ago that all the people who knew and loved him be at the service. But we can't make it happen earlier now, and early next week means some family members won't be able to come. A Tuesday funeral means there's not enough time to go home and still make arrangements, people will bring food and we won't need it, and to tell you the truth I don't know how much longer until it all blows up.

I didn't think it would be like this. And it's almost impossible to deal with. I can't even cry anymore.

Happy Birthday

Today is my dad's 88th birthday. It would be wonderful if he would go out on the same day he came into this world. We'll see.

Yesterday had some blessing mixed in with the unbearable waitng. When they first disconnected my dad from the tubes, we anticipated a short wait. The doctors told us it could take a while, and we all relaxed into that. Instead of gathering all at once, we started giving ourselves permission to leave for a while every now and then.

I left to run to his house, make calls, check emails. One of the friends that I've connected with on Facebook is a girl who was my best friend in the second grade. My first best friend, really, and I haven't seen her since high school. Forty years. On my way in from the parking deck to the hospital, I looked up and there she was. Julia? I said. Mamie? she replied. I've been in the hospital chapel praying for you and your father, she said. And we hugged and cried and talked for a few minutes in the lobby. She prayed a beautiful prayer with me, and I felt strong to face the room again.

The nurse came in later, bathed and shaved my dad, combed his hair, changed his bed. At 12:01 this morning in honor of his 88th birthday, my four siblings, two in-laws, three of my nieces, one of my dad's caretakers, and the nursing staff sang happy birthday and ate cake. Tired to the bone, rawer than raw, we all left the hosptial to try to get some rest.

Blessings among the sadness.

Happy Birthday, Dad.

Muscles

I guess my grieving muscles haven't been getting much exercise. They're really screaming from the workout.

My dad has been disconnected from life support as of this morning. We've spent the day realizing that our world isn't going to be the same as it was when he was walking and talking among us.

Grief is so darn personal. You can't talk to another friend whose father has died and gain any insight into what it's going to feel like when your father dies. You can't listen to your siblings cry and understand what it is they cry for. All you know is that this saying goodbye is just about the most painful thing you've experienced so far.

So you write a tentative obituary and reflect on what you want to say about your dad so people will understand how great he was. You laugh and bicker and banter with the nurses. In the background your father lies as he has during many family gatherings: snoring loudly, mouth open.

What more can I say? Thanks for all the lessons. Thanks for your sacrifices. I'm sorry your dad died when you were young and that you missed a lot of your childhood. I'm going to miss you like hell. I love you.

Fly away, Dad. I'll catch up with you later.

Not quite what I was planning

Yep, I meant to start those cheery, thought-provoking posts again. Really I did. But it seems that the universe had another idea.

Monday I started a class with Zelda Lockhart. I was on fire! She is so inspiring and original and my writing neurons were blasting against one another.

On Tuesday morning around 7 my phone rang. Never a good sign. It was my brother letting me know that my dad had gone to the emergency room around 4 because of a headache. He was bleeding in his brain cavity, possibly from the fall that broke his hip. They were going to have to do brain surgery.

Uh, what did you say? He's just getting his strength and attitude back and they're taking him to do brain surgery?

Not quite what I was planning.

This time everything seemed dark and critical and all my siblings came to Greensboro. We heard mixed messages about his chances of making it through, and he was talking funeral clothes and music. It was a raw time.

But now the surgery's over and he's back in the room. His veins are collapsing and he's feeling pretty rough, but at least we're not planning any funerals tonight. And that is very thought-provoking from where I sit.

The next step

Some of you long-time readers may remember this post about my doctor. I went to see him today to decide what I need to do next.

I went with this attitude: I HATE RADIATION THERAPY AND WANT SOMEONE TO TELL ME THAT I DON'T HAVE TO HAVE IT!!!! In the back of my mind though, trying to help me prepare for all things associated with dealing with this little cancer, was a voice telling me that I was probably going to have to face the zapper.

At every step of the way of this diagnosis and treatment, I have been surprised. Unpleasantly so. Every time. And in a way today was no exception. I had been told by the surgeon the best news: the tumor was gone. All of it. So when I went to see my doctor today, I was shocked to find out that out of three grades of tumor, mine was a 3, the most advanced kind. Normally DCIS tumors are a 2.

First, though, he asked me to tell him my understanding of my situation. I explained what I knew. He went over item by item the pathology of the tumor. Then he told me what having radiation therapy would probably be like. And it sounded bearable. Maybe I could do it.

He asked would I be willing to go to the hospital where he knows all the radiation therapists. He likes to match his patient's personality with the therapist's, he said. He said he thinks I will get along great with this particular woman. Can you imagine the compassion of a doctor who thinks that way? God. So he's going to talk to her tomorrow and set up an appointment for us "to talk". That's all he's asking me to do right now.

And so, although I've had shocks along the way, I've been able to handle this one thing at a time. Not thinking or worrying too much ahead. Just doing the next thing I need to do.

Before we left, I told my doctor how grateful I am for him. And I, who thought I'd be bawling when I left, was smiling. Big smile.

Thank you again, Dr. Dunlap. I wish everyone in the world had a doctor like you.

Mostly Sunny

Things are sorting themselves out here, and I'm feeling much better than before. Here's the status of things:

1. My dad is holding his own, and I'm not needing to spend as much time with him as before. Thankfully, my brother and one sister have been holding down the fort because:
2. A few weeks ago I was diagnosed with a very early form of breast cancer called DCIS. There is debate about whether it is actually cancer, whether more sophisticated mammographies are causing over-reactions, and how to diagnose and treat it. But I have had an ultrasound breast core biopsy (local anesthesia) and surgical biopsy (general anesthesia) to figure out what's going on. I got the good news from my surgeon this week that the cancer was confined to the tumor, that I do not a have a genetic marker for breast cancer, and that it is not in my lymph nodes. Excellent report. I may have to have radiation, but will meet with my doctor tomorrow for more details. Let me put this on the table, though: radiation freaks me out.
3. Work has simmered down some. We finally got paid by our client and this has eased the financial pressure that his non-payment had put on us. I have to say, to the credit of our company, that all of our suppliers and subcontractors expressed complete confidence in us during the process. This was gratifying.

So thanks for putting up with the mystery of my discontent and worry. I hope to be writing regularly again, with thoughtful posts and positive thoughts. I haven't been comfortable in the unhappiness.

Feeling Trapped

I'm feeling kind of like this little guy - trapped in a lot of webs. Most of them not making me feel so happy. Work is difficult because of one client, my father is only slowly recovering from his fall, and I'm dealing with a little medical issue of my own. I'm not getting to the coast, the place that I disconnect from all things stressful.

What should happen here and now is that I should take an attitude of gratitude and I am taking stock of all that is good in my life. This sounds corny, doesn't it? but it's working on a day-to-day basis to add up the columns and come out ahead.

The bottom line of all of this for you, my dear followers, is fewer posts. I hope you'll stick around; I hope I can open up a little more about what's happening to me; I hope we shore each other up by interacting through my words. It's not like me to be at a loss for something to say.

Stand by me.

Give and Take

Over the past few weeks, I have spent a lot of time with family. My siblings and I have stayed around the hospital for three weeks, moved my dad's bedroom downstairs, set up aides around the clock, worked with four different doctors, with nurses, physical therapists, and agencies. We've stocked the larder, bought equipment, sorted and re-sorted pillboxes, asked a million questions and forgotten to ask a million more, and seen things we'd rather not have seen. Hopefully, things will go smoothly so that my dad can resume his very active life.

I've also been dealing with a personal issue in the midst of all of this, and what I've come to realize about myself is that although I'm very good at taking care of people, I'm no good at having people take care of me. I don't like for people to feel sorry for me or worry about me. I don't like for them to be gentle or tender. But I am also realizing that I may need to accept these gestures because I need them. In the same way others have needed my gestures, I need to be coddled and cared for when I'm down or worried or sad.

As I've said to many a friend in crisis, "There's so little others can do. Please let me fix dinner, call or send a card. Please know that I'm thinking about you." And even though it's not about me when I say that, I know that people need to show their love and support of others, and I'm going to work on allowing that in to my life right now.

I'm opening myself to the care of others if I need it, grateful that others have opened themselves to me.

Jan Phillips Part 3

Bet you thought I'd exhibited my usual distracted behavior and moved on from Jan Phillips. Quite the contrary. I'm immersing myself in her work and feeling exhilarated!

I am listening to one of her CD series entitled, "Creating Every Day". One of the stories she tells is about a sister in the parochial school where she attended high school. For an entire semester, instead of having the students recite a prayer as most of the nuns did, this teacher had a poem for each day of the week. e. e. cummings, Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Shakespeare and two others. By the end of the semester, the students were proud of their ability to recite from memory these five poems.

The sister also took advantage of times when the kids were acting up and rowdy. Instead of continually saying, "Cool it, calm down", begging "C-l-a-s-s", or threatening punishment, she had them take out a pencil and paper and write for a few minutes about what they were feeling at the moment.

In my opinion, this teacher was brilliant. She took two times of the day when kids tune out and made them something special. I have a friend who is a first-grade teacher, and when I told him about these ideas, he decided to immediately start doing them in his classroom. Do we ever need more teachers like this.

There's more to come about Jan. Stay tuned.

Cloud Nine

My life has been composed of ups and downs lately. Way ups and deep downs. But tonight was definitely a way up.

When we were at the workshop with Jan Phillips, she told us that when we want something, we should picture ourselves already having it. What would our emotions be? What would having it satisfy in us? The type of visualization that is popular today.

A few weeks ago I submitted a short piece to a contest at my local bookstore, Quail Ridge Books. The theme was a high school reunion, and author Elizabeth Berg was going to judge the entries and read the winner when she came to promote her new book. I felt that my story was a winner, as good as anything I had ever written. So I decided to try out Jan's theory.

I started imagining Berg saying the title of my story. I thought about how excited I would feel, proud, and affirmed. Every time I pictured the moment, I grinned. And today I realized that even if I didn't win, that the imagining had brought a great deal of satisfaction and pleasure to me.

At the store, the third place and second place were announced. Then Rene, the events coordinator at the store, said that Berg had had problems with her voice and was not going to be able to read the winner's story, so the winner would have to read it. She fumbled around, trying to find the entry, realizing that the winner would not have brought a copy. The tension was high in the room, and I called out that it was worse than American Idol. Finally, she had the paper in her hand and read the title of my story. And all the emotions that I had felt thinking about that moment were magnified ten-fold.

I almost choked and cried reading the story in front of the crowd of over 60 people. What an exciting night, and I got to live through it several times, thanks to Jan's suggestion. I'm on cloud nine.

Empathy vs Sympathy

I've discovered this week once again how wide the gap is between feeling sympathy for someone and feeling empathy for them.

I can't tell you how many times a friend or acquaintance has told me that their older relative has broken a hip. It has come to represent the first step toward a downhill descent. I've expressed my sympathy and moved on.

Last Friday, my father, who is eighty-seven, fell down two steps and landed on his hip. He has gone up and down those same steps many times a day for forty years. He counts them to make sure he hits every one. He's not sure quite how he missed the step, whether he tripped or blacked out or just miscounted. Someone was at his front door, and by some unimaginable stroke of luck my dad had in his hands a set of keys that went to his keyed deadbolt. He was able to inch over to the door, reach up and unlock it, and let the man in. After trying to get my dad up and seeing how serious the situation was, they called my brother who called an ambulance.

Because my dad has two artificial heart valves and takes coumadin, he had to lie motionless in a hospital bed for four days before they could do the surgery. He became more and more upset as the days went by, and finally I asked him what was the most important thing he was worried about. He said, "Not being able to take care of myself."

My dad delivers Mobile Meals. He goes to work most days, to Rotary every Monday, sings in the choir. He makes pounds of potato salad, pimento cheese and cakes to take to shut-ins and bring to family gatherings. Most holidays he has us all to his house and does a large part of the cooking and setting up. He still drives everywhere, even to Raleigh and the beach. This is a real blow to his independence.

I trust that my dad will recover from this, but it's going to take time. And now, when someone says, "My father/mother/grandparent broke a hip," I'll know that the trial is just beginning and that they need my healing thoughts and cards and calls for some time to come. I've got empathy.

San Diego and Jan Phillips Part 2

I can't remember being in a city that has as many blooming plants as San Diego. Everywhere there was beauty and color, and for me the fruitfulness became a metaphor for the workshop.

On Saturday morning, we began the real work of determining one thing that we could be successful at workshopping. One woman, a stylist, wanted to work with cancer patients on their inner and outer beauty. Another woman had recently found the daughter she gave up for adoption and wanted to help others make the transition go smoothly. When it came to me, I really couldn't think what I wanted to do. I said something vague and tearful about working with children, then said that I sort of thought I had already worked with children, and finally sat red-eyed and puzzled. "We'll get back to you," Jan said, and we moved to the next person.

All morning as others worked out the details of their workshop, I kept trying to think about what it was I wanted to do. At lunch my husband reminded me that the whole reason I came was because I wanted to create a space for workshops, not just be a good facilitator. And I think he went and tattled to the teacher because after lunch, she said, "Do you have a confession to make?"

When I think of the word "facilitator" I immediately go to the root word, facile, which means easy in French. And I think of facilitation as the process of making things simple for others, not just at the moment of participation, but after they leave the workshop. What I want to do is make it easy for the facilitator by creating a space where they can work their magic.

So this was my inner "aha" moment. For the rest of the weekend I was able to move forward with this in a very big way. This was the seed and the bud of an idea; the flowers will come later.

A nougat from Jan: When something becomes an ordeal in your life, do three things:

1. Ask yourself, "Why did this happen for me?" and,
2. What is the reason that I invited this into my life?
3. Dwell in gratitude for where you stand right now.

And another thing she said: "Don't ask yourself what Jesus would do. Ask what a fully realized you would do."

My father broke his hip today, and at 88 years old this is no small problem. He lives in a house that has many steps leading up to his bedroom and there will be logistical problems when he comes home. I'm off to see about him tomorrow, and will try to post Part 3 from the hospital. But I'm not finished with the story of our trip, so hold on to your horses until I can get back.

San Diego and Jan Phillips Part 1

Have you missed me? I've got a lot to tell you. I'm going to tell it in installments, and here's the first of them:

A couple of years ago I was searching for workshops that would combine photography and writing and came across this website for Jan Phillips. I subscribed to her Museletter, and have kept up with what she does through reading it.

I saw that she was teaching what she called a "Facilitator Workshop" and thought that might take us on our way to leading workshops as a way of living. So we took a grand leap of faith, booked reservations, and went to San Diego to spend a few days sightseeing and the weekend with Jan.

We had gotten directions to her house from Mapquest, and had a moment of panic when we couldn't find her house number on the street. We called, and we were on the wrong street. We got there, relieved that Jan was a real person!

Remember that we knew nothing about Jan but what I'd read about her on her website. We sat in her office/den with four women, Jan, and us. The first thing she did after welcoming us was announce that she was going to read a poem. Remember this post? That is the poem she read. I was stunned.

Then we proceeded to build what she called our story by answering the following four questions. I'll leave you with these questions for tonight.

1. What was something in your life that you considered a curse that turned into a blessing?
2. Talk about a time that you felt transformed by an experience or a person.
3. What is something that you're afraid of?
4. What is something that you're really proud of?

How It's Working - The Kaizen Way

Remember The Kaizen Way?

Here's how it's working for me right now:

First, I've started lifting weights to get rid of some of the flab on my arms. My sister suggested this, and though I can't see improvement right now, she assures me that I will. A few nights, before going downstairs to do this, I've thought about adding something. Yoga, lunges, something simple. Immediately I didn't want to do anything so for now I'm sticking with the fifteen reps of four different lifts.

Secondly, I've been meditating twenty minutes a day. I started at ten minutes, moved to eleven, then to twenty. Again, several nights I haven't been ready to stop when the timer went off, but every time I think of adding ten minutes, I balk at going downstairs. So twenty minutes it is.

Lastly, I want to explore where my two interests, writing and photography, intersect. I thought about going back to school. But I found all kinds of excuses why this wouldn't work: no time, no money, finding a parking space at the university, going out at night, blah blah blah. But three days felt manageable, so I'm going to take a weekend workshop on facilitating workshops. Now that sounds strange, I guess, but the facilitator has assured me that we will explore my desire to combine my two interests into something that would make a good workshop, and that by the end of the weekend I will know how to conduct it effectively.

Going to this workshop pushes me. I do not know the woman, I don't know anyone who has taken her classes. But something about her has seemed intriguing to me since I first ran across her name. I was doing a search using the words "photography+writing+workshop" and she came up. And her book, God Is At Eye Level, is an example of the type of thing I'd like to do.

I'm staying at the level where "fight or flight" doesn't set in, and it's working.

Laugh if you want to

Monday our internet connection went down. Today, my husband opened an email from our daughter, clicked on the link, wondered why she was sending him information on Viagra. An hour later he tried to send me two emails and they never came through. He's on the phone now with tech support.

Hmmm. Mercury. And sure enough, here's what I read:

At 04:06 UT (Universal Time) Sunday, April 18th, 2010, Mercury the wise communicator—and universal trickster—turns retrograde at 12°37' Taurus, in the sign of the Bull, sending communications, travel, appointments, mail and the www into a general snarlup!

As long as we don't communicate with anyone, travel anywhere, make any appointments, or use our computers expecting them to work until May 11, we'll be fine. Jeez. And yes, I know the picture is of the moon, but my camera lens doesn't reach to Mercury.

One little girl's determination

Today I was in a craft store, and there was a mother with four children around the age of four or five. They were following her; all of them had their backs to me. In the midst of them, was a little girl with pink crocs, straight blond hair swinging side to side as she walked with her crutches. Maybe muscular dystrophy or cerebral palsy, but something had rendered her legs weak and unable to support her. I never saw her face, but in her movements there was determination and pride; she was keeping up with the crowd.

Something about that little girl has touched me deeply. I know that children are cruel, and worry that she will be ridiculed and hurt because of her disability.

I thought that maybe a part of every child's education should include monthly "disability days" where one-half of the class becomes blind or deaf or disabled for a day and the other half helps them make it through. Where parents of children who have committed suicide because they couldn't live with the jaunts and judgment of other children another day come and speak of their pain and loss. Where young people who have succeeded in spite of their setbacks and disabilities come and speak.

We need to use every tool at our disposal to develop compassionate children who will become accepting and caring and nurturing and non-judgmental. Who will reach out to those who are different instead of tease them. Who will seek out children who have been hurt and abused instead of shunning them.

My heart aches for the children, like that little girl, who are trying to keep up in spite of what life handed them. I hope and pray that the world will be kind to them.

R&R

Since finishing up with the exhibit a week ago Friday, I've been resting. Resting my brain, that is. I haven't posted in over a week; I spent one whole day of the weekend reading; and except for editing a story I haven't done any writing either.

Only in recent years have I realized that it's important to "lie fallow" for a short period of time in order to be productive. I have to let my mind rest (my body usually seems ready to go!) and let new ideas percolate. I need to assess the last big thing I did, consider the successes and think about what needed improvement.

Yesterday, my partner in the exhibit asked if I wanted to show some of my work at a local community center in May. The old me would have said yes and then felt the stress of pulling it together. The new me said no.

In my down time, I've discovered some things about myself that wouldn't have come up if I'd moved to the next big thing. I've read a couple of good books, made notes of ideas for the writing I'll undertake. I've increased my nightly meditation time and added a little exercise to my day. (Have you ever noticed that meditation is only one letter different from medication??!)

I don't feel antsy yet, so a few more days of quiet are in order. I'm wondering how you build up muscles for the things you undertake or face in your life.

The Exhibit

After all the anticipation, the reception for the exhibit "Picturing Moore Square" was Friday night. The gallery was absolutely stunning. My husband had hung the photographs so that they appeared to be suspended in air. He had removed all the superfluous lighting, and arranged the remaining lights so that the photographs were featured perfectly. My friend Trisha made at least five different kinds of desserts, and decorated the table with little pieces of chocolate and sunflower cutouts. A church friend set up the AV equipment so that we had our video with head phones and music. Two people brought flower arrangements. My daughter Jean was able to come, bringing the most beautiful guest book.


In addition to all of that, the husband of my partner in the exhibit made one of his special homemade dark beers and pumped it from a keg.

At least 150 people came to the event. And this is what really made my heart sing, for without them, it would have just been a beautiful room. Beautiful but empty.

I don't know the last time I felt that exhilarated about the way something came together. It was a magic night, and I did it. That is, I did it with a little help from my friends and family.

The Journey, by Mary Oliver

On Sunday, I decided to take a break from getting ready for the photo exhibit. I had been in high gear, and frankly not very pleasant to be around for a few days. I thought some retail therapy might be in order. At the clothing store, I noticed a little book on the table. I impulsively bought it.

That night, I got into bed and picked up the book. Here is the first poem:

The Journey

One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice--
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do--
determined to save
the only life you could save.

Mary Oliver

I was dumbstruck.

I've read the poem several times now, and each time something new comes to me. I'm not ready to talk about all my feelings here and now. Maybe later. But the first poem has impacted me significantly.

P. S. I have a book of poems by Mary Oliver, and can't find it right now. But in that odd way things have of happening, I got this in a daily email: "Listen - are you breathing just a little and calling it a life?" - Mary Oliver

Ruffled feathers

See the picture? The alligator swimming with turtles at Bald Head Island? Most of the time he leaves the turtles alone. They surround him at the pier, eager for droppings from the on-lookers; occasionally one of them will climb on his back. But sometimes, every now and then, that alligator turns bad and devours one of those turtles.

The correlation? Most times the posts here are fairly innocuous. Ramblings about me or observations about life. We "swim along" together, la la la. Then, wham! I turn on somebody or something.

In writing this blog and speaking my mind, sometimes I'm going to ruffle feathers. Sometimes I might even say something that hurts. I'm trying to be honest here, but also aware of the reader. And as my readership broadens, my awareness must be keener.

If I say something that irritates or hurts you here, please go to the comments and say something. You don't have to leave your name; there's an anonymous way to post. But don't ignore my emails and calls because you're mad. The silence is deafening.

Theme Post

By "theme post" I mean this will really get to the heart of my ability to "do it".

Last night I was putting together a business card for the Moore Square exhibit. And I couldn't figure out what to put on it. "Photographer"? Well, I'm not professionally a photographer. Besides, what if someone saw that and wanted me to photograph something? What if I'm not good enough to do that? What if what if what if????

Usually my photographs are taken in the heat of the moment, the way the sun is shining or the appearance of an interesting creature, the discovery of something by the side of the road. The only time I was asked to shoot, the pictures turned out really well. But that was just luck, right?

Until the last few years, I didn't think of myself as a creative type. I can balance a checkbook to the penny, file insurance and taxes, type letters, answer the phone. I do a pretty good job leading discussions groups. I'm a great planner, and can cut to the chase on a task.

Then I saw a San Diego sunset from a hotel balcony and started taking picture after picture with my point and shoot camera. I quit drinking and to fill the time started making cards and taking writing classes. And before I knew it, I considered myself a creative person.

But call myself a writer or a photographer as though it is a job that I do? Expectations follow.

I compromised by putting "my name/Photographer/'Picturing Moore Square'" on the business card. Photographer for a night; I can do that.

Preparing the exhibit has turned out to involve extensive research on how to do a gallery exhibit, interviewing people and making a DVD of the interviews, advertising, making posters and asking people to put them up - way more work than just framing and hanging photographs. It has been an intense learning experience.

After the exhibit is over, I'll probably have a better idea of how I stand as a photographer. Ready or not, I'm doing it. But I am very, very scared!

Sweet Music

One of the things that drew me to my church was the music. Lively, hand-clapping, dancing-in-the-aisle music. Music that brought a smile to my face that lasted for the entire hour.

But things have changed. And I don't like the way it's going.

So. What to do. There are people in the church who like the direction the music is taking. And the present choir director doesn't have the same music background as the old one. He's doing the kind of music he does best. He's organized and reliable. And the choir is now more organized and predictable.

Then there are people like me who are unhappy with the music. I haven't been to church for a month.

It's more than just being unhappy with the music as it is. It's more that I feel my minister has given up the vision of an exciting, vibrant music program. And if he doesn't have the vision anymore, there won't be anything different on the horizon.

When I first came to this church in 2004, the music is what swept me up. The minister's messages spoke to something deep inside, and the people were full of love. The minister is the same, the people for the most part are still there. But without the music, it's not enough.

I used to schedule the outside groups, and could bring in some of the music I loved. I turned away single performers in favor of groups with a lot of oomph like the Fairmont Gospel Revue. But now that the music director is doing the scheduling, there aren't even many of those groups.

Here's the question: Do I stick around and try to make a change back to what brought me there? Or do I say, "It's working for some people; why make waves?" and move on?

I miss my inspiring Sunday mornings in the worst way.

Reuniting

"As a younger woman, I didn't hesitate to bare my body. As an older woman, I just as freely bare my soul." -- Anonymous

My fourtieth high school reunion is this year, and many of us are starting to hook up via Facebook and email lists. The excitement about getting together is building and it seems more fervent this time around.

I've been corresponding with some of my old friends lately. I met a few girlfriends in Charleston a couple of weeks ago, and I've exchanged emails with one of the first guys I ever kissed. I'm finding that we have no trouble telling the most intimate and soul-baring details of our lives now that we're in our fifties. Right away we find ourselves discussing our drug and alcohol abuse, our secret childhood pain. And in these settings, I haven't felt any of the old insecurities I felt about being honest with myself and friends when I was in junior high and high school.

I've recognized a pattern in my life from these conversations, though, a habit of doing things that made me afraid. This is how I feel about the exhibit (I've decided to call it that, because it's not an opening in the true sense of the word). I'm afraid I'm in over my head. I'm afraid of what people will think of my photographs. I'm afraid no one will show up; I'm afraid that a lot of people will show up.

Is there anyone alive who is healthily immune to the opinions of others? Is this even possible? And if we have to live with this fear of judgment, how do we do it in a way that contributes to our growth and not our aversion to taking on new challenges?

Each little successful undertaking of something frightening gives me courage to try something else. But some days, I wonder if the need to feel fear motiviates me more than the need to feel challenged.

Whoa, doggies!

Today is the day it dawned on me that I really don't know alot about having a gallery opening. And I also found out that even if you try to ask the right way, all the things you ever wanted to know about a gallery opening can't be found on the Internet.

I have a beautiful gallery space and I've sent out postcards and posted on Facebook. I have my photographs named and framed, I have the video almost done, I have a play list for the ambient music. I've put together some information boards to tell about the artists and the Moore Square neighborhood. I have a menu and lots of wine; the other artist's husband is making home-brewed beer; a friend is making desserts.

But the thing I realized I didn't know today was this: How does one conduct the sale of photographs at an opening?

So I sucked it up and called an artist friend who loves and doesn't judge me and asked the question. I was embarrassed, really, to admit that I was having this great event and didn't know one of the most basic things about conducting it. She didn't laugh at me (thank you, dear Nancy) and went about giving me all the information I needed. And I had dinner with another friend who augmented my knowledge.

So now, even though I have a new to-do list, and quite extensive, I am prepared to make this show what it needs to be. I want it casual but professional, and I feel confident that on opening day I'll have all the tools to make it just that.

As always, my friends came through.

I Aimed High

I submitted a story of mine to the two literary publications I read the most: The Sun Magazine and Narrative Magazine.

I like submitting to Narrative for a couple of reasons. I can submit online; that makes it easy. And until I receive the rejection email, I can check on my submission, where I see "Under Consideration" by the title of my story. I like to think they're at their office, considering the various merits of my story. More likely though, is that some intern read the first line and moved on.

The Sun is another story. You must submit via snail mail and you hear back the same way. I have submitted one photograph that I thought might work (pictured above; I tweaked it in the darkroom) and the rejection for that was fairly immediate. But stories can take months to be accepted or rejected.

I need to quit being lazy about submissions. There are other places that I think might accept my work. But I've aimed high, and that took some nerve too.

Last month I heard Janet Burroway speak at Meredith College. She encouraged a young writer to submit her work to Narrative. I see names like Joyce Carol Oates, Richard Bausch, and Ann Beattie, and it seems almost impossible that they would accept the stories of an unknown. But she said they like to publish new writers. She also said she had been rejected by them. Both of those facts were comforting.

I'm not giving up. In fact, I think I'll double my efforts: four submissions this month. The odds are bound to be better, no?

What Did You Say?

Some of you know that I spent this past weekend with four friends from high school. And yesterday I had lunch with my college roommate. Both times I heard something that astounded me.

Almost ten years ago, I was in the hometown of one of the high school girls. We tried to hook up with her, and she had already left by the time we arrived at our meeting place. After the trip, she tried three times to contact me, by phone and email. For some reason I didn't get back to her all three times. We usually met in our hometown over the Christmas holidays, but for the next few years after that, my family gathered elsewhere.

My college roommate wanted to rekindle our friendship. We made a couple of attempts at getting together and I had to cancel both times. And though we've danced around each other - mutual friends and careers - we haven't gotten together.

Both of these people apologized to me this week because they thought I was angry and upset with them. And that my feelings were what kept us apart. This stopped me in my tracks, because feeling angry and upset with them was the farthest thing on my mind. But for several years, they have felt that I didn't want to be with them.

The simple truth is that their phone messages and email messages got left to be answered when I could give them more attention, and in the daily shuffle they got erased or deleted. And I carried on my little life of children and work and other friends and activities totally unaware that they were hurt by my neglect.

Girlfriends, listen up: I never hold a grudge. I never stay mad. So please oh please don't ever assume that I don't love you anymore. And this goes for all my friends, present and past. I'm not ignoring you, I'm not angry with you, I'm not irritated that we haven't seen each other in a while. I hold each and every friend, their problems, their families, the love that we've shared for umpteen million years as preciously as I hold my family. And most times, most times, if I'm in a snit, you'll know it. Quickly. Zip zip and then it's over.

I'm sorry that I hurt these people, and I'm going to be more conscious of responding to emails and calls in a timely manner. You can't let a good friend fall by the wayside. There are just too few of them.

Weekend in Pictures