ON BEING A FIBBER
I am such a liar. I am not even trying to post on my blog every day this month. I have all kinds of reasons and excuses that wonderfully explain why I’ve been unable to meet such a goal: a faulty internet connection one night, surprise company for a few days, the power button I didn’t know about that disabled the soundproof window my internal editor was trapped behind.... I think there is another truth as to why I have already thrown in the dish rag. I think it is important for me to find. I want to understand why it is that writing is my best very friend and very worstest enemy. I’m tired of carrying around a fantasy that one day I’ll awake in a real author chrysalis, and then struggle rather effortlessly out into publishing flight-hood.
ON BEING A PESSIMIST
I am so ungrateful. I’m not even trying to enjoy the view outside my window, which could knock the socks off a centipede. We got loads of rain back here in the canyon, and the San Rafael foothills can be seen through the live oak’s branches, washed clean of all the dust and haze. The birds are going crazy in relief, because it was hotter than Kansas up here for a few weeks preceding the rain. Now the smell of sage and bay and growing things is intoxicating. Also, the tarantulas are coming out to mate again. I’ve already seen three of them this week. I like seeing them, even though they are a little creepy. I also like the family of tiny bats nesting in a corner of our carport overhang, and the adorable squeaking they make when we bother them in the daytime. My oldest niece is twelve now, and has a good command of subtle sarcastic humor. She noticed the bats one day, and the influx of cobwebs (spiders are working overtime to catch the first-rain insect hatches), and she said, “Wow, you guys decorate for Halloween early—nice decorations.”
Why can't I have child eyes like that, and see the wildness around me as decoration and celebration? why is gratefulness so far from me this week? How do I have patience with myself when my gut is rain soaked and fuzzy gray with a tarantula sized anxiety that can’t be walked away from?
ON BEING A WORRY-WART
Some of you will laugh in disbelief when I say this, but Caleb is failing Algebra. If you know my son, and the speed at which his brain stores mathematical information, you will understand my confusion over this situation, and how it adds to my general feeling of disillusionment and irritation. When my son was age 2 ½, he could play quietly for 45 minutes unsupervised, organizing matchbox cars or plastic toys into size, shape, and color categories. He could then spend another 1/2 hour making the categories more complex(i.e. alternating three trucks to every one motorcycle)... you get the picture. In fourth grade, when the kids in his class started leaving their hands in their laps and saying, “Just ask Caleb,” during every math lesson, we convinced his teacher to let him sit at the back of the classroom during math time, reviewing the fifth grade textbook. He aced all chapter tests of both grades that year, and has continued getting a perfect score on the yearly State math assessment since then. However, my son is considerably challenged by quick transitions and detailed organization of daily routines and tasks. Seventh grade has been a never-ending obstacle course for him, and a nail biting routine for Jason and I on the bleachers. It makes me a bit insane to not be able to “fix” the problem of roller coaster grades, and to watch such knowledge count for almost nothing on the educator’s success-o-rama scales. I am alternately inspirational speaker and Law Enforcement; rubbing his shoulders one minute then giving him the "You don’t even want to think about setting that pencil down” glare the next.
Perhaps the hardest part for me is not the Jekyll and Hyde act, but rather being forced to see the ways I too fail at succeeding at the things Caleb is worst at...planning ahead, sticking to the routine when more interesting things manifest themselves, shutting down the side-brain to similes, metaphors, and creative ponderings of the unseen mysteries of the universe when there is tedium to accomplish. I can relate to the rebellion that overtakes him. I wish the two of us could spend a week each month traveling the country and discussing great literature, providing fireside “talks” of poetry, essays, and theatrical reading entertainment, while raking in the dough. I wish I knew how to help myself fit in to this practical and pragmatic Western World we live in, so that I could give my son infallible coping skills. When I alternate between pity and punishment for his choices and behavior, I am not at my best. My best knows that he, (like all of us adults who made it to somewhat functional adulthood despite our teens)will find the clues he needs to adapt, and (hopefully) succeed in Algebra class. But in the meantime I ache for a thing that seems so reasonable yet so currently unachievable for a brilliantly unique kid like Caleb: a way for him to be true to himself, yet sail through the academic part of Seventh Grade.
Friday, October 16, 2009
Company
You will agree that five inches of rain over a couple of days is more than the average camping family can handle. Now imagine being a parent alone with a nursing newborn and three other children…. No wonder I got the privilege of surprise company for three days at my lovely canyon home near Paradise.
Our routine was punctuated by the changes that come naturally when company arrives. We stay up late, play card games, emphasize mealtimes. I could do these things in my daily life, but don’t usually. I find this interesting enough to expect you to bear with me as I speculate...
I am almost always grateful for last-minute invasions of friends and family into my space and schedule. Company at an unexpected time helps me put a new rhythm in my life; redefine what I can accomplish and re-prioritize basic elements of life like good food and conversation. I am reminded that when I think of folks as guests to be received, I don’t mind the extra sacrifice of time to feed them well and catch up on their life. In contrast to this, I sometimes begrudge this same sacrifice when it concerns the people I live with daily.
Why is that? In my current arrangement, Jason and I pitch in together to make most dinners happen, yet they seem like such a chore some nights, rarely a celebration. Conversation becomes a ritualized exchange of information vs. the thing I find when guests arrive: a spacious place to talk about one’s life.
I need to be reminded that the daily tasks of cooking, cleaning, eating can overlap with the talk of hopes and fears, disappointments and dreams. I need to have that extra motivation to pick up all the clutter in the house and make a space for sitting, dancing, reading.
I am reminded of a day five years ago, when my daughter strutted to the kitchen one Saturday morning and announced, “I am the guest today!”
I could avoid the growth to be gained by pondering that statement, and gloat over the good way I treat my family, friends, and neighbors. Or I can use this” teachable memory” to say, “Are my children still wishing they could be the guest who visits me?”
It is a sobering thing to think about. Most days, I think I forget to greet them with all the love I carry for them daily. I want the chores done, and the bills paid. I want gratitude and appreciation. I suppose I want from my husband and kids the very thing that is so hard to extend to them sometimes: the gracious invitation to sit down and relax, and catch up on life. I want to know this: when do I get to be the guest?
I think the answer to my question is startlingly obvious now that I ask it. I get to be the guest when I’m willing. I live in a family of folks who love to play games, go outside, listen to music, or snuggle up in front of the T.V., so the invitation to do those things is offered to me almost daily. The problem is, I’m worried about the household falling apart if I stop managing it. It is as if I think people won’t eat or sleep or pick up their things if I stop arranging it. Not that there isn’t some truth in that statement....
I relax most when I’m alone, and when the house is empty. Then I know no messes can grow unsupervised, or then I know that I’m not getting in anyone’s way. I’m grateful for an empty house today, even though I’m missing my friend and her kids who came to live with us for three days. It's good to value alone time again, and be grateful for it.
Our routine was punctuated by the changes that come naturally when company arrives. We stay up late, play card games, emphasize mealtimes. I could do these things in my daily life, but don’t usually. I find this interesting enough to expect you to bear with me as I speculate...
I am almost always grateful for last-minute invasions of friends and family into my space and schedule. Company at an unexpected time helps me put a new rhythm in my life; redefine what I can accomplish and re-prioritize basic elements of life like good food and conversation. I am reminded that when I think of folks as guests to be received, I don’t mind the extra sacrifice of time to feed them well and catch up on their life. In contrast to this, I sometimes begrudge this same sacrifice when it concerns the people I live with daily.
Why is that? In my current arrangement, Jason and I pitch in together to make most dinners happen, yet they seem like such a chore some nights, rarely a celebration. Conversation becomes a ritualized exchange of information vs. the thing I find when guests arrive: a spacious place to talk about one’s life.
I need to be reminded that the daily tasks of cooking, cleaning, eating can overlap with the talk of hopes and fears, disappointments and dreams. I need to have that extra motivation to pick up all the clutter in the house and make a space for sitting, dancing, reading.
I am reminded of a day five years ago, when my daughter strutted to the kitchen one Saturday morning and announced, “I am the guest today!”
I could avoid the growth to be gained by pondering that statement, and gloat over the good way I treat my family, friends, and neighbors. Or I can use this” teachable memory” to say, “Are my children still wishing they could be the guest who visits me?”
It is a sobering thing to think about. Most days, I think I forget to greet them with all the love I carry for them daily. I want the chores done, and the bills paid. I want gratitude and appreciation. I suppose I want from my husband and kids the very thing that is so hard to extend to them sometimes: the gracious invitation to sit down and relax, and catch up on life. I want to know this: when do I get to be the guest?
I think the answer to my question is startlingly obvious now that I ask it. I get to be the guest when I’m willing. I live in a family of folks who love to play games, go outside, listen to music, or snuggle up in front of the T.V., so the invitation to do those things is offered to me almost daily. The problem is, I’m worried about the household falling apart if I stop managing it. It is as if I think people won’t eat or sleep or pick up their things if I stop arranging it. Not that there isn’t some truth in that statement....
I relax most when I’m alone, and when the house is empty. Then I know no messes can grow unsupervised, or then I know that I’m not getting in anyone’s way. I’m grateful for an empty house today, even though I’m missing my friend and her kids who came to live with us for three days. It's good to value alone time again, and be grateful for it.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Recomending "The Soloist"
I watched “The Soloist” last weekend. It is a brilliant movie about a true story—a true friendship—that dramatically changed the lives of two men. In the beginning, one man is defined by his homeless and mental illness, while the other is defined by his job as a popular newspaper columnist. By the end, both are defined by the friendship they have made and the way it has completely changed large things in both their lives. It is movie that sheds light on a group of people normally in the dark: the homeless. It is a story that resonates with the truth that I’ve been discovering together with a group of friends here in Santa Barbara: friendships built between the “housed” and the “homeless” tend to throw open doors of possibility in the hearts and minds and lives of everyone involved.
That is pretty much all I have to write about today. Take my advice and watch “The Soloist” as soon as you are able. Watch the special features afterward, where you get to see and hear the real people that the actors played, or learn about the way the “extras” were located. Be amazed by the financial component of what it would save our country to end homelessness—how much less money it takes to offer services and support to individuals living in more stabilized situations.
Here are a couple quotes from a book about friendship that has me re-examining a lot of my beliefs and actions lately.
“Being genuinely present to someone also means being willing to be touched by him or her. If I genuinely bring myself to a relationship, I must be prepared to be changed by it.... Professional neutrality seeks to minimize this sort of influence on the one offering care, making all impact unidirectional. “
“Dialogue involves shared inquiry designed to increase the awareness and understanding of all parties.... In this process each participant touches and is touched by others. This result in each person’s being changed.”
from "Sacred Companions", by David G. Benner
That is pretty much all I have to write about today. Take my advice and watch “The Soloist” as soon as you are able. Watch the special features afterward, where you get to see and hear the real people that the actors played, or learn about the way the “extras” were located. Be amazed by the financial component of what it would save our country to end homelessness—how much less money it takes to offer services and support to individuals living in more stabilized situations.
Here are a couple quotes from a book about friendship that has me re-examining a lot of my beliefs and actions lately.
“Being genuinely present to someone also means being willing to be touched by him or her. If I genuinely bring myself to a relationship, I must be prepared to be changed by it.... Professional neutrality seeks to minimize this sort of influence on the one offering care, making all impact unidirectional. “
“Dialogue involves shared inquiry designed to increase the awareness and understanding of all parties.... In this process each participant touches and is touched by others. This result in each person’s being changed.”
from "Sacred Companions", by David G. Benner
Friday, October 9, 2009
foolishness, friendship and forgiveness
I found this reflection in a folder labeled “potential blogs”, and was encouraged and inspired by it. Since my current mental and emotional state can’t touch this level of insight and articulation, (due to past-my-bedtime T.V. viewing all week of “So You Think You Can Dance” and “The Office” episodes) I am posting this past reflection for you edification…
I hurt my back again this weekend. It is a common occurrence for me; every three or four weeks I do something that throws my body slightly out of wack, and am set back anywhere from 24 hours to a week, depending on the infraction. I have suspicions that no matter what kind of shape I get into physically, my back will remain a liability to my active lifestyle, until I change my belief systems. You see, I carry around too much mental responsibility on a regular basis, and it is completely natural that this imbalance would manifest itself in physical disability. How strange that knowing this, I do not change the way I think about myself and the world of people and things I interact with. How strange that I stay in this cycle: too much mental weight=painful injury=willingness to let go of too much responsibility= needed rest.
“As we observe our mental and emotional flow over a period of disciplined time, we recognize that we largely create our own experiences. I know this is embarrassing and some of us deny it, but it’s true. We have the power to decide what each moment means and how we will respond to it. We have power when we know we have the ability to respond freely.”
~Richard Rohr, Everything Belongs, p. 106, The Crossroad Publishing Company~
I am grateful today for my friends who pray for me when I hurt my back. I don’t mean that they get down on their knees with hands clasped before their faces and their eyes shut tight (although if any of you are praying that way for me, by all means, don’t stop). I mean they are carrying me around in their thoughts, and wondering how they can encourage me. They are taking time out of their normal routine to ask the question, “How can I be a friend to someone who is suffering?”
I appreciate the phone calls, where there are offers for help with groceries and child care. I am touched by the empathetic verbal responses to my description of where I’m in pain, and the medical advice concerning icing, drugs, stretching. Mostly though, I love the non-judgmental space created by the conversations that allow me to see the reality underlying my cycle of injury and healing. My current set of friends are hopeful, patient people who are not trying to fix or reform me, rather willing to show up and get their hands dirty in the garden that is my life, pulling a weed they see here, or watering a sapling that is drooping there. They want me to know I’m not all alone in the process of encouraging new growth, so that I might enjoy the hard work; breathe deep and see clearly what needs to be pulled out or nurtured.
It is humbling to be accepted and loved in this way, and very freeing. It makes me okay with the fact that I am stubborn and foolish, and even laugh at that. It makes me forgive myself for being such a tyrant to my husband and kids, in the initial stages of the “last straw” being laid upon my back. Because when the pain really hits, my ordinarily calm self turns into an unpredictable tornado of responses. I go from patient to angry to patient almost instantly; from apologetic to accusatory, then accusatory back to apologetic. My husband and kids have learned a new routine for the times when I’m injured: they get me my journal, a Bible or a book of ancient Suffi poetry, a lawn chair and a cup of tea or ice water. Then they help me out the door to filtered sunlight, or into a quiet bedroom. They give me permission to do what I’m resisting giving myself permission to do in the hours or days leading up to my injury:
*stop being in charge of anything or anyone other than myself for a moment or an hour or a day
*stop answering questions and making decisions for anyone other than myself
*isolate, meditate, and do whatever it takes to remember my humanity: my limited capacity to accomplish any task without proper rest
“We have defined freedom in the West as the freedom to choose between options and preferences. That’s not primal freedom. That’s a secondary or even tertiary freedom. The primal freedom is the freedom to be the self, the freedom to live in the truth despite all circumstances.”
~Richard Rohr, Everything Belongs, p. 108, The Crossroad Publishing Company~
The truth I come to when I enter into rest is the realization that life is a gift, and there are reminders of life everywhere to sweep me away in gratefulness. When I stop worrying about the role I play with everything and everyone I’m involved with, I start noticing things like wind and sun painting shadow pictures on the leaves of the oak trees, or steam swirling inward and outward and up into the infinity above my teacup. I start remembering crazy things I did in my childhood, or kind words emailed to me by my friend from Pasadena. I stop taking things for granted, without even trying to, and find myself forgetting to be angry at even the most obvious things, like my back pain that can’t be touched by Tylenol with Codine. This is the truth I come to when I rest, but it wouldn’t be my truth if I was still caught up in the restrictive web of unforgiveness.
What do I mean by forgiveness? I guess I mean a letting go of all the people and things that have maimed you in your past and embracing the possibility that despite all of that, you are exactly who you are supposed to be in this moment of present existence, and a whole world of healing is open to you. I also mean a letting go of all the people and things that you have maimed in the past and an embracing of the idea that you can be free not only from cycles of violence you’ve participated in but also from all the shame and guilt and condemnation spoken against you because of them. I mean a state of grieving, celebrational acceptance, where you humbly agree that nothing else matters right now except the fact that you are alive and have more life to live. Forgiveness is the hardest and craziest thing we are called upon to participate in in this life. It is the most rewarding thing too, because forgiveness opens the heart up to gratitude, and gratitude changes our perspective on everything.
I hurt my back again this weekend. It is a common occurrence for me; every three or four weeks I do something that throws my body slightly out of wack, and am set back anywhere from 24 hours to a week, depending on the infraction. I have suspicions that no matter what kind of shape I get into physically, my back will remain a liability to my active lifestyle, until I change my belief systems. You see, I carry around too much mental responsibility on a regular basis, and it is completely natural that this imbalance would manifest itself in physical disability. How strange that knowing this, I do not change the way I think about myself and the world of people and things I interact with. How strange that I stay in this cycle: too much mental weight=painful injury=willingness to let go of too much responsibility= needed rest.
“As we observe our mental and emotional flow over a period of disciplined time, we recognize that we largely create our own experiences. I know this is embarrassing and some of us deny it, but it’s true. We have the power to decide what each moment means and how we will respond to it. We have power when we know we have the ability to respond freely.”
~Richard Rohr, Everything Belongs, p. 106, The Crossroad Publishing Company~
I am grateful today for my friends who pray for me when I hurt my back. I don’t mean that they get down on their knees with hands clasped before their faces and their eyes shut tight (although if any of you are praying that way for me, by all means, don’t stop). I mean they are carrying me around in their thoughts, and wondering how they can encourage me. They are taking time out of their normal routine to ask the question, “How can I be a friend to someone who is suffering?”
I appreciate the phone calls, where there are offers for help with groceries and child care. I am touched by the empathetic verbal responses to my description of where I’m in pain, and the medical advice concerning icing, drugs, stretching. Mostly though, I love the non-judgmental space created by the conversations that allow me to see the reality underlying my cycle of injury and healing. My current set of friends are hopeful, patient people who are not trying to fix or reform me, rather willing to show up and get their hands dirty in the garden that is my life, pulling a weed they see here, or watering a sapling that is drooping there. They want me to know I’m not all alone in the process of encouraging new growth, so that I might enjoy the hard work; breathe deep and see clearly what needs to be pulled out or nurtured.
It is humbling to be accepted and loved in this way, and very freeing. It makes me okay with the fact that I am stubborn and foolish, and even laugh at that. It makes me forgive myself for being such a tyrant to my husband and kids, in the initial stages of the “last straw” being laid upon my back. Because when the pain really hits, my ordinarily calm self turns into an unpredictable tornado of responses. I go from patient to angry to patient almost instantly; from apologetic to accusatory, then accusatory back to apologetic. My husband and kids have learned a new routine for the times when I’m injured: they get me my journal, a Bible or a book of ancient Suffi poetry, a lawn chair and a cup of tea or ice water. Then they help me out the door to filtered sunlight, or into a quiet bedroom. They give me permission to do what I’m resisting giving myself permission to do in the hours or days leading up to my injury:
*stop being in charge of anything or anyone other than myself for a moment or an hour or a day
*stop answering questions and making decisions for anyone other than myself
*isolate, meditate, and do whatever it takes to remember my humanity: my limited capacity to accomplish any task without proper rest
“We have defined freedom in the West as the freedom to choose between options and preferences. That’s not primal freedom. That’s a secondary or even tertiary freedom. The primal freedom is the freedom to be the self, the freedom to live in the truth despite all circumstances.”
~Richard Rohr, Everything Belongs, p. 108, The Crossroad Publishing Company~
The truth I come to when I enter into rest is the realization that life is a gift, and there are reminders of life everywhere to sweep me away in gratefulness. When I stop worrying about the role I play with everything and everyone I’m involved with, I start noticing things like wind and sun painting shadow pictures on the leaves of the oak trees, or steam swirling inward and outward and up into the infinity above my teacup. I start remembering crazy things I did in my childhood, or kind words emailed to me by my friend from Pasadena. I stop taking things for granted, without even trying to, and find myself forgetting to be angry at even the most obvious things, like my back pain that can’t be touched by Tylenol with Codine. This is the truth I come to when I rest, but it wouldn’t be my truth if I was still caught up in the restrictive web of unforgiveness.
What do I mean by forgiveness? I guess I mean a letting go of all the people and things that have maimed you in your past and embracing the possibility that despite all of that, you are exactly who you are supposed to be in this moment of present existence, and a whole world of healing is open to you. I also mean a letting go of all the people and things that you have maimed in the past and an embracing of the idea that you can be free not only from cycles of violence you’ve participated in but also from all the shame and guilt and condemnation spoken against you because of them. I mean a state of grieving, celebrational acceptance, where you humbly agree that nothing else matters right now except the fact that you are alive and have more life to live. Forgiveness is the hardest and craziest thing we are called upon to participate in in this life. It is the most rewarding thing too, because forgiveness opens the heart up to gratitude, and gratitude changes our perspective on everything.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Saved
I am saved daily by so many things:
The great oak near my backyard
“Live Oak” it is named,
perhaps to emphasize the way
it stretches out its bark
to breathe in sky
The finches too,
untie my knotted heart
because they do not scatter in strong winds
but flow and flex around each other’s
wings and breasts and necks as if
their very life depended
on togetherness
And clouds!
From dragon claws to kitten’s paws
kitten’s paws to pillow fluff
pillow fluff to hands
Cloud hands
How wonderfully they shift without
addiction to the past or future plans
I’m learning how to live like that
I’m learning how to give the things I have:
the touch of human hands
the words from human tongue
the love that comes from being freed from grief too large
to carry on my back
(sometimes I choose to carry grief and hurt my back)
But
I am freed from that
when I believe it
The great oak near my backyard
“Live Oak” it is named,
perhaps to emphasize the way
it stretches out its bark
to breathe in sky
The finches too,
untie my knotted heart
because they do not scatter in strong winds
but flow and flex around each other’s
wings and breasts and necks as if
their very life depended
on togetherness
And clouds!
From dragon claws to kitten’s paws
kitten’s paws to pillow fluff
pillow fluff to hands
Cloud hands
How wonderfully they shift without
addiction to the past or future plans
I’m learning how to live like that
I’m learning how to give the things I have:
the touch of human hands
the words from human tongue
the love that comes from being freed from grief too large
to carry on my back
(sometimes I choose to carry grief and hurt my back)
But
I am freed from that
when I believe it
Monday, October 5, 2009
A poem I found in my journal
This is not a test
This is your life
This is not a fail or fly but rather a fight for what is right
It’s right to be given a fair chance
It’s right to have a choice
Not because you’ve worked hard
Not because you’re nice
Not because you came to the right place at the right time
Oh Jesus
This is about obedience
Standing Up
Learning how to stand my ground when decency is threatened to be bulldozed out
There is a cavern in my mouth that screams in disbelief
There is a bayonet that sits inside my ribcage
How careful I must be
How ready now to wrap myself in full humility
And yet
How willing I must be to do the deed so foreign yet to me:
To fight and fight and fight for
my own justice
This is your life
This is not a fail or fly but rather a fight for what is right
It’s right to be given a fair chance
It’s right to have a choice
Not because you’ve worked hard
Not because you’re nice
Not because you came to the right place at the right time
Oh Jesus
This is about obedience
Standing Up
Learning how to stand my ground when decency is threatened to be bulldozed out
There is a cavern in my mouth that screams in disbelief
There is a bayonet that sits inside my ribcage
How careful I must be
How ready now to wrap myself in full humility
And yet
How willing I must be to do the deed so foreign yet to me:
To fight and fight and fight for
my own justice
Continued... Pink Elephants
This one is especially for J.J.
I know I promised not to apologize, but I feel compelled to break my own rule and say, “I’m sorry.” I’m sorry because I can’t write about my broken neck right now, even though I left you hanging in the middle of my story. I tried to pick up where I left off, but everything I typed tonight was as boring as plywood. I tried three times. So to those of you who don’t know the rest and are now left in a state of suspended curiosity… I owe you one.
Ahhhh. It feels nice to take the pressure off. The muddle in my mind is already un-muddling, now that I’ve stopped trying to force an ending. Perhaps there is a different tale wanting to be told, pushing on the doorbell of my mind. What if I just open that door and write about the first thing that strolls in when I get to the end of this sentence, like… (Drum roll, please)… pink elephants.
I’m remembering the time I saw some on the ceiling of my grandparent’s bedroom. My grandparents were living in Oregon at the time, and my sister and I had gone to stay with them for a few days while my parents vacationed. I got very sick that week, and couldn’t bear my own heat, so I was moved out of the steamy guest bed onto the cool, white sheets of grandma’s. They were fluffy like clouds. I felt myself floating up toward the ceiling. I was happy.
Then the elephants came, blowing horns and riding tricycles. The elephants were pink, and that didn’t seem right to me, so I called grandma in. I had to call many times, because my voice was echoing and weak, and the elephants were getting noisier. Finally I saw her, leaning down close, asking me what was the matter. I’m not sure exactly what I said, but it went something like this: “The elephants make me dizzy. Their horns hurt my head, and I want them to stop riding their tricycles on the ceiling.”
Clearly, I was not seeing too straight, due to the influence of my fever. But it didn’t help me one bit to have grandma explain that I was seeing imaginary things, nor to perceive that she was worried about my condition. It did help when she brought grandpa in, and he made a joke about the elephants, filling the room with his laughter. It also helped to know that my grandparents would stay with me until the elephants quieted down, bringing cool rags for my forehead and speaking soft words of sympathy.
What good advice this story suddenly gives me! I’m often sitting with folks whose reality has been bent by homelessness, alcoholism, or severe forms of trauma and rejection. Whatever the elephants on the ceiling may be—an immense inheritance that was stolen away or a wife who kidnapped their children—it doesn’t do a damn thing for me to reason away the pain. Nor does it help when I’m too worried about their sanity to listen. What does help are kind sighs and words of sympathy; cool rags of time spent sitting there together. Sometimes, after the stories get so noisy and pink they make me dizzy, a joke comes bubbling up between us, and we laugh together. That laughter helps a lot. It heals something inside them that I can’t fix. It can quiet the trumpeting elephants.
Of everything I remember from that vacation I spent at grandma and grandpas, nothing is as vivid as the memory of those elephants. The other images are fuzzy: going to see the strange doctor, then feeling well again. Before I got sick I played outside with my sister on a wonderful teeter totter my grandpa had made that also spun around in circles—even that memory is as gray as the rain. But the cool sheets like clouds, the tricycles and horns held by pink pachyderms, and my grandparents staying with me until the elephants left—these things are positively unforgettable. When I look back, I mostly feel like giggling at the absurdness of my comments to my grandma. The elephants look so harmless from this angle.
Harmless elephants. I want that for my friends who are constantly battling sickness of one type or another. I want to partner with a community of people willing to stick around long enough to be part of a vivid memory of healing. I want to have faith enough to believe that someone can overcome a 20-year meth addiction, and humor enough to laugh with them, even in the midst of it.
I want to tell stories about living, walking miracles—not just the one I carry around in my bones, but the others out there waiting to happen. I don’t want to miss my chance to be the one to see at last the x-ray that matters most. Brokenness needs protecting.
There is nothing wrong with a story that ends (or begins!) with a person becoming a paraplegic. But that wasn’t my story to live. I’m taking you out on a limb here (and you may believe that I’m seeing the world through crazy pink elephant lenses) when I say to you:
PEOPLE HAVE STORIES THEY’RE MADE FOR.
To be continued…
I know I promised not to apologize, but I feel compelled to break my own rule and say, “I’m sorry.” I’m sorry because I can’t write about my broken neck right now, even though I left you hanging in the middle of my story. I tried to pick up where I left off, but everything I typed tonight was as boring as plywood. I tried three times. So to those of you who don’t know the rest and are now left in a state of suspended curiosity… I owe you one.
Ahhhh. It feels nice to take the pressure off. The muddle in my mind is already un-muddling, now that I’ve stopped trying to force an ending. Perhaps there is a different tale wanting to be told, pushing on the doorbell of my mind. What if I just open that door and write about the first thing that strolls in when I get to the end of this sentence, like… (Drum roll, please)… pink elephants.
I’m remembering the time I saw some on the ceiling of my grandparent’s bedroom. My grandparents were living in Oregon at the time, and my sister and I had gone to stay with them for a few days while my parents vacationed. I got very sick that week, and couldn’t bear my own heat, so I was moved out of the steamy guest bed onto the cool, white sheets of grandma’s. They were fluffy like clouds. I felt myself floating up toward the ceiling. I was happy.
Then the elephants came, blowing horns and riding tricycles. The elephants were pink, and that didn’t seem right to me, so I called grandma in. I had to call many times, because my voice was echoing and weak, and the elephants were getting noisier. Finally I saw her, leaning down close, asking me what was the matter. I’m not sure exactly what I said, but it went something like this: “The elephants make me dizzy. Their horns hurt my head, and I want them to stop riding their tricycles on the ceiling.”
Clearly, I was not seeing too straight, due to the influence of my fever. But it didn’t help me one bit to have grandma explain that I was seeing imaginary things, nor to perceive that she was worried about my condition. It did help when she brought grandpa in, and he made a joke about the elephants, filling the room with his laughter. It also helped to know that my grandparents would stay with me until the elephants quieted down, bringing cool rags for my forehead and speaking soft words of sympathy.
What good advice this story suddenly gives me! I’m often sitting with folks whose reality has been bent by homelessness, alcoholism, or severe forms of trauma and rejection. Whatever the elephants on the ceiling may be—an immense inheritance that was stolen away or a wife who kidnapped their children—it doesn’t do a damn thing for me to reason away the pain. Nor does it help when I’m too worried about their sanity to listen. What does help are kind sighs and words of sympathy; cool rags of time spent sitting there together. Sometimes, after the stories get so noisy and pink they make me dizzy, a joke comes bubbling up between us, and we laugh together. That laughter helps a lot. It heals something inside them that I can’t fix. It can quiet the trumpeting elephants.
Of everything I remember from that vacation I spent at grandma and grandpas, nothing is as vivid as the memory of those elephants. The other images are fuzzy: going to see the strange doctor, then feeling well again. Before I got sick I played outside with my sister on a wonderful teeter totter my grandpa had made that also spun around in circles—even that memory is as gray as the rain. But the cool sheets like clouds, the tricycles and horns held by pink pachyderms, and my grandparents staying with me until the elephants left—these things are positively unforgettable. When I look back, I mostly feel like giggling at the absurdness of my comments to my grandma. The elephants look so harmless from this angle.
Harmless elephants. I want that for my friends who are constantly battling sickness of one type or another. I want to partner with a community of people willing to stick around long enough to be part of a vivid memory of healing. I want to have faith enough to believe that someone can overcome a 20-year meth addiction, and humor enough to laugh with them, even in the midst of it.
I want to tell stories about living, walking miracles—not just the one I carry around in my bones, but the others out there waiting to happen. I don’t want to miss my chance to be the one to see at last the x-ray that matters most. Brokenness needs protecting.
There is nothing wrong with a story that ends (or begins!) with a person becoming a paraplegic. But that wasn’t my story to live. I’m taking you out on a limb here (and you may believe that I’m seeing the world through crazy pink elephant lenses) when I say to you:
PEOPLE HAVE STORIES THEY’RE MADE FOR.
To be continued…
Sunday, October 4, 2009
Cont. from Oct. 2: Surprised by Gratitude
Gratitude. It is the great magician in our lives. It can pull joy out of sadness, and laughter out of weeping. It can surprise us with hope when we think despair is winning.
When I broke my neck at age 19, I didn’t expect to be grateful. I didn’t think my active, super-independent self could survive such a drastic change of plans. Six days after my ill-aimed dive into the Okanogan River near Canada, I was lying in a hospital bed in Spokane, WA instead of riding my bike like the wind down Idaho back roads. I was pleading with nurses for early doses of pain medication instead of packing my bags for a study abroad in Latin America.
It was a nightmare, yes. It took me a week to get my x-rays for the very fact that I KNEW my life could drastically change in the instant I found out the facts; I delayed for five days in excruciating pain in an act of denial so great, my dad still shakes his head, amazed. To be told that the surgery I needed was serious enough that I’d have to wait three MORE days wrapped in IVs until the man who could fix me came back from vacation… that was unbearable, yes. Yet more than that, it was a miracle almost too large for me to grasp. I was not only alive, but I had the use of both my hands, and feet, and head. I had the ability to hear what was said by folks who visited a 21 year old boy across the hall. He had also dived awry (into a pool nearby), yet had not yet opened his eyes to complain about the bedpan, or all the ways his accident had changed his plans. The knowledge of the fact that he was lost in some place between life and death, while I was still able to talk and cry and laugh, was not lost on me. I grieved for him. I celebrated for me. I was overcome with a gratefulness I couldn’t help but have. I don’t like to take credit for the shift that happened then--my next six months of fearlessness and peacefulness and sense of good things happening amidst the bad--because I wasn’t using my willpower to choose an “attitude of gratitude”. I was grateful. Just that. I was grateful for the life I had.
In three days time the surgeon came to talk to me about the vertebrae displaced inside my neck. He explained about the way it could be linked (by metal plate) unto the strong and stable bone beneath. I did my part of fasting and of waiting for the surgery that never came that day because he was delayed by NINE emergencies. There were nine surgeries performed that day that couldn’t wait because they were not the same as mine--they were labeled “life and death”. While I waited for my turn the nurses brought me in to get more x-rays, (cat scans? MRI’s? I actually don’t recall the shot that saved the life I had....) They said the surgeon thought it best to use the time to gather evidence. Thank God. I still thank God.
The surgeon would have tried to seal my wiggly bone unto a bone that was not strong or stable, rather BROKEN. He probably would have sealed my fate as a quadriplegic on that day. Which may have turned out okay. But I am here to say that I am grateful for the night he saw that break and stopped the anesthesia.
To be continued…
When I broke my neck at age 19, I didn’t expect to be grateful. I didn’t think my active, super-independent self could survive such a drastic change of plans. Six days after my ill-aimed dive into the Okanogan River near Canada, I was lying in a hospital bed in Spokane, WA instead of riding my bike like the wind down Idaho back roads. I was pleading with nurses for early doses of pain medication instead of packing my bags for a study abroad in Latin America.
It was a nightmare, yes. It took me a week to get my x-rays for the very fact that I KNEW my life could drastically change in the instant I found out the facts; I delayed for five days in excruciating pain in an act of denial so great, my dad still shakes his head, amazed. To be told that the surgery I needed was serious enough that I’d have to wait three MORE days wrapped in IVs until the man who could fix me came back from vacation… that was unbearable, yes. Yet more than that, it was a miracle almost too large for me to grasp. I was not only alive, but I had the use of both my hands, and feet, and head. I had the ability to hear what was said by folks who visited a 21 year old boy across the hall. He had also dived awry (into a pool nearby), yet had not yet opened his eyes to complain about the bedpan, or all the ways his accident had changed his plans. The knowledge of the fact that he was lost in some place between life and death, while I was still able to talk and cry and laugh, was not lost on me. I grieved for him. I celebrated for me. I was overcome with a gratefulness I couldn’t help but have. I don’t like to take credit for the shift that happened then--my next six months of fearlessness and peacefulness and sense of good things happening amidst the bad--because I wasn’t using my willpower to choose an “attitude of gratitude”. I was grateful. Just that. I was grateful for the life I had.
In three days time the surgeon came to talk to me about the vertebrae displaced inside my neck. He explained about the way it could be linked (by metal plate) unto the strong and stable bone beneath. I did my part of fasting and of waiting for the surgery that never came that day because he was delayed by NINE emergencies. There were nine surgeries performed that day that couldn’t wait because they were not the same as mine--they were labeled “life and death”. While I waited for my turn the nurses brought me in to get more x-rays, (cat scans? MRI’s? I actually don’t recall the shot that saved the life I had....) They said the surgeon thought it best to use the time to gather evidence. Thank God. I still thank God.
The surgeon would have tried to seal my wiggly bone unto a bone that was not strong or stable, rather BROKEN. He probably would have sealed my fate as a quadriplegic on that day. Which may have turned out okay. But I am here to say that I am grateful for the night he saw that break and stopped the anesthesia.
To be continued…
Friday, October 2, 2009
Continued from Oct.1: Good Living
I ended yesterday's post with a quote of my own, "Good writing comes from good living." In my case this is true. When I’m not living well then my writing spells it out--stale sentences, cliche word choices, and insights that sound all too familiar. I find myself frustrated with the process of putting thoughts into words, instead of swept away by the magic of rhyme, alliteration, and metaphor.
But what do I mean by “good living?” What does it consist of? I’ve been mulling this around in my brain, and reflecting on the strangeness of my truth: good living doesn’t usually FEEL good in the moment. Quite the opposite. Good living often feels PAINFUL, SCARY, OUT OF CONTROL IN EVERY WAY when I am living it. I shall explain.
A common theme I find when I reflect on the most profound times of “goodness” in my life is this: suffering. Also this: surprise. And of course… the ways I fought like dynamite to PROTECT AND DEFEND myself from what later became—you got it—GOODNESS.
For example, there are circumstances that I would not have prayed for in a zillion years, like that day I displaced a vertebrae in my spine, and fractured another one below it.
There are surprises that felt like curses, like the unplanned pregnancy of my first-born son. His heart is now a well of mercy so deep I am constantly catching my breath and wondering how it is that he can forgive me the way he does--how I ever got so lucky as to be his mother.
Conversely, I’m reminded of times of comfort, happiness, and predictability, and struggling to remember anything REALLY GREAT in them. I find that those periods of good and plenty aren’t impressively memorable. Maybe it’s just me, and I’m a drama junkie, or I struggle from emotional-historical amnesia. You can believe that if you need to, if I’m MAKING YOU UNCOMFORTABLE.
I believe something so much bigger is at work, and it has EVERYTHING to do with...
(to be continued tomorrow)
But what do I mean by “good living?” What does it consist of? I’ve been mulling this around in my brain, and reflecting on the strangeness of my truth: good living doesn’t usually FEEL good in the moment. Quite the opposite. Good living often feels PAINFUL, SCARY, OUT OF CONTROL IN EVERY WAY when I am living it. I shall explain.
A common theme I find when I reflect on the most profound times of “goodness” in my life is this: suffering. Also this: surprise. And of course… the ways I fought like dynamite to PROTECT AND DEFEND myself from what later became—you got it—GOODNESS.
For example, there are circumstances that I would not have prayed for in a zillion years, like that day I displaced a vertebrae in my spine, and fractured another one below it.
There are surprises that felt like curses, like the unplanned pregnancy of my first-born son. His heart is now a well of mercy so deep I am constantly catching my breath and wondering how it is that he can forgive me the way he does--how I ever got so lucky as to be his mother.
Conversely, I’m reminded of times of comfort, happiness, and predictability, and struggling to remember anything REALLY GREAT in them. I find that those periods of good and plenty aren’t impressively memorable. Maybe it’s just me, and I’m a drama junkie, or I struggle from emotional-historical amnesia. You can believe that if you need to, if I’m MAKING YOU UNCOMFORTABLE.
I believe something so much bigger is at work, and it has EVERYTHING to do with...
(to be continued tomorrow)
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Plan A revealed: Getting out of the Dead Marshes
I’m going to try a little experiment here from now until Halloween. I’m going to force myself to post a blog each day for the next 30 days, whether or not I like what I write, or think it is worth posting. I’m going to make my Draconian internal editor sit behind the soundproof window so that when she starts lecturing me about how boring I am, I can turn my back, start singing the lyrics from Peter Tosh’s “Get Up, Stand Up , For Your Rights,” while she pantomimes the “hand-drags-knife-across-the-neck” to her lonely heart’s content. For the sake of your reading sanity, I’m going to apologize now for making you read what may or may not be boring, tedious, repetitive, or offensive in any way... and then delete any future apologies that come flying off my fingertips (“limping off” would be more accurate, considering my typing abilities). I think the risk of writing dross is worth the taking, because I have been wandering in a bog of writing resistance for so long that I don’t even remember what the Shire looks like anymore. Soooo, even if I have to look up the lyrics to Hannah Montana songs and start singing them at the top of my lungs to gain compliance.... I’m going to start blogging again this month and keep blogging.
For those of you who are my loyal supporters, yet unable to accompany me through the Mordor of my psyche, I’m going to make one request. I’m asking you to participate in this experiment with me this month by reading my smorgasbord as often as possible (or staying up late on Oct. 30, letting my blog be the entertainment to justify your microwave popcorn and Milkduds ) and send me your list of the things you hate(d) and love(d) when we get to the end of the journey. I’m not interested in politeness here, just honesty about what is profoundly refreshing and immensely annoying to read. If you do this for me, I will be deeply grateful. I may also be feel obligated to serve up yummy morsels all November.
I’ll end today with a quote that has been running around in my frontal lobe: “Good writing comes from good living.” More on that, tomorrow...
For those of you who are my loyal supporters, yet unable to accompany me through the Mordor of my psyche, I’m going to make one request. I’m asking you to participate in this experiment with me this month by reading my smorgasbord as often as possible (or staying up late on Oct. 30, letting my blog be the entertainment to justify your microwave popcorn and Milkduds ) and send me your list of the things you hate(d) and love(d) when we get to the end of the journey. I’m not interested in politeness here, just honesty about what is profoundly refreshing and immensely annoying to read. If you do this for me, I will be deeply grateful. I may also be feel obligated to serve up yummy morsels all November.
I’ll end today with a quote that has been running around in my frontal lobe: “Good writing comes from good living.” More on that, tomorrow...
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