Today I came across a real monstrosity of a sentence:
"Given all that Americans read and hear today about the "increasingly serious" problem of family violence in newspapers and on television news broadcasts and newsmagazines, along with the frightening statistics publicized by some organizations devoted to addressing family violence, it is tempting to assume that the prevalence of family violence has reached an all-time high and is getting worse." (Family violence across the lifespan: An introduction, 2nd edition. 2005, O. Barnett, C.L. Miller-Perrin, & R.D. Perrin, p. 24).
Technically, this sentence has a lot of correct things about it. But it's just such a multi-jointed mouthful, jammed with information, that I had to read it several times.
Now I love a good run-on sentence as well as anyone, but this was such an awful sentence to find in a textbook of higher education that it deserves comment. (Sadly, there are numerous such word conglomerations in this text!)
My students have a difficult time writing sentences properly, often resorting to catch-all sentences of shocking proportions. Here is a sentence written in a theoretical analysis of the movie, Tortilla Soup:
"The death of Gomez at the end of the video contributes to the transformation of Martin’s context represented by his openness and acceptance of his daughter's choices to move out of the family house symbolized by offering the house for sale, and the regain of his taste and smell that explains the alternative context he developed that helped him resolve his complexity also symbolized by him proposing to Yolanda after choosing to remain single for long time after his ex-wife passed away."
That string of gobbledygook takes my breath away.
Here's another beauty:
"Her grandfather was a victim of financial abuse and with family members not being close to him and still in relatively good health when he died no one was aware that his savings had been cleared out and his home and land was signed over to a neighbor who he had also written checks that were supposedly gifts."
Phew!
My private fantasy about people who write these sentences is that they are excited writers who are frantically putting down facts without regard to structure. They are caught up in the moment and just don't want to leave out anything so everything gets said willy-nilly. I believe that these people are not boring, but rather, they are quite interesting people. They have so much content that it fairly bulges out of their sentences.
These are not the individuals who write uninspiring narratives such as, "That dog laying by the cat was lame. I don't know why. He couldn't walk away from the barn. The cat didn't seem to like him, either."
No. The "loaded bullet," full-of-facts writer enthuses, "There was this dog near a cat and the dog just couldn't move away from the cat even though the cat scratched him and the dog rolled off to one side to try to get away from him while he pushed with his feet against the wall where the horse harnesses were hanging by the haymow. The dog never did walk away, even though the cat hissed, scratched, and yowled at him, as he laid in a ball on the old blanket in the entryway of the barn that my grandfather built before the Spanish-American War. A person can't see any nails in the beams of that barn because it was made with pegs and grooves like all the old buildings were made back in the days when Teddy Roosevelt and his "rough riders" were in the news because of the men he surrounded himself with, but also because he had to be a rough rider to travel through all the national parks that he set up in those years. Anyway, the dog is probably lame because he couldn't get away from that cantankerous cat--the one who has a blue eye and a green eye, and who has seven toes on all four feet, so he can really scratch his enemies if he gets mad enough, and he scratched the dog who didn't move. So yeah, the dog is probably lame, poor thing that had to be put out in the old drafty barn with that idiot, hyperthyroid fleabag who is half-crazed with cat hallucinations and delusions of grandeur most of the time, even though he's as ugly as a dung heap."
Well, dog my cats! I'll take the run-on sentence writer's stories any day if they're this interesting and full of amazing facts.
Perhaps those textbook authors are smarter than I originally gave them credit for...
December 28, 2005
December 27, 2005
Prayerful literacy
I don't know how the prayer started, but it was a long one. My mind had begun to drift, kneeling in the eighth row with my friend, Shelly. This was the morning to go to a new church and have a different worship experience.
The woman in the bright caftan and large African head wrap prayed on and on in thick, ecclesiastical tones, clearly moved by her own prayer. She was praying for patients in the hospital and a number of other issues that went on for some minutes.
I was aware of the hard floor under my knees, and of the smoothness of the wood pew ahead of me, upon which I leaned.
"And Lord, may we have the patience, that's I-E-N-C-E, because that's what we need."
Hearing the woman spelling something brought me back from my internal distractions. I raised an eyebrow and shot a questioning look at Shelly. Her expression was one of confusion.
"If we are with patients, I-E-N-T-S, we need thy patience, E-N-C-E."
Again, my mind had wandered and I rapidly came to only to hear this woman spelling something. Did the woman believe that the Lord wasn't sure which homonym she was using?
It was one of the funniest prayers I've ever heard, even though the supplicant was intent on communing with God. I've laughed about her literary precision many T-I-M-E-S.
The woman in the bright caftan and large African head wrap prayed on and on in thick, ecclesiastical tones, clearly moved by her own prayer. She was praying for patients in the hospital and a number of other issues that went on for some minutes.
I was aware of the hard floor under my knees, and of the smoothness of the wood pew ahead of me, upon which I leaned.
"And Lord, may we have the patience, that's I-E-N-C-E, because that's what we need."
Hearing the woman spelling something brought me back from my internal distractions. I raised an eyebrow and shot a questioning look at Shelly. Her expression was one of confusion.
"If we are with patients, I-E-N-T-S, we need thy patience, E-N-C-E."
Again, my mind had wandered and I rapidly came to only to hear this woman spelling something. Did the woman believe that the Lord wasn't sure which homonym she was using?
It was one of the funniest prayers I've ever heard, even though the supplicant was intent on communing with God. I've laughed about her literary precision many T-I-M-E-S.
December 23, 2005
Multiple Personalities
I understood something anew about multiple personalities last night. As a professor in the mental health field, it is incumbent upon me to pass along what I learned.
Bilingual people have more than one personality. Now perhaps I am slow, but it dawned on me in a new way last night that people can portray themselves one way in one language, and another way in a different language. My husband's first language is English. I know him as someone who speaks to me without an accent and who responds to me in English. But when he speaks Spanish--which he learned in another country at his parents' insistence--people howl with laughter and respond to him in a completely different way.
I watched this metamorphosis last night. His more serious English-speaking personality was out grilling salmon on the patio when our Spanish-speaking guests arrived. The man of the family quickly joined Sam on the patio and they immediately began chuckling about something or another. It continued until they came in carrying platters of steaming salmon.
Meanwhile, my sister and I conversed in broken Spanish-English with the women in the family. I was a bit distracted, as I had a mishap with the drink out in the garage, then again in the kitchen (we have been finding sticky pink patches in cutlery drawers, under the edge of the dishwasher, and frozen patches of it in the garage--what a mess!)
As Sam began interacting with our guests, I watched and listened carefully. He became someone else, and I loved being able to see this.
It is clear from hearing Sam speak Spanish that his phrasing is rather halting and imperfect. But his pronounciation is excellent and he doesn't let the choppiness of his speech bother him. He listened carefully to the women speak and responded with comments that made them all laugh. They all looked at him with unveiled admiration. He challenged the four-year old to finish her meal so she could have dessert and then followed up with admonishment that sent the family into gales of laughter. Even the serious father. As they left, his typical hugs and kisses were somehow different and warmer.
In English, Sam's humor is usually rather corny and based on literalism of speech. He gets a lot of sympathy laughs, the way I see it. But in Spanish, he is hilarious. I've observed his interactions with Hispanic people several times and come back to this hypothesis each time.
It reminds me of conversations I've struggled through with my spotty German language skills. My German friends have called me serious, ponderous, and associate my conversation contributions as being rather "Catholic" in quality. From what I can gather, that means melancholy, conservative, fixated on right and wrong, and somehow pious. Although I am somewhat melancholy at times, the other qualities don't ring true to me. Yet there they are, as soon as I start to articulate myself in German.
Italian is quite another story. Catholic or no, I come across as extremely sensuous and suggestive in that language. There is something about that language and the way I use the little of it that I know, that creates some sort of languid reclining personality in me. (It is a time when I wish more of an Italian dolorosa-type quality could be part of the mix).
So I began to think about these things last night, watching my husband's body language, hearing his voice, and seeing him make facial expressions--all that look somewhat familiar but not at all what I am used to. Who is this that I married? Whom did he marry? I guess it all depends on what language we are speaking at the time.
Bilingual people have more than one personality. Now perhaps I am slow, but it dawned on me in a new way last night that people can portray themselves one way in one language, and another way in a different language. My husband's first language is English. I know him as someone who speaks to me without an accent and who responds to me in English. But when he speaks Spanish--which he learned in another country at his parents' insistence--people howl with laughter and respond to him in a completely different way.
I watched this metamorphosis last night. His more serious English-speaking personality was out grilling salmon on the patio when our Spanish-speaking guests arrived. The man of the family quickly joined Sam on the patio and they immediately began chuckling about something or another. It continued until they came in carrying platters of steaming salmon.
Meanwhile, my sister and I conversed in broken Spanish-English with the women in the family. I was a bit distracted, as I had a mishap with the drink out in the garage, then again in the kitchen (we have been finding sticky pink patches in cutlery drawers, under the edge of the dishwasher, and frozen patches of it in the garage--what a mess!)
As Sam began interacting with our guests, I watched and listened carefully. He became someone else, and I loved being able to see this.
It is clear from hearing Sam speak Spanish that his phrasing is rather halting and imperfect. But his pronounciation is excellent and he doesn't let the choppiness of his speech bother him. He listened carefully to the women speak and responded with comments that made them all laugh. They all looked at him with unveiled admiration. He challenged the four-year old to finish her meal so she could have dessert and then followed up with admonishment that sent the family into gales of laughter. Even the serious father. As they left, his typical hugs and kisses were somehow different and warmer.
In English, Sam's humor is usually rather corny and based on literalism of speech. He gets a lot of sympathy laughs, the way I see it. But in Spanish, he is hilarious. I've observed his interactions with Hispanic people several times and come back to this hypothesis each time.
It reminds me of conversations I've struggled through with my spotty German language skills. My German friends have called me serious, ponderous, and associate my conversation contributions as being rather "Catholic" in quality. From what I can gather, that means melancholy, conservative, fixated on right and wrong, and somehow pious. Although I am somewhat melancholy at times, the other qualities don't ring true to me. Yet there they are, as soon as I start to articulate myself in German.
Italian is quite another story. Catholic or no, I come across as extremely sensuous and suggestive in that language. There is something about that language and the way I use the little of it that I know, that creates some sort of languid reclining personality in me. (It is a time when I wish more of an Italian dolorosa-type quality could be part of the mix).
So I began to think about these things last night, watching my husband's body language, hearing his voice, and seeing him make facial expressions--all that look somewhat familiar but not at all what I am used to. Who is this that I married? Whom did he marry? I guess it all depends on what language we are speaking at the time.
December 21, 2005
Light Hearted
Two days ago my doctor called me to say that the cat scan I had last week showed that I have a mass in my colon. It could be cancer, he intoned. I should get a colonoscopy right away and see a GI doctor. He told me I would have an appointment in two weeks with this specialist.
Is it anything serious?
Circuitous obfuscation.
Yesterday, I sat cold and exposed on the specialist's table--two weeks earlier than my appointment and very shaky. This doctor had a kind face and I remember thinking that if anyone had to tell me that I have a life-threatening illness, none could deliver such news with greater warmth or understanding.
His first words were, "I'm unimpressed by your CT scan. I don't see anything to be alarmed about on it."
But what about the other doctor's comments to me?
"I don't think you have anything like cancer, so don't even consider that."
Why would the other doctor even say such a thing then?
"Let's focus on getting this irritating twinge in your guts taken care of and don't go down that road."
At this Christmas season, I'm imminently grateful that I don't have a cancer diagnosis to deal with. Perhaps I'm even more grateful that for a day or two I had the opportunity to look at death in the face. As sobering as it was to linger over issues of how Sam would manage to lose me, what I should do with myself before I die, I experienced something very helpful: Waking up at 3:30 and listening to Sam's breathing and wondering how he would sleep if I were dying--wondering what would become of my students, friends, and family. Thinking about how I should move ahead with this illness--whether or not I would have an operation and even be able to teach this next quarter, etc.
What is important is how I love my family, friends and neighbors. What is important is that I live every single day saying, thinking, and doing all that I would do if it were my last day alive. And to live with the understanding that life on this planet is only a tiny jot on the radar screen. The rest takes place for eternity in heaven.
These are not original ideas, nor have I put them down in any particularly creative or gripping manner. But this is where I've been in my head for the last week. I have much to be thankful for this Christmas season.
Is it anything serious?
Circuitous obfuscation.
Yesterday, I sat cold and exposed on the specialist's table--two weeks earlier than my appointment and very shaky. This doctor had a kind face and I remember thinking that if anyone had to tell me that I have a life-threatening illness, none could deliver such news with greater warmth or understanding.
His first words were, "I'm unimpressed by your CT scan. I don't see anything to be alarmed about on it."
But what about the other doctor's comments to me?
"I don't think you have anything like cancer, so don't even consider that."
Why would the other doctor even say such a thing then?
"Let's focus on getting this irritating twinge in your guts taken care of and don't go down that road."
At this Christmas season, I'm imminently grateful that I don't have a cancer diagnosis to deal with. Perhaps I'm even more grateful that for a day or two I had the opportunity to look at death in the face. As sobering as it was to linger over issues of how Sam would manage to lose me, what I should do with myself before I die, I experienced something very helpful: Waking up at 3:30 and listening to Sam's breathing and wondering how he would sleep if I were dying--wondering what would become of my students, friends, and family. Thinking about how I should move ahead with this illness--whether or not I would have an operation and even be able to teach this next quarter, etc.
Catastrophizing? Maybe. But it was frightening to think of Sam going through my death after he had lost his mother to colon cancer; wondering what it would feel like to be "full of cancer" and dying; living with questions of whether or not, or when it would come back.
In all of this, I feel that I learned something about what is important in life and how to see life differently.What is important is how I love my family, friends and neighbors. What is important is that I live every single day saying, thinking, and doing all that I would do if it were my last day alive. And to live with the understanding that life on this planet is only a tiny jot on the radar screen. The rest takes place for eternity in heaven.
These are not original ideas, nor have I put them down in any particularly creative or gripping manner. But this is where I've been in my head for the last week. I have much to be thankful for this Christmas season.
December 19, 2005
What would you do?
I know that my last blog entry was a bit intense. It was driven by how struck I was that I could have been victimized as badly as other people I know.
Today, I have the same intensity but about something quite different. My question is this: If you were told you had advanced cancer and had only six months to live, what would you choose to do?
I've been thinking about this question today. Would I travel, and go see all the lovely things of the world? Would it make sense to climb mountains or paddle rivers--especially if it would take me out of contact with those who would miss me the most? Would I continue teaching, applying myself as never before? Would I take a medical leave and spend my time writing all that I could to as many as would listen? Would I spend my last days giving my husband and family all the attention that I could muster, so they would have good memories after my death? Would I start speaking at every event I could--about how cancer can be prevented? Or would I speak about the beauty of God's love and grace? Or, would I merely continue on in life hoping against hope that nothing would change and that I could beat the odds?
Some life events--near misses, or those interminable waits for test results--bring these questions to the fore. They also prompt us to think about what really matters in life. The events of the last week have reminded me that as Corrie ten Boom said, life is like a piece of embroidery. We can only see the underside with knots and incomprehensible stitches, in all directions. But God sees the top of the embroidery and can see the pattern and beauty that is being worked out. We can only look up and try to guess, from our vantage point, what is being created by God.
What happens on this earth is important, but it is very small in comparison to the greatness of God's overall picture. Heaven and God's view of life is the true reality, not what we see and do here. And thus, even having a shortened life takes on a different face and meaning. Choices and life becomes a bit less complicated. Oh, to see as God sees.
Today, I have the same intensity but about something quite different. My question is this: If you were told you had advanced cancer and had only six months to live, what would you choose to do?
I've been thinking about this question today. Would I travel, and go see all the lovely things of the world? Would it make sense to climb mountains or paddle rivers--especially if it would take me out of contact with those who would miss me the most? Would I continue teaching, applying myself as never before? Would I take a medical leave and spend my time writing all that I could to as many as would listen? Would I spend my last days giving my husband and family all the attention that I could muster, so they would have good memories after my death? Would I start speaking at every event I could--about how cancer can be prevented? Or would I speak about the beauty of God's love and grace? Or, would I merely continue on in life hoping against hope that nothing would change and that I could beat the odds?
Some life events--near misses, or those interminable waits for test results--bring these questions to the fore. They also prompt us to think about what really matters in life. The events of the last week have reminded me that as Corrie ten Boom said, life is like a piece of embroidery. We can only see the underside with knots and incomprehensible stitches, in all directions. But God sees the top of the embroidery and can see the pattern and beauty that is being worked out. We can only look up and try to guess, from our vantage point, what is being created by God.
What happens on this earth is important, but it is very small in comparison to the greatness of God's overall picture. Heaven and God's view of life is the true reality, not what we see and do here. And thus, even having a shortened life takes on a different face and meaning. Choices and life becomes a bit less complicated. Oh, to see as God sees.
December 17, 2005
Why Me?
I usually ask the why me? question when something unfortunate has happened or somehow affects me. But I asked this question for quite a different reason last night. Here's what happened.
My neighbor, who is an immigrant from Eastern Europe, told me more pieces of her life story. I dropped by around 5:30 to take her something for her dinner, she being alone for the holidays. My knock on the door interrupted her time with God, but she was delighted to have me visit and offered me the padded kitchen chair. She sat at the edge of the wooden chair, thrilled to have someone to talk with. We sat in her stark little kitchen with two space heaters aimed at us. One small light fixture hung over the kitchen table where she had been listening to a recorded sermon in her language. Her Bible was spread out in front of her and she had several devotional books opened on the table.
Every time we talk she tells me more of her life story. I think I have a pretty clear sketch of most of it now, and this is why today I ask, why me?
Why was I born into an intact family where I was wanted and in which there was enough to eat? Why was I born in a part of the world where there was no war, where I was not a refugee, never went hungry and always had a warm bed? I have never had to move to another country to avoid religious persecution, losing all my meaningful personal effects. I have never been demoted from a well-paying, respected job to beg for work given to people who cannot speak English and who are considered unintelligent because they can't express themselves. I have not been made fun of because I had no money and my clothes were ragged. My life has not been a ceaseless grind just to survive.
I have not been abandoned by a spouse who took all my belongings and left me with nothing and a young child to find a way to feed. How did I ever get so fortunate to marry a wonderful Christian man who is faithful to me? I have never had children, but there may even be blessing in that. As my neighbor told me the excruciating story of the death of her young son, her hands shook and she fought back tears. I marveled that I have been spared this pain.
My health has not suffered like another friend who was reduced to gnawing on the frozen legs of dead horses that stuck up through the Siberian snow. I have not been forced to watch my daughters raped by drunken soldiers who were marauding my village. My eardrums have not been punctured by bombs that exploded only feet away from me. I do not have scars from flying shrapnel, or internal scars from having to keep my eyes open day and night just to survive. Yet as my neighbor finished telling her story, she clasped her hands together and raised them upward. "Prrrrase da Lort!" she said loudly. "I have everah-ting now."
Maybe the question is really, why not me? I am not growing old alone. I have a home that is warm, clean, well supplied, with full cupboards, and clothes to spare. There is love and life here, when in so many parts of the world people are dying from lack of clean water or lack of shelter.
"From everyone who has been given much, much will be demanded; and from the one who has been entrusted with much, much more will be asked." Luke 12:47-49.
I am so fortunate, so blessed. Why me?
My neighbor, who is an immigrant from Eastern Europe, told me more pieces of her life story. I dropped by around 5:30 to take her something for her dinner, she being alone for the holidays. My knock on the door interrupted her time with God, but she was delighted to have me visit and offered me the padded kitchen chair. She sat at the edge of the wooden chair, thrilled to have someone to talk with. We sat in her stark little kitchen with two space heaters aimed at us. One small light fixture hung over the kitchen table where she had been listening to a recorded sermon in her language. Her Bible was spread out in front of her and she had several devotional books opened on the table.
Every time we talk she tells me more of her life story. I think I have a pretty clear sketch of most of it now, and this is why today I ask, why me?
Why was I born into an intact family where I was wanted and in which there was enough to eat? Why was I born in a part of the world where there was no war, where I was not a refugee, never went hungry and always had a warm bed? I have never had to move to another country to avoid religious persecution, losing all my meaningful personal effects. I have never been demoted from a well-paying, respected job to beg for work given to people who cannot speak English and who are considered unintelligent because they can't express themselves. I have not been made fun of because I had no money and my clothes were ragged. My life has not been a ceaseless grind just to survive.
I have not been abandoned by a spouse who took all my belongings and left me with nothing and a young child to find a way to feed. How did I ever get so fortunate to marry a wonderful Christian man who is faithful to me? I have never had children, but there may even be blessing in that. As my neighbor told me the excruciating story of the death of her young son, her hands shook and she fought back tears. I marveled that I have been spared this pain.
My health has not suffered like another friend who was reduced to gnawing on the frozen legs of dead horses that stuck up through the Siberian snow. I have not been forced to watch my daughters raped by drunken soldiers who were marauding my village. My eardrums have not been punctured by bombs that exploded only feet away from me. I do not have scars from flying shrapnel, or internal scars from having to keep my eyes open day and night just to survive. Yet as my neighbor finished telling her story, she clasped her hands together and raised them upward. "Prrrrase da Lort!" she said loudly. "I have everah-ting now."
Maybe the question is really, why not me? I am not growing old alone. I have a home that is warm, clean, well supplied, with full cupboards, and clothes to spare. There is love and life here, when in so many parts of the world people are dying from lack of clean water or lack of shelter.
"From everyone who has been given much, much will be demanded; and from the one who has been entrusted with much, much more will be asked." Luke 12:47-49.
I am so fortunate, so blessed. Why me?
December 15, 2005
Anglo Incognito
I am in a panic. I was asked to sing for a large Hispanic convocation in January at our church and I agreed to do it. I wanted to make my husband proud that I can fit into his world. And now I'm wishing I never said I'd do this.
There are few songs in Spanish that I can find, that are in the classics category required by the minister of music. I can't figure out how to search for Spanish titles that I don't even know, or where to do that.
My father in-law has sung for years at his Spanish church. Just this year he gave all of his music to someone else--all that richness and history--in several boxes. So all he could send me was "O Sole Mio" in Spanish. He said I'd need to change the words a little bit to give them sacred meaning, but he didn't give me any idea of how to do that.
I turned to my minister of music friend, Bobby. He reassured me that yes, he had music in Spanish, and in fact, had just received a number of pieces that he thought would be good for Cinco de Mayo weekend. Bobby graduated from Princeton, and has excellent musical taste. Knowing that he was working on this for me was very comforting.
Yesterday the music came in the mail. I proudly carried it to the piano and started playing and singing through it. Sam sat nearby at his computer browsing for something or another. The introduction to the first song sounded like the accompaniament for "La Cucaracha." Sam turned toward me in his chair as I began to sing loudly en Espanol. As the last note of the first verse ended, Sam cleared his throat. "What is that?"
"Beats me. But it's in Spanish. Did you understand what I was saying?"
Sam looked dubious. "Kind of. But the words are really wierd. I hope you aren't planning to sing that."
Deflated, I sang through a couple more of Bobby's choice songs. Another one had a mariachi-type sound and I sang with gusto. It made me feel like Carmen Miranda. Sam turned back to the computer shaking his head. "You're going to have to find something else. These songs are awful." I am now the owner of six awful songs in Spanish.
I think I have finally found something. I took my Spanish hymnal and found words with the right meter to superimpose on the English tune, "O Waly Waly." It's a beautiful tune, and the lyrics are majestic and wonderful ("O For a Thousand Tongues to Sing My Great Redeemer's Praise").
Sam informed me that there will be lots of evangelistic "big guns" in the Hispanic community who will attend the January convocation. I'm singing through my song every day now, so I don't sound like an Italian wetback up there. Just call me the Anglo Incognito.
There are few songs in Spanish that I can find, that are in the classics category required by the minister of music. I can't figure out how to search for Spanish titles that I don't even know, or where to do that.
My father in-law has sung for years at his Spanish church. Just this year he gave all of his music to someone else--all that richness and history--in several boxes. So all he could send me was "O Sole Mio" in Spanish. He said I'd need to change the words a little bit to give them sacred meaning, but he didn't give me any idea of how to do that.
I turned to my minister of music friend, Bobby. He reassured me that yes, he had music in Spanish, and in fact, had just received a number of pieces that he thought would be good for Cinco de Mayo weekend. Bobby graduated from Princeton, and has excellent musical taste. Knowing that he was working on this for me was very comforting.
Yesterday the music came in the mail. I proudly carried it to the piano and started playing and singing through it. Sam sat nearby at his computer browsing for something or another. The introduction to the first song sounded like the accompaniament for "La Cucaracha." Sam turned toward me in his chair as I began to sing loudly en Espanol. As the last note of the first verse ended, Sam cleared his throat. "What is that?"
"Beats me. But it's in Spanish. Did you understand what I was saying?"
Sam looked dubious. "Kind of. But the words are really wierd. I hope you aren't planning to sing that."
Deflated, I sang through a couple more of Bobby's choice songs. Another one had a mariachi-type sound and I sang with gusto. It made me feel like Carmen Miranda. Sam turned back to the computer shaking his head. "You're going to have to find something else. These songs are awful." I am now the owner of six awful songs in Spanish.
I think I have finally found something. I took my Spanish hymnal and found words with the right meter to superimpose on the English tune, "O Waly Waly." It's a beautiful tune, and the lyrics are majestic and wonderful ("O For a Thousand Tongues to Sing My Great Redeemer's Praise").
Sam informed me that there will be lots of evangelistic "big guns" in the Hispanic community who will attend the January convocation. I'm singing through my song every day now, so I don't sound like an Italian wetback up there. Just call me the Anglo Incognito.
December 13, 2005
Never Lost
Life can be a complicated maze of adult anxieties, missed opportunities, and the drudge of everyday imperatives. For years I have kept my nose to the grindstone, putting myself through private high school and college, and later, grad school and university. Work-study-sleep. Work-study-sleep. It was a pattern I lived for many years.Somewhere in that seemingly endless, but predictable round of activities, I felt that I lost a sense of who I was. Sleep-deprived, lonely, and anxious that I wouldn't be able to get the grades or meet my life goals, I lost sight of that primal, inner me. When I realized that I felt disconnected and ungrounded, it was too late.
One day, as I idly leafed through a photo album, I came across this picture. I remember posing for my mother as she took it, out in the road in front of our Mississippi home. A neighbor lady had dropped off some old clothes for me to play dress up in, and I wasted no time donning her hat and gloves, scarf, and those wonderful blue high heels. I recall throwing my head back and looking over my shoulder at my mother, who was laughing at my antics from behind the camera.
Studying the picture, I had to laugh aloud--both because it is a funny picture, but also from the instant recognition that this was what I had been missing. I keep a copy of it over my desk. It is who I am through and through.
December 12, 2005
In another life
I saw Roy on Saturday, after 25 long years. I suppose you could say that Roy was my first real love: a gangly, Jamaican boy with a teasing shout of a laugh, warm black eyes, and an absorbing intensity when he was deep in thought. Roy was my friend and constant companion during the second year and a half of college. The White boys wrote me off when they saw us together, and the Black boys didn't know what to think of me.
Roy was the one who snuck into the girl's dorm while our friend Beverley, wearing only her underwear, was washing her hair in the janitor's sink in the hall. He raced in the back door, down the forbidden hall to her, blurted something into her hair and tore back outside onto the steps. There he doubled up with laughter as Beverley angrily rushed to her room, dignity askew.
Roy and I studied together as often as we could, however very little studying got done. We always found some sort of mischief to get into together. One night as I wrote a paper, we came to a disagreement about how to spell the word hence. He said it should be spelled hense. I was sure it should be hence. So sure in fact, that I vowed to run around the men's dorm naked if it was hense. Roy matched my vow with one of his own. As we sat looking at one another, taken aback with our rash statements, we suddenly had pangs of uncertainty. We loped across campus to the library where we found in the thick unabridged dictionary that we were both correct! Being Jamaican, he had learned the British spelling while I had learned the American spelling. Neither of us will admit to running around a dorm naked, even though one of us did do it naked under a trenchcoat!
Roy is a pianist without equal and I was fortunate to have him as my accompanist when I sang. We concertized in numerous New England churches. In fact, we could be called up out of the audience to sing and spontaneously could make flawless music together. The depth of the bond between us enabled us to blend together as only two well-matched musicians can.
Roy was like my warm, fun-loving brothers. I adored him. My family loved him. I would even go so far as to say that I loved him. But I was not in love with him and our friendship immediately ended when he realized that my playfulness was not marriage in the making. Being unsure of how to spare either of us the awkwardness of trying to negotiate a friendship in the face of his disappointment and my defensiveness, I played the race card. I told him that I just didn't think it was wise for us to have a mixed race relationship, even though I cared for him very deeply. He was terribly hurt and could not forgive me, reacting with hostility whenever I saw him over the next six months before I graduated. I have never forgiven myself for my unthinking, anxiety-driven blunder. I can still see the pained expression on his face.
And I never saw him again. Until Saturday.
I tuned in to a church service that was broadcast live on my computer. As the main speaker sat down, Roy stood up and sang a solo. He hasn't changed a bit except perhaps, his hair isn't as thick as it used to be. But I could see him, finally, after all these years. It filled my heart to hear him sing again, and later, play the piano. He was wonderful, playing with his whole soul, just as I remembered.
In another life, I wonder if I could have dated and married him. Watching him interact with an all-Black, inner city church group made me realize how his life has become different than mine and how I might feel welcomed or rejected in his group and he in mine. I watched him participate in the service, feeling admiration and nostalgia.
I talked with Sam about it later and he was interested and not defensive. After all, he noted, I live with him, not Roy. It was that straightforward as far as he was concerned.
I wonder what Roy would think if he realized that I'm now in a biracial marriage--Hispanic-White, not Black-White as he and I would have been. I wonder if he would have hurt less if he had known that I truly loved and adored him and was just lost for words. Perhaps we could still have been close friends for always. Sam would have enjoyed his friendship, I have no doubt.
A great deal happens when one is trying to grow up. Relationships and life choices can fill one's mind with unanswered questions for decades. Some stories can never be rewritten.
I love Sam with all my heart and cannot imagine being without him. And yet, an empty spot remains where Roy once was. I doubt I'll ever stop missing my beloved friend.
Roy was the one who snuck into the girl's dorm while our friend Beverley, wearing only her underwear, was washing her hair in the janitor's sink in the hall. He raced in the back door, down the forbidden hall to her, blurted something into her hair and tore back outside onto the steps. There he doubled up with laughter as Beverley angrily rushed to her room, dignity askew.
Roy and I studied together as often as we could, however very little studying got done. We always found some sort of mischief to get into together. One night as I wrote a paper, we came to a disagreement about how to spell the word hence. He said it should be spelled hense. I was sure it should be hence. So sure in fact, that I vowed to run around the men's dorm naked if it was hense. Roy matched my vow with one of his own. As we sat looking at one another, taken aback with our rash statements, we suddenly had pangs of uncertainty. We loped across campus to the library where we found in the thick unabridged dictionary that we were both correct! Being Jamaican, he had learned the British spelling while I had learned the American spelling. Neither of us will admit to running around a dorm naked, even though one of us did do it naked under a trenchcoat!
Roy is a pianist without equal and I was fortunate to have him as my accompanist when I sang. We concertized in numerous New England churches. In fact, we could be called up out of the audience to sing and spontaneously could make flawless music together. The depth of the bond between us enabled us to blend together as only two well-matched musicians can.
Roy was like my warm, fun-loving brothers. I adored him. My family loved him. I would even go so far as to say that I loved him. But I was not in love with him and our friendship immediately ended when he realized that my playfulness was not marriage in the making. Being unsure of how to spare either of us the awkwardness of trying to negotiate a friendship in the face of his disappointment and my defensiveness, I played the race card. I told him that I just didn't think it was wise for us to have a mixed race relationship, even though I cared for him very deeply. He was terribly hurt and could not forgive me, reacting with hostility whenever I saw him over the next six months before I graduated. I have never forgiven myself for my unthinking, anxiety-driven blunder. I can still see the pained expression on his face.
And I never saw him again. Until Saturday.
I tuned in to a church service that was broadcast live on my computer. As the main speaker sat down, Roy stood up and sang a solo. He hasn't changed a bit except perhaps, his hair isn't as thick as it used to be. But I could see him, finally, after all these years. It filled my heart to hear him sing again, and later, play the piano. He was wonderful, playing with his whole soul, just as I remembered.
In another life, I wonder if I could have dated and married him. Watching him interact with an all-Black, inner city church group made me realize how his life has become different than mine and how I might feel welcomed or rejected in his group and he in mine. I watched him participate in the service, feeling admiration and nostalgia.
I talked with Sam about it later and he was interested and not defensive. After all, he noted, I live with him, not Roy. It was that straightforward as far as he was concerned.
I wonder what Roy would think if he realized that I'm now in a biracial marriage--Hispanic-White, not Black-White as he and I would have been. I wonder if he would have hurt less if he had known that I truly loved and adored him and was just lost for words. Perhaps we could still have been close friends for always. Sam would have enjoyed his friendship, I have no doubt.
A great deal happens when one is trying to grow up. Relationships and life choices can fill one's mind with unanswered questions for decades. Some stories can never be rewritten.
I love Sam with all my heart and cannot imagine being without him. And yet, an empty spot remains where Roy once was. I doubt I'll ever stop missing my beloved friend.
December 10, 2005
Photo Journalist
I came near to maiming someone last night.
I went to our school's annual Christmas concert. The church was beautifully decorated and people seemed energized and excited as they filled the pews. I was pleasantly surprised at the quality of music and the wide variety of styles presented: chamber music all the way to steel drums. Just wonderful. The hair on my arms must have been tired from standing up at exhilarating musical moments. It was grand.
And it all happened in spite of the photographer who continually walked among the performers and stood in my visual path, down near the front of the church. I have to say that I've never seen anyone so blatant or intrusive taking photos during any event.
During the first number, I noticed this young man dressed in black shirt and pants, standing up in front of the front row of people, taking pictures of the orchestra. Assuming that he was taking photos for the yearbook or the school calendar, I didn't think much of it. That is, until I watched him walk up onto the stage in front of the performers, to take what he probably thought was a surreptitious place behind the percussion section. He moved about between the choir and the orchestra, taking shots of people singing, playing instruments, and the conductor waving his arms. Then, in full view of the audience, he rested his camera on the grand piano, pointed it at the audience, and started snapping pictures of us! I brushed it off, thinking that this was his final effort, and that he would now fade and be gone. He did go out the side door on the platform then.
A few minutes later, up he popped in the baptismal tank behind the choir and orchestra. He snapped several pictures as he stood straight up, then thought better of it and crouched down behind a pointsetta plant. I watched the black lenses of his camera move about through the pointsetta leaves and blossoms. He spent several minutes there before he stood up again, where he was was silhouetted against the red backdrop for the giant wreath with hundreds of tiny lights on it, hanging over the baptismal tank. He must have found this vantage point particularly good, because he took a number of photos of the conductor who appeared to be giving his all during an exciting piece. Finally, responding to my silent pleas, Mr. Photographer left the baptismal area and I began to finally focus on the music itself.
As another group started to sing, here he came again, standing upright, right in front of us, obscuring our view. He walked back and forth for the next several selections, taking pictures of all sorts of things. Then back up onto the stage he went, where he moved amongst the instruments again. At one point when he stood against the chimes, I wished with all my heart that he'd lean on them and knock them over: a carillon experience that would finally underscore how out of place he was. But that was not to be.
Down to the main floor, in the aisle next to the front row. Now he was talking and laughing with a woman who wanted to see what he was doing. I thought seriously about creeping up to him and demanding that he sit down and stop distracting everyone, citing faculty status and perhaps sheer physical force, if necessary. People around me were whispering and looking at him. There might have been applause garnered for such a brave action on my part. But I just couldn't make myself get out of my chair and walk the 10 rows down to where he knelt, playing with the many lenses and holding the camera up to the light to determine something about it.
For some reason, every time the music became intense, loud, or particularly moving, Mr. Photographer took pictures at a faster rate. Perhaps there is something that can be captured in the face of a musician that can't be seen unless he or she is playing loudly, but I wondered how many of these shots he really needed to have, because his actions were continuous and uninterrupted throughout the entire concert. Was this photo journalism? Or just a rookie who hadn't been instructed in how to take pictures at an event?
My seat mate was squirming about and starting to roll her eyes when the photographer walked up onto the stage again. "I just can't believe that guy!" she whispered. Her facial expression was nothing in comparison to what happened when he stood directly in front of the performers in a steel drum ensemble. He in front of one of them, unabashedly snapping picture after picture. I think by that time, whatever jitters he may have ever had about taking photos in front of a huge audience, were well nigh obliterated.
So the evening ended. I truly loved the music. I tried to blot out this guy's annoying presence so I could let my soul soar with the music. And I did soar, mostly with my eyes shut so I wouldn't be distracted.
This seems to be a rule about life on this planet. There is often a fly in the ointment when we have good things. I suppose that the question to be asked is whether we focus on the good parts: the beautiful, soul-expanding, heartwarming good in things. Or, on the irritating, niggling frustrations that almost always accompany such loveliness?
Oh for grace to know when to shut the eyes of my soul so nothing will obscure the beautiful.
I went to our school's annual Christmas concert. The church was beautifully decorated and people seemed energized and excited as they filled the pews. I was pleasantly surprised at the quality of music and the wide variety of styles presented: chamber music all the way to steel drums. Just wonderful. The hair on my arms must have been tired from standing up at exhilarating musical moments. It was grand.
And it all happened in spite of the photographer who continually walked among the performers and stood in my visual path, down near the front of the church. I have to say that I've never seen anyone so blatant or intrusive taking photos during any event.
During the first number, I noticed this young man dressed in black shirt and pants, standing up in front of the front row of people, taking pictures of the orchestra. Assuming that he was taking photos for the yearbook or the school calendar, I didn't think much of it. That is, until I watched him walk up onto the stage in front of the performers, to take what he probably thought was a surreptitious place behind the percussion section. He moved about between the choir and the orchestra, taking shots of people singing, playing instruments, and the conductor waving his arms. Then, in full view of the audience, he rested his camera on the grand piano, pointed it at the audience, and started snapping pictures of us! I brushed it off, thinking that this was his final effort, and that he would now fade and be gone. He did go out the side door on the platform then.
A few minutes later, up he popped in the baptismal tank behind the choir and orchestra. He snapped several pictures as he stood straight up, then thought better of it and crouched down behind a pointsetta plant. I watched the black lenses of his camera move about through the pointsetta leaves and blossoms. He spent several minutes there before he stood up again, where he was was silhouetted against the red backdrop for the giant wreath with hundreds of tiny lights on it, hanging over the baptismal tank. He must have found this vantage point particularly good, because he took a number of photos of the conductor who appeared to be giving his all during an exciting piece. Finally, responding to my silent pleas, Mr. Photographer left the baptismal area and I began to finally focus on the music itself.
As another group started to sing, here he came again, standing upright, right in front of us, obscuring our view. He walked back and forth for the next several selections, taking pictures of all sorts of things. Then back up onto the stage he went, where he moved amongst the instruments again. At one point when he stood against the chimes, I wished with all my heart that he'd lean on them and knock them over: a carillon experience that would finally underscore how out of place he was. But that was not to be.
Down to the main floor, in the aisle next to the front row. Now he was talking and laughing with a woman who wanted to see what he was doing. I thought seriously about creeping up to him and demanding that he sit down and stop distracting everyone, citing faculty status and perhaps sheer physical force, if necessary. People around me were whispering and looking at him. There might have been applause garnered for such a brave action on my part. But I just couldn't make myself get out of my chair and walk the 10 rows down to where he knelt, playing with the many lenses and holding the camera up to the light to determine something about it.
For some reason, every time the music became intense, loud, or particularly moving, Mr. Photographer took pictures at a faster rate. Perhaps there is something that can be captured in the face of a musician that can't be seen unless he or she is playing loudly, but I wondered how many of these shots he really needed to have, because his actions were continuous and uninterrupted throughout the entire concert. Was this photo journalism? Or just a rookie who hadn't been instructed in how to take pictures at an event?
My seat mate was squirming about and starting to roll her eyes when the photographer walked up onto the stage again. "I just can't believe that guy!" she whispered. Her facial expression was nothing in comparison to what happened when he stood directly in front of the performers in a steel drum ensemble. He in front of one of them, unabashedly snapping picture after picture. I think by that time, whatever jitters he may have ever had about taking photos in front of a huge audience, were well nigh obliterated.
So the evening ended. I truly loved the music. I tried to blot out this guy's annoying presence so I could let my soul soar with the music. And I did soar, mostly with my eyes shut so I wouldn't be distracted.
This seems to be a rule about life on this planet. There is often a fly in the ointment when we have good things. I suppose that the question to be asked is whether we focus on the good parts: the beautiful, soul-expanding, heartwarming good in things. Or, on the irritating, niggling frustrations that almost always accompany such loveliness?
Oh for grace to know when to shut the eyes of my soul so nothing will obscure the beautiful.
December 9, 2005
No matter what I say or do
Yesterday my mood took a major nosedive. I heard yet again a well rehearsed story from a colleague that I am harsh, inflexible, and without compassion for my students. It stung, and try as I might to rationalize it by thinking about the source and motivation behind this type of propaganda, it still hurt very deeply.
As I pondered the situation last night, it was easy to see how the storyteller's values and mode of being in the world influenced her comments and choice to mobilize people to side with her. After all, she and those who believe this are those with very poor boundaries and sense of personal entitlement. It makes sense to me that someone who threatens those qualities will be suspect. Meanwhile, I have been reduced to that one line: harsh, inflexible and not compassionate--"behavior not consistent with the values of this department."
Some time ago I explained the values, standards, and ethics to which I adhere, and gave numerous examples of students who feel that I have bent over backward to accommodate their needs and give them second chances. After doing these things, I anticipated that there would be renewed understanding and respect for the way in which I interact with my students and colleagues. "I'm so glad you shared this with me!" she had enthused. So I was taken off guard to hear the same old story told without incorporating any of the information I had shared, and in an even more vitriolic manner than when I first heard it.
This is not intended to be the moan of a martyr. It is my reflection of what it is like to be misrepresented without the possibility of changing that perception.
It was comforting in a sad kind of way to realize that I'm in good company in this. People have all sorts of bizarre ideas about who God is and what He is like. I wonder what it is like for God to see how misrepresented He is--that no matter what He says or does for people, no matter how He tries to show His character and love for people--He is still viewed as harsh and vindictive. He is blamed for all sorts of human idiocy. Or He is sometimes portrayed as impotent or insipid in some way.
I suppose that being misrepresented isn't really so bad. I can ignore it and there will be a minor incident. But if God is misrepresented, there are eternal consequences.
Somewhere in the midst of my internal wound-licking and fussing last night, I realized a bit more of what God's dilemma is in this world. I could say with Job, "I put my hand over my mouth." I had nothing more to say about how horrible my experience is.
Although these things loom large on the horizon of our worldview, one day these petty grievances will not be worth remembering. They will be swallowed up in the business of living in God's presence--something worth thinking about today.
As I pondered the situation last night, it was easy to see how the storyteller's values and mode of being in the world influenced her comments and choice to mobilize people to side with her. After all, she and those who believe this are those with very poor boundaries and sense of personal entitlement. It makes sense to me that someone who threatens those qualities will be suspect. Meanwhile, I have been reduced to that one line: harsh, inflexible and not compassionate--"behavior not consistent with the values of this department."
Some time ago I explained the values, standards, and ethics to which I adhere, and gave numerous examples of students who feel that I have bent over backward to accommodate their needs and give them second chances. After doing these things, I anticipated that there would be renewed understanding and respect for the way in which I interact with my students and colleagues. "I'm so glad you shared this with me!" she had enthused. So I was taken off guard to hear the same old story told without incorporating any of the information I had shared, and in an even more vitriolic manner than when I first heard it.
This is not intended to be the moan of a martyr. It is my reflection of what it is like to be misrepresented without the possibility of changing that perception.
It was comforting in a sad kind of way to realize that I'm in good company in this. People have all sorts of bizarre ideas about who God is and what He is like. I wonder what it is like for God to see how misrepresented He is--that no matter what He says or does for people, no matter how He tries to show His character and love for people--He is still viewed as harsh and vindictive. He is blamed for all sorts of human idiocy. Or He is sometimes portrayed as impotent or insipid in some way.
I suppose that being misrepresented isn't really so bad. I can ignore it and there will be a minor incident. But if God is misrepresented, there are eternal consequences.
Somewhere in the midst of my internal wound-licking and fussing last night, I realized a bit more of what God's dilemma is in this world. I could say with Job, "I put my hand over my mouth." I had nothing more to say about how horrible my experience is.
Although these things loom large on the horizon of our worldview, one day these petty grievances will not be worth remembering. They will be swallowed up in the business of living in God's presence--something worth thinking about today.
December 8, 2005
Hoarfrost
We have been waking up every morning to find thick frost covering everything. It is hoarfrost that makes all the roofs in the neighborhood look magical. When I secretly left a package on my neighbor's doorstep, my cover was blown because the my footprints left a flattened path in the stiff frosty grass in her yard.
When I see frost on the ground, I don't notice things like the bunches of dead leaves and dandelions underneath, the rosebushes that have frozen to death, and all the lumps in the lawn. It delights me so to see the white everywhere that I feel happy just to look at it, regardless of all the dead things and imperfections underneath it.
Hoarfrost seems to be such a medieval word. Reading the Bible in the King's English, I read, "The hoary head is a crown of glory..." (Proverbs 16:31). This verse would have us believe that the white hair of our elders is a reward for all that they have lived through, all they know, and all they have done in their lives. Their hoary heads are to be reverenced and deserve our respect as though they are kings and queens.
My father has had beautiful white hair for almost as long as I can remember. When he went back to school in his 50s, he dyed his hair to try to fit in with his youthful classmates. I just hated it, even though he looked younger for a couple years.
There is something so gracious about fluffy, white hair. It lives on top of brains that are full of the memories, stories, and feelings that have come with years of life. Even as hoarfrost comes at wintertime, so white hair comes in the later seasons of life and brings richness to all who make the time to take it in.
When I see frost on the ground, I don't notice things like the bunches of dead leaves and dandelions underneath, the rosebushes that have frozen to death, and all the lumps in the lawn. It delights me so to see the white everywhere that I feel happy just to look at it, regardless of all the dead things and imperfections underneath it.
Hoarfrost seems to be such a medieval word. Reading the Bible in the King's English, I read, "The hoary head is a crown of glory..." (Proverbs 16:31). This verse would have us believe that the white hair of our elders is a reward for all that they have lived through, all they know, and all they have done in their lives. Their hoary heads are to be reverenced and deserve our respect as though they are kings and queens.
My father has had beautiful white hair for almost as long as I can remember. When he went back to school in his 50s, he dyed his hair to try to fit in with his youthful classmates. I just hated it, even though he looked younger for a couple years.
There is something so gracious about fluffy, white hair. It lives on top of brains that are full of the memories, stories, and feelings that have come with years of life. Even as hoarfrost comes at wintertime, so white hair comes in the later seasons of life and brings richness to all who make the time to take it in.
December 7, 2005
Seven Sevens
I just realized that I've been tagged by another "seven sevens" responder: http://www.joyfulwoman.blogspot.com/ so I'd like to try to make my own list.
Seven things that attracted me to my husband:
1. I first noticed Sam's beautiful, warm brown eyes. One is a bit squintier than the other, giving him the appearance of wanting to wink at me.
2. Sam's sense of humor. If for some reason I feel angry with him and I begin confronting him by saying, "I'm so mad at you right now," he'll jump up, hold his arms in front of him like a boxer, and start dancing slowly around me like a prizefighter. I always laugh hysterically when he does this.
3. I love how devoted and protective Sam is with his daughters.
4. Sam's eyes tear up easily and he is very tenderhearted. I love a man who wears his heart on his face.
5. Sam is one of the easiest, most laid back people to be around. He is undemanding, self-contained, and a delight to simply be in the same room with. It was this surprising level of comfort, after being with him for two long periods of time, that made me realize he'd be a great person to be with for even more time.
6. My husband is Latin. I love how demonstrative and passionate he is.
7. Sam loves God and has a very straightforward and uncomplicated faith. This keeps me grounded as I tend to sail off into the stratosphere of skepticism and critique.
Seven things to do before I die:
1. Write a textbook
2. Climb Mt. Whitney again
3. Hike a famous trail such as the Appalacian, Pacific Crest Trail, or kayak the Lewis & Clark route.
4. Write my memoirs.
5. Live in a cabin in the North woods for at least six months.
6. Live in Europe for a year as a guest lecturer at a university.
7. Perform Mahler's Leider eines fahrenden gesellen (Songs of a Wayfarer) with an orchestra
Seven things I cannot do:
1. Eat raisins
2. Have a baby
3. Jog
4. Stand on my head
5. Remember simple multiplication tables
6. Watch someone else brush their teeth
7. Visit a prison
Seven things I say most often:
1. Oh, for Pete's sake! (exasperation)
2. What would be helpful for us to talk about today? (therapy).
3. Let's go ahead and get started (beginning of class).
4. Tell me that again... (a Laurel & Hardism).
5. You know what?
6. I love you, baby. (Sam)
7. Hey big guy. (to Sam, of course)
Seven books I love:
1. The Bible
2. The Poetry of Robert Frost (Edited by E.C. Lathem)
3. Anguished English, by Richard Lederer
4. The Complete Humorous Sketches and Tales of Mark Twain
5. Midnight Musings of a Family Therapist, by Carl Whitaker
6. What's so Amazing about Grace, by Philip Yancey
7. Soul Searching, by William J. Doherty
Seven movies I could watch over and over:
1. Crossing Delancey
2. Scarlet Pimpernel
3. You've Got Mail
4. French Kiss
5. The Music Box
6. Sleepless in Seattle
7. It's a Wonderful Life
Seven people I tag to do seven sevens:
1. Donna
2. Linda
3. Kerry
4. Sam
5. Trina
6. E.J.
7. Shelly
Seven things that attracted me to my husband:
1. I first noticed Sam's beautiful, warm brown eyes. One is a bit squintier than the other, giving him the appearance of wanting to wink at me.
2. Sam's sense of humor. If for some reason I feel angry with him and I begin confronting him by saying, "I'm so mad at you right now," he'll jump up, hold his arms in front of him like a boxer, and start dancing slowly around me like a prizefighter. I always laugh hysterically when he does this.
3. I love how devoted and protective Sam is with his daughters.
4. Sam's eyes tear up easily and he is very tenderhearted. I love a man who wears his heart on his face.
5. Sam is one of the easiest, most laid back people to be around. He is undemanding, self-contained, and a delight to simply be in the same room with. It was this surprising level of comfort, after being with him for two long periods of time, that made me realize he'd be a great person to be with for even more time.
6. My husband is Latin. I love how demonstrative and passionate he is.
7. Sam loves God and has a very straightforward and uncomplicated faith. This keeps me grounded as I tend to sail off into the stratosphere of skepticism and critique.
Seven things to do before I die:
1. Write a textbook
2. Climb Mt. Whitney again
3. Hike a famous trail such as the Appalacian, Pacific Crest Trail, or kayak the Lewis & Clark route.
4. Write my memoirs.
5. Live in a cabin in the North woods for at least six months.
6. Live in Europe for a year as a guest lecturer at a university.
7. Perform Mahler's Leider eines fahrenden gesellen (Songs of a Wayfarer) with an orchestra
Seven things I cannot do:
1. Eat raisins
2. Have a baby
3. Jog
4. Stand on my head
5. Remember simple multiplication tables
6. Watch someone else brush their teeth
7. Visit a prison
Seven things I say most often:
1. Oh, for Pete's sake! (exasperation)
2. What would be helpful for us to talk about today? (therapy).
3. Let's go ahead and get started (beginning of class).
4. Tell me that again... (a Laurel & Hardism).
5. You know what?
6. I love you, baby. (Sam)
7. Hey big guy. (to Sam, of course)
Seven books I love:
1. The Bible
2. The Poetry of Robert Frost (Edited by E.C. Lathem)
3. Anguished English, by Richard Lederer
4. The Complete Humorous Sketches and Tales of Mark Twain
5. Midnight Musings of a Family Therapist, by Carl Whitaker
6. What's so Amazing about Grace, by Philip Yancey
7. Soul Searching, by William J. Doherty
Seven movies I could watch over and over:
1. Crossing Delancey
2. Scarlet Pimpernel
3. You've Got Mail
4. French Kiss
5. The Music Box
6. Sleepless in Seattle
7. It's a Wonderful Life
Seven people I tag to do seven sevens:
1. Donna
2. Linda
3. Kerry
4. Sam
5. Trina
6. E.J.
7. Shelly
December 6, 2005
How do I look?
Putting on makeup this morning, my thoughts were interrupted by Sam, standing in the doorway holding a black checked shirt and taupe pants. "Do these go together?" Yuck! "No honey. You'll need to wear that shirt with black pants--there's too much yellow in the taupe to look good together."
Sam strode down the hall to his closet and hung up the rejected outfit. He returned a minute later with a dove gray shirt and khaki pants. "How about these?" Eeech! "Honey, I just don't think so." Sam looked crestfallen. "Why not?"
A thousand thoughts went through my mind. Because it's hideous! Because people aren't as color blind as you are. Because people around you will vomit.
"I think this gray shirt will look wonderful with your black wool pants. How about that?"
Sam sighed, smiled at me and went back down the hall to pull his amazing ensemble together. I turned my attention to the challenges that come with trying to style newly cut hair. I glanced down at the red wool North Woods sweater with tiny moose and evergreen trees on it. I was wearing it over a black turtleneck with black pants. I hope this looks okay, I thought, as put my hairbrush away. I went back to the closet to find my shoes. There stood Sam buttoning his shirt.
"Honey, how does this look?" I asked Sam. He smiled, nodded approvingly and said, "Wonderful honey. You look great!"
I suddenly felt like I was six years old, dancing around the livingroom in front of my father in our old house at 5 Burchman Drive. "You look very nice, honey," Daddy had said, as I showed him my new dress on the first day of school.
Awash with happy feelings, I turned to get ready to leave for work. Then it hit me. Why on earth would I trust the critique of someone who thought those two awful color combinations were acceptable to wear? This is a man who, unless I am wearing something blatantly horrible--like bold horizontal stripes on a too-tight sweater over chartreuse seamed stretch pants that are highwaters--wouldn't recognize a fashion gaffe. Yet I seek out his opinion about how I look almost every day.
I'm still laughing about this, five hours later.
Sam strode down the hall to his closet and hung up the rejected outfit. He returned a minute later with a dove gray shirt and khaki pants. "How about these?" Eeech! "Honey, I just don't think so." Sam looked crestfallen. "Why not?"
A thousand thoughts went through my mind. Because it's hideous! Because people aren't as color blind as you are. Because people around you will vomit.
"I think this gray shirt will look wonderful with your black wool pants. How about that?"
Sam sighed, smiled at me and went back down the hall to pull his amazing ensemble together. I turned my attention to the challenges that come with trying to style newly cut hair. I glanced down at the red wool North Woods sweater with tiny moose and evergreen trees on it. I was wearing it over a black turtleneck with black pants. I hope this looks okay, I thought, as put my hairbrush away. I went back to the closet to find my shoes. There stood Sam buttoning his shirt.
"Honey, how does this look?" I asked Sam. He smiled, nodded approvingly and said, "Wonderful honey. You look great!"
I suddenly felt like I was six years old, dancing around the livingroom in front of my father in our old house at 5 Burchman Drive. "You look very nice, honey," Daddy had said, as I showed him my new dress on the first day of school.
Awash with happy feelings, I turned to get ready to leave for work. Then it hit me. Why on earth would I trust the critique of someone who thought those two awful color combinations were acceptable to wear? This is a man who, unless I am wearing something blatantly horrible--like bold horizontal stripes on a too-tight sweater over chartreuse seamed stretch pants that are highwaters--wouldn't recognize a fashion gaffe. Yet I seek out his opinion about how I look almost every day.
I'm still laughing about this, five hours later.
December 5, 2005
The "Big D"
One of my friends is tearing her hair out trying to get her dissertation written. She has tried to seclude herself, limit contact with other people, go special places to write, and try to avoid taking on new responsibilities. In every case, she has found some way to do something more interesting and immediately rewarding. She continues to fret about never getting "The Big D" written.
My sister is facing this right now with her dissertation as well. She wryly calls her product "...that dadburned D." A person misses out on so much when the work goes slowly and involves tedious revisions. It is so hard to become reclusive just to be able to think clearly enough to write. Such a solitary process is very trying for extroverted people who flourish in the swirling chaos of crowds of people (any clue what that comment makes me?)
I recall writing my dissertation: 20 minutes of writing, 10 minutes of pounding the daylights out of the piano with Rachmaninoff preludes. 20 minutes more of writing, 10 minutes talking to someone on the phone. 20 minutes of writing and 10 minutes of Bach two-part inventions. Sometimes it was 20 minutes of writing, 20 minutes of cleaning cupboards or 20 minutes of walking around the block. It was the strangest mix of activities I think I've ever experienced. But I had to be in constant motion just to tolerate the monotony of the task.
There are "Big D's" in everyone's life at some point. It might not be a literary work, but could be some odious task or responsibility that must be fulfilled. As we look to accomplish the big things, perhaps it is well to consider how to stay balanced and integrated with other people. For this is why we write, why we aspire and why we forge ahead: to gain something relationally.
So my hope for you, the reader, is that you will find the outlets you need, the support you long for, and the variety that makes your heart sing while you stretch ahead for your Big D, whatever that may be for you.
My sister is facing this right now with her dissertation as well. She wryly calls her product "...that dadburned D." A person misses out on so much when the work goes slowly and involves tedious revisions. It is so hard to become reclusive just to be able to think clearly enough to write. Such a solitary process is very trying for extroverted people who flourish in the swirling chaos of crowds of people (any clue what that comment makes me?)
I recall writing my dissertation: 20 minutes of writing, 10 minutes of pounding the daylights out of the piano with Rachmaninoff preludes. 20 minutes more of writing, 10 minutes talking to someone on the phone. 20 minutes of writing and 10 minutes of Bach two-part inventions. Sometimes it was 20 minutes of writing, 20 minutes of cleaning cupboards or 20 minutes of walking around the block. It was the strangest mix of activities I think I've ever experienced. But I had to be in constant motion just to tolerate the monotony of the task.
There are "Big D's" in everyone's life at some point. It might not be a literary work, but could be some odious task or responsibility that must be fulfilled. As we look to accomplish the big things, perhaps it is well to consider how to stay balanced and integrated with other people. For this is why we write, why we aspire and why we forge ahead: to gain something relationally.
So my hope for you, the reader, is that you will find the outlets you need, the support you long for, and the variety that makes your heart sing while you stretch ahead for your Big D, whatever that may be for you.
December 3, 2005
Cut and Run
Sometimes life seems very complicated: life's meaning, relationships, career, marriage. We all really just slog along in life, taking one thing at a time. But how many people do you know who are really happy and content in all these areas of life and can clearly articulate each of these entities?
This afternoon I walked miles while my mind roiled over the complexities of life. My friend calls these kinds of thoughts "snail thoughts" because the thoughts seem to spiral down (for her) like a snail's shell. I've always laughed about that. My thoughts today were more like lightning: I'd get a thought and it would jag off across the landscape of my mind in unpredictable ways, only to disappear just as my eyes focused on it. Yes, lightning thoughts.
There are times when staying at a difficult thing is such tremendous work. Sometimes I wonder if it wouldn't be more efficient to cut and run, rather than to expend endless energy with negligible return, wearing myself out trying to accomplish the undoable. I plodded along today, feeling miserable but unable to fully understand the crux of my misery. I said and did bad things today. I walked with looming questions about how to bridge differences, but I wasn't sure I was thinking very clearly. I just wanted to run away.
Where would I go? Heurbemont, probably. It is the most charming little town in France. I don't speak French, but it would be so romantic and adventurous to go there and live in a little upstairs flat in an old manor in the country. I would have my croissants and real butter every morning after my walk down to the patisserie. It would all be so grand to greet men with an expansive "Buon jour, monsieur!" and feel their appreciative glances as I passed. I would wear beautiful silk scarves around my neck, with my A-line skirt, sweater, and heels, just like French women do. I would sit out on the boulevard at a cafe and enjoy a coffee while I read an absorbing book. All alone.
But I am wearing jeans, tired sneakers, and a bright red, very American jacket as I walk along down the street toward home. As I round the corner near the house, I can see Sam in the kitchen, looking out the window for me. I really do need to apologize to him for my actions that sent me out on this lightning streak across town. He greets me with open arms. Burying his face in my neck he tells me how much he loves me and how sorry he is for what he did. The moisture on my cheeks and the light in his eyes tell me that there are far better things to be had with this man whom I love with all my heart, than running.
This afternoon I walked miles while my mind roiled over the complexities of life. My friend calls these kinds of thoughts "snail thoughts" because the thoughts seem to spiral down (for her) like a snail's shell. I've always laughed about that. My thoughts today were more like lightning: I'd get a thought and it would jag off across the landscape of my mind in unpredictable ways, only to disappear just as my eyes focused on it. Yes, lightning thoughts.
There are times when staying at a difficult thing is such tremendous work. Sometimes I wonder if it wouldn't be more efficient to cut and run, rather than to expend endless energy with negligible return, wearing myself out trying to accomplish the undoable. I plodded along today, feeling miserable but unable to fully understand the crux of my misery. I said and did bad things today. I walked with looming questions about how to bridge differences, but I wasn't sure I was thinking very clearly. I just wanted to run away.
Where would I go? Heurbemont, probably. It is the most charming little town in France. I don't speak French, but it would be so romantic and adventurous to go there and live in a little upstairs flat in an old manor in the country. I would have my croissants and real butter every morning after my walk down to the patisserie. It would all be so grand to greet men with an expansive "Buon jour, monsieur!" and feel their appreciative glances as I passed. I would wear beautiful silk scarves around my neck, with my A-line skirt, sweater, and heels, just like French women do. I would sit out on the boulevard at a cafe and enjoy a coffee while I read an absorbing book. All alone.
But I am wearing jeans, tired sneakers, and a bright red, very American jacket as I walk along down the street toward home. As I round the corner near the house, I can see Sam in the kitchen, looking out the window for me. I really do need to apologize to him for my actions that sent me out on this lightning streak across town. He greets me with open arms. Burying his face in my neck he tells me how much he loves me and how sorry he is for what he did. The moisture on my cheeks and the light in his eyes tell me that there are far better things to be had with this man whom I love with all my heart, than running.
December 2, 2005
Back Talk
We once had a labrador retriever that could clear our livingroom in about 20 seconds. Without warning, a malevolent effluvium would drift over the room. It was unmistakable that it had come from his direction. My father would turn in his chair, fan the air vigorously, and say to the dog, "Ugh, Ceasar--STENCH!" And poor mortified Ceasar would get up from in front of the bookcase and with tail between his legs, slink back to the sewing room. We later learned that Ceasar had been helping himself to corn out in the garden, and it just did not agree with him.
I don't know what it is about farting that is so hilarious. Perhaps it is the unexpectedness of it, or the variety of sounds, or the fact that even the most dignified person makes these surprising noises. One of my friends sounds like a drum roll every time she gets up out of her chair. Another friend, of "silent but violent" fame, cleared out an entire dressing area at Talbot's with her contributions to the ambiance. One person I know sounds like a firing range when he laughs. Still another friend stepped into a store and as she opened her mouth to greet the proprietor, unexpectedly let fly with a volley of small explosions. She couldn't get back out the door fast enough!
I was in church once with a three year-old child, whom I had volunteered to watch while her mother took care of baby brother. As we were singing the third verse of "Rescue the Perishing," I felt a tug on my dress. Little One was looking up at me urgently. "Excuse me!" she said loudly in a chirpy little voice. Impressed with her politeness, I bent down to this child who hated to interrupt my singing. "What is it?" She smiled with satisfaction and shouted out over the swell of the singing, "I just farted so I needed to tell you 'scuse me." The man in the row ahead of us finished the last verse of the hymn with a broad grin, and I could hear the couple behind us chortling through the last lines.
Nature's little jokes, farts: cheap entertainment. Little reminders that we are human, every one of us.
I don't know what it is about farting that is so hilarious. Perhaps it is the unexpectedness of it, or the variety of sounds, or the fact that even the most dignified person makes these surprising noises. One of my friends sounds like a drum roll every time she gets up out of her chair. Another friend, of "silent but violent" fame, cleared out an entire dressing area at Talbot's with her contributions to the ambiance. One person I know sounds like a firing range when he laughs. Still another friend stepped into a store and as she opened her mouth to greet the proprietor, unexpectedly let fly with a volley of small explosions. She couldn't get back out the door fast enough!
I was in church once with a three year-old child, whom I had volunteered to watch while her mother took care of baby brother. As we were singing the third verse of "Rescue the Perishing," I felt a tug on my dress. Little One was looking up at me urgently. "Excuse me!" she said loudly in a chirpy little voice. Impressed with her politeness, I bent down to this child who hated to interrupt my singing. "What is it?" She smiled with satisfaction and shouted out over the swell of the singing, "I just farted so I needed to tell you 'scuse me." The man in the row ahead of us finished the last verse of the hymn with a broad grin, and I could hear the couple behind us chortling through the last lines.
Nature's little jokes, farts: cheap entertainment. Little reminders that we are human, every one of us.
November 30, 2005
IL Neige
The snow, il neige, is coming soon. We've been waiting for it, eagerly scanning the ground every morning when we wake up. Maybe, we think each day, this will be the day when it will all start drifting down. Maybe this will be the magical day when we shall wake up to the thick silence of muted sound from the heavy snow on the ground.
When we were newly married we lived in the Midwest, where snow was on the ground for at least three months out of the year. Hailing from Upstate New York, I was used to the snow. Sam however, grew up in sunny Los Angeles where snow could only be seen on the moutains in the distance. The first time it snowed in Indiana, he rushed to find me, fairly shouting with excitement, "Honey! It's flaking outside!" The poor man had a rather limited lexicon in the snow department, and I was utterly charmed by his boyish delight.
We both grew weary of the snow by March, frustrated by the melting sloppiness of it, the inconvenience of having to wear boots, hat and coat, and tolerate slushy mud all over our cars. When the spring sun began to dry up the muck and warm the air, no one was happier than we were.
But here we are again, eagerly waiting for snow to begin to drift down and captivate us in its charms. Maybe it will happen tomorrow...
When we were newly married we lived in the Midwest, where snow was on the ground for at least three months out of the year. Hailing from Upstate New York, I was used to the snow. Sam however, grew up in sunny Los Angeles where snow could only be seen on the moutains in the distance. The first time it snowed in Indiana, he rushed to find me, fairly shouting with excitement, "Honey! It's flaking outside!" The poor man had a rather limited lexicon in the snow department, and I was utterly charmed by his boyish delight.
We both grew weary of the snow by March, frustrated by the melting sloppiness of it, the inconvenience of having to wear boots, hat and coat, and tolerate slushy mud all over our cars. When the spring sun began to dry up the muck and warm the air, no one was happier than we were.
But here we are again, eagerly waiting for snow to begin to drift down and captivate us in its charms. Maybe it will happen tomorrow...
Pills and Shock Treatment
I've watched with growing interest, the rhetoric flowing between the church of Scientology and the established psychiatric community. Scientology states that psychiatry is not a true science, citing the DSM-IV-TR's categories formed by clinically-informed consensus as proof. (I may be wrong, but is that not just a form of qualitative research?) The gentleman I heard on CNN tonight, claiming to protect citizens from the ills of psychiatry, stated emphatically that it is untenable to allow anyone to undergo shock treatment. He stated that any child knows not to put their hand on an electric shock-producing wire or outlet. Thus, it is unnatural and "barbaric" to allow shock treatments, even though it continues to have proven efficacy for some types of intractible depression. I remarked to my husband that it is also barbaric to cut into people's stomachs, remove their limbs, or break their bones, yet this is done daily in operating rooms (under anesthesia). It would be utter folly not to do so and millions of lives have been saved as a result. Yet the arguments wax hot from those individuals who feel they need to rid the world of psychiatry and psychology in any form--except their own.
As I listen, it is utterly mind-boggling to me how the most extreme case examples of misinformed psychiatry, adverse side effects, and market-driven choices of some have been used to negate the value of the entire psychotherapeutic community.
I am reminded of a student in one of my family therapy courses a couple years ago. He took issue with a theory I presented in class, stating that its application at the intervention level damaged people, ruined lives and fractured family relationships. I was astonished, as this therapeutic approach has been emprically proven to be effective with a number of populations for many presenting problems. As we tried to sort out my student's objections, he related his experience of once watching a therapist perform therapy using this approach. He described an unscrupulous and unethical individual who emotionally exploited his clients by general his lack of personal integrity, poor understanding of therapeutic engagement, and utter disregard for others. It was in fact, horrendous therapy, but it was not representative of the theory. It was his version of the theory that fouled it in my student's eyes, not the theory itself.
Over the ensuing months I've had cause to recall this classroom discussion about poor theory versus poor representation of theory. We do this all the time as individuals whose lives represent Christianity and Christ Himself. It is sad and startling what Christianity means according to those who have seen and heard unscrupulous representations. As I once said to a friend, "I'm don't always project what I want to represent." There is more truth in that than I can say. Perhaps something here that we would all benefit from contemplating.
As I listen, it is utterly mind-boggling to me how the most extreme case examples of misinformed psychiatry, adverse side effects, and market-driven choices of some have been used to negate the value of the entire psychotherapeutic community.
I am reminded of a student in one of my family therapy courses a couple years ago. He took issue with a theory I presented in class, stating that its application at the intervention level damaged people, ruined lives and fractured family relationships. I was astonished, as this therapeutic approach has been emprically proven to be effective with a number of populations for many presenting problems. As we tried to sort out my student's objections, he related his experience of once watching a therapist perform therapy using this approach. He described an unscrupulous and unethical individual who emotionally exploited his clients by general his lack of personal integrity, poor understanding of therapeutic engagement, and utter disregard for others. It was in fact, horrendous therapy, but it was not representative of the theory. It was his version of the theory that fouled it in my student's eyes, not the theory itself.
Over the ensuing months I've had cause to recall this classroom discussion about poor theory versus poor representation of theory. We do this all the time as individuals whose lives represent Christianity and Christ Himself. It is sad and startling what Christianity means according to those who have seen and heard unscrupulous representations. As I once said to a friend, "I'm don't always project what I want to represent." There is more truth in that than I can say. Perhaps something here that we would all benefit from contemplating.
November 28, 2005
My hands hurt
My hands hurt. No, my wrists hurt. That was how he described what happened to him after he unwittingly did something that angered his father. Without explanation, he was taken down to the basement where his father pounded a spike into a beam and hung his son by his wrists from that spike.
Last week, I read the story of what went through that little boy's mind as he hung by his wrists, suspended over a dirty basement floor, while his father angrily denigrated him.
My hands hurt. No, my wrists hurt.
That child is now in his late forties. He wrote his story sitting at a table directly above the basement where he was abused.
I had the opportunity to spend some time talking with this man today. He is an unassuming man with twinkly eyes and a warm, boyish look to him. As we spoke, I caught myself eyeing his wrists. There were no scars, no discoloration, and no evidence that he had once suffered in such a hideous manner as he had previously described. And yet, pain lurks just under the thin veneer of manly composure that he wears.
I've never been quite so moved as I was today, looking into this man's eyes, as he cheerily talked about other issues from his current life experience. He laughs easily and heartily; yet something about his demeanor seems to mourn what he once lost--a carefree childhood.
I am haunted by the mental picture I have of him, hanging helplessly in the air, confused, terrified, betrayed, in mental and physical agony. Tonight, as I sit up in bed, reviewing my conversation and impressions of him today, I pray that he will hear angel wings in the air, and feel the healing kiss of God on his face; that he will feel the soothing touch of God on his hurting hands and wrists, and know that God loves him more than life itself.
Last week, I read the story of what went through that little boy's mind as he hung by his wrists, suspended over a dirty basement floor, while his father angrily denigrated him.
My hands hurt. No, my wrists hurt.
That child is now in his late forties. He wrote his story sitting at a table directly above the basement where he was abused.
I had the opportunity to spend some time talking with this man today. He is an unassuming man with twinkly eyes and a warm, boyish look to him. As we spoke, I caught myself eyeing his wrists. There were no scars, no discoloration, and no evidence that he had once suffered in such a hideous manner as he had previously described. And yet, pain lurks just under the thin veneer of manly composure that he wears.
I've never been quite so moved as I was today, looking into this man's eyes, as he cheerily talked about other issues from his current life experience. He laughs easily and heartily; yet something about his demeanor seems to mourn what he once lost--a carefree childhood.
I am haunted by the mental picture I have of him, hanging helplessly in the air, confused, terrified, betrayed, in mental and physical agony. Tonight, as I sit up in bed, reviewing my conversation and impressions of him today, I pray that he will hear angel wings in the air, and feel the healing kiss of God on his face; that he will feel the soothing touch of God on his hurting hands and wrists, and know that God loves him more than life itself.
November 25, 2005
Wonderful Things
This morning I got up early and got over to the mall to see what I could save money on from the sale racks. People were squeezing into Gottschalk's, and a steady stream of people with huge packages were coming out of Sears. As I walked into Shopko, I ran into my friend Joyce. Wide-eyed, she grabbed my arm. "You've got to get over to Joann Fabrics. They have material for 99 cents that is usually $4.99!"
Caught up in her excitement, I moved on through the store, determined to get over there after I'd "cleaned up" at Shopko. All around me I could hear people remarking about how wonderful the after Thanksgiving sale prices were. "Three for two dollars!" "It's buy one, get one free!" "Hey, these are only $14.99!"
My excitement grew. I began reeling through aisles, looking for all those wonderful things I was sure I needed to have. How about these sale towels? I suppose I could use a few more. But what about a bread machine? They're only $49. Wow! And look at all this stuff for Christmas stockings here! I started dropping things into my cart at an amazing speed. Socks, Christmas decorations, facial products, linens, picture frames. And somewhere over in the school supply section I finally woke up. I really didn't need all those things. They were nice, useful items that would be pleasant to own. But I truly didn't need 90% of what was in my cart.
My goal in life of late has been to live simply and well within my means. And here I was with all this unnecessary stuff. So I meandered back the way I had come, putting things back on shelves and smiling to myself at all the money I would save by doing that.
The world is full of wonderful things, but what do I actually need? Not nearly as much as the advertisers or frenzied shopping crowds think. So I left the store with my trouser socks as happily as if I'd won a door prize--and that was priceless.
Caught up in her excitement, I moved on through the store, determined to get over there after I'd "cleaned up" at Shopko. All around me I could hear people remarking about how wonderful the after Thanksgiving sale prices were. "Three for two dollars!" "It's buy one, get one free!" "Hey, these are only $14.99!"
My excitement grew. I began reeling through aisles, looking for all those wonderful things I was sure I needed to have. How about these sale towels? I suppose I could use a few more. But what about a bread machine? They're only $49. Wow! And look at all this stuff for Christmas stockings here! I started dropping things into my cart at an amazing speed. Socks, Christmas decorations, facial products, linens, picture frames. And somewhere over in the school supply section I finally woke up. I really didn't need all those things. They were nice, useful items that would be pleasant to own. But I truly didn't need 90% of what was in my cart.
My goal in life of late has been to live simply and well within my means. And here I was with all this unnecessary stuff. So I meandered back the way I had come, putting things back on shelves and smiling to myself at all the money I would save by doing that.
The world is full of wonderful things, but what do I actually need? Not nearly as much as the advertisers or frenzied shopping crowds think. So I left the store with my trouser socks as happily as if I'd won a door prize--and that was priceless.
November 23, 2005
Turkey Tales
Tonight Sam and I started getting ready for tomorrow's big dinner. We would have to inject it, Sam told me. That was a thought that chilled this born vegetarian's heart. He brought out this evil looking steel trochar needle with a 50 cc syrringe, filled it will some kind of marinade and began injecting it into the meaty portions of the turkey. He would jab the needle into the thigh and slowly, as he injected the marinade, the thigh would balloon out. After he went for the breast, I started to tingle at the top of my head and thought I might pass out if I didn't focus my eyes on Sam's forehead. Pretty sad for someone who used to do worse things to humans in the trauma ICU unit! Thankfully, the phone rang and I was able to flee the scene with my dignity intact.
I recalled the first morning shift I ever worked in the ICU, back when I was a nurse. I'd worked for six years on the evening shift, and didn't realize that I wasn't at my best in the morning. My patient, that first day, had been in an airplane accident and had a head swathed in blood-saturated bandages. His head was as big as a basketball and there were no openings in the bandages except one for his ET (breathing) tube. And there was a huge sign on the wall over his head that said, "I can't see you but I can hear you." When I walked into that room and saw that huge, bloody head, I got that same tingly feeling at the top of my head that I got tonight, injecting the turkey. What an odd feeling, I remember thinking, before I wobbled out the door and headed for the orange juice.
Well, our swollen little turkey is resting in the fridge, marinade dripping out of it. I think I'll enjoy the veggies and fake meat loaf tomorrow with one of our vegetarian guests, good and late in the day so there will be no early morning head tingling going on.
Happy Thanksgiving!
I recalled the first morning shift I ever worked in the ICU, back when I was a nurse. I'd worked for six years on the evening shift, and didn't realize that I wasn't at my best in the morning. My patient, that first day, had been in an airplane accident and had a head swathed in blood-saturated bandages. His head was as big as a basketball and there were no openings in the bandages except one for his ET (breathing) tube. And there was a huge sign on the wall over his head that said, "I can't see you but I can hear you." When I walked into that room and saw that huge, bloody head, I got that same tingly feeling at the top of my head that I got tonight, injecting the turkey. What an odd feeling, I remember thinking, before I wobbled out the door and headed for the orange juice.
Well, our swollen little turkey is resting in the fridge, marinade dripping out of it. I think I'll enjoy the veggies and fake meat loaf tomorrow with one of our vegetarian guests, good and late in the day so there will be no early morning head tingling going on.
Happy Thanksgiving!
November 22, 2005
41 Buffet
My husband and I were graciously invited to join our friends the other night as they celebrated Thanksgiving, Chinese style. We were treated to a wonderful dinner at a Chinese buffet restaurant. After we got home, we began reminiscing about a restaurant in the terrible little town we used to live in. The restaurant was named "41 Buffet."
We first went to 41 Buffet at the recommendation of our colleagues. It was wonderful, excellent food, great selection, huge facility, etc. We recalled being seated promptly, finding that indeed, there was terrific food there, and the place was packed with people. However, as we sat there eating our lunch, I remember being suddenly struck by the fact that my husband and I were the only average-sized individuals in the entire restaurant. Everyone there, man, woman, and child, were obese. I don't mean pleasantly plump, I mean that the adults were at least 80 lbs. overweight. We had been told that Indiana (where we were living at the time) had the heaviest people in the U.S. there, but I didn't believe it until that moment. I looked at my husband, who was studying my face.
"What's wrong?" he asked. I wasn't sure how to be politically correct or even delicate about it. "Everyone here is very heavy. I don't think we should be eating in here," I added, glancing at our second plate-fulls. "We might get heavy, too. Look at these people pack away the food!"
And so we agreed not to eat there again. Not because we objected to being with heavy people, or because we felt superior or wished to be separatist in any way. We just watched ourselves going back to the buffet as though it was a giant trough in a barn, and imagined ourselves swelling up to twice our size.
Sam and I had a chuckle after we got home from our Chinese Thanksgiving celebration meal. We loved being with our friends. We had a great dinner with them. We remembered our shock at being in a restaurant inhabited only by very heavy people thundering past our table to the buffet line.
What is it that makes people eat so much at these places? It is as though we've never seen food before or believe we will be shot at sunrise: we have to have one last very large meal?
My life and my eating philosophy has been like that far too long. I am what one would call pleasingly plump, and I am not pleased about it. I did not have this shape or size when I got married almost three years ago. So perhaps eating at the buffet reawakened my resolve to take care and be watchful about what goes into my mouth. To honor that, I have a calendar with little stickers to place on it for every day I eat abstemiously. Today I earned my first sticker...
We first went to 41 Buffet at the recommendation of our colleagues. It was wonderful, excellent food, great selection, huge facility, etc. We recalled being seated promptly, finding that indeed, there was terrific food there, and the place was packed with people. However, as we sat there eating our lunch, I remember being suddenly struck by the fact that my husband and I were the only average-sized individuals in the entire restaurant. Everyone there, man, woman, and child, were obese. I don't mean pleasantly plump, I mean that the adults were at least 80 lbs. overweight. We had been told that Indiana (where we were living at the time) had the heaviest people in the U.S. there, but I didn't believe it until that moment. I looked at my husband, who was studying my face.
"What's wrong?" he asked. I wasn't sure how to be politically correct or even delicate about it. "Everyone here is very heavy. I don't think we should be eating in here," I added, glancing at our second plate-fulls. "We might get heavy, too. Look at these people pack away the food!"
And so we agreed not to eat there again. Not because we objected to being with heavy people, or because we felt superior or wished to be separatist in any way. We just watched ourselves going back to the buffet as though it was a giant trough in a barn, and imagined ourselves swelling up to twice our size.
Sam and I had a chuckle after we got home from our Chinese Thanksgiving celebration meal. We loved being with our friends. We had a great dinner with them. We remembered our shock at being in a restaurant inhabited only by very heavy people thundering past our table to the buffet line.
What is it that makes people eat so much at these places? It is as though we've never seen food before or believe we will be shot at sunrise: we have to have one last very large meal?
My life and my eating philosophy has been like that far too long. I am what one would call pleasingly plump, and I am not pleased about it. I did not have this shape or size when I got married almost three years ago. So perhaps eating at the buffet reawakened my resolve to take care and be watchful about what goes into my mouth. To honor that, I have a calendar with little stickers to place on it for every day I eat abstemiously. Today I earned my first sticker...
November 20, 2005
Premonition
We rushed breathless, into the airport yesterday morning. It was to be a wonderful week at home for Thanksgiving with my parents on the East Coast. We were both tired from being up late the evening before, and had taken off from home later than we should have. As we were leaving town, Sam rolled down the window to do something and it stuck. It wouldn't go up or down. Where am I supposed to park this car for a week at the airport with a window that won't close? I said a silent prayer and it rolled up part way. Then a bit more a few minutes later. Finally it was rolled all the way up.
Sam looked wryly at me. "In the six years I've had this car that has never happened."
As we left town we drove into a fog bank hovering over the rolling hills of wheat. It didn't let up for the hour-long drive to the airport. It was so thick in fact, that we couldn't even see the sign for the airport and drove clear past it into another city. When it dawned on us what we had done, we stopped and asked a construction worker for directions. A few minutes later, we pulled up in front of the airport.
Sam noted that he didn't hear any jet engines overhead. In fact, it was deathly quiet, just like it is outside in the early morning after a heavy snow. Running into the airport we encountered crowds of people. All flights had been canceled and people were stranded. It was all on account of the thick fog.
We were re-routed onto a 5:00 a.m. flight the next morning but we thought we should check with the woman at the counter to see if we could leave later in the day instead. There might be a flight out at 1:00, but they had already cancelled two flights that morning. There was no way to know if it would be able to leave, she said. "This fog is here to stay for four or five days. It always is." If we could get out on the one o'clock flight, we could catch a red-eye flight across country to Newark, where we would be able to catch a flight to my folk's city. But she really couldn't say if we could make it or not and she didn't think we could get out in the afternoon flight.
We talked to her for nearly 20 minutes, trying to decide what would be the best thing to do. Nothing was for certain and I had a growing discomfort with the idea of traveling at all. Little did I know that Sam felt the same way. We discussed the fact that Delta pilots had threatened to strike the following Monday--and we could have a terrible time trying to get back to the West Coast. But it was something else in the mix. We both had premonitions of some nameless terrible thing that would happen. Sam later told me that all morning he had imagined what people would say after they learned he had died on this trip! And I had a growing concern of something intangible and dangerous happening to us or near us.
We ended up completely canceling our trip, calling my parents and explaining our concerns. They were wonderful and immediately insisted that we not try to travel at this time. They understood that with the crowded holiday travel schedule, we would not be able to get connecting flights if something went wrong.
I still feel an unspeakable dread about this coming week, as though something horrible might happen, or might have happened to us had we traveled. It is beyond words, really. I just know that we should not go to see my parents right now. Sam knows it. And we have run out of explanations and ideas about why we feel so strongly. We just do. The relief for us was immediate and tremendous.
So Thanksgiving will be spent in a different way for us this year, celebrating with friends whom we love dearly. I hated to think of them all alone this year. But then, my parents will be all alone this year, on the other side of the country.
Thankfully, someday we will know the whole story. Until then, we honor what senses tell us and are grateful for whatever it was that kept us on the ground and in town for these holidays.
Isn't life strange sometimes?
Sam looked wryly at me. "In the six years I've had this car that has never happened."
As we left town we drove into a fog bank hovering over the rolling hills of wheat. It didn't let up for the hour-long drive to the airport. It was so thick in fact, that we couldn't even see the sign for the airport and drove clear past it into another city. When it dawned on us what we had done, we stopped and asked a construction worker for directions. A few minutes later, we pulled up in front of the airport.
Sam noted that he didn't hear any jet engines overhead. In fact, it was deathly quiet, just like it is outside in the early morning after a heavy snow. Running into the airport we encountered crowds of people. All flights had been canceled and people were stranded. It was all on account of the thick fog.
We were re-routed onto a 5:00 a.m. flight the next morning but we thought we should check with the woman at the counter to see if we could leave later in the day instead. There might be a flight out at 1:00, but they had already cancelled two flights that morning. There was no way to know if it would be able to leave, she said. "This fog is here to stay for four or five days. It always is." If we could get out on the one o'clock flight, we could catch a red-eye flight across country to Newark, where we would be able to catch a flight to my folk's city. But she really couldn't say if we could make it or not and she didn't think we could get out in the afternoon flight.
We talked to her for nearly 20 minutes, trying to decide what would be the best thing to do. Nothing was for certain and I had a growing discomfort with the idea of traveling at all. Little did I know that Sam felt the same way. We discussed the fact that Delta pilots had threatened to strike the following Monday--and we could have a terrible time trying to get back to the West Coast. But it was something else in the mix. We both had premonitions of some nameless terrible thing that would happen. Sam later told me that all morning he had imagined what people would say after they learned he had died on this trip! And I had a growing concern of something intangible and dangerous happening to us or near us.
We ended up completely canceling our trip, calling my parents and explaining our concerns. They were wonderful and immediately insisted that we not try to travel at this time. They understood that with the crowded holiday travel schedule, we would not be able to get connecting flights if something went wrong.
I still feel an unspeakable dread about this coming week, as though something horrible might happen, or might have happened to us had we traveled. It is beyond words, really. I just know that we should not go to see my parents right now. Sam knows it. And we have run out of explanations and ideas about why we feel so strongly. We just do. The relief for us was immediate and tremendous.
So Thanksgiving will be spent in a different way for us this year, celebrating with friends whom we love dearly. I hated to think of them all alone this year. But then, my parents will be all alone this year, on the other side of the country.
Thankfully, someday we will know the whole story. Until then, we honor what senses tell us and are grateful for whatever it was that kept us on the ground and in town for these holidays.
Isn't life strange sometimes?
November 13, 2005
Applesauce hands
I just canned 26 quarts of applesauce. I didn't have any kind of labor-saving device. I had the old fashioned cone shaped colander, wooden pestle, and the big dark blue enamel canning pots to cook my jars in. That is how my mother did it for as long as I can remember, and that is how I did it.
Although, with the stiff shoulders from working the pestle, blisters on my hands, and chipped fingernails, I have thought long and hard about getting a Squeezo. I made one unholy mess of my stovetop, the floor and counters. But my applesauce is thick, golden, sweet, and superb in every way. I am thrilled.
I have put my total of 56 glass quart jars away, stacked in the storage room where I can casually produce a quart for friends at will. What a luxury!
When I was small, I used to snuggle into my mother during church, loop my arm through hers and hold her hand. Sometimes, leaning against her and breathing in the fragrance of Ivory soap and detergent in her dress was enough to help me get through the long sermons. However, mother's hands most often held my attention. With one finger I used to trace the veins on her hand, trying to get them to roll from side to side. After awhile she would pull her hand away from me and give me a look that said, Cut it out and listen to the sermon. So I would stop rolling her veins and start looking at her fingernails instead.
My mother grew up in the immigrant ghettos of Manhattan, back in the 30s and 40s. She and two other siblings contracted tuberculosis and had to be sent upstate to a sanitarium. There had been daily X-rays and all sorts of medications. That was why, she told me, her fingernails were ridged. So sitting in church, I looked at those vertical ridges in mother's fingernails and got lost in stories of my own making about her adventures at the sanitarium in the mountains.
By looking at her fingernails I could usually tell what fruit or vegetable was in season: grapes, tomatoes, peaches. There always seemed to be stains on her nails of whatever she had canned or cooked last. When beets were in season she wore white gloves to church to hide her glistening red-stained hands.
I tried to tell mother on more than one occasion that she shouldn't be so worried about her hands because they were beautiful: the thinness of her skin, the veins standing out that I equated with being a mature woman (something I wanted far more than breasts or starting my periods!) Mother used to say, "You've got to be kidding! My hands are just terrible!" And she would look down and self-consciously rub one hand over the other, as if to smoothe away whatever imperfections were there.
My mother never had a manicure during her entire life. She had grown up poor and then became a hard working mother of four, living a life of sewing, cooking, cleaning, and gardening. Her hands have always told this story if one looked closely.
Tonight after I finished washing up the counters, stove, and floor, I glanced ruefully at my hands. I've earned a blister on the ring finger of my right hand. My right middle finger is sore and red from cutting apples and my index finger has dark stains in a hundred tiny creases of my skin. My nails are a mess and have dark apple stains under them, and my hands are red and a bit swollen. I'll have to explain to my students that I really do have good hygiene, it's just that I've been canning applesauce. Looking down, for a fleeting moment I thought I saw something familiar. Yes, I have my grampa's crooked fingers that roll in every direction; and short, stubby fingers like my father's hands. But tonight I earned something for which I have longed my whole life. I finally have my mother's hands.
Although, with the stiff shoulders from working the pestle, blisters on my hands, and chipped fingernails, I have thought long and hard about getting a Squeezo. I made one unholy mess of my stovetop, the floor and counters. But my applesauce is thick, golden, sweet, and superb in every way. I am thrilled.
I have put my total of 56 glass quart jars away, stacked in the storage room where I can casually produce a quart for friends at will. What a luxury!
When I was small, I used to snuggle into my mother during church, loop my arm through hers and hold her hand. Sometimes, leaning against her and breathing in the fragrance of Ivory soap and detergent in her dress was enough to help me get through the long sermons. However, mother's hands most often held my attention. With one finger I used to trace the veins on her hand, trying to get them to roll from side to side. After awhile she would pull her hand away from me and give me a look that said, Cut it out and listen to the sermon. So I would stop rolling her veins and start looking at her fingernails instead.
My mother grew up in the immigrant ghettos of Manhattan, back in the 30s and 40s. She and two other siblings contracted tuberculosis and had to be sent upstate to a sanitarium. There had been daily X-rays and all sorts of medications. That was why, she told me, her fingernails were ridged. So sitting in church, I looked at those vertical ridges in mother's fingernails and got lost in stories of my own making about her adventures at the sanitarium in the mountains.
By looking at her fingernails I could usually tell what fruit or vegetable was in season: grapes, tomatoes, peaches. There always seemed to be stains on her nails of whatever she had canned or cooked last. When beets were in season she wore white gloves to church to hide her glistening red-stained hands.
I tried to tell mother on more than one occasion that she shouldn't be so worried about her hands because they were beautiful: the thinness of her skin, the veins standing out that I equated with being a mature woman (something I wanted far more than breasts or starting my periods!) Mother used to say, "You've got to be kidding! My hands are just terrible!" And she would look down and self-consciously rub one hand over the other, as if to smoothe away whatever imperfections were there.
My mother never had a manicure during her entire life. She had grown up poor and then became a hard working mother of four, living a life of sewing, cooking, cleaning, and gardening. Her hands have always told this story if one looked closely.
Tonight after I finished washing up the counters, stove, and floor, I glanced ruefully at my hands. I've earned a blister on the ring finger of my right hand. My right middle finger is sore and red from cutting apples and my index finger has dark stains in a hundred tiny creases of my skin. My nails are a mess and have dark apple stains under them, and my hands are red and a bit swollen. I'll have to explain to my students that I really do have good hygiene, it's just that I've been canning applesauce. Looking down, for a fleeting moment I thought I saw something familiar. Yes, I have my grampa's crooked fingers that roll in every direction; and short, stubby fingers like my father's hands. But tonight I earned something for which I have longed my whole life. I finally have my mother's hands.
June 2, 2005
Detours
I was 14 when I learned that I could not follow my heart. Getting ready for college, I had many conversations with my parents about what degree would best suit me. “I’d like to work with people who have emotional problems,” I’d begin. “People who are getting over the death of somebody, or who are sad and don’t know why.” My mother would throw her hands in the air and ask in exasperation, “Why spend your life being around kooks?” She’d regale me with the story of her inner city childhood, unprotected from what she considered the “kooks” of New York City. “Those Armenian girls next door—what they were put through by that weird man in the subway.”
My father took a more logical tact. “You know honey, there are always sick people. You will never be without a job if you become a nurse.” Then he’d begin his well rutted story about how he wished he’d become a nurse after he got out of the army 40 years earlier. “Think about all the people you can help that way.”
But I still thought often about people with emotional or mental problems. A number of families in our community provided board and care for elderly retarded people. Church was an interesting experience, as I watched retarded people salute the pastor from their pews, jump up from their seats in the middle of the sermon, or attempt to help the deacons collect the offering.
“Why don’t you just be a teacher for retarded people?” my father asked. “Teachers always will have jobs, and besides, it’s a natural job for women.” I didn’t want a natural job for a woman. I wanted to be a musician, writer, or a psychologist. “You can’t make a living at any of that” was the all too common refrain at our house.
So I became a nurse. I knew I’d hate it from the first day that I learned in skills lab how to make a mitered corner on a bed. For this I’ve come to college? As soon as I graduated I started back to school so I could work with people who have emotional difficulties.
Tonight my students were a bundle of nerves as they faced their final exam. Even so, there were tears and warm goodbyes as they left the classroom tonight. “Thank you for being the best teacher I’ve ever had.” “I learned so much from you.” “This was my favorite class in my whole graduate program.” I’m a therapist educator, teaching them how to work with people who have emotional problems. The 24 year detour is over and I’m following my heart.
My father took a more logical tact. “You know honey, there are always sick people. You will never be without a job if you become a nurse.” Then he’d begin his well rutted story about how he wished he’d become a nurse after he got out of the army 40 years earlier. “Think about all the people you can help that way.”
But I still thought often about people with emotional or mental problems. A number of families in our community provided board and care for elderly retarded people. Church was an interesting experience, as I watched retarded people salute the pastor from their pews, jump up from their seats in the middle of the sermon, or attempt to help the deacons collect the offering.
“Why don’t you just be a teacher for retarded people?” my father asked. “Teachers always will have jobs, and besides, it’s a natural job for women.” I didn’t want a natural job for a woman. I wanted to be a musician, writer, or a psychologist. “You can’t make a living at any of that” was the all too common refrain at our house.
So I became a nurse. I knew I’d hate it from the first day that I learned in skills lab how to make a mitered corner on a bed. For this I’ve come to college? As soon as I graduated I started back to school so I could work with people who have emotional difficulties.
Tonight my students were a bundle of nerves as they faced their final exam. Even so, there were tears and warm goodbyes as they left the classroom tonight. “Thank you for being the best teacher I’ve ever had.” “I learned so much from you.” “This was my favorite class in my whole graduate program.” I’m a therapist educator, teaching them how to work with people who have emotional problems. The 24 year detour is over and I’m following my heart.
May 28, 2005
Screeching teenagers
There was an unholy row outside the kitchen window yesterday afternoon. Bird screechings and scoldings. It sounded like something was being tortured or being told off--I couldn't tell which. But then I saw them and knew that I was seeing myself.
A mother grackle was at fever pitch, pulling worms and bugs out of the grass. All the while, four young croaky, newly feathered offspring poked and prodded her, hoping to be fed whatever bird delicacies she found. She could not move fast enough. She couldn't provide enough. Her babies were babies no longer. They could fly, but didn't know how to do much more than follow her around. Yet their screeching and poking seemed disdainful and betrayed their irritability. I marveled at the mother's efforts to meet the demands of that noisy brood.
It's what teenagers all the world over, do to their parents. They're old enough to talk and be reasoned with. They don't need supervision or direction about hygiene or caring for themselves. Yet the unspoken emotional and social uncertainties cause them at times to poke and prod their parents out of frustration. Parents can't do enough, fast enough, or right enough to satisfy their irritable demands that are unclear even to themselves at times.
So I watched the birds, listened to their racket, lost in thought. There was something about the busyness and good nature of the mother that reminded me of my own mother. She never gave up trying to provide for us, even though we were irritable, distant, and demanding. Just last week, I received one of her many packets in the mail, full of newspaper clippings, the church newsletter, and a bulletin from a concert that she and my father recently attended. She's still giving, God love her. I only pray that at 46 years of age, I am more gracious than the half-grown, immature birds outside the window.
A mother grackle was at fever pitch, pulling worms and bugs out of the grass. All the while, four young croaky, newly feathered offspring poked and prodded her, hoping to be fed whatever bird delicacies she found. She could not move fast enough. She couldn't provide enough. Her babies were babies no longer. They could fly, but didn't know how to do much more than follow her around. Yet their screeching and poking seemed disdainful and betrayed their irritability. I marveled at the mother's efforts to meet the demands of that noisy brood.
It's what teenagers all the world over, do to their parents. They're old enough to talk and be reasoned with. They don't need supervision or direction about hygiene or caring for themselves. Yet the unspoken emotional and social uncertainties cause them at times to poke and prod their parents out of frustration. Parents can't do enough, fast enough, or right enough to satisfy their irritable demands that are unclear even to themselves at times.
So I watched the birds, listened to their racket, lost in thought. There was something about the busyness and good nature of the mother that reminded me of my own mother. She never gave up trying to provide for us, even though we were irritable, distant, and demanding. Just last week, I received one of her many packets in the mail, full of newspaper clippings, the church newsletter, and a bulletin from a concert that she and my father recently attended. She's still giving, God love her. I only pray that at 46 years of age, I am more gracious than the half-grown, immature birds outside the window.
May 21, 2005
Mother's Day
Today is Mother’s Day. The 18-week size fibroid that I birthed by C-section, is what we think about today in our house.
At least, I think about it. Last week my husband asked me rather innocently, “Honey, what day is Mother’s Day this year?” For whatever reason, the only response I could muster was a flood of tears. It is a special day for other women, not me.
The year before I met my husband I had begun to consider adopting a child from another country. Motherhood was not feasible for me any other way. But I never sent off my adoption applications because of a new job that absorbed every waking moment. Then I met Sam.
Two days later I found a huge, hard mass in my belly and knew that something was about to change. I had already begun to entertain the idea that I’d probably never have children of my own, but to be told that the only treatment was an everything-has-to-go type of surgery, left me strangely numb. I took in the news, relieved that I wouldn’t have the possibility of developing uterine or ovarian cancer. I was more concerned about having major surgery than any other consideration at that point.
Surgery was a breeze, fortunately. Sam was there with me in the hospital, helping me up to the bathroom and back to bed. He walked me around the nurse’s station, as I shuffled along, all hunched over, pushing my IV pole jaggedly down the hall. As we rounded a corner, Sam told me I was beautiful.
“Oh please!” I laughed, thinking of my pasty complexion, IV-bloated body, and wild hair. “I look so gross.” He stood still and looked at me for a long minute. “You would have been a beautiful mommy.” His eyes were moist and his voice wobbled.
I’m a stepmother now. But events in my life are not yet recognized by these children. I have been thrust into their lives and they do not know how to make meaning of me. I have only to look at the Polaroid shot of the tumor that looks like the glistening, veiny bald head of an alien, to grasp the limitations of my mothering experience.
Sam looks regretful and tenderly at me over breakfast, feeling helpless in the face of these inconvenient tears that spring to my eyes when I least expect them. “Honey, when we get to heaven, there will be babies there without parents. We can have those babies then.” I blow my nose loudly, and Sam rushes around the table to envelop me in his arms. “I’m so sorry, baby,” he whispers into my hair.
There is a vast gulf between what we have on this earth and the life we will have in heaven one day. I have not suffered in ways that so many people have in this life. My pains are small but deep ones. My sadness is mixed with gratefulness. So I think of what is to come warmly, tearfully, every time I feel the light heaviness of a crumpled, sleepy little body near my heart, and smell the fragrant sweetness of baby cheeks. Someday I will get to be a mother. Sam, whose mother has died, will have his mother again. My mother won’t be forgetful anymore. And I will be happy to say, “It’s Mother’s Day today.”
May 9, 2005
Into the Woods
The idea hit first when I was sitting next to Jimmie in fifth grade during story hour. Our teacher read us books about the West, life in the “olden days”, and survival stores set in the prairie and mountains. I could hardly get enough of it. We read My Antonia, and the Laura Ingalls Wilder books. But one story took on a life of its own. I don’t remember the title, but this book was about a boy who lived in a burned out Sequoia tree for an entire year, completely alone. The story chronicled his experience of gathering and storing food for winter, occupying his time during rainstorms, and befriending animals. My 11-year old imagination took over and soon I was seeking out solitary woods in which to live for a year.
My first choice was one of the many large stands of deciduous trees with dense underbrush situated between farmer’s fields in our county. Deer, coyote, fox, and smaller animals such as raccoon and possums lived there. Riding back and forth from school, I used to stare out the window of the bus and study the land so I could select just the right place in the woods to escape into. I wanted a place where I could slip into the woods without being seen, yet be far enough away from people that no one would accidentally come across me. I wanted to be invisible to the outside world and focus my attention on soaking up the quiet, calm of the moist community of the woods.
It was about this time that I took an interest in taxidermy, much to my parents’ horror. Mostly, I skinned intact road kill and tried to learn how to cure the hides of raccoon and deer by rubbing salt into the skin after soaking it for a long time in the creek. I still remember the fetid odor associated with that particular experiment. Once, a neighbor farmer called to let me come down and skin a calf that had died. I don’t remember what ever became of that, except that the calf was very bloated. Mother once caught me dissecting a dead squirrel on the kitchen table using her good paring knife. That was when she and my father decided to buy me a dissecting kit, in the hopes that these forays into science would lead me into a surgical career. I eventually grew out of this most uncomely pastime, but I never lost my desire to be alone in the vastness of the wilderness.
There were days I used to fantasize about hiking the Appalachian Trail for a summer. I would do it alone, mosquitoes and trail criminals be damned. Later, I discovered the Sierra Nevada mountains. After conquering numerous peaks, I thought I might be physically able to spend a summer up behind Mt. Whitney. But I fell in love, and that ended my plans.
Last month PBS aired a program about a 50-something man who went into Alaska’s outback and built his own cabin. He lived there alone for over 30 years. I watched the program twice, scrutinizing everything, mentally recording his every move. That aching desire that had flickered during years of getting a PhD, falling in love, becoming overwhelmed with life, was fanned back into a full blaze.
So it is not surprising that when I commute to my job through mountains every week, that I find myself scanning the hills and bends in the river—to find just the right place to hike up into the woods and build a small dwelling—close enough to the river to fish, yet situated in a place protected from the wind.
I am a professional woman in suit and heels, technical lexicon and impeccable classroom demeanor. Yet my longing is like unrequited love for a dream that almost became a reality. Maybe one day I will slip off into the north woods and find a hollowed out tree.
My first choice was one of the many large stands of deciduous trees with dense underbrush situated between farmer’s fields in our county. Deer, coyote, fox, and smaller animals such as raccoon and possums lived there. Riding back and forth from school, I used to stare out the window of the bus and study the land so I could select just the right place in the woods to escape into. I wanted a place where I could slip into the woods without being seen, yet be far enough away from people that no one would accidentally come across me. I wanted to be invisible to the outside world and focus my attention on soaking up the quiet, calm of the moist community of the woods.
It was about this time that I took an interest in taxidermy, much to my parents’ horror. Mostly, I skinned intact road kill and tried to learn how to cure the hides of raccoon and deer by rubbing salt into the skin after soaking it for a long time in the creek. I still remember the fetid odor associated with that particular experiment. Once, a neighbor farmer called to let me come down and skin a calf that had died. I don’t remember what ever became of that, except that the calf was very bloated. Mother once caught me dissecting a dead squirrel on the kitchen table using her good paring knife. That was when she and my father decided to buy me a dissecting kit, in the hopes that these forays into science would lead me into a surgical career. I eventually grew out of this most uncomely pastime, but I never lost my desire to be alone in the vastness of the wilderness.
There were days I used to fantasize about hiking the Appalachian Trail for a summer. I would do it alone, mosquitoes and trail criminals be damned. Later, I discovered the Sierra Nevada mountains. After conquering numerous peaks, I thought I might be physically able to spend a summer up behind Mt. Whitney. But I fell in love, and that ended my plans.
Last month PBS aired a program about a 50-something man who went into Alaska’s outback and built his own cabin. He lived there alone for over 30 years. I watched the program twice, scrutinizing everything, mentally recording his every move. That aching desire that had flickered during years of getting a PhD, falling in love, becoming overwhelmed with life, was fanned back into a full blaze.
So it is not surprising that when I commute to my job through mountains every week, that I find myself scanning the hills and bends in the river—to find just the right place to hike up into the woods and build a small dwelling—close enough to the river to fish, yet situated in a place protected from the wind.
I am a professional woman in suit and heels, technical lexicon and impeccable classroom demeanor. Yet my longing is like unrequited love for a dream that almost became a reality. Maybe one day I will slip off into the north woods and find a hollowed out tree.
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