Ivy of AUC

I went to college at a small liberal arts school in New England. It was one of the most wonderful experiences of my life. I loved it there and still think of it as a second home. So many interesting and formative things happened there and such important influences wrought change and growth. I was exposed to many things and people, the likes of which I'd never seen in my home.
When I went off to college I thought I'd probably meet Mr. Right, date him through college, then get married right after graduation. We would live happily ever after, right there in New England, hopefully.
After the first few months of school, my friends and I had scoped out all the guys with any potential, as far as we were concerned. We decided that the guys who we'd like to go out with wouldn't be asking us. And the guys we wanted to avoid, were going to pursue us. In fact, something very much like this did happen.

There was this big lumpy oaf--Phred--we'll call him, who had a very high voice and an even higher opinion of himself. He also looked like Mortimer Snerd. He showed up everywhere I went and I didn't like him even a little bit. But there he'd be, waxing eloquent about something he thought I needed to hear, all the while smiling condescendingly at me. Then there was Reggie, who had a lovely tenor voice, and who used to sing his heart out in the practice rooms in the music department. However, he wasn't a voice major, and wasn't even a music student. He would just go into a practice room adjacent to me and belt out the same song for an hour: If Ever I Would Leave You from Camelot:

If ever I would leave you

It wouldn't be in summer.

Seeing you in summer

I never would go.

Your hair streaked with sun-light,

Your lips red as flame,

Your face witha lustre

that puts gold to shame!

But if I'd ever leave you,

It couldn't be in autumn.

How I'd leave in autumn

I never will know.

I've seen how you sparkle

When fall nips the air.

I know you in autumn

And I must be there.

And could I leave you

running merrily through the snow?

Or on a wintry evening

when you catch the fire's glow?

If ever I would leave you,

How could it be in spring-time?

Knowing how in spring

I'm bewitched by you so?

Oh, no! not in spring-time!

Summer, winter or fall!

No, never could I leave you at all!

Ick. I used to cringe listening to these dramatic portamentos (dramatic vocal swoops) up to, and down from, high notes. He would linger on certain meaningful words like lips. Yeech! He sounded as if he had his mouth right up against the wall between our practice rooms. I would crash louder on the piano and begin bellowing Verdi or Mahler just to drown him out. When he sang at the college talent show and won grand prize, he accepted his trophy and looked knowingly right at me, sitting in the third row. I wanted to fall under my chair.

Then there was Jack, who was a pre-med student. He was tall, gangly, and bearded guy who had a nice singing voice. We sang together in the two choirs of which we were members. I think he had an interest in me because every time I walked over to the music department, he'd come trotting out of the dormitory and walk with me. Jack was a very likable person, and I enjoyed chatting with him. He was considerate, kind-hearted, and very intelligent. But he was utterly clueless when it came to women. His mother had handpicked a tall, slender blond girl out for him and rumor had it that he'd have hell to pay if he defied his mother in any particular. Yet for an entire school year he continued to follow me around like a puppy dog. Once, when he took me ice skating, I asked him if he had any interest in dating anyone and he looked at me for a long time before saying that he wasn't sure. That was followed up with a complete change of topic onto something stimulating like quantum physics or calculus. We had just gotten into his beaten up old Ford station wagon for him to drive me back to the dorm. I was so irritated that I jumped out of his car and slammed the door rather hard. Amazingly, all the windows dropped down into the car doors from the force of the door being slammed. I marched off in indignation whilst Jack scurried from door to door of his car, rolling up each window. Clearly, he wasn't going to work out.

My friends commented that they were having a difficult time getting dates with guys. The men on campus seemed to have their feet firmly planted in cement and their head in the clouds. I managed to go on a walk to an old cemetery near the college with an Italian guy who was the heart throb of many girls on campus (me, included). But he was a theology student and seemed to have his mind somewhere else than on me. He was always pronouncing his triple-barreled name with great penache and wondering aloud if it didn't sound worthy of a leader high up in church hierarchy. I just liked his Italian name.
There were two absolutely dashing Canadian guy and a quite debonnaire Englishman. But I was followed around by a little Chinese math student who came up to my armpit.

There was also this guy on campus who was as crazy as a junebug. He always wore white: a white suit, shoes, socks--the whole schmere. And he had religious delusions. He believed that since the Bible said that Jesus will address "the goats" on his left hand on the Day that he is to separate the sheep from the goats, that he was never to turn to the left. Therefore, you'd see this guy walking down the sidewalk toward the cafeteria, which was on his left. As he'd get closer to where the sidewalk went left, you'd see him take three fast right turns and end up going left in that roundabout way. It was a most arresting sight. He was tall, skinny, and had a severe expression on his very good-looking face. But who would want to get involved with someone like that?

Clearly, we had to do something. My friend, Trina, and I put our heads together one day and came up with a plan. We'd antagonize all the desirable men on campus, since we couldn't get their attention any other way. Trina was well known and wildly extroverted. I was visible because of my singing, but I came across as very serious and someone who kept to myself. No one knew what my handwriting looked like, and I'd be the last person they'd suspect to do anything like this. As Trina dictated, I wrote 20 identical notes to the most date-worthy men on campus, using the most suggestive and salacious language we could come up with at the time:

Dear _______,

I've been watching you for several weeks now and have come to admire you. Actually, I can't keep my eyes off you. You have a wonderful mind, good personality, and great body . The problem is that I'm very shy and I don't know how to speak with you. But I'm very interested in forming a relationship with you and I think about you all the time. I think you would be pleasantly surprised to know who I am. If you're interested to discover my identity, would you mind wearing a plaid shirt and sitting at one of the back two tables in the cafeteria on Thursday during lunch? Then I will know that my advances are welcome and I'll make myself known to you in the warmest way soon afterward.

Looking forward to an intimate liaison (I can't wait!)

Ivy

We dropped the notes into Campus Mail on Monday afternoon and waited, feeling as if on pins and needles. Thursday morning around 11:00, we went into the cafeteria with our books and sat at one of the front tables, spreading out everything as though we were working on a project together. And we waited. Pretty soon, here came John galloping into the cafeteria wearing a bright red plaid flannel shirt. He looked like he was going hunting, which was strange, since he was very GQ and was typically preppy in his dress taste. He got his food and went to the back of the cafeteria. We almost died. In came Tim, wearing a very subtle window pane plaid in beige and white. You'd have to look at him closely to know it was a plaid. I guess he was rather uncommitted to this whole thing. He also went to the back of the cafeteria and sat at the table behind John. We kept our heads down and wrote all sorts of gibberish on our papers, trying to look studious and involved in our work.

This went on for nearly an hour as the cafeteria filled up. There, at the back of the cafeteria, was a cadre of about 15 guys in plaid shirts of every type. They were conferring together about something serious, but occasionally laughing rather loudly--the way guys do who have been had and are embarassed. We got our food, ate, and wrapped up our "project" and left. They remained in the cafeteria.

The next day there was a letter to Ivy in the school newspaper, pointing out that Ivy was essentially a ditz brain because the author's letter had been left off at the dormitory. If Ivy had been watching him as much as she said she was, she'd know that he lived with his parents up on the hill above the college. He also complimented us on our clever idea and wondered why we had to resort to insulting 20 guys instead of using our feminine charms.

We snuck down to the newspaper office late at night and slipped a note under the door. It was printed in the next newspaper that came out. I have no recollection of what it said except that the men on campus wouldn't recognize a feminine charm if it landed in their laps. Of course, it was in my handwriting. But since no one in this crowd of guys had ever looked over my shoulder, no one ever knew it was me.

Pete once cornered Trina and told her that he knew that she was Ivy, but she just laughed and denied it (truthfully) telling him that it was not her.

No one ever found out that I did this or that I was behind it in any way. I didn't get the expected results, but I had a lot of laughs.

Just as I have with all these bad dates over the years. If you can't change the way things are, reframe the whole situation by finding the enjoyable, funny, or intriguing aspects of it to focus on. This continues to be a major cornerstone of my worldview.

Bad Dates I Have Had

Seeing my college friend's face yesterday reminded me of a fiasco that we experienced together, and it prompted me to consider writing about something I--as someone who didn't marry until I was 44--know a lot about: bad dates. So here is the first in a series of several unfortunate and surprising experiences.

Back in college, the cafeteria opened up every Saturday night for entertainment purposes. It suddenly became "Henry's Hideaway," named after our cook, Henry Livergood. Snacks were available for purchase and movies or concerts would take place there (it was on the lower level of the girl's dormitory back then). One Sunday morning, my friend, Myrna, told me she had met a local man from town down at Henry's Hideaway. His name was Andy and he was 29 years old. She glowed over the fact that he liked literature and plays and so did she. They'd had a great conversation and he asked if he could see her sometime. She agreed. So he met her a couple times down there and they had good conversations more than once.

So it was just a matter of time before he invited her out on a date. He invited her to the Boston Ballet's Nutcracker Suite in Symphony Hall on a December evening. But realizing that she didn't know him well enough to feel comfortable going off with him by herself, he bought an extra ticket for her to bring along a friend. She came straight to me and asked me to be the third wheel. It all seemed pretty odd to me, but I wanted to see the Boston Ballet, so I agreed to go.

We waited together in her room to be called down to the lobby. When finally the call from the front desk came, we trotted down the stairs to meet Andy. I was wearing a dress with a matching vest and boots (okay--it was the 70s!) and Myrna was wearing a dress with high heels. We tripped into the lobby and there he was.

He looked uncannily like the Son of Sam Killer (David Berkowitz), who had recently been terrorizing New York City. Andy had a flat, white, waxy looking face with little eyes and a receding hairline. I knew it wasn't the serial killer, but he looked so much like him that I was speechless. I shook his hand and numbly followed him and Myrna out to the car. It was a huge boat-like car with one broad seat across the front. Of course, Myrna scooted in beside him and I was next to the door, so all three of us were in the front seat.

I should have known immediately that I shouldn't go off with this guy. He was 29 years old going off with two 20-year olds. And he listened to NPR talk radio all the way into Boston--almost an hour. Myrna and he chatted along happily all the way there. Myrna was an excellent conversationalist and I struggled with people I didn't know. We got to Symphony Hall late and had to watch the end of the first part on a TV monitor in the foyer. When we were finally seated, I heard two men behind us give what was to me, a chilling synopsis of the ballet: "You know," one said, "People think that this is just a children's tale, but the Nutcracker has very sinister sexual overtones." I shuddered. Great. And here I am with this wierdo on whatever kind of date this is.

After the production ended, Andy announced that he had reservations for an Italian dinner for us. At 10:30 p.m.? Yes, and it is in the Redlight District. How he knew about this place was beyond us, but off we went into hookerville. The sights were amazing on the way to this little hole-in-the-wall establishment that he seemed to know quite well. We were seated at a table by the window that looked out into a street with a storefront selling rainbow afro wigs. "If you girls want to powder your noses, there is a powder room just up the stairs" he announced in a monotone voice. Considering that women hadn't powdered their noses as a matter of course for at least 100 years, Myrna and I went up the stairs. As we stepped into the privacy of the bathroom she turned on me. "What is wrong with you?" she hissed. "You're hardly saying anything and it's rude. Andy has been very gracious in paying for both of us to be here for a concert and dinner and you need to talk with him."

"Myrna, he looks like the Son of Sam Killer and I'm still so shocked that I can hardly speak! I know he's not, but we don't know this guy and I don't trust him. He could take us out in an alley and kill us. I don't feel good around him. That's why."
Myrna's mouth fell open. "He does look like David Berkowitz, doesn't he?"
"But I'll try to do better."
"Just try to be more conversational with him."
"Okay. I'll try."

We went back downstairs and ate dinner. Myrna fell silent then and hardly said a word. I could see that my comments to her had scared her, so I started chatting up Andy. He was the most boring man I'd ever met. I have an image of him stirring his coffee while telling me all about the aluminum alloys that he worked with and what he did--in tedious detail. All the while I smiled and nodded, trying to be gracious. Among other things he talked about, was the annual ski trip he took with his family every year. Did I ski? Would I like to learn this year? I didn't like the direction of this conversation, but what was I to do?
I kept smiling and nodding.

Dinner ended at around 11:30. Our curfew was midnight and we never got a late pass from the Dean. So we were to get in trouble. We told Andy that we'd need to get back to school right away. But he had other plans.

For whatever reason, he felt that a stroll through Quincy Market at midnight would be just what we needed after that heavy Italian meal. So the three of us got out of the car and walked around in the semi-darkness. As he reached to put his arm around Myrna and pull her nearer to walk next to him, she linked arms with me and shot me a desperate look. Andy's arm was around her but without knowing it, he had his hand on my elbow. All the affectionate squeezes and pats were on my arm, not hers. It was so strange to feel that I was protecting her in this way.
What I remember about this wierd midnight walk was that there was a man on the corner hawking paper products. He shouted out, "Wrapping paper, wax paper, toilet paper..." Good grief.

As we got into the car we thought, Okay--now we can go home. We reminded Andy that we were already in trouble because it was curfew time. But he thought it would be a good time to drive past Old North Church. Then past the place where the Mayflower was docked. We could see the mast in the darkness as we whizzed past at 20 miles per hour. Myrna was no longer sitting up against Andy in the car. She was pressed up against me, who was smashed against the car door. Neither one of us felt comfortable with this guy now, who was decidedly eccentric, and who knew what else.

But finally we were on the freeway, heading back to the college. We had given up trying to converse with him, but he kept up a monotone monologue about really boring things. We nodded or gave one syllable responses and that was all he needed to verbally idle.

Suddenly he got off the freeway and headed off into the middle of nowhere.
"Andy," Myrna nervously asked, "Where are we going?"
"Oh--I want to show you girls something."
It was 1:30 a.m. by then. There were no lights visible and we were in the country. There were no houses, only open fields and woods.
"Andy, it is very late and we need to get back to the dorm."
He snickered. Snickered! And kept on driving--slowly down a snowy, dark road into the woods. The car came to a stop at the edge of a field.
"I think this place will do" he muttered, turning off the car. Myrna wriggled closer to me, as if that was possible.
"Just a minute." And he got out of the car.
"Lock the doors!" Myrna hissed at me.
"He has the keys. What good will that do?"
Myrna was almost crying now. Andy had popped the trunk and was rummaging around for something in there. We heard him drag what sounded like a heavy chain across the floor.
"Pray!" we both said in unison, reaching for each other's hands. Surely this guy had brought us out here to the middle of nowhere to rape us, slash our throats, and leave us to freeze to death in our own blood by the side of the road. No one would find us for days. We clung together waiting to see what our foolhardy behavior in going out with this guy would reap.

"Should we run for it?" Myrna asked.
She had on high heels. We didn't know where we were, and the snow was at least a foot deep. We would be visible against the white fields of snow. Where would we run to?
"No," I advised. "We'll fight to the death if we need to. I have brothers and I'm not afraid to brain this guy if I need to."
"I have a brother, too" Myrna reminded me. "But if he has a gun, it makes no difference. What is he going to do with that chain?"
Andy slammed the trunk and was chuckling about something. It made the hair go up on my arms. He had a huge spotlight kind of flashlight that he was shining down into the snow as he walked into the ditch and up onto the other side, next to a tall wooden fence. He shined the flashlight into the field on the other side.
"Come here, girls. You'll want to see this" he beckoned.
We looked at one another. Should we go? There was something clueless but not sinister about his invitation. We may as well face the music.
We got out of the car and into the snow, into the ditch with its two-foot snow drift, and up on the other side next to Andy. Our feet were cold, wet, and Myrna's shoes were full of snow.
He beamed the spotlight down onto something on the other side. "Here, look at this!" he enthused.
We peered over the fence straight into the eye of an American Bison that was lying down and trying to sleep. It was in a field with about 50 other buffalo, all of whom were lying down but regarding us with great interest. Why in the world do we need to see this at 1:30 in the morning, in the snow? This guy is nuts.

We made some appreciative murmuring sounds and climbed back into the car. What a relief. We were still alive. We were just with a very strange man. Off we sped, Andy happily regaling us with more factoids about metal composites all the way back to campus. As we pulled up in front of the residence hall, he jumped out to come around and open my door.
"If that guy tries to kiss me I'll beat him into the ground" Myrna announced.
Oh my goodness, kiss her? As a third wheel on a date, what was I supposed to do at a time like this? Stand there and watch? Avert my eyes? Shake his hand? Give him a peck on the cheek? What? This was one time when doing the conventional thing won out over common sense that told us to run out of the car and into the dormitory.

Myrna is a very gracious person. She took his arm as we walked up to the dorm. I trailed behind. Think, think...
As we got to the top of the steps, I could see June the Dean, sitting on the couch facing the door. She was wringing her hands and looked very worried. Uh-oh--June is on duty. She is probably afraid that we're frozen to the snow somewhere. We thought she was such an overprotective, Victorian prude. Her eyes lit up as she saw us come to the door.
Myrna stepped back against the wall of the porch, out of June's line of vision. Andy leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek.
"Thank you, Andy, for a wonderful evening," I heard her say. I had averted my eyes and was pressing the doorbell, just to be doing something other than watch them.
Andy suddenly stepped toward me. "It was wonderful to meet you, Barbara. I hope I'll see you again," I heard him say, as if he were miles away. In slow motion, I saw him lean toward me and plant a kiss on my lips. I looked up from him right into June's disapproving face as she was opening the door for us. "Come in, girls" she was saying, as she eyed Andy suspiciously, his hands on my shoulders.
Yuck. And I'm the third wheel on this date. He didn't have to do that. Great--now he's taken a shine to me. I looked over at Myrna and she looked somewhere between ill and bemused. We stumbled into the dorm's foyer.
June started right in. "I want a full explanation of what happened and why you're so late, girls." We were laughing and groaning all at once.
"Oh please let us go to bed. We will tell you everything you want to know tomorrow morning, first thing." She agreed and we went off to my room where we reviewed the whole disastrous evening, with howls of laughter and shudders. We were up talking and laughing with relief until nearly 3:00 a.m.

Needless to say, we never went out with Andy again--not together, not singly.

When I see my stepdaughters going out on dates, I remember Andy and thank God that he was just a backward sort of person, not a menace. We were the lucky ones who got away, when I think of all the women who get duped into going out with ax murderers and serial killers. It could have been us.
Thank God...

Melancholy Musings

Today is my church's 80th anniversary. There is a huge commemoration service going on right now at the church, complete with the last four pastors making speeches, pipe organ "wows," brass quartet and mass choir. Everything has a celebratory flair to it. I know, because I watched it on the internet this morning, sitting up in bed in my pajamas.
Sam went over to the church today because he is a producer for the televised broadcast of the events. I fell back asleep after he left.

It seems that my body is telling me to stay still and do nothing for awhile. Indeed, I don't want to go anywhere, see anyone, do anything. There has been too much hoopla of late: Grampa living with us for three months; Stepdaughter #1 moving in with us; difficulties with Mother; a reminder that my family is more distant than I considered them to be. Now I just want to sit on my bed and look out the window at the snowy mountains. During the week I've been very busy putting up curtains, shelves and hooks in the garage, rearranging boxes of everyone's stuff in storage, raking leaves and putting them in the garden where they can turn to mulch. Given how much rain we've been getting, it won't take long for them to decompose. There is just so much to be done around the house, which has been really enjoyable. But I haven't even started putting together two of the three syllabi for my classes that start on January 5th, nor have I revised two articles that are due at the end of the month; nor signed Mother up for Medicare Plan D.

Yesterday, the Christmas tree came down and all the ornaments went into boxes and back out to the garage. It was the first time I've felt too old to do this kind of thing. I gloried in the "Bah-Humbug!" feeling that came along with it all and I made a silent vow not to bother with any of it next year. The ornaments and colors seemed to add sadness to some internal nagging I've had for several weeks now. I suppose it's because I miss my father, am tired of a demanding mother, am heartsick that none of my siblings called over the holidays, and now have an irritated stepchild in the Marshall Islands who doesn't think Sam and I have done enough for her from afar, especially over the holidays.

Last night I climbed into bed at 5:30 p.m. to read and surf the net until 9:30 or so. Sam joined me and read for awhile before he drifted off. It was as I was idly doing a search for college friends that I read that the sister of a very dear friend had died. Her husband wrote a heartbreaking tribute to her through the form of a CD (he is a musician). It moved me to tears and only added to my sense of internal discomfort. (I was so disturbed that I even dreamed about her last night). My friend appears to still be teaching at a Christian high school, leading out in her community and church in very significant and meaningful ways. I was very proud of her and delighted to see a picture of her. We had such fun times in college and I wish I could see her again. I think I'll call her on Monday.

Then I wondered if I could find anyone else from college. Yes--I found three of the intelligencia of our college--one of whom wondered aloud why I, "an intelligent girl," he called me, was studying nursing instead of something "more intellectually stimulating." I could have beaned him and asked him if he'd like to have a dumb nurse or an intelligent nurse to take care of him, should he ever be hospitalized. He was mute with a superior air in response to my question. As I looked at the pictures of how these guys look now, I was surprised at how they have changed. But more than that, it was apparent that for all the outward intellectualism of this group of guys, the most vocal one does not appear to be doing a great deal with himself.

This reminded me of the work of Terman in the 1950s. He studied young men whose IQ was 140 and higher to see what had become of them. The prevailing idea at the time was that the higher the IQ, the more successful the individual would be. He was surprised to see that this was not at all the case. It seemed to tie in to Daniel Goleman's idea that success has more to do with emotional intelligence (EQ) that intellectual intelligence. I believe it, thinking back on the college acquaintance who, as my British friend would say, "Fancies his lemon drops!" I wondered though, after looking intently at his face, if he has found joy in life, and if life has become what he had hoped it would be. Life takes all of us in such different directions. Some of us are early bloomers and some people--like me--are very late bloomers. But there's no way to know this when you're a college student. There is no way to know that for us late bloomers, life will have much more than we ever dreamed it could hold for us, and that the ignominy of being the class nerd or oddball, will no longer hang over our heads. And some who were the cool ones, fizzle out or live their very mundane lives, or marry someone with a terminal illness lurking inside of their body. For many of us, grace has worked its miracle in our lives so that some of the hardness and exactitude that marked our younger lives is softened. We have found that we are not that much different from the next Joe, only our circumstances have prevented us from being in their shoes. There is just no way to know what has happened in my friend's lives. As I looked at my classmates, I wished so much that there was a way to see them and to ask them about where life has taken them and what they have learned along the way.

And so life moves on. I've not felt this low in many years. It has been a very hard season and I'm exhausted for many reasons. So it is a good day to stay in my nightclothes and watch the two hawks slowly circling over the nearby golf course. Some sleep, some talking with Sam, a nice lunch, a good walk in the bracing air and sunshine, a lazy afternoon--these will be the antidote I need. I miss my friends here and abroad; I miss my father; I miss my easier, sunny college days; and I miss having what felt like an intact family.

As I was writing this, my cell phone rang. It was Stepdaughter #1 who excitedly told me that she just found out that she passed her nursing boards. Congratulations! What a wonderful step for her. But even nicer, how wonderful that she would call me to tell me. Me, the stepmother. Maybe there are good things on the horizon in that arena.

So life goes on with its ebb and flow of ups and downs. I am grateful for what I have and delighted for how life is moving forward. I will join the forward flow tomorrow and see where it takes me.

Merry Christmas!

It was a quiet Christmas day for us. Mother, Sam, and I sat down to a turkey dinner with cranberry jelly, garlic mashed potatoes, portabello-zucchini fricasse, and brussel sprouts. There was fresh home made persimmon pudding with Brandy sauce for desert. It was yummy.
Mother and I watched a couple Laurel and Hardy videos, laughed our heads off, and then chatted for awhile. It was raining cats and dogs when I drove her back to her apartment. She was laughing and happy, delighted to have been with us. That was a wonderful Christmas present, right there.

When one takes the time to think about life in this world, it doesn't take long to eliminate all the things that don't really matter in the larger scheme: Christmas presents, notoriety, wealth, the latest countertops in the kitchen. These are lovely things, but you can't take any of it with you when it's time to die. But to have a spouse who love me, a Mother who is happy, a warm and inviting home where people love to come be with me--these are wonderful. A peaceful heart, warmth and understanding with Sam, having done all to be at peace with my family members, contentment because of the work I do--these have been wonderful gifts that I paused to thank God for this day.

So on the day that we celebrate the miracle of God With Us, may you also pause to consider all that you have that really matters, and give thanks to God for these things.

Traumatized

Found here

Work with traumatized individuals can traumatize the therapist, too. Hearing about blood, gore, loss of safety, life threatening experiences, witnessing hideous sights that play and replay in the mind--all of these are the stuff of Posttraumatic Stress Disorder.

I can't talk about my clients or say anything that would give away their identities. But I can tell you about my response to what I see and hear over the weeks and months that I work with my them. In the beginning of my work with a new client who has been traumatized, I typically have secondary traumatization symptoms for a day or two. There are unwanted dreams, preoccupation with what was heard in session, and a lull in my mood. I tend to want to be left alone and not talk to anyone until I can work it through in my mind and separate their story from my personal story which doesn't include the threats to safety that they have had.

So today I heard a story of incredible bravery in the face of danger. Heroic acts were performed that most of us wouldn't even think of. Lives were saved and death averted. But it emotionally disabled the heroes. They are afraid to burden their families with the horror of their story, so they come talk to me about it every week. I know the course of treated PTSD: initial exhiliration that they have survived (several weeks) followed by awareness of fear and vulnerability (few weeks), followed by major symptoms and relational difficulties due to intrusive flashbacks, nightmares, panic, dissociation, etc. If they are faithful in working it through--which is a daunting and frightening experience for many traumatized people--the symptoms will start to fall away after about nine months and they will be functional without crippling fears or memories. My client is just getting to the major symptom manifestation stage and is particularly anxious.

Most of the time in therapy I'm listening for exceptions to the hopelessness, pain, vulnerability, and negative symptoms so I'm focusing on something other than the sensational details they spill out. I think of what I'm hearing as a piece of a larger puzzle, and I'm thinking about what needs to happen so clients can think about their trauma in a less pathologizing way and move on with their lives after they work it through. Maybe I'm listening to the way they are expressing themselves: what isn't said or acknowledged? What is the focal point of their comments? How does this tie in with their interpretation of their value as a person? Where are the entry points to the story where new interpretations can be explored?

But there are times when the rawness of the story takes me by surprise and I carry it away on the inside of my soul. Today was such a day. It was a session that left me feeling as though I needed to come home and soak in a hot tub until I was like a piece of warm taffy. All these little bits of trauma, sadness, and pain that I pick up in therapy have to go somewhere. Since my worldview is that awful things do happen to good people, and that it's not safe here and that good-hearted people are placed in untenable situations, then I'm typically not shocked by hearing too much. But alas, I am human, too. My clients' panic as they explored another facet to their story, the horrifying experience that was endured, and the way they were reduced to survival behaviors--all of this impacted me more than usual. Perhaps I wasn't emotionally prepared for our session today. I noticed that as they spoke, I was struggling to step back and see the forest rather than the leaves on the trees, and I wasn't fully successful. A good night's sleep will rearrange all the facts, impressions, and story fragments in my head so that the stories of my clients will become part of the story of my life without eclipsing the future. I am grateful that I will wake up feeling considerably better and more clear-headed. They will wake up frightened, disoriented, and struggling to recognize that they are living now, December 22, 2008--not back when their trauma occurred.

God bless all these good folks.

I received an email from my cousin last week, who lives in Fitchburg Massachusetts. This came after the terrible snow storm that swept through and knocked out all the utilities and shut down almost the entire city. Here are parts of my cousin's letter:

Just an update as to our lives these days. Last Thursday at 8:30pm the power went out due to an ice storm we were having, and it continues to be out until MAYBE this coming Friday -- the electric company isn't sure. It depends on two snow storms that are about to hit us. One storm is coming in this Friday and dropping 6+ inches of snow, the other one is coming next Monday and they are calling it a severe Nor'easter. Currently, since last Thursday, we have no power, no heat, and EVERYTHING in both freezers and both refrigerators is gone. I had a bag of blueberries in the fridge downstairs that I was going to use for a blueberry cobbler, but they ended up fermenting and exploded in the fridge, so I'll have to clean that mess up. We have an ice chest that we keep bags of ice in, our milk, soda, or bottles of water. It was 28 degrees inside the house, and 10 degrees outside. Everything had an inch or more of ice on it, and when the worst hit last Friday night, you could hear the snap of branches or trees for miles around as they broke off or fell over and hit other things. It was also like the 4th of July as we watched the electric transformers at the bottom of our hill explode. Thank goodness for the fireplace which is certainly getting a work-out. We're just about out of seasoned wood from our pile under the deck, so we've been cutting up the limbs outside and trying to mix the green wood with the seasoned wood. So far so good. We borrowed [our children's] camp stove so we could heat water to at least take a "spit" bath and wash our hair. Our campstove made a lovely home for a bunch of field mice, and we had to throw it out.There are no generators to be had in the whole state. If you want to travel to Connecticut you could get one. Rhode Island is out, as well as New Hampshire. There are NO "D" batteries to be had anywhere -- grocery stores, hardware stores. We wanted to at least listen to our radio, but that didn't happen. I got the last 2 bags of ice that Hannaford's grocery store had. All cold lunch meats, yogurts, butter, etc. have been removed from the shelves in all stores. Our large cherry tree in the front yard was toppled over because of the heaviness of the ice. Our big arborvite (sp) at the corner of the house cracked and fell over. Our maple tree at the front of the driveway split in half and broke. Big branches in the back yard cracked and fell pulling down my clothes line. All the Chinese hedge trees we had across the side of our yard have broken so they will have to come up in the spring. Three of them have fallen on top of my lilac bushes. Massachusetts, NH, and Maine have been declared disaster areas. We have utility trucks from as far away as Tennessee, Pennsylvania and Ohio, and we also have the National Guard helping to clear away the debris. We have been able to go to work every day by carefully maneuvering down the hill and under wires that are hanging down. It looks like a war zone. There's about 250,000 people still without power. And now another 2 storms loom on the horizon. [We] have been going out to breakfast and meeting for supper every night. It's fun, in that I don't have to do dishes or clean the kitchen, but it's getting expensive... Anyways, we're OK. The dogs are OK, but I'm so very tired of the cold, and it's really starting to get to me. We keep telling ourselves that we're not alone in this disaster. We've been taking our cell phones out to the vehicles every night and plugging them into the charger - mine in the car, his in the truck - so they'll be ready to go the next day because we have no phone service.Oh well, this is life in the Northeast!! Just wanted you to know we're hanging in there.

When I spoke to my cousin this morning, she was standing in a foot of new snow and expected to get another 12-18 inches today. They have obtained a generator and now have heat in part of the house. She was able to have her first shower in 10 days, which was wonderful, as you can imagine!

I remember this kind of weather from when we lived back East. There was an awful winter storm in the early 70s that snowed us in completely. There were snow drifts up over the edge of the roof on our two-story house. We had to shovel a path through six foot snow just to get to the chicken house to feed our hens and collect the eggs. The dog used to run out onto the back porch and bound out into the snow, completely disappearing. My father and brother walked four miles into town to buy groceries one morning, and brought them back in a backpack in the afternoon. It was a freezing, blowing snow. When I think of the bravery of my father, I wonder how many of us would do that for our families nowadays.

It all is part of the New England soul--surviving extreme cold and snow, being prepared to be without food, water, and electricity, and still loving it because it's one of the most beautiful places on earth. I wish I were there.

Just not this week.

Bon Voyage, Dad!

Sam's father flew back home today after being with us for over three months for medical treatment here in Southern California. He has done very well here and has had a wonderful time reuniting with old friends from his younger years. He even got to meet his great-granddaughter, who, as you can see, only has eyes for him.

So we were up at 5:00 and out the door at 6:00 to get Dad to the airport. He cried as he said a departing prayer for us. He will miss being with us more than he can say. He truly felt at home here, and he was very easy to have in the house. I became the daughter to him that he never had, and as such, treated him with old world Puerto Rican respect and care: putting breakfast out for him, serving him meals while he patiently sat at the table waiting, laundered his clothes, changed his linens, and suggested matching tie and shirt combinations when he was dressing for church. I even gave him a haircut and a trim. I loved cooking for him and serving up good meals to him (he gained 11 lbs here!) We sang duets out of a Spanish songbook, him with a tolerant smile and determined glint in his eye, leaning back to belt out the high notes. It warmed my heart to be able to be with him, as I miss having my own father immensely.

We will miss hearing him sing "Besame, besame mucho" while he is shaving. I will miss picking him up at the hospital and darting off to a restaurant for lunch, him grinning mischieveously as though we were doing something forbidden and great fun. Perhaps it was that Sam wasn't with us and we got to do these things without him.

Sam loved to walk into church with Dad taking huge steps to keep up with him. Sam glowed in a way that I have not seen him glow before--the love for his father and his delight to be in his company. It was lovely, warm, and endearing to see them talking together about old times.

Dad loved it when I linked arms with him and walked along with him, talking close into his ear. It amused us both that people who had never met Sam thought that I was married to Dad when they saw us together. Good heavens! I tower above him, and he's a mere 34 years older than I am! We had many laughs about this.

He did well with his treatments, and went home looking considerably more happy and comfortable than when he came. His energy level is wonderful and his face shines. We are very grateful.

Dad missed my mother-in-law terribly. Although they spoke on the phone a minimum of twice each day, they did not see one another for over three months. Their anniversary was just yesterday and he sent Mom flowers. She sent him a beautiful, touching card. They will be celebrating their years together today, but also the fact that they can be together. We are waiting for him to call us to give us word that he has arrived safely. Perhaps after he and mom have a good smooch, he'll remember to call us.

In the meantime, his smiling face and stacatto accent are imprinted in our hearts. It was a delight and a treat to have him.

Memories and Change

Found here

I love this picture. It reminds me of my older brother and I because I used to dress up in a white tablecloth and play bride and groom with him. We have a very cute picture of he and I dressed up pushing our daschound, Schultz, in a baby carriage. Schultz was wearing a little white doll's dress that he begrudgingly allowed us to put on him. Apparently I had not yet learned sequence of life as found in the playground rhyme: "First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes baby in a baby carriage."

I drove down to Irvine last night to have dinner with my brother, who came out on a whirlwind, overnight trip. It was good to be able to see him--nothing about him has changed and he is the same big brother, issuing advice and feeling grave concern for me that he always has. We had a wonderful meal at the ClaimJumper at South Coast Plaza (the Tilapia Veracruz was perfect!) and then walked through the mall just to get some exercise. It is a good sized mall but the stores are so upscale that I could probably not afford to buy even a keychain in many of them: Gucci, Hugo Boss, Vendi, Yves Delorme, Porsche Design, John Varvados--not the kind of stores to go into if you are trying to stick to a reasonable budget.

I decided to look for comfortable shoes and was telling Brother that ugly shoes are an occupational hazard for professors. He stared blankly at me. Since we're on our feet so much, we wear "sensible shoes." It seems that the more education a woman has, the uglier her shoes. Most of my professors at the University of Minnesota wore beautiful suits. Then when they walk away you notice that they are wearing hideous leather loafer type shoes that one would never wear with a suit in any other venue. In fact, we had some internationally known researchers give a presentation at our university and both of these women wore wretchedly ugly shoes with beautiful suits, scarves, and blouses. I warn my female students about this and they laugh, looking down at my shoes--which for the most part, are dressy and pretty. But my feet have been hurting me and ugly shoes have become more appealing somehow.

So Brother and I were looking for shoes for me that were reasonable in cost and somewhat appropriate in design. I found two pair of low heels that are basic colors and will go with anything. He found a very cute pair of red shoes and decided that I needed them.

"These are snappy shoes, Barb. They will really make your wardrobe pop, especially if you wear them with a navy suit."

He's right. They would. His wife, who is a hair stylist and quite aware of design and style, has taught him well. I agreed with him and told him that I needed some basic comfortable heels first and then I'd consider the red shoes.

"Wouldn't you rather be memorable because of how snappy you look with these shoes? I think they'd be comfortable, and you probably would wear and wear them."

I doubt it. Especially at their astronomical price.

"I'm not a red shoe kind of woman, but I will promise you that I will buy a pair of red shoes in the next year because this is a good idea. How's that?"

He looked forlorn as if I had rejected his sense of style entirely.

We walked on through the mall, me wearing a new pair of black heels, and him in his size 12 WWWWWW cowboy boots.

It was nice to be with him again. Even if I dare not tell my mother that he was here because he didn't want to see her. (and those of you who know her, please do not mention that I saw him. She would wonder why I didn't tell her and it would be too painful for her to know that he didn't want to be around her).

What was interesting to me, and probably to many adults with siblings, is how we can so easily hark back to times when we had a corporate identity and shared the same memories, beliefs, and attitudes. But we grew apart as he moved to the Southeast and I moved to the Southwest. He is accustomed to southern belles and has always wished I was more like that. I, on the other hand, got into conflict with my father because he wanted to send me to college in the South so I would be a "refined southern woman." I would have rather taken up skydiving. It was a conflict of legendary proportions because I wanted to go to New England and pursue things that really interested me.

So pur political views, sense of style, beliefs about people--so many things--have been influenced by our lives after childhood in these diverse geographical areas. We are influenced by the fact that his wife is a combination of Lebanese and Southern belle, and my husband is a Puerto Rican, Angelino (L.A.), father of three. Brother is extremely conservative politically, and I am quite liberal. He hates leaving home and I've traveled abroad numerous times. Religiously, he is quite liberal and I am more conservative.

As I bumped into reminders of our difference, I was struck by how our relationship exists in the tension of what used to be and what is, now. I will always love my brother, and he will love me--regardless of what kind of shoes I wear or what I espouse politically. Probably all siblings experience the growing awareness that what was--our childhood mutuality--becomes more of a memory than an ongoing dynamic, but that the love that began there continues on through life.

Freedom

Found here

One of the greatest gifts that God gave humanity was the freedom of choice. He could have created us so that it was imperative that we performed only certain acts and experienced a proscribed range of feelings. We could have been forced into only one way of being. Everyone has the freedom to choose how they will live and what they want to do with their life. Even though it hurts oneself or those whom they claim to love.

It is the ethical obligation of all mental health workers to encourage self determination of those who have the mental competency to make their own decisions. A common question that arises is how one knows whether or not the mental health consumer is of sound mind and capable of making such decisions that affect their future. For example, take a young man with schizophrenia. While he is taking his medication he can make fairly decent decisions and he may choose to go off his meds. But say that once he does, he becomes completely confused, hearing voices and becoming antagonistic to others. At that point, do you force him to take his meds again, since he went off them knowing what would happen to him? (This is possible particularly for those people with severe mental illness who have had a prolonged course and who realize what happens by experience). Or do you allow them to live on the streets and become a menace?
Many mental health practitioners make the decision to allow mental health consumers to make their own future. Problem is, they often aren't accountable for their subsequent actions and everyone else has to pay for their actions, emotionally and financially. So where is the line between accountability and freedom? This was the question that the existentialists asked: how does one balance freedom and responsibility?

I ask this question of myself these days because Mother informed me today that she went off her antidepressant/anti-anxiety medication and has no intention of going back on it for any reason. Even though I've shared with her how pleased I've been that she went on it and that she was more fun and enjoyable while she was on it than any other time I've ever known her. Now she has become antagonistic, irritable, and roiling in her grief and sense of geographic dislocation. I realized today for perhaps the first time, that no matter what I do for her, it cannot make up for the other three children who choose not to be in contact with her. And even if I give up my job and my relationships and decide to stay with her 24/7, she would continue to be unhappy because she has depression. It is not because I'm not good enough as a daughter, not because I've done something wrong, or because I don't spend enough time with her or do enough things in the community for her to feel proud about.

Her mood is not about me.

And yet I will have to pay for her decision in the long run. It is not appropriate for me as a daughter to neglect her and avoid her. It is very hard to be in her company though as she is because it is very sad to see her in such pain, and it is painful for me to be the recipient of her irritability. She has made the decision herself and I am struggling with the balance of responsibility and freedom. I keep telling myself that I also have freedom and responsibility. My responsibility is to be a good daughter. I only wish I knew how to do that in this situation. She may have also gone off some of her anti-hypertensives, too. She acts as if she has. Mother claims that her medications have given her some sort of rash and she becomes hostile and beligerant if I ask her about which medications she is taking. "I'm not taking any more of those %@#$ medications. They only have given me problems." No they haven't. And if they have given her a rash, she hasn't used the medicated cream that I took her to the doctor to get. Why? I'm not sure except that she feels that she has a better way to treat it (I don't know what that is).

So my mother may have a stroke or be so overcome by depression that she opts to die of her own accord. What a horrible prospect. But I have almost expected that she would take her own life for years now. It has been especially likely in the aftermath of my father's death. I can't stop her. I can't make her pain better. I can't give her what she needs to undo her awful childhood that left her looking for love and approval from everyone--even her children. This is one situation that I cannot control. She does not listen to my reasoning and I'm not willing to have her go on another rant when I try to explain the need for her meds. I wonder why I ever came here (to California) in the first place. I really don't care about anything. I'm sick unto death with... and it goes on and on. Then after awhile she brightens, but I'm left with all the negativity, despair, and anger that doesn't belong to me.

It is impossible to be a therapist to myself or my mother. Any therapist I know would encourage me to set limits with her regarding objectionable behaviors of which I am the target, and to create conditions for spending any length of time with her. This is quite difficult. Even though while she has been on her meds, she had wonderful things to say about me, without them I am either not sensitive enough to her pain or she seems to grovel because I am a busy person and must not have time for her, etc. In any event, I have to pay for her behavior.

My siblings do not know. Two do not care and one would not do anything to help although he does profess to care about her. I'm trying to do what is right for my mother in spite of having no support from my siblings. It is an extremely lonely circumstance and I do the best I can to be connected to everyone in this situation: parent and siblings. Because in a few years I may only have my siblings. But then, after the way I have had to shoulder these responsibilities alone, their disinterest and silence on the issues surrounding Mother's life and care, creates a rift that I'm not sure can be fully bridged. I will try, but this situation is taking a toll on more than just my mother.

I've said before that God wants us to be holy in a very deep place. I still believe this. And that my job is to honor and respect my parents in every way I can. But jeopardizing my own mental health and the happiness of my marriage, is not part of that. It is a time to pray, to be thoughtful, and to balance kindness with firmness. Determination with tenderness. There are not a lot of clear examples of this for me, so I'm making it up as I go along, grateful for the knowledge that I'm doing the best I can and that God will somehow sustain me. My concern is that this will get very bad before it's over. And if it is, I pray that I will remain a loving, hopeful, faithful, warm-hearted and giving person who can set limits and not allow the poor choices of others to limit my usefulness or determining my own emotional wellbeing. That is my freedom to own it, and my responsibility to make it happen.

First Snow

Photo by Jay Calderone of The Desert Sun

This morning, as I rolled over in bed and noticed that it was getting light outside, I noticed with surprise how cold it was in our bedroom. We like sleeping with the windows open and since we have an elderly parent staying with us and he is usually cold, we had closed our bedroom door to keep in the cold and keep out the heat. Sam mumbled something about how cold it was and we rearranged ourselves for maximum warmth under the down comforter. A bit later, I was awakened by Otis who was yowling out in the hall. He was thirsty and very cold. How snuggly he gets when he is cold...

In fact, we had our first snow in the mountains. It was 29 degrees Farenheit this morning. It is a gorgeous day in Southern California: bracing crisp air, clear views (which in itself is a minor miracle), and just enough sun to keep us from freezing during daylight.

It makes me realize that I have tons of work to do out in the yard and that I'd better get to it. There is a rosebush to plant out front by the sidewalk, the vegetable garden to mulch and rake, the golden honeysuckle shrub to put in the ground and calla lillies and tulip bulbs to put in the ground before it is frozen. It's a beautiful, beautiful day.

I'm grateful that we are not living in New England this morning. My cousin's phone service is out so I can't check in on her, but she lives very close to Worcester, Massachusetts and I'm certain that she is without electricity and is very cold. The whole Northeast is in trouble from ice storms. I'm looking out my bedroom up into rolling green hills in one direction, and snow covered mountains (about 30 miles away) in the other direction. Lovely, just lovely.

The laundry is almost done, the banana bread is baked and given to Sam's brothers, and fresh chocolate chip cookies are waiting for Stepdaughter #1 (who is now living with us). Sam has had the car serviced this morning and is now busy with the family bookkeeping.

Time to go outside and get busy.

Memory Quilt

When I was 10 years old, I learned how to embroider outlines that were ironed on to plain white fabric. I had a real fascination with some little Dutch figures that my mother found and transferred onto the cloth for me. I stayed busy working on these squares for hours. We seldom watched television and in fact, for many years we didn't own a television. Therefore, we occupied ourselves with handiwork, talking to one another, or in the games and mischief we could manufacture. After I finished quite a number of embroidered squares, I put them aside and forgot about them.

It was after I moved out to California that Mother surprised me by sending me a completed baby quilt that she put together with this bright pink patterned flannel. It is very soft and bright and is pouffy from the polyfil that she sewed into it. Any small child would like it because it's so cheerful and cuddly. I think that Mother despaired that I would ever have children. After all, I was at the ripe age of 24 and was barely dating anyone. Maybe this baby quilt would make me think about motherhood.

In fact, I thought about it all the time. A brood of sons would have suited me quite well, since I didn't think my sensibilities were delicate enough to raise daughters. But a broken engagement and the family response to my near marriage deterred me from moving toward any kind of permanent relationship for many years. Even though I longed for a family of my own, it was just not to be.

So my quilt stayed rolled up and carefully wrapped, stored in the antique travel trunk of my great grandfather Bettinger. I also had a little yellow dress with smocking and flowers embroidered across the top that Mother made after I challenged her attitude about my prospects. If your comments about wanting me to marry and have children are substantial it seems that you will make something--anything at all--to go in my hope chest. So she made me a darling little yellow and white dress for a tiny little girl.

When Sam and I were packing to move to our new home this summer, I opened up Grampa Bettinger's trunk and pulled out the baby quilt. One side of it had my embroidered squares. The other was a butterfly pattern superimposed on squares of material that Mother had saved from all the clothing she sewed for us. There's a leftover piece of material from my 8th grade graduation dress; something from the (hideous) bridesmaid dress I wore for my sister's wedding; a couple blouses I had made for myself; and a shirt of Mother's. The black and white gingham was the little scrap left over from the matching dresses Mother had made for herself, my sister and I. As if we didn't stand out enough in matching dresses, she then made my father and two brothers shirts out of it. We all laughed at how we looked: "It looks like we got a run on a bolt!" (of cloth). We made it a point not to wear them all at the same time after that first time because we all looked and felt ridiculous. The quilt was fun to look at because my mind went back to the sewing room at the back of our country house, and I remembered sewing back there for hours, looking out across corn fields, past the freshly laundered clothes hanging outside to dry.

I looked at this quilt for a long time, feeling very sad that it had never been used. Given that I have no children to pass it along to, and my neice and nephew would not appreciate it, I didn't know what to do with it. It is such a sweet quilt that it seemed a waste to merely keep it hidden away in a dusty old trunk.

Then I thought of Nancy. She and I grew up together--the rotten egg thrower, the girl who taught me about country life, and with whom I played for hours as a child. She also married late. She and her husband have adopted three children from Kazakhstan, the youngest one within the last year. I still had not sent her a baby gift.

Nancy sews, crochets, and does a lot of things I grew up doing, so she would appreciate the work that went into this. And no one I know would be a better recipient of this quilt than she because she shared so much of my young life with me. So it was a bittersweet experience to say goodbye to my dreams of motherhood and send it off to her. I cried for a long time, looking at it, turning it over in my hands, and remembering--remembering years of disappointed hope and so many dreams. As it went out in the mail, a chapter of my life ended and another began.

Nancy was moved and delighted to receive my package. I have not missed it and her little girl is delighted with it. Nancy wraps up her children in it and tells them stories from our young lives--all the things we did together, and many little vignettes about my family. It fills me with joy to know that this quilt is giving these beautiful children a sense of belonging and warmth.

The Sacred Harp

Shape note singing has been around in this country since its colonization. It was a way of teaching young children how to read music and to sing. Each note corresponded with a note on the sol-fegge scale (fa-so-la, etc.) and had a different shape: rectangular, triangular, circular, square. So any child, if she could see the shape, could sing the corresponding tone. It is a very clever method of singing. It was particularly suited to congregational or group singing. Everyone is invited to sing in these groups, not just those with voices that are considered particularly worth listening to. Shape note singing groups usually have bases that bellow and altos whose voices are so strident that they can strip wallpaper. People wail away at a great volume, tremendous enthusiasm, and sing with their whole souls. In another post I said that there needs to be more singing by people in this country--not the polished, perfect music, but the singing that arises from a soul on fire. Shape note singing is such a practice. Old and young sing side by side without distinction. (go here and here to see an example).


Typically, the seats are arranged in a square and the leader--who can be anyone: man, woman, or child, with or without any kind of singing voice--stands in the center. They make an up and down motion with their hand to keep time. The tenor gives the starting note and off they go. The first time, the song is sung through on the fa-so-la syllables. Then the fun begins with the words. Some of the songs are dirge-like and others sound surprisingly similar to Scottish bagpipe tunes. The level of community engagement is unlike almost anything else I've ever seen.


Singings, as they are called, are usually an all day event, with dinner on the ground (a potluck lunch) in the middle of the day. The best singing occurs right before and right after lunch. The singing begins with a heartfelt prayer for God to be present, and ends with an equally fervent prayer of thanks at the end. It is a time of fellowship and anyone of any age, faith, or ability is welcome.

There are a few hymnals that are written in shape note, but the most famous by far is called "The Sacred Harp," the harp being the human voice. Most of the songs were composed around the time of the Civil War and the Great Awakening period in U.S. History. Thus, many songs are about Christ's return, the Christian life, and an earnest desire to live apart from a sinful world. Songs in this book are indexed by their tune name, not the first line of the song: Warrenton, Hyferdol, Alabama, etc. Here are the lyrics of one of my favorite hymns in the book:

When I can read my title clear

To mansions in the skies,

I bid farewell to every fear,

And wipe my weeping eyes.

And wipe my weeping eyes,

And wipe my weeping eyes

I bid farewell to every fear,

And wipe my weeping eyes.

Should earth against my soul engage,

And hellish darts be hurled,

Then I can smile at Satan’s rage,

And face a frowning world.

And face a frowning world,

And face a frowning world,

Then I can smile at Satan’s rage,

And face a frowning world.

Let cares, like a wild deluge come,

And storms of sorrow fall!

May I but safely reach my home,

My God, my heav’n, my All.

My God, my heav’n, my All,

My God, my heav’n, my All,

May I but safely reach my home,

My God, my heav’n, my All.

There shall I bathe my weary soul

In seas of heav’nly rest,

And not a wave of trouble roll

Across my peaceful breast.

Across my peaceful breast,

Across my peaceful breast,

And not a wave of trouble roll

Across my peaceful breast.

The trailer for a very interesting movie documentary on shape note singing is found here. You will hear very strident, open chords, wierd harmonies. But for some of us, it is a tie back to the early days of this country, and an opportunity to keep this form of community music alive. I think that if more communities came together and sang like this, the country would be very different and so would the health of people and society in general.

Found here


BATTER my heart, three person'd God; for, you
As yet but knocke, breathe, shine, and seeke to mend;
That I may rise, and stand, o'erthrow mee,'and bend
Your force, to breake, blowe, burn and make me new.

I, like an usurpt towne, to'another due,
Labour to'admit you, but Oh, to no end,
Reason your viceroy in mee, mee should defend,
But is captiv'd, and proves weake or untrue.
Yet dearely'I love you,'and would be loved faine,
But am betroth'd unto your enemie:

Divorce mee, 'untie, or breake that knot againe;
Take mee to you, imprison mee, for I
Except you'enthrall mee, never shall be free,
Nor ever chast, except you ravish mee.

John Donne

Say it ain't so!

I was very pleased once, to be invited to sing with two friends on Pier 39 in San Francisco. It is in one of my favorite cities and I'd never sung in Elizabethan costume before. The music was interesting, too. Three-part madrigals about sad sack lovers and the pain of love, all written in renaissance style. When the day came, our male friend, Chris, was suited up in brown tights, a little tunic type piece of clothing with a tight belt, and an Elizabethan collar. If I remember correctly, he was quite a spectacle next to Shelly and I, wearing our nondescript flowing, brownish outfits. He looked like a noble and I looked like a scullery maid. But in any event, we found a nice little spot on the pier, put down a hat to collect money in, and began singing for all we were worth.


To our credit, we were young, had good strong voices, and sounded great together. A number of men looked appreciatively at Chris' long shapely legs in tights. We found that quite funny. At one point, Shelly and I switched from three-part motets over to a little song for two voices. It was a little renaissance ditty, and we loved the harmony of it, our voices meandering over and under one another in intricate counter melodies. I guess I'd never paid attention to the lyrics, for suddenly we found ourselves singing,

There we meet together and we kiss each other;
And like two wantons dilly dally...

Followed by a number of dilly dallies, over and under. The meaning of this was unclear, but we were having such a great time singing loudly over the sound of the waves and the people in and around the shops that we really didn't pay attention to the words. It was one of very few period songs that we had found which was written for two a capella women's voices. As we dropped our jaws and opened our mouths wider in order to project our voices, we suddenly heard ourselves singing,

There we meet together And we kiss each other

And like two wontons dilly dally...

It was too much and we erupted into gales of laughter. The little knot of listeners dispersed in disgust. We couldn't collect ourselves. It took quite awhile to pull ourselves together and shed our wonton personas. To this day, we laughingly sing out the offending line and have a good chuckle.

Shelly was present another time once when another lyric caught us off guard. We were singing in the Bullfinch church in Lancaster, Massachusetts.

Found here

We were singing in a group called Jubilate, a small choral group at our college. We were singing the beautiful Drop, Drop Slow Tears by Phineas Fletcher. The words are beautiful, moving, simple:

Drop, drop, slow tears, and bathe those beauteous feet,
which brought from heaven the news and Prince of Peace.
Cease not, wet eyes, his mercies to entreat;
to cry for vengeance sin doth never cease.
In your deep floods drown all my faults and fears;
nor let his eye see sin, but through my tears.

Few songs I know are more lofty and moving that this. But as we held forth in the wooden pews in that acoustically wonderful balcony, we heard ourselves singing,

See snot wet eyes, his mercies to entreat...

Oh, this will never do. We worked it out so that careful enunciation allowed us to side step this verbal disaster. But not a time do I hear it but that I smile.

You've heard things like this before--the words that run amok when sung carelessly or too quickly, such as "Gladly the cross I'd bear" (Gladly the cross-eyed bear). It sounds pretty funny to me, and I'm sure, to listeners all over. Perhaps it accounts for the distinct "smiling" vocal quality of the King's Singers on their album when they sing,

Weep o mine eyes and cease not

Keep your ears open. You too, will hear all sorts of things like this when you least expect it!

Fatal Flaws vs. Confounding Conundrums

Recently I've been thinking a lot about how God's beloved ones can be spiritually sound but socially or emotionally unsound. By this I mean, how people who are awkward, offensive, outspoken, rough around the edges, and who can still be so attuned to God that they cannot be faulted, spiritually. Some folks are so off-putting, but you can see that their faith is unwavering, their spiritual discernment clear, and their desire to please God is foremost in their minds.
And yet they may make for the worst companions you can imagine.

I suppose this has been figural for me since my path has taken a turn toward a few people who are difficult to be around. Pious people who are dear to the heart of God. One person in particular is someone I would describe as emotionally rabid, unstable, vitriolic, and socially inept. Yet he has a strong daily prayer life, going over a detailed prayer list every morning with God. He stands for high standards of moral behavior and academic competence. Yet he seems to try to cut me off at the knees whenever I appear to excel in anything that is different than his interests. It is always puzzling to me to be the recipient of his emotionally charged hit-and-run attacks. Especially when they occur in front of others who are shocked by his remarks (not to mention how blindsided I feel). But he would give the shirt off his back for another person in need. A person whom he believes is in need, I should clarify.

Then there is a woman who very humbly and with great feeling discusses her sense of awe about God who has lead her through very trying times. I am inspired and uplifted by her story. Yet her behavior is so offensive to me and others who comment about her. I simply don't like her, even though I know she is secure in God.

How is this possible?

I think about this sometimes when I'm standing in front of the mirror in the mornings, getting ready to go to work. How can I be so intent on following God through a life of service but still be so insecure about students not liking me? How can I lie awake in bed at 5:00 a.m. and plead with God to help me see and be more aware of how much He loves me, but be so vindictive and angry with my own family members? How is it possible for me to gather my feelings of generosity closer to me and refuse to extend grace to people who have deeply wounded me? Even though so many of these things have been taken to God in prayer and I resolve to be more open and accepting of others whom I adjudge to be undeserving. At the same time I am confident of God's grace being extended to me while I continually share my concerns with Him and ask for my heart to be changed.

Perhaps this is just the human condition showing through. Paul described this conundrum beautifully in Romans 7:21 - 25

So I find this law at work: When I want to do good, evil is right there with me. For in my inner being I delight in God's law; but I see another law at work in the members of my body, waging war against the law of my mind and making me a prisoner of the law of sin at work within my members. What a wretched man I am! Who will rescue me from this body of death? Thanks be to God—through Jesus Christ our Lord! So then, I myself in my mind am a slave to God's law, but in the sinful nature a slave to the law of sin.

Indeed. As I struggle along the road to heaven I will not be perfect in all things. Probably, almost nothing. But God working in my life allows me to serve Him in my mind, to yearn after Him and His righteousness. Even though my behaviors are off-putting and I am not fully developed or refined emotionally, socially, physically or spiritually. The goal I have for myself is to extend this same degree and kind of grace to those around me who are not perfect outwardly, yet who love God from the inside out.

God help us all.

Consolation Prize

Today I finished up work very early--at 10:00. So it befell me to bring Dad home from his cancer treatment and get him settled into the house. We were leaving town and I casually remarked that I was hungry. "Well, lez go it" he remarked. "Where you wan to go?"
We thought about it for a few minutes before I drove us over to a Peruvian restaurant that opened just a couple months ago. Dad was enthusiastic.
Here are pictures of the things we had: Papa Relenna (above). It is a shell of fresh mashed potatoes and is filled with shredded beef, raisins, onions and olives. I picked out the raisins and there wasn't much in the way of beef inside, but what I ate was excellent. It was amazingly good, as was the shredded onion salad. I don't know what the seasoning was on the onions, but it was sweet and very fragrant.


This is called Arroz chaufa con pollo. It is a Chinese inspired dish of fried rice with various and sundry things in it. Chaufa is the way the chicken is prepared: in little chunks. Dad kept laughing and saying, "I dun't know this chaufa thing." But I noticed that it disappeared from his plate rather quickly.

Found at 222.Tiwy.com

We were given this little basket with little wizzened somethings in it. I first thought it was fried beetles. Then as I looked at it, I told dad, "It should be called Diente la vecchia (old lady's teeth)." He winced as he laughed at my linguistic efforts.

The drink is a fruit drink laced with cinnamon. It was absolutely fantastic, whatever it was. The waitress told Dad (in Spanish) that it is made in a pressure cooker and that was about all that I could pick up. It was wonderful.

Dad and I were regretful that Gil couldn't join us, but we have an entire entre to share with him when he gets home today. "He not gonna like you bringing me home early any more becau he dun't get what we do." I agreed.

"Oh, but that wah goood!" Dad effervesced.

I couldn'g agree more.