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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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...

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.

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.

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.