Urban Legend

Found here

This week I heard a very interesting story from a woman who used to live in the same Midwest area that I did for a short time:

There was a brewery for many years in this town and it was known for a special beer called "Champagne Velvet." By all reports, it had a very smooth and satisfying flavor. People traveled for miles just to have some.
Then came Prohibition. Overnight, the brewery was shut down and the windows and doors sealed off. No one went in or out of the place for as long as Prohibition was in effect. People had saved Champagne Velvet for their own use at home, but there was none for sale anywhere for many years.

When Prohibition was lifted, the brewery owners (who by now had started a restaurant across the street) decided to get into the old place and start manufacturing Champagne Velvet again. They started by emptying out and using up the champagne that was still in the vats in the warehouse. There were several and they were very large tank-like receptacles that could hold about the same amount as half a cement truck can carry. They were thrilled to find this cache and they began serving it up almost immediately.

As they got to the bottom of the vat, some months after finding the vat, they discovered a human skeleton (don't gag...) They didn't know who it was, until someone suggested that it was a former brewery employee that had gone missing several months before the brewery had been sealed up. So the Champagne Velvet had been specially enriched.

Horrid story, isn't it? Do you think it could be true? Or just another urban legend?

Accountability

It is very hard to make people do things. Especially when they don't want to. It is hard to make people happy, or sober, or healthy, when their behavior guarantees other outcomes. Some of us put in moments, hours, nights, to try to figure out what we can do to prompt someone else to change. No matter how slick or intelligent, or even how informed one might be, if the object of our concern doesn't put forth effort to work in their own behalf, change will not happen. The more people refuse to change, the more manipulative and demoralized the other becomes.

This is called rescuing behavior. Some people invite others to rescue them. I know of a couple women who go from congregation to congregation, friend to friend, telling their story of woe, hoping that someone will do for them what they are not willing to do for themselves. Other people will merely come close to you and expect that you will act in their behalf.

Sadly though, some people will kill themselves no matter what you try to do for them. Some people will lose relationships and wreck their lives waiting for someone else to make their lives swell. When these unfortunate events do happen, the rescuer feels like a failure and slinks off feeling resentful for all that they suggested that was not taken seriously or done.

We love people close to us. Most of us will bend to the limit to try to help these loved ones. It is hard to see others suffer. Almost impossible though sometimes, to get other people to do what they need to do for themselves unless we get out of their way and leave them alone. It's hard to find that middle road between rescuing and ignoring the suffering. What is reasonable to offer them? What limits need to be set so we remain sane, balanced, and without guilt for their choices? How do we know if these people are even capable of making choices in their best interest? Is it wrong not to step in and try to help if they are so distraught that they are emotionally immobile? Or is that still meddling and rescuing?

There are pains in this life that I long to look back on--they are not easy in the slightest to weather at present. It takes wisdom that I don't have, and grace that I desperately need, to know how to manage the difficulties that need to be continually faced. I solicit your prayers for the loved ones who are blinded by their own hurt that they struggle acting in their own best interests. And I know God will be close, loving us all more than we can comprehend.

Where to?

Mother's birthday was last week, and I took her out for a nice lunch to celebrate. When I picked her up at her senior apartment, I handed off a pretty potted plant, which she immediately took back up to her apartment before we left. A kind looking older gentleman held the door open for her to go inside.
I sat in the car with the engine on so I didn't have to leave the air conditioned car. The gentleman came over and stooped down to look into the passenger window of my car. I smiled and waved. I didn't know him but he seemed friendly enough.
Thinking he wanted to ask me something, I rolled down the window on his side just as he opened the door.
"Hi!" he called out.
"Well, hello!" I replied.
The man climbed into the car and sat down across from me, his feet firmly planted on either side of my large purse on the floor in front of him.
He reached for the seatbelt and started belting himself in. I had no idea who this man was.
"Where are we going?" I asked, hoping that would snap him out of whatever he was thinking.
"I feel like Marie Calender's today." He folded his hands in his lap and looked expectantly at me.
This was interesting. I cocked my head to one side and looked at him. He smiled back, waiting for me to drive off.
"Do I know you?" I asked. I hoped that this would gently let him know that I wasn't going anywhere with him.
"Well, you're Jean, aren't you?" he looked bewildered.
"No, I'm waiting here for my mother, who you just passed, going inside with a potted plant. We're going out this afternoon."
He regarded me for several seconds. "You're not Jean?"
"No. I'm Barbara." I hated for him to feel badly, but I was quite shocked.
"You could be a close cousin to Jean. She's one of the caretakers here. You look just like her!"
"Wow. I'd like to see who that is!"
He unfastened his seatbelt and hopped out of the car. "It was a case of mistaken identity" he said without humor.
"Don't give it another thought," I said, truly hoping he wouldn't feel badly. His vision must not have been too good. Or maybe I truly did look like Jean.
Mother came out the door moments later. I had been chortling to myself and the gentleman was sitting on the bench waiting for Jean.
"Where are we going for lunch?" Mother asked.
I smiled. "I feel like Marie Calender's today."
We had a great lunch there and a good laugh. Sometimes it can be so humbling to be human!

Research Class

I'm preparing to teach a doctoral level survey of therapy research course in three weeks. In the textbook are chapters about various types of investigation, following a chapter that calls for greater sophistication in family research. The next chapter is a guide for graduate students who wish to conduct research in our field. Qualitative, quantitative, mixed method, and postmodern approaches are covered. I'm salivating over this material but I'm sure my students will wish they could die rather than take this course.

Halfway through the second chapter, it occurred to me that the study of the Bible includes almost every element of my textbook. Learning about Jesus Christ through the Bible happens in all of these methods. Here's what I'm thinking:

Case studies. The Bible is full of these. Case studies are detailed, single stories that describe what works. We have case studies from beginning to end--many of which outline the grace of God, who meets us where we are. Other case studies tell about people whose lives went the wrong way but who tried to pull back before they died (Samson). People come alive in case studies. Each story illustrates a specific idea: that even an animal will speak if we disobey God; that God can do the unthinkable (Lot's wife turning into a pillar of salt); that God still works in the lives of people who have horrible belief systems (the Levite and his concubine).

Petit Histoire. This is the postmodern type of a case study. Postmodern researchers say that everyone has a story that is as important as all the statistics that describe what the majority of people do, feel, think, experience. The people who are not like the majority of others can teach us a great deal. We learn much from those short stories in the Bible that give us a glimpse of some facet of our forbearer's faith and life experience. So rather than say that because 70% of the Old Testament characters were male, we can read the petit histoire of Deborah the prophetess and learn something that is just as valuable as reading about all the kings and male prophets of the day.

Qualitative Methods. This type of research is conducted by interviewing individuals with particular experiences. Phenomenology is the study of what people experience. Through lengthy interviews, based on open-ended questions, we hear the stories of people who have all had similar experiences of some sort. For example, although we cannot interview Bible characters, by examining the written stories of women in the early church, we can get a pretty good idea of what it was like to be female in those days. This type of research is feminist narrative analysis--the study of written documents from a feminist perspective. We all do this in our Bible study. Ethnomethodology is a form of qualitative analysis that comes from facts gathered through observation. If you were to come to my church for several weeks at a time and stand in the lobby before services, you would soon understand the lingo in my Christian subculture. That's because you would listen for unusual usage of words and watch for distinctive behaviors. When we study the Bible, we observe how people ate, drank, speak together, etc. Most pastors spend considerable time in exegesis--understanding the context of the Bible subject(s) about which they are going to preach. This is a type of ethnomethodology. Then they make it clear to their congregants what the background is to what is said in the Bible. .

Grounded theory building is something we all have done after reading the Bible. Creating a theory is what we do when we describe the process of accepting Christ. Through a close reading of the scripture, we understand that recognition of our need, receiving the gift of repentence, accepting Christ's grace, asking for forgiveness, moving on to newness of life, and keeping on keeping on--this is a theory that is grounded in all that the Bible teaches about Salvation. By reading over all the material about how Jesus treated people, we could build a theory that He was gracious and benevolent to the common man, while we note that the only people Jesus really rebuked were those who thought they had already arrived, spiritually. By reviewing all the instances when Jesus did rebuke people, we find that it was the scribes, pharisees, and lawyers of his day who got the worst marks. We devise a theory then, about cause. From comparing scripture with scripture, we find that Jesus gave some commentary about this and we use this as the basis of our theory ("Those who are whole do not need a physician," etc.).

Quantitative measures. This is typically what researchers do, historically. We can, for example, review what the word hell, Gehenna, or Sheol means by looking up each verse listed in the concordance that references these words. Then we can say that the preponderance of the evidence (or whatever percentage of the time) indicates that when this word is used, it means a very miserable place. A meta-analysis would be something like reviewing the number of converts at each of the sermons in the Bible and coming up with a list of predictors for people to cry out, "What then shall we do to be saved?" Or what predicted persecution for the apostles after their public sermons.

Mixed methods. Program and outcome evaluation methods fall into this category. Paul did this in Romans 8 when he went on and on about the things that he wants to do he doesn't do, and what he doesn't want to do, he actually does. This was an evaluation of his own efforts at righteousness (evaluation piece) with commentary (qualitative data) about his feelings of repeated failure in the process.
I've heard sermons in which a case study is presented (the story of when God rained fire and brimstone on Sodom and Gommorah), and then a discussion about conditional dire prophecies that were not fulfilled because the people repented as in the case of Jonah and Ninevah. One particular case is examined in the light of the statistical predictors of prophecies coming true. This reflects a mixed method.

Perhaps the most important of all the chapters in my textbook is about the ethical reporting of research findings. We can get research to say anything we'd like if we're clever enough. And people the world over have gotten the Bible to support every type of bizarre belief and habit. It's because an isolated verse, taken out of context, is read as predicting some specific meaning. If I were to read about God telling Noah to build a boat and preach to the antidiluvians about a coming flood, or about the prophet Ezra being told to lie on his left side for 32 days and prophecy naked, but I fail to take note that this is by far the exception rather than the rule, I could be one of those people who believe that unless I'm doing something that I don't like, I'm not in God's will. Or that if something feels good it must be bad. Or, if I read the book of James and all the "do-ism" without reading about salvation through faith alone in Romans, I may have a legalistic faith. You see, it is all about being a good, ethical researcher and reporting on what is there, not on merely what seems a good idea to me, or what is in one verse that I opened the Bible and put my finger on. It also means not approaching research with an idea and then searching out all the data that will support your pet idea. It means allowing the data to speak for itself--and reporting only what is there. For someone to make a blanket statement that all music needs to be classical vocal music to be appropriate in God's sight, is going beyond what the data states.

Another point here is that a good researcher situates himself or herself in the work. That means that each person who reports the story can color it according to their personality and experiences. So when I write up my studies, I must alert the reader what my biases are: I am a woman, a feminist, a Christian, a therapist, who may be limited in the area of the study, or have clinical experience with the topic in question, or who has experienced the same issues as my interviewees and therefore, I have a unique take on what the research findings are. If the results of my study are that second-hand smoking doesn't really hurt people, the reader needs to know that I am a non-smoking physician working for the American Cancer Society, or that I work for a tobacco company. Or even that I am sponsored by a pharmaceutical company that produces nicotine patches. The findings will look different and have different credibility according to who is telling the facts.

As a Christian, it makes a difference whether I am imminently aware of my sins and need of God--or whether I'm a theologian who merely enjoys the academic, theoretical study of the Scriptures, or if I am a skeptic, or whether I've been standing in God's grace for a long time or a short time. The hearer needs to know this in order to understand the nuances and emphases placed on various concepts that are discussed. It is all part of ethical reporting, but few do it.


So there are times when I find myself in church, lost in thought about what I am hearing. The Bible is poetry, education, investigation, and so much more. There is a great deal to ponder.

Thy Word is a lamp unto my feet and a light unto my path. Psalm 119:105

Good to be here!

...He took Peter, John and James with him and went up onto a mountain to pray. As he was praying, the appearance of his face changed, and his clothes became as bright as a flash of lightning. Two men, Moses and Elijah, appeared in glorious splendor, talking with Jesus. They spoke about his departure, which he was about to bring to fulfillment at Jerusalem. Peter and his companions were very sleepy, but when they became fully awake, they saw his glory and the two men standing with him. As the men were leaving Jesus, Peter said to him, "Master, it is good for us to be here. Let us put up three shelters—one for you, one for Moses and one for Elijah." (He did not know what he was saying.)
While he was speaking, a cloud appeared and enveloped them, and they were afraid as they entered the cloud. A voice came from the cloud, saying, "This is my Son, whom I have chosen; listen to him." When the voice had spoken, they found that Jesus was alone. The disciples kept this to themselves, and told no one at that time what they had seen. Luke 9:28-36

Have you ever really listened to yourself pray? Therapists call this awareness process "spectatoring" or "reflexivity." Our prayers offer insight into what we think of God, ourselves, the process of prayer, and a great many other things. What we say to God, or to ourselves--how we say it--these things are immensely important to take a moment and think about.

In the scripture passage above, Peter started in speaking before he had taken adequate time to prepare his heart before God or to consider what he was viewing. The Bible cryptically states, "he did not know what he was saying." In response to his inane comment, God's voice could be heard saying in essence, "Listen and pay attention to the One I have chosen." And all the glory faded.

I was thinking about this today as I sat in my recliner, poised to start my morning prayer time. A whole bunch of hackneyed, platitudinous comments came out of my mouth before I'd even stopped to think about Whom I was addressing. I had not silenced my soul or given myself a moment to conjure up an image of Christ and the inexpressible love and warmth on His face as He sat on the couch across from me, listening. "Oh Lord, thank you for a new day." The prayer began in the reverse pyramid style of writers: most important things last and introductory comments first. The "ping" comes at the end.

My prayer had no ping to it and I quickly lost interest in what I was saying. My mind wandered to what I wanted to do with my day off; whether or not I should check in with Mother in the morning or afternoon; when I should cut up the ripening peaches and bake a cobbler out of it; if my eyes are healed enough to wear makeup yet; whether or not I should go over to the office and enter data or pretend that nothing exists except leisure and quiet and sleep. Out of the midst of these swirling thoughts, it dawned on me that I was supposed to be praying.

"Please bless Dawn and Roy and Jerry, and remember Sheila and her son Manny, and my friends Betty, Gillian, and Etta and ..." It was all rote.
"It is good to be here. Let us make three shelters..." I had not entered into what I was saying and was just like Peter--shooting off onto a verbal tear before I considered what was happening or Whom I was addressing.

There are lots of prayers like this in church, especially if the service is televised or recorded. People sometimes read prayers--some are beautifully crafted and meaningful and others are trite, silly things that seem a sacrilege. Other prayers sound as though the speaker likes the sound of their own voice more than what they are saying--their prayers are full of aliteration and whimsical imagery. Some prayers are full of groveling "Worm Theology," reminding the congregants that they are miserable sinners in the sight of God. Other prayers are full of passive aggressive commentary that the supplicant doesn't seem to be able to say to the face of those whom he wishes to really hear it: "And we know, Lord, that if we are truly following in your footsteps, we will not have squabbling and backbiting in our midst when we do not receive what we think we ought." That was aimed straight at a church member whose leadership role was not renewed by the nominating committee and who had raised a stink about it.

We say all sorts of things to God in prayer that wouldn't hold the interest of any but a babbling, preverbal child, mostly because we do not stop to consider the circumstances that allow us to address God.

Reflecting on this in my armchair this morning, I recalled a time at an international training institute, I once went round and round with a Danish Lutheran pastor about using Gestalt therapy. None of the founders of this approach had any belief in the hereafter, God, or anything spiritual that resonated with me. How could a pastor use an approach that emphasizes self-awareness and reflexivity, focus on what is right for oneself (to the exclusion of the good of others, or morality itself), and feelings--that can be capricious and predicated on anything at all--how could a pastor use these ideas with churched people?

His answer has had considerable impact on my approach to life, therapy, and God. In essence, he explained how he would discuss the concerns his clients brought in. Then he would ask if the client had spoken to God about it. Most of the time, the client hadn't--affairs, anger at children or parents, drug use--these things were not what they would want God to associate with them. So my friend would move an empty chair into view from the corner of his office and say to the client, "Here's God. Would you like to talk about it to Him now?" Clients would finally have God out in the open where they could get to Him. They would cry, shout, plead, confess. It was a most powerful intervention, one that often shed light on the presenting problems as nothing else could.

I was sold.

It has only been recently that I've been able to make the connection of Gestalt therapy to prayer--my prayers. Martin Buber was a religious philosopher whose theory found its way into Gestalt therapy. It goes like this: we have two main ways of relating. One is called I-Thou and the other, I-It. When we truly connect with another individual, see their soul, take the time to hear them and be clear with them that we see them and want to be connected to them, we are two clearly distinct entities. I and Thou. In fact, Buber wrote a book by that title. I-Thou takes time. But being I-Thou with a child calls forth comments like, "Mom! She talks to me like I'm real!"

This kind of connection is not necessary with objects, and is actually a sign of pathology if we try to embody it in relationships with things--the I-It. Me and a thing. When my sleeve gets caught on the stair bannister, I shout out, "Oh, come on!" and storm down the rest of the stairs. I do not pause to gaze at it and be sure that I am truly seeing and connecting with it. When I close the curtains, I do not try to savor the texture of them or become one with them (this is the stuff of comedy!). I just interact with the curtains as though they are a thing without a personality or character. But there's not a one of us who wants to be on the receiving end of an I-It encounter. When we are, we angrily call Customer Service in a huff and register complaints about how insulted we are about being treated in impersonal ways.

I think that we as Christians too often think of God as a great heavenly Thing. We often address Him as though we are in that I-It type of relationship. We forget that He is a One, not a Thing. There is not always time taken to connect with God, to treat Him as though He is real, present, or interested in connecting with us. In the Bible verses above, Peter's response was I-It. God corrected this by saying, "Listen to my Son," thus encouraging an I-Thou connection.

It's ironic that I have taught Gestalt therapy and the I-Thou skills for years, yet my prayers are so often I-It in nature: rushed, rote, irrelevant. When I was single, I took much more time conversing with God and waiting in His presence, quietly. I used to envision myself kneeling at His feet, leaning on His lap. It was the most comforting thing I knew and those prayers were powerful and soul filling. I have had two such instances in which I was sure that should I open my eyes, God would be sitting there looking at me. I left those moments with an unusual richness of trust and peace.

I-Thou.
Our friends, clients, and families need it.
God deserves it.
And we cannot survive spiritually without it.

But from there you will seek the LORD your God, and you will find Him if you search for Him with all your heart and all your soul. Deuteronomy 4:29

Star for a Day

After writing yesterday about looking on the bright side of things, I watched a documentary on Rudolph Nureyev and fell into an existential hole. I laid awake for an hour last night, hearing Sam breathing next to me, while I tried to get the documentary images out of my mind. It hit close to home for many reasons.

Nureyev began ballet at age eight--considered a very late start for anyone who wished to have a career in ballet. For his whole life, Rudolph rehearsed and worked constantly, trying to make up for what supposed lack he began with. In 1963 he defected to France, while in the Paris airport, rushing into a crowd of French police shouting, "I want to be free!" I vaguely remember hearing about this when I was a child. It was at the height of the Cold War, and the fact that he was stalked by the KGB for years afterward, was brought home to us more than once. Communists could not be trusted. But that's a story for another day.

In France, Nureyev began dancing almost immediately and crowds went wild. He was a sensation. No one had ever seen anyone do the dance moves he did or have the stamina he had. It was unbelieveable. People were crazed in their adulation of him.

Watching this lengthy documentary, there were three things that struck me. First, this was a man who lost everything in the pursuit of his career. His father never accepted the fact that he was interested in ballet and eventually disowned him after he defected. When he left Russia he left his mother behind, who had always supported him. Even though he was able to speak with her on the phone, when he finally did go back to Russia it was too late. She was dying. After Nureyev defected, all his friends in the Leningrad ballet were questioned. One of them was forbidden from taking her final university exams and wasn't granted a diploma. The KGB went to Paris for one of his first performances, and whistled, threw money on the stage (to make him lose his footing), and yelled threats at him from the audience. He was terrified. They went back to Russia and published notices in the newspapers that Nureyev had been booed at his Paris debut. Then all information about him was suppressed, especially after he began doing so well on the world scene. So he lost all credibility and value in his own homeland. When he was allowed into the country in the 90s, he was dying, so it was all a goodbye. He left 7 million dollars to the establishment of a school of dance and not a penny to his family. He was a man without a country, a family, a God. And a man without inner peace. Tragic losses, all.

The other thing that stood out for me in Nureyev's story was the fact that he seemed to have very little in the way of a moral compass in his life. In my travels abroad, I have noticed that many people living in Eastern Europe during communist control, do not seem to have a moral code that I understand. Because religion was suppressed, there are not values about doing or not doing things because of God's claims on a person, or even fear of Divine retribution, or concerns for the spiritual wellbeing of the recipient of one's acts. It is a more strictly secular society than any I've seen in any group whatever. This was evident last night in Nureyev's story. He lived for some time with Pushkin and his wife in Leningrad. Pushkin was his mentor. But he didn't know that his wife slept with Nureyev one night, becoming pregnant by him. She had an abortion so her husband wouldn't know. Her comment about what had happened was that she wanted Nureyev to know what it was to feel like a man so that when he danced, it would be with more power and sensuality. This tangle of alley cat morals is distressing. Because I had always thought highly of this man's creativity and performances. I didn't know the seamy underside of his life and his fall from being on a pedestal, is thunderous.

Finally, there is the issue of Nureyev's life being cut down far too early. He had AIDS and not even his extreme discipline or physical prowess could keep him alive. I can't imagine what it would be like to try to live with this devastating disease and watch yourself slowly lose ability to perform and manage your life. Especially on top of all the other losses and insecurities that this man had to face in his life.
Nureyev was gay--a painful reminder of a man whom I once dated who had active AIDS and kept it from me. He died nine months after I broke up with him. I remember seeing him perform in an orchestra a couple weeks before his death. His respiratory rate was about 60 breaths per minute--evidence that his lungs had lost the ability to oxygenate his body properly. It was such a senseless death. So aside from my personal history with gay men, what really pained me was the fact that there was no reason for these men to die young and leave the world without their creative input. Both were gifted, neurotic, affectionate. There is a dance school that Nureyev established. There is a chamber music series named after my former boyfriend. But that is all that exists of them to this day.

This is not a diatribe about homosexuality. It is a morose reflection on lives that start out aiming high, but for whatever reason, flounder and end without a sense of satisfaction or completion. This is the existential hole for me: There are many people whose lives emerge for a short while and then fade away--for a variety of reasons: poverty, war, birth defects, mental illness, tragic accidents, suicide. What did their life mean in the wider context of life? In God's eyes? How does God judge these people? Was their joy of life for nothing? Why have they been born if this is what was to happen to them?
I realize that even in the saying of this, my assumption is that my life is on track, is satisfying, is God-directed and has a moral compass. It may just be a differing view, because maybe the lives of these performers did feel on track and satisfying.

The prayer that came to my lips last night, over and over, was, "Thank you Lord, that I never had a professional music career. I was simply not emotionally prepared for anything like the professional music world. I don't know what would have become of me." Perhaps my life would have become one endless round of performances, travel, meaninglessness, emptiness. What I do now is satisfying and feels solid. Respectable. Purposeful. Impactful. Thank God.

Perhaps some of our creative artists do make significant impacts, too. They are to look at, to humor us, to lift our spirits. So they reel onto the stage of our lives for brief periods and give us respite from the nitty-gritty of life. Then they disappear as though they were never there and we are left to wonder after the beauty they imparted for the moment that we saw them.

In the sadness of our collective losses of these shiny ones, it's a call to make my life count for something.

For what shall it profit a man to gain the whole world but lose his own soul?

High Maintenance

I hope no one ever has cause to call me one of two things: pessimistic, or a high maintenance person. In my book, they are one and the same. It is wearing to hear continual negative comments: to hear someone shoot down every ray of light and hope. Some are aware of doing it and others aren't because it's second nature to find the worst case scenario for every positive comment.

I spent the afternoon today with a high maintenance person. From my first cheery "Hello!" he moped and shot down everything I said.
"Harry," I started, "Just look at the flowers in the median. Have you ever seen such a pretty median strip?" We were on the way to a nearby town. I was dazzled by the bright flowers--all of which were drought resistant.
Harry frowned and squinted out the window at the flowers. "Yeah," he grunted. "It looks like someone cares." His voice trailed off dejectedly.
"What?"
"Just what I said! It looks like someone has taken care of the place and not let it all go to ruin like so many desolate places do."
I felt like my ears had been pinned back.

A few minutes later I pointed out a very attractive new housing development. "Sam and I are interested in a couple homes in here that are in foreclosure," I said, trying to get a conversation going.
Harry flatly responded, "These houses are too close together and have no lawns."
Not to be deterred from my optimism I tried again: "Yes, but we don't have time for a lot of lawn work so this would be perfect for us."
"I hate it," was his rejoinder.
Wow.

A few minutes later I was telling this man that I was thinking about flying to Ashville for a conference in the fall. It promises to be an excellent educational experience.
"Better hope you'll get there, what with all the terrorist threats."
"Oh, for Pete's sake," I snorted. "What a thing to say!"
He raised his eyebrows in a knowing way and leaned his head back against the headrest. "Well, things happen." There was a determined twist to his upper lip.

Later in the day:
"Ooooh! Let's stop and see what's at this veggie stand!" I love produce stands. "Do you mind?" I asked.
"In this heat I don't know how everything inside can keep from being cooked and rotten in there." Harry was climbing out of the car with an eager, grumpy expression on his face. The set of his jaw told me that he expected to find limp vegetables and soured fruit, sliming down the wood of the bins.

I bought a pound of fresh mushrooms and three beautiful red bell peppers. "Watch out for those mushrooms," Harry admonished me. "They go bad really fast in the fridge and you will go to use them and they'll be mush."
"Thank you, Harry" I said. "I would not have thought that."
Harry glanced at me sideways, hearing the irony in my voice. But he seemed to truly be focused on rotting mushrooms in my crisper.

"Harry," I said on the way home, "I don't remember your hair looking as full and shiny as it is today. Whatever you have done to it looks excellent!" Harry had a beautiful head of silver hair and I had always admired it.
"White hair is dead hair--don't you know that?"
"I've heard that, but your dead hair is really nice."
Harry didn't smile, but he looked off into the distance absently. "Did you know that hair keeps on growing after you die?"
I drew back in horror at this announcement. "What?"
"They've dug up graves and opened caskets and found that men had grown whiskers--and some women have, too!" He chuckled.
I was horrified at this conversational turn. I'm no Pollyanna, but everything positive, complimentary, or hopeful that I said was somehow turned into cause for consternation, disgust, or dread. Harry simply can't be happy.
Neither can he express joy or hope.
I handed him a fresh Fuji apple. "Tell me, Harry...How is it?" I knew Harry did in fact like apples, especially apple pie.
"It's not bad."
"Does that mean it's good, Harry?"
He shrugged. "I find no fault with it."
"Yes, but is it good? Do you like it? You're saying it all backward. Why can't you just say, "Gee! This is good! I like this!"?"
"Well, it tastes okay." He looked miffed.
"Harry, is it just okay, or is it a good apple?"
"Well, Fuji apples are pretty good apples."

I folded.

Getting Harry back to the office couldn't happen fast enough as far as I was concerned. I love Harry. He's hard working, dedicated, thoughtful, and reliable. But what hadn't been apparent until today, was that he can't bear to hope or feel positive. It makes him feel vulnerable and as though he is setting himself up for loss or disappointment if he doesn't get what he hopes for. So he paints everything in bland, colorless strokes. That way, when things go badly, he was ready for it and not at all disappointed.

Only, I don't want to be around him. His comments shrivel my soul. I need to hope and see the bright side of things.

Someone else I know has an awful story about anyone from the past who is named. "Sarah! That's the woman who told me ____________. Can you believe the nerve of someone who would do that?"
"Did you know that 40 years ago that man said _____________ and I've never forgotten it. It was dirty. Just plain dirty."
Or there are endless stories of what happened in the family of origin that made this individual feel miserable for most of her young life. The problem is, that she acts like it's happening now and not something that happened in the past--and that is now dead and gone. She is still trapped in the negativity of all sorts of unfortunate events and dynamics. Gilda is truly a victim of her own stories.

It's the only way I have traveled through life, being an optimist. Had hope been removed, I would never have come through--few people would get through the visissitudes of life without having things to cheer them. Without those bright spots (which some of us choose to embody in our lives more as a theme than a spot), we would be merely enduring or surviving--not worth calling life.

Our bodies react to stress within one heartbeat. Catecholamines begin to flood our systems and we instantly become physiologically aroused. It is no wonder that people who are stressed out and who live with the negative foremost in their minds are more likely than any to drop dead of a heart attack. Our bodies don't know the difference between a story of old, stressful news, and a brickbat being brandished over our heads by Godzilla. We react the same way with higher blood pressure, faster heart rate, and skin temperature changes. Since this is true, why don't more people choose to eschew the dreadful?

Recently, I found myself beginning to hum under my breath when around Gilda. Her endless stories of woe could send my blood pressure surging and I didn't want that. So as a way to calm myself in the presence of her hostile stories, I'd hum. She commented on it one day and I told her that her stories and negative comments were very disturbing to me. I was protecting my heart. She was surprised. And she still tells horrid, continual, pathetic stories. I just redirect her so I don't have to hear it and be negatively impacted.

Mostly I feel very sorry for Harry and my woman friend--both of whom are so negative. I imagine that one day in heaven, when we sit down at that mile long table, waited on by the Savior, there will be no negativity left. Harry and Gilda will smile, smack their lips and say, "Now that is mighty good!" and they will be happy in spite of themselves. No longer high maintenance people. Happy, good, positive, hopeful, no longer full of dread, rottenness, fear, and gloom.

Thank God.

Inarticulate

It probably all started because I am a dreamer and haven't always enjoyed living in the cold world of facts and actual surroundings all the time.
"Barbara! Get your head out of the clouds." It was Mother's annoyed tone of voice that told me I'd missed a vital query. "What did I tell you about doing this again?"
And right there, I'd freeze up and white out. I could neither remember her directive, nor did I have an interest in it--unless, as now, it meant that I'd be punished. So I'd go blank and not have an answer. Or my mind would cloud over with ideas and possibilities rather than the factual answers that were warranted at a time like that, and I'd flounder verbally until I was in a corner. Couldn't think on the spot because there was no way I could ever come out a winner.

This is probably not an unusual scene from many a child's life. But for some reason, it left me feeling utterly inarticulate, incapable of thinking on the spot, and as dumb as a doornail when asked a question. Especially when there is an edge of demand in the questioner's tone of voice.
It is a malady that I and all of my siblings suffer--inability to come back with a response when it is clear that a wrong answer will have negative consequences. We begin to babble or we shut down. Each of us has a way that we respond to beligerent questioning.

I worked on this long and hard with my therapist. As a therapist who often works with angry clients, I must be able to stay present whilst the client rages and circles me--and I know that it's usually not about me--it's about them. So that is a bit easier to manage. But if I'm a professor and students are firing questions at me, it behooves me to be able to hold the floor and respond without feeling like I'm under attack. Even though students often attack, in their desire to find Truth. Or defend their own ideas that may suddenly appear pallid and insufficient in the light of what we are discussing in class. I guess I'm getting a lot better with this and many students have told me that I always know what to say and how to respond to their hard questions. Inside I laugh.

When I graduated from my Master's program, the pastor at my very large church asked me to give a sermon on--of all things--intimacy. I was single, without children, and I really doubted that I had any credibility whatever on this topic. Beside this obvious problem, I had never gotten over floundering for words. What on earth does one stand in front of a 4,000 member congregation in a televised service and say about intimacy? I didn't know, but I moaned about my terror of this experience to one of my professors.

"I'm so inarticulate, Michelle. I have no idea what will come out of my mouth, and the more anxious I am, the worse the verbal corners I get into."

"I've never known you to be inarticulate, Barbara, so that is not a fear that I would have for you" she responded.

"But when I get anxious, my words ball up and I stumble around searching for the right word. If I can't find it, I stop stock still." I felt shaky just telling her about it. "I think I'd die if I got in front of church and whited out!"

"Well, if you're convinced that you're inarticulate, why don't you just accept that fact and go with it?"

Her comment almost didn't register with me. I must have looked very unconvinced.

"Just realize that you will stumble and that nothing bad will happen. Speakers search for the right word all the time and nothing bad happens. You just stop and give yourself a minute, then start in again."

"You mean, just stop?"

"Yes. No one will die. Just take a breath, look down at your notes, and get your place again. No one will think anything wrong. But if you try to convince yourself that you're perfectly articulate, when and if you stumble, you'll be so shocked that you'll shut down."

It made sense. And there was such relief in accepting the fact that I couldn't always get the right word or say the right thing. No one expected me to--except me, and perhaps, Mother. But those days were long ago!

My talk went off without a hitch. Last week, one of the residents in Mother's apartment building told her that she never forgot one of the stories I told in that talk. She had been so impressed. I just associate a feeling relief with that experience.

I've come to peace with the fact that while teaching I sometimes go blank and forget the sterling point I was about to make. I gaze around the room and say aloud, "Well, I just had a wonderful fact for you and it's gone." Everyone chuckles and looks expectantly at me. My eyes roam the room as if someone's face will give me a clue about what it was that I was just going to say. "What was I just saying?" I ask.
Someone in the front row says, "...that...it's something about CPS policies..."
There it is! "Oh! Right...." and off I go into another verbal foray, now on track.
There are bemused smiles all around. They treat me like an endeared, befuddled professor.
It happens all the time. No one seems to think ill of me. Best of all, neither to I think ill of myself any more--it happens so often.

I was thinking about this whole idea of being inarticulate the other day as I sat in a meeting with three other colleagues. We were discussing our curriculum and how we want our students to look when they finish our program. John, a lovely and intelligent man with over 30 years of administrative and faculty experience, started to weigh in on something Colleen had just said. He threw his hands in the air, furrowed his brow, and began making a series of nondescript glottal noises that indicated that he was lost for words. Looking up at the ceiling through his eyebrows, his mouth agape, his hands held in front of him looking as though he was kneading a ball of dough, he mouthed words that didn't come out for several seconds. "I....I....I just can't....it doesn't make sense....how these students can even think that.....what will....uh....?" and he continued looking at the ceiling, then around the table at each of us, with a most distressed expression on his face.
"Yes, I know!" Colleen said. "I just think...." and she looked up at the righthand corner of the room, rolling her eyes back and forth, as if scrutinizing the crown molding, her hands out in front of her, palms up. "If we are going to help these students, then maybe we need...or should we have a...well, I was thinking that maybe it would be good to..."
Mary jumped in. "I'm thinking the same thing." (I still had no idea of what was being said here). "If we hit this hard at orientation, then there will be no way the students can say they've never heard this before." She looked down at her notes on the table and continued, muttering under her breath: "bhwro merg I think bwor schwalp."
"I didn't get that, Mary" I said.
"Well it doesn't matter," she said. "We all know what we need to do now and that's what we need to focus on."
John looked like he was ready to explode with a tirade and held out his arms as if something was going to fall from the ceiling into them, his mouth making words we could not yet hear. "I mean..." he closed his eyes as if in pain. "What are these kids thinking?" There it was--the coup de etat.

I was the most junior faculty member in the room. Two of these faculty have written books. One is the president of a prestigious state organization and associate editor of a top tier journal in our field. Even though we've all published and presented, these three can all run academic circles around me. But none of them are what I'd call articulate! Watching John agonize over what he is trying to convey makes me chuckle every time his eyes start searching the ceiling and his hands fly out in front of him. Hearing Colleen go round and round with her starts and stops, and hearing Mary talk into her beard--this is all very rich. We are all idea people. There's not a one of us in the room who thinks there is a right answer--most things need to be discussed and have multiple angles explored to get an answer that works in any given situation.

So I'm in with the best of them--me and my halting, inarticulate speech--and I'm probably much more articulate than any of them are --at these meetings, at least. The fact that most of us in this field are dreamers and visionaries makes this kind of communication pretty acceptable in the long run. Because it is proof that as we talk, many perspectives, ideas, and thoughts interrupt our speech. It is often hard to filter through all the thoughts and come out with one cogent statement because of the way my mind works. Make a comment, ask a question, and it's as if my hard drive is searching through all the files, tagging associated ideas to find just the right response. This is what it looks like when Colleen or John are weighing in on something, waiting for the mental dust to clear.
Perhaps it is the sign of a busy, clever mind.
I'd like to think so.

Three Sheets to the Wind

This wonderful print entitled "Three Sheets to the Wind" by Barbara Lavalee is found here

Many years ago, my dear friend, Martha, gave me this print that she purchased on a trip to Alaska. She laughingly told me that the title reminded her of me, since I often use the phrase to describe my befuddled self quite often. It really applies today.

Three years ago I had Lasik eye surgery. Even though I thought I'd be a bad candidate for it, being menopausal and having dry eye problems. No, they assured me. I was indeed an excellent candidate.

I had the procedure and had immediate vision improvement that far exceeded my expectations. And I have had no end of dry eye problems as well.

We've tried one kind of lubricating eye drops that gave me an allergic reaction that made me look like a gargoyle. Another kind worked pretty well for awhile but it glued my eyelids shut to the point that I'd have to feel my way into the bathroom every morning--completely without vision. Then we put temporary tear duct plugs in my lower tear ducts so the tears wouldn't drain out as easily and my eyes would stay more moist. That was the idea and I wasn't sure it helped, but anything would be better than how it was. We decided to place permanent ones next: miniature silicone golf tee-looking things that hurt going in and irritated my eyes. They helped for a few weeks and then I was back to dry, painful eyes in the morning with diminishing vision from the dry spots.

So when we moved here a year ago, I went to a university eye clinic. The doctor told me that research indicates that punctal plugs work best in the upper tear ducts, not in the lower ones. Would I like to try those? We did the round with temporaries and then permanent golf tees in the upper ducts. They hurt going in and one of them was quite irritating--itchy eyes, etc.

These marvels of science gave me permanent teariness. You should try to lecture with tears coming down your cheeks at unexpected times. The first time it happened, I looked up at a classroom of students looking at me, shocked, sitting stock still in their seats. One quietly handed me a tissue. It didn't help that I was talking about child abuse and they thought I was really feeling my topic that day.

These unbidden tears appear at the worst times: in therapy (Oh Barbara, you really get what I'm saying, don't you?) and during public speaking (Your talk on loss was sooo moving!). Me, dabbing away tears and trying to look as though I'm not sad. Botherdash.

I had just about had enough of this when a little growth appeared on my lower eyelid. It resembled a cauliflower and was the size of an eraser at the top of a pencil. Try looking around that or being in front of people, peering around that in the corner of your eye! So in to the eye doctor I went. I don't know what that thing is, but how long have you had that cancer on your nose, so close to your eye? Shall I take it off?

Yes, and while you're at it, get rid of those bottom punctal plugs. I'm sick of crying through life. She tried to lift them out in the office, but only succeeded in lifting me up out of the chair. So surgery, it was.

In the interim between her pronouncement that I have skin cancer, and the time she could operate, I treated the little cauliflower growth myself: antibiotic ointment in my eye every night. It disappeared in two weeks.

Yesterday afternoon I had the operation to remove the infamous plugs. It was to be 30 minutes and ended up taking an hour and a half. The doctor told me that she had an awful time getting them out and had to cut them out. Yikes! I look like I've been in a fight with two ominous black eyes. I woke up after surgery with ice packs galore over my eyes, a pounding headache from the cold, and feeling terribly queasy.

"Let me get you some pain medicine," the nurse chirped.

"Yes, please!"

"Here's some Demerol that I'll put in your IV."

"That stuff makes me throw up. Can you give me something else?"

I fell asleep before I knew what hit me: Dilaudid. My goodness, that stuff knocked me out for four hours. Why someone would give me Dilaudid is beyond me. It's the same as using a sledge hammer to push a tack into a bulletin board--the magnitude seemed unwarranted. I woke up with Sam rubbing my hand and asking me if I could go home yet.

Do I look like I can go home?! I could hardly even open my eyes.

I had a continuous, dribbling nosebleed all the way home and could hardly stand up, so wobbly was I. In fact, I think I dozed off going to the bathroom in the recovery room and don't remember anything of the ride home. Sam put me to bed and I went out like a light for another two hours. I got up just long enough to have a turkey sandwich he brought me, along with a cluster of grapes. And down I went again.

It is all most inconvenient: the plastic backed absorbent pad over my pillows that keep me up at 45 degrees--that makes my hot flashes even sweatier. This telfa visor-type affair that is taped to my forehead and that I don't know how long I can tolerate, or why I have it in the first place. These two oozing incisions down my face from my tear ducts toward my nose. And gluey gooey stuff in my eyes that obscures my vision. Oh, that that's not mentioning the ubiquitous bag of frozen chopped broccoli that I've been wearing over my face off and on. It really helps with the pain and the nosebleeds and gives me a headache.

It is 2:30 in the morning and I'm so slept out that I can't stay in bed any longer. Otis' little furry body on one side of me and Sam's on the other--that bed was like a veritable oven.

And yet, for all the discomfort and inconvenience, I have unending gratitude for the fact that I live in 2007 and in a community with highly trained surgeons who can care for me. Because if I lived on the prairie in 1835, I would not be able to see (no glasses), no physician who could do much of anything for my sight, and dry eyes could make a person go blind eventually, not to mention glaucoma or cataracts. The absence of air conditioning and air filtering systems in the house would have turned me into a raving lunatic, what with hot flashes, allergies, and menopausal idiosyncratic behavior. No pain medications that could be trusted.

Dilaudid has just about undone me, but it is beetter than brandy with a rag in my teeth.

So I'll stop grousing, put more goop in my eyes, and wobble my way back into bed. Thank God that this surgery was available. Thank Him even more that it's over!

Happy Anniversary!

Children's creative work found here

Mother has been going through a large scrapbook she has kept for years--throwing out some things, weeping over others, and howling with laughter about other things in there.

Today she told me about an anniversary card she got from my sister that was tucked into her scrapbook. Dawn was about 9 years old at the time. She marched importantly into my parent's room on the morning of their anniversary holding a handmade card in her hand. It was on red construction paper and had white paper glued inside as a liner. Written on the outside was a jaunty "Happy Anniversary!" Opening the card, the following verse jumped out unexpectedly:

Marriage is honourable in all, and the bed undefiled: but whoremongers and adulterers God will judge. Hebrews 13:4.

HAPPY ANNIVERSARY!

It was clear that Dawn was quite proud that she had found a Bible verse about marriage all by herself and had produced her first message in cursive writing. Daddy hid his head under his pillow as though he were still sleepy, and mother graciously thanked Dawn. "Why don't you set the table honey, and we'll all have breakfast together?" Mother asked. So Dawn sashayed out of the bedroom to the kitchen, a self-satisfied grin on her face. It was a number of minutes until Mother and Daddy could stop laughing, as they read the card over and over.

Some memories are too good to ever lose. I will someday have that card in my possession and keep it in my scrapbook to laugh about.