You are probably wondering how I am doing on my new health plan. I am thrilled to report that I have felt very sustained and convinced that the timing of this was perfect (even though I would have been happier to have lost 45 lbs a year or two ago!) I was able to wear an outfit to church that I couldn't fit into three weeks earlier, and my students have asked if my hair is different. Then they said sort of off-the-cuff, "Or maybe you've lost some weight." They were embarassed to ask and wondered if I'd mind their questions.

Ask me if I've lost weight!!!

I am very, very grateful and looking forward to continued improvement in my health.

Regrets

Tonight I spoke at length with a woman who feels that her words killed her husband. The day before he died she unleashed a vitriolic attack on him for his actions that she found offensive. She was apparently given to "spouting off" when she was disturbed about anything at all, actually. Her husband had heard many a tirade in the past. But this time he was very hurt by her words. She knew that because that night he rolled away from her in their bed before he fell asleep. That night he died before she could apologize for the words that broke his heart. Now she feels that she is the reason he died and that if she had been more loving, or even held back her frustrations, he would have lived longer. He went to the grave sick at heart because of the words from one who should have been the most supportive, warm, understanding and forgiving.

Guilt is a terrible burden.

Here is what went through my mind as I listened to this woman pour out her heart to me. You wonder what we therapists think about when we sit there nodding? Here it is. My mind was momentarily nibbling around the edges of a story I knew only too well.

I was invited by a congregation in Ireland to give a series of talks about family matters. In order to have some credibility (I was very new in the field at the time), I took along an established therapist to give some of the presentations. She was happy for the opportunity to travel abroad and she is an excellent clinician. What I didn't know however, was that when she is anxious she becomes controlling and she digs her heels in. Whatever the agenda may be, if she is anxious, she becomes very difficult.
We arrived the day before Thanksgiving. We'd planned our trip for that time because it was our vacation and it wasn't a holiday in Ireland. My colleague was exhausted that second day and was also perturbed about the advertising the church had done about us. As she thought about her talk the following evening, in went the heels.

The pastor's wife had invited us over for supper the night after we arrived. My colleague didn't want to go. I didn't know how to navigate the public transportation system there and was embarassed to ask how to use it. About an hour before we were to be at supper, I called and begged out of dinner. I claimed jet lag and every other thing that was within the realm of reality--partial truths. She pleaded with me to just come for an hour. It would be fine if I came alone, even if I were to eat and run. I felt in a real bind, between dealing with my growing anxiety about my colleague and my fear of traveling across the city on my own. So I thanked her repeatedly and bowed out.

We were received quite well by the church and those who came to the presentations. I enjoyed being there immensely and it was a good trip overall. On the last evening we were in town we had supper at the pastor's house along with a number of other folks from the church. Spirits were high and people were singing and laughing in the other room. I wandered into the kitchen to see if I could help with food preparation or serving and fell into conversation with the pastor's wife. In the midst of our conversation she stopped short and said, "Oh, if yeh could only've come Friday night" and she dissolved into tears. She went on to tell me that she had invited all the women in the church and a number of pastor's wives from other congregations in the area, and she had prepared a traditional American Thanksgiving dinner in honor of me. Turkey, stuffing, cranberry sauce, onions and brussel sprouts, sweet potatoes, pumpkin pie. It had been a surprise. Only I wasn't there.

Yes, I can hear you gasp. I feel sick at heart whenever I think of this and wish I could shut my eyes and disappear. It is a guilt that will always be palpable and sickening, apologies notwithstanding.

My client's eyes are full of tears. I feel sick in the pit of my stomach. It is impossible to take back words or actions that have hurt someone else. Humbling evidence that we are dreadfully human sometimes, that our actions make us sick sometimes. That cringe or no, we have to live with what we've done. Reminders that we need to look well to our ways. That there is a high value in being gracious to others. That we can't live without a good dose of mercy. That we hurt people without meaning to. It is one more thing that all of us know, only too well.

The Fool's Prayer
The royal feast was done; the King
Sought some new sport to banish care,
And to his jester cried: “Sir Fool,
Kneel now, and make for us a prayer!”

The jester doffed his cap and bells,
And stood the mocking court before;
They could not see the bitter smile
Behind the painted grin he wore.

He bowed his head, and bent his knee
Upon the monarch’s silken stool;

His pleading voice arose: “O Lord,
Be merciful to me, a fool!

“No pity, Lord, could change the heart
From red with wrong to white as wool:
The rod must heal the sin; but, Lord,
Be merciful to me, a fool!

“ ’T is not by guilt the onward sweep
Of truth and right, O Lord, we stay;
’T is by our follies that so long
We hold the earth from heaven away.

“These clumsy feet, still in the mire,
Go crushing blossoms without end;
These hard, well-meaning hands we thrust
Among the heart-strings of a friend.

“The ill-timed truth we might have kept—
Who knows how sharp it pierced and stung!
The word we had not sense to say—
Who knows how grandly it had rung!

“Our faults no tenderness should ask,
The chastening stripes must cleanse them all;
But for our blunders—oh, in shame
Before the eyes of heaven we fall.

“Earth bears no balsam for mistakes;
Men crown the knave, and scourge the tool
That did his will; but Thou, O Lord,
Be merciful to me, a fool!”

The room was hushed; in silence rose
The King, and sought his gardens cool,
And walked apart, and murmured low,
“Be merciful to me, a fool!”

Edward Rowland Sill

Not just for the birds

There is an intersection that I love to see that is near the hospital where I drop off Sam every morning. The wires that transect high over the traffic are full of some sort of birds--a whole flock of them. But it's not just one wire in one direction, it's all four wires across north, south, east, and west-moving traffic. It is as though there is a ring of birds sitting above, watching the cars whizzing down under their feet. What amazes me is not that there are birds there, even though it is a rather busy intersection. It is that all the birds sit at fairly equal distances from one another. There they all are, lined up about a wingspan away from one another.

I wonder how they know, or how they learn what that desirable distance is.

I have thought about these birds many times as I've sat in my car, waiting for the light to turn green. How is it that these creatures know what is appropriate and humans, who are supposed to be capable of higher thought, can't seem to tell this? All those creepy types of men who stand too close in the checkout line at the grocery store, and who, right at your elbow, stare into your purse or almost lean against you. Or women who are not known to you, but they know who you are--feel they have a right to clasp you to their hearts in a fond embrace. Or to speak in a too-familiar style about things that make it hard to know how to respond. Nature knows what is acceptable.

These ideas sometimes swirl through my head as I sit at those stoplights. I have given the birds considerable thought recently. For some inexplicable reason, I think about some of the upcoming challenges I anticipate when I teach an intensive course in Peru in January. Some of my concerns are these: How will I know how to talk in culturally sensitive language about sensitive issues? Will I offend someone unwittingly? (Probably). How can I discuss issues like whether or not spanking is acceptable when I do not know the culture or common ideas? How do I talk about intimate violence when Peru has one of the highest rates in the Americas? What will they think of me when I offer my ideas about what I think is appropriate behavior for married couples in terms of conflict and conflict resolution? Or appropriate sexual expression? Or my ideas about childrearing?

But you know, every group knows, too. Each group has norms about what is appropriate: too much, too little, just about right. About where the line is that none should cross. I mustn't have all the answers, because the Peruvians have norms about what is acceptable. They have an old civilization and they can determine how to take in my words. One only has to look at the birds on the wires to realize that the good Lord has put some notion of normalcy and acceptability into every collection of creatures on this earth, from avian to homo sapien. What an interesting God.

Inspiring

Here is something I was emailed that has really touched me. I think you will also be moved by it.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=flRvsO8m_KI

Eternal Rest

It was a memorial service for the mother of an agnostic Jewish woman. I'd never been to a Jewish service and was eager to see what this would be like. Only about 20 people were seated in a Jewish mortuary waiting for everything to begin. An officiant wearing a black silk yarmulke rushed in and hurriedly drew a gold brocade curtain across the room to partition off a pine casket that appeared to be open. A moment later he burst through the curtains into the seated crowd.

"We're about to close the casket. Before we do, does anyone want to view?" His voice was raspy and monotone, yet full of urgency.

"Anyone?" His eyes darted across the crowd. "No one?"

No one moved. I personally, was shocked by his demeanor, which had the same amount of emotion one would have if asking for directions to the DMV.

"All right," he continued. "We will proceed momentarily." And he disappeared back behind the curtain.

Meanwhile, those sitting around me chatted away about various community news items. There was no meditative music, no hushed whispering or reverence. The family members stepped back through the curtain and seated themselves on the front row facing the officiant.

"Okay," he stated. "Let's begin then. I never had the pleasure of knowing Idilah Steinmetz in life and it is unfortunate to make the family's acquaintance at this difficult time. So I can't speak about her from personal experience. Who better can talk about her life than her family? We will hear from them in a couple minutes." He intoned flatly, "Let us proceed by reading together the selection in the middle section of the program" (which I was not given when I came in).

We flew through Psalm 23, the Shepherd's Psalm. Never have I recited that Psalm so quickly. Two family members stood and spoke at length about their mother and grandmother who had died the day before. One remembered the deceased fondly. The daughter gave a rambling monologue about how one family member with psychic powers, had chosen to cut off from the family and was not there. "But I'm sure he's lurking around the cemetery somewhere. He's probably looking in the windows now." We all instinctively glanced at the windows. She continued by telling us that when her father had died a year earlier, someone told her that her mother would die soon thereafter because their relationship had been so enduring. "Ironically enough," she continued, "Two months after he died Mother started insisting that he was gay! And that he has been gay for years. She hated him and she reminded us of that every visit."

"--She did not!" a woman in the middle of the group said aloud. "She never said that. Don't say that about her! She wouldn't say that."

The daughter forged ahead. "We had a very complicated relationship, and there's a lot I could say, but today I'll only say good things."

Her remarks sort of trailed off. She ended her comments by shrugging her shoulders and sitting down next to her husband. He stepped up to the front of the assembly and read to us something that his father-in-law had read to him at his wedding. It was an obscure passage from an Eastern guru's writing from the middle 16th century. I couldn't follow it because it seemed somewhat circuitous or something.

The son-in-law sat down and the officiant stepped back out from the curtains at the side. He announced that there would be a private burial service later in the day, but that we were all invited to eat over at the Odyssey restaurant. "Take Rinuchio down two blocks. Turn left at the stoplight. You will turn on to SeaBreeze and go for two blocks. Take the next right and half-way down the street, you will see the restaurant." It was all said without any feeling or enthusiasm.

"And now we will tie on the k'riah ribbon." He uttered a monotone description of the symbolism of these ribbons, pinned them on the family members, then shredded them in his hands. "Wear these for 30 days. But on the 30th day do not wear it for more than one hour because our fathers told us not to mourne for longer than 30 days." Without taking more than a catch breath, he continued, "Now we will read together the Kadish found on the last page of the program."

I didn't have the program and couldn't join in the Hebrew reading, although as I listened, I wished I had the opportunity to see if I could keep up with everyone else. I didn't have long to wait til it was over. The officiant tore through the reading, doubletime.

"Now we're finished. May the name of Idilah Steinmetz be a blessing in your mouth every time you say it." The family nodded. "We now commend you to eternal rest. You will live on forever in our hearts." And he turned and walked out.

Everyone just got up and walked out.

I don't know how much of that funeral was typical for Jewish services and how much was due to the unique family situation. But it left me very disturbed, on many accounts. I've described some of the quirkiness. However, what troubled me the most was the lack of anything about the life hereafter. There lay a dead woman in a casket and no one had the belief that they would ever see her again, or that she would ever be alive again. According to the prevailing ideas, Idilah was dead and that was the end of her life--ever. Eternally.

Most of Christendom believes that at death a person's spirit leaves the body and goes up to God. For many, that means that the essence of the individual lives on, though their body remains in the ground. Because of Augustine's ideas of the separation of matter and spirit, it is assumed that a person can exist aside from her physical body. So that the loved one is up above in heaven, watching and sometimes helping those on earth. My beliefs are different than that. I believe in soul sleep and a body-soul connection. If one dies, the other does, too. At the resurrection, the body and soul become immortal and live forever in heaven, in the presence of God.

But whatever the details of the "hereafter belief," Christians have something to look forward to. We know that death is not forever for many people. God, in His mercy, has prepared much greater things for us than we can even dream of. The attendees of the memorial service seemed to take everything in stride. Death, funeral, family. That is how it is. They all went out together and had a meal, sharing their humanity by grieving and sharing stories of the deceased together. I drove home thanking God for the immeasurable Gift we have been given: Eternal life, not eternal rest.

Camp Good Grief

This weekend I served as a volunteer resource therapist at Camp Good Grief up in the Angeles Oaks mountain area. This is a weekend experience for kids ages 9 - 14 who have lost a family member due to illness. There were many very sad children, recounting their stories of watching family members die, or paramedics try to revive their fallen loved ones. It was a heartwarming experience, as it always is. We had about 30 kids and at least 30 staff, giving the kids one-to-one experiences with many of us. The weather could not have been more perfect, and thankfully, the incoming Santa Ana winds didn't start any fires or create problems for us.

There were a number of my students there, so I merely circulated around the various group meeting sites to be sure everything was going smoothly. Camp Cedar Falls is up about 8,000 feet high or so. All the adults got winded just walking up to the lodge after eating in the cafeteria. It was almost enough to make me want to skip meals! Kids were roiling around, up and down the hills, halls, trees--you name it. No fatigue there, unfortunately.

One very precious moment is still clear in my mind. I went to the young boys' group to help lead an activity. We had little white plastic flowerpots that snapped down into a larger clear pot. The inner and outer surfaces could be decorated with colored tissue paper and decoupaged on. It's a real dorky activity for teenage boys, but the 9 - 10 year-olds were immediately interested. There was tissue paper being pulled in all directions as they looked for just the right color and pattern to put on their pots. We told the boys that they could take a Sharpie pen and on the outside of the inner pot, write a message in honor of their loved one who had died. They fell to, busily writing in newly learned cursive writing: "In loving memory of ________" and "I love you, ________."

One chubby little guy with glasses was busy working on his flower pot. I could tell, just by looking at him, that he was taking this endeavor very, very seriously. He carefully wrote in bright blue, "In loving memory of Yadira" (not her real name) with big loopy, cursive letters. Then he sat quietly looking at the pot, his hands almost caressing it. A moment later, he sat studying the various tissue papers. Sorting through the stack of zebra print, butterflies, hearts, and miscellaneous patterns, he finally settled on a large floral print. The other boys were by this time talking together and trying to best one another in how they cut out their pieces of tissue. This little boy didn't talk to the others, but very slowly and methodically cut out several large pink lillies and put them on the outside of his pot. I couldn't help myself.

"Wow. Your pot has some beautiful colors on it."

He smiled without looking at me.

I watched several minutes and asked him, "Who are you making your pot for?"

"My sister," he said very softly.

"Oh. When did she die?" I asked.

"A couple years ago."

There was no need to say the polite, "I'm sorry." All our groups had been through that already, and everyone up there had lost someone recently.

"How old was she?"

"Nine. I was only seven." He said it so matter of factly, but in a soft little voice.

"Oh."

"Did Yadira like flowers?" I asked.

He nodded. "Pink ones."

He wanted to get more color on the inside and outside of his pot and didn't know how to put the decoupage glue over it. The activity took only about 15 minutes, but the whole time I sat with him, we hardly spoke. I'd just point to something and say, "How about that?" and he's nod and keep on working. It was a grave expression on his face, and I could see that his little heart was very hurt.

He worked at it some more and when the group leader called the boys back to their seats, he held his decorated pot up for me to see. He had left a little window where the words, "In loving memory of Yadira" could be seen on the inner pot. Big pink lillies were backlighted with bright blue paper underneath. One purple butterfly flitted across one side of the pot.

He looked at me questioningly.

"That is beautiful!"

He smiled faintly but continued to look at it as though he wasn't sure.

He turned it in his hand one way and then the other, checking to see that his message to his sister was visible. He looked around at the other boys' pots and then back to his own. He seemed uncertain.
"Honey, if Yadira liked flowers, she would love this pot. It's very, very pretty and just right for a girl."

The rigidness of his stance relaxed a bit and he nodded, putting it down on the vinyl papercloth to finish drying.

"Thank you," he said. And he walked over to join the other boys who were waiting to start a moment of silence. He sat down in his seat and shut his eyes. Then they flew open and he looked back at his pot, as it to reassure himself that it was still there. His eyes searched my face then and I smiled and nodded at him as if to say, "It's lovely and you did well."

He smiled a huge smile at me and put his head down for silent reflection.

Events like this don't come every day. What a tragedy that all of these children had been left without sibling, mother, or father. Their teary eyes and tense bodies said volumes about what they had gone through. They didn't choose to have these things happen to them. They were just trying to manage the best they could.

When they left today, their steps were a bit lighter and they looked more peaceful than when they came two days ago.

As I was packing up the van with boxes of supplies, my little friend, who was walking past, paused to catch my eye. Although he stood only three feet away, he waved at me, holding his flowerpot carefully in one arm.

"Bye," he said softly with a sweet smile on his face.

"Bye. See you next year."

And God bless you, precious one.

With Fear and Trepidation

It is November 1, 2007. It is an important day and even more important that I talk about why.
For months I have not been feeling well. I am overweight and have all the health and wellness issues that come from being sedentary, overweight, and stressed: gastric reflux, fatigue, obesity. And very few clothes feel good on me. It's time to get healthy and lose weight. 50 lbs, to be exact.

I have had plan after plan of how to drop this weight. Nothing has "stuck" and I am heavier than ever. Last month I spent a night in the ER because of chest pain. My health has become a matter of life and death. I MUST straighten up and get serious about staying alive and in good shape. Because if I've learned nothing else over the last few years, it's that at my age, I'm not going to have improved health and physical shape by accident.

Here is my plan: I will be eating no more than 1500 calories daily for the first 30 lbs of weight loss. I am not allowed bread or potatoes for the first six weeks. No sugar of any kind is allowed. Should I get tired of counting calories, I can eat all I want for one day--provided that no bread, fat, or sugar is involved, and that these "free days" occur no more often than one day per week.
In addition, I will be walking four days per week, for a minimum of 20 minutes each time.

I can do this. I've done it before. Now that it's written down and I'm acknowledging this, I must be accountable. Food has always been a comfort and coping device for me. Now it's time to change lifelong habits and grow into the person I was meant to be. I'll try not to discuss my eating and weight here because it can be really tedious and feel a bit intrusive having to read my inner process regarding food. But it will be an enormous struggle.
Please remember me in your prayers.

Newlywed Flu

Hot, prickly skin
Hair matted to his scalp;
Sweaty back, florid face.
Heave-ho, “Jason, hasten…”
All over the rug.

“What did you cook for him?”
“Is he allergic to peanuts?”
Anxiety crescendos from my parents;
Their voices strained with concern
Over my week-old marriage,

“I told him I love him.”
Pleased at my fawning over him,
As they leave to celebrate the
morning 52 years before
when their marriage was birthed.

“It happened to him, too”
and mother winks at daddy.

Written in April, 2003 after giving Sam rice cakes and peanut butter.
He will never eat rice cakes again, I am sure!

Catupuncture

I called to get an appointment for Otis' health checkup. It's been over a year since he's seen a vet and he needs his next round of vaccinations. So I called the vet who used to treat Zita when she was alive.
Dr. Madge's assistant answered the phone.
No, Dr. Madge's practice has undergone significant change, she told me in a hushed, breathy voice that bordered on the mysterious. We perform wholistic health for pets: accupuncture and chiropractic, and use of herb dietary supplements for total health.
I was appalled.

Perhaps it's because I grew up in the country surrounded by the neighbor's farm animals. Animals were what they had because it was a practical thing: they made money for the farmers. The barnyard cats were there because they kept down the rodent population, which saved money on grain and machine parts that typically got nibbled down to nothing in the cold winters. The dogs were to ride on tractors with the farmer, run to get the paper, keep the sheep in line, and help rounding up the cows at milking time. Every animal had a purpose.

It was not unusual for farmers to shoot the calves born with congenital defects, or to do other things with unwanted litters of kittens. But mostly the farmers I knew were kind souls who would never willfully hurt an animal for no cause.

But herbs and chiropractic for Otis? He can barely tolerate me massaging him unless he's almost dead from being sleepy. I can't visualize him stretched out on a padded couch, accupuncture needles sticking out of his neck, a vet stretching his legs and working his abs whilst inhaling in lavender or vetiver--things that makes him turn his head and retch every time I offer him a sniff. He would come home and roll around on the floor to try and get the smell off himself, ears flat to his head, shaking his head in disgust.

It was a very funny image. I'm sure there are those whose pets benefit from these treatments, and I quite understand the need for alternative medicines than the same old thing therapy. But juxtaposed against the backdrop of 25,000 acres of burned down homes, businesses, churches, and wilderness areas, questions arise about use of resources and priorities. Dr. Madge is only a vet and can't be responsible for FEMA procedures or helping people get on their feet again. And I don't begrudge her the opportunity to practice vetinerary medicine the way she chooses--and with obvious benefit. But it seems that our society has been turned on its ear. People in dire straits, who have lost all they have in wildfires, can walk past Dr Madge's office, look in, and see cats and dogs getting treatments they themselves could benefit from but can't afford. Or that seem superfluous in the face of their losses.

Otis is going to Dr. Taverstock, who will see him, give him his shots, pat him on the head, and send us home. And that's more medical attention than many children in this country get.

It's an interesting time in Southern California and in our world.

Dirty Laundry

The email message was cryptic: "Dawn's mother died this afternoon. She will be out of the office next week." I picked up the phone and called her to see what I could do to help her. Dawn's mother lived with her. So do her daughter and two grandchildren. She is the pillar of the household and of late, a very tired one.

Her voice sounded like she'd been crying. I almost didn't call her because I was afraid she wouldn't really want me to call her, or would wish to be left alone or something. But no, she was glad I called. Would she allow me to bring her supper? She was thrilled. So a couple hours later, I pulled up into the driveway armed with beef ravioli, salad and fresh homemade chocolate chip cookies. She probably wouldn't be able to eat much, but the kids would be happy for something good.

Dawn and her daughter, Suzie, were sitting in a darkened livingroom. Kids were running in and out of the house playing (mostly) in the back yard. When I reached to hug her, Dawn clung to me. A few moments later she shared with me that both of her siblings had already preceded her in death. Her father has Alzheimer's and lives in a board and care facility. She is my age.

She invited me to sit for a few minutes and she told me the whole death story. Her mother, who had severe emphysema, diabetes, and an amputated limb, had with great difficulty gone into the livingroom to sit for a few moments before she got her breakfast. That is where the caretaker found her at 2:00 in the afternoon when she let herself in the house. Mom looked like she was having a very peaceful nap.

As we sat in the front den I noticed mountains of what looked like dirty clothes in the chairs. Bags of clothes were all over. "Dawn, let me take all your laundry home and get it taken care of for you." It was a struggle, but numerous negotiations later, I triumphantly drove off with dirty laundry in the trunk and back seat, obscuring the rear view mirror in my car.

Her mother's bedding smelled like urine. But her sheets were brilliant blues and fuschia colors--crisp and light. Her damask bedspreads were pretty navy blue and sky blue. She had enjoyed good taste. The kids' socks were filthy--just as all socks get when you run around on a tile floor without wearing shoes. Their darling little outfits filled six paper grocery bags.

It wasn't until I had begun to fold the million or so washcloths that I realized that one must really trust another to hand over their dirty laundry to them. You can tell a lot about a person or family by washing their clothes. All these washcloths must have been used by Dawn's mother for a variety of reasons. She had been a very sick woman with many special care requirements. Washing her clothes, bedding and washcloths made me feel like I was able to do something for her. She would have been grateful.

It's humbling to handle garments that need mending, or have raggedy edges, or stains. Because I have clothes, old towels, mismatched sheets, filthy socks, just like Dawn's family has. One could find all sorts of regular dirty laundry in my cupboards and hampers. It seems to be the great leveler: soiled clothes. Everyone has some.

Cleaning our clothes can be a dreaded chore or it can be a reason to pause and reflect on the people who wore them last. I suppose that mothers around the world have been doing this for centuries. But on this day, as I folded up the umpteenth load of laundry, I was the one thinking about how much I really do care about Dawn and her family. She is all alone--without sibling or parent who can help--trying to arrange the service, get the obituary written, plan a reception at her home following the burial. It reminded me of what happened in my life one year ago this week when my own father died. The helpful hands and hearts of others made it possible to endure the aloneness that I had to face. It may have been only running an errand or picking up something from the cleaners or taking over a small detail. But it was one thing less that I had to concern myself with.

As I washed and folded clothes today I was again grateful for the love of those who make our grief and aloneness endurable. And I was blessed in passing that along to someone else.