Melancholy Musings

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Merry Christmas!

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

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

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

Traumatized

Found here

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

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

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

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

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

God bless all these good folks.

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

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

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

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

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

Just not this week.

Bon Voyage, Dad!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Memories and Change

Found here

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I doubt it. Especially at their astronomical price.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Freedom

Found here

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

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

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

Her mood is not about me.

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

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

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

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

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

First Snow

Photo by Jay Calderone of The Desert Sun

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

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

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

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

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

Time to go outside and get busy.

Memory Quilt

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Sacred Harp

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


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


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

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

When I can read my title clear

To mansions in the skies,

I bid farewell to every fear,

And wipe my weeping eyes.

And wipe my weeping eyes,

And wipe my weeping eyes

I bid farewell to every fear,

And wipe my weeping eyes.

Should earth against my soul engage,

And hellish darts be hurled,

Then I can smile at Satan’s rage,

And face a frowning world.

And face a frowning world,

And face a frowning world,

Then I can smile at Satan’s rage,

And face a frowning world.

Let cares, like a wild deluge come,

And storms of sorrow fall!

May I but safely reach my home,

My God, my heav’n, my All.

My God, my heav’n, my All,

My God, my heav’n, my All,

May I but safely reach my home,

My God, my heav’n, my All.

There shall I bathe my weary soul

In seas of heav’nly rest,

And not a wave of trouble roll

Across my peaceful breast.

Across my peaceful breast,

Across my peaceful breast,

And not a wave of trouble roll

Across my peaceful breast.

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