Which is better?

I am always intrigued by people's ideas of what constitutes right or wrong behaviors. Some folks vehemently outline what is acceptable moral behavior using language and sentiments that negates all the goodness of their intentions. Others allow anything but are critical of anyone who behaves in different ways than they do. Still others call on the authority of God to drive home their conceptions of what is right and wrong. Dyed hair--God doesn't like it. That kind of music? God is offended by it. Wierd dress? God thinks it is dishonorable. In fact, God has, in the Bible, said very little about a number of issues that people become combative about. There are only inferences about some issues, and one has to apply principles of godly conduct to them graciously. So many grey areas, so little direct communication about them.
Or, Bible readers select a clear directive--"Thou shalt not kill"--and ignore equally clear, more frequent injunctions in scripture: "Be slow to speak and slow to anger, for you are on earth and God is in heaven."
It is therefore not surprising that every person has his or her notion of what they will allow for themselves and others. No, not allow--privilege. While one may go after another person for using foul language, that same individual might speak in a caustic manner, or behave as though they are without a shred of redemptive feelings toward the offender. Which is better? Who is superior in the final analysis?

One morning, I had breakfast with friends. As Marge poured a cup of coffee for herself, Johnnie, her husband turned to me and said, "I was raised in a household that never drank coffee. It's really bad for your vascular system. I don't like it when Marge drinks it."
Marge looked straight ahead and brought her coffee cup to her lips. "Mmmm. That's good" she murmured.
Johnnie sighed and turned to me again. "You see, I don't force Marge to stop drinking it, but she knows how I feel about it."
Marge looked at me and rolled her eyes. "He doesn't let me forget how he feels about coffee!" she laughed.
Johnnie fell silent, eating his scrambled eggs.
"If this is the worst thing I do, then I'm doin' pretty well, right?" she asked us both.
I understand this concern. Sam drinks coffee and I don't. But then, I eat lots of sugar and Sam doesn't. Which is better?
I should not have been shocked later in the day, when Johnnie and Marge drove off to a winery for wine tasting. I did not approve of that, but then, I'm overweight and eat too much. Which is better? Would it be better for me to have a glass of wine once in awhile and eat more sensibly? How can I point at these friends when I make decisions that are equally as unhelpful to myself or others?
It seems that when we forget that we are uneven in our application of principles, or that we may unwittingly engage in hurtful behavior defending our right to think, feel, or behave in the ways that we privilege, something vital is negated.

On the way to work each week, I pass an abortion clinic. Parked outside is a van with placards of disemboweled babies and fetal fragments--all in disturbing, bloodstained color. One underdeveloped baby's facial expression is burned into my memory. There is usually one or two senior citizens kneeling on the sidewalk in prayer outside of the clinic, whilst girls and their significant others try to walk around them and in the front door.
I am deeply disturbed by this. The clinic in question is what may correctly be called an abortion mill. From reports I have heard, the practitioners do a poor job of offering counseling or alternative services to their patients. But this is not a post about whether or not abortion is a good thing or not. It is of note, that the individuals who are kneeling outside the abortion clinic have partisan slogans and decals written all over their vehicle under the placards. The party they support has cut the vast majority of funding for drug treatment services for women with children. And of course, if women don't have money for drugs, they prostitute themselves, get pregnant and need abortions. If poor women are in need of food and there is a no-gooder who will at least feed her and her children, of course sex enters the mix. So do unwanted pregnancies.
This is not to say that women can't or shouldn't get free birth control at the local public health clinic. They could do that, but don't, for whatever reason.
My point is this: is it better to make a spectacle outside of an abortion clinic, or to do something proactive to actually offer help to the women who come in and out of the doors? Is it better to accuse self-righteously on the one hand, while with the other hand, money is being voted out of programs that could assist these women? And another issue: if these protesters are as pro-life as they state they are, why aren't they doing something about all the living children whose lives are threatened every single day by abuse, poverty, gangs? Why aren't they in East Los Angeles in the barrios? What about pro-life child abuse warriors? What about pro-life elder abuse preventers? What are these people doing to improve life that already exists? Isn't there something that these protesters could do that would be more gracious in some way? I understand shock techniques, but these seldom work to secure longterm changes in people.

Which is better? For me to disdain such praying protesters, to avert my eyes as I drive past their hideous placards, to say nothing, do nothing, have nothing to show for my strong feelings? Or is it better to try to make a difference by impacting families and children in trouble? Is there a better? Who decides?

Hard questions, all.

Conference Tales

I wanted to post a picture here, to illustrate what I've been viewing for the last two days. But actually, no picture can do justice. I was surrounded by people with inquiring minds--whose inquiring minds produce some wonderful research. The problem was that so many were unbelieveably odd. It all began on the bus.

Megan and I were invited to speak at a professional conference. Neither of us are members of the profession that sponsored the event, but both of us have some disciplinary relationship with the research or research methods for which this profession is famous. So we went to present papers, glad for another line on our CVs.

We flew into Oakland airport, then took a bus to the BART station, where we were to take a train to our conference center. As we lumbered onto the bus, dragging our unwieldy luggage, my attention was immediately arrested by a rather large man sitting next to the luggage rack. Some people merely take up a seat (or two). Others take up the whole bus with their presence or attitude. Walking past him, I noticed that his eyebrows were tweezed and penciled into thin arches that made him look perpetually delighted or surprised. His hair was an interesting study. He had perfectly coifed, loopy Mozartesque burls all over his head, excentuating his very round face. Oh, and I forgot to mention that his hair color was somewhere between gray-brown-green-taupe-copper. That alone, was of note.
He was sprawled out over both seats in what struck me as a rather grandiose pose. Across the aisle sat a young male companion who seemed adoring of his mentor almost as much as he was of himself. He caught the eye of Mr. Mozart and jerked his head in Megan's direction.
"Are you going to the conference?" he sang out rather loudly to Megan. And so began a vociferous exchange with Megan and incidentally, audible to all of those in the back and midsection of the bus. "I am Doctor Hickemsnivie from St. James University on the Water" he announced, waiting a moment as he surveyed us all for effect. I was immediately disgusted. But Megan is not one to turn people off. So within moments, she, Dr. Hickemsnivie and his sidekick, were engaged in a loud conversation about Denmark's role in the underground resistance movement during World War II. They debated and held forth all the way to the train station. People standing in the aisle inclined toward the little knot of gesticulating hands and loud voices, trying to see if this guy was for real or not, and what on earth an attractive woman like Megan would see in carrying on this kind of conversation in a public place with such characters. I was glad to be seated back away from them a bit.
As I got off the bus, Megan, who had gotten off before me, was telling her new friends that we would both indeed be presenting our papers at said conference. Turning to me, she introduced me as Dr. --but our peroxide-assisted friend nodded at me, shook my hand and said, "I graduated from Smith-Tyner University." Not, "Pleased to meet you," or "Looks like we're all going the same place." I was so put off that I turned and walked off without comment. There are times when that seems justifiable, I think.
I scurried off to buy our tickets whilst Megan tried to disentangle herself from these two. Fortunately, we left them behind, wrangling with the ticket machines, and went up to the train platform.
I was beginning to wonder about this conference, but of course, every group has a few outliers. We positioned ourselves against a wall and stood enjoying the sunshine as we waited for our train.

"Oh, hello again!" and here came our Pickwickian shadow, ready for more grandstanding. I stepped away to avoid him, just as he launched into an exegesis on characterological components of a religious minority group. His voice could be heard over the din of our surroundings. I was mortified.

As I stood off a way, a rather friendly, robust young woman approached me. I noticed that she did not have on a bra and was as endowed as anyone I've ever seen. Shall we say that not all of her got to where I was standing at the same time.

"Is that the labaris on your lapel?" she asked. I was wearing a silver thistle on my suit. I explained that it was the symbol of the Scots. She told me that it looked like the lesbian labaris and she was delighted to see me wearing it proudly. I have no idea of what that is, so whether or not my pin looks like a labaris, is up for speculation.
"Are you going to the conference, too?" I asked her.
"Oh yes." She smiled. "And I see that you and your friend are going to be presenting something. What?"
"Oh, it's about forgiveness" I replied, not wanting to fall into a loud conversation about theoretical things on the train tracks. Her eyes narrowed and she looked at me intently.
"Are you for it or against it?" she asked in a low voice.
Oh, for the love of Pete...
"I'm just talking about research related to it." She relaxed a little, though I was both amused and curious about this.
"And are you presenting as well?"
"Oh yes. I'm presenting on fat advocacy. I'm in fat studies."
Fortunately, I had heard of this field of study before, but it always takes me off guard. Megan had never heard of it and guffawed when the woman explained her role at the conference a bit later.

Later in the afternoon, Megan and I looked over the conference program, trying to decide which meetings we would attend. Indeed, there was a "fat reading" the next morning. And Dr. Mozart? He was presenting on the inclusion of UFOs, aliens and brainwashing in curricula. Go figure.

I have never seen as many unusual people in one place at one time.
Glad to be home.

Happy Anniversary to Me

This week we celebrated our fourth wedding anniversary. It seems as though we have been married forever, what with the familiarity and comfort we have in each other. On the other hand, I still feel as though I'm having one grand affair (which, for the record, I've never had before) and I can't believe my good fortune in it lasting this long!

On our Big Day, mother called and read me a poem she had found in my father's desk drawer. It had been written years before for one of my siblings, but it had never been shared. Mother thought it would be a terrific gift from Daddy to us. It was.

As today you count your blessings
And your hearts are warm and glad,
May you find this anniversary to be
The best you’ve ever had.

It ain’t a day of mourning
A day to gross about
You both could have been married
To some no-good, rotten lout

But God, His face, He made to shine
Upon you two young lovers
Your mom and dad
Know love is great
Especially ‘neath the covers.

Happy Anniversary to Me!!!

A Slow Miracle

This week my clinic is closed for renovations. We are actually just painting the therapy rooms and changing the decor, but renovations sound much more sophisticated. I am utterly spent.

Today is the third day in a row that has consisted of 10 hours of painting, patching holes in the walls, and moving furniture around. The paint in the first room came out absolutely shocking. It was to have been "Deep Slice" and instead came out a most shocking yellowy-mustard color. The entire room, all four walls are enough to knock your eyes out. Up goes a quilt on the wall in the morning--hopefully that will cover enough so it will simply look cheery instead of blaring yellow.
Then we have the lovely "Fig" dark brown walled cavernous room. It is now a lovely looking, intimate space. Not much can be done with the horrible pale pink blinds over the one-way mirror, but I'll make curtains to cover them. The "Arid Sand" room is lovely. But the "New Khaki" is absolutely bilious. Against the pink blinds it is more than I can bear.

Tomorrow I will start in on the miles of sheer (and otherwise) curtains that need to be made for windows that go from floor to ceiling. Hopefully, the lobby wallpaper will be completely removed by my energetic and earnest student before he gives out.

The title of this post refers to my other helper. I've never seen anyone move so slowly in all my life. It is truly miraculous. If he were going any slower, he would be moving backward. Inertia was named after him.

So now you know where I've been and what I've been doing. More to follow after I come up for air on the weekend.

Grape Nuts Conversations

I once knew a man who used such big words that most people didn't know if his words identified him as friend or foe. One man followed him around with a dictionary, making a point of leafing hurriedly through Webster to figure out what he was talking about. My friend was so stern that people didn't dare tease him about his verbiage, but he knew that his volleys of multi-jointed words left people far behind. His mental dictionary was so set in place however, that he never changed. He continued to send out inexplicable missives full of obfuscatory circumlocution.

I loved Richard though. Every time he spoke, I learned something new--detailed shades of his experience and perspective. When I teased him, he would grunt, run his hands through his hair, and come back at me with some incomprehensible but affable response.

Love of words is something that has long been known in my family. My father used to cock his head to one side and say, "Indubitably!" in response to a question or comment by one of us. As a 10 year-old, one of my brothers used to stalk through the house chanting what were to him, big words: "Albatross!"
Using imprecise words that do not evoke any emotion is like painting a sunset in black and white."

Some people just don't use interesting language. Others just state facts, unadorned by any imagination, editorializing, or feeling. Hearing them talk is like eating Grape Nuts without anyting on it: tasteless, uninteresting, and without satiety of any kind. Their flat language makes it impossible for some of us abstract thinking ones to understand with any degree of clarity, what is being said or to desire to find out more about their observations. "Nuts and Bolts" coversation is what I call it. "Pass the salt." "How was your day?" "Oh. That's good." "I laughed when my boss fell up the steps." "What's happening?"

Those of us for whom using words is an artform, cringe if exposed to this kind of conversation for prolonged periods of time. Being with people who only talk facts can make me feel trapped and emotionally disengaged quite quickly. There is a world inside me of richness, subtle coloring, imaginative images, shades of vivid description--all of which is left untouched by common conversation.

This morning I had breakfast with a friend whose use of language is always stimulating, and whose ideas are always interesting. She colors her stories with descriptive words and emotional content that makes her narratives compelling. We often have very long conversations about numerous things. There are periods of silence during which one of us searches for just the right word to describe something critical. I think my best and most creatively around her because we mentally and emotionally go where I seldom can go with anyone else--because few people even know these places exist. I always come away with new ideas, a fresh perspective, and clarity of thought.

My friend, Paul, is also such a person. Our conversations are rarely confined to an hour. We have often gobbled up entire evenings as we shared thoughts, ideas, and our words. Paul grew up clear on the other side of the world, in completely different circumstances from mine. I lacked many of the things he had in his experience and vice versa, yet we find that there is no such thing as being in the same place for too long. I come away from our mutual sharing with new appreciation for my inner reality.

Some of us who are engrossed in words, feelings, and ideas have a hard time producing what the concrete thinkers would call "real products" because we are, as they would say, "distracted by what goes on" in our heads. That may be. But to live without that inner world would be a life grounded only in what can be seen, heard, touched, and experienced. It would be a life so tasteless as to be a test of endurance.

It is a rare person indeed, who can speak both the language of the concrete here-and-now, and the abstract far-and-away.

Healing Hands

This weekend I helped run a group for young boys who had lost a close relative in a traumatic accident. The boys were ages 9 - 11 and were brought to this therapy program as a way to help them talk about the event, find solace in knowing that others had experienced this also, and to learn ways to cope with the myriad of feelings that follows the death of a loved one.

After discussing our purpose for being in the group, we talked about group rules: "No talking while someone else talks. Respect what others say and how they express their feelings. Listen to the counselor. Don't hit anyone or break anything. Talk or don't talk--whichever is best for you." We listed these on a large Post-it sheet and stuck it on the wall where we could refer to it. We talked about ways to express ourselves and how to set limits on what we feel comfortable sharing in the group. Then it was time to hear from each boy about why they had come.

Suddenly, Nat, one of my students who was helping lead the group, suggested that we needed a way to express our support and appreciation for each other when information was shared that needed to be recognized. "Clapping is too loud," he explained. The boys soberly nodded their agreement. "Maybe what we can do then, is to just rub our hands together" he suggested. The air was immediately filled with the slithery sound of little hands rubbing together. Nine eager faces around the circle indicated that this gesture was a good thing.

We went around the circle and heard each boy share the circumstances that surrounded their loss. The first two boys were able to get through their stories with a quavering voice. They were rewarded by a round of hand rubbing and kindly looks from the other boys. The third boy completely broke down. As he sat in his chair sobbing, the boy next to him started to quietly rub his hands together. Everyone joined in for several moments until the crying stopped and the boy could continue.

Around the circle, everyone shared why they were there. As I heard each one, I groaned inside, absolutely horrified that any child should have to experience such losses.

I was unprepared for what Matt, the group leader said next. "Barbara, why don't you share what has happened to you recently." Turning to the group he added, "Barbara knows what it feels like to lose someone, too."

I had started the group without any conscious thought about the death of my father except that it had happened. My role was to facilitate healing for others, not myself. But nine little faces were all looking at me with big, sad eyes.

"Well," I started, "My father died in October." There were nods around the group. "He had a heart attack after he had lived a long time." I didn't want this group to be about me. These boys had much to process and recover from. "We used to sing together and make jokes together. I loved my father a lot. So it was very sad for me and I miss him very much." A tear ran down my cheek, most unexpectedly.

Across the room, Martin* looked at me solemnly and began rubbing his hands together. Everyone joined in. As the slithery, soft sound became louder, I looked around the room. There was Pete whose father had been gunned down in front of him. Pablo's uncle and sister had been killed by shots intended for someone else. Sal had lost mother and father in one horrible shooting. He tucked his chin down onto his chest and looked up at me through his long wet eyelashes. He needed a tissue. "We understand, Barbara."

Truly, they all did. And my loss was pale in comparison with theirs, yet they so readily took me in and recognized that loss is loss, pain is pain. It was such an unselfish, generous gesture--so typical of childlike goodness.

Life continues on. The shades of grief move from vivid colors to more muted, subtle tones. At times, I am consumed with the feeling of being lost and without an anchor in this world. At others, I have to stop and search for that silent grieving spot. And now, when I reach for that tender spot inside, the sounds of little hands rubbing together comfort me.

Bach Master

This morning I came across a recording that I haven't listened to in a very long time. It is of the famous Canadian pianist, Glenn Gould, playing Bach's Italian Concerto. It was absolutely amazing in perfection. Every note was crafted perfectly, and the phrasing of each voice was flawless. Listening to it while I was stuck in four lanes of bumper-to-bumper traffic, everything seemed peaceful and orderly in the world.

There was something soothing and predictable about the perfect meter and evenhandedness of Gould. I crept along the freeway listening to him.

I remember that when I was very small, my father told me about Glenn Gould. He said that this fine pianist is the standard for Bach. And yet he was eccentric. He sat on a low chair when he played the piano and almost had to reach up to the keyboard to play. Then he would hum along, emphasizing various syncopated elements with clucks and moans. It apparently was impossible to record him in his later years (so my father told me--which I can't verify or dispute) because of his singing. The recording studio created a plastic bubble type affair placed over him while he performed. That way, they could cut his voice out of the sound track. Interesting.

So I drove all the way out into the Southwest sands yesterday, listening to Gould cluck, whine and croon.

There is something enviable about a person who can so lose themselves in what they are doing. Particularly when that something is creative. Seeing or in this case, hearing, someone else become one with their craft restores peace to me. If you have a few moments, you may want to watch him perform.

Soup Explosion!!

Yesterday I served lunch to my entire clinic staff. It is the week before final exams and the student therapists are all exhausted, stressed out, and worked up about all their demands. So I made them a lunch of comfort foods: cream of potato soup, tomato basil bisque, cornmeal-cheddar-scallion-red bell pepper muffins, herb braid bread, and chocolate chip cookies: all things that make a person relax and think that there just may be some goodness to be had in the present moment.

Lunch was to be at 11:00 a.m. Although I had made a number of things the night before, I still had the tomato bisque to cook in the morning. So I was up at 5:30 standing over the stove. It is truly a lovely time to cook. It's quiet, the house is cool, there is no street noise, and I am partially mentally benumbed.

All went well with the soup. It was so delicious that I had a bowl for breakfast and another two bowls for lunch in the clinic. My students raved about it (I shall upload the recipe here one day). It was gratifying to see them fuss and argue about which of them could take the leftovers home with them---poor college students who have neither money for this kind of food, nor time to cook it themselves. I left so pleased that I could do this for them.

The challenge for me is that I can't get the soup out of my white lace curtains in the kitchen. I made the mistake of putting hot soup in the blender with the lid on it. When I turned it on, it was a tomato bath for me, the walls, the ceiling, the window, and worst of all, my blue and white creamer collection on the window sill. All of them had to be taken down and washed. I was a walking illustration of splash burns that I've been teaching my students about in the family violence course. But what to do with those curtains?

Here's the recipe (use a food processor, not a blender with a lid!):

Tomato-Basil Bisque

1 cup chopped celery
3/4 cup chopped carrots
1/4 cup chopped yellow onion
1 tablespoon minced fresh garlic
1 tablespoon butter
3 cups tomato juice
1 cup chicken broth
1 7 1/2-0unce can tomatoes, cut up
1/2 of a 6-ounce can tomato paste
1 teaspoon dried basil, crushed
1/2 teaspoon dried oregano, crushed
1/2 tgeaspoon pepper
1 cup whipping cream (I used non-fat half and half)
4 teaspoons sugar
1/4 cup snipped fresh basil
2 tablespoons prepared basil pesto

In a large saucepan, cook celery, carrots, onion and garlic in butter till vegetables are tender, but not brown. Add tomato juice, chicken broth, undrained tomatoes, tomato paste, basil, oregano and pepper. Bring to boiling; reduce heat. Simmer, uncovered, about 30 minutes or until slightly thickened.
Place half of the soup in a blender container or food processor bowl. Cover (maybe...) blend or process till smooth. Repeat with remaining mixture.
Return all of the mixture to the saucepan. Stir in whipping cream and sugar; heat through. Stir in fresh basil. Ladle into warm soup bowls. Top each serving with some of the pesto and garnish with fresh basil leaves, if you like. Makes 8 side-dish servings.
(199 calories per bowl)

Source unknown--this is from a clipping in my recipe box.

God's Flowers

One of my special interests in therapist education is preparation for work with victims of family violence. This week we've been talking about elder abuse--a particularly troublesome issue. Here is a poem that I came across and to which my students are required to write a response:

The Shoebox

by Vanillafire (2005)

On her lap is a shoebox
she holds every day,
while she watches out the window
the world she is no longer in.

Once a day she lifts the lid,
lets aged fingers
sift through memories,
pick up pieces of the past.

pictures of her husband, flower dried
from their first date, drawings done by
children, poem from a friend, old-
fashioned photo of her parents, piece
of silken wedding dress, gift pin from
retirement dinner, tiny confirmation
bible, seashells from both oceans

Nurses pass and check in often.
Sometimes they stay awhile,
to listen, to learn of her box,
of her.

Back at the nurses station
some wonder why she wants
to keep on living. “Sad how she
hangs on to that box.”

Others smile, the ones who stop,
to fix her hair and chat.
They know it is not simply a box
that she cherishes, a container
for her reason to live.

It is her life she relives daily,
the happiness she’s known.
her present is that shoebox,
and what a gift
she has to give.

How Do I Look to You Now?

This is me, circa 1981, the era of big hair. Fresh after the breakup of my first boyfriend, I thought I was the ugliest thing that walked the earth, and as big as a barn. Isn't that amazing? I would love to be this big and ugly now!
This weekend is the annual homecoming weekend at the university where I teach. It has been so interesting to watch people recognize someone walking across the campus, call out to them, and then freeze as they wonder if they made a mistake. "Can that really be Herman? He doesn't have much hair left now." "Wow-- Rachel has come through her chemo pretty well." And the inevitable, "Oh my word! I didn't even recognize him, he's changed so much!"
I sat back in church this morning watching so many members of the honored classes greeting one another. There was a lot of backslapping and hugs. Talk was a little louder, what with hearing loss creeping in on the older ones. I recognized a fair number of people there, since I've lived in this community for about 19 years. Some of the returning alums were men I had once had crushes on. They didn't look particularly awe inspiring--not a one of them. A couple of them looked rather hagard and showed up without their wives. Maybe they're not together any more.
Have you noticed that some formerly homely ones actually look much better with maturity, and some of the beautiful people don't look very good with time? I noticed one man this morning, who not only looks better, but bears himself with the kindliest bearing and the warmest reserve. He was clearly admired by many who observed him.
I sat back and took it all in. I'm not the same as I was in 1981 either. The speaker asked us a good question: "What have circumstances done to you and what has God done in you?"
In response to this question, I have few concrete answers, but several unshakable thoughts:
1. God is absolutely trustworthy. That doesn't mean that things always turn out how you want, or that God exercises that Deus et machina (God in a box), sugar-daddy giving prerogative of His. It just means that He is a sure thing. That He can be leaned on in every single circumstance that life brings. That He will never abandon anyone.
2. God will love me no matter what I do. As my former pastor used to say, "God can love me no less for what I've done or who I am. He will love me no more when I'm not doing the right things than when I am making the effort to do what is right."
3. God has the power to create something out of nothing and do the most miraculous things on our behalf. Of this, I have no doubt. I do not always understand why He permits some things to come to me that are painful, or why at other times He brings incredible, unexpected miracles to me. But He is able, and that is a wonderful, wonderful truth to know.
4. I have nothing to be afraid of in life. The Bible says, "In this world you will have trouble. But be of good cheer--I have overcome the world." That is mighty comforting, even when everything feels as though it is falling in, or that aspects of life create more pain than pleasure in every day life. I still have nothing to be afraid of.

So what have circumstances done to you? And what has God done in your life? It is not a bad idea to reflect on this often.