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.

Raising Cain

The first time in scripture that animal sacrifice is mentioned is in Genesis 4. A casual reading of this chapter leads one to believe that Cain and Abel knew what God required for sacrifices. Abel presented a firstborn lamb and the best parts of it as a sacrifice. Cain presented God with fruit and vegetables from his harvest.
And God had no regard for Cain's sacrifice.
But God did not accept Cain's fruit.
But upon Cain and his offering, He did not look.

I wonder how God acknowledged Abel's offering. There is speculation by a number of Bible scholars that God sent fire down from heaven to consume the lamb, indicating favor or acceptance of the offering.

A blood offering was required in the ancient sacrificial system because it pointed ahead to Christ's sacrifice. Fruit points toward nothing. Except that it was fruit that was involved in the fall of Adam and Eve. Blood is not aesthetic and killing a lamb would be disheartening, to say the least. But apparently, God told the first family what was expected for sacrifices and Cain thought it would be less offensive to offer fruit and vegetables instead of a dead animal.

Interesting, too, that because God accepted Abel and not Cain, Abel paid for doing right with his life. We do not have any record that Abel chided Cain or that he acted superior because of being right. Maybe he tried to point out to Cain that God expects obedience, and that it is a simple thing to do what has been requested. Unfortunately, the right thing is not always popular.

I was thinking about the importance of obedience when I recently read Genesis 4. For those who think that obedience means legalism, they should look over this chapter. God is serious about the imperatives He issues. There aren't a whole lot of them, but the laws and requirements outlined in the Bible are not optional.
Love your neighbor as yourself.
Seek the Lord with all your heart, mind, and soul.
Be sure to entertain strangers.
Do not lie or behave in deceitful ways.
Don't covet what other people have.
Put your money where your heart is
Remember to keep the Sabbath holy.

Now speaking of our own ideas of what is right--there's a commandment that has been changed to reflect what people think would be better than what God established and lived by while on earth.

I think all of us have some way of turning a blind eye to a command of God and substituting something that is easier, more accepted, more fun, or that seems to pay off more than the old, boring requirements. Exaggerate the truth to make a story more interesting. Allow your mind to wander into forbidden areas: What would it be like to make love to someone other than who I am married to? Say something hasty and unsavory to your parent because their behavior is grating. Deny the name of Christ by your behavior.
We all do it in some way--do whatever we think works better than what God clearly states. Then we are resentful of those who don't do as we do.
All the while, God is at our elbow asking, Is your way going to get you what you want and what is best for you?

The Bible says that although Abel is dead, his blood still speaks from the ground. His example of absolute obedience, whether or not he understood the sacrificial issue or not, is for us today.

Obedience is vital. Would you obey even if it would cost your life?
Food for thought.

Who has the privilege?

Do you ever think about being, looking, or identifying as someone other than the race, age, sexual orientation, or member of your socioeconomic status? See how many of these questions you can answer in the affirmative:

I can go shopping alone most of the time, pretty sure that I won’t be followed or harassed.

I can turn on the TV or open to the front page of the paper and see people like me widely represented.

I can be sure that my children will be given curricular materials that testify to the existence of their race, religion, sexual orientation

I can swear, or dress in second-hand clothes or not answer letters without having people attribute these choices to the bad morals, poverty, or the illiteracy of my race

I can remain oblivious of the language and customs of persons of color who constitute the world’s majority without feeling in my culture any penalty for such oblivion.

I can criticize our government and talk about how much I fear its policies and behavior without being seen as a cultural outsider.

I can be pretty sure that if I ask to talk to the “person in charge,” I will be facing a person of my race.

I can easily buy posters, postcards, picture books, greeting cards, dolls, toys, and children’s magazines featuring people like me.

I can go home from most meetings of organizations I belong to feeling somewhat connected, rather than isolated, out-of-place, out-numbered, unheard, held at a distance, or feared.

I can be sure that if I need legal or medical help, my sexual orientation will not be a matter of comment

I can choose blemish cover or bandages in “flesh” color and have them more or less match my skin
(Peggy McIntosh in M. McGoldrick’s book, ReVisioning Family Therapy.)

This weekend I shared this list with an audience of about 80 people at one of my workshops. There were a number of people for whom all these answers were "yes." There were five or six people whose Yes answers were less than three. All of them were born in the U.S. and were highly educated, working as therapists in large urban areas. One man shared, "I could only answer yes to two of these questions. I realized that as I was going through the list, that I purposely try not to think about these things or else I couldn't function." This, from the director of a marriage and family therapy-pastoral counseling program.
He went on to share that he finished his PhD in marriage and family therapy and then decided that he would like to be sure that he was qualified for any job opportunity that may present itself to him. So he went to a famous family therapy institute for a postdoctoral fellowship and spent one year studying with renowned family therapists. Just as the year was ending, he was sent a job announcement for the director of an inpatient family therapy program for kids with behavioral problems. It was perfect for him so he applied and waited to be called for an interview. He knew the other applicants and of all of them, he was most educated, experienced, and then there was his postdoc. Weeks went by. When he finally called to find out the status of his application he was told that he wasn't qualified enough. They had hired someone who had experience in another field but who had read a book about family therapy. That man would be heading up the family therapy program.
As I listened to this man share his experience with the group, heads nodded in agreement across the room. One woman explained that she is aware every single day of her brothers and sisters across the nation who cannot respond positively to any question that I had read. These are all American citizens.

I have the privilege. I am a White woman--one of the most protected segment of the population. It was out of fear for "our women" that Whites lynched Blacks in the South, alleging that Black men had threatened either the reputation or purity of White women. It is little wonder that there is such resentment at times from people of color. To be assaulted with fire hoses if you sit in a "White" coffee shop, expected to stand in the back of the bus rather than in the front, to be told by supervisees who are still wet behind the ears, "I refuse to have you supervise me," or that you don't know what you're talking about (and the assumption is that they do), would call forth more than exasperation.

To pretend that I don't have privilege is arrogant on my part. I can walk into any shop, school, church, and be expect some sort of deference. Whether or not I should have it is quite another story. But in this society, I can expect it. Awareness of these things should humble me. I did nothing to be born White and have the characteristics, parentage, that I have. I had nothing to do with slavery. My great-grandfather fought against it in the Civil War. We lived in Hattiesburg, Mississippi during the Civil Rights Movement. It was horrid--even for me at the age of four. My sister drank out of a "Colored" water fountain at Sears and the White clerk rushed over to my father. "Don't let her drink out of that! Use the White fountain." My Northern father reflected a moment, studying the water pipes that supplied both the Colored fountain and the White fountain. "Look here," he said. "The water for both comes from the same pipe. They are absolutely the same." The clerk became enraged, insisting that my sister only drink from the White fountain. My father told him essentially that he was nuts. And we were told to leave the store. "We don't need your kind around here."

Or the time my mother went to the bank one morning. A very pregnant Black woman stood at the front of the line, waiting for the doors to open. When they did open, she went over to a bench and sat down with her children. They had to wait until all the Whites had been served before she could approach the teller. Mother invited her to go ahead of her and she politely declined. The teller became angry with Mother for disupting the law of keeping "niggers in their place." Even writing this makes me cringe.

As an adult, I had naively assumed that the Civil Rights Movement made things pretty good for people of color. And yet, that is simply not as true as one would think. It is little wonder that there were tears, downcast expressions, and halting expressions of experience at my workshop. The term, "cultural sensitivity" doesn't always fall the same way on everyone's ears. People of color can't escape dealing with cultural issues in almost every venue they approach. Being White means that I don't have to.

I didn't bring the slaves here from Africa and the Islands. I didn't abuse them, kill them, discriminate against them. But many in this country did and now we are faced with the difficulty of feeling a collective sense of guilt, shame, and wishing it would all go away. I can't pay for what others have done. I shouldn't be punished for what they did and the dynamics that exist. But neither should people of color have to deal with the impact and legacy of coming from slaves and being despised then and now. We have formulated all sorts of simplistic responses about how people of color should conduct themselves, think about life in the United States, or interact with Whites. But few of us really understand what it is like to be non-White and (often) non-privileged.

We are each accountable for what we do with our lives, regardless of our origins or the difficulty we have encountered along the way. I just think that we ignorantly assume that because Abraham Lincoln stated that "all men are created equal" that this is true. It isn't. We all have the same value in the eyes of God, but we are not all equal, do not all start out from the same place, or have the same innate capabilities and emotional/social tools as others have. We all do the best we can. Awareness and understanding of others who are not as privileged as we are is critical if we are to sensitively interact with others who by no choice of their own, are born to races that are not honored in this country and that have painful legacies.

Have you ever thought about the privilege that you hold?

Giants

Found here

Tomorrow night I travel to a national conference in Long Beach, California. It will be a very intense weekend of meetings and presentations. I am giving several presentations, one of which I am prepared to do. The other will be prepared at night after the next couple day's meetings, and one will be the result of me flying by the seat of my pants. So much for professionalism! Good job that two of these presentations are with colleagues from my university.

I had no idea what was involved when I accepted the invitation to coordinate 15 hours of workshops over the weekend. It will help me advance to full professor to have this on my resume. Being able to say that I presented three workshops at a national conference is also a feather on my cap. Small comfort that, as I stare at the computer screen for hours on end, borrowing time from other projects that are languishing as we speak.

These conferences are attended by all the Who's Who in my field. Quite frankly, it is a rather intimidating assemblage. Any number of well-known authors, theorists, and clinicians may find their way to my workshops which would cause no end of consternation on my part. (Can you tell I'm on my last nerve???)

It's interesting, this sense of intimidation.

Connie, a very well-published colleague, invited me to present along with her. Our talk is about power and privilege in the supervisory relationship--how we as supervisors can intimidate and undermine the students and interns with whom we work. More specifically, it's how not to do that. One day last week as we were putting together our presentation, we offhandedly tried an experiment that we are hoping to have our attendees do: we had a discussion about our differences and similarities for several minutes.

Connie started out: "I grew up in [the Midwest] on a farm and for some reason, I think you're very much like me. I didn't have a lot of friends growing up and I learned to occupy myself as a farm child. Something about you seems familiar to me in this way." She went on to discuss that we have similar builds and other features of our demeanor in common. Then it was my turn.

"I'm aware that you are more experienced, more published than I am, and have held a number of very prestigious positions in our field." It was the first thing I noticed. She smiled and acknowledged my comment. I added a few other similarities and contrasts and we were done. Connie was her typical warm, pleasant self, but I left that meeting exhausted and wondering why I was so spent.

Later in the evening, Connie emailed me:

I had a thought about our little exercise with each other that shows an interesting power issue. I focused on our similarity. You raised that I had been in the field a lot longer (and perhaps also then more senior/respected/known in the field). I didn't even think of that. I think this is a sign of power. The one with more privilege is not aware of it.

Her email helped me understand why I had been so tired after our meeting. I replied the next day:

Thanks for noting the power differential in our conversation yesterday. I am always acutely aware of it but had decided on some level that I needn’t worry about it since we’re colleagues and you have only ever been a pleasure to be around. But when I read your email last night, I cried—and was surprised to have had that response. I felt relieved, I think, and justified that I feel pretty overwhelmed as a just-learning and in-transition faculty member, trying to make my place among giants.

She replied,

I think this power issue is really interesting. I generally experience myself as pretty powerless and I guess I expect to relate as equals to less experienced colleagues or even in some ways with students. But that doesn’t take away the reality of the power difference. And, as one reference I read noted, the assumption of “false equality” doesn’t help to name the issue. I guess naming it is the first step. I am very grateful to have you as a colleague and expect to learn from you as well.

And this idea of walking in the land of giants is what fills my head as I plan, write, and catastrophize about it all. Articulating this with my colleague has certainly given me some measure of reassurance in terms of working with her. It is a time of internal stretching, and good growth.

Happily, tomorrow night I leave behind a nicely healing Sam. (The "happily" part is that he's healing, not that I'm leaving him home!) He's doing extremely well, hobbling around the house on his crutches. He even barbecued a chicken this evening. And only one pain pill since Sunday. So I know he'll manage without me over the next few days.

The other positive thing is that I expect to see a number of colleagues from across the nation, and make good connections with people who are interested in many of the same issues I am. While having to mingle at the receptions and dinners leaves me cold, the overall experience should be good. Even if it's only because I get to stay in a wonderful hotel for four nights on the university's dime. I'm doing all the positive self-talk I can think of, praying many times during the day, and soothing myself by singing hymns in the shower.

To quote stepdaughter #2, "Being an adult sucks sometimes." I concur. I'd rather crawl in a hole than stand in front of all those professional people and talk about my topic. But then, progress and advancement doesn't happen by accident.

Here's hoping for a growthful, invigorating weekend. I look forward to the exhiliration and relief of being done with it all on Sunday.

Ten Fours

I just tagged myself after reading Beth's interesting post, at Grace Every Day:

Four jobs I've had

• Stitcher in a broom factory
• Furniture assembler
• Music writer
• Piano teacher

Four movies I could watch over and over

• French Kiss
• Priest
• The Music Box
• Gold Rush

Four TV shows I watch

• Frasier
• Countdown with Keith Oberman
• 60 minutes
• Dateline NBC

Four placed I've lived

• Hattiesburg, Mississippi
• Clinton, Massachusetts
• Auburn, New York
• Bakersfield, California

Four favorite foods

• Home made spaghetti sauce (like my grandfather's)
• Chocolate
• Home made whole grain bread
• Mangoes

Four websites I visit daily

• www.joyfulwoman.blogspot.com
• www.lookwhatlovehasdone.blogspot.com
• www.dancingontheceiling.blogspot.com
• www.yahoo.com

Four favorite colors (four? Terrific!)

• Fuschia
• Periwinkle
• Cranberry red
• Turquoise

Four places I would love to be right now

• Grindewald, Switzerland
• Heurbemont, Belgium
• Glacier National State Park
• Mount Whitney

Four names I love but could/would not name my children

• Buoso
• Musetta
• Fiona
• Hershel

Four reasons I need to turn off the computer

• I need to help Sam get a sponge bath before we go to bed
• The house is a mess and needs to be cleaned before I go to sleep
• I'm a workshop speaker at a national conference this weekend and have not yet put together the last seminar
• I'm sleepy

Two became one

Found here

Sam had surgery yesterday. He's had some trouble with one of his knees since he's started playing basketball and volleyball with a team at the university gym. He's gone from wearing a knee brace to having his knee give out. The orthopedist said he has two divets in the articulating surface of the joint under the kneecap. So in a two-hour surgery yesterday Sam had two bone plugs placed into the divets, and his medial meniscus tear was cleaned up and taken care of. He is medicated and blissfully snoring in the other room, his leg wrapped in a rigid knee immobilizer.

There was something eye-opening that happened to me during the last 48 hours that I want to comment on here--something I didn't anticipate when I married Sam four and a half years ago. Because yesterday I was terrified that I would lose Sam. That he wouldn't wake up from his anesthesia, or by some strange medical fluke, he would die.

That's really not that odd an idea that a minor surgery could kill a person. I did, after all, work for 20 years as an ICU-Trauma nurse and saw every unbelieveable thing that could happen and that did happen. All the pregnant women I ever took care of in the ICU died from those one in a million negative side effects of pregnancy: disseminated ischemic coagulation (DIC), amniotic embolism, toxemia, hemorrhage, extensive cancer discovered at the birth of their baby, and I could go on and on. And speaking of unexpected medical catastrophies, what about the man I took care of who was in a chronic vegetative state after having his wisdom teeth extraction go horribly wrong? Oh, and there was also the man who came into the hospital to have a fatty cyst removed from the back of his head--not even inside his skull, just at the base of the back of his neck--and I did chest compressions on him for 45 minutes. He threw a pulmonary embolism and died in the O.R.

So I was aware that my view of medical procedures is a bit skewed, when I kissed Sam goodbye and watched him be wheeled down the hall on the gurney to the operating suite. But there was another type of reservation about his surgery and concern for his wellbeing. I was fearful that he would die and I would be without the man I have come to love very dearly.

While waiting for his surgery to be finished I had plenty of time to reflect back on all the years I did not have Sam. I was 44 years old when we got married and it is my first marriage. I can look back on many, many years of feeling like an emotional and sexual discard. For whatever reason, the men I dated left, womanized, or became untrustworthy in some way--and they left me. Of course, many of them I should never have been involved with. But I was, and the end result was that I felt more and more undesirable and inept with each passing relationship.

And it wasn't as if there was a lot of support for me as a single woman from my surroundings. My single friends were tremendously supportive, but they were in the same situation as I was. If one of them had said to me, "Barbara, you're not married because of [some trait] they would be indicting themselves as well. So they were supportive. But it seemed that every church service contained references to family life, the importance of raising children (while I was watching my natural childbearing years slip away), and remaining faithful to spouses who may or may not be "in the Lord." The only comments I ever heard about singles from the pulpit were deprecating and ignorant: "Some feminists feel that they don't need a man and they are downplaying the value of the family." "You don't need to be married to be happy, and as soon as you realize this, you'll get married."People who don't have children are really very selfish. They can't possibly know what sacrifice and love really are." "Single people are self-centered because they only need to think about themselves, and they usually do just that." "A single woman in her late 30's to 40's has a better chance of being shot by a terrorist than getting married" (this was followed by uproarious laughter by the pastor and congregation).

To add insult to injury, there were many comments by relatives that did not help. For a period of time my mother called me weekly to tell me she'd been thinking that maybe I wasn't helpless enough, bold enough, feminine enough, or that I was too smart, too quick, too capable, or socially inept, or somehow unaware of my surroundings. Another close relative said in my hearing, "I don't know what Barbara is waiting for, but it will have to be a Mack truck for her to do anything." Another called me "Holy Mary" because I wasn't interested in dating the kinds of fast and loose people they were drawn to.

I recall many nights when I sat looking out the windows of my darkened livingroom, wondering what was wrong with me and if I would ever have a relationship with a man who was trustworthy and goodhearted. One shocking comment from the days I was engaged to be married seemed to be what I came back to again and again. It was said by a woman who had lured my fiance away and caused the breakup of our relationship. In an effort to be transparent, my fiance had repeated to me what she had said to him about me: "Why be content with hamburger when you can have prime rib?"

It took many years of therapy and life experience to realize that I am plenty just as I am: desirable, fun, warm, devoted, caring, affectionate, intelligent, and just plain good company in general. I just had to believe and know it for myself, whether I was to be married or single.

When Sam came along, I knew immediately that we would be happy together. We fit like hand and glove in so many ways--just the level of comfort in being together was amazing. We got married three months from the day we met. No one was more surprised than I was.

The early days were absolutely marvelous. I would wake up in the morning and feel Sam sleeping against me and be horrified--wondering what I had done. Then I would remember that I was married and this was the frosting on the cake. Or he would come in from mowing the grass and complain about how he had been sneezing. I would "ooh" and "ahhh, poor thing" and he would happily go out to finish up the lawn.

Last week in church our pastor began preaching a series of sermons about living in intimate family relationships. (I note with approval that one sermon is on living single in relationship. It's about time.) He commented that there are several waves that occur in the life of marriage. The first seven years are the time when the couple learns each other and tries to come to terms with the differences they possess between them. The next seven years are generally consumed with childrearing responsibilities and just being caught up with life in general. The following are the same--but with each seven year period, the marriage changes and grows substantively. One comment that stood out for me was this: if a couple can get past the stage where they are constantly recognizing the differences between them and get to the place where they are thinking of the good of the other--seeing the world through their eyes and living in such a way to enhance the joy of the other, that this couple experiences true intimacy.

I was startled by this. Not because I've never heard it before, because I teach couples and students about marriage relationships, and my students about marriage and recovery from distressed relationships. But what I really heard this time was that it is normal to be struggling in the beginning of a marriage with the differences and challenges of being married. That meant me--not clients. Especially when I had 44 years of doing things my way, of living the austere life of a curmudgeon. Suddenly I was married to a man who played loud music, spent hours at the computer and TV, and whose likes and dislikes upset the predictability and manageability of my own life. Every disagreement, every argument, every misgiving would send me into an internal turmoil: should I not have gotten married? Should I get a divorce? Can I tolerate this? and the interminable laundry list of self-pitying comments and wound-licking. Poor me, married to this person who is so different. Internally I raged, moaned, and in general, carried a burden of angst.

I'm not sure what prompted it, but it dawned on me one time that I could simply be afraid that Sam would leave me and I wasn't giving myself over to loving him fully, completely. If I could just maintain that window of skepticism about being married, when he did leave, I would be able to say, "See! I knew this couldn't work out." Or if he left my whole heart wouldn't go with him, since I was keeping part of it in reserve.

Yes, that is what I did for the first four years. It has only been in the last six months that I have really been able to fully commit to him and to being married, in my heart. The doors have been thrown open and I love him unreservedly and with hyacinths aplenty. Why? I'm not sure. It could be that with the death of my father and dependence of my mother, I need him more and realize that my life with him gives me tremendous fulfillment, support, and joy. I do know that divorce is not my mental default anymore. Neither is telling him off, or thinking ill of him. I love Sam and he has truly become part of me in heart and soul. I am beginning to understand what my parents had for one another and how it has been so difficult for Mother to move on after my father died last year.

To see Sam wheeled off to surgery and wonder if I'll ever see him awake and vibrant again was a powerful experience yesterday. When he came out of surgery and I first saw him in the recovery room, I kissed him several times. "Honey!" he remonstrated with slurred speech, glancing around at the others on gurneys in full view. He's a private soul, but I was thanking him for loving me, for living, for staying with me, and wanting to make his life with me.

I'm tired today, from having my sleep disturbed during the night. I was helping him up to the bathroom, turning on the ice pack under his brace, and getting him medications. I would like to drop in a heap. But he is safe, happy, feeling better, and not in pain. Just last night he told the girls, "God really blessed me when I married Barbara."

So I marvel that I possess an inner connection--a strong, devoted connection--to this man who is my husband.
And thank you God, for keeping him safe during surgery.

Many views, one event

The other day as I was leaving my eye doctor's office, she asked my advice about her 8 year-old neice who "goes to guns" whenever she has to brush her teeth in the evening before going to bed. My doctor had told her sister, the mother of the girl, that she would ask me and I would tell her exactly what to do about it.

She stood then, smiling and expectantly waiting to be told why this was happening and the precise thing to do about it. My mind was racing, even though I was smiling back at her. Could it be that this child associates brushing her teeth with having to go to bed? Has she hurt her gums? Is her toothbrush too stiff? Does she hate the toothpaste? Does she have an aversion to toothpaste? Does it burn her mouth? Does this child have no choices, no way to assert her preferences regarding her toothpaste, toothbrush, time of evening to brush her teeth? Is it possible that the only time she gets attention is when she digs in her heels and engages her mother in battle? Does she feel that unless she does everything "nicely" that her mother's love won't be there for her and she is testing this? Is it a power struggle between mother and child? Is it an effort to be so bad as to engage daddy, too? There were so many issues, so many questions that all I could do was try to explain the difference between medical and therapy culture--and why I couldn't tell her a definitive cause (even though I made some general suggestions about the questions I'd want to have answers to before I could know how to approach this situation).

In medicine, physicians are rewarded for having clear ideas--typically one idea, the idea--about what is happening and what the treatment is that needs to be provided. We expect physicians to know what's what and how to treat the problems. If they start prevaricating and doing the, "Well, it could be this, but maybe it is that, and there is an atypical manifestation of..."--then we beat it out the door and don't go back.

But with therapy, it's a bit different. I was told once by a major professor in my therapy training program that the sign of a good therapist is not in hearing an issue and having the hypothesis for a given behavior. It's in hearing an issue and being able to generate 100 possible explanations for what has happened.

The longer I have lived, the more I believe this. Not only in my professional life, but in my personal relationships as well. We are not the other person and can only guess about how their past, present, anxieties, ideals, and a host of other variables, play into their behavior and words. Regardless of how well we know someone--we still are on the outside making our hypotheses about why they do what they do.

God alone is the One who judges the motives of the heart. We have such monochromatic notions in comparison to what God can see. We feel that we have accomplished something grand if we can look at someone or something and immediately state the cause and effect along with the motives involved. So for my 100 explanations, He has 1,000,000,000 at least. Hard to fathom.
It seems that the grace we receive from a God who understands the makings of us and our behavior is the least we can extend to others who we are unsure of.

Judge not that ye be not judged. For with what judgment you judge, you shall also be judged. And with what measure you mete, that shall you receive.

Academic fashion statements

Today, for the third day in a row, I have had 8-hour meetings with colleagues. These meetings have been strategic planning for the next five years, general faculty meetings, special orientation meetings for our students, and research team meetings. I'm left wondering when I will stop noticing the eccentricities of academics. I have written before about some of the idiosyncratic behaviors of professors, but these last few days have called forth even more interesting (to me) observations.

Take Shirley, for example. When she dresses for work, she decks out in the latest styles. Her hair is perfectly coifed and her clothes are straight from Nordstrom or the Orvis catalog. She carries herself well and gives direct eye contact and smiles to those whom she meets. But then you look down at her brown oxford shoes--sensible shoes--"because I have to walk miles on these dawgs every day in class!"--and the picture is complete.

Yesterday, Don came to the strategic planning meeting looking as though he'd slept wrong on his hair: a section of it stood straight up just under the crown of his head. I'd never noticed that he had a cowlick before, but there it was, saluting me jauntily from the back of his scalp. This man is one of the dearest, most gifted and generous professors a student will ever be fortunate to have. He just doesn't always care about how his hair looks.

Myra, scurries around, holding her shoulders steady whilst her feet shuffle in hurried, mincing steps, everywhere she goes. She always looks nice and is the epitome of the servant leader. I've noticed that she seems to be concerned that her bosom not be a focal point in her dress because no matter what she has on, it has a button across her bustline that is always done up and pulled tight. She is a very attractive woman, very well spoken and has two doctoral degrees from extremely reputable universities. Yet sometimes the button on the front of her outfit is in the wrong buttonhole. There Myra goes, scurrying about with her clothes pulled in a cockeyed kind of alignment, the edges of her shirt two different lengths. "Myra, your buttons are catywhompus," I tell her. "Oh..." and as she rushes out the door (Myra is ALWAYS in a rush), she buttons it another equally unaligned way. "Thanks!" she yells over her shoulder.

We have two male professors who look like they have walked right off the fashion runway. Their shirts are always starched and pressed and they look terrific from head to foot. They have different cultural underpinnings than I have, and my observations are that their cultures dictate precision and pristine quality of dress. They embody these characteristics very well.

From being around Connie, I can't predict whether she will be wearing makeup or not. This is probably not a huge deal, as I fervently wish I didn't have to bother with it (but then I'd look like I'm 20 years old!) but I'm always startled to have her turn her head and see her without makeup. She looks so different without it, and being without it creates such an identity more of an Earth Mother presence, rather than one of the most quoted and published women in the field--who just happens to wear makeup on some days and not on others.

But all these academics aren't nearly as bad as my doctor--my family doctor. When I made my first appointment there I was worried that I'd get someone who didn't know what she was doing, or did sloppy workups, or would overlook something. One glance at her, however, told me I was in luck. She slunk apologetically into the exam room where I was reading a magazine. She was wearing what used to be a white lab coat with big ink blotches in her breast pocket where her pens had leaked--quarter-sized black circles--about five of them, marring her coat. She apparently didn't have much of an aim either, putting her pens into her side pockets, because there were all these ink lines where she hadn't capped the pens and simply had run them down the sides of her coat into the pocket. Lines everywhere. As if that weren't enough, her hair was stringy, died black, and she was wearing an odd combination of clothes under her lab coat. Her spindly legs covered in Nude hose ended in shoes that looked a bit awkward, her feet pointing at two o'clock and ten o'clock.

My doctor has been a genius, finally figuring out what is wrong with my health. She has ordered the tests I need, gotten me in to the specialists that are required, and has ordered blood work that was required to make a definitive diagnosis. And when she sees me, she shyly smiles and looks down at my file.

I really like her.

So I don't know what the point is of this post. Only that I continue to be amazed that some of the most intelligent people can look the way they do. I enjoy the humanness of it. Maybe it gives me hope that given the way I dress, I fit in with these incredibly gifted, delightful, intelligent people.

Shocked!

Today on the way home from work I decided that the mud splatters on the windshield just had to go. Besides, the Empty Light came on, who knew when. It was time to stop.

The service station up near my clinic satelite wasn't in a very nice part of town. But no matter. It was a brand new Shell station. They even had television screens broadcasting news and other interesting factoids, right over the pumps outdoors! Very cool. I pumped my gas and paid for a carwash. Excellent. I'd get the Deluxe--wash, wax, anti-drop whatever-it-was for the windshield, and then a good drying. It cost me only $7.95--more than I'd pay to do the job at home, but much less than a hand wash job at $16.95. Excellent value.

I drove around the back side of the brand new building, holding the gas receipt in one hand, trying to find the carwash code on it. Oh--there it was, right up at the top. There was a nifty little kiosk with a lovely man's voice speaking out of it when I pulled up. "Enter your code followed by the pound sign. Then pull up to the entrance of the carwash and wait for the light to indicate that you may proceed." I entered my code: 299536, and rolled up the window as I crept up to the entrance. A car was inside, getting a good washing. Suds were flying and all sorts of whirling cloth pieces were flailing against the top and sides of a little red car. They appeared to be getting the Deluxe Wash, too. I took the opportunity to unscrew the antenna and carefully put it on the front seat. Dvorak's "Going home, going home, I'm a-going home..." was playing on the radio. The sign said to turn off your radio, so I said goodbye to Dvorak. The car was sure taking a long time inside. It stayed under the blower almost the entire minute--just sat there. Then took off.

I drove into the place. A mirror-level flashing neon sign advised me to back out immediately. Hmmmm. Wonder why. I backed out, around the little curved entrance, and sat there. The Proceed light was turned off and even the red Stop light was now off. Nothing lit up. What's going on? Maybe I hadn't entered the code right. I backed up even more and entered it again. I'm glad no one is behind me. The man in the machine said, "This is an invalid code. Please go inside for help." Go inside, nothing. I pressed the Help button. The man's voice rang out again, "Please go inside for help."Doggone it!

I wondered if the man in the car ahead of me had been simply sitting there waiting for some unsuspecting person to enter their code so he could get a free carwash. Who would do such a thing? Especially in broad daylight?

I backed up through the entire curving entry lane--angry, fuming out loud. Could it be that this jerk ahead of me had ripped me off and did me out of $7.95? Or was it broken? What kind of a place was this and what kind of brazen criminality went on around here?

I parked the car right in front of the clerk's window and jumped out, slamming the door hard. My face must have looked pretty mean, because the little girl behind the counter shrank back from me.
"That carwash doesn't work!" I said angrily.
She looked at my receipt and told me to wait right there for a minute. Turning to get the manager, she said, "Are you sure you didn't already wash your car?"
"Now why would I want to wash my car twice! Look outside the window--that's my car, right there. Does that look clean to you, or even wet?"
I didn't give her a chance to respond. "No. It's dry and filthy."
She looked disinterestedly toward the window, her eyes never focusing on my car.
"I'll be right back," she said quietly.

I was so mad. Would I have to face off now with the manager over a stupid carwash? How could a brand new station have a faulty carwash?
Here came the manager--someone who looked very different than I do. He probably has a thick accent and is a tightwad.
"Miss," he said. "I think someone else got your carwash. It's not broken, you know." He had a very sweet face and kind voice.
My shoulders drooped. I couldn't get angry at such a nice man. I had been taken--it was that simple.
"Oh." That was all I could muster.
He smiled very kindly and said, "But I will give you a carwash. Do not worry. I will give it to you. Go outside and around the back again and I will do it for you."
I couldn't thank him enough. He was smiling and I felt tremendous relief as I drove around the back of the station into the carwash. There he stood, manually entering a code into a little remote control he had. He turned, smiled and waved at me, and went inside. I drove into the tire guides and sat back while the whirling cloth pillars whizzed over the car.

I had taken the meanness of the person who stole my carwash straight in to the clerk, depositing all my hostility onto her. But in one moment, the kindness of the manager made everything dissipate.

I had been surprised that I had felt such anger over such a small thing. Sure, it bugs me that people try to get away with anything they can. But I had been in a hurry, racing across town to my next appointment. So many demands, so little time, such great responsibility. I'm in such a bind time-wise right now, up at 5:00 a.m. to work on my online class and bringing home work to get done until 10:30 at night. I have felt like a pressure cooker.

Then this man's small kind gesture. It really turned the tide for me. Someone else in the world was responsible, kind, gracious, and all the things that we would hope to find in a good person. He was as good as the crooked car owner in the carwash was.
A Bible verse sounded in my mind: "A soft answer turneth away wrath."
So does a kind deed.