The Stages of Love, Part I

Found here

This is a picture of William and Claudia Ritchie, who were the oldest married couple in the world as of 2002. William was 104 and Claudia was 97. What sweet people--still holding hands and inclined toward one another. I would love to know what their secret for a happy marriage is for the 83 years they have been together.

Coming across their picture made me think about all of the steps and stages that a married couple goes through over the course of life. Many people don't realize that these stages are recursive: like a loop. I certainly didn't know this, as a young person growing up. When my friend, Connie, told me once that being married was like a "boring roller coaster," I was appalled and even prayed for her marriage. But in fact, she was probably more accurate than I realized. Being married isn't boring. However, a boring roller coaster is one that undulates but doesn't give you a huge adrenaline rush. It's somewhat predictable with just enough ups and downs to give variety to the ride. Yup. I think there is some truth to that. Connie told me that there were times when she was "gah-gah" about John, and other times that she almost felt indifferent about him for a few weeks. But she said that if she just stayed steady, she would get that in-love feeling once again. I thought it was very strange. But I think there was some degree of generalizability to her remarks.

Limerence is the first stage of love. It is the time when you first meet and for 6 to 18 months, there are head over heels feelings of being in love. When you meet that special person, it is hard to think of anyone or anything else. There is a rush of involuntary euphoria as the limerent individual obsesses and recalls every move, glance, touch of the object of affection. The pleasure centers in the brain are overactive and cause people to behave like they have a mental problem: hormones gunning and a desperate desire to be in the presence of the beloved at every opportunity. Very little gives reason for pause, because the object of affection is so wonderful, so delightful, so talented, so beautiful... You get the idea. It's hard to get someone to think objectively when they are in this state, which is why counselors find it very challenging to work with couples who are hellbent on getting married when every clinical indicator reveals that they will never last. If there are developmental processes at play--the feelings that teenagers have that they must create their own identity apart from that of their parents--being in love with someone who might not be the best for them becomes a statement of emerging personhood. Any attempt to talk them out of it only increases their resolve to be who they (think they) are in this heightened state of self.

Almost all of the depictions of love on television and in movies depicts limerance. The passion, romance and thrill is typical of limerence. It is held up before us as the great standard of perfect love: all is happiness and light. Most of the depictions of "old" married couples involve crotchety, miserable people who snipe at each other or who have become so sensitized to each other that they have a) no romance, b) no physical attraction for one another, or c) nothing interesting but their kids.

Most popular songs about love are written with this stage of love in mind: romance, emotional and physical attraction abounds. Consider this song by Celine Dion:

And in your eyes I see ribbons of color

I see us inside of each other

I feel my unconscious merge with yours

And I hear a voice say,

"What's his is hers"

I'm falling into you

This dream could come true

And it feels so good falling into you

I was afraid to let you in here

Now I have learned love can't be made in fear

The walls begin to tumble down

And I can't even see the ground I'm falling into you

This dream could come true

And it feels so good falling into you

Falling like a leaf, falling like a star

Finding a belief, falling where you are

Catch me, don't let me drop!

Love me, don't ever stop!

So close your eyes and let me kiss you

And while you sleep I will miss you

I'm falling into you

This dream could come true

And it feels so good falling into you

Falling like a leaf, falling like a star

Finding a belief, falling where you are

Falling into you

Falling into you

Falling into you

It is all about getting closer. So close in fact, that there seems to be no more you or me--we're all one blur. For those in limerance, the feelings and prospects of a future with this marvelous person are so good that they wonder if it can all be real. In fact, the feelings are real, and the whole thing is wonderful beyond words. But this degree of emotional and physiological arousal can’t be sustained forever in the same form over time or else people would sizzle into vapor. We just can't take this for a long time, even though it is lovely. Which is why, you probably wouldn't find a person who was married for 30 years singing this with meaning. They've been there and done that, but the kind of love they have now, is about so much more than this.

Walk in the Park

Mother has been after me to go for an early morning walk with her over to the V.A. Hospital, adjacent to her retirement center. So on Sunday morning, I was there bright and early for our walk. These are pictures of her with her little feathered friends who seem to recognize her and run for her as soon as they see her blue jacket.

Here they are gathered, little beggars all. Mother is watcher "her" egret, who has just taken bread from her and is slurping it in the pond so he can eat it. See the dark duck to the right of her? It is part Muskovy and part Peking duck. She hates it--it pokes at the adolescent ducks and tries to take the bread away from them. Mother becomes filled with righteous indignation, pushing it away from the others with her foot. Ever the protector of babies...

This picture tickles my funnybone because of the way these ducklings are looking up at Mother, waiting to be given bread goodies. You see, Mother still thinks of herself as a "city slicker" and has always been fearful of barnyard animals. For years, she used to fuss about our chickens and ducks, who scared her if they made unpredictable sounds or movements. Of course, to her, almost everything they did made her nervous, and more than once she'd come flying in from hanging clothes in the backyard. In a panic she'd shout out to whomever might hear, "Get these birds out of the yard so I can hang the clothes!" She was just intimidated by the rooster or ducks, and didn't know how to defend herself from them. We'd go shoo them away and Mother would be just fine. Now she's downright maternal to this brood. I love the chemistry between MOther and these little guys.

Mother has a walking partner named Ken. He is stopping here to respond to these screeching, incensed geese. For some reason, they scream at him every morning. He could walk over on the other sidewalk that runs parallel to this one. They don't bother anyone on that sidewalk. But he seems to like to say hello to them. I think they recognize him, and the air becomes blue with goose epithets.

Ken grew up on a farm and has no difficulty puting a headlock on the goose as he reaches for Ken's ankle. Don't worry--he's not wringing the goose's neck. He's just restraining him. As soon as the goose stopped flapping his wings and trying to bite Ken, he let him loose and walked on his way. The geese fluttered after him, like teenage boys who were whooped in a fight but don't want to appear defeated. Ken continued on his way without so much as a glance over his shoulder.

So Mother and I meandered through the V.A. hospital's grounds for a little longer so she could show me the goose and duck couple, the scenic fountain, and the wood duck gang. We ran the Canada goose gauntlet--goose swearing on all sides--and made our way back to the Villa. It was a delightful early morning walk. I understand now, why Mother loves to go walking every day there with Ken.

Yearly Visit

My friend, Doris, came into town last week from Cove, Oregon. I have known her since 1982, when we attended the same church. She adopted me right away since she never had children of her own, and considers me "one of my girls." She wanted to visit us, see our home, and enjoy my cooking. So she spent last Friday afternoon with us and stayed the night. It was such a pleasure to take her grocery shopping with me for our weekend meals. As we were wandering down the juice aisle, she pulled me next to her and whispered in my ear, "I've never shopped with you before. This is fun!"

We sat up late and chatted about people we'd known over the years, our families, and our own personal challenges. Talking with Doris is like talking with the most attentive Mother there ever was.

Doris' husband, Oscar (not his real name) used to be the local postman. His cousin, a heart surgeon, was known to tell people that he felt sorry for Oscar because his life was so predictable and uninspiring. Little did he know that Oscar had worked for the CIA during the Cold War and then was sent by the U.S. government to rout out drug lords in South America. He had been brainwashed twice by two governments, had been the holder of classified information for years, been captured by the Russians and served time in a rat-infested, guard kicking prison there before being returned to the U.S. He also flew numerous missions into another country, 50 feet above the ocean in the dead of night, without any lights. He didn't know the names of those with whom he flew. There was a great deal of adrenaline in his life. So much in fact, that he had nightmares all of his adult life, almost every night. That was why I'd heard him screaming at night the times I visited them in their retirement home. It scared me half to death. No telling how awful it must have been for him.

The last time I saw Oscar, he sat me down in the livingroom and told me that even though he'd been sworn to secrecy, it was time to start talking about his life experiences. He could sleep better that way. Doris was relieved, particularly as this happened during the last months of Oscar's life.

It was great to have Doris with me again. We laughed, ate, talked, and lazed around. I am so fortunate to have as many mothers as I have. Thank God for all those who have adopted me. I am blessed.

Sacramento

These photos are from my recent trip for a conference up in Sacramento. The conference was at a hotel directly across from the convention center. When I walked out the front door, my attention was arrested by this interesting sculpture. I wasn't sure what it was, but it took up the entire median of the street.

Here it is from behind. Any ideas of what or who it is? It looked Asian, like a depiction of ancient Chinese mythological characters.

There are benches around the square that are spacious and have an interesting message across the back. Click on the picture to read the writing on the bench.

This looked like an interesting family type of piece: The parents holding the roof up over the heads of the children. Or, it could be a version of "Hot Potato," since the object at the top looks like a potato. Or, the parents can be withholding something from the children. Or, the two adults can be teachers who have something special in the package they are holding up above their heads. Or...

I love this statue. It is of an African American woman, full-bodied and self-composed. She is looking up toward the stars. Perhaps, the North Star, that guided so many through the Underground Railroad. I spent quite a bit of time sitting near her, looking at her from many angles, trying to get a sense of the artist who created her.

It was a most enjoyable and beautiful setting. Sacramento is a wonderful city: lots to do, good eats, a small-town feeling, and majestic buildings. Now you have also seen some of the art there. It is worth a trip.

Blender tales

When I was about 10 years old, our family made its annual pilgrimage to the New York State Fair. We went there with our family friends every year, spending most of our time in the animal barns. There were always cows and ewes giving birth, amidst eyes agog of the incredulous crowd. Of course, the State Fair was the one place where we could get cotton candy: sticky, hairy stuff that seems to be magic to children.

There was also the long building where all of the gadgets and doodads were sold. People hawked every conceivable type of antique, appliance, and foodstuff there. We used to get Peppermint Patties that were little but pungent. I loved them. It was easy to get lost in that cavernous building, and I did several times, much to my chagrin.

What stands out for me was the year we watched the blender salesman. He was a shortish, balding man with a loud, high tenor speaking voice. He brandished this wonder machine over his head at the crowd, invoking the lifegiving properties of liquified foods would provide for those who bought the blender. But what probably sold most listeners on his machine was watching him make pancakes in it. He poured in some milk and oil, and added some flour. The white mass inside became quite thick. Then he dropped in three eggs, shells and all. I remember that, because the eggs had brown shells and they whizzed up into nothing almost immediately. At least, we couldn't see the bits of shell through the glass of the blender.

"Think of the minerals and vitamins that you can give your children with this machine!" he shouted. "But before you buy this blender on account of the vitamins, taste these pancakes made with the eggshells right in the batter!." There was an excited murmur from the crowd.
"Think of how much you can boost your calcum levels in your cooking!"
They pressed forward to the plate of dollar-sized pancakes his wife passed around. A loud "Wow!" came from my father. He was getting hooked in by this. I think he just liked machines, and he was determined to get one. He looked over at Mother, who was harrumphing and starting to walk away. Long story short, we left the fair with one of these sleep, super whizzing blenders with the glass container and gleaming white base.

Daddy could hardly wait to use it on Sunday morning--the day the house typically filled with the smell of the burning griddle, and the day we all pretended to like his pancakes that were always overcooked and more like browned crepes than pancakes. This time we got a real surprise. They weren't blackened. We were so excited to run downstairs and eat our calcium rich breakfasts that we rushed to the table that morning. Daddy had indeed made the pancakes by throwing the eggs into the blender, shells and all. We couldn't see anything unusual about them and we imagined that they smelled more delicious and exotic than ever before. Even Mother had one on her plate.

What a shock then, to bite into the first one and get a mouthful of grit. "Raiford!" mother postulated, "These are horrid!" They were awful things that we crunched through--even worse than the burnt ones we usually had. Daddy was crestfallen and Mother, triumphant. From then on, daddy used the blender to make pancake batter, but sans eggshells.
Soon the gritty pancakes were a funny family anecdote and nothing more.

Fast forward to this year. Sam and I bought a HealthMaster. We make the most wonderful fruit smoothies every morning for ourselves. Last week Sam bought the fruit at the produce stand down on the boulevard. He brought home three huge clusters of globe grapes. Grapes with seeds in them.
"Go ahead and put them into the blender whole," Sam advised. "This machine will liquify the seeds and we won't even know that they're in there."
"You know," I added, "Grapeseed oil is full of important vitamins and minerals. I think it will only enrich our smoothies." I was delighted at this added benefit.
The first morning, I made a smoothie out of five fresh-squeezed oranges, a kiwi, a cup of blueberries, three peaches, and a cluster of globe grapes. Up to level eight, I whizzed the daylights out of it for several minutes. It produced a frothy off-color admixture that was very sweet.
"I don't even taste the seeds," Sam commented happily.

The next two days, I made smoothies out of the rest of the grapes. They were very sweet and I certainly felt vitamin fortified.

Then on Thursday, I started cramping up. My belly felt terrible, like I'd swallowed a handful of grapeshot. They weren't gas pains or bladder spasms. My colon felt terrible. But it passed (forgive the pun!) and seemed to last only an afternoon.

Sam, on the other hand, left work early on Thursday. He felt nauseated and like something was stuck in his bowel. Strange. He was able to eat, but felt full. The next day he came home early again feeling sick. His bowel felt twisted and crampy. Hmmm. Grape seeds. Quite a few of them. Both of our fathers have struggled with diverticulitis. Why should we be any different?

You would think that I had learned from the pancakes, but I hadn't. From now on, no more seeds or eggshells. No blender is good enough for them, even the HealthMaster. Our bowels will thank us!

Smells

I was lying in bed the other night, watching TV. Sam had just come home from playing volleyball and was rinsing off in the shower. All of a sudden, I smelled something very strong and very odd; something I knew, but couldn't bring to mind immediately. It was a pungent, "thick," herbal-woodsy kind of scent. It seemed to be floating in the window from the street below. Where else would it be coming from?
Sam was just drying off.
"Honey," I whispered loudly, "Something awful is outside the window. What is it?"
He strode triumphant out of the shower over to the window and peered through the slats of the blinds. "I don't see anything."

That is when I realized that in fact, the odor had followed him from the bathroom.
"Honey, are you wearing a new kind of cologne?"
He was.
He smiled at me proudly, with a heady smell emanating from his person.

"Oh Honey," I crinkled up my nose. "You smell like a pipe."

Sam turned to me, an expression of dismay across his face. "How can you mean that?...this was really expensive. Are you telling me that I smell like tobacco?"
I nodded.
"Now I feel really terrible." He eyed the bottle on the counter. "I'll take it back tomorrow."
"Stores don't take returned fragrances, Sweetie. You'll just have to decide what to do with it, but it's yours for keeps now."

I felt awful, but I also remembered hearing something similar from him six years earlier when the shoe was on the other foot.

I have always loved wearing White Linen. It is a light floral scent that doesn't offer a full on olfactory assault as do other musky or rancid fruit decoctions. I was wearing it when I met Sam for the first time; I wore it the first time we kissed; when he proposed; when we got married. I loved it. But soon after we got married my bottle of White Linen was empty and we headed to the mall for a replacement. At least, that's what I was looking for.

Sam was looking for an alternative. As I was browsing around the perfume counter waiting for the clerk to bring me my White Linen, Sam proffered one fragrance after another. Generally, he has very good taste in fragrances, so I was eager to see what he chose. Most of them though, were icky musky type of smells and I grew tired of his selections rather quickly. When the clerk came with my boxed fragrance, Sam turned to me.
"Honey," his voice dropped and took on a tone of entreaty. "I really wish you wouldn't buy that." He eyed my White Linen sadly.
"Why?" It wasn't that expensive. I looked at Sam's face.
He looked a bit uneasy and seemed to be trying to choose his words carefully. "It's just that...I don't really think it's a good fragrance...for you."
"What?" This was the first I was hearing this sad news.
He smiled warmly at me and pulled me up next to him. "You smell like an old lady in that."
"What!?" All this time I thought it made me more alluring and he was just tolerating it. Go figure. He must love me a lot to have never said anything about it.
"I just didn't know how to tell you, but I don't like it."

I left that store with a fragrance called Light Blue: a faint floral fragrance with a touch of citrus. I liked it and I have worn it ever since. But I nostalgically sniff White Linen every time I see it on fragrance counters.

Now I have a husband whose scent smells like a smoking pipe. My first thought was, Lower the guns, the fight is on! But I've always had a hard time being mean to Sam. Maybe it's his big brown eyes, or his desire for my approval, but I restrained my inner musings about sleeping next to someone whose fragrance makes my eyes run.
"It's okay, Honey," I told him the next morning. "Maybe you can just put on less of it. I think it might actually be nice in a haunting kind of way--reminds me of a man smoking a pipe by a cozy fireplace, if it is fainter."
"Great," he muttered. "Now you're telling me that I smell like an old man."
"Not really, I countered. "It's not my choice, but it isn't bad if you're not soaked with it."
He agreed.

Sam actually smells pretty nice now, or maybe I'm just getting used to it. It is small peanuts, this fragrance business, as long as my eyes don't water from the acrid smell of it when it's full strength. I imagine Sam is happy to have a new scent that he likes. Perhaps he will so enjoy it that he won't notice the new White Linen bottle in my medicine cabinet.

Gifts of the Heart

This weekend was the centennial celebration of Loma Linda University. For one hundred years, our medical school has been an active and vital part of this community. We were encouraged by Ellen White, one of our church founders, to establish a medical school where medical missionaries could be trained to bring Christ to those whose bodies and souls are broken. Another of our church founders stated that trying to build a medical school here would be like building a bridge to the moon.

Well, we did. And now our university has 109 programs and over 4,000 students from most countries in the world. We have graduated almost 1,000 physicians and almost 10% have served in mission settings outside of the U.S.
It was a wildly exhuberant celebration this weekend. Lee Stroebel, author of The Case for Christ, was the featured speaker on Friday evening. He packed a real punch with his message. We also heard from the King's Brass, who just about lifted us out of our seats with their superb music.

Saturday morning, we met a woman (Gwen) who had open heart surgery as a youngster in Vietnam. It was our International Heart Team who operated on her. On the day that they left, they took a photo of the whole group of patients. But after they took two pictures they realized that Gwen wasn't there. One of the medical students ran upstairs into the hospital and picked her up to bring her downstairs. She fought and gave him trouble--she didn't want her picture taken. But he carried her downstairs, stood her on the back row of patients, and took a third picture. She was grinning from ear to ear.

Fast forward to this year. She had immigrated to Canada and married a Frenchman. She always wanted to find the doctors who operated on her, so she put her young son on an internet search to find out what medical school in California had an International Heart Team. When he located Loma Linda University's International Heart Team, she began to remember the doctors: the young student who fought with her and carried her down to get her picture taken; the Japanese anesthesiologist who was so nice to her; the surgeon who did a superb job operating on her; the Australian nurse who kept the OR and Recovery Room in order; the heavyset woman cardiologist who looked after her when she had recovered somewhat. Of course, there was the young American medical student with the long hair who was "so good looking" and she really wondered what happened to him.

An email from Gwen ended up on the desk of the Dean of the medical school. He emailed Gwen right away, sending her the only picture that he could find of the entire group. She was thrilled to get it and quickly identified herself on the back row of the photo. Little did she know that of the three photos that he found, this was the only one she had been in. And the dean was the long haired medical student on the side of the group.

Soon thereafter, the dean and the cardiac surgeon made a trip up to Canada to meet Gwen and her family. We were shown a touching video of their meeting. She treated them each to a haircut in her salon. They were delighted, even the 97-year old cardiac surgeon.

After the video story, the emcee introduced Gwen and she ran up onto the platform to stand next to the cardiologist, the cardiac surgeon, and the dean of the medical school. After she was interviewed, she was reunited with the other members of the team. It was such a wonderful story. There wasn't a dry eye in the house.

Saturday afternoon, the mother of little Baby Fae, was finally made her identity public after 25 years of the historic interspecies transplant of a baboon heart into her baby. The mother's name is Theresa and the baby's name was Stephanie Fae. She told her story of hope and desperation in an interview with Dr. Leonard Bailey. She just wanted to keep her baby alive--she really wasn't trying to do something brave or newsworthy. But as she said tearfully, she just hoped it wasn't for nothing. (Baby Fae died 21 days after her surgery).

Amazingly, 467 infants and young children have since had heart transplants in our medical center. Over 100 transplanted children were in the audience and were called up onto the platform at the end of Theresa's story. Dr. Bailey put his arm around her and faced the crowded steps. I imagine that he was whispering to her, "See what good has come from your loss?" It was an incredibly inspiring moment.

What was of particular interest to me, was that a former fiance was one of the surgery residents who played a figural part in Baby Fae's landmark surgery. He was named and interviewed briefly as part of the program yesterday (on video). I remember him telling me, 25 years ago, how delighted he was that he had met Dr. Bailey's wife and that she was "just a nurse!" Just a nurse. He lived in fear that someone or something would sabotage his professional prospects--and me, "just a nurse," was such a something. He had a conversation with Dr. Bailey one day while they were making rounds. Dr. Bailey asked him if he was married and he said no, he was engaged. He added that he had some questions about me. Dr. Bailey wisely counseled him to hold off getting married until after his residency, since there was no hurry, and since in a few years he would have a better idea of whether or not I was the one.

Mr. surgery resident broke off with me three days before the Baby Fae surgery. I was devastated and terribly hurt by Dr. Bailey's encouragement for him to not to marry me. But it have been more and more clear over the years, what wise counsel it was.

It was a wonderful centennial celebration. I feel blessed anew to be part of the university and medical setting where the values of scientific excellence and altruism are central virtues. And looking back, I am grateful for the skills of Dr. Bailey, who has transplanted so many hearts and saved mine in the doing.

Eight Long Hours

Found here

Well, I nearly killed my students from boredom yesterday. Honestly, why would a teacher be scheduled to lecture for eight hours in one day? It was almost non-stop. From 8:00 - noon, the topic was research; 12:00 - 2:00 was E-Learning I, and 4:00 - 6:00 was Sex Therapy. It was a very long and exhausting day.

People were barely hanging on by the time we got to the end of our research lecture about cost-effectiveness studies. Students were reading emails on their laptops and were having a hard time paying attention to my parting shots. Willis had eyes that were at half-mast. Sherry had a frozen grin on her face. She was trying not to drift off. I was bored with myself, so it would have been surprising for them to be paying attention to me.

"Now I'd like this side of the room to get into a group and plan a formative program evaluation of the Student Counseling Services here, and the other side of the room will plan a summative program evaluation." 10 sets of unblinking eyes looked at me. "What kinds of questions would you ask, with whom will you speak, and what kind of information will you need to get? Get into groups, make a plan, and in 15 minutes be prepared to share it with the class."
Slower than molasses flowing uphill in January, I think we used to say to describe the type of motion that followed.


It was a challenge, but they did finally get moving and came up with very good evaluation plans. I was relieved to see new energy take over the room. Effective teaching for adult students requires changes in presentation or activities every 20-30 minutes. That means we need to have debates, student presentations, article reviews, whole group planning activities, YouTube video analyses, small group activities, and discussions. Oh yes--and breaks. And for students who are first told that the topic of this required class is "Overview and Critique of Research in Marriage and Family Therapy," it is almost overwhelming. When the gagging dies down and the white knuckles begin to relax, we actually have a fairly good time in there. But not every single week; not every single issue that is under examination.

Willard loudly declared last week that he disdains qualitative research methods. That was what we were discussing at the moment. The week before that, Cherise, a social constructionist, shared her perjorative views with the class about quantitative research. "It just seems that what is of importance to the majority might not be the best for the marginalized groups who do not have a voice," she lamented. "What happens in the kitchen and bedroom is just as important as what occurs in the board room, so the truths of each domain can only enlighten those who are in those settings." My brain sagged under this comment. Fortunately, Dilbert, at the back of the room, piped up with a non sequitor about what occurs in bedrooms and the conversation lurched off into an exploration of standards of ethical behavior in sex research. Cherise later told me, with a knowing look, that it was interesting to hear how Dilbert storied his sexual issues in his questions. In that moment, I was thinking, "What a lark it is to teach a bunch of mini-Freuds!" I love it.

But I have to say, these four-hour class periods are killers. I was filled with panic when I realized that I'd have to teach this class without having any teaching pedagogy courses myself. Most people think that everyone holding a PhD has been taught how to effectively teach, keep order in the classroom, and create good lesson plans. It ain't necessarily so! Therefore, most teachers become a "Sage on the Stage" or follow the example cited in the Old Testament books: "Every man did what was right in his own eyes." It can be a crap shoot for students in regards to what they get in the classroom. Particularly when the teachers are trained therapists or sociologists. Long drawn out group process-type discussions that impassion the teacher and drain the students can ensue. Or esoteric postulations about theoretical aspects of reality and perception. It is days like this that I wonder what on earth I've done in taking a teaching job. But then students in other classes approach me and say they wish they could be in such a fun class as mine because they're dying in the courses they've signed up for. It's a marvel to me. I suppose one can never feel that they've arrived as a teacher--there is always much more to achieve.

It's probably like being a parent: you're never sure if what you're doing is what you should do, or the correct way of doing it, or if your kids even understand what you're talking about. But then down the road they'll recall some remark you made about something halfway insightful (and they gratefully share this with you as being a turning point for them) and the sun comes through the clouds. Perhaps we are on the mark some of the time. We might just be too close to it all to be objective about it.

I hope this is what is happening with my students. For now, I'm just aiming for "good-enough" teaching and a fair degree of understanding and positive feedback from these folks. They know I'm worn out by these marathon classes, too. We just keep hanging in there with one another and hope to live through another class period. One day when I'm very old and they are the teachers here, maybe something I said or did in class will have been helpful. And I shall be ready for a long rest.

Gifts Galore!

Found here

On my livingroom coffee table rests a package of baby bibs and a set of stackable musical instruments for babies. It is a gift for my nephew whose girlfriend will soon have a baby. I don't know what they need so this gift is one of those generic baby gifts. You know what I mean: soft little socks, bibs, baby blankets, and pastel picture frames--nothing that has to match a predetermined color scheme or name brand set of towels, sheets, or clothes. This is probably the 40th gift I've purchased and wrapped for family members. Not just for their babies, but for their engagements, weddings, and housewarming parties.

Speaking with an always single friend of mine this weekend, we commiserated on the hundreds of dollars we've spent on our friends and family members, celebrating the phases of their lives. Meanwhile, neither of us have ever had an event shower of our own. When she does marry I suspect she will have several bridal showers, given the numerous friends she has.

But I had a private wedding without family members present, and never did have a bridal shower. My friends wanted to give me a shower, but I was rather intent on flying into California for my wedding and flying back home to Indiana. There was no time for a shower. My wedding had to be kept very small because with the feud that split the family down the middle, it would not have been the happiest day of my life to have everyone in one place at one time. Thus, my father, who learned bagpipes just to pipe me down the aisle, never got to do so. If I had invited my parents, my siblings would have been vexed and miserable. If I failed to invite my parents, they would have been devastated. But if everyone had both been present, there would have been A Big Scene, which was not on my wedding agenda. So after my dear friend treated us to a wonderful wedding reception at an Italian restaurant, complete with raspberry chocolate ganache cake, we took off out of California, sans shower.

Celebratory showers have typically been outside of my experience. A secret engagement, quiet wedding, and being childless does not bode well for celebrations with friends or family.

Partly, this suits me. I tend to push people out of my experience because I want privacy and non-interference in my choices. Some people want to talk over every facet of their experience in advance of making crucial life decisions. I used to, but typically, I don't now. There are enough reasons for this that could keep a therapist going for months, but the bottom line is that many life experiences have underscored the fact that not everyone who weighs in on my life is attuned to me or my best interests. I don't feel badly about not having a shower (and this post is assuredly not a request for one!) But it is interesting to note that there are different milestones for people like me than for people like my mother, for example. She had six baby showers for four children and three bridal showers. Not bad, eh?

I, on the other hand, have had most important passages in my life marked by things that have been very meaningful to me but perhaps wouldn't be noticed by other people: Writing an autobiographical petit histoire about my young years; getting my first scholarly article published; pulling off a Thanksgiving dinner for 12 people all by myself; tramping around Europe alone; figuring out my modus operandi as a therapist; coming to terms with the fact that I don't like everyone and don't have to. These are my milestones that have yielded unbelieveably rich results for my personal life. They just contribute to my life quite differently. Each event has somehow helped me to understand and define myself. So I suppose that these are excellent offsets to having never had event showers. But my celebrations have been internal and in private, with myself as witness, celebrant, guest. These are intimate, solitary passages. Because I finally reached unspoken goals of many years. With whom could I share a cake and a gift because now, I can think objectively about some of the harsher realities of living at the vortex of a family feud, not of my making, but being at peace for the most part? It's not a have-a-dish-of-ice-cream kind of celebration, but rather a deep, peaceful contentment. Something to share quietly, reverently, with gratitude, and alone.

Every so often, a true friend who is so attuned to me that they realize the impact of some of these life events help to mark an internal milestone. Once I bought a beautiful pearl ring for myself to wear as a symbol that I finally had been able to get through some very tough personal work. After a year of therapy I was able to say that I liked who I was. It was a great feeling. My friend made me a special dinner and gifted me with a beautiful silver box to store my ring in, and whose engraved lid reads, "And I like her." No one else would have understood, but she did. How rich and what a gift to have someone who "gets me" to celebrate with me.

Still, these bows and pretty wrapping paper, the excitement of friends--they're all so nice, feminine, and exciting in a different kind of way. A shower is not the stuff of dreams for me, because my dreams have usually been kept inside of my head--to myself. Perhaps one day, if Sam and I decide to renew our vows in a few years, I'll be less of a curmudgeon and will be ready for a renewal party or something like that. In the meantime, I eye these pale green packages with white and yellow bows and wonder what it might be like to mark life's passages in public.

Ginger Haired Strumpet

Otis went wild the other day, when I was sitting on the couch dozing through a spate of paper grading. He was meowing plaintively, his nose pressed against the screen door. There was a begging quality to his little castrati voice. And I could see why. Just beyond his reach, on the doormat out back, lay the Ginger-Haired Strumpet. I don't know what her name is, but there she was, her back to the door, her tail flicking back and forth flirtatiously.
I've seen this cat out and about in the neighborhood. No one seems to know to whom she belongs. But she runs to greet me sometimes when I get home late. She throws herself down on her back and rolls around in a tantalizing way, just begging for me to rub her tummy. There was something rather sensuous about that and if I were Otis, I'd have gone nuts, too.

But here is Otis begging her to please-oh-please come closer to the screen door so I can sniff you. Or something else. She is of the ilk of females who don't feel valuable unless someone is hotly pursuing them. My attempts to comfort Otis was to no avail.

She slowly raised up, stretched one back leg at a time, before arching her back and stretching languidly. Off she trotted then, across the back yard and up to the garden. Otis tore through the dining room and up onto the back of the couch where he peered through the blinds into the garden. Little Strumpet then began nibbling on one of the two clumps of catnip that I have out there for Otis. It dawned on me then, why I'd seen so many yellow hairs on the pieces I'd brought in for him. Guess Who had found it. She daintily nibbled on a few leaves before crouching down next to it. She eyed a bird on a branch above her and as she turned back to taste another leaf I could see that her eyes were getting a wild glare in them. Pretty soon she was rubbing her face vigorously on the catnip. That gave away to abandoned rolling around in it, her face a vision of bliss, her body a writhing mass of yellow. Finally, physically spent, she closed her eyes and drifted off. This was too much for Otis, who began throwing himself at the window, calling to her and pledging his undying love for her. She was nearly comatose.

Finally, after about 10 minutes of sleep, she sat up, shook off the dirt from the garden, and gave herself a good bath. It was a bright garden spot and the warmth of the sun must have felt good to her. She soaked it up a few moments before glancing toward Otis--to see if he was still watching her. He was. Off she sauntered, satisfied with the uproar she had created with her feminine charm. And thus it has always been for ginger-haired strumpets.