The meaning of life, from an unexpected source

I had the opportunity to catch a glimpse of Oprah Winfrey's program last Monday. Her guest was an author, Geneen Roth, who has written a book about women’s relationships with food and their relationships with God. The premise of the book is that if you get things right with yourself and with God, then you can probably structure a healthier relationship with food; you will have less of a tendency to fill up the emptiness with food.

Oprah had read the book, clearly believes in the content, and along with Ms. Roth, was enthusiastically offering her commentary and taking questions from the audience.


Several members of the studio audience asked questions about family mealtimes, dieting, busy schedules, etc. One particular question was a bit unstructured. The viewer seemed discouraged that she was never quite able to get ahead professionally. The question may have also had an underlying inquiry about food, but I don’t recall that now.


I was busy putting dishes in the dishwasher and as Oprah started to answer this question, I stopped to listen. Then I walked closer to the television. It was a watershed moment: Oprah was giving this viewer the essential answer to life. Right there. In person. And everyone, including me, got the added benefit of receiving this important piece of information too.


It may sound like I am dismissing Oprah’s communication as a bit of trivia, but I am not. Quite the contrary. The secret that Oprah shared is a fundamentally important lesson and while a lot of people know it, it is still elusive. This knowledge becomes easy to misplace in the multi-tasking, multi-threaded, deadline oriented lives that we lead.


Oprah told her viewer, point blank, that the starting point for her (and all of us) was to humbly give thanks to God for the many many blessings in her life. Live in that place of gratitude. And be thankful for the things that are yet to come, including the experiences that will teach us lessons. You are not to cast about comparing your life with what you perceive as bounty in others’ lives. You do not know the burdens they carry because you do not walk in their shoes. Look at your own life, connect with God in your heart and walk forward in joy.


Now, I’m not trying to put words in Oprah’s mouth. There are no quotation marks; she didn’t say this exactly, but it is what I heard. This singular all-important message. The central meaning of life. The key to human happiness.


I doubt that this viewer, who showed up at the Harpo studio earlier that day, had any inkling of the gift that was she was about to receive. A gift that has the ability to change her perception of everything. I didn’t expect to receive it either, randomly tuning in to see Oprah’s program for about the third time in my life. But it is a miracle that I did and I am ever so grateful.


Thank you Oprah.

Sleep in heavenly peace

He came into my life just like the proverbial baby-left-on-the-doorstep.

It was a beautiful, cool, early spring morning in 1995 and as I pulled out of the driveway, I saw his little face peeking out from under the shrubbery in the alley. He was an adorable little puppy. Fluffy brown.

When I got to my destination I couldn’t stop thinking about him and after a few hours when I had a bit of a break, I drove home. He was still there. Hadn’t moved but someone had put down a bowl of food for him. He hadn’t eaten and by now the ants had gotten into it.

I brought out a bowl of water and a little fresh food. He was frightened, backed further under the shrubs and barked at me defensively. So I sat there and talked to him softly. After a few minutes he inched forward and took a drink of water. I had to leave again, but I thought he would probably be there when I returned.

He was, and I picked him up and took him inside. He was about the size of a cat and that first day I carried him around with me, singing to him.

Later, I named him Jackson, but always called him Jackie.

He grew fast, shedding his puppy fluff. His adult fur was brown with a black saddle. He had a sweet face and when he was happiest, his tail would curl up over his back.

In the summer in 1996, a homeless adult golden retriever came to live with us. Hemingway and Jackie were wonderful companions for many years. Watching them play together was one of my favorite things.

Jackie changed when Hemingway died on Winter Solstice, 2004. His grief lasted for months and he was inconsolable. The progression of his grief resembled the classic stages of human emotion processing through grief. But one day, in the spring of 2005, he seemed better. Not the same old Jackie, but better. It was as if he was now retired from his former position of Alpha male in the household that now included two younger dogs. He was Alpha Emeritus.

In the years that passed after 2005, Jackie rested more, but still enjoyed barking out an occasional warning to a pedestrian passing by with a dog on a leash. His mobility declined and it was apparent that he suffered from arthritis. He began a regimen of medication in 2007.

When Cristy and I moved into our present home last fall, the change seemed good for Jackie. He loved the enormous back yard. It was like a park and I watched him stroll beneath the myrtles and roll in the grass just like he was a pup again. I was so thankful that he was still able to experience this kind of enjoyment that had made him happy as a young dog.

But his decline in health continued and three months ago the arthritic inflammation around his spine left him without sensation in his hind legs. Thankfully, our veterinarian consulted with me over the telephone because she understood how traumatic it would be to bring Jackie into that office. She prescribed a steroid to reduce the inflammation and told me plainly that it was the medicine of last resort for him.

This past Monday was the last day of Jackie’s life. He was dying and spent most of the day beneath the kitchen table resting on the cool tile floor. I spent most of the day next to him. I carried him outdoors to the back yard a couple of times and he took a few sips of water. He also ate some chocolate cake.

The veterinarian made a house call and around 6:30, I said goodbye to my puppy on the doorstep. I believe, with all my heart that Hemingway was there to meet him at the rainbow bridge.

And one day, when I die, I believe that both Jackie and Hemingway will meet me there too.

Rhythm

There is a rhythm to our lives. Activities, relationships, interests. These things seem to emerge and we fold them into our lives. And then, sometimes, they fade. The strength of the relationship diminishes, and acknowledging this, we allow the cycle to continue, unfolding that part of our life as needed. Other interests, previously dormant, seem to emerge. Other activities surface that need our attention. We refold again and again.

And so it is with this blog. While I have found it an outlet for an enormous amount of creative energy, the natural rhythm of writing has ceased for now. It may begin again at some time, but I prefer to follow my inspiration in the other directions where my creativity continues to blossom.

Thank you for sharing this little part of my life and for offering so much inspiration through your photos, essays, poems and stories.

Lessons from a baby bird

Mosquitoes are plentiful in Texas and many Texas residents keep purple martin birdhouses in their yards in hopes of attracting these migrating birds who love to spend their summers in the hot Texas heat where they will find a plentiful supply of one of their favorite foods: mosquitoes.

We do not have a purple martin birdhouse, but 2 of our neighbors do.

My mom always told me that purple martins are just a little bit picky about selecting a summer vacation home – they like it to be very clean. No remnants from the previous occupants.

I don’t think that our neighbors ever received this advice. Sparrows are still living in the purple martin houses. But that is OK. We love the sweet little sparrows too. We’re just having to break out the citronella candles to ward off mosquitoes.

Yesterday evening, Cristy was watching the sparrow activity on the ground around the bird feeder and bird bath. There was one youngster sparrow that had not yet learned to eat by herself. She was able to fly, but still relied on mom to pick up the bird seed from the ground and give it to her. I suppose with birds, they have to learn to fly to the source of food before they can learn to eat it on their own. One hurdle at a time.

The mommy sparrow patiently fed her offspring who scurried behind her making a big fuss. Or, at least, that is what it looked like from where we sat.

It made me think about how long it sometimes takes me to grasp concepts that appear to be very obvious.

I remember, as a child, using scissors to cut a circle out of a piece of paper was very perplexing and frustrating. That day in kindergarten class I watched while all the other students cut out their circles, but I succeeded only in cutting an endless spiral. I didn’t get it. Later, my mom showed me another technique that made more sense to me. I was so relieved. I just needed more instruction.

I also remember in first grade at recess, I was having trouble running relay races as quickly as the other children and I asked my dad for help. He showed me exactly the things I needed to know to solve my problems. They were things that other children somehow learned merely by observing, but again, I needed more instruction.

Recalling these experiences makes me realize how crucially important my parents were for me. I felt safe taking a problem to them and asking them to help me solve it. And they did, in a nonjudgmental way. These two early episodes, like so many others, transformed my feelings of frustration into feelings of competence.

And more recently, Cristy showed me how to use one of the features of our television remote control. My technology phobia generally scares me away from that contraption, but Cristy showed me how simple it really was. And I can use it now. Maybe not for everything, but I’m OK with some simple navigation. I can feed myself.

And that baby bird will soon learn too.

Gratitude at work

Eight years ago I decided to change my career and I left my job in the private sector to become involved, as a volunteer, in the world of nonprofit. I was not sure what I was going to end up doing by way of a permanent career change, but I knew I wanted to immerse myself, meet people and learn about this unfamiliar segment of the business world as quickly as possible.

Eventually, I wound up working at an organization for which I have great respect. I believe in the mission and admire the brilliant scientists here that make contributions to our world. I am grateful to be a small part of this organization. It is something much bigger than me and it stands for something good. It touches lives and sometimes even saves lives.

Today, one of the scientists here was named in Time magazine’s annual list of the world’s 100 most influential people. He is a professor and chair of the Department of Lymphoma and Myeloma. His field of research involves harnessing the human immune system to develop a cancer vaccine and this important work is gaining attention. Congratulations to Larry Kwak, M.D., Ph.D.

In harmony

I walked down the street today to attend a presentation: 1 block west then 1 block north. The day is lovely and I noticed blooming daylilies and plenty of chirping sparrows along the way. One of the buildings I passed has now been entirely fenced; any sort of access to the perimeter is prohibited. The building will be demolished at some date in the not too distant future as the Texas Medical Center makes way for expansion.

The process of expansion is one that seems to have no end. New roads, new buildings, new floors added to the tops of existing buildings. The vast acreage of Hermann Park lies along the northern edge of the medical center. A drive into this complex from the freeway affords commuters a picturesque view of the golf course. Recently, a broader, new road was constructed to channel traffic alongside Braes Bayou more efficiently and as a result, the older road near the edge of the golf course was abandoned and has been returned to the park as restored green space.

This is something I have not ever before observed. A road demolished and the land restored to augment nature. It makes me happy that the civil engineers and transportation planners included this as one of the goals of the construction project.

In my personal corner of the world, Cristy has taken significant strides to convert our own yard into a nature friendly habitat. There are 2 squirrel feeders, a bird feeder, hummingbird feeder, two birdhouses and a birdbath. Numerous wind chimes provide soothing musical sounds that help mask the noise of nearby lawnmowers or tools. She has made our yard a welcome place for birds and squirrels and we are rewarded daily with visitors of all varieties.

The energy inside our homes is, I think, derived in large part from its external surroundings. Windows that offer views of water, sky, foliage and our feathered neighbors give us the elements in Feng Shui that represent vital Chi energy. A balance with nature and with spirit. Harmonious.

Amid a sometimes perplexing blend of chaos, I am reminded of the harmony woven throughout the moments of my day.

Dunce hat

Today is my day to wear the dunce hat. I hate these days, but they drop into my life once in a while.

I had a dentist appointment this morning, but had forgotten the time; I thought it was in the afternoon. Thankfully I scheduled it for 8:30 and still had plenty of time to make it to the appointment after I got to work and checked the calendar. And thankfully, there were no startling discoveries as a result of this appointment that would require another more invasive dental appointment.

I left the dentist's office and returned to my car. As I backed out of the parking space I heard a loud crunching sound. It was the sound of one of those big parking garage pillars bashing in the side of my car. I don’t much care for these pesky pillars in parking garages, for precisely this reason. I have had more than one altercation with them in recent years.

My car is actually fine, as long as I don’t need to use the side-view mirror or open the driver’s side door too awfully far.

Just another reason I don’t need to be driving a big expensive car. Most of my driving mishaps tend to occur when I am backing out of a parking space. Pass me the pointed hat please.

Smile

I subscribe to an industry newsfeed and some days I’ll click on the embedded article and read it. One day last December, the article title grabbed my attention: 10 Reasons Why Your Blog Sucks. With mounting trepidation, I clicked and braced myself to read the harsh facts.

I pondered this realization, along with a few similar articles that came my way through the months of January and February. I considered taking the blog private to rid myself of the shame and embarrassment of having such a sucky blog.

But I haven’t yet done that. Still treating it like the journal I always intended it to be, and still posting when I’m inspired and have the time.

And then joy of joys, last week two fabulously creative and inspired bloggers shared some blog love with me in the form of an award. I love me a little bling, so these sparkly awards are just what the doctor ordered to banish that suckiness.

These two bloggers truly inspire me. Fullet, an artist and writer with an enormous depth of creative energy, first captured my attention when he wrote about the curiously amazing Christmas tradition in Catalonia surrounding the Tió, a sort of yule log. I was hooked. But when he started his second blog and posted an animated clip of one of his own collages, I became a devoted fan. I must have watched that clip a dozen times. Please click over to his two blogs to fill your morning coffee mug with delightful inspiration: Secret Forest and Collage Drawer.

Suzicate, a blogger, poet and quilting artist tells stories in a pure voice. Her writing style is so startlingly personal that it almost seems I can hear her narrating in my head, although I have never before heard her voice. Sometimes that voice is chattering and laughing, and sometimes it is nearly trembling with emotion. Besides being a prolific writer, she is a dedicated reader of literally dozens of blogs. Suzicate’s wonderful blog is The Water Witch's Daugher.

I am grateful that Fullet and Suzicate find the time to click over to my blog now and then. Thank you both for your internet friendship and for reminding me that my blog doesn’t really suck.

And now, the awards. Just like opening presents, one of my favorite things.

The Happy Blog Award, from Fullet, comes with a request to list 10 things that make me happy:

1. a sunny day
2. coffee in the morning
3. my animal companions
4. my human companion, Cristy
5. pretty shoes
6. shiny objects (pretty things of all sorts)
7. prayer
8. creative pursuits
9. the seashore
10. other people’s smiles.

And in appreciation, I am glad to share the Happy Blog award with a few blogs that always make me happy too.

Gropius vs. Eddie, a fabulous portrayal of life in words and photographs

IslandRoar, a collection of insightful, clever and amusing reflections

The Art of Chrissy Marie, a sweet celebration of nature, photography and art.

The Golden Award is from Suzicate and I am inspired to share this with a blogger who writes from her heart: Stephanie at Chocolate and Whine.

And finally, just because I feel like it, I'm picking up the Circle of Friendship award from Suzicate too. Blogging is more fun when you share, so if you are reading and would like to take this nice award, please do!

In light of this heavenly avalanche of bloggy sweetness, I think I just might trash those 10 reasons about my blog sucking. I'll bet that guy (Edward Khoo) has never even read my blog. But y'all have. And I so LOVE you! Thank you for visiting and leaving a comment now and then.

On home decorating

My father was a veteran of the Korean War. A recent high school graduate, he served in the Air Force in the early 1950s. It was a time of his life about which I have almost no information. But I do have some mementos.

He apparently went to Tokyo once on R&R and that young American soldier took a shopping excursion. Completely out of character for the man I later knew as my dad: the one who preferred to avoid shopping and purchases of any kind.

I took possession of some of the fruits of that shopping trip almost 18 years ago after he died. One particular garment box that has been on the shelf of my closet all this time held two kimonos. One silk and one cotton. And a silk obi. I vaguely recalled the cotton kimono (actually, a yukata) because I remember him wearing it around the house on a couple of rare occasions as I was growing up.

In my ongoing quest to rid myself of possessions that are “stored” forever in boxes in the closet, I pulled out these kimonos last week. Besides the few times he wore them, they have probably not been out of the box since 1953.

As I opened the box, I immediately saw the cotton kimono’s cheerfully crisp navy blue and white ziggy-zaggy stripe pattern. Beneath was the silk kimono, a garment unfamiliar to me. I pulled it from the box to discover it was lined in white silk. The colors of the kimono were a somber olive and sandy brown. And the pattern was also somber: Japanese soldiers on foot, carrying caskets that held their deceased comrades.

I wondered why in the world my father had selected these two kimonos. More than likely, the shops that he visited were full of gorgeous silk kimonos in brilliant colors adorned with patterns of birds and blossoms. But then I remembered that he was purchasing the kimonos for himself, this young man of 20, not some hypothetical daughter who in sixty years' time would probably prefer flowers to coffins. So I honor it for what it is. And I decided to find a way to add this kimono to my daily life, something I could touch, see and enjoy in my home surroundings. I decided to make a pillow cover from this kimono fabric.

Because I did not want to immediately cut into the fabric of the main garment, I decided to detach one of the elongated sleeves, perfectly rectangular shaped, as the basis for the pillow. All I needed to do was pull apart the seam between the sleeve and armhole. My scissors cut the first thread in the lining and I nearly gasped in amazement – the garment was hand sewn. The stitches I cut were not made by machine. I continued snipping apart the stitches, imagining the needle in the hand of the person who sewed it, carefully crafted it into the lovely garment now before me on the kitchen table.

I sewed the sleeve back together as a pillow, using a hand needle and thread. I’d like to be able to say that I selected this process in reverence of the kimono’s original integrity. But the truth is, I don’t own a sewing machine. I only sew by hand. For about 3 hours on Sunday, I busied myself with this project. My pillow insert should arrive in a few days and I will place it among the collection of pillows that adds a touch of color, life and whimsy to our surroundings. This one will add more: a shade of toil, echoes of an ancient culture.

The more time I spend thinking about and pursuing the process of decorating our home, the more I am convinced that decorating is not about copying the elements from a picture of someone else’s house. At least not for me. It’s about arranging the things I possess with love and creativity. It’s about finding ways to maximize the use and beauty of everything.

Red carpet moment

I’m going to be 49 soon. In one week. If I were to consult an actuarial table, I would be certain to learn that more than half my life has already passed.

Since I started writing this online diary and reading others’ blogs regularly, I’ve tried to keep an honest perspective about a variety of circumstances that weave through my daily existence. And then a bit earlier today, I read an essay by Katrina at Ordinary Day Journal. It made me recall a watershed moment in my life that opened my vision to see an alternate path. One that I eventually took years later.

As a youngster, and even as a young adult, I had the feeling that I somehow stood apart from the rest of the population. And not in a bad way, like I had body odor, but in a secretly special way. As though I had some unique talent, skill or intelligence that one day, the world would acknowledge. In the meantime, I worked really hard to accelerate my career. Honest to goodness hard work. But, I don’t know, in the back of my mind the thought was always there – what I was doing now was merely a resume entry for the grandeur that would surely come next.

However, one day it occurred to me that my life was exactly as it appeared to be. I was not being considered for a Nobel Prize, was not an esteemed author, a notable composer, nor an accomplished entrepreneur. The word that bounced around inside my head was mediocre.

Mediocre.

It sounds considerably harsher now than it felt at the time. But it was as though an old fashioned alarm clock had started ringing. Noisy and persistent. Pay attention—this is your life! I had a middle-class American life. Nothing to either brag about or feel ashamed of. But since I was subconsciously waiting for the proverbial red-carpet moment for my life to begin, I let my days slip past without much notice. Until that alarm clock bell.

I don’t have all of life’s answers, because I am still learning, still finding the questions along each day’s journey. Like Katrina, and so many other bloggers that keep my perspective in check, the best I can do is acknowledge the present moment steeped in as much gratitude and joy as I can locate in my heart. And thankfully, I find that it is overflowing with both. Gratitude produces joy, which produces more gratitude.

As I read in a birthday card once, the gift of this day is the day itself. So, bring on 49. I am almost humbled to tears that I have had so many days to live and breathe, walk and talk, smile and love. And my gratitude escalates with each additional day.

Lost + found (squared)

In December, I lost (misplaced) my driver’s license. That misfortune cost me several hours down at the DMV office waiting in a crowded, stuffy room to apply for a replacement. In January, I found it. In my car of all places. It apparently had spilled out of my purse at some point and fallen between the front passenger seat and door. Once I actually opened the passenger side door, it was easily visible. I just hadn’t bothered to look there previously.

At the time I found it, I was on the way to walk down the street and collect the mail, so I just placed it in the pocket of my jacket. As of yesterday, it was still there. I don’t wear that jacket very often, but with the cool weather, it has definitely gotten some wear of late. And every time I place my hand in the pocket, I notice it with surprise.

But since I don’t really need it, I haven’t done anything with my old driver’s license. Haven’t filed it. Haven’t destroyed it. It’s just there, in the pocket of that jacket.

Last night I went to fill up my car with gas and pulled on that jacket for a layer of warmth. Then somewhere between removing the gas cap and paying for the fuel the driver’s license fell to the ground unnoticed.

And someone else picked it up. And apparently googled me and found my blog. She left a message on my blog in the wee hours of the morning that she had my license and offered to mail it back to me. She’s a blogger too. I visited her blog today and found it very inspiring.

How awesome is that? (Well, not the part about me being completely irresponsible with a piece of personal identification.) The other part, about the cool person who tracked me down and offered to return my wayward driver’s license. Bloggers rock!

Random miracles

I read a story in the newspaper this morning about a (former) patient in the hospital where I work. She was treated for a highly aggressive form of melanoma. Her prognosis was extremely bleak. She had three large tumors that did not respond to chemotherapy and only weeks after surgically removing them, they grew back. Her physician prescribed an even more aggressive treatment protocol. In the midst of this, while in the hospital, she received a visit from an unknown individual who simply asked if he could pray with her. She described her visitor in brilliant, gleaming terms and spoke of a profound feeling of peace and assurance during and after his visit. The identity of the visitor is not known to anyone.

She has been cancer free for two years now. Her recovery is miraculous. It makes me catch my breath in awe.

I work in a place where the investigation of cellular science is of the most vital importance to make discoveries that lead to better approaches for the treatment of cancer. Science.

Where is prayer in the equation?

Actually, it’s all around.

Chaplains make the rounds here constantly. In pre-op. Inpatient rooms. Infusion clinics. Staff members participate in prayer circles. Many, many of the employees in this institution have a strong connection to their faith. We pray for strength, for peace, for relief, for each other.

My struggle with faith boils down to this conundrum: two patients who both pray, one recovers and one dies. Did the one who died not pray quite right? Did God somehow favor the one who recovered more? How could this be part of the grand design?

Or is it random?

Random is the more scientific answer. Being a person who values my connection with God, it surprises me when I choose random. But I do.

Miracle? Absolutely. A random miracle.

On a mission

One of the few times I watched Jon & Kate + 8, a topic on that broadcast, discussed somewhat incidentally, was the fact that this family had created a mission statement.

[Note to self: please refrain from indulging in judgmental thoughts about the probable level of family collaboration involved in creating the aforementioned mission statement.]

I was impressed during the broadcast at the concept of actually taking the trouble to formulate and verbalize a family mission statement and I decided to do a little research with my best friend, google. What I learned was not surprising. A number of family therapists cited in the search results recommend that couples (my research was limited to couples since I’m not a mom) not only participate in the exercise of creating a mission statement, but also define the values that guide your lives, both as individuals and as a couple.

I love methodology and in one of my previous volunteer assignments, led a few organizations through strategy building workshops similar to this. The participants begin with some trepidation, but quickly gain confidence and make rapid progress. It always sounds more difficult than it really is.

Anyway, Cristy and I took the time last year to explore our values in life areas such as faith, social pursuits, daily home-life, financial management, holiday and family celebrations, professional-career pursuits, etc. I think we defined 10 or 12 general categories. The values we verbalized were those beliefs we held about who we were as individuals in the distinct life areas and how we each felt we needed to participate as a couple in order to feel whole, validated and cherished.

Not all of our opinions were aligned, but we tried to negotiate through some ideas about behavior that would meet some important needs for us both.

It was useful. Performing that exercise together made us feel as though we had established a broad set of basic agreements for the way that we would interact in these areas of our lives. Because we had made agreements, a large degree of ambiguity about who we were as a couple evaporated. It was as if we had completed a private rehearsal of sorts. While I cannot predict the future, I feel my chances of being blindsided by something unexpected that conflicts with one of my core living values, is greatly diminished.

Nothing is guaranteed. Disasters can happen, garbage disposals can erupt, as ours did this week. We only hope that the practice of finding common ground around the values that are the most important guiding principles of our lives will help us combine our strengths in times of stress, sorrow or sickness. The practice of negotiating behaviors in advance will help us feel empowered to ask for the supportive behavior that we need from the other to offer that extra support when we’re not quite feeling whole. The practice of exploring and envisioning will open our minds to the possibilities that exist for enriching our own lives as well as the lives of others with whom we interact.

All things considered, I’d have to say that Jon & Kate, or at least the producers of Jon & Kate, set a very good example for which I am truly grateful.

On forgiveness

I read an essay by Kristen over at Motherese about forgiveness and it has been occupying a space in my consciousness ever since. Her blog has a way of doing that.

"…to forgive is divine."

I am trying to come to terms with the way I process through forgiveness and take inventory of the associated judgmental feelings stored in my bank of memories. For me, forgiveness is a pivotal closure event in acknowledging a complete set of circumstances around a sorrowful event or moment in time. Forgiveness allows me to assemble that sorrow, place it in a box, close the lid and offer it to my Higher Power. In exchange, I ask for peace. The peace I receive washes away my hurt and helps me regain my sense of wholeness. The sorrowful event may have been substantial and the whole person that I am on the other side may be different than the person I was before.

That is to be expected, is it not?

But how much judgment am I carrying with me as a consequence of the experience?

About three years ago I met a woman who was a recovering alcoholic. I have known more than one alcoholic in my life and I am familiar with the whirling vortex of drama that often goes hand-in-hand with these personalities. However, I was drawn to her personality and we became friends. We socialized and assembled a small circle of friends. Her recovery was difficult and she drank from time to time. The effects of her alcoholic binges were never productive. She was ashamed and told lies to cover up the truth.

And then I had a little Christmas holiday party at my home. I invited a few friends and it was a relatively quiet gathering. Food, drink and conversation. She arrived, already inebriated and proceeded to indulge more. She became emotional, hijacked the thread of the party’s general conversation, and her behavior made me very uncomfortable.

She apologized the next day by sending a text message, or maybe an email. In my heart I forgave her and I know that I communicated this to her through email.

But my judgment about her changed. I mentally formulated a boundary regarding the kind of relationship that I was willing to participate in with her going forward, as a pure consequence of my collective range of experience with her. Our friendship cooled. Over the next year, we continued to talk from time to time and exchange email, but only saw each other once, for lunch. While she made numerous vague suggestions that we make plans to socialize further, I did not feel compelled to encourage the suggestions into anything more concrete.

It is possible that over the past twelve months she has taken some strides forward in her recovery and is a much more responsible person. My opinion, informed by my judgment, has not had an opportunity to evolve due to the far more casual way in which we currently interact. Consequently, there is a chance that my opinion is no longer valid.

But I do not know. I have not received enough information to make a revision.

C’est la vie.

I forgave her for the behavior that I considered to be inappropriate, within the construct of our friendship and I harbor no ill will toward her now. I placed the lid securely on that box. I am at peace.

But on the other side of that forgiveness, I changed.

Battle with love

When I was a little girl, 6 years old, I thought I was fat. One of my school classmates said it out loud, so I thought it was true. I was ashamed. It never occurred to me that she was wrong. When I look back at school class pictures now, I looked the same as all the other children, but the damage was done. Something changed at that precise moment with the way I felt about myself.

In my teen and young adult years, I wanted badly to have a boyfriend, but I never really did. I did not understand the intricacy of getting to know someone and letting them get to know you. I thought the love dance was merely superficial: labeling the status of a relationship, going out to parties as a couple, acting like you were in love. But I didn’t understand what it felt like to be loved or to extend love. And I strongly suspect this was a result, in part, of the many years of self-loathing that began in the first grade.

This blog is a diary and the thoughts and feelings are my own. It has never been anyone else’s responsibility to make me feel one way or another. There is no blaming or no credit to be assigned out. For most of my life, until recently, there has been a barrier between me and love. I hated love and I grieved over love. It was a battle.

I was able to verbalize it to a therapist a few years ago. Shortly after my marriage ended and I discovered that my life was, in fact going to continue, I realized in order to live it effectively, I’d probably need to solicit some help. Enter the therapist. She asked what I wanted from a love relationship. To my surprise, I was able to answer succinctly: I want to participate in a love relationship where I feel cherished.

That was my first victory in this lifelong battle with love: naming both the obstacle and the desired set of circumstances. My therapist said that was a realistic expectation. Seemed so to me too.

However, in my experience, feeling cherished was not high on that list of feelings with which I identified. More commonly, they would include things like compromised, diminished, marginalized, disappointed. Again, understanding completely that I am solely responsible for my feelings, it is all about my choices and they way I elected to participate in relationships. Relationships with my parents, with myself, with love interests.

Then Cupid flew by my house one night and sprinkled love dust in the air. I awoke the next morning knowing my heart would reopen. And it did. And then it broke again because I fell into an old pattern of behavior. But I saw it and understood. Finally. It was my second victory in my battle with love. That most painful awareness where I stopped applying scotch tape to the gaping wound in my chest. I looked at that wound, ugly as it was, and then tended to it.

Cupid came along again, as he does, and sprinkled more love dust in my direction. I am so fortunate that Cupid led me to my valentine, the love of my life, this place where I feel cherished. It is true, what they say. I had to assign value to myself in order to feel cherished by the person who loves me. And she does. And I can feel it. And it is the sweetest thing I can imagine.

I love you.

Living from scratch

I read a very inspired essay by Anne at life in pencil the other day all about the concept of living from scratch. In other words, starting anew, paving a new path in any part of our lives. And oddly, my father’s voice appears in my head when reflecting on this idea: the words inertia and trajectory. He was a scientist and his work dealt largely with mechanical physics. But these two familiar subjects of physics apply to our lives, perhaps in more ways than we care to admit.

Inertia tells us that an object will continue to move along its current path unless acted upon by an external force. A human-life example of inertia is the person who remains in an unloving relationship without taking proactive steps to make a change for the better. Or a person who has an unfulfilling job but makes no attempt to change the situation. A couple of less obvious examples might be the person who does make an attempt at change, but upon meeting the first obstacle, decides that change is impossible and accepts inertia as inevitable, or the person who selects a change strategy that turns out to be an unsuccessful approach at achieving the desired change, but continues to make the same unsuccessful attempt time after time.

How many of us have fallen under the spell of inertia?

The term trajectory refers to the direction of the new path of an object once a force has been applied to initiate movement. In mechanical physics, we have to compensate for the effect of gravity in order for our object to reach its targeted destination. In life, we have to compensate for other unquantifiable factors, if we hope to succeed in our quest to make progress along a new path. These factors are things like the seductive comforts of our old habits and the voices of fear and shame that play inside our heads.

Creating change in our lives requires some amount of fortitude, perseverance and vision. We need to be able to visualize that the difference we are seeking will prove beneficial and hopefully, increase our level of happiness.

How many of us have stumbled along a new path because we were ill prepared to expend the energy needed to compensate for the unforeseen roadblocks to our visualized success?

I am personally able to check both of these boxes. Time and again I can recall complaining about some circumstance in my life that caused me dissatisfaction, but I made excuses to myself to justify living with the inertia. Or opened the door to a new relationship without acknowledging the need to clean up my behavioral mistakes from the past.

Change is work. It is not as simple as deciding. In physics, there is a formula for computing work, a function of force and distance. In my own life, change has been successful through humility, gratitude, imagination, forgiveness and perseverance over a span of time. The force applied, in this case is not physical at all. A difficult lesson to grasp.

I don’t know if my dad ever thought about physics in these terms, but I am finding comfort in deriving abstract life lessons from the concrete principles he applied in his life’s work.

Being mindful

A team of colleagues just down the hallway from me work with a variety of constituents and they all have a mail tray installed on the wall just adjacent to their door to receive any urgent paperwork if they happen to be out. They decorate these mail trays with pretty seasonal trinkets and it is a colorful addition to my frequent walks to the printer, elevator, etc. With the season of Lent soon upon us, the current decoration is a bright, feathery Mardi Gras flourish.

Lent is a particularly wonderful season in the Christian religion, because it is all about being mindful. [This is in the Christianity according to my own brain. I do not profess to be a scholar of religion, by any remote stretch of the imagination, so if my interpretations are incorrect, then I humbly stand corrected.] The phrase that resonates with me from a Lenten homily is “ashes to ashes,” encouraging us to be mindful of the finite nature of our existence and the enduring cycle of life.

Nature itself gives us an infinite variety of metaphors of this cycle. The ebb and flow of the tide, the dawn and dusk of the earth’s rotation, the seasonal changes of the earth’s revolution around the sun, the flowering and fruition of trees and plants. Even with the recent harsh freeze, there is evident damage to many of the tropical trees and shrubs around town. But Nature will repair what She can.

At the place where I work, acknowledging death comes with the territory. It does not make it a dreary or depressing place to work; it simply reinforces the importance of celebrating the life that we have. One of our board members passed just this past weekend and the wife of another board member passed not too long ago last year. These are people that have touched our institution and so many others with their time, love and generous gifts. Frequently the people with whom we work are suffering from the loss of a child and as part of their healing process, they will establish an endowment, or an annual fundraising event to celebrate the life of their loved one. Every loss is a loss. None of any more or less importance than another. Sobering and harsh.

It reminds me of a conversation I had with two colleagues a number of years ago. One was telling a story of working on a farm when she was a young girl and falling in love with the lambs. She did not want to eat lamb after that because of her connection with the animals for which she cared. I gently suggested that perhaps the fact that the lamb was special had not so much to do with her personal love for the lambs, but due to the fact that they were all creatures of God. God loves us all equally. Maybe it was inappropriate to say that out loud, but I felt then, and still now in my heart that it was true. Perspective about life in the larger picture.

So I set forth about this day remembering to keep gratitude and mindfulness in the front of my consciousness.

Reflecting on a point in time

I was reading a thoughtful and introspective essay over at AbodeOneThree a bit earlier. I make up my mind before I click the link that takes me over to Matthew’s place that I need to prepare for what will occur afterwards. Hours of reflection, threads of long forgotten thought fragments, waves of gratitude. And today is no different. The subject of the essay discussed a precise moment in time when Matthew’s life changed by meeting the woman who is now his beloved wife.

The way that my brain works is by converting words and messages into diagrams, illustrations, charts. I think in terms of geometric shapes and free-form linear sketches. The illustrations inside my head that correspond with this essay look like overlapping spheres, or linear velocity diagrams (I am so making up this term). My internal illustrations make perfect sense to my particular brain, but that is just the way that thoughts congeal in my head.

My memories of meeting Cristy for the first time are compiled as a collection of still photographs. They are single images of random things: what I was wearing, the light outdoors, the food, the things she was holding, her shy smile.

Getting to that precise point in time, the place on the diagram where the circles of our lives intersect, where the lines cross, now, seems only like a prelude to what is now. A life that holds peace, laughter and joy. Where the circles overlap in a way that is soothing, comforting and loving. Where the lines cross each other in a supportive, happy way that augments the combination of our individual energies into something unexpectedly lovely.

Everyone loves lemonade

One of my favorite bloggers recently received recognition from a peer blogger for the way that she shares her reflections in an amusing, but heart inspiring way. And she, in turn, shared this recognition, none other than the Lemonade Stand Award. I happened to be one of the fortunate recipients.

Thank you Sue, for writing, for your amusing perspective, and for the inspiration that the rest of us take with us after visiting your blog. And thank you for this tangy, sweet award too! I love it.

One of the best parts is that I also get to share it with a blog author that writes with attitude and gratitude.

In appreciation for making me laugh on so many consecutive days, I'm sharing the Lemonade Stand with Paul over at Mostly Grocery - Adventures of a Grocery Clerk. He witnesses an endless array of raw human nature and after spinning it through his creative storytelling mind, it appears on his blog in an irreverantly funny anecdote.

Please visit Sue and Paul, if you have not already! And have a glass of lemonade on me.

Family dinner recollections

I was reading an essay by The Blushing Hostess in which she promotes reclaiming the family dinner hour, the kind I (sort of) remember when I was a kid. Setting the table, fresh prepared food, serving plates, bread basket, a pitcher of tea. Reading her essay brought back so many startlingly clear memories that it inspired me to dwell on them for a moment or two.

Our family dinner table was the place where my mother taught us basic table manners. Placing a napkin in our laps, holding our silverware properly, passing the salad bowl, navigating the tricky combination of eating and conducting polite conversation. My father never failed to proclaim that the meatloaf was delicious and he ended each meal with a thank you.

Supper was not a leisurely activity because there were a variety of tasks that needed tending to each evening afterwards, homework among them. Our meals were simple; my father assisted by tossing a salad, my brother and I set the table and fed the pets, and we all participated in clean-up afterwards. Telephone calls, music, television, magazines or anything else that did not belong at the dinner table was prohibited.

As I grew older, I learned to appreciate how my mother cared for table linens, pressed the napkins and used pretty greenery and ribbon to set a festive table on holidays and other special occasions. Having a meal in the dining room by candlelight was an exciting luxury to be savored. I considered it a special treat to drink my water from a pretty goblet and noticed that the clink of our knives and forks against the china plates sounded ever so much nicer than our ordinary tableware.

As the Blushing Hostess points out, family dinner is often victim to competing priorities. But without family dinner, there is not much opportunity to glean the essentially important life lessons generally imparted around the supper table. I’m squarely in her corner on this particular topic.