Depression

Delicate humor is the crowning virtue of the saints.
Evelyn Underhill

There is a national mood that is captured by the imagination of 200+ million people experiencing the events of the day at the same time and in living color. Lately, the pundits say the mood is depressed. We are in a tailspin of worry; over gas prices, hurricanes, homeless family and friends, poverty, credit card debt, and a dying real estate market. And in a mass act of withdrawal we are starting to stay home, use less gas, spend less, turn the heat lower and the a/c higher, wear the same clothes more often, eat out less, and sigh more.

The pundits notice - the markets react. We are gripped by an anxiety that events are out of our control, that our spending spree is coming to an end, that the SUV will have to be garaged. We have no appreciation of the gifts we are blessed with, the extraordinary position we occupy in relation to the rest of the world. We obsess about terrorism while other people are blown up by it. Four years without a terrorist incident on our own soil and we still wait for the other shoe to drop. Meantime our foreign neighbors in Irag are experiencing 500 terrorist incidents a week. And rising.

We shake our heads over the lack of gas, it's high price, the specter of shortages. We drive less and buy more videos. We hope the winter will be kind, knowing that we may spend double for the heat we buy. We cannot conceive of a world where most people still walk, or bike, or ride animals to work. Our imagination does not extend to a world where people jam into the cities to be in close proximity to their work, supplies, relatives. And only Hurricane Katrina reminds us that our suburbs may be more vulnerable than we had once thought. And in 50 years, 75% of us will live on the coasts of this country.

The pundits notice - the markets react. Events spin out of control, no one seems to be in charge. The president suggests that the military should be in charge in times of national disaster and the governors, at least 38 of them, say no way. Mayor Nagin blames Governor Blanco who blames FEMA's Brown who blames Mayor Nagin and Governor Blanco who blame the president who blames the Democrats who blame the Republicans who blame Brown who resigns. Meantime we watch on t.v. as helpless, old, disabled people float in oily water on top of doors waving for help, stand on rooftops as the water creeps higher, die in the streets lying in grocery carts. And the anti-war crowd gears up to press for our boys to come home soon. Who knows whether that idea has merit, our anxiety feeds our need to withdraw, pull in, give up. And who do we trust to make such a decision, Bush? Cheney? The Republicans? The Democrats? Mayor Nagin? Governor Blanco? Who is in charge?

We try to do what's right, take care of our own, go to church, say the pledge, raise our kids and pay our way. We have the outlines of what it takes but do we have the soul? The courage? The spirit? Are we leading or led? Up or down? Spirited or disspirited? Can we shake off our malaise long enough to lead with gentle humor, call down the spirit of the saints we pray to, take responsibility for our choices, make a difference? Can we? We are not lemmings rushing to the sea, social relationships do not define us, we can say no or yes or maybe. And no one else has to agree. All we need is gentle humor, sacrificing spirit, responsible action, saintliness.

KATRINA

Please go to the website: www.umcor.org to find out how to donate money, supplies, and volunteer through the United Methodist Committee on Relief. Every dollar donated goes to victims not administration. OR donate to any legitimate charitable organization

Also, check out the national food bank network through www.secondharvest.org, this network of food banks already has distribution centers and food bank networks set up and can quickly mobilize resources.

Send letters, emails, and phone calls to our government asking why they are not doing everything possible to move people out of New Orleans - this effort appears stymied by bureaucracy. The poor, black, young, and elderly need our voices rising louder and louder until they are heard. Do not let your voice be stifled by inertia or a sense that this is too overwhelming. We can do something and we need to do everything we can - this situation can be improved immediately by overwhelming demand and pressure from each and every one of us.

Do not go out and top off your gas tank - GO OUT AND DO EVERYTHING YOU CAN TO HELP THE PEOPLE WHO DON'T HAVE FOOD, WATER, OR A ROOF OVER THEIR HEADS. YOUR GASOLINE NEEDS ARE NOT PRIMARY NOW.

Finally, pray for the victims of this tragedy. Our combined voices can make a difference.

"I understand her position"

(A response to George Bush regarding Cindy Sheehan's request to talk with him)

With those words our president lost me. Does he really understand "Mrs. Sheehan's" position? Does he really understand that she has no position - that her role as the mother of a son killed in Iraq - is a position of so little importance that he doesn't have to acknowledge her demand with anything more than the words dreamed up by some top level advisor to make the issue one of politics and not of pain. She is not asking to talk to him because she is a democrat, or a war protester, or a liberal who disagrees with his policies. She's asking to talk to him so that he can explain how her son's life contributed to the betterment of the world. She wants to hear the president explain what her child's life was ultimately worth. Of course, since he is the president, he has the ability to refuse to meet with her, the power to ignore her request, the audacity to say, "I understand her position." Well, Mr. President, she doesn't understand yours and she wants you to explain it to her.

Also, Mr. President, you don't have the first clue what her position is. You have never sent a child to fight in a war. You haven't had one of your daughters die an untimely and lonely death in a place so far away you never got to hold her in your arms as the life ran out of her. You haven't had to live with the pain of losing a child to a war you disagree with and policies that you only support because you are trying to be a good citizen. You have never experienced the "position" of losing a loved child to a war not of your own making and that you don't believe can justify that loss of life. So, no Mr. Bush, you don't understand her position. You haven't carried a child under your breast for 9 months. And, taking nothing away from fatherhood here, you have never had the personal responsibility for incubating life.

Therefore, Mr. Bush, this is my position. Bet you won't understand it but try. My position is that mother's should have the vote on when, why, and where we go to war. That mother's on both sides of any escalating conflict should be the determiners of the common good. That mother's will then be able to bear more stoically the results of sending their own children off to be killed if they decide in favor of war. Because you see, Mr. Bush, your vision is clouded by your need to win, your need to succeed, your need to pay back. You, Sir, are ruled by your emotions and hormones, no less than we are. And in the case of war, Sir, you are not capable of making an accurate and honest assessment of the pain that is being caused by you, because for you the pain is a side issue, peripheral, a "position."

Are you too afraid that you don't have the words to soothe this mother's heart? That even in your own ears the explanations ring with a hollowness that you cannot hide. You have tried to hide the reality of our children's deaths in this war behind the curtain of justice, and right, and freedom, and terror, and WMD's. It is cowardly enough to wage war on an entire country from behind a desk and through others. But it is more cowardly to refuse a mother the explanation of why it was worth it for her son to die in your war. You, Sir, should be ashamed of yourself.

It is time for mother's to stand up and say NO to this war. To save those children who have not yet been killed by the hatred we have fueled with our moral superiority. No mother can watch this mother on t.v. and not feel the anguish of loss. She may become a political symbol or be one already but that's o.k. too because we need to be reminded that their are people in this world who's grief is the result of these painful "positions" of our President. I hope she stays there until he agrees to meet with her or hell freezes over and at this point the latter is sure to happen before the former.

Beer for My Horses

I am not a beer drinker. In my youth I was. I could drink beer until I became beer. We would frequent a local pub where you got a free pitcher for every four you bought. Lots of nights we would end up with 20 pitchers on the table, empty. Hard to imagine now. And I actually thought I could drive home - whoa. Time does change one's perspective. Of course in those days I don't know if anyone was ever completely sober so there were a lot of accidents out there waiting to happen. And some did. Few of us grew to be 50 something without knowing someone in our social circle or neighborhood or high school who was a victim of their own bad choices. One friend of mine died in a bathtub with a needle in his arm - whoa. Another died in an accident with a blood alcohol of 3.8, legal limit now is .8 - whoa. Another decided to fly out a 4th story window and forgot to flap - whoa. None of this is funny but 3 decades later it's not nearly as tragic as it was then either. None of these people deserved to die and certainly none of them was doing anything much different than their friends were. And yet they suffered the most serious consequences imaginable for bad behavior - death. I wonder sometimes about what they would have done, or who they would have been, or what their children would have looked like if they had lived. No answer.

So today I'm reading a Time article about a Jihadist. This is a 19 year old in training to die for his religious beliefs and take out a few infidels as he goes. He describes his training, his prayers, his focus, his isolation. He has a family, friends, a life. He doesn't give it a second thought though. He is totally resolute in his desire to die killing others. He believes he will earn a place in heaven through this action. He is eager to be called. He has friends who have already taken their turn at the wheel of a car with explosives strapped on their bodies. He plans to reunite with them in heaven. He isn't sure he wants to kill innocent bystanders and hopes his target will be military or police related but he will kill bystanders if he must, innocent or not. He is ashamed of the one vice he has, smoking, and assures the reporter that before his time he will stop and complete his purification to insure when he takes his last drive, or walk, he will be completely ready for Allah. Whoa.

The irony of feeling bad about smoking as you contemplate murder - whoa. The irony of a new generation of almost adults who don't drink or use drugs and are totally clearheaded in their desire to murder and die themselves - whoa. What world do we live in now? I sometimes feel like the worst acid trip imaginable could not compare to a world like this one. We mourn the deaths of friends, family, acquaintances who die not because of their bad choices but because today they chose to get up in the morning and board a bus or train or plane. We mourn the deaths of friends, family, acquaintances who think their duty is to try to fight back, to wage war on these misguided youth, the soldiers of Allah. We mourn that the world we live in is a world of hatred, where power is sought through any means possible by people who send these youngsters to die. And what if they win? Will the world of our children's children be dominated by fanatics, zealots? And if they lose? Will the world of our children's children be dominated by fanatics, zealots? Will we wonder about all the lives cut short by this war - what would have become of these young people if they had lived and grown old? Would they have made the world better by living? No answer. They believe they are making it better by dying.

I think I grew up in the wrong world. In the world of my youth we didn't want to die, we wanted to live. We didn't want to wage war, we wanted peace. We didn't want to take up arms, we handed out flowers. Where did we go? Was it too much beer, or pot, or cocaine that flung us into this nightmare? We watched our bravest young men go to war and die and we stood up and said NO, this isn't right. Now we watch people blown up on an almost daily basis and we are numb, and sober. Sober?

What can we offer these young men so intent on dying that compares with a promise of heaven? They see a world that is without hope or promise or security. They don't believe in pacifism, in capitalism, in our madison avenue promise that "we try harder." They think we are bloodsucking, ransacking, muckraking plunderers. They believe that we would sell our own souls to possess theirs. They compare us to the devil.

It will take minds greater, hearts stronger, and souls braver than the ones we are showing to come to grips with this brave new world. It will take more than we've got to find the path through this nightmarish maze. We will need not only to be sober, but strong, and clear, and certain. We will need to be like them. With one important difference. The path to heaven is not littered with the bodies of the innocent.

High Test

Before the days of unleaded premium gasoline if you wanted the most expensive stuff at the pump you asked for high test (that was also in the days when someone pumped the gas for you, washed your windshields, and checked the oil while you sat behind the wheel). High test was the gas with the highest octane and many cars used it because back then most of them had V-8 engines and lots of get up and go. High test was the gasoline of champions.

Today I was thinking about high test but it came to me in another train of thought. I met a friend in a coffee shop and she was talking about an ex-husband who had been mean, manipulative, and philandering when they were married, back in her 20's. She ditched him after 2 years which certainly sounded like the right choice. I drifted into a reverie about our 20's and the hormonal excesses we were subject to in those days. We females were constantly complaining about the mood swings, irritability, bloating, and just plain uncomfortable days before, during, and sometimes even after we menstruated. This lament continued as we aged, changing from PMS due to youth, to PMS due to post partum readjustment, and then the worst PMS of all, PMS associated with peri-menopause. If you are a woman you can relate to this. You remember all the conversations that have taken place over the years between you and your female friends, sisters, daughters, and mothers concerning the woes of hormonal fluctuations.

I was wondering if men have these conversations and I realized that was a really stupid thing to wonder about. Of course they don't. Men don't sit around and relate their irritability, competiveness, anger, weight gain, and philandering to hormonal fluctuations. I am inclined to think that men don't even know they have hormones. They know they have penises, which of course, they think about a lot but I don't think they talk to other men about that. Do you know any men intimately who tell you tales about their penises, the names they have for them, their pride in them? yYoung sons will regale you with tales about this stuff but my guess is they don't quit thinking about it they just don't talk about it after a certain point, at least not to other guys. So, the point here is that even though they are very familiar with their equipment they don't tend to understand that underlying not only it's functioning, but also in many case their moods are those ubiquitous hormones. As my friend was discussing her ex-husband of years ago it struck me that that guy had too much high test(osterone). He was afflicted with too much hormone and too little sense.

Would we live in a gentler world if men could acknowledge their hormonal afflictions? Would we be better off if they sat around bending each other's ears with their tales of woe? Could we relate more compassionately to male hormone madness if they could confess their complete lack of control over the surges of high test(osterone)? Any woman will admit to moments of utter insanity brought on by hormonal changes. We know what it's like to feel out of control and irrational and we know what causes it. And knowing what it is makes it easier to talk to other women, and men, about it, to seek rest, solitude, or drugs, or massage to ease it. We know we aren't always mistresses of our own fate. But perhaps the key is that linked to raging male hormone is the desire to dominate, control, and copulate without thought. Face it, when men are in the throes of hormonal excess the last thing they want to do is seek solitude or chat. They want to take on the world.

Fortunately, hormones, both male and female, eventually level out or peter out (no pun intended). That's why those 50 and 60 year old guys seem so much gentler and kinder. And I hope that it's also true of us. The real irony here is that as our estrogen abates we get more high test(osterone). The most obvious manifestation being those chin hairs that appear at the most inopportune times. But of course, being women, we won't be going through this change without relating this new hormonal woe to every friend. As my husband becomes the man I always knew he could be (sweet, gentle, kind) I am looking for new worlds to dominate. I'm looking forward to having a little bit of Tony the Tiger in my tank. So look out world, here I come - and oh by the way fella's - talking really does help to tame the savage beast.

Homesickness

We have to stumble through so much dirt and humbug before we reach home. And we have no one to guide us. Our only guide is our homesickness. — Hermann Hesse

When I was a young girl I went to camp one summer in the mountains of Colorado. It sounds like a long way from home but was actually only about an hour, in time, from my home in Denver. I really wanted to go to camp and was very excited about this new adventure, until I got there. I suddenly realized that I was surrounded by strangers, in a strange place. It was very disconcerting. At night I would cry myself to sleep. I did not want anyone to know how badly I was feeling but it must have been obvious because within a few days my counselor was hovering over me urging me to do things and get involved. Slowly but surely I recovered and was able to enjoy the experiences of camp. I returned every year after that until I was 16. By the time I went the last year it felt like returning home to pull in the gate of the camp. And yet even that last year I would feel the familiar tug of homesickness albeit briefly during my stay.

When I went to college, in Iowa, I felt the familiar tug of homesickness my first year there. Everything seemed so different to me, the people talked differently, the place looked different, my mountains were gone, my family far away. I couldn't wait to get home for Thanksgiving. The irony was that in that first visit home I didn't feel at home, everything there was different, my room had been rearranged, my parents were busy with their own stuff, my brothers and sisters felt like I was intruding. By the end of that week I was telling my best friend from 7th grade, the only one who still seemed predictable, that "you can't go home again." And being my best friend she nodded in sympathy and gave me hugs and waved goodbye at the airport.

Two years ago my husband and I moved to the mountains of North Carolina. It was the culmination of a lot of dreaming and planning that we had done over the years. In every regard it was a dream come true. We moved from our home of 27 years in Florida, leaving behind our many friends and our children, both in university there. We had planned for everything except for the sense of loss, loneliness, and emptiness that overtook me last winter. Finally, the pain of my homesickness drove me to seek help. When I sat down with the counselor the first time all I could say was, "I feel homesick and I don't even know where home is." She said nothing, which being a counselor myself I figured meant either, figure it out yourself - or I don't have a clue what you are talking about. Silence is a wonderful tool in the therapists toolbox!

So, once again I sat with my homesickness. Over the years there have been other occasions when I felt that sadness and yearning. Almost without exception loss of the familiar has ushered it in and almost without exception seeking out the familiar has not put it to rest. Instead, I have had to force myself to open up to the new, the different, the challenging. I have not been able to go back and have dreaded moving forward. Usually I think hiding will help but it doesn't and then I am left to "stumble through the dirt and humbug." During this latest occurrence I realized the truth in my words, ..."I don't even know where home is." The truth is that no matter how much I love my surroundings, my friends, my life, my children, these things are all temporary. I cannot depend on them for that sense of "home" that I long to find. I have not lost any close loved ones as an adult but friends who have describe the same sense of loss of bearings. It's more than just the loss of that person, it's the sense that you have been cut loose from your own moorings. The sense that no matter what stays the same everything is different. When I read Hesse's words I said "yes!" I am not the only one who has this sense that home is out there but I have yet to reach it.

Is this heaven I am seeking? Or God? Or some universal heartbeat that merges with my own? I can only guess and yet I keep being pushed forward by this "guide." Forced to face the impermanence of most things, I sense that somewhere not too far from here, is the home I seek. Perhaps an hour away, a day's drive, a quick flight. I don't know how I will get there, only that I will. As much as I dread the feeling of homesickness I appreciate that it is what pushes me on. And as I stumble through the dirt and humbug, worrying over each misstep, I realize that the trip is one we all share. When I was the saddest I could be at camp in those long ago days, my heart breaking as I hid beneath my sleeping bag, a calming stillness would wash over me and I would sleep. And on waking stumble some more.

Crying Over Spil't Milk

Please read the following and if you weep, do something.


CPTnet 3 June 2005
FALLUJAH, IRAQ: An unnatural disaster
by Joe Carr
Fallujah is devastating to drive through. There is more destruction and rubble than I've ever seen; even more than in Rafah, Gaza. The U.S. has leveled entire neighborhoods, and about every third building is destroyed or damaged from U.S. in April and November 2004 air ground assaults. The city looks like it's been hit by a series of tornados. Rubble and bullet holes are everywhere.
We visited a family's home in a neighborhood where every structure is damaged or destroyed. Their home was full of holes and black inside from fire. They said that they'd left during the fighting with their home intact, and returned to find all of their possessions had burned. Three families, more than twenty-five people, now live in this three-room burned-out shell of a home, including four infants.
U.S. checkpoints continue to strangle the city. One shopkeeper said that farmers from around Fallujah can no longer deliver their produce unless they have a U.S.-issued Fallujah ID. The shopkeepers have to go out and pick up the produce. He said the trip takes him around four hours because of the checkpoint delays. "They mistreat us," he said, "they point guns at us and insult us, even the women." Both U.S. and Iraqi troops search through the vegetables roughly, sometimes dumping them on the ground and smashing them.
Iraqis from the rural areas surrounding Fallujah are now dying of treatable illnesses because they can't get through the checkpoints to the Fallujah hospital. One hospital employee said that many patients also die when they try to transfer them to hospitals outside Fallujah. "It's better to take them in a civilian car than in an ambulance," he said, "because the troops delay and search ambulances more."
A Sunni cleric told us that during the first invasion, several families near his mosque took cover in a home. U.S. troops used megaphones to order all them out into the street and told them to carry a white flag. They complied, but when they all got out, the soldiers opened fire and killed five. He said one boy had run to his mother who'd been shot, and Americans shot him in the head. A U.S. Commander cried as this happened, "but what good were his tears?" he asked, "He didn't do anything to stop it."
During our meeting with the cleric, a man told us, "The Americans shot and killed my 15-year-old daughter, was she a terrorist?" The U.S. military denied killing her. "With all respect to you," he said, "I hate Americans; they killed my family. They shot and killed my sister-in-law while she was washing clothes, and my other brother's hands and feet were blown off." He apologized for interrupting, but said that he had to tell us because he's in so much pain.
Someone once told me, "You can't bomb a resistance out of existence, but you can bomb one into it."
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Christian Peacemaker Teams is an initiative of the historic peace churches (Mennonites, Church of the Brethren, and Quakers) with support and membership from a range of Catholic and Protestant denominations. Supporting violence-reduction efforts around the world is its mandate. Contact CPT, POB 6508 Chicago, IL 60680; Telephone: 773-277-0253 Fax: 773-277-0291; e-mail: peacemakers@cpt.org.

Truckin'

I live in a county of about 23,000 people and about 50,000 trucks. These trucks come in all sizes and shapes; SUV's, old and new, hauling stuff and from out of town; pick-ups with toppers, with crew cabs, with fifth wheels, with hitches; old trucks with rigged up wooden sides and bad paint; new trucks with shiny chrome wheels, air conditioning, and sound systems; delivery trucks with advertising on their sides and wide mirrors; and most especially dump trucks.

These dump trucks get your attention partly because every 3rd vehicle you see on the road is a dump truck and partly because when they move you move. No one argues with a dump truck. You see them heavily loaded with gravel, dirt, and trees. You realize that there is a lot of earth being moved around which is why so many dump trucks live here. There is a quarry near my house and at any time of the day you see the trucks going in and out filled with rock of all shapes and sizes.

I particularly like the dump truck drivers, they all wear hats and grin at pretty girls and their left arm is eight shades darker than their right arm. In this part of the world most of them have a southern mountain drawl, real slow and easy. They talk like they have rocks in their mouth so it takes some getting used to but once you get an ear for it it's like no other kind of talking. Most of these guys (they would say boys) listen to country music while they drive, or bluegrass. They all have an ear for banjo pick'n and a lot of them play the banjo or the guitar or maybe the fiddle and they all have rhythm. Some of them have shiny new trucks that they wash religiously and others have trucks that you swear will fall apart under the loads they carry but somehow they don't.

I often wish I was up there in the cab of one of those trucks riding or driving. It seems like it would be so much fun to be king of the road. You could look down on the rest of the vehicles on the road, puny little cars without power or size, and you could haul loads of stuff to out of the way places and push the levers to make the back raise and the load slide out. I see the men standing on the top of a load sometimes pulling a tarp tight over it and they move so easily, climbing up on the load and over it and then jumping down like there's nothing to it and these are guys older than me which is pretty old to be moving so effortlessly. I think dump truck driving would be more fun than race car driving. You couldn't go fast but everybody would pay attention to your passing. And if you honked your horn you would surely get a response.

Our county may not have many people but we got lots of trees and flowers and trucks. I like it.

Fantasy/Reality

I watched the season finale of "Desperate Housewives" with the same guilty pleasure I have enjoyed all season. This may be a soap opera, mindless, poorly written, or another 20 adjectives that the critics use to express their dismay but I gotta tell you for me it is the best intersection of black humor, mystery, and just plain fun on t.v. The only show in my mind that might have the same possibilities is "Grey's Anatomy"but it's too early to tell on that one.

I love to watch interesting/entertaining t.v. I don't consider it a mindless waste of time or a frivolous use of time. It is entertainment pure and simple and if my idea of entertainment is different than yours - there's something for everyone. At work I deal with people all day long who are in the throes of various difficulties. And then there are the just cranky ones who make life difficult. And don't forget the sweet ones who love to drop by and chat for hours while I'm trying to type the Sunday bulletin. Admittedly, these are small problems in the world but it's fun to forget about them when I go home and tune in to shows like "Desperate Housewives." I don't watch t.v. 7 nights a week, I don't even watch every Sunday. But to be able to check out once in a while is great. My husband and I have a running debate about this because his idea of the best t.v. is all things sports, which could be a 24 hour a day deal. He insists that sports has a greater value than the shows I watch because it is "real." Also, stupid, macho, and steroid driven, but hey who am I to be a critic. He watches his stuff, I watch mine. And never the two shall meet, although I did catch him watching Housewives one night when he was surfing but I think it was because Eva Longoria was in the bathtub. He would agree that in addition to sports, sex will always get his attention, for real or on t.v.

In my youth I loved to use artificial means for checking out, the specifics to remain known only to me and a few close friends, but in the wisdom of advancing age I no longer partake of anything stronger than a very occasional glass of wine. For me the fun of a well written t.v. show serves the same purpose (well almost), it provides a break from everyday reality, and I don't even have to wake up feeling yucky. Some would call me shallow. Perhaps.

But I deal with the same realities the deeper thinkers of the world are dealing with. I know about the crisis in Darfur, the war in Iraq, the Bird Flu in China, the crisis in Social Security, the Real Estate bubble. I am charitable to those in need, work in my church's food pantry, write letters to my Congress people, read the papers, wring my hands, shake my head, recycle my trash, and watch my fossil fuel consumption. There's more in the world to cry over than to laugh about. But isn't it great to have the opportunity to laugh. Doesn't it feel good to have those belly laughs. I don't want to lose the ability to see the fun in life, to enjoy the fantasy, to participate in pleasurable activities.

I think it's what I hate about the conservatives. They are so serious. Actually, the liberals too. Everything is a crisis, a reason to despair, a fight waiting to happen. Can't we all just chill out? There is no indication that our overzealous, hyperactive, argumentative, confrontational, sky is falling dramas are truly achieving anything more than pissing us all off. Or worse yet putting us all to sleep.

So for me, some t.v. is an antidote to desperation. Maybe the "housewives" need to watch more of it. If one or two hours a week of escape helps me do more and be better the rest of the time then I'm all for it. Perhaps I am just part of the brave, new world, where people escape into their soma driven fantasies but I prefer to think that moderation, in all things including escape, is the best way to remain effective and happy. For those of you who agree, do you think Mike is going to get shot? And for the rest of you, if you don't know who Mike is tune in next season and you'll find out.

Living and Dying

Our son's fiancee's father has terminal cancer, just diagnosed, in every bone in his body. Not much life left according to the medical personnel. My husband and I are trying to console our son and help him with this but we realize that this is a hurdle we have not crossed. We have four living parents. We have not had to deal with the messy end of life issues with our parents yet although we find ourselves, more and more, trying to approach subjects with them that were avoidable for many years. How do you talk to your parents about their finances, their end of life wishes, their imagined legacy, their spiritual thoughts. We are having a hard time in our 50's and our son and future daughter in law are 23. I find myself at a loss for words as he asks me questions about what to say to her, to them, how to get information, provide support, deal with medical people, on and on the list goes.

Although there have been times when I have not been able to answer his questions over the years I now find myself struggling not only to help him but also pondering for myself how to grapple with these big issues. Our parents have been so self sufficient and independent that there have been few openings for these serious conversations. It is in the nature of parents to say, "don't worry about us, we have everything taken care of." But do we?

If nothing else this has been an awakening for me in terms of how I want to talk with our children. I realize that the earlier these conversations start and the more willingness we show to discuss the hard stuff the easier it will be for them as we come to the time in our life when we need them to worry about us and take care of us. I hope that we don't have to burden them with our cares but the reality is that the only people in our lives who care about us as much as we care about each other are our children. I wish that our son did not have to take this on right now but there is no good time. We won't know the time or place of our death. But we can lay the groundwork for ongoing conversation with our kids about the tough stuff. I want them to know about our vulnerabilities as well as our strengths even if that is scary for them and for us.

We die alone but we don't have to die uncared for. How much support and love we receive in the end is related to how much we are willing to be open to receiving it. We are walking through the grocery store today picking over heads of lettuce and discussing these big, tough subjects. I love to shop with our children, the grocery store has been the center of a lot of good conversation over the years. I hope we have a lot more years of shopping together, picking over the lettuce, and debating whether to buy the chocolate chip or peanut butter cookies. I love our kids, I hate it that they will most likely have to deal with our dying, and I thank God everyday that we have them in our lives. We may die alone but our love for them will live on.

Commitment

How many times I have started something, not to finish it. My mother used to tell me it was my worst fault. She would become so annoyed when I would quit my lessons, quit brownies, quit an endless number of activities that she felt were worthwhile and broadening and that I hated. As I grew older I realized that most of us have this fault. We all start out with the best of intentions and somewhere along the way we lose interest. This can be particularly annoying to those around us when they are depending upon us to hold up our part of the bargain. Who can forget the person who walks out of the job on the day that they are most needed, or the person who promises to bring the cookies for the tea and calls at the last minute with lame excuses or worse yet just doesn't show up. Or more painfully, the father who leaves his family with no warning, or the mother who is unwilling to parent and so just lets whatever happens happen. And then there is the spouse who realizes belatedly that marriage isn't really what he or she is interested in and be it one year or fifty the betrayal of that commitment is not forgotten.

In so many ways we fail those who depend upon us. More importantly we fail ourselves. The list of those failures follows us around like a naughty list for the kid who's getting the lump of coal at Christmas. We beat ourselves up with our failures and if we are really into narcissistic punishment one failure begets another and another until we are sunk in a pit of depression that is hard to climb out of. And we wonder why we are the Prozac nation.

We can recite line and verse the litany of our mistakes, if not out loud certainly loudly enough that we ourselves cannot forget. Whether the world recognizes our essential failures we recognize them. For every good thing that you can say about me there is a yes but in response. It is a neurotic and damning way of life that is reinforced by each new mistake. And if someone is so lucky not to have this particular neurosis we brand them uncaring at the least, character disordered at the most extreme. We want our friends to have been raised by mothers, whether Jewish or not, who have taught them the value of guilt if not the value of following through.

I would like to propose though an essential human truth that our mother's may not have been quite as keen for us to learn. We are sinners, we make mistakes, we often don't have what it takes to stay the course. We learn by trial and error, usually remembering most keenly those lessons that resulted in our falling on our butts. We are not perfected. Far from it. If commitment has a value in the course of our lives it is in the fact that each time we try again to stick to something we become stronger, better able to hang in there, more able to appreciate that sometimes the very act of staying the course makes us better able to see what the course is. But this is a lesson learned over a lifetime of getting it wrong. Instead of beating ourselves mercilessly over the head for each failure we need to look through the lens of our lives and see how each one has led us towards a more enduring and persistent ability to be committed.

Of course there are those of us who don't learn this lesson. But for those of us who do the other thing our mother's never told us is that it can take a lifetime to know one's truth, to pin down one's desire, to separate the proverbial wheat from the chaff, and find the small wonderful nugget of truth that defines us. We are not born knowing what commitments we are worthy of. We cannot know easily or quickly which of lifes lures is a trap and which a call to true faith. We are not easily persuaded to give our all and yet ultimately giving our all is what makes us not sinners but saints.

This is what I wish my mother had said to me. Child, instead of evaluating your life by your failures, evaluate each of your failures to understand what it says about you. Because each time you make this examination you will get closer to understanding what is most important for you in your life and how you must go about committing yourself to it. Let your failures be your teachers. Your life is a process of learning how to commit.

Love, Mom

Prejudice

In my youth I was a card carrying member of the SDS, NOW, and any other left wing radical organization devoted to eliminating sexism, racism, and Richard Nixon from office, not to mention ending the war in VietNam. I prided myself on my advanced views, my advocacy for the rights of the downtrodden, my vehement protest of unjust war and unfair advantage.

I prided myself on my feminist viewpoint and was very vocal in my defense of women's rights and the elimination of male supremacy in the world. I was eager for women's freedom to choose not only reproductively but in every other aspect of life. I was convinced that most problems in the world were the product of twisted male thinking. I supported revolution, believed that the world could be righted by the politics of dissent.

The civil rights movement, with it's emphasis on non violent confrontation and the use of the legal system to advance the rights of blacks, was a model of how progress could be made towards equality for all people. Martin Luther King was a hero to me. I grew up in a city suburb that was virtually lily white. I did not know any black people in my childhood, I'm not even sure I knew there were people of other races. So by the time I went to college and established my bon fides as a radical intellectual I was convinced that I had escaped the taint of racism, did not believe that there was a racist bone in my body. I was to find out differently before too long.

Towards the end of my sophomore year of college, 1971, I attended a showing of art in the gallery at our school that was done by black artists. There was a reception going on in the gallery and many black people were in attendance. This was notable since the city I went to college in was 80% Catholic and 98% White. We didn't often go places in that town where we were outnumbered by people of color or Protestants. I was standing with a friend smoking a cigarette as I looked over the crowd that was milling around. This was when it was more politically correct to smoke than not to, or at least considered chic by most of my peers. My friend asked me for a drag off my cigarette, a common request since we were always broke and cigarettes were a luxury we couldn't always afford. Many times we had shared cigarettes. As I handed it to her I said in a rather loud voice, "fine, take a drag, but don't nigger lip it." As the words fell out of my mouth a sudden hush came over the room, I learned what it means to be so quiet you can hear a pin drop. My mortification was absolute. I had committed a sin that in my own mind was so huge that I fell from grace instantly. I literally ran from the building in tears. I have not ever known such shame, before or since.

What I learned that day is that oftentimes the enemy lies within us. The sins of the father are indeed passed on. My own misguided sense of pride and ego trumped my desire for goodnesss. I deserved the shame I felt that day. It snapped me back from my self righteousness. To this day I feel the shame of that sin on my soul. If I had been more courageous I would have stood up and apologized for my own ignorance. I don't think I deserved forgiveness but I did need to acknowledge my egregious breach. I am an optimist in my belief that we all share in goodness, that day I learned that we also all share in sin. We are all part of the same body, each of us dependent on the rest, we all bleed when one of us is cut - whether in the Sudan, Afghanistan, or the ghetto of any urban city here in the U.S. we all are part of the problem and must be part of the solution. You don't get a pass on being in the world.

Bread

I take a large bowl out of the cupboard, a bag of flour off the shelf, some salt, a little sugar, some oil, yeast. I turn the tap to it's warmest setting and let the water flow until it is hot to the touch. I begin to mix. Some yeast, the water, a little sugar. I wait and watch as the yeast begins to move and mix and grow. Into the flour and oil and salt it goes, making a thick, soupy mass of goop. I add more flour and then more still until the goop becomes a glistening ball of dough, slightly elastic to the touch, warm and smelling yeasty. Into another bowl it goes, slick with oil top and bottom, to sit and grow undisturbed, covered by a clean towel to keep the drafts away and the warmth in. When I look again it has grown anew, the top blistered with bubbles of yeast, it begs to be punched down and divided into loaves. I knead it and shape it and form it into loaves the size of the bread pans. I lay each loaf in it's own pan, making sure that the ends are supported by the ends of the pan, I cover it and wait again. In a while, I turn on the oven and the kitchen grows warm with the heat. When the oven is warm enough, the loaves raised enough, the time long enough, I place the pans on the oven rack and close the oven door. Soon, the smell of fresh bread makes it's way through the house. When it is time I open the oven door and remove the lovely bread. It is hollow to my tap, the crust brown and ready for a brush of butter across it's expanse. It falls effortlessly from the pan when I turn it over and I place the loaves on a rack to cool. Before they are ready to be wrapped someone takes a knife from the drawer and cuts off one end, butters the slice, a little jelly, and before I know it one loaf is half gone as my family comes in and samples the fresh bread. Before the week is over the bread will be toasted for breakfast, sliced and grilled with cheese, a sandwich for roast beef and lettuce with cheese, a bedtime snack. It will barely last long enough for Sunday dinner when some will be broiled with tomato and mozzarella cheese, fresh herbs and olive oil drizzled over it, and served with the pasta.

When I was young we would often visit my father's aunts. He had seven of them, all sisters of his mother, who had died when he was 2. So the Aunts were his surrogate mom's, a veritable army of love and solicitous adoration. My Aunt Fanny would cut paper dolls from newspaper in long strings that always amazed us. How did they stay together? My Aunt Vicki would always be ready to make you a hamburger, no matter the time of day or the day of the week. Her house always smelled like hamburgers and big fat french fries, cut fresh and piping hot from the oil. My Aunt Adele was the bread baker. My grandfather and his sisters had come here from Lebanon where they lived in a tiny mountain town. In the United States they migrated west and ended up in the mountains of Colorado. Eventually, Adele moved south to New Mexico, where she could still see the mountains surrounding Albuquerque. We would visit there often for she was a favorite aunt. Each Saturday at my Aunt Adele's was baking day. She would awaken early and the ritual began, a large bowl, some yeast, a huge bag of flour, oil, salt and sugar. But this bread was different than my high loaves. She would prepare the dough, let it rise, and then break it into eight or ten small pieces. Each piece would become a round, flat loaf. When it had rested she would take the small piece of dough and begin to pull it and stretch it, as it grew bigger she would toss it across one forearm and then the other until it was a big, flat disc. She would lay it on the hot rack of the oven and in only a couple minutes the bread would be done on one side and turned. She would work at this all morning, piling the loaves on a clean towel on the floor until eventually the stack would be above the counter. Of course if you were lucky enough to be there you could grab a loaf and run off with it, pulling it apart and gulping it down, as you ran. If you were more patient Aunt Adele would take a piece still warm and drench it with butter that would drip off the edges of the bread and down your arms as you ate it. When she had finished her bread making, usually about 100 loaves in a morning, she would package the bread for her three sons and their families and we would deliver it to them. And the ritual was the same.

This ritual, repeated every week or two, month in and month out, for years marks the rhythms of our family as it grows and changes. And yet the ritual of the bread baking remains the same, a little flour, a bowl, some yeast, oil, sugar, salt and hot water. Sometimes some cinnamon, or milk instead of water, but basically no change. The yeast grows, the bread rises, the heat bakes it. There is no culture that does not have a bread recipe handed down from one mother to her daughter, or father to son. In the simple ritual of bread making I reach back in time to other people, and other cultures. All of us continuing the ritual.

Magic

I often wonder if there is magic left in the universe. Is the black, cold, emptiness of it so overwhelming that even the starlight is dimmed by comparison? Each little star a twinkling inferno that eventually blinks out and yet the black, cold emptiness remains. Some would argue that there has never been magic, that the creation of the universe is the result of some great big bang that happened by the coming together of random events which resulted in an explosion of elements and here we are. No mystery, no magic, nothing more than a series of accidental happenings resulting in us.

When I was younger I would wonder what it would be like to find the "man of my dreams" and I would ponder the mystery of this. Would he be tall, dark, and handsome - a brooding presence like the universe, or a cheap romance novel hero. Or would he be brilliant, shy, and bespectacled - like the tiny star peeking out at me from behind the clouds on a dark night, or the Harry Potter type hero. Would we fall magically in love and live happily ever after?

For if you think about love, what is it that causes us to be as helplessly attracted to one another as those atoms hurtling together in that smashing explosion of creation? We fling ourselves towards each other in the certainty that we are each other's destiny perhaps later to discover that the big bang has led to creation but not to wonder. Is it too cynical to think that our desire is less the working of magic than the chemical explosion of our desire to live on? The universe is vast, our dreams and hopes a tiny counterpoint to it's majesty. We awaken, we work, we live, we sleep. "To sleep perchance to dream?"

I Lost You in Lowes OR The Big Box Mystery

I wander the aisles of Lowes looking for an appropriate border for the church bathroom, something with a little spiritual enhancement to it's edges. I am supposed to meet you somewhere after you return from the bathroom but I can't remember if it's tools or lawn and garden, which are separated by at least an acre of concrete so I am reluctant to go to far either way. Instead I stand aimlessly in the middle wondering if I am lost or if you are lost or if I will ever find the border to end all borders in the stock wallpaper section. My dilemmas are plentiful, my answers few. In the big box store the box is divided into about ten zillion sections each about a mile long so it might more appropriately be named "Labyrinth" than "Lowes". That name would most probably be lost on the many shoppers who come through the doors so at least from the Madison Avenue perspective "Lowe's" works.

I begin to edge towards the garden center thinking that surely that is where you would most likely wander to, being that you are feeling the urgency of spring planting, grass seeding, fertilizing, and mowing. But alas, I do not see you. I am dreading the walk back to tools, a section of the big box defined by narrow, long aisles with no cut throughs. Tools is not my favorite part of this place. I am more interested in lighting and paint, and love to look at hardware and faucets, and then there's all those great cabinets in mini kitchens that make you dream of what they would like in your kitchen eliminating the greasy, out of date ones you currently have. There's also the flooring section where you can imagine your bare feet on plush carpet, hard, cold tile or smooth, polished wood.

My reverie is interrupted by a noise. I look up to see one of those big fork lifts backing up towards me with a honking noise. The operator seems annoyed that I have not scurried away from his menacing presence. I am annoyed that he is in the way of my path to tools. I detour and he smugly backs up over my tracks and down the aisle. In tools I am held up by too many men ogling the saws and drills and blocking the very narrow aisle I want to get down. It is frustrating that I cannot see over the merchandise to the next aisle and must walk all the way to the end and around only to find that you are not there. Now I am really irked. What started out as an outing for 3 rolls of border and a couple plants has turned into a walking marathon. If I really wanted to walk it sure wouldn't be inside here. I could be outside walking in the sunshine, looking at the blooming trees of spring and smelling the new grass. Instead I am plodding through aisle after aisle of stuff. And this is stuff that you buy so you can go home and work on projects that you would never have thought of if this stuff wasn't all sitting here crying for you to take it home and hang it up, nail it down, plane it, saw it, paint it, and on and on until you fall into bed groaning. Stuff that overwhelms your desire by the sheer magnitude of it all.

Those old hardware stores, the ones with rickety wooden floors and bad lighting, and shelves bent with merchandise didn't have the seductive call of this big box. You could run in, buy a screw or two, and head out without much thought. You went for what you needed and if you hung around it was to talk to the old guy at the cash register about squirrel proof bird feeders not about how to lay your own hardware floors in a day. I asked one of them one day if those "squirrel proof" bird feeders are guaranteed. He replied, "young lady (aside - I loved that considering that I was only young by comparison, although my best friend says men are always looking for a woman 20 years younger - another story) all those squirrels have to do all day long is sit there and figure out ways to get into those feeders. So you gotta figure that sooner or later they will succeed." Moral: Don't kid yourself, there is no such thing as a squirrel proof bird feeder regardless of the 'money back guarantee' enticement. There aren't many old guys to talk to in the big box, at least not for any length of time because there are too few of them for the square footage of the place. Just the opposite of the old hardware store that usually had about 2 old guys for every customer in the place. I think it's where they all retired to from their jobs at the factories and on the farms. Those guys know a lot about a lot of stuff but they aren't useful in the big box because they, too, are overwhelmed by the size of their surroundings.

I head back to wallpaper, figuring that if you are gone forever I will at least have found the border appropriate for peeing in a church. Turns out they have one that's suitable, bird houses that say peace, love, joy and little candles twined with ivy. Works for me. I feel satisfied that I have accomplished at least one task in this place, even if it has taken 45 minutes of wandering around looking for you and dodging fork lifts. I am ready to check out. My hope now is that you will come to the car when you are done and find me sitting there or that you are there waiting. I get in line behind one of those guys with a long flat bed cart, stacked high with lumber and bags of cement. I comment on the fact that it looks like he will be working hard today. "Jeez", he says, "ever since they opened this place I spend my weekends on projects that take all day and I can't get out of here quickly because my wife wanders off and I spend a half hour looking for her." I nod in sympathy, there is nothing more to say. Walking towards the car I see you waving at me from the parking place. "Where the heck have you been," you say, "I was done 30 minutes ago." I want to scream, I want to cry, I want to go home. Instead I turn to you and say, "don't you think 'I Lost You in Lowes', would make a fine country song."

Writing in Circles

I went to a writer's roundtable last night that is a continuing ed. class at the local college. There were 10 middle aged women there - surprise. Several of them have published and they were all quite interesting. I felt like the plain jane of the group. We took turns introducing each other and the instructor talked about the course. We are using a great book, "The Right To Write," the author's name escapes me right now but she has also written a book, "The Artist's Way," which is quite wonderful so I know I will like this one. Before the night was over we did a free writing exercise, there were 10 words on the board and you could pick one or 10 to write about. I tried "love" but that was awful so I settled on "chocolate" a subject all women can write about with ease.

The instructor then asked us to share what we had written or we could pass. I passed. I don't have writer's block, I have reader's block. I could not read what I had written. It was embarassing but fortunately one other person passed so I didn't feel quite so odd. I am freaked out about sharing my writing with anyone else, at least out loud. Everyone's words sounded so good, and eloquent, and wonderful. I was worried about being criticized but the truth is I was my own worst critic. Paralysis!

I don't know what to do about this exactly. I feel very emotional about it and I think that's odd because I'm not sure why. Right now I think it would be easier to bungee jump and I hate heights. I have never been a wall flower, no friend would describe me as shy or unassuming. I have spoken in public without reservation. So what is this about?

I am looking forward to the class because the women in it are interesting and I think I will learn a lot. The instructor is quite nice and talented too. I just feel like I'm out of my league. Perhaps it is better to continue blogging to my own little circle of friends and acquaintances and not step off this diving board yet. It's certainly safer. I think it might be easier to take my clothes off in public than to expose myself to public scrutiny in this arena - how odd is that. It is interesting to me that my anxiety is so high about this considering that I am a woman who claims never to feel great anxiety about much of anything. I pride myself on being able to negotiate most situations with relative ease. And boom - I feel like a little kid afraid to go to sleep because the witch might be waiting for me. If I were Harry Potter this would be a good time to summon a patronus to ward off the dementors.

Lacking a patronus and not really facing any dementors except of my own making I am left to try and figure out a way to go back to class on Monday and be able to read. We have already been told we will be doing so (you can pass of course) and I'm not sure I can pass again without feeling totally stupider than I already feel. I think I understand now what it must be like for an actor to take to the stage, or an artist to have a show, or a musician to sit on the stage as the lights come up on a recital. You hear actors talk about their own stage fright - now I understand. I am afraid.

Holy Hell Week

If you work in a church, especially in the office or as a pastor, this past week is one of the most intense of the entire year (for Christians at least). In 8 days I did 7 bulletins for the worship services of holy week. In addition, I had to try to keep track of the minister who was wandering off at the time when everyone needed him, fight with the treasurer, who thinks she is personally responsible for keeping us all straight with money, figure out how to justify continuing to work 30 hours a week when the other minister returns from maternity leave so my pay isn't cut (which of course the anal treasurer is actively warning of the sky falling if that should happen), and listen to my husband tell me all the reasons he really doesn't want to work but it might be good for me to earn a little more. Oh, and then there was the little matter of the new bulletin cover that I have been elected to design, have labored over for 2 months, and when finally I felt that I had something good enough to hand to our pastor, he glanced at it and told me to put it in his box. I tell you where I wanted to put it and it wasn't his box. Not to mention that the printer was going to charge us $250.00 to come up with the design - anal treasurer kept us from going with that idea - and I won't be seeing a bonus for that work.

I'm not stupid enough to think that work is always gratifying, that any of us get recognized and rewarded as often as we should, that all my work days are going to go my way. But..........it seems to me that in a church there should be a little more recognition of the human needs of the people in the church, including staff. Of course, that's one reason lots of people don't go to church. How many times have I listened to friends tell me about the "hypocrisy" in churches. It's hard to reconcile the word with the actions, in church and out. I think what makes it more difficult in church is that we have learned to use words to pretend that we care more than we do. Church people can be very good at covering up their own sins with words not works. Neither one is right. My husband says, "if you're work speaks for itself, don't interrupt." Good message. I say, "if your work speaks for itself, it's still nice to have someone tell you that it's appreciated."

So basically, it was the week from hell - which I'm sure Christ was thinking 2000 years ago so I don't guess I should be too much of a martyr. I'm glad it's over and I'm glad tomorrow is Easter because I can sure use the good news that this past week is past! Whether a phoenix, or a God, it's good to know that one can be born again, arise from the ashes, resurrect. For me the message of Easter is a message of hope, a message that you get a second chance, that good days do follow bad, and that the darkest hour is truly just before the dawn. A message we all benefit from regardless of who we pray to.

Lost and Found

My friend Lana lost her paper for school in her computer. She looked and looked and it was nowhere to be found. She asked a coworker, who is known for his computer literacy, to help. He informed her she had a virus and the paper was hopelessly lost and to just forget about it and start over. Not what you want to here after hours of agonizing work. So she called her brother who couldn't stop laughing at her long enough to help her, she hung up on him. Then Lana thought of me and a coworker. She had laughed at me when I buried St. Joseph in the yard of the house we were selling, it sold in ten days. Lana also laughs at a coworker who prays to St. Anthony when she loses things, things she usually finds, by the way. Still stung by her own brother's laughter Lana did what she knew was crazy, she prayed to St. Anthony and threw in a prayer to St. Joseph too, just in case. Several hours later Lana looked in her computer and found her paper hiding in a place she hadn't looked. Not only did she find it but she found it with the last changes intact. Of course there is probably a whole geeky computereze explanation for this. There is also a whole "purely coincidental" explanation for this. And the Catholics in the crowd are crowing with delight over there explanation for this.

The irony is that Lana does not practice a religion although she is deeply spiritual. If she did practice a religion it certainly would not be Catholicism. The very idea of praying to some dead MAN who doesn't even have GOD status would never pass her litmus test of what is right and holy. She has serious concerns and questions about the whole male, paternalistic, religious structure in our world, rightly. She and I met at a Unitarian fellowship, the farthest religious distance from saint praying that there is. She doesn't attend church or even the Unitarian fellowship anymore. So she called me and told me her story and asked me to blog it.

So this is my blog about Lana and her paper and saints and religion and losing it and finding it again. I hate losing things and I love finding them, I'm no saint but certainly a sinner, and the more I learn about religion the less I think I like it or understand it or know it. Lana thinks I am following a more spiritual path than when I was younger. I think she thinks so because I joined a church and I work in a church. Certainly I am surrounded by all the trappings of a middle of the road Christianity which demands less of me than it probably should or perhaps allows me to demand less of myself. I don't particularly care for religious fanatics or fanatics of any kind but there is something awe inspiring about someone who is so convicted they let go of the conventions most of us observe. In it's current incarnation, middle of the road, middle class, white, male Christianity, there is not even a whisp of the fanatic. In this incarnation there can be found many wonderful, generous, hardworking, dedicated, selfless individuals who take the message they are given and make as much of it as they can without the essential questioning and doubting of people like myself and Lana. These people are not fanatics, many of their deeds go ignored and unnoticed. They do not work for recognition or reward in any earthly fashion. They are trying in the best way they can to follow the word they believe in.

Out of this same tradition come people who use the same words to justify their own self centered preoccupations. Many of them are eventually found out and cast out. They use the work of God to work their way in the world. Their work is for recognition and earthly reward and they don't seem particularly concerned with what awaits them after this life. Religion is an arena where they have learned to play the game for their own gain.

Then there are the Lana's and the Diann's, the doubters and questioners. We try to do the best we can with what we have, we hope there is something more than what we can see, we trust we will eventually get it but we don't get it most of the time. We know what we don't agree with or believe in or like about religious schools of thought but we also know we weren't given the job of writing the book. We are limited by our own humanity and we accept it. We try to do the best that we can with what we have but we aren't really sure if it outweighs our own limitations or sinful natures. We are probably a lot like most everyone we know, travelers on a road without a map, which is really bad if you are Lana because she gets lost with a map.

So how do we of weak mind and weak spirit figure out the explanations for those events in our lives that are unexplainable? When confronted with miracles we doubt our own eyes, we grasp for logical, rational explanations, we pretend we don't notice. If we pay attention at all we are overwhelmed with the sheer wonder and joy of mystery, we celebrate extraordinary outcomes of ordinary time, we turn our faces towards the sun and feel the heat of wonder. These feelings are so scary and unfamiliar that we turn away once again. Who deserves the joy, the wonder, the extraordinary. We are creatures of our own habits, little hobbits in our little hobbit houses, afraid of the world beyond our front doors. Safe in our ignorance.

So Lana, here's my advice, for what very little it's worth. Do good, feel good, celebrate every little miracle that comes along. Allow yourself to enjoy the mystery no matter how scary or unfamiliar the plot line. If saints help you find your paper - GO Saints! If sinners warm your heart - GO sinners! We only get a few glimpses of the wrinkles in time, you got lucky. Don't study too hard. Love, Diann

ReFraming

I'm looking at the ugly picture on the wall and wondering if it has any redeeming value. Having nothing better to do on a cold and rainy day I decide to take it down and put it into a new frame. I drive to the nearest store where I can find cheap frames with the picture tucked under my arm. I browse through the wooden ones, the plastic, the gilt, the aluminum. I look at frames, with mattes and without. I try to figure out what color matte will best go with the picture, and then have to decide on what color frame goes with the matte. There is a lot of thinking going into this and I'm not sure if the frame will improve the picture or if the picture just needs a new frame. I browse for so long that I am dizzy with the choices and still undecided. Reframing is hard work. Finally, I make my choice, pay, and head for home. I pry the old frame off realizing as I do so that the glass was hopelessly dirty - I never noticed. That sure didn't add to the beauty of the picture. I gently lift the picture from the frame and smooth it onto the matte and glass of the new frame. I add the backing and secure it to the frame. Voila - new picture! The ugly duckling is now a swan, or at least a lot better looking duck.

Isn't it amazing how often the picture changes from bad to good when it's reframed? I grew up with a boy who everyone in our class thought was ugly, he was teased all the time and no one wanted much to do with him. The summer after ninth grade he walks into school and he's reframed - his hair is longer, his glasses are gone, he's taller and thinner, his voice is deeper. By the end of the first month of school he is going steady with one of the cheerleader types and part of the in crowd. Everybody wants to be his friend. And what we find out is that behind that geeky little kid is this really gentle, nice, guy who has spent his years of exile practicing how to be a decent human being while we were all being dopes. Good for him.

We try to reframe things when we want people to accept them. The government has been searching for the right frame for Iraq since the beginning. First the frame was weapons of mass destruction, then it was Saddam the nasty, then it was all Iraqui's deserve a vote, and finally we are fighting a war for democracy in the mideast. That frame may well improve the picture or perhaps there will be more frames to come until finally most of us can accept the picture, frame and all. The frame we purchase is the frame that makes the picture look better. Is it a war of aggression or a war of liberation? Does the frame make what you see look better?

If you decide to visit a therapist you will be asked to reframe your thinking. The ideas and thoughts, that keep you stuck in that place you don't like being but can't get out of, are put into new frames. The words and thoughts evaluated, turned, smoothed and dusted off to see if they can be seen in a new light. You may start out feeling bad and then along the way you find a new way of looking at the same old thing and Voila - feelin' good again. And you happily pay for that reframing, for that better picture, because it's easier to buy the new frame than create a new picture. Or is that what you did - new frame or new picture? Our view, what we see, how we see it, is only as clear as the frame in which we view it. It's the old glass half full or glass half empty perception.

My picture is now hanging in a conspicuous spot on a prominent wall in my house and when friends come over they remark on the beauty of the new picture. And of course, if I say oh no, it's not new, I just reframed it, they look at me skeptically. They swear they never saw that picture in my house before and surely that frame, nice as it is, couldn't possibly be the reason that the picture looks so good. After all you can buy a frame just like it down at the cheap frame store for a few dollars. And you know, I think they are right, the picture is beautiful. It was my sight that was faulty.

Work

It is not enough to be busy...the question is, What are you busy about? — Thoreau

It seems that the more I do the more there is to do until I am a whirling dervish of never ending activity. And the question is, "what am I busy about?" I have been reading about the Sojourners, www.sojo.net, an community started in the 1970's in response to the war in Viet Nam. I knew that some of those old hippies must have survived and I have been looking for them and today I found them. Wow! They have been busy - busy linking their politics to their religion, busy writing and thinking, busy living out their "all we are saying is give peace a chance." The older I get the more sure I am that this is the path that I am searching for and each time I think I have found it it slips away from me and I have to start searching again. So today I found the Sojourners. "The biblical metaphor "sojourners" identifies God's people as pilgrims—fully present in the world but committed to a different order—and reflects their broadening vision." (from The Sojourner's History)

I have not been much of a Pilgrim in my day although the nomadic heritage of my Lebanese ancestors may qualify me. The tougher part is that "fully present....but committed to a different order..." I'm definitely committed to a different order but that fully present part is tough. After all in order to be fully present you have to determine "what am I busy about?" For isn't it true that too often my busyness is an excuse for my absence from what is happening right here, right now. If I am so busy with my busyness then there is no time left for the committment of myself to that different order. Isn't it easy to be so caught up in the commercials that you miss the story?

My broadening vision of being committed to a different order includes actively working for peace in my life, whether with my friends or the guy that I flip off on the road. Actively working for peace includes being nice when I don't feel like it, acting towards others the way I want them to act towards me, accepting that the differences I see are the result of my imperfect vision and not of someone else's imperfection. Being committed to a different order includes accepting that I am powerless and need to turn the control over to that higher power, which of course sounds fine in theory but can't I just have a little bit of it? The problem with powerlessness is that it makes you feel quite small and nervous unless you are willing to talk it over with the one in charge. So my broadening vision includes those daily, hourly, minute by minute chats with the one in charge, who sometimes doesn't answer me right away or even seem to be listening so that means trusting that it's all going to work out the way it's supposed to even if I don't get the big picture. So that should all keep me pretty busy, I have to be nice, give up being in charge, and pray. OK - that about covers it - committing to a different order, leap of faith, broadening vision. I'm tired already.

Roller Coaster

Those great old wooden roller coasters that shook and rattled and sounded like a train roaring around the track, they were the best. Nothing fancy, up the hill, then down the hill, around the sharp curve, up another hill and down an even bigger drop - your stomach dropping to your toes, your eyes squeezed shut. That was a ride. Even when you knew what was coming it scared you to death. If you were really brave you rode in the very first car in the front. Nothing between you and that drop except air. Mostly I rode in the middle, too chicken for the first or the last car. I liked that sense of safety, people in front of me, people behind me. Figured if anything happened I could prepare - don't ask me how. There was always that little edge of uncertainty as you pulled down the safety bar, would it hold, would the track break, would you survive.? I still get that feeling when a plane takes off - not overwhelming but there like a small reminder of how little in life is in my control. Most times you take the ride and roll into the station safe and sound. And sometimes not, the unexpected but anticipated bad thing happens and you hold on for dear life and hope it will be ok.

Every roller coaster ride was a challenge, a dare, hoping against hope that the ride would end safely and easily. And if you were really in the mood for daring you would stay in your seat and nod to the guy that you were going around again. Most times you could, if the lines weren't long, but sometimes you had to give your seat up and go to the back of the line and the little nagging dread would worry through your brain as you made your way back to the front of the line and into your seat. Pull down the bar, hold on, close your eyes, and before you reached the top of the first hill, letting go and letting God. Throwing your arms up in the air and screaming out loud. What a ride!

And so life goes, up and down, over and around. There are the slow climbs and the sharp, scary drops, the thrills and the scary stuff. Waiting in line for the next train out of the station and praying for a safe return. After a while it all seems so normal, so regular. You hardly even notice the bumps. That nagging dread only little and short lived as you hold on, close your eyes, let go, and let God. And when the end comes you only hope you can say with a smile, "What a ride!"

The tIDES of March

Yesterday was this gorgeous spring day, I walked around the yard to see what was poking out of the dead leaves, saw day lillies and daffodils coming up, and a little tiny crocus peering out at me from it's bed. Today, cold, rainy, grey shit!! So once again we talk about the weather. Bert would say it's not a good day to wash the car - right (rawt)!

March is such an unsettled month, no wonder Caesar couldn't survive it. In March you hope for spring and dread winter. In March you are in the midst of lenten barrenness and the hope of Easter. March is the time when you get a cold or the flu that you thought you had managed to miss this year. Steve and Ellen and Lana would definitely say right (rawt) to that ! March is when you start thinking about swim suits and wearing the bulkiest clothes you have to hide your winter fat. March lasts 31 days and feels like 31 years.

It's not surprising that Pisces is a March sign, do you know any one who is a Pisces? "Their natures tend to be too otherworldly for the practical purposes of living in this world as it is. They sometimes exist emotionally rather than rationally, instinctively more than intellectually."(www.astrology-online.com/pisces.htm) I'm certainly not saying anything against Pisceans but you can see that March works on them too. It's hard to be practical "in this world as it is" when you are born in March. March is slippery, it keeps you guessing, you can't get a hold of March. Of course March ends with Aries, do you know any of them? "The spring equinox, March 21, is the beginning of the new zodiacal year and Aries, the first sign, is therefore that of new beginnings. The young ram is adventurous, ambitious, impulsive, enthusiastic and full of energy. " (www.astrology-online.com/aries.htm) And there you have it, early March makes you otherworldly, by the end of March life starts anew with ambition, advenure, and enthusiasm. Tha's March for you. It starts out dragging you down and ends rolling out glorious new life.

The transition from winter to spring, from old to new, from blah to ah ha. That's what March is all about. March music is the blues on one end "It's so cold up north, that a bird can hardly fly Well it's so cold up north, that a bird can hardly fly" (Muddy Waters - "Cold Up North") and Rogers and Hammerstein on the other, "Oh, what a beautiful mornin', Oh, what a beautiful day. I got a beautiful feelin' Ev'rything's goin' my way." ("Oh What A Beautiful Morning" - from Oklahoma).

In New Orleans there is an Easter parade that has a transvestite parade marshal and the jazz bands are playing up and down the streets and the children come out in their beautiful Easter clothes with their Mothers and Fathers in their Easter best and the parade marshal is dressed in her/his most glorious dress and hat and throws candy to the clamoring children. And that's March, some crazy combination of up and down, hot and cold, gay and straight, happy and sad. March is a crazy quilt of all our inconsistencies, a patchwork of grey, dreary clouds surrounded by riotous color and sound.

So if you are sitting in the window seat watching it snow, or rain, or if the gloom of night is falling on this early March night look a little harder for not so far in the distance you will see the pink of dawn and the sound of saxophones. If the days are still too short and the nights too long look more closely at the horizon, you can see the first flame of awakening. March is when we die, are reborn, and rise again.

Snow Day - Time Goes So Slowly

There is four inches of wet, heavy snow blanketing the ground and, as is the case in this part of the state, when it snows everything stops. So it is very quiet here at work and the only phone calls are from people asking how the roads are since I'm here. "Up north" this would not even constitute a snow day, schools would be open, stores would be busy, and cars would be zipping along without hesitation. Of course, I have learned not to express these thoughts out loud because they immediately tag me as "not from around here." Which sort of goes without saying since I don't talk right (rawt). I have always tried hard to fit in wherever I'm at but it's hard when the moment you speak you blow your cover. I have even gone so far as to try to talk like the natives but somehow it just sounds stupid not right (rawt).

On another note - did you catch Chris Rock last night on the Oscars. I thought I would die when he compared George Bush's job to someone working at the Gap. Along the lines of: if you went to balance your cash register and had a 7 trillion dollar deficit - your ass would be fired. Even funnier the war between Gap and Banana Republic and when they took over Banana Republic they discovered they didn't even have toxic tank tops. OMIGOD - it was too funny.
GO CHRIS!!

And so the time ticks along and the work is taking a back seat to the snow and I still can't talk right (rawt) but by golly that Chris Rock has got it so right (rawt). I mean who ever heard of a guy getting rehired for a job he has totally and completely blown, no wonder the CEO's of the big corporations think they can get away with inefficiency and lying for God's sake, POTUS gets away with it, and he's president. So I'm thinking that you lead by example but maybe that's not such a good thing to do anymore unless your leadership style is to lie, cheat, steal, and generally screw up everything you touch. Right! (Rawt!). My blogging friend, Ellen, says "Frankly, I don't trust any leader who makes me think he's going to say "LIVE FROM NEW YORK IT'S SATURDAY NIGHT" every time he opens his friggin' mouth." That's about the smirk, if you haven't noticed it. So what gives with a guy who smirks everytime he talks about hurting people? Obviously, he's not from around here.

So I'm saying, "Chris Rock for President," at least he knows it's wrong to lie and steal. That's a big step up from where we are at now. And besides isn't it about time we gave someone who isn't white, male, and old a chance to step up. I am so sick of the establishmentarianism I can't even tell you. So, maybe in this case, not being from around here would be a good thing. At least he might have the sense to do things right (rawt).

Social Insecurity

Steve, a blogging friend I've never met, is worried about the state of the union in regard to social security. He, rightfully, is concerned that his social security will be cut by George W. and that he will have less to live on. Frightening thought as you approach the time in your life when you may not be able to earn income. As I watch my friends age and see those wrinkles in the corners of my own eyes and the hairs sprouting from my chin and thinning on my head I know that the time will come when I will no longer be climbing the employment ladder but sliding down it's rungs, one slow step at a time, to end up sitting on my ass with no earthly way to get back up. I have considered applying for the "help, I've fallen and I can't get up" spot. I may still be a little young for that but it probably pays well. Then there's the old guy in McDonald's who wipes the tables, pours coffee, and offers conversation. Probably not high paying but at least you get to meet the public. In Florida, it's popular for the old guys to bag groceries at Publix. You can find at least one in every Publix, the good ones are genial and concerned for your eggs. The bad ones snarl, snap, and throw your bags in the cart with little regard for them or you. I haven't seen any bag ladies though - we ought to form our own union - bag ladies of Publix unite!! I'm sure the wage is fair but it might be annoying to have to work the same shift with the curmudgeon, then again if you end up next to the sweet guy who gently lays your eggs in the top of the cart - who knows - paycheck today, date tomorrow. A friend swears the only reason old people don't have more affairs is because they are all afraid to take their clothes off in front of another person. Well - I can't imagine why that would be. I'm afraid to take mine off in front of myself! I see quite a few older women working behind cash registers, we are probably more trustworthy than the average 16 year old. Then again, if the government has to keep cutting social security and increasing the cost of medicare the average 16 year old may start looking like a better risk. I guess there probably isn't an age limit for car sales people, and I've noticed that the pool of realtors is growing by leaps and bounds. My father always said the only people who get paid exactly what they are worth are sales people. So for some of us selling stuff might be the answer then again, do you really want to know exactly what you are worth? I've also noticed that casinos seems to be a cottage industry for the elderly. Sitting at a slot machine is almost the perfect job, you get to sit, someone brings you free drinks, the symbols on the machine are in bold, and you can work day or night. Of course, it might be a little problem that you have to supply the start up money with little guarantee of a return. But then again that's entrepreneurship, no wonder there are so many of them in those casinos. I have noticed though that it isn't a job that provides much companionship, no one says much to the person next to them so I guess it might be best to be asocial.

Heck, why are we worrying, there's lots of jobs out there. Who needs government support. Why we can probably work all the way to our graves or the nursing home. I think Steve has greatly exaggerated the state of the state. Remember, the gray panthers, I'm thinking Steve might have a future as the leader of the new millenium gray panthers. I'm thinking that he could help save our social security, our dignity, and our arthritic joints. The only problem is that I'm not sure how well it would pay. But I'll be the first to sign up to follow.

Help, I Need Somebody

Do you remember when the Beatles wrote "Help"?

Help, I need somebody,
Help, not just anybody,
Help, you know I need someone, help.

When I was younger, so much younger than today,
I never needed anybody's help in any way.
But now these days are gone, I'm not so self assured,
Now I find I've changed my mind and opened up the doors.

Help me if you can, I'm feeling down
And I do appreciate you being round.
Help me, get my feet back on the ground,
Won't you please, please help me?

And now my life has changed in oh so many ways,
My independence seems to vanish in the haze.
But every now and then I feel so insecure,
I know that I just need you like I've never done before.

Help me if you can, I'm feeling down
And I do appreciate you being round.
Help me, get my feet back on the ground,
Won't you please, please help me.

When I was younger, so much younger than today,
I never needed anybody's help in any way.
But now these days are gone, I'm not so self assured,
Now I find I've changed my mind and opened up the doors.

Help me if you can, I'm feeling down
And I do appreciate you being round.
Help me, get my feet back on the ground,
Won't you please, please help me, help me, help me, oh

I have always been able to ask for help, I'm the girl in the front of the class who always had her hand up, who actually knew what hours the professors were in their offices, who attended classes for everything from child birth to income tax preparation, from woodworking to plumbing

(see the blog - "I'm not cheap, I'm frugal!" at www.oneofthehoipoloi.blogspot.com

for more on plumbing).

But you know, sometimes there just isn't a class, a teacher, a guide. You have to find your own way even when you don't know where to start or how to proceed. Steve, writer of the above mentioned blog, finds his way through the unknown with the help of beer and driven by thriftiness. Since I rarely drink, and never drink beer, and have never been known for my thrift and frugality I sure can't rely on those supports for the help I need. So where do you start when you can't find the way?

Real difficulties can be overcome, it is only the imaginary ones that are unconquerable. ~Theodore N. Vail

Overcomer's Anonymous, isn't that one of those groups? Maybe they can help. My boss used to say, "what doesn't kill us makes us stronger." I'd probably go more for that philosophy if she hadn't almost killed me.

Some of your hurts you have cured, And the sharpest you still have survived, But what torments of grief you endured From the evil which never arrived.~Ralph Waldo Emerson

And of course there is the endless variety of ways to say don't worry, be happy.

Loneliness, insomnia, and change: the fear of these is even worse than the reality. ~Mignon McLaughlin, The Second Neurotic's Notebook, 1966

And then finally of course, there are friends, family, loved ones. And isn't that the best of all, the people in our lives who reach out to lend a hand, give a hug, share a laugh.

"I know that I just need you like I've never done before...and I do appreciate you being round."

You know those Beatles just got it right a lot of the time. And no matter how long the road seems or how dark, isn't it nice to have a tune to hum, a song to sing, words and music for serenity, courage and wisdom. So it's a little dark in here but you know I'm just humming my song and going along.

Post Partum Blues

Our minister had a baby - now she has the blues. I wonder if the blues are a result of the hormones raging through her body or because in one quick and abrupt moment her identity became "Boob" instead of "Pastor." When you think about it no man ever has the experience of being a food source - it's an awesome and consuming role. What woman who has nursed her child can forget that small and demanding mouth searching for sustenance and nurture. And for most of us it isn't a totally wonderful and identity expanding role - in fact it feels more like being drowned. Of course in a short (or for her never ending) 12 weeks she's back to work and resumes her professional role along with her role as mommy. So then she can run between her office and the nursery down the hall trying to meet her needs, the baby's needs, the congregations needs, and of course the husband and other child's needs. And they wonder why we are called superwomen or desperate housewives or pick your adjectives. Of course then you hit the 50 something's and your roles shift and change and (unless you're that woman who had a baby at 54 - what's that about) you may yearn for your role as a mother but you sure don't miss that never ending demandingness of being wife, mother, worker bee. Of course we live longer than men, we train harder - we deal with more emotion, we bend over more, we juggle more balls in the air. And if that isn't enough to strengthen your heart I don't know what is.
So, as much as I want to be non-sexist and fair - I think any man who hasn't had his chest sucked on 4 or 5 hours a day for months on end (I had a friend who nursed for 3 years, a true martyr) by a crying baby hasn't really walked in our shoes.

Weather

It's a beautiful day in the mountains - sunny and 50 - I'm thinking spring is on the way and then the weather guy says, snow showers tonight. What's that about - from the sublime to the ridiculous in one instant. Oh well, what can you do about the weather. The older I get the more I notice people talk about the weather (I mean old people), it's the first comment you hear when you meet someone - "nice day" "shitty day" "I hate rain" - ad nauseam. It's the way we relate? By weather? I especially notice this trend with older (over 50) men, I have men friends this age who watch the weather like it's a spectator sport, they can quote line and verse from the weather channel, the local weather, and the really, really up to the minute guys can give you the NOAA report. Now, maybe I am so unattractive at this time in my life that the only thing they know to say to me is "how's the weather." Better I suppose than, "you're the most unattractive woman I've seen in a long time." But, couldn't we relate to each other on some other superficial level like, "seen any good movies lately," or "how about those ......(fill in your favorite sports team). Of course they probably don't think I know much about sports, being female, over fifty, and overweight. I might mention that they also meet at least two of those parameters but then knowing about sports makes you a lot more interesting than just being over fifty and overweight. But they don't even try to make sports small talk, they talk about the WEATHER. Sometimes, I feel like asking about their sex lives, "so, did you get any last night," or their breath, "have you tried those new cinnamon Altoids," or their clothes, "how long have you had that particular shirt in your closet?." I could ask them about make up but that probably wouldn't work with most of them, you don't find too many 50 something metrosexuals around. Or maybe a question on the world bank, or Freud, or the 10 best sexual encounters they ever had. SOMETHING OTHER THAN THE WEATHER!

My father in law, bless his heart (that's what you say in the South before you say something mean about someone), is particularly keen on the weather. Of course at 83 there might not be anything else to be keen on but for God's sakes Bert, if you can read the newspaper weather report you might also try the front page or at least the Horoscope! We could have some meaningful discussion about that - "So dad what do you think about the fact that your moon is in Libra with an Aquarius trine and it doesn't look like a good day for making big decisions?" Now that would be a discussion with teeth. Instead, he says "doesn't look like a good day to wash the car, rain." And I say, "Is that right, were you planning to wash the car>" And he says, "no but if I was I couldn't do it today, paper says rain." And I say, "ahhh." And so it goes. Old guys and the weather, now that's a subject you can really get your teeth into.