This blog is supposed to be a place for pondering spiritual/religious questions, issues, lessons, observations, and so on. It is not intended to be a political blog. I don’t even consider myself a political person. I tend to say I am more spiritual than religious. I don’t even think about calling myself political.
That being said, I see things going on in our country that I believe have spiritual/religious contexts as well as political contexts, and it is legitimate for me to comment on them from that viewpoint. I am talking about our nation’s debt. And the debts of many of our states as well. Contrary to what some might believe, I do not think it is a sin to be in debt. It certainly is not wise, however, to get into the position that we are in. The Christian Bible has a lot to say about money and money management, and the book called Proverbs has quite a bit to say about debt. One thing it says is that the borrower is the servant of the lender.
You see, our debt is coming due now, and the piper demands to be paid.
As individuals, we have spent probably five decades building up personal credit, borrowing money, not living within our means. Some of this debt is necessary if half a dozen expensive things (such as dental work and car repair and a child being sick) decide to happen at the same time. Some of our debt is simply a matter of convenience. But quite a lot of our debt has happened because we want something and we will have it whether we can afford it or not. And then something happens that we may not have control over and we’re plunged into a pit of deep…well, you know.
As individual householders, we know how it works. Income and outgo have to match. If our expenses go up we either go into debt or find more income and/or change some spending habits. We know that, as individuals, as households and families.
Whatever made us think government can do any differently? As a nation, we have been spending money we do not have. We have borrowed against the future, depending on the strength of our economy to support our recklessness.
Now we have a national budget deficit that scares us – it scares me, anyway – and we’re starting to criticize the President for it. I have news for all of us. So far he hasn’t done much to reduce the deficit, but he didn’t invent it. We have been doing this to ourselves for some 50 years. Presidents and legislators from both parties have been collectively responsible for it. And we as voters have allowed it.
Guess what! The future has arrived! We have to start paying our debt down before we capsize under its weight.
Guess what! The longer we put it off, the harder and more difficult our debt will be to deal with.
And guess what! Blaming others will not help! We have all done it to ourselves, and we will all have to suffer the consequences of our folly. Nobody likes to think of it. That includes me. I have little, and I don’t like the thought of losing even a tad of it.
Recently, we voted a whole bunch of people into office because they said they would cut spending and balance the budget without raising taxes. Of course we want a balanced budget, right?
Sure we do. Until we hear that the budget balancers are going to cut funds for things we want. Then we squeal. “Cut someone else’s thing,” we protest, “and leave mine alone.” Sorry, friends, it doesn’t work like that. Our situation is serious, and everyone will have to feel the pain in order to fix it.
Do we have the courage to make our politicians do what is necessary? Do we understand that the longer we wait, the harder and more painful it will be to fix this situation? Can we accept the teaching in our Bible about living within our means?
Do we?
Can we?
Doggone it, we had better! Do we really want to be the servant to our lenders? Of course not. So let’s buckle down and get to work!
Showing posts with label slice of life. Show all posts
Showing posts with label slice of life. Show all posts
Saturday, April 2, 2011
Saturday, March 26, 2011
It Ain’t for Sissies
I saw an old family friend at the supermarket over the weekend. We greeted each other, hugged, and began to visit.
“Are you keeping them all in line at the Tower?” she asked, referring to the apartment house I live in, which at six stories passes for a tower in a small farm town.
“Well, I do my best but I have a lot of trouble with it,” was my reply. “They’re all at least as ornery as I am.” Then we got kind of serious as I added, “But you know, I really think you need to be ornery if you’re going to live as long as some of those folks have.”
“Yes, you do,” my friend agreed. “A good sense of humor helps too.”
That didn’t surprise me; this lady has always been noted for her sense of humor and zest for life.
“And also, don’t you think it helps to be able to give?” she went on. “To give and take? That’s important too.”
I agreed, thinking of the teaching I’d recently reviewed about the staying power of trees in a wind storm. The old tree, the tall and thick and inflexible tree, will be uprooted in a powerful wind. It’s the sapling, young and bendable and flexible, that will survive the storm. And it’s the same with people. You have to be flexible, to roll with the punches, to go with the flow – or the storms of life will uproot you.
We parted and went on our separate ways. Maybe she continued to think about the exchange we’d had. I certainly did. Now that I am getting into the upper sixties, the aging process has become more personal, and I often find myself thinking about it.
Old age really isn’t for sissies. We have to be tough to survive the pitfalls of life. We lose loved ones, we lose money, we may experience a career change we hadn’t wanted to make, maybe we’re in abusive relationships, maybe we lose our homes in a tornado, we have all kinds of setbacks, all sorts of challenges to surviving life. We have to be strong, tough, and able to take the punches and still get up and struggle on. Surviving – and living a good life as we do so – requires every ounce of strength we have.
In fact, a lot of us find that it requires more strength than we believe we possess. That is one of the things that drive us toward religion in any of its multitudinous forms. Belief in God – however each of us conceives and understands that Entity – helps us to handle what seems overwhelming, when we feel so powerless, so puny against the challenges we face. Those of us who don’t turn to that Entity, to the Source of All Things…I don’t know how they get through life. They must be stronger than I am. I tried living that way once, and it was the greatest mistake I’ve ever made.
Is there anything else we can do to help ourselves live and age well? It almost goes without saying that taking good care of body and mind helps. It isn’t a guarantee. One friend of mine spent her entire adult life doing physical and psychological exercises, only to fall to something that seemed to me like the beginning stages of Alzheimer’s.
Continuing to be active, to learn, and to play will also help us. It is important to keep growing. I firmly believe that the day we stop growing is the day we stop living.
We don’t even know that we will live long enough to reach old age. People in the prime of life get struck down by diseases like Parkinson’s or Lou Gehrig’s.
We have control over our own responses and choices, and that’s all we have to work with. The only thing we can do is…our best. And hope it will actually make a difference
“Are you keeping them all in line at the Tower?” she asked, referring to the apartment house I live in, which at six stories passes for a tower in a small farm town.
“Well, I do my best but I have a lot of trouble with it,” was my reply. “They’re all at least as ornery as I am.” Then we got kind of serious as I added, “But you know, I really think you need to be ornery if you’re going to live as long as some of those folks have.”
“Yes, you do,” my friend agreed. “A good sense of humor helps too.”
That didn’t surprise me; this lady has always been noted for her sense of humor and zest for life.
“And also, don’t you think it helps to be able to give?” she went on. “To give and take? That’s important too.”
I agreed, thinking of the teaching I’d recently reviewed about the staying power of trees in a wind storm. The old tree, the tall and thick and inflexible tree, will be uprooted in a powerful wind. It’s the sapling, young and bendable and flexible, that will survive the storm. And it’s the same with people. You have to be flexible, to roll with the punches, to go with the flow – or the storms of life will uproot you.
We parted and went on our separate ways. Maybe she continued to think about the exchange we’d had. I certainly did. Now that I am getting into the upper sixties, the aging process has become more personal, and I often find myself thinking about it.
Old age really isn’t for sissies. We have to be tough to survive the pitfalls of life. We lose loved ones, we lose money, we may experience a career change we hadn’t wanted to make, maybe we’re in abusive relationships, maybe we lose our homes in a tornado, we have all kinds of setbacks, all sorts of challenges to surviving life. We have to be strong, tough, and able to take the punches and still get up and struggle on. Surviving – and living a good life as we do so – requires every ounce of strength we have.
In fact, a lot of us find that it requires more strength than we believe we possess. That is one of the things that drive us toward religion in any of its multitudinous forms. Belief in God – however each of us conceives and understands that Entity – helps us to handle what seems overwhelming, when we feel so powerless, so puny against the challenges we face. Those of us who don’t turn to that Entity, to the Source of All Things…I don’t know how they get through life. They must be stronger than I am. I tried living that way once, and it was the greatest mistake I’ve ever made.
Is there anything else we can do to help ourselves live and age well? It almost goes without saying that taking good care of body and mind helps. It isn’t a guarantee. One friend of mine spent her entire adult life doing physical and psychological exercises, only to fall to something that seemed to me like the beginning stages of Alzheimer’s.
Continuing to be active, to learn, and to play will also help us. It is important to keep growing. I firmly believe that the day we stop growing is the day we stop living.
We don’t even know that we will live long enough to reach old age. People in the prime of life get struck down by diseases like Parkinson’s or Lou Gehrig’s.
We have control over our own responses and choices, and that’s all we have to work with. The only thing we can do is…our best. And hope it will actually make a difference
Saturday, March 12, 2011
Role Models
About a year ago I joined the only adult Sunday school class that my church offers, which does Bible studies with material provided by our denomination. Most of its members are elderly, but there are a few younger members.
I love these people. They are my elders, people to look up to and respect. They were active, working and raising families, while I was growing up. They have known me and my family for probably 50 years. One of them, in fact, knew my parents when I was a toddler. Their beliefs are generally more traditional than mine, but there is still a lot that I can learn from them.
Some of the ladies take turns leading the class. Evelyn, a small woman with a soft voice, believes firmly that the Bible should guide us in all matters. Once in a class we encountered a situation where the Bible has two conflicting statements and while she acknowledged it, she did not really speak to that conflict. Each member just individually decided what we thought about the issue. I found myself wishing that the conflict – which is real – had been addressed either in Evelyn’s comments or in class discussion.
But, while I don’t always agree with Evelyn, I respect her enormously. She walks her talk. She is into mission – which is good and needed – and every winter, she and her husband tour down south as members of Nomads, a group that does volunteer projects. She works hard in the church, and she speaks up for what she thinks is right, and she and her husband are always ready to help someone who “isn’t like us”. I respect her witness and the way she lives her life.
What do I learn from Evelyn? I see that I need more courage to speak up for what I think is right; it’s especially important to speak out, not just in class discussions or normal conversation, but when silence can result in injustice. Right now I’m just picking my battles.
Cathy, a retired schoolteacher, wears a mop of white hair and walks with a cane. She too is soft-voiced. Her views, like Evelyn’s, are traditional. Cathy’s mind is still quite active, and I greatly enjoy visiting with her.
Cathy has become active in environmental issues, speaking out against long wall coal mining. She makes presentations, she writes letters, she attends meetings, she testifies at places. Cathy is very active in this movement. If you want to stimulate the conversation, just ask her what the latest developments are, and she’s off. The lady is a force of nature on the subject.
I learn from Cathy that life isn’t over at 65. She’s still going strong in her lower 80s, physically and mentally. She puts a lot of work and energy into protesting long wall mining. I’ve been struggling not to think that my life is over, that my best years are behind me. Actually, I’m in good health for my age and should still have time and opportunity before my body and mind start to wear out. Cathy is a fine example of the possibilities we can explore as we age.
The wisdom and example we can find from people like these help me get to church every Sunday, even for the early service, even when I’m not sure I belong there anymore.
Being in this class makes me feel a little like a “junior elder,” if there’s such a thing. These folks are strong examples of how the Christian life can be lived. I’m sure they don’t think of it like that. They’re just living their lives the best way they know how. Now that I am in a group of such strong role models, I feel challenged to new growth. Without trying to compare (which isn’t relevant), I feel challenged to become the kind of role models that they are. I take up this challenge because I admire these ladies and would like to truly be like them. It’s a tribute to them, really, rather than a ploy to get attention. You just make the decision to go for it, and put it away, and go on. So like them, I will try to do what they do. Live my life. The best way I know how.
I love these people. They are my elders, people to look up to and respect. They were active, working and raising families, while I was growing up. They have known me and my family for probably 50 years. One of them, in fact, knew my parents when I was a toddler. Their beliefs are generally more traditional than mine, but there is still a lot that I can learn from them.
Some of the ladies take turns leading the class. Evelyn, a small woman with a soft voice, believes firmly that the Bible should guide us in all matters. Once in a class we encountered a situation where the Bible has two conflicting statements and while she acknowledged it, she did not really speak to that conflict. Each member just individually decided what we thought about the issue. I found myself wishing that the conflict – which is real – had been addressed either in Evelyn’s comments or in class discussion.
But, while I don’t always agree with Evelyn, I respect her enormously. She walks her talk. She is into mission – which is good and needed – and every winter, she and her husband tour down south as members of Nomads, a group that does volunteer projects. She works hard in the church, and she speaks up for what she thinks is right, and she and her husband are always ready to help someone who “isn’t like us”. I respect her witness and the way she lives her life.
What do I learn from Evelyn? I see that I need more courage to speak up for what I think is right; it’s especially important to speak out, not just in class discussions or normal conversation, but when silence can result in injustice. Right now I’m just picking my battles.
Cathy, a retired schoolteacher, wears a mop of white hair and walks with a cane. She too is soft-voiced. Her views, like Evelyn’s, are traditional. Cathy’s mind is still quite active, and I greatly enjoy visiting with her.
Cathy has become active in environmental issues, speaking out against long wall coal mining. She makes presentations, she writes letters, she attends meetings, she testifies at places. Cathy is very active in this movement. If you want to stimulate the conversation, just ask her what the latest developments are, and she’s off. The lady is a force of nature on the subject.
I learn from Cathy that life isn’t over at 65. She’s still going strong in her lower 80s, physically and mentally. She puts a lot of work and energy into protesting long wall mining. I’ve been struggling not to think that my life is over, that my best years are behind me. Actually, I’m in good health for my age and should still have time and opportunity before my body and mind start to wear out. Cathy is a fine example of the possibilities we can explore as we age.
The wisdom and example we can find from people like these help me get to church every Sunday, even for the early service, even when I’m not sure I belong there anymore.
Being in this class makes me feel a little like a “junior elder,” if there’s such a thing. These folks are strong examples of how the Christian life can be lived. I’m sure they don’t think of it like that. They’re just living their lives the best way they know how. Now that I am in a group of such strong role models, I feel challenged to new growth. Without trying to compare (which isn’t relevant), I feel challenged to become the kind of role models that they are. I take up this challenge because I admire these ladies and would like to truly be like them. It’s a tribute to them, really, rather than a ploy to get attention. You just make the decision to go for it, and put it away, and go on. So like them, I will try to do what they do. Live my life. The best way I know how.
Saturday, February 19, 2011
When The Pastor is Away
What does a congregation do on Sunday morning when the preacher doesn’t show up? The church I attend suggested an answer to that question recently.
Our pastor was on a mission trip out of the country, and our young youth leader (who is a senior in college) was scheduled to deliver the sermon in his absence. He called to announce that he had overslept, had just gotten up, and would miss the early service.
So there we were. No preacher. A retired minister and several official lay speakers were in attendance at the early service, but nobody was prepared to give an impromptu sermon.
What did we do? In the language of Christianity, the Holy Spirit visited us and urged several of us to go to the microphone and say things. We drew closer together as a church family. We learned about each other. By the time the organist got to the postlude, we all felt the thing had been worthwhile and were glad we had been there.
Yet, it was nothing you would call exciting. It was just regular ordinary people talking about daily living. A farmer told a story that led him to some observations about how we do, or don’t, give. A grandmother told us of her daughter in another state, surrounded by megachurches that did not appeal to her, and how a small congregation began to grow in her own town, and how it is prospering. One of the ushers gave a brief testimony of how his life had been changed when he accepted Jesus as his Lord and Savior. And there were two stories about the answering of prayer. A young mother told a story of a friend praying for tomato soup and getting it under interesting circumstances (when she thought it was going to be a soup she didn’t like, instead); the story has added the expression “tomato soup prayer” to my vocabulary. And an aging data entry specialist (me) told her story of the time she had to drive home from work, a trip of over 50 miles, feeling ill, asking for help in getting home safely—and receiving it.
And there you have it. We had an excuse to just cut the service short and leave (unless we wanted to stay for Sunday school or the later service). That energy or force we call the Holy Spirit had other ways of handling the situation. (I personally think that when the Creator, the Source of All Things, makes his presence felt…that is what we call the Holy Spirit. I am not a Trinitarian—to me, the doctrine of the Trinity does not describe God but the various ways we experience God [or perhaps think we do].)
Be that as it may, the Creator is always ready to take an opportunity to help us grow, and that Sunday morning was a good example of how that works. It was good to have no sermon. I like good sermons, but there are other ways to learn also. We were blessed in other ways, instead. I was glad I was there.
Our pastor was on a mission trip out of the country, and our young youth leader (who is a senior in college) was scheduled to deliver the sermon in his absence. He called to announce that he had overslept, had just gotten up, and would miss the early service.
So there we were. No preacher. A retired minister and several official lay speakers were in attendance at the early service, but nobody was prepared to give an impromptu sermon.
What did we do? In the language of Christianity, the Holy Spirit visited us and urged several of us to go to the microphone and say things. We drew closer together as a church family. We learned about each other. By the time the organist got to the postlude, we all felt the thing had been worthwhile and were glad we had been there.
Yet, it was nothing you would call exciting. It was just regular ordinary people talking about daily living. A farmer told a story that led him to some observations about how we do, or don’t, give. A grandmother told us of her daughter in another state, surrounded by megachurches that did not appeal to her, and how a small congregation began to grow in her own town, and how it is prospering. One of the ushers gave a brief testimony of how his life had been changed when he accepted Jesus as his Lord and Savior. And there were two stories about the answering of prayer. A young mother told a story of a friend praying for tomato soup and getting it under interesting circumstances (when she thought it was going to be a soup she didn’t like, instead); the story has added the expression “tomato soup prayer” to my vocabulary. And an aging data entry specialist (me) told her story of the time she had to drive home from work, a trip of over 50 miles, feeling ill, asking for help in getting home safely—and receiving it.
And there you have it. We had an excuse to just cut the service short and leave (unless we wanted to stay for Sunday school or the later service). That energy or force we call the Holy Spirit had other ways of handling the situation. (I personally think that when the Creator, the Source of All Things, makes his presence felt…that is what we call the Holy Spirit. I am not a Trinitarian—to me, the doctrine of the Trinity does not describe God but the various ways we experience God [or perhaps think we do].)
Be that as it may, the Creator is always ready to take an opportunity to help us grow, and that Sunday morning was a good example of how that works. It was good to have no sermon. I like good sermons, but there are other ways to learn also. We were blessed in other ways, instead. I was glad I was there.
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Let it Snow!
When I was growing up, I kept hearing a song called, I believe, “Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow.” At least those words made a line in the song, whether or not that’s the title of it. I thought a lot about that song the other day during the Blizzard of 2011.
When I looked out my window at 10:30 that morning and saw some snowflakes in the air I thought, Well, it’s beginning.
When I looked out my window at 12:00 noon I thought, Okay, we’re settling in for the long haul.
But when I looked out my window at 1:30 I thought, Boy, am I glad I didn’t go to work today!
The storm developed much more rapidly than I could have expected, by 2:00 it was well established, and it only grew stronger and nastier throughout the afternoon. Some of my neighbors gathered in the community room downstairs and watched through the picture window. I, hermit that I am, stayed in my apartment and watched it from there. By dark, you couldn’t see much out of the window wherever you were watching the storm.
You really could call it a howling blizzard. The wind was blowing so hard that the snow fell horizontally, not vertically. And it was so thick that I could just make out the flag dancing and snapping around in the winds. The houses across the street were pretty visible, but beyond them the view was blurred.
I watched it and marveled. Truly, I was filled with gratitude that I wasn’t out in that storm. I wasn’t homeless. I wasn’t holding a job that forced me to be out in it. I could stay safe and snug in my tiny apartment. And I remained safe and snug because we didn’t lose our electricity.
One thing we can do in response to such a storm is take a moment to remember our blessings, and we all had ample opportunity to do that. I took full advantage of that opportunity as I watched the snow piling up on the ground below my fourth-floor windows.
And once again I was reminded how puny we humans really are. We have built all these marvels—highways, railroads, airports, machines to roll on the roads and rumble on the rails and soar through the air, power grids, telephone systems…All Mother Nature has to do is twitch, and we are paralyzed. We would really be in for it if Mother Nature fully unleashed her energy against us.
So I concluded that another response we can make in such a blizzard is to allow the fury of Mother Nature to humble us, to show us the true perspective of our achievements. I am not putting down our achievements; we have come a long way in the last couple of centuries. However, when all Mother Nature has to do is twitch in order to paralyze us, we need to realize that our achievements are nowhere near permanent.
Perhaps if we could think in terms of working with the natural world, rather than trying to oppose and dominate it, we might be in a stronger position when Mother Nature twitches. It would surely be worth a try.
When I looked out my window at 10:30 that morning and saw some snowflakes in the air I thought, Well, it’s beginning.
When I looked out my window at 12:00 noon I thought, Okay, we’re settling in for the long haul.
But when I looked out my window at 1:30 I thought, Boy, am I glad I didn’t go to work today!
The storm developed much more rapidly than I could have expected, by 2:00 it was well established, and it only grew stronger and nastier throughout the afternoon. Some of my neighbors gathered in the community room downstairs and watched through the picture window. I, hermit that I am, stayed in my apartment and watched it from there. By dark, you couldn’t see much out of the window wherever you were watching the storm.
You really could call it a howling blizzard. The wind was blowing so hard that the snow fell horizontally, not vertically. And it was so thick that I could just make out the flag dancing and snapping around in the winds. The houses across the street were pretty visible, but beyond them the view was blurred.
I watched it and marveled. Truly, I was filled with gratitude that I wasn’t out in that storm. I wasn’t homeless. I wasn’t holding a job that forced me to be out in it. I could stay safe and snug in my tiny apartment. And I remained safe and snug because we didn’t lose our electricity.
One thing we can do in response to such a storm is take a moment to remember our blessings, and we all had ample opportunity to do that. I took full advantage of that opportunity as I watched the snow piling up on the ground below my fourth-floor windows.
And once again I was reminded how puny we humans really are. We have built all these marvels—highways, railroads, airports, machines to roll on the roads and rumble on the rails and soar through the air, power grids, telephone systems…All Mother Nature has to do is twitch, and we are paralyzed. We would really be in for it if Mother Nature fully unleashed her energy against us.
So I concluded that another response we can make in such a blizzard is to allow the fury of Mother Nature to humble us, to show us the true perspective of our achievements. I am not putting down our achievements; we have come a long way in the last couple of centuries. However, when all Mother Nature has to do is twitch in order to paralyze us, we need to realize that our achievements are nowhere near permanent.
Perhaps if we could think in terms of working with the natural world, rather than trying to oppose and dominate it, we might be in a stronger position when Mother Nature twitches. It would surely be worth a try.
Saturday, February 20, 2010
James Was Right
The tongue is a fire. At least, it has that potential.
It was the writer of the Epistle (Letter) of James in the New Testament of the Bible who called the tongue a fire. He said that it is very small but can create immense blazes with a tiny spark. He went on to say that we cannot tame our tongues. I’m here to tell you that he was right on the money.
All my life I have had to live with a tongue that has a mind of its own. It goes into action of its own accord. I don’t have to decide to say something; my mouth is open and the words are coming out before I know what I’m going to say. (Friends ask me how I think of those things, and the truth is that I don’t “think” of them at all. I’m as surprised by my words as they are!) In fact, occasionally I don’t even know I’m going to say anything at all until I hear words coming out of my mouth. It’s all the worse if I’m saying something about things I don’t have all the facts about. I have, mostly unintentionally, done quite a little hurtfulness with my tongue during my life.
But that was predominantly in my first (pre-Encounter) life. I still have the difficulty, but it isn’t as bad as it used to be, in my second (post-Encounter) life, because one day I got smart and asked my Source to help me with my tongue. Sometimes He holds it so I can’t blurt out the wrong thing. Sometimes He puts words on it. Even now, if I am surprised by something, you can get the full flavor of my reaction or opinion. But overall, I have learned to recognize and heed the promptings Source has given me about my tongue. My speech can still get me into trouble, but I have had a much simpler life overall since Source took over my tongue.
I will never forget the first time Source rescued me from my, shall I say, straightforwardness. I had recently signed for a house and moved in. It was late spring and I was trying to plant some grass in the strip of lawn behind the house. Weeds had to be dug up, pulled up by the roots, soil had to be hoed and raked, and so on, and I was not accustomed to doing yard work. I asked a friend to come and help me. It was warm of course, downright hot in fact. (This was in Dallas, and even if you start in the morning you’re soon hotter than you want to be.) We hoed and dug and raked and pulled out weeds and I sweated and sweated. There was a moment when I became utterly exasperated with the heat in general and the project in particular. I needed to say something really nasty about how I was feeling, and I actually opened my mouth and drew breath to use language that was as hot as I was…and at that moment I thought, Good heavens, I can’t say that around Ken. Words started to come out, and they astonished me, for they said something like this: “I cannot believe that the pioneers cleared the land and started their farms without the tools we have today!”
Neither could I believe I had said that! It expressed what I was feeling, but it was totally removed from what I had intended to say. (Ken wouldn’t have said anything, but that language would have bothered him.)
There have been many times like that since.
There have been a few times also when I was apparently given messages for the people I was with. This time I was with Bill, in the car one time. We were driving home from work. (Sometimes he and I carpooled.) He was, like me, a trained musician and he was discouraged about his efforts to find work in his field. The car radio was playing “The Ride of the Valkyries”, and abruptly I was saying something like this: “I have no idea what’s going on in the opera here, when they’re doing this music, but it always makes me think of an army of grim-faced female warriors riding their horses to a big battle. Nothing will deter them. They will prevail one way or another.” And somehow the words connected that to Bill and his discouragement. I don’t remember what Bill said, but I think the words helped him. As I continued to drive, I started to feel as though I were breaking out of a dream or some odd waking state, and I was thinking, Did I really say that? Where did that come from, anyway? For lack of a better explanation, I concluded that Source had probably put those words on my tongue and spoken to my friend through me. He will do that; He speaks to us in all sorts of ways, often through others’ words or actions.
There have been moments in pressure situations – oral exams, job interviews – when I really didn’t know what I should say in answer to a question, but when I opened my mouth to try to come up with an answer…there it was, tripping out as though I had planned it.
There is a promise in the Bible that if we have to testify before the authorities, what today we might call the thought police or religion police, our words will be given to us. Now that is a Biblical promise I trust. I’ve experienced it too many times to react otherwise. We often have trouble with Biblical promises that we haven’t experienced in our own lives, or seen in the lives of those close to us. I do, at least. But this one I bet on. When I need control it is there. When I need words they are there.
It’s cool.
It was the writer of the Epistle (Letter) of James in the New Testament of the Bible who called the tongue a fire. He said that it is very small but can create immense blazes with a tiny spark. He went on to say that we cannot tame our tongues. I’m here to tell you that he was right on the money.
All my life I have had to live with a tongue that has a mind of its own. It goes into action of its own accord. I don’t have to decide to say something; my mouth is open and the words are coming out before I know what I’m going to say. (Friends ask me how I think of those things, and the truth is that I don’t “think” of them at all. I’m as surprised by my words as they are!) In fact, occasionally I don’t even know I’m going to say anything at all until I hear words coming out of my mouth. It’s all the worse if I’m saying something about things I don’t have all the facts about. I have, mostly unintentionally, done quite a little hurtfulness with my tongue during my life.
But that was predominantly in my first (pre-Encounter) life. I still have the difficulty, but it isn’t as bad as it used to be, in my second (post-Encounter) life, because one day I got smart and asked my Source to help me with my tongue. Sometimes He holds it so I can’t blurt out the wrong thing. Sometimes He puts words on it. Even now, if I am surprised by something, you can get the full flavor of my reaction or opinion. But overall, I have learned to recognize and heed the promptings Source has given me about my tongue. My speech can still get me into trouble, but I have had a much simpler life overall since Source took over my tongue.
I will never forget the first time Source rescued me from my, shall I say, straightforwardness. I had recently signed for a house and moved in. It was late spring and I was trying to plant some grass in the strip of lawn behind the house. Weeds had to be dug up, pulled up by the roots, soil had to be hoed and raked, and so on, and I was not accustomed to doing yard work. I asked a friend to come and help me. It was warm of course, downright hot in fact. (This was in Dallas, and even if you start in the morning you’re soon hotter than you want to be.) We hoed and dug and raked and pulled out weeds and I sweated and sweated. There was a moment when I became utterly exasperated with the heat in general and the project in particular. I needed to say something really nasty about how I was feeling, and I actually opened my mouth and drew breath to use language that was as hot as I was…and at that moment I thought, Good heavens, I can’t say that around Ken. Words started to come out, and they astonished me, for they said something like this: “I cannot believe that the pioneers cleared the land and started their farms without the tools we have today!”
Neither could I believe I had said that! It expressed what I was feeling, but it was totally removed from what I had intended to say. (Ken wouldn’t have said anything, but that language would have bothered him.)
There have been many times like that since.
There have been a few times also when I was apparently given messages for the people I was with. This time I was with Bill, in the car one time. We were driving home from work. (Sometimes he and I carpooled.) He was, like me, a trained musician and he was discouraged about his efforts to find work in his field. The car radio was playing “The Ride of the Valkyries”, and abruptly I was saying something like this: “I have no idea what’s going on in the opera here, when they’re doing this music, but it always makes me think of an army of grim-faced female warriors riding their horses to a big battle. Nothing will deter them. They will prevail one way or another.” And somehow the words connected that to Bill and his discouragement. I don’t remember what Bill said, but I think the words helped him. As I continued to drive, I started to feel as though I were breaking out of a dream or some odd waking state, and I was thinking, Did I really say that? Where did that come from, anyway? For lack of a better explanation, I concluded that Source had probably put those words on my tongue and spoken to my friend through me. He will do that; He speaks to us in all sorts of ways, often through others’ words or actions.
There have been moments in pressure situations – oral exams, job interviews – when I really didn’t know what I should say in answer to a question, but when I opened my mouth to try to come up with an answer…there it was, tripping out as though I had planned it.
There is a promise in the Bible that if we have to testify before the authorities, what today we might call the thought police or religion police, our words will be given to us. Now that is a Biblical promise I trust. I’ve experienced it too many times to react otherwise. We often have trouble with Biblical promises that we haven’t experienced in our own lives, or seen in the lives of those close to us. I do, at least. But this one I bet on. When I need control it is there. When I need words they are there.
It’s cool.
Saturday, February 13, 2010
About Lists
I am a lover of lists. I make shopping lists. I make lists of household tasks to complete over a long weekend or a vacation. If I am traveling, I make a list of the things I want to pack for the journey. Lists order these things, provide a way to see what needs to be accomplished, and helps you track your progress as you work through the items.
I have a friend who is a mystic. She is a minister, a counselor, a teacher of centering prayer, and I value her wisdom. We met a few months before I left the big city to return to my rural roots, but we have kept the friendship alive via email and telephone calls. There were two or three emails that she sent me in which she wrote about the things she needs to do regularly in order to feel strong and healthy in all respects. I couldn’t help noticing that she always mentioned the same things. This lady really does know what she needs to do. Her lists usually began with centering prayer and sleep, and the other things assumed different places under those two priorities. I would call it a list on maintaining health, or self-maintenance. The complete list would be:
Centering prayer
Sleep
Diet
Exercise
Nature
Drinking water
At that time, I was going through a period in which I was trying to order my life around priorities, and I allowed her list to be one of my guides. But as I did my prayer journaling and worked through various things that happened, I came to develop my own list. If I call my friend’s list a “road map” to self-maintenance, I could call my own list a “road map” to restoring flagging energies, or self-restoration, because after I had followed her list, I still needed to restore energy. There is a smidgen of duplication in my own list, which I call a self-restoration list:
Centering prayer or prayer journaling
Creative activities of all kinds
Personal relationships
Closeness to nature
Solitude and silence
I went so far as to make a sign that shows both lists and tape it up where I see it several times a day. I honestly believe that a person who does these things daily will be healthy physically, mentally, emotionally, and spiritually. (Although I am a voracious reader, I do not include reading or study or even Bible study on the list because all this sneaks in through the other activities. Centering prayer can be done over a passage of scripture or some other writing, for instance, and in solitude and silence I will read and reflect.)
My friend with the brain tumor is having memory difficulties, and for some time I’ve known that she has a birthday present for me but forgets to bring it to church, which is where we usually see each other. (My birthday was in December.) The other day she gave me the present. I cherish the present itself, but it is the card that really got to me. My friend included in her note a list of qualities that a “Godly” life should have, and her list consists almost entirely of words of one syllable:
“To live a life of love, hope, peace, joy, health, trust and faith, and many prayers.”
Now there is a list for you! I would say that if I work to follow the first two lists, my life might actually come to illustrate the qualities on the final list.
So I took my sign down, re-did it to include the third list, and now it looks complete.
I have a friend who is a mystic. She is a minister, a counselor, a teacher of centering prayer, and I value her wisdom. We met a few months before I left the big city to return to my rural roots, but we have kept the friendship alive via email and telephone calls. There were two or three emails that she sent me in which she wrote about the things she needs to do regularly in order to feel strong and healthy in all respects. I couldn’t help noticing that she always mentioned the same things. This lady really does know what she needs to do. Her lists usually began with centering prayer and sleep, and the other things assumed different places under those two priorities. I would call it a list on maintaining health, or self-maintenance. The complete list would be:
Centering prayer
Sleep
Diet
Exercise
Nature
Drinking water
At that time, I was going through a period in which I was trying to order my life around priorities, and I allowed her list to be one of my guides. But as I did my prayer journaling and worked through various things that happened, I came to develop my own list. If I call my friend’s list a “road map” to self-maintenance, I could call my own list a “road map” to restoring flagging energies, or self-restoration, because after I had followed her list, I still needed to restore energy. There is a smidgen of duplication in my own list, which I call a self-restoration list:
Centering prayer or prayer journaling
Creative activities of all kinds
Personal relationships
Closeness to nature
Solitude and silence
I went so far as to make a sign that shows both lists and tape it up where I see it several times a day. I honestly believe that a person who does these things daily will be healthy physically, mentally, emotionally, and spiritually. (Although I am a voracious reader, I do not include reading or study or even Bible study on the list because all this sneaks in through the other activities. Centering prayer can be done over a passage of scripture or some other writing, for instance, and in solitude and silence I will read and reflect.)
My friend with the brain tumor is having memory difficulties, and for some time I’ve known that she has a birthday present for me but forgets to bring it to church, which is where we usually see each other. (My birthday was in December.) The other day she gave me the present. I cherish the present itself, but it is the card that really got to me. My friend included in her note a list of qualities that a “Godly” life should have, and her list consists almost entirely of words of one syllable:
“To live a life of love, hope, peace, joy, health, trust and faith, and many prayers.”
Now there is a list for you! I would say that if I work to follow the first two lists, my life might actually come to illustrate the qualities on the final list.
So I took my sign down, re-did it to include the third list, and now it looks complete.
Thursday, January 7, 2010
One Battle That Ego Lost
“I don’t usually feel my musician’s temperament,” said my sister, L, “but I’m not a happy camper right now.” And with that statement, she offered me the paper in her hand.
My own musician’s temperament began rising too, as I saw that our piano duet was scheduled to be the postlude at her church’s Christmas Eve service. What’s more, someone else was singing the same song that we were planning to play. Neither of us wanted to be childish about a comparatively minor thing, but obviously it wasn’t that minor to us.
A couple of weeks ago, while I was attending a funeral, my sister’s pastor asked me to play at the upcoming Christmas Eve service. I was happy to do so. It is, after all, flattering to be asked. But since L attends this church (she shares the responsibility of playing the organ for services) I thought it was appropriate for her to be involved, so I talked to her and we agreed to play a duet.
I need to digress for a moment. People who start out in life as music majors, or in any type of live performance field, and often in any creative field whether or not it involves live performance, tend to have large egos. It isn’t always the best and easiest quality to live with; even the person with the ego has trouble with it. But how would you manage to go out in front of a few hundred or a few thousand people and risk making a total fool of yourself…without a strong ego?
The problem I have with it, personally, is that in situations that do not involve performance, I still have to deal with an ego that sometimes leads me down the garden path. At times it can be downright embarrassing, and at other times it can be the source of temptation. As it was that evening.
You see, the postlude, being “post”, is at the end of the service, when people are putting on their coats, wishing each other a Merry Christmas, and heading home to bed. (This service lets out around 11:00p.) In other words, they wouldn’t be paying any attention to the music. In fact, usually this service doesn’t even have music going on while the people are leaving.
Unless I’m playing at a reception or some other social situation, I am never happy when people presumably would listen to the music but choose not to. (It doesn’t matter who is playing. Some church ladies whispered once all through our organist’s performance at a church dinner, and I wanted to physically carry them out of the room. It was part of the program after we had eaten, and they should have been listening.) I take music seriously and I want others to respect it. The most obvious way to do that is to listen to it.
My ego, however, had to get involved because I had been specifically invited to play as a sort of guest performer. And my ego did not appreciate being relegated to a spot on the program where the music wouldn’t be heard. How much of my upset was for the sake of the music, and how much was for the sake of my ego, I honestly can’t say. It was probably a mix. It’s likely that the majority of it was ego, even so.
This pastor intended nothing malicious or insensitive. However, he wasn’t in charge of planning the music, and I doubt that he communicated with the lady who was. And my sister and I were trying to determine how we wanted to respond to the situation.
My sister decided to play, be gracious, and take it from there. I agreed with that, but I also planned a polite protest, after a long cooling-off period.
But the more I thought about it, the more dissatisfied I became with my solution.
I’m reading a commentary on the Tao Te Ching right now (Change Your Thoughts – Change Your Life, by Wayne Dyer), and one of the points the book makes is that the best thing to do is … nothing. Here is a quote from Verse 48: “When nothing is done, nothing is left undone. True mastery can be gained by letting things go their own way. It cannot be gained by interfering.”
So I was thinking about that the next day while walking after work. There isn’t much to look at when you’re walking back and forth in hallways of an apartment building, so I use the time to think about creative projects or life problems that I need to work out. I asked myself: “Who is this for, anyway, my Source or myself? It should be for my Source.” Using my musical talent expresses something Source has given me, and it is first and foremost done to love and praise Source.
That led to: “OK, when did Jesus ever take action to defend his ego?” The stories we have, as I understand them, paint a picture of a man who clearly knew who he was and was comfortable with that, to the point that he never felt insecure or threatened where his ego lived. Though I no longer subscribe to Christian theology, I still seek to follow Jesus’ example, and that thought simply showed me the thing to do: Let it go, play, and move on.
So I did.
And guess what. A couple of people backed out of the program at the last minute, L and I we were moved up, and our duet didn’t have to be the postlude after all. It was well received, I told my sister’s pastor that I appreciated being asked to play, and the thing slipped harmlessly into the past.
What is the lesson to learn here? Did I, in fact, “change my thoughts and change my life”? Is it possible to conclude that I can affect things like that? If so, I clearly need to learn this lesson and apply it. You wouldn’t believe the life issues I would like to see resolved!
My own musician’s temperament began rising too, as I saw that our piano duet was scheduled to be the postlude at her church’s Christmas Eve service. What’s more, someone else was singing the same song that we were planning to play. Neither of us wanted to be childish about a comparatively minor thing, but obviously it wasn’t that minor to us.
A couple of weeks ago, while I was attending a funeral, my sister’s pastor asked me to play at the upcoming Christmas Eve service. I was happy to do so. It is, after all, flattering to be asked. But since L attends this church (she shares the responsibility of playing the organ for services) I thought it was appropriate for her to be involved, so I talked to her and we agreed to play a duet.
I need to digress for a moment. People who start out in life as music majors, or in any type of live performance field, and often in any creative field whether or not it involves live performance, tend to have large egos. It isn’t always the best and easiest quality to live with; even the person with the ego has trouble with it. But how would you manage to go out in front of a few hundred or a few thousand people and risk making a total fool of yourself…without a strong ego?
The problem I have with it, personally, is that in situations that do not involve performance, I still have to deal with an ego that sometimes leads me down the garden path. At times it can be downright embarrassing, and at other times it can be the source of temptation. As it was that evening.
You see, the postlude, being “post”, is at the end of the service, when people are putting on their coats, wishing each other a Merry Christmas, and heading home to bed. (This service lets out around 11:00p.) In other words, they wouldn’t be paying any attention to the music. In fact, usually this service doesn’t even have music going on while the people are leaving.
Unless I’m playing at a reception or some other social situation, I am never happy when people presumably would listen to the music but choose not to. (It doesn’t matter who is playing. Some church ladies whispered once all through our organist’s performance at a church dinner, and I wanted to physically carry them out of the room. It was part of the program after we had eaten, and they should have been listening.) I take music seriously and I want others to respect it. The most obvious way to do that is to listen to it.
My ego, however, had to get involved because I had been specifically invited to play as a sort of guest performer. And my ego did not appreciate being relegated to a spot on the program where the music wouldn’t be heard. How much of my upset was for the sake of the music, and how much was for the sake of my ego, I honestly can’t say. It was probably a mix. It’s likely that the majority of it was ego, even so.
This pastor intended nothing malicious or insensitive. However, he wasn’t in charge of planning the music, and I doubt that he communicated with the lady who was. And my sister and I were trying to determine how we wanted to respond to the situation.
My sister decided to play, be gracious, and take it from there. I agreed with that, but I also planned a polite protest, after a long cooling-off period.
But the more I thought about it, the more dissatisfied I became with my solution.
I’m reading a commentary on the Tao Te Ching right now (Change Your Thoughts – Change Your Life, by Wayne Dyer), and one of the points the book makes is that the best thing to do is … nothing. Here is a quote from Verse 48: “When nothing is done, nothing is left undone. True mastery can be gained by letting things go their own way. It cannot be gained by interfering.”
So I was thinking about that the next day while walking after work. There isn’t much to look at when you’re walking back and forth in hallways of an apartment building, so I use the time to think about creative projects or life problems that I need to work out. I asked myself: “Who is this for, anyway, my Source or myself? It should be for my Source.” Using my musical talent expresses something Source has given me, and it is first and foremost done to love and praise Source.
That led to: “OK, when did Jesus ever take action to defend his ego?” The stories we have, as I understand them, paint a picture of a man who clearly knew who he was and was comfortable with that, to the point that he never felt insecure or threatened where his ego lived. Though I no longer subscribe to Christian theology, I still seek to follow Jesus’ example, and that thought simply showed me the thing to do: Let it go, play, and move on.
So I did.
And guess what. A couple of people backed out of the program at the last minute, L and I we were moved up, and our duet didn’t have to be the postlude after all. It was well received, I told my sister’s pastor that I appreciated being asked to play, and the thing slipped harmlessly into the past.
What is the lesson to learn here? Did I, in fact, “change my thoughts and change my life”? Is it possible to conclude that I can affect things like that? If so, I clearly need to learn this lesson and apply it. You wouldn’t believe the life issues I would like to see resolved!
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Memories
It was only a casual phone conversation. My sister and were just visiting about the usual stuff when suddenly she dropped a bomb on me. “By the way, you knew that E died?”
The world stopped for a couple of beats, but finally I managed to say, “No, I didn’t.”
“It was last Monday. The funeral was Friday. I’m sorry, I thought of calling you but I thought you would have heard.”
Somehow I got through the conversation without losing my manners, but the news plunged me into a “downer” that went on for a full 24 hours. E and I went a long way back. When my family first moved into the town (from the farmhouse we had been renting) E and her family lived across the alley from us. There were two kids, C and her brother T. My sister “sat” for them in the summers while the kids were out of school and the parents were at work. C became one of my closest friends in high school. She and her brother and I, with a couple of other kids, formed an instrumental combo that played together a lot, mostly big band tunes. We weren’t wonderful, but we had a grand time. When C had health problems and had to miss school, I was the one who went around to the teachers and got assignments for her so she could keep up. We were together when I had my first (and last!) taste of beer.
Through all of that, there were her parents. E was the dominant family member. She was wonderful. She was short, dark-haired. Snapping black eyes. Sort of a pugnacious chin. She didn’t take any guff from anyone. Spoke her mind. Very much grounded in that rare quality that we call common sense. Used plain language.
E was the oldest child in her family, and when their mother died E took on the responsibility of caring for the family and raising her siblings. The natural result was that she grew up accustomed to taking care of others and she spent her whole life doing that. She was a pretty strict parent, but it was clearly done in love for her children. She was a caring person, warmhearted, ready to help. I think she considered me her half-daughter. I know I considered her my half-mother.
We all kept in touch over the years. When C and I were home, we visited. Otherwise, we exchanged letters. Eventually life went downhill for her, and she moved back to our home town with physical and mental health issues. She died while I was living in Texas, and I wasn’t able to get home for the funeral.
Some of the clearest memories I have of E that come from my adult life:
I was sitting on the front porch of my parents’ house just after my dad had died, watching as E pulled up to the curb and got out of the car with a large baking dish full of food.
There was the time she and her husband were in the Dallas area, and she called me up to say Hello.
The first time E saw me after C died, she asked me: “What did I do wrong, honey?” More than once she asked me that question. The main problem the two had was that they were both strong personalities and too much alike. They always chafed each other, even at the best of times. But nothing a parent does can affect degenerative physical conditions or the development of mental illness. Not as far as I know anyway. I could tell her honestly that I didn’t think she had done anything wrong.
There was the time my sister and I sat at E’s kitchen table, visiting. My sister had a few questions about how some people were connected, and was asking E about them. I think E knew just about everyone, who was whose child, who had married whom, how all the connections went. And she knew about every road and place as well.
When I moved back to my home town a few years ago, E and I talked on the phone and I took her for rides or on errands a few times.
And then I wound up living in the same apartment house as she was, for a while, before her health deteriorated and she had to move to the local nursing home.
The news that E had died and been buried before I even found out about it was hard to take. I had counted on being there for her funeral. I had missed her husband’s funeral. I had missed C’s funeral. I needed to make some kind of formal good-bye to this family that was such a part of me. How much of my reaction was grief? How much was simple disappointment and frustration that I hadn’t had the opportunity to go to the funeral? I can’t say. Like E herself, I rarely cry very much, but that evening I cried fairly copiously and was depressed the next day. It wasn’t until I tracked E’s son down over the internet and talked to him that it started to ease.
I no longer believe in “heaven” as I was taught about it. I no longer believe that when we die, we go to “heaven.” I do believe we enter some other level of existence, a plane, a dimension, whatever we might call it, which is a vast improvement over this existence, and in my view it is a state in which we can be as close to the Source of Life as we desire to be. I have had two experiences that allowed a tiny bit of communication to me from that existence. (I suppose they both can be interpreted in other ways, but their timing and nature made it impossible for me to make any other conclusions about them, and the more experienced [and unbiased] people I asked confirmed that.) And I am not shy about asking the Source of Life to pass on a greeting once in a while, when I feel a need to touch base with someone who is no longer here. I trust that somehow I can get word through to E, to tell her I love her and miss her and am sorry I missed the good-bye. I think she will understand.
The world stopped for a couple of beats, but finally I managed to say, “No, I didn’t.”
“It was last Monday. The funeral was Friday. I’m sorry, I thought of calling you but I thought you would have heard.”
Somehow I got through the conversation without losing my manners, but the news plunged me into a “downer” that went on for a full 24 hours. E and I went a long way back. When my family first moved into the town (from the farmhouse we had been renting) E and her family lived across the alley from us. There were two kids, C and her brother T. My sister “sat” for them in the summers while the kids were out of school and the parents were at work. C became one of my closest friends in high school. She and her brother and I, with a couple of other kids, formed an instrumental combo that played together a lot, mostly big band tunes. We weren’t wonderful, but we had a grand time. When C had health problems and had to miss school, I was the one who went around to the teachers and got assignments for her so she could keep up. We were together when I had my first (and last!) taste of beer.
Through all of that, there were her parents. E was the dominant family member. She was wonderful. She was short, dark-haired. Snapping black eyes. Sort of a pugnacious chin. She didn’t take any guff from anyone. Spoke her mind. Very much grounded in that rare quality that we call common sense. Used plain language.
E was the oldest child in her family, and when their mother died E took on the responsibility of caring for the family and raising her siblings. The natural result was that she grew up accustomed to taking care of others and she spent her whole life doing that. She was a pretty strict parent, but it was clearly done in love for her children. She was a caring person, warmhearted, ready to help. I think she considered me her half-daughter. I know I considered her my half-mother.
We all kept in touch over the years. When C and I were home, we visited. Otherwise, we exchanged letters. Eventually life went downhill for her, and she moved back to our home town with physical and mental health issues. She died while I was living in Texas, and I wasn’t able to get home for the funeral.
Some of the clearest memories I have of E that come from my adult life:
I was sitting on the front porch of my parents’ house just after my dad had died, watching as E pulled up to the curb and got out of the car with a large baking dish full of food.
There was the time she and her husband were in the Dallas area, and she called me up to say Hello.
The first time E saw me after C died, she asked me: “What did I do wrong, honey?” More than once she asked me that question. The main problem the two had was that they were both strong personalities and too much alike. They always chafed each other, even at the best of times. But nothing a parent does can affect degenerative physical conditions or the development of mental illness. Not as far as I know anyway. I could tell her honestly that I didn’t think she had done anything wrong.
There was the time my sister and I sat at E’s kitchen table, visiting. My sister had a few questions about how some people were connected, and was asking E about them. I think E knew just about everyone, who was whose child, who had married whom, how all the connections went. And she knew about every road and place as well.
When I moved back to my home town a few years ago, E and I talked on the phone and I took her for rides or on errands a few times.
And then I wound up living in the same apartment house as she was, for a while, before her health deteriorated and she had to move to the local nursing home.
The news that E had died and been buried before I even found out about it was hard to take. I had counted on being there for her funeral. I had missed her husband’s funeral. I had missed C’s funeral. I needed to make some kind of formal good-bye to this family that was such a part of me. How much of my reaction was grief? How much was simple disappointment and frustration that I hadn’t had the opportunity to go to the funeral? I can’t say. Like E herself, I rarely cry very much, but that evening I cried fairly copiously and was depressed the next day. It wasn’t until I tracked E’s son down over the internet and talked to him that it started to ease.
I no longer believe in “heaven” as I was taught about it. I no longer believe that when we die, we go to “heaven.” I do believe we enter some other level of existence, a plane, a dimension, whatever we might call it, which is a vast improvement over this existence, and in my view it is a state in which we can be as close to the Source of Life as we desire to be. I have had two experiences that allowed a tiny bit of communication to me from that existence. (I suppose they both can be interpreted in other ways, but their timing and nature made it impossible for me to make any other conclusions about them, and the more experienced [and unbiased] people I asked confirmed that.) And I am not shy about asking the Source of Life to pass on a greeting once in a while, when I feel a need to touch base with someone who is no longer here. I trust that somehow I can get word through to E, to tell her I love her and miss her and am sorry I missed the good-bye. I think she will understand.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Giggling Lelah.
I live in housing that is subsidized by the federal government. Most of us who live there, like me, don’t have very much money. Most of us are elderly, because the elderly tend to have limited financial resources. There are a fewer younger folks, but they are not in good health. Me, I am almost 66, and I’m one of the youngest and healthiest. While living here, I have had to confront my fears of old age, my prejudices against the aged, and other unlovely aspects of my attitudes. (I have learned them from our society, of course, but that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t confront them.) Slowly, although I am not there a lot of the time, I am coming to know and appreciate my neighbors.
Take Lelah, for instance. Lelah lives across the hall from my next-door neighbor. I don’t know a whole lot about Lelah. She is, I think, 87 years old. She has a kind face and a ready smile, and she is almost as deaf as a fence post. She has a cat, which she has named Oreo presumably because the cat is black and white. I have heard Oreo; I haven’t officially met her.
I have discovered that I can get Lelah to hear me if I raise the pitch of my voice, and with that I have begun to get to know her a little. Helped her with our new laundry machines. Greeted her in passing. Little things like that. One night recently, I was gifted with an entirely new view of this elderly lady. It was just before the Thanksgiving holiday, and I was on the way downstairs to mail an insurance payment when I noticed Lelah out in the hall. I stopped to chat for a moment. She had found an old cornucopia in her apartment; she had put some grapes in it and was setting it outside her apartment on the little table she keeps for seasonal decorations. (Many of the residents keep decorations in the hall.) I stopped to admire it, and to agree that it made her display look like Thanksgiving was coming.
Lelah began to reminisce about the days when she was younger. Her sister-in-law always cooked the Thanksgiving meal for the entire family, which was held on the Sunday after the holiday because some of the younger family members didn’t want to be there on the actual holiday. “I remember one year,” Lelah went on, “when my sister-in-law said, ‘I don’t know where Molly goes but she is never here on Thanksgiving Day.’” Then a glint appeared in the elderly lady’s eyes. “I didn’t say anything, but I knew where Molly went.” She chuckled. “You know, you can’t always say what you’re thinking. It just doesn’t do. It makes bad feelings.”
“Yes,” I agreed, “we can’t always tell everything we know even when it’s the truth.”
She began to giggle. She is 87 years old, and she stood in the hall that night giggling her head off. I don’t know what memories had been awakened by our conversation, but I know she was enjoying them in that moment. It was delightful. I enjoy hearing people laugh, I just like the sound of a good laugh, and I very much enjoyed hers. I was laughing too, mostly because she was. The more she laughed, the more I enjoyed hearing and watching her, and the more my own pleasure grew. For a while we just stood there laughing. When I pulled myself away to get in the elevator to mail my insurance payment, she was still giggling. I hadn’t known she could be so mischievous, but she certainly was at that moment. Yes, mischievous and even impish.
We often ignore the elderly, but they have lived many years and they have their stories to tell, and their experience and wisdom to share. They like to talk about the things they remember, and often we younger people are impatient with that. But if you can be open to it, you may find yourself learning or enjoying it just as much as the elderly person does. It is a good process, to listen to them tell about their experiences. It validates life.
Lelah has a kind face and a ready smile. And there is still a touch of mischief inside her. She is going to be fun to get to know.
Take Lelah, for instance. Lelah lives across the hall from my next-door neighbor. I don’t know a whole lot about Lelah. She is, I think, 87 years old. She has a kind face and a ready smile, and she is almost as deaf as a fence post. She has a cat, which she has named Oreo presumably because the cat is black and white. I have heard Oreo; I haven’t officially met her.
I have discovered that I can get Lelah to hear me if I raise the pitch of my voice, and with that I have begun to get to know her a little. Helped her with our new laundry machines. Greeted her in passing. Little things like that. One night recently, I was gifted with an entirely new view of this elderly lady. It was just before the Thanksgiving holiday, and I was on the way downstairs to mail an insurance payment when I noticed Lelah out in the hall. I stopped to chat for a moment. She had found an old cornucopia in her apartment; she had put some grapes in it and was setting it outside her apartment on the little table she keeps for seasonal decorations. (Many of the residents keep decorations in the hall.) I stopped to admire it, and to agree that it made her display look like Thanksgiving was coming.
Lelah began to reminisce about the days when she was younger. Her sister-in-law always cooked the Thanksgiving meal for the entire family, which was held on the Sunday after the holiday because some of the younger family members didn’t want to be there on the actual holiday. “I remember one year,” Lelah went on, “when my sister-in-law said, ‘I don’t know where Molly goes but she is never here on Thanksgiving Day.’” Then a glint appeared in the elderly lady’s eyes. “I didn’t say anything, but I knew where Molly went.” She chuckled. “You know, you can’t always say what you’re thinking. It just doesn’t do. It makes bad feelings.”
“Yes,” I agreed, “we can’t always tell everything we know even when it’s the truth.”
She began to giggle. She is 87 years old, and she stood in the hall that night giggling her head off. I don’t know what memories had been awakened by our conversation, but I know she was enjoying them in that moment. It was delightful. I enjoy hearing people laugh, I just like the sound of a good laugh, and I very much enjoyed hers. I was laughing too, mostly because she was. The more she laughed, the more I enjoyed hearing and watching her, and the more my own pleasure grew. For a while we just stood there laughing. When I pulled myself away to get in the elevator to mail my insurance payment, she was still giggling. I hadn’t known she could be so mischievous, but she certainly was at that moment. Yes, mischievous and even impish.
We often ignore the elderly, but they have lived many years and they have their stories to tell, and their experience and wisdom to share. They like to talk about the things they remember, and often we younger people are impatient with that. But if you can be open to it, you may find yourself learning or enjoying it just as much as the elderly person does. It is a good process, to listen to them tell about their experiences. It validates life.
Lelah has a kind face and a ready smile. And there is still a touch of mischief inside her. She is going to be fun to get to know.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
The Forgotten Holiday
Christmas decorations have appeared once again. Someone is playing Christmas songs on their sound system here at work. The small towns I go through on my daily commute have hung their downtown things up. Houses have begun to display lights and plastic inflatable Santas. A local mall has held its Santa welcoming ceremony. Christmas season is here. All we need now is some snow, and even that is on the way according to local forecasts.
But wait!
Aren’t we forgetting something?
Oh, yes. Thanksgiving. Hey, that’s tomorrow! It’s time to meet with relatives, stuff ourselves with the traditional foods, watch football games, take a nap, and then hit the early sales. Right? That’s what Thanksgiving is, isn’t it?
The Christmas shopping season has grown so that it now begins on Halloween, and I fully expect that in another decade it will begin on Labor Day. I am not going to go into the crassness of the way we have commercialized Christmas. Even at a time in my life when I am not sure what I think about Christmas as a religious holiday, it is still more than a shopping frenzy. I chafe at Santa, but at least he personalizes a spirit of caring and giving.
Today I am totally out of step with everyone else because I am focused on giving thanks.
Thanksgiving is a national holiday with its roots in the gratefulness of a group of early settlers who, after a tough year, threw a party to celebrate being alive and settled in their new colony.
I, too, celebrate being alive on Thanksgiving Day. I, too, am alive, in good health, and able to live normally - able to walk, able to work, able to eat and talk and breathe just as everyone else does. It could have been a totally different story, and I am constantly aware of how much I have to be grateful for.
It was on Thanksgiving Day in 1980 that I almost died. (I found out later that an experienced ER doctor who was working that day said he had never seen anyone closer to death than I was…who lived.) It was on Thanksgiving Day in 1980 that I woke up with tubes in my mouth and down my throat, and thought, “It’s Thanksgiving Day, and I’m alive.” How did I know that? How did I sense that I had almost died? How do we know those things even when nobody tells us until six months have passed?
I have, in my thoughts, an “anniversary season” that extends from the anniversary of the day I went into the hospital to the day I was dismissed. It was literally three months to the day from the day the whole thing had begun, when I went back to my apartment. The anniversary season includes Thanksgiving Day, when I (with failing kidneys) was transferred to the care of a new hospital and new doctor; a birthday that could have been my last; and the day early in the new year when I woke up as a new person after meeting the Source of Unconditional Love in the night.
I could have come out of that situation with all kinds of physical impairments, but I did not. I am blessed with a normal life. I am blessed with good health for my age. And above all, I am blessed by the fellowship and compassion of Unconditional Love, Whom I have sought and adored ever since I woke up that morning 29 years ago.
So I have much to be thankful for. It is important to remember our blessings and to give thanks for them. Whatever the Source of that Love might be, He is the Source of all that I have, all that I am, and all that I may yet become. And as I have said before, staying in a strong relationship with this Source is the most essential thing I do. Nothing else makes sense. And I have found that the more thanks I can give, the more I appreciate the things I am thankful for. So how can I lose?
Thank You, Source!
Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!
But wait!
Aren’t we forgetting something?
Oh, yes. Thanksgiving. Hey, that’s tomorrow! It’s time to meet with relatives, stuff ourselves with the traditional foods, watch football games, take a nap, and then hit the early sales. Right? That’s what Thanksgiving is, isn’t it?
The Christmas shopping season has grown so that it now begins on Halloween, and I fully expect that in another decade it will begin on Labor Day. I am not going to go into the crassness of the way we have commercialized Christmas. Even at a time in my life when I am not sure what I think about Christmas as a religious holiday, it is still more than a shopping frenzy. I chafe at Santa, but at least he personalizes a spirit of caring and giving.
Today I am totally out of step with everyone else because I am focused on giving thanks.
Thanksgiving is a national holiday with its roots in the gratefulness of a group of early settlers who, after a tough year, threw a party to celebrate being alive and settled in their new colony.
I, too, celebrate being alive on Thanksgiving Day. I, too, am alive, in good health, and able to live normally - able to walk, able to work, able to eat and talk and breathe just as everyone else does. It could have been a totally different story, and I am constantly aware of how much I have to be grateful for.
It was on Thanksgiving Day in 1980 that I almost died. (I found out later that an experienced ER doctor who was working that day said he had never seen anyone closer to death than I was…who lived.) It was on Thanksgiving Day in 1980 that I woke up with tubes in my mouth and down my throat, and thought, “It’s Thanksgiving Day, and I’m alive.” How did I know that? How did I sense that I had almost died? How do we know those things even when nobody tells us until six months have passed?
I have, in my thoughts, an “anniversary season” that extends from the anniversary of the day I went into the hospital to the day I was dismissed. It was literally three months to the day from the day the whole thing had begun, when I went back to my apartment. The anniversary season includes Thanksgiving Day, when I (with failing kidneys) was transferred to the care of a new hospital and new doctor; a birthday that could have been my last; and the day early in the new year when I woke up as a new person after meeting the Source of Unconditional Love in the night.
I could have come out of that situation with all kinds of physical impairments, but I did not. I am blessed with a normal life. I am blessed with good health for my age. And above all, I am blessed by the fellowship and compassion of Unconditional Love, Whom I have sought and adored ever since I woke up that morning 29 years ago.
So I have much to be thankful for. It is important to remember our blessings and to give thanks for them. Whatever the Source of that Love might be, He is the Source of all that I have, all that I am, and all that I may yet become. And as I have said before, staying in a strong relationship with this Source is the most essential thing I do. Nothing else makes sense. And I have found that the more thanks I can give, the more I appreciate the things I am thankful for. So how can I lose?
Thank You, Source!
Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!
Saturday, October 24, 2009
Slice Of Life: Sunday By the Spoon
Usually my Sundays have a fixed routine. Church and Sunday school in the morning, prayer journaling in the afternoon, followed by cooking the entrée and vegetables for taking to work during the week. It fills my day, involves me in some relatively creative manual work, and allows me a generous amount of time to spend with my Source. It is essential that I keep in close contact with the Source of my life, so this is a commitment. I guard this time so jealously that an act of Congress is required before I skip it, and then only if I can do it some evening during the week.
It took me by surprise, therefore, when I decided recently to vary that routine.
I live in an area that has a small body of water called the Spoon River running through it. It would be totally unknown, in fact, if Edger Lee Masters hadn’t written the Spoon River Anthology. It is a small river, not very wide, not very long, with many small towns and villages on or close to its banks. The first two weekends in October are given over to something called the Scenic Drive, which features the towns along the river, fall foliage colors, craft fairs and food booths of many descriptions.
This year we had a streak of cloudy, rainy, unseasonably chilly weather for the Scenic Drive. There was only one really nice day to go to it, the Sunday of the first weekend in October. It was a perfect fall afternoon, clear blue sky with a few swirls and puffs of white cloud, mild in the sunlight but somewhat cool in the shade. There are always a number of places to decide on, but this year I wanted to go to a village close by me and take a look at the wares that were displayed. It felt at first like a rationalization when I decided to put off the prayer journaling until an evening during the week just so I could go on an outing, but the perfection of the day beckoned me.
When I got to the village, I grabbed a good parking place actually on the riverbank, in the paved area where boaters put their boats into the water. Just across the river was the town. I parked, walked across the bridge, and the first thing I saw was a booth advertising fresh fudge. Right away, I was glad I had come!
I wandered through the small downtown of the village. Well, it is small, but it holds a lot of booths every year. I saw sweaters, sweatshirts, kitchen towels, scarves, hats, jackets, blankets. There were metal things. There were wooden things. There were even fake electric guitars to be used as decorations. I admired home-grown squashes and tomatoes and nuts. My mouth watered as I looked at homemade jams, pies, local grown honey, homemade noodles and breads. Then there was food and drink to enjoy on the spot, lemonade, tea, coffee, hot chocolate, hot dogs, sausages, nachos, tacos, popcorn. I purchased a taco as I wandered, and enjoyed trying to walk and eat at the same time.
And of course there were the people. Short ones, tall ones, stout ones, thin ones. With high voices, with deep voices, with nasal voices, with rich voices. With children. With dogs. Some, like me, wore a sweatshirt. Others had on jackets or sweaters. Several wore T-shirts.
When I finally turned back toward the bridge, my way took me by an entertainer who sang fairly interesting songs and told excessively corny jokes. The jokes were so bad that I really couldn’t help laughing at them. And on my last stop out of town, I dropped by that fudge booth and bought some fudge to take home.
There was one more stop. As I crossed the bridge again I stopped to enjoy the delightful view of the rounded hills, the surrounding farms, the houses and barns, the yellows and browns of ripe crops under the blue sky. I said to myself, “My gosh, this is so beautiful.” And then I realized. I had postponed my prayer journaling for this outing, but I had not neglected my Creator. He was of course in the beauty of the day and the ripening crops and the sunshine and the breeze. He was in the people I had seen, and the fruits of creation included the fruits of our creation, the foods and gadgets on display, for any creative act is generated by His creative energy. We too are the creation, and we too generate fruits of creation. I had spent all this time enjoying the creation with its Creator.
Two hours of prayer journaling wouldn’t have pointed that out to me as vividly as that moment on the bridge. I swung into my car, unwrapped the fudge, took a bite out of it, and headed for home.
It took me by surprise, therefore, when I decided recently to vary that routine.
I live in an area that has a small body of water called the Spoon River running through it. It would be totally unknown, in fact, if Edger Lee Masters hadn’t written the Spoon River Anthology. It is a small river, not very wide, not very long, with many small towns and villages on or close to its banks. The first two weekends in October are given over to something called the Scenic Drive, which features the towns along the river, fall foliage colors, craft fairs and food booths of many descriptions.
This year we had a streak of cloudy, rainy, unseasonably chilly weather for the Scenic Drive. There was only one really nice day to go to it, the Sunday of the first weekend in October. It was a perfect fall afternoon, clear blue sky with a few swirls and puffs of white cloud, mild in the sunlight but somewhat cool in the shade. There are always a number of places to decide on, but this year I wanted to go to a village close by me and take a look at the wares that were displayed. It felt at first like a rationalization when I decided to put off the prayer journaling until an evening during the week just so I could go on an outing, but the perfection of the day beckoned me.
When I got to the village, I grabbed a good parking place actually on the riverbank, in the paved area where boaters put their boats into the water. Just across the river was the town. I parked, walked across the bridge, and the first thing I saw was a booth advertising fresh fudge. Right away, I was glad I had come!
I wandered through the small downtown of the village. Well, it is small, but it holds a lot of booths every year. I saw sweaters, sweatshirts, kitchen towels, scarves, hats, jackets, blankets. There were metal things. There were wooden things. There were even fake electric guitars to be used as decorations. I admired home-grown squashes and tomatoes and nuts. My mouth watered as I looked at homemade jams, pies, local grown honey, homemade noodles and breads. Then there was food and drink to enjoy on the spot, lemonade, tea, coffee, hot chocolate, hot dogs, sausages, nachos, tacos, popcorn. I purchased a taco as I wandered, and enjoyed trying to walk and eat at the same time.
And of course there were the people. Short ones, tall ones, stout ones, thin ones. With high voices, with deep voices, with nasal voices, with rich voices. With children. With dogs. Some, like me, wore a sweatshirt. Others had on jackets or sweaters. Several wore T-shirts.
When I finally turned back toward the bridge, my way took me by an entertainer who sang fairly interesting songs and told excessively corny jokes. The jokes were so bad that I really couldn’t help laughing at them. And on my last stop out of town, I dropped by that fudge booth and bought some fudge to take home.
There was one more stop. As I crossed the bridge again I stopped to enjoy the delightful view of the rounded hills, the surrounding farms, the houses and barns, the yellows and browns of ripe crops under the blue sky. I said to myself, “My gosh, this is so beautiful.” And then I realized. I had postponed my prayer journaling for this outing, but I had not neglected my Creator. He was of course in the beauty of the day and the ripening crops and the sunshine and the breeze. He was in the people I had seen, and the fruits of creation included the fruits of our creation, the foods and gadgets on display, for any creative act is generated by His creative energy. We too are the creation, and we too generate fruits of creation. I had spent all this time enjoying the creation with its Creator.
Two hours of prayer journaling wouldn’t have pointed that out to me as vividly as that moment on the bridge. I swung into my car, unwrapped the fudge, took a bite out of it, and headed for home.
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Back At Work!
It was almost a comedown. After being laid off, and getting strongly supportive letters of reference from my employers, and sending an email to all my friends asking for prayer support, and applying for unemployment insurance, and trying to get a part-time job through a government program…I was called back.
By now, as I reflect on my first week back, it feels as though I had never left. It was good to see the people there again. Needless to say, it’s good to be earning my way again. But I realize that I was beginning to get seriously tired of some features of what I do for this company, and they are all still there.
Why do I say this was almost a comedown? Because I was looking ahead. Strengthening my spiritual practice. Seeking work that would make more of a difference in people’s lives. Using my time and energies for creative projects such as making an arrangement of an old hymn. It was a relief to be able to have time and energy for such things again. I had supposed they would call me back eventually, but I hadn’t expected it to happen so soon. Going back this soon felt like looking backward instead of forward.
So now I am left with saying: “Somehow, I will do these things anyway.”
Somehow is about how it feels, so far. But then, this is just the first week. I’m sure I will need some time to settle in. I race to make an hour or so in the evening for some piano practice, or some writing time, or – my goodness gracious – some meditation time. And a couple of weeks ago I had all the time I could have wanted for such things. I trust I will settle in here too.
And with all that said, there is a chance that I’ll be laid off again in a few weeks. My job consists of working on a specific project for a specific client of this company I work for, and the entire history of the project has featured unpredictability. We never know what is going to happen when. But there is also talk of training me on something new, which sounds like they are going to do their best to keep me around for a while.
I’m glad to be working. I enjoy the people I work with. The long commute gives me time for a lot of thinking and reflecting that goes on under the surface. That is good for me, however difficult it may be for my car and my gasoline budget.
So far, however, the whole scene feels like a huge exercise in surrender. Or detachment, if you prefer to use that word instead. Whatever you call it, it’s letting go. It’s doing the best I can there each day – and then coming home and doing the best I can here as well – and letting go of all the rest of it. So far, I would say it has all been sort of uneven, but it should improve as time goes along.
After all, somehow I will do it.
Somehow.
By now, as I reflect on my first week back, it feels as though I had never left. It was good to see the people there again. Needless to say, it’s good to be earning my way again. But I realize that I was beginning to get seriously tired of some features of what I do for this company, and they are all still there.
Why do I say this was almost a comedown? Because I was looking ahead. Strengthening my spiritual practice. Seeking work that would make more of a difference in people’s lives. Using my time and energies for creative projects such as making an arrangement of an old hymn. It was a relief to be able to have time and energy for such things again. I had supposed they would call me back eventually, but I hadn’t expected it to happen so soon. Going back this soon felt like looking backward instead of forward.
So now I am left with saying: “Somehow, I will do these things anyway.”
Somehow is about how it feels, so far. But then, this is just the first week. I’m sure I will need some time to settle in. I race to make an hour or so in the evening for some piano practice, or some writing time, or – my goodness gracious – some meditation time. And a couple of weeks ago I had all the time I could have wanted for such things. I trust I will settle in here too.
And with all that said, there is a chance that I’ll be laid off again in a few weeks. My job consists of working on a specific project for a specific client of this company I work for, and the entire history of the project has featured unpredictability. We never know what is going to happen when. But there is also talk of training me on something new, which sounds like they are going to do their best to keep me around for a while.
I’m glad to be working. I enjoy the people I work with. The long commute gives me time for a lot of thinking and reflecting that goes on under the surface. That is good for me, however difficult it may be for my car and my gasoline budget.
So far, however, the whole scene feels like a huge exercise in surrender. Or detachment, if you prefer to use that word instead. Whatever you call it, it’s letting go. It’s doing the best I can there each day – and then coming home and doing the best I can here as well – and letting go of all the rest of it. So far, I would say it has all been sort of uneven, but it should improve as time goes along.
After all, somehow I will do it.
Somehow.
Friday, August 7, 2009
What Is Old Age Anyway?
For several years now, I have been struggling with an affliction that I could call “outdated views of old age.” When I was growing up back in the 1950s, 60 years old was “really up there.” Today, that has changed dramatically. Now, 60 is “the new 50.” I have had trouble grasping that.
There is a government program that promises to help “mature” unemployed workers find part-time jobs. In my recently unemployed condition, I decided to go to the local office for this program and see if I could find some work to help tide me over. I am mature, I am unemployed, and I supposed that was all that is required to take advantage of this program.
The lady who runs this program is herself quite mature; she’s in her 80s. I bit back the old cliché that she is well preserved. But she is. She and I have visited quite a little over the two weeks that we’ve known each other; like me, she can’t really afford to retire. And she didn’t care for retirement very much when she tried it, anyway. I had thought this lady was around 72 until she told me she is 81! And at that moment I began to see something new.
I have been uncertain about how I feel as I contemplate continuing to work at an age when most of my contemporaries are retired and enjoying their freedom. To be honest, I have had more than a tinge of self-pity about it. My life has been one of inner searching, not accumulation of retirement funds, let alone anything resembling monetary wealth. There has been no career, no high-paying jobs; now I near retirement age with an exceedingly slim balance in one savings account, no IRA, no investments. I cannot afford to retire. And I have a Ph.D. Even though I realize that this situation is the result of my own choices, somehow it doesn’t seem right.
But after meeting this lady at the government program’s office, I see another side to it. Continued activity. Challenges. Things that will keep me physically healthy and mentally alert as I move on into those “golden years.” There’s nothing wrong with doing things that keep me healthy and alert as long as possible. My only request is that I might find work that does more than just build a bottom line for a cadre of anonymous shareholders.
As it turned out, I am too rich (although I can’t afford to retire) to qualify for this program. All the time and work to register produced nothing. The job interview I got through the program led to nothing, although I think the people wanted to hire me. That’s what happens to me when I try to get help from the programs I have paid taxes into.
But the opportunity to get acquainted with that 81-year-old lady, who enjoys working and likes the way it helps her stay spry and alert, taught me something. That makes the entire fiasco worth the time I spent there. I know now that age really can be just a number. I’ve been writing myself off based on ideas about old age that just don’t hold true today. Now - I don’t do that any more.
The disappointment was worth that.
There is a government program that promises to help “mature” unemployed workers find part-time jobs. In my recently unemployed condition, I decided to go to the local office for this program and see if I could find some work to help tide me over. I am mature, I am unemployed, and I supposed that was all that is required to take advantage of this program.
The lady who runs this program is herself quite mature; she’s in her 80s. I bit back the old cliché that she is well preserved. But she is. She and I have visited quite a little over the two weeks that we’ve known each other; like me, she can’t really afford to retire. And she didn’t care for retirement very much when she tried it, anyway. I had thought this lady was around 72 until she told me she is 81! And at that moment I began to see something new.
I have been uncertain about how I feel as I contemplate continuing to work at an age when most of my contemporaries are retired and enjoying their freedom. To be honest, I have had more than a tinge of self-pity about it. My life has been one of inner searching, not accumulation of retirement funds, let alone anything resembling monetary wealth. There has been no career, no high-paying jobs; now I near retirement age with an exceedingly slim balance in one savings account, no IRA, no investments. I cannot afford to retire. And I have a Ph.D. Even though I realize that this situation is the result of my own choices, somehow it doesn’t seem right.
But after meeting this lady at the government program’s office, I see another side to it. Continued activity. Challenges. Things that will keep me physically healthy and mentally alert as I move on into those “golden years.” There’s nothing wrong with doing things that keep me healthy and alert as long as possible. My only request is that I might find work that does more than just build a bottom line for a cadre of anonymous shareholders.
As it turned out, I am too rich (although I can’t afford to retire) to qualify for this program. All the time and work to register produced nothing. The job interview I got through the program led to nothing, although I think the people wanted to hire me. That’s what happens to me when I try to get help from the programs I have paid taxes into.
But the opportunity to get acquainted with that 81-year-old lady, who enjoys working and likes the way it helps her stay spry and alert, taught me something. That makes the entire fiasco worth the time I spent there. I know now that age really can be just a number. I’ve been writing myself off based on ideas about old age that just don’t hold true today. Now - I don’t do that any more.
The disappointment was worth that.
Friday, July 24, 2009
Life Lessons in Free Cell
As a newly unemployed person (was laid off a couple of weeks ago) I am faced with a bunch of activities that I am thoroughly tired of: searching want ads, printing off cover letters and resumes, examining my wardrobe for interview outfits. It is a scene that has produced very little for me over the years of my working life, and here I am – months away from retirement age – going through this again. I had hoped that job would hold me until I at least had the option of retiring.
I have been running away from those activities (until today) by indulging in my passion for Free Cell, which has replaced Spider Solitaire as my computer game addiction. I enjoy these games because they confront me with screens of playing cards in utter disorder, and the point of the game is to put them in order. I enjoy doing that.
But I have played Free Cell for so long now, and with such intensity, that the program usually gives me very difficult games. I don’t mind challenges, but I prefer them to offer me at least a ghost of a chance of success. And so, believe it or not, I am discovering life lessons in Free Cell.
My Source tells me frequently that I am impatient and that I try to force things to happen instead of just allowing them to unfold. Nowhere do I find that more evident than when I play Free Cell! The more thoroughly I look at the screen, the more slowly I go until I manage to find a move that opens the game up, the more patient I am as the game progresses – the more likely I am to win it, although it had seemed basically hopeless at the beginning. I have to be cautious, I have to tinker with the moves, and I even have to be sure they will lead to the result I desire which means I have to pay careful attention to details. And I must look ahead a few moves, not just rush forward.
There are often times, also, when I feel backed into a corner; I see no moves to make regardless of how I stare at the computer screen. Then, suddenly, as I am about to give up on the game, I see something that I had overlooked. I look carefully at it. Often it involves risk, but I try it. Voila!! The game falls open!
When I am playing this game patiently and allowing things to unfold, I win. And the moment when things look the darkest is the exact moment that I move the single card that throws the game open. Generally speaking, I win more games than I lose because of these factors.
Will that help me in the greater “game” of seeking sources of income? While I play this “game” called “looking for work” will it help if I am patient, pay attention to details, refuse to give up, and allow the results to play out however they will? I certainly feel backed into a corner; the local economy is downright depressed, and I’m competing with many younger people. I’m not sure I have much of a chance here. But it works in Free Cell. What do I have to lose?
I have been running away from those activities (until today) by indulging in my passion for Free Cell, which has replaced Spider Solitaire as my computer game addiction. I enjoy these games because they confront me with screens of playing cards in utter disorder, and the point of the game is to put them in order. I enjoy doing that.
But I have played Free Cell for so long now, and with such intensity, that the program usually gives me very difficult games. I don’t mind challenges, but I prefer them to offer me at least a ghost of a chance of success. And so, believe it or not, I am discovering life lessons in Free Cell.
My Source tells me frequently that I am impatient and that I try to force things to happen instead of just allowing them to unfold. Nowhere do I find that more evident than when I play Free Cell! The more thoroughly I look at the screen, the more slowly I go until I manage to find a move that opens the game up, the more patient I am as the game progresses – the more likely I am to win it, although it had seemed basically hopeless at the beginning. I have to be cautious, I have to tinker with the moves, and I even have to be sure they will lead to the result I desire which means I have to pay careful attention to details. And I must look ahead a few moves, not just rush forward.
There are often times, also, when I feel backed into a corner; I see no moves to make regardless of how I stare at the computer screen. Then, suddenly, as I am about to give up on the game, I see something that I had overlooked. I look carefully at it. Often it involves risk, but I try it. Voila!! The game falls open!
When I am playing this game patiently and allowing things to unfold, I win. And the moment when things look the darkest is the exact moment that I move the single card that throws the game open. Generally speaking, I win more games than I lose because of these factors.
Will that help me in the greater “game” of seeking sources of income? While I play this “game” called “looking for work” will it help if I am patient, pay attention to details, refuse to give up, and allow the results to play out however they will? I certainly feel backed into a corner; the local economy is downright depressed, and I’m competing with many younger people. I’m not sure I have much of a chance here. But it works in Free Cell. What do I have to lose?
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