This morning was wonderful. Cold. Not just crisp, but cold, bone-chilling, nose-running cold. Scraping frost off the windows of my car in a brisk wind. Wearing the warmest clothing I possess. You really need to do that when you sit in a warehouse at work.
But it started with last night.
During the Christmas weekend, I was visited by insomnia two nights out of four. Every other night was wakeful. It seemed to be the peak of a trend that has grown more and more obnoxious over the best part of a year.
Last night as bedtime approached I was thrumming with unwanted energy, tired but nowhere near ready to go to bed. I did centering prayer. I went to bed with Taize chants in my head. I was still having trouble getting to sleep and I dreaded the boredom of another sleepless night along with the resulting energy issues at work the next day. (When you have to drive 50-plus miles to get home, you don’t need energy issues at work.) Finally, trying to center, I felt compelled to talk with my Source…and was tongue-tied. No words wanted to come out. After a few moments I resorted to my prayer language, and for several minutes words spewed out of my mouth.
Finally I got to sleep. Slept heavily all night. Slow start this morning.
But I felt wonderful. Some inner work must have been going on in the night because there I was, out on the road on such a cold morning as the sun came up, and I felt so blessed I could hardly stand it. I really do not like being up so early. I love dawn, it is gorgeous and I love to watch the quality of light, but in my opinion it should all be happening at 10:00 am.
This morning it was downright splendid. All that frost on the trees, tall grasses, power lines, gleaming in the pre-dawn light. The golden pre-dawn glow reflected off sheds. The rising sun made the frost on the tops of the trees glow pink. It was a fine morning to be up so early. Somehow, the extra cold just made it more spectacular.
And I mused about lessons regarding surrender. I didn’t cause that to happen with the Christmas Eve duet, but in letting go of it I may have allowed it to happen, somehow. Maybe I’m starting to figure this principle out. Is that why I felt so good this morning? Released? As though something healed in the night, as I slept, after I said those things in my prayer language?
Yes, I know that this job is provision. I truly appreciate the provision. And this morning I realized that I’ve had a number of experiences that I can only call mystical, experiences I’ve never had before. I’ve had a few, yes, but since I began this job I have had several within a comparatively brief period of time. Something about this job, the work, the commuting time – two hours a day for thinking on some level beyond the conscious – something has opened me up to these experiences. Gratitude flooded me as I realized that my job has created this openness in me.
After the layoff last summer, I have continually struggled to accept going back to a job I had left behind in my heart and thoughts. Here is an excellent place to work on surrender. Detaching. Letting go. There is a belief that your thoughts create your reality. I think there’s some truth to that, although I’m not yet convinced that it “explains everything.” I believe the spoken word also plays its part.
But my Source has taught me that as long as I cling to something, especially with any kind of negative thoughts or feelings, I’m holding the thing in place. I have to let go of it, entirely, before it will have any chance to change. Now, with this incident about the duet, I have seen the principle working and providing such prompt results that I can’t possibly miss the connection. The only thing I will desire to hold onto about this job is the openness it has created within me. The rest I can let go of.
So this is grand. I can begin 2010 by applying something I have learned. Often, for me, the learning is the easy part. Applying it is the place where I fall flat on my, well, you know. It’s a lesson I truly feel grateful for. And it gives me a strong, positive way to begin this brand new year.
And what the heck. I have two hours every day, five days a week, of “inner work time.” That ought to help me make some progress.
This looks like an interesting year!
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
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!
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Being Different
On the way to work the other morning, in a dense fog (I mean a real fog, not a mental one), I was singing along with the radio. In fact, I found myself singing about Rudolph, the red-nosed reindeer. It’s a cute song, and we all know it. If it contains a lesson, it is this: The individual who isn’t like everyone else still has value.
That morning, I began to think about all the things it says.
Have you really noticed how the song starts? The other reindeer make fun of poor Rudolph because he has such a funny nose. They laugh at him. They also discriminate against him, not inviting him to play with them. The poor little guy is left all alone, without friends, soaking in unhappiness.
But then one day…they need him. Ah! What a difference that makes! “Oh, Rudolph, won’t you help us tonight so we don’t run ourselves into any mountains or airliners?” “Pretty please?” Rudolph graciously consents to guide the sleigh, and he comes through. All of a sudden, he is popular. Even legendary, for he will go down in history.
Don’t you wonder how it would have turned out if Rudolph had said, “Well, if I’m not good enough to play with you, I’m not good enough to guide the sleigh.” You wouldn’t blame him if he made them beg him to help. The fact that he didn’t do that reflects his goodness. Or it may simply reflect the fact that it was Santa, not the other reindeer, who asked him. Even at the North Pole, you don’t say No to your boss.
And don’t you wonder what the other reindeer did after the excitement wore off? Did they start to like Rudolph? Did they remember that he had value? O or did they just go back to making fun of him and shutting him out of the games?
I hope that, after the story in the song is over, Rudolph became permanently accepted into the herd. If the reindeer continued to reflect human nature, however, that happy ending wasn’t guaranteed.
For this song reflects our own nature. We discriminate against those who are different from the majority. That means there is a whole bunch of discriminating that we do – on the basis of race, skin color, religious belief, sexual orientation and/or lifestyle. And if we need these folks, we use them and then we frequently throw them out with the trash when the need has passed. And the only thing “wrong” with them is that they aren’t like us. They are Different.
We live in a time, however, when some people have a different conception of the way the universe is set up, and they make an astonishing claim: We are not separate at all. We are actually all One, One with the universe and with each other. It erases our differences. You can’t be serious. We’re all One? You’re not kidding me? You mean I have no genuine reason to discriminate against anyone else?
Well, we all put our shoes on one foot at a time, as far as I know, and we all bleed red stuff. That ought to go toward confirming this concept.
Today is Christmas Eve. Today and tomorrow are the days when we celebrate that man who is hailed as the Prince of Peace. It isn’t about presents or feasts or even being with family. It’s about love. Peace. God’s toward us, and ours to share with one another. The way Jesus did – with everyone.
Even if they are different. Especially if they are different. The different ones have the greatest need.
Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer would say the same thing.
Merry Christmas!
That morning, I began to think about all the things it says.
Have you really noticed how the song starts? The other reindeer make fun of poor Rudolph because he has such a funny nose. They laugh at him. They also discriminate against him, not inviting him to play with them. The poor little guy is left all alone, without friends, soaking in unhappiness.
But then one day…they need him. Ah! What a difference that makes! “Oh, Rudolph, won’t you help us tonight so we don’t run ourselves into any mountains or airliners?” “Pretty please?” Rudolph graciously consents to guide the sleigh, and he comes through. All of a sudden, he is popular. Even legendary, for he will go down in history.
Don’t you wonder how it would have turned out if Rudolph had said, “Well, if I’m not good enough to play with you, I’m not good enough to guide the sleigh.” You wouldn’t blame him if he made them beg him to help. The fact that he didn’t do that reflects his goodness. Or it may simply reflect the fact that it was Santa, not the other reindeer, who asked him. Even at the North Pole, you don’t say No to your boss.
And don’t you wonder what the other reindeer did after the excitement wore off? Did they start to like Rudolph? Did they remember that he had value? O or did they just go back to making fun of him and shutting him out of the games?
I hope that, after the story in the song is over, Rudolph became permanently accepted into the herd. If the reindeer continued to reflect human nature, however, that happy ending wasn’t guaranteed.
For this song reflects our own nature. We discriminate against those who are different from the majority. That means there is a whole bunch of discriminating that we do – on the basis of race, skin color, religious belief, sexual orientation and/or lifestyle. And if we need these folks, we use them and then we frequently throw them out with the trash when the need has passed. And the only thing “wrong” with them is that they aren’t like us. They are Different.
We live in a time, however, when some people have a different conception of the way the universe is set up, and they make an astonishing claim: We are not separate at all. We are actually all One, One with the universe and with each other. It erases our differences. You can’t be serious. We’re all One? You’re not kidding me? You mean I have no genuine reason to discriminate against anyone else?
Well, we all put our shoes on one foot at a time, as far as I know, and we all bleed red stuff. That ought to go toward confirming this concept.
Today is Christmas Eve. Today and tomorrow are the days when we celebrate that man who is hailed as the Prince of Peace. It isn’t about presents or feasts or even being with family. It’s about love. Peace. God’s toward us, and ours to share with one another. The way Jesus did – with everyone.
Even if they are different. Especially if they are different. The different ones have the greatest need.
Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer would say the same thing.
Merry Christmas!
Saturday, December 19, 2009
Another View
After all that I said a few weeks ago about people having a fear-based relationship with God, even as I acknowledged that traditional Christians can have a love-based relationship with God individually even though the theology is still based in fear…I have found a person who clearly has a love-based relationship with what we call God.
Recently I spoke with this lady while we were on break at work. We are acquainted with each other. We have seen each other around the building for several months, briefly visited in the break room, gotten to know each other a little. When I ask her how she is, she tends to say that she is blessed. (What a lovely way to be! It’s positive, which is all people really want to hear, and it’s still personal.) She was collecting stuff for a mission project abroad last summer, and when I hinted for more information, she said, “I didn’t want to go there, but God said, “Yes, you do.’” I laughed and replied, “Well, if God says you should go, then you should,” and she agreed. (Do I think we are commanded? Not as such. But if you love God, and you believe He is telling you to do something, then you need to do it in order to be true to the love you hold for God. I don’t look on it as Obedience, but that doesn’t mean I do it for the relationship and for personal growth, not just to Obey.)
I saw her yesterday in the ladies room and asked her in the usual way how she was, and she replied, “I’m blessed, I know it, and I thank God for it!” I’ve heard her give several variations on that theme, so I wasn’t surprised by this response. But then the conversation expanded.
“We really are blessed,” I said, “and so many people take it for granted. Just being able to walk or breathe normally is such a blessing, and we take those things for granted.”
She replied, “I’m trying not to, and I hope God knows that because I keep trying to remember to tell Him so.”
“He knows your heart,” I said. At this point I want to add a clarification. I can talk to traditional Christians (and she is one, I know which church she attends) in their language because I am still comfortable in it as long as it doesn’t have to be conceptualized in certain ways. And God, whatever it actually is that we call God, certainly does know our hearts and minds and thoughts.
“He’s so great!” she exclaimed. “I love Him so much!”
“I know,” I said. “You just keep reaching and reaching for Him and you can’t get close enough.”
She understood that. “And it’s eternal!” she added, pumping her fist the way athletes do.
“And eternity starts now,” I added. “We don’t even have to wait until we die.”
“Yes!!” And we both pumped our fists.
I thought a lot about that exchange throughout the rest of the day. This friend belongs to a fairly conservative denomination and she still conceptualizes the Creator in traditional ways. I know that because of the other things I’ve heard her say from time to time. Even so, she has the energy and enthusiasm of love, and she clearly knows that this is a 24/7/365 commitment, not just a “one or two hours on Sunday and then life goes back to normal after church” type of thing. She clearly has a love-based relationship with the Higher Power that the 12-step programs talk about, the Creator that I talk about, God or Jesus that the traditional church talks about. She has met and responded to Eternal Unconditional Love.
It’s the Love and our relationship with its Source and all the creation that matters. Knowing you are loved, responding with your own love. That’s what “salvation” is all about. It doesn’t matter what we call it or how we conceptualize it. The theology is still based in fear. But guess what. Perfect love can cast out fear.
Yes! [Pump fist!]
Recently I spoke with this lady while we were on break at work. We are acquainted with each other. We have seen each other around the building for several months, briefly visited in the break room, gotten to know each other a little. When I ask her how she is, she tends to say that she is blessed. (What a lovely way to be! It’s positive, which is all people really want to hear, and it’s still personal.) She was collecting stuff for a mission project abroad last summer, and when I hinted for more information, she said, “I didn’t want to go there, but God said, “Yes, you do.’” I laughed and replied, “Well, if God says you should go, then you should,” and she agreed. (Do I think we are commanded? Not as such. But if you love God, and you believe He is telling you to do something, then you need to do it in order to be true to the love you hold for God. I don’t look on it as Obedience, but that doesn’t mean I do it for the relationship and for personal growth, not just to Obey.)
I saw her yesterday in the ladies room and asked her in the usual way how she was, and she replied, “I’m blessed, I know it, and I thank God for it!” I’ve heard her give several variations on that theme, so I wasn’t surprised by this response. But then the conversation expanded.
“We really are blessed,” I said, “and so many people take it for granted. Just being able to walk or breathe normally is such a blessing, and we take those things for granted.”
She replied, “I’m trying not to, and I hope God knows that because I keep trying to remember to tell Him so.”
“He knows your heart,” I said. At this point I want to add a clarification. I can talk to traditional Christians (and she is one, I know which church she attends) in their language because I am still comfortable in it as long as it doesn’t have to be conceptualized in certain ways. And God, whatever it actually is that we call God, certainly does know our hearts and minds and thoughts.
“He’s so great!” she exclaimed. “I love Him so much!”
“I know,” I said. “You just keep reaching and reaching for Him and you can’t get close enough.”
She understood that. “And it’s eternal!” she added, pumping her fist the way athletes do.
“And eternity starts now,” I added. “We don’t even have to wait until we die.”
“Yes!!” And we both pumped our fists.
I thought a lot about that exchange throughout the rest of the day. This friend belongs to a fairly conservative denomination and she still conceptualizes the Creator in traditional ways. I know that because of the other things I’ve heard her say from time to time. Even so, she has the energy and enthusiasm of love, and she clearly knows that this is a 24/7/365 commitment, not just a “one or two hours on Sunday and then life goes back to normal after church” type of thing. She clearly has a love-based relationship with the Higher Power that the 12-step programs talk about, the Creator that I talk about, God or Jesus that the traditional church talks about. She has met and responded to Eternal Unconditional Love.
It’s the Love and our relationship with its Source and all the creation that matters. Knowing you are loved, responding with your own love. That’s what “salvation” is all about. It doesn’t matter what we call it or how we conceptualize it. The theology is still based in fear. But guess what. Perfect love can cast out fear.
Yes! [Pump fist!]
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!
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