I'm spinning on one of those playground toys that goes around and around. If it slows someone jumps off and pushes it faster and faster before jumping back on. Sitting in the middle, the centrifugal force makes my head roll around in slow motion, nodding forward then leaning back and then forward and back. I'm dizzy, but it is going too fast to jump off. It slows and I want to make the leap but just then it is pushed again until the scenery is just a blur and I don't dare escape.
The Christmas lights went up just after Halloween this year and now on the last day of December they are being replaced with Valentine's day decorations. Store shelves that only a week ago held last-minute discounts on Christmas supplies are now draped in red and pink with hearts and chocolates and cardboard cupids. Next the Easter bunny will rest briefly on those shelves. Before we know it the stores will be a blast of red, white and blue as we approach that uniquely American July day of celebration. Then it is back-to-school clothes and supplies, just about the time we are ready to start wearing shorts and swimsuits in the summer sunshine. And on and on it goes.
My e-mail box was loaded with Black Friday deals, then Cyber-Monday price-slashing followed by discounts that grew deeper and deeper as Christmas approached. By evening on December 25th, the ads had switched to after-Christmas deals at "rock bottom prices." Some people shop on the 26th to get cheap gifts they will give a year from now, stocking up on half-priced wrapping paper and Christmas cards that will be stored away and forgotten when it comes time to use it all. And soon, about three weeks into actual Winter, the spring clothes will be out and it will be a frenzy of winter clearance sales.
My Oprah magazine arrives promising that 2014 is my year to shine - inside I will learn how to "brighten everything from my mood to my style, one easy tweak at a time." There is a diet quiz that I can take and on page 130 I'll find "Oprah's Foolproof Stress Cure." There is The secret to a great makeover and an "inspiring, powerful," new novel that Oprah has discovered. I am worn out just reading the front cover. Oprah has such high expectations. Inside I am introduced to a few of her favorite things, a "Gratitude Meter," and a plan for finding joy. Phew! In this single issue I might find the power to really get my life together.
I want off. I want to stop spinning. Who is pushing this thing anyhow? Clearly corporate America alone has the strength to make the Merry-Go-Round spin faster and faster without stopping. And I have realized that every time I buy something that I don't need, I am adding strength to the push. Each time I see an advertisement and believe that my life will be just a little bit better if only I had one more..., or a newer version....or a smaller or bigger or faster or shinier - whatever, I help the Merry-Go-Round spin.
And so I am going to focus on getting off of this thing. I am tired of being dizzy and all this head bobbing is clearly not good for the mind in the long-term. I want to put my foot out and drag it in the dirt to try and slow the rotation enough to jump off. I won't take advantage of the after-Christmas or winter-clearance offerings. Even if a shirt is only $10, that is $10 I don't need to spend because I already have too many shirts that I never wear. I don't need more books on my Kindle - I have enough to keep reading for a year or two and even at $1.99, I don't need to add to my collection. When I run out of things to read I'm sure I'll find a deal or two that will help me re-load my library.
I am not making any resolutions for 2014 - even that is some idea thought up to make us all feel inadequate so that we spend more money trying to feel better about ourselves. Joining gyms, buying into diet programs, spending hundreds of dollars on containers so that we'll be more organized - if I want to get fit, lose weight or manage my junk, I can do that in March, or perhaps October - there is nothing powerful about January 1st.
So my effort to slow down the Merry-Go-Round is not a resolution, it is more of a leap towards greater peace. I know what makes me happy (in no particular order):
Hiking
Cooking
Time with Sam
Growing my own herbs and vegetables
Writing
Visits from the kids
Time with small groups of friends
Photos
Reading
Traveling
None of my truest happiness depends on things. There is not a discount available that will enrich any of the activities listed above. I'm letting my Oprah subscription expire- even that I tried to do a year ago but I was sent deal after deal until I finally bit. She offered me a bag of some sort if I renewed my subscription at the low price of $12 for a year, but I had to hurry because there was a limited number of bags. I kicked myself when the cheap, and not very attractive, bag arrived and then the monthly dose of what-I-should-be-doing hype. Not this year Oprah - I'm on to you and I am also done with you. I'm certain I will find more joy on my own than in the pages of a perfumed periodical.
I suspect this will take time. If I put my foot out while spinning at a fast speed I might catch it on something and have to climb back on for a few revolutions. I know that dragging my foot will kick up dust and those on the Merry-Go-Round might yell at me to either get off or get back on. But I will do it. I can't shake the image now and I feel empowered at the idea of eventually walking away while most will continue to spin and spin until they can no longer think straight.
Tuesday, December 31, 2013
Thursday, June 27, 2013
The Body in the Water
As I
approached the intersection I noticed two police cars parked on the bridge
across the street. "Crime Scene" tape blocked the sidewalk so I
crossed to the other side of the street and then crossed to the bridge. A crowd was gathering above the stream and
curiosity got the best of me. Once past
the police cars and crime tape, I jogged across to where others were
standing. A small group of smokers
leaned along the railing looking into the stream. I asked one woman what was going on and she
gestured with her cigarette, "there's a body in the water." I looked, while dodging the smoke that
drifted towards me. Sure enough, there
was a body in the water.
If I had
seen it on my own it would have taken a few minutes to recognize what I was
seeing. It was face down, snagged in a
tree limb that had washed down stream in the fullness of the spring
current. I noticed that the back was
broad and commented, "It looks like a man;" the woman gestured again pointing out that it
was only wearing a "G-string."
Sure enough, there was a thong. It was then that I fully realized that
the body was naked, except for the thong, and that the pale grey color was
actually skin and the broad back was the result of bloating.
I left
the smokers and walked around the park imagining life-stories that would end
with a body naked, bloated, snagged on a tree limb in a foot of water. Was she a hooker? A drug addict? A run-away.
Did anyone miss her? Had her life
been considered disposable by others? How does a person end up this way?
Headed
back to work I saw that the group was still gathered so I stopped to see if
they knew anymore. By now the stench of
death hung heavily in the air. I wanted
to get away from it, but that seemed disrespectful. I got to the railing just as the firemen
climbed into the water with the yellow body bag. They struggled to free the body from the tree
limb and eventually flopped it into the bag.
I noticed that the arms and legs were thin; I couldn't see a head. The woman next to me declared, "It doesn't
have a head!"
Back in
the office I checked the "Statesman Journal" online for an article
about the dead body. The same day a man
drowned in the Clackamas river and that was reported, but nothing about my dead
body.
It wasn't
until the early hours of the next morning when I woke in the dark and pictured
the body that I felt at all creepy about it.
And only for a minute. Mostly I
felt sadness, curiosity, fascination and an odd sense of honor. I felt honored to have been able to witness
this person's end. I felt like I wanted
to extend some sort of respect and dignity to whoever it was. I wanted their life to have mattered in some
way, to someone. I didn't want them to
be forgotten. I'll never forget.
The next
afternoon there was finally a story in the paper. It turns out the body was a man. So much for assuming that only women wear
thongs. He was described as 5' 6"
and 144 pounds. Much smaller than he
appeared while bloated. That explained
the thin limbs. The description said he
had no teeth. Which means he DID have a
head. There was no physical trauma to
the body so homicide was not suspected.
So much was different than what I thought I had observed from only a few
feet away. The police asked for help
identifying him as he did not match any missing person reports. They thought he had been in the water
"for some time." I was
sad. How could you be dead for
"some time," and not have anyone file a missing person report?
By the
next day he had been identified. He was a 28 year old transient. His name was Lole Rubio Zendejas. His family came forward based on the
description and the police were able to get a fingerprint. He had a long rap sheet and had a reputation
for jumping into this same stream to get away from the police. He had been a drug addict.
Many
would probably lose interest at this point.
A homeless druggie, oh well. The
news stories focused on the irony that he had used the stream to evade police. But I thought about his mother, and his
sisters, and his cousin who was quoted in the paper talking about how they had
played as kids. At some point in his
life he had been loved and cared for.
But by the age of 28 he had been given up on. He was homeless; how does that happen unless
your family has given up? His cousin
said that he thought he had been clean for 7 months. What happened? Did he use again and just go for broke and
this is how it ended?
It has
been a week now and I continue to think about him throughout the day. Life is precious in many ways. But it can end
so easily. I place such value on the
lives of those I love, and on my own life.
Safety, health and exercise are priorities to me because I want to care
for my body. I want to live a long
life. I think about how I spend my time
and whether or not I will make a positive contribution to this world. But life can be taken from us so easily.
Our
bodies are just shells that house our spirits for a time. This thing that we groom and dress up and
fuss over is temporary. Under the best
of circumstances it will age, get wrinkly and spotted; flesh will sag and hair
will turn grey. Many are taken before
their bodies deteriorate.
What I
saw in the water was not Lole Rubio Zendejas.
It was just a body. I hope that
his spirit has found some peace and that his family will sense that.
Friday, November 2, 2012
Three Years and One Week
On October 26, 2009 I sent off a letter and $20 to the US Immigration and Naturalization folks in search of the date when Sam's grandfather became a US Citizen. This was the piece of information needed to determine if Sam was eligible for dual citizenship. The following August we received the letter back verifying that Sam's father was born 4 years before his own father, Salvatore, became a US Citizen. Sam was eligible!
That was the start of the journey and with the great assistance of Peter Farina (italyMondo.com) we were able to gather all of the required documents. A trip to Italy in the fall of 2011 helped to speed things along, and two weeks ago Sam was fingerprinted by the representative from the San Francisco Italian Consulate.
Today, three years and one week after that first inquiry, Sam has received his Italian passport! And with that, I can now apply for citizenship as well.
I'm excited!
That was the start of the journey and with the great assistance of Peter Farina (italyMondo.com) we were able to gather all of the required documents. A trip to Italy in the fall of 2011 helped to speed things along, and two weeks ago Sam was fingerprinted by the representative from the San Francisco Italian Consulate.
Today, three years and one week after that first inquiry, Sam has received his Italian passport! And with that, I can now apply for citizenship as well.
I'm excited!
Sunday, October 14, 2012
My Pacific Northwest Mediterranean Life
I am not living in Europe - yet. Sam is now officially a dual Italian/United States citizen, and I have all but one document required to apply for Italian Citizenship through marriage, but there are no plans to move across the pond in the near future. Nevertheless, I do my best to live as I imagine I would if I was living in Italy, or Spain. I see myself either in a small village with a garden plot someplace on the edge of town, or in a simple country house with a garden and chickens and olive and fruit trees.
Here is Salem, Oregon I have a garden and blueberry bushes and raspberries, and a fig tree. What I don't have is enough sunshine, but we are able to produce some great vegetables and fruit during the summer-like window we do get. This year we were fortunate and enjoyed sunshine from mid-July until last week. The pepper crop was huge and we have tomatoes piled in bowls all over the counter. For at least three weeks in late August and into September we ate aubergines with every dinner - mostly slathered in olive oil and grilled to a crisp.
Numerous batches of San Marzano tomatoes are dried and bowl after bowl of gazpacho has been eaten. Pepper ristras dried in the sunshine for several weeks, and now they hang in front of the sliding glass door, in case the sun shines again. The figs were not abundant this year so we ate all of them fresh- right off the tree, competing with a creature-of-the-night who stole the low-hanging fruit before we got to it.
I even hang my laundry to dry on a rack like the ones we used in our various apartments around Italy. Some days I drag it out into the sunshine, but most of the year the clothes are hung to dry behind the couch, near the overhead heating vent. Still - I enjoy the ritual of hanging my clothes.
And to top off my efforts to live like an Italian peasant - this past Friday I spent the day picking grapes at a local vineyard. While throughout Italy the Vendemmia was being celebrated with harvesting, stomping and drinking, and in Spain families were coming together for the Vendimia - I worked in the pouring Oregon rain for seven hours along with about 10 other middle-aged white folks - all members of the particular winery's "wine club."
It was hard work, exaggerated by the rain and wind and chill, and two days later the back muscles continue to reminisce. While we slowly labored up and down the rows of dark pinot noir fruit, the hired work crews came and rapidly stripped the vines of the tight, sweet clusters of grapes. The men and women are paid by the bucket and they defy the limitations of the human body - running up and down the rows, somehow holding the five gallon buckets between their legs while they cut clump after clump of ripe fruit. The crews move from vineyard to vineyard, each individual doing the work that ten of us together would accomplish that day. While we were motivated by the adventure - the fun of participating in the process, and by the promised t-shirts and wine at the end of the day, these Mexican workers are motivated only by the need to earn money - much of which they will send back to family in Mexico.
I was reminded of my childhood. Dad was a mushroom farmer and I would occasionally pick mushrooms beside the hired workers. I was paid 25 cents a basket and it would take me a longgggg time to fill a basket, while the men around me were a blur of white as they pulled up the mushroom and cut off the stump, dropping the mushroom into one basket while the stump fell into another - all in one flowing motion. I respected the men who worked for my dad. They were patient when I practiced my very limited Spanish with them - but they were there to work, and they never failed to show up and work hard.
And so I will continue to seek out tastes of what I imagine a life in Italy would offer. I cook Italian meals, I read books and blogs about living in Italy and I practice my Italian - just-in-case we make a move. And I am blessed to have traveled to Italy (and Spain) several times, and will go again. Right now though, I will have an espresso and try to battle the chill that reminds me that I am living in the Pacific Northwest and not near the Mediterranean. Yet.
The photos loaded
In weird sizes. I need to learn more about the iPad blogger app.
.
Here is Salem, Oregon I have a garden and blueberry bushes and raspberries, and a fig tree. What I don't have is enough sunshine, but we are able to produce some great vegetables and fruit during the summer-like window we do get. This year we were fortunate and enjoyed sunshine from mid-July until last week. The pepper crop was huge and we have tomatoes piled in bowls all over the counter. For at least three weeks in late August and into September we ate aubergines with every dinner - mostly slathered in olive oil and grilled to a crisp.
Numerous batches of San Marzano tomatoes are dried and bowl after bowl of gazpacho has been eaten. Pepper ristras dried in the sunshine for several weeks, and now they hang in front of the sliding glass door, in case the sun shines again. The figs were not abundant this year so we ate all of them fresh- right off the tree, competing with a creature-of-the-night who stole the low-hanging fruit before we got to it.
I even hang my laundry to dry on a rack like the ones we used in our various apartments around Italy. Some days I drag it out into the sunshine, but most of the year the clothes are hung to dry behind the couch, near the overhead heating vent. Still - I enjoy the ritual of hanging my clothes.
And to top off my efforts to live like an Italian peasant - this past Friday I spent the day picking grapes at a local vineyard. While throughout Italy the Vendemmia was being celebrated with harvesting, stomping and drinking, and in Spain families were coming together for the Vendimia - I worked in the pouring Oregon rain for seven hours along with about 10 other middle-aged white folks - all members of the particular winery's "wine club."
It was hard work, exaggerated by the rain and wind and chill, and two days later the back muscles continue to reminisce. While we slowly labored up and down the rows of dark pinot noir fruit, the hired work crews came and rapidly stripped the vines of the tight, sweet clusters of grapes. The men and women are paid by the bucket and they defy the limitations of the human body - running up and down the rows, somehow holding the five gallon buckets between their legs while they cut clump after clump of ripe fruit. The crews move from vineyard to vineyard, each individual doing the work that ten of us together would accomplish that day. While we were motivated by the adventure - the fun of participating in the process, and by the promised t-shirts and wine at the end of the day, these Mexican workers are motivated only by the need to earn money - much of which they will send back to family in Mexico.
I was reminded of my childhood. Dad was a mushroom farmer and I would occasionally pick mushrooms beside the hired workers. I was paid 25 cents a basket and it would take me a longgggg time to fill a basket, while the men around me were a blur of white as they pulled up the mushroom and cut off the stump, dropping the mushroom into one basket while the stump fell into another - all in one flowing motion. I respected the men who worked for my dad. They were patient when I practiced my very limited Spanish with them - but they were there to work, and they never failed to show up and work hard.
And so I will continue to seek out tastes of what I imagine a life in Italy would offer. I cook Italian meals, I read books and blogs about living in Italy and I practice my Italian - just-in-case we make a move. And I am blessed to have traveled to Italy (and Spain) several times, and will go again. Right now though, I will have an espresso and try to battle the chill that reminds me that I am living in the Pacific Northwest and not near the Mediterranean. Yet.
The photos loaded
In weird sizes. I need to learn more about the iPad blogger app.
.
Saturday, February 4, 2012
Pro-life should mean Pro-life. Period
"Only in America can you be Pro-Death Penalty, Pro-War, Pro-Unmanned Drone Bombs, Pro-Nuclear Weapons, Pro-Guns, Pro-Torture, Pro-Land Mines, and STILL call yourself 'Pro-Life'." ~ John Fugelsang
Today, in response to a discussion about the recent reversal of the Komen Foundation’s decision to stop supporting Planned Parenthood and the idea that pro-life should include defending all life, I was told by a “pro-life” Christian:
I will not agree that the murder of innocent babies is comparable to the death penalty. Whereas those who have been legally convicted of a crime that is legally punishable by death, innocent babies are legally sentenced to death simply for the crime of being. There is no moral equivalency at all here.
This has caused me to reflect.
I suspect (and I have no researched statistics to prove this) that the majority of men and women on death row were once an un-wanted fetus. Probably conceived under difficult and un-planned circumstances, abused while still in the womb by alcohol and drugs that were being pumped into their unformed bodies and brains, and born into horrid worlds that we cannot even imagine. At what point did their life become less valuable than it was when he/she was a fetus?
Was it when their mother dragged them by one arm up to the grocery check out counter where she paid for Coke and Twinkies and chips with food-stamps? Or perhaps it was when they sat down next to one of our clean and cheery daughters in first grade and said “Fuck-you,” because that is the language they were used to hearing day and night at home.
Maybe their life became less valuable when they showed up dirty, without breakfast, not having done their homework, with head lice in the second grade. Or was it when they were suspended for having a fist-fight in the hallway at school because someone had made fun of their dirty clothing?
Maybe it was when they couldn’t go on the sixth grade class trip because mom didn’t sign the permission slip since she was passed out drunk the night before.
Did their life become less valuable than that of a fetus the day they started dealing drugs or turning tricks – having dropped out of school without anyone noticing or caring; now left to find acceptance, perhaps love, in any way possible?
Or was it the day that they used a gun and killed someone? Had they now reached the point where their life was worth less than that of a fetus?
Now on death row having lived a life of neglect, abuse and rejection – never having been asked how their day was or what they were learning at school, or whom they wanted to be when they grew up. Having lived a life where the only affection they ever experienced came from mom’s boyfriend or a stranger who was there to take away any innocence they had rather than to offer love. Now; now as they sit in a cell a horrible angry animal. Now their life is worth less than when they were a fetus.
The final human interaction they will experience is being strapped to a gurney where someone will give them the injection that frees them from the life of pain they have lived and caused.
That is much more moral than abortion?
Today, in response to a discussion about the recent reversal of the Komen Foundation’s decision to stop supporting Planned Parenthood and the idea that pro-life should include defending all life, I was told by a “pro-life” Christian:
I will not agree that the murder of innocent babies is comparable to the death penalty. Whereas those who have been legally convicted of a crime that is legally punishable by death, innocent babies are legally sentenced to death simply for the crime of being. There is no moral equivalency at all here.
This has caused me to reflect.
I suspect (and I have no researched statistics to prove this) that the majority of men and women on death row were once an un-wanted fetus. Probably conceived under difficult and un-planned circumstances, abused while still in the womb by alcohol and drugs that were being pumped into their unformed bodies and brains, and born into horrid worlds that we cannot even imagine. At what point did their life become less valuable than it was when he/she was a fetus?
Was it when their mother dragged them by one arm up to the grocery check out counter where she paid for Coke and Twinkies and chips with food-stamps? Or perhaps it was when they sat down next to one of our clean and cheery daughters in first grade and said “Fuck-you,” because that is the language they were used to hearing day and night at home.
Maybe their life became less valuable when they showed up dirty, without breakfast, not having done their homework, with head lice in the second grade. Or was it when they were suspended for having a fist-fight in the hallway at school because someone had made fun of their dirty clothing?
Maybe it was when they couldn’t go on the sixth grade class trip because mom didn’t sign the permission slip since she was passed out drunk the night before.
Did their life become less valuable than that of a fetus the day they started dealing drugs or turning tricks – having dropped out of school without anyone noticing or caring; now left to find acceptance, perhaps love, in any way possible?
Or was it the day that they used a gun and killed someone? Had they now reached the point where their life was worth less than that of a fetus?
Now on death row having lived a life of neglect, abuse and rejection – never having been asked how their day was or what they were learning at school, or whom they wanted to be when they grew up. Having lived a life where the only affection they ever experienced came from mom’s boyfriend or a stranger who was there to take away any innocence they had rather than to offer love. Now; now as they sit in a cell a horrible angry animal. Now their life is worth less than when they were a fetus.
The final human interaction they will experience is being strapped to a gurney where someone will give them the injection that frees them from the life of pain they have lived and caused.
That is much more moral than abortion?
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
Animal Medicine
Today while cleaning out files on my computer I found this, written about 10 years ago just after separating from my second husband.
I see the road behind you. It is a long road with many turns, dips and side-roads that dead-end. I see the path you followed and I see where you could have gone instead. I see the places where you chose to go one way at an intersection and avoided tragedy that waited down another un-chosen road.
I see the wounded travelers that you have helped along the way. I also see those you didn’t help because you were focused on avoiding falling rocks, or eroded sections of the road. I see the narrow places and the steep drop-offs where it took all you had not to go over the edge. I see the loose gravel where you started to slide, but managed to climb back up and resume your journey.
I see the road ahead; there are many roads and frequent intersections. I see dangers ahead on some of the roads, and I see smooth, scenic stretches on others. I don’t know what roads you will choose. They all have places where trees, or over-hanging rocks, or tunnels make is impossible for me to see the terrain. Each road has flat stretches, hills and gullies.
I see where you are standing now. You are in one of the most lovely places on your journey. I am glad that you stopped here to rest. I see the path that parallels the one you are on and from what I see ahead, you were fortunate to jump from the one path to the other.
There is so much to see where you are standing. Rest in the cool shade; bathe yourself in the pure waters. Sleep on the soft moss and drink from the fresh spring. There is no need to hurry from this place. There are no enemies approaching. Take as long as you need to rest; replenish and delight in the beautiful place your life has found.
Otter, why do you play so much when you need to focus on survival?
What is the purpose of survival if there is no time to play? I survive only so that I can play and I play so that I can survive. Food nourishes my body; I eat only what I need. Shelter provides safety for my family and a place to rest. All other time and space is to be celebrated and enjoyed.
It is the time spent playing that gives energy for my other responsibilities. During play the food I eat turns to muscle and fat which are needed in order for me to survive. When I float on my back I rest so that I have the reserves needed later to hunt and to care for my family.
Without play my life would be short. I would be worn out; too tired to defend myself or my family from predators. I would not have strength or energy to find food. I would not know the joy of being an otter.
I needed this message today.
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
Character is higher than intellect. ~Ralph Waldo Emerson
A couple weeks ago I found a sticky note on my car window when I went to drive home at the end of the work day.
I looked for the scratch, wondered whether it was her left or my left, looked again and, sure enough, there was a slight smudge on the bumper. I was stunned. Who does that anymore? Who actually owns up to backing into a car, especially if the damage was minimal - really I would not have noticed until I washed the car again (sometime next summer!) I called the number and it was one of our students (I work at a university). I suspect she thought I was a tad wacky as I went on and on about how much I appreciated her doing the right thing and leaving a note.
But then I got to wondering...why did this make such an impression on me? All she did was the "right" thing...but it was at the end of a week where I had been equally stunned by people NOT doing the "right" thing, which is the more common behavior these days.
I have always had a very clear sense of the absolute rightness or wrongness of certain behaviors. I credit my mother for this. I vividly remember being gathered up with my brothers to drive back to the milk store, twenty minutes away, because my mother realized that she had been given too much change. She told me once that her father would not park at a meter that still had time on it from the previous person because he did not believe that you should get something for nothing. He would have been benefiting from the expense of another.
A high-school friend recently reminded me of a talk that I gave during my senior year. This was a Christian school and all seniors were required to give a chapel talk once during the year. Apparently I spoke about integrity and I told the story of a man who had a job interview over dinner in a restaurant. At the end of the meal the man took a couple pats of butter (the kind that sit on the tiny square of cardboard with a square of waxy paper on top) and slipped them in the pocket of his jacket. The interview had gone very well, however he did not get the job. If he would take advantage of small things, how could be be trusted with great responsibilities? I don't remember the talk and I have no idea where I got that story from, but I found it amusing that I have always been this rigid. And then I was thankful. I called my mother and thanked her for the example she was to me even as a small child first developing a sense of right and wrong.
Does this mean that I have lived a life of unfailing integrity. No. Hardly! I have not always been honest. I have gone long periods living dis-honestly, but the conflict that caused inside landed me in therapy: for years. But even then, I had a rigidness about certain things and my own actions fell short of who I really was.
I believe that at the core, people are good. Small children have a sharp sense of being "good" or "bad." But in time this internal compass gets beaten up until for many it no longer points in the right direction and that intrinsic guide gets lost. From the start I told my kids to pay attention to how they felt inside. When they would do something, good or bad, I would ask how it made them feel. But I believe many kids are numbed because regardless of what they are feeling inside, they are seeing the contrary lived out around them. Or they are directed only by the fear of consequences, so they learn at an early age to succeed at hiding things, rather than to just do the right thing.
But this is all on my mind because of the unethical behavior of some adults. I have recently witnessed a person in a significant position of authority come up with a neat little plan to take advantage; to get something for nothing, and this has required the "buy-in" of several others. The work-arounds required make it clear that those involved know this is absolutely wrong, perhaps illegal, but clearly the small gain is worth that risk? Regardless, it is just wrong. I need to determine what to do with my knowledge of the situation.
I scratched your car. Backed into it. Left side, front tireish. Have meeting, here's my # ....
I looked for the scratch, wondered whether it was her left or my left, looked again and, sure enough, there was a slight smudge on the bumper. I was stunned. Who does that anymore? Who actually owns up to backing into a car, especially if the damage was minimal - really I would not have noticed until I washed the car again (sometime next summer!) I called the number and it was one of our students (I work at a university). I suspect she thought I was a tad wacky as I went on and on about how much I appreciated her doing the right thing and leaving a note.
But then I got to wondering...why did this make such an impression on me? All she did was the "right" thing...but it was at the end of a week where I had been equally stunned by people NOT doing the "right" thing, which is the more common behavior these days.
The measure of a man's real character is what he would do if he knew he never would be found out. ~Thomas Babington Macaulay
I have always had a very clear sense of the absolute rightness or wrongness of certain behaviors. I credit my mother for this. I vividly remember being gathered up with my brothers to drive back to the milk store, twenty minutes away, because my mother realized that she had been given too much change. She told me once that her father would not park at a meter that still had time on it from the previous person because he did not believe that you should get something for nothing. He would have been benefiting from the expense of another.
A high-school friend recently reminded me of a talk that I gave during my senior year. This was a Christian school and all seniors were required to give a chapel talk once during the year. Apparently I spoke about integrity and I told the story of a man who had a job interview over dinner in a restaurant. At the end of the meal the man took a couple pats of butter (the kind that sit on the tiny square of cardboard with a square of waxy paper on top) and slipped them in the pocket of his jacket. The interview had gone very well, however he did not get the job. If he would take advantage of small things, how could be be trusted with great responsibilities? I don't remember the talk and I have no idea where I got that story from, but I found it amusing that I have always been this rigid. And then I was thankful. I called my mother and thanked her for the example she was to me even as a small child first developing a sense of right and wrong.
Does this mean that I have lived a life of unfailing integrity. No. Hardly! I have not always been honest. I have gone long periods living dis-honestly, but the conflict that caused inside landed me in therapy: for years. But even then, I had a rigidness about certain things and my own actions fell short of who I really was.
When I do good, I feel good. When I do bad, I feel bad. That's my religion. ~Abraham Lincoln
I believe that at the core, people are good. Small children have a sharp sense of being "good" or "bad." But in time this internal compass gets beaten up until for many it no longer points in the right direction and that intrinsic guide gets lost. From the start I told my kids to pay attention to how they felt inside. When they would do something, good or bad, I would ask how it made them feel. But I believe many kids are numbed because regardless of what they are feeling inside, they are seeing the contrary lived out around them. Or they are directed only by the fear of consequences, so they learn at an early age to succeed at hiding things, rather than to just do the right thing.
But this is all on my mind because of the unethical behavior of some adults. I have recently witnessed a person in a significant position of authority come up with a neat little plan to take advantage; to get something for nothing, and this has required the "buy-in" of several others. The work-arounds required make it clear that those involved know this is absolutely wrong, perhaps illegal, but clearly the small gain is worth that risk? Regardless, it is just wrong. I need to determine what to do with my knowledge of the situation.
God grant me the courage not to give up what I think is right even though I think it is hopeless. ~Chester W. Nimitz
Saturday, March 19, 2011
Crash, Burn and Re-group
Thursday night I lost it. I know what (who) got it started, but it was a long time coming. After dinner with another couple that I am trying desperately to consider "friends," but who continue to press buttons that make that a challenge, I got in the car and before Sam had backed out of the parking space I was wailing. This is not an over-statement. It was the kind of crying that feels like I might turn completely inside out. There was moaning and screeching and sobbing. Somehow Sam managed to drive us home. I even scared myself a bit. I knew that I could choose to get a grip, but I chose not to. I just wallowed in letting go and getting it all out. I continued a bit after we got home; a limp mass on our bed sobbing and then groaning until I realized that both Sam and the dog had gone downstairs to get away from what clearly appeared to be a psychotic break. I figured I should pull it together before the men in white coats showed up.
The past few months have carried numerous stresses and moments of pain and sorrow. Throughout the fall and winter I have nursed continuous worry for my son who is struggling emotionally while somehow managing to do well in the first year of his PhD program. I think there will be a break-up with his girlfriend within a week and I believe (hope) that will help with his anxiety and as a result, with mine. I start each day hoping it will be a good one for him and I go to bed each night praying that he might find a way to fall asleep. I get a daily report each evening as he waits for the bus in Seattle's winter rain and rarely do I hear a spark of anything close to happiness. It has been hard.
My dear friend Sue died in January. She had survived ocular melanoma in 2004 but five years later it returned in her liver. The early prognosis was for 3-6 months, but Sue has the determination, and at times the demeanor, of a bull and she sought out trials and managed to keep the inevitable at bay for over a year. In November of last year the tumor started to win and grow and the cancer was showing up in her heart and lungs. They tried new treatments but I think we all knew the battle was being lost. Sue was healthy and worked right up until Christmas. Her goal was to have Christmas with her family and to make it to her 58th birthday which will be on April 2nd. But the day her family returned to California she started to turn yellow. I saw her the first week in January and it was clear that she had turned a corner. A week later the doctor told her she had 2 weeks to live. Hospice came in that night and set up a bed in her family room. The next day I saw her in the afternoon and she was blissfully drugged up, but clear-of-mind. We held hands and shared "I-love-yous," then she said, "Ok, bye now." That night she died. It has been 2 months and I still find myself reaching for the phone to call her.
I have reached the age where my parents and those of my friends are truly elderly. One mother fell and broke her hip; another fell and hit her head on concrete and died several days later from the brain trauma; my ex-mother-in-law had a stroke, and each time I call "home" I realize that my own mother doesn't find the word that she wants as readily as I expect and at times she just chooses another. Aging - it is inevitable and even at 50 I am very aware of the mighty force it uses on our bodies, but the reminders that this generation above me will soon be gone and I'll be the "old people," can be sobering. There is too much to see and do - in many ways I have only recently discovered what I enjoy. This year my son will be half my age - in that much more time I will be my mother's age. It goes too quickly.
Our Corgi is slowing down and soon we will have to make "the decision." He has a neurological condition that is not treatable and he is losing the use of his back legs. One day he will not be able to get up, and then we will know. We are watching for signs from him but for now he still has moments of puppy-like joy and as long as we see that we'll celebrate having him in our lives. There is no physical pain with this and so we stay alert to his sense of pride more than anything.
And then there is the news. For Lent I have given up reading anything about national politics because it is discouraging and causes spikes of rage inside of me, and has really become so petty. But I will not stop reading about the things that are real. The numerous Arab nations where the people have decided to use their voices and demand democracy and the resulting violence: and now today we have launched air strikes on Libya. Whenever we get involved I think of all the suffering and abuse that we have not used our might to try and resolve - Rwanda comes to mind - or famine that is a constant abuse in Sub-Saharan Africa. The list is long. Human suffering. I can barely read about Japan - the children gathered in their classroom a week later still waiting for their parents to come pick them up; the snow and freezing temperatures that have hindered any lingering search and rescue attempts in areas destroyed by the tsunami - a touching, but heartbreaking tale of two dogs, one near death and the other muddy and cold, but standing by his dying friend. I didn't read that story until the headline made it clear they had been rescued. The pain is so strong as a spectator far away- what must it be like for the 50 year-old mother who has lost everything and doesn't yet know if her son and daughter are alive or dead? Not to mention the pending consequences of the nuclear meltdown...
At work it is the time of year when we get endless phone calls from kids and their parents hoping, asking, and at times begging for more financial aid so that they can "make their dream come true." They really believe I can do something if they just talk to me. Only I know they are just a cell on a matrix that is a combination of their grades, test scores and financial need.
I carry all of these things inside. I don't have a very good filter but instead I feel it all is if it is happening to me or my kids or my mother or my dog.
And so sometimes I fall apart. The last time I cried like that was in 2006 after another long period of stresses and life-changes. That night I thought I hit a cat with my car and that was the trigger. (Sam took the car back and swears he didn't find a dead cat, but I have never believed that). That night the dog ran downstairs to get away from me too. So much for "man's best friend."
I woke up Friday morning feeling as if I was at the bottom of a cliff. I have written before about clinging to the edge when I feel depression looking for me, but this time I didn't have a chance to get a hand-hold, I just went - free fall all the way to the canyon floor. I was frightened. I have not fallen all the way since I met Sam and I didn't know what to expect. But today I am ok. A friend wrote recently that if you let depression take you - as if you are drowning in the deep end but you don't fight it and instead you sink to the bottom without a struggle, then you can use that momentum to spring back up again. Perhaps she has found the secret to a quick rebound.
I am alone this weekend. Sam is skiing with a friend and I am home with the elderly Corgi. I realize that I am never alone. Never still. My first impulse is to go someplace or at least go for a run or clean the house or something that will justify the space I am taking up. But I have decided to use this time to be still and to re-group. I will read and meditate and drink green tea and hopefully by Monday I'll be ready to face another week.
Totally unrelated photo except that I remember at that moment thinking about how happy I was and recognizing that I should note that for use later as a memory.
The past few months have carried numerous stresses and moments of pain and sorrow. Throughout the fall and winter I have nursed continuous worry for my son who is struggling emotionally while somehow managing to do well in the first year of his PhD program. I think there will be a break-up with his girlfriend within a week and I believe (hope) that will help with his anxiety and as a result, with mine. I start each day hoping it will be a good one for him and I go to bed each night praying that he might find a way to fall asleep. I get a daily report each evening as he waits for the bus in Seattle's winter rain and rarely do I hear a spark of anything close to happiness. It has been hard.
My dear friend Sue died in January. She had survived ocular melanoma in 2004 but five years later it returned in her liver. The early prognosis was for 3-6 months, but Sue has the determination, and at times the demeanor, of a bull and she sought out trials and managed to keep the inevitable at bay for over a year. In November of last year the tumor started to win and grow and the cancer was showing up in her heart and lungs. They tried new treatments but I think we all knew the battle was being lost. Sue was healthy and worked right up until Christmas. Her goal was to have Christmas with her family and to make it to her 58th birthday which will be on April 2nd. But the day her family returned to California she started to turn yellow. I saw her the first week in January and it was clear that she had turned a corner. A week later the doctor told her she had 2 weeks to live. Hospice came in that night and set up a bed in her family room. The next day I saw her in the afternoon and she was blissfully drugged up, but clear-of-mind. We held hands and shared "I-love-yous," then she said, "Ok, bye now." That night she died. It has been 2 months and I still find myself reaching for the phone to call her.
I have reached the age where my parents and those of my friends are truly elderly. One mother fell and broke her hip; another fell and hit her head on concrete and died several days later from the brain trauma; my ex-mother-in-law had a stroke, and each time I call "home" I realize that my own mother doesn't find the word that she wants as readily as I expect and at times she just chooses another. Aging - it is inevitable and even at 50 I am very aware of the mighty force it uses on our bodies, but the reminders that this generation above me will soon be gone and I'll be the "old people," can be sobering. There is too much to see and do - in many ways I have only recently discovered what I enjoy. This year my son will be half my age - in that much more time I will be my mother's age. It goes too quickly.
Our Corgi is slowing down and soon we will have to make "the decision." He has a neurological condition that is not treatable and he is losing the use of his back legs. One day he will not be able to get up, and then we will know. We are watching for signs from him but for now he still has moments of puppy-like joy and as long as we see that we'll celebrate having him in our lives. There is no physical pain with this and so we stay alert to his sense of pride more than anything.
And then there is the news. For Lent I have given up reading anything about national politics because it is discouraging and causes spikes of rage inside of me, and has really become so petty. But I will not stop reading about the things that are real. The numerous Arab nations where the people have decided to use their voices and demand democracy and the resulting violence: and now today we have launched air strikes on Libya. Whenever we get involved I think of all the suffering and abuse that we have not used our might to try and resolve - Rwanda comes to mind - or famine that is a constant abuse in Sub-Saharan Africa. The list is long. Human suffering. I can barely read about Japan - the children gathered in their classroom a week later still waiting for their parents to come pick them up; the snow and freezing temperatures that have hindered any lingering search and rescue attempts in areas destroyed by the tsunami - a touching, but heartbreaking tale of two dogs, one near death and the other muddy and cold, but standing by his dying friend. I didn't read that story until the headline made it clear they had been rescued. The pain is so strong as a spectator far away- what must it be like for the 50 year-old mother who has lost everything and doesn't yet know if her son and daughter are alive or dead? Not to mention the pending consequences of the nuclear meltdown...
At work it is the time of year when we get endless phone calls from kids and their parents hoping, asking, and at times begging for more financial aid so that they can "make their dream come true." They really believe I can do something if they just talk to me. Only I know they are just a cell on a matrix that is a combination of their grades, test scores and financial need.
I carry all of these things inside. I don't have a very good filter but instead I feel it all is if it is happening to me or my kids or my mother or my dog.
And so sometimes I fall apart. The last time I cried like that was in 2006 after another long period of stresses and life-changes. That night I thought I hit a cat with my car and that was the trigger. (Sam took the car back and swears he didn't find a dead cat, but I have never believed that). That night the dog ran downstairs to get away from me too. So much for "man's best friend."
I woke up Friday morning feeling as if I was at the bottom of a cliff. I have written before about clinging to the edge when I feel depression looking for me, but this time I didn't have a chance to get a hand-hold, I just went - free fall all the way to the canyon floor. I was frightened. I have not fallen all the way since I met Sam and I didn't know what to expect. But today I am ok. A friend wrote recently that if you let depression take you - as if you are drowning in the deep end but you don't fight it and instead you sink to the bottom without a struggle, then you can use that momentum to spring back up again. Perhaps she has found the secret to a quick rebound.
I am alone this weekend. Sam is skiing with a friend and I am home with the elderly Corgi. I realize that I am never alone. Never still. My first impulse is to go someplace or at least go for a run or clean the house or something that will justify the space I am taking up. But I have decided to use this time to be still and to re-group. I will read and meditate and drink green tea and hopefully by Monday I'll be ready to face another week.
Totally unrelated photo except that I remember at that moment thinking about how happy I was and recognizing that I should note that for use later as a memory.
Saturday, December 11, 2010
Steppin' Up
When I met Sam he was recently widowed. His son was in college back in Rhode Island and his daughter was a junior in high school. And, oh yeah, he had a dog. I easily moved into the role of step-mom to Tom and Kristen, long before Sam and I were actually married. During Kristen's senior year of college I planned, and then accompanied them on a college visit trip up and down the East coast. I went to ballet recitals and choir concerts - parents' meetings and banquets. There was one evening at an Honor Society banquet that I sat in tears listening to Kristen play the piano and kept thinking that it wasn't right that her mom could not be there - I was humbled to sit in her place and then I was overwhelmed with her presence. It was as if this woman I had never known was telling me that it was ok to be there representing her. The feeling was so powerful and I knew that Susan knew that her kids were going to be loved.
And all the time there was Rocky, the overly-large Corgi.
Rocky had been Susan's constant companion as her brain cancer progressed and in the last weeks he spent his days and nights laying full-body length along Susan's side in bed. Rocky was 4 when I came into his life. For a long time I was competition for him. Sam referred to us as "litter mates," in Rocky's mind. In bed, Rocky would get between us and use his legs to push against Sam so that his back would push me further away from Sam. Many mornings I woke to find Rocky's head next to mine on the pillow, with his back pushing against me. He was always moving to be sure that he came between my body and Sam's.
I like dogs, but I am not a "dog person." I was disgusted by dog hair in my bed and found nothing cute about him sleeping on my pillow. I walked him, but having grown up in the country where our dogs ran free, the idea of carrying a bag and picking up his poop, was annoying. I was not as patient with him as I might have been as I would wait, and wait, and wait, while he sniffed every last plant and rock and stick. I had never known that dogs could have significant gas issues, and his barking could drive me crazy. But as time passed and my own kids and step-kids needed me less and less I seem to have transferred my nurturing needs to Rocky. I have now been his "mom" twice as long as his first mom was and he clearly adores me.
Fortunately, as a dog of limited height, jumping on the bed was one of the first things to go for Rocky. The day he could not get on the bed we bought him his own bed and since then he has slept happily on the floor of our room and I no longer wake up with dog hair stuck on my lips! This change was probably the most significant turning point for me. He trusts me, he depends on me for calm and routine. Sam is still the alpha male, but I am the one that most frequently has the dog sleeping on my feet while I read or eat or work on the computer, and I get nudged if we forget to give him his 5:00 "scoop." I take him on walks when the weather is nice, and I talk to him constantly.
Recently my step-son suggested that Rocky needed his own Facebook page. Tom now lives in Ohio but he has remained Rocky's number one fan from afar. For kicks I created a Facebook page for Rocky. I did not think about the weird, but deep connection that would result from channeling the dog's thoughts as I update his "status" every few days. Tom has noted that Rocky's status reveals not only how Rocky is doing, but also how I am thinking or feeling. I get a ridiculous kick out of putting into human words what I imagine Rocky to be thinking or feeling. And it gets really weird when I find myself commenting, as Rocky's Facebook "friend" on something that Rocky has posted on his own page.
Rocky is twelve now and he is slowing down. His back left leg is weak and often trails behind the other three as he moves about the house. He is stiff when he gets up and most of the time he gets stuck half way up the stairs and needs to be carried the rest of the way. And the mother in me is more attached than ever. There is something about his vulnerability that has reached into my soul and grabbed it hard. I don't know how much longer Rocky will live. He seems to be in good health, but the life expectancy of a Corgi is eleven to twelve years. I used to think only of how much simpler life will be when we don't have a kid, I mean, DOG at home. But now I can get sad just imagining how much I'll miss his presence. When I cook he is at my feet hoping for something to drop on the floor for him to eat. When we watch TV he has made a nest for himself under the lamp table where he hangs out just to be near. He has a large vocabulary and understands my emotions with or without words. He knows swear words and will run downstairs when he hears one, alerting us to what we just said. And perhaps more than anything I'll miss being his mouthpiece on Facebook where he currently has 17 "friends."
Rocky Converse
Basic info
Gender: Male
Relationship Status: It's complicated
Interested in: Women and Men
Looking for: Friendship
Current location: Salem, Oregon
Hometown: Salem, Oregon
Political Views: I am a raging, bleeding heart liberal. Healthcare for all (except squirrels!)
Religious views:I believe that all life begins in the bottom of the yogurt bowl. Praise Yoplait.
And all the time there was Rocky, the overly-large Corgi.
Rocky had been Susan's constant companion as her brain cancer progressed and in the last weeks he spent his days and nights laying full-body length along Susan's side in bed. Rocky was 4 when I came into his life. For a long time I was competition for him. Sam referred to us as "litter mates," in Rocky's mind. In bed, Rocky would get between us and use his legs to push against Sam so that his back would push me further away from Sam. Many mornings I woke to find Rocky's head next to mine on the pillow, with his back pushing against me. He was always moving to be sure that he came between my body and Sam's.
I like dogs, but I am not a "dog person." I was disgusted by dog hair in my bed and found nothing cute about him sleeping on my pillow. I walked him, but having grown up in the country where our dogs ran free, the idea of carrying a bag and picking up his poop, was annoying. I was not as patient with him as I might have been as I would wait, and wait, and wait, while he sniffed every last plant and rock and stick. I had never known that dogs could have significant gas issues, and his barking could drive me crazy. But as time passed and my own kids and step-kids needed me less and less I seem to have transferred my nurturing needs to Rocky. I have now been his "mom" twice as long as his first mom was and he clearly adores me.
Fortunately, as a dog of limited height, jumping on the bed was one of the first things to go for Rocky. The day he could not get on the bed we bought him his own bed and since then he has slept happily on the floor of our room and I no longer wake up with dog hair stuck on my lips! This change was probably the most significant turning point for me. He trusts me, he depends on me for calm and routine. Sam is still the alpha male, but I am the one that most frequently has the dog sleeping on my feet while I read or eat or work on the computer, and I get nudged if we forget to give him his 5:00 "scoop." I take him on walks when the weather is nice, and I talk to him constantly.
Recently my step-son suggested that Rocky needed his own Facebook page. Tom now lives in Ohio but he has remained Rocky's number one fan from afar. For kicks I created a Facebook page for Rocky. I did not think about the weird, but deep connection that would result from channeling the dog's thoughts as I update his "status" every few days. Tom has noted that Rocky's status reveals not only how Rocky is doing, but also how I am thinking or feeling. I get a ridiculous kick out of putting into human words what I imagine Rocky to be thinking or feeling. And it gets really weird when I find myself commenting, as Rocky's Facebook "friend" on something that Rocky has posted on his own page.
Rocky is twelve now and he is slowing down. His back left leg is weak and often trails behind the other three as he moves about the house. He is stiff when he gets up and most of the time he gets stuck half way up the stairs and needs to be carried the rest of the way. And the mother in me is more attached than ever. There is something about his vulnerability that has reached into my soul and grabbed it hard. I don't know how much longer Rocky will live. He seems to be in good health, but the life expectancy of a Corgi is eleven to twelve years. I used to think only of how much simpler life will be when we don't have a kid, I mean, DOG at home. But now I can get sad just imagining how much I'll miss his presence. When I cook he is at my feet hoping for something to drop on the floor for him to eat. When we watch TV he has made a nest for himself under the lamp table where he hangs out just to be near. He has a large vocabulary and understands my emotions with or without words. He knows swear words and will run downstairs when he hears one, alerting us to what we just said. And perhaps more than anything I'll miss being his mouthpiece on Facebook where he currently has 17 "friends."
Rocky Converse
Basic info
Gender: Male
Relationship Status: It's complicated
Interested in: Women and Men
Looking for: Friendship
Current location: Salem, Oregon
Hometown: Salem, Oregon
Political Views: I am a raging, bleeding heart liberal. Healthcare for all (except squirrels!)
Religious views:I believe that all life begins in the bottom of the yogurt bowl. Praise Yoplait.
Friday, November 5, 2010
Autumn's Call
This post is my response to autumn's beckoning. I am privileged to have the months of September and October off from work each year and, here in Oregon, those are often lovely, extended-summer-like months. But as the calendar pages flip to the date of my return to work I am lifted by the colors that mean fall has come to the Northwest and that there is still brightness around me. The visual images that lead me back to work include brilliant yellows in the vineyards of the Willamette Valley, radiant red leaves on the blueberry fields that dot the landscape, both commercial crops and backyard patches, and finally the red and oranges of the trees in our own backyard. There is such beauty in plants as they go into their shut-down phase... I hope that I can also maintain some of that brightness through my return-to-work transition next week!
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Changes
I have concluded that the most difficult stage of parenting is not the terrible two's, not the first day of kindergarten, not the angst-ridden years of adolescence, not even the first year after they get their driver's license...the most difficult stage is when they move from dependent child/student to independent adult.
At this moment we have four "kids" going through this stage. In ways one of them has already passed through, although her choices continue to baffle us and we know that at any moment we could be faced with financial obligations we had hoped to be done with. Kristen graduated from college in 2008 and moved to Boston where she managed to find a great job in a successful company.
She was earning good money, had great benefits and we were relieved to have one launched. We continued to cover some expenses, but for the most part she was off. All that changed recently when she quit her job and moved to Phoenix to be with her boyfriend. She has a job lined up but it pays $20,000 less than the one she left and the benefits are not clear yet. But we are pushing more of her expenses south to Arizona and hoping she will make it. When she called yesterday to announce that she had gone jet skiing and bought a new video game, our desire to help-out financially faded!
Andrew graduated from college in 2009 and spent a year working in a lab for $10 an hour.
He is the super-responsible one and frankly, it has been an easy year for us as parents. He has picked up his own car and health insurance and student loan payments and managed to cover all of his expenses. He is off to start a PhD program in a couple weeks and the next 5 years look set for him. He earns a salary and gets free tuition and health insurance. The challenge for/with him right now revolves around a girlfriend - uncertainty flows throughout that situation and there has been more than one night when he has plopped his 6'3" frame in front of us seeking advice...we shall see how that plays out.
Heather graduated this past May.
That for me was an unsettling time. For the first time since my kids were born I had no defined role. While they were in school and college I knew where they were, knew they had a roof over their heads and food on the table. I made editing suggestions on a paper now and then, but mostly I just lurked on the edges of their lives. When Heather graduated I felt more responsibility than in years, but no defined right to impose. It has been an interesting summer. When things are going well she is an adult and my suggestions receive an eye roll; when everything seems to be falling a part I get a frantic, tearful phone call. I am trying to just hold on to the very tip of the kite that is Heather and watch as she rides the currents. She has ideas and dreams that seem ungrounded, but then I watch as she makes them happen. Nevertheless I am worrying more during the wee hours of the morning than I have since the first time Andrew had bronchitis as an infant.
And then there is Tom.
Tom completed his PhD in Math 4 days ago. He is 27 and has been in school since he was 3. I only came into his life during his junior year of college, but he has tested every reserve that his dad and I have. Tom is impulsive and we experience that with daily phone calls. He feels the need to tell us everything, before he tries to resolve it - he calls and stresses us out. He is just back from 3 weeks in England. The boy presented a lecture at Cambridge - he can solve the most challenging math problem on earth, but he calls us for the simplest concern. On Tuesday he starts a teaching job at the University of Toledo in Ohio. Because of time constraints we worked with him and made arrangements to have his car shipped to Toledo, we bought a plane ticket for him, paid for a hotel for the first few nights - even gave him money for the taxi from the airport to his hotel. He was to fly there tomorrow. Today at about 1:00 PM he decided to drive rather than fly. We have been discussing this for the past 36 hours and discouraging it every way possible, but he called at 4:00 and he is in Arizona. It takes 35 hours of driving to get from San Diego to Toledo. He has just about that before he starts his job. If he drives without stops. If his ten-year old car doesn't break down. The car transport company already charged our card and we are now stuck with an airplane ticket - changeable, but not refundable. We are exhausted and frustrated.
But, I think that every kid needs to find their time and their method of disengaging from their parents. And we need to step back when that time comes. This is Tom's time and our challenge is to wait for his call and then to ask, "gee, what are you going to do about that?" rather than continuing to anticipate his needs and pay his way.
Wish us luck....
PS: I have just re-read this and am reminded, again, that we are blessed. These challenges are enviable in many ways but I need to take a step back to remember that!
At this moment we have four "kids" going through this stage. In ways one of them has already passed through, although her choices continue to baffle us and we know that at any moment we could be faced with financial obligations we had hoped to be done with. Kristen graduated from college in 2008 and moved to Boston where she managed to find a great job in a successful company.
She was earning good money, had great benefits and we were relieved to have one launched. We continued to cover some expenses, but for the most part she was off. All that changed recently when she quit her job and moved to Phoenix to be with her boyfriend. She has a job lined up but it pays $20,000 less than the one she left and the benefits are not clear yet. But we are pushing more of her expenses south to Arizona and hoping she will make it. When she called yesterday to announce that she had gone jet skiing and bought a new video game, our desire to help-out financially faded!
Andrew graduated from college in 2009 and spent a year working in a lab for $10 an hour.
He is the super-responsible one and frankly, it has been an easy year for us as parents. He has picked up his own car and health insurance and student loan payments and managed to cover all of his expenses. He is off to start a PhD program in a couple weeks and the next 5 years look set for him. He earns a salary and gets free tuition and health insurance. The challenge for/with him right now revolves around a girlfriend - uncertainty flows throughout that situation and there has been more than one night when he has plopped his 6'3" frame in front of us seeking advice...we shall see how that plays out.Heather graduated this past May.
That for me was an unsettling time. For the first time since my kids were born I had no defined role. While they were in school and college I knew where they were, knew they had a roof over their heads and food on the table. I made editing suggestions on a paper now and then, but mostly I just lurked on the edges of their lives. When Heather graduated I felt more responsibility than in years, but no defined right to impose. It has been an interesting summer. When things are going well she is an adult and my suggestions receive an eye roll; when everything seems to be falling a part I get a frantic, tearful phone call. I am trying to just hold on to the very tip of the kite that is Heather and watch as she rides the currents. She has ideas and dreams that seem ungrounded, but then I watch as she makes them happen. Nevertheless I am worrying more during the wee hours of the morning than I have since the first time Andrew had bronchitis as an infant.And then there is Tom.
Tom completed his PhD in Math 4 days ago. He is 27 and has been in school since he was 3. I only came into his life during his junior year of college, but he has tested every reserve that his dad and I have. Tom is impulsive and we experience that with daily phone calls. He feels the need to tell us everything, before he tries to resolve it - he calls and stresses us out. He is just back from 3 weeks in England. The boy presented a lecture at Cambridge - he can solve the most challenging math problem on earth, but he calls us for the simplest concern. On Tuesday he starts a teaching job at the University of Toledo in Ohio. Because of time constraints we worked with him and made arrangements to have his car shipped to Toledo, we bought a plane ticket for him, paid for a hotel for the first few nights - even gave him money for the taxi from the airport to his hotel. He was to fly there tomorrow. Today at about 1:00 PM he decided to drive rather than fly. We have been discussing this for the past 36 hours and discouraging it every way possible, but he called at 4:00 and he is in Arizona. It takes 35 hours of driving to get from San Diego to Toledo. He has just about that before he starts his job. If he drives without stops. If his ten-year old car doesn't break down. The car transport company already charged our card and we are now stuck with an airplane ticket - changeable, but not refundable. We are exhausted and frustrated.
But, I think that every kid needs to find their time and their method of disengaging from their parents. And we need to step back when that time comes. This is Tom's time and our challenge is to wait for his call and then to ask, "gee, what are you going to do about that?" rather than continuing to anticipate his needs and pay his way.
Wish us luck....
PS: I have just re-read this and am reminded, again, that we are blessed. These challenges are enviable in many ways but I need to take a step back to remember that!
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Back again
Writing is a treat. I imagine myself hiding away with no distractions - a glass of wine, and some cheese and crackers to sustain me, and then I get to indulge in a piece of writing. For this reason I rarely allow myself to do it. I am in the last few hours of a two week vacation - the top thing on my list for this vacation was to write a blog entry, so here I am! I had some very focused thoughts for this return to blogging, but my mind is now bouncing around looking for something to land on.
I will begin with the start of my vacation. No, I'll begin with the end. My mother-in-law, Margie, just called. Margie lives in Las Vegas and she called to report that she just got home from the casino. She had a $15 credit to use on the slots so she drove to the casino and applied her credit to the penny machine. She walked away with One Thousand, Two Hundred Dollars. This woman never loses on the slots, I played beside her once and in the time it took me to throw away my fifteen dollars, she pocketed five hundred dollars. But, that is not why this is remarkable. The stunning thing in this story is that exactly two weeks ago tonight Sam, his sister from New York, and I stood around Margie's hospital bed. We had been summoned because this time she really was dying. Blockages in her arteries...barely able to move or breathe...can't-go-on-just-take-me-home-so-I-can-die-on-my-couch...We were attentive, we held her hands, we encouraged her and tolerated her complaints about her roommate, the nurses, her doctors and the food....I started my vacation dutifully at her bedside and endured the 113 degree heat outside to be there.
But tonight she drove to the casino and won $1200! Oh well, good for her! Margie is 85 years old with a mind sharper than any 20 year old I know (and I know many since I work in a college). She is stubborn and vain - she has left a path strewn with discarded men (and children, but that is another story)- she can get down on the floor and back up again faster than I can and she will die with her hair fixed and her lipstick perfect. She is amazing and enraging. We love her.
There is so much more to say but it is now 10:00 and I need to go to bed so I can make it to work on time in the morning...I hope to treat myself with more writing soon.
I will begin with the start of my vacation. No, I'll begin with the end. My mother-in-law, Margie, just called. Margie lives in Las Vegas and she called to report that she just got home from the casino. She had a $15 credit to use on the slots so she drove to the casino and applied her credit to the penny machine. She walked away with One Thousand, Two Hundred Dollars. This woman never loses on the slots, I played beside her once and in the time it took me to throw away my fifteen dollars, she pocketed five hundred dollars. But, that is not why this is remarkable. The stunning thing in this story is that exactly two weeks ago tonight Sam, his sister from New York, and I stood around Margie's hospital bed. We had been summoned because this time she really was dying. Blockages in her arteries...barely able to move or breathe...can't-go-on-just-take-me-home-so-I-can-die-on-my-couch...We were attentive, we held her hands, we encouraged her and tolerated her complaints about her roommate, the nurses, her doctors and the food....I started my vacation dutifully at her bedside and endured the 113 degree heat outside to be there.
But tonight she drove to the casino and won $1200! Oh well, good for her! Margie is 85 years old with a mind sharper than any 20 year old I know (and I know many since I work in a college). She is stubborn and vain - she has left a path strewn with discarded men (and children, but that is another story)- she can get down on the floor and back up again faster than I can and she will die with her hair fixed and her lipstick perfect. She is amazing and enraging. We love her.
There is so much more to say but it is now 10:00 and I need to go to bed so I can make it to work on time in the morning...I hope to treat myself with more writing soon.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Forgiveness
"In forgiveness the victim forgoes the right to vengeance."
I am reading a book called Amish Grace - How Forgiveness Transcended Tragedy. It is about the murder of 5 Amish girls in the one room schoolhouse in Pennsylvania in October of 2006. I first heard about the murders while checking my e-mail in an internet cafe in Peschici, Italy. I logged onto Yahoo and it was the lead story. "Deadly Shooting at Amish School." I was immediately disoriented. There have been times in my life when the ground seems to shift under me and I no longer know where to put my feet. This was one of those times.
I grew up just outside Lancaster, Pennsylvania. It was not uncommon during my childhood to ride on roads that carried as many horse-drawn buggies as cars. We had our kitchen cabinets built by an Amish man, sold one of our horses to an Amish girl, and bought pies from Amish women. I have been to the Amish communities of "Paradise," "Intercourse," and "Blue Ball." On summer Sundays our family would attend Meeting for Worship at the Quaker meetinghouse just down the road from the school where these girls were killed. I remember sitting in the silence, smelling the musty benches that had supported my ancestors for 200 years of worship - the cicadas were humming in the trees outside the open door and from time to time I would hear the clomp, clomp, clomp of a horse and buggy passing by the meetinghouse. Those memories of a world that seems unimaginable in my day-to-day life now, are precious to me.
On October 2, 2006 a father of three left suicide notes for his wife and kids, drove to the one room schoolhouse and entered with guns and the materials he needed to barricade the doors. He had the teacher and the male students leave before he bound up the girls hands and feet and barricaded the schoolhouse doors. Without any phone there was no way to call for help and the teacher ran across the fields to the nearest farm with a phone and help was summoned. By the time the police arrived the man had shot 10 girls, killing 5 and then himself. But that is not the story that I am carrying with me these past few days. The reaction of the Amish community is what has stirred me so much.
The same day of the killings, while the five surviving girls were fighting for their lives in hospitals, members of the Amish community were already visiting the wife and kids and parents of the man who had caused this tragedy. The Amish recognized that his family would be experiencing pain and loss and grief and they went to provide comfort and to express their forgiveness of the man. When thousands of dollars of donations arrived from around the world, the Amish decided to give half of the donations to the gunman's family to help with the financial burden of losing the income that he had provided. Nearly 50 Amish men and women attended the burial of the gunman in support of his family and to show their forgiveness.
Many have tried to uncover what motivated this response. Was it for show? Was it because the eyes of the world were on their community? Was it sincere? The Amish didn't really understand the questions. All they have ever known is a world where the first reaction when one is wronged is to forgive. They believe that only by forgiving will they ever be forgiven. They pray The Lord's Prayer numerous times each day. It is the only prayer that they say out loud because they believe it pretty much covers anything that needs to be said.
Forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors
Each day is filled with numerous moments when the choice of whether or not to forgive is presented to us. Fortunately most offenses are minor, but even those can catch me up. I imagine what the world would be like if the impulse was to step towards the one who offends and to embrace them - if not literally, at least figuratively. We are a defensive society and too often my impulse is to interpret gestures as personal offenses. Someone cuts me off in traffic and I am enraged at the offense. If someone has spoken negatively about me I want to defend myself against them. But a reaction of defense, or anger, never diffuses a situation or eases the tension and anxiety.
I am inspired and encouraged by this book. I actually can imagine a world where the first reaction is one of calm, and peace, and forgiveness. I don't truly believe we will ever live in a world like that, but the Amish show that it can be done. Imagine the outcome if we all just stopped defending ourselves and fighting back. What might have happened if, after September 11, 2001 our country had reached out to the families of the men who flew the planes? What if we had gone to their countries and tried to understand why the attacks happened? Somehow I can't imagine that we would be any further behind than we currently are and maybe we would even be in a better place.
I am reading a book called Amish Grace - How Forgiveness Transcended Tragedy. It is about the murder of 5 Amish girls in the one room schoolhouse in Pennsylvania in October of 2006. I first heard about the murders while checking my e-mail in an internet cafe in Peschici, Italy. I logged onto Yahoo and it was the lead story. "Deadly Shooting at Amish School." I was immediately disoriented. There have been times in my life when the ground seems to shift under me and I no longer know where to put my feet. This was one of those times.
I grew up just outside Lancaster, Pennsylvania. It was not uncommon during my childhood to ride on roads that carried as many horse-drawn buggies as cars. We had our kitchen cabinets built by an Amish man, sold one of our horses to an Amish girl, and bought pies from Amish women. I have been to the Amish communities of "Paradise," "Intercourse," and "Blue Ball." On summer Sundays our family would attend Meeting for Worship at the Quaker meetinghouse just down the road from the school where these girls were killed. I remember sitting in the silence, smelling the musty benches that had supported my ancestors for 200 years of worship - the cicadas were humming in the trees outside the open door and from time to time I would hear the clomp, clomp, clomp of a horse and buggy passing by the meetinghouse. Those memories of a world that seems unimaginable in my day-to-day life now, are precious to me.
On October 2, 2006 a father of three left suicide notes for his wife and kids, drove to the one room schoolhouse and entered with guns and the materials he needed to barricade the doors. He had the teacher and the male students leave before he bound up the girls hands and feet and barricaded the schoolhouse doors. Without any phone there was no way to call for help and the teacher ran across the fields to the nearest farm with a phone and help was summoned. By the time the police arrived the man had shot 10 girls, killing 5 and then himself. But that is not the story that I am carrying with me these past few days. The reaction of the Amish community is what has stirred me so much.
The same day of the killings, while the five surviving girls were fighting for their lives in hospitals, members of the Amish community were already visiting the wife and kids and parents of the man who had caused this tragedy. The Amish recognized that his family would be experiencing pain and loss and grief and they went to provide comfort and to express their forgiveness of the man. When thousands of dollars of donations arrived from around the world, the Amish decided to give half of the donations to the gunman's family to help with the financial burden of losing the income that he had provided. Nearly 50 Amish men and women attended the burial of the gunman in support of his family and to show their forgiveness.
Many have tried to uncover what motivated this response. Was it for show? Was it because the eyes of the world were on their community? Was it sincere? The Amish didn't really understand the questions. All they have ever known is a world where the first reaction when one is wronged is to forgive. They believe that only by forgiving will they ever be forgiven. They pray The Lord's Prayer numerous times each day. It is the only prayer that they say out loud because they believe it pretty much covers anything that needs to be said.
Forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors
Each day is filled with numerous moments when the choice of whether or not to forgive is presented to us. Fortunately most offenses are minor, but even those can catch me up. I imagine what the world would be like if the impulse was to step towards the one who offends and to embrace them - if not literally, at least figuratively. We are a defensive society and too often my impulse is to interpret gestures as personal offenses. Someone cuts me off in traffic and I am enraged at the offense. If someone has spoken negatively about me I want to defend myself against them. But a reaction of defense, or anger, never diffuses a situation or eases the tension and anxiety.
I am inspired and encouraged by this book. I actually can imagine a world where the first reaction is one of calm, and peace, and forgiveness. I don't truly believe we will ever live in a world like that, but the Amish show that it can be done. Imagine the outcome if we all just stopped defending ourselves and fighting back. What might have happened if, after September 11, 2001 our country had reached out to the families of the men who flew the planes? What if we had gone to their countries and tried to understand why the attacks happened? Somehow I can't imagine that we would be any further behind than we currently are and maybe we would even be in a better place.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Vegetarian Chili
I like weekends because I have time to cook things that take more than 15 minutes to prepare. Today I made vegetarian chili. Sam is on a new diet and this is high in protein and low in fat.
First saute in 2 tablespoons of Canola oil:
Chopped red, yellow, and/or orange peppers
Onion
Garlic
Celery
Next crumble extra firm tofu into pot and continue to saute:
Add about 1 tablespoon chili powder and one teaspoon crushed red pepper:
Add 2 cans of stewed tomatoes and 2 tablespoons of red wine vinegar:
Finally add 2 cans of beans - I like Garbanzo beans and kidney beans:
Let simmer for 20 minutes, pour glass of wine and enjoy the smells and then eat!
First saute in 2 tablespoons of Canola oil:
Chopped red, yellow, and/or orange peppers
Onion
Garlic
Celery
Next crumble extra firm tofu into pot and continue to saute:
Add about 1 tablespoon chili powder and one teaspoon crushed red pepper:
Add 2 cans of stewed tomatoes and 2 tablespoons of red wine vinegar:
Finally add 2 cans of beans - I like Garbanzo beans and kidney beans:
Let simmer for 20 minutes, pour glass of wine and enjoy the smells and then eat!
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