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Replace the Word Re—d with Respect

March 6, 2013 by terrypetersen

The sad truth is that most evil is done by people who never make up their minds to be either good or evil. (Hannah Arendt)

Computers fascinate my granddaughter Ella. She knows how to maneuver the icons on her Samsung Galaxy tablet, and her small fingers move with alarming speed from screen to screen. Sure, her tripled chromosome adds learning challenges. However, since she creates an atmosphere of joy wherever she goes, her efforts spread courage, too.

If Ella can work harder to reach a goal, so can I.

Since I have experienced the wonder and beauty of a child with Down syndrome, I wince when someone uses the R-word, that taunt that ends in a d. It is not used by the medical community, only by the unthinking. (By the way, Ella is a child with Down syndrome, not a Down syndrome child; the difference may appear subtle, but it isn’t. She is first a person, and second, she is a child who has a challenge to overcome. Also,  the word syndrome is not capitalized unless it is part of a title, such as the Down Syndrome Association where the emphasis is on an organization, not a person.)

Grammar, however, is secondary. An understanding of people is what matters.

Today is the day to pledge to end the r-word:   http://www.r-word.org/

Many folk who have handicaps have more determination than college graduates. Actually, with help from the caring, some people with special needs have earned college diplomas.

So, today, right now, replace that put-down word with respect. It goes a lot further and delivers a lot more truth.

r words

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THE BIG PICTURE AND PINT-SIZED PERSPECTIVE

March 1, 2013 by terrypetersen

Act as if what you do makes a difference. It does. (William James)

Five-year-old Rebecca knows the days of the week now, and she knows I pick her up from preschool whenever I can on Wednesdays. However, the message didn’t get through the system today, and the kids lined onto the buses a minute or two earlier than usual. Since the parents and grandparents have to wait outside, this freeze-cat grandmother waited in the car until the last minute.

Rebe sees me from her bus. She had already told the bus driver, “Grandma could be coming.” All turns out well. I am known at the school and my appearance is part of an established routine. However, I am glad the confusion happened because it is concrete evidence of how important I am to this little girl. She told all her friends, including her favorite bus driver, she was spending the day with Grandma.

Rebe grins. Fun time begins. A stop at the grocery that should take five minutes requires twenty because Rebe sits in a car cart, her taxi, and we stop in the wider sections of the store to pick up and drop off imaginary passengers.

When I bring her home she becomes the mother and I am the child, always an interesting scenario.

“I’m going to have a baby,” she says as she pats her cousin’s cloth doll, positioned under her shirt. “Today.” The delivery, of course, is simple. She pulls the infant out from under her shirt. No hospital admission. No paperwork. No bed necessary, really.

“So what is the baby’s name?” I ask.

“She doesn’t have one yet. She was just born.”

At least we know the baby is a girl. “Oh, well then how about Emily, Grace, or Mary?”

Rebe looks at me with complete seriousness: “Hadalittlelamb.”

“The baby’s name is Hadalittlelamb?”

“Yes.”

Do not laugh. Smiling is okay. But the full-blown guffaw is forbidden. “Okay.”

“We can go home now.” All life is shortened and edited in Rebe’s imaginary world. I don’t always know where we are in it, however.

“I’ll go get the baby’s car seat. Okay, Mom?”

Apparently I made the right choice. It’s hard to tell with a child’s fluctuating imagination. But Rebe forgives me for not reading her mind in the world of pretend. After all I’m pretty rusty at it.

I do know that there will be Wednesdays when I won’t be able to be at school for a variety of reasons, so she will have to ride the bus to her babysitter’s house. My little girl will need to know—in advance.

Yet, somehow, I feel like I will be missing something on those days, too. We’ll catch up on the next week. She won’t be little forever, and my wrinkles deepen just a little bit more every day. May I savor every precious moment.

pic from What Makes My Heart Sing

from What Makes My Heart Sing

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Music In the Key of A for Arthritis

February 20, 2013 by terrypetersen

Aging is not “lost youth” but a new stage of opportunity and strength. (Betty Friedan)

The knuckle on my middle finger on my right hand looks like it belongs on a gnarled tree branch, the kind that has led a part of the tree in a peculiar unexpected direction.  Oh, my skin, bones, eyes and ears have aged, too. In fact my five-year-old granddaughter asked who the bride was in the forty-one-year-old photo on her grandfather’s dresser. I laughed at that one. But it’s that finger that troubles me now. It gets in the way of smooth finger-picking on the guitar. And I have three gigs lined up these next two months.

I am not the only person who needs to overcome difficulties to get to a goal. Pictures fill the Internet of runners on  prosthetic legs. I revel in stories of  persons who have survived stage-four cancer or the young person with Down syndrome who earns a college degree. My challenge isn’t that great—all I ask is to entertain a few seniors at the YMCA and nursing home and make them smile, perhaps sing a few more years and let new words and chord patterns blend into a fresh song.

The going has been rough, especially in southwest Ohio where temperatures tend to be bipolar. Middle finger says uh-uh and nicks the wrong string or rebels entirely.

“Oh no you don’t,” I tell it as if it were a belligerent child. Then try again.

Funny, that hasn’t eased the pain one bit. Help came from another source—a call from the Activities Center at the nursing home where I played last month. “Can you come back on March 21 when we celebrate birthdays?” The voice on the other end sounds sunny. Apparently I got good reviews from the residents, despite middle finger’s balking. I mean, ouch isn’t in any of the lyrics. By the end of my last performance I had to single strum a few times before beginning again.

The arthritic rebellion quieted after that phone call. I managed the Travis pick without swollen, painful interruption. Apparently, yes you can are powerful words. I have decided to use them even more often as I speak to other people—maybe even give myself reinforcement instead of reprimand. Who knows what can happen?

from the Optimism Revolution

expect miracles Optimism Revolution

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A Positive Look at a Dirty Dust Cloth

February 16, 2013 by terrypetersen

All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us. (J.R.R. Tolkien)

Cleaning and organization have never been my forte, but since my house has never learned to clean itself, the job falls on me. I suspect that if I ever learned how to direct that magical act, I could earn big bucks. It’s not going to happen. My budget doesn’t include paying for a housekeeper.

Therefore, since there were five kids playing in my tiny abode yesterday, I may as well roll up my sleeves, get to work and put toys back on shelves, clean up spills, and remove multiple fingerprints from the computer, walls, and table tops.

At one time I resented the time housework stole from my creative work. Then I learned to tidy up my spiritual life as I wiped down floors and removed Cheerios from the couch cushions. The ordinary actions of home maintenance remind me of the people who bring the most gratitude.

Sure our refrigerator is old and rusty. However, it has held countless drawings presented with love by some incredible grandchildren. It’s something of a grandmother’s unframed Louvre. No, the artwork doesn’t resemble anything painted by Monet, but the pieces were given with enough enthusiasm to warrant wiping off the ranch dressing smeared around the borders—even if those marks were made by the artist.

Cleaning is a time for me to recall what I have versus what I don’t. Oh, that doesn’t mean stray thoughts don’t sneak through, those negative notions that can ruin a moment like a fly dropping into a bowl of soup. But those interruptions don’t need to snowball.

Okay, dust cloth. Let’s get to work. And thanks, my dear husband. I am sure other wives will agree: There are few visions more beautiful than a husband on his hands and knees scrubbing a rug. Love you, sweetheart!

this place was clean . . .

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Ageless Enthusiasm

February 11, 2013 by terrypetersen

We are always the same age inside. (Gertrude Stein)

My maternal grandmother was a consummate seamstress. If she could imagine it, she could sew it. When she was a young woman she took a notebook to store windows, made crude sketches, and then went home and recreated what she saw—tailored to size for select customers.

Once she made a dress with a spider-webbed skirt. I never saw it since she had constructed it long before I was born. It remains part of the legend of Grandma. No one ever mentioned how much she earned; I got the clear impression her work was severely under-priced.

I decided to become a fashion designer when I was in middle grade school, probably because of the stories I heard about Grandma. I loved to draw. I made detailed descriptions of the front and back of dresses. Since I wasn’t keen on cleaning up after myself, I left my work and crayons lying around for Grandma to pick up.

Instead of complaining, Grandma made one of my imagined designs for me: a teal sleeveless dress with V-neck and V-back with a long fabric bow that reached almost to the hem line, a cinched waist, and billowing skirt. My grandmother always made clothes for me that were a tad too big, a result of Depression-era thinking. Clothing needed to last—for as long as possible. Hard times could appear again, by her way of thinking. She knew what it was like to have no food in the house. She remembered an occasion when her cupboard had been bare until her brother stopped by with a bushel of green beans. So, my custom-made dress was mad to last a loooong time.

Perhaps that fear that those few dollars she spent on cloth may never be replaced made her gift even more precious. Nevertheless, I recall how excited I was when I saw her creation, the shine in Grandma’s blue eyes—her payment, a granddaughter’s enthusiastic thank-you. I felt an appreciation of my ability to be creative, too. I could put down an idea on paper, then watch it develop, step into real life.

Enthusiasm comes naturally to a child who knows she is loved. That love doesn’t have to be perfect, just available, from some steady source. Grandma’s quiet presence and steady needle were always there.

I may never know what gifts I leave to my grandchildren. I can only guess. When I picked up Rebecca from pre-school last week she told me she had a surprise and couldn’t wait to show me: a picture of mittens, one colored yellow and the other blue. The text read: “If my grandma made me mittens . . .” I gathered that she was stating that whatever I give my girls, it wouldn’t be traditional. So far they each have a song and  a poem. Rebe envisions mittens in mismatched colors.

As long as joy is included in some form, it doesn’t matter how it arrives, colored in yellow, blue, plaid or indigo.

“What should we play now?” I asked her, eye to eye. After all, we were the same age at that moment, both children in spirit, eager to share our enthusiasm for one another.

“House,” she answered. Always the same answer, never the same game.

growing old optional

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To Be Or Not To Be—A Sponge

February 7, 2013 by terrypetersen

When I let go of what I am, I become what I might be. (Lao Tzu)

Somewhere I read or heard that washing a sponge in the dishwasher is a good way to destroy lingering bacteria. As I take a sponge that’s been through considerable scrubbing, with residue of Ella’s yogurt, spilled coffee, and whatever was imbedded on the stove top, I feel as if I could use a thorough run through the dishwasher.

Sure it’s great to be the confidante for several wonderful folk, but a time comes when I need to rinse all of that information away, relax, and begin again. I do not have a degree in psychology. I do have access to twelve-step material, a good church community, and an intimate woman’s faith group known as Apple. They all serve me well. Moreover, there is nowhere anyone can live—truly experience life—without picking up a few hints along the way. Nevertheless, all the assistance in the world doesn’t protect anyone from wearing out.

These are some of the hints that tell me when I am ready to wash my mental sponge with some downtime: meditation, fun reading, a cup of tea (without caffeine), an additional exercise routine or walk, perhaps a call to an understanding friend:

             sleeplessness or waking too many times during the night

            dreading that the phone will ring with more bad news

            an intense desire to overdo the chocolate

            losing and/or forgetting things.

These are some of the signs that come to my mind. In the meantime, I rinse out the excess soap and grime in my trusty sponge and put it in the top shelf of my old, but reliable dishwasher, and then wait for the full cycles of time to complete the process.

Eventually, the sponge will give up. It always does; it is made of finite material. But, hey, it’s been a good cleaning tool and has served its purpose. Fortunately, the human spirit can be taught depth, richness, and an ability to accept even greater challenges.

Okay, one…two…three. Press the start button and go.

dear stress

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February and Warm Possibilities

February 2, 2013 by terrypetersen

Learn to pause … or nothing worthwhile will catch up to you. (Doug King)

There is a good possibility that snow could change all my plans today. It’s February, sometimes the longest month of the year. At least it feels that way when Friday begins with a traffic accident blocking traffic at the top of our street! However, as I wake up on Saturday I decide I am going to make this day worthwhile—whatever becomes of it. I recall the words of authors, Deepak Chopra MD and Rudolph Tanzi PhD:”

“In Superbrain, we argue that the real you is the “observer” or “witness” of your brain’s activities. Your brain brings you emotional feelings and intellectual thoughts, which most often present themselves in the incessant internal dialogue and monologue of the mind. We argue that the true “you” is the self-aware “you” that is astutely cognizant of the feelings and thoughts being evoked in the brain, but then uses them to enhance your awareness and elevate your state of consciousness, promoting a more enlightened lifestyle.” http://intentblog.com/deepak-chopra-reality-making-and-the-gift-of-self-awareness/

I saved a picture a family member took of ice on the windshield of a car at sunrise, such an appropriate image for today. The sun is present. It rises, but the ice obscures the view. Or—it could present another image: a beautiful design painted by Mother Nature, an opportunity to pause and enjoy instead of hurrying.

This hasn’t been a got-my-way kind of week. The writing I wanted to finish just didn’t find a time slot. The house looks like it’s been run over by three kids. It has. But this time has been blessed, too. The same kids who left fingerprints on my “things” left deeper marks on my heart. I smile as I wash those fingerprints away and look forward to the next round.

I’d like to say all the news I’ve heard has been good. One situation wants to tear my heart apart. All I can do for that one, however, is say the Serenity prayer, and be prepared to say the right word, offer love, and be present when necessary.

In the meantime, the wind rises and falls as winter rules the weather; a spring spirit thaws the mind any time.

photo by Jane Filos Dagley (taken in Camden, Maine)

sunrise through the icy windows Jane Filos Dagley

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Feeding the Inner Wolf

January 26, 2013 by terrypetersen

I have learned silence from the talkative, toleration from the intolerant, and kindness from the unkind; yet strange, I am ungrateful to these teachers. (Kahlil Gibran, mystic, poet, and artist 1883-1931) 

I am aware of choice, a precious gift. When the beautiful appears I want to savor and celebrate it. Every moment can’t be mountain-top glorious. If it were, the wonderful would turn into take-it-for-granted.

In the past few weeks, life has given me many lessons. However, I am alluding to only two events. The first occurred one afternoon when I was unexpectedly confronted by someone who holds a long-term grudge against me. The second, far more pleasant,  took place as I prepared a family party. The details  of the first situation don’t need to be shared to be understood. Almost every living person faces folk on different wave lengths. This is the only point that matters: Do I allow someone rent-free space in my head or not?

When I think about scenario two, preparing to celebrate four family birthdays, however, I smile. Eight-year-old Kate painted assembly-line style, and told stories about what she drew: hearts, swirls, action. Enthusiasm for each person being honored flowed as she created. Five-year-old Rebe worked quickly with a few wild strokes across the page. She picked out which tablecloth we should use, and then played with Grandpa. Okay, so the afternoon wasn’t newsworthy. It highlighted the beauty of the gift of family. I treasured that, and didn’t waste the moment fussing about something I couldn’t control anyway.

The Cherokee legend of the Two Wolves explains choice well. The following story is taken directly from FIRST PEOPLE, THE LEGENDS: http://www.firstpeople.us/FP-Html-Legends/TwoWolves-Cherokee.html

An old Cherokee is teaching his grandson about life. “A fight is going on inside me,” he said to the boy.

“It is a terrible fight and it is between two wolves. One is evil—he is anger, envy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, self-pity, guilt, resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride, superiority, and ego.” He continued, “The other is good—he is joy, peace, love, hope, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence, empathy, generosity, truth, compassion, and faith. The same fight is going on inside you—and inside every other person, too.”

The grandson thought about it for a minute and then asked his grandfather, “Which wolf will win?”

The old Cherokee simply replied, “The one you feed.”

I would like to say that I have completely forgotten about the person who harbors resentment against me. I haven’t. I am fortunate enough to have made very, very few enemies in my life. Strange, as I think about it, the great people of the world have fought many adversaries. Hmmn, looks like I may be meek, but I also don’t take many risks. Perhaps I am now in a position of opportunity, not threat. This place may present a new taste for the Good Wolf.

Whenever this person’s name comes into my mind I pray that she receives the same blessings I would want for myself. Then, all I feel is sadness for her and joy for me as the sun shines through the seven child-simple paintings hung along my back window. Seven is the ancient Hebrew symbol for wholeness, creation, good fortune. The Good Wolf symbolizes healthy spiritual choices in life. I think I’ll keep the girls’ art gallery on display a tad longer—as a reminder of greater possibilities.

feed the good wolf Optimism Revolution

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Old Porcelain Dolls Explain Flexibility

January 19, 2013 by terrypetersen

Never forget where you’ve been. Never lose sight of where you’re going. And never take for granted the people who travel the journey with you. (Susan Gale)

As I went through a box of the collector dolls I gave my mother, I only remembered two of them, curly-haired blond kissing dolls I bought in Metamora, Indiana at least fifteen years ago. Mom displayed them on a table my father designed, instead of locking them in a china cabinet with the others. Apart, the two figures appear contorted, arms twisted, faces lifted, mouths eager, fish-like. Together, they symbolized young love.

I’m not sure I saw them as symbols of my parents when I purchased the porcelain pair. All I knew was that as a child Mom had collector dolls that had been lost. (It’s a long story that doesn’t matter anymore.) I tried to fill that void. Kissing dolls felt appropriate. After my mother died, the pair sat poised in the same position for ten more years. Together, as if Mom, the love of Dad’s life were still with him.

The dolls old-fashioned green-and-white cotton clothing aged in the dust and air, even if their young features didn’t. I managed to get the stains removed. However, I stopped trying to redress the girl when a few stitches from the lace at the neck tore. Her rigid arms couldn’t bend. My hands felt almost as stiff as the porcelain. I decided to try later, or ask someone without arthritic fingers.

I discovered later that I didn’t need to ask anyone. Granddaughter Kate and a neighbor, nine-year-old Hannah, worked together to get our partially dressed doll ready for her long-time puckered companion. Apparently completing a task impossible for me, was so easy for Kate and Hannah they didn’t think to tell me they had done it.

The girls didn’t seem to notice the contorted forms of the pair when separated. They saw what was supposed to be, not my symbols. Their wisdom belongs to their own time, not mine. I am grateful for my young people as they are. Now.

The dolls remind me of the importance of balance and flexibility. Sure, my past is important. It taught, and not all of those seeds have taken full root. Perhaps. sometime before this journey is completed, my path will appear clearer. When do I give up, and when do I simply try harder? It’s not always easy to tell. That’s why it’s such a gift to have loving companions along the way.

As part of her inheritance Kate grabbed a large old doll I’m sure I didn’t give my mother—it came from Germany long before I was born. Little Rebe wanted something cuddly. Ella was more interested in a snack. Priorities change in time, preferably accepted slowly, savored. Lived each moment as it occurs.

And in that acceptance, blessed.

slow down

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Ella, Made of Spunk and Angel Wings

January 11, 2013 by terrypetersen

There is something beautiful about all scars of whatever nature. A scar means the hurt is over, the wound is closed and healed, done with. (Harry Crews, novelist and playwright)

Dictionary.com defines a whirling dervish as “a member of a Turkish order of dervishes, or Sufis, whose ritual consists in part of a highly stylized whirling dance.” However, mothers and grandmothers see another wild dance in their two and three-year-old kids on their way to world domination. Very few little folk walk from one place to another. They move with a swift, designed purpose—preferably toward something forbidden.

Yes, I know I’m not allowed in the bathroom alone. However . . . Ella doesn’t talk, but her eyes communicate well, so does the slam of the door. I open it as she signs washing her hands, which really means playing in the water. I tell her she may NOT close the door, and we will play in the water after she listens. Besides, even if I roll up her sleeves, they are going to get wet, soaked if possible. She must expect the warmth of her personality to dry them.

Ella grins. I notice that she really does need her hands washed. I guess the quick wipe after lunch wasn’t sufficient, but I win when it comes to prolonged play at the faucet. She doesn’t fuss as we leave the sink, without extended splashing. Our house may be small, but we have plenty of adventurous nooks for a young child to explore. I smile recalling the long road our little one has traveled.

She was born premature with Down syndrome at three pounds and three ounces. I recall her Giraffe bed. Giraffe is a brand name for a high-tech bed that keeps a critical-care newborn warm. It also makes procedures possible without moving a fragile, tiny body. Ella’s first nutrition was intravenous, by hyperalimentation until a defect known as duodenal atresia, could be corrected.

I was fortunate to be one of her primary caretakers while she was in the hospital. During that time I wrote and recorded a song for her. However, her premature system was unable to absorb simultaneous sounds. The song can still be accessed from the site I used before I began this blog: http://terrypetersen.webs.com/music.htm  (Scroll down to find the lyrics to Ella’s song. It was not possible to access the sound track temporarily. It works now. Don’t know why!)

Ella runs to the refrigerator and pulls off a magnetic letter C. “Kuh, kuh,” she says. Then she grabs an M. “Mmmmm.”

“Very good. And you are mmm good, too.”

Her shirt reveals her belly as she raises her arms for me to pick her up. I see the scar from the feeding tube from her first year. She doesn’t remember her infancy. She wants something mmm good from the refrigerator.

Years ago, if people would have told me I would be happy to be the grandmother of a child with Down syndrome, I would have asked them what color the sky was in their fantasy land.  Now, I know the gifts our little girl brings make wealth look trifling. When I wrote that she was “made of spunk and angel wings,” I had no idea how prophetic my own words would become.

(Ella in her Harley jacket. Note speed-blur)

Ella in Harley Jacket Dec. 2012

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