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Posts Tagged ‘gratitude’

At G’s Funeral: He Was not His Disabilities

Posted in positive thinking, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on January 8, 2017| Leave a Comment »

We don’t see things as they are; we see them as we are. (Anais Nin)

I am at the funeral of a man whose name I have heard for more years than I can count. Yet, I have never met G. He could have had brown, blue, or green eyes, been tall or short, had red hair or none.

Sure, I have created a picture of him in my mind. However, I have met people after hearing only their voices and my predictions have had a zero percent accuracy rate. Chances are, the image I’ve summoned keeps my prediction skills in the same nonexistent category.

I have come to support friends who knew G.

He had a mental illness, paranoid schizophrenia. Yet, he was not his diagnosis. When the people at his church came to know him, they recognized his unique sense of humor. The church members accepted G—as he was. He liked coming to services and being part of something important.

Smoking comforted his symptoms until that comfort turned on him and destroyed his body. One incredible day, with the prayer support of his friends, he gave up a three-packs-a-day habit within twenty-four hours. Too late, but nevertheless a miraculous change had occurred. He knew he had done something for himself.

As buoyed as I am by the beauty of the funeral service, I realize I missed something. I missed knowing G. The casket is closed. If I speak to the man inside, only his spirit may hear. I will not get a response, except in my thoughts and imagination.

I think about the anonymity of the casket. Those who mourn see inside with their memories. I need to listen even closer, and catch opportunities to recognize truth beyond the obvious, the judgments people make without even realizing they are making them.

Sure, a talkative lady with a quick smile is easy to approach. A child next to her who appears to have multiple disabilities may seem to disappear in the crowd—even though the child’s presence is like the ignored elephant-in-the-room. He is not his disabilities.

Sometimes I have no problem saying hello to people with obvious difficulties. Then, at other times I have felt every intelligent thought I have ever had drop away. Opportunities to make connections evaporate, especially when I feel anger in the air.

All of us are of infinite value. I pray to recognize that worth—even in the wrinkled face I see in the mirror. I can be hardest on me.

you are of infinite worth

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Approaching a New Year, with the Moving Fragile Clouds

Posted in positive thinking, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , on December 29, 2016| Leave a Comment »

Growth demands a temporary surrender of security. (Gail Sheehy)

Clouds don’t hold any shape for long; they form, disintegrate and reappear. I watch bright blue sky fill with white and then darken around the edges. Unusual for me to watch anything for long. I’m addicted to constant activity. However, both an asthmatic cough and a dull pain in the back of my head demand that I stay still for a while.

This year has almost ended. Some of 2016 has been sweet. Some of it has been so bitter I can scarcely swallow when I think about it. The clouds shift by. Change is what they do—part of what they are.

I’m not that flexible. My neck screams to me every time I turn too far left or right. My spirit continues to learn, through friends, grandchildren, and circumstances both within and beyond my control.

Sure, I’m tempted to worry about the factions that have divided this country. Moreover, I’ve seen too many deaths both close and far away.

Beauty remains despite ugliness and hate. I have a choice. Can I stay inside fear or celebrate the fact that my husband has chosen to lie down beside me?

A Happy New Year to all. May your paths lead you to become the best you were meant to be.

two photos taken from my front yard, MiFrame enhanced

image

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Learning to See Differently—From a Friend with a White Cane

Posted in positive thinking, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , on December 24, 2016| 1 Comment »

A good friend is a connection to life—a tie to the past, a road to the future, the key to sanity in a totally insane world. (Lois Wyse)

A. and I sing along with Christmas carols played in the background at the senior Christmas party. She is not distracted by the colors and movement around her—she can’t see them. Her white cane leans against an empty chair next to her.

A.’s enthusiasm buoys mine. We have already exchanged gifts, nothing dramatic. She gave us the practical items we asked for: potholders and handkerchiefs. We got her a grocery gift-certificate. The gifts don’t matter. Our intentions do.

“You don’t know it, but you really helped me,” I tell her.

Then the leader of the senior program goes to the microphone and asks for quiet. Among a group of older folk, that’s something like suggesting a tornado stop mid-whirl. For a change, everyone’s hearing aids are tuned-in. A little girl plays a few carols on guitar, single notes, but the songs extend into complicated musical patterns.

The featured entertainer switches from guitar to keyboard.

“He’s good,” A. says, tapping out the rhythm to “Here Comes Santa Claus.”

Our friends at the table seem to pick up on her enthusiasm. A. wins one of the door prizes.

When we are in the car and returning home, A. asks how she could possibly have helped me.

I tell her about how our friendship deepened when Jay was in the hospital in the fall. I was having muscle spasms and needed to care for my recovering spouse. She was sunshine when I felt uncertain and more than a little frightened. A. told me then she could listen and would be my friend forever. Her assurance helped me get through a difficult time.

I watch as she feels the items through the plastic wrap over the basket of the door-prize win. Dish cleaner, a wash cloth, some unidentified smaller objects, possibly kitchen oriented. I can’t see anything tucked under the visible objects. I don’t know if any other treasures wait inside. A ceramic angel is situated on top, in the center.

At first I wonder how an angel could have anything to do with miscellaneous cleaning products. Maybe the connection doesn’t need to be obvious. Maybe the blessed isn’t separated from the ordinary. And a human-angel is appreciating a ceramic image with a tactile dexterity I have never experienced.

The winter solstice appears now. Each day slowly adds daylight. A. has never seen light. Yet, she has absorbed it through her being, even if her eyes can’t observe a single cloud, or recognize one shade of blue or gray.

I see the shapes and colors. However, I haven’t captured the fullness of what I can touch, taste, smell, see, and hear. Yet.

A., my newest life teacher, unlocks her apartment door. “Call you in a couple of weeks,” she says. I hope she doesn’t mind if I contact her sooner. This student has a short memory.

The Solstice: created from a public domain image

winter-solstice-with-background

 

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Iced-Inside a 1997 Toyota one December day

Posted in positive thinking, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , on December 18, 2016| 2 Comments »

Life is what happens while you are busy making other plans. (John Lennon)

Today. Finally. I’ll get a few errands completed. Even though old man winter is mocking the bright blue sky by plunging the temperature below ten degrees. My key opens the lock on the door of my 1997 Toyota on the second try.

The ignition responds. Unfortunately, the door doesn’t close—not because the seat belt is in the way. I pull the door shut and try to hold it sufficiently tight to lock, with the false hope that it will stay there. Oh, sure, the lock catches, but the door is not properly positioned—and I can’t get it unlocked again.

Great! I. Am. Stuck. Inside. This. Car. And Jay is at the auto repair shop now getting an oil change for his car. Naturally, my purse and phone are in the house. I am simply warming little green for a minute or two. My old car has decided it doesn’t want to go anywhere.

Now, if I can get the window to open… I press the buttons. The windows lower only on the passenger side. That means I get to climb over the gear shift, pray I don’t drop the keys out the window, and open the door from that side.

Hallelujah! I’m sprung. Little green Toyota remains iced, but at least I can call to see if Jay is still at our friend’s repair shop. Our friend suggests Jay make a simple repair with a spray; it does not work. Jay and I both drive back to the shop—not in our neighborhood. He follows, as my car-dian angel.

The warm drive allows the door to relax and behave as if nothing had ever been wrong with it. Ack! Ack! Triple ack. At least my-car-that-could-be-almost-classic-if-it-didn’t-resemble-a-demolition-derby-look-alike gets an oil change. And I learn to cover my key with the point of a pencil (graphite.) Graphite in the form of a pencil point or graphite spray helps to loosen the lock.

Of course, this cure only helps in models old enough to earn rust stains. My vehicle fits in that category. Little green is not old enough to remember carburetors, however.

My errands will wait for tomorrow. Maybe. Fate, the weather, Armageddon? Whatever tomorrow brings, I’m grateful not to be a four-foot eleven-inch ice cube.

iced-in

 

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Wisdom, Five-year-old Style

Posted in positive thinking, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on December 9, 2016| 1 Comment »

If you carry your childhood with you, you never become older. (Abraham Sutzkever )

My almost grandson, Dakota, is about to leave our house to spend the weekend with his dad. I am on the floor of my office/playroom. The area doubles as both.

Ella and I are making Play-Doh food for two baby dolls. She leads each scene; I follow, savoring every inconsistency with reality. Time follows a whim. Meatballs can be blue. Toy characters can be friends even if they are three times the size of one another.

“I love you, Ella,” Dakota says. “Be good for your daddy and I will be home on Sunday. I love you.”

A five-year-old angel stands in a room filled with the imperfection that happens when every toy finds its way off the shelves. I want to hug the little boy, and gather in the beauty I see. Instead, I wait in awe.

He doesn’t know how incredible he is. I don’t have the pre-school language to explain to him what I see. I listen, and allow him to teach. About accepting life as it is, not how I want it to be.

Utopia does not exist. Anywhere. Even in play. Some of the Play-Doh has dried out. My grandchildren love the stuff. It’s inexpensive enough to replace. The toys can be returned to the shelf in less than thirty minutes.

I look at the world scene, however, and the pain in my neck and back increases—a somatic response as helpful as screaming into a storm, telling the wind to stop, immediately. I work toward taking one step at a time, and listen to the nuances of each situation. Act. Don’t react, Ter. Easier said than done, but a lot more effective than war, on any level.

I am grateful my grandchildren live in town. They may think they have a grandma-playmate. However, they rekindle a long-ago child who believes in creativity and kindness.

I may never be able to convince my arthritic hands they belong forming odd-colored vegetables for a stuffed snowman and cow. Nevertheless, the children convince my spirit it can remain fresh and pliable, capable of change, open to love.

(Dakota’s drawings of my son, Steve, and his family: Mom, Steve, Ella, and Dakota. When asked what he wanted to be when he grew up, Dakota answered, “A daddy like Steve.”)

dakotas-drawings-of-steve-and-his-family

 

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Finding Hope in Unexpected Places

Posted in positive thinking, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , on December 4, 2016| Leave a Comment »

Sometimes our light goes out but is blown into flame by another human being. Each of us owes deepest thanks to those who have rekindled this light. (Albert Schweitzer)

My first physical therapy appointment has brought hope. I learn a few spasm-charming tools.

Later that day I occasionally hum along with the music during exercise class. My balance isn’t bad for a senior citizen. I can stand on one foot without needing to hold onto anything—not with the finesse of a mime or the grace of a ballet dancer, but miracles have their limitations.

No divine magic wand has struck the world and made everything well with the earth either. That does not mean I need to dwell on ugliness every second of the day. I have decided to act, speak, give, join groups that foster change, never with an attitude of hate.

Why is a pipeline more important than the law, or the rights of ordinary people? I believe the differences in race, religion, and ethnic origin add richness to our country and world. Responding with venom to those who can’t understand only creates more venom. Many organizations exist to help. With support. I pray help arrives in time.

In the meantime, I try to live today and find people who envision the light capable of uncovering both corruption and greed as well as the power of the people.

I speak to an upbeat, sunshine-minded woman after exercise class. She asks about my granddaughter, Ella. The woman comments on the sweetness of Ella’s double-jointed antics in front of the mirror, the last time Jay and I brought her to the Y. I answer with recent stories.

The woman tells me about her niece born weighing little more than a pound. The doctor and staff told the girl’s mother they didn’t expect the baby to make it—not with the number of complications she faced. The little girl just celebrated her second birthday.

This lovely woman and I hug. I feel as if I have been given a power boost, to face the next challenge, whether it be physical, in my immediate circle, or in the world.

Perhaps the next time I see my comrade I will find the words, time, and space to tell her she brought light to a blown-out flame.

Peace upon all, whether we agree on the best way to run-the-world or not.

annefrank-despite-everything-i-believe

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Like Hanging onto the Last Autumn Leaf

Posted in positive thinking, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , on November 26, 2016| Leave a Comment »

We can only be said to be alive in those moments when our hearts are conscious of our treasures. (Thornton Wilder)

Jay and I are in a checkout line at a store on Black Friday. The store is far less crowded than we expected. We see a woman we both know.

“How was your Thanksgiving?” Jay asks.

I don’t hear her at first, but soon discover why she looks sad. Her husband died two days before Thanksgiving.

We offer condolences. She is buying supplies for a party—to celebrate his life.

I nod, then follow an impulse. One quick hug. No words. She accepts the gesture. I let go before any public display of tears.

She lets us know she is not withdrawing. I nod again. Words can’t touch the reality. The stages of grief can’t be bypassed.

I think about the few leaves left on the sweet gum tree in our back yard.

I don’t live in a part of the world with perennial warmth. In the Midwest, the leaves have held on tighter than they have in past years. Bright reds and oranges contrast against dark bark. Moderate temperatures have lingered. Until now

Winter steals a huge chunk of the calendar year. I want to remain inside summer fun, celebrate days without pain, icy streets, conflict, or injustice. Although I know war, injustice, the us-versus-them notion, has been around since the tale of Cain and Abel. Dissonance has nothing to do with seasons.

The current state of the U.S. has heightened injustice. Yet, many people scarcely notice. And I mourn the loss of sensitivity: to the notion that women are equal as human beings; people with disabilities need to be treated as people, not as disabilities; clean water is more important than any industry…

Branches demand the leaves let go. New buds will take over. Eventually. In the human realm, new buds of change don’t have a specific season.

Despite loss, this woman my husband and I know, is celebrating life. Hers and the husband she loved. I don’t know the future. True, I see a lot of dark clouds.  I also know people who treasure both truth and justice.

I am alive when I am conscious of my treasures. As Jay and I come home from the store, Jay reaches for the heaviest items to carry into the house, exactly what I would have predicted he would do. He and I have been married for forty-five years.

“You know what I liked about today?” I tell him. “Spending it with you.”

Leaves cover the yard, front and back. More will join them. Of course, no one ever promised fully-alive would be easy.

last-of-the-november-leaves-2016

 

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Late-ripening tomatoes: a Metaphor for November 9, 2016

Posted in positive thinking, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , on November 10, 2016| 1 Comment »

Remember, we all stumble, every one of us. That’s why it’s a comfort to go hand in hand.  (Emily Kimbrough)

November 9, sunrise hasn’t made an appearance yet. I pass through the doorway between our dining room and kitchen. Two green tomatoes wait on the windowsill for the sun to ripen them. I pause. One of the fruits has caught a pink glow; the other remains a solid, unchanged color. Perhaps, the two broke from the vine at a different time in their development. I can’t judge tomatoes any more than I can judge people. I have a black thumb.

My husband handles the watering and care of plants. If they survive, he deserves the credit. Cooking and cleaning remain in my jurisdiction.

My response to this moment also remains in my jurisdiction. Today seems darker than it usually is before sunrise.

Everyone is in a different stage of development. Human beings were born with senses—yet, we perceive the same realities differently. Some people are excited about the election of this new president. Others shudder; this man has no concern for individuals, especially women and people from other countries. He cares only for his own goals.

Events in my life that occurred in another century, long ago past, reappear in my mind. I imagine them viewed by many among the current generation of voters, as if the pain were no big deal, as if the possibility of being left for dead in a ditch, meant nothing. I didn’t die. Instead, my tormentors promised: We will be back for you tomorrow. I thought death may have been better because reporting the incident became another form of torture. The win, a Pyrrhic victory.

Abuse talk disintegrates into buzz words, leading into useless argument or emotional responses. Worse, it is immediately dismissed. Perhaps we have become hardened to the subject, the way we have responded to other forms of violence.

Nevertheless, I survived, and I survived well. I am a wife, mother, grandmother, writer, author. I learned to play guitar in my mid-fifties and have written songs and sung them publicly, even if my mother would have told me I didn’t have enough ability to achieve such a goal. Strangers have complimented me on my words, music, voice, smile and positive outlook.

Dawn appears. It always has. My husband brings home a bag of late, partially green tomatoes. I line them up on the window sill.

I can’t predict the future, and I won’t pretend that more than a little trepidation floats through me.

The sun rises higher. I pray to rise with it, joined by friends who stumble, too, but are not afraid to reach for the hand of another.                                             

tomatoes-on-window-sill

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From Caterpillar-Crawl to Treading Water to Flying—Eventually

Posted in positive thinking, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , on October 27, 2016| Leave a Comment »

“How does one become a butterfly?” she asked pensively.

“You must want to fly so much that you are willing to give up being a caterpillar.” (Trina Paulus)

My back feels almost okay. Maybe the weather is trying to behave—going for stable with autumn cool. Then again, I’m in a less stressful place right now. That could have something to do with it, too. I watch my husband pull a clean fitted sheet back onto our bed. With ease. A simple matter, but a task he couldn’t do as recently as a week ago.

I smile at the woman next to me at water aerobics class and she smiles back. I want to talk with her, but don’t know why. Eventually, I ask her name and offer mine.”

She tells me, “Last week I thought you were tall. Then I saw you get out of the water.”

I explain that I choose to avoid the impact of jumping. “I love to tread water anyway. It’s no big sacrifice.”

We yak all through class. And it’s okay. My arms and legs follow the instructor’s moves. My heart follows this woman’s perspective. Her sharing buoys my spirit as the water lifts my body through the hour’s exercise.

This beautiful lady doesn’t have an easy life. Yet she meets each day with grace. She is a caretaker, not by choice. Life threw her a curve. And she caught the ball on the first bounce. Insert any crisis here; details can vary. I don’t need to give her name or relay anything about her situation. Difficult stories abound. Her life work makes mine look like kindergarten homework.

Simply imagine finally having the life you want—seeing it shot down—then redefining all that is left… The possibilities are endless.

After I climb the ladder to leave the pool I wonder about what it is like to be a caterpillar. After all, I’m built close enough to the ground. Perhaps too, the choice to become a butterfly isn’t a one-time shot in the human realm. Wings don’t develop through a single metamorphosis.

Change occurs throughout life. At twenty, thirty, or seventy.

My husband leaves the men’s locker room and meets me by the door. “Listo?” The Spanish word is part of the phrase Listo para salir?  It means, Ready to go?

“Listo.” I answer, meaning I’m ready to fly, and I’m working on creating a new set of wings.

photo by Sue Wilke

attachment

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Left Turn, Right Turn?

Posted in kindness, positive thinking, tagged , , , , , , , on October 21, 2016| Leave a Comment »

People are not disturbed by things, but by the view they take of them. (Epictetus)

I am driving home from a doctor’s appointment, a yearly event. The office is in a part of town that confuses me—one way streets, lots of traffic. Moreover, it is raining and thunderstorms are on the way; my concentration is on sleep mode.

I’d like to say the current state of my country is strictly a political matter that can be settled with the right word, the perfect argument. It is far larger than that. Yes, I will cast my vote, but that is only the beginning. I need to live understanding for all people, the human respect I believe to be primordial.

However, I also need to pay attention to the moment, to where I am going. How the heck did I get on Vine Street? I was supposed to turn left on Calhoun. Somehow. I drove this route last year.

Last year I wasn’t preoccupied by the fact that my husband is recovering from surgery. My back wasn’t acting up, and dark clouds didn’t hover and threaten, in more than meteorological ways.

Aha! I know where this road bends past the zoo. I’m not lost. Really. I’ve simply taken a side trip. One that tells me not to assume I know where any path will lead.

My husband’s birthday is this week. I celebrate him. I celebrate the red and gold in the trees, colors innate to leaves that don’t rely on a bright day to be beautiful.

I’m home. Not perfect, but a blessed place. The rain begins. In our front yard, drying mums catch a drink. I step inside the house. Complete safety exists nowhere, but I’ll more than settle for a place where I’m greeted with love.

driving

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