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Posts Tagged ‘learning at any age’

Up, Down, and Perspective

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on March 24, 2014| 3 Comments »

The possibility for rich relationships exists all around you—you simply have to open your eyes, open your mouth and most importantly, open your heart. ( Cheryl Richardson)

If I had been given a crystal ball before I was married, I’m not sure I would have been grinning like a school girl as I took my vows. Oh, I’m not regretting that choice; I’m considering everything that happened just because life doesn’t play favorites. It rains both fortune and misfortune without deciding where either should land.

Not everything I saw as a treasure contained lasting gold and not every catastrophe was fatal. In fact the most difficult situations often brought me to a new level of understanding. Actually, I’m not too comfortable with the folk who are completely satisfied with themselves; I have nothing in common with them. They don’t have anything more to learn.

On July 3, 1971, in an elegant, impractical white gown I wore once, I didn’t foresee two sons and three granddaughters. If I had known one of those beautiful girls would have Down syndrome I would have been terrified. Of course at that time not much help was available for folk who had special needs. Moreover, Ella would require two surgeries before she could leave the hospital after birth, one for duodenal atresia and the other for an AV canal defect. Heart surgery is a relatively new medical advancement. Perhaps, the lack of a future view has been fortunate.

In those long-ago years my heart hadn’t been prepared for the spectacular gift I was going to receive either. My spirit wasn’t large enough yet. However, our youngest granddaughter enlarges it just a little bit more every time she grins and her eyes sparkle with honest love. Most people, and I’m included here, have an innate desire to succeed. In order to do that they compete for first place, for honors, for look-at-me in some form. They often don’t hear what someone else says because they are too busy planning what they are going to add. Most folk with Down syndrome are who-they-are. They don’t try to dominate. They are real. They give without strings attached.

When a pregnant woman learned she was carrying a boy who had Trisomy-21, better known as Down syndrome, some young people who live that life gave her an answer. Warning: the beauty in their responses can lead to leaky tear ducts.

http://www.upworthy.com/a-pregnant-woman-learns-her-baby-has-down-syndrome-people-who-have-it-answer-her-one-big-question-2

March 21 was World Down Syndrome Day. That date was chosen because Down syndrome is caused by the tripling of the twenty-first chromosome. Somehow, I suspect the people affected tripled their ability to grasp patience and joy, too. My Ella teaches the importance of simplicity, the glory of living in the moment, and the wonder of learning something new.

May the gift of the so-called handicapped become contagious. Peace to all!

they call in down syndrome but

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From Stick Figures to Portraits

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , on February 20, 2014| 3 Comments »

If you hear a voice within you say ‘you cannot paint,’ then by all means paint, and that voice will be silenced. (Vincent Van Gogh)

Whenever the subject came up in conversation my friend, Kathy, made it clear that art was definitely not her forte. I have always known that she had a keen sense of color and design, but she gave the impression that her creative history from crayon to cursive never included kudos. I recall that the elementary-school kids of the fifties were branded as right or left-handed by ink stains on their fingers. Peacock blue became popular in 1959 and 1960. However, the lefties needed to maneuver to get past dragging a hand across the paper. Not easy. Kathy is left-handed.

When a work benefit allowed her to take some classes her peers suggested she further studies in her field—become a consultant, perhaps. However, she was finished with that routine, the endless hours, business details and analysis. She was ready to retire.

“I’ll study art,” she said.

“Why?” her comrades asked. “Are you good at it?”

She had to admit that she hadn’t won any coveted blue ribbons. Actually, she had lost confidence in her drawing ability sometime before she reached double digits. However, painting sounded like fun, and it was a skill she couldn’t learn in a book. An art class would be hands-on. Sure she had some trepidation, but it was the kind of excitement eager children get when they ride a roller coaster for the first time.

When Kathy shared her first paintings I was impressed. By the time I saw the portrait she painted in Class Ten, my mouth dropped open. I have always had some affinity for the creative. But tackle a full-color portrait? Are you kidding?

So, now I need to ask myself what am I telling myself that I can’t do? And why? Sure, I may have arms that need clothing from the petite department. But reaching for goals or dreams may be another situation entirely. Height is not an excuse. Thanks, Kathy? For your friendship and for your inspiration.

oil painting by Kathy Statt

Kathy Statt portrait

floral design by Kathy Statt

Kathy S. Painting 2

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Peculiar Gift From a Stranger

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on January 16, 2014| 1 Comment »

I suspect the most we can hope for, and it’s no small hope, is that we never give up, that we never stop giving ourselves permission to try to love and receive love. (Elizabeth Strout)

I am tossing two-for-one-sale whole-grain tortillas into my cart when a woman behind me speaks.

“Those are really good.” Her musical twang signals more than enthusiasm. She wants to talk. At first she tells me about baking sun-dried tomato tortillas and serving them as snacks. Then she says she is a southern girl with down-home ways and opens the stories of her past.

For a change my agenda doesn’t have the feel of a block of frozen spinach, leaves frozen together so that the pieces can’t be separated from one another. As long as this pause doesn’t turn into a filibuster I can handle it.

She tells me about her health and how she has overcome emphysema sufficiently to function without oxygen. “I’m 76 and a survivor.”

Her mini-memoir includes the story of her ex-husband’s mental abuse. “He told me that as long as he gave me food and a roof over my head he didn’t owe me anything else.” She has family and has given them love, even though their father could not. I nod when she mentions Women Helping Women. They made it possible for her to make her own way. She was in her sixties when she left her husband. I suspect there is more to her tale. Much more.

I want to reach out and touch her arm—but don’t. My nod says that she made the right choice, whatever that involved. A touch could signal the pain that brought her to seek survival. Moreover, I don’t know her. Instead I step back, just a little, not out of avoidance, but respect.

Besides, I am only a stranger in a large grocery store. Did this woman stop other shoppers also? Did they listen, or did they look at her as if she had two heads with three mouths? I have never seen this woman before this moment, and may never see her again. Probably all she wants is the reassurance that she has strength, that it shows in her being. Somehow. She never asks for my name, nor does she offer hers.

“Peace,” I say. “Have a blessed day.”

I pray for her now—days later. May she no longer need to rely on strangers for support. May she have people with her that she can count on. Perhaps I could have done or said more, offered to pray with her—right there. I’m not sure I would have had that much courage. It would have been less embarrassing if she ran away, than if she decided to shout alleluia in the middle of the bakery department. Perhaps I haven’t arrived at perfection in any form just yet.

Thanks to all my friends, the ones with the huge shoulders and the fine-tuned ears. I am grateful for our shared laughter and tears.

feel what I feel

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A Straight Walk Along a Crooked Path

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on December 29, 2013| 2 Comments »

One eye sees, the other feels. (Paul Klee)

This year will probably be the last one for our artificial Christmas tree. The bottom lower branch no longer lights. Our angel has toppled so many times she lies, as if exhausted, at the base. She is supposed to be reigning from above. Maybe she is afraid of heights. I suspect that is better than being a fallen angel.

My husband and I celebrate the full twelve days of the season, even if those days include the ordinary chores of laundry, rug-scrubbing, and bill-paying. Holiday music plays in the background. The greatest celebrations include a full day with our grandchildren.

On December 26 Miss Rebe pretended to be mommy-having-a-baby. Her imagination swelled as she followed that experience with a brain, and then a heart transfer with her newborn. None of these moments fit into anything resembling real life. However, Rebe did understand that surgery includes cutting followed by blood. Even in play young people recognize suffering.

“Don’t look, Daughter,” she told me. Of course within seconds the transformation had occurred and been reversed—several times. In a kindergartener’s world magic slips into the ordinary as easily as wind blows through an open window.

Somehow Rebe’s fantasy touched something real. Physical brain and heart transfers don’t exist beyond imagination. Empathy does. Answers may not come in easy packages. Time may not heal. In-a-better-place isn’t always the best response. Yet a quiet soul and listening ear can speak in unexpected, healing ways.

Most holiday seasons are tainted in some ways; that’s the nature of anything that has created form. This December has been filled with sadness, illness, and tragedy. I have seen friends and acquaintances suffer. Some have died, suddenly, at a moment when the lights were expected to be brightest. Instead they extinguished.

After her imagined ordeal Rebe told Daughter it was time to go home. Apparently she had returned into pretend-mommy mode. Baby, yet unnamed, lay tucked in the crook of her arm. We were on our way. She didn’t say where.

But then, life’s journeys aren’t mapped anyway.

pic from the Optimism Revolution

love tainted world Optimism Revolution

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Consider the Source

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on December 11, 2013| 2 Comments »

Learning is weightless, a treasure you can always carry easily. (Chinese proverb)

The anniversary of my father’s death was this week. One of the gifts he gave me is a phrase he repeated during my teens: “Consider the source.” Like most adolescents I didn’t have a clear notion of who I was. Every critical word ate through me as if it were acid. I reveled in J.D. Salinger’s coming of age novels. Romance bored me. I wanted to read about people who saw the world from a unique perspective. I wondered why I was so different, and didn’t realize that my self-questioning probably wasn’t much different than other kids’ thoughts about themselves.

Being one of the popular kids—such a glorious thought—but for me it would have been easier to understand how to make rain fall back into the clouds, fountain style.

“They’re just jealous,” my mother would say. That notion escaped me completely, even though it felt good at the time. Jealous of what? Sure, I’d written a one-act play that won first prize in the Greater Cincinnati area. My grades were better than average. I sang soprano relatively well. But those things never came up in ordinary conversation, especially when the other kids told me I had cooties. I looked in the mirror and wondered what set me apart; it never told me.

I didn’t know that consider the source, three simple words, needed decades to learn. The source of people’s actions and words come from diverse places. Most of the time they tell more about the giver than they do the recipient. The flatterer may want something and the detractor could be jealous, self-involved, or simply unaware.

I can still hear my father’s tone as he spoke to me. It didn’t carry censure, as if one person were right and the other wrong. He asked me to consider the whole. If the taunt came only to make the speaker appear superior, it had no substance. If I chose to be mean-spirited, that would create a win for my adversary—and a loss for my character.

Now, I don’t remember the specific events of three days ago. So, if I decide to live in a past decade most of it will be false memory. Even if I recall every uncomfortable second exactly as it occurred, I would be losing this precious present moment. My skin doesn’t fit as well as it did then, but my spirit has a better notion about who this 67-year-old woman is. Oh, I still have plenty to learn. I misunderstand often enough to need to apologize more often than I would like to admit.

However, I cherish my father’s teaching and I cherish the life he gave me. This day is an opportunity. I pray that I use it well.

only visit the past

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Protected: Thank You, Carbon Monoxide Detector

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , on December 6, 2013|

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Inside the Long-Ago Dollhouse

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on November 29, 2013| 2 Comments »

The great thing about getting older is that you don’t lose all the other ages you’ve been. (Madeleine L’Engle, 1918-2007) 

I made a big mistake when I told my two older grandchildren about the time my brothers climbed into the dollhouse my grandfather made for me. Since the house had been created for thumb-sized dolls, not little boys, the walls collapsed onto them.

Kate and Rebecca were horrified. Two giants had invaded precious pretend space and demolished it. Back then I probably saw the torn walls as slaughtered puppies. Now, I understand the viewpoint of my younger brothers, an exploration into uncharted territory. I really don’t think they planned destruction; it happened as a side-product of their exploration. Somehow, I expected my little girls to see with my adult point of view. They didn’t.

When Kate knew my youngest brother was coming to the house, she asked, “Is he one of the brothers who broke your doll house?”

“Uh, no, he was too little.”

I have a few weeks before my other brothers face my girls’ wrath—for a misdemeanor committed before computers, space travel, cell phones, and flat-screen television sets existed. Any pictures from that era would have been in black-and-white. They couldn’t have been instantly posted on Facebook.

Then again, my granddaughters may forget all about the long-ago dollhouse. Actually it’s likely. The holidays are filled with far more interesting opportunities. If the subject comes up I could ask if they ever made a mistake and then felt sorry about it later. The word, oops, appears early in a child’s vocabulary. I could mention again the story about the time my brothers and I wanted to play Indians in the basement when I was about four-or-five-years old. We needed a campfire. So I gathered some sticks from the front yard, placed them on the cement floor, and then lit them from the pilot on the hot-water heater. Fortunately, my mother had a good sense of smell.

“Did you get a spanking?” Kate asked.

“I don’t remember that part. But you can be pretty sure I did.” I certainly earned one.

The consequences of a fire in the basement didn’t occur to me at preschool age. I had planned to put it out. There was a faucet a few feet away, right next to the wringer washer. As an adult the thought of flames in the house strikes me with intense fear. I’ve apologized to my parents many times over the years.

Yet, somewhere deep inside me is that little adventurer who wondered what-would-happen-if? She learned to respect the parameters of reality, but appreciates the spunk of the kid with just a touch of mischief inside.

Yes, I loved that dollhouse my grandfather crafted for me. He was an incredible, gentle man. I loved my brothers even more. And, I still do.

save the kid in you

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Sound, Words, Imagination

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on November 22, 2013| 3 Comments »

What a pity every child couldn’t learn to read under a willow tree… (Elizabeth George Speare)

“Book,” Ella says with enthusiasm.

She hasn’t been talking for longer than a few months. However, our four-year-old granddaughter reads.

When she first began vocalizing she chose the alphabet and tried to sound-out such letters as e-x-i-t in stores and libraries. But, most of her communication remained through sign language. Now she reads with me as I turn back to page one of “The Wheels on the Bus” for the five-thousand-four-hundred and sixty-third time. Well, I feel like the doors on the bus have opened and closed at least that many times “all day long.” Ella knows these last three words especially well and repeats them with a joy that is contagious. How can I mind the repetition when she is so excited?

When we get to the last page she turns to the vocabulary words, takes my finger and points to them. She wants to absorb each one, learn, grow—and I want to celebrate that expansion with her.

I decide to see how much more our little girl understands. Down syndrome has limited, but not stopped her. Among the books is a Dora the Explorer coloring book. I ask if she wants the crayons. She answers, “yes,” but then hands them to me. I decide to turn this situation around.

“What color should I use?” I ask.

She gives me green for the grass, and then points out places that I have missed, including hidden background. The walk, as she calls it, close enough for sidewalk, needs to be gray. She chooses red for the barn. Usually when I color with my grandchildren I shade the edges, layer color, blend yellows and oranges, play the artist. Not now. The focus is not on perfection, but on Ella as director. Not many four-year-old kids gets to legitimately play that role. In less than an hour we will need to tell her it is time to get her coat, get in the car, and go to physical therapy. For now she can be the guide for the next move, however simple it may be.

Early in the evening I see a video made by Ella’s maternal grandmother on her phone: Ella and her daddy are in a restaurant. He is printing words on a placemat: up, down, do, cat, and dog. Ella reads them all with a voice so sweet I could listen to her as many times as I have read “The Wheels on the Bus.”

She isn’t performing. She reads for the innate satisfaction of language. Competition from others hasn’t appeared yet. I consider my creative projects and question my motives. Do I approach them seeking success or to live this moment through them?

I love you, Ella, and I hope to become a better me because of you.

flower blooming in adversity

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Go With All Your Heart

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on October 6, 2013| 2 Comments »

Wheresoever you go, go with all your heart. (Confucius)

Kate sits on my bed with my guitar between her knees as I tell her the names for the strings: E, A, D, G, B, and E. Some of the strings are as much as a full step sharp. They need considerable adjustment. Pain has curtailed my playing for longer than I’d like to admit.

“One of the first things you are going to need is an electronic tuner,” I tell my granddaughter. On the bed isn’t the best place to play, but we aren’t going to get as far as a real song. Not yet. We’ll just see where the open chords are, and how they sound.

I hold my Big Baby Taylor for the first time in a long while. The weight feels precious in my lap and I realize I’ve missed her even if she hasn’t missed me. “This is what a minor chord sounds like and this is how a major chord sounds. They each have a different feel.”

Kate listens carefully and I realize that one chord is not enough to show a mood, just as a single word is never sufficient to give an adequate view of anything. I should have played at least a phrase or two. A first impression isn’t always accurate either. When one of my water exercise classes became aqua zumba, I thought, I dance like a cardboard cutout. I’ll never learn it. The class has ended now and I’d do it again in a heartbeat.

“Taylor,” Kate says looking at my case. She’s a Taylor Swift fan and loves the song, “White Horse.” I hold my breath, unsure how much my nine-year-old granddaughter understands about romantic relationships. The love inherent in everyday giving seems sufficient for a girl who still treasures her American Girl dolls.

“Your turn.” I give her the guitar back. “This is an expensive instrument. But I trust you.”

Kate’s E-minor sounds amazingly crisp for a first-time try. She and I both smile. She talks about all the instruments she wants to play. And I encourage her.

“Not going to be easy,” I say hoping my smile hasn’t faded. “But it will be worth it.”

Kate may not be old enough to be in double-digits yet, but she’s seen the ups and downs of life already. One of her school mates died of cancer this summer. Another friend was disabled by a freak accident when she was three-years-old. Kate has volunteered at the Free Store. She knows designer clothes are not her natural right.

She has no idea how beautiful she really is.

“You play,” she says.

There isn’t much time before Daddy will be here so I show her a few chords: C, G, E, and F, using a variety of strums and picking patterns.

“That sounds pretty,” she says.

“You can do it, too. And more.”

Her long legs are tucked under her and I suspect her thoughts reach into possibilities. No, I can’t see her thoughts, only her expression and glistening eyes. I suspect she sees some day, far away. I see now, a fourth-grade-girl with the world ahead of her.

Wherever you go, go with all your heart, Kate. Go with all your heart.

secret of genius child Optimism Revolution

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Backward, Forward, and Lumbar Stenosis

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on September 26, 2013| 2 Comments »

Your present circumstances don’t determine where you can go; they merely determine where you start. (Nido Qubein)

 At 4:00 in the morning I watch the clock move to 4:01 with the help of my vanity mirror. It reads backward, of course. But backward seems to fit how I feel. I am awake because my knees throb. However, there is nothing wrong with them. My legs are reasonably strong for a person with such short levers.

My back is creating the chaos. Sure, I’ve known since at least middle age that this no-need-to-duck-for-low-hanging-branches frame is slightly off balance. My right shoulder is closer to my right ear than the left shoulder is to the left. I guess the back got tired of the disharmony and said I’ve had enough. Then it forced my knees and lower legs to pick up the slack. In less flippant terms, x-rays show that I have lumbar stenosis, a narrowing of the spinal canal in the lumbar spine. I make a tent under the blanket with my legs and relax. That eases the pain—somewhat.

I am in no way unique. Many people experience this back condition. All an individual needs to do is live to middle age and beyond. My physical therapist said I am fortunate that I don’t have excessive fat around my middle. That adds additional pressure on the back.

I gave her one of those embarrassed, no-teeth-showing smiles. I can definitely pinch-an-inch, if not more where a belt would be if I had a fashion-model figure.

Unfortunately, due to a blood-clotting disorder I can’t take the standard non-steroidal anti-inflammatory drugs. I’d give my kingdom for some ibuprofen—if I had a kingdom.

If-only leads nowhere, however.

As the numbers on the clock move into 5:00 I think about all the survivors I know: folk who have beat cancer, stroke, and unbelievable abuse issues. They are blessings. The trick is to focus on the inspiration, and not compare struggles. Who accomplished more? Does it matter?

I do a few core-strength exercises in bed: the old tried-and-true pelvic tilt, a slow and easy sway of both bent knees from side to side while pressing my lower back into the mattress. All moves focus on the upper and lower abdomen. A stronger core takes the pressure off of the narrowed area of the spine.

The clock tells me it is after 5:30, which looks like a 0, followed by a backward 3 and a 2. It isn’t too early to get up now and begin the day. And somehow, miraculously, I’m okay to do just that.

Not every message in life makes sense—seen directly or mirrored through the wisdom of someone else. Sometimes I just have to do what I can, with the information available and a positive outlook.

Peace to all wherever you may be along your journeys.

 beauty of the broken

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