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Posts Tagged ‘self-awareness’

Simplifying—While Treading Water

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on August 11, 2015| 3 Comments »

An ability to simplify means to eliminate the unnecessary so that the necessary may speak. (Hans Hofmann)

 A warning on the side of the pool reads: eleven feet three inches deep. Even if I were tall enough to function in my kitchen without a handy-dandy step stool, I would need to tread. And that is okay with me. Making peace with something larger than I am seems to be the right move. Actually, making peace with me may be the next goal.

In a recent blog I wrote about the week when I battled daily headaches. A beautiful, psychic, and talented massage-therapist friend brought me unexpected answers. Sure the weather and stress were valid factors in my discomfort. But she discovered clues hidden inside my muscle memory. And she helped me to diffuse those interruptions into the universe. Then I could begin again. And accept both my gifts and need-improvement areas. Amazingly I was having more difficulty accepting success than frailties.

As I was growing up girls were not encouraged to do more than scrub floors and find a husband. In my life compliments came from outside my family every other blue moon, if I was lucky. I wouldn’t have considered repeating encouraging words at home. My mother would have shot them down. Her aim had bulls-eye accuracy.

However, I gained other-side-of-the-coin benefits from my experience: encouragement matters. The facade a person presents is not necessarily who he or she is inside. I have met saints as well as people who are more than a little rough around the edges. I have never met anyone who wasn’t human. Usually superiority claims fail somewhere—so do inferiority assertions.

The pool doesn’t care who enters. It makes room for a timid-toe or an entire body, whether it belly flops or swan dives. Not many people have come to the Y pool today. The sky is gray, overcast. Rain is expected at any moment. But a woman somewhat younger than I am joins me and my husband. Something about her radiates common interest, although I have no idea what that could be. I ask her name and make a mental note of it. We are both interested in the arts.

Before long we share who we are. In more than a superficial I-like-chocolate-and-movies kind of way. I feel honored by her sincerity. She hasn’t had an easy life. Yet, she gives to her family and doesn’t complain about it.

She inspires me and I doubt she realizes how much. Her sharing verifies what I am learning. Body and spirit work together. Opportunities to grow abound. Even the fact that a gloomy day has kept the crowds down feels like a gift. We would not have had the freedom to express ourselves during an every-whisper-is-heard moment.

“I hope I see you later,” I tell her as my husband and I leave.

I mean it. But even if this time is meant only for the few minutes we shared it is worthwhile.

As I hang my wet towel on the back porch I look out into the yard and speak to my recent comrade, even though she is probably busy tending to matters more difficult than anything I will need to handle tonight:

You reminded me that beauty is not sterile…

A statue is chiseled, not daintily pecked…

Worthwhile takes a while…

And when the necessary speaks, love needs to be the final word.

Thanks.

learning to be brave and patient

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When What I Can Do Doesn’t Seem Like Much…

Posted in positive thinking, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , on August 5, 2015| 3 Comments »

Start where you are. Use what you have. Do what you can. (Arthur Ashe)

I can tell by the expression on a young friend’s face her news isn’t good. “No change in the tumors,” she says.

She reports no noticeable response to her chemotherapy regimen. She needs a miracle. Now. Something so dramatic it belongs in science fiction. An event the media could exploit. I want a cure that turns a staunch atheist into a street preacher. But I stay with the reality and look her in the eye.

I thank her for continuing to stand upright, giving what she has—sometimes more. I tell her about her innate goodness and hope she is able to recognize it, too. She shares an upbeat moment she had when she volunteered at vacation bible school.

“You’re the one who helped me,” a little boy said with enthusiasm. She had taken time with him on a project he had found difficult. I have no idea how well she felt that day. Nevertheless, she saw the beauty in the everyday, the glue-sticky-fingered mundane. I pray for that innate beauty to shrink her tumors. Eventually. Somehow. No matter how impossible that seems to be.

She does what she can…

Loss, I want to avoid it. That wish doesn’t come true, even in less serious matters. Today is the last day for a favorite aerobics instructor. She has found a full time job in her field. My good-byes are one of many.

Then I ask a member of the class how she is doing. She seems quieter than usual. Her brother-in-law has recently died. She is concerned for her husband as well. He was his only sibling.

Fortunately she is a hugger. I use my arms as comfort. They are the only tools I have. The woman’s brother-in-law will not return. But her smile tells me my arms are enough. For now.

This moment leads into the next as it plants possibilities into a limited, yet amazingly full existence.

not reduced by what happens to me Optimism Revolution

 

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Clinging to the Gifts

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on June 15, 2015| 2 Comments »

When you are grateful—when you can see what you have—you unlock blessings to flow in your life. (Suze Orman)

As I wait for the green light at an intersection in my neighborhood, I suspect the driver of the old black truck coming from the other direction is in a hurry although I can’t cite any evidence to prove this is true. My heart and mind are not focused on racing. The transience of existence slows my thoughts. I’m on my way to a funeral.

Let the driver make the first move, I tell myself. And see if I am simply being hyper-vigilant. The truck turns with jet-action speed a split section after the light changes.

We would have collided.

I thank God, then recall my best friend Linda’s intuition last night. We were at an outdoor concert. The air got thick and hot. I felt tightness in my chest and started coughing. “I think we’d better go,” she said. “The air is getting just too heavy.”

Lightning flashed in the distance. No thunder. However, we had scarcely hit the highway when the rain came down with such fury I could have sworn we were traveling underwater. Our friend Tom kept his cool as he drove. And I was grateful to arrive home safely.

Now I say goodbye to a friend’s granddaughter. She lived a good life. She was loved. She had autism; it did not own her. I never met the girl and yet her picture in the obituary notice draws me to her. I know her grandmother. And I understand grief. People who have special-needs folk in their lives appreciate the beauty of the bond possible with them.

I think about the wound on my Ella’s chest and wonder how long it is going to take to heal. And yet it will heal. Eventually. It only seems like an eternity.

We can’t celebrate everyone we love forever. I wish I had understood the power of each moment years ago. Actually, I wish I could carry that knowledge into the times that seem boring, difficult, or annoying. Now. As they are occurring and not later.

Intuitions are gifts. The scene at the light saved me from a serious accident. My friend’s insight saved four long-time friends from a mob in a thunderstorm. Neither incident spared me from the real world or a finite existence. Chances are tomorrow will offer opportunities to laugh, cry, get angry, enthused, embarrassed, frightened, anxious, or inspired.

I pray to cling to the gifts.

a smile from God

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An Ordinary Kind of Sacred

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on May 3, 2015| 2 Comments »

Man has never made any material as resilient as the human spirit. (Bernard Williams)

I have just shared the news that my youngest granddaughter is doing extremely well. Her joy has leaked into me. All is well in my world. However, within minutes I learn that all is not well in another person’s world.

I greet the young woman I introduced in my April 14 post: A Child’s Wish: I Hope You Never Git Hert. She tells me she has stage-four cancer. My hug feels tense, overprotective; I wanted to relay hope, a huge cancer-crushing hope. She ran a marathon last week. That run was her choice. Chemotherapy doesn’t fit anyone’s desire.

I would reach for a second hug-try, but the lack lies within me, not within her. I haven’t processed her news yet. This can’t be real—it is. I sense frailty in her body and I want to change it. Make her well. Now.

Platitudes go nowhere. But I tell her that I thought about her at two in the morning again last night. I did. Perhaps she had taken part in an immediately forgotten dream. It doesn’t matter. Something about her inspires me. An ordinary kind of sacred. I suspect that this girl is planting seeds in people simply by being herself. She demonstrates how courage works, but the kind of growth she initiates in others doesn’t necessarily appear until later—sometimes years.

Philosophical banter is too lofty for someone who is suffering. It isn’t what she needs right now. I tell her once again that she is incredible. She smiles, briefly, as if a little light has gotten through to the part of her that doesn’t see her beauty. Enough for now maybe. Incredible is such a vague word. It doesn’t say as much as I want it to express. At some place every analogy limps. My words can only be a representation of a thought, chosen to celebrate a spirit I want to see thrive as long as possible, the life of a common hero.

She is that hero, with seeds left to plant… and she knows the fight is never easy.

 

Heroes Jodi P PIQ

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A Child’s Wish: “I Hope You Never Git Hert”

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on April 14, 2015| 2 Comments »

Life isn’t about getting and having, it’s about giving and being. (Kevin Kruse)

 As I’m dusting the windowsill I see the note Kate wrote to Ella, probably several years ago. I saved it because it reflects who Kate is. Ordinarily I choose to publish only quotes and pictures that include correct spelling and grammar. However, there are times when perfection can ruin the beauty of the moment. The sincerity of my eldest granddaughter’s wish blasts out from her innocence. She wants the best for her young cousin. I can’t fault that.

However, no one experiences a perfect life. Our Ella probably understands that better than many people do. She approaches a quarantine time. Her open heart surgery has been postponed twice. Now, so that she can move forward, we must keep her away from crowds and lots of germs. Of course she has no fear of infection. Saturday she dropped a vending machine M&M on a restaurant floor and then picked up the candy and chomped on it. Fear of another sick day does not govern her life.

I would like to delete fear from my own life. I would also like to send a message like Kate’s to a few other folk I know, to wish safety, health, and simple joys.

There is a young woman at a place I visit frequently who has recently had a recurrence of cancer. She is frightened, as anyone would be. She says she does not expect to recover this time.

She shows me the site from her biopsy, just below her throat. We share a few tears. I hug her. This is all I have to give. She says six words that scream a lifetime of experience: “I have always been the oddball.”

We are standing in front of a public bathroom mirror. I want to turn her toward the glass and point out what I see—a beauty that isn’t superficial. Tenacity and willingness to serve don’t appear in a flat reflection. Yet, I can’t find an opening in her spirit to explain that different is not a synonym for inferior. She is devastated, too broken for words to seep in yet.

I recall how I was the taunted kid through twelve grades of school. And I never understood why, except for the innate inferiority theory. After all, my parents never told me that I had gifts of any value.

This young woman has struggled through developmental handicaps. She has gone through chemotherapy. She volunteers. Daily. With a smile. She is in too much pain to understand more than a hug. Moreover, my recent accomplishments can obscure the realities of the past. She doesn’t see a future. Now is not the time for me to talk, but to listen.

Then I see her again this morning. She wears a pink fighting-breast-cancer scarf. She readily accepts my embrace and tells me she is taking her driving test on Tuesday. I grin. She talks about her nervousness. I think about facing tons of steel on the road. I envision this young lady approaching a 32-wheeler on the expressway and crushing cancer in the passing lane.

Perhaps enough people have listened to this volunteer. Maybe she is beginning to see her own worth, prayer answered before it was barely begun…

May that power continue to grow.

 

Dear Ella

 

 

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Scot: “It Doesn’t Take Much to Make Me Happy”

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on April 8, 2015| 2 Comments »

This is what you must be like. Grow wherever life puts you down. (Ben Okri)

Scot wears a shirt that says: It doesn’t take much to make me happy. Perhaps that is because he doesn’t see the optimist’s glass as half-full; he sees it as close to overflowing. He doesn’t need a thrill ride at an amusement park. Trying on hats at Walmart can make his day.

When Scot was born fifty-one years ago, his tripled twenty-first chromosome dubbed him a mongoloid, an anomaly. Few people in those days saw beyond the almond-shaped eyes, small ears, and lowered muscle tone.

However, on February 4, 51 years ago the obstetrician told Scot’s dad that his newborn son had Down syndrome. He advised Dad not to tell Scot’s mother. The pediatrician would do it. His reason was not to protect Mom for just a little longer—it was to allow her to bond with Scot, to hold and to fall in love with him. Then when the pediatrician told her what to expect, he could also advise her to treat Scot as she would any other child. In this way his parents could face challenges, not impossible roadblocks.

Scot’s gift is hugging. He does not make judgments based on appearance. He chooses the person he will embrace next for his own reasons; he never explains why. Possibly that individual needs his positive energy—that over-sized woman at the mall whose eyes say life has dealt her more blows than she can handle, or the elderly man who hasn’t been touched in years.

This is Scot’s approach. He stands before someone, extends his arms and then watches for a response. If the person is responsive he offers his love, no strings attached. He has the kind of simplicity that is the essence of genuine love. Most people without the burden of an extra chromosome bear the weight of ego—viewing who-they-are as superior or inferior. Scot doesn’t get caught up in drama. He is who he is.

In fact, one of his favorite possessions is a stuffed toy rat. Somehow since Scot is someone who doesn’t judge, that doesn’t surprise me.

Many people may look at folk like Scot, or my Ella, and see the characteristics that suggest slower learning, perhaps a thickened tongue causing slowed speech. They turn away or make snide remarks. I’ve had people tell me they were sorry when I have told them my granddaughter had Down syndrome.

My response has been that I am not sorry at all. My Ella is only five-years-old and I can’t imagine life without her. Scot has been on this planet ten times longer. He has blessed people without knowing he is doing it, the purest form of giving. Is he perfect? Of course not. No one is.

But someday I hope to see the beauty in a rat, the homeliest person in the mall, and every gray ordinary day—just like Scot can. In the meantime, I will simply let as many people as possible know that Down syndrome does not mean down-anything-or-anyone. And when you see a man, woman, or child like Scot in the picture below, know that you are witnessing possibilities…

Scott04072015_0000

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Dinner for Ten

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , on April 1, 2015| Leave a Comment »

It is a wonderful seasoning of all enjoyments to think of those we love. (Molière)

In my last blog, “Bye Bye, Old Stove; Hello Possibilities,” I took a picture of a turkey in the early stage of baking. Most of that turkey has been sliced and frozen; my husband and I don’t require Sumo-wrestler portions. However, that bird will probably be only a memory in a matter of hours. I expected four guests for dinner. That number has now increased to eight.

Jay has made a quick run to the grocery store for more fresh fruit and vegetables. We plan to feast and celebrate the beauty of family.

As Jay and I peel and slice potatoes into my largest pot I think about my guests and gather positive thoughts about each individual—what could also be considered prayer. This attitude helps because my stove may be new, but it has limited space, not enough burners for everything I want to prepare.

I actually pause and consider options when panic would be my usual response. (Ask Jay. He has seen me in full-blown impending-disaster mode. I believe in positive attitude, but need to work at it, just like everyone else does.) However, this appliance and I are getting to know one another as friends. Stove is young with modern possibilities. My experience is old and varied. I’ve made enough mistakes to know what doesn’t work. Together we should be able to work out the logistics with the help of the microwave and the warm setting on the oven.

Then chaos reigns when I try to maneuver pans, bowls, plates, and hot stuff into a dining area the size of the average department-store dressing room stall. Granddaughter Kate helps—in between reading pages of her current book and attending to cousin Ella, sister Rebe, and new friend Dakota.

“What more do you want me to do, Grandma?” she asks. “After all, you do so much for us.”

I savor this moment as I watch her decide what color plastic forks the younger kids would like. This time isn’t really about food anyway. Mashed potatoes and even homemade brownies are only part of this day. In the future will anyone remember the menu anyway? Probably not. I’m hoping they will recall the laughter and the fun.

And that gives me the energy to provide the setting, in my job as chief cook and Grandmother.

Kate tells me that almost-four-year-old Dakota said that he was going to drive a garbage truck when he grows up. But it will hold marshmallows. Dakota is a very neat child, so I suspect this will be a very clean disposal vehicle. Perhaps this young man will help to clean-up a very nasty world and fill it with softness. He just doesn’t know it yet. I can’t see inside anyone’s mind, but his smile shows high-beam possibilities.

After dinner my daughter-in-law Sarah clears the table and fits the leftovers into suitable containers. I watch her efficiency and think about her amazing ability with mechanical devices. She had my new Cuisinart assembled in seconds, and she showed me how to use it in terms I could understand. Given my lack of understanding, that is quite a feat. And she did it without making me appear amazingly inadequate. Anything that needs assembly has never been my forte.

This house is really too small to hold three children and seven adults. But WE did it. I’m tempted to relay all of my family’s virtues here. Now. But, an overview is sufficient. More becomes like a grocery list.

This moment is a gift…And I celebrate it.

doing the little things Words of Wisdom

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Goodbye, See You Later

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , on February 18, 2015| 8 Comments »

You’re going to come across people in your life who will say all the right words at all the right times. But in the end, it’s always their actions, not words, that matter. (Nicholas Sparks)

Snow was predicted for today, but I expected a token inch or so. Our street, finally plowed yesterday afternoon, is now hidden. In the semi-darkness of early morning the white bitterness seems to explode its message; winter has won this battle. When the phone rings before eight in the morning I know what I will hear before I answer. The call comes from two states away, where it isn’t seven in the morning yet. My sister-in-law has not called to chat.

My mother-in-law has left her physical body in Midwestern winter and joined a higher, temperature-free dimension. As I look outside again I realize that like the February snow, Mary’s death was inevitable. But, I thought my spirit would be better prepared. Winter will end. This goodbye is final. At least from a limited five-senses point of view.

The first bird I see at the bird feeder is a female cardinal. The cardinal is a symbol of a visitor from the next dimension. Next, two more cardinals arrive. They don’t stay long. They feed and then fly into our blue spruce.

I think about the transience of life’s experience and that thought leads into disconnected memories:

I see my mother-in-law’s move from a more affluent neighborhood to a less wealthy one, not because she needs to do it, but because she sees a mission there, a house closer to her church. My vision follows the many people Mary invites into her home, the folk who stay for a while and then leave, changed somehow because of her welcoming…

Next my memory revisits the day when my younger son has tied a towel around his neck as a cape. He is two days shy of his third birthday and he is playing superman. He tries to fly off a chair, but his fantasy doesn’t transfer into reality. He has sustained a concussion. I don’t have a car. My mother-in-law drops what she is doing and takes me and superman junior to the hospital. Then she waits until after Steve is treated before bringing us home. Mary and Son-number-two are buddies. They have been since he was an infant…

Mary and Son-number-two’s daughter are also buddies. Nana is now declining. Ella pretends to be a bear. Nana pretends to be frightened. The game continues.

And so does today’s snow—along with a deep and penetrating cold. No, I could not ask Mary to stay on this earth with a body that is no longer able to contain her incredible spirit. She needed to leave it. The human Methuselah-model has not yet been designed. I said goodbye to Mary the last time I saw her, and I meant it. However…there is always a however. My generous attitude was aimed toward her, not me.

Another cardinal stops for a bite to eat before taking off.

Okay, how do I rephrase goodbye? See you in the next dimension, Mary. I don’t know when. But in the meantime, you have an enormous number of people asking about you. So long. Peace, beautiful lady!

cardinal, symbol of visiting past loved one

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Chatting With Cecelia

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on February 8, 2015| 3 Comments »

Friends are those rare people who ask how we are, and then wait to hear the answer. (Ed Cunningham) 

My mind is in my usual run-faster-than-the-clock mode even as I browse through Facebook, something I do for relaxation. I see a message from my new friend, Cecelia. How was your day?

I envision my invisible to-do list, the one that doesn’t place chores and goals in tangible order. It lumps them together, landfill style. I frequently need to stop and re-think my next step. Sure, I have occasionally created lists. However, I tend to lose them or leave them on my dresser while I am on some phase of the day’s plans, miles outside the reach of that paper.

Yet, as I read CeCe’s message I smile. My day has been good, touched by both minor accomplishments and everyday blessings.

Our chat begins with ordinary-life talk, slips into the sublime, and picks up laughs along the way. We travel through the past, present, and future. I notice how the lag between each bubble-of-talk creates comical miscommunications, misplaced antecedents, confusing new topics. They can be easily explained, but are nevertheless humorous. I wish that these misunderstandings could be settled as simply in the real world.

Chat is new to me. Sure, I’ve used Messenger on Facebook—for one-time statements. It is simple on the computer because I am familiar with the full-sized keyboard on my laptop. Besides, my cell is a  basic flip-top. No Internet service. As Cecelia and I tap sentence after sentence I ease into a new age. We will meet in person again. Soon. I hope. However, for now the wrinkles around my neck fade and her fresh twenty-seven years move closer to my sixty-eight. She is wise beyond her age. Our spirits understand one another. She is beautiful both inside and out. And I am blessed by her openness.

Seconds advance into minutes… a half hour… I will save some of my impossibly vague list for tomorrow. Other tasks need to be crossed off my invisible agenda today. For example, a shirt left in the dryer for an hour may be wrinkled; overnight the cloth could resemble a salt-dough-map of the Himalayas. Boiling eggs explode to the ceiling when the water in the pot evaporates.  I only needed to do that once to learn not to do it again.

Eventually I write, Good night. Talk to you later.

Then, we chat just a little bit longer, a few extra words, one more shared smile.

Some gifts need to be savored.

how awesome you are

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A Road Delay, Gratitude, and a Dr. Seuss Book

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on February 4, 2015| 2 Comments »

Cultivate the habit of being grateful for every good thing that comes to you, and to give thanks continuously. And because all things have contributed to your advancement, you should include all things in your gratitude. (Ralph Waldo Emerson)

Most of our six-hour drive home has been calm. I imagine being one with a flock of geese traveling in a V-pattern above the flat Midwestern farmland. Some sun, some gray clouds, but little traffic. Even an expected construction delay turns into a minor build-up no worse than what we experience in low-trafficked business districts.

Then we arrive at the bridge that borders our home state from the south. Night is approaching. Brake lights are lined up in a queue long enough to mimic an infinite miniature Milky Way set in rows. Cars move under school-zone-limit speed. Jay seems less irritated than I expect him to be. However, he has spent the last week watching his mother deteriorate, her body and spirit preparing to separate. I place one hand on his knee.

We are so near, and yet so far from home. And then we see a tow truck easing along the side of the road. An accident has caused this backup. We are sure of it. However, we don’t learn the severity of the situation until the morning newspaper arrives.

Hours before we arrived at this part of the Interstate, a multiple-vehicle crash had occurred. At least four people were injured. Even a 2,000-gallon tank truck had been flipped over. The bridge had been closed for two hours.

I had wanted to leave my brother-in-law’s house earlier. But he had been kind enough to fix breakfast for us. The preparation and clean-up had taken longer than expected. Jay had been at the house a week longer than I had. We needed to bring home more stuff—and inventory a fuller car.

Now, as I sort laundry and put our toothbrushes back where they belong I find a small surprise among the packed items: a children’s book, Dr. Seuss’s “Butter Battle Book.” It looks familiar. As I open to the first page I see my younger son Steve’s name illustrated in outlined block letters, definitely his work more than two decades ago. His younger out-of-town cousins, now grown, read the book when they were small. Now Steve’s daughter will enjoy it. Good words passed on.

Good actions can be passed on as well. Not every day will save me from closed passageways. But inside each moment the seed of a possible blessing hides. And waits for the opportunity to be discovered, and sent in unknown directions…

happy thankful Optimism Revolution

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