Passion

When work, commitment, and pleasure all become one and you reach that deep well where passion lives, nothing is impossible. - unknown

If there is no passion in your life, then have you really lived? Find your passion, whatever it may be. Become it, and let it become you and you will find great things happen FOR you, TO you and BECAUSE of you. - T. Alan Armstrong

Passion requires focused direction, and that direction must come from three other areas: your purpose, your talents, and your needs. ~ Steve Pavlina

Passion, it lies in all of us, sleeping... waiting... and though unwanted... unbidden... it will stir... open its jaws and howl. It speaks to us... guides us... passion rules us all, and we obey. What other choice do we have? Passion is the source of our finest moments. The joy of love... the clarity of hatred... and the ecstasy of grief. It hurts sometimes more than we can bear. If we could live without passion maybe we'd know some kind of peace... but we would be hollow... Empty rooms shuttered and dank. Without passion we'd be truly dead. - Joss Whedon

When I looked up the word passion today, I found definitions of everything from suffering to anger to enthusiasm to love. Indeed, one definition is "any powerful or compelling emotion or feeling, as love or hate.”

I have always been excited to have passions in my life. Some of my passions have been lifelong (passion for music, for instance), which broadened as I got older to encompass a wider range (the Celtic harp). I’ve had passions for grammar, spelling, punctuation. I’ve had a passion for Lincoln. I’ve had passions for sewing, quilting, and cross-stitch. I even have a passion for medical transcription, which is a relief, because I have to do it every day.

I love the first quote: “When work, commitment, and pleasure all become one and you reach that deep well where passion lives, nothing is impossible.” The passion described here is more than an interest or a hobby. Passion has to be something that when you think about doing it or making it or seeing it or hearing it, your heart automatically speeds up. (Maybe I have a passion about flying, since that’s usually my physical reaction! LOL). It’s a driving force that, as the quote says, comes from deep inside, almost uncontrollable. Sometimes it makes life worth living, sometimes it makes it exciting to jump out of bed in the morning, sometimes it serves a greater purpose of benefiting others as it fulfills one's self.

My family has a lot of different passions - I mean REAL passions that energize them from the inside and spur their lives on. Passions that make their eyes light up when they talk about them. Some passions I don’t even understand what’s so great about them, but hey, that’s the beauty of passion. Mine has meaning for me, and theirs has meaning for them. My various family members have passions for Star Wars, theology, gardening, car seat safety, history, teaching, scrap-booking, books, music, wood-working, acting, animals, shopping garage sales for things they can transform, music, Mac computers, and others I probably don't even realize. Such variety!

I wanted to post about passion this week, because of our son’s extraordinary achievement. He has created a web site called www.macyenta.com and it went live last Saturday. Matt has a passion for Mac software - software with details of quality workmanship, elegant design, and user-friendly interfaces - and in all this, his passion is clearly evident and growing. He decided that the internet needed a site where Mac developers, programmers, coders, and designers could contact each other and come together to create great projects, find suitable working partners, and other things to shake up the Apple world. As I said, he started the site on Saturday, and as of today, Thursday, there are around 500 registrants from all over the world! Matt brought this amazing thing in to existence and we all watched as it grew incredibly in just a few days. This is the power of passion, when it’s paired with talent, channeled by vision, and steered by commitment.

Congratulations, Matthew! When work, commitment, and pleasure all become one and you reach that deep well where passion lives, nothing is impossible.

Making a Statement

I talk to myself, both aloud and in my head. We all do this, of course. The experts say that examining your self-talk is vital, because when you say something enough, you program your brain to believe it. People who consistently say, “I’m ugly” or “I always mess up” or “I’m never on time” can say these negative things so often that their brain impulses actually hardwire the message, which makes it even more likely to be thought, and so on. My personal one has been “I’m a procrastinator and unfinisher, and that’s just the way it is.” You say it so much, you don’t even question its validity anymore.

When it comes to doing things, I have certainly had my share of conversations with myself. As I lay in bed last night, I thought of all the statements I had made about myself and the effect those statements have had on my life. Words are more important than we give them credit for.

“I want to do this.” This is one mantra of childhood. Kids in their naive and hormone-laden states want to do everything - even things that are unwise, dangerous for them or other people, or things they are not mature enough to handle. Many adolescents lack judgment and all they can think of is what they want. “I want to sleep in and skip school today.” “I want to have sex.” “I want to drive as fast as this car will go.” “I want to get revenge on this teacher.” “I want to see what it feels like to get high.” Add to this the wants for material things, technology, clothes, games, etc., and the first fourth or so of one’s life can be consumed with trying to satisfy all those wants. As an adult, it becomes “I want to lose 20 pounds” or “I want to be loved” or “I want to be content in life.” You see, wants are not always bad, but when you want something you know would be good or healing for you and don’t do anything to achieve it, then it’s empty. As an adult, “I want” is just not enough.

“I should do this.” This was my childhood mantra. I was a good girl. I was a good student. I was a good church member. I was a good daughter. I knew what was expected of me, and usually I did it. I’m not belittling that, of course. I’m glad I could be a good family member and citizen. A sense of personal responsibility is admirable. But as adults, if we find that our lives are totally filled up with doing things because a nagging voice says we “should” and nothing else, and we do these things with no passion, no purpose, and sometimes with dread, it turns an admirable statement into a negative one, and drains our energy and eats into our lives.

“I could have done this.” Ack - the regret syndrome. Oh, the wasted life! The unaccepted challenges! The road not taken! Sometimes this becomes pathetic, but sometimes it’s funny. I remember when Matt was in, I believe, 6th or 7th grade, one of his friends was a good runner. Matt had never done fast sports, only karate (a much slower, more intentional skill), and one day he ran a race against this other boy. As he told us later about how he lost, he ended the story to us with a smile and said, “I could have beaten him...if he had had his shoes tied together!” It’s good to laugh at ourselves! But we shouldn’t be consumed with glory dreams of what might have been. We can learn from the past, but we really have only the future.

“I’m afraid to do this.” Boy, don’t I know it! This is the other half of a kid’s mantra (ergo Caroline’s standing in the street in her first set of roller skates, panicking). I’ve had those moments as an adult. “I’m afraid to commit to a health regimen.” “I”m afraid to kayak on the bay in Bar Harbor.” “I’m afraid to attempt this difficult quilt pattern.” “I’m afraid to take the Certified Medical Transcriptionist test.” “I’m afraid to fly to Memphis.” Of course, all these will be followed with the word “because,” as in “...because I might give up,” “....because I might drown.” “...because I am not skilled enough.” “...because I might fail,” and “...because I might crash.” If we admit fear, that’s being truthful. If we let fear paralyze us so we never try anything, well, that’s a big waste.

“I can do this.” Now we’re getting somewhere. As I mentioned in an MT chat room yesterday, when I passed the CMT, it sparked something within my brain that said, “If I can do this, maybe I can do something else that seems scary or difficult.” Do I really have the wherewithal to give up Cokes for the rest of my life? Am I mentally capable of a commitment to daily exercise? Can I actually make a quilt and finish it in a reasonable amount of time before I start another one of the myriad projects in my head? Am I actually physically, emotionally, and mentally able to get on another plane after freaking out on one 14 years ago? I made a list of things that up until now I had said,”I want to...,” “I should do...,” “I could have done,” and “I’m afraid to do...” and started associated these goals with a whole new statement - one with energy and promise. I can do this. I CAN DO THIS!

“I will do this.” This is the commitment statement. This is the one where you’ve discarded all the negatives, accepted the certainly that it is possible, and have gone one step further to commitment. After the goal is met, the feeling is indescribable, and feeds on itself to other goals and challenges and self-confidence. This can be overwhelmingly powerful and gratifying.

Finally, there is one more statement. For a couple of weeks, I have been visiting a site called www.transformation.com. It’s dedicated to encouraging people to transform their lives to their God-given full potential - not only physically in fitness and good health, but spiritually and emotionally and every other way from the inside out. They recently featured a teenage girl with leukemia, someone I didn’t know anything about but whom everyone was praising as such an inspiration because of her positive attitude about life. They said that her favorite statement was “I get to.” In spite of her chemo treatments, nausea and vomiting, and physical deterioration, she could still say, “I get to live another day.” “I get to give back to the society.” “I get to use this illness to encourage others.” She died last week, and the online community's outpouring of grief was tremendous.

I wondered what using her statement would do in my life. “I get to exercise today, because I have all my muscles and limbs and am not in a wheelchair!” “I get to fly to visit my family in August and get there in one day instead of driving for solid week there and back!” “I get to work in this fantastic career, where I not only use my skills, but I learn wonderful new things every day!” “I get to accept this new challenge, because win or lose, the struggle will only make me stronger!” “I get to participate today in this incredible journey called life!”

Now, that’s what I call making a statement. What a wonderful way to hardwire your brain!

The Great Connection

I’ve been reflecting on pleasures this week. With all the angst of rising food and energy prices and worries about the economy, jobs, and the war, I don’t want to lose myself in anxiety and miss the small pleasures in life. Sure, there are some big pleasures that are planned in advance - such as my upcoming trip to Memphis to see family and friends - but I am trying these days to fine-tune my pleasure receptors to the unexpected, serendipitous rewards most of us can receive every day, if we are open to them.

One of my downsizing/simplifying goals was to make an attempt to get closer to nature. As I’ve posted before, I have always enjoyed indoor activities (quilting, music, etc.) over outdoor activities which are usually accompanied by sunburn, heat, cold, hazardous ice and snow, mud, humidity, rain, or - my personal favorite - insects. Ed has always said (and I tend to agree) that the farther away we humans move from nature, the more bereft and lost we become.

My co-workers, aware of my desire for initiating natural communion, gave me a hummingbird feeder for my birthday last September, and after a long, long Maine winter, I finally got to hang it up last month. The first week, I saw no hummingbirds at all. Then one day Ed called me at work to tell me there was some activity, but try as I might in the hours I was home, I never saw one tiny bird. He described to me their beauty, their coloring, their interactions with their fellow birds, but I only could use my imagination. Some nights, we would be eating our early supper, Ed in his chair that faced the sliding glass doors to the back porch, and thus the feeder, and me on the bench, back to the feeder. He kept a close eye out, and as soon as he saw a hummingbird, he told me, but by the time I turned around, the bird had already flown away. Understanding my frustration, Ed changed places with me, and from then on, I was sitting where I was facing the feeder.

Finally, it happened. I saw a tiny brown bird fly up to the porch, suspend herself in space without perching, drink the sweet liquid, then fly away. I never realized what an uplifting moment of pure pleasure it would be - something so simple, so natural, yet so spontaneous.

I’ve seen many hummingbirds since then, and I have enjoyed each one. I have found, though, that I need to remain open to the moment, for the experiences are unplanned and brief. I could stand there at the door for an hour and might not see anything, but on the other hand, I might be walking past the door on my way to the kitchen, and see two or three visitors. I have learned that if my brain is weighed down with the worries of life, focused on the negative, my eyes remain closed to the joy of the hummingbirds, because my brain is not receptive enough to notice.

It wasn’t long after that that I saw the first owl I had ever seen outside of a zoo. It was sitting in a tall tree in our backyard. Ed, whose “awareness quotient” has always been off the chart as much as mine has been below normal, saw it first and led me to the window. At first I thought it was a huge bird’s nest, as it was dusk and the light wasn’t perfect. But as I watched, the owl turned its head in that quick unmistakable motion, and I could see very clearly the object of our fascination. Before I could fully grasp the importance of the moment, the owl spread its big powerful wings and flew off.

To some of you nature-lovers and gardeners and people who think nothing of being out in the natural world, these may seem like trivial things. But to me, a city girl born and bred in Memphis, I still get a kick out of seeing an unexpected deer in our neighborhood, or a real moose. Even the little hummingbirds fascinate me.

I’ve been taking walks outside now that summer is here, so I’m not just observing nature through glass. But I am just now realizing the potential of those spontaneous pleasures, how fleeting they are, how memorable they are, and how I must keep my mind and eyes and ears open to their presence. I’m ready to embrace nature.

...Although, last week there were a couple of bears spotted in Ellsworth near the hospital where I work. I may be ready to embrace nature, but I'm not quite ready for a bear hug!

Happy Birthday, Rachel!

The month of May is full of family birthdays. Today is the last one. Our beautiful daughter, Rachel Rebecca, today turns 30 on the 30th. Several people (the birthday girl included) have asked me how I feel about that. Well, I kind of feel like some of the gas station owners when gas hit $4 a gallon, and they didn’t have enough numeral 4’s in stock to change all their price signs. I’m not sure I’m quite prepared to have a kid (OK, young adult) with the number 3 at the beginning of her age. But prepared I must be, for the day is upon us.

The greatest fallacy when a new family member is born is to think you are getting a “baby,” when in fact, you are getting a baby and, if you’re lucky, a 10-year-old, 20-year-old, 30-year-old, and many decades beyond. Each year has been full of surprises. We were surprised to find out I had been carrying a girl on May 30, 1978, for that is when she came into the world, and we have been surprised ever since.


That’s one thing great about having children - you can’t predict where anything will go.

In looking back over her childhood photos, one can see she had a....well....an eclectic sense of style. Now as an adult, she has wonderful taste in dressing herself and her family (although no telling what she’s wearing this morning at home as she reads this blog!). In high school, she was enamored with football, football, and more football. She was the first female manager of her school’s football team. She helped take her school team to the state championship. She never missed a 49’ers game. She was confident she would grow up to marry Steve Young, their quarterback at the time. Now she hasn’t had a chance to see a football game in ages. She doesn’t even keep up with the standings. Her life has become filled with other things more important.

As she grew up, she was never interested in cooking or domestic chores. (It didn’t help that her Dad did all the cooking in the family. For years she thought that was the norm.) She was a true women’s advocate. She believed women could and should do anything, and she prepared herself for a preferred career as ESPN’s first female football anchor. After signing onto college as a communications major, though, she read a book which helped her figure out that her talents lay not in sports broadcasting but in teaching, and she switched to education and never looked back. And how is she in the kitchen? Well, that young adolescent Rachel would have been amazed to learn that young adult Rachel cooks like a pro, makes her own bread, and even made her own baby food when she became a mother!

The teenage Rachel spent money like crazy, if she had it. The adult Rachel has learned the value of a dollar, little though it be, and spends accordingly. The Rachel of a few years ago would have thought choosing a pink environment for her little girl would have been giving into stereotypes - but guess what color Caroline’s room is? The teenage Rachel who was brought kicking and screaming to Maine in 1996 is now married to a native Mainer and can appreciate the beauty of the state.

Now the little baby who - gasp! - came home from the hospital 30 years ago today IN MY LAP IN THE FRONT SEAT OF THE CAR is a certified car seat technician, spending many hours volunteering at a local hospital and other places to check car seat safety, instruct parents on choosing and using car seats, and doing her part to make child safety a priority in all vehicles.

So as you can see, there have been a lot of major changes in Rachel’s life, as there should be, and I’m sure there will be many more, as there should be. But all the while, some things have not changed, and I pray they never will. She is still full of love, laughter, and creativity (even if she denies her gifts in the latter). She has always been intelligent and a fantastic speller, grammarian, and book lover, and those talents she is passing on to her children. She has always been exceptionally tolerant to human differences, and that has only grown stronger. She has always been loyal and committed to her family, and as a family we are better for it.

Rachel has been known to worry, however, that she has disappointed me in some way, because she has never taken up quilting or sewing or music. What she fails to realize is that I did not want a daughter who is my clone. I just wanted a daughter who was intelligent, kind, wise, who could spell like an expert, learn a smattering of French, and know some basic facts about Abraham Lincoln - and I got that and so much more! We couldn't be prouder!

Oh yes - and she has always loved birthdays - anybody’s birthday, but her own is always special. She loves the recognition, reflection, and celebration that comes with birthdays. So Happy 30th Birthday, sweet Rachel! You have matured in wise ways, and have stayed the same in equally wise ways. We love you!

Happy Birthday, Mama!

I’ve been trying this year to honor the birthdays of family members by posting in this blog, but this is one of the hardest to create. My mother turns 85 year old today. If you know my mother, you know that words fail when talking about her. If you have never met my mother, you’ve missed something special.

You can’t pick your parents (although my son Matt swore when he was younger that God took him on a world tour before he was conceived to have him choose his mother, and he chose me), but being born to this incredible lady was an extraordinary blessing to me and my sister. We tease her about her eccentricities and she laughs with us. She is the most patient person I have ever met, the most accepting of life’s events, the most generous and most encouraging woman. She is prepared to believe the best about anyone, almost to the point of naiveté. She has been robbed many times - from someone breaking in her house to someone stealing her license plate - twice - and someone digging up her azalea bushes in the front yard at night, which is kind of ironic, because if someone just asked her for something within her power to give, she would give it without hesitation. She will purposefully go without in order to have money to give to others. She finds equal pleasure in a photograph of her great-grandchildren sent through the mail and my sister’s homegrown lettuce. She celebrates with us in big things, yet delights in the very small things. It is so easy to bring a broad smile to her face, or, if you’re lucky, a hearty cackling laugh.

Our dad died in 1980, and for 28 years, she has lived alone, a hard adjustment, but one she has managed to do successfully. She will drive anyone anywhere, she will do a good deed for anybody, and she is always surprised when someone does something for her - as if she never expected it. Her life has been always lived for others - her family, friends, neighbors, and church. She knows no other way.

My sister and I play the piano today because she always wanted to play, but never got the chance to learn. She plays vicariously through us (and my two nieces, who have carried on the tradition).

And I live vicariously through her. I desperately try to emulate her generosity and patience and positive attitude, although I’m afraid I’ll never come close.

I’m flying down to Memphis in August to surprise her for a visit. Every minute with her is precious and bittersweet, as I am always conscious of another impending separation. What did I do to deserve such a wonderful mother? Nothing. What can I do to honor her? Live a life worthy of her daughter. I only hope I am up to the task.

Happy birthday, dearest Mother! I wish you many more years of being a blessing to those around you!

The Poor People Project

I had the pleasure of baby-sitting granddaughters Caroline (5) and Charlotte (2-1/2) today. I am a firm believer in teaching moments - and those are not one-way, either. The girls have as much to teach me as I have to teach them.

While Charlotte was napping, I asked Caroline what she wanted to do. She said she wanted both of us to draw pictures of Abraham Lincoln. But these weren’t going to be ordinary pictures - oh no. She continued: “Then after we draw pictures of Lincoln, we will fold them up and stick in a bunch of money and give it all to Poor People.” One never quite knows what Caroline is going to do or say, but it never fails to amaze.

She brought out two sheets of paper and her box of markers, and we set out to create our masterpieces. She apparently had messed up on her drawing, so she obliterated her false start with black marker and began to draw underneath it. Always feeling the need to give an explanation for everything, she said she had decided that that was a rain cloud, and she was starting over to draw Lincoln underneath the rain cloud. I told her that was quite appropriate, since in real life, Lincoln probably felt as if he were under a rain cloud frequently.

We finished our pictures. "Sign your picture, Grammy," she told me, as she carefully printed CAROLINE on the right side of her drawing, having run out of room after the N and having put the E on the next line by itself.

“Now for the money,” she said. We went into her room and she grabbed her piggy-bank off a shelf. Her piggy-bank looks like a jungle scene, and it plays Talk to the Animals. She struggled to control the heavy object as she lowered it to the floor. “I want to put in bills,” she said, “because Lincoln was a President and there are Presidents on dollars! Do you get it?” Yes, I got it. Then she said, “Except I don’t have any bills. But I have coins, and there are Presidents on coins, too!”

She turned the piggy-bank over and started reaching in a small hole, pulling out whatever coins she could retrieve. As she did so, she began to relate to me how much she wanted to help Poor People. I capitalize that because she used the phrase almost as if she were using someone’s name.

“Poor People need my help,” she told me. “We certainly don’t want them shivering outside, standing in the rain, in the mud!” She pulled out a couple of quarters, then looked up at me again. “This money will help them buy the things they need, like...houses, and cars, and couches.” She grabbed a nickel and pulled it through. “And if they can’t afford a car, they can use this money to buy a wagon and some horses.”

Finally she had about 20 coins. She folded her Lincoln drawing and poured the coins inside, then tried to tape the paper shut, but the coins kept falling out. I could see that unless I did something, she would be using a whole roll of tape to try to control the spillage. So I took apart her first attempt, and showed her how to line up the coins and get one piece of long tape and tape across the line to hold every coin in place. She made and taped two lines of coins, one on the top and one on the bottom of the picture. Satisfied with the result, she went to her desk and came back with an ivory envelope, and we carefully folded the drawing, coins intact, placed it in the envelope, and she ran her tongue across the flap and sealed it. She handed the envelope to me.

“I’ll write Poor and then you write People,” she instructed, handing me a pen.
“Do you know how to spell Poor?” I asked her. She spelled it aloud correctly, then wrote it in capital letters on the front of the envelope.
“Now you write People,” she said. So I did.
She then said, “Grammy, I want you to put a stamp on this envelope, and when you leave today, I want you to mail it.”

We, of course, weren’t through yet. We went back into the living room, got my drawing of Lincoln, and proceeded to do the very same steps - except this time, the coins were coming from my wallet. Again, we taped, and again, she wrote POOR and I wrote PEOPLE on the envelope, and again she gave me the same mailing instructions.

When Rachel got home, I brought out the envelopes and explained the situation. She said, “Caroline, I don’t think this is enough money for poor people to buy a car or house. But do you remember how the grocery store always has cans at the cash registers where they collect change for kids who have cancer or people who are hungry? Would you like to take these to the grocery and give the money to those people?” Caroline thought that was a good idea.

I went to Caroline’s house today thinking I would be a teacher, and I left a student. I was worried about how the ever-increasing gas prices would affect me as I filled up on the way home, and Caroline was thinking about Poor People, and not only thinking about them, but actually putting her thoughts into action.

“And a little child shall lead them.”

Trips of a lifetime

My sister sent me a great book last year called “Land of Lincoln: Adventures in Abe’s America.” It’s a very entertaining book, and my favorite part is the author describing his attempt to get his family interested in Lincoln history by bundling them in the car and going on a car trip, following the old Lincoln Heritage trail. He states that the Heritage Trail (which includes, oddly, some non-Lincoln sites in the states involved) was an invention of the Illinois, Indiana, and Kentucky tourist industries, in an era when gas was cheap and families took vacations together.

Alas, today gas prices prohibit even the most determined families from driving hundreds of miles in the car to see the country. Such a shame! My sister and I can’t imagine childhood without the annual vacation. Our trips were on a tight budget - our father didn’t make much money - but he made sure he saved enough to pay for an annual 2-week trip and enough film to record it for posterity.

For Joy and me, our trip started months in advance, when we spent our free time writing lists of everything we wanted to pack, from clothes to accessories to books to games to the old salon-style hood hairdryer, which we to this day can’t figure out how Daddy got in the trunk. Soon we’d see envelopes in the mail from AAA, and it wouldn’t be long before Daddy would be sitting down at the table at night, studying their recommendations and trying to find out which motels would give us discounts for what. As the trip grew nearer, the anticipation became almost unbearable. Finally, the night before the trip, Mama would stay up practically all night frying chicken and making the ingredients for our picnic lunch, a tradition on the first day. She also had to wash clothes and pack for Daddy, and then worry for the next couple of days if we had unplugged the iron and locked the house. We never could understand how vacations just made her tired, when they energized us!

When my husband Ed was young, his family took fewer trips, but their trips were a lot different. They traveled to one destination and stayed there for a week, for instance, in a nice hotel. In contrast, we tried to see as many things as we could in the time allowed, and the motel was not for luxury, but for a clean place to sleep, so we could rise early and try to cram in another full, glorious day. We ate one meal out a day, and the rest of the time we went to a local grocery store and filled our cooler with the staples - Vienna sausage, bologna, cheese, bread, crackers, pork and beans, cereal, maybe some fruit, RC cola (or whatever was on sale), and a little container of milk (enough for cereal), tuna fish. We had a “goodie bag” of candy and snacks, a transistor radio, Travel Bingo, and songs and word games to keep us occupied. Most nights we had a pool and TV at the motel. What more could a kid in the '60s and early '70s want?

And the things we saw! National parks, state parks, local parks. Museums, historical homes, old mills. Washington, DC (with a fit, sunburned Ted Kennedy graciously stopping to chat and appear in our home movies). Philadelphia. Toronto. Colorado. Niagara Falls. Florida beaches. Mountains, rivers, lakes, streams. Everything to do with Lincoln - birthplace, childhood home, lawyer's office, the house in which he married, the church he attended, Lincoln Memorial, Ford's Theatre, the room in which he died, his tomb, and his chair on the fatal night (that's in Dearborn, Michigan!). Along the way, Stuckey's travel stops and wonderful tacky gift shops at each location. Our destination didn't have to be famous to make memories, either. We interacted with a talking myna bird at one motel. Watched Mama eat brains at a restaurant for breakfast. All of us got sunburned once, and Mama put wet tea bags on us as her home remedy. (What did we expect? We used baby oil for suntan lotion!) The trips became so wonderful and memorable that I started to keep journals.

We knew the trip was coming to a close when Mama took her house keys out of her purse to hold them for the last 200 or so miles. It was always good to come home, drop the home movies film off to get developed, see the cats again, and enjoy the rest of the summer. It wasn't long, though, before Daddy was already planning the next incredible trip.

The days of $12 motels for a family of four and 35-cent-a-gallon gas are gone. So are the opportunities for so many families to recreate what we took for granted. But every spring about this time, I start remembering those old family vacations, and I smile. I can almost smell the chicken frying in the kitchen.

Happy Birthday, Caroline!

Five years ago today we were all sitting in a hospital room while our daughter Rachel labored to give birth. The decision was made to go for C-section after all other options (and Rachel!) were exhausted, so Ed and I were full of anxiety over the surgery as well as excited over the birth of our first grandchild - and up to the actual birth, none of us knew the baby’s gender.

We alternated our time between the nurses’ station and the patient room, waiting for word. Finally we heard a loud, lusty cry, and in just a few minutes, the midwife, who had stayed to assist in the surgery, brought a precious bundle to the room. I learned we had a girl - Caroline Alice - and I fell in love with her the moment I saw her. I cried when the midwife gave her to me. I was so overcome, I’m surprised I didn’t drop Caroline right on the floor. The whole experience was unbelievable. It seemed like just yesterday that I was having my own C-section, giving birth to my firstborn, Rachel (whose gender we also were unaware of until the moment of arrival; we like surprises in this family, I guess!)

Well, it wasn’t long before Caroline discovered her first book, and the rest is history. I have 9430 photographs on my computer with Caroline in them, the majority of them, I think, showing her with a book in her hands. She’s graduated to chapter books, of course, and has been reading for a long time, in spite of the fact she’s only just 5 years old today and will start kindergarten in the fall.

We’ve watched Caroline grow into a lovely little lady, going from shy and introverted to outgoing and energetic. Just as on May 6, 2003, I was venturing into the unknown about what being a grandmother entailed, today we still are heading into the unknown. What will Caroline be like as she grows up? What new activities will interest her? What things can I teach her? What will she look like at 10? 16? 25? This year we are finally seeing just a tiny preview of an older version of Caroline, but if the preview is accurate, life with her will be a marvelous adventure - one surprise after another!

As Caroline learned what it's like to be a baby, toddler, little girl, and preschooler, she has taught me what it is to be a grandmother. What a wonderful gift! We’re both learning together. And, I might add, she is a perfect teacher for me.

Happy 5th birthday, Caroline! Papa and I are so proud of you - your intelligence, your manners, your wild imagination, your sense of humor, your smile, the sparkle in your eyes when you are excited about something, your creative blog, and your willingness to help your little sister learn how to maneuver through this world. I am so happy to be your Grammy! We love you very much, our Fairy Princess!

Drains

I had the pleasure of bringing home a bunch of cassette tapes from our trip to Memphis last August. My sister had asked me to transfer them to CD, as I was trying to transfer other old ones into digital format. One of those cassettes featured a celebration of my Uncle Tommy’s 25th birthday in 1952, two years before I was born. It was such fun to sit there and listen in on my uncle, aunt, parents, all who were young adults at the time, fool around with the tape recorder, cracking jokes, and doing generally silly things. My maternal grandfather even joined in, as he was an old hand at “broadcasting,” since he used to have a radio show earlier in life.

Uncle Tommy at that time was apparently fascinated with a commercial for Ajax cleanser. Here’s how their jingle went, and a little paragraph about the ad campaign:

Use Ajax (ba bum)
The foaming cleanser (ba ba buma bum bum)
Cleans pots and pans just like a whiz (buba buba buba buba bum)
You'll stop paying the elbow tax
When you start cleaning with Ajax
So use Ajax (ba bum)
The foaming cleanser (ba ba buma bum bum)
Floats the dirt right down the drain (buba buba buba bum)
So use Ajax!

Ajax Pixies - Three energetic pixies who cavorted about kitchens and bathrooms cleaning dirty surfaces with Ajax Cleanser. Created by the Sherman & Marguette Advertising Agency for the Colgate-Palmolive Company, these three pointy-eared personalities were TV's first animated commercial mascots. Their Ajax Cleanser commercial also introduced TVs first jingle "You'll stop paying the elbow tax, when you start cleaning with Ajax." The pixies (a fat, a thin and a tall pixie all under three-inches in height) interacted with live-action shots and piped such scripted lines as "Foams as it cleans," "Cuts grease fast" and "Floats the dirt right down the drain." The commercials were accompanied by a bouncy "Bum, Bum, Bum, Bum Bum" musical score written by Joe Rines. Ajax "the foaming Cleanser" debuted on television with its three animated pixie mascots in 1948 and continued through the 1950s.

So on the tape, Uncle Tommy took the microphone around and had everyone present sing a shortened version of the Ajax jingle, changing the word “drain” to “dwain.” I know, it doesn’t sound like much entertainment these days, but the participants were obviously having a blast. Every time I think of drains, I think of this jolly family party in 1952.

And when do I think of drains? When I consider how I use my time and with whom I spend my time, and what impact this is on my life. Ever since we started to simplify, how to spend my time has been a major concern. It’s bad enough to waste money (and we have certainly done our share), but to waste time is worse. Time is so limited, and on top of that, we have no idea how much we have allotted to us. The older I become, the more acutely aware I am of the fact that I’m on the top of the hourglass and most of the sand is at the bottom now.

My desire is for energy, because I still have so much I want to accomplish in the coming years. In reality, though, it’s easy to watch all that potential energy float down the drain like the dirt in the jingle. So I am constantly examining my life, trying to identify the people, things, activities, and thoughts that drain me. That is where I need to make changes.

I told one of my friends the other day, who was thinking she needed to spend less time on the computer and more time in uplifting and productive activities, that on her deathbed she will not sigh and say, “I wish I’d spent more time in chat rooms on the Internet” or “I wish I’d spent more time on the computer” or “I wish I’d spent more time watching TV and living life vicariously.” What will I say? If I died today and had time enough to reflect before the event, I would say: “I wish I had spent more time with family. I wish I had spent more time in God’s beautiful, amazing, natural world. I wish I had had more patience, been more considerate, been more loving and forgiving. I wish I had not allowed so many negative people and thoughts, worries and anxieties in my life that drained me so much that I had little energy to devote to things I love, like my quilts, my music, and my books. I wish I had used my time more effectively to make the world a better place.” I’m not saying that we have to make decisions about what is good versus what is bad; I’m only saying we have to make decisions about what may be good versus what is better - what may be an adequate, occasionally enjoyable way to spend our time versus what is the best and most uplifting way to spend our time. And that, my friends, may be different for each of us. We are each answerable to our own idea of how to live our own life.

We are going through many changes at work, many of them quite challenging. I have a co-worker who is unfortunately looking at everything negatively. She is a sweet person, but easily discouraged, and life is weighing her down. Now, I’m not a pollyanna by any means, but I have learned in life that a positive attitude is energizing, and a negative one is draining. There is certainly enough negativity in the news these days, and I am not trying to make light of the fact that the economy is in serious trouble, energy prices and grocery prices and the war and everything else can be enough to make one want to hide away from it all. There are surely times I want to complain and whine and wring my hands in frustration. I have found that the more negativity I surround myself with, the more worried and anxious and drained I become. Having a “positive attitude” is so cliche, I know, but I believe it contributes to energy, contentment, and productivity.

We can’t avoid completely the drains in our lives. But we can minimize their effects by staying aware of who they are, where they are, and how they subtly infiltrate our activities and slowly suck the life out of us. If anything goes down the drain, let it be negativity, complaining, anxiety, confusion, and regret. Then the drain becomes a friend instead of a saboteur. You just have to know exactly what you want to see float out of your life.

It Could Be Worse

ABC news recently broadcast a feature about a church whose pastor decided that the world (including him) tended to complain too much. He began distributing bracelets to the congregation. Every time they had a complaint about something, whining or grumbling or just being negative, they had to transfer the bracelet to their other wrist, repeating this transfer back and forth with every gripe. The goal was to keep the bracelet on the same arm for a certain length of time - days or weeks, I forgot exactly how long. His premise was that people complain so much that they don’t even realize it, and the bracelet is a tool to make them aware of this negative habit. The experiment was so successful that they are now shipping thousands of bracelets all over the world.

Then in my quilt magazine, I read an article by a woman who organizes the largest quilting festival in Vermont. In the article, she says we mistakenly believe baseball is the national pastime, but it’s really complaining.

I do my share of complaining, and it’s definitely something I need to work on. This week, Ed and I finished watching a 6-video series of King Henry VIII’s wives. It is a PBS documentary, very well done. I’m somewhat of a romantic, and on occasion I have been known to daydream about what it would have been like to live in a certain historical time period. After watching this series, though, I think I will cut short my complaining and focus on how well we live today. Yes, even with gas prices, food prices, ineffective government, and unaffordable healthcare costs.

In the first place, I was reminded that women were thought to have no more rights than animals. Their sole purpose seemed to be childbearing, and not just any childbearing, but specifically son-bearing. Having a son born was a cause for celebration, and having a daughter was a disappointment, especially for a reigning monarch. On top of that, childbirth was extraordinarily dangerous, and many women were almost constantly pregnant, having several miscarriages and stillbirths, which weakened their bodies even more.

Then there were the infants who, even if they were healthy enough to be born after a full-term pregnancy, often died within the first year of life. One web site states that “out of all people born, between one third and one half died before the age of about 16.”

Another states:

The Middle Ages are a dangerous time, and you'll need stamina and good luck to survive. One monkish writer, who compiled the Annals of Bermondsey, reckons that famine is so common that starving people resort to eating dogs, cats, the dung of doves and their own children.
The really bad news is the Black Death, the culmination of a series of disasters which begin in the early 1300s, when England is struck by uncommonly bad weather. A little ice age is followed by severe floods, failed harvests and livestock plagues. Famine hits hard in 1315.
The most common causes of death are unclean water and bad hygiene, especially in the crowded, dirty towns. Diet is another factor. Fruit is reckoned to be bad for you, and a low intake of dairy produce makes it difficult to resist epidemics.

Average life expectancy is only 30. Of the children born to medieval kings, less than half survive into their 20s. At Winchester College, a public school for 70 boys from prosperous homes who are well looked after, 12 die during 1401 and 20 during 1431.

King Henry VIII was ready at one point to have his last wife put to death because she dared to “instruct” him while debating a religious question.

Yet here am I in 2008, having had (by safe C-sections) two children, a precious son and a precious daughter, who lived to grow up and start families of their own. I can discuss with my husband politics, religion, or whatever else I’d like, and we can even agree to disagree. I can’t imagine what it would be like to live in a world where less than half of children survived into their 20s, a world where the man was allowed to have as many mistresses as he pleased, yet a woman could be condemned to death for adultery.

So even though the economy stinks and gas is outrageously high, I think I will take a week off from complaining. It’s poignant, but somehow after learning all this, I feel both very sad and very blessed, and at least just for this week, I think I’ll concentrate on what’s right with the world. It has definitely been worse.

I see the moon

“I see the moon, and the moon sees me.
God bless the moon, and God bless me.”

How well I remember that rhyme from my childhood. The moon and I have had a longstanding relationship, and nothing has changed; in fact, the relationship has actually become more playful. The sun, however, has not been so kind. Since I had the extensive burn to my face seven years ago, doctors warned me to stay out of the sun. I work in a small “closet” with no windows, so until I leave work, the only time I see the sun is when I walk to the hospital cafeteria. Then at the end of the day, when I’m trying to get to an early bedtime at 6:30 or 7:00 p.m., the sun bathes my bedroom through two windows, teasing me inconsiderately about my unusual schedule. I get quite annoyed.

The moon, though, is the heavenly body that greets me every morning when I leave for work at 4:00 or 5:00 a.m. Sometimes it is hidden by clouds, sometimes it is a little sliver of a moon, but other times, like yesterday, it is big and bright, if somewhat lopsided, in clear skies. I just had to stop and take a picture of it. How tiny it looks in the picture, and how big it looked in the sky!

My commute to work along the coast of Maine is understandably a winding one. It’s only about 20 minutes of driving, but the road twists and turns so that one minute, the moon is on my right, seemingly high up in the sky, then the moon disappears altogether until it pops up on my left, maybe looking lower near the horizon. I never know where it will turn up next, but I get the sensation it is playing a game with me. At times it feels as if everyone in the world is still asleep, but the moon sees me and I see the moon, and maybe we are the only two creatures awake.

That bond has been intensified when I think about the lessons the moon teaches me. For one thing, it teaches me to keep things in perspective. I know in my brain that when the moon looks bigger or smaller or assumes a different shape that it really hasn’t changed size; it is just my way of looking at it. I also know that because it has no natural “glow,” and its shine is the reflection of the sun, that means the sun is shining somewhere, even while we are encased in darkness. (I have posted before that I have a strange way of looking at tragedy and happiness - that if I am attending a funeral, I still note the probability of someone getting married somewhere at the same time, and on days when I am overjoyed and feeling deliriously happy, I am tempered by the fact that somewhere someone has lost a loved one to an accident or illness.) Next, the moon teaches me about constancy and faithfulness. I know that even if I can’t see the moon, and the moon can’t see me, it’s still there, making its daily rounds. Even while it seems to be an inactive satellite, we know of the power it has on our tides, so it is an important player for the fishermen here along the coast, indeed, for our entire planet.

Finally, the hide-and-seek dance the moon plays with me five mornings every week reminds me that things are not always what they seem to be, and as in its changing size and “glow,” the eye can deceive. I can’t definitely say whether the moon is male or female - Francis of Assisi defined “Brother Son, Sister Moon,” yet the Man in the Moon theory just adds to that endless speculation.

The history and science of the moon is fascinating, but for now I am content to enjoy its presence in the dark of night/early morning as I begin another day.

“I see the moon, and the moon sees me.
God bless the moon, and God bless me.”

Dream A Little Dream With Me

How is it that I still feel obligated to follow “the rules” in my dreams? I dreamed last night that I wanted to go outdoors to a field covered in snow, but I had to file paperwork for permission and ask two authorities for their permission as well. Hey - it’s a dream, isn’t it? Isn’t that why they call it a dream? Don’t you have complete and utter freedom to do what you want without punishment or consequence or even red tape? Even in my dreams, apparently, I’m a stickler for the rules. I never did get to go to the field. I never got permission.

I get bemused by the expression “in your dreams.” Someone might have an outlandish goal, or think something extraordinarily will happen to them, and another person comes along, laughs understandingly or sometimes derisively, saying, “In your dreams!” I wish the good things did happen in my dreams, but they rarely do. My dreams are usually a reflection of my life at the time, mirroring my frustrations at work, the way it takes me so long to finish a project, and other things that tend to weigh on me during the day.

I wish the news I heard yesterday was just another bad dream. Forget the sub-prime mortgage crisis, forget the price of energy and everything else that squeezes our wallets. At least we can eat. Millions of people are going hungry now around the world; rice, a staple of so many, has been hit especially hard, and countries who usually export rice are now keeping it for themselves to ensure that they have enough to feed their own citizens. The news report showed children in India on their hands and knees in the marketplace trying to sweep up grains of rice that had fallen a few at a time from baskets. After seeing several reports like that, Ed and I went to eat at an All-You-Can-Eat Chinese buffet. I looked at the little cup of rice on our table. I almost got sick thinking about how big that little cup would look to someone in India or Thailand or Africa. At the restaurant, I could get up and eat my fill of hundreds of foods on the buffet, yet others in the world were literally starving.

The next news report on ABC I heard was how the foods banks in Maine and the rest of the USA are depleting their pantries. They said the donations had stayed the same, but the need was greater. The very next commercial that came on the TV, featuring French bistro music, and a picture of a gourmet chef. It turned out to be an ad for cat food, trying to tell us that our cats, of all creatures, deserve not just to eat, not just to eat well, but to eat gourmet. I'm not against pets getting fed - our Babe certainly has eaten more than her share - but isn't this somehow out of whack? The news report and the ad following it had to be a bad dream - but it wasn’t.

A news story on PBS told about federal funds set up for helping ranchers and farmers in Texas during drought conditions - but due to members of Congress using appropriations to buy votes for the next election, millions of dollars from that fund were going to ranchers and farmers who had no disaster or drought or any kind of damage whatsoever. And to top it off, the payments weren’t going to the little guy, they were going to the giant landowners, the ones who made millions of dollars every year anyway. After all, they are the ones who can help fund the next campaign. Again, this should be a bad dream.

The last news story I watched yesterday was about our individual carbon footprints in America. From disposable diapers to plastic, from styrofoam to appliances, the report showed in pictures exactly how much waste we Americans generate every day. It is staggering. The final line of the report said that if the rest of the world lived the American lifestyle, we’d need 4 planets the size of Earth to accommodate us all.

So yesterday was a day of conscience for me. Maybe it’s good that I have such a conscience in my dreams, that, even uninhibited and free in a virtual world of fantasy, I still make myself follow the rules. Yesterday I learned several things. One, that Ed and I are not trying to simplify and downsize our lives just for ourselves or for an "experiment"; there is great need in the world. Second, that I need to send some money ASAP to charities that feed the hungry, if I have to skip a few meals to do it. Third, that most of us in this country have no idea how blessed we are, and, yes, how spoiled we are.

Ever since Reagan was running for president and asking the question, “Are you better off than you were 4 years ago?” (referring to Carter’s administration), a lot of people answered have asked that question again and again - “Hmm...am I better off? How am I doing?” That question always troubled my conscience. Maybe I'm not better off, and that's the only way I will work for change, since I'm the one who matters. Of maybe I am better off, I may be paying my mortgage, I may have a good job and health insurance - but the question is still too limited. “Are others better off? Are we as a country better off? Are we as a world better off? Are we sharing what we have? Are we so used to being overly fed that we can’t cry at the pictures of the Indian children scavenging for grains of rice - or feel sad yet not try to do anything about it? Do we think our extremely comfortable lifestyle is to be saved no matter what other people have to suffer so we can maintain it? Do we sometimes agonize over a purchase, realizing the money could have bought someone else food, even right here in our own community?”

We’re asking the wrong questions.

Yes, it was a bad day for news, yesterday. It makes me want to avoid the news altogether sometimes, but I have a conscience (even in my dreams) and I know most of us do, too. We are comfortable, taking it for granted that we will have enough (yes, and many times too much) to eat. Shame on us if this crisis does not upset us enough to do something generous, even in a small way. I think sometimes the enormity of the situation paralyzes us, and we feel an inability to do anything that will make a difference. My goodness, even poor Bangladesh is still suffering. I remember reading about Bangladesh having floods and famines when we studied in Sunday School back in the '60s. There’s a lot we can’t fix, but, by God, we should do what we can.

Ed preached once on the expression "There but for the grace of God go I." He says that implies God's grace hasn't extended to those suffering, and that God is somehow favoring us over others. Ed changes the sentence: "There because of the grace of God, I go." Those who suffer are us, and we are those people, if you believe in the connection of humanity as the children of God. I have a dream today...

Falls

Remember that old commercial where the elderly lady is on the floor, calling her Lifeline, saying, “I’ve fallen and I can’t get up!”? It produced parody spinoffs for decades. What a horrible thing, though, to fall and really not have the ability to pick yourself up!

This winter, I’ve fallen two times. The first time, I was in our driveway, trying to descend from the street to the house because I had forgotten to grab my lunch as I went out the door to go to work. It was so deep in snow and so slick that Ed (who was driving me) was afraid that if he tried to drive back down in the driveway, he would get stuck and I’d never get to work. Unfortunately, I fell hard. One would think all that snow would cushion somewhat, but my body fell so hard and fast that I went all the way to the driveway in a nanosecond. Ouch! Fortunately, no bones were broken, but the pain lasted for weeks.

The second time, I recently fell on the black ice outside the hospital where I work. It was 4 a.m. and dark, and I hadn’t realized that I had parked by black ice, or that I would be stepping out on black ice when I exited the car. This time I fell on the right side of my body, directly on my right arm and elbow. I received a colorful bruise and more pain from that one. Again, fortunately, no bones broken. (A broken arm for a transcriptionist is bad news.)

A few years ago, I was home by myself and carrying a big pot of spaghetti noodles from the stove to the sink, when some olive-oil-laden water splashed out of the pot onto the hard tile kitchen floor, and of course, my foot found it immediately and went out from under me. I fell on the left side of my body, and with the type of quick fall and the extra-hard surface, the left side of my body was so traumatized inside that a couple of weeks later I started having chest pains and thought I was having a heart attack. Audrey, my friend who is a massage therapist, says the body has physical “trauma memory” just like psychological trauma memory. What it endures may lie dormant, but it never forgets.

I think that ability to get up when we fall and deal with the aftermath is one of the traits I value in people whom I admire and respect. When my first cousin died last year at 49, my elderly aunt and uncle were understandably shaken and forever changed, but they gathered around the church and family and friends and are learning to keep on living. When my dad died in 1980, my 56-year-old mother was caught by surprise and totally unprepared, but she, too, survived, learned with the help of my sister to handle the things Dad would have handled, and is thriving.

As I mentioned before, I wrote letters to our kids for their first 18 years, and after I wrote their last letters, I had Ed write them each a letter, too. I remember that in Rachel’s book, he wrote about trees. He said she was a strong tree that didn’t like change in plans and liked things to stay the same, but to succeed in life, she needed to be a willow tree, one that bends with the wind. He rightly saw that a capacity to pick herself up when the unexpected happens and figure out what to do from there would benefit her tremendously in life.

It’s tempting to say that whatever it is “shouldn’t” have happened, or “wouldn’t have happened if...” and stay there on the floor. Of course, we learn from our mistakes, and we need to examine the circumstances that made us fall. Was I going too fast? Was I not paying attention? Should I have just gone on to buy my lunch that day and not gone back for it in treacherous conditions? Should I never be allowed in a kitchen again? What can I do in the future to prevent falling yet another time? An evaluation and plan is, of course, the wise response to make.

But in the end, whether you were the instigator or a helpless victim, you have to admit you’ve fallen, pick yourself up, and go from there.

I’ve given as examples some horrible, traumatic events, such as family deaths, to illustrate resiliency. But the ability to be resilient, I think, makes even the small things in life go a bit easier. Temporarily discontinued an exercise program, like I have, because of the black ice arm injury and working so much overtime? Figure out a way to get back up. The wonderful news is that today is indeed another day, another opportunity. I think each time we steam ahead and keep trying, we add more molecules of fortitude and discard more molecules of fear.

In one way, life is kind of like that TV show, “Let’s Make a Deal.” You get a chance to open doors and boxes and make bets, and sometimes you win the cruise and sometimes you get the donkey. In the show, most participating audience members don’t get to continue; they’re stuck with what they’ve gotten. That’s the wonderful thing about life, though - for our allotted days, we can keep plugging away, falling, getting up, falling again, getting up again. And I feel blessed to have role models to show me exactly how this works.

Happy Birthday, Matthew!

When we decided to create a simpler, more peaceful life, one of our goals was to make a list of priorities and learn how to maintain them. At the top of the list was “People over Things.” And our most important people are family, so that is why this year (as you may have noticed), on birthdays of our wonderful family members, I am posting a little entry celebrating what they mean to us.

On March 28, 1983, I gave birth to a blond-haired, blue-eyed baby boy. As mentioned back a couple of months ago, had he been a girl, his name would have been Sarah Elizabeth, but he was indeed a boy, and we named him Matthew Ensley, Matthew meaning “gift from God,” and Ensley after my late father. Matt was born into life with a big sister about 5 years older, but he took it in stride. In fact, he took everything in stride. Nothing ever seemed to bother him. He was creative, generous, imaginative, intelligent, loving, and spiritual.

He was also....well, different. Unless you think dressing up in a 3-piece suit with a valise in your hand is the right way to go to kindergarten, then yes, you might agree he was a little strange - in a good way, of course.

Here are two entries from a series of letters I wrote to him when he was growing up:

You are 3 years old now. It’s spring and you love to play out in the dirt with a spoon under the sprinkler. In fact, Sunday we looked around and found you naked in the front yard. We asked why you took your shorts off, and you said,”Because I want to sprinkle my whole body!”

I have decided to work with you on your alphabet recognition. We studied a workbook the other day which showed various letters and pictures of things that start with each letter. We were studying the letter V. It showed a picture of a violin. I asked you if you recognized it, and you said, “Guitar.” I reminded you that you had seen a boy at church play a violin and I pantomimed someone playing a violin. You repeated the word “violin” and seemed to have understood our little lesson. The next day you were humming away at the same time you were pantomiming the violin just as I had showed you. I was so pleased you seemed interested, but I want to see if you remembered the word violin. So I said, “Matt, that’s great! Now what are you playing?” You smiled broadly and replied, “Joy To the World!”

When Matthew turned 5, he did an extraordinary act. To this day, it amazes us when we think about it. He had fallen when he was 4 and chipped a front tooth, and at that time, the dentist wanted to watch it for signs of infection. For a long time, nothing happened, but then it got darker than the rest of Matt’s teeth, and the dentist indicated that the gum around it was tender. Finally, the dentist said that either the tooth should be pulled or a pulpectomy be done (similar to a root canal). He said the reason baby teeth fall out is that as the child gets older, the roots of those teeth decrease until finally, when the roots disappear, the teeth have nothing to keep them adhered, so they detach. Actually physically pulling one of these baby teeth before the root has dissolved is an arduous, painful process, because the root is still long. We had just decided to have the tooth in question pulled when one night Matt fell at church and busted his lip, also hitting that tooth. The gum line around the tooth started to bleed, and we were getting worried. We took him to the dentist, and the tooth was pulled. It took 2 shots of Novocain to numb the area sufficiently. Matt never cried, not even once!

As amazing as that was, what followed was totally unexpected. The night before the painful procedure, I heard Matt talking to his big sister about wanting to share his Tooth Fairy money with her, no matter how much it was. Of course, after hearing this, Ed and I needed to up the ante, and after all the pain Matt was going to be enduring, we figured he deserved at least $3, so the Tooth Fairy ended up giving him $6. Sure enough, the next morning, Matt gave Rachel $3.

The whole thing just floored us. To think that a 5-year-old little boy would give half the Tooth Fairy money to his sister was hard to believe anyway. But to know that he had gone through so much pain, so bravely, at the dentist’s office and still felt like sharing the reward was incredible. To this day, we repeat this story with awe and wonder.

Because that’s really the story of Matthew. He has an innate sense of compassion, affection, forgiveness, and grace. When you combine that with a hilarious sense of humor, first-rate intelligence and creativity, an eye for detail and a yearn for perfection in his work, then and only then can you see the complexities of our Matthew. He has entertained me when I had had a bad day, encouraged me when I was down, advised me when I didn’t know what to do, taught me patiently about computers, asked for advice when he thought I could give him some input, and grimaces but gives in when we tell embarrassing stories about his childhood. (See, Matt, in honor of your birthday, I’m not even posting the “I just pass gas” story!)

We are so blessed to have Matt in our lives. We have always been so proud of him, and I am honored that he got so much of his computer training by crashing our various computers in days gone by, as this means we have contributed greatly to his technological career.

Happy 25th birthday to our son! We love you!

Versatile Kate

Seventeen years ago this week, I decided it was time to join the video revolution and buy a video recorder. I remember the day well. My brother-in-law was a professional videographer for a Memphis TV station, so I dragged him along to a store near the hospital, where he graciously helped me choose the perfect camera for my purpose. And what was that purpose? The birth of a very special lady - my older niece, Kate.

So I got to record her first diaper change by her Daddy, and then someone else took a video of Kate in my arms as I sat in a rocking chair in the hospital room. It's strange to hold a new baby and wonder what the future holds. We always immediately try to figure out which relative the baby looks like, and as child get older, what personality she will exhibit. But there in that Memphis hospital room 17 years ago, all I could think of was this precious bundle in my arms, the first child of my only sibling, born into a close, loving family. All I could think of was what a lucky baby she was, and what a lucky aunt I was.

The years have flown by. Kate is now a beautiful young adult, just as comfortable on a soccer field as she is playing the piano - and also comfortable being a camp counselor and being active in her church, and yes, her skills extend all the way to cleaning out the dog kennel where she works part-time! Unfortunately, we already had started moving around in the ministry by the time Kate was born, so I didn't get to be there as often as I would have wished. Every time we visit Memphis again, we are amazed at the talented, intelligent, charming young woman she has become.

That baby now is touring college campuses to make her higher education choice. That VHS video is old now in technological years. But every once in a while, I get it out and reminisce about the beginning of what I know will be a remarkable life. We are so proud of you, Kate! Happy birthday!

One Hour

Ah, Daylight Saving Time - the annual spring ritual when the United States government flexes its muscles to display its power over the solar system. Not to be outdone by God, who in Genesis separated the dark from the light, and not to be outdone by Joshua, who asked God to make the sun stand still, the federal government proclaims the dark to move to the morning, and the light to move to the evening, and it is Good. Or is it?

To accomplish this, the government has to take a major step. It has to “steal” one hour from our lives every spring. One minute it’s 2 a.m., and then next minute it’s 3 a.m. - just like that - and a full hour is gone, vanished, at the direction of the Feds. What might you have accomplished in that hour? It was an hour of unlimited possibilities - disappearing in an instant! At first glance, this seems immoral. But not to worry, they say. The government is just “borrowing” that hour from you. You will get that hour back in the fall, and it all balances out. So it all makes sense. Or does it?

There are people who actually believe that Daylight Saving Time can really “save” daylight and move it around, and undoubtedly these people have superior intellect, so to them I present this intriguing question: What happens to the people who die between the beginning of Daylight Saving Time in the spring and the end of Daylight Saving Time in the fall? Through no fault of their own, those unfortunate souls have really been thrown into a predicament. They’ve lost an hour of their lives - never to get it back! In their case, that hour has not been borrowed - it has been stolen!

Here’s an idea: What if we filed a class action suit against the United States government on behalf of all those people whose hour was stolen - yes, stolen - in the spring, people who died before the government could return to them their rightful 60 minutes? Surely their families must be compensated. What price can one put on an hour of life - the most precious of commodities? A lawsuit like this asking for exorbitant damages could bankrupt the whole country! And no doubt in this litigious nation, there are more than a few lawyers who will line up eagerly to prosecute such a case.

I just love logical reasoning - and then there's the other kind. Maybe the government will think twice before ever instituting such a law in the future. When will we ever learn that you just can’t fool Mother Nature?

Home Again, Home Again, Jiggedy Jig

This week I want to share part of a newspaper article that I have been saving for a few weeks. It is written by Jeff Opdyke, who covers personal finance for the Wall Street Journal.
He and his wife, Amy, moved back to South Louisiana, where they both grew up, but are considering moving again, and in the article he is ruminating over the reasons why things didn’t turn out as planned back “home.” The article's title is "There's No Place Like Home. Including Home."

...Then there’s the biggest reason: Home isn’t what it used to be.

People regularly dream of returning to the place where they grew up, where memories of family and friends are strongest, where they came of age. Or they dream of returning to that place where they first made it on their own - where they had their first job, where they first met their future spouse.
What we’ve learned over the past three years, though, is that home isn’t really about the place. It’s about a time. And for many people, going home again is an impossible quest to return to a life forged as a kid or a teen or a young adult. It is like one of those dreams where everything looks familiar, but nothing seems right.
...Amy also imagined our Louisiana life would be slower, because that’s how life was when she was here last, or when we visited. But, of course, our life - and the lives of our friends - are different than they were 20 years ago...Our older relatives need our help. To state the obvious: Life is different in your 30s and 40s than it was in your teens and 20s, no matter where you live.
“The Baton Rouge I left is a different world from what we have returned to,” Amy says...Perhaps most unsettling to Amy is that she envisioned our kids would know the childhood she and I had growing up in Baton Rouge, when we could ride our bikes all over the city or hang out in the street after dark playing with friends.
“That was really naive,” she says.... “I don’t know what I was thinking. We can’t let our son ride his bike around town like we did, and there’s no way I’m letting him run around the streets after dark with his friends.”

That article struck a chord with me. As I’ve mentioned before, I grew up in the ‘50s and ‘60s with the perfect childhood. Our mother still lives in the same house in which my sister and I grew up - with the exact same phone number I learned to memorize as a little girl. Now I live in Maine, but I get to go back to Memphis every couple of years or so, and every time reinforces in my mind how change is inevitable in life, not always for the better, and that, as Thomas Wolfe wrote, “you can’t go home again.”

I now stand on that porch on Josephine Street and look next door at an overgrown empty lot, which used to hold the house where the Danny Whitley (my first crush) and his annoying little brother, Chuck, used to live. Our backyard, which used to be so full of green grass and shady trees and a clothesline full of billowing sheets just right for a makeshift tent, is now just dirt, thanks to the destruction of a series of energetic dogs through the years. Some of the trees have been cut down because of age or disease. It’s impossible to explain to my kids or grandkids that in that corner of the front yard was the old mimosa tree, and on one side of the driveway grew the honeysuckle bushes and and on the other side next to the house grew the lovely rosebushes, our first stop on Mother’s Day, where we each picked a fresh red rosebud to wear to church. There was the sidewalk where we played hopscotch and roller-skated, over there was the area we played impromptu “softball” or badminton games, back there was the place our family cat was buried. Inside the house are more memories. This is the window someone always had to climb in when our parents accidently locked the family out of the house. Over there is where the piano stood; over here is where Santa used to leave his stash. And look - that tiny bathroom! Can you imagine a house with one bathroom?! For four people?! How did we ever manage?

Now Memphis is a high-crime city and Mother lives in that house by herself, where she has been burglarized and robbed and has to be home before dark.

It’s not just the familiar places and things, of course. The most gut-wrenching reality is that our loved ones are either going fast or are already gone. Our dad has been dead since 1980 (age 64) but I still tear up when I think that never again will I see him crouched in the front yard battling with the crabgrass, or sitting at the dining room table working on his stamp collection, or getting excited about seeing the latest batch of home movies, or checking our arithmetic homework, or getting out the AAA book to plan our annual family vacation. When I visit Memphis, I won’t get to see our grandfather, Paw-Paw, throw his cane up in the air and catch it. I won’t ever again get to listen to Aunt Bessie tell her story about her dog with his eye...well, I won’t go into that here. Never again will the five cousins get together and have fun, now that the youngest, Mike, passed away last year. My best friend, Bernie, died at age 49, so no more duets for us. Never mind that our childhood church burned down years ago - the people with whom we have forged friendships and shared our lives there are leaving us every year. Our mother’s best friend (and therefore a close family friend to us all our lives) has been hospitalized for several weeks and may never get to return to her house to live independently. The only neighbor on Josephine Street left from “the old days” is now mentally impaired, and our mom has become almost like a caretaker for her. Mother, who avoids talking about death at all times, even mentioned she is going to more and more funerals these days.

As much as I cry and long for those lost times and people and places, I can’t wish that time had stopped at a certain point. If I were 10 years old again, there wouldn’t be an Ed or Rachel or Matthew or Caroline or Charlotte in my life. There wouldn’t be a Sarah to make me weep with her generosity or a Chris to make me laugh with his stories. My sister and I have done what we were supposed to do - grow up and forge new lives. Life has never been so sweet and yet so full of loss. Yes, I can’t really go home. But home is in my heart, with its beloved buildings and pets and games, and most of all, the people I love, both here and gone, who have made my time on earth rich and sweet. Life will always carry its dual offering of celebration and grief. The inability to feel the loss would come with a heavy price - the inability to remember the happiness. And that’s not a price I’m willing to pay.

Still blowing bubbles...

If you hadn’t noticed, it’s political season. You can hardly turn on the TV without seeing another debate or press conference. Even if I hate everything a given candidate stands for, there’s something about a press conference that still arouses a little sympathy from me. I can’t imagine what it’s like to submit your life, opinions, record, intelligence or lack thereof, wisdom or lack thereof, to the press and therefore the public, willing (usually) to answer whatever questions that are submitted to you. All eyes are on you, every nuance in your speech is analyzed, every facial expression is scrutinized. If it’s an honest debate or press conference, you never know what embarrassing question is lurking around the next corner. You realize that a great many people are cheering you on, but maybe even more people are hoping you fall flat on your face, make some kind of grave gaffe, or be otherwise humiliated. It must be a very tough situation.

Given my reaction, it is all the more surprising that last night I dreamed I was holding a press conference of some sort - about my life. I was in a church somewhere and had been asked to give some kind of autobiographical lecture, then open myself to questions from the public. I was asked to bring along whatever scrapbooks or pictures or meaningful objects I had that might shed light on my life.

I even had a prop for this press conference. I had brought a toy “smoking” pipe that blew soap bubbles, and I had planned on saying, “I know this is a church, so I’m keeping my act clean,” then blowing a few bubbles. (Well, in my dream I thought it would relax my audience with a few laughs.)

In preparation for this great press conference, I had assembled my scrapbooks, etc., and had started to go over them to choose things of interest. I dreamed that I kept tearing out pages and pages, thinking, “No one would be interested in that.” “What’s so great about that?” “Nope, that’s only meaningful to me.” What had originally looked like a full and eventful life was reduced little by little into not much of anything.

When I awoke, I relived the dream vividly in my mind. I understood the frustration involved, the fear, the self-evaluation, but I couldn’t figure out the significance of the bubble pipe. It wasn’t there just for some kind of soap joke - I knew it had meaning and I wanted to discover it, because I learn a lot from my dreams (maybe more than in my waking moments) and I knew the pipe was the key to the whole thing.

Then I realized what I think my subconscious was trying to say. For 53 years, I’ve blown bubbles with my life. The bubbles have appeared as if by magic; some have taken time and patience to get to a gigantic, incredible size, some have been an average diameter but they may have been able to float through a beam of sunlight and capture just the right rainbow of colors, some have been small but have congregated in a strikingly lovely pattern, some have appeared promising but have popped before they reach potential, and some fizzled right at their initiation and failed to materialize at all. We all are blowing bubbles. When we take that breath and exhale into the pipe, we never know quite sure what will come out. Yet we all keep trying, keep blowing, doing the best we can, enjoying one bubble for its short life before it becomes just a memory, until finally the bottle is empty. Even when it’s officially empty, sometimes we can squeeze out just a final few bubbles. Each bubble is a surprise, each is unique, but each has a fragile, limited life span - and oh, we are certainly aware of that most of all.

Some employees at my hospital are trying to drum up interest for a talent show to bring some fun into this long, snowy, dreary winter. I said I’d sing a couple of arias, so in preparation I brought out my book, “Famous Soprano Arias.” For the first time, I noticed the graphic on the front. It is a full-page peacock, sporting its bright jewel-tone colors of royal blue, gold, and neon green. Then I laughed. That peacock, of course, is a male! Why did they put a male on the cover of arias for females? Did they think no one would notice the discrepancy? We’re so used to female divas in the operatic world showing off their talents that we forget the drab peahen is actually the female of the peacock world, not the dramatic male.

As I look over my life so far, I see these two striking metaphors. I’ve blown all sorts of bubbles with the mixed results described above. There were times I was the flashy, colorful peacock, but most of the time I was the dull, uninspiring peahen. Yes, a lot of it would be boring to most people, but I have to admit that some of it makes me a more interesting person for having experienced it. Take away any of the bubbles, big or little, grand or insignificant, and I would not be the person I am today.

One of the characteristics of humans that sets us apart from our animal friends is our ability to self-evaluate, to try to find meaning in our lives, and the innate desire to make the rest of our lives better, “improved” with each passing year (e.g., the annual New Year’s Resolution lists). Sometimes I worry that I evaluate myself way too much - but then, that very observation is a self-evaluation! Ha ha! I don’t need to hold a press conference to get peppered with questions. I ask the questions myself to myself - and believe me, I don’t spare any feelings. I ask the tough questions, the deep questions, and it can be a grueling process. But I feel somehow I come through the process more aware, less judgmental of others, and more excited about the rest of my life. My bubble bottle may be more empty than full, but I’m thrilled to be able to keep puffing away! And who knows - in a few years, those last bubbles may be the most spectacular of all!

The Big House

In my home church in Memphis, Harris Memorial United Methodist, we had what at one time was a slave balcony. Ever since I could remember, it had been long boarded up, and was not even used as a balcony anymore. There was a short set of stairs in the foyer that led up to that balcony, but as I never had a reason for going up there, the balcony remained an unknown, vaguely unsettling area of the church to me.

The old balcony could also be reached from an adjoining second-floor classroom behind a curtain - at least that’s what someone told me. One night the church hosted a Halloween party for the youth. My sister and I knew the adults involved who were trying to scare us, as the congregation was relatively small, but that didn’t stop us from feeling frightened. During the “haunted” part of the tour, someone took us up to the old slave balcony, where in the dark we looked down upon the sanctuary, and watched as the organ played ghostly music, apparently by itself. The fact that we had an idea that Zuleika was crouched on the pedals, playing where we couldn’t see her hands, didn’t make us feel any better. It was truly a scary night, in a scary “room,” with scary things happening around us.

I dream about rooms all the time. Some are in my old church, but most are in a certain house. It’s a big house, bigger than our old 3-story Victorian. It’s not a house I can recognize from real life, but I know enough dream interpretation to realize that the house represents myself, and the rooms represent all the facets of my life. The strange thing is that I’m always “finding” new rooms in that house. Each time in my dreams when I come across a new room, I’m surprised that I didn’t realize it had been there all this time. How could I have lived in this house and never known of this room’s existence? What a waste! I immediately start making plans on what I want to do with the room, how to decorate it, how to use it. Sometimes I’m rather surprised to wake up and find myself in our little 3-bedroom ranch.

As I age, I am discovering more and more about myself, who I am, what I want out of the years I have left. Some of these discoveries truly astound me. I am realizing that my mind is capable of so much more than I give it credit for. I have only scratched the surface of using all my time and energy and mental capacity. I still have gifts and purposes yet to be discovered, just waiting for me to open the doors and start working.

Other discoveries are not so pleasant. I go through a curtain and find myself in a scary place. One of these discoveries is that my body just won’t function the way it used to. I’m making a valiant and largely successful effort to exercise every day, but one day this week I pulled a shoulder muscle, and the very next day I pulled something in the back of my right knee, which required me to hobble around for the rest of the evening. Sometimes after typing all day at work, I come home with shoulders that will hardly move, much less stretch and perform repetitious things with weights.

But it’s all one house, and it’s my house. Some rooms are enlightening, some are peaceful, some are creative, some are energizing, some just draining (I really need to spend less time there) and one or two of them even look like an old abandoned church balcony. It is up to me to sort out the best way to use these rooms in ways that will make the most out of my life. This is one of the hardest parts of aging for me - the acceptance of my “house” and acknowledgment of its strengths and weaknesses, for these are all I have to work with. I will, however, say that on the whole, as I open more and more doors, I continue to find more laughter than tears, more delight than apprehension, and more hope than fear.

My mother used to sing a refrain from a popular song, “Is that all there is?” I thank God every day that I can answer a resounding no. The best is yet to come! And by George, I will try to meet it head on - even if I’m limping all the way!