Written on an airplane on Friday, July 10.
When my son Erik first met his grandmother at the age of 30 - and why he would meet her at that age is a story for another day - he asked me, “Why is everyone so afraid of Granny? She is just a little woman, and now she is growing old.”
As he came to know her, Erik learned what the rest of us already knew - Granny was in charge. She ruled by a combination of organization and hysteria. As long as everyone did what she said, when she said it, all was well, If not, she used her prodigious energy to let everyone know how unhappy she was, No one could rail louder or cry longer than my mother. It will come as no surprise that the unspoken family rule when I was growing up was,” Don’t upset your mother.
She could also be a lot of fun. She particularly enjoyed her children one on one, preferably over a Bourbon Old Fashioned - or two. And if yours was more full than hers, she might “get confused” and help herself to it. She would tell long stories about her childhood and the generations of her family. About riding the train from Nebraska to Illinois. Alone. When she was five. About how she was allowed to eat the lumps out of the brown sugar crock when she visited Aunt Glen. About the woman who named her first daughter Amelia and when she died as an infant, used the same name for her second daughter. Who also died.
People are never all one way, never all good or all bad. As my mother’s memory began to fade and she could no longer control everything and everybody in her orbit, the happier memories of growing up with her began to drift back. I am grateful for that time.
The force that was my mother, or “The Matriarch,” as she called herself, departed this world Wednesday morning. She was, at the end, just a little woman, surrounded by her family. She died soon after her family had sung to her the song she had sung to us as children, “Over in Killarney, many years ago. . . Tura, lura, lura. Tura lura lie. Tura, lura, lura. Hush now don’t you cry . . .”
Saturday, July 17, 2010
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Forty Good Years
Forty years ago, I waited in Friendly Plaza - right near the old Monterey City Hall - while my young husband went into the Monterey Herald for a job interview. It had been a busy few years for Kevin: drafted out of college; time at Ft. Ord, Ft. Devens, and in Vietnam; finishing college while working at the Whittier Daily News; getting married to me. Now he was about to find out if his new job would be in Monterey or in Modesto.
Kevin was born to write. He had been kicked out of seminary for starting an underground newspaper. Then he was elevated from lowly copy boy to full fledged reporter when a fast-breaking story found the Daily News without any reporters. "Howe, can you write?" the city editor had shouted. "Yes, sir!" he replied, and he got his big break.
It has always been a real trip to watch him compose a story. Head thrown back, eyes closed, the words stream out of his prodigious mind, down his arms and out through his fingertips. I still marvel at his speed of thinking and typing and his ability to cut through the petty details to the central facts of any story. But sitting in Friendly Plaza, I wondered whether the man who was interviewing him would appreciate just how accomplished he was
Out he came - awfully soon - and said, "He asked me what I would work for and I said $160 a week." There were no benefits, but we thought that was quite a coup, as we had been getting $110 at the Daily News. The next day we drove around Pacific Grove and found a little cottage on Mermaid Avenue with a view of the Monterey Bay. "Kevin," I said, "If you can stand to work the same place forever, I'd love to stay here."
Yesterday, my dear husband celebrated 40 years at what is now the Monterey County Herald. It long ago ceased to be owned by its founder, Col. Allen Griffin. We've had health care for years and the plant moved out of downtown Monterey over 20 years ago. There are just a couple other people left from when Kevin started.
We've had three kids - all now grown. I still think this small town is the best place in the world to live. It amuses me that Kevin - who seems like he was just hired for his brand new job - is the granddaddy of the paper. The young reporters ask him who to call for what. He know where every body is buried. He still throws back his head and closes his eyes when he writes. I'm more convinced than ever that he's the best and fastest reporter around.
Thanks Kevin, for this wonderful life you made possible for us! I love you!
Saturday, February 20, 2010
Many Diverse Surprises
Walking into the north wing, eighth floor, of the vast UCSF Medical Center, a person passes through a huge kind of portal above which is written, "Brain Tumor Center." At UCSF, everything is called exactly what it is. Earlier, for example, we had seen a sign for something like "Fetal Intervention." That kind of took my breath away.
As we passed through the portal, we could see that the whole outer wall of our department was glass - a long corridor looking out over the Golden Gate Bridge, Golden Gate Park, the tops of houses in the foreground and the hills of Marin Headlands in the distance. That took my breath away, too.
We sat there waiting, my son Walt and I, admiring the view and from time to time checking out the cordoned-off streets directly below. It wasn't filming, we surmised, because there was a television truck there. Maybe it was some kind of race. . . but on a Tuesday? Suddenly we heard an enormous explosion. Racing to the window, we could see smoke pouring out of the television truck. Finally we realized that it was filming, and that the explosion was all part of the plan. My goodness, this was not what we had expected while waiting to see the head of Neurosurgery for what I hope would be the final word on these two tumors of mine - my benign meningiomas.
It all made my prognosis seem slightly anti-climatic. No, said the very knowledgeable Dr. Berger. No, the vibrating is not being caused by the tumors. Keep on with the physical therapy which is reducing those symptoms.
But - here was the surprise - in people "as young as you," meningiomas are likely to grow fast, and if mine do, they will have to be surgically removed. What this means for now is frequent MRIs, and maybe someday I'll get to wear those hats Sarah gave me for after surgery. And maybe not. I'm obviously rooting for not.
After that, we went out into the sunshine of a beautiful day in a beautiful city and had fabulous salads for lunch at La Boulange. Final surprise of the day - at La Boulange, macaroons come in many flavors. Both the caramel and the pistachio are delicious!
Saturday, February 6, 2010
Dream Cruising
I fell back asleep for 15 minutes this morning and awoke having had an awesome bike ride. I started out with Sarah - riding down city streets. Stop lights, cars, lots of people and confusion. No problem. Just riding a black bike with both handle brakes and pedal brakes. It felt normal, good, and free.
I woke up happy.
I don't think that will ever happen except in my dreams, but I am full of hope for the future. Who knows what will happen next. I'm ready!
I woke up happy.
I don't think that will ever happen except in my dreams, but I am full of hope for the future. Who knows what will happen next. I'm ready!
Saturday, January 30, 2010
Cruising, Again!
I’m sure my adorable little pink Cruiser (RIP) would be jealous if she knew, but I’m riding another bike now. It’s called a Biodex Semi Recumbent Cycle. Biodex is not nearly as cool a word as Cruiser, is it? Turns out my new bike is at the physical therapy place I hang out two afternoons a week.
Still and all, I’m happy, as physical therapy is vastly preferable to brain surgery, and it’s the route I’m taking right at the moment. The idea is that the vibrating may very well be caused by a too-curvy lower back, some tight back muscles, and some kind of trauma. The trauma was maybe riding the bike in general. Or, riding with too much determination. Or, loading the bike on the car rack. Or, the fall I took that first day.
At any rate, Kathryn, my own personal physical therapist, works on those knotted-up muscles in my lower back and then hands me over to Ava or Tom for a variety of exercises. Including riding a stationary bike. The first time Kathryn led me to the bike, I blanched. “But a bike caused all this trouble,” I protested. Kathryn firmly but kindly pointed out that it’s a different kind of bike. For one thing, it’s stationary. For another, there’s no resistance. And there’s no school yard, no street, no balancing, no effort getting off and on. No promise of cruising along the bike path near the beautiful Monterey Bay, either. And alas, it’s beige not pink.
My goal five months ago was so different. To master the bike and start to Cruise at 65. Right now, however, I’ll be content with another kind of cruising – just being a normal 65 year old woman who isn’t vibrating and doesn’t need surgery. And with any kind of luck, pretty soon all this will just be a distant memory of a hard time I hope never to repeat!
The distant memory will also carry with it the steadfast kindness of my family and friends. Notes, cards, prayers, love letters, phone calls, visits. Hats and chocolates. Ideas for ways to approach the problem. Patience with my frustration. As it turns out – and isn’t this the way of life - a lot of unexpected and lovely things in a hard time.
Still and all, I’m happy, as physical therapy is vastly preferable to brain surgery, and it’s the route I’m taking right at the moment. The idea is that the vibrating may very well be caused by a too-curvy lower back, some tight back muscles, and some kind of trauma. The trauma was maybe riding the bike in general. Or, riding with too much determination. Or, loading the bike on the car rack. Or, the fall I took that first day.
At any rate, Kathryn, my own personal physical therapist, works on those knotted-up muscles in my lower back and then hands me over to Ava or Tom for a variety of exercises. Including riding a stationary bike. The first time Kathryn led me to the bike, I blanched. “But a bike caused all this trouble,” I protested. Kathryn firmly but kindly pointed out that it’s a different kind of bike. For one thing, it’s stationary. For another, there’s no resistance. And there’s no school yard, no street, no balancing, no effort getting off and on. No promise of cruising along the bike path near the beautiful Monterey Bay, either. And alas, it’s beige not pink.
My goal five months ago was so different. To master the bike and start to Cruise at 65. Right now, however, I’ll be content with another kind of cruising – just being a normal 65 year old woman who isn’t vibrating and doesn’t need surgery. And with any kind of luck, pretty soon all this will just be a distant memory of a hard time I hope never to repeat!
The distant memory will also carry with it the steadfast kindness of my family and friends. Notes, cards, prayers, love letters, phone calls, visits. Hats and chocolates. Ideas for ways to approach the problem. Patience with my frustration. As it turns out – and isn’t this the way of life - a lot of unexpected and lovely things in a hard time.
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Jennie!
"Don't blame me, Daddy. I’m just the kid!”
With those words, Jennie at age three revealed herself as the clear thinker and straight talker whom we have known and loved for 37 fantastic years.
And she was right, by the way. Her father - undoubtedly distracted - left the crib side down so that baby Sarah fell out. Sarah was fine, and Jennie had found her voice.
Jennie is almost always right. No, really. She is. Her areas of mastery are breath-taking: child rearing, cooking, computers, poetry, thank you notes, blogging. . . The list goes on and on. She also has the distinction of having the world’s thickest and prettiest naturally wavy black hair!
Jennifer burst into our lives, just as the strawberries were coming ripe in late April. She was a week early. I’ve always thought she just wanted to get going on life. We took her home to an old ranch house across from Point Lobos. I loved going into her little lean-to nursery, to find her all pink-cheeked and dreamy after her nap. She took in everything with her big hazel eyes and delighted us in every way. She was the perfect first baby – flexible and forgiving of all our new-parent foibles.
And oh those smiles! Not just for us, but for all passers-by when we moved to Pacific Grove. Jennie made everyone feel special. “Hi-ya!” she would say and little old ladies in Holman’s would swoon.
Jennie has always known her own mind. She learned to read quickly and devoured books whole. She switched from violin to viola, because the latter didn’t have “those screechy high notes.” She chose interesting friends who were willing to be different and set her sights on the University of Oregon, sure that was the place for her. It was.
She spent her junior year in Aberdeen, Scotland and graduated with majors in both music and English. She taught in three places in four years without faltering, married a man whose interests and talents are as extensive as hers, and is a formidable mother to three. She insists on please and thank you and doesn’t back down. She’s also the only woman I know who can load her three small children in the car and drive straight through from Eugene to the Monterey Peninsula, alone.
After a recent visit, her aunt declared Jennie “laid back,” and it is a mystery to me how she can accomplish so much with such equanimity. Most recently, she put aside her fear of skiing (ACL surgery will do that) and threw herself into a week-long ski clinic in Colorado. On Facebook she wrote, “I might finally be getting the hang of this skiing thing. A little bit.” And later, “Worst ski-related injury this week: a pinched finger sustained while carrying them. I'll take it.” None of us was surprised. Jennie does whatever she puts her mind to.
No one ever told me what a delight grown children are. And they are a great resource, too. When I was trying to ride the bike, she stood back and observed. “Push off with your left foot,” she said, and it worked. “Jennie, how do you make bacon wrapped croutons?” I call to ask. Of course, she knows.
Jennie, you are an amazing woman – competent, loyal, determined, talented, and wise. How did I get so lucky to have you as my daughter?
With those words, Jennie at age three revealed herself as the clear thinker and straight talker whom we have known and loved for 37 fantastic years.
And she was right, by the way. Her father - undoubtedly distracted - left the crib side down so that baby Sarah fell out. Sarah was fine, and Jennie had found her voice.
Jennie is almost always right. No, really. She is. Her areas of mastery are breath-taking: child rearing, cooking, computers, poetry, thank you notes, blogging. . . The list goes on and on. She also has the distinction of having the world’s thickest and prettiest naturally wavy black hair!
Jennifer burst into our lives, just as the strawberries were coming ripe in late April. She was a week early. I’ve always thought she just wanted to get going on life. We took her home to an old ranch house across from Point Lobos. I loved going into her little lean-to nursery, to find her all pink-cheeked and dreamy after her nap. She took in everything with her big hazel eyes and delighted us in every way. She was the perfect first baby – flexible and forgiving of all our new-parent foibles.
And oh those smiles! Not just for us, but for all passers-by when we moved to Pacific Grove. Jennie made everyone feel special. “Hi-ya!” she would say and little old ladies in Holman’s would swoon.
Jennie has always known her own mind. She learned to read quickly and devoured books whole. She switched from violin to viola, because the latter didn’t have “those screechy high notes.” She chose interesting friends who were willing to be different and set her sights on the University of Oregon, sure that was the place for her. It was.
She spent her junior year in Aberdeen, Scotland and graduated with majors in both music and English. She taught in three places in four years without faltering, married a man whose interests and talents are as extensive as hers, and is a formidable mother to three. She insists on please and thank you and doesn’t back down. She’s also the only woman I know who can load her three small children in the car and drive straight through from Eugene to the Monterey Peninsula, alone.
After a recent visit, her aunt declared Jennie “laid back,” and it is a mystery to me how she can accomplish so much with such equanimity. Most recently, she put aside her fear of skiing (ACL surgery will do that) and threw herself into a week-long ski clinic in Colorado. On Facebook she wrote, “I might finally be getting the hang of this skiing thing. A little bit.” And later, “Worst ski-related injury this week: a pinched finger sustained while carrying them. I'll take it.” None of us was surprised. Jennie does whatever she puts her mind to.
No one ever told me what a delight grown children are. And they are a great resource, too. When I was trying to ride the bike, she stood back and observed. “Push off with your left foot,” she said, and it worked. “Jennie, how do you make bacon wrapped croutons?” I call to ask. Of course, she knows.
Jennie, you are an amazing woman – competent, loyal, determined, talented, and wise. How did I get so lucky to have you as my daughter?
Down the Rabbit Hole!
I am feeling a little like Alice when she fell through the rabbit hole into a land where nothing seemed quite familiar. That’s not necessarily bad – just strange.
The neuro-surgeon does not agree with the neurologist that either of two small growths in my head is causing the vibrating throughout my lower body. So, it looks like no brain surgery for me in the near future, and probably never. Hurrah!
So, pending some tests for less dire things, we remain in mystery. The doctor did say that sometimes a person experiences a kind of mysterious neurological episode that eventually “self-resolves.” I myself will quibble with that terminology and add God in there as the major force for healing, along with many fervent, and steadfast prayers.
All this leaves us in Wonderland, and I have never been great with ambiguity. However, I like ambiguity better than brain surgery, so I feel we have gotten very good news. My plan now is to have the tests and then take my vibrating self to Oregon with Kevin and Walt to be with Sarah, Jennie, and their families for Christmas.
What the new year will bring, we will see! By the way, Sarah says I can keep the hats!
We shall find peace. We shall hear the angels. We shall see the sky sparkling with diamonds. Chekov.
The neuro-surgeon does not agree with the neurologist that either of two small growths in my head is causing the vibrating throughout my lower body. So, it looks like no brain surgery for me in the near future, and probably never. Hurrah!
So, pending some tests for less dire things, we remain in mystery. The doctor did say that sometimes a person experiences a kind of mysterious neurological episode that eventually “self-resolves.” I myself will quibble with that terminology and add God in there as the major force for healing, along with many fervent, and steadfast prayers.
All this leaves us in Wonderland, and I have never been great with ambiguity. However, I like ambiguity better than brain surgery, so I feel we have gotten very good news. My plan now is to have the tests and then take my vibrating self to Oregon with Kevin and Walt to be with Sarah, Jennie, and their families for Christmas.
What the new year will bring, we will see! By the way, Sarah says I can keep the hats!
We shall find peace. We shall hear the angels. We shall see the sky sparkling with diamonds. Chekov.
Sunday, December 6, 2009
Wearing My Diadem
To someone facing surgery in her head, today’s Old Testament lesson is a true blessing: “Take off the garment of your sorrow and affliction, O Jerusalem, and put on forever the beauty of the glory from God . . . put on your head the diadem of the glory of the Everlasting, for God will show your splendor everywhere under heaven.”
Kevin, Walt, and I discussed the word diadem walking home from St. Mary’s this morning. We decided it had to do with jewels, and indeed, a diadem is a crown. Baruch (a companion of Jeremiah the Prophet) who wrote these words in exile, has no doubt about our status as God’s beloved, each worthy of a diadem.
I, who have never aspired to a diadem, now claim that as my inheritance, too. A diadem, which is worn on the head, seems like just the thing. And I just happen to have two (see photo), sent to me by my Sarah in a care package that also included music, candy, and an angel.
Baruch makes another promise on God’s behalf. “For God has ordered that every high mountain and the everlasting hills be made low and valleys filled up, to make level ground, so that Israel may walk safely in the glory of God.”
Tomorrow I meet with my neuro-surgeon for the first time. I have heard he is bright, a good surgeon, and that he has nimble fingers. I believe that he, the others who will care for me, and all your prayers, dear friends, will make my way level and safe.
And by the way, if you see me around town in the next few days, you’ll see that I am wearing my diadem.
Kevin, Walt, and I discussed the word diadem walking home from St. Mary’s this morning. We decided it had to do with jewels, and indeed, a diadem is a crown. Baruch (a companion of Jeremiah the Prophet) who wrote these words in exile, has no doubt about our status as God’s beloved, each worthy of a diadem.
I, who have never aspired to a diadem, now claim that as my inheritance, too. A diadem, which is worn on the head, seems like just the thing. And I just happen to have two (see photo), sent to me by my Sarah in a care package that also included music, candy, and an angel.
Baruch makes another promise on God’s behalf. “For God has ordered that every high mountain and the everlasting hills be made low and valleys filled up, to make level ground, so that Israel may walk safely in the glory of God.”
Tomorrow I meet with my neuro-surgeon for the first time. I have heard he is bright, a good surgeon, and that he has nimble fingers. I believe that he, the others who will care for me, and all your prayers, dear friends, will make my way level and safe.
And by the way, if you see me around town in the next few days, you’ll see that I am wearing my diadem.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Our Sarah
I took out my beloved Christmas snow globes last night and put one on the table during dinner. Just now, I wound it up and there was, “O, Holy Night.” The years fell away and I remembered when our Sarah was born.
She was Kevin’s and my second child, born in December, 1974. Kevin reminded me that her due date – December 7 – was Pearl Harbor Day. But she was not like her eager sister, Jennie, who came early. No, Sarah took her own sweet time and arrived a full week late.
It was hard waiting for her. Not so much still being pregnant, but I was yearning to see her, to meet her, to hold her. To pass the time one day, I went to have lunch with Kevin in Monterey while two-year-old Jennie stayed at her friend Alex’s house. Kevin and I walked to Fisherman’s Wharf, which was a bit of a walk for a woman at nine months, but we did it. Then we stopped in a music store and bought two Christmas records.
I spent part of the afternoon listening to them, lying in the recliner which was the only place I felt comfortable. I remember particularly “O, Holy Night” and the “Carol of the Bells.” I was dreamy, dreamy. It was almost Christmas, and I was filled with peace and expectation and love for this child who would soon come into our lives and our hearts.
That night, as soon as I lay down, I felt the first signs of labor. Our friend Steve came to take care of Jennie, while Nancy stayed home with their girls. Was it really peanut butter and pickles he gave her for breakfast?
Sarah was born at 8:31 in the morning – 7lbs. 2oz.. She was so pink and so pretty, and because I had practiced on her sister, Jennifer, I was so ready to fall in love with her. So I did. And we brought her home and had a wonderful Christmas, awash with baby glow and wonder at her perfection and her sister’s absolute surprise at having a little sister. Sarah was my most cuddly baby, a delight to this mother’s ardent heart.
Then the years went by, and Sarah became her own amazing self – full of energy and fun and talent and intuition and compassion. To name just of few of her attributes. Her young years were filled with dressing up and horses and violins and friends. Eventually, into her world there came Jesse, a wedding, and now a good life together in Portland. A bunny, a dog, a wonderful old house. . . Sometimes there comes disappointment, but she and Jesse know how to weather a storm with grace and optimism. Who knows what will happen next, but if Sarah is there, it will be exciting and fun!
In a few days Sarah will turn 35. She is still full of energy and fun and talent and intuition and compassion – and a lot more. Sarah, if you happen to read this – I am so happy that you were born!
She was Kevin’s and my second child, born in December, 1974. Kevin reminded me that her due date – December 7 – was Pearl Harbor Day. But she was not like her eager sister, Jennie, who came early. No, Sarah took her own sweet time and arrived a full week late.
It was hard waiting for her. Not so much still being pregnant, but I was yearning to see her, to meet her, to hold her. To pass the time one day, I went to have lunch with Kevin in Monterey while two-year-old Jennie stayed at her friend Alex’s house. Kevin and I walked to Fisherman’s Wharf, which was a bit of a walk for a woman at nine months, but we did it. Then we stopped in a music store and bought two Christmas records.
I spent part of the afternoon listening to them, lying in the recliner which was the only place I felt comfortable. I remember particularly “O, Holy Night” and the “Carol of the Bells.” I was dreamy, dreamy. It was almost Christmas, and I was filled with peace and expectation and love for this child who would soon come into our lives and our hearts.
That night, as soon as I lay down, I felt the first signs of labor. Our friend Steve came to take care of Jennie, while Nancy stayed home with their girls. Was it really peanut butter and pickles he gave her for breakfast?
Sarah was born at 8:31 in the morning – 7lbs. 2oz.. She was so pink and so pretty, and because I had practiced on her sister, Jennifer, I was so ready to fall in love with her. So I did. And we brought her home and had a wonderful Christmas, awash with baby glow and wonder at her perfection and her sister’s absolute surprise at having a little sister. Sarah was my most cuddly baby, a delight to this mother’s ardent heart.
Then the years went by, and Sarah became her own amazing self – full of energy and fun and talent and intuition and compassion. To name just of few of her attributes. Her young years were filled with dressing up and horses and violins and friends. Eventually, into her world there came Jesse, a wedding, and now a good life together in Portland. A bunny, a dog, a wonderful old house. . . Sometimes there comes disappointment, but she and Jesse know how to weather a storm with grace and optimism. Who knows what will happen next, but if Sarah is there, it will be exciting and fun!
In a few days Sarah will turn 35. She is still full of energy and fun and talent and intuition and compassion – and a lot more. Sarah, if you happen to read this – I am so happy that you were born!
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
16,572 Steps
It was the pedometer that started this whole thing. Jennie and I went to REI to get her a handy dandy pedometer like mine, and we left with my little pink Cruiser. Because of the Cruiser, I started this blog, Cruising at 65.
A lot has changed since then. Summer has turned to fall. Two grandchildren and a son-in-law have had birthdays. So have I, actually. The days have gotten shorter. People I love have suffered sad losses. I’ve signed up for Medicare. Pentecost has given way to Advent. RIP pink Cruiser and hello pending surgery.
There’s one thing that’s been constant, though, and that is my little pedometer friend. I carry it everywhere I go, and if I don’t have a pocket, I slip it into the right leg of my stockings. That is not a foolproof way to carry a pedometer. Not if you inadvertently flush it down the toilet at a fancy restaurant overlooking Plymouth Bay. Pedometer II works just like its late twin, so I continued tracking my steps with hardly a pause.
A pedometer is a great encourager. When you’re feeling slothful, its chirpy little voice says, “Let’s take a walk.” When you’re hanging out reading, it interrupts, “We haven’t done anything fun today.” Fun, to a pedometer, means exactly one thing: walking.
The other day it complained, “We only have 5,000 steps so far.” So off I went – to Asilomar with Walt, all along the great boardwalk into Pebble Beach. Later we walked to town. Turns out to have been my best day ever for steps – 16,572. That’s 6.1 miles on these short legs of mine. But the pedometer never rests. Just now it demanded to know, “How many steps today?” Shhhhh. Don’t tell it only 8,725 or it’ll be after me again.
Some people walk their dog. I just walk my pedometer!
A lot has changed since then. Summer has turned to fall. Two grandchildren and a son-in-law have had birthdays. So have I, actually. The days have gotten shorter. People I love have suffered sad losses. I’ve signed up for Medicare. Pentecost has given way to Advent. RIP pink Cruiser and hello pending surgery.
There’s one thing that’s been constant, though, and that is my little pedometer friend. I carry it everywhere I go, and if I don’t have a pocket, I slip it into the right leg of my stockings. That is not a foolproof way to carry a pedometer. Not if you inadvertently flush it down the toilet at a fancy restaurant overlooking Plymouth Bay. Pedometer II works just like its late twin, so I continued tracking my steps with hardly a pause.
A pedometer is a great encourager. When you’re feeling slothful, its chirpy little voice says, “Let’s take a walk.” When you’re hanging out reading, it interrupts, “We haven’t done anything fun today.” Fun, to a pedometer, means exactly one thing: walking.
The other day it complained, “We only have 5,000 steps so far.” So off I went – to Asilomar with Walt, all along the great boardwalk into Pebble Beach. Later we walked to town. Turns out to have been my best day ever for steps – 16,572. That’s 6.1 miles on these short legs of mine. But the pedometer never rests. Just now it demanded to know, “How many steps today?” Shhhhh. Don’t tell it only 8,725 or it’ll be after me again.
Some people walk their dog. I just walk my pedometer!
Monday, November 30, 2009
For English, Press 1
Lately I have spent an inordinate amount of time in hell – of the automated phone system variety. It started several weeks ago when my Comcast internet service “went down,” as they say, causing me to make repeated calls to an 800 number, all of which resulted in a recorded message stating that Comcast was experiencing “issues” (I kid you not) and suggesting that I would get quicker results by using my internet!
I will skip over the fact that we then had to wait an entire week for a technician to come out, and move on to the other opportunities I had to experience the full array and variety of automated phone systems. Among those I sampled were:
Medicare – trying to sign up for Part B.
Church Pension Fund – trying to get Medicare Supplemental Insurance.
V.A. – to say that $7,711 was probably not the correct amount for Kevin’s May visit.
McClatchy Company – to ask why they notified me that a bank we don’t use will no longer accept direct deposit of a payment we don’t get.
Other technological challenges came when the necessary forms from Church Pension Fund failed to arrive via either FAX or the internet (when it was fixed) and not being able to open the attachments from the Herald for Kevin’s health insurance.
I am not alone in these challenges, I know. Every one faces them. What I am thinking about is my own response to them.
My first reaction is, of course, annoyance. That something isn’t working right and that I have to deal with it.
My second is frustration. That the system doesn’t make much sense to me and that I can’t just get a person to talk to.
My third is the one that I wonder about. Someplace there is a little voice that says (not literally), “You’ll never be able to fix this.” I’m embarrassed to admit it, but it’s true.
I think that is the voice of a very little child, who really can’t take care of very much, not my grown-up 65 year-old voice. But why do I hear it, and what can I do differently? Well, experience tells me I can handle things – many things, complicated and difficult things. Maybe I can piggyback on that, and make a plan for the next time.
I’ll say to myself:
1. I really hate dealing with this kind of detail and I resent that I have to do it.
2. But these kinds of things occur in everybody’s life and need to be dealt with.
3. I have done this successfully in the past, and I will now calmly do what needs to be done.
As I re-read the above, the rebellious part of me objects, but the mature part says, “Yes, that’s what grown-ups do.” I guess anyone who wants to be Cruisin’ at 65 ought to just cruise on through and be grown up.
I will skip over the fact that we then had to wait an entire week for a technician to come out, and move on to the other opportunities I had to experience the full array and variety of automated phone systems. Among those I sampled were:
Medicare – trying to sign up for Part B.
Church Pension Fund – trying to get Medicare Supplemental Insurance.
V.A. – to say that $7,711 was probably not the correct amount for Kevin’s May visit.
McClatchy Company – to ask why they notified me that a bank we don’t use will no longer accept direct deposit of a payment we don’t get.
Other technological challenges came when the necessary forms from Church Pension Fund failed to arrive via either FAX or the internet (when it was fixed) and not being able to open the attachments from the Herald for Kevin’s health insurance.
I am not alone in these challenges, I know. Every one faces them. What I am thinking about is my own response to them.
My first reaction is, of course, annoyance. That something isn’t working right and that I have to deal with it.
My second is frustration. That the system doesn’t make much sense to me and that I can’t just get a person to talk to.
My third is the one that I wonder about. Someplace there is a little voice that says (not literally), “You’ll never be able to fix this.” I’m embarrassed to admit it, but it’s true.
I think that is the voice of a very little child, who really can’t take care of very much, not my grown-up 65 year-old voice. But why do I hear it, and what can I do differently? Well, experience tells me I can handle things – many things, complicated and difficult things. Maybe I can piggyback on that, and make a plan for the next time.
I’ll say to myself:
1. I really hate dealing with this kind of detail and I resent that I have to do it.
2. But these kinds of things occur in everybody’s life and need to be dealt with.
3. I have done this successfully in the past, and I will now calmly do what needs to be done.
As I re-read the above, the rebellious part of me objects, but the mature part says, “Yes, that’s what grown-ups do.” I guess anyone who wants to be Cruisin’ at 65 ought to just cruise on through and be grown up.
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Getting Ready
My approach to this pending surgery on my head is to trust that the operation will be straightforward and totally successful, and also to leave a few things noted and organized.
For example:
For example:
- The flowers in pots around the yard need deep watering at least once a week.
- So does the indoor hibiscus.
- The wax for the kitchen butcher block counter is mostly mineral oil, with a little paraffin melted in.
- The reason I have so many unopened pairs of stockings is that I foolishly signed on with one of those companies that automatically sends you several pairs every few months
- There are some delicious chocolates (thanks, Sarah!) that I’ve hoarded away. Hint: some people think behind the plates is a fine hiding place.
Oh, and incidentally - because I am the one who keeps track of these things:
- My Really Important Papers are in the top drawer, front, of my little file cabinet.
- The cost basis of a house in California is recalculated when one spouse dies, in a way that is of significant tax advantage to the survivor when s/he sells.
- My church pension pays the same amount to Kevin, if he survives me, as it pays to me now.
What else? Just to say that I love the life Kevin and I have made, and I expect to continue living it. I am deeply thankful for my life companions - my friends and siblings. I cherish my children as distinct, gifted individuals and amusing companions, as well as creative and wise resources for the challenges of life. I have the most adorable, interesting, and fun grandchildren anyone could have. And, I thank God for giving me meaningful work that I love.
Okay, I’m done. Time to go outside and enjoy the beauty of this new day! Oh, and water the pots around the yard instead of writing about them.
Friday, November 27, 2009
Sleeping With Ray
Ray spent the night with me last night. Ray Charles, that is. So did Elvis Presley, Enya, the Cowboy Junkies, Mary Chapin Carpenter, and even Lars H.U.G., all the way from Denmark. To name just a few.
With the increasing vibrating and thrumming sensations caused by the growth in my head, it’s been difficult to sleep. I turn this way and that, but still the thrumming continues. I don’t fuss really – I just lie there. It’s boring and uncomfortable after awhile, and it means I’m not at my best in the morning.
I had an inspiration yesterday – the thought that it’s hard to fully experience two kinds of sensory input simultaneously. My theory was that listening to music on my iPod might allow me to focus on the tunes and not on the vibrating. I’d like to report that I slept eight hours non-stop, but I didn’t. I did, however, sleep a lot more than in previous nights. The bonus was that when I was awake, I had the music to sooth and amuse me. I could still feel the thrumming, of course, but I was able to choose the music most of the time.
Thanks Ray and fellow crooners! Tonight once again I will have Georgia on My Mind, and all sorts of other pleasant thoughts.
With the increasing vibrating and thrumming sensations caused by the growth in my head, it’s been difficult to sleep. I turn this way and that, but still the thrumming continues. I don’t fuss really – I just lie there. It’s boring and uncomfortable after awhile, and it means I’m not at my best in the morning.
I had an inspiration yesterday – the thought that it’s hard to fully experience two kinds of sensory input simultaneously. My theory was that listening to music on my iPod might allow me to focus on the tunes and not on the vibrating. I’d like to report that I slept eight hours non-stop, but I didn’t. I did, however, sleep a lot more than in previous nights. The bonus was that when I was awake, I had the music to sooth and amuse me. I could still feel the thrumming, of course, but I was able to choose the music most of the time.
Thanks Ray and fellow crooners! Tonight once again I will have Georgia on My Mind, and all sorts of other pleasant thoughts.
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Easier Said Than Done
I love what I call the Preaching Life. Monday mornings I hurry to my lectionary book, eager to see what the Bible lessons are for the next Sunday. Maybe the seed of an idea sprouts right away, but always, I carry the words around in my head and heart all week, waiting to see what will turn up that fits. Of course, I also pay attention to the historical and theological contexts. But my real question is “How do these lessons relate to the lives of the people who will hear my sermon, and where is God in it all?”
The funny thing is, even though the words I preach are mine, in the middle of saying them, I often realize that I need to pay attention, too. That the things I’m laying out as possibilities for others are possibilities for me, too.
I preached and celebrated Communion at the local Episcopal Senior Community today – Thanksgiving Day. The deacon read these words from the Gospel of Matthew:
Jesus said, "I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or what you will drink, or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothing? Look at the birds of the air; they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not of more value than they? And can any of you by worrying add a single hour to your span of life?
And I said to the people, “Easier said than done, isn’t it?” They laughed. I did, too. Because it’s true. It’s hard not to worry when you are in pain or having trouble breathing. It’s hard not to worry when your beloved has died or is in early stages of Alzheimer’s. When you have something that’s keeping you awake at night, it’s even hard to pray – no matter how good your intentions or how sturdy your faith.
But I also said this morning:
- We can try to set trust in God alongside fear of the unknown.
- We can remind ourselves, as Matthew says, “. . .indeed your heavenly Father knows that you need all these things.”
- We can breathe in God, breathe out doubt.
- We can cling to God’s promises, such as, “Do not fear, for I have redeemed you. I have called you by name; you are mine.”
And, on this Thanksgiving Day, we can thank God for all the sweet blessings of our lives.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Squeaky Wheel
I have always tried to do what I’ve said I’ll do, and I assume other people will, too. But sometimes that doesn’t happen, and then you have to figure out whether to be a squeaky wheel. Maybe that comes easily to some people, but not to me. I guess I feel that it makes me look whiny and demanding. On the other hand, sometimes the thing you want to squeak about is really important, and that’s the spot I’m in now!
Besides telling the people I love that I have a benign tumor (emphasis on benign) that will have to be removed surgically, I have been trying to get the referral I need to actually meet with the brain surgeon. It should be easy, but it has gone this way:
Me: (on Friday to the neurologist’s secretary) “Hi, I met with Dr. X yesterday and he told me you would send on a referral to Dr. Y.”
Secretary: “I think I can do that by Monday.”
Me: I don’t say, “Not til Monday! For pity sake, this is my brain we’re talking about!” I do say, “Thank you. That would be great.”
Secretary: I’ll try.
Me: (on Monday) “Hi, I was wondering if you’ve had a chance to send that referral over to Dr.Y?”
Secretary: “No, I’m looking for your file now.”
Me: I don’t say, “I am going crazy with this tingling and vibrating in my body. What do you mean you’re looking for my file?” I do say, “This is making me very anxious. I know you have other anxious people, but will you please do it today.”
Secretary: “It’s just that I have a big pile, and we are short one person. But I’ll try.”
Me: “Thank you.”
After much agonizing the next morning (six days after I have been told I have to have surgery on my head) I decide that yes, I’ll be a squeaky wheel. I call the secretary again.
Secretary: (proudly) “We faxed that over yesterday.”
Me: (calling Dr. Y’s office now) “Hi, I understand Dr. X’s office has faxed a referral for me to meet with Dr. Y.”
Secretary: “No, we don’t have that yet.”
And so it went. Me offering to hand deliver the file from Dr. X to Dr. Y. Me trying not to come out of my skin, so that they could say, “That crazy woman. You can tell she has a brain tumor!”
I am happy to report that the file finally arrived after three faxings, and I now have an appointment for December 7.
Moral of the story: Sometimes it is really important to squeak!
Besides telling the people I love that I have a benign tumor (emphasis on benign) that will have to be removed surgically, I have been trying to get the referral I need to actually meet with the brain surgeon. It should be easy, but it has gone this way:
Me: (on Friday to the neurologist’s secretary) “Hi, I met with Dr. X yesterday and he told me you would send on a referral to Dr. Y.”
Secretary: “I think I can do that by Monday.”
Me: I don’t say, “Not til Monday! For pity sake, this is my brain we’re talking about!” I do say, “Thank you. That would be great.”
Secretary: I’ll try.
Me: (on Monday) “Hi, I was wondering if you’ve had a chance to send that referral over to Dr.Y?”
Secretary: “No, I’m looking for your file now.”
Me: I don’t say, “I am going crazy with this tingling and vibrating in my body. What do you mean you’re looking for my file?” I do say, “This is making me very anxious. I know you have other anxious people, but will you please do it today.”
Secretary: “It’s just that I have a big pile, and we are short one person. But I’ll try.”
Me: “Thank you.”
After much agonizing the next morning (six days after I have been told I have to have surgery on my head) I decide that yes, I’ll be a squeaky wheel. I call the secretary again.
Secretary: (proudly) “We faxed that over yesterday.”
Me: (calling Dr. Y’s office now) “Hi, I understand Dr. X’s office has faxed a referral for me to meet with Dr. Y.”
Secretary: “No, we don’t have that yet.”
And so it went. Me offering to hand deliver the file from Dr. X to Dr. Y. Me trying not to come out of my skin, so that they could say, “That crazy woman. You can tell she has a brain tumor!”
I am happy to report that the file finally arrived after three faxings, and I now have an appointment for December 7.
Moral of the story: Sometimes it is really important to squeak!
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
It's All in My Head
As I've been discovering in the past week, there’s no easy way to say this. The tingling/ vibrating in my legs and lower body, which I had thought came from riding my bike, are actually all in my head. Literally, I’m afraid. There is a growth under my scalp, which the neurologist says is, “On your brain, not in it.”
It’s not what I expected to hear. I’m not the type to have a brain tumor. In-grown toenails, maybe. Varicose veins. But a growth in my head – it’s way too dramatic. It’s also scary and a pretty rough thing to tell your husband, children, and friends.
“Remember the word ‘benign,’” I say bravely, before I say the actual words “growth in my head.” I have to say it over and over, as I have family here, but also in Oregon, Maryland, Massachusetts, Pennsylvania, and even Denmark. Some become very quiet. Some may be crying. Some of them remain hopeful. “There are ways besides going into your skull, aren’t there?” No, I say calmly. I hope I say it calmly.
Some people rush quickly to how lucky I am. I am lucky, since the tumor is 99% likely to be non-cancerous and is not in the deep dark recesses of the organ that allows me to think and move and talk. On the other hand, I don’t feel totally lucky. In fact, I feel a little unlucky.
Life is rarely what you think. I thought I’d be wobbling along the bike path on my pink Cruiser by now, but instead I’m facing another kind of challenge. What I want now is to cruise through even this, acknowledging that it’s hard but not overwhelming. I want to do this with grace and tenderness and love.
It’s not what I expected to hear. I’m not the type to have a brain tumor. In-grown toenails, maybe. Varicose veins. But a growth in my head – it’s way too dramatic. It’s also scary and a pretty rough thing to tell your husband, children, and friends.
“Remember the word ‘benign,’” I say bravely, before I say the actual words “growth in my head.” I have to say it over and over, as I have family here, but also in Oregon, Maryland, Massachusetts, Pennsylvania, and even Denmark. Some become very quiet. Some may be crying. Some of them remain hopeful. “There are ways besides going into your skull, aren’t there?” No, I say calmly. I hope I say it calmly.
Some people rush quickly to how lucky I am. I am lucky, since the tumor is 99% likely to be non-cancerous and is not in the deep dark recesses of the organ that allows me to think and move and talk. On the other hand, I don’t feel totally lucky. In fact, I feel a little unlucky.
Life is rarely what you think. I thought I’d be wobbling along the bike path on my pink Cruiser by now, but instead I’m facing another kind of challenge. What I want now is to cruise through even this, acknowledging that it’s hard but not overwhelming. I want to do this with grace and tenderness and love.
Saturday, November 14, 2009
Doing Things Properly
My dearest friend’s son is getting married, and the invitation has arrived. I sit staring at the beautiful little reply card, with its fancy M_________________. What am I supposed to write? And how can I can I express my excitement and affection on this tidy little card?
My first awareness of the mysterious world of Doing Things Properly came at the hand of my grandmother when I was seven. I excitedly showed her the neighbor girl’s birthday party invitation, decorated with balloons. She sat me down with a blank sheet of paper. “Write this,” she instructed. “Miss Wendy Louise Salisbury accepts with pleasure your kind invitation. . .” I was mortified, knowing even at seven that my friend’s mother would probably laugh.
My own mother, although she rejected most things her mother had done, was just as strict about Doing Things Properly. She ordered wedding invitations, informals, and birth announcements – properly engraved, mind you! – from Garfinkle’s in Washington, D.C. Even today, non compos mentis as she is, the fog will clear and she will say to me, “You didn’t get proper birth announcements for Sarah!” In the past I tried to say (for all the good it did) that Miss Manners declared what I sent – hand written announcements – are perfectly proper. Now I just take it. I only seethe a little bit.
After my terrible lapse, Mother began to give engraved wedding invitations and birth announcements as her gift to all her grandchildren as they married and procreated. It was the only way she could insure things were done according to her standards. Her granddaughters accepted the baby announcements good-naturedly, although I know of at least two who sent the proper ones to family members and cute ones to their friends.
Wedding invitations posed a problem, however, as Mother declared, “Those dreadful little reply cards are not proper,” and so the brides could not use them. (Need I point out that my mother ruled with an iron hand?)
Sometimes, however, unexpected things happen, and no reply cards meant my daughters received the most amusing and charming collection of RSVPs. By far the sweetest was a note to Jennie from an old family friend of her husband’s, who described in loving detail the happiness she had felt caring for John as a new-born baby 30 years before. My personal favorite was the tiny sticky note that Sarah had to search the envelope to find, adhered to the inside.
So I ask – if a reply card is not really proper, must one still use it properly? Also, is it not possible to be proper and personal simultaneously? May I not find a way to express affection along with my tally of who will attend?
Here is what I will write:
“Mr. and Mrs. Kevin Howe accept with pleasure and love!”
My first awareness of the mysterious world of Doing Things Properly came at the hand of my grandmother when I was seven. I excitedly showed her the neighbor girl’s birthday party invitation, decorated with balloons. She sat me down with a blank sheet of paper. “Write this,” she instructed. “Miss Wendy Louise Salisbury accepts with pleasure your kind invitation. . .” I was mortified, knowing even at seven that my friend’s mother would probably laugh.
My own mother, although she rejected most things her mother had done, was just as strict about Doing Things Properly. She ordered wedding invitations, informals, and birth announcements – properly engraved, mind you! – from Garfinkle’s in Washington, D.C. Even today, non compos mentis as she is, the fog will clear and she will say to me, “You didn’t get proper birth announcements for Sarah!” In the past I tried to say (for all the good it did) that Miss Manners declared what I sent – hand written announcements – are perfectly proper. Now I just take it. I only seethe a little bit.
After my terrible lapse, Mother began to give engraved wedding invitations and birth announcements as her gift to all her grandchildren as they married and procreated. It was the only way she could insure things were done according to her standards. Her granddaughters accepted the baby announcements good-naturedly, although I know of at least two who sent the proper ones to family members and cute ones to their friends.
Wedding invitations posed a problem, however, as Mother declared, “Those dreadful little reply cards are not proper,” and so the brides could not use them. (Need I point out that my mother ruled with an iron hand?)
Sometimes, however, unexpected things happen, and no reply cards meant my daughters received the most amusing and charming collection of RSVPs. By far the sweetest was a note to Jennie from an old family friend of her husband’s, who described in loving detail the happiness she had felt caring for John as a new-born baby 30 years before. My personal favorite was the tiny sticky note that Sarah had to search the envelope to find, adhered to the inside.
So I ask – if a reply card is not really proper, must one still use it properly? Also, is it not possible to be proper and personal simultaneously? May I not find a way to express affection along with my tally of who will attend?
Here is what I will write:
“Mr. and Mrs. Kevin Howe accept with pleasure and love!”
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Three Gifts
Friends have a way of making everything right. In the two days ATB (After the Bike), three gifts appeared.
The first was from my pedometer friend, Steve. I had told his wife Nancy about the bike, and that evening they arrived with a an aqua-colored exercise ball, maybe 5' in diameter. "Cathe 3LB" it says on it. It's firm and squishy at the same time - tactilely satisfying. Steve knocked himself out showing me all the fun things you can do with it. I didn't say "But it's not a bike." I said, "How sweet! Thank you for thinking of me!" Then I amused them and myself by balancing it on my head.
The second was a gift of words from Wilda. She listened to my sad story, let me feel my feelings, and fed me chocolate at the end of a delicious birthday lunch. As she dropped me off she said, "I'm glad you don't have the bike anymore. Now you won't get hurt!" Leaving me to ponder if there isn't some place within myself that can hear the wisdom of her words.
The last was from Diana, an old seminary friend who lives in Spokane. The package held two good books, several clippings, and a card. When I called to thank her, she said, "I'm sorry it was late."
"No it wasn't, Diana," I said. "It was right on time." I told her the story of the bike and reminded her of the song lyrics she has ended the card with:
Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack in everything
It's where the light gets in.
So here I am, standing in the light. Seeing the goodness all around. Remembering that the word possibility is the best one of all. I wonder what's next.
The first was from my pedometer friend, Steve. I had told his wife Nancy about the bike, and that evening they arrived with a an aqua-colored exercise ball, maybe 5' in diameter. "Cathe 3LB" it says on it. It's firm and squishy at the same time - tactilely satisfying. Steve knocked himself out showing me all the fun things you can do with it. I didn't say "But it's not a bike." I said, "How sweet! Thank you for thinking of me!" Then I amused them and myself by balancing it on my head.
The second was a gift of words from Wilda. She listened to my sad story, let me feel my feelings, and fed me chocolate at the end of a delicious birthday lunch. As she dropped me off she said, "I'm glad you don't have the bike anymore. Now you won't get hurt!" Leaving me to ponder if there isn't some place within myself that can hear the wisdom of her words.
The last was from Diana, an old seminary friend who lives in Spokane. The package held two good books, several clippings, and a card. When I called to thank her, she said, "I'm sorry it was late."
"No it wasn't, Diana," I said. "It was right on time." I told her the story of the bike and reminded her of the song lyrics she has ended the card with:
Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack in everything
It's where the light gets in.
So here I am, standing in the light. Seeing the goodness all around. Remembering that the word possibility is the best one of all. I wonder what's next.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Letting Go
When things veer off course in life, most people do one of two things – they clench their fists and try harder or they open their fists and let go. I was brought up to do the former – to hang on tight and keep going - and I am in good company. Most thrivers and achievers do the same.
On the other hand, when you have given something your best shot and things haven’t worked out, it may be time to just let go with as much grace and good nature as possible.
Sometimes it actually feels good to unclench that fist. Try it right now. Clench your fist and hold it! Squeeze tighter! You can do it! Harder! Harder!
Now let it go. Breathe. Relax your shoulders. Wiggle you head from side to side. Feels good, doesn’t it?
Sometimes I preach about this. Of course, the point is that when your fists are all knotted up and your face is set in one direction, there’s no room for the Holy Spirit to enter in.
The theme fits with Nicodemus who came to see Jesus by night (and then didn’t hear a word Jesus said) and with Peter (who thought he could walk across the water without keeping his gaze on his Master) and in plenty of other stories, too.
Today it fit for me. I really have wanted to ride my lovely little pink bike, and I actually managed to do it several times, and I love the idea of it and the way it feels to move through the air. . . But my doctor has told me that the continued tingling in my feet and legs is a sign (no, he didn’t say it was a sign from God) that it is not a good idea.
He said it nicely, “I do applaud your wanting to get more exercise and try a new thing, but maybe there’s another way to do it.” He let that sink in. “I’d hate to see you do any permanent damage. . .”
Kevin went with me to REI to take my beloved bike back. The clerk and the bike man were awfully kind when I couldn’t keep those tears from welling up in my eyes. I suppose my fists were pretty tight as I walked out of the store, and they have stayed that way all afternoon.
Now I am looking out at the ocean, and after I hit the Publish Post button, I am going to walk outside and gaze at this wonderful world God has made. Then I am going to open both hands and hold up them out to see how God fills them next.
On the other hand, when you have given something your best shot and things haven’t worked out, it may be time to just let go with as much grace and good nature as possible.
Sometimes it actually feels good to unclench that fist. Try it right now. Clench your fist and hold it! Squeeze tighter! You can do it! Harder! Harder!
Now let it go. Breathe. Relax your shoulders. Wiggle you head from side to side. Feels good, doesn’t it?
Sometimes I preach about this. Of course, the point is that when your fists are all knotted up and your face is set in one direction, there’s no room for the Holy Spirit to enter in.
The theme fits with Nicodemus who came to see Jesus by night (and then didn’t hear a word Jesus said) and with Peter (who thought he could walk across the water without keeping his gaze on his Master) and in plenty of other stories, too.
Today it fit for me. I really have wanted to ride my lovely little pink bike, and I actually managed to do it several times, and I love the idea of it and the way it feels to move through the air. . . But my doctor has told me that the continued tingling in my feet and legs is a sign (no, he didn’t say it was a sign from God) that it is not a good idea.
He said it nicely, “I do applaud your wanting to get more exercise and try a new thing, but maybe there’s another way to do it.” He let that sink in. “I’d hate to see you do any permanent damage. . .”
Kevin went with me to REI to take my beloved bike back. The clerk and the bike man were awfully kind when I couldn’t keep those tears from welling up in my eyes. I suppose my fists were pretty tight as I walked out of the store, and they have stayed that way all afternoon.
Now I am looking out at the ocean, and after I hit the Publish Post button, I am going to walk outside and gaze at this wonderful world God has made. Then I am going to open both hands and hold up them out to see how God fills them next.
Monday, October 5, 2009
The Odometer of Life
When my odometer rolled over to 569,400 I was somewhere on the road between Massachusetts and Maryland. The "vehicle" was this 65-year-old body. The number is 65x365x24 = hours I've been alive. If one hour = one mile, I'm a sturdy, reliable old engine, and I've had very few breakdowns, if I do say so myself.
A road trip with your husband, sister, and brother-in-law is not a bad way to celebrate a birthday. The miles roll by, with pleasant conversation and pretty views - interspersed with a few traffic jams and crazy drivers. Kind of like life itself.
We spent the night in a motel with a breath-taking view of the rolling hills of Pennsylvania. Dinner was at a chain called something like the Ground Round, and when I asked if they had wine, the waiter said, "Well, we have red, but not white." Odd, we thought.
When he served my cabernet sauvignon, the amount in the glass was a little skimpy. "That's all the cab we have," he said. "When you drink that, I'll bring you something else." Odder, we thought, but the Syrah he brought was just fine. Meanwhile, the others enjoyed their various adult beverages, too.
Kevin handed me the bill to check, and it was way too low. We pointed out to the waiter that he had not charged us for drinks. "Well, we can't because we don't have a liquor license any more. So we just give it away." Oddest, we thought. But kind of a cool birthday present on the road, and the waiter got a really big tip!
A road trip with your husband, sister, and brother-in-law is not a bad way to celebrate a birthday. The miles roll by, with pleasant conversation and pretty views - interspersed with a few traffic jams and crazy drivers. Kind of like life itself.
We spent the night in a motel with a breath-taking view of the rolling hills of Pennsylvania. Dinner was at a chain called something like the Ground Round, and when I asked if they had wine, the waiter said, "Well, we have red, but not white." Odd, we thought.
When he served my cabernet sauvignon, the amount in the glass was a little skimpy. "That's all the cab we have," he said. "When you drink that, I'll bring you something else." Odder, we thought, but the Syrah he brought was just fine. Meanwhile, the others enjoyed their various adult beverages, too.
Kevin handed me the bill to check, and it was way too low. We pointed out to the waiter that he had not charged us for drinks. "Well, we can't because we don't have a liquor license any more. So we just give it away." Oddest, we thought. But kind of a cool birthday present on the road, and the waiter got a really big tip!
* * * * *
As it turned out, my dear family in Maryland decided to make a fuss about my birthday. We gathered at my parents' farm, where everybody sang a clever song about how, "Walkers and handrails and new dental fittings" are now "a few of my favorite things. Thanks, guys! But they also presented me with a beautiful album with photos and sweet notes about who I am in their lives. There was even an hysterically funny video made in Europe by two of my ingenious nephews and one wife. And delicious food, and three kinds of cake baked by my older sister. And presents, too!
As I wrote to some of them later: "Thanks again for everything! Occasionally I open my wonderful album at random and read a little something. When I was telling Erik that it’s a little overwhelming to have so many nice things said about you all at once, he said, 'Sometimes you just have to take it.' So, I am happily ‘taking it.’ I do appreciate your finding good attributes to focus on, and I will try to live up to them. At least more often!!!"
As I wrote to some of them later: "Thanks again for everything! Occasionally I open my wonderful album at random and read a little something. When I was telling Erik that it’s a little overwhelming to have so many nice things said about you all at once, he said, 'Sometimes you just have to take it.' So, I am happily ‘taking it.’ I do appreciate your finding good attributes to focus on, and I will try to live up to them. At least more often!!!"
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