Re-frame. If That Doesn't Work, Distract!

Oh my goodness, she's back at her blog!  That's what I IMAGINE my readers are saying when this post comes up on their blogroll. Again, I IMAGINE that I actually am on your blogroll and if I am, that you are actually bothering to read past word one. Because I abandoned you. Ran off with the paper boy! Which I most certainly did not because we do not take the paper here in our house and if we did, the paper boy would be more than a half-century younger than me and besides the fact that he would be horrified at the very thought of running away with Grandma, well it would be just so not right! Okay. Truth. I left you for a novel. A half-written novel about a priest and a girl and his best friend. And his grandma. Grandma is my heroine. So that's where I've been.

But it's that last day of the year. The last chapter in the book of 2014 and want need to write about something other than my young priest and his grandma. I want to tell you about my New Year's Resolution.  Wait! I know most folks turn their noses up at resolutions. They say, "It just set's me up for failure." They get haughty and say, "I PREFER to live in the moment."  Which to my way of thinking is a lot like me saying, "No, I don't want to play volleyball with you. I'd rather play scrabble." Which is my way of saying, "I suck at sports and I don't want do them because I get humiliated when I try to hit the ball and wind up on my rear with my left leg  sprawled over my right shoulder and a big fat bruise on my tush. And worse than that; you will laugh at me and I HATE being laughed at because though I intellectually understand that everybody falls down and it's no big deal; emotionally I really think that I am the worst klutz on the planet and that EVERYBODY else is more agile than me. So leave me alone with my scrabble game...OKAY?"

 

We all have ways of protecting ourselves, don't we? Just humor me here and continue reading. You don't have to make a resolution OR play volleyball. Promise.

 

So my resolution. I didn't make it up. It came to me. The same way that the priest and the girl came to me. Writers call that their muse. Christians call it the Holy Spirit. I just know that this idea was foisted upon me from another person and place. My intuition calls him God. Sometimes He talks directly to me. Often He uses people. Like Doctor Patterson.

 

 "You need to get neurotic about stretching!" said the good doctor on my last visit when I asked him to exorcise a demon called plantar fasciitis from my foot and whined about my aching hips. And shoulders. And neck. Maybe I'm being a bit touchy here, but  I'm convinced he used the word 'neurotic' on purpose. He must think I'm a bundle of neuroses. Just because I perseverate about every little ache, about people making fun of me when I play volleyball, about what I may have said to offend the grocery clerk to make her viciously slam my apples on the counter-bruising them beyond recognition, about my relationship with my mother (she's deceased), about whether the dog will get sick and die from eating fake plants and should I even have fake plants because of this; even though real ones make me sneeze...so am I preferring the dog to myself...and is this emotionally healthy??? Or maybe I'm preferring myself to the dog by having fake plants to keep me from sneezing. I don't know. It's all so confusing. 

 

The inside of my brain has more twists and turns than a Six Flags amusement park.

 

So I take his advise. Order some books because that's what I do when I'm about to embark on a new neurosis. "Flexibility Over Fifty, " and  "Age Defying Fitness." I read them cover to cover then began. I was in the middle of the inner thigh stretch; straddling a folding chair in a very unlady-like position when God spoke to me. This time directly.

 

"Make flexibility your New Year's Resolution." He said. 

 

"I AM. I ALREADY HAVE!" I answer, making sure my knees and toes are out to the side at a precisely 45-degree angle and gently pushing the cellulite on my inner thigh--which pushes back not-so-gently.

 

"Physically AND Emotionally," was the response.

 

"Oh. What would that entail?" I wonder.

 

So I Googled emotional flexibility and read a bunch of clinical studies that are probably less interesting than this blog...were it possible. But two words stood out in the studies. Like a Budweiser neon sign to an alcoholic. RE-FRAME. Apparently that's what  emotionally healthy people do when faced with minor stressors. And DISTRACT. That's what they do with the big ones. Distract themselves. Because they can't do anything else.

 

Wow! So people actually do that and it's not considered self-delusion and denial? Who knew?

 

So I'm trying it. Yesterday I took the stretching thing a bit too far. Physically speaking. My overdone neck stretches left me stuck--kinda like when you get the jelly-jar  lid off-kilter and now you can't unscrew it or turn it in either direction. So I spent the morning lying in the bathtub with Epsom Salts and popping as many Advil as allowable by state law. (Which the OLD me might perseverate about--wondering if I'm giving myself Advil-induced-bleeding ulcers.) But NOT THIS TIME! I CAN RE-FRAME. AND IF THAT DOESN'T WORK I CAN DISTRACT!  So I told myself that the pain was temporary and would be better tomorrow. I played my favorite Pandora station and put votive candles all around the tub while I soaked. (the battery operated kind, because the real ones make me stuffy.) I only worried for a moment about the possibility of the dog knocking the candles into the tub, and reasoned that battery operated candles wouldn't actually electrocute me like 110 volts would...would they? Naw! "Distract yourself from that thought! I told myself. "Read a book while you soak. A pleasant book..."

 

Today my neck is much better. I was able to look both ways when I crossed the street to get the mail. I think I may be onto something here. Be Flexible. Re-frame. Distract. My new mantra for 2015. Who knows? Maybe I'll get flexible enough to play volleyball!

 

Whoa there! Baby steps. First the neck. Then the hips. Then maybe I'll think about volleyball. Or maybe I'll just distract myself with Scrabble while others play...

 

Happy New Year!  Whether you resolve to or not; may 2015 be very best chapter of your life so far!

 

***

Aletha, the Cherry Tomato

Aletha

By Debora Rorvig

In June I bought a tomato plant to sit out on my patio

for fifteen-dollars and ninety-five.

A tall sturdy sort with a fine thick stock and twelve little green tomatoes

dangling from her branches.

The clerk said “she’s a corker!”

As it turns out, my plus-size girl

doesn’t like my patio.

She screams for water twice-a-day;

 pouts if she doesn’t get it.

Why she’s even threaten hari-kari more than once!

And still, just twelve little tomatoes cling to her leafy frame…

no more.

I think she’s into family-planning

or something of the sort.

In late July an unexpected visitor popped into my herb garden for a cup of chamomile tea with mint

and some spicy conversation with the chives,

Petite little thing she was; really just a sprout.

Mother used to call her kind ‘volunteers’;

a name I’m not so fond of

as though tomato plants and stalks of corn would step forward and sign

their names on the dotted line to join

some well-ordered regiment of vegetables…

Well maybe a cornstalk would do that; what with their love for standing straight

in even rows…but not this little tomato plant.

(Albeit when I think of it,

perhaps all vegetables should unite and fight

just to save their skins

from monsters like Monsanto;

who…well I’ll save this subject for

another soapbox and time.)

So I called her Aletha instead.

Aletha was a preemie…as tomato plants go;

but I gave her bit of mulch and tended her with the same love

(I’m lying now…MORE love than my pouty patio-girl!)

Well it turns out Aletha comes

from a long line of hardy cherry-tomato forbearers

who thrive in poor soil and given the chance

will shoot up toward the sun.

Now when she and I stand back- to –back

 to see who’s grown the tallest,

Aletha wins hands down--

 even if I stand on tippy-toes in my plastic garden clogs.

She towers over me and patio-girl

and boasts of lots of baby cherry-tomatoes

(I think she’s Catholic, or maybe Mormon;

Whatever…her family size suits me just fine.

Who am I to judge a tomato by her religion,

or lack thereof?

And so the lessons here, I think

are many.

I’ll spare you all my platitudes.

But suffice to say;

you can just never tell

about tomatoes…

 

And that goes for people too!

 

***

 

,

 

Buckets of Sand

Last week was my 40th class reunion. I've never gone to a class reunion before for a few choice reasons.

A. I quit school in eleventh grade, got pregnant and married, then went and got my GED. Maybe not the most well-planned scheme I ever hatched; but in the end it worked out. I had a beautiful son and later, two more children and went on to college later in life.

B. I transferred to a new school in seventh grade where I didn't know anyone. I was shy and nerdy so it was hard to make friends. There were some 'popular' girls who made my life hell for a year. By high school I had my own circle of friends but I still hated those girls for the humiliation they put me through. And though I had a handful of friends, I really didn't know most of my graduating class.

So when hubby pointed out to me that this was the big '40' and urged me to go...I was pretty ambivalent about it all. (He, on the other hand, was one year behind me in high school and was friends with EVERYBODY...so he was looking forward to it.)

Finally, I decided to go. I've been taking some personal risks these days; working to get out of my comfort zone; so this event would push my boundaries. Boy, would it ever! Would they even let me in, having left in my junior year? Would those mean girls be there...and would they be mean women now? What if absolutely nobody knew me?

So we went. They did let me in. A few people knew me. Everybody knew hubby. The mean girls didn't come. (A few days earlier I googled them and read--with some unrighteous satisfaction--that one of them has been bankrupt, lost everything and convicted of shoplifting twice just this year. Don't feel too sorry for her. She was shoplifting all through high school; along with her siblings AND parents!) Anyway, it went fine. Everybody was all grown up now; turning grey and bald and flabby...and nice!

But all this ugly emotional 'stuff' surfaced as I went through this process. I thought I'd forgiven all of my enemies and even myself for the dumb things I did back then...but oh my, what angst I was feeling about it all.

So this morning I sat down with my Bible and purposed to do some serious forgiving. The mean girls...myself...my parents for making me move to a new school when it was so hard...just everybody; you know?

As I began praying and naming the offenders and forgiving them...in my mind's eye I could see myself on a wet sandy beach with several buckets hooked over my arm. They were full of heavy, wet, mucky sand. I could barely walk they were so heavy. So I decided to dump one of them out onto the beach. The waves came and whisked the pile of sand away. My walk became a little easier. So I dumped another. And another. By now I'm sure you've guessed that the buckets of sand were offenses that I've been packing around.

You know, there are so many imperfect people walking around on this planet (me included) that offenses and hurts are going to be as numerous as the grains of sand by the ocean. But if we insist on lugging those buckets-full of  hurts all our life; our walk on the beach, which could be wonderful and peaceful and serene and lovely; well, it'll just be drudgery.

Better to walk without heavy buckets of sludge. Put your toes in the surf. Maybe skip over the waves. Fly a kite and look at the sky.

So for now I've abandoned my buckets and am walking free. Knowing myself as I do, I know I'll be tempted to get out my shovel and dig up some emotional sand before this journey is over. But even if I do; I hope I remember this lesson I learned today. Life's just too short and the walk too lovely to be weighed down like that.

Will I go to my 50th reunion? Not likely. But not because I'm scared of mean girls. I just have other beaches to explore.

***

Looking back: a peek into my journal 7/25/05

An excerpt from my journal dated July 25, 2005. I've come a long way in my journey; having resolved most of this 'stuff'. But it's good now and then to look down from the mountain at some of the terrain you've covered. Maybe this will speak to other women facing the same thoughts...


"I've been contemplating the verse that says 'let your light so shine among men...'. The passages starts by saying that YOU are the light of the world. Then it counsels us not to hide our light. And I realize that I have been hiding my light. Because it's different. How do I hide it? Under social norms, false humility, and compromise.

So I'm trying to dig my light out of the closet, dust it off, plug it in, and see what we have.

Here, I think, are some facets of my light...

• Sensitivity to Spirit
• Intelligence
• Reflection
• Appreciation for aesthetics
• A soft heart for children
• Feminine strength
• Resolve and resourcefulness

Some of these things I've hidden so well that I don't fully understand them. I've tried so hard to fit the norm of "Christian" femininity that I have lost my sense of true femininity. (Not to mention trying to fit commercial standards.) What I mean is that I've been taught to think that a woman should be sweet and small (both externally and in my heart), unassuming, pretty, sexually attractive and yet not overt.

 But what does this have to do with ME? Could I not be kind--but not sweet? Large of heart, mind, and body? Dramatic--not pretty? Aware of my own sexual needs and desires rather than focusing on how to be attractive to another? Truly smart--not just a know-it-all?

Perhaps this is part of MY light. Not selfish or self-serving; but self-possessed and aware. Maybe it's time to stop apologizing for being too smart, too sensitive, too sensual, too ME...and begin to explore what this all means... "

***

 

Summer's Elegy by Howard Nemerov

Hello friends.  Lately I've been noticing that leaves are getting crisper, the blackberries vines are heavy with fruit and the landscape is beginning to change. It's been unusually hot here in my little corner of the Pacific Northwest. I think we may have an early autumn.  Though I enjoy the summer, I must admit, these little signs of fall stir my senses. Ahhh, the glory of harvest moons, warm days and cool nights, pumpkins lying in the garden, homemade applesauce with cinnamon!Watching nature spin everything into gold is brings me such pleasure every year.

I saw this poem on the Writers Almanac on Facebook.I had not previously read anything by Howard Nemerov. His work is just beautiful...enjoy!

Summer's Elegy

by Howard Nemerov

Day after day, day after still day,
The summer has begun to pass away.
Starlings at twilight fly clustered and call,
And branches bend, and leaves begin to fall.
The meadow and the orchard grass are mown,
And the meadowlark's house is cut down.

The little lantern bugs have doused their fires,
The swallows sit in rows along the wires.
Berry and grape appear among the flowers
Tangled against the wall in secret bowers,
And cricket now begins to hum the hours
Remaining to the passion's slow procession
Down from the high place and the golden session
Wherein the sun was sacrificed for us.
A failing light, no longer numinous,
Now frames the long and solemn afternoons
Where butterflies regret their closed cocoons.
We reach the place unripe, and made to know
As with a sudden knowledge that we go
Away forever, all hope of return
Cut off, hearing the crackle of the burn-
ing blade behind us, and the terminal sound
Of apples dropping on the dry ground

 

***

The Road to Grey: Act Three

It was over a year ago that I decided to go grey. It was a tough choice because I actually loved my blonde highlights. But the 'high' I got from my color was short lived. I needed a new fix every couple of months. Then I started reading about all of these beautiful women who were going grey. "Grey is the new blonde!" was their battle cry. So I decided to try it. I had nothing to lose but a $150 dollar hair salon bill... and my ego.

 

 

I soon discovered that going grey from bleached blonde is difficult on so many levels. It's time consuming and emotionally taxing. It had taken months to grow my hair out, and I didn't want to cut it under any circumstance. 

 

 I was left with two options:

A. having skunk-like grey roots;

B. trying to apply a rinse that was close to my natural color and allowing the grey to fade in more gradually.

 

 I chose the latter. However, since my hairdresser had never actually seen my natural color in it's entirety, she took a guess based on what she saw on my roots and  put a VERY dark rinse on my head. EGAD! Now my hair was Black! I hated it! Talk about a blow to the ego! I felt uglier and more unattractive than I had ever felt in my entire life. I felt like I looked like a gypsy! Not a real gypsy...one of those spooky ones you see in movies driving around in a horse drawn wagon full of tapestries and a crystal ball!

 

"It's cute!" said my hairdresser.(They always say that, don't they?) "It'll lighten up in a week or so..."

 

Well it wasn't cute and it didn't lighten up. After waiting four long weeks for the rinse to fade; I went back and demanded that my hairdresser DO SOMETHING! So she put some taffy colored highlights in it to lighten up the overall look. This felt like a devastating setback. Here I had wanted to stop highlighting my hair; and now I was highlighting it so that I could stand the grow-out process! And though it looked a little better; by now my hair was so over-processed that the ends soon turned an awful coppery color and were coarse as straw. I didn't take a photograph of this stage of the process--it but trust me--it wasn't good!

 

 

Finally, in total frustration I went to another hairdresser and told her to whack it off. I had managed to grow the grey out to about three inches, so I figured a really short cut would rid me of all of the crazy, fried-out colors on my head.  Which was hard because all I really really wanted was long, lush grey hair.  

 

 

So here I am a year later with my salt-and-pepper grey hair. Do I love it? No. But I don't hate it either. Here are a few words of wisdom I can offer if you are contemplating going grey:

*If you're currently sporting a color that is drastically different than your natural one--the process will be harder than you think. Much harder.

 

*Even if you don't think you are particularly fussy or vain about your looks; this process will humble you. You will learn things about your self-image you never knew before. (Face it; you ARE somewhat vain about your looks or you wouldn't be coloring your hair in the first place!)

 

*And when you go through a rough patch where you feel really-really unattractive; you will have gained some hard-won empathy for women who, for whatever reason have never, ever felt attractive.

 

*You might not be naturally as grey as you think. My hair has sort of a grey sheen to it in the light; especially on top, but the back is still pretty dark; which I'm told is common. If you are planning on becoming an instant silver fox; you could be in for disappointment.

 

*You will love, love, love  not having to make appointments for root touch-ups every 8-10 weeks. And when you go in for a haircut; the $35 or $40 you spend will seem like pennies compared to what you coughed up to keep your color going.

 

*Some colors that used to look great on you may not work anymore. And you may find that you look absolutely stunning in colors you used to avoid.

 

*Your husband/boyfriend/children/coworkers/friends may not like it. And they will tell you so. Be forewarned!

 

*You just might begin to feel more authentic. More like YOU. More happy in your own skin. More happy with your own age.

 

*Or, you may not be able to deal with what sometimes feels as a shocking 'instant aging process.' You may want to go back to coloring for a few years. Or forever.

 

*The truth is, you are beautiful. Blonde hair, black hair, red, brown, auburn, or grey hair. Remember that.

Personally speaking--though my hair isn't exactly what I hoped for (I really want that striking all-silvery look)--for now I'm staying the course. I say 'for now' because I'm not totally convinced that I can hold out for my desired color to come in gradually. I'm accustomed to the instant gratification that comes in a peroxide bottle! This takes time and patience. So I ignore the L'Oreal commercials and remind myself that the question is; would I rather feel more authentic and relaxed about this aging process; or will I fight it tooth and nail; dependent upon a bottle of peroxide to maintain my youth?

 On the other hand, don't we women depend on a whole arsenal of little bottles in our war against aging, of which peroxide is just one? Our moisturizers are called age-defying; and our foundations promise to reduce fine lines in just days! And since I'm not walking away from my make-up; I'm certainly not judging anybody--including myself--for coloring her hair!

All I know for sure is this; Every day I wake up with a few more of those beautiful silver hairs and in time I will most certainly become a 'silver fox.'

 Patience my dear...patience!  

***

 

It's Dad's Birthday. A Snapshot for His Descendants

 

Dad with his Aunt Ada Miller

 

 

[This piece, more than anything, is for my children and grandchildren, my nieces and nephews, great nieces and nephews all the way down our immense family tree. It is a snapshot of your grandfather. I hope that when you read it, you will in some way see yourselves in my descriptions of Raymond Claude Miller.  He was a wonderful, simple, complex person. Funny, sad, friendly and very private. You should know about him. Your are his descendants. And part of him undoubtedly lives on in you.]

 

Today is my Dad's birthday. July 3, 1910. I guess that makes him 104 years old.  He passed away many years ago, when I was a young teenager. He was never a rich man, but he left me something very precious... the gift of having known him.  In a way so few really did. Only close family and a few valued friends were ever privy to this man his friends called Ray.  I got to call him Dad. He was your great-Grandfather, great-great Grandfather. Or beyond. You probably never met him; so I'd like to tell you a little bit about him...

 

 He was kind and gentle-hearted. He was nice to people, and liked you for what you were. He especially loved children and animals. And they could sense it. Very often at family gatherings you would look over and see small children wander over to him and crawl up into his lap, without his ever asking them to. His gentleness drew them to him. I remember times when Dad would be mowing our lawn, Bruce, our little neighbor boy would come over and quietly walk behind him the whole time, mimicking every step. Dad limped, Bruce limped. When Dad stopped to pet the dog, Bruce patted the dog's head. No words were said; no words were necessary. Being near him was enough.

 

He was quiet--not shy-- purposefully quiet. And perceptive. He noticed things that others miss because they are so anxiously clamoring to be heard. If you were feeling blue about something, you didn't have to tell him. He'd already seen it in your face; your expression. Sometimes when I felt bad he'd look at me and say, "Let's go on an excursion!" We'd head off down the road in the old blue Ford Fairlane...he was the pilot, I was co-pilot and Honey, my dog played  'navigator-- riding with her head out the window. We'd stop at a country store and he'd buy me a bottle of grape soda and sing silly songs to cheer me up.  How I miss those rides! Happily, it seems that quietness of spirit is an inherited quality. I've noticed that several of his grandchildren and great-grandchildren  --who never met him--him have this same attribute. If you are one of them, be grateful. I know it is difficult to be so in this overstimulated age where many believe that those who shout the loudest are the most well-informed. Not so. Your quietness is a rare quality...a gracious gift possessed by so few.

 

He was witty. When a quiet, thinking person speaks; their words are meaningful. And if they find something is funny enough to tell; it's often something that's been overlooked by most. And so, when my Dad quipped about something he thought was funny; it would bring the house down with laughter. For days we'd be chuckling about something funny Dad said.

 

He was flawed. I wouldn't be real if I didn't mention this. Dad drank too much. There were factors, I believe, that contributed to his problems.  His parents divorced--something almost unheard of in the early 1900's. After a bitter custody dispute, he and his younger brother were awarded to his father who was a traveling salesman. Since his father traveled for a living, often for days; the boys were left at the boarding house to be looked after by the woman who ran it--but for the most part; they raised themselves. He had no nurturing mother-figure in his life. It was only in his adulthood that his mother pursued a relationship with he and his brother. There seemed to be a sort of melancholia in my father's personality. Perhaps it was a result of his childhood. Perhaps it was a sort of depression. Whatever the cause, it seemed like a few beers served to lift that cloud of sorrow from him for a few hours. Sadly, the relief was temporary and over time, the alcohol stole my father's health and was the cause of much unhappiness for him. But if there is a bright side to this part of his life it is this: I have observed that those who suffer with obvious problems (we all have our vices--but for some, it is more public), those who grapple with demons in their lives, are so much more compassionate and forgiving of others who suffer. This is so true of my Dad, who loved people that others would write off as undeserving or worthless. (A note dear family, about addictions. If the addictive personality is truly genetic; we would all do well to use caution. It would be nice to see this kind of heartbreak torn from the pages of our family's story.)  

 

He was smart.  Dad was a wizard with math. He seemed to have a sort of photographic memory for numbers and could quickly calculate problems mentally that most would need a paper and pencil to figure out. Like many young men of his day, Dad had to leave school to get a job in his teens. He worked hard in lumber camps and mills. He was promoted to being a lumber grader. In this capacity, it was he who decided the quality and grade of the lumber being shipped out from the mill.  He was good at this, and was offered a job as a lumber inspector, a promotion, which would have meant traveling around the state and inspecting the lumber and systems of many mills. He turned it down. He wanted to stay home with his family. For which I am grateful. And I am also grateful for the intelligence that has been passed down through our generations. It's wonderful to see all of the talented people we have in our family!

 

He was handsome. If eyes are truly the window to one's soul, then my father was a beautiful, beautiful soul. His were soft and expressive; tinged with melancholy, but on occasion they sparkled with amusement. And kind. Always kind. (It warms my heart when I see those same eyes in my grandchildren, my nieces and nephews and their children.)  He was tall--over 6 feet, with long arms and lanky legs. His hair was thick and dark. His face was usually quite serious, but when he smiled, it seemed as though the sun had broken through the clouds. Many folks remarked about what a striking resemblance he bore to Abraham Lincoln!   And he smelled like the woods!  I loved to bury my face in his flannel shirts, which always smelled of cedar and pine from working at the mill.

 

He was simple. As mom would say it, 'he never put on airs.' He was not impressed by wealth or a person's station in life. It really didn't matter to him. Nor did he feel compelled to try and impress anyone. Which to me, is very impressive!

 

He was generous to a fault. Mom used to complain that Dad would give someone the shirt off of his back. It was true. He was always giving somebody a bag of spuds from the garden or peeling a few dollars out of his old leather wallet for somebody who need gas money until payday. We didn't have much, but he always found a way to be generous with what we had. In their earlier years, it was pretty common for my folks to invite family members who were down on their luck to come and live with them until they got back on their feet. Sometimes they supported whole families and their children for long periods of time.

 

So this is a snapshot of Raymond C. Miller. There is more to say about him, but I find myself at a loss of words to describe who this man really was; and what he meant to me. But I will tell you that every now and then I see him. In you. Something about you... your quiet demeanor; they way you chuckle, watching you with your children...it reminds me of my Dad. And it makes me smile.

 

We are all here today because Raymond C. Miller was born on this day in 1910! Light a sparkler in his honor tomorrow. He would like that. 

We All Have Our HI's and LO's!

 

I've been working out at the gym for 7 weeks now. I mean, I've been FAITHFUL! Spinning that elliptical machine like a hamster on one of those wheely-things. Pumping iron with the big boys in the weight room. Yep, it's me and a bunch of  twenty-something hunks, three times a week; listening to Ga-Ga and workin' those glutes and abs.  I can tell by the way those boys look at me they're in awe...or is it horror? Their jaws literally drop to the ground when I swagger in and grab my ten pound dumb-bells for a little bench pressing!

But I've got a few come-backs if ever one of them gives me any grief about my teensie-weenie weights.

I'll say, "Hey! I don't see YOUR grandma in here doing crunches. Bet she's sitting in her rocker crocheting doilies!"

 Or how about, "Why don't YOU come back here when YOU'RE fifty-eight. Let's see how firm YOUR butt is in forty years!" (Though I might have to concede that in forty years I'll be ninety-eight and probably won't be making it down to the gym to gloat over their middle-aged spread.)

I must say that I'm feeling pretty darned good, pretty strong. Except for one little thing...my digital scale. It just won't budge; no matter how many gallons of sweat I drip all over the benches in the weight room.

Early this week though, I thought we had a breakthrough. Got on the scales as usual, but instead of the normal one-hundred-something-or-another; there was a super-special digital message just for me. It said, " L0."

"Oh look, honey!" I called excitedly to hubby."The scales are telling me that my weight is LOW! All my hard work is finally paying off!"

"Yeah right! The batteries are low. We need to change them."

"No really, I believe this is a POSITIVE AFFIRMATION from the scale. It SEES how hard I've been working. How faithfully I've been eating my leafy-greens. It FEELS my pain. So instead of just giving me a number--I mean, ANY scale can throw a number on the screen. After all these years of morning chats, it knows me intimately--that I hate, hate, hate numbers. Especially high ones. So it's chosen to COMMUNICATE with me using my preferred medium--WORDS! How sweet is that!

"Whatever. I'll get some batteries tomorrow and fix the dang thing."

Tonight hubby calls to me from the bathroom. "I fixed the scale. It doesn't say L0 anymore."

"Great! Gee, I wonder what it'll say to me tomorrow morning? Maybe it'll say HI. As in HI there Debbie; aren't you looking FIT this morning!"

"Nope. It's gonna say, 'will one of you please step off?'"

Funny guy, my hubby. Lucky he's still standing. He better watch out. Just a few more months of lifting weights and he's in big trouble. When I get super-fit, if he makes another smart-aleck comment like that...I'm gonna pick him up and hurl him across the street like a discus!

Until then, I may have to dig the old batteries out of the trash and put them back into the scales.



pic is courtesy of Sangrea.net

***

 

Beautiful. Useful. Simple.

"Have nothing in your house that you do not know to be useful, or believe to be beautiful.” --William Morriss     I saw this photograph on Mother Earth Living's Facebook page of a simple basket placed by the front door with a pretty woven rug. The accompanying article was about how to eliminate allergic irritants. So much of the dirt and dust in our homes comes in on our shoes. So they suggested placing a basket by the door to hold shoes and slippers. The idea is that when you come home, you remove your shoes at the door and replace them with slippers. http://www.motherearthliving.com/health-and-welless/allergens-indoor-allergies.aspx#axzz35lMBQbWv   Hubby and I have tried and tried to adopt this habit before, but I never liked having shoes lying around the doorway. This seems like a nice solution. So I rummaged through my closets and found an old picnic basket I inherited from my grandma. Then I trotted over to my favorite discount store and picked up a couple of new woven-rag rugs for the doorways. Rag rugs are a sentimental favorite to me. We always had rag rugs by the doors and in front of the kitchen sink when I was a little girl. They make me feel like home.       ***

St. Francis and the Sow by Galway Kinnell

Salmon-Berry Blossom
by Debora Rorvig
all rights reserved.

Have you heard of Galway Kinnell? I just recently read something that quoted  a few lines from this poem and immediately fell in love with his writing. The idea of reteaching a thing it's loveliness is so touching!

St. Francis and the Sow

by Galway Kinnell

 

The bud

stands for all things,

even those things that don't flower,

for everything flowers, from within, of self-blessing;

though sometimes it is necessary

to reteach a thing its loveliness,

to put a hand on its brow

of the flower

and retell it in words and in touch

it is lovely

until it flowers again from within, of self-blessing;

as St. Francis

put his hand on the creased forehead

of the sow, and told her in words and in touch

blessings of earth on the sow, and the sow

began remembering all down her thick length,

from the earthen snout all the way

through the fodder and slops to the spiritual curl of

the tail,

from the hard spininess spiked out from the spine

down through the great broken heart

to the blue milken dreaminess spurting and shuddering

from the fourteen teats into the fourteen mouths sucking

and blowing beneath them:

the long, perfect loveliness of sow.

 

  ***************   

                                         

Everyday Holiness--A Different Kind of Sabbatical

Some day I will travel to a monastery that overlooks the ocean. I will unpack a small bag that contains a pair of faded jeans, an old blue cotton plaid shirt, a pair of flip-flops, the Bible I've had for forty years with dog-eared pages, yellow highlighting and important thoughts scribbled in the margins. I will spend hours in meditation and walk by the sea, speaking to no one save God and the occasional seagull. I'll write uninterrupted thoughts in a soft leather journal and go to sleep listening to the waves breaking on a deserted shore.

Some day.

 

 Until then, I have today.

Today I will have a sabbatical of a different sort. I will wash my sheets and hang them in the sun. Then tend to the baby nasturtiums I've been growing on the patio. I'll scrub my kitchen floor until it shines then stand back and look at it with deep satisfaction. There will be moments of thanksgiving; humming an old favorite tune, taking the dog for a walk around the neighborhood, and a few hours stolen to work on my novel. Maybe a conversation or text message to one of my children. The jumbled pile of tangled earrings will be cleared from my dusty dresser-top except for the sparkly amber ones. Those will go into a clamshell I found on the beach last summer. To remind me of glittering waves and a sandy shore. And tonight I'll sleep in freshly laundered sheets that smell of fresh cut grass and summer breezes.

  It's not as romantic as a stay in a monastery.

 

 But it is, nonetheless, holy.

 

In an everyday kind of way.

 

 

 

***

 

for Maya--Phenomenal

I woke this morning to the news that Maya Angelou had died. I feel as though I have lost a dear friend, a mentor; a She-ro.

To some, it makes no sense that I would be so profoundly sad for the loss of someone I never knew. But I would argue that I did know her. She spoke to me and it was personal.  Her voice was calm and soothing, her words were always wise. She told me that I am phenomenal. That caged birds sing about freedom. She showed me how a poor little girl (as I once was) can grow up to become a woman of dignity because it isn't where one starts, but where one finishes that matters. She reminded me to be still and listen to my heart; and in so doing, I just might hear the voice of God.

Maya Angelou's departure has left a gaping hole in my world. And not just my world, but in our world. Who will dare to step into the void left by this woman, this phenomenal woman? Are any of us able; are there any phenomenal among us? I hope so. Oh, I really hope so. She left us her words. She told us how.

Photo by Patrick Schneider
 





Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.

I’m not cute or built to suit a fashion model’s size   

But when I start to tell them,

They think I’m telling lies.

I say,

It’s in the reach of my arms,

The span of my hips,   

The stride of my step,   

The curl of my lips.   

I’m a woman

Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman,   

That’s me.

I walk into a room

Just as cool as you please,   

And to a man,

The fellows stand or

Fall down on their knees.   

Then they swarm around me,

A hive of honey bees.   

I say,

It’s the fire in my eyes,   

And the flash of my teeth,   

The swing in my waist,   

And the joy in my feet.   

I’m a woman

Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman,

That’s me.

Men themselves have wondered   

What they see in me.

They try so much

But they can’t touch

My inner mystery.

When I try to show them,   

They say they still can’t see.   

I say,

It’s in the arch of my back,   

The sun of my smile,

The ride of my breasts,

The grace of my style.

I’m a woman

Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman,

That’s me.

Now you understand

Just why my head’s not bowed.   

I don’t shout or jump about

Or have to talk real loud.   

When you see me passing,

It ought to make you proud.

I say,

It’s in the click of my heels,   

The bend of my hair,   

the palm of my hand,   

The need for my care.   

’Cause I’m a woman

Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman,

That’s me.

 

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Maya Angelou, “Phenomenal Woman” from And Still I Rise. Copyright © 1978 by Maya Angelou. 

***

 

School Lockdown

"Attention staff...WE ARE IN LOCKDOWN," came the announcement over the PA system in our school. It was Mary, our school secretary who made the call. Mary is the poster girl for cool-calm-and collected; but today her voice was different. Fearful. This was no drill; it was the real deal.

We sprang into action. Close the blinds. Hide the students.  Joanne runs across the hall to check the restroom for stray students and dashes down another corridor to lock the door to the playground. We hate this part.  If we hear gunshots it's agreed that we will not open the door to let her back in. She will be on her own out there. The students come first. She sprints back and Terri, who's watching anxiously through the blinds at the doorway, allows her to slip quietly back into the room and re-locks the door.

Now we wait. I try to control the trembling in my hand as I stroke the head of little Angelica, who sits under a table next to me. She looks up at me, her eyes are big and round and full of anxiety. "Is this for real?" she whispers.

"Yes honey. Hush. We'll be fine." But I wonder. I pray silently for guardian angels and policemen; and try to recall comforting Bible verses. He that dwelleth in the secret place of the Most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty. I will say of the Lord; he is my refuge...

Time.Ticks.By.

 Every sound is magnified. I strain to hear voices in the hallway or God-forbid...gunshots. Someone coughs. I cringe. It's grade-school. Somebody's always got a cold. Absolute silence is impossible in a roomful of third graders. The halls are strangely silent. Eerie. The table I'm crouched under is kid-sized and my joints are stiffening up from being hunched into a little ball. I try to adjust myself a bit. Peeking up at the clock I see that it's been about twenty minutes. Where are the police? I look toward the windows, searching for shadows or perhaps the sun reflecting off a windshield of a of car entering the parking lot. Nothing. Where are they? An airplane buzzes lazily overhead. It feels otherworldly. Surreal.

The fear is subsiding as time passes and I am no longer trembling. I look around the room. What can I use for defense? Books? Overhead projector? Chairs? This is not good. There is nothing within reach that I could use as a weapon. I whisper to the librarian who's hunched up under the table with me and Angelica, "If we have to, we can turn this table over and shield ourselves." She nods. Not much of a plan. But it's all we've got.

With my 'plan' in place, my thought turn philosophical. If we get out of here...should I keep this job? Is it worth this kind of risk? If something really happens in this room will I sacrifice my life for a child? The answers were easy and immediate. Yes. Yes. And Yes. I wish I had my cell phone so I could text my husband and children. Note to self: Keep your cellphone with you at all times.

Across the room Joanne is crawling on her hands and knees toward the a closet. What on earth is she doing? She places trash can inside the closet, then beckons a boy. He crawls, commando-style to the closet and goes in and closes the door partway. Then he comes out. It dawns on me. He had to pee.
I have to chuckle. Custodian's gonna love that!

It's been over an hour. Finally, a voice comes over the PA. "This is Mr. B. You are in no immediate danger but we will remain in lockdown for a while longer."

I could feel a collective sigh of relief coming from every classroom in the school. Then a short time later, another announcement. Partial lockdown. We can move about the school, but are safely locked inside. And then... it was over.

Sometime after 10 a.m. on May 2nd a 911 caller said that there was a man with a rifle at the local high school and that gunshots had been fired. A short time later another 911 report was made that there was a shooter at the hardware store. At the same time there was a stabbing at a home near an elementary school. The police; figuring the events were somehow connected; ordered a lockdown of our entire school district. A SWAT team was sent to the high school where every room and student was searched. In all, Two high schools, two middle schools, five elementary schools; several thousand children were locked down for about an hour and a half. In the end it appears that the man who committed the stabbing and later shot himself had called in the reports to throw police off his trail.

Thankfully, we were all safe. The stabbing victim survived. And in a way, this event turned out to be a blessing. This is my Facebook post following the crisis...

Dear friends,
I've been giving a lot of thought to the hour or so we all spent in lockdown in our school district. In retrospect, I've come to see that the experience was a unique gift. Blessedly, without experiencing a terrible loss, we were all given a chance to view ourselves and others through the lens of a crisis. Who were we for that hour? I know personally, and heard from others; we were ordinary people who were willing to try and protect children first. That's who we--who YOU were for that hour. And that's who we--who YOU really are. What an exquisite gift! (But I still hope it never happens again!) 

-----



And so dear friends, in closing, please; when tempted to malign teachers, I hope you remember this story. I hope you remember that there are those of us who, when we initially answered the call of our hearts to teach young children; had no idea that it might involve sacrificing our very lives for them. And yet we remain true to the profession. Of course there are bad teachers; and please, by all means--hold us to the highest standards! Expect excellence, your kids deserve no less. But always remember that one day it could be your child or grandchild crouched under that desk with her teacher stroking her hair, hugging her and reassuring her that she will be OK. That teacher is willing to give her life, if necessary, to protect your baby.

So this summer break,

 instead of griping about all of the time off that your children's teachers have...

 

 wish us well.  

***

 

Some days are like a song

Some days are like a song.

Today was that day.

Blue sky,

 quiet talks,

seagulls,

 salt air,

 life companions.

Downstream...by Supertramp

(Note: to hear this song, click the youtube link at the end of this post. Then close your eyes and daydream.)

 

Took a boat Sunday, down by the sea
It just felt so nice, you and me
We didn't have a problem or a care
And all around was silence, everywhere

You are the reason I was born
Be with you through all seasons
I'll always hear you when you call
We'll keep the love light shining

Through each night and day
A lonely life behind me
Oh what a change you've made

So down here on the ocean we will stay
Went through a lot of changes
Turned a lot of pages
When I took a boat Sunday

 

 

***

Purple is My Faborite...From the Heart of a Para-Educator

     Note to the Reader...

People often ask me what I do as a para-educator. It's hard to explain. Para-education, for me, is loving children where they are. Then the teaching follows. This piece is entirely fictitious; there is no Pietra. And yet there are thousands of Pietras out there who would never make it in school without the love and care of a group of wonderful people called Para-educators.

Purple is My Faborite...From the Heart of a Para-Educator

     You're standing in the doorway to Mrs. Lincoln's second-grade classroom scanning the room for the new student, Pietra, a recent transfer from another state. Her transcripts say she's got behavior issues, and possible learning disabilities. It's the age old chicken-and-the-egg question...is she behind because she won't behave...or does she misbehave because she struggles to learn?  Mrs. Lincoln is busy helping children find their desk so you wander into the room and help incoming children hang their backpacks and coats.
     It is there, under the coat-rack,  that you first meet Pietra. She's a scrawny-looking little thing with tangled yellow hair and dull blue eyes. Her faded party dress of purple organza (which you will later learn is her favorite and that she will wear most every day this year) is two sizes too big and hangs on her tiny frame like a potato sack. Yellow galoshes. You wonder whether she or her mother decided that yellow galoshes go with purple organza. Or does she even have a mother? Her wonky glasses are perched precariously atop a button nose; they make her eyes appear twice as large as they really are. Her lips are pursed in a defiant pout and she is holding onto her backpack for dear life. She eyes you suspiciously.
     "I see you've met Pietra," says Mrs. Lincoln with thin smile, "she's not making good choices today. Her directions were to hang up her backpack and to take a seat at her desk, but as you can see, she's not following directions."
     Mrs. Lincoln looks exhausted. Of the twenty-eight children in her classroom; five have special needs. One barely speaks English. Last week, after seeing black and blue bruises on the arms and legs of one of her students, she called CPS. The parents, livid with her; threatened to file discrimination charges to retaliate. And today her classroom has a foul fecal stench; one of her students has encopresis and has inadvertently pooped his pants. Despite the freezing weather, she's opened all the windows...trying to air the room out. It's chilly in here. You try not to breath too deeply and button up your cardigan.
     "Hi Pietra, I'm Mrs. Smith." you say quietly.
      No response.
     "I love your purple dress!"
     She eases up a bit, but still clutches the backpack. "Purple's my faborite."
     "Mine too!" you lie.
     A para-ed's favorite color is purple, red, black, brown, blue, green...any color; as long as it build rapport with a wary child.
     "So whatcha-got in your backpack?"
     You're too smart to try to take the backpack. Tried it before with other kids. It's a Bad scene.
     "My Princess Barbie."
     "Can I see her?"
     "My Daddy bought it for me."
     Her voice is filled with Pride. Awe. Affection. Grief.
     "Wow, that's so special! Did Daddy bring you to school today?"
     "He's in jail. But he's comin' home in Nobember," she brightens, "and when he does, he's gonna get me a castle for my Barbie!"
     A broad smile spreads across her tiny face. She's actually kind of cute when she smiles.
     "It's the doll..." you explain to Mrs. Lincoln, "it's her connection to her father." 
     For that week, Pietra is allowed to keep her backpack safely beneath her chair. Often she pulls the Barbie out, just to make sure it's still there; and to tell her classmates about her Daddy and the castle and that he's coming home in Nobember. It's a huge distraction to her and to the other students; but necessary to keep her on an even emotional keel.
     Over the next several months and years Pietra's struggles become your very own. You try to become the One.Constant.Thing in her life. When dad gets out of jail and he keeps her home for a week to celebrate; you tell her you miss her and encourage her to come to school every day. When you read in the papers that he's been picked up again on drug charges; you meet her at the door with a special hug. You make up silly alphabet games to teach her letters; and when she finally learns to read; you have a BIG celebration and boast about her to anyone who will listen. No matter that she's two years behind. The main thing is...she's learning. Slowly, sometimes painstakingly,  but she's learning. Two steps forward, one step back.
     You know, and you dread the day that is coming; when she will become REALLY angry. At her father. At life. At her disabilities. At the system. Why does her father act this way? Why was she born into this family and not that one? Why is she reading first grade books in sixth grade?
     "Did you know," she asks as she sits quietly coloring her map of the United States, "that he never bought me that stupid castle for my Barbie doll? He promised!"
     Then she adds..."But he always found money for drugs."
     "I know, honey," you say softly.
     She's in sixth grade now. There's no way to sugar-coat the facts. So you tell her the truth.
     "You've had a hard time of it and people that you should be able to count on have let you down. But look who you've become in spite of it all! Remember when we met that day...under the coat rack? Back then you couldn't read. Couldn't do math. But you worked hard, and you learned. And if you keep working hard, you will learn more... I promise. You will become more than you ever could imagine if you don't give up. Please, Pietra, don't let yourself down!"
     She looks dubious. Though you've always tried to keep your word to her, you know it might not be enough. How many broken promises...broken dreams can one child endure? How many times can a broken heart heal?
     It's sixth grade graduation day and she gives you a wallet-size school photo. (You anonymously paid for her pictures this year, selfishly hoping she'd give you one, and you're thrilled when she does.) You take the picture home and proudly position it on the fridge, right next to your children's photos. She's grown so pretty. Her long blond hair is pulled into a pretty French-braid. Her wonky old glasses replaced with flattering ones that accentuate her lovely blue eyes. She's filling out; becoming a young lady. The form-fitting purple shirt she is wearing in the photograph attests to that. You look at it and smile. Purple. It's still her faborite color!
     Purple has become your faborite color too.
     Next fall there will be another child. He will be hiding under a coat-rack. Or she will be sitting in the hall outside her classroom, sulking. You will say "Hi, I'm Mrs. Smith. I love your green tennis-shoes. Green is my favorite color you know. Really... is it your's too?!"

***