Friday, August 21, 2009
Plans Plans Plans, but first ...
Kids 1, 2, and 3 go back to school Monday. If all goes well, then kid 4 goes back to her two-day school on Tuesday. And Wednesday, I go to my school. Daytime classes! How exciting!
But, I do have to put the caveat of "if all goes well," in there. Because what is also happening, what I carefully put away in a little box on the top shelf because I had a memorial service to officiate, is that on Monday, whilst The Husband is getting the first three all set up in their classes, Little Warrior and I will be down at the hospital. It's scan time.
You know how sometimes, everything just seems to be flowing? Like your boat is on a river with no rocks, no sandbars. Like you're headed in the right way. You use your muscles to paddle, and the effort is rewarded.
I'm there. I'm in the river. I'm impatient, sure. I began seminary 5 years ago. I've reached the point of C'MON ALREADY, LET'S GET THIS SHOW ON THE ROAD.
I still haven't had my first ministerial interview. First, because my church didn't have a minister, then ... well, Cancer Part I. Much later, I had an appointment set up for the ministerial interview. I also had an appointment set up for the field rep interview. And then ... the phone call. That there was a little dark spot on the scan. Cancer Part II.
Rabbi Shaman has recommended that I be interviewed by a local minister. There's one whom I've been dying to meet. I plan on calling her to see if she can fit me in.
But I wait until after Monday.
I'm all set up for classes. Paid the tuition, bought the books, read much of them already. But my cautionary mind says, well, the timing is good. If there's Something, you should find out before Wednesday, so you should be able to get a tuition refund.
No sandbars, please. No rocks. Because right now, I can only think of it in terms of another slowing of the journey.
I avoid thinking of what it would mean in the larger picture. I've cried too many tears and suffered too much heartbreak, allowing my mind to wander into horrible scenarios. I've lived enough horror. There is no need to manufacture more nightmares. And I've learned that there is no way to prepare for the worst.
I can see the path unfolding before me. Step, step, step. Phone call, an interview, print the forms, set up the assessment, schedule the RSCC.
Hopefully, achieve candidate status.
Monday, 8 am.
--
A Conversation in a Guns 'N Roses song. (What, you think God only talks through Handel?)
God:
Shed a tear 'cause I'm missing you
I'm still alright to smile
Girl, I think about you every day now
LE:
Was a time when I wasn't sure
But you set my mind at ease
There is no doubt you're in my heart now
God:
Sad woman take it slow
It'll work itself out fine
All we need is just a little patience
Said sugar make it slow
And we'll come together fine
All we need is just a little patience
LE:
Patience...
Sit here on the stairs
'Cause I'd rather be alone
God:
If I can't have you right now, I'll wait dear
LE:
Sometimes, I get so tense
But I can't speed up the time
God:
But you know, love, there's one more thing to consider
Sad woman take it slow
Things will be just fine
You and I'll just use a little patience
Said sugar take the time
'Cause the lights are shining bright
You and I've got what it takes to make it
LE:
Need a little patience, yeah
Just a little patience, yeah
I've been walking these streets at night
Just trying to get it right
It's hard to see with so many around
You know I don't like being stuck in a crowd
And the streets don't change but maybe the name
I ain't got time for the game
'Cause I need you
God: (Just a little patience)
LE: Yeah, yeah well I need you
Oh, I need you
God: (Take some patience)
LE: Whoa, I need you
God: (Just a little patience is all we need)
LE: All this time....
But, I do have to put the caveat of "if all goes well," in there. Because what is also happening, what I carefully put away in a little box on the top shelf because I had a memorial service to officiate, is that on Monday, whilst The Husband is getting the first three all set up in their classes, Little Warrior and I will be down at the hospital. It's scan time.
You know how sometimes, everything just seems to be flowing? Like your boat is on a river with no rocks, no sandbars. Like you're headed in the right way. You use your muscles to paddle, and the effort is rewarded.
I'm there. I'm in the river. I'm impatient, sure. I began seminary 5 years ago. I've reached the point of C'MON ALREADY, LET'S GET THIS SHOW ON THE ROAD.
I still haven't had my first ministerial interview. First, because my church didn't have a minister, then ... well, Cancer Part I. Much later, I had an appointment set up for the ministerial interview. I also had an appointment set up for the field rep interview. And then ... the phone call. That there was a little dark spot on the scan. Cancer Part II.
Rabbi Shaman has recommended that I be interviewed by a local minister. There's one whom I've been dying to meet. I plan on calling her to see if she can fit me in.
But I wait until after Monday.
I'm all set up for classes. Paid the tuition, bought the books, read much of them already. But my cautionary mind says, well, the timing is good. If there's Something, you should find out before Wednesday, so you should be able to get a tuition refund.
No sandbars, please. No rocks. Because right now, I can only think of it in terms of another slowing of the journey.
I avoid thinking of what it would mean in the larger picture. I've cried too many tears and suffered too much heartbreak, allowing my mind to wander into horrible scenarios. I've lived enough horror. There is no need to manufacture more nightmares. And I've learned that there is no way to prepare for the worst.
I can see the path unfolding before me. Step, step, step. Phone call, an interview, print the forms, set up the assessment, schedule the RSCC.
Hopefully, achieve candidate status.
Monday, 8 am.
--
A Conversation in a Guns 'N Roses song. (What, you think God only talks through Handel?)
God:
Shed a tear 'cause I'm missing you
I'm still alright to smile
Girl, I think about you every day now
LE:
Was a time when I wasn't sure
But you set my mind at ease
There is no doubt you're in my heart now
God:
Sad woman take it slow
It'll work itself out fine
All we need is just a little patience
Said sugar make it slow
And we'll come together fine
All we need is just a little patience
LE:
Patience...
Sit here on the stairs
'Cause I'd rather be alone
God:
If I can't have you right now, I'll wait dear
LE:
Sometimes, I get so tense
But I can't speed up the time
God:
But you know, love, there's one more thing to consider
Sad woman take it slow
Things will be just fine
You and I'll just use a little patience
Said sugar take the time
'Cause the lights are shining bright
You and I've got what it takes to make it
LE:
Need a little patience, yeah
Just a little patience, yeah
I've been walking these streets at night
Just trying to get it right
It's hard to see with so many around
You know I don't like being stuck in a crowd
And the streets don't change but maybe the name
I ain't got time for the game
'Cause I need you
God: (Just a little patience)
LE: Yeah, yeah well I need you
Oh, I need you
God: (Take some patience)
LE: Whoa, I need you
God: (Just a little patience is all we need)
LE: All this time....
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Collegiality, Candles, and Funerals
Well, I just completed my first not-someone-I-knew memorial service.
Thanks to the generous sharing of materials, emails, phone calls and metaphorical handholding from some special UU ministers and other seminarians, I was prepared. I really got to experience clerical collegiality -- not that I'm a colleague yet, but they treated me as an incipient colleague. I felt nurtured.
When you are pregnant for the first time, a common concern is about who is going to see you give birth. But when it's actually time for that baby to be born, I've explained to many about-to-be new moms, you won't care if the janitor is in there. There's just other things you'll be concentrating on.
In a similar way, when I expressed concern that I would cry out of empathy, most everyone I talked to said, "Well, maybe. But probably not. There's just other things you'll be concentrating on."
And so it was.
I was at another church in town, not my own, and I'd forgotten that they have no clocks anywhere. Not in the sanctuary, not in the fellowship area. Note to self: get a new battery in one of the million of watches you've sucked dry.
You know how in cop movies, there'll be a scene where the officer yanks some innocent schmoe out of their car, hollering, "Official Police Business, I have to commandeer your car!"? Well, I did that, ripping the watch off the church administrator's arm. I hope her stitches heal soon.
The deceased was a beloved person, the kind of man who makes you envious of the people who knew him. He was beloved. Way more people showed up than anticipated. We added chairs behind the pews. We added chairs outside the sanctuary. Finally I went forward, spoke some nice words about how beloved he was, then raised my arms like Charlton Heston parting the red sea and asked everyone to slide to the ends of the pews to make more room.
Note to self: when you hear that the deceased was a popular member of a retirement community, add 50% to the number of anticipated attendees.
The family wanted to do the thing where people are invited to come forward, light a candle and share a memory. The first person, an old man with trembling hands, pulled some paper notes from his pocket.
Paper notes. Candles.
I am happy to say that no one caught fire.
Note to self: position the microphone and the sandbox of candles in such a way that the speaker will light a candle, then walk over to the microphone. Far, far away from the candles.
(I was prepared, as I watched carefully the drooping pages, to yank any burning pages away, stomp them out, and say a little sumpin' about how the deceased had a great sense of humor and he would have loved that.)
But it all went swimmingly. It is such a privilege, to be able to step in at a fragile time, and help a family celebrate the life of the person they loved, and start their own path towards healing.
I just feel so honored . It wasn't about me, I was merely the coordinator for letting in the Holy. But what a honor that is.
Thanks to the generous sharing of materials, emails, phone calls and metaphorical handholding from some special UU ministers and other seminarians, I was prepared. I really got to experience clerical collegiality -- not that I'm a colleague yet, but they treated me as an incipient colleague. I felt nurtured.
When you are pregnant for the first time, a common concern is about who is going to see you give birth. But when it's actually time for that baby to be born, I've explained to many about-to-be new moms, you won't care if the janitor is in there. There's just other things you'll be concentrating on.
In a similar way, when I expressed concern that I would cry out of empathy, most everyone I talked to said, "Well, maybe. But probably not. There's just other things you'll be concentrating on."
And so it was.
I was at another church in town, not my own, and I'd forgotten that they have no clocks anywhere. Not in the sanctuary, not in the fellowship area. Note to self: get a new battery in one of the million of watches you've sucked dry.
You know how in cop movies, there'll be a scene where the officer yanks some innocent schmoe out of their car, hollering, "Official Police Business, I have to commandeer your car!"? Well, I did that, ripping the watch off the church administrator's arm. I hope her stitches heal soon.
The deceased was a beloved person, the kind of man who makes you envious of the people who knew him. He was beloved. Way more people showed up than anticipated. We added chairs behind the pews. We added chairs outside the sanctuary. Finally I went forward, spoke some nice words about how beloved he was, then raised my arms like Charlton Heston parting the red sea and asked everyone to slide to the ends of the pews to make more room.
Note to self: when you hear that the deceased was a popular member of a retirement community, add 50% to the number of anticipated attendees.
The family wanted to do the thing where people are invited to come forward, light a candle and share a memory. The first person, an old man with trembling hands, pulled some paper notes from his pocket.
Paper notes. Candles.
I am happy to say that no one caught fire.
Note to self: position the microphone and the sandbox of candles in such a way that the speaker will light a candle, then walk over to the microphone. Far, far away from the candles.
(I was prepared, as I watched carefully the drooping pages, to yank any burning pages away, stomp them out, and say a little sumpin' about how the deceased had a great sense of humor and he would have loved that.)
But it all went swimmingly. It is such a privilege, to be able to step in at a fragile time, and help a family celebrate the life of the person they loved, and start their own path towards healing.
I just feel so honored . It wasn't about me, I was merely the coordinator for letting in the Holy. But what a honor that is.
Monday, August 17, 2009
Wedding
I have been thinking about weddings, since The Husband and I are about to celebrate our 19th wedding anniversary.
I believe in marriage. I believe in weddings. Warts and all.
Whenever I talk to someone who is about to get married, I give them the following advice: The week before the wedding, no matter what happens, say, "You know, in some cultures, this is considered good luck!"
They usually give me a confused, bewildered look and say something like, "Uh, okay."
After the wedding, they thank me. Always.
Because things happen. That's just how it works. In our case:
* my car had a blowout as I drove home with my altered wedding dress
* our rings BROKE during the sizing
* I got in a big fight with my brother the morning before my wedding, inadvertently insulting his girlfriend in an effort to deliver a crude, withering comment about him
* a giant cockroach crawled across the front of the sanctuary during the ceremony
"In some cultures, this is considered good luck."
Our wedding was chockful of things significant to the two of us. His stepmother lit the chalice. His stepfather, a Methodist minister, officiated. His father and mother walked him down the aisle, my parents walked me down the aisle. "Who gives these two in marriage?" asked Rev. Stepfather. "We do," said all of our parents. If we were two 40 year olds, that might be strange, but we were 21 and 22, going from our parents' houses to our own. It was appropriate. They were giving us to each other.
We took communion, important to The Husband at that time. My father read Walt Whitman. The Husband stomped on the wine glass.
We turned to our family and friends. The Husband pulled two pairs of matching "Just Married" sunglasses from his suit and we recessed to "Here Comes the Sun."
We could not have known what life would have in store for us, these 19 years, as we cannot know the future 19 years. That's as it should be, and part of the reason I teared up watching the below video. You can't know what's in store. Celebrate your innocence, your joy.
Above all, celebrate.
I believe in marriage. I believe in weddings. Warts and all.
Whenever I talk to someone who is about to get married, I give them the following advice: The week before the wedding, no matter what happens, say, "You know, in some cultures, this is considered good luck!"
They usually give me a confused, bewildered look and say something like, "Uh, okay."
After the wedding, they thank me. Always.
Because things happen. That's just how it works. In our case:
* my car had a blowout as I drove home with my altered wedding dress
* our rings BROKE during the sizing
* I got in a big fight with my brother the morning before my wedding, inadvertently insulting his girlfriend in an effort to deliver a crude, withering comment about him
* a giant cockroach crawled across the front of the sanctuary during the ceremony
"In some cultures, this is considered good luck."
Our wedding was chockful of things significant to the two of us. His stepmother lit the chalice. His stepfather, a Methodist minister, officiated. His father and mother walked him down the aisle, my parents walked me down the aisle. "Who gives these two in marriage?" asked Rev. Stepfather. "We do," said all of our parents. If we were two 40 year olds, that might be strange, but we were 21 and 22, going from our parents' houses to our own. It was appropriate. They were giving us to each other.
We took communion, important to The Husband at that time. My father read Walt Whitman. The Husband stomped on the wine glass.
We turned to our family and friends. The Husband pulled two pairs of matching "Just Married" sunglasses from his suit and we recessed to "Here Comes the Sun."
We could not have known what life would have in store for us, these 19 years, as we cannot know the future 19 years. That's as it should be, and part of the reason I teared up watching the below video. You can't know what's in store. Celebrate your innocence, your joy.
Above all, celebrate.
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Happy Sabbath!
Apropos of nothing, a dear, albeit cantankerous, friend demanded to know why I say “Happy Sabbath” on my facebook page.
I was a little startled, so I turned it around and asked why it bothered her. And we talked about her concern that I’m using churchy words. Argued, I guess, would be closer to the truth. But in all of that, I never did get around to answering her.
Here is why I say Happy Sabbath.
Sabbath, from the Latin sabbatum, from Greek sabbaton, from Hebrew shavat. Sabbath refers to a day of rest from one’s normal activities.
I am entranced by the idea of Sabbath from two perspectives that dovetail together – it is a holiday that comes around every week, and it is a day where the normal hustle/bustle is set aside so that we can focus on what is important to us.
For some, perhaps, there is a no need for a Sabbath. They spend each day focused on what truly matters, and every day, they pause to give thanks for the day.
Not me. 4 kids, a husband, his career, my school, their school, feed the cats, do the laundry, What’s for dinner?, “I have band practice,” homework, “Where’s my keys?”
I need a day. We need a day. Focus. On. What’s. Important. Life moves so fast … slow down, for a second please. Open my eyes. See it, as it’s happening. Turn off the tv, the busy work. Stop. Breathe. Make time for what is important.
To me, what is important is my family, my friends, and my church.
I have celebrated the sabbats with Wiccans and Shabbat with Jews. I’m big on celebrating. A holiday that comes once a week – Sláinte!
Because I am a Unitarian Universalist, I celebrate the Sabbath on Sunday, as that is when we hold our services. I try to make it a day set aside from the rest of the week, where we deliberately make time in our busy schedules to play together as a family, visit friends, and attend church. A day where we pause to celebrate the gift of living.
On Sunday, I celebrate the Sabbath.
And I wish for you, a Good Sabbath, too.
I was a little startled, so I turned it around and asked why it bothered her. And we talked about her concern that I’m using churchy words. Argued, I guess, would be closer to the truth. But in all of that, I never did get around to answering her.
Here is why I say Happy Sabbath.
Sabbath, from the Latin sabbatum, from Greek sabbaton, from Hebrew shavat. Sabbath refers to a day of rest from one’s normal activities.
I am entranced by the idea of Sabbath from two perspectives that dovetail together – it is a holiday that comes around every week, and it is a day where the normal hustle/bustle is set aside so that we can focus on what is important to us.
For some, perhaps, there is a no need for a Sabbath. They spend each day focused on what truly matters, and every day, they pause to give thanks for the day.
Not me. 4 kids, a husband, his career, my school, their school, feed the cats, do the laundry, What’s for dinner?, “I have band practice,” homework, “Where’s my keys?”
I need a day. We need a day. Focus. On. What’s. Important. Life moves so fast … slow down, for a second please. Open my eyes. See it, as it’s happening. Turn off the tv, the busy work. Stop. Breathe. Make time for what is important.
To me, what is important is my family, my friends, and my church.
I have celebrated the sabbats with Wiccans and Shabbat with Jews. I’m big on celebrating. A holiday that comes once a week – Sláinte!
Because I am a Unitarian Universalist, I celebrate the Sabbath on Sunday, as that is when we hold our services. I try to make it a day set aside from the rest of the week, where we deliberately make time in our busy schedules to play together as a family, visit friends, and attend church. A day where we pause to celebrate the gift of living.
On Sunday, I celebrate the Sabbath.
And I wish for you, a Good Sabbath, too.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Friends, Ministers, Countrymen, Lend Me Your Memorial Services!
I'm doing a memorial service next week, not anyone I know. Humbly requesting your services, readings, helpful hints* and the like.
Please send to lizardeater at gmail dot com.
Muchly appreciated. At GA, I'll buy you a beer. Or a coffee. Or another drink of your choosing.
Please send to lizardeater at gmail dot com.
Muchly appreciated. At GA, I'll buy you a beer. Or a coffee. Or another drink of your choosing.
Monday, August 10, 2009
With sadness
Goodbye, Rev. Tim. Your comments, your posts, your insight, will be greatly missed here at The Journey.
Peace to your family.
Peace to your family.
Sunday, August 09, 2009
Power of Prayer ... Three Years Later
A little over three years ago, I wrote on my thoughts about prayer.
I can't say that my beliefs have changed exactly. I still have a hard time believing that God could be so capricious that prayer would change the outcome of any scenario.
And yet ... I also believe that there is a power in prayer that transcends the good feelings enjoyed by the person doing the praying and the person informed that s/he was prayed for.
This week, I am doing some super-intensive praying for three friends. One waiting on her results. One waiting on her child's results. One going through something just awful.
I write special prayers. I am first a writer, then a speaker. So I write out prayers, the better to order my thoughts. The better to make my offering.
I light candles. Close my eyes. Say the words. Pray. No, harder. PRAY. PRAY!!!
I pray because I have no power to make it better.
I pray because it is all I can do.
I pray because ... well, not because. I pray for the same reason I breathe. I don't think about breathing. Most of the time. I just do it, because I must.
I lift them up in prayer.
I send love -- the feeling for them that wells up and overflows me, I think of them and send it zinging through the air toward them.
Do they feel it? I don't know.
Does it make a difference? I don't know.
Written or not, conscious or not, with my will or against it ...
I pray.
I can't say that my beliefs have changed exactly. I still have a hard time believing that God could be so capricious that prayer would change the outcome of any scenario.
And yet ... I also believe that there is a power in prayer that transcends the good feelings enjoyed by the person doing the praying and the person informed that s/he was prayed for.
This week, I am doing some super-intensive praying for three friends. One waiting on her results. One waiting on her child's results. One going through something just awful.
I write special prayers. I am first a writer, then a speaker. So I write out prayers, the better to order my thoughts. The better to make my offering.
I light candles. Close my eyes. Say the words. Pray. No, harder. PRAY. PRAY!!!
I tell ya ever since he was an itty bitty boy, sometimes he talks to the lord and sometimes he yells at the lord, tonight he just happens to be yellin at him.I pray because they are far away and I cannot hold them in my arms.-- The Apostle
I pray because I have no power to make it better.
I pray because it is all I can do.
I pray because ... well, not because. I pray for the same reason I breathe. I don't think about breathing. Most of the time. I just do it, because I must.
I lift them up in prayer.
I send love -- the feeling for them that wells up and overflows me, I think of them and send it zinging through the air toward them.
Do they feel it? I don't know.
Does it make a difference? I don't know.
Written or not, conscious or not, with my will or against it ...
I pray.
Saturday, August 08, 2009
Softly and Tenderly
Masasa started a conversation about call on Ms. Kitty's blog.
I can't say when my first call happened -- there were quiet urges, people saying, "You really should ..." when I did lay speaking, thoughts of "If I were a minister, I'd ..." and the like. I ignored the urges, blew off the comments as people just being kind, and as a parent, I knew the danger of thinking, "I'm not a ____, but if I were, I'd ..." (All parents say something similar about parenting before we become parents, and incur the wrath of the karma fairy when we discover it's not actually that simple.)
I was a mom of three, planning on a fourth. Not really something that lends itself to ministry, I explained to myself.
And then I went to Long Beach. And received what was to me, a hit-you-over-the-head, burning bush, road to Damascus call. I started this blog. Writing about the call was my first post. (I was more succinct then.) I entered seminary.
Confirmation of the call continued. Turn on the radio, it was a song about call. Open a book, it had a character being called. Seeing what I wanted to see, coincidence, divine intervention -- shrug. What others think is not important. To me, they were little gifts, tossed by the universe onto my path, breadcrumbs to keep me walking the trail.
I had a baby.
I made plans to return to seminary.
My baby had cancer.
It wouldn't be accurate to say that I lost my call. I lost the belief in any call, for any person. I did not believe in Call. I was in the desert, stripped of any belief in any force, any spirit, any concept of God. There was no mystery, transcending or no.
And then, after I had a period of healing, Spirit came back. And said, it's not just about what you want. It's both parts of the equation. You want Ministry. And Ministry wants you.
Flaming power of egotism, to feel I was called, and then called back, to ministry? I am always concerned about that. Who the heck am I to think that God/the Universe/Life Itself has called me to serve its cause, as a minister?
I still don't have an answer for that. But I feel called. If I could be satisfied with doing anything else in life, I'd do it. But this is beyond wanting.
It's call.
I can't say when my first call happened -- there were quiet urges, people saying, "You really should ..." when I did lay speaking, thoughts of "If I were a minister, I'd ..." and the like. I ignored the urges, blew off the comments as people just being kind, and as a parent, I knew the danger of thinking, "I'm not a ____, but if I were, I'd ..." (All parents say something similar about parenting before we become parents, and incur the wrath of the karma fairy when we discover it's not actually that simple.)
I was a mom of three, planning on a fourth. Not really something that lends itself to ministry, I explained to myself.
And then I went to Long Beach. And received what was to me, a hit-you-over-the-head, burning bush, road to Damascus call. I started this blog. Writing about the call was my first post. (I was more succinct then.) I entered seminary.
Confirmation of the call continued. Turn on the radio, it was a song about call. Open a book, it had a character being called. Seeing what I wanted to see, coincidence, divine intervention -- shrug. What others think is not important. To me, they were little gifts, tossed by the universe onto my path, breadcrumbs to keep me walking the trail.
I had a baby.
I made plans to return to seminary.
My baby had cancer.
It wouldn't be accurate to say that I lost my call. I lost the belief in any call, for any person. I did not believe in Call. I was in the desert, stripped of any belief in any force, any spirit, any concept of God. There was no mystery, transcending or no.
And then, after I had a period of healing, Spirit came back. And said, it's not just about what you want. It's both parts of the equation. You want Ministry. And Ministry wants you.
Flaming power of egotism, to feel I was called, and then called back, to ministry? I am always concerned about that. Who the heck am I to think that God/the Universe/Life Itself has called me to serve its cause, as a minister?
I still don't have an answer for that. But I feel called. If I could be satisfied with doing anything else in life, I'd do it. But this is beyond wanting.
It's call.
Friday, August 07, 2009
We were all Samantha and Ferris
There's a generation of grown-up teens feeling sad today.
They call us Gen X now, but for a while, we were the ignored generation, in terms of media. We were not the boomers, and we were before the current wave that heeded Nirvana's call, "Here we are now, entertain us." Beverly Hills, 90210 hit while we were in college. "Kids today, getting a tv show all about them," we sniffed. We could not have imagined the smorgasbord of tv shows, movies, music acts and entire television channels devoted to youth that you see now.
But someone didn't ignore us. He paid attention to us, he understood us. He made movies that empathized with our little teenage anxieties. We were all Samantha, from Sixteen Candles, and could only dream of being Ferris Bueller.
We knew the characters because we saw them every day. Everyone knew a Duckie, a Geek and every girl had been in love with a Jake Ryan.
Hat tip to Cuumbaya for finding this remembrance from a teen who actually became John Hughes' pen pal. Sounds like he was just the person we thought he was.
I know I'm not the only one who was hoping John Hughes would return for a second act, to address in his inimitable style what was happening in our lives, as he had done earlier.
Alas.
Edited -- I'm watching Better Off Dead with my kids and realized -- oops -- it wasn't a John Hughes movie. Though lots of people think it was, if you google the movie. The mark of greatness, when people attribute things to you that you didn't even do.
They call us Gen X now, but for a while, we were the ignored generation, in terms of media. We were not the boomers, and we were before the current wave that heeded Nirvana's call, "Here we are now, entertain us." Beverly Hills, 90210 hit while we were in college. "Kids today, getting a tv show all about them," we sniffed. We could not have imagined the smorgasbord of tv shows, movies, music acts and entire television channels devoted to youth that you see now.
But someone didn't ignore us. He paid attention to us, he understood us. He made movies that empathized with our little teenage anxieties. We were all Samantha, from Sixteen Candles, and could only dream of being Ferris Bueller.
We knew the characters because we saw them every day. Everyone knew a Duckie, a Geek and every girl had been in love with a Jake Ryan.
Hat tip to Cuumbaya for finding this remembrance from a teen who actually became John Hughes' pen pal. Sounds like he was just the person we thought he was.
I know I'm not the only one who was hoping John Hughes would return for a second act, to address in his inimitable style what was happening in our lives, as he had done earlier.
Alas.
Edited -- I'm watching Better Off Dead with my kids and realized -- oops -- it wasn't a John Hughes movie. Though lots of people think it was, if you google the movie. The mark of greatness, when people attribute things to you that you didn't even do.
Wednesday, August 05, 2009
One is silver and the other gold ...
Through a strange planetary alignment (or maybe just coincidence), two separate old friends of mine came to town and I got to see one last night, and one today.
Trix is the one I saw last night. She was a gift from my sister, by which I mean, she was my sister's best friend first, then she and I became friends. She has had an amazing life, weaving in and out of the lives of many interesting people -- interviewing Warren Buffett, going to a meeting with Andre Agassi and having Brooke Shields answer the door.
She's had great tragedy in her life. And great joy. And along with being gifted with an amazing intellect, creativity, and tenacity, she was given an incredible singing voice and in her 20's, was a professional singer.
I'm madly jealous, can you tell?
From several states away, during Hurricane Ike, she kept in constant contact with me, via cell phone and text messaging, letting me know what was going on in my own city, when I had no electricity.
And get this ... it's been 23 years since we last saw each other. 23 YEARS! But through email and phone calls, our casual friendship deepened over the years. She's family. Though the circumstances of our lives are different -- she's a single, child-free, professional, I'm a married, mom/seminary student -- we are very alike in terms of our spirituality, our politics, our beliefs about how you should be in the world.
23 years. I picked her up at her hotel last night and drove us to a Mexican restaurant, kind of a dive. The best places (and the best people) often are, right?
Our tongues hinged in the middle, we jumped from topic to topic and back again, catching up, connecting. We held the conversations of 8 people. We are talented that way.
We hugged. And said I love you.
Today, she found out that one of those women murdered in Pittsburgh was the best friend of one of her friends. "Please make an effort to tell those you love that you love them, and do it today!!" she wrote on Facebook.
This morning, my best friend from high school, maid-of-honor from my wedding came in town. She came out to my house with her 3 big kids. How could my crazy friend be a mom of 3? It boggles the mind.
Though it's been several years since we saw each other, ours was not the frenetic conversating from the night before. It was being in the presence of someone who knows who you used to be as well as the person you are now.
In some ways, she and I are very alike. We are mothers of what are now considered "large" families -- 3 and 4 kids. We're fairly strict. Our religions are important to us.
And, over the years, we have become very different. She is LDS, very conservative politically.
So we don't talk religion or politics. We've known each other since we were 14 and 15. We know each other. And we know that any minor differences such as religious or political don't take away from that.
We talked about our families, since I know hers and she, mine -- our siblings, our parents. We talked about our art -- hers, visual, mine, written. We admitted we don't give enough time to it.
And then it was time for them to go.
We hugged. We said I love you.
Old friends.
Trix is the one I saw last night. She was a gift from my sister, by which I mean, she was my sister's best friend first, then she and I became friends. She has had an amazing life, weaving in and out of the lives of many interesting people -- interviewing Warren Buffett, going to a meeting with Andre Agassi and having Brooke Shields answer the door.
She's had great tragedy in her life. And great joy. And along with being gifted with an amazing intellect, creativity, and tenacity, she was given an incredible singing voice and in her 20's, was a professional singer.
I'm madly jealous, can you tell?
From several states away, during Hurricane Ike, she kept in constant contact with me, via cell phone and text messaging, letting me know what was going on in my own city, when I had no electricity.
And get this ... it's been 23 years since we last saw each other. 23 YEARS! But through email and phone calls, our casual friendship deepened over the years. She's family. Though the circumstances of our lives are different -- she's a single, child-free, professional, I'm a married, mom/seminary student -- we are very alike in terms of our spirituality, our politics, our beliefs about how you should be in the world.
23 years. I picked her up at her hotel last night and drove us to a Mexican restaurant, kind of a dive. The best places (and the best people) often are, right?
Our tongues hinged in the middle, we jumped from topic to topic and back again, catching up, connecting. We held the conversations of 8 people. We are talented that way.
We hugged. And said I love you.
Today, she found out that one of those women murdered in Pittsburgh was the best friend of one of her friends. "Please make an effort to tell those you love that you love them, and do it today!!" she wrote on Facebook.
This morning, my best friend from high school, maid-of-honor from my wedding came in town. She came out to my house with her 3 big kids. How could my crazy friend be a mom of 3? It boggles the mind.
Though it's been several years since we saw each other, ours was not the frenetic conversating from the night before. It was being in the presence of someone who knows who you used to be as well as the person you are now.
In some ways, she and I are very alike. We are mothers of what are now considered "large" families -- 3 and 4 kids. We're fairly strict. Our religions are important to us.
And, over the years, we have become very different. She is LDS, very conservative politically.
So we don't talk religion or politics. We've known each other since we were 14 and 15. We know each other. And we know that any minor differences such as religious or political don't take away from that.
We talked about our families, since I know hers and she, mine -- our siblings, our parents. We talked about our art -- hers, visual, mine, written. We admitted we don't give enough time to it.
And then it was time for them to go.
We hugged. We said I love you.
Old friends.
Monday, August 03, 2009
An urgent matter of poetry
My father is a great lover of poetry. The wording of that is specific. I cannot say he is only a lover of great poetry, though he does love that, too. But great or silly, Shakespeare or limericks, he loves poetry.
As did his mother before him. My grandmother lived to be 90, and until the very end, she could still recite poetry that she had memorized as a girl.
And as does his daughter after him. I went to college partially on a scholarship for poetry interpretation, I graduated with an English degree, with a focus on poetry writing. After a surgery, when I found myself still paralyzed from the anesthesia but with my mind completely awake (thankfully in the recovery room, not on the operating table), I calmed myself by mentally reciting "Prisoner of Chillon."
Last night I received a phone call from my father at 10 pm. This caused my heart to skip a beat as a) my father rarely calls me, b) never late at night and c) the last time he called, it was to tell me my mother was in the hospital with a heart attack.
No, no, this was a different emergency. A poetry emergency.
"I can remember this poem, but I can't find it doing an internet search, and I don't remember the title or the author."
Okay.
"It's something about 'I think I shall join with the cows, they don't complain, or worry about heaven,'" he told me.
No idea of the poet?
"It was one of the modern American poets. Frost? Whitman? One of those."
We talked about why he wanted to find this poem -- short version, an old friend of his pissed him off. Again. (From what I am witnessing, old men friends fight and make up, over and over, much like little girls. They are opinionated and can't resist mouthing off to each other. But they've gotten sensitive in their old age, and get their feelings hurt. But life is short, so they reach out to each other again. Lather, rinse, and repeat.)
So as you can see, a judicious application of poetry was in order.
I searched and searched, but turned up nothing. Cows ... dream ... join with cows ... stand with cows ... cows ... complain ...
He called me in a few minutes, triumphant. Forget the internet, he went to his old books and found it. Of course, there's no mention of "cows" in it. Whatever.
The poem doesn't reflect my usual attitude. But there are days ...
Walt Whitman:
As did his mother before him. My grandmother lived to be 90, and until the very end, she could still recite poetry that she had memorized as a girl.
And as does his daughter after him. I went to college partially on a scholarship for poetry interpretation, I graduated with an English degree, with a focus on poetry writing. After a surgery, when I found myself still paralyzed from the anesthesia but with my mind completely awake (thankfully in the recovery room, not on the operating table), I calmed myself by mentally reciting "Prisoner of Chillon."
Last night I received a phone call from my father at 10 pm. This caused my heart to skip a beat as a) my father rarely calls me, b) never late at night and c) the last time he called, it was to tell me my mother was in the hospital with a heart attack.
No, no, this was a different emergency. A poetry emergency.
"I can remember this poem, but I can't find it doing an internet search, and I don't remember the title or the author."
Okay.
"It's something about 'I think I shall join with the cows, they don't complain, or worry about heaven,'" he told me.
No idea of the poet?
"It was one of the modern American poets. Frost? Whitman? One of those."
We talked about why he wanted to find this poem -- short version, an old friend of his pissed him off. Again. (From what I am witnessing, old men friends fight and make up, over and over, much like little girls. They are opinionated and can't resist mouthing off to each other. But they've gotten sensitive in their old age, and get their feelings hurt. But life is short, so they reach out to each other again. Lather, rinse, and repeat.)
So as you can see, a judicious application of poetry was in order.
I searched and searched, but turned up nothing. Cows ... dream ... join with cows ... stand with cows ... cows ... complain ...
He called me in a few minutes, triumphant. Forget the internet, he went to his old books and found it. Of course, there's no mention of "cows" in it. Whatever.
The poem doesn't reflect my usual attitude. But there are days ...
Walt Whitman:
"I think I could turn and live with the animals, they are so placid and self contained;
I stand and look at them long and long....
They do not sweat and whine about their condition;
They do not lie awake in the dark and weep for their sins;
They do not make me sick discussing their duty to God;
Not one is dissatisfied-not one is demented with the mania of owning things;
Not one kneels to another, nor his kind that lived thousands of years ago;
Not one is responsible or industrious over the whole earth."
Thursday, July 30, 2009
There are two new lizard eaters in the Lizard Eater home
My friend, Witch Goddess, "whispered" in a feral cat, on the "catch, spay, and release" plan. "This cat is lactating," announced her vet. So she beat the bushes, found the kittens, and whispered them in. We took 2 of 3, two sisters, whom my kids have named Tabitha and Sookie.
I think this has been the longest time in my life I've been without a cat. Our 18 year old cat died, and then LW was rediagnosed, so not really the right time to get a new kitty.
They're pretty skittish, but getting lots of love. Tabitha (stripey one) is curled up inside my shirt right now. Hey, this attachment parenting stuff still comes in handy.
No.
I will not be breastfeeding them.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Taking my Prejudice Pulse
I agree with Eric Holder that we're so afraid to talk about racism, we miss out on helpful conversations. So I'll throw out an inner dialogue from my life:
Crossing the parking lot yesterday, a car rolled up to me. "Can you help me?" asked a 30ish black man, in an well-worn tshirt and a do-rag.
"Yes," I said, not moving forward.
He held out a piece of paper. "Do you know where this is?"
I moved closer, so I could read it. It had the address of the hospital/medical offices I'd just been in. I gave what I hoped was a comforting smile (because it is confusing, it had stressed me out earlier) and told him it was right there; the offices were part of the hospital. He thanked me and drove off.
Walking away, I thought about the short interaction; specifically, my response to him.
The fact that I did not immediately get closer to the car was intentional. My children walk to school and this is something we drill into them -- if a car pulls over to talk to you, do NOT go closer to the car. Be wary, be alert.
I take the same advice. At a few of the grocery stores near us, women have been robbed in the parking lots. And in the past year, a woman was forced into a car; her body was found a week later.
I don't believe in living in fear, convinced that every person is ready to do you harm. My life is far more pleasant if I assume, until proven otherwise, that everyone is a friend. But I leave some space. And I tell my children to pay attention to their instincts. Especially as women, we often are taught to ignore our instincts. "Don't get off the elevator when your internal alarm is ringing. That would be rude."
"Would you have acted differently if he were white?" I queried myself.
I thought about that. I mentally saw a white guy of the same age, old tshirt, do-rag or gimme cap. No, I don't think so. Same wariness.
I mentally retraced my steps. The windows weren't tinted, so when I saw that he was alone, that was when I began moving forward.
Okay, class test. What if he were wearing a suit and tie?
Hmm. Okay, got me. Not sure I would have moved forward any faster, but wouldn't have been as deliberately wary.
What if he were old?
Guilty. Would have moved forward a lot faster.
Color matter?
Black man in tie and suit ... black old man ... no, I believe it would have been the same. No halo over my head, it's just that I have a different set of experiences. My favorite professor is black. The majority of my classmates are black. My pal R bears a startling resemblance in size and appearance to Michael Clarke Duncan. What if he'd been Mexican, in a low rider? Hmm. Not sure. I don't think it would have been different. I keep going back to the fact that it was a single person in the car. If there had been a woman in the car with him, probably not much change. If it had been two men, probably a little more caution. Three men? Probably would have had Danger Danger Will Robinson! in my head. I mean, why would three men be going to the doctor together? ("It's hard enough to get one man to go," she cackles, the sexist piglet.)
Even after going through the exercise, there is no final judgment. Just an urge to keep checking my reflexes.
It is a challenge, being a woman. So many of us are raised to be afraid. It is easy to turn your life into "Defensive Living." Watch what you wear. Where you go. Who you're friendly to.
So, I try to find a balance. Smile at strangers (this is what we do in the south), but keep my finger on the alarm button when walking to my car at 10 pm. Be equitable in my caution.
So, I may need to be a little more cautious around those suit and tie types. It could be the Preppy Killer. Or, you know, an insurance salesman.
Lizard Eater apologizes to the insurance salesmen she has made fun of. And men who don't go to doctors. Speaking of, Husband, have you made your appointment?
Crossing the parking lot yesterday, a car rolled up to me. "Can you help me?" asked a 30ish black man, in an well-worn tshirt and a do-rag.
"Yes," I said, not moving forward.
He held out a piece of paper. "Do you know where this is?"
I moved closer, so I could read it. It had the address of the hospital/medical offices I'd just been in. I gave what I hoped was a comforting smile (because it is confusing, it had stressed me out earlier) and told him it was right there; the offices were part of the hospital. He thanked me and drove off.
Walking away, I thought about the short interaction; specifically, my response to him.
The fact that I did not immediately get closer to the car was intentional. My children walk to school and this is something we drill into them -- if a car pulls over to talk to you, do NOT go closer to the car. Be wary, be alert.
I take the same advice. At a few of the grocery stores near us, women have been robbed in the parking lots. And in the past year, a woman was forced into a car; her body was found a week later.
I don't believe in living in fear, convinced that every person is ready to do you harm. My life is far more pleasant if I assume, until proven otherwise, that everyone is a friend. But I leave some space. And I tell my children to pay attention to their instincts. Especially as women, we often are taught to ignore our instincts. "Don't get off the elevator when your internal alarm is ringing. That would be rude."
"Would you have acted differently if he were white?" I queried myself.
I thought about that. I mentally saw a white guy of the same age, old tshirt, do-rag or gimme cap. No, I don't think so. Same wariness.
I mentally retraced my steps. The windows weren't tinted, so when I saw that he was alone, that was when I began moving forward.
Okay, class test. What if he were wearing a suit and tie?
Hmm. Okay, got me. Not sure I would have moved forward any faster, but wouldn't have been as deliberately wary.
What if he were old?
Guilty. Would have moved forward a lot faster.
Color matter?
Black man in tie and suit ... black old man ... no, I believe it would have been the same. No halo over my head, it's just that I have a different set of experiences. My favorite professor is black. The majority of my classmates are black. My pal R bears a startling resemblance in size and appearance to Michael Clarke Duncan. What if he'd been Mexican, in a low rider? Hmm. Not sure. I don't think it would have been different. I keep going back to the fact that it was a single person in the car. If there had been a woman in the car with him, probably not much change. If it had been two men, probably a little more caution. Three men? Probably would have had Danger Danger Will Robinson! in my head. I mean, why would three men be going to the doctor together? ("It's hard enough to get one man to go," she cackles, the sexist piglet.)
Even after going through the exercise, there is no final judgment. Just an urge to keep checking my reflexes.
It is a challenge, being a woman. So many of us are raised to be afraid. It is easy to turn your life into "Defensive Living." Watch what you wear. Where you go. Who you're friendly to.
So, I try to find a balance. Smile at strangers (this is what we do in the south), but keep my finger on the alarm button when walking to my car at 10 pm. Be equitable in my caution.
So, I may need to be a little more cautious around those suit and tie types. It could be the Preppy Killer. Or, you know, an insurance salesman.
Lizard Eater apologizes to the insurance salesmen she has made fun of. And men who don't go to doctors. Speaking of, Husband, have you made your appointment?
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
PSA
I had an appointment with a dermatologist this morning. Two suspicious mole-looking things.
I have to confess ... I should have gone a lot sooner, but I allowed life to get in the way. All the steps ... find the login information for my insurance, find a doctor on my plan, make an appointment, well, I procrastinated.
I was lucky. I left with a "looks fine to me," and an appointment to go back on a regular followup schedule.
Let me tell you about my dad.
He and my Mom go to the dermatologist every 6 months. They strip down and she goes over every square inch. A few years ago, in taking several of the little suspicious areas that a person who has lived in the sun their whole lives develops, she took a bit from my father's back. "I'm not really sure I should send this in," she admitted. But she did. And this, the least suspicious looking freckle, turned out to be malignant melanoma. The bad one. The one that can kill you.
She referred him to the best of the best. They removed it. They tested his lymph nodes and ran him through several tests. Result: no need for further treatment. They got it all.
This spring, routine check, they found another spot, this time on his arm. Unrelated to the first one. Removed it, did the pathology. Malignant melanoma, but with clean margins. No need for further treatment.
This is what can happen with early detection. EARLY DETECTION. They find it, remove it, and that's it. No chemo. No radiation. No death.
So consider this your message from the universe. Make that appointment you've been procrastinating on. Get in the habit. Hopefully, you'll be like me, walking to your car, thinking, "Huh. That's a load off my mind."
I have to confess ... I should have gone a lot sooner, but I allowed life to get in the way. All the steps ... find the login information for my insurance, find a doctor on my plan, make an appointment, well, I procrastinated.
I was lucky. I left with a "looks fine to me," and an appointment to go back on a regular followup schedule.
Let me tell you about my dad.
He and my Mom go to the dermatologist every 6 months. They strip down and she goes over every square inch. A few years ago, in taking several of the little suspicious areas that a person who has lived in the sun their whole lives develops, she took a bit from my father's back. "I'm not really sure I should send this in," she admitted. But she did. And this, the least suspicious looking freckle, turned out to be malignant melanoma. The bad one. The one that can kill you.
She referred him to the best of the best. They removed it. They tested his lymph nodes and ran him through several tests. Result: no need for further treatment. They got it all.
This spring, routine check, they found another spot, this time on his arm. Unrelated to the first one. Removed it, did the pathology. Malignant melanoma, but with clean margins. No need for further treatment.
This is what can happen with early detection. EARLY DETECTION. They find it, remove it, and that's it. No chemo. No radiation. No death.
So consider this your message from the universe. Make that appointment you've been procrastinating on. Get in the habit. Hopefully, you'll be like me, walking to your car, thinking, "Huh. That's a load off my mind."
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Synchronicities
About a week ago, my parents were out on their driveway when they smelled something foul. They looked around, went and raised the door of my father's workshop, where the smell seemed to be coming from.
My father looked down -- the smell was from a dead snake. My mother had been out there a couple of days before, lowered the door, and without knowing it, crushed the head of a rattlesnake, its rattles raised.
"Mom!" my sister exclaimed, when they spoke about it, "You've got to be more careful, you've got to be more aware."
(I simply pointed out to Mom that it's good that God takes care of fools and children for which she heartily agreed.)
Sunday morning, as I was preparing for church, I got a phone call. It was my father. My mother had been in the hospital since midnight. Earlier in the day, she'd been dizzy and her teeth ached. She sat down and felt too tired to stand up. She knew that for women, a symptom of heart attack can be tooth or jaw pain. She chewed an aspirin, the best way to take it in that situation. She took her blood pressure. It was fine, but her pulse was racing. She told my father, "We'd better go to the hospital."
She was having what turned out to be a minor heart attack.
She's home now, and doing fine. They've got her on all kinds of drugs, and a heart monitor is on its way.
During this time with her in the hospital, the hours of procedures on her end, waiting for a phone call on my end, I was uploading all of our cds to an external hard drive, rediscovering old friends. I found Kate Bush's This Woman's Work.
I played it. I wept.
Pray God you can cope.
I stand outside this woman's work,
This woman's world...
I know you have a little life in you yet.
I know you have a lot of strength left.
I know you have a little life in you yet.
I know you have a lot of strength left.
I should be crying, but I just can't let it show.
I should be hoping, but I can't stop thinking
Of all the things I should've said,
That I never said.
All the things we should've done,
That we never did.
All the things I should've given,
But I didn't.
Oh, darling, make it go,
Make it go away.
Give me these moments back.
Give them back to me.
Give me that little kiss.
Give me your hand...
All the things that you needed from me.
All the things that you wanted for me.
All the things that I should've given,
But I didn't.
Oh, darling, make it go away.
Just make it go away now.
Over the years since retirement, my father has had two bouts of melanoma, a near stroke, various ailments that come with age. My mother - nothing. She is tall and slender, won't even eat butter on her toast, mows the yard, keeps the house.
Twice now, with my father, she has also left her home to step into the roll of parent to her grandchildren, as I tended to Little Warrior.
She is empathetic with her words and actions, but strict with her words. When I would call home from college, whining about having 3 finals on one day, she would say, "Buck up!" It has become a joke between the two of us. Buck up. There's work to be done.
When we spoke on the phone the first time since she'd been admitted, she complained a bit about the tests and botheration. "Buck up," I told her. She laughed.
I don't watch So You Think You Can Dance, but a friend told me about this performance from last night. More coincidences.
Watch it, and maybe weep a bit. And then, buck up. There's work to be done.
My father looked down -- the smell was from a dead snake. My mother had been out there a couple of days before, lowered the door, and without knowing it, crushed the head of a rattlesnake, its rattles raised.
"Mom!" my sister exclaimed, when they spoke about it, "You've got to be more careful, you've got to be more aware."
(I simply pointed out to Mom that it's good that God takes care of fools and children for which she heartily agreed.)
Sunday morning, as I was preparing for church, I got a phone call. It was my father. My mother had been in the hospital since midnight. Earlier in the day, she'd been dizzy and her teeth ached. She sat down and felt too tired to stand up. She knew that for women, a symptom of heart attack can be tooth or jaw pain. She chewed an aspirin, the best way to take it in that situation. She took her blood pressure. It was fine, but her pulse was racing. She told my father, "We'd better go to the hospital."
She was having what turned out to be a minor heart attack.
She's home now, and doing fine. They've got her on all kinds of drugs, and a heart monitor is on its way.
During this time with her in the hospital, the hours of procedures on her end, waiting for a phone call on my end, I was uploading all of our cds to an external hard drive, rediscovering old friends. I found Kate Bush's This Woman's Work.
I played it. I wept.
Pray God you can cope.
I stand outside this woman's work,
This woman's world...
I know you have a little life in you yet.
I know you have a lot of strength left.
I know you have a little life in you yet.
I know you have a lot of strength left.
I should be crying, but I just can't let it show.
I should be hoping, but I can't stop thinking
Of all the things I should've said,
That I never said.
All the things we should've done,
That we never did.
All the things I should've given,
But I didn't.
Oh, darling, make it go,
Make it go away.
Give me these moments back.
Give them back to me.
Give me that little kiss.
Give me your hand...
All the things that you needed from me.
All the things that you wanted for me.
All the things that I should've given,
But I didn't.
Oh, darling, make it go away.
Just make it go away now.
Over the years since retirement, my father has had two bouts of melanoma, a near stroke, various ailments that come with age. My mother - nothing. She is tall and slender, won't even eat butter on her toast, mows the yard, keeps the house.
Twice now, with my father, she has also left her home to step into the roll of parent to her grandchildren, as I tended to Little Warrior.
She is empathetic with her words and actions, but strict with her words. When I would call home from college, whining about having 3 finals on one day, she would say, "Buck up!" It has become a joke between the two of us. Buck up. There's work to be done.
When we spoke on the phone the first time since she'd been admitted, she complained a bit about the tests and botheration. "Buck up," I told her. She laughed.
I don't watch So You Think You Can Dance, but a friend told me about this performance from last night. More coincidences.
Watch it, and maybe weep a bit. And then, buck up. There's work to be done.
Friday, July 17, 2009
Pablo's LiveStrong Video
Our little friend from Wilms' World, Pablo, who recently passed away, is featured in a new LiveStrong video. It's touching. Pass it on. (This was filmed back in February, when they thought Pablo would be healthy and healthy by now.)
Pablo and Jeff's Video
And, yet another article came out, letting us know that even for survivors, danger lurks ahead. But bless Dr. Dome -- the rock star of the Wilms' world -- if he can prevent even one doctor from telling another newly-diagnosed family that Wilms' is "the cancer to have."
The Husband and I watched the video together, I showed him the article. It's hard. We feel like our friends feel we should get over it, move on. Her hair is growing back and everything's fine, right? No one has said that, of course, and probably they don't feel it. They just don't know what to say. We don't either. Emily Post doesn't talk about this. We don't want to be bores, constantly talking about childhood cancer. But it's ever present. There is no goal line. We never get to spike the football, to paraphrase the movie "Parenthood."
"We might have thought there was," says The Husband. "But that's the first time. After the second time ..."
"Fool me twice," I say.
"Yeah."
"Once you've taken the red pill, you can't go backward."
He nods.
"Or is it the blue pill? I can never remember which is which."
"It doesn't matter," he says. "We never got a choice."
Pablo and Jeff's Video
And, yet another article came out, letting us know that even for survivors, danger lurks ahead. But bless Dr. Dome -- the rock star of the Wilms' world -- if he can prevent even one doctor from telling another newly-diagnosed family that Wilms' is "the cancer to have."
The Husband and I watched the video together, I showed him the article. It's hard. We feel like our friends feel we should get over it, move on. Her hair is growing back and everything's fine, right? No one has said that, of course, and probably they don't feel it. They just don't know what to say. We don't either. Emily Post doesn't talk about this. We don't want to be bores, constantly talking about childhood cancer. But it's ever present. There is no goal line. We never get to spike the football, to paraphrase the movie "Parenthood."
"We might have thought there was," says The Husband. "But that's the first time. After the second time ..."
"Fool me twice," I say.
"Yeah."
"Once you've taken the red pill, you can't go backward."
He nods.
"Or is it the blue pill? I can never remember which is which."
"It doesn't matter," he says. "We never got a choice."
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Good Ole UU Boys
So several folks that I know are still thinking about this idea of UU Culture and what it looks like.
Let me tell you about one of my pictures of Unitarian Universalism.
My father. My daddy, as we Southerners often say, no matter how old we get.
Born in 1929 in Texas. He grew up in a small town in East Texas, raised Baptist. He left the religion but still gets a twinkle in his eye when he sings along with one of his favorite songs and it gets to the line about "Nothing makes a sound in the night like the wind does, But you ain't afraid if you're washed in the blood like I was." He left the religion behind, but he remembers the feelings.
That song is Don Williams' "Good Ole Boys Like Me" and it sums up a lot about him, and a lot about other UU men I know.
Last year, when I read about Greg McKendry standing up to the shooter who walked into the Knoxville UU church, oh I sobbed. Not just for him and his loved ones, but because my thoughts immediately went to J and A, two big men in our church, two men that I can see doing the same thing. They're Good Ole Boys.
What? You thought Good Ole Boys were only uneducated bigots? Then you don't know Good Ole Boys, my friend. There were Good Ole Boys at Selma, too -- and they were walking with the protestors. One of then was the abovementioned friend J.
So that's one of my images of UU. Good Ole Boys, who help stack the chairs at the end of the service, and come jump your car battery when you're by the side of the road, and bring a big pot of chili to the potluck and have friends over to watch the UT - A&M game at Thanksgiving. And frown and say, "Now, that jest ain't right," when someone cracks a racist joke.
Tell me about your images.
--
When I was a kid Uncle Remus he put me to bed
With a picture of Stonewall Jackson above my head
Then daddy came in to kiss his little man
With gin on his breath and a Bible in his hand
He talked about honor and things I should know
Then he'd stagger a little as he went out the door
CHORUS:
I can still hear the soft Southern winds in the live oak trees
And those Williams boys they still mean a lot to me
Hank and Tennessee
I guess we're all gonna be what we're gonna be
So what do you do with good ole boys like me
Nothing makes a sound in the night like the wind does
But you ain't afraid if you're washed in the blood like I was
The smell of cape jasmine thru the window screen
John R. and the Wolfman kept me company
By the light of the radio by my bed
With Thomas Wolfe whispering in my head
When I was in school I ran with kid down the street
But I watched him burn himself up on bourbon and speed
But I was smarter than most and I could choose
Learned to talk like the man on the six o'clock news
When I was eighteen, Lord, I hit the road
But it really doesn't matter how far I go
Let me tell you about one of my pictures of Unitarian Universalism.
My father. My daddy, as we Southerners often say, no matter how old we get.
Born in 1929 in Texas. He grew up in a small town in East Texas, raised Baptist. He left the religion but still gets a twinkle in his eye when he sings along with one of his favorite songs and it gets to the line about "Nothing makes a sound in the night like the wind does, But you ain't afraid if you're washed in the blood like I was." He left the religion behind, but he remembers the feelings.
That song is Don Williams' "Good Ole Boys Like Me" and it sums up a lot about him, and a lot about other UU men I know.
Last year, when I read about Greg McKendry standing up to the shooter who walked into the Knoxville UU church, oh I sobbed. Not just for him and his loved ones, but because my thoughts immediately went to J and A, two big men in our church, two men that I can see doing the same thing. They're Good Ole Boys.
What? You thought Good Ole Boys were only uneducated bigots? Then you don't know Good Ole Boys, my friend. There were Good Ole Boys at Selma, too -- and they were walking with the protestors. One of then was the abovementioned friend J.
So that's one of my images of UU. Good Ole Boys, who help stack the chairs at the end of the service, and come jump your car battery when you're by the side of the road, and bring a big pot of chili to the potluck and have friends over to watch the UT - A&M game at Thanksgiving. And frown and say, "Now, that jest ain't right," when someone cracks a racist joke.
Tell me about your images.
--
When I was a kid Uncle Remus he put me to bed
With a picture of Stonewall Jackson above my head
Then daddy came in to kiss his little man
With gin on his breath and a Bible in his hand
He talked about honor and things I should know
Then he'd stagger a little as he went out the door
CHORUS:
I can still hear the soft Southern winds in the live oak trees
And those Williams boys they still mean a lot to me
Hank and Tennessee
I guess we're all gonna be what we're gonna be
So what do you do with good ole boys like me
Nothing makes a sound in the night like the wind does
But you ain't afraid if you're washed in the blood like I was
The smell of cape jasmine thru the window screen
John R. and the Wolfman kept me company
By the light of the radio by my bed
With Thomas Wolfe whispering in my head
When I was in school I ran with kid down the street
But I watched him burn himself up on bourbon and speed
But I was smarter than most and I could choose
Learned to talk like the man on the six o'clock news
When I was eighteen, Lord, I hit the road
But it really doesn't matter how far I go
Wednesday, July 08, 2009
UU Culture -- T'aint Just Yankees
"It was true that American Unitarianism had flowered in New England and was part of a proud heritage, but the situation was not unlike that of Christianity, which bloomed in the Holy Land, where it is now extinct except for a few shrines maintained for pilgrims. It is not beyond the realm of possibility that this might someday occur with American Unitarians." -- George Marshall, writing about A. Powell Davies
The Boy snapped a picture of a UU seminarian, doing a little light reading.
There were a few quotes that came out of GA about our "Yankee culture" so when I saw this pic, I had to laugh.
This isn't a serious post -- I'm still on vacation, y'all -- but if you think our UU culture is strictly Yankee, I'd request that you explore the research of the Rev. Dr. Barbara Coeyman, who has written about the time in our history when Texas was just lousy with Universalists.
As for the present, I think three of the most dynamic and potentially influential ministers of our religion are located in Albuquerque, Tulsa, and Atlanta.
Again, nothing serious about this post. The point of the two speakers who referenced our Yankee culture was not Southerners vs. Yanks, and I found both of their fuller talks to just light my fire.
As for me, I'm kicking back with some Christmas* enchiladas and contemplating what a cowboy UU church would look like.
*New Mexico term indicating that a person wants both red AND green sauce on their dish.
Monday, July 06, 2009
The River
Silently the morning mist is lying on the water
Captive moonlight waiting for the dawn
Softly like a baby's breath a breeze begins to whisper
“The sun is coming, quick you must be gone.”
The habitat that feeds our soul is different for everyone. Some are desert people, some get their energy from the city. Some find their joy at the beach. For me, it is the mountains.
Smiling like a superstar the morning comes in singing
The promise of another sunny day
And all the flowers open up to gather in the sunshine
I do believe that summer's here to stay
Two years ago, The Husband, our foursome, and I came up to stay in a cabin alongside the Pecos River. My parents drove up and spent a couple of days with us. No internet, no cell coverage. We liked it so much, we made plans to all come back last summer, plus my brother and his wife, and my sister.
The best laid plans of mice and men …
After we received the phone call that made me drop to my knees, I waited to cancel. Waited for the formal diagnosis of recurrent Wilms’ Tumor. Waited to decide on our plan of treatment. Waited til I figured out the calendar, and knew for absolute sure that there was no way we could go up in the mountains. And still I waited. I could handle so much, but making that phone call to cancel our reservation … I just couldn’t do it. Without any words between us, my mother knew. When she canceled her reservation, she also canceled ours.
In the hospital last summer, there was one channel on the hospital tv where they ran video of nature scenes and soothing music.
One of the frequent scenes was a river in the mountains, tall pines stretched above it. It was so much like our place, I couldn’t watch it. It didn’t soothe me. I didn’t know if we would ever return.
She ended treatment in November. In January, we needed to make our reservations. It scared me. There would be at least two sets of scans between January and summer. I made the reservations. The lodge for my crew. Two smaller cabins for my parents and my brother.
A week ago, we drove the meandering mountain road up to our cabin. Before unpacking, leaving The Husband and my children opening drapes and setting themselves up in the lodge, I walked down to the river.
It was still there.
Of course it was still there, you might say. You think the river would be stopped by your life, your sadness?
Maybe I did, a little. Maybe it was hard to believe that the river would keep flowing.
Sit beside a mountain stream, see her waters rise
Listen to the pretty sound of music as she flies
Every day we were there, the river and I would hold long conversations. It would tell me about the things it had seen since I’d last been there – snows in the winter, deer drinking at dawn – and I told it about what I’d seen. We both saw death this year, and we both saw birth. The river kindly carried my tears downstream; I dipped my hand in her cold water and splashed it on my face. The river is generous with both her healing medicine and her counsel.
And Oh, I love the life within me
I feel part of everything I see
And Oh, I love the life around me
A part of everything is here in me
Yesterday, after a glorious holiday, it was time to leave. Turn off the lights, wash the towels, close the drapes, lock the doors.
I went down to the river to say goodbye. I stood above her on the deck, and I knelt down beside her in a hidden little room at her edge, with overhanging branches and stones for seats, where the children and I were sure we’d seen fairies.
Already, we talk of our plans for next summer, when and how, but definitely all of us.
My parents are old, Little Warrior is … Little Warrior. We know that plans might need to be canceled. But we make them with hope and happiness and anticipation.
Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it. The river was cut by the world’s great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of the rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs.
I am haunted by waters.
--
Attribution: Summer by John Denver, Mother Nature's Son by The Beatles, A River Runs Through It by Norman Maclean.
Captive moonlight waiting for the dawn
Softly like a baby's breath a breeze begins to whisper
“The sun is coming, quick you must be gone.”
The habitat that feeds our soul is different for everyone. Some are desert people, some get their energy from the city. Some find their joy at the beach. For me, it is the mountains.
Smiling like a superstar the morning comes in singing
The promise of another sunny day
And all the flowers open up to gather in the sunshine
I do believe that summer's here to stay
Two years ago, The Husband, our foursome, and I came up to stay in a cabin alongside the Pecos River. My parents drove up and spent a couple of days with us. No internet, no cell coverage. We liked it so much, we made plans to all come back last summer, plus my brother and his wife, and my sister.
The best laid plans of mice and men …
After we received the phone call that made me drop to my knees, I waited to cancel. Waited for the formal diagnosis of recurrent Wilms’ Tumor. Waited to decide on our plan of treatment. Waited til I figured out the calendar, and knew for absolute sure that there was no way we could go up in the mountains. And still I waited. I could handle so much, but making that phone call to cancel our reservation … I just couldn’t do it. Without any words between us, my mother knew. When she canceled her reservation, she also canceled ours.
In the hospital last summer, there was one channel on the hospital tv where they ran video of nature scenes and soothing music.
One of the frequent scenes was a river in the mountains, tall pines stretched above it. It was so much like our place, I couldn’t watch it. It didn’t soothe me. I didn’t know if we would ever return.
She ended treatment in November. In January, we needed to make our reservations. It scared me. There would be at least two sets of scans between January and summer. I made the reservations. The lodge for my crew. Two smaller cabins for my parents and my brother.
A week ago, we drove the meandering mountain road up to our cabin. Before unpacking, leaving The Husband and my children opening drapes and setting themselves up in the lodge, I walked down to the river.
It was still there.
Of course it was still there, you might say. You think the river would be stopped by your life, your sadness?
Maybe I did, a little. Maybe it was hard to believe that the river would keep flowing.
Sit beside a mountain stream, see her waters rise
Listen to the pretty sound of music as she flies
Every day we were there, the river and I would hold long conversations. It would tell me about the things it had seen since I’d last been there – snows in the winter, deer drinking at dawn – and I told it about what I’d seen. We both saw death this year, and we both saw birth. The river kindly carried my tears downstream; I dipped my hand in her cold water and splashed it on my face. The river is generous with both her healing medicine and her counsel.
And Oh, I love the life within me
I feel part of everything I see
And Oh, I love the life around me
A part of everything is here in me
Yesterday, after a glorious holiday, it was time to leave. Turn off the lights, wash the towels, close the drapes, lock the doors.
I went down to the river to say goodbye. I stood above her on the deck, and I knelt down beside her in a hidden little room at her edge, with overhanging branches and stones for seats, where the children and I were sure we’d seen fairies.
Already, we talk of our plans for next summer, when and how, but definitely all of us.
My parents are old, Little Warrior is … Little Warrior. We know that plans might need to be canceled. But we make them with hope and happiness and anticipation.
Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it. The river was cut by the world’s great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of the rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs.
I am haunted by waters.
--
Attribution: Summer by John Denver, Mother Nature's Son by The Beatles, A River Runs Through It by Norman Maclean.
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