Big Gifts

Some of the greatest gifts in the world are those you find in adversity.  They are the ones that are also the most painful.  Seems like an oxymoron, doesn’t it?  Big painful gift.  But the words belie the sentiment. And those moments can turn your world upside down or they can turn it right side up. 

Walking through your day doing what you do and wham!  Sudden detour, change in circumstance, door closed – or opened, for that matter, illness, job loss, death, child-birth, marriage, divorce, graduation.  For good or for ill, you know your life has changed – permanently. It’s the stuff of movies and great books. That singular moment.  Think Lauren Bacall or Humphrey Bogart in Casablanca.  Or Edna Ferber’s Giant, Steinbeck’s East of Eden or Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird. Singular moments that define time.

I have found that in that moment of understanding, that turn-on-a-dime moment, that “Good Lord, this is real” moment; I always hear a rush of wind, leaves rustling, and wind-chimes tinkling, water splashing. My pulse rate slows, rather than the expected rise that comes with surprise. Everything seems to go to slow motion: my thoughts, my vision, the world around me, other peoples’ speech.  Everything. Nature flashes like a billboard:  pay attention, read the signs, I’m trying to tell you something.

It’s like the universe is giving me time to absorb what just happened.  Time out of time to simply process what is happening and to come up with a coping strategy.  Time to let my brain catch up.  I don’t know why, but for me, that happens to the sounds of wind and rustling leaves and wind chimes and babbling brooks but it does.  Could be because I love being outside.  Could be because I feel closest to God when I’m outside.  Could be because I feel closest to God outside, in my mountains, where the wind rarely lays down.  The wind, the music of the creek outside my every room, the calls of birds and beasties, the rustling leaves in the trees, the moon that shines nightly on my pillow. And the stars, oh the stars.

In those most perfect moments, I realize that the calm won’t last forever and it’s time to get my act in gear. So grateful to have had that moment. Sure enough, the film breaks and does that clack, fwap, clack, fwap noise.  I’ve left my time-warp and change is upon me.  I fully understand that some changes are painful.  That many are life-altering.  I also know that some changes – even the painful ones, open new doors and/or windows. They provide interesting, mind-tweaking challenges, even as they block my retreat to the land of my well-known  comfortable safety net. 

And at that point I know that I’ve received a gift.  A gift I need to roll around on, nuzzle up to, jump up and down on and wrap myself up in.  I need to own it.  I need to embrace it.  I need to swallow it.  I need to deal with the change; the anger, the wonder, the joy, the angst, or the pain.  And then I need to put it all down, let it go, and claim my new normal.

Big painful gift, sometimes.  But the Good Lord allowed me to take the time to introduce myself to today’s normal.  I can choose to embrace that new normal and move on trusting that all will be well, or I can wallow in what is no longer reality.  Pretty much an easy choice when you look at it with those eyes, isn’t it??

Rest in Peace Gilly Gauss

Today our sweet Gilly dog went to heaven.  In my mind she is gallivanting across a range of white puffy clouds.  She is once again sound of body and can retrieve any duck a man can drop.  Tennis balls are fair game, too. She is also pretty good at rabbits and pheasants.   And she can hear again – the smallest whisper of sound.  She is the ultimate guard dog for the old folks in our family and the supreme protector of our young folks, too – as she has been for the last fifteen years.  Her cataracts are totally gone and her bright puppy eyes have perfect vision. 

On her particular cloud there is an abundance of smushy, soft bedding.  There is an open jar of all-meat doggie treats – chicken, steak, ham and lamb.  There is also ice cream and cheese.  All the goodies her kidney disease denied her in her last years.

She is absolutely with God.  I know this to the depths of my being.  And I am grateful for faith.  Gilly dancing on a cloud, tail wagging, clear of vision and sharp of hearing.  And so incredibly dedicated to pleasing her people.

Rest in peace, Gilly Gauss, there will never be another just like you.

Thy Will Be Done

Today was the first day of my run-away.  Yesterday was filled with driving so it doesn’t count.  I am exhausted.  I am overwhelmed by the minute by minute responsibilities of “the care-taker”.  But today, I dug in the dirt.  I cleared three very large beds of winter detritus. Then came a torrent of hail (pea-sized) that covered the grass.  Thank God for His intervention.  This was my first springtime, dive into yard work day.  And as usual I was so excited about just “being out there” that I physically went hell-bent-for-leather.  If that thunderstorm and hail had not happened when it did, I would not be typing.  I would be lying in a hot bath full of Epsom salts and praying that I would be able to walk tomorrow.

Today was my first day of truly owning what it means to be a caretaker.  Just as I came inside to escape the frozen rain pellets, my Mom called.  She was agitated, frustrated and at the end of her rope.  You see, the day before I granted myself a run-away – we scheduled my 81 year old, heart-afflicted Dad for full back surgery.  He fell.  He broke his back.  The doctors tried a non-invasive procedure to stabilize his back.  That procedure seems to have failed.  Visit to ER.  It seems his spinal cord is compressed in the area of the procedure.  Full surgery recommended.

Both brothers – whose “I live a long way away” hearts are totally in the right place – want a second opinion before the surgery. Dad, not understanding how simple getting a second opinion is, cancelled his surgery.  He rescheduled for Easter week to allow time for second opinions. Whole family scheduled to be at our house for Easter. Three board meetings that week.  Youngest daughter is getting married April 28.  I am definitely in a swivet. Did I mention that those board meetings and family Easter weekend are scheduled to occur 4.5 hours west of my parents’ home??

Perhaps that is what God is telling me yet again.  “You are not in charge.  You are not in charge.” So again, I relinquish my need to be in charge.  What will be will be.  I AM NOT IN CHARGE!  Thy will be done.  Amen.

Thank you, thank you, thank you for a day off

Thank you, God, for this day.  I also have to thank my daughter, Megan.  And I better thank my parents. And Peggy, too. Everybody, quite literally everybody, gave me the day off.  First of all, God made it an absolutely beautiful spring day in Eastern NC.  As most of you know, I have spent the last several weeks adjusting to a new reality in my family.  My Dad broke his back and overnight, I became a caretaker, organizer, entertainer, and planner for my 80-something parents. (With wonderful support from my brothers)  My sweet oldest daughter gave me some truly sage advice last night – go sit down somewhere and drink a cup of coffee all by yourself.  Take an hour for you.  You need it. And Peggy agreed to hold the fort.

I spent the morning putting my house back in order.  (Painters and plasterers for days on end. We were absolutely not first in line following the last storm season so I am truly not complaining that it is now our turn) Then I did it. I had a cup of coffee. I wandered through Target, Ross, Big Lots, Marshall’s, Bed, Bath, and Beyond, and Lowes Hardware (a long-time favorite).  I got home around four to find that Tav had been doing honey –do chores outside.  We went to the nursery to shop for plants for the yard. (AM's wedding is less than 60 days away now. That’s a scary thought! Truly gives me the shivers!)

We got home, and while he continued in the yard, I spent a couple hours with my parents. Sat on the patio and drank wine.  Mom gifted me with the last crochet project my Dad’s mother finished.  A lovely, exquisitely complicated bedspread that means the world to me.  I am such a crybaby about family history.

Homemade vegetable soup for dinner.  Tav’s soup had the addition of ground lamb. (Thanks, Lynne)  Mine – all veggie. Cozied up on the couch together watching American Idol.  Hokey, I know.  But I’m an Idol addict.  Go Jessica Sanchez!!! And kudos to Tav for lasting almost the whole show.

May not be your idea of a good day.  After the intensity of the last several weeks – perfect for me.

Thanks to all contributors.  I will ever be grateful.  I will also try very hard to continue to say thank you for the small things that make such a big difference in everyday life.

This has been a great day.  Thank you, God.  And thank you family and friends for making it possible.  Anybody you need to thank today??

Thank God for the Support of Sister/Friends

Today in Eastern North Carolina was a balmy 55 – sunny – high white clouds running with the wind.  Sort of a perfect Spring Day. Except that my hair blowing in the wind generated enough static electricity to power lower Manhattan.  I owe so many sister/friends a thank you.  You read my last post.  You – too many to count – helped me define boundaries, helped me re-define what I’m willing to take personally, fed me buckets of empathy, and mostly just loved on me.  I’m grateful.  More than you will ever know.

I spent a great deal of last night talking to myself.  I knew the day would come when I would need to parent my parents.  Many, many of you warned me it was coming. But like most novices, I really didn’t hear you or believe what you told me that meant.   You were right.  I do need to accept that it’s time for me to parent my parents. (accept what I cannot change)  I need to re-define what my boundaries are, what my role is in our relationship (change the things you can).  And I need to minute by minute redefine how I react to the day.  (find the wisdom to know the difference)  I can do this. And what’s more I’ll own that it’s my turn.

I have never doubted that I was a good parent to my children – they have more than reaffirmed that fact at least 6000 times over the years.  They are really, truly, by anybody’s standards – good kids. What my challenge is now is to define what makes my parents good kids. That sounds a bit ridiculous, but this is a new parenting challenge for me. It probably encompasses the same things it’s always encompassed. Probably what it means is that they are doing the best they can.  That they are coping the best they can with aches and pains, with diminishing capacity – both physically and mentally.  That they practice some form of gratitude.  For a life well-lived. For children who absolutely love them. For the absolutely unquestioning love of pets. For children willing to assume the responsibility for making their last years as happy as they can be.  For children who understand that “diminished capacity” does not necessarily mean all capacities are diminished. For children who allow them to be their best – whatever that definition is.

Thank you, sister/friends, for making me realize that one bad day does not the whole week smother.  Thank you for holding me accountable.  Thank you for loving me.  Thanks for the long-distance hugs.  They all matter.  I hope I can return the favor ten-fold.

Confession Day

Confession Day, Ask for help Day, This was a Very Bad Day, Day.

I wish I was always patient, that I always read situations correctly, that I was able to cope with everything that happens to be thrown my way.  Unfortunately – I don’t think that is ever going to happen.  I just don’t seem to be able to distance myself from poor language choices, or uncalled for temper tantrums, or just plain bad behavior.  Even when I know that the offensive person is not in control of his behavior or his mouth or anything else, for that matter.  In other words, I should be able, as an adult, to brush bad behavior/language off and just consider the source and move on.  I guess I really need not only my own prayers on that one, but to ask for all of my friends’ prayers also.

No matter how old you are.  No matter how well you think you understand a senior citizen’s angst.  No matter how well-prepared you think you are to deal with aging parents, guess what?  You are not prepared to be damned to hell by people you love.  You just can’t prepare for that.  You just don’t think in your wildest dreams that those words will be spoken.  But they were.  And I have come to the conclusion that no matter what I prepared for, I would never have been prepared for that.

So now that it’s done, now that those words (words I would never dream of speaking – ever) have been spoken directly to me by a person I am charged (by myself, my family and God) with taking care of – what do I do?? How do I fulfill the duty I have been charge with?  I really need help to clear my mind of the words spoken - of the hurtfulness of the words and the sentiment.  I need to absolutely forget.  I need to move on.  I am the person charged with this care-taking.  I can do it.  I’m willing to do it.  I really need to put this whole thing in perspective and stop feeling sorry for myself and follow my own advice. 

This is not the parent I’ve known all my life.  This is a person who is feeling so out of control that they lash out at everyone around them in an effort to control something.  This is a person who cared for me even when I was out of control at whatever age – infant, teen, young adult.  I will care lovingly for them.  But, Lord, I need help.  I really, truly need help.

Trying to Live in My Dad's Skin

Here’s the deal. I am feeling particularly vulnerable right now. My “over 80” Dad fell and broke his back.  He hurts. His attitude stinks. He is mean. He’s my Dad. I love him

How conflicted can one girl get?? I want to be angry because his attitude is bad. But then I think about me – now. If it were me:

My back is broken, I’m totally dependent. I hurt,  I’m totally dependent. I’m scared, I’m totally dependent. my mind is 45.  I’m totally dependent.  I’m frustrated, I’m totally dependent.  My body may be 80+++ but my mind is not and I’m totally dependent. Everyone has always depended on me,  I’m totally dependent.  Who will take over for me?  I’m totally dependent.  I really, really hurt.  I’m totally dependent.  Who is going to fix this?  I’m totally dependent. I am really, really frightened.  Who will take care of my family?  I’m totally dependent.  I can’t fix this.  Who will?  I’m pretty sure my life will never be the same.  Nobody will ever be able to count on me again.  Oh, God, help me.  I’m frightened and I do not know how to fix this.  I am totally dependent.  Help me.

And in that moment of absolute clarity – he is simply my Dad.  And I get his bad attitude.  And I get why he was mean today.  And I get him - totally.  And I pray that God will help him cope.  Dependence is not for sissies or the weak of heart.  And I get that he is so unbelievably brave. He is my Dad. I love him. And I hope I never make him feel totally dependent. Dear Lord, guide us all to find the right means of support for our loved ones. Help us to empower every last shred of their self-respect and dignity even in their dependence. Help us make it easy for them to be dependent.  Let them feel respected and loved. Amen.

What part of all don't you understand?

Recently, I was engaged in conversation with a group of college students.  I spoke about the day I made the conscious decision to be accountable to myself for my morals, philosophies and behaviors.  Sounds easy, doesn’t it?  But for the me I was at that time, it was a major shift.  Up to that point, the underlying goal of all my actions was to fit in wherever I was.  There was no consistent, true to the bones, authentic me.  Chalk it up to my generation, or to the way I was raised or to the simple fact that we moved around a lot. This introvert was constantly finding herself in a new place trying to make new friends.  Add to that the need all teenagers have to just fit in and you have a recipe for lots of things to go wrong.

Enter the late 60’s, early 70’s.  The times were definitely changing.  Be there or be square and all that jargon.  It was a frightening time for me to live through.  (More on that another day.)  I survived the times, but I exited that time of my life a very much different, very much stronger, very much more authentic me.  I marched.  I sat-in.  I protested.  I rejected sororities for their exclusivity.  In the process of all that angst, I found me.  I found that there is one central belief in my life.  I am a child of God.  And that in God’s eyes we are all equal in every way. I truly internalized that I am not in control of my world.

I finally owned what my friend, John Shields often says, “What part of all don’t you understand?”  I began to study anti-racism and social justice issues.  I learned the meaning of terms like internalized racism and privilege in new and totally personal ways.  A very wise friend helped me find the language to discuss that just as for generations people have struggled with the disenfranchisement of black people and women; so now are people struggling with the disenfranchisement of lesbian and gay people.

 I keep going back to those statements I’ve heard all my life:  “What part of all don’t you understand?” “We are all God’s children.”  “God made us all.”  “We are all equal in God’s eyes.” 

What if we all held ourselves and each other accountable to those truths?  Would hate go away?  Would war stop?  Would we finally begin to celebrate the differences in our appearances and cultures instead of either pretending the differences aren’t there or trying to actively eliminate the differences? Would we begin to accept all the myriad ways God made us different?  Would we understand that He made us different on purpose?  Will we ever internalize that God loves us all equally?

See what a conversation with college students will do to your mind??  They help me remember.  They help me recommit to holding myself and others accountable for our behaviors and our words.  They remind me to take time to ponder my world and my place in it. They call me to be authentic and to be engaged in change.  It feels good.

When is the last time you had a meaningful conversation with a group of young adults who are not members of your family?  You might just be surprised where that conversation takes you. I know I was, and am; every single time.

Old Dogs

Old Dogs

There are good things and not so good things about living with an old dog. At 15, they are a bit set in their ways, but they also know that you are, too. They know just when you need a hug and just when you have reached the last thread of your last nerve. They have an uncanny feeling for when you have the guilts about neglecting them and are willing to be bullied into throwing a tennis ball with no retriever rules.

Their stomachs become more sensitive about the time you relax on good nutrition.  They are old and deserve a treat.  They scarf down that piece of steak straight from the table and immediately urp it up.   OK, you think; my fault, maybe good nutrition still does matter. They also choose this era of the sensitive stomach to revert to puppyhood and start sampling all the goodies in the yard – deer and/or rabbit poo, wood from the woodpile, apples long fallen from the tree and rotting on the ground. I confess to occasionally chowing down on something I know is not going to agree with my aging digestion.  Does the dog get mad at me?

They try to tell you that they have to go outside.  But they realize it’s one of those end-of-the-rope days so they quickly back off.  Puddle on the floor.  The dog’s fault?  I think not.

They get it when you are moving a bit slowly.  They expect you to get it when they are.  They get it if you need a nap when it’s time to feed them.  They expect you to get it if they need a nap when you have something else to do.

Old dogs know you like no other and love you anyway.  They try to comfort you when they sense you are upset or off-kilter. They expect the same from you – no matter what.  They break your heart when they look at you with questioning, expectant eyes; asking you to please make the hurt go away and make them young again.  And, oh how bereft we feel when we know the time is coming when we must do just that.

The Aspiring Gardener

I am an aspiring gardener.  I love to dig in the dirt and frequently have it smeared from head to toe.  My husband says I look like Pig Pen in the Charlie Brown stories. He becomes unhinged when surprise visitors catch me in that state. I really think my love of dirt embarrasses him (though he denies this). He also swears he had no idea girls could get so dirty and then smell so good one hour later. Fact is I commune with God outside.  I find healing outside.  In the cooling breeze that blows through the trees and makes the leaves dance before they fall.  In the tumbling noise of the stream that runs outside my kitchen window.  In watching a baby bird learn to fly or in getting buzzed by a hummingbird because I got too close to the feeder.  In watching twin fawns participate in jumping practice – even if they are not too good at it and knock the fence down more often than they make it over.  In witnessing a whole herd of bunnies celebrate spring as they hop willy-nilly through the meadow tumbling all over each other.  I love the colors of the flowers in my garden as they traverse the seasons from spring to fall.  I love the feel of being absolutely clean inside and out after the shower after the whole day working in the garden.

Guess what my children gave me for Christmas??  Mushroom growing kits.  So perfect!  I get to garden all winter inside.  They came up with the ultimate gift for a gardener.  I can be Pig Pen all winter long.  And my awed husband can eat what I grow and therefore cannot complain about my mess all over his bathroom. His two bathrooms I should say. The mushroom kits are living, breathing things.  They must have the right light, the right temperature and they must be misted daily.

Since I travel back and forth between our two homes, the mushrooms are now my constant companions.  They ride in the front seat on all my journeys.  The dogs are relegated to the way back.  They take up an inordinate amount of space in our bathrooms, neither of which is very large.  And they must be moved around one bathroom daily to avoid the direct sunlight provided by skylights. The other bathroom doesn’t even have a window, so artificial light must be manipulated daily.

 

But today, when I removed the humidity tent from the Shitakes to complete the second misting of the day – I spied a mushroom.  Just one is visible so far, but in the scheme of things, it’s pretty big.  Not ready for consumption big, but recognizable as a shitake big.  Still no portabellas or creminis or buttons, but a shitake!! 

I am a gardener.  Shall l save you a taste?

Snapshot Memory

Growing up in Asheville, our summer Saturdays were frequently spent in the High Country. We picnicked, hiked, destroyed the seats of our pants on Sliding Rock, and just generally enjoyed being outside and playing together as a family. One particular summer weekend lives in the family album of best times, preserved by a photo taken with old brownie camera. I was probably about 10, making Stuart 8 and Brett 3 or 4. I know from the picture that I had a sort of Buster Brown haircut – blunt cut with bangs just below my earlobes – not the most flattering do as I was a little roundish at that age.  Both brothers sported very close cropped, very blonde crew cuts. We all had on the nondescript clothing of families everywhere at the time; shorts, shirts (all cotton, not permanent-press) and tennis shoes (PF Flyers, no less).

Our chariot was a white Ford Galaxy with 2 doors, no ac and all the windows rolled down. I had to ride in the middle of the back seat to keep my brothers from fighting. Actually all it did was make them fight over top of me. Dad would not stop from our door to our destination for any reason. He didn’t care how bad you “had to go”.  No stopping!! First stop was a picnic table in the woods that had facilities on sight. We all went running for the bathrooms. Except Dad, who always sauntered, even if he was dying to go. That taken care of, the feast began.  Why does the same old food always taste better at a picnic table in the woods???

Fried Chicken, potato salad (Mom’s is still better than anybody else’s), pb&j sandwiches, potato chips, fresh fruit (hopefully watermelon) and cookies. All topped off with thermos bottles full of Kool-Aid. Occasionally, there was a soft drink. However Mom always told us the prune juice she made us drink on a regular basis was Coke – we were teens before we lost our disgust at watching friends guzzle Coke. We knew they were crazy because that stuff was seriously nasty. She told a number of those self-serving fibs. Another notable one was that having an ice cream cone was simply that – the cone – ice cream was extra. Anyway, we ate hugely. Then the adventure began. Hide and seek in the forest. Tag, Badminton, a trip to see the bear at Grandfather Mountain, freezing your butt off going down Sliding Rock, riding the train at Tweetsie – you just never knew where you’d end up.

But this particular trip was sort of different.  Splashing in a creek after lunch, we spotted a mama bear and her cubs moseying into the picnic area. She was between us and our parents, between us and the car. Sheer panic crossed the face of my 8 year old brother and he took off.  He was a true blur. Dad snapped the picture that captured him forever in mid-air.  All you can see is bottom, legs and PF Flyers as he dove through the window of the car into the safety of the backseat. The rest of us joined him at a slower pace. We watched the bears finish our picnic and then meander away into the forest. After we collected what was left of the picnic basket, etc., we were homeward bound. Stuart swore he wasn’t getting out of the car again no matter where we decided to go next, but of course he did. The story took on legendary proportions as the years went on and he was always the hero. But my memory will always be that black and white snapshot taken with the old Brownie. The whole day captured in a single moment.

My husband has similar memories of a driving vacation through Florida.  He’s still not crazy about ham and cheese sandwiches out of a cooler.  They seem to be his entire memory of the trip.  One snapshot.  Ham, cheese, white bread and a cooler.

What’s your snapshot memory?