My husband tells me several times a day that he wishes I would stay home. As I prepare to awaken in less than three hours from now, I imagine how quickly my 18 days of travel and visit in the central part of California will pass. What he imagines is a long stretch of day-to-day without the spice in his life. What can I say?! He's right.
Among his entreaties and solid reasons that are the basis for why he believes I should cancel my big trip is the possibility that my plane might crash. Which plane, exactly, that might be, he never says. I have a stop-over in Phoenix on my way out; a longer one on my return trip via the Las Vegas airport with its oasis bar . . . selling NOT alcohol but Ethel's Chocolates. (Have I ever told you about the virtues of their key lime truffle?) I count four separate legs of the journey. That' four planes harboring the possibility for engine failure.
He's not joking but nor is he being particularly morbid in his dire prediction. What he sees is this thing which could permanently break up our family. Though I stand more chance of being killed in a car accident, he never begs me to remain at home from a dangerous trip to the grocery store or a hazardous foray to Starbuck's for his precious beans. It's the combination of time, distance, AND mode of travel which has created this portentous welling of feeling within my spouse of 21 years. Not to mention the fact that I am traveling without my little family. It's his way of saying he misses me already and can't begin to imagine how many fold that will increase in my actual absence.
But the morning news, not to mention the hard curve balls of our own lives, reveals a world in which bad things really do happen to good, and bad, people. So, let's suppose I did, in fact, board a flight which was bound for a crash landing with no survivors. I've actually been supposing that very thing all day. Not out of fear. Not because of any superstition. Definitely not due to any sense of impending doom. It was an exercise in contemplation. I contemplated a very short list. My personal demise, the way in which it might happen, the dreams I would not continue to seek -- this was not my short list. How my family would feel, how the loss would affect their lives, and what I would want them to know -- these were the elements of my serious daydream.
Obviously, my death would impact Jimmy and the kids. No mystery there. It would be painful. Something I would not wish on even a sworn enemy. In the larger scope, stretching past the perimeter of the initial loss, their futures loom large. Would my husband find another parter for the rest of his life? Would the kids ever forgive me for flying away from them and creating a void in their existences? And on the other end of the trip, would Gary continue to try for a better life, a non-institutionalized life, without his main advocate?
As my initial time frame for this blog has come and gone, including a stumble of minutes whereby my chin hit my chest, hinting at what I should be doing, I'll cut to the chase.
To Gary I would suggest that he start living for himself and remember there are people rooting him on, ready to see him stand straight and master the helm of his own ship. I would beg him to continue to entertain hope so that what we worked so hard for together would not have been a vain pursuit. "Thank you, brother, for knowing my heart so well and so honestly that you never raised your voice in righteous anger toward anything I ever had to tell you for your own good. You are a rare bird to both ask for advice and actually take it. That puts you in the front of the line. I love you. The Lord is real. Finish our book. Life is coming to get you!"
To Ashley I would ask that she be confident in who she was made to be. "Remember that curly-haired rat-nested wisp of a child who ate pasta and cheese with fervor, forsaking meat for yogurt though you once enjoyed pre-masticated McDonald's cheeseburgers courtesy of your ma! She was fierce and did not question her right to assert herself and be heard. She was most definitely NOT passive When marriage and motherhood enter your stage left, shine the lights full on them and act them out with passion to the very end. Don't forget to put Abby's flea and tick on EVERY month. Thanks for all of today's hugs. I love you, sweet thing!"
To Sarah I would request she see college all the way to its conclusion. "Be the superstar you know you were born to be. Take your passion and shape it around the people and things you select and place in your adult life. Remember our talks and the very adult advice you often gave to me over the last year or two. Never lose your topknot . . . its beautiful and courageous. Stay friends with your brother and sister because they know you best, dear girl. Find a good home for that hamster but let him use his wheel in the meantime. I understand your anger at my leaving right when you get off restriction. Don't feel guilty about such things. Talk to your dad like you talked to me. I love you, uggless!"
To Zachary I would tell you my spirit is never far from you. "Talk to the Lord. Imagine your mom with Grace and Gabriel and all of our many loved ones who went before us. Don't hang on to negative feelings. Let sadness be a mere whisper in the course of your life. I'm proud of your energy and humor and personality. If I seemed hard on you, it was only because I saw your potential and wanted to protect it from a covetous world. Stay away from those older girls as you make your way through high school! Take care of Panda. Keep feeding her the special recipe. Know that I went upstairs to check on you and watched you sleep. Even now, I hear that squeaky twin bed and can't wait to see you in the new double size. You were a delightful gift to our family upon your birth, little boy. I love you, mister son!"
To Jimmy I would want him to know that as I puttered around, doing the odd chore amidst the flurry of my packing, connecting with my home and family through the mundane actions of my everyday, I came across his discarded clothing. I picked them up to toss them in the hamper, but stopped to press his t-shirt to my face, inhaling the very masculine and warmly familiar scent of him. I was flooded with the certain knowledge that despite every hardship we've faced as a family and as an old married couple (smile), our 21 years together were of unquantified value. "You have provided me with more security, comfort, and safety than I had ever before experienced in life. Your dedication to working to provide for your family and your desire to allow me to remain home for our children also gave me space and time in which to heal some of my personal wounds. In ways you may never fully understand, you handed me the freedom to support and aid my siblings in their very public private battles. You loved me even when I confounded you. You deserve to love again and be loved. Allow it. Please, continue to build a rapport with your children as they enter adulthood. They will delight you, I promise. Listen to them and know they listen to you. I beg you not to forget my brother and sister. Keep them in the family. Smile and know I am in the 4th dimension, Jimmers. I love you, my husband."
But, this is all nothing more than a simple exercise. My feelings and thoughts are not hidden. I don't wait for special occasions. My family would most likely be the first to exclaim that I express myself well and very, very, very often. What's the point of leaving beautiful things unsaid? They offer scant comfort in death. To my readers, to my friends, to my other family members who are both close and precious to me, I love each one of you and value the unique niche in my heart wherein all of you dwell.
With that, until next I post, I'm off for what will be the swiftest hour and a half of sleep in human history. I've got a plane to catch at 9AM.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
A Closer Walk
There are moments where I yearn to lose myself in the trees of Tennessee. Instances when a drive down a side road -- shortcut home -- has me contemplating what it would be like to just start walking in any direction, pushing through underbrush, one foot in front of the other for long stretches of time. The azure sky above. The solid ground below. The bright redbirds darting from one perch to another, courting their mates with song, competing with the plump little bluebirds which rise and fall with their melodies. Snakes, frogs, and the blue-striped lizards making the odd appearance somewhere in the vicinity of my feet. Perhaps I might take a rest on a lip of rock jutting from an overgrown embankment. Listen to the enveloping absence of suburban sounds and see the encompassing invisibility of suburban sights.
At some point in the walkabout, an open meadow, the perpetual field of undulating green heralded in any number of excellent stories, will appear on the horizon. An unexpected delight revealing itself between the closely growing evergreens and tall slender pin oaks. I will step out from the lower spreading canopy of redbuds and dogwoods which are leggier and willowy because of the shade. Beneath my shoes, grasses yield to the imprint of Nikes or Avias eager to get on with it. As I progress, the knee-high sea closes behind me, my trail barely discernible to the naked eye. Now, the sun may have its way with me. Wash over me. Beat down on my head and shoulders if it must. Its golden light makes the seedheads of the field appear to almost twinkle. There will be a good mile of losing myself in this expanse. The denizens of this meadow are more aware of me, tromping atop their homes, than I am of them, hidden in their perfect cover. We leave one another alone. But I am filled with gratitude to know they exist in numbers uncounted by modern man. This is their neighborhood. Their front and back yards. Their park and grocery store and school.
This one woman has no desire to raze their village. Disrupt the apple cart. Leave a mark touting her superior presence. I only want to escape the concrete cage of my existence for a mere blip of time. My desire is immerse this one body and mind, this single soul, in a place where no clock or iPhone or laptop or calendar directs my minutes and hours and days. Here is where closeness to my Maker is easiest for me. He placed at my core this longing, this love, this familiarity with His natural world. This is worship at its simplest. Most basic. Easiest. These places are forever filled with song and praise. They trumpet as to the aspects of His glory. Leaves brush the heavens with delight. The babbling brook continually speaks of a God in fluid motion beyond the mechanization of the men and women He created. The sheer number of vines and bough and every green and flowering thing displays His creativity. Gently rolling hills speak to His divine and unending grace. Everywhere His virtues abound beyond measure.
This is an entire outing flashing across the screen of my mind as I make my way through a short section of countryside before pulling into my 1/3 acre lot, 2-car garage, 3 1/2 bath, formal dining room, 5 bedroom, one bonus room, and beautiful central kitchen house. My slice of the pie. No chickens or goats. No old farmhouse or field of sunflowers. But yes to a hundred year-old elm in the back. Yes to tomatoes and okra and bronze fennel. Yes to varied hydrangeas and my own thickly growing red buds and dogwood. Within that blip, I crossed the sub-conscious chasm which separates man from God and partook of life-affirming fellowship.
I am sustained for the remainder of this day. Where, pray tell, will I walk tomorrow?
At some point in the walkabout, an open meadow, the perpetual field of undulating green heralded in any number of excellent stories, will appear on the horizon. An unexpected delight revealing itself between the closely growing evergreens and tall slender pin oaks. I will step out from the lower spreading canopy of redbuds and dogwoods which are leggier and willowy because of the shade. Beneath my shoes, grasses yield to the imprint of Nikes or Avias eager to get on with it. As I progress, the knee-high sea closes behind me, my trail barely discernible to the naked eye. Now, the sun may have its way with me. Wash over me. Beat down on my head and shoulders if it must. Its golden light makes the seedheads of the field appear to almost twinkle. There will be a good mile of losing myself in this expanse. The denizens of this meadow are more aware of me, tromping atop their homes, than I am of them, hidden in their perfect cover. We leave one another alone. But I am filled with gratitude to know they exist in numbers uncounted by modern man. This is their neighborhood. Their front and back yards. Their park and grocery store and school.
This one woman has no desire to raze their village. Disrupt the apple cart. Leave a mark touting her superior presence. I only want to escape the concrete cage of my existence for a mere blip of time. My desire is immerse this one body and mind, this single soul, in a place where no clock or iPhone or laptop or calendar directs my minutes and hours and days. Here is where closeness to my Maker is easiest for me. He placed at my core this longing, this love, this familiarity with His natural world. This is worship at its simplest. Most basic. Easiest. These places are forever filled with song and praise. They trumpet as to the aspects of His glory. Leaves brush the heavens with delight. The babbling brook continually speaks of a God in fluid motion beyond the mechanization of the men and women He created. The sheer number of vines and bough and every green and flowering thing displays His creativity. Gently rolling hills speak to His divine and unending grace. Everywhere His virtues abound beyond measure.
This is an entire outing flashing across the screen of my mind as I make my way through a short section of countryside before pulling into my 1/3 acre lot, 2-car garage, 3 1/2 bath, formal dining room, 5 bedroom, one bonus room, and beautiful central kitchen house. My slice of the pie. No chickens or goats. No old farmhouse or field of sunflowers. But yes to a hundred year-old elm in the back. Yes to tomatoes and okra and bronze fennel. Yes to varied hydrangeas and my own thickly growing red buds and dogwood. Within that blip, I crossed the sub-conscious chasm which separates man from God and partook of life-affirming fellowship.
I am sustained for the remainder of this day. Where, pray tell, will I walk tomorrow?
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
The Anti-Philosophy
Life philosophies. Those spoken and unspoken. We all have them. Our lives are mapped out and executed according to them. And . . . many of them are misguided, misdirected, and just plain wrong.
Tonight I caught the finale of a television series I enjoy, "House." In this particular episode, a crane operator loses control of his machine and wreaks havoc on a building, leaving behind roughly 100 victims, dead and injured, including a woman with her leg pinned under a fallen beam in what was once the parking garage. Dr. Gregory House, our protagonist AND antagonist (part of the charm of the show, really, because how often does that happen?), is caught up in one of those conversations he loves to hate with this woman who has become his patient despite his reluctance. Obviously, per the plot line, her life is in real danger of ending. I'll just save you the time and let you know she dies after a tense attempt to rescue her life and limb, literally, and the necessary resultant amputation of part of her trapped lower leg. A fat embolism forms and travels as the ambulance is speeding toward the ER. Everything was done right but she still didn't make it.
During the course of that talk, dust in the air, debris all around, the possibility of total collapse and ultimate death lingering on every surface, those animate and inanimate, she shares her belief that if a person acts towards others with goodness and lives with good intentions, trying hard to do the best and right in all situations, that she thought nothing truly bad or terrible would happen to that kind and giving person.
Those words are barely out of her mouth before I feel myself shaking my head with vigor and no small amount of . . . what? Irritation? Frustration? Disbelief? Wonder? Sadness? Maybe a curious combination of all. All through the course of my own life, I've heard many a person express this idea. It's not a bad idea, as far as general fairness goes, but it is flawed. There are no pure examples of this being lived out nor have there ever been. It simply sounds good. It seems that is how it should be. So, maybe if it is said, over and over, through the days and years, it will eventually begin to just BE.
No. No. No. As a believing Christian, I could offer the most obvious example to refute this philosophy. However, we'll assume everyone reading this has a working knowledge of the story and the man behind it. After him, most folks will fall a tad far from the mark, but let's go with the idea that even mistake-prone individuals possess at their core either benevolence or malevolence. Generosity or selfishness. A desire for joy or a leaning toward hatred.
How many senseless accidents end with memorial services where the decedent is eulogized in phrases like "She had so much to give!" or "No one was more loved than him!" or even "The world has lost a treasure in this passing!"? How many parents outlive their children after a loving and responsible upbringing? How many innocents are murdered in the name of war every day? I'll stop here so as not to be a total downer. That's not my point. I realize there are those whose existences are relatively benign from start to finish. Stories where decades well spent end in a gentle exhalation of breath and a stopping of the heart during sleep. I also know truly awful people who seem to be reaping the physical rewards of this earth with no seeming pain inflicted upon them though they are able to cause great harm to the lessers around them. THAT'S my point. There is no pattern to the madness, or even the lack thereof, from person to person, family to family, even nation to nation. Things happen. Or they don't.
It's what we do afterward that matters. Or how we react to the lack of such. We will either be shaped or broken. It is possible to rise from the ashes or blow away in the wind as so much dust. Some of us will spend a ridiculous amount of time rising from the floor, resembling Rocky Balboa far more than we might desire. (Who desires to look like him, now that I think on that?) Some of us will float just above the surface of tragedy and sorrow, never actually touching the flotsam and jetsam below. Period. End of story.
My philosophy simply reminds me that at any time any of us may be struck dumb with grief, shock, searing heartache, and mindless suffering; lightness of being, elation, happiness, and celebration may also land a few good punches. Be aware. Absorb the lesson. Pass on the benefit. And, generally avoid forming too many life philosophies. Chances are you'll have to rethink them. Often. Especially if you watch "House."
Tonight I caught the finale of a television series I enjoy, "House." In this particular episode, a crane operator loses control of his machine and wreaks havoc on a building, leaving behind roughly 100 victims, dead and injured, including a woman with her leg pinned under a fallen beam in what was once the parking garage. Dr. Gregory House, our protagonist AND antagonist (part of the charm of the show, really, because how often does that happen?), is caught up in one of those conversations he loves to hate with this woman who has become his patient despite his reluctance. Obviously, per the plot line, her life is in real danger of ending. I'll just save you the time and let you know she dies after a tense attempt to rescue her life and limb, literally, and the necessary resultant amputation of part of her trapped lower leg. A fat embolism forms and travels as the ambulance is speeding toward the ER. Everything was done right but she still didn't make it.
During the course of that talk, dust in the air, debris all around, the possibility of total collapse and ultimate death lingering on every surface, those animate and inanimate, she shares her belief that if a person acts towards others with goodness and lives with good intentions, trying hard to do the best and right in all situations, that she thought nothing truly bad or terrible would happen to that kind and giving person.
Those words are barely out of her mouth before I feel myself shaking my head with vigor and no small amount of . . . what? Irritation? Frustration? Disbelief? Wonder? Sadness? Maybe a curious combination of all. All through the course of my own life, I've heard many a person express this idea. It's not a bad idea, as far as general fairness goes, but it is flawed. There are no pure examples of this being lived out nor have there ever been. It simply sounds good. It seems that is how it should be. So, maybe if it is said, over and over, through the days and years, it will eventually begin to just BE.
No. No. No. As a believing Christian, I could offer the most obvious example to refute this philosophy. However, we'll assume everyone reading this has a working knowledge of the story and the man behind it. After him, most folks will fall a tad far from the mark, but let's go with the idea that even mistake-prone individuals possess at their core either benevolence or malevolence. Generosity or selfishness. A desire for joy or a leaning toward hatred.
How many senseless accidents end with memorial services where the decedent is eulogized in phrases like "She had so much to give!" or "No one was more loved than him!" or even "The world has lost a treasure in this passing!"? How many parents outlive their children after a loving and responsible upbringing? How many innocents are murdered in the name of war every day? I'll stop here so as not to be a total downer. That's not my point. I realize there are those whose existences are relatively benign from start to finish. Stories where decades well spent end in a gentle exhalation of breath and a stopping of the heart during sleep. I also know truly awful people who seem to be reaping the physical rewards of this earth with no seeming pain inflicted upon them though they are able to cause great harm to the lessers around them. THAT'S my point. There is no pattern to the madness, or even the lack thereof, from person to person, family to family, even nation to nation. Things happen. Or they don't.
It's what we do afterward that matters. Or how we react to the lack of such. We will either be shaped or broken. It is possible to rise from the ashes or blow away in the wind as so much dust. Some of us will spend a ridiculous amount of time rising from the floor, resembling Rocky Balboa far more than we might desire. (Who desires to look like him, now that I think on that?) Some of us will float just above the surface of tragedy and sorrow, never actually touching the flotsam and jetsam below. Period. End of story.
My philosophy simply reminds me that at any time any of us may be struck dumb with grief, shock, searing heartache, and mindless suffering; lightness of being, elation, happiness, and celebration may also land a few good punches. Be aware. Absorb the lesson. Pass on the benefit. And, generally avoid forming too many life philosophies. Chances are you'll have to rethink them. Often. Especially if you watch "House."
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