Of many things…
Part 1:
This morning I was sore from yesterday’s Body Pump session and I had a headache. So, what happened? I was browsing a food and fitness blog, of all things, and came across a post where the author was making the point “It’s a choice.” This woman was talking about getting her butt in gear and doing her workout despite not feeling 100% at the start, and about paying attention and eating right, even when she was in a place where she could just as easily have gone on a binge. But, she finally realizes, it’s always a choice.
So true. And so, I got dressed, told my headache that things would be better “real soon now” and my hamstrings that “a good stretch is just what you need” and headed out for a Zumba class. It was tough to get through, but I feel so much better now that I’ve worked through the sore. It is a choice.
Part 2:
On the way home from the gym, I was listening the “On Point” as they slogged through the civil war within the Republican Party. You can agree with me or not, but it certainly is sounding like a civil war to an outsider. At one point, one of the guests was talking about how concerned the Republicans should be when businessmen are traipsing over to the White House to try to resolve problems like immigration reform and health care.
It seems to me that commerce and common good will drive policy, no matter what is legislated. Remember all those battles over English only? If someone comes to this country, THEY MUST COMMUNICATE IN ENGLISH. You know — no way we need to pay to have government documents in Spanish (or French, Korean, Japanese or Chinese); And what has happened?
Take a look at packaging in the grocery store, or any packaging for that matter. At least in my area, most have a side in English and a side in Spanish. It’s become so common, sometimes I forget which language I’m reading. I’ve learned a lot of spanish vocabulary by just shopping.
Or think about how the AFL-CIO flip-flopped on immigration reform. At some point they accepted that their stance on immigration was actually detrimental to laborers.
Sometimes, the right thing happens for the strangest reasons.
Part 3:
It has been interesting to watch the reactions as the 3rd season of Downton Abbey unfolds. No doubt, they will lose many viewers because of the events that unfold. I’ve not viewed ahead, so I’m only still angry that they killed off Lady Sybil (one of my favorite characters). I understand there is more grief to come. And so I mutter to myself that is is fiction, so the writers should think about keeping certain characters alive and kicking… followed by wondering if these stories write themselves at times and if they have a life of their own, then maybe there is no other way. I’m betting I won’t be pleased with the end of the season.
The end: This doesn’t seem to fit in with other posts on this blog. Can’t find good tags for it. Journey’s are funny that way.
Needless suffering
Sorry God– but I just can’t make any sense out of this school shooting to day. It makes it hard to gaze on your goodness and believe.
There are so many things right now that are pushing me to a place of disbelief… a place where I feel a need to shake my fist at declare that you don’t konw what you are doing these days. The school shooting, Baby Cooper, a rabid kitten in the neighborhood, the shooting in the mall in Oregon… OK, so a rabid kitten isn’t up there with the others, but, geeze! It’s not something that makes it easy to see goodness and light as I walk through Advent. These are things that make me fearful and angry and at the same time determined not to let “the bad guys” scare me.
Advent — a time of hope and expectation for for new life, waiting for Emmanuel.
In the midst of this I look out and see a beautiful day. I hope for good news on other fronts. I think of the fun my granddaughter and I had earlier in the week.
Today is going to take some time to make peace with.
Comfort in the familiar
For almost a year now I have been adapting to the changes in the English mass — moving from “And also with you” to ” And with your Spirit”, and no longer using “Christ has died, Christ has risen, Christ will come again.” Many rather small changes, but things that have interrupted the rhythm of the mass I knew and loved from the time I came in to the Catholic Church.
Today we celebrated with my niece and her husband as they celebrated their second anniversary, renewed their wedding vows and had their marriage blessed and celebrated in the Episcopal Church. It felt both odd and comforting to revert to those phrases that have been dropped and replaced in the Catholic mass. Yes, the rite is slightly different, but oh so familiar and comforting. It felt almost more like mass that I know and love than the masses I attend weekly. It always makes me smile and relax when the Episcopal priest joyfully invites all to share at the Lord’s table (yes, I have no qualms about receiving communion in this church… )
In a funny way, I have a deep knowing that perhaps it would be possible to be at home somewhere other than with the RC’s. I’m not leaving, but it is just good to know that there are other places that can feel like home. It let’s me know at a deep level that “we are many parts, we are all one body” indeed. It lets me know that there are places where I can sit out a storm should I need to.
Thanks Beth and Kelly for letting me be a part of this whole celebration. It means more than you could ever know.
External Validation – or not?
Last night I was at a talk by the directory of Ignatius House in Atlanta. I’ve known her for many years. We made our Cursillo weekends at the same time. We walked for an hour or so early in the morning for nearly a year. She is a Myers-Briggs extrovert, I an introvert. So, it is fascinating watch and hear this woman who draws energy from talking and interaction and doing speak about how her first silent retreat had such a profound impact on her life because the answers and insights came from within. She just had to be slowed down and made quiet long enough to be able to hear and pay attention.
Then, this morning I was trying to encourage another, older friend to pursue OLLI (Osher Lifelong Learner Institute) classes. I particularly enjoy “Writing Our Lives” — a class that aims to help people write better and in particular, to write memoirs. Me? I use it as a push to journal. I am primarily interested in telling my story to myself so that I can begin to understand and accept this person that lives inside my skin. There are days I really like her, and days when she mystifies me, and days when I really don’t want her around. Writing is personal to me. It helps me to get to know me, and if anyone else is interested, that is fine. (If you are reading this, you are one of the few that might be interested).
Anyway, my friend, not knowing much about OLLI, seemed overwhelmed at the thought of taking classes. I found myself explaining that there is really no homework (unless you want to do something outside of class — like in the Spanish classes I take), and there are no grades. “No tests? No grades?” she asked, suprised. “Then how do you know you are improving?””
I felt myself stop cold. My first, silent, reaction was “What kind of dumb question is that? Can’t you tell when you are improving?” I’ve been mulling it over. I still rather feel that way — I am comfortable with my own evaluation of my progress. It seems a bit sad to think that someone requires another person to pass judgement on whether they are learning anything. Yes, being accountable to someone else can help me move forward and stay on track. But, listening to God within, is the thing that can actually make a difference.
I worked for many years at a job where my bosses and I were seldom on the same page. I think I had to learn to listen to myself and be true to what I believed to be job that needed doing, no matter what they thought. If I had only done what they thought necessary, the results would have been disastrous. I was hired to take care of technology and computer security and I simply had to do what was required despite the often incomprehension of those I worked for. It resulted in learning to listen to myself and try to move beyond the negative feedback from those around me. It wasn’t easy. It added to other issues, and I dare say it contributed to depression. But, in the long run, it has been a lesson worth the anguish. That external validation is good, but it cannot be the rudder that guides the course. That rudder, that compass is between me and the Creator.
And so, I hope my friend can move to the place where she is comfortable with the idea that tests and grades are not the yardstick by which she must measure herself… that will be a joyful day for all.
Stories Retold: Falling and Comfort
As I wrote a memoir story yesterday in my Writing Our Lives class, I came to a place where I understood that I was telling the wrong story. The story that needed to be told came at the situation from a very different place…
“Wait, G. Wait on Mémère.”
Genevieve turned on the basement stairs, without holding on. In horrific slow motion I watched helplessly as she tumbled like a doll down the stairs before coming to a halt on the landing. I don’t know if I screamed or cried out. Rushing down the stairs, I carefully lifted her almost 2 year old body into my arms. I didn’t want to move anything that might cause further injury, but I was so scared, I had to hold her close and try to comfort her while I checked things out. I remember asking her “what hurts?” and “Was that really scary?” She snuggled on my shoulder and let me know that her head hurt and it was very scary.
After checking her out for injuries, and after looking deep into her eyes to be sure that they were dialating equally — all those things one learns to do when raising children, I got her Mommy on the phone, talked to the pediatrician’s nurse and finally let her take a nap. By the time we saw the doc in the afternoon it was clear that Dr. Stacy was treating Mémère more than G, and that the physical trauma was minimal.
Flash back 50 plus years.
The front porch was a good 3 or 4 steps up from the ground. Painted concrete, no railings, but wide and a great place to play. My own grandmother, my Nannaw, would come an stay with us on occasion when my parents would go off to see the Crimson Tide play football. (I come from a divided family – WAR EAGLE! — but that is for another day) We listened to football on the radio and learned from Nanaw that “Touch Down Alabama!” was “a good thing.” We used left over pie dough as modeling clay. We played with the cats or kittens and the dog. All of this occurred on the porch.
But, just as the porch was a great thing (just as the basement stairs are a fascination for my granddaughter), that same porch can dredge up a couple of traumatic memories. On one of those football Saturdays, I remember all of us going to the end of the porch — the end which was graced by the presence of a beautiful, but thorny, pyracantha bush. I leaned out around the corner looking for one of the cats. Wham! I tumbled from the porch to the ground — or rather into the thorny pyracantha.
Nannaw must have had a similar reaction to the one I had watching G tumble down the stairs. I remember her helping me up, checking me out, treating scratches, comforting me.
To this day, I am very timid, even fearful, about heights and about jumping across things like low walls or ditches. I make myself do it at times. But, I do think suspect that the tumble into the pyracantha bush still stalks my psyche and tries to scare me. I need so much for my own grandchild to be unafraid of these things. As I held her close at the bottom of the stairs, I not only wanted her to be physically ok, I needed to help her process and remember the event in a way that would not make her afraid for the rest of her life.
I breathe easier when she talks about it and says “I hurt my head. Mémère picked me up.” I hope that the dominant memory will be that of being taken care of rather than the fall itself.