Tuesday, December 18, 2012

What Kind of Light Can I Provide?




In times of deep darkness, we not only need light—we need to BE light for one another. 
That's a message we must take to heart as we find ourselves lost once again
in the all-too-familiar darkness of America's culture of violence.

~Parker Palmer


Somehow I managed to make it until Friday evening before learning about the shooting at Sandy Hook Elementary School in Connecticut. I had opted to listen to The Be Good Tanyas and Leonard Cohen in the car that day rather than NPR. But when I got home and opened Facebook, I was instantly overwhelmed by a flood of posts about this tragic incident, a flood that I quickly got swept up in. It seemed that none of us knew what to do other than share articles and statistics, express outrage with political memes, sadness with Rumi quotes. But soon enough all this posting and sharing began to feel like binge eating. We could stuff ourselves with information and opinions, but it would not diminish the loss and pain.

When I could finally read and post no more, I turned off the computer feeling numb. I was overwhelmed by too many words when there were really no words that could possibly express the sadness, anger, helplessness, and grief I was feeling. On Saturday I threw myself into pulling weeds, sweeping the yard, vacuuming the living room, moving Christmas boxes to the garage. The more physical and mindless the work, the better. You know that if I start cleaning with that kind of fervor, something is up.  Perhaps this was a more honest expression of my feelings, a physical release of some of that emotion. 

I did not cry until Sunday. The children's production of "The Latke That Wouldn't Stop Screaming" continued as planned at church. We needed to see children in cardboard costumes. We needed to hear a story that reminds us that everyone belongs somewhere. We needed to be reminded that there is still plenty of love and light, joy and laughter in the world. 

This is not what made me cry, however.

Aaron and Julia, the ministers at my Unitarian church knew people would need someplace to go with the stew of feelings this tragedy left them with. They provided such a place in the second service Sunday morning, beginning with 26 minutes of silent meditation or prayer, interrupted only by the sound of a bell each minuteone clear, resonant ring for each person who died in the shooting. There were a few words, but not too many. There would be plenty of time for words in the weeks and months to come. 

I had a hard time settling my mind during the silence and I simply could not process any more words. The music that morning touched me deeply, but what broke me open and made me cry was the rending of cloth. The rending of garments, or Keriah, is an ancient Jewish mourning ritual, a sanctioned and ritualized act of destruction in the face of grief. One description I read suggested that the rent garment represents the torn heart of the mourner. 

We did not rend our garments. But Julia and Aaron gave us white muslin and asked us to tear strips when the cloth was passed to us. The growing sound of fabric tearing was the sound of hearts being torn open. It was the sound of anguish and grief. The resistance of the muslin as I tore my strips released my anger and my tears. That was when I finally cried for those children and their teachers.

We tied strips of muslin around each other's arms to wear that day in honor of those who died. I am still wearing mine. Frankly, I am afraid to take it off. I know how easy it is to get caught up in the business of day to day life, to "forget" how important this is. Christmas is a week away. I need to finish shopping. I want to share holiday traditions with my family and sing with my choir on Christmas Eve. December is all about the promise of light out of darkness. Hanukkah, the winter solstice, Christmas are all about the promise of light. And I want to remember that promise. But I do NOT want to forget this tragedy. 

So I'm going to keep wearing this small piece of cloth around my arm until after the holidays so I will remember. Because we simply cannot go back to sleep until the next horrible shooting. If we do, then we are as guilty as the next shooter. What we can do is listen deeply to each other, even when we disagree (especially when we disagree). We can sign petitions, write letters, march in the streets, make some noise. And we can start building a culture of respect and kindness, one act at a time, one day at a time. We can choose to be part of the promise of light out of this darkness. As author Parker Palmer posted on Facebook this morning, everyday we can ask ourselves, "What kind of light can I provide today?" 


























Wednesday, December 12, 2012

Grace and the Christmas Fish




"Christmas is for children. But it is for grownups too. 
Even if it is a headache, a chore, and nightmare, 
it is a period of necessary defrosting 
of chill and hide-bound hearts." 

~ Lenora Weber, writer

'Tis the season for sentimentality and cynicism. Christmas comes rolling in like a giant out-of-control snowball before we've even finished washing the Thanksgiving dishes and keeps picking up speed as it crashes through December. I can be grumpy, frantic, joyful, tearful, pissed off, or peaceful, sometimes all in the same day during the Christmas season. With luck, I usually recover sometime mid January.

I married Ebeneezer Scrooge. It may say Paul Kretschmer on our marriage license, but that's just an alias. Paul would probably choose dental surgery over most Christmas activities, so the bulk of the Christmas chores land on my To Do list. Today he surprised me though. He told me he likes our Christmas mornings. He likes watching the kids open presents, he thinks Santa makes good choices for them, he appreciates that they are grateful for what they receive. Part of me thought, isn't that nice. A much larger part wanted to say, you DO know Santa isn't real, don't you? Somebody has to actually shop for and wrap those presents, the same somebody who considers putting coal in your stocking every year.

I like Christmas. Really I do. But I'm feeling a little blue this December. I'm missing my children. I've sort of gotten used to Scrooge. But what happened to the two people who have given me the most holiday joy over the years?  At twelve and (almost) fifteen, Miles and Frances are suddenly jaded and apathetic about the whole thing, well everything but the gifts. They showed about as much enthusiasm for decorating the tree last weekend as they do for clearing the dinner table. Yet, it wasn't that long ago that their excitement over holiday traditions and their giddy anticipation of Santa's arrival were what kept me going this time of year. And it wasn't that long ago that there was a little magic in our Christmas.

When Frances was nine years old, she and Miles sat down to write letters to Santa Claus. This was not something we did every year, but that year Frances was beginning to question the whole Santa operation. I thought a letter might help keep Mr. Claus around awhile longer. I wasn't ready to let Santa out of the bag yet, so I kept silent as Frances pondered questions like, how does Santa manage to cover all that territory in a single night, and why do the presents look like they come from stores if the elves are making them? I would reply with something like, Christmas is all about magic, and then feel twinges of guilt for outright lying to this smart, inquisitive child. Or I might throw the whole inquiry back at her by asking, what do you think?  And then quickly turn up the Christmas music and offer her another cookie.

So letters to Santa were written. Among other things, Frances asked for a fish and some chocolate. We addressed the envelope to Santa Claus at the North Pole, put it in the mailbox and went about our decorating, baking, and nightly reading of our many Christmas books. Frances continued to pose questions about Santa's existence. I artfully evaded direct answers. Just one more year, I hoped. Besides, I didn't want her to ruin the magic for Miles. I'm a firm believer in childhood magic. There's plenty of time for reality when you grow up.  As Katrina Kenison writes in her book, Mitten Strings For God, "The realm of enchantment is open to us all, if we are willing to step over the threshold." I wanted Santa to hang around awhile longer, for the kids and for me too.

One afternoon, a little more than a week after the letters to Santa were mailed, the postman knocked on our front door. He handed me a small package addressed to Frances. The return address said, The North Pole. What could this be? The postmark was from a town about 100 miles north of us. It made no sense. With nervous anticipation, I called Frances into the room. You got a package from Santa, I said. She could tell the surprise and wonder in my voice were genuine. She opened the package. There was a copy of her letter and a small wrapped gift. Go ahead, I said. Open it. She carefully tore the paper as Miles and I watched. Inside were several squares of Ghirardelli chocolate, a small fish ornament, and a gift card to Petco. Wow, I said. That's amazing! Santa sent you an early present! That small package of kindness was the highlight of Christmas for us that year.

To this day, we have no idea who that gift was from. I like to imagine an elderly woman with white hair and sensible shoes choosing Frances' letter out of a mailbag full of letters to Santa. I've named her Grace. I can picture her shopping for the chocolates and coming up with a clever way to give Frances a fish. (We exchanged the Petco gift card for a Beta fish named Harry Water. Harry was part of the family for several years.) And even though I had to quickly scramble for an explanation for why Frances got an early present and Miles didn't (I think I said something about a random drawing, sort of like in The Polar Express), it was worth it. Grace gave us one more year with Santa Claus.

May you find a little magic and grace in your holidays this year.







Tuesday, December 4, 2012

A Broken Hallelujah




"It’s not a cry you can hear at night
It’s not somebody who has seen the light
It’s a cold and it’s a broken Hallelujah"

~Leonard Cohen

I arrived at church at 5:30 Sunday evening, potluck dish in hand, to meet some friends. We were planning to car pool to our choir holiday party at the beautiful home of one of our members. It had been raining steadily all day and we hurried to climb into the car, carefully trying to keep our food and our party clothes dry. There was a bit of good-humored grousing about the weather as we sat waiting for a couple of others to arrive.

There were other people at church that evening too. Lined up around one of our community halls were maybe forty homeless men and women waiting for a hot meal and a place to sleep. Our church, along with a handful of other churches in town, takes turns hosting the Freedom Warming Center on nights when it is raining or dangerously cold. The warming center staff provides bedding and and runs a well-organized and compassionate operation, Doctors Without Walls offer medical care, and church volunteers make and serve a hot meal. 

Last winter I prepared and served a few casseroles at the warming center with some friends and my kids. And we will do it again this winter. It is hard to put into words the impact this experience had on me. I have both nothing and everything in common with these hungry, cold people seeking a meal and a bed. My life seems embarrassingly rich, my problems so trivial compared to what fate has dealt these brothers and sisters of mine. I can give them a meal, but I am not equipped to solved the myriad problems that accompany them to that shelter on a rainy night: Homelessness, unemployment, addiction, mental illness, a safety net of family and friends that is damaged or missing entirely. 

But there is something I can give them that is at least as important as a meal. I can ask their names and listen to their stories if they want to tell them. In this way I can give them a small measure of dignity. Last winter I met a man who had ridden his bike from Oregon pulling his dog in a baby trailer. He was not a young man and he clearly grappled with some mental health issues. He was making his way the best he could. He showed me some of the repairs he had managed on his bike, outdoing  MacGyver with his resourcefulness. And he told me he thanked God everyday for what he had. He thanked me for the simple meal I had prepared as if it were at feast. His gratitude for life was genuine and immense. And though his was surely a a broken hallelujah, it was beautiful. 

But then, don't we all sing a broken hallelujah? Life is tragic and beautiful, sometimes in the same moment. Troubles are not distributed evenly among us by a long shot, but we all feel pain. And even the most desperate among us see at least glimpses of grace. It is that beautiful, broken humanity that I share with the guests of the warming center. In our brief connection on those evenings, it does not matter what I do for work, where I live, what clothes I wear, what books I've read. All that matters is that we are fellow travelers on this big blue ship. I only hope I showed that man from Oregon half as much dignity as he showed me.

Grace. It is woven throughout our connections with other people, nearly any time we are truly present with another. The other day I was walking with a young woman I work with. She has autism. She is not very verbal, though she does burst into song frequently. She likes it when I sing too. She was agitated on this day as she sometimes is. I cannot imagine how overwhelming the world must seem to her at times. As we were walking, she sang the word hallelujah a couple of times. I did not recognize her melody so I started singing Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah" to her, just the chorus, just the hallelujah. She looked at me and her whole body quieted down. Mine did too! I touched her arm and sang it again. And we walked that way back to the car. 

At the choir holiday party we held hands and sang "Silent Night." I felt grateful for this evening with these people I love. I thought of the people at the warming center, grateful they were being fed and given a warm place to sleep, wishing we could somehow take away all of their pain and suffering. When I got back to the church to pick up my car it was quiet. People were sleeping, some outside. The warming center staff watched over them. They would welcome people in and offer them food and a dry place to sleep all night. I am beginning to think that, paradoxically, it is our brokenness that can make us whole, make us fully human, allow us to reach out to another and find dignity and grace in our connections. And for this, we should sing hallelujah.

Jeff Buckley singing "Hallelujah," by Leonard Cohen. Be prepared to weep.

Tuesday, November 27, 2012

My Dad and I Could Teach Congress a Thing or Two


“I have wondered at times what the Ten Commandments would have looked like
if Moses had run them through the US Congress.” 
~Ronald Reagan

"We need not think alike to love alike."
~Francis David

My father was a Santa Barbara County Sheriff's officer on the night of February 25, 1970 when war protesters burned down the Isla Vista branch of the Bank of America. He was in the thick of it, trying to maintain some semblance of order in the chaos of that night.

I was seven years old. The Vietnam War was the soundtrack to my childhood, something that hummed along in the background but did not capture my attention much. I did not connect the protests and riots going on in Isla Vista with Vietnam. The war was something that happened on TV. The riots, however, were in my backyard. And my dad was there. When he put on his Sheriff's uniform or went under cover and headed into Isla Vista for work at night, I was afraid. My dad was not popular there. A flyer had been made and posted around IV with his picture and a caption that read "Not Wanted." We had to change our phone number when we started receiving threatening phone calls. And my mom slept with a loaded gun while my dad was at work. My parents protected my little sister and me from most of these details, but I was old enough to know my dad was in danger, old enough to be afraid.

My dad may have been a tough cop, but he was putty in my hands. I learned early on that if my mom said no to dessert or an extra half hour of TV, my dad would say yes. At a time when lots of fathers left most of the parenting to mothers, my dad was hands on. He was playful and affectionate and I worshiped him. He built me a beautiful playhouse in the backyard. He took me for rides on his motorcycle (no helmet, of course). He made sure we got hot fudge sundaes at Foster's Freeze on Friday nights, even if I hadn't eaten my vegetables. He was the parent I ran to when I was upset. When my parents divorced when I was nine, I was devastated. With undying loyalty and devotion to my dad, I blamed the entire thing on my mother (who took my wrath with selfless grace). In my adoring eyes, my dad could do no wrong. 

In my freshman year of high school, I had a student teacher for Social Studies who had been a UCSB student during those Vietnam protests in Isla Vista. For the first time, as he told stories of sit-ins and other peaceful protests he'd been involved in, I had a face to attach to those war protesters. I liked this teacher and the more he taught us about Vietnam, the more I found myself sympathizing with the protesters. My world began to shift off its axis as I found myself questioning my father's role during those turbulent times. For the first time in my life, I wasn't sure I agreed with my dad.  Of course, I was young and was looking at this issue through a very black and white lens. Years later I would realize that my dad's job was to defend order regardless of his feelings about the war. But when I was 14, the possibility that I might not agree with my dad rocked my world.


Little did I know this was only the beginning. As the years went by I migrated farther to the political left as my dad became more conservative. My dad loved Ronald Reagan, something I just could not comprehend. While still with the Sheriff's Department, he headed a security detail when Reagan was at his Santa Barbara ranch. He has a glowing letter from Reagan himself commending him for his fine work. I, on the other hand, supported Jerry Brown in one of his bids for the presidency. My dad and I have never once voted for the same presidential candidate. Yet, earlier this month, when Barack Obama won his second term on my birthday, my dad posted on my Facebook page, "I'm glad your candidate won just for your birthday."

And you know what? He meant it. Because here's the thing: My dad and I have always looked past our differences and straight at the love that binds us together. On one level, we have very different values. He's is a Christian and a conservative Republican. I am an Agnostic Unitarian and a liberal Democrat. But we have never let these differences knock us off the common ground we stand on. My dad is still one of my heroes. He's a good man who fiercely looks out for the people he loves and cares about the world. He has accepted and loved me without question, no matter how nuts he may think my politics or religion are. 

We do not try to change each other, my dad and I. We know in our bones that we can disagree with each other AND love each other. We will always have each other's backs and pull together for the important things. Because we know that what binds us together is much greater than what divides us. My dad and I could teach congress a thing or two, don't you think?


Happy Birthday, Dad
I love you

Wednesday, November 21, 2012

Oh Yeah, Gratitude


"Let us be grateful when we are able to give,
for many do not have that privilege.
Let us be grateful for those who share their gifts with us,
for we are enriched by their giving.
Let us be grateful even for our needs,
So that we may learn from the generosity of others."

~Unitarian affirmation of gratitude and giving


I have written about gratitude as a spiritual practice before. Allow me to demystify my "practice" a bit. I am not climbing to any mountain tops, I assure you. All I do is write down at least three things I am grateful for (most) everyday. And in order to have something to write down, I keep my eye out for the good stuff as I go through the day, the big juicy sunsets, a long walk, or the fact that my friend Alison picked up my kids from school and saved my butt once again. The really cool thing is the unexpected gift this simple practice has given me. I was a glass half empty kind of person for most of my life. Now I hoist a glass that is at least half full most of the time. It's like spiritual jogging. If I do it regularly, I can really feel those gratitude muscles getting stronger. If I get lazy, well then it's a slippery slope straight down to whiny complaining and self pity. Spiritual flab begins to replace good muscle tone.

Well, I've gotten lazy the past couple of months. And I am having trouble mustering up genuine feelings of gratitude. Thanksgiving, the Superbowl of Gratitude, is upon us and I find myself out of shape and unprepared for the game. I may be benched. How embarrassing is that?  Lately, when I do remember to write down three things I am grateful for, it feels sort of forced. The words are there, but not the feelings. Instead of focusing on what is good and plentiful in my life, the things that sustain me and give me strength to do the heavy lifting, I'm mucking around in longing, resentment, blame, focusing on scarcity, complaining about what I don't have. 

My husband, the Buddhist, reminds me that attachment is what causes suffering. When I cling to desire, I suffer. He's right of course. True gratitude is about opening myself up to all that I have right now and feeling that it's enough. But that's not where I've been hanging out these days. I've been wanting what I don't have. It's like I'm bypassing Thanksgiving and going straight to Black Friday, getting sucked into the false promise that if I just get what I think I want, I'll be content. 

What DO I want? I want my children to get off the computer and go for a walk with me. I want more laughter with my husband, less arguing over petty things. I want more time for singing and being with my friends, less time spent racing around. And these are the more noble desires. I want actual things too. I want an iPad, a flat screen TV, a smart phone (if you ask my kids they will tell you that we are practically Luddites). I want to earn more money. I want someone to come and clean my house, blah, blah, blah.

So what is the antidote for this poisoning of gratitude with desire? Well, I think it's giving. Last week I bought a homeless man a sandwich and chatted with him for a minute. I hope he liked the sandwich. Giving it to him and taking the time to connect with him sure warmed me. I volunteered to be a food team leader for the warming shelters that are beginning to open up at local churches too. You might think, oh isn't that generous. Well, actually, it's a little selfish. Last winter when I prepared food for the guests of the warming centers, I was so moved by their gratitude, that it set a fire under my own. And maybe if I want my children to go for a walk with me and my husband to laugh with me, I should look at what I can give them to show them that I love and appreciate them. Giving, like prayer, like practicing gratitude, makes me pay attention, frees me from my head and opens my heart to something much bigger than just me, me, me.

And then there's my daily practice, the spiritual exercise program that keeps me strong. It's time to get off the couch and get back to it. So what are three things I feel gratitude for RIGHT NOW? I am grateful for the sweet text message I received from my minister this morning. I am grateful that my husband is planning a belated birthday "surprise" for me right now. I am grateful for five days to slow down, be with family and friends, eat good food, hike and walk, and look for the good stuff.

Happy Thanksgiving.








Thursday, November 15, 2012

Why Pray?


photo by Michelle Bednash
"Instructions for life: 
Pay attention. Be astonished. Tell about it."
 Mary Oliver

“Here are the two best prayers I know: 
'Help me, help me, help me' and 'Thank you, thank you, thank you.” 
― Anne Lamott

When I was child I intermittently attended my grandparents' Foursquare Gospel church. My grandpa was an usher and my nana was in the choir, so we always arrived early on Sunday morning. I can remember standing in the church kitchen watching my nana cut up white bread and pour tiny glasses of purple grape juice on communion Sundays. I remember the little hand-held counter my grandpa ticked off as people entered the sanctuary, trying to get an accurate count of worshipers. I remember my nana's choir robe and the hard candies my grandpa kept in his pocket for me and my sister.

There was a lot of talk about the Holy Spirit in that church, a lot of swaying with arms stretched Heavenward during worship services. People did not sit quietly listening to the preacher. They moaned and thanked Jesus a lot. It was rumored that some people had the gift of speaking in tongues which, frankly, was fascinating and a little creepy to me as a child. In fact the whole idea of the Holy Spirit suddenly possessing my body was both thrilling and terrifying. I stayed on my toes. As instructed by the minister, I was forever inviting Jesus into my heart. I kept waiting to feel some kind of sign that he was in there. Couldn't he RSVP so I would know he was coming? Nothing. I must have had the wrong address.

There were many things about that church that mystified and scared me as a child. (Don't get me started on the sermons I heard about the Apocalypse.) But there was one thing I learned there that really helped me: The power of prayer. One of my Sunday School teachers, an elderly woman whose name I've long since forgotten, taught me that prayer was nothing more than having a conversation with God. She said I could talk to God anywhere and that I could do it out loud or silently in my head. Well, this was great news to me. I had a lot to talk about with God. Mostly I had a lot of questions for him about why my parents were getting a divorce. I was prepared to cut deals with him too if he would do something about that.

I made a lot of deals with God and gave him lots of deadlines which he let pass without so much as a note. I knew he was busy, but was it too much to ask to have a return receipt so I would know he had at least heard my prayer? But the deals he wouldn't accept and the deadlines he let slip by weren't really that important. What saved me was just expressing my needs, my fears, my sadness. I was a shy kid. I kept a lot of feelings inside. Prayer, those ongoing (albeit one sided) conversations I had with God helped me articulate my feelings and gave me somewhere to put them. When I prayed I did not feel so alone. And when I sent my fear or sadness out there in the form of a prayer, it lost a little of its hold on me. It wasn't perfect, but prayer helped get me through some rough times as a kid.

I don't believe in God now, at least not the way I did as a child. Gone is the old man with the white beard who ignored my bribes, but saved me a little bit anyway. Today I am a seeker who is comfortable knowing I will probably find more questions than answers in this life, more mystery than certainty. I believe the journey is the important part. The destination is out of my hands. I still believe in the power of prayer but don't do it much anymore. I've been spending far too much time inside my needy, judgmental, controlling head of late. It's a nice place to visit, but I don't want to live there. It may be time to try prayer again.

Earlier today I thought of the serenity prayer used in twelve-step programs. It's a great prayer, one I should start every day with.

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
The courage to change the things I can,
And the wisdom to know the difference.


I don't think it really matters to whom or what you pray. For me, prayer is about letting my needs, my fears, my hopes, my desires out of that cramped, claustrophobic space inside my skull. It's about paying attention. It's about letting go. It's about admitting I'm not the boss of, well, anything. It's about asking for help. It's about saying thank you. It's about opening up to something bigger than myself. It's about allowing awe and wonder in. And ultimately it's about letting love in and sending love out.













Thursday, November 8, 2012

Walk The Walk






"The alternative to cynicism is to become more involved in politics.
Help create a progressive force in this nation that grows into a movement 
that can’t be stopped."

--Robert Reich

I am not the best person to write this post. The truth is I have not been much of a political activist thus far in my life. I have marched in a couple of pro-choice and marriage equality marches, worked the occasional table for these issues, donated a few bucks here and there, and been part of a few other random political actions over the years. But I have not really dug my hands into the dirt of any of the issues I care about and really worked hard. In my young adulthood, I'm ashamed to say, I didn't even always vote. 

Tuesday's election restored some of my faith in my fellow Americans. By and large, we are good people. But the nastiness leading up to the election really started to get to me. And I'm not talking about the nastiness of the politicians and the Media. I'm talking about the nastiness that my friends and I propagated, largely through social media outlets like Facebook and Twitter. At first I laughed at the mean-spirited jokes and memes that appeared with alarming regularity in my Facebook news feed. I even shared some. But then I stopped finding them funny. It occurred to me that the politicians didn't need to pay for attack ads anymore because we were willingly and freely doing it for them. We all claim to be disgusted by the negativity and mean spirited nature of political campaigns, but there we were, participating in the negativity gleefully. As Pogo so famously said, "We have met the enemy and he is us."

So what does this have to do with my political activism (or lack there of)? Well, I started to wonder how many of my friends were like me. How many of us were joking and complaining but not doing much else? Some of my friends have been working hard for years. Sarah and Wayne did their part this election by logging hours of phone banking. Chuck is genetically programmed for political activism. Natalie has worked tirelessly for the homeless for years. And Katie recently took her passion for environmental issues to a new level by participating in a training with Al Gore. Now she is out there giving public presentations about global warming.

But what about the rest of us? What about me? What should I do? I've started following Robert Reich on Facebook. For the few who might not know who he is, Robert Reich is a Professor of Public Policy at the University of California at Berkeley and was Secretary of Labor in the Clinton administration. He's smart and down to earth, realistic and optimistic. And he doesn't just inform. He says, here's what YOU can do. So the first thing I did was join Common Cause www.commoncause.org, a non-partisan, non-profit advocacy group that Robert Reich currently chairs. Common Cause is a good place to start for people like me who want to do something, but aren't sure what.

That's only a first step though. Writing this is another. What I would really like is a mentor and a team. I need help focusing my limited time and energy, and I know I am more motivated and inspired when working with others. Some of the issues I am most passionate about include marriage equality, gun control, education, homelessness, reproductive rights, environmental protection and, well, lots more. I want to invite those of you who are out there working for change to share your good works with the rest of us. Right here. Leave a comment on this post telling us what you're doing and how we can help. I promise to read all of them and see where I might best use my time and talents. How about the rest of you? As Robert Reich says, "It won’t happen if you wallow in the comfort of your cynicism. But it will happen if you and others like you get fired up."






Wednesday, October 31, 2012

How Old Would You Be?




"How old would you be if you didn't know how old you are?"

--Satchel Paige

I saw this quote on the side of a delivery van last week while I was walking the dog. I didn't know it was by Satchel Paige at the time, and I have no idea what business the van was with. It was there and gone in an instant. But that question, "how old would you be if you didn't know how old you are?" stuck with me. It was meant for me. You see, next week, on the day the country decides if Obama or Romney will be running the show for the next four years, I will turn 50. The big Five Oh. Half a century. Aye aye aye. I have to admit, I'm having just the tiniest bit of trouble embracing that number. It seems so, well, old.

I loved turning 30. I was a big fan of the TV show Thirtysomething. Being 30 was what cool people did. Sure Hope and Michael and Melissa were neurotic as hell, but neurotic in a cool, attractive, Pottery Barn lifestyle kind of way. 40 was a bit tougher. I had a four year old and an almost two year old. I was beginning to understand why people used to have kids when they were in their twenties. 40 year old mothers of toddlers are tired, tired people. My mom ordered a bounce house for my birthday party though, so that helped. But 50? Last night I said to my husband, do you realize that you already knew my mom when she was my age? He looked at me blankly, but I was blown away by this realization. My mom came to San Francisco to help me celebrate my 30th birthday. Paul and I were living together in a Victorian flat in the lower Haight then. Bill Clinton had just been elected president. And my mom was 49! When did I catch up with her?

Now really, this should not be as hard as all that. I haven't seen my natural hair color since 1986 so my grey hair denial is rock solid. I have been wearing empire waists, A-line skirts and tankinis for the last decade so I know how to disguise my figure flaws. And I learned at least eight years ago that I should never be left alone with my thighs in a fitting room. That's why God created on-line bathing suit shopping. Sure I've got this low grade chronic pain in my left leg and I wear progressive eye-wear now, but who cares? For the most part, I feel pretty good about who I am today. In fact, I would go so far as to say I feel more at home in my own skin now than when I was 30. I saw my friend Richard at church on Sunday. He had just celebrated his 90th birthday so I asked him if he had any advice for me as I turned 50. He just looked at me and exclaimed, "you've got four more decades!" 

I'm ready to make the best of those precious decades. I'm not a baseball fan, but I think I may add Satchel Paige to my list of heroes. He didn't let age stop him and he never let go of his dreams. He played in the Negro Leagues for 22 years before finally being allowed to realize his dream of pitching in the Major Leagues. He pitched his last game when he was about 60 (no one knew his age for sure), throwing three shut out innings for the Kansas City Athletics. When asked how old he was, he never gave a direct answer. Instead he said things like, "Age is a question of mind over matter. If you don't mind, it doesn't matter." 

So, how old would I be if I didn't know how old I was? I'm not sure, but I'm going to try really hard not to get stuck on the numbers and start taking Satchel Paige's advice. He was also the guy who said, "Work like you don't need the money. Love like you've never been hurt. Dance like nobody's watching." I'm far from done yet. There's a lot I want to do. And there's a lot to love in this life. I'd be a fool to let a number stop me. Satchel also said, "Don't eat fried food, it angries up the blood." Wise man, that Satchel Paige. I want to be like him when I grow up.













Wednesday, October 24, 2012

The Importance of Sugar Skulls


"Our dead are never dead to us, until we have forgotten them."

--George Eliot

El dia de los Muertos is not part of my cultural heritage. But every October for the past eight years I have created an alter for my dead with photographs, flowers, candles, food,  and sugar skulls. Gifts for the dead. It is not a slap dash affair either. I try to place each item with presence and purpose. There's my father-in-law's pipe, a mandolin pick and a beer for my step father, a can of sardines for the cat, my grandfather's bolo tie, and a box of Constant Comment tea for my Nana. As I carefully arrange these things, I begin to feel my dead gather around me. Time slows down, then rewinds. The smell of my nana's fresh baked dinner rolls wafts in on a breeze; the faint sound of my grandparents' baseball game on the radio, and the music from my step father's mandolin fill the room. 

When my daughter Frances was in second grade we spent one day a week "homeschooling." One of our homeschool days found us at an exhibit of Day of the Dead alters (or ofrendas) at a local museum.We were captivated by the bright colors, the humor and the personality of these creations.  Frances wrote a little report about the tradition of El dia de los Muertos in Mexico and we created our first ofrenda at home. We found a bakery that made pan de muerto (bread of the dead), we made spicy Mexican hot chocolate, and we spent an evening telling family stories about the beloved people and pets on our alter. Almost immediately I appreciated how much richer this tradition was than a typical American Halloween with its blood, gore and fear factors.

We still celebrate Halloween of course. We carve jack-o-lanterns, go trick-or-treating and eat plenty of candy. Not to worry. But we also spend an evening telling our kids family stories. Stories about how every Thanksgiving my Nana would say that her pie crust "wasn't fit to eat," or how she broke her ankle tripping over a kneeling parishioner at her church. My husband tells the kids how his dad always smoked a pipe and worked on complex scientific equations in the evenings after dinner, smoke curling around his head. We pass around one of his pipes and smell the aroma of the sweet tobacco that still lingers in the bowl. I tell them that my grandfather loved to drink Dr. Pepper and had crushes on the women on The Lawrence Welk Show. I share stories about how my step father traded his first car for a Martin guitar, and how he would play the mandolin and teach us old folk songs and sea chanteys around the campfire. Last year we remembered how we all lay on the bed with our cat Effie the night before we put her to sleep, gently petting her, telling stories about her, saying goodbye to her.

My kids are lucky. They have not yet suffered the loss of someone close to them. Other than the cat, everyone on our alter died before they were born. But this is a special time for us as a family, an opportunity to help our children see their lives in the context of a long heritage, and an opportunity for my husband and I to gather our dead around us and remember them. I hope that by taking this time every year to honor our dead, the kids will know some comfort when they do lose someone they love. 

Traditionally sugar skulls are given as gifts to both the living and the dead for el Dia de los Muertos, often with the name of the recipient written on the forehead in icing. They gently remind us that death is a part of life. Through memories, stories, and symbols, our dead come home to us.  If just for awhile. We share sweet bread and and spicy hot chocolate. And we introduce them to our children.





Wednesday, October 17, 2012

Step Away From the Screen



"...please, oh please, we beg, we pray,
Go throw your TV set away,
And in its place you can install
A lovely bookshelf on the wall.
Then fill the shelves with lots of books,
Ignoring all the dirty looks,
The screams and yells, the bites and kicks,
And children hitting you with sticks"

--Roald Dahl
from "Television"

***
When my daughter Frances was in kindergarten, I helped rally the class to participate in National TV Turnoff week. The kids buried a TV in books, they ate a TV (a TV shaped cake), and I wrote and taught them a song about all the things they could do instead of watch TV. It was a fun week at school. At home, it was a week like any other for Frances. We did not own a TV.

Some of my old friends will start groaning about now. They're thinking, uh oh. Here she goes again. The crazy lady with the "Turn Off TV. Turn On Life" bumper sticker on her minivan is back. God help us. -- Well, if she's back it's with her tail between her legs. Friends, I'm here to tell you, we are in a losing battle with screen time at our house these days. The Internet is ruling the roost.

We still don't have cable TV, and we currently only have one computer in our house. But when the four of us are home, that computer is rarely at rest. Miles plays Minecraft, Frances scrolls through Tumblr posts or watches Dr. Who episodes, Paul feeds his news addiction, and I wander through the time sucking world of facebook. It is harder and harder to find an evening where no one is either on the computer, waiting for the computer, fighting over the computer, or complaining that I won't let them on the computer. This addiction to the Internet kind of crept up on us. Rules were set, bent, and finally broken and ignored. And it's not just the kids.

Now, I do not think the Internet is evil, anymore than I think the library is evil for housing books I don't like or agree with. We use the Internet for worthwhile ventures too. Frances has taken an interest in British TV dramas, Miles feeds his hunger for scientific information, Paul keeps up with the NY Times, and I get to write and share a blog. What pains me is when my children act as if there is nothing else to do when we are at home. Or when they will choose the Internet over going outside on a beautiful sunny day. 

When my kids were little and we didn't have a TV, I almost never heard them say they were bored. And on the rare occasions they did, they used their imaginations to pull themselves out of the doldrums. Boredom is not a condition to be avoided at all cost. It can be the birthplace for creativity. I worry that, for all of us, the Internet is our drug of choice for coping with boredom. I worry about what it might do to wonder and imagination.

In Norton Juster's classic children's novel, The Phantom Tollbooth, young Milo returns from his adventure and discovers a world that has been waiting for him all the time. This is what I don't want my children to lose. This is what I don't want to lose either:

"Outside the window, there was so much to see, and hear, and touch--walks to take, hills to climb, caterpillars to watch as they strolled through the garden. There were voices to hear and conversations to listen to in wonder, and the special smell of each day.

And in the very room in which he sat, there were books that could take you anywhere, and things to invent, and make, and build, and break, and all the puzzle and excitement of everything he didn't know -- music to play, songs to sing, and worlds to imagine and then someday make real."  

We shouldn't fear boredom. If we stick it out, imagination will come to our rescue.











Tuesday, October 9, 2012

It's The Little Things



"Enjoy the little things, for one day you may look back and realize they were big things."

--Robert Brault


Some days are clumsy and awkward, like your first junior high school dance. Everything you say comes out wrong, you're obsessed with what people are thinking about you, and you have bad hair to boot. Your insecurity feels like a scratchy wool blanket thrown over your head. And even though you know there are people out there who are having a lot harder time than you are (in fact you can think of at least three you know personally), you still can't crawl out of your cramped little hole of self-pity. Yuck. I mean, really. If you're going to obsess and worry shouldn't it be over climate change or how you're going to ever afford to send your kids to college?

Some days are just small and crummy though, which is different and definitely not as bad as big and awful. I am not my best self by a long shot on crummy days. I tend to get all needy or whiny or grumpy. And then I worry about people not liking me because I'm all needy or whiny or grumpy. Enough! On days like that it's important to remember the little things. I should pull myself out of myself and look around at all there is to be grateful for, right? So after slogging through a needy, whiny kind of day yesterday, I tried to think of one little thing to cherish about the day. 

... Nothing. Couldn't think of one thing.

Now, I'm sure there were actually plenty of things to cherish yesterday, but I was entirely too whiny to notice them. Good thing I keep lists of things I am grateful for to refer to on days like this. I try to write down at least three things I'm grateful for in my journal almost every day. It's part of my personal campaign to start seeing the glass half full rather than half empty. And, you know what? It actually works.

Here are some little things I have been grateful for over the last year: That my husband makes coffee every morning before I get up, for thrift store shopping, for sweet potato cornbread, wild mustard flowers, and kale salad, that I am no longer terrified to sing in front of people, that my dog Zeke dragged me out for a walk on a cold blustery day, for my mom on her birthday, for a little bit of quiet in the morning, for a perfect swirl in the peanut butter jar, for the sunflowers bowing to me from the vase across the room, for all the terrific people I get to make music with, for time to snuggle in bed with my son in the morning, for Bananagrams and "Sherlock" with my daughter, for minestrone soup on a rainy day, for self-restraint at the new REI store, for the people who read my blog, for two kids who are fantastic hikers, for a lively choir rehearsal, for good friends who listen.

And yesterday? I am grateful that my husband devotes his Monday afternoons to soccer with my son, that Zeke and I watched the tide come in from "our spot" on the beach, for a cold beer on a warm evening.

 Life is good.

Thursday, October 4, 2012

When Food Is Love



“What can you do to promote world peace? Go home and love your family.” 

― Mother Teresa

As a child, I would sit at the table in my Grandma Eva's tiny kitchen, watching her roll out pasta dough, enough to cover the whole table. Flour dusted her hands and arms as she handed me a small ball of dough to shape and play with. Watching her make ravioli was like watching a sculptor at work. She was confident and her hands nimble as she labored over the pasta dough, the recipe coming straight from her head. I especially loved the old rolling pin with little ravioli shaped squares cut into the wood. Grandma Eva would give me a taste of the filling as she layered it on the dough, spinach, garlic, Parmesan cheese, and other ingredients. She would then gently press on the top layer of dough and roll the layers of dough and filling into perfect little pillows with that special rolling pin. When they were done, she laid the ravioli carefully into boxes with wax paper between each layer and put them in the freezer. There they waited until she was ready to prepare Christmas dinner for her eight children and their families.

On summer days Grandma Eva made egg salad sandwiches on white bread and packed them up with chips and 7-Up for a day at the beach. There were always coins for an ice cream sandwich too. And more spare change for a treat from Nicolini's snack truck before we left the beach. Nicolini's funky old truck had brightly colored pin wheels along the top to catch the wind. It was jam packed with all the candy a child could desire, so hard to choose just one thing. When we'd made our choice, we would walk to my great grandmother's house, Grandma Eva's mother "Nannie." We would sit around the kitchen table and my grandma would let us kids drink coffee loaded with milk and sugar while she and her mother and sisters shared family gossip in Italian. When we were tired of the grown up talk, my cousin and I would go outside and play among the lobster traps in Nannie's yard or climb the fig tree and eat the ripe, warm fruit.

When your grandmother is Italian, you are never hungry. Of the many ways my Grandma Eva expressed her love for her children and grandchildren, feeding us was one of her favorites. Whether she was feeding us saltine crackers with butter for a quick snack, homemade turkey and rice soup, "Green Spaghetti" (long before we Americans knew what pesto was), or her sweet delicate cream puffs, my grandma's food was always served with a generous helping of love. She even knew how to make you feel loved with a store bought Popsicle or the stash of Twinkies she kept in the dining room cupboard. 

My grandma is 98 years old now. She no longer cooks, but you can still find her sitting at the table in her tiny kitchen. And when I go to visit, I still don't leave hungry. My Aunt Lorraine makes sure of that. She lives with my grandma and has absorbed much of her wisdom about food and love. Just last Thursday evening, Lorraine handed me a plate of her homemade enchiladas and a glass of Pinot Griggio when I dropped by for a visit. My grandma taught Lorraine to serve up love and comfort with a meal. And she has learned well!

My Grandma Eva lives at home because my Aunt Lorraine loves and cares for her. I don't think Lorraine imagined her future this way when she was growing up. She simply found herself on this path as the days and years unfolded. It is hard work. She runs a home day care and takes care of my grandma. She feels anxious and tired a lot, and who could blame her. But Lorraine says her mother is her best friend and it shows. She keeps my grandmother's life purposeful. Nearly blind, my grandma can still peel garlic, fold clothes, and hold babies. Lorraine takes her for drives and they fantasize about which beach house they would like to live in. They play the lottery together and imagine what they would do with the money. They gossip about celebrities, they worry over family members, they go to the nursery and pick out new flowers for their beautiful yard. And of course they spend time in the kitchen, Lorraine cooking all the foods my grandma taught her to make, plus some recipes of her own.

This Fall I hope to spend another afternoon in my grandmother's kitchen, watching my aunt Lorraine roll out the ravioli with that old rolling pin, tasting the filling, maybe helping my grandma peel garlic. I want to witness this slow, labor intensive, time honored  process again. I hope to be able to channel some of my Grandma Eva and Aunt Lorraine's love of cooking into my own meal preparations. Too often I rush through the process of putting food on the table, hastily preparing a last minute meal. My grandma and my aunt know in their bones that preparing food and feeding your family is an act of love, a daily practice to engage in with thoughtfulness and care. I know that their love always sustains me long after the meal is over.







Tuesday, September 25, 2012

Why Am I Doing This Anyway?



"For me, creativity is an act of slowing down. Paying attention. Taking time. 
Never doing in one day what could be spread out over seven, including a day of rest.
 It is no coincidence that this is also how I meet the divine."

--Karen Haring, 
from "Creative Slow Down"

Last week I did not have time to write a blog post. I needed to borrow the limited amount of time I usually set aside for writing to finish reading my book club book, and to begin working on writing a reflection for a church service this coming Sunday. Needless to say, life as we know it did not screech to a grinding halt without my weekly musings. Even my own life plugged along pretty much the same as usual. But the thing is, I missed writing my blog. I actually had to make myself NOT write. I think that means it has become a practice for me. I would even go so far as to call it a spiritual practice.

A couple of years back Ken, a member of the worship committee at my Unitarian Universalist church, shared a reflection during a service, a story from his life with broad truths that most people can connect with. I had always loved Ken's reflections and told him how much I enjoyed this one. He said, reflection writing was a spiritual practice for him. At that moment, one of those cartoon light bulbs flashed over my head. Of course! We all have stories. They don't have to be big and dramatic. We just have to spend time mining them for the truths they hold. Telling our stories is one way we give meaning to our lives. It is one way we touch the sacred. 

So that's what I try to do here. I tell my stories. I write about what I need to write about, things I need to pay attention to, things I'm struggling with, things that bring me joy or sorrow, frustration or acceptance. I hope that my stories hold small truths that other people can connect with. And I hope that as I turn my stories over in my hand, letting the light illuminate them at different angles, a few people just might be inspired to do the same with their own stories. I believe the sacred is in our ordinary, every day lives. But we have to slow down enough to look for it. Writing this blog helps me do that. Knowing that some people are actually reading it inspires me to continue.

I thought I would be OK with missing last week's blog since I had a reflection to start writing. But it turns out the writing of this particular reflection is giving me some grief. I'm writing about joy of all things, so you'd think it would be happy work. But for some reason I'm blocked and struggling with it, wrestling with joy. (What a funny thing to struggle with.) Anyway, It will come. It HAS to come before Sunday. But it has not been a joyful process so far. Wonder what that's all about. Maybe there's a story there...











Tuesday, September 11, 2012

My Dharma Teacher Plays Video Games


"The best way to have a good idea is to have lots of ideas."

--Linus Pauling

My son Miles loves math. MY son. Me, the woman who got a D- in high school geometry even after cheating on most of the tests. I can't even cheat well in math, for god's sake, and yet I bore a son who is in an after school math group ... for FUN. When he was in first grade he asked his teacher to explain square roots to him. How had he even heard of square roots in first grade? If I did not have fond memories of laboring and delivering that nine pound baby boy, I would call for a DNA test to prove maternity. 

Miles has an unquenchable curiosity about many things, not just math. He is currently reading Principles of Geology, by Charles Lyell (friend of Charles Darwin) for his independent reading book. Just today he explained to me how Lyell's work influenced Darwin. He also asked me if he could make a flame thrower out of hairspray, and told me he needed sheet metal and heat proof bricks to build a furnace so he could make glass. (It's a relief when he asks if he can make chocolate chip cookies.) Miles is always thinking. If you look closely you can almost see the gears turning inside his head. 

While he may have the mind of a scientist, Miles has the soul of an artist. He paints beautiful watercolors, rich with the textures of the natural world: Grass, stone, water. He draws intricate drawings of machines he'd like to invent, with lots of gears and other moving parts. A tactile kind of guy, Miles is unable to resist touching things in stores and other people's homes. But when he's walking through an art museum he clasps his hands firmly behind his back to help himself resist the temptation to reach out and touch the rich layers of paint on an Impressionist painting or the curve of stone on a sculpture. None the less, there always seems to be a security guard lurking nearby when we're in a museum.

Some time back I spent an afternoon cleaning Miles' room. It took a few hours. That night when I went to bed I found a seashell on my nightstand with a note inside thanking me for making his room so nice.  On more than one occasion he's told me he had "too much money" and would like to donate it. He's bought flocks of chicks from Heifer International, an acre of rain forest from The Nature Conservancy, and made a donation to support our church's warming shelters for homeless men and women, all with saved allowance and birthday money. He has also eagerly helped prepare broccoli cheese casserole for the guests of the warming shelter and graciously served them their evening meal. He said it made him "appreciate being in the middle class."

I realize I am bragging about my son here. But I can't help it. Not only do I love Miles, I admire him. I learn from him every day. He is a walking encyclopedia of scientific knowledge, but facts are not the most important thing he gives me. Miles shows me how amazing the world is when you approach it with curiosity and wonder. He reminds me to ask questions and explore big ideas. He shows me that science, art and religion can share a happy coexistence, like good roommates. And, most of all, he teaches me that a strong mind coupled with a big heart can change the world, everyday, with both grand and humble actions. 

... But math?