Come Out Wherever You Are.

It's a family story; it's a funny story. It's probably a family urban legend conglomeration at this point, but this is how I remember it. My sister, Deanie, at age 17, was dating a boy named Sam. But she had allowed another male suitor onto our porch for a friendly flirt and chat. When Sam arrived to collect Deanie for their date, my caught-in-the-act sister, ran into the house and hid in a closet. Two things are important here: None of the doors in our house had locks. And, my little brothers were never ones to cover for their older sisters. Sam, mystified by the front porch competitor suitor, marched into the house in hot pursuit of my sister, and his potentially two-timing girlfriend.
"Oh, she's not here!" I covered. "She's gone out."
Sam, perplexed, was not buying it. Boys will be boys they say. And sure enough, my younger brothers announced, "Oh yes she is!! She's hiding in the closet right over there!"
Seizing his cue, Sam began pulling on the closet door. The door pulled back. Sam yanked. The closet door slammed shut again. Clearly there was a very real force resisting the opening of the door----with all of her might. One final yank and out jumped Deanie---into an arabesque, as if she had finally located the very item she had barricaded herself in the closet to retrieve.
"Ta-Da! Here I am!"
Making up stuff as she went along, Deanie, unconvincingly tried,"I was just in there trying to find the scarf I got last Christmas!" That was her story and by G_d, she was sticking to it!
But, as we say in 2010---busted. Deanie was busted, found out, outed. The jig was up. That's where Deanie found herself that day---hiding in a closet trying to juggle the parts of herself that were conflicted. (Of course, none of us used those words on that day. We called her names, made fun of her and harassed her mercilessly.) And then we tried to kill our little brothers. The skanks.
Sometimes, maybe too often-- we find ourselves at a place in our lives where we don't want to be---or know how to be. How did I get here, exactly? This is not where I thought I would be ten years ago---or even last week. But here I am. I know we've all had those kinds of experiences in which we wish there had been a closet close by in which we could lose ourselves. Just cover ourselves with quilts and blankets and stay closed up until whatever personal storm we were having died down or passed on by. And, it can be so aggravating too, when people around us keep yanking at the door and forcing us to come out of hiding. "Just leave me alone. I want to be here in the dark----with just myself--away from what's going on out there." It's sort of like we kidnap our very own selves and end up holding ourselves hostage. Hmmm. How does that serve us? (Always a good question to ask.)Do you know what I mean? I know you do. Even if the closet is not a real wooden cave, we all have times when we just long to climb inside that cave and wait. Wait 'til the "bad" stuff is over.
I'm older now. I have cellulite. My arms are flabby, so that means I know a lot about life. It is harder for us to hide from ourselves than it is to come out with the truth. Hiding is so alluring, but it is a fake, flimsy and temporary fix. Gosh, it is so darn hard to say some stuff. Especially junk that grips us around the neck and tends to suffocate us right in our own paths. I am thinking about secrets we keep or junk about our lives that we don't dare share with even close friends perhaps. Saying the truth out loud about some things can feel terrifying. But the minute we say "it," then we own it and it no longer owns us.
I have been afraid at times of my own feelings about Taylor and my life with him. In fact, there have been a number of feelings and things apart from Taylor that have "held me hostage" with my unspoken, unconscious consent.
I have gone into an emotional closet many times and dared anybody to pull on that door knob. "Nobody would understand," is what I told myself. People pulled. I resisted. Pull. Resist. Yank. Yank----and finally, thankfully...an arabesque.
Slowly I have learned to share my real feelings about myself---out loud.
There is such freedom there. And amazingly there is a community of people....like you.
Like my sister Deanie said, when she finally popped out of that closet,
Ta-Da! Here I am!
And, so I ask you, "Where are you?"
Are you saying, "Ta-Da! Here I am! This is me!
This is who I am!"?
And let me just remind you right now of what Joseph Campbell said, "The privilege of a lifetime is being who you are."
Can't beat that with a stick, can you?

Trading for Gold

In Geneen Roth's newest incredible book, Women, Food and God, Roth says, "We want to be thin because thinness is the purported currency of happiness and peace and contentment." Thinness is one pretty damn powerful currency in which so many of us trade. In that same paragraph in that same book, Roth adds, "Spiritual hunger can never be solved on the physical level." Stop. Back up. I know we're all real busy today, but that last sentence may just be pretty darn important. Are we looking for our souls or trading them in for junk?

Today I went by the bank to get some cash. Without thinking, I threw the $100 bill over to Taylor and said, "Hold this for a minute while I find my purse." Taylor dropped it in his Sprite. It was only paper--soaked paper. (Oh, what that could buy me.) Hear the word currency and you think money, don't you? Ok, leap with me....what about the currency on which we really and truly base our lives? Isn't currency really just what matters to people..to us? It's the reward we're looking for and in which we trade. (Boy, I got deep here fast, didn't I?) Some "currencies" that jump right out are, of course, money--and then we have currency like our looks, our time, our intellect, our bodies, our approval, our things/possessions, our degrees/our education. Look at what we treasure. Pay attention to how we treat what we value...and there we'll each find our own labeled, signature currency. What is yours? Is anybody still with me? Hang on...please.

My guess is---is if you're anything like me, you may have spent a good part of the last 24 hours looking to something outside of yourself---to "fix" something like well...maybe your heart..or your soul---whatever feels lacking/empty. Maybe you thought a new house, a new dress, a new deck would fill up that empty space inside. Did it? I can always tell when I have a longing that I am not willing to name; I go shopping or I get something to eat. Both are temporary stop-gap measures. Ok. Ok. Do not say, "Oh, I hate it when Marianne talks like this...blah blah blah." Just hang a minute.
Today when I was driving to (what forever was called Hope Haven School for the Mentally Retarded) to pick up Taylor, it just struck me how often during my day, I have to shift currencies. When I am consumed in Taylor's world, what matters---what gets me "stuff" is being patient, being a good listener, doing the same task over and over again with joy. Buying brand names? Taylor has no interest. Your Salary? Whatever! You've published? Who cares? What you weigh? Not an issue. Who you know? We're all the same. Physical beauty? Taylor only sees beauty. CEO? Chief of Neurosurgery? Taylor wants to know if you have a dog.
Taylor's currency is different from the currency that enslaves me in the other half of my life. But, what is the exchange rate between his world and the rest of the world? Who uses what? What has more value? See, like just today, did any of you worry about how much money you make? Think about who you needed to impress just today for an interview, a date, to climb that social ladder. Admit it!) Spend money on a designer anything? And....what did it cost you? Maybe not in terms of dollars and cents, but today, what did your actions cost you? Did any part of your soul get chipped away?
Sometimes in my dazed currency confusion, my head spins. It seems like I need to ask the world, "Do you accept Deutsche Marks here? Or, tell me exactly what you accept here--that'll get me what I need." I have to quickly scan to see what currency the situation calls for: Authenticity? Pedigree driven? Competition? And then.... What does that cost? (Seriously--no bull-sh**ing.) I am so accustomed to Taylor's way of trading---up-front, no pretense, what you see is what you get, no schmoozing, no lying, no hidden agendas. That's how he works. That's what he has to barter with. But, what is the exchange rate for all that genuine stuff in our very real, knots-in-our-stomachs world? Is his barter worth anything?
I really like Taylor's currency.
$100 bill in his Sprite. Oops.
But please let's hold hands.
Please look right into my eyes.
Please let's stop, get out, and ride the scooter on this very grassy spot.
Please just sing with me.
And, Taylor does not give a rat's a** about the calorie count of six french fries.
Should all of that be traded in for gold?

God Sees Your Underpants Anyway

I may be getting ready to ruin The Lord's Prayer for you--forever. Sorry. When I was in the fifth grade at Barrow Elementary School, circa 1962, we stood and said The Lord's Prayer every morning. We said that, and sang the National Anthem and then pledged the flag. Like clockwork. No questions asked. Public school. Lord's Prayer. Back then, we didn't have too many "international" students. But there was a girl in Ms. Osborne's class that year---I'll call her Adelheid Jobse--who just really never caught on to that prayer time. Every single day, when we were asked to bow our heads and pray, Adelheid, assuming that all of her classmates had our eyes tightly closed---well, she pulled up her skirt and fixed her blouse underneath. Every day, Lord's Prayer, Adelheid pulled up her skirt and adjusted the blouse to be tucked in again. By the time we had gotten to, "For thine is the kingdom," the skirt was back in place---but we had all seen her white cotton underpants--again. All year. Lord's Prayer...Pavlov's Dog....pull up skirt...make adjustments.....show underpants.
I guess that Ms. Osborne must have really and truly had her eyes closed all year during the prayer because she never gave Adelheid the heads-up or "This is how we do it here in America," girl-to-girl talk. Adelheid's father was finishing up his doctorate in physics, so thank goodness they returned home and Adelheid did not have to carry "the girl who pulled up her skirt during the Lord's Prayer" all through school. Except from across the Atlantic. Because I remember. And, my guess is that my whole fifth grade class remembers. That was the beginning of prayer in schools for me from a young age. (As a side question, I wonder what Alan, Dina and Gary, my Jewish friends in my fifth grade class, thought about The Lord's Prayer as part of the homeroom ritual. It never came up. I would like to know though. Readers? Reactions?)

So, by the time I got my teaching degree many years later, I found myself back at Barrow Elementary as a fifth grade teacher. Only by then is was 1990 and prayer in school had become unconstitutional. Well, you and I both know that just because something is unconstitutional, that doesn't stop people from doing it. Right?
By 1990, Barrow had indeed become the international elementary school in our county. In the class I taught that year, I had students from China, Israel, Japan, Korea, Pakistan, Peru, Colombia, India, and Albania. Throw those kids in with regular 'ole Athens kids and you've got quite a mix. Separation of church and state was in full swing....except that we forgot to tell the kids. Ooops. One day during recess, Katie Goodrum found a dead bird. Quick as a flash, all 24 students crowded around and went into pet-funeral mode. It was Matt Aldridge who called out, "Circle up everybody! Join hands. Let's say a prayer for this little bird."
Some of my students were not hesitant exactly, but perhaps a bit puzzled. So many cultures were coming into conflict----and into resolution at that exact same moment. Matt, picking up on the "religious confusion," gave the encompassing command, "Listen up, ya'll! Everybody---just pray to your own favorite God! That should about cover it! So just pray!" And they did. Here were my precious little fifth graders from all around the globe, joined by hands and in heart, to pray. To pray for a the life of a little creature that had passed on. Some of the children said stuff out loud. Most were quiet and just very reverent---in that circle, in that communal spirit, on that playground.

You know what? Nothing can keep us from prayer. Prayer is when we stop and acknowledge that we are part of a greater whole. Like Matt so clearly knew, prayer is a time that connects us one-to-one with our sacred little selves. Because isn't prayer when we allow ourselves to reach inside and touch something real--and then say, "Thank you." or "Forgive me." or "It's me again."? Maybe Adelheid was right all along. Prayer is a time for us to adjust and re-adjust what is going on in our hearts. Maybe to tuck in and un-tuck things in our lives that have kept us stuck. And going way out on a limb here---to show God our underpants--the parts of ourselves that we don't want other people to know about----the most intimate parts of our lives. 'Cause my best guess is that God can see them anyway.
Ok, You can open your eyes now because I've got a final prayer.
Here's what I know from Taylor:
A clean heart is a free heart.
That about covers it.
Go out and live in this life with your free heart--
And clean underpants (Optional).

Quid Pro Quo

I am getting ready to blast my own self right out of the water here. I think I was pretty old when I think I finally understood the term "Quid Pro Quo." I loved it when people used that term; I always nodded my head like I knew what they meant. But I didn't. This morning I realized I still don't know what it means. Or rather, how I've been using it in my own life with Taylor. Let me just say that I hate it when any public speaker begins by giving us a definition of a word out of a dictionary. Something goes off inside of me and I say, "Oh Lord, this is going to be so boring. He has had to resort to giving us a definition right off the bat. Why couldn't he (the speaker) just say what they know to be true?" (Anybody else feel like this?) But, too bad; here it is: QUID PRO QUO
Lat. 'what for what' or 'something for something.' The concept of getting something of value in return for giving something of value. For a contract to be binding, it usually must involve the exchange of something of value.
Is that what we call an operational definition? One from which all of us (just us chickens gathered round here this morning) will use? Yep, I believe it is.

For you see, for all of these years, I have prided myself on how much I give to Taylor. I just give and give and have secretly awarded myself "Mother of the Year" plaques and trophies for all that I have done. I give him something of value....food, clothing, training, a home, constant care, love, scooters, movies---yes I give him all of that. And until just this minute (man am I dense!!) I have created a story around all of my giving that makes me look like a big she-roe/heroine or something. I think for all of these years I have been making sacrifices and rearranging my life and doing without, so that I could fully raise this unique son of mine. And, here's the kicker: I have told myself that there is not quid pro quo going on/taking place. I give. He accepts. I give if I want to. He accepts graciously. It's one sided. My valuable life---off course, off center, rearranged, off the track, derailed----to take part in the life of this handicapped man child who doesn't even thank me. Whoa. Slow down. Regroup. Rethink. Re-visit this whole quid pro quo thing. Something of value for something of value. Hmmmm. Makes my stomach ache. Where have I been?
Because you see, I have tricked myself into believing that what we give needs to be external---things, career, money, prestige, importance, recognition, success. So, I have given Taylor things ---feel free to re-read the entire list above of all that I've given. But what of value has he given to me? How does this turn into quid pro quo? What for what? The definition--the one right out of the legal dictionary says very plainly that for my contract with Taylor to be binding, there must be an exchange of something of value. Well, obviously I have fulfilled my part of the contract. Right? But what about him? What---of value--has he offered?
Let's see: Unconditional love. Complete and open acceptance of me and of others. A kind and generous heart never withheld no matter what. Pure joy.Consistent and unrelenting approval. Delight in my whistling and how I look in short shorts.
Willingness to sing and dance in public. Total ease of people who look different.
Waking up every day with a clean slate--for me, for you.
Quid pro quo. I have a contract with my son. I am his mother. I am his friend. The contract is binding it appears. We have both given things of value. Seal this deal.
However, I think I need to work on my "things."
I have heard it said that the best things in life are not things after all.
I think Taylor knew about this all along. He cut straight to the chase.
He was doing the whole "quid pro quo" thing---giving something of value--way before I even caught on to the definition.
I guess he was waiting for me to figure out what has value.
Do you know?

Every Day is a Holy Day

Three pregnancies; Two live births. Every time I write that down on a medical form, my body tightens. This grief still has a space all its own. I have never shown anybody the picture at the top of this page. Nobody has ever seen it---not my sisters, not my sons, not my close friends. Joanna was our third baby. Today is the day we celebrate/remember the longing in our hearts for a baby girl. This is a very hard conversation to have, but in many ways I know I must. I must because I know that loss is part of all of our lives. Suffering cuts us off at the knees and slams us to the floor. But, we get up. Hope finds its way back into our lives. It's true. I live it.
Cole was about to be five. Taylor was about to be three when Joanna was born and died. There were problems with the pregnancy. Lots of bleeding, but the doctors were hopeful. An amniocentesis was done. The baby would be a girl. The baby would be "normal." No extra chromosome in every cell of her body. A new chance for the hurt in my heart. A little sister for the brothers. But it was not meant to be. Joanna never took a breath---even a little bitty breath. No breath. It was too early for her little lungs, for her tiny body. She was delivered without knowing life. Beyond sad is mostly what there was/is to say about that day---about that time.
Here's where the angels began to show up in my life. Angels that I clearly knew were sent from some other realm. Heaven-sent probably. Amidst this birth--and then death, there were so much radiant light. On bed rest for six months, I, the mama, was rendered pretty much helpless. Doris showed up for weeks and taught Taylor how to walk. She showed up time and again to shave my legs in the hospital. (That's a higher calling than even feet-washing if you ask any woman.) My family and friends cooked, cleaned and kept vigil with me and for me as we hoped to keep Joanna alive. Nurses lay down on my bed with me breaking hospital protocol. Dorothy's love never waned--and has not to this day. Other friends, Anne and Madge, called me at 3:00 am when my deepest fears wreaked their worst havoc. I watched doctors cry, other mothers collapse, and I witnessed Joe lose a part of himself that has never been reclaimed.
April 6 seems like such an ordinary day on any calendar. To my family, to our extended family, it is a holy day. All days are holy days. Cole and Taylor did not get to have this precious sister in their lives. The what-ifs have consumed us on countless dark nights.
I sing to Joanna. I talk to her. In many ways, I know her.
She is the bound-less spirit that tethers all love together. You have a Joanna in your life. Maybe your Joanna was your mother or your son, or your sister, or your friend. The death of these beloved people in our lives carve out pieces of our hearts that remain tender to the touch for as long as we live.
Your April 6 may be November 30 or January 28 or July 19.
We each have a day that, in just hearing the date called, our bodies and hearts stand in silence.
Every day is a holy day.
Today is ours.
One of our holy days.
Every day is a Holy Day.

Get Up!

Oh, what the heck. I am just going to write what is needling its way to the front of my brain. I have tried like the dickens to smoosh it down, but it keeps easing its way up--and in. It's Easter. I could say so much---like all of us. I am going to take another route around. For people who know me a little bit, you think I am always funny---never serious. For those who know me well, you know that I am serious--almost to a fault. Want to see a person in earnest? Look for a person in jest. They are one and the same most often. All of my life I have had a hard time reconciling that God could love me and love my outrageous sense of humor; it seems like I have always been so "irreverent." Actually, let me, for the record, say that I believe all things are sacred. So, irreverent yes? Sacred? Yes again. But, that doesn't mean I'm not going to also see the complete paradox, irony, and incongruities that often just sit right on top of one another and stare me in the face. Life makes me cry----and laugh. And joke. And say things I shouldn't.
So, it's Easter and here's my religious story to go with all your Easter eggs.
Last year Taylor had another MRI at the hospital. Since he has to stay in that iron-lung looking cave machine for so long, they have to do an MRI "with sedation." All that means is that they drug him to make him woozy. Taylor walks and runs well. His legs work great. Let me just lay that down as background information. So anyway, after the MRI, he was put in a wheelchair and I wheeled him out to the patient pick up circle. He was drugged and dazed (even more than usual.) Leaving him in the safety of his wheelchair, I went to bring the car around. In the meantime, a well-meaning, earnest man had struck up a conversation with Taylor. As I approached, I could hear the man saying, "Good. Good. Excellent. Praise God! That is just great!!"
Sensing the quizzical look on my face, the gentlemen allowed that he and Taylor had been talking about Jesus.
Taylor...talking? About....anything much? But about Jesus? Hmmmm. I would like to have heard that. I love it when Taylor talks---Ever.
Come to find out the man's joyous rapture was that when he asked Taylor if he was saved, Taylor had told him that he was. (I would have loved to have heard that conversation too. Taylor will answer yes if you ask him if he's a citizen of the Czech Republic.)
The man went on to tell me how, when he saw Taylor, this special retarded person of God, confined to his wheelchair, he knew that he needed to make sure that Taylor's soul was saved. So he began his witness. He was on soul patrol. Evidently, the "witnesser" was relieved beyond measure that this handicapped, paraplegic had already found Jesus. Had he learned that Taylor had not already been saved, let me tell you that this man would have had his work cut out for him. Can I just remind you that Taylor thinks Bambi talks?---Just saying.
The gentleman shook my hand noting,"mission accomplished." He did some praise stuff. He stood as he watched me load Taylor into what he assumed was our specially outfitted vehicle.
Well, my friends,I just couldn't stand it. The worst and the best parts of me showed up and took over. Without batting an eye, and in my most sincere and commanding voice, I said,
"Taylor, get up and walk to the car."
Taylor, got up out of his wheelchair and walked to the car---like he had been doing for years.
You should have heard the man screaming. Another miracle.
I couldn't help it. Of all the ways he could have interacted with Taylor, sharing the four spiritual laws looked like his best plan? Another hmmmmm.
Taylor's soul?
Taylor's soul is pure and radiant.
It's Easter.
I am thankful that Taylor can walk.
I am thankful that Taylor has a heart full of love.
That's no joke. Sacred stuff.
All of this--sacred. And, it's still ok to laugh.
BTW, he is not from the Czech Republic, even if he answers, "Yes" when asked.
Alleluia on all counts.

On a Friday

We used to get Good Friday off from school. The year I went out to Michael Jones' trailer, Good Friday was a school holiday and then, of course, we had the rest of the week. So, like, we could go to the beach or something. Easter Break. Michael was in my homeroom and I taught him social studies in the 7th grade. He was white, had been in ten foster homes and had the worst teeth I think I had even seen on a child. The soles of his shoes flapped when he walked. He was back home living with his mother and younger brother out in a trailer north of town.
So, on that Good Friday, I loaded Taylor in the car, along with two Easter baskets and headed to Michael's home. It wasn't a real trailer park. It was gut-ridden slab of land with three, what used-to-be habitable trailers, perched on some concrete blocks. Of course there was that proverbial dog on the rope out in front---angry, mangy, mean, teeth-baring dog. Neglected like the property--like the children inside.
You see, my plan was to knock on the door, deliver these two Easter baskets with magic markers, candy eggs, and a Game Boy--- to Michael and his brother--and leave. Michael had tugged at my heart---gnawed at it. His situation was too big for me. But, heck, I could do Easter baskets. But we wouldn't go in. No, Taylor and I would stand on the porch and hand over our purchases to the boys, do the whole "Eastery thing" and go.
Duct tape held the cardboard where the window used to be. The aluminum door, unable to be closed completely, was open. Taylor had one basket. I held the other. Of course, like always, I had not given Taylor any instructions. I knew he would follow my lead and just do what I told him to do. Give them the baskets. Tell them Happy Easter. Leave.
When Michael saw me, he grabbed me around the waist and sobbed.
"How did you ever knowed where I lived? My mama ain't here now. Just me and Toby."
I looked past him and saw the bare mattresses on the floor. Not one chair. Not one table. Two bare mattresses piled with rumpled up clothes. The clothes Michael had been wearing to school. On the hot plate were the residual, burnt pork and beans in a dirty, handle-less pot. No tv. No lamp. No mama around. Two young boys.
Good Friday.
"Well, Taylor and I brought ya'll some Easter baskets. Tell your mama we came by."
Chit-chat. I, repulsed by the decay, gave in to my own sense of, "This house is in shambles. These lives are in chaos." I think I sort of left my body. I had so much judgement and arrogance sitting right on top of that benevolent coating that I had marched through their door with.
Without one word, without one smirk of "Isn't this just pathetic?" Taylor moved past me and plopped himself right down on that bare mattress on the floor. Right on their mattress. The voice inside my head was shouting, "Lice! Fleas! Urine! Grime! Don't touch that!"
But Taylor sat. And he waited for Michael to sit.
"Looks like he likes our bed," Michael shared. "It ain't made up yet."
(Made up??? Heck, there hadn't been any sheets in this trailer for years!)
My dis-ease, my un-ease, my anxiety was rising up around my throat. How could Taylor just walk in here and sit himself down there on that...on that....on that...filth---that child's bed/chair/sofa/rug/comforter/all purpose place?
I guess that's when the stillness came. Right on that bare mattress were the Easter baskets. Taylor, Michael and Toby all piled in together on Good Friday. One little group. Connected. Joined. Doing their own form of Easter.
And there was I ---apart. Afraid. Looking at life from a distance. A visitor. I would not allow myself to land in that space. I was too good; I was better.
I was on spring break---getting ready for Easter.
I had not given Taylor instructions that Friday.
He did not follow my lead.
He moved without fear; he moved towards love.
Taylor saw Michael and his brother as people.
He sat down with them.
He sat where they sat.
He was just where they were ----as if it were any Friday.

After Supper

It's Maundy Thursday. Please indulge me. Read no further if anything "churchy" turns you off. This is the day of Holy Week that speaks to me the most. I love the music I was brought up singing on the day of the night of The Last Supper. (That last sentence didn't make sense, but I'm keeping it.)I wanted to write something profound, moving, meaningful. Nothing fits. The name Jackie Barnes is in my head. All that I can think of is the first year I taught school--forever ago. I was 22--so 34 years ago. It was a middle school that had once been an all black school and still carried both the scars and the majesty of that time. We were leaving for Easter break. Jackie Barnes was his name, this 7th grader-black child---very very poor. He was so poor that his house had been condemned. Jackie, his mama and brothers were awaiting a spot in public housing--a huge step up.
But on that Maundy Thursday,Jackie brought me a gift to school---for Easter. He was shy as he shuffled up towards my desk in his attempt to offer this gift without the other kids seeing him. He said he wanted to give me something beautiful because it was Easter---and because he loved me--he said. Jackie presented me with his gift--with quiet ceremony but with great humbled-ness. From behind his back he brought out his present all wrapped up in aluminium foil.
"That's all the wrapping paper we had at home, you see."

"Oh, it's lovely, Jackie. This is exactly the kind of wrapping paper my father uses. It's my favorite wrapping paper in the whole world," I assured him.

Placed inside the heavily crumpled foil were two brocade tassels. The kind you see that hold a pair of draperies back. "These are the most beautiful things we have in our whole house. I want you to have them, Ms. Causey."

Jackie Barnes, child with almost nothing, had brought me the most beautiful possession in his home. For Easter.

Here's my big fat spiritual question for today: What do we do after supper tonight?
If you do the whole communion thing with a group or at your house, where does it lead you? Or does it?
After supper. After you sup and drink.
What? Who? What next?
Is there a gift waiting from you?
For you?
Just asking.

Time Lapsed--As Seen On TV

I know that my neighbors and friends probably look at Taylor and me and wonder how I can pull all of these great revelations out of what I see in him. When you meet Taylor and are around him, it just seems like so very little is really going on. There is often little affect, very few words and to the "naked" eye, just not much happening inside that little guy. But, I'm with him almost 24-7. I know every nuance, every sound muttered and not muttered. I see vague smiles. I feel soft touches. I see the tilt of his head, the grimace of his face, and how he holds his hands. I suppose being with Taylor is a bit like being a bird watcher. Every movement is meaningful. Or a gardener. Little sparks of green mean new life. Or maybe like paying close attention to ants if you're lying in the grass. Fascinating. Seriously. Or maybe a little like Jane Goodall as she studied primates. Jane observed hour-upon-hour eventually documenting behaviors and customs most of the rest of us would have missed--in our drive-by safari jeep. If we don't sit very still, sit very very still and wait and notice, we miss a lot. Because what often is going on (in all of us) can be so subtle that just to glance casually--to do drive-bys in each other's lives--- nothing of "importance" tends to show up.
I love watching shows on Nova that have all that time-lapsed stuff on flowers blooming, fetuses growing, on erosion, on anything fast-forwarded from one stage to another--you know what shows I'm talking about. It's that fast-forward, WOW-revelation, that takes us from something seeming ordinary to the unfolding of something spectacular. Whoa! When did that happen? What was I busy doing while all of that was unfolding? It's the before and after of extreme home make-overs or any make-overs that just dazzle us. Man alive! Just look at that change. Whew.
But, life doesn't happen in time-lapsed video. Life happens one small step at a time. Day-in-day-out, step-by-step, breath-by-breath. It seems so ordinary. Some days our lives might even appear as if there is nothing to look at---nothing of value to see. But, what is it that we're looking for anyway? What are we expecting?
What are the guidelines? What page in the rule-book explains, "Now, this, my friend, is extraordinary! Take note."
What is going on when we look away or when we stop paying attention to ourselves and to those right at our elbow? I know good and well we've all had parts of our lives that have thrown us for a loop---so much so that we knocked ourselves out asking, "How did I not see that coming? What was I doing? How long had that been going on?" Every single one of us can tell a story, "I have a friend whose....child, wife, mother, brother...." and then use words like addicted, adultery, bankrupt, arrested, left, cheated, died. Where were we? Were we not looking? Were we not wanting to see...not able to see?
Being around Taylor for me is sort of "Zen" whatever that is. For you Yoga types, does that mean being totally in the present moment? Being in that moment that holds promise and richness and fullness---and is, in truth, the only moment we have. Is that what Zen is? How come it is that we mostly end up being so disappointed in that moment? What would that moment need...who would we need to be to see something...magical? Every time. Every moment----Oh Lord, I know I'm going overboard now. Ok, let's start with six minutes a day of magic. Can you handle that?
In studying Taylor's life, in being his mama and protector and the "pitcher" in our ball games, I get to glimpse magic a lot. If I sit still and just notice, I am able to see a human being who loves himself for who he is. I take mental notes and see that Taylor wakes up without prejudice, without worry and without holding any kind of hatred in his heart. All slates are clean every day. And, of course, there's that love thing. It's just there. Ready when you are. Is that mystical, magical, sacred, and rare? If the videographer from Nova time-lapsed Taylor's life, what would show up is just bigger, more expansive, fluorescent and transcendent love. Right before our eyes--but only if we're still will we see.
What about you? Are you paying attention to the magic in your life? Can you stand it if I use the words divine and holy? What happens in you and in your day that is holy/whole? Will you cower and go numb if we talk about living in amazement? When I look at Taylor--and see what others do not see, I hear these words from Mary Oliver:

"So every day
So every day
I was surrounded by the beautiful crying forth
of the ideas of God,
one of which was you."

Substitute your name for you.
I'll do it too.
Now pay attention.

Is He Hooked to any Machines?

I know this is mean sort of, but when Taylor was much younger, even back then we had a hard time finding baby sitters. Sometimes we would go over to the dorms and just put up sign asking for sitters. We never told them in advance that Taylor had Down Syndrome, because the minute we did, we detected panic and that "deer in the headlights" timbre in their voices. So, we'd wait until we picked them up and while driving them to our house, we'd say, "And oh, yeah, our youngest son has Down Syndrome." Silence. Un-ease. That proverbial pregnant pause--space in the air.
And then it would be, "Oh, uh, well, is he hooked up to any machines or anything?" I guess they thought they were going to have to deal with a ventilator or something. And this is where we'd do the hail Mary pass of an answer, "Yes, actually to several machines. After you put him to bed, you must keep the vacuum cleaner going at all times. And the washing machine. He loves both of those sounds. The sound of the dryer running (and of your folding clothes) will keep him from seizure-ing." We'd come home to a very clean house--vacuumed with clothes washed and dried--no seizures thank goodness. It's amazing what the whir of some machines can do--must be the white noise.
Our marriage did not make it. There are all sorts of statistics describing the high divorce rate among parents of special needs children. Being a parent to a typical child on a good day can be stressful. But to new, young, fearful parents, raising a disabled child can uncover other cracks that were probably there in the marriage to begin with. I don't know if it's human nature or not, but there was something in me that just needed to know WHY I had a son who would need so much help all the way through life. I vacillated between screaming at God, hating God, needing God and retreating from God. I did the same thing with Taylor's father. Although I knew intellectually that it was nobody's fault, I secretly was ready to blame those closest to me on the path.
Giving birth to a brand new baby with special needs is a loss of sorts. It's the loss of the child I had in mind---had dreamed of--had planned for--had visualized making my life complete. Loss is loss. Each one of you reading this has experienced loss. You might be saying to yourself right now, "Yes, but it wasn't like yours." Let me repeat: Loss is loss.
And we need to grieve our losses. If we don't, we'll wear them or eat them, or drink them or isolate ourselves into our own form of despair. So, yeah, I did the five stages of grieving (Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, Acceptance) about 45 loops each---sometimes all in the same day---for sure all in the same year. I'm still doing some of the stages in spurts and starts. I got stuck in some of the stages for longer periods than others. I am a huge bargainer with God. You can't even believe it. I should be locked up for the inside deals I have tried to make with him. Some of them make me laugh. Thank goodness he saw right through me and totally ignored all the convents I promised to live in or all of the chocolate I swore I'd give up. (I am still convent-free and chocolate IV'd---so no deals ever went down.) But, let me make it eminently clear: I am still totally willing to bargain---and I'm not against bribery either. Sad but true.
I am not sure at what point I came to acceptance. Actually, I am not all the way sold on acceptance. It's still a process for me. Because every time a milestone should be taking place in Taylor's life, I have to regroup, sit still, cry for a while and then come to terms with what is. What is--- is this precious life---not the life I dreamed of or wrote about in my 9th grade diary. But a different life with different textures and short buses and more wheelchair friends and bowling alley lanes with bumpers lining the gutters. It's different. It's nobody's fault. And, I don't blame anybody anymore.
But....about my fat legs. I totally blame my mother.
It is probably not her fault, but I still blame her.
Unless God gave me these chunky legs.
So, there's another blame option.
Oh, heck, what if I just took responsibility for my life?
Now, there's a thought.

Don't Even Think About It.

Oh my goodness. I have so many rules for my life. And yeah, right about now, I am so certain that none of you better be wearing any white shoes---not until Easter. Do you hear me? (Is that a southern thing or is it in the Constitution somewhere like my mother said? Maybe she said it was in the Bible. Either way, it is a very important rule. It's one I have followed all of my life and would not dare break no matter what. After all, it's a rule. One that was supposed to both impact and change my life--so I was taught. Isn't that why we have rules anyway....to help us with our lives?
When we travel to the beach in our car, Taylor knows that the rule for our dog, Murphy, is that he stay on the back seat. This is a rule. I always drug Murphy, but it never seems to work; he tries to sneak up front most of the trip. Every time Murphy wedges himself between the back and front, Taylor comes out with this Sargent sounding, "Don't even think about it, Murphy." Then he promptly tries to toss Murphy back. Of course all of this rule following and breaking is happening while I am driving 80 mph down I-75. None-the-less, Taylor knows what I've told him and he does his best to enforce my rule. I, on the other hand, have begun to weaken and am willing to forego the rule just this once---again. But no! "Don't even think about it!" shows up again and my inability to follow through is spotted and noted.
"Well, it isn't even a very good rule," is what I try to justify to Taylor.
Rule--Smule----I am ready to throw everybody out the window because I can feel myself collapsing around what I thought I believed.

Do you ever eat dessert first? OK, forget that. Do you eat between meals? Do you have a rule that you will never go to bed with dirty dishes? (I do. Yes, I know I need to get a life.) Never leave the house without brushing your teeth? Exercise at least three times a week? Not drink before 5:00 (and yes, it's always after 5:00 somewhere.) I know. I know. You probably don't have them written down and anchored under a magnet on your refrigerator, but in your mind, they are your rules.
But let's say... what if you were being observed from above--like from Sky Cam? What rules could the guy with the clipboard write down about your life by the end of the day? 'Cause isn't it true that if somebody really wants to know the rules of our lives---what rules our lives, mostly they just need to see how we spend our time? (And thank goodness they can't see inside of our heads...right?) So, here are some. Check yes in the gray box if any of these apply to you:
Fake Rule #1:It's Ok to hold grudges but pretend like we don't.
Fake rule #2: Say that inner beauty is more important than outer beauty but make digging comments about people's hair, teeth, clothes, weight.
Fake rule #3: Say we love all people but condone words like fag, retard, colored and certainly keep our relationships homogeneous. (Look it up.)
Fake rule #4: Express a willingness to offer the shirt off your back...unless the shirt is from Saks.
Gosh. You got it. I got it. We have rules that we post and then rules that we actually follow. But, those dumb rules---like about white shoes, those aren't really the rules I'm talking about so much. What about the inner compass/moral/comandment (if you will) type rules. The biggies. How are we doing on those? I can get a little flimsy in my own daily life with the interpretation of words like honor, covet, false witness, ..... and the greatest of these is....love. Ooops. Broken that one lately? So, here's my big fat spiritual question for today: What if, every time we were about to go against our true north---against our own morals--the rules that keep us whole/holy ---what if we allowed ourselves to hear, "Don't even think about it."? How would that little prompt feel in our lives?
Some days it seems like I need that cue card about a million times. I might be veering off course---going against what I know to be right; I need that voice that says, "Don't even think about it." Don't say, don't do, don't eat, don't engage in, don't "go there"---that thing that will bring harm, hurt or hate to another person. It's a rule. Like bigger than the white shoe rule.

So, here's the best set of rules I know for living this life. Whether on dry land or on in the water, some variation of these rules work every time.
Think metaphorically if you need to.

Lean back.
Keep your skis together.
Let the boat pull you up.

Good rules. Probably in the Bible or Constitution somewhere.
Anybody else out there trying to pull the boat up?
Give it a rest.
Let the boat pull you up.

Sing Your Song Whatever It Is.

I end up playing word association with Taylor most days. He frequently just gives me one word (his sentence) and I then launch from there until I land on what it is that he is trying to tell me. I have to go back and quickly scan everything we've done for the past 12 months, but usually I can make the connection. This morning the first thing he said to me was, "Dreams." Well, one of you guys might think (naturally/obviously) that he would tell me about a dream he had had. Uh, that's not really possible----that he'd talk about, not that he would dream---but that's another blog. So, the word, dreams...scanning now. Got it. Yesterday we had watched Cinderella (again!) and had sung along: "A dream is a wish your heart makes, when you're fast asleep.." So, I got that one! Name that tune: 20 points.
He especially loves "Bella Notte" from Lady and the Tramp: "Oh this is the night, it's a beautiful night. And we call it bella notte." When I tell you that he likes it, that means he sings in his own beautiful interesting-tone way and he sings one or two words from the song. My cue word for Bella Notte is the word, Stars.
So, again, I win both Word Association and Name That Tune all in the same breath. (Washer and the dryer are prizes for being able to do this, I feel certain.)
I love to sing. I sing all the time. I know lots of songs. Well, actually I don't know any current "hit" songs. But I do know lots of old "If I had A Hammer" type tunes. (Somebody call the "This woman needs a life police!") I promise that this will be my last true confession for a very long time---maybe even until tomorrow. But, when I was younger--like in middle school, I used to hide away in the room I shared with two of my sisters. When nobody was around, I would put on a record (vinyl record, on a record player---you can google that if you are younger than 40) and listen to Bach and Beethoven and Mozart. And then, (this is the part you have to swear not to tell anybody) I would conduct those pieces in front of my very own (imaginary) orchestra. I loved that kind of music early on. But I never told anybody. It just spoke to me. I was a geek from an early age; I hid it by being funny. I am still a geek, a nerd---but funny.

If you're still reading this and wondering where it's going, get in line. So am I.
No, but one Sunday, Mrs. Adams, had her 8th grade Sunday School class (of which I was a part) write down our favorite piece of music. She passed a wicker basket around to collect our answers. I guess this was the precursor to, "Is that your final answer?" and so, "Lock it in." So, I locked in my answer along with 15 of my brilliant peers. Oh Lord, my stomach aches as I write this and you've already guessed part of what's coming. Sure enough, Mrs. Adams read, "Steve, lovely. You wrote: Pachabel Canon in D. Beautiful." and I think Bill wrote, Grieg's Peer Gynt. Ginger probably wrote Chopin's etude number so and so,Opus whatever. Oh dear me. Oh help. I had followed my heart; I only heard one song in my head that day. I knew all of that other music, but on that Sunday morning, the piece of music I loved most in the world was a song called, "Just Walk Away Renee" by some singer I could not possibly remember today. Yep, I had locked in "Just Walk Away Renee" as my final answer. Fast forward: I did not die. I thought I would, but I didn't. Oh, I loved Mrs. Adams. I'm sure she didn't, but that dear woman said, "Oh, Marianne, I love that song too." (Not!) She probably had never even heard it before but, she saved me. Sort of. Some. A little. But who cares? It was nothing that twelve years of intense therapy couldn't fix. But nothing--not even that could squelch my love for singing.

For Taylor, music must be what his feelings sound like. Along those same lines, Victor Hugo said that, "Music expresses that which cannot be said and on which it is impossible to be silent." My guess is that's why Taylor likes to "sing" Making a joyful noise is familiar to him. He knows that it makes him feel better to break forth into singing. Taylor knows it.
And you? Even if you don't sing well--or good or often. Even if you only sing one word (Dreams/Stars) Even if you sing Pachabel or "Just Walk Away Renee". Sing. In your own way, SING!
With Taylor for sure, music begins even when he had no idea what the words are. (Like who honestly knew Bella Notte?) You know what? Taylor has no comprehension of what the words to his favorite song mean. But, on some level, the song touches him.
I am locking in these words---and this music--as Taylor's favorite song today....Final Answer:

A dream is a wish your heart makes
When you're fast asleep
In dreams you lose your heartaches
Whatever you wish for, you keep
Have faith in your dreams and someday
Your rainbow will come smiling thru
No matter how your heart is grieving
If you keep on believing
the dream that you wish will come true.

Checking In

If you ever pass Taylor and me on the street, do not be surprised if he is turned straight towards me with his nose up against mine, looking me straight in the eyes. We can be walking anywhere--in a parking lot, down a city sidewalk, in the women's dressing room at Steinmart--and Taylor will stop, turn me towards him, frame my face in his hands and search my eyes. He is checking in. That's my best guess.
Without having much language at all, Taylor takes his cues from stimuli, commotion, and the interactions of people around us. When it seems like it's all too much for him, he just takes a time out---and pulls me along with him. I know that he must be wanting to tell me something, but there are no words. There is just that, "Be still. Be close. I'm here. Are you still with me?" It is very tender and very dear---except for when it's not. Sometimes I'll be right in the middle of handing the lady at Sam's my credit card, or I'll be dodging six lanes of traffic, or rain may be pouring down all over my great hair do. I feel this tug on my arm. Taylor is checking in.....again. "Are you here with me?" he searches me.

You know, I would have to say that I was never much of a dog person growing up--not even a pet person. There were eight kids in my family and even though we had a dog, my parents treated him like...well, a dog. I know that we left town for six weeks at a time for the beach. I have no recollection at all about their making arrangements to have Rusty fed. Anyway, that's another guilt thing that I won't explore now. But, now things have changed some. Years ago, Taylor's speech therapist insisted that we get Taylor a dog to facilitate his language expression. So we bought Bone (beagle) and then Dolly Dog (yikes! hyper-Basset) and now we have Murphy (fake Lhasa). So, yeah, I am now a dog person. That whole last paragraph was to lay the groundwork for my forthcoming astute observations and insights: Dogs check in with one another. (Was that worth the wait? Did you animal folks already know this?) No, seriously, when dogs meet one another, they sniff, circle, smell, do a little alpha male type thing---you know, check in. And when they're all secure and feeling all safe, they take off and romp and interact. (I think I've had too many counseling courses. Interact???) I mean play! And, then after some mingling and meddling, (okay, what are dog words for what they're doing? Maybe I'm not a dog person) they check in again. Nose-to-nose, smell-to-smell, rib-to-rib--they check in as if to ask, "Are we still friend-ly?"
Maybe I have a greater need than most of you to check in with the people I love. "Are you alright? Are we alright?" It's important to stop our frantic attempts at life to turn towards our fellow people and ask, "How are you? Are you in there somewhere? Are you above water or just barely hanging on?"
I know that it would be way out there if we all checked in like Taylor does: our faces placed in gentle and safe hands, pure and observant eye contact between us, and just holding the moment in stillness and silence. Yeah, that would be preposterous, wouldn't it? So, what would be a sort of half-way and acceptable way for us to check in with one another so that we really see---see each other as we are? At that moment? In that space? Are we willing...are we able to stop, ask, and see what the other person's breathing looks like?
Well, actually, I am thinking that when Taylors stops me and turns me that he is not seeing me with his eyes, but with his heart. Maybe that's why I feel so safe and so willing to oblige. When we do take time to "see" each other, we might hear what is not able to be spoken. And, I'm going to borrow only part of a quote by Tennyson here, "Our eyes are homes to silent prayers."
Gosh, with Taylor, I am not certain if his silent prayer/checking in is saying,
"Let's go to Wendy's or "We look like crap, mama" or "I wish I were home watching 101 Dalmatians." or "I really hurt right now." It's hard to know. I have to really pay attention and then decipher from there.
But, for you and yours? What goes on there?
How do you check in with those whom you love?
Do you stand close? Are you allowed to frame their face?
Is being still in their eyes a safe place to be?
What are their eyes saying to you in that silent prayer?
It really and truly might be something as simple as "You have broccoli in your teeth." Or maybe it's not.
Keep dental floss and an open heart handy.

Our epitaphs

I taught a class to middle schoolers once in which the curriculum required that the students write their own epitaph. Now don't go getting all macabre on me because it wasn't like that at all. Actually, it was a pretty cool exercise to try and get these 8th graders to think way down the line. Yeah, like way down the line. I guess that may have gone under the category called "Long Term Planning." But really and truly, it was an exercise to prompt them to consider, as seriously as they could, what they would want to be known for when all was said and done. I know. I know. That's hard even for those of us who are...ahem....way on up there. We mess around all day in our lives and then those days turn in to years and then those years add up. Writer Annie Dillard says that how we spend our days is how we spend our lives. So, the next thing we know.....well, somebody might need to write down something---very succinctly about us...on a piece of marble or granite or someplace lasting.
On my mother's grave, the head stone reads, "Mother to many, Friend to All." I wonder if that's what she would have chosen. It suits her, though. I am ashamed to say that my father has been dead for eight years and the eight of us, his children, still have not come up with a head stone for him. It's a long, complicated story that involved his body being sent to Emory and then his last wife doing screwy things. Two memorial services later and we have not written his epitaph that speaks to the sum of his life. It's too hard---too hard for all of us to agree on what to say--and too hard to compress a life into ten words or less.
I know that none of us reading this (or writing this) is living our lives with the intent of hoping somebody will one day write something really nice about us on a chunk of stone. But, if we even had any input into it, what is it that you would want your epitaph to say? At the end of the day, what is that you would most want others to say about you? Like in 10 words or less? That's harder than writing a haiku maybe--but, yeah, if the whole of your life were reduced to haiku. What would it say?
I mean, if it were something true. If it really reflected what you had offered to this life, to this earth, to all the people whose paths you had crossed.
My precious friend Eve's marker simply says, "Beloved." Complete and true.
Is there one word like that for you and for me? How do we show up in this world to others? What is it that they see in us or do not see in us? What would our lives compel another to say if they told the truth? Uh-oh.
I guess what I'm trying to say is that who we are counts. You know students always ask a teacher, "Is this important? Is this going to be on the test?" Well, life is kind of like that. Yes, 'how we are' is important, and yes, it's going to be on the test. In fact, it's already on the test. We are seated with pencils sharpened. We are in the midst of taking the test. Did we forget that in the midst of all of our busy-ness? Did WE think this was the warm-up?
Here's the good news. At least it's good news for me. Even if we've chosen some pretty "crappy" things before today, we get a chance to choose anew--all new today.
It's sort of like that saying, "It's never too late to have a happy childhood."
It's never too late to rethink who we want to be.
So, back to working on your profile, the picture you're painting of yourself in this life. Are we not in the midst of making our mark--even today, even now? I think about this every day as I parent Taylor. He just lives so purely and clearly and cleanly. He is easy to sum up: Pure in heart...shall see God. And I just do my best to mess it all up by cluttering him up with stuff that probably doesn't amount to much. Hmmm. What does he know that I don't?
Not that any of us would ever consider that anybody would write the word, "Saint" on our markers, but here's a story to churn on as you think about your epitaph.
In church one morning, some young children were asked, "Who in here can tell us what a Saint is?"
One little fellow piped up, "I think I know."
Looking up at the beautiful stained glass windows of Matthew and Mark and Luke, lining the walls of the sanctuary, the boy offered this, "A Saint is any one who lets the light shine right through them. Just look up there. See the light shining through them? That's what a Saint is."
I am not sure what all it entails to live a life of purpose, love and meaning.
But, I am pretty sure we cannot go wrong at all if we let the light shine right through us.
An epitaph? How about:
He let the light shine right through him.
Ok, so, here are my two top choices:
1. She looked damn good in that bathing suit.
2. She let the light shine right through her.
I must be honest; it's a toss up.
Ok, Ok, I'll go with the light shining through.
Can I have two though? Bathing suit and light?

Change is inevitable; growth is optional.

I'm not sure it would have been helpful or not if one of my teachers (I can't remember who taught me about Ancient Greece) had given me a heads-up that my life would be---or had the potential to be-- a whole lot like Sisyphus'. This is really just the "victim" in me talking, so indulge me for a minute or two. Sisyphus ended up pushing that same damn rock up that same 'ole mountain, only to have it fall back down again to its starting point. Day in and day out. Same rock. Same boulder. Same mountain. Yep, a labor that was both futile and hopeless. Anybody? More Sisyphus' in this studio audience? We've all heard that saying, "Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again expecting different results." So, why in the heck do we allow ourselves to get caught in this cycle? Hmmm. Some days I know. Some days I don't.
Yesterday was one of those days I didn't know, but by golly, I was not about to push that rock aside and walk back down the mountain without it. Gee. I am so persistent and hard-headed. Others? Are you in this club with me?
Taylor was in a lot of pain yesterday. I can tell because (1) He says, "I hurt so bad." Although he cannot then go on to describe the pain or tell me where it located. (2) He says the same thing over and over and over again until I just want to scream. He says, "Boo" times 1000 and then he says, " What's wrong?" times 10,000. His little eyes are vacant, yet pleading. I feel completely impotent and not capable and unable to "fix" him. Oh my goodness, I hate to feel that way.
So, I push that rock up that mountain. The rock yesterday had a huge label that read, "You can control all things. You can fix this. You know what to do." Heave. Ho. Push, Grunt. Frustrate. Heave. Shove. None of it worked. No matter how hard I pushed, no matter how frustrated or tense I got, his pain did not go away.

I am not sure what came over me late in the afternoon, but something did. I took a chance. I breathed. Oh, I so love how words overlap and connect, 'cause if you hate the word pray, then go with the word breathe. Breathe is from the word spirare--spirit--spiritus---soul, courage, breathe. I breathed.
I opened myself up for a shift--internally--inside of my mind. I just quit fighting. And, then, I asked, "Is there any other possible response (from me) to what is going on right now? Is the only way I can see this is through anxiety, "failure," fear and frustration?" It's funny. I sort of took myself to my own course in "Inward Bound." And, yes, I prayed--breathed. I stood in my very own kitchen and I said, "I don't know how to do this. I don't know how to be thankful for this. I need help." I stopped---even for a few hours--pushing that same rock (futile!) up that hill. Are you reading me? Is being in control an issue for you? Do you think you can "fix" things even if you know the words in your head that say, "You are not in control."? There is a higher power at work here, so just relax? Arrrggghhh.....God's wife was showing up and showing out. Yikes!

My friend, Terry, was telling me something this morning about a friend whose life is in a landslide. Everything has changed dramatically for this family. After asking how they were, Terry observed, "You know how people say that brown is the new black? Well, when you say things are "okay," you may mean the new okay." The new normal. The new change. The new way of seeing things---feeling things....knowing things.
I know this: everything I resist.....persists. Every time. The more I resist, the more the feeling/thought/belief just stares me right in the face. My worries are just waiting for me to sit them on my lap--like I would a young child--- with kindness and gentleness and love. I am not trying to be all "ooey-gooey bag"/encounter groupy here, but my feeling/thoughts just want to be heard, noticed, acknowledged---so I can put some love around them and then......let them go. Chances are good that they will come back, but maybe next time I can welcome them (these thoughts...these feelings...these rocks/boulders)) as friends--not enemies.
I know that some of you are totally turned off by what I just wrote. That's okay too. It's the new okay.
So, here's my big, fat, spiritual question for today:
What rock are you pushing up that same mountain today?
Are you willing or able to stop and breathe (or pray)---just for a bit?
Would you be willing to allow for change....just for one minute---ten minutes...one hour?
And, then, of course, there's growth---in case you're interested.
The growth part, of course, is optional--for you. For me.

Sorry. I Cannot.

Taylor's brother and father are both quite musically talented. That means that we have lots of opportunities to go to concerts to hear Mozart or Dvorak and see/hear the blood relatives play violin. Unfortunately, Taylor hates concerts. Because he has very little sense of time and because reading a program tells him very little about how much he will have to endure, you can see Taylor coming up with his very best argument against going. What it really boils down to is, "Sorry. I cannot."
I sort of like that. He's being asked...told... that he needs to put on something besides sweat pants, that he needs to wear a belt and jacket and then sit in a concert hall to hear music he may not even like. Sorry, he cannot. Of course, he will and he does, but he gives it best shot, "Sorry. I cannot." Fortunately, I can still outsmart him, so it almost never works for him. And, besides that, there's always that parental knowing: Sometimes in life you are going to have to do stuff you just do not want to do. Bitter medicine at times.
Taylor used to say that about a lot of things we requested. Write your name. Sorry I cannot. Brush your teeth. Sorry I cannot. Eat this food you hate. Sorry I cannot. There was no veil, no wiggling around and making excuses, no feigned attempt at trying. No, he just put it out there: The request was simply not anything he was remotely interested in doing at the moment---or ever really. Kind of like a lot of us actually. Those requests don't sound so big, do they, in the scheme of things, I mean. I just wonder why we all tend to balk, then when it's our turn to stretch.
When we were growing up and our father told us to do something, of course we balked...and then got spanked and then got the broken record learning lesson: "Just say yes sir and that's all." I was right in that camp of children that accused my parents, "Oh, you just had us so you would have somebody to do the dishes for you!" I was convinced that the only reason my mother wanted any of us on this earth was to get up and find her the remote control. I know I said lots of sassy things under my breath, but "Sorry. I cannot" did not escape from my lips out loud.
My parents were what you might call "old school." I valued my life too much to be standing too close to them...and talk back. "Sorry. I cannot,' never made it out loud--to them.
Yes, I thought things were rough and that way too much was asked of me. But really an indelible and invaluable lesson was taught to me by requiring me to complete tasks I did not want to do, to go places I did not want to go, to experience things I did not want to experience. I guess you could say that it is times like that in which we build grit and muscle and strength of some sort in ourselves. It sounds a bit like the word, discipline: practice, prepare, cultivate, train, tune-up. And discipline makes me think of the word disciple. (Don't freak out here, anybody. I'm not going all "churchy" on you.) Disciple means learner. See, you lived through that definition. Whew.
So, here's my big fat spiritual question: What is it that we want to learn?
To learn about who we are and where we're going and what our purpose is---like on this very day. Of what will we be a disciple....a learner?
What if something comes to you ---a calling maybe, a voice, an intuition, a hunch, a request---in your own personal life? Yeah, about your purpose.
What are you going to say?
Sorry, I cannot?
Nice try.
Oh heck, take off your sweat pants.
Put on your belt and jacket.
Go.
Feel the fear.
Do it anyway.
Sorry. Yes you can.

Thank you for Not....

Dr. Phil(my new best friend) says that we teach people how to treat us. He says that what we allow others to say to us and do to us is our own doing. We give cues and clues to other people that say, "It's ok to treat me like this." Heck most of us treat ourselves 100 times worse than anybody "out there." What do you think? (I know you have an opinion on that. Share it.)
You know for years I taught 7th graders. The first couple of years during my teaching career, I would get so angry and resentful if my students did not show appreciation for "all that I was doing for them." I pouted and did this passive-aggressive thing that you may have seen other adults in your life do. (Maybe you do it yourself? Fess up!) I would take homemade cupcakes on a Friday. When no student said, "Thank you," I steamed and stewed and acted all put-out. I am not sure when it finally dawned on me but, thank G_d it did: I was not there to fuss at the kids about what they did not know; I was in their lives partially to train them up to be good people. If they didn't come out with a "Thank You," then it was part of my job to explain to them how to show courtesy and gratitude. Punishment was out; kind training was in. This simple shift made a powerful difference in my classroom and in my life.

I look at what I have taught my own children and what I still think I am teaching them today. Sadly, it does not always match. When my older son, Cole, was a little boy, one particularly hectic Sunday morning we couldn't find matching socks or a little tie and breakfast was late. We were headed to church....to church. (Sundays always brought out the worst in us.) Cole, walking in late to Sunday School announced, "My mother said to tell you that she's sorry we're so damn late." Ooops. Outed. Busted. My language and my angst were showing up all over his little life.

I don't allow anybody to smoke in my house. Have you got a "Thank you for not smoking" sign anywhere close to your back door? That is so clear cut to me: No smoking in my house. It's a rule. My home is my sanctuary, my refuge, my safe place to be. But here's my big fat spiritual question for today: Do I allow racist jokes or cruel gossip or petulant moods or cold shoulders to linger in my home? Is that worse than smoke? Do I have signs up around my house that say, "Thank you for not complaining, being rude, not helping, being self-centered?" How do others know what's ok with us in our lives? What messages do we send that shouts out, "This is who I am. Treat me like this, because that is how I probably treat myself....and will in turn, treat you."

Two of my siblings have little calligraphied notices that read, "Thank you for removing your shoes" near their front door. (Beautiful homes, beautiful people both) So, that's clear, right? Take off your shoes. The message is clear.
But what part of our body language and talk language communicates, " And,don't bring the crud of dishonesty, cover-up, or denial in with you."? Leave your bad attitude and all things you "hate" out by the trash can. How does that look in calligraphy?
If about 90% of what we communicate is not with words that come out of our mouths, what is it that, if there were a sign close by--what is it that our signs would say? Thank you for looking me in the eye? Thank you for calling me by name? Thank you for acknowledging my life's purpose?
Thank you for trying?
Thank you for looking honestly at yourself so that we can be honest together?
Like it or not, we're all wearing signs all the time, everywhere we go, whatever it is we're doing. Right this minute, yes, right this second, what would your....my.....our....sign say?
(Don't you just love white-erase boards?)

Being......?

Today I just didn't want to go with Taylor on his scooter. He has one of those push scooters like maybe some of your 7 or 8 year olds have. Yes, thank goodness he likes to go out on it. But, gosh, today I just didn't want to go along with him. I wanted to stay in and read. I have three books going and I just wanted to stay put and underline things and just veg---I mean, just "be." (Okay, veg was right the first time.) The hardest part of my days are from 3:00-6:00. I know that this is in total contradiction to my previous blog on complaining. So, let me just clear this up. I am not actually complaining. I am just sharing. (Are you buying it?)
Because it's in the afternoons that we go on the scooter and play ball and then go on the scooter some more. It seems like I already did this life one time around a long time ago.....like when my boys were little. Some of you are starting it all over again, but with your grand children. That is the natural order of things in real life, isn't it? But, here's what I really do need for one of you to tell me. What is real life? Seriously, I lose my bearings some days and I cannot for the life of me figure out whose life is "real." My life sometimes seems to be caught in a chasm---maybe like an elevator stuck between floors. I don't have a feel for what "normal" people...normal families do. Am I missing something? When I'm out on the scooter with my 25 year old son, what are the rest of you doing? Anything important? (And, is this something I could do from home? Like stuffing envelopes or something? Competitive knitting?)
Just today I read the neatest thing by the Buddhist teacher Stephen Levine who said, “Hell is not wanting to be where you are. Every time you push against what is going on, every time you don’t want to feel what you feel, you double your pain rather than make it go away." You see, probably like you, I have this idea, this belief, this constant noise in my head that keeps telling me that I need to keep striving to "be somebody." I don't mean like be somebody famous, but like be somebody who has an impact on the world. And, how in the heck can I have an impact on the world if I am out walking behind a Razor scooter three hours a day?
Now please don't email me and tell me that I already have had an impact on the world. Because you know exactly what I'm talking about. Come on. Look at your own life. What project did you work on today? Are you writing a book? Settling a court case? Memorizing a sonata? Translating the Dead Sea Scrolls into eight new languages?
Here's my big, fat spiritual question: Can being a somebody be something really extraordinarily ordinary like, simply being truly present in whatever moment we find ourselves in? What if we're just pushing a handicapped person up a street on a toy scooter? Does that count or should I want to be something more specific--specifically SOMEBODY.

Taylor is completely content to be in the sunshine, scooting along, taking in the sounds and smells around him. I, on the other hand, tend to fight that---and resist my own life. How old does one need to be before that inner voice just relaxes, stops nagging, and maybe even begins to sing?(Oh Lord, I wonder what it would sing?) I can promise you that many of you, my dear dear readers, that you too "battle" this same pressure, yearning, need to fulfill, achieve, prove, win, succeed...this need to be somebody.
Press 1 on your keypad if this is true for you. (See...100% of you pressed 1!)

Tonight, when I was drying Taylor off after his bath, he stopped and softly rubbed my face with the back of his hand. He said, "I love you, mama." And he looked directly into my eyes and held my gaze as if he knew I was questioning who I am and my place in this world. Just like I question his.
He does not know psycho-babble, but if he did, he would most likely say, "You already are being somebody, mama."
Looking back into those sweet, trusting eyes made me think about what the singer Pearl Bailey said: "People see God every day; they just don't recognize him."
Does God ride a donkey and a scooter do you think?
Would you recognize him if you saw him?
Would he recognize you?