Happy Birthday

Today is Taylor's 26th birthday.  More on that in a minute.  I'll circle back and pick you up.  My friend, Terry, is one of the funniest and most compassionate people I know.  She told me the other day that I should collect all of these writings and publish a book.  And she came up with a title and then made me promise that  I'd give her credit if I used it.  Terry's suggested title for my life's blogs is: Chicken Soup My A**!!   I howled when she advised me.   Underneath my laughter was the truth;  It's a perfect title---Chicken Soup----My A**.  It fits.
    So, 26 years ago,  while still in the recovery room, the doctor (s) told me to have someone round up my family right away.  They  said they needed us all together so they could speak with us.   We sent somebody---a nurse?---rushing down to my room where my sisters were tying up balloons and hanging celebratory signs.  Martha and Deanie showed up at my bedside within seconds--out of breath and clearly not knowing what we were all about to be told. 
Dr. H. wasted no time, but she struggled with her words and hesitated as she did her best to break the news to us about our newborn son.  (This has got to be right up there on their  list of  "this is not my favorite part of being a doctor.")  And, then she hit us with the news that would change our lives in one split second----causing us to cough up everything we had ever believed about life up to that point.  "Yes," she lamented, "he will be retarded."  Slam.  1-2 Knock out punch.  What????  Ok, you get it. Huge news.  Devastating news.  Not-what-we-had-expected news.  How-in-the-hell-will-we-ever-do-this news. 
But here is the most incredible and truly beautiful part of that birth-day.  Without hesitating, without skipping even one beat, both of my sisters heaved (visibly) a huge sigh of relief.  "Oh, thank God.  Is that all it is? We were so afraid you were going to tell us there was something wrong with Marianne.  Whew.  We can handle this.  We couldn't have handled the other."  So let's get on with this---- is what they were saying.
 Retarded?  Piece of cake.  We've still got each other and that's all that really matters. ----that was the distinct, unequivocal,  spoken and unspoken message that day.  We can do this.
Isn't that just the sweetest thing you've ever heard? And so it was.....and is. 
And Mr. Taylor is 26.  He knows it's his birthday but he has not handed me a list of "I want this and I want that."  He just wants to blow out some candles.  Candles that he won't be able to count.  So, we'll count them for him.  And remember and celebrate.  Besides taking him to NYC and Yellowstone this summer, I bought him three sticker books.  Now, buying those did make cry.  The salesperson at Borders inquired, "Oh your son will love these Disney sticker books.  How old will he be?"  I gulped.  Should I have lied?  It would have been so much easier and I wouldn't have had the sales lady shifting from one foot to another trying to figure out what to do with my tears.  Maybe when Taylor turns 50 I can buy sticker books without caving in.
So, here's how I'm celebrating.  For 26 years I have told people I couldn't do sit ups "cause my stitches still hadn't healed from childbirth." That, of course, is a big fat lie.
I am going to do some sit ups. 
I think my stitches have finally healed.  Well.....are healing.
Let me just try a few. 
Happy Birth---Happy Life-----Happy Love----to my sweet son.
Bring on the chicken soup--for the soul, for the mama, for the son, for living this life.

Healing Hands

I dragged/drug (?) Taylor to church yesterday.  Not only did I take him to church, we had a little road trip to Montreat, NC, so we could worship with a thousand other Presbyterians at the Montreat Conference Center.  The guest minister was a man  known in national and international circles as “the preacher’s preacher,” the Rev. Dr. James A. Forbes. He was quite eloquent I must say.  Plus, I was just ready to be there. I think it sort of matters how we show up at any event or to any situation or gathering.  An open heart and mind is just so much easier to mold and mend and let stuff in than when we've got that iron door pulled down over us.  So, yeah, I was ripe to be ministered to. (Is it ok to end with a prepostion there---ministered to?)   Taylor does not like church per se.  Because we don't go anymore, he is always on his best behavior when we find our way into a sanctuary of any kind.  He knows there will be singing and that we have to sit still for a while.  He's still not sure about marry and bury and just regular, plain 'ole, "we're just at church now" kind of thing.  I cry pretty much every time I'm in a church, so Taylor gets no clues from me about the poignancy level of the service.  It's all a service to me.
  But anyway....here I am dragging you along too.  Stick with me.  At one point in the service, Dr. Forbes asked us to hold out our hands  in front of us and look at them.  Because Taylor had not been doing the standing and singing much up to that point, I was caught a bit off guard when he joined in; Taylor, like having heard his own name being called,  put his sweet litle hands out in front of himself  to examine them.
Dr. Forbes would go on to invite us and encourage us and challenge us to use our hands---connected to our hearts and God and love and our callings within---to use our hands for healing and service.   This preacher's preacher, convinced that we are all healers,  beckoned us to use our hands to heal---to heal relationships, to heal yucky parts of our jobs, to heal wounds from our past--and present.  All the while, we looked at our hands--each person's hands/gifts/tools right out in front of ourselves----looked at our hands as a real and vital connection that can touch, calm, become a balm---and healer to people whose paths we cross. 
(Yes, I was moved.)

   I put my hand on the deep scar of Taylor's neck.  "Heal him," I prayed.  Here are my hands.  Here is my prayer.  And then I felt Taylor's hand on my face---on my cheek---just brushing at that tear he saw.  All of these years I have taken Taylor "in" for healing---Lord knows we've been to every western and eastern medicine man and religious person that I can find on the map.   But what was clotted up in my stomach on Sunday morning was not my own hands used for healing.....but Taylor's.  What about his hands?  What about how he uses his touch (and gentleness and kindness and love) for healing?  As I watched him in his own precious reverent way hold out his hands as if he were hearing a call very special and particular to his life, I was struck silent and still.  All of these years I have yearned and begged and pleaded and prayed for Taylor's healing---physical healing from pain.  But yesterday I was startled into seeing how Taylor's hands are his gifts too---his gifts and tools for healing.   Why had I not expected him to join in and have something to offer?  Why had I assumed that the service--the message was only for me (and the other 1000 people in that sanctuary) and not for him?   Why do I need to be reminded so often and so vividly that Taylor has his own holy journey?  Why am I hogging this show?

        I know good and well that some of you are just like me.  We decide who has worth or who has more worth or less worth---whose life is more important or meaningful or valuable.  I think I probably have a ranking order (please God tell me it's not a conscious thing!) for other people on this planet.  I bet you $10.00 that I am not alone in this.  So, let me just ask you this: Are outstretched, giving, healing hands all valuable?  Are some more so than others?  "Hmmmmm" is the only answer I will allow myself right now.
And I look at the picture of my sister's hands making a puzzle with Taylor.   Healing hands.  Hands that bring a gift, a touch, comfort, reassurance, help, kindness.   Taylor examined his hands yesterday.  He, too, seemed to be reminded that he has something to offer.
You can't hear me singing, but I am. 
Offer your hands and all to which they are connected--your heart, your skills, all that you know, your hope.  Your hands.

Ring Bearer

Yesterday,  my 22 year old nephew got  married.  Jack has just completed four years at West Point.  (His twin brother just completed four years at The Naval Academy.)  America's brightest, most talented, most promising: our future.  I love these boys (men.) I do. Politically I am probably not very much like them or their parents, but our love and respect for each other is strong and real.  And, for all of their lives , both of these young men have embraced, included, and interacted with Taylor in meaningful and loving ways.  Early on, the contrasts were not so glaring or vast.  Today, the gap between the boys (the twins and Taylor) ---intellectually,  physical abilities,  potential earning power, "America's most valuable resource"--the differences can not even be compared on the same chart---if there were such a chart.  (I guess I have an ongoing chart in my head.)  Taylor, 25---the groom, 22--both taking part in the same life----same stores, same speed limits on the same highways,   same family picnics, ---but totally different lives.

    Jack and his bride, Joanna,  asked Taylor to be the ring bearer for their  wedding.  Taylor's "job"  was  to walk down the aisle, find the twin best man and give him the ring to hold for the groom. Gosh, that sounds so simple doesn't it?  Let me just say that it's a good thing we were able to practice. And, even with that, it was touch and go.  But, Taylor hung on to that pillow and found his way down an aisle amongst people who love him and made his way to an anxious and welcoming groom.  Everybody cried.  Cried to see this man child taking so seriously this one seemingly simple and sacred task.  Cried that he was included----"one of the gang" at a grown up wedding---a celebration and ceremony that he, himself will never experience.  Tears came from many layers and for all sorts of reasons.  I am beginning to see that this will be a life-long, kick-in-the-gut, "Oh, but this is my life," process for the rest of my life with Taylor.
     Perhaps the most touching part of the day----the day of the ring-bearer---happened in our home as we worked to get Taylor ready for church.  He is a bit confused about "bury" and "marry" and it became clear that he thought maybe somebody had died and that we would be singing at a church somewhere.  He knows bury better than he knows marry.  Working on my eye liner from another room, I could hear Taylor and his older brother, Cole, wrestle with working the belt through its loops.  Cole, who would later rapture the ears and hearts of  wedding guests,    violin-ing  Saint-Saens , Debussy, and Pachelbel----patiently belted and buttoned his younger brother before his  little ring-bearer  march down the aisle.  Cole left with his violin case and his remarkable, brilliant talent. Taylor carried a pillow and an innocence and un-knowing that most of us cannot begin to re-create. Two brothers and later two cousins, side-by-side with everything and nothing in common.  How delicate---how difficult, how real.  We cried.  You would have too.
       What I witnessed and felt so strongly was the acceptance that was shared with Taylor---in public, in a sacred place with caring people.  To love Taylor---or people like Taylor--- just means that you just become your best self---your higher self---your transformed-by-love self.  Because including him (and others like him) won't "get you anywhere" if any where is where you're looking to be.  But, it will get you to special place--a place that I have come to see as holy and tender and way down deep real.
Bearer of the rings......that he who brings them and they who receive them may abide in peace.

Wise Words

My eight year old friend, McLaren Jansen, comes up with the most insightful and endearing comments on a regular basis.  Not long ago, his mother (and my friend), told me a about one of their "Taylor" exchanges.  We are in and out of their house a good bit.  McLaren and his little sister each have their own interaction and relationship with my about-to-be 26 year old man child son.  Just awarded "Most Compassionate" for his 2nd grade class,  McLaren accepts Taylor lovingly---if not with a bit of "I'm not quite sure about this guy, but I'm going to damn well love him."  It's really touching.  McLaren reaches out to Taylor--at a restaurant, in the pool, while riding in the car---and Taylor is often silent.  Still McLaren presses on--with questions, with chatter, trying to involve Taylor like he would a regular 'ole 2nd grade buddy.  Last week McLaren, in seeing a photo of Taylor on his mother's computer, commented, "I love Taylor.  Everybody should love Taylor.  Taylor does no harm."  Breathe that in.  He does no harm.  Although that sounds at first hearing so benign, those words have grown on me and have forged a certain sort of comfort around them. McLaren "gets" the essence of Taylor.  He does no harm.  He has no agenda or judgements. Taylor sees us just as we are---fat legs, bad hair, grumpy moods, wrinkled shirts and all.  No harm done.  No harm felt.
     Last night McLaren taught me another lesson---another gem.  In relating something to his mother McLaren remarked, "You can't be mad at me for talking so much, mama.  My talking is a compliment from God."  A compliment from God.  A part of our personality that may tend to chaff others---a compliment from God.  Breathe into that concept too.  I mean, who has ever thought of a "bad" trait like that as a gift---from God? (Did anybody else gets Cs in citizenship for talking too much??)  My head was sent to swirling in thinking about how all parts of ourselves are compliments from God.  Even the traits that get us into trouble or the parts that we have hated ourselves for having.   I mean, how long have you tried to get rid of something in yourself? Can't you just hear your mother or sister or friend accusing you of, "You are so bossy or sarcastic or insecure or nosey or rude or arrogant or aloof......." And then we beat ourselves up because we're not perfect and we have all of these "bad" parts that we should get rid of . 
Well, listen to McLaren (and other great teachers.)  All parts of ourselves are compliments from God.  We need each trait and harder than that....we need to love each trait----yep---even our jealousy and anger and discontent.  Even those traits we try to bury and deny.  Those hard ones---the ones we hide.  You know what I'm talking about, don't you? 
     McLaren and Taylor are on the same page in so many ways.  Taylor has been complimented by God with so many qualities.  He just lives them out without arguing or trying to fix them.  The rest of us---me...you?....spend a whole lot of time trying to fix stuff in ourselves that is not even broken. 
We are not flawed.
We are whole, complex, beings.
And God has complimented each of us in so many unique ways.
Believe McLaren.  You and I ---all of us....each of us....has been complimented by God.
I love that. 
Now I'm going to try to live that.

Building Muscle

“Motivation is what gets you started.

Habit is what keeps you going.” ~ Jim Rohn

I find myself being irritated lately.  I am straying from my center and paying more attention to outside noise.  Even though I know better, I am taking my cues from "external" things.  This will get you (me) into trouble every time.  Have you ever noticed that?  I swear I did not mean to launch into this, but I am going to take this little detour for one second and talk about looking inward and---looking outside of ourselves.  I know so many things in my head, but absorbing them into my cell membranes and making them part of my cell memory (love that concept) are two different things.   Ooops. That was a bumpy sentence.  Here it is in plain English:  When we look for answers, solutions, comfort, approval, gratification, acceptance --"out there"--in external things (people, places, things) then we will forever and ever go without---and just keep on looking frantically to fill up that unnamed emptiness we feel.  News flash---and one I wish my parents had taught me from birth:  It's never out there that we long for. It's an inside job---so to speak.
It's so alluring to believe that what we need is outside of ourselves.   That's probably why we all keep doing that dog-gone, relentless tap dance trying to get recognition, approval. love, acknowledgement from a degree, a job, a spouse, or a smaller size pair of pants.  But, it's a a phantom route---and we all fall for it...day in and day out. 'Cause very simply put:  If we don't go within.......we go without.   (Say that to yourself 100 times and see if it makes sense by supper time.)
   Ok, back to the bad mood/irritability.  Taylor has been perserverating a whole bunch lately.  That means he says the same thing over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over again until I want to scream.  His perseverating  is in direct correlation to  how much pain he is in.  And, because we can't seem to find out what is causing him pain, his broken record words just keep repeating and repeating.  (Please cut and paste that 200 times so I won't have to write it out.) Here's the thing.  When I'm with Taylor by myself, I get into his rhythm and work around it.  I go into my own head, settle into my center, and just let him do his thing.  But, when we're out in public or out to dinner, I can see how it irritates the living daylights out of everybody-----and then I feel responsible---and helpless and like a bad mother.  Irrational but true.
I can see people just shrug and wonder how I do this---maybe why I do this..  "This" meaning have patience again and again for doing what I do during my day.  Here's the deal.  I guess dealing with Taylor day in and day out is a lot like doing crunches or practicing  Hanon scales or flossing your teeth.  There are just some things in life that may not be gobs of fun, but to make our lives function---and better, we have to develop habits that just kick in without our even thinking about them.  "It's just what I do."  I know you have stuff like that in your own life.  Some of you walk every single day no matter what.  Some of you  meditate, or do yoga, or create a habit of writing, praying, vocalizing or applying your Oil of Olay religiously---every night, no matter what. 
We all have our own particular motivators.  Our values, beliefs and even our fear of failure often motivates us.  But it's our ability and willingness to honor our habits that give us grit.  Feel the fear (irritation, fatigue. pissed-offness)---and Do it Anyway!  Putting this into writing allows me to get a clearer idea of  why I have been so irritable.  I have looked outside of myself---fallen for some illusions that are probably not true---and have fought with the loving muscle that I must have to be Taylor's mama. 
I can see some of you so clearly right now in my mind's eye.  I am imagining what habits  that you have been forced to hone and perfect in your own lives---whether you have wanted to or not.  You have had to reach deep---inside of yourself---to do those emotional crunches so that you---and someone you love stays alive or gets fed/bathed. or has an outing or gets to work or stays sober or sees you as a beacon of light.
I am motivated to be a good mother to Taylor.  I know this is a life-long contract---for better or worse as it were.  But motivation with  the practiced  habit of living this life with grace, humor, and yes, "101, 102, 103....however many times it takes..."   is the joyful journey I have been called to make.
I want to walk this path with heart.  It's easier that way.
Now, if I could just find some motivation for doing those sit ups.
The sit-up habit falls into warrior category-------Please, God, don't send me down that path too.

Jumping to Conclusions

You know, since I have assigned myself the role of being  God's wife, that means I tend to believe I know what everybody's thinking and feeling.  Yeah, just putting it right out there, I guess you could say that I jump to conclusions about other people--and then act on them (the conclusions.)  Psychology 101 might teach us to call this  "projecting." We project onto other people beliefs we actually hold about ourselves.  Good grief.  Can't I just write about something simple and "fluffy" for once?  Are you asking yourself that or I am projecting?  Here I go again jumping to conclusions about what I think you are thinking.  I am so often wrong, but let me tell you that I will go down fighting.  Is that a "right fighter"-----somebody who would rather be right than happy?  Oh, I don't like to think of myself like that.  Do you?  Fess up.
   What has made me laugh this week is thinking back to a time when a group of people jumped to conclusions about Taylor.  It was pretty funny actually.  Three summers ago we spent a couple of weeks up in Iowa University Hospital while Taylor had his second C-1 and C-2 vertebrae fused. (Big stuff that operation.)  For the 16 months prior to that surgery, Taylor had completely shut down --stopped talking, walking, hands curled up--pain galore.   Just an awful awful time in our lives.  But here we were in this excellent hospital.  I had not been in a setting that was so homogeneous in years. Having always taught in public schools in Georgia, my rainbow world pretty much turned all white.  It was different for me---and yes, I'd probably jump to the conclusion that they were more conservative than I. Which leads me right on in to the funny part. 
   After Taylor's miraculous surgery, he began talking again.   Delighted, jubilant, full of thanksgiving, I danced my way up to this funky little store in Iowa City.  I couldn't believe it when I found the exact right button to put on his hospital gown.  The button read:  Silent No More!!  I ceremoniously pinned it front and center on Taylor's gown---and then stood back and marveled at how he began to talk (Talk in Taylor language...but talk none-the-less.)  Oh, I was such a proud mama!  Ok, and ok.....it was about four days into this "homecoming" of sorts that one of the nurses, while taking Taylor's vital signs spoke so compassionately and honestly with me. "I did not know that Taylor was a homosexual.  It is wonderful how you embrace that in him along with everything else."
"WHAT??????????"  Where on earth had she gotten that?  (Not that it's a bad thing; it just did not fit Taylor.  Actually, I have never known a gay Down Syndrome person.  Anybody????)
This precious nurse, in seeing us proudly display the "Silent No More" button, had jumped to the conclusion that we were "outing" Taylor at Iowa University Hospital.   My whole body did a double take.  I felt like I had been  psychologically body-slammed---in a good way--well, at least in a funny way.  And then I thought about how the nurses must have been talking about Taylor in the nurse's station trying to piece it all together so that he made sense to them.  We all got a good laugh out of this---and were jolted into remembering some valuable lessons along the way.
    I jump to conclusions often.  Unfortunately, I often fill in the blank that is left empty with a thought that I have done something wrong or messed up somehow.   That is really self-defeating, not necessary and is right up there with self-sabatoge.  I am working really hard on not believing everything I think--about myself---about you.
When we are not invited,  not emailed, not noticed, go unrecognized,  are not admired,  do not get hired,, when love is not returned or we are not called back----don't we so often jump to conclusions about the other person and what they're thinking, doing, believing?  And then we make up something about what it means about us--about who we are and what we are worth. 
This is a slippery slope----making assumptions and inserting our own junk on top of everybody else's.
Here's what I know (and am building muscle around): To be whole and healthy and happy,  it is critical to rethink what we tell ourselves about others and especially what we convince our very own selves---about ourselves.  Save the best .....and lose the rest.
We all need a delete button and then an "Empty Trash" button for so much of what we think.
Taylor is silent no more.  That's pretty much what it means.
What have you concluded just today about yourself....about a friend?
Rethink it.

Wake Up Calls

I love being in DENIAL (Don't Even Notice  I Am Lying).)  Well, I say I love it but that's not  really what I mean.  I just know that that we never do anything unless there is some sort of payoff for us.  I must get something from being is denial.  I guess that's not really the same thing as loving being in denial.  (Have I been gone too long and lost my ability to write a clear sentence?)  But, my denials have been making a lot of noise lately.  Something is trying to wake me up. Wake up calls are like having cold water thrown in our faces. Maybe sort of like that.  When my pajama bottoms get too tight, that's a big wake up call.  Pajama bottoms are supposed to be loose and baggy----ooops.  Was I really gaining weight? Denial.  I refuse to count how many pairs of shoes I actually own  or I find myself watching too much junk tv. I can lather myself up in denial pretty well and talk myself into just about anything.  Do you do that?  Justify just about anything that soothes you in the moment?  "But I didn't spend too  much or eat too much or say too much.....blahblahblah." Denial.

   For the past few weeks, I have been having a tug-of-war with reality and my longing to stay hidden and "safe."  Safe from tension---away from the complexities and requirements that being in the world thrusts us in.  I can sort of even see why people become stay-at-home-aholics.  What if something comes up I can't handle?  What if I meet a person who needs too much from me?  What if there is just too much commotion out there?  What if I won't know the answers? Part of me thinks I am just getting old.  The other part of me knows that fear is my good friend and constant companion.  I give anxiety  lots of power and a big place in my life.  Dammit.  By the same token, I try to pretend like I don't---Denial again.  I heard this really interesting man on  one of my funky "serious transformations" podcasts say something like  this, "One reason why we absolutely refuse to be truly  happy is because we know that so many  qualities in  ourselves would immediately become unemployed."   It got me to thinking (now there's a sentence for you!)...what if I "fired" the parts of me that keep me in denial---and you know....stepped  into the sunshine and bright lights in my world?  Throw my fear to wind--or better yet, embrace it.  (Yes, I go to many retreats where I practice embracing my shadow.)  Still it's hard.  You might be sitting at your computer desk reading this thinking that I am off the deep end again.  I know I'm not alone on this denial train.  I swear it's a "train" (if you will) that keeps us small because we listen to that voice that says, "You can't" or "You shouldn't" or "Who do you think you are??".   Aren't those just trip-us-up-words that turn us into scaredy cats---and into not being risk-takers?

  I watch Taylor not being  afraid in this life.  On the other hand, I am a worry wart; I tend to buy trouble.  Last week I obsessed over the fact  Taylor still cannot count to ten without leaving out a few numbers. How much he couldn't do gripped me at times---so I went  into denial mode to avoid feeling the pain.   (See how this works?)  I have a secret fear that I will not be enough---do enough, know enough, give enough, provide enough for my son.  I just don't feel like I'm very good at this job.  How in the heck do you raise a handicapped son anyway?  Where does this road lead?  What's ahead?  Will I be able to handle it all? 
Readers and friends, I know that you have some of those exact same questions.  You have those questions about whatever it is that life has put in front of you.  It's not just me.  Insert your own situation with your  particular issues into the blank. We've all got them. Right?  Are you with me?   Gandhi reminded us that we each one needs to be the change we want to see in this world. But how can we be that incredible change if we don't live full out?  And yet, I know I cling like crazy to things not changing.  I admit that I sometimes wait for that other shoe to fall.  (Look at me being all brave here and sharing all of this. Will you share back with me? )
I hear some wake up calls nudging me in my life.
"Get up,  Wake up.  Be aware."
That's what I'm hearing.
My pajama bottoms don't fit right. 
Time for changes.  I am going to furlough--un-employ Denial.
And, I'm going to go count how many shoes I have. 
I'm sure I have enough---more than enough.
Reality check.  Wake up. Maybe I don't need to know all of the answers.

TV Time Out

Sometimes it gets to me

Isn't it so weird how a seemingly benign comment can just get stuck right in your gut and gnaw at you?  Do you know what I mean?  Can you think of a time when somebody---a friend, a sister, a neighbor, a store clerk made an innocent comment that maybe stopped you in your tracks?  And then that comment swirls around in your head taking on a life of its own.  My belief is that we obsess on those comments until we can shed new light on them  and maybe even figure out why they get in our craw and fester.
   Yesterday a friend said, " Heidi is telling people that Taylor is her boyfriend.  She really has a crush on him and says she wants him to be her boyfriend."  It was really that simple a statement.  Purely innocent---even kind of cute in a normal world.  I had a delayed reaction because I didn't begin to cry until about five hours later when my knees buckled.  I felt like I had been kicked in the gut.  It hit me with one bolt of recognition. My son, Taylor, will never ever have a girlfriend.  He will never ever have an intimate relationship.  He will never know romantic love that is reciprocated.  It will not happen for him----ever.  A page that is in the "rites of passage" rule book has been torn out.  Another rite of passage will be  skipped over and  will never even be on his  radar. 
From wherever you're sitting, you might be saying, "Well, how do you know that for sure, Marianne?  He may surprise you."   I don't think I'm being overly dramatic here.  I am just saying what is true.  Taylor does not have the emotional depth or intellectual capacity to form a relationship with a girl his age.  He does not interact on that level at all.  I don't see that changing as he grows older.
     Of course, none of this matters to Taylor.  He does not understand the nature of most relationships.  He knows his mama, daddy and brother love him.  So, it's not that he is lonely or wants for more.  I guess that's a blessing.  I guess I just needed to throw myself a pity party---so just did.  All rites of passage that will  not happen get to me at some point.  It just takes me a while to regroup and focus on all the good things.
Like, there are ice cream sandwiches in the freezer.
Like,  Taylor has great insurance.
And, he can ride a scooter.
 Whew.  I already feel better. 
Count your blessings, name them one by one.
I've gotta hang up now.  I need to start counting.

In Training...for life

I guess Taylor was about seven years old by the time he was totally potty trained.  That's a long time to have a child in diapers, isn't it?  I mean, besides the expense and all of that, it really began to feel like an interminable time for me.  It was one of those mile stones that felt like it would never happen.  And, it's not like we weren't trying.  Taylor never has liked sweets and so we had to find that other magic bribery gimmick to be the johnny-on-the-spot reward every time he went anywhere near the potty.  Naturally, being the organic/free-range type of people that are (not!) we chose to use Cheetos as the reinforcement.  So, for about three years, I walked around with a bag of Cheetos up under my arm in the event of----and with the hope of---Taylor stopping by the bathroom on his own.  One Cheeto for going towards; two Cheetos for sitting on; three Cheetos for actually going.  And then we'd all clap and dance and sing and do all sorts of hoopla celebratory jumping.  It got to the point that Taylor assumed that this jubilant behavior just went hand-in-hand when anybody came out of the bathroom.  One Sunday after a large gathering of friends for lunch, we watched Taylor meet each guest at the bathroom door with Cheetos---and high fives!  He was congratulating 55 year old men and 48 year old women on successful tee-teeing.  Is reading about another person's potty training right up there with learning about some body's intestinal flu?  Or is there some universal, how-did-they-do-that sort of curiosity?  See, I sort of like to know how we learn to train ourselves---to do much of anything. 
         Long about the time we spent those seven years potty training Taylor,  I would lose it----lose hope, lose faith, my give-a-damn button would break.  Straightening myself out and plowing on up the hill was pretty constant and so many days I just wept.  One of my favorite things in  life is to be a victim I've learned.  Seems like I have always sort of secretly relished it.  Oh, now, don't go jumping on that judgement band wagon though, until you look right back into your own mirror and ask yourself if you're in the victim club with me. (Maybe you'd even consider being president.)  But back to learning......sometime during those earlier years, a wise old friend asked me how I viewed  life.  It was one of those, "Do you see the glass half empty or half full?"  Only she posed this metaphorical question to me:  When you see a pony, do you just assume there will be poop?  Or when you see poop, are you delighted because you know that somewhere close by there is going to be a pony?  So, the question boiled down to : Poop or Pony?  Which one do you look for in this life?   And, that goes right along with, "If you can't change the things you see....change the way you see things."  How come we don't all  have that tattooed on our forearms or written on the dashboards of our cars?  (Ok, refrigerator magnets at the very least.)

       I know I'm full of "sound bights" today, but it's because so many little nuggets that have been shared with me along the way have shifted me off center-----that center----that  craving that makes so many of us cling to being in control of life----of our lives, of the lives of others.  Gosh, do you ever do that thing....that mind game thinking thing that goes like this, "If I am good, follow all of the rules, do the right thing, yadayadayada....I can keep us all safe." (Safe=healthy, alive, afloat,  thriving)  But, it----life---doesn't work like that.   Things happen.  Good things. Hard things.  But here's what we're left with:  How are we going to see them----see ourselves right in the midst of our very own lives? 

It's true.  I tired of diapering a seven year old.  And then this sort of thing hit me in the face: "I cried because I had no shoes, until I met a man who had no feet."  Yep----other little boys in Taylor's class would wear diapers forever.   So, buck up, girlfriend.  Grow up.  Big girl underwear and all of that.   Poop or pony?

Poop?  I choose to know there's a pony close by. 

I have plenty of blouses with Cheetos- hand-rubbed stains on them---still.

For where there are Cheetos.....there is a child learning about life. 

I know it's true.
What about you? 
How do you view your life?
Poop or Ponies?

Press Pass: Use it!

One of my favorite days in Taylor's whole life was a day about five years ago on UGA's Homecoming.  We live very close to sorority row in this university town.  Back then,  before he started all of his spine junk, Taylor rode his three-wheel (retirement  home bike?) up and down the main DAWG thoroughfare for hours on end.   Attached to his bike was always his wagon---and usually our poor, unwilling dog. On that  particular, brilliant Saturday, Taylor packed up his bike with a mission  I could see it in him.  He loaded up his bike, but this time he didn't have the  ubiquitous leaf blower--- that morning he loaded  his drum set.  Taylor has heard his own musical siren; the Pi Phi's were having a pre-game party and there was a live (lively and loud!) band rocking out a block from our home.  This mama- turned -detective,  crouched behind bushes and ducked in and out of drive ways as I followed Taylor to whatever it was that had possessed him.  And there I saw the band--on the lawn of the Pi Phi house.   Lo and behold, that little fellow, by golly, just took his drum set and did his own set-up right across the street from the band.  And he played along.  After every number, he moved his little drum set up a bit closer...and then closer, until finally he just crossed the street and joined the band.  Yep, he just moved right on in with them as if he were a core member.  During all of this, I was laughing and crying and making phone calls while hiding all the while.  I mean, you got to let a man have his privacy when he's making his debut with a big band.  Taylor did not need his mama  cramping his style.  No sir ree.  Taylor was there to rock.  He saw something he liked. Something in Taylor had come alive---and he went with it---went for it!  Without hesitation, he made himself a part of it.  And, it worked. It worked for Taylor and it worked for the gathered crowd.  (Stay tuned.)

  I love it when I see people use what I call  their  "press pass mentality."  It's that spark, that excitement--when our longing is louder than our fear.  We see an event/situation  and just show up--and get in.  But we  show up with full confidence that no only do we have a right to be there, but that the show could not possibly go on without us   It's like, "Here's the event and I'm going in and I'm sitting on the front row and then I'm going backstage----because that's what I want to do."  So bam!  Actually it reminds me a whole bunch of my fake Lhasa Apso dog.  Murphy just assumes everybody on the planet is here to see him and up he goes in their laps---lick lick lick---hugs and kisses.  "Ain't this great?  Aren't you lucky to know me?" mentality.   How do people (or dogs) get to be like that?  Is that a DNA wiring thing or is it learned?  I don't know. It does not come naturally for me.    And, sadly I let my own fear keep me from so much.  (So, I will attend my own lecture here).   But....and here's my big fat question for you:  What makes us come alive so that we just absolutely must throw ourselves into life around us?  What has to happen to engage us---fully, wholly,  intensely?  How come we don't just keep our press passes hanging around our necks--out front for all to see?
There's a beautiful quote by a theologian named Howard Thurman.  This press-pass mentality scholar challenges us with this:  "Don't ask yourself what the world needs. Ask yourself what makes you come alive and then go do that. Because what the world needs is people who have come alive."
Is it just me or do you think lots of us live outside of our own lives sometimes?  We talk about people not being comfortable in their own skin....in their own bodies.  I'm just asking...what are we afraid of? 
Is it fear of failure? Rejection? What?  Not fitting in?  Why are we not all using our press passes? 
So, here's what happened to the rest of the world on the afternoon Taylor came alive---after  Taylor joined the band at the sorority house that Saturday in October.  Before Taylor  became the Down Syndrome Ringo Star of the band, the real invited guests were just politely sitting and eating lunch.  Sitting around.....engaged maybe a little.  BUT!  The minute Taylor hit the sticks, everybody got up  and  started dancing! Daughters and their mamas; daddies and their wives;  daughters with their sisters. 
Because when one person comes alive, it is hard for the rest of us to just stay.....seated.
Being alive-----is contagious.
It's what the world needs. 
Come alive. Go do what you gotta do.
Hear the music. 
Load up your wagon. 
Beat your drum.
 Or better yet....dance!

World Missions

I knew early on that  I didn't want to be a missionary.  Well, actually, that's not true.  But I made my final decision once I started needing a hair dryer to blow dry my hair.  It occurred to me that I might  get sent/called to some country in Africa that didn't have electricity and I wouldn't be able to blow dry my hair.  That was about the time I gave up on the mission field. It's not even that I have great hair--or even good hair.  I just seem to need to blow it dry every day.  And  for that, I couldn't risk being a missionary.   Oh, come on now.  I know that there are others of you out there reading this that have your deal breaker list too.  I'm just brave enough/foolish enough (?) to come clean with my (short) list of what kept me out of missionary work.  Only really and truly....that's not true because I believe that all work is part of a mission.  No matter what we do...what we are doing...we are on a mission of some kind or another. I read somewhere yesterday that some of us lead life while others of us allow life to just drag us around.   Some of us have very definite callings while still  others of us just sort of plod along  and go in and out of open (and shut) doors.

Work with me here.....mission work.....life with a purpose.  Right this minute...don't even think about it...say out loud what your purpose is on this planet---even if it's just your purpose for the next fifteen minutes, what are you heading towards?
I have always been awful at writing down goals.  Heck, I have never even been able to make out a menu for tomorrow night's meal.  That would require way too much forward planning for me.  And, yet,  like so many of us, I live so much of my life in the future.  "After I lose those 15 pounds; when I complete that degree; as soon as my son graduates...." With me still?   But what is both startling and scary is that no matter what we tell others about our lives, we are acting out---acting on---acting upon---what we deep down believe our core mission to be.  Oh, I can just hear some of you right this minute arguing back with me, "That is simply not true.  My mission /purpose is one thing, but how I live my life is another."  Really?   I don't believe you.   Don't we get it?  Every word that comes our of our mouths, every action/non action we take on this very day uncovers.....displays what we really believe about how we should be living this life.    Scary right?  Makes me want to go inside and hide so you won't see me.  Yikes.
  When I went to pick up Taylor yesterday at "The Hope Haven School for the Mentally Retarded" (former name), there was a young extremely disabled woman in a stand up walker.  Drooling, head-cocked, non-verbal, diapered....(you get it) --her caregiver was saying , "Kia, make good choices.  Kia,  make good choices." 
I was struck dumb.  What in the heck did she mean, "Make good choices?"  What on earth kinds of choices did Kia have available to her?  It seemed like this life had pretty much stripped her of most of her choices. 
Back in my car with Taylor, it just washed over me how every single minute most of us have a multitude of choices just staring right back at us.  Eat this/not that.  Say this/not that.  Call her/not him. Read this/not that.
Volunteer here/or not.  Be kind/or not.  Over and over and over again all day, we get to decide little things and then much bigger things.....stuff...issues.  Whoa.  What a privilege.  And, in every single one of our decisions, choices, actions, we are claiming what we believe.  We are on a mission---our own mission for this very real and personal life.  Our mission field is right in front of us every minute.  It's not in Africa (necessarily); it's not overseas (necessarily). It is right here, right now. 
In fact, you are now in the mission field whether you like it or not.

Make good choices.

Kia would be honored to have your range of choices today.

This is your mission field--wherever you are--whatever you do.

You get to define it, mold it, make it---decide.

And, you still get to blow-dry your hair. 

No more excuses.  Darn.

Parallel Play

Help me with this. Sometimes...well, often actually, I convince myself of something that may not be true. It's only true for me. So, before I even drag you along in this conversation, my pre-reading question is, "Is this true or is it just me?" So, today I was back in line at the drive-thru at McDonald's. Here was the scene: I was on my cell phone and was listening to the radio. McDonald's now stations a real-live attendant (person) just before the "Order Here" Intercom. Anyway, the outdoor waitress (sans roller skates), had on headphones and communicated with another employee also with headphones. So, my question is, was there any real, one-on-one conversation taking place at all here? You might be thinking, "Marianne, get out of those drive thru lines." But, that's not it---totally. Oh, no. Read on.

     I was at a nice restaurant last night. A family of four sat next to me. Both kids were on their hand-held whatchamacallits. Mom was texting. Dad was checking his email on his iPhone. They were paying about $100.00 to sit at the same table for a family outing---and not talk. Everybody was ostensibly there for the same reason, but nobody was interacting with the person next to them.

So, here's where I drag you in...It's like we're all sitting side-by-side, but to cross over into another person's emotional air space is almost rare. Is this just me? Do you experience this or am I just not adapting quickly enough to ......ersatz?
I know that when we fly, the flight attendants always do that instructive song and dance that none of us pays any attention to. But, what I do take away from it is, "Put your own oxygen mask on first and then assist your child." The gist there, of course, is if you can't breathe, it is hard to help the person on your left--even if you love them. But, in real life, after we have all of the oxygen we need, what if the person on our left needs something besides oxygen from us? What if what they really need is our ear, our attention, our looking them in their eyes when they talk? What if that person to our left---that loved one--that child, that friend, that spouse, that sister---doesn't need the oxygen mask but would really come alive if we "hung up" and paid attention to them---hands free? Phone free? Gadget free?
I imagine this is how my own parents may have felt when they experienced the world changing at lightning speed right before their eyes. Basically, I just got rid of my rotary dial phone. I barely know how to text. Even though I consider myself relatively techno-savvy, I am already behind the curve. I was about to say I am lost, but I caught myself. Because, who, or better yet, what is being lost in all of this distracting we're doing? We are...or are we (?) all involved in massive parallel play? Refresher 101: Parallel play: Doing an activity right next to another person but not interacting with them. It's what toddlers do at an early stage of development. Play...but with no connection, no interaction, no cooperation. Side-by-side, but not with.. So we stand next to each other in line, sit across the table from one another, walk down the street together----but all the while....parallel.  And, as we learned in the 3rd grade, parallel lines never intersect. Is that what we want....to never intersect?  To not connect?
Lord knows that we all need time to process, download and regroup. I stay inside my own head so much when I'm with Taylor, that it's sometimes like being alone. But the gift that Taylor gives to me is that he forces me not to live a life parallel to his. Taylor literally takes me by the face and makes me see him. He forces me into his personal space by wrapping my arms around him, by putting his nose up against mine. Nothing parallel about that, huh?
My own guts tells me that we've moved  beyond cell phone etiquette into a way of non-communicating that will eventually cut us off from our own oxygen--spiritual, emotional, social.  What do you think? Are we regressing away from cooperation and "real" play---and moving back a step to not much real stuff at all---living parallel--not seeing the real human beings standing right before our very eyes---next to us, beside us,  across from us.  Is it way too early in the morning to be reading stuff like this?
You've seen that bumper sticker that reads: Hang Up and Drive.
What about: Hang up and Listen? And touch? And See?

What Ruins It For Me

Oh Lord, as if I don't have enough religious confusion already. This has been quite a week. Warning: I am a seeker of spiritual stuff---I almost said, of spiritual sh**, but, if you don't know me, you would think that is oxymoronic. For me, it's not. Maybe off-color, but not out-of-the-spiritual park for me. So anyway, I was visiting a group of people I have known for quite a long time. One woman, I'll call Cynthia, has been in quite a downward funk for many months. She's decided that she basically does not like people at all and hates her nursing job. But, here's the kicker: She announced that she has been called to the ministry. Get out of nursing...but go into the ministry. (Big question: What is the zip code for a place called "The Ministry"? I mean, how wide is this world?)
Oh, great. Just perfect. One more person to mess us all up. Loves Jesus---hates his people. I mean, how can anybody say all of that junque about their lives with one straight face? My son, Cole, has reminded me many a time about what Gandhi said, "I like your Christ, I do not like your Christians. Your Christians are so unlike your Christ." Squirm. Shift feet. Look down.
I have had several readers call me or email me this week about how much I talk about God in my blogs. It is off-putting to some, not understandable to others, and has no meaning or place to grab-hold-to for still others. But their questions and responses have made me think. That's a good thing for me. And, I really appreciate open dialogue. And here is where it leads me and leaves me.
Religion has divided my family. There is a separation among us. That breaks my heart. In fact, religion has divided many a family, many a country and much of our world. Talk about something being oxymoronic. God is love.... but I really hate you for not believing. Well, I don't exactly hate you, but you can't come to my house or sit at my table and my very own children will not go to school with yours because we will have our own...ahem....religious school. How many walls can be built in that last paragraph alone? Way too many. Far too many. Walls, exclusions, separations, judgements, we're in and you're out. We're right. You're wrong. We have everlasting everything, but you burn....yikes...good luck with that.
Is that the way it's supposed to be? Tell me.
God is love. God is grace---a gift. God is that which transcends all levels of intellectual thought. I know that I will catch much he** for this posting today. It's ok. I am seeking, sojourning, searching, open, willing, wanting, longing.
But, whatever God separates us from one another----no thank you. Not even close. That will not do for me. It just doesn't fit. The very people who espouse loving their Lord, are so often the ones with the longest list of people on this earth who will not fit in---are not allowed to belong.
My son, Taylor, my precious, little pure, non-agenda-ed man-child, keeps me about two feet above the worldly fray all the time. Almost nothing in his world sets down and clamps smoothly and snugly into the traps and trappings of what the rest of you guys get to do/have to do. So, what is often left for me, is to look inward---to look to what I have come to call God. I know that word sends shivers down some of your spines and slams down the connecting draw-bridge for others. And part of where so much confusion comes in for me (does it for you?) is when we see things like that sign that reads, "Don't make me come down there." Down where? Well, heck, where were you just a minute ago, God? Down? Up? Under? What about---always within? Always with? Beside? Between? On top of? In the midst of? Surrounded by? Within and without?
Do we live our outward life in semantics too? I mean, can we argue with how our outward/daily/real lives are interpreted--and what they mean? (That was a big 'ole mouthful of a question.) The evidence of how we live our outward lives---how we treat not only ourselves but how we treat one another, isn't that right up there with the biggest, most important, like numero uno commandent: Love one another?
Well, here's my big, fat spiritual question for the day: How do so many of us get so far off base? Me too. I get so far off base that I can't even find home base.
But, here's what I know...and believe me, my upbringing did its best to strangle it out me.....God ain't coming down here.
We don't have to make him.
God is here.
Touch your hands.
Now touch your heart.
Welcome Home.

Taxed

I couldn't help it. Today is tax day. This is a short one.
Taxed:
1. Being on the telephone (after the put-you-on-hold music--which, of course, I now have memorized and can harmonize with)--being on the phone with Quandricka with Medicaid.(You know, 1-888-punch #1 if you want this message in espanol, etc.) She asked me if Taylor's condition was congenial?
Well, yes and no. Congenial in some ways.
Congenital? Shouldn't she know the definition before she asks the question? Is that right up there with never ask a question you don't want to know the answer to?
Anyway....service denied. Not congenial or congenital?
Does contagious count? Is being Down Syndrome contagious? Maybe that's in the "It's Insurable" column.
Taxing...to me.
2. Yesterday Taylor's support coordinator, who obviously still does not "get" him, told me that I needed to write down a goal and a dream for Taylor. (Paper work to be eligible for Medicaid money.) I asked, "For example?"
She said, "Maybe his dream is to write a story book or a cookbook."
Choke. And, this is why I am going to burn in the fires of wherever---
I replied, "Taylor can't write or read....or really even talk. But I write a Blog. Does that count?"
She didn't know about blogging. Anyway, I knew it wouldn't count.
My sisters offered these as possible dreams for Taylor:
1. Go to Hooters once a week. Up close and personal may be a good dream.
2. Actually free...Willy. (Free used as a verb and not as a proper noun as Taylor insists on doing.)
Those are good dreams. Anybody? Anybody? Bueller?
3. I don't love this time of year in some ways. All of Taylor's paperwork has to be redone and resubmitted for insurance and support help. It's like starting over every single year. Taxing. And I was told yesterday, "You can't write down the same goals as last year. They have to be new ones." Oh.

"But," I cried, "He hasn't mastered the ones from last year---or from the past 15 years. Shouldn't we keep those goals?" (Using 3 words in one sentence, preparing his own snack, tying his shoes.) Taxing.
But I haven't met my goals either. So glad I don't have to be accountable for reaching my goals. Whew. Taxing.
I do not mean for this post to be a downer. Thank goodness I have a great sense of humor. And in laughing out loud this morning, I remembered of a funny story. Taylor's former teacher (incredible still!!), Mary Sgarlato, allowed me to take Taylor and his little friend Herbert to the bathroom while we were on a field trip in Atlanta. The boys were about 9 and we had ridden a bus over to Phillips Arena to see the circus. (I=room parent) I, room parent, allowed the boys to go into that huge men's restroom alone. They didn't come out. They didn't come out. Ooops.
I, room parent, announced at the entrance to the men's restroom at The Phillips' Arena: "I'm coming in! Woman on the hall!"
Good thing I did: There sat Taylor and Herbert up in the urinals---stuck.
Just sitting there talking like two little friends. Taxing---only to me.
Today I am thankful for this life.
I am thankful for food, a place to sleep, for friends.
I am thankful that my taxes provide Taylor with congenial, congenital and contagious Medicaid.
I am thankful that I can love and be loved.
We're all taxed in one way or another.
But, mostly, we need to be thankful.
For real.

Seriously, Ya'll Still Calling Names?

Behind the microwave in my kitchen are all sorts of diet books. Name a diet---any diet and I have that book. Because you see, for years, I always applauded myself for taking step one of weight control. And we all know that step one of any diet is to go out and buy the book. Step One. Yeah. Step One. But then I'd reshelve the book--behind the microwave. I don't think that was exactly step two, but that was my amended step two. And, then to actually follow the diet, well, that must have been about step 15 because I almost never got that far down the line. I like to read about stuff more than I like to actually do stuff----I mean hard stuff---anything that requires my getting out of my comfort zone and digging deep. Give me the book about it, let me watch the video, isn't there an infomercial for that by now....Just let me do the workshop on it. But, please don't make me plunge in and get soaking wet with the reality of it all.

Several weeks ago five women, loosely connected, ended up having coffee together. We have known each other on various levels all of our lives but have criss-crossed the country and gone our own ways. One of the women, Jayne, is what you might call a blue-blood. Her family tree links back to one of those Mayflower-type ships, and has maintained its wealth and status for generations. Anyway, she has found herself at this point in her life as a newcomer and the only "liberal" in a small southern town in a neighboring state. I guess my face gave away my reaction when she defined herself as a liberal. Yes,I was surprised. But Jayne quickly clarified the definition by saying, "Oh, yes, I'm a liberal, but I'm not a communist like you, Marianne."

What? How far down was that floor I fell on? I know what a communist is. At least I think I do. And anyway, I've been afraid of communists since I was in fourth grade. We were taught that the communists were the absolute worst people ever when I was growing up. I never wanted somebody like Nikita Khrushchev to come to my town and hurt my mama and daddy. Seriously, I had nightmares about the communists. And, here Jayne was calling me one.
"What exactly do you mean by that, Jayne?" were the words that somehow found their way up from the kick-in- my- gut and out of my mouth.
"Well, you just want everybody to have the same. You want everybody to have what you have. Life doesn't work like that, Marianne. You're a liberal communist."
She meant it in a nice way. Sort of like somebody giving you cholera in a nice way.
Maybe Jayne was right. Maybe I do want everybody to have the same. But the same what? I am going to tell you right this minute that I am pretty generous---but only to a point. Like you, I want people to have the same but not if it's going to take away from me and what's mine. (Are you agreeing with me or judging me--or both?) Oh Lord, this is a hard one for me. Where does need stop and greed begin?
How much of my Merrill Lynch (or is it Bank of America?) stock do I really have to share? I really would rather not answer that question. But from the way my stomach has tightened, I can tell you that I'm probably not a died-in-the-wool communist. I don't want anybody living in my upstairs like in Dr. Zhivago. Honestly, I really don't like to share much at all if it costs me much. Do you? (For real now.)
But! But, maybe this is what Jayne was referring to. If Taylor gets Medicaid, all handicapped people should receive Medicaid. I have great insurance. All of our U.S. citizens should have access to insurance. Everybody should have enough to eat. Everybody should have a bed to sleep in. Seriously, do we still think only we who are entitled should have all the goods? Is there not enough to go around?
Gosh, come to think of it, Jayne could have called me so many things. She went for the easy one. It's like calling somebody a racist today. When we're all out of arguments, we always go to that place. It's the last stop on the argument bus line.
But, seriously, do we really believe poor people want to be poor?
It's complicated, isn't' it? I've taught school for 52 thousand years, and all I can come up with is that education may be the answer. But, even that is complex and a boon-doggle. I guess that's one reason I am not a cabinet member--I don't have any perfect answers.
Here's what this here communist liberal retarded mother does know: We're in this boat together. You can move to the back or you can move to the side. You can put up a screen around your little boat area. You can hoard life preservers and eat all the fish by yourself. But it's one boat. And we're all in it--together. What happens in steerage and in the boiler room will eventually make its way up to the whatever deck we're on.
Bottom line: I like to think I care. And about caring: I really and truly would rather do the real thing than attend the workshop. Workshops are for beginners, novices, people just learning the trade. But those of us like you and me....we should be pretty good at this caring thing by now.
Communist? Whatever.
Caring? Gosh, I sure hope so.
Choose door #1.
The donuts are better.
The prizes are real.

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?