Insert your own picture here.

From "If You Want" by St. John of the Cross

Either Way I'm Celebrating

    I am pretty darn funny----at least that's what I've been told all of my life.    Some people---ok, MANY people describe me as being irreverent---maybe even blasphemous.  I swear I'm neither.  I just have a hard time not laughing out loud when all of the costumes and masks we all keep squeezing into---have "malfunctions"---and the disparities and incongruities and "real--ness" of our lives come roaring out.  As hard as all of us may try.....life is real.   There is not enough lip gloss or letters after our names or condos on Sea Island to smother what our souls long to LIVE out.
(That was a dog-gone long and winding topic sentence.)  I could have just said, "I say stuff that most people don't say---especially when a situation feels weird.  I sort of appoint myself as the "Truth Fairy".   It's not always a good thing.   I have never been good at denying  that the  emperor has  no clothes.   Which leads me to how I talk to my doctor.
So, last week I went to my family doctor  and  sat there and cried. 
Here is how the conversation went:
Me:  Dr. J., I just don't think it's fair that I'm fat......AND have a retarded son.
Dr:   What is it that you want out of life, Marianne?
Me:  I want to look great naked!!  I want to be thin like everybody else I know.
Dr:   Seriously, do you think being thin would make you have the life you want?
Me:  Absolutely.  I am 100% sure that this is all I need to make my life perfect.  Can't I just raise   
         Taylor AND look great naked??   Can't I have both?
Dr:    (Laughs....shifts his feet around....laughs.  Was that a "No" or was that an "Your eight minutes
          are up?")

     I wonder if you're reading this, what ONE thing it is that you might long for---or might have convinced yourself that if you had....that your life would be.....better/perfect/just right.   My guess is that we all have that one thing.   Mine just happens to be ......about weight.  And, I ask you, is it an illusion that there is something OUT THERE that will make life better?  (I already know the answer to this in my head.)   Why are we so lured into that belief that says:
"Life will be good when...or life would be good if.....".
 What a trap that catches us in---and I walk into that trap daily!

 Maybe that scene from the  movie  When Harry Met Sally  re-cemented this myth  when the older woman customer says to the waiter, "I'll have what she's having."  Somebody else appears to be having it better/easier/thinner/richer/smarter----so, yes, of course,  "I'll have what she's having. I assume that she must look great naked.  Her life, I bet, is perfect."  Myth.

Obvious segue:
Eckhart Tolle urges us to:
"Wherever you are, be there totally. If you find your here and now intolerable and it makes you unhappy, you have three options: remove yourself from the situation, change it, or accept it totally."
So, as a student of life.....
Accepting Taylor for Taylor is an on-going journey.  I am doing my best.
And, I am working hard to change what I can so I can "Have What  I've assumed she's Having."
 But, if I can continue to laugh and live a  life in which " Wherever I am, I can be there totally"---
Even if I don't look great naked......
Either way, I'm celebrating.
I'll send pictures.

Moving Forward....Or At Least...Moving

          Truthfully, I don't even know where I might tell you I've been for the past four months.   I might say, "Inward.  Scared again. Worried.  Disappointed.  Overwhelmed.  Not trusting."  You see, the last time I wrote anything was after Taylor's last surgery---way back at the end of June.   Boy were we hopeful!  Pain-free was not to be.   And let me just share with the whole world that I do not handle disappointment beautifully.  I would not make a good Buddhist at all---I am way too attached to outcome. 
      After the last surgery (anterior cervical discectomy), I had so many expectations and plans and had re-routed my life; all was going to be back on track.  BUT....that didn't happen.  Or hasn't happened.....yet.  This big miracle surgery did not do the trick...whatever the heck the trick might include.   This go-around we have even tried Oxycontin----that drug that people buy and sell and get highly addicted to.  It didn't help.  (Wanna buy some?  kidding!)
   I wonder if I am wired weird (probably),  because even though it's not rational at all....I blame myself for Taylor not getting better----feeling better----being back up to "par" (again, whatever that is.....oh, isn't all of life so darn relative???)  I have a real wrestling match with the belief that I have not done enough---that there is something more I SHOULD be doing.  And, I'll just get you right to the last chapter of thoughts like these.......They don't lead one to one's "highest self".   (Where do I come up with all of this kind of talk?)
     Anyway, it's been a tough four months.  Real tough.  Lots of crying.  And stress.  And attachment to outcome.  It makes me want to stay inside...in my pajamas...under the covers.    I didn't do that on the outside....but my insides were definitely living a solitary life.  (Oh, this is so depressing.....sorry)
      About three weeks ago, my sisters decided to come visit and do an intervention with me/on me. I think they realized that I needed to get off of center, look at some options and get my life back on track.  When I asked them what an intervention entailed, one of my sisters replied, "I think we're just going to get you really drunk."   Wow!  Now, that's medical psychology for you at its best.   I don't even drink, but at least I had a better idea of how the whole intervention weekend was going to work.  Whew!  What I came to see clearly was that two of my loving sisters just hated to see me suffer (unnecessarily!) and were going to throw me down and talk turkey to me.  In the south we sometimes call these, "Come to Jesus" meetings.    So, I guess that's what we had.  An intervention that involved neither alcohol nor Jesus.     (Well, maybe a little wine....and .....some prayer.)  But mostly, it was just boundless, abundant, deeply profound love ---among sisters. 
      I am not sure what the next months will bring.  My prayer ......my fervent prayer...is that both Taylor and I will both become healed---he from his physical pain and me from my LONGING and worrying and heartache...... that he be ok. 
I have to let go some.
I have to let go.
I don't know how to do this so well/very well/at all.
Letting go.....what does that look like?

     

     
     

Vaya Con Dios...Going With God

     As we headed out at 5:00 in the morning on June 26, to drive from Athens to Johns Hopkins Hospital in Baltimore, I listened to the last of my  unplayed phone messages.  The sweetest voice spoke to me. It sent shivers of hope up my spine and lit up all of the cells in my body:  "Vaya Con Dios," she said.   Those were her only words.  Words that implanted and imprinted themselves into my core.
I found myself using those words as a mantra for the next two weeks as we headed towards yet another spinal surgery for Taylor.  Go with God.  Vaya Con Dios.  Going.  Trusting.  Fearful. Tearful. Worried.  Hopeful.  Thankful.  So afraid.  But, Vaya-ing with Dios.
          I've come to realize (again) how much easier it is to be thankful when things are going well.   When we have all that we need and when we feel like our prayers are being answered.....gosh, those times of saying, "Thank you," just roll off of our tongues and out of our hearts.   It's when the big stuff that trips up our lives happens that makes us choke and emotionally sputter and stutter---and lose hope. 
Taylor's anterior cervical discectomy was a "success" according to the surgeon.  Poor fellow (the surgeon I mean).  He came out to give his report after four hours of surgery to find me in quite a state.  He was smiling, so I knew things must have gone well.  I hugged him and told him that I insisted on paying him for his services (my weird sense of humor).  Dr. Riley reported that Taylor's neck was now stable and that he should be experiencing less and less pain (Taylor I mean.)
I can sing the "Hallelujah Chorus" from start to finish.  I think I may have done that as my own sort of internal background music.   Thank you.  Thank you. Thank you.   Hallelujah.
  We are home.   Taylor is back in a neck brace for 3 months.  He is smiling.  The light has returned to his eyes.   His sense of humor is back.   There is hope....again.
Taylor went with God the whole journey. 
It is me....It is I....who keeps getting off track and falling  into the ditches along the way.
"Vaya con Dios," she blessed....and "benedicted" and said on that early morn.
And we did.
And we shall.
    

Living a Life of Thank You...not so much

Not doing so well with living a life of thank you lately.   My head is barely above water.

Taylor and I have been back and forth to Johns Hopkins for consultations (for him---not me.)

He is scheduled to have an anterior cervical discectomy C-3 through C-7 on Tuesday, June 28.  (This will be his 3rd major cervical surgery in 7 years.)

In whatever way you say sacred prayers, please pray, meditate, send loving thoughts to us for this whole procedure.   I will keep you updated on this blog.  Love to all.

And, thank you for checking in here. 

I feel your loving arms around us.  

Wholly week

Oh look!  The Retarded Mother has had another thought and decided she needed to share it with the blogosphere.  Is this conceited?  Yikes. I hate arrogant people who think everybody wants to read what they write.   Ooops.  There I go again.   Me and who I hate.  And so there you have it.  You're on the runway with me now.   You might as well stay. 

It is Holy Week.   Taylor and I began by having our own little Palm Sunday service on our carport.  I sang.  He held the oak branch.  Wholly Holy. I mean it.

This  wholly/holy week has sort of jostled me around too with some pretty profound juxtapositions that have left me both full of thought.... and tearful.   Curious circumstances have laid my life with Taylor slap up against the lives of some real live human beings at the top of their game.  This past week,  I have interacted with Fulbright Scholars,  Most-Likely-to Succeeds, Endowed- Chair- Named- For -Him person,  She publishes two books a year writer, and  close relatives who have won big awards.   There is a synchronicity here.  I am supposed to be noticing something.  A lesson is being offered. 



Even up there in that picture, it's impossible to say where God is not.



Am I brave enough to open my eyes and ponder it?  If I am willing, I  know that it will lead me towards wholeness and healing. (Thank you for letting me use words like this.  Are you barfing?)
      I have sat with  Taylor this week  as he was  hooked up to a Tens Unit.  Have you ever seen one of those?  It's to help relax the muscles in his neck.  (Over-share----sorry!)  But it sort of visually makes the two of us look even more awkward and alien.  No Fulbright Scholars sitting in this kitchen.  That's for darn sure.  Just a regular mama and  her son living this life--- consciously and lovingly---but a bit on the outer fringes of what People Magazine might have on its SUCCESS page. 
    I am both amazed and amused at how ironic and metaphorical and illusive and unfair and hard and magical and transcendent life is----all at the very same moment. 

What struck me way down to my core being during this holy week is how really it all---this life/these trappings/these outward decorations for which we all relentlessly yearn--how really it is our souls that matter.  Our souls and our hearts and our willingness to love----like really love-----gnarled hands, webbed feet, wounded sides, scarred skin, imperfect lives-----it's that willingness to see ourselves and the other person as worthy, as beings/people  to be heard and treasured. 

That's going to end up being the bottom line.   Go ahead.  Read to the end of your life's book.   I swear, you're going to find out that this is what it's about.

I admit it.....reluctantly.  I compare myself and my life to others.  They have this.  They earned that.  They were awarded this.  He has this degree.  She got honored for that.  Their children are perfect.  His house is bigger.  Her legs are thinner.   She can do math.  All of it.  And then where does that leave us/leave me?

I just don't want to hate my life or feel like it has not been enough.  While I nor Taylor have yet to  be awarded any of the Nobel prizes--- nor have I ever won the bathing suit competition in any pageant........my soul/Taylor's soul is alive and abundant and thriving and willing and available and nourished and resplendent. 

 Souls--- Alive. Abundant.

 Resplendent sounds pretty darn radiant, doesn't it?

Holy radiant.

Oh Lord, and we're only half way through this  Holy Week.

Wholly radiant.
That ain't so bad.

Asking for Help

I come from a family of hard workers/educated yeoman farmers/ heavy lifters.  Seriously, I was raised to take care of myself (and others), to not require or ask for much, and to handle whatever comes along---with a smile on my face and a song in my heart (and on my lips) no matter what was going on.  I am not a whiner.  I have a high threshold before I begin to complain. I can stand a lot. I can be brave.  These traits were implicitly rewarded  in my family.  Do your part.  Try not to have many needs.  Don't ask for help.
Translation:  You can do this.  You can get through it.  Just keep on going.  Plow on through.  Chin up.  Nose to the grindstone.   Are you getting the picture?
   I haven't written in a long time.  I have been in a dark place.  My role as God's wife has been tested. And, just as I figured and sort of knew all along, I never really was God's wife.   That was just something I had tried to squeeze my way into.   You see, for these past few months, I have worked harder than ever to "fix" Taylor's pain, to figure it out, to dig around and find one more answer.  What I did find out from a doctor at Johns Hopkins is that Taylor does have degenerative osteoarthritis of the cervical spine.  On a recent Friday afternoon, the orthopedic surgeon simply said, "Taylor is not going to ever get better.  You are into managing pain from here on out."  So, there it was.  Harsh. Truthful. Words not palatable but information that shifted our course.  So, for the past five years I had been on a barefoot trek across the medical Sahara thinking there would be a cure---a way towards healing and physical wholeness for Taylor's spine.   News flash mama:  No. That won't be happening.   Regroup.  Smile.  Sing.  Move heavy furniture all by yourself.  You can do this.   Really?  I don't think so.
      Last week I asked for help.  I hate to admit I need help. It feels a bit like failure.  Even knowing all of the things I can say to myself about how healthy it is to see a professional, I still drag my heels.  Let me try one more time to do this on my own.  But I knew I was going under and I was beginning to be afraid.  I do not know how to read this life map about how to raise a son in chronic pain.  Forget the retarded part.  That is a piece of cake.  No kidding.
 Retardation=piece of cake. 
Chronic pain=This is way too hard. 
    So I went to see a counselor.   And, I sat there and cried.  I told her I don't know how to be a  mother to Taylor.   I don't have answers.   Heck, I don't even know the questions.  But, I did something huge for myself:  I took care of myself.  I asked for help.  And I got help.  I was heard and acknowledged and comforted and assured I wasn't crazy.  (Well, I can't swear to that last thing.)  I shared my stories.  I guess I already told you I cried.  And then some more.
And, I'm going back.
For help.
It's ok to ask for help.
Is there a bumper sticker that says that yet and can I have one?
Anybody else want one/need one?

Shift Happens

 My mother, Mattie Lou, was not a woman who moved her body much.  You need to know that to get the full benefit of this story. 

The stage:  I was 14-15 and was being punished.  Mama had restricted me to sitting in a chair (precursor to time out) near the end of her bed (on which she lay.) She told me I had to sit there until I apologized for whatever it was I had done at the time.   Two hours into it, I must have said something smart alecky to her. With one fell swoop of a huge leaping movement, she was up off that bed, across the room and screaming, "WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE??? WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?!!"   Startled?  Yes.  I had never seen my mother move like that.  It took me by surprise.  But little did she know that mostly her actions were giving me more "material" so that when I went back upstairs to my sisters I could imitate her.  And I did---that night (in the safety of our upstairs bedroom)  and for years to come among my siblings.    "Who Do You Think You Are?!!" (the full re-enactment of it) became a family favorite at talent shows and on beach trips.  Most of my siblings can go into that voice in two seconds when we think somebody has gone out of bounds and misbehaved---and needs a firm reprimand.

     Funny how those words ring in my head---in different contexts-- 40 years later.  On Friday I had picked up Taylor from the place where he goes in the mornings---formally known as the Hope Haven School for the Mentally Retarded.  He got into the car holding his head and almost chanting,  repeated, "I hurt so bad. I hurt so bad."  Lord, it's only noon.  We've got a long day ahead.  All of my morning prayers and meditations for inner peace got side-swiped and I forgot all of the "centering" thoughts I had had before I picked him up.   (Isn't it hard to watch people we love in pain? )  About 15 minutes into our drive home, I finally just pulled the car over on the side of the street  and sobbed.  "God!  Don't you see us here?  Don't you see this child?  WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE??  When are you going to fix him and make him not hurt?  Show me your face, God.  Let me know you are here!  WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE??" 

     I am not sharing this with you so that you will feel sorry for me.  I am sharing this because I know that every single one of us---in our own situations and in our own lives----has really hard things to deal with at times.  We---each of us  has obstacles and just some really tough situations that may make us feel  alone and helpless.  I don't have the market on this.  I just happen to be the one blubbering  about it today. 

Right?  Are you feelin me? You know it's true.  Own up.

      As Taylor and I sat there in the car on the side of  Lumpkin Street----me imploring God to help----Taylor a bit confused as to why I was so upset----Taylor just turned that sweet little innocent face right to me.  He looked directly into my eyes. Oh, there was such love there. Who knows why, but  what came up out of my mouth was,   "Very God of Very God....my hind foot!"  And then I started laughing.  I was laughing because I am such a fighter/a "show it to me then!" type person.   But in my depths---at that moment--- I knew at that we would be ok.  I was  not sure what form the "ok" was going to take but everything in me felt certain that God had an  answer to, "WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE????"

If miracles are really a shift in perception, then I would say a miracle occurred right there at noon on Friday. 

I had screamed at God the same words my own mother had screamed at me.  I think it made God laugh----which made me laugh-----which probably made Mattie Lou laugh in her Heavenly home.

My miracle "shift"  was and is knowing  that there are different and other ways to see the same hard situation.  

I sometimes forget that.  I get stuck.

Every day-----sometimes several times a day--- might require a shift in perception within us. 

Only if we want to see miracles.

Shift happens. 

Thank goodness. 



Shift Your Perception and The World Will Change




Handling this Life

      I just hate it when people say that God never gives us more than we can handle.  Most often, the people who tend to say that to me are usually all dressed up, driving a fine car, and headed to a fabulous restaurant with other high-functioning adults.   I mean, "What do they know about how much is too much?"  I heard a quote today that Mother Teresa had purportedly said.  "I know God won't give me anything I can't handle. I just wish he didn't trust me so much."  Oh, Lord, I've been busted by Mother Teresa of all people.  Damn!  But I love the second sentence of her quote ----I wish he didn't trust me so much.  Amen to that.... is what I'm thinking.  What on earth have I done to deserve this trust?  I am falling down on the job.  Doesn't he see?

       Non sequitur alert...I watch the news and really wonder how the people in Haiti handle their lives.  They have the same basic needs that you and I have, and yet hundreds of thousands of them are living under tarps on streets, with no running water, no electricity, no nothing.  I/We see those images and go right back to our iPods or online banking or to thawing the lamb chops for dinner.  I would be so curious to know the numbers of handicapped people living amongst them.  I really don't think I could do it.  I'm too spoiled. I'm too something. 
     Maybe it's because I'm 57 and in transition with my life goals; maybe it's because I'm re-evaluating what life is all about; maybe it's because I live in my own sort of sub-culture; maybe it's because I long for conversations and interactions to have meaning and purpose......maybe I just want too much. Heck yeah, I'm intense.   A friend, frustrated with my need for "depth" finally lost it with me yesterday.  "Why do you always think everything has to mean something or teach a lesson or have a moral?"  Exasperated was she----with me.  Lighten up was the message.  Oooooo, that is so hard for me. 
      I know that others of you reading this have a similar longing/craving to soak the life sponge of all of its meaning.  My little fellow, Taylor, is my constant reminder that we are here for bigger purposes than to settle for Dancing with the Stars, over-caring if our boobs sag (just a little), obsessing about if we've made enough, done enough,  been enough.  Are you following me?  Are you with me?
 I want to get this life right whatever that means. 
 Maybe I'm trying too hard. 
 I think I am trying too hard.
Where is Mother Teresa when I need her?   What made her not care about using lip gloss?
How do we get to that place?
Where's the balance?

Lip gloss......meet inner peace. 

Is that more than we can handle?

   

  

Departures. Arrivals.





Bring on the Wonder.
Bring on the Song.
HOPE



        Taylor and I just got back from our annual Christmas/
New Year's journey.  Airports bring out the best and worst in me. I love the adrenalin that starts pumping---traveling, going away, something different, off center, out-of-my comfort zone.  And pushed up right next to that excitement is an almost pathological longing to cling to what is safe and known and routine.  I am not spontaneous.  Damn.  What happened to those days?

   I have traveled through airports during some critical points in my life.  I have stood sobbing in long security lines after a painful breakup; I have pushed Taylor in wheelchairs in and out of handicapped access lines before and after surgeries in other states.  I have left sisters and parents and dear friends at gates with my heart up around my throat believing that my life would never be back on a normal track.  Inevitably after each......a change...in me.

   Always...always...I have seen those signs: "All Flights.  Departing Flights"

Follow these arrows.  Go that way.  Make those  choices.  Depart.  Fly Away.  Go down that ramp way.  Your life will be different---maybe drastically.  Maybe not at all.  But, there will always be a departure from this moment.

    It is a new year.  I like the sound of 2011.  It sounds hopeful to me.  Does it to you?  I am not into numerology, but there is a swing in those numbers.  A newness---a new sound, a buzz, a skip, a bounce.  Life.

    My New Year's Choice is to depart from things, thoughts, beliefs, behaviors that weigh me down, hold me back, make me mean, lead me to negative thinking, keep me living in a "small" world.   Departure from being closed off to love. It's time to let people in--time to float along with the current instead of beating against the tide.  Flying away to new things-----new ideas---new love---new hope. 

Arrivals.  All flights.  Isn't it a good thing to be open to new-ness...to new seeds...new beginnings....new birth?

Bring on the wonder.  Bring on the song.

Anybody want to join me in hope? 

How will we "do" hope this year? 

Make hope happen.  In real ways.

What will it look like in my life?

What will it look like in your life?

A noun and a verb: HOPE.

I'm open.  Are you in?

Birth Day (s)



The least of these--the greatest of these---all are Invited



      I am a big cry baby.  Seriously.  I get my feelings hurt easily. I sulk.  I might as well be in a closet curled up licking my wounds when I think somebody has left me out or hurt me.  I'm old (er).  I like to think I am processing stuff more better/faster/with more "consciousness" these days.   Stay put.  Just laying the ground work.
   Taylor was never invited to birthday parties when he was little.  He didn't have a core group as it were. Invitations were just not forthcoming.  So, whereas my other son, Cole, went to a birthday party a week, I really have to rack my brain to remember any  birthday parties to which Taylor was invited.  And,  I cried a lot. I felt left out---rejected.  Early on, I bought into the belief that he/we were not wanted....would not be included in real things.  (Have you ever noticed that when you believe something that you create situations in your life to support that belief? Pay attention. That's a whole different blog.  Hold that thought.)
     I guess then I was stunned, suprised, delighted when Taylor received a for-real, actual birthday invitation (you know, like from Halmark) in the mail.  Gisela was inviting Taylor to her daughter, Cindy's, 7th birthday. The invitation had his name on it.  It was the first birthday invitation he had ever received.  I cried. (Not in the closet---but at the kitchen sink.)  Hooray!! Somebody loves him/me/us!  Taylor, of course, has never doubted that he is loved; he does not have my issues--thank goodness.  On my way to the party, I got a speeding ticket.  I tried to explain to the officer that it was our first birthday party invitation----ever.  I paid $87.00 and sped off.  I remember everything about walking into that house on that Friday afternoon.  Gisela met us at the door---like real guests---like we were treasured.   There was a hat and gift bag with Taylor's name on it.  This sounds so darn sappy, but it makes me tear-up to even type this.  It was one of those days/events/situations that opened up my heart and shifted it off center to a better place.
    My daddy's birthday was (is?) Christmas Eve.   He is in Heaven probably trying to integrate it or get the angels to recycle their aluminum foil and picking up Coke bottles to turn in for cash.   And, then, of course, there's THE other birth day this week. Holy Week.   So, in my life, this is a week that somehow is both fragile and majestic and humble and lowly and promising and full of tender aches.  Enter the violins---can you hear the angels singing to you?
       In so many ways, I have been a great mother to Taylor.  But, if I could have a Do-Over, I think I would have saddled up my camel, my donkey, my Pilot---and busted in on lots more birthday parties.   When earlier folk saw that star in the east,  they just went.  They didn't ask, "Oh, have we been invited? Are we wanted? Are we on the list?"  Heck no!  They saw the light.  They followed it.  They went---ragged clothes, cold, speeding tickets and all. 
      Here's what I know  or want to know:  The Christmas Birthday party is a time for me, for you--for us----to look around and see who's not been invited in sharing what we have. Who needs an invitation? Who feels  disenfranchised and aches to be included?  Ask them in.  Greet them at the door.  Give them a hat with their name on it.
There's room at this birth-day party for all of us.
Happy Birthday, Jesus, Jack,  Taylor, Cindy, Gisela, Dorna, and on and on and on and on---all ye guarding your flock (s) by day and night--your flocks near or far.
Gather round.  Your invitation is here.

The hopes and fears of all the Years

How many poignant, here's-a-new-twist on Christmas, reason-for-the-season stories can we read  this year without throwing up our fruit cake? So, I won't even try.  Well maybe. 

All I know is that Christmas---growing up in my large family, was not that magical.  I wonder---really and truly wonder--what the formula is (logarithm?) for how many Christmases a person can go through with unreal expectations---that somehow sort of fizzle and plummet right before his/her eyes---and yet, still, the very next year---cement those same expectations into place? Is that the definition of eternal hope or something else?

     My father was a forestry professor.  We did the whole going out into the woods to chop down our own tree thing.   Of course we never went to a tree farm; we just clomped around in the woods off the side of a highway.   Invariably we ended up cutting down (chopping would indicate a thick trunk) two little trees which we would tie together with rope once we got home so it would look like one tree.  Keep in mind that my  father was  a tree expert. More was expected of him.  Mama always always cried.  The tree---the kickoff to the season--was already a disappointment:  two scraggly trees tied together with some twine brought up from the basement.   Christmas spiraled down when mama's big Christmas from our father was a huge, yellow, plastic trash can for the kitchen.  Daddy had lived through the depression, had fought in WWII and put himself through school.  He didn't need many "things."  He gave us (his eight children) purses we already had, old dolls with different dresses, toothpaste, shampoo, toilet paper, soap from Holiday Inns in which he had stayed.  What threw off the curve or perhaps kept the hope alive, was that every now and then they would throw in a clock radio or one bicycle for us all to share.  Yes, indeed, next year would be different---be better.  Maybe next year we'd get  the stuff we thought would make us happy.   Stuff.  So we hoped.

   When Taylor was born, my parents were old.  They had been on the road for hours when I called them to tell them that Taylor had been born.  Daddy said, "We'll be right there." And they drove four hours in the night to see us. Into my room walked these parents who seemed to have ruined Christmas for me, year-after-year---parents who reached out to take this sweet baby out of my arms--and into their own arms--to hold and keep and honor.  Daddy said, "You are so lucky, Marianne.  Not many people can have a baby like this."  

    I look at that picture of Taylor up there with Santa----Taylor who asked to go see Santa.  Taylor this "child" of 26.  This is not the Christmas card I had planned to send you guys when I was 13 while  unwrapping pajamas that were the wrong color and too small.  This is not the Christmas child I thought I would be raising when I was 14, sitting next to a Christmas tree (s) on its last leg. 

 But this is my child---my gift-----the baby I was given in the hospital manger.

And, oh, I look around me and man do I see wise men and women and Lord knows I hear the angels singing.  I heard her just today. And, yes, there are shepherds. You are probably one of them for me.

   I look at my not-so-perfect-Christmas -child picture -----and the hopes and fears of all the years come up and clog up around my throat.  What were my expectations?

What are my hopes?  What are my fears?

"What child is this?" I wonder.

How do we honor the gifts in our lives?

Whatever form they come in---these, our gifts---how do we honor them?

Only Kindness Makes Sense

    

Only Kindness Makes Sense
(Geneen Roth)

        I'll just jump right on in here and tell you that we've (I've, you've, me've) been going through a rough spot.  I know I do not have the market on rough spots, but since and because this is my blog, I get to talk about my rough spot. When I have a hard time, I tend to go inside---way inside----maybe even close to under--but mostly just inside.  I know that healing is an inside job.  It's been said that for all hard emotional work, that the only way out.....is through.  No short cuts.  Damn.
    So Taylor has been feeling bad again.  His 26 year old body has been cut on and scarred up pretty badly for a person his age.  Because I am a control freak---you've met me before: I'm God's wife----because even though intellectually I know I can not control his body and how it heals (or doesn't heal), I keep trying to fix him. 
I keep thinking that if I read one more article or if we see one more doctor or if I hear about one more magic medicine---then he will "poof" himself into a light-hearted, physically happy place.  But, it is not happening.  And it's frustrating. 
Join me here:  If you have someone you love dearly, don't you hate it when they hurt?  Your answer, without even emailing me your response is "Heck yeah!"
So, you get me, don't you?
     Within the past couple of days, I had an "Aha!" moment.  I was lead to some words and thoughts that my soul had been searching for---words I think I had a craving to be sunk way down into my own soul:  Only kindness makes sense.
Hold on now.  Here's the good part and I want you to read it with me and tell me what you think.  Only kindness  (even and especially) towards ourselves makes sense.  Towards ourselves----kindness for me....from me....to me.   And then, later on, in a few minutes after I've been kind to myself..... it can be moved out----outward.
    I have spent my entire life trying to change my body---change my thighs, change my this, change my that...beat up myself because my body wasn't thin enough, toned enough, tall enough....yadayada blah blah blah.  You know what? 
Does that sound kind-----sound loving?.......sound gentle?.....sound compassionate? Don't you even try to bolt out of this conversation, because I know that you---yes, most of you, my brilliant readers----you may not be holding yourself  either with tenderness and love and oh I love that word.....grace.  And kind-ness.  Are you?  Be honest?  Are you kind to you?
      I am battling (that means war, doesn't it? And war is not kind....see how smart I am!?) with my own body----and HELLO!!---with Taylor's body!!!   I have felt betrayed and angry and frustrated beyond measure with how his body holds him hostage (not by choice) and then how my body holds me hostage (Ooops! By choice!)  How many times can I say, "That's not fair!"  in one day and still be within the legal limit?
     So today, this epiphany happened inside of my heart.  Only kindness makes sense.  Kindness: accept, embrace, cuddle, kiss, adore, cherish, lavish with tenderness, slurp-up, prize, thank----all of the parts of our bodies---ourselves---just as they are.  OMG----huge.  Landslide huge.
I've got to do this for myself so I can do this for my son who counts on me so.
By "do this"  I mean be kind  turned inward.   
We....I/you/me/him/her/they----are so worth...so worthy of our own kindness.
Only kindness makes sense.
 Begin now.
I'll begin with me.
You begin with you.
This feels like a challenge.  Why is that?

I Heard You Smiling

      I am startled every day----yes every single day---at how true-ly and pure-ly our "guts" speak to  us.  Now, if you're like me, you may not always want to listen to what your right-on-target/I'm-giving-it-to-you-straight intuition is telling you.  But, we  can count on that raw, unfiltered, gnawing-knowing as our  wisest and most valuable counsel.  I am not sure why I (you too?) fight so when it comes to trusting our  own guts.  I try to talk myself out of what I know to be true about myself.  I rationalize, theorize, and can finally---if I really need to---totally convince myself of some flem-flam thought or scheme or belief.  Oh, what a waste of energy it is to try and lie to ourselves---even about little stuff.  But we do.  I do.  You do. 
It has taken me 56 years, but I think I have finally come to know and understand that one of the best gifts we can give ourselves  is  to trust that sure, solid, unwavering, inner voice that knows ---without hesitation --our own personal truth.
     All of my "Please don't talk to me about God" readers will want to close your eyes through this next sentence, but for me---just for me---my gut---my natural intuition is what I know as God talking to me----that voice that sometimes even has to mud-wrestle me to the ground. That voice that has to get me in that double-Nelson soul grip even though  every cell in my body already  knows what is true.  Even with that, I still try to over-talk, out-run, or shellac-over that steady, unwavering, "This is what you know to do"  voice.  Why on earth do we do that?  We each have this incredible gift of truth that lives inside of us, and we do everything within us to stomp on it, hide it, ignore it or yell back at it.  Why?
  So, if you've lived through those first two paragraphs, bravo.  Here's where I was headed when I started out:  For the past two days, I have sort of faked living in my own skin.  I have been restless and full of dis-ease with things.  Taylor has not felt well and I have worked hard to smile and keep going---pretending.  Conjuring up enthusiasm that was sickly and skimpy.  I really thought I had faked Taylor out. 
It's so weird because  I often give him so little credit for his incredibly fine-tuned "gut."  Although he cannot articulate his inner knowing, Taylor knows when the people around him are out-of-sync/ off balance/faking it.  There is not enough wool in this world to pull over his innocent eyes.  Gut is what he runs on.  No double guessing for him.  More lessons from him....to  me.  Oh S*%$#.
   Finally sometime this afternoon,  I just got real still and prayed.  I stopped.  I breathed. I beckoned.  I cried.  I listened.  I rested into the arms of my gut----into the welcome of me.  And something shifted.  For the better.  I relaxed. I decided not to try so hard and be so.....so.....so...so... damn fake perfect. ( As if!)  And still there's  that need to die trying to be it all.  Right?  Oh? You too? 
    But finally and thankfully, I gave in to  just being with my own self---paying attention, observing, feeling "at home" again in my own body.  I was not wrestling---just resting in the uniqueness of my very own humanity (Don't barf; I love those words.)  You see, my "God" voice---my gut voice---had been whispering what it always does while I'm out hollering and trying to outmaneuver the world around me.
"You are  already connected to all that is holy."
 "You know all that you need to know."
  "It's all inside.  You are love (ed.)"
And just about then I felt that sweet little hand on my arm---Taylor's hand on my arm.
And in that gentle, precious voice, Taylor said to me, "I heard you smiling, mama."
He, too, had heard that voice. 
That voice---that truth---that knowing---that, simply put, is peace.
"I heard you smiling," he said.
Smiling.
The sound of  (inner) peace.
You can hear it.
Listen.

Success(full)

     

    I am feeling pretty weird about my life these days.  I am sort of 'twixt and 'tween.  Problem is, I can't figure out between what I'm twixt.  I think there must have been a time in about 11th grade when I wanted to be successful.  Even back then, I am not really sure what that might have looked like once I got there.  In some ways, my life was in a bubble.  Everybody I hung around was college-bound.   Everybody would have a career.  There really wasn't too much discussion about any of that.  I was probably on the low-end of the "Let's all be prestigious and go to college in the Northeast."  I think I opted out of being a cabinet member or district attorney or oral surgeon when I  realized that I didn't know what "syntax" meant on the SAT.  It appears that others in my class knew the meaning----and sure enough all those "syntax-knowers"  have gone on to be quite success-full.  
      Last week, a little six year old friend of mine, was filling out a "Sucess Chart" for school.  "What in the world does success mean?" I nudged her as she bubbled in her  'successes."
Without skipping a beat, she told me, " Success means you're all full up.  Full to the top---full to the brim. You feel full. You can't hold any more."
"Any more  of what?"  I asked. 
"Success-full means you're all full up on love and having friends."
"Oh. Good to know, " said I.  Hmmm. 
   Some days,  I am not really sure how to shuffle parts of my life (back) into this deck--of life. I want the rules to be bent.   One son is grown, but, my other son, Taylor, will never be grown.  In some ways, I think I have decided to stay "ungrown" with him.  This is not going to be a very flattering confession, but some days I wonder, "What the heck? What if the hokey pokey really is what it's all about?"  That's just on some days---some hours mostly.  (Has anybody out there begun decorating for my pity-party yet?)   Arrrggggh....at myself.
And, I can trace those "I'm so tired of this" feelings directly to days when Taylor feels bad and I am completely helpless to ......help. 
I am not able to be success-----full.  And I hate it.  I'm not good at just "being."  I have not practiced working on that "being" muscle as much as I'd like to pretend I have.  So, I fight the current.  I flow against it.  I struggle.  I tug.  I pull and then push and resist.  I want things to be different.  I want me to be different.  I want to be success--full---with him.  With life.
     I know what syntax means now.  Turns out, it never was a very hard word to understand.
I wonder why I  assigned that kind of not-knowing to determine my success.
Help me out, here, folks.  Talk to me. 
What is success?  How do you know when you've gotten there?
Full of love?  Full to the brim with love?
Full of friendships and people who  love you?
Maybe I just need to stop trying to swim upstream---against the current.
Is up-stream where success is?  Did I miss it?
Didn't I just come from there---up stream that is?
Oh, I think I just need to  float a while. 
Being.
Not doing.
Not a human doing.
A human being.
Being--full.





      
     
  

The Yeah...But....Club

    

           I've never thought of myself as much of a complainer, but lately I have noticed how things get on my nerves--"on my last nerve" as the kids say.  We really weren't allowed to complain much when we were growing up or we'd get......let me see how to say this politically correctly....oh yeah, we'd get spanked.  My father, a Commander in the Navy during WWII, didn't "cotton" to much fussing or making excuses or plain 'ole complaining.  We were told, "Just say Yes Sir and that's all!" 

     So I was well trained.  Until now. 
     Now I hear myself saying out loud----a lot...."Yeah, but.....I....." and then some excuse or reasoning or poor-pitiful-me type words will come gurgling out.   When friends say they lost a lot of weight walking two miles a day, I am quick to chirp,  "Yeah, but, so do I and yadayadayada."  I can "Yeah, but" myself to death about money, friends, work, travel, dieting (oh yeah, I already said that one), and well, you name it.  "Yeah, but, that would take so long."  "Yeah, but, nobody told me it started early." "Yeah, but, I have to get a sitter."  "Yeah, but, I don't want to give up my Saturdays."  You get it.  Yeah, but, nobody wants to read my blogs anyway.
    I got really defensive yesterday when an acquaintance commented that I made it  seem like raising Taylor was so hard.  She, too, has a child with Down Syndrome; we were just comparing notes.  And I heard all of this come out of my mouth: "Yeah, but, your daughter is not in pain.  Yeah, but you are married and have a husband who helps 50/50.  Yeah, but your daughter is still in school.  Yeah, but she is higher functioning than Taylor.  Yeah, but ya'll have more money.  Yeah, but you have more kids at home to help you."  I Yeah-Butted myself all over the place.  But were they just hollow excuses?
And I knew I was feeling defensive and like maybe I wasn't a good mother and like I didn't know how to do this life thing so well----yeah, but, here I am and who better?  Yeah, but.....maybe all of you would be better at my life.
     This is not my temporary so-called life.  This is not like, "Ok, Taylor's going to be retarded for a while and then when he's 32, he's going to read and write on grade level and become a lawyer."  This is the real-deal way it is.  For as long as our lives are---I mean our physical lives.  It's not, "Well you only have to do this for six months and then we're sending in a replacement---or extra troops or a new set of chromosomes or that new pill that's going to make you lose weight and make Taylor pain-free and with an IQ way above room temperature. "   (Yeah, but most of us have that high IQ and look at us! Ooops!)
So, I am taking stock today. 
My "Yeah buts" are keeping me stuck and creating a longing for parts of a life that probably will never be.
Yeah, but, can I love the life I have?
Yeah, but can you love the life you have?
Yeah, but, can we help each other learn to live wholly/holy and fully and happily in our lives? 
Ok. Ok. Yes!  But To loving our lives just as we find them.
Yeah, but, does anybody know how to make my legs look thinner?

Sitting Halo

       

       Last week I got an email from my brother, along with his daughter's blog about  missionary work she is doing with children in Mexico.  Beka's blog updated her family and followers about how she hangs out, shares her heart, and is a witness to the children she is there to serve.  I can't remember now if she left out a word or if I left out a word, but here's what I read from what she wrote: "Sometimes I just sit.......halo."  Within minutes, and after checking lots of other emails, I wrote back to my brother and asked, "What does she mean to "Sit Halo"? (See, I had already unconsciously taken her words for my own meaning.)  I began to picture my precious niece just being a present and caring presence in the lives of children in a very impoverished country. Perhaps without using words, without pushing her beliefs on them---I could see Beka "sitting halo" for the children she  is there to reach.

        Well, come to find out (is that an old person's expression?), Halo is a video game and sitting and playing halo literally meant sitting and playing that video game.   Shucks! Darn. Even damn.  My whole image and the meaning I had assigned "Sitting Halo"  was crumpled up--null and void.  I had about thirty seconds of disappointment that I had so misread her words, but something stuck with me---those words, "Sitting Halo" kept clamoring around in my head.  There was meaning there for me. I was touched by that expression and I  let it just sit inside of me for several days. 

Sitting Halo. 
Holding a person you love--or loved---or need to love---or can't love (you get the picture---insert your favorite name now)--holding a person in a sacred space---in a holy light---surrounded by grace and compassion--and of course--by light.  Light that might give them a bit of hope or a new perspective or a glint/glimmer that they are going to find their paths.  Sitting Halo---my new best phrase--- means even sitting right next to somebody you want so desperately to "fix" and make better and steer down a different road----but maybe your words are all used up and broken-record-sounding---maybe your words would fall on deaf ears or a hardened heart.  And, anyway, maybe your words are not what they need. You know exactly what I'm talking about; you've been there.  You might be there right now.  So, don't say anything.  Just Sit Halo for that person.  Just pray--- if that's the word that makes sense for you life.  Or meditate---- Send them love.  Ask for them to be sheltered and nourished and to be "healed"-----and yes, I know that can mean a zillion different things.  But you get it, don't you? 
      Sit Halo.
 Today I could not do anything to make Taylor feel better.  I had done all there was to do.  I was frustrated and close to tears.  So, I just stood close, was silent, and "Sat Halo."   For me, that meant I prayed for him to be out of pain.  It felt like such a relief to have a place to "go" with my thoughts and for the love I hold for him. I didn't need to tell him what I was doing or why I was doing it.  It is simply (and beautifully) a prayer for watching over---for whatever that person needs to live his /her life's purpose full out.
   For the woman who cuts in front of you in line at Wendy's:  Sit Halo.  For the  friend we have who is  lost and not knowing where to turn in life:  Sit Halo.

For the sister/son/friend  who has not  made contact with you in months:  Sit Halo.  Hold them in that sacred and holy place in your heart.  Say their names---pour  love on top of their names.  See them in your mind's eye completely surrounded by grace and luminous light.  Ask that they will know hope.

Sit Halo. 

I am honored and so touched  to know that there are those of you "out there" Sitting Halo for me. 

Don't say a word.  Hold that intention----for love---for them.
Sit Halo. 

    

Taylor and Hawkeye

Movie...Two Words....Rhymes With....

a

                     Raise your hand if you like to play Charades! Ok, that's all of you as far as I can see from here. I know, I know. Some of you would rather have a root canal instead of being made to play Charades. But, didn't you ever go to camp or youth group or family holidays where you had to play? I am thinking how intense and intent we become when we actually play that game. All of us stay poised on the edges of our seats making guess after wild guess as the clues come flying at us-----giving it everything we've got to make sense of/understand/find out what the person is trying to have us know. And we keep at it---scanning our brains for any possible connection we can make with all of those, "Sounds like....rhymes with...four words....three syllables....second syllable.' We are like dogs with a bone---not letting go---nothing getting in our way----to get the "thing" that is being communicated. Are you with me? And it can get pretty competitive as only Charades can get. (Oh, come on! Can't you remember your Aunt Hazelnut trying to act out The Titanic?)

      Yesterday I realized again for the 98th time that Taylor and I talk in a form of  Charade-like conversation all day long. This is a typical conversation for us.
Taylor: Lake. Jet ski. Alabama. Aladdin. Call Joe phone. Murphy home.
Me: Taylor, put on your shoes.
Taylor: Wait wait wait. Lake. Jet Ski. Alabama. Aladdin. Call Joe phone. Murphy home.
Pete and repeat sat on a fence......
     I continue to give him directions and he hangs on for dear life to the clues he is trying desperately for me to hear. "Wait. Wait. Wait, " he implores until I finally stop and truly hear what he is saying. I have things I want for him to do. I am impatient with my own agenda.  He has things he wants to make sure I hear. He needs to know that he is heard.  And by golly, he is relentless.
Me: Oh, so you want to go to the lake in Alabama and see Mary Love and ride the jet ski, take your movie, Aladdin, call Joe on the phone when we get there and leave Murphy at home.
Taylor: Stage direction Taylor nods Yes.
And then---and only then, is he willing to put on his shoes or pour his juice or get into the car. He will not budge until I say back to him or reflect back to him what it was he was trying to tell me---what he wanted me to know about what he needed.
      You and I, I and you---we give clues to other people all day long. And we long for them to pick up on our awkward, veiled, poorly expressed words that somehow link way down deep to what our hearts are feeling---and trying desperately to convey.  And we want them to hear us-----really hear what it is we are saying or acting out or dividing into parts and phrases. "Hear me. I'm giving you clues. I want you to connect with me. I want to know that you've heard what I have said---and what I mean."
But somehow in our very real daily lives, we do are not in Charade-playing- mode, so we tend not to guess with the same fervor and interest we conjure up during  the game. Isn't this backwards? Shouldn't this be the other way around? I mean, like, wouldn't it better if we just realized and acknowledged that all of those around us are trying to tell us something---something important to them--about their lives---inside or out? We get tons of clues----verbal and not-so-verbal--from people we see every day? Would it be safe to guess that they (me/you/they) would really love to be listened to.....and then truly heard?
Gosh, doesn't it feel so so so??......good, so complete, so healing...when we know that the person beside us/close to us can take all of our cues, all of our clues and come up with the response that hits our meaning right on the head?
I love it that Taylor insists that I "Wait. Wait. Wait," until he is fully assured that I "get it." I have to say back to him my interpretation of his words until he is satisfied that we both understand what he wants/needs.
Pretty cool, isn't it?
Wait. Listen. Try again. Wait.
Offer a translation. ("This is what I think I heard you say.")
Wait. Listen.
We just want to be heard.
He does. I do. You do. 
Can we try.....harder....more better?
It's the best kind of love.
One word, one syllable, first syllable:  Love
In life, it rhymes with:  I Hear You. I really hear you.

Beautiful Love

Last night, I was working on my computer in Taylor's room while he was about to go to sleep. Without warning, Taylor hopped up out of bed, came over and gently touched me on the shoulder. In his sweetest, rather high-pitched/angelic--in his, "This is me being authentic and meaningful" voice, he said to me, "Mama bee--u--ti-ful! Mama pre--tt-tie!" I was so caught off guard because he delivered those lines with such conviction and warmth--to me. I looked up at my dear 26 year old son and said, "No, Taylor, I'm overweight. Mama's old and I don't look good. Honey, I'm not pretty." He just stared at me. My words bounced off of him as if he had a protective coating the words could not penetrate. "This does not compute, " was what he might have spoken back to me if he had articulated what he felt. I, on the other hand, was determined to prove him wrong. Within about 8 seconds all of my massive judgements about my physical self came flaming up and hung suspended in my throat. "You're wrong. You're retarded. What do you know about beauty and who's pretty and what the world expects from us?" These thoughts of mine screamed and raged, but they didn't make it out of my mouth. Taylor was not convinced. But, he had set something in motion. Grapple. Grapple Grapple with.
     Who is the judge? Who do you, who do I assign as THE judge that decides who is beautiful and who is pretty--- Or who is whatever.... There must be some body, some one, some thing to which we have all given our power because Lord knows we spend enough time, money, worry, exercise, surgery, media, therapy trying our best to be....beautiful.
      Don't we? Are am I wrong? And with two little bitty sentences this precious living human being touches me and says, "Mama beautiful." AND I ARGUED WITH HIM! And made him wrong---so that I could, so that I could....what??? Be so right about being all wrong about how much I buy into judgements about physical beauty? Let me see now.....he's "retarded" and I'm so darn smart....Something's not right here because he sees beauty and I'm trying to convince him that no he does not see beauty.  After all, what on earth does this fellow know? Does his vote count? I mean as much as yours and mine? Because I've seen Elle and GQ.
I mean....I know what the rules are.  Right?
Stop. Push pause.
      What if we allowed ourselves to bask and bathe in the love that others have for us---with all of our seeming imperfections and flaws. What if we did not treat ourselves so brutally and harshly? (Am I alone in this or are there others of you out there who beat up on yourselves pretty regularly---like hourly?)
         I can honestly say that without exception, I have never ever seen Taylor judge any person----not even one person---based on physical appearance. We have been in physical therapy with severe burn victims, quadriplegics, men with no limbs, all sorts of disfigurements, dirty hair, women with beards, acne, scars, obesity, anorexics---and not even once has Taylor winced, made a face, looked away, made a joke, or compared himself or others to that person. Not once. What he does repond to is love---and being accepted and being welcomed and being acknowledged for being in the room or at the table or right in front of you.
Taylor is right.
What he sees in people who love him is beauty.
Why is that so hard to accept?
Love is beautiful.
Did a rocket scientist have to figure that out?
Taylor is waiting for the rest of us to catch up and catch on.
He knows.
I want to know what he knows.