I spent an hour and a half in my garden last week. The first slice of evening where there was just enough light and just enough of a break in the steady rainfall to be outside for awhile.
I'd recently been given a rosebush-pruning lesson and witnessed in just days how life and health seemed to pulse back through the branches, and my hope was to apply my lesson and my snips to a few other scraggly bushes in my garden.
"Garden" may be the tiniest overstatement. When I bought this little place a few years ago, it came with a pristine new-sod lawn and a truckload of barkdust that stretched from the edge of the lawn to the edge of the fence with not a bit of life or color in between. I've been trying to fill in all that empty space a patch at a time ever since. We're no french country garden, but we're coming along.
I don't know what I'm doing in the garden. I guess I'm a bit of a city girl. My family lived in the "country" back when I was learning to tie my shoes, but that was a lot of shoelaces ago. Very little of the country experience made the trip from the "toolies" to the "burbs". For example ~ I like to think that eggs come from the dairy case at Trader Joe's. It's tough for me to admit to myself that they "come shootin' out a chicken's ass", (line lifted from the film, "Fried Green Tomatoes", apologies and credits to Fannie Flagg). In fact, a friend handed me a couple dozen brown eggs from her own chickens last summer and I gave them all away because I was just not ready to eat them after meeting the aforementioned asses from which they shot that very afternoon.
Back to the garden ~ so I don't know what I'm doing. I planted a blueberry bush a few years ago. After a few seasons, while I was delighted with the tiny white blossoms, I was disappointed that there'd been no berries to enjoy. I mentioned my barren blueberry bush problem to a woman I work with, she's a bit of a master gardener in her after-office hours, she frequently brings me little shoots and starts, and, while I can't be sure, I believe she turned her back to me for just a second to restrain a snort. She gathered herself, turned back to me and said, with grace, "um, kid", (she calls me kid)... "you know you need two blueberry plants if you want berries, right?" Um, yea, no. No. Did not know that. City girl. Apparently, mommy blueberry bush has to love daddy blueberry bush and somehow the bees get invited into this arrangement, and, well, there you go, blueberries.
I don't know what I'm doing in the garden. But in the not-knowing, I'm discovering what I do know. I know that I love the feel of my hands in the dirt. When someone asks me what kind of flowers I like, I know I tend to say "purple". The thick gardening manuals that provide all kinds of instruction on zoning and fertilizer, while I'm sure they're worthwhile, they leave me overwhelmed and confused. But invite me to walk through a nursery and drink in all the grand colors and varieties and hopeful, life-giving possibilities, and I'm your girl. I like to buy bags of bulbs at farmer's markets, even big box stores. I left the Dollar Store a week ago with 4 bucks worth of gladiolas. Why not. I know I love taking my wicker basket out to gather cherry tomatoes and eat handfuls of them right off the vine. I know I love watering in the cool of the evening once the neighborhood is tucked in and only the moon is keeping an eye on me. I know I love stepping off my porch in the morning to discover that a tiny little companion has poked her head up through the soil, against all odds, to be part of my life. I've been known to say "hello baby" to these little blooms who make their home with me.
I know I'm not alone in my garden. I know my spirit is quieted by the companionship I experience. As I tend, I am reminded that I am tended to as well. As I water, my thirsty soul is refreshed by the Spirit that is food and drink to me. Even as I cut away what is dead so that life can bust through again, I am comforted with a gentle understanding. Oh, I see. You want me to live. You want me to grow. You want me to thrive. I know... I know.
I am going to my favorite local nursery spot tomorrow. I have a list. Some new companions to share my home with me. Some purples. And maybe some yellows, some pinks, some greens. And some blueberry bushes. Two of them.
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Nana ~
My nana died last Friday evening. She was 94 years old. Her name was Helen May.
I was given her middle name ("Kathryn May" means I'm in trouble), I wear a sterling silver bracelet that is engraved with her monogram as a single woman in the 1930s, and I possess the memories of a sweet connection with her the past few years of her life.
Many of the grandparents and great-grands in my family tree have lived well into their 90s. There's a running gag among us now ~ we're not photogenic, we have lousy metabolism, but, geez, we live forever. Well, not forever, I guess.
As grandparents go, at least the ones I was most accustomed to in my childhood, nana was, well, a tiny bit scandalous. She had a liquor cabinet in her house that I was fascinated by as a child. We'd visit her on Saturday afternoons and she would offer us "hi-balls". She'd pour cold Pepsi into gin glasses and I'd sip my drink as she sipped hers, and I'd feel fancy and naughty at the same time. She had a limited supply of tolerance, oh, on just about any topic. A roll of her eyes, a "sheesh", a smirk, that was her expressed opinion on countless matters. Any funky smell was "bad enough to knock a buzzard off a gut-wagon", and any child age 12 or below who was in her eyesight was "a farmer". She was, how can I put this, bossy. Its quite possible that the first "dammit" I ever heard came out of her mouth.
For most of my childhood, she lived a thousand miles away for most of the year. When the Southern California sun could not be tamed by the pool or the shade of the orange grove, she'd pack up her Cadillac and head north. This went on for years. I'd not see her for months, and then, when she'd lay eyes on me on that first visit of the summer, her first words to me would invariably be, "you need to lose weight", followed immediately by "can I make you a sandwich?"
She was tan and fit, she golfed and traveled. She met "the girls" for bridge at the club. She square danced. She bought handbags bejeweled with designs of peacocks, of flowers. She was a classically trained pianist. She buried two husbands and suffered the betrayal of a son. She kept coffee cans full of the nickels she won playing bingo, she got reprimanded once for pushing and shoving to get on the senior-center activity bus, and she kept a tissue in the pocket of every sweater she owned.
She began to fail several months ago. There was a fall, there was the confusion, and then there was the diagnosis that gave us a hint as to how her life might end.
The past few years, the past few months, have been especially poignant. Watching my mom care for this woman has been a revelation to me, truly, she has revealed to me how it is that one cares for an aging, dying parent. My nana has not been easy to love, as nanas go. She's held firmly to a reluctance toward sentiment, toward expressions of tenderness, a reservation, perhaps an inability to demonstrate, to speak what simply needs to be spoken. And yet, my mom has loved her, has tended to her with compassion and faithfulness and grace.
A few months ago, with nana deep into dementia, mom sat beside her bed, held her hand, and spoke gently to her. "Mom, do you know who I am?", she asked. Nana, who for months had confused my mom with a half-dozen dead relatives, looked her right in the eye, and said "yes, you're my little baby girl." I got to witness that moment, and I will never forget it. I believe it was a cup of cold water offered to my mom's thirsty heart. Offered, not really by nana, but by God, who has watched my mom's faithfulness all her life and knew that refreshment was needed.
There were late-night calls the last week of her life, calls to tell us that it was time to say goodbye. We kissed her, we stroked her hair, we pressed our lips to her ear and told her that she was loved, by us, by God, that she was safe, that she didn't have to worry, that we'd be alright, that she could go. She spoke gibberish for most of the visit, and we cried as we listened to her painful efforts to breathe. My mom held her hand and told her stories from her own childhood, reminded her of scenes that are as vivid to her today as they were sixty-plus years ago. Nana opened her eyes at one point and said clearly, "please hold me, please hold me."
A few moments later, she was fighting with the nurses who were taking care of her in the bathroom, insisting that no one needs more than 3 squares of toilet paper. I heard that "dammit" again. Vintage nana.
Geez, my family, we live forever. Well, not forever, not now, not here. Someday, somewhere else.
Prayers were answered Friday night. Mom's prayer for nana to finally, peacefully, let go. Nana's prayer to be held. After 94 years of reluctance and reservation, I can only believe that, at last, she is letting herself love.
But don't get me wrong, nana's nana. She's bossing somebody around.
I was given her middle name ("Kathryn May" means I'm in trouble), I wear a sterling silver bracelet that is engraved with her monogram as a single woman in the 1930s, and I possess the memories of a sweet connection with her the past few years of her life.
Many of the grandparents and great-grands in my family tree have lived well into their 90s. There's a running gag among us now ~ we're not photogenic, we have lousy metabolism, but, geez, we live forever. Well, not forever, I guess.
As grandparents go, at least the ones I was most accustomed to in my childhood, nana was, well, a tiny bit scandalous. She had a liquor cabinet in her house that I was fascinated by as a child. We'd visit her on Saturday afternoons and she would offer us "hi-balls". She'd pour cold Pepsi into gin glasses and I'd sip my drink as she sipped hers, and I'd feel fancy and naughty at the same time. She had a limited supply of tolerance, oh, on just about any topic. A roll of her eyes, a "sheesh", a smirk, that was her expressed opinion on countless matters. Any funky smell was "bad enough to knock a buzzard off a gut-wagon", and any child age 12 or below who was in her eyesight was "a farmer". She was, how can I put this, bossy. Its quite possible that the first "dammit" I ever heard came out of her mouth.
For most of my childhood, she lived a thousand miles away for most of the year. When the Southern California sun could not be tamed by the pool or the shade of the orange grove, she'd pack up her Cadillac and head north. This went on for years. I'd not see her for months, and then, when she'd lay eyes on me on that first visit of the summer, her first words to me would invariably be, "you need to lose weight", followed immediately by "can I make you a sandwich?"
She was tan and fit, she golfed and traveled. She met "the girls" for bridge at the club. She square danced. She bought handbags bejeweled with designs of peacocks, of flowers. She was a classically trained pianist. She buried two husbands and suffered the betrayal of a son. She kept coffee cans full of the nickels she won playing bingo, she got reprimanded once for pushing and shoving to get on the senior-center activity bus, and she kept a tissue in the pocket of every sweater she owned.
She began to fail several months ago. There was a fall, there was the confusion, and then there was the diagnosis that gave us a hint as to how her life might end.
The past few years, the past few months, have been especially poignant. Watching my mom care for this woman has been a revelation to me, truly, she has revealed to me how it is that one cares for an aging, dying parent. My nana has not been easy to love, as nanas go. She's held firmly to a reluctance toward sentiment, toward expressions of tenderness, a reservation, perhaps an inability to demonstrate, to speak what simply needs to be spoken. And yet, my mom has loved her, has tended to her with compassion and faithfulness and grace.
A few months ago, with nana deep into dementia, mom sat beside her bed, held her hand, and spoke gently to her. "Mom, do you know who I am?", she asked. Nana, who for months had confused my mom with a half-dozen dead relatives, looked her right in the eye, and said "yes, you're my little baby girl." I got to witness that moment, and I will never forget it. I believe it was a cup of cold water offered to my mom's thirsty heart. Offered, not really by nana, but by God, who has watched my mom's faithfulness all her life and knew that refreshment was needed.
There were late-night calls the last week of her life, calls to tell us that it was time to say goodbye. We kissed her, we stroked her hair, we pressed our lips to her ear and told her that she was loved, by us, by God, that she was safe, that she didn't have to worry, that we'd be alright, that she could go. She spoke gibberish for most of the visit, and we cried as we listened to her painful efforts to breathe. My mom held her hand and told her stories from her own childhood, reminded her of scenes that are as vivid to her today as they were sixty-plus years ago. Nana opened her eyes at one point and said clearly, "please hold me, please hold me."
A few moments later, she was fighting with the nurses who were taking care of her in the bathroom, insisting that no one needs more than 3 squares of toilet paper. I heard that "dammit" again. Vintage nana.
Geez, my family, we live forever. Well, not forever, not now, not here. Someday, somewhere else.
Prayers were answered Friday night. Mom's prayer for nana to finally, peacefully, let go. Nana's prayer to be held. After 94 years of reluctance and reservation, I can only believe that, at last, she is letting herself love.
But don't get me wrong, nana's nana. She's bossing somebody around.
Friday, February 27, 2009
TRAIL OF TEARS ~
There have been some tears this week. The tears haven't been mine, and yet, seeing them fall on the faces of people I love, I suppose I do consider, in some simple way, that they belong to me too.
Paul, the apostle, encourages us to "rejoice with those who rejoice... to weep with those who weep."
I have been "wept with" in my life. This past handful of days, I've been "weeping with".
My mom... she put her mother in hospice a few weekends ago. The cancer, the dementia, its beyond what a woman of nana's years can bear, the fading is coming fast, and mom has no choice but to take the next step that shows itself to her on this path toward goodbye. She and I were hiking through some wetlands last weekend. I asked her a question about the "arrangements", that awkward word we reach for when we talk about a death, a body, an urn... she stopped, let herself feel the weight of it all, set her head on my shoulder just like a little girl, and cried, "I'm not ready for her to be gone."
My workmate... so smart, so diligent, so focused, so in control. She asked me if I had a minute to talk privately. We shut the door and I sat down across from her. She let me catch a glimpse of who she really is, tucked there inside the girl she lets me see. Crushed by the harsh-sounding words of another, she cried as she expressed genuine hurt, uncertainty...how can she spend so many hours in this workspace anymore if she is meant to avoid, to hide, to dread, to dodge?
My boss... a phone call, an impending loss of a friend, a fear racing through her mind. The tears pooled in her eyes as she dropped the supervisor protocol for a moment and worried out loud with me... had she said enough, had she done enough, did he know he was loved? And if he didn't, would it be too late to tell him?
My sister... sharing a cup of coffee, stealing a few minutes from a busy work week to just be sisters. She told me the words she was trying to put together in a card to mom, a card she knows is inadequate, a card she knows can't make anything better, yet a card she wants to send to say "I know I can't do a thing, but I'm here". Tears as she worked it out in my hearing that its been a long time since our family has suffered a loss, and the older we grow, the more loss will be part of our stories, part of what we talk about over these cups of coffee.
My friend... surprised to find each other at the same gathering neither of us really felt up to attending. I understood that her invitation to join her in the ladies room was an invitation to get away from the noise and enter into something else entirely. We sat on an embroidered bench away from the celebration, and she cried as she told me of a discovery, a deepening sense of loss, confusion, brokenness, distrust.
Rejoice with those who rejoice. Weep with those who weep.
David, the psalmist, writes a beautiful lyric in Psalm 56 ~ he pleads with God at a painful and fearful time in his life to "carry my tears in your bottle".
I've allowed the line between literal and symbolic to blend a bit in my own spiritual life. Does God really have a bottle where he stores my tears? I don't know. What I do believe is that He is my safe-keeper. My own heart has been exposed to enough of His heart to believe this about Him: He keeps safe for me all that escapes my own ability to protect, all that I can't possibly keep from breaking. My family, my trust, my confidence, my fragility, my heart. Every ache, every loss, every sorrow, every fear. This is where tears come from. And where they go once they've fallen? Somehow, into the loving hands of my Father, who captures and keeps them.
I can weep with my mom, my sister, my friends along this trail of tears, because I have been wept with.
And one day, what God has captured, what God has kept, He will transform, and we will be bathed and refreshed and renewed. And, oh, how we will rejoice.
Paul, the apostle, encourages us to "rejoice with those who rejoice... to weep with those who weep."
I have been "wept with" in my life. This past handful of days, I've been "weeping with".
My mom... she put her mother in hospice a few weekends ago. The cancer, the dementia, its beyond what a woman of nana's years can bear, the fading is coming fast, and mom has no choice but to take the next step that shows itself to her on this path toward goodbye. She and I were hiking through some wetlands last weekend. I asked her a question about the "arrangements", that awkward word we reach for when we talk about a death, a body, an urn... she stopped, let herself feel the weight of it all, set her head on my shoulder just like a little girl, and cried, "I'm not ready for her to be gone."
My workmate... so smart, so diligent, so focused, so in control. She asked me if I had a minute to talk privately. We shut the door and I sat down across from her. She let me catch a glimpse of who she really is, tucked there inside the girl she lets me see. Crushed by the harsh-sounding words of another, she cried as she expressed genuine hurt, uncertainty...how can she spend so many hours in this workspace anymore if she is meant to avoid, to hide, to dread, to dodge?
My boss... a phone call, an impending loss of a friend, a fear racing through her mind. The tears pooled in her eyes as she dropped the supervisor protocol for a moment and worried out loud with me... had she said enough, had she done enough, did he know he was loved? And if he didn't, would it be too late to tell him?
My sister... sharing a cup of coffee, stealing a few minutes from a busy work week to just be sisters. She told me the words she was trying to put together in a card to mom, a card she knows is inadequate, a card she knows can't make anything better, yet a card she wants to send to say "I know I can't do a thing, but I'm here". Tears as she worked it out in my hearing that its been a long time since our family has suffered a loss, and the older we grow, the more loss will be part of our stories, part of what we talk about over these cups of coffee.
My friend... surprised to find each other at the same gathering neither of us really felt up to attending. I understood that her invitation to join her in the ladies room was an invitation to get away from the noise and enter into something else entirely. We sat on an embroidered bench away from the celebration, and she cried as she told me of a discovery, a deepening sense of loss, confusion, brokenness, distrust.
Rejoice with those who rejoice. Weep with those who weep.
David, the psalmist, writes a beautiful lyric in Psalm 56 ~ he pleads with God at a painful and fearful time in his life to "carry my tears in your bottle".
I've allowed the line between literal and symbolic to blend a bit in my own spiritual life. Does God really have a bottle where he stores my tears? I don't know. What I do believe is that He is my safe-keeper. My own heart has been exposed to enough of His heart to believe this about Him: He keeps safe for me all that escapes my own ability to protect, all that I can't possibly keep from breaking. My family, my trust, my confidence, my fragility, my heart. Every ache, every loss, every sorrow, every fear. This is where tears come from. And where they go once they've fallen? Somehow, into the loving hands of my Father, who captures and keeps them.
I can weep with my mom, my sister, my friends along this trail of tears, because I have been wept with.
And one day, what God has captured, what God has kept, He will transform, and we will be bathed and refreshed and renewed. And, oh, how we will rejoice.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
STUCK
I pulled a pair of undies out of my washing machine the other night. Not so unusual, except that these had been stuck in there for oh, eight, maybe ten weeks.
If its true that things tend to be simpler than they seem, I, apparently, am not yet convinced. I tend to tackle things from the most complicated angle first, then work my way back to simple. I'm considering a swap, but hey, give me time, we'll see.
A few months back, I'd done a load of laundry and realized that the clothes weren't ringing out as they should. I had a soggy mess of towels at the bottom of the washer tub. I rung things out the best I could (not an easy task, a big tip of the hat to washer-women everywhere), tossed things in the dryer that weren't too soaked, counted to make sure I had enough undies to get me through for awhile, and walked away.
My washer and dryer are in the basement, the least inviting part of my funky little 1928 bungalow. I've always been a bit afraid of it, being a "ranch-house" girl most of my life. There are the usual suspects, shadowy corners, torn insulation, cobwebs that go unseen til they are in my mouth (arrgh), and I am in a position to know the location of a bumble bee cemetery (I was there when they were laid to rest). So yea, I make myself get down there once a week to do some laundry, but that's the extent of my basement visits. So when I discovered the washer problem, part of me felt relief. Sweet! No more trips to the basement. Well, you know, until I run out of undies or get a new washer, whichever comes first.
I set out on my somewhat complicated path to a solution. I went to Home Depot and Sears and window-shopped for a new washer. I put it on my "to-do" list to clean out the entry-way to the basement stairs and remove the handrail (its a narrow passage with a turn and no delivery man can get down there with a washer in tow.) I checked the checkbook to see if I could afford such a thing in the middle of this downturn. And I visited the pal I go to whenever I run into a household fix-it problem, my pal Google. He told me to check for leaks, check for kinks, check the fuses, and check for anything that may be clogging the pipes and hoses. You know, like a neighborhood kitty cat. I felt overwhelmed by all of those possibilities, so I bought some more undies, did my washer woman routine every other week and walked away. This went on for weeks.
The other morning, a little voice told me to quit avoiding it and just go take a look. You know, square one. I promised the voice I would, since I can't keep putting undies on the grocery list. So before I gave myself a chance to renege, I marched into my room the moment I got home and put on my "fix-something" sweats. I took a deep breath and headed downstairs. I positioned the clamp light just so, and started inspecting. I unplugged every possible connection to my possible electrocution, and tipped and tilted and pushed and pulled. Nothin'. Then I took a closer look, and there, just where the top of the tub and the drum meet, I saw a little something. My first thought was "mouse". My second thought was "grow up", and I dug in. About 5 minutes later, after a good deal of pulling with all I had in me, I freed my washer from the culprit: a pair of undies that had gotten themselves jammed into the works and prevented a good rinse and spin for the last few months. Those poor undies. A successful spin-cycle test-drive and I was back in business.
I'm an over-stuffer. That applies to a couple of topics, but lets keep it to the washer for now. I've never been a lights and darks sorter, my piles are "clean" and "dirty". And I figure if I can get the door shut, we're in and we're ready to go. My mama taught me different, but I'm a pretty low maintenance, casual girl when it comes to clothes, so sorting them into a couple of reasonably sized loads never really figured in to my laundry routine. Lesson learned.
When I look back at the last several weeks and how I fumbled around with this problem, I recognize the girl that's been following me around all my life, you know, me. A little afraid the problem will be too much to manage, a little afraid I won't know what to do. A little too willing to be overwhelmed and hope it will go away or be transformed by some sort of magic. But, I also recognize another side of that girl (a side that's popping up a little more often these days). A girl who is willing to respond. I've learned that every time I say "ok, I'll try", to that little voice (the voice of hope, the voice that says "I know you need some help"), that a solution finds me.
Its ok to be overwhelmed, its ok to work my way back to square one.
Its ok to get stuck. But it turns out, unstuck is better. Just ask those poor undies.
If its true that things tend to be simpler than they seem, I, apparently, am not yet convinced. I tend to tackle things from the most complicated angle first, then work my way back to simple. I'm considering a swap, but hey, give me time, we'll see.
A few months back, I'd done a load of laundry and realized that the clothes weren't ringing out as they should. I had a soggy mess of towels at the bottom of the washer tub. I rung things out the best I could (not an easy task, a big tip of the hat to washer-women everywhere), tossed things in the dryer that weren't too soaked, counted to make sure I had enough undies to get me through for awhile, and walked away.
My washer and dryer are in the basement, the least inviting part of my funky little 1928 bungalow. I've always been a bit afraid of it, being a "ranch-house" girl most of my life. There are the usual suspects, shadowy corners, torn insulation, cobwebs that go unseen til they are in my mouth (arrgh), and I am in a position to know the location of a bumble bee cemetery (I was there when they were laid to rest). So yea, I make myself get down there once a week to do some laundry, but that's the extent of my basement visits. So when I discovered the washer problem, part of me felt relief. Sweet! No more trips to the basement. Well, you know, until I run out of undies or get a new washer, whichever comes first.
I set out on my somewhat complicated path to a solution. I went to Home Depot and Sears and window-shopped for a new washer. I put it on my "to-do" list to clean out the entry-way to the basement stairs and remove the handrail (its a narrow passage with a turn and no delivery man can get down there with a washer in tow.) I checked the checkbook to see if I could afford such a thing in the middle of this downturn. And I visited the pal I go to whenever I run into a household fix-it problem, my pal Google. He told me to check for leaks, check for kinks, check the fuses, and check for anything that may be clogging the pipes and hoses. You know, like a neighborhood kitty cat. I felt overwhelmed by all of those possibilities, so I bought some more undies, did my washer woman routine every other week and walked away. This went on for weeks.
The other morning, a little voice told me to quit avoiding it and just go take a look. You know, square one. I promised the voice I would, since I can't keep putting undies on the grocery list. So before I gave myself a chance to renege, I marched into my room the moment I got home and put on my "fix-something" sweats. I took a deep breath and headed downstairs. I positioned the clamp light just so, and started inspecting. I unplugged every possible connection to my possible electrocution, and tipped and tilted and pushed and pulled. Nothin'. Then I took a closer look, and there, just where the top of the tub and the drum meet, I saw a little something. My first thought was "mouse". My second thought was "grow up", and I dug in. About 5 minutes later, after a good deal of pulling with all I had in me, I freed my washer from the culprit: a pair of undies that had gotten themselves jammed into the works and prevented a good rinse and spin for the last few months. Those poor undies. A successful spin-cycle test-drive and I was back in business.
I'm an over-stuffer. That applies to a couple of topics, but lets keep it to the washer for now. I've never been a lights and darks sorter, my piles are "clean" and "dirty". And I figure if I can get the door shut, we're in and we're ready to go. My mama taught me different, but I'm a pretty low maintenance, casual girl when it comes to clothes, so sorting them into a couple of reasonably sized loads never really figured in to my laundry routine. Lesson learned.
When I look back at the last several weeks and how I fumbled around with this problem, I recognize the girl that's been following me around all my life, you know, me. A little afraid the problem will be too much to manage, a little afraid I won't know what to do. A little too willing to be overwhelmed and hope it will go away or be transformed by some sort of magic. But, I also recognize another side of that girl (a side that's popping up a little more often these days). A girl who is willing to respond. I've learned that every time I say "ok, I'll try", to that little voice (the voice of hope, the voice that says "I know you need some help"), that a solution finds me.
Its ok to be overwhelmed, its ok to work my way back to square one.
Its ok to get stuck. But it turns out, unstuck is better. Just ask those poor undies.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Teaching Little Fingers To Play
A page, yellowed with 40 years, sets in a silver frame on a bookcase in my living room. Its a "Certificate of Merit" with rips and taped borders and a scraggly-edged golden seal that certifies that I completed the piano course, "Teaching Little Fingers To Play", in January of 1968. I was 6 years old. My Grandma Mary signed it in blue ink-pen.
My own "little fingers" are quite a bit bigger now, and bear the wrinkles and scars and imperfections that come with 40-plus years. But I'm gaining the courage lately, at least enough courage to sort out the next steps, so that I can, hopefully, begin to teach piano to some "little fingers" myself. This is an idea I started kicking around in my own mind a few years ago. And I told just enough people that I can't really turn back now. I could, but I don't want to, and the ones I told know me well enough to remind me, gently, that I said I wanted to do this.
Just last night, I sat across a table with an old friend, sharing coffee and stories, and she told me just how we could make it work for her little daughter to be one of my first students.
I love to play the piano. I have no classical chops to speak of, there's a good chance a set of scales would put a cramp in my hands that would send me for the Ben Gay. Yea, its been a few years. The red-pencil marks in my old piano lesson books (I kept them all) tell the tale, I was no prodigy. But somewhere along the way, what was nurtured in me was a simple understanding that by playing the piano, I could express myself, allow for a little peek into my heart, a tiny glimpse of what I sometimes find hard to express when I speak. We all have this in our lives, that bit of joy or peace where we feel like "ah, this is what I love". Playing a sweet melody on the piano is mine. Another Anne Lamott quote ... "how is it you can play one chord, and then another, and then your heart just breaks wide open?". That's what playing the piano does for me. Opens my heart. Wide open.
I've had opportunities to play since that framed certificate was signed. High school, a tiny bit in college, weddings and funerals, and years in a worship band at a church for a good part of my adult life. But a turn in the road a few years ago brought a change that left me wondering if and where and how my love for playing would show itself again.
An experience last fall reminded me of my almost-forgotten "I want to teach" idea. In preparing for a wedding where I was playing with a violinist friend, the music that was chosen was a real challenge for me. I was nervous enough about it that I set aside the intentional time for a month, to practice every night, every morning. I pulled out the metronome, wrote little notes to myself on the sheet music to get me through the hardest parts. And in the middle of all that practicing, I remembered, this is what I love. This is part of who I am.
I took a few baby steps last night, committing to my friend that I would start taking some action. Her daughter has some little fingers that would like to play, and she'd like to have me teach her.
My own "little fingers" are quite a bit bigger now, and bear the wrinkles and scars and imperfections that come with 40-plus years. But I'm gaining the courage lately, at least enough courage to sort out the next steps, so that I can, hopefully, begin to teach piano to some "little fingers" myself. This is an idea I started kicking around in my own mind a few years ago. And I told just enough people that I can't really turn back now. I could, but I don't want to, and the ones I told know me well enough to remind me, gently, that I said I wanted to do this.
Just last night, I sat across a table with an old friend, sharing coffee and stories, and she told me just how we could make it work for her little daughter to be one of my first students.
I love to play the piano. I have no classical chops to speak of, there's a good chance a set of scales would put a cramp in my hands that would send me for the Ben Gay. Yea, its been a few years. The red-pencil marks in my old piano lesson books (I kept them all) tell the tale, I was no prodigy. But somewhere along the way, what was nurtured in me was a simple understanding that by playing the piano, I could express myself, allow for a little peek into my heart, a tiny glimpse of what I sometimes find hard to express when I speak. We all have this in our lives, that bit of joy or peace where we feel like "ah, this is what I love". Playing a sweet melody on the piano is mine. Another Anne Lamott quote ... "how is it you can play one chord, and then another, and then your heart just breaks wide open?". That's what playing the piano does for me. Opens my heart. Wide open.
I've had opportunities to play since that framed certificate was signed. High school, a tiny bit in college, weddings and funerals, and years in a worship band at a church for a good part of my adult life. But a turn in the road a few years ago brought a change that left me wondering if and where and how my love for playing would show itself again.
An experience last fall reminded me of my almost-forgotten "I want to teach" idea. In preparing for a wedding where I was playing with a violinist friend, the music that was chosen was a real challenge for me. I was nervous enough about it that I set aside the intentional time for a month, to practice every night, every morning. I pulled out the metronome, wrote little notes to myself on the sheet music to get me through the hardest parts. And in the middle of all that practicing, I remembered, this is what I love. This is part of who I am.
I took a few baby steps last night, committing to my friend that I would start taking some action. Her daughter has some little fingers that would like to play, and she'd like to have me teach her.
Hope is propelling me forward. I hope I can take some steps and figure out how to teach. I hope I can grow into being a good teacher. I hope I can give years of my life to pursuing this. I hope I can encourage a child to express herself when she plays. I hope, when I am in my 70s, I can be the funky old piano-teacher-lady down the street.
And I hope I can sign a "Certificate of Merit" for some little fingers someday.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
SURROUNDED ~
I decided I'd contracted MS last weekend. True confessions, I've decided this a few times before in my life. My poor mom used to have to take me to the doctor in my 10s, 11s and 12s so he/she could convince me I did not have whatever disease I had stumbled upon while leafing through the giant hardback family-medical dictionary. Also, I went through a fainting phase in my early teens, I'd just be minding my own business, then I'd hear a sibling say "there she goes again". That doctor explained that the veins that feed blood to my brain are a little on the small side. Um, yea. I've heard all the punchlines for that one. Anyhow, my "I-think-I-have-MS again" tale started about six weeks ago, I kept waking up in the middle of the night with an achy, buzzing, burning left arm. I know. Left arm, heart attack, but I've been working out and eating healthy, so I let that possibility go. I'd shake it off, get back to sleep just in time for the alarm to go off. It happened a few times a week. Last weekend, I couldn't shake it off, and I buzzed and burned and pinned-and needled all weekend long. Worked myself up into a bit of a state. Pictured needing to sell my house, quit my job, move in with mom and hire someone to tend to my "activities of daily living". You know, those ones. Yikes. I've heard I can get a little anxious. An evening conversation with my sister led to a call to the doctor on Monday. Something in her tone when she said "aren't those symptoms of something serious?"... Thank God for the kindly, older, gentle doctor who pulled my card from the "in-box". He listened to my anxious story, nodded as if he'd heard the likes of me before, and proceeded to poke my extremities with the sharpest objects he could find in the drawer behind him. I felt it all, reacted just right, and even beat him in the arm wrestling contest he challenged me to. He was gracious and patient, and assured me he saw no signs of anything neurological going on. So we played detective and tried to figure out what was causing the buzz and the burn. I suppose he's heard the wildest of confessions, my big breakthrough was to admit to him that I get a pillow and blanky and fall asleep on the loveseat every night (before I wake up around midnight and go to bed). He explained to me that, what with my age (thanks doc), my diminishing hormones (thanks again), and the tiny neck vein thing I've got going on, that putting my neck in such a lousy position each night was not good for the blood flow. He told me too that the round-the-clock symptoms that weekend were likely a result of letting myself get a little too overwrought. So unlike me :) I promised him I would sleep in my big girl bed from now on. I am going to treat myself to some real (non-K-mart) pillows to entice me to follow-through. God bless K-mart, I'm just saying. I've experienced a huge sense of relief in knowing that nothing more serious was going on. There's a bit of a buzz now and then, but, you know, my age, my hormones. The sketchy blood supply to my brain. I can live with that. Could I live with something worse? What if the look on the doc's face was more grim, what if the old guy beat me in that arm-wrestling contest because my muscles wouldn't, couldn't react right? Yes, I could live with it. A writer I love (Anne Lamott) writes that when difficult things happen, the idea isn't to pray for God to take the difficult thing away, but to invite Him into it with us. And last weekend, in between some anxious moments and being on hold to Kaiser and spending way to much time at http://www.ms.com/, I was able to stammer some prayers... some "helps me's", some "I'm scared's", some "I'm probably being ridiculous but I know you get me's". Thank God, for a kindly, gentle, gracious Father. Who has heard these prayers before, but has never tired of leaning in to hear them again.
I'm reading a small volume of Celtic devotions these days, every day there is a prayer, a bit of Gaelic poetry, a Psalm. And on the day I found out I do not have MS, St. Patrick's breastplate was part of the shield my Father had offered me. It reads, in part...
"Christ, be with me, Christ before me, Christ behind me
Christ in me, Christ beneath me, Christ above me
Christ on my right, Christ on my left
Christ when I lie down, Christ where I sit, Christ where I arise"
So, no MS. Not this time. It'll be something, someday. And it'll be okay. Surrounded, as St. Patrick prays, as I am.
I decided I'd contracted MS last weekend. True confessions, I've decided this a few times before in my life. My poor mom used to have to take me to the doctor in my 10s, 11s and 12s so he/she could convince me I did not have whatever disease I had stumbled upon while leafing through the giant hardback family-medical dictionary. Also, I went through a fainting phase in my early teens, I'd just be minding my own business, then I'd hear a sibling say "there she goes again". That doctor explained that the veins that feed blood to my brain are a little on the small side. Um, yea. I've heard all the punchlines for that one. Anyhow, my "I-think-I-have-MS again" tale started about six weeks ago, I kept waking up in the middle of the night with an achy, buzzing, burning left arm. I know. Left arm, heart attack, but I've been working out and eating healthy, so I let that possibility go. I'd shake it off, get back to sleep just in time for the alarm to go off. It happened a few times a week. Last weekend, I couldn't shake it off, and I buzzed and burned and pinned-and needled all weekend long. Worked myself up into a bit of a state. Pictured needing to sell my house, quit my job, move in with mom and hire someone to tend to my "activities of daily living". You know, those ones. Yikes. I've heard I can get a little anxious. An evening conversation with my sister led to a call to the doctor on Monday. Something in her tone when she said "aren't those symptoms of something serious?"... Thank God for the kindly, older, gentle doctor who pulled my card from the "in-box". He listened to my anxious story, nodded as if he'd heard the likes of me before, and proceeded to poke my extremities with the sharpest objects he could find in the drawer behind him. I felt it all, reacted just right, and even beat him in the arm wrestling contest he challenged me to. He was gracious and patient, and assured me he saw no signs of anything neurological going on. So we played detective and tried to figure out what was causing the buzz and the burn. I suppose he's heard the wildest of confessions, my big breakthrough was to admit to him that I get a pillow and blanky and fall asleep on the loveseat every night (before I wake up around midnight and go to bed). He explained to me that, what with my age (thanks doc), my diminishing hormones (thanks again), and the tiny neck vein thing I've got going on, that putting my neck in such a lousy position each night was not good for the blood flow. He told me too that the round-the-clock symptoms that weekend were likely a result of letting myself get a little too overwrought. So unlike me :) I promised him I would sleep in my big girl bed from now on. I am going to treat myself to some real (non-K-mart) pillows to entice me to follow-through. God bless K-mart, I'm just saying. I've experienced a huge sense of relief in knowing that nothing more serious was going on. There's a bit of a buzz now and then, but, you know, my age, my hormones. The sketchy blood supply to my brain. I can live with that. Could I live with something worse? What if the look on the doc's face was more grim, what if the old guy beat me in that arm-wrestling contest because my muscles wouldn't, couldn't react right? Yes, I could live with it. A writer I love (Anne Lamott) writes that when difficult things happen, the idea isn't to pray for God to take the difficult thing away, but to invite Him into it with us. And last weekend, in between some anxious moments and being on hold to Kaiser and spending way to much time at http://www.ms.com/, I was able to stammer some prayers... some "helps me's", some "I'm scared's", some "I'm probably being ridiculous but I know you get me's". Thank God, for a kindly, gentle, gracious Father. Who has heard these prayers before, but has never tired of leaning in to hear them again.
I'm reading a small volume of Celtic devotions these days, every day there is a prayer, a bit of Gaelic poetry, a Psalm. And on the day I found out I do not have MS, St. Patrick's breastplate was part of the shield my Father had offered me. It reads, in part...
"Christ, be with me, Christ before me, Christ behind me
Christ in me, Christ beneath me, Christ above me
Christ on my right, Christ on my left
Christ when I lie down, Christ where I sit, Christ where I arise"
So, no MS. Not this time. It'll be something, someday. And it'll be okay. Surrounded, as St. Patrick prays, as I am.
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