I was listening, half-heartedly, to one of those makeover-type shows. I heard the tearful exclamation by the woman being made over as she lamented (be sure to inject a significant amount of barely contained tears as you read…) “I just don’t know what happened to me. I don’t know when I just let myself go. Now, I go out of the house without make-up, which just shouldn’t be.” Sniff, sniff.
Uh huh. In my humble opinion, the most important lesson in her makeover would have been to teach her the law of low expectations. Of course, that’s never going to happen, as the show is paid for by the advertisers of beauty products. None-the-less, low expectations are the key to a long, and compliment filled life.
The basic principle is that whenever you move into a new neighborhood, you must quickly and consistently demonstrate that you are a slacker. Never wear make-up for the first week or so. Be sure to dig those worn out sweats out of the Goodwill bag and use ‘em as standard wardrobe – paint stains contributes an extra layer of panache. If your budget can afford it, be sure to order a variety of pizza delivery for the first week in residence. For those with long hair, an ever present ponytail and ball cap look good, for those of us with a shorter do….just roll out of bed, run your fingers through your hair and call it a day. The scene has been set. Each time a neighbor comes by with brownies or cookies they will find you a mess. You have now established low expectations. You have NOTHING to live up to. Nirvana.
The first time a neighbor sees you in make-up they will gush with how lovely you look. Simply blow dry your hair and apply lipstick before a trip to the grocery, and everyone you run into will say “I can’t put my finger on what’s different, but you look really nice today.”
Setting low expectations is not letting yourself go. I repeat, it is NOT letting yourself go. No…this is strategic planning, no less important than the Yankees’ play book. By setting low expectations, there is no where to go but up. What a lovely place to be. Once a neighbor has come into the family room to find you sorting underwear for laundry, it can’t get much worse.
Actually, my finest moment of low expectations occurred many years ago when my oldest son, Nick, was in kindergarten. To set the scene, it was a nice spring day, and I was standing at the fence chatting with my neighbor, Stephanie. Stephanie the wonder-woman: beautiful, sexy, great cook, runner, and tidy-house award winner for at least 5 consecutive years.
Nick stepped out onto the back porch, wearing his slightly baggy “He-Man” underwear and shouted, “Hey Mom, I don’t have any clean pants!”
I answered, “Yes, you do. Your brown cords and blue jeans are both hanging in your closet.”
“They can't be clean! They're not hot,” he said as he went back into the house.
Ah yes, the pinnacle of slackerdom, a child who has become totally accustomed to a wardrobe that is only ready-to-wear fresh out of the dryer. No pressure on me to be mother-of-the-year. If I could only depend on Stephanie to pass the story along, I was likely to get out of multiple PTA committee assignments, as no one would suspect that I had any organizational skills.
Women! Stop fighting to fit time in to do everything! Enjoy life, with a clean face, and a full laundry room. Trust me, it works. You’ll like yourself better as you can always acheive the goals that you set for yourself (#1 Breathe, #2 Eat, #3 Play with the kids or walk the dog, #4 start at the beginning and repeat). Anything over and above that is clearly overachieving.
Consider it a random act of kindness when you run into a co-worker at the store and she is pulled together and you are…well…not so much. You have just boosted her self esteem. Consider it a random act of kindness. So, I’ll close with some words adapted from a man who does know how to set low expectations (think baseball career) ~ Garth Brooks
'Cause I've got friends in low places
Where the expectation is that I’ll be
Make-up free, and honestly
I know I’m okay
I'm not big on social graces
Think I'll slip on down to my own oasis
Oh, I’m my own friend in low places
Monday, May 5, 2008
Friday, April 25, 2008
Liver + Europe = Bad Combination
Liver. Yes, that nasty meat-like substance that every mother of the 1960’s fed to her young because “it was good for them.” To build iron, or some such malarkey. Actually I think that youth-fed liver is the primary reason for sky-high baby-boomer cholesterol levels. Do you know how much cholesterol there is in liver??? Not to mention that the bribe for eating liver was the accompanying bacon and fried onions. We needed a side order of lipitor to make the meal complete. Actually, my brother Joe didn’t need the cholesterol meds, as he devised a clever hiding place for his liver. We discovered it mummified years later when the family dining table was disassembled to be refinished. He should have been called home and forced to sit at the dining room table until he ate his liver…never mind that he was pushing 40.
Handsome husband swears that liver was the first meal served to him by my Mother while we were dating. He despises liver, but he put on a cheerful face and ate not one helping, but two. And he STILL married me! Now, that's love.
At my house, we’ve been thinking of liver a lot lately. Unfortunately, it’s not the kind wrapped in plastic in the meat section at Kroger. No, this is the kind embedded in the abdomen of my daughter, Emily. Perhaps, hereafter referred to as “Liverella”. Some sort of viral gastroenteritis (for the non-medical, a bad case of the ‘rrhea and “vomicking”) seems to have affected her liver – causing it to grow to ginormous size. I mean GI-normous. You can feel it, without any trouble at all. Just hanging out, below her right rib cage. I may have to invest in a truss of some sort.
We missed the entire jaundice phase of her illness, as Liverella was in Austria, in the midst of a semester of study-abroad. Supposed to be having the time of her life. Riding the Eurorail, bopping in and out of European countries, collecting photographs, and a large assortment of luscious European chocolate to bring home to Mom. Instead she ended up bopping in and out of the Austrian healthcare system and collecting lab reports.
Imagine the experience. Hospitalization with most of the staff speaking English-lite, at best. On the night of her admission it seemed that the only English phrase the physician knew was “Have you always had trouble with your liver?” as he asked it repeatedly, despite her assurances that up to that time she and her liver had been on the best of terms. Intimate friends as it were.
Her tales of ultrasounds, x-rays, and lab work being accomplished via a medical version of pantomime would be funny, if she wasn’t family. OK, they are funny anyway, but don’t tell her I said so.
After a 3-week subsistence diet of crackers and a variety of Austrian juices, we determined that coming home might be for the best. Austrian juice sounds most interesting. Liverella reports that nearly all juices contained carrot juice, and many contain sauerkraut juice. Please tell me that sauerkraut is a generic word for cabbage. She said that the absolute worst was the beet-carrot-sauerkraut-and onion juice. She heated it up and pretended it was soup. She is now my hero for even trying to consume it. I am now her hero for buying good ol’ American apple, cranberry, and pomegranate juices. If only motherhood were always so easy.
It’s like we have another child now. We talk about her liver as though it was its own entity, with a room of its own. “How does it feel today?” “It is angry?” “Does that food make it happy?” From my perspective this is more work than a colicky baby. Luckily, (or not), it is Liverella who has to do most of the work, toting the colicky baby 24-7.
Like infant colic, we’ve been told that with time, rest, and fluids Liverella will once again return to her sweet alter-ego, Emily. In the meantime, wish her well – and please, no bacon and fried onion jokes.
Handsome husband swears that liver was the first meal served to him by my Mother while we were dating. He despises liver, but he put on a cheerful face and ate not one helping, but two. And he STILL married me! Now, that's love.
At my house, we’ve been thinking of liver a lot lately. Unfortunately, it’s not the kind wrapped in plastic in the meat section at Kroger. No, this is the kind embedded in the abdomen of my daughter, Emily. Perhaps, hereafter referred to as “Liverella”. Some sort of viral gastroenteritis (for the non-medical, a bad case of the ‘rrhea and “vomicking”) seems to have affected her liver – causing it to grow to ginormous size. I mean GI-normous. You can feel it, without any trouble at all. Just hanging out, below her right rib cage. I may have to invest in a truss of some sort.
We missed the entire jaundice phase of her illness, as Liverella was in Austria, in the midst of a semester of study-abroad. Supposed to be having the time of her life. Riding the Eurorail, bopping in and out of European countries, collecting photographs, and a large assortment of luscious European chocolate to bring home to Mom. Instead she ended up bopping in and out of the Austrian healthcare system and collecting lab reports.
Imagine the experience. Hospitalization with most of the staff speaking English-lite, at best. On the night of her admission it seemed that the only English phrase the physician knew was “Have you always had trouble with your liver?” as he asked it repeatedly, despite her assurances that up to that time she and her liver had been on the best of terms. Intimate friends as it were.
Her tales of ultrasounds, x-rays, and lab work being accomplished via a medical version of pantomime would be funny, if she wasn’t family. OK, they are funny anyway, but don’t tell her I said so.
After a 3-week subsistence diet of crackers and a variety of Austrian juices, we determined that coming home might be for the best. Austrian juice sounds most interesting. Liverella reports that nearly all juices contained carrot juice, and many contain sauerkraut juice. Please tell me that sauerkraut is a generic word for cabbage. She said that the absolute worst was the beet-carrot-sauerkraut-and onion juice. She heated it up and pretended it was soup. She is now my hero for even trying to consume it. I am now her hero for buying good ol’ American apple, cranberry, and pomegranate juices. If only motherhood were always so easy.
It’s like we have another child now. We talk about her liver as though it was its own entity, with a room of its own. “How does it feel today?” “It is angry?” “Does that food make it happy?” From my perspective this is more work than a colicky baby. Luckily, (or not), it is Liverella who has to do most of the work, toting the colicky baby 24-7.
Like infant colic, we’ve been told that with time, rest, and fluids Liverella will once again return to her sweet alter-ego, Emily. In the meantime, wish her well – and please, no bacon and fried onion jokes.
Sunday, April 6, 2008
Italian Men - PC?!
When and how did Italian men fall prey to the wave of political correctness? Why am I always “a day late”? Or decade….? To quote a 1997 piece from The Tattoo: “Too many Italian men have no pride, shame or tact. They do not just flirt, they follow, grab, pinch…” Sounds to me like the last site on planet earth where a chubby, middle-aged, long-married woman might experience a bit of flirtation.
Okay, okay, I really didn’t want to be pinched. I would have settled for a wink. A kiss blown across a crowded metro. An unexpected “Ciao bella…” Sigh.
I believe that I am as much of a feminist as the average woman. But one simply cannot be a fan of movies of the 1950’s and 1960’s without developing a fine fantasy of Italy, and therefore, Italian men as sexy. Consider: Roman Holiday, Rome Adventure (a bit silly), Summer Time, Seven Hills of Rome (musical), and Three Coins in the Fountain. Even more recently: La Vita e Bella (Life is Beautiful), Only You, A Room With a View, Bread and Tulips, and Merchant of Venice.
Need I say more? I’ll wait while you fan yourself and recover from the mere mention of those fantastic (and sexy) films.
Well, I’m back from a week in Rome with an accurate report. Pinches = 0, Winks = 0, Blown Kisses = 0, Ciao Bella = 1, then I realized he was speaking to the woman next to me on the metro. Since they boarded together, and were both wearing wedding bands … well, you figure it out.
During my stay in Rome there were only three men worth standing in line to see: Michelangelo's Zeus, the Pope, and Steve. Since Steve came home with me, the count is now 2. None of them pinched me. Steve does wink and blow kisses, but never could master “Ciao Bella” – his version sounded a bit like “Cowbella”. Also, I do believe that Steve is much more fun to stand in line with than either Michelangelo or the Pope would be.
Rome is a city of opposites,
- The most beautiful artwork countered by more graffiti than New York City. The wall surrounding Vatican City had been “tagged”.
- Spotless table linens in restaurants, from the finest dining to the casual trattoria, countered by litter. Litter everywhere – even in St. Peter’s Square.
- “La Dolce Vita” – the sweet life – where all are encouraged to linger at dining tables, to talk, laugh, and argue over a lengthy meal, no hurry to turn the table quickly, countered by Italian traffic. Frenetic, buzzing, urgent. Pedestrians scurry as crossing signs have little meaning to drivers, especially Vespa drivers. The key to crossing the street – “never look ‘em in the eye, never let ‘em see your fear” (from my study-abroad daughter, Emily).
- The approach of waiters in “keeping your tab” as you dine. It goes like this: you mime that you want your tab and then wait another 30 minutes, or so (see bullet #2 above). The waiter appears at your table with a blank sheet of paper and asks what you have had. You tell them, they write a number on the page, you pay, rounding up to the next even Euro, and everyone is happy. To counter this mealtime honor system are the ever present pickpockets, fearless and bold, on the streets, the metro, the busses, and in lines. I was told that the average Roman resident has their pocket picked eight times per year.
So, given this tendency toward opposites, I am writing this to all handsome Italian men (especially Romans). It’s not too late! Political correctness is well…correct, and no, women do NOT want to be pinched, groped or otherwise manhandled. But, would a little wink to a middle-aged tourist hurt? Go ahead, make my day.
Sunday, February 24, 2008
Silence is golden
Koinonia. The Greek word for community. Also, the name for a world-wide weekend retreat for adults. An annual event at my church, Holy Spirit Catholic Church in Bowling Green, KY.
This weekend was the 7th Koinonia retreat I’ve participated in since the first was held in 1998 (or was it ’99?). The first time as a participant, and the six times since then in some role of service. But, this time was different….
Yes, at each Koinonia retreat there are those who serve in the retreat room itself – the musicians, the table leaders, spiritual leaders, directors, sacristans, and more. And each weekend there are those who serve in the kitchen – tirelessly cooking and feeding the crowd. Spiritual growth is hungry work, after all.
And then…there are the...well, to protect the innocent, we'll just call them the "Flakes". Those who serve “behind the scenes”. In the world of entomology, the “Flakes” would be the worker ants. Hustling, toiling, setting up, taking down, clearing out, cleaning up, licking envelopes, lighting candles, setting up chairs, taking down chairs, waitressing/waitering (is that a word?) and generally being useful doing all the sideline action that makes a weekend go. Out of the limelight… In silence.
Yes, you heard me right. In silence.
I took a 24-hour vow of silence from Friday afternoon until Saturday afternoon. Now, those who know me well know that I can readily spend an entire afternoon without saying a word. This usually involves a good book, a comfy chair, and a cup of hot tea. “So,” I thought to myself, “what can be so hard about silence for 24 hours? It will be easy – and I’ll have an excuse NOT to talk. Oh happy day!”
Yeah right.
First there was the lovely woman who showed up at the church hall (I think to attend an AA meeting). She wandered into the room where I was working, looking for the restroom. I gestured, nodded, hopped up from my seat, and led her to the ladies room – without saying a word. She must have felt as though she had a close encounter with Harpo Marx. After that performance, if she stayed for the AA meeting rather than “peeling rubber” out of the parking lot, I admire her tenacity at recovery.
Then there was my handsome husband, who wondered why I didn’t go through the drive-thru and bring a snack home that night. How, specifically, does a mute woman order at the drive-thru I ask you?
I’ve learned that I stink at charades…I was trying to illustrate the word “fire” (as in “do we need to put out the fire?”) and the person attempting to interpret my message guessed that the word was “Viagra” – HUH?
That being said, the view from my seat as “Flake” was very good. Do you know that if you are quiet you can listen? Sad, but true, it was news to me…
I think I listen well. In fact, I usually think that is one of my good qualities: that I am a “good” listener. I pay attention, I remember details.
But, this weekend, I learned that when one gives up the power of speech, one also silences the internal noise. The chatter of “what do I need to do next”, “what was that?”, “what am I forgetting?”, “what is the next deadline?” and the train of other endless thoughts that pass through our minds. When the voice is silent, the mind calms. Over my 24-hours of silence, I found that there are still clocks that tick and that the soft breathing of the person working next to you is a beautiful sound. I learned that the eyes really are the window to the soul, as I looked into humble eyes, nervous eyes, loving eyes, dancing eyes, and eyes full of pain.
I learned that God really does talk in the silence. And that it takes more than the 30-second breath between sentences to count as listening for the voice of God. The view from my seat of self-inflicted silence was the best seat in the house. I saw, and heard, miracles.
“We need to find God, and he cannot be found in noise and restlessness. God is the friend of silence. See how nature - trees, flowers, grass- grows in silence; see the stars, the moon and the sun, how they move in silence... We need silence to be able to touch souls.” – Mother Teresa
Amen.
This weekend was the 7th Koinonia retreat I’ve participated in since the first was held in 1998 (or was it ’99?). The first time as a participant, and the six times since then in some role of service. But, this time was different….
Yes, at each Koinonia retreat there are those who serve in the retreat room itself – the musicians, the table leaders, spiritual leaders, directors, sacristans, and more. And each weekend there are those who serve in the kitchen – tirelessly cooking and feeding the crowd. Spiritual growth is hungry work, after all.
And then…there are the...well, to protect the innocent, we'll just call them the "Flakes". Those who serve “behind the scenes”. In the world of entomology, the “Flakes” would be the worker ants. Hustling, toiling, setting up, taking down, clearing out, cleaning up, licking envelopes, lighting candles, setting up chairs, taking down chairs, waitressing/waitering (is that a word?) and generally being useful doing all the sideline action that makes a weekend go. Out of the limelight… In silence.
Yes, you heard me right. In silence.
I took a 24-hour vow of silence from Friday afternoon until Saturday afternoon. Now, those who know me well know that I can readily spend an entire afternoon without saying a word. This usually involves a good book, a comfy chair, and a cup of hot tea. “So,” I thought to myself, “what can be so hard about silence for 24 hours? It will be easy – and I’ll have an excuse NOT to talk. Oh happy day!”
Yeah right.
First there was the lovely woman who showed up at the church hall (I think to attend an AA meeting). She wandered into the room where I was working, looking for the restroom. I gestured, nodded, hopped up from my seat, and led her to the ladies room – without saying a word. She must have felt as though she had a close encounter with Harpo Marx. After that performance, if she stayed for the AA meeting rather than “peeling rubber” out of the parking lot, I admire her tenacity at recovery.
Then there was my handsome husband, who wondered why I didn’t go through the drive-thru and bring a snack home that night. How, specifically, does a mute woman order at the drive-thru I ask you?
I’ve learned that I stink at charades…I was trying to illustrate the word “fire” (as in “do we need to put out the fire?”) and the person attempting to interpret my message guessed that the word was “Viagra” – HUH?
That being said, the view from my seat as “Flake” was very good. Do you know that if you are quiet you can listen? Sad, but true, it was news to me…
I think I listen well. In fact, I usually think that is one of my good qualities: that I am a “good” listener. I pay attention, I remember details.
But, this weekend, I learned that when one gives up the power of speech, one also silences the internal noise. The chatter of “what do I need to do next”, “what was that?”, “what am I forgetting?”, “what is the next deadline?” and the train of other endless thoughts that pass through our minds. When the voice is silent, the mind calms. Over my 24-hours of silence, I found that there are still clocks that tick and that the soft breathing of the person working next to you is a beautiful sound. I learned that the eyes really are the window to the soul, as I looked into humble eyes, nervous eyes, loving eyes, dancing eyes, and eyes full of pain.
I learned that God really does talk in the silence. And that it takes more than the 30-second breath between sentences to count as listening for the voice of God. The view from my seat of self-inflicted silence was the best seat in the house. I saw, and heard, miracles.
“We need to find God, and he cannot be found in noise and restlessness. God is the friend of silence. See how nature - trees, flowers, grass- grows in silence; see the stars, the moon and the sun, how they move in silence... We need silence to be able to touch souls.” – Mother Teresa
Amen.
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
Time DOES fly!
It's hard for me to believe that it has been more than 2 months since I've shared the view from my seat. Where does the time go? (boringly rhetorical question...)
In my case, it has literally flown. You see, my seat has been an airplane seat. I've been twice to the beautiful and addictive country of Belize since Jan 1, 2008. My seat has been on the kind of little airplanes where the staff doesn't say "Welcome Aboard" instead they say "Good Luck!". And my seat has been on a lovely jet playing a movie (sadly, without popcorn). My seat has been kicked non-stop from Houston to Nashville by a restless 3 year-old. I've also had a seat on a Belizean taxi whose passenger door opened via the grip of a Craftsman tool, a bumper-less seven-passenger van, a school bus, and a variety of tour busses, large and small.
Along the way I have met the most fascinating group of people imagineable...Christina, who serves the MOST delicious rice and beans with stewed chicken that have ever graced a table. The fact that the table sits in a cozy thatched home in a remote Mayan village, with a random chicken or puppy wandering through the house only adds to the ambience. My mouth is watering thinking of those meals - complete with hot off the griddle fresh tortillas.
Phil, our genial driver. With his sweet jokes and funny sayings. I learned about "sleeping policemen" (aka speed bumps) and Belize in his monologue. I will never hear (or see) the phrase "You gotta Belieze-it" without thinking of Phil - driver and guide. He worked very hard to get 13 talkative medical and dental personnel from place to place on time. He must of felt, at times, as though he was herding cats. Patience, thy name is Phil.
Jill and Emmeth....oh my! Drummer extraordinaire, oral historian, and showman. Artist, humorist, and kind-hearted woman. Life is richer if you ever meet Jill and Emmeth. Somewhere there is photographic evidence as I left my fireside seat and "jumped" the Sambai (danced). I am praying that it only is available for viewing at my funeral (at some distant date). After all laughter at my funeral is one of my deepest wishes.
Sweet Nurse Johnson. Whatever the tropical equivalent is of a Steel Magnolia, that is Nurse Johnson. Beautiful foliage concealing a strong core. Wise and caring - oh, the perfect combination for a nurse. Can it be bottled?
The list is so long...Nancy of Manatee Lodge, Mr. August - polished transportation coordiantor, Dana - politician and cave guide, Mrs. Samuels, Bro. Sho and Bro. Tush - men of strength and talent, Candy who runs the Cardies Hotel and makes it look easy. The children - oh! the children. Gap toothed, curious, playful, bright, generous, and welcoming. Innocent (insert a quick prayer here for their protection). Babies carried from their mothers head in hammock totes.
The view from my seat is one of gratitude. For:
- my health and opportunity to serve.
- students who came, saw, embraced, and worked like professionals.
- Sharkey Farmer, the best dentist in the whole wide world. Lard conisseur and master of the infamous Sharkey-Jack.
- "Nancy" our water-toting environmentalist and all around air-traffic controller
- "Citronella" my roommate who graciously absorbed all the bug bites that we were both entitled to.
- Dr. Sherry who demonstrates what medicine is at its best. A healing art of person-to-person caring.
- Dr. Sherry who proves that it is entirely possible to be a genius and still lose anything not tethered to an actual part of one's anatomy.
- Dr. Ryan, fourth cousin to himself, who worked double duty, even with "Belize Belly" Player of a mean "Amazing Grace" on a Recorder.
- Edna, the reincarnation of Florence Nightengale and Clara Barton all wrapped up in one fun package. I pray she never learns the words "Not my job."
- laughter, everyday.
- sweat. Honest sweat of hard work.
- Pepto-Bismol, a traveller's best friend.
- Hammocks and cool evening breezes.
- Mayan ruins - to remind me that the present is fleeting. AND that there have been folks in the past that thought they were "all it" and look where they are now.
- Time to reflect, enjoy, and commit to incorporating at least one best practice of these beautiful Belizeans into my life.
- Mimi who reminded me of the value of pure, unadulterated mother-love.
- Jane Fonda look-alike, (you-know-who-you-are), bright, funny and inspiring. Like a duck - paddling furiously under the surface, calm and serene to all appearances (I think!)
And so, I close, while waiting for a brief bit of warm weather so that I can again view the world from the peculiar perspective of my bicycle, with this thought to my winter time friends - new and old:
No distance of place or lapse of time can lessen the friendship of those who are thoroughly persuaded of each other's worth. ~Robert Southey
And from my favorite philosopher...
Why can't we get all the people together in the world that we really like and then just stay together? I guess that wouldn't work. Someone would leave. Someone always leaves. Then we would have to say good-bye. I hate good-byes. I know what I need. I need more hellos. ~Charles M. Schulz
In my case, it has literally flown. You see, my seat has been an airplane seat. I've been twice to the beautiful and addictive country of Belize since Jan 1, 2008. My seat has been on the kind of little airplanes where the staff doesn't say "Welcome Aboard" instead they say "Good Luck!". And my seat has been on a lovely jet playing a movie (sadly, without popcorn). My seat has been kicked non-stop from Houston to Nashville by a restless 3 year-old. I've also had a seat on a Belizean taxi whose passenger door opened via the grip of a Craftsman tool, a bumper-less seven-passenger van, a school bus, and a variety of tour busses, large and small.
Along the way I have met the most fascinating group of people imagineable...Christina, who serves the MOST delicious rice and beans with stewed chicken that have ever graced a table. The fact that the table sits in a cozy thatched home in a remote Mayan village, with a random chicken or puppy wandering through the house only adds to the ambience. My mouth is watering thinking of those meals - complete with hot off the griddle fresh tortillas.
Phil, our genial driver. With his sweet jokes and funny sayings. I learned about "sleeping policemen" (aka speed bumps) and Belize in his monologue. I will never hear (or see) the phrase "You gotta Belieze-it" without thinking of Phil - driver and guide. He worked very hard to get 13 talkative medical and dental personnel from place to place on time. He must of felt, at times, as though he was herding cats. Patience, thy name is Phil.
Jill and Emmeth....oh my! Drummer extraordinaire, oral historian, and showman. Artist, humorist, and kind-hearted woman. Life is richer if you ever meet Jill and Emmeth. Somewhere there is photographic evidence as I left my fireside seat and "jumped" the Sambai (danced). I am praying that it only is available for viewing at my funeral (at some distant date). After all laughter at my funeral is one of my deepest wishes.
Sweet Nurse Johnson. Whatever the tropical equivalent is of a Steel Magnolia, that is Nurse Johnson. Beautiful foliage concealing a strong core. Wise and caring - oh, the perfect combination for a nurse. Can it be bottled?
The list is so long...Nancy of Manatee Lodge, Mr. August - polished transportation coordiantor, Dana - politician and cave guide, Mrs. Samuels, Bro. Sho and Bro. Tush - men of strength and talent, Candy who runs the Cardies Hotel and makes it look easy. The children - oh! the children. Gap toothed, curious, playful, bright, generous, and welcoming. Innocent (insert a quick prayer here for their protection). Babies carried from their mothers head in hammock totes.
The view from my seat is one of gratitude. For:
- my health and opportunity to serve.
- students who came, saw, embraced, and worked like professionals.
- Sharkey Farmer, the best dentist in the whole wide world. Lard conisseur and master of the infamous Sharkey-Jack.
- "Nancy" our water-toting environmentalist and all around air-traffic controller
- "Citronella" my roommate who graciously absorbed all the bug bites that we were both entitled to.
- Dr. Sherry who demonstrates what medicine is at its best. A healing art of person-to-person caring.
- Dr. Sherry who proves that it is entirely possible to be a genius and still lose anything not tethered to an actual part of one's anatomy.
- Dr. Ryan, fourth cousin to himself, who worked double duty, even with "Belize Belly" Player of a mean "Amazing Grace" on a Recorder.
- Edna, the reincarnation of Florence Nightengale and Clara Barton all wrapped up in one fun package. I pray she never learns the words "Not my job."
- laughter, everyday.
- sweat. Honest sweat of hard work.
- Pepto-Bismol, a traveller's best friend.
- Hammocks and cool evening breezes.
- Mayan ruins - to remind me that the present is fleeting. AND that there have been folks in the past that thought they were "all it" and look where they are now.
- Time to reflect, enjoy, and commit to incorporating at least one best practice of these beautiful Belizeans into my life.
- Mimi who reminded me of the value of pure, unadulterated mother-love.
- Jane Fonda look-alike, (you-know-who-you-are), bright, funny and inspiring. Like a duck - paddling furiously under the surface, calm and serene to all appearances (I think!)
And so, I close, while waiting for a brief bit of warm weather so that I can again view the world from the peculiar perspective of my bicycle, with this thought to my winter time friends - new and old:
No distance of place or lapse of time can lessen the friendship of those who are thoroughly persuaded of each other's worth. ~Robert Southey
And from my favorite philosopher...
Why can't we get all the people together in the world that we really like and then just stay together? I guess that wouldn't work. Someone would leave. Someone always leaves. Then we would have to say good-bye. I hate good-byes. I know what I need. I need more hellos. ~Charles M. Schulz
Sunday, December 9, 2007
Unexpected Potholes
The one thing that a bicyclist knows is to expect the unexpected. That straight road seemingly stretching as far as the horizon is quite likely to contain potholes, gravel, 1000 ft. of rise (three times), some smelly roadkill, and an unforeseen detour due to a bridge out. That’s not to say that one shouldn’t enjoy the here and now – in fact, that’s exactly the point.
We only have today. Whatever piece of road that you are calling home this very minute is all you have. So reach out and hug the person who is occupying that space in time with you. You never know what is around the next bend in the road. Trust me, it’s worth putting the brakes on, unclipping those pedals, and even clunking your helmets together as you embrace. If you happen to be standing next to a stranger – well, scare the heck out of them by giving them a big smile and telling them to have a wonderful day. Put a dollar into the bell-ringer’s Salvation Army bucket.
Before you write me off as falling into the pit of mushy, melancholy, melodramatics, let me tell you about a friend.
I think perhaps the phrase “What a woman” was invented with her in mind. No, she’s not on Capitol Hill, nor the Supreme Court. She’s not in Darfur, picketing the U.N., or meeting with Bono or Al Gore. She might stand right next to you, and you wouldn’t know that you were in the presence of greatness. Like most of the truly heroic, she wears her strength, her valor, her greatness, on the inside, not garishly displayed.
She’s living in New Jersey, loving and raising two adopted children, teaching hundreds (if not thousands) of people about living with diabetes, and teaching me all about courage. She’s received her master’s degree and moved cross country, twice, while managing peritoneal dialysis. What a woman. She’s survived the rejection of one kidney, and the successful transplantation of the second. And in-between all that, she got married, and (among other things) came to family weddings and reunions. She always borrows one of our bikes at those family reunions, and puts me to shame with her pleasure in vigorous exercise. She listened to rowdy one-upsmanship among “the boys” (now ages 50 to 40), didn’t buy any of their stories, and cooked like a vegetarian combination of Martha Stewart and Mario Batalli. She’s loved her in-laws as if she’d been born to them, and, (with her husband), taught their children all about extended family even with 1000 miles of separation. What a woman.
She’s enjoyed the fruits of a successful pancreas transplant, taking her fair share of the cookies and chocolate and giving up her unfair share of the glucose checks and insulin pump. And she quietly and calmly kept on with all of her life: mother, sister, wife, friend, daughter, medical social worker, and good neighbor as the labwork demonstrated that her pancreas now is travelling a slow, but steady path toward rejection. When I saw her in October, she was rail thin. Oh, she’s always been thin – but, she’s one of the few I forgive for that! No, this was a different thin, the effect of medication being taken to help regulate her blood sugar. She gave no hint that her energy, her joy, was any different. Her eyes sparkled, she visited with all the family, she tended to her kids as usual. And she hid any public sign that anything more was amiss. What a woman – that moment in life was not “about her” and that’s how she lived it. In bicycle parlance, she let someone else lead and she fell into the pack, drafting, keeping pace, head down, riding the ride.
Truth is, she was and is very, very ill. Surgery was done 10 days ago, intended to correct the problem that has resulted in more than a month of severe pain and even more weight loss.
What a woman. If it were me, I’d have been at the doctor after the first bout of pain exceeding a 2.5 on a scale of 1 to 10. Whining. I wouldn’t have the character to do what she did – get up every morning and go to work.
The surgery hasn’t worked. In fact, what the problem is isn’t really clear right now. And with all respect to world peace, global warming, and other pressing problems; when someone you love is in pain and caught in the unknown – that’s an earthshaking, priority-resetting, humbling kind of experience. I imagined life with Fansie, my sister-in-law, as one of those straight roads. We’d have lots of time when life was less busy. To talk. To take walks at those family reunions. For me to say “I admire you” and “I love you.”
And we just may have that time. But, the road ahead is not clear, and not straight. And I’ve already outlined the troubles that can happen on a nice straight stretch of road. On this crooked path? I’m afraid of what I can’t see. And I wish I hadn’t taken the times of clear road for granted. Unexpected potholes are just that – unexpected. Look around you – who and what do you take for granted? Don’t.
Oh yes, and please pray for Fansie.
We only have today. Whatever piece of road that you are calling home this very minute is all you have. So reach out and hug the person who is occupying that space in time with you. You never know what is around the next bend in the road. Trust me, it’s worth putting the brakes on, unclipping those pedals, and even clunking your helmets together as you embrace. If you happen to be standing next to a stranger – well, scare the heck out of them by giving them a big smile and telling them to have a wonderful day. Put a dollar into the bell-ringer’s Salvation Army bucket.
Before you write me off as falling into the pit of mushy, melancholy, melodramatics, let me tell you about a friend.
I think perhaps the phrase “What a woman” was invented with her in mind. No, she’s not on Capitol Hill, nor the Supreme Court. She’s not in Darfur, picketing the U.N., or meeting with Bono or Al Gore. She might stand right next to you, and you wouldn’t know that you were in the presence of greatness. Like most of the truly heroic, she wears her strength, her valor, her greatness, on the inside, not garishly displayed.
She’s living in New Jersey, loving and raising two adopted children, teaching hundreds (if not thousands) of people about living with diabetes, and teaching me all about courage. She’s received her master’s degree and moved cross country, twice, while managing peritoneal dialysis. What a woman. She’s survived the rejection of one kidney, and the successful transplantation of the second. And in-between all that, she got married, and (among other things) came to family weddings and reunions. She always borrows one of our bikes at those family reunions, and puts me to shame with her pleasure in vigorous exercise. She listened to rowdy one-upsmanship among “the boys” (now ages 50 to 40), didn’t buy any of their stories, and cooked like a vegetarian combination of Martha Stewart and Mario Batalli. She’s loved her in-laws as if she’d been born to them, and, (with her husband), taught their children all about extended family even with 1000 miles of separation. What a woman.
She’s enjoyed the fruits of a successful pancreas transplant, taking her fair share of the cookies and chocolate and giving up her unfair share of the glucose checks and insulin pump. And she quietly and calmly kept on with all of her life: mother, sister, wife, friend, daughter, medical social worker, and good neighbor as the labwork demonstrated that her pancreas now is travelling a slow, but steady path toward rejection. When I saw her in October, she was rail thin. Oh, she’s always been thin – but, she’s one of the few I forgive for that! No, this was a different thin, the effect of medication being taken to help regulate her blood sugar. She gave no hint that her energy, her joy, was any different. Her eyes sparkled, she visited with all the family, she tended to her kids as usual. And she hid any public sign that anything more was amiss. What a woman – that moment in life was not “about her” and that’s how she lived it. In bicycle parlance, she let someone else lead and she fell into the pack, drafting, keeping pace, head down, riding the ride.
Truth is, she was and is very, very ill. Surgery was done 10 days ago, intended to correct the problem that has resulted in more than a month of severe pain and even more weight loss.
What a woman. If it were me, I’d have been at the doctor after the first bout of pain exceeding a 2.5 on a scale of 1 to 10. Whining. I wouldn’t have the character to do what she did – get up every morning and go to work.
The surgery hasn’t worked. In fact, what the problem is isn’t really clear right now. And with all respect to world peace, global warming, and other pressing problems; when someone you love is in pain and caught in the unknown – that’s an earthshaking, priority-resetting, humbling kind of experience. I imagined life with Fansie, my sister-in-law, as one of those straight roads. We’d have lots of time when life was less busy. To talk. To take walks at those family reunions. For me to say “I admire you” and “I love you.”
And we just may have that time. But, the road ahead is not clear, and not straight. And I’ve already outlined the troubles that can happen on a nice straight stretch of road. On this crooked path? I’m afraid of what I can’t see. And I wish I hadn’t taken the times of clear road for granted. Unexpected potholes are just that – unexpected. Look around you – who and what do you take for granted? Don’t.
Oh yes, and please pray for Fansie.
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