When she told me what the doctor said I dreaded the months to come. Knowing her sensitivity, her bend toward depression, her obsession with the tiniest bodily miscue, I figured she'd live out the worst-case scenario even if it didn‘t happen. With her ballet and showbiz background she'd play out the surgery and treatments to the height of drama, an excuse to become the ultimate diva. She'd isolate herself, her mood would plummet and she'd pull everyone down with her.
In the hospital, under lackluster care, she hung in there with no complaints. She surprised me the day after surgery when she asked for gum and wanted to take a walk. I thought it funny that she got her hair and nails done before surgery--as if for a big performance. So now, her hair still looking great, she grabbed the IV pole and chomping her gum we ventured down the hallway, laughing at hospital indignities and at the backless gown she wore. I won't forget that image of her, she was at her best, anxious to get better. No self-pity, no drama.
In the following months I watched her mood, fearing she'd mentally spiral in the daily grind of this disease. I was still waiting for a big episode, and I thought she'd hole up for six months rather than let anyone see her carry that med-pack around her waist.
I was wrong. Depression may be her natural way to deal with such a trial, but this time she chose to rise to the occasion. Except for days right after treatments, she was up and functioning, making the best of the day, although I could tell she was weary, her eyes cloudy.
Early on, somehow, she understood what it was about. She never saw herself in a battle, but as a participant in life's toughest ballet class. It was about doing the work, getting through the class with style and being better because of the practice. Somehow she turned the ordeal into something graceful, beautiful and strengthening.
Of course I know she had her private moments loathing the cancer and questioning God's tasking of her, but she did not let these thoughts take hold. No big drama, no irreparable breakdowns, no classless self-pity, just rising to the occasion--rising with dignity and a little humor.
I think her whole attitude was a throwback to her showbiz years--Be prepared, don't complain, don't let them see you sweat, then nail it. It served her well. Head held high she walked straight out to her most difficult performance, and nailed it.
It makes me proud to know her.
Friday, September 26, 2008
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Getting Things Done
I’m afraid I don’t know how to get things done. Big things, impossible things, things that take commitment, courage and drive. I’m surrounded by people, many of them fighter pilots, who do it all the time. I’m mesmerized by them, but I know I’m not like them.
They compartmentalize their lives. When they work, everything else disappears. If they weren’t this way naturally they’ve learned it in the cockpit where their world is on the line. Or maybe they learned it along the way, realizing nothing is free and competition is fierce.
An acquaintance used a story to describe what it takes to get things done. Late one night while working for and traveling with the president, a senior aide told him the president needed a blue shirt at 6 am. He’d messed up in his job recently so he wanted to come through. After exhausting all other options he went to a clothes store, threw a rock through the window and had the shirt ready at 6 am.
In the movie Wyatt Earp, a hard-edged Kevin Costner tells the easy-going, reasonable sheriff, played by Bill Pullman, that he's too nice, implying he won’t succeed in his efforts to clean up the town. “You’re too affable,” he tells him twice. A few scenes later the sheriff is shot down.
I‘m too affable. I come from a family of affability. We’re laid-back, we do what feels right, we don’t conquer the world or do big things. We let things happen, we don’t make them happen. We don’t care too much about winning and never worry about someone getting the better of us. If we lose, there’s always next time--hope springs eternal.
We know how to live life though, to get up each day with a positive outlook, and do it all over again. We know how to have fun and we make great friends. But do we know how to get things done? Hardly. My parents have been remodeling the house we moved into 35 years ago for 35 years. It will never be done, but they’ve learned a ton and enjoyed the process.
So I don’t have an edge in my approach to life, it’s not worth it to me, I like my sunny outlook. Or maybe I don't have a hard edge because I’ve never needed one, never had to survive on my own and watch out for myself. My husband says I’ve never even had to eat the heel of a loaf of bread, let alone endure extended hardship or keep others from taking advantage of me. (I’d totally eat it if it was the only slice left, but why before then?)
Well I think I actually have eaten a few heels, and I might not know how to get things done the way my friends do, but I do have discipline and the desire to finally accomplish something. I‘m wavering on the “how” because of what I‘ve observed, but in spite of that I’m going with my own “affable” instincts and following my unproven vision. I’m going to sit here every day banging out crap until it is no longer crap. I have a tiny bit of faith in this process and I’m liking the way it feels.
I know this is not how people get things done, but another thing my family knows is how to enjoy the journey, and I’m doing that.
We’re also late-bloomers.
They compartmentalize their lives. When they work, everything else disappears. If they weren’t this way naturally they’ve learned it in the cockpit where their world is on the line. Or maybe they learned it along the way, realizing nothing is free and competition is fierce.
An acquaintance used a story to describe what it takes to get things done. Late one night while working for and traveling with the president, a senior aide told him the president needed a blue shirt at 6 am. He’d messed up in his job recently so he wanted to come through. After exhausting all other options he went to a clothes store, threw a rock through the window and had the shirt ready at 6 am.
In the movie Wyatt Earp, a hard-edged Kevin Costner tells the easy-going, reasonable sheriff, played by Bill Pullman, that he's too nice, implying he won’t succeed in his efforts to clean up the town. “You’re too affable,” he tells him twice. A few scenes later the sheriff is shot down.
I‘m too affable. I come from a family of affability. We’re laid-back, we do what feels right, we don’t conquer the world or do big things. We let things happen, we don’t make them happen. We don’t care too much about winning and never worry about someone getting the better of us. If we lose, there’s always next time--hope springs eternal.
We know how to live life though, to get up each day with a positive outlook, and do it all over again. We know how to have fun and we make great friends. But do we know how to get things done? Hardly. My parents have been remodeling the house we moved into 35 years ago for 35 years. It will never be done, but they’ve learned a ton and enjoyed the process.
So I don’t have an edge in my approach to life, it’s not worth it to me, I like my sunny outlook. Or maybe I don't have a hard edge because I’ve never needed one, never had to survive on my own and watch out for myself. My husband says I’ve never even had to eat the heel of a loaf of bread, let alone endure extended hardship or keep others from taking advantage of me. (I’d totally eat it if it was the only slice left, but why before then?)
Well I think I actually have eaten a few heels, and I might not know how to get things done the way my friends do, but I do have discipline and the desire to finally accomplish something. I‘m wavering on the “how” because of what I‘ve observed, but in spite of that I’m going with my own “affable” instincts and following my unproven vision. I’m going to sit here every day banging out crap until it is no longer crap. I have a tiny bit of faith in this process and I’m liking the way it feels.
I know this is not how people get things done, but another thing my family knows is how to enjoy the journey, and I’m doing that.
We’re also late-bloomers.
Monday, September 22, 2008
Worth the Scars
I can’t even think of throwing it away.
It’s a 19-year-old leather strip with a scratched and rusty buckle. The tags still make the same jingling sound, the only tangible reminder of my friend of 16 years.
Her full name was Shackaroo My Friend, and she lived up to it. After one of my first days in my first job out of college I came home to a bedraggled shepherd-mix puppy--a gift from my man on our first wedding anniversary.
The job lasted two weeks. Every night, after long hours I came home to a frantic puppy in a huge mess. I was feeling disconnected from my home, my man and the wriggling creature that needed care and training. I quit the job, loved the dog and the man.
It was time well-spent. Life was ideal during those months--we were living on the beach, training her, taking her everywhere with us. We became a little family--happy and close. She got it in her head that it would always be that way, and so did I.
We moved and a war broke out. My husband, an Air Force pilot, was suddenly gone. I was 3000 miles from home, alone, except for my Shackaroo. It was the first of many times, all bearable because of this friend. She was an encouraging presence in the midst of growing up, being alone, and finding my place in adulthood and marriage. I might not know how to live alone in a new city for months, but I had someone to talk to, walk and care for. She kept me out and walking in the world and got me home safe, growling and looking scary when I needed her to.
Years passed and my husband and I were finding our way, spending less time as a close-knit family. Mid-life hit hard, the world quit working as it was supposed to and we questioned the life we’d built. A painful time, Shackaroo comforted me. I would crawl under the table to lay with her, crying and praying when it seemed my unbreakable life was cracking.
Overnight, it seemed, Shackaroo was aging. We made amends for her the best we could, but she could not keep up. She needed life to stay as it once was--the three of us young, fresh-faced, togetherness our only need. Nothing did change for our true-blue Shackaroo--no mid-life crisis, no regrets or grudges--happy to be in the center of us. She got that from me.
Life doesn’t stop for a graying dog or a wounded perspective. In the end it was difficult to find her in those milky eyes, in her painful shuffle, in her inability to rest. One night, she being somewhat blind, snapped at a puppy and bit me instead.
We knew that was the end. She had outlived her time, but not her love and loyalty, and certainly not mine. I had to let her go though--it was the worst day. With a bruised, swollen stitched-up wound on my face, I had to let her go. Living was too much, yet we’d asked it of her. She would never deny us, so we had to make her stop trying.
I don’t know how you say goodbye to such a friend. It’s so wrong that dog-friends don’t live as long as we do. Someone told me it’s by design, a practice run for dealing with the loss of our human companions. That seems a lame reason for such a painful lesson--it all hurts.
As a couple, we made it through the mourning and the mid-life issues, closer for having been through them. The collar stays around to show life is worth the pain, even with the scars it leaves. For a time, I got to know closeness, companionship and pure loyalty in a four-legged friend whose simple spirit still touches me.
I miss that dog.
It’s a 19-year-old leather strip with a scratched and rusty buckle. The tags still make the same jingling sound, the only tangible reminder of my friend of 16 years.
Her full name was Shackaroo My Friend, and she lived up to it. After one of my first days in my first job out of college I came home to a bedraggled shepherd-mix puppy--a gift from my man on our first wedding anniversary.
The job lasted two weeks. Every night, after long hours I came home to a frantic puppy in a huge mess. I was feeling disconnected from my home, my man and the wriggling creature that needed care and training. I quit the job, loved the dog and the man.
It was time well-spent. Life was ideal during those months--we were living on the beach, training her, taking her everywhere with us. We became a little family--happy and close. She got it in her head that it would always be that way, and so did I.
We moved and a war broke out. My husband, an Air Force pilot, was suddenly gone. I was 3000 miles from home, alone, except for my Shackaroo. It was the first of many times, all bearable because of this friend. She was an encouraging presence in the midst of growing up, being alone, and finding my place in adulthood and marriage. I might not know how to live alone in a new city for months, but I had someone to talk to, walk and care for. She kept me out and walking in the world and got me home safe, growling and looking scary when I needed her to.
Years passed and my husband and I were finding our way, spending less time as a close-knit family. Mid-life hit hard, the world quit working as it was supposed to and we questioned the life we’d built. A painful time, Shackaroo comforted me. I would crawl under the table to lay with her, crying and praying when it seemed my unbreakable life was cracking.
Overnight, it seemed, Shackaroo was aging. We made amends for her the best we could, but she could not keep up. She needed life to stay as it once was--the three of us young, fresh-faced, togetherness our only need. Nothing did change for our true-blue Shackaroo--no mid-life crisis, no regrets or grudges--happy to be in the center of us. She got that from me.
Life doesn’t stop for a graying dog or a wounded perspective. In the end it was difficult to find her in those milky eyes, in her painful shuffle, in her inability to rest. One night, she being somewhat blind, snapped at a puppy and bit me instead.
We knew that was the end. She had outlived her time, but not her love and loyalty, and certainly not mine. I had to let her go though--it was the worst day. With a bruised, swollen stitched-up wound on my face, I had to let her go. Living was too much, yet we’d asked it of her. She would never deny us, so we had to make her stop trying.
I don’t know how you say goodbye to such a friend. It’s so wrong that dog-friends don’t live as long as we do. Someone told me it’s by design, a practice run for dealing with the loss of our human companions. That seems a lame reason for such a painful lesson--it all hurts.
As a couple, we made it through the mourning and the mid-life issues, closer for having been through them. The collar stays around to show life is worth the pain, even with the scars it leaves. For a time, I got to know closeness, companionship and pure loyalty in a four-legged friend whose simple spirit still touches me.
I miss that dog.
Saturday, September 13, 2008
Wine and Coffee
I think I got my job.
It's kind of crazy how excited I am about it, I mean one could say that the job is not much better than the first one I got when I was 16, making ice cream cones and selling donuts. It's not requiring me to use my degree and it's not paying a lot of money. It's valuable to me because it's part of my vision for life here, and it's a tells me that I am trusting that vision.
It's a cool little wine bar/coffee shop and it has a great vibe. (What a great fit--wine and coffee are two of my favorite things!) It opened in February and is going strong. Along with getting to know more people and engaging in my new community I'm hoping to learn a lot about wine, opening and running a small business and maybe a little something more about coffee. (I wonder if I'll be a "barista?") The owners seem really cool, and aren't into making as much money as possible. They have reasonable hours and close for two weeks in August and two in January to take a break. They only buy free trade coffee beans and are into carrying organic products.
Anyway, I'm going by tomorrow for a second interview and maybe to get a little training for the 2-3 shifts I will work each week. It's close and fun and I can't remember being this excited about a job in a long time, maybe since I was 16.
It's kind of crazy how excited I am about it, I mean one could say that the job is not much better than the first one I got when I was 16, making ice cream cones and selling donuts. It's not requiring me to use my degree and it's not paying a lot of money. It's valuable to me because it's part of my vision for life here, and it's a tells me that I am trusting that vision.
It's a cool little wine bar/coffee shop and it has a great vibe. (What a great fit--wine and coffee are two of my favorite things!) It opened in February and is going strong. Along with getting to know more people and engaging in my new community I'm hoping to learn a lot about wine, opening and running a small business and maybe a little something more about coffee. (I wonder if I'll be a "barista?") The owners seem really cool, and aren't into making as much money as possible. They have reasonable hours and close for two weeks in August and two in January to take a break. They only buy free trade coffee beans and are into carrying organic products.
Anyway, I'm going by tomorrow for a second interview and maybe to get a little training for the 2-3 shifts I will work each week. It's close and fun and I can't remember being this excited about a job in a long time, maybe since I was 16.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Faith
I hate this place. This place where I’m standing at the edge of something I’m not sure about but really need to get across: the chasm, the rushing river or the still, dark water. The place where I‘m forced to jump and believe or step back and go somewhere else.
This time the river is creativity, and it’s a nicely flowing stream of clear water, not too deep, not too fast. It actually looks inviting. I don’t know why I’m afraid to jump in--there’s not even a sign of danger.
How does creativity work, and what do I believe about it? How do I become one of those people who fearlessly float in the river, prolifically producing their work and creating amazing things? How do I become someone who gets to express the elusive beauty and pain of life and maybe create art?
It’s time to decide what I believe.
I’m doing some reading on the subject, and it’s becoming clear to me that the methods for each person might be different, but one thing in common is that there is a God-given creativity within us. The writers I'm reading aren't always calling it God-given, they're calling it a life force, an energy flow or an inner muse, but all of them agree--you follow it. You do the work, you bring yourself to it and together with it you write or create something real.
I want to believe that God is creative, wants me to be creative, and will lead me in my work, but I feel such a resistance to rely on him in any way as a formula to get through life, get my work done here on this planet or to write something great. I‘m burnt on that idea. I used to wait on God for all of that, but He never showed. Now I'm trying to actually do the work on my own, and, well, here He is--here He is.
And, I can feel it, whatever it is, that inner muse. I was really surprised and relieved to find it as I started writing a few months ago. Once I get into a topic I can almost feel or see the way ahead and I just describe it. What is that? Myself? God in me or the creative force in me? That’s my question. Whatever it is I wasn't sure it would be there and thought my writing might just be a puzzle of facts organized correctly like a research paper. I really wanted it to be something more.
I really wanted it to be my place in the world, my purpose, my chance to partake in the elusive beauty that makes life more than the reality of our days. I wanted it to be my one chance at art, my one chance to express myself and have it truly be me. I wanted it to be more than thoughts put on paper, I wanted it to be heart, soul and spirit put on paper, painted on with a beautiful brush. I wanted it to give me a glimpse of life above the street, in the clouds, in the stars, where we think only God has a view. I wanted it to connect my soul with the souls of others, and my spirit with the spirit of God. I wanted it to be LIFE lived fully, feelings felt deeply and I wanted it to feel like it was right. I wanted it to flow and feel, for just a moment, that life is exactly as it should be.
Not hoping for much, am I?
What if it works like this: What if God, the creator of the universe and of me, IS the life force in all of us and the author of creativity? Really it almost has to be true. Nothing happens in a vacuum, especially if you want a share in beauty, the things we don't get to hold and have, but only get to enjoy and feel. So, assuming this about God: He created us, we are creative beings, and we can be and are to be creative--Can it be true that I do the work and listen and follow and describe what I see and I will be led? Can I buy this? Isn’t that a stretch? I mean I guess I can decide to view things any way I please, but I’d like to know if this is something I can attach my dreams to....
As usual, there is no answer, and that’s where faith comes in. That's what this is about. It's about committing to this "art" more. It's about jumping into this river and not worrying if I can make it to the other side, maybe letting it carry me to a better place.
That's how it works--I just got it.
I'm jumping in.
This time the river is creativity, and it’s a nicely flowing stream of clear water, not too deep, not too fast. It actually looks inviting. I don’t know why I’m afraid to jump in--there’s not even a sign of danger.
How does creativity work, and what do I believe about it? How do I become one of those people who fearlessly float in the river, prolifically producing their work and creating amazing things? How do I become someone who gets to express the elusive beauty and pain of life and maybe create art?
It’s time to decide what I believe.
I’m doing some reading on the subject, and it’s becoming clear to me that the methods for each person might be different, but one thing in common is that there is a God-given creativity within us. The writers I'm reading aren't always calling it God-given, they're calling it a life force, an energy flow or an inner muse, but all of them agree--you follow it. You do the work, you bring yourself to it and together with it you write or create something real.
I want to believe that God is creative, wants me to be creative, and will lead me in my work, but I feel such a resistance to rely on him in any way as a formula to get through life, get my work done here on this planet or to write something great. I‘m burnt on that idea. I used to wait on God for all of that, but He never showed. Now I'm trying to actually do the work on my own, and, well, here He is--here He is.
And, I can feel it, whatever it is, that inner muse. I was really surprised and relieved to find it as I started writing a few months ago. Once I get into a topic I can almost feel or see the way ahead and I just describe it. What is that? Myself? God in me or the creative force in me? That’s my question. Whatever it is I wasn't sure it would be there and thought my writing might just be a puzzle of facts organized correctly like a research paper. I really wanted it to be something more.
I really wanted it to be my place in the world, my purpose, my chance to partake in the elusive beauty that makes life more than the reality of our days. I wanted it to be my one chance at art, my one chance to express myself and have it truly be me. I wanted it to be more than thoughts put on paper, I wanted it to be heart, soul and spirit put on paper, painted on with a beautiful brush. I wanted it to give me a glimpse of life above the street, in the clouds, in the stars, where we think only God has a view. I wanted it to connect my soul with the souls of others, and my spirit with the spirit of God. I wanted it to be LIFE lived fully, feelings felt deeply and I wanted it to feel like it was right. I wanted it to flow and feel, for just a moment, that life is exactly as it should be.
Not hoping for much, am I?
What if it works like this: What if God, the creator of the universe and of me, IS the life force in all of us and the author of creativity? Really it almost has to be true. Nothing happens in a vacuum, especially if you want a share in beauty, the things we don't get to hold and have, but only get to enjoy and feel. So, assuming this about God: He created us, we are creative beings, and we can be and are to be creative--Can it be true that I do the work and listen and follow and describe what I see and I will be led? Can I buy this? Isn’t that a stretch? I mean I guess I can decide to view things any way I please, but I’d like to know if this is something I can attach my dreams to....
As usual, there is no answer, and that’s where faith comes in. That's what this is about. It's about committing to this "art" more. It's about jumping into this river and not worrying if I can make it to the other side, maybe letting it carry me to a better place.
That's how it works--I just got it.
I'm jumping in.
Monday, September 8, 2008
Raised in Church
Here's a couple of quotes I've found recently. They really need no explanation from me....
I think it was touch-and-go for my soul during my years of Christianity. I'm happy to find it alive and well now....
And the puzzling is good.
"To know what you prefer instead of humbly saying Amen to what the world tells you you ought to prefer, is to have kept your soul alive."
Robert Louis Stevenson
I think it was touch-and-go for my soul during my years of Christianity. I'm happy to find it alive and well now....
"To believe in God or in a guiding force because someone tells you to is the height of stupidity. We are given senses to receive our information with. With our eyes we see, and with our skin we feel. With our intelligence it is intended that we understand. But each person must puzzle it out for himself or herself."
Sophy Burnham
And the puzzling is good.
Friday, September 5, 2008
Weather
We have a few things to celebrate so we are planning to throw a party tomorrow night. As we kept inviting more people, we started to worry about how crowded it might be here in our little row house, but decided the party could spill out into the yard. We located a tent to use in case it got a little rainy.
It's going to be more than a little rainy, and no tent is going to survive the winds we've been forecast. One uninvited guest determined to show up is Tropical Storm Hanna. Last I checked she is due to roll through our area at about 8pm tomorrow, but the rain has already started and strong winds are due. We might get up to six inches of rain before it subsides late tomorrow night. Fortunately she's traveling fast.
Now I'm not complaining, there's no talk of evacuations or of anyone possibly losing their homes or their lives around here. For crying out loud 500 people just died in Haiti--I can't imagine. Some people in Louisiana will be out of their houses for weeks, and I guess Ike is really the scary one. Seems like they're just hitting one after another.
So, no sweat, we can always cancel. I'm not usually one for canceling things due to a little weather, but 40-plus people stuck in this house with a warm weather storm outside might feel a little tight--especially if we lose power. I guess as long as we keep the food, liquor and music flowing it won't matter if it's crowded--it can be like the party scene in Breakfast at Tiffany's. Still a good time, right? Maybe. People are starting to call and ask if we're keeping it on, should they keep their sitters? Many will probably just stay home.
Kevin's been scoffing the storm all week, but I think Hanna got his attention tonight when an alert on the TV let us know sandbags were available at the local school if we need them. I asked him if he could even reach all the people he's invited--he said no, the party is on, "even if it's just me and you..."
I'm pretty sure it might just be that.
It's going to be more than a little rainy, and no tent is going to survive the winds we've been forecast. One uninvited guest determined to show up is Tropical Storm Hanna. Last I checked she is due to roll through our area at about 8pm tomorrow, but the rain has already started and strong winds are due. We might get up to six inches of rain before it subsides late tomorrow night. Fortunately she's traveling fast.
Now I'm not complaining, there's no talk of evacuations or of anyone possibly losing their homes or their lives around here. For crying out loud 500 people just died in Haiti--I can't imagine. Some people in Louisiana will be out of their houses for weeks, and I guess Ike is really the scary one. Seems like they're just hitting one after another.
So, no sweat, we can always cancel. I'm not usually one for canceling things due to a little weather, but 40-plus people stuck in this house with a warm weather storm outside might feel a little tight--especially if we lose power. I guess as long as we keep the food, liquor and music flowing it won't matter if it's crowded--it can be like the party scene in Breakfast at Tiffany's. Still a good time, right? Maybe. People are starting to call and ask if we're keeping it on, should they keep their sitters? Many will probably just stay home.
Kevin's been scoffing the storm all week, but I think Hanna got his attention tonight when an alert on the TV let us know sandbags were available at the local school if we need them. I asked him if he could even reach all the people he's invited--he said no, the party is on, "even if it's just me and you..."
I'm pretty sure it might just be that.
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