An Obvious One

It's been too long since I updated this blog.  I told myself that I would write daily, at least 4 times a week, but no.  I haven't.  Truth is, I'm in a funk I cannot deny and I just haven't had much to say.

Last night, though, I had a dream, whose meaning was abundantly clear.  In it, I was sitting in the very back seat of our family vehicle, as far as possible from the driver's seat.  My husband was driving.  Well, he collapsed and someone had to take over driving. 

In my dream, the steering console suddenly appeared in the back seat where I was sitting, so I tried to drive from there...but I could not see where I was going, and I could not keep the car on the right spot on the road.  The end results were that I ended up wrecking us all.

I know what this means.  It means that I can't take over and drive if I don't put myself in the driver seat.

Now I just gotta do it.

Twilight Beckoning

So many things I would share with you
If only I could
So many moments drenched in golden sunshine
As we walked the path together
You, bathed in the warmth
Me, all smiles as the sun spilled across us.
So many things I want to hear from you
The story of your life
And how you came to be.
So much unknown
As if you could breathe life into your words
As if, as you spoke, colors came into being
And forms took their shape within us
And your stories could become mine too
If only you would share them with me.
But for now the sun fades
And the moon spills its shadows
Shields it secrets
And you and I walk no paths together,
Share no stories
Touch each other not.
Silenced and saddened
By the things that might have been.

The Cost of Devotion

My friend who had cancer has now passed.  I shall miss her terribly.  She was a hurricane and a half housed in a size 2 frame.  She laughed a lot, had this bawdy sort of humor and got a twinkle in her eye whenever someone was telling a joke, especially if it lingered on the blue side. Despite this, she was the picture of loyalty.

For two years now, every time I would see her she would say to me "I am retiring in 2 years." and then it became "A year and a half".  She could have retired a few years back, and wanted to.  The truth is, that, while she didn't love the company she worked for, she did love the people she worked with, and she did love her customers--and they loved her back.  She would complain and talk about how awful things were at work and how much she felt that she was being used by upper management at her company; how there was no work-life balance, how she toiled 12 hours a day 6 days a week or more for people who didn't appreciate it.  And yet, as much as she felt put upon, she would take herself into that office, throw herself into her job, and give of herself until it hurt.

I guess if anything about her passing bothers me is not the fact that she is gone--although selfishly, I am sorry to see her go.  In ways, she is the better for leaving behind a body wracked with pain and cancer.  No, what bothers me is this:  I am troubled by the image of the woman who never lived to see that retirement she kept talking about--the one thing that kept her sane in the insane world of work that she didn't enjoy.

It makes me wonder why we do it, and if the return on investment is worth the price we pay...

Striving for Mediocrity

What did you want to be when you grew up?

Did you have grandiose dreams of being a hero--some firefighter or police officer maybe?  Or maybe a doctor or a nurse or a princess or a teacher?

I don't think many young children ever think to themselves "When I grow up, I really want to be an accountant" and yet, the world needs them and by the time people reach adulthood, there are those who gravitate toward that profession.

How far away from your childhood plans for yourself are you?  If you could meet your 8 year old self, would you get a high-five or crossed arms and a look of disappointment?  What would you say to yourself?

What diminishes the dream?  How do we get from being self-assured and bold to being complacent and willing to compromise on the big stuff--and it is BIG stuff--selling out, letting your potential drain, not becoming the person you were meant to be, nor having what was intended for you?

I have been on this journey of rediscovery for sometime now .  I see so many missed steps and so many more missed opportunities.  I think my 8 year old me would be quite disappointed, but then again, maybe not.  Maybe the whole purpose of introspection is the opportunity to continually strive forward until we finally get it right.  Or at least if I ever see her lurking in some shadow somewhere, that's going to be the angle I work...

The Killer In Me Is the Killer In You

We've all been there...

We get that intuitive sense that something just isn't right but we can't quite put our fingers on it.

You watch a couple together and it seems "off" somehow, you sense a secret but don't know what it is....before you know it some stories just don't add up and the whole thing kinda mushrooms until it explodes.

The big secret might be an affair, an impending divorce, an addiction, an arrest, a job loss, any number of things, but the point is that nobody acknowledges the 4 ton elephant in the room.

How many times do we want to confront a situation but lack the stones to do so?  We see someone whose child is doing something foolish or downright life threatening, but we mind our own business.  We watch someone's flirty behavior around the office take on tones that probably wouldn't be appreciated by a devoted spouse--but we tell ourselves that we aren't seeing what we truly are.  Pills go missing from the cabinet right after a visit from so-and-so, but we tell ourselves that it isn't possible and that we must have miscounted somewhere along the way. 

Or worse, someone asks us not to mention or tell someone what they know we know.  We are now a willing participant in a direct cover up.

Why is confrontation so difficult, and what is wrong with holding people accountable for their actions?  If approached in a loving, non-judgmental way, why is it such a bad thing to go to someone and say, "hey, can we talk?  I'm a little worried about (insert life-altering train wreck here).

Just wondering....

What are your thoughts?

The Value of Connection in a Digital Age

Today I went to the hospital to visit a friend who has cancer, and her prognosis isn't good.  The reality of this disease is that in her case, it isn't *if* she will succumb to it; unfortunately, it is more a matter of *when* she will. 

That's how we know we value someone isn't it?  When we share with them in their highs and lows.  We visit them in hospitals and jail cells and in funeral homes.  We rejoice when they have babies or graduate from school and we cry with them when they are hurting.

In our digital age, it is easy to forget the value of connection, of human touch.  In our digital age, we send a text when we should show up with a box of Kleenex and some homemade cookies.  In our digital age, we send an eCard, or write on someones Facebook wall.  And it isn't that these gestures are without meaning; rather, they just can't replicate the significance of a good old-fashioned hug.  Of showing up and loving someone through their tragedies.  Of being there with a paintbrush and some Glad trash bags when the tornado strikes, or an offer to babysit for an overwhelmed mom, or even with cash in hand to cover a light bill when someone is having more month than money.

Showing up, not phoning it in.  Being there--to offer a hug, a shoulder to cry on, a hand up, a smile.  It is funny how in our digital age we have more ways to communicate than ever before, and yet, we are more disconnected than we ever have been.

I learned just yesterday that someone I once valued very much as a beautiful and brilliant man--of both science and spiritual expanded consciousness, poetic and practical in a way few can manage--well that man died two years ago.  Some say it was a suicide and others believe it was an accidental overdose.  Regardless, the world is the lesser because he isn't here, and the thought that he might have chosen to leave too young--that he somehow thought he wasn't valued, that he was so disconnected from others that he took his own life, I can't think of anything that could possibly sadden me more.

I guess the point of all of this is this:  Be there, in the flesh, for those you really love.  The only thing any of us know for certain is that there ain't none of us getting out of here alive--so take the time while you have the time to let those you love know you love them.

A Look Beyond the Veil

By the time a child has the language skills to equip him otherwise, he also has enough intellect to realize that not all thoughts or feelings are to be shared.  We begin building that mask pretty early, don't we?

By the time a child goes to school, she learns that if she wants to survive socially, she had better not say all she is thinking or feeling--she better give an appearance of being tougher than she really is and not wear her feelings on her sleeve or she will be eaten alive by her peers. 

Transparency.  As incredibly curious as we are about what goes on beyond that wall, the reality of it is that sometimes we even build walls within ourselves so that we can't even get a full glimpse of what and who WE are, much less, what really happens deep within the innermost psyche of another.  We only know as much about the next guy as he or she is willing to share and everything else is pure speculation.  And that is if they are being honest.

Do we really want to know?  What would we find out about our parents, lovers, neighbors, employers and children?  If every secret and every sin were laid out on the table would we discover that inside we all possess the coldness of a killer, the vulnerability of a child, the spiritual nature of a Gandhi?  Would it be easier to compare ourselves to others--and thereby assign rank--or would it be easier to see that we are truly all alike; each of us riddled with the same insecurities and fears; the same failings and frailties?  And would that level the playing field or leave us all scattered and weak?

Intimacy is a difficult thing to achieve, and yet, we crave it.  We both fear and need someone to look beyond that veil and love us anyway--and yet, for our own safety, we often push those who try away. 

Have you ever shared too much?  Have you ever held back and lost someone because they couldn't connect with you?  Have you ever invested too much in someone else?  What was the outcome?  Just curious....

The Two-Minute Microwaved Burrito Dilemma

We live in a society that values speed and efficiency, often at the expense of quality.

When my great grandparents were young, they roasted and ground their own coffee beans, bought flour from a local mill, chopped wood to feed the stove on which they would cook and my great grandmother would spend hours preparing meals, serving them and cleaning up afterwards.

My great-grandparents were not wealthy people, in fact, quite the opposite.  They eeked out a living raising tobacco on some rock-infested hillsides in north central Kentucky, raised a huge vegetable garden, and had some cattle they ran.  They lived in a small cottage on one of the hilltops in what still is the middle of nowhere.  Until the time I was about eight, my great-grandmother did her cooking on a wood-fired stove which made the house unbearably hot. There was no indoor bathroom in the home until I was well into my teens--it was a short walk to the outhouse--for some reason a fact I regarded as a novelty and not an inconvenience.

Despite their sparse accomodations, my great-grandmother made meals that were lavish and large.  They had to be.  Farming works up an appetite.  I have yet to find anyone who could make custard pie the equal of my great grandma--and her homemade apple butter served on warm homemade zucchini bread just can not be duplicated.  As hard as the men worked in the fields, my great-grandmother worked in the kitchen, and never, not once, did I ever hear her utter a complaint.

Meals were served at six a.m., noon, and six p.m.  On the dot.  If you did not come in, you did not eat.  My great-grandfather would say a blessing over the food and then everyone would eat their fill.  There was talking, and teasing, and the kind of connection that can only be found in family.  It was a great way to grow up and I always enjoyed visiting my great-grandmother.  I felt safe and loved there.

I give this backdrop today in contrast to our own modern way of living.  We stand in front of a microwave where two minutes seems like an eternity to wait for a burrito.  Many of our meals are taken by way of a drive-thru window.  Venture inside any restaurant and we are bombarded by wall-mounted television or televisions, cell phones, and video gaming systems.  The art of conversation at the dinner table seems like one in danger of expiring.  Meals at home are served often with family members missing due to other committments or in front of the television or in a rushed resignation to a harried lifestyle.

I guess I just wonder if the cost of all this "convenience" is worth the price we've paid for it.  If my great-grandmother were alive today I have no doubt which path she'd rather take.

What do you think?

the Cost of Consumption

Thanks to a daughter who recently adopted a vegan lifestyle and some related synchronicities, it has become increasingly abundantly clear just how disconnected we are from our food sources.

Most of us have no idea how are meat and poultry and dairy products are raised.  Truthfully, we probably do not want to spend a lot of time thinking about the living conditions of these animals--whether or not they are treated humanely while alive--most of us couldn't even tell you the source of these food products.  I do know that if we were more connected to them--gave these sentient creatures any thought at all, we would find the conditions appalling.

In the name of the almighty dollar, chickens are raised by the millions in cages that are so small that they cannot even turn around. They spend their entire lives in those cages where there soul function is to produce eggs.  Our cattle and pigs do not fare much better.

Dairy?  Those poor creatures are pumped so full of hormones that it should frighten anyone who gives it any thought and I think it plays into our levels of hormone-driven cancers, type II diabetes and obesity.  Those that are my age (42) might think back to our childhood.  In my elementary school, girls did not start to physically develop en masse until late in the 5th grade--and mostly the 6th.  Go into any elementary school and it is obvious that girls are starting development as early as the 3rd grade.  If it were an option to me, I would totally have bought only organic non-hormone milk for my daughters.  If they were young now, I would do this thing precisely.

I'm not sure what to do about these things, but I know that changes are coming in my household.  Already, I am more willing to spend extra money buying organics, reading labels and at least THINKING about the animals whose lives are given up so that I might eat.  I'm trying to practice gratitude regarding the same.  In many cultures, Native Americans for example, they would thank the animal they hunted for giving their lives for them.  I think that this is a good practice.  I am also trying to cut down on the amount of meat consumption in my life--we eat far too much of it in America.  I've been told that that is one of the first tells that we are American to foreigners--we smell like meat.  I don't know if that's true or not, but it makes sense.

I would like to source and buy local products--animals that I know have free ranged and were not raised or killed under cruel circumstances.  I can't go the full on PETA route as they are too militant for my tastes.  You can lose the message in its delivery--and these folks just kinda turn me off...

Life is such an odd thing--because it takes death to sustain it.  The very least I can do is to be cognizant of that fact always, and grateful as its result.

Your view?

Daffodil Remains

Far back a country lane
The sun splays across the forest floor
To light a row of daffodils.
One would not notice casually
The crumbling steps, for they betray the sight.
In looking closer, it appears
It was somebody's home.
Someone built this place
Poured all their love and money to it.
In it, they raised children,
There were Sunday dinners
And Christmas stockings
And bedtime stories shared.
Someone did their homework
At a kitchen table,
And someone hung the laundry out to dry.
There were tears here, and laughter,
A life built around such a home as this.
And so I wonder with a degree of sorrow
Why someone merely saw a house
Where there used to be a home,
Why in just a few scant generations
Someone left it behind to be reclaimed
By earth-- why no one fought for them
Who labored long and loved within those walls.
Sunny, happy, daffodils on a forest floor
Planted once by loving hands,
But then abandoned,
The home, it is no more.