29 Gifts

Have you heard about Cami Walker and her experiment with gift giving? Several years ago, Ms. Walker was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis. When her emotions and spirits flagged, a holistic health practitioner suggested she give a gift a day for the next 29 days to friends, family, acquaintances, the women at the dry cleaners. Willing to try anything to help with her new diagnosis, Ms. Walker started the giving practice with a chocolate cake for her husband, letters to old friends, a phone call to someone in need. To her surprise she started to feel better. For sure, the multiple sclerosis didn't go away but remarkably Ms. Walker found herself in less pain, needing less medication, fewer trips to the ER. Science backs up this phenomena that giving, doing for others improves our well-being and spirit. Intrigued, I thought I would give it a try.

I am now in day three of my gift giving and very much enjoying it. When I start of feel worried or anxious about something in my life, I find myself thinking about who I might gift today or tomorrow and my worries ease. There is the nurse at E's school who made her feel so comfortable when she fell ill at school this fall, P at the Y who welcomes me in for my workout, the woman who prayed with us when dad was dying. Thich Nhat Han the Vietnamese Buddist monk has said that he wouldn't want his children to live in a world without suffering because its through our own loss and grief and disappointment that we are able to most deeply care for other human beings. Giving gifts awakens my gratitude for the love and sustenance I receive unbidden everyday.

At the YMCA

I happened to be in the locker room of the local YMCA the other day as the senior water aerobics class was getting out. Seven or so old women made there way from the pool to the showers and into the changing area. One woman used a walker, another a cane, one's thoracic spine curved up into a round arc. They, as I, were in various stages of undress. It wasn't only out of politeness that I kept my gaze down. I was afraid of seeing, really seeing, what old bodies looked like. But, then I got curious. Afterall, I will be old, maybe very old, someday (hopefully) and I wondered what it might look like.

I saw a thin woman whose skin hung like a loose blanket over her entire body. Her skin folded in on itself like a delicate Japanese fan. I was impressed that she could still balance on one foot and bend down from standing to put her socks on. Another woman was very round with hardly any wrinkes. She had to sit down in order to dress and moved slowly. One woman complained to another that her hair was so thin now, "Like a baby's!" There were several scars, bruises, red spots, and moles.

I was reminded of the long purple scar that ran down my grandmother's big belly. The scar ran through her belly button which no longer lined up properly but lay askew and divided. It was startingly to discover but then became a familiar landmark. I found beauty in that scar because it lay on my grandmother's belly.

There is so much more beauty in all bodies than Madison Avenue would have us believe. (Yikes, might I have middle-aged skin!!!) Scars, blanket folds of skin, square waists, chicken necks, something unique to love, cherish, behold.

Some things I missed

I missed seeing my father walking up our front walk this Thanksgiving his arms loaded down with boxes and bags of food and drink. He would have smiled an kissed me on the cheek, noticed that most of the leaves had been raked, pulled my daughter in for a big hug. "Nice job," he would have told my husband who orchestrates the meal. I missed seeing him sitting at the table, a leg bone wrapped in dark meat on his plate along with stuffing, mashed potatoes, green beans, and the eggplant and Italian bread that he buys special in East Boston. He would test the chestnuts, along with Uncle, to make sure they were done - just like his father before him had done. I missed seeing him dunk hard cookies into the coffee with his overstuffed hands. He might have apple pie with vanilla ice-cream too before sitting in the large easy chair for a snooze. E would have insisted on a game of chess. He would have been kind to all the children. He would have worn a light cotton shirt, blue, underneath a button up wool sweater and soft soled walking shoes with white socks that he favored in his older age. I missed hearing his voice.

Love

When my daughter was very sick for one of the first times in her life, my father drove out to spend the day with us. My husband happened to be away at a conference and I didn't want to be alone. My mother was still working so my father took the two hour drive out to be with me alone. We spent the day taking turns holding that hot little bundle, taking her temperature, trying to get her to suck some milk down. At one point her temperature rose to about 105, her cheeks turned bright pink, and we got scared. How could such a little body hold so much heat? The doctor told us to wait until morning. If the fever didn't break by then, I should take her in. Dad was worried, "You should take her in tonight, just take her in." But, I wanted to wait.

The very first time she had a high fever, J and I took her in to the pediatrician's office and got the doctor who, while thorough, was altogether too quick to send us to the emergency room for x-rays, blood, and urine tests. (If you don't know, getting a infant chest xray is no small feet and requires padlocking the child in what looks like an up right iron lung. The urine test which required intubation was a painful and drawn out failure that we vowed never to allow again.) The child had nothing more but a bad fever and cold and was on the mend by the next day.

My father who by nature was a terrible worrier didn't want me to wait but he didn't press which was probably really hard for him because he worried so much. He held her long into the evening making sure I got dinner and left only when I insisted he go home to sleep.

E woke in a glistening puddle of sweat that night and sucked to her heart's content. I called Dad the next morning and told him that she was alright.

Winter Tree

I feel most like a winter tree devoid of frills, hunkered down, reaching for the deep warm soil. I am conserving my resources; rough and icy on the outside but warm and sugary on the inside. I'm not dead or dying or old or tame. I have shed my bounty for those that hunger and can finally rest from the burden of holding up nests and making food. After the snow and ice and darkness and mud, I'll be restless and ready again for the riotous seduction of spring.

Dancing with my father

A song just came on in the cafe where I am working that reminds me of my father. We danced to "I left my heart in San Francisco" before I left for my first teaching job in San Francisco. My father was an agile dancer, light on his feet and gentle. I wonder if he took lessons or just picked it up at the clubs where he danced with my mother when they were young. He taught me to dance when I was little, "Don't look at your feet," he would say moving me around the living room, "Relax, let me guide you." I wish I could tell him how handsome I thought he was, how secure and special I felt in his arms. I think he really enjoyed dancing. We have pictures of him when he was thinner, with thick black hair, smiling wide mouthed into the camera. He is with my mother, her hair in a high bouffant and my grandfather younger than I am today. They are all dressed to the nines my mother in a sleeveless wool suit, the men in dark suits with thin ties. They drink fuzzy cocktails and listen to the band playing cool jazzy tunes. "Let's dance," he reaches for my mother's hand. He's on top of the world so happy to have such a beautiful woman to dance with.

Heartbreak

"In one life, how many times can the heart break?" from "Moaning About My White Hair" by Chinese poet Wang Wei.

I asked the women in my writing group to write something about this. Here is what I wrote.

These days my heart breaks wide open at least once a day. I feel less sure of everything. Less sure than when I was 11 and could ride my bike fearlessly to the edges of my small town, less sure than when I was 17 and so in love I walked effortlessly without the pull of gravity on my feet, less sure than when I was 25 and immersed in the heady belief that logic could save me. Now, I walk upon fragile ground. I slip and slide on the ice and feel sadness, and contentment, and joy all in the same moment. Its strange in the same way that the Thai soup that I love startles me with heat, sweetness, and a sour bite. Success is measure by breaths deeply taken, in thin moments of gratitude for a good meal, ease on my husband's face, a spine that still bends backwards. I am in awe at how much joy there is to be had in the dog's soft red fur and the suffering that is ours alone to make sense of. A veil has been parted, the onion peeled, the world is less apparent than it has ever been, my imagination more real.

Under the heart

Did you know that you can touch the underside of your heart with your breath? Yes, its true! You can move the breath up to the top of the diaphragm then into the back part of the lungs right up underneath the heart. What you might find there can be startlingly, old cobwebs of memory, bright sunlight, grace. I find it peaceful there and safe.

It had been several weeks since I was weepy and sad and missing my father in a desperate way. Then, grief snuck up on me and caught me unawares. I didn't know it was my tiring friend come to visit at first. I just felt anxious, in a fog, needing-to-get-out-of-my-skin itchiness. It seemed like some chocolate fudge might be just what I needed to feel comfortable again; but that was a mistake. Rich chocolate or yeasty foods seem like comfort but mostly just offer up empty calories and a depressingly short sugar high. Then I told someone, "I think I am missing my dad," and the acknowledgment by a sweet friend melted my heart enough so I could drop back behind it again and mourn.

I had to get out of the house (my daughter was sick for two days and I had been cooped up at home) and went to our local coop for dinner. They are so friendly there and the food is so good and beautiful. I had a splendid simple meal then coffee (free refills!) The cafe is painted a soft burnt orange. The walls were lined with fall themed oil paintings from a local artist of places I liked to visit. A severly disabled man was celebrating his birthday surrounded by loving family and friends. He got so excited, clapping his hands, when someone brought the cake to the table. It was comforting to watch life happening all around me without my having to participate. I could penetrate the sadness, hold it in my chest, then let it dissapate. I am continually surprised at how grief feels, unlike sadness or depression, but lighter, more disorientating, and otherworldly. I am surprised at how much time it takes up in my life to sit with it, feel its textures, make sense of death, illness, loss.

I hope we do more backbends in yoga tomorrow to open up my heart in all its rich dimensions.

The Waltons

I want to move in with the Waltons. My daughter and I have been watching nightly episodes of this old show and I am struck with Walton lust. Firstly, I have a wicked crush on John Boy whose homegrown country innocence I long to pierce. But even more than that, I am drawn by the world created by Olivia and Grandma filled with daily home baked pies, and breads, lusty stick-to-your ribs meals served with a smile three times a day, hand made jellies, dresses, shirts, and sweaters. Olivia is a font of kindness and gentle wisdom. The seven children walk to the one room school house, sometimes barefoot, hardly quarrel, and do daily chores without complaint. Grandpa smokes ham and works the sawmill with Pa who hunts for extra food with Reckless the dog. Nobody drinks too much or yells. Olivia serves the children fresh baked cookies and milk (from the cow out back) when they get home from school. The children roam the forests, streams, and lakes, fall in love, write poetry, help any strangers.

The Waltons carbon footprint is small. Isn't this the life we are striving for now? They have one truck that often fails so end up walking alot. There is NO garbage. Food scraps are composted or reused, paper burned, no plastic wrapping or paper napkins. They make their own soap from natural ingredients, can tomatoes from the garden, share ONE bathroom (that's for 11 people!! Maybe Grandpa uses the outhouse out back for privacy.) Despite living in Virginia during the depression, the Waltons show no signs of racism or anti-semitism and hope that all of their children go to college someday; even the girls.

But, is this back to the land life what I really want? Somedays, grandma must have to skin squirrels and possums for her famous stew. Olivia makes her own sausages, cleans the butchered hog, plucks chickens clean before roasting of the wood stove. Wet laundry is pulled through rollers, hung to dry, then ironed; not only dresses and shirts, but underwear (when lucky enough to have), towels, and sheets. Hands must get chapped in winter. We hardly ever see Olivia or Grandma outside of the house. Oh, how I would miss reading which we also never see the women doing. And what about those seven children, all born at home, with nothing but grandma's herbs to ease the pain.

I'll take the homeade bread, air laundered sheets, John Boy and fresh cream but not without my books, yoga classes, feminism, and tofu (not possum) stew.

Letting Go

On Sunday, my daughter and I and some friends went on a hike up to ridge outcropping that looks out over the entire valley. It was windy, breathtakingly crisp. So quiet, except for the dogs who didn't like being away from us. We had tied them up to a tree afraid that they might fall off of the cliff. So, we let them free to be near us and to have quiet. There was so much to see out in the valley and surrounding hills; greens, reds, oranges, yellows. My friend dreamed of making a quilt of the scene. My daughter let her proud mane of hair blow in the wind. Then, I saw the tiniest of spiders hanging out over the cliff. She wasn't any bigger than this a. I couldn't see her thread. She seemed to hovered in mid air still until a swoop of wind swung her out then back again. Such courage to have flung herself out over the cliff, off of a high branch, hoping that the filament would hold. And after alot of swinging, dipping, spinning, she found a place to land (!) miraculously on a shrub of a cedar rooted in the side of the cliff, the tree itself perilously sprouting from a stone. Some days, I feel like that spider and wonder if the filament will hold, if I have enough courage to jump, or reach just a little bit further off of solid ground. No, no, Id rather stay in bed this day...but, then, what if the wind is just right for flying?

Voice

I am thinking about what I love about some writing. It seems to come down to writing with a unique and clear "voice". One that rings out in the cold crisp air with clarity and accuracy. Its not lazy but words, sentences, paragraphs, metaphors are chosen deliberately to evoke the truth of the character, the setting, the story. I get lazy with writing. Oh, this is close enough to what I am trying to say. I need to step back and let the story sit on the shelf while I compost, marinate, figure out on a deeper level what it is exactly I am trying to say. Peeling the onion with revision after revision. Honing my skills with language and craft to actually move the story in the direction I want it to go in. Or maybe its more like letting the seed of the story, some hope, dream, feeling I want to portrait, blossom through careful attention to the seed (watering, fertilizing, sun, shade). There will be time for growth, some decay, letting go of what is holding the blossom back, fruit, harvest, composting.

In these hands

Yesterday, the children in my daughter's fifth grade class visited with their elder buddies. The children made "squeezies" for their buddies which are balloons filled with wheat berries that are good for squeezing. "Abbie" had the most magnificent smile. "Its nice" she told her buddies when they placed the red balloon into her spindly hands. I pressed my hand around hers and told her to squeeze. "Doesn't' it feel good," one of the children said to her. Her hands were cold. The squeezing caught her attention. I imagine it felt good to loosen her clenched fingers around the soft ball, move blood into her tight writsts and forearms.

A. reminded me of my grandmother who also sat for many years in a wheelchair in the activities room of a nursing home or in the room she shared with one or two other old woman. Her cheeks were like ivory, smooth and full. She wore a watch on each wrist, ironically, since time had long stopped moving in a singular direction. Her hands mostly rested now in her lap no longer busy stirring sauce, sweeping floors, folding laundry. I sometimes wear her silver two piece diamond wedding ring and am reminded of how much she did with the beautiful hands that I wish I could hold again.

When the children left the activities room, the space grew suddenly silent. The woman resting in their chairs sat in a large circle carving out a wide cavern in the still space. All movement had ceased. For those not sleeping, blue, green and brown eyes darted around the room.

People on the Street

I live in a small town and frequent the downtown cafe's to do my writing. I see alot of the same people every day and have gotten to know some of them just by watching and sometimes talking to them. A woman who eats lunch at my currently favorite cafe moves very slowly. She dresses in bright scarfs and beaded jewelry. She reads the NYT and with a shaky hand pulls an oversized cup of hot cocoa to her mouth sometimes spilling it onto her batiked pants. Another woman I see is a poet who seems to spend the day wandering from cafe to cafe talking to herself as she goes. She also moves in slow motion on unsteady legs. She writes poems about the river that winds its way around our town. She rolls her own cigarettes. Her hair is matted and long. Whiskers sprout from her chin. "Sandy" pulls himself along the sidewalk and into the cafe with hand-held crutches. "I'm so tired," he told me one miserable rainy spring day. "I wish I could fly to a Caribean Island and just sit in the sun." He has Cerebral Palsy and has never been out of the state.

White Mountains

Yesterday, I got to hike with my dog in the White Mountains of New Hampshire. Its been five years since I was here last. BP (Before Parenting), we would go hiking many times each year. But even though we have been away a long time, the trails around Franconia Notch, North Conway, Gorham are as familiar to me as wood path I walk my dog on each day. "Oh, there is the path we took in March when the snow was up to our hips and we swore each time we plunged into the snow with our heavy packs." "How did we every climb up and down Mount Washington in one day several times in our young lives?" "How about when we slept in Madison Hut when it was full, bunks stacked 4 high and filled with smelly exhausted hikers just like ourselsves!"

Yesterday, I picked a "modest" hike since I didn't want to tire out "penny" who has never hiked more than a couple of hours before. And she doesn't feel so comfortable on rocks so this trail was mostly in the woods. Still, the Seven mile round trip took us to a beautiful outcropping that gave views of the entire presidential range. The mountain tops were shrouded in fog and ice. Down below, the leaves were blazing red, orange, and yellow. We met only four people the whole day even as the valley below is filled with leaf peepers. We were both very tired at the end. "Penny" had some yummy leftover salmon for dinner. We slept long and deep.

Hoping for many more mountain retreats in the months and years to come.

Economix 101

I read yesterday that the income gap between the richest in our country and the poorest has risen once again. Yes, we all lost income during this recession. But, the rich lost less than the poor which seems ironic to me since the rich got us into this mess. It probably does pinch to loose a few million in bonuses and have to layoff some of your household staff at the French villa or the uptown apartments.

In our town, services have been cut to the bone and we face more cuts next year. We will loose more teachers and nurses, maintenance workers, providers for mental health. It will be harder to pay our mortgages, afford good child care, send our children to college, feed ourselves. Thousands go hungry in this region every year with more and more families facing food insecurity.

We hear from the captains of industry how important it is for executives to get paid alot. "We otherwise wouldn't be able to hire the best unless we give them small fortunes for their efforts!"

Why don't we hear this argument for our worthy teachers, nurses, care providers, construction crews?

Bliss

Some days I am filled with unexpected bliss. I wish I could bottle this feeling into an elixir to ingest when darker clouds cover my sky. I am light, my heart is wide open, I tap into the root of calm energy. My yoga teacher quotes Adyashanti, "There is no reason to withhold love from anyone or anything." She tells us her belief that love is the agent that can dissolve the sticky grip of the ego that keeps us trapped, stuck, unconnected. "Do you feel good when you can touch your toes and bad when you can't?" There are many crazy ways that I measure my worth, my worthiness. What would happen if I stopped believing in such judegements? I know when I am lying in bed for the last time, too sick or old to get up again, that such judging will seem ridiculous. "What a waste of time," I will say to myself not able to do anything anymore but enjoy the sun flickering through the red leaves or the soft hands of my grandaughter.

For today, perhaps I can let go and flow with the river so much easier than swimming up stream.

Dad's Math Book

I am thinking of my dad today. He showed up in my dream last night more clearly than ever before. He was telling me to put a bookcase in my room where my daughter could leave me questions she had about math problems.

I loved my dad's math books. He kept his high school and college text books around the house, algebra, geometry, calculus. I loved them because I could solve the problems and this gave him pleasure. I understood that strange language of greek symbols, angles, lines, and shapes. It was so satisfying to solve each problem of my homework, check in the back to see if I got the answer right, move on to the next problem to solve. With each assignment completed, I felt as if I had really accomplished something.

I search now for the completeness of accomplishment but its not as easy to find. No one is grading me anymore, there are no games to win, I don't get any bonuses in my line of work. Their isn't a conceivable end to the "to do list." Perhaps its not in the "getting" and "doing" but in the "giving" and "being" where satisfaction resides now in my ripening middle aged life. Its hard to remember this sometimes. When I can be present in the moment, I can find completeness, satisfaction, accomplishment enough. Its not so easily tied up like a math problem given is aliveness and ever changeability. With grace, I find the still point in the river that remains unchanged even as the waters rush by.

"Glamour is not Beauty"

John O'Donohue "insisted that Beauty is a human calling and a defining aspect of God." Beauty comes from the tangle of roots inside. They tap the wellspring of the soul to bring forth creation, creativity. There is beauty in the landscape, the duck's insistent quacking on the pond this morning, the maples slow turning to red.

Last week, may daughter's class visited the nursing home as part of their yearly service project. The 20 children pranced into the dining hall to meet their elder buddies, two kids per elder. The children squired and shook with a wildness around the elders who sat hunched in wheelchairs like snow covered mountains. Several residents sported orange stains on their shirts, a remnant of breakfast slipped from a shaky spoon. Jeanie Bear clapped and smiled when we sang "Take Me Out to the Ball Game," loudly and all together. Alex was delighted to learn that his elder buddy lived her whole life on a farm in the town where he lives now. Because she was blind, Helen held the hands of both of her buddies so she could know where they were. Their soft hands warmed her cold fingers. Jacob couldn't speak or move his hands, so his buddies sang songs to him rather than playing the games they had brought.

Glamour, like wrinkles, resides on the surface of the skin cut off from the deeply nourishing compost that supports our rendering of beauty in the world. God lives in the compost.

Timelessness

I heard the Irish poet and philosopher John ODonohue Sunday morning on NPR's Speaking of Faith. He spoke of that place which resides within each of us that is unwounded and whole. For me, timelessness resides in that deep place where we can rest, day dream, and find pinpoints of joy. You have to slow way down to get there which is hard today in our rush about world. But, I think its worth it to sink down below the waves to the place that is still, timeless, and forever.

Fall Grief

The changing season, wind blowing through the colorful leaves, chill at night, reminds me of father who loved the fall. He died four months ago and I still cry unexpectedly for unknown reasons. Sometimes, I do not even realize that I am sad but feel tension in my jaw and chest, unease in my lungs, anxiety. I scratch and right under the surface the sadness resides. Its hard to dive down into that pool but I brace myself for the plunge and always come out the other side.