Some Days I Resolve

This past year, one of my very best friends and I have been following the advice best summed up in this poem by Jenny Joseph:

Warning

By Jenny Joseph

When I am an old woman I shall wear purple

With a red hat which doesn’t go, and doesn’t suit me.

And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves

And satin sandals, and say we’ve no money for butter.

I shall sit down on the pavement when I’m tired

And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells

And run my stick along the public railings

And make up for the sobriety of my youth.

I shall go out in my slippers in the rain

And pick flowers in other people’s gardens

And learn to spit.

You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat

And eat three pounds of sausages at a go

Or only bread and pickle for a week

And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes.

But now we must have clothes that keep us dry

And pay our rent and not swear in the street

And set a good example for the children.

We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.

But maybe I ought to practice a little now?

So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised

When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.

Jenny Joseph wrote this poem when she was twenty-nine years old. Such wisdom at such a young age! To be honest, neither my friend nor I are willing to grow fat gracefully. And I may spend my pension (or 401k Plan) on wine, not brandy. My girlfriend will probably spend it on fountain Diet Coke. But what we eat and drink is not really the point.

My dear friend and I pinky swore in 2014 to be ourselves. It sounds so elementary.  In our many chats, the kind of chats BFFs are want to have, we realized that we both - way too often - found ourselves being who people wanted us to be or who others expected us to be rather than who we really were. So this past year, we decided we needed to practice being brave. And being brave meant being real. We asked ourselves the hard questions. We fought the power of willful ignorance. We were determined to be who we were created to be.

I don't believe anyone who chooses to do this work can do it alone. We do it in our own time and in our own way with consistent support and persistent prodding. In many ways, as adult friends, we can parent each other, sometimes doing the work of re-parenting, filling in the parts that somehow got missed or messed. Sometimes we do for each other what our parents started for us.

I heard this statistic. One-third of all Americans resolve on New Year's Eve to better themselves in some way. I would have guessed it was more than that.

The statistic goes on.  In this group of "Resolutionists," less than half actually make good on their resolutions, as measured by how many are still on target in six months. I would have guessed it was less than that.

Apparently the secret to being resolute for the long haul is to pick one goal and stick with it.  But how do you pick just one ?

I have been thinking about this all day and I think I have it. I think my friend is going to like this. We have been doing this, both in our own ways, throughout 2014. Here it is, my New Year's Resolution for 2015. It is adapted from the wonderful Ann Lamott:

One step, two steps, breathe, repeat.

Happy New Year!

Wishing everyone the courage, and the support, in 2015 to be who you were created to be.

And, when in doubt, breathe.

Poster by Kathy Sprinkle, Blisshearts.com

Some Days Are Gifts

This Christmas I received the best gift. In truth, I received it many times over. It is a gift that money cannot buy. It is something I am certain many people gave and received this past week, be they young or old, rich or poor, content or grieving. It was something given and received on Christmas Day even by those who do not celebrate Christmas. It is very possible that lives were touched and changed in the giving and receiving of this gift.

This gift is pretty amazing. It can calm the nervous system and decrease blood pressure. It can relax muscles and relieve tension. It can reduce stress and induce sleep.  Plus it is 100% organic and drug-free.

Have you guessed what it is yet? Well, there is more!

This gift can immediately dissipate loneliness and anger. It can instill feelings of safety and connectedness. It can energize. It can communicate love and care.

And it costs nothing. Nada. Free. What a gift!

Our family of three gathered with the extended Shuler family in St. Louis this Christmas. When we arrived, we exchanged this gift. When a new Shuler faction arrived, we exchanged once again. It had been a long time since several of us had been together and even longer since all of us were together. So it felt good to gift each other again and again throughout our stay. My daughter gave me this gift multiple times. Sometimes her gift-giving was so intense, it took my breathe away. When we left for our separate homes this weekend, we gave this gift to each other one last time. Some of us tearfully held on to the giving and receiving for a good long time.

Have you figured out what this fabulous, healthy, emotionally uplifting, wholesome, nontaxable gift can be?

It is a hug.

There was a public service announcement back in the 80's that asked, "Have you hugged your kid today?"  Excellent public reminder.

Wimp.com posted a Free Hug video this morning. The young man in the video shared hugs with the very young and the very old, with men and woman, with the business-suit clad and the workout clad. There were group hugs and solitary hugs. It is heartwarming and fun to watch.

Many of us have seen the viral photo of a Ferguson police sergeant and a 12-year-old hugging. The 12-year-old was holding a 'Free Hugs" sign. It is being referred to as "the hug shared around the world."

There is a line of products marketed under the phrase "consider yourself hugged." The phrase started when a young student went away to college. She always signed her letters home "consider yourself hugged." Her hug led to a whole line of blankets, pillows, and t-shirts to remind the recipients to do just that, consider themselves hugged.

Then there is this: {Hug} Or this: \(*.*)/  Cyberhugs, promises of hugs waiting.

Virginia Satir, a psychologist, calculated, "We need 4 hugs a day for survival. We need 8 hugs a day for maintenance. We need 12 hugs a day for growth."  How hard could it be to advance from mere survival to growth? As hard as giving and receiving 8 hugs, it would seem. Not so hard. Soft in fact.

It is easy to forget or at least minimize the powerful, life affirming benefits of a hug. Now that I have given this some thought, I hope to never take a good hug for granted. Nor do I hope to withhold a hug when the urge to hug strikes.

Tidings of comfort and joy to all! And, until we meet again,  \(*.*)/

Some Days Are Christmas

It's Christmas!  I am up before dawn, waiting for my family to stir, waiting for the light of day. I am unexpectedly excited, feeling like a child on Christmas morning!

I believe that several weeks ago, in anticipation of this day, I wrapped my feelings in a big box and covered the box with sparkles and a bright bow. Some days my not so Christmasy emotions would slip past that box lid. But in general, the holiday busyness and the traditional and ever expanding list-of-things-to-do helped keep those emotions under wrap.

There have been some beautiful moments. Like being in the audience for the Holiday Band Concert. One of the numbers was so moving, it brought me to tears. And taking our annual family Christmas picture. Always lots of laughter and general silliness with that tradition. And sitting in the glow of the Christmas tree lights with my husband.

I have so much for which I am grateful. And now, at this moment, I am savoring this early Christmas morning. Anticipating joy. Trusting that good is possible and achievavble. Having little need for absolutes. Content to be content. Feeling swaddled in love.

I am feeling HOPE. What a gift to awaken in hope. The best gift to come out of the box.

Wake up, everybody!

It's Christmas!

Some Days Are Windy

The word is out that it is going to be a windy Christmas. Unlike snow, wind does not make everything white and new. Also unlike snow, the wind has no shape or form. Nevertheless, we can feel its presence.  And, like snow, wind can be soft and gentle or strong and constant.

I recall a Christmas story about wind. It is a children's book, Rudey's Windy Christmas, by Helen Baugh. Rudey was one of Santa's lesser known reindeer. He ate too many sprouts on Christmas Eve.  Poor Rudey, he had an issue with wind. Pretty hilarious story.

Wind is also a metaphor for Spirit.  I do not consistently think of God when it snows but I almost always think of God when I feel or hear the wind. Wind on Christmas will be a good reminder of God's love and presence.

Thomas Merton wrote "No writing...can say anything that has already been said better by the wind in the pine trees."

I will be listening.

Some Days Are Lived in a Snow Globe

Although this post is shared from my Christian perspective, I do believe that my experiences these days are universal.

My mind is all over that place. Shopping for gifts. Decorating. Planning. Seeing friends. Attending holiday programs. Sending cards. Observing Advent. Fighting depression. Figuring out which one on the strand is the dead lightbulb.

And then there is all the other stuff of living. Parenting. Working and sending paperwork to the almighty insurance companies. Fighting depression. Shopping. Cooking. Cleaning. Loving my spouse.

And blogging....There are some things I have been letting go.

Friday morning it was snowing.  It was a gentle snow, each snowflake small and light, seeming to float rather than fall. When the flakes finally reached the ground, they swirled, then scattered, then swirled again.  It was like watching constantly changing white dust patterns on the streets.

That snow was a visual of what my head has felt like all week. Scattered, swirling thoughts, never fully formed.

My head is in a snow globe.

Judging by the people I see around me, I think that visual is true for many of us. We are all walking around with snow globe heads. The holidays do a good job of mentally, emotionally, physically, or spiritually shaking us up.

As a Christian, I believe that God became fully human and lived among us.  That is an amazing thought. The more I am mindful of that thought, the more I am in awe of God.

So what do we do? We string lights and bake cookies and send cards. We display pretty Silent Night images to prettify the reality of a birth in a smelly animal shelter.

The birth of Jesus was a miracle. Over and beyond who he is and what he came to proclaim, it is rather amazing that he survived his infancy. He was born in an unsanitary barn. His family needed to escape for his life. I am certain his parents were lonely and heartsick, pushed to the margins of a ruthless society.

So what do we do? We fill our heads with so much clatter, that we forget that the world Jesus entered is our world. The message he came to share was our message.

It is obvious to me that my next step this season is to decrease my cynicism. It does not seem to be accomplishing much except to keep me swirling and swearing. How I am going to accomplish this is not as obvious.  I will keep you posted.

Some Days Are Elephants

My down time has been invaded by elephants this past week. Over the Thanksgiving holiday, I read Jodi Picoult's latest novel Leaving Time. For me, there is so much that is so satisfying in a Jodi Picoult novel. She always writes in the gray. Nothing is black or white. Her novel Leaving Time is about loss and grief and elephants. Yes, elephants.

Now I am reading a book in a different genre. It is a book by Letitia Sweitzer titled Elephant in the ADHD Room. The elephant connect was totally random, if you believe in totally random.

I have elephants on my mind.  I have been thinking about elephants, talking about elephants, even googling elephants. Someone I know is traveling to Malaysia.  The first thing that came to mind is that he would probably be seeing elephants.

So naturally, I was thinking about one of my favorite cartoons.

"Elephant in the room" implies that an obvious problem or situation is being ignored. Or that people do not want to acknowledge it. Much like the situations leading to events in Ferguson and other cities in our nation.

While we all may not agree on the nature of this elephant, many of us are acknowledging there is an elephant, an enormous elephant in fact. It is walking down America's streets and entering our conversations, too big to be ignored. At the very least, we need to respect its size. And its color. Elephants are always gray, never black or white.

Some Days Are Parables

Recently I read a book review written by Richard Rohr. It was such a wonderful review, I bought the book. I may give it as a Christmas gift.

The book is a children's story.  The beauty of most children's stories is that they can include lessons for everyone, not just children.

I was thinking about the book's lesson when the Ferguson verdict was rendered.  I was thinking about this message as I read one liners on Facebook, saw memes, read blogposts and news articles, and listened to radio and T.V.

The book is Old Turtle and the Broken Truth. It was written by Douglas Wood. It is a story of how the world can became fragmented and what is needed to make it whole.

In the story, a truth falls from the sky.  As it falls, the truth breaks in two. Once piece falls to earth and the other shoots off into the sky.

A man finds the part of the truth that fell to earth.  The piece had the words "You are loved" carved into it.  The man shared it with his tribe. There was much happiness. It felt great for them to believe they held "The Truth."

Then came the problem. The people who held the truth started to fear those who did not. Those who were feared desired the truth. So wars were waged. There was fighting over who possessed The Truth. No one was able to see that what was held and what was desired was a half truth.

In the story, a little girl was very troubled by the unrest and violence. She went on a long journey in order to talk to Old Turtle.

Old Turtle was wise. He knew that "You are loved," as great as that may be, could not stand alone.  So, Old Turtle and the little girl went together to search for what was missing.

They found the missing half and the girl brought it back to her people. The people had a hard time listening. From their perspective, they knew The Truth and The Truth was not to be challenged.

Finally, the two broken pieces are joined. The people could now see the full truth. They began to understand what they had been missing....

You are loved / and so are they.

And the earth began to heal.

From The Oreganian, 11/28/14
In this photo shot by freelance photographer Johnny Nguyen, Sgt. Bret Barnum (left) hugs 12-year-old Devonte Hart during the Ferguson rally in Portland on Nov. 25, 2014. According to Sgt. Barnum, the moment took place at the beginning of the rally while speakers were addressing the crowd. He noticed a young man with tears in his eyes holding a "Free Hugs" sign among a group of people. Sgt. Barnum motioned him over and they started talking about the demonstration, life, school, and art. As the conversation ended, Sgt. Barnum pointed to his sign and asked, "Do I get one of those?" The moment following that was captured in the powerful photo above, which shows the young man tearing up again during the embrace. After the exchange, the young man rejoined his friends and Sgt. Barnum went back about his duties. Johnny Nguyen/Special to the Oregonian

Some Days Are Unabashedly Bragging

While my mom was alive, she and my daughter shared a sweet relationship. Despite my mom's cognitive decline, the two of them had a wonderful time coloring, building puzzles, and looking at picture books.  As my mom's illness advanced, my daughter loved pushing her wheelchair and brushing her hair.

My daughter was four when my mother needed nursing home assistance. In the nursing home, my daughter joined the occupational therapy games, doing things like tossing a ball in a circle of elderly people. She would boldly approach elderly people who were sitting alone. She would hold their face between her hands and say something gentle like "Hi, sweetie."  When my mom lost her ability to speak, my daughter continued to chat with her as we strolled around the floor, feeling at home and sharing a bit of home.

My mom had dementia but she taught my daughter so much.

"Beautiful people do not just happen."  This is the last line of a famous Elizabeth Kubler-Ross quote.  I have had the privilege of watching my daughter's beauty emerge from a young age.

Yesterday, my daughter, now fourteen years old, and I rode the Metra downtown. She had a photography assignment and needed to shoot a roll of film in a natural environment.

Ever since she was a toddler, my daughter loved to go downtown Chicago.  Often I would push her in a collapsable stroller to our local Metra station and we would ride the train. On cold or snowy days, we would get off at Union Station, have a hot cocoa, and hop back on again.

Just as my daughter had a gift for noticing the lonely folks in the nursing home, she has always noticed homeless people on the city streets. She would often direct me and say, "Give him money, Mommy." One time, I told her that we give money at church to help people who are homeless and hungry. My daughter's comeback was, "Did this guy get any of that church money?"  We put money in his cup.

As she grew, her compassion matured. When she saw someone who was homeless she would query, "Where do you think he will sleep tonight?" Or "What do you think she has to eat?"  When we were downtown Kansas City, she gave fruit to a homeless woman and some of her own money to a homeless man.

Yesterday, we gave money to several homeless people.  We talked with a homeless man. This man asked about her photography assignment. He told her she could be anything she wants to be - a photographer, a teacher, a doctor.  We smiled and wished him well.  We walked away and she whispered sadly, "Oh, Mom."

We saw another homeless man talking to himself which led to a discussion about the mentally ill and homelessness.  My beautiful downtown girl said that, if you hallucinate, at least you have someone to talk with. You would never be lonely even when you are alone.

This much I know is true: My daughter is one of the most beautiful persons I know.

Some Days Are Born In Our Hearts

November is National Adoption Awareness Month  In honor of this month, I will share one of my favorite adoption-related stories.

When our daughter was just barely a year old, she and I went on an amazing stroller adventure, stopping to play at a local park. The park was quiet that day. School was back in session.

There was a mom sitting on a bench and reading. Her son was playing alone but soon joined us. He told me he was five. He was friendly and so good with my little toddler. He pushed her swing. He stood at the bottom of the slide to greet her on her way down. He was an excellent playground mentor.

After a few minutes of playing, the boy nodded his head toward my daughter, lowered his voice, and asked solemnly, "Is she an adopt?"

"Wow," I said, "You are pretty smart for a five year old. Yes, we adopted our daughter."

And we continued to play.

After a while, he had another question. "Does she speak English?"

"Another great question!" I answered. "Yes, she speaks English because she has lived with us since she was born."

He nodded again, looking as if he had figured it all out.  Then he asked, "What language will she speak when she grows up?"

Happy National Adoption Awareness Month, everyone!

Some Days Are Replays

I have listened to a video clip five times since yesterday morning. Five times. I first listened while driving in the car. I listened again while walking (and freezing). The next two times I listened while sitting. Finally this morning, I listened again while doing the dishes.

Obviously, it is time to blog.

I guess I could say the topic of the video clip is "speaking to me." I feel a bit like a child watching the same DVD over and over. Or the teenager who listens to the same recording again and again.

I found this video clip in a blog. On Monday morning I was driving home from an excellent adventure with my college friends. Since I was out in farm country, FM reception was scratchy. So I plugged in my iPhone and listened on the car speakers.

The video clip was entitled "No One Cares For My Soul." I did not know what to expect exactly when I first listened. I did not know anything about the speaker. I do not know the blogger either, for that matter. I just like the way she thinks and expresses herself.

Here is what has been going through my mind from about the fourth time I listened....

People may profess a faith. Or not. People may participate in organized religion. Or not. But I think the biggest group are those who believe that our physical bodies hold a soul. We may call it different names like spirit, essence, inner self, life force, energy. We may even think of it in different ways, based on what we are taught or what we believe.

I know - and I am pretty certain others could agree - that a soul can be hurt. That a soul can be sick. I know this because I experienced a hurting soul. The sad part was that very few people understood this. The words "my soul is wounded" seemed to be received like gibberish. It does sound crazy. Sounds even crazier when it is embedded in all kinds of emotion. Yet, we speak of a soul as an entity we possess, like a mind and a body. A mind can get sick. A body can be wounded. Why not a soul?

I think soul sickness and wounds happen to people all the time. I think what happens is real. I do have thoughts on how this happens. I think the speaker in this video clip has some excellent thoughts on how this happens.

With the grace of God, I am not in the same place, metaphysically and literally. I am pleased to say that these days my soul is robust. And at peace. Now if I could get my mind and body into that same space, things would be excellent! But I digress.

Another thing. I am not certain we know exactly what we are talking about when we refer to the human soul. For starters, it is pretty abstract. Not exactly the stuff of cocktail party/kegger conversation. Not even the stuff of faith community conversation often times. Then, how do we know when a  soul is sick or injured? What exactly does that mean? And, perhaps the most important question, what do we do when someone we know and love is soul sick?

Heavy, right?  For me, I required some fairly drastic measures to heal my soul.  There is a great book just published by Kathy Escobar entitled Faith Shift. Her book gave me the language for what I had experienced.

May things be well with your soul

Oh, yes. Here is the clip. It is almost ten minutes.

No One Cares For My Soul www.youtube.com/watch?v=2l7s7vn2740 

Some Days Are Meltdowns

Children have meltdowns. They are big, loud emotional storms. We have all witnessed them because where and when meltdowns occur are arbitrary. They happen at home or at Walmart or the grocery store. Yesterday, a four year old had a meltdown in a public washroom.

Meltdowns are all about being frustrated and overwhelmed. Thus, temper tantrum is a misnomer. Meltdowns are not intentional and they cannot be put on hold. Poor mommies and daddies know there is an audience, potentially judging.

I believe some of the Public Meltdown Observers are indeed judging, even in thinking something as subtle as "my children never did that." Other Public Meltdown Observers are empathizing and would love to help if they could. 

Meltdowns are not within children's control.  Their brains have fresh, spongy, yet-to-be-developed prefrontal cortex.  This area of the brain is known as the "executive." It facilitates problem solving, inhibition, and self control.  All of this is not fully developed until people are in their mid twenties.

When an underdeveloped prefrontal cortex cannot help out, children are at the mercy of their lower brain. Lower brain is all about instinct. If you think about it, punishment plays to children's lower brain, encouraging more instinctual fight or flight. In contrast, security and safety given by a caring adult plays to that same activated lower brain.

From a brain-based perspective, the mommy in the bathroom yesterday was just what her young son needed.  She did not reason, offer incentive (bribe), or scold.  She did not resort to her own lower brain and start to yell. She stayed calm, acknowledged his fear, and kept her son safe. It was really quite beautiful to behold.

Adults have meltdowns too. I have seen prefrontal cortex functioning shut down at the most unbecoming times - in the checkout line, on the soccer field, in meetings. 

I had a recent meltdown.  It was Friday, late afternoon.  I believe my prefrontal cortex was just tired. Inhibiting and problem solving were just too exhausting. Maybe. Like with children, my meltdown was irrational and came from a place of frustration and overwhelming emotions.

Fortunately for the greater good of society, my meltdown occurred when I was completely alone and in the comfort of our home, on a soft chair, under a blanket. And I did not shout or scream or throw. I cried. A lot. And for a fairly long time.

I tell this in a blog because it is my truth. Telling it helps me.  For me "Fake It 'Til You Make It" is slightly flawed and does not work so well anymore.  Most of the time I am not really fooling anyone anyhow. At least I am not fooling people who know me and love me.

When I am a bit raw and fragile, I need someone with the wisdom of that mommy in the bathroom.  I need to connect to my emotional safety net - people who hang with me, puffy eyes and all.

After the storm, there is the  question I ask myself,  "OMG, what just sent me over the edge?" I suspect the mommy in the bathroom had already processed and perhaps even anticipated her son's stress. He needed to pee and he was wearing snow pants. Meltdowns may be irrationally but they come from somewhere.

Then, once again, I needed to remember I don't need fixing.  We all get tender and raw and fragile. When I was younger, I use to bottle it up and withdrawn, thinking I was...well...a whack job. So maybe I am a whack job, but that seems to be part of the human experience.

Friday evening, I said to the man I love, "I had a big old boo hoo this afternoon." What could be more affirming than his response, "Is there anything I can do to help?"   This is the connection that heals and transforms, that keeps you safe until the storm passes.

Love wins.

Some Days Are Not Fully Dressed

I am wondering...have you ever forgotten an important wardrobe accessory at home? Do you know the feeling when you cannot wait to get back home and get out of your work clothes?

Years ago, I was employed by Michael Reese Hospital and Medical Center. I was on staff at the Siegel Institute for Communication Disorders. It was a wonderful position at a very prestigious institution, beautifully located off Lake Shore Drive in Chicago.  Nina Kraus (a neuroscientist big in our biz) was doing her research there at the time. Several famous Chicagoans frequented Siegel Institute for services. It was quite the place to be as a young professional.

I have great memories of my time at Siegel Institute. It was a work environment all about learning and professionalism. I also have a couple of stories, stories that are pretty much the antithesis to Michael Reese professionalism. The stories involve work clothes, or lack thereof.

I was surrounded by excellence. The kind of excellence that demanded, minimally, shoes and bras.

I'll start at the beginning of the shoe story.  It was a beautiful summer day, a day with weather suggesting that a dress, sandals, and no stockings would be a perfect selection. As part of my morning routine, I placed items I needed for the day at the door. Things like paperwork, lunch, shoes. I had a bad and rather illegal habit of driving barefoot in the summer.

In a rush as usual, I swept up everything piled at the door, threw it all on the passenger seat, and drove to work. I found a convenient parking space behind the Institute and swung open the door to put on my sandals. OMG. My sandals. They did not make the sweep at the door.

One of the plusses of working at a medical center is that there are gift shops. These gift shops cater to hospitalized people. I walked barefoot to the gift shop and bought a pair of fake leather scuffs. They were beige. Of course beige would go with everything, if you are into the look that screams "I am wearing slippers." My feet screamed that the entire day.

Another time I was driving home from the Siegel Institute. The outfit I had been wearing that day required a strapless bra. Personally, I have never had a strapless bra that was pleasant to wear. It was a full day at work and at quitting time I could not stand the jabbing underwire one second longer.

I entered the bumper-to-bumper Kennedy Expressway rush hour traffic with a sequenced plan: inch along, brake, undo bra clasp, inch along, brake, lean over onto passenger seat, pull bra over the top of dress, sit up, inch along. It was poetry in motion, until I saw a truck driver. This truck driver was way above my little Pontiac Sunbird and apparently had a front row seat to my entire procedure, especially the part where the undergarment popped out.

If having a truck driver watch you remove your torture bra on a crowded expressway was not enough, this particular truck driver was quite the fun loving fellow.  Every time traffic stopped, he yelled out his window, "Hey, lady, keep your underwear on." I kid you not. He shouted this several times and then laughed with glee. I pretended to not know what he was talking about, looked around at other cars trapped on the expressway, and shrugged my shoulders, doing the "he must be crazy" hand sign.

If a truck driver ever tells you a story about the time he witnessed a young women undressing on the expressway, it was not me.

I thank God that forgetting shoes and releasing a bra can make me laugh. Not certain I could have made it through the rigors of work without an unprofessional faux pas scattered in along the way.

Some Days Are Hope Chests

Our friend Roger lost the love of his life last Thursday. Tom was a vibrant man who died suddenly. Roger told us he needed to stay in the present moment because memories were painful and a life without Tom was unimaginable.

Back in the day, there was a piece of furniture called a hope chest. A hope chest was a large trunk used by a young woman to collect items in anticipation of married life. With many of us marrying later in life, a hope chest today can be the size of a two bedroom apartment with a storage bin.

Right now and for some time to come, Roger needs a hope chest.  Not to store household items but to store hope. In the midst of grief and loss, hope is illusive, fleeting at best. It is hard to hope when all you can feel is a heavy heart.

At times like these, friends and family become hope chests. We hold on to hopes and dreams for the person who has lost. We carry hope until he can hope again. Until he can dream again. Until the memories are not painful. Until he is strong enough to revise his dream and dream again.

I think this is true for all people experiencing all forms of loss and trauma. I believe it is just as true for people with amazing faith. We know the story of the Amish community in Lancaster, Pennsylvania who, almost immediately, forgave the man who killed their daughters. They were hanging on to the promises of God. That was their hope chest.

Having a hope chest does not take away the pain. No one can do that. Even those Amish people felt deep, dark pain.

I wish Roger the peace of no expectations. I wish him the strength to allow others to carry what he needs until the time he can hope and dream again.

Some Days Are Expressive

No mother jumps for joy hearing a daughter say, "I hate you!" I know I did not feel all warm and cuddly the first time I heard this. But I was not exactly shocked or wounded. Actually, I was kind of expecting it. For two reasons.

First of all, I do not have enough fingers and toes to count the number of times I have encouraged my daughter to "tell me how you feel" rather than slam doors or pout. Use Your Words! The ultimate parental mantra.  If we preach it, we best be prepared for times when freedom of expression lets loose with both barrels.

Then there is this: I hated my mom at times too. Did I just write that? Growing up, I could not even imagine saying this. In my generation and in my household, using your words was not on the top ten list of advice given to daughters.

I do remember the feeling though. My mom would say things like "wait and ask your father." Dear God, I hated that one. It made me furious.

So when my daughter lets out a "I hate you" I do not say, "Don't say that!"  I do not sweetly respond, "Well I love you." I think these responses are mildly ridiculous. I tell my daughter that I hated my mom at times too when I did not get what I wanted. And that what we really hate is that we can't have [fill-in-the-blank] and that is what is prompting the "I hate you."

This summer, at age fourteen, my daughter really wanted to pierce her lip. Our conversation went something like this:

Me: "No. Absolutely not. No way, no how. No. That is just crazy. You are fourteen! NO!"

She: "Why not?"

Me: "You may think it is just jewelry but some people will form negative perceptions of you based on piercings alone."

She: "Maybe you worry too much about other people's perceptions."

Busted. She knows me well. I do worry too much what other people think. So we compromised. She had her ear cartilage pierced.

Last night we were at a party and I talked with a woman I had recently met. We had a great time, talking about anything and everything. We seemed to be on the same wavelength. We laughed a lot. Then, in the middle of talking about God knows what, she said, "If I were younger, I think I would pierce my nose or my eyebrow, And my belly button, definitely my belly button. So darn cute."

So I just had to know, "Tell me how you were raised."

She gave me a wonderful description of her family of origin.  She described a raucous home with lots of noise, lots of banter, and lots of laughter. Good place to learn to express yourself, I would imagine.

My new friend and my daughter march to an amazing and different drummer. It seems to be a mix of nature facilitated by nurture. My daughter still absolutely cannot pierce her face, but after last night, I understand a little better why she might want to do this. And I would like to introduce my daughter to my new friend. I have a sneaky suspicion they are going to love each other.

Some Days Are Black and Blue

Several weeks ago I woke with a bruise on my thigh. I had no idea where the bruise came from. This has happened to all of us, right?

So I sat and stared at the bruise. Puzzled over it; went through all activities of the day before. What did I do? When could I have bumped my leg hard enough to bruise it? Why can't I remember doing this? Is my blood clotting okay? Yes. I progressed from pondering when did I bump a piece of furniture to pondering the signs and symptoms of blood clotting disorders. This happens, right?

Back to the bruise. I push at it. Ouch, that hurt. The hurt helped me keep my focus. Now I really needed to figure out how this happened. Think. Think. As I think, I push at the bruise. Ouch. You do this too, right?

Finally, I made a decision to carry on with the day. "God only knows."  Time to leave the mysterious occurrence behind and let the bruise fade away.  I stopped the madness by the time my first cup of coffee was brewed. This was good progress for me. I am not one to step away from the the analysis loop.

I do not think I am much different than most people. I do not like unresolved stuff. It stays in my forefront. I go through events, situations, conversations. Think. Think. There have got to be answers. Solutions.

Except when there are not.

I think the desire for closure is strong. I think the desire for understanding can be equally as strong. But there is a rub. Sometimes there are no answers, at least not immediate answers. At these times, there is danger to complete closure and understanding. The danger is that we can make assumptions. We can jump to conclusions. We think we have closure and understanding when in fact our assumptions are false and our conclusions are far from the truth.

I am learning that sometimes I have to force myself to move on, to live with the mystery, to live with the not knowing. I need to keep living into the answers. Because bruises happen.

Biomedical illustration of a virus by Fanatic Studios

Some Days Are Scandalous

I just spent the last thirty minutes listening to the speech Monica Lewinsky gave at Forbes' 30 Under 30 Summit yesterday. Her speech was posted on Facebook.

As I listened, I thought anyone hearing her words could not help but feel compassion for the total dreadfulness of her experience.  After listening, I read the posted comments. Some of the responders voiced a sense of compassion. Well over half, however, were outraged. Some were quite crass in their expression of outrage. Some refused to believe anything she had to say, posting things like, "She knew he was married, she deserved the crap that followed."

I am grateful these negative responders were not around when I was in my twenties. I did not have an affair with a married man.  Nor do I recall dating a single political figure. But I did make a fool of myself. I have a life theory that many people make a fool of themselves over someone of the opposite sex in their twenties. Most of us learn our lesson and go on to make wiser choices. Some of these lessons for some of us are harder learned than for others.

All of the negative commenters pretty much proved the point Monica Lewinsky made in her speech.  Her point was not that she had made a mistake. No kidding she made a mistake.  Her point was not that she used poor judgment. Is anyone debating poor judgment? Her point was not even that she was young, although she was in her early twenties.

Her point was to share her experience of shame, public shame. The kind of public shame that made her wonder if she could go on living. The kind of shame that made others, like Tyler Clementi, decide they could not go on living. The kind of shame the Internet can facilitate.

Monica Lewinsky was talking about her own experience. Her experience was painful, for all involved. Adultery exposed is never pretty, be it locally or internationally. She was telling her story. A story that involved the World Wide Web, among other things. My personal take was that telling her story took a helluva lot of guts.

Near the end of her speech, Monica Lewinsky quoted Oscar Wilde. Interestingly, a century before the Clinton/Lewinsky scandal, Oscar Wilde was enmeshed in a scandal. He was arrested and convicted of "gross indecency." Oscar Wilde was gay and went to prison because of this. The quote she referred to was written by Wilde when he was imprisoned.

 "Beyond sorrow, there is sorrow. To mock at a soul in pain is a dreadful thing."

Some Days Are Daring Greatly

There are moment in our lives when we hear something we need to hear, when we are ready to hear it.  When this happens, it could be serendipity. Or it could be the handiwork of God.

It happened to me this morning. I heard something that will carry me through today.

Today I woke early and somehow stumbled on a YouTube video featuring Brene Brown.  Dr. Brown is a researcher, professor, author, and speaker. Awareness of Brene Brown is a gift someone gave me years ago.

Her words satisfied a longing in me today. I am on the back side of OOTW. You know, One Of Those Weeks. We all have them. Brene's talk (yes, I have decided to be on a first-name-basis with Brene) was on having the courage to be creative. But creative courage was not exactly my takeaway today.

Her talk made me think of the whole process of making decisions, long reached decisions. Most people can relate to the feelings that emerge during these decision-making times. For me, the overriding feeling is fear; not so much fear of making decisions but fear of living with the choices. Obviously not referring to what to have for dinner.

What makes the decision-making process beautiful are the people who lighten the load. The ones, as Brene says, who believe in what we are doing and why we are doing it. The ones who pick us up and dust us off; who call us brave. The ones who journey up the stairs with us.

What makes the process difficult are the critical voices from the sidelines, include the voices in our own heads. I have dubbed that voice in my head my "left shoulder voice." It always seems to be perched right there waiting to squash anything requiring sustained courage. These voices make us freeze when we are at the bottom of our metaphorical stairs.

Here is the quote that Brene Brown said changed her life. It is a quote from Theodore Roosevelt, with several dot.dot.dot ellipses:

It's not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the person who is in the arena. Whose face is marred with dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly ... who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly ...

The quote that I needed to hear today was not Mr. Roosevelt's, great as it is.  The quote that resonated for me was Brene's. It was advise for those damn critical voices:

If you are not in the arena getting your butt kicked, I'm not interested in your feedback.

Whoa.

What I am hearing in Brene's message is that it is not necessary to stop caring about what others say and feel. That could potentially turn us into The Walking Numb.

But we can be aware that sometimes we need to say to those voices, especially the ones over our left shoulder:

I see you. I hear you.

But I need to climb these stairs anyway.

Thank you, God, for serendipity.

photo from leonie'slonging.org

Some Days Are Unbelievable

Does the truth matter?

Yesterday was a U.S. national holiday, observed annually on the second Monday in October. Since this holiday was declared in 1934, we are learning disturbing things about Christopher Columbus, the holiday's namesake. On a positive note, he was greedy and ruthless. Then it all goes downhill. He kidnapped hundreds of people, dealt in child prostitution, murdered indigenous people.

All of this was written in his own journals and logs.  In the 1500's Columbus was forcibly taken to Spain to face charges for "crimes against humanity." None of this conjecture, all on the record.

What is the matter with me? Why would I write such things? Why am I trying to upset people? Columbus was a hero. He sailed a yacht-sized ship through uncharted waters. He was brave and strong.  His character is not relevant. Let history read the way it has been written.

We can call the people who would dare to write a post as this delusional; someone who obviously hates America and does not care that people enjoy three-day weekends.

The truth shall set you free. As long as you believe it.

Some Days Are Puzzles

I met a new person last spring. This fall I am getting to know her better. Her name is Maggie. She is a cardiac surgeon, obviously bright and accomplished. Maggie is also biracial and adopted, traits that run in our family.

I am looking forward to learning Maggie's insights on adoption and race, from an adult's perspective. I want to meet Maggie's parents and learn their story from the adoptive parents' perspectives. But more than that, I am intrigued by Maggie's personality and how she came to be the person she is today.

Maggie said last Thursday, "When I find a puzzle, it is very hard for me to put it down." I can so relate. I say, "When I find a puzzle, it is very hard for me not to analyze the crap out of it."

Maggie went on. “Most puzzles come down to one last piece of information, whether it’s the answer to a medical mystery or to the question of who you are or where you fit, it all comes down to that last piece.”

I wonder...How far is a person willing to go to find that last puzzle piece? How important is it? What if it cannot be found? How will Maggie live into the puzzles? How will I?

My relationship with Maggie is a bit one sided and totally dependent on the storytelling genius of Shonda Rhimes.   You see, Maggie is Dr. Maggie Pierce, a new character on Grey's Anatomy.

Some Days Are Squeakers

Marriage is a wonderful experience. Not only do Jay and I share love and life, we share vocabulary. Before Jay, I knew nothing about cars and car terminology. My ignorance resulted in blowing out an engine. True story. Ignorance is not bliss. It is expensive.

I will share with you three words that I have added to my vocabulary while living life with Jay. These words are squeakers, limiter, and pole.

Squeakers is a way-too-cute name for an awful sound. I found out about squeakers when I first owned a car that had this feature built into the brake system. It is rather elementary yet genius. Squeakers are basically a warning that your brakes need attention, sooner rather than later. The sound of squeakers is akin to a loose spring banging against an aluminum pie tin. This sound is present when the wheels are turning, saying to the driver TIME TO DO BRAKES constantly, unrelentingly until you give the brakes the needed attention.

Limiter. I do not even pretend to understand this one. It has to do with a computer setting in a car engine that limits the speed of the engine so it does not blow up. I could have used a limiter on the car I destroyed.

Jay and I have personified the term limiter. We will say, "He is on the limiter" or "Warning, I am on my limiter." Basically, it is the same as saying "He is on his last nerve" or "I am in messy, emotional overload." Personal limiters are as important as car limiters. A personal limiter can keep you from imploding or exploding, damaging yourself and others. It is important to keep your limiter in good working condition.

People could use squeakers too. In fact, people have squeakers. We just do not always recognize them as warning systems. Personal squeakers can be loud - like the sound of a bully harassing another person. Or personal squeakers can be quiet - like the soundlessness of a person withdrawing. Squeakers are the external equivalent of limiters. Without understanding, personal squeakers are just irritating. Not the warning system they truly are, letting others know that important attention is needed, sooner rather than later.

The final word is pole. The first time Jay told me he was on the pole, I had such a weird image come to mind. I now know being on the pole is a great thing. It means you will start a car race in first place. But here is my initial image and the old joke the words being on the pole evoked...

Jose came to America, ready to embrace his new life. The first thing he did was go to a baseball game. However, he could not find a seat.  In desperation, he climbed the flagpole and sat on the top. Perfect view, he thought. Before the game began, everyone in the stadium rose, faced him and sang "Jose, can you see." I love America, smiled Jose.

Some Days Are Blackjack

What do this century, CornHole, Blackjack, and this blog have in common?

Cue Jeopardy music.

Da da da da da da da. Da da da da DA, dadadada. Da da da da da da da DA, da da da DUH, DUH, DUUHH.

Did you get it?  Actually, there are two answers.  The first  answer is "21." It is the 21st century, the winning score in CornHole and in Blackjack is 21, and this is my 21st blog entry. Good job!

The second answer is that all the items on this list have the potential to generate stories.  For example, although not technically 21st century, oh the stories we could tell about Y2K. People in the computer biz are chock-full of stories of their lives leading up to Y2K. Stories about all work and no play. And maybe no sleep.  My story would be remembering and marveling that every stoplight was busy doing its thing early in the morning of January 1, 2000. Way to perform, grid.

When I think CornHole, I think 4th of July. Jay's brother Bryan constructed CornHole platform boards in the usual Shuler fashion: perfectly. CornHole, replete with all kinds of silly, funny, out-of-control shenanigans, went on all weekend. Our daughter still pulls her pj bottoms up to her pits and struts around saying, "I am Uncle Bryan!" You had to be there.

Blackjack triggers stories of visiting Melody and Steve in Vegas. We all played at a group arcade and our daughter, perhaps six years old, won. All the teen and twenty-something boys could be heard saying, "That little girl beat us?" You betcha, fellas!

And then my blog. I admit, I do not know what I am doing exactly. I just keep doing it. Although 21 blogs later, I believe I am living more fully now that I have taken on this new hobby.

Norman MacLean wrote, "Somewhere along here I became conscious of the feeling...that comes when you first notice your life turning into a story." He said this in A River Runs Through It and Other Stories (emphasis mine).

So it seems. All our lives are stories, just waiting for us to realize this. And then waiting for us to find our voice.

Some Days Are Hotel Rwanda

Never again.  The world vowed after the horrors of the Holocaust. Never again can this be allowed to happen. Until it happened again. And again. And again.

Never again is happening now.  In the Iraqi city of Mosul, there is a mass exodus as the Islamic State orders Christians to leave, convert, or die. The Syrian civil war has displaced tens of thousands of Syrian refugees to Lebanon.  Historically, Lebanese hate Syrians. The stage is set.  It will happen again. And again.

On Sunday evening, I had the privilege to listen as Mr. Paul Rusesabagina spoke to a group in Arlington Heights.  Paul Rusesabagina is the Rwandan hotelier who protected 1,268 Hutu and Tutsi refugees during the Rwandan Genocide of 1994. We know his story best through the movie Hotel Rwanda.

1994 - the year before I met my husband.  I was living in Chicago, working, and watching cable television.  Cable television made global events up close and personal. During the Iran-Iraqi bombings, I hated being home alone. It seemed as though the bombings were as near as Schaumburg.

By 1994, I was finding the trick to T.V. news watching. Reports from Rwanda were devastating. The word Genocide was being used. Again. My solution unfortunately was as simple as a remote click: Click On. Watch. Gasp. Shudder. Click Off

I went to hear Paul Rusesabagina for two reasons. One was that he is a hero. It is an honor to be in the same room as a hero. The next person I hope to be in the same room with is Pope Francis. Or maybe Matt Damon. Or Emma Watson.

The other reason I went is I was curious. What would he suggest we do?  By "we" I mean those of us living in the cozy, cushy northwest 'burbs of Chicago.  As a citizen of the world, what can I hope to do as 20% of a population is being decimated in a landlocked country in central Africa? Or in the Middle East?

There was so much said by this man and so much more he could share. Three takeaways:

It's All About Power

Almost every situation in human history is about getting and keeping power.  You either have the power or you do not.  Us/Them, In/Out, Good/Bad, Right/Wrong.  The power is always shifting.  If you do not have the power, you are out - exiled or marginalized. Convert, leave, or die. Think like we do, get out of our lives, or go to hell.

Every day we can be influenced by power or by lack of power, by trying to gain power or by trying to survive the powers-that-be. Adults/children, Bullies/Bullied, My Faith/Your Faith, My Orientation/Your Orientation. We can think about this and how it is influencing our lives. Then we can think about helping our children think about it.

It's All About Leadership

It is human nature to try to distance from or pretend not to see unpleasantness. As crazy as it sounds, it can be reassuring when our leaders ignore issues or talk around the issues.  Or, as in the case of Rwanda, leaders could ignore as almost a million people lost their lives in less than one hundred days.

It is obvious to most of us that our current politics offer major distractions. What we have here in the U.S. is pretty much a partisan pissing contest. Where are the politics of challenging systems that don't work, of cooperating despite our differences, of protecting the most vulnerable? Call me idealistic. Paul Rusesabagina remains idealistic, despite what he has witnessed. And he continues tirelessly working for change in the world.

We can dislike our own complacency. We can expect more from our leaders. We can teach our children to challenge and to question, without punishment for doing so. We can help them recognize that compassion is cool. In their own lives, they can speak out for those that are bullied, for those that our marginalized, for those that may be different.

Words

Mr. Rusesabagina said more than once, "Words can be the best and the worst weapons in a person's arsenal."  He encouraged us to sit down and talk. To share awareness. He encouraged the audience to never be silenced as silence implies affirmation.

We can search for truth. We can listen to the truth by which others live.We can teach our children to search for truth.

The truth is I did not come home Sunday evening with bullet points detailing steps to take, as a person or for a nation or for the world. I came home knowing for certain that this will happen again. And again.

The most horrible reality I took home with me Sunday evening was this: Genocide is a product of basic human nature. It is said that we can't change human nature.  But, I listened to Paul Rusesabagina and I disagree.  He witnessed evil.  He continues in hope.

The Kingdom of God is here.  Don't take my word for it, Jesus said it first. I believe we can make the world a better place, maybe just one person at a time.  One of Paul Rusesabagina's closing comments was this, "He who saves a single life, saves the entire world." That is from the Talmud.

Shalom.

Paul Rusesabagina

Some Days Are Nostalgic, Part 2

If you are younger than forty, chances are these nostalgia posts are a bit foreign to you.  Unless you have a mom or dad or grandparent who shares stories about "things we did in the old days."

I never refer to my past as the "good old days." Nor "the bad old days" for that matter. I think every generation is not without its own mixed bag of good and bad. For example, when I was younger, things in our culture were far less open. It was my experience that families argued once all the windows were closed so it appeared that no families (but ours) argued. More secrets were kept and only weak people sought mental health help.

Today our family talked about S&H Green Stamps.  Our fourteen year old daughter said, "What's that?" So we googled a picture of S&H Green Stamps:

We told our daughter how some stores gave their customers sheets of stamps after every purchase.  Customers saved the stamps, sticking them in books. Customers could redeem the books of stamps at the local S&H Redemption Centers for stuff. Stuff like appliances.

What is funny is both Jay and I shared stories of sticking the stamps in books for our moms.  Both our moms would wet a sponge and put it on a saucer.  We could use the sponge to wet the stamps so our mouths would not turn green. But neither of us remember anything that our family redeemed.

For reasons I do not totally understand, this past month I started saving the Jewel Osco saver stamps. Honestly, I have never saved stamps for anything before in my adult life. I am wondering if I never saved stamps because I remember all the work of pasting stamps but do not remember any of the reward.  Who knows? I just never became a stamp saver.

But...I think there is something going on with my decision to save stamps right now.  I am pretty certain it is not an intense longing for Cuisinart Classic Stainless Cookware. Truth be told, I have never been gaga for cookware.

But look at this picture of my Jewel stamps and Stamp Saver Card:

Yes.  These stamps are GREEN.  I think I am subconsciously channeling my mother! That is why I stopped after sticking but two stamps on my Stamp Saver Card. I am going to ask my daughter to stick them for me. She may not remember the fabulous cookware we get but she will probably have a great story to share some day.

Some Days Are Nostalgic, Part 1

I was paging through the new Lands' End catalog and saw this:

I wore this!  Same turtleneck.  Same jumper.  Almost the same herringbone except my jumper had the more traditional herringbone pattern.  I wore my jumper in the 80's. What a trend setter!

I love that jumpers are returning to style.

Here is something I was hoping would never returns to style:

Years ago I donated these, along with platform shoes, to my daughter's dress up clothes stash. I wore them in the 80's. Not with the jumper, of course. I had several pair in different colors, some with wooden soles. We called them Barbie shoes. Anytime I needed to get somewhere in a hurry, I kicked them off and carried them.  And driving? Forget it.  Crazy kids and their crazy fashions!

I think Barbie shoes have been back in fashion. I am sure podiatrists everywhere are secretly happy.  It's a cash cow.

I believe this calls for a blist! A blist is a list on a blog.  I actually thought I invented this word. But I did not. It is in the Urban Dictionary. The fourth possible definition of blist, according to the Urban Dictionary is, "A list written as an addition to your personal blog."

So this blist has a compare and contrast feature.  We can compare Fashions We Would Love to See Return to the contrasting Fashions We Hope Never Return. Fun way to start the weekend? There is great potential here for bridging any awkward conversation gaps at parties, on the sidelines, on a drive, on a golf course, or at the dinner table. Let the blists begin!

FASHIONS I WOULD LOVE TO SEE RETURN

OVERALLS

Similar to jumpers, they are so comfortable and do not nip or tuck anywhere on your being.

PEASANT TOPS

Always a classic style.  So pretty and flowing, fun to wear. Similar to jumpers and overalls, peasant tops can be worn by many body types.

HATS

By this I do not mean the currently popular skater hat like this:

I'm thinking more Jackie Kennedy or Audrey Hepburn hats like this one from Breakfast at Tiffany's:

And, for the men, fedoras. My dad wore a fedora. Now my daughter does:

FASHIONS I HOPE NEVER RETURN 

BELL BOTTOM PANTS

This was a silly look. Also it was dangerous any time you got on a bicycle or a motorcycle.

BIG SHOULDER PADS

There was supposedly some optical illusion that took place to make a person's hips look smaller.
I thought they just made shoulders look bigger.

HIP HUGGER PANTS

For us of the high-waisted persuasion, a day in hip huggers was a day in a vise.

Some Days Are Whoppers

I have been blessed with several people in my life who never said "I told you so." My Aunt Harriet and my friend Mary Jo never said this straight out to me.  They knew I had food sensitivities about twenty years before I came to the realization that I had food sensitivities.  Many years ago, my friend Noreen asked me, "Why would you have white bread in your freezer?"  Back then, I did not even understand the question.

Food sensitivities are complicated. They are different from food allergies - think nuts and difficulty breathing. They are different from food intolerances - think milk lactose and bathroom challenges. Food sensitivities stem from a plethora of reasons. Symptoms are varied, even delayed several days after eating something culpable.   My understanding is that 95% of humans have food sensitivities to varying degrees. When I consider this statistic, I do not feel so alone.

When I am feeling disciplined and emotionally healthy, I restrict my diet.  I feel great - less achy, less foggy, and more energetic.  Two mantras that help me a great deal are

"My body is a temple." (Bible)

and

"Let food be your medicine and let medicine be your food."  (Hippocrates)

The very first time I restricted my diet, it was hard for me to believe I would never eat a Burger King Whopper again.  I am not sure why a Whopper. I was not addicted to Whoppers, probably had one several times a year.  I think they must represent for me the ultimate in something that is so good and so bad all wrapped up with a side of fries and a Coke.

Over fourteen years ago, Jay and I experienced something that was so good and so bad all wrapped up together. We felt overwhelming joy while witnessing unimaginable loss. Both at the same time. This is the reality of adoption.

As we settled at home the first evening with our beautiful baby daughter, I made plans for our dinner.  I told Jay, "I'm going to Burger King. You want a Whopper?"  Jay said something like, "Whoa."  It had been a long time since either of us had asked the other this question.

As I drove to the local Burger King, I realized that it had been impossible for us to prepare.  We had known that the day after our daughter was born would be the best day of our lives juxtaposed with the worst day of our birth mother's life. Somehow knowing this and living this were not the same.

I gave my order at the drive thru menu board.  "Two Whopper meals with Cokes, please."  The young man taking my order asked, "Do you want onion rings with that?"

I guess I lost it just then. It hit me, like a sucker punch, "My God, does everything have to be this difficult?" And in a measured voice I asked, "Did I say I wanted onion rings?"

I did not know until months later that Burger King changed its meal options to fries or onion rings. The man taking my order was asking a simple question. He just did not know what he was up against: a new mom, experiencing joy and loss, knowing the joy would never completely ease the pain of loss for any of us, ever.

Now over fourteen years later, I still think of that drive thru moment. When things in life seem hard, perhaps much harder than they need to be, I ask under my breath, "Did I say I wanted onion rings?"

Some Days Are Vulnerable

This blog entry is dark and a little bit creepy. Proceed with caution.

When I was in my twenties, I was sick. I do not think I understood at the time how much illness colored my world. I would not relive my twenties if you paid me.

During a rather dark stretch, I wrote a poem. I found it recently, handwritten and buried in some old cards and letters. It is bleak but not without hope. I will always be grateful that hope wins.

I never wrote a serious poem again. But I did find a Ghostbuster. My Ghostbuster's name was Mary, a gifted social worker.

There's a ghost in my room and I am afraid

Afraid of the Ghost of the Unknown

Now surrounding me like a shroud

I can sense his gnarled fingers beckoning me forth.

But I cannot move

There are other ghosts lurking in the darkness

Holding me captive with their beguiling familiarity.

The Ghost of What Was

Holding tight, knowing pain

Protecting my heart with an icy grip.

The Ghost of What Is

Billowing fog, hushing dreams

Clouds of caution muting risk.

Take my hand and walk with me

If one of us stumbles, we both may fall

And lose each other in the darkness.

But together we can light a candle 

And face our Ghosts in the flickering light. 

Some Days Are Twilight Zone-esque

One of the best television series was The Twilight Zone.  The element of suspense and the unexpected twist at the end of each episode was the winning combination. Goosebumps every viewing.

I blogged weeks ago about an experience I had at a Stevenson High School football game.  Well, now you are going to hear...the rest of the story.

My daughter is a member of the school's marching band.  On Fridays with scheduled home games,  she remains after school to prep with the rest of the band.  The football game in reference occurred on a Friday my husband Jay was out of town.  So I was home alone.

True confession: that particular evening, I took what was suppose to be a quick, pre-game nap.  It would have been wise to set an alarm.  I awoke with a start, realizing I had missed at best the entire first half, including the halftime performance.  Bad mommy.

But, this is a big school and football draws a big crowd. My plan was to go and simply blend in. Who would know? I got in the car and went to the high school.

Cue Twilight Zone music here.

The football stadium lights were on. There were cars in the parking lots. There was not a soul anywhere to be seen. I am saying nobody, anywhere. It was still. It was freaky.

The words crossed my mind.  "...you've just crossed over into the Twilight Zone." Either that or I was Left Behind.  That thought crossed my mind too.

The unexpected twist at the end of this episode was not so exciting. Lightning had been sited during the game.  Everyone was inside the school, waiting for a designated amount of time to pass before returning to the field and sitting on metal bleachers.

This is the same lightning I apparently napped through. The best drama of the evening was my performance.  I walked into the school, pretending I knew what was going on. Because, really, what kind of card-carrying Band Booster Club member sleeps through a home game?

"It was just another night of football in Lincolnshire, Illinois. Athletes, cheerleaders, marching band, fans. Then the lightning was sited. They will all go on playing - in the Twilight Zone."

Some Days Are Game On

We have a closet in our home with board games stacked floor to ceiling.  Many of these games are from long ago: Scrabble, Sorry, Chutes and Ladders, Battleship, Operation, Candy Land.

I remember playing The Game of Life. This game had a very cool three dimensional board with a built-in clickety spinner.  The place markers were little convertible cars. The goal of the game was to retire (finish) with the most assets (stuff).

The Game of Life was suppose to mirror real life. The first choice in the game was college or business.  Then you got married, had a family, and collected stock, property, and cold, fake cash. The most coveted square was Pay Day. I believe a better name could have been The Ultimate Status Quo Game.

There have been several revisions to The Game of Life since the original 1960 edition. Even with revisions, there is no way any game can mirror real life.

How do you revise The Game of Life to accommodate the impact of the Civil Rights Movement, Vietnam, the Cold War, the Digital Revolution, 9/11, the recession, escalating political discord/dysfunction?  Just for starters. It would take more than changing the convertible car to a minivan.

The Game of Life, even the most current edition, is a game, not a mirror, and certainly not real.  Honestly, what could be more not real than the status quo?

Oh, I know.  Barbie's body measurements?

Some Days Are Bumpers

I was out and about early this morning.  Traffic was light.  I was behind a minivan with this bumper sticker:

For me, these new driver signs are effective.  I automatically gave the minivan in front of me a wide berth.  I had a heightened awareness of the potential for unexplained slowing down, swerving, or stopping. The driver's passenger could be patiently coaching or impatiently slamming the imaginary brake.

We stopped at a light. The car with the bumper sticker remained in front so I was unable to see the face of the possible student driver. No way to ascertain degree of driving confidence.

I could see the drivers to my right and to my left however.  One was a man who was clean shaven. Corporate casual looking.  He was talking to himself.  More than likely, he was talking on his handsfree cellphone.

To my left was a twenty-something woman.  She looked comatose, staring straight ahead, still.  I wanted to beep the horn to help her out in the event she had fallen back asleep.  But I could not.  The student driver in front of me could freak out.

When the light turned green and we moved on, I got to thinking. Thinking about New Driver, Business Caller, and Not Awake and all the others who were out and about early this morning. Thinking how other bumper sticker would be helpful:

Please Be Patient, Heartbroken Driver

Please Be Patient, Infertile Driver

Please Be Patient, Parenting a Sick Child Driver

Please Be Patient, Insecurely Employed Driver

There is a beautiful quote, “Be kinder than necessary because everyone you meet is fighting some kind of battle.” Good rule of the road, in or out of the car.

Some Days Are AKA

So many of us wished at some time in our lives that our parents had given us a different name. I remember my friend, Susie, telling some boys we met ice skating that her name was Gidget. I went through a phase when I wanted my name to be Bobbie. So I was not surprised the day my daughter told me she wanted a different name.

My daughter took it a step further.  She asked what she could do to have her name legally changed.  When I explained all the legal hoops a woman jumps to have her name changed when married, my daughter decided she would kill two birds with one stone and wait until she married to change both first and last name.

My daughter is bright.  She also wants to be known as Zena. That is Zena, not Xena.

There is a scientific area called Anthroponymy which is the study of personal names. This must be the science upon which name your baby books are based. I do not know the science behind the wanting a name change, but I have some theories.

I believe Susie wanted the new boys at the skating rink to perceive her as the perky Gidget of movie and T.V. series fame. Maybe. I never asked, just admired one more thing about my friend Susie.

I wished my name was Bobbie. Bobbie would be short for Roberta. My dad was Robert, so it was within the realm of possibilities that I could have this name. It just seemed much cooler to share a name with my dad rather than with just about one out of every five girls I knew. My generation was filled with lasses named Kathy.

Before giving my parental approval to the nickname Zena, I did a little research. Xena (same pronunciation) is a Warrior Princess.  She arrived on the scene with a dark past. She possessed formidable fighting skills and used her skills to help the defenseless. She journeyed the world, always concerned with the greater good.

Yes.  Xena Warrior Princess is a redemption story.

Zena is a great nickname. Jay and I call her by our own special, extended version: Zena Queena Tessalonia.

Some Days Are Remembered

I would wager a bet that everyone in America over the age of twenty can answer these questions:  Where were you on September 11, 2001?  How did you hear the news? How did your life change from that day forward?

Driving to school this morning, I retold my daughter our story of September 11, 2001. She was in her 14th month of life on that day and sitting in her high chair in the kitchen.  I was listening to the Spike O'Dell radio show when it was announced that a plane had crashed into the World Trade Center.  Toddler in arm, I went to my husband's office, conveniently located down a flight of stairs.

We stayed together all day. I held and stroked my daughter more than usual - when she napped, while she ate, while we played.  Jay and I took turns listening to and sharing the shocking events throughout the day,

Hearing 9/11 stories, I believe there is a common thread.  Most everyone held each other close that day and in the days that followed.  The huge catalyst for our closeness was fear.  If this happened there, it could happen here.  If it took the life of a husband, it could take my husband's life.  If it took a mother, it could take my baby's mom.

Fear is an extremely strong deterrent.  We have used it in our talks to our daughter about illegal drugs.  We want her to be afraid of illegal drugs, potently-laced and potentially fatal.

Fear can be a driving force, a force we can learn to name and own.  When my daughter is confronted with something bad and worthy of fear,  I want her to be able to say to herself, "This is bad and I am scared."  I want her to be able to problem-solve her way out of the fear in a healthy manner.  I want her to be able to ask for help.  I want her to be able to know how to say "no." I want her to be able to express her reasons for saying no to herself and to another person.

I don't ask for much.

I don't believe we can let go of fear.  Plus, it gets wired in.  Every time I see a plane in the sky, I think of projectiles. Can't help it.  September 11.  Wired in.  But, as I am trying to teach my daughter, I think we can name our fears, real and imagined, and expose them to the light of truth.

Elizabeth Gilbert said it better, "You cannot force out the darkness.  You can only bring in the light."

Some Days Are Racing

Ever since I was a young child, I had good taste in men, especially men I could admire from afar.  I had a serious crush on Paul Newman.  In fact, I hung a 24"x 36" poster of Paul Newman in my dorm room.  My friends once designed and taped a "Nya-ah-ahh Dishonest John" mustache on Paul.  It was funny.  One of these friends sent me a sympathy card the day Paul Newman passed away.

There was so much to Paul Newman, a beautiful person on the inside and out.  His life has inspired me.  At minimum, I buy his salad dressings and pasta sauces.

In the 70's Paul Newman started racing cars.  He claimed to have a "need for speed" and that "racing beats the rubbish of Hollywood."

My husband, Jay, has that same need for speed.  I actually met Jay at a race, Road America June Sprints.  As we dated, I learned that he had been into fast vehicles probably since he was a toddler.

For a number of years, being behind-the-wheel has taken a backseat to Jay's business and his family  He started his business, Brainchild, around the time our daughter was born.  He still frequented the track, mainly crewing.  His racing friends are amazing people and will be friends for life.  They are all crazy.

Jay is back behind the wheel again.  This summer, he was driving a Sports 2000 in regional races.  Then, several weeks ago, he tested a car owned by DJ Jans for the Trans Am Pro Series.  He is almost giggly.  Well, he is the Jay Shuler-equivalent of giggly.

You can read all about Jay's racing on his racing webpage www.jayshuler.com  I think he last updated it several years ago.  He has been busy.

Here is what I wrote years ago on his Supporters Page:

I am Kathy, Jay’s wife. Our relationship proves the adage that opposites attract. I dislike roller coasters and I always break when approaching an onramp. But I love Jay and I knew his passion for this sport when I fell in love with him, so he speeds (on the racetrack) with my complete support….and my constant prayers.

My idea of a good day at the races is spending most of the day on a comfy lawn chair with a good book. My favorite racing story is when the guys were testing Tony Ave’s Midget. This event occurred before we were married so please keep in mind that romance and new love were very much a part of Jay’s and my life. 

After sitting alone and reading for several hours, I decided to stretch and take a walk around the grounds. As I was walking, I passed the guys. I had not seen them for most of the day as they were very intent on tweaking the car to make it go faster. 

They were just returning from a test around the track and were very intent on what had just transpired. Imagine four guys, pushing a race car, yet talking with their hands, and using somewhat incomprehensible techno-language, with words such as “torque”. 

I, with the exuberance of a former cheerleader, exclaimed, “Hey, guys, how’d it go?” Well, all four of them looked up, obviously aware that a sound was coming from a non-engine-related source. But not one of them exchanged a nod, a wave, a “hey”. They were in the zone, the speed zone!

So it's 2014.  He's back, sports fans. Godspeed and GO JAY!