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.