Will things ever slow down? I took the dog running at the lake. Little groups of geese were landing silently, totally opposite of the other night when every single one of them must have been honking at once. I suppposed they were arguing over water-space. Most of the lake was ice and all several hundred geese were in the unfrozen center. Hey, move over. I can't... there's only 1 square foot for each of us. That's my fish! Well, you took my algae. Leave some for my kids, for Pete's sake. Shut up, I'm bigger than you.....Hey, y'all, stop arguing!
But today I learned what a goose sounds like when it is crying. I went down by the water and the brush. Usually the geese are well into the water before we get anywhere near, but we must have startled one, or else it was weak or injured already. All of a sudden the dog was in the water and had a goose in her mouth! I yanked the leash and shouted no, pulling and yelling. She switched grips and then had it by the wing and it was fluttering --trying to get away. NO!! NO!! Bad dog! Yank. Pulllllll.
Luckily I yanked when she shifted grips again and the goose got away, but it was hurt. The dog came out of the water spitting feathers. The goose sat in the water yeeping and dazed. After a bit it flew off about 20 feet and 2 other geese came up to inspect it. I was relieved that it could fly. But it was so pitiful. You could see a chunk missing out of the sillouette of its neck. I hoped it was feathers, but I could not tell. I don't know what kind of things I said to the dog. I was too sad to express anger at the dog. She was just doing what dogs do. I wondered if I should call the park police or animal control to come put the goose out of its misery, or whether it was not hurt that badly and it would recover on its own. All I know is that it cried and I could still hear it when I got to the other side of the water. Was it going to die? What do the other geese think about it? The two geese stayed nearby but stayed a couple feet away from it. This is normal in the wild, but I grew up in civilization with tame animals and it was hard to watch in person, no matter how many maulings I've seen on nature programs.
As we ran the rest of our lap, I thought of Jesus saying that a sparrow does not fall to the ground without the knowledge of God the Father. Here is part of the context. He said: Do not be afraid of those who kill the body but cannot kill the soul. Rather, be afraid of the One who can destroy both soul and body in hell. Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? Yet not one of them will fall to the ground apart from the will of your Father. And even the very hairs of your head are all numbered. So don't be afraid; you are worth more than many sparrows.
Friday, December 23, 2005
chosen
I got my application in 12 hours late... scribbled and tossed on Mr. J's desk. I went to work the next day expecting that, if they wanted to interview me, they would call me up to the offices.
No call. I went about my business. It is quiet in there pre-Christmas, a lovely reprieve from the crazed malls. [[[I have not set foot inside a single mall to "get ready for Christmas". It is Christmas Eve EVE and I'm not "ready". But my heart is always celebrating Christmas. I'm laughing at all the arguments on the radio about political correctness and the grinchy side of liberalism stealing Christmas from those who wish to keep it for themselves (and be permitted to say Merry Christmas out loud in public.) I say Merry Christmas to customers if I see them carrying out decorations or wearing Santa hats, or if they say it to me, first.)
I went through my stage of grief over the fact that the world stole Christmas. And at the same time, I pined away wishing I had enough money to "do" Christmas the way my parents did it, heaping lots of nice wrapped gifts under the tree for all 4 of us kids and the dog (who could pick out her own toys.... we thought she was a genius dog, but think about it: dogs can smell a hard rubber jingly ball through the paper.)
I went through the depressed stage, the martyr stage, doing Christmas for my kids and husband because I loved them, but having an emptiness in my heart about what a game it was.
In the film Out of Africa, Barkley told Karin that Dennis "likes to give gifts...but not at Christmas." I think that's how I am. I resented at times that I had to play the game at this specific time and my part done on time. The pressure was tremendous.
I could never quite get into the church's version completely. I do love the music, the hymns, and the reading of the true story of how Jesus came to us.
I now laugh at all of it. Not the story of Christ. But our frenzy over buying gifts for one another and decorating and making cookies and eating lots of chocolate (guilty). We so miss the joy of knowing God Himself when we focus on the decorations we have inflicted onto this event.]]]
Anyway this post is not about Christmas. It is about being picked as a superhero, whatever that is, at work. Mr. J came by yesterday, 2 days past the day I turned in my application. I said (hoping) "Did you get my application? It's too late, right?" He said, no, it's not too late; we're still taking applications. Almost indecipherable earth tremors rippling in my tummy.
Mr. J is from Jolly Old England and I love to hear him speak the Queen's English. But it's a little noisy in the entrance and he is soft spoken, so I am barely hearing him. I tell him I'm not sure I really want to do this, because it's still pretty vague in my mind what my resposibilities would be. He tells me more about it.
Part of it is that I get to call the store manager to account if she doesn't do what she said she will do. You mean I get to boss her around? I'm smiling. Yes, and me, too, he says. We will make goals and we want you and the other superheros to follow up and see that we are doing what we planned to do.
I make jokes about getting lazy people fired. (But I'm not really joking.) He talks about how the store has so many areas to grow in. I tell him the store is young and that hopefully we will weed out the bad workers and bring in better ones.
He also tells me that he spoke to the 2nd in command. Annie will not be in the entrance for 2 months. Are you OK with that? And, he tells me, she said yes. I joke while telling the truth: this place falls apart when I'm not here. He says, you are the first person people meet. I am, I say. I know. And I am very good at this job, but at the same time, I am dispensable. When I need to take a break, and no one can cover for me, my managers always say: just go. The store functions without me. Kind of a mixed message I say. And he says he thinks there should always be someone in the entrance and I agree with him. But another note is taken in my mind: Ms. 2nd in command KNOWS how valuable I am in this place. I wonder if they'd be willing to prove it by paying me more than the warm body salary I get now.)
We are interrupted by several customers so that our conversation is in pieces, but finally he puts the ball in my court. I say, you want me to decide right now? Yes. I mumble about not liking to make decisions and think out loud. Oh, OK, if I hate it, I can put up with it for 2 months. I won't die. So yes, I'll do it.
Now what have I gotten myself into? As I'm closing, the duty manager says "Superhero" to me. Someone knows already. ....what does this mean? I have periodic fits of panic and I have to talk to my scared self and tell her that she can do this. She can reread her life coaching book and listen to her CD's and lean heavily on her coach, if need be, to use coaching questions to motivate and encourage the big cheeses and the little cheeses all over the store. It's just that I want to be focused on painting and getting my project finished and what painting I will do after that...that is, my job OUTSIDE the store! I have another commission waiting to be written and illustrated after this one. I don't want stress on this job, this is my relaxing job. So I tell myself, ok, learn to do this without stress.
I am pretty sure God has his fingers in this.
No call. I went about my business. It is quiet in there pre-Christmas, a lovely reprieve from the crazed malls. [[[I have not set foot inside a single mall to "get ready for Christmas". It is Christmas Eve EVE and I'm not "ready". But my heart is always celebrating Christmas. I'm laughing at all the arguments on the radio about political correctness and the grinchy side of liberalism stealing Christmas from those who wish to keep it for themselves (and be permitted to say Merry Christmas out loud in public.) I say Merry Christmas to customers if I see them carrying out decorations or wearing Santa hats, or if they say it to me, first.)
I went through my stage of grief over the fact that the world stole Christmas. And at the same time, I pined away wishing I had enough money to "do" Christmas the way my parents did it, heaping lots of nice wrapped gifts under the tree for all 4 of us kids and the dog (who could pick out her own toys.... we thought she was a genius dog, but think about it: dogs can smell a hard rubber jingly ball through the paper.)
I went through the depressed stage, the martyr stage, doing Christmas for my kids and husband because I loved them, but having an emptiness in my heart about what a game it was.
In the film Out of Africa, Barkley told Karin that Dennis "likes to give gifts...but not at Christmas." I think that's how I am. I resented at times that I had to play the game at this specific time and my part done on time. The pressure was tremendous.
I could never quite get into the church's version completely. I do love the music, the hymns, and the reading of the true story of how Jesus came to us.
I now laugh at all of it. Not the story of Christ. But our frenzy over buying gifts for one another and decorating and making cookies and eating lots of chocolate (guilty). We so miss the joy of knowing God Himself when we focus on the decorations we have inflicted onto this event.]]]
Anyway this post is not about Christmas. It is about being picked as a superhero, whatever that is, at work. Mr. J came by yesterday, 2 days past the day I turned in my application. I said (hoping) "Did you get my application? It's too late, right?" He said, no, it's not too late; we're still taking applications. Almost indecipherable earth tremors rippling in my tummy.
Mr. J is from Jolly Old England and I love to hear him speak the Queen's English. But it's a little noisy in the entrance and he is soft spoken, so I am barely hearing him. I tell him I'm not sure I really want to do this, because it's still pretty vague in my mind what my resposibilities would be. He tells me more about it.
Part of it is that I get to call the store manager to account if she doesn't do what she said she will do. You mean I get to boss her around? I'm smiling. Yes, and me, too, he says. We will make goals and we want you and the other superheros to follow up and see that we are doing what we planned to do.
I make jokes about getting lazy people fired. (But I'm not really joking.) He talks about how the store has so many areas to grow in. I tell him the store is young and that hopefully we will weed out the bad workers and bring in better ones.
He also tells me that he spoke to the 2nd in command. Annie will not be in the entrance for 2 months. Are you OK with that? And, he tells me, she said yes. I joke while telling the truth: this place falls apart when I'm not here. He says, you are the first person people meet. I am, I say. I know. And I am very good at this job, but at the same time, I am dispensable. When I need to take a break, and no one can cover for me, my managers always say: just go. The store functions without me. Kind of a mixed message I say. And he says he thinks there should always be someone in the entrance and I agree with him. But another note is taken in my mind: Ms. 2nd in command KNOWS how valuable I am in this place. I wonder if they'd be willing to prove it by paying me more than the warm body salary I get now.)
We are interrupted by several customers so that our conversation is in pieces, but finally he puts the ball in my court. I say, you want me to decide right now? Yes. I mumble about not liking to make decisions and think out loud. Oh, OK, if I hate it, I can put up with it for 2 months. I won't die. So yes, I'll do it.
Now what have I gotten myself into? As I'm closing, the duty manager says "Superhero" to me. Someone knows already. ....what does this mean? I have periodic fits of panic and I have to talk to my scared self and tell her that she can do this. She can reread her life coaching book and listen to her CD's and lean heavily on her coach, if need be, to use coaching questions to motivate and encourage the big cheeses and the little cheeses all over the store. It's just that I want to be focused on painting and getting my project finished and what painting I will do after that...that is, my job OUTSIDE the store! I have another commission waiting to be written and illustrated after this one. I don't want stress on this job, this is my relaxing job. So I tell myself, ok, learn to do this without stress.
I am pretty sure God has his fingers in this.
Tuesday, December 20, 2005
fear
I should be dressing to the shoes. I am dressed and I have shoes on but I'm not dressed to present myself at work. I drove over and applied, late, for the superhero position last minute. Now then I have done a pro/con list. On the pro side are growth and networking opportunities. The store may benefit from gifts I have that have not been used before. The cons include no additional compensation, possible high learning curve in areas I may not want to learn about and lots of additional stress, when I like my job in that I'm used to it and it is easy and low stress (leaving energy for my "real" job...working at home on art and writing and coaching). My heart's desire at the moment is NOT to be chosen. I think that they may call me at any minute and say "we want to interview you" and I am not ready to jump in the car and go over. However I am working today, so I shall be ready to go while at work.
Monday, December 19, 2005
too much to tell
My life is so full, I do not have the slightest idea how to tell it all. What is interesting to other people about my life, if anything? I picture reading about someone else's life and getting bored with all the rabbit trails and details....
And yet I just read an article about a bipolar person person's manic experience and reading her description felt very much like my own freewriting. Not being manic, but the writing style...present tense, just stating whatever was on her mind, going from one thought to another distractedly, only with her, she acted out her thoughts and followed them and got lost and had to be rescued. She works on the editorial staff of the magazine. I know somone who is bipolar and I want to give it to him and express my sympathy and see how I can be a helpful non-judgmental friend to him as he lives with his disease. It had two nice paintings with the article as well. I put it into my work notebook with his name on it.
Last night Betty called. She and her husband supported me and my husband for years with their money and their love and prayers. She is a caring person and still calls me occassionally. She always apologizes that she has not kept in touch better. I always say you don't need to apologize. She asks all about how I am. I ask all about her. She asks if I need money.
She is not writing a Christmas letter because the year is too depressing. She is going around in a wheelchair with a broken hip.
Her husband's knee needs surgery but he is waiting for her to get on her feet so that she can take care of him when he is recuperating. Oh my. It's hard to be old.
The devastating thing is that their son's marriage is falling apart. And he is in ministry. The wife went off with his best friend. I listened, I sympathized. I feel awful with her. I verbalized how very sad this is. And I gave her my coach's web address for her son, because he, too, has been a youth minister and I told her how much coaching has helped me and she said I can hear it in your voice, you are a different person. I said I am, I am a different person. (I am not, but you know this is a way of speaking.) I am so deeply contented I am about to burst. I have everything I could ever want. I have wonderful children. I have a house. I am moving into my new career, getting paid to do what I love to do and what I'm good at and I also have the freedom of being single (now that I've adjusted to it!
There are papers askew on my desk. There are uncut coupons in a paper bag with handles. The pile is getting thicker. More by the printer on the dresser, more printed images on my temporary "art table". I have set my timer a couple of times today to work on clearing and filing this stuff but it's not finished.
I need to make a few phone calls and apply for superhero temporary job at my workplace. Maybe "I can do anything for 2 months", as flylady says: I can do anything for 15 minutes. I was reading the job description and I can see me doing this and using all the coaching skills I have acquired so far (one teleclass's worth) and getting creative over there. It would mean I would be going around the store learning new stuff and meeting new people and getting out of my place of expertise. I must do this. The deadline to apply is today. I was reading the job desciption. With each section, yes, I could do that....until I got to the part that said you will wear the superhero costume the whole 2 months while they had clip art of batman and wonderwoman on the bulliten board. I said out loud no thank you and went home. So I guess I was tired...visualizing myself going around the store in wonderwoman costume. I'm pretty sure the costume is not going to be wonderwoman but something specific to our store.
Then I read 2 newspaper articles this morning. Two elders in my church are in a book club. A while back they had told me that the paper had come and taken pictures of them and interviewed them. I was weeding out the recycling and there was a picture of a stack of books with the same titles that my friends had been reading.
How I would love to be able to just go to that group and sit in the corner and listen to men discuss books.
My girlfriend has invited me to her Victorian book club -- women. I would probably love that too, but this men's book club intrigues me. I could observe how men think and how they interract and how they process their reading and how they verbalize it all. I could do like I used to do before I had children and take my sketchbook and draw them while they talked.
Anyway I am not invited and it would put a big kabosh on the spirit of the group to know that there is a woman they know sitting there listening.
The other article is about my new acquaintance, the artist/professor. He has a show in the town next door. COOL. I am on my way over! I have gone to visit his class at the University to see if I could audit or even take it for credit. He had told me on the phone I can be first in line for the January class. I had thought I am not sure this is what I want, but he is very enthusiastic about art. His T.A. told me he's brilliant and that you have to let him know what it is you want to learn.
I was not sure I could picture myself going forward with David Dewey's techniques in a classroom with a bunch of kids who are not even art majors and popular music in the background. Some of his work is in the permanent collection in the National Gallery of Art. Impressive. And I have the opportunity to audit his class. I feel like I should take advantage of this and see where it leads. How can I not learn some important things from a master?
So why am I here blogging? So much happening. Yesterday my DD's bought and assembled a fake Christmas tree and decorated it. It looks great and I didn't have to do any of it. One of the advantages of having adult children. Now I just need a few pine scented candles to burn. I invited them to watch the Griswold's Family Christmas movie. We also had a little time discussing Family Meeting issues. They both have colds and don't want to talk about it. (Not because they have colds, but it makes it harder to face tough issues when you are sick.) One says I don't want anything for Christmas.
Sunday school was good. I thanked them for praying about my cute little storybook house that I am not buying it but that lots of good things happened through the process of deciding, and that I believe the Holy Spirit indeed led me to drive by the house that day. For the sake of time, I left out details about good things that happened through that process of deciding whether to buy the house.
Later the teacher used my expample to talk about something out of the chapter they were discussing.... Then he said to me after class is it ok that I shared that about your example? Of course. I was puzzled that he even felt the need to ask. Why would that not be ok? I just shared it very openly (and joyfully). And the lawyer in the class was laughing at me when I shared. I want to ask him why. You think I'm a little kid, don't you? I am childlike, I know this.
Anyway I'm scanning the articles to my coach.
Onward.
And yet I just read an article about a bipolar person person's manic experience and reading her description felt very much like my own freewriting. Not being manic, but the writing style...present tense, just stating whatever was on her mind, going from one thought to another distractedly, only with her, she acted out her thoughts and followed them and got lost and had to be rescued. She works on the editorial staff of the magazine. I know somone who is bipolar and I want to give it to him and express my sympathy and see how I can be a helpful non-judgmental friend to him as he lives with his disease. It had two nice paintings with the article as well. I put it into my work notebook with his name on it.
Last night Betty called. She and her husband supported me and my husband for years with their money and their love and prayers. She is a caring person and still calls me occassionally. She always apologizes that she has not kept in touch better. I always say you don't need to apologize. She asks all about how I am. I ask all about her. She asks if I need money.
She is not writing a Christmas letter because the year is too depressing. She is going around in a wheelchair with a broken hip.
Her husband's knee needs surgery but he is waiting for her to get on her feet so that she can take care of him when he is recuperating. Oh my. It's hard to be old.
The devastating thing is that their son's marriage is falling apart. And he is in ministry. The wife went off with his best friend. I listened, I sympathized. I feel awful with her. I verbalized how very sad this is. And I gave her my coach's web address for her son, because he, too, has been a youth minister and I told her how much coaching has helped me and she said I can hear it in your voice, you are a different person. I said I am, I am a different person. (I am not, but you know this is a way of speaking.) I am so deeply contented I am about to burst. I have everything I could ever want. I have wonderful children. I have a house. I am moving into my new career, getting paid to do what I love to do and what I'm good at and I also have the freedom of being single (now that I've adjusted to it!
There are papers askew on my desk. There are uncut coupons in a paper bag with handles. The pile is getting thicker. More by the printer on the dresser, more printed images on my temporary "art table". I have set my timer a couple of times today to work on clearing and filing this stuff but it's not finished.
I need to make a few phone calls and apply for superhero temporary job at my workplace. Maybe "I can do anything for 2 months", as flylady says: I can do anything for 15 minutes. I was reading the job description and I can see me doing this and using all the coaching skills I have acquired so far (one teleclass's worth) and getting creative over there. It would mean I would be going around the store learning new stuff and meeting new people and getting out of my place of expertise. I must do this. The deadline to apply is today. I was reading the job desciption. With each section, yes, I could do that....until I got to the part that said you will wear the superhero costume the whole 2 months while they had clip art of batman and wonderwoman on the bulliten board. I said out loud no thank you and went home. So I guess I was tired...visualizing myself going around the store in wonderwoman costume. I'm pretty sure the costume is not going to be wonderwoman but something specific to our store.
Then I read 2 newspaper articles this morning. Two elders in my church are in a book club. A while back they had told me that the paper had come and taken pictures of them and interviewed them. I was weeding out the recycling and there was a picture of a stack of books with the same titles that my friends had been reading.
How I would love to be able to just go to that group and sit in the corner and listen to men discuss books.
My girlfriend has invited me to her Victorian book club -- women. I would probably love that too, but this men's book club intrigues me. I could observe how men think and how they interract and how they process their reading and how they verbalize it all. I could do like I used to do before I had children and take my sketchbook and draw them while they talked.
Anyway I am not invited and it would put a big kabosh on the spirit of the group to know that there is a woman they know sitting there listening.
The other article is about my new acquaintance, the artist/professor. He has a show in the town next door. COOL. I am on my way over! I have gone to visit his class at the University to see if I could audit or even take it for credit. He had told me on the phone I can be first in line for the January class. I had thought I am not sure this is what I want, but he is very enthusiastic about art. His T.A. told me he's brilliant and that you have to let him know what it is you want to learn.
I was not sure I could picture myself going forward with David Dewey's techniques in a classroom with a bunch of kids who are not even art majors and popular music in the background. Some of his work is in the permanent collection in the National Gallery of Art. Impressive. And I have the opportunity to audit his class. I feel like I should take advantage of this and see where it leads. How can I not learn some important things from a master?
So why am I here blogging? So much happening. Yesterday my DD's bought and assembled a fake Christmas tree and decorated it. It looks great and I didn't have to do any of it. One of the advantages of having adult children. Now I just need a few pine scented candles to burn. I invited them to watch the Griswold's Family Christmas movie. We also had a little time discussing Family Meeting issues. They both have colds and don't want to talk about it. (Not because they have colds, but it makes it harder to face tough issues when you are sick.) One says I don't want anything for Christmas.
Sunday school was good. I thanked them for praying about my cute little storybook house that I am not buying it but that lots of good things happened through the process of deciding, and that I believe the Holy Spirit indeed led me to drive by the house that day. For the sake of time, I left out details about good things that happened through that process of deciding whether to buy the house.
Later the teacher used my expample to talk about something out of the chapter they were discussing.... Then he said to me after class is it ok that I shared that about your example? Of course. I was puzzled that he even felt the need to ask. Why would that not be ok? I just shared it very openly (and joyfully). And the lawyer in the class was laughing at me when I shared. I want to ask him why. You think I'm a little kid, don't you? I am childlike, I know this.
Anyway I'm scanning the articles to my coach.
Onward.
Friday, December 16, 2005
Something to Say
Sitting in my bed with my coffee. Ah, after 2 days of instant, the real thing tastes especially good. I am reading in John again. Peace I leave with you. Not as the world gives. There is peace that the world gives, mostly through surface comforts and a sense of well-being that comes from feeling safe. Henry Brandt used to say that alcohol gives peace. or when your work is done and you have some money saved up and everyone in your family is healthy, peace.
Boxes. I don't remember exactly when I first heard the phrase 'thinking outside the box'. But I liked it. Yes, outside the box is where the truth is. Boxes can be very sneaky. You can be in one and not know it. I have broken out of a lot of boxes and I think that is where some of my own sense of well-being comes from. There was a book about finding your niche that had something to do with being outside the box. In our culture we must go to college after high school and pack a bunch of knowledge into our brains and then get a job and use all that knowledge. The time in school is strictly separated from the time working. Was that book where that phrase came from? Who wrote it? What was the name? I think the name was about the box. My memory is not so hot. He suggested there might be other ways to go about it. Working and education being more mixed up. My oldest did a work study program to help pay for college, alternating semesters of school with semesters working in her field of study. She learned by working as she was learning in the classroom. It worked very well.
So, boxes. I was a young Christian and I hated legalism. But I became legalistic myself. It's insidious. [spreading or acting inconspicuously with harmful effect] "Christians do this, and they don't do that. Christians think this way. Really dedicated Christians priority is that, not this." Etc. I inflicted these values on my children. No one is perfect. There were a lot of good values that came from me to my kids. But as they became adults, if they don't know how to think outside the box, they will only have those values because of tradition, not because Jesus Christ is real to them personally.
One of my boxes was thinking that I was not the best Christian I could be unless I was always making talking about Jesus to non-Christians my number one priority. And as a mom, I was not really the best mom unless I was also teaching my kids to have the same priority. But I did not take every opportunity to tell other people about Christ, nor did I try to turn conversations to Christ every time I was with someone. Just writing about this makes me feel waves of guilt lapping at my feet. Go away Guilt Trip!
But here's the thing. Maybe I believed in Jesus because I grew up in America and learned in Sunday School that "Jesus died for our sins." So one of my boxes would be my upbringing. My mom took me to church where they taught me about the son of God. Then there was Weekday Religious Education. At my grade school, a trailer used to come in once a week and most of us went out and had a Sunday school lesson for an hour. I sat in the back and did not pay attention. It was EXTREMELY boring. I got in trouble for not paying attention a couple times. After that I paid attention outwardly but my mind was anywhere and everywhere else except on that religious lesson.
Then I went to a ranch in Colorado at age 15 where they told me about Jesus, only this time the context was FUN and the kids there were COOL and the singing was outrageously enthusiastic and we sounded GOOD! The speakers at the evening Round-ups were mesmerizing and the counselors in the cabins gave real answers. This was NOT Sunday school.
[[Aside: I had a grumpy old lady Sunday school teacher whom I could not stand in about 6th grade. I had a hamster. I had a little purse that was shaped like an oval bucket and it had flaps that folded down to close the top. Once I put my hamster, Pooty, in my purse and took him to Sunday school. While the teacher was trying to teach I was showing my friends what I had in my purse. The teacher noticed and came and asked what was in there. When I showed her, she jumped. (Think cartoon lady up on a chair screaming about a little mouse on the floor.) She got really ticked at me. It delighted me inside that I scared that mean old lady. What an evil child. It still makes me laugh.]]
I think it was the founder of Young Life who said it is a sin to bore a child in the name of Christ. So I was not bored at Young Life camp in Colorado. We got to ride horses, climb mountains, play Wells Fargo (cowboys and Indians: each person had a "scalp" -- a bandaid on the forehead. The goal was to take as many of the other team's scalps as possible.) Four or five girls ganged up on me and I fought with everything I had. I think I may have hurt one or two of them, but they got my scalp. It was such an emotional experience, my first and only real fight, using elbows and thrashing around for all I was worth. I went back to my cabin and cried.)
The camp was divided into teams and each team had a queen and I got to be queen of the "Stogies". they put me in my bathing suit and made me ride a horse and rolled up a brown blanket so that it looked like a big Stogie and made me carry it. Our team ended up winning the week's competitions and that made me queen of the camp. I had to go up front (thankfully not in my bathing suit!) I was shy. This was very, very embarrassing. I did not know what to do. Although I felt honored to be queen, wow, PLEASE let me go back to my seat and dissappear!!!!
We got to take open jeep rides along steep mountain roads, and they would back the jeep up to the cliff and make us all scream with terror. They took us down a silver mine in the dark each of us holding onto the person in front of us. When we were all deep down in the mine they started screaming about bears and made us all panic.
We got to eat great food cooked by Goldbrick, we got to swim at the pool, buy Bibles in modern English that we could actually understand. We met kids from all over the country, got crushes on cute boys from the South with thick Southern accents that charmed the heck out of us. OK, me, I got the crush on the Southern boy, just me.
Anyway, this context .... not to mention the 3 days Tex spent driving us from the midwest to Colorado in an un-air-conditioned van in mid summer....the noise he put up with, the roudiness, the impertinence of teenagers.........he had a special gift.....then he drove us 3 days home as well. (At least we had "gotten holy" during the week.) .... this context of love and fun and caring was the right context in which faith could be born inside me.
FUN. The people who worked at the ranch loved us and gave a darn whether we heard the truth about Jesus or not. And it worked. I heard that Jesus death paid for everything I had ever done wrong. I heard that it was not about "do this and do that and God will approve" (like my parents, maybe). It was more like God loves me and cares about me and is reaching out to me and all I have to do is say yes. So I did. Yes, I believe Jesus, a real person in history, came and lived a sinless life, died to pay for my wrong-doing, rose again from death (impossible) and went up to heaven to live forever, where he is, incidentally, making ready for me to join him. Wow. Yes, who wouldn't want this?
So boxes. This wonderful thing, this birth of Annie into God's family led to me wanting to pass this on to other people. This is not bad, but over the years, especially after I had children........
Oh, there is too much to go into. Legalism crept in. Do this to be a good Christian, don't do that. I didn't use bad words, didn't smoke, didn't drink except for a glass of wine with dinner at my father's house. I didn't lie, didn't steal, I was faithful to my mate. But I think the box that I didn't fit into was the one about make it your priority to verbalize your faith in Christ to everyone you know. Try to convince them to become Christians. Study the best ways to do this. Meet people with the express purpose of telling them about Jesus. The goal is not bad: to share with others the best thing that has ever happened to me. What became bad in my life was the use of formulas, rote things to say, cliches. I began to feel like I was trying to trick people into believing in Jesus.
Jumping to the present. God draws people to himself inside of people where we cannot see. Do you want truth? Do you want integrity? Here I am. Come to me. People who believe in him work on the outside, telling others about God and living a life of integrity in front of them so that they will be drawn to the person. Now I am geting acquainted with the artist and writer and coach God made me. How good He is.
The thought I had while I was sitting in bed reading John: Jesus said "I have told you now before it happens, so that when it does happen you will believe."
The thought was about the boxes. There are boxes and we all are in them. Boxes made out of cultural beliefs, our parents' values, then our friends' values. But Jesus Christ is not a box. The nice little story about a baby in a manger is not all there is to Jesus. He is real and He is God. I have seen his glory and I am sure of this. I have seen his light and only because He chose to give me a glimpse of it.
Jesus also told Martha such things when she complained to him after Lazarus died ("if you had been here, Lazarus wouldn't have died", like, "why in the world didn't you come when we called you?" Mary said the same thing.) When Jesus got around to approaching the cave where Lazarus was entombed, he told them to take the stone door away, doors made of stone designed to be permanent. Martha protested that it would smell. Perhaps she wanted to retain Lazarus' dignity in his death. These are real people with real brains that work just like ours. Martha -- the practical one. Jesus said to her "Did I not tell you that if you believed you would see the glory of God?"
We want to see the proof first, and then, we think, we will believe. Well, these people had been watching Jesus prove he was the son of God for a few years. He had been going around validating his words by his actions. Miracles to be specific. They had their proof. They were his closest friends and had seen a lot of miracles. Martha believed that Jesus was God's son. Jesus said to her "Your brother will rise again." Martha said, Yeah, I know when the last day comes, he will. Is she thinking: is this what he means or is he going to raise him up now? She had already told him "I know that even now God will do whatever you ask."
Jesus did what he so often did, and focused her attention on himself in the present. Who He was, not whether Lazarus was going to be saved right then or not. The bigger issue. He said I am the resurrection and the life. He who believes in me will live, even though he dies: and whoever lives and believes in me will never die. Do you believe this? Yes, she did and she told him so. You are the Christ, she said, the Son of God, who was to come into the world.
As I am sitting here writing this post, which has gone places I never expected, I have become overwhelmed with emotion several times. I have shed a few tears. Now that I've looked up the verse I wanted to talk about, "Did I not tell you that if you believed, you would see the glory of God?" I read on to check the details and Mary has arrived along with the mourners who were hanging around "weeping with she who weeps".
John writes: When Jesus saw her weeping, and the Jews who had come along with her also weeping, he was deeply moved in spirit and troubled, and he asked them where they had laid Lazarus. They said come see. and Jesus started crying. The Jews decided this meant that Jesus loved Lazarus a lot. Jesus was a man like us, too, in that he got emotional. And, yes, I think Jesus loved Lazarus a lot. He hung out with him and the 2 sisters in Bethany. They were supportive friends. They had been there for him.
Except some of the Jews said "Could not he who opened the eyes of the blind have kept this man from dying?" Again, real people with brains that actually work. Logic: he does miracles, why didn't he do one for Lazurus so that he didn't die? Something is wrong with this picture.
John says: Jesus, once more deeply moved, came to the tomb. Crying again? Is his face contorted? Is he moaning? How do they know he is deeply moved? Doesn't say, but there was apparently some sort of evidence.
When I came to write today, the only thing I knew I wanted to say was: Jesus Christ is not a BOX. We who follow him, believe in him, are given to getting into boxes, most of the time without knowing it. We are "vicitms" some may call it of our cultures and our families. But Jesus is real and He is God in the flesh. If you will, His work involved going around crushing the boxes of the Jewish leaders and teachers, their traditions for tradition's sake, their dead laws and holidays and rituals.
I can't write any more. Now I'm crying again and I have obligations to meet.
I did not intend to be so preachy, but I do not apologize. God is great.
Boxes. I don't remember exactly when I first heard the phrase 'thinking outside the box'. But I liked it. Yes, outside the box is where the truth is. Boxes can be very sneaky. You can be in one and not know it. I have broken out of a lot of boxes and I think that is where some of my own sense of well-being comes from. There was a book about finding your niche that had something to do with being outside the box. In our culture we must go to college after high school and pack a bunch of knowledge into our brains and then get a job and use all that knowledge. The time in school is strictly separated from the time working. Was that book where that phrase came from? Who wrote it? What was the name? I think the name was about the box. My memory is not so hot. He suggested there might be other ways to go about it. Working and education being more mixed up. My oldest did a work study program to help pay for college, alternating semesters of school with semesters working in her field of study. She learned by working as she was learning in the classroom. It worked very well.
So, boxes. I was a young Christian and I hated legalism. But I became legalistic myself. It's insidious. [spreading or acting inconspicuously with harmful effect] "Christians do this, and they don't do that. Christians think this way. Really dedicated Christians priority is that, not this." Etc. I inflicted these values on my children. No one is perfect. There were a lot of good values that came from me to my kids. But as they became adults, if they don't know how to think outside the box, they will only have those values because of tradition, not because Jesus Christ is real to them personally.
One of my boxes was thinking that I was not the best Christian I could be unless I was always making talking about Jesus to non-Christians my number one priority. And as a mom, I was not really the best mom unless I was also teaching my kids to have the same priority. But I did not take every opportunity to tell other people about Christ, nor did I try to turn conversations to Christ every time I was with someone. Just writing about this makes me feel waves of guilt lapping at my feet. Go away Guilt Trip!
But here's the thing. Maybe I believed in Jesus because I grew up in America and learned in Sunday School that "Jesus died for our sins." So one of my boxes would be my upbringing. My mom took me to church where they taught me about the son of God. Then there was Weekday Religious Education. At my grade school, a trailer used to come in once a week and most of us went out and had a Sunday school lesson for an hour. I sat in the back and did not pay attention. It was EXTREMELY boring. I got in trouble for not paying attention a couple times. After that I paid attention outwardly but my mind was anywhere and everywhere else except on that religious lesson.
Then I went to a ranch in Colorado at age 15 where they told me about Jesus, only this time the context was FUN and the kids there were COOL and the singing was outrageously enthusiastic and we sounded GOOD! The speakers at the evening Round-ups were mesmerizing and the counselors in the cabins gave real answers. This was NOT Sunday school.
[[Aside: I had a grumpy old lady Sunday school teacher whom I could not stand in about 6th grade. I had a hamster. I had a little purse that was shaped like an oval bucket and it had flaps that folded down to close the top. Once I put my hamster, Pooty, in my purse and took him to Sunday school. While the teacher was trying to teach I was showing my friends what I had in my purse. The teacher noticed and came and asked what was in there. When I showed her, she jumped. (Think cartoon lady up on a chair screaming about a little mouse on the floor.) She got really ticked at me. It delighted me inside that I scared that mean old lady. What an evil child. It still makes me laugh.]]
I think it was the founder of Young Life who said it is a sin to bore a child in the name of Christ. So I was not bored at Young Life camp in Colorado. We got to ride horses, climb mountains, play Wells Fargo (cowboys and Indians: each person had a "scalp" -- a bandaid on the forehead. The goal was to take as many of the other team's scalps as possible.) Four or five girls ganged up on me and I fought with everything I had. I think I may have hurt one or two of them, but they got my scalp. It was such an emotional experience, my first and only real fight, using elbows and thrashing around for all I was worth. I went back to my cabin and cried.)
The camp was divided into teams and each team had a queen and I got to be queen of the "Stogies". they put me in my bathing suit and made me ride a horse and rolled up a brown blanket so that it looked like a big Stogie and made me carry it. Our team ended up winning the week's competitions and that made me queen of the camp. I had to go up front (thankfully not in my bathing suit!) I was shy. This was very, very embarrassing. I did not know what to do. Although I felt honored to be queen, wow, PLEASE let me go back to my seat and dissappear!!!!
We got to take open jeep rides along steep mountain roads, and they would back the jeep up to the cliff and make us all scream with terror. They took us down a silver mine in the dark each of us holding onto the person in front of us. When we were all deep down in the mine they started screaming about bears and made us all panic.
We got to eat great food cooked by Goldbrick, we got to swim at the pool, buy Bibles in modern English that we could actually understand. We met kids from all over the country, got crushes on cute boys from the South with thick Southern accents that charmed the heck out of us. OK, me, I got the crush on the Southern boy, just me.
Anyway, this context .... not to mention the 3 days Tex spent driving us from the midwest to Colorado in an un-air-conditioned van in mid summer....the noise he put up with, the roudiness, the impertinence of teenagers.........he had a special gift.....then he drove us 3 days home as well. (At least we had "gotten holy" during the week.) .... this context of love and fun and caring was the right context in which faith could be born inside me.
FUN. The people who worked at the ranch loved us and gave a darn whether we heard the truth about Jesus or not. And it worked. I heard that Jesus death paid for everything I had ever done wrong. I heard that it was not about "do this and do that and God will approve" (like my parents, maybe). It was more like God loves me and cares about me and is reaching out to me and all I have to do is say yes. So I did. Yes, I believe Jesus, a real person in history, came and lived a sinless life, died to pay for my wrong-doing, rose again from death (impossible) and went up to heaven to live forever, where he is, incidentally, making ready for me to join him. Wow. Yes, who wouldn't want this?
So boxes. This wonderful thing, this birth of Annie into God's family led to me wanting to pass this on to other people. This is not bad, but over the years, especially after I had children........
Oh, there is too much to go into. Legalism crept in. Do this to be a good Christian, don't do that. I didn't use bad words, didn't smoke, didn't drink except for a glass of wine with dinner at my father's house. I didn't lie, didn't steal, I was faithful to my mate. But I think the box that I didn't fit into was the one about make it your priority to verbalize your faith in Christ to everyone you know. Try to convince them to become Christians. Study the best ways to do this. Meet people with the express purpose of telling them about Jesus. The goal is not bad: to share with others the best thing that has ever happened to me. What became bad in my life was the use of formulas, rote things to say, cliches. I began to feel like I was trying to trick people into believing in Jesus.
Jumping to the present. God draws people to himself inside of people where we cannot see. Do you want truth? Do you want integrity? Here I am. Come to me. People who believe in him work on the outside, telling others about God and living a life of integrity in front of them so that they will be drawn to the person. Now I am geting acquainted with the artist and writer and coach God made me. How good He is.
The thought I had while I was sitting in bed reading John: Jesus said "I have told you now before it happens, so that when it does happen you will believe."
The thought was about the boxes. There are boxes and we all are in them. Boxes made out of cultural beliefs, our parents' values, then our friends' values. But Jesus Christ is not a box. The nice little story about a baby in a manger is not all there is to Jesus. He is real and He is God. I have seen his glory and I am sure of this. I have seen his light and only because He chose to give me a glimpse of it.
Jesus also told Martha such things when she complained to him after Lazarus died ("if you had been here, Lazarus wouldn't have died", like, "why in the world didn't you come when we called you?" Mary said the same thing.) When Jesus got around to approaching the cave where Lazarus was entombed, he told them to take the stone door away, doors made of stone designed to be permanent. Martha protested that it would smell. Perhaps she wanted to retain Lazarus' dignity in his death. These are real people with real brains that work just like ours. Martha -- the practical one. Jesus said to her "Did I not tell you that if you believed you would see the glory of God?"
We want to see the proof first, and then, we think, we will believe. Well, these people had been watching Jesus prove he was the son of God for a few years. He had been going around validating his words by his actions. Miracles to be specific. They had their proof. They were his closest friends and had seen a lot of miracles. Martha believed that Jesus was God's son. Jesus said to her "Your brother will rise again." Martha said, Yeah, I know when the last day comes, he will. Is she thinking: is this what he means or is he going to raise him up now? She had already told him "I know that even now God will do whatever you ask."
Jesus did what he so often did, and focused her attention on himself in the present. Who He was, not whether Lazarus was going to be saved right then or not. The bigger issue. He said I am the resurrection and the life. He who believes in me will live, even though he dies: and whoever lives and believes in me will never die. Do you believe this? Yes, she did and she told him so. You are the Christ, she said, the Son of God, who was to come into the world.
As I am sitting here writing this post, which has gone places I never expected, I have become overwhelmed with emotion several times. I have shed a few tears. Now that I've looked up the verse I wanted to talk about, "Did I not tell you that if you believed, you would see the glory of God?" I read on to check the details and Mary has arrived along with the mourners who were hanging around "weeping with she who weeps".
John writes: When Jesus saw her weeping, and the Jews who had come along with her also weeping, he was deeply moved in spirit and troubled, and he asked them where they had laid Lazarus. They said come see. and Jesus started crying. The Jews decided this meant that Jesus loved Lazarus a lot. Jesus was a man like us, too, in that he got emotional. And, yes, I think Jesus loved Lazarus a lot. He hung out with him and the 2 sisters in Bethany. They were supportive friends. They had been there for him.
Except some of the Jews said "Could not he who opened the eyes of the blind have kept this man from dying?" Again, real people with brains that actually work. Logic: he does miracles, why didn't he do one for Lazurus so that he didn't die? Something is wrong with this picture.
John says: Jesus, once more deeply moved, came to the tomb. Crying again? Is his face contorted? Is he moaning? How do they know he is deeply moved? Doesn't say, but there was apparently some sort of evidence.
When I came to write today, the only thing I knew I wanted to say was: Jesus Christ is not a BOX. We who follow him, believe in him, are given to getting into boxes, most of the time without knowing it. We are "vicitms" some may call it of our cultures and our families. But Jesus is real and He is God in the flesh. If you will, His work involved going around crushing the boxes of the Jewish leaders and teachers, their traditions for tradition's sake, their dead laws and holidays and rituals.
I can't write any more. Now I'm crying again and I have obligations to meet.
I did not intend to be so preachy, but I do not apologize. God is great.
Thursday, December 08, 2005
Getting the rust out of my fingers
I have a commission. I love saying that: it makes me feel significant.
When I sent out my newsletter about writing, art and coaching, a friend asked me to illustrate poetry he had written for his children. I said yes. He wants to give it to them for Christmas. There are 25 poems.
I am trying to do watercolors for as many as I can. I will not be able to paint for all of them. Some will have to be simple drawings. The poet and I agreed that I can send watercolors next year as they get finished. He has a book with acetate pockets and he can slide the new ones in when I finish them.
The process is exhilarating. I love working with the paint and the high quality paper. I have tons to learn, but after a few weeks of working on this, I can see that my later work is getting better than my earlier work and I feel more confident. I like some of my pictures and I can see how to fix some of the ones I'm not satisfied with.
I am using photos from the web mostly. Thank you, google. Then I draw my idea. Some are fun. Some are a serious rendering of an animal, for example. I have to force myself to speed-draw to get going. I learned this in a life drawing class. We had to draw an entire person (naked) in 15 minutes. The next time it was 10 minutes. Then 5. We went all the way down to about 30 seconds. It was a very helpful exercise, which forced us to resist the temptation to get all bogged down in the details right off the bat. Instead we had to get the essence of the pose down. Maybe I did learn something in art school.
After the layout come the colors. This is something I learned from David Dewey's class. "You don't want to go looking for your colors while your paper is drying." --or something like that. You have to waste lots of paint (mix up plenty of color before you lay any down on the paper. I am not good at this. I want to mix my first color and start putting it onto the page.
I have decided to use watercolor colored pencils on some of the pieces, because it is easier and faster and suits some of the brightly colored pictures very well. Like flying froggie. But the reindeer is done in natural, more subtle shades.
When I get done, I'd like to put some of them on my blog, but I'll have to work it out with my poet friend, since his poetry is copyrighted.
I made my daughters look at everything I've done so far. They like the realistic ones best. I do too.
I know this: when I first started I liked the work, but I was frustrated over spending so much time on one picture and not being satisfied with it. I felt panicky about being able to meet the deadline.
But now, I am making progress, the finished products are better, and I am just enjoying working with my hands.
When I sent out my newsletter about writing, art and coaching, a friend asked me to illustrate poetry he had written for his children. I said yes. He wants to give it to them for Christmas. There are 25 poems.
I am trying to do watercolors for as many as I can. I will not be able to paint for all of them. Some will have to be simple drawings. The poet and I agreed that I can send watercolors next year as they get finished. He has a book with acetate pockets and he can slide the new ones in when I finish them.
The process is exhilarating. I love working with the paint and the high quality paper. I have tons to learn, but after a few weeks of working on this, I can see that my later work is getting better than my earlier work and I feel more confident. I like some of my pictures and I can see how to fix some of the ones I'm not satisfied with.
I am using photos from the web mostly. Thank you, google. Then I draw my idea. Some are fun. Some are a serious rendering of an animal, for example. I have to force myself to speed-draw to get going. I learned this in a life drawing class. We had to draw an entire person (naked) in 15 minutes. The next time it was 10 minutes. Then 5. We went all the way down to about 30 seconds. It was a very helpful exercise, which forced us to resist the temptation to get all bogged down in the details right off the bat. Instead we had to get the essence of the pose down. Maybe I did learn something in art school.
After the layout come the colors. This is something I learned from David Dewey's class. "You don't want to go looking for your colors while your paper is drying." --or something like that. You have to waste lots of paint (mix up plenty of color before you lay any down on the paper. I am not good at this. I want to mix my first color and start putting it onto the page.
I have decided to use watercolor colored pencils on some of the pieces, because it is easier and faster and suits some of the brightly colored pictures very well. Like flying froggie. But the reindeer is done in natural, more subtle shades.
When I get done, I'd like to put some of them on my blog, but I'll have to work it out with my poet friend, since his poetry is copyrighted.
I made my daughters look at everything I've done so far. They like the realistic ones best. I do too.
I know this: when I first started I liked the work, but I was frustrated over spending so much time on one picture and not being satisfied with it. I felt panicky about being able to meet the deadline.
But now, I am making progress, the finished products are better, and I am just enjoying working with my hands.
Sunday, December 04, 2005
walking away
OK, it's been several days and the ones upons ones of readers are checking daily dying to know if I'm am buying the cute little storybook house. No. My realtor and our handyman added up real numbers. More cold water was thrown on the idea and this time it had ice in it.
I already knew that a whole lot of money would be necessary to move... way more money than I would have thought to add the bathroom and kitchen to the garage loft, and even more to make changes in the rental house. I whimperd a bit, but gave up and went home, thanking them for their patience, and happy that it was resolved.
I still think the Holy Spirit blew me by the house, just not so that I should buy it. The pro/con list brought out the good things about staying put. The pro/con list made me realize I do want to move in some ways.
When I started hyperventilating, I asked my coach to calm me down, because I was distracted from my job, making illustrations for my friend's poetry...which has a deadline.
It made me verbalize issues to my co-inhabitants, (my daughters) the issue being RENT. They are getting to be adults who "should" be out on their own soon, and now I have actually told them how much I need to get from the space downstairs and if they want to live in it, they can come up with the money. Otherwise, move upstairs. The thing I need to verbalize next is when they must start paying. Probably the new year would be a good place to start.
While I'm trying to learn to be a better mother and require adult behavior from my adult children, at the same time I see my managers at work struggling with letting my coworkers get away with cheating and laziness and I can't help but see the similarity. I had a chat with my manager who is probably half my age, and told him that by not firing the girl who sleeps on the job and gets into f-word shouting matches and has to be restrained from fist fighting, he's hurting the store, the customers and the girl herself long-term. He is nice. Yes, I would much rather work for a nice manager than a mean one, but leaving her on the payroll teaches her she can get away with bad behavior and still get paid. She's gone and her coworkers are glad. Though I had grown to dislike her, I sincerely hope she will wake up and grow from this experience, even if it's 10 years down the road when it dawns on her: "Hey, there was a reason I got fired. I was a whiney self-centered little twit."
I already knew that a whole lot of money would be necessary to move... way more money than I would have thought to add the bathroom and kitchen to the garage loft, and even more to make changes in the rental house. I whimperd a bit, but gave up and went home, thanking them for their patience, and happy that it was resolved.
I still think the Holy Spirit blew me by the house, just not so that I should buy it. The pro/con list brought out the good things about staying put. The pro/con list made me realize I do want to move in some ways.
When I started hyperventilating, I asked my coach to calm me down, because I was distracted from my job, making illustrations for my friend's poetry...which has a deadline.
It made me verbalize issues to my co-inhabitants, (my daughters) the issue being RENT. They are getting to be adults who "should" be out on their own soon, and now I have actually told them how much I need to get from the space downstairs and if they want to live in it, they can come up with the money. Otherwise, move upstairs. The thing I need to verbalize next is when they must start paying. Probably the new year would be a good place to start.
While I'm trying to learn to be a better mother and require adult behavior from my adult children, at the same time I see my managers at work struggling with letting my coworkers get away with cheating and laziness and I can't help but see the similarity. I had a chat with my manager who is probably half my age, and told him that by not firing the girl who sleeps on the job and gets into f-word shouting matches and has to be restrained from fist fighting, he's hurting the store, the customers and the girl herself long-term. He is nice. Yes, I would much rather work for a nice manager than a mean one, but leaving her on the payroll teaches her she can get away with bad behavior and still get paid. She's gone and her coworkers are glad. Though I had grown to dislike her, I sincerely hope she will wake up and grow from this experience, even if it's 10 years down the road when it dawns on her: "Hey, there was a reason I got fired. I was a whiney self-centered little twit."
Saturday, November 26, 2005
Love at Second Sight
I drove by the cute storybook house on my way to run with the dog, just to look again. Am I crazy, maybe I'll come to my senses. I saw a person walking from the house to the garage. I got out of the car....hello?! I called out two times and the owner came back out. I asked a question or two. He said the realtor was there and would show it to me. Ok. I'm happy. I want to see this how the studio is set up even if I don't ever live here. Ideas, ideas for building a studio onto my house, if nothing else. A train load of ideas.
The realtor remembers my name from when I called her as good realtors do. She shakes my hand firmly and we go to look at the house. Definitely charming and all artistic looking. The owner's mom paints and the owner (female) writes. The workshop has dog doors through which the dogs come in and out at will and the floor is heated. It is not as big as I envisioned it. But it's only me. How much space do I need?
The owners collect antiques and it reminds me of my own house; there is even a table downstairs - (have you noticed realtors do not use the word basement?) - a table just like the one Rick and I bought together in the last months before he died.
That reminds me of how it was when we looked at the house we live in now. She had baked bread on purpose right before we walked in and her house was done in my colors in oak antiques, our style. It already looked like my house.
And I had to ask these nice people where they were moving to. The realtor had only said cross country. Why I had this sense that they might be headed for the great Northwest, I do not know. In fact they are moving to Bend, Oregon. To a house with a horse included. Stables. She showed me pictures. For them, it was a surprise too. They went out thinking they would take 5 years and eventually build a place out there. But the first place they looked at they bought. And there is no great rush to get out there, they can do the same business they do here out there.
The woman said more than once, seeing the excitement in my face. (I know you are not supposed to let them know how much you like it, but I wasn't house shopping, and so not really playing the cool game yet) she kept saying: I am only the 2nd owner and it breaks my heart to leave this place, it is important to me to see it go to someone who will love it the way I do. I'm thinking to myself: HOW important to you? Enough to lower the price a ton so that I don't have to take a huge risk moving in here? I was also telling myself: don't get attached, don't make a big deal of these details.
The zoning issue which seemed impossible to my realtor is just a matter of paperwork to the owner. And the possibility of selling a sector of land is almost a ready option. Red tape involved but it's worth 1/5 the price of the home.
wow, i'm tired. I am going to sleep on it.
The realtor remembers my name from when I called her as good realtors do. She shakes my hand firmly and we go to look at the house. Definitely charming and all artistic looking. The owner's mom paints and the owner (female) writes. The workshop has dog doors through which the dogs come in and out at will and the floor is heated. It is not as big as I envisioned it. But it's only me. How much space do I need?
The owners collect antiques and it reminds me of my own house; there is even a table downstairs - (have you noticed realtors do not use the word basement?) - a table just like the one Rick and I bought together in the last months before he died.
That reminds me of how it was when we looked at the house we live in now. She had baked bread on purpose right before we walked in and her house was done in my colors in oak antiques, our style. It already looked like my house.
And I had to ask these nice people where they were moving to. The realtor had only said cross country. Why I had this sense that they might be headed for the great Northwest, I do not know. In fact they are moving to Bend, Oregon. To a house with a horse included. Stables. She showed me pictures. For them, it was a surprise too. They went out thinking they would take 5 years and eventually build a place out there. But the first place they looked at they bought. And there is no great rush to get out there, they can do the same business they do here out there.
The woman said more than once, seeing the excitement in my face. (I know you are not supposed to let them know how much you like it, but I wasn't house shopping, and so not really playing the cool game yet) she kept saying: I am only the 2nd owner and it breaks my heart to leave this place, it is important to me to see it go to someone who will love it the way I do. I'm thinking to myself: HOW important to you? Enough to lower the price a ton so that I don't have to take a huge risk moving in here? I was also telling myself: don't get attached, don't make a big deal of these details.
The zoning issue which seemed impossible to my realtor is just a matter of paperwork to the owner. And the possibility of selling a sector of land is almost a ready option. Red tape involved but it's worth 1/5 the price of the home.
wow, i'm tired. I am going to sleep on it.
Friday, November 25, 2005
Love at first sight
After jogging with "bad dog", (see post "Untrained Animal") I took a different route home and saw an adorable little storybook house in my colors. Right after I fell in love, I noticed it is for sale. So I stopped and wrote down the realtor's number, studied it for a few minutes, and turned the corner so that I could drive back home. Oh! A detatched 3 car garage, and a studio/office built over it with lots of windows. Swoon, swoon. How much does this cost? I'm sure it's a lot, probably more than I could sell my house for, but I could live in the detatchment and rent out the little house (all 3 levels) to lots of folk and get lots of rent out of it and have space and privacy, an office to write AND paint in.....my mind is racing. If I could get paid for manufacturing ideas, I'd be rich. Mind you, they might not be good ideas.
OH! There is a 6 foot fence behind the garage! It's dog ready! I want it. I don't need a 3 car garage, I can put a little kitchen and bathroom in and have room left over to store stuff. How soon can I move in?
I had just decided to rent out space in my own house on Monday and this cute little place is so much more suitable and rentable and I would not have to give up my privacy -- one of the things holding me back from renting out part of my house.
I'm calculating where I am going to take the money from to accomplish this. I get out my cell and call the realtor. Yes, it costs more than my house, but I wonder if the money I would lose in moving could be made up in rent and she tells me there is land that might be subdivided and sold on the lot.
Driving home I try to calm myself: hold it loosely. If the Lord thinks this is a good idea, it may work out, don't force it. I call my own realtor and leave a message. I want to go see it.
Hmm, was I distracted from my painting? Yes, I came home and looked it up on line and saw a few pictures of the inside. I loved the sun coming in the windows and doors.
The realtor told me there is also a huge workroom behind the garage with a heated floor, as the owner does carpentry there.
OK, I have been telling my friends that I don't plan to retire and settle down in this state, but this place is so perfect for what I am trying to do NOW, write and paint (and coach?). It seems ideal for what I want right now, a separated place to rent out to others and a space of my own with provisions for dog...a studio, an office, plus room to store things for my mountain retreat house which I will fall in love with next.
As I feared my realtor called me back later and said I cannot have it. It would cost too much to get in there and I'd not be able to get the money back by renting to numerous renters. Worse than that, the garage is not zoned to live in. Sigh.
I did a lot of bla bla to my daughters about the place. One said, just take the money you'd use to move into that place and build your studio here. Yes, but....but....but....
(Irrational love trying to take the reigns) My realtor doesn't understand....whine, whine. It's ready now and there is land that could be subdivided and sold, and I can be physically separated from the renters. I don't know why that seems so attractive to me, but it does.
OH! There is a 6 foot fence behind the garage! It's dog ready! I want it. I don't need a 3 car garage, I can put a little kitchen and bathroom in and have room left over to store stuff. How soon can I move in?
I had just decided to rent out space in my own house on Monday and this cute little place is so much more suitable and rentable and I would not have to give up my privacy -- one of the things holding me back from renting out part of my house.
I'm calculating where I am going to take the money from to accomplish this. I get out my cell and call the realtor. Yes, it costs more than my house, but I wonder if the money I would lose in moving could be made up in rent and she tells me there is land that might be subdivided and sold on the lot.
Driving home I try to calm myself: hold it loosely. If the Lord thinks this is a good idea, it may work out, don't force it. I call my own realtor and leave a message. I want to go see it.
Hmm, was I distracted from my painting? Yes, I came home and looked it up on line and saw a few pictures of the inside. I loved the sun coming in the windows and doors.
The realtor told me there is also a huge workroom behind the garage with a heated floor, as the owner does carpentry there.
OK, I have been telling my friends that I don't plan to retire and settle down in this state, but this place is so perfect for what I am trying to do NOW, write and paint (and coach?). It seems ideal for what I want right now, a separated place to rent out to others and a space of my own with provisions for dog...a studio, an office, plus room to store things for my mountain retreat house which I will fall in love with next.
As I feared my realtor called me back later and said I cannot have it. It would cost too much to get in there and I'd not be able to get the money back by renting to numerous renters. Worse than that, the garage is not zoned to live in. Sigh.
I did a lot of bla bla to my daughters about the place. One said, just take the money you'd use to move into that place and build your studio here. Yes, but....but....but....
(Irrational love trying to take the reigns) My realtor doesn't understand....whine, whine. It's ready now and there is land that could be subdivided and sold, and I can be physically separated from the renters. I don't know why that seems so attractive to me, but it does.
untrained animal
She tripped me and I went down but I held on tight to the leash since there was a woman and her boxer right there (the dog being reason my dog went nuts and landed me on the grass).
Another day jogging at the lake and feeling so happy...no one deserves to be as happy as I ...cold air, leftover autumn colors, 200 geese taking off en masse and landing over by the shore when they heard us coming, deer, surveyors and 2 lone joggers.
As I looked up the woman and her dog were standing still and her dog was seated quietly by her side. I suppose she wanted to make sure I was alright. Or just wanted to take the opportunity to put another nail in the coffin of HER dog's instinctive bad behavior by giving him the opportunity to sit and wait, while all of his inner being wanted to come over and greet this other dog, play wrestle, or maybe even fight.
Honestly! So I'm stretched out with my hands on the leash and my dog is pulling toward the other dog and might have dragged me right over there if I had been a little lighter. Without saying anything, they walked on and I got up and continued my run saying things I should not say to my little "pet". I made the dog heal the whole time.
I was angry at her but before I even got off the ground I had decided to order a gentle leader on line as soon as I got home (for non dog people -- a gentle leader is a different type of collar than the traditional choke collar and puts pressure in a different place and everyone says it's much more effective in controlling the dog. While I was still on the grass, I was thinking about how I knew this did not happen because my dog is bad. She doesn't behave because I am not diligent enough in disciplining her. So let's go forward from here.
At the same time I thought this is why my girls are somewhat spoiled and my older kids think they are getting away with murder. I don't discipline decisively, consistently or effectively. I feel sorry for them which leads me to not discipline them well, and that is often fatal to raising up a child in the way he should go.
Untrained animal. This implies that the animal could be trained. I've done quite a bit of training with her, but not to the point at which I am comfortable with her in public.
My dog is untrained because I have been sloppy with her training. When you see the results in worst case scenarios like yesterday when she laid me out on the grass, it comes home. I ordered a gentle leader, a collar which I know is better than what I am using. I made her heel all the way home and I committed to returning to The Culture Clash, by Jean Donaldson, a brilliant book about dogs to help you understand how they operate. It includes lots of training instructions.
Another day jogging at the lake and feeling so happy...no one deserves to be as happy as I ...cold air, leftover autumn colors, 200 geese taking off en masse and landing over by the shore when they heard us coming, deer, surveyors and 2 lone joggers.
As I looked up the woman and her dog were standing still and her dog was seated quietly by her side. I suppose she wanted to make sure I was alright. Or just wanted to take the opportunity to put another nail in the coffin of HER dog's instinctive bad behavior by giving him the opportunity to sit and wait, while all of his inner being wanted to come over and greet this other dog, play wrestle, or maybe even fight.
Honestly! So I'm stretched out with my hands on the leash and my dog is pulling toward the other dog and might have dragged me right over there if I had been a little lighter. Without saying anything, they walked on and I got up and continued my run saying things I should not say to my little "pet". I made the dog heal the whole time.
I was angry at her but before I even got off the ground I had decided to order a gentle leader on line as soon as I got home (for non dog people -- a gentle leader is a different type of collar than the traditional choke collar and puts pressure in a different place and everyone says it's much more effective in controlling the dog. While I was still on the grass, I was thinking about how I knew this did not happen because my dog is bad. She doesn't behave because I am not diligent enough in disciplining her. So let's go forward from here.
At the same time I thought this is why my girls are somewhat spoiled and my older kids think they are getting away with murder. I don't discipline decisively, consistently or effectively. I feel sorry for them which leads me to not discipline them well, and that is often fatal to raising up a child in the way he should go.
Untrained animal. This implies that the animal could be trained. I've done quite a bit of training with her, but not to the point at which I am comfortable with her in public.
My dog is untrained because I have been sloppy with her training. When you see the results in worst case scenarios like yesterday when she laid me out on the grass, it comes home. I ordered a gentle leader, a collar which I know is better than what I am using. I made her heel all the way home and I committed to returning to The Culture Clash, by Jean Donaldson, a brilliant book about dogs to help you understand how they operate. It includes lots of training instructions.
Thursday, November 24, 2005
bird by bird
It was my coach's idea to get a blog. I only knew it was vaguely about the internet. The word blog was in the news and I would have deduced it was about politics. But my coach said it's a free way to try putting words out there where people can see them, I went and got one.
Why "Annie"? There are on line predators... I'd just rather not openly invite cyber-prowlers over: If I give lots of specific details about who I am, especially since my posts have a lot of personal stuff in them, I may as well say: bring your perverted self over and attack me and my girls. Thus, "Annie" and vague geographical info.
My published author friend suggested I read Bird by Bird, by Anne Lamont. I am enjoying it immensely, mostly because she is a very funny little smart alec! Her ideas are much more useful to me in the area of painting right now than writing.
I have added up the number of hours it will take to complete 25 illustrations for a book of poetry. I have looked at the hours I have in the week which are available to work on it between now and Christmas. If I give in to the temptation to go at it every waking moment, I will set myself up for a 'crash and burn' experience (one of flylady's terms to describe what perfectionists do to themselves. You get all psyched up about a project and go great guns until you burn out and then you don't have any energy to come back to it for a long long time. This not to say one should not work long and hard on something.
Anne tells a story of her little brother sitting at the kitchen table with a report on birds due next day. He had had 3 months to work on the report. Piled on the table were paper, pencils and unopened books on birds. "Immobilized by the hugeness of the task ahead" Anne writes. "Then my father sat down beside him, put his arm around my brother's shoulder, and said, 'Bird by bird, buddy. Just take it bird by bird.'"
The perfectionist in me is easily overwhelmed and therefore frozen with fear and discouragement. The growing me says bird by bird. Painting by painting. Drawing by drawing. smile.
I don't think I have the problem Anne Lamont is talking about in her book so far. Anne Lamont is coaxing her readers to just start, just pick a topic and write something down about it. I have been writing since I started with my coach and he said "freewrite". I am not lacking for ideas or energy to write. I am pretty sure I need to learn editing and reducing the pieces so that people won't be put off by all the words on the page.
Anyway, I was up late putting another layer on my lightning painting and the last layer helped it a lot. I was feeling discouraged in that it had started to look too overworked like the first sketch, and it had taken so much time and I didn't want to start over a third time. Now decide whether to paint the ground on the bottom of the page or just let the whole painting be sky. The perfectionist in me is not satisfied, but I am deciding it's done and going on to the next piece.
So much rust in my fingers! Not to mention the injured thumb caused by my untrained dog at the lake yesterday. (see post called "Untrained Animal".)
Anne Lamont also mentioned Natalie Goldberg's Writing Down the Bones. Now then my art teacher had mentioned that book. [I had also asked him to talk to me about writing since he too had published a book.] He is not a writer like that. He is a painter. He needed a kick-start because he paints and writing a book was new to him.
Which am I? Both? Neither? I am not sure but I am having a blast finding out.
Yesterday was very unusual. I tried to paint all day. I spent time cutting pieces of paper and trying to stretch them so they won't rumple when I paint on them. Standard procedure. I stuck them to various surfaces with tape and/or staples and set them out to dry. Some rumpled when they were supposed to stretch. I got out the Watercolor Book and read "how to stretch paper". It was not clear how long to soak the paper, but I tried various lengths of time.
More time was spent looking for images on line to work from. Now you know how easy it is to be distracted that way! Google will find you way more photos of rainbows than you will need! I chose the simplest photograph, knowing that a rainbow was going to be difficult enough to paint without other things in the composition.
What else yesterday? It snowed! The trees aren't even bereft of their leaves yet; that was weird.
Oh yes, the other odd thing: I fell in love on the way home from my jog. See post called "Love at First Sight".
I made myself paint and work. I printed the poems in about the size I will need to hand print them once I've done the pictures. I taped them onto the paper to see how much room they'd take up so as to paint the picture in the remaining space. That takes time, too. I am learning what is involved in doing a commissioned piece of art and that is very valuable. I have NEVER done this before.
My brother in law said today something about painting being relaxing. No, this is not about relaxation. It's about making a living and it's about sharing something good with others and it gets me excited to work on it, but no, it does not relax me.
Why "Annie"? There are on line predators... I'd just rather not openly invite cyber-prowlers over: If I give lots of specific details about who I am, especially since my posts have a lot of personal stuff in them, I may as well say: bring your perverted self over and attack me and my girls. Thus, "Annie" and vague geographical info.
My published author friend suggested I read Bird by Bird, by Anne Lamont. I am enjoying it immensely, mostly because she is a very funny little smart alec! Her ideas are much more useful to me in the area of painting right now than writing.
I have added up the number of hours it will take to complete 25 illustrations for a book of poetry. I have looked at the hours I have in the week which are available to work on it between now and Christmas. If I give in to the temptation to go at it every waking moment, I will set myself up for a 'crash and burn' experience (one of flylady's terms to describe what perfectionists do to themselves. You get all psyched up about a project and go great guns until you burn out and then you don't have any energy to come back to it for a long long time. This not to say one should not work long and hard on something.
Anne tells a story of her little brother sitting at the kitchen table with a report on birds due next day. He had had 3 months to work on the report. Piled on the table were paper, pencils and unopened books on birds. "Immobilized by the hugeness of the task ahead" Anne writes. "Then my father sat down beside him, put his arm around my brother's shoulder, and said, 'Bird by bird, buddy. Just take it bird by bird.'"
The perfectionist in me is easily overwhelmed and therefore frozen with fear and discouragement. The growing me says bird by bird. Painting by painting. Drawing by drawing. smile.
I don't think I have the problem Anne Lamont is talking about in her book so far. Anne Lamont is coaxing her readers to just start, just pick a topic and write something down about it. I have been writing since I started with my coach and he said "freewrite". I am not lacking for ideas or energy to write. I am pretty sure I need to learn editing and reducing the pieces so that people won't be put off by all the words on the page.
Anyway, I was up late putting another layer on my lightning painting and the last layer helped it a lot. I was feeling discouraged in that it had started to look too overworked like the first sketch, and it had taken so much time and I didn't want to start over a third time. Now decide whether to paint the ground on the bottom of the page or just let the whole painting be sky. The perfectionist in me is not satisfied, but I am deciding it's done and going on to the next piece.
So much rust in my fingers! Not to mention the injured thumb caused by my untrained dog at the lake yesterday. (see post called "Untrained Animal".)
Anne Lamont also mentioned Natalie Goldberg's Writing Down the Bones. Now then my art teacher had mentioned that book. [I had also asked him to talk to me about writing since he too had published a book.] He is not a writer like that. He is a painter. He needed a kick-start because he paints and writing a book was new to him.
Which am I? Both? Neither? I am not sure but I am having a blast finding out.
Yesterday was very unusual. I tried to paint all day. I spent time cutting pieces of paper and trying to stretch them so they won't rumple when I paint on them. Standard procedure. I stuck them to various surfaces with tape and/or staples and set them out to dry. Some rumpled when they were supposed to stretch. I got out the Watercolor Book and read "how to stretch paper". It was not clear how long to soak the paper, but I tried various lengths of time.
More time was spent looking for images on line to work from. Now you know how easy it is to be distracted that way! Google will find you way more photos of rainbows than you will need! I chose the simplest photograph, knowing that a rainbow was going to be difficult enough to paint without other things in the composition.
What else yesterday? It snowed! The trees aren't even bereft of their leaves yet; that was weird.
Oh yes, the other odd thing: I fell in love on the way home from my jog. See post called "Love at First Sight".
I made myself paint and work. I printed the poems in about the size I will need to hand print them once I've done the pictures. I taped them onto the paper to see how much room they'd take up so as to paint the picture in the remaining space. That takes time, too. I am learning what is involved in doing a commissioned piece of art and that is very valuable. I have NEVER done this before.
My brother in law said today something about painting being relaxing. No, this is not about relaxation. It's about making a living and it's about sharing something good with others and it gets me excited to work on it, but no, it does not relax me.
Monday, November 07, 2005
Drinking the Colors
It was only about 3.30 when the dog and I went out to jog today but it felt like it was about to get dark, which it actually was. Sundown was 5pm. Perhaps the colors have peaked here, at least the yellows and oranges, though I know that after that there are a lot of Bradford Pears and others that give lots of brilliant reds. Yesterday when I got up and looked out it was snowing leaves. Today my grass turned mauve with oak leaves. Mauve is the color on the underside of the leaves. Not my favorite color. You look down and think, that's a lot of leaves. But if you look up -- 80% are still up there. I found my rake from last year and it has about 5 tines left on it. I hope that I get a strong wind from the West once all the leaves are on the ground. One year that happened and blew all the leaves out of my yard and down the street. I figured they may have ended up in the Atlantic. Saved me a lot of raking. I love raking though, I shouldn't worry. And I have 2 able bodied helpers with me.
The sky was thin blue and the colors were not as brilliant as yesterday. Some trees simply make me gasp. I felt energetic and we ran the route around the lake. My camera was in my trunk. Last week when I ran with my camera while stopping to take photos at the same time, I lost my lens cap.
The dog is comic relief. When we finish running, I make her go down the slide with me. She does NOT like this. So I'm trying to build her confidence with the easy ones and give her treats afterwards. Once we go down, if I try to lead her anywhere near the steps to go up again, no way, Mommy, I am not doing that again!
Should I get my camera and walk the lake a 2nd time and use up my film? Instead I decided to go home. I drove through my neighborhood and finished the roll on every bright tree and bush I saw, plus the street that is like a tunnel made of overhanging trees. They are not in color, but it looks great all year long because of the trees. I hoped people were not uneasy with me taking pictures of their houses.
The other night, there was a very dark blue sky with a spotlight from a baseball field illuminating a yellow tree. Now the mind knows that it is yellow, but I studied it and thought about how to paint it. Lots of red to darken the sky and tree. The value of the tree on the shadow's side was the same as the sky. And though I knew that the leaves were yellow, I would try brown madder or yellow ochre for the lighted side of the tree. I carried this mental observation with me and three days later I opened my paints and tried to capture the colors I had seen. I used a red background and painted over it with the blue, green and tan and .... it worked! Those are the colors. I was amazed.
I cannot count how many times I have walked at dusk or at night with the dog in the past few years and thought "It is impossible to paint that. Those colors don't exist in paints. But that was before I had a good teacher. Exciting.
Olivia's flower arrangement for church was fall foliage. What she does with flowers is a combination of painting and sculpture. She is so good at it. I remember when she did the flowers for my husband's memorial service. I just stared at the pink roses thinking: those can't be real, they have to be fake.
I am so happy to be connecting with the artist in me again.
Wednesday, November 02, 2005
A Well-Loved Child
The timer says 5 minutes. What's on your mind? Sun is shining in the east window but the old roller shade won't go up all the way so I cheat myself out of 75% of the sunbeam. Didn't sleep that well, a tickling cough. The remedies are available to zap colds these days...if not preventing them altogether, at least shortening them from 2 weeks to 3 days, and keeping them from turning into full-blown head colds. I blast my symptoms from the earliest moment with Vitamin C, garlic, ecanacea, Coldeeze, gargle, extra fluids and rest. Since I have used this method, I either get a short, mild cold, or the symptoms dissappear completely by day two.
The tall lovely young woman came to me last night in Smaland and asked my opinion about why African American women are so attitudinal with each other. She says many times people have said to her, "Are you from North Carolina?" because she and her mom are nice and friendly and smile a lot. She says women who grow up in our area are looking at each other in a judgmental way and are quick to fight.
I gave her my theories, the first being that with the history of oppression, and not only being oppressed and enslaved because they were black, but because they were women. OK, so they are at the bottom of the totem pole. Now then historic events have given them the opportunity to be free and have 'success'. I wonder if in their present freedom, they have adopted the attitude: By golly, nobody is EVER going to put me down again. (Can't you hear the feminist song: I am woman hear me roar....no one's ever gonna take me down again!) I wonder if African-American women have built their fence up thick and strong and you can see them peering over the top with their shotgun aimed saying to anyone on the other side of the protective fence, you take one step towards me and I'll blow your head off. I told her when we clocked out that some other time I'll tell her why I came up with that theory. It is from my own experience of coming to a place of learning about boundaries and putting up my own protective fence. It is normal to over-react when you are learning to keep your boundaries firm. Instead of just erecting your fence and going inside and enjoying your house in peace, trusting your fence, you peer over the edge and yell at people who even look towards your property: You had better not be thinking about trying to cross this line!
But there's a major flaw in this theory. It might explain attitude towards white people, or towards men, but not attitude BETWEEN African-American women, which is what she was wondering about.
The second part of my theory follows:
She described how some younger girls were looking her up and down at school and how she had to walk by them and could feel them looking critically at her. And she described how quickly a customer lashed out at her when she asked an innocent question. She thinks of the words The Angry Woman often.
I was thinking out loud and not putting a lot of stock in my own theories, just sharing them, since she asked me to: There is the breakdown of faith and family.
But here's my 2nd theory. OK, once you get out of oppression and you have freedom to work your way up towards power and "success", maybe there is a strong competitive drive: I'm going to establish myself (above you if necessary) for me and for my family. I am NOT going to be on the bottom any more. Do these women see each other as threats to their own success? If there is any validity in this theory, then being in a highly populated metro area like ours would ratchet up the competition all the more. More people, less resources, less opportunities...."if I'm gonna get mine, I had better grab on tight and not let go."
I love to analyze people and make guesses as to what makes them do things, but a much better source of information would be the young woman herself, and her African-American friends and family. I think I'll practice my listening skills on her and see what comes out of her mouth.
Oh yes, why did I title this the A Well-Loved Child?
Because after I started to get to know this young woman and observed her confidence and the appearance of being "comfortable inside her own skin", I remember thinking, "She must have been raised by parents who really loved her with lots of healthy love." Not doting on her, not disciplining her harshly, but healthy love, giving her affection, no doubt, but also freedom and encouragement to take responsibility and work hard and grow as a person. What a gift she has been given. She is such a contrast to some with whom we work, those who whine about every single thing that happens in the store, drawing attention to themselves. They may as well hang a sign on their shirts that say "Please feel sorry for me; my problems are significant, (but yours aren't).
Yes, I think she is well-loved by someone for sure.
The tall lovely young woman came to me last night in Smaland and asked my opinion about why African American women are so attitudinal with each other. She says many times people have said to her, "Are you from North Carolina?" because she and her mom are nice and friendly and smile a lot. She says women who grow up in our area are looking at each other in a judgmental way and are quick to fight.
I gave her my theories, the first being that with the history of oppression, and not only being oppressed and enslaved because they were black, but because they were women. OK, so they are at the bottom of the totem pole. Now then historic events have given them the opportunity to be free and have 'success'. I wonder if in their present freedom, they have adopted the attitude: By golly, nobody is EVER going to put me down again. (Can't you hear the feminist song: I am woman hear me roar....no one's ever gonna take me down again!) I wonder if African-American women have built their fence up thick and strong and you can see them peering over the top with their shotgun aimed saying to anyone on the other side of the protective fence, you take one step towards me and I'll blow your head off. I told her when we clocked out that some other time I'll tell her why I came up with that theory. It is from my own experience of coming to a place of learning about boundaries and putting up my own protective fence. It is normal to over-react when you are learning to keep your boundaries firm. Instead of just erecting your fence and going inside and enjoying your house in peace, trusting your fence, you peer over the edge and yell at people who even look towards your property: You had better not be thinking about trying to cross this line!
But there's a major flaw in this theory. It might explain attitude towards white people, or towards men, but not attitude BETWEEN African-American women, which is what she was wondering about.
The second part of my theory follows:
She described how some younger girls were looking her up and down at school and how she had to walk by them and could feel them looking critically at her. And she described how quickly a customer lashed out at her when she asked an innocent question. She thinks of the words The Angry Woman often.
I was thinking out loud and not putting a lot of stock in my own theories, just sharing them, since she asked me to: There is the breakdown of faith and family.
But here's my 2nd theory. OK, once you get out of oppression and you have freedom to work your way up towards power and "success", maybe there is a strong competitive drive: I'm going to establish myself (above you if necessary) for me and for my family. I am NOT going to be on the bottom any more. Do these women see each other as threats to their own success? If there is any validity in this theory, then being in a highly populated metro area like ours would ratchet up the competition all the more. More people, less resources, less opportunities...."if I'm gonna get mine, I had better grab on tight and not let go."
I love to analyze people and make guesses as to what makes them do things, but a much better source of information would be the young woman herself, and her African-American friends and family. I think I'll practice my listening skills on her and see what comes out of her mouth.
Oh yes, why did I title this the A Well-Loved Child?
Because after I started to get to know this young woman and observed her confidence and the appearance of being "comfortable inside her own skin", I remember thinking, "She must have been raised by parents who really loved her with lots of healthy love." Not doting on her, not disciplining her harshly, but healthy love, giving her affection, no doubt, but also freedom and encouragement to take responsibility and work hard and grow as a person. What a gift she has been given. She is such a contrast to some with whom we work, those who whine about every single thing that happens in the store, drawing attention to themselves. They may as well hang a sign on their shirts that say "Please feel sorry for me; my problems are significant, (but yours aren't).
Yes, I think she is well-loved by someone for sure.
Tuesday, November 01, 2005
Coaching
My profile says my blog is about coaching and I have yet to write anything about it. I wrote "That (coaching) will be an interesting post. Check in later."
It's time to do a post on coaching:
Having a personal coach is a great new thing that God has brought into my life. Why struggle alone? I like having someone encourage me. I have lived with a lot of DIScouragement over my whole life, criticism, judgment without help, shame, rejection. To have someone who is on my side and whose purpose is to watch me succeed and be happy about it, not competing with me, but supporting me, feels really good. I am thriving in this atmosphere.
In the days after I had left my former occupation, I spent a lot of time thinking about what I am good at and what I could do for my next career. Thankfully I had savings to live on while I looked for a career. That is huge and I do not take it for granted! Get as much life insurance as you can for your loved ones. Don't think you won't need it. You don't know.
One day I got an email from my former tennis coach that said "You'd be a good life coach." I had only heard of a life coach once before in a conversation with some intelligent ladies. I was whining about not knowing what to do in life, and one of them said "Sounds like you need a life coach."
OK, so one person says I need one, the other says I should be one. Hmmmm, what's a life coach?
My tennis coach had sent 2 links to coaching websites. The woman's site gave me the impression it was for corporate executive types; I could not identify. The second was www.purposefilledlife.com. The title did not really appeal to me, because it sounded like the title to Rick Warren's book. I was rebelling a just a little at the popularity of his book, Purpose Driven Life, which I had been reading with a friend. I was distrustful of book simply because it was TOO popular, which made me suspicious. Oh, brother. Lots of good stuff in there, but all I remember from it is the first sentence: "IT'S NOT ABOUT YOU!" that is profound. If you get that, you probably don't need to read the book.
At any rate, Ron Marsh offers a free trial. I'm thinking one could really get ripped off by some stranger out there is cyberspace, who could take your money and give you a bunch of hooey. But, I thought, during the trial appointment I can discern whether he is for real. If I get ANY negative vibes, I won't do it.
So we had our trial call. I was favorably impressed and decided to try it. Again after one month, if it's not helpful, I'll quit. Ron makes a point that the coaching he does is subject to God's guidance. I did not fully understand what he was saying until I got into the process. Jesus said My sheep hear my voice and they follow me. I recognize God's voice in this coaching relationship. I do not mean that Ron says: Do something and I obey. That is exactly what coaching is NOT. But his skill in asking questions causes me to discern what God is leading me to do.
Life coaching is not mentoring, not consulting, not counseling, not psychotherapy. It has some elements from these things. But it is encouragement and accountability. Now I have nice friends who love me and say sweet things to me to make me feel better when life is hard. A coach doesn't do that. He is not a soothsayer.
And I've had a Christian psychologist who listened to me and asked me hard questions to help me understand my unhappiness and how to get out of it.
And I've had a pastoral counselor who listened for long hours and gave me books to read and gave me tools to communicate with people I loved. All those stood by me and all were valuable and sent by God at the right time. All of those I am very grateful for.
At this time, it is a coach I need and a coach I have. He is more skilled as a listener even than the counselor and the head-shrinker. His listening has a different purpose than therapy. He asks hard questions too. He cheers for me when I do things I say I'm going to do. He prays with me and for me. He is God's chosen person for me at this time of transition. The hesitancy is gone. Coaching works.
I'm excited about coaching and want to go into all the details but I won't. Ron would say: not everyone feels the need for a coach, but everyone can benefit from having a coach. I know what he means now.
When I had a tennis coach, I needed specific tennis expertise. Though I could say: 'I want to work on my backhand!' it was up to my tennis coach to tell me what I needed to change and how to do it. But my Christian life coach lets me decide pretty much everything I want to change and how to change it. The Lord and I.
Bottom line, it works. I am sure of this: before I hired a life coach, I was growing. Since I hired Ron, my growth (and the joy that comes with growth) has multiplied a hundred fold.
More about this later.
It's time to do a post on coaching:
Having a personal coach is a great new thing that God has brought into my life. Why struggle alone? I like having someone encourage me. I have lived with a lot of DIScouragement over my whole life, criticism, judgment without help, shame, rejection. To have someone who is on my side and whose purpose is to watch me succeed and be happy about it, not competing with me, but supporting me, feels really good. I am thriving in this atmosphere.
In the days after I had left my former occupation, I spent a lot of time thinking about what I am good at and what I could do for my next career. Thankfully I had savings to live on while I looked for a career. That is huge and I do not take it for granted! Get as much life insurance as you can for your loved ones. Don't think you won't need it. You don't know.
One day I got an email from my former tennis coach that said "You'd be a good life coach." I had only heard of a life coach once before in a conversation with some intelligent ladies. I was whining about not knowing what to do in life, and one of them said "Sounds like you need a life coach."
OK, so one person says I need one, the other says I should be one. Hmmmm, what's a life coach?
My tennis coach had sent 2 links to coaching websites. The woman's site gave me the impression it was for corporate executive types; I could not identify. The second was www.purposefilledlife.com. The title did not really appeal to me, because it sounded like the title to Rick Warren's book. I was rebelling a just a little at the popularity of his book, Purpose Driven Life, which I had been reading with a friend. I was distrustful of book simply because it was TOO popular, which made me suspicious. Oh, brother. Lots of good stuff in there, but all I remember from it is the first sentence: "IT'S NOT ABOUT YOU!" that is profound. If you get that, you probably don't need to read the book.
At any rate, Ron Marsh offers a free trial. I'm thinking one could really get ripped off by some stranger out there is cyberspace, who could take your money and give you a bunch of hooey. But, I thought, during the trial appointment I can discern whether he is for real. If I get ANY negative vibes, I won't do it.
So we had our trial call. I was favorably impressed and decided to try it. Again after one month, if it's not helpful, I'll quit. Ron makes a point that the coaching he does is subject to God's guidance. I did not fully understand what he was saying until I got into the process. Jesus said My sheep hear my voice and they follow me. I recognize God's voice in this coaching relationship. I do not mean that Ron says: Do something and I obey. That is exactly what coaching is NOT. But his skill in asking questions causes me to discern what God is leading me to do.
Life coaching is not mentoring, not consulting, not counseling, not psychotherapy. It has some elements from these things. But it is encouragement and accountability. Now I have nice friends who love me and say sweet things to me to make me feel better when life is hard. A coach doesn't do that. He is not a soothsayer.
And I've had a Christian psychologist who listened to me and asked me hard questions to help me understand my unhappiness and how to get out of it.
And I've had a pastoral counselor who listened for long hours and gave me books to read and gave me tools to communicate with people I loved. All those stood by me and all were valuable and sent by God at the right time. All of those I am very grateful for.
At this time, it is a coach I need and a coach I have. He is more skilled as a listener even than the counselor and the head-shrinker. His listening has a different purpose than therapy. He asks hard questions too. He cheers for me when I do things I say I'm going to do. He prays with me and for me. He is God's chosen person for me at this time of transition. The hesitancy is gone. Coaching works.
I'm excited about coaching and want to go into all the details but I won't. Ron would say: not everyone feels the need for a coach, but everyone can benefit from having a coach. I know what he means now.
When I had a tennis coach, I needed specific tennis expertise. Though I could say: 'I want to work on my backhand!' it was up to my tennis coach to tell me what I needed to change and how to do it. But my Christian life coach lets me decide pretty much everything I want to change and how to change it. The Lord and I.
Bottom line, it works. I am sure of this: before I hired a life coach, I was growing. Since I hired Ron, my growth (and the joy that comes with growth) has multiplied a hundred fold.
More about this later.
Mama (about grief, partly)
I wrote this title several weeks ago because I want to write about my dear Mom. She has been dead one year plus. Daddy was here last week and he is still missing her terribly. I found a picture I had taken of her that was so typical, and a good picture it was, too. In the picture she is sitting at their kitchen table in those comfy padded chairs with wheels on them and you can see her African violets in the windowsill behind her. She is wearing her pink tinted glasses. I did not like them, but she did. She had caterac surgery and after that she could read without glasses but she still preferred to wear them. My guess right now tonight is that they diminished her wrinkles. She didn't like looking old. I gave the photograph to Daddy.
Now then, Mom. Mom. My dear Mom. We would sit at that table and have long talks with many cups of coffee and their itty bitty county newspaper in the mornings.
She stayed active. She was a PEO. She worked out at Curves. She danced in a line dancing group that performed in public. She went out to eat with her lunch bunch. She sewed clothes and was in a club in which they modeled their own creations. She did ceramics. She took an oil-painting class. She read. She stitched many many quilts, some for beds, others for wall hangings. She made me a plastic bag holder out of quilting -- a thingie you stuff grocery bags into the top of and pull them out of the bottom. She made me a quilted yardstick holder. She learned a Swedish embroidery stitch when they visited Sweden and stitched a rust colored Afghan out of it. When I admired it she made me one in blue. It took her 45 minutes to go across one row and there must have been several hundred rows of stitching.
She always had a project in her hands while she and Daddy sat in the living room after dinner with the TV on. I don't know how much they watched; Daddy would be reading his financial magazines and the Wall Street Journal.
She was a very good golfer in her day. She was beautiful. She had dark curly hair that didn't gray till very late. She never got fat. She slowed down, but always walked around the circle every night when I was there. In their neighborhood there are lots of circles at the ends of the streets, like cul-de-sacs, except they are big and have a large wild green area in the center and about 10 or 15 houses around them. A fox lived in the wild part in their circle. The Florida stars are very bright, not dulled by city light.
Mom, she always wished she had gone to college, but I think she had a lot of wisdom that "educated" people missed out on. She was practical. She and Rick used to talk about current affairs, politics. She had an opinion and let you know if she thought something was wrong.
After Mom's death, I found myself saying "Mama". I never called her that, but that is what comes to mind now. Mama.
It was so hard to watch her die. That strong beautiful woman, though old and wrinkly and slowing down, always hospitable, always compassionate. She lost hope and the doctors said "this is it, we cannot fix your problems any more." She did not hesitate. "I want to go home. I want you to get Hospice and I want lots of morphine and I want to go fast." I said, "Mom, I don't think that's legal," but that is pretty much what we did.
Hospice was absolutely wonderful. We made her as comfortable as possible. She wanted her special oatmeal with milk. She asked for peanutbutter on graham crackers. I slept in the twin bed next to hers. I heard her with my mothers' ears at night, the ears that hear the baby's slightest whimper. I gave her sips of water and bathed her face with cold water and a tissue. She had strep along with her other ailments, and we had strict instructions to keep ourselves from catching it. Hurricane Charley was barreling towards us but turned and hit farther South.
One day Mom said I think this is the day. When I woke up this morning, she said, I felt something prodding me in my back and I think it's time. She was wrong. She was a tough old bird and did not die for four more days. The hospice nurse said "She is actively dying".
I miss her. Your Mom and Dad are just always there, and that's how it is. How can she just quit like that? If I had not lost my husband, this would have been much more of a mystery. Yet at the same time, each death is unique. It is hard. I want to see her walking into her beloved kitchen....now that brings me to her claim to fame, her cooking. She was known for it.
When we returned from Africa after 11 years, I said to my husband, "what do you want to eat?" and he said, "Whatever your mom cooks." She grew up with 2 sisters and her parents owned a restaurant in their tiny town and they did all the cooking. She used to show us an old menu. T-bone steak for 75 cents! Mom.
I miss her. She would come out in the morning in her silky flowered robe and at breakfast she would already be planning dinner. I love fish, but my kids don't, so I don't cook it at home. Mom would cook fish for me. I am infamous for overcooking it, but she had the touch.
And that ugly coffee mug that had "Grog" written on it and had newsprint stains on it and she loved to drink out of it.
I wished I could take her weak, wasting body in my arms and hold her, cradle her against my chest and stroke her hair and cuddle her, comfort her. Let her sleep in my arms. But because of the strep I couldn't even kiss her. Mama.
She gave me life. She taught me to sew. She took care of me when I was sick and comforted me. She is MY Mom.
She is in heaven now being comforted by the Lord Himself. No worries about strep. No contageous diseases in heaven. She and Rick have the full picture now and don't need to worry about politics any more. Her suffering is over. She talked of her own selfishness while on her deathbed. We talked of Jesus and how he had prepared the way to heaven for us because of His death in our place. She believed in Him.
She asked me about praying out loud: How can you do it? I said it's not a performance; it's just talking to God. He doesn't care if it is polished or sounds like a speech. After that conversation she prayed out loud with me. I told her I loved her so many times and she told me the same.
Those days of turmoil and mercy. In the afternoon the clouds would roll by and sometimes drop rain. Usually they would rumble softly. Thunder without a storm. God lining up his bowling balls in the rack. The skies are so dramatic down there in the tropics. Big cumulous clouds that get drenched with color as the sun goes down. Anyway, each day I was barely aware of that rumbling thunder, though it did register in my subconcious, because I remembered it later.
I had been trying to get in touch with my coach to set up our next phone appointment. I had left him several messages asking him to call at my parents' home. Then it dawned on me: we are on the phone all day long. He has probably tried to call. So I left him a message to call my cell phone.
My sister and I and Daddy were sitting by Mom's bed. She had been asleep a long time. The hopsice people said death was imminent. I was exhausted and went to take a break and fell asleep on my parents' bed. My cell phone woke me up. I thought it was my coach and it was. Yes, he had been trying to call the house and yes, the line had been busy.
I took the phone outside and sat on the little bench by the front door. That thunder was gently rumbling. My coach asked about how it was going and I told him. Then we scheduled our appointment and he prayed for me. He asked that God would end Mom's suffering and that He would take her. When I went inside the nurse said, they have been looking for you; I think your Mom is gone. I cried to see my Dad sitting by her bed looking at her. I told him I loved him.
The thunder. When I thought about it later, I remembered that song: Swing Low, Sweet Chariot, comin' for to carry me home.... the image in my mind was of an angel coming down in a chariot on that afternoon in Florida, stopping to pick up my mom, and giving her a ride to Heaven. The sound of that soft thunder was the chariot wheels.
Now then, Mom. Mom. My dear Mom. We would sit at that table and have long talks with many cups of coffee and their itty bitty county newspaper in the mornings.
She stayed active. She was a PEO. She worked out at Curves. She danced in a line dancing group that performed in public. She went out to eat with her lunch bunch. She sewed clothes and was in a club in which they modeled their own creations. She did ceramics. She took an oil-painting class. She read. She stitched many many quilts, some for beds, others for wall hangings. She made me a plastic bag holder out of quilting -- a thingie you stuff grocery bags into the top of and pull them out of the bottom. She made me a quilted yardstick holder. She learned a Swedish embroidery stitch when they visited Sweden and stitched a rust colored Afghan out of it. When I admired it she made me one in blue. It took her 45 minutes to go across one row and there must have been several hundred rows of stitching.
She always had a project in her hands while she and Daddy sat in the living room after dinner with the TV on. I don't know how much they watched; Daddy would be reading his financial magazines and the Wall Street Journal.
She was a very good golfer in her day. She was beautiful. She had dark curly hair that didn't gray till very late. She never got fat. She slowed down, but always walked around the circle every night when I was there. In their neighborhood there are lots of circles at the ends of the streets, like cul-de-sacs, except they are big and have a large wild green area in the center and about 10 or 15 houses around them. A fox lived in the wild part in their circle. The Florida stars are very bright, not dulled by city light.
Mom, she always wished she had gone to college, but I think she had a lot of wisdom that "educated" people missed out on. She was practical. She and Rick used to talk about current affairs, politics. She had an opinion and let you know if she thought something was wrong.
After Mom's death, I found myself saying "Mama". I never called her that, but that is what comes to mind now. Mama.
It was so hard to watch her die. That strong beautiful woman, though old and wrinkly and slowing down, always hospitable, always compassionate. She lost hope and the doctors said "this is it, we cannot fix your problems any more." She did not hesitate. "I want to go home. I want you to get Hospice and I want lots of morphine and I want to go fast." I said, "Mom, I don't think that's legal," but that is pretty much what we did.
Hospice was absolutely wonderful. We made her as comfortable as possible. She wanted her special oatmeal with milk. She asked for peanutbutter on graham crackers. I slept in the twin bed next to hers. I heard her with my mothers' ears at night, the ears that hear the baby's slightest whimper. I gave her sips of water and bathed her face with cold water and a tissue. She had strep along with her other ailments, and we had strict instructions to keep ourselves from catching it. Hurricane Charley was barreling towards us but turned and hit farther South.
One day Mom said I think this is the day. When I woke up this morning, she said, I felt something prodding me in my back and I think it's time. She was wrong. She was a tough old bird and did not die for four more days. The hospice nurse said "She is actively dying".
I miss her. Your Mom and Dad are just always there, and that's how it is. How can she just quit like that? If I had not lost my husband, this would have been much more of a mystery. Yet at the same time, each death is unique. It is hard. I want to see her walking into her beloved kitchen....now that brings me to her claim to fame, her cooking. She was known for it.
When we returned from Africa after 11 years, I said to my husband, "what do you want to eat?" and he said, "Whatever your mom cooks." She grew up with 2 sisters and her parents owned a restaurant in their tiny town and they did all the cooking. She used to show us an old menu. T-bone steak for 75 cents! Mom.
I miss her. She would come out in the morning in her silky flowered robe and at breakfast she would already be planning dinner. I love fish, but my kids don't, so I don't cook it at home. Mom would cook fish for me. I am infamous for overcooking it, but she had the touch.
And that ugly coffee mug that had "Grog" written on it and had newsprint stains on it and she loved to drink out of it.
I wished I could take her weak, wasting body in my arms and hold her, cradle her against my chest and stroke her hair and cuddle her, comfort her. Let her sleep in my arms. But because of the strep I couldn't even kiss her. Mama.
She gave me life. She taught me to sew. She took care of me when I was sick and comforted me. She is MY Mom.
She is in heaven now being comforted by the Lord Himself. No worries about strep. No contageous diseases in heaven. She and Rick have the full picture now and don't need to worry about politics any more. Her suffering is over. She talked of her own selfishness while on her deathbed. We talked of Jesus and how he had prepared the way to heaven for us because of His death in our place. She believed in Him.
She asked me about praying out loud: How can you do it? I said it's not a performance; it's just talking to God. He doesn't care if it is polished or sounds like a speech. After that conversation she prayed out loud with me. I told her I loved her so many times and she told me the same.
Those days of turmoil and mercy. In the afternoon the clouds would roll by and sometimes drop rain. Usually they would rumble softly. Thunder without a storm. God lining up his bowling balls in the rack. The skies are so dramatic down there in the tropics. Big cumulous clouds that get drenched with color as the sun goes down. Anyway, each day I was barely aware of that rumbling thunder, though it did register in my subconcious, because I remembered it later.
I had been trying to get in touch with my coach to set up our next phone appointment. I had left him several messages asking him to call at my parents' home. Then it dawned on me: we are on the phone all day long. He has probably tried to call. So I left him a message to call my cell phone.
My sister and I and Daddy were sitting by Mom's bed. She had been asleep a long time. The hopsice people said death was imminent. I was exhausted and went to take a break and fell asleep on my parents' bed. My cell phone woke me up. I thought it was my coach and it was. Yes, he had been trying to call the house and yes, the line had been busy.
I took the phone outside and sat on the little bench by the front door. That thunder was gently rumbling. My coach asked about how it was going and I told him. Then we scheduled our appointment and he prayed for me. He asked that God would end Mom's suffering and that He would take her. When I went inside the nurse said, they have been looking for you; I think your Mom is gone. I cried to see my Dad sitting by her bed looking at her. I told him I loved him.
The thunder. When I thought about it later, I remembered that song: Swing Low, Sweet Chariot, comin' for to carry me home.... the image in my mind was of an angel coming down in a chariot on that afternoon in Florida, stopping to pick up my mom, and giving her a ride to Heaven. The sound of that soft thunder was the chariot wheels.
Friday, October 28, 2005
Running away from Hurricane Wilma (about growth)
My Dad and sister live in Florida. Having gone through 3 hurricanes last summer, I'm glad my sister chose not to face all the preps and disruption. Last year, hurricane Charlie threatened while Mom was dying and Daddy was recovering from a serious stroke. They were both at home in hospital beds. So when Wilma threatened, my sister was considering driving North. I said "You can come to me" and they did. They caught the non stop flight the next day and were here in just over 2 hours.
In the old days I used to fuss like crazy when company came, no matter who it was. The whole house would need to be cleaned, all the furniture arranged, nothing out of place and last -- and definitely least -- food purchased.
There was no time for fussing. But the thing is I don't fuss like that any more anyway. I love to have the place all clean and comfortable and inviting, but I'm not driven by that standard the way I used to be. Just come, we'll make do. (Flylady is one of my new best friends. See flylady.net.)
I put Daddy in the sofa sleeper so that he would have no stairs to deal with and since he might need his feet to hang over the end of the mattress. He is very tall. There is no footboard on a sofa sleeper. It has a decent mattress. I turned off the cuckoo clock so that it would not wake him up every hour at night. The nurse had to be near him so we put a twin mattress on the floor. My sister slept in my bed; I wanted her to feel my Select Comfort mattress. I went downstairs and slept with one of my daughters. Ok, everyone's in place.
I never thought I would ever have my dad in my home again, since he doesn't travel any more. The hurricane made that happen. We had a very nice visit. I took him to my place of employment and put him in one wheelchair and my sister in another and the nurse and I walked the entire place with them. It was fun. I wanted my sister to see the place. We ate Swedish meatballs and lingonberries and bought more Swedish food to bring home. The nurse is an excellent cook and when she baked the meatballs and made the gravy, they were very good, unlike the time I threw them in the nuker.
I rented Winged Migration for Daddy to watch -- a beautiful film of migrating birds with haunting music and few words. He likes birds. I think he liked the film, because he stayed awake looking at it. I have an old cookie tray in my fireplace filled with fat candles. I light them all and get the feeling of having a fire burning. I also lit lots of other candles to add to the warm feeling while the cold rain was outside coming down sideways.
I read The Bear Story to him and asked him if he remembered it. "Yes", he said, "I read that to you when you were a little kid." And I said, "Yes, and you gave me this book of James Whitcomb Riley's poetry. I have read this story to my kids and other people's kids.....that Alex ist made up hissef".
We took him for a walk in the park in my neighborhood. He uses his cane and is very slow, but it was good for him to be outside. He said he had to pay such close attention to where he put his feet that he couldn't look up and see the scenery very much. Another frustration of being old. It was very cold and windy. One day it rained all day.
I showed Daddy my paintings from my Maine Watercolor class in August. I wanted so much for him to be happy for me, because his father was the artist in our family and he, Daddy, paid lots of money for me to go to college and get a degree in fine arts, which until now, I never really used. I wanted him to be excited that I am painting again, but, alas....it is not to be. His short term memory is failing and he looked at the pictures and said "I've been there. This looks familiar." When he saw the photographs of my classmates, he'd say, "I know him."
It is so hard to watch that brilliant mind in its crippled state. He tries so hard to remember.
I am grateful that he has recovered physically from his stroke. Last year at this time he was in bed unable to move or walk or take care of himself. Since we took him out of the "rehab center" he has rehabbed, thank you very much. Some say that if he had stayed there, he would have died. It's a great case for investing and saving money for your retirement. He has the funds. He invested wisely and was frugal. He has social security and Medicare, but he'd have enough money for good health care without it.
After dropping them off at the airport, I did my usual bustling around putting things away, washing towels, and so on. I feel happy.
One thing is noteworthy to me: I had the choice to throw my entire schedule out the window and spend all my time with the family. That is what I would have done in the old days. I could have called out at work (everyone else does) and I could have postponed my telephone coaching class and I did consider that, but that is the old me: drop everything, my family is here. I thought about it carefully. This was not about dissing my family. This was about staying on track with my goals and letting different things go in order to be with the family. The things I let go were obsessing about housecleaning and food preps. It's ok. I went ahead with my coaching class. It was important to me to keep my mind in my priorities. Staying on track is where I am growing right now and I do not want to go back to my old ways. If necessary I would have dropped everything and spent 100% of my time with the family, but I did not choose that. It was not about being selfish, as in "This is ME time." It is about growing toward making goals, and staying on track to reach those goals. We had lots of relaxing time together and it was a true blessing.
In the old days I used to fuss like crazy when company came, no matter who it was. The whole house would need to be cleaned, all the furniture arranged, nothing out of place and last -- and definitely least -- food purchased.
There was no time for fussing. But the thing is I don't fuss like that any more anyway. I love to have the place all clean and comfortable and inviting, but I'm not driven by that standard the way I used to be. Just come, we'll make do. (Flylady is one of my new best friends. See flylady.net.)
I put Daddy in the sofa sleeper so that he would have no stairs to deal with and since he might need his feet to hang over the end of the mattress. He is very tall. There is no footboard on a sofa sleeper. It has a decent mattress. I turned off the cuckoo clock so that it would not wake him up every hour at night. The nurse had to be near him so we put a twin mattress on the floor. My sister slept in my bed; I wanted her to feel my Select Comfort mattress. I went downstairs and slept with one of my daughters. Ok, everyone's in place.
I never thought I would ever have my dad in my home again, since he doesn't travel any more. The hurricane made that happen. We had a very nice visit. I took him to my place of employment and put him in one wheelchair and my sister in another and the nurse and I walked the entire place with them. It was fun. I wanted my sister to see the place. We ate Swedish meatballs and lingonberries and bought more Swedish food to bring home. The nurse is an excellent cook and when she baked the meatballs and made the gravy, they were very good, unlike the time I threw them in the nuker.
I rented Winged Migration for Daddy to watch -- a beautiful film of migrating birds with haunting music and few words. He likes birds. I think he liked the film, because he stayed awake looking at it. I have an old cookie tray in my fireplace filled with fat candles. I light them all and get the feeling of having a fire burning. I also lit lots of other candles to add to the warm feeling while the cold rain was outside coming down sideways.
I read The Bear Story to him and asked him if he remembered it. "Yes", he said, "I read that to you when you were a little kid." And I said, "Yes, and you gave me this book of James Whitcomb Riley's poetry. I have read this story to my kids and other people's kids.....that Alex ist made up hissef".
We took him for a walk in the park in my neighborhood. He uses his cane and is very slow, but it was good for him to be outside. He said he had to pay such close attention to where he put his feet that he couldn't look up and see the scenery very much. Another frustration of being old. It was very cold and windy. One day it rained all day.
I showed Daddy my paintings from my Maine Watercolor class in August. I wanted so much for him to be happy for me, because his father was the artist in our family and he, Daddy, paid lots of money for me to go to college and get a degree in fine arts, which until now, I never really used. I wanted him to be excited that I am painting again, but, alas....it is not to be. His short term memory is failing and he looked at the pictures and said "I've been there. This looks familiar." When he saw the photographs of my classmates, he'd say, "I know him."
It is so hard to watch that brilliant mind in its crippled state. He tries so hard to remember.
I am grateful that he has recovered physically from his stroke. Last year at this time he was in bed unable to move or walk or take care of himself. Since we took him out of the "rehab center" he has rehabbed, thank you very much. Some say that if he had stayed there, he would have died. It's a great case for investing and saving money for your retirement. He has the funds. He invested wisely and was frugal. He has social security and Medicare, but he'd have enough money for good health care without it.
After dropping them off at the airport, I did my usual bustling around putting things away, washing towels, and so on. I feel happy.
One thing is noteworthy to me: I had the choice to throw my entire schedule out the window and spend all my time with the family. That is what I would have done in the old days. I could have called out at work (everyone else does) and I could have postponed my telephone coaching class and I did consider that, but that is the old me: drop everything, my family is here. I thought about it carefully. This was not about dissing my family. This was about staying on track with my goals and letting different things go in order to be with the family. The things I let go were obsessing about housecleaning and food preps. It's ok. I went ahead with my coaching class. It was important to me to keep my mind in my priorities. Staying on track is where I am growing right now and I do not want to go back to my old ways. If necessary I would have dropped everything and spent 100% of my time with the family, but I did not choose that. It was not about being selfish, as in "This is ME time." It is about growing toward making goals, and staying on track to reach those goals. We had lots of relaxing time together and it was a true blessing.
Monday, September 19, 2005
Day 5 (last Maine Watercolor Class)
The last day it is so foggy that the sky and sea are one shape and one color. David does his demonstration under dripping pine trees. We're not quite sure if it's raining anyway. One of the guys holds an umbrella over David, but the drips off the umbrella seem to land right on his paper. David can paint anywhere and has chosen paper that dries quickly because of the wet weather. He comes up with a piece of art. Some of us take pictures of it. I set up shop out of my trunk today, which keeps my paper dry. At the critique, all the paintings look like a foggy day, but I guess the sun was shining where I was. I laugh to myself. I'll learn. Give me 40 years and I'll be as good as David.
There is a wonderful lunch prepared by David's wife, Kathy, back at the house. We are free to look around. I go looking at every painting in every room. Some are David's. The house is a big old Maine house. Simple, pleasing, but not like a magazine picture. Real. I discover a third floor with a bedroom I like. A white room with a quilt, paintings, small rugs, old painted furniture.
I meet friends of theirs from church and talk with the wife. She does substance abuse counseling and she tells me great stories. More email addresses exchanged. I notice that the other students have gone and I decide I must leave too, though I don't want to. I know these couples are old friends and David and Kathy's daughter has arrived too, so I'm gone.
The drive home is relaxing and my mind and heart are full. What a gift this week was. I am so thankful to God for this.
There is a wonderful lunch prepared by David's wife, Kathy, back at the house. We are free to look around. I go looking at every painting in every room. Some are David's. The house is a big old Maine house. Simple, pleasing, but not like a magazine picture. Real. I discover a third floor with a bedroom I like. A white room with a quilt, paintings, small rugs, old painted furniture.
I meet friends of theirs from church and talk with the wife. She does substance abuse counseling and she tells me great stories. More email addresses exchanged. I notice that the other students have gone and I decide I must leave too, though I don't want to. I know these couples are old friends and David and Kathy's daughter has arrived too, so I'm gone.
The drive home is relaxing and my mind and heart are full. What a gift this week was. I am so thankful to God for this.
Day 4 (Maine Watercolor Class)
Thursday we are at the beach. While David paints families arrive and kids and dogs and all show up right in his picture. He leaves them out. He never gets bothered by distractions, just says happily 'the sounds of summer'....This man can focus. He shows us how he does those wonderful skies and gets those colors to blend. We meet for critique at the lighthouse.
We take a group photo. Somewhere during the week 'verditer' has become the word. Stephan is French and when he says verditer it sounds really good. They joke about having a white t-shirt made for all of us with verditer written on it. Our little in joke. He says about my painting: I didn't see that much yellow in that sky. I say I didn't either I was just trying your technique. I'm thinking he has no concept of how little I understand what is going to happen when I apply paint to paper since he's been painting for 40 years and I have for 4 days. He talks about some artist that much yellow brings to his mind, and I don't say what I'm thinking ("who?") I assume everyone else knows of this artist. The old insecure me wants to whine that I didn't mean to do that, but he keeps talking and I don't care if I'm understood. It doesn't matter. I'm here to learn and I'm learning and I'm happy.
Thursday night we all go to Millers lobster pound, line up at the window and order. They bring it out to us at the picnic tables by the water. Now this is the lobster I have been waiting for. We have brought our own wines and I found one named Red Truck and had to buy it. David has been using a red truck metaphor all week. Someone takes my picture in my plastic bib with a picture of a lobster on it that says: Let's get crackin'. Now then I have not eaten whole lobster except with my Mainer son-in-law and I've forgotten what to eat first, so my tablemates help me. I squirt myself and my neighbor with my first crack. Oh dear. We are all laughing. On my right I find a lady from Indiana and I tell her I'm a Hoosier, too. She lives not far from me and tells me about a class she took that I could take too. She said it was good because it made her paint every week. We write email addresses on my paper bag from my Red Truck wine.
We take a group photo. Somewhere during the week 'verditer' has become the word. Stephan is French and when he says verditer it sounds really good. They joke about having a white t-shirt made for all of us with verditer written on it. Our little in joke. He says about my painting: I didn't see that much yellow in that sky. I say I didn't either I was just trying your technique. I'm thinking he has no concept of how little I understand what is going to happen when I apply paint to paper since he's been painting for 40 years and I have for 4 days. He talks about some artist that much yellow brings to his mind, and I don't say what I'm thinking ("who?") I assume everyone else knows of this artist. The old insecure me wants to whine that I didn't mean to do that, but he keeps talking and I don't care if I'm understood. It doesn't matter. I'm here to learn and I'm learning and I'm happy.
Thursday night we all go to Millers lobster pound, line up at the window and order. They bring it out to us at the picnic tables by the water. Now this is the lobster I have been waiting for. We have brought our own wines and I found one named Red Truck and had to buy it. David has been using a red truck metaphor all week. Someone takes my picture in my plastic bib with a picture of a lobster on it that says: Let's get crackin'. Now then I have not eaten whole lobster except with my Mainer son-in-law and I've forgotten what to eat first, so my tablemates help me. I squirt myself and my neighbor with my first crack. Oh dear. We are all laughing. On my right I find a lady from Indiana and I tell her I'm a Hoosier, too. She lives not far from me and tells me about a class she took that I could take too. She said it was good because it made her paint every week. We write email addresses on my paper bag from my Red Truck wine.
Day 3 (Maine Watercolor Class)(tidbit about grief included)
Day 3 my white boat at Mechanics point.. It was really hot and my scalp was burned where my part is so I wore my hat. I walked all around looking for what to paint...way out onto the dock and out there I saw lots of great shapes and buildings and the U.S. Coast Guard ship and lobstermen hauling real lobsters from real traps. I heard voices of Mainers and I thought of my son-in-law and I felt there were versions of him all around me. lobstah.
I find a spot I think may get shade before I'm done and I paint. I don't know how the colors I see on my palette will look when they are dry on my paper. When I have my water washed in around my boat, wow, that's bright teal. Did I do that? I'm working on the pier and the poles supporting it and the water behind it and I can't see it, looks like a mess. David comes by. Did he say I 'popped' my boat? Don't remember, but he says take this picture and Xerox it in black and white and look at your values. They are very good. At the critique he uses the word rugged for my painting but he says I should frame it and put it on my mantel. Wow. Really? I think my mouth is probably agape. I like my little boat and I am learning.
While David was talking about the light in his painting demonstration, I decided I must offer him my story about what I saw when my husband went to heaven. He would appreciate it because he is an artist and he studies color and light. So I had mentioned I wanted to tell him a story. At lunchtime he says he'll walk me up to town to show my where the eats are and I buy a sandwich, but he wants me to tell him now. He is curious. So I tell him the story. That will not be posted here. That is a very special story that needs it's own place and time. Call me if you want to hear it. Or write.
So lunch time was long and by the time I got back out there wasn't too much time left to paint. I was less ashamed of my boat at the critique than of my former work. By this time I haven't talked too much to the others, but at the critiques I've mumbled things to the person next to me, making excuses for my lack of skill. The air is so clean.
Oh yes, the Lobster Festival started that day and they expected 90 thousand folk. I dreaded the traffic coming in to town, but there wasn't any. Where are the 90 thousand? After class Christie and friends invite me to join them for lobster rolls at the festival. We walk through the midway area and we find out that all 90 thousand are there. We hung onto each other to stay together.
I have my first lobster roll and decide that a lobster only needs the boiling pot and drawn butter. Why pay for bread and mayo? It's nice to get to know some of my classmates sitting out by the water at picnic tables. It is sunset and the colors are lovely. There is live music. I discover that one of the women is a new widow and my heart goes out to her. She displays a brave attitude. I give her titles of helpful books.
This night too I'm driving home late and the stars are very bright against the sky. I think about what colors would make that dark sky. David has taught us to pretty much never use black. My hostess is gone, so I let myself in and greet the cats. I'm tired! I don't want to go home. Can I move up here for a while?
Day 2 (Maine Watercolor Class)
Day 2 -- I paint a rusty old bell buoy against some hills and houses. To me it looks like 6th grade painting with a set of Prang paints. But at the critique he finds words to encourage me, as he does everyone. He even says out loud that I need encouragement. I wonder if this is to let the others know that yes, he understands that this is awful, but he has to say something good about it, so bear with him........
Most of the painters found shade as it was hot that day. I had my sunscreen on and still was getting burned. I had started to repaint my picture in a bigger size, trying to make improvements. He said at the critique that I couldn't reproduce what I did in that little painting. What in the world is he talking about? It's awful. But he has said something positive and looks at his assistant, who was nodding her head. It was about the values I think, and trying to find interesting shapes and patterns to make art. It was about the red truck metaphor, building the object by laying down shapes of color around it.
Most of the painters found shade as it was hot that day. I had my sunscreen on and still was getting burned. I had started to repaint my picture in a bigger size, trying to make improvements. He said at the critique that I couldn't reproduce what I did in that little painting. What in the world is he talking about? It's awful. But he has said something positive and looks at his assistant, who was nodding her head. It was about the values I think, and trying to find interesting shapes and patterns to make art. It was about the red truck metaphor, building the object by laying down shapes of color around it.
Verditer forever! (Day 1 Maine Watercolor Class)
My feet are touching the earth again after being home from Maine a couple of weeks.
But Maine....the light, the sun blazing on the white buildings, the ocean, the Wyeth paintings, and Andrew Wyeth's haunts, the smell of pine trees, the varied colors on wooden houses, clean air, no traffic, and lobstah.
On the drive up I stopped in Connecticut to get Verditer blue paint that I could not find before I left. I had found the store on line and it was right on my path. Now I had everything on the supplies list.
This was a "Master Class". I never did ask what that meant, but I think most of the class members had been painting for many years. I told them it had been 35 years since I had painted. One woman said welcome back.
The first morning in the rain we met at David Dewey's house in downtown Owl's Head. He had tarpaulins drawn over a table behind the house and we crowded in. Some were wiping off plastic chairs. It was a tiny space for the 19 of us. Surprise. All of the attendees were my age or older except Stephan, age 33, our cutie pie from France who illustrates for Disney and has a Russell Crowe look about him.
David is talking to those who are already there and seems a little disorganized but we get into the official orientation somehow. Then he does a painting demonstration.
His pallet is a butcher's tray and it's dirty. He wipes off the middle with a dirty sponge but it comes clean. Then he starts painting. He's talking about building a painting from the bottom up as compared to building a building from the ground up. I take notes. We all have folders with our names on them. There are maps of Rockland and the various sites at which we will paint. There are a couple pages with color information, one that shows where to put which color on the palette and a chart with grays created by blending colors and a page with landscape colors. I don't know the names of the colors yet.
He talks constantly while he is painting. No, not mumbling to himself, no. Information is pouring out. Once in a while he says something that is beyond me, but I don't mind. I'm so happy to be there and I can't wait to get into my paints.
We got directions to our first site and the rain stopped. By the time I got my lunch and got to the site, several classmates were already painting. I didn't know what to paint. I found some old boats by the water and sat down. It took me a long time to unwrap my new painting board, my palette, and I even had to go find the bathroom to wash the stiffness out of my new brushes. When David came by I was just squeezing the paints onto my palette according to his chart. Good, he said, you're not using those little palette indentations. I'm sure I made apologetic statements about not being good enough to be in this class but I was happy. He does not tolerate any sort of self abasement, and always finds something encouraging to say. He is gifted that way.
He came by later and I didn't want him to look at my picture. It looked pretty much like mud on mud to me, but, no, he said it was intelligent. I said I don't have the skills yet, but I'm just trying to do what you were telling us to do with the shapes and values. He made two sketches of similar scenes right there, teaching me as he painted about composition. I can't remember learning a single thing about composition in art school.
At the end of each day we met and put our paintings up and he verbalized what was good about each one... When I saw the line-up, I saw real paintings, by real painters. I didn't want to put mine up. I suppose I was embarrassed and wondered for a moment what they thought when they saw my mudpie, but I didn't care. I was there to learn and maybe I could get a most improved award at the end of the week. Ha. Again the words pour out of him. He is extremely verbal and has a lot of good words in his collection. I'm drinking it all in.
I stayed past dark the first night. Back in Bath I go right to bed, but I sit in bed and paint a sketch of the refinery I saw on the way home, a dark tower against a dark sky with lights on it. I dream and everything I see in my dream is a potential painting.
But Maine....the light, the sun blazing on the white buildings, the ocean, the Wyeth paintings, and Andrew Wyeth's haunts, the smell of pine trees, the varied colors on wooden houses, clean air, no traffic, and lobstah.
On the drive up I stopped in Connecticut to get Verditer blue paint that I could not find before I left. I had found the store on line and it was right on my path. Now I had everything on the supplies list.
This was a "Master Class". I never did ask what that meant, but I think most of the class members had been painting for many years. I told them it had been 35 years since I had painted. One woman said welcome back.
The first morning in the rain we met at David Dewey's house in downtown Owl's Head. He had tarpaulins drawn over a table behind the house and we crowded in. Some were wiping off plastic chairs. It was a tiny space for the 19 of us. Surprise. All of the attendees were my age or older except Stephan, age 33, our cutie pie from France who illustrates for Disney and has a Russell Crowe look about him.
David is talking to those who are already there and seems a little disorganized but we get into the official orientation somehow. Then he does a painting demonstration.
His pallet is a butcher's tray and it's dirty. He wipes off the middle with a dirty sponge but it comes clean. Then he starts painting. He's talking about building a painting from the bottom up as compared to building a building from the ground up. I take notes. We all have folders with our names on them. There are maps of Rockland and the various sites at which we will paint. There are a couple pages with color information, one that shows where to put which color on the palette and a chart with grays created by blending colors and a page with landscape colors. I don't know the names of the colors yet.
He talks constantly while he is painting. No, not mumbling to himself, no. Information is pouring out. Once in a while he says something that is beyond me, but I don't mind. I'm so happy to be there and I can't wait to get into my paints.
We got directions to our first site and the rain stopped. By the time I got my lunch and got to the site, several classmates were already painting. I didn't know what to paint. I found some old boats by the water and sat down. It took me a long time to unwrap my new painting board, my palette, and I even had to go find the bathroom to wash the stiffness out of my new brushes. When David came by I was just squeezing the paints onto my palette according to his chart. Good, he said, you're not using those little palette indentations. I'm sure I made apologetic statements about not being good enough to be in this class but I was happy. He does not tolerate any sort of self abasement, and always finds something encouraging to say. He is gifted that way.
He came by later and I didn't want him to look at my picture. It looked pretty much like mud on mud to me, but, no, he said it was intelligent. I said I don't have the skills yet, but I'm just trying to do what you were telling us to do with the shapes and values. He made two sketches of similar scenes right there, teaching me as he painted about composition. I can't remember learning a single thing about composition in art school.
At the end of each day we met and put our paintings up and he verbalized what was good about each one... When I saw the line-up, I saw real paintings, by real painters. I didn't want to put mine up. I suppose I was embarrassed and wondered for a moment what they thought when they saw my mudpie, but I didn't care. I was there to learn and maybe I could get a most improved award at the end of the week. Ha. Again the words pour out of him. He is extremely verbal and has a lot of good words in his collection. I'm drinking it all in.
I stayed past dark the first night. Back in Bath I go right to bed, but I sit in bed and paint a sketch of the refinery I saw on the way home, a dark tower against a dark sky with lights on it. I dream and everything I see in my dream is a potential painting.
Tuesday, September 06, 2005
family family family
After the trip to the Great Northwest to be with my daughter and her husband, they came to me two days later and the day after that my son and his wife came, so my whole family was together the first time since Christmas. The weather was PERFECT. We played tennis and ate African food and grilled kabobs and sat out on the porch with a bazillion tea lights and laughed and talked till late. Everyone was tired and the next day only two of us made it to church. Then there was more tennis, leftovers, house projects that I can do myself but just have not gotten done.....done by my two oldest and one spouse. Such small things, but they are a great encouragement to me. I inflicted my paintings from Maine on them and talked about the photos of the painting class, showed them my teacher's paintings in his book and went on more than I should have, most likely.
The greatest blessing is just to see my kids laughing and playing together, especially on the tennis court. They can ALL play! The older two played competetively and are athletic and have competed in lots of sports. But the younger two were in tennis classes at a young age and have the basics. They were out there in their flip flops and could still hit the ball.
One of us is going away soon on a long trip and we prayed together.
I wish the Dad could see how well his children are doing and how they are growing up to be like him in a lot of good ways and like me in other good ways. What a great idea God had to make families.
The greatest blessing is just to see my kids laughing and playing together, especially on the tennis court. They can ALL play! The older two played competetively and are athletic and have competed in lots of sports. But the younger two were in tennis classes at a young age and have the basics. They were out there in their flip flops and could still hit the ball.
One of us is going away soon on a long trip and we prayed together.
I wish the Dad could see how well his children are doing and how they are growing up to be like him in a lot of good ways and like me in other good ways. What a great idea God had to make families.
Saturday, September 03, 2005
Northwest
If someone asked me right now to choose between Maine and Washington state, it would be a hard decision. Last week I spent the week with my daughter and son-in-law in Seattle. Her boss has a beach house right on the Pacific and we stayed there two days. Besides the beauty, I was most impressed by the sound of the ocean. So much power. I kept trying to push the thought out of my head that it sounds just like the interstate, not when you are out driving on it, but when you are standing near it. That power. Unyielding, constant, pushing. I am here, I am present, I am strong, you cannot subdue me.
The view has big dark trees framing the ocean that look like the trees in a Japanese painting. The only mar in the scene is the roof of the house below us and it's 4 skylights that look like plastic bubbles. There is a lush piece of bright green lawn and an old ripped up hammock.
The prediction had been 60 degrees and rain, but the weather had moved through early and we had 70 something and pure sun for our day on the beach. We got up early and ran down past the rock to the inlet and back. We found some THING that looked like a whip and didn't know if it was plant or animal but it was washed up onto the sand and creepy looking and gnats were working on it. There were only a handful of other people around and a couple of dogs.
The house had lots of windows and a beautiful view from every side. We had our food and wine and played Trivial Pursuit. That is the first time I had ever played. Paul Simon's Graceland was playing.
We drove home the longer way around Olympic National Forest. After a short hike in the forest we ate fish in a little lodge restaurant called Roosevelt Lounge.
After dark, we took the ferry back from Kingston to Edmonds. Sure enough, we asked her husband what that creepy thing was on the beach and he knew: kelp.
While in Seattle, my oldest was anxious to get me back out onto the tennis court, so we went and bought a racquet and played. Between the crummy racquet and the rusty skills and poor conditioning (at least for me) we were both terrible. I made a rule: No one is allowed to think about their last bad shot, only their next better shot. After about 10 minutes we began to be able to hit a little better. We played a few games and she won 4 to 3. The guy on the next court had on street shoes and was out there learning tennis from his friend who didn't know much either. He, the learner, said: You probably wonder why I know so much about tennis. It's because I've been out practicing with Venus and Serena Williams at the British Open. I laughed out loud. Later he said: I would probably play better if you had on one of those little white skirts. But my favorite comment was when his "teacher" said: those girls over there are a lot better than I am.
It felt good. There was a moment when I thought: yeah, I could go out and enjoy playing again. It's been 6 years.
They have a new (used) camper named Bell and it is from the 70's but it's in great shape and only cost them $1300. Camping with a frig and stove and heater. I am thinking I want one of these. We talk again about me moving out there. Why couldn't I do that for a year anyway and see if it leads anywhere? I grab a real estate paper and look again, as I always do in Seattle. There are some really cheap houses on the way to the beach.
It makes me happy to hear my daughter talk about her new job. The smaller company is more family like and not as competitive as her former company. And it's right where she lives, no commute. She even rides her bike to work once a week and got some of her coworkers to do the same. Cool.
I painted a picture of Copalis Rock on the beach. It will take some time to learn to capture the color and commit to it while I finish a painting since the color changes during the couple of hours it takes to paint it. Mostly sky, a small ocean with no waves and the Rock. The rock is too dark and too opaque and I want to paint it once more and see what it looks like in transparent colors. I would also stretch my paper first so that it wouldn't rumple up when it gets wet. The sky was better than my first try in Maine. No where to go but up.
I dream of what I'd do with her boss's beach house if I lived there.
It was easier to say goodbye this time, knowing that 2 days later she and her husband were coming to visit me on the East coast.
Thursday, June 23, 2005
Anger
For many years my frustration turned into anger and deep, burning resentment. I wanted to live a life that pleased God and I knew seething rage wasn't a fruit of the Spirit. For my college and early marriage years, I didn't even know I was angry. Once someone said to me in the dorm elevator: You always have such a pleasant look on your face.
Years later I did not understand why I was angry, why I would have these times of total frustration. I did not know how to get the anger out of my life. It certainly wasn't Christian to feel so much anger. No, I wasn't constantly angry. I loved and enjoyed my children deeply, had close friends and got along with almost everyone. But I was angry and only getting angrier. I thought godly people were so attuned to God that they didn't feel angry. What was wrong with me?
What did my anger look like? I can remember some of the incidents in which my anger came out in ways that surprised me. Once I was at the point of tears, but I could not cry. I knew I "needed" to cry, but I could not cry. I was too angry to cry. A few tears would come out and then stop. I remember dropping to my knees next to my bed thinking the tears would come out but they did not. So I took my handkerchief and ripped it.
Another time I was sitting at my desk in a similar state of mind. I got so angry I stabbed my cartridge pen into my wooden desk. Destroyed the pen and made a hole in the desk. I directed my anger at things. I still have a dent in my skillet which I made with a spatula.
Then there was the frustration on the tennis courts. Someone mentioned how they had seen a clip on TV of different atheletes yelling. When I would miss my shot, I'd make loud aggravated yells. Only a couple times did I throw my racquet, and when I did, it bounced into the next court.
I am NOT PROUD of this. I only am trying illustrate.
I have heard it said "The Bible speaks against anger." I think we think that anger itself is sin. We study and analyze Paul's advice 'Be angry and sin not'. So to feel anger itself must not be sin, right? My own paraphrase of that might be feel your anger, but don't let it control what you do and push you to sin. My own writing I would have added after that would have been: figure out what you are angry about, talk to the person you are angry at and get help from an expert if you can't deal with it yourself.
When I read psychology books, I don't remember learning anything about anger. When I went to a psychgologist, I am sure he asked me : have you communicated how you feel (angry) to the person involved? I would have answered: No, I can't do that, it would hurt their feelings.
I heard the phrase "acting out". That is when you are angry about something, but you don't express your honest anger about it to the person involved for whatever reason. The anger builds up inside you until it finally bursts out somewhere illogical. Example: If I were mad at my husband, I would slam cupboard doors in the kitchen. I would never just tell him : I felt angry when you did that, or when you said that.
I can remember asking various people about anger, speakers who would come to us in West Africa, mature believers at conferences, any counselors or psychologist types.
When I went to a Pastoral counselor, he once said : anger is usually the emotion that is closest to the surface and underneath it there is usually hurt or fear. I think from my observation this is true. I think that is why in Western culture, men are allowed to be angry. They aren't supposed to show sadness or fear because it makes them look weak. Fear or sadness isn't manly. But we expect them to get mad and cuss.
For ME, looking back on those years of frustration, I was hurt. But I did not know how to stop getting hurt, so I was angry. And I could not get rid of my anger, because I did not have the wisdom or strength to talk to the person who made me angry. There were times I could not cry I was so angry, and it made me even angrier that I could not release tears. Pitiful.
I still get frustrated at times, but the flow of my life is more even now. What makes the difference? Answer to my prayers? Yes. Antidepressants? Yes. Having learned to live with grief and having learned that all I have is this moment? Yes. Good counselors? Yes. Being told in church that anger is a sin? Nope.
There are lots of proverbs that talk about the angry man. He's the bad guy. We don't want to be like him. If we are like him, we are not pleasing God. But what if you are an angry man (or woman) and you can't seem to grow in this area? Maybe you need to learn new communication skills with someone who is hurting you. Maybe you need a counselor. Maybe you need medication. (By the way, I don't advocate running out and getting drugs as your first and only option, but I believe some of us need them in combination with good Bible teaching and mature friends and counseling and coaching.)
I don't even think I would say that the feeling of anger is a sin. I would interpret the proverbs and other passages which condemn the angry man as a person who consistently acts out feelings of anger. He habitually does not restrain himself. I don't think it's a sin to feel angry when you slam your hand in the car door. What you do about what you feel is what may be sin. Like cussing out and smacking the child who accidentally closed the door. I think when the Bible seems to talk of anger as sin, it is talking about angry actions. Everyone feels anger sometimes. I think some of the problem is semantics. And I think it will be helpful to those of us who teach the word of God to others to be careful with our words. I think it will be helpful to think about how the hearer understands the words when one says: anger is a sin.
In my early Christian circles, we used to hear "you can't keep a bird from landing on your head, but you can keep it from building a nest in your hair."
So what do you do when you feel anger? Grit your teeth and press down on the lid of your "temper" so that it can't come out? That leads to acting out.
I think of emotions like nerve endings in our physical bodies. They inform the brain of whether there is something good or something harmful out there. If you touch the stove, your nerve endings tell you to pull away. Emotions inform our brain about what is going on with other people. If someone is nice to you, you are drawn to them. You feel like, or love, or affection. You want to be with them. If someone hurts you, you want to pull back. Or you want to hurt them back. But because we are human beings, we cannot withdraw from our relationships, especially with family members. (Well, I guess you could, but that's not usually the best choice.)
When I was angry what was it that was wrong? Someone was hurting me. Life was hard and I did not know how to protect myself from being hurt for one thing. I misunderstood the Bible's teaching about anger, for another thing. I did not obey the Bible's teaching that says: don't let the sun go down while you are still angry. I knew I was not obeying this, but I did not know how to obey it. You can't just stop feeling angry when you are angry. It takes a lot of talking and it takes time....at least it takes time if you have let that root of bitterness grow into a bit fat taproot!
I want to end this post, but it keeps going on and on. I would really like people to dialog with me on this. I have more to say, but I want to know whether what I have said so far makes sense, or whether it's murky.
I think it's an important topic and I am interested in others' viewpoints on this. Am I the only one who thinks about this? Am I way off base scripturally?
Years later I did not understand why I was angry, why I would have these times of total frustration. I did not know how to get the anger out of my life. It certainly wasn't Christian to feel so much anger. No, I wasn't constantly angry. I loved and enjoyed my children deeply, had close friends and got along with almost everyone. But I was angry and only getting angrier. I thought godly people were so attuned to God that they didn't feel angry. What was wrong with me?
What did my anger look like? I can remember some of the incidents in which my anger came out in ways that surprised me. Once I was at the point of tears, but I could not cry. I knew I "needed" to cry, but I could not cry. I was too angry to cry. A few tears would come out and then stop. I remember dropping to my knees next to my bed thinking the tears would come out but they did not. So I took my handkerchief and ripped it.
Another time I was sitting at my desk in a similar state of mind. I got so angry I stabbed my cartridge pen into my wooden desk. Destroyed the pen and made a hole in the desk. I directed my anger at things. I still have a dent in my skillet which I made with a spatula.
Then there was the frustration on the tennis courts. Someone mentioned how they had seen a clip on TV of different atheletes yelling. When I would miss my shot, I'd make loud aggravated yells. Only a couple times did I throw my racquet, and when I did, it bounced into the next court.
I am NOT PROUD of this. I only am trying illustrate.
I have heard it said "The Bible speaks against anger." I think we think that anger itself is sin. We study and analyze Paul's advice 'Be angry and sin not'. So to feel anger itself must not be sin, right? My own paraphrase of that might be feel your anger, but don't let it control what you do and push you to sin. My own writing I would have added after that would have been: figure out what you are angry about, talk to the person you are angry at and get help from an expert if you can't deal with it yourself.
When I read psychology books, I don't remember learning anything about anger. When I went to a psychgologist, I am sure he asked me : have you communicated how you feel (angry) to the person involved? I would have answered: No, I can't do that, it would hurt their feelings.
I heard the phrase "acting out". That is when you are angry about something, but you don't express your honest anger about it to the person involved for whatever reason. The anger builds up inside you until it finally bursts out somewhere illogical. Example: If I were mad at my husband, I would slam cupboard doors in the kitchen. I would never just tell him : I felt angry when you did that, or when you said that.
I can remember asking various people about anger, speakers who would come to us in West Africa, mature believers at conferences, any counselors or psychologist types.
When I went to a Pastoral counselor, he once said : anger is usually the emotion that is closest to the surface and underneath it there is usually hurt or fear. I think from my observation this is true. I think that is why in Western culture, men are allowed to be angry. They aren't supposed to show sadness or fear because it makes them look weak. Fear or sadness isn't manly. But we expect them to get mad and cuss.
For ME, looking back on those years of frustration, I was hurt. But I did not know how to stop getting hurt, so I was angry. And I could not get rid of my anger, because I did not have the wisdom or strength to talk to the person who made me angry. There were times I could not cry I was so angry, and it made me even angrier that I could not release tears. Pitiful.
I still get frustrated at times, but the flow of my life is more even now. What makes the difference? Answer to my prayers? Yes. Antidepressants? Yes. Having learned to live with grief and having learned that all I have is this moment? Yes. Good counselors? Yes. Being told in church that anger is a sin? Nope.
There are lots of proverbs that talk about the angry man. He's the bad guy. We don't want to be like him. If we are like him, we are not pleasing God. But what if you are an angry man (or woman) and you can't seem to grow in this area? Maybe you need to learn new communication skills with someone who is hurting you. Maybe you need a counselor. Maybe you need medication. (By the way, I don't advocate running out and getting drugs as your first and only option, but I believe some of us need them in combination with good Bible teaching and mature friends and counseling and coaching.)
I don't even think I would say that the feeling of anger is a sin. I would interpret the proverbs and other passages which condemn the angry man as a person who consistently acts out feelings of anger. He habitually does not restrain himself. I don't think it's a sin to feel angry when you slam your hand in the car door. What you do about what you feel is what may be sin. Like cussing out and smacking the child who accidentally closed the door. I think when the Bible seems to talk of anger as sin, it is talking about angry actions. Everyone feels anger sometimes. I think some of the problem is semantics. And I think it will be helpful to those of us who teach the word of God to others to be careful with our words. I think it will be helpful to think about how the hearer understands the words when one says: anger is a sin.
In my early Christian circles, we used to hear "you can't keep a bird from landing on your head, but you can keep it from building a nest in your hair."
So what do you do when you feel anger? Grit your teeth and press down on the lid of your "temper" so that it can't come out? That leads to acting out.
I think of emotions like nerve endings in our physical bodies. They inform the brain of whether there is something good or something harmful out there. If you touch the stove, your nerve endings tell you to pull away. Emotions inform our brain about what is going on with other people. If someone is nice to you, you are drawn to them. You feel like, or love, or affection. You want to be with them. If someone hurts you, you want to pull back. Or you want to hurt them back. But because we are human beings, we cannot withdraw from our relationships, especially with family members. (Well, I guess you could, but that's not usually the best choice.)
When I was angry what was it that was wrong? Someone was hurting me. Life was hard and I did not know how to protect myself from being hurt for one thing. I misunderstood the Bible's teaching about anger, for another thing. I did not obey the Bible's teaching that says: don't let the sun go down while you are still angry. I knew I was not obeying this, but I did not know how to obey it. You can't just stop feeling angry when you are angry. It takes a lot of talking and it takes time....at least it takes time if you have let that root of bitterness grow into a bit fat taproot!
I want to end this post, but it keeps going on and on. I would really like people to dialog with me on this. I have more to say, but I want to know whether what I have said so far makes sense, or whether it's murky.
I think it's an important topic and I am interested in others' viewpoints on this. Am I the only one who thinks about this? Am I way off base scripturally?
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