The world is full of scary things. When I was little, just about the scariest things in the world were spiders, dogs and looking foolish. Since I lived in the middle of a jungle, that fear of spiders was fairly inconvenient.
One summer, a Canadian ornithologist was traveling through our area and let my brother and me tag along on some of her outings. To me, all of the birds in our corner of the jungle were just birds. Our visitor saw each one as a little world to be explored. Once she learned of my fear of spiders, she bought me a book about spider species and took me on special spider-sighting field trips. As I learned about spiders, the fear was replaced by respect and eventually by Frederick, my pet tarantula.
Then there were dogs. Always leery of them, I developed a paralyzing fear after being bitten at age 11. The physical scar earned me tough-girl bragging rights that belied the inner panic left from the experience (granted, it was later reinforced by another toothy encounter of the canine kind when I was 13, but I still maintain that my brother was partially at fault for that one. I understand his story differs somewhat from mine.)
Eventually - many years later - I had Goofy Pooch. She sparked love and affection, but the venerable GP was a special charmer and it seemed likely that my fear was simply abated, not cured.
Recently, Eldest Son’s adolescent mastiff came to stay with me while her family was on vacation. Maggie is an enormous dog with impressive drooling skills. She counter-surfs with her chin on the counter. When my water heater blew and the plumber came to replace it, I put Maggie in one of the bedrooms: not for fear that she would eat the helpful gentleman, but that in her desire to see what he was doing, she might drool on him. Given that the anatomy most available to Maggie – and her slobber – would have been the plumber’s backside, you can see why I felt it best to avert the situation from the get-go.
After the heater was replaced, I pulled up the carpet in order to speed up the drying process. Some twenty minutes later, I heard “shuuup... shuuup... shuppppp”. Maggie the mastiff was trying to quietly pull up the soaked padding and suck the water out. “Margaret Ann!” I yelled, with all due respect to Margaret Anns worldwide, and Maggie immediately panicked and tried to hide behind my recliner. (When Maggie was good, I called her “Maggie Lou.” I have no idea why.)
A night or two later, I was lying on the couch watching TV and scratching Maggie’s ears. Overcome with pleasure, she slid into a puddle of dog on the floor. Then her ears twitched. Her back arched. Every muscle quivered. In an explosion, Maggie the pony-sized puppy leapt into the air, twisting about to tower over me, teeth bared, the ever-present slobber dripping – and lunged with a ferocious-sounding growl. I tapped her nose and said, “No, Maggie.” Disappointed, she went to play with her rawhide bone and I went back to my movie.
Before the next commercial, it dawned on me. I had not been afraid.
And that’s when I began to understand the real lesson from that summer long ago. The fact is that the jungle spiders were far less of a real threat to me than was my sister’s temperamental parrot, Captain Hook. My fear was based on my perception – not their reality.
I’m coming to see that the same holds true for most fears. What we can imagine is usually so much worse than what actually is; and the more alien something is to us, the more likely we are to imagine the worst.
That leaves only one last childhood fear. And I’d discuss my efforts in that regard but you might think me foolish.
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
Saturday, November 27, 2010
Adopting a patron saint
As I mentioned yesterday, my Christmas tree usually goes up the day after Thanksgiving. It kicks off a Christmas season that lasts six weeks, from just before Advent through to Epiphany. This is not something I was raised with; I simply adopted my own liturgical calendar over the years and it makes sense to me.
Now, I’d like to adopt a patron saint.
I spent Thanksgiving with my parents yesterday. After dinner, I tried to figure out why my father’s computer had quit talking to his printer. After fiddling with this and tweaking that, I decided the drivers might need to be updated. My parents still have a dial-up internet connection. Downloading the drivers would take forever - or something in that range.
Instead, I opted for taking both of my parents’ laptops home with me. While others were out there standing in Black Friday lines, I would be peacefully at home updating drivers, antivirus definitions and anything else that required high speed access to the World Wide Web. That was the plan. And at first, the plan went swimmingly.
Somewhere around noon, just as I finished updating the last updateable thing on my parents’ computers, it occurred to me that I gave away my Christmas tree last year (the tree, on the stand, stood just over 7’ high. I needed a tree that 5’5” me could top with a star without calling in support personnel.) That meant I needed to go buy another tree. Today. On Black Friday. It would mean giving up the right to roll my eyes lovingly at all those people in my family (you know who you are) who stood in long lines to buy a single item, but I needed that tree.
I packed up Mom and Dad’s computers and drove back over to their house. Dad’s computer booted up well and I tried printing a page. Nothing. An error light flashed on the printer. I checked the paper tray. It was full. I turned the printer off and back on again. The light kept flashing. Frustrated, I stared at the computer screen. A tiny red alert caught my attention. Had that been there before? I double clicked on it.
“Paper jam!” said the cheerful pop-up message, with a diagram of exactly where the offending paper was.
Oh. In about 5 seconds, the problem was fixed. I tried not to think of how many hours I had spent trying to cure it with downloads and re-installations.
Next on the agenda: the Christmas tree. Studiously avoiding the malls, I found a store with empty spaces in the parking lot. Not too many people inside the store, either. The lines were moving quickly. Call me superstitious, but being aware of Murphy’s penchant for messing up my plans, I figured that if I bought only one item – the tree – something was bound to happen to make my check-out line go slowly. So I picked up a poinsettia to take out to the cemetery tomorrow and made my way to the cash registers.
A store employee efficiently guided shoppers to the next available cashier. People were spending less than 2 minutes checking out. The line was a smooth flow of happy shoppers.
“Three!” the employee called to me, pointing to cash register 3. I pushed my cart forward. The cashier scanned my little tree and I handed her the poinsettia. She searched the flowers for the price tag. I searched the cart, in case the tag had come loose. Neither of us had any luck. Fellow shoppers with one item breezed through the other lines. The cashier and I exchanged small talk and waited. About ten minutes later, the price was located, I checked out and slunk back out to my car. Murphied again.
It’s days like this one that make me want to adopt a saint. I’ve already found a perfect match: St. Jude, patron of lost causes. Could someone please tell me where I go to sign the papers?
Now, I’d like to adopt a patron saint.
I spent Thanksgiving with my parents yesterday. After dinner, I tried to figure out why my father’s computer had quit talking to his printer. After fiddling with this and tweaking that, I decided the drivers might need to be updated. My parents still have a dial-up internet connection. Downloading the drivers would take forever - or something in that range.
Instead, I opted for taking both of my parents’ laptops home with me. While others were out there standing in Black Friday lines, I would be peacefully at home updating drivers, antivirus definitions and anything else that required high speed access to the World Wide Web. That was the plan. And at first, the plan went swimmingly.
Somewhere around noon, just as I finished updating the last updateable thing on my parents’ computers, it occurred to me that I gave away my Christmas tree last year (the tree, on the stand, stood just over 7’ high. I needed a tree that 5’5” me could top with a star without calling in support personnel.) That meant I needed to go buy another tree. Today. On Black Friday. It would mean giving up the right to roll my eyes lovingly at all those people in my family (you know who you are) who stood in long lines to buy a single item, but I needed that tree.
I packed up Mom and Dad’s computers and drove back over to their house. Dad’s computer booted up well and I tried printing a page. Nothing. An error light flashed on the printer. I checked the paper tray. It was full. I turned the printer off and back on again. The light kept flashing. Frustrated, I stared at the computer screen. A tiny red alert caught my attention. Had that been there before? I double clicked on it.
“Paper jam!” said the cheerful pop-up message, with a diagram of exactly where the offending paper was.
Oh. In about 5 seconds, the problem was fixed. I tried not to think of how many hours I had spent trying to cure it with downloads and re-installations.
Next on the agenda: the Christmas tree. Studiously avoiding the malls, I found a store with empty spaces in the parking lot. Not too many people inside the store, either. The lines were moving quickly. Call me superstitious, but being aware of Murphy’s penchant for messing up my plans, I figured that if I bought only one item – the tree – something was bound to happen to make my check-out line go slowly. So I picked up a poinsettia to take out to the cemetery tomorrow and made my way to the cash registers.
A store employee efficiently guided shoppers to the next available cashier. People were spending less than 2 minutes checking out. The line was a smooth flow of happy shoppers.
“Three!” the employee called to me, pointing to cash register 3. I pushed my cart forward. The cashier scanned my little tree and I handed her the poinsettia. She searched the flowers for the price tag. I searched the cart, in case the tag had come loose. Neither of us had any luck. Fellow shoppers with one item breezed through the other lines. The cashier and I exchanged small talk and waited. About ten minutes later, the price was located, I checked out and slunk back out to my car. Murphied again.
It’s days like this one that make me want to adopt a saint. I’ve already found a perfect match: St. Jude, patron of lost causes. Could someone please tell me where I go to sign the papers?
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Cranberries and other simple blessings
Thanksgiving might just be my favorite holiday. My Christmas tree usually goes up the day after Thanksgiving and comes down on Epiphany, marking 6 weeks of giving thanks, giving gifts and giving myself new goals to fall short of by the following New Year's Eve.
Christmas is delightful, but as holidays go, it's a bit confused. While I deeply honor the birth of Jesus, my inner nitpicker is a little too aware that December 25 was a date appointed by human design. Besides, Jesus' gifts were less about price and more about cost. Saint Nicholas is a much better match for our current Christmas traditions. By all accounts a very good man, he is also the patron saint of merchants, thieves and little children.
Easter is lovely, and I don't mind having eggs and rabbits gathered around the open tomb. But Easter is really about life beyond the limits of our five senses – hard to capture in a simple holiday.
July 4th, Memorial Day, Veterans Day: our holidays mark the passage of time and events, and that is good. The cycles of tradition carry bits of flotsam that show where we came from and who we have become and draw us back together when the petty differences of life divide us.
Thanksgiving, on the other hand, is more than tradition. It's a celebration of the simple blessings of humanity and cooperation.
Forget our petty arguments. Can you think of two groups whose agendas were more diametrically opposed than the Pilgrims and the Native Americans? Yet there they were, mutually thankful for their survival.
Forget for a moment the harried race to get more, faster, and better. Appreciate the genius who figured out that cranberries could be jellied. Taste the recipes of generations. Stop. Focus on the smells and sounds and be thankful if you can.
Reach across the table of life to those who are different and find your common points of gratitude.
And may you have a happy, blessed Thanksgiving Day.
Christmas is delightful, but as holidays go, it's a bit confused. While I deeply honor the birth of Jesus, my inner nitpicker is a little too aware that December 25 was a date appointed by human design. Besides, Jesus' gifts were less about price and more about cost. Saint Nicholas is a much better match for our current Christmas traditions. By all accounts a very good man, he is also the patron saint of merchants, thieves and little children.
Easter is lovely, and I don't mind having eggs and rabbits gathered around the open tomb. But Easter is really about life beyond the limits of our five senses – hard to capture in a simple holiday.
July 4th, Memorial Day, Veterans Day: our holidays mark the passage of time and events, and that is good. The cycles of tradition carry bits of flotsam that show where we came from and who we have become and draw us back together when the petty differences of life divide us.
Thanksgiving, on the other hand, is more than tradition. It's a celebration of the simple blessings of humanity and cooperation.
Forget our petty arguments. Can you think of two groups whose agendas were more diametrically opposed than the Pilgrims and the Native Americans? Yet there they were, mutually thankful for their survival.
Forget for a moment the harried race to get more, faster, and better. Appreciate the genius who figured out that cranberries could be jellied. Taste the recipes of generations. Stop. Focus on the smells and sounds and be thankful if you can.
Reach across the table of life to those who are different and find your common points of gratitude.
And may you have a happy, blessed Thanksgiving Day.
Monday, November 8, 2010
Denver with a side of Murphy
Murphy, that invisible magician-of-all-that-can-go-wrong, has me in the cross-hairs.
Last week, I went to a conference in Denver. I had never been to Denver before, nor had I ever been to this particular conference. I packed carefully, almost obsessively. At the last moment, I went to pack my laptop. My bag wasn't where I usually left it. Then again, my usual place changes periodically and I wasn't sure what the usual place du jour was. I searched the house. Ah-hah! Found it in my son's old room. It wasn't until I was on the plane, departing Dallas, that I realized it was my son's computer bag, not mine, and the white cord in the side pocket was not – as I had thought – my phone charger, but rather the cord to a camera that no one in the family has any more. And my phone was down to a 30% charge.
"Oh well," thought I, chalking one up for Murphy, "I'll just pop into a store in Denver and buy another one."
My friend Jody met me at the airport in Denver; he had flown in earlier in order to visit with his sister, Shannon, before the conference. We drove straight to the conference hotel from the airport in order to enjoy the opening ceremonies. It was late by the time we made our way in the rental car over to Shannon's house, where we were staying. I plopped my suitcase down on the bed in the room I was to use, and pushed a cat out of the way. The cat ignored me and returned to his spot.
A second cat walked into the room. I love cats, so I just unpacked around them. That was when I realized I had forgotten to bring any socks or hose for the conference. "Oh well," thought I, shaking my head, "I'll just get some more when I get the phone charger." And I shooed the cats out, shut the door and climbed into bed.
About thirty minutes later, I climbed back out of bed, opened the door and conceded to the cats that yes, indeed, they had been there first and begged them to please, please come on in and stop that incessant yowling.
The following afternoon (after a truly fantastic day of Murphy-free workshops), Jody and I left the conference hotel to return to Shannon's, intending to stop at a corner drugstore somewhere along the way.
Let me say right now that the people of Denver are amazingly nice to strangers. In the course of four days, only one person honked their horn at us as we zigzagged through the streets trying to get our bearings (and I secretly suspect that person was also from out of town.) But that day, in our search for a drugstore, we took a wrong turn. Next thing we knew, we were cruising streets with taverns, tattoo parlors and not a single drugstore. We passed gas stations, massage parlors, a couple of D-list fast-food joints and one place that might have been a tiny brothel or a nail salon with a twist. I couldn't tell.
As I tried to figure out the GPS system in our rented car, Jody turned into what appeared to be an industrial district. Two men in hard-hats were leaving a building. One seemed to be heading for the parking lot on the opposite side of the street. With a mighty swerve, we screeched up to the sidewalk just before the man could step down. I reached out to lower my window and ask for directions – and accidentally hit the lock. Click! All four locks shot down. I tried the window again. It didn't move. "I'll get it!" said Jody, determinedly hitting a button on his side of the car. The windows did not budge. Nor did the startled man we had hoped would rescue us.
I glanced at Jody and realized the button he was punching was the child window lock. At that, we both collapsed in laughter, Hard Hat man began inching away from our car, and we decided that the better part of wisdom was to beat a hasty exit.
If you ever hear a Denver factory worker tell of the day he narrowly escaped two lunatics in a rental car, please tell him we're sorry.
In the absence of drugstores, we settled for a Family Dollar store; no phone chargers, but I got some hose for the next day. "I'll try again tomorrow," I thought.
The next day once more failed to yield a drugstore. A friend at the conference had the same type of phone as mine, and offered to charge it for me. Score one for me. That night, as we drove the streets of Denver trying to find a restaurant we'd been recommended, we passed drugstores. And phone stores. And electronics stores. Phone chargers galore were in reach, but I no longer needed them - so instead, we accidentally entered the on-ramp to a freeway, during rush hour, and found it impossible to get back off for several miles. When we finally did exit, we found ourselves at the county jail. Score another one for Murph.
After the conference ended, Jody stayed at his sister's a little longer and I took off for the airport. Security was relatively quick. I found some lunch, settled into a chair in the waiting lounge and congratulated myself on how smoothly things were going. Spotting a man from the conference, I waved and called, "Hi Michael!" No response. He was busy talking to the woman beside him – and she wasn't the one he'd introduced as his wife at the conference. I quit waving.
A little later, as I wandered the lounge, I saw them coming toward me. "Oh well," I thought, "None of my business who he's with," and I made my smile warmer and my wave even more direct. The man turned. It wasn't Michael after all. His wife caught sight of my enthusiastic hello and turned a scowl on the hapless man.
Beating another hasty retreat, I took refuge in the ladies' room.
If you happen to hear a man who looks like Michael tell of the overly friendly stranger who got him in hot water with his wife at the Denver airport, please tell him I'm sorry and that it's really not my fault.
It's just that I'm stuck in Murphy's cross-hairs.
Last week, I went to a conference in Denver. I had never been to Denver before, nor had I ever been to this particular conference. I packed carefully, almost obsessively. At the last moment, I went to pack my laptop. My bag wasn't where I usually left it. Then again, my usual place changes periodically and I wasn't sure what the usual place du jour was. I searched the house. Ah-hah! Found it in my son's old room. It wasn't until I was on the plane, departing Dallas, that I realized it was my son's computer bag, not mine, and the white cord in the side pocket was not – as I had thought – my phone charger, but rather the cord to a camera that no one in the family has any more. And my phone was down to a 30% charge.
"Oh well," thought I, chalking one up for Murphy, "I'll just pop into a store in Denver and buy another one."
My friend Jody met me at the airport in Denver; he had flown in earlier in order to visit with his sister, Shannon, before the conference. We drove straight to the conference hotel from the airport in order to enjoy the opening ceremonies. It was late by the time we made our way in the rental car over to Shannon's house, where we were staying. I plopped my suitcase down on the bed in the room I was to use, and pushed a cat out of the way. The cat ignored me and returned to his spot.
A second cat walked into the room. I love cats, so I just unpacked around them. That was when I realized I had forgotten to bring any socks or hose for the conference. "Oh well," thought I, shaking my head, "I'll just get some more when I get the phone charger." And I shooed the cats out, shut the door and climbed into bed.
About thirty minutes later, I climbed back out of bed, opened the door and conceded to the cats that yes, indeed, they had been there first and begged them to please, please come on in and stop that incessant yowling.
The following afternoon (after a truly fantastic day of Murphy-free workshops), Jody and I left the conference hotel to return to Shannon's, intending to stop at a corner drugstore somewhere along the way.
Let me say right now that the people of Denver are amazingly nice to strangers. In the course of four days, only one person honked their horn at us as we zigzagged through the streets trying to get our bearings (and I secretly suspect that person was also from out of town.) But that day, in our search for a drugstore, we took a wrong turn. Next thing we knew, we were cruising streets with taverns, tattoo parlors and not a single drugstore. We passed gas stations, massage parlors, a couple of D-list fast-food joints and one place that might have been a tiny brothel or a nail salon with a twist. I couldn't tell.
As I tried to figure out the GPS system in our rented car, Jody turned into what appeared to be an industrial district. Two men in hard-hats were leaving a building. One seemed to be heading for the parking lot on the opposite side of the street. With a mighty swerve, we screeched up to the sidewalk just before the man could step down. I reached out to lower my window and ask for directions – and accidentally hit the lock. Click! All four locks shot down. I tried the window again. It didn't move. "I'll get it!" said Jody, determinedly hitting a button on his side of the car. The windows did not budge. Nor did the startled man we had hoped would rescue us.
I glanced at Jody and realized the button he was punching was the child window lock. At that, we both collapsed in laughter, Hard Hat man began inching away from our car, and we decided that the better part of wisdom was to beat a hasty exit.
If you ever hear a Denver factory worker tell of the day he narrowly escaped two lunatics in a rental car, please tell him we're sorry.
In the absence of drugstores, we settled for a Family Dollar store; no phone chargers, but I got some hose for the next day. "I'll try again tomorrow," I thought.
The next day once more failed to yield a drugstore. A friend at the conference had the same type of phone as mine, and offered to charge it for me. Score one for me. That night, as we drove the streets of Denver trying to find a restaurant we'd been recommended, we passed drugstores. And phone stores. And electronics stores. Phone chargers galore were in reach, but I no longer needed them - so instead, we accidentally entered the on-ramp to a freeway, during rush hour, and found it impossible to get back off for several miles. When we finally did exit, we found ourselves at the county jail. Score another one for Murph.
After the conference ended, Jody stayed at his sister's a little longer and I took off for the airport. Security was relatively quick. I found some lunch, settled into a chair in the waiting lounge and congratulated myself on how smoothly things were going. Spotting a man from the conference, I waved and called, "Hi Michael!" No response. He was busy talking to the woman beside him – and she wasn't the one he'd introduced as his wife at the conference. I quit waving.
A little later, as I wandered the lounge, I saw them coming toward me. "Oh well," I thought, "None of my business who he's with," and I made my smile warmer and my wave even more direct. The man turned. It wasn't Michael after all. His wife caught sight of my enthusiastic hello and turned a scowl on the hapless man.
Beating another hasty retreat, I took refuge in the ladies' room.
If you happen to hear a man who looks like Michael tell of the overly friendly stranger who got him in hot water with his wife at the Denver airport, please tell him I'm sorry and that it's really not my fault.
It's just that I'm stuck in Murphy's cross-hairs.
Monday, September 6, 2010
Diaspora
We came from all points on the compass: North, West, South, and even East (by less than 25 miles, but it still counts). Our hair was a little more grey or a little more absent; we had a few hitches in our getalongs. Most of our children came as well, some with their own children. A few couldn't make it: we missed them. We came together to celebrate our parents and each other and all that came to be because 60 years ago, our parents embarked on the great adventure of "I Do". And it occurred to me that no one truly knows what they agree to when they say those two little words.
My parents had already decided on four children, and Dad even predicted our birth order correctly. But that's about all. They didn't know, standing there in that church, that Dad would someday impress our tribal hosts by improvising a fishing "net" out of his t-shirt (long story). Or that Mom would learn to make mashed plantains as good as any made by the local Tsáchila women. They could not have foreseen our menagerie of pets that included a monkey, a parrot, a sloth and a kinkajou. (Actually, the sloth was terribly boring; I'm not sure he counts as a pet.)
I'm positive they had no clue how many ways a boy could need stitches: in one summer, Paul fell out of a tree against a barbed-wire fence, split his finger with a rusty wheelbarrow handle and caught a fishhook in his thumb. They didn't know that Steve would elevate practical jokes to a fine art (ask him sometime about a certain statue.) Or that Becky – the quietest of us all – would venture furthest from home, moving to Australia for several years.
I know for a fact that they never imagined their youngest would want a pet tarantula. But they let me keep him anyway.
In fact, they said "I do" to a lot of things, including our childhood. We dug caves in the hillside, swam in jungle rivers, made little "huts" in the tall weeds that grew in the pasture next to us. When I wanted to be a ballerina, Daddy built a practice barre in my room – even though we were miles from any school and I had absolutely no talent. When Paul burst into the house ecstatic over his "friends", Mom went out and knelt in the dirt beside him for an introduction to his new-found buddies, the leaf-cutter ants.
They said "I do" to things they didn't want to, like sending their children away to school. By the time I was six, correspondence school was available and I stayed home to study. After sixth grade, Mom and Dad gave in to my pleas to send me to boarding school with my siblings; I didn't realize the pain they felt because I was the last one, and they deeply missed my brothers and sister, and if I left also, the house would be too empty too soon.
But this weekend, we all came back to fill their house again. We swapped stories, and it was good to see that nothing essential has changed over the years. We still find the same word plays funny. We can finish most of each other's memories. When I was little, I loved C.S. Lewis' Narnia series (still do.) I used to compare us to the Pevensie children, except that my siblings were Steve the Wise, Becky the Calm, and Paul the Intrepid. They still are, but they have more layers and dimensions than I could have known back then. (Considering how often I tattled on them, it seems the better part of wisdom not to ask what name they would have given me.)
Every so often, we even told a story that our children hadn't already heard.
The grandchildren added their own stories. As I sat and listened to my nephews and nieces, it occurred to me that when my parents slid those rings onto each other's finger, they also said "I do" to the physical therapist, the nurse, the engineer, theater director, wildlife conservationist, anthropologist, musicians, and who knows what else over the years.
And later, as I watched their children play - the fourth generation - I found myself wondering where their paths would lead. What will they reflect upon when their own family diaspora gathers someday, when they're a little grey, a little worn?
I don't know. All I know is that wonderful things happen when someone has the guts to take Mystery in hand and say, "I do!"
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Standing on Dignity, Resting on Laurels
I work with words. I also teach other people to work with words. Twice a year, I hold an 8-week (Saturday mornings only) introductory class for people interested in spoken-language interpretation. Along with the basic modes and techniques of interpreting, I stress ad nauseum the idea that language is always in flux, making it impossible for interpreters and translators to rest on their laurels and say, to quote George Lopez, "I got this."
Just think: in the past couple of decades "sweet" has come to mean "cool", but not the kind that is the opposite of hot. One can conceivably be both hot and cool and not even be talking about menopause.
"Bad" can be good but not virtuous, prompting some to say that it's "bad to be bad." Which would mean good. "Pimp" has become a verb and not necessarily a negative one; "sick" isn't; women can be foxes and cougars simultaneously, and few recall that once upon a time "making love" "pitching woo" and "courting" were all synonymous with flirting.
Along with changing language, court interpreters must recognize nuanced speech – lawyers use it heavily, especially with juries. Sometimes, I assign my students to pick a current event, and then read the stories published by opposing ends of the media spectrum. Their task is to de-spin the work of spin doctors, until they come up with non-nuanced texts. (The resulting stories are usually quite short.) And if my class contains individuals who are particularly inclined toward one political extreme or the other, this exercise often provides a good segue into the lesson on controlling emotions and bias while interpreting.
We must be prepared to follow changing developments smoothly. Unflappably, one might say. No words are morally bad. They may simply convey morally reprehensible or perhaps vulgar ideas. Screams, shouts, political incorrectness: nothing should shake the professional interpreter. A colleague once told me of a case he'd served on where the defendant, upon losing, chose to launch a series of invectives at the judge. The (very good) interpreter promptly let loose with the corresponding energetic string of profanity in English. After the courtroom was almost empty, the judge looked at my acquaintance and commented, "I know you were just doing your job – but you didn't have to enjoy it!"
At any rate, this is what I do. Whether translating at my desk or interpreting in a courtroom or deposition, words are my stock in trade and it is my job to keep up with changes in that stock. Calmly, smoothly, efficiently.
Life, on the other hand, delights in upending my smooth, efficient calm. There are times outside the courtroom when the subtle changes in language ambush me, and it's never pretty. When I was first dating John, we agreed to meet his mother for a quick bite to eat at Braums. (Besides the best milk around, Braums makes a pretty mean hamburger. Mean as in good, not average, stingy or heartless. Sorry, it's a word thing.)
I had only met his mother briefly once before and very much wanted to her to like me. As John and I stood in the parking lot, waiting for her to arrive, we snuck a few kisses, hugged, and laughed together – a lot. The moment her car pulled into the parking lot, though, I begged for a little decorum. John and decorum were not generally compatible. Still, for my sake, he tried.
One thing about conversation between John and his mother: they used a slightly different English than what I was used to. Some words seemed to preserve older meanings, unchanged in this little pocket of Texas. It was fascinating for a word person like me. So I listened with decorum and interest and tried hard to make a good impression.
It was all going so well. Then a sweet-faced elderly woman approached our table. Handing John a little card about friendship, she said, "I just had to come over to give you this and tell you that I so enjoyed watching the two of you making love in the parking lot..."
The noise suddenly got sucked out of the restaurant. Horrified, I glanced at John's mother. And at John. And at the smiling, elderly woman. My composure slid under the table and I wanted to follow.
Eventually, it registered that the other three were still chatting comfortably. My future mother-in-law was fully aware of the old meaning of the phrase. The only sign that anyone knew of my inner melt-down was the occasional twitch in John's shoulders as he held back his laughter.
I still have that little card. It's a good reminder that laurels and dignity are no match for real life.
Monday, August 16, 2010
Nickels and Pie
Sometimes my mouth opens up and makes promises all by itself while the rest of me listens, astounded. It then falls to said "rest of me" to figure out how to make good or else to plan a strategic retreat.
Last December, my granddaughters and two of their cousins came for what has become a tradition: the annual slumber party with Oma (aka me.) The discussion turned to cooking. Someone said wouldn't it be nice to have a visit where all they did was cook, and someone said they'd like to create their own recipes and someone said, sure, let's plan on doing that when school's out.
Since that last someone was me, my brain has been trying to figure out a) when, and b) what in the world made me think I could teach four girls to cook. My own children had mixed reactions: Adrian burst out laughing and Patrick asked me if I planned on teaching the girls how to remove food from the stove before it gets to the stage where I say, "Just scrape off the burnt part, it's fine underneath..."
They were being merciful. They could have brought up the Infamous Clam Chowder Incident, the one where Goofy Pooch took a sniff of the chowder and backed away in panic.
With school starting up again soon, time was running out. We made plans. Yesterday morning, two sets of parents delivered four eager young ladies to my door. My granddaughters, M (12) and S (8), along with their cousins, H (14) and B (12), dropped their bags to the floor and asked, "Where do we start?"
We started at a local farmers' market (M announced to her parents afterward, "I have now experienced a Farmers' Market, and they – are – not – air-conditioned!") It was fun watching the girls pick out fruits and vegetables. I found myself passing on produce selection sniffing-and-thumping tricks my mother taught me.
The evening's cooking session surprised the girls by yielding a very good beef stew. After supper, we made our regular trek to Half Price Books, where I gave the girls a small budget and set them loose in the store. They were so worn out when we got home that they fell asleep almost instantly.
This morning, they learned to make pancakes. They even learned how to improvise when you suddenly run out of flour because you haven't baked anything in so long that you'd forgotten you own a flour bin, much less that it needed restocking.
After pancakes, it was time for another favorite: Nickelrama, an arcade where every game runs on nickels and the machines are generous with tickets. I bought the girls each a cup of nickels and sat down to watch the fun. Kids of all sizes, ages, colors and shapes ran every which way. Game bells and alien ray guns rang through the air. Adults followed their respective kids around, sometimes in a slight daze. I watched a grandmother pump nearly $20 into a game, methodically winning tickets for her grandson to redeem for a $1.75 toy. One woman had brought her little one to the arcade for what appeared to be the first time: the girl (about 3 years old) stared around in wonder, threw her hands into the air and exclaimed, "I just don't... I just don't...I just don't KNOW!" I later saw them at the Sponge Bob game, so apparently she figured it out.
We had pineapple-glazed chicken for lunch and talked about the girls' upcoming school year and boys and hair styles. And somewhere around the time I figured out that the Great Cooking Weekend was really about strengthening ties soon to be tested by adolescence, it was time to make supper.
At 5:30, two sets of parents arrived to find signs on the door announcing, "Welcome" and "Parents, Come In". They were served lasagna, green salad, fresh fruit, garlic bread, "smores pie" and beaming smiles by four young ladies.
Maybe next time, I'll get to teach them the art of disguising slightly-charred biscuits. It can be done – I promise.
.
Friday, August 6, 2010
A Little Cracked by 50
I’ve been thinking about my friend Susie. When we started working for the same law firm in Quito many years ago, I was 21 and she was 46. Still, we became the best of friends and I couldn’t say if she was more of a mentor, a mother confessor or a second sister to me.
At the time we met, Susie had already survived the loss of her husband and twin sons, spent six months in a wheelchair, and undergone seven (yes, seven!) breast cancer surgeries, not to mention a host of “lesser” disasters in life. But at the slightest hint that an occasional bout of self-pity might be condoned, Susie would dismiss it with flick of her fingers and say, “It’s just stuff.” She had no time to wallow; there was life to be embraced.
The night before I left Ecuador, I went over to Susie’s for supper. She gave me a small plastic box shaped like a peanut and said, “Here – this won’t take up much room in your suitcase. But don’t open it until you get to where you’re going.”
Naturally, I opened it that night, in the car on my way home. Inside the plastic peanut was a little bean-filled baby doll with a note that read, “Friends always.”
The following year, Susie had an eighth breast cancer operation and shortly afterward, the cancer filled her stomach. She and her daughter, Carmen, flew up to M. D. Anderson in Houston for a second opinion. The doctors there confirmed the prognosis: 6 months at the very most. Susie was told to go home and prepare to die. Instead, she and Carmen came to spend a week of vacation with me.
Ignoring the medical timetable completely, Susie lived another 14 months. In September of 1985, I called to wish her a happy birthday; Carmen answered the phone instead and told me that her mother had died that morning. It was Susie’s 50th birthday.
I remember thinking that in 25 years I would be the same age. I hoped that by then I would have that kind of strength, that unshakeable faith in God, that dependable sense of perspective and absurdity. I wanted to give off that same aura of wisdom.
Well, Susie, here I am. I made it to 50 and, I must say, I’m a little disappointed.
When I look in the mirror, there is no mantle of elder-hood ready to descend around my shoulders, a physical manifestation of deep inner wisdom. There’s just some gray hair, artfully hidden by my friend Garnier.
Not that I haven’t learned a few things along the way. A few weeks after you died, Carmen gave birth to her second daughter and I found out I was expecting my first son. So I’ve learned the fierce joy and absolute confusion of being a parent and helplessly loving the children you want to invest with wings and ground for life.
I’ve had a bad marriage and a wonderful marriage, and learned the difference between the two.
I’ve learned about losing the person you want to grow old with, before you finish being young together.
I’ve learned that I will not die of embarrassment, work or frustration. And that some things, like chocolate, are both bad and good for me and I have to choose which price to pay.
I’ve learned that dreams don’t go away just because other things are more urgent.
I’ve learned that no matter how much I learn, it’s still just a drop in the bucket.
Last night, I was going through some old poems of mine, and came across one written at the ripe old age of 14. It ended with the line, “Memories are a friend and a bag of peanuts.”
I still have the little plastic peanut Susie gave me, although the shell is cracked. It should be – after all these years, I’m a little cracked in places, too. But I’m blessed with friends who are friends always, and maybe it’s alright that my mantle of elder wisdom has yet to come. Maybe I need to embrace my inner nut.
Or maybe I just haven’t yet gotten to where I’m going.
At the time we met, Susie had already survived the loss of her husband and twin sons, spent six months in a wheelchair, and undergone seven (yes, seven!) breast cancer surgeries, not to mention a host of “lesser” disasters in life. But at the slightest hint that an occasional bout of self-pity might be condoned, Susie would dismiss it with flick of her fingers and say, “It’s just stuff.” She had no time to wallow; there was life to be embraced.
The night before I left Ecuador, I went over to Susie’s for supper. She gave me a small plastic box shaped like a peanut and said, “Here – this won’t take up much room in your suitcase. But don’t open it until you get to where you’re going.”
Naturally, I opened it that night, in the car on my way home. Inside the plastic peanut was a little bean-filled baby doll with a note that read, “Friends always.”
The following year, Susie had an eighth breast cancer operation and shortly afterward, the cancer filled her stomach. She and her daughter, Carmen, flew up to M. D. Anderson in Houston for a second opinion. The doctors there confirmed the prognosis: 6 months at the very most. Susie was told to go home and prepare to die. Instead, she and Carmen came to spend a week of vacation with me.
Ignoring the medical timetable completely, Susie lived another 14 months. In September of 1985, I called to wish her a happy birthday; Carmen answered the phone instead and told me that her mother had died that morning. It was Susie’s 50th birthday.
I remember thinking that in 25 years I would be the same age. I hoped that by then I would have that kind of strength, that unshakeable faith in God, that dependable sense of perspective and absurdity. I wanted to give off that same aura of wisdom.
Well, Susie, here I am. I made it to 50 and, I must say, I’m a little disappointed.
When I look in the mirror, there is no mantle of elder-hood ready to descend around my shoulders, a physical manifestation of deep inner wisdom. There’s just some gray hair, artfully hidden by my friend Garnier.
Not that I haven’t learned a few things along the way. A few weeks after you died, Carmen gave birth to her second daughter and I found out I was expecting my first son. So I’ve learned the fierce joy and absolute confusion of being a parent and helplessly loving the children you want to invest with wings and ground for life.
I’ve had a bad marriage and a wonderful marriage, and learned the difference between the two.
I’ve learned about losing the person you want to grow old with, before you finish being young together.
I’ve learned that I will not die of embarrassment, work or frustration. And that some things, like chocolate, are both bad and good for me and I have to choose which price to pay.
I’ve learned that dreams don’t go away just because other things are more urgent.
I’ve learned that no matter how much I learn, it’s still just a drop in the bucket.
Last night, I was going through some old poems of mine, and came across one written at the ripe old age of 14. It ended with the line, “Memories are a friend and a bag of peanuts.”
I still have the little plastic peanut Susie gave me, although the shell is cracked. It should be – after all these years, I’m a little cracked in places, too. But I’m blessed with friends who are friends always, and maybe it’s alright that my mantle of elder wisdom has yet to come. Maybe I need to embrace my inner nut.
Or maybe I just haven’t yet gotten to where I’m going.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Requiem for a Goofy Pooch
Way back when Patrick and Adrian were little, we lived in an apartment. The boys wanted a dog. They begged, cajoled, whined and bargained for a dog. I conceded to hamsters instead, and promised, "We'll get a dog when we have a house." (We went through several hamsters, actually, before we moved into a house. They kept escaping, but that's a story for a different time and place: preferably, a confessional.)
Then, when the boys were seven and nine years old, we moved into the long-awaited house. The first day after the move, the requests for a dog began again. This time, I put them off with a vague, "When we find the right one."
About a week later, Arline called to say, "I have the right dog for you." Mind you, I hadn't told her the boys were holding my feet to the fire. But at the time, Arline fostered rescued dogs. And, unlike my boys, my friend knew my secret: I was afraid of any dog that stood much higher than my ankle.
"Is it very big?" I asked. "Not that big" wasn't the most convincing of answers, but Arline insisted I at least meet her, and the boys begged, and what's a girl to do when she's caught in a conspiracy of kids, friends and promises made? I went over to meet Charlene.
She seemed big to me. She was pretty: an unusual mix of Sharpei and Golden Retriever. She was also unmistakably afraid of me and almost anyone else over four feet tall. Somehow, that seemed less intimidating. A little while later, I left with my newly acquired pooch on the end of a leash. Charlene spent that first night trembling under my dining room table while I sat in the living room and talked to her. We each felt safer, in separate rooms with a forest of chair legs between us.
By the third day, we were both convinced that the other was harmless, and Charlene abandoned the safety of the dining room table. She was still terrified of grown men, though. If my dad or brothers came into the house, my silly dawg would make a beeline for my bedroom closet.
She was also afraid of storms, anything with a motor, and hamsters. One night, as Adrian lay on his stomach doing homework, Charlene spied the hamster ball rolling down the hall toward her. She did the most sensible thing she could think of: move to higher ground. In a split second, my 50-lb dog was perched, all four paws scrunched together, on my seven-year-old's posterior.
She loved our menagerie of animals, only threatening to drown the hapless critters in doggy slobber. When John came into our lives, Charlene threw her fear of men to the winds and fell in love with him. The first Thanksgiving after we married, Char snuck out of our yard and found a treasure fit for a king... the half-eaten turkey from a neighbor's garbage can. She dragged the carcass home and proudly laid it at her hero's feet. John made a fuss over her, then placed the gobbler remains in a double plastic bag and put it in our garbage. Charlene found it, stripped off the plastic bags, and returned it to John.
In fact, she was an accomplished escape artist. On my way back from work, it was not unusual to see a brown blur dash across yards and down alleys as she raced me home. The goofy pooch would hide beside the garage until I hit the garage door opener. Then she would run into the garage, turn around to face me, and pretend she had been there all along. About twice a year, she would escape for a day or two. This involved, at different times, chewing through a closed cedar gate, unraveling a chain link fence, and squeezing through impossibly small spaces. John called them her "walkabouts". We never knew where she went on walkabout, but she always came home looking very pleased.
When John moved in, so did Ginger. Charlene was fascinated. The little Jack Russell had energy to spare, barked at everything, but couldn't figure out how to get outside on her own. Eventually, they worked out a system: when Ginger wanted to go out, she'd bark; Charlene would get up, slap the sliding glass door open, and go back to what she was doing. (We never could get her to close the door.) The problem of Ginger's squeaky toys was less amicably resolved. Charlene very much disliked noisy toys. One day, she gathered them up and sat on them while she watched Ginger work herself into a tizzy of frustration. Years later, when we lost Ginger, Char mourned for a week. Then she dug up all of the doggy treats that Ginger had buried around the yard.
When John died, Charlene mourned for months. Every time my nephew drove John's old truck up to the house, her ears would perk up and she'd do her happy dance.
Of late, Charlene's daily walks have been shorter, her naps much longer. At 16 years old, her ailments finally gained the upper hand. So today - because we love her - Patrick, Adrian and I took our dear Goofy Pooch to the vet and said goodbye. As she slipped away on her final walkabout, I thought of how she let go of her fears in order to love life. I thought about how incredibly gentle she was.
And I thought that if one believes, as I do, that God's breath of life flows through all creation, then Charlene came from the breath that He caught in the midst of laughter.
Sunday, June 6, 2010
Party Labels
Last night, I went to a party.
It started out as a summer social for my professional organization, but ended up as a Jody Party - a different level of guaranteed fun. Jody has a permanent love affair with humanity and a rather awe-inspiring zest for life, and as we drove up to Jody and Jorge's home, Arline, Jane, and I knew to expect three things: a warm welcome, great food, and interesting people.
Jorge had made his deservedly famous fajitas and guacamole and the rest of us were to bring desserts and side-dishes. I was assigned a dessert. "A fruit bowl," I thought. "Everyone else will bring exotic desserts, but I'll bring fruit."
Our hosts welcomed us warmly (see Expectation No. 1), and I added my fruit bowl to the table that held brownies and a pistachio cake. The fresh strawberries, blueberries and grapes looked rather virtuous, sitting there next to decadence.
The other table held a variety of intriguing salads, casseroles and, of course, there were the aforementioned fajitas and guacamole (check Expectation No. 2)
People began arriving. And as per Expectation No. 3, they fit no uniform mold. There was 84-year-old Marilyn, who just finished her sophomore year at SMU on scholarship. Sam, who took over the open microphone to belt out Spanish love songs to his wife. Mike, a translator and artist, whose version of a "side dish" was one of his paintings.
There were translators and interpreters from the USA, half of Europe and all points of the Spanish-speaking world. There was a county judge. There were a bevy of school teachers, the gardener who built the phenomenal new deck, neighbors and friends. We filled the house, spilled out onto both decks, and down into the beautiful garden. There was laughter and conversation in every corner.
I hate labels as much as my granddaughter does; only she dislikes the kind that come in your clothing and scratch the back of your neck. The labels guaranteed to turn me off are phrases like "their kind", "right-wing nuts", "lunatic liberals", and "those people". And that's one of the reasons I dearly love Jody Parties. Everyone's label gets left at the door and we mix and mingle as individuals, as unique and interesting as the foods and gifts we bring: each one different, each one adding their own special flavor and perspective.
However, in the interest of honesty I should also mention that sometime during the evening, on my way to sample the decadence on the dessert table, I ran into the judge. "Good desserts," he said, his plate piled high. "Of course, I just brought a fruit bowl..."
And there behind him stood the dessert table, now filled to overflowing. There were Brazilian flan, French cream puffs, cookies, oreo pie - and a total of eight fruit bowls.
Mine was the only one with grapes, though.
It started out as a summer social for my professional organization, but ended up as a Jody Party - a different level of guaranteed fun. Jody has a permanent love affair with humanity and a rather awe-inspiring zest for life, and as we drove up to Jody and Jorge's home, Arline, Jane, and I knew to expect three things: a warm welcome, great food, and interesting people.
Jorge had made his deservedly famous fajitas and guacamole and the rest of us were to bring desserts and side-dishes. I was assigned a dessert. "A fruit bowl," I thought. "Everyone else will bring exotic desserts, but I'll bring fruit."
Our hosts welcomed us warmly (see Expectation No. 1), and I added my fruit bowl to the table that held brownies and a pistachio cake. The fresh strawberries, blueberries and grapes looked rather virtuous, sitting there next to decadence.
The other table held a variety of intriguing salads, casseroles and, of course, there were the aforementioned fajitas and guacamole (check Expectation No. 2)
People began arriving. And as per Expectation No. 3, they fit no uniform mold. There was 84-year-old Marilyn, who just finished her sophomore year at SMU on scholarship. Sam, who took over the open microphone to belt out Spanish love songs to his wife. Mike, a translator and artist, whose version of a "side dish" was one of his paintings.
There were translators and interpreters from the USA, half of Europe and all points of the Spanish-speaking world. There was a county judge. There were a bevy of school teachers, the gardener who built the phenomenal new deck, neighbors and friends. We filled the house, spilled out onto both decks, and down into the beautiful garden. There was laughter and conversation in every corner.
I hate labels as much as my granddaughter does; only she dislikes the kind that come in your clothing and scratch the back of your neck. The labels guaranteed to turn me off are phrases like "their kind", "right-wing nuts", "lunatic liberals", and "those people". And that's one of the reasons I dearly love Jody Parties. Everyone's label gets left at the door and we mix and mingle as individuals, as unique and interesting as the foods and gifts we bring: each one different, each one adding their own special flavor and perspective.
However, in the interest of honesty I should also mention that sometime during the evening, on my way to sample the decadence on the dessert table, I ran into the judge. "Good desserts," he said, his plate piled high. "Of course, I just brought a fruit bowl..."
And there behind him stood the dessert table, now filled to overflowing. There were Brazilian flan, French cream puffs, cookies, oreo pie - and a total of eight fruit bowls.
Mine was the only one with grapes, though.
Monday, May 24, 2010
PB in the Gears
The difference between my childhood and that of my granddaughters is more a matter of alternate realities, than of simple time:
For them, televisions have always been in color; I didn't watch my first episode of Scooby-Doo until I was nearly ten, and that was only because we were on furlough in the USA.
My granddaughters don't remember a world without cell phones; until I was in boarding school, the closest telephone was at our neighbor's house. He kept a lock on the dial to discourage unauthorized use.
The girls each have an entire town of Barbies and friends; my first Barbie was a gift from my sister, when I was nine. I promptly renamed her Jean the Lone Rangerette and used an indelible marker to paint a mask on her face.
On the other hand, my granddaughters have never swung out on a vine over a banana patch nor had a pet tarantula.
Even our childhood foods are different. For my granddaughters, the jury is still out on natural peanut butter. For me, that's the only "real" kind - like what I would eat as a child. It was a family affair: Dad would bring the enormous bag of peanuts home, Mom toasted them, and then we kids would sit on the back porch, blowing away the chaff to leave little bare toasted peanuts, and then pouring them carefully into the hopper of the grinder. I was the littlest and therefore usually exempt from grinding duty.
All of this is of great fascination to the girls. On Earth Day, they love turning out all the lights, helping me set up candles, and playing card games in the dark. In this age of ever-present technology, it's as close as to my childhood as I can take them for an hour.
This past Earth Day, I was reminded that technology is more pervasive than ever. A die rolled off the table and under a bookshelf. The candle light didn't reach, and I commented, "If we had a flashlight, I could see it" - to which both girls immediately pointed to my iPhone and said, "Don't you have an app for that?"
It isn’t that I bear a grudge against technology. It's just that sometimes I miss the softer rhythms of life. Usually, all I hear is the manic whir of my personal hamster wheel.
The other day, I made myself a folded peanut butter sandwich. It was a moment of rebellion: work was piled up, there was no time to stop for lunch, but I could and would have an extra-stuffed peanut butter sandwich. As I finished each page of the medical report I was translating, I put the sheet of paper in a pile for the shredder and took a bite of my sandwich.
When the job was finally done, my foggy brain remembered - standard operating procedure: always shred medical reports as soon as I'm done with them. I turned the shredder on and began to feed it. The whine rose and fell as metal teeth chewed noisily.
All of a sudden, the whine got louder and a little desperate. Instead of "wah-wah-wah", it was more like "Wowarowa-wowarowa". The paper was through, but the poor shredder kept howling. I turned it off and peered into its teeth like a piranha dentist. Peanut butter. There was peanut butter on the teeth and in the gears. I looked back at the rest of the papers waiting to be shredded: a tell-tale blob of ground peanuts still clung to one of the pages. It seems I had laid my fat little sandwich on the stack of papers to be shredded, and it lost some of its stuffing.
This is a good time to thank everyone for their helpful suggestions on de-peanut-buttering my shredder. In the end, I simply called it a day. As I walked outside laughing, it occurred to me that my siblings and I would have seen great possibilities in that shredder. Imagine how many pounds of peanuts those little metal teeth could turn into paste, all without kid-powered grinding!
The shredder recovered. I did not; I was left hungry to hop off the hamster wheel more often and listen to the elemental sounds of life. I may even may pack a peanut butter sandwich for the road.
For them, televisions have always been in color; I didn't watch my first episode of Scooby-Doo until I was nearly ten, and that was only because we were on furlough in the USA.
My granddaughters don't remember a world without cell phones; until I was in boarding school, the closest telephone was at our neighbor's house. He kept a lock on the dial to discourage unauthorized use.
The girls each have an entire town of Barbies and friends; my first Barbie was a gift from my sister, when I was nine. I promptly renamed her Jean the Lone Rangerette and used an indelible marker to paint a mask on her face.
On the other hand, my granddaughters have never swung out on a vine over a banana patch nor had a pet tarantula.
Even our childhood foods are different. For my granddaughters, the jury is still out on natural peanut butter. For me, that's the only "real" kind - like what I would eat as a child. It was a family affair: Dad would bring the enormous bag of peanuts home, Mom toasted them, and then we kids would sit on the back porch, blowing away the chaff to leave little bare toasted peanuts, and then pouring them carefully into the hopper of the grinder. I was the littlest and therefore usually exempt from grinding duty.
All of this is of great fascination to the girls. On Earth Day, they love turning out all the lights, helping me set up candles, and playing card games in the dark. In this age of ever-present technology, it's as close as to my childhood as I can take them for an hour.
This past Earth Day, I was reminded that technology is more pervasive than ever. A die rolled off the table and under a bookshelf. The candle light didn't reach, and I commented, "If we had a flashlight, I could see it" - to which both girls immediately pointed to my iPhone and said, "Don't you have an app for that?"
It isn’t that I bear a grudge against technology. It's just that sometimes I miss the softer rhythms of life. Usually, all I hear is the manic whir of my personal hamster wheel.
The other day, I made myself a folded peanut butter sandwich. It was a moment of rebellion: work was piled up, there was no time to stop for lunch, but I could and would have an extra-stuffed peanut butter sandwich. As I finished each page of the medical report I was translating, I put the sheet of paper in a pile for the shredder and took a bite of my sandwich.
When the job was finally done, my foggy brain remembered - standard operating procedure: always shred medical reports as soon as I'm done with them. I turned the shredder on and began to feed it. The whine rose and fell as metal teeth chewed noisily.
All of a sudden, the whine got louder and a little desperate. Instead of "wah-wah-wah", it was more like "Wowarowa-wowarowa". The paper was through, but the poor shredder kept howling. I turned it off and peered into its teeth like a piranha dentist. Peanut butter. There was peanut butter on the teeth and in the gears. I looked back at the rest of the papers waiting to be shredded: a tell-tale blob of ground peanuts still clung to one of the pages. It seems I had laid my fat little sandwich on the stack of papers to be shredded, and it lost some of its stuffing.
This is a good time to thank everyone for their helpful suggestions on de-peanut-buttering my shredder. In the end, I simply called it a day. As I walked outside laughing, it occurred to me that my siblings and I would have seen great possibilities in that shredder. Imagine how many pounds of peanuts those little metal teeth could turn into paste, all without kid-powered grinding!
The shredder recovered. I did not; I was left hungry to hop off the hamster wheel more often and listen to the elemental sounds of life. I may even may pack a peanut butter sandwich for the road.
Saturday, April 10, 2010
The Company We Keep
If we are the company we keep, then I am often old, arthritic and make weird sounds when I walk around the house. I also flap my lips in my sleep, have fur between my toes, and sniff strange things in the grass. (My children could tell you which of these apply - but I have them bribed.)
My ancient Goofy Pooch is my most frequent companion. She snoozes behind me while I work at my desk. If I move to another room, she heaves herself up, mumbling, and follows me. Once there, she again flops down to nap. Days when I clean house and go from room to room are a marathon for the poor dear, and she eventually opts for going outside to lie under the crepe myrtle bush. She can spend hours wallowing in the dust and leaves, intermittently sleeping and enjoying her friends, i.e. the local squirrels, birds and other wildlife who seem to know that she would never do them any harm (a moot point at her age, but true nonetheless.) Every so often, she'll stir long enough to get a drink or check out the contents of her food dish.
She is nearly 16. This is what she does.
That is, until the leash comes off the hook. At the first hint that a walk might be in order, my geriatric canine channels her inner puppy. Her mumbling becomes an excited whine punctuated by an occasional rusty bark. She dances from side to side. Her head bobs up and down. More energy is expended getting ready for a walk than during the walk itself.
We have two routes, mapped out for their relatively flat terrain and sidewalk ramps. Goofy Pooch can no longer navigate curbs. Both routes take us beside a neighborhood pond. The other day, as I walked in slow motion beside my dog, I noticed a slight movement on the shore of the pond. A large bird (a heron perhaps?) stood alert in the shallow water a little ahead of us. If GP had seen him, she would have instantly wanted to add him to her collection of pets. She was distracted, however, by children playing on the other side of the street. The Ancient One dearly loves children, especially from a safe distance.
I, on the other hand, watched the bird. He seemed like a courtly old gentleman. As I took a step, he turned and slowly began to move ahead of us, down the side of the pond, keeping perfect pace with my dog and me. I took out my cell phone camera and got one shot (not that he's very visible in it - unlike some of my friends, I'm not a very good photographer.) He hesitated. But when I took another step forward, so did he. So did Goofy Pooch, still intent on the children. We must have been an odd sight, me facing the bird, my dog facing the people, slowly making our way up the sidewalk. Just as we got to the end of the pond, there was a burst of laughter from across the street. I turned my head - just a split second glance - but when I looked back, my stately companion had disappeared.
As we meandered back to the house, it occurred to me that I am blessed by the company I keep. Even when that company is a geriatric canine whose snores could rattle windows, or we share an unexpected walk with a dignified old bird.
My ancient Goofy Pooch is my most frequent companion. She snoozes behind me while I work at my desk. If I move to another room, she heaves herself up, mumbling, and follows me. Once there, she again flops down to nap. Days when I clean house and go from room to room are a marathon for the poor dear, and she eventually opts for going outside to lie under the crepe myrtle bush. She can spend hours wallowing in the dust and leaves, intermittently sleeping and enjoying her friends, i.e. the local squirrels, birds and other wildlife who seem to know that she would never do them any harm (a moot point at her age, but true nonetheless.) Every so often, she'll stir long enough to get a drink or check out the contents of her food dish.
She is nearly 16. This is what she does.
That is, until the leash comes off the hook. At the first hint that a walk might be in order, my geriatric canine channels her inner puppy. Her mumbling becomes an excited whine punctuated by an occasional rusty bark. She dances from side to side. Her head bobs up and down. More energy is expended getting ready for a walk than during the walk itself.
We have two routes, mapped out for their relatively flat terrain and sidewalk ramps. Goofy Pooch can no longer navigate curbs. Both routes take us beside a neighborhood pond. The other day, as I walked in slow motion beside my dog, I noticed a slight movement on the shore of the pond. A large bird (a heron perhaps?) stood alert in the shallow water a little ahead of us. If GP had seen him, she would have instantly wanted to add him to her collection of pets. She was distracted, however, by children playing on the other side of the street. The Ancient One dearly loves children, especially from a safe distance.
I, on the other hand, watched the bird. He seemed like a courtly old gentleman. As I took a step, he turned and slowly began to move ahead of us, down the side of the pond, keeping perfect pace with my dog and me. I took out my cell phone camera and got one shot (not that he's very visible in it - unlike some of my friends, I'm not a very good photographer.) He hesitated. But when I took another step forward, so did he. So did Goofy Pooch, still intent on the children. We must have been an odd sight, me facing the bird, my dog facing the people, slowly making our way up the sidewalk. Just as we got to the end of the pond, there was a burst of laughter from across the street. I turned my head - just a split second glance - but when I looked back, my stately companion had disappeared.
As we meandered back to the house, it occurred to me that I am blessed by the company I keep. Even when that company is a geriatric canine whose snores could rattle windows, or we share an unexpected walk with a dignified old bird.
Friday, April 2, 2010
The End of Lent
I have to be honest: giving up bread as my Lenten sacrifice didn't turn out quite like I expected it to.
At first, the sacrifice was indeed sacrificial. Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches are pretty lame (not to mention messy) without bread. No french toast, no hot cornbread, no bread pudding. I had to change my shopping routines. And occasionally the smell of fresh bread at a restaurant made me salivate like a Pavlovian dog.
But who knew that just beyond those well-worn patterns lay a whole new comfort zone waiting to be explored?
It started out in little things. Trying new dishes that didn't need bread. Getting a little more creative in the kitchen. (This, from the woman who put a home-baked cake in front of her children once only to hear them exclaim, "You mean you don't HAVE to buy them?")
Then it became deeper, as I reflected on how the smallest of changes can offer new possibilities. Or realized that I am more a creature of habit than I would ever have wished to admit.
And finally, during this past Easter week as I pondered events from long ago, I realized that the absence of bread had become as significant to me as its presence.
Lent did not end for me this year at sunrise on Easter morning. It came to a close during the Eucharist later that day with the pastor's words, "The bread of life - take and eat..." And I did and the circle was closed.
But in the continued interest of honesty, I should also admit that Monday morning found me at the store, feverishly stocking up on sourdough rolls...
At first, the sacrifice was indeed sacrificial. Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches are pretty lame (not to mention messy) without bread. No french toast, no hot cornbread, no bread pudding. I had to change my shopping routines. And occasionally the smell of fresh bread at a restaurant made me salivate like a Pavlovian dog.
But who knew that just beyond those well-worn patterns lay a whole new comfort zone waiting to be explored?
It started out in little things. Trying new dishes that didn't need bread. Getting a little more creative in the kitchen. (This, from the woman who put a home-baked cake in front of her children once only to hear them exclaim, "You mean you don't HAVE to buy them?")
Then it became deeper, as I reflected on how the smallest of changes can offer new possibilities. Or realized that I am more a creature of habit than I would ever have wished to admit.
And finally, during this past Easter week as I pondered events from long ago, I realized that the absence of bread had become as significant to me as its presence.
Lent did not end for me this year at sunrise on Easter morning. It came to a close during the Eucharist later that day with the pastor's words, "The bread of life - take and eat..." And I did and the circle was closed.
But in the continued interest of honesty, I should also admit that Monday morning found me at the store, feverishly stocking up on sourdough rolls...
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Reflection
In honor of National Poetry Month, I thought I'd recycle an old one of mine to which I can still relate:
Looking through the glass,
I find you backlit by the setting sun:
the far-off breeze
that gently
lifts the skirts
of willow trees
rustles pages of your
half-read book,
touches on your picnic
packed for one.
The early evening calls of
nesting birds -
the quiet murmur
from a pond;
the picture-polished
peace
tears an ache inside
and leaves no room for words.
“Mom, did you sew -?”
“Where’s my shoe?”
“Honey, I invited- ”
“Didn’t you pick up-?”
“Can you finish-?”
“Why didn’t you-?”
“I’m sorry”
“I need you”
“Hold me”
“Hear me”
“I-promised-you’d-make-two-dozen-
chocolate-chip-muffins-for-school-
tomorrow”
“I love you”
“Good-night”
You look at me and wipe a tear:
I look at you and in my
chaos, sigh.
But who is in the glass-suspended wish?
and is the Dreamer you -
or is it I?
C. Shaw copyright 2001
Looking through the glass,
I find you backlit by the setting sun:
the far-off breeze
that gently
lifts the skirts
of willow trees
rustles pages of your
half-read book,
touches on your picnic
packed for one.
The early evening calls of
nesting birds -
the quiet murmur
from a pond;
the picture-polished
peace
tears an ache inside
and leaves no room for words.
“Mom, did you sew -?”
“Where’s my shoe?”
“Honey, I invited- ”
“Didn’t you pick up-?”
“Can you finish-?”
“Why didn’t you-?”
“I’m sorry”
“I need you”
“Hold me”
“Hear me”
“I-promised-you’d-make-two-dozen-
chocolate-chip-muffins-for-school-
tomorrow”
“I love you”
“Good-night”
You look at me and wipe a tear:
I look at you and in my
chaos, sigh.
But who is in the glass-suspended wish?
and is the Dreamer you -
or is it I?
C. Shaw copyright 2001
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
How Not to Throw Stones
I appreciate opposition. This is handy, as I seem to have a knack for running into it. At its best, opposition makes us stop and think. It's good to have stones tossed, from time to time, into our streams of consciousness. Our worlds expand with their ripples.
So, in the interest of constructive stone-tossing, I decided to share what I've learned about the stones of opposition.
* Any argument based on anger or fear - or designed to spark anger or fear in someone else - is automatically suspect. Stones must be tossed gently and never thrown. At anyone.
* A certain genre of talk-show and media specializes in stirring anger and fear in their followers. This is not good stone-tossing. Fear and anger are blunt instruments, and the messy result is usually a population that is scared, mad, and sometimes out of control.
* At its best, politics is full of healthy stone-tossing. When done properly, the tug-of-war between right and left, conservative and liberal, provides us all with stability and momentum. History always tips toward change: to think that a mere hundred years ago, women's suffrage was considered a shockingly liberal idea. This tension caused by the flow of history should probably inspire a lame analogy involving rolling stones and moss, but one eludes me at the moment.
Note: We have heard it said that "if a man is not a liberal at 20, he has no heart and if he is not a conservative at 30, he has no brain." The quote varies with each repetition, but the original came from François Guizot (1787-1874), not Winston Churchill as some believe. Since Mr. Guizot was also known for seeking to ban political meetings and limiting suffrage to propertied men only, this is rather an odd stone to throw.
* Stones should be used as building blocks, not for stoning. Unfortunately - thanks in part to pundits, chain emails and questionable websites - we are in danger of forgetting how to toss stones constructively in this country. Anything that can be spun, is. If there is a fear that can possibly be sparked, the fires are lit. And the idea that two people can love the same country, want the best for it, and yet see things differently, is being eroded.
If I were wiser and more insightful, I might find a cure for this pervasive ill. But a Jewish carpenter soon facing death already did that. As he sat in the temple court one fine afternoon, the mob of well-dressed, upstanding citizens found their way to him. "Teacher," they said, throwing a woman to the ground before him, "she was caught in adultery. The law says we should stone her. Whaddaya say?" And Jesus didn't argue with the hatred and fear behind their broken theology. He just quietly plunked a little stone into the stream of their angry consciousness: "OK," he said, "but first pitch goes to the guy who's never done anything wrong himself." Most of us know the rest of the story.
And so, it seems, the true secret to handling the stones of opposition is not mine: it lies in the mercy with which we make our toss. Anything less will leave us angry, confused, and on the rocks.
So, in the interest of constructive stone-tossing, I decided to share what I've learned about the stones of opposition.
* Any argument based on anger or fear - or designed to spark anger or fear in someone else - is automatically suspect. Stones must be tossed gently and never thrown. At anyone.
* A certain genre of talk-show and media specializes in stirring anger and fear in their followers. This is not good stone-tossing. Fear and anger are blunt instruments, and the messy result is usually a population that is scared, mad, and sometimes out of control.
* At its best, politics is full of healthy stone-tossing. When done properly, the tug-of-war between right and left, conservative and liberal, provides us all with stability and momentum. History always tips toward change: to think that a mere hundred years ago, women's suffrage was considered a shockingly liberal idea. This tension caused by the flow of history should probably inspire a lame analogy involving rolling stones and moss, but one eludes me at the moment.
Note: We have heard it said that "if a man is not a liberal at 20, he has no heart and if he is not a conservative at 30, he has no brain." The quote varies with each repetition, but the original came from François Guizot (1787-1874), not Winston Churchill as some believe. Since Mr. Guizot was also known for seeking to ban political meetings and limiting suffrage to propertied men only, this is rather an odd stone to throw.
* Stones should be used as building blocks, not for stoning. Unfortunately - thanks in part to pundits, chain emails and questionable websites - we are in danger of forgetting how to toss stones constructively in this country. Anything that can be spun, is. If there is a fear that can possibly be sparked, the fires are lit. And the idea that two people can love the same country, want the best for it, and yet see things differently, is being eroded.
If I were wiser and more insightful, I might find a cure for this pervasive ill. But a Jewish carpenter soon facing death already did that. As he sat in the temple court one fine afternoon, the mob of well-dressed, upstanding citizens found their way to him. "Teacher," they said, throwing a woman to the ground before him, "she was caught in adultery. The law says we should stone her. Whaddaya say?" And Jesus didn't argue with the hatred and fear behind their broken theology. He just quietly plunked a little stone into the stream of their angry consciousness: "OK," he said, "but first pitch goes to the guy who's never done anything wrong himself." Most of us know the rest of the story.
And so, it seems, the true secret to handling the stones of opposition is not mine: it lies in the mercy with which we make our toss. Anything less will leave us angry, confused, and on the rocks.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
Of Bread and Temptation
It's been a surprise, this business of going without bread. I had no idea how far its yeasty little tentacles reached.
My pantry has suffered. I have nothing on which to put my peanut butter. The honey has been relegated to saving space on the shelf. And that's just the start.
My friends are getting dirty looks from restaurant staff. The other night, my friend Arline and I went out to eat. When the server brought the bread, Arline immediately reached out and pulled the basket out of my reach. As the wave of shock and disapproval crossed the server's face, we both jumped to explain that it was Lent, I had given up bread, and Arline was just removing temptation.
It's affecting my kid-time. My youngest son stopped by last week and went into the kitchen to make a sandwich to eat while we visited. There was meat and cheese - but no bread. He left to get some supper elsewhere, taking our visit with him.
Goofy Pooch usually has her medicine tucked into a bit of bread each night. Turns out, doggy biscuits aren't so good at absorbing liquid medicine.
I had dinner with my parents on Friday night. Do you know how hard it is to pass up a piece of fresh, warm cornbread on a chilly evening?
There's a whole aisle at the grocery store I don't go down now; I've had to change my route.
This seemingly endless ripple-effect caused by no bread casts a new light for me on the description of Jesus as the "bread of life". Not just a most basic food; not just the comfort of warmth and fragrance: but a part of all those other, simple areas of life we never really consciously think about.
And even after Lent is over, and I can go back to enjoying bread, there's one more thing I've learned this season: it's a true friend who will pull temptation out of your reach.
My pantry has suffered. I have nothing on which to put my peanut butter. The honey has been relegated to saving space on the shelf. And that's just the start.
My friends are getting dirty looks from restaurant staff. The other night, my friend Arline and I went out to eat. When the server brought the bread, Arline immediately reached out and pulled the basket out of my reach. As the wave of shock and disapproval crossed the server's face, we both jumped to explain that it was Lent, I had given up bread, and Arline was just removing temptation.
It's affecting my kid-time. My youngest son stopped by last week and went into the kitchen to make a sandwich to eat while we visited. There was meat and cheese - but no bread. He left to get some supper elsewhere, taking our visit with him.
Goofy Pooch usually has her medicine tucked into a bit of bread each night. Turns out, doggy biscuits aren't so good at absorbing liquid medicine.
I had dinner with my parents on Friday night. Do you know how hard it is to pass up a piece of fresh, warm cornbread on a chilly evening?
There's a whole aisle at the grocery store I don't go down now; I've had to change my route.
This seemingly endless ripple-effect caused by no bread casts a new light for me on the description of Jesus as the "bread of life". Not just a most basic food; not just the comfort of warmth and fragrance: but a part of all those other, simple areas of life we never really consciously think about.
And even after Lent is over, and I can go back to enjoying bread, there's one more thing I've learned this season: it's a true friend who will pull temptation out of your reach.
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Misfiring
One of my favorite quotes is from Julian of Norwich, who said, "All will be well - every manner of thing will be well." Sometimes, though, "things" in my life seems to misfire. Like when I get to court and realize that my socks don't match. Or make a special trip to the office supply store to buy an ink cartridge and get all the way back home before realizing it's the wrong one.
The other day, I was on the phone with my middle son; daylight was quickly dwindling, my ancient pooch desperately wanted her walk, and I decided I could surely do both activities at the same time. Getting the leash on one-handed was a little difficult, but I managed. Once Goofy Pooch was out, I stepped one foot back into the house to close the door. The leash and telephone in one hand, I reached for the door with the other - and my foot began to slip on the runner in the entrance hall.
What my inner logic was for not letting go of the leash or phone, I don't know. In semi-slow-motion, I saw myself sink into modified splits before toppling backward and crashing to the floor. There was a loud "thunk!" as the bottom of my pelvic bone came into hard contact with the hall tile.
Not surprisingly, I yelled. My son, hearing only "Ahh!" and "Ohh!" began yelling, "Mom! Mom!" Goofy Pooch tugged at the leash (still in my hand) and shot me looks that accused me of sprawling in the doorway for recreational purposes. It was a brief and completely undignified bedlam.
Another misfire later that week was less painful. I have a well-earned reputation for being punctuality-challenged, and have been trying to correct that persistent flaw. So when a good client sent me on assignment to a law office, I carefully calculated my time to allow for the construction traffic on my route and left the house with plenty of time.
What I had forgotten about were the school zones. Traffic slowed to an agonizing crawl. When the clock on the dashboard reached 1:55, I called the client and babbled an apology, explaining that I was only 10 minutes away. The project manager assured me that all was well. Nine minutes later, I pulled into the parking lot, dashed upstairs to the office, and practically dove through the door, apologizing for being a few minutes late. The friendly young receptionist told me to have a seat, and insisted that all was well. The attorney who had asked for me stuck his head out into the waiting room and said that no one else had arrived yet and to relax - all was well. And then it hit me: my appointment wasn't for 2:00. It was for 2:30. I was 25 minutes early. I had yet again failed in my efforts at punctuality, but this time on the upside.
And while this kind of winning misfire would normally tempt me to sit on my laurels, I had to pass. I was still sitting on ice packs.
The other day, I was on the phone with my middle son; daylight was quickly dwindling, my ancient pooch desperately wanted her walk, and I decided I could surely do both activities at the same time. Getting the leash on one-handed was a little difficult, but I managed. Once Goofy Pooch was out, I stepped one foot back into the house to close the door. The leash and telephone in one hand, I reached for the door with the other - and my foot began to slip on the runner in the entrance hall.
What my inner logic was for not letting go of the leash or phone, I don't know. In semi-slow-motion, I saw myself sink into modified splits before toppling backward and crashing to the floor. There was a loud "thunk!" as the bottom of my pelvic bone came into hard contact with the hall tile.
Not surprisingly, I yelled. My son, hearing only "Ahh!" and "Ohh!" began yelling, "Mom! Mom!" Goofy Pooch tugged at the leash (still in my hand) and shot me looks that accused me of sprawling in the doorway for recreational purposes. It was a brief and completely undignified bedlam.
Another misfire later that week was less painful. I have a well-earned reputation for being punctuality-challenged, and have been trying to correct that persistent flaw. So when a good client sent me on assignment to a law office, I carefully calculated my time to allow for the construction traffic on my route and left the house with plenty of time.
What I had forgotten about were the school zones. Traffic slowed to an agonizing crawl. When the clock on the dashboard reached 1:55, I called the client and babbled an apology, explaining that I was only 10 minutes away. The project manager assured me that all was well. Nine minutes later, I pulled into the parking lot, dashed upstairs to the office, and practically dove through the door, apologizing for being a few minutes late. The friendly young receptionist told me to have a seat, and insisted that all was well. The attorney who had asked for me stuck his head out into the waiting room and said that no one else had arrived yet and to relax - all was well. And then it hit me: my appointment wasn't for 2:00. It was for 2:30. I was 25 minutes early. I had yet again failed in my efforts at punctuality, but this time on the upside.
And while this kind of winning misfire would normally tempt me to sit on my laurels, I had to pass. I was still sitting on ice packs.
Saturday, February 20, 2010
Happily Ever After
Once upon a time, in a kingdom not so far away, there was a woman. Just a regular woman, like you might pass in the grocery store or run into at PTA. (Except that she was never good about going to PTA.) Still, what matters to the story is that there was this ordinary woman, and she believed in True Love and Dreams and Walks in the Rain. So she walked in the rain with her little boys, and dreamed of her True Love but she always woke up before she could reach out and touch him. And that's how she thought life should be. She was just an ordinary woman, after all.
Then, one day, a man rode into her life. He wasn't a prince and he didn't have a white horse; he had a black and red pickup. (Black body, red hood, long story.) He was a middle-aged man with a crooked grin and calloused hands from years of playing bass guitar. The moment she saw him, the woman fell in love.
They were married and added to each other's world sons, daughters-in-law, granddaughters and dogs. The man brought her roses and sang to her and rubbed her shoulders when she got tired. He learned to cook her favorite foods. She learned to pronounce things in his native Texas accent just to hear him laugh.
But you know that part in the stories about riding off into the sunset? They don't mention that sometimes only one of you does. One February 20, the man crossed into the sunset, and for a moment the whole universe stopped.
This ordinary woman still finds comfort in the rain. Sometimes the man walks through her dreams and when she wakes up, she remembers what it was like to hold him. And she found out that it isn't about how long you have Happily Ever After for. It's that you have it at all.
Then, one day, a man rode into her life. He wasn't a prince and he didn't have a white horse; he had a black and red pickup. (Black body, red hood, long story.) He was a middle-aged man with a crooked grin and calloused hands from years of playing bass guitar. The moment she saw him, the woman fell in love.
They were married and added to each other's world sons, daughters-in-law, granddaughters and dogs. The man brought her roses and sang to her and rubbed her shoulders when she got tired. He learned to cook her favorite foods. She learned to pronounce things in his native Texas accent just to hear him laugh.
But you know that part in the stories about riding off into the sunset? They don't mention that sometimes only one of you does. One February 20, the man crossed into the sunset, and for a moment the whole universe stopped.
This ordinary woman still finds comfort in the rain. Sometimes the man walks through her dreams and when she wakes up, she remembers what it was like to hold him. And she found out that it isn't about how long you have Happily Ever After for. It's that you have it at all.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Fresh Bread and Lent
I love bread. One of my earliest memories is of Mom letting us kids take turns "punching" the rising dough, then breaking off a piece so that we could each make our own bread. Sometimes my siblings and I would take some raisins, stuff them inside a blob of bread dough, and slide a (clean) stick through the top of the blob. We called these creations "wasp nests". I guess that's to be expected for kids who grew up in the jungle.
After we moved out of the jungle and into town, Mom would give me money to run out and meet the bread man as he walked the neighborhood pushing his cart. I loved hearing the bells on the cart handles ring but when he took the lid off the breadbox - that was magic. The smell of freshly baked buns and rolls would envelope me as I leaned over to point out what we wanted.
I also love Lent. By the simple act of stepping outside our comfort zones, we create room for discovery. I think of the historical period of Lent, when Jesus was inexorably moving toward Jerusalem and his followers could tell that something amazing was going to happen. The politically-minded among them might have been itching for Jesus' rebellion against Rome. Those more theologically inclined might have planned flyers for the Big Temple Revival.
Whatever their expectations, Jesus stepped outside their comfort zone. No rebellion, no takeover of the temple. In fact, none of the familiar trappings that they had grown up expecting from the Messiah.
He took them down a completely different road, one of loss and redemption. He shook the foundation of their world and changed the shape of ours.
So this Lenten season, I've decided to give up bread. Not because of the traditional symbolisms it holds of life, sustenance, or abundance. I'm giving it up because it has always been a normal, comfortable part of my life, and for these next few weeks it's time to step out of my comfort zone and walk a road of discovery.
I'm just hoping that the road doesn't lead me past bread carts with bells or wasp nests stuffed with raisins.
After we moved out of the jungle and into town, Mom would give me money to run out and meet the bread man as he walked the neighborhood pushing his cart. I loved hearing the bells on the cart handles ring but when he took the lid off the breadbox - that was magic. The smell of freshly baked buns and rolls would envelope me as I leaned over to point out what we wanted.
I also love Lent. By the simple act of stepping outside our comfort zones, we create room for discovery. I think of the historical period of Lent, when Jesus was inexorably moving toward Jerusalem and his followers could tell that something amazing was going to happen. The politically-minded among them might have been itching for Jesus' rebellion against Rome. Those more theologically inclined might have planned flyers for the Big Temple Revival.
Whatever their expectations, Jesus stepped outside their comfort zone. No rebellion, no takeover of the temple. In fact, none of the familiar trappings that they had grown up expecting from the Messiah.
He took them down a completely different road, one of loss and redemption. He shook the foundation of their world and changed the shape of ours.
So this Lenten season, I've decided to give up bread. Not because of the traditional symbolisms it holds of life, sustenance, or abundance. I'm giving it up because it has always been a normal, comfortable part of my life, and for these next few weeks it's time to step out of my comfort zone and walk a road of discovery.
I'm just hoping that the road doesn't lead me past bread carts with bells or wasp nests stuffed with raisins.
Friday, January 29, 2010
Aging vs. Getting older
I don't follow sports much, but the headline caught my eye anyway: "Aging Action Star Seeks Kickboxing Match". This was followed by the opening line that began "49-year-old Jean-Claude Van Damme..."
That the star in question was Van Damme did not surprise me. But that he (and therefore I) was considered at 49 to be "aging" was a little shock. I know I'm getting older: my joints don't always cooperate, I suspect that my current hair color is more salt than pepper, and every so often it strikes me that the person I just thought of as a "kid" is 30 years old.
But aging?
Then again, when cheese is old, I don't throw it out; when cheese is aged, I pay three times more for it. When wood is old, it becomes firewood. When it is aged, it ends up on the Antiques Road Show.
There is a richness about being aged that speaks of depth in our life experience. It hints that the passage of years has produced in us a rare spirit instead of vinegar. The word "aged" sparks images of wisdom, wealth of character, what in Spanish we might call "perfeccionamiento": attaining a more perfect condition.
My mother still plays the piano despite her nearly 80 years and arthritic fingers. My mother-in-law, who turns 86 this year, writes a weekly column for her local newspaper. My octogenarian father has circled the world and has a host of stories to share. A colleague, who is approaching his 65th wedding anniversary, is at the top of his professional game. Their years are etched in their bodies and engraved on their souls and they have aged with character.
I never really thought much about aging. My granddaughters have assured me that I won't be old until I'm 75. Until then, I'm just "getting older". Now, it feels perhaps appropriate to get up and and write to Steve Colfield, the blogger who wrote that headline, and tell him I have decided to skip getting older altogether, and just become gracefully aged. But my knees pop when I get up and it scares the dog.
Maybe instead I can just sit back, embrace aging and let it turn me into a character.
That the star in question was Van Damme did not surprise me. But that he (and therefore I) was considered at 49 to be "aging" was a little shock. I know I'm getting older: my joints don't always cooperate, I suspect that my current hair color is more salt than pepper, and every so often it strikes me that the person I just thought of as a "kid" is 30 years old.
But aging?
Then again, when cheese is old, I don't throw it out; when cheese is aged, I pay three times more for it. When wood is old, it becomes firewood. When it is aged, it ends up on the Antiques Road Show.
There is a richness about being aged that speaks of depth in our life experience. It hints that the passage of years has produced in us a rare spirit instead of vinegar. The word "aged" sparks images of wisdom, wealth of character, what in Spanish we might call "perfeccionamiento": attaining a more perfect condition.
My mother still plays the piano despite her nearly 80 years and arthritic fingers. My mother-in-law, who turns 86 this year, writes a weekly column for her local newspaper. My octogenarian father has circled the world and has a host of stories to share. A colleague, who is approaching his 65th wedding anniversary, is at the top of his professional game. Their years are etched in their bodies and engraved on their souls and they have aged with character.
I never really thought much about aging. My granddaughters have assured me that I won't be old until I'm 75. Until then, I'm just "getting older". Now, it feels perhaps appropriate to get up and and write to Steve Colfield, the blogger who wrote that headline, and tell him I have decided to skip getting older altogether, and just become gracefully aged. But my knees pop when I get up and it scares the dog.
Maybe instead I can just sit back, embrace aging and let it turn me into a character.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Waddling through life
Goofy Pooch and I took our usual 2-block waddle this evening. She's old, arthritic, and easily distracted, and basically just meanders beside the sidewalk while I try to keep her moving with encouraging little comments like, "You already sniffed that", and "Watch out for the...never mind".
Goofy Pooch is also the most friendly, eccentric dog I've ever met. She has been known to carry a pet rabbit around in her mouth, which was almost as funny as later watching the rabbit try to get the dog slobber off its fur. The only time she ever harmed another animal was when she tried to carry one of the boys' hamsters around in her mouth as well. The poor little thing died of fright. GP was horrified and a little afraid of hamsters after that.
Tonight, on our waddle down to the pond and back, we met our across-the-alley neighbor and her rescued puppy. The puppy is a mastiff mix of some sort and stands a couple of inches taller than my geriatric dog. GP and the puppy circled each other, sniffing and exchanging other doggy pleasantries. All of a sudden, the younger dog - being an unfixed male - decided to get a little too friendly. In one fluid movement, my senior canine's hackles raised, she snarled ferociously and she sat down on my feet.
The overgrown puppy backed off, confused. After a moment, Goofy Pooch gave him a gentle little "woof". When it was clear he was going to behave, she left the comfort of my feet and resumed doggy-talk. All was well.
As we continued our waddle home, I found myself thinking about the wisdom in that exchange. No grudges, no lectures. An unequivocal response when boundaries were crossed, followed by full restoration of friendship with no strings attached.
When I grow up, I think I'd like to be more like my Goofy Pooch, waddling through life so willing to believe in redemptive grace.
Goofy Pooch is also the most friendly, eccentric dog I've ever met. She has been known to carry a pet rabbit around in her mouth, which was almost as funny as later watching the rabbit try to get the dog slobber off its fur. The only time she ever harmed another animal was when she tried to carry one of the boys' hamsters around in her mouth as well. The poor little thing died of fright. GP was horrified and a little afraid of hamsters after that.
Tonight, on our waddle down to the pond and back, we met our across-the-alley neighbor and her rescued puppy. The puppy is a mastiff mix of some sort and stands a couple of inches taller than my geriatric dog. GP and the puppy circled each other, sniffing and exchanging other doggy pleasantries. All of a sudden, the younger dog - being an unfixed male - decided to get a little too friendly. In one fluid movement, my senior canine's hackles raised, she snarled ferociously and she sat down on my feet.
The overgrown puppy backed off, confused. After a moment, Goofy Pooch gave him a gentle little "woof". When it was clear he was going to behave, she left the comfort of my feet and resumed doggy-talk. All was well.
As we continued our waddle home, I found myself thinking about the wisdom in that exchange. No grudges, no lectures. An unequivocal response when boundaries were crossed, followed by full restoration of friendship with no strings attached.
When I grow up, I think I'd like to be more like my Goofy Pooch, waddling through life so willing to believe in redemptive grace.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Press 1 for English
I've lost track of the number of emails that have come through my inbox complaining about "Press 1 for English, press 2 for Spanish..." As the voice for some of those "press Spanish" commands, I keep a stiff upper lip and try not to take it personally.
Alright, I've never even been tempted to take it personally. But the complaints do make me wonder sometimes. The degree of anxiety expressed is unmistakable.
Under our commercial system, it makes sense for businesses to invest time and money in attracting the broadest range of clientele. That includes clientele who might be more comfortable in another language. I doubt those who complain are really suggesting that we limit free enterprise.
Our government applies to many people whose native tongue is not English, but who have every legal right to be in this country: people like the Navajo (who got here long before most of us) or residents of Puerto Rico, or new citizens who may speak enough English to pass a test but not enough to understand the latest new, improved and simplified instructions from the IRS. Surely, no one upset over "press 1 for English" really wants to limit access to our government.
So, what then? Could it be that the anger behind the negative emails is something else entirely? Something to do with language and its connection to identity. Something that's less about immigration and more about a sense of acceptance or rejection?
As a kid growing up in South America, I knew a large number of expatriates from different walks of life. This was sometimes embarrassing. There were foreigners (including Americans), who lived among Spanish-speakers for years - and could do little more than buy their groceries in Spanish. To my local friends, it was cause for a philosophical shrug of the shoulders. Linked to these people by our common status as foreigners, I was outraged by their perceived rejection of my second country.
And then I moved to the United States.
To my surprise, nothing really changed. Nothing except that English was now the language not learned. And the offenders were not educated, or wealthy or well-traveled individuals. They were often uneducated immigrants from Third World countries around the globe.
Something changed in me, too. Linked to these immigrants by our common status as "people who grew up elsewhere," I responded with a level of sympathy that was lacking before.
By nature, I am analytical. Lacking something (or someone) else to analyze, I'm perfectly happy to dissect my own behavior. So, I did. Why the sympathy for non-English speakers in my first country, and irritation with non-Spanish speakers in my second country?
Perhaps it was because here in the USA, the response was indignation rather than a philosophical shrug. It was outrage at a perceived rejection.
Maybe it was because, unlike the foreigners in my second country, so many of the immigrants to the USA had left their home countries in order to survive, or see their children have a little better life.
Or maybe it was because the immigrants I saw here seemed to be so afraid of losing themselves in the process.
Just as, perhaps, those who came to live in my second country also feared losing themselves.
And maybe, perhaps, some of the people writing angry "English-only" emails are afraid of losing what is familiar to them as the world shifts to allow more languages on the telephone.
Despite now being filled with retroactive and apologetic sympathy toward those who mortified me as a youth, I still think that resenting a business for trying to expand its customer appeal is a waste of energy and email bandwidth. After all, if you were a business owner, and your market share would grow if you offered "press 3 for Pig Latin", ouldn'tway ouyay aye-tray itay?
Alright, I've never even been tempted to take it personally. But the complaints do make me wonder sometimes. The degree of anxiety expressed is unmistakable.
Under our commercial system, it makes sense for businesses to invest time and money in attracting the broadest range of clientele. That includes clientele who might be more comfortable in another language. I doubt those who complain are really suggesting that we limit free enterprise.
Our government applies to many people whose native tongue is not English, but who have every legal right to be in this country: people like the Navajo (who got here long before most of us) or residents of Puerto Rico, or new citizens who may speak enough English to pass a test but not enough to understand the latest new, improved and simplified instructions from the IRS. Surely, no one upset over "press 1 for English" really wants to limit access to our government.
So, what then? Could it be that the anger behind the negative emails is something else entirely? Something to do with language and its connection to identity. Something that's less about immigration and more about a sense of acceptance or rejection?
As a kid growing up in South America, I knew a large number of expatriates from different walks of life. This was sometimes embarrassing. There were foreigners (including Americans), who lived among Spanish-speakers for years - and could do little more than buy their groceries in Spanish. To my local friends, it was cause for a philosophical shrug of the shoulders. Linked to these people by our common status as foreigners, I was outraged by their perceived rejection of my second country.
And then I moved to the United States.
To my surprise, nothing really changed. Nothing except that English was now the language not learned. And the offenders were not educated, or wealthy or well-traveled individuals. They were often uneducated immigrants from Third World countries around the globe.
Something changed in me, too. Linked to these immigrants by our common status as "people who grew up elsewhere," I responded with a level of sympathy that was lacking before.
By nature, I am analytical. Lacking something (or someone) else to analyze, I'm perfectly happy to dissect my own behavior. So, I did. Why the sympathy for non-English speakers in my first country, and irritation with non-Spanish speakers in my second country?
Perhaps it was because here in the USA, the response was indignation rather than a philosophical shrug. It was outrage at a perceived rejection.
Maybe it was because, unlike the foreigners in my second country, so many of the immigrants to the USA had left their home countries in order to survive, or see their children have a little better life.
Or maybe it was because the immigrants I saw here seemed to be so afraid of losing themselves in the process.
Just as, perhaps, those who came to live in my second country also feared losing themselves.
And maybe, perhaps, some of the people writing angry "English-only" emails are afraid of losing what is familiar to them as the world shifts to allow more languages on the telephone.
Despite now being filled with retroactive and apologetic sympathy toward those who mortified me as a youth, I still think that resenting a business for trying to expand its customer appeal is a waste of energy and email bandwidth. After all, if you were a business owner, and your market share would grow if you offered "press 3 for Pig Latin", ouldn'tway ouyay aye-tray itay?
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