Gardening Arizona Style

We have never lived in the desert and have never been much in the way of gardeners.  

Even though we have a big yard (for us!) we have little intention of taking up gardening.  We have an irrigation system that is all electronic and sophisticated and a guy who checks up on it.  We have a lot of fancy plants that we know nothing about.  Our gardening boils down to writing checks and appreciating.

The irrigation system is underground, but it is also basically just fragile rubber hoses that are no match for the Phoenix heat in the summer. So, with some regularity, those hoses melt.  And when they do, they spring leaks, resulting in parabolas of water spraying all over the place - and with some force, I might add!  Over the weekend, we managed to spring FOUR leaks.  

Our yard was a fountain.  Water spraying in to the neighbor's yard.  Water spraying on to the common paths and the road.  You could see this lovely display from the front OR the back yard.  We should have sold tickets.

Thankfully, the yard guy came and fixed it all this morning.  We weren't totally helpless   We had figured out how to turn the irrigation system off in order to prevent the road outside our house from turning in to a canal, but that was a very short term solution.  

I am humbled by how much help it takes to keep us going on a daily basis.  Our furniture is covered by a warranty, so we can't clean that by ourselves.  Our house is under a bug contract, so we aren't supposed to try to kill bugs by ourselves for fear of messing with the mix of the professional chemicals.  We are WAY BEYOND a little watering can and a hose to water our plants.  And we still have a cleaning lady - which is the one thing we may consider letting go of and the one I usually appreciate the most.

Except today.  Today, I am really appreciating my yard guy.  A lot. Which is as close as I am likely to get to gardening in Arizona.

For the Birds

I fancy myself a birder.  

At some point along the line I secured a great (albeit heavy) set of binoculars and a comfortable outdoor chair from Lands' End and set myself up to watch the birds.  And to be fair, there has been great intention when it relates to both the chair and the binoculars.  The chair survived any number of pre-move purges and was relocated to Arizona.  And I have carried those binoculars around my neck while hiking, tucked them in my pack while bike riding and shoved them in my carry-on while travelling.  

But those binoculars never come out.  Or if they do, I can't focus them correctly.  Or by the time I have the binoculars unpacked and the focus all set, the birds are gone.  It would seem that my interest in birding - when tested -  ends at the retail level.

But wait. 

Our new house came with a hummingbird feeder -a little red strawberry hanger all approved by the Homeowners Association and everything.  So cool.

Before my kitchen was even installed, I looked up the recipe for hummingbird nectar (4 cups water, 1 cup sugar, boil for 2 minutes) and the timeline for hummingbird feeding in Arizona (year round) and got myself all situated. Boiled the nectar, hung the feeder, looked outside.

Nothing.

I have filled that darn strawberry twice.  Have not seen one hummingbird.  

It turns out that in order to actually SEE a hummingbird, I am going to have to take the time to wait and watch - two activities that up until this point in my life have felt synonymous with "wasting time."  But you know what?  If I can report that I actually saw the miracle of a hummingbird in my own backyard, I don't think that is time wasted.  That is time spent connecting with creatures and the love that sustains them.  Not wasted time at all.
  

Calling it Home

Within the chaos,  there has been peace.

And given the amount of chaos,  even a few moments of peace amount to a miracle of sorts.

Chaos has been abundant.  Probably always is when you move.  Contractors who NEVER deliver on schedule.  Furniture on a truck stranded miles from where I think that truck should be.  Family members installing and breaking and helping.  Too many carbs.  More checks than I have written in the last ten years combined - most for lots and lots of money and others for nitpicky things like utility deposits and service initiation fees - what a racket.   New furniture that has a persistent moldy-like smell.  Figuring out how the light switches work.

New people.  A robust menstrual cycle that will not give up the ghost despite every biological certainty that I am beyond my child bearing years.  Several trips out of state coming up in the next six weeks.  Friends and family members going through some challenging things.  

But in the midst of it....   there are bunnies who play in my backyard.  There is quiet.  There are sunset swims and long bike rides.  There is yoga at 4 PM.  We have been welcomed.  Sometimes I look around and just pinch myself.  Do I really LIVE here?  

The laundry pile is getting higher and I have to go to the grocery store today, so I know that I am not on vacation from the nuts and bolts of life.  But even so,  I feel deeply at home in this landscape - both the planned and cultivated community and the rugged, untouched desert.  

I have felt at home in many landscapes.  But the quiet starkness of the desert describes who I am right now in a way that the meadows of the Midwest or the lush, green landscapes of the East coast no longer do.  The desert does not embrace - rather, it instructs.  "Look," the desert seems to say, "when all seems barren and lifeless and chaotically difficult, there is life.  Beautiful, abundant life."  

Sounds like home to me.   

A Down Day

Today feels like a "down day."

Which I find surprising.  Isn't every day here supposed to feel perfect?  A new home - big and full of possibilities; blue skies that go on forever; emerging friendships; quiet; peace.

What could POSSIBLY be downer?  

To start with, moving is disruptive.  Boxes everywhere.  I can't find anything.  The kitchen is almost - but not quite - done.  In fact, most of the house is almost but not quite set up.  But I have hit a point where I can't do too much more with it until someone else does.   So, I wait.  For counter tops to be installed.  For a furniture delivery.  For Frances to put her tools away.  

And then my daily structure is shot to hell.  What daily structure?  Without a teaching gig or other daily responsibilities, my day is kind of my own.  Kind of.  I have to work around the waiting and letting people in to do things, but for the first time in MONTHS I do have time that I can call my own.  I haven't gotten to the point that the time seems freeing - I am more at the point that the scaffolding that I had been using to give my life direction and meaning is glaringly absent.  Which, far from being freeing, is disorienting.

Too, even though I have been living around Phoenix since February, everything is new AGAIN.  We had developed routines, patterns, favorite haunts over our six months in Scottsdale.   Now, with a 45 minute drive between our new home and Scottsdale,  we are having to redevelop everything. Where is the grocery store?  Can we locate the ATM?  What about the post office?  Prior to this move, we had been living in the same place for 15 years, so two homes in six months is pushing my comfort zone.  Big time.

Like most teachers, I have LONGED for this unstructured time and new beginning, sure that I would know how to fill it.  In fact, I am finding that while I know that I want to increase the creativity in my life - I am not entirely sure how that is done.  For sure, it means less restaurant meals.  It means finishing a quilt project once I find my sewing machine.  Maybe it means making the bed.  That's it.  I'll start with making the bed.  I think I can manage that.

  

Following the Heart

One can over do thinking things through.

Ponder the possibility of this.  Consider the possibility of that.  Add up the costs and calculate the infinite ways those costs might change.  Spend a lot of time reflecting.

There will always be risks to anything.  And among the many, many things that Molly taught me was that all of the thoughtful calculations in the world can miss - probably WILL miss - the real problems that are going to emerge.  Thoughtful calculation is going to lead you to the same place every time: the anticipated action might go well, and then again, it might not.  

Frances and I are gut instinct people.  We will think things through to some extent, but our hearts are going to overrule our head almost every time.  So when we moved to this 55 Plus Community, we could have spent a weekend here to see if we really liked "the lifestyle".  But that seemed like setting ourselves up for a weekend of intense marketing.  Instead, we had lunch at the bar a few times so that we could talk with the bartenders and the folks at the bar; seemed more "real" to us.  And we felt at home pretty quickly.

We did not spend a lot of time in the desert in the summer before we moved - we just figured that it would be hot.  We had heard that it was a "dry" heat - much different than the East Coast humidity that we were used to. Basically, we chalked up heat waves to a universal truth that there is no perfect place on the planet and we would rather pay our dues with heat than with snow.  So far so good on that.

Of course, we did some rough financial calculations before the move; add the cost of the mortgage; throw some money in for Homeowners Association. pay off the cars before we moved.  After that, our sense was that the budget would all more or less even out.  A tad bit naive.  

Our first bumps in the road came with  utility bills. Mercy me.  We did not spend a lot of time researching those.  Correct that.  We spent no time researching them.  Which became obvious when I opened the first electric bill.  A little research might have been helpful in this area - we weren't even here for half the month and the bill was more than I had ever paid for any utility.  And then there was the cost of the service call to fix the air conditioner that went out somewhere between three teen aged boys in and out while we were moving in and the contractor leaving every door in the house open.  

We had signed a contract on the house before we became aware that we would need to pay for things like landscaping ($145 a month) and extermination ($50 a month) that are not regular expenses anywhere else we have lived and had not even occurred to us.  We also didn't factor in additional insurance costs - including insurance on the golf cart which is a new vehicle that we are going to have to take care of.   

I am not giving up having a cleaning lady.  So there is that, too.

The overwhelming gut instinct was to move.  Have there been surprises along the way?  Yes.  Might it have been prudent to do a bit more research?  Perhaps.   Do I have any regrets?  No.

Oprah’s Favorite Things

I’ve learned a lot from Oprah Winfrey.  I value her rock-solid belief in a bountiful universe.  I am inspired by her challenge to Live Your Best Life – and I sense that there is a divine hand in her life story.  She is the right person for a lot of people at the right time, and God is in all of that somewhere.

She is also a great gift-giver.

So this year, I entered her Favorite Things Sweepstakes Giveaway.  Every day for 12 days (think “12 Days of Christmas”) I went online and typed my entry for the chance to win over 70 gifts personally selected by Oprah and others in her network. 

 

With the best of intentions I’ve perused the gifts for weeks, sure that my sister would enjoy Cat Cora’s Ugg Slippers and my neighbor (who has four kids and no income) would enjoy the indulgence of the Egg-Shaped soaps.  Another neighbor, who is facing his first Christmas without his wife of 40 years, was going to benefit from some of the food items, and I was going to keep the bags.

I admit that I was going to keep the bags.

Is that the problem?   Is that why I didn’t win?  I was really looking forward to being the sensational giver that one simply cannot be when one is substitute teaching to supplement unemployment insurance.  I was looking forward to being able to make the grand gesture.  But I also wanted a little fun for myself.

I didn’t win.  That‘s the up and down of it, and I am oddly disappointed.  I always knew the odds were nil – surely hundreds of thousands entered.  And I am going to throw the open house anyway – it will simply be more of a potluck than an extravaganza.  No gift table required.

I don’t really believe in coincidence.  I am sure that the twelve winners are exactly who the twelve winners should have been.  I just wish that one of them could have been me.

A week after Labor Day

There is no way to stretch the summer any further than this.  It is done.  And to put a word to it, the end of summer is depressing.

At least I am thinking it’s that end of summer that has me so down today.  Maybe it is the weather, too – a week of rain will take a toll on anyone’s spirit.    Take the rain, consider the earthquake, hurricane, and flooding we’ve endured over the last couple of weeks and top it off with the 9/11 coverage; end of the world jokes don’t seem that far fetched.

And, despite the fun of being back to work, there is the predictability of it too.  And the predictable part can press ruts right down into my soul.  Routine CAN be good.  I know that.  I just have to make friends with it.

People are asking things of me. Which is great. I am happy about that. But it is tough too, because there is a piece of me that does not want to be generous. I don’t want to put myself out there, meet new people, tell and re-tell my story. Much easier to simply hang out at my own pace in my own little world.

My semester starts in a week.  And my volunteer commitments are gearing up as well.  Everything is just that tad bit out of my control, signaling that summer days are over.

I know that I say that I am trying to make the most of my days.  And for the most part I am.  Just not this one.

An Encounter

Today I was stopped and asked for directions to a path I know well but is difficult to find.  The folks were in a van – and it was full – two adults and maybe five kids.  Clearly an observantly Jewish group. 

I knew how to get where they wanted to go, but I could tell my directions were making no sense.  I was trying to direct them to a small, unmarked path between two houses. 

So I suggested that they just let me in their car so that I could direct them.  No skin off my nose – it was the direction I was going and I enjoy the random encounter.   And no security risk for me either.  Please – a car full of kids?  I was fine.

It was awkward for a moment.  The man smiled and said, “Well you look like a good sort; Is this a set up or something?  Can I see what is in your purse?”  I reminded him that he had stopped me.  He was smiling the whole time, a bit uncomfortable but willing to go with it.  The ride was about 5 blocks.

I think they were all a bit relieved when I directed them to park and got out of their car.   I pointed out the path, walked away and did not look back.  As fast as we were connected, we were separated again, but I am so grateful that we all took the risk.  Beats GPS for a change.

I instinctively liked the people.  They had a great spirit about them.  I hope they had a wonderful walk.

To Those who Preside at Funerals

I am guessing, from having attended too many funerals lately (one of them today), that presiding at funerals is very, very difficult to do well.   At today's funeral, and I completely missed the point he was trying to make, the presider gave at least 5 minutes of remarks explaining that Santa Claus does not exist.  I am not kidding.

I have walked away from each recent funeral feeling like the presider completley missed the boat, offering prepared remarks that failed to capture either the essential qualities of the person who had died or the shared experience of the people assembled.

So I thought we might do a public service here and share helpful suggestions to those who preside at funerals.  If recent experience is any indicator, we can only help.   Here are some ideas to get us started.

• Admit that presiding at a funeral is a really tough gig.   It's okay to say that no matter how well planned the remarks or how practiced the solists, the service will never capture the life, the energy or the love mourners share for the person who died.
• Suggest that the funeral/gathering/memorial can be seen as a commisioning service of sorts.  Point out that those who survive are the ones to hold the life, the memory and the love of the person who died and that they hold that responsibility for the the rest of their lives.  Ask folks to think back on one way they want to live out their loved one's legacy.
• Remember the wide range of religious views present in many groups of mourners and make every attempt to respectfully welcome and make comfortable those of various faiths.
• Remind the mourners that, though they may not know each other, they all share a common bond in that they had a relationship with the person who died.   Note that the bonds that unite us one to another are infinite and eternal even when they are not obvious. 
• Comfort the immediate family but not too personally.  This is not the time to have an intimate conversation, for example, about how tough it will be to grow up without a dad (Yes, I have seen that too).

Those are my thoughts.  What are yours?

A Nature Hike

Molly’s friends were mature and generous with us after Molly died – and so were their parents.

One of those parents died yesterday. 

This is the third death to touch my life in the last six weeks and I am once again brought up short.  Experience doesn’t make it any easier to find the right words to say or the right gesture to put out there.  I find myself awed in the wake of mourning.

I have experienced mourning as sobbing…  as pain…  as confusion and loss.  But I have also, and this summer is one of those times, experienced mourning as inspiration.  I see – I know – that a devastating diagnosis can come at any time; I want to be assured that I have lived out my opportunities when my physical or mental capabilities wane.

So, yesterday, a really challenging hike.  A hike in honor of my friend who died.  A hike over rocks that were here thousands of years before we were born and will be there thousands of years after we are gone.  A hike to revel in the creativity of whoever it is that sustains us and a hike to be reminded that while nature does not promise safety, she ultimately does offer comfort.  

 

Nature will not blink at our death or our injury.  She has seen death before and she is big enough – vast enough – to hold it. 

A Quiet Spell

Quiet.   NOTHING happening.  After a summer of travel, engagement, family, learning and adventure my calendar is empty for the next two weeks. 

In theory this is a good thing.  Theoretically, I can exercise, eat well, clean, meditate, read, paint, catch up with friends.  I am doing some of all of that, and feel the better for it. 

But without the plane to catch or the guest to entertain or the hostess to be just that much more pleasant for, my first thoughts of the day are not a joyous exclamation of “This is the the day the Lord has made, let us rejoice and be glad in it.”  No, my thoughts go more along the lines of, “How in the hell do I fill this day?”  Turns out that even with plenty of interests, days can be very long.

Mourning creeps in to these quiet days.  Self blame hides in the corners.  To some extent, I can welcome them – the self-pity, the blame the loss.  They are welcome to visit – but they cannot stay.

And that’s the challenge, isn’t it?   Having opened the door for overwhelming sadness and confusion – who require no invitation -  how do I gracefully suggest that they move on? 

My plan for today?  A visit to our local thrift store, a run and maybe I’ll try a new recipe tonight.  Tomorrow, I am hiking with some neighbors.    And that’s as far as I have it planned – because as challenging as quiet spell is, I sense that there are gifts here for me that I don’t want to squander in meaningless scheduling.

Bring on the quiet.  I am ready.

Visiting The Beach

Frances and I had some gas in the car and a place to stay, so we drove to the beach for the weekend. 

The beach holds fond memories for us.  We would spend weeks there with friends when Molly was in preschool.   We know where the grocery store is, have a favorite place to buy caramel corn, and prefer a particular beach-front shop for coffee in the morning.  It is familiar.

Returning to familiar places is tricky.  There – right there – is the playground Molly used to play on.  Remember how she dominated on the monkey bars?  And gee, those steps?  Didn’t we take a picture of all the kids wearing their tye dyed t-shirts sitting on those steps?  I sure hope the owners got the dye off the driveway;  I don’t think we managed to clean all of it up.

But that nostalgia for time gone by was part of the deal from the beginning.  Our remembrances are tinged with a particular loss, but all of the parents from those trips taken 15 years ago are experiencing waves of nostalgia.   That period of our lives is over; none of our children are still playing on the monkey bars. 

Frances and I had a good time.  We toasted each other and time gone by.  There was comfort in the familiar and while I won’t say that we necessarily felt Molly’s presence, we knew she had been there and been happy.  And that was enough.

Musings on Prince Chalres

I am part of the Prince Charles Generation.  Do you know what I mean? 

The Queen has been reigning FOREVER, and shows no sign of giving up her job.  And at the same time, there is worldwide excitement about William and Catherine; if their recent North American trip is any indicator – and I think it is – the young couple have become hugely popular on the international stage. 

And then there is Charles.  With his son well positioned to become King and his mother doing just fine as Queen, thank you very much,  Charles has, in the hearts of many, been passed over.

Many of us have been passed over.  Our bosses won’t quit and the youngsters coming on board with their high-tech skills and their multi-cultural comfort are becoming the go-to people. 

As a card-holding member of Generation Charles I am perfectly happy to let the young folks do their thing (as if anyone could stop them anyway).   Let the under 40s  black-tie dinner attend, red carpet romp and fund raiser support. 

Looking at my own life, I know I need to step into a new type of leadership: a leadership defined by influence rather than position.  Influence, which is ours for the taking,  flows from relationships, character and attitude.  This summer I have been thinking about cultivating a leadership of influence this way:

• Appearance still matters.  Beauty queen looks are not required, but a healthy, groomed appearance and stylish, well fitting clothes go a long way toward enhancing influence.  (Hence, I am overdoing the exercise and can hardly move.)
• Zest plus wisdom is the winning combination:  Maybe its karaoke, perhaps skydiving, or even trying a new recipe based on a vegetable we’ve never heard of.  Influence is sustained by daring to be adventurous and young at heart,  while at the same time trusting the lessons inherent in our own life experience.   (I can report that I tried league Badminton for the first time this week!).
• Young people are cool.  From travelling with undergraduates in Paris to keeping up with my daughter’s friends, I can attest to the fact that the current generation of young people is fun to be around and doesn’t really see age.  They have been raised with so much diversity that age alone does not really phase them.   Stoginess phases them; age, not so much.   (To stay current with my nephew I wrote him a note today.  With a stamp and everything.  The young matter.)

Looking ahead, the face of leadership is going to be younger than we are, but the power behind the leader is likely to be from the Charles Generation.  We won’t be mentoring the younger folks as much as we’ll be working with them and offering guidance and support when it is requested.   We’ll have huge influence and we will know it.    (See Charles, Prince of Wales)

Summer Vacation

I am really and truly unemployed for the summer.  No substitute teaching calls, no consulting gig and no school either. 

No excuses.

This week, I have felt unduly compelled to clean out kitchen cabinets, run a 5K, lift weights, shop at a farmers market (eat local!), hang out at the pool (vitamin D!) and read the Oprah Magazine (twice!).

This time off is hard-won and much appreciated.  I don’t want to squander it.

And more importantly,  I want to prove to myself that I can do this.  I have always used the excuse of my work/parenting schedule to explain why I haven’t eaten thoughtfully, exercised regularly, or made the most of myself. 

Excuses gone. 

It’s either live this summer to the max, or come to terms with the fact that I am a lazy slob!

Mourning with tears… and laughter

I may lose my readers over this one, but I am just going to spit it out and invite you to comment if you disagree.  We can disagree, can’t we?

I have attended two funerals this week and over the last two years I have done a lot of thinking about how I want to respond to the challenge that death brings to those left behind.  I know that I can't cry endlessly and continually relive these death experiences and call that living.

To be harshly realistic,  the death of a loved one is a commonplace event.  It happens every day in any number of ways to an endless variety of people.  Death does not seek us out uniquely; rather, death seeks us out universally.  No matter what PR firms may say in pharmaceutical ads, the human death rate is 100%. 

Whatever else the experience is, the loss of someone through death is  a call to live more fully and more boldly than we have ever lived before.   The experience essentially demands transformation.

Don’t get me wrong.   Death is sad and tragic and life-altering for those left behind.  We need to mourn.  But mourning is best described, I think, as the work it takes to build a new life.  Some of that work is tears.  Some of that work – a good deal of it, in fact – is laughter.

Upon Return

“I shall die, but that is all that I shall do for death”

Edna St. Vincent Milay

I am back from Paris, and I will share a bit about that soon, but I returned to two deaths and I need to explore those experiences first.

Frances’s uncle died while I was on the plane home from France.  John’s death, at 55, has been anticipated for at least a year and the fact that he never actually died made it seem like he would live forever.  Less than a month ago he was on an Alaskan cruise with his wife.  10 days ago he took his son fishing. 

Every death envelops me in Molly’s death, and her death taught me that the only way to mourn is to live.  John died in California and it was not even a question that Frances and I would be part of the gathering: his life was remembered by a large family telling stories, hanging out in the pool, eating plenty of Mexican food and drinking plenty of wine.  Even as we mourned John, we instinctively celebrated life – his and our own. 

An hour after our return from California, there was a knock on the door that a neighbor had just died at home. 11 PM.  Dark.  She had been recently diagnosed with an aggressive cancer and I don’t think death took her by surprise.  It was a small and intimate gathering around Cathy’s body as her husband prayed for her and waited for the funeral home to come.  Someone put a flower in Cathy’s hand.  Her husband lit a candle.

I suppose God was in the room with us.  Cathy was not.  She was still warm, but gone and not lingering.  Naked but for a towel over her body. Peaceful but not sleeping.  Dead.

I tend to experience death as spiritual transition; Cathy taught me that before it can be a spiritual reality, death is a physical experience.  But that physical experience is relatively short: the body was removed; the pictures came out; the stories were told.  Life was, and continues to be, celebrated.

So my entire being is full of death and its challenge to live boldly and with passion.   Since death will ultimately take us all, there is not much point in giving it more than its brief moment of physical victory.  I shall die, but that is all that I shall do for death.

Weddings

This past week was dedicated to the Royal Wedding.  My mom and my sister travelled here from Chicago and New York respectively and I hosted a three day event – which nearly as I can tell is 2 days longer than the royals themselves celebrated.   

The weekend was a nod to the past: I remember Mom waking my sister and me up to watch Princess Anne’s wedding on the old black and white TV in the early 1970s.  For the occasion, Mom made crumpets using cleaned out tuna cans as a mold.  We had quite the British morning and as food and entertainment at our house went, the whole event was a triumph that is remembered to this day.

As I was getting up at 4 AM to make the tea and watch William and Kate and all of the falderal, I missed Molly, of course.  I couldn’t help but wish that she was there to add the depth of another generation to the experience of this royal wedding.  

And yet, I know that I have to consciously step away from over-emphasizing Molly’s death.   While her death may in many ways be the defining experience of my life,  she would most likely not be living at home,  even if she were alive.  The wedding may not have been on her radar screen.  She would have been busy with school or a job or whatever 19 year olds are doing these days. 

So the challenge is to let the past be the past.   The past does not have a fast forward button; there is no way to count on or measure “what might have been.”    

William and Kate’s wedding was well observed at out house with tea and scones and lemon cake.  There was laughter and snarky commenting and a certain amount of vigorous conversation over which station we would commit to for the ceremony.

And Molly’s absence – while felt -  did not fill the room.  My sister, my mother and I filled the room and somehow, I know, Molly was present.

The Closing of the Pub

The local pub closed this week. 

We were regulars.   Nobody would recommend this, but we  relied on the place, the people - and yes, the alcohol to some extent - as we became increasingly involved with Molly's doctors, therapist, medicines and hospital visits.   It was completely incomprehensible that our our smart, talented, beautiful daughter who had never had a bad grade in her life could be spiraling into a mental illness with the potential to kill her.  The pub, at least, we understood.

It fancied itself to be an Irish bar, but I've been to Ireland and this was definitely an American bar.   Sports on the big screen TV.  Plenty of room for the pool table and the darts board.  Codeword BIG - big servings of fish and chips, big drinks, big space.  But within that BIG was an intimacy that you could tap into, and once you did, the place became home.  Your drink would be poured before you even sat down.

It's the place we retreated to after hospital visits and associated (required) family therapy. 

I was not then and am not now a big fan of therapy, so I am not an ideal participant in required sessions.  But I tried.    One hospital session brought together me, Frances, Molly, Molly's therapist and a hospital social worker who never saw Molly before or after that session.  Molly was nervous.  Frances and I were too.   Frances and I did not want this to be true; I guess Molly knew it was.  The hospital social worker's standard of success seemed to be that we all weren't throwing chairs at each other - with that as a criteria, she deemed our session a great success.  Molly's therapist, and I am guessing here, sensed the futility in the session and - ultimately - the hospitalization. 

My approach was to be as cooperative as possible so that we could "pass" hospitalization and move on with our life.  Surely this was all one massive mistake.  Molly was a very high performing patient.  She had no police background or past use of illegal substances.  She was a good student; she had never been in trouble for anything. She was respectful and well loved.  This couldn't be happening.

Perhaps because we really didn't fit the mold, the hospital social worker (was her name Betty Boop?)  was willing to follow my lead.  While there was talk of "partial" hospitalization as follow up care, it was quickly discarded as an option since Molly attended a local private boarding school.  There were no other options.  Take your daughter home and love each other.  Worked for me.  Let's get out of here.

Molly stayed a few more days, because that is how things are done,  and Frances and I headed to the pub.  The bar was almost big enough to hold our total bewilderment.  Confusion.  Pain.  Shock.

Every chapter of our life has a page lived out at the pub.  I cried at the back booth in the week before Molly's funeral when my sister was trying to bring me back to some semblance of living.  We've comforted Molly's friends over dinner and accepted condolences as the word of Molly's death spread.  And we have celebrated too - Frances had her 50th birthday party around the pool table.

The pub has been an extension of our living room.  A really important extension.  And we will miss it.



Overwhelmed

I am studying Mayan culture this semester..  The culture is beautiful, although it is very different from what I know and how I think;  it is difficult to stretch one's brain to accomodate a new way of seeing the world.  I don't really understand the class readings, but I find myself congratulating the authors for their elegant prose.  Whatever they are saying.

I am subbing as much as I can.  The consulting gig is dying but it isn't dead yet so I have to attend to it everyday.  The consulting gig won't die before a major speaking gig in March that I am not in the least bit prepared for.

My blood pressure is too high.  I am trying to exercise everyday, and I am fairly on track.  Cooking is taking on a new priority and I am becoming very well aquainted with my crop pot.

I am attending to spirtual life with some intention. 

My art projects are strewn about with little accomplished.  Yarn?  Check.   Paints?  Check.  Charcoal, ink and kneaded eraser?   You betcha.  I have got it all.   I just haven't done much with it.

Lunch dates are set and happily anticipated.

Frances and I are travelling this weekend and hosting guests next weekend. 

And I wonder if maybe I am moving in too many directions.  The pace is fine, but perhaps I am too scattered.   It's as if I think there is a new skill or a new habit that is going to infuse my life with deep and abiding peace.   

In my brain I don't really think that peace is found in self made distractions.  But evidently my heart still needs some diversion. 

Blood Work

Please look me in the eye before removing blood from my body.

I have a health condition that has to be monitored, but impacts my daily life not at all.  So, when I go to have blood drawn I am not overly concerned.   I don't like having blood drawn - I can think of any number of  better ways to spend my time - but it is a relatively routine occurrence for me and I am not terrified about what the results will be.

For many people, though, lab tests provide life changing news: they confirm a tough diagnosis or lead to enormous relief after a long period of uncertainty.  The results lead to changes in medications and are the basis of medical decisions.   I arrive at the lab inconvenienced; others arrive terrified.

So why is going to the lab such an impersonal experience?  If your lab talks to you like a human being as oppposed to an insurance card, count your blessings.  I know it happens, but I just can't imagine what it feels like.

"Insurancecardplease.  Writeyournamedownontheformandwaitforustocallyourname." 

Maybe it was the fact that I was still fasting, but I couldn't stand it.  So I smiled at the girl, who was looking down at something much more important than me,  and said.  "Good morning.  May I please have a pen?"  The girl looked up at me. She did.  And she even smiled.   But I should not have had to shock her into taking me seriously. 

For all she knew, the results of what her company was doing today would tell me how long I could expect to live.

Of course, once we were actaully looking at each other, she gave me a urine cup to fill, and of course I had to walk across the entire waiting room with the damn thing.  I am not a prude, but architecture matters.  Everyone in the entire place did not need to know that my urine was being tested!

So I am really frustrated by the time I meet up with the woman who is going to remove the blood from my body.  I will give her this - she was very skilled at blood retrieval.   It has gone very badly for me before, so I apprecaite the skill - but she did not so much as  look at me either.   "Nameandbirthdate" was all she could muster.    So I looked at her - mostly to drive her crazy -  and said,  "Hello, my name is Kate and I was born on June 26th."   Naturally, a complete sentence shocked her out of her coma.  So she looked at me, but could not be bothered to smile.

I would have left in tears if my testing had been about a serious matter.

It seems so simple.   It is not okay to forget to look people in the eye; it is not okay to forget that everybody is fragile in some way; and it is absolutely not okay to put paperwork or convenience ahead of personal interaction.  

So there.  Thanks for listening!