Yes, another weather report. After about three says of snow, we have a sunny, but below freezing day. The key word is sunny--so walking to coffee today, even the trees were elated that they could do some photosynthesis, and began throwing snowballs on the mall strollers below them. Gleeful trees--one aimed for me just as I walked under it and it landed with a tremendous plop, turning me into a thinly constructed snowoman. I could hear a faint chucking from deep inside the pith.
We continue to struggle with the prodigal and had an agonizing weekend when we said NO to his late night plea to spend the night with us--it was a driving snow. Yet, he managed, still resisting the shelter, still resisting the help there for him, still wanting to be taken care of by his parents--almost 38 years old. So he slept in a 7-11 and rode the light rail and was dog-tired, but he coped, and we hope that if the choice is between that and the shelter, he'll find that place for a shower and a hot meal, a locker and a bed, and, actually, some dignity.
We begin the 2nd week of Lent--and the mindfulness that goes with it--fasting, prayer, almsgiving. I am fasting, consciously under-eating, dedicated to more writing, meditative, and planning the Lenten series. But I'm not off to a good start, lacking the discipline when my well-being is so disturbed by the worry and anger with the prodigal--and, really, a concern that he will not survive, that, after so long and so much trouble, he simply will not survive--that when all is stripped away except the love of his parent, he won't recognize that as love, but will remain furious with us for not taking care of him--physically taking care of him, which, truly, is our only function in his life.
Is it possible to go a day, just one day without talking about him, being angry with him, not sleeping because of him, being frustrated by him. Agony in the garden indeed. Take this cup, indeed. How do we move from "Take the cup" to "thy will be done, with only a comma for punctuation. A comma of all things. What resides in those spaces before and after? Some great gift, some power, call it the Holy Spirit, that allows us to move forward in true obedience, in spite of the cup's not being lifted. How can we find that gift?
Is it through healing services? Healing and Taize and prayer and hope. How did that happen so quickly with Jesus in the garden--or did it?
Monday, February 22, 2010
Monday, February 15, 2010
Sunny, Cold Morning with Niko
So why am I measuring out these mornings with reference to the weather? Because we haven't had a break in cold--no January thaw--no "midwinter spring" being "its own season." But, really, I've always checked the temp. to see how cold or hot I should feel. But that's not the whole story, really. The whole story is my skin sensitivity to the slightest change in terms of heat, but not of cold. Now what is that about? I keep a cold house--or, rather, a cool house. Doug will often try to surreptitiously punch the thermostat up a degree--one degree, mind you, or not turn it all the way down to 58 or 60 for the night (we do have a down quilt, after all). But that change can send me straight out of a sound sleep into a pouring sweat and a real mental, physical discomfort, as if I'd suddenly been transported to a sauna against my will or as if I was a lizard left writhing in a heat that I couldn't escape, such as happened to my own lizard when I left him in the window sill and went away for the day--third grade.
That lizard was my pal, and I proudly wore him on a little piece of chain pinned to my blouse. Daddy bought him for me when we were at the circus. I loved it when I was "wearing" him and he would suddenly move and people would say, "Is that a real lizard?" And I would proudly nod. But he wasn't just a showcase. He was my pal, as I've said, and I took careful care of him--giving him his lizard food and water--and placing him in the window, between the screen and the window, then shutting the window, so he could have his "freedom. I had all sorts of twigs and leaves in that window for him.
But the one time I was gone all day and the only time I'd left him there all day--I didn't know about the sun shifting--and lizards of course are cold-blooded and need sun, but they themselves seek the shade in the desert, and this one had not shade to seek.
I am often, more times than not, very hard on my mother. Neglectful. Should not have had children. Vain. Male-identified. So here's what that "terrible" mother did:
When I came in the house, she met me at the door to say that the lizard was dead. she was near tears herself. And then she told me that she had done everything she could to revive him. She had taken into the bathroom sink, and bathed him softly with cool water. But that did not work. I can still picture my mother there, in the bathroom, her curly auburn hair with sweat ringlets--this was, after all Corpus Christi in the summer and air conditioning only a far-off dream--her bee's kiss lips a bright red, her flawless skin, trying to revive my little lizard, heartbroken that she couldn't.
Sobbing and gulping, I told her that "the first person I want to see when I get to heaven is my lizard." (No question in my own mind that I would be going to heaven--no question about the lizard either), but my so-called terrible mother nodded in sympathy. That not being her theology, she nodded anyway.
It was a grand funeral. pink satin in a jewel box, tiny white flowers, singing and making the sign of the cross we buried him under the Kumquat tree. And dug him up the next day to see if he was a skeleton yet.
We have long left the cafe, where Niko and I began talking as the woman behind her slumped over in her chair sound asleep, no doubt, with the aid of drug. Bright red strands of hair over darker ones, a red hat on, she slumped over as her friends, finished with their game of checkers, left. When she woke up, alone, she got up and put on hat and gloves, walked outside, sat down on a park bench, slumped over, and fell sound asleep again in the warm sunlight on a cold day, as shoppers and hikers passed by with their paper coffee cups, wide awake.
That lizard was my pal, and I proudly wore him on a little piece of chain pinned to my blouse. Daddy bought him for me when we were at the circus. I loved it when I was "wearing" him and he would suddenly move and people would say, "Is that a real lizard?" And I would proudly nod. But he wasn't just a showcase. He was my pal, as I've said, and I took careful care of him--giving him his lizard food and water--and placing him in the window, between the screen and the window, then shutting the window, so he could have his "freedom. I had all sorts of twigs and leaves in that window for him.
But the one time I was gone all day and the only time I'd left him there all day--I didn't know about the sun shifting--and lizards of course are cold-blooded and need sun, but they themselves seek the shade in the desert, and this one had not shade to seek.
I am often, more times than not, very hard on my mother. Neglectful. Should not have had children. Vain. Male-identified. So here's what that "terrible" mother did:
When I came in the house, she met me at the door to say that the lizard was dead. she was near tears herself. And then she told me that she had done everything she could to revive him. She had taken into the bathroom sink, and bathed him softly with cool water. But that did not work. I can still picture my mother there, in the bathroom, her curly auburn hair with sweat ringlets--this was, after all Corpus Christi in the summer and air conditioning only a far-off dream--her bee's kiss lips a bright red, her flawless skin, trying to revive my little lizard, heartbroken that she couldn't.
Sobbing and gulping, I told her that "the first person I want to see when I get to heaven is my lizard." (No question in my own mind that I would be going to heaven--no question about the lizard either), but my so-called terrible mother nodded in sympathy. That not being her theology, she nodded anyway.
It was a grand funeral. pink satin in a jewel box, tiny white flowers, singing and making the sign of the cross we buried him under the Kumquat tree. And dug him up the next day to see if he was a skeleton yet.
We have long left the cafe, where Niko and I began talking as the woman behind her slumped over in her chair sound asleep, no doubt, with the aid of drug. Bright red strands of hair over darker ones, a red hat on, she slumped over as her friends, finished with their game of checkers, left. When she woke up, alone, she got up and put on hat and gloves, walked outside, sat down on a park bench, slumped over, and fell sound asleep again in the warm sunlight on a cold day, as shoppers and hikers passed by with their paper coffee cups, wide awake.
Monday, February 8, 2010
Snowy Monday With Niko
We have not been together for a while for writing--and now don't often go to yoga. Niko's head injury (Dec 4) continues to show itself in ways that keep her from the so-called normal activity, like yoga, that she's so used to doing. Rest, careful rest. This has been such a year for falls--that I begin to think something, other than the ice and snow, is happening--a change in the gravitational field?
But today, we're in the usual cafe, looking out on bare trees, large rocks, a downtown mall, and snow gently falling. Return from the airport last night was a bit nightmare-ish, especially when the fluid for our wipers went out, and we were left having to peer under great swaths of ice and goop to see the road-or more helpfully, the tail lights of the car directly in front of us. It was one of those snows that was slushy and wet, the kind where, when you turn on the bright lights, you're blinded by the flakes coming out you like some shower of fireworks on the 4th of July.
Lovely--a message from granddaughter Brett just popped up--so many people complain about all these modern ways of messaging and what it's doing to the language, blah, blah, blah--but when your granddaughter IM's you, saying that she has been tovisit her cousin Eric in Chicago, and if we still had only telephones, really only land lines, we wouldn't be talking --the expense, the difficulty with long distance. Measure that against the uplifted heart when I get a quick message from the granddaughter.
I told her that I'm still dancing, which I am--and should be back in jazz classes either this week or the next--adding that to NIA and Latin. The body moves, continues to move, and even gets looser. Love it. Love to dance.
I've just finished a book, "The Anatomy of Hope," and will write about it here. I'm also reading Marylynn Robinson's Home, started only last night, but already drawn into the narrative that provides another pov from the novel Gilead. How is it that so many years passed between Housekeeping and these later novels? I want to know what that's about. Home is a retelling of the Prodigal Son parable--couldn't be more timely.
And now mt friend Julie has sent me a message about harps and healing, with a link to them. Something she heard about on NPR--
But today, we're in the usual cafe, looking out on bare trees, large rocks, a downtown mall, and snow gently falling. Return from the airport last night was a bit nightmare-ish, especially when the fluid for our wipers went out, and we were left having to peer under great swaths of ice and goop to see the road-or more helpfully, the tail lights of the car directly in front of us. It was one of those snows that was slushy and wet, the kind where, when you turn on the bright lights, you're blinded by the flakes coming out you like some shower of fireworks on the 4th of July.
Lovely--a message from granddaughter Brett just popped up--so many people complain about all these modern ways of messaging and what it's doing to the language, blah, blah, blah--but when your granddaughter IM's you, saying that she has been tovisit her cousin Eric in Chicago, and if we still had only telephones, really only land lines, we wouldn't be talking --the expense, the difficulty with long distance. Measure that against the uplifted heart when I get a quick message from the granddaughter.
I told her that I'm still dancing, which I am--and should be back in jazz classes either this week or the next--adding that to NIA and Latin. The body moves, continues to move, and even gets looser. Love it. Love to dance.
I've just finished a book, "The Anatomy of Hope," and will write about it here. I'm also reading Marylynn Robinson's Home, started only last night, but already drawn into the narrative that provides another pov from the novel Gilead. How is it that so many years passed between Housekeeping and these later novels? I want to know what that's about. Home is a retelling of the Prodigal Son parable--couldn't be more timely.
And now mt friend Julie has sent me a message about harps and healing, with a link to them. Something she heard about on NPR--
Saturday, February 6, 2010
A Weekend in Cedar City
It's a rainy night in Cedar City, but we fully expect it to turn to snow later tonight and then on into tomorrow when we leave to return to Boulder. We'll see what that little KIA we rented will act like in the snow.
We have a home here,larger and more comfortable than our Colorado one, more space--more books, more things.
We don't get here as often as we'd like--the distance is too great for a quick weekiend trip. But, being in great need of respite and a change of scene, and having some clear space in the week, we left on Thurs--so have had two full days, two half days--and some good coffee and dinner times with Julie and Danielle, Andrew and Olivia.
We come here ragged, sad, worn out, frustrated, angry, defeated and hopeful. Since mid-December, we have dealt with our son's incarceration, a sort of conclusion to a really terrible year for him, beginning last year at this time when he was arrested for drugs, assigned to Drug Court, and began a schedule designed to lift him out of whatever went so wrong and get him back on track. But for some reason, that was only the beginning--4 more incidents in 2009, the last one resulting in the lockup. We would not post bond. He was furious, begging, apologetic, resolved to change his life after having time to think, and on. We stood firm. Thinking he was getting out of one jail two weeks ago, he was surprised that there was a bench warrant out for him in another country, so he was merely transferred from one facility to another. But is out now until he returns in 2 weeks for a revocation of probation hearing, which means we'll be there, too.
What are the hopes for a 37-year-old man to turn his life around? To say that he does not want to live this way any more? They are dim, but they are not extinguished. His father, who raised him from the time he was a small boy, has come to learn the hard way the difference between enabling and helping out. But that's a very complex issue--and still absolves the son for his own responsibility for his actions, in a way. The problems with and of this son have been the greatest threat and challenge to our almost 20-year marriage. But now I see his broken-hearted father--how he has aged over these confrontations, the son demanding, pleading, begging for money to get out. the firm "no." Watching him walk into the courtroom, shackled and in handcuffs, having lost the false bravado with which he usually faces the world.
We have not heard from him since he got out. Nary a phone call.
Tomorrow we go to our church here, see old friends, celebrate, and then head back.
I am dancing still--having added "Latin Blaze" to my NIA classes and soon to resume jazz. I wonder how, if I could introduce liturgical dance into St. Aidan's? Our Taize healing service in Jan. was lovely. Prayer stations carefully draped in rich blues, reds, yellows; icons and pillows; candles; and a healing litany read while people moved from one prayer station to the next. Beautiful Taize music. We need to help people understand that healing is in the Episcopal tradition--to help them to seek out a healing service like this one.
We have a home here,larger and more comfortable than our Colorado one, more space--more books, more things.
We don't get here as often as we'd like--the distance is too great for a quick weekiend trip. But, being in great need of respite and a change of scene, and having some clear space in the week, we left on Thurs--so have had two full days, two half days--and some good coffee and dinner times with Julie and Danielle, Andrew and Olivia.
We come here ragged, sad, worn out, frustrated, angry, defeated and hopeful. Since mid-December, we have dealt with our son's incarceration, a sort of conclusion to a really terrible year for him, beginning last year at this time when he was arrested for drugs, assigned to Drug Court, and began a schedule designed to lift him out of whatever went so wrong and get him back on track. But for some reason, that was only the beginning--4 more incidents in 2009, the last one resulting in the lockup. We would not post bond. He was furious, begging, apologetic, resolved to change his life after having time to think, and on. We stood firm. Thinking he was getting out of one jail two weeks ago, he was surprised that there was a bench warrant out for him in another country, so he was merely transferred from one facility to another. But is out now until he returns in 2 weeks for a revocation of probation hearing, which means we'll be there, too.
What are the hopes for a 37-year-old man to turn his life around? To say that he does not want to live this way any more? They are dim, but they are not extinguished. His father, who raised him from the time he was a small boy, has come to learn the hard way the difference between enabling and helping out. But that's a very complex issue--and still absolves the son for his own responsibility for his actions, in a way. The problems with and of this son have been the greatest threat and challenge to our almost 20-year marriage. But now I see his broken-hearted father--how he has aged over these confrontations, the son demanding, pleading, begging for money to get out. the firm "no." Watching him walk into the courtroom, shackled and in handcuffs, having lost the false bravado with which he usually faces the world.
We have not heard from him since he got out. Nary a phone call.
Tomorrow we go to our church here, see old friends, celebrate, and then head back.
I am dancing still--having added "Latin Blaze" to my NIA classes and soon to resume jazz. I wonder how, if I could introduce liturgical dance into St. Aidan's? Our Taize healing service in Jan. was lovely. Prayer stations carefully draped in rich blues, reds, yellows; icons and pillows; candles; and a healing litany read while people moved from one prayer station to the next. Beautiful Taize music. We need to help people understand that healing is in the Episcopal tradition--to help them to seek out a healing service like this one.
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