What Goes Around, Comes Around

Image: Petr Kratchovil

For reasons which elude me, I found myself walking to the bus stop, thinking of an encounter I had on the East Side, in another lifetime.

Okay, it was THIS lifetime. But so long ago that it hardly FEELS as though it were the same lifetime. And I don't know what made me think of it . . . maybe the woman who pulled up next to me at the corner, muttering under her breath.

What I remembered was waiting outside a friend's apartment on the Upper East Side, "guarding" the car while he ran in to pick up clean underwear or fried chicken or a red beret or Dan Post boots or some something . . . I don't really remember what.

What I DO remember is that a man who bore a striking resemblance to a curly-headed Woody Allen came over to the car and began screaming at me. I mean SCREAMING. Move the car I was blocking the whole road (I wasn't) and who did I think I was and people like me were the trouble with the world today and . . . oh my goodness, my mother told me never to use those words!!

And I laughed. His reaction was SO over the top and his face was so red and his hair so unruly that it was really hard to take him seriously. My laughter probably didn't help the situation . . . but in between guffaws I did try to calm him down but to no avail.

If memory serves, my friend came down, loaded his gear in the car and we pulled out . . . leaving our Woody Allen-esque nemesis with his trench coat flapping in the wind as he ran down the street after us, shaking his fist.

It was quite a scene. Not the sort of thing one forgets easily.

And so, several months later . . . perhaps even so much as a year later . . . when I saw this same man at the bus stop in my Washington Heights neighborhood, I was wary. . . braced for almost anything. Except what actually happened.

What happened was that this man struck up a perfectly pleasant conversation with me that day. And the day after that. And then again, the day after that. Our schedules merged frequently, and we would ride downtown together, often chatting the entire way. He told me how much he enjoyed speaking with me and what a pleasure I was . . . how commuting with me always brightened his day. A kind of friendship blossomed . . . he would tell me of his frustrations with his ailing mother and her oversized apartment, and of his devotion to his stubborn but steadfast lover. He gave me recipes and restaurant tips and always was eager to discuss theatre and film and literature with me.

And never, not once, did he seem to recognize me from our earlier encounter.

His mother became very ill and he began to commute downtown less often. My father also was ill and I went to Virginia to be with him, and with my mother. Soon after my return from that trip, I left the neighborhood and my newfound friend and I lost touch with one another.

For me, the lesson of our encounter was three-fold. First, a reminder of what J.M. Barrie said about always being a little kinder than necessary. And second, a reminder not to judge people based on one episode of bad behavior. His behavior that first day suggested a nasty, bitter person. But our subsequent conversations revealed a man who was vulnerable and sad about losing his mother and a little lonely besides. Which brings me to the third and most valuable lesson: The things that other people say or do to us almost always have almost nothing to do with us and, instead, have almost everything to do with them.

I'm not advocating screaming at the top of one's lungs at strangers, mind you . . . just saying that if it happens to you, you don't have to yell back. (Of course, I know some of you will anyway!)

Hoping for Brighter Days

Photo: Petr Kratchovil

I am recuperating from one of those flu virus that leaves you with absolutely nothing in your system, clinging to the mattress and praying for death to come quickly. And I'm sure there is a more clever, and funnier way to say that . . . but I just don't have the energy to find it, so this pedestrian version will have to do.

Anyway, I'm left with a bad case of the post-flu blues that not even the lovely spring weather seems able to penetrate. I'm pretty sure at some point food will look appealing again and I'll have the energy to walk farther than a block and a half without wanting to rest . . . but not today.

So I leave you with these beautiful spring blooms, and hope you all are feeling better than I am.

When Irish Eyes Are Smiling

Faith and begorrah! 'Tis a grand day to be Irish!

And I think the belief is that everyone is Irish today . . . at least that's the way I heard it. And, being a European mongrel (with a healthy dose of Native American, too, thank you very much), I do have a little Irish blood in me.

But today's post is dedicated to my MOST Irish friend, Lisa. If memory serves, Lisa was the first in her family to marry someone who wasn't Irish. And then she converted from Catholicism to the Lutheran faith. Oh!! The horror!! The shockwaves!! The wailing and gnashing of teeth!

Somehow the family seems to have adjusted. Probably, in no small part, because Lisa is such a delightful and loving human being. She also makes a homemade version of Irish Cream that we laughingly call "Heelan Health Shake." Trust me. Bailey's Irish Cream tastes like Milk of Magnesia compared to Lisa's homemade version. I'm not saying this has anything to do with her family's forgiveness . . . but it couldn't hurt her case, that's for sure!!

Happy St. Patrick's Day, Lisa!! I miss you even more than I miss Heelan Health Shake, your Irish soda bread and your sparkling Irish eyes!

For Biggie

Photo: Robert Kraft

The son of two people who are dear to me lost their youngest son (of two) on Monday night. To a heroin overdose. This alone is a staggering loss. But every loss connects us to the losses that preceded it and, about 18 months ago, they lost their eldest son (of two) to a rare and gruesome disease, that took him by degrees. They watched him die. And they have watched Biggie struggle, in a different way perhaps, but one every bit as painful to witness and endure. Maybe even more so. To say they have had more than their share would be a gross understatement. They are walking, quite literally, through the valley of the shadow of death.

To all the kind and generous souls who read my blog I say, please send your prayers out for Gene and Eleanore and for all those who loved Biggie. May they be surrounded by angels. May they be comforted. And may they forgive themselves for any shortcomings, real or imagined, that may haunt them in the wake of Biggie's death. We always think we should have said more, or done more, or been more. But, as Alice Siebold put it so succinctly in her book Lucky, the truth is that nobody can save anybody else: you save yourself or you remain unsaved. She isn't talking about God here . . . she means mere mortals like us. And when someone dies under such tragic circumstances, it's best to turn the matter over to God rather than try to micromanage it after the fact.

And please pray for Biggie, too. Life was so painful for him. May death bring him the peace he never found here.

Hearts in Winter

Photo: Bill Walker

I don’t know how Albert Camus felt about plums and plum blossoms, but I think of them every time I see his quote: “In the depth of winter I finally learned there was within me an invincible summer.” Why? Because long ago I read that in Japan, the plum tree stands for courage because it dares to bloom while the snow is still on the ground.

Camus and the Japanese are saying the same thing, really. It’s damn hard to force yourself to blossom and remember the ripe, juicy fruitfulness you have to offer the world when your heart and soul feel like a frozen wasteland, incapable of supporting any life, especially your own.

Most of us know what it is to love someone who doesn’t love us the way we wish he or she loved us. We know what it is to feel like our heart, our lungs and all our vital organs are being removed with a spoon. To grieve so deeply that our teeth literally ache and the metallic taste in our mouth will not go to way. We know what it is to try to eat while thinking of our beloved and find that food mysteriously turns to ash, so bitter we can scarcely swallow. Most of us know what it is to feel this way.

The curse and the blessing of surviving Heart Hell are one and the same: It will not kill you. It will (to borrow a friend’s colorful phrase) feel like a splintered Stradivarius is being pulled through your chest cavity. It will hurt so badly you may pray for death, may wish for death, may even do something foolish and self-destructive to meet with death. But in and of itself, it is unlikely to kill you outright. That's the good news. And the bad.

There are any number of ways to navigate Heart Hell. But no matter the route you take, the three things I suggest you take on the journey are as follows:

1) First, remember what the Buddhists say: Pain is inevitable; suffering is optional. Decide not to suffer. When nearly all that’s left of a relationship is the pain, make like Winston Churchill who said, “If you’re going through hell, KEEP GOING.”

2) I think this one is essential: Be willing to love yourself and be true to yourself. By all means, assuming the person who broke your heart is just another human being stumbling through as best as he or she can [as opposed to being, say, a psychotic sociopath], then think of him or her with compassion. But love yourself with even more compassion. Even more fiercely.

3) Lean on your friends. I once believed that if you knew who you were and what you were worth, no one could f*** with you much. After a bout of Heart Hell that almost killed me, I learned that there are times that you forget who you are. Forget what you’re worth. But your true friends will be there to remind you. They will feed you; they will cry with you; they will laugh with you. In short, they will love you through it if you let them. Please let them. When they tell you how wonderful you are, listen. When they tell you that the man/woman/hermaphrodite/eunuch who could have had you and let you walk away (or worse, pushed you away) is an idiot who never deserved you in the first place, believe them. You are far too emotionally involved to see things rationally and there’s a very good chance that when you ARE rational again, you will concede that they are right and you are wrong. So save some time and believe them now.

Walking through Heart Hell without becoming bitter and twisted is remarkable. Coming out of it with more compassion and more understanding and more humility than you had before is, quite possibly, one of the most courageous, most difficult things you will ever do. And if you manage to put forth blossoms while the snow is still on the ground, to remember that the heat and juicy sweetness of summer still live in your heart . . . then these plum blossoms are for you.

Just Do It

Photo: Josie Holland

I've been enjoying my cousin Jonathan's blog, Igni, for a few months now. Part of my pleasure in reading it is getting a window into his world. But also, I appreciate the content itself because it is thoughtful and well-written.

I was especially moved by a post entitled, Of Diet Pepsi and Church Growth. Although I read the post more than a month ago, I find my thoughts keep drifting back to it.

I encourage you to follow the links and read and explore for yourself but, statistically speaking, I also know this to be unlikely. So I'll hit the high points here . . . which will have the added benefit of reinforcing the lessons for me. Jonathan is talking about building congregations, but that shouldn't be off-putting. You don't have to building a congregation to apply the core lesson here . . . it's enough to be trying to build a meaningful life . . . and hopefully, we're all working to do that.

Jonathan writes of volunteering with a local homeless shelter. (He's in Colorado.) The man giving him his orientation, chatted with him a bit about the history of the program. The group organizing the shelter "would find a church that had been experiencing some financial difficulty and had some space to spare. Then they would rent that space out, which would benefit the church and allow them to keep the doors open and their ministries going."

And here is the part that has stayed with me lo these many weeks:

"...after about a year or two of operating the shelter, [the group] wound up having to find a new church host, because the church would invariably grow and need its facilities back. They would be very apologetic, but they found themselves busting at the seams and could no longer host the ministry and no longer needed the rent and could not build more space. In these cases we're talking about a church that was struggling with typically about 40 members that would grow by at least 10 times within a couple years of opening the homeless shelter. What's more, these new congregants (and conversions) weren't the same people who were beneficiaries or associates of the shelter either; they would be local people who seemed to sense that God was doing something vibrant at that church. (Emphasis mine.)

Jonathan concluded: I think people thirst for where God is really moving and active in a way that I think our popular church-growth ideas miss. Where a church becomes concerned about what God is concerned about, the Gospel is spread and God will add to their numbers. People see the Water of Life flowing freely, and where that thirst can be quenched.

There are so many lessons one could tease out of this homily. One of these is the pointed reminder that God's hands are at the ends of our arms. We are meant to build communities and to help one another. When we commit ourselves to service, He comes into our lives shines in and through us. Others are drawn to the light. Madison Avenue can take a sabbatical on this one because pyrotechnic displays aren't necessary; candles are as effective and, quite possibly, are more inviting.

Yes, I know. Much of what I say here echos what I said in Pass It On. I'm not going to apologize for that because it bears repeating. I require repetition whenever I'm trying to master a lesson. And I love that Jonathan's post illustrates this lesson so clearly. Thanks, Jonathan.