Debbie Scribble

T.S. Eliot Was Wrong

noreply@blogger.com (Deb) — Tue, 22 Sep 2009 15:56:00 +0000

According to Eliot, April was the cruelest month. For me it seems to be September. Don't get me wrong . . . there's lots of great stuff going on. And I've always loved the "back to school" feeling autumn has. I don't think it's an accident that the Jewish calendar starts its New Year in this season.

But for several years now I've struggled through autumn. My beloved died in September. I don't sit around mourning, mind you. But I still remember. "Today is the day he died. Today is the day we bought his casket. Today is the day I wrote the eulogy. Today is the day we buried him." I'm not dwelling on it or stirring an old wound. It's just there . . . it's my life. And I remember. A few years later there was 9/11. A whole new set of memories. The way the air smelled. The fear and uncertainty in those first days afterward. Training with the Red Cross so I could volunteer at Ground Zero. A few years after that, Stephanie died in September. September has not been a happy time for several years now.

But this year has been so busy with so many good things happening. This year I thought I was sailing through the season just fine. This year, I thought, was different. More about renewal than about loss. And then.

On Friday the much-loved friend of a much-loved friend committed suicide. He got up in the morning. Walked the dogs with his wife. Sorted the recycling. Fed the dogs. Kissed his wife good-bye when she left for the gym. And then he hung himself in their garage, where his wife found him when she returned from her work-out. This news flattenend me. It is so painful to lose someone we love . . . I can't even imagine finding one's beloved hanging from a beam.

My friend John lost his mother when he was five. She died of polio. He remembers her raising herself from the guerney as she was being wheeled away by the ambulance crew to look him the eye. "Remember, Johnny, " she said, "Life is for the living."

She was right, of course. And what makes life most worth living? For me it's love. It's my friends. My family. In September, more than any other time, I want to draw close to those I love. To spend time with them. To literally hold onto them and be held by them. To all of you in my circle of souls . . . you know who you are. Please know that I recognize how blessed I am to have you in my life. I say thank you. In the fierceness of September especially. Thank you.

As I Was Saying . . .

noreply@blogger.com (Deb) — Sat, 05 Sep 2009 12:38:00 +0000

The military housing was unremarkable (and, no, that is NOT an example pictured above!) but the natural beauty was so extraordinary that even the mansions of Newport would have paled by comparison. On the base, we had one unit in a four-family unit. The front door was sheltered by a portico. My friend, Matt, and his best friend – who was, inexplicably, nicknamed The Wombat – would hoist themselves up to the roof of the portico and I would let them into my room. Then we would all go out through the window and off into the night in search of adventure . . . when the MPs made their rounds, we’d dive into the nearest bushes, stifling our laughter and trying our best to be quiet. It was innocent and harmless fun. The worst thing we ever did was commandeer a neighbors Big Wheel, which Matt rode down to the railroad track . . . we carried it back unscathed.

I learned to drive in the hills surrounding the base. During World War II the base had been bigger and more active; in fact, it was here that, so there were bunkers in the hills. (We weren’t supposed to go into the bunkers because it was dangerous . . . but of course, we went anyway, in search of treasures. Most of what we uncovered just barely qualified as trash!) I once made the rookie mistake of hitting the gas instead of the brake and nearly drove the car into the three foot-deep trench around one of the bunkers. Ah, good times! My mother deserved the Medal of Valor or at least combat pay for teaching me to drive there!

Argentia, Newfoundland

noreply@blogger.com (Deb) — Fri, 04 Sep 2009 15:24:00 +0000

Argentia, Newfoundland is located on the southwest coast of Avalon Peninsula. It’s historical significance peaked during World War II. Because there was deepwater anchorage – which, among other things, meant that submarines could be used to secure the area from German U boats – a railway was already in place and the topography provided room for an airstrip, the United States established a base there. In 1941, President Franklin D. Roosevelt and Prime Minister Winston Churchill met off the coast of Argentia to create and sign the Atlantic Charter. I have a special interest in all of this because I was blessed to spend a few of my grow-up years there with my family when my father was stationed there.

When the dog days of August were upon us, I eased myself through it by thinking cool . . . I've lived in some pretty cool places . . . not just figuratively cool. Literally cool! Iceland. Alaska. Newfoundland. Anyone who knows me knows that, like my favorite flowers the violet and the lily-of-the-valley, I bloom best in cool, sun-dappled places. I wilt in direct sunlight. Fold humidity into the equation and I am -- to put it kindly -- not much fun to be around! SO. Until I learn to apparate like Dumbledore or Harry Potter, I rely on memory and imagination. And when it was STINKIN' HOT (as my friend Maggie would say!), I spent some happy time thinking of the craggy, beautiful shores of Newfoundland. It would have been nice, I know, to have had these stories up for you then BUT. It didn't happen. I hope you'll enjoy them now nevertheless. (Especially you, Annie and Denise!)

Black Ice

noreply@blogger.com (Deb) — Mon, 17 Aug 2009 12:12:00 +0000

One of the advantages of the aging process is that one does become wiser. And sometimes, this serves you. (And sometimes you find you’re not nearly so wise as you should be. It’s a crap shoot, really. But I digress…)

A few weeks ago, I was given two tickets to an AC/DC concert. I had never seen AC/DC in concert, though I used to do a brilliant and oft-requested air guitar version of You Shook Me All Night Long.

I know what you’re thinking…. Incredible! What can I tell you? I was a prodigy… it began in grade school with an elaborate pantomime I used to do to Johnny Cash’s Boy Named Sue which, for reasons I cannot explain, captured my young imagination. The biggest acting challenge came near the end of the song, when the Boy Named Sue meets his nemesis – the father who pinned this namby-pamby moniker on him before disappearing out of his life completely. In the song, they go down “kickin’ and a’gougin’ in the mud and the blood and the beer" and I always applied myself very seriously to interpreting this bar fight correctly. (Yeah. And I can’t understand why I’m not married. Geesh!)

But apparently, if the concert at Giants Stadium is any indication, mine is NOT a unique talent. It seems playing air guitar to an AC/DC anthem is a bit like being an Elvis impersonator . . . only, you know, without the white jumpsuit and hairgel. Though I will say it did seem gender specific: no women were doing this (including me, thank you very much), but men from 16 to 60 were living out their rock star dreams in public. Truth be told, it was absolutely wonderful. They were having a blast and so was I.

The friend who went with me on this adventure had never been to a rock concert. I had been to only one previously. (I saw KISS at Madison Square Garden and my ears rang for three days afterward!) Neither of us looks like your average AC/DC fan. But it turns out we fit right in. And had an absolutely rockin’ good time!

So where does middle-aged wisdom fit into this? First, before we began our trip, I stopped at Duane Reade to purchase ear plugs. As I did so, it occurred to me that I was almost out of vitamins, so I picked those up as well. This made me giggle . . . people take a lot of substances into rock concerts to enhance the experience . . . but Centrum isn’t usually on the list! (My friend Kim suggested we throw handfuls of them at the band in lieu of our underwear . . . even though the band members all are older than we are, I bet they’d still prefer the underwear, at least from a symbolic standpoint. But that’s just a hunch and we didn’t test it out one way or the other.)

Another bit of wisdom – as if the ear plugs weren’t enough! – was that we didn’t bother to arrive until 9:30 p.m. At precisely the moment we walked into the stadium, flames shot into the air from the stage, the screen above it lit up and the show began. It was as though they’d been waiting for our arrival!! No 16 year old could have been more delighted than we were at that moment! AND. When the montage of the band began? Savvy elders that we are we knew the concert was winding down and made a quick get away. We were through the Lincoln Tunnel and sharing a burger at Jackson Hole while most of our fellow concert-goers were still looking for their car keys! Or their cars, come to that. (Giants Stadium is . . ..well . . . giant!)

My adverturesome friend and I had some great times together in our Roaring 20s, as she likes to say. But our new adventures seem every bit as wonderful . . . maybe even a little better, actually, because we are a little smarter. We know now even better what we knew when we met years ago: the truth is that good friends make fthe bad times bearable and the good times better. And that holds true whether you're six or 16 or 60 or 106.

When Sorry Seems to Be the Hardest Word

noreply@blogger.com (Deb) — Sat, 15 Aug 2009 18:43:00 +0000

Image: Frits Ahlefeldt

On the list of Top 100 Movie Lines is #13 from Erich Segal’s 1970s tearjerker
Love Story:

“Love means never having to say you’re sorry.”

The line is said to Ryan O’Neal (in character) by Ali MacGraw (also in character) and then repeated by O’Neal (in character) in tribute to MacGraw’s character.

Ryan’s follow-up, in a different film (What’s Up Doc?) as a different character, to Barbra Streisand’s doe-eyed delivery of the line is done in flawless dead pan:

“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

Amen. I wouldn’t go so far as to agree with the wry and clever John Lennon who said, “Love means having to say you’re sorry every 15 minutes.” But I do think there’s a reason we teach children to say they’re sorry when they hurt someone. IT’S IMPORTANT.

Not long ago I saw a dear friend of mine. We keep in touch regularly, so it doesn’t seem like it’s been three years but, in fact, it has been. Fully three years. It was good to see him and I wished – for the thousandth time – that we could see each other more often . . . to share laughter and make new memories.

But it’s tricky this friendship . . . . it lacks the ease of most of my close friendships. We are connected in ways neither of us fully understands. We love each other. The problem is (and feel free to wince here), I fell in love with him, a fact which is, even now, more than four years after I ceased to be in love with him, a source of strain.

I speculate that he sometimes does or says asinine things because he is afraid I may still be in love with him: but any speculations about another’s heart and mind are pointless, really, no matter how close we may be or how objective we think we are. It’s a full-time job just staying on top of our own fears and foibles without trying to sort through someone else’s. And the truth is it’s such hard work to actually think through our feelings, most of us choose to do so as little and infrequently as possible.

But the strain and the distance between us make me sad. And whatever the source or cause may be for him, for me it is this: he treated me very badly. He treated me like I didn’t matter. As though I were collateral damage, not even worthy of respect. And his timing could not possibly have been worse.

The good news was that I was in love with him when I walked into his home and fell out of love before the door closed behind me the following morning. The bad news was that it left the friendship in shambles . . . that what had been constructed so carefully and with such mutual joy and wonder and affection was razed, quite literally, overnight. I was not devastated because he wasn’t in love with me. That hurts like hell and we all know it … but I’m a practical sort of woman, boa feather bra and four-inch heels notwithstanding, and Rule #1 about The One is this: He WANTS to be with YOU. If he doesn’t, then he ain’t the one and that’s the end of that. It’s not easy but it is simple.

But the betrayal of a friendship . . . that is something else again. I myself once destroyed a friendship that meant a great deal to me with clumsy, ill-timed behavior that was misinterpreted. All of us make mistakes, and sometimes colossal ones at that. So I was willing to accept that the harm was unintentional and done without malicious intent. But I was harmed just the same. And the worst part was that he has never – to this day – sincerely apologized for hurting me. And, intentionally or not, this leaves the matter open and unresolved. It lingers the way smoke lingers in fabric . . . you can’t see it but every now and then a whiff of something sharp and acrid reminds you of its presence.

He has said: “I’m sorry BUT….” Which, as everyone knows, is no apology at all because what follows BUT is a justification, the words that are somehow meant to convince you that there was no other way. Which is bullshit. Because in the first place there are ALWAYS choices. And, in the second place, to paraphrase Harry Truman, “The BUT stops here.”

BUT has no place in an apology. In an apology – a genuine apology – we shoulder the responsibility of our actions and their consequences. Here is what I wish my friend could say to me: “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I could have handled that differently. I wish I had. Please know that I will make every effort to avoid hurting you like that ever again.”

I know I am unlikely ever to hear those words. It doesn’t make me love him any less. It doesn’t change any of the things about him that are truly wonderful. And, to bring this full circle, it doesn’t change the fact that we are connected in ways neither of us fully understands. We love each other. And with that as a foundation, we’re rebuilding one block at a time. But damn it, I’d still like to hear him say it. Because the truth is: I matter. We all do. Remember that the next time it’s your turn to say you’re sorry – and feel free to remind me if ever I forget.

Sunrise

noreply@blogger.com (Deb) — Fri, 14 Aug 2009 15:13:00 +0000

Photo: Petr Kratchovil

My friend Denise is one of the most laid-back and patient people I know. So when SHE expressed her frustration at the stagnation here on Debbie Scribble, I took the point to heart. And as we subsequently went to see Julie and Julia, a movie based on a book based on a blog, the point was underscored emphatically.

There is especial irony in the fact that the entry before this hiatus was entitled “Don’t Quit!” Well, I didn’t. I haven’t. To the contrary, I’ve had so many plates spinning that I haven’t found time to post. But I promise I shall try to mend my ways because I do know how annoyed I become when my own favorite bloggers take extended breaks.

So dear ones, I’m back. Thank you for your patience. PLEASE write comments!!

Grandma's Poem

noreply@blogger.com (Deb) — Wed, 24 Jun 2009 16:19:00 +0000

Don’t Quit

Author Unknown

When things go wrong, as they sometimes will,
When the road you’re trudging seems all uphill,
When the funds are low and the debts are high,
And you want to smile, but you have to sigh,
When care is pressing you down a bit
Rest if you must, but don’t you quit.

Life is queer with its twists and its turns,
As every one of us sometimes learns,
And many a failure turns about
When he might have won, had he stuck it out.
Don’t give up though the pace seems slow,
You may succeed with another blow.

Often the goal is nearer than
It seems to a faint and faltering man.
Often the struggler has given up
When he might have captured the victor’s cup;
And he learned too late when the night slipped down,
How close he was to the golden crown.

Success is failure turned inside out;
The silver tint of the clouds of doubt,
And you never can tell how close you are;
It may be near when it seems afar.
So stick to the fight when you’re hardest hit.
It’s when things seem worst that you must not quit.

Another Word for Love

noreply@blogger.com (Deb) — Wed, 24 Jun 2009 14:48:00 +0000

Photo: Petr Kratchovil

My maternal grandmother was a wonderful woman; as was my paternal grandmother, come to that, but today I'm thinking about my mother's mother. She had a sly sense of humor that sometimes surprised those who knew her as a serious and even stern teacher. An example, you ask? Happy to oblige.

In the last weeks of her life she was sometimes too weary to speak and would communicate with gestures or nods or facial ticks. On one such occasion I asked, "Why are you making that face?"

Her voice was hoarse with illness but there was a familar twinkle in her eye when she responded, "What choice do I have? It's the face I was born with."

IDW, Grandma is synonomous with love.

Like most of us, she was full of inherent contradictions. She was every inch a lady but she could -- and often did -- bring Sunday dinner conversations to a screeching halt recounting the always horrific and frequently gory details of whatever murder or other violent crime she might have found in the day's headlines. She had a reputation as something of a pessimist who scopelocked on the negative rather than focusing on the positive.

Though I disliked her grisly stories and wish she'd taken more delight in the Sunday comics, I never found her to be negative. In fact, she was one of the most loving and positive influences in my life. She lavished her time and attention on me and my siblings and nurtured us in every conceivable way. She opened her home to our friends. She baked cakes for us. She baked cakes for her neighbors, too, to say thank you or I'm sorry for your loss or just I love you. Her dining room cabinet bore the photos of children none of us knew -- the children of some of her many students. Long after she retired, she continued to tutor and, at her funeral, many many people told those of us in her family how she had impacted their lives in the most positive way imaginable.

When I feel blue or discouraged, it usually lifts me just a little to think of her and imagine her listening to me in her patient way. She was judicious about dispensing advice, but she was a great listener. And if you tired of talking, she told great stories -- and not all of them macabre! And I also remember a poem that hung on my grandmother's refrigerator for as long as I can remember. But guess what?! You have to come back tomorrow to get it! (What?! You were coming back anyway, right? RIGHT?!)

Hey, Grandma was a lady and I learned from her what all ladies and the best of entertainers know: Always leave 'em wantin' more!

So until tomorrow, then . . .

The Bear, the Tiger and the Strawberry

noreply@blogger.com (Deb) — Fri, 12 Jun 2009 14:47:00 +0000

Photo: Petr Kratchovil

Buddhist masters give their students problems called koans. In that their purpose is to illustrate important life lessons, they are similar to Christian parables. But – and perhaps only because I was raised within a paradigm that gives me easy access to the teachings of Jesus Christ rather than those of Buddhist elders – I find koans especially difficult to unravel.

Here’s an example . . . a Buddhist holy man is being chased by a bear. In his haste to get away, he unwittingly plunges off a cliff. His descent is halted, however, by a branch growing from the cliff. Miraculously, it supports his weight. Wondering how far he is from terra firma, he looks below him. What he sees is a snarling tiger pacing to and fro, obviously waiting for lunch . . . Buddhist steak tartare. Above, the bear growls and dips his claws, trying to reach the branch and retrieve his prey from its perch.

Could things get worse? Yes. Yes, they could. (As they almost always can, so never ask this question!) The monk now notices that the branch on which he is so tenuously balanced is slowly yet surely losing its grip. His time suspended between two mortal enemies is finite. And then. He notices something beautiful. There in the soil next to the branch’s root he spies a jewel: one single, perfectly ripe, red strawberry. He reaches forward, plucks this treasure. He admires its physical dimensions; its bright color. He savors the way it feel between his thumb and finger, lifts it to his nose to inhale its scent. Then, and only then, he pops it into his mouth and rolls it gently on his tongue before, finally, biting into it and marveling as its juice washes over his taste buds. He sighs with rapture. “Ah,” he says. “Perfection!”

I’m embarrassed to admit how long I’ve struggled with this story in frustration. Well, yes, of course I get it. It’s about living in the moment. Living juicy. Blah, blah, blah. But there’s a BEAR trying to tear him apart from above and a TIGER waiting to tear him apart from below. And he’s got time to pick strawberries?! ARE YOU KIDDING ME? YOU HAVE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME. You’re not kidding me? *Sigh.* Okay, I’ll try one more time . . .

A monk is being chased by a bear . . .

The problem is that I’m an American. From my first fairy tales to the Hollywood movies I see today, I’ve been spoon-fed “happily ever after.” I like a happy ending, dammit. And I gotta tell you, things aren’t looking promising for that little bald dude in the saffron robe.

I want the monk to be a highly trained Special Forces operative, packing heat. With flawless precision, he shoots and dispatches the bear. (Yes, I DO know how hard it is to kill a bear.) But the shot causes the bear to stumble off the cliff in confusion and pain. He misses the branch bearing (no pun intended) our protagonist by inches but hey, a miss is as good as a mile. He does not, however, miss the tiger. He lands right on top of the tiger and both are dead. The monk drops safely from his perch onto a mattress of bear and tiger and, just for good measure, he takes both the skins home to adorn the monastery. Alternately, the monk unsheathes his trusty K-bar, places it between his teeth (sharp edge out, of course!), times his drop from the branch precisely and lands on the back of the tiger. This stuns the tiger for a moment . . . just long enough for the monk to slit his throat. In this scenario he gets only one rug for the hut, but it's still a pretty good deal.

Yes, yes, I know Buddhist monks won’t swat a mosquito or hurt a fly. And yes, we DO see a lot of movies here IDW. But we also know a lot of Marines. And one bad-ass Special Forces operative. Just a few of the reasons I had trouble wrapping my little Western mind around this particular message in a bottle.

And then one day. One day I had the moment of intuitive enlightment that is the purpose of the koan. For just a split second, I WAS the monk. And that juicy berry was my life. That little bald dude in the saffron robe stood in for my mortal coil, suspended between life and death. Because let’s face it: No one gets out of here alive. Knowing this as we all do, knowing the branch is tearing free and death awaits us, it takes enormous courage to reach out and pluck the berry; to let its juicy sweetness delight us in spite of everything. It takes courage. And it takes a certain measure of enlightenment.

Life is filled with microcosms of this story. Relationships end. Loved ones die. Illness strikes. A flood destroys the crops. A fire burns our home. Thieves steal what we have earned. Friends betray us. There is war and plague and pestilence. But – as my father so often sings in his deep baritone – “It’s a good life, if you don’t weaken.”

The bears and the tigers are everywhere. (And I ain’t lion!) But the berries are here, too, even where you least expect to find them. So as long as we’re perched here on this branch in the abyss . . . let’s reach for the berry. Here’s to living juicy.

Core Stability

noreply@blogger.com (Deb) — Thu, 11 Jun 2009 14:03:00 +0000

Photo: Anna Cervova

A few years ago, I spent several months in training for the Marine Corps Marathon. I logged my miles, using the 1.58 mile loop around the reservoir and the 6.1 mile loop around the whole of Central Park, as work-out staples. I joined a gym so I could use the treadmill on the days it was too hot to exercise outdoors. (Like my personal favorites, the violet and the lily of the valley, I am a shade flower that wilts easily in direct sunlight. Especially since a bad episode of sunstroke.)

There were some bumps along the way. A bad bout of bronchitis in late spring set me back almost three weeks. And life intervened once or twice with other minor problems that cost me a few more precious days. Then, my friend and training partner decided to drop out, which was discouraging. But after each set-back, I picked myself up and got back on course.

I was excited. Nervous, but excited. With the setbacks, I would just barely meet the recommended training requirements and I had wanted some wiggle room. But I believed I could do it and certainly intended to try. And then. About three weeks into August I slipped on a rain-slicked sidewalk and cracked my knee. Not hard enough to break the kneecap, but hard enough to make training nigh-unto-impossible and downright foolhardy from a medical standpoint. My knee was swollen and a gruesome shade of black-purple. And it hurt like hell.

I looked at the calendar and calculated that I could give the kneecap a full week of rest and still complete my training for the Big Day. So I did it. Rest and ice. Ice and rest. By the end of the week, the knee was turning a lovely shade of puke green and bile yellow, but the swelling was down and I could walk on it without too much discomfort. I thought I could resume training right on schedule and make it to the finish line after all. Jubilant at the thought, I went to a movie to celebrate my last night of “freedom” before resuming my last few weeks of training.

I don’t remember what film I saw that night. What I remember is that I walked out of the theatre on a clear night and somehow, incredibly, my foot found a wet bit of pavement. I slipped and fell onto the curb, with all my weight coming down on the injured knee. It hurt so badly I saw cartoon stars. I couldn’t move. I thought I might vomit. But what hurt almost as much as the physical pain was the knowledge that my Marine Corps Marathon dream had been, literally, curbed.

Stunned by the bizarre fact that I had injured myself in exactly the same way twice in the space of a week and (again literally) put myself out of the running, I e-mailed a friend. He wrote back that it sounded like a core stability issue and in his usual proactive and thoughtful way sent me an exercise product designed to address that very issue. I was dubious. I blamed it on the pretty sandals I happened to be wearing on both occasions and retired the shoes. BUT. John, you are entitled to exactly ONE “I told you so.” In fact, it now seems clear to me that you were 100% right. I’ve been concentrating on strength-training for almost a year now and I know how much stronger I am than I was. I am, in every way, more centered than I was then.

Anyone who has sat at a potter’s wheel knows how important centering is. If the clay isn’t centered perfectly, it begins to wobble. At first, it may be a subtle wavering. But in a matter of seconds, you can reach a point of no return at which it becomes necessary to smash the clay and start over again. It’s a little like that in life as well. Core stability is vital to a healthy body, and it has a metaphysical resonance as well. If we stray too far from our center – our core values – we stumble. Sometimes we even fall. At which point there’s nothing to do but pick ourselves up, dust ourselves off and do what we can to make ourselves strong enough that we won’t fall the same way again.

As for marathons? We all have them. I suspect many of us who are attracted to run the 26.2 mile versions want to do so precisely because they're so well-defined. They DO end. There IS a finish line. The challenges in our lives are not nearly so neat and tidy and sometimes it seems there is no end. But if we stay centered, if we're true to our core values, we can stay the course, regardless of what the course may be. And if -- or when -- we falter, our friends can point out the problems, offer solutions and help us if we let them.

Filling Their Shoes

noreply@blogger.com (Deb) — Thu, 04 Jun 2009 15:22:00 +0000

Illustration: Frits Ahlefedt

I am blessed to have some amazing role models in my life, past and present. IDW, there is an unfortunate tendency to lambaste myself for NOT being more like the people I love and admire, rather than using the lessons taught by their example in a way that is kinder and, ultimately, more effective. This is because I am keenly aware of my own failings and peccadillos, and tend to forget that even my nearest and dearest have feet of clay.

Even the most accomplished among us have Sailboats and Garbage Scows . . . Einstein not only couldn't spell, he was downright cruel to his first wife, if his letters are any indication . . . I once read a most unflattering article about Mother Theresa . . . it seems she could be a bit . . . well, militant is a fitting word. I have a friend who performed in a show with music written by a celebrated [still-living] composer whose hauntingly beautiful music can move audiences to tears -- and his lover, who was also in the show, was covered with bruises throughout the entire run. Come to that, I've read in biographies and articles that Martin Luther King, who touted nonviolence publically, actually hit his wife in private on more than one occasion.

The challenge always is to hold these dichotomies gently in mind, remembering that sailboats do not negate the presence of garbage scows, nor vice versa. To use the Sailboats of Others as models to improve our Sailboats of Self, and to be patient with the Garbage Scows. Especially (for most of us, anyway) our own.

Home

noreply@blogger.com (Deb) — Fri, 22 May 2009 15:06:00 +0000

Photo: Steven Long

Yesterday I wrote how much I love New York. And every word of it was true. BUT. There is one place on the planet I love more than this city. It's the little farm you see nestled on the hillside in the photo above. Home.

The land was first settled in 1832, and there never has been a time since when there were no blood relatives living there. For more than 100 years now it's been in the family name. My grandfather was born here; my father grew up here; and I spent much of my childhood here.

I've read the most important things a parent can give a child are roots and wings. My parents definitely provided both. Because my Dad spent his career in the service, I lived in far-flung places on the planet and that, I think, gave me wings. But my roots go deep into the soil of this little farm in Pennsylvania. I'm at home in the city and comfortable where ever my travels take me. But I belong to the land above as I belong nowhere else on earth.

This weekend, all my father's siblings are coming in from around the country. I expect this means a lot of cousins will be making their way in, too. And, I hope, my sister and at least one of my brothers, and some of my own little nieces and nephews as well. It will be a family-filled weekend full of hugs and stories (I hope!) and laughter and lots of good food.

Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home.

A Star-Studded Week

noreply@blogger.com (Deb) — Wed, 20 May 2009 14:56:00 +0000

Photo: Anna Cervova

If you're a regular here IDW, you probably know how much I love New York. You know the famous New Yorker cartoon? In which New York is front and center and everything else is hinterland? Like that. In spite of the dirt and the grime and the noise and the greasy multitudes, I love this city.

This week reminded me why . . .

1) On Friday, I sat in a garden and nibbled my organic salad next to David Bowie.

2) On Sunday, I went to a cozy French bistro with a friend and in strolled Keanu Reeves. (He was playing it cool, though, and didn't drop by our table to say hello. Maybe he just didn't want me to see him with that beard he's sporting and hoped I wouldn't notice. Keanu... I noticed. Everyone did. Please shave.)

3) On Monday, I went to a gala benefit concert for the 92nd Street Y and sat smack dab behind Elvis Costello. And then got to hear him perform for the first time, too. Right. I also saw and heard Dionne Warwick and every monied Jewish person on the social register, from the Bronfmans to the Tischs that night. (Though none of them sang. Which is probably a good thing.)

4) Alas! On Tuesday, my streak seems to have lapsed . . . a friend had breakfast at a table next to Brad Pitt. And then rode up in an elevator with him. *Sigh.* Truthfully, I'd trade David, Keanu, Elvis AND Dionne for Brad!!

But there's still time. And I'm still a New Yorker. Did I mention that I love this town?!

Oh, I know they're just folks, and they put their pants on one leg at a time . . . and I'm the first to be annoyed if one of them forgets that fact. (Aretha Franklin comes to mind here.) In some ways, seeing them in the flesh flesh underscores that fact. And besides, it's just fun.

One Nice Thing

noreply@blogger.com (Deb) — Tue, 12 May 2009 13:04:00 +0000

Photo: Petr Kratchovil

My friend David specializes in writing books about social innovation. He's working on a new book now but, previously, he published How to Change the World: Social Entrepreneurs and the Power of New Ideas, which features profiles of some ordinary people who have done extraordinary things, mostly through tenacity and sheer force of will. (Nelson Mandela called it "Wonderfully hopeful and enlightening ..." And I like David so much that I'm not even jealous! [okay...I admit it...I'm a little jealous... but just a little.])Before that, he wrote a book on the Grameen Bank, The Price of a Dream ... nearly 10 years before the bank and it's founder, Prof. Muhammad Yunas, were awarded a Nobel Prize for the work they do.

I've been thinking about David and his books ... and about my friend, Gordan, a Fulbright Fellow who left his comfortable life as a college professor to work with refugees in the Sudan ... and about my friend Ghia, who helped build a school for girls in Afghanistan . . . and about my friend Lisa, who quit her job and left New York City, in part so that she could devote more time to the hospital she is helping to build in Africa . . and about my friend and sister-in-law, Fifi who quit her job at a popular womens' magazine and went to India to shoot a documentary about children being sold into sexual slavery... and, in fact, about all my friends and extended family do to make the world a little better.

They all are top of mind right now as I work my way through the last few pages of The New York Time's Bestseller, Three Cups of Tea, with its detailed account of Greg Mortenson's work building non-secular schools in Pakistan and Afghanistan. The book is compelling and beautifully crafted, so I highly recommend it. But . . . as I near the end, wherein the devastating consequences of carpet bombing an area with B-52s are revealed in stark human terms . . . something very like despair wells up in me. There is so much need. So much poverty. So much pain. So much anguish and terror and cruelty. I know I'm not the only one who feels small and helpless in its shadow.

It's human to feel overwhelmed, I think. And the antidote to that feeling is simple. Prayer, obviously, to reinforce your own connection to the Divine. But also, in the words of Debbie Tenzer, "Do One Nice Thing." My father used to love to remind me, "From tiny acorns mighty oak trees grow." I've got a pocket full of acorns. How about you?

Mediocre Fred

noreply@blogger.com (Deb) — Mon, 11 May 2009 15:03:00 +0000

Image: Frits Ahlefeldt

Sigh. Once again, the elves did not write a blog post for me. SO disappointing.

Things have been busy here IDW . . . parties, parties, more parties . . . nah, not really.
More like work, work, more work . . . sigh. (Right. I know, that’s two sighs in one post and the legal limit is three.)

When I lived on the farm as a child, we had no television. (There still is no television there, thankfully.) So my cousins and siblings and I made our own entertainment. My father had an old reel to reel tape of the Smother’s Brothers that we loved and the lyrics to one of their songs, entitled Mediocre Fred, is running through my head: “Well the days went by all dull and gray/He didn’t do much and had little to say…”

I’m feeling a little like Mediocre Fred today . . . I think what they say about all work and no play may be true. Think I need a little R&R. Or maybe try what Mediocre Fred does at the end of the song: “”When the full moon rose he’d climb over the moat/Find some people sleeping and he’d bite their throats!”

Ode to Mediocre Fred as performed by The Smothers Brothers

There once was a man who was none too good
But then I'd say he was none too bad.
Times he was mighty good for a spell,
Times he'd go out and he'd raise a little hell ...
Mediocre Fred, mediocre Fred.

Fred went to work from 9 to 5,
Punched a clock to show he's alive.
Went to church every Sunday morn,
Sometimes he wondered why he was born.
Mediocre Fred, mediocre, dull Fred.

Fred went to the movies every Saturday night,
Liked TV and the western fight,
Paid his taxes most every year
And on a hot summer day, why, he drank a little beer.
Exciting mediocre Fred. Mediocre Fred.

Well the days went by all dull and gray
He didn't do much and had little say,
When the full moon rose he'd climb over the moat
Find some people sleeping and he'd bite their throats!
Mediocre Fred, mediocre, dull Fred.

(Who needs elves if you've got the Smothers Brothers?!)

Sailboats and Garbage Scows

noreply@blogger.com (Deb) — Tue, 28 Apr 2009 14:58:00 +0000

Photo: Trevor Little

This post is long, for which I apologize. I was going to post it in two segments but then realized that if I did that, the end of the story would appear first in the archives, which wouldn’t make much sense for those who were “catching up” rather than reading afresh.
So if you need to read this in two installments, I understand, but here’s the tale in its entirety.

Years ago, Sandy (my sister, to those of you new here IDW) lived in New York City. We shared an apartment and worked together and, most of the time, we got along flawlessly.

We worked on one major project for nearly five years and, especially in the final year, our hours were hideously long – sometimes we each put in 80 hours a week or more, and rarely less than 60. On one memorable occasion, we worked for 36 hours straight to put together a presentation one of our sponsors was demanding on deadline. Even at 3 in the morning, racing around the city to find a Kinkos that was open, we never once spoke harshly to one another. We pulled together and got the job done. (And kept the sponsorship, too, thank you very much.) I think our ability to work and live together impressed us both; we don’t call Sandy The Wolverine for nothing and (I’m told) I can be very bossy. (Though I maintain I am Sweet and Malleable.) (Alright! You can all just stop your snickering NOW!!)

ANYWAY. There was one memorable occasion when our patience with one another wore a little thin. One night, after one of our 12 hour days, we were heading home. It was late and we were both too exhausted to brave the simmering heat of the subway, so we hopped in a cab. We sat side by side, too tired even to chat. But at Riverside Drive near 125th Street, I looked out at the Hudson at a sight so spectacular that I simply had to share it. With the setting sun and the Jersey shoreline as its backdrop, a lone sailboat with rainbow colored sails moved with stately elegance. The view was so picture-postcard perfect that it took my breath away.

“Sandy!” I exclaimed. “Look at that!”

The Wolverine flicked her eyes toward the river, then rolled them slightly and dismissively away.

I found this odd and decided to try again.

“Sandy? Do you see that?! Isn’t it beautiful?!’

“Beautiful?” she snorted. “Right.”

Now I was annoyed. It was one thing to be exhausted from working too hard. But surely the sight of that boat against the setting sun was refreshing! How dare she dismiss it! My Big Sister Ire began to bubble toward the surface.

“Sandra Ellen! Are you telling me you can’t appreciate that gorgeous view?!”

“Gorgeous view!! What ARE you talking about?!”

She glared at me. I glared back.

“That!! The sailboat out there!! Don’t you think that sailboat is beautiful!”

“SAILBOAT?” she looked at me in disbelief and with a level of disdain we commonly reserve for those we love who are, unfortunately, also certifiably insane. “Are you seriously referring to that garbage scow as a SAILBOAT?”

It was hot. We were both exhausted. To our credit, our nostrils flared, our lips flattened into lines of disgust and our eyes locked, but neither of us made a move to strangle the other. Not that we weren’t considering it. I thought there was no way in hell she should dismiss such beauty out of hand, no matter how tired she was! She thought that even for her airy-fairy Pollyanna sister, calling a garbage scow a beautiful sight was going a bit far. The air was thick with tension as we both considered throttling the other for her lack of vision.

And then. The cab rounded a slight bend in the road and the view opened up. We began to laugh. Because now we could clearly see there were TWO boats on the Hudson that evening, sailing side by side. One was a pristine white sailboat with rainbow colored sails. The other was a squat, ugly garbage scow with scabs of rust clinging to its battered hull.

I often think of that evening. The incident underscored for me an important life lesson: Two people can be traveling side by side. They can be headed toward the same destination. They can looking at the same situation or scene and see things that are completely different. And they can both be 100% right about what they see.

The lesson is that even when we disagree with what someone else sees in a situation, we need to listen respectfully. We need to keep moving forward and wait. Because there’s a good chance that they are every bit as “right” as we are. When we’ve traveled farther and our point of view broadens, we may be able to see what they see, and vice versa.

I’ve been amazed at how well this homily has served me and with the nearly universal breadth of its application. It applies to our inner lives (we all have sailboats and garbage scows on our Rivers of Self; the challenge is to lead with the sailboats), relationships, politics, even disputes about religion.

F. Scott Fitzgerald once noted that, “The test of a first-rate intelligence is the ability to hold two opposed ideas in mind at the same time and still retain the ability to function.” When you remember that the river contains sailboats AND garbage scows and that the fact you can only see one of them isn’t evidentiary proof the other isn’t there, you’re half-way there.

Tiny Dancers

noreply@blogger.com (Deb) — Wed, 22 Apr 2009 15:45:00 +0000

Photo: Mommy Sandy

In a less-than-subtle e-mail, my friend Annie informed me that the Breadcrumbs were getting stale and would I please get something new up NOW, please?

Sorry Annie. In a conciliatory gesture (and maybe to distract her and buy myself a little time?), I offered her a tidbit of information: The average person takes 2000 steps to cover a mile of terrain. Am I a good friend, or what?! (Hey. She actually had asked me. We were talking about pedometers.)

But that was not what she was seeking. So today’s post is written with Annie in mind. Annie has spent her life teaching young children, so she came to mind when I stumbled upon this quote from Plato: The most effective kind of education is that a child should play amongst lovely things.

I spent the weekend playing with my niece and nephew, Katie and Andrew. (Oh. “And those people who take care of them.” as my mother dubbed the parents of her grandchildren.) They have parents who make sure they have the opportunity to play amongst lovely things. They both attended pre-school at the Children’s Museum – Andrew is still enrolled, though Katie has moved on. Sandy and I went to pick Andrew up on Friday. It was Pajama Day . . . so (because I will do almost anything to earn one of Drew’s dazzling smiles and make him giggle), I wore my pajamas under my raincoat. (Imagine my surprise when I realized that I actually had to get OUT of the car and walk WHERE PEOPLE WERE to retrieve him.) Oh well!!

And I got really lucky and was able to see Katie dance with the other girls in her dance class. What struck me especially were the free-form portions of the dance, and how each girl moved with her own unique style and sensibility. Clearly, they had a teacher like Annie . . . someone who wasn’t trying to force them into a mold. The young woman teaching them is truly helping them to use dance as a form of self-expression. And there wasn’t a child in the class who wasn’t beautiful. (Though I DO think Katie was the most beautiful. Clearly. Not that I’m a proud auntie or anything….)

These young girls had learned the same basic steps and were dancing to the same music, but no two of them moved in the same way. It was life-affirming in the best possible way. And for me, it was yet another reminder that beauty is intrinsic to each of us. I think most of us forget this fact. At some point we stop dancing our own dance and concentrate instead on watching the others and trying to move the way they move. It doesn’t work. We are all wonderful as originals but only second-rate as imitators.

May each of those little girls I saw on Friday be blessed by never losing her ability to find her own style and express it. And may those of us who have faltered find the confidence to be true to ourselves and share our own beauty with the world. Plato was on to something alright . . . but children aren't the only ones who learn best when surrounded by loveliness. And I would submit that, when we bring forth the treasures within us, we teach ourselves and one another with the most valuable educational tools of all.

Breadcrumbs from the Universe

noreply@blogger.com (Deb) — Tue, 07 Apr 2009 14:58:00 +0000

Photo: Petr Kratchovil

My parents have a magnet on their refrigerator that reads: "Coincidence. When God performs a miracle but remains anonymous."

IDW, the close cousin of this concept is Breadcrumbs from the Universe. As in, God the Universe . . . which is how I usually think about God because somehow the Divine starts to feel big enough and expansive enough and fathomless enough when linked to quantum physics and the cosmos. The bearded white man in a sheet that we see in cartoons and children's books has never worked for me. For me it's God. The Universe. The Infinite. A presence so sacred and powerful that for centuries it was agreed that there could be no word for it. (And I hope my Uncle Dennis will correct me if I'm wrong about that last, but I do believe it's true.)

And that concludes my theological discourse for the day. I think. Unless, you know, I need to reference it again while I explain the whole Breadcrumb thing.

Breadcrumbs from the Universe are those shimmering moments that tell you that, however unlikely it may seem, you are on your path, exactly where you are meant to be. They may be grand or subtle, but when they happen, it's almost as though your entire body is a tuning fork and you are suddenly vibrating with pitch-perfect sound. (Okay, okay. I'm willing to accept that never -- not once -- have you thought of your body as a tuning fork. But work with me a little here! You DO know what I'm talking about!)

Those moments when you feel reassured that, big as the Universe is, the Divine has time for YOU, that YOU are part of the Plan, are Breadcrumbs moments. Sometimes they're small and humorous. Other times, they're so improbable they boggle your mind. But always they reassure you of your own place in the Grand Scheme.

I believe Love is the purpose and reason of our existence. We come from, exist with, and return to a loving source that is beyond our human comprehension, and our mission is to learn to love one another and to love ourselves. And although very few of us nail even one of those, let alone both, God (the Universe) goes right on loving us and spreading little bits of nourishment on our paths to keep us on course and lead us home.

So the next time you're 5000 miles from home and run into your best friend from kindergarten? Or sit on a plane next to someone who knew your grandmother? Or get a check in the mail that exactly covers the thing you had no idea how you'd pay? Or hear a song on the radio whose lyrics seem to be coming straight from heaven to you? That's right. Breadcrumbs from the Universe. You're right where you're meant to be. And you're on your way home.

Serendiptiy

noreply@blogger.com (Deb) — Mon, 06 Apr 2009 14:49:00 +0000

Café Henri is one of my favorite city haunts. I've been there more times than I can count and I like to think I could find the place even if I were blindfolded. (Right. I like to think a lot of things.) But the point is, I know how to get there.

So. Last Thursday, I was meeting Christie there for dinner. I walked across Bleecker and, as I was fully half an hour early -- and it was a pleasant spring evening -- I sat on a bench at Father Demo Square to read a little of Jonathan's Foer's Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close. (I was going to provide a link here for you, but I just read the Wikipedia review and wish I hadn't -- it was something of a spoiler.)

SO ANYWAY. At the appropriate time, I closed the book on Oskar and his quest, and began to walk to the restaurant. Only somehow, I walked the wrong way. "How is this possible?!" I wondered. And I was more than a little chagrined, since a phone call to Christie confirmed that she was sitting at a table waiting for me. I confirmed the address. . . it was, in fact, exactly where I believed it to be.

And then, something odd happened. It's hard to describe, but my neck began to prickle and my little interior voice said, quite loudly, "Look up. Look up, NOW." And, though I can't explain why, I knew what I would see even before my eyes began to sweep upward: I was standing in front of the Bedford Street residence of Edna St. Vincent Millay . . . the very spot where I had left Foer's main character, Oskar, only moments before.

"Wow! Pretty cool!" Suddenly, getting lost in familiar territory didn't seem like a bad thing at all. I back-tracked and found the restaurant without further incident.

I told Christie (and if you followed the link you know she is a fellow writer, and a gifted one at that) and she said, "Wow! Pretty cool!" (Or something very much like that!) "What are you reading?"

"Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close."

"Deb! That's what I'm reading!!"

Wow. Very, very cool!

That, my friends, is what I call a Breadcrumb moment! Now tell me one of yours . . . (C'mon . . . don't make me beg! Just spill it!!)

What Goes Around, Comes Around

noreply@blogger.com (Deb) — Mon, 30 Mar 2009 15:06:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Deb) — Fri, 27 Mar 2009 14:08:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Deb) — Tue, 17 Mar 2009 14:39:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Deb) — Wed, 11 Mar 2009 14:08:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Deb) — Thu, 05 Mar 2009 16:15:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Deb) — Mon, 02 Mar 2009 15:30:00 +0000

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.