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Writing for One

“I write because I don’t know what I think until I read what I say”

— Flannery O’Connor.

Why have I decided to blog? I read once that if you desire to write, and put pen to paper, that you are a writer. It’s such a presumptuous thought. In my mind, a writer is someone who has published something, a masterful wordsmith who writes beautiful sentences that resonate and touch something in you that you recognize in your soul. A person with a fresh perspective whose words cause you to look at something in a whole new way. Or those who can cause you to neglect all other things because they have pulled you into their story and you don’t want to look for a way out until you get to the glorious end. That’s a writer.

I am in awe of the people who can do that. I admire genius. I respect mastery in any endeavor and I appreciate the hard work and the passion that goes into chasing and polishing whatever it is that you have unearthed as your gift.

If I could choose a talent, I would be a singer. To be able to sing and raise people up with my voice! That would be a dream. But that is not in my skill set. Not even a little.

But, from the time I learned to pen my first poem, I have been writing. Mostly, it was a way for a sensitive kid, raised by a boot camp kind of dad, to be able to own, express and explore my feelings in a way that didn’t make anybody mad. Your journal or scraps of paper never accuse you of being a “bawl baby” or threaten to give you a reason for your tears. So I wept onto paper. And I raged onto paper. I said silly, ridiculous things onto paper. And committed love and plans and dreams into journal after journal.

I sometimes wonder what will happen when I die and my poor kids find all that paper. Over the years, of course, much of it has been lost but for what remains, I hope, if they choose to read it, that they will remember that I have never claimed to be anything but a work in progress. Perhaps I should just have a big bonfire before I die. They might just have their own bonfire. (And if they do that, I hope they’ll do it on a beach and make smores over the dying embers.)

I’ll work out what to do about all that one day, if I have enough warning beforehand.

In any event, mostly, my writing has just been for me so it didn’t matter if it was good enough, or if anyone else thought it was worthwhile or if I had any talent at all.

A famous quote written by the American novelist Flannery O’Connor says, “I write because I don’t know what I think until I read what I say”. That has often been true for me too. I have discovered in the act of writing, that just beginning to put words on paper starts a flow of things you didn’t know you knew, or felt. So, I have continued to write, to conspire in the surprise and discovery.

Sometimes I share what I write with others and occasionally I have been encouraged to pursue it in some way.

Could I be a writer? Do I have anything to say? Am I brave enough to put those precious words and thoughts out there, subject to scrutiny and criticism? (not really).

Who will I write for?

I have, on occasion, been given the opportunity to teach or speak to a group. I cannot do that without a script, so I write out what I’m going to say exactly. Even the jokes that should just roll out naturally. Public speaking doesn’t scare me if I can prepare meticulously beforehand. But always, when I am in that position, during my preparation, my goal and prayer is that whatever I teach or speak about will find its way to the one heart that most needs the message.

I feel like one thought or a collection of thoughts can change, lift, heal or touch something in someone, and do some good. One thought might cause a small change in someone’s mind or way of thinking. And if it can change a mind or opinion, it might eventually change a heart. And then, possibly a life.

Expressed shared experience can make a person feel less alone. A fresh idea can help someone who is struggling or lost to find their way. I am a voracious reader and a curious learner/listener and that has often been the case for me.

So that is my hope. That is why I’ve decided on “writing for one” as the focus for my blog. Perhaps I might one day write something beautiful, impactful or inspiring to someone else. Or maybe what I write won’t matter to anyone but me.
It could be that the life I change might be my own. But even that is an adventure with hope and value. And so on those terms, I have always been a writer.

Take a Leap, Year

Photo by Danila Hamsterman on Unsplash

Isn’t it wild, the way that they just drop a full extra day into our year without discussion or permission? It’s kind of like having the audacity to bring your kid’s best friend to the baby sitter for the day as if it’s nothing. I mean, it’s not even an alternating extra hour of sleep like daylight saving time, or if, at the very least, they politely turned it into an extra weekend day. Most people had to get up and go to work, pay for daycare, buy an additional venti almond milk half shot no whip latte, and then later go home and cook dinner. It’s kind of outrageous. Is there some kind of board or committee we can take this up with?

I suppose all the seize the day people loved it. But what about you? It’s already March and it’s probably too late to contact anyone to complain about it so we’ll have to just keep stepping. It doesn’t mean we’re okay with it but we’re moving on from that kind of February appropriation. We’ve got things to do and March is already in full swing. It seems like a good time to take inventory while the year is still fresh, kind of a quarterly check in if you will. So how are you, what’s up, what’s new, howzit, or my personal favorite, how you livin? I wish I could say that more often but I don’t think I’m cool or young enough to pull it off. It’s just the best one of them all because I think it’s much harder to say that and breeze by someone without waiting for an answer. How are you living? There’s weight to that question that demands a thoughtful answer. It kind of stops you for a minute. Are you fine, chilling, seizing the day, getting by, or living every day like it’s your last? Is that even good advice? I’ve always thought so. There are lots of ways to live. Tomorrow is not promised and healthy tomorrows are often a precious uncontrollable variable, so it seems like a good strategy. A lot of the time we live life on automatic pilot and we sometimes need a reminder to live and love more fully.

Three weeks ago our family welcomed a new baby. I had the privilege to be there as my daughter went through labour and as her baby boy experienced his first hour of life. I was able to witness the absolute delight of the new parents and I got to inhale the fresh from heaven scent of newborn life. Newborn babies are magic. You know that as soon as you hold one. But before you get to hold them, they go from floating in an ever shrinking apartment with a non negotiable nine month lease, to all hell breaking loose as they are evicted into a cacophony of sounds and new sensations. Not to mention the cold. It’s like a reverse polar bear swim, going from a balmy 98.6 degree hot tub into the shock of an ice bath. As I have watched that little miracle of new life over the last few weeks, I have been struck by how much a baby has to process so immediately after birth. The blazing bright lights, unmuffled jarring noises, the feel of so many novel things against their delicate skin, hunger that you now have to work to satisfy. Everything is new. To a baby, it’s all about comfort. They know when they’re comfortable and they loudly protest when they aren’t. But they bring everyone along with them as they experience it all. They challenge our complacency and blindness as they take us back to when we didn’t know anything and we weren’t bored with it all. I know the joy we are about to encounter as we experience life through his five senses. Right now, he has to trust everyone. His life depends on it. But I am excited for his parents as he begins to focus and recognize them as his lifeline, as he learns to smile when he sees their faces and as he begins to discover all the new things his world has to offer. It was my very favorite part of raising my own children; watching as they spent long moments looking at, reaching for and figuring out how things feel, taste, sound, smell, look and work. I loved to watch them and their reactions and to help them navigate it all. It was a gift to look at things with new eyes and to realize how much there was to experience on an ordinary day, in all the things I no longer even noticed. Which brings me back to how we’re living. Carpe Diem and cramming it full of everything is all well and good. We should take advantage of all this life offers us. We should treasure every moment. It occurred to me though, that the things that usually remind us to live every day like it’s your last, are often devastating losses. We are jolted into remembering that everything ends, people die and time is of the essence. So it’s good advice but it made me think about how tinged it is with desperation. It’s a focus on scarcity with an almost predictable rebound to greedy excess. Because if it was our last day, I think we would feel frantic with the realization that we wanted to be everywhere, eat everything, visit everyone, hold onto it all. It feels rushed, urgent, self focused and possibly fueled by regret.

So I’m intrigued by the thought that a better strategy for life might be cultivating wonder and curiosity instead. Maybe we should utilize the unintended plan of the newborn baby to just learn to focus his eyes, and then, see the absolute miracle in every new thing. Concentrate on firsts instead of lasts. I can feel my shoulders come down below my chin as I contemplate that for this upcoming quarter. Somewhere in the background, Easy Like Sunday Morning, just started to play. Firsts are extraordinary in that they engage all of our senses by their very unpredictable and often unanticipated nature. Is it possible to move out of cynicism,complacency or neglect, back into our senses and to experience things anew? To begin to look forward to being surprised. To go to the beach as if you’ve never before felt the way that your feet sink into the sand at the ocean’s edge, and to watch as if you’ve never seen a giant wave rush towards you. Is it possible to recapture the euphoria of those moments? I think about heaven sometimes and I hope it’s as amazing as all the people who have had near death experiences say it is. But I wonder if even there, amidst all the love, grace and encompassing light, if maybe just for a moment, we feel a pang of loss for the earthly sensations we all take for granted in the here and now. Do we experience the sun and the wind differently when we can no longer feel it on our skin? Do we remember with longing the taste and feel of ice cream on our tongue, the smell of fresh baked bread, the softness of newborn skin against your cheek, the quiet stillness of an early morning walk, hearing your favorite people’s laughter, or the way it feels to lay in a hammock in the sun with someone you love.

I guess somewhere between the, Live Like You Were Dying, advice of the Tim Mcgraw song and Louis Armstrong’s, It’s a Wonderful World, lies the secret and the answer. Likely it’s a jazzy, country collaboration between the two, a commitment to curiosity, wonder, gratitude, abundance and attention. Maybe it’s learning to love people like they were brand new. It might be that it’s the adventure of starting over.

So. How are you living?

It’s only March and we have a full extra day this year to tussle with the answer.

Selfie-less

Photo Credit: Chillee Vaivaka – street photographer.

I have spent a number of hours in the last two days watching every video and looking at every photograph on @dino.serrao ‘s account on Instagram. If you somehow haven’t seen them yet, go there now. I am late to the party as well as apparently he has 2.1 million followers between Instagram, tiktok and YouTube. He is the talented, observant director of “Street Portraits” and he goes around the world photographing ordinary strangers on the street. (This, by the way, is not a sponsored post or advertisement).

To say that his work has gotten my attention would be understating what I’ve been feeling since immersing myself in his videos over the last 48 hours. There are things we hear, read and see that reach right inside of us and we know that we’ve been given a glimpse of something that only the angels see every day. You know this because of the way your heart speeds up, your breath catches and tears show up unbidden in your eyes. It’s recognizable because suddenly you want to do better, be better, and you find yourself wondering when you went blind. His body of work is stunning and has made me determined to look up and look around despite my intense introverted tendencies to avoid eye contact and conversations with strangers. His portfolio on social media, the interest in it, and his large number of followers has me knowing that I’m not alone in recognizing the gift he has offered. Maybe a lot of us are realizing we’re like the frog in the pot who doesn’t notice he’s either boiled or entirely too comfortable in the heat he doesn’t remember choosing.

The messages we receive about beauty are relentless, invasive and powerful. They are driven by an insatiable capitalist machine and we are steeped in them, absorbing their standards through our very pores like the expensive creams they sell us. There are few people shown on Dino’s page that live up to the impossible messages we receive and yet, I found beauty and perfection in every face. I was drawn in, intrigued by their lives and what led to the wisdom, challenge or twinkle in their eyes or created their shy, confident or grudging smiles. I paused on so many of the faces, ruminating on the circumstances that determined their stories, locales, livelihoods, companions and even fashion choices. I felt curious about which of the creases and wrinkles were caused by struggle or laughter, and if asked, if they would say they considered themselves interesting and attractive. In fact many of them were reluctant, disbelieving beauties.

I found myself appalled to realize that I had been largely overlooking and avoiding amazing opportunities and trying to grapple with lame excuses for it like life being too busy, unsafe, overwhelming, distracting or full already. I don’t want to be a person to whom others are invisible or somehow not “worthy” of my attention. We encounter people every day and we look past or walk by, not noticing how spectacular they are, how interesting they might be, what they could teach us or if we might be capable of lifting their spirits through a brief connection in which they feel seen. Dino’s interactions with the people he photographs seemingly last less than 30 minutes. In most of the videos he assures them he will only take 2-5 minutes of their time. It was striking to me, that just by paying attention to a hairstyle, a fashion look, a job, a pet, a location, an interesting face or an intriguing smile, that he is then able to perform magic. The recipient of his attention is at first confused, suspicious, pleased, and then willing, which allows him an opportunity to show them to themselves. It is inspiring to watch. The most touching thing to me is how surprised and delighted they are by what is reflected back to them in the photographs he takes. Through his eyes and his lens he astonishes them with a sense of how captivating they really are. Watching their reactions took me out, over and over again.

Finding his videos and his page in the first week of a new year seems serendipitous to me. Getting out of the boiling pot, the one that dictates and advertises beauty AT me and insidiously bombards me with information about who is worth noticing and focusing on, is something I didn’t know I was failing at. Now, I am paying attention. I know what to be “obsessed” with in 2024 and it’s not what any Influencer is peddling. I recognize the irony in the fact that I found Dino on social media but feel he’s teaching something vital rather than selling a product. His exquisite photographs, videos and interactions with fascinating strangers has reminded me of something I didn’t know I had forgotten. Alchemy is possible when we look up, from our phones, our own lives, our grievances, our work, our own families, and we look into the eyes and faces of those who walk along with us. There are stories to be heard, lessons to be learned and hearts to be lifted when we turn our gaze outward. I want to be curious about a planet full of fascinating people who are waiting to be seen and known. I admit to starting the year feeling like the world is currently a hotbed of conflict and uncertainty and that there was little splendor to be found. I was wrong about that. What I have learned from Dino and his crew is that it’s all around us. If our filters are bona fide interest, courteous goodwill and audacious generosity then our fellow travelers are innumerable, beguiling,and splendid indeed.

If you find yourself in a new year looking for something to uplift and inspire you or if you just want to spend a few hours bathed in light and goodness, you can find him on all platforms by googling his name, Dino Serrao.

Happy New Day

Photo by Nathan Dumlao on Unsplash

I hate New Year’s Eve. I’m just going to say it. So excessive. Last year I could barely face it because I had lost someone I really loved and it meant that I was heading into a new year in which that dear person would never live. 2023 was the first year in 15 years that he wouldn’t be a part of any of our new memories and that seemed impossible and unacceptable to me. I felt numb and went into what seemed to be a long, new year disbelieving, depressed and sad. I didn’t even have the energy to hate new years eve last year. I just ignored it so I didn’t have to face what it meant.

But that doesn’t account for all the other years of hostility towards this night of nights. And it doesn’t square with how I feel about new beginnings. Because I adore new hopeful things and the chance to start over. I just don’t like crowds and forced or obligatory frivolity. Introvert problems, I guess. Also, I don’t drink and I abhor the necessity of Spanx. It’s all a no for me. I do, however, find myself in my feelings every year as I reflect back and look forward. So, if you think about it, it’s a good thing I don’t drink because I would be that emotional person at the party that keeps throwing my arm around your shoulder and saying through tears, I really love you man, or drunk dialing folks at 3 a.m. to talk about the meaning of life.

In considering all of this and feeling the usual December 31st dread, I had an alarming thought.

If you look at a year in terms of 365 individual days instead of 12 months, then EVERY NIGHT IS NEW YEAR’S EVE!!

So that’s terrifying (especially to one’s liver). Also potentially exhausting.

Or maybe, it’s a huge relief.

Stay with me.

Because under that blueprint, we can all just freaking relax. No new outfit required. No Spanx unless you want to. No fussy appetizers to prepare. No pretending it’s just the funnest night EVER! No compulsory hangover in the morning. The build up, (or countdown) would have to be sustainable. We’re just counting down from 10 for one night at a time, people. Maybe write a list of what you’re going to do tomorrow instead of weighty resolutions that are supposed to turn your life around. As you’re brushing your teeth you can decide, in the next year starting tomorrow, that you’re going to be a better human. When you’re checking the doors and making sure your car is locked, you get to determine in the morning of tomorrow’s new year if you’re going to work out, or begin writing that book, sleep more, start working on a promotion, put down your phone, do stand up comedy or get better at keeping in touch with your people. As you let the dog out one last time for the night, make a grocery list because the new recipe you’re trying in the next 24 hour block is saucy, spicier and healthier than any you’ve tried before. Think about it. No need to replay Fear and Self Loathing at the end of March because of the goals you didn’t stick to. Everyday is New Years Eve and you’re always on the reflective precipice of your best self/year ever. If you made someone laugh, worked out, had an important conversation, stuck to your diet, sobriety or whatever was on the list that day…success! And if you didn’t, another 365 days starts in the morning. You’re either celebrating, coping or making moves.

I don’t know about you, but for some of us this could be revolutionary. Every night, as we take our magnesium, we can lift our glass of water to a day in which we have lived and tried, maybe just survived, or even had a bit of fun. And then, we can look forward to the next twenty four 60 minute segments of whatever is our best effort that day. We can go to sleep in a cycle of acceptance, gratitude, anticipation, hope, determination or self forgiveness, which really is something to celebrate. Also, when we open our eyes, we will know where we are, and, (this might be the hard part) we will know exactly what we said and did yesterday. And then we can swing our legs out of bed, put our feet on the floor and do the same or better accordingly, again and again and again.

This could be either a brilliantly nuanced self improvement/acceptance model, or, a party animal procrastinator’s utopia.

Either way,

(in the tune of Auld Lang Syne),

Let’s drink a cup of kindness, dear and we’ll decide tomorrow.

Photo by Sofia on Unsplash

120 Degrees

Photo by Aaron Burden on Unsplash

There was nothing perfect about that first Christmas except that it was a perfect storm of obligation, lack of planning, overcrowding, bad timing and taxation.

I mean, if you don’t count the miracles.

And yet,

we remember that imperfectly perfect Christmas. The one that started it all. And we chase the elusiveness of a perfect Christmas of our own. You know the one, that one time it all went so well. There was enough money, the food was abundant and exquisitely prepared, there was no tension; only fun, love, just the right gifts and snowflakes that began falling at midnight.

And that’s the one we strive for every year, exactly like the last one, the best one, the childhood one or the Hollywood one.

Forgetting,

that perfect Christmases are like snowflakes, by their very nature, fragile and transient, melting beneath our gaze as we try to memorize and duplicate their patterns.

I learned today that when ice forms at the molecular level, the angle between hydrogen and oxygen atoms will always be at 120 degrees.That in the process of forming snowflakes only the angle is sure. Then, that angle, combined with changes in temperature, humidity, number of molecules and bonding opportunities, creates a snowflake that is one in a quintillion.

They say that comparison is the thief of joy. A quintillion is a 1 with 18 zeros after it so I’d say it’s nearly impossible to make a snowflake sad (despite the current usage of the term). But, if my metaphor holds, then every Christmas stands alone, created against the previous 364 days of change, growth, gravity, tragedy, taxation and miracles.

We cannot take inches away from growing children, add years or health to aging relatives, fill the empty chairs of people we have lost or discount the days we have spent both running from or pursuing our own evolution.Despite how beautifully everything fit that elusive year, we cannot force ourselves into the things we have outgrown or outrun. Time, temperature and bonding opportunities affect us too.

The sweetest, flakiest sugar cookie or the most beautifully decorated table cannot compensate for, or demonstrate what abundance has brought us and what sorrow has taught us over a 364 day span.

And so, where do we invest the science? Where can the reliable 120 degree angle be put to work?

For me, there is great freedom and joy in possible quintillion types of Christmases. Tradition has its place but I have begun to prefer the weightlessness of just letting Christmas be what it needs to be this year and every year. As we tally what was and what remains, what has been added and what has been lost, then let us work with just that. My 120 degrees can then be a consistent striving to show love, generosity and intentional kindness instead of the less sure investment in giant inflatable snowmen and hayrides in the snow. Whether it be a year of plenty or lack, let my 120 be an intention to give deliberate, thoughtful gifts. Let my spirit be peaceful and let my home offer the opportunity for rest from an often wearisome world. Let the people who gather at my table feel that they are known, loved, held and safe. Sometimes, laughter can be its own miracle, so let there be the kind of laughter that steals your breath and makes you cry the good tears. But, if there are any sad tears, let there be a community of us to catch them. And most of all, let me have eyes to see all the miracles, both the star and the stable kind, the shepherd and the wise men, the holy ones and the ones that are right there in your ordinary life, like a snowflake that has no twin.

Weighing Bel-Air

Aren’t we all exhausted? Three years and counting of wide eyed anxiety at what’s coming next. Is there an issue that hasn’t come up or a topic that we haven’t been compelled to examine? I don’t know of another time in my life where so much of what I think, how I move through the world, what I expect and what I value has been consistently put to the test. I’m not sure if describing it as drinking from a firehose or being waterboarded is more accurate as drinking from a firehose implies some consent. I’m not the same person I was in 2019, I know that. I’m not going to go back through all of it and try to list it. I just know I’m tired, I’m better informed and more disappointed, kind of rage-y and also full of empathy or apathy depending on the day. It’s been a crapshow and that’s just the truth.

I say all of that because I want to talk about Will. I know that the last thing we need is another opinion about that situation but it’s just the latest thing imposed upon us and I have thoughts. I waited a few days before I wrote anything because my knee jerk reaction is never how I end up feeling about many of these cultural moments that cause so much conversation. I didn’t watch it live. I tuned into the Oscars right when they were announcing the Best Actor award and only saw Will’s speech which I found odd and confusing because it lacked context without having seen what came before. I realized later that as he spoke he was drowning in feelings and maybe not even back in his body yet, so we watched him as he was just beginning to process the magnitude of what he had done.

Then, as I started to see the reaction online, I needed to find and watch the video to see what all the shock and outrage was about. And it was shocking and outrageous. But here’s what I want to say. The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air first aired in 1990. We were introduced 32 years ago and we have all watched Will Smith ever since. 32 years of charming, affable, funny, and gifted. 32 years of growth and success. So, part of the reason we were so shocked, besides the ceremonial setting, is because we have never seen him behave like that, ever. But the public reaction was swift and harsh and suddenly we have amnesia. Yes, accountability is important and necessary in this situation. Can we just go around smacking people when we get protective or triggered? Of course not. Was he (and Chris Rock) out of pocket and should there be consequences? Also yes. But we have become a people who turn on a dime, who shun and dismiss with every changing news cycle. In the book by John Gray, Men are from Mars Women are from Venus, it describes how differently men and women keep score within relationships. Apparently, men give points for certain things and when you disappoint or fail to meet expectations they dock a few points. Women give points for certain things and when you disappoint or fail to meet expectations you lose all your points and start again at zero. When I read that years ago, I recognized that truth with guilty amusement. Today, a lot of women and men want Will to start again at zero.

Many years ago, when my youngest daughter was about 4 or 5, we were at a swap meet and were looking at some glass things on a particular table. She reached out to touch something and the older man whose table it was slapped her hand and told her not to touch anything. He didn’t just tap her hand, he slapped her hard. Because my children are a little more melanated than I am, I don’t think he thought she was with anyone, or that I was her mom. When I say I immediately lost my mind, believe that. I was instantly livid and started to tell him off with my voice getting louder by the word. Honestly I wanted to punch him. A lady passing by, who did not witness the incident, told me that I should respect my elders and not speak to him that way. By this time I was taking no prisoners and told her that she should mind her effing business, only I didn’t say effing. It’s not language I usually use and not how I would normally behave in public or elsewhere. It was only later, once the rage had subsided, that I felt flushed with shame for losing control and for how I reacted. I think of this moment with regret for not handling it differently, for not keeping my composure with the man who felt emboldened to strike a child that was not his own, and for letting an F bomb fly without hesitation to the lady who intervened. It wasn’t on television but it was in the middle of a crowd and I can imagine how someone who doesn’t know me might describe me if they only had this moment to go by. Or, how someone who does know me might suddenly think of me differently having witnessed that.

There is a quote by author Bryan Stevenson that says, “Each of us is more than the worst thing we’ve ever done”. I recognize that my moment and Will’s are not equal in scale. He lives a great big life and I, an ordinary one. But what they have in common is the experience of being human and responding to a situation in a way not indicative of our character. The 32 years that Will Smith has been in the public eye has to count for something. All of my years before that incident and after count for something. Does it mean we get a pass for the crappy things we’ve done or said whether it was in public or in private? It does not. There are people who consistently behave badly, who routinely are abusive, who disregard all the norms and are unapologetic about it and they may deserve censure and condemnation. But be on the lookout for those who are contrite, who apologize, who are embarrassed and full or shame for moments when they fall far short of their own expectations as well as ours. Will Smith spoiled his own moment of accomplishment and tarnished the Williams’s story he so wanted to celebrate because it will always be tied to an uncharacteristic event on national television. There are already memes aplenty and every talking head weighing in and speculating on the reasons for this atypical conduct. This will forever be attached to him regardless of how many good moments he has had or will continue to have. It’s an unfortunate truth exacerbated by his stature. I wonder how many of us have had moments, public or private, we would rather not revisit or that had catastrophic consequences for which we are still paying the price. All of us could probably explain why it happened, why we behaved as we did, who we were trying to protect, how buried trauma shaped that moment, what circumstances combined to contribute to our actions…and it would all be valid. Explanations are not excuses – they are just the rest of the story. If you’ve ever started watching a movie about 20 minutes in and you’re asking all the questions trying to understand what is going on, then you know the importance of background information to figuring out what is actually happening. I would say that in this situation we missed the first 20 minutes, we’re forgetting all we learned during the middle and we’re trying to write the ending. It’s easy to stand outside of someone’s story and offer commentary. We all know how we would have, he should have, I would never etc. Life comes at us hard and fast and we might be unprepared or ill equipped for a moment that has the ability to damage our reputation or change our trajectory. But one unguarded moment shouldn’t be the arbiter of grace, or an eraser that wipes out everything we have been and done and everything we can still become. We are all more than our worst day and every person deserves to have their entire story considered when their character comes into question. There may be times when others are justified in docking our accumulated points, but if we have the receipts to show consistent dividends, then some of our hard won deposits should remain in the bank. The Fresh Prince, Will, and all of us, will encounter or cause situations that will turn our lives upside down. I hope we all have people who are willing to weigh that moment against everything they know about us, and that they have the grace to remember that if we’re still breathing, we aren’t done. We might have gone back to West Philly for a hot minute, but if we planted roots in Bel-Air, it is there that we will continue to live and grow.

Into the Breach

We are in the middle of a disaster. Optimism is dependent upon rainfall, dykes and pumps.

It is too soon anyway, to dive for hope when many are literally marinating in uncertainty and soaked to the skin in loss and destruction. There is much to assess and more possible wreckage in the weeks ahead.

It is disorienting to see water as an enemy.

It is more normal not to notice it at all. To mindlessly open spigots and assume that it will flow from the taps when summoned and necessary, to hydrate, feed and cleanse us, and that it will cease to do so when we choose.

We forget altogether that it warmed, suspended and sustained our life from the beginning and is vital that it continues to do so.

We neglect to see a threat when we ski and skate on it’s frozen form or fish in it, float on it or camp beside it. We don’t ponder the depths and the currents when we watch the sun’s descent into it’s crease.

We use the sound of waves and rain as white noise to lull us to sleep.

We prayed for it last summer in the midst of raging fires.

We think of it as sacred when we are dipped into it to create a link with God and when it is used as a drink to remember a sacrifice that saved us.

It’s been a daily, benevolent entity to which we assume we are entitled, in control of and of which we have been unafraid.

We have seen it elsewhere, covering homes and cars and treetops and have not been frightened because we were not yet uncomfortable, threatened or wet.

We are seeing water differently now; a surging, devastating thief, flowing and drowning and causing parts of mountains to crash onto asphalt, creating roads going nowhere.

We watch it with trepidation as it falls unrelenting from the sky, swelling rivers and crossing banks, covering land and property, breaking hearts, stealing prosperity, dreams, futures and physical connections between us.

It’s only November. There is more to come.

And so, while it might be too soon for full fledged hope, looking for blessings in adversity is one of the rafts available. I know it’s simplistic, annoying even, but it helps to ease the anxiety as I listen to the torrent of rain on the metal awning outside my patio door. What is happening is devastating and costly and there will be plenty of time to armchair quarterback. It feels more helpful now to focus on the lifejackets.

Here’s what I see rising along with the water. Experts, equipment, engineers and trained responders meeting the demands of the day. Government and military support as well as local agencies building dykes, filling sandbags, rescuing those who are stranded and doing a million other things that are happening beyond our view. The good fortune to have an airport in close proximity to facilitate all of the air support needed for rescues and the movement of manpower and supplies for isolated communities. A growing tide of care and concern galvinating neighbours, families, friends, strangers and organizations to hold hands and hearts, save livestock, remove debris, begin repairs, cook meals, provide clothing, necessities, childcare and places to stay. Gratitude that there are many in this area not directly affected, so that they can offer help from a place of safety and abundance.

A swell of compassion, bravery, generosity and sacrifice is already rolling out with the knowledge that much more will be required once recovery and restoration begins. The grief, loss and fear are real. It’s early days but our communities are banding together to do as much as they can. I know it can’t replace what has been lost, but, in the midst of a flood, it helps to see that good hearts can swim.

Thanksgivingologist

I’m a traditionalist. So I love holidays and gatherings and special occasion food and doing certain things because that’s the way my mom always did. But, I’m not such a conformist that our circle and our celebrations haven’t widened and changed as we have added new family, adjusted to schedules and adopted new customs that make everyone feel welcome. Making people feel welcome, fed and cared about is what I love most about holidays.

As a Canadian with family in the U.S., I have been able to occasionally and enthusiastically participate in American Thanksgiving. It’s always fun. Canadian Thanksgiving in October is my favourite holiday and we always make it a big deal, but it’s different from the all consuming four days south of the border in November.

The last two years have been tough worldwide. I have begun to understand, in a new way, our deep need as humans to be connected to one another. Perhaps this new understanding is true for most of us. We have been kept apart and restricted in so many of the usual ways from our relationships and how we maintain them and we have felt deeply that loss and deprivation. We are anxious to reunite. At the same time, the state of the world, politics and social issues have created fissures in relationships that have, in some instances, widened to huge chasms between us.

So it’s interesting.

Despite all of that, since early November, with the loosening of restrictions and the opportunity to once again celebrate Thanksgiving in the more traditional ways, I have been observing the buildup and anticipation of this year’s celebrations. I’m watching from my Northern perch this year and as a microcosm of what’s happening worldwide it seems hopeful, which is saying something.

The news would convince us that human relations are so far in the tank that willing, openhearted gatherings are impossible. And yet, that same news, shows long lineups at airports, gas stations and highways of people going to great lengths and expense and some, through terrible weather, to gather. People are coming out of their camps and heading home to some of the people they have been avoiding, blocking and deleting all year. Yes, some are coming out armed and apprehensive for those conversations with the family ists. You know, the feminist, enviromentalist, socialist, narcisscist, racist, activist, economist, secessionist, antagonist, communist, capitalist, chauvinist, exhibitionist, psychologist, aromatherapist and I know you know some more. (Chances are you packed a little ist of your own). But here you are sacrificing money, sleep, time, peace, energy and effort to be in each other’s company. And so that’s something, right? I’m holding onto that and I’m grateful to see it. Maybe if you’re listing things today the most important thing to be thankful for is the occasion, ability and desire for connection, and for those who would fly through a blizzard for the possibility that we can take off the armour and assumptions of ill intent for four days, and just be family. The ties that bind us are powerful and lasting. Maybe the only “ist” that matters is the ability to coexist.

And if prolongist was a word, maybe we could find a way to make it last.

Vicinitas

The window is open,

the pillow is soft.

The ebb and flow of this neighborhood

are my alarm clock and my lullabye.

Soothed by the sounds

of the unremarkable,

lawn mowers and laughing,

garbage trucks,

the muffled overhead announcements

from the school across the road.

Saturday morning shouts

from the open field,

soccer and cricket won and lost.

Sirens,

as ambulances rush by

with their precious, endangered cargo.

The train whistles from the

center of town,

the sound of the gate

when the tenant next door

comes home at 2 a.m.

I know the voices and habits

Of these neighbours,

how they whistle for their dog,

what time they leave for work,

even the language they use

when they argue.

I’ve grown accustomed to the

rhythms and sounds,

so that something foreign and unexpected

would send me to the window

to determine friend or foe.

There is a predictability now,

that allows my heart and breath

to slow to the beat.

I claim my place

with my silent, unseen attendance.

In the fall of the night and

the rise of the morning

we share the unacknowledged intimacy

of shared space.

Four square blocks

of anonymous belonging.

I Will

Easter. It has been on my mind all week. The Resurrection and the hope of that miracle, the joy of Easter morning. But honestly, I have also been thinking about a different resurrection story. I have been thinking about the leper who was healed by Jesus. In those times, the lepers were the outcast of all outcasts. They were considered sinful, unworthy and unclean. They were despised and feared not only for their contagion, but for the potential to contaminate and land others on the same reviled ash heap on which their humanity lay. There was no pity or compassion for their affliction. There was no attempt to understand their plight, to provide comfort or to tend to their wounds. There was only contempt, disgust and fear.

And it made me consider, who are the lepers today? Who is a leper to me? Who is a leper to you?

The truth is, the answer will be different for everyone. We would all like to say that we would never treat anyone like that or feel that way about anyone. But. Just look at the world right now. Look at the comment section on any controversial post. There has been a frightening escalation of contempt for each other that has led to violence in a variety of circumstances. So many have their favorite targets. Who is it that it is easy to despise, ridicule, fear, ignore, mistreat? Is it the addicted, the homeless, a political party, a gender, a race, a religion, the poor, the powerful, the refugee, the media, science, or even just that annoying neighbour that doesn’t look after her house or her kids?

Are there people who we refuse to give time or space to? People who we deem invisible or whose opinions we decide are irrelevant because we refuse to consider the merit of their experiences and background. How do we make space for those with whom we assume we have nothing in common?

The infected leper had the audacity to approach Jesus and kneel at his feet certain that He could heal him. And Jesus was brazen enough to stretch forth his hand – to the most tainted and ostracized among them – and do just that. In an instant He gave the man his life back. He showed the power of the resurrection before The Resurrection. He taught that even a leper was not beyond the time, compassion, mercy and love of Him who determines the worth of a soul.

Clearly, the resurrection is not meant to be a one time miracle and a distant hope for the future. The resurrection is a living, breathing force to lift us up, to breathe hope into wounds and weakness, and to change us in our every day, walking around lives. It is an expensive gift given to us with the expectation that we would never deny it to ourselves or keep it from each other.

It might be a jarring thought because we so often dig in and feel justified in our dismissal or rejection of others for a host of seemingly valid reasons. Our slights may be obvious or hidden from view. We may not ever overtly hurt anyone. We might just go along with popular thought and not question it. We might assume that change is possible for us but surely not them. We might only make jokes that of course we don’t mean. But even simply privately mocking those whom we don’t respect or understand is the disregard and disavowal of a life and a story.

And so I wonder. Who do we have the power to heal? Who is figuratively kneeling at our feet, asking us to see their dignity, their worth, their humanity? Who is begging to be heard, believed, forgiven, accepted? For whom would a little kindness and grace make all the difference?

When Jesus healed the leper He changed a life of sorrow and suffering to a new beginning and a second chance despite all the conventional reasons not to. When he rose on Easter morning he gave that hope to us all. It was a miracle we can share and participate in if we too, are willing to stretch forth our hand.

Is it Bright in Here, or is it Just Me?

Tunnels.

Do you hold your breath?

Close your eyes?

Or do you focus solely on the darkness, waiting to see the light at the end?

It seems that life is a collection of processes. Everything that happens, everything we do or accomplish, everything we learn, both the hard, worthwhile things and the good, joyful things, requires a process. There is a beginning and an end and everything that happens in between – one tunnel leading to another with light beckoning us onward and through. Some of them are short, like Backbone Rock in Tennessee, 80 feet high and only 20 feet long. Some seem endless like The Gotthard Tunnel that runs under the Swiss Alps, reaches a depth of 2300 meters and is 35.5 miles long. That is a lot of rock on top of a through route. Not literally endless but it may seem so before that blessed light would be visible. The light is so significant then – a relief, an accomplishment, a sign that you made it through, an ending.

The interesting thing about life’s tunnels is what we learn and gain as we travel through them. It is human nature to want life to be easy. But life’s only obligation is to be interesting. And all this planet owes us is the dirt beneath our feet as we make our way. (Post childhood, of course). There are things we may wonder about and there are things we are meant to discover. What are we here for and where are we going? How do we survive, who do we look to, how do we learn to love and understand our connection to each other, what do we believe, how do we achieve and thrive?

Remember the game Snakes and Ladders? Life is a game of fields and tunnels. The fields are where the answers to those questions are like daisies waiting to be picked and enjoyed. The tunnels, however, are a challenge. If you’re a breath holder, the short tunnels are easily endured and the long ones torturous. The long tunnels are where those answers can’t easily be seen and the darkness causes us to walk with our arms outstretched, hands searching for the jagged obstacles that could cause us injury. It’s where we take trembling steps hoping for solid ground beneath us and our progress is therefore incremental. The tunnels are tubes of the mundane and the occasionally miraculous. They are the conduit for the imagined to become the realized. It’s where we find rods to divine sustenance, will, resilience, knowledge, and skills. The tunnels are where we hope to find companions with whom we share provisions, navigation tools, and for whom we cheer and encourage and hold space, tending to each others wounds and weariness. It is in these long tunnels where our courage often fails us when we see the distance we’ve come is equal to the distance yet to travel. It’s where we fall to our knees and accept that we can’t do it alone. In that dim space we learn the value and goodness of rest, of community and of the faithfulness of God. Every day, every step, we develop new muscles, test our intellect and increase our capacities. And all along we strain our eyes, focus on the distant light and imagine the sun drenched field beyond the end.

It’s understandable. The fields are wonderful, necessary places of reprieve and recovery. We are drawn to the abundance of beauty and ease there. But the tunnels? They are not passageways of lack. The tunnels are the long night of sophisticated, eternal architecture. And what you will find at the end of them…is a mirror.

But what of the light that became more radiant the closer you came, the light that was your incentive and strength?

It was you; increasing in brightness and being. It was in you, around you, it was always with you. A ray of glory urging you onward, reflecting back to you your burgeoning, brilliant, story.