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 |  Just play: don't look at your hands! |
What a dumb title for a person who never got a single star  on her piano lessons!Daily practice is the thing though: the practice of noticing as well as of writing.  However, I'd much rather play duets than solos, so hop right in! You can do the melody or the base part, I don't care.  Just play along--we'll make up the tune as we go. I'll try to write regularly and deliberately. Sometimes I will do it poorly, tritely, stiltedly, obscurely. I will try to persevere regardless. It seems to be where my heart wants to go, and that means to me that God wants me there too. See you tomorrow. ![Merit Badge in Journaling
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| I mentioned last week a video the hospice staff watched of Naomi Tutu. In it she talked about ritual, particularly the ritual of South Africa. When a person dies, the bed is taken apart, and the mattress is placed on the floor. All the matriarchs of the family come and sit on the mattress, and they stay there until the body is buried. As callers come to pay their respects, the women tell the story of the person's life and death, over and over, over and over. We are a culture short on ritual; and, due to a growing lack of religious interest, the rituals we have are fading too. Fewer people have funerals or memorial services. Fewer still have wakes. Even the family gatherings, the bringing in of casserole dishes to the home, and the calls and cards are less frequent than twenty years ago. The adult grief group began last week, with a poor showing of five people. One dropped out, thank goodness, and one will be absent this week, so I'm praying for a few late starters to show up this week. (Thank goodness because she wasn't ready to be in a group yet, had too many issues to work out for the group to handle, and would monopolize the time at best and might scare other group members from talking.) One of the things they'll be doing is journaling, and they have a book designed just for that. Beyond the exercises in the book, I've been thinking about other ways to journal that would be helpful to people who are grieving a loss. Here's what I've come up with, sort of off the top of my head: 1. Go through old pictures, and, choosing one or two per journal entry, write about the situation the pictures were taken in. What was happening? Who took the pictures and why? What did you want to remember from that time, whether or not it showed up in the picture? Is the picture a good representation of how the loved one looked, or one of his/her* better moments? Did he like that picture of himself? How does it make you feel to see it now? (*From now on I'll refer to the loved one as a 'he' for simplicity's sake.) 2. Using the same pictures, or memories without pictures, revisit the places where the pictures were taken: the beach, the back yard swing, the dining room table, wherever. Maybe take another picture. Write about what you're feeling in that same place now. 3. Journal about something that has happened to you this week, and what would have been different if your loved one were still alive. 4. Make a record of the times of day you find yourself missing him most, the scenes and scents that tug at your heart, maybe giving you a grief attack. Imagine him there, and write about what you feel. 5. Think of things the two of you didn't agree on, but you went along with anyway. Maybe you watched football because he liked it, or bought Crest because it's the kind of toothpaste he wanted, or ate Captain Crunch because it was easier than buying a box you liked instead. Maybe you liked to take walks but didn't very often because he wouldn't go with you. Make a list of things you like. You may find this easier than you expect. 6. Make a list of his annoying habits, and forgive yourself for being annoyed with him. Oops, I've exceeded the list of 5. Well, maybe it's like a baker's dozen, one extra suggestion in case one of the first 5 wasn't any good.  Please feel free to make suggestions. |
| After a tiresome day that began with three refusals of visits and never got better, I was glad to get home, get my feet up, and read blogs. I got started at my other blog, because of some comments I wanted to reply to, and then began investigating titles on other people's lists. My goodness but there are a lot of people blogging out there! You could find dozens to choose from, even with such (I thought) unusual themes as pagan spirituality, ancient botanicals and pysanky (the intricate patterns made with wax and dye that Ukranians use to decorate eggs.) Among other things I learned that, like NaNoWriMo, there is a blogging equivalent called NaBloPoMo, with specific themes every month. This month the topic is letters, however you want to take that. Also, this is National Poetry Month. That fact has probably been splashed around WDC too, but I haven't noticed it. One thing about those off site blogs is they almost all are illustrated. It's easier to upload pictures there, for one thing. But the quality is different in another way too. I don't hear the closeness between the bloggers and the people who comment. I don't know who these people are. They aren't as personal, as genuine. Or at least that was my take on it. |
Olio, as the crossword puzzle workers among you know, means a hodgepodge. That’s what I have for you tonight. Funny thing, but I’ve just gotten home from our first spring grief group, for adults this time, and I’m really energized. I’d forgotten that I really like leading groups, sometimes. The children’s group in January was frustrating, and the last adult group I did wasn’t very satisfying either, partly because of the co-leader, a very pedantic woman. Arlene will be doing this group with me, and we work better together, we found out. Yea! We actually spent the day together too, at least most of it. My car was in for its 50,000 mile check-up, prescribed by the mechanic last week when it was in for a recall. On that score, it was pronounced fine, but it needed all new fluids, and stuff. One thing the mechanic had listed was a new filter, for the interior car air, like a pollen filter but I can’t think of the correct name. At any rate, Bill told me it didn’t have one in the first place, so certainly didn’t need a replacement! Car dealerships and garages—ugh! I’d rather go to the dentist! So, my car being back in the shop today, I road with Arlene on our 100 mile trek to the patients in the next county. And a beautiful ride it was. We stopped for lunch in Dayton, which is a delightful town with way more than its share of excellent restaurants. They have a five-star one there, the only one this side of the state, not where we stopped though. Incidentally, this is my 503 blog entry. I thought a blog only lasted for 500 entries, so I’ve been working on the name for my next one. Guess I’ll have to hang onto it for a while though. Since my car had to be at the garage by 8, I got to work much earlier than usual, and told everybody that it was so nice to be there early, I thought I’d make a habit of it. Early risers themselves, they were gratified to have me see the light, and perplexed when I said, “April fool.” Not much of a joke, but the best I came up with. Sigh. |
  The Angel of Narcissus I strike a pose, so high above you all, so wise and stern, and all who see me crane and yearn to view the words I write. “Is my name on your list?” you wonder, your uneasiness creating flurries in the air around my stony soul. The stone mason’s chisel does my fair proportions justice, but he carefully omits what flows from my pen: buy milk, suntan lotion, start the laundry, mail the rent check, put out cat, pick up Jean at 3. Among many lovely entries in Christine's Poetry Party at abbeyofthearts.blogspot.com, is my silly one. Can't help it. That's where the picture took me. Click on it for a bigger view. How about you? What silliness are you up to this April Fool's Day? |
| Last week a post from a favorite off-site blogger quoted a line of a poem by Oriah Mountaindreamer. The name didn’t ring any bells, and the quote only nudged me slightly to respond. I shrugged it off, but I've been thinking about it ever since. I won't be writing about it tonight though, still thinking, but here's the quote: "The question is not 'Why am I so infrequently the person I really want to be?' but 'Why do I so infrequently want to be the person I really am?'" Thursday morning we had a video at work of a speaker from last summer’s National Hospice convention, Naomi Tutu. I saw her and enjoyed her presentation last summer in New Mexico, but hadn’t remembered how she began it. She quoted a long poem from Oriah Mountaindreamer, who she said she thought at first was a native American, not a blond Canadian. Several people commented on the power of the poem, and I was happy I had the name and the link right at hand to give them. Isn’t it strange how we can hear something new and then immediately have it crop up again somewhere else? Sure, maybe it’s because we are awake to the sound of the name and recognize it again, but not always. When I went to her site, http://www.oriahmountaindreamer.com/creative.html, I found a section called Creative Writing Exercises. The page begins with the title What We Ache For, the name of one of her books.. The book I began reading last night, Henri Nouwen’s Life of the Beloved, begins with the story of how he happened to write it. A young man, Fred, was interviewing him and was obviously uninterested in the job. As they talked, Henri asked him what he really wanted to do, which was write a novel. Anything you really want to do, you can, Henri told him, or words to that effect. You clear off from your calendar the things that are in the way, and you get started. Henri even made it possible for the young man to quit his job and come to be an artist in residence so he could write. Fred never did finish the novel, but other things came from the choice that were invaluable. Henri began to hear of the longing that Fred, a Jew, and other friends of his had, a yearning for meaning and spirituality in their lives. Fred asked him to write a book for them, not for religious people but for secular people. And he did so. Oriah asks: “How would you complete the phrase: I never feel I should be doing anything else when I am…?” How would you complete that phrase? |
I got several good pictures today and put them on the weather site, but this site can't find them when I've browsed for them. ?? I'll try some more later.   There. That was harder than usual. One at a time worked, but not more than one. Today, I found a new road to take pictures of the mountains from, one without too many poles and wires to interfere. And I tried a new drink, a 2 calorie soda called Cascadia that came in pink grapefruit and lemonade. I liked the grapefruit best. But the most significant new thing I did today was get the refrigerator repairman to come with one call, within a couple of hours, and fix the refrigerator! Yea! That's a record. I'm smiling! What did you do new today? |
| If you had to make a list of what you had done with the past twenty-four hours, would you be happy with it? I know I wouldn't. I can't believe how much time it takes me to get out of the house in the morning, or clean up the kitchen at night. And I really truly don't know how neat people stay neat all the time, and keep their houses neat! Although I think comparisons are seldom helpful and certainly not comfortable, I'm tempted. Surely I spend more time buying fresh produce and cooking meals from scratch than some people do, but since that's the norm for me, it doesn't feel like it's worth much. I know I don't spend much time chatting with friends, more's the pity; and I log zero hours at the beauty shop getting manicures, and only a haircut every couple of months. I hardly ever watch tv or go to the movies, so where the heck does my time go? Okay, I get a massage maybe once every other month, or less. Can't remember one this year yet. Of course there's a fast answer, that I spend too much time on the computer, but I'm not going there. I fasted from WDC for most of December, didn't I? What did it get me? Time to get packages mailed, but no Christmas cards sent. Is there a word like 'klutz' that means clumsy with time? Probably one in Yiddish, and if not, there should be. Today I took my car to the garage for its ABS (brakes) recall, and then had to cancel my eye appointment. Could have gotten a ride, I found out later, but the appointment time had already been filled. Darn. I was scheduled for a mammogram tomorrow but had a training at work postponed from last week interfere, so had to reschedule for Friday. Don't you ever wonder what's the point of scheduling ahead? Things come up, and you have to change everything. It's darned inconvenient. The refrigerator wasn't very cold this morning, and Bill said the freezer hadn't been quite closed. Tonight he said he thought maybe it wasn't quite closed, and the refrigerator seems to have maintained on cool but not cold enough. The freezer still is making ice, but Bill says he can't hear the condenser come on, and no cool air is flowing upwards into the frig. Great. Now I'll have to cancel something else to stay home and wait for another appliance repairman! Well, if I can get to the paint store tomorrow, maybe I can at least start painting the living room while I wait for the repairman. Where does your time go? Can you believe that everyone has 24 hours a day, just like you? Some people sure do a lot more with their hours than I do. But do they enjoy it? |
| We all need a break from my churchy blogs, including me. So, what to write? Here's an intriguing line from a blogger friend, Sunrise Sister. "When was the LAST TIME, you did something for the FIRST TIME?" She featured that question on a collage she made, and the other notable element was a picture of her beautiful 65 yr old self on a surfboard. Last month she took lessons at the Royal Hawaiian Surfing Academy! She said it wasn't "as hard as walking on water, but it was a miracle nevertheless!" For several days after reading that, I made it my intention to try something new every day. I was doing pretty well too, although many things were too churchy to mention here. Then I just kind of forgot about it. Well, I'm for starting it up again. Today I began my first computer class, which may be too basic for me but that's beside the point. I've never really gotten how to format on Word and do it right; and even though I've been at it for years, I wanted to learn how to do it without a lot of backtracking and head-shaking. First thing I learned was that the course was only designed for PC version of Word, not for Macintosh. Oops. I have a PC at work, and Bill has a PC laptop he brings home to watch NASA on while I blog. He'll let me have a turn, I'm sure. The second thing I learned, but haven't been able to do on the Mac, is that it's very easy to escape from any formatting you've done just by pushing the escape button. No, I won't go on in this vein either. No sense in boring you with stuff you already know. I haven't thought of what new thing I'll try tomorrow. I too busy thinking about how I can get the car in for its brake recall and also have a car for my eye appointment, without renting a car for the day. I could cancel one or the other, but wish I'd remembered the eye appointment before both places were closed for the day. One of these days, my new thing will be a collage. I've found several good sites about them. This one is particularly interesting: http://kaleidosoul.typepad.com/innersurprises/ She not only makes collages, but makes them in "suits" like cards, to particular specifications. They sound a little like tarot cards, and she does readings with them. I can only think of one collage I've made as an adult, and it was at a conference for Catholic Chaplains. (I'm not Catholic, but worked in a Catholic hospital.) The topic for it was "My Call to Ministry." Not everyone's dish of tea, for sure, but a good variation might be, "When I Fell in Love." Good for remembering old thoughts and feelings and kindling a new spark. One of other the things the group of us did on our field trip the other day was to visit with the grief counselor at the Tri-Cities Chaplaincy. She showed us collages she'd had people in her grief groups make. She'd taken the originals to Kinkos and had them printed and reduced somewhat in size, then framed five or so together in a big frame. Very attractive and effective. I don't know when I'll get around to doing a collage again, because the housework is calling me, and the yardwork too, not to mention the work-work and that 'C' word (church.) Don't you wonder, every spring when yardwork begins, what you did with all those hours you had all winter to play with? |
 Have you ever had experiences that were different, set apart from your ordinary days, that you didn’t know how to describe? One of the priests, in commenting about the Easter Vigil Saturday night, said that he had been in a very thin place. I’ve said that myself before, and for me this was not the same. It was sacred space, a place of knowing without having to make sense of it, a participation in the Mystery that was a being and a doing, rather than a feeling. It would be very like me to try to inspect the experience, dissect it and investigate it, but why? To validate it, or replicate it? I don’t think I’ll try; or, to put a more positive slant on it, I choose not to. Yes, it would be good to go over the week’s many services with the other clergy, as that same priest suggested, to talk about what went well and what might have been better if we’d done something differently. But I don’t want to be writing down a recipe: 3 parts prayer, 1 part preaching, 4 parts music, mix well together and heat till the Holy Spirit takes notice and the batter begins to rise. The thing is, you can’t make Resurrection happen. The dry bones, as much as they might like to, don’t just get up and dance. The earnest hearts that fast and pray and do all the right Lenten things sometimes find that, as much as they regret it, nothing new happens. They have gone through the same motions, the same devotions that have worked before to draw them closer to their Lord, and yet...and yet…. And yet, sometimes something new does happen, something unaccountable and uncontrollable. In the sermon today, the preacher told an anecdote about an incident at the Cathedral of St. John the Divine in New York City. The bishop was to begin the service by knocking on the closed doors with his crozier, Inside, the church would be in darkness following the Great Vigil, and when the doors were opened, the bishop would shout out:, “Alleluia. Christ is risen.” The congregation was to respond in kind, “The Lord is risen indeed. Alleluia.” Unfortunately, the bishop had turned on his microphone too early, and what came before those traditional words was unexpected. The congregation of 600 worshippers heard mumbling and grumbling, followed by, “This is damn awkward, damn awkward!” The preacher went on to say how very fitting and theological she thought those words were. Resurrecting hearts and minds from the dead doesn’t fit the regular pattern of life. Christ shook up his world in his own time, by his life, death and rising. Christ still shakes up the world, in this very day and time. We cannot will it to happen. The Spirit blows where it will. That too, is damn awkward. P.S. One thing about these Easter services that made them different from any I've ever been to before is that people were asked to bring bells. If they didn't have any, ushers passed out bells at the door, and we rang them all during the hymns. Imagine how "Christ the Lord is Risen Today" sounds with two hundred bells ringing! Wow! |
| John 13: 4-9 Jesus got up from the meal, (the Last Supper) took off his outer clothing, and wrapped a towel around his waist. After that, he poured water into a basin and began to wash his disciples' feet, drying them with the towel that was wrapped around him. He came to Simon Peter, who said to him, "Lord, are you going to wash my feet?" Jesus replied, "You do not realize now what I am doing, but later you will understand." "No," said Peter, "you shall never wash my feet." Jesus answered, "Unless I wash you, you have no part with me." "Then, Lord," Simon Peter replied, "not just my feet but my hands and my head as well!" Last night, if I’d gotten to the computer in time, I would have whined a little, not much, but a little. It's probably better I waited till tonight, because it falls into perspective better for me. The Maundy Thursday service is one of the most impressive in the church’s liturgical book. We began in the parish hall with an explanation of Passover and the Sedar dinner, while we are already seated at tables for our own meal. Following that, we processed into the church singing a short, melodic but eternally repetitious song (which works fine for a time when people have to remember the words.) It was unaccompanied, lent itself to simple harmony, and had a solemn, prayerful sound. After the reading of the lessons came the foot washing. Of the 50 or so people present, probably twenty came forward to have their feet washed by one of the priests. The water in the basins was pleasantly warm, and was changed frequently. It is evidently difficult for people to allow themselves to participate. With no apparent self-awareness, they mimic Peter in the gospel lesson, who said to Jesus, “You will never wash my feet.” Once you have overcome whatever barrier holds you back, it isn’t difficult to accept the loving ministrations from someone you respect. The foot washing is a symbol of servanthood, and Jesus made two points very clear. We cannot have a relationship with him if we are not willing to accept what he offers, and we are to offer the same service to others. My petty little whine is that I have bad circulation in my legs due to an old blood clot that would not resolve. Consequently I wear prescription compression stockings, waist to toe, and cannot take them off to have my feet washed. Out of kindness some years ago, the priest decided it would be too difficult for me to help do the washing either, so I sit it out. Try as I may to be grateful for not spending that extra time on my knees on the hard floor, I almost feel like crying. I am frequently an onlooker at life by inclination, but I hate to not be able to participate in something so rich and meaningful. I offered a suggestion, which this year was finally accepted, that I could stand at the door of the parish hall with a large bowl of sudsy water and wash people’s hands as they came in to dinner. This was a custom from my former parish that was always well received , and it was last night too, although with a little uncertainty at first. People who chose not to have their feet washed later at least got a taste of some servant ministry. (Actually I have a second part of my whine, and that was about the bulletin. I evidently got a draft rather than the real thing, and although mine looked just like everybody else’s on the outside, it was missing some liturgical responses before the foot washing. I couldn’t figure out what everybody else was reading, and they couldn’t figure out why I wasn’t reading too. Fortunately it wasn't a part I was supposed to lead! You can imagine, though, that this mistake set me up for feeling left out in the rite to follow.) Anyway, the service went off without any real hitches. The altar guild and clergy stripped the sanctuary of all the hangings, vessels, books, and even emptied the tabernacle of the reserve sacrament. This was done with the lights low, following the eucharist, and ended with the tabernacle door open wide to show its emptiness, and the lights turned out. It is invariably moving. |
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