Racism

     It's an ugly word, isn't it?  Worse, it represents a behavioral mindset that still exists in this day and time.  What business do I, as an older white woman, have in addressing this issue, having never personally experienced racism to the degree that others have?  It is my business because I know it still exists and to act as if it doesn't is wrong.
     A short example, if I may:  I was a public school teacher for many years.  My heart has been touched and broken many times over by various things I have witnessed, but none more so than an incident that happened relatively recently.  I had amassed a large personal library of books over the years, books of all kinds for all levels.  The 5th grade class next to mine had a weekly service project that required each class member to select a book from the library during their scheduled period to read aloud to a 1st grader once a week.
     Apparently, Lila had forgotten to check out a book to read to her first grader.  She stood in my doorway, and said politely, "Excuse me, ma'am?  May I please borrow one of your books to go read?  I promise I'll bring it right back."  My response was, "Of course you can."  Yet still, she hesitated to come in my room and pick out a book.  Lila then said,  "You trust me?"  My response was, "Of course I do.  I know you'll bring it back."  Well, that wasn't enough for Lila.  She asked,  "Why do you trust me?"  I replied, "You haven't given me any reason not to."  With that, Lila bounded into my room, snatched up a book, and hurried off to do her service work with a big smile on her face.
     As for me, I sat at my desk and cried.  I understood what Lila was really asking when she asked why I trusted her.  What her question really was meant, "Why are you, a white lady, going to trust me, a black girl, with anything?"  It broke my heart to know that an eleven year old black girl has to grow up in this day and time thinking and feeling that she didn't have a right to another person's trust just because of her skin color.  Still.  Have we really made substantial progress against racism if a child has been taught she's not going to be trusted because of the color of her skin?  I think we have miles to go.
     I am not going to comment on the recent events that occurred in Ferguson, Missouri.  I wasn't there.  I didn't see what happened.  I wasn't on the grand jury, and I didn't hear the evidence presented.  It would be presumptuous of me to make any kind of comment.  What I do know is that no child should have his or her trust brought into question just because of the color of skin they have. I do know right from wrong, and that is wrong.  I have no one-size-fits-all answer to the atrocity of racism.  I only know that when it confronts me, even subtly, as it did with Lila, I can make a difference, if only a small one.

Faith

Faith is the bird that feels the light when the dawn is still dark.   -Rabindranath Tagore

There are so many definitions for faith.  I believe it is up to an individual to come to their own conclusion as to what faith is.  I can say today that I do have faith, strong faith, acquired when I became willing to believe that it did, in fact, exist.  This willingness to believe was acquired at first through observation of the faith that others had.  The more I witnessed this, the more I came to believe, that I, too, have had experiences that have allowed me to sprout some faith of my own.

Some dear friends are currently walking through challenges that might cause others to doubt that having faith under such circumstances is even possible.  I was witness recently to the heartfelt truth that it is indeed possible.  Despite grave circumstance, one of these friends spoke only of the grace of God and faith in God's divine omnipotence.  I don't know that my faith is as strong as this, but I do know that because this person was able to share the extent to which faith can reach, I have hope that I would be able to do the same in similar circumstances.  Through the selfless act of  sharing a difficult personal journey, the message of hope and faith was extended to many, myself included.

Today I know that faith is the courage that walks through fear.  I know that faith is found in believing in and accepting God's omnipotence.  I know that faith holds steady during a storm.  I know that faith is the belief that dark clouds hold silver linings if you're willing to look for them.  I know that when faced with difficult circumstances, it is possible to wade through whatever muck life presents and reach the other side. I know. 

Bitterness

"Sorrow on another's face often looks like coldness, bitterness, resentment, unfriendliness, apathy, disdain, or disinterest when it is, in truth, purely sadness."  -R. E. Goodrich

My brother died a bitter, sorrowful man.  It had not occurred to me until I came across the quote above  that bitterness and sorrow are one and the same.  He held tight to his bitterness, like a drowning man to a buoy, as if  it was the only thing keeping him alive.  I know he thought it was.  In fact, that buoy was not his savior-it only prolonged his demise.  Disdain and resentment were his bedfellows, too, for they allowed him to build walls that kept him isolated and alone, walls that shielded him from truths he could not bear to see. To see might require that he take action to change-I believe the mere thought of that terrified him.  His death was a lonely one; a sad man isolated behind a locked door and drawn curtains, incapable of letting go of his bitterness because to do so would require change-something he was unwilling or unable to undertake.  I often wonder what his life might have been like had he been able and willing to tear those walls down.

When I am faced with bitterness now, I try to see it in a different light.  I realize it is the mask behind which a deep sorrow lies, so deep that the one in which it resides may not even be aware.  I am painfully aware that walls built to keep others out can only be torn down by those that built them; few are willing to undertake such a daunting task.  To do so might require a change in thinking and a willingness to be vulnerable-things I know cause most people to cringe.

I have on occasion, been caught off guard by bitterness, and my default reaction is to tilt at windmills,  to attempt to tear down walls, to rail at bitterness in an effort to break through.  However, I am slowly but surely coming to the realization that to attempt the above is not only not my job, it is an exercise in futility.  If someone clutches tightly to what they believe is essential to their very survival,  it is not within my power to unfurl their fingers one by one.

What is within my power is to allow each person to walk his own path without unwanted intervention or interference from me. I can bear witness to their sorrow without having the illusion that I possess any power to change it.  In remembering that, and continuing to practice, and I do mean practice that, maybe someday my default when faced with bitterness will become one of love and tolerance.

Loss

"Don't grieve.  Anything you lose comes round in another form."    -Rumi

Usually, I consider Rumi to be kind of a cool dude.  I will grant that perhaps he is right, and that losses may somehow come back around in another form.  I think I may have experienced that on occasion-rare occasion.  However, I really think old Rumi missed the boat on grieving.  I think grief is part of the passage of healing.  All of that pain, remorse, regret, sorrow-cannot and will not be denied.  I believe that to deny those kinds of feelings is tantamount to throwing yourself under the train.

There are all kinds of loss:  the loss of the first tooth, the loss of a job, the loss of a loved one, the loss of a possession, the loss of that first breath of a baby just born-ad infinitum.  What they all seem to have in common is that they leave a space; a space that yearns to be somehow filled.  In some cases, that seems to take care of itself-the baby tooth is replaced by a permanent one; the old job is replaced by a better one.  But there are losses that cross your heart like fault lines-they become cracks that are never fully filled.

I have found that one can easily fall into those unfilled cracks, sinking down into a blackness that appears to never end.  I have also been fortunate enough to have been pulled out of that blackness just long enough to realize that unfilled cracks have another purpose-it is through some of these cracks that light glimmers in.  The fault lines still cross your heart, yes, but climbing out of the blackness is akin to the process of grieving-it is something one must wade into to get to the other side.

As to the other side-things are not the same-they can't be.  The universe has been rendered different forever because of that loss.  The light's glimmer will eventually come through, and the healing can begin.

So, Rumi, old man, I guess we will just have to agree to disagree on this one.  I don't know that every loss comes round in another form, but I do know that those whose hearts have fault lines filled with light are not lost-they are the beacons that lead the way for those still lost in the dark.

Angels

"No, I never saw an angel, but it is irrelevant whether I saw one or not.  I feel their presence around me."   -Paulo Coelho

Angels have been on my mind lately.  The word angel has several origins, the most common being the Late Latin "angelus," meaning "messenger from God."  I've found that as I go through a day, however mundane, I usually have an angel drop by.  

My angels are sometimes visible, in human form, as when someone says just exactly what I needed to hear at that very moment, whether I knew it or not.  The hairs on the back of my neck tingle and travel down my arms to form goosebumps. It is hard to ignore something as visceral as that.

I find that angels are also present in forms I can't describe.  Events are orchestrated and outcomes happen for the best through no machinations of my own, even though I sometimes only see those in hindsight.  I have felt angels' guidance in times of great difficulty, when the path I am to follow is so crystal clear it might as well be a yellow brick road.  When I am graced with a certainty too strong to be ignored, I have learned to follow.

Would that I had the ability to conjure up a Bean-friendly angel whenever I felt the need for guidance, life would sail smoothly along.  It doesn't seem to work that way.  I am graced with angels on some other-worldly timeline I can't begin to comprehend.  While it would be nice to have my own personal angel on call as needed, I've found that expecting or trying to force that to be a frustrating exercise in futility.

What I can do is try to recognize and acknowledge angels' presence in my life, and try to heed the messages I am given when they come.  It is as simple, and as complicated as that.  I try to maintain a state of readiness and willingness, and then get out of the way so I hear the message instead of the jumbled cacophony of my own mind. 

The Darkness Within

" There is no great genius without a mixture of madness."  -Aristotle

The passing of Robin Williams, one of the great comedic actors of our time, leaves a hole in our hearts.  My sympathy goes out to his family and loved ones.  Please know this:  Suicide is one of the most selfish acts man can commit against another.  Know also that when one is in that place of darkness, rational thought does not exist.  His thought was only on trying to stop the crushing, air-sucking pain of trying to live with major depression.  It doesn't mean that love for others didn't exist, only that he'd lost sight of anything but pain.

Unfortunately, suicide does lie amongst my many areas of expertise, as does alcoholism and the addictive personality.  Having been in the uncomfortable position of trying to explain to a distraught mother that her troubled son, would, not might, but would, turn to self-medication with drugs and alcohol should she not seek help for him now, at the age of ten, and then being proved right five years later is not an experience I would wish on anyone.

Mental health care in our country is a sad joke.  Too little access available to the few that can afford its exorbitant costs -the same old story.  It is no wonder that so many try to alleviate their pain with drugs and alcohol, not realizing that those temporary solutions only exacerbate their pain.  Once sucked into the downward spiral of addiction, few are able to climb their way out, even if they want to.  Many find the struggle too difficult; destined for a slow and painful death.

For alcoholics and addicts that have found a solution -be ever vigilant.  The late Phillip Seymour

Hoffman, with years of sobriety under his belt would always answer, when asked to define or describe himself, would answer simply:  " I am a heroin addict."  Despite a number of years in remission, he did succumb to the disease of addiction in the end.

I so regret and mourn the passing of Mr. Williams.  Probably one of the fortunate few who could afford access to quality mental health care, his spiral down continued, no doubt in spite of supportive loved ones and access to experts in the field of addiction and depression.  Unfortunately, it seems that many caught in the throes of despair are able to make it look tolerable on the surface, and in fact, seem compelled to do so, as mental illness in this country still carries a stigma that keeps so many from getting the help needed before it's too late.

I truly mourn the passing of Mr. Williams, and hope that his spirit has found a place of eternal light and perpetual peace.  My heart goes out to his loved ones.  I understand your pain.  To lose one capable of bringing joy to so many, knowing that he was unable to find that that joy for himself seems almost unbearable.  But bear it you must.  Speak for him, as he can no longer speak for

himself.  Be that beacon that sheds light on a disease too long stigmatized and kept in the shadows.

Tolerance

"Tolerance implies no lack of commitment to one's own beliefs. Rather it condemns the oppression or persecution of others." - John Fitzgerald Kennedy

Things have become somewhat heated in my neck of the woods lately.  As a border state, Texas has become a hotbed of debate over "The Children."  The influx of thousands of unaccompanied illegal immigrant children has folks stirred up.  It is a complicated, complex situation that likely cannot be addressed quickly or easily.  There are notable differences in beliefs and strongly vocal opinions about what should be done.  That is not what I am concerned with in this entry.

My concern lies with the apparent lack of tolerance for these differing beliefs and opinions.  There has been a spewing, volcanic plethora of mud-slinging, name-calling, and downright ranting over differences in beliefs and opinions.  Far too many people are freely and righteously affording themselves the opportunity to express their stance on the issue without extending the same courtesy to others.  Tolerance is, at its heart, one of the concepts upon which the United States of America was founded, yet it seems to be quickly disappearing as far as this issue is concerned.

Yes, this is a situation that needs to be addressed.  Can we not approach resolution with compassion?  Can we not freely discuss this issue in an effort to find solutions rather than irrationally and rudely shutting down any opinion other than one's own?   Can we not afford to include common courtesy in the expression of opinion?  Can we not fairly represent varying opinions in their entirety without resorting to sensational sound bites?  Can we not behave like adults rather than immature children?  Can we not seek to find common ground without oppression?  If we cannot, then we are, in effect, not seeking solutions but creating more problems.  Opinions become meaningless if no action is taken to resolve differences with grace, dignity, compassion, and yes - tolerance.  

In Hospital

I love the way the British put it it when you're going to be in the hospital.  They say, "I'm in hospital" -has such a lovely lilt to it, like "I'm on vacation," or "I'm in a State of Zen."  Almost as if it's something to look forward to.  Not so here in the U.S. Of A.  We say "I'm in the hospital," or "I'm in a hospital."  Quite the difference, rather reminiscent of. "I'm in the hoosegow," or "I'm in a state of panic."

I don't mean to knock hospitals.  Some are better than others (far better), but all in all,  if you're in one, you probably need to be, and the people that work in them do their best to do what is in your best interest, often while understaffed, underpaid, and overworked.  It's just that in my ponderings, between being poked, choked and of course, now broke, I find it funny how a simple turn of phrasing can influence one's visions of what might be.

On that note, may I express my deepest gratitude to those that show up to hospitals on a daily basis in the spirit of service and compassion.  That, and I'm damned glad to be home...

Candles

Candles.  Whether in Mason jars or crystal candlesticks, I find them evocative.  The scents bring memories, both good and bad, joyous and sad.  They serve many purposes, from setting the atmospheric mood to saving one's soul.  Lord knows, my Irish Catholic grandmother lit many in hopes that I might find the road I was destined to follow and not the devilish one I'd strayed down for a time in young ( and yes, admittedly stupid) adulthood.

Candles that are lit to guide the way can just as easily be snuffed out by poor choices.  They can be lit in remembrance and hope.  Hypnotic in their warm glow, they can be a small refuge in our messy world; a symbol of serenity in the midst of chaos.

Light bulbs come in a poor second, to my view.  I've had some adventurous moments as far as candles are concerned-setting my bedroom window shades on fire as a teenager (that resulted in the lock being immediately removed from my door, nosy little brother or not), watching my sister's hair sizzle and smoke as she flicked her long locks too near a piano candlelabra (fortunately doused by my quick-thinking boyfriend), and last but not least, using a voodoo candle purchased from a shady New Orleans shop that I used to wickedly place a curse on a world-class jerk (and yes, it worked-at least temporarily...).

Take a moment to light a candle this evening-just because-and wait to see what happens before you snuff it out.  I'll be lighting one in remembrance of the one-of-a kind Evelyn to mourn her passing and celebrate her life.

Fun After Fifty-five

Here I am, at a lovely resort, hanging out in the pool in an inner tube with my BFF.  As I flip over to ditch the tube and begin to emerge from the water, the BFF begins to laugh.  Turns out the inner tube, likely made overseas, has spots on it in various colors.  The backs of my calves are a violently violet purple.  Apparently the dye used rubs off when wet.  Funny, but I'm not going to let it ruin my afternoon.  BFF and I continue to lounge for awhile, but soon I'm ready to head in for a shower.

Back in the room, I struggle mightily to extricate myself from my wet bathing suit without strangling myself in the straps.  Done.  A little winded, but done.  Next I hop in the shower to rinse off.  Oh, no, this is to be no easy task.  The dye that was water-soluble when it got on my legs now requires very vigorous scrubbing with soap and a washcloth.  With all the bending and stretching trying to scrub my fluffy body, I am now definitely short of breath.  

Getting dressed, it now takes me at least three shots to get my legs through my panties.  Next comes the bra, put on backwards as the fluffy body can't just reach back and do the hooks.  Have you ever tried to wrangle the girls into a bra while still damp?  Exhausting.

BFF returns from the pool and finds me sprawled on the bed, gasping for breath.   Worriedly asking if I was okay, I really hesitated to answer, but I did: "I just took a shower."  

Dust

Many years ago, I gave my mother a little plaque that read "Dull women have immaculate homes".  A few years ago, as we prepared to move her out of the house she'd lived in for almost fifty years and into an independent living facility closer to family, that was one of the few things I wanted to keep that she was ready to let go of.

The house I grew up in would never have been deemed immaculate, but it certainly was never dull.  People passed through our door that one would not expect to see in the average Middle American home-former Green Berets, a future U.S. President, drug addicts, ladies who lunched and those that most certainly did not-none of which I thought of as unusual at the time.

That most precious plaque sits on my living room mantel, that yes, at times, can get to be quite dusty.
It is a reminder that imperfection is to be embraced, not shunned.  Having spent far too much energy and time in my early years reaching for that pinnacle of perfection that is, in fact, unreachable for some very good reasons, I actually allow the dust to pile up every once in awhile.  It is a small reminder that life is meant to be lived, not shut off in some china box to be dusted on a weekly basis, only to be brought out on special occasions.  And yes, sometimes it does go against the grain, and the thought that I might somehow be "caught" having a dusty house does occasionally creep back in.
During those times, I once again take my mother's lead-fresh flowers and iced tea make for great distractions.  Mother was right.  Dusty trumps dull hands down every time.

Integrity

"Perhaps the surest test of an individual's integrity is his refusal to do or say anything that would damage his self-respect."    -Thomas S. Monson


Integrity is a word many of us choose to live by, yet do not know the definition of.  We don't really need to-we recognize it when we see or experience it, and are painfully aware of occasions when we don't.  It has become one of the traits I value most in other people and myself.

My father taught me to be courteous to everyone; that being courteous had nothing to do with the other person, yet spoke volumes about myself.  I believe that was my first lesson in learning about integrity-that my response to a situation or person need not be based on anything outside my own self-worth and dignity.

There was a time long ago, in my early years, that I misplaced my integrity.  Needless to say, it was by far, the most miserable of times.  However, the lessons learned during that time have proved to be invaluable.  Most importantly, I learned never to trade on, settle for less than, or compromise my own integrity.  I also learned that another person's integrity, or lack thereof, is none of my business.  "To thine own self be true" is not just another trite saying-these are words to live by.

The Gravity of Grief

Grief appears as a force of nature.  Much like gravity, it weighs upon one's shoulders like a cloak made of iron.  Left alone, it drags behind, slowing steps, straining the heart.  Once acknowledged, adaptation slowly occurs, allowing one to once again step, if not lightly, then firmly grounded.

My younger brother has wrought grief upon my loved ones for years.  Victim of a disease over which he could not seem to seek a solution, the pain he caused is as immeasurable as the laughter he so often evoked.  In fact, my family moniker, Bean, was his idea-originally intended as an adolescent insult; embraced in later years as a term of fondness.

I have found that while grief over time does not lessen, it does lighten.  Its presence scars the heart, not to weaken, but to strengthen.  Pain fades, joy and laughter are remembered, and life goes on.  He'd have wished it to be that way.  The lessening of grief  is not found in forgetting.  It is instead found in acknowledgment and honor of the good instead of the bad, the joy instead of the sadness, the blessing instead of the curse, the silver lining instead of the cloud.  Shine on, bro...

Memories Evoked

As one ages, memories are not as easily accessible as they used to be-or so it seems.  I've recently discovered the musical magic of my iPhone (yes, a wee bit late to the game).  The memories evoked and emotions felt yet again are as varied as the songs I've rediscovered.  The pain of the first young, broken heart, seemingly never to be put together again.  The lover's song of revenge. The Girl Scout song sung round a campfire.  The songs from a high school musical. The tears that fall with the song played at too many funerals far too early.  The freedom of that one pedal-to-the-metal song as you sped down that long-ago highway headed to college.  The soul-soaring ballad of a generation that recalls bell-bottoms and tie-dye spinning in circles at that first concert.  Your child's favorite lullaby.  The car-pool sing-along favorite.  The daddy-daughter song of a not-too-distant wedding.  All of them-healing, hurtful, joyous, sad-work a special kind of therapy that touches the spirit as none other.  Which song will you search for today?

Murmuration

I learned a new word the other day from a dear friend:  murmuration.  I love the way it swirls out of my mouth with its alliterative qualities.  I had no idea what it meant, and so looked it up on Google.  Simply put, it is the migration movement of starlings.  Odd that something that sounds so mundane can be so magnificent to observe.  Orchestrated perfectly swooping swirls of birds dancing in the wind to a song unheard.  I've gone years without ever taking particular notice of these magical moments in nature.  Now I seek them out, if only to remind me that this world we live in has too many moments of bliss missed simply because we forget to look for them.  Thank you, Carolyn C., for reminding me to keep my eyes wide open.

Allergy Alter

Ah, once again, spring is on its way.  While my nose may be red, my eyes watering, and my sniffer snuffed out, I have determined that there are a few distinct advantages to allergy attacks.  For one thing, you get to sleep a lot.  There is the having to flip sides every 10 minutes to alternate nostrils, but at least you're lying down.  There's the benefit of not feeling much of anything because your head is off floating like a balloon in the corner of the room.  Oh, and quilts!  Lots and lots of quilts to drift among, in and out of consciousness.  There is always chicken soup ( in a pinch, Chik-fil-a's is not too bad, and they do have a drive-thru).  And being too fuzzed out to even think of reading, there's a Law and Order episode on at all times on one channel or another.  So I settle in, quilts up to the chin, hiding just a tiny, little grin...

Hello Darkness

As the song by Simon and Garfunkel goes,  "Hello darkness, my old friend."  A user-friendly name for insomnia.  Having insomnia has become tiring, to say the least.  That being said, I have decided to embrace my insomnia rather than argue with it.  When arguing begins, without fail, insomnia wins.  And so, in these lately late nights I have started to make friends with watercolor pencils.  Thus far, nothing I've created could remotely be considered gallery-worthy, but I do find it far more relaxing than, say, ID TV.  The combination of busy hands with a wandering mind has brought about a remarkable change.  I actually look forward to my dark aloneness, falling asleep fairly easily with an anticipatory delight at the thought of a 3 a.m. session with pencils, paper, water, me, and the silence of night.