YouTubeDebut!

Blast From the Past

It seemed only right that I received this completely unanticipated email message in September which is the beginning of the school year.

It was a message from my 6th grade teacher Bob Edmiston! Being in his class was life-changing for me. How great was he?

I dedicated my first book to him.

What was so great about him?

He thought out-of-the-box and so taught us 12 year olds to think that way too. He pretty much tossed out the science textbooks because really, how excited can you get about science by reading? Science is about doing!

So he took a storage room and transformed it into a dark room. He taught us about F-stops and shutter speed and exposure. We developed our own film. We printed our own photos. I came to love the smell of developer. Sure there was the time we were jumping off the counters to see how far we could go in the dark. But no one got hurt. It just got noisy.

We learned about microscopy and climatology and botany. We learned how to shoot a Super 8 movie. I learned so much and was so proud of my work that I still have my Botany, Microscopy and Photography final projects. (I swear I am not a hoarder.)

He also taught us about culture. He took us to a Japanese restaurant and we ate raw fish! (Please keep in mind that this was in the sixties.) We worked with clay but we didn't make just little coil pots. We made raku pottery.

The most valuable gift he gave to me was encouraging me to write. In fact the subject line of his email was "The girl who liked to write really long stories." And we had all kinds of assignments: mystery stories, historical stories, stories based on TV shows. Writing was important to me because I felt that there was little else that I could do really well.

A couple other kids and I were working on a parody of "Get Smart" and our main character was called "Soxsmell Dumb." Get it? Very sixth grade, I know.

I so appreciate teachers because they can, whether they know it or not, determine the course our lives, for the better or for the worse. If you are teacher, please take your job seriously. I don't mean be serious, because God knows Mr. E was one of the funniest people I've ever known. Just know that who you are and the way you teach matters.

Mr. Edmiston wrote me a recommendation to get into UC Berkeley and then he sent me what he said was a copy, but was (I think) a joke. It's hilarious. I still have it somewhere and I'll post it as soon as I find it.

And I'll ask him if I can share about his life which was amazing to me since I thought all the excitement pretty much left his universe when I went on to Junior High.

Maybe I need a Permission Slip.

Came and Fallow Me!

I can't explain why I can't stop doing it, but it feels so good that I don't really care.

I'm experiencing some kind of wonderful Cleaning Mania. Dusting, vacuuming, steam mopping, baseboard scrubbing, silver polishing, project finishing--get out my way! That mirror looks dirty!

Is it some premonition of my impending death? I say this because for the last 25 years whenever Wes was really late I started cleaning because I was sure the cops would be at my door to take me to the morgue at Harborview to identify his broken body and smashed up bike and then everyone would be arriving to comfort me which would be horrible, but at least I wouldn't have to worry about the house being dirty.

But I've been at this all week so I don't think it's that.

It could be because my sister arrives on Monday. But she's come here when this house was a pig sty. Seriously. She's been here when I had crap everywhere and was so disorganized that I could barely mumble an apology.

And yes, upon her arrival, we do play this game called "Mean Real Estate Lady." Because she has bought and sold more houses than I've ever lived in, she has vast experience with agents who inspect her house with an eye to selling it. (She is going through this now.)

So pretending to be the Mean Real Estate Lady, she walks around looking at my house and says stuff like, "What is this here for?" in a very critical voice. It could be something meaningful like the two carved wooden monks on the piano that my friend Claude willed to me. He died of AIDS and I treasure them because they remind me of our conversations about all things spiritual.

I have put the monks next to a Greek icon of the Virgin Mary holding the Baby Jesus. You know, keep the religions together. Because on the other side of the piano is the goddess Kuan Yin, a meditation bell and a Buddhist dorje. I think it's cool, but it might be the kind of thing that a prospective buyer finds hideous.

Or sometimes the Mean Real Estate Lady says things like, "Isn't this a little worn/stained/dated?" Or, "This is a bit cluttered, don't you think?"

If I get even a bit outraged, my sister says, "Hey, it's not me talking! It's the Mean Real Estate Lady."

But honestly, I don't think this is why I suddenly have all this energy for cleaning. I think it is because I am finally, very deeply rested. You know how you come home from work and you look at something and say to yourself, "Yeah, I really need to do that." But then you just can't do it, because you're tired. Deeply tired.

But I don't feel that way anymore! I have energy for all the cleaning and unfinished projects that have piled up in the last few years since me getting cancer and working as a chaplain.

I'm convinced I have this new found energy because in June I decided to spend the summer being fallow. I love this concept of letting a field lie unplanted to replenish it. If you take a superficial look at it, you might thnk, "Whatta waste! Something could be growing in that soil!" But actually, something is growing very deep within that soil that we can't see.

What did this mean for me? It meant that I wouldn't work on any new books or films, or audio documentaries or essays or commentaries, but instead would spend time taking in instead of putting out. I gave myself until September 1st.

And it has worked. But it was hell at first. Such guilt! Reading for hours? Sloth. Gardening all day, for days at a time? Indulgent. Drinking great wine when we're not having company? Hedonistic.

Gradually I got used to it. The most "work" I did was visiting hospice patients with Max. And because he's the main attraction, I'm off the hook.

I recommend this. You may not have the luxury of being able to be fallow for an entire season I like did. So try a weekend. A day. Or even a few hours.

Let me know how it goes.

And why I'm so driven in the first place? Well, that's for another post.

Notes From A Broad

Here is a good way to go through life: as if you live with a small dog or as if you are in an art museum. Either one requires you to look around before you move, before you take a step to see who or what your action will affect.

I've been in Europe for the past month which meant quite a few art museums. I was astonished at the number of people who back up to look at a painting and back right into someone because they didn't look around. They were just caught up in their own little worlds.

Because I live with a small dog (who thinks he's a big dog) I've learned to look around before I take a step. Before he came to live with us, Max lived outside all his life. He never lived around feet and ankles and legs and therefore did not how unpredictable they are. So it my job to look out for him.

I think this is an excellent way to live in the world, always asking myself if my words or actions are going to cause me to crash into someone or step on them. So yeah, go through life as if living with a small dog.

Finding Meaning Through Dolphins

Two weeks until my workshop "Finding Meaning Through Cancer" which happens on April 24-25 here in Seattle. It's sponsored by the Seattle Cancer Care Alliance, the Fred Hutchinson Cancer Research Center and Healing Journeys.

This has been a lot like putting on a wedding. There are a million details to which I must attend: getting the venue, thinking about the food, parking, getting out information.

But unlike a wedding I have to think about getting the word out so people will come (which is sort of the opposite of a wedding). I've been schmoozing with drug reps and restaurants owners and store managers to see if they will donate money, or lunches, or water or art supplies.

I talk with organizations and fill out applications for grants for scholarship money.

I've pitched myself to radio and television stations. I've been rejected and ignored and feel like a has-been prostitute when I find myself muttering, "But you don't know good I am!"

And then suddenly I'm amazed at the generosity of friends and family who are willing to donate money for scholarships. Willing to give money to strangers to help them find meaning in what is usually labeled just a big, fat, sucky experience.

Like a wedding, the reception gets all the attention, but it's the ceremony that really counts. So in-between all the whoring I work on content. Refining ways to help us get to our feelings and core beliefs.

At the workshop I'm doing some talking and we're doing some group sharing and some visual journaling and some completely original movement work and then of course, the spontaneous hilarity that occurs at workshops like this.

My head feels like a popcorn popper as ideas are constantly bursting forth. It's exciting. It's thrilling. It's nerve wracking.

Above is a painting I did on my birthday, March 27th. I went to a workshop called, "Painting From Within." I was just playing with the greens and the grays--just squishing and brushing and wiping the paint when I stepped back and suddenly saw the two dolphins. I was stunned. It was not my conscious intention.

I swear.

Dolphins have appeared in my Big Dreams and once when I was swimming in Tobago. A pod swam around us and they scared and thrilled me. They are big and very strong. The force of their bodies as they swam by pushed me through the water. I had thought that they were the size of German Shepherds. They are really the size of mini-vans.

I put my head under the water and could hear them talking. "Eee-eee!"

Even now, I can close my eyes and feel the warm, silky water and hear them. I am hearing them say that I can lighten up and trust. All is play now! No worrie-e-e-e-es!

Anyone reading this post and wanting to donate money for scholarships can go to www.healingjourneys.org, click on donate and put "Finding Meaning" in the comments box.

Or "Finding Me-e-e-e-e-eaning!"

When In Doubt, Grout

This was my big project for the day. I wanted to take advantage of this gorgeous weather, so my decision was to either work in the garden, or grout a mosaic egg that I finished tiling months ago.

I'm in a finish-all-projects mode, so I went with the egg. The egg is ceramic and my original plan was to put it in the garden. But it was so much work that I'm feeling quite protective about it. I think it will stay in the house until the weather warms up and then The Egg will have a home on the deck where we can see it.

Here's one thing I learned doing mosaics: always keep your mistakes. This means if you try to cut a square and it breaks into a rectangle, don't throw it away. Keep it. You will use it later.

I feel the same way about "failure," or the so-called "bad experience." Don't throw it away, save it. You will use this experience later to your benefit.

Note To Self

I received this message today (w/names omitted and edited for brevity):

I know you probably get plenty of emails from bewildered individuals like me, but can I just say I really need some advice, just like all the other bewildered. I have even re-read your book, seeing if it answers
this big question, and maybe you did, but since the answer wasn't lit up in neon with the preface "HEY YOU: HERE IS YOUR ANSWER," I missed it.

And maybe the answer is in there, but it is hard to really "get it" because it is a life experience, and like all the books on childbirth, which even told me all about childbirth, it just didn't tell me about MY childbirth. Somehow uniquely surprising. So apologies if you did actually answer my question, but could you re-phrase the answer?

The background: My neighbor has Stage IV breast cancer. AND she has three children. (You are probably getting an inkling where this is going?) And, well, she is ~my neighbor~ and this is, you know, the Pacific Northwest. We have, for a decade, pretty much minded our own business (even though our kids play every once in a while), there is no deep and meaningful relationship-- just our nice, you-on-one-side of the
street and me-on-the other-side, sometimes a pleasant nod and a wave.

So. A neutron bomb has gone off and it is time to change our lovely distant relationship because well, it seems pretty non-optional in light of all the care that is going to be needed. And I have even tested that
idea out on several different clergy and no one has disagreed with that statement about non-optional relationship change (freaking Christians).

Plus, I pretty much know this is what I am called to be doing. How? Because anytime that I have been called up by God it has involved something that scares the beejeezus out of me, I try to come up with some good reasons to avoid it, it has involved caring about someone other than myself (some of those times people have fit into that neat, other-side of the street definition) and has involved giving up my brilliant plans for the near future.

The question: How do people live through something so incredibly scary and sad? It has been easy to go into organization hyper-mode because order is so lovely, and so impersonal. But it is the personal stuff that
is next on the agenda, I am imagining. The personal stuff of seeing my neighbor get really sick, and frail, and maybe even unable to care for her kids. And maybe even talking about scary things like dying and what will happen to her children.

How in the world do people do this? How in the world does someone go through something like this with another person? How in the world can I do this?

Thanks for any advice, your experience and your wisdom. I will really appreciate it because so far one of my coping strategies has involved closing the blinds to avoid looking across the street. And we all know reducing any form of light during a Northwest winter is a terrible idea.

Yours,
Stumped

Dearest Stumped,

Here's my answer to your question: How in the world can I do this?

I want to warn you that my answer is such a cliche, such well-worn advice that you have heard a thousand time that it may make you want to spit.

Here it is: One day at a time.

Seriously. That is how people go through life, because really, you can't actually go through any other way, now can you? You are trying to be in a future that you don't even know will happen. How do you know you will see your neighbor "get really sick, and frail, and maybe even unable to care for her kids. And maybe even talking about scary things like dying and what will happen to her children."

How do you know that's going to happen? How do you know she will talk to you about dying? How do you know it's going to be scary and sad for her? Or did you mean for you?

So how in the world can you be with your neighbor? One day at a time.

When you were pregnant did you spend all your time thinking about delivery? It never hurts to be informed, but how could you spend every day worrying about the delivery? You would entirely miss the life that was happening right in front of you. Childbirth! Talk about scary!

Here's an idea. Give her a copy of my book. Then you will have something to talk about that isn't directly about her, but the conversation may get to be about her.

And you know what? Don't assume that she will want you to get all neighborly all of a sudden. I just now started thinking about neighbors on my street that I don't know well and how I would feel if they were suddenly coming over all the time. I would freak out!

You may want to be closer, but don't assume that she does. And you can't take it personally if she doesn't.

I think perhaps today is simply Bewildered Day, because I, myself have been in a State of Bewilderment for most of the day. So you are not alone. In fact, the first thing I did this morning was write to two close friends asking for advice. My subject line: Help Me! So there you go.

I hope this helps. Don't hesitate to call or give my number to your neighbor in case she wants a (im)perfect stranger to come in and listen to her talk about her experience.

It's great that you care, Stumped. If I thought worrying helped ANYthing, I'd say, "Angst away, my friend!" But it doesn't, so don't.

Be here now. One day at a time.

Thanks for writing and reminding me.

Community College Collage

Spiritual revelation at community college? It happens.

It was the fall of 1998. I had just lost a job and felt raw and vulnerable. In an attempt to turn lemons in lemonade—instead of sitting around the house and muttering, “Those bastards!” I decided to attend North Seattle Community College full time. I enrolled in all the classes I’d always wanted to take.

French 101 was like jumping into an unheated swimming pool. I gasped and sputtered with shock. Nothing was familiar. I couldn't read the words, let alone pronounce them. Throughout the class the professor would put a hand behind his ear and say, "Ecoutez!" Listen. Attention! Pay attention.

Oddly, I would hear his voice in my head at different times during the day—while talking with a friend, while witnessing an argument in the grocery store, while hearing the wind whisper through the trees. Ecoutez! And I found myself listening the same way I did in class: wondering what can I learn from this? Attention!

If French was a cold pool, Drama was a bubbling hot tub. I was comfortable and hungrily gobbled up everything my professor said.

"Nothing is random, everything is intentional," she said, meaning that in a play, every word, gesture, action and prop had meaning. Could this be true of my life? Looking back it did seem as if everything, even difficult things, lead to a place I would not have otherwise gone.

Then there was Drawing. The first day my professor intoned: "Get the big picture first. What are the major shapes? What is your perspective? Check your proportions."

His words went straight to my heart. How many times had I failed to see the larger context? Or looked at situations from only my perspective and then later dared to see it from another side and found myself suddenly understanding? And as for proportions—I could be the Picasso of reality perception.

We learned about lights and shadows. "Without shadows, your picture has no depth, no dimension." I knew he was talking to me. Nothing is random. Like most people, I wanted to avoid life's shadows. But he was right: without them life was flat and superficial—a cartoon drawing versus a Rembrandt.

It was our study of "negative space, " the space between objects, that set me to hours of pondering. He gently chided us: "Don't focus so much on the object. Without negative space, your picture is just a cluttered mess. And don't forget that half of drawing is standing and looking—not making marks on the paper. How else can you see what is needed?"

But if I wasn't making marks on the paper I felt lazy and irresponsible—the same way I felt watching the clouds or drinking a cup tea. Guilty and unproductive! But perhaps I needed to make "negative space"—time between activities, so I could stand back, look at my life and see what was needed.

In our culture, negative space is not valued. We cram our lives with more objects and activities until our lives feel like cluttered messes. Just take a look at the annual Christmas letter. Have you ever seen one that says, "After work I come home and putter around. On weekends the kids goof around in the yard or whatever. Sometimes I see them just talking to each other."

Singing class brought more insights. "Stay in your body and sing what you're feeling!" my teacher bellowed. "Breathe from your back!"

We breathed. We huffed. We puffed. We gave each other shoulder massages. We pretended to yawn to lift our soft palates in order to hit the high notes. We sang with our tongues hanging out.

After a while I started to get more comfortable with the high notes—they just sounded bad. "Your problem is that you hit every note with such force," my professor said punching her fist into the air.

I blinked. Well, that's how I do everything in life, I thought.

She continued, "You need to learn to sing the note gracefully—you don't need all that force." I didn't need all that force? That's a revolutionary concept. Could this possibly apply to the rest of my life? Stand back and look.

I went to learn about theatre, art, singing and French. But I came away knowing about listening and attention, negative space, lights and shadows, force and grace.

Community college—I highly recommend it.

A Christmas Story

I was in the fourth grade when my father got the idea of putting a 12 foot aluminum Christmas tree on top his ham radio tower. My sister Lynie and I were wild with delight. "Yeah, Dad, do it, do it! Please. We'll help. It will be so-o-o neat. " My mother rolled her eyes.

Every day after school we would come home to find my dad working on Project Christmas Tree. My mother called it Project Stupidity. Lynie and I helped by putting the aluminum branches into the silver painted trunk. Spurred on by our enthusiasm for the project, Dad also decided to put a motor on the tree so that it would spin around. Then, in a moment of true genius, he installed two floodlights so that it could be seen at night.

At last the moment came to crank the tree up into the sky. "Wait," Lynie said. My dad and I looked at her expectantly. I was expecting something dopey to come out of her second grade mouth. "Ornaments," she said.

"Ornaments!" I yelled running back to the house. I knew just where my mother put those boxes of new red glass balls.

Nobody spoke as we reverently hung the balls all over the tree. I hung up the last ornament. "It's beautiful," Lynie said in whisper. She was right again. It was prettier, more wonderful, more fantastic than any tree I'd ever seen. It was alive--it shivered as the wind blew through it's aluminum needles. Finally my dad cranked it up, up into the sky.

"We have to get some distance," my dad said. "It's like looking up a flagpole at flag. You can't really see it. Let's go over to the Gemco parking lot after dinner and look at it from there." Gemco was about half a mile away as the crow flies.

I could hardly eat dinner I was so excited. My mom didn't want to come to Gemco with us--she was mad that we took her new Christmas ornaments. Lynie and I covered our eyes the way to the parking lot. We didn't want to spoil it. We got out of our Dad's van and there--up in the sky--there was the silver tree. It looked like it was floating. It was magical.

You couldn't really see the Christmas balls, but you could tell it was spinning round and round like the ballerina in my jewelry box. It was so beautiful I started crying, but managed to croak out, "Project Christmas Tree is a success!"

But not for long. Two nights after Christmas, we had a terrible storm. It rained heavily and a gale force wind came up.

The next day, and for several weeks afterward, people, known and unknown, came to our door. Usually they would hold out one of the aluminum branches and ask, "Is this yours?"

My mother would thank them, take the branch, close the door and then mutter "Stupidity!" under her breath. All the branches blew off except for two. All the ornaments were missing except for one. And that one my dad broke when he took down what was left of the tree.

Lynie and I didn't talk about it. That is, until Easter vacation when a strange man rang our doorbell. He said he lived over by Gemco. He carefully reached into the brown paper bag he was holding. "Is this yours?" he asked. He was holding one of the Christmas tree's red glass balls. But now it was actually pink. "I came across this in my garden," he said smiling.

Lynie gasped. "The Christmas ornament that turned into an Easter egg," she said. "It's a miracle." My mother thanked him, took the ornament, shut the door and didn't say a word.

Normally I love cemeteries. When we travel I go out of my way to visit them and photograph the tombstones, the flowers, the landscape. I look at the dates and wonder if the long life was well lived or short life much grieved. I like being reminded that I’ll be along at some point, so I mustn’t waste a moment. I come away from cemeteries inspired.

The exception is war cemeteries. Once there I immediately feel depressed and hopeless. My throat gets tight and suddenly there is a hockey puck sitting in my stomach. I can’t take a deep breath.

We were in Washington D.C. over the weekend. Wes wanted to see all the war memorials and Arlington cemetery. I said okay, but no to the Vietnam Memorial because I’d been there before and couldn’t stop crying. And I insisted that we walk all the way from Dupont Circle (about 4 miles) because I knew that would be the only redeeming thing for me. I was right.

I cried the whole time: at the World War I memorial, the World War II memorial, the Korean War memorial, the Lincoln memorial, the rippling pond at Bobby Kennedy’s grave, the eternal flame at the Kennedy grave and especially at all the military graves in Arlington.

I kept thinking, “What a waste.” I know many would say, “But we are free because of these dead!” And first I thought no, there has to be a better way. You want X, I want X. If you are dead, then I can have X. That’s basically it, right? Isn’t there some way to deal with that?

I said to Wes, “The bottom line is that war is about young people dying because of arrogant, power hungry men.”

Sexism alert: if women ruled the world would it be different? What mother would want her precious children trained to take human life, to regard others as “the enemy” so as to make killing possible? What mother could send her children off with the potential not only for death, but to return broken or permanently damaged—not just their bodies, but their spirits?

But what about fighting against oppression? Are you supposed to let evil dictators rule? Should we still have slavery? Genocide? Hunger?

On the stone wall at Bobby Kennedy’s grave is a quote from him where he was quoting Aeshylus and it was something about “look within and tame our own savage beast.”

So perhaps I was wrong. Maybe the bottom line is that war is about dealing with the dark, selfish, I-perceive-myself-separate side of humanity. The side that says, “I am better than you. I should get what I want. I will kill you to get what I want.”

This is the side that is within each one of us. And if you don’t think you have a dark side, I invite to remember how you felt the last time someone cut in front of you in line or you didn’t get the vacation you requested or a teacher yelled at your kid and made her cry. Or they took away your aisle seat and put you in the middle—between two really large people.

I walked around Arlington thinking about the savage beast, the dark side within. I also thought about the Light within. I looked at those thousands of grave stones and wondered if these men and women had lived, what cure, what music, what art, what poetry, what invention, what idea did the world miss because they were killed before they could offer it?

I overheard a tour guide talking about “all the heroes buried here.” I know there are people buried in Arlington who went “above and beyond the call of duty.”

But I’ll tell you who my real hero is. My hero is the one who one who can see a better way. My hero is the one who prevents the war before it can begin. My hero is the one who can tame the savage beast within.

Follow Up

So the Washington State Book Awards ceremony was a blast. Paraphrasing a winner, it's nice to get local recognition or any award because as writers we're always wondering, "Is anybody out there?"

In other news, I was on KING Morning News. Here's the link:
http://www.king5.com/video/in-studio-index.html?nvid=407547

I still can't believe I said "Brazilian bikini wax" on television.

Enjoy.

It's Not About the Award

Tonight is the awards ceremony for the 2009 Washington State Book Awards. It's Not About the Hair did not win, but it was a finalist in the history/biography category.

I know I sound like a loser actress when I say that I was thrilled to be a finalist. But I was! Seriously. It was even more thrilling because I didn't know I had been nominated and the congratulatory e-mail was a nice surprise. It just proves to me that often unknowable things are happening for us right now, that will come to fruition at a later time.

I recently got a big boost in Amazon sales but I don't think it was because of this award. It was because the infamous "sex chapter" was excerpted in CURE magazine:
http://www.curetoday.com/index.cfm/fuseaction/article.show/id/2/article_id/1246


I've been getting all sorts of messages about that, mostly saying, "Yay! Someone is talking about sex!" Well, I'm glad I'm able to help. But no one knows about WSBA because they don't usually publish the list of finalists. Just the winners who also get $1,000.

So I'll let you know what the ceremony and reception is like. It's at 7 p.m. at the Downtown Library in the Microsoft auditorium. It's open to the public which makes me suspect it will be catered by Costco.

Not that there's anything wrong with that.

Three Things

Three things I have discovered this year which have been life-changing: 1) the soaker hose, 2) eyebrow dye and 3) the Mars Coat King.

The Soaker Hose
I no longer have to spend hours hand watering my garden. I just hook up the hose and walk away.

Eyebrow Dye
I no long have to spend minutes dinking with my eyebrows. I just dye them and it lasts for six weeks.

The Mars Coat King
I no longer have to get Max groomed every few months. I brush him with this magical comb that pulls out all the loose hair. I trim his bangs and beard and he's good to go. Such a handsome guy. I could knit a sweater out of all the hair I pull off. Well, first I'd have to spin it into yarn. Then learn to knit.

I never promised this would be earth-shattering, soul-jarring news. Just three things.

Try Tri Again

So that's me in the middle coming out of Lake Washington two weeks ago at the Danskin Triathlon.

I did the Danskin in 2004 and was training for 2005 when I was diagnosed with breast cancer. Okay, so there was a teeny tiny part of me that thought, "Now I can stop all this insane training!" Ha.

It's taken me five years to get in shape again and even though I'm five years older and ten pounds heavier, I finished thirteen minutes faster than 2004. While I was doing the run (which is the worst part because your legs are so dead) I kept thinking, "Well, this is way better than getting chemotherapy!

I was faster because I learned to swim freestyle the whole way and most important, to not dally in my transitions. This got me to thinking about my transition from a staff chaplain at the SCCA to a sort of freelance chaplain/writer/public speaker.

I've grieved over leaving my community there: my colleagues and the patients. This was especially hard when I learned that one of the nurses got married and not only was I not invited to the wedding, but another chaplain did the ceremony.

But then I also realize that I have not gone out of my way to keep connected to people there. And in fact, sometimes avoided going up to my old unit. The reason: I wanted to give the new chaplains a chance to get settled in and let the staff bond to them.

Also: one time I was talking with a patient about being in a film I'm making about palliative care. The new chaplain got all squirrelly about it. Like, what was I doing there? And did our boss know about it? And did I chart it? And I kept reassuring him, "I wasn't seeing him as a chaplain. There was no need for me to chart."

So for the past year I've been so sad about this and kept telling myself, "Well, you're in a transition from this job you so loved. These things take time." The triathlon showed me that there is no need to dally in a transition: put on your shoes and helmet and get on the bike! Take off your helmet and start the run!

Quit mourning your old job and embrace your new life! Sure these things take time, but I don't have to draw it out! Plus: I can't even stay connected with some of my closest friends so how can I possibly stay connected to people I saw only at work? Get over it!

The staff at the SCCA are some of the finest people with whom I've ever worked. If I want to stay connected to them, it's up to me--now that I'm out of my transition.

Therapy Dog

I had my first therapy dog visit with Max.

It was a disaster.

We went to an adult family home for people with dementia. This is a place in our neighborhood that we have passed on our walks and I would say to Max, "Some day when you're a therapy dog, we're going to visit there!" And so I went and visited the manager last week. She was very sweet and delighted to have us come.

On Friday I washed and brushed Max. Did the same with myself. It was a beautiful sunny day. Janet met us at the gate and showed us how to open all the locks and gate handles. We walked in and she introduced us. Smiles from all the staff. Most of the residents were quietly looking off into space or down at the floor.

So how was I to know there was a cat behind the Barcalounger?

The cat peeked his head around the corner and Max saw him. Max went wild barking and the cat streaked across the room. I felt as if I had a Tasmanian devil on the end of the leash. Some of the residents looked over at us and more distressing, some of them were completely unfazed.

I apologized profusely and took him out. I felt like a parent whose child is throwing a tantrum in the grocery store. Now I understand why parents give in and hand the child an open box of Lucky Charms. Anything to stop the madness.

I calmed him down and we returned to the house. That is I thought I calmed him down. There was a terra cotta pig sitting by the door and Max saw it and began what I can describe only as "scream barking." After a few seconds he stopped as it dawned on him the pig was not real. Now it was his turn to be embarrassed.

The manager was completely unruffled. She invited us to come to another one of her adult family homes a few blocks away. That visit went better as there was no cat, but one of the residents kept trying to feed Max a pine cone. He made the biggest impression on the staff, all of whom want us to visit again.

We will. As soon as I recover.

Love and Blessings

In the olden days (and on The Simpsons), the bad kid is always writing a hundred times on the chalkboard, "I will not throw spitballs," as a way of reinforcing good behavior. But we now know that it is more effective to give yourself positive suggestions, i.e. "I will pay attention in class."

A couple of weeks ago I had to pre-sign 200 books before a talk I gave. So I wrote, "Love and Blessings, Debra Jarvis" two hundred times. (I really believe that each of us has the power to bestow blessings on another.)

For the rest of the day and well into the next I felt loving, forgiving and generous. Love and blessings. Two hundred times. I'm thinking about doing this every morning.

Good Friday

I read the obituary page every day. I say each person's name aloud in my head--especially if the obit is very short and makes me wonder if any body cared. (I suppose if no one cared there would not be an obit.) I really like when they show a photo of the person in their prime and then one of them wrinkled and saggy, the experience of life etched on their faces.

Seeing the two photos is such a good reminder that this is supposed to happen: the aging, the wrinkling, the hair turning white. It's not sad. What makes me sigh with sadness are photos of young people in their prime and that's it. They died. They will never age.

That's why I like Good Friday because it's reminder that all of us, at some time in our lives, have been or will be crucified. (Don't believe me? Think of junior high.) I even like that weirdo, in-between limbo that is the Saturday before Easter. When I was kid I used to wonder, "What happened to Jesus's molecules on Saturday? Were they rearranging themselves to make him alive the next day?" (I was into the idea of molecules.)

I like that rearrangement idea. Usually we have to rearrange some things after we've been crucified: our ideas, our identity, our opinions, our emotions. We do that so that we can rise again.

May your rearranging and resurrections go well. Peace to your molecules.

Ashes To Ashes, Time To Dust

"You are butt dust and to dust you shall return."

Luckily I don't have a problem with butt dust. But (there it is again!) for the first time in seven years I almost forgot yesterday was Ash Wednesday. That is because I am not working at the Seattle Cancer Care Alliance as a chaplain right now.

For the past seven Ash Wednesdays I would play my cedar flute at a noon service in the chapel. Then another chaplain and I would go around and dispense ashes to any staff, families and patients who wanted them.

A patient told me, "I feel marked for death because I have cancer. But we are all marked aren't we? That why I like Ash Wednesday: other people receive the ashes and realize they are marked too."

She had a point. You know how people look at you when you have ashes on your forehead? It's very similar to the way they look at you when they find out you have cancer.

This is how having cancer improves your vision: you can see the ashes on everybody's forehead.

Indulge Me!

The Catholic church is once again giving indulgences! This means you can shave off some of your time in Purgatory. Yes, even after Catholics confess their sins and are absolved, they still have to spend some time in Purgatory before they can get into Heaven. I'd like to think that Purgatory is the equivalent of the mud room: you wipe your feet, hang up your wet coat, stow your umbrella and now you're ready to go into The House. But my Catholic friends say it is much worse.

Full disclosure: my Catholic friends don't even believe in Purgatory. But for those who do, indulgences are a great thing.

But what about us Protestants? We have our own Purgatories, you know: sitting next to someone yakking on a cellphone; talking to a guy with corn in his teeth; preachers who use football analogies in their sermons; baby showers; feeling fat; feeling unfit; feeling a fart in the dentist's chair; head cheese; headaches, Cheese Heads and big toes blisters when you're only half-way there. And these are just a few!

But now, for a limited time only, I'm offering indulgences. (I can do this because I'm ordained! In a real church!) Comment on this blog and you'll receive a pass to avoid any of the above mentioned and any of your own Personal Purgatories!

Just imagine going through your day and not having to enter Purgatory once! You'll thank me for it and all your friends will be amazed. For the low, low price of one comment.

Void where prohibited.

Musical Cares

I'm making a film for patients and families about palliative care. My friend Carla is shooting it and I'm interviewing people. Today was the second day of shooting and when I woke up this morning, I felt that unmistakable feeling of anticipation and excitement.

This is the beginning of my new life! So much to learn! On the way to the interview I put on an Oldie station and when they began playing the Doobie Brothers, I felt just like I did in high school: young, excited with my whole life before me.

I'm no longer "young", but I still have my whole life before me, it's just that statistically it's a lot shorter than it was when I was a teenager. That and the fact that it's a little harder for me to get up from a squat.

But back to the music--it was absolutely energizing and invigorating. I listened to Carole King, the Beatles, Three Dog Night, James Taylor, the Doors! And as I rocked out, I felt that anything was possible.

So my suggestion: if you want to start anew, find the music from the time in your life when you felt the most freedom, promise and excitement. Play that while reminding yourself, "Today is the beginning of my New Life!"

Do this until you feel excited about your life even when you are not playing the music.

Happy New Year!