The Gift for the Giver

Here's what I have learned about gift giving: your pleasure must be in finding and giving the gift because if you're counting on the recipient's response then the gift is really about you and not them.

Here's how I learned this--again. Last June my "faux son" graduated from college. My husband and I consider him and his sister our "faux children." We've known them since they were infants, but more important, we've traveled to exotic locations with them and their parents and endured jellyfish stings, mosquito bites, sprained ankles, food poisoning, heat exhaustion, lacerations and serious fevers. This creates bonds that shopping at Toy 'R Us simply can't provide.

In 2000 we went to Greece and rented what our British neighbor called a "vulgar" pink house on the island of Corfu. We loved it. Our faux son was eleven. While playing on the beach I found this rock. It looked like an eye! We called it "The Eye Rock" and considered it magical and mystical.

I kept this rock until 2011 at which time I thought, "I know just what I'm going to give Faux Son for graduation--the Eye Rock!"

I found a suitably big ring box and lined it with velvet under which I put some quilt stuffing and made a perfect little indentation in which the Eye Rock nestled. But I wasn't done.

I now had to write a blessing from the Eye Rock. I thought about this young man and how smart and kind and sensitive and funny he is. I thought about his hopes and dreams for the future. Overcome with love and affection for him I wept as I wrote:

May the Eye Rock give you Vision to see beyond boundaries and obstacles and see all sides.

May the Eye Rock give you Focus when you need it most.

May the Eye Rock give you Hindsight to learn from your mistakes.

May the Eye Rock give you Foresight to prevent mistakes.

May the Eye Rock enable you to look deeply within yourself.

May the Eye Rock give you Clarity to see what is best for you and those around you.

May the Eye Rock help you see the Divine in every person you meet.

I read this over and over and cried each time. I envisioned him holding the Eye Rock and reading the blessing whenever he was troubled--a bad romance, a work problem, a health issue.

I folded the blessing accordion-style so that it fit into the box. I attached a red silk ribbon onto the parchment so that if you gave it a gentle tug, it would majestically unfold in all its wisdom.

His graduation dinner was at a fancy restaurant and his family and friends were all there. I couldn't stand waiting. I handed him the box and said, "Congratulations, sweetie. Please open it."

I held my breath. He opened it. "Oh, the eye rock," he said. "I remember this."

"Pull on the ribbon."

He pulled on the ribbon and the blessing unfolded. He took a few moments and read it. "Cool! Thanks, Auntie." Then he gave me a hug and got another glass of wine.

So you may be asking yourself, "What did you want?"

I wanted him to choke back tears, hold his hand over his heart and say, "Oh, Auntie, this is best present anyone has ever given me! I'll always think of you whenever I look at it. I'll treasure it forever."

Okay, writing that just now, I'm actually laughing aloud. But this is the High Drama that ego just loves! It took me a while to remember the tears of pure joy and love I shed while thinking of him and putting his gift together.

I realize now that I was also crying because I wished someone had written this for me when I graduated college. I was sure I would have avoided all kinds of problems if only I had had an Eye Rock. Or someone who could have given me one.

My greatest satisfaction was in the making and the giving of his gift. So in this Season of Giving and Great Expectations please find joy in the journey because the response at arrival is uncertain.

May the Eye Rock help you to always see Light in the midst of the Darkness.

The Miracle Continues

Max has reached Red Alert and is running in circles scream-barking. I fling doggy treats in his direction hoping he will shut up. My ears bleeding I stagger to the door and see my friendly UPS man has left a box on my porch.

I carry in the box and Max sensing Something of Interest immediately quiets down. He prances ahead of me into the kitchen. This is the doggy equivalent of the person who says, "Oh, can I help you with that?  Here--right this way. Yes, let me help you," and then does nothing to help.

Holy Hot Dogs! An enormous box of COOKIES from Arran-Paterson the Scottish Cookie Company! Max must have known it was treats from his homeland! I scream-bark and run in circles around the kitchen; do a couple donkey kicks off the counter and dig into the box.

This is a dream come true.

Over cake, over ice cream, over pie, over custard, over hill, over dale, I would take a cookie any day.

I find a hand-written note:
Dear Debra, 
Please enjoy!
From all at Patersons

Oh, my God! WHAT shall I get my new Scottish friends for Christmas?

To refresh your memory: this is the company to whom I sent a complaint message. See post "It's All About the Chocolate" dated, November 2nd, 2011

Here is what they sent (All spelling is just like it is on the package and by "biscuits" they mean "cookies."):

Giant Cookies: Custard Cream; Triple Choc; Bourbon Cream; Fruity Oat. Biscuits: Apple and Cinnamon; Milk Chocolate and Orange; Chocolate Chip and Stem Ginger.  Dunking Bars: Fruit Shrewsbury, Double Choc Chip, Oat and Raisin, Choc Chip and Orange, All Butter. Then there are Orang-U-Tangys, Clotted Cream Shortbread Fingers, and Cheese and Mild Chilli Oat Bites.

As noted in my November 2nd post, many of the packages boast, "No pork, alcohol or palm oil." This conjured up an image of a pig slathered with palm oil, sunning on a beach and drinking a Mai-Tai. Well, there's none of that in these products!

I'm sure Kosher Jews appreciate no pork. No alcohol suits many people. No palm oil?

Well, it turns out that by not using palm oil, they are saving the orangutangs. Vast areas of rainforests in South East Asia are being destroyed to make way for palm oil plantations and it's threatening their survival.

So I guess the more Orang-U-Tangys I eat, the better for the rainforest! And the orangutangs! Not so much for my thighs.

Wow. I can't get over a big company responding to a consumer--a foreign consumer--this way. A pre-Christmas miracle.

I'll think about sharing .  .  .

Leave On Your Inner Light

Old protective husk

encounters perfect conflict,

reveals inner light.

Lunaria. My friend Annie and I see these plants on our morning walk. The first time I spotted one I said, "Money plant! This is how you make money!" and then I showed her how to rub the dried pods so that the husk comes off to reveal these opalescent leaves. 

She turned 50 last week so for her birthday I wrote the above haiku and gave her a framed photo I took of a money plant--except that now I like to think of it as the "Inner Light" plant. 

Sometimes it takes just the perfect amount of conflict, tension or friction for us to lose our old skins, our old way of being. We all shy away from this. "I don't like conflict!" And yet when we meet it and allow it to show us a new way, our inner light is revealed. 

Most of us are conflict averse but how can there be any life without conflict? What happens when the shovel hits the soil? That's conflict! Without that conflict the soil will remain hard, unforgiving and nothing in it will grow. Except maybe weeds.

The next time Truth sticks in my throat because I'm too afraid of conflict to say it, I hope I remember the Lunaria. If all I get is a headache maybe the conflict will help reveal the other person's inner light!

It's All About the Chocolate

You know how you have a complaint about something you buy but never really do anything about it? Or maybe you actually write to the company but never get a response, let alone a personal response? (I'm talking to you, Starbucks.)

Well, miracles do occur! There I was last month on a flight from Amsterdam to Seattle after taking an eight hour flight from Entebbe to Amsterdam. So I was a little tired. A little cranky. A little bored. A bit dissatisfied with my KLM meal, particularly the cookie onto which I had pinned all my hopes of gustatory delight and rejuvenation.

While on the plane, I wrote the cookie company a letter. I've always believed that when you complain you need to at least offer some suggestion, some kind of possible solution to the problem. I then emailed the letter when I arrived home.

I woke up this morning to their reply. I love these people.
I especially love Allan Miller their Sales and Marketing Director of Paterson Arran who not only agrees with me but promises to accept my solution and make a change immediately!

See our correspondence below. Enjoy!

Note: You will need to know that on the wrapper it reads, "Contains no palm oil, pork or alcohol."
______________________________________

Dear Paterson-Arran,

Just ate your Bronte doubly choc chip biscuits which you describe as “bursting with choc chips.” Let’s discuss your definition of “bursting.”

Mine: Dolly Parton in a 34B bikini top, Barack Obama on knowing Osama Bin Laden was dead, but having to keep quiet for a while; King Henry VIII (RIP) in thong underwear.

Yours as evidenced by your “doubly choc chip biscuit:” rocks scattered on a concrete driveway; fingernail clippings on the bathroom floor; hair pins on the floor of a car after a heavy make-out session.

In other words I’m afraid you use “bursting” when you really mean “scattered.” After a meal of chicken w/risotto, half cup salad, dinner roll, butter, Jacob’s cracker, cheese, every one of which seemed to live up to it’s hype—meaning none—we have your final biscuit as dessert and it was such a let down.

Perhaps it was the eight hour flight from Entebbe to Amsterdam. Perhaps it is the false hope I carry for abundance on the flight from Amsterdam to Seattle that makes your biscuit such a crushing disappointment to me.

It is crispy. It is crunchy. “Bursting” it is not.

My suggestion: add more chocolate chips! A biscuit such as yours should be nothing but a vehicle for chocolate chips. And I’m sure you can do this without bringing in any palm oil, pork or alcohol.

If this suggestion is not agreeable to you, perhaps you would consider a name change that is a bit more straight forward and to the point: Super Crunchy Crispy Chocolately Biscuit! Just the facts, ma’am.
Thank you for your time and attention.

Best regards,

Debra Jarvis
KLM/Delta flight #233
___________________________

Dear Debra,
You are right. Thank you so much for taking the time to write so thoughtfully and wittily. If it wasn't for the fact that I'm so sorry our biscuits disappointed you so, reading your email would have been more of a joy.
After a little reflection I see your point exactly and we'll address this immediately. For this particular product line I can't heap more choc chips in I'm afraid, but the text on the pack will change as you suggest - maybe not in time for your next flight on Delta #233 but it will change.
We do offer a wide range of other products and, by way of thank you, I'd be happy to send you some if you wish - just let me have a postal address. Maybe you could let me know if I've got some other stuff wrong!
Thanks once more.
Kind Regards,
Allan.
Allan Miller
Sales and Marketing Director
________________________________
So who knows what will really happen? For now I take joy in the personal response. Hope you experienced some vicarious joy too.

Oddly I now feel the urge for a little nibble . . . on something crunchy . . .

And Then There Was Light

I've neglected gardening on our creek bank for the past two years because I was really pissed that our gorgeous, gigantic poplar tree, under which I planted 100 daffodils, fell over into the creek leaving us with an ugly rootball.

Apparently I can hold a grudge for a long time.

As we all know, Nature abhors a vacuum and in that short two years salmon berry, laurel, horsetails, blackberries and God-knows-what ran rampant on the bank. I'm not sure why I was motivated to get in there and clean it all out, but I was shocked at what I found.

Several sad, half-dead hostas, puny pulmonaria and struggling astilbe that were ready to die. All for lack of light--because of my lack of care. Neglected.

Here's my spiritual lesson in this: if I don't take care of That which is blocking out the Light, That will simply continue to grow and block it out. Then I'm stuck having to a do a lot of painful (blackberries, remember) and time consuming work.

This has happened in one of my relationships where I've been too chicken to speak up and I just let things slide. One in particular was nearly dead from not tackling Light-blocking issues. Now we are working hard to save the friendship.

Seattle had two, count 'em TWO amazing days of sun during which I did all this yard work. But I can't wait until it's sunny and I feel inspired.

I must tend my garden all the time, vigilant against crowding by weeds, lack of Light or lack of water.

I stand corrected.

Elegy for Ellen

Close

My friend Ellen De Bondt was killed yesterday by a drunk driver. It was a Sunday morning and who in the hell thinks about drunk drivers on a Sunday morning?
http://www.peninsuladailynews.com/article/20110307/news/303079998/suspected-drunken-driver-kills-port-angeles-nurse-in-two-truck-crash

My former boss called me this afternoon to let me know. I was stunned. I hadn't seen Ellen in awhile, but when I was a staff chaplain at the Seattle Cancer Care Alliance I used to bike to work and Ellen and I would chat in the locker room every morning.

It's a bonding experience when two sweaty women discuss their ride (or sometimes in Ellen's case her run) into work while shouting over the shower and hair dryer. My hair dryer that is. Ellen always let her amazing hair air dry.

She had a wide grin, wild hair and bright blue eyes. It astounded me that for someone who loved the outdoors, she managed to be happy while being indoors most of the day. Ellen was a nurse in the pain clinic and like being a chaplain in a cancer center, you get a different perspective on life. I can't remember her complaining about anything. She was always cheerful, sweet and enthusiastic.

Ellen referred a lot of patients to me--people who were learning to live with their chronic pain or hoping for relief from their crippling pain. When I saw the photo of Ellen's destroyed car, all I could think was, "I hope you did not die in pain. I hope you died instantly and flew out of your body in a rush of joy and freedom."

I've been walking around the house all day weeping. I was touched by the call from my boss that he would think to let me know. I realize too that hearing his voice and remembering Ellen brought up some grief I still have about leaving my staff position.

Ellen and I used to talk about living with pain and how if you can't relieve it physically, it is sometimes relieved psychically. I found this to be true for myself. When I was working in the clinic I had a bad mountain bike crash and broke six ribs, each one in two places. It was unbearable most of the time, that is, until I went in to see a patient. Then I never noticed it. Seriously.

It seemed that in reaching to out to others in pain, my own disappeared.

So perhaps this afternoon my dog Max and I will go visit one of our hospice patients. A little pain relief.

I can still grieve for Ellen and miss my job but rejoice that I knew this wonderful loving Bright Spirit. I hope she is running, biking, kayaking, hiking, swimming in some lovely precious world that is free of drunk drivers.

Oh, RATS!

It's really hard complaining about anything once you've had cancer, or once you've been a chaplain because you've heard all kinds of really sad stories that makes your complaint look pathetic and ridiculous.

So last Monday when I tripped while running and tore my hamstring, even though the pain was second only to breaking ribs, I felt like, "Oh, geez, well, it's not cancer," even though it meant I spent two days in bed lying on ice packs and gulping Aleve. And I could not sit down on anything. ANYthing if you get my drift. My doctor said, "It's because you're sitting on swollen muscles."

Swollen muscles. I got this image of a horse's rump that has been pounded by sledge hammers. "Hamstrings take a really long time to heal," he said. "A really long time."

So then on Friday when I woke up with chest cold that went up into my head I thought, "Hamstring tear and a bad cold. Well, it's not cancer."

But Sunday night was the last straw. I opened the towel drawer in the bathroom and there was a stack of gnawed towels and piles of RAT SHIT!!!!!

Yeah, yeah, I've had cancer and that sucks but RATS?!!!! I am so grossed out I can hardly stand it. We set a trap.

But the point of this post is that cancer kind of ruins guilt-free whining about the normal everyday things. But now that I think of it, being aware of the rest of the world sort of ruins it.

Maybe that's the point of awareness, to ruin our complaining, to realize that it is not really necessary to whine about anything. What percentage of the world share their daily lives with rats?

The trick is to laugh at yourself as you complain and then pray for the rest of the world.

Well, thanks for letting me work this out with you. I feel much better in all ways. And now I've got to get to that trap.

The Feel Bad Talk

A few week ago I received this message from my friend Jon who is an oncology nurse.

"Can you write a wonderful meditation please on the spiritual needs of those of us who give care and support to those who have a cancer diagnosis?

Cancer patient care-givers (family) and patients get a lot of air time (and rightly so) regarding what they deal with, and I have been in a caretaker role with my dad as he was dying with metastatic prostate cancer so I get that. I don't think that the mental, spiritual, and probably physical impact of what we do as nurses (and yes, physicians and other providers as well) is well understood. Many speakers address this issue but, from my perspective, it is presented in a "nurse appreciation day" format that lacks depth and appears to be somewhat cliché. It seems to be a "feel good" talk that lasts until the next day when it is back to business as usual.

Speaking for myself (which is all I am able to do) I agonize over patient outcomes. Every patient that dies reflects another life I have been touched by, which I feel as a loss. No matter how compartmentalized I try to make my interactions with the people I am privileged to share lives with, I can't escape the impact of their death. When I don't feel that loss, I will no longer be able to do my job. This is a catch 22 situation which is not understood."

Well, Jon, I understand your frustration with the "feel good" talks. So I hope you're holding onto your lab coat because I'm going to give you the "feel bad" talk.

I know you and I know the good work you do. You say the compartmentalizing is not working out, so why not just let everyone you meet really touch you? Let every crappy diagnosis you encounter make you even more fiercely determined to live life to the fullest. Continue to feel the loss which means you will feel bad and sad and basically shitty. Whatever made you think you could do this job and never feel that way?

But here's the question I ask you and always ask myself, "Would I rather have not met this person so as to avoid the grief of losing them?" When it comes to love, everyone loses at some point because EVERYONE DIES. This is the state of our existence. But would you rather never love? Of course not.

Let yourself cry until you think your eyeballs will fall out. I've done this very recently and though it now takes my face longer to recover, my heart feels calmer and lighter almost immediately.

You can see you are getting no sympathy from me because my experience is that sympathy is no help at all. I find when I want sympathy it is because my slobbering dog of an ego really wants strokes for how noble and courageous and compassionate and "special" I am for doing this work. So I pat the doggie on the head and say, "Yes, you are noble, etc. and how great that you get to do this work. Now get on with it."

I think when we are doing our best work, we are simply channels for the Spirit. I love that feeling of Spirit working in and through me. It's so freeing because then I don't have to be in control!

But the downside of that is that I don't have control! Talk about Catch-22. We certainly have no control over Death. For me, doing things that I can control helps mitigate all that loss and powerlessness I often feel. So that means I bake bread, I make mosaics, I write, I garden, I walk outside. In all these things I control the variables (except perhaps weather and slugs).

And I spend time goofing around with friends which is why I posted the pic of me drinking a Margarita. So I ask you, Jon, what night next week do you want to have a drink?

YouTubeDebutUpdate

The video in my last post just received an Award of Merit from the City of Hope ACE Project. I'm thrilled! It's up on YouTube so everyone can access it.

I wish Denise Echelard was still here so that I could see her face as she watched the final edit. I do think that somewhere, somehow she knows what is happening and is getting a big kick out of it.

Denise died a year ago this month. But here is what you should know: she quit her cancer treatment in January of 2009 and her doc told her she would be dead by March 2009. She received palliative care (no treatment) and had a pretty damn good life until around late September 2009.

That is the power of palliative care--and Denise. She was a force to be reckoned with: strong and funny and open and intense.

Denise, where ever you are: thank you so much.

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.