Unity in Diversity

Before going to Africa, all I knew about Rwanda related to Dian Fossey and her work with gorillas.   It was not until April,1994 that I'd learned about Hutus or Tutsis.

After President Habyarimana’s plane went down on April 6, I saw small groups of students gather as I walked about campus.  In Africa, if one has not lived through a time of strife among tribes, there is history that speaks of heated disagreements.  So at the very least these small group discussions were a way of handling very personal fears.   

Daily our Rwandan students heard of more and more deaths and disappearances of family members and friends.   One day, Johnny came to my office.  He had just gotten word that his mother, brother, sister and an uncle had been killed.  Only his father and grandmother were spared because they were in Zaire attending a funeral.   Three months later he heard that his sister had escaped death because friends had hidden her in the filth of an outhouse for days until the family could get her into hiding.

Nathan was another student who lost his family.  He considered himself fortunate that he had a brother-in-law in Nairobi.  After the killing stopped, he told me he planned to return to Rwanda.  When I expressed concern because he is a Tutsi, he explained that he had to see for himself--I just can’t believe it all until I see it with my own eyes. When Nathan returned to campus, he told me about walking the roads and paths through the forests and finding rotting skeletons with body parts hacked to pieces by machetes.  Yes, he now knew it had all really happened.

While none of the Rwandan students were involved in the violence, there was a natural suspicion between the Tutsis and Hutus on campus.   I asked them if we could meet together to talk, but the Hutus were reticent.   That was understandable.

            A year later, 1995, as part of my responsibility on campus, I suggested that we carry out a theme—Unity in Diversity—during 4th quarter--the University had students from many countries.   The student committee with whom I worked became enthusiastic immediately.   At once they organized a Unity in Diversity Week when students from each country and/or tribe put together short programs to inform the audience about their cultural origins and practices.  The first night the amphitheatre was packed--the students were so enthusiastic, so positively responsive to the history, the dances, and the customs each group presented. 
   

The next day, a student ran up to me--You won’t believe it!   Last night after the program, two Rwandans asked me if they could still be a part of the program!  Previously they had declined to participate. 

As the Rwandan students came forward, the amphitheater grew very quiet—the audience was aware of the losses they had all suffered.   As they walked onto the stage I saw they were both Hutu and Tutsi students.  The music began.  The Tutsi men and the Hutu women danced the Rwandan wedding dance.   

Tears streamed down my face.   Having heard the stories of grief from both tribes expressed in the privacy of my office—knowing the number of family members who had been brutally murdered, and also seeing with my own eyes how much they believed that healing must come—I knew it would be these students who could make it happen.

Although the world is full of suffering, it is also full of the overcoming of it. 

                                                                                                  -- Helen Keller

 

Memorable holiday adventures....

Holidays, during my years in Kenya, were often spent in Mombasa.  The white sandy beaches; winding, twisting balboa trees; exotic sunbirds, weavers, turacos, eagles; and the need for total relaxation--all magnetic forces calling us to caravan toward the warm, restful waters of the Indian Ocean.  Of course the hours of reading, lying on the beach, and sneaking out at dawn to watch the sun peak over the water's horizon--a phenomenon for one who grew up in Oregon--added even louder calls to this exotic place. 

A reef along the Kenyan coast extends about half a kilometer--where we often found small species of shark and octopus swimming in pools.

But rentals of quaint 1940s era cottages added the real adventure to the experience...  

Plumbing and electricity kept us busy!  At one bungalow we discovered the well and septic placed side-by-side.  So do we really push the owner to make improvements for bathing and toilet use--or do we haul water daily from a safer distance? 

At one cottage, getting water into the house was not the problem.  The challenge was the slanting bathroom floor that kept the bather standing in a pool of water from previous showers.  

And a hot plate that worked for breakfast had succumbed by lunchtime...either due to age or yet another power outage...all in a day's adventures.  

Mosquito netting is a must in Kenya--especially along the coast.  The hot, humid temperature draws those flying, buzzing little creatures--who easily find their way through the numerous holes in the netting hanging over our beds.  Another use for duck tape!  Works great--except for the claustrophobic feeling of being locked in a small, metal cell.

At another cottage missing cement blocks at floor level provided air conditioning OR an open door policy for mice who boldly entered to join our long evening conversations.

In one kitchen, a large grate hung over the work area.  Bush babies--those adorable little furry creatures with large, protruding eyes--loved to climb down through the thatched roof and lay on the grates to watch meal preparation.

Staying in the old cottages gave me the sense that we were in a time warp.  Memories of war movies--the kind that romanticize war--came to mind as we planned these cottages-by-the-sea holidays.  What new adventures awaited us?  They really were what made these treks memorable.

Bellyaching, Criticizing, and Grumbling...just stop it!

I am usually an optimist--I'd rather observe likes, not dislikes.  I prefer seeing the glass half full--not dripping with habitual skepticism.  I don't like negative confrontations.  You get the picture.  

Of course, in the real world we encounter all kinds of people....  But the type that I really prefer NOT to be around are the bellyachers, criticizers, and grumblers;  those who wear their negativism like a shroud--gray, dirty, and ragged.  Remember the picture of the man carrying a sandwich board saying THE END IS NEAR?  Those types, i.e. "Kids today....(followed by a diatribe of condemnation)".   "Why did that have to change?  It's always been that way!"   "My back hurts..."   "My legs ache..."  And the list goes on...and on...and on....  And then they become a pain in my butt!  Do these people reach a certain age and become negative or were they always that way and I just didn't notice?

So, why, if I'm such an optimistic, positive-thinking person, do I allow this to bother me so much?  My thoughts:

1.  Complaining does nothing to change any situation!  Change brings renewed energy.  A change in thinking is usually based on new research.

2.  Negative talking and thinking creates negative energy.  I can feel it when I enter a room.  It promotes a vicious cycle and magnifies a chipped toenail into a broken leg.

3.  Negativity isn't problem solving at any level.  It only adds to the dilemma.

4.  It's inter-generational.  Children raised by complainers become adult complainers--don't argue with that one!  I was a teacher in my former life....

5.  It causes one to lose hope.   After obsessive thinking comes delusional thinking.

6.  People who are negative are a pain-in-the-arse to be around!  B**chers and complainers are no fun to spend time with.

I could list more but you''d stop reading. 


In all honesty, I'd better own up now...I have been known to be critical....on occasion.  My Girls will tell you just how picky, persnickety, prissy, and particular I can be...  (Yeah, that's taking alliteration w-a-a-y too far.)  We all have little pet peeves--and let's face it, no one likes a Pollyanna.  

I'm looking outside right now and I hear children laughing as they play basketball next door.  I just emailed a friend who's coming for a visit next week.  Our autumn days have been beautiful!  I'll probably talk to my Girls this weekend.  I had dinner with four great friends the other night, and went to a musical.  Life is good.... 

No, it's not perfect.  There are six month cancer monitorings; divorces; abused children whose reports I read each month, and yes, occasionally my back does hurt.  Life isn't easy.  And the older we get, the more challenging life becomes.


But every get-together, every social function isn't a time to unload all our personal problems AND/OR societal madness!

Let's try smiling from the inside more often...you have my permission to remind me if I appear to have slipped on that gray, dirty, ragged cloak.  Then just maybe, we can be the change we want to see in the world!  

Do you have a Best Exotic Marigold Hotel?

You know--that far from perfect place that holds you in its arms; that sometimes questions your decisions but always with a hand of support? 

A friend and I saw The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel when it first came to our theater.  In a packed house, there weren't more than half a dozen whose heads weren't topped with white--we all identified with the story.  A lovely film featuring stars we've admired for years.  Many reasons to have an enjoyable evening.  I loved the movie, and learned from it some things that are important to me.

1.  Courage.  It took a force--a good reason--for each person to leave England and find another home:  finances, loneliness, unfinished business, escape, medical care....  Even with a need standing starburst in our face, it's often difficult to face change, and it takes courage to do so--especially in the last years of life.

2.  Community--though it didn't begin that way.  From strangers stranded in an airport to fixing dilapidated facilities to attending the funeral of one of their own,  community formed--conversation, support, that necessary hug.  All universal needs.

3.  Adventure.  Only one of the new residents of the hotel had ever experienced India prior to their arrival.  Yet each found his own route to adventure--getting a job, exploring temples and marketplaces, new noises and smells...   Only one of the group found it all so intolerable she had to return to England.  Her adventure gene activated after turning left when entering a plane...

4.  Learning and Growth.  From bigot to gentleness.  From fear to fearlessness.  From loneliness to companionship and love.

Courage, community, adventure, learning and growth--qualities that enrich our lives.  Of course the movie was fiction; and it was filled with brilliant British stars who can convince us of anything because that's what they're supposed to do.  But I think it's fun to take on the challenge to look beyond the script, to take this enjoyable movie and decide there is something worth remembering.

P.S.  No, my plan is not to move to India.

 

Everyday smiles...

In my mid-forties I finally got braces for my meanderingly crooked canines.  Two years later, with teeth all headed in the correct direction, my smile became more spontaneous.  And now it takes little excuse to open my mouth for reasons other than food, colorful jargon, and to offer the wisdom of the wizened crone....

Yesterday, I made an effort to be more aware of what makes me smile.  I'll share my discoveries:

1. The fall colors--amazing in this valley!  A beautiful array of reds and golds--whether looking at a house badly in need of paint and repair, or a lovely mansion with new saplings, the world takes on a new beauty.

                     Autumn...the year's last, loveliest smile.     --- William Cullen Bryant

2.  Driving on an overpass I looked down to see at least 100 ducks resting on the surface of a pond.  The edges of my mouth turned up as I observed their obvious tranquility.

                       Be like a duck, paddling and working very hard inside the water, 
                                     but what everyone sees is a smiling and calm face.    
                                                                                                   --- Manoi Arora


3.  On my car CD player--remember, the one I can't turn off?--The Rose sung by Bette Midler played.  I've heard the song so many times--a reminder that love must first be found within ourselves--a lovely thought that makes me smile.


4.  On to English Dance class where we learn, and usually mess up, new dances--profuse apologies to Jane Austen; and occasionally trip over our own feet.  But when we finish, and the instructor says well done, amid much applause, we are all smiling.

                                   You can only have fun helping other people have fun 
                                                       if you're having fun doing it.
                                                                                                             --- Bernie DeKoven 

5.  Later, while shopping I heard a little girl saying, "Daddy, I need to look at more purses."  O yes, Dad, it's just the beginning I thought as I meandered through the same display.

                  Children learn to smile from their parents.     --- Shinichi Suzuki

6.  As I waited at the check out counter, a young mother with two toddlers came up.  I suggested she go ahead of me.   Her grateful look gave my heart a warm smile.

                                     Too often we underestimate the power of a touch, 
                             a smile, a kind word, a listening ear, an honest compliment, 
          or the smallest act of caring, all of which have the potential to turn a life around.    
                                                                                          ---Leo Buscaglia   

7.  On the way home, I heard sirens headed in my direction.   As cars pulled over, almost in unison, I thought--this is a time when there is no polarized community; no right wing or left wing;  no religious debate.  It's about making the area safer for emergency vehicles to get through to help those in need.  Another reason for my heart to smile.

Peace begins with a smile.
Mother Teresa
Read more at http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/authors/m/mother_teresa.html#czdbWhaf2FBUh3kq.99

                                   Peace begins with a smile         --- Mother Teresa

Peace begins with a smile.
Mother Teresa
Read more at http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/authors/m/mother_teresa.html#czdbWhaf2FBUh3kq.99

Peace begins with a smile.
Mother Teresa
Read more at http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/authors/m/mother_teresa.html#czdbWhaf2FBUh3kq.99

8.  Returning home to Gilly--his excitement at seeing me, his dances about the room, and his need to get outside all displayed with the same exuberant movements...

            A dog is the only thing on earth that loves you more than he loves himself.

                                                                                           ---Billings

(sorry, but I can't resist another quote here)  If there is no heaven for dogs, then I want to go where they go when I die.   --- Anonymous

 

9.  Early evening I had dinner with friends, including a young Kenyan--a lovely lady, a beautiful smile.  A time to relax and share stories.

...lasting friendships are made by the sincerity of one hello and the honesty of one smile.
                                                                                           ---Anonymous

10.  Ending the evening at home with a BBC series and Gilly snuggled by my side--situated in such a way to get full advantage of my hands for petting, scratching, or just resting on him--brings that final peaceful--all is well--smile.

                                    What sunshine is to flowers, smiles are to humanity.  
                     These are but trifles, to be sure; but scattered along life's pathway, 
                                                   the good they do is inconceivable.  
                                                                                                  --- Joseph Addison

                                                   What makes you smile?

 

Manual Reading....thems four letter words!

I bought a new radio/CD player for my car.   One year later I still can't turn it off--OK, you techno-nuts, hear me out.

When PCs were first making their way into offices, my boss had just purchased one to use at home.  He came in the next morning with a smile indicating he and his PC has begun a compatible relationship--which meant he had read the instruction manual.  (Also, he had a photographic memory so he never forgot anything....)  Later that morning, I sat with what was becoming my normal frustrated look as I tried to figure out yet another avenue toward computer competence.  I called into John and asked him how to accomplish the task.  "Mary, you can read the manual."  So what was this about?  This normally very nice, generous man....his statement made no sense!

I walked into his office, sat down and said, "John, there are two people with computers in this office.  One has read the manual.  That means there is no reason to duplicate that task."  It's about efficiency, right?

Over the years I've learned quite a bit about computers--well, considering my generation....  But then came cell phones, iPads/iPods, Notebooks, Kindles....each with their own manuals.  Fortunately, the sales young men and women could demonstrate the various functions.  Also my grandchildren can work most any piece of technology in their sleep, and are willing to share this knowledge, albeit with a look of astonishment at this grandmother's incompetence--(but then reconsidering the fact that I walked 8 miles in 3 feet of snow to get to my one-room school....). 

After many years of living life quite happily without manual reading as my top priority--or even of importance at all--I wonder.  Is it about having to read boring words or a new language that takes one into the realm of science fiction:   subwoofer, TOC ERROR, Variable Scanner, and KDC-X396.  Come on now, I just want to occasionally change stations, and work the on/off switch!!

I read directions just fine--you know, those pictures that show the size of the screws, with shelving marked "A" and "B".   That works for me!

So maybe it's about learning style rather than stubbornness or incompetence--pictures vs unknown lingo. 

Wow -- I feel so much better.

Now all I need is my grandson Jack to show me how to turn off my radio/CD player in the car....

The Dress

It was soft cotton--elegant in a simple way – black and white, fitted bodice with a scooped neck and gathered skirt, trimmed in white embroidered cotton lace.  And my 16 year old body, with a 32A cup filled it out in all the right places--stop laughing; a genetic deficiency out of my control!  I loved that dress!  

All would see me as the confident, well-carried young woman that the dress depicted! The HOURS I’d babysat--at 25 cents per hour--to pay for it were worth every runny nose, bedtime story, scratched and patched knee and trip to the playground!

To celebrate my new dress, Donna, my best friend, and I went out for dinner.  We ignored the fact that this dress was supposed to impress 16 year old boys.  Why wait for an date when we could have a girls’ night out!    The place we chose was just a cheap diner—after buying the dress, it was all I could afford!  I walked to a booth near the back of the room—in high heels, nylons, panty girdle, and the “dress”—the whole enchilada.   I did look good!

The waitress brought us menus.  Spaghetti!  That’s just what I wanted—and to be truthful, the cheapest item on the menu.    Our plates came piled high.  Delicious!

About half way through, I started to panic.  “Donna, I can’t breath!  I just can’t catch my breath!”  I began hyperventilating!

Donna, always the practical one, suggested I unzip my dress.  The zipper started just below the neck and went down the back into about 4 inches of the skirt.  My arm flew back but in my panicked state, I couldn’t reach the fastner.  My friend slithered out of the booth and came around to my side, and as inconspicuously as possible, unzipped it all the way down.  No doubt the tables around us saw Donna's manuevers, (that and the sound of our giggles).  I was too embarrassed to look up from my spaghetti.  To breathe again was something akin to a religious experience!  Amazing how relaxed one can become when the ability to breathe is restored.   

 I finished my meal and topped it off with dessert.  When it was time to leave, Donna suggested she redo my zipper.  The journey upward began, but just short of my waist, it would not move.    She tried to pull the two sides together, and there was still a good inch of skin showing.  I then realized there was no way I would leave the diner as I'd proudly walked in.

We sat in the restaurant another 30 minutes trying to figure out what to do—and to see if I would “downsize.”   OK, more giggling, as well.  

In those days, backless dresses were not worn.  And since we’d sat very close to the rear, I would have to parade past perhaps 10 booths and tables to get to the door.

Finally, the time came.  I got up slowly, straightened the front of my dress so if anyone looked, they could still admire the curves.  Donna followed v-e-r-ry closely behind me while we tried for some semblance of dignity--"togetherness" took on a whole new definition. 

That dress hung in my closet a long time.  O, I did wear it again, but NEVER on a dinner date.

           

A Woman of Strength and Courage....

          It seems that once my tick transitioned to the elderly slot on most forms, I quite naturally fell into the almost daily habit of musing.  Now don't accuse me of living my life in the past--I'd prefer thinking of it as visiting my memory mode.  I think many of us--as children and grandchildren come along--like to find resemblances, habits, and forms of speech that help us recall those in our past.     

         My grandmother was 64 years old when I remember first meeting her--I was just five.  At that first meeting I was shy--actually a bit frightened.   Yet these many years later, I easily recognize her as having the greatest influence in whom I have become.  It is also clear we are very different on many levels.

         My grandmother grew up a princess in her young world--with older brothers and a doting father.   Tall for a woman of 1800’s birth.   Plain in appearance.  Hoping to create a soft curl or turn to her white, lifeless, scraggly hair, she sometimes allowed me to wrap her thin strands in rags--long before cushy rollers came into fashion.    Her old house dresses were without enough good thread to start a fire--the hausfrau look of her German origin.  Most of her facial expressions included a degree of frown that left little doubt as to her opinion.  

A woman of endless strength and energy.  No one—certainly not her sons and husband—ever questioned her authority.  She decided what grain to buy for the cattle; whose bull to borrow for each year’s fertilization; what crop to harvest in what field; what vegetables to plant in the garden each spring; how many hundreds of quarts to preserve each summer; and what dishes to prepare for each meal.
 

          A concrete thinker, demanding structure--without smiles or laughter, without hugs and kisses--"Come here, it's time to read,"  made clear the activity ahead.    Louisa May Alcott’s Little Women came into my life to stay.  And Little Orphan Annie’s Came to Our House to Stay by James Whitcomb Riley  was never read with more energy.  I memorized Come Little Leaves by George Cooper at an early age--not with words of praise, but a simple "OK, repeat it again."

            My grandparents’ farm was situated in the hilly, south central part of Ohio, surrounded by hundreds of acres of government land, and my grandmother and I walked it all—identifying plants, finding animals and eating berries.  Those times were also taken up with stories of her childhood; of her black mammy in Knoxville, Tennessee; of “never reading a book until my father first read it” in a voice that said “and that’s the way it should always be.”  My grandmother rarely allowed a softer side to emerge--my need for a gentler grandparent came through my grandfather.

            We also trekked to Prince’s Park, located on the farm and named for a thoroughbred horse, whose ownership Grandma claimed and no one questioned.  Prince’s tongue slithered down into Grandma’s thin apron pockets to find his sugar cubes.  During these exchanges, Grandma’s sweeter side exposed itself to sunlight.
 

            One memory that stands out above all was an afternoon in the haymow of their large milking barn.  In dusty, old trunks were Aunt Mildred’s belongings—books, school papers, dresses and even a hair brush.  There my young heart bore witness to Grandma’s tenderness flowing down her cheeks.  Aunt Mildred died at age 11 of the plague that swept through in 1918.  Grandma held Aunt Mildred’s clothes, gently touching the age-worn fabric, as she told me stories of this precious, now sainted, daughter.
 

            Sitting at the kitchen table, eating my breakfast cereal—never eggs--“they are for the men!”—I heard more stories.  For someone I never knew to attend church, she was quite the authority on religion—at least the part that condemned the Catholics.  This was difficult to hear because my Mother was from a large Catholic family with several cousins who were priests and nuns.  These experiences at the kitchen table helped me, years later, understand prejudice and discrimination at a deeply personal level.
 

            Yet with all of this, I adored my grandmother--though I don't believe I understood this woman of contrasts until I had some maturity under my belt.
 

            Grandma lived in an era when women had little say-so.  I don’t remember her ever making a political statement.  But no one ever questioned who was head of state in her home!
 

            Grandma's education didn't go beyond high school, but she could have taught literature in the best of universities.  She grew up in cities but knew as much about wild flowers and plants as any botanist.
 

            She sewed and, in the end, taught her Irish, Catholic, daughter-in-law, my mother, to sew as well. 
 

            Having the privilege of being her first granddaughter, I was also named after her beloved Mildred.  And I think it was that status that allowed me to hear the stories of this cherished daughter and to see her tears.
 

            Yes, a complicated woman, born during difficult times for women.   And while I truly hope I hold to a softer side, I am grateful for such a strong and courageous influence in my life.

The Aim to Please...Kinda

Before my grandparents had a bathroom, all the cleaning up was done at the washstand in one corner of their kitchen.  A white enamel basin and pitcher left permanent water marks after years of use by family and farmhands.  Sometimes the men in our family stood discussing work in the fields as they washed the last sleep from their eyes. 

One morning, awaiting my turn at the washstand, I looked up at my uncle with all my 6 year old innocence and said with pride, “Uncle Herbert, I’m going to buy a gun.”   

“Mary, don’t say that!  Little girls don’t talk like that!”  I should have known better.  He usually didn’t agree with my ideas.  Uncle Herbert was by far NOT my favorite uncle.  In fact, he held the record for being a prized patriarchal prig.   

Uncle Herbert was also the proverbial unmarried expert on child rearing.  He would go so far as to correct my mother when she scolded me--“his correction” meaning she should be tougher.  Yet with all our mutual dis-attraction for one another, he wielded a lot of power in the family, so I definitely wanted him on my side.  My attempts most often backfired.  But perhaps if I could just explain to him this time….

“O, Uncle Herbert, I’m not going to shoot you!”  He just might have some not entirely unjustified concerns for his safety.

“Mary, I said not to say that.”  I felt a burr in my underpants.  Why didn’t he want me to buy a gun?  He had a whole bunch of them!  He loved guns!  Why shouldn’t I have just one?  He wasn’t my dad!  He can’t boss me! 

Undeterred, I said again with even more determination “Uncle Herbert, I’m going to buy a gun!” 

“Mary, if you say that one more time, I’m going to wash your mouth out with soap!”  I’m a fast runner--I’ll have the last word this time!

Breathlessly I spoke the words:  “Uncle Herbert, I’m going to buy a gun!”  then raced for the screen door.  As fast as my short legs would take me, I ran across the yard and down the path to the woods.  I was beginning to feel safe when a hand grabbed me by the shoulder.  Another came around my head—and as I opened my mouth to scream, a bar of 99 and 44/100^th % pure Ivory soap hit my taste buds!   Wiggle, squirm and pull—I used any and every attempt to rid myself of this horrible man!  At my last yank, I pulled away—probably because he’d finally let go.   I ran spitting until I finally reached the protection of my hiding place—deep in the ravine among the grapevines.  By now I was crying—not just because of the soap, which was awful enough, and not because I wouldn’t be buying a gun—which I never wanted in the first place.  My tears spoke of failure--he'd won again!  

My uncle died many years ago.  We never became close even after I reached adulthood.  And to this day I don't buy Ivory soap....

IL DOLCE FAR NIENTE -- The Sweetness of Doing Nothing

In my busy life of teaching, I rarely allowed myself the opportunity of il dolce far niente, but those words remained in that something-I-look-forward-to-in-retirement space in my brain.  That and I liked the idea of knowing a few Italian words....  I recently celebrated six years of that blessed place in life, and I'm still struggling with:  As soon as I get my list completed; better hurry or I'll be late, etc...  BUT I may ever so slightly be making progress.

Recently I laid down on the couch at 2 p.m. to read my Book Club book.  So is il dolce far niente accomplished when sleep takes over and 1 1/2 hours later I realize the afternoon is headed towards early evening?  I did NOTHING...so does that count?

I think more than anything, retirement has taught me that I truly loved teaching.  What I lacked then, and still struggle with, is balance.   And that lesson can be a battle at any age.

I am beginning to find a sweetness in waking and realizing I have nothing on my calendar for the day.  I sometimes turn to my bookshelves or movie collection.  I also have a secret enjoyment--walking down a street in some part of town I'm unfamiliar with--the joy of being anonymous--a stranger seeing something for the first time.   

While living in Kenya I'd sometimes take walks in the countryside around the campus.  Kenyans are such friendly people--the children would run out yelling mzunga, mzunga!, and reach to touch my white skin.  More than once I'd be invited into homes for tea.  While technically I was doing something; at some level, because these adventures were serendipitous, they took on the flavor of il dolce far niente--just allowing the sweetness of the moment to take place.

Though never the full time caregiver to my mother, I was the responsible daughter--almost daily visits, scapegoat for her frustrations as she became more dependent, and planning and executing many of her outings.  Since her death, I have more time, and a sense of freshness of life sometimes visits my spirit.  Perhaps that may be my route to il dolce far niente.

As time goes by, and my life finds greater satisfaction, I believe this sweetness of doing nothing has come in the form of contentment--the peace that is also filled with joy, a healthfulness of mind in whatever situation I find myself.  Life, at least at my stage, is not about meeting specific goals, or others' expectations.  It's not about searching for that perfect anything--I'm ever so grateful for that...but about finding contentment in the moment without the distractions of must accomplish lists.

So for me, il dolce far niente may be the loveliness of being at peace with myself.

Celebrated Devious Behavior....

Some memories we recall with sweet favor…others come with great embarrassment.  Then there are those recollections we celebrate with ecstatic justification.  I have one such memory—O yes, there are more, but I give out such confidences one at a time….

I once had a sister-in-law—I’ll call her Lizzie (i.e. Lizzie Borden—though I’m not suggesting she did any hatching physically.  In her case, it was purely verbal).  She is the sister of my ex whom I shall call Wickham (assuming you are familiar with Pride and Prejudice).  I enjoyed Lizzie’s visits for the first five minutes—after that, I counted the minutes until her departure.  To put it bluntly, she was a pain in the arse. 

One day out of the blue, she called to say she was headed our way. When she arrived, she held out a TO DO list for her brother—little problems that needed to be worked out on the fifth-wheel she’d just purchased.

As Wickham began his work toward completion of said list, his sister stood inches away yelling in that loud, grating voice we’d come to detest, You don’t do it that way!  Why don’t you listen to me?…  You are just like your father….(which, of course, happened to be hers as well).  These criticisms/demands/bitchings I’d heard on every visit!

Since she had put no time limit on her visit, I started each morning with fantasies of how I would suddenly get measles or typhoid or something equally contagious that put me in quarantine so I wouldn’t have to face her, or listen to these two adult children in full battle gear.

One morning, about the fourth day of her stay she came to the patio door to see if she could use the downstairs bathroom for her shower to save her RV water supply.

  “Sure,” I said.

Within seconds, she returned to the kitchen to ask for a rag and cleanser.  “What do you need them for?” I asked. 

“To clean the bathroom,” she replied.

My stomach began to churn.  “Before or after you shower?”

“Before,” was her unhesitant response.  I quickly handed over the cleaning supplies while looking for a rag long enough to wrap around her neck!  I’d cleaned the bathroom thank-you-very-much before she’d arrived! 

She went back to the bathroom, taking the supplies with her.   Meanwhile I stayed in the kitchen fuming!!  Why is it my creative thinking tends to butt up again illegal and violent activities?  Here I was playing her emotional tennis game.  She hit the ball and I scurried around the court after it.  But this time I would lob the ball back and send it down her throat!! 

I continued to prepare lunch--tossing the salad and throwing the meal together.  As I began setting the table, my plan came to life.  She had informed us, upon her arrival, that she’d invited extended family members to our home that weekend for a reunion—all this without asking us.  Although I wasn’t happy about her plans, I also knew that no one would show—her relationship with other family members was not any better than with us. 

As I set the plates on the table, I knew it would be just the three of us.  I took the plates out of the cupboard.  I put one in Wickham’s place, one in my place, and with only hers left in my hands I slowly took the plate to my lips and licked it thoroughly.  Then with a smile, I set it at her place.

After Lizzie finished her shower, I told her to come back in when she was ready for lunch.  When we sat down to eat, Wickham asked us to bow our heads.  As he quietly offered the blessing, I sat reverently, and smiled knowingly—I surely felt honored by the gods as I celebrated with ecstatic justification!