Thoughts on Mother's Day...

If I said how many years I've been a mother, I'd have to tell the ages of my daughters--and that I wouldn't do without permission.  But I've been called by that name enough years that I've experienced many phases of motherhood.

Phase 1.  Total Ignorance.  My first New Year's Eve of motherhood, I frantically called the pediatrician in panic because my infant's poop was green!  His first question, "Has she started her green vegetables?" 

Phase 2.  Being-One-Of-the-Kids.  I loved the over-the-top activities that included me--birthday parties with lots of howling and laughter.  Singing loudly along to vinyl records playing show tunes.  That worked great for No. 1 Daughter.  However, the it's-really-all-about-mom was replaced by Second Born who stated emphatically, "Mommy, I want to plan my own parties."

Phase 3.  Always-Active-PTAer.  Involved in it all, and loved every minute!

Phase 4.  Religious Teacher.  That one I'd like to erase except it gives my daughters great times of laughter as they share with their friends whose mothers also went through that phase.

Phase 5.  Absent Mother.  Necessary, and I wish could have been different.

Phase 6.  Mother of Mothering Daughters.  This phase I enjoy sitting back and observing.  My daughters have each parented differently.  Yet both have produced the most wonderful kids--OK, with lots of help from my son-in-laws.  And my role of grandparent is nothing but pure joy! 

I'm not with either of my daughters today.  But that's really OK because it gives me time to look back and remember.  Yes, it would be easy to think only of when I angered too quickly or wasn't available.  However, the end result of my years of parenting--along with their very capable father--are two amazing women who do things much more creatively, much more willingly, and much more value-based than I ever have.  It seems they took our bits and bobs and mishaps, and created their own unique selves...and isn't that what mothering is really all about?

Funny how life goes on but leaves those marks on our lives.

This time of reflection certainly brings the happiest memories with only a dash of sadness.

                                            -- Unknown

Kinda thought those days were behind me...

Last night--just as I was about to head for bed, Gilly started retching.  He went to the backyard to find grass.  He knows there is no grass in the backyard, but he goes on a relentless pursuit every time this happens.  Gilly's searching continued for about 1/2 an hour.   I finally decided my sleep would take place on the couch--closer access to the patio.  I gathered blankets and pillow--feeling more and more in need of them by the minute--then went out to check on Gilly.  He was still looking for grass.

At about 11 p.m., I put on his leash and took him to the newly mown and luscious grass in the front yard.  There I sat in my pj's and robe--half asleep and minus porch light--while Gilly hastily ate grass to enable his tummy to settle.

When we returned to the living room, he made a hasty retreat to the backyard to relieve himself of the grass and other digestive irritation--followed by an even sleepier me hosing off the patio...  Finally, after midnight, Gilly settled at my feet to sleep--while I, at his insistence, rubbed his chest...his soothing place.  Yes, VERY tight quarters with a 70 lb dog and adult on a standard size couch.  

Three hours later, we had a repeat performance of all the above mentioned activities....

This morning I am exhausted!  Gilly is still retching a bit but wanted his food which I gave in a reduced amount.  He's napping and my plans are to follow suit...  

I just thought of the beautiful quote by Anatole France:  “Until one has loved an animal, a part of one's soul remains unawakened."  HOWEVER, as I slowly fade into dreamland I'm thinking of the wisdom of those friends who are animal-less...

 

 

Remembering our Mothers...

Mother died three years ago today.  My high school--and still close friends--Elaine and Donna and I packed a picnic and headed into the mountains for a time to celebrate our mothers.  We shared stories--of times they embarrassed us, and more often, we embarrassed them.  And we each thought of tales that the others didn't recall. 

We talked of ways we are very much like our mothers.  We spoke of characteristics we hoped we didn't inherit.  Since our mothers knew all three of us AND one another, there was little ever hidden.  And perhaps that's part of what made today so much fun!

Donna and Elaine's mothers had proper funeral/memorial services, but there was none for my mother--that's the way she wanted it.  Now, three years later, I'm happy to have friends willing to take this time for a ceremony of remembrance.

"Mother, you've been in my thoughts most of this day.  

I still miss you like crazy."   

Ten Years of Change...

Yesterday I celebrated a ten-year anniversary.  I've never regretted the decision that resulted in this milepost.  So to recognize the occasion, I had lunch at a lovely Italian hideaway with a special friend, a bit of retail therapy, and a relaxing evening with Gilly, and my journal--my  self-reflecting tool.

Support of family and friends made the transition to independent living less painful.  I continued teaching for a couple of years, then retired and relocated some 500+ miles southwest.  A good choice!  I reconnected with old friends.  I continue making new friends.  I take classes for intellectual stimulation--I've heard the brain implodes without proper use.  Weekly English/Scottish dancing of the Jane Austen variety transports me to a long ago era--minus Mr. Darcy unfortunately.  Exercise invigorates my body with energy and health.  Volunteer work enables me to give back.

In the last 10 years, I've also spent many hours alone.  Time unattended by another, in the privacy of my own home, I meet myself--my real, no-mask-worn--where-the-rubber-meets-the-road self.  And guess what?  I kinda love my pardner in crime...ME.  No shame or guilt haunt my thoughts.  Nor does any need for perfection.  Consistently, however, is the ongoing desire to live intentionally with integrity and compassion.

And that is why I can celebrate this 10 year anniversary with such joy!

 I wanted to change the world.

But I have found that the only thing 

one can be sure of changing is oneself.

            --- Aldous Huxley

Between teaching and learning, there is little space...

Because of my responsibilities on the university campus, I had invitations to meet many Kenyans in their home regions.  I loved learning about the culture of family life.  The generosity amidst their poverty-stricken lives left me with admiration.  However, during these excursions about the country, I also met numerous challenges.

One such occasion occurred when I was asked to speak at a church in a rural area.  I had declined a request to preach at the 11 o'clock hour knowing how difficult it was to accept a woman in the pulpit.  I did agree, however, to speak to the group after lunch--since most church members brought food and made a day of church-related activities.

Listening to the morning sermon, I looked about the sanctuary.  Its rough, partially finished structure reminded me of WWII vintage movies.  The pews were large logs and the pulpit a crudely nailed together stand.  The floor had rough bits of concrete and rock scattered about.  No doors stood to hinder entrance.   I am not criticizing.  I, in fact, smiled when I saw what actually worked in this poverty stricken area--no need for padded seats and elaborately carved podium.  The first time I spoke in a rural area, chickens walked between my legs as they pecked at corn on the ground.  Another time the pews consisted of bales of straw.

I focused my talk that afternoon on Ephesians 5 and Paul's words that we are to love one another.  When it came to the part about *submission* I needed to handle this with care.  I turned to the women--who were, by the way, all seated on the left side of the room.

"You ladies have it relatively easy," I said.  "All you have to do is submit."  Knowing full well that Kenyan women do 80% of all work--including building the homes--and the children do the other 20%, I quickly followed my statement with, "You have your list.  You cook meals, wash clothes, plant your gardens, build your houses, and often sell your produce.  You know full well what you must do to be submissive."  The ladies in their white head coverings--a sign of Christianity--smiled in confirmation of my words.

Then I walked to the right side of the room.  "But you men, you are the ones who really have it difficult.  What do Paul's words tell you to do?"  All eyes were intently on me.  I had a feeling it had more to do with the fear of leading them astray than connecting with anything I said.

The elders were seated on a log situated diagonally on the front right side of me--within just a few feet of where I stood.  I glanced their way and repeated my question.   "OK, Gentlemen, what do Paul's words tell you to do?"

A couple of the elders whispered,  "Love our wives."

I smiled and followed with, "Yes, he said to love your wives, and to follow Christ's example."  I went on, "Christ loved the church and gave His life for it.  And Christ said that husbands are to do likewise."  I hesitated before my next question, "Now, how many of you husbands are willing to die for your wives?"  Total silence.  In that shabby structure, sitting on uncomfortable logs, not a sound could be heard.  At the same time, I seriously thought of looking for an escape route.  I had had the audacity to use a verse of Scripture that I could almost guarantee they'd never heard before.  Yet the Kenyan pastor, my translator, had repeated my exact words.  I knew enough Kiswahili to be certain of that.

I walked over to the head elders.  Could I get them to set an example for the congregation?  "So who among you would die for your wife?" I asked with a smile--though perhaps I should have used the word *wives*.  Very slowly, one-by-one, their hands began to raise. "Thank you," I said.

I continued with a message of love, then ended my talk.  Did my words have a positive impact?  I have no idea!  Why would they listen to a woman?--especially a white woman!  And what gave me the right to talk about family life and love in a culture a world away from my own? 

I can feel a rapid beating of my heart when I think of the many opportunities to learn the most important lessons of my life while in Kenya.  I think of a student who attempted suicide, and the school administration wanted her expelled.  And the afternoon I spent talking with pastors' wives--with our constant companion; a man listening to be sure minds weren't contaminated by my ideas.  Or the student whose fear of dying prevented her from removing a bracelet she had been told had special powers.  These experiences, and hundreds more, gave me my richest learning.  I was hired to teach.  I fear I taught little...I was most often the student.

The purpose of life is to live it, to taste experience to the utmost, 

to reach out eagerly and without fear for newer and richer experience.”

                                  ―  Eleanor Roosevelt

 

The Delight of Listening...

I enjoy hearing books on tape as I travel.  Whether driving to Portland, heading out for OLLI classes, or just running across town to complete an errand list, the voice coming from the CD player takes me on a journey into the lives of characters who add interest, occasionally adventure, and certainly new perspective to my life.  And I especially love books narrated by the author--with just the attention to words or phrases or characters he/she intended! 

Several years ago, I listened to I Still Dream About You by Fannie Flagg.  I thoroughly enjoyed it!  Then about a year ago, I thought it might be fun to read it myself.  Before the end of the first chapter I realized something was missing.  What made the story come alive was hearing Fannie Flagg's voice creating Maggie and Hazel and Brenda and Babs. 

I've listened to other books read by the authors, and it adds a connection as well as an extra level of perception.  Perhaps because I enjoy writing, as I listen to the designer of these stories and characters, I think about the whole creative process.  Where do the ideas come from?  Who in their lives models the many characters?  Did the creative process flow, or come in dribbles?

Nowadays we are so fortunate to have books in many forms.  While I still prefer paper, I'm using my Kindle more often as time goes on, and, of course, books-on-tape fill in those gaps of time when holding a book is both dangerous and unlawful...   

The companionship and delight of a voice telling stories is incomparable.  

                               ---Stephen Fry 

Another Bucket List Item Completed

Yesterday I spent several hours in a police patrol car.  Let me first explain that it was by my own choice.  And I spent those hours sitting in the front seat.   The experience was interesting with only a few disappointments.   Officer Neighbor--who will otherwise remain anonymous...though in all honesty, he is an officer and he is my neighbor--was my host for this adventure.

Let me explain the disappointments first.  I was not allowed to assist in any arrests--though I was more than willing.  I did not carry a loaded gun--I imagine that reality came due to Officer Neighbor's concern for his own safety.  I was not asked to use karate moves to apprehend any drug dealers...while it's true that karate is not my forte, the warrior yoga pose can be quite intimidating.  So alas,  I'll not be written up in any national, or local, publication for my heroism.  No You-Saved-A-Policeman's-Life Award is headed my way.

And now the good part.  We--Officer Neighbor and I...spent the afternoon and early evening in a couple of warrant pursuits, a traffic check, radar detecting, and investigating a disturbance call with lights flashing and legally going through red lights...obviously the most fun for me!  At one stop, while Officer Neighbor knocked at a door, I diligently checked the outbuildings (remaining in the car, of course!)--because we all know how bad guys run out the back door and hide in sheds.  I had a machine gun, or was it an AK-47, or maybe it was a handgun beside me, so knew I could take down the perp (see I'm even learning the language).  And there are those who say TV programs aren't educational...  Perhaps here I should suggest an award for patience for Officer Neighbor...

For a policeman this day wouldn't be considered terribly eventful.  But this new experience gave me another perspective to consider.  As we drove from place to place and I witnessed Officer Neighbor carrying out his duties, I realized the simple act of exiting his vehicle brought his safety into question.  As we drove with lights flashing and sirens blaring, I saw the risk to police and others as well.  In other words, even in a small community, stress for police officers is a constant reality.  Yes, they choose the career, but most of us don't enter our workplace with daily safety being our major concern.

I've been acquainted with Officer Neighbor going on eight years.  I have high regard for him and the integrity with which he carries out his duties.  I'm also not so naive to believe that ALL law enforcement works from those standards--I taught diversity classes too many years to believe that.

My experience yesterday was good.  I get a special feeling in my heart when I see lights flashing and sirens blaring and watch cars pull over to respect the needs of emergency vehicles--Officer Neighbor said that respect is not a given.  He has to be diligent when he takes the liberties his badge affords.

So, an enjoyable undertaking.  An opportunity to learn. Officer Neighbor is one of the good guys!

   A Bucket List item checked off.  What's next?