The other day I was talking with my dad in one of those meandering ways that touch upon all kinds of subjects, and we ended up discussing how a society that produces disposable things is in danger of treating persons as disposable.
I’m afraid that we’re already in that place.
I see it too often from my little perch on a stool, safely behind a lectern so I don’t get too close.
The following video, one I may have posted before but is newly getting some attention since George Takei posted it, speaks to this disposable attitude. In fact, one of the speakers in the video shares the same concern I’ve brought up.
Watch it. If the sheer humanity of it doesn’t get to you, surely the music will.
I think I must be walking around with a frown or a distracted look that begs some kind of intervention, or maybe that’s just how I feel on the inside, but I can say with certainty that dear little Miss Rose put an end to that in a hurry.
I went to the post office during my lunch hour and had the pleasure of watching her in action while I waited in line. It’s a small town post office, the kind where everybody knows everybody else. There’s only one clerk at the counter, and Miss Rose not only had to engage her in a long conversation, but she also demanded to talk to everyone working behind the scenes, too.
I looked at my watch.
Nobody cared that I was looking at my watch.
When Miss Rose finished spreading her cheer, I posted my letter and tried to get out of there quickly, but of course, the only way to do that was to run over her, so instead, I walked along with her and held the door for her. She thanked me and smiled, and I had to smile back because, well, I know better than to be rude. That’s when she caught me in her web.
“Would you like to hear a joke?”
How could I resist?
“I’d love to hear a joke,” I said, and for that moment, I really did love hearing her joke. It was cheesy. And dumb. And I’ve heard it a dozen times, but it made me laugh out loud as only a cheesy joke can.
That’s all the encouragement she needed, so she regaled me with two more jokes. I laughed at those, too. That’s when I asked her if I could take her picture. I want to be this full of life when I’m that age. I explained I’d probably write about our encounter and that seemed to delight her.
When I was done, she said she had one more thing for me, a hug. So crusty old me got a hug from a random stranger. I’m not even cootified by the thought of it.
Rose got me good with her jokes. So good, in fact, that the joke’s on me. I thought I was doing her a kindness, condescending in my busy lunch hour to listen politely to an old lady. It didn’t occur to me that I was the one who needed that hug.
Some days are like that, when you’re very last nerve just goes…
It’s when I feel the craziest that I need to stop and consider what’s making me crazy, and what will bring me peace. It usually means looking at the crazy and loving it.
The waves crashing at my feet put me in more than one relaxed trance while vacationing at the beach last week.
My husband likes to fish in the early morning when the sun comes up, and late afternoons as the sun goes down. I’m not a fan of swimming while he chums the water with disgusting cut up squid, so I sit in the surf to keep him company. That means I’m reading a book or doing some writing.
Well. That means I take a book or journal with me to the water’s edge, hopeful, but not always successful. The rhythmic waves that cool my legs and bury my feet in the wet sand — the gentle breeze that softly tickles the tiny hairs on my arms and neck — the bright sun that makes me squint and half-close my eyes into a dozing state — that’s the cocktail par excellence for relaxation.
I relaxed a lot, and he caught some fish. Mostly, though, he just fed the fish a bunch of squid.
I did get some reading done, but it’s a shame I didn’t read more. I also got some writing done. In fact, quite a bit went into my journal in spite of the occasional splash that sent my arms up protecting the book from the water. I must have looked like a crazy woman randomly calling “touchdown” when a big wave hit. It’s a good thing the beach was empty although the seagulls started looking at me suspiciously after a while.
I prayed a lot, too. It was easy to do in such a setting, devoid as it was of all distractions I ordinarily give into. I’m embarrassed by that realization — it looks like I turned to prayer because there was nothing good on TV. Because I didn’t have internet or cell service. Because, perhaps, I didn’t have anything better to do. I’ll have to do a deeper examination of conscience, for sure, but there’s more to the story.
It’s impossible for me to contemplate the natural world, whether it’s at the seashore or a mountain top, and not have my thoughts begin and end with God.
I usually begin my mornings reading Magnificat. If nothing else, I get morning prayer in, even if on some days it takes me right up to lunchtime. I like the video reflection at the USCCB site. I try to get a rosary in for a coffee break, even if sometimes I need two coffee breaks to finish. So you see, I have a discipline for ordered prayer.
It was the other, spontaneous, conversational prayer that swept me up in the tide. It was those moments when a thought in my journal would spark a conversation with Jesus. When a line from scripture would leap to my mind, and I’d ask my heavenly Father if it was He leading me.
It was the calming silence in the midst of crashing waves and screeching seagulls where I settled into a comfortable intimacy with the Holy Spirit, enveloped in the warmth of the sun and the breeze. And where I had an on-going conversation with Mary, sometimes counting beads, other times counting out shells in little piles of ten, but mostly, letting my mind wander absently.
In one of those distracted moments a huge wave hit me and I lost the grip on my journal. Terrified that it would fall into the water, I flailed about a bit and caught it against my body, but not before some of my holy cards and bookmarks spilled out. I saved all but one: a beautiful postcard of Our Lady of La Leche tumbled to my feet.
The card folded into itself, creating a make-shift barge that cradled Our Lady within it. I reached for it, but a wave captured the card, taking it away from me toward some unknown destination down the beach. I laughed delightedly — it wouldn’t be the first time Momma Mary surprised someone at sea.
I had the feeling it was like a message in a bottle, only better.
I’m over at CatholicMom.com today! That Lisa Hendey is the sweetest thing. Ever.
I’m grateful for her friendship, and her encouragement to post the random piece over there, so be nice and take your traffic over there — and don’t forget to check out the other contributors.
But first, won’t you read my little reflection on pretty flowers, sweet husbands, hope, and stuff?
My husband woke me up tenderly, excitement in his voice even though he was trying to be gentle and soft-spoken in the very early morning before leaving for work. He whispered that I should look along the fence for the gladiolas he had planted too late in the season. We thought they’d never bloom, but hadn’t quite given up hope that they would someday flower.
This morning, two beautiful blooms greeted him when he let out the dog. He was so pleased that he had to wake me to share. [read the rest here]
I write about this often even though I sometimes fail at following my own advice. I was talking about this theme of kindness (and suffering) with a dear friend today, in a serious conversation that seemed to cover a lot of ground but circled around this idea that we can never know what others are suffering.
We’ve all heard a variation of the quote often attributed to Plato, that we should be kind because everyone is fighting their own hard battle. True enough. It reminded me of this video I saw some time ago:
I wonder what a little bit of civility would do for people. A smile. A gentle word.
Listening.
The extraordinary act of making eye contact. I figure it can go a long way.
You might think there is nothing extraordinary in that title, except, I’m afraid of horses.
Really.
I know they can be very nice, verylarge, creatures. Back when I worked in the county mental health office, I used to take children to riding therapy. I saw children who, for reasons I won’t share, had withdrawn so deeply into themselves that they weren’t socially functional suddenly become animated…daring…courageous! In one session they went from barely staying seated to standing fearlessly on the horse’s back as it gently jogged around the ring.
I was still scared, even as I witnessed the transformation of those children as they piled back into the transport van, smelling horsey and sweaty and smiling, perhaps for the first time that week.
I’m still scared. Let me put it this way, a friend recently suggested we go give some treats to local horses and I think I went deaf for a few moments before I stumbled through finding enough words in English to politely decline.
For those of you who ride horses, I’m sure you think you could introduce me to your favorite horse and make me fall in love with him (or at least give him a carrot without breaking into a cold sweat). If you’re like me, afraid or maybe just ambivalent, I’m sure you’d agree that my life would be no less fulfilled if I never saw a horse again.
So why ride a horse? And why do it now?
I’ve been thinking about this fear thing for some time — years even. I fear growing old. I fear being alone. I fear failure. I fear success. I fear change, even though perhaps I fear a lack of change more.
I’m afraid I won’t get what I want. How about this? I’m afraid I will get what I want.
The thing is, those things are intangible. But horses are not. I can walk up to a horse and look it in the eye, feel the warmth of its body, wrestle with my anxieties and mount it. I should be able to do the same thing with my fears. I think that if I can drum up the courage to get on a horse, I can face down those other fears.
I get that I shouldn’t have to ride a horse to master my other fears, but I like the idea of doing something physical, tangible…courageous.
In the meantime, I am deeply consoled by this picture.
It seems that once upon a time I wasn’t afraid. That’s my father in the picture, leading me on a little pony. I wasn’t afraid then, trusting my daddy implicitly, knowing he had the reins.
I can learn a lot from that little girl…I can put my trust in my Heavenly Father, knowing He has the reins. He always has.
While I’m not exactly Eva Gabor to John’s Eddie Albert, I do kinda hum the theme to Green Acres every once in a while when I engage in a little bit of post-modern introspection in my back yard.
Growing flowers, as far as I’m concerned, was pretty tame. In spite of my brown thumb, I’ve managed to make a success of a bunch of knock out roses. You don’t have to tell me that’s not impressive — I know they grow like weeds. But let me live in the illusion that something magical is happening in the garden.
Because, well, something magical is happening in the garden.
The crepe myrtle where a sweet little statue of Mary sits is all covered in pink buds. It’s so pretty, and it’s going to get fuller by the day. A half barrel sits off the porch, overflowing with wild flowers. They’re mostly white, but today I noticed a beautiful blue one! I don’t even know their names, but they’re lovely to look at — so cheery!
So I sit out here in these summer evenings with my love, enjoying the cool breeze from the impending storms, and let the air tickle the little hairs on my arms, and let the green earthy smell fill my lungs, and let the pretty flowers do what a series of failed blood pressure medicines couldn’t do.
The bubbling from a small fountain is lulling me into a trance right about now and I’m distracted by the amazingly sweet smell of a giant green pepper that I just plucked off the vine.
When the alarm went off on my phone this morning, digital bells obnoxiously loud, my darling husband mumbled the obvious, your alarm is going off.
Unfortunately for him, by the time I turned it off, he was awake enough to be annoyed, so he decided to take advantage of his wakeful state to complain about a clock in the living room. This clock has not worked in 30 years. Until now. Apparently, it has a very loud gong that can be heard in our bedroom. Who knew?
This is funny for two reasons. 1) We have a houseful of clocks, including a Black Forest Cuckoo Clock that is much louder than this one, and 2) not one clock in the house keeps proper time. Not. One.
I’d like to think this is part of some grand scheme to fool Time, but I know better than that.
The truth is that we’ve turned into accidental collectors. We have a marble mantle clock that belonged to John’s grandmother, a Pony Express clock that belonged to his father, the offending brass clock in the living room, a kitschy cuckoo clock and the real deal, and a clock that one of John’s pals made for me, assuming that I collected clocks. Well, I guess I do.
The startling thing about all those clocks is that they don’t keep time. More startling is that I am somehow OK with this. I mean – somewhere down the line you’d think I’d fix them or set them or wind them or whatever it is you’re supposed to do with a clock.
I guess. But really, this apathetic attitude probably comes from a fluid sense of time. Someone recently pointed out that my own sense of time is distorted. Apparently, and I own up to this, when I say “the other day” it could mean last Thursday. Or a Thursday sometime in 2007. Look. The latter is the other day…just another day a long time ago, right?
Perhaps this has something to do with recent events in my life that have me facing mortality (heh, heh, by recent I mean in 2009, when my husband was diagnosed with ALS, or for those of you who prefer recent to mean in the last month – my own troubles with high blood pressure). I don’t think so. Those clocks have been stuck in time for decades.
However, these recent events have had an impact on how I choose to spend my time. And that’s not something a clock can tell. Living in the moment is an art. It takes effort, and commitment. And lots of practice.
You could say that all those clocks in my house are stuck in time – stuck in the past. Or you could say they are a pregnant pause in the present. Waiting and capturing a moment.
Whatever. Maybe they are an indication that the owner has better things to do – perhaps she’s being present to the moments happening around her.
This sense of presence, however, is more than carpe diem. Yes, I want to seize the day – I get that every day is a gift and an opportunity, but there’s more to it than that. It speaks to the choices we make, and the consequences of those choices. I don’t want to be seizing my day in a selfish, hedonistic way that fritters away my life, or worse, ruins my afterlife.
Blessed Pope John Paul II once used a Polish proverb that brought home this point stunningly,
Time flies, eternity waits.
Whoa. I guess eternity is going to be here a lot sooner than I expect. Those clocks I have scattered about are reminding me to be ready now because I won’t know the time.
another cup of coffee 