To be humbled...

     One of my least favorite nursing instructors left me with a few nuggets of wisdom.  I still wonder why I didn't like her.  She talked about a patient, almost making a mistake and being humbled.  She says nurses need to be humbled often.  It keeps us honest.
     Today, I was sitting at the chiropractor's office and telling my third grader about the time my dad forgot to pick up his big sister from school.  I laughed talking about how bad my dad felt and the cheesecake that he bought her.  A little while later, I heard my phone ring.  I looked at the clock and gasped.  "I FORGOT TO PICK MAX UP!  I FORGOT, I FORGOT!  I'm on my way!"  My husband was calling to let me know that he was on the way to pick up our middle schooler.  I felt horrible.
I can give a list of reasons why I forgot.  His sister usually gets him, I worked last night, I'm tired, I.....
     I sat out in the drive way worried about how Max would greet me.  He just sorta grinned and said he wanted to text me "Forgot something?", but he didn't have wifi.  He wasn't upset.  He found out a long time ago that I'm fallible.  Quite frankly, I learned the same thing.  I guess it was good to get a reminder.
     It seems to me that most people in this world use being 'better than' to differentiate themselves.  They point their finger at someone else's folly.  They pretend that they are not capable of making the same mistake.  Somehow this makes up feel better.
      Well, I've come to accept that my next humbling moment is right around the corner.  I'd better not get too comfortable. 
I still owe a middle schooler a milk shake.  We'll get one this week.

The Day of the Dead

 

 

 

All Saint's Day is probably my favorite church day.  It is the day that you remember all that have gone before.  It is a day to gather some grief and place it before your community.  I remember it as an important day while growing up in the Lutheran Church, and later as an Episcopalian.  Since we now attend a Methodist Church, we don't recognize the liturgical calender.  I think this is what I miss most.

So, the effort for me becomes bringing these observances into the home.  I watched a TV show the other day and they had an altar set up for remembering dead friends and relatives.  A few google clicks later, and I realize that The Day of the Dead is very real tradition.  I decided to start it.

So, I visited the grave yard today.  I looked at tombstones of people I haven't thought of in a long time.  I had placed their memories somewhere else, and I was glad to retrieve them for a bit.  I've especially missed my grandmother lately, so I placed some pretty Autumn leaves at her grave.  I also spent some time going through old photos and found more than I expected.  I also placed a hunting knife and old friend gave me before he died. 

Grief is a slippery thing.  It is hard to really get a hold of, and if you aren't careful you can avoid it.  I can see real value in compartmentalizing a time to remember all the souls who are gone.  The dark, rainy day certainly added to the effect.  Earlier, at the cemetery, it was just windy.  I read that this means the spirits are restless.  In this time of year where the veil gets very thin, it was a good day.  Even if it was the day of the dead.

In the dark

     I went out to my long neglected garden.  A wise friend told me that when life starts feeling out of kilter, put your hands in the dirt.  My mom had given me some long neglected fall vegetable plants, so I went to plant them.  As I started clearing off the enormous amount of weeds, I found something that look different, and green.  It was a carrot!  I had planted them last spring and they never did anything.  Somehow, those seeds planted long ago found a way to grow underneath the weeds.
     It is quite similar to a talk I had with my Spiritual Director.  I had lamented to her that I didn't feel like I was really accomplishing anything.  I'm just doing what I do without any perceived success.  Her answer was simple.  You never know what seeds grow in the dark.  Sometimes the most important fruit comes from that time.
     I guess there is a time and place for benign neglect.  I also discovered a new crop of red potatoes and two tomatoes growing in my vegetable garden.  Still, I have no idea what may come of my spiritual garden.  This time seems to be for waiting and seeing what, if anything, will come of my ponderings and prayers.  I sense good things.  I learned from my carrot today.  It was quite small and needed some more time to grow.  I should have trusted it would continue to grow into its fullness.  I'll try not to make that mistake again.

Men working

When I was in grade school, I did a photo collage of this sort of sign and added "Wo" to the men part. I was always a bit sensitive to any lack of acknowledgement of women.  When I graduated from college, I went to work in EMS in a large service that had very few women.  In fact, I was the only woman on my shift.  I was expected to prove myself twice over.  I was expected to prove that I could physically and emotionally  handle the rigors of emergency medicine.  Not all of the men I worked with expected this, but I certainly was very sensitive to it.  Although, there remained a double standard.  If there were a call for a woman who was assaulted, they always sent me.  I remember one night we caught a call out of rotation and it was because it was an assault.  It was my 4th call like this in 2 weeks.  As I went to hop into the back of the truck, I looked at my partner and said "I can't do this."  Fortunately, I was working with a kind hearted guy, and he rode the call.  I was very sad while driving to the hospital and actually apologized to the patient as we were unloading her.  I felt like a failure because it was the one thing I could do better than my male counterparts.  It was the one place I could easily prove myself uniquely useful on this shift, and I had failed.  More costly, I felt like I had failed this patient.  I drank a good bit that night.  The nightmares were coming and the only coping skill I had was in several bottles of wine.
I would learn years later about self care.  I would learn that it is perfectly healthy to acknowledge your limits and ask for help.  I would learn that I had actually not failed.  Most importantly, I would learn that I really have noting to prove.
This picture is of a sign at the gate to our driveway.  As I write this, I am listening to a crew cutting down a pine tree.  I watched the guy with a chainsaw hanging out of the bucket and realized that, for the most part, that really is a man's job.  Very few women would have the upper body strength.  Actually, very few men would have it.
I remember my days in EMS fondly.  I cringe when I think of some of the things I did or said.  I was relentlessly picked on, and developed quite an attitude.  Yet, I wouldn't trade those years for anything.  I'm glad I broke into a "man's" world for a little while.  There are more and more women in EMS and there are more and more men in Nursing.  While there is still a small part of me that wants to see the sign say 'people' working, I don't have the energy for those fights any more.

For the last time...

I was at our family's fourth of July picnic.  My great uncle lingered about at the end.  I was very interested in this, because this is a family that is very practical and hard working.  I watched him walk towards his house a little bit and come back.  He seemed to want to say goodbye again.  I made an effort to talk to him again, very business like.  I'll never forget the picture in my head of him turning, waving and walking off with his baseball cap. 
It was the last time I ever saw him.  He died a few weeks later.
I think that at that very picnic, he knew.  I think we all, on some level knew.  Of course, we would never discuss that.  That is just not how things are done.  I just tried to be present to it.  I'm glad that I did, because I have no regrets.
Wouldn't it be wonderful if we lived every day this way?  How would it be if we all lingered about, trying to find a word or action?  This could be for the last time.
I've found that sense of finality a good bit lately.  It doesn't necessarily have to be someone dying.  It could be a simple as the last time we ride in this car, the last day of summer.  Sometimes, I try hard just to linger in the sweetness and uniqueness of a moment.  I don't want to take anything for granted.
A few years later, my great aunt spent an unexpected night at my house.  I loved fussing over her and fixing her breakfast.  I made this event as special as I could, loving and hanging on to one of my favorite people.  It became apparent that her health had declined greatly, and I spoke seriously with her daughter.  At the end it became very bittersweet as I made sure she knew how much I loved her.  I managed not to get too mushy.  I had same feeling I had when I watched my uncle walk away.  As Aunt Susie rolled off to her car, I knew it was the last time I would see her.  I held her in my heart and savored those moments, for last time. 

A narrative

I've spent a great deal of effort in this blog and in the past years of my life telling MY story.  It has become very important to me as I journey through this life.  Yet, sometimes I am reminded that there are other narratives involved in a story.  It is humbling to hear your child describe a particularly intense time of your life from her own perspective.  It brings gratitude in the form of a shared experience unique to everyone who was present.  I forgot how truly present children can be.
I've watched my children be told stories of my child hood.  It is offered in the the view of a singular perspective, not in a shared experience.  In other words, some people think that there is only one narrative.  I offer a concept that shows there are diverse narratives in shared experiences.
I think that this is, by far, one of the greatest divisions among people.  We have parents, leaders and people in authority who offer only their story.  I have grown tired of this.  I'm tired of sitting in a pew, meeting or class room with only a one way conversation.
I think that I am truly blessed to have found elders in my life who have listen deeply to me.  They have offered me that opportunity to be heard in a way that helps me hear myself.  I have been seeking Spiritual Direction from the moment I read about it in a book 8 years ago.  Although, I realize that a midwife had already guided me onto this path.
I think that the true gift of discovering your own unique narrative in life is to be able to listen to other people.  I will probably never tire of telling my own story.  I just hope that I can honor those who share this Journey with me and listen to them.

Young mother

Here I am with the 103rd Archbishop of Canterbury (and an unnamed child who had him wrapped around her finger).  I heard he was coming to the Cathedral, so I decided to go.  I'm not sure why I had so much stress today getting ready.  I'm always concerned I will sit in the wrong place or have some old lady cluck at me for not wearing panty hose.  The old lady who sat next to me was actually quite charming and welcoming.  I told her that I lived out in the country and I came to the Cathedral whenever I needed some high church.  She responded with "Episcopalians put on a parade like nobody else!"

Lord Carey gave quite a nice sermon, using humor.  He talked about a Cathedral being a place for seekers to come to.  It was quite affirming in my desire to show up there every once in awhile.  He was also able to speak about the Anglican Church in a very global nature.  It was very interesting to hear this perspective.  As I waited in line to shake his hand after the service, I joked with a retired Priest:  "Am I supposed to curtsy?  I don't know how.  I've never met a Lord before."

Well, he shook my hand and asked my first name.  I was at the end of a very long line and he was still very much engaged with people, standing in 90+ degree sunlight.  What he said to me has had me stymied.  I guess this is why I am writing about this here.  He said "You're one of the young mothers."  I laughed and said, "No, I'm an old mother."  I'm 41 years old and it is hard to think of myself as a young mother.  Plus, I did not have a single child with me.  Why would he refer to me this way?

I'm in an interesting place in my life.  Being a mother is, by far, the most difficult and important job I have ever had.  In many ways, it became how I identify myself to everybody.  I still seem to struggle with this role of mother.  Is this who I am, or all I am?  I've decided I am so much more than just one thing.  Yet, is there a better way of distinguishing myself?  I guess it is still place in the back of my mind that our culture diminishes women.  More importantly, I've watched too many people try to diminish my worth because I am busy raising my children.  I wish I didn't have to fight back about being diminshed.  I wish that I could recieve a decleration from the Archbishop with pride and excitment.  Yes!  I am a young mother.