Fictional Saints and Factual Kindness (now with postscript)

When I think back on the last 15 years of my own life, I have many memories of seeing children suffer. Many of them come from my time spent in the Dominican Republic and the decade I spent working with special-needs kids in schools. I am not sure how much impact my presence had in any of the situations I ended up in, but I certainly felt that as long as there were needs, someone had to try to meet them.

I'm no saint. Not by a long shot. My motivations are faulty and my gifts are poor. However, I think I have always had a special gift for really feeling for others when they hurt, which makes their suffering rather hard to ignore. I can't help but be moved when I see suffering -- especially among the most vulnerable members of our human family -- and I have been fortunate enough to have been permitted to work with some of them, and, I hope, to make some difference in their lives. In the end, I think every little bit helps.

So, when I found out that some of the Hurricanes were to shave their heads today to raise money for a charity that helps raise millions of dollars annually to help combat childhood cancer (St. Baldrick's) , the opportunity to go watch the event unfold was quite appealing. The fan-girl in me would get to see a couple of players I enjoy watching on the ice shed their locks, and the tender-heart in me would I hope have a chance to make some small difference in the life of a child by making a small donation in honor of my 'Canes.

It was a lovely event on many levels. Not only were the participants nice people, but the atmosphere was joyous, because in our midst were a couple of very young cancer survivors who brought their own special zest for living to the crowded pub. I hadn't really decided which of the three fellows I would sponsor when I arrived; defensemen Niclas Wallin and Dennis Seidenberg were there in company with retired NHLer and "color" commentator for Canes TV broadcasts, Tripp Tracy.

They were all pretty cool guys, and rather obliging considering how annoying I can be armed with a camera and marks-a-lot markers, but Niclas Wallin won me over in the end. I think it happened when he beamed down on one of the many children running around and said "hey cutie" with the tenderness you see in a guy who has kids of his own. That or when he didn't laugh at my ridiculous Swedish pronunciation when I attempted to greet him in Swedish... in fact, he just answered in Swedish, which implied he knew what I had said (Tack så mycket, Nic!). Or perhaps it is that I know he supports a similar organization in Sweden, so I got the impression this wasn't just a PR stunt for him. Or maybe the fact that he goes by "Nicky", a charming name, don't you think? Or perhaps that he abandoned his hard-earned sandwich to sign my jersey. In any event, his is the head I paid to see bald.

It's nice to know that there are people who are willing to sacrifice a bit of time, head warmth and vanity to bring a bit of hope to others. All in all, it was a nice ending to a really encouraging week. I've felt I have had to receive a lot these days because of my own weakness. It was nice to be in a position to give back again in some small way... and to have a little more fun in the process.

Postscript: I have now appeared on Fox Sports Network South in this video. (I'm briefly in the frame at about 1:20 in the "crowd shot" on the right of the screen behind Niclas Wallin. haha.)Dennis Seidenberg and Tripp Tracy

Dennis again with yours truly (photo taken by Tripp - Not like
you will ever see this, but if you happen to Google yourself and end up here... Thanks!)

Yours truly with Tripp Tracy. This was very blurry and only looks okay tiny. *sigh*
I contrast this with the picture I had taken with Niclas Wallin, which doesn't look good by any standard at any size.
Oh well... the hazards of handing my camera to other people!

Niclas Wallin getting ready for his shave

Niclas before

Niclas After

Score!

Tuesday was the trade deadline for the NHL, so I was quite interested to see what would happen with our local Hurricanes team. What happened is that we got a Finnish player (Tuomo Ruutu) from the Chicago Blackhawks, and he set out for Raleigh in a hurry, only to arrive at the arena about 15 minutes before the game on Tuesday night. We had acquired a few other players in the previous few weeks, one of whom -- a young and promising forward -- had been injured when he got here and had yet to play, but had been cleared for action on Tuesday night. So, Tuesday's game promised to be interesting since we'd have two new guys on the ice who were experienced NHL players.

I make this distinction because the Hurricanes have had a whole lot of trouble staying healthy enough to play the game. This means we have new players all the time -- players called up from the minor leagues (Go Albany River Rats!) because we don't have enough regular NHL players healthy on any given night to make up a whole team. This has been rather amazing to watch, if a bit distressing. A fan made a comment to the effect of "I'm kind of getting tired of the cruel joke the hockey gods are playing on us... it's like they say, 'Yes, you can have a win, but it will cost you a player.'" One of the most recent heads on the chopping block of said gods was our captain, Rod Brind'Amour. He's not very pretty to look at, his name is difficult to spell, and he's nearing his hockey expiration date, but he was the backbone of the team... and he's out for 4-6 months with a knee injury. A quick check of the calendar tells me he'll be sitting out this Stanley Cup run, even if the rest of the team manages to get in the race.

So, back to Tuesday...
The Hurricanes were scheduled to play the New Jersey Devils at home, and they went into the game on what amounts to a 16-year losing streak against the Devils (as either the Carolina Hurricanes or the Hartford Whalers, which was the Hurricanes' previous incarnation). That's a whole lot of losing, and not much reason for hope. It doesn't help our cause that Martin Brodeur was to be in goal for the Devils, since he might as well bring some pleasure reading or a manicure set with him onto the ice most of the time; he makes tricky saves look so effortless and boring. He is also the idol of most of the young goaltenders in the NHL now (including the one staring at him from across the ice on the Hurricanes' side) and makes grown women (and men, for that matter) swoon.

However, I was hopeful that this would at least not be a blow-out loss. In spite of my natural bent towards melancholy and my rather deeply ingrained cynical streak, I have faith the size of a dust mite once in a while. I mean, we have new blood on the team. We also have a group of guys -- at this point, who cares if six of them are River Rats? -- who have been working exceptionally hard for the last few weeks and have started winning again against all odds.

I was really looking forward to this game. Really, really, really. Really.

At 5:45 I went to the TV to program it to record the 7pm game. However, the game was not there. There was a whole lot of other semi-sports-related hooey scheduled. But no Hurricanes game. The local stations dropped the ball, so to speak, so that I would miss the dropping of the puck, because they decided not to cover game late enough that Center Ice had not lifted the local blackout, which was our only other obvious alternative. I wanted to cry.

Put it this way - it's a deadline week at work and I have been putting in long hours in between extra-curricular activities. I've also felt "normal" for the first time in ages. My post-op appointment went well, and I can get back to regular activity, except at least one of the things that brings me great joy is no longer open to me in the same way -- I have had to drop out of our choir. For now, I still have hockey, and I really look forward to the games as a way to unwind (and get wound up differently, of course), because it is something I can enjoy, whatever else may be going on.

It was no time to panic. It was merely time to formulate and try plan C. (This is when I am glad that my husband who liked hockey well enough to try to play it himself is nearly as obsessed with hockey as I am now.) Dan was on his way home, and I called him with my dilemma and my sales pitch. There was just time enough to get to the RBC Center if we decided to go immediately. We did, and we did.

That game turned out to be not only the best game I have ever seen (which isn't saying much, considering that my love for hockey is about a long-lived as a Hollywood marriage so far), but our boys in red shut the door on the Devils in sudden-death overtime and prompted several people to say that this game was play-off hockey minus the playoffs... gritty, hard-hitting and very exciting. Our boys beat Martin Brodeur, even if it took a sacrifice to the hockey gods of a concussion (from defenseman Tim Gleason) AND 40 stitches from gashes to the face that left a trail of blood all the way across the ice (from our just-arrived Ruutu) to get it done. Making it even sweeter, both goals were scored by one of my favorite players, also a new recruit -- Sergei Samsonov, a talented player who had been in a serious career slump before coming to us.

The icing on this hockey cake was the brilliant selection of awful arena music all evening. Sometime around the middle of the game, our ears were greeted by the semi-melodious screeching of Mötley Crüe's Shout at the Devil. That brought a snicker or two from the two of us, anyway. However, when Samsonov swept his own rebound in to make the winning goal, what to our wondering ears would appear, but Stryper's To Hell with the Devil? Ah... sports and hair bands. Who knew that love-affair would last? Tuesday night ended in triumph.

Wednesday brought dinner at a local restaurant/bar where Patrick Eaves -- the aforementioned young and promising Hurricane forward -- was doing a live radio interview and signing autographs. We sat and watched and listened over food and drink. His first game on the ice for the Hurricanes was the excellent game the night before, and even if his performance in the game was nothing to blog about, he was kind enough to sign my ticket from the game, and pose for pictures. He turned out to be a very nice guy, too. Now, if he can also turn out to be a fabulous player for years and years with the 'Canes, we're all set.

(Daniel and Patrick in their co-ordinating v-necks, and Patrick during the interview)

As much fun as the hockey has been, we're postponing our enjoyment of tonight's Hurricanes/Ranger game so that we can spend time with two of our closest friends here in the area -- a lovely couple who treated us to dinner and bowling last week... which was fun, even if the shoes were a bit unfashionable. Tonight, we're going with them to one of our favorite restaurants. I'm very much looking forward to that.

When it comes right down to it, I've really, truly enjoyed this week. It's been great to feel physically normal again. It's fun to be in an area where we can enjoy our favorite spectator sport at such short range and in such a personal way. It's nice to have friends and access to great restaurants. It's also nice to be reminded (even if it is by a hockey team) that adversity has a way of bringing out the very best in us if we keep working hard and believing that better things are in store. In short, this week, I'm feeling quite happy and blessed.

Score!(Yes, we were laughing, hence the goofy smiles)

In Praise of Nature and Artifice

Daniel and I wanted to get out yesterday -- so we did. First to nature, then to art.

The weather was mild and the rain had slackened. The skies alternated between clear and overcast, and we didn't need to bundle up. My stipulations were that we go somewhere scenic where I could use our new camera. His stipulations were that we go somewhere friendly enough to foot traffic that we could get our heart rates up over something other than hockey.

We debated the myriad possibilities, and then eventually decided to explore the lands surrounding the Shearon Harris Nuclear Plant. While I was more than a little skeptical about the wisdom of going to an area best know for nuclear fission in search of unspoiled natural beauty, I was open to the opportunity once we looked at a map, seeing that portions of the land are dedicated as parks, trails and campgrounds. As it turns out, neither of us was disappointed. We wandered around for the better part of 2 hours and took in an interesting combination of nature and artifice, design and decay.

The massive cooling tower created...a pillar of cloud as we wandered through the wilderness.
The land was peppered, here and there, with the refuse of human life...... and the empty shells of other lives.
The trees still clung to whithered leaves...
but the earth trumpeted the nearness of spring.

There were quiet corners to explore...
and mysterious lifeforms to encounter.
We saw how the strength of that built with hands could be overcome by persistent vines...and how watery carpets of deep red fern and tufts of brilliant green...persist in the face of shimmering oil.
It was all a reminder that we always have the choice to embrace life...
and can grow together...
or apart.

Night fallen, we took advantage of free tickets and went to hear the ecstatic laments of the displaced hordes (Dawn Upshaw singing Golijov's Ayre), and the song of whales in the quiet blue deep, interpreted by the lips and hands of masked musicians (Crumb's Vox Balaenae). Here, again, nature met artifice.

Even when the world turns upside down...
there is order and beauty and life... sometimes because of what we bring to the earth, and sometimes because of what we leave unspoiled.

(All photos save the one *of* Nikki were taken by me [Nikki] and represent my first attempts at using a non-point-and-shoot camera. I didn't edit any of them [except for flipping the last one] because I simply don't have time or desire right now. I reserve the rights to them anyway!)

Is There Beauty Yet to Find? - PART 1

Yes! And again, yes! ... in the pages of books!

I love a loved book.

Not a book that I loved so much on its own merits as a book that someone has loved, and in which linger shadows of that affection. This is part of the reason why I am possibly at my happiest in a used book store, rummaging through stacks of stale, brittle books to find what someone left behind that I will regard as "keepers."

What's a keeper? It's simply a book that somehow catches my eye, tickles my fancy or tugs at my heartstrings, usually because in it I connect in some small way through it to another life.

Mind you, this is no ordinary literary love; I sometimes choose a book because of who owned it, not what it is. Sometimes I choose it for reasons that boil down to what its existence in print says about the world as it is and the world as it was. Sometimes the books even choose me, like those in the bag brought to me furtively in the darkness of a Havana night in exchange for a few American dollars. Most curiously, perhaps, these books are sometimes best left unread.

I'm made ever richer by sharing this love with a similarly bibliophilic husband. Part of our honeymoon and much of our honeymoon money was spent poring over the books in a tiny used book store in a fire-ravaged part of Southern California. New books are wonderful, but old books are priceless.

Today I want to share a few of this special type of best-loved book from our collection, which tell me with certainty that there is Beauty yet to find.

SHORTER POEMS OF JOHN MILTON 1961 - Durham, NC

This book was selected not just for the printed content -- although Milton is worth the second look -- but also for the thorough notes taken by Ingrid on nearly every page. It was clear that this was a matter of study, but there is also a hint of love in the carefully-penciled notes that tell us that a line in Il Penseroso "evokes melancholy" or ask what "we will dream of on perfect day."

THE COLLECTED POEMS OF RUPERT BROOKE 1925 - Montecito, CA
This book inspired the title of this entry and the idea behind it. The pages of this tome are lovingly interspersed with clippings and notes and underlined passages. However, this isn't the sort of note-taking that goes with a college course. These are far more personal. I get the feeling, leafing through these pages, that "Molly" of Niagara Falls, Ontario, whose hand wrote these words

Is there Beauty yet to find? and Certainty? and Quiet, kind? (Page 159)

on the end-papers, had a deep love for the author: a passionate, tragic figure who died in the Aegean in 1915 at the age of 27.
We don't know anything about Molly, really... except that her books were no longer of use to her by the time Daniel stopped in to browse the estate sale. That, and that she was something of a romantic -- her heart moved by the poems of a certain British soldier-poet. Still, I feel that I know her deeply when I turn the yellowed pages of her book and encounter her thoughts lovingly preserved there.
EN MARCHA CON FIDEL 1982 - La Habana, Cuba
NORSK PROSA 1968 - Durham, NC
& KROPPSVÅRD 1932 - Julian, CA
En Marcha Con Fidel (On the campaign with Fidel) came not from a bookstore, but from a Cuban man I had asked to simply find me books. Bookstores in 1990's Havana were little more than repositories of Leftist propaganda, and while this book was no different in that regard, it was different in that it came from someone's private collection. It was brought with about 8 other books -- most of which had been printed in Argentina, and all of them were of rather poor manufacture and further degraded by elements and time. The man was eager to be rid of the books and to be on his way. I didn't understand his position, at least not entirely, but I believe it is safe to say that purchase marked my participation in the Cuban Black Market. Of all of these books, only this one and perhaps two others remain intact enough to really read.

(This page shows the dedication of a book by Che Guevara to the author of the present book)

Castro stepped down today. Of course, what that really means is probably not much... but we shall see. For me, Cuba is not Castro, and Castro is not Cuba. Cuba is a beautiful country with an immense heart, trapped in time and poverty. This book, though focused on Castro, is emblematic of my time there and holds special memories for me. Cuba, though real, lives differently in my imagination than it does in reality

Norsk Prosa was selected because in it is a selection from Kristin Lavransdatter in the original Norwegian, but the fact that it bears the full name, address and phone numbof a student named Glenn who was studying it in 1977 doesn't hurt. My ties to Norway are fragile after all this time, but Norway provides one of the largest tributaries into my bloodline. This book is about place imagined -- a place I want to go but have never seen. A place to which I owe some portion of my existence, but to which I cannot meaningfully connect... yet.
Kroppsvård (pictured above)... well, I don't quite know how to translate (perhaps it is the author, I don't know!), but the subtitle, I can. This is a sort of practical handbook for the "modern" housewife, including exercises, childrearing advice and information about personal beauty and hygiene. I cannot begin to tell you how this book delights me, not in the least because of the photos inside. It is, for me, another connection to Daniel's and my Scandinavian heritage -- in this case, it's the half-Swede in Daniel the book channels. I cannot help wondering about the woman who purchased this book in order to model her life after it. She wrote a short note on the page here... that the picture shows the "boat rowing" activity. I also wonder how the book, printed in Stockholm, came to rest in a sleepy town in the mountains of California where our paths could cross.


SUB-EDITING 1946 - London, England
This book came to me via a shelf of the Hotel Elizabeth off Hyde Park in London. We were staying there for several days, and so we took the time to look at the library remainder books that lined the shelves by the stairs. This title, replete with examples of reproductions of all kinds of newspapers dating back to the 1700s, quickly caught my fancy and followed me back to my room. The editor in me couldn't resist.

Here, a few years later, the book is again in my hand. Mind you, I didn't lift it. I talked to the staff and offered to purchase it. If memory serves, they gave it to me at no charge. In any event, this former holding of the Paddington Public Libraries is now on permanent loan to me.


-----------------------
Post dedicated to the memory of
THE BOOK OF COMMON PRAYER ca. 1930 - Montecito, CA
This special book was pocket-sized and leather-bound, dating from the 1930's and came from the same estate sale in Montecito that introduced Rupert Brooke into our lives. This book was a well-loved Canadian edition with flowers and clover pressed between its pages. Daniel used to go up to Penn Park in Whittier on his lunch breaks during Lent and read the Psalms from it. He kept it in a box when circumstances changed, and, when he opened the box about 7 years ago, his heart broke to find only the cover and a bunch of paper shreds.

Rites of Passage

There is no single "Orthodox" way to deal with a lost pregnancy. What to do ends up coming down, in large part, to what each priest feels is best in his capacity as spiritual father dealing with a hurting spiritual child. This is a mercy, I think, because while each of us experience the same feelings and the same life events, no two of us experience them the same way, and the room for pastoral judgment means there are choices.

While there may be no single way, there are guides to follow, precedents to consult, and the comfort that comes from the knowledge that there is no human experience that is "new" to the Church as a whole, even if it is new to me.

Daniel and I decided together with our priest here to have him come to our home to pray with us after the miscarriage was physically complete and before I returned to church. I was very comfortable with that plan. But, as so often happens, it was as if God whispered, "my plans are not your plans," and my best-laid plans were laid aside. On Saturday, a brief phone call confirmed that I would instead come to the church and the priest would pray with me there before the regular services.

I don't like surprises. I don't like change. I've had enough of both lately to last me a long time. When Daniel asked if I was willing to change the plan, I said I was. I was, it was true, but I sure wasn't happy about it.

"Will it be private?" I asked. Well, yes, and no. It will be early enough that most people will not yet be there. The priest, soft-spoken and gentle, will breath the prayers quietly over me rather than shouting them to the rafters. It won't involve fanfare. It will be deeply personal, but not private in the sense I might most like.

My question and my worry about that fact betrayed that I had forgotten something rather important that I slowly remembered as the morning wore on.

Since when is my salvation a private matter? Who among us is truly saved in isolation? Which of us does not need others as witnesses, guides and helpers? Who is so self-sufficient that Christ's love, poured out through other hands and other lips are made impotent and irrelevant? Who doesn't need to be surrounded by others when we would most like to disappear?

-------------

There are ways in which this grief isn't like others. Our culture teaches us not to acknowledge the life of a new unborn baby until it is both "wanted" and thriving after the first treacherous 12 weeks in the womb.

But is that really the way God sees it? I don't think so, somehow. Still, this conflict lives in me. Part of me wants to hide this away in my heart as my private sorrow... mostly, I think, because I really don't want pity, and because I feel that we culturally don't do well with grief in general, let alone the duplicity and confusion that attends the natural loss of a life that our culture says is legal to end willfully without a second thought--a life that only counts if someone wanted it... and even then, only in a way that makes us collectively uncomfortable because this life has the air of promise about it, not actuality. We are not equipped to mourn a life we are not prepared to celebrate.

Yet, some part of me wants to acknowledge what was lost as a real grief, a genuine loss. What better place for that than the place where we greet all of life's spiritual transitions? None better, in spite of my wants.

----------

When we arrived at the church, the walk to the main outside doors seemed incredibly long. I focused on the crunching of my shoes on the gravel of the parking lot, I contemplated turning back around and I experienced increasing dread of the next few minutes. When we stepped inside the first set of doors and made our way towards the interior doors, my heart sank. About half a dozen people were already there--busy at their prayers. I wanted to be alone in that moment. I didn't want to cry in front of them. I didn't want them wondering what was being said if they were out of earshot. I didn't want them to hear if they weren't.

I stood just outside the doors, not sure of what to do, waiting nervously and looking for Father behind the curtain of the icon screen. When, a few moments later, he walked towards me and asked me to stand before him in the doorway, I knew how it would be and I understood how right this situation was for me.

I recognize this position, this place. Standing facing the altar from the back of the church. This is where, traditionally, couples stand to become betrothed, before going to the altar to be joined in marriage. This is where new converts stand to renounce Satan before they go to the altar for annointing. This is where new mothers stand when they are "churched"--blessed and brought back into the church after childbirth. This is a place of transition, or preparation for something new. A place of deaths, blessings and rebirths.

O Sovereign Master, Lord our God, Who was born of the all-pure Theotokos and Ever-Virgin Mary, and as an infant was laid in a manger: do You Yourself, according to Your great mercy, have regard for this Your servant Nikki, who has miscarried that which was conceived in her. Heal her suffering, granting to her, O Loving Lord, health and strength of body and soul. Guard her with a shining Angel from every assault of sickness and weakness and all inward torment. You who accept the innocence of infancy in Your Kingdom, comfort the mind of Your servant and bring her peace. Amen.

The prayers themselves were short and comforting: prayers to the King who was born as an infant to a very human mother. When they were done, I stepped into a place replete with reminders of Christ's unfailing mercy and measureless sacrifice.

I sang with the choir for most of the service, stopping to compose myself when the words we sang touched something deep in me and tears started again.

Blessed are they who mourn, for they shall be comforted.

Let us lay aside all earthly cares... that we may receive the King of all.

Yes, let us lay aside earthly cares and focus on the things of heaven. After all, heaven is where God shall wipe away all tears...; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things are passed away.

----------

Possibly some of the most interesting books I have ever read were written by Mircea Eliade, Romanian philosopher, writer and historian of religion. It's been long enough since I read the books that I don't remember much detail. I only know that when I contemplated the power of sacred ritual, of transition, and of their place in our lives as members of community, his work came immediately to mind.

I pulled out his "Rites and Symbols of Initiation" today to see if I could discover what it was that had so resonated with me. What I found, skimming the introduction, was repeated reference to the sacred reality of initiation rites and the essential component preceding all births: death. There was also a deep sense of the connectedness of the individual to a whole cosmic, sacred history that is very much cherished and shared.

What came to mind next was the passage in John 12 where Christ speaks of a grain of wheat falling to the earth and dying before it bears much fruit, painting for us a picture not only of his own impending death, but of the death that all of us must die if we are to follow him and the promises of both fruitful lives and resurrection.

I can't pretend to understand all of this. I only know that as I stood at the threshold of the church on Sunday and was ushered in again with prayer, after several weeks of absence, I could not escape the feeling of having somehow, in a small way, experienced a death and a rebirth, a rite of passage.

But this is no empty ritual, assigned arbitrary meaning by humans who search for reasons for suffering and impose order where there is none. There was more--a connection between that which is physical and sensual--incense, candles, human touch, breath, spoken prayers--and the greater spiritual reality. There was more because the God who loves is in our midst and answers prayers--especially the prayers of the broken.

This was, like so many things in life, a rebirth that is a microcosm of the rebirth we are each offered through Christ, who makes all things new.

The Muddle in the Middle

I had a chance this week to briefly catch up online with a friend I have never met face-to-face, but have found to be an inspiration over and over again over the last few years -- especially when my going gets a bit tougher than usual. She has been through more challenges than I can imagine surviving -- let alone coming through with flying colors -- and still she exudes victory and wisdom well beyond her years and life station.

I found myself reaching out to her this week because I knew she would understand some of the things I have been facing lately. In addition to being a writer, a wife, a medical "survivor," a friend and the filler of any number of other roles large and small, this woman is also mother to several children... all but one of whom passed from this life too soon. This woman has held her living child and then kissed his lifeless form a few hours later, and she still finds hope, joy and a reason to fight to make life as rich as it can be. A brush with her spirit is a gentle reminder that sorrows, while deep and very real, do not need to remain festering wounds. A few words from her are like a gentle upward breeze when my hopes have started to plummet to earth.

When she tells me that I will make it through all of my current hurts, worries and confusion and emerge even stronger than before, I believe her. She really doesn't offer me any other choice, because her conviction is contagious, and I know she is speaking to me as me, not offering empty platitudes.

It's not that I really doubt that I will make it or that I will be strengthened by adversity... I have already been through some rather dark moments, and they haven't erased my hope. But I'm struggling in strange ways now, in part, I think, because I find it somewhat harder to define myself.

I've changed fundamentally. Then again, I haven't changed. I'm still the same old me. But sometimes I don't recognize myself when I gaze into my internal mirror. There are facts about me that are forever altered: I've been part of the creation of new life. I am a mother, even though there is no external signpost, no little person to chase around and no memorial plot to mark the few weeks that made up a life that I knew more intimately than anyone else this side of heaven. I've experienced an amazing gain... and a subsequent loss that surprises me at times with its strength and presence.

Under the circumstances, I can't help but be different somehow.

I'm really not inclined to dwell too much on the loss. It is absolutely real, and I feel it to my core. It inhabits my dreams and flits in and out of my consciousness during waking hours. It's never far away, even when I am busy with other things. That is just the way it is. But I don't want to be defined by what might have been or what was. I want to be in the present, not the imagined future or the actual past. I want to be here now, because, while being here hurts, here and now I am blessed -- and I have the opportunity to heal.

My friend and I discussed a woman we knew of who died in her 40s this week after a long battle with excess weight and a shorter battle with illness, and we both were struck by the feeling of unfairness that always comes with deaths like hers -- not unlike my feelings when we heard the telling silence in the ultrasound room. Circumstances are unfair... we can't help but feel that... especially when someone we think is too young, too good, too important, too long-suffering or too special to us exits life in ways or at times we would never have chosen. Perhaps it is a reflection of our deep knowledge that the world that we live in is not the world we were designed to inhabit and that we are not the people we were created to be. This world is flawed and fallen -- as we are -- but the spark of the divine in us shines through the darkness of life as it is to shows us life as it ought to be: whole and at one with our Creator and His creation. We can't help but long for things to be the other way -- we were made for that.

We look at the world as it is and we feel it is unfair. We are right. It isn't fair... but not in the way we think.

Fairness is destruction. Instead, our lives are bathed in mercy and we have absolutely been given reason to hope, no matter what unfairness life dishes out.

Most of the time when I really think about my situation and the feelings I've battled that tell me my circumstances are unfair, I end up deciding that I really can't complain. I said so to my friend in these words:
"I don't think I have suffered that deeply."
"Suffering is relative. You can't compare when you are living it," she replied.
She's probably right. I don't have the full picture yet. Still, our hurts, the big and small ones, are all part of what it is to live.

But, how am I to be here and now... who I am, now, changed and unchanged? Joyful and sorrowing? Eager to suck the marrow from life and yet burdened by loss and sometimes feeling unable to move?

It's easy to be defined by a pet project or a role or a relationship or a plan. It's easy to come up with pat answers to "Who are you, and what do you do?" It's not so easy to put the reality of all we are in context sometimes... especially when parts of who you are at your core cannot really be shared with the world in a way the world can understand.

I had begun to be defined by pregnancy and motherhood. That fact had so completely taken over my body and mind. So what am I now? Who or what defines me?

My friend has defined herself of late by one of her long-time personal battles. It's taken up incredible amounts of her time and space and thought and energy, and now she wants to finally be herself as a whole person, not herself as the crusader for a cause. I understood what she meant, somehow... especially when she said, "I didn't want to lose any of the other things I am... especially the mother to my bunch in heaven."

I don't want to either.

I don't want to lose sight of the blessing that was mine for a few weeks. Then again, I don't want to lose the joy of living now because of something that was for a time and that isn't now in a tangible way that anyone else can see and intuitively understand.

For now, anyway, I guess I just need to muddle through.

I'm still in the middle... in the middle of a rather deep transition from who I was to who I am and who I will yet be. In the muddle between what I thought life would be and what it actually will be -- the details of which are, mercifully, perhaps, hidden from me. It's hard to know how to be and what to think and how to feel when I am stuck here in these moments. Still... somehow... I know I am where I must be, and being here and now is good enough.

Notes to self

I had surgery about 24 hours ago, and I have made a few notes to self after the fact that I will now record here for posterity.

1. Whoever formulated Midazolam deserves a medal. A shot of that in my right arm and about 45 seconds later my brain was floating in the most pleasant way and my pre-surgery anxieties were distant memories. It's apparently what they offer to death row inmates before execution. I think I understand why.

2. Don't bother trying to have a long, meaningful conversation with an anesthesiologist even though they may bait you to talk. As soon as they tire of your drivel, they will turn the IV drip on and leave the room, never to be seen again, before you know what hit you. That's just not the stuff of lasting relationships.

3. There are worse things than being attended in the restroom by nursing staff when you really have to answer nature's call and are still woozy from the anesthesiologist's revenge for your lack of scintillating conversation.

4. Investigate the possibility of a less generic last name. It's really disappointing when you are waiting anxiously for your name to be called and hear it repeatedly announced followed by, "Sorry, not you, I need the other ____" in a cruel, cruel repeated game.

5. Hospital waiting room furniture may look like the comfy furniture in a swanky college library, but it's really just an illusion. The couches are just not conducive to napping and you will probably be sorely disappointed if you try. *sigh*

6. Daniel already knows that he can have my books and CDs if I die on the OR table. No need to remind him.

7. Hospital staff really enjoy asking you the same question over and over again. They get testy if you don't just smile and reply cheerfully that you are still the same person you were when the last person came in the room and that you are still there for the same operation.

8. When signing for the 18th time that you realize your routine, minor procedure may result in maiming or death (your own death, not that of the doctor), it's best to just smile, scribble and try not to think about it. (Yet another reason to be really nice to all of those hospital staff.)

9. They throw away those nifty grip-bottom socks if you don't take them home with you. Might as well keep them on hand for those hospital-nostalgia moments.

10. The ads for free cookies on the hospital walls are a sham. They aren't free -- they require the donation of your life's blood. That said, sometimes a cookie is worth the sacrifice. What I wouldn't have given for a cookie after my rather long fast. All I got was saltines as a thank you for my rather undignified experience.

11. Hospital gowns are just as breezy and fashionable as ever. They won't, however, let you take them home. At least I got to keep the socks...

12. Clunky wire grocery carts are not done serving humanity when homeless people tire of them. They go to hospitals and masquerade as wheelchairs. (No, really, click on the link. This is the model of chair that ferried me to the curb)

13. Very pale light yellow skin is actually quite becoming and matches your eyes. Or at least you should keep telling yourself that when you look in the mirror. It won't do to dwell on the skin tone you used to know.

These are just a few of my discoveries yesterday. It was a rather full day of learning.... when I wasn't asleep.

On St. Valentine's Day

Even though the Orthodox Church celebrates the memory of St. Valentine the Presbyter on July 6, and the Heiromartry Saint Valentine (Bishop of Interamna, Terni in Italy) on July 30, I figure today is as good a time as any to remember those men who gave their name to a day that is associated so strongly in our culture with the concept of love. There's not much to be known for certain about either man, except that the fact that they are remembered lovingly many centuries later as saints is a testament to the fact that they both exemplified in their lives a passionate love for Christ -- both gave their lives as servants of Christ as pastors of His church, one sacrificing to the point of violent death.

While I doubt either of the pastors named Valentine thought of love as the stuff of flowers, candy and over-priced cards, it's not too far a stretch between the love these men demonstrated in their lives for Christ and the ideal expression of human romantic love. Christ's love for the Church is set up as the biblical example of the love of a groom for his cherished bride. The Orthodox Church still crowns wedded pairs with the dual crowns of royalty (as rulers of a home dedicated to Christ) and martyrdom (as those who are pledged to lay their lives down for each other as Christ did for his bride). Truly Christ's sacrifice for His beloved bride was the greatest expression of love we will ever know.

I'm especially grateful today -- as I recover from surgery and wake with a new reminder of the fragility of life and the gift it is to face each new day, whatever challenges it may bring -- for the many manifestations of God's love in my life, the most tangible of which come in the form of friends and family who are there, loving me in their unique and cherished ways.

I hope you know that you are loved deeply and perfectly by God, and loved imperfectly, but dearly, by me.

Look God, no hands!

"Look ma, No hands!" is a pivotal phrase in a child's declaration of independence. Not only have we done away with the training wheels by then, but we are so in control that we don't even need our hands to keep the bike upright and steadily humming along on the right course. Of course, as kids we can be a bit naive about just how safe we are, but there's something so fresh and lovely about the faith and excitement of a child who has just learned to do something new.

Adults don't usually express it the same way, but many of us have our own ways of saying "look what I can do!" and we take no small measure of pride in those accomplishments. In fact, when others take credit for our work or thwart our steady upward climb to the top of whatever mountain we have purposed to climb, some of us can get downright miffed.

I sure do.

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I remember my first tentative brush with intellectual property rights. I believe I was looking through a book of Christian music, and I came across a familiar song with very familiar lyrics. How familiar? Well... I wrote them. Top to bottom. Beginning to end. My creative efforts. There, on the bottom of the page, was the copyright. My lyrics, without attribution, copyrighted without my knowledge by two people I knew well, and one of whom had collaborated with me on the music.

My first reaction was shock. Following rather quickly on shock's heels were indignation and anger.

It was mine--my work.

I had a sort of repeat performance this past week. Only this time, it was my editing that showed up uncredited in a magazine. That is to say, a submission to my magazine was reworked by me (and I do mean reworked -- it had been shorted by 1000 words, but left in the author's words as much as possible), sent to the author for review, received with joy, and, without my knowledge, my reworked draft was submitted to another magazine who beat us to the publishing punch. Again I felt it--shock, indignation, anger. Yeah, it was not *my* story, but the version printed in the magazine was mine--word-for-word, with a few tiny editorial changes that were the prerogative of the publication.

It was mine! How dare the author not recognize that!

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Ah... but all of it makes me think, especially when I have calmed enough to see a little bit more clearly.

I am nothing but the person God has fashioned me to be. I have no skill He didn't give me. I have no resources He doesn't bestow. I have no opportunities He has not laid before me. I have no blessings that have not come from His hand.

I am not my own.

But still, I feel so entitled.

My work is mine.
My time is mine.
My money is mine.
My talents are mine.
My family and friends are mine.
My desires are mine.
My body is mine.
My flaws are mine.
My sins are mine...
And how dare anyone deprive me of any of them?

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I'm fewer than 48 hours away from a "routine" procedure that has me scared half to death. No, I suppose I don't believe that my life will be in real danger when they slip the gas mask over my mouth and nose. I have faith in the skill of the doctors as much as I have faith in anything. I just know that what is routine to my doctor is so far from *my* routine as to be terrifying. I'm not sure it's even the medical aspect that scares me. I think what rattles me is that this is one matter in which I am not my own. I'm simply not in control, and I have to trust my life and wellbeing to others.

What further unnerves me is the recognition that there is not a moment in my life when that is not true.

What? Do you not know that your body is the temple of the Holy Spirit which is in you, which you have of God, and you are not your own? For you are bought with a price: therefore glorify God in your body, and in your spirit, which are God's.

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"No hands" means something else to me. See, I never really got comfortable enough riding my bike to want to ride without holding on to the handlebars. I like control too much. I like to feel connected to the ground, even if it is through a slender metal frame with wheels. I like to steer, to control what bumps I hit in the road. I don't like coasting at exhilarating speeds and trusting the momentum of the bike to keep me upright. I want my feet near the ground, the pace to be my own and the apparatus to be under my guidance.

It's hard to recognize that I am still that child when it comes to my life. Sure, the clunky training wheels have come off (or at least I like to think so), but still I clutch at the handlebars and try to steer my life the way I want it to go.

All the while, I'm heedless of the strong hands that encompass and shield me, the gentle hands that would lead me safely to the end of my journey. I'm ignorant of the power of the One who keeps me upright--so much more to be trusted than the laws of physics. I'm blind to the forgiving hands that catch me when I veer off the safe road and fall, ignoring all of the signs He has erected for my safety. Only then, when I realize that I have been lovingly preserved, do my eyes pop open.

I don't want to acknowledge my dependence on God for everything... my position of inadequacy without Him. My need for Him in everything, right down to every breath that I breathe. I don't want to, but I must.

Oh to find the faith to let go, to trust his strong arms to carry me, to cry out with all my heart: "Look God, no hands!"

Dream a little dream

I can't help but find dreams entertaining. I mean, I am insane enough when I am awake, but when I am sleeping... wow.

Here are just a few themes/tidbits from the nighttime mental wanderings of the last week. The symbolism of most of them are not lost on me...! This is what I get when I combine tidbits of conversations, real life worries, Tolstoy before sleep, lots of comfort food and my own special brand of lunacy.

1. Daniel got a new (second) job at JCPenney, about which he was very excited. I went to pick him up on a Saturday night, and he came out to the car long enough to tell me he was going to be working tomorrow, Sunday, too... and wasn't that great? I wasn't so sure. I followed him back into the store (which was very strange and featured over-turned old beaters of sofas, among other things that I don't expect to see at Penneys) found him in a back office somewhere, and explained that the rather pitiful hourly rate they were paying probably wasn't worth the time lost "working" there when he could be doing other things. He thought for a moment, agreed, and quit.

2. Daniel and I were looking for a little boy of maybe 8 years of age - he wasn't ours, but we had misplaced him somehow and I knew we needed to find him. Perhaps we were babysitting? I don't know. Anyway, we'd been looking for a while and he just wasn't turning up. Finally, I stopped Daniel and said, "This is only a dream. He's not really lost. When we wake up he is certain to be right where he belongs." We went back about our dreamy business, content that he no longer needed finding.

3. I had an suckling infant boy. This one was mine. It was probably no more than a year old in physical development, but it was about 30 intellectually, which became clear when it began talking to me of serious philosophical matters. I don't remember much of what he said, and I am not sure it matters. He reminded me of a much more human and much more pleasant version of the "Stewy" character from The Family Guy TV series. (Not that I would ever watch such drivel, of course). I just remember that the baby was happy to talk about very serious matters between unsuccessful attempts to nurse--he also seemed to enjoy changes of clothing. Thankfully, his diaper never needed tending.

4. I was in some huge crate-like self-propelled wooden wagon with a bunch of people -- mostly people I don't know. My parents and a variety of friends were in or around the wagon, and we were all in a street somewhere (I have no idea where) that was very full of traffic and people -- almost like there was a parade or festival going on. Up next to the wagon pulled the most bizarre and enormous carriage, pulled by a team of four large white horses--each richly decorated like carousel horses. That wasn't so strange, until I noticed that on each of the horses stood a largish goat (similarly adorned), and on each of the goats stood a small pony (Shetland, maybe) each of which, in turn, was being ridden by small children. Somehow one of the friends in the wagon thing with me decided that the children weren't safe up there, so we helped them down and into the wagon. At that point the wagon was quite crowded, so my friend hopped out and began running ahead of the wagon, pulling it along by pulling on my hand as I held on to the wagon. He eventually tired of running and pulling and just ran away, and the wagon moved on of its own accord. Meanwhile, people bustled and chatted and walked along as if nothing whatsoever was strange about this picture.

Okay, sooo. There are mine. Now I want to hear about your dreams. :) What has your sub-conscious mind thought up lately?

Another Reason to Love the South

Okay, so how cool is it that there is actually an event called "The Hell Hole Swamp Festival"? Very cool. I won't listen to protests to the contrary.

It's not exactly in our backyard here, but it's not so terribly far away in the Palmetto State Low Country. I haven't looked myself, but Daniel tells me that if you locate it on the map, it's "precisely in the middle of nowhere" at the junction of a minor US route and a state highway, and a stone's throw from a town called Old Joe. The swamp/festival apparently derive their not-so-flattering names from a letter from Cornwallis to King George in which he described the locale as "one hell of a hole of a swamp." Those dang nicknames, they have a way of sticking... for centuries.

But the name is far from the only reason why the festival is the epitome of coolness. You must consider the other "family" activities:
+ the 36th annual "Gator Trot" 10K
+ a Bar-B-Que cookoff
+ a talent show
+ a tobacco spitting contest
+ a display of whiskey stills
+ a horseshoe pitching contest
+ a parade
+ arm wrestling
+ Miss, Mrs. and Mr. Hell Hole beauty pageants
+ and... the ever-popular Moonshine Ball
Those are just the highlights. It's not until the first weekend of May, so there is still time to make travel plans...

Part of the beauty of such an event is the fruitful conversation it prompts between my loving stickler of a husband and me. Of course, while I am as fallible as the next person, since I am employed as an editor, I cannot be permitted to make spelling and grammar errors without gentle, well-meaning and good-natured ribbing from him.

Today, I dared to misspell whiskey in a message to him on the subject of the august event. I, without properly referring to Scotch Whisky, spelled it "whisky." I can honestly claim, at least, that I spend so little time actually imbibing the stuff that I could care less how it is spelled in what context. But I digress... Daniel kindly pointed out my mistake, at which point I made some trifling excuse about needing to save up my spelling prowess for my day job. Daniel then cleverly suggested that the whole spelling debacle can be avoided altogether by simply referring to it as "uisquebagh". I knew, knowing Daniel, that this had to be some synonym for whisk(e)y. But since the word was new to me, I did my usual editor thing and looked it up. Oh, snap! The reply was so lovely: you mean "uisquebaugh"? Bothersome vowels! He promptly accused me of being picky.

Balance was thus restored in our corner of the universe.

You see, the most beautiful thing about "The Hell Hole Swamp Festival" is that the mere idea of it expanded my knowledge of language and alcohol culture and brought us closer together as a family. Who can ask for anything more...? ...except perhaps the title of Mrs. Hell Hole.

(It's all yours, Heather... I won't be entering)