Dancing in the Airport

Thanksgiving is a terrible time to travel, especially by plane. But we do what we must to enjoy family so never say never. My sister, niece and I flew to Austin to be with the here niece. My return flight was two hours after theirs  so we all got to the airport about 4pm. Then "maintainence issues" and weather took over. 

Turns out, if you must be stranded in an airport, Austin-Bergstrom is an excellent choice. People are friendly- I lost count of the announcement for items people left behind at security or even on the plane they just arrived on. The foods not bad- kinda pricey but decent choices. The TVs had a terrific Bronco's football game on. 

But the best was the music. Austin has a huge music industry.  So what better place to introduce the world to the Austin music scene than to rock out the airport?  Great music. And as my United light was delayed later and later, the place emptied. So I just danced up and down the QUIET, empty spaces. Gotta do something between touchdowns. 

I have no clue who this is. Any ideas?

So thanks, United, I guess.  Flight finally departed at 11pm. Delayed landing at Denver -

 "Heck why not bump back that flight, they're already late." So landed at 1am, 

my knightress in shining armor picked me up and we got home to my niece's about 2am. 

Just out dancing all night. 

Pinpoints of light in the dark

       I've battled/ experienced/ suffered/ overcome...whatever we call it, had depression.  For years. As a friend said, "Depression becomes a dance partner that never wants to stop."  It's exhausting. 

     I take drugs. Antidepressants, to be specific.  It took me a long time to accept that I need drugs. And the decision, forced by doctors wiser than I was, probably saved my life.  

Depression for me was a long, slow slide starting with mild childhood winter moods. Then a postpartum  depression which didn't quite go away before some seasonal blues added to the chemical rut in my brain.  A rut that with each season or trauma, or the next postpartum episode added to the years in a location with overcast winters- each small depression added to that rut, that grove that got deeper and deeper in my brain.  The normal brain chemicals weren't able to fill in that gap and eventually my brain ceased working well enough to keep my emotional equalibrium.  I wasn't admitted to the psych unit because I lied on my initial evaluation. I said I didn't have a suicide plan. I did. 

     I'm so grateful for the intervention and the following years of medication adjustments and counseling. Vitamins and supplements aided in improving my sleep and helped my physical health.  When my husband died, the lessons from depression  gave me tools to grieve in a healthy way. I learned to sit quietly and be content with my God.  Writing opened my heart to my thoughts and emotions and gave me a new community.  

So I thought I had most of the lessons behind me. Until this fall. This month. Suddenly all my self-knowledge and intellectual understanding failed me. Again.  The details of the last few weeks still embarrass me.  I've added a new drug, I cancelled Thanksgiving at my house- who knew that was possible. And I'm going south for some sunshine and fun with my sister and her daughters.  And I wouldn't have done any of that if she hadn't stepped in and insisted I stop the crazies and do what I needed to do. For me. 

     That's tough. For many of us. We are caretakers, pillars of the church,  civic volunteers, mothers and daughters.  We don't bail on major holidays, not cook the turkey. Fortunately no one is flying in or I suspect I would be cooking. But my family has been supportive- perhaps, not totally understanding but I don't understand this ambush from my brain either.  

So the irony of my recent blogs with lofty words of seeing beauty and finding jpy in the small things  has not been lost on me.  Right now I see through a fog of numb and fatigue.  But I stand by my own advice and will continue to look, even when that looking is through duller eyes. 

      And here are a few of my small, beautiful things this week.

The window to my world


Followed by favorite things on the window sill.

 Or on the counter, catching the sun's rays.

I love these winter pillows- I just love textiles in general. Beauty you can touch.  Months ago I wandered into a fiber show- I don't knit or crochet but these soft balls inspire my creativity just by being in my space.

Then a glimpse into a bath.  This warm room gave me a needed jolt of homey beauty this week. "I love that space," I told myself.  Good self talk.

So my blessings on your week of preparation for our national holy day of gratitude. Feel free to buy a cooked turkey at your local grocery.  Run away, if only for a walk in sunshine before the pie.  Be kind to yourself.  Turns out the world doesn't end if you do. 

And watch for the surprises of small beauty. 

First snow, gentle reminder

Last week I woke to sunlight sparkling on hoar frost.  I love hoar frost. When I was a little girl in Alaska we rode the bus to school. There was a magic season- it must have been January or February, when the sun was out and the snow was fresh.  Any earlier in the winer we roadto school in pitch dark, morning and afternoon.  Great beginnings for me,  a woman with seasonal affect disorder.

But on those magical mornings when the sun shone and the moisture content was just right and the planets all lined up, the hoar frost would outline each branch, each fence post, each wire.  Delicate white crystals poised for a moment in perfect rest.  I would press my nose against the cold bus window and inhale the beauty of the wonder before my eyes.  Early morning sunbeams sparkled, soon their heat would melt the fairyland but for now, the bitter cold kept all in pure suspension.

For this small girl who struggled with the weight of winter, hoar frost outside the bus window was a gift— lifting me and bearing me through the long, dark season.

Now I'm a grown-up. Today I hurried to collect books for our prayer time and library videos for return and mail to be deposited and the computer for some time with high speed access.... as I hurried into yet another full day, I stopped for a moment. I paused as water pauses in that brief solid state of frost.

Like the lovely crystals that sparkled across my yard, I won't last forever. I will someday feel the sun's rays one last time and be changed.  Hoar frost melts into the earth- earth to earth, dust to dust.  But there is also the changing from glory to glory, "But we all, with open face beholding as in a glass the glory of the Lord, are changed into the same image from glory to glory, even as by the Spirit."

Someday I'll be fully human and fully glorious but for now I am merely in the process. But while I'm here, I want to behold with an open face...the glory of the Lord.  The glory of the hoar frost on the golden grass, the first dusting of snow on a porch rail cap.  An old ore cart, from a mine where men descended into dark to dig gold ore from the heart of the earth, transformed into beauty with the glory of the first snow laid gently on its weather beaten surface.



Some days I feel life-beaten, rushed and too busy even in my quiet retirement life. It's my nature to rush from one good thing to another.  On this golden morning, my spirit paused, poised for those moments of wonder.  I pressed my nose against the window of my memories and once again, reveled in beauty.



Pause with me. Notice the light. Look for the beauty.  Breathe deep.

Neither the hoar frost nor the life on this sphere,
last forever.

Beauty in the small beans of life

I'm writing a book. There I said it.  Not sure why some days but whenever I give my 30 second elevator speech (which changes every time I say it), the woman stops and stares at me, "Write that book. I'll read that."

But it's not a fun book. I should write romance novels or humor- I loved Erma Bombeck. That was a woman who could put a humorous spin on every day life or make you weep with her spot-on wisdom.  I'm not Erma.  I'm writing about childhood trauma and fear. I'm writing poetry that sucks life out of me. I'm digging into my own lifelong fears.  This is fun, folks.

And I'm sharing all this with a wonderful group of supportive writers who meet in Sundance, Wyoming.  We actually figured out this week that none of us actually live IN Sundance but one has a Sundance address since it's the closest town to her ranch.  I drive over an hour if the winter hasn't closed the back gravel road, otherwise it's over two.  I'm the one who brings the gut wrenching stories and shares the panic attacks.  Like I said, fun fluffy stuff.

But it needs to be written, if only for me.  So I write on.  But I also need to balance this dark writing with some lighter pieces.  I want to notice beauty on a regular basis, not just when I run off to a fun city like Seattle.  Today it was beans.

Red kidney, speckled pinto, white navy beans for contrast.  A tumble of earthen goodness.




My clever sister-in-law introduced me to hot bean therapy.  I dumped three bags of different size beans in a big bowl and microwaved the whole thing.
Then I sat on my porch in the sunshine and dug my hands into the hot beans.   

Once again, I'm  making wreaths for a local fundraiser and my hands ache.  I have a helper who clips all the greens, I just design and clamp the sections onto a wire base.  The clamp is foot operated- this is a classy act and the wreaths are beautiful.  But last year I did my own clipping and  made five in one day.... and my thumb joint has never been the same. Physical and occupational therapy has helped, as does a thumb joint brace but so do hot beans.



Plus I have to just sit, in the sunshine. Quiet and still. Messing with beans.  It was lovely. So were the beans.

 They roll and slip in my fingers. Bumpy but smooth at the same time, I dig deep and wiggle my hands under their warmth.  I rub my hands and hot beans slide between my fingers.  I feel their different sizes and shapes- longer and short, thin and plump. I hold my hands still and search with fingertips for the pockets of heat.  I'm a child playing in pebbles by the beach.

I close my eyes and feel the sun on my eyelids, the light bright through the skin. The rumor is for snow tonight but this morning the sun is bright in a brilliant blue sky. I sit in a light sweater, a small breeze plays with my hair. I hear its murmur in the pines. My hands are warmed, the stiff joints soothed.

Beans are today's small beautiful thing.

Seeing in Seattle

Sunday I walked in the Wedgewood neighborhood of Seattle. Soft gray mist hung low and last night's rain had color- saturated the fall leaves, highlighted a hundred textures and freshly spritzed the season's flowers. It smelled of moss and lavender. 

What a crazy beautiful city. Love the architecture, love the greens.  I reveled in the beauty I saw. 

The beauty I see.

Yes, I SEE.

I came to Seattle to consult with an eye specialist, to find out if there was anything else to be done to improve my vision. He gave some valuable information but also confirmed my previous diagnosis. My retina was badly torn and the extensive scar tissue was likely unavoidable. It's within my visual field. The macula was torn off, without oxygen too long and may or may not heal any further. So my visual acuity may be what it is.  

But today, I realized — I see...

I see dew drenched flowers. 

And leaf strewn walks. 

I see the texture of plump succulents and the promise of next years strawberries. 

 

I have vision for the big picture, the distant vista. It's the close-up that throws me off. 

I take a photo and assume something is in focus, load it on my computer and enlarge it to choose which  image matches what I saw.  I read of a man with such limited vision, he does this and much more just to see his children's faces.                          Perspective, it's all your perspective. 

Mine's a clunky process but it works. And I delete a lot of photos, keeping life simpler...

Sometimes I get too close, too myopic and even my own finger gets in my way.  

Nothing's in focus.

I can get too close, too introspective in my mind as well.  I'll worry a thought like an old dog worries a bone. Pick at a perceived flaw and unravel myself. Fail to step back and see the bigger picture. 

I came here in a search for visual acuity.  

                   Instead I've been reminded of vision. 

                                  And I wouldn't trade one for the other.  

Thanks, Seattle. 

The Choice of Rest

I do not rest well in this season of waiting and healing. I have not spend hours in contemplation and prayer. I find writing and reading difficult and tiring.  I waste time looking for my misplaced reading glasses so I can see what's on my phone or computer or plate. I put drops in dry eyes and cry when I can't distinguish the clothes in my closet. I'm nervous of the prognosis of my long term vision.  If this is a test, I'm failing.

But this week has been a quiet respite from my agitation. Last weekend I met with a small group and read the Scriptures, sat in silence, walked with them, did some art. It was a pause, a holy Saturday.

All these years of observing the Easter season, Saturday was just a throw away day. We attended dozens of churches in our mobile life. We occasionally had a Maundy Thursday service, once or twice with public foot washing. Another humbling practice and I've often wondered why we seem to ignore that example of Christ's or pull it out once a year.   Most churches had some sort of Good Friday observance. Clearly we were of the "low" churches crowd.  But in all, Easter Sunday was the big celebration.  Some churches had egg hunts, some had productions- one with life animals.  But Saturday? That was my day to figure how if the boys' pants and my Easter dress from last year still fit and if Abby had clean white shoes.



But the Scripture tells us that after the exhaustion of pain and confusion and anguish on Friday,  Jesus...well, it turns out we Christians disagree on what exactly He did on the Saturday.  But we know His disciples observed their Sabbath and rested.

“In honor of Creation and at God’s express command, 

the Jewish people observed the Sabbath as a day of complete rest.

 But its most profound meaning is contained in this particular Sabbath in which,

 having laid down his life for the human family, Jesus, the Son of God, rested.

   Out of respect for the death of the Redeemer, there is no liturgical celebration on Holy Saturday.  In honor of Jesus’ body resting in tomb, the church also rests. 

There is nothing more to be said, nothing more to be done. 

On this day everything rests.”

Thomas Keating

The Mystery of Christ

I like that. It's not an empty day. It's not merely a waiting day.  It's a resting day. A day to sink into the pain of Friday and to anticipate the joy of Sunday.  But clearly it's also a day of it's own activity. It is a day to rest, to breathe, to pause. 

 

"Praying around the Cross"
Trinity Lutheran Church
 Rapid City, SD

So I am remembering my own small pain and looking forward to whatever is ahead for my vision, and I am choosing to rest in the middle.  Are you in an in-between place as well? Not yet there but in a time that may feel useless or  unproductive or wasted?  We all have moments and seasons that can feel this way. Perhaps this Holy Week, we too can choose to rest.  To know, at some level, in all things...

There is nothing more to be said, nothing more to be done. 

On this day everything rests.”

The Humiliation of Frailty

The cantata finished and we sat in silence. One after the first, the two pastors walked quietly down the long aisle, their heads down, no eye contact with the people.  We sat and absorbed the sorrow of Holy Week. The small choir filed out until just one older man remained seated.

Then began the arduous process of his departure. The narrator brought over his walker and gripping his arms, pulled him to his feet. Clutching the walker handles and with her hand on his broad back, he pushed and shuffled his way to the edge of the chancel and out of sight of the watching congregation. Age may have left him his voice but inevitably, it was stripping away his dignity, along with his strength.


I've been stripped for a season- of my strength, my self-sufficiency.

I've been led in public places. Once I stood gripping a shopping cart, staring down at my hands on the handle, at my feet on the floor and unknowingly blocking the aisle.  My eye surgery required almost three weeks of lying flat on my stomach or holding my head down gazing at my lap or feet. It's easy to feel invisible when you don't look up.

Even now, almost two months since my retina detached and was surgically repaired, I am hesitant when I walk, nervous without normal depth perception.  Fumbling for reading glasses, I peer closely at jewelry or sweaters to determine what to wear in a slow process that used to take seconds. My compassion for the elderly has expanded and I understand more their fear of falling.

When I feel sorry for myself, I feel frail and fragile.
And I hate it.


Interesting timing of this frailty in my life with the Christian Holy Season.  Easter vigil reminds use Jesus was weakened by a scourging and humiliated by his tormentors. He chose frailty when he set the power and privilege of His divinity aside and become human in the first place.

Fully God, yet fully man. 

And in becoming fully human, Jesus also became those frail parts of humanity—the hungry, tired, lonely, disappointed, painful parts of our existence. Perhaps he too had moments of fear.


He never rebuked His followers for being weak, for being frail, for being human.

He rebuked them for lack of faith, for doubting, for falling asleep when he needed them.  In my Bible I haven't found Jesus saying in red letters, "You are so human.  Why do you feel pain and experience confusion? Get a grip!"

Instead, His words are familiar in their compassion,

Come all who are weary and heavy laden, and I will give you rest.

Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? 

Yet not one of them will fall to the ground outside your Father's care.

When He approached Jerusalem, He saw the city and wept over it,

When Jesus then saw His mother, and the disciple whom He loved standing nearby,

He said to His mother, "Woman, behold, your son?"

Being frail can be humiliating. Our elderly tenor was once a strong and vibrant man and today he needs help standing.  I'm frustrated by my weakness in this healing process but Jesus is my example of divine willingness to be frail, to be humble, to be comforted.  Jesus was what humans needed to see and, in turn what we need to become.

He embraced the human experience. He understood when his disciples were weak. He saw to the needs of his mother at his most vulnerable time. The complete expression of God in human form.

Humiliate and humble both have the Latin root of humilius- of the hummus, or earth, human. 

Perhaps we aren't humiliated by our frailty, 

just revealed to be fully human.