Worth It

 

Mom is wielding a bean bag in the above picture, fulfilling her occupational therapist's belief in her that she can knock down every pin. Twenty minutes and over fifty tries later, it was a reality recorded in the picture below. Faith provided the motivation and willingness to risk failure, but hard work, trial-error-adjustment, and determination created the success.

Also pictured on the right is the pole that the physical therapist has helped her to learn to use as a transfer aid. The horizontal bar lifts and rotates around the pole, then lowers to lock into place to use as a grip. It all adds up to a little more freedom, muscle building, and greater self-esteem. 

Besides fear, Mom has had to overcome self-doubt, apathy, and bias (she didn't want the therapies nor aids in the beginning) and accept help (regardless of its form) in order to move forward in her healing. Before the therapy started, she was depending on faith, alone, for her progress, but we all know that God expects more from us than that. The journey has been psychological, emotional, and physical, and so have the achievements.

So what are we dreaming of that is worth our faith, hard work, and determination?

Touching

 

I watched a glassblower on OPB this afternoon. It is such a beautiful, dynamic art to behold in its creation. I have a fear of explosions so, when I once sat in the same room as a glassblower, the roar and heat of the ovens unnerved me a bit, but the dance and movements of the artists and molten lumps of glass were mesmerizing. One small puff of air into a rod, or one tiny clip of needle-nosed pliers made indelible changes to each creation. Although the final products were all glass, the momentary influential touch of many things (heat, movement, chemistry, tools, and layers and twists of color) made each unique.

I almost didn’t notice him. There was certainly nothing noteworthy in the little gentleman, stooped with age, who shuffled past us in tiny half-steps like the comical character created by the hilarious Tim Conway. Or, rather, we passed him, since we were moving with much greater speed and efficiency. It was, after all, a vacation we had dubbed “Lorenzo’s Fitness Tour” because of all the walking and climbing that we did to squeeze in as much art, architecture, and breathtaking views as possible. On this day, we were entering one renaissance church in a succession of several that spanned the city so that we might continue our quest to flood our senses with frescos and marble statues, columns and mosaics.

He was dressed in what looked to be his Sunday best, albeit a little worn and humble, but what caught my attention was his bent stature and struggling pace. I was smug enough to pity him and think how impossible the cobbled streets would be for many people like him and my mom. I imagined him a local who had been to morning Mass and wondered that he did not have relatives to help him. Could he not afford a taxi or bus? But then my thoughts were intercepted by the carved font and tall ceilings as we stepped through the church door into another century.

I don’t remember where we went or in what order that day, but I’ll never forget coming out of the next church we visited in another part of town. As the bright light of the clear October day assaulted us, my eyes came to rest on a familiar figure coming toward us. Here was the same gentleman; there was no mistaking his painfully slow shuffle across the geometric cobbles. With his return came a new perspective. Was this another pilgrim on a journey like our own?

Suddenly, my need to “fix” things for him, was challenged. He was teaching me something. I was the hare, he was the tortoise, but speed and ease of gait didn’t matter on a pilgrimage. As he had just proven, he would see everything we would see or at least everything that was important to him; maybe at different times and in different slants of light, but with the same level of determination.

Helping people is a good thing, a great and selfless thing, but sometimes it is the effort, the doing, that is as important as the goal and we must be careful not to take that away from each other in our haste to help. He was on his journey and I was on mine, but, in that one shared moment, like a bit of molten glass on a blower’s spinning rod, I was forever changed.

What Matters

In our neck of the woods the new year dawned at a clear, crisp eight degrees and was up to a whopping twelve above zero by lunchtime. The sun shone on the ice-covered branches that sparkled against the blue sky and, in between popping in and out of Mom’s room to help her now and then, I leisurely snapped some pictures on this lovely, lazy day. Little did I know that the day would soon change.

Earlier in the week we had learned of the sudden death of my cousin, Shari, on Christmas Eve morning. We spent the ensuing days trying to grasp this unexpected news as memories flooded us. I tried to focus on the thought of her spending Christmas with the very One whose birth we were celebrating. We spent New Years Eve, the day of her funeral service, in prayer so that we might join the family in spirit.

Because of our loss, the first day of 2011 seemed even more like a beginning. We had had a reminder of the sanctity of life and the choice to live it whole heartedly and with humor and love, the way Shari had, and the radiant day seemed to invite us to do just that. Then we heard a double thump on the monitor that links us to Mom when she is in her room followed by her voice calling me. Sure enough, she had fallen. Hanging on to her walker while she reached sideways to pick up a Kleenex off her bed, she lost her delicate balance and tipped over. Somehow, in that narrow, carpeted space between the closet and her bed she scraped her head against something that left an inch-long gouge. A quick trip to the emergency room resulted in a CAT scan to make sure hidden blood vessels were not disturbed and then four staples closed the gap in her scalp. Of course, that took most of the afternoon and we trudged home with much less verve than we had started the day. Although Mom was muttering that she had gone without any makeup on and was appalled at the look of her matted hair when she got home, we were thankful that things were not worse and reassured her that she was not bound for a nursing home. I went to bed hoping for a New Years Day do-over; that this little mishap was not a premonition of things to come. Sure enough, today was better.

Every summer, when we go back to take care of Mom’s house and yard, we visit two of her best friends that are still alive and living in a retirement complex. I have spoken before of their humorous visits in which I am called upon to repeat everyone’s sentences so they can hear better. Last year, we did not get everyone together because Mom was not up to it in June, and her pacemaker surgery kept us from going back. Over Christmas Jen devised a plan for them to have a long distance visit over Skype and recruited a family friend who works at the retirement complex to help us. Today that visit took place and was every bit as hysterical and heart warming as ever. They laughed over age and mixed up memories, they talked over one another and relied on me for repetition and interpretation, they told our friend he was cute, and they waved and told each other good bye and that they loved and missed each other until I finally closed the connection. Their sounds of earnest sincerity will always be with me; a lesson in treasured friendship that I will never forget.

The end of 2010 and the beginning of 2011 has certainly been a time of transition for us. We are different. Things around us are different. We will sorely miss the good things of before, the people and lives that were so familiar and safe, but we have been reminded not to be afraid of what’s ahead. There will be moments of stumbling, but we still have each other to reach for and the light of friendship and love to guide us. Happy New Year to us all. May we live it with as much joy as possible.

Well Said

 

SSMO Power

I recently spent a few hours with the Sisters of St. Mary of Oregon. It was the annual Covenant Day where lay associates, like me, recommit ourselves to praying with the sisters and carrying out a common charism of service in our daily lives. The nuns realized about twenty years ago that, with the number of new vocations declining, they should consider reaching out to lay men and women who shared the same ideals and practiced the same values so that they could connect with the world in a broader way. The journey has been an education for all of us.

Two friends and I were among the first of seven people who answered the invitation those many years ago; now there are over fifty lay associates, not counting about fifteen who have died, including one of my two friends. The three of us were originally the only ones from Eastern Oregon. Although more from our neck of the woods eventually joined us, most of the associates always came from the Portland-Vancouver area, closer to the SSMOs. Because we traveled four hours to get there, we were invited to stay the weekend at the convent. It was enlightening for both the nuns and us.

I think it was hard at first for the sisters to adjust to being invaded by strangers, albeit only a few. We were fascinated with everything and wanted to check out each corner of the convent: the dome, the balconies, the bells, the beautiful grounds, the various sitting rooms, the communal bathrooms with two dozen sinks lined up in a row, the phone closet, the craft room, the dormitories where high school girls and novices had once stayed. We laughed too loud, stayed up too late, and got lost too often, not always staying where we were supposed to be. Poor Sr. Catherine, our contact, was always walking a fine line between upholding the proper decorum and having fun with us.

In turn, we found out that nuns were as individual as the rest of us. One sister, with whom we shared a living room, was an avid Blazers fan and became quite animated during the game. Another loved crafts and had quite a few projects going. A third was athletic and went running every morning, another liked to fly kites, and another took care of the flowerbed outside the kitchen, admonishing anyone who dared to pick even one of the beautiful buds that resulted. As regulations relaxed, some of the women had gladly thrown off wimples and veils and exchanged habits for regular clothes in the traditional navy and white of their order, while others stubbornly clung to the familiar. One nun in her 80s still wore her habit daily, but occasionally pulled on top of it a bright red pullover sweater that she loved. What a rebel. Another sister donned worn street clothes several times a week and visited the homeless along Burnside. Some taught at the school that they ran, some worked at the nearby nursing home that was managed by a different order, and a few worked in parishes. Whatever earnings they made were pooled to provide for the entire convent and big decisions were made by consensus. In their spare time, they took care of their cooking and laundry, the grounds, the school, their extended families, the retreat center, and the retired nuns in their infirmary. They disagreed, they were quirky, they laughed, they prayed, they communed, and they moved mountains. And, boy, could they sing. They were educated, and smart, and determined, and daring, and who wouldn’t want to be connected with them in some way?

Although it has been a strange association to try to explain to people, (no, I’m not becoming a nun; I’m just going off to play with them periodically), it became quite important to me. Hearing from the sisters throughout the year about what they are doing and knowing that they are watching my back with prayer, as I do for them, fortifies a bond between us. When I make a student feel valuable and cared for in my work as a teacher, or when I take Mom for a day of shopping or help someone with memory loss wash their hands, I am joining forces with some very strong-willed, compassionate, radical women who are also using their various gifts to make a corner of the world a better place.

For me, going back to the SSMO convent is like making a pilgrimage to a second home. I know the secrets of the physical place, the faces of its heart, and the pulse of its longing. I plug into the spiritual flow of these women who are so different and yet so akin to myself and return renewed and re-grounded.

SSMO Power: I need it in my life.

Pictures In the Sand

I recently watched the movie, Merry Christmas (Joyeux Noel), which portrays a very moving account of the first Christmas of WWI when Scottish, American, and German soldiers tenuously lay down arms and spent the next 24 hours in peace. Although it was just a song common to each culture, Silent Night, that broke through the initial barriers of war to spur a guarded and temporary ceasefire, the ensuing hours of mingled celebration opened doors to similarities beyond tradition that began bonding the soldiers as human beings, blurring the lines of hate and suspicion even further. A ceasefire on Christmas Eve, however, was not the real miracle. It was the reluctance to re-shoulder those arms or take aim again at the enemies which seemed less so after seeing pictures of their families and sharing their stories and gifts from home.

This change of heart along the front in 1914 did more to strike fear in the breasts of those safely orchestrating the war from the rear than did the growing number of casualties. Imagine what an epidemic of human understanding and peace could do to the war effort when there clearly needed to be a winner and a loser. But troops were moved and platoons disbanded and WWI continued. And now we find ourselves in the latest of a succession of wars with new enemies and new targets.

I do not question the decision to go to war. Not only is it too late for that, but I also believe that there are some things worth fighting for and I know that the freedoms and bounty that I enjoy are a result of those who sacrificed their lives to ensure it. These brave people must never be dishonored. I do, however, want us to never take these things for granted or forget that militancy is not without devastating cost far beyond a body count. In trying to do whatever we feel is the right thing, I do not want us, as a people, to be caught up in the hate of ignorance and fear. Even among apparent differences, I want to never forget to look for commonalities that bond us as children of the same world community, for peace is not possible otherwise. I want us to remember that our decisions and actions affect not only the lives of those who freely make the choice, but also those of innocent people who did not choose.

Kseniya Simonova, 24, winner of Ukraine’s Got Talent, uses the temporary medium of sand to transcend the barriers of language and unite us in our humanity. In war, everyone loses.

Strands of Thought

I am intrigued with the variety of design that can be created with yarn and knitting needles. On the hat and scarf below I used a seed stitch and a stockinet stitch, created a cable design, and integrated a variegated yarn with one of a solid color. Regardless of the outcome, it is all either knit or purl. No matter how intricate the design, the finished project is still just made up of either knit stitches, purl stitches, or some combination of both. We can complicate this truth by increasing, decreasing, casting on, binding off, crossing stitches over, or changing yarns and needles, but we are essentially still just knitting or purling. See any parallels in life?

I see a few:

It isn’t the flashy accomplishments in life that are important; it’s the nuts and bolts, the knits and purls, my attitudes and actions. What I do in my life, woven with the attitude with which I do it, is what determines the design I leave behind.

Or, how about:

I’ve never had many friends, and most of them are family. However, the friends I have are really good ones; quality is better than quantity. My family and friends are the knits and purls of my life. When life gets tough, they weave their threads of support and the resulting design is unique and beautiful.

Hmmm.