“Look! I’ve turned into my grandmother,” said my friend Glenda, gesturing toward the many framed photos on her walls and bookshelves. “I thought it was so tacky the way Grandma cluttered the top of the family piano with photos. Now I’m doing it.”
I smiled. “Me too.”
At some point in life, almost like a primal urge, we start surrounding ourselves with reminders of family.
Why do photographs matter so much? Why do people whose homes are destroyed by fire or flood weep the most for their lost scraps of Kodak paper?
Because memories fade. Your toddler’s impish grin, caught—just so—on a certain day may not stay in your memory bank. And have you ever blurted when coming across a 20-year-old photo, “Oh, I’d forgotten all about that!”
For many of us, our refrigerators become colorful art galleries. My friend Dots calls it her visual collection of begats. “It’s like the Bible says: “Frank begat John who begat Sarah who begat Kim who begat my adorable grandson Timmy.”
Have you ever walked into a house where family photos are missing? You become aware of a certain emptiness, subtle but real. Where are the framed reminders of the begats: the connections of one generation to another?
A divorced friend said sadly, “My angry ex-wife cut me out of every family photo. I felt as if she’d cut me out of my place as daddy to our children.”
Another couple didn’t take photos in the early years of their marriage. When the husband died unexpectedly, his widow grieved because she had no visual reminders of their happy early years.
Framed photos are never tacky. They’re loving reminders of all that binds us together. When I look at two framed photos of my now deceased parents, hanging next to photos of my grandchildren, I’m reminded of the blessed continuum of life.
Is now a good time to display some of your family photos?
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Sunday, October 18, 2009
When your personal world fills the screen
All of us focus on our own particular worlds, inevitably insulated to a certain degree from what’s happening in the larger world around us.
After publishing nine non-fiction books, I’m now writing a novel. I have followed the adage, write about what you know, so it’s a story about Naval aviators and their wives in the late sixties. Forty years later, those years are history, so I’m supplementing memory with some research.
And I find myself amazed at events that made headlines but seemed to pass me by at the time. For instance, in 1968 Martin Luther King and Bobby Kennedy were assassinated. There were riots among cities’ black populations. Vietnam War protestors tangled in a bloody melee with the Chicago police at the Democratic Party convention.
But in 1968, my world was focused on my husband John, a Navy fighter pilot who was deploying on his second combat cruise to “Yankee Station” off the coast of Vietnam.
During my husband’s earlier deployment in 1967, his squadron had lost a fourth of their pilots, so there was a fearful awareness that our three young children could lose their daddy.
My attention was so focused on the personal impact that the Vietnam War had on my life that news of the murder of two national leaders failed to imprint me.
And at the end of August, 1968, my worst fears were realized: my husband was killed while flying a night mission, his body lost at sea. What did I care then about the Democratic convention? All I remember about the rest of that year is cataclysmic grief.
Isn’t this true for most of us? If there is a calamitous personal event --if your child dies or you get divorced or you or your spouse loses a job or you learn you have cancer—other world happenings fade into shadows “out there.”
No need to feel remorseful if you realize, months or years later, “Wow. How come I paid so little attention to [the earthquake in China, the hurricane in Mexico, the warring tribes in Pakistan, or…fill in the blank]
When trouble spills over in our lives, we must recover our own strength before we can find the strength and compassion to pay attention to the larger world.
The question is not, “What is happening out there?” but “How do I recover in here, in my heart and soul?”
After publishing nine non-fiction books, I’m now writing a novel. I have followed the adage, write about what you know, so it’s a story about Naval aviators and their wives in the late sixties. Forty years later, those years are history, so I’m supplementing memory with some research.
And I find myself amazed at events that made headlines but seemed to pass me by at the time. For instance, in 1968 Martin Luther King and Bobby Kennedy were assassinated. There were riots among cities’ black populations. Vietnam War protestors tangled in a bloody melee with the Chicago police at the Democratic Party convention.
But in 1968, my world was focused on my husband John, a Navy fighter pilot who was deploying on his second combat cruise to “Yankee Station” off the coast of Vietnam.
During my husband’s earlier deployment in 1967, his squadron had lost a fourth of their pilots, so there was a fearful awareness that our three young children could lose their daddy.
My attention was so focused on the personal impact that the Vietnam War had on my life that news of the murder of two national leaders failed to imprint me.
And at the end of August, 1968, my worst fears were realized: my husband was killed while flying a night mission, his body lost at sea. What did I care then about the Democratic convention? All I remember about the rest of that year is cataclysmic grief.
Isn’t this true for most of us? If there is a calamitous personal event --if your child dies or you get divorced or you or your spouse loses a job or you learn you have cancer—other world happenings fade into shadows “out there.”
No need to feel remorseful if you realize, months or years later, “Wow. How come I paid so little attention to [the earthquake in China, the hurricane in Mexico, the warring tribes in Pakistan, or…fill in the blank]
When trouble spills over in our lives, we must recover our own strength before we can find the strength and compassion to pay attention to the larger world.
The question is not, “What is happening out there?” but “How do I recover in here, in my heart and soul?”
Monday, October 12, 2009
The power of commitment
My brother Rob and Holly have been together 15 years. Yet last week, as I watched them exchange marriage vows, my heart fluttered with reawakened awareness. What power there is in making a commitment—out loud and before the world.
Whatever the relationship is that calls you---whether to a man, to a woman, to an ideal, to a vocation, to a community---until a public commitment is made, until you say “YES” out loud, you are merely showing a certain degree of interest. When you’re interested in something, you adhere to it only as long as circumstances and pleasure calls you.
Ah, but a public commitment says, “Listen up, world. I’m in this for the long haul: when it’s easy and happy and even when it’s tough and difficult. Whatever the future may hold, I will hold steady.”
There is strength and power in making a commitment. Is today a good day to ask yourself, “What am I committed to?"
Whatever the relationship is that calls you---whether to a man, to a woman, to an ideal, to a vocation, to a community---until a public commitment is made, until you say “YES” out loud, you are merely showing a certain degree of interest. When you’re interested in something, you adhere to it only as long as circumstances and pleasure calls you.
Ah, but a public commitment says, “Listen up, world. I’m in this for the long haul: when it’s easy and happy and even when it’s tough and difficult. Whatever the future may hold, I will hold steady.”
There is strength and power in making a commitment. Is today a good day to ask yourself, “What am I committed to?"
Sunday, September 13, 2009
All About Poop
I was at fault. And I told her so.
I had offered to walk a girlfriend’s little dog while she was away, and being a novice, forgot to take along what every conscientious dog walker should have: a bag for poop. Sure enough, little Mitzi unloaded on the corner of a householder’s yard.
The householder was outside clipping her bushes. When she saw Mitzi’s dirty deed, her eyes narrowed, her jaw clenched, and waving her shears, she marched my way.
I tried to intercept. “I don’t blame you for being angry. I’m so sorry! Would you have a plastic bag or just a piece of newspaper? I’ll pick it up right now.”
Oh no! The householder didn’t care that I was sorry. I should have brought my own supplies! I was a disgrace! My dog was a disgrace! She’d had enough of dogs pooping on her lawn! I should go home, get my own bag, and come back to pick it up.
“But I’m three blocks away. If you would just have an old piece of newspaper…the want ads maybe?”
No, no! Absolutely not!
She was more than angry. More than furious. She was enraged! With her imprecations ringing in my ears, I slunk away with Mitzi.
But after I delivered Mitzi, I went back. With a poop bag in hand.
The poop had been picked up.
I rang her doorbell. Timidly I held up my bag. “I did come back…”
Through the screen she snarled, “Too late! I picked it up! But it’s not fair!” Slam!
Whew. The householder's rage seemed to go so far beyond the actual incident, that I began to wonder. At a deeper level, could she be responding to a different reality?
Maybe she’d been going along, living her life, clipping her bushes, just trying to be a good person when suddenly, into her life had come some unexpected
s - - t. Something she felt she didn’t deserve! That wasn’t fair!
It can happen to us all, can’t it? In big and small ways. A boss lays off workers. A spouse asks for a divorce. Our investments disappear. Or a strange dog poops on our carefully tended lawn.
Those are times when we do want to scream, “It’s not fair! I don’t deserve this.”
But maybe the best that any of us can do—-really ---is to simply pick up and go on. If we let rage get the best of us, we won’t hear if someone says “I’m sorry” or “I’d like to help.” And then, no matter who actually picks up the poop, we will still be holding it in our hearts.
I had offered to walk a girlfriend’s little dog while she was away, and being a novice, forgot to take along what every conscientious dog walker should have: a bag for poop. Sure enough, little Mitzi unloaded on the corner of a householder’s yard.
The householder was outside clipping her bushes. When she saw Mitzi’s dirty deed, her eyes narrowed, her jaw clenched, and waving her shears, she marched my way.
I tried to intercept. “I don’t blame you for being angry. I’m so sorry! Would you have a plastic bag or just a piece of newspaper? I’ll pick it up right now.”
Oh no! The householder didn’t care that I was sorry. I should have brought my own supplies! I was a disgrace! My dog was a disgrace! She’d had enough of dogs pooping on her lawn! I should go home, get my own bag, and come back to pick it up.
“But I’m three blocks away. If you would just have an old piece of newspaper…the want ads maybe?”
No, no! Absolutely not!
She was more than angry. More than furious. She was enraged! With her imprecations ringing in my ears, I slunk away with Mitzi.
But after I delivered Mitzi, I went back. With a poop bag in hand.
The poop had been picked up.
I rang her doorbell. Timidly I held up my bag. “I did come back…”
Through the screen she snarled, “Too late! I picked it up! But it’s not fair!” Slam!
Whew. The householder's rage seemed to go so far beyond the actual incident, that I began to wonder. At a deeper level, could she be responding to a different reality?
Maybe she’d been going along, living her life, clipping her bushes, just trying to be a good person when suddenly, into her life had come some unexpected
s - - t. Something she felt she didn’t deserve! That wasn’t fair!
It can happen to us all, can’t it? In big and small ways. A boss lays off workers. A spouse asks for a divorce. Our investments disappear. Or a strange dog poops on our carefully tended lawn.
Those are times when we do want to scream, “It’s not fair! I don’t deserve this.”
But maybe the best that any of us can do—-really ---is to simply pick up and go on. If we let rage get the best of us, we won’t hear if someone says “I’m sorry” or “I’d like to help.” And then, no matter who actually picks up the poop, we will still be holding it in our hearts.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Can You Take a Day Off?
Every so often you hear something described in such a way that it makes you sit up and take notice. It happened when my friend Brian said, “People say that Americans are afraid of leisure. Of taking time off from work. But it must go deeper than that. Otherwise why would God, speaking through Moses, have felt all humans needed to be ordered to take a day off?”
Sure enough, for those who follow the Judeo-Christian path, there it is: one of the Ten Commandments: “For six days you shall labor and do all your work. But the seventh day is a Sabbath to the Lord your God. Keep it holy.” In Genesis, even God took the seventh day off to rest from his work. (Gen 2:2)
For 3 weeks, I observed myself to see how well I keep this Commandment. Am I willing to let one day in my crowded week be a day to be lie fallow? To step away from my constant connections to social media and the internet? To set aside my “Things to Do” list?
What I saw is this: though I took time for church, I was a busy bee after that. Running errands. Catching up on housework. And connecting on line, of course.
Yet Holy Leisure, by giving me a break from my primary work, offers an opportunity to become a more Whole human being. It’s a time in which my soul can steep itself in being, not doing.
One of my biggest challenges has been giving up my compulsion to go on line. Instead, I’m trying to feel “okay” about turning off my computer for a day. (Is that your gasp I hear?) To feel okay about taking a Sunday nap. Or putting my feet up and reading a book. Or, if I exercise, to do it out of doors where I can experience God’s beautiful natural world.
I’d love to hear from others who have decided to “Keep holy the Sabbath.” And especially from anyone who might be joining me in shutting down their computers for a day!
Sure enough, for those who follow the Judeo-Christian path, there it is: one of the Ten Commandments: “For six days you shall labor and do all your work. But the seventh day is a Sabbath to the Lord your God. Keep it holy.” In Genesis, even God took the seventh day off to rest from his work. (Gen 2:2)
For 3 weeks, I observed myself to see how well I keep this Commandment. Am I willing to let one day in my crowded week be a day to be lie fallow? To step away from my constant connections to social media and the internet? To set aside my “Things to Do” list?
What I saw is this: though I took time for church, I was a busy bee after that. Running errands. Catching up on housework. And connecting on line, of course.
Yet Holy Leisure, by giving me a break from my primary work, offers an opportunity to become a more Whole human being. It’s a time in which my soul can steep itself in being, not doing.
One of my biggest challenges has been giving up my compulsion to go on line. Instead, I’m trying to feel “okay” about turning off my computer for a day. (Is that your gasp I hear?) To feel okay about taking a Sunday nap. Or putting my feet up and reading a book. Or, if I exercise, to do it out of doors where I can experience God’s beautiful natural world.
I’d love to hear from others who have decided to “Keep holy the Sabbath.” And especially from anyone who might be joining me in shutting down their computers for a day!
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Let's make today a random day!
Here's an interesting fact about horses: a horse at random is one with all four hooves momentarily off the ground. Photography has verified this phenomenon. For that tiny random instant, you might say the horse is flying.
Mostly, we use the word “random” in a different way, referring to something happening by chance, without design, unplanned.
Every so often, I find that I am so wholly engaged in an action that I am lifted beyond myself. It is a joyful feeling and seems to occur when, like the galloping horse, I have committed myself totally. Though I don’t feel it is something I can plan, perhaps I can create the circumstances by giving myself totally—without fear or reservation--to what I am doing.
Let’s make today one in which we find ourselves joyfully at random!
Mostly, we use the word “random” in a different way, referring to something happening by chance, without design, unplanned.
Every so often, I find that I am so wholly engaged in an action that I am lifted beyond myself. It is a joyful feeling and seems to occur when, like the galloping horse, I have committed myself totally. Though I don’t feel it is something I can plan, perhaps I can create the circumstances by giving myself totally—without fear or reservation--to what I am doing.
Let’s make today one in which we find ourselves joyfully at random!
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Daring to fly
Diana and Paul, a 30-something couple in Colorado have no children, but they do have two dogs and a large parrot. While I was visiting this summer, their parrot escaped their house and flew to the top of an Aspen tree in their back yard. But the silly bird, though it knew it could fly up, didn’t realize it also had the power to fly down. It was frightened. Diana had to cajole and cajole until finally--very gingerly and carefully—the parrot crept down the tree, branch by branch.
Even as I laughed, I wondered: how often do I fail to realize I have the power to fly? It can happen to us all. The Apostle Peter, while walking across the water toward his Master, Jesus, was suddenly clutched by fear. Immediately he lost his power.
My year-old grandson stood and walked as he pushed his toy lawnmower. But he didn’t yet realize could walk without holding on, so away from the toy, he dropped back to his knees and crawled.
It may seem scary at first to dare to spread our wings and fly. But if we don't dare--if we don't trust--how will we learn what power resides within us---just waiting to be tapped?
Even as I laughed, I wondered: how often do I fail to realize I have the power to fly? It can happen to us all. The Apostle Peter, while walking across the water toward his Master, Jesus, was suddenly clutched by fear. Immediately he lost his power.
My year-old grandson stood and walked as he pushed his toy lawnmower. But he didn’t yet realize could walk without holding on, so away from the toy, he dropped back to his knees and crawled.
It may seem scary at first to dare to spread our wings and fly. But if we don't dare--if we don't trust--how will we learn what power resides within us---just waiting to be tapped?
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