Grit and Grace

What's the bottom line on food?

2012-02-19T18:12:00.000-08:00

This post was inspired by the book, Animal, Vegetable, Miracle by Barbara Kingsolver. As a member of From Left to Write book club, I received a copy of this book. All opinions are my own. You can read other members' posts inspired by on book club day, Feb 21 at From Left to Write . Buy this book here.

Barbara Kingsolver wrote one of my all-time favorite books, The Poisonwood Bible. I’m inclined to be favorable toward her because she is a Kentuckian. I respect what I know of her as a human being. So why did I resist her approach to food in Animal, Vegetable, Miracle?

It’s really quite simple. I don’t want anyone even for noble reasons coming between me and what goes in my mouth. I have the great good fortune of genetics that allow me to eat whatever I want without being over-weight. I love to eat. I love food. Why do I need to alter my relationship with food?

Ok, I’ll dance with Barbara to the extent that eating local gives me tomatoes that taste like tomatoes and strawberries that are actually red instead of white 2/3 of the way through the fruit. And I’m quite willing to support local farmers instead of far-away farmers that send me fruits and vegetables by truck or train before they’re ripe. I get the local movement.

But the issue that finally makes me side with Barbara against my own appetite is fat bridesmaids! Yes, I mean that. I am a baby boomer and as a college girl and sorority sister, I lived through a lot of weddings in addition to my own. A generation ago, we did not have fat bridesmaids. Now before you jump all over me for being politically incorrect and insensitive to the calorie-challenged among us—here’s what I think is going on. We didn’t have fat bridesmaids in the Sixties and Seventies not because we were prejudiced against the chubbies and didn’t ask them to be in our weddings but rather because the over weight twenty-something was a rare being. Now, every wedding I have attended in the last five years has fat bridesmaids! They are normal young women. For some reason being over weight is far more prevalent and acceptable in this generation.

Blame the processed foods! I’m serious. Stop feeding our children processed foods in school cafeterias and on college campus and all the affordable restaurants where young people gather and we will stop this epidemic of fat bridesmaids. It’s even hard to shop in regular grocery stores and avoid processed foods. But we have to do it. Start now.

Please don’t shoot the messenger!

The Art of Hearing Heartbeats by Jan-Philipp Sendker

2012-01-31T11:29:00.000-08:00

This post was inspired by the book, The Art of Hearing Heartbeats by Jan-Philipp Sendker. As a member of From Left to Write book club, I received a copy of this book for review. All opinions are my own. You can read other members' posts inspired by this book at From Left to Write.

Click on the title above to buy this book from my aStore.

The Art of Hearing Heartbeats tells the story of love, spiritual depth and family choices. Set in Burma, when Burma was Burma, Sendker brilliantly weaves the tale of three generations. The compelling story of a blind boy who falls in love with a club footed girl who can’t walk anchors the novel and showcases a love so deep as to overcome logic, continents and time.

All families make choices that deliver a wallop of impact which ripples forth and we never know how far the ripples wave before the effect dies. My father died last week and I am particularly aware right now of the decisions he made that rippled forth in so many lives.

Dad and All Six Wives
Photo by John Lynner Peterson

Dad was married nine times—only 6 women—but nine marriages. He produced seven children—that we know of. I used to say, “Dad is not immoral, he is amoral.” He did not think rules, propriety, manners, codes of conduct or logic applied to him. He was going to do what he was going to do regardless of what others thought. He lived his life this way and accepted the consequences of doing so.

I suppose all parents make decisions that affect their children’s lives. And we don’t get to choose our parents. So the lesson in life and from The Art of Hearing Heartbeats is to go deep, find peace and let love take precedence regardless of the ripples you are experiencing from decisions past generations may have made.

RIP Clarence W. Sims AKA The Raggedy Ass Son-of-a-Bitch

2012-01-28T18:00:00.000-08:00

Photo by John Lynner Peterson

I have written about my Dad in this space before—like the section on Dad from my memoir here:

And this post about my last visit with him.

Last visit with Dad

The last few years have been a healing experience for me with Dad. After admitting I love him, I accepted that I would never get what I needed from him as a father. This acceptance permitted me to enjoy him as a human being. He was a one-of-a-kind character.

Dad declined rapidly in the last few months. My half-brothers and I began to talk about his death, burial and funeral service. I knew officiating at the service would be something I could contribute that others couldn’t. I knew the service shouldn’t be in a church and shouldn’t be religious. A one-size-fits-all service by a clergy person who didn’t know him, sounded disgusting. I had to do it. Could I?

I got the call that Dad was gone at 8:30 Monday morning. I started thinking. I determined I would not make comments about Dad that were untrue. I could find lots of positive qualities and decided I would make jokes about his shortcomings. And, once again, my friend Don Lichtenfelt came through with poignant quotes, poems and connective material.

Oh, Facebook also provided some fodder. Dad’s favorite tavern, Leroy’s posted on their page a tribute to him that stated he sat on the corner barstool, ordered a cheeseburger with onion and a 7 and 7. They closed with “RIP Shoestring.” I knew his eulogy had to be delivered from a barstool.

We left for Evansville, IN on Wednesday morning. The visitation started at 4 pm with a service at 6:30. People started arriving. As I stood at the far end of the room, a woman through the door at the other end.

“Who is that?” I asked my half-brother Greg, “She looks a lot like me.”

“It’s Carol Sue.”

One of the Sibs

Oh my, Carol Sue is my father’s first child from his first marriage, eight other marriages followed. I scarcely knew her as a child but remembered she danced as a go-go girl at a bar in downtown Evansville in the Sixties. She’s 71 now.

And that was the beginning of the funeral experience. More to come.

My favorite poem of faith

2012-01-24T16:05:00.000-08:00

Photo by John Lynner Peterson

Counterfeit

By Roberta Dorr

Sand is the water of the desert.

It can bear the traveler on its billows,

Or wash her cups

And clean her hands.

But when her body’s

Racked with thirst

No counterfeit will serve,

And one would trade

One’s kingdom in the sand

For one clear cup

Of sparkling, liquid water.

One faith is quite as good

As any other

Until the heart in thirst

Cries out for what is true.

2012-01-17T16:06:00.000-08:00

This post was inspired by the book Quiet: The Power of Introverts by Susan Cain. The book was given to me by virtue of my membership in www.fromlefttowrite.com. This is not a review or critique.

Being an extrovert or introvert should not come with a value load---negative or positive. According to Susan Cain, the positive value in our culture is decidedly skewed toward extroverts. She and her book are intended to start a Quiet Revolution.

I say, “Have at it, Susan. Please take my portion of the Value of being an extrovert in this world.” Having said that I am forced to admit, extroversion does have advantages and I’m not ungrateful for those. I maintain it also has the disadvantage of having to due the extroverting for all your introverted friends.

I write this post as a tribute to Judy Bartella, Rachel Childress, Rhonda Johnston, Mary Henson, Wendy Wilson (although I think she is a closet extrovert!) and many of my family members. At one point in my life, I felt surrounded by introverts. I screamed at Rachel one holiday season, “I’m tired of doing the extroverting for all you introverts.”

The truth of the matter is that on most days I wasn’t tired of it. I loved it! But when an extrovert is extroverted-out, look out world. In my experience, she becomes a grouchy, bitchy witch until she gets re-fueled.

Cain’s thesis in much of the book is the benefits that introverts bring to the table which are often overlooked or outshined by the extrovert sparkling away at the head of the table. I can agree with Cain on this, I just wish she hadn’t thrown the extroverts under the bus and called us ax murderers in the process. My introverted friends bring great value to my life. Steadfastness, thoughtfulness, calm spirit, peace, good ideas and great loyalty to our friendship.

Thank you, dear introverts. I bequeath to you my share of all that extroverted work. Hee hee hee hee hee.

2012 National Festival of Young Preachers

2012-01-06T17:25:00.000-08:00

Click here for gallery of photos by John Lynner Peterson of this event.

As mentioned, John and I attended the Academy of Preachers' event in Louisville as “convener” and “evaluator.” Our positions though are irrelevant. The end result is we attended a spiritual feast presented to us by “children” young enough to be our grandchildren! Since it was our first experience with the Academy we had no idea what to expect. What a delightful surprise.

I learned from Willie Bodrick II that we are blessed so that we can be a blessing. This Harvard freshman preached a traditional African American style and packed it with original thought, righteous indignation and the Good News. One of Willie’s final comments was a quote from Edgar A. Guest, poet, “I’d rather see a sermon than preach one.” I saw a sermon that will bless the future in Willie Bodrick II.

Following Willie, we worshipped with Ashley Hawley, a fifteen year old high school sophomore from Sacramento, CA. As Ashley told us, “I’m a fifteen year old from California, so I preach like a fifteen year old from California.” So she did. While the Sermon on the Mount from the Gospel of Matthew was the text for all the preachers, could one really expect Willie and Ashley to have the same perspective on the scripture? No. And we weren’t disappointed.

Willie and Ashley were but two of the one hundred twenty five young preachers from thirty states and over thirty faith traditions. As I indicated in the previous post, I support the Academy of Preachers because it is one of few organizations that brings together people of faith from the entire spectrum of right to left and allows them to know and love each other for who they are.

Thanks be to God.

Why I Do What I Do

2012-01-04T05:47:00.000-08:00

I off to Louisville today—no, I’m not going there to gloat over the University of Kentucky’s victory over University of Louisville—although that is tempting.

Husband John and I will both be volunteering our services to the Academy of Preachers event called Preachapalooza. A friend of mine commented in the last few days, “What are YOU doing at an event called Preachapalooza? It sounds like conservatives?”

I agree it sounds more like terminology the conservative mega-churches would use. We liberals tend to eschew anything that smacks of stadiums filled with dancing fans unless it’s Kentucky basketball.

But the Academy of Preachers is not a conservative organization AND it is not a liberal organization. Therein lies the reason John and I will be giving our skills to the event. The Academy, founded by Rev. Dwight Moody and led by Rev. Lee Huckleberry, brings young people from a vast area of denominations--the entire conservative to liberal spectrum. They come together, preach to and for each other, become friends and share their faith.

It’s the “becoming friends and sharing their faith” that draws me to this organization. It is the first and only organization I have heard of in a long time that is bringing the extremes of our faith into conversation. And it's not like we haven't looked. John and I have both done a great deal of ecumenical and interfaith work. Somehow, the organizations are not doing a good job of bridging the gap. We live in our separate worlds, attend our separate churches, vote for our separate candidates and have our separate agendas for America. It’s not a healthy situation for anyone.

So we’re heading to Preachapalooza today. And I hope you will spend some time talking with someone whose faith you disagree with. Who knows, we might learn something from each other.

Happy New Year

2012-01-01T02:00:00.000-08:00

Happy New Year

I wanted to recommit to this blog in 2012. I didn’t want to do it at 4 AM. Isn’t there a saying that what you do on New Year’s Day, you will do all year long? I pleased if that means more blogging, I’m not so pleased if that means more insomnia in 2012.

I crested the hill of sixty-fours years since I last posted on this blog. Creeping up on Medicare makes one think about “have I made a difference in my life.” I do feel I have made small differences but that is something else I want to recommit to in 2012.

One of the organizations that I am most proud of being part of is Avaaz.org. Below is a letter to Avaaz members with a sample of the difference Avaaz is making world wide. I met Ricken Patel, the founder of Avaaz when I was the Sr. Advisor for Religious Outreach for the Democratic National Committee in Washington, DC. Ricken was young, brilliant and on fire. I knew he would make a difference.

I hope you check out Avaaz.org and decide to make a difference in 2012. You can be part of this movement with the click of a mouse. Remember Time Magazine’s Person of the Year for 2012 was The Protestor. People in great numbers make a difference….it’s the only force that has ever made a difference…human beings.

Dear Amazing Avaazers,

Avaaz is on fire, at 10.5 million people and rising fast. But we're also deepening our activism -- and with the combination of depth and huge numbers, we're winning, over and over again. Scroll down to see some great examples from the last several weeks.

We're not just effectively delivering petitions, we're running safe houses and smuggling routes to protect democratic movements, challenging corporations by bringing lawsuits or calling all their shareholders, donating millions to equip human rights defenders with the latest technology, and powerfully delivering the voices of our community direct and in person to presidents, billionaires, ambassadors and cabinet ministers.

It's working -- scroll down to see how. In recent weeks alone, we've helped win victories on everything from banning cluster bombs and sanctioning Syria to saving the Internet and the UN climate treaty:

ON THE FRONT-LINE OF THE ARAB SPRING

Wissam Tarif, a friendly Avaaz campaigner -- called “the most dangerous man in the world” by Syria’s brutal regime

Avaaz has been at the heart of the struggles for democracy in the Arab world. Funded by $1.5 million in small member donations, we’ve broken the media blackouts that dictators tried to impose -- training a huge number of citizen journalists and equipping them with top flight technology to get information out. Top editors at BBC and CNN have told us that in cases like Syria, Avaaz has been the source of as much as 30% of all their news coverage!

When no other organization could, our network smuggled in over $1 million USD of vital emergency relief to communities under brutal siege in Syria. We also smuggled activists and their families, at risk of torture or death, out of the country. Our secret safe houses shelter dozens of top activists from regime thugs, giving them a protected base from which to operate. Assad’s murderous regime is not happy about it -- Syrian state TV called our campaigner “the most dangerous man in the world” to the regime.

We’ve also matched front-line support to democratic movements with fierce global lobbying of our governments to squeeze brutal regimes -- millions of Avaazers successfully campaigned for powerful European oil sanctions and Arab League sanctions on Syria.

PEOPLE POWER VS THE MURDOCH MAFIA

An Avaaz member sports our giant Murdoch head at a protest outside British Parliament. From London to L.A., Giant Murdoch appeared at protests all over the world

We took on the world’s most powerful and dangerous media baron, Rupert Murdoch, and won.

It was the biggest deal of Murdoch’s career, growing his extremist global media empire by 50% through acquiring a huge UK-based company -- BSkyB. Everyone said we couldn’t stop it, but Avaaz members thought differently, sending 668,784 messages and 30,000 phone calls to members of the UK Parliament, and running stunt after stunt as well as 2 opinion polls that showed massive public opposition.

Avaaz was also the only organization to promise to legally challenge the government in court if they approved the Murdoch deal. The Minister responsible for the deal was so rattled that he repeatedly postponed approval for months, publicly blaming Avaaz. The delay gave us space to build awareness of a huge corruption scandal in the Murdoch empire until finally, the deal was dead.

We haven’t stopped there -- we need to roll back the Murdoch threat and fundamentally reform our corrupt media. Avaazers recently used our new tool to call all the shareholders in Murdoch’s biggest companies, NewsCorp and BskyB, creating the largest shareholder rebellions in the companies’ histories!

And in Australia, where Murdoch controls 70% of the print media -- we helped defeat Murdoch's attempt to snatch a $223 million TV contract from the public broadcaster and pushed the government to create a far-reaching inquiry into Murdoch and media reform.

A GLOBAL OUTCRY TO SAVE THE AMAZON

Leaders of the march closed their speeches by pointing to the Avaaz banner and stating: “We have the support of the whole world!”

Half a million of us joined more than 1,000 indigenous protesters in demanding that Bolivian President Evo Morales halt construction on a highway that would slice through the heart of the Amazon.

Avaaz staff delivered our petition to top Bolivian cabinet ministers in a long and stormy meeting. Our widespread solidarity strengthened the legitimacy of the indigenous protesters whom Morales tried to marginalize, and threatened his desired reputation as an environmentalist.

The pressure worked! After our campaign, Morales canceled construction, repealed the decision granting permission for the project, and pledged to protect the impacted TIPNIS national park and indigenous territory -- the crown jewel of the Bolivian Amazon -- forever! We'll hold him to that promise.

VICTORY ON CLUSTER BOMBS!

Our massive petition was delivered by a cluster bomb survivor to the French chair of the conference

Three years ago, Avaaz mobilized to help push through a global ban on cluster bombs, saving thousands of children. This year, the US quietly lobbied nations to sign a new law that would have allowed their use again! Our 600,000-strong petition helped push 50 states to oppose the US’s underhanded plan.

Many delegates used our petition to strengthen their arguments in negotiations. Our powerful banner, placed right outside the conference room -- together with 1000 fliers that the Avaaz team plastered throughout the conference center -- sent an unmistakable reminder to the negotiators about the opposition they faced back home. The US initiative failed --together we helped save the lives of thousands of innocent civilians.

CLIMATE CHANGE: KEEPING HOPE ALIVE

More than 800,000 Avaaz members fought to save the Kyoto Protocal at the climate meeting in South Africa

At critical climate talks in Durban, more than 800,000 of us helped salvage the UN climate treaty from a cabal of polluters determined to kill it. Our team on the ground in South Africa delivered our message day in, day out through hard-hitting actions like this ad in the Financial Times -- released on the final day of tense negotiations. Despite massive pressure by oil-backed planet killers like the US and Canada a deal was struck to save the vital Kyoto Protocol and give us a fighting chance by keeping climate negotiations alive.

EU Climate Chief Connie Hedegaard said: "Thanks to the over 800,000 people from around the world -- your voices made a vital impact at the end of the talks.”

SAVE THE INTERNET - GREAT PROGRESS!

Avaaz campaigner Maria Paz Cambronero delivers our petition to top White House officials

In days, over 1 million of us worldwide signed a petition opposing a scandalous bill that would give the US government the right to shut down any website -- targeting sites like WikiLeaks, YouTube, even Avaaz!

President Obama’s team responded, and Avaaz organized a 1 hour meeting with top White House officials to deliver the petition.

We’ve now been told privately that Obama is likely to oppose the bill as it stands. When we started, insiders all told us the bill could not be stopped, now they’re all telling us the bill may soon be dead in its current form -- that’s people power!

TAKING ON CORRUPTION IN INDIA

Avaaz members campaign against corruption in India

Avaaz’s anti-corruption campaign in India was the most viral campaign in Internet history! In just 36 hours, over 700,000 Indians joined the petition to support a strong law targeting corruption among public officials called "Jan Lokpal". We staged marches across the country, erected hard-hitting billboards across the capital, and launched an independent public opinion poll showing that the majority of Indian voters wanted an ambitious Lokpal.

We helped win that round -- a bill is coming before Parliament now! The Times of India hailed Avaaz as "a key player in the Jan Lokpal initiative."

ITALY

- A WIN FOR FREEDOM OF SPEECH

Avaaz members and campaigner Giulia Innocenzi protest draconian limits on free speech

During his last months in power, Italian Prime Minister Silvio Berlusconi tried to gag democracy by enabling the government to shut down Internet websites on a whim. Our community fought back and won!

Italian Avaazers sent 200,000 emails and flooded Facebook and Twitter. We mobilized hard-hitting public demonstrations covered by top media and shelved the law for good! Now Italian democracy is free from Berlusconi -- and we are still going strong.

These are just a few of the victories we've won together in the last several weeks. Since launching almost 5 years ago, Avaaz has run over 1000 campaigns! And as our community has grown and deepened our commitment, we're winning on more and more of them. If we stay on this track, and keep hoping and believing in change and in each other, anything is possible.

With hope,

Ricken, Dalia, Luis, Allison, Ari, Maria Paz, Wen-Hua and the entire Avaaz team

The Good, The Bad and the Oh, So Frustrating in Each of Us

2011-12-20T14:41:00.000-08:00

There is so much good in the worst of us

And so much bad in the best of us

That it hardly behooves any of us

To talk about the rest of us.

Edward Wallis Hoch

The holidays always provide an opportunity for us to remember all people can be good and bad, kind and irritable, helpful and obstructive, accommodating and frustrating. Yes, even the sweetest among us have a dark side and, woe to you who triggers the dark side of a perpetually sweet one. I hear they are scary.

Treat yourself to seeing the movie, The Descendants, with George Clooney, directed by Alexander Payne. But first, don’t get your hopes up about lusting after George. I know you will think this impossible, but they do attempt to make him look dorky. In those pants and with the running scene, they nearly succeed. Even so, it’s a stretch to believe any wife would cheat on George! Nevertheless, the movie is worth your time to be reminded of the truth of the Edward Wallis Hoch’s poem above.

Every person in the film reveals both sides of his/her character. Yes, George too. It forces the viewer to grapple with moral and ethical dilemmas that we would like to deem easy, clear cut choices. Does being an absentee father make it okay for your daughters to talk to you with disrespect? Does being a friend mean you don’t tell the spouse about infidelity? Without spoiling the film, let’s just say—there are no easy answers when you’re willing to admit we are all flawed human beings.

The reminder I walked out of the theatre with is this: I want to be loved in spite of all my shortcomings so I must constantly remember to put aside the bad, irritable, obstructive and frustrating behaviors of others. Easier to remember than to pull off during the holidays! Renew your strength and just do it!

Off to Bad LauguageVille

2011-12-13T15:47:00.000-08:00

Mimi AKA Brenda is being carried off to Bad LanguageVille

Where do you stand on raucous, naughty, semi-bad or down-right gross language? I’m forced to ponder this issue anew because of grandchildren.

When we discovered only half of our Christmas tree made the move from Raleigh and Lexington, grandson Tristan and I set out to buy a new one on a rainy cold Sunday afternoon. What was I thinking? Michael’s, the arts and craft store, was packed and a little boy’s wonderland of distraction.

After we had accomplished our goal and a dear-to-my-heart employee helped us get the tree into the car, I turned to Tristan in the back seat and said, “We did it! Tristan and Mimi bought the new Christmas tree and we got a big ass tree!”

Appalled, he shouted, “Off to Bad Languageville. Population: YOU!”

I like bad language. It expresses my feelings sometimes when nothing else will. I get annoyed with my carrot-up-the-butt friend (who shall remain nameless to protect the guilty) when he chastises every use of a colorful word.

When my children were pre-teens, I explained to them, “Language is neither moral nor immoral. But it is appropriate and inappropriate to particular situations.” Of course, they had to push the limits of my explanation most significantly by dropping the f-bomb to their great aunt, a retired missionary. So much for that parenting technique.

I’m currently reading Stephen King’s book titled, On Writing. He likes bad language more than I do. Does that make him less a writer? Less a person? Less a parent? I ponder these things.

We’ve even reached the point that we have words that are used at Mimi and Pappa’s house but not at school or church. Tristan told me he knew so much about the Noah’s Ark story he even knew the “freakin’ pigeons” built their house on the top of the ark. I reminded him that freakin’ is not a church word. He said, “It’s not a bad word, Mimi.” He’s right, but I still reminded him that it is not a school or church word. Are you drawing arbitrary lines between school, church, profession, writing and personal words?

What do you think? Do you also reside in Bad LanguageVille?

Yes, Art Linkletter, Kids STILL Say the Darndest Things - Part Two

2011-12-11T16:01:00.000-08:00

Husband John AKA Pappa-razzi says every weekend when we have Tristan overnight, “Are you writing these down?” He means all the cute, amazing comments Tristan comes up with on an hourly basis.

When we drop him back at his house, I ask his Mommy, “Where in the world does this kid get these comments?”

She replied, “Welcome to my world. I ask myself every day, ‘where did he get that?’”

A sampling:

He awakened in our bed Easter morning and I asked, “Do you want to get up now and go wish Pappa a Happy Easter.” He answers, “No, let’s just lie here and enjoy this Easter moment.” I didn’t even know 5 year olds had “Easter moments.”

We had a conversation about tears because he saw me putting eye drops in and asked what they were. I explained and went on to joke about them being tears of joy because he was spending the night. I asked if he had ever cried tears of joy just because something was so wonderful, joyful or emotional. He didn’t have to blink an eye before responding, “Yes, in the movie Mee-Shee because the music was so beautiful!” He was speaking of Jim Henson’s movie, Mee-Shee: The Water Giant. I have no idea how long ago he saw that movie but it was recent. Music moves his soul and he can tell you about it.

One of my recent favorites was the story he told me about asking the cafeteria lady, “Do these muffins have mosquitoes in them, because I’m allergic to mosquitoes.” He said it took the lunch ladies a couple of minutes to know it was a joke!

Tristan knows his Uncle Mark—never mind that Uncle Mark died three years before Tristan was born. For example, we were at Applebee’s one evening when Tristan ordered French Fries and an order of bacon. I ordered potato skins which, of course, had bacon on them. I said, “Tristan, look we’re having the same thing, potatoes and bacon. What else do we both like?”

Without missing a beat, he replies, “We both love Uncle Mark.” Yes, he melts my heart on a daily basis.

Another Uncle Mark episode began with a discussion about ghosts, Tristan current and seemingly only fear.

“Mimi, do you believe in ghosts?”

“It depends on what you mean by ghosts. If you mean the state of the human body when someone has died and gone on to heaven, then, yes, I believe in ghosts. And I’ll tell you a secret I have told very very few people. Shortly after Uncle Mark’s death, he was sitting in that very rocker and said to me, ‘Mom, I’m okay. Don’t worry.’”

Tristan took this in and shortly afterwards went to the bathroom. He came back all excited and said, “Mimi, Uncle Mark was in the bathroom and told me he was okay in heaven.”

What do you say in response to that?

And then he shows up the next weekend saying in a New Jersey accent, “What am I? Chopped li-vah?”

Yes, Art, kids still say the darndest things.

Did St. Teresa of Avila write this prayer for me?

2011-12-07T07:42:00.000-08:00

Photo by Pappa-razzi AKA John Lynner Peterson

Some anonymous writer had captured my prayer and with apologies to St. Teresa of Avila, I share it with you today. Perhaps you will find it one you need to pray this year too.

Lord,
Thou knowest better than I myself
that I am growing older and will someday be old.
Keep me from the fatal habit of thinking
I must say something on every subject and on every occasion.

Release me from craving to
straighten out everybody’s affairs.

Make me thoughtful but not moody;
helpful but not bossy.

With my vast store of wisdom,
it seems a pity not to use it all;
but Thou knowest, Lord,
that I want a few friends at the end.
Keep my mind free from the recital of endless details;
give me wings to get to the point.

Seal my lips on my aches and pains;
they are increasing, and love of rehearsing them
is becoming sweeter as the years go by.

I dare not ask for improved memory,
but for a growing humility and a lessening cock-sureness
when my memory seems to clash with the memories of others.
Teach me the glorious lesson that occasionally I may be mistaken.

Keep me reasonably sweet, for a sour old person
is one of the crowning works of the devil.
Give me the ability to see good things in unexpected places
and talents in unexpected people;
and give, O Lord, the grace to tell them so.

Amen.

Hugo, the movie and Finding Your Purpose

2011-12-06T10:43:00.000-08:00

"If a man love the labor of any trade, apart from any question

of success or fame, the gods have called him."

Robert Louis Stephenson

John and I took grandson, Tristan, age six, to see the new movie Hugo last Saturday. Take every adult and child you know to see this movie. It is director Martin Scorsese’s tribute to film making but the beauty of it is in the cinematography (be sure to spurge for 3D) and the over-arching message.

Hugo is a young boy whose parents die and he is left in the care of a drunken uncle who tends the clock in the train terminal of Paris, France. I won’t be a spoiler by telling you more but the theme that speaks to us all is subtly expressed when Hugo says as he looks out on Paris from the clock tower, “If the whole world is a machine like a clock then there are no extra parts. So, I am not an extra part. I have a purpose and I must find it.”

Ahhhh, if we could each find our purpose what an achievement it would be. What is your purpose? Are you doing that now? Are you happy with what you are doing now? I have found in my work that if you are living your purpose it has a ripple effect on all your life—especially that prickly reality of time management.

I call my time management course The Last Time Management Course You Will Ever Need because the instruments force you to set priorities and define your purpose. After doing that, your management of time will fall comfortably in to place.

Do yourself a New Year favor, sign up here to take my course.

And go see Hugo!

Holiday Stress Buster

2011-12-05T17:19:00.000-08:00

There are only two words to know in reducing your stress around the holidays.

Lower Expectations!

This message was blatantly stolen from therapist extraordinaire, Dr. Nancy Fine of Newtown, PA.

Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah and Happy New Year.

Queen Enabler

2011-11-23T05:53:00.000-08:00

This is what enabling results in!

I played the role of Queen Enabler in my family.

The first lesson I learned in Al-Anon is to stop the co-dependent merry-go-round. I’m ready to get off. I hereby resign as Queen Enabler. I would be hard pressed to decide whether my Queen Enabler activities reached their peak with my Mom, my sister Margaret or my sons. Cleaning up their messes, literally and figuratively, and propping up their lives with money seemed second nature to me. I accepted that role in their lives never questioning whether it benefited them or me. I didn’t want to be one of those people who climbed out of poverty and then kicked the ladder to the ground so no one else could use it. I never questioned that my methods of enabling were far different from showing someone else the ladder and waiting with patience while they made or didn’t make the decision to use it.

Some of the high notes in my aria as Queen Enabler included: giving sister, Margaret, the down payment for her home, then watching her abuse the home, borrow from the equity and sell it short of what she owed on it; buying Mom a car on which she let the insurance lapse and then allowed my sister Vivian to drive and wreck it; and finally, aiding and abetting Mark as he wander around finding himself, tending bar, smoking pot and refusing to go to college. I stopped the vicious spiral by telling him I would no longer contribute to his life until he decided to quit smoking pot and take that brilliant mind off to college. Each of these constituted the circumstance which finally got my attention with that one person. Getting off the co-dependence merry-go-round happens one person at a time. If I complain about how slowly the process is my Al Anon friends remind me, “Progress, not perfection, is our goal.”

Of the Enabler stories I’ve heard since being in Al Anon, the prize and pinnacle is the woman who found a pair of women’s panties in her bedroom that were not hers. She confronted her husband and he insisted they were hers when she knew they were not. She washed the panties and wore them rather than forcing the issue of his infidelity and alcoholism!

I’m finally letting the fact sink deeply into my soul, enabling others benefits no one.

Sexual Abuse

2011-11-17T14:12:00.000-08:00

Brenda at age 5

According to Wikipedia, the Genogram, based on family systems theory, “is a pictorial display of a person's family relationships and medical history. It goes beyond a traditional family tree by allowing the user to visualize hereditary patterns and psychological factors that punctuate relationships. It can be used to identify repetitive patterns of behavior and to recognize hereditary tendencies.” (Genograms were first developed and popularized in clinical settings by Monica McGoldrick and Randy Gerson, with the publication of Genograms: Assessment and Intervention, 1985, now in its Third Edition, 2008.)

I replied to Jim, “I’m game. Oh, buddy, do I have a family system for you!”

The assignment directed us to ask a question (as a therapist would) which needed resolution in my life. I told Jim, “We’ll have to make up one because I’m in such a good emotional space about my life, I don’t have any problems that need answers at this time. The question I’m thinking of is genuine, I just don’t have a pressing need to answer it. It light of what I have lived through it seems a trivial thing to ask.”

The question: “Why, if I have little or no anxiety about public speaking, acting, dancing or teaching, do I sometimes have all-consuming anxiety when I sing publicly? I’ve had as much or more training in vocal performance as any other skill.”

The methodology of the Genogram involves creating a family tree. For ease of illustration, let’s say the family tree has circles around all addicts, squares around all abusers, triangles around those who were abused, trapezoids around mentors and so forth. My family tree is a geometry teacher’s dream. We filled it all out and ended that session.

Jim returned days later. During the casual visit, we were sitting at the breakfast bar at my house on Summershade Court. He gently asked, “Tell me more about the aunt who taught you a song and prepared you to sing in public for the first time when you were five years old.”

An electric shock radiated from the top of my head to the tips of my toes. I could barely form the words, “Oh my God, she also sexually molested me on a regular basis that same year.”

I have known this fact all my life. The path to the long, narrow, cold bathroom at Grandma’s house led between the pot-bellied coal stove and the cabinet where the black desk phone rested, number Harrison 48595. The click of the sliding bolt lock. My aunt telling me to lie down on the towel.

“I was five. I didn’t know I had a right to say ‘no.’ I didn’t suppress the molestation. I felt guilty about the incident all my life. And yet I pooh-poohed the significance of the actions and certainly did not name it abuse or connect it with singing. I excused her because she was just a teenager at the time. I thought it didn’t count as sexual abuse because she was female.”

Jim listened intently as I continued to think about the abuse. “I remember when I was studying voice with Dr. Noemi Lugo in the Nineties at the University of Kentucky. Something she said makes sense to me now.”

“Brrrrrrrrrrrrenda,” she would say rolling her R’s with delight, “you have this beautiful sound that you refuse to let out. For some reason it seems contained, locked up tight.”

“Now I understand when, where and who locked the door.”

Sexual Abuse of Children

2011-11-14T17:58:00.000-08:00

Brene Brown has been my heroine for some time now. I have written about her work in this space on several occasions. Concerning the sexual abuse scandal at Penn State, she speaks my mind. No other words necessary.

http://www.ordinarycourage.com/my-blog/2011/11/14/thoughts-on-penn-state.html

Perhaps this scandal will give me the courage to post about my own sexual abuse at age five. Stay tuned.

Expecting Adam by Martha Beck

2011-11-08T17:52:00.000-08:00

This post was inspired by the book, Expecting Adam by Martha Beck. As a member of From Left to Write book club, I received a copy of this book. This is not a review, it is a post inspired ll opinions are my own. You can read other members' posts inspired by Expecting Adam on book club day, November 9, 2011 at From Left to Write.

“This is the part of us that makes our brief, improbable little lives worth living; the ability to reach through our own isolation and find strength, and comfort, and warmth for and in each other. This is what human beings do. This is what we live for, the way horses live to run.” from Expecting Adam.

I applaud Martha Beck’s discovery that relationships are the true essence of life. I also want Martha to know that not all of us start with the loving family that Adam got.

As sure as my love for unsweetened iced tea, one glass of white wine with dinner and Lindt chocolate peanut butter balls, relationships are essential to my very being. For connection, I started with what I received biologically. Decades later, I continue to define relationships as the richness of life and I am forced to admit, I started with interesting raw material.

We’d take the big round table in the corner if I gathered my family at a local restaurant. Older brother Bill, in bib overalls, no longer reeks of alcohol but his wrinkled skin, droopy eyelids, and dark circled orbs broadcasts that his body has not recovered even though his spirit is a perpetual “pink cloud.” (Alcoholics Anonymous jargon for the euphoria from getting sober.) As he laughs too loudly and tells stories of drunken days and lost weekends, I see glimpses of the little boy and the teenager who greeted each day with “Hello world!” and wore a Japanese happy coat (generally translated to English as hapi or happi coat not happy) through much of high school. Bill could fix anything that needed fixing especially if it was a hydraulic engine. During the worst of his drinking years, he worked for two companies that maintained big garbage trucks in the Chicago area. He would wear out the patience of one company with his priority on alcohol and the other company would hire him by the next afternoon. His extraordinary skill encountered something he could not control when one of the giant tires on a truck exploded at his chest. His injuries are not visible at this dinner but they continued to scar his health the remainder of his life.

Bill’s logical explanation about The Incident that caused him to be a registered sex offender by the state of Florida hangs in the air like a leftover party banner. Perhaps his pink cloud drifted away on that day he raged at his mentally challenged stepdaughter and grabbed her breast.

Pretense only brings Bill to this dinner because his early life of drinking and smoking took its toll and Bill died of lung cancer at age sixty-five in 2010.

Sister Margaret arrives after Bill. She, too, looks on the outside like the choices she made on the inside. Her anger worn thick like her mascara, her bitterness as brittle as the tenth coat of hot pink polish painted on her nails. I dig deep to find the bright little girl who skipped second grade or quick sense of humor of her young adulthood. Margaret’s laughter at a joke or situation that struck her as funny spread like news of the best shoe sale in town.

Margaret blurts out as soon as she is seated, “Can you believe I have to have another surgery? This time it’s for carpel tunnel syndrome.” She delivers this news with excitement rather than the resignation or frustration usually accompanied with surgery.

Bill reassures her, “Margaret, you may have had cirrhosis of the liver when you were five but you don’t have it now and you’re not that sickly little girl anymore. You should have dropped the hypochondria decades ago.”

I accepted Margaret’s hypochondria and surgery-of-the-moment ages ago, I wonder how someone as bright as Margaret cannot remember when to use she/her and he/him and they/them? When confronted or teased about her grammar, she tells you rule by rule the correct usage, yet refuses to use such rules in daily speech. This stubbornness completes the picture of refusing to get her undergraduate degree. For decades, she worked at a university where she could have finished for free. She dared to call colleagues “educated idiots” when they didn’t see things her way.

Sister Ashley hobbles behind Margaret, the years of looking like Linda Carter of Wonder Woman fame locked away in her memory. A run-in with a forklift on the factory floor interrupted her work life, sapped her will and drained her desires for years afterward. This waning of her will started early but the accident squeezed its last breath. Her creativity, sensitivity, beauty and wit might as well be specimens in the jars of a science lab for all the use they were to her. Perhaps her children have taken the jars off the shelf, handled them with curiosity and put them back, thinking “Surely these belong to some one else. They couldn’t possibly belong to the hollowed-out, used-up, emotional cripple that is our mother.” Ashley sparkled on stage when she sang and acted. Her wit, even as a child, shined through in letters she wrote to me when I was in college. If Emerson is correct in saying, “What is needed in life is someone who will make us do what we are able,” Ashley didn’t have that someone in her life. I thought it would be me then discovered it wasn’t.

Our final sib Vivian, may be the most fortunate in having less potential to work with. She wonders aloud, “Am I retarded?” We assure her she’s not, but quilt-like comfort can’t be found in some simple diagnosis. The family shakes its corporate head and says, “She’s just Vivian.” In subsequent generations, Vivian would have been diagnosed with multiple learning disorders. As a child, her waif-look, quaint vocabulary and general neediness manifested as Cosby-kid cute. At forty, it evokes wells of sadness and pity. Circumstances will require legal intervention to protect one of her children from Vivian’s lack of parenting skill. Her other child will spend time in prison, may still be there. Vivian doesn’t hobble physically like Ashley but the weight of her mother-guilt rests so heavily on her psyche it cannot be alleviated by crutch or cane. Pretense also brings Viv to this dinner, she too succumbed to an early death at age forty-seven in 2006.

At this imaginary dinner, I, of course, made the reservation, order some appetizers and resolve for the umpteenth time not to pick up the whole check. I wear my excess of education like my expensive, well-tailored Doncaster clothes. The skinny little girl whose crinoline always hung out below her skirt no longer exists. The smile, grooming and practiced charm weave a curtain of denial which covers the pain, vulnerability and poor self-esteem of the Family Enabler Extraordinaire. I keep nurturing the thought that I can redeem every embarrassing characteristic of my family with my own perfect behavior. It’s exhausting not to mention arrogant.

Then there’s the general perception hanging in the air like humidity in August that Brenda experiences no pain because, “She has money and a good man. My God, what more could she want?”

Oh, my, I sound bitter and angry. I must work on that.

As I pick my fingers raw (under the table, of course), my soul longs to be seen as a whole person by these people--fragile and strong and oh, so, imperfect. That’s what I want. Perhaps it is an unreasonable request of these people who are immersed in their own struggles and rendered myopic by their own pain. I bore the weight of guilt about rearing these siblings before I ever became a mother. My plan that a college education would pull each one of them along with me failed before I framed the diploma. This guilt rests like concrete blocks on both my shoulders.

Oh, I forgot, Mother is here.

Ashley surely chose Mother’s too bright Wal-Mart dress; Margaret must have fixed her low-maintenance hairstyle and Vivi hovers over her expecting her to actually be a mother. Tall, big-boned, a bit overweight, Mother looks older than her years. Her high forehead and rectangular face hit at attractive but don’t quite make it there.

From her earliest encounters with motherhood, Violet Lee struggled. She laughs at herself and tells stories about her attempts at parenting like the day Bill swung a fish hook into my eyelid. She called a taxi to rush me to the hospital and left Bill, age six, alone on the sidewalk.

Surprise! Surprise! Dad arrives late. Perhaps we should honor him for showing up since he has built a life around the role of absent father. He doesn’t have his pet pig in tow this evening and appears sober. At eighty-six, he looks one hundred and five and the self-proclaimed “shit-eatin'” grin that made all women between twelve and sixty weak-kneed now seems as rusted out as the moonshine still in his back yard. Dad pulled off this larger-than-life character with stunts. For example, he had a photograph of himself framed and surrounded by individual pictures of all six of his wives. He had nine marriages to these six women. Friends flocked to his place on the Ohio River where an extra refrigerator devoid of shelves had its belly-filled with a keg that hooked up to an exterior spigot. Dad invented this decades before appliance companies got the idea to have water and ice accessible on the outside of the fridge door.

If my family is the poster child for wasted genius, Dad is the Jerry Lewis circus barker trying to convince the world that it’s cool to underachieve. I cringe because I’m so afraid he will grab his chair, straddle it backwards and order a “smart alec.” I don’t know what that drink is but I know he can’t pull off the devil-may-care party animal anymore. At this pretend dinner, we will laugh, have fun and never acknowledge or deal with realities like alcoholism, divorce, education, intimate relationships or caring for Mom or Dad when they’re old. The strain put on the fabric of reality causes even the table, chairs and menus to tense the fibers of their being.

Which Wolf Is Motivating You?

2011-11-07T08:37:00.000-08:00

Photo by John Lynner Peterson AKA Pappa-razzi

One evening an old Cherokee told his grandson about a battle that goes on inside people. He said, "My son, the battle is between two wolves inside every one of us.

One is Evil: It is anger, envy, jealousy, conceit, sorrow, hatred, greed, arrogance, self-pity, resentment, inferiority, lies, pride, lust, superiority, and ego.

The other is Good: It is joy, peace, love, hope, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence, empathy, generosity, truth, compassion and faith."

The grandson thought about it for a minute and then asked his grandfather: "Which wolf wins?

The old Cherokee simply replied, "The one you feed."

The Conductor

2011-11-06T17:42:00.000-08:00

The third vocational option for Tristan is conductor. Pappa and I took him to the children’s concert of the Lexington Philharmonic. We sat in a box that partially overlooked the stage and the pit. He asked, “Are those black curtains going to open up and people will come out in costumes?”

“No, Tristan, this is a concert not a play or musical,” Mimi replies.

“Ok, then I’m not going to like it. I will be bored.”

“Let’s listen to the few pieces that will be played before the drum ensemble which is what we thought you would like. Then if after the drums you want to go home, we will go home.”

“It’s a deal, Mimi.”

We were only one piece into the drum program when he proclaimed, “I like this!” And we stayed to the end.

Tristan sings in the children’s choir of our church. Dress rehearsal for their first Sunday morning to sing came right after our philharmonic experience. All during the rehearsal, Tristan conducted his teacher.

His teacher waited to get him alone after rehearsal, bent down to his level and with the gentleness of a warm puppy pointed out to him that there can be only one conductor and that she was the one. She pointed out that he forgot to sing when he was conducting and distracted other children. He looked into her eyes with the sweetest, most innocent face and declared, “Sometimes I just go overboard.”

Conductor, NASCAR driver or museum curator? Stay tuned.

The Museum Curator

2011-11-04T13:12:00.000-07:00

Photo by John Lynner Peterson AKA Pappa-razzi

In addition to NASCAR driver, Tristan creates an awesome museum and plays the role of museum director himself. One day when we arrived at his house, he adopted the museum director’s all-knowing voice and gave us a tour of the museum. The museum director also carries himself in a proper way with hands behind his back and an officious gait to assure you know who’s in charge. The museum houses the traditional dinosaurs and historical exhibits using all Tristan’s soldiers and props. The tour displays the length and width and breadth of his knowledge and takes hours and several rooms of the house to create.

Since still in the mood for museum directing when we had to leave his house, Tristan pretended the entire city comprised his museum as we drove to our destination. From the back seat, we hear his imitation of a grown-up voice describing every building, fire plug and tree. We play along and ask questions of “the director.” He hesitates but a moment with an officious, “Wellll, that fire plug is painted yellow and green instead of red because school children wanted to paint it that way.” He never lacked an answer regardless of the question. All the world is Tristan’s museum.

Pappa and I were most impressed with one of the exhibits back at the house. A memorial he built to dead soldiers. Remember this six year old museum director’s Daddy is a Marine who lost friends in Iraq and Afghanistan. A cardboard box rested on the floor with a child’s plastic chair on it and atop that is a rider-less motorcycle. The museum director, in his compassionate but professional voice, informed us that the box contained the belongings and memories of the soldier who was killed in war.

The NASCAR Manager

2011-11-03T12:12:00.000-07:00

Tristan ponders his vocational choices

Creative play forms the basis for all vocational dreams. Which really makes me ponder whether grandson Tristan will be the next Dario Franchitti on the NASCAR circuit, by the Executive Director of the Smithsonian or conduct our local philharmonic. His current preferences for spending his play time gives no hint of which way he will turn.

As NASCAR driver he requires the services of the “manager” none other than yours truly, his Mimi. He prefers Mimi as “manager,” who really does the job of announcing, because I capture his imagination about how race day excitement and events might unfold., “Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to NASCAR. You are in for the most exciting day in racing and you will not be disappointed!” His preference for Mimi has nothing to do with my knowledge of NASCAR, cars in general or aerodynamic properties. It’s all about drama and the glib tongue.

Based on the engaging Cars movie and Cars 2, Tristan’s cast metal and plastic cars all possess personalities and moral characteristics. We line them up, sort them into categories and make a place for the pit crew and for President Barack Obama’s limousine and entourage. Tristan always gets to be Lightning McQueen and win every race. Losing is not one of Tristan’s self-identities at this point in his life. So we set up the race in Mimi and Pappa’s living room, family room, kitchen, breakfast room and hall way. It’s takes a lot of real estate to create NASCAR.

At some point in our early days, I must have referred to the attendees as “folks.” It stuck. The watchers of the race henceforth are called “folks.” He divides the cars into various countries usually according to style of cars---these designations zoom over Mimi’s head---but I can always expect Japanese, Chinese, British and Italian cars.

So the “manager” has to develop, at minimum, a British, Italian and Oriental accent because I voice most all characters. The bad guy/car, Francesco got in trouble yesterday. He broke one of the rules of NASCAR and the “manager” called for an investigation, penalty and fine. I must have been on a roll as Francesco’s angry mother who attended the race. I ranted and raved in my best Italian accent. So well, in fact, that Tristan broke character and inquired, “Mi---------mi, are you mad at me or are you still being Francesco’s mommy?” Guess I played my part well.

My little NASCAR fan also confuses whether the driver breaking the rules has to be accountable to the track rules or his mommy. Guess we know where is locus of authority still rests.

Courage and Heart

2011-10-31T14:49:00.000-07:00

The Latin word for heart is cor. The same root word as courage.

When we ENcourage another human being, we give them the heart to do what they need to do.

When we DIScourage another, we take away their courage and freedom from fear.

Do you want to ENcourage or DIScourage those you meet today and tomorrow?

When Marriage Fails inspired by Lost Edens

2011-10-26T07:25:00.000-07:00

This post was inspired by Lost Edens a FromLefttoWrite book club selection. Lost Edens is the memoir of Jamie Patterson. This is not a book review but rather a post inspired by reading Jamie’s book.

“Why do people get married?”

“Passion!???”

“No, because we need a witness to our lives. There are a billion people on the planet, what does one life really mean? But in a marriage you’re promising to care about everything, the good things, the bad things, the terrible things, the mundane things, all of it, all the time. Every day, you are saying your life will not go unnoticed, because I will notice it. Your life will not go unwitnessed because I will be your witness.”

Masayuki Suo (from the movie Shall We Dance)

With time, therapy and additional self-understanding I have forgiven myself for mistakes. I now embrace my bad marriages as part of the journey to find myself, know myself and esteem myself. Understanding as relates to men in general did not come easily for me. I didn’t have what psychologists call a “daddy hole,” the emotional lack of relationship with your father, I had a Daddy Crater and I learned to fill that crater in unhealthy ways.

Daniel Allen Moore (a pseudonym)

"I think we all wish we could erase some dark times in our lives.

But all of life's experiences, bad and good make you who you are.

Erasing any of life's experiences would be a great mistake."

Luis Miquel

My precious Mark and Denny, ages ten and thirteen, walked me down the aisle of a packed Central Baptist Church to start the wedding of my dreams and the marriage of my nightmares. Moisture filled eyes followed us to the altar. Everyone celebrated that I had found a young, good-looking professional man because they had also watched and prayed as I lost Bart to cancer. My irrational thought that two and one half years totaled enough time to get over my grief just points out how grief cripples your judgment.

I accept full responsibility for this huge marital mistake. However, I do wish to note for the record, that no family members and only one friend voiced misgivings about this match. Even my therapist later apologized that he had not noted the signs of --what? Mental disorder? Dysfunctionality? Woundedness? All of the above? And that’s just the part that related to Dan! My part in this colossal mistake? I underestimated the psychological healing I had yet to do. Clueless concerning damage from some childhood wounds, I didn’t yet know the therapeutic work left for me to do.

Shortly before the wedding, my groom-to-be commented, “Your friends seem to think of you as being very sexy. I’m not comfortable with that.”

“No kidding.” I replied. “Did you think you were the only one on the planet who had noticed?”

The warning gong should have clanged at that time with concern over his unhealthy attitude about sex, relationships and more. At the time, it just ticked me off. This constituted the beginning of my daily urge to say to him, “Do you have applesauce for brains?”

On the honeymoon when he brought up issues he had not mentioned in a year and half of dating--all issues related to his need to control me, such as what I wore, where I could go and who I could be friends with, my stomach knotted in fear. My expression in all the honeymoon pictures looks like I’m gritting my teeth. I was. He assured me he just found it “necessary to rake back the glitter” when confronted with someone who shimmered like Brenda. I replied, “You’re doing the job with a god damn backhoe, not a rake.”

One of numerous difficult issues in eighteen months of marriage surrounded the issue of humor. Dan had no access to humor and my boys and I survived on ours. Intestinal gas is a sacrament to adolescent boys. Dan denied he ever experienced such a human failing. Mark would lay in wait outside the bathroom door and scream at the top of his lungs if a sound close to gas emitted from behind that door. How can you refrain from laughing at that? One therapist pointed out to Dan that the boys and I also laughed at ourselves which he seemed incapable of doing.

Mark impersonated Dan in Saturday Night Live style. Dan, handsome and very well built, bore the unfortunate characteristic of a high waist. In a culture already pushing pants to the lowest possible place on the hips, Dan’s high waist supplied a perfect set-up for caricature. Mark would pull his pants up to his armpits and imitate Dan’s overly-serious mode of speech. I tried on most occasions play the adult and refuse to laugh at these impersonations. I threatened dire consequences if they didn’t cease and desist. Laughter often won.

I offer no excuse for my part in this gigantic mistake. Devastated by Bart’s death and desperate for emotional security, I thought I found a good man. A college professor who attended church, had two sons of his own, Dan shared many of my values and desired the kind of home life I wanted for my boys. His issues with sexuality and obsessive, irrational thinking escalated from the honeymoon until the day our divorce finalized. I learned an important lesson about myself from this marriage: I had very low tolerance for someone who needed to control me in order to feel safe himself. Circumstances necessitated that I become my own authority at an early age, he didn’t stand of chance of controlling me in my forties. I also learned that I didn’t possess enough relationship skills to bridge the psychological divide between Dan’s dysfunction and my own.

A Celebration of the Life of Marilyn Moosnick

2011-10-20T18:42:00.000-07:00

I first met Marilyn when she recruited me to raise money for the renovation of our Opera House in Lexington. I think it was full of pigeon poop at that time. What a delight to be part of that effort. The Opera House anchors the corner of Broadway and Short and gives hundreds of organizations a place to perform.

Next Marilyn took me on a tour of the empty YMCA building to talk about renovating it for the Lexington Council of the Arts now LexArts. That led to years of involvement with that organization and my service on that board for over six years. Another anchor for the arts in Lexington.

I had just married Robert “Bart” Bartella when I met Marilyn. Bart was 32 years older than I. Marilyn chuckled when she told me about when she and Franklin first married. While the age difference was only twelve years, the greater gossip fodder was that Marilyn was Christian and Franklin was Jewish. She assured me the interest in mine and Bart’s marriage would get old with time and become very boring to gossipers.

One night many decades after meeting Marilyn, we were chatting at the airport as we each waited for a family member. When Franklin came down that escalator, the rest of the world faded away. As I watched them embrace and gaze into each other’s eyes, I saw the kind of love that can bridge whatever differences individuals may bring to the relationship. This kind of love encouraged Marilyn to convert to Judaism and lend her considerable talents to all manner of Jewish organization including being national President of Hadassah.

When Southern Baptists were first becoming radicalized, I was still Baptist (although even then a member of a very progressive Baptist church). Some of the evangelist actions of the Baptists during this time were extremely offensive to Jews. Marilyn pulled me aside at a wedding we both attended and said, “Brenda, what can we do about this? How can we build a bridge that will be beneficial for all?”

Building bridges, sparking change, inspiring others, encouraging involvement---that’s just who Marilyn was.

Rest in eternal peace, dear friend. Your work here was well done.

Ashley Judd's memoir, All That is Bitter And Sweet

2011-10-18T03:45:00.000-07:00

Ashley Judd’s new memoir, All That is Bitter and Sweet, defines recovery and bravery. Recovery from traumatic childhoods takes bravery for each of us walking that journey, but when you must do it in the spotlight of fame, the bravery must be kick up a notch or two.

Judd’s memoir doesn’t rest on her laurels of fame. And it’s not easy reading or a gossip mag for Hollywood voyeurs. Much of the book recounts her international work with poverty, women’s issues and sexual slavery. But her work is layered with the story of her neglect and abuse at the hands of her very flawed parents. Her story reveals how the need to do this work grows out of her own experiences of childhood.

As I have struggled these last three years to write my own memoir, I have come to the conclusion that you can survive and even thrive after a scarring childhood but the tenderness of that scar will always be with you. Ashley and I and millions of others will always be questioning life. Is that normal? Should I feel this way? Is it okay to be like me? What will others think? Do I have to care what others think? Am I free now to be and do what I want to be and do?

I also resonate with Ashley’s experience of how family responds when one of the family chooses to get off the dysfunctional, crazy-making merry-to-round and walk on the solid ground of mental health. Note to others who decide to “get well”: your family will not be sending you congratulatory notes or thank you notes. And Katie-bar-the-door if you are so bold as to tell your story.

This is Ashley’s account of when she dared to tell her Truth when her family came to her in-patient treatment Family Day:

“Giving voice to my reality, such a powerful theme in feminism was the empowering part. The scary part was that I had to accept, and yet take the risk anyway, that some people who were listening might never be safe or healthy and therefore might never be able to regard my story for what it was: my story, something to which we each inherently had a God given right. I knew that particular parts of the pain I was in growing up, and the thoughts and behavior born of that pain, would be ridiculed, rejected, pathologized, and held against me, maybe until the day I died. Unfortunately, I was right. Certain things I said were isolated and thrown back at me in the years since that day. But I do not regret standing up and saying, “This is what it was life for me.”

Tell your Story, your Truth to someone today. It will start you on a journey of healing you will never regret.

You are Perfect---Just the Way you Are

2011-10-16T15:29:00.000-07:00

I filled the pulpit for a friend today. While doing sermon prep, I ran across a story/parable that fits nicely with the study I have been doing on The Gifts of Imperfection by Brene’ Brown.

Why does it take us so long to realize we are perfect, just the way we are?

The Cracked Pot

A water bearer had two large pots, each hung on each end of a pole which he carried across his neck. One of these pots had a crack in it, while the other pot was perfect and always delivered a full portion of water at the end of a long walk from the stream to the master’s house; the cracked pot arrived only half-full.

For a full two years this went on daily, with the bearer only delivering one and a half pots full of water to the house. Of course, the perfect pot was proud of his accomplishments---perfect to the end for which it was made. The poor cracked pot was ashamed of his own imperfection, and miserable that it was able to accomplish only half of what it had been made to do.

After two years of what it perceived to be a bitter failure, the cracked pot spoke to the water bearer one day. “I am ashamed of myself, and I want to apologize to you.” “Why?” asked the water bearer. “What are you ashamed of?”

“I have been able, for these past two years to deliver only half of my load because this crack in my side causes water to leak out all the way to the house. Because of my flaws, you have to do all of this work, and you don’t get full value from you efforts, the pot said.

The water bearer felt sorry for the old cracked pot, and in his compassion he said, ‘As we return to the house, I want you to notice all of the beautiful flowers along the path.”

Indeed, as they went up the hill, the old cracked pot took notice of the sun warming the beautiful wild flowers on the side of the path, and this cheered it some. But at the end of the trail, it still felt bad because it had leaked out half of its load again, so again the pot apologized to the bearer for its failure.

The bearer said to the pot, “Did you notice that there were flowers only on your side of the path, but not on the other pot’s side?” That’s because I have always known about your flaw, and I took advantage of it. I planted flower seeds on your side of the path, and every day while we walk back from the stream, you’ve watered them. For two years, I have been able to pick these beautiful flowers to decorate my table. Without you being just the way you are, I would not have this beauty to grace my house.

#1 Path out of Poverty: Education

2011-09-28T14:27:00.000-07:00

As I continue to recover from a flu that mowed me down, I hope you'll agree this old blog post bears repeating.

Having learned at an early age that I was good at school, I absorbed the message like good body lotion soaks in that education was my ticket out of poverty. School, with few exceptions, became a refuge---a glorious island of organization and positive experiences in a sea of chaos. I never went through a stage in which I resisted going. I grieve and feel burdened by the fact that all children of poverty do not get this message as strongly as I did or are unable to receive the message. Decades ago I heard commentator Paul Harvey say the "highest place in heaven will be reserved for the person who clears the snow from the church steps on Sunday mornings." I disagree. The highest place in heaven goes to teachers who communicate to students that education is still the first and best ticket out of poverty. I cried when I heard President Barack Obama point out to African-American children the realistic stats on how many poor, black boys will make it out of poverty on basketball scholarships! Education unlocks far more doors than basketball.

With these feelings about school---in spite of fourteen different elementary schools---it's not surprising I blossomed in high school. I was still shy but functioned well in class, in several extra-curricular organizations and with a small group of friends. And I carried the mantle of designated achiever in my family. One of my boyfriends later told me they called me the "shy Univac." For younger readers, the Univac was the first significant iteration of a computer. Those years constituted the beginning of my desire to find myself and it wasn't easy. Although I was shy, I was a performer. Although I was good at school, I didn't have a self definition of being smart. In many respects, I didn't know who I was or who I wanted to be.

The religious piece of my identity rested firmly in place but when nominated to be in a beauty pageant, I was thrilled. One of the judges when he read I was going to be a Southern Baptist missionary asked, "Then why are you in a beauty pageant?" I didn't understand why the two needed to be mutually exclusive.

At that point I fully expected to be a missionary. I applied only to three Baptist colleges, was admitted to all three and chose Georgetown because it was close to our original hometown, Evansville, IN and it was where Aunt BJ had gone to undergraduate school. Marriage, birth of my son, Husband Number One's illness moved me away from missionary plans but the Georgetown College environment and culture during the Sixties proved to be a safe environment for a young woman trying to find herself. In 1965, Georgetown had never had a dance on campus. Those wild fraternity boys had off campus dances and then my sorority staged the first off-campus dance sponsored by women. Sin and degradation! Finally, my senior year, the first on-campus dance was sanctioned. I never had a curfew until I arrived at Georgetown!

God bless the role of education on my path.

Learning from Cleo

2011-09-26T15:26:00.000-07:00

I received a copy of Cleopatra:A Life by Stacy Shiff by virtue of my membership in the book club, From Left to Write. This is not a review. This post was inspired by the book.

Cleopatra---consummate politician, sex goddess, mother, sister, ruler, daughter, heroine. What can we learn from her?

Learn the language and culture of the people you wish to influence—in her case she wished to rule them. Cleopatra was Greek by birth but learned the language of the Egyptians when other Ptolemies refuse to do so.

Visit with the people. If we are to influence others they must know we care. Walk among those you wish to persuade.

Understand the macro and the micro political lay of the land. Cleo not only walked about the villages and knew her people, she visited Cesar and knew the larger context of the nation she was trying to rule. This is an excellent model for all of us. Whether you’re trying to influence a family, a corporation, a church or a nation, know the greater context of what informs and demands the attention of your people.

And it doesn’t hurt to look good and know the power of your own sexuality as Cleo did!

When Life Hits a Wall

2011-09-26T07:20:00.000-07:00

This blog and this life has been temporarily interrupted by cold/flu or dastardly allergies. Stay tuned for the resurrection, hopefully, sooner rather than later.

Why Can't LOVE be simple?

2011-09-20T16:09:00.000-07:00

This post was inspired by the novel, Carry Yourself Back to Me by Deborah Reed. A copy of this book was given to me by virtue of my membership in www.fromlefttowrite.com. This is not a review of the book.

Deborah Reed sets up a story for us that highlights all the ramifications of loving others, loosing those we love and learning to forgive. Like many good stories, it is a universal tale of love.

The book instigated my thinking about the complexity of loving others, a proposition that is rarely, if ever, simple. Perhaps the most pure form of love is mother for child but even that can sometime be made complicated by circumstances. What if you have to give that child up for some reason? What if you have initiated the pregnancy as part of a scheme to get the money required for the survival of the rest of your family? Why can’t even that purest of all loves be simple?

A favorite John Lynner Peterson photo says it all about LOVE!

I have a new friend and a very old friend who are staying in loveless marriages for their own complicated reasons—in spite of loving someone else! Why can’t love be simple?

I have loved more than a few alcoholics in my family. That is truly a complicated love that many people have experienced. Why can’t love be simple?

And then there is the complicated love we experience as parents when we learn there is an expiration date on children following our wishes and demands. We learn that we love people even when they make decisions we disagree with and when we can no longer protect them from themselves. Why can’t love be simple?

I’m currently thinking the purest form of love is grandparent for grandchild. I revel each day in the simplicity of it. I don’t want the day to come when it will be more complex. I hope the most complicated disagreement we will ever have is whether Poppa will buy him a Happy Meal or not. I know that will not always be the case. Why can’t love be simple?

Have you experienced a simple love? What made it so?

Writing Memoir - Finishing Memoir

2011-09-19T09:46:00.000-07:00

My teacher, Leatha Kendrick's book

As most of my readers know, I can see the finish line on the memoir that I have been writing for over three years now. As with many writers, seeing the finish line causes great angst. We tend to want to go back to the beginning rather than put ourselves “out there” for others to judge.

So I’m currently seeking help in finishing from a course at the Carnegie Center for Literacy and Learning in Lexington, KY. Great course. Great teacher, Leatha Kendrick.

My intention in this class is to polish. Like a good shoe shine, car wash or make up session, we need to polish our writing off with the sparkling shine. The shine reflects back to all who peer in to it. My hope is that my memoir will reflect back to readers a moment or incident in their own lives that will open up with wisdom, understanding and/or peace after reading of my experiences.

I have benefited immeasurably by writing my memoir. I think others will benefit only if the writing has been buffed to such a sheen that they see something of themselves in the book.

I want to be open to hearing, learning and responding in this “finishing class.” It requires a degree of trust that my classmates will be able to provide the elbow grease which leads to the final shine. I must be willing to muck-up my project a bit with the grease of new thoughts.

What is your writing experience with finishing a major project?

Guest Post: Religious Literacy: Americans Don't Know Their Stuff by Amanda Parker

2011-09-16T12:36:00.000-07:00

Today’s post is by a young woman I’ve watched grow up, in fact, as her pastor, I baptized her. I am amazed and impressed with the adult she has become. I now tell her, “I want to be Amanda Parker when I grow up.” Her response to that is, “We’ve come full circle.”
Amanda’s blog, called Faiths of the District, deals with her experiences and thoughts on religious while doing religious/political/service work in Washington, DC.

My comment and one other on this post follows.

The U.S. is one of the most religious countries in the developed world, especially compared to largely secular Western Europe, but … Americans still know relatively little about religion.”

In 2010, the Pew Forum released a major study on religious literacy in

America

. The results were amazing: out of 32 questions, an average of 16 questions were answered correctly. Perhaps more interesting, though not surprising, Agnostics and Atheists scored the highest. And of course they did – most people who reach that point where they throw their hands up in the air and say “I have no idea what’s out there” probably did a lot of searching before they reached that point. Or maybe that’s just a simplification of my experience.
Below is a link to Pew’s religious literacy test (doesn’t contribute to the actual survey). I scored really high on it (14 out of 15 correct!) … but I’m not bragging.

http://features.pewforum.org/quiz/us-religious-knowledge/

OK, how’d you do?

Part of my motivation for starting this blog was to become more religiously literate and to share my findings. If I blogged more often I would probably achieve that.

Now I want to talk about religion and what that has to do with who you are.

In a 2008 poll, it was found that the more educated you are, the less likely you are to believe in god. That may explain why the “god-less” groups (athiests, agnostics and secular humanists, to name a few) are more likely to know the facts on religion than those who actually believe. They dedicate a lot of time to doing the research and poking holes in spirituality. I do that, too… a lot. But it’s really annoying sometimes. More importantly, I think people who are more religiously literate are better able to design a form of spirituality that works for them.

A dear friend directed me to this article – so much fodder for my flames: “With more years of education, you aren’t relatively more likely to say, ‘I don’t believe in God.’ But you are relatively more likely to say, ‘I believe in a higher power.’”

A little personal insight here – I’m doing the online dating thing and people are obsessed with talking to me about religion (Aside – interesting data on religion and compatibility: http://goo.gl/PTtUV). Literally 21 of the 807 words in my profile have to do with religion and yet that’s all anyone can talk about.
The feedback is really interesting – some people just want to know what I believe, some want talk about the decline of society due to lack of religion, some people want to discuss/debate Kant and Dostoevsky, some people want a link to this blog, and some people want to tell me that “religion is the opium of the people“. Thanks, dude, but I’ve heard that one already. I want to be truthful about my stance on religion – I’m deeply spiritual. I do believe in a higher power. I am also very intelligent. Don’t hate.

Since we’re talking about religion here and I’m a firm believer that I have none of the answers, I want to close with asking why is religion important? Why is it not? What are its functions? Why is it awful? Why is it great?

Feel free to break it down in the comments section or just think about it on your own. Also feel free to bring Kant, Dostoevsky, Marx, Jon Stewart and anyone else you really care about to bat on this. Also, feel free to be anonymous. I know you’ve got it in you.

LoveLoudly Says:

September 15, 2011 at 2:32 pm

I stumbled across your blog through the Theology tag and I enjoyed your post. I’ve seen quite a few polls like these but I feel like they never quite make the larger leap. Its not just that people are less informed on religion but I would argue that people are becoming less informed on everything. Religion is a buzz-generating field to discuss but it seems that similar trends are occurring in everything from politics to economics. While most of the “West” (for lack of a better term) has nearly infinite information access we actually seem to be learning less and less. I have a personal inclination to pin it on the extreme shift towards an ideological rhetorical style of discourse over the last decade or two but i can’t offer particularly strong statistics or studies to back that up.
As to your specific questions, I would argue that religion (whatever one’s stance, mine is probably made clear by my avatar) as a whole is important because it makes up an inextricable and major part of an individual’s worldview. Coupled with (and perhaps indistinguishable from) philosophy, ethics, science and metaphysics (to name a few), they collectively define how we look at the world. Ontology and essence is a tricky subject but it doesn’t seem too untoward to at least suggest that our worldview is the most personal and essential element of our being. While there is certainly the option to deny organized patterns of religion and theology, to deny the importance of something like a personal understanding of theology is impossible.
On a more random note, based on some of your posts, you might be interested in my friend Tom’s blog. He spent the summer touring America visiting and commenting on most of the major mega-churches in the country. http://8000milestoordination.blogspot.com/
Peace,
Colby

Brenda’s comment:

Great post, ‘manda! One of my favorite answers is “there is a God-shaped hole in us that only God can fill.” Can’t remember who said it. I also think that simplicity on the near side of your thoughts about religion means nothing! Simplicity on the far side of your thoughts about religion mean everything. In other words, do the searching, do the questioning, do the study, then boil it down to the most simple premise you can believe in—there you have your God-shaped hole.

So proud of you!

When the Rubber Hits the Road of Authenticity

2011-09-14T17:05:00.000-07:00

I attended the Women’s Circle Meeting of my church yesterday. The topic of study was “Blessed are the poor” from The Beatitudes. The lesson was well taught and challenging questions were raised, such as,

Who is responsible for the poor---people of faith or the government or both?

What institutions would you like to see address the issues of poverty?

What should we be doing to get to the root of poverty rather than addressing the surface?

I won’t answer the questions here because I would like for my readers to struggle with them yourselves and because I’m going a different direction with this post.

But one hint: there was good discussion about the role of public education and Christian education.

After the lesson was over, I raised my hand and said, “I was one of the poor children we have been talking about today. I was reared and nurtured by women like those around this room. I can’t go back to those women and say ‘thank you’ so I would like to thank everyone in this room who has extended their love, nurture and guidance to the children of the poor.”

I shared with the group the wonderful African word “ujamaa” which essentially means community or the concept of “it takes a village to raise a child.” I was one of those children who were raised by the village instead of by my family of origin.

It didn’t hit me emotionally until after I finished speaking that my statement to these women was, in essence, “coming out” to Lexington as a child of poverty. I served with many of these same women on various boards and did volunteer work in the community. Not once during those years did I reveal my background. I was at the stage in my life that I needed to prove I was worthy of being part of this group that I so admired and wanted to be considered their equal. I was still developing!

Authenticity has become my mantra---yesterday the rubber hit the road

Congratulations and Best Wishes to Mary and Don

2011-09-10T16:04:00.000-07:00

Mary and Don's Engagement Photo by John Lynner Peterson

I officiated today at the wedding of dear friends, Mary and Don. What a delight. Many in the congregation commented that it was the happiest wedding ceremony they had ever attended.

Noted author Scott Peck draws an analogy between marriage and a base camp for mountain climbing which Mary and Don have claimed as their own. They explained to me (I would be the last to know), If you want to climb mountains you must have a good base camp, a place where there are shelters and provisions, where one may receive nurture and rest before you venture forth again to seek another summit. Successful mountain climbers know that they must spend at least as much time, if not more, in tending to their base camp as they actually do in climbing mountains, for their survival is dependent upon their seeing to it that this camp is sturdily constructed and well stocked.

Mary and Don have chosen to build a base camp together that will nurture them through life as they venture forth from this marriage, always to return to their source of shelter and provision.

This creative and vibrant couple also created a beautiful symbol of their mountain climbing metaphor in their rings. They are beautifully crafted with mountains carved around the ring.

I asked Mary and Don to write letters to each other about why they love the other and why they wanted to be married to him/her. These letters will go in their keepsakes of this day. There were interesting reasons as you might well imagine. Many expected reasons and some you might be pleased or surprised about. Did you know that pumping someone’s bicycle tires is a reason to love someone? Mary also loves Don because he is not a spirit squisher! And Don assures us that it’s a basis for love if you too like to read, love NPR and vampires. Who knew? And their list will go forward from today.

Thank you, Mary and Don, for allowing me to share in your special day. You have taught us anew what it means to love.

And, of course, the gorgeous photos and specially designed and printed guest book are by John Lynner Peterson.

Travel is the enemy of bigotry!

2011-09-09T09:39:00.000-07:00

The subject line quote is by Denis Belliveau and Francis O’Donnell retraced Marco Polo’s entire 25,000-mile, land-and-sea route from Venice to China and back. PBS recently aired their documentary, "In the Footsteps of Marco Polo" about the trip. It is a motto my husband John and I have found to be true throughout our lives. John’s exhibit, “Who is My Neighbor” opens at the Clark County Public Library on October 1^st and run the entire month. The Opening Reception is October 7 from 5:30 – 7:30 pm and John will lecture on the exhibit on October 18^th at 6:30.

The story of John’s travels ranks right up there with Belliveau and O’Donnell’s retracing of Marco Polo’s. The provenance behind the photos brings even more enlightenment to the concept of being a neighbor to all peoples.

Granddaughter Payden kissing "Bobby," a Sepik River sculpture from Papua New Guinea

Remember the song, “You have to be carefully taught” from South Pacific? (Linked here to a Barbra Streisand rendition.) The song, sung by the character Lieutenant Cable, was considered controversial when the musical first opened. The dialogue which preceded the song said, racism "not born in you! It happens after you’re born..."

Rodgers and Hammerstein risked the entire success of the show when legislators challenged its decency or supposed Communist agenda. Georgia lawmakers even introduced a bill that would have outlawed entertainment containing "an underlying philosophy inspired by Moscow." Rodgers and Hammerstein defended their work strongly. James Michener, upon whose stories South Pacific was based, recalled, "The authors replied stubbornly that this number represented why they had wanted to do this play, and that even if it meant the failure of the production, it was going to stay in. (Wikipedia)

Join us for John’s exhibit in Clark County for an update on “Who is My Neighbor?” You have to be carefully Untaught if you got the message wrong the first time.

Vagabond Childhood---a memoir

2011-09-08T17:51:00.000-07:00

Brenda Jane Sims, five years old

During the nation’s idyllic migration to the suburbs in the Fifties, my family moved from rented house to rented apartment to federal housing project. This nomadic lifestyle colored my childhood as sure as the western sunset colors the sky. The hottest summer in decades we spent in a tiny upstairs apartment where a delivery man brought ice in big blocks for the ice box. My Least Favorite Award goes to the apartment with the outhouse--yes!--inside the city of Evansville, Indiana during the Fifties. Could my lifelong intestinal issues have come from the terror of creepy-crawlies when perched precariously over that rough-hewn wood? My tiny butt tried to find balance over a hole big enough to swallow my body while my psyche fought being devoured by fears. However, each dwelling place proffered best and worst memories. The outhouse apartment came with a delightful old man who wanted to sharpen with his multi-purpose jackknife my only school pencil before the school year started. I’d looked forward to using the school sharpener because I didn’t want the task botched, but when he pushed, I could not say no. He carved a point so sharp and smooth it was a cupid’s arrow straight to my heart.

The best and worst of federal housing projects stun me when viewed through my rear view mirror. Among its best features was the experience of living intimately in a black and white melting pot. Our next-door African-American neighbors brought throw rugs and pillows over to make our apartment presentable when ex-in-laws visited. When I later discovered racism existed not just as historical phenomenon, I was shocked. We did not learn prejudice at home and we did not experience or learn prejudice among our white and black neighbors. My dusty memory proffered playgrounds with no grass and a wasp sting as the worst of the project not racial tension. And I actually liked the giant block of cheese every family got from welfare.

In 1960, when I was thirteen, mother and stepfather Herman moved us all from Indiana to California for the promise of better work for Herman. The initial trip to California consisted of all five children from age fourteen to an infant in one car. I don’t remember the make of the car; I do remember it was not a station wagon. Baby Vivian cradled down on the front floorboard near Mom’s feet. The other four of us fought over back seat real estate. Dirty, tired and grouchy, we arrived in California after two thousand plus miles in four days for the start of my eighth grade year. Because Mom’s homesickness never abated during these years in California, trips back and forth between California and Indiana became family lore. One Christmas trip, we all had colds so Herman just passed the cough syrup over the seat and we all drank out of the bottle.

Our first house after moving to Torrance, California came in exchange for our service as janitors for the church next to the house, actually not a bad house except for the cockroaches. We cleaned the toilets of the church on Saturday and sat in the pews for worship on Sunday. Finally, the next year we owned a home for the first time in Palmdale, CA where we stayed three whole years. We purchased two homes in the same neighborhood (I have no idea why, must have been some misguided adult plan to make money on them) and moved back and forth between them during those three years. I still view those as “the stable years.”

Mom romanticized our rootless life by saying she ‘had a gypsy streak’ and sang Golden Earrings in her smooth contralto voice. “There is a story, the gypsies know is true--that when your love wears golden earrings, he’ll return to you.” The connection of this romanticism to our vagabond life escaped me. Sister, Margaret, added to the embarrassment by dubbing us “the new idiots,” her own creative nomenclature. This condition compounded with being “the late idiots” because we couldn’t seem to get anywhere on time. Our family occasionally put the fun in dysfunctional but more often just dog-paddled for survival. Mom delighted in reminding us that Grandma and Grandpa Sims held the record for the fastest move because they decided to move to another house before they had the bed rails set up in the current one. God knows what circumstance created that record breaking departure and God is far too busy to keep up with my family’s travel plans.

Guest Post Today by Lynn Motley LCSW

2011-09-07T13:19:00.000-07:00

My guest today is Lynn Motley LCSW whose post on Labor Day spoke to my need to self care. It would make me feel old if I told you that I taught Lynn in Sunday School when she was in high school, so I won't. Thanks, Lynn, for appearing on Grit and Grace.

Ironically, this Labor Day, rather than playing I had planned PROJECTS. I wanted to use this three-day weekend to get all of the things complete on my “to do list”: things that can keep me up at night — thinking and planning all of the things that I never seem to have time to do. I love that feeling of accomplishment and checking things off my list.

Just as the weather this weekend did a U-turn, so did my plans. After several blistering days, I awoke on Saturday to a break in the heat with slightly overcast skies. It was if someone had pressed the mute button on the audio. It was quiet. I was quiet. I found myself in a very mellow mood, a mood that would not support me with accomplishing all of my plans. Truthfully, I really could have cared less….I just wanted to “BE”. When a thought arose about my list, it was met with disinterest. What’s up?

I decided to surrender to my mood and just go with it. Rather than “fight it” or try to push through it, it might be a way my body and soul are trying to tell me to PAY ATTENTION. Maybe the Universe was conspiring to get me to pay attention, too.

Pay attention to what?

Here’s what I learned:
That when I listen to myself, there are gifts that unfold….Gifts that are more important than getting the next thing checked off of my list. In rejuvenating, recharging, and tuning in, I can be mindful of the small things. I tune into nature. I can appreciate myself and my body for more than just doing. An ease in relationships shows up and the space between moments of busyness in my family expands. I find Inspiration to sit in my pj’s and write this blog….

I love the idea of being planful and it is important to “git r done”; I also love being organic and being in the flow of life.

Why is this important?

As we learn about relationships, attachment and connection, we know that all of this juicy relatedness stems from responsiveness and attunement. Simply put: being present, paying attention and meeting another’s needs. If this is what the “glue of relationships” is made of, why would it be any different for our relationship with our self?

This got me thinking about really honoring ourselves and giving ourselves permission to listen into our needs, our wants/desires and to take care of ourselves, just as we would with others. Self-care — not selfishness. What if we had this as the most important and the first item on our “list”? I think this self-attunement has gotten misappropriated onto the “selfish” list or the “lazy” list; rather than on the “self-care” list — that keeps us balanced and responsive to life.

Try starting here with this as the first item on your list, today and everyday as a window into your soul. Tune in and pay attention. Without labeling, just observe. Notice what your body is telling you. What inspires you — or not. Honor this place. Maybe there is a need you’ve shoved down, or an action you’ve been taking habitually, rather than listening into what is best serving you. Giving ourselves permission to “be” at the top of our “list” is freedom and power. As for my planned “to do list”, it will always be there. But the moments of being responsive and attuned-in this weekend have given me an interesting detour into a more important place.

The Value of Persistence

2011-09-06T16:53:00.000-07:00

Persistence in Art
Photo by John Lynner Peterson

When I taught at Franklin County High School, Frankfort, Kentucky (my first job right out of college), I agreed to have my Advanced Drama class participate in a program the guidance counselor wanted to try with a small group. One activity consisted of affirming a positive characteristic that you saw in each class member--similar in nature to my departmental meeting story mentioned earlier. Since the counselor asked me to participate, my turn came to receive the affirmations from my students. Independent of each other, ten out of twelve identified in me some variation of persistence--stick-to-itiveness, never give up, up for the challenge, tenacity--you get the idea. In my mid-twenties then, my self-knowledge still developing, I gasped that the outside world, especially my students, knew this about me. I knew I persisted on tasks and why I felt I had developed this capacity. I didn’t know the trait paraded around so obviously that even teenagers recognized it. Once again, someone held up the mirror for me to see myself.

Upon reflection, I determined my development of persistence was probably--like most skills--part nature and part nurture. Life circumstances demanded persistence and, fortunately, I seemed biologically bent in that direction. But I also maintain if you value certain skills you can learn and polish the competence. Certainly some skills will come easily to some people. I recall a man who vowed to “plan more spontaneity into his life.” He might get there; it will just take him a bit longer than others.

In fact, those less naturally inclined toward a certain skill might even turn out a better “end product.” My voice teacher complained to me, “You have been gifted with a nice instrument so you expect everything about singing to come easily to you.” Others with less ability may work harder and get a better final product. There you have it. We can choose to be persistent or not in a given area. Perhaps if I had confided to my teacher about the conduit between singing and being sexually abused, she could have moved me beyond the crippling layers. Persistence sometimes needs to intersect with courage. I chose not to have courage in revealing myself to voice teachers.

On the occasion referenced earlier about terminating my half-sister Vivian’s parental rights, I had to mix courage with persistence. Mom and I decided we had to file suit after learning of abuse and neglect of Vivian’s daughter. Terminating parental rights, as it should, involves climbing steep legal mountains. At one point, we were due in Louisville for a hearing. We needed to make an early morning, ninety minute drive on extremely icy interstates, down to one lane each direction. Our presence, though not mandatory, would speak volumes about our commitment to the suit. Mom immediately suggested, “We just better stay home and pray.”

I was flabbergasted; grabbed my car keys and sassed back, “You stay home and pray. I’m showing my face in that courtroom today.” So I did.

Sometimes persistence benefits a bit from naïveté or just plain ignorance. Around eleven years of age, my neighbor and I played in her shed creating a clubhouse. The friend asked her dad to help by pounding a sixteen penny nail into the wall. He replied, “You can’t use a nail that big in that kind of wood. I’d wear out before I got it deep enough.” To which his daughter snapped, “Brenda did one already. Can’t you do the other one?”

That same naiveté was at the root of my persistence in talking my way out of traffic tickets several officers of the law wanted to write for me on occasion. Taking Mark and one of his friends to their gifted children’s program at the University of Kentucky, I noticed flashing lights behind me. I pulled over. The young friend in the back seat got nervous and scared. Mark assured him saying, “Don’t worry. I have never seen her NOT talk her way out of one of these.” Persistence pays dividends. I did not get the ticket and Mark’s little friend was impressed. (After so many flashing lights I finally have learned to monitor my driving habits.)

I suppose my natural bent toward persistence constitutes the most significant characteristic for surviving what life has dished out. Remember the old parable of the mule who fell into the well. After carefully assessing the situation, the farmer decided that neither the mule nor the well was worth saving so he hauled in dirt to bury the mule in the well. As the workers shoveled the dirt on the mule’s back, he shook it off and kept clambering up. Blow after blow his reaction continued. Shovel after shovel of dirt miraculously accomplished what the mule could never have done on his own. Battered, exhausted but triumphant the mule stepped over the wall of that well.

I didn’t choose with intent for persistence to be my motto for life but it has served me well.

Books that Change my Life: "The Secret Life of Bees" by Sue Monk Kidd

2011-09-04T13:37:00.000-07:00

I fully support the concept that God did not stop speaking the minute the New Testament was finished. God still speaks to us in numerous ways and we ignore those messages at our own disservice.

God spoke to me in The Secret Life of Bees. Sue Monk Kidd’s writing spiritually stirs my mind and my heart. Many years before the publication of this novel, I read When the Heart Waits, Kidd’s non-fiction, personal story of coming out of the pit of spiritual death and re-awakening to a new authentic self. My readers know I have been studying the work of Brene’ Brown about living authentically. Kidd was on to this route decades earlier and described her awakening as the task to “dismantle old masks and patterns and unfold a deeper, more authentic self.”

This process of “becoming real” continues with The Secret Life of Bees. One myth-buster that shouts loud and clear from the pages of this, her first, novel is that God is an old white male. The African-American women of the novel gather around a Black Madonna who nourishes their life and circumstances. Lily, the young girl at the center of the story runs away from an abusive father and rampant racism. She is less aware that she is running toward a mother-figure(s) to replace the mother she lost and an unconditional love that engenders her ability to forgive and give love.

There’s one metaphor that plays a significant role in the book that I have used in spiritual workshops. One of the three African-American sisters has emotional difficulties that seem to suggest she is a Christ-figure. She takes on all the burdens of the world, to such an extent, she can’t function unless she writes the burden down and puts the piece of paper in a crack in a wall—essentially her wailing wall. How much better off would we all be if we could adopt this metaphor and detach from life’s problems after turning them over to whatever source of love you are able to claim.

Authenticity of Kidd’s own spiritual journey shouts from the pages of this transformative book. Experiencing the journey along with her cannot be accomplished by attending this movie. Run to the library or bookstore to give yourself this treat.

Genetics

2011-09-03T13:58:00.000-07:00

A friend pointed out to me this week an article on new research that Tiger parenting does little to change the genetic bent your child arrived with. Another friend reminded me years ago that in his opinion parents always take too much credit and too much blame for whom their children become. I am forced to admit I constantly see the strong thread of genetics in my children and grandchildren in both positive and negative ways. I’m learning to embrace the reality of the blood lines and enjoy the journey.

Leadership runs strong and steady on the Sims side of my family. Grandson Tristan, six years old, proved this week the leadership gene has been passed to the next generation. Like his father and me, Tristan can be easily distracted. So his wise teacher came up with a fabulous solution. When expected to do independent work and unable to focus, Tristan is now encouraged to raise his hand and let his teacher know that he would like to move to his “office.” His office is the teacher’s table in the back of the room away from the hustle and bustle. Rather than feeling isolated or disciplined, Tristan assumes this is a place of honor and leadership and “acts professional and adult-like in his office.” You can see in the picture that he is large and in-charge.

It didn’t take long to remember an incident from his father’s childhood that exhibited leadership too. A dear friend of mine, who was retired from teaching, accepted a substitute day at my son Sims’s kindergarten. As she began to make the snack that morning, Sims told her, “You’re not doing it right. That’s not the way Mrs. Todd does it.”

She replied in her best teacher-ly voice, “Sims, Mrs. Todd is not here today and this is the way I do the snacks.”

Sims turned to the class of 25 kindergarteners and said, “Ok, everybody who doesn’t like the way she is doing the snack raise your hand.”

My friend who had taught for forty years said she knew in an instant that she had mutiny on her hand. Most all the children had raised their hands and Sims was now in charge of the class.

The genetic line certainly flowed through me also. My deceased husband supported my volunteerism when I didn’t work a “real” job. But he decried at one point, “Can’t you just be a member of an organization without being president of every group you’re part of?” The answer was, “No, I’m a leader and leaders lead.”

My Grandma Sims was taken to a nursing home at age 80 with Alzheimer’s disease. She thought she was being taken there to run the place! My sons exclaimed when they heard this story, “That’s exactly the way you’ll be, Mom!”

Books that Changed my Life: Feel the Fear and Do It Anyway by Susan Jeffers

2011-08-31T14:26:00.000-07:00

Feel the Fear and Do It Anyway is the practical person’s guide to programming your mind to get what you want, live the way you want to live and help others do the same. Whether you fear is being alone, intimacy, public speaking, making decisions or fear of dogs, Dr. Jeffers' book will walk you through a common sense re-training of your mind to move you beyond your fear.

Jeffers maintains that at the bottom of every fear is simply the fear that you won’t be able to handle whatever life sends you way. So she asks, “If you knew you could handle anything that came your way, what would you possible have to fear?” The answer is NOTHING!

Then she offers these Five Truths about fear:

1. The fear will never go away as long as I continue to grow.

2. The only way to get rid of the fear of doing something is to go out ---and do it.

3. The only way to feel better about myself is to go out and do it.

4. Not only am I going to experience fear whenever I’m on unfamiliar territory, but so is everyone else.

5. Pushing through fear is less frightening than living with the underlying fear that comes from a feeling of helplessness.

If you activated only the principles found in this blog post, Jeffers approach to curing your fears could change your life. I have used this approach to living life for many years now. I thought my son Mark’s death—the nadir of my life—provided something no amount of mind control could see me through. I feared that I was incapable of moving forward in the face of that monstrous grief---I was wrong. Giving up or giving in to the fear of grief would have been a disservice to Mark’s life and to me. So I felt the fear and lived through it anyway.

What do you fear that you need to conquer?

Books that Changed My Life: Sombodies and Nobodies

2011-08-30T13:33:00.000-07:00

In the next few days and weeks, I plan to comment on books that have changed my life. When featured recently on www.fromlefttowrite.com, I was asked to fill out a questionnaire about books. It was a great reminder of books that have made a significant impact on who I am.

I begin with a relatively recent experience. Somebodies and Nobodies by Robert W. Fuller takes a naked look at the role of rank in all our lives. We have fought the abuse of race, religion, sexual orientation and gender but the last stand in the battle against the “ism” is the abuse of rank. We all feel it when someone of greater wealth, origin or superior title attempts or successfully pulls rank over us. Perhaps we feel it less when we are the one pulling our superior rank over another. Perhaps you have cringed when you felt the inferior or the superior position or both! Rankism sullies relationships between persons, nations, the governed and the governors and can be avoided. Fuller helps us understand that equal dignity for all persons, regardless of one’s role in society, begats peace and a livable social order.

Fuller maintains that low rank signifies weakness, vulnerability and lack of power and offers us a view of the world that gives dignity to everyone. Sounds utopian; but could we do it, if we wanted to?

This book reminded me of an incident in my childhood that served as seedbed for some of my own struggle with rankism.

Even children experience rankism

On a sweltering July day in Evansville, Indiana, 1954, the children of welfare families were loaded on to buses and taken to Yabrody Park. This venue, a pitiful excuse for an amusement park, might well have been Disney World for us. My brother Bill was nine; I was seven. Before we got off the bus we were told everything in the park would be free today. We could ride the rides as often as we liked, play the games; anything we wanted to do.

Bill and I darted off to have some fun. We were having a great time, escaping our every day realities and soon got thirsty. We walked over to the little wooden shack concession stand and Bill ordered two cokes. The lady handed them to us; I took a sip of mine and then she said, "That will be fifty cents." Bill and I looked at each other dismayed. He found his voice first and said, "We don't have any money. We were told everything in the park is free for us today." The lady looked at us with disgust and said, "Go ahead and keep them. Your sister has already drunk out of hers. You welfare kids are all alike. You think everything ought to be given to you!" The shame, humiliation and degradation I felt at that moment remains so strong I can feel it today though I am an accomplished, financially secure adult.

Let's strive to think before we participate in rankism. Where have you experienced rankism in your own life?

Lessons from Tristan Robert Bartella on his Sixth Birthday

2011-08-27T13:01:00.000-07:00

Photo by John Lynner Peterson AKA Pappa-razzi

Tristan has been six for some time now because most of the time when he was five, he would say, “I’m five years old but I’m six on the inside.” When asked how old he would be after today he says, “I’m six but I’ll let you know when I’m seven on the inside.” So I guess for today, he is content with six. It’s a great place to be in life when you’re content with your age.

As will all six year olds, Tristan values and social skills and ethics have been developing quickly the last few years. One evening when he was about four, I was playing cars with him. After a couple of races in which I allowed him to win, I made sure I won the next. He put his sweet little hand on mine and ever-so-gently said, “Mimi, let’s play nice and be friends.” Good advice for all of us.

When driving to church one Sunday morning, he said, “Mimi, you and Poppa use different words than my Mommy and Daddy.” We took that as a cue that he loved vocabulary words so we began the tradition of learning a new word each Sunday to share with our friend Don Lichtenfelt at church. Then one Sunday as this tradition was taking place, another friend, Jeannette Lucas remarked, “Oh, Tristan, you are a sesquipedalian. I am, too!” So Tristan has learned to tell you that he is a sesquipedalian and what that means. But when I asked if he had told his new first grade teacher about his love of words, he replied, “Mimi, she’s not like you. She doesn’t care about all those words.” I suspect he got that wrong and I also suspect that he doesn’t want to draw undue attention to himself. Another good lesson---especially for introverts---don’t shine the light on yourself unless you’re sure you want the world looking at you.

The best lesson to learn from Tristan is about love. You don’t have to wonder if you’re loved by him---he will tell you and he will include you in his prayers. A model we should all emulate. Emulate---that might be a good word for tomorrow!

Happy happy birthday, my dearest Tristan.

Who Ya Gonna Call?

2011-08-26T10:53:00.000-07:00

Why, when something important happens to you, do you feel compelled to tell someone else about it? Even people who are reticent to talk about themselves can’t help telling others about events significant to them. It’s as if nothing has happened until an event is made explicit in language.

Roger C. Schank

In our continuing conversation about living authentically, let’s spend a moment thinking about who you share information with. It’s probably easy to say who you call when you have good news---friends, family, post it on Facebook, etc., etc. But who do you call when you get bad news? If you’ve lost your job, didn’t get the job you wanted, made a decision to get a divorce or even worse, have had a sudden death in the family---who do you call? This list may be smaller and may even be different people. When the chips are down, we turn to the people that have the ability to give comfort.

Now let’s examine another category---who do you call when you are being your worst self? When you have the mean-nasties or experience the ugly, crying jag or move into the bitchy-gossip mode. Who is the friend or family that you trust to see you as your worst self and still love you.

That’s the person who knows you most authentically. The potential for more relationships to be as rich as this last person you named is directly correlated to how willing you are to be your authentic self.

Are Memoirs Always About Your Parents?

2011-08-24T15:24:00.000-07:00

My Dad

A discussion ensued from a post on one of my favorite blogs, 100 Memoirs by Shirley Hershey Showalter. Several memoirists weighed in on whether all memoirs inevitably are about our parents. Several writers agreed.

My situation, however, presents another point of view. I begin by dealing with my parents---who they were and how they affected my childhood. But then I move on. I move on because there was not much parenting going on in my childhood. My story becomes more about my efforts to put my childhood behind me.

A friend of mine cautioned me recently, “Brenda, you can never run away from your history.” I acknowledge the wisdom of the statement. I now am able to say, “If nothing else my father gave me some very valuable genes.” Is that moving on? What did you parents give you?

Check out the discussion here:

http://100memoirs.com/2011/08/17/memoir-is-it-inevitably-about-our-parents/?utm_source=feedburner&utm_medium=email&utm_campaign=Feed%3A+100Memoirs+%28100+Memoirs%29

Thanks www.fromlefttowrite.com for making me the featured writer today!

2011-08-23T16:02:00.000-07:00

From Left to Write is a group of over 100 women bloggers. We are all bloggers on a vast range of topics, what binds us as Left to Write is the reading of books distributed to us and writing a post inspired by the book. Notice I say, “inspired by.” Our role is not to review the books given us.

Many times the author will do a Question and Answer interview on the home site a day before or day after our posts. Some authors even make it a point to comment on each of our blogs on the day their book inspires us.

A few of my favorites that we have reviewed are:

In Stitches by Dr. Anthony Youn

Room by Emma Donoghue

Tiny Sunbirds Far Away by Christi Watson

And my all-time favorite---so far---The Swam Thieves by Elizabeth Kostova

I could go on with this list because there are too many to list. Have we read some clunkers? Yes, but they, in their own dorky way, teach us about writing and about selecting books to read.

Thank you, From Left To Write, for making me the featured member today. It’s been fun being part of this great group of bloggers.

Home

2011-08-22T11:59:00.000-07:00

Our Current Home in Lexington, KY

Johari Window helps Authenticity

2011-08-21T18:20:00.000-07:00

Photo by John Lynner Peterson

I want to live authentically but what if others don’t? Does it put me at risk in my career or even in my personal relationships, if I want relationships based on honesty and truth?

The Johari Window supplies a good answer to those questions. When we open ourselves to others AKA living authentically, we give them permission to do the same.

The Johari Window is a four square table about communication. It describes how our openness in human communication increases respectively when you share with others and decreases depending on how clearly we express our self and how keenly we are listening to each other. The model was developed in the fifties by the psychologists Joseph Luft and Harry Ingham. To give and to obtain feedback is an important process in all co-operations. By having a listening attitude and obtaining feedback you get to know how others look at you. By giving feedback others get to know your view of things.

If this is a bit scary for you, start one person at a time. Do you need to start with your spouse? Your children? Your parents? What would it mean to be fully authentic in one of these relationship?

Becoming Real

2011-08-19T15:43:00.000-07:00

You and I have been talking about authenticity lately. I suppose authenticity could be different things to different people but the bottom line is: authenticity means being true to yourself. This would include giving up the need to have a polished façade and sharing only those parts of yourself that you think are perfect enough for human consumption.

As is often the case, children’s literature boils any complex concept down to its purest form. The Velveteen Rabbit was one of my sons’ favorite stories. Here’s an excerpt:

"Real isn't how you are made," said the Skin Horse. "It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but really loves you, then you become Real."

"Does it hurt?" asked the Rabbit.

"Sometimes," said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. "When you are Real, you don't mind being hurt."

"Does it happen all at once, like being wound up," he asked, "or bit by bit?"

"It doesn't happen all at once," said the Skin Horse. "You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't often happen to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out, and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real, you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand."

I had been planning to post on this book for sometime. This is not a new thought. But, lo and behold----alas and alack, my guru Brene Brown has also blogged on this book. (I have mostly forgiven her for beating me to the post.) In her work on authenticity, she has reached many of the same conclusions that I have reached through a practical path.

Brene and I have reached other conclusions from our two very different paths. Before I even knew of Brene and her work, I had reached the conclusions that courage, healthy self-esteem, trust in others and persistence in life are the characteristics that have allowed me to survive and thrive in spite of a difficult life. Brene touts these characteristics as The Gifts of Imperfection. They, she maintains, are the by-products of living life authentically.

Have you become real yet? Has your fur been loved off yet?

Balance

2011-08-18T13:57:00.000-07:00

Photo by John Lynner Peterson

Readers of this blog know I am a big fan of the Myers-Briggs Type Indicator (a much-used, reliable, personality instrument). The woman who did my training on the MBTI did research on when we are less than our best type---NOT our best selves. She determined that when under stress, disease, drugs, alcohol or fatigue we are not our best selves.

You might say, “Duh! We all know that.” But the point of the research is that you become another personality type and because it’s not your normal everyday type and you just aren’t very good at it. For example, I am an Extrovert, Intuitive, Feeling, Perceiver. Without giving you a full seminar on the Myers-Briggs, let’s just say, I’m an optimist. BUT, when I get stressed, overwhelmed, don’t get a full night’s sleep, sick---I can be a Debbie Downer who finds nothing right with the world.

So what’s the solution to being our best selves? Balance, balance, balance! Now I’m not naïve about how difficult balance can be in our busy lives. It MUST be a priority in order for it to happen at all. That’s why priority setting is at the base of my Time Management course. Until you know your priorities, you can’t successfully manage your time and your life.

Know your Type.

Know your priorities.

Find your balance.

Call me if you’re interested in taking the Myers-Briggs.

Balance yourself today!

Ugliness and Authenticity

2011-08-16T18:45:00.000-07:00

Authenticity in the beginning
Photo by John Lynner Peterson

Authenticity has been an interest of mine for some time. I discovered on my own, with age and challenges, that living authentically enriched my life, while constantly creating a polished façade drained me. Now I can’t imagine why anyone would choose to play charades with your life.

A story on the Today Show stirred some thoughts about how we avoid authenticity in the media. A young woman experienced a freak accident at her bridesmaid party that left her paralyzed and in a wheel chair. Her fiancé stuck with her through the long journey of healing and they recently were able to marry. Sponsors of all sorts gave them the wedding of their dreams and a honeymoon to match. The story had a happy ending.

While they asked a few poignant questions about the difficulty of recovery and the drastic change in what they thought their future would be, they really didn’t zero in on the nitty-gritty of what has been required of them to get to the point of having the wedding more than a year later. The anchor didn’t ask, “Were there days when your anger surfaced and you lashed out at your fiancé as well as the friend who pushed you into the pool causing the accident?” The anchor didn’t ask the fiancé, “Did you think about walking away from this marriage on her ugliest of days?” The anchor asked glossed over versions of these two questions but basically, morning television eschews authenticity. Too ugly for breakfast.

So what does it mean to be authentic? It means putting the facts, feelings, thoughts, opinions and your true self out there for public consumption. It means not feeling like you have to white-wash your opinions or emotions before you express them. Yes, there are times and place when you don’t want to hurt others, lose your job or cause a revolution by stating your thoughts or feelings inappropriately, but most of us err on the side of polishing everything to a shine before we tell others.

After I had written about living authentically, I discovered my new guru, Brene` Brown who came to the same conclusions I did. I found my way to authenticity by living life; Brene Brown got there through academic research on shame. Her two books, I Thought it was Just Me (but it wasn’t) and The Gifts of Imperfection are must reads if you want to travel this journey of being yourself.

Have you had an experience of living authentically? Was it negative or positive?

A Real Life version of The Help

2011-08-14T16:01:00.000-07:00

Click on my Amazon Store on the left panel to purchase this book

We called her LaLa because that's how her name came out when son Mark began talking. She came to work for us in 1977 the year Mark was born. I was thirty years old and had zero experience with household help. I didn't even know other people who had household help. I certainly didn't know protocol applicable to white people having “colored help.” Recently having read, The Help by Kathryn Stockett, I chuckled about similarities in the novel with how LaLa and I, over twenty-five years, broke down the rules and formed a friendship that continues today across miles and more years. Without doubt, she knew the rules and mores that I didn't and probably wanted to teach them to me, so as to be more comfortable. But we forged a new brand of relationship instead.

The name LaLa stuck but nothing else stayed the same. In 1977, she arrived at work in her street clothes and changed into a white uniform. In the last years she worked for me, she still arrived in good clothes and changed but she changed into her sweat pants and t-shirt so as not to soil her good clothes. If she ate at our house, she waited until I had gone out and then sat in the kitchen. This pattern crumbled with great resistance, but in the end, we could sit at the table and have a sandwich together and chat. In the beginning, I knew little of her home life. In the end, I knew her family, knew her sorrows and knew her joys. I attended her family weddings and funerals. She could ask me to take her to the hospital for a test because all her family was working. We laughed over her family’s foibles and strengths just like we did over mine. She loved reminding me that her husband Warren could “do any thing except make money.” She lovingly reminds me when I share the latest news of Denny, “Miz B, Denny has been his own man since he was just a little boy.” We knew each other’s families.

During the early years, LaLa also worked for the Shraders across the street. Because Mark and Denny saw her there when she was not at our house, they thought that's where she lived and that Mrs. Shrader was LaLa's mother. As children, they did not see black and white skin color as a deterrent to being family. We still don’t.

Through four of my husbands, LaLa held her tongue and her opinions about men and dating. I wish she had not. She arrived one morning when I had just begun to accept that Bart was going to die. I flew into her arms and sobbed. She consoled and listened, then went about her work--just one of many times we would cry over what life dishes out. She did, however, pout about the hat I chose to wear at Bart's funeral. I refused to be solemn and wanted to think of the service as a celebration of his life. The vivid purple suit and gray hat with the veil struck just the right chord in my mind. She mumbled for days about it being inappropriate. After his death, she started bringing me a second cup of coffee as I put my make-up on each morning because that's what Bart used to do.

LaLa attended three of my weddings and we have shared more funerals than we care to count. I know the small African-American church in her little town of Keene and have been welcomed there as family for her husband's funeral and her granddaughter's wedding. We share life events and the range of feelings that accompany them.

As I moved through six residences, LaLa moved with me. She even continued to care for us during the short time I lived in Husband Number Four's house, smaller than her own home. She and I both enjoyed the years when I lived alone in my small condo in downtown Lexington. During that period, she loved hearing the news of my friends and my seminary experiences and enjoyed meeting the guys I dated and would sometimes roll her eyes but nothing else in response.

Miss Celia, the poor white trash character in The Help, comes closest to who I was when LaLa and I first met. While college educated and, hopefully, possessing better taste in clothes than Miss Celia, I had more in common with the help than with the ladies in my Women's Club. And LaLa surely had more knowledge about managing a home, entertaining guests and being middle class than I did. She taught me gently about laundry and polishing silver and despaired that I seemed incapable of organizing a kitchen.

Over the years, she loved checking my outfit before I went out the door and became more than comfortable expressing her opinion. She cared for my clothes in loving ways, even washing my stockings by hand. I know how to handle an iron but my skills were no match for the artful ironing LaLa gave to a man's shirt or to my most delicate silk blouse. However, there were a couple of occasions when she put a dollar bill on the counter and said, "Mz. B, take that shirt to the cleaners. It is just too hard to iron." I took that shirt to the cleaners and left that dollar bill on the counter. She still calls me Mz. B even though I am now officially Mz. P. When she called to tell me her husband, Warren, had died, she used my first name, the first and only time. Our relationship transcended the tradition but her ties to certain cultural norms stood fast.

On the anniversary of her twentieth year of working for me, Mark and I created a money tree commemorating our time together and giving her a bonus. The three of us cried together over it and shared memories--like the time the clothes dryer caught on fire when drying a heavy rug. During our early years, the episode pushed LaLa to tears for fear we would expect her to pay for the dryer. We also laughed over the period in which we called ourselves The Poop Ladies because Mark's diapers had to be changed constantly due to his lactose intolerance. When my lesbian stepdaughter and her partner came to stay for two months, LaLa adjusted and called them Those Girls but never once implied judgment with that moniker.

LaLa's call on each anniversary of Mark's death is one I can always count on. She grieves the loss along with me. Mark would come in the door and yell, "LaLa, give me some sugar" and throw his arms around her. She always called him Mark Robert and called Denny, Den-bones. She spoiled them by cleaning their rooms when I asked her not to do so, but she loved them and contributed to the color-blindness we taught in our home.

While I lived away from Lexington I missed the bouquet of peonies that LaLa would bring to me every Spring from her back yard. I love cut flowers in the house and LaLa knew that was something she could give that brought me great joy. The greatest joy, however, comes from the lessons learned, the love shared and a relationship that enhances my spirituality through its very existence.

It's a small world after all---

2011-08-13T12:54:00.000-07:00

Husband John and I went to visit the Muhammad Ali Center in Louisville yesterday. John is in conversation with the Center about using his exhibit “Who is My Neighbor?” (It is no accident that our studio is named, Global Village Studio.) The Center’s mission extends far beyond a showcase for the Ali story. It continues the mission of Ali’s life especially as he sought to be a bridge between diverse cultures. As readers of this blog know, John's exhibit also strives to build that bridge.

The visit and the ensuing conversation reminded me once again of the smallness of our world. We touch each other so often and in so many more ways than we ever know about. This affect on each other should be humbling to all of us.

I am reminded of when I picked up the memoir, The Soloist by Steve Lopez. I didn’t know Steve or the soloist who lived on the streets of Los Angeles. But in talking about the book, I learned that my step-daughter did know Steve so he was just one degree of separation from me. Then I read about John Carroll, editor of the Los Angeles Times when Steve was doing this project. Carroll was my neighbor in Lexington, KY. I would not call us friends but when our junior high children sneaked out of the house to drink beer at the park, I called every parent of every child I recognized. John Carroll was the only parent who thanked me. Second personal connection with a book I just picked up off the shelf.

John and I were active in the International Affairs Council in Raleigh when we lived there. We hosted a young woman from Turkmenistan so we went to dinner the other host families. One of the men, wanting his guest to feel at home, put a photo up on his computer screen of a guy in Turkmenistan who had received the host’s micro-loan to start a small business. The guest walked into the room and shouted, “That is my brother!” Small small world.

I frequently attended a writers’ group in Raleigh whose variety of speakers enriched my life. Elaine Neil Orr spoke to us one night about her book, Gods of Noonday, her memoir about growing up as the child of Southern Baptist missionaries in Nigeria. I could hardly wait until the program was over to ask Elaine, “Did you happen to know Dr. Martha Hagood, who was also a Southern Baptist missionary in Nigeria?” She picked up her book and pointed, “Dr. Martha lived right there.” Elaine and I had never met but we had a long line of Southern Baptists missionaries (including my Aunt BJ who named me) who connected us through their global lives.

What is your small world story?

Perfect--Adjust Attitude

2011-08-12T07:40:00.000-07:00

My step-daughter reminded me last night about an occasion when she and I were sorting through a group of her shirts. My role was to alter, mend or pronounce the shirt dead and prepare it for burial. I pinned notes on each shirt so we wouldn’t forget the status as we moved on to mending. One shirt needed absolutely no alteration, mending and was still very wearable but she just didn’t like it as much. So I marked it, “Perfect—adjust attitude.”

This same dear step-daughter shared with me last night that she now applies the phrase “perfect—adjust attitude” to relationships. She’s brilliant! It works. When you let go of the need to change others, change the relationship and adjust your own attitude the affect on your relationships is magic.

Try it today.

Aeschylus and the Grace of God

2011-08-11T16:23:00.000-07:00

Aeschylus said,

"Even in our sleep, pain which cannot forget
falls drop by drop upon the heart, until,
in our own despair,
against our will,
comes wisdom through the awful grace of God."

Never would I have thought to combine the word "awful" with the grace of God.

Until now.

Learning to detach from people you love can be the awful grace of God. And, yes, it comes only with hard earned wisdom. There comes a time in your life when you decide to get off the merry-go-round of dysfunction. But here’s a warning, the folks from whom you’re detaching will not be sending you a thank you note.

Good luck and God bless.

Humor as Survival Tactic, a response to In Stitches by Dr. Anthony Youn

2011-08-08T13:33:00.000-07:00

This book was given to me as part of my membership in From Left to Write, an online book club. This is not a review of the book but rather a response to the experience of reading it.

It has been years since I have laughed out loud while reading a book. In Stitches, Dr. Anthony Youn’s memoir of getting through medical school and residency garnered giggles, snickers, guffaws and belly laughs. Such laughter at bedtime, when I normally do my reading, makes for good sleep.

There is no question in my mind that Dr.Youn’s sense of humor got him through the uphill task of finishing medical school. I long ago identified humor as one of the values that contributes to my surviving and thriving. Below is the section on humor from my soon-to-be published memoir:

Claiming earned Frequent Flier miles becomes a skill equaled only to astrophysics or neurosurgery. Not being one to give up on hard earned freebies---there’s that persistence value again---I determined I would fight to the bitter end so as not to be robbed of my miles. I couldn’t get resolution on the phone or internet, so I concluded this merited a trip out to the airport. I walked up to the counter with no one else in sight except the ticket agent and me. The first words out of my mouth were, “I have had no sex---” The honest-to-god fact that I intended to say, “I have had no success---” meant nothing after the faux pax has escaped my lips. We were both laughing so hard, I barely get out my next words, “That’s true also, but that doesn’t happen to be your problem.”

I can’t help but feel my mispronunciation set the tone for this ticket agent being exceptionally willing to help me get to the bottom of my problem with Frequent Flier miles.

Dr. Norman Cousins' now legendary work on healing began by discovering that ten minutes of hearty belly laughs could provide him with two hours of pain free rest. In Head First, he states "scientific evidence is accumulating to support the biblical axiom that 'a merry heart doeth good like a medicine'".

My son Denny again comes to mind. As a child, he knew how to laugh, even at himself, better than most. At age thirteen, he asked to be dropped off at a girl's house after dinner---new behavior for my budding teenager. Now the word cool was invented for this boy. In his new, much longed for leather jacket, he strutted with the essence of junior high chic. As he tells the story, everything went fine with the visit in spite of the fact that the girl's parents were much too present. At the agreed upon time, I returned to pick him up and honked the horn. (God forbid that I should go to the door and let this young girl discover he had a mother.) He quickly said his good bye. With one swift and graceful movement he picked up his new leather jacket from the floor and headed toward the door. As he placed his foot in the pocket, he impeded his forward progress and ripped a big tear in the most valued garment. Yes, he wanted to die and never have to face the young girl again. Instead, he told the rest of the family so we could all have a good laugh courtesy of our most cool family member. He also made peace with having a beautifully repaired leather jacket.

In contrast, folks who are not able to laugh at themselves make good targets for those of us who do. As noted earlier, Husband Number Three possessed unfortunate characteristics that made him a sitting duck for my junior high age sons to make fun of. We actually had to bring the subject up in family therapy. The therapist informed Dan forthrightly that when persons are not able to find humor in jokes about themselves, they make the perfect target for everyone else’s humor. The therapist actually complimented my sons on their ability to laugh at themselves.

Humor even boosts your immune system!

Audience Fatigue, Writer Woes, Publishing Perils

2011-08-05T12:10:00.000-07:00

I received an email from a friend this morning. Her succinct message needed no interpretation, “Publish the damn book, Brenda!" I received a similar one last week. Then my very supportive friend who already wants to book my tour of Idaho keeps asking, “When is the publishing date?”

Ok, Ok, I understand that I’ve been working on this memoir for three years now. Some writers spend a decade or more on a book and this writer had oh-so-much to learn. The bad news to these faithful friends---I’m going backwards instead of forward. Having just taken a writing class and a writer’s retreat at the Carnegie Center here in Lexington, KY, I now hold new secrets for how to make the book better.

The writer’s woes? I own up to my fair share of “putting it out there” angst. What happens when the world knows your life stories? Will they be caressed with graceful kindness or batted about as gossip and sensationalism? My goal in writing the memoir remains the same---to shout to all who listen, you can survive--- and not just survive, you can thrive. Life dishes up difficulties large and small to all of us. My story suggests ways of dealing with whatever comes your way.

Publishing perils? I committed myself to learning the publishing industry along side the writing of the book. The publishing world by necessity reinvents itself daily in this technological age. So I must make critical decisions about with whom and how my memoir will be published in an ever-changing environment. All advice welcome.

Hang with me. I’m doing my best to make it worth the wait.

Now what do you think of the name Grit and Grace for a title?

What do you think of this photograph of John Lynner Peterson’s for the cover art?

Opinions welcome.

That was the summer that---

2011-08-04T12:22:00.000-07:00

As I work on finishing my memoir and continue to write this blog, I also continue to make sense of an extraordinary life. I’ve reflected before on the difference Georgetown College made in my life and the significant break I made from my family when I first moved to campus. Today I reflect on the summer after my freshman year of college.

I realized how the gap between my family and me was widening. In retrospect, it makes sense but there were many more years to come in which I would try to fit into their world or force them into mine.

That was the summer that my sister Margaret and I invented “playing rich” in high end department stores. I could pull it off; Margaret couldn’t.

That was the summer I worked at the book binding factory and my mom said, “It is good for you to see ‘how the other half lives.’” Did she think I had no experience of poverty? No, I think she meant since going to college, I would never again have the experience of nine-to-five factory life. She was right.

That was the summer we lived in yet two more houses in one summer and I work two jobs in one summer. My memory is foggy but I know I worked at the lunch counter in a pharmacy as well as the bindery. I remember a man who sat down at the counter and ordered two eggs, over easy. Now I had cooked all my childhood but I had never been taught to cook and I certainly had never cooked on a huge restaurant grill. When I finally turned around and served the man his eggs, he said, “Little lady, I don’t believe I’ve ever seen an egg treated that way. But you did finally get ‘em on the plate.”

That was the summer my stepfather Herman and Uncle Steve showed up drunk at Georgetown to help move me home. I learned quickly some boundaries I wanted to erect.

The Act of Writing my Memoir

2011-08-02T17:01:00.000-07:00

Potential Cover Art photo by John Lynner Peterson

I have written a memoir that illustrates the life that was given me, the life that happened to me and the life that I have chosen to create. I see it as a message of hope for those who have difficult lives. It is a foundation for my other work as speaker, writer, trainer, coach and minister.

I alternately think my memoir is 95% or 50% done. It is so difficult to know when to stop editing and revising. I see the finished work as good storytelling that will evoke tears and laughter. The theme most prevalent in the book is “Don’t just survive, thrive!” The image woven through the book is that of a pearl---a beautiful entity created through pain to the oyster.

I do feel a certain love for the manuscript at this time. I suspect I need to feel less attached. I try to say to myself each time I pull it out, “Relax. Breathe. It’s okay if you decide to change a few things.”

The manuscript might say back to me, “This is not the beginning, middle and end of your life. It is an interpretation of your life at a point in time.”

Laraine Herring, in her book, Writing Begins with the Breath, says, “Every writer has a unique relationship to his or her writing, and it is in the dynamics of this relationship that the perils, joys and challenges of a writer’s life breathe.”

Breathe. Relax. Finish the book!

But I still need a title! Suggestions?

When Oprah asks, you must answer---

2011-07-30T07:44:00.000-07:00

The invoice came to renew my subscription to O Magazine. The subscription was in my husband’s name but a gift to me. So the invoice looked like the picture above.

Oh, Oprah, how do I answer this question. I’ve tried to answer this query for nine years now. John Lynner Peterson exploded into my life and my heart on August 17, 2001. I had no idea the wild ride I signed up for by marrying him four months later.

He’s Lutheran, Minnesotan and Norwegian. This combo platter seems alien but interesting to this southern girl. His family reveres this heritage and speaks of lutefisk and Syttende mai and they regularly eat lefse. My Irish roots have never met a potato I don't like, so I get on board with this potato-based tortilla-type bread. Yummy when heated with butter, cinnamon and sugar and rolled into a dripping candlestick treat.

In addition to being a Garrison Keillor clone, John is also a creative talent who produces twenty ideas a minute and still fights ADD in his sixties. We live in this cyclone of artistic thought and ADD chaos. He sees no point in putting an object back in the same place two times in a row. How boring for him! How frustrating for me!

The answer to Oprah's question resides in my favorite children’s book, What Do You Do with A Kangaroo? by Mercer Mayer. It begins:

What do you do with a Kangaroo who jumps in your window and sits on your bed and says, “I never sleep on wrinkled sheets, so change them now and make them smooth, fluff up the pillows if you please.

Exotic creatures appear in the little girl’s life and demand accommodation. The end result---she lets them stay. She wallows in the wonder, excitement, strangeness and fun.

I find this the perfect answer to Oprah’s question, “What should we do about John Lynner Peterson?” I celebrate and support his artistic endeavors (www.johnlynnerpeterson.com), I snuggle up to that Viking hug, I revel in sharing movies and music with someone who understands my passions and tastes. This alien creature blesses my life on a daily basis and I give thanks.

Tristan's Reading Choices

2011-07-27T13:16:00.000-07:00

The Costume Trunk written and illustrated by Bob Fuller was provided to me through membership in FromLefttoWrite.com. This is not intended to be a review of the book but rather this post was inspired by the book.

Grandson, Tristan prepares for his bedtime ritual at Mimi and Poppa’s house---two Oreo cookies and milk, teeth brushing (“Tell me when I can stop, Mimi.”), good night hugs and kisses for Poppa and off to read books with Mimi. His wiry body, inherited from my son, wiggles up next to me with a stack of his reading choices.

Mimi, Tristan and Payden reading the Sunday funnies

“Tristan, I have this book that I’m going to right about for my website,” I say as I hand him The Costume Trunk. “Would you please tell me if it is too young for you, just right or too old for you?”

He takes one look at the cover and declares, “Mimi, this is too babyish for me!”

I don’t dare question that declaration. “Ok, what about Payden?” Payden is his 14 month old baby sister.

“No, Mimi, she would rip the pages and it’s too long for her.”

Finally, I ask, “Well what about our friend, Sydney?”

“Juuuuuuuuuuuuuuust right, Mimi,” he replies, so pleased that I’m finally getting a clue.

Our "just right" friend, Sydney Grace Dryden

I can’t help but agree with his assessment. Tristan is a five year old boy whose taste in reading leans toward super heroes, Garfield joke books and even, Gary Larson’s The Far Side cartoon collections. Payden hasn’t developed the ability to sit still long enough to make it through The Costume Trunk even if she would enjoy the illustrations. Sydney Grace Dryden, our two and a half year old friend, is just right for the adventures of Paddywhack Lane, the wonderful world Bob Fuller has created in The Costume Trunk.

As we scrunch up next to each other in bed, Tristan chooses Gary Larson’s Beyond The Far Side ® collection for his first choice tonight. At five, he doesn’t get all of Larson’s jokes, in my sixth decade I don’t either. But as we snuggle up and talk through them, I shiver with delight that he chooses his Uncle Mark’s Far Side and Garfield Fat Cat Three Pack Volume VII collections for his bedtime reading. Uncle Mark died before Tristan was born but his influence lives on.

The Turtle and Me

2011-07-22T17:11:00.000-07:00

Our assignment was to write about turtles. Me? Write about turtles? I am an indoor, city-girl. I’m not on a personal friendship basis with turtles. Or so I thought.

At first glance it would seem the geneology and character traits of the turtle have little in common with me. A closer look reveals otherwise.

That superficial look would contrast a hyperactive motor-mouth with a mute plodder. The closer look would reveal we share the quality of persistence. The plodder shows persistence in finishing the race; I have shown persistence in staying in the race regardless of obstacles along the way.

The surface view of the turtle displays a hard, ugly uninviting shell while my life long perfectionism demands that my surface be made-up, manicured, coiffed and well-dressed. A deeper analysis shows both the turtle and I use our shell for protection from the sling and arrows and predators of life.

A final look suggests both of us will live long and prosper regardless of what life throws our direction. The long life-cycle of the turtle makes this point for him; my life experience makes the case for me.

Learning from Failure

2011-07-21T06:17:00.000-07:00

If you do not tell the truth about yourself you cannot tell it about other people.

Virginia Wolffe

Current knowledge that my behavior of several decades was classic for the oldest daughter of an alcoholic family offers little comfort that I tried to protect my siblings from life by attempting to run their lives. I knew best and I wanted to teach them, tell them, train them in the ways of the world according to Brenda.

I need to place a warning label on this plan for dealing with family. To all those who purport to travel this expedition of surviving and thriving, your family will not be sending you a thank you note for trying to manage their lives. There won’t even be a signal of gratitude to you for getting better, for healing and becoming your best self. As I have turned to therapy to make sense of my family’s dysfunction, the knowledge and experience has been seen as threatening by some in my family. Being one of the only members of the family to get a college education has been a source of resentment as well as pride. Telling the story of family dysfunction and secrets has caused even greater distress. Family secrets should be, well---secret.

I am rejecting a way of life that at least some of my family members accepted. I am saying, “It’s not okay for children to be raised in this manner.”

“It’s not okay to treat each other like this.”

“It’s not okay for us to pretend alcoholism doesn’t exist.”

I feel like my siblings are going to the hardware store for bread and milk and keep ending up disappointed that all they stock are hammers and screws. But they keep going back. In significant ways, the fact that I was the first one in my nuclear family saying “this is not okay” made starting the voyage of healing more important. Shining a light on dysfunction is the beginning of defeating dysfunction.

On top of my volcano of family shame laid a vast dusting of guilt like Mt. St. Helen’s ash. Beneath the volcano I could hear the subtle rumble of anger that could erupt from any one of my siblings at any moment and spew all over me---not so much for what I had done but for who I have become.

However, it is just as important to note that one of the hard realities I have been forced to admit about myself is that I thought I knew best. I wanted to prove to them that I knew best by helping them run their lives. Surely, I would get gratitude in return. Maybe short term, I did get some genuine appreciation. Long term, my meddling produced resentment. No matter how well-intentioned, my siblings did not want me making their life choices for them and that is as it should be. Painful lesson learned. I have given up transforming most of them, most of the time. I wish I could retrieve the time and energy I spent trying to make them over in my image. It would serve us all well for me to have spent those resources on myself.

Are Artists too Sensitive for Real Life?

2011-07-20T09:05:00.000-07:00

I have carried the following Pearl Buck quote around for years, first in my wallet and then to make sure it doesn’t disintegrate, I taped it in one of my journals:

The truly creative mind in any field is no more than this: a human creature born abnormally, inhumanly sensitive. To him a touch is a blow, a sound is a noise, a misfortune is a tragedy, a joy is an ecstasy, a friend is a love, a love is a god, and failure is death. Add to this cruelly delicate organism the overpowering necessity to create, create, create---so that without the creating of music or poetry or books or buildings or something of meaning, his very breath is cut off from him. He must create, must pour out creation. By some strange, unknown, inward urgency he is not really alive unless he is creating.

Obviously, I resonate with this quote or I would not have preserved it so carefully for so many years. I was a speech/theatre major and vocal music minor in undergraduate school I have performed in front of audiences since I was 5 years old. Art of one kind or another is my very being.

I remember a long ago choir rehearsal with orchestra. At one point our choir director explained to the orchestra members, “Singers are a bit paranoid and sensitive.” In thinking over that comment, I decided we, singers are more paranoid than the orchestral artists because our instrument is literally part of our bodies. There is no one-step separation. I have since learned that all artists, regardless of medium can be too sensitive for life in the real world.

I once ran across a correspondence between my step-daughter and my son, Mark. She was explaining to Mark that they were more sensitive (they share the Bartella blood line) individuals than I. I was furious and snapped back at both of them, “Just because I am strong, doesn’t mean I am not sensitve. I have had to be strong to survive!”

I suspect they are not the only persons who have determined I am not the sensitive sort. Believe me, I am. I just often lick my wounds in private. And with the wisdom of years, I acknowledge, we survivor types when hurt will often go in to attack mode because if it’s fight or flight, survivors fight---even when our sensitive feelings have been hurt.

Are you a sensitive artist? Do you resonate with the Pearl Buck quote? Are you a fight or flight sensitive person?

Tristan, Trains and Transitions

2011-07-17T18:40:00.000-07:00

There is no greater bliss than Saturday nights and all day Sunday with Tristan, my five year old grandson (although he is six on the inside and when he turns six in August he will notify us when he becomes seven on the inside). We often plan something special to do on Sunday after church as a not-so-subtle bribe for his attending church with us.

Today we made reservations to ride the antique railroad in Versailles and tour the Bluegrass Railroad Museum. We boarded the train right on time and settled into our seats after marveling that we were on a 90 year old train car. There was a wad of gum on the floor near our feet.

I asked Tristan, “Do you think that gum is 90 years old too?”

“No, Mimi, I think the gum is just 20 years old.”

He could be right.

The ride was a history lesson about Kentucky, railroads and with the window open a scenic Sunday survey of all that’s beautiful about our countryside. Tristan asked questions or just listened to the conductor’s patter or lapsed into a contemplative repose with his face in the wind.

The sounds, sights, smells and having a little one with me stirred poignant memories of my teenage train trips from California to Missouri or Indiana to visit family---especially my mother’s mother, Grandma Whitmer.

We especially liked the Grand Canyon Line because its route through the states that divided us provided excitement and beauty. Putting together the pennies necessary to transport my mother and five kids on the train never got easy. I plead guilty to helping Mom once convince my younger sisters that they had already had lunch when our packed lunches were gone as well as all money. Finally, the conductor walked through yelling, “St. Louis! St. Louis! Everybody off for St. Louis!” we couldn’t wait to tell Grandma about convincing the kids they had been fed and the delay out west that caused the train line to provide one free meal in The Dining Car---a first class experience for a band of ragamuffins.

As we toured the little museum after the ride, I swear the china displayed was exactly like what we used on the Grand Canyon Line.

Since Tristan had informed us when we invited him to the opening reception of Poppa’s photo exhibit, “Mimi, I’m not the kind of boy who goes somewhere just to look at pictures.” So after the ride today, we went by the exhibit so he could just see the gallery and Poppa’s photos without the hoopla of the opening reception.

Poppa couldn’t resist posing the big boy Tristan in front of the two photos of him in the exhibit. In one, he is a round-headed baby in the bath tub and in the other he is a toddler in his stroller and a little African-American girl asks to touch his hair. Poppa caught the moment.

Tristan, trains and transitions---a fulfilling Sunday.

The Church and Sex

2011-07-16T06:45:00.000-07:00

The return of Episcopal Bishop V. Gene Robinson to his hometown and our fair city, Lexington, KY gives me impetus to climb up on my soapbox. Again. It would be delightful to think that people of faith have moved past the issue of homosexuality and the church but we’re not there yet. So we need to get out the soapbox occasionally for those who still need to hear the message.

The church, writ large, has historically tried to control sexuality because it is a powerful force that man (in this case I really do mean MEN) would like to put on a leash. Our sexuality is a gift and like all natural forces will never fully be tamed by humanity.

The church tried (some still do) to control women because our gender presented a sexual energy that was feared and revered and, therefore, needed to be controlled. After centuries of repression, we have made great progress in parts of the world and abysmal conditions remain in far too many countries.

As a nation, the US seems to be on the far side of the women’s issue. Great strides have been made on the issues of homosexuality in secular society. I think we have critical mass and there will be no going back into the closet. The church, however, has a long way to go.

The frightening numbers about the decline of Christianity should be a wake-up call for people of faith everywhere. The attempt to control sexuality ranks very high on my list of why the general population is sleeping in on Sunday mornings.

Think on these things. Talk with your family and friends. Go hear Rev. Robinson this evening. Have a discussion with a gay or lesbian friend about the church. Let’s each do our part to achieve justice for all God’s children.

Ok, this is a very heavy post so let’s close on a lighter note. My first question to God when we meet face-to-face will be, “Why did you integrate our organs of sexuality with our organs of elimination? Very poor architectural planning!”

Your Bucket List

2011-07-15T06:50:00.000-07:00

Remember the 2007 movie titled The Bucket List? It was Jack Nicholson and Morgan Freeman, two terminally ill patients, escaping from a cancer ward to complete a wish list of what they dream of doing before they died.

What’s on your Bucket List?

At one point in the movie, Morgan Freeman’s character comments on how different his list is from the list he made as a young man. Is your list different now than in previous years? Decades? Mine certainly is.

Perhaps the change in your Bucket List has come about because you have experienced the wisdom of this Margaret Young quote:

Often people attempt to live their lives backwards: they try to have more things, or more money, in order to do more of what they want so they will be happier. The way it actually works is the reverse. You must first be who you really are, then do what you really need to do, in order to have what you want.

Was your youthful Bucket List filled with what you wanted to have that would then make you happy? You’re not alone. Our culture teaches us that Things make us happy. From the lofty perch of my sixth decade, I’m clear on the fact that Things won’t make me happy. And I’m clear on the fact that Relationships will always be my priority. But my Bucket List includes some significant travel with those special persons in my life.

What’s on your Bucket List and has it changed through the years?

Photo by John Lynner Peterson

Cut Off From Your Power?

2011-07-11T16:26:00.000-07:00

What gives you strength? Power? Motivation?

What takes away your strength? Power? Motivation?

When I have a "down day," my analysis gene kicks in to high gear? Why? Why am I down? What source of power have I been cut off from? My first go-to answer is sleep. I have needed eight hours (nine is better) all my life, even as a hyperactive young person. So question #1 is "Did I have enough sleep?"

Question #2 is "Have I had too much or not enough socializing?" As an extrovert, I need a large dose. As an aging (don't ever tell anyone I admitted that.) extrovert, I need less than I used to. Getting the exact amount of socializing is tricky but necessary for maintaining my strength, power and motivation.

Question #3 is "Have I had appropriate spiritual nourishment?" I can get out-of-whack if I haven't had my spiritual cup filled through worship (see yesterday's post about constitutes worship).

Question #4 is "Have I exercised?" This one is tough for me. I don't like exercise. I have never liked exercise. I'm not likely to fall in love with exercise in the near future. I have admitted, however, that exercise is essential to my well-being.

Question #5 is "Have I had some fun?" Fun of late consists to a large extent of being with grandchildren, Tristan and Payden. For years now, I have been able to acknowledge that I have to have fun in my life to maintain my equilibrium.

What is your source of power? Are you plugged in?

I Worshipped Today

2011-07-10T18:42:00.000-07:00

I worshipped today.

Yes, the morning began at church and, fortunately, today the worship also began at church. It doesn’t always.

I sang in the choir today. The very act of singing is often access to the sacred. Today it was.

Keith Dean offered the most transcendent part of church today. Keith is one of the few young university singers who “beef” up the choir full of us regular singers. Keith is a big African-American man with an even bigger voice. He sang My Tribute by Andrae Crouch. More famously sung by Elvis Presley, this old standard was also sung by little Brenda Sims when I could not even see over the pulpit. At no time and by no one has it been sung more spiritually that Keith sang it today. And I worshipped.

We also experienced a moving sermon by Elizabeth King McLaughlin. Elizabeth’s sermon constituted worship for me because it called me to be a better version of myself and assured me of God’s love for me in my current state.

Relationships are always worship for me because I believe when we move closer to each other we move closer to God. I have experienced this closeness of relationship at church but not always and not only at church. Today this form of prayer and exultation came at a photography exhibit.

Husband John’s exhibit opened today at the Woodford County Library and the turn out of friends who love and support his art and his passion created a moment of worship. Thank you, dear friends, for sharing in our joy.

Art, frequently, brings reverence into my life. Today, as on many occasions, the coming together of John’s phenomenal photographs and the emotion and storytellling they evoke from others played out before my eyes and I called it worship.

Thanks be to God.

Hey Art Linkletter, kids STILL say the darnedest things

2011-07-09T12:43:00.000-07:00

Friends keep reminding me to right down grandson, Tristan’s latest comment. It is a joy to see and hear life being lived through the eyes and ears of a clever, outspoken five year old, although he will tell you, "I'm six on the inside." And when he turns six in August? "I'll let you know, Mimi, when I'm seven on the inside." I’m also reminded lately that Tristan is not the only child that provides great laughter for the adults in their lives.

As readers of this blog and my Facebook page know, my husband John has a photography exhibit opening tomorrow. Tristan came over this week when just before all the photos were to be delivered to the Woodford County Library. I gave him one of the publicity cards and invited him to see a few of the photos that were in tubs in the living room. I encouraged him to take the card home to Mommy and Daddy to remind them to bring him to the exhibit. He looked with interest at the photos we unwrapped and went on with him playing. In a few minutes, he looked up at me and stated, “Mimi, I’m not the kind of boy who goes somewhere just to look at pictures.”

All righty then.

One of my friends has two little girls, nine and six. My friend, intent on looking great for her twentieth high school reunion, engaged a personal trainer. The girls walked in as she and the trainer were lying on the floor facing each other doing leg lifts. After they left the gym, the girls inquired, “Mom, what were you doing with that guy?”

Being a thoughtful mother, my friend gently responded, “What did you think I was doing.”

They giggled and replied together, “Farting and falling in love.”

Ahhhh, the child’s perspective.

One of my favorite of the “darnedest” comes from a friend telling this story on her son when he was three years old. On a Christmas visit to family, they decided to dress their two little boys up and take them to the very adult, very upscale cocktail party next door. Dressed in their navy blazers and grey slacks, they knew instantly this was a big deal to be allowed at the adult gathering. The three year old wandered around a bit and then moved close to a female guest. He stretched his arm casually across a piece of furniture, put his foot up on another piece to create his best debonair look and announced to the woman, “I have a penis.”

Very adult, indeed!

Our Tristan adopts the attitude that he can win at anything and everything and perhaps it is even his Divine Right to win every game. He and I were racing cars while he soaked in the tub at about age four. I allowed him to win the first two races and then made sure I won the third. I whooped and hollered in victory. He gently touched my arm and pleaded, “Mimi, let’s play nice and be friends.”

Guess he put me in my place.

Poppa and I recently had a discussion with him about his baby sister’s nickname. We all suggested possibilities and rejected them for this or that reason. Tristan then adamantly settled on, “Pony.” No amount of reasoning has dissuaded him that Pony is not a good nickname for his adorable toddling sis.

My favorite Tristan saying though came when he was three. Poppa and I had just arrived from North Carolina for a visit. He rushed up to me and announced, “Mimi, when I was a little boy I fell in love with you!”

I’m putty in his hands.