Ordinary Time

Praying for Summer

2012-02-11T19:28:00.000-08:00

If some King of the earth have so large an extent of Dominion, in North, and South, as that he hath Winter and Summer together in his Dominions,

so large an extent East and West, as that he hath day and night together in his Dominions, much more hath God mercy and judgement together: He brought light out of darknesse, not out of a lesser light; he can bring thy Summer out of Winter, though thou have no Spring; though in the wayes of fortune, or understanding, or conscience, thou have been benighted till now, wintred and frozen, clouded and eclypsed, damped and benummed, smothered and stupefied till now, now God comes to thee, not as in the dawning of the day, not as in the bud of the spring, but as the Sun at noon to illustrate all shadowes, as the sheaves in harvest, to fill all penuries, all occasions invite his mercies, and all times are his seasons—John Donne

Small Surprises

2012-02-10T07:00:00.000-08:00

I've been an orphan for two weeks now. I realize that's an odd way to express it, especially at my age, that is the reality. Two weeks ago, at 4:14 am, the world as I knew it altered forever.

These past two weeks have been filled with a lot of sadness, but also some small surprises. Maybe, because there is so much heaviness in my life right now, I am savoring the small bits all that much more.

Like last night. I was having a massive craving for chocolate, but there wasn't anything in the house and I up to going out. On a whim I opened the cookie jar, which never contains cookies and LO!!! There were four, count them, four OREOS!! I don't know exactly how long they'd been there, but they tasted just fine as I snorfed them down.

Just a small surprise in the midst of dark days.

(And while I'm talking about dark days, I have a friend who is experiencing some huge issues with his business and another whose mother has just been diagnosed with inoperable lung cancer. So to those who find and read this blog, a few prayers, good thoughts and positive energy sent their way would be most welcome.)

Floating Rib

2012-02-08T07:00:00.001-08:00

Did you know that your 11th and 12th ribs can "float" up under your 10th causing a great deal of pain that can mimic a heart attack or gall bladder?

Well, neither did I. But now I do. I was fairly sure I wasn't having a heart attack when I went to the doctor, but I was thinking of dire things like liver cancer, gall bladder etc. But apparently it's "just" a rib floating out of place.

I have a great many things floating through my mind right now and apparently my rib wanted to get in on the action.

And so I leave you with this passage from my upcoming book on suffering, Facing Adversity with Grace:

When you are able to see your suffering in thelight of life’s greater purpose, your suffering becomes redemptive rather thandestructive. As long as you believe your suffering is without merit, it will donothing for your spiritual growth. It is only when you realize that physicalsuffering can become a means to holiness that it can be transformed from merepain into peaceful acceptance....
, in the words of the great poet Kahil Gibran, “Your pain…is the bitter potion by which the physician within you heals your sick self. Thereforetrust the physician and drink his remedy in silence and tranquility. For hishand, though heavy and hard, is guided by the tender hand of the Unseen.”

A Full Moon

2012-02-08T07:00:00.000-08:00

I have a small meditation chapel in my house. It doesn't have any light other than a skylight and candles (I'll take a picture in the day and post it later) so the night is clear and close. Last night I stood outside the door, which has a temple bell hanging before it, thinking about all the changes that have suddenly been thrust upon me.

My mother's death certainly tops the list. But just a few days before she died, I took a temporary job at a debt collection company to help both with some of the finances and to get my focus off caregiving for a little while. Little did I know that the job would be taking my mind off grief for a few hours each day since I started on Monday, the one week anniversary of the funeral.

I'm not quite sure why I found and took this job...or perhaps was lead and given it. It certainly isn't anything I've ever done or aspired to do. However, I firmly believe, even when I am in the midst of doubting everything including my sanity and the presence of God, that all things happen in our lives for a reason. That everything comes with a lesson attached. Sometimes the lesson is learned in joy, sometimes in sorrow. Sometimes in difficulty, sometimes in ease.

Lately my lessons seem to be learned more in sorrow and difficulty than in ease. Perhaps that's because I don't pay sufficient attention to the lessons of joy and ease. Or perhaps it is because I am sending out signals that indicate I want to learn the hard way. After all, it says in Job that "What I always feared has happened to me. What I dreaded has come true." It does seem that what we focus on comes to pass and certainly this past year my focus has been on hard things.

As I enter the meditation chapel on my way to bed, I look up through the skylight and see the full moon overhead, a silver bowl in a star-spangled sky. I can see why the ancients thought the moon was a goddess, draping her soft shimmering light over the land, transforming the harshness into gentle shadow and flowing shape.

Perhaps, starting now, I can begin to learn some lessons from a place of joy, instead of pain.

It's the prayer I send to heaven on a moonbeam during this full moon.

One More Day

2012-02-06T07:00:00.000-08:00

Today is the one week anniversary of my mother's funeral. I had great plans to do many things yesterday. But the best laid plans went aglee as Robert Burns wrote and instead I just took the the time to breathe my way into the night.

I am shocked at how grief creeps in on strange little paws. Like yesterday. It was the first Sunday in 12 years that I haven't visited Mother (unless I was out of town or ill) and the void is palpable. Even going to a friend's and watching the Superbowl didn't fully shift the feelings, although it did help.

I know that the only way out is through.

But a hot bath didn't hurt.

Measuring a Year

2012-02-05T07:00:00.000-08:00

Because I am an only child, my mother's death is a solitary event for me. There are no siblings to share memories with and while my son remembers his grandmother, she was one generation removed and therefore his grief is, understandably, different. I still have two aunts who live in another town, but they, too, are experiencing the death on a different level--that of their sister.

A week ago, I was preparing for a funeral, making a plenitude of decisions and careening into tears at the flicker of a memory. Today I haven't cried...yet...although the pervasive sense of unreality, of griefwalking continues.

A year ago my mother fell and broke both legs. At the time she was expected to die, but she didn't and her last year gave me a chance to create some closure, work out some issues and prepare myself, as best as we can, for the final departure.

So what is echoing in my heart right now is this song from Rent (which isn't my favorite musical by a long shot!)--How do you measure a year?

Griefwalking

2012-02-03T19:04:00.000-08:00

My mother died a week ago today and I've been living in what I can only describe as GriefTime. The hours have taken on a peculiar fluidity which sometimes feels like it has been forever ago and at other moments seems like it just happened. Long past memory blends and blurs with current time and recent events to form a sort of hazy melange in my mental subduction zone. I griefwalk through the motions of the day, sometimes feeling very focused and then, at other times, realizing I've put the coffee cup in the refrigerator and the cream in the dishwasher.

It's a time like no other that I've experienced, even though I have experienced death before. I think it is because my life and my mother's were deeply enmeshed, by her deliberate choice and intent from the moment of my birth. For her, the boundaries between mother and daughter were a permeable membrane and having grown up with that as my default normal, I never truly understood the extent to which the threads of her life were woven through every aspect of my life, forming an integral part of the design of my existence. For most of her life, until dementia began to confuse her, I knew what she wanted, without her having to articulate it and would simply provide it for her. When, late in her life, I sometimes failed to anticipate and provide, she would say in frustration, "You always used to know what I wanted!!!" And I did.

For my entire life, I was Eileene's daughter, first and foremost. Even when I was a wife and a mother myself, I was always Eileene's daughter first. Now her death is forcing me to reidentify myself. While I will never cease to be her daughter, it is no longer the first and most prominent of identifiers. I do not really know who I am anymore. Her death striped me of the one identity that I have carried since the day I was born. I am having to ask the question, "Who am I?"

I believe that I will find the answer, but for now all I can see and feel is the hole where the identity once was.

Oddly, the hardest thing so far has been going online and realizing that I can use the money in her account that I always so carefully preserved for her bills for myself if I choose. I was always excruciatingly careful to keep her funds separate from mine, even when I was in need and to think now that that what is there, even if it isn't a lot, is mine to use is disturbing in ways I never anticipated or even considered. It somehow feels like I'm doing something wrong, even when the use is for her last bills and expenses. The sense of duty, of doing the right thing by my mother, is deep within the marrow of my soul. I suspect it will take some time before I understand on a soul-level that I did the right thing until the very end and now there is a new right thing to be done.

The other thing that I am noticing is that the emotional elements of grief are being superseded by genuine physical pain. This part of grief hurts, not just intellectually or emotionally, but deep within my chest cavity, within my bones and tendons and muscles.

Mourning is hard work, physically, emotionally, mentally and spiritually.

So I griefwalk, reminding myself that "There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens..." This is my time to weep and mourn, but I have to believe that there will come again a time to laugh and dance.

A Life and a Death

2012-02-02T21:42:00.000-08:00

My Mother died last Friday at age 92. Even though the death was expected, since she was in hospice, it still has come as a shock. I am now an orphan, the last bastion before death for my own son. I am still processing my feelings and the change that this has created.

Eternal Rest Grant Unto Her, O Lord.

Mary, Undoer of Knots

2012-01-27T07:00:00.000-08:00

I recently came across a devotion to Mary that I had not know before: Mary, Undoer of Knots.

The official website says:

To show us the mission granted to the Virgin Mary by Her Son, an unknown artist painted Mary Undoer of Knots with great grace. Since 1700, his painting has been venerated in the Church of St. Peter in Perlack, Germany. It was originally inspired by a meditation of Saint Irenaeus (Bishop of Lyon and martyred in 202) based on the parallel made by Saint Paul between Adam and Christ. Saint Irenaeus, in turn, made a comparison between Eve and Mary, saying:

"Eve, by her disobedience, tied the knot of disgrace for the human race; whereas Mary, by her obedience, undid it".

In this angelic court, two angels stand out. One of them holds on to a ribbon, the ribbon of our life, which is full of knots big and small, loose and tight. They are the knots of our life, the knots of anguish and despair of separated couples, the dissolution of the family, the knots of a drug addict son or daughter, sick or separated from home or God, knots of alcoholism, the practice of abortion, depression, unemployment, fear, solitude, etc.
The good hearted angel looks to our Queen and holding onto the ribbon of our life, presents to Mary, the Undoer of Knots and says, “We trust you, Mother; You can help us. Undo, then, the knots of this life!”
Then, Mary takes our life into Her compassionate hands and with her long fingers of mercy goes on to undo each knot, one after the other. Look at Her. Feel the attention, love and tenderness with which She does this, hearing our plea, the supplication of a beloved child!
See what happens?
This ribbon becomes free of any type of knot, reflecting all the mercy and freeing power of the holy hands of Mary Undoer of Knots.
Another angel comes over, then, and taking the ribbon of our life, freed of all knots, looks at us and seems to say, “See what She did. Look at what Mary, through her intercession can do again. Trust Her, place your problems and afflictions in Her hands!”

I know that there are many knots in my life that seem to defy untangling. The same may be true for you. If you want to know more about the novena, click here.

Worry and One Day at a Time

2012-01-26T07:00:00.000-08:00

Although I'm not an alcoholic (I rarely, if ever, even take a sip of anything alcoholic), I get a daily communication from AA from a friend. In this email, one of the most common themes is to take each day as it comes, not trying to live in the future and not dwelling in the past.

It's a good reminder for me because I'm guilty on both counts. Today, I find myself fretting about paying the taxes in April and cleaning out my mother's apartment when the inevitable day comes that she dies, while regretting some past decisions that, with the wisdom of 20-20 hindsight, I realize were wrong. I careen from worry to regret and back again.

I'm not alone in this perverse tendency to attempt to live sometime other than the here and now. Oddly enough, someone just told me how upset they were because they had taken a cruise that left from the same port that the fated, capsized cruise ship Costa Concordia left from. The part that would be funny if I didn't understand the thinking so well is that they took their cruise a year ago! On a totally different cruise line!

I can hardly point fingers. My stomach is in knots, I can feel a headache creeping behind my eyes and I am having trouble concentrating on the work I have to do today. All because I'm worrying about the future and fretting about the past. I might as well be a cruise ship listing on its side for all the forward momentum that I'm creating.

What's really odd is that for several years, I thought I had banished worry. In fact, I even proposed writing a book about Conquering Worry which, fortunately, the publisher turned down. If I had written it, today I'd be having to admit, like St. Thomas Aquinas, everything I had written was merely straw.

I know for me worries tend to cluster around finances and health. Well, not health so much as how to pay for a major illness if I happened to get one. So I suppose my worries are really just about finances. I could say that that's a common worry in this economic climate, but most of the people I know well aren't really feeling much effect from the recession. Thinking about how they planned better than I did doesn't help much. Nor does comparing my situation to theirs. It simply leads me back to regretting my own past decisions and perpetuates a vicious circle.

So, because I do have some things that must be done today, I am going to make a deliberate attempt to "take all thoughts captive" and return to the present moment. Because in this moment, this very minute, I am fine. I don't know what will happen 60 seconds from now, but for now, there are no wolves gnawing at my feet, I am still breathing. Heck, I'm not even hungry!

Of all the commands that Jesus gave us, one is the most direct: Do not worry or be anxious. Isn't it odd that we hear about so many other things, but when was the last time you heard a homily preached on the sinfulness of worry? Have you ever considered that worry could actually be a sin?

I find that somewhat sobering.

Could it be that Jesus actually meant what he said?

"Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own" Matt 6:24.

One day at a time.

Asking for Help

2012-01-24T07:00:00.001-08:00

I'm always sort of reluctant to ask for help. Do it yourself or don't do it at all is sort of my family motto. But today I had three interesting lessons in asking for help. And since I tend to believe that when things come in threes, you should pay attention, I paid attention:

1. A friend told me that she had been in credit card debt. Since I knew she had a great financial manager, I asked her how that happened. She said she didn't consult him until after the fact.

2. Another friend who is a mortgage specialist told me that her daughter and son in law just lost their home to foreclosure. When I looked puzzled, she said that they never asked for help or mentioned they were in trouble until it was too late.

3. I spent time with my mother who is in hospice today. She drifts in and out of alertness, but when I gave her her Ensure drink, she promptly said, "Help me!" in a tone that indicated I should comply immediately.

As I sit here, eating some peanut Satay and thinking about how much I hate grey winter days, I also am wondering if the reason that it sometimes feels like God isn't answering my prayer is because I either fail to ask or wait until it's too late.

Something to consider.

A Statue and the Importance of Symbols.

2012-01-24T07:00:00.000-08:00

Not the statue from the ship

I just sort of liked this story:

Jan 21 (Reuters) - She was found inside the ship's chapel, submerged up to her shoulders, but in one piece. Fire department divers wrapped her in a white towel, and used a nylon belt to hold it in place so she would not be damaged as they pulled her out.
On Saturday, the plaster statue of the Madonna from thedoomed Costa Concordia cruise liner stood in a white tent on theport of Giglio, still wrapped in the same towel.
Found early on Friday morning, it was only shown toreporters on Saturday. Orange and black equipment bags werepiled next to it, and helmets and diving gear hung behind.
The man in charge of the team which rescued the statue saidhe had taken the time to recover the relic when there were still21 people missing because "it seemed like the right thing todo."

Read more here.

The divers also rescued the Tabernacle, the Hosts and the Crucifix.

I realize that there are still bodies to be found and probably other objects to be located, but as the leader of the team who rescued the statue said, "Symbols are important."

Yes, symbols are important. As I look around my kitchen, where I write this, curled up before the pellet stove, I seem a variety of symbols of my life: an icon from Turkey, a plate from Egypt, an African violet that finally bloomed, cup of half-drunk coffee, a broken arrow. From these things, someone could glean a certain understanding of what must be important in my life since these are the things that I choose to keep in my daily view.

The problem is, of course, when the symbols begin to blend so much into the background of life that they cease to have any impact on our lives. So what do these symbols that I see mean to me?

Not my icon, but close enough

The Turkish icon is a reminder, not just of the Madonna and child, but of the power of the feminine, the Divinity that each one of us carries within. It is also a sign of the power of art to transcend centuries and a call to me to honor the gifts that I have, gifts that I may have denied or buried.

Not my plate, but almost identical

The plate from Egypt is a recollection of past bravery and call to say "yes" to future adventure; a spiritual ship that says, "You have sailed into the unknown before. You can do it again, no matter how you are feeling right now. Just trust and hoist anchor."

Not my violet. Mine only has one blossom.

The African violet says to me, "All things have a season. There will be happiness in your life again. Just keep your soul watered and your face toward the sunlight."

Obviously not my arrow, but I needed a picture. I could not find one of a broken arrow, however.

The broken arrow is a symbol of conquering fear, of facing terror and breaking through it to accomplishment. Its red feathers and silver tip say, "Remember. Remember. Remember." This year I had almost forgotten the arrow, since it hangs above the door, in a place where I have to look up to see. But even I didn't remember it, it was still there, a silent signal that once upon a time I had the courage to do what I didn't think I could do.

Um, what do you think?

As for the half-cup of coffee, I think it's just a reminder that deep down, I'm a really lousy housekeeper.

The Siren of Suicide

2012-01-23T07:00:00.000-08:00

I was in my 20s when I first encountered suicide. A co-worker took his own life and the entire office was shocked and stunned.

In his later life, my father used to talk about suicide, although, to the best of my knowledge, he never attempted it. I was horrified whenever he brought it up.

But now I understand.

The pain and pressure of the past 12 to 18 months has been unrelenting. As my year of debridement wore on and on and indeed as it has continued into the present year, I can understand why some people consider suicide to be a viable option. Trying to be my mother's sole support on her final journey, attempting to make a living as a free-lancer while trying to find a real job in this area (since I can't readily move with mother in hospice) and battling some chronic ill health has been like a steady downpour of icy rain on the spine of my soul. Even when the cascade slows, as it does now and then, I am still clad in soggy clothes and feeling chilled to the marrow and beyond. The future does not appear to hold bright sunshiny days, but simply more and more rain until the house of my being is flooded and washed away in the deluge.

That's when the siren of suicide sits on the rock and bats her beguiling eyes: "Come see me," she whispers. "I have a solution. A real solution. No more struggling with finances. No more waiting at hospice bedsides. No more trying to figure out how to get through one more day. Just come see me and I will take care of it all for you."

I sometimes stop for a moment and listen to her, but then I have to explain that first of all, I cannot take the easy way out for me because it would be the difficult way for my son. I remember all too well the horror I felt when my father would talk about the ways he could die. The legacy of a parent's death at her own hand would be the ultimate unfair inheritance.

Then I go on to explain that I'm a wuss and anything involving blood, pain or that horrible moment "twix saddle and ground" are just too scary to consider. What if, in the last second, I changed my mind?

Finally, there is the karma thing. While I don't know that suicide would condemn a person to hell, I do believe that there has to be some repercussions to an action that would cause so much pain, confusion and anger in those like my son who would be left behind. It would truly suck to take one's life only to find out that you've committed yourself to a whole other level of pain and suffering in the next life.

It would be horrible to take an action you think is going to relieve suffering only to find out, as one of my friends said to me, "That siren is Satan with a fishtail, and the next life will have pain, daily migraines, huge, huge mounds of paperwork, income tax to file every day, not just once a year, plumbing problems you won't believe, sick cats including some that aren't yours, a couple mothers to shepherd besides your own and they're even bitchier. And that's just for starters."

So when the siren makes an appearance, I tell her, "No, I understand your offer, oh do I understand your offer, but I can't take you up on it."

She shrugs, flips her tail and dives back into the depths. And so I brew a cup of tea and say a prayer that tomorrow will bring some answers and some relief.

If not, I always make sure there are plenty of teabags in the pantry.

Sunday Gratitude

2012-01-22T07:00:00.000-08:00

I made a promise to myself to post the things that I'm grateful for each Sunday. Even when, like this last week, it's easier to find things not to be grateful for than to be grateful for! But here are three things that I can say I'm honestly grateful about.

1. Nefer and Basti.

Despite driving me crazy a lot of the time, they do make me laugh. Like today when Basti got ahold of a sucker and walked around the house with it in her mouth like a pacifier. I let her do it for a little while, but then had to take it away since sugar isn't good for kitties. But it did amuse me.

2. Advil
I've been nursing a headache for several days and after having done all the "natural" things, I finally opted for Advil. Sometimes modern pain medication is a very very good thing.

3. Cell phones
My son has been traveling across country and thanks to cell phones and texting, I was able to keep in touch with him. It wasn't all that long ago when such real time communication was in the real of Star Trek communicators.

As for the rest of it, I'm having a bit of a hard week, so prayers and good thoughts are most welcome.

The Metaphysics of Plumbing Problems

2012-01-21T07:00:00.000-08:00

I have been plagued with plumbing issues for the past month: the Great Sewage Affair that necessitated replacing flooring (and for which I got yet another bill, which was more than double the estimate), an upstairs toilet overflowing and today a leak under the kitchen sink. Not to mention that the toilet in the office where I was yesterday kept running and running.

Since I do believe that what happens in our lives is an opportunity to learn a lesson, I've been trying to figure out what lessons might be involved in having plumbing issues.

Now some friends have suggested that the only issue is that the plumbing is old, but that's not the case with the kitchen sink. It's relatively (less than a year) new. So whatever lesson is to be learned has to applicable to both new and old plumbing. And clean as well as dirty water.

Water is symbolic of life and other things such as:

Transformation
Subconscious
Fertilization
Purification
Reflection
Intuition
Renewal
Blessing
Motion
The Feminine
New Life aka Baptism
Cleansing
Stagnation (if water is blocked)

So what lesson is there in the broken, dripping, blocked plumbing that I need to pay attention to?

I'm honestly not sure. But I'm willing to listen to the small, still voice within and see what answers might "flow" to me. As soon as I have a clue, I'll be sure to let you know.

Aligning the Fulcrum

2012-01-20T07:00:00.000-08:00

My son’s best friend’s older brother was a very precocious child andsome of the things that he said would astonish me. When he was about 6, heinformed me that I shouldn’t be letting my son and his brother play on amake-shift teeter-totter because “the fulcrum wasn’t centered.” He was correct;it wasn’t centered, but because I was older and a bit wiser, I knew that itdidn’t have to be precisely balanced to be safe.

I often think about that when I consider finding the balance betweenwork, personal, and family. It isn’t alwaysa matter of having the fulcrum perfectly aligned, but it is important to find asafe balance.

Of course, that sounds very good when you read it, but it’s much harderin real life. People and projects have a way of taking as much time andenergy as you are willing to give them. And the squeaky wheel really does getthe grease a lot of the time.

Here are some the questions I've been asking myself this January:

Work: Can I separate your home life from my work? Do Ispend all my time either at work or thinking about work? Or conversely,do I try to get by doing as little as possible and cut as many corners aspossible?

Personal: We are taught to be self-sacrificing, but sometimes we forget that wehave to have something to sacrifice. Even Jesus went off by himself or withfriends for renewal. He wasn’t always at everyone’s beck and call. Do you taketime every day for myself? Even if it’s reading the paper with a cup ofcoffee or spending an extra 2 minutes in the shower, it’s important to give myself permission to have a slice of the day.

Family: This is a tough one for most of us because it never seems like we aregiving our families enough time or enough quality time. I really struggle with this because my mother is in hospice and while she is slowly making her journey to the end of life, it is a slow journey. Nevertheless, I often fell that I should be with her 24/7, even though that simply isn't possible.

I wish I could offer you a neat formula for achieving these balances,but like the off-center fulcrum that I knew was still workable, finding thatbalance is something you have to do for yourself.

Just like I have to do.

Catching Healing

2012-01-19T15:06:00.000-08:00

I came home last night to a cold house, two very hungry cats (who have continual access to dry food, but really only consider wet food worth eating) and a massive allergy attack. At the time I wasn't quite sure if I was coming down with a cold, since I had the proverbial chills/fever/runny nose or just a very nasty allergy from something.

I had several things I had to do, like feed the beasts and cook some chicken breasts before they spoiled, so I wasn't able to head immediately to bed. When I finally got upstairs, I was downright sick. No SICK!! I curled up in bed, feeling perfectly miserable and feeling perfectly justified in my misery.

But somewhere in the middle of the night, 2 a.m. I think it was, I remembered what a good friend,best-selling author Lauraine Snelling always says, "Never say you are getting sick. Say you are catching healing." So I told myself, "You are catching healing. You are feeling better. You are feeling fine."

I didn't feel particularly fine and I didn't feel particularly healthy. But I clutched my box of kleenex, put the cool cloth on my head and the hot water bottle on my feet and went to sleep.

This morning, I feel somewhat better.
I am catching healing.

Patron Saint of my Year

2012-01-18T07:00:00.000-08:00

Several people (forgive me if I don't name them all) recommended this Patron Saint Generator to me. Now I've spent a good deal of my career writing about saints and I have a few special favorites, but the idea of randomly being assigned a saint for the year appealed to both my hagiographic and my geek side.

So I'm writing this in one browser window as I get ready to click the button in another.

And the winner, er, patron is.....

St. Elizabeth Ann Seton

She is the patron against In-Law Problems; against the Death of Children; against the Death of Parents; People Ridiculed for Their Piety and widows.

I almost chuckled when her name came up because in my upcoming book I write about her struggle with finances and this past year has been a financial struggle for me, as it has for a lot of people.
One of the things I wrote about her was:

A final lesson from Elizabeth’s life might be categorized asa cross between a warning and an encouragement. Earlier we talked about howsometimes our suffering can be self-generated. Even saints aren’t immune fromthis. At least some of St. Elizabeth’s financial woes were created because shewent against her own better judgment. When the doctor suggested a trip to Italymight help William’s failing health, Elizabeth had her doubts, but she sold alltheir possessions anyway. Had she not done so, had they not made the voyage,her life might not have had as many financial stresses. However, “we know thatGod causes all things to work together for good to those who love God, to thosewho are called according to his purpose” (Romans 8:28), and had she not madethe voyage, she might never have converted, never have founded the Sisters ofCharity and never have become a saint.
Her example can be a comfort to those of us who have madeinopportune financial decisions; even in the midst of our trials and suffering,blessings can still emerge. We may have to endure the consequences andsubsequent pain that results from our choices, but, in Elizabeth’s words, “Weknow certainly that our God calls us to a holy life. We know that he gives usevery grace, every abundant grace; and though we are so weak of ourselves, thisgrace is able to carry us through every obstacle and difficulty."

Even finances.

Lessons of Loneliness Part Deux

2012-01-17T07:00:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I talked about how, in this past year, I have become, inexplicably and unwantedly (Not sure that's a word, but it should be...) visited by the spectre of loneliness and its conjoined twin, fear. Since I wrote that article, an interesting thing has happened. Nefer, the ever clever escape artist, has been right at my side. When I least expect it, he reaches out his paw and pats me on the cheek. Just a little pat, no claws. As if to say, "How can you be lonely when you have MEEEE????" I have to admit that it makes me chuckle just a bit. But it also makes me wonder just how sentient animals are. Certainly they can be empathetic, as Nefer is proving.

On the other hand, Basti couldn't care less. "Food? You gonna give me wet food? Or do I have to keep searching in these darn bags for something yummy?"

Havng said that, because I both try to learn lessons from the events of my life as well as be aware of the synchronicities, the little miracles, that happen, I want to share one more thing from the past 24 hours.

During the GSA (Great Sewage Adventure), I had to dismantle a bookcase that I thought contained mostly lives of the saints and books on writing. (I don't know about you, but I don't cull my bookshelves nearly often enough and so sometimes there are books lurking that I don't know I have.) The books were stacked on a sofa and I decided that perhaps I could use the sofa to actually sit on, so I began putting the books back on the shelves.

As I did, I found a slender, brown book that I remembered from my childhood. I don't remember my mother reading it, but since the copyright is 1954, it had to be hers. I sort of vaguely recalled reading parts of it when I was in my 20s and going through a rough patch, but I had forgotten about it. Now here it was again--My Daily Bread by Anthony Paone, S.J. Apparently it has been in print all these years and I just happen to own a first edition. (Woo Hoo!)

My Daily Bread is a set of daily readings on various topics intended to inspire and guide one in listening to and following the words of the Christ. It's divided into several sections such as Conversion, After Conversion, Temptation and Bad Habits. Each section consists of a meditation written in the first person as if Christ were speaking to you, a brief reflection and a prayer.

The ribbon bookmark was still in place, so I decided to open to that section and see what it had to say. I was a little surprised, but not completely, to see that it was on fear, loneliness's conjoined twin. In part it read: (Many) do not think with their intelligence, but with their feelings...they are slaves of their fears...." The prayer of the day added, "Let me not offend you by a lack of confidence. I trust in you. I will do my best to remedy whatever difficulties arise, but whatever be the results of my efforts, I will accept them as your holy will."

Somehow the message from that little book from my past seems very appropriate advice for my future.

Learning Lessons of Loneliness

2012-01-16T11:42:00.000-08:00

I've never felt lonely. Growing up as an only child in the country in Montana, I suppose I could have felt alone, but I never did. I never felt lonely, even after my divorce and my son's going away to college. I never minded going out to eat alone, seeing a movie alone, going to the theater, shopping, walking, traveling alone.

But in this past year, my year of debridement, I became acutely and painfully lonely. The spectre didn't just knock on the door. It broke the door down, tossed its bags on the floor and camped out. I was continually aware that I was alone. Day and night. Every day and every night.

And, concomitant with loneliness, came its conjoined twin--fear. Things I'd never thought about before became frightening. For instance, going up in the attic. Should I have an accident, I might not be discovered for days, even weeks. Making sure I had my cell phone with me at all times suddenly became paramount. At least I could call 911!

Loneliness penetrated other areas as well. It became painful instead of pleasurable to go to a movie and sit in the dark by myself. Same for going out to eat or shopping. And a hike alone in the wilderness held no appeal. Even going to church brought no comfort. I would go Sunday after Sunday and not have one single soul speak to me. Eventually, it became easier to just leave early rather than be constantly reminded of just how alone I was.

I have done all the "right" things to combat loneliness--become involved in activities, reach other to others, make connections, plan ahead. But underneath it all is still the constant awareness that I am alone...and lonely.

Now this is the place where I'm supposed to tell you about some incredible turn of events, perhaps talk about how I realized that I was never alone in the presence of God. How I was overcome by the light. Blah Blah Blah. The fact is: No miracle has occurred. I'm not suddenly dancing in the joy of the presence of the Lord. For the first time in my life, my default position is to be lonely.

However, what has happened is that I am willing to sit and observe the loneliness. Recognize her for what she is. Let her simply be a part of my life. Give her a name. Let her sit on my chair and drink my tea. Ask her why she has come. Listen for her answer.

Apparently there are still some lessons I need to learn...and loneliness is one of my teachers. I just hope and pray that I can learn her lesson and incorporate her wisdom into my life soon.

I am Grateful--Sunday Gratitude

2012-01-15T14:07:00.000-08:00

What are you grateful for this Sunday?

I am grateful:

1. For a flock of robins that hopped and pranced on my lawn, looking for earthworms. I counted at least six, the most I've ever seen at one time.

2. For pumpkin spice latte.

3. For a bargain matinee price to see the movie Hugo which, incidentally, is a mystical and magical meander through time, both literally and figuratively. Well worth seeing.

4. For Words with Friends and especially for having finally won a round!

5. For being on the right side of the winter solstice, with the days getting longer minute by minute.

6. For a pellet stove when the temperature is below freezing

7. For Nefer and Basti, even though they do drive me crazy at times.

8. For chocolate. Some things are always on the list.

9. For Bach Flower Remedies. (I'll have to write about them soon.)

10. For the promise of a new day, no matter how many struggles there have been in this one.

Criticizing Saints and John Carter of Mars

2012-01-14T07:00:00.000-08:00

I just saw a trailer for the upcoming Disney movie on John Carter of Mars, which excited me to no end. I totally loved the original novels, which were my introduction to classic Fantasy Sci Fi. I've been waiting for years for the books to be adapted to film. I think there was some horrible, cheezy version, but they really needed modern CG to make Barsoom come alive. Incidentally, the original novels were written by Edgar Rice Burroughs of Tarzan fame.

While the plot and the characters of the books held up extremely well, even after 100 years (They were first published in 1912.), certain underlying societal attitudes fare less well. Some of the language, especially in reference to Native Americans (you have to read the books to figure out how Native Americans figure into a story about Mars!), is racist by today's standards. And, although the books do a remarkable job of seeing beyond skin color for their time, there is a subtle undercurrent of superiority that still flows through the ink (or electronic pulses, since I reread them on my Kindle).

Which brings me to saints. In particular, the criticism of saints from our modern vantage. A couple of days ago, I quoted a bit from my upcoming book on another way to view Mother Teresa's apparent lack of modern painkillers in his homes for the dying, saying that one has to understand where she comes from with regard to suffering before you judge too harshly.

This is a problem with many saints. A lot of them would not fare well in today's world. For instance, St. Rose of Lima would probably be under psychiatric care for her propensity to self-mutilate. Others were accepting of norms we reject today, like slavery. Still others were so single-minded in their pursuit of the Divine, they were socially inept and even rude at times (the Cure of Ars, comes to mind.)

As we look at these people through our own lenses, we can be tempted to decide that they weren't really all that holy. But we have to remember that they were living in their own time and place. We need to judge them, not by our standards, but by the standards they judged themselves.

Just as the John Carter stories need to be judged by the standards of the turn of the last century and appreciated for what they are, not what they should be today.

The Wonder of Facebook

2012-01-13T07:00:00.000-08:00

I think everyone has moments when they think "It wasn't like that when I was a kid..." With the world changing as quickly as it has, even people born 20 years ago can say it and mean it.

One of my favorite changes is social networking. I really love Facebook, not just because it allows me to pretend I'm being productive when all I'm really doing is reading other people's walls, but because it affords a way of connecting that was never available before.

Through Facebook, I've found two people I've wondered about since I was in high school. I had lost track of one when we were freshmen and her family moved from California to the East coast. Another I never saw again after graduation. But both flickered in and out of my mind over the years and with the help of Facebook, I was able to reconnect. It felt almost like a miracle.

And through Facebook, I've been able to dialog with people I'd probably never have a chance to meet in my "real" life, like authors Anne Rice and Fr. James Martin, as well as people from all over the world. Because of Facebook, I was able to get real time pictures of the revolution in Egypt when it happened, for instance.

The reason I'm mentioning this today is because of my 2012 commitment to becoming more aware of things to be grateful for in my life. Who would have known that a social network site on the internet would become such a major source of thanks?

But it has.

And it is.

The Legacy of Mother Teresa

2012-01-12T07:00:00.000-08:00

Recently on Facebook, noted author Anne Rice linked a Forbes article about Mother Teresa and allegations of less than sterling care provided by her houses and sisters. Thiis controversy really isn't new; The medical journal Lancet wrote something similar several years ago. While I haven't devoted time or energy to determining the validity of these pieces, I did write a chapter on Mother Teresa in my upcoming book Facing Adversity with Grace. (I've also written a book of her quotes, linked to bible verses called Listening to God with Mother Teresa.)

In the upcoming book on Adversity, I wrote:

As we look at the life of Mother Teresa, there something elseabout her attitude toward suffering that we need to examine, a feature that hasgenerated some criticism from her detractors and that is her so-called“theology of suffering.” It was widely claimed in the medical press thatbecause she believed ‘the most beautiful gift for a person (is) that he canparticipate in the sufferings of Christ,”[1]she did not do as much as she could to procure medical treatment for those inher Homes for the Dying and even subjected the patients to such practices ascold baths and the withholding of pain medication.
Whether or not they are true, these accusations remind usthat saints are recognized for their passionate love of God, not for theirinfallibility. In looking at Mother Teresa’s life and the mental suffering sheexperienced, it isn’t difficult to see why she might have developed aparticular theology that almost relishes suffering. She knew that she wasoffering her entire life to God as a gift and she also knew that she was ingreat mental anguish for most of it. She had to also have been aware that her“dark night” was like that of John of the Cross who, as an antidote to thepain, recommended, “Do the most difficult, the harshest, the less pleasant, theunconsoling, the lowest and most despised, want nothing, look for the worst”[2]for she clearly modeled her life and that of her sisters on that credo.
The problem is that one of the greatest temptations for allof us to assume that our personal experience is universal. We tend togeneralize from our specific experiences. This may be what happened with MotherTeresa. Since she experienced her suffering as a blessing, it’s not hard toimagine she believed that similar suffering it would bring blessings toeveryone. Because she was able to transform her pain into a love offering toGod, it’s not out of the question to think she might assume that would be equallytrue for everyone else.
From believing that suffering is a great gift that you cangive to God, it’s a very small step to wanting to make sure that others haveample opportunity to give that same gift to God. Thus, Mother Teresa might wellhave had an aversion to painkillers and a desire to implement stringentself-disciplinary practices in order to insure that the people she served weregiven ample opportunities to offer up their pain just as she did.
Here is where we can use Mother Teresa, not so much as anexample of what we should do, but as a caution against what we might be temptedto do. God deals with each of us as individuals, including the suffering thathe allows in our lives. We should be wary of extrapolating our uniqueexperience into a generality for all people. Mother Teresa was a remarkableicon of holiness for our time. But she was also human and subject to assumingthat the way God dealt with her was the way he deals with all people. This isnot to say that her desire to offer up suffering was bad. It isn’t. In fact,offering up pain is one of the major lessons we can learn from the saints. Butit’s not our job to see that others have a chance to suffer in order to offerup that suffering. What that means on a practical level in our own families isthat while we may undertake certain disciplines (such as rising early forprayer or fasting), it’s not our right to insist that our spouses or childrenshare those disciplines. All suffering, both that allowed by God and thatcreated by our own choices, is always unique to the individual. Because ofthat, we have no right to try to “help” others find ways to suffer. Restassured, they will find ample opportunity on their own.

[1] http://www.mukto-mona.com/Articles/mother_teresa/sanal_ed.htm

[2] http://www.innerexplorations.com/chmystext/stquotes.htm,op. cit.

Are We Ready for a President Mittens?

2012-01-10T18:08:00.000-08:00

In the nation's first primary, Mitt Romney took New Hampshire. Rather he will be the GOP candidate or not is still a long ways off, but what's really essential to know is that 2% of voters nationwide think his first name is....

MITTENS!!

According a 60 Minutes/Vanity Fair poll, a 20 percent plurality of us thought that "Mitt" was his real name and not a glove-like nickname. 18 percent said "Mitchell"; 8 percent, Milton; and only 6 percent correctly said "Willard." But the most important stat from the survey is that somehow, in some way, 2 percent of real-life adult voting Americans believe that his name is "Mittens."

AND....Another 2 percent thought his name was "Gromit." As in, apparently the cartoon characters Wallace and Gromit.(Given the state of American politics, perhaps a cartoon isn't so far off after all.)

However, as the article points out, any of the above are better than the connotations associated with Newt Gingrich. Who was born Newton Leroy McPherson. I'm not sure that Leroy is much better than Newt, to be honest.

(I think the lesson here is to be careful what you name your children. Oh, and Mitt's real first name, Willard, is that of a horror film about a rat. Perhaps he is better off with the image of nice, warm, fuzzy hand-coverings.)

Serious ponderings will resume tomorrow.

Coping with Fear

2012-01-10T07:00:00.000-08:00

One of the unexpected effects of my last year was the decidedly unwelcome visitor of fear. As in heart-pounding, mind-swirling panic. As an adolescent, I had experienced panic attacks, and again, but I had, erroneously, assumed that they were part of the past. When the first one came, it was an old familiar and most unwanted guest.The only good part about it was that I knew what it was, so I didn't have the "second fear" that often accompanies the physical sensations. I knew that it wasn't fatal, wasn't going to last forever and I even knew what steps to take to mitigate it.

However, fear still entered through the door, dropped its coat on my couch and sat down for a long visit. In fact, it still pops up now and then, as if to remind me that it hasn't quite gone south for the winter.

I've researched fear and panic from psychological, physical, mental and spiritual perspectives and I still don't completely understand what causes it. I understand the biological changes, the adrenalin surge and all that. I comprehend the erroneous thinking patterns that create F(alse) E(evidence)A(pppearing)R(eal). And I get that fear is the antithesis of love. But I'm still not quite sure why it would surge back at this time in my life. Or, more precisely, why I would be allowing it to return.

The only thing I can figure out is that, in its presence, I am being forced to take a long, hard look at my life. Fear is like a scalpel, laying bare what was under the surface. It is making me examine what I was doing and face the fact that a lot of it wasn't working. Oh, it appeared to be working and I had convinced myself and a lot of other people that it was working, but under the razor-edge of fear, I am having to face the fact that things have to change.

I have to change.

Now I'm still working on what those changes are and how to bring them into my life, but along the way I have figured out a few things about how to use fear and panic to facilitate change and not let them totally use me. I hope that perhaps my experience will help you, if you find these unwanted guests shoving their way into your life.

Keep Active
If you let fear and panic have their way, they will take over your entire life. Especially if you just sit around. When I feel them creeping up, I do something, even if it's just the dishes. A little activity goes a long way.

Don't Isolate

The more alone and isolate you are, the more fear and panic can grow. So force yourself to get out. Make a phone call. Visit a friend. Confide in someone you trust. If necessary, get professional help. Just don't let fear and panic be your only companions.

Find a Spiritual Practice that Works for You

For me, returning to some of the prayers and rituals of my Catholic childhood has provided a grounding. I don't know what will work for you, but I do know that reaching out for help from God has been a life-saver. Just believing that I am not alone in this, that there is a light on the other side and that I can find Divine guidance has given me the courage I need to get through the day.

Accept What Is

This is the toughest for me, but it is absolutely vital. Much of what creates my fear and panic is an unwillingness to accept the reality of the moment. I don't want my mother to be in hospice. I don't want to be looking for work. I don't want to be struggling financially. I don't want to be alone. But right now, the reality is that my mother is in hospice. I am looking for work. I do have financial issues. I am alone. The reality of the moment doesn't mean that the situation is permanent, but if I am to make changes, I have to accept what is right now.

Believe in Positive Change

I truly believe that we get what we believe in. As long as I believe that things are bad and going to get worse, that's what will happen. So each day, sometimes many times a day, I remind myself that each little step I take toward a more positive future is helping create that future. And with each positive change, a little bit of the fear gets replaced by a little bit of hope.

Angry Birds

2012-01-09T13:32:00.000-08:00

Most of the time I tend to be fairly serious, so I decided to lighten up a bit and try playing Angry Birds.

I hate to admit it, but I don't get the game. No, I understand that it's based on laws of physics and I comprehend the principles involved in judging trajectories and impact velocity. What I just don't get is why tossing irritated birds at green pigs is fun.

So what is the appeal?

Elder Care and an Anniversary

2012-01-09T07:00:00.000-08:00

I've been responsible for my mother for at least the past 12 years, with a couple of less-intense years before that. The care has steadily increased, as is always the case with eldercare, reaching what I thought was maximum velocity a year ago.

She was in an assisted living facility at the time. I got the call about 2 am. She had fallen and was taken by ambulance to the E.R. I drove through the deserted streets, that much I remember, and I know I had to have parked somewhere and gotten myself into the E.R., but that's all a blur. As are the next several days, with medical tests and decisions battering me from all directions.

She had broken both legs and, at 91, two doctors told me it would be a "terminal event" and wanted to know if I merely wanted her heavily sedated with morphine for the few days or weeks it would take for her to "pass." Knowing my mother, I was 100% sure that she would survive the surgery and go on to live for a long time. Seeing as how we are now approaching the one year anniversary of her fall, I feel fairly vindicated at the decision to have surgery and complete rehabilitation.

Wants vs Needs

The year of her recovery has been, however, a major contributing factor to my year of debridement. I have always had a difficult relationship with my mother. Not that we ever argued. Or that there was anything visible on the surface. I simply did whatever she wanted whenever she wanted my entire life. There was never any conflict, because she got her way in all things. Now, however, I couldn't give her what she wanted--which was a totally pain-free recovery with me at her side 24/7. And in realizing that I couldn't give her her wants, I became aware of my own needs. Actually, for the first time, I realized that I did have needs and they were just as important as everyone else's wants.

You'd think that by age I'd have learned that lesson, but I was raised with an incredibly strong mother who doled out equal doses of parental and Catholic guilt, heavily seasoned with Catholic teaching on the need for self-sacrifice. So it had to have been a God-thing, that just as I was becoming aware of my needs, I was writing a book on Facing Adversity with Grace, stories of saints who had to work through suffering.

Telling Myself Stories

I began the book just about the time she fell and I finished it just as she was leaving the nursing facility. I think if I had written the book any other time, it would have been a far different book, because as much as I was telling the stories of Mother Teresa and St. Helena, I was also teaching myself lessons about what suffering is, what it isn't and how it can either shape or destroy our lives. I just reread some of the passages and thought, "Hmmm...how is it that you knew these lessons but weren't really applying them?"

So now, on this mid-January morning, my mother is still alive and doing remarkably well. We are coming up on the anniversary of her fall, which is also an anniversary for--the anniversary of the day that I began to learn that self-sacrifice isn't self-immolation and that taking care of one's own needs isn't selfish--it's essential. Afterall, we have to have our own oxygen masks in place before we can assist others. For too many years, I tried to help others with their masks while holding my breath. And, as I said a couple of days ago, one of the major lessons I learned was that breathing is important to life!

Sunday Gratitude

2012-01-08T07:00:00.000-08:00

I've decided that on Sundays I'm going to simply list 10 things that I am grateful for during the past week. (Unless something really interesting happens and I feel compelled to write about it.)

So here goes:
1. A room of my own, as Virginia Wolfe said. A friend of mine gave me free use of an office in his building to start the new year. I'm hoping the separation of home and work, much like church and state, will help shift energy. I'm anxious to see what new doors creatively and emotionally can open.
2. Those who follow me on Facebook will know that over Christmas we had the GSD (Great Sewer Disaster). This week the soggy carpet was removed and new flooring put down.
3. I got to attend a two-year-old's birthday party. It's good to be reminded just how splendid balloons are.

4. A friend brought me a tuna fish sandwich for lunch. Sometimes it's the small things that make a difference.
5. There was sunshine a few days. Here in Oregon in winter, one doesn't take seeing the sun for granted.

6. My African violet bloomed. Since I have a black thumb, any plant that survives deserves a prize. Blooming is above and beyond the call.
7. I discovered Words with Friends. I've never been good at Scrabble and I have yet to win a game of WWF, but I'm enjoying the processing of regular loss.
8. I had one stick of rose incense left. It's my favorite, so to mark Sunday, I'm letting its fragrance fill the room.
9. I remembered to charge my cell phone before it totally ran out of energy.
10. 2011 is over. It's a new year. I am grateful to have made it through.

The Top 3 Things I Learned in 2011

2012-01-07T07:00:00.000-08:00

Okay, I'll be honest. 2011 sucked for me. Big time. As I said when I called it my Year in the Burn Unit, it was spent careening from one unpleasant experience to another. However, as I try to make sense of it, three lessons emerge.

Lesson Number One: Breathing is Important

As the year wore on, I found myself literally and figuratively holding my breath, waiting for the next bad thing to happen. This was not a good thing. For one, breathing is fairly essential to life. The brain needs oxygen to survive. Without it, one's thinking gets a bit screwy. But more than that, when you hold your breath figuratively, you fail to live in the present moment. You are either dwelling in the past or attempting to live in the future. In any event, you aren't fully present in the present. And the only place you can actually live in is the now. So in this year, I am focused on trying to remember to keep breathing, no matter what happens.

Lesson Number Two: One Moment at a Time

This is definitely related to Lesson Number One. When things were really tough I realized that if I just took things one minute at a time, I could get through it. Sometimes I literally had to say to myself, "You are okay right now. You are okay right now. You are okay right now" to manage. I learned that no matter what is happening, as long as I am still alive, I am okay in this precise exact moment. Now there may be an individual moment sometime in my future when I won't be okay, but so far I haven't found it. So even when I am feeling panicky or fearful or despairing, as long as I take a step inward and remember that I am okay at this minute minute, I really am okay.

Lesson Number Three: I Can Control My Reaction

I suffered under the illusion that I could control things for many years. This past year, I realized that I can't control squat. Maybe even less than squat. The only thing I can control is my reaction to what is happening. And along with that, I finally figured out that I do have control over my reactions. They don't just happen without me. In fact, events themselves don't have any inherent goodness or badness attached to them (most of the time. Genocide, murder, etc are a different category.) For instance, if I spill coffee on my blouse in the morning, is that a bad thing? Only if I think it is so and allow it to ruin my day. It can be anything from a minor blip to a big honking deal...it's all in how I look at it and how I react to it. So after last year, I'm trying to be in control of my reactions and not let them control me.

Interestingly, in researching Facing Adversity with Grace, these lessons are some that I realized the saints applied to their own lives. Saints aren't all that different from you and me in what happens to them. The differences come because they have learned to live in the present (while considering, but not worrying about the future or trying to relive the past) and in controlling their reactions. In the midst of everything that happens to them, they are able to make their reaction one of thanks IN and not FOR.

Which probably should be Lesson Number Four: Remember to be Thankful IN all things. Maybe that's the most important lesson of all!

Small Change(s) and Many Magi

2012-01-05T22:03:00.000-08:00

I don't do change well. People who know me say that I cling to the status quo until my fingers turn numb. Now I don't think I do that...exactly...but I will admit that I don't approach change with anything resembling enthusiasm.

However, today, on Epiphany, there is one change that intrigues me. In November, religion scholar and expert in ancient languages, Brent Landau Th.D, provided the first English translation of an ancient Syriac manuscript that was in the Vatican library about the Magi.

The manuscript, discovered in Turkey and written on vellum (a kind of parchment made of animal skin which I had a chance to see when I visited Turkey last fall), had languished in the Vatican since the 18th century.

What's interesting about the account is that instead of the traditional three Wise Men, the new research indicates that there might have been as many as 40 and instead of coming from some nearby Middle Eastern country, they may have journeyed as far as from China.

The USA Today story on the topic reports:

Landau's book, Revelation of the Magi: The Lost Tale of the Wise Men's Journey to Bethlehem (HarperOne) describes the Magi as an ancient mystical sect descended from Seth, the pious and virtuous third son of Adam and Eve. From Seth they inherited a prophecy of "a star of indescribable brightness" someday appearing and "heralding the birth of God in human form." This same star had initially hovered over the Tree of Life in the Garden of Eden.
Among the book's other revelations:
•The Magi are described as coming from a land called Shir, "located in the extreme east of the world, at the shore of the Great Ocean." In other ancient texts, Shir is referred to "as a place where silk comes from," says Landau, suggesting that the references were to China.
•In Syriac, the word Magi means "to pray in silence." Landau says it has no relationship to magicians or astrologers, sometimes cited in stories today.
•The text names 12 Magi, not three, while other parts of the text suggest that "a group the size of a small army" traveled to Bethlehem, says Landau.

Gives a whole new slant on the Christmas story, doesn't it?

5 Ways to Practice Gratitude

2012-01-05T07:00:00.000-08:00

One of the things I learned during this past year was that gratitude doesn't come naturally to me. Perhaps just as some people are filled with the milk of human kindness, others are filled with the wine of gratitude, but I'm not.

However, I have discovered 5 ways to learn how to be more grateful each day.

1. Be attentive

When I drift through life, not really paying attention to what's going on, I miss many of the small things that make up daily gratitudes. For example, as I sit here this morning, the sun has emerged from hiding, something it does frequently in Oregon winters, and is illuminating the yard with gold. If I didn't stop and look outside, I would have missed this moment for gratitude. And trust me, it won't last long in Oregon, land of the grey drizzle.

2. Write it down

I always think that I'll remember from day to day, but once I go to bed, I promptly forget everything I might have been grateful for the day before. I have to write down what I've noticed or it will evaporate forever. So each night, before I turn off the light, I simply jot down two or three things in a simple journal. Nothing fancy, no elaboration, just "Sunlight on the deck this morning" or "Call from a friend."

3. Think small

I don't always have big, huge, ginornous things to be grateful for each day and I doubt you do either. After all, we can only get our dream job, take a once-in-lifetime trip, fall in love now and then. However, every day has something in it that can create gratitude...as long as we are willing to think small. A cup of coffee with just the right amount of cream. Clothes fresh from the dryer. (No trying to dry on a rack in front of the heater.) A cuddle with the cat. If you shift your focus from the macro to the micro, there is always something to be grateful for.

4. Keep looking

There have been times when I honestly didn't think there was anything to be grateful for. Those were the days when I didn't allow myself to go to sleep until I found one thing, even if it was just that I had survived another day.Through that process I learned that there is always something, no matter how minute, that I can be grateful for, even in the midst of the worst times.

5. Make a commitment
If you want to find things to be grateful for, you need to find things to be grateful for. In other words, you need to commit to making gratitude a part of your daily life. It's a little like brushing your teeth. You have to do it every day,

Thankful IN, not FOR

2012-01-04T07:00:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I said that I felt 2011 was my year in a life burn unit. As I reflected, I realized that it was very much like having my entire life debrided of those things that weren't authentic, weren't on focus for my purpose in life. I had spent many years, too many, putting aside and putting off those things that a small still voice had encouraged me to do. Instead I did things that I thought were expected of me...and, to be honest, a lot of them were expected of me and a lot of them were actually good things to do. But I had buried that little voice so deeply I could no longer even recognize it when it was shouting. So that's why I think I had to have my life debrided. All the things I thought I could count on, that I had taken for granted (and not necessarily in a good way) had to be painfully scraped away until I was left, raw and bleeding emotionally and psychically. I learned what it felt like to stand on the brink of what used to be called a nervous breakdown, and it was not a place I would wish on anyone.

But somehow, through a combination of grace and friends and prayer, I have managed to step back from the edge. It's still close, but not as close it was just a few months ago. I knew things were getting better when I finally sorted my socks. Now that might not sound like a big thing, but for months I just stuffed the socks in a basket, and searched for pair or something that appeared to be pain-like when I needed socks. When I actually took the time to find the mates and put them back in the drawer where they belonged, a mundane act if ever there was one, I realized that maybe things were improving. (No, this isn't my drawer, but I think I have that many socks.)

As I said, I'm still en pointe a lot of the time, but with the new year, I'm feeling the touch of "the thing with feathers That perches in the soul," as Emily Dickinson calls it. One of the things that has helped is to make a concerted effort to tell a friend about the abundances, the blessings that have occurred each day. Even when the day was at its worst, I knew that I had to find something to send her in an email, even if the something was as simple as "I made it through another day without feeling like panicking."

It wasn't always easy because, for a long time, most of my life to be honest, I misunderstood 1 Thessalonians 5:18 (in everything give thanks; for this is God's will for you in Christ Jesus). I thought it meant that we were supposed to be happy about everything that happened. Woo Hoo, I got a flat tire! Yippee, I was just fired. YES!! I've just gotten really sick. YEAH God, this is so cool!

I couldn't understand how anyone was supposed to feel floods of joy and happiness resulting in an outpouring of thanksgiving when bad things were happening. In the course of writing about saints and adversity, I came to realize that even the saints weren't always tickled to death about bad things. And I realized that I had been misreading the bible verse all these years.

We don't have to give thanks FOR all things...only IN all things. Big difference. God doesn't expect us to be all starry-eyed with joy when life batters us with pain and suffering. God would be sadistic and we'd be masochistic if that were the case. What we are asked to do is to find the good in the bad, the blessing in the midst of the pain, the happiness in amongst the sorrow. It's sort of like seeing the flowers amid the weeds. Or maybe seeing that the weeds themselves are flowers.

It isn't easy to do, but I've found it is possible. Take last year, for instance. It began in January with the axle breaking on my car---while I was driving it.While I certainly didn't give thanks for the break or the repair or the inconvenience of it all, I am finally able to be thankful that I noticed something was wrong just as I was driving by the dealership repair shop. I turned in and had they look at it right that moment. Had I driven even a few more yards--or attempted to get on the freeway--I would have been in a serious accident with a high potential of injury or death. So now, looking back, I can say that I found something to be thankful for in the midst of it all.

It's taken me some time to absorb the lessons, but as I wrote in the introduction to Facing Adversity with Grace:

I firmly and absolutely believe that God does not want us to suffer, but wants us to liveabundant lives. While we all will experience some pain on our life journeys,becoming entrenched in suffering is not honoring God and it is not livingabundantly. So my hope for you is that as you read how the saints used theirsuffering, you will discover, not just words of spiritual consolation, butgenuine, practical measures that you can use in your daily life in order toeliminate unnecessary pain and to claim the abundant life God has promised eachone of us. After all, this life in the “vale of tears” may not always be easy,but it is always good!

So what have you found to be thankful for IN this day?

And for your Nefer/Basti update, I think Basti is channeling Spiderman here. He is one determined cat. He promises me that when he comes down, he'll resume his Dispatches from the Front. God save us all!!!

Debriding Life: A Burn Unit Kind of Year

2012-01-03T07:00:00.000-08:00

As many of you know, 2011 was probably the worst year of my life. As I was going over my daily planner in preparation for filing it away, I found myself mentally careening from one awful thing to the next. I thought about composing a sort of anti-Christmas letter for the New Year since I didn't send out Christmas cards, but it was just too depressing and negative to recall all the horrid events.

However, some of the lowlights included having the axle break on my car as I was driving it, Nefer destroying my laptop, my mother falling and breaking both legs, killing my beloved cat Hati by hitting her with my car, financial problems, illness, a second fall for mother, more financial problems and lack of free-lance work, visit to the ER with chest pains, house repair issues, the new laptop from January having its hard drive crash totally in November and finally to cap off the year, massive sewage problems over Christmas. Not to mention a few classic panic attacks in there...hence the visit to the ER.

This could just have been a series of unfortunate events a la Lemony Snicket, but there were so many this year wouldn't have been believable even as fiction. So I concluded that there must be some reason behind them all, something that I was attracting into my life and that God was permitting. In other words, I thought that the events might not all just be random, but there might actually be a purpose behind them.

As I reflected on my year, there were several times when I thought that death would be preferable to going on. But deep down, I knew that death really wasn't an option. Not only would it be incredibly selfish and unfair to those who care about me to prematurely opt out of life, I had a deadline for a book on facing adversity with grace. How would it look if someone who was trying to encourage people that suffering had meaning would give up on her own suffering. Very bad form, indeed. (Incidentally, the amazon page has the first cover. The new cover is much better and reflects the intent of the book much more clearly.) So I trudged through the year, feeling a bit like Dave Berry, who thought that 2011 was the kind of year that makes an oil slick look good.

That's when the image of a burn unit sprang to mind. I know that in order for a burn victim to heal, the wounds must be painfully debrided, a process that is, apparently, among the most excruciating procedures in medicine. All the old, unhealthy tissue has to be cut, scraped or chemically removed in order for new, healthy tissue to grow. Even with heavy-duty narcotics, the pain is almost unbearable.

And the really hard part is that the tissue that must be removed isn't necessarily infected. However, its mere presence makes it harder for the body to fight infection and creates pockets where infection can develop. So all the tissue has to be removed in order for the person to recover. It is literally a case of going through the pain or dying.

So, in order to try to make sense of what happened to me, I'm doing what all words-people do: write about it. For the next few days, I'm going to talk about some of the things that happened and try to share whatever lesson I might have learned from it with you in the hopes that perhaps my journey might lend you some insight into whatever adversity you might be going through in your own lives. Beginning tomorrow...there's only so much visiting adversity that I can face in a day.

One last thing--last year I followed the sad case of Fr. Corapi with what probably bordered on prurient interest. I just learned via Patrick Madrid that The BlackSheepDog has vanished from cyberspace. With all the scandals the Catholic church has faced recently, I hope that this story has a happy and holy ending.

Touching History

2012-01-02T07:00:00.000-08:00

I edit the Archaeology Audio News for the Archaeology Channel and one of the funner (yes, that's a word. I may have just made it up, but it's now a word.) aspects is when we have the occasional story that deals with biblical archaeology.

This week, we had a piece about a rare clay seal discovered under the Western Wall in Jerusalem that the report says:

was likely used by Temple officials approving an object for ritual use — oil, perhaps, or an animal intended for sacrifice. Materials used by Temple priests had to meet stringent purity guidelines stipulated in detail in the Jewish legal text known as the Mishna, which also mention the use of seals as tokens by pilgrims.

What makes this seemingly insignificant piece of play so amazing is that it is one of the very few objects that can be traced to the Temple that Jesus attended since the Temple was thoroughly destroyed by the Romans in 70 AD.

In another life, I would have been an archaeologist. I love seeing artifacts that link us concretely and really (in the sense of being real) to the past. Knowing that someone who lived and loved and fear and prayed and laughed and ate and did all the things that we do made this little seal 2000 years ago compresses history into something I can actually grasp.

That's why one of my greatest treasures is an exact museum copy of the Venus of Willendorf given to me by a professor friend. Granted, she's not much to look at,

but what amazes me about her is how she fits in the hand. When you hold her, she cradles into the palm and your fingers fit precisely in what would have been the wet clay of her back. But not just any hand fits. Venus fits comfortably in a small hand, like the hand of a woman. No man who has picked her up says she nestles within his fingers, but every women holds her and for a moment, there is a flicker of recognition that this figurine was probably made by another woman.

That's the sort of thing that I find extremely cool...and yes, funner!

2011-12-28T15:28:00.001-08:00

It's been some time (as in years) since I have written on this, but with a new year...and a new website getting ready to be launched in 2012, I decided that January 1 would be a good day to make a fresh start.

This is, what the title says, my reflections on Ordinary Time, both the liturgical season and the regular days of life. The things that capture my attention, attract my curiosity, make me wonder and hopefully make me laugh.

The adventures of the Royal Pair, Bastet and Nefer, will be featured and, if I'm lucky, Dispatches from Front, their continual attempts to escape the imprisonment of the house, will appear now and then.

I figure there will be some news, some links, some reflections and a general glimpse into my world. I hope you will be joining me for life, if it isn't an adventure, isn't worth living at all!

2008-08-15T19:44:00.000-07:00

Blackberry Time

When you hear the word "blackberry" and you are under 25, you automatically think of this:

However, I am not under 25, so when I think "blackberry," I envision this:

On the side of my house, where the woodpile should be covered in a tarp so that the cherry tree I cut down will dry into lovely hard wood for the fireplace, I have blackberry vines. They snarl and tangle and weave their way through the split and unsplit wood, their thorns creating a barricade worth of Sleeping Beauty's Prince.
I considered cutting them back, but then I realized I had waited so long they had begun to fruit. Big black goblets swaying in the hot summer night breeze. I pulled off one, popped it in my mouth and felt the succulent scent of summer on my tongue. For a moment, I was 10, and I was picking blackberries alongside the railroad tracks near my grandmother's house. I pulled off another and another and another until my fingers were stained with their juice. I did it then and I did it now.

Dusk was falling, but I wasn't willing for the moment to end, so I went back in the house, brought out a small bowl and proceeded to fill it. As the deep purple berries plunked one on top of the other, I felt drawn back in time, not just to my own childhood, but into the far distant past where generations of hunter/gatherers collected berries in the fullness of summer.

I was doing what women had done for tens of thousands of years. Collecting the bounty of the earth. And eating it. One for the bowl, one for my mouth. I'm sure they did the same thing, gorging themselves on the ripe fruit even as they gathered it for the rest of the group waiting back at the camp.

It seems only fair. When you are the one getting scratched and pricked by the cat claws that cover the vines you should be able to eat as many as you want.

So I did. And there still were enough to put in the refrigerator for breakfast tomorrow.

2008-07-08T20:43:00.000-07:00

Discussion Question

Okay, time for discussion question and no, it's not just to see if anyone is out there reading this. Although that would be nice to know, too.

The question is: Do any of you feel the same way?

Now, the set up. I was trained that you finish what you start. Anything less isn't worth doing. So if you start to clean the kitchen, you clean the kitchen. You don't quit when there still are dishes in the dishwasher to be put away, even if they are just barely dry. A task started must be completed or else you've somehow failed.

This method worked moderately well before I got some health issues. Now it's just plain not possible. And so when I do as much as I can, it never seems like it's good enough. I hear a tape that plays, "Okay, so you got one flower bed weeded; there are five more waiting, you slacker."

Do any of you experience anything similar?
If so, how do you deal with it?

2008-07-07T22:06:00.001-07:00

By Any Other Name

If I had known the word at the time and because I love puns, I'd have called this blog "Catholicon." (Although I think there is another blog by the name, referring to Catholic and icons. But that's not what I was thinking.)

I would have been thinking about this:
Maybe this:Probably not this:

But it does give a clue as to the inner workings of my warped mind.

2008-07-06T23:30:00.000-07:00

Yard Work Redux

I am beginning to think that I will never be enamored of yard work. In any way, shape or form. Except maybe dead-heading flowers. I might enjoy carrying a basket, wearing a bonnet and plucking a few faded blooms.

However, that is not the kind of yard work I had to do today.

Today I had to haul hoses.

Make a pilgrimage to Mecca to return a hose I didn't need.
Plant some petunias that were on their last leaf.

Leaf blow the patio.Demoss the deck.

I didn't get it all done. But I made progress. In my next life, I'm having a gardener.

2008-07-03T18:48:00.000-07:00

It's my blog and I'll share if I want to

I've been writing a novel off and on for years. Something like 16 years actually. Since I resurrected my blog, I've resurrected the novel as well. So I thought I'd put up the first chapter, just for shits and giggles as my ex-husband used to say.

Amarana
Innundation

"What about that one?" Smenkeret pointed to the center of the crowded courtyard where a dusky, almond-eyed slave was being led toward the auction block by Paneb, the only son of Imanut, the slave trader.

The Lady Anefereti, daughter of the royal scribe Khnumhotep and, by virtue of being a half-sister of the Pharaoh’s Great Wife, a blood member of the royal household, raised one delicately plucked brow. "Surely you jest."

"She appears to be in good shape," Smenkeret said to his mistress. "Strong. Healthy. Young," he continued evenly.

"Indeed." Anefereti slanted her tall steward a sideways glance, but he had turned to watch the scene in the courtyard.

She watched in bemusement as the slave trader’s son desperately tried to act as if this weren't the first time his father had entrusted him with the responsibility of bringing a slave onto the block. It was no easy feat for a lad who still worn the sidelock of youth for, despite the rope tied tightly around her neck, the slave managed to swing her hips seductively as she crossed the dusty yard. Her only item of clothing, an ornate girdle of blue and red faience beads riding low on her slim waist did nothing to hide her obvious assets and a low whistle of admiration circled the crowd of browsers, gawkers and possible buyers.

Anefereti had had dealings with Imanut before. He was the most respectable, honorable and honest slave trader in the entire city of Amarna by his own account, and the biggest cheat in the whole of the Red and Black Lands by everyone else's. He was also well known for selling attractive slaves; a fact he was not averse to proclaiming loudly and frequently to anyone who would listen. Of course he sold them for much more than they were actually worth, but what were a few bushels of wheat more (never less where Imanut was concerned) when beauty was at stake, he always said.

Just as the boy began to climb the three steps of the granite auction block, the slave whom rumor had it had been reluctantly returned when her last master’s wife gave him an ultimatum along the lines of if-she-doesn't-go-I-will-and-remember-just-whose-money-set-you-in-your-business, planted her feet in the fine red dust at the bottom of the steps and waited. The boy reached the second step and almost lost his balance when the rope pulled taut. Clearly, it was the opportunity the woman had been waiting for. She widened her stance, thrusting her hips suggestively forward and refused to budge. The boy looked down at her and his cheeks flushed. He rocked from side to side, finally turning toward his father.

Anefereti nudged Smenkeret and pointed toward Imanut. “I’ll bet he’s trying to cheat that man out of an extra roll of linen.” Just then, Imanut kicked one of the rolls behind his omnipresent jar of beer and began loudly claiming that the buyer had cheated him.

The seconds stretched; the crowd held its collective breath and the boy, after blowing out his breath in a loud sigh, sagged his shoulders and shouted to his father. Imanut, having been convinced by the buyer’s bodyguards that he had already received more than twice as much linen as the last slave had been worth, was leaning over to take a draught of beer.

Imanut spat out the mouthful of warm liquid and hoisted his ponderous frame from the well-padded bench he always placed in the shade between buildings, scattering crumbs of bread from his once-white robe as he did. Grabbing the prod he used for herding cattle and slaves, he scuttled across the courtyard with surprising speed for one so fat and jabbed the woman in her shapely rear, hard enough to make her yelp, but not hard enough to injure her. Imanut never marred his merchandize..

Smenkeret chuckled under his breath and Aneferiti shot him a disapproving glance. Why do men always find such things amusing, she wondered. How would he like it if someone jabbed him in a delicate area?

She watched as the slave woman resisted a last moment, muttered a curse under her breath, then gave in and mounted the steps so quickly the boy staggered and almost lost his balance. In a show of what appeared to be embarrassed bravado, he swaggered to the edge of the block, tied his end of the rope to the ring on the auction post with a flourish and jumped down, raising a thick cloud of red dust where he landed. Imanut watched, a self-satisfied grin crinkling his pudgy face. The slave glowered at the trader, cranked her head around to see the small, raised welt where she'd been poked and then massaged the spot with her long, thin fingers. For the second time, a whistle of admiration flowed through the crowd.

Imanut pointed his prod toward the slave and began his spiel. "This one's been well trained in domestic service in one of the Empire's finest households and will make an excellent servant," he said. The slave, who had been well trained, but clearly not in the domestic arts and hardly in one of the finest households, scanned the crowd, catching the eye of a young scribe. Once he was staring unabashedly at her, she lowered her thick, black lashes and let the tip of her tongue ever-so-briefly flicker over her full lips. It was obvious to anyone watching that the pasty-faced scribe had decided he had to make her a part of his household no matter what the cost. "I believe she's had musical training as well," Imanut continued, having observed the exchange between the woman and the scribe. "Do I have an offer?"

"Are you going to bid on her?" Smenkeret turned to ask blandly, idly stroking his thick, closely cropped black beard.

The Lady Anefereti narrowed her kohl-rimmed lids and scowled. "I'm not looking for an addition to the harem. I'm looking for a maid." Straightening her shoulders, she brushed an invisible bit of lint from the deeply pleated sleeves of her white linen tunic before continuing. "If I didn't know better, I'd swear you were a stallion instead of a gelding," she whispered sharply.

"There are always memories," Smenkeret whispered back, with more than a hint of amusement in his voice.

"Not at my expense, there aren't," she replied, in her displeasure raising her voice just enough so that Imanut who was anxiously watching the crowd in an attempt to force the bidding as high as possible glanced in her direction. At his questioning expression, she shook her head and he turned back to the scribe who had wormed his way to the front of the auction block and in a loud voice, suddenly doubled the current bid.

A gasp rippled through the crowd. "Sold!" Imanut shouted, hastily closing the bidding before the scribe could change his mind.

The young man jumped forward, tripping over the folds of his robe in his eagerness to reach the platform. The slave batted long lashes and smiled.

“By tonight it will be difficult to tell who is master and who is slave in that household,” Smenkeret smirked. “By morning, there will be no doubt.”

Anefereti closed her eyes and waved a painted feather fan in front of her face Smenkeret always seemed to be able to embarrass her when she was least prepared.

As Imanut and the scribe worked out the details of payment, the milling crowd began to disperse. Now that the piece de resistance of the day had been sold, most of the on-lookers were drifting away, back to their shops, their homes, their duties.

Anefereti moved into the shadow of a building where the afternoon heat was a bit less oppressive. "What other woman are being offered today?" she asked as she snapped her fan shut.

"There's only one more. She wasn't available for viewing, but I'm told she's well-trained in household duties," Smenkeret said.

"Humph. I'll believe that when I see it," Anefereti snorted. "Imanut claimed the other one was a domestic servant, too. If she's ever baked a loaf of bread in her life, then I'm the King's Daughter. I wish Tetisheri could return to her duties," she said wistfully tapping her fan on her fingers. Tetisheri was her maid-servant, and her friend. In many ways she was more of a sister than her own sister.

Smenkeret folded his arms across his chest. Like most who lived in the Red and Black Lands, he was deeply tanned, but no matter how many hours he labored in the sun, he would never be as dark as those who were born on the banks of the Nile. Even Anefereti, who had spent most of her life within the cool shadows of the palace and its courtyards, was a darker, richer bronze than her tall slave. "I've been meaning to talk to you about that," he said.

For the second time that afternoon, the Lady Anefereti scowled. In the background, Imanut extolled the virtues of a rheumy-eyed, middle aged man, trying to encourage higher bidding from the restless crowd. "So talk," she said coolly.

"Tetisheri's husband asked me about purchasing her freedom and that of their son."

"And you told him to speak to me, of course."

"Not exactly."

"Not exactly? Then what exactly?" She felt a strange sinking in the pit of her stomach.

"I said I'd discuss the price with you."

Anefereti drew a sharp breath. "You said what?" The sinking feeling suddenly turned to anger.

Smenkeret looked sheepish. "It seemed appropriate at the time."

Anefereti squared her shoulders and drew herself to her full five feet. Enough was enough, she thought . "You may be in charge of my other slaves, but you aren't the head of the household. If you aren't careful, I'll put you on that block next time," she threatened.

Before Smenkeret could respond, a scuffle in the courtyard drew their attention. "You son of a river hog, he's mine," shouted a tall, gaunt wine merchant whose face was flushed as much from anger as from sampling his latest batch of private reserve.

"May you never see Osiris, you liar," added a rotund pottery dealer, shaking his fist at Imanut who was carefully keeping his beer jar between him and the angry merchants.

The crowd, which had thinned considerably after the slave woman had left the block, began to fill back in as merchants poked their heads from stalls and passersby suddenly found a new interest. Only last month, a member of the King's guard had presented Imanut with a bloody nose when a scribe had raised a bid after Imanut had proclaimed a slave sold but because the scribe’s offer was substantially higher than the closing bid, Imanut had tried to pretend he had been sneezing from the dust and that the man who thought he had made the final offer had misinterpreted his distress as a sign the bidding was closed.

While his father was dancing around both the beer jar and truth, Paneb strutted into the courtyard. With great self-importance, he yanked the rope and woman at the end of his lead stumbled, catching her balance only by grasping at the stairs. At that, the boy pulled the rope and her head jerked under the strain. She wobbled as she climbed the block and had to clutch the bronze ring at the top for support. Swaying in the relentless sun, she tried to maintain her balance by holding the ring with both hands, but at length she failed, collapsing at the boy's feet. The boy stared down at her, his mouth agape, the rope still clutched in his suddenly sweaty palm.

Anefereti narrowed her eyes against the glare of the sun. There was something about the woman on the block; something she couldn’t quite place that attracted her interest. She cocked her head toward Imanut who, by now, had calmed the merchants enough so that he wasn't in immediate danger of physical harm, then looked woman lying motionless on the block. She had to take a closer look. With the barest nod to Smenkeret who followed her lead, she crossed the courtyard, leaving a thin trail of red dust swirls on the sun-dried brick. The crowd stepped aside as she passed.

"You can't do that..." Imanut's son sputtered as she mounted the auction block and dropped to her knees beside the woman. Ignoring the boy who was hopping nervously from foot to foot, she picked up one of the woman's wrists and felt for a pulse. Satisfied the woman was not dead, but merely faint, Anefereti then lifted the matted, snarled hair from her face where a small reddish mark, perhaps a bruise, stained her cheek. "A foreigner," she murmured as the boy screwed up his face in anxiety. She fingered the neck of the woman's torn and soiled white linen robe, still bearing traces of its once crisp pleats. "Good quality." It bore a striking resemblance to her own robes, definitely not something a slave would be permitted to wear. Finally, she lifted the woman's hand once again, turning it over to examine the palm. "Not used to hard labor," she commented as she studied the long, delicate fingers which still bore pale indentations from rings. This woman had once worn more than the cheap jewelry of a common slave.

"She's not your typical slave," Smenkeret said what she had been thinking.

"No, I agree. But what makes you say that?" She was relying as much on intuition as hard evidence, but like most men she knew, Smenkeret didn’t have an intuitive bone in his body.

"These." Smenkeret lifted the tightly matted curls from the side of the woman's face to reveal small gold earrings in the shape of cowrie shells. "Since when do any of your slaves wear gold earrings like that?"

"Maybe she stole them from her last mistress."

"Then why didn't Imanut take them off before he put her on the block?" he asked.

"He didn't notice them?" she suggested.

"Imanut not notice? He'd steal from his mother's grave if he thought he could get away with it."

Anefereti stared at the small, golden shells. Egyptian woman sometimes wore cowrie shells—the real thing, not gold models—to indicate a recent birth. She lifted the front of the slave’s dress to see if her breasts were milk-engorged. They weren’t. Perhaps she had been wearing them in the hopes of having a child. Infertility was a curse and all women, from the Great Wife to the poorest servant prayed to be spared its ignomity. Smenkeret raised an eyebrow as she dropped the garment back in place. "We can ask her about the earrings when she wakes up."

"If she wakes up. And if she tells the truth."

Just then the woman's eyelids fluttered and she looked up with a confused stare, her eyes glazed and unfocused. Imanut's son tugged on the rope and started to say something, but a glance from Smenkeret caused him to clamp his lips in a tight line and drop the rope with a sullen glare.

"Water." The woman's voice cracked and she licked a swollen tongue over parched lips.

"Imanut might not be honest, but he usually makes sure his merchandise is in better condition than this before presenting it for sale," Smenkeret said, resting on one knee beside Anefereti.

"True." Anefereti stared at the woman who appeared to have fainted again. "If Imanut hopes to make any profit on her, he'd better get a move on. A few more hours in this sun and he'll have a corpse to bury instead of a slave to sell."

She tilted her chin and exchanged glances with Smenkeret. He lowered his head, silently asking if she wanted him to do something. Anefereti nodded, almost imperceptibly.

Smenkeret rose to his full height. Even standing as straight as possible, the slave trader's son, who was tall for his age, barely reached the middle of his chest. "Fetch some water," he ordered.

"Be quick about it," Anefereti added, holding up her hand to Smenkeret who pulled her to her feet. She ignored the murmurs rippling through the crowd beneath her.

The boy, clearly torn between his desire to obey her and her heavily muscled slave towering over him and his need to stay with the slave woman began sniffling pitifully. He was spared making a decision by the appearance of his father.

"Idiot," Imanut muttered under his breath as he hurried across the courtyard."No handling the merchandise," he puffed as he mopped his dripping brow with a wrinkled, gray cloth he produced from somewhere within the folds of his grimy robe. "Oh, Lady Anefereti." He stopped short and gave what would have been a crisp bow if he hadn't been too fat to bend in the middle. As it was, all he could produce was a massive wobble in the region of his upper belly. "A thousand pardons, my lady. I did not realize it was you." With a fierce glare at his son who backed as close as he could to the edge of the block without actually falling off, Imanut heaved himself up the stairs, droplets of sweat dripping off his sloping forehead. "Look all you wish, my lady. You grace my humble establishment with your beauty. Had I know you were here, I would not have kept you waiting. Can I get you something refreshing? Date wine? Pomegranate juice? Boy, get the Lady Anefereti..."

Anefereti waved her fan in mid-air. "You honor me," she said, "but all I require is some water." Imanut glowered at his son, who immediately jumped off the block and hurried to fulfill the noblewoman's request.

Anefereti bent back over the slave who was now trying to sit up and despite Imanut's startled look, said to her, "The water is coming."

The slave's reply was unintelligible. As she began to sink back into a faint, Anefereti nodded again at Smenkeret who with a grace surprising in a man his height and bulk, bent over and clasped his arms beneath the slave's limp body just as Imanut's son returned with a small crudely made-jar half full of tepid water.

As the boy jogged behind, three of his steps to every one of Smenkeret's, the big slave carried the unconscious woman through the obviously surprised crowd. He entered the relative coolness of Imanut's shaded bench and laid her on the folds of cloth which served both as a pad for Imanut's ample rear and as a convenient hiding place for such small items as might have the misfortune to pass into his grasp. Anefereti took the jar from the boy and tipped it to the woman's lips who swallowed, coughed a bit, then gulped another mouthful.

Anefereti waited until the slave had drained the jar, then wheeled to face Imanut who had followed hard behind. She had made up her mind. "I'll take her. Name your price."

2008-07-02T17:55:00.000-07:00

Some of my (un)favorite things or I hate yard work

Aphids on roses and moss on the roof eaves
Scraggly flowers and ponds filled with dead leaves
Overgrown bushes and bird-eaten Bings
These are a few of my unfavorite things

Droopy old lilacs and unknown dead plants
Weeds in the deck that cause me to rant
Cheeky young squirrels that think they have wings
These are a few of my unfavorite things

When the yard browns
When the bee stings
When I'm feeling mad
I simply forget my unfavorite things
And then I don't feel so bad.

2008-06-30T15:34:00.000-07:00

Roofs and Crowns

I've decided that two of the most expensive and least satisfying things to spend money on are new roofs and dental crowns. You can't really open your mouth and say, "Hey, look at this new porcelain beauty on that back molar!" And you can point out your roof, but if it's like mine, it looks just the same as the old roof. In fact, I can't even see a difference except for the lack of the hole that the raccoons made. No one seems the least bit interested in the new roof and who can blame them.

No, roofs and dental crowns are extraordinarily expensive and while both are vital (nothing like a tooth ache or a leaking ceiling to ruin your day), they are completely invisible monetary sinkholes.

Just in case you are wondering, I have both.

2008-06-25T17:51:00.000-07:00

Coon Chronicles!!

I have two baby raccoons in a live trap in my back yard. We are waiting for Mama. They were living in the eaves of the roof and attacked the guys who are replacing my roof--didn't hurt the people, but the shovel took a hit.

So I had to get a pest control specialist to come and set traps. We could see Mama watching us over the fence and then, all of sudden, we spied the babies on the roof. They had come out to follow Mama and so the pest control guy reached up and grabbed the little ones. They screamed like banshees and peed all over him. Mama was quite distraught, and so was I because I know they are all doomed.

The reality is that raccoons carry distemper and so the Oregon Wildlife commission won't allow them to be relocated. Apparently distemper is a bit like the flu...there are various strains of it and the wild animals in a given area get a certain immunity to it, but if you introduce a new strain, it will be fatal. There is no way of testing the wild raccoons in an area to be sure what strain of distempter they have. If it's not the same as the strain "mine" are carrying, the new variety of distemper would infect the dogs, wolves and coyotes that live in that area and dissimate the population. Better three dead raccoons than wiping out all the coyotes, dogs, and wolves in a new area.

So the pest control people are going to shoot them. I asked how they were going to be dispatched. The choices are: a bolt to the head--which is painful, suffocation--which is slow, or being shot. My raccoons are going to be facing the fire squad. I doubt they will be given blindfolds or a last cigarette.

Unfortunately they are very cute, but I don't want them living in the attic.

Bad choice of a home, Mama Coon.

UPDATE: Mama was caught. RIP Raccoons.

2008-06-08T15:06:00.000-07:00

Planes, Trains and Automobiles

Let me begin by saying that I don't like the smell of Indian cuisine. I get a whiff of those spices and my stomach begins to roil. Trust me, there's a reason for telling you this.

The adventure began on Tuesday morning at 7 when I had to find Seti who was hiding in order to take him to the vet for boarding.This is the cat who has to have sub-Q fluids on a regular basis so I can't just leave him to fend for himself like I do the other cat.

By 9, the cat had been found, taken to vet, my friend who was going to keep my car while I was gone had been picked up and I was at the airport to catch a 10 am flight ultimately to Indiana to attend a funeral.

I should have been alerted to the fact it wasn't going to be the easiest trip when the flight to Portland was the rockiest I've been on in years and the seasoned business travelers around me were looking a little nervous as we pitched and yawed like a skiff riding a tidal wave. However, any landing that gets us on the ground in one piece is a good one, so, by that criteria, it was a good landing. The next flight from Portland to Chicago must have been uneventful because I don't remember any of it except being cramped in a middle seat and spilling my coffee, but fortunately I was wearing black so it didn't show.

I've spent several lifetimes in O'Hare so the airport is familiar turf. Hoisting my travel bag on my shoulder, I slogged from the C terminal to Outer Mongolia, aka, the F terminal where SmallMidwesternAirlineOutsourcedbyUnited flies to obscure places like Madison, WI and Fort Wayne, IN. When I arrived at the gate about 8 pm, my 9:30 pm flight had been delayed until 11:30. This is never a good sign, especially when the sky is periodically split by lightening and the tv monitors have tornado warning signs scrolling.

SmallMidwesternAirlineOutsourcedbyUnited is notorious for posting delays on the last flight of the day and then, after waiting for hours, cancelling the flight completely. The cadre of Ft. Wayne bound passengers gradually clustered together as every 15 minutes a later departure time was announced. When 12:30 am was posted, we all began began to lose hope. "Any bets on when they cancel?" asked one man who had just flown in from Hong Kong and was on his second 24 hours in airports. No one took him up on his bet. We watched as literally everything shut down around us, including the last kiosk selling overpriced water. Finally a 1:30 am departure was posted and about 1:25, the announcement came--the flight to Ft. Wayne had been canceled. Ostensibly the crew from Cleveland never showed up. Personally I think they just didn't want to bother making the flight in the middle of the night and would rather get a good night's sleep. If you had a choice, wouldn't you rather stay at home on a stormy night rather than ferry a bunch of crabby, tired passengers from Illinois to Indiana?

To mollify the crowd, the desk agent began to offer hotel rooms and people dutifully lined up. After about 45 minutes, a supervisor came over and started to say that the five of us who still hadn't been given vouchers were out of luck. They shouldn't have been giving out rooms in the first place because the cancellation wasn't covered under the obscure policy clause for passenger compensation that says when flight crews from Cleveland never arrive, the airline isn't responsible. After looking at our faces, he instantly changed his mind and decided that five more rooms wasn't worth being drawn and quartered.

So we last five stragglers got our vouchers and walked halfway to Canada to the Bus Center where we were to wait for the shuttle which was, of course, not running at this time of night. Finally a very organized young woman called the hotel and convinced the hotel to rouse a driver and send the bus to pick us up NOW! (I later learned she was a second grade teacher. Heaven help her second graders who don't leave the bathroom in time!)

A half hour ride to a very nice hotel followed. Usually airlines put me up at motels that advertise rooms by the hour and money back if you don't use the towels, so I was delighted to be in a hotel with fluffy comforters and piles of downy pillows. The only problem was that it was now about 2:30 am and we had to catch the shuttle back to the airport by 4:30 am. So I showered (the chamomile shampoo was quite nice) and stretched out on the bed for a power nap. I set my cell phone alarm and vaguely recall it going off, stumbling out of the room and clamoring on the shuttle for the return to the airport.

Fortunately the morning flight was completely and utterly non-eventful and I arrived in time to take care of some business I had scheduled as well as meeting with the family and all the other funeral-y events.

Fast forward two days. I was at Ft. Wayne International Airport (international from where?) with flights to return to Oregon, sit in the airport there for one hour, catch another flight back to Denver and then on to Great Falls for a wedding. I had tried, unsuccessfully, to fly directly from Chicago to Denver and then on to Montana, but because the flights I had purchased were different classes of services, it was impossible. If there had been first class seats, which there weren't, they could have sold me all new tickets for just over $2000. I thought perhaps not. Although traversing the country made for a long day, it was certainly doable...and a lot cheaper than two grand.

When I got to my seat, once again in the middle, I noticed there was a young man at the window and his father on the aisle. When people who are traveling together opt to have a stranger between them, it's never a good sign.

As I hoisted my bag in the overhead bin, I noticed that they were part of a large group of people who I later learned were traveling from Chicago to Oregon to attend a temple festival in honor of their guru. It soon became apparent that the young man at the window was mentally challenged and when his dad mentioned he was ADD, I wanted to say, "No shit, Sherlock" since the kid literally never sat still for a nano-second. Up, over, around, down, twirling, jumping, hopping, dancing, waving, bobbing...and talking. And talking and talking and talking. A steady, unending stream of Hindi punctuated every now and then by a question to me in English. It didn't seem to matter if I answered or not, so I pulled out my book on Medieval inventions and technology (Okay, so I have sort of geek taste in airplane reading).

We began to taxi for take-off when we came to an abrupt halt and the pilot announced there was something wrong with the number one engine. He said he thought it would just take a few minutes to fix. Hah. In some alternate universe, maybe. Anything wrong with a plane will always take a minimum of four hours to fix. I think it's an FAA rule.

So we began to wait. For the first three hours on the tarmac. In a completely filled plane. With no air. Every 15 or 20 minutes the pilot would come on the intercom to tell us it would be another 15 or 20 minutes. After the first half hour, the native road warriors were getting restless and the jungle drums aka cells phones were sending war signals to travel agents.

I tried to immerse myself the importance of water wheels to Medieval weaving techniques, but all of a sudden the smell of curry and other vile spices assaulted my nostrils and the gag reflex set in. The group of pilgrims had broken out their carry-on cuisine. The young man next to me had to have a sample of everything and in order to keep him from spilling the dishes on me and making me reek of Indian food forever, I ended up helping him dish out strange rice dishes doused in tumeric and bread with something unidentifiable and unappetizing spread on it, a crumbly cake-like dish and several things that barely looked eatable.

Did I mention I really really dislike Indian food?

After enduring endless courses of Indian food, followed by more questions from the young man in HindEnglish about who I was and where I was going and would we see Mount Hood and why didn't I want some of the mustard rice, I settled into a sort of nauseated stupor. Eventually, God knows how much longer, we were shuffled off the airplane, herded to another gate and told to wait because they would be sending over another plane becuse our first plane was apparently unfixable. So much for a 15 minute repair.

By now, it was apparent I wasn't going to be able to make the connections to get me to the wedding so I decided to make one last attempt to combine trips. As I leaned on the counter, taking deep breaths to get the smell of curry out of my nose, the desk agent mentioned that I had lost an earring. I clutched my ear as if somehow that could make the earring reappear, but of course, it was futile. I must have sighed deeply because the agent said, "Oh, I'm sorry." Why do people say they are sorry for things that aren't their fault? Another mystery of life.

Unfortunately the earrings were some of my favorites and now one of them was somewhere in the seat of an airplane that was being hauled off for repairs or in the halls of Terminal C or down the toilet in the airplane lavatory. As I took off the remaining earring, the agent said she thought she might be able to switch some things for me, but at that point, I decided I was done. I wasn't going to keep trying. "No more," I said. "I'm just going to go home." I would call the wedding party, tell them that I couldn't make it and deal with the family fall-out at a later date.

An hour later, as we were boarding the new plane the first class flight attendant came up to me, holding out her hand. "I found your earring," she said. "I have been waiting for you." In shock, I picked up my earring. How could she, in first class, have noticed me and my earrings (they are quite lovely, but still!!) when I was seated in couch? How did she find it? And how did she even think to wait to return it to me? "You do have the other one, don't you?" she asked. I told her that I had put it in my bag. She smiled and I hooked the single earring in my ear, taking its return as the sign that I really wasn't meant to go to the wedding since, if I had switched flights, I would never have recovered this special totem.

The pilgrims were all back in their places by the time I crawled into my middle seat. All in all, it wasn't a bad flight other than the non-stop motion machine with the Indian sitar songs on his iPod cranked up to deafening levels on my left side and the sonabulatory father ignoring everything on my right. Thankfully no more Tupperware containers of curry appeared.

I landed in Portland, a full 12 hours later than originally scheduled, only to learn that all the flights to Eugene were filled and I would have to wait nearly 24 hours to catch another flight. Since Portland is only a 2 1/2 hours drive from home, I decided to rent a car. Little did I know that car rental places won't rent one-way. I tried them all--Hertz, Avis, Budget, Alamo, Enterprise and a couple of others. None of them tried harder. Actually, none of them tried at all. One would--maybe--rent me a full-sized van for around $100 to $150 for the drive, but they weren't very excited about it. Neither was I, especially not with the price of gas.

So onto plan C or D or E. Amtrak. I booked a seat on a train leaving in two hours and then tried to get from the airport to the station. A shuttle was supposed to come every half hour, but the first two passed me up, despite my frantic waving and screaming. I called the main office and said I was going to fling my body under the next shuttle so they had damn well better stop. The next shuttle did stop, but the driver said that I would have to wait for another one because he was full. I won't go into the gory details, but suffice to say that when the shuttle left the airport, I was seated and another man was left waiting on the platform.

I've always found many train stations to be an odd combination of romantic Harry Potter art deco/skid road bad part of town skeevy and Portland's station is no exception. The ceiling was stunning and the bathroom was scary. The newstand had a few weary sandwiches, aspirin behind a locked case and a couple of ragged paperback. I bought a bagel, a bag of lightly salted Kettle Chips and a water, tried to get comfortable on the church pew style benches and began to read about the invention of type faces in Medieval Europe. The minutes crept and then came the announcement. I somehow knew there would be an announcement. The train was detained by a freight train somewhere north of us and it would be at least an hour before it got to the station.

So began the next wait. A little more than a hour later, the train arrived. After shoving my bag in a luggage compartment, I dropped into my seat and was lulled into a doze by the rhythmic clacking of rails and the sway of the car. It is about a three hour ride to Eugene, but naturally, we experienced innumerable delays which entailed waiting for some dispatcher somewhere to give us permission to use the track so it was the wee hours of the morning when I finally got back to Eugene. A special blessing has to go to the friend who got out of her nice warm bed to pick me up and take me home.

Apparently the wedding was lovely. They have promised to send pictures.

2008-01-30T23:41:00.000-08:00

Lost!!!

I'm quite bonkers over the tv show LOST. Tonight was a rerun of last May's finale with little subtitle thingies that explained what was going on. I bailed out of my last CPA banquet in May to watch it. I was also quite sick with the fibro at the time, but didn't realize that was what was wrong. Anyway, I watched it again tonight and cried--again--when Charlie died.

I am just completely hooked on this show. It's my oxycontin.

2008-01-29T20:50:00.000-08:00

Doctor Visit

This is hardly a profound post, but today I went to the doctor for a variety of boring maladies: cyst on my finger, sinus infection, prescription renewal. (The middle one is the reason entry will be short and dull.) Have you ever noticed that when the doctor's office has some decent magazines, semi-seasonal at least, you are instantly called...before you can finish the fascinating article on how long you should keep your eye make-up before you are at risk for pink eye. But when the only thing there is a three year old copy of Birds and Blooms that you've read at least twice before and some Sportsman magazine about hunting with bows, you sit there for at least an hour?

I always mean to take along something to read and then I forget. Next time I'm going to stop at the grocery and get the National Enquirer. When I'm called in, I'll leave it in the waiting room. Want to bet there will be fight going on over who gets it when I come out.

I've purchased a trash mag and taken it on an airplane for a long flight. People sniff and look down their noses at you, but then, after you are done and you put it in the seat pocket, they lean over and sotte vocce, they ask if they might just take a quick glance.

When you carry National Enquirer and Guns, Germs and Steel on a plane and put them both in the seat pocket, you do get strange looks.

2008-01-29T00:06:00.000-08:00

Okay, done with winter

I have a short tolerance for winter. One day with snow and I'm done. We are now on day two. This is more than enough winter for me. Even though the temperature said it got above freezing, the snow is still deep on my deck. And the cats are still not happy although I did see little paw prints leading from the cat door, so apparently they aren't leaving me surprises in back rooms.

I was supposed to have had my hair cut today, but the snow prevented me from getting out. I suppose that was a good thing because it forced me to work on the book whose deadline is rapidly---as in almost here--approaching.

In the interest of trying to learn one new thing each day, I read that the last thing we should do before sleep is mentally erase the day. Think of the day as a white board and we need to wipe it clean for tomorrow.

You know how whiteboards get sort of discolored by too much use? That's how I feel about my white board days. They never quite come completely clean. I wonder what I can do to change that? Maybe get a whole new whiteboard.

2008-01-27T23:39:00.000-08:00

SNOW!!!

It's snowing here. Or it was most of the day. I've noticed that the cats don't like snow. They find it offensive to their little paws. I feel the same way. I find it offensive to my feet. That's because I no longer own proper snow boots like I did when I lived in Montana. Even though I have spent time in Indiana every winter for the past 15 years, I've managed to avoid buying boots.

Also, I like seeing pristine, unmarked snow. Footprints in the snow aren't attractive and if you don't know who made them, they are creepy.

I'm not sure if the squirrels care about the snow. It has completely covered their corn feeder, however. I'm sure they don't like that. By the way, the squirrels didn't like the roasted chestnuts that I put out at Christmas. I wasn't fond of them either.

2008-01-26T17:18:00.000-08:00

UP from the dead.

Nothing like resurrecting a blog that was bogged down for, um, years.

It's a cold January afternoon. I'm working on a book that is due...next week and like all good writers I am off searching for something, anything to do rather than finish that last chapter.

2004-10-22T15:55:00.000-07:00

After a long hiatus over at HMS blog, I've decided to return to my own little home. I feel sort of like Bilbo after his adventures. It's ever so nice to come back to your own spot.

2002-07-01T11:45:00.000-07:00

An interesting article on conservatives in talk radio.

In part it says:
Talk radio shows how profoundly the FCC's repeal of the Fairness Doctrine has affected political discourse. In recent years almost all nationally syndicated political talk radio hosts on commercial stations have openly identified themselves as conservative, Republican, or both: Rush Limbaugh, Michael Medved, Michael Reagen, Bob Grant, Ken Hamblin, Pat Buchanan, Oliver North, Robert Dornan, Gordon Liddy, Sean Hannity, Michael Savage, et al. The spectrum of opinion on national political commercial talk radio shows ranges from extreme right wing to very extreme right wing - there is virtually nothing else.

On local stations, an occasional nonsyndicated moderate or liberal may sneak through the cracks, but there are relatively few such exceptions. This domination of the airwaves by a single political perspective clearly would not have been permissible under the Fairness Doctrine.

2002-07-01T11:42:00.000-07:00

Tap Dancing on the Barometer
This weekend the barmometer danced and my head did not follow the lead. In other words, I got a migraine from going from beastly hot to cold and rainy to moderate to hot to rainy all in one weekend. Usually I just go to bed, but a childhood friend from Montana was vacationing in Oregon and I met her so I resorted to the tried and true method of massive doses of caffeine and ibuprophen. The coffee was a natural since we were sitting and talking so long that lunch drifted into dinner.

One of the things we talked about was how once your kids are off on their own, you no longer worry where they are all the time but when they come home from college during the summer then you once again wonder where they are, when they are getting home, if they are safe, what they are doing. When my son is away, I just assume that he spends all his free time studying in the library or doing corporal works of mercy.

2002-06-28T17:23:00.000-07:00

Note to Steve Erwin: There are no crocodiles in Oregon

Terry Erwin, wife of Steven Erwin, the Aussie Crocodile Hunter, is from my town in Oregon. They come back here very quietly to bring the grandbaby to see her parents and I just learned today that Steve has had at least two orthopedic surgeries here at Sacred Heart Hospital. When Terry Erwin was still living here and doing her wildlife rehabilitation work, she brought her cougar Melissa to my son's grade school. So I can say that I met Mrs. Crocodile Hunter before she was Mrs. Crocodile Hunter. It is interesting how truly small the world is.

2002-06-28T17:17:00.000-07:00

One Prayer to Bind Them All and in the Lightness Guide Them

At the funeral, the priest pointed out that Jesus did not leave one set of prayers for the rich, famous, proud etc. and one set of prayers for the humble, poor, modest. He left us one prayer--The Lord's Prayer--which we are all to pray no matter what our circumstances in life. I find that very comforting to consider. One prayer to bind us all and in the lightness guide us.

2002-06-28T17:14:00.000-07:00

Into God's Arms

I spent much of today getting ready, going to a funeral and then spending time with the family afterwards. Weddings and funerals always make me proud to be Catholic. We do them right. Just the proper amount of ceremony with dignity and ritual combined. This was the funeral of 93 year old convert. (She wasn't 93 when she converted. Mayb 60 or so.) Because so few of her friends were still alive, the funeral was held at the regular noon daily Mass. There were probably 5 or 6 of us there for the funeral and the rest were Mass regulars. Her son and granddaughter aren't Catholic, but her daughter-in-law converted a couple of years ago. Sort of interesting how that works. Anyway, it made me happy to be Catholic.

2002-06-27T21:57:00.000-07:00

By George, I Think She's Got It!

Oh fabjous joy, I think I have figured out how to make links. Now that I've figured out some of the technical stuff, maybe I can actually post something of readable merit.

2002-06-27T18:23:00.000-07:00

Many Thanks To Mike!

Yes, yes, yes, finally after much frustration I managed to get an email link to my posts. May the goddess bless you, Mike. (No, don't send hate mail. I'm not a goddess worshipper. As my son would say, "Chill." It's an inside joke!)

Now if I just figure out to put links to other sites on the Template, I'll be doing well. But I'm counting my accomplishments (small as they are) for the day.

2002-06-27T10:12:00.000-07:00

AARGH!
I'm still trying to figure out how to put a link to email me on this. I hate it when technology baffles me.

2002-06-27T09:33:00.000-07:00

Uphill From Here

After such an inauspicious start to my summer, I figure things HAVE to go up, right? So I'm counting blessings this morning:
1) the old cat (who was only 10 by the way) didn't suffer and died quickly
2) the new kitten survived the vicious poodle attack and is recovering nicely
3) all my medical tests have been clean
4) my son came home for a visit at least and we had a good time together
5) my friend who moved is very happy in the new location, having left some difficult personal issues behind

So, after wallowing in my own personal pity party, I'm now trying to look at the blessings.

2002-06-27T09:29:00.000-07:00

Unconstitutional?

I woke up this morning to a one-word headline blazing across my local paper: Unconstitutional. Apparently the 9th Circuit Court which governs the nine Western states, including Oregon, has decided that the Pledge of Allegiance is unconstitutional. Does this mean that our money "In God We Trust" can't be used here either? If that's the case, then we could send our taxes in paper money and the IRS would be forced to reject the payment.
Perhaps all of us who sang "God Bless America" including the US Senate last Sept. 11 should be arrested and prosecuted. And while we are at it, let's eliminate "so help me God" when we take an oath. Perhaps we can say, "so help me atheistic state."
This is one of the most ridiculous, asinine decisions I've ever heard. True, we have a separation of Church and State, but it was to keep the state from interferring with religion, not the other way around. Didn't the court remember history--we were settled by Pilgrims who came here to PRACTICE their religion, not become atheistics?
Let's hope a higher court has more wisdom. But don't count on it.

2002-06-26T21:53:00.000-07:00

Let the Blogging Begin!

This past year has been filled with more than the usual amount of sadness. On the national level, the events of last Sept. 11 have left many feeling vulnerable. The economy has thrown thousands out of work. The priest scandal in Boston and elsewhere has left many of us angry and dismayed at Church leadership. On the international level, the bloodshed in the Middle East reminds us how difficult it is to work for the justice that leads to peace.
In my own life, I had just begun to adjust to the fact that our son would not be coming home for more than a quick visit this summer, but staying and working on campus, when a friend I’ve know since college moved several hundred miles away and then while I was in the shower, my old cat died of sudden massive heart attack while trying to jump on the bed. A few days later my young cat got mauled by a standard poodle and required orthopedic surgery. Plus I had to have a colonoscopy and a mammogram AND a broken tooth repaired.
Sometimes I don’t know how much more I can stand.