The Battlefields of Gallipoli

Wednesday is Anzac Day, the anniversary of the landing of troops from Australia and New Zealand on the Gallipoli Peninsula, Turkey, in World War I on April 25, 1915. "In the early months of 1915, World War I was raging in most of Europe, including the Ottoman empire in the geographical area that is now Turkey. Russian troops were fighting on many fronts, particularly against troops from Germany and the Ottoman and Austro -Hungarian empires. At dawn on April 25, 1915, forces from France, Great Britain and the British Empire, including Australia and New Zealand, landed at a number of places on the Gallipoli peninsula. The campaign aimed to open up new fronts for the Allied forces and a trade route to Russia. In the ensuing battle, many lives were lost on both sides and the Allied forces did not succeed in opening a trade route to Russia."

In remembrance of their sacrifice, here is a section from my currently being written book about visiting Turkey.

It was on the battlefields of Gallipoli that my heart broke. As we traveled down a long, lonely stretch of road leading to Anzac Cove, I began to cry and I couldn’t stop. I covered my head with the hood of my jacket so that the others on the tour couldn’t see my anguish and I buried my face in the crook of my arm, bracing it against the window. I hoped it appeared that I was merely fascinated with the scenery.  But I wasn’t looking at the view. I was struggling against the tears. They came in wave after wave, like the sea surge of young men who raced onto the narrow strip of beach only to ripped asunder under the unrelenting assail of gunfire. Unexpected, unbidden and completely unwanted anguish washed over me.  My stomach knotted, my mouth grew dry with fear and I was plunged into the depths of a full-blown panic attack.

When we parked at the Australian Memorial cemetery, I stumbled out of the bus, thinking that perhaps some fresh air would help.  It didn’t. As the rest of the tour wandered amid the stark white grave markers, I stood at the top of the hill, writhing inside, gasping for breath as the pain and panic of all those young men who died more than a hundred years ago pounded through my veins. As I looked over the bay, it suddenly turned red, and I could see the blood lapping against the rocks.  It was as if I were there.  I could almost smell the gunpowder, hear the artillery, taste the death.

Until that moment I had never even heard about the deaths at Anzac Cove.

I was not a student of World War I and I couldn’t have told you a single thing about Gallipoli except that it had something to do with a battle. In fact, had you asked me a month before, I probably couldn’t have told you where Gallipoli was. Yet on this dank November afternoon, under a slate sky with threat of rain standing on the top of an embankment overlooking the Straights of the Dardenelles, I was as broken with grief as I had ever been before, in agony for all these young men who died in the senselessness of battle.  

My feelings were as inexplicable as they were bewildering. Why was I so profoundly affected by this place? Even as I struggled to put on a calm, I somehow knew that this was a significant moment. “Pay attention,” an inner voice warned.  “You need to remember this, all of this.”

I pulled out my now worn Moleskine notebook and began writing:

We just visited the cemetery at one of the battlefields where 240,000 Australian and New Zealand troops and 400,000 Turks died in World War I. I couldn’t crying and the pressure in my chest is crushing. The loss of life for no reason. I saw the graves of 22, 24, 25 year old men who lie here on shores so far from home. I can hardly breathe. I feel the sorrow like a palpable blanket. It seems like the land is saturated with the blood of young men here in Anzak Cove.

May we never forget.

‎My dear friend María de Lourdes Ruiz Scaperlanda put this quote on her Facebook page:

"Someone once asked the artist Georgia O'Keeffe why her paintings magnified the size of small objects - the petals on a flower - making them appear larger than life, and reduced the size of large objects - like mountains - making them smaller than life. 'Everyone sees the big things,' she said. 'But these smaller things are so beautiful and people might not notice them if I didn't emphasize them.'  That's the way it is with gratitude and letting go. It's easy to see the problems in our lives. They're like mountains. But sometimes we overlook the smaller things; we don't notice how truly beautiful they are." ~Melody Beattie

 I have a lot of trouble with letting go...of things, people, events, ideas, hopes, dreams, desire, wishes, faults...I hold onto everything that comes into my life and give it up only under duress.  Today I was talking with a friend who reminded me (as if I didn't already know) that in the past few months I've been forced to let go of many things because I simply didn't have a choice; they were taken from me.

Just for the record, I haven't like it much.  As I've had to face enforced loss, I've experienced waves of panic, fear, and a sort of roaming anxiety that alights on things like finances, health, world affairs, the Mayan calendar and anything else that happens in my field of thought.

Maria's quote made me stop and think. I wonder if I'm magnifying all the problems in my life (and there are legitimate problems right now) and failing to see the beauty in some of the smaller things?

I think I already know the answer.  Now to get my mind to accept it.

Money CAN Buy Happiness

According to a new study, money can buy happiness--as long as you make $50,000 a year or more.

I'm not quite sure what to make of this. For one thing, I have little or no idea a) how happy the people I know really are or b) how much money they really make.

Money is the last great taboo.  I asked a few people I know how much money it would take for them to feel absolutely secure about their futures and I think I would have gotten a more positive reaction if I had asked them to run naked down the street. People will happily tell you all about their sex lives, their bowel habits, their medical problems, but money...nope, no way, not going there. 

To judge from the way the many of people I know act (and spend), none of them have any money issues whatsoever. No one seems worried about making the mortgage, paying for health insurance, putting food on the table, taking vacations or anything else.  Which is good.  I mean I'm glad that most people I know aren't in any financial struggle.

And yet I wonder.  I wonder if, in the secret darkness of the night, they lie awake and worry?  Despite knowing that worry does nothing, I've been there more times than I'd like to admit.  I've spend long hours in the dark asking God for direction, for employment and for income.  So far, he's given me my daily bread, but I wouldn't complain if he were to allow me to "buy happiness" in the not-so-distance future.

Do you think God knows about the $50,000 cut off number? :)

Sunday Gratitude

What are you grateful for today?  I'd love it if you would share with me in the comments.

On this Sunday, my five gratitudes are:

1. The blossoms on the cherry tree that float like butterflies.(Yes, this is my tree.)

2. Sunshine.  Oh my, after months of grey and rain, sun is like a hug from the heavens.

3. Flip-flops. My little toesies are happy to be out of shoes, even if it is only for a day or two.

4. Movement toward restoration in a severely damaged relationship.  I don't know if a complete healing can ever take place, but just the fact that this person and I have been able to talk is a great blessing.

5. A few moments of peace. As I've been trying to adjust to what is "new normal" in my life, I have been visited by more anxiety than peace.  So even a few brief moments of peace are worthy of gratitude.

Griefwalking Observed

Our society is so instan-oriented, I feel almost embarrassed and ashamed to admit that three months after my mother's death, I still haven't "moved on."  Well, yes, I have in some ways since the acute stage of grief is passed and I am functioning more or less.  I mean, the taxes were filed on time.  The kitty litter box is scooped regularly.  Even the dishes are done most of the time.

But a lot of things are left undone. The dining room hasn't been vacuumed in I don't know how long. There are still half-drunk bottles of soda from my mother's after-funeral gathering in the refrigerator. There is a mound of laundry on the chair in my bedroom that hasn't been put away.  There are creative projects that I haven't even thought of in three months. 

I read about people who not only are back functioning 100% in this time frame, they've conquered new mountains and completely reinvented themselves. I haven't.   I feel like I'm a griefwalking laggard.

On days like today, when the sun is out I feel like I "should" be feeling more positive, more energetic, more vim-and-vigor ready to tackle life (or at least weeding the flowerbeds).  Instead, I feel a grey blanket of sadness drape over my shoulders and the tears pool just behind my lashes. It's as if I am seeing through a smudged window.  I know that there is sunlight and laughter and good times and joy out there, but I'm on the other side of the glass.

It's not just mother I grieve. It's all the other losses of life, all the other sorrows, all the other things that were not completely mourned in their season that compound the current griefwalk. I mourn decisions I made that I now regret.  People I let slip away.  Opportunities that I failed to take advantage of. Choices that I made that turned out to be less than I expected. Purchases made that didn't satisfy. Love that wasn't given...or received.  

I grieve over not having had enough foresight to have planned better for this stage of life.  For not having better prepared emotionally, physically, financially, spiritually for this time.  For having been too much of a grasshopper and not enough of an ant when I knew all along this day would come.

But then, I try to stop and remind myself that living in regret over the past is no more productive than worrying myself sick about the future.  There is only today...even if it is being viewed through a smudged window.

Shut Doors

I was thinking about this today, as we finally had a decently warm day here in Oregon.

A few years ago I had a sprinkler system installed in my yard. Spend money to save money, right? The real reason was that so much water was wasted when I tried to water the lawn and flower beds by running on the sidewalk or hitting the house or overspraying into the trees, I concluded that for the sake of the earth, it would be much better to have concentrated sprinklers that I could time and control in order to do my part in maintaining the balance between a decent yard and a healthy planet.

When the man who installed the system came by to show me how to program it and to do a final run-through before I needed to use it, I met him at the garage. The control box is in the garage, so I went over to open the overhead door, but he skirted around the side.

Now there is a door on the side of the garage, but in the 20 years I've lived in this house, it has never been opened.  I think, once, a long time ago, I tried it and it didn't open.  But I could just be imagining it. Imagine my surprise when the yard guy opened it. He was trying to explain the sprinkler to me and I was fixated on the door.

"Now, here's where you program the various zones."
"How did you open that door?"
"It's always been open. Now, see this button?"
"No, it hasn't always been open. Did you unnail it or something?"
"It wasn't nailed. Okay, the manual is right here and...."
"It was supposed to be nailed shut. I've never been able to open it."
"I've been using it since I started to put in the system. So, see how the different zones have different timers?"
"You just opened it?"
"Yeah. What's the big deal with the door?"
"I've lived here for years and never knew the door could open."
"Well, it does.""

All this time, I believed that the side door was nailed shut when it wasn't. I wonder how many other doors in my life I believe are nailed shut when, in fact, they are just waiting for me to try them.

Down for the Count

Enough said.

Random Musings

Random thoughts on my mind.

A Burning Desire

I was attempting to repair a drawer in the kitchen that came off its rails and I set it on the counter near the stove.  I apparently accidentally turned on a burner because the drawer caught fire. Fortunately the smoke alarm went off and I was able to dump the flaming drawer in the sink and extinguish the flames.  The back end of the drawer is a wee bit charred, however.  Thank goodness it didn't actually catch the whole house on fire. Deo Gratias.

The Orphanage of Life

Griefwalking is very peculiar. No one told me that I could become very anxious about all sorts of things as I take this journey. However, it does make sense, in a strange sort of way. With both parents gone, there is a strange sense of being an orphan, left alone in the world, despite the fact that I am way beyond the age one thinks of for an orphan.  A sort of existential angst at being without support or love pervades the grief, and comes at odd times and ways.  There doesn't seem to be any way out of it but to go through it.

Pocketful of Rosary

At some point, not quite sure when, after Mother's death, I put one of her rosaries in the pocket of my jacket, where it still is. Despite the fact, I'm not a huge rosary fan (I fall asleep when I try to say it ), I find it comforting to reach in and feel the smooth beads and rough cross as I reach for my keys...which usually share the pocket. I wonder if there is any other more Catholic symbol than a rosary?

Cunning Cats

I'm convinced that when Adam and Eve ate the apple, the cat in the garden took a little lick herself.  That is the only explanation for why both cats and humans are so very very sneaky, determined and willful.  Especially when it comes to eating the leaves off the African violet.  The cats, that is, not the humans.

Two Steps Forward, One and Half Back

I've always imagined life as being a series of forward steps.  Sometimes very slow steps, punctuated by long rest stops, but general forward motion.

Grief has made re-examine that notion.

Now life is more like two steps forward, one a half back. I make what feels like progress for a few days and then I fall back again.  Not quite all the way back to the beginning, but back more than I like, more than I think I should.

And that's where I'm finding the greatest lesson.  What I think should be happening and the progress I think I should be making in the time frame that I think I should be making it in don't jive with lived reality. I can think that I should be at Step R (for all Right again) by now, but while I might visit that point, I find myself back at Step D (for Depression and sadness) more often than naught.

I believe that eventually I will be able to look objectively at the process and perhaps even offer some sage wisdom, but right now the best I can do is observe and share the journey.

One day at a time.

P.S. A friend sent me this and it seems very apropos.

Forward with (semi) Certainty

I find myself on the last stretch of my journey in life, and I don’t know what is awaiting me...I know, however, that the light of God exists, that he is risen, that his light is stronger than any darkness and that God’s goodness is stronger than any evil in this world, and this helps me go forward with certainty.--Pope Benedict, on his 85th birthday

 I'm not sure that  I am on the last stretch of my journey in life, although none of us knows that, regardless of our age, but I can certainly identify with Pope Benedict's feelings.

I don't know what's awaiting me....

I've been reading books on how life changes after the death of a parent and the one thing they all say is that when your last parent dies, your world changes forever.  I'm certainly finding that to be true. Even though the woman who was my mother had been gone for some time before she went to the next life, her physical absence from my life has left a huge gaping hole.  She was, as the French say, "formidable!" and I always lived a bit in her shadow.  Now there is no shadow to hide me from the relentless glare.  I used to be able to measure what was coming next by what was happening with her, but now I have no idea what lies ahead, what's awaiting me.  

I know, however, that the light of God exists...his light is stronger than any darkness...

In these past few months, I have been griefwalking unto God.  In ways that I have never experienced before, I have been poured out, an oblation of suffering. In my feelings of utter aloneness, the only flicker of light that I have seen has come when I catch a small glimpse of the Divine.  The light is sometimes quite faint, only a pin prick in the dark, but it has been there, a tiny star in the seemingly endless void of loss, change, sorrow, fear, panic and sadness.

   this helps me go forward with certainty...

I'm not exactly going forward with certainty. More like stumbling along like I have emotional vertigo and am trying to walk along the edge of an active volcano.  But I am beginning to learn that courage and faith aren't like bank accounts.   I can't begin saving them for when I might need them. They are manna, daily bread.  I can only have enough courage, enough faith, and perhaps enough certainty for this moment. Not a day from now.  Not an hour from now.  Not even a minute from now.  Just enough for right now. Perhaps that is the only way to move forward...one moment at a time.

Sunday Gratitude

There are times in my life when gratitude comes more easily than others; when the glass is clearly half-full and just waiting to overflow. Then there are times when the glass not only seems half-empty, but it feels like it has a slow leak as well.

That's why I decided to limit my Sunday gratitude to five things. That way if I'm feeling very positive, I get the choose five. If I'm having a harder time, I only have to come up with five. Either way, it's five!

So here are this week's Gratitude Five.
1. No rain.  It's not exactly sunny out, but the rain has stopped and for that I am very grateful. I was getting extremely tired of soggy.

2. Restoration in a broken relationship. I don't know where it will go from here or if more restoration is possible, but there has been communication where there was none, civility and even a tiny bit of laughter.

3. Bach Flower Remedies.  One of these days I'll write a post about them, but for now I'll just say that Mimulus and Star of Bethlehem have been life savers more than once.

.

4. Soup.  It's what I eat when I can't or won't find the energy to cook a real meal.

 

5. The Internet and WIFI . It allows me to work, connect and even blog!

Finding Truth

During this time of griefwalking, I've been reading a great deal...all non-fiction, my go-to choice under stress. (I know some people escape into fiction, but I prefer to have the groundedness of non-fiction when I'm feeling ungrounded myself.  Fiction is just too intense!)

I'm reading various things from histories to self-help, but my current spiritual reading ranges from old classics like My Daily Bread and Introduction to the Devout Life to best-sellers like Tolle's the Power of Now.  I've had some people question how I can read both very traditional spiritual works and New Age material, sometimes at the same time. (Well, not the EXACT same time since I can't read two books simultaneously, but I do put one down and pick another one up.)

It's because of something I was taught many years ago by a very wise spiritual mentor: As long as I am secure in what I believe, in what I know to be my experience of reality, finding truth in new places is like picking up an atlas after having used google maps. The place I'm looking at hasn't changed.  The only thing that has changes is the lens through which I look.


In short: take what edifies and ignore the rest.

Take Tolle's the Power of Now for instance.  He has his own interpretation of Jesus and his teachings, along with some uniquely Tollean ideas about Buddha and other spiritual teachers as well.  I don't read his words as gospel (all puns intended), but I did find his underlying teaching, about the important of being in the present, in the "now" to be valuable: "Wherever you are, be there totally".

In fact, it sort of reminded me of Brother Lawrence who tells us to find God in the pots and pans and our daily activities:

Men invent means and methods of coming at God's love, they learn rules and set up devices to remind them of that love, and it seems like a world of trouble to bring oneself into the consciousness of God's presence. Yet it might be so simple. Is it not quicker and easier just to do our common business wholly for the love of him?

 Both of them remind me that as long as I try to live in either the future or the past, I'm going to be unable to find peace, surrender or the touch of the Divine. The rest of the examples of either a French religious who lived several centuries ago and whose life doesn't resemble mine at all or a New Age guru who hobnobs with Oprah and whose life doesn't resemble mine at all I just ignore. 

I take what edifies and leave the rest.

And that's how I can have wildly divergent spiritual authors sharing my nightstand!
 

The "Icon-ic" Life

A French friend of mine shared this iconographer's prayer and I find it particularly meaningful right now.

Come to my assistance;
May my life be an icon reflecting You.
Guide what I think, inspire what I do,
Direct where I go, illuminate what I see,
Put your Word in my mouth,
So that for You my life will become an art work,
a sacred work;
So that whomever looks at me will recognize You.
Blessed are you, Lord, to have made me your brush,
O You, who are the artist of my life.

Incidentally, I have "written" a few icons in a past life.  This one of John the Baptist is my favorite.

(Perhaps one of these days I'll finish the one of Mary Magdalene that I've started.)

Third times the charm?

This is the third post I've tried to write today.  The other two just went so far and then slumped like a punctured popover.

I tried to write about how much I've journaled since Mother died, but it just sounded silly.

I tried to write about how much fear I've experienced these last two months, but it sounds rather whiny and self-indulgent.

So this time I'm just going to say that while I still want a bona fide miracle like I wrote about yesterday, I'm more resigned to the idea that, for whatever reason, a bona fide miracle isn't going to happen...at least not anytime soon.

There still are two major areas in my life where I can do absolutely nothing to affect the outcome.  All I can do is wait on someone else's free will.  And that just plain sucks.  Not only the waiting, but the fact that the other people involved have free will.  They can do whatever they want and I have no choice but to accept their decisions. Did I mention how much that sucks?

In both cases, I do believe that what I want is in God's will.  Both involve restoration, a giving back of what the locust has eaten.  In both cases, I've done my best to say, "Your will, not mine," to God and mean it.  But I could be deluding myself that they are what God wants for me.  I've deluded myself before and I probably will again.

But I continue to pray that if these really are God's will that he will enter in and create the miracle that seems the only way out.

But nonetheless, having the decision lie in someone else's hands and having to wait and see what they decide sucks.

Yes, it really does.

Facing Fear

 I've always been a journal keeper, but since my mother's death, I've written pages and pages, more than any other time in my life.  Oddly enough, they aren't in a journal, but on scraps of paper, yellow pads, backs of envelopes...whatever seems to be near at hand.  The other odd thing is that I have always been nearly compulsive about writing with black ink, but every word I've written in the past two months has been in blue.

I don't know what that all means, if it means anything at all, but it is something I've noticed.

I've also been reading in great gulps, washed down with more journaling.  My reading list includes everything from spiritual classics like My Daily Bread to modern best-sellers like Tolle's The Power of Now, books on grief, books on new life, on change, on fear, on anxiety, on transformation, on change.  I prowl through the library listings, ordering titles to be sent to my branch library, downloading eBooks, visiting the hospice center bereavement lending section.  The volumes cascade along the sides of my bed, tuck beneath my pillow, slip under the seat of the car, back up on my Kindle. And always, along with the books, are the pieces of paper and the blue pen.

Today I took some time to go back and reread some of the pages.  One of the constant, reoccurring themes is an intense, at times almost overwhelming, sense of fear.  It drips off the pages, in the same way that it saturates my life right now.

Right this moment, there are no wild animals gnawing on my feet; no notice of foreclosure has been posted to my door; my refrigerator has bread, eggs and fruit enough for a meal and the electricity is still on, so I'm not in any actual danger.  The reality is that I am afraid of what might be coming next. 

With all that has happened recently, I find myself in an almost constant state of anxiety about the future.  It's not entirely paranoid, given that from the time my mother broke both her legs and that midnight hospital trip until now, almost every phone call has meant something new and painful that I have to deal with. I've been in a state of high alert for nearly two years and that much adrenalin pouring into my body all the time has to create the ideal petri dish for fear and anxiety.  I find my mind racing, trying to out think whatever new dread might be lurking, as if I could somehow outwit the future if I just imagine all the possible awful things that could happen.  And let me tell you.  I can imagine  A LOT!!

Now here's where a person who is a good example of faith would insert an uplifting lesson involving some pithy experience.  But as I admitted a few days ago, I'm really not a very good example right now.

There are a couple of things I can say, however:
1. Sometimes just getting through a day is enough.
2. Breathing is really important.  The more stressed and afraid, the more important it is to breathe.
3. Fear can be a great tool to dieting.

=

A Bad Example of Faith

Sometimes I feel like I'm a bad example of what a person of faith should be.

I read other people's inspirational works...heck, sometimes I even reread things I have written in the past...which are filled with positivity, faith, hope and a "Isn't God GREAT!" attitude, and think, "Is that what it means to be a person of faith?  To pretend that things are just spiffy whiffy wonderful when it's patently obvious that they aren't and things are pretty sucky?"   And because I'm not feeling like I can be all happy and perky and cheerful about my life, I'm a bad example of what a person of faith should be.

Now I do believe that God is Great.  I do believe.  I do have faith...waxing and waning, stronger at times and weaker at others, but I do have faith.  However in this season of my life, I am finding it extraordinarily difficult to be gushing about miracles in my life and how I sense God's presence with me all the time.

Because I don't.  

That's why I say I'm a bad example of what a person of faith should be.  Take today for instance.  I suppose I could write about how I saw a lovely flower in the median strip as I was waiting for a red light and how overcome I was with the absolute miracle of life springing up in the midst of concrete and lifelessness.  I could wax poetic about the sweetness of the blossom amid the pain of life and go on about how it was such a profound example of looking for miracles that I was moved to spontaneously sing songs of praise.

I could, but I won't because that's not what happened.

I saw the flower--a dandelion--and thought, "Why is it that 'weeds' are more tenacious than flowers?" and then the light changed and I was on my way.

What it comes right down to is that I want a realio, trulio miracle in my life right now.  Not one of the "if you look hard enough you'll see a miracle" kind of miracles, but one that makes my heart stop with the sheer shock of it all.  Not a small, everyday, seek and ye shall find miracle, but the kind of miracle that makes me say, "Wow! Nothing is impossible with God!!"

I know I should be content with the miracle of dandelions in concrete, but the truth is I want more.

I can't help it.  I just do.

I want a miracle.

The Growth Chart of Life

When we are younger, or perhaps I should say, when I was younger, I saw life as a sort of growth chart, in which the natural progression was for things to get bigger and better.  What was difficult today would be easier tomorrow.  The latter part of life was supposed to be the "Golden Years" where a lot of the struggles of daily existence were finally at rest.

The last couple of years of my life have pretty much wrecked that operating theory. I never, even in my most driven nightmares, could have imagined that I would be experiencing the kind of challenges at this point in my life. It has been, without exaggeration, the very worst years of my entire life.  In fact, if you put the "worst-ness" of these past few years on a scale against all the rest of my life combined, these years would tip the balance.

To be brutally honest, I don't much like it.  A friend said today that God must love me very much and think I'm very strong to give me so many challenges.  I didn't say it, but I thought, "I'd just as soon he didn't love quite so much, thank you very much."

The hardest thing about the challenges...and they have ranged from the long journey to the end of my mother's life to a major betrayal that I'll talk about once the criminal aspect is made public (and it will be soon) to finances to health and a whole lot else is that the accumulative aspect makes it hard to have hope for the future. And that's what my mental concept of the "growth chart of life" had been about--the idea that even when things were static or negative, it would get better.

Now I find myself wondering if things will ever get better. And fearful that they just might get worse instead.

I've read (and written) enough inspirational material to know that this is the place where I'm supposed to  give some uplifting anecdote about how God has answered a prayer recently and hope has risen up in my soul.  Yes, God has answered prayers for me, but the darkness is still thick and the struggles have not abated.  I'm still in the Dark Night and there are no streaks of light that indicate dawn anytime soon.

Perhaps, in a few weeks, months or years, I will be able to look back and say, "There was growth after all.  And things really did get better."

Until then, all I can do is take a deep breath and be grateful for "One more day. Just one more day."

First Time and Sunday Gratitude

This was the first holiday I have ever spent in my entire life without being with someone I was related to.  It was both harder than I anticipated and yet, perhaps because it was Easter, filled with a certain grace as well.

So today I am grateful for friends who allowed me to share their Easter with them, even though I was probably not very good company.

For ham for dinner.  I love ham, but don't fix it for myself.

For three daffodils that survived the snow storm.

For a chocolate bunny.  In an Easter basket I was given!!!  Dove chocolate bunny.

And for Elijah, who will be six soon, who came and sat on my lap and said, "Deene," very softly and touched my heart.

Jesus and the Garden...Not Your Standard Image

Yesterday I talked about how the sweat like drops of blood that Jesus experienced in the Garden was the result of severe, as in "over the top" anxiety and panic and how that is at odds with our usual view of Jesus' facing his impending death with serene calm and trust.

I was thinking about how one might rewrite the Garden story to reflect that and how different the image of Jesus would be.

So imagine with me that the Passover Supper has just ended.  The disciples are full of roasted lamb and vegetables and wine.  They are satiated and sleepy.  Jesus, however, is growing more and more anxious. His heart is beginning to race, the muscles in his temples are tensing and he feels a clutching wrench in his stomach.  However, he masks all these sensations and does his best to appear normal, calm, even cheerful.  But his anxiety is growing.  Try as he may, he knows that each minute is bringing him closer and closer to his fate. The images flood his brain and he licks his lips.  They are parched and dry. He takes a deep breath and sighs.  The disciples don't notice anything.  They are too content to notice that panic is overtaking Jesus.

He suggests to the disciples that they go to the Garden because he wants to pray. They are happy to accompany him.  Jesus often goes away to pray and besides, the Garden is a good place for a nap on a pleasant spring night.

Once there, the disciples blink to stay awake and Jesus withdraws. Before he does, he tells them, "My soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death. Stay here and keep watch with me.” In the middle of a panic attack, one both wants company and wants to be alone, so Jesus both wants to get away from his friends, but wants them near at the same time. He is now entering into a zone of complete terror.

It's all he can do to keep his breathing steady.  The muscles in his jaws are tightening and he feels a crushing pressure in his chest. His mind races.  His entire nervous system is flooded with adrenalin and his heart begins to pound visibly.  He swallows hard, willing himself to calm down, but the autonomic nervous system takes over.  He writhes inside with anxiety and fear.  His mind races.  He can almost feel the nails in his hands and feet and the thought makes him nearly dizzy with fear.  It's all he can do to kneel down and beg the Father, "Please, please."  His knees give out and he falls on his face, crying out, "My Father, if it is possible, may this cup be taken from me. Yet not as I will, but as you will."  The last words are wrenched from a throat that is constricted.  For a moment, Jesus thinks that he might actually die right there, in the Garden.

But the intensity of the panic attack ebbs and he manages to get to his feet.  By now he's not thinking clearly. In fact, he's not thinking at all.  He gasps for air, steadies himself against a tree and goes back to his friends. They have fallen asleep.  Disappointed and fearful, he asks, “Could you men not keep watch with me for one hour?” Couldn't they see what he was going through? he wonders.  Couldn't they see how much he needed them to be with him.

He turns to Peter and says, “Watch and pray so that you will not fall into temptation. The spirit is willing, but the body is weak." Peter thinks Jesus is reprimanding him for falling asleep, but Jesus is talking about himself.  His spirit is willing to go through with what is coming, but his body is not.  His body has a mind of its own and it is in full-on panic mode.  The waves of fear start up again, washing over and over him until he thinks he either must go crazy or die. He runs his hands over his face, bites his lips, presses his fists into his chest.  He falls on the ground, nearly writhing with the mental anguish. The words come in ragged bits.  He wants to be willing, but he is terrified, utterly and completely terrified of what is to come. “My Father, if it is not possible for this cup to be taken away unless I drink it, may your will be done.”

Jesus feels dizzy, absolutely wild inside. He wants to run, to scream, to die. He breaks out in a cold sweat, shaking from the sudden chill. In that moment, the anguish is so great that small blood vessels begin to break all over his body. He is covered with blood.  He looks at the drops falling on the ground in horror.  He tries to pray, but his mind is so contorted with agony all he can do it cry in anguish, "Please Father.  Please."

The first blood of the Passion has been shed.

First Blood of the Passion

My goal has always been to try to blog daily, but sometimes the best laid plans of (wo)men and mice gang agley as Bobbie Burns says. Mine have gone astray with yet more things to do with my mother's estate.  It sometimes feels like it will never end!

While I've been getting death certificates and financial papers in order, I've also been thinking about the upcoming Passion Week, the High Holy Days of Christendom.  In particular, I've been thinking about Holy Thursday and the events in the Garden of Gethsemane.

Like a lot of Catholics, for me Holy Thursday has been a day when the emphasis is on the institution of the Eucharist and the foundation of the priesthood. Gethsemane is sort of an "add-on" that happened, but not much attention is paid to it.  It's sort of like Gethsemane is the transition between the Last Supper and the Crucifixion, with not all that much happening.

Oh, yes, there's that whole "Your will not mine" episode and the betrayal of Judas, but those things often get sort of swallowed up in the following events: the trial, the scourging, the via dolorosa, the crucifixion and the burial.

That's why I think we need to take a new look at Gethsemane. The events in the Garden are, to my mind, exquisitely poised to help those of us who are living in these times cope with the stresses and pressures of our times.  A new kind of meditation, one that is centered on  Gethsemane, might be just what the modern world is seeking.

Let's begin with the first and perhaps most startling revelation I had.  It was in the Garden that the First Blood of the Passion was shed. We talk about the "Blood of the Lamb" in reference to the Crucifixion, but it was there, under the olive trees that Jesus first began the Passion. Luke 22 says, "And being in anguish, he prayed more earnestly, and his sweat was like drops of blood falling to the ground."

 Now for most of my life, I sort of assumed that this bloody sweat was unique to Jesus, but it isn't. Other people, most notably a young girl terrified of the World War II air raids in Britain, have experienced it as well. It's called hematohidrosis and according to wikipedia:

Dr. Frederick Zugibe (former Chief Medical Examiner of Rockland County, New York) stated: "The severe mental anxiety...activated the sympathetic nervous system to invoke the stress-fight or flight reaction to such a degree causing hemorrhage of the vessels supplying the sweat glands into the ducts of the sweat glands and extruding out onto the skin. While hematidrosis has been reported to occur from other rare medical entities, the presence of profound fear accounted for a significant number of reported cases including six cases in men condemned to execution, a case occurring during the London blitz, a case involving a fear of being raped, a fear of a storm while sailing, etc. The effects on the body is that of weakness and mild to moderate dehydration from the severe anxiety and both the blood and sweat loss."

The key here is severe mental anxiety. Jesus was so terrified of what was coming, his blood vessels hemorrhaged. I don't know about you, but I've never considered that the calm, in control Jesus that we always portray going to his death experienced such "severe mental anxiety" the night before that he, quite literally, panicked. And in his panic, he shed the first blood of the Passion.

This seems to me to contain a powerful lesson and example for us.  Stress, anxiety and panic are so common that millions of Americans take drugs every day to cope. To think that Jesus was subject to the one of the greatest maladies of our time gives me pause. 

I have more to say about this tomorrow, but for now, just consider for a moment that of all the events of Jesus' Passion, the one that we can relate to the most in our day and age happened in that time we so often gloss over--in the Garden of Gethsemane.

Sunday Gratitude for the end of March

Sundays are hard for me. I used to spend them with Mother and so the emptiness is more intense than on other days. And then there are old memories of other parts of my life that seep into Sunday as well, making the day just plain tough.

That's why I decided to use Sundays for listing gratitude.  When I'm feeling my darkest, it makes me look toward the light.

1. Blue nail polish.  I've always liked nail polish and for some reason blue polish just tickles me.

2. Half and half.  Yeah, so it's hard on the arteries and skim milk or soy milk is so much better for you.  But in a cup of coffee, real half and half can't be beat.

3.  My son.  I got to talk with him yesterday and that always brightens the greyest of days.

4.  The public library.  I love being able to browse for books that I might not have ever thought about reading, either electronically or physically.

5. Wifi.  Of all the recent inventions, wifi has got to be one of my favorites.  Sitting anywhere in the house and being able to access the internet and email is magical.

Reflections on Poverty

 Parts of this will be in my new book on Facing Adversity with Grace coming out later this spring.

I have to confess that I’ve long had a problem with those who prattle on and on about how poor Jesus was and how destitute the Holy Family must have been. Before anyone has a coronary, I agree that Jesus and the Holy Family were “poor,” but their “poor” and our “poor” aren’t quite the same thing. First of all, in first century Palestine, in fact, in first century almost anywhere, there were only two categories—rich and poor. The  “middle class” didn’t emerge until quite recently in history. Jesus and his family certainly weren’t rich, so by default they were poor. But being poor wasn’t the same as begging at the gates of the city for scraps and even first century Palestine had its share of beggars. Poor was what everyone (except the rich) was. Poor was average.  

To say that the Holy Family lived in abject poverty seems to me to be quite insulting to Joseph. He was a tekton, a skilled workman more along the lines of what we would call a contractor. He wasn’t whittling the occasional little bench or stool for his neighbors in exchange for a handful of grapes. He probably was involved in much larger construction projects, possibly even working in the nearby Roman city of Caesarea where massive public building was going on. If he was unable to adequately provide for his family given his talents and abilities and if they were reduced to begging for handouts from their neighbors, which is what the truly poor had to do, then he shouldn’t be held up as a model for husbands and fathers. The same goes for Mary. If she was such a poor homemaker, unable to manage with what Joseph provided, that the family was the poorest of the poor in their region, then why do we look to her as our role for ideal wife and mother?  

Those who want to call attention to how poor the Holy Family probably aren’t imagining that they lived under a palm branch at the city wall, digging in the garbage for their food and wearing cast-off rags, which is what the truly poor would have been doing. I know that people claim as proof of their destitution the fact Mary and Joseph offered a dove instead of a lamb in the temple at the time of Jesus’ birth. Again, I’m not so sure that’s proof positive of poverty. I personally think it’s more common sense. If you could get the same blessing for buying a dove instead of a lamb, wouldn’t you buy the dove? I may be wrong, but I’ve always thought of their action as more like buying “generic” instead of “name brand.” In addition, I have the hunch that the only people who bought lambs were those who wanted to show just how important and wealthy they were. Mary and Joseph had no need to show off, even if they did have an idea that their son would turn out to be someone quite special, so they didn’t splurge on a lamb.

It seems to me that instead of calling them “poor,”  it is much more realistic to think of the Holy Family as “average,” not the elite with their marbled baths and hummingbird tongue banquets, but a family who had adequate food, sufficient clothing and a satisfactory dwelling to be able to live a normal life. In other words, the Holy Family was pretty much just an ordinary family doing ordinary things. If you are still questioning this, then consider that when Jesus was 12, they traveled to Jerusalem to celebrate Passover. It wasn’t cheap to travel now and it wasn’t then. They had to pay for the caravan, their food, the temple sacrifice and all the other expenses that come along with a “vacation.” If the Holy Family were truly the poverty-stricken beggars of Nazareth, they wouldn’t have been going anywhere, much less to the capital city for the biggest festival of the year when all the prices would have been elevated to make a profit off the visitors. 

Or think for a bit about the Wedding Feast of Cana. If the Holy Family were the truly poorest folk in the village, why would Mary even presume to talk to the wine servers? She would have been grateful to be allowed into the festival at all, much less get involved with the matters of what was being served. She wouldn’t have been calling attention to herself or her son, but probably sneaking a few morsels into a bag for the next day’s meal. 

As for Jesus himself, it is true that he said he had no place to lie down his head, but again I think he said that for emphasis’ sake. After all, he did have a mother and family back in the old hometown and I’m pretty sure they would have found him a bed and a blanket if he knocked on the door. Moreover, the women who accompanied him and bankrolled his ministry, like Mary Magdalene and the Johanna, the steward’s wife, were wealthy. I can’t imagine that they didn’t provide more than adequately for his needs and those of his disciples. Why else would the gospels make a point of telling us that they were rich?

Jesus might not have had much money of his own, but his ministry was well off enough that he and his disciples had money to give to the poor, since we are told that Judas complained about spending money that could have otherwise been donated. If the disciples themselves actually were the poor, they would have been receiving money, not giving it away. In addition, they had sufficient funds to rent a place for the Last Supper and eat a full-blown Seder meal. Even in those days, the absolutely poverty-stricken couldn’t afford a lamb, much less the rest of a Passover meal. Jesus and the disciples had to have had sufficient funds to afford what amounted to a catered dinner. Finally, the robe he wore to his death was so well made that the soldiers cast lots for it. It couldn’t have been the rags of a beggar or they wouldn’t have bothered keeping it.

I expect some people will be shocked and even angered by this, but my point is not to say that Jesus was rich; he wasn’t. My point is to show that suffering from severe financial hardship doesn’t have to be considered a goal of our lives just because we have been taught that Jesus and the Holy Family were “poor.” Jesus said he came to bring us abundant life, not neediness and poverty. Moreover, being poor and in debt doesn’t automatically create holiness. If it did, the crime rates in slums and inner cities would be lowest anywhere. Of course, wealth brings its own set of temptations and struggles, but the reality is that even saints need money to do their good works, even if they merely have the money long enough to give it away. The only time that poverty is a true blessing is when it is voluntary. Having to worry about where the next meal comes from is suffering, not grace.

The Mind Killer

 I've always loved this quote. Now, when I face fears I thought I had vanquished, it is even more meaningful.

“I must not fear.
Fear is the mind-killer.
Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration.
I will face my fear.
I will permit it to pass over me and through me.
And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path.
Where the fear has gone there will be nothing.
Only I will remain.”
Frank Herbert

Accepting New Normal

Today, the beginning of Spring, much of the US swelters in a heat wave.  Here in Oregon, we are having a new Ice Age. It's been several years since we've had this much snow...and to have it in March just isn't right. I mean it's REALLY NOT RIGHT.

I was completely snowed in this morning, and without internet, phone or tv. Cell coverage was spotty, only allowing for the occasional text  message to get through. Plus I have a horrible runny nose, itchy eyes and cough.  I'm not admitting to it being a cold, but it bears a certain resemblance to a cold.

So, as I have been sitting here, feeling a wee bit sorry for myself, I've been contemplating what I call my "new normal."  New normal is what happens to you after (or while you are in the midst) of a major shift in your entire life.  For me, it began with the death of my mother, or more precisely, a year before when she broke her legs and we started on the long journey home.  In these past 15 months, everything that I had thought was "normal" has been upended, from my role as her daughter and caregiver to finances, to becoming involved in a criminal investigation (not my own!) to spiritual shifts to...well, nothing that I had considered "normal" a year and a half ago now is the same. 

I've been bucking and snorting at the enforced changes. I don't like any of them, thank you very much.  I want to go back to the way things were...when I knew what normal was and could plan for my future. 

As if any of us can truly plan our future.  We might as well try to plan the past.

Which brings me back to "new normal." I have come to the conclusion (insert much bucking and snorting) that it comes down to one of two choices:  live or die.  I either have to accept what looks like will be normal from now and continue living...or fight it and die, either figuratively or literally.  Them's the only choices available.  Live or die. 

So what does "new normal" feel like?  For starters, it's very alone.  For my entire life, I had my mother with me and now I am truly and utter alone.  (Nefer and Basti would beg to differ, but feline companionship isn't quite the same thing as human.)

For another, it's scary. I never used to fear adventures or insecurity, but now everything from financial issues to fallen tree limbs from the snow feels frightening. The future, which used to seem rather far away, now skitters around the edges of my consciousness like a very nervous rabbit being chased by a starving coyote. It's easy to slip into full-on panic mode about tomorrow and the day after and the day after that.  In my imagining I'm living in a cardboard box, sleeping on a urine-stained mattress, eating cat food out of a dented can while dying from cancer because I can't afford treatment. (See Anxiety Girl.)


Finally, "new normal" doesn't feel very normal. Which makes the aloneness and the scariness of it even harder to accept. But it is what it is, as a friend tells me, and until I can come to grips with the fact that my new normal contains these elements, I'm probably going to be creating more of both the aloneness and the scariness. 

So today, as the snow starts to fall again (in March!!!), I am taking a few deep breaths and telling myself that what is now my life contain both both solitude and fear.  But I'm also telling myself that perhaps, just perhaps, once I embrace these two and invite them to warm themselves by the fire, that some other parts of "new normal" will also manifest themselves.

Like peace. 

Or, who knows, maybe even hope.

Fear, Excitement and Chemical Soup

A friend asked me today what was making my griefwalk so challenging.  I had been thinking about that myself and so I had an answer, or at least part of one.

For as many years as I can remember, back to my childhood, my mother was always the most significant figure in my life.  As she aged, and I took on more and more of her care, that central role became more prominent.  Now, at her passing, it's not just her death that I grieve, but a radical shift in my whole life.

My friend commented that such a place to be could be a bit scary.  And yes, it is.  For my entire life, I had one constant--mother, her needs, her wants, her presence.  Now, all of sudden, she is gone and there are possibilities and challenges opening up that I never even considered before.

I learned in a seminar that the chemical response to fear is only one molecule different than that of excitement. That's why things like roller coasters that terrify me can be thrilling to someone else.  In their chemistry, the experience is processed as exciting; in mine it comes across as terror. They think, "Woo Hoo. This is a blast!"  I think, "OMG, I'm going to die!"

Right now, my chemistry is looking into the future with terror, not excitement.  My heart pounds, not with the thrill of new horizons, but as if a rabid wolf who hasn't eaten in a month is right on my heels. So last night, I tried something.  I tried consciously to shift my feelings from fear to anticipation.

Now I'm not going to say that it was a resounding success and that I flashed from one state to another, but I did sense a tiny little shift in the chemical soup that is coursing through my veins.  It was if I could see that fear and excitement are truly close and that maybe, with practice, I might be able to create and hold that shift for longer than a nanosecond.

It's worth a try.

Sunday Gratitude for mid-Lent

I know that listing the things one is grateful for is an important way to refocus.  Sometimes it's easy to find dozens of things; other weeks, not so much.  That's why I'm limiting my list to five.  That way if I have more than enough, I can pick and choose and if I'm struggling, I only have to think of five. 

So this week's five:

  1. Lemon water.  I really like lemonade, but in a pinch, water with a squirt of lemon, even from one of those plastic lemons is thirst-quenching.

 2. Clean kitty litter boxes. Freshly bleached. Self-explanatory.

3. A pellet stove.  When it's snowing in March, nothing makes the room cozier.

4. Enough ice cream in the carton for a nice sized bowl.

5. St. Joseph.  I really love him as a patron and tomorrow is his feast day.