The Journey continues

Though I don't have regrets per se (see earlier blog), I do have to deal with pain, physical and emotional, and anger over certain past events, which may have a lot to do with the pain. Anger can hide in the body of a congenial person, one that generally holds their true emotions hidden from the world. By using a smile and laughter a troubled soul can present a very different picture then the one that is churning deep inside. Often, laughter is a defense mechanism and can even hide the anger from our conscious self.

2010 (C) Shelly Stotts Photography, used by permission

I was reminded of this the other day, listening to Marie Osmond as she talked about her son's suicide on Oprah. The picture her son presented to his family and to the world, one of a smiling, congenial, laughter filled soul, hid a troubled young man who tragically ended his life in despair. I don't know his pain and am not seeking to equate my anger with anything that might have gone on inside of Marie's son, just that often, the face we present to others can hide what is really happening within.

That anger can rear its head when triggered by a comment, actually any reminder no matter the source. Until mid-life hit, I probably wouldn't have recognized my anger as anger, but when life changes occurred, that anger all came boiling up from within in the form of depression and pain, with a certain amount of loneliness and despair. One by one, I've had to look at those events, those heartaches, that caused my anger, allow each to surface and then seek to forgive as I let them go. The most difficult anger to release is the anger over hurts my children have experienced because of the selfishness, or meanness of others. I'm still working on those.

Forgiving and letting go, I've found, is not just a one time event either. Hurts leave wounds and some wounds take a long time to heal. When healed there will be scars. Scars are protective barriers. Reminders can threaten to open old wounds as those scars leave us vulnerable and the anger, pain, and heartache can threaten to consume if not recognized and released. So it requires, to use a Buddhist phrase, being mindful.

2010 (C) Shelly Stotts Photography, used by permission

I can't rest on any past forgiveness either that I might have extended toward myself or another on this journey from the cradle to the grave. I must choose to forgive again, and again, whenever that anger is triggered. I must be mindful of that inner dialog that rises to the surface about past hurt, choose not to dwell on it, not to hold it in, or against another, and let it go, over and over and over. By allowing the soothing waters of forgiveness to continue to wash over the wound, it keeps it from becoming festered, keeps it cleansed. It's not easy and I can't do it alone, especially when the anger feels justified. I need grace to make it.

Maybe that's why when Jesus was asked how many times we should forgive, he said, seventy times seven. Perhaps it not only applies to that one that keeps making choices that hurt us and we need to extend forgiveness repeatedly, but to that which rises up from within when least expected from the past. Is he saying the need to forgive doesn't end, not until the end? I think so.

The Journey

2010 (C) Jennifer McClearen, used by permission

This life is a journey. It begins at conception and continues, if not interrupted, until natural death. As the years progress and more of life is behind instead of ahead, it is natural to look back on the journey. As I consider where I am at this moment in time, I also look at the choices made that helped me  arrive at "this place," wherever that might be, in life.

2010 (C) Shelly Stotts Photography, used by permission

I don't have regrets. There are choices that I look back on that pain me, because my choices caused others pain. There are times when I wish I had more information, could look into the future and see how I might have been a better help to another, and I live with the fact I made choices based on the knowledge I had at the time. There are times when I wish I were wiser, which really incorporates all the above, but I wasn't, so endlessly lamenting with regrets is non-productive.

In the end, when all is said and done, in order not to carry around the weight of past choices, even though I live with the consequences of the sum total of those choices, I must let it all go. I must accept myself, my limitations, in order to be free of regrets. It's why I love the movie, The Curious Case of Benjamin Buttons. It's about growing old, accepting who we are and letting go of the past, except for the LOVE we carry with us.

To celebrate the journey of LIFE, then, I must accept the weeds, the thorns, and the thistles.

As a Christian, I've confessed those choices that caused others pain, sought forgiveness, made restitution where able, but what carries me and keeps me from wallowing in the swamp of the past, is that I know God is a redeeming God. Nothing is un-redeemable. God can take any situation, any relationship, any past, with all of its choices, and weave it into something beautiful. Each and every choice, is a small thread in a larger tapestry called LIFE that in the end will cause all to bow at the magnificence of the LOVE that fashioned not only my life, but all LIFE.

Life as a dog

2010 (c) Shelly Stotts Photography, used by permission

Living with Mom (she has Alzheimer's), I can quickly, without warning, find myself in the dog house.

Last night, she accused me of "not liking her," and that if I wanted to get rid of her, she could go live in a nursing home.

At the time, I had NO IDEA what was going on in her mind that brought this up. It really doesn't matter. To try to untangle an Alzheimer's mind is just impossible. I find clues sometimes, but there is never any way to anticipate. Besides it would drive me crazy to try to circumvent all the possibilities. All I can do is assure her that I don't want her to leave and wait for whatever it is to pass.

That sounds simple, doesn't it. Well, its not. The minute I hear her say, "I have something to ask you?" Or "I'd just like to know....." my blood pressure begins to rise, and I wait clenching my teeth for that which is to come.

Mom doesn't realize how bizarre sometimes her thoughts are, because to her, they are real and she is right. I try not to argue, but when accused, it's hard not to want to talk her out of her perception by explaining how she has mis-interpreted things. Besides, it seems delusional to me, but to her, I'm the one that is delusional, naive, or forgetful. Who is right? Depends on your perception, doesn't it?

Another alternative is to just run and hide in the doghouse.

Oh well. Being in the doghouse is not such a bad place to be. Looking out on my little world from the confines of my little doggie bed, I find comfort in the fact that these episodes come and go and tomorrow, hopefully, I'll be able to cautiously sneak out from my "safe-place" and find laughter, singing, and joy. For now though, I think I'll just snuggle in.

Grace bids me fly and gives me wings

2010 (C) Shelly Stotts Photography, used by permission

It's inevitable. Everything in life changes. Nothing stays the same. Change is unsettling and sometimes it bears down on us with a vengeance. In the midst of changes, one more thing, seems too much.

Though grace is available to fly above our circumstances, viewing life from the perspective of eternity, it's seems easier, for me at least, during those times, to clam up, pull in, and remain earthbound. My vision of life narrows to include only that which lies beneath my feet.

A careless observer might think that faith was absent, lost somewhere under a weight of fear, loneliness, or those dreaded "what ifs" or equally debilitating, "if onlys." With the 20/20 vision of hindsight, it's been my experience, however, that those times are the richest in terms of eternity, because "...God has a thousand ways, each in his own way, of touching the soul." Benedict XVI

Often, in the darkness of the uncertainty of change, God is doing a hidden inner work. If we wait for it, expect it, giving God full access to our soul, without hiding beneath either "the poor mes," or the false bravado of denial, one day, we will be surprised to find ourselves standing, spreading our wings of grace, eager to fly.

"Do this and live," the law commands,
But gives me neither feet nor hands.
A better way his grace doth bring,
It bids me fly and gives me wings
Alleluia  (by John Fischer)

‎"True glory consists in doing what deserves to be written; in writing what deserves to be read; and in so living as to make the world happier for our living in it."~ Pliny The Elder (23 AD - 79 AD)

Give the Best you Have

Being

"We are so obsessed with doing that we have no time and no imagination left for being. As a result, men are valued not for what they are but for what they do or what they have - for their usefulness." ~Thomas Merton

Mom and I circa 1993

One of my mother's laments is over her loss of a sense of usefulness. All her adult life, she has worked, first at home raising seven children, and when my parents divorced, she spent long hours working, sometimes two jobs, to put food on the table and a roof over our heads. In her later years, she worked to provide for her own living expenses (as best she could). She helped others by opening her home to various children and grand-children as they needed a temporary place to land. After she retired, she moved back to our hometown and obtained part-time work to keep busy. Eventually, the position was discontinued, and with her declining cognitive abilities, it became difficult for her to consider another job, although she still mentions finding work so that she can feel more productive.


Her days have dwindled to washing her own clothes, putting dishes away in the cupboard (although this is also becoming difficult for her), taking out the trash, and tiddying up her living space. She has no interest to organize or engage in any sort of hobby. She spent so many years working a job, that she didn't develop any, and even if she had, I'm not sure at this point she'd be able to manage them. She did enjoy reading, but that also has become difficult, not only because of failing eyesight (macular degeneration), but also because of her decreasing ability to follow a storyline. It's difficult for her to remember what she read on the previous page.


Unfortunately, visiting with others, friends and relatives, has created more agitation instead of relieving it. Her perception is that others are visiting to "check her out, critiquing her" to see if she is crazy. She thinks I set these visits up so that I can get their critique in order to put her away. Nothing could be further from the truth, but that is her perception and she knows what she knows. She still needs the visits, even if they disturb her. 

Her interests now are watching her movies, eating out, and going for rides. Riding in the car, seems to calm the periods of agitation that creep up on her.

Mom 2010

I've been thinking a lot about "being" in comparison to "doing," as I watch mom's abilities decline and also as my ability to ease her distress is limited. Mom is not unique in feeling that it is what you "do" or "what you have" that matters, not who you are. It is not only prevalent in society at large, but also in how we view "ministry." I remember a conversation with a fellow Catholic who just couldn't quite render equivalency to the ministry of contemplatives (those that live in cloistered religious orders and spend the majority of their time praying) and those out in the world actively involved in ministry of some sort, relieving the sick, ministering to the poor, evangelizing those that are considered outside God's will.


A high premium is placed on that which can be seen, rather than the unseen, that which can be measured, counted, and visualized as successful. It makes us "feel" of worth, a sense of accomplishment. This is not to say there isn't a need for actively engaging society in order to minister. Jesus warned in the coming judgment that the shepherd will divide the sheep to the right and the goats to the left according to whether or not they ministered to Him. "I was hungry and  you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me, I was naked and you clothed me, I was sick and you visited me, I was in prison and you came to me." (Mt 25:34-37) Those that inherit the kingdom are those the King recognizes, those that ministered unto "the least of these my brethren;" because as they did to the least, the King says, they "did it to me." (Mt 25: 40).


But there is a need to be actively engaged in prayer, contemplation, and meditation as well. As water is to a garden, so prayer and meditation is to the world around us, that those in it might bear the fruit of righteousness and holiness, for in the end, that is the goal, not "usefulness." Prayer is a mighty weapon and an effective means to holiness for us and for others.


Even at that, in the end, to pray might be too much for some. To value my mother because of her prayers would also be to miss the point. She is valued because she is and this world, certainly my world, would not have been the same without her. As she continues to pull inward, and as my ability to relieve her distress, lessens, I hope and pray I remember that being together in this, no matter what shape "it" takes, even if mom seems "far away," is exhibiting a sweet, fruitful fragrance in a world that seems more and more to devalue the unseen and unproductive among us.

Somebody's praying

Ruby Mary Ann Gagnebin Fried

At an early age (7 yrs), my grandma died. Her death left "a hole" in my life. She was my comfort. I'd crawl into her lap when darkness created scary shadows on my wall. She'd hold me in her arms as she rocked me to sleep singing softly in my ear. Christmas day, 1955, my dad sat me on his lap as he told me the angels came and took her to heaven.

Since that day, I haven't escaped dark times, when those shadows again stretched across my life and I felt the loss of grandma's physical comfort. Some of the darkness has been because of my own choices, some because of the choices of others, some just because this world is not perfect. Darkness knocked me off my feet as if I were caught by an undertow at the beach. The tumultuous waves sent me thrashing, unable to get my bearings as murky seaweed seemed to entangle itself about my head.  Even when I was thrashing, being assaulted by waves of grief or pain, there was one thing that kept me from succumbing to the waves, and my feet reaching for solid ground. I knew, among others, my grandma was praying for me.

There were also times in my life when it was as if I was allowed to go just so far and no farther down a road that would lead me in a direction I ultimately, in my heart of hearts, did not want to go, because there was a higher calling on my life, beyond the immediate, beyond my own desires. Strong arms captured my heart about the time grandma died and have held onto me ever since, and to that end, I believe my grandma, among others, was praying for me.

I know as long as I'm living in this world dark times will come, when the shadows seem scary and I'll long for grandma's lap, long to hear her singing in my ear, so I can listen to her heartbeat. In the darkness of those times, I'll always know, someone is watching over me, and I'll thank the Lord for my grandma, who, among others, is praying for me.

Somebody's Praying by Ricky Skaggs
Somebody's prayin', I can feel it
Somebody's prayin' for me
Mighty hands are guiding me
To protect me from what I can't see
Lord I believe; Lord I believe
Somebody's prayin' for me.

Angels are watchin', I can feel 'em
Angels are watchin' over me
There's many miles ahead 'til I get home
Still I'm safely kept before your throne
'Cause Lord I believe, Lord I believe
Your angels are watchin' over me.

Well, I've walked through barren wilderness
Where my pillow was a stone
And I've been through the darkest caverns
Where no light had ever shown.
Still I went on 'cause there was someone
Who was down on their knees
Lord. I thank you for those people
Prayin' all this time for me.

Perception

Photo (c) 2010 Joaquin Aragon, used by permission

Perceptions paint colors of various hues on my day. Is the glass half-full or half-empty? Am I in a cave viewing only shadows, not reality itself? Or is the brightness of sunlight illuminating the dark corners of my mind so that I can see the dust particles floating about?

For years, Sundays were the busiest day of the week for me. I used my Monday(s) as a day to recuperate. My perception of Monday, therefore, is one of quiet, restful reflection about the upcoming week even though my life has changed. I do sympathize with those who must start their workweek and dread Mondays. I hear, "Yep, it was another Monday!" on social networking sites, meaning, all hell broke loose, or at the very least, nothing "seemed" to go right.

I often wonder, is it the anticipation that my Monday will be quiet and restful that colors my perception, so much so that no matter what happens on Monday, I tend to see it as positive? Is it contrariwise for others?

As I watch Mom cope with her own reality from day to day, colored by her perceptions, it was interesting to me to see that yesterday, Sunday, a day that typically, for years, filled her mind with doom and gloom, was actually pleasant, filled with laughter. She even started, at one point, singing in her mind "June is Busting Out all Over," after she asked me what month it was. What made the difference? For one thing, she didn't remember it was Sunday. To her, it was just another day, but one that, at least yesterday, didn't have thoughts of doom and gloom clouding her perception.

Living with Alzheimer's

Photo (c) 2009, David McClearen

My mother lives with Alzheimer's. 
I live with Alzheimer's too, because mom 
lives with me. 

Her memories are all mixed up, her perceptions fused with her paranoia, short-term memory loss means conversations are difficult because thoughts are repeated endlessly, and sometimes, hallucinations are accepted as real-life events with little room for discussion as to the validity of them. Some days a dark cloud descends and life is bleak.

It does no good to remember the relationship we had in the past. It has changed. Mom knows her relationships have changed and she can't find a reason for it. It does no good telling her the change is in her mind. Even if she could accept it, which she can't, she would forget the conversation soon after, and would wonder to herself again, what happened.

It also does no good trying to get her to remember, as if by saying, "Mom, remember this or that," she will somehow suddenly put everything together in one Ah Ha! moment. It only frustrates her and makes her feel like I think she is crazy, which I don't. Sometimes, with a little guidance, she can come to an understanding that is consistent with reality, but her reality changes with her perceptions, her perceptions are her reality, so even though there might be a meeting of the minds, it soon passes, and we are back to square one.

Other days, laughter fills our conversations, and I find mom delightful. Today was one of those days.
It's best to take each moment, each hour, each day as they come. That is easier said then done, but I'm learning. I never know, when she ascends the stairs, if I'll meet the lady or the tiger, but whoever she is at that moment, she is still my mom, and I love her. I am grateful, will be eternally grateful, for this time we have together, living with Alzheimer's. She is not the disease, she lives with it. And so do I.

Southwell on the beauty of faith

I keep running into Jesuits, not literally, in my readings. Came across another, Robert Southwell (c. 1561 – 21 February 1595), an English Jesuit that according to Joseph Pearce (Literary Giants, Literary Catholics), "employed the beauty of language as a means of conveying the beauty of faith (p 18)."

Southwell was martyred in post-Reformation England. Queen Elizabeth I issued an edict that any English-born subject that entered the priesthood after her accession to the throne could not stay in England longer than 40 days on pain of death. Southwell at his own request was sent to England in 1586 as a Jesuit missionary. According to his bio, he went from one Catholic family to another, administering the rites of the Church. Arrested after six years of missionary work, he was held under house arrest and tortured in the hopes that he might reveal the identities of or provide evidence against other priests. He spent 3 years in the Tower of London, where he was only allowed his Bible and the works of St Bernard. While awaiting execution for treason, although he denied any evil intentions toward the queen, the torture continued. Eventually he was hanged, disemboweled, and quartered.


Much of his poetry, it is believed, was written from prison and is said to have influenced another Englishman, William Shakespeare.


Southwell's intimate relationship with his Lord, forged in the furnace of his suffering, shines forth in his verse:
Let folly praise that fancy loves, I praise and love that Child
Whose heart no thought, whose tongue no word, whose hand no deed defiled.
I praise him most, I love him best, all praise and love is his,
While him I love, in him I live, and cannot live amiss.
Love's sweetest mark, laud's highest theme, man's most desired light,
To love him life, to leave him death, to live in him delight.
He mine by gift, I his by debt, thus each to other due,
First friend he was, best friend he is, all times will try him true. 


All I can add is, Amen. 

Gerald Manley Hopkins and me on writing

A prayer, as Jesuit Gerald Manley Hopkins offers his writing efforts to God, even though they might seem fruitless:

"Also in some meditations today I earnestly asked our Lord to watch over my compositions that they might do me no harm through the enmity or imprudence of any man or my own; that He would have them as His own and employ or not employ them as He should see fit. And this I believe is heard."

I've practiced the art of writing for many years, journals, letters, written lectures, devotions, news articles, papers and thesis, all in an effort to explore possibilities of the writing life. I'm still experimenting with possibilities. I've read books and thought, I wish I had written that, or instead, this is how I would have written it, or better yet, if I could write one book before I die, this is the kind it would be. Sometimes I've allowed reactions to my efforts to derail and discourage me, but over the long haul, I've always come back to the same desire, to write.

I heard an author on television just yesterday say that writing is a solitary life, and it is, but that writers like to be read, they need others, and it's true. It's one of those paradoxes that accompany the writing life. We certainly desire a pat on the back, a human desire for appreciation. It gets lonely sometimes lost in my own head. But in the end, a writer must write because he or she must write, so I keep writing.

My greater desire, more than the desire for appreciation from a reader, as lovely as it is, is that my writing, whatever form it might take, be Ad Majorem Dei Gloriam, for the greater glory of God, which is why Gerald Manley Hopkins' prayer resonated with me.

I passionately long for God to find my efforts a fragrance that is pleasing and brings Him joy; that my meager efforts to indulge myself in the written word would somehow unite with His effort to comfort, encourage, and inspire others to seek out the best in themselves and become all that God created them to be. In the process, of course, as I write, I seek the same for me, that I become all God created me to be, seeking to be, as St Francis claims holiness is, the best version of myself.

I guess if I were going to illustrate how I see myself in writing, it would be as a St Clare to St Francis, or perhaps a more accessible example, a Sam Gangee to Frodo. I can't carry someone's burden, I can't walk someone's path, but I can come alongside, walking with for a spell, or even at times, carrying another by offering words in writing that might help another continue moving forward when the way is dark and the path is difficult. To that end, I write.

"Be who you are"

I first heard the prayer attributed to St Francis (there seems to be a question as to whether or not he actually wrote it...see prayer below) when I was living in Kuwait. A dear friend of mine, used to strum her guitar as a group of expat mothers gathered together for support and for Bible Study (1982-1984). The sentiments found in the prayer, inspired me to try to emulate them. St Francis raised the bar high and I haven't always lived up to my aspirations, nevertheless the prayer accompanies me on my journey.

The same friend, after she returned to England, sent me a card with this prayer on it. She found the card among her sister's things in South Africa after her sister was brutally beaten and raped by a roving gang of thugs. The card is among my dearest treasures. It reminds me the way of peace is not an easy path, even though Jesus said Blessed are the peacemakers. I believe they are blessed, nevertheless, that doesn't mean the way of peace is strewn with flowers and accolades. Often it is a hard road, strewn instead with sharp rocks and hurtful thorns that prick the skin, leave painful blisters, and even open wounds that take a long, long time to heal, and when they do, leave scars.

In 2005, on a journey to Italy, I had the opportunity to visit Assisi, the birthplace of St Francis. I spent time before the cross where St Francis felt he heard the Lord speak to him, telling him to repair his Church. Francis took the words literally and began to repair the chapel at San Damiano the site of the discovery of his calling.

As I sat on a hard bench, gazing at the cross, listening to a choir of nuns sing A Capella (it was beautiful by the way) my thoughts turned to the dilemma of the hour. I've always struggled with ""what do you want me to do, Lord?"" thinking there was some "thing," some "position," some "occupation," that I would somehow discover was "THE Lord's will" for me. Certainly, that was Francis' heart cry at San Damiano, and I too wanted to hear from the Lord.

So I sat there, in the manner of St Francis asking the Lord, "what do you want me to be?" it's interesting that I used those words, to be, instead of to do, because at the time, I was trying to decide between entering a residency program for Chaplains at the Med Center or working on a Masters to teach. I was asking, what do you want me to be, a chaplain or a teacher?

In the quiet of my contemplation I did hear, from somewhere deep within, "Be who you are."

I've thought about that ever since. Who am I? What is it that energizes me? Where do I find myself more often then not, in whatever relationship I am in, or whatever circumstance that confronts me? I find myself encouraging others. Primarily, the Lord's will for me is not a position, an occupation, a particular relationship, or place. It is being who I am, in the midst of life, whatever life brings my way. I can explore various occupations, and have, but in the end, whatever I choose, and right now it is to write, I'll be seeking to encourage others.

Simple, but not easy. 

Auspicious beginnings

John Paul II left a message for those of us that have allowed their fears from time to time to stifle their creative spark, or for one reason of the other have let the responses of others to those attempts to express ourselves mute our voices. He said, "Be not afraid." They are not original words, one can find the same sentiment written elsewhere, but somehow, given a lifetime of circumstances that challenged and shaped him, the words carry the weight of experience.

With that short phrase, ringing in my heart and mind, I'm launching out into the depths of blogger land, to write those words pushing against the bars I've put around them, as they seek a spot to present themselves to the great unknown. Surrendering to the unknown is always scary, so I remind myself, though the future, that which lies beyond the bend, will always remain unknown, I know the one who holds my future and therefore, I can.