Tag Archives: dancing

Dec22

Spotlights, Strobe Lights and World’s End

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Still image from The Brew’s “Into the Remembering Sun” music video filmed at Castle Hill, Ipswich, MA

Last night we celebrated the end of the world … or its un-ending, or non-ending … with a local (but internationally touring and recording) band The Brew. Just outside, white-capped waves rolled one over another and crashed onto the dark, wild, and windswept shore of Salisbury Beach. We were dry and safe inside the Blue Ocean Music Hall where the band played their annual holiday concert (with plenty of space for dancing). They are gifted lyricists and classically-trained-musicians-nee-rocker-sons of friends of ours.

They invoked Mayan spirits (who predicted this ending date) with drums. Invited those spirits to be present. Then sang a lot of songs about endings and beginnings. We moved, swayed, sang, and kept time to their offering of pounding music.

So, okay, the world didn’t end last night. Or today. Not literally, though some people in the past weeks, have reason to feel as if private worlds have ended. Oh, and my family knows that feeling all too well … when it seems as if all of human existence has ended, that everything that matters has been erased, or should stop and be silent and pay attention. And in many ways, that’s true. Fragile, tender, vulnerable, fleeting, too-young and beloved parts of our lives are taken away, and nothing can stand up against that loss. Yet we are challenged to continue caring, living, and being engaged in by life.

Some interpretations of the Mayan calendar’s ending date actually talked about transformation. That it was a time of change, rather than cataclysm and destruction. The rising of a new era. That’s another invitation, isn’t it? Renewal. Rebirth. Reclamation.

Perhaps the gift of the ‘end of the world’ prediction is to ask ourselves, what would happen if we lived as if it was about to end? What would we do with that precious time, if it suddenly mattered, because it was limited? What would we release? What would we hold onto? Events in the world remind us, over and over, that we cannot know what is coming next. That NOW is the only gift of time — the only moment — we can be certain of inhabiting.

Brew_video_Still2

Still image from music video by The Brew

Last night, we gathered among friends. Celebrated. Together. If the world had ended … it would have been a good place to be.

But it didn’t end. So my head is full of dreams about another night, another day, and a whole year yet to come. In a season of lights, there is a time and place for the artists’s lights. For the whirling strobe and flashing spotlight. For fingers on guitar strings and keyboards and drumsticks and microphone. For lips and lungs, minds and hearts, to remind us to live. To put our hope and pain into words and share it with each other. To let go. To get sweaty and emotional and expressive under those lights, and remember to BE … to BE the primal and present and passionate mortal creatures that we are.

I offer the copyrighted lyrics of Into the Remembering Sun by The Brew, one of many songs we danced to on the night the world almost ended.

Into The Remembering Sun
by the The Brew (c) 2012

(Verse 1)
On a night when the moon gave no shoulder
Even the wind was feeling old
Even the stars found a cloud to hide behind
Believing my last hope sold
Believing my last hope sold

(Pre-chorus 1)
You come through the gate
Despite what I told you
Still I have no shame
Cause never did I fold

(Chorus)
and I know the world was changing
At least what I had faith in
Burned into the pages time was not erasing now

(Verse 2)
When the days age and relay accounts of love
Knowing now what time was
You and I will be the jewel in the crown
Thrown into the remembering sun
Thrown into the remembering sun

(Prechorus 2)
You run through the gate
Despite what you told me
Still you have no shame
Cause you love me to the bone

(Chorus 2)
And I know your world is changing
At least what you have faith in
You burned into the pages time is not erasing
Let nobody be mistaken
And we’ll walk away so babe don’t be shaken now (?)

(Chorus)
And I know the world is changing
At least what we have faith in
We burned into the pages time was not erasing now
Don’t erase it now

You and I will be the jewel in the crown
Thrown into the remembering sun
Thrown into the remembering sun
Thrown into the remembering sun

Oct27

Boots, Birds and Good-Byes

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On a difficult pair of days, I wore a pair of high heeled boots, hid behind a costume, became vulnerable, wept, prayed, painted my nails, felt incredibly lonely, connected with special people, remembered those who are gone, and was visited by a winged messenger.

There has been a long silence from my end. Again. It’s been a few weeks of logistics such as deadlines, papers due, mid-term exams, and also … yes, pushing through difficult milestones such as the birthday of a departed friend and the anniversary of the fifth year since Jessie died.

Once upon a time, I wrote every day of Jessie’s treatment, and continued every day after she went on ahead of us, recounting the journey of the living. Now it takes me a week to reflect, in writing, about such moments.

Two days come close together last week. Both are difficult. One is the birthday of my friend Rebecca, who died of breast cancer a few years ago, after a long and gracious life, making a difference in the world of so many people, but especially her family, and most of all her two beloved children Ben and Anna.

Her headstone is only a few yards from Jessie’s, beneath a row of maples, at the top of the hill in the cemetery. Rebecca knew their spots would be close together. We visited those cemetery locations together. Stood while Rebecca was alive under the long shadows of old maples on young green grass, listened to songbirds, felt the stir of the wind, heard  its murmur through the leaves. Made memories up there. Had conversations we often couldn’t share with anyone else, about worries and wishes, realities and dreams, sorrows and hopes. Rebecca lived with a persistent form of breast cancer, and navigated a fine balance of hope in the possibility of a cure or new treatment, the wish for longevity and survival, edged with awareness of a threatening and mortal condition. Rebecca talked about a visit she had made to the cemetery with her family; wanting them to have a living experience with her there, as well as a place to visit in later days. We talked about where she and Jessie would both be (Jessie had already died, but we hadn’t interred her ashes yet), and how they’d be close to each other in the spaces between the maples, and imagined how maybe they’d find each other in the place beyond this one. We believed that Rebecca and Jessie would continue to visit those of us that they left behind, back here on earth.

The very next day marked the morning, five years ago, when my daughter Jessie died. Every year our family approaches this milestone differently. It is a markedly individual and separate experience for each of us as sister, father or mother. And of course, it is a day marked by our extended family, friends or her community, too.

This year, on the eve of the anniversary of Jessie’s death, I found myself locked in memory loops and traumatic flashbacks of the last 24 hours of her life. Vivid images or sensory memories came back. They blur together like this: her lung x-ray looking worse that last full day in ICU, followed by visits of specialists to her bedside, and a phone call conference from a small meeting room to consult with Chris and several medical team leaders to decide a recommended course of action, an evening visit from one transplant care team nurses who believed she’d make it, Jessie waking up that night and braking through sedation to kick and reach for me as I told her we loved her and named each member of her family, holding tight to her hand, 2am worries and conversations with a night-shift nurse as we changed her bed padding and checked IV lines and monitors and breathing tube, later kissing her as they took her off the floor — still medicated to a level of unconsciousness while on a portable ventilator — to undergo a lung biopsy, pounding on doors to get through to the room where a doctor waited to tell me she was dying, sitting in a numb disconnected state while a white-coated medical fellow knelt before me to deliver the unthinkable narration of events that transformed a scan room into an emergency operating suite, knowing our friend and minister Rebecca was beside me every step of that morning, and that Rebecca made the calls I couldn’t make, knowing that Jessie died while Chris and Sarah were en route to the hospital, walking with Chris and Sarah together as if through a gauntlet one final time down the hallway to her room in ICU, where it wasn’t Jessie waiting anymore, just her lovingly arranged body under a quilt, so we could say good-bye.

This year, those scenes – running on endless replay in my mind — recurred over and over. Sometimes scene-by-scene as they really took place. Sometimes as if I rewrote history and changed fate.

If only we had the power to change the script, stop the camera, halt the action, decide to make a different ending, give all the actors new lines, new roles … if only it was make-believe, fiction, theater … not real. But it isn’t. It happened. And there are no sequels or second versions of this particular story.

Of course, I have other beliefs about what comes next. About a spiritual life beyond this one … but admittedly, there is a difference between that spiritual and emotional comfort and the very physical and mortal reality of a child you can read to, speak with, hold close, argue with, sigh about, worry over or dance with.

During the anniversay of Jessie’s death, I always set aside productivity. I don’t do school work or client projects. I cancel any appointments, skip most commitments.

Instead, I give myself permission to be in the moment and experience whatever comes. To make space and go through this, because it will catch up to me one way or another.

It isn’t a day when someone needs to fix what’s wrong. It is simply … an unspeakably sad and moving day. A time when we are permitted to weep or pray or be pissed off or act off-the-charts giddy or stay silent. A time when we experience the feelings that are natural to such milestones; and almost every possibly emotion is likely to surface, visit and be expressed along the way.

On such an anniversary, I don’t have many expectations about what will or should happen. I may lose myself for part of the day. Or find Jessie all over again. Connect with Chris or Sarah, if possible, on this day. Retreat. Or be in the company of friends. Mourn. Remember. Acknowledge. And yes, celebrate.

We often try to experience some of Jessie’s best-loved activities on this day. For instance, my friend Martha got me started on the self-care and healing of pedicures and manicures. You may scoff at this self-indulgent choice, but it is a place of respite where no one expects anything of you, someone takes care of you for a little while, you float and let go, and you even feel a little better (or prettier, or something) on the other side of it. I did it again this year.

And this year Chris and I attended the Rotary Masquerade fundraising ball that evening. It happens every year; it just fell on the same night as Jessie’s anniversary. And what better way to celebrate her vibrant spirit? She loved dressing up, going out to dance, to be with friends.

I dared to wear a pair of black high-heeled boots and a short skirt and a wig. I was someone else: pretending, letting go, running away, wishing, and forgetting. And I was myself: grieved, sad, lonely, determined, giddy, connected, remembering, and living ‘in the moment’.

Underneath the black lipstick, fake eyelashes and sequined outfit, I was a mother thinking about both of my daughters: my beautiful intelligent grownup daughter putting away her textbooks and going out with friends to the night-life of cafes in Thessaloniki during her first semester abroad in college in Greece and my younger child whose ashes rest beneath a headstone graven with her name, marked that day by a blossom and a crimson leaf. Under the red-and-black wig, beneath the black spider rings, I was a friend who asked the opinion of girlfriends about makeup and party outfit, wanting someone to cheer and encourage me for risks to self-image when I wore an edgy costume. In the black boots and red silk top, I felt like a vamped-up sexy wife on a date with my husband, spending time together on a day that holds deep and surreal connotations for both of us, in a year that has been full of exhausting transitions, some wonderful, some challenging. Dancing among peers in masks and feather boas, capes and fedoras, applauding the band and jumping to the rockin’ music, I was one member of a club and a community that showed up to raised funds for local causes.

We aren’t binary: black-and-white, one-or-the-other, either-or. We, as humans, are so much more complex and layered and intricate and impossible to unknot or explain. We are just … who we are. And different, every moment, every day.

The next morning, I woke to the rush of wings as a bird fell or was knocked down my chimney. It emerged, eventually, from the hearth in our bedroom to circle and perch in our room. A common bird, familiar and full grown. Dark-tipped, pale-chested, bright-eyed. We caught it in a net and released it safely out the front door.

What do I believe about the sudden fall and flight or that common backyard bird that often visits the feeder outside our kitchen window? For me, its sudden arrival represented the visitation of a winged messenger, a spirit guide. A reminder that she’s here in many ways, and somewhere else, too. (You’re welcome to your own thoughts about it … whether you believe its coincidence or meaningful.)

The eve of Jessie’s anniversary, I relived nightmares. The day of her anniversary, I ‘got by’ in fancy nail polish and high-heeled boots she would have liked a lot. The morning after her anniversary, I participated in a startling and sacred moment.

And I am reminded, and I remind you, that we are connected. Body, mind and spirit. This world and the next world. All of us, always on a journey, perhaps in different places along the way, but not so far apart as we sometimes feel or imagine. Nearer than we suppose.

Aug3

Inspired by Real People (Defintely Not Saints)

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Chris and Sarah in 2011 PMC.

Bandwagon. Soapbox. Call it what you will, sometimes I journal about things that make me passionate. Issues that prompt me to want to act, to find a way to help and make a difference.

We all have causes. I know this and I honor the responses we have each made to the  challenges that have touched our lives. You have yours. I have mine. We can’t do everything, but we can choose to care and support those efforts that move us. We can donate time, talent or treasure to the causes that speak to us.

Right now you’re reading (again) about one of mine. Today I’m inspired by my family (Chris, Sarah, and Jessie) and other cyclists.

In just my town of Ipswich, 11 athletes will participate in the Pan Mass Challenge (PMC) bike ride this weekend. In total, over 5,500 cyclists will participate. They’ll start from Wellesley and Bourne in Massachusetts. Many will end in Provincetown, although there are several routes; they’ll ride between 25-110 miles over one day and 153-190 miles over two days. They come from 36 states and eight countries. There’s approximately one volunteer working to support every two riders.  The youngest riders are 13 and the eldest is 88.

The PMC is the single largest athletic fundraising event in the nation. Last year, about 230,000 individual contributions were made to support these cyclists. This year’s goal? Raise $36 million for the Dana Farber’s Jimmy Fund. This event also provides almost two-thirds of Dana Farber’s annual revenue to support groundbreaking cancer research; 100% of tax-deductible contributions go toward this effort.

As I’ve mentioned before, the research at Dana Farber is revolutionary. There are a handful of institutions around the world (most of them private and supported by fundraising initiatives such as this one) that pioneer most of the cancer knowledge base and treatment protocols used in the world today. Dana Farber is one of these leaders, and their research and treatment methods set the gold-standard of practice used in clinics and hospitals around the globe.

Their teams and their knowledge sustained our daughter and sister Jessie for six years while she lived with leukemia (the best-of-the-best kind of leukemia, if you have to get it, as we were once told). Statistically, Jessie had all the best chances to go through the traditional, effective 2-year protocol and come out a survivor. These days, about 87% of all children treated for this type of leukemia will be long-term survivors. (Even 30 years ago, that number was much lower, so Dana Farber has made tremendous improvements in survival rates.)

Yet almost from the start, Jessie was one of the kids on the rare side of the experience; she was constantly beset with infectious challenges. She almost died on day 10 after diagnosis, over a span of eight hours, as her body shut down, not from cancer alone, but from the infection that had set in. Her oncology team saved her then, by identifying the bacterial cause and treating her aggressively with the best pairing of antibiotics to stop its progression. She endured numerous complications from that interlude, had parts of her body surgically removed and altered as a result, but she lived. There were many more bouts of infections, not all of them so dangerous.

When she relapsed the first time, and we couldn’t identify a close genetic match for a donor for a bone marrow transplant (another statistical surprise for all of us), Dana Farber used an alternative protocol, much more aggressive, that lasted another two years. After she relapsed a second time, Dana Farber recommended another option for transplant; we used stem cells donated anonymously by parents from their newborn’s umbilical cord. The transplant itself was successful; Jessie’s body populated with the new healthy cells of her donor … her blood type and cellular footprint changed. Sadly, aggressive infectious complications combined with a much-compromised immune system ultimately challenged her body too much, and she died 101 days after transplant. Six years after being diagnosed with leukemia.

Age nine.

These bare paragraphs don’t begin to articulate the depth of our family’s journey. They’re just an outline of an illness, and don’t tell you about  Jessie herself. All her passions: theater, swimming, dance, karate, bike-riding, dog-care, kindergarten-first-second-and-third grade, books, card games, soccer, drawing, conversations, friends, and family. She practiced how to ride a two-wheeler, but still used training wheels. She earned an orange belt in karate. She began to read on her own just weeks before she died. She had a crush on a boy in her grade. She dressed in black biker boots and red sparkly Oz shoes. She wore flowing princess gowns, bald or not. She went on father-daughter dates with dad. With her sister Sarah, she ran the Rotary 5K Kids Course. She put up mom’s hair in crazy do’s. She earned a soccer team medal. For one birthday, she raised money and supplies for the local animal shelter. In school, she led an act of social justice in the cafeteria to prevent ostracizing of another child. She performed in a community theatrical production while on treatment. She also traveled to England while on treatment. She savored Zumi’s chai tea, black olives, sushi, spaghetti with “sprinkle cheese” and sauce on the side, chicken and lo mein noodles, pancakes with syrup, and mint-chocolate chip ice cream. She went to the top of a ski slope, rode on skimobiles and jetskis (go fast). She also had temper tantrums, threw things, swore, yelled, drew in permanent marker on furniture, hid with the dog when we looked for her, liked to win even if it required inventing new rules for the game, preferred to be the boss in most situations, preferred the limelight and the liberty of choreographing her own dances or writing her own songs, without practicing enough to know the basic steps or musical chords, teased her sister relentlessly, and sometimes “hated us.”

Let me be clear. She was a little girl, compromised by a mortal illness, but living life as boldly as possible, despite that challenge. She wasn’t a saint, an angel or a martyr. She was “just Jessie,” but that means a whole lot, if you knew her.

Most of what Jessie accomplished, she did while on treatment. Two-thirds of her life was lived on treatment. Her lifespan was meaningful and vibrant, in great part because Dana Farber’s teams found ways to keep the cancer in abeyance and also to balance out quality of life with effective treatment. Nothing stopped her. And she changed hundreds, possibly thousands, of lives, simply by “living large” despite leukemia.

Anything I say cannot fully describe our family over those years. We have changed markedly from the family who first started this journey almost eleven years ago.

Sarah grew up from a naive second-grader into a middle-schooler who’d seen almost every difficult side of human existence, even before lost her sister. She stopped being the little girl who imagined she was a horse or a puppy and grew into a soccer player, on-again/off-again theatrical participant, saxophonist, committed dancer (modern, jazz/hip-hop, ballet), Honors student and gifted singer (solo and chorus). She helped to shape our family’s foundation, Bright Happy Power, and its work at Childrens Hospital with young cancer patients. She volunteered for InterAct (high school Rotary service club) and loved the mission trips with First Church’s youth group; that’s how she connected hands-on with spirituality. She is determined to help teens in abusive dating relationships or living with other traumas. And about becoming a pediatric oncology nurse. Her life grew more, not less, complex after living through Jessie’s cancer experience.

Chris? Became a partner in his architecture firm during the years of Jessie’s original diagnosis. During the most demanding parts of Jessie’s treatment, he was Sarah’s primary caregiver (took her to school every day, and was home every night to give her dinner, do homework and  put her to bed), yet also managed to visit the hospital a few hours every day or so, and take the weekend hospital shifts, while working fulltime. He joined and remains active in the Rotary Club, a service organization that works locally, nationally and internationally on health and education issues. He’s also become an avid cyclist and serves as a youth group leader and Deacon in our church. The only thing more important than these causes? His family: we have always come first. He will set aside any other commitment to be available when he is needed; that has never changed.

These sketches make both of my daughters (and my spouse) sound all glowing and goody-two-shoes, and anyone who has known them, realizes they are each real people and far from perfect. I have certainly journaled and complained (sometimes in very gentle, politically-correct terms) about the less-than-picturesque moments inside our family. Like all of us, my family members (living and departed) are each complex, imperfect and vitally intricate in character: gifted, troubled, challenged, determined, intelligent, cranky, beautiful (okay, handsome for Chris), moody, selfish, generous, always changing and growing.

My narrations cannot really depict the many Dana Farber and Childrens Hospital care providers who made Jessie’s life so rich, because she spent so much in their care. Many of them remain close friends and are still part of our lives. We had primary teams that followed Jessie for six years. Many people  knew her from her frequent visits to their stations or services in the hospital or clinic. And some people we met just a few times, or never saw at all, although they helped us. Nurses, doctors, surgeons, oncologists, geneticists, transplant specialists, pain management specialists, infectious disease specialists, GI specialists, lung and cardiac specialists, nutrition specialists, eye doctors, dentists, clinical assistants, nursing assistants, technicians, respiratory therapists, radiologists, radiology oncologists, lab technicians, pharmacists, anesthesiologists, therapists, counselors, playroom specialists, resource room specialists, medical clown units, music therapists, art therapists, volunteers, and even a visiting dog! Can you imagine how many people were involved in her life and her care?!

Sarah and Jessie in 2007.

Surely you can understand why my husband Chris and daughter Sarah will ride this weekend. We didn’t have a happy ending, but we had a special, memorable life together. Cancer didn’t define us, though it certainly shaped much of our life as a family.

We want even more for other children, other families. We want happy endings for everyone. Actually, we’d like empty oncology units and transplant rooms and eventually we’d like to put those units of the hospital out of business, because everyone is cured, and cancer is an archaic fact.

Although Dana Farber and other research organizations have improved the odds for many children and adults, we’re not done yet. Not even close. All of us know, or will know, someone affected by cancer. It might be in our own bodies, or diagnosed within our immediate family or a close friend or colleague. It will touch your life, if it hasn’t already.

Our goal, for now, is to work toward happier endings. To tell anecdotes with more satisfying results and even greater chances of long-term remission and healthy lifespans. We have come a long way. 50 years ago, leukemia was a death sentence for virtually all children. Now their chances are amazing. The same is true for many other pediatric diagnoses, though not all forms of cancer have such good outcomes.

Regardless of how optimistic the statistics may be, it’s all or nothing when it’s a single life. Sure, the chances of survival are about over 80%. But you can’t be 85% cured. In the end, you have it or your don’t. You stay in remission, or you don’t. It’s 0% or 100%. We want 100% for everyone.

Eventually, you will be able to be vaccinated to prevent some forms of cancer. Or there will be a genetically-tailored response to your specific cancer, that will target only the bad cells and not harm the remainder of your body on a cellular level, as it arrests and eliminates the cancer. It’s begun already.

For more facts and figures, I offer you these resources:

Our town’s local weekly newspaper, the Ipswich Chronicle, interviewed our PMC participants. Movingly, they asked the question, “In one word, what emotion best captures your experience in the Pan Mass Challenge?”

The answers in our town were these:

  • Chris Doktor: Gratitude. I continue to be grateful for that I can ride in memory of my 9-year-old daughter Jessie and do so with my surviving daughter Sarah. I’m grateful that I can share this experience with her for the fourth year. I am also grateful Dana Farber kept Jessie aliveby keeping her cancer in check for six years. I am grateful research continues to expore answers to this dilemma we call cancer.
  • Bill Gram: Faith.
  • Bob Caruso: Inspiring.
  • Sarah Doktor: Challenging.
  • Diana Lannon: It’s difficult to distill down to one word what emotion best captures my experience in the Pan Mass Challenge. I actually tjought about I on my ride today. I would say the words are gratitude and love.
  • Paul Slack: Sorry but I have three – love, sadness and hope.
  • Logan: Transformational.

Here’s a link to learn more about or support Chris  and Sarah  or Ipswich riders.

Me? I’ll be there at water stops and the finish line with camera, extra water, emergency gear, and cow bells. Clang-clang! Someone has to be the crowd along the sidelines for this event. When Chris was asked by the Ipswich Chronicle reporter about his favorite part of the ride? He answered, “Seeing all the people along the route – waving, offering water, holding signs of thanks and encouragement, reaching out to touch a hand … as well as arriving at the first water stop — all the excitement and enthusiasm of the volunteers is inspiring!”

Jul25

Teachers and Students

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In the past 24 hours, the following teachers have been part of my life.

  • Started my day under the guidance of kundalini yoga instructor Ingrid.
  • Talked to one of my spiritual mentors over tea.
  • Checked in with writing buddy Miriam and discussed some techniques.
  • Received editorial feedback from colleague Lisa.
  • Communicated with two professional mentors, Rebecca and Jan, about next steps in the process of becoming a pastoral candidate through the UCC (demonination which will ordain me after I earn a degree)
  • Followed up with another freelancer, Camille, who swaps design tips with me about specific web-building projects.
  • Got a ping (quick note) from Jenny, our family friend and my daughters’ dance teacher, from her location in Colorado, where she’s teaching aerial and modern dance to older students.
  • Observed that my longtime kickboxing teacher, Tashi Mark, is opening his dojo in downtown Ipswich.
  • Remembered in a lively conversation, Jessie’s teachers Mrs. Lampros and Mrs. Falabella, and so many other staff members from Winthrop Elementary.
  • Caught an update on Facebook about JT Turner’s latest theatrical production, and reflected on his mentoring role among youth who love the performing arts, including both of my girls. And many other kids in this town.
  • Listened to Chris working on his latest piano lesson, as assigned by his teacher Vianna.
  • Got some cooking and dessert-making tips from foodie friends Meryl, Dana and Linda.
  • Talked to a young man at the Greek consulate about the process of securing Sarah’s student visa to Greece, where she’ll study nursing this fall, as part of an international program through Northeastern University.
  • Spoke to a financial aid officer about completing the process of payments for school.
  • Read the wise words of an author that I admire.

Think about it. In most of those situations, I have been a student, learning something new. A skill. A step. An insight. A lesson of some kind.

Yesterday I also poked fun at class titles and descriptions, while registering for graduate courses. Yet I’ll reiterate that I’m extremely privileged to start school in September. While it promises to be a lot of hard work, I’m enrolled for positive reasons. It is my choice; no one is making me go back to school. I want to do it, because it’s exciting and motivating, even though it’s also intimidating and overwhelming.

The response to my grad school decision, among friends and peers, has been varied. A few people … not too many, luckily, or it might be daunting … think I’m crazy. After all, I’ll be 50 years old by the time I earn my degree. (If everything goes smoothly.) Others say I’m brave, to start over now. In either case, that response is triggered by my “advanced years.” From some points of view, I’m o-o-o-o-o-l-l-l-l-l-d-d-d-d-d to go back now.

Chuckle.

Let’s put this into perspective. Age and challenge, I mean.

  1. My mom completed two graduate degrees after the age of 50, both of them in the aftermath of catastrophic injuries, including brain trauma, in the wake of a severe car accident and subsequent complications. She had to audio record lectures, transcribe notes twice for every class hour, then type them, and read materials over and over, in order to complete every course, because of memory impairment and information-processing deficits caused by the coma and brain injury. Yet she persisted, and earned two Masters degrees.
  2. Meanwhile Dr. William Tan (our friend) earned his doctoral degree, a medical degree and two post-doc degrees from Harvard and Oxford Universities, while challenged by the complexities of life after polio, living as a paraplegic with a wheelchair. He also competed in world-class athletic events while finishing his studies, setting world records all over the globe. He completed marathons on every continent, in a wheelchair, including in arctic conditions. Plus he assisted during heart surgeries and delivered babies.
  3. When I attended college in Boston, one of my classmates was in her 70s, just getting her first undergrad degree in literature.

We all know people like these. Inspirations. Reminders that we’re never too anything — too young, too old, too impaired, too obligated — to do what we’re inspired and moved to do. Compared to those examples above, returning to school with all of my faculties intact, even at age 47, isn’t such a big deal.

Many other members of my community recognize enrollment in graduate school as a solution to a spiritual or vocational restlessness that they have also experienced. This itchiness … this impetus to go in different directions, to ask difficult questions and find new answers, new situations, new vistas … seems to be common in people between 30-60 years old.

I’ve been asked, often, what sparked this idea to return to school? To shift focus to a whole new path, a spiritual journey, that’s quite different from my background? What inspired me to try school again? How do I know this is what I want to do? What will I do when I get my degree? How do I feel about going back to school? How does my family respond to this decision?

The common theme, behind many of those questions, is that familiar, internal restlessness. The urge to change, to move, to do something different, seems to happen inside the hearts and minds of many friends and peers. I’ve been told several firsthand accounts about men or women who are not satisfied by their own careers or choices anymore. Usually the words that surface are, “I need a do something different with my life.”

In our middle years, now that we have grown up (hah), started or raised our families, accumulated decades of work experience, and checked a few items off our “life lists,” I guess many of us are re-assessing. (Not all of us. But a lot of people.) We realize, maybe because we feel an uncomfortable, this-doesn’t-fit-anymore sensation, that we want something else. More. Different. Meaningful. Fulfilling. Interesting.

The solution may vary for each of us. Sometimes it might need a thoughtful plan of action. Or require an impulsive decision.

Perhaps it leads to a change in jobs. Or a long-term break and retreat. Travel. Sabbatical. Taking up special causes or humanitarian service; joining a club or a church or service project. Adding new layers of extracurricular activity to lives that have been narrowly focused. Learning a new sport, skill or pastime. Exercising. Maybe returning, like me, to post-graduate studies to earn certification or earn another degree. Relocation of home or work.

Maybe it’s letting go. Maybe it’s doing something new in addition to what’s already part of your life.

My husband Chris would tell you, that my decision was a long time coming. That this choice seemed inevitable, from his perspective. Obvious to some who know me well. Yet it caught me by surprise and seemed like a fully-formed idea by the time I realized that I wanted to go back to school and seek a new vocational path. Maybe it’s been growing inside for a long time, but it blossomed into vivid detail by the time I felt and saw it.

Meanwhile, why did I write that list of teachers at the start of this post? Because you don’t have to go to graduate school to find teachers. They’re all around us.

Once you start paying attention, you’ll be amazed by how many mentors, coaches, instructors and guides cross your path on any given day. How many lessons have been offered.

Inevitably, you have also been a mentor and role model for someone else in the past day. We all have the opportunity to be students in this life. And we all have the chance, the privilege, to be teachers, too.

Jul16

Every Prayer

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Every prayer is sacred and powerful, regardless of language and religion. Prayer also comes in many forms. So I have come to believe.

When our younger child Jessie was diagnosed and living with cancer, we learned to appreciate and welcome every form of prayer, positive intention, affirmation, meditative reflection, mantra, chant, song, or any other form of energy ever offered to us. Don’t all faiths and practices, in the end, have the same intention, at least when it comes to sending out cries for peace, hope and healing into our universe? For the sake of one child, or a generation of children?

When we were in the hospital, we wanted and needed every vibe and Amen that came our way. We hung up a cross, Buddhist prayer flags and a hand-made Native American dream catcher. We made a bowl that accumulated — as gifts from practitioners of many healing methodologies or faiths – angels of all sizes and shapes, a Buddhist prayer wheel, stones incised with words like love and believe, prayer cards from saints and sacred sites, crystals with different healing capabilities or properties, necklaces or bracelets strung with symbolic beads and prayer boxes. We received a quilt, blankets and shawl all stitched with more prayers and wishes. We listened to music ranging from vacation bible school songs to sounds of the earth itself, plus hymns, chants and mantras.

We cherished all of them, because they came to us from many parts of the country and the world. Carried home from other people’s travels. Some hand made. All tenderly packaged and delivered, when we were isolated in one small room, unable to go further than oncology unit’s hall or the garden downstairs.

Of course, sometimes people would make observations, sometimes in the guise of a prayer, with the best of intentions or from inside their faith tradition, that we didn’t agree with. Sentiments such as “this happened for a reason,” or God “wants another angel in heaven” or “you’re only given what you can handle.” The Creator in whom I believe doesn’t dole out diseases as punishment, to balance the scales, or to fulfill a predestined script. I understand that other families with different backgrounds found these statements to be comforting and consoling, and I wouldn’t ever negate or argue with those perceptions, where they provide support. Yet if we couldn’t bear to be told such things, we were explicit about asking people not to make certain statements; we established boundaries, when we needed them, even though we wanted every good wish and prayer.

Personally, I cannot imagine a Creator who deliberately creates illness, famine, war, disease, hunger, poverty and other conditions that hurt us. In my estimation, we connect with the Sacred when we find comfort and resources to endure or overcome these situations. Even when people offer strength and help to each other, we act in sacred ways. Maybe we find relief through a song that inspires us or a shower of 10,000 paper cranes. Perhaps acting through a doctor’s quick insight and action or a nurse’s gentle teaching. Playfully lifting us up through a counselor’s silly games or a playmate’s challenge to a feisty competition. Or in the tasty delivery of a homemade meal or steaming beverage. In many small and big ways, the Creator’s presence comes to us as compassion and healing.

Empathy and mending, grace and tenacity, laughter and honesty: these still come to us, in other ways, though that chapter of our lives is over. If you ever listen to my daughter Sarah sing Hallelujah, you will know that prayer continues to be part of our lives.

Yes, I believe in all prayers.

In times of urgency, we ask for help or rescue.

  • That’s often when we’re most likely to bother praying. We’re in need. In crisis. Seeking a miracle, even
  • When our need is extreme, sometimes it makes sense to be specific, and ask for exactly what you need. During cancer treatment, we used to ask for Jessie’s healthy blood counts, protection from infection, remission, and stability. Yes, we also asked for broader blessings, but they could be interpreted many ways: hope, courage, fortitude, healing. These days, we ask for continued emotional connection and healing within our family, and for grace and growth during new adventures.
  • You can imagine, even now, that I grapple with a gut-level reaction that specific prayers weren’t answered. I’m sure you have those feelings, too. Years ago, we requested Jessie’s survival. We have all had those moments, those specific requests we made, that didn’t turn out as we hoped. Over time, I have come to a reconciliation between what I asked for and what occurred. For instance, maybe the only possible resolution, the only form of peace and dignity that remained for my youngest child, was the one that came to her. Letting go and moving on to the next part of her journey, because it was … finally … time. And what kindness remained, in holding her here, in the conditions under which she lived?

When you pray as part of a regular routine …

  • … such as at bedtime every day, prayers can be like an entry in a diary. Or a one-sided conversation. Gentle. Sometimes formulaic. Reciprocal, though the other party is silent, but listening in. “Guess what happened today? Did you hear? I’m thinking of these people … be with them. Know what I’m planning next? Be with me as I take this step.”

At times, we experience Book of Job moments.

  • Like Job, I have cried out, “No! Why?!” Screams of rage or defiance, desolation or confusion. These primal screams are also forms of prayer. Communication with our Creator. Healthy ones, I think, because a real relationship can sustain moments of doubt and anger, fear and despair … these are how relationships grow. Even relationships with Yahweh.
  • After Jessie passed, I thought nothing more, nothing worse, could happen to our family. Yet there have been additional times when my loved ones have been vulnerable, hurt or compromised. All over again!
  • I have called out, at those times, demanding, “Couldn’t we just keep a loved one safe? Haven’t we been through enough?” No, it seems. We are all human and vulnerable, and life will continue, the world will keep spinning, and experiences will accumulate apace, not sparing us either the best or worst of existence, just because we feel time should stand still … give us a respite …. since we have endured so much already. Life isn’t like that. There’s not really a 10-minute intermission between acts. It just keeps going. Sigh.

Happily, we sometimes pray out of gratitude. Celebration. Hallelujah.

  • We pause and reflect, acknowledge a special experience or blessing.
  • Maybe we notice a silent, awesome, profound moment. We give thanks when we feel particularly moved or connected.
  • Or we honor  something special  — extraordinary — such as a milestone. Graduation, anniversary, promotion, birthday, or other landmarks.
  • Sometimes it comes in a moment of laughter and humor. When your perceptions shifts, and a situation strikes you as funny, and you regain balance and connection.
  • It’s a healing practice, to remember to say thank you. To count blessings. To name our gifts and their Source. With praise. Exultation.
  • Because the Creator is in these moments –  the quiet-wow-introspective-soulful ones, and the wild-happy-loud-rowdy-dancing-singing-clapping-hoorah ones — as surely as in the darkest ones.

Sometimes, we’re taught to turn over our situation to the Creator’s consideration, and say, “Thy will be done.” That has always been a tough lesson for me.

Really? Relinquish control, or my idea of what the best outcome would be?  As I’ve said before, and as Reverend Rebecca Pugh reminded us again on Sunday at church, sometimes the answer we receive to prayer isn’t the one we expected. It may surprise us. Alarm us. Challenge us. We may not even realize, until later, that we received an answer at all.

Of course, some folks don’t have a specific religious affiliation. And even if you believe in a divine force or Creator, you may not credit that Someone is listening or intervening on our behalf. That a divine Being is stirring up the pot of events in this world to change fate at the request — on behalf of — of fragile, finite human beings.

I have my own view, based on personal anecdotes and experiences, that causes me to believe that I am connected to a Creator who cares and actually interacts with us. But that’s me. I honor other viewpoints, too.

The cancer mom Jane Roper, who is new to this journey, is receiving many prayers, too. She is eloquent and honest, in this excerpt from her blog:

“… while I respect and appreciate the fact
that other people like to pray, I’m not really a pray-er myself.

Or maybe I am. I certainly engage in prayer-like activities sometimes.
I will silently ask for strength or courage or patience or peace,
either for myself or for others. Last weekend when we found out Clio was sick,
I did a whole lot of desperate, tearful praying
that she’d be OK, and that we wouldn’t lose her.

But I’m not entirely sure who I’m addressing in these prayers.
I don’t believe in “God” in the classic, personified sense
so much as I believe in a sort of force / energy that connects us all,
and is maybe somehow responsible for the incredible
and beautiful creation that is our world (dude).

… But I do believe that people’s
thoughts / prayers / vibes / whatever
can have a positive effect on how
we handle adversity and experience joy.

I mean, I think I do. I’m not sure.

… So. Is it weird that I like other people’s prayers
even though I’m skeptical of my own?”

People are moved to pray at certain times. Even if you’re not sure. If you have doubts. Or you don’t believe in it, not really. Motivated by joy. Or desperation.

As I have said before, I find comfort and personal growth in the habit of prayer. Yet I’m not rigorous about the form that prayer takes for me. I grab hold of opportunities as they present themselves. There’s Sunday prayer in church as a community. There’s meditation in my yoga class in the morning. There’s picking herbs at Appleton. Sipping a hot drink. Paddling in a kayak. Listening to my daughter. Touching my husband. Walking through sunlight and shadow. Playing with a dog. Writing in a journal. Serving others. Singing. Sitting still, noticing the world.

Prayer can be individual or communal. Silent or aloud. Action or words. Directed toward the deity of a specific faith, or simply to the sacred universe. And throughout our lives, we will learn new ways to pray.

Prayer is a tool. A practice. An opportunity. However and whenever you do it, it’s a chance to connect and communicate with something bigger than yourself.

Every syllable, every thought, every vision, every hope, every wish, every intention … it all has potency. And when it is directed toward goodness and healing, wellbeing and peacemaking, stability and humor … when it is aimed at building connections … then such prayers, regardless of origin, must be working for the same cause. So I hope. So I believe.

Namaste.

Jun6

Downpours and Diving Lesson

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Change is hanging over us, as low-slung and threatening as the storms this week. And although it’s exciting, it isn’t always easy to navigate. I’ve described the chaos in our house-under-construction, and the upheaval in our lives as we graduate, go to college, move in and out, etc.

Even in positive circumstances, which these are, such transitions are stressful. We lose our balance. We can’t eat or focus. We go in too many directions. We can’t sleep. We’re uncomfortable and uncertain. We keep lists, or double-check information, trying to maintain a feeling of control. Yet is seems as if we’re caught in a current, and can’t find solid ground.

If you’re like me, you try to balance it all, but something gets away from you. Maybe you forget things. Details. Appointments. Items on the shopping lists. To-do tasks. You drop something.

Splat. Plonk. It sinks into the waters rising around you, lost, and causes ripples.

And it doesn’t take much of a ripple to trigger tempers and moods, does it? To deflate enthusiasm or leech away limited reserves of energy, focus, and patience. To release a tsunami instead.

On overcast days, as the weather itself broods and gathers pressure, it feels as if the world is in the same pensive mood. Waiting. Grumbly. Wanting to let loose.

A few days ago, I stood in line at Zumi’s. Some customers were complaining about another rainy day.

Then I witnessed one woman rush outside as it started pouring down. She looked up into the sky, flung out her arms and welcomed the torrents. “Thank goodness it’s finally raining!”

She was right. We needed the rain. We needed the release.

Hard to believe that a few weeks ago, it was unseasonably warm. Even unbearably hot. Sunny and scalding. Our town was already enforcing a water ban in May. Imagine how dry and barren the river will become in the next few months, how low the water levels in the town wells will dip, as the truth of summer’s heat and focus burns bright in the weeks ahead.

We need to be quenched. To get wet. Whether it’s warm and misty on humid days, or cold and sheeting on more bitter ones, we ought to be exposed to and saturated by the elements.

Yes, it’s a heavy mood inside my house, my family. And out there, sometimes, in the wider world. Grey. Cranky.

We could use a little release of pressure. In our case, it might come out as a storm of emotions. Or a letting go in the form of exhaustion and a craving for sleep. Environmentally, it hangs over us as a ponderous gathering of clouds, bursting with water that we require to live.

I’m telling myself to dance inside the downpour, when it comes. To welcome it. To revel in it, as I saw another woman do just days ago.

But admittedly, I’m reluctant. I’d rather stay safe and dry.

All those emotions, when they come rushing out of me or someone else inside my family, feel like a flash flood. Of words. Of body language. Of feelings. Too much all at once. Overwhelming.

And yet, they are real. Honest. They are sometimes how we connect. Not gently. Not tenderly. But powerfully. In a way that requires some response. And the ability to stay afloat.

So I’ll have to let those emotions, with their bursts of language and accompanying actions, wash over me. And then I’ll touch bottom, push up, tread water, and keep my head above the rising tide, and immerse myself in this shivery wet discomfort of change and connection.

After all, the reason I can swim is because my mother insisted on all of us taking lessons. She’d never learned, but wanted all of us to become safe and confident in water.

Yet when I was a little girl, although I could easily cross the pool pulling and kicking and breathing, I was afraid to go off the diving board. I refused to jump, unless she was in the deep water, waiting for me.

And she couldn’t swim. Yet. So I waited. And my mother took enough adult swimming lessons to learn to tread water. To scull her hands and feet in the bright, clear, scary volume of the deep end. Then she could “catch” me when I jumped off … or rather, bob around nearby as I plunged down into its blue chlorinated depths and floated up again, panicky but exuberant.

Back then, I was too afraid to trust anyone else. So she overcame her own fears, her own lack of skill as an adult, to make me feel safe enough to reach for something more.

Even as a young student, I knew the measure of what my mom had achieved, to help me. Later I’d grow up to be a lifeguard and swimming instructor for several years … and I give much credit to my mother’s love and discipline, her commitment to learn a skill she’d never mastered as a child, at least well enough to be there when I asked her to help me. And to want more for me, and all of her children.

As I stand beneath the ponderous sky, and consider dancing in a downpour or submerging myself in a flood tide of emotions, maybe I don’t want to get wet. But I will

I remember that diving lesson all over again.

I know that I, too, have gone  places I couldn’t imagine, because I would do what was required for my own child. Here I am, all over again, challenged.

Awed by compassion and commitment that we have for our family and loved ones, and how much risk we will take for each other, just to connect. To help each other move forward. Embrace change. To make it safely to the other shore, the solid ground, and a place of growth and transformation.

I’ll admit, though, that sometimes I’d like to bask in some sunshine, a bit of a hot-day burn on my nose, content inside a fuzzy warm towel, wiggling sandy beach toes. As a treat.

Jun3

Time to Dance

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Today as we celebrate commencement, we also consider people of all ages, old and young, generation by generation. What we share, what we pass along to each other.  The steps we take, the dances we dance.

I love to watch couples ballroom dance. Usually they are older than me by a few decades, one generation or more. I watch their grace and dignity, assurance of movement and rhythm, as they spin in stately time around a small space to almost any music at all. I envy it. I never learned it. I’m always awkward and out-of-synch (or at least that’s how it feels).

Of course, some younger people have this ballroom skill, but not so many, and definitely not Chris and I, though years ago we took some lessons and chuckled through them. It’s a different sort of dance than my daughter Sarah and her friends have learned. She dances in occasional mosh pits, and plenty of times while moving to punk, rap and pop. Sarah has also learned such genres as jazz/hip-hop, ballet, and modern. Even some aerial dance on ropes and slings. Sarah and her dance school peers can almost fly.

We all know such different ways to move upon the earth. To dance. To step. To hold and connect with each other. Some solo. Or in couples. Or in groups. In circles and squares, in patterns and wheels. Some with poise and confidence. Balance and lightness. Others like me, enthusiastically, without rhythm or skill. Some almost standing still.

This morning, during a celebration of graduates and seniors at church, we reflected on the heritage of leadership from church members who have belonged and participated for 50, 60 and 70 years. Then we acknowledged our young generation of new leaders who graduate high school today, and will embark on many paths.

And because I’d discovered and contemplated the quotation at the end of this posting, and written it into my daughter’s graduation gift, it made me think of the different ways we dance. Different generations. Different cultures.

It’s something we share as a form of celebration, and yet it has transformed from age to age.And we all have our own style of doing it.

Later this afternoon, friends and families gather in a hot and sweaty gym that holds tight to the memory of  students’ exertion, skill, discipline, anxiety, determination, loss and triumph. It keeps us company as pungent layers of old perspiration and well-used sneaker scents. It sighs beneath our rustling and shifting as the past echo of their shouts, sobs, gasps, exhalations, and cheers.

Outside it’s raining. Pelting and slashing sideways, cold and blustery. Yet as we arrived, the birds sang from the shelter of green foliage. Above the ponderous weight of clouds rolls a sun that will return. There is promise in both the rain, and in its passing.

Indoors we sit fanning ourselves. For hours. More honors and awards are presented. The chorus sings, including Sarah’s sweet true voice, in one final act of unity.

We listen to thoughtful words from specific members of their class, with visions about what has brought the class of 2012 to this moment, what is happening today, and all the opportunities awaiting them tomorrow. We hear speeches by teachers, coaches and mentors who have guided and challenged these students, held them accountable and given them second chances.

Afterward, it’s chaos. Robes and gowns everywhere. Photos. Grins. Crazy poses. Group hugs. Different clusters of people congregating.

Leaping. Jumping. Caps and tassels in the air. A kind of nervous impromptu dancing, don’t you think?

Eventually families scatter to their separate plans. Some students leave alone. Most are surrounded by loved ones. Maybe they congregate again at parties. Or dine privately, sharing words and memories. Retreat to their own rituals surrounding this journey. Go home and simply rest, because plans aren’t yet made, and it’s all a blur of possibility. Or simply move on to the next part of the adventure.

At the start of the day, we paid homage to our elders. The ones who paved the way for everyone celebrating in the gym today. Those who rocked and turned in the measured steps of foxtrot and waltz, or rollicked to the jitterbug or the twist. Who trod ground from schoolyards to battlefields, beaches to graveyards. Who walked the floors of courtrooms, classrooms, aisles, hallways, offices, kitchens and so many other spaces, taking the steps that brought us to this moment.

For a little while, we paused and recognized the elders who nurtured and taught us. Who handed down the legacy that is now placed into our care, and our childrens’ keeping. Who have plenty more to say and do, though they’re willing to share the responsibilities and pleasures of what comes next. In the church sanctuary, we offered them a standing ovation … so slight a commotion in return for the decades of work and inspiration they have already provided.

And this afternoon, we laud our senior high students. We watch them promenade, sit and stand as a class, then walk up (or skip or boogie), summoned by name, to claim diplomas. We give them flowers and philosophical books, blank journals and bubbles, gift certificates and, yes, new flip flops in which to take a few carefree next steps. We bundle up meaningful contritutions such as words to live by, or simply offer love measured in hugs, tears and willingness to let them soar.

We know that regardless of what we give them today, they contain their most important resources inside themselves. We wish our graduates the joyful, healthy and generous use of these blessings … and all those gifts they already carry within.

We hope they hear the music of life, and move to its sacred steps. Because finally, we challenge our children to translate a few words of Latin. To learn one new thing, and then carry this hope imprinted in their hearts. “Nunc Pede Libero Pulsanda Tellus!”

Ssshhhh, I’ll pass along its meaning to you. This is a partial quote from Horace, and in paraphrase, it means, “Now is the time to dance footloose upon the earth.”

Jun2

Every Day — Big or Small — Is Part of the Story

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After the promenade and the accolades, after the scholarships and diplomas, after the summer of hot fun and hard work, and the semesters of study that lead to a college degree and first jobs and independent living and grownup friends and a life beyond the North Shore and a career and great loves and family and all the parts of life that come after graduation from high school … what remains to mark our childrens’ lives? Or our own?

In the end, after all of this pomp and circumstance, all this effort and sweat to get to these big moments in life, what comes next?

Finally, are we each just a name in a stone? I don’t think so.

Yes, I have a place to go — a headstone at the top of the rambling cemetery steps — to run my fingertips around the straight lines and deep curves of Jessie’s name carved in granite. In it are etched the minimal facts of her life.

Yet that’s not where I carry my youngest daughter.

And as Sarah graduates and moves on to the next adventures in her life, I might rub my thumb over the pink silk ribbon of her ballet slippers, but I don’t think that single soft strand contains her whole life . She’s adding more threads to her tale, even as I pause and think of her.

It’s easy to think that tangible artifacts — photos, medals, jewelry — contain us.

Yet we might worry that we are each, in the end, more ephemeral. Merely a collection of fleeting sensory messages. Imperfect memories impressed into other people’s minds. A flood of feelings invoked when someone who loves and knows us smells the first curl of roasted, just-brewed coffee or the strawberry tang of a certain shampoo. An off-key voice singing You Are My Sunshine cheerfully in audio files. A blurry face and hand in a bright-striped jersey waving from the far side of the green soccer field, caught in a loop beyond time, in video clips. Handwritten notes, or child’s sketches.  A series of framed certificates on the wall or shoes empty, worn at toe and heel, on the floor in the closet.

Don’t you believe we are so much more? We are each the energy moving from the moment of birth to the last breath, and beyond.

Yet while we might know the beginning date for this human life, we cannot know its end date. It might be years from now. Or merely hours.  And so,  we are the accumulation of moments – common and exceptional – that comprise whatever time we’re given.

What story will your biography tell? It’s a weekend to think about what we have already done, and all the possibilities that unfold before us … and the gift of today itself.

As part of this posting, I’m borrowing from reflections first written in May 2010 (dok.com). Now that graduation is upon us, “ …We fill our names in the blanks, brush off our resumes, polish up our personal stories and professional accomplishments, and reflect on our lives.”

“… there is so much more to every person’s story. We find different ways to make a difference, whether it’s simply showing up and doing a good job, offering a smile with an extended hand, or volunteering to help in some way. Not everything can be narrated by a GPA, an academic degree, a sales record, a certification, a resume, an audition, an essay or an application. Paper doesn’t ever tell the whole story. Not even a great multi-media campaign can tell it all.”

“… We are each so much more than a name on a stone or the answers filling in the blanks on a piece of paper. We each take up time and space. We touch many other lives. We are bound by knots and webs into a connection of lives and community, into a spectrum of time. And even when we pass beyond mortal senses, we continue to change the world. “

“… Our lives are more than a footprint on the beach or a signature on a page or a name on a certificate or a shadow in the late morning or ashes on the wind or dates on a stone. More. Our biographies aren’t static. We change…all the time.”

Today is its own gift, and one part of our tales.  Sunday, during high school commencement, will be a highlight for many of us. And a difficult day for others.

Then will come the next day, and the day after, and the one after that … and though they may not seem as climactic as graduation … each day, each moment is worthy of energy, focus and attention. Each day is a gift … each is part of our biographies.

We’re not so much a summary of the big moments, as a combined total of all the small ones that brought us to wherever we are, right now. And where we find ourselves every day that follows.

Jun1

Claiming Life

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I should say that not all children have the privilege of reaching commencement, or the opportunities just beyond it. I have known amazing high school seniors who cheerfully filled out college applications, one while she turned dark green due to liver failure in the wake of relapse with cancer (people thought it was skin paint in honor of St. Patricks day).

Graduating after treatment for cancer.

On the other hand, I have known cancer and transplant survivors who celebrated their graduation … maybe late, but they got their diplomas and finished school, despite extended time in the hospital and bouts with a life-threatening disease.

As Sarah’s graduation ceremony approaches, I am fully aware that every breath and step she takes is a gift. None of us know how long we’re given, we can only use our time as best we’re able. I know she is the only child in our family who will have this chance, and she’s grabbing hold of it.

I recognize that many parents may never experience this rush of fear and pride that we feel right now. And there are many reasons why this will be so … and each version of why a child doesn’t graduate from high school or obtain a GRE and start the next step in an unfolding life … each one of those stories is heartbreaking in its own way.

I’ll relate a few anecdotes about our friend Emily. She was in her last weeks of life. She received permission to leave the hospital with friends for a few hours. Her dad fussed about her staying out late and taking chances, maybe because she was under-age and maybe because her organs were slowly failing. She teased him. Suggested that nothing she did could hurt her much more than she was, and she needed the chance to taste whatever moments life could offer her. She went out dancing with friends at night in Boston. Came back smiling. Tired. Ready for a nap.

In the same few days, as I recall, she used a chef’s torch to make a crème brulee. She loved to make those, and to do it right. (A skill I don’t possess.)

Photo credit: Beecher Grogan

She craved fish tacos from California. And a lip balm of a berry-flavor (something fruity, I think, anyway) you couldn’t get in New England. The tastes of home.

Instead, her friends from the West Coast came and surrounded her. So did her family, from everywhere.

Her room was filled with laughter and wisdom. She knew she was leaving us. It wasn’t fair, but she didn’t spend her time filling up the world with heaviness and rage … she was lighting desserts on fire, sipping drinks, dancing with friends, going out, singing at the top of her lungs, wearing bling to watch televised Hollywood shows like the Oscars, painting her bald scalp, making her dad nervous a few more times, snuggling with her mom for a comforting cuddle, having long deep talks about everything important (because if she’d had time, she could have fixed a whole lot of world problems, trust me). Whatever life could offer, she claimed.

And she filled out her college application forms. Wrote her essays. Believed in that possibility, against all odds.

(Note: Her death was … and is … not the only possible outcome. The majority of pediatric cancer patients survive, although those numbers are averaged, and change dramatically based on the type of cancer. Cancer remains the leading “natural” cause of death in children. It isn’t cured or beaten yet.)

OMG, there are so many ways that an almost-grownup child is at risk. Some ways we can predict. Some fates come unexpectedly.

Yet we must let our living children go … and inhale … and hold it, and hold it, and hold it … and exhale. Because every breath and step is a gift.

And each movement and respiration belongs to our child, though our own toes flex and our own lungs expand and contract, keeping time with theirs, connected as we are to these beings we have raised and loved.

On this graduation weekend, let us be inspired by the children who get there. And remember those who wanted it, and reached for it, but didn’t have the opportunity to taste it.

May28

Spirit, Wind and Breath

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You can tell when the liturgical season switches, because the church changes its clothes. Its linens and hangings and Rebecca’s stoll all turned red today. It’s Pentecost Sunday. A day when, according to my faith tradition, the Holy Spirit filled up followers of Christ, and they spoke in all tongues, but understood each other.

Ruach, according to Rebecca, is the Hebrew word for spirit, wind and breath. That beautiful synergy of meanings allows us to play with the idea of a divine and creative force that shapes our voice, that fills us up, that gives us life.

This is an idea that is sacred in many cultures and faiths, not just Judaism and Christianity. Think of Kokopelli playing his flute. Or the Greek deity Pan (Faunus in Roman tradition) playing the pipes. Or the Nazca flute player image, embodying life and death, from South American cultures along the coast of Peru.

Today — for me — the focus is on ruach. Already this weekend, I have heard so many kinds of breath. The words of youth who camped and played and hiked and climbed and talked about deep subjects, and then came back to our worship service to share their thoughts from the pulpit. The voices of teens and adults lifted in the song Prayer of the Children written by Kurt Bestor. Rebecca’s voice in word and song, sharing her story-telling with us and then singing a song to conclude her sermon.We heard the chords of the organ pipes played by Joanne McMahon, and the bright mournful cry from Tom Palance’s trumpet playing Taps for our nation’s fallen.

This whole weekend — because of the ceremonies and symbolism surrounding Memorial Day — will be filled with music and breath. And yes, quiet moments, too.

For Memorial Day’s parade, we will hear historic letters read aloud, prayers from the VFW chaplain, tributes from our elected officials. We will hear brass instruments call out their songs; we will hear many instruments played. Guns fired. Engines rumbling. Songs sung. Laments. Laughter. Cheers.

The idea of ruach resonated inside me.

Some days, I feel like I’m the wind. I’m the moving force that calls sound out of silence, that vibrates in the strings and reverberates through the air, both wave and particle, human and sacred. I stir and shake. Cause dissonance and unity, noise and harmony.

Those are my energetic, motivated, busy days. Filled with check-lists and to-do items. Lots of projects and deadlines. Much to accomplish.

Other times, I feel hollow. Carved out like ancient river canyons by rushing waters and tides of time. A vessel through which someone else’s voice and spirit plays. I am sometimes just an emptiness waiting to be filled. Like my daughter’s saxophone, silent until someone’s lips, someone’s breath, someone’s fingers call music from me.

Those are the times when I am exhausted. Overwhelmed. Hurt. Sorrowful. Sad. Low energy, wanting retreat, perhaps seeking isolation or time apart, alone. When I give myself permission to put down my projects and commitments, and sit with the space left behind when energy and connection ebbs away and leaves me empty.

On a long holiday weekend when we celebrate the coming of summer, but also focus on remembering those who have died, I am sometimes one or the other. Not all at the some time. But both states come to me.

We can be both the mover and the stillness waiting to be moved.

We can be the fluid force of breath, wind and spirit. We may be the energy that sets the strings humming, the throat and tongue to shape vowels and consonants from the push of air, that inflates lungs.

We can also be the sealed silence of the drum or the open-mouthed belly of the guitar or the slender length of a pipe. We can be empty chambers holding the potential of sound, of music, of voice just waiting to be set into motion.

I have learned to live … at least most of the time … with this complexity of our human condition. To embrace it.  Ourselves moving the world, and ourselves waiting to be moved. All are powerful states of being, shaped by spirit, breath and wind. Ruach.