Anita's Blog

Sensing

2011-12-22T07:16:00.001-06:00

On Thursday, October 20th, I was taking my time getting ready for work. I didn't have any good reason to be running late, just didn't want to get ready. I was... lingering. And I know now that I was sensing something.

My wonderful companion, Mick, was diagnosed with lymphoma on Friday the 14th. It seemed almost immediately after that he took to spending most of his time out in the backyard, only coming through the pet door to get a drink of water. He quit eating and playing. He no longer slept beside the bed at night. He seemed to be unwilling to allow me to see him feeling poorly.

Then on Thursday morning he came inside the house. He didn't have the strength to follow me from room to room as he used to, so he chose the hallway to lie down. I sat with him for a long time, but I had stepped into another room at the moment he chose to pass. I'm not one to personify pets, but I think he wanted to be near me at the end and yet spare me the agony of watching him die.

There have been two other times in my life in which I have sensed, nearly to the moment, the passing of others. I knew the night before my mother died that I needed to stay in Killeen one more day, but my husband at the time insisted we return home so that we could go to work. On the way home we replaced a flat tire and a water pump. I kept saying, "I think we need to go back." I skipped work the next morning and stayed by the phone, and I got the call from my dad pretty much when I expected it.

When I worked for a church in Fort Worth, I was befriended by a retired parishioner. I was able to take baby Monica to work with me every day, and he would come to the church and keep me company. He was crazy about Monica, and she him, and he counted her as one of his grandchildren. We visited him regularly at the hospital when he battled cancer. Monica was one of the last people he spoke to the night before he passed.

As I was driving to work the next morning, a song came on the radio that just seemed to clamp down on my heart. I had to pull over on the shoulder of the freeway. I cried and cried. The minute I sat down in my cubical at work the phone rang. It was another church member breaking the news. It appears he died about the time I was pulled over. That same song was played at his funeral.

I do not consider myself psychic - not even sure I believe in any of that stuff. But I do believe that some relationships run so deep that you can be connected in inexplicable ways. And the severing of those relationships can cause excruciating pain, the kind of pain that makes you late for work.

Lessons Learned

2011-05-20T07:19:00.000-05:00

After a year and a half of applying and interviewing (and being rejected) for counseling jobs, I started one three weeks ago. And God, in His infinite wisdom and otherworldy sense of humor, made sure it was one that would ensure my discomfort. I am part of a team that provides psychological services to residents of nursing home. The case load is unreasonable. The patients are challenging. The facilities are crowded. And my brain is likely to explode.

I've learned a lot about what "is medically necessary" and "requires expertise." I've learned to work around the activities schedule and chase down missing charts. And I've learned some things I never expected...

1) Not all nursing home residents are elderly. I have three that are in their early 30s. They have crippling diseases. Their spouses and/or families have abandoned them. They no longer have access to their children. They will not be recovering, and they will not be returning home.

2) Patients suffering from dementia or senility will likely not remember you from one day to the next. At least not until halfway through the session, at which point they suddenly smile and say something like, "Hi! I'm fine! I don't have anything to talk about. Go away!" I can't bill unless I spend at least 20 minutes with a patient. That can be a long 20 minutes...

3) You really do get used to the sights and sounds and smells.

4) Sometimes there is no good way to respond, at least not without sounding condescending. OF COURSE they are depressed. OF COURSE they experience anxiety. OF COURSE they feel hopeless and helpless. OF COURSE they lose track of time. Who wouldn't? My new motto - when in doubt, be kind.

5) At first glance, nursing home residents look pretty much the same. But they are not the same. Beneath the confusion and frustration is the person that always was. The uniqueness of each individual is evident if only one will take the time to wait for it to surface.

6) "Therapeutic" takes on a whole new meaning in this setting. It may just be the same old story to everyone else, but to the dementia patient it may be the one thing that prevents the decline of what little memory is left. Hey, it's not about me. I truly can survive hearing Mrs. Jones (not her real name) tell me about her childhood dog one more time if it helps her to do so.

7) Tears come. I try to fend them off until I get out of the building, but they are sneaky little devils. It hurts to hear some of these stories. The walls threaten to go up to protect my dadgum marshmallow heart. And yet I hope I never get callous. I hope I always have the kind of heart that welcomes these souls.

8) In the private setting, if a client were to tell you that they love you, you would have to address the inappropriateness of that statement. In a nursing home sometimes a confused 90-year-old woman will hold out her hand, longing for human contact, and say, "I love you! Come back and see me!" I see no benefit in "correcting" her.

9) In the private setting a therapist would point out delusional thinking and assist a client in recognizing the difference between reality and fantasy. So far I have had no luck convincing Mrs. Smith (not her real name) that she does not actually work in production, that she is not actually going on a Hawaiian vacation when she can get time off, and that she is not purchasing tickets for everyone who is nice to her. And I am not convinced myself that patients who accuse the nursing home staff of stealing their personal belongings are suffering from paranoiad delusions...

10) And finally, there will be no therapy during lunch or bingo. Period.

Sameness

2011-03-13T21:27:00.000-05:00

It's all around us, this focus on differences. Democrats and Republicans. Christians and Muslims. Blacks and Browns. Men and Women. We're different. We should accept, even embrace, these differences. Celebrate diversity. I do, by the way, and I appreciate others allowing for my differentness.

And then I see the coverage on the devastation in Japan. It looks a lot like the coverage of the devastation in Haiti. And New Orleans. Same.

The faces, reflecting all those emotions - despair, worry, fear, anguish, numbness, relief - all those same emotions you and I feel and express. All those same emotions people in every culture everywhere feel and express everyday. Sameness.

Maybe it isn't morbid curiosity that compels us to watch this type of news coverage. Maybe what holds our attention is an identification with those feelings, those reactions. We can only imagine how we might feel in those situations, but we CAN imagine it. Because at our cores, we truly do want the same things for ourselves and our loved ones.

I can't help but wonder if things would improve if we were to celebrate sameness.

.

Crazy

2011-02-08T23:18:00.001-06:00

I'm up past my bedtime, watching Jay Leno read crazy news headlines. One was a classified advertising the sale of a Satan Wedding Gown. Love it!

It reminded me of the years I worked at a psychiatric hospital for teens. There was this one mixed up, misunderstood youngster that decided he was going to start worshipping the devil. He paid homage to the dark lord by vandalizing the wall in the common area. In huge black letters he had scrawled, "Satin rules!" I advised him that if he wanted to find favor with Satan, he should learn to spell his name.

Then there was this other patient with a shaved head that wore combat boots and camo everyday. The Skinheads were popular in those days, and he claimed to pledge his allegiance to them. One day during a session, as he was lashing out at me, I asked him if he realized that the group for which he had such admiration would probably not allow him to join their club. He glared at me and asked why I would say such a thing. I simply said, "Dear, the Skinheads are white supremacists, and you are not white."

Those were fun times.

Filling the Gaps

2011-01-27T12:17:00.001-06:00

Somewhere, at this very moment, a young woman is giving birth to a child. She is not from here, and she made the decision to sneak across the border to have her baby in this country. Did she become pregnant at the hands of a family member, only to find herself shunned by the rest of her family? Was she impregnated by a man who purchased her from another? Did she give herself over to a boy, desperate to feel as if she mattered to someone, even for just a little while?

Somewhere, at this very moment, a haggard looking fellow is wobbling towards a car, his outstretched hand brushing against the driver's window. Did he suffer a stroke? Did he part ways with reality during a personal trauma? Did he finally decide that alcohol is more reliable than most people?

Think these are highly unlikely scenarios? Although they are probably not as unlikely as you might think, that is not really the point. The point is that we don't know everyone's story. We will never know. And maybe we don't need to. The Bible says some pretty clear things about looking after "the least of these." It also says a few things about judging. Interestingly, the Bible does not instruct us to only give to those we have judged and deemed deserving.

I've been reading and hearing a lot of discourse lately on the evil nature of our current government. Folks seem to believe that they deserve better treatment than they are getting from our national leaders. Folks also forget that being born here doesn't make them deserving. We receive blessings in this country without having earned them, in other words.

I find it fascinating that a number of the individuals sharing their opinions receive assistance from some government-funded program (I only know this because they have told me). When I think about it, it occurs to me that hardly anyone can say they've never benefitted from government funding. If you attended a public school or drove over a bridge, you were the beneficiary of government spending.

I certainly do not know the answer to our nation's problems. I am neither an economist nor a politician. I am a human. And I am rather grateful that I live in a country in which the government attempts, in its awkward way, to honor the dignity of its human inhabitants by shrinking the gap between the "haves" and the "have nots" and filling those gaps when it can. We as individuals haven't always done a great job of taking care of that.

I am also somewhat worried about living in a country in which government makes no attempt to protect the dignity of its citizens. Because those entities that would happily take our money in exchange for their services might just forget about humanity as they look over their monthly spreadsheets. And this human doesn't want to be overlooked.

You DON'T Know What You've Got till It's Gone

2010-12-09T08:31:00.001-06:00

Okay, some of you had heard some of this already... I haven't always been a vocalist. I specifically joined band as a kid because I wanted to learn music and my parents told me I had a terrible voice. Fast forward to college - turns out parents don't know everything (shhh... don't tell my kids), and voice lessons launched a hot new pursuit, one that would turn out to be somewhat lucrative a times.

But this isn't a post about bad parenting. Through all the years that I studied and performed, I never once truly felt satisfied with my voice. There was always someone who could sing higher or some aria that eluded my skill level. There was always that brass ring, mocking and taunting. For the greater part of 25 years, I simply couldn't accept that I really could sing. And sing well. At times that pursuit of excellence drove me harder and helped me achieve more. Most of the time, though, it manifested into a fear of failure, keeping me from putting myself out there.

And now those years seem wasted.

A few years ago I began to experience some very real hormonal changes. Not in that wanna-rip-off-someone's-head way. Instead, my body took aim at my voice. The upper end of my range has dropped significantly, while the lower end has expanded. The texture or "color" of my voice has become somewhat unrecognizable to me. I was once a lyric coloratura soprano. That is no longer the case. For the first time in my life, I have to care about the how high a piece goes.

Those years seem wasted because I never realized that what I was able to do was special. To me it was always "not enough." Now that I no longer have it, I have learned to accept that I had a gift. A gift in the very real sense - I did not earn it, it was given to me. And it was taken away for some reason, perhaps because I did not have the right appreciation for it.

I'm in the throes of a grieving process, and when I work through it, I will have to learn how to make what I have left into something good. Somehow I will have to find beauty in a thing that was never beautiful to me before. If I manage to learn anything from this experience, I hope it is how to redefine myself, change the way I view my gifts. I hope that as my new vocal skills grow, my self-acceptance grows as well . I hope that, this time, when someone tells me I have touched them with my voice, I will actually hear them.

Jubilate Deo Is Not a Football Cheer

2010-12-03T08:44:00.003-06:00

I attended my daughter's choir concert last evening. She is in the school honor choir (an audition choir) and the sixth grade choir. They sang so sweetly - at least what I was able to hear.

Although I had a primo seat - third row near the center - and the choir was sufficiently large, I had a hard time hearing the music over the incessant talking. There were two young girls zipping back and forth in front of us, giggling and talking throughout the performance. I never saw a parent ask them to sit quietly. That does not surprise me, because the adults were louder than the children.

If the grown ups had been overcome with pride and unable to contain their praise for their children, I would have understood that completely. But that was not the case at all. The woman behind me was asking a family member about their next get together. Another woman was scoffing at the PTA, wondering what on earth they spend their money on. And of course there were the scores of fussy toddlers whose parents failed to take out into the hallway.

I was so disappointed. Again.

My daughters are quite active in the arts, and we attend lots of choir, band, and dance performances. This is not the first time I've experienced this. Okay, so maybe you don't really care about music or dancing. Maybe you only showed up so that your child would feel supported. But you know what? Your child worked really hard, for many, many hours, preparing for his performance. Your child memorized lyrics in a foreign language and behaved impeccably on stage. Do you not have enough respect for your child to sit and listen quietly? Will you honestly be able to tell your kid that you heard how well she sang? Do you turn away from your ball game when your child brings you his report card?

Make no mistake - I LOVE sports. My college alma mater enters the play offs this Saturday, and I'm trying to figure out how to teleport myself to Nacogdoches and be back in time for a dance performance. You know what else? Fine arts performances are not sporting events. It is poor etiquette to "shout out" in the middle of a sacred composition. It seems as a society we've forgotten how to sit still and be quiet and absorb the good stuff that is all around us. We seem to need to be stimulated every minute of every day. We need to feel a part of the action, I guess. This is not balanced.

I learned at a young age that if you are still and allow music (or visual arts) to envelope you, you can indeed become "part of the action." That the vibrations in musical tones can permeate your very body cells and stimulate you in a way you never imagined. That gazing upon color or motion can stir something inside.

I work with kids on occasion. I understand that they need to blow off steam and find outlets for their energy. And they also need to learn to sit still when the situation calls for it. They need to experience the beauty in things that are not flashing or ringing or banging. They need adults to show them how. This is balanced.

The Size of Sin

2010-10-29T08:45:00.001-05:00

I remember a Sunday School lesson on sin when I was about 12 years old. The teacher told us that there are no "little" sins or "big" sins. He said that sin is sin, and in God's eyes it is all weighed equally. That lesson was nearly as confusing to me as the one about the prodigal son. (I still struggle with that one sometimes...)

Back then I simply couldn't comprehend that telling a little white lie was as bad as killing someone. Impossible. And what about those sins that a person commits unknowingly? How can someone be held responsible for those? Mind-boggling stuff to a kid.

Mind-boggling stuff to anyone, like me, who measures sin according to overt collateral. When measured in this way, a little white lie doesn't even compare to something as awful as murder. If you tell a lie, someone's feelings might be hurt. And if you are good at lying, no one will ever find out, and feelings might even be spared. Besides, there is a chance of fixing things if the lie goes awry, right? Just apologize and everything will be okay. Nothing compared to murder. Not nearly as awful as taking someone's life. A dead person is gone forever. There's no fixing that. Right?

When scrutinized under such a microscope, my reasoning seems accurate. My logic holds up nicely under these parameters. The flaw doesn't lie in the reasoning. The flaw lies in the choice of tools.

If you reevaluate sin based upon the damage it does to a relationship, it looks quite different. Since I began counseling, I've realized that it is quite possible for a small mistake to cause huge pain, even when there is no malicious intent. The emotional lacerations leave scar tissue that accumulates over time, resulting in a small and impenetrable heart.

If God's heart is hurt every time I sin, I risk damaging our relationship. The Bible promises that God will never leave me, that He is bigger than humans in that way, but my choices still cause pain. Pain that is neither necessary nor deserved. And this kind of pain is not something that can be "fixed" with an apology or yet another little lie.

I'm only now beginning to consider the pain I cause my own heart with every sin I commit. The way I cheat myself or belittle myself when I knowingly do wrong. The lessons I fail to learn when I don't acknowledge my errors. The feeling of accomplishment I deny myself when I take a shortcut.

In God's eyes, size of sin doesn't matter. Maybe that's because as scars grow and hearts shrink, sin lessens the relationships we have with Him and with one another.

Just a Game

2010-10-14T22:46:00.001-05:00

When I was about 10 years old, I loved going to the local park to hit and throw a ball around the little diamond. There were never quite enough of us to play a proper game, just a handful of kids looking for cheap entertainment in a small town. One hot, still afternoon, I sauntered up to the plate, hefted the bat over my left shoulder, and waited patiently for the first pitch. The throw was slow coming because my little brother was standing on the mound next to the neighbor boy, arguing that it was his turn to pitch. Just as my brother tried to snatch the ball out of the boy's hand, he released it. It was nothing spectacular, except that it scooted directly over the plate.

Admittedly, I was paying more attention to the ball than to my brother, and I swung hard, sending a line drive square into, you guessed it, my brother's nose. I'm not entirely sure if the crack I hard was the bat or his cartilage, but I can still hear it. It was in the ensuing moments that I learned how badly noses bleed and how badly little brothers can embarrass big sisters. We got him home, and I eventually got over him stealing my thunder.

I never developed into a good ball player. Never amounted to much of anything as an athlete, as a matter of fact. But I still love the game of baseball. It is one of the few sports that still resembles its beginnings. There is a certain nostalgia when you enter some parks. Live organists still play "Take Me Out to the Ballgame," vendors still hawk peanuts in the stands, and umpires still get boo'd. I have a list of ballparks at which I hope to experience all of those again and again.

I jokingly tell my friends that baseball is God's favorite sport. After all, why else would he have begun His book with, "In the big inning...?" I also relentlessly refer to Texas as "God's Country." Now, I'm no Mensa candidate, but it doesn't take too much deductive reasoning to figure out that the Texas Rangers must be favored by God.

There is a woman who is dear to my heart that loves baseball more than I. She has been known to plan her activities around baseball schedules. She has two television sets in her house, one in the kitchen and one in the living room, so that she doesn't miss any plays while she is preparing a meal. Some of her prize possessions are Rangers paraphernalia. She is so excited about the Rangers making it to the pennant race that she plans to take her transistor radio with her to a function Friday night so that she can tune in.

She is a simple woman, the only daughter of a preacher, one who did not succomb to the antics of most preacher's kids. She has spent her 81 years in prayer and service to others. She's a force of nature - she talks fast and walks fast. She has a sharp tongue at times, and is quick to apologize at others. To say that I admire her would be like saying Alison Krauss can carry a tune. I love her in ways she'll never know, because she's not the type to talk of such things.

One thing she hopes to see before she dies is the Texas Ranger Baseball Club in a world series. I hope it happens while she still has the capacity to really enjoy it. It may be just a game to some, but to her it is a source of simple, unadulterated joy. When you think of it that way, it doesn't seem like that much to ask for. I happen to think she deserves it.

Bridges Instead of Walls

2010-09-30T07:45:00.002-05:00

A week ago the Not-So-Little One and I had a fight. A loud one. Tempers were flaring, voices were rising, tears were flowing, words were flying... a lot of what I know to be effective parenting went out the window. At times we were both wrong. At other times we were both right. We both said some things that needed saying. And I'm sure we both wish we could take some things back.

After we went to our corners and the dust settled, we apologized. She told me she doesn't like getting mad at me. I explained that it was normal for her to get angry with her mother, and that it was normal for me to get angry with my daughters. I told her I was always on her side, even when it doesn't seem like it to her. She asked for a hug, and we hugged for a long, long time. Started crying all over again.

I had a little time to think about all of it while I was licking my wounds. I decided that this is the way it is supposed to be. If she never argued with me, I would never know when I was being unreasonable. If she never voiced her opinion, I would never know who she really is inside, what matters to her, what makes her her.

These occasional arguments serve to bring us closer because we both refuse to turn our backs on each other. As long as we choose to use what we've learned about one another during the encounter to build bridges instead of walls, we will have a relationship.

It hurts to fight. I like to avoid conflict whenever possible. But it's not the end of the world. It is part of growing in a relationship - every now and then someone has to take the lead, and that brings about resistance. The aches my heart feels are the result of my own growth as a parent and an individual.

Sunday she sat close to me at church and held my hand. I chose not to remind her that church is a public place in which people can actually SEE a teenager being nice to her mother.

Next Chapter

2010-09-10T14:48:00.000-05:00

I am officially back in the work force. I just finished my first week flying solo as the office manager of my church. The building is still standing, so there is real hope for the future! It is a part time gig, won't make me rich, and is not exactly what I'm trained to do, but it is a blessing.

It is a blessing to be able to pick my daughters up from school on early dance days. It is a blessing to have evenings and Fridays free to schedule counseling clients. It is a blessing to do work that matters to someone. Okay... some things matter to some folks a little more than they should, perhaps... (smile)

It is a blessing to be in a safe place. It took me a long time to feel good about myself and to trust again after losing my last job. I was beginning to believe there just wasn't any place for me. That I would never fit in. That I was fatally flawed in some way. I feel safe here.

It is also a blessing to spoil others and to be spoiled a little. I found a container marked with my name on it in the fridge. It was leftovers from the weekly fellowship meal, and it was just for me. The Pastor calls me No. 1, and I call him Captain. (His head does resemble that of Captain Picard, come to think of it...) We're in the process of giving the rest of the staff Trek-esque nicknames. It is good to laugh again.

It is a humble job. Just the place for a person who has been humbled. It is evidently where God wishes for me to be, and I wish to please Him by doing the best I can every single day. Thanks, God. And thanks, CUMC, for helping me to lay the past year to rest.

Separation

2010-09-03T09:15:00.001-05:00

I am a Christian. I believe that God is the Creator of the Universe. I believe that Jesus Christ died in my place so that I can rise above my own human failures. I believe the Holy Spirit enters a willing heart, bringing about change and lending hope to a seemingly hopeless world. I don't always understand grace, but I am thankful for it.

I am also thankful that I am free to believe what I believe and to worship in the manner I choose to worship. I have the forefathers to thank for that. They knew firsthand what it was like to be told what to believe and how to worship, and they were determined to keep this from happening in their new home.

I know that I take a great risk as a Christian when I stand up for the separation of Church and State. I agree that it is unfair that this constitutional principle has been applied to the extent that prayer has been removed from school tradition. I wish the kids could pray in school - ALL of the kids - the Christians, the Muslims, the Jews, the Buddhists. All of them. How beautiful it would be for young people to call on their God(s) to bless them with love and peace. But I am thankful that no single religion in this country will become the lawmaking body.

You may think it odd that a Christian would be glad that her own faith not be the prevailing power in her own land. Why wouldn't I want Christians to be in charge if I believe that Jesus is the Way and the Light? I'll tell you why. Because I paid attention in history class, and I've experienced personally the cruel ways in which some Christian believers try to convince others that their "truths" are the only ones that count. I still recall the shame I felt as my Sunday School teacher told me that my parents sinned against God for marrying interracially.

Seems half the country is terrified that allowing more Muslim immigrants to enter our country would mean public beatings and exploding subways. I'm not so sure we can blame Muslims, radical or otherwise, for all the violence in our society. Wasn't all that long ago that many state laws made wives and children the property of male heads of household, and protected those men when they crossed the line and harmed or killed them. I don't have the statistics handy, but I'd bet big money most of those marriages were sealed in Christian ceremonies. There's simply not enough space here to cite all of the instances in which some zealous Christian succumbed to his or her religious passion and caused another harm. (Read Blood Done Sign My Name by Timothy B Tyson for an eye-opening account of the Church's role in segregation.)

Yes, I take a great risk. I expect many of my friends will disagree/disapprove. And that is okay, because the laws of this country make it okay. I get to believe what I believe, and they get to believe what they believe. And we can express our opinions openly, as long as we respect one another and the law.

The point is, our governing bodies strive to protect all of us, regardless of religious affiliation or lack thereof, from ourselves. The job is nearly impossible because of our God-given free will. It's not a perfect system, but I believe in it. I trust in it. And I am thankful for it.

The Pageant

2010-07-12T08:46:00.001-05:00

The Not-So-Little One competed for the first time in a pageant. She was a state finalist in the National American Miss Texas Pre-Teen pageant. She was originally invited to compete because of her academic standing. And she had to pass a photo screening and personal interview to be chosen as a finalist.

My daughter did not bring home the title, but she (and I) got a glimpse of a world few girls get to see. Why? I'll tell you why. Not because there aren't plenty of beautiful, poised, ambitious girls out there. Not because there aren't plenty of moms trying to relive their glory days through their daughters out there. Few girls get to compete in pageants because it is EXPENSIVE.

My girl would not have been able to compete without the help of numerous sponsors. And if she wants to compete next year, she will need to hustle and get even more financial help. Because one of the things we learned is that if you want to run with the big dogs, you need more rhinestones on your collar.

Some of what we saw fit the cliche' depicted in the media. There were girls that have competed since they were toddlers. There were moms who obviously wanted their daughters to follow in their footsteps. There were girls who were not necessarily there by choice. There were lots of girls who want to be veterinarians when they grow up. There was a lot of hairspray in the air. There was even a baton twirler.

It was questionable, sometimes downright obvious, whether some girls were born with the hair color they sported on stage. And some had baked a little too long at the tanning salon. There was a hard and fast rule that girls with makeup on stage would lose points. I suspect some girls lost some points.

Allow me to be very clear - I was never the pageant type. I was neither pretty enough nor bold enough to put myself on display in such a manner. My daughter begged me to allow her to do this, and I had my reservations. Did she have any idea what she was getting herself into? Would she crack under pressure? She showed me... that I need to have as much faith in her as she has in herself.

I agreed to this because National American Miss is indeed what they claim to be - a different kind of pageant. No swimsuit category. No makeup for the younger age groups. Talent was optional and judged separately. Formal wear was judged on age-appropriateness. Contestants had to participate in a community service project, speak in front of a large audience, and meet one-on-one with judges in interviews. The contestants were very diverse, a fair representation of the peoples of our state.

This was not just a beauty pageant. If it were, my girl would have won. After all, she is quite stunning. And it was not a talent contest. Again, she could have won that. She tapped her little heart out. It was a growth experience. For both of us.

The Same, but Different

2010-06-21T09:17:00.001-05:00

There are several expressions Mikel uses that make me giggle. One of my favorites is, "You know... they're the same, but different." I smile just thinking about it, and I've rarely spent any measurable amount of time contemplating it. Until now.

I just finished reading Blood Done Sign My Name by Timothy B Tyson. The book is mostly an expansion of Tyson's master's thesis on racism in North Carolina in the 70s. I highly recommend the book, but beware - reading it will likely lead to self-examination.

Tyson, son of a white Methodist preacher who longed to impact race relations, has the gall to suggest that even well-meaning, liberal whites like his daddy are plagued with racism rooted deep in their being. He doesn't pretend to know how it got there. He challenges white paternalism - a practice he places only slightly above white supremacy in fairness and effectiveness.

Am I the only person who wonders if our forefathers' practices of colonization and slavery are at the root of our distaste for immigrants? We arrived uninvited on New World beaches, proving that visitors with better weapons can indeed take what they want. We brought African captives to this soil to use them, expecting them to accept their fate and expressing disbelief when they didn't.

If strangers come uninvited, they might take something from us that is ours. And if we bring them here, they might rise up and expect to be treated equally. History might repeat itself, an ugly history that we don't really want to talk about, thank you very much.

Racism and immigration are touchy subjects. Political correctness aside, most of us worry about offending someone. I can't speak for everyone, but I stay confused about which are the acceptable terms to use describing people of different ethnicities. I certainly know which words NOT to use. But the rules change. Do we use "Native American" or "American Indian?" We don't say "colored people" anymore, although the NAACP never dropped it from their name. I once heard a Mexican man say that he, too, is American because Mexico is part of the Americas.

I haven't even always known how to view myself. One would think that growing up in a military town, with brides and children from around the world in one big melting pot community, would have been easy for this half-breed Asian. Think again. There was a definite pecking order, and many of my Asian friends were at the bottom. I managed to get by because I had a blended appearance and carried a white surname. And... I downplayed my Asian heritage. I acted as white as possible. And I begged my mom not to come to my school.

Shameful.

I realized as I gazed upon our new pastor yesterday that Mikel is right. The preacher and I share many views. We love Jesus. We struggle with human frailty. We care about the world around us. And we differ in as many ways. We are not the same gender. We emerged from different home environments. We are a different color from one another AND from the majority of our congregation. We are the same, but different.

Different is good. I'm glad there are preachers and plumbers and mathematicians in the world. I can't do that stuff. Someone needs to. God created humans as EQUALS. He didn't create us the SAME. God seems to be okay with that. We can't be the same, and we shouldn't try. Whose traits would we adopt? The majority's? Who's the majority? Who says they're right?

I don't know how to overcome racism. I'm not sure we can. We share with every other animal species an instinctive wariness of those among us who look different. Maybe the best we can do is accept that we are threatened on some level by that differentness and address the distorted cognitions that accompany that threat. Identify the sameness and start there. And remember the things our mothers taught us: Think before you speak. When in doubt, close your mouth. Apologize when you screw up. If you aren't sure about something, ask. And, for God's sake, be nice.

The Little Things

2010-05-12T11:49:00.002-05:00

In a competitive world, there seems to be plenty to make a parent proud. Beauty, good grades, trophies, ribbons, and other special recognitions are the stuff the world sees. I love those things, for sure. But what makes my chest swell are the little things that no one (including my children) sees but me.

Here's a list:

* my daughter asking her daddy to take her to the store to buy a frozen casserole because it's the only thing she knows how to cook so that she can prepare dinner on Mother's Day

* realizing the day after shopping for pageant dresses that she probably DID look at the price tags, choosing the less expensive one and insisting that she loves it

* my daughter jumping up and down and shouting, "I prayed about that! God listened!"

* genuinely liking my daughters' friends

* witnessing a child snapping at her mother in the mall and realizing that I cannot remember being spoken to in public in that manner

* hearing other siblings call each other names and noting that although the girls argue, they refrain from name-calling

* hearing my daughter call the boy that broke her sister's heart a "poopie-head"

* hearing the other daughter give her sister a pep talk after a major disappointment

* learning that my daughter has taken to writing letters to a grandmommy that doesn't use email

* reading the words "I love you" on my daughter's facebook page in response to her friends' posts

* discovering a picture one of the girls has drawn for a friend

* waiting for the girls to finish the "get well" cards they insisted upon making just as we were heading out to the hospital

* the girls kissing each other goodnight and saying "I love you" before bed

The reason these things fill me with pride is that I know I didn't teach this stuff directly. I didn't ask for them. I certainly never instructed my daughter to tell the world that she is a prayer warrior, although I probably should have.

Turns out what the experts say is true after all. They learned it through observation. And I can't help but be pleased with their parents for showing them how it's done.

Choosing

2010-04-12T13:00:00.001-05:00

At 12:12 am, Sunday, April 11th, I became the proud mother of a teenager. The Not-So-Little One is 13, an age that strikes terror in the hearts of parents. I have received plenty of condolences and advice from seasoned warriors that survived the battleground known as adolescence. And... I rebuke it all. I should say WE rebuke it, as my daughter has reminded me over and again that she is not the typical teenager. I tend to agree with her. She is my child, and she is a child of God, created by Him and designed with tremendous potential.

I have decided to condemn neither my daughter nor myself to a horrific adolescence. Call it high hopes, call it great expectations, call it famous last words - I call it the better choice. As a human being I have the absolute right to choose to dread the future or to look forward to it. I am in the business of teaching people that there is a powerful relationship between their thoughts and their behaviors, and it is modeling good mental health for me to take a positive attitude.

High hopes and great expectations come with responsibilities, however. I choose those, too. If I expect my child to be successful, I must accept her success. If I expect her to grow, I must provide an environment in which to grow. If I expect her to trust me enough to communicate with me, I must make it safe for her to trust. And if she does not succeed or grow or trust, I must acknowledge the possibility that I did something to thwart her efforts.

Human beings, even the adolescent ones, want to feel as if they have some control over their lives. Children are mostly powerless in this world. They possess neither the experience nor the wisdom to take control, and naturally adults are responsible for their safety and well-being. In their zealousness, adults forget to look for ways in which children can have some power and control. Have I allowed her to have any?

Human beings, even adolescent ones, want to feel as if they are significant, as if they are valued. They are full of ideas and schemes and plans, and often they are reminded that they can't possibly know anything about anything. Their dreams are picked right out of the sky by the practiced marksmanship of the well-meaning adult. (How is that any different from the much-loathed 13-year-old eye roll?) Have I used her musings for target practice?

Human beings, even adolescent ones, want to feel safe. Safe to feel the full range of emotions. Safe to express those emotions. Safe to talk about them. They learn to feel, express, and discuss through experimentation. A researcher conducting a scientific experiment considers a mistake to be a detour, not a dead end. Have I taught her to fear failing?

My kid will make mistakes. She will challenge me. She will likely infuriate me. I will not want to admit that I may have contributed to the problem, but I WILL admit it. I will choose to see her as the wonderful human being that she was designed to be, not as the mere sum of her mistakes. I will embrace the responsibility that accompanies expectation. And I will hope.

Dumb and Dumber

2010-03-30T08:47:00.000-05:00

My husband has a funny way of letting you know when he's aggravated. When something irks him, he expresses his frustration in question form. He shouts things like "Who does he think he is?" and "What does she think she's doing?" and "Why do they issue drivers' licenses to idiots?" And then he looks directly at me, as if waiting for an answer.

I usually give the same response - "I don't know." I estimate that I say "I don't know" between 20 and 30 times a day. If I manage to remind myself that I really don't have to provide an answer, I simply remain mute.

I see clients nearly every day. They ask a lot of questions, too. "How could she treat me like that?" and "Why can't I get the respect I deserve?" and "What's wrong with me?" They peer at me through their tears, awaiting some profound solution to their problems.

Sometimes I say "I don't know" to my clients, too. Other times I try to guide them through the process of finding their own truths by responding to their questions with, you got it, more questions. Occasionally I offer direct instruction. That generally elicits an expression of utter disbelief, accompanied by, "I can't do that."

I have two pre-teen daughters. It is a well-known fact that mothers of pre-teen daughters know nothing. The point is driven home with "the look."

Between the impossible questions, the resistance, and the eye-rolling, it has become painfully clear that I am the dumbest person I know.

Somebody Please Hold Me Back...

2010-02-11T11:51:00.000-06:00

The Not-So-Little One has been the recipient of some hurtful behavior as of late. The worst of it is that the perpetrator is an adult. An educator. Someone that my daughter admires and desperately wants to please.

So far she has had little to no success.

Apparently this instructor does not subscribe to the scientifically proven notion that positive reinforcement is an effective method of shaping behavior. Rather,this intructor seems to believe that the way to get a kid to improve is to belittle her. As a performer, I certainly have experienced this approach to teaching. But as a mother and a trained therapist, I am struggling with this.

The situation came to a head on Saturday after the Not-So-Little One delivered the best public dance performance of her 9-year career. She mentioned on the way home that prior to going on stage aforementioned instructor told her (in front of her peers) that she did not know the routine and had no business dancing with the rest of the company.

There is plenty wrong with this picture, not the least of which is that it is counterproductive to dress down a young dancer moments before a performance. She could have easily paralyzed my daughter with fear, setting her up for failure. I'm an adult, for God's sake, and I'm pretty sure that would not have boosted my confidence.

The most disturbing thing is that I have discussed my daughter's neurosocial disorder with this woman again and again. Every time it is as if we've never talked about it. Individuals with neurosocial disorders have difficulty connecting with others. Hence the "-social" part of the diagnosis. If her peers in the dance company buy into the belief that she is the reason they are not successful, how will she ever be able to bond with them?

(Ironically, the instructor complains that the girls in the company do not seem to be bonding. Hmmm... )

I've learned something valuable through this ordeal. My daughter is resilient. Just as I am about to turn the car around to hunt this instructor down and give her a piece of my mind, the Not-So-Little One says, "I think I did a good job. I did what you and (The Little One) suggested. I proved her wrong." We agreed that my intervention might make matters worse for her.

She went on to say that she does not want to enroll in another dance studio. She says that "she's just one person" and that "the rest are like family to me." I will do my best to let my daughter cope with this situation with the grace she has already shown. I have been humbled into inaction.

I want her to get a quality dance education. I want her to be successful. Mostly I want her to be happy. I'm immeasurably relieved that she has the skills to deal with this difficult person. She's handling it better than I.

iPad vs Books

2010-01-28T08:44:00.000-06:00

I love technology. I think I've seen just about every James Bond movie made, just to see what clever gadgets Q would come up with. I still laugh out loud every time I remember Maxwell Smart talking into his shoe. Mission Impossible, Inspector Gadget, Spy Kids... it's all good.

Surely you have heard by now that Apple has released it's latest and greatest, the iPad. It looks amazing, thin and sleek. It does all kinds of neat stuff. I want to play with one, for sure. I want to stream video and play tunes. I want to make a phone call so I can laugh at how silly I must look holding it up to the side of my face.

I don't, however, want to read a book on it. Books don't belong on electronic screens. Books happen to be just fine the way they are.

When I was a little girl, my mother told me that when she was a little girl paper was scarce after the war. She taught me that the written word, and the bindings and pages that cradle those words, were precious. She taught me to respect books, to cherish them. We weren't to throw them or walk on them or write in them or damage the pages. My daughters will tell you that I learned that lesson very well, as have they.

Books hold a special place in my heart and in my life. My dearest friends will tell you that one of my greatest shames is the rate at which I read. I have worked hard at increasing my reading speed, to no avail. But that has not deterred me from embracing books. Books remind me that I am imperfect.

Books do much more than that, of course. They instruct, they encourage, they elicit, they challenge... they remember. Books can be opened, baring the souls hidden within. They can be closed, allowing time for introspection. Books are vulnerable to the elements and to human carelessness, and yet they endure somehow, carrying forth our history, our stories. We need those stories, and we need the vessels in which they are carried.

And books need us. Books need people to collect and care for them. Books need places to live, too. Libraries, whether small or grand, are the dwelling places of the written word. It is in libraries that books commune with their own in safety and comfort, openly awaiting new friends with whom to share their stories.

Book stores serve a similar purpose, but libraries possess qualities often overlooked. Libraries are more than the sum of their shelves. The orderliness of the rows, the logic of the filing system, the intimacy of the space between the shelves, the enveloping quiet... these are the things that draw me to libraries. And the smell. Libraries have a fragrance all their own.

My youngest daughter tells me that she loves to discover the same books at the public library that she sees on the shelves of her school library. She says that tells her that the books she likes are popular with other kids. She feels connected, bonded to other humans through books and the accessibility of their kin.

Go ahead and tap your iPad screen. Go ahead and scroll down the edge and read the tiny letters typed on the tiny flashing screen. Give me something I can open and feel and smell. Give me books.

That's What I Like

2010-01-27T08:54:00.000-06:00

I've written plenty about things that annoy or confuse me. Today's post is about things I like.

I like that God grants just enough of my wishes to keep me coming back with more requests. And that He overlooks the fact that I am selfish and keep asking for stuff.

I like that He granted me a sense of humor, and the good sense to know when it is most effective to use it. If I am indeed created in His image, that means He has a sense of humor, too. I hope He uses it when He looks down and sees me screwing up. Again.

I like that despite the bickering, my daughters care about one another. When The Not-So-Little One's cell phone battery was going bad and she wasn't too keen on the idea of using the no-frills spare, The Little One offered to take the boring phone and let her sister have hers. "Here... you can use this one, and I'll take the cheap one. You are older and deserve the better one." We found another alternative, but not before making it clear that this was a true example of sacrifice.

I like that once in a while those same daughters remember to say "thank you."

I like that there are people out there with greater intellect and patience than I to figure out the hard stuff. I like that I have the absolute freedom to decide whether I want to believe what they say. Most of all I like that my belief systems are not static. I can change my beliefs as I grow and learn.

I like that when one baby starts to cry iin public, all the others cry,too. It's a sign of solidarity. I still do it myself. Sometimes I want to cry FOR someone who is in distress and can't seem to bring himself or herself to do it. Does that make me empathic, or infantile? Wait... don't answer that.

I like that as an adult I don't have to eat carrots. I eat the dadgum things, but I don't HAVE to if I don't want to. Or brussel sprouts. I don't eat those. Yuck.

I like that someone who reads this post will respond, extolling the virtues of brussel sprouts and spawning a vegetable debate. Recipes will be exchanged and all will be right with the culinary world once more.

I like that dogs don't have an agenda. What you see is what you get. They like what they like, they don't pretend to like things they don't, and they don't hold grudges. I'm not so sure about cats, however...

Common Ground

2009-11-09T11:42:00.000-06:00

There are four vastly different individuals living in my house.

Mikel subscribes to no less than five different motorcycle magazines. He reads them cover-to-cover, and then rereads them several times after that. He attends rallies. All conversation ceases as his head swivels at the sight of another bike on the road.

It's not that the rest of us don't like motorcycles - we like them all right - we just don't know the make and model of every two-wheeled vehicle produced on every continent since before the first world war.

I'm pretty sure he does, though. He's amazing in that way.

I, on the other hand, am intrigued with the structure of the human brain as it relates to neuropsychosocial disorders. The fact that scientists are far from having all the answers to the ins and outs of mental disorders only functions to feed my fascination.

I'm sure it comes as no surprise that when I start rambling about some recent research article on the topic, my housemates get that glassy look in their eyes and suddenly recall tasks that need their immediate attention.

They are not joking when they say, "Don't get her started!"

The Not-So-Litle One is middle-schooler. I probably don't need to say much more on the subject. The things in which she and her friends are interested defy adult logic, sticking their tongues out at us and daring us to try to figure them out.

She also happens to be a middle-schooler with a sensory processing disorder. There are many things about the way in which she deals with her world that are incomprehensible to the rest of us. And she has an uncanny ability to communicate with animals, beyond the ordinary human's.

She is a whisperer. She is my hero.

The Little One does not recall life before dance. Her earliest two-year-old memories include leotards, tights, ballet slippers, pig tails - all swirling about in a cloud of theatrical pink. Her first grade teacher complained that she never kept her feet still. Her daddy converted a bedroom into a studio in (vain) hopes that she wouldn't dance in the kitchen while I am cooking.

She speaks a different language than her parents. To me a Russian is a person who calls Russia his homeland. To her it is some sort of leap. A stroll down a grocery store aisle invariably includes a sequence of turns, combinations, and jumps.

She is gifted. She is a gift.

Somehow we four manage to share a space and a bond. We love one another, and we appreciate one another. Our differences are not perceived as threats but rather as a gateway to learning more about the world.

Our different paths lead us to common ground.

2009-10-21T09:56:00.000-05:00

I've opened my own personal Pandora's Box. This might go on for a while...

"Love never ends." Umm... yes, it does. I happen to know that it does. I'm pretty sure I was not delusional EVERY time I was told that I was loved. I'm pretty sure what I gave and what I received was the real thing at least once or twice. And yet it still ended. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that it was yanked out from under me. I've always been the dumpEE, never the dumpER. And I was still in love long after the dumping.

" 'Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all." I can't even think of a clever retort for this one. All I can think of is "Why?"

It Seemed Like the Right Thing to Say at the Time

2009-10-19T15:28:00.003-05:00

There are all these things people say, the kind that of things that are meant to make you feel better when things go drastically wrong. We've all said them. Problem is, they don't always help you feel much better at all.

"If you love someone, set him free..." etc, etc. If I love someone, I have no intention of just setting him free. Rather, I would hold on tight and surround him with my love, never allowing anyone to question my devotion. If something tried to come between us, I would stand and fight for love. I'm not talking about locking someone in a closet. It's just that to me anything else suggests that he wasn't worth my effort.

"What doesn't kill you makes you stronger." Maybe. Or maybe little pieces of a person are chipped away until what's left is barely recognizable. This probably depends on the person and the circumstances. I've known people that have been through so much that they can hardly hold themselves together. Do I think they are weak? No, I do not. Vulnerable, yes... damaged, probably... weak, no.

"Children are resilient." Somewhat, I suppose. But if children were truly resilient and able to bounce back from anything, then parents could make all kinds of selfish choices and not worry about the consequences. Divorce, neglect, even abuse would be no big deal, because the kids would emerge from the rubble unscathed.

"The only person you should worry about pleasing is yourself." I like the sound of this one. I WANT to buy into this one. But it sounds self-centered to me. It pleased my brother immensely when he broke my arm. It didn't please me one little bit.

"Happiness comes from within." Oh, yeah, the old no-one-can-make-you-angry-you-allow-yourself-to-get-angry theory. Try telling that to the little kid that spends an hour picking flowers for his mother, handing them over with a huge grin on his face, just to hear his mother point out that they are actually weeds as she drops them into the trash can. That child was filled with joy in anticipation of thrilling his mother, right up the point of her rejection.

"We can still be friends." How do you go from being lovers to being friends? How do you put boundaries on a relationship that was previously open and intimate? How do you stand by and watch the one you love fall in love with someone new? If you can do it, you are a better person than I.

"It just wasn't meant to be." This one is a no-brainer, and it's actually true. But it isn't helpful. The expecting mother who took perfect care of herself from the moment she learned of the new life beginning inside of her will take no solace in this when the doctor informs her that she won't be having that baby after all.

These phrases seem so harmless. There is some truth to them if you are able to view them through a philosophical lens. We resort to them when someone we care about is going through tough times because we want so badly to find the right thing to say. And sometimes the right thing to say is nothing at all.

Changing

2009-10-15T14:24:00.007-05:00

As much as I love words, sometimes I struggle with them. I'll think I have something important to share, and I'll have a hard time getting started. This is one of those times. Maybe I should just dive in head first.

It appears that I am entering menopause. I always thought that I would be happy about that - no more monthly "visitations," with their accompanying discomfort, inconvenience, and expense.

Turns out I'm not really happy about it after all. I am experiencing all kinds of unpleasant symptoms - depression, sleep disturbance, difficulty concentrating, anxiety, fear, anger... and a veritable smorgasbord of physical changes.

Never having suffered much from PMS, some of the emotional stuff came as a bit of a surprise. But what shook me to my core was my reaction to the end of an era. I will no longer be capable of conceiving children. It's not that I desire more children - the ones I have are amazing, and my life is full. It's the realization that an integral part of my womanhood will be no more. I wonder if this is the way a woman fighting cancer feels when she loses a breast or all of her hair.

Yeah, I know, I've said it myself - they're just breasts. It's just hair. It's just a uterus. But these are some of the things that define women and set them apart. They are things that make us different from men. They matter, in ways we don't even grasp until they are gone.

There's another part of my identity that is falling victim to this "change of life." I noticed back when I was expecting my first child that my ability to sing was affected greatly by my condition. I tried to talk to friends, colleagues, and professionals about it, and I got the same response from everyone. "It's just the baby pushing on your diaphragm" or "It's all in your head." Although those explanations couldn't account for the continuing vocal problems I had on a monthly basis postpartum, I accepted them as reasonable.

Turns out that research supports the theory that the changes in a woman's hormones directly affect the voice. The vocal membranes are startlingly similar to the membranes in one's nether regions. Membranes in both regions undergo some thickening and dehydration as hormone levels increase. The voice becomes less flexible, both in range and in variability. And there's not much one can do to stop or reverse it.

Because every woman's journey through menopause is unique, not all singers experience this phenomenon. But there are plenty of opera singers whose careers have come to a screeching halt as they enter this phase of womanhood. And not only do they feel betrayed by their bodies, but they must also muster the courage to pursue new avenues at a time when most folks are settled comfortably into their careers.

People who enjoy a specialized skill or talent have a difficult time differentiating the self from the behavior. They are gifted with the ability to do something that not everyone else can, and that sets them apart from the herd. And that special something permeates their being. The expression "eats, drinks, and sleeps" is an apt description of how an artisan relates to her craft. When that something is threatened or taken away, the resulting grief can be devastating.

The way I see it, I have a couple of choices. I can accept the inevitability that my body and voice will be changed forever and try to find a way to honor the me that is left behind. Or I can diligently seek methods in which to fight the process and try to keep what I have as long as possible. Either way the road will be long and hard and lonely, as others are unlikely to empathize with my selfish plight. And at the end of the road, I may no longer recognize myself.

Variety - The Spice of Life

2009-10-01T12:02:00.003-05:00

Glamour magazine is starting a fashion revolution of sorts. A short while back they printed a small photo of a lovely, curvy woman named Lizzie. In the modeling world Lizzie would be considered plus-sized. Anyone wearing a size 6 or larger is considered plus-sized in the fashion industry. In the real world Lizzie is actually only a few pounds over for her height.

Public response was overwhelming. The photo caused such a stir - a positive stir - that Glamour executives now state they intend to include photos of women of varying shapes and sizes in upcoming editions. (To read the article and gaze upon some gorgeous normal-sized women, go to this website: http://lifestyle.msn.com/your-life/just-dreaming/articleglamour.aspx?cp-documentid=21997158&gt1=32002#atoolb.)

I'm thrilled and so are thousands of other people, men and women alike. Glamour is a women's publication and as such should provide their readers with a variety of ladies with which to identify. It just makes good marketing sense, if you ask me.

Not all response to Lizzie's photo was positive. As you can imagine, there were plenty of men (and women) that criticized Lizzie for being fat and Glamour for condoning poor health. Those opinions were expected albeit narrow. The comments that annoyed me the most, however, were the ones that implied that women who are insecure about their bodies and tired of being compared to unreasonable industry standards are in some way misguided or petty.

I read several comments advising women that the only people whose opinions should matter are their husbands' or their boyfriends'. When I hear statements like that, I feel as if people are trying to shame me into living only for my spouse. To me that equates to thinking what he wants me to think, going where he wants me to go, socializing with whom he wants me to socialize. My identity and my self-image become totally dependent upon his whims, if that is the case.

Most folks will not agree with me here, but I did say that this is how I feel about the issue. What one thinks and what one feels are not the same thing.

Some husbands wrote in that they didn't care what their wives looked like, that they loved them anyway. I think they meant that they love their wives for what is on the inside, but saying they "don't care" gives the message that they no longer look at them or long for their wives in a physical way.

(Guys, if you are guilty of this, stop immediately.) Suffice it to say that this is not a helpful statement in a marriage.

I recently expressed my own insecurities to a friend. I told her that due to events in my life, I no longer felt beautiful. She told me that the only person I should want to be beautiful for is me. It sounded good at the time, and I think she meant well, but the more I thought about it, the more I realized I will probably never buy into that. Isn't the real purpose of physical beauty to attract one that you desire? If you are not attractive, in that sense of the word, and a mate is either absent or unresponsive, what then is the point of thinking you are beautiful?

I applaud the executives at Glamour for taking a risk. I'm glad that a publication with it's level of influence in the industry is challenging society's views on beauty. I also applaud them for not taking sides. The super-thin are not being bashed, obesity is not being condoned. They are simply making an effort to celebrate all makes and models of women. And I think it is about dang time.

New Things

2009-09-21T10:52:00.002-05:00

I experienced some new things this past weekend. New stuff is my favorite stuff.

Friday marked my 16th wedding anniversary to Mikel. He sent me roses. It was only the second time in all these years that I received flowers from him. He said that is because if he sent them more often, it wouldn't be a surprise anymore. Although I can grasp his reasoning here, I'm not sure I condone it.

I did thank him.

Friday evening we went to the Dallas Museum of Art. Turns out they do a late night thing on the third Friday of every month and stay open until midnight. I called it our version of Night at the Museum. They currently have a performing arts exhibit, and we enjoyed music and dance performances throughout the evening. Mikel thought I was crazy for wishing we had brought the girls along on our anniversary date, but I'm pretty sure they would have loved it.

I'm also pretty sure I need to learn the flamenco.

Saturday morning I pulled a muscle in my right thigh mounting Mikel's Triumph. He was parked on an incline, and my leg wasn't long enough for me to swing it over the back rest from the left, so I thought I'd be clever and try the other side. I've never mounted anything from the right - not horses, not motorcycles, not ATV's, not dirt bikes, not bicycles. I even sleep on the left side of the bed.

Who knew it would make that much of a difference?

Saturday evening I participated in my very first 5K. My right thigh was still pretty sore, but I stretched really well. I ran a little, walked a lot, and perspired more than I thought humanly possible. It was actually kind of fun.

And I did not die.

I will always try new things. I think it is one way of staying young. I will probably even do some of these things again.

Except for the motorcycle-mounting thing.

Waste of Time

2009-08-18T20:35:00.002-05:00

Recently I ran across a travel article and was horrified to read that the writer considered a visit to the Alamo a waste of time.

To be fair, the writer also dissed a few other well-known tourist attractions. He was primarily focused on the structure of the place. Granted, the Alamo, sacred mission and symbol of all we hold dear in Texas, is pretty dilapidated. There isn't much to look at. And maybe it doesn't hold much fascination for a non-Texan. But perhaps it should.

Those of us who love history and historical places clearly do not visit them for the accomodations. Historical places are... well... old. They are musty. They are usually not air conditioned. They rarely have decent bathrooms. No, we make the trek because they are precisely what we expect them to be - tangible proof of struggle and triumph.

And the true purist would be offended anyway if someone came along and spiffed the place up a bit.

I visited Plymouth Rock once. I am not a descendant of one of the original pilgrim families. The rock itself was small and somewhat unimpressive. But that did not prevent me from looking out over the landscape and imagining the hardship of the individuals that settled there. It did not keep me from feeling a sense of loss as I pondered what happened to the villagers. The rock told a story.

I visited Austria once. I am not a descendant of one of the ill-fated Jewish families of that region. The countryside is gorgeous, and it was evident to me that the citizens of Austria would prefer not to dwell on the autrocities of the holocaust. But that did not prevent me from marveling at the irony of the ugliness that occurred at the hands of one egotistical lunatic. It did not keep me from being overwhelmed by the mere thought of the countless numbers of lives lost. The land told a story.

I visited New York City once. I am not a descendant of one of the immigrant families that were herded through Ellis Island on their quest for a fresh start. The Twin Towers were still standing then. They were simply pretty buildings to me. But that does not keep me from gazing at my photographs and recalling the events of September 11th as they unfolded before us courtesy of modern technology. It does not keep me from swelling with pride when I remember the unprecedented patriotism that arose from the despair. The towers tell a story.

One day there will be little remaining evidence of the destruction of the Twin Towers. Growth and progress will take over and Ground Zero will be a well-documented memory. Will tourists stand in that spot and say, "Huh... there's not much here. What a waste of my time..."?

God, I hope not.

The Monster

2009-08-10T16:03:00.000-05:00

I used to be one of those short-sighted, opinionated types that believed that if a woman was abused by a man, and she didn't leave immediately, she was either a fool or a masochist.

I was wrong.

Nearly 20 years ago, when I was between marriages, I spent several months in a toxic relationship. It didn't start out that way. No, not at all. In the beginning, he was sweet and attentive and generous. Things deteriorated gradually, with him "teaching" me how much I deserved the treatment I was receiving. By the time he broke my body, he had long since broken my spirit.

The police weren't much help. They finally took my reports seriously when he broke into my apartment while I was away, setting off the alarm. I guess having to respond to a burglary was more compelling than two black eyes.

I learned a lot about the dynamics of domestic violence, lessons that make me a better therapist and a more compassionate human being. I recognize the ways in which I benefitted from the ordeal, although I would give just about anything to erase the memories and end the nightmares.

I recently had an inexplicable urge to search for The Monster online. (Isn't Google an amazing vehicle?) What I found was not what I expected. The Monster is dead. He died about a month ago. He left behind a wife and children. The obituary stated that he had moved back to his home state and was serving as a deacon in his church. I wondered if he was still smoking pot and beating up the nearest woman when he couldn't score a fix. I wondered if he had accepted Jesus as his savior.

Another thing I wasn't expecting was the ambiguity I experienced upon reading of his demise. Was I supposed to feel relieved? Happy? Sad? Angry? Envious? Worried? Grieved? Retraumatized?I felt all of those things and more.

Another reminder of just how human I really am.

Sometimes

2009-08-03T17:22:00.006-05:00

Sometimes, when you keep your feelings to yourself, because you think it will be easier on me, it makes me feel worse.

Sometimes, when you point out to me how wonderful or beautiful one of my children is, when you know I have two, it brings out the tigress in me.

Sometimes, when you are really polite, because you think it is the genteel way to behave, it feels as if you are afraid of me.

Sometimes, when you tell me everything that is happening in your life, because you want to include me, it gives me too much to think about.

Sometimes, when you say everything is going to be okay, because you want me to feel better, it seems as if you would really just like for me to stop crying already.

Sometimes, when you give advice, because you want to fix things, I feel as if you don't have confidence in my ability to find the answers.

Sometimes, when you remind me to look at the bright side of things, because there usually is a bright side, you seem to be telling me that I have no right to be upset.

Sometimes, when you go into a whirlwind of activity, because there are things that need doing, I wonder if I am not getting enough accomplished.

Sometimes, when you do all those things for me, because that's your way of letting me know how much I mean to you, I really just want you to sit beside me and hold my hand.

Sometimes, when you give me my space, because I am distant, I really wish you would come closer.

Jesus' Dragon

2009-07-30T11:28:00.003-05:00

On my desk, waiting to be lovingly displayed on my office wall with others of a similar vein, is a picture of a dragon. The Little One is enamored with all things dragon. This one is purple (her signature color) with green eyes, horns, and talons. It is hovering in a dark sky among dark clouds and lightning bolts. Blue, orange, and yellow fire is shooting from it's mouth and nostrils.

Below Sir Dragon is a green field dotted with itty little bitty figures. Many of these figures are engulfed in flames, along with the the homes and trees nearby. Like most moms into whose hands a drawing is thrust while trying to find the car keys at the bottom of a purse, I glanced at it rather quickly. I was aghast at the violence portrayed, and I remarked to The Little One that she doesn't usually draw such angry dragons.

She patiently explained that the figures at the bottom were demons (a closer inspection indeed revealed little horns on their heads). She said the dragon was helping rid the world of evil. "It's Jesus' dragon, Momma."

You know... Jesus might could use a dragon.

An Anniversary

2009-07-14T10:13:00.002-05:00

There's this boy I know. He's handsome and polite and Southern, and he has this smile... I'm pretty taken with him.

Some time ago, around this time of year, we stood facing one another, and suddenly we knew. It was one of those heart-in-your-throat, butterflies-in-the-stomach, sweaty-palms moments. I don't think a single intelligible word was uttered. Nothing has been the same since that day.

We actually knew one another for a while before we became "we." Admired each other from afar, you might say. But we were each closing the door on other relationships, tying up loose ends. And we were in the throes of redefining ourselves.

Let's just say that the romance has been as imperfect as the two individuals that came crashing together that summer. At times we are intertwined, connected in a profound way. At other times we are miles apart.

You see... I'm not easy. There's this neatly manicured wall. It appears solid, and I guard it fiercely. But if you peer between the cracks you find a real mess inside. The girl within the walls is broken and jumbled from one too many shakings. There may still be some good stuff in there among the shards and the dust, and the boy is brave enough to search for it when no one else will.

I wear a ring on my third finger. I wear it always, even when things are unpleasant between us. It is constant and precious, and it symbolizes forever, and that is how I like to think of us.

I haven't spent much time with the boy lately. There is work and clients and children and church. And walls. In my heart I know that things will settle, and we will have more time for one another. But he is a stubborn boy, and I lack the confidence to encourage him.

I'm not sure this boy reads my blog anymore, but if he does I want him to know that he is my last thought when the night closes around me and my first thought when the sun rises above the horizon.

Happy anniversary, my love.

2009-07-07T10:31:00.002-05:00

Disposable

2009-07-02T09:42:00.004-05:00

Sometimes it seems to me that we live in a disposable society. Paper plates, Styrofoam cups, and plastic eating utensils make meals quick and easy. No one uses handkerchiefs anymore now that facial tissues are so readily available. We throw them away, and they are no longer our problem.

How simple it appears to apply that same mentality to all areas of our lives. When something (or someone) is no longer useful/attractive/clean/strong/desirable/convenient/new enough, we toss it aside. Couch looking a little worn? Get rid of it. Cat acting jealous of the new baby? Well, he's gotta go. Girlfriend didn't turn out to be as fun as you'd hoped? Dump her.

Everywhere we turn there are avenues for parting with that which no longer interests us. There are yard sales in neighborhoods every weekend. We advertise our "gently used" items on websites like Craig's List and Freecycle. When all else fails, drag it to the curb. Ever watch a toddler shove things off her plate and onto the floor because she doesn't want to eat it? It's a lot like that.

Inanimate objects don't care what happens to them after they've served their purpose. But living beings do. Kids and dogs who have become too difficult for their caregivers to handle don't enjoy bouncing from place to place, and their behavior shows it. Old senile Uncle Ezra doesn't want to leave his lifelong home and move into a nursing facility. Why do you think he refuses to get out of the car?

What we rarely stop to consider is that just because something is no longer our problem doesn't mean that no one else has to deal with it. Someone has to haul off our trash once a week. Unwanted kids and pets aren't allowed to just wander the streets. The homeless are herded around town like cattle. And that used-up girlfriend? Well, the next guy that takes her better be ready to help her with her baggage.

I don't believe anyone chooses to outlive their "usefulness." My clients who suffer from depression often express feeling as if they no longer have a purpose in life. They say that sometimes they just can't think of a reason to go on living. I can't help but wonder how many times they've found themselves sitting on the curb.

Summer 2009

2009-06-30T09:59:00.018-05:00

June has flown by, hasn't it? End of school was delayed a bit by the Swine... no, N1H1... wait, H1N1... er, really bad virus that was going around. Awards ceremonies didn't take place until June 3rd.

For our family, though, summer doesn't begin until after dance recital. And we all get in on the act:

This year recital was immediately followed by The Big Trip. After nearly a year of planning and saving, we packed up the 5th wheel and convoyed with my sister and brother-in-law and their Goofy Kid to Wyoming. We camped in the Tetons and drove all over Yellowstone National Park. We had an absolute blast viewing wildlife, riding horses, boating, and hiking. Oh, can't forget the eating and shopping, too.

Words fail me as I try to describe the vistas. Perhaps a few humble photos will provide a glimpse into what we experienced:

The End

Time

2009-06-08T16:18:00.001-05:00

On my desk lies a lovely red rose. It's opened perfectly - no longer a bud yet not fully opened. It's exactly the way I think roses should look always. It was taken from the splendid arrangement that adorned the top of my friend Roger's casket. The arrangement was lovingly crafted by his sister-in-law Rita. Rita has a gift.

Roger was the entire tenor section in the choir when I answered the call to direct, about four years ago. He had a little reinforcement in the tenor section for awhile, and then he was THE section once again. During the time that I worked with him, his skills continually grew and his voice seemed to never stop improving. This is not to say that he wasn't great to begin with, because he was. He had a terrific voice. It is to say that he was the type that never stopped learning.

Roger got sick some time back. A terrible infection ravaged his heart and took the sight from one of his eyes. He spent a long time in the hospital and a long time in rehab and a long time recovering at home.

I grieve that I never got to know Roger better than I did. We were all too focused during choir rehearsal to just chat. We were all too busy beforehand to just chat. We were all in too big a hurry to "be somewhere" afterward to just chat. There was just never enough time. I regret that, and I've made an effort to change in recent months.

Roger was a quiet guy. Very private. I'm loathe to admit that I am not great at pulling people out of their shells. I have my walls, too. I guess I figured one day I would just win him over with my irresistable charm (ha, ha!). We ran out of time.

Our friendship was kind of like the rose on my desk. We weren't completely closed off from one another, but we weren't completely splayed open, either. We were just beginning to let each other in - just a little - and it was comfortable. These things take time.

I will miss Roger. Those that he allowed into his heart - his family and childhood friends - will miss him even more. We all feel pretty certain we will see him again in time. And that, too, is comfortable.

On Being

2009-05-28T17:15:00.001-05:00

Yesterday I posted a note about feelings, what my friend Andrew rated a "three-finger gag reflex" note. Seems I'm not done writing about this stuff, 'cuz here I am again at the keyboard.

A trainer at a recent workshop got a good chuckle out of me when he said, "Women are human beings, men are human doers. I laughed, and I've used that line a few times with clients myself. It just kinda nails it, doesn't it?

This morning, the Little One and I were discussing art. She was heading out on a field trip to an art museum. She has received some recognition for her art work, and she has quite a grasp of all things artistic. We agreed that art wasn't all about what is pleasing to the recipient, but also about how it serves as an expression of the artist.

That's when it hit me - that's when I realized why I have such trouble reigning in my emotions and keeping them under lock and key. Deep down in my inner core, beneath the good grades and the smooth delivery and the attention to grooming, is an artist. And art is reduced to simple elements of technique without emotion.

Dance is just an exercise in kinetics without feeling. Music can be dissected into math and physics without mood. Paintings that are mere representations of objects are no better then photographs. Exclude the descriptive words from an essay and you are left with an article for a technical journal. Tell a story without emotion, and you resemble my college government professor. Boring. Sterile.

I don't want to be sterile. I don't want to be neat and clean and tidy. I don't even want to be pleasant. I want to be messy. I want to be flawed. I want to be real. If I decide I care for you, I want to reach inside of you, grab you by the gut, and shake you up.

I don't want to just go through life accomplishing tasks. I want to be a human being, not a human doer. That's what I want.

Never Grow Up

2009-05-27T11:15:00.002-05:00

This morning the Not-So-Little-One performed a tap routine for her peers in the school talent show. Since I see clients on Thursday evenings and will be unable to attend the real show tomorrow night, I sat with the students and watched.

There was some pretty surprising talent among those 11 and 12 year olds. I watched dancers, gaped in utter amazement at a classical piano movement, laughed at a comedy routine, listened intently to Spanish guitar, patted my foot along with electric guitars, was duly impressed with a cellist, and pondered once again the origins of baton twirling.

The Not-So-Little-One has an admirer, a boy that phones her incessantly and follows her around like a puppy at school. She is too nice to tell him to back off, although she has admitted to being quite annoyed with this uninvited attention.

The admirer happened to be sitting on the floor near me at the show this morning.

When the Not-So-Little-One took command of the stage, the admirer sat bolt upright. (I think I might have even heard him gasp.) And then, when she flashed that million-watt smile of hers, I watched him just melt into the floor.

And it all came rushing back to me. I was 12 all over again and pining… no, aching… for some boy. I remembered and heard and smelled and tasted and felt everything as if it were 1974 and I were right back in the school cafeteria, stealing glances at Gary Maxwell as we assembled year books.

For me, memory has always been more emotion and sensation than events. Has this ever happened to you? You step outside and the temperature and sunlight and sounds are just exactly right, and you are suddenly transported to your second-grade classroom...

It seems like just yesterday I was melting into a puddle as I watched the object of my desire stride toward me. And it wasn’t long ago at all that I felt big, cool, drops splatter on my face as I kissed the love of my life in the summer rain - the warmth of his embrace warding off the chill of the water, laughter bubbling out of me and taking hold of his annoyance and smoothing it from his brow.

Some people equate emotions with immaturity. For many of those folks, emotional maturity resembles taking your feelings by the throat, stuffing them into a sound-proof vault, and bolting the door shut. (Just picture a Klingon and a Vulcan at opposite ends of an emotional spectrum.)

If that is maturity, then I don’t ever intend to grow up. I want to feel every feeling, recall every sensation, replay every meaningful memory, and be young in my mind and in my heart forever. And when I believe I really need to act like a grown up, I’ll figure out how to have all of that without annoying the people around me… too much.

Dancing Queens

2009-05-04T13:01:00.003-05:00

The girls (and their parents) survived the second dance competition of the year and are looking forward to recital in a few weeks. Here are the spectacular results from Midwest City, OK:

Little Less Conversation (tap) - gold achievement

Blackbird (ballet) - high gold achievement

Ain't Nothin' Wrong with That (jazz) - high gold schievement, fifth overall Division 2 large group

Gravity (lyrical) - high gold achievement, fourth overall Division 2 large group

School of Rock (production) - high gold achievement

A special thank you to Mikel's sister and nieces (and great niece) for driving down from Kansas to cheer the girls on. It meant so much to all of us.

Year Nine, here we come!

Ambiguity

2009-04-22T10:50:00.002-05:00

Having never been a boy, I have no real idea what it is like to be a man. I can joke about it and take silly quizzes on Facebook and pretend to undertand men, but it's all just that - pretending.

I do happen to have a little experience being a woman, however, and let me tell you... it is confusing business. It's confusing because no one out there can seem to agree on what is acceptable female behavior.

If a woman is too giving, she falls victim to those who would take advantage of her. If she is too demanding, she is a bitch.

If a woman stands up for herself, she might hurt someone's feelings. If she keeps her mouth shut, she could get more than her feelings hurt.

If a woman shows off her academic prowess, she is a haughty. If she tames her intellect, she is a bimbo.

If a woman proudly displays her physique, she is a brazen hussy. If she covers up, she is frumpy.

If a woman allows her sensitive side to show, she is over-emotional. If she keeps her feelings to herself, she is an ice princess.

If a woman initiates physical intimacy with her partner, she is a nymphomaniac. If she waits for him to make the move, she is frigid.

If a woman makes and enforces rules in her household, she is a control freak. If she doesn't immediately discipline her children for infractions, she is permissive.

If a woman chooses to have a career, she is not putting her children first. If she chooses to be a housewife, she is not living up to her potential.

If a woman calls her mate throughout the day to check in with him, she is clingy. If she leaves the cell phone in her purse, she is more interested in her work relations than in her man.

If a woman enjoys "girls night out" with her friends, she is not attending to her family's needs. If she stays home every night and asks her husband to do the same, she is needy.

If a woman asks for help, she is helpless. If she takes care of business, she is too independent.

If a woman is soft and curvy, she is weak. If she is muscular and strong, she's butch.

Of course these are glaring extremes. And... we've all heard them. The point is, it is difficult, of not impossible, to find balance. And feeling off balance is perhaps one of the most common causes of distress in a person's life. I sure wish someone would make up my mind for me.

Say It Out Loud...

2009-04-20T16:02:00.001-05:00

One fine morning, while the sun was shining and the clouds were gently gliding across the prairie sky, Gene Autry and Roy Rogers saddled up Champion and Trigger and set out for a leisurely trail ride.

As they rode along in companionly silence, Gene noticed that Roy was wearing a pair of loafers, the kind of shoes fit for a city slicker and no one else. Not at all the type of thing any self-respecting cowboy would wear on a trail ride.

Not wanting to embarrass his friend, but driven to distraction by the inappropirate use of footwear, Gene finally broke the silence by asking, "Why, Roy, I thought for certain that you just came back from Mexico with a brand new pair of custom-fit boots. A finer pair of boots I don't believe I've ever laid eyes on. Did something happen to them? Why are you wearing loafers, for cryin' out loud?"

Roy looked down at his feet, sighed heavily, and answered, "Well, funny thing you should ask, Gene. I did indeed buy me a pair of custom-made boots last time I was down Mexico way. Last week when I was out ridin' with the boys, at the end of the day, after a little pickin' and singin', I left 'em by the campfire as I settled in for the night. When I woke up the next mornin', I found one of 'em chewed to bits and t'other gone completely. Spied some tracks leadin' away from the site. Some big cat must've had 'em for a midnight snack. Had to ride all the way back home in my sock feet."

Nothing more was said about the boots. Gene had his answer, and Roy was obviously a little embarrased by the whole thing.

Later that evening, after the beans and corn fritters were polished off and the stars were beginning to twinkle in the deep night sky, the boys were startled by a cougar's scream somewhere in the distant yonder. When the horses and the hairs on the backs of their necks finally settled down, Gene drawled, "Pardon me, Roy... is that the cat that chewed your new shoes?"

Coolness

2009-04-20T11:53:00.002-05:00

I am a cool mom. Not just because I baked The Little One a birthday cake fashioned after one of the Jonas Brothers' guitars. Not just because I download tunes to the Not-So-Little-One's mp3 player once a month. And not just because I do a mean hoe-down in the kitchen.

This is why I am quite possibly the coolest mom on the planet:

I am the coolest because I not only agreed to having this in my home, but I also handle it daily.

And when it recently showed no interested in it's meal, I split open the brain of the thawed pinkie mouse and smeared brain matter and blood all over it's naked little body in hopes of making it more appetizing. That has GOT to make me the coolest mom ever.

And then there is the house gecko that one of the neighborhood boys caught and offered The Little One as a gift. I have learned to squelch my utter terror of bugs and help feed it crickets. We buy a dozen crickets at a time, and we actually house and feed the victims until their time has come.

We laid two green iguanas to rest several months ago. They didn't fare too well in captivity. But while they were living, I prepared a lizard salad every morning for their dining pleasure. And I wrestled them while the girls tried to put leashes on them.

When the Not-So-Little-One rescues baby birds from the yard, I resist the urge to remind her that we have yet to successfully keep one of these little dudes alive. Instead, I help her arrange a heating pad beneath a cardboard box and try to hand feed them.

The Not-O-Little-One brought home a caterpillar several years ago. I got online and researched methods of housing them. We nonchalantly plucked leaves off of a neighbor's mulberry tree and kept a moist cotton ball in the jar for water. I'll be hornswaggled if the darn thing didn't metamorphose and emerge as a little white moth. I dried her tears as she reluctantly released it.

Some kids may rate a mom's coolness factor according to her choice of music or the style of her clothes. Some may base that rating upon whether or not she turns a deaf ear to the conversations they are having with their friends in the backseat on the car.

My daughters might tell you that I listen to some weird music and that I have a style of my own. They will definitely tell you that if I hear something hurtful or disrespectful, I will verbalize my opinions about it. Hopefully they will also tell you that I encourage them to enjoy the entire animal kingdom, and that I make an effort to enjoy it along with them.

One Down, One to Go

2009-04-06T13:27:00.001-05:00

My girls competed with their dance team at a contest on Saturday. Their group performed in four numbers, and they joined the rest of the teams from their studio for a production number. Here are the results:

Tap, Jr Intermediate - "Little Less Conversation" - high silver achievement
Ballet, Jr Intermediate - "Blackbird" - gold achievement
Jazz, Jr Intermediate - "Ain't Nothing Wrong with That" - gold achievement
Lyrical, Jr Intermediate - "Gravity" - gold achievement
Combined group production number - "School of Rock" - high gold achievement

The judges then compared points and ranked the teams according to their score and category. In the Jr Intermediate Large Group category, their team took 2nd, 4th, and 5th place overall. This was very exciting!

All but one of the girls on the team were competing for the first time, so the results exceeded everyone's expectations. They compete again in Oklahoma City at the beginning of May, and they have high hopes for a good showing.

In an age when kids seem to lose interest in things quickly and bounce from activity to activity, we can't get over the fact that these two girls are in their 8th year of dance at the same studio. After every year-end recital I ask, "Are you sure you want to do this again next year?" And each time they respond with a resounding, "Yes!"

Be careful when you tell your kids to get involved and do their best. They might just do it.

November 6, 1999 to March 24, 2009

2009-03-24T12:05:00.003-05:00

Mushi is a Japanese Chin. He has been part of the family for 9 years. He has brought us joy and comfort and peace and belly laughs. And today his life has come to an end.

About 4 years ago the veterinarian informed me that Mushi had a heart murmur. Turns out this is typical of the breed. Japanese Chins are not the most energetic breed of dog, considering themselves too princely to run about and chase things, and his laid-back nature may have actually given him more years with this bad heart than another breed of dog. For that I am thankful.

We began to notice a severe increase in his coughing and wheezing this past weekend. A trip to the vet's office this morning confirmed my fears - Mushi is in full-blown congestive heart failure. His heart is horribly enlarged and pressing against his trachea, hence the breathing problems. His pulse is dangerously low. Medication might relieve symptoms, but he still would only have a few months to live.

A frank discussion with the doctor led to a decision I was dreading yet prepared to make. This afternoon we will take him to be euthanized. They say it is a "humane" decision. To me that translates to "humans wield power over the rest of the animal kingdom," and I do not take this power lightly.

I also refuse to watch him suffer any longer than necessary.

We knew this day would come, and I prepared the girls for the possibility that the doctor would make such a recommendation. I will pick them up early from school so that they can spend some time with him and say their "goodbyes." I will allow them to witness the procedure if they so choose.

I have never sheltered my children from illness or death. I have gently and compassionately taught them that this is part of being a living creature. I have taught them the value in caring for the sick and in releasing our deceased to the Lord. I may do many things incorrectly as a parent, but I believe in this matter I have done well.

And I have never hidden my emotions regarding these things from my children. They are perhaps the only humans that routinely get past the "walls" I surround myself with. I wish for them to witness feelings being expressed in a healthy manner. I believe I have done well in this matter, as well.

So today we will pet him and we will love him and we will thank him for being such a gift to us. We will weep. We will graciously request that those who do not comprehend our sadness keep their remarks to themselves. We will release Mushi to wherever or whomever little doggie souls go. And we will remember him always.

2009-03-17T17:25:00.001-05:00

Been hearing a lot about "bucket lists" lately. As my friends and I get older, mortality starts to become a little more real to us. Don't get me wrong - I plan to be around for a long, long time. But one never knows.

I've thought about it all day, and I've decided that my bucket must be kinda small. I've had a pretty good life, and I've certainly had my share of excitement. And if I stick to things that are within the realm of possibility, the list isn't all that long.

Here they are, in no particular order:

I'd like to see Mount Rushmore.
I'd like to drink wine beside the Mediterranean.
I'd like to meet Matt Lauer. And graciously turn down the marriage proposal that is sure to follow.
I'd like to get back down to a size 4.
I'd like to go to the San Diego Zoo.
I'd like to drive a race car.
I'd like to have some of my poetry published.
I'd like to go sailing.
I'd like to watch the Cubs play at Wrigley Field.
I'd like to own a Pinto. Horse, that is. Not a bean.
I'd like to earn a PhD.
I'd like to sing torch ballads on stage accompanied by an orchestra.

That's all I could think of. Well, I'd also like to have "the girls" returned to their original location. But other than that, I'm good.

Tour de Cafe'

2009-03-11T13:34:00.002-05:00

Last night I attended an event hosted by Catholic Charities to celebrate the migrants that enrich our communities. There were tasty treats and beverages from around the world. There were items for sale that were handcrafted by refugees that have come through our doors. And there was entertainment. That was my favorite part.

Somehow I managed to find myself mostly responsible for locating and inviting local entertainers to perform at this Tour de Cafe'. Because of the nature of the event, we were looking for internationally-inspired entertainment. It turned out to be more difficult that I imagined. Most of the groups I approached wanted to be paid (the nerve of those people!), and we are a nonprofit agency. Those that were willing to donate their time weren't available during the week.

I needed to schedule six groups. As of the middle of last week, I had one! I decided to give it up to God. I made more calls, sent more emails, and prayed more prayers. God did what He always does - He came through. On Friday the calls started coming in. The "play list" included world drummers and dancers from Japan, Nepal, Burma, and Mexico.

I now had the folks I needed, but they all wanted to come at the same time. Figures. I did my best to schedule them when I needed them, and stepped out in faith once again that it would work out. And... it did. Some showed up way too early, others got stuck in traffic, the two precious dancers from Nepal were asked to do an encore, and a surprise guest singer (famous in his native country) even took the stage. We filled in the gaps with my Rhythm of the River CD, and one of our employees impressed the crowd with his guitar skills.

We had the perfunctory glitches, mostly with sound. I'm a singer. I know nothing about sound systems. I generally walk up to a mic that has already been set up for me. I tell the technician what I don't like, and s/he fixes it for me. I like it that way. I do not have to be an expert on everything.

Someone commented that I take this stuff seriously. Yes, I do. Did I experience stress related to the Tour? Absolutely. Was it distressing? No. Not all stress is distressing. I loved every minute of this. This is a world with which I am accustomed. I agreed to do it, and I meant for it to be successful, for the guests and for the performers. I believe it was.

Next year I'm going after the Middle Eastern dancers...

Romance

2009-03-09T17:25:00.005-05:00

While driving to work the other morning, I spied a sign for a shop in a strip center - it was called Romance. I quickly ascertained from the items in the display window that the shop sold lingerie and other adult-themed paraphernalia. I squelched my curiosity and continued on my way.

I got to thinking about how often I have heard the terms romance and sex used interchangeably lately. And they are not interchangeable at all in my mind. In a committed relationship, they are both good. But they are not at all the same.

Romance to me has nothing to do with lacy underthings or candles or magic potions. That's sex. Sex is physical. Any member of the animal kingdom can have sex.

Romance (in my humble opinion) is more cerebral. It's about what we perceive via the subtle messages in words and deeds. It is about how we think another feels about us. It is about what we think he or she is willing to do to show those feelings. It's the "falling" part of falling in love.

I love falling in love. I love that part of a relationship when the man is working at pleasing me. When he presents himself in a clean, sweet-smelling package and opens doors for me. When he is careful to say things that will make me smile instead of frown. When he seems excited to see me and interested in what I have to say.

I also love the reciprocal nature of romance. If a man is spoiling me, I want to spoil him back. It feels natural to do so. It feels wonderful. I wish it would last forever. But... it's not meant to last forever. Most of us could never live up to that level of expectation for the long haul.

It sure is nice while it lasts, though...

Reading

2009-02-18T16:18:00.005-06:00

Last weekend I did something I have never done. I finished a book in under 4 hours. While sitting at a wobbly table at the local skating rink while trying to block out Hannah Montana and The Jo Bros, no less.

I am the world's slowest reader. I love to read, but apparently am very easily distracted. A mountain of reading was assigned in graduate school, and I struggled daily to get through it all. I learned a few tricks, lost a lot of sleep, and persevered.

But last weekend I got Maya Angelou's Letter to My Daughter, and I couldn't put it down. She begins by writing, "I gave birth to one child, a son, but I have thousands of daughters. You are Black and White, Jewish and Muslim, Asian, Spanish speaking, Native Americans and Aleut. You are fat and thin and pretty and plain, gay and straight, educated and unlettered, and I am speaking to you all. Here is my offering to you."

The book is autobiographical in nature, filled with humor and pain in Angelou's personable tone. Like any good Southern Lady, she gently invites you in and welcomes you as if you are an old friend. And like any good Southern Lady, she tells just enough to make you feel connected and stops just short of making you squirm.

Her stories affirm that one's past does not have to dictate one's future. That vulgar treatment need not be answered with vulgar behavior. It gives me hope for myself, my loved ones, and my clients.

Hope was the theme for the weekend, for as soon as I bid Angelou adieu, I dove into The Brain that Changes Itself. Scientist, physician and rehabilitation expert Norman Doidge and his colleagues refute widely held beliefs that the brain is a machine in which different areas are assigned to specific functions and that damage to any of these areas results in permanent loss of those functions.

Through anecdotes and case studies, Dr Doidge demonstrates the neuroplasticity of the brain. By refusing to believe that individuals who have suffered catastrophic birth defects or injuries are doomed to remain "damaged," he and his colleagues set out to teach brains how to compensate for loss. The patients are diverse, and their recoveries are inspiring.

It will no doubt take me more than 4 hours to finish this book, as Dr Doidge is a wee bit more cautious about who he invites into his domain. But maybe if I am really quite and promise not to touch anything, he will allow me to peek in through the blinds and see what he is up to.

Humanity

2009-02-17T10:43:00.003-06:00

My father is in the hospital. He is elderly and frail, and the pneumonia is kicking his ass. He is also tough and ornery and very much alive. He is making peace with his Maker, though, and the rest is in God's hands.

My father provided my first glimpses into humanity. Most of the lessons were hard, and differ significantly in their delivery from what most would consider appropriate, but they stuck. Here are a few of the things I learned:

A person can do wholly terrible, unspeakable things to another person and yet not be wholly bad. They can make choices that can negatively impact another individual for life and yet still have many redeeming qualities.
A child will love her parent, no matter how badly he hurts her. And she does not have to understand it or apologize for it or feel guilty about it.
Causing someone harm, even repeated harm, does not necessarily mean that you do not love them. It might mean you do not know how to love them the way they need to be loved.
No man lives in a vacuum. A person's actions ALWAYS have in impact on others, oftentimes in ways he would never anticipate. And the impact often reaches beyond the initial point of contact.
An apology is neither an eraser nor a pain reliever. The past cannot be changed, and saying "I'm sorry" cannot mend a broken heart.
A boy will learn what he lives. Conversely, he will not learn something if it is never taught to him.
A human need not be treated humanely in order to learn to treat others so.
A person who feels out of control might try to regain control by controlling those around him. And the people he tries to control might choose to submit. For awhile.
With enough hard work, a person can rise above his circumstances. A person can change, but is more likely to do so when the costs begin to outweigh the benefits of his ways.
It is possible to forgive even the most heinous acts. And forgiveness does not have to resemble love or devotion or affection. It doesn't even have to resemble respect. It is what it is.
Forgetting is harder than forgiving. Since it is virtually impossible for most people to forget traumatic events, perhaps the forgetting need be more about our own anger and hatred than the event itself.
Forgiving and forgetting is for the victim, not for the perpetrator.

I was always a good student. My father expected that of me. I pray that I will make the most of these lessons.

Weirdness

2009-01-15T12:31:00.003-06:00

I used to be a real no-nonsense kinda girl. As a youth I attended a church that discouraged interest in anything paranormal - ghosts, post-Resurrection miracles, and astrology were all off-limits topics.

I wondered (but never out loud) why we bothered to pray for sick people when modern day miracles didn't exist. I was always confused with the whole "Holy Ghost" thing. If ghosts weren't real, how could there be a Holy Ghost? And I certainly didn't understand how reading my horoscope could make me vulnerable to evil spirits, especially since there weren't any spirits to begin with.

At university I took a handful of psychology courses from a highly-respected professor who worked diligently to drive it through our thick skulls that so-called paranormal phenomena were nothing more than timely coincidences. Science, research, and hard facts were the only thing that counted. If it couldn't be proven through scientific method, it never happened.

My mother believed in ghosts. She told some fabulous stories from her homeland. I thought she was superstitious and unenlightened. She, after all, had not attended an institute of higher learning.

And then... stuff started happening to me. Stuff that defied reason and rational thinking. Stuff that changed the way I view the world around me.

I bought a little house in Arlington. It wasn't grand, but the price was right and the seller was eager to close. It wasn't until after I had moved in that the neighbors informed me of the previous owner's death. They said his name was Scott. A few months later they added that he had died in his garage in his car with the engine running. Tragic.

At first I noticed that my things kept disappearing. Earrings, scarves, lipsticks would just vanish from my dresser and night stand. Then I started hearing noises. Doors opening and closing, footsteps on hard wood floors. Always when I was alone, of course. I told myself it was either the house settling or my imagination.

One evening I was in the kitchen cooking dinner when the electricity went out. The breaker box was right there in the kitchen, so I dragged a chair over, climbed into it, and opened the little door. Before I could flip the breaker, the power came back on. As I stepped off of the chair, the power went back out. Another reach for the breaker box door and the power came back on. This went on for several minutes.

I remembered a friend telling me once that it was helpful to talk to a bothersome ghost. I was getting pretty perturbed, so I gave it a try. I stood in the middle of the kitchen, feeling silly, and asked Scott to please stop messing with the electricity. I told him he was frightening me. The power came back on and stayed on.

Some time later I sold the house. The new owners were acquaintances and began moving in before I was completely out. When I went back for my very last boxes, the new lady of the house told of a few "strange" occurrences. I listened with interest but did not tell her about my experiences in the house. When I went to leave, my car keys were missing. They were not on the cocktail table where I had laid them. We searched the entire house. No keys. I managed to find a way home, with a promise from the new homeowners that they would keep looking for the keys.

The next evening they called to tell me they had found my keys, sitting on the seat of the motorcycle they had parked on the side of the house and chained to the fence. I had not been anywhere near the side yard or the motorcycle.

Some other inexplicable things have happened since then. I'm not as quick to dismiss them as coincidence as I once was.

I got a fun new book for Christmas titled Weird Texas. It's about odd places, unexplained phenomena, and (you guessed it) ghost stories from all over the state. I am enjoying it immensely. And I can enjoy it because my view of the world is no longer limited to what can be scientifically proven.

Vacation 2008

2009-01-09T11:32:00.008-06:00

This year's holiday break took us to South Padre Island, as far south as we could go and still be in our beloved Texas.

This is a terrific time of year to go down there - it's not cold, it's not crowded, and it's not expensive. What is there to do on the coast in the winter, you ask? Why, I'd be happy to tell you!

It's a long drive from FW to SPI, so we took a bit of a detour and spent the first night in Fredericksburg. We got a good look at the historic town dressed in holiday lights from a horse-drawn carriage. The outdoor ice rink was closed, for some reason. A successful search for jalapeno peanut butter and a German meal were worth the few extra miles.

It was a bit chilly the first two days on the island, so we visited the sea turtle rescue center, the Gladys Porter Zoo in Brownsville, and the Laguna Atascosa National Wildlife Refuge. Turns out that retirees are not the only "snowbirds" to be found in the Rio Grande Valley.

We took a 2-hour cruise in Laguna Madre on a very tidy pirate ship called the Black Dragon. I was a little embarrassed about the whole thing at first, but it was really fun! They keep the kids busy with water gun fights, limbo, treasure hunts, sword fighting, and other pirate-foolery. And we saw plenty of bottle-nose dolphins in the bay.

The rest of the time on the island was spent on the beach. The girls got in the water, but I chose to nap on the sand. Perfection - no crowds, no sunburns, and no mosquitos!

Oh, yeah... this goes without saying - we ate tons of sea food and shopped like tourists.

We were sad to leave, but reality was calling. A stop in Gruene on the way home gave us a chance to stretch our legs and dine at my favorite restaurant, the Gristmill. And then we pressed onward, looking forward to crashing in our own beds.

It is good to be home and back amongst friends. I returned nice and rested, ready to tackle the mountain of work that greeted me Monday morning.

Hope you and yours had a blessed holiday and that the coming year holds much promise.

The Best Christmas

2008-12-22T16:04:00.005-06:00

There was one distraught coworker in my office last Thursday morning. He told a distressing story. It went something like this:

Coworker: Remember that client I have been working with the last several months? The one we helped get a walker for her mother?

Me: Yes, I remember. What about her?

Coworker: Well, she had asked for help getting Christmas gifts for her little girls. She faxed over the form. I followed up. But somehow they didn't get adopted.

Me: You've checked with the donations coordinator?

Coworker: Yes. Sometimes some families don't get adopted. I guess this is one of those circumstances. I hate to think those kids won't get anything for Christmas because of some mistake I might have made. I was awake all night thinking about it.

Me: Bring me the forms.

Coworker: That's awfully nice of you, but...

Me: Please bring me the forms...

Some emails were sent out, explaining the situation and asking for help. I had faith that this would work out, even though it was very last minute and most people would have already spent their Christmas budgets. I figured if a few people did a little, the parents would have enough to put under the tree.

I did not send to my entire address book. There was no real rhyme or reason to my choices. It was as if God was guiding my hand as I clicked on select individuals, some with whom I have not spoken directly in quite some time.

The response was overwhelming. There were bags of toys, puzzles, books, clothes, and shoes for the children. There were gifts for the parents. There was even a huge turkey for Christmas dinner.

I sat in the floor and cried when I went through the loot, humbled by the realization that if my friends would do this for strangers, they would surely do this and more for my family if asked.

And here is the final proof that God had His hand in all of this - every single person from whom I received a donation thanked me for giving them the opportunity to help out. THEY thanked ME! Many went on to tell me that they had been praying for a way to share their good fortune this year and that they now felt as if Christmas was finally here.

I have the most amazing friends in the world. I defy anyone to say otherwise. And my God is an awesome God!

Happy birthday, Jesus! And thank You. You have given me the best Christmas gift ever!

Porky

2008-12-16T10:27:00.001-06:00

I dare you not to laugh...

Christmas Shoes

2008-12-15T11:58:00.003-06:00

Sorry I've been MIA the last couple of weeks. I've had nothing on my mind other than our annual Christmas program at church. This year the chancel choir, children's choir, and youth drama team joined forces to present The Christmas Shoes, a musical drama based on the #1 hit single by NewSong.

Putting together a program of this type, in a small church with limited resources, is no small undertaking. Aside from teaching and rehearsing both choirs, I rewrote parts of the script to suit the ages and genders of the actors, rewrote part of a song to make it more sing-able, and relied upon my Asian minimalist nature to create convincing sets from practically nothing.

And it was all good! The program exceeded my every expectation. First of all, everyone showed up on time! The children's choir sang sweetly and then managed to stay still and attentive for the remainder of the program. The acting was outstanding. And whoever that choir was that graced our chancel last night, I hope they come back every week.

Let me just say that I was impressed with how professionally every single person, from preschooler on up, behaved. There was this perfect blend of serious and silly throughout the entire process.

One of the couples in the chancel choir sang a duet - Mr Grinch. They got laughs in all the right spots and were altogether a big hit. It was as if the song was written just for them.

We played to a packed house and received a standing ovation. There were bows and grins and hugs all around. Our accompanist, Belinda, got the loudest applause, and it was richly deserved.

There were many shining moments, and I could write pages about them. But what I really feel compelled to mention is all the behind-the-scenes stuff. From the minute I decided to put this program together, I knew that it was going to happen. That's because I handed it over to Him.

Every time I had a specific need, someone stepped up and offered to help. It was such a joy to not have to worry about sound or lighting or who was going to keep an eye on the children. I even had plenty of help with tear down afterwards.

I'll cherish this program and hold it in my heart, because I am well aware that this was a rare and beautiful thing. And I believe it blessed the hearts of those who experienced it with me. I think I am finally ready for Christmas now.

Q

2008-12-01T16:00:00.004-06:00

If you've been around me the last several days, you may have noticed that I have not been myself. You might have wondered why I am quieter than usual, less jovial, a little aloof. There is a reason, and it is probably not at all what you may be thinking.

It's not PMS. It's not stress. It's not work or family or church or the economy or politics. No one has died... that I know of. I am not sick, unless you count sick with worry.

The reason is that my heart hurts. Please don't feel bad - you couldn't possibly have known because I wouldn't have allowed it. I tend to keep my pain private. Others don't always know what to do with it when you share it, and the last thing you want when you are hurting is more reasons to hurt.

Q, my eldest domestic short-haired feline, is missing. He got out on Thanksgiving day, and he hasn't returned. He is 15 years old, and he has resided with us his entire life. He has never been outside because he is terrified of outside. And for the last several days he has been alone and scared and cold and hungry and thirsty and OUTSIDE.

Q is just an ordinary cat, just like I am an ordinary woman. He's not breathtakingly handsome. He's not dazzlingly brilliant. He's not a death-defying acrobat. He's just a cat. A cat that sits on whichever part of you feels bad when you are sick. A cat that sleeps in the bends of your body at night, stealing all your body heat. A cat that has been known to fall asleep sitting on the arm of the sofa and then fall off. A cat that eats only cat food, if you can believe it.

He's a cat that tries to stow away in my suitcase when I travel and then cusses me out for several hours when I return. He's a cat that nags me to come to bed when he is ready to retire. He's also a cat that didn't leave my side for two weeks when I suffered a miscarriage. He's proof that ordinary can be special.

After searching the entire house, we spotted him in the side yard Thursday evening, and he deftly disappeared when we tried to scoop him up. We've done all of the usual things to try to get him home, and a few not so usual. Is it a sin to pray about a missing cat? Maybe. I think God will overlook my trivial nature this time.

I did not tell you about this before because every time I started to say, "My cat ran away," it sounded a bit like "the dog ate my homework" in my head. It seemed trite and dumb. And I didn't want to be laughed at. I still don't, although I wouldn't be at all surprised to hear you laughing at this very moment.

Just... be patient. I'll be fine. I'm always fine. And, please... if you can't say nothin' nice, don't say nothin' at all.

'Tis the Season

2008-11-25T10:33:00.003-06:00

The airwaves were all aflutter this morning over a local school district's decision to stop a middle school choir from performing a parody of The Twelve Days of Christmas. According to the news reports, some of the parents were uncomfortable about some of the lyrics, namely the parts about shooting the partridge and ringing the necks of the turtle doves.

Plenty of listeners chimed in, insinuating that these parents (and the school district) were uptight killjoys who are taking the matter way too seriously. Perhaps.

I happen to like parodies. I write them myself. My daughters have oftentimes awaken to the refrain of my very own Monday Mornin' Blues. Ask my coworkers sometime about The Spirituality in the Workplace Committee Blues. I laugh with gusto at the twisted lyrics of Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer. And I want Forest Lawn played at my funeral.

But... there is a big difference between singing off-color lyrics in the company of family and friends and presenting a musical composition to an audience in a community forum.

The holidays can be exhausting, distressing, downright depressing. A little levity can certainly go a long way toward relieving stress.

But... I'm not entirely sure listening to a bunch of 8th graders sing about killing defenseless animals with their bare hands is congruent with the whole "peace on earth" message of the season.

I think it is absolutely a-okay to joke about and laugh at and make light of, well, just about everything - parenting, relationships, the government, even religion.

But... I also think it is better sometimes to err on the side of caution, take the higher road, think before we speak, show a little class. After all, isn't that the sort of lesson we want our children to learn?

Center of My Universe

2008-11-19T16:10:00.004-06:00

You may have begun to wonder if my life revolves around my children. The resounding answer is "Yes!" and I am not ashamed of that. I wanted them, I will only have them for a season, and after that I will wonder where the time went and perhaps regret the things I didn't do with them and for them.

As for today, I am proud of the young women they are becoming. They were fitted for their first pairs of pointe shoes recently. This is a huge milestone in the life of a serious dancer. They have put them on every evening since the ballet mistress approved them, lovingly wrapping the satin ribbons up their calves and tucking the ends.

In anticipation of this event, their daddy converted a bedroom into a dance studio. On pads of high density foam floats a sturdy framework of 2x4's. Counter-sunk screws secure the most expensive sheets of finished plywood we could find. Several coats of polyurethane were applied to the floor, giving it a satiny finish.

The barres and mirror will be added when the bank account is replenished. We agreed on a solid mirror so that there are no seams to peer around - 6' x 8' ought to do it. I don't even want to think about what that will cost...

You know what? It doesn't matter. Every penny, every mile, every moment expended on this 8-year journey has been worth it. No matter what these girls end up choosing as a career, the benefits of dance will serve them. They don't watch a lot of television, they don't sit around playing video games. They know how to act in public. They understand hard work and commitment. They dance.

Something that will serve an even greater purpose in their lives is their love of God and their acceptance of Jesus as their Savior. My daughters made their confession of faith and were baptized in a service of immersion on November 9, 2008 at Trinity Christian Church in Fort Worth. This happens to be the same church in which their daddy received Jesus into his heart in 1991.

I can't describe the feelings I experienced as I watched them enter the water and emerge as new people. As a parent, you know that you have certain uncompromisable duties - food, shelter, safety, education. Some parents do better than others in providing these. But faith is often overlooked, even by professing Christians. If I do nothing more as a parent, I believe I will have given my children the greatest gift possible by modeling love and tolerance and servitude according to God's will.

I know that my work is not done. I still have to get them graduated and off to college. But the foundation for a meaningful life has been laid. And I thank the Lord for allowing me to have a part in the process.

A Diet That Works

2008-11-13T10:53:00.003-06:00

I am on a "C" Food Diet. "C" stands for "comfort." It works because the only expectation I have of this diet is that I will find solace in the tastes and sensations I love.

Here is a not-intended-to-be-comprehensive list of items on my diet:

chocolate
cheese
cookies
crackers
cake
caramel
chocolate
cream (Bavarian-, ice-, whipped-, sour-, -cheese, -gravy... it's all good)cherries
candy
cashews
chips
chocolate
chicken fried steak
chicken fried chicken
coffee
crab (and you thought everything on this list would be bad for you...)
chocolate

You get extra rewards if you are able to combine two "C" foods and enjoy them together, like cheese cake or chocolate cake. Triple points for chocolate covered cherries.

Feel free to make suggestions of your own.

I'm Up Because I Forgot to Set My Clocks Back...

2008-11-02T06:31:00.009-06:00

I never was too keen on dressing up animals. They don't seem to like it, and it's pretty silly. But there's nothing like having children to change your outlook on things. The Not-So-Little One dressed as a pirate this year, so her Shiba Inu, Maggie, was subjected to a little matching humiliation.

The Little One always chooses costumes that are creepy. (Last year I had to tell her to quit telling everyone she was Satan.) She was a vampire this year, complete with realistic-looking fake blood. She couldn't find a vampire costume small enough for her Japanese Chin, so Mushi was her little bat buddy.

We had a grand time at work this year for Halloween. Several people in the agency entered the costume contest. We had a picnic, too. Here are a few memories from the day:

We did not have a lot of trick-or-treaters this year. That made me kind of sad. I have very fond memories of panhandling my neighbors for candy. The world has changed, though, and parents are forced to be more protective of their children. Some folks these days shun Halloween, citing religious beliefs. To them I say, "bah humbug."

It was an exciting, albeit disappointing, weekend for college ball. My beloved alma mater lost to their rival Sam Houston State University by three lousy cotton-pickin' points. And the Texas/Texas Tech game about gave me a coronary. The Horns play Baylor, Kansas, and Texas A&M the next three weeks, though, so I think they will be able to redeem themselves.

Today is All Saints Sunday at our church. We will remember loved ones we've lost during the past year. I sing a lot of funerals (I consider it an honor to do so), and this year has been pretty busy.

Hope you've had a memorable weekend yourself, however you chose to spend it. Say a prayer for a loved one. And one for the Lumberjacks, while you are at it...

Homecoming 2008

2008-10-29T08:53:00.021-05:00

I watched the Lumberjacks get ax'd again on Saturday. They haven't had a terrible season, but they took a pretty humiating beating from Texas State. Not a cheerful way to celebrate Stephen F Austin's 85th birthday. It was a familiar scene, however, and evoked memories of homecoming games past.

(I recently replaced my stolen camera with a very nifty Canon Power Shot SX110. I took tons of photos and vids. I am trying to shake my moniker of The World's Worst Asian.)

The rest of homecoming weekend was dandy. We arrived early enough Friday to spend a boatload of money at the bookstores and to enjoy some darn fine Mexican cuisine. It was just cool enough that night to make us thankful for the heat radiating off the bonfire. It was pretty eerie to watch the students carry torches from blocks away, stepping to the rhythm of the marching band, and launch them onto the mountain of tinder.

Fire and smoke are mesmerizing, let me tell you.

This year's bonfire was a nicely organized event. The sound system was great, making it possible for us to hear the pep talk from the coaches and players. There was even a local cover band playing 80s tunes (the theme of the weekend). And there were fireworks.

Saturday morning we went to the historic downtown area to watch the parade. It seemed as if the whole town turned out to see the floats and the homecoming court. I smiled with private satisfaction at what I always knew to be true - while high school homecoming royalty may be selected primarily for looks, this is not necesarily the case in college. These individuals were pretty ordinary-looking folks, with long lists of accomplishments and affiliations.

We discovered Raisin' Cane, a really terrific little fast food establishment. They only serve chicken strips. They don't need to serve anything else, 'cuz I truly believe anything else would have paled in comparison. OMG, was that some good eatin'!

We got a huge run around trying to locate the tickets I purchased in advance. The alumni association told me to pick them up at will call. Will call told me to go wander around the big parking lot searching for the alumni association booth. The alumni association had left by the time I found their booth. Back to will call to state my case. Have I mentioned that nothing ever happens easily for me?

So, we missed the National Anthem, dang it, and the fight song. Grrr! The game was disappointing. But the Lumberjack Marching Band, AKA The Boldest Sound from the Oldest Town, did not disappoint. They were as solid as I remembered. And they appeared to be having just as much fun in the stands as we did all those years ago.

Homecoming is really for the alumni. If you haven't been back to your alma mater, go. This business about "never looking back" is nonsense. A good long gaze at your past is a strong reminder of how far you have come.

Holes

2008-10-20T08:54:00.002-05:00

I dug a hole.

I dug a hole to bury the cat.

I dug a hole to bury the cat that I didn't want in the first place. The cat that the Not-So-Little-One rescued from certain death to bobcats at my sister's ranch. The cat that bullied my other cats and destroyed my sofa and ate weird stuff - the exact weird stuff that ended his life.

I waged war against the rocky North Texas clay, armed with a long-handled shovel and an indomitable will. The ground was hard, but it was no match for my head. The shovel handle landed a blow to that head, and it left a bruise, but it did not win, either.

I dug a hole. It was barely wide enough and probably not as deep as it should have been.

But... I dug a hole. I dug a hole because a dead cat has to go somewhere, and it made more sense to send it's body back to Mother Earth than to throw it in the nearest culvert or in a dumpster. I dug a hole because I love my daughter. I dug a hole because it is what you do.

I dug the hole and I sweated and I cursed. I allowed myself the luxury of feeling angry over all of the losses in my life. I felt the emptiness in the holes those losses left behind. I lowered the walls and let the memories flood in, and I savored every bit of it, knowing that when the task was finished I would shut them out once again.

I said goodbye. To the cat. To my mother. To my lost babies. To my innocence. To my youth. To those I loved and to those that never loved me.

I filled up the hole. With every shovel load of dirt that I dropped unceremoniously into the hole, I felt the walls go back up. But I also felt some of the emptiness subside. I reminded myself that some of the love I lost has indeed been replaced. And I took pride in the fact that I was able to do this thing all by myself.

I filled up the hole and I tamped the soil down and I placed a rock the size of my head (one that I extracted from the ground with my bare hands) on the grave.

I sat next to the site and thanked God for strength and humbly asked if He would be so kind as to keep my bum shoulder from punishing me too much the next day.

He spared the shoulder. But the bruise on my head remains a reminder that these things are just what you do.

Funerals

2008-10-16T15:06:00.004-05:00

One of the privileges of being a church music director is getting to sing at funerals. Singing at funerals is quite different than singing at weddings. At weddings, most everyone is already happy, and it is fairly easy to please people that are giddy and full of hope.

Most people at funerals are not happy at all. They are there to say goodbye to someone that mattered to them, to find closure. Your job as a soloist is bigger than "singing pretty." You are there to comfort, ease pain, facilitate a transition. It is a big job. And not at all easy for empath.

So I consider it a privilege to be entrusted with this job. I am blessed to be able to do it several times a year. Today was one of those days. I pray that I was as much a blessing to them as they were to me.

***

Like I said, I go to a lot of funerals. Some are inside, some are outside. The outside ones are always an adventure.

One such adventure comes to mind. I arrived at the cemetery in the nick of time, having just driven through a torrential downpour. It was chilly and muddy and windy. As I was standing there, feeling the heels of my pumps sink into the soft earth, I noticed several little beetles scurrying around on the ground. One was heading in my direction, so I stepped off a little ways to my right to get out of its path. I secretly wished I were one of the family members seated on the outdoor carpet. There were no beetles over there that I could see.

I must inject here that I am a bug-a-phobe. Big time. It is irrational and real. Ask me sometime about the Concert in the Gardens...

Anyway, I was listening intently to the minister when all of the sudden I felt a tickle on the back on my right leg. When I reached around and placed my hand on my right "cheek", I felt a hard little lump moving under my pants. I bit my tongue to stifle the scream that was rising in my throat, jiggled the pant leg, and wiggled my booty a bit in hopes it would fall back down.

A few minutes later I felt a tickle below my right should blade. The little bugger was heading toward my neck - which meant it could potentially crawl into my hair. A horror scene flashed through my mind, complete with screaming and hopping and thrashing about. It wasn't pretty in my head, and it would have been even uglier in real life.

Now, I am the consummate Southern lady. To make a scene at a graveside service would be nothing short of scandalous. So... I grabbed hold of the thing through my suit jacket and pinched it as hard as I could. I felt it crunch, which made me want to puke. I must have killed it, because I didn't find it anywhere later on. Amazingly, no one around me had any clue that I averted a catastrophe.

It's the stuff of nightmares, I tell you.

What I Need When I Need It

2008-10-11T10:48:00.004-05:00

Yesterday morning I had a mammogram. There's something about exposing your parts to a stranger and then having them unceremoniously pulled, stretched, yanked, and flattened that leaves you feeling a little less than glamorous.

So I decided to treat myself to a little "me" time at a nearby Starbucks. I ordered a chai tea latte and a pastry and settled in next the window. I lost myself in the streaming sunlight and the book I had brought.

As I exited through the door, I noticed someone coming out behind me. I did what I always do - I held the door. The man following behind me stopped me and said, "I just have to tell you. You look good. I was looking. I couldn't keep my eyes off of you. You look really good." I sputtered something that I hope resembled, "thank you," and he went back inside the coffee shop.

He did not follow me to my car. He did not ask my name or my phone number. He did not ask for anything else, if you know what I mean. He simply spoke his thoughts and went back inside. I did not feel threatened. I felt.... revived!

In my youth, I may have been offended by this gesture. I have friends who still complain about the boldness of men. But at my age I have learned to savor every compliment. I am aging, I don't look the way I used to, and I will not always look this way.

I share this story not because I want to draw attention to my oh-so-obvious hotness (ha, ha). I share it because it validates a belief I have in my God. He gives me what I need at the moments I need it. The last couple weeks have left me feeling insignificant. Seems there is no shortage of folks who will happily remind you how little you are worth. I needed to believe that, at least for a little while, I stood out.

So I choose to extract the positive from this experience and ignore the negative. Whatever that man's true intentions, no harm was done. And a little good was injected right where it was needed most.

Cars

2008-09-29T10:53:00.003-05:00

I saw a lot of old cars this weekend. As a former owner of a 1958 Oldsmobile 88 and a 1965 silver Ford Thunderbird, I have a weakness for antique vehicles.

After I dropped the girls off for ballet on Friday afternoon, I met Mikel at the Burlington Northern offices in Fort Worth. A coworker had told him about a car show the employees were having there. There were some beauties, and some of them were in original condition. My favorite was the '40s vintage Morgan. British racing green with wooden running boards and leather strap over the bonnet.

I would have taken pictures, but my digital camera was stolen out of my car a couple of months ago. Along with the storage card full of dance recital pictures.

The girls danced with their company at the Azle Sting Fling Saturday afternoon. It was pretty hot, but not as terrible as it was last year. They were amazing. You'll just have to take my word for it. No pics.

We got some snow cones and let the girls sit in the truck to eat them while we strolled amongst the entries of the car show. I fell in love with the 1956 Inca Gold T-bird. The man and woman who owned it have been married longer than this car has been in existence. They were real enthusiasts, happy to tell the stories that accompanied their labor of love.

Did I mention my camera got stolen? Dang it.....

I miss my old T-bird. I have a two-year-old GMC Envoy now. I bought it new. It is already having problems. Just like the last General Motors car I owned. And the one before that. I guess it's true that they just don't make 'em like they used to.

Devalued

2008-09-25T09:09:00.003-05:00

I have very little respect for medical providers. I go to doctors, I pay my fees, I do what they tell me to do, but I do not respect them. I do not respect them because they clearly do not respect me.

About six weeks ago I went in for a routine eye exam. I was having no problems with my vision, it was just time to go. Everything went as expected, and I walked out with a new prescription for contact lenses.

Within a week I noticed that the left lens wasn't working for me, so I went back for a recheck. They sent me home with a different left lens. That one didn't work. Another recheck, another left lens. The optometrist commented that some people "my age" can't wear contact lenses anymore.

Right about that time I noticed that I had a growth, a bump, on my left eyelid. I also noticed that the vision in my left eye was significantly changed. I was experiencing double vision and it felt like I was looking through Vaseline. Even my glasses were not working for me anymore.

Back for another recheck. No one would listen to me. The assistant wouldn't let me tell her what I was experiencing. The optometrist fixated on the fact that the bump might be keeping the contact lens from seating properly. He completely disregarded the fact that I couldn't even see with my glasses. He refused to recheck my vision and told me to go to an ophthalmologist to have the growth removed. He refused to answer my inquiries, and he failed to give me any instructions.

I resorted to poking around on the internet to try to understand what was happening to my eye. Turns out I have something called a chalazion.

Two weeks passed before I could get into the specialist's office. Two weeks of not being able to read, two weeks of not being able to drive at night, two weeks of eye strain and headaches.

I went to my appointment yesterday. I sat in the waiting room for two hours. When I was finally taken back to the exam room, the assistant asked a few rapid-fire questions, said it didn't look too bad to her, and ran out of the room before I had a chance to ask any questions.

The second assistant asked what I had been doing to treat the problem. I told her I had been given no instructions. She frowned and informed me that I was supposed to be treating this and that removal was a last resort. She, too, ran out of the room before I could speak.

Thirty minutes later the ophthalmologist came in. He told me I had a chalazion (no s**t, Sherlock), that I needed to apply hot compresses 5 times a day and put this ointment in my eye every night. He said that if it wasn't gone in a month, he will lance it. He grunted something when I remarked that I could have taken care of this myself.

I forced him to confirm that the chalazion is the reason I couldn't see. He seemed mildly surprised that I had been given no information, and he was clearly annoyed that I had wasted his time. He showed absolutely no concern for the fact that I had waited for him for over two hours or that I had dealing with poor vision for a month. And he had no recommendations regarding how I was supposed to get around in the upcoming month.

Did I mention that every one of these visits cost me and my insurance company an exorbitant amount of money? The money is not the issue, however. I just wanted to shout, "Would you please just shut up and listen to me? If you would close your mouth, I will give you everything you need to make an informed diagnosis."

I'm pissed. I still can't see. I still have a headache. I still have to be driven after dark. I've wasted lots of money and time due to someone else's lack of communication skills. I feel devalued and disrespected. I can't wear eye makeup for yet another month. And... I have no idea how to evoke change in a system that is fatally flawed.

Fifteen Years

2008-09-18T14:01:00.004-05:00

Today is my 15th wedding anniversary. Sometimes it seems as if the time has flown by, and other times it feels as if I have been married forever.

What is the secret to our success, you may ask? Well, I don't know if "success" is the right word. Mikel and I are normal people, with normal concerns, normal disagreements, and normal desires. Neither of us is a villian, and neither of us is a martyr. We are just people.

We do the best we can with what we have to work with. With the tools life has handed us. And we pick up new tools along the way.

We've learned that not every thought that pops into one's head must necessarily be given a voice. In other words, we've learned when it is prudent to shut up.

We've learned that sometimes things sound good in theory but don't work out so well in real time. We go back to the proverbial drawing board again and again.

We are still learning when and how to express a need. And how to forgive - each other and ourselves.

Our greatest success seems to be reflected in the wonderful young women our daughters are becoming. And I hope that when they are grown and gone we have other things to be proud of, things that are not all about the children.

Thank you, Mikel, for fifteen years, two terrific children, and one fascinating journey.

I Would Tell Them

2008-09-16T15:56:00.002-05:00

My daughters are a little young yet for deep, life-changing conversations. They still listen to Radio Disney and play with WebKinz. And I am thankful for that.

Sometimes, though, I am overcome with an urgency to tell them things. Things that perhaps will protect them from the hurt of the world. Things that will keep them safe.

How much do you think kids really hear when we talk to them about strangers and danger? Some studies suggest that no matter how many times you have the "stranger danger" discussion, kids still go help people find lost puppies.

There are some things I would tell them, if I could.

I would tell them not to grow up too quickly. You will be a grown up before you know it. You will have responsibilities. You will have to work. And you will never get to be a kid again. It will be gone. Take your time, for Pete's sake.

I would tell them to think before they speak. Every thought that pops into your head does not necessarily need to be spoken. Ask yourself, "Is what I'm about to say helpful or hurtful?" If it will keep you from harm, then SHOUT it. If it will harm another, whisper it - to yourself.

I would tell them that most of the time it is better to be kind than to be right. Pointing out other people's errors does nothing but build walls between you. It embarrasses them and makes you look mean-spirited. Those walls are hard to bring down.

I would tell them to tell the truth. And I would tell them that there are lots of ways to tell the truth - rude ways, mean ways, cruel ways, tender ways, gentle ways, compassionate ways... I would beg them to practice the tender, gentle, compassionate ways.

I would tell them that when they take that huge leap into sexuality, that I hope it is totally consensual and that they have put some thought behind the decision. I hope that the object of their affection loves them and cherishes them and respects them and puts them first. I hope that they are treated like the princesses they are, that they are placed on pedestals.

I would tell them that women and men are vastly different creatures when it comes to relationships. I would remind them that women have a difficult time separating what they feel physically from what they feel emotionally. Not so with all men. It takes a special man to understand that.

I would tell them - I DO tell them - that no one has ever loved them the way that I love them. And I would tell them that if I could, I would wrap myself around them and form a force field between them and the world. I would.

Anyone Want a Nine-Year-Old?

2008-09-11T10:48:00.004-05:00

Mom: What do you want for breakfast?

Little One: Ice cream.

Mom: You can't have ice cream for breakfast.

Little One: Why not? You asked what I wanted. I answered. I want ice cream.

Mom (fingers making depressions in counter top): Well, you can't have ice cream for breakfast. There's very little nutrition in ice cream.

Little One: Then put it in one of those waffle cones.

***

Not-So-Little-One (feeding her new betta fish): Isn't he pretty? I named him Nick Jonas.

Mom: Yeah, he's pretty, I guess. For a fish. I'm not so sure Nick would want a fish named after him. He looks plenty healthy - swimming around and eating and stuff. I haven't seen him do a back flip yet, though...

Not-So-Little-One: We're working on that.

***

Not-So-Little-One: Thank you, Daddy, for working so hard so we can dance. We know it costs a lot of money. And thank you for driving us everywhere.

Dad: You're welcome. I know it's important to you.

Little One: And thank you both for... for... you know... so we could be born.

***

Not-So-Little-One: Look, Mommy! This woman on the front of this magazine looks just like you!

Mom: Oh, thank you honey, you're very sweet, but she is much prettier. She's famous and everything. She gets paid tons of money just for having her picture taken.

Not-So-Little-One: No, really, Mommy. She looks just like you.

(The cover model: Salma Hayek)

***

Note to self - increase Not-So-Little-One's allowance

New note to self - sell Little One to the highest bidder

Shameless Plug

2008-09-09T12:59:00.001-05:00

It's that dreaded time of year. The time when coworkers close their office doors when they see you coming. The time when parents remind their children how much they sacrifice for their happiness.

It's fundraising time.

First installment - I have an order form for ready-to-bake Otis Spunkmeyer cookies in my office. Several different flavors. $15 a box (makes 4 dozen cookies).

In all fairness to Otis, these are pretty tasty cookies. Come see me if you have a cookie fetish.

And if you're using that old "I'm on a diet" excuse, don't you worry. I have yet another child...

Did You Know?

2008-09-05T10:48:00.003-05:00

Did you know that if you fill every spare moment of every single day with some sort of important, meaningful activity, you can shut out the demons in your head? And that the more selfless the activity, the quieter the voices?

And did you know that if you move fast enough - car, boat, go kart, roller coaster, motorcycle, legs, mouth, hands, whatever - you can outrun memories?

And did you know that if you surround yourself with other people and keep them close to you, wearing them like some sort of talisman, you can avoid facing yourself and your own inadequacies and insecurity?

Well... you can. For a while.

Be still, and know that I am God..." (Psalm 46:10)

Things I Didn't Need to See

2008-09-04T08:52:00.003-05:00

Here are some things I did not need to see on my way to work today:

the sticker in the back glass of the monster pick up truck that reads slapaho
all of those other stickers in the back windows of all of those other trucks that depict Calvin peeing on something
the pack of boys walking beside the road holding on to their "parts" while their baggy shorts hung below their backsides
the boxer shorts being worn by that same pack of boys
the fourth grader wearing eye shadow and mascara
the middle-schooler with the cigarette hanging out of his mouth
the sixteen-year-olds in my neighborhood driving nicer cars than I own
the beer billboard that featured the headless upper torso of a young woman in a cut off t-shirt, allowing a peek at the underside of her breasts
the "gentlemen's" clubs billboards that suggest that men can have a better time gazing at strangers than spending time with their own partners
the huge, faded, rusty billboard on the side of the freeway with an arrow pointing the way to Plastic Surgery

These things can all be summed up in one word - tasteless.

Ask

2008-09-01T20:53:00.003-05:00

There is a God. And He is awesome. And He is merciful, even when we make stupid mistakes and forget to take care of the things He has placed in our charge.

This morning, at 5:00 am, I stood in the shower, breathing in blessed steam, stretching my neck, relaxing my shoulders, trying to overcome the tension that had already begun to build. In two hours I would be standing in front of hundreds of athletes, folks who take their passion seriously, to offer a sample of my own passion. I had promised to sing the National Anthem for the Fort Worth Runners Club Labor Day race.

Two days ago I lost my head. Forgot to take care of my instrument. Worse than that, I outright abused it, screaming my bloody head off on the Titan at Six Flags. I allowed my love of speed to overshadow my judgment. I knew I would be singing, and I chose to blow out my vocal chords anyway. Stupid.

I also knew I had a solo at church yesterday. Turned out okay because it was pitched below my break. As of last night, I had nothing above the break. On the way to the event, I was still struggling.

So, there I stood this morning at the start line, breathing deeply, worrying, chastising myself for my foolishness. And when I opened my mouth, there were no surprises. It was not a flawless performance, but I believe it blessed those who gathered.

And I never chalk these successful performances up to chance or luck. I know why I manage to pull them off. I know that He hears my prayers. I can no longer count the number of times I have bowed my head in prayer before a performance, asking my God to help me overcome some vocal problem so that the gift that I am about to present will be clear, pure, and a blessing to those who will hear it.

Because it is never about me. The gift is not for me. It is always for the audience. Once it leaves my body, I no longer own it. Maybe I never did to begin with. Few things are as unsettling as sitting through a poor performance. It is my responsibility to put the listener at ease. And it is never the listener's fault if I choose to abuse my instrument.

So I humble myself before Him, and I ask for help. He always comes through. I ask Him to get me through the performance, and that is precisely what He grants me. It is the same every time - I can barely sing a note right up to the moment, I manage a pretty good offering at the mic, and then I find I can't sing much of anything afterwards.

God is real. God is good.

One Love

2008-08-25T10:10:00.003-05:00

I dare you not to smile...

Rock and Roll Heart

2008-08-23T09:45:00.003-05:00

It's not a very sophisticated song, not one of Clapton's best, but I like it nonetheless. Sometimes I joke around and say that I have a rock and roll heart. It's only half-joke, though.

Sometimes I look around me and I think I can, fairly accurately, put folks into musical categories. Pop music - fashionable, trendy, fun, shallow. Country music - dusty, rode hard and put up wet, but clever and industrious. Rap - persecuted, angry, attention-seeking. Classical - uppity, pretentious, serious. Blues - lonely, betrayed, vengeful.

I'm overgeneralizing, sure. But I think you get my point.

I love all of these genres of music, but I've walked to a rock and roll beat most of my life. Speaking my mind. Expressing myself in unique ways. A little too loud and a little too colorful at times. Sometimes forgetting where I am and having to be reminded to tone it down a bit. A little rough around the edges, but doing my best to be honest and fair. Not taking life too seriously. Not worrying too much what others think and, more importantly, not expecting others to worry too much about what I think. Knowing, deep down, that my God loves me no matter what.

And I find myself in a phase of life in which I need to care what other people think. I am employed as a manager at a faith-based organization. I am a church choir director. I am a wife. I am a mother. Suddenly, my reputation matters. When did this happen? When did I go from young and free to mature and responsible?

Maybe maturing means that I can no longer have a rock and roll heart. Or maybe it means that I need to be more rounded in all the categories. Probably it means I need to open my eyes and ears and heart and pay closer attention to how I fit into the world around me.

Take Me Out to the Ballgame

2008-08-16T09:33:00.003-05:00

Last night a handful of folks from my church assembled for a FW Cats baseball game. We had really great seats, and the weather was just perfect. We ate Kincaid's hamburgers and made lots of noise.

Being pseudo-poor, we rarely end up in decent seats, and last night we were surrounded by season tickets holders and die hard fans. It was hilarious! See, I like the Cats. We've been going to games for years, but we don't know all the players' stats and all that. We want to see them win, but it's not like when the Rangers play the Yankees. We go to these games to have fun.

So this septuagenarian behind us yells at the umpire after a questionable call, "Why don't you clean off the plate?" To which the woman in front of us responds, "What for? He's not looking at it anyway!" I cracked up right out loud.

It went like that most of the game. I even got into it, booing when the ump called a strike that was clearly high and outside. Well, it was if you could see the plate - if it weren't for the players scooting the dirt off the center of the plate with their shoes, it would have been buried by the end of the game.

There were these two really young bat boys. They couldn't have been more than 5 years old. I called them the itty bitty bat boys. The bats were nearly as long as they were tall. Let me tell you, these little guys were serious about the game. We were close enough to the dugout to see them as they stood patiently on the steps, never taking their eyes off the game so they could do their jobs. And they did their jobs extremely well. I didn't know there was such a thing as a 5 year old boy that could pay attention that long. It was cool to see the players and officials treating them respectfully, too.

I'm trying to teach the girls to like baseball as much as I do. The Not-So-Little One watches the plays. She asks lots of good questions. She's trying to learn. The Little One, however, spent the first two innings pouting that she didn't want to be there. I gently explained that we parents do lots and lots of things to entertain our children that we don't enjoy (can anyone say Chuck E Cheese's?) and that this time it was our turn to have fun. She found a cricket hanging on the wire above us to watch and settled down. She even asked a few questions about the game.

I teased her a bit by telling her that next year we are buying season's tickets so we can go to all of the games. I don't have words to describe the look she gave me as she sarcastically asked if the game was over yet.

We're actually hoping the Little One will play ball one day. She has a terrific arm (dunked the kindergarten teacher that was mean to her older sister at the school carnival not once, not twice, but three times in a row when she was seven) and can outrun every boy in her class. Loves to run the bases after the Cats games, blowing by the boys as she leaves them in her dust, waist-long hair flying in the wind. She's a vision, I tell you. Maybe it would be more appealing to her if she could wear tights and a ballet bun while she played.

There was a fireworks show after the game. The lady behind me said, "Oooh, I like those squiggly ones. They look like sperm." She said again a few seconds later, so I am sure that is what I heard. You get to see a different side of your church family when you go out in public with them. And I love that the most.

Toilet Training

2008-08-15T13:55:00.003-05:00

If you happen to be eating while you read this, you may want come back later.

I'm getting on a soapbox, ladies. I say "ladies" because you are my target audience today.

Why, oh why, do some women insist on hovering over the toilet seat in public restrooms to urinate? The only thing they accomplish is getting their bodily fluids all over the seat. And apparently their bodily fluids are so distasteful to these same women that they cannot bring themselves to clean up their messes.

If you don't want to touch your urine, I certainly don't want to! And... if I wanted to tiptoe through puddles, I would use the men's room instead (sorry, guys).

Ladies and gentlemen, news flash - you cannot catch anything from a toilet seat! I looked it up. I consulted several different reliable sources. You are more likely to catch something from the sponge in your kitchen sink than from a hard, nonporous toilet seat.

If you are one of those total clean freaks, put some toilet paper on the seat before you sit and flush it when you are through.

And here's a question - how do you manage to hover over the seat, sprinkling your goods all over the place, without getting it on yourself? If it's not taking a direct route to the water below, it's running down your leg and into your socks. I'm just sayin'.

So... sit yo' shiny hiney down, for pete's sake!

More Birthday

2008-08-12T15:39:00.003-05:00

Some birthdays just drag on forever! We had the good fortune to attend my niece's wedding in Abilene this past weekend. She and Glen had a lovely ceremony that harmoniously blended Japanese culture with other Eastern traditions. It was intimate and serene.

We stayed at the Whining Bull Ranch and were awaken at dawn by the sweetest tortie-point Siamese cat I have ever met. Followed closely by "WAKE UP!" as only my nephew can deliver. My nephew is... dramatic. He has a flair. He will win an Oscar one day, I'm pretty certain.

We visited the Frontier Texas museum, too. It was a really nice new facility with a 360 degree theater. It was tough not to cry when the presentation turned to the slaughter of the buffalo herds and its effect on the Indian tribes.

The Woods gave me two terrific CDs for my birthday - Don't Mess with Texas Music, Volumes I and II. These are compilation CDs featuring (mostly) Texas artists. Proceeds benefit music education programs in Texas public schools.

Apparently, if a Texas public school program doesn't include jock straps, it doesn't merit much funding. So a bunch of interested parties (including the likes of Willie Nelson) have come together and started a foundation to address the lack of funding for music programs in this state.

And the CDs are terrific! Very diverse. It's not everyday that you get Clint Black and Beyonce' side by side on the same disc. I see from the website that there is a Latino compilation, too.

West Texas is crawling with critters, and the Little One got stung by a scorpion. She's fine, but it had to happen at 2:30 am, of course. It's hard to find a scorpion on a beige carpet through squinty eyes.

I think we're going back to the Whining Bull in a couple of weeks so the boys can pour a concrete slab. I will not be pouring concrete. No way. Maybe they will accidentally spill some of that concrete on a scorpion.

Control

2008-08-11T12:56:00.002-05:00

I have this theory. I think it holds water, but it is still just a theory. I theorize that all animals have the desire to control some things in their environment. And I think when they perceive that they are not in control of those things that are of importance to them, they experience distress.

Oh, sure, it's a little more complex than that. To have no desire whatsoever to control anything, i.e. to willingly concede all control to another, is unhealthy. And to desire control over everything is unhealthy. Not to mention unrealistic.

Some animals (this includes humans) are satisfied with just a little control, and some demand control of nearly everything they encounter. In some circumstances, the ones who are satisfied with a little control encounter the ones who like to control lots of things. They may be attracted to one another and live harmoniously. In their relationship, their needs are being met, and they feel balanced.

Balance is the key. Even in the most egalitarian relationships, power and control shifts from one side to the other. One partner may be terrific with money; therefore, the responsibility of paying the bills is handed over to that individual. Meanwhile, the other partner takes charge of event planning. The shift is acceptable as long as balance is achieved and negotiation takes place.

When balance is not achieved, one is likely to look elsewhere to find control and restore internal order. The boss yells at the man who goes home and criticizes his wife who then spanks the child who turns and kicks the dog who chases the cat who throws up on the new Oriental rug.

I propose that there are lots of ways people seek control, and not many of them are very functional in the long run. Substance abuse. Violence. Theft. Manipulation. Cruelty. Eating disorders. Dissociation. These seem to provide some immediate relief but can easily spiral, leaving the individual feeling even more helpless.

One problem with theories is that they don't always come with solutions. In other words, I don't have a cure for feeling out of control. I feel it often. But if it is true that the healing is in the telling, then maybe it is helpful to learn to recognize when control is taken from us and to verbalize a need to restore balance.

And... if anyone figures out how to do that, please let me in on your secret.

Thought I Knew

2008-08-04T17:00:00.000-05:00

I thought I knew a little something about immigrants and refugees. After all, I work in a building in which immigrants, refugees, and asylees seek help in beginning their new lives in the US. And I am the daughter of an immigrant who followed all the rules, waited the lengthy time frame, took an exam I'm not sure I could pass, and was granted US citizenship.

But I just returned from a migration conference. And I heard stories. People who have arrived in the US from every corner of the world told their stories about fear and abuse and suffering in refugee camps. And they told their stories about fear and abuse and suffering once they arrived here.

I thought I knew. I knew nothing.

I thought I knew a little something about poverty. I was raised in an single income household of six. We subsisted on the salary of an alcoholic non-commissioned officer in the US Army. My mother could stretch a dollar, let me tell you. We went without a lot of the time.

But I have been sitting across the table and listening to the stories of clients who work two minimum wage jobs and still don't know how they will pay for their children's dental work. They worry about the children they leave at home alone while they work their night shifts, because child care is too expensive. These are not lazy bums. These are not broken homes. These are not people having tons of children and living on welfare. These are people like you and me who are doing the best they can to keep up with the rising cost of everyday living.

I thought I knew. I knew nothing.

I thought I knew a little something about abuse. Alcoholics don't make the best parents. And sometimes the violence they model gets replayed by others in the household. And... sometimes the victims get into relationships that mirror the abuse they experienced at home. I've had my nose broken twice. I've had a broken arm. I've had two concussions. I've been harmed in lots of other ways, too.

But I have been sitting across my office listening to clients recount the terror they have survived. I have listened to the stories of survivors of partner abuse, child abuse, sexual abuse, homelessness, refugee camps, human trafficking. I'm pretty sure I would have given up a long time ago if I were them.

I thought I knew. I knew nothing.

I thought I knew a little something about despair. I've crawled along the bottom of that abyss, the one in which your existence is of no importance. When you feel as if everything has been taken from you, and you have no say in the matter, it is easy to just give up. To wish for the darkness to swallow you whole and never return you to the light. And when the light makes itself plain before you, it is tempting to pull the covers over your head and resist it.

But I have looked into the vacant eyes of the child who is preparing to return home to the very mother who gave him his first snort of cocaine. I have looked down the barrel of the revolver the staff pulled out of the back pocket of a 12-year-old boy who has been living in the streets. And I have heard their stories of hopelessness.

I thought I knew. I knew nothing.

I thought I knew a little something about love. More precisely, I thought I knew what love isn't. When you grow up believing that you only exist for one purpose, and you learned that lesson from someone who is supposed to love you, and then you get a glimpse of what "normal" families look like, you form some ideas about love.

But I have listened to the rationale of parents who mistreat their children, all the while truly believing that what they are doing to their children is out of love for them. And here's the most incredible part - those children love their parents no matter how badly they are treated. They love them in the hopes that they'll eventually get it right and the pain will end. And everyone will love happily ever after. This is their story, and they believe it.

I thought I knew. I knew nothing.

But I have heard the stories. And I have listened with my heart. And I have read the meanings with my eyes. And I have felt the stirrings in my soul. Now I know a tiny bit more. And I will never be the same again.

Happy Birthday to Me

2008-08-04T13:01:00.002-05:00

At my age, birthdays are really no big deal. Really. Would just as soon forget I have them. My family and friends insist, however, on prolonging the torture of my aging by bringing it to my attention every year about this time.

I got some terrific stuff. A coffee maker from BB; a Jim Shores Tinkerbell from Denija; a DVD of my favorite movie, The Jerk; three cool CDs - Anita Baker, John Fogerty, and Daughtry; and a ton of fun cards, both paper and electronic. And thanks to the Not-So-Little One, the entire congregation serenaded me.

So, despite my distaste for birthdays (mine, that is), I thank all of you for making me feel like I matter. You are terrific.

Celtic Woman

2008-07-24T10:17:00.003-05:00

This is singing. It is this to which I aspire. It is this that I work toward every day. Sometimes I get close, usually I'm frustrated. I never give up, because the results are worth the effort.

I have raved about Celtic Woman in this forum before. I hope you will watch this. And I hope you will follow the links to some of their other videos. But more importantly, I hope you will set aside your notions about what "good music" is or is not, about what "cool" is or is not.

And... just listen. Close your eyes, breathe deeply, and allow yourself to feel this.

This a capella number is sheer bliss.

The one luscious chord at the end of this one is worth the anticipation.

Hair

2008-07-20T22:25:00.002-05:00

I am a slave to hair. There was this line from a movie in which a young Amish girl tells her "English" guest that a woman's hair is her crowning glory. I grabbed hold of that line and never let go.

I wear my hair long. Longer than the fashionistas say women my age should wear it. I don't listen to fashionistas. My hair falls between my shoulder blades, although I have worn it much longer, and I miss it. I do not color it. I keep it trimmed, or rather Stacey-the-Incredible keeps it trimmed.

On the days that I choose to sleep in a bit, I shampoo (twice), condition, mousse, blow dry with a diffuser, and wear it naturally curly. On the days that I feel industrious, however, there is much more work involved. Shampoo (twice), condition, blow it straight, section it off, spritz it, iron it straighter, and apply hair wax to fend off the humidity. Humidity is my enemy.

Then there's the hair on the rest of my body. Shaving, plucking, trimming... one simply cannot be too smooth. I heard Oprah say once that she believed the little hairs on her chin were spring-loaded - hiding beneath the skin's surface until some time during the day, when they burst forth in all their glory. And you never have a pair of tweezers handy at that time.

I have two daughters. They have hair, too, of course. As dancers, they must wear a variety of hairstyles for performances. They still need help with this. I happen to know how to fix hair. The Little One's hair falls to her fanny. That is a lot of hair to twist into a ballet bun.

The Not-So-Little One is hypersensitive (see previous post). Every morning she brandishes the hair brush and entreats me to brush her shoulder-length hair. I comply because it is just faster than fighting with her (can I hear an "amen" from all you parents out there?). It wasn't until her recent visit to the occupational therapist that I learned she has weakness in her hands. That would further explain why she prefers not to brush it herself. Every morning she cries real tears and shouts and stomps her feet as I tease out the tangles as gently as humanly possible.

Hair has an annoying habit of falling out. I lose a ton of hair with every shampooing and brushing. So do my girls. I constantly sweep long brown hair off the bathroom floor and do my best to keep it from clogging up the drains.

I have two dogs and four cats. You guessed it - more hair. The vacuum and swiffer stand at the ready. We all take part in the battle against pet hair. The losing battle.

You may ask why I allow myself to be controlled by something that could easily be overcome with a pair of scissors. The truth is that hair is a big part of our human identity. I know very few people who really don't give a rat's patootie what their hair looks like. Most of us care quite a bit.

Is this obsession with hair pathological? According to the DSM-IV, a condition is only considered a disorder if it causes distress. Okay, okay, I admit it - I do occasionally experience hair-induced distress. I guess I'm just not ready to let go. Excuse me while I take the dog to the groomer.

Overload

2008-07-16T16:27:00.004-05:00

I have this kid. I call her the Not-So-Little One. She is terrific - smart, funny, sensitive, caring, talented. She is terrific, that is, until she gets overwhelmed. In those moments when she is bombarded by the everyday stimuli that all of us allow to roll off our backs, the Not-So-Little One loses it.

I'm not talking about temper tantrums. I am not talking about behavior problems that can be resolved by time outs. I am talking about responses that are off the charts, out-of-this-world, inappropriately out of proportion to the situation. And they can happen quickly, with no warning. She can go from a lovable, affectionate, cooperative child to one who is screaming, kicking, and berating herself upon a moment's notice. Have you ever heard your elementary school aged child say she hates herself and that she wishes she were never born? It sucks.

My instincts told me when she was an infant that something was amiss. She would get hungry, but rather than eat she would cry for three hours, escalating the whole time, pushing me and her food source away. As a toddler we watched her hang onto the side of her high chair, screaming and begging to be fed - we could hardly get her in the chair quickly enough. Within seconds of putting food in her mouth, she was fine.

We had her blood sugar tested. Both of her grandmothers were diabetic. No blood sugar problem. We had sonograms taken of her abdomen. All normal.

Teachers began to wonder aloud if she was having petit mal seizures because she would "zone out" while performing a task at school. Tests revealed nothing abnormal.

There were other behaviors, too. Behaviors that just didn't seem to fit. Incongruence. Doctors told me I was overreacting. They told me it was a parenting problem. They blamed me. I blamed me, too.

After 11 years, we finally got a physician to refer us to an occupational therapist that specializes in children. We took the Not-So-Little One for assessment. The therapist did not tell me I was overreacting. She did not tell me it was a parenting problem. She listened. She validated both of us.

We are waiting for the official diagnosis, but it appears that my amazing kid has a sensory processing problem. In simple terms, her brain has trouble sorting out all of the sensations that she experiences. It's too much, overwhelming. She short-circuits, if you will.

I've been reading up. And my friends and colleagues have been tremendous help to me. They are a plethora of information and support. I am just so relieved to be heard! There is definitely healing in the telling of your story, let me tell you.

And... I am worried. And scared. And sad. And guilty. And angry.

I worry that I will not be helpful to my child as we attend to her therapy. I am scared that it will get worse, or that she will resent me. I am sad that she is not perfect (admit it, all you parents out there - we all want our children to be as close to perfect as possible). I feel guilty for all the times that I shouted at her or punished her for rotten behavior.

More than anything, though, I am angry. I am angry that I couldn't get anyone to listen to me. I'm angry that we wasted 11 years, spinning our wheels, when we could have been tackling the problem.

I am feeling overwhelmed as I face the future with her. I suppose you could say that I am experiencing a little sensory overload myself. Maybe I will talk to her about it and ask her what it feels like to her when this happens. Maybe I will just sit in the floor and cry.

Lookit!

2008-07-12T01:18:00.002-05:00

It's wonderful what you can find when you poke around a bit!

My Romance

2008-07-12T00:53:00.003-05:00

This is just a lovely little song, isn't it? And it equally lovely to hear Ella sing so sweetly.

Wish I could have found Ella footage rather than this slide show, but this will have to do. Enjoy!

Evolution

2008-07-09T07:29:00.004-05:00

A few years ago I decided to take the plunge. I applied for graduate school and, shockingly, I was accepted.

On the night of my first class, I met this woman. She was in her early 40s. She sat near the back of the class, avoiding eye contact and pretending to leaf through her textbook while listening to the other students chat. She had this deer-in-the-headlights expression of one who wasn't sure of what she had gotten herself into.

The professor asked everyone to introduce themselves and tell a little about what had brought them there. This new woman said that she was married, had a couple of young children, and had graduated with her bachelors degree 20 years prior. She wasn't the oldest in the class, but she had been out of school the longest. It was no wonder she was nervous.

I got to know this woman as we tackled class after class together. The field of psychology had changed quite a bit since she had last graduated, and the technology we were using didn't even exist when she was an undergraduate. But she seemed pretty good at rolling with it all. She was careful not to say too much, so as not to embarrass herself in front of the younger, savvier students.

I learned that this woman's husband wasn't all too keen on the idea of her going back to school. Something about the expense, the time commitment, all that. It was very important to her that she gain her husband's approval. Her grades were mostly exceptional. The one "B" she earned devastated her.

She told a classmate one day that she did all of her reading, writing, and studying after everyone had gone to bed at night so that she could remain engaged in the family activities. She had also given up her extracurricular activities, which clearly made her sad. She had to do this, she explained, because she was working a full time job and a part time job in order to keep school from affecting the family budget.

During the three years that it took me to finish the program, I watched this woman grow. She started to share her experiences of working with troubled teens at a local psychiatric hospital. She questioned and challenged - herself as well as instructors. She eventually shared some of her own past trauma in an effort to help future counselors understand what it is like to be the one being counseled.

A story circulated around the program that one night a new adjunct professor insulted her in front of the class. She responded with quiet dignity. He left the university shortly after the dean attended a class meeting to monitor him. From what I knew, she had never been the proactive type, but would rather have just "blown off" this sort of offense. He must have crossed a boundary with her.

The woman I met evolved from a shy, insecure follower to an outgoing, confident leader. She unobtrusively inched from the fringe to real camaraderie. Old-fashioned, conservative opinions were replaced with open-mindedness and acceptance of diversity. Fear of the unknown gave way to eager anticipation.

In some ways she is barely recognizable. But if you look deeply enough you can still see traces of her true core. Compassion, empathy, pain and recovery. Yeah, she's still there.

I did something I never considered possible. I... fell in love with this woman. I know her pretty well now, as well as anyone can know someone who continues to change. I am anxious to see what will become of her. Maybe what I should say is that I am anxious to see what will become of me. That woman is me. And I am proud to know her.

Catchin' Up

2008-07-03T20:00:00.003-05:00

I went to see Get Smart. I was a huge fan of the TV show, and I eagerly awaited the release of this movie. I was not disappointed. I have never paid much attention to movie critics, although I had heard that they didn't care for this one. Well, phooey on them. That's right, I said phooey. I loved it.

It was all there - the shtick, the slapstick, the well-known quotes, the shoe phone, the Sunbeam. Steve Carrell was a little less bumbling than Don Adams' character, but he still managed to charm the camera. And Anne Hathaway is just, well, HOT! I want to be her in my next life.

***

The girls have started horseback riding lessons. They are on break from dance this month, and God forbid they just sit back and relax, so they are learning how to groom, tack, and ride. I think they are having a good time. They haven't stopped grinning yet.

***

Here's a bit of irony - last Saturday while I conducted a stress management workshop, I managed to hurt my back. I was really stiff and sore for several days. That was stressful.

Today it is feeling better. Probably because I lifted boxes, crawled under furniture, and walked about 10 miles while I switched offices with my staff. More irony.

I had this huge space with a view, but I am hiring a new person, and BB's teeny office was too small to accommodate them both. I'm going to turn it into a Woman Cave.

I will miss the pigeon that has raised a brood on my window ledge. I got to witness her and her boyfriend making whoopee on said ledge a couple of weeks ago. She has since tidied up her nest and is sitting there again. I wonder how many eggs she'll lay this time.

***

Tomorrow is Independence Day. We will be spending the day with my North Texas family. It will be just hot enough to force me to squeeze into a swimsuit and jump in the pool. If I move fast enough, maybe no one will actually see me!

***

The Not-So-Little One offered to sing a solo on Sunday when she heard me lamenting that I didn't believe the children's choir would be ready to sing their special anthem. I was so happy to hear her say she wanted to sing for the congregation. And I was smart enough to pretend it was no big deal so she wouldn't rescind her offer.

***

Have a safe and happy holiday, my friends. If you are traveling, come home to those who love you. If you are staying close to home, remember that you are loved always.

I Love to Singa

2008-06-28T21:05:00.001-05:00

My most favoritist cartoon ever:

Lucky(?) Number Seven

2008-06-17T16:16:00.003-05:00

Last weekend marked seven years of dance for my daughters. They each performed in seven numbers. Seven dance numbers = seven costume changes and seven hair style changes. I look forward to the day they have mastered the ballet bun. We will celebrate with wine and roses perhaps... or at least Mom will!

We were at the recital hall for seven hours of dress rehearsals on Friday and seven hours of recitals on Saturday. The work that the dance moms put in on those days is usually lost on the girls. They don't always understand how much preparation, patience, and humor their mothers muster in order to assure that the dancers LIVE long enough to get on stage. More than one mother had to take a deep breath and walk out of the dressing room to avoid losing it with a prima dona daughter. What is it they say? Something about "payin' for your raisin'..."

I danced with the Little One to Momma Mia in the Mother/Daughter number. We had fun. And I was singled out as the one to watch for cues by the moms who were struggling with the steps. Cool!

Mikel and the Not-So-Little-One danced to a Hello, Dolly! medley. He looked handsome in his tails, she looked beautiful in her red velvet gown. He carried a cane and she a parasol. Very elegant. I don't believe I saw one mistake by either of them.

This summer the girls are taking technique and attending a Gregg Russell workshop. They are enrolled in six classes each for the fall. And, thanks to a friend's daughter, they now have it in their heads that they need to take horseback riding lessons. I wonder how they are going to pay for it all! ha, ha

Looks like a real vacation is out this summer. Between business trips, dance classes, church camp, and workshops there just isn't much time left. Too bad we don't have a holodeck like in Star Trek, The Next Generation.

Sad News

2008-06-14T08:53:00.003-05:00

Tim Russert

May 7, 1950 to June 13, 2008

I learned this morning that NBC News' Washington Bureau Chief and moderator of Meet the Press died yesterday. I know practically nothing about politics. What little I do know can be attributed to Russert's appearances on the Today Show and my occasional viewings of Meet the Press.

Working and advocating for the underprivileged has taught me that value of paying attention to the political process. The irony in that is that most folks who work in the trenches with the poor and vulnerable have little interest in what the cronies on the hill are up to. Russert had a way of keeping it plain, and I was actually able to understand him. And if guests on his show resorted to circular rhetoric to avoid answering the tough questions, he held them to task.

He loved his father, even wrote a book about him. He loves his family. He loves his country. To know this much about love, to have to this much love to give, he surely felt loved himself.

Ethics

2008-06-12T14:33:00.003-05:00

I've had the privilege of working under a series of terrific bosses over the past 8 years. It seems funny to me that I've outlasted them all. Maybe I'm wearing them out! Nah, the first three were younger than I and restless in that way young professionals are sometimes.

My most recent boss was more "mature" than I. She was the most professional person I have ever worked with. I say "worked with" because even though she was my supervisor, she had a knack for making you feel as if you were an integral part of the decision-making process. She not only asked for input - she also incorporated it into the work plan.

And she cared about us. When one of my peers (another of her subordinates) was visiting family in her home country on the African continent, we received word that civil unrest had erupted nearby. My boss was on the phone immediately trying to reach her, needing to know that she was safe. She defended us fiercely, and we returned the favor.

Impossible as it is to believe, even in social service agencies ethics can collide with policies and procedures. Most of us at this agency, regardless of our licensing, operate under a code of ethics. And most of these codes cite first and foremost that we are to "do no harm." We take this very seriously. It matters. It dictates our behaviors, resonates in our hearts. There is no acceptable outcome for violating this edict.

Such a conflict arose last week. I am not at liberty to publicly discuss the particulars, and I respect my agency too much to bash it. My boss was asked to do something that could potentially lead to harm. She was torn, and she tried desperately to reconcile the conflict. She failed. She is gone.

I told her that I was deeply saddened to see her leave. And I also told her that I have never been prouder to be associated with anyone. For the time being I await a new supervisor. I figure my run of good luck is probably played out. But I've got my rabbit's foot nearby just in case.

Trouble with Tribbles

2008-06-06T11:44:00.003-05:00

It was bound to happen eventually. I put it off as long as possible. I tried everything - dragging my feet, dressing her up in lace and ruffles, baby-talk, Radio Disney, putting my fingers in my ears and chanting, "la, la, la, la...." Too bad for me. The Not-So-Little-One has begun puberty.

She will kill me for sharing this, but a parent's job is to embarrass their children, and I happen to be a master at embarrassment. She will kill me for telling you that she now has hair (about 2 or 3) under her arms. She will kill me for announcing that she is officially not a little girl anymore. I think I can take her, though.

When I was junior high we had to dress out for PE. It was the 70s, and we wore these awful one-piece sleeveless uniforms that looked a lot like over sized onesies. My parents were very old-fashioned and in complete denial of my maturing body. I was not allowed to shave. I made a C in volleyball that year because I was too embarrassed to raise my arms, revealing the tribbles that resided there.

I vowed that I would never be that unreasonable. So when I noticed the peach fuzz under her arms, I promptly went out and purchased the Not-So-Little-One a razor of her very own. It sat on the counter for several days. I showed her how to hold it, emphasized the importance of water and shaving cream, demonstrated the correct stroking technique. She ignored the razor.

Until this morning when she called me from home to ask if she could shave. A report should be coming any minute.

Losing It

2008-06-03T23:42:00.000-05:00

Emotions - we have a ton of them. We have more emotions than we can even identify. We can call some of them by name, like anger and sadness and frustration and happiness. And a lot of times, when we run across one that is a little unfamiliar, we bend it to fit one of the names we know. Have you ever done that? Have you ever lashed out in a fit of anger when what you were really feeling was fear? I know I have.

Anger is the emotion we kiss on the mouth most often, yet it is the one we struggle to express appropriately. What we want to do, on a visceral level, is scream and throw things and break things and curse out loud. And when we are little kids, we get as close to this as we are capable. Until, that is, someone smarter (insert "older") tells us that this is not the right way to express anger. To me that translates to "just don't get angry."

Says who?! Okay, calling people names might not be advisable. Broken stuff might need to be replaced. Screaming might wake up your little brother. But I suspect the real reason we are taught to turn our back on anger is that the folks around us feel really uncomfortable and don't know how to react to us when we lose it. Anger offends the tender sensibilities of the genteel.

Even the experts can't agree on the costs vs the benefits of getting mad. Read several articles and half of them will tell you that stuffing anger will lead to emotional and physical distress. The other half will say that blowing your top could lead to, you got it, emotional and physical distress.

I've tried it both ways. I've kept things bottled up, and I've flipped the lid. Neither makes me feel much better. But... there is something awfully satisfying about letting loose a long string of words that would make your grandmother blush. I'm just sayin'.

Need for Speed

2008-06-02T17:34:00.003-05:00

Speedy update as I watch the clock for quitting time...

Went to see the new Indiana Jones movie last weekend. I love me some Indy, baby! He's still pretty dang hot, but I have to admit that he is slowing down a bit. His delivery of the famous one-liners was a bit stilted. And.... that darned Karen Allen showed back up in this one and stole him out from under me. He was supposed to be saving himself for me! Curses....

***

It's hot outside. Been spending way too much time perspiring lately. Water parks, pools, baseball games, directing choirs in long robes. Thank goodness the a/c has been fixed. And it works GOOD!

***

The mom of my daughter's friend was telling me this morning that her doctor wants her to lose 20 lbs. She was lamenting that she has been to the gym nearly every day and hasn't lost a single pound. As I watched her walk away, I realized that she is MUCH smaller than I. I wear a size 8 (can't believe I am actually making that admission) - she must wear a size 4. If she loses 20 lbs, she will be wearing a size 0. I must find out who her doctor is so that I can be sure to steer clear of him/her. Unbelievable. Excuse me while I go run 10 miles...

***

Got to ride go karts last night. I love go karts! As a matter of fact, I love anything that goes fast. Motorcycles, jet skis, boats, roller coasters, you name it. Mikel tells me that I have basically two speeds myself - "fast" and "asleep." Might be the reason I get so many speeding tickets.....

***

Gotta jet. More later.

Leading Ladies

2008-06-01T07:42:00.003-05:00

Recently I wrote a tribute to some special men. Today I will try to do justice to a few women who have had more than a little influence over who I am.

My mother met my father while he was stationed in Japan. She was already in the work force at a young age, having skipped a few grades due to her academic prowess. I do not know if it was love at first sight or even a great romance. I know that she wanted very much to come to the United States, however. She attained citizenship at her earliest opportunity.

She endured a cruel mother-in-law, hateful neighbors, and a controlling husband. I won't say that she never allowed her hurt to show, but I will say that she never gave up. And despite the hostility she met in the communities around her, she never stopped loving this country.

She, above all others, taught me to love Texas and to be proud of my rich heritage. She wasn't allowed to work outside the home, although she had tremendous talent and intellect. So she concentrated her skills on running a tight household. She could stretch my father's enlisted military paycheck every direction. She made unbelievable sacrifices - while she was hospitalized in Germany, and my father was drinking away every cent of his pay, she would hide the nonperishable parts of her meal and send them home to us so that we would have something to eat.

She taught me to think for myself and to find ways to be victorious in a male-dominated world. I took the lessons to heart.

***

My senior advanced English teacher, Debra Seigman, was one of those gifted educators that taught her students much more than the curriculum required. While we learning about Chaucer and Goethe, we were also learning to treat others with dignity and equality. We were learning not to judge others and not to accept everything we heard as gospel.

Mrs Seigman would tell stories of her childhood in Pennsylvania, one of several children born to physicians. We were teenagers, so of course we would yawn and roll our eyes and mouth to one another, "What has this got to do with Shakespeare?" And without knowing it, we were learning values.

Although I never made the outside world privy to the pain of my family life, I always suspected that Mrs Seigman intuitively knew I was drowning. She reached out to me in that sly way that wise women do. She made a few small concessions when I did poorly on an exam, having been up late the night before licking my wounds after a beating when I could have been studying.

The kindness did not end after graduation. She sent a wedding gift the summer I married my first husband. She sent adorable little crosses that she purchased on her travels overseas when my daughters were born. I receive a Christmas card rich with news of her family and her adventures every year.

I will tell her soon what she meant/means to me. I will not let that opportunity slip through my fingers.

***

After graduate school ended, I landed in the capable arms of Linda Eatenson, a counseling supervisor of immeasurable experience and wisdom. Once a week I would drop into the comfy chair in her office to discuss my clients. I always knew immediately by the look on her face when I had screwed up with a client, yet I never felt beat up. I absorbed every word like a sponge. She helped me recognize my own gifts and showed me how to use them to help my clients.

She always saved a few minutes at the end of supervision to ask about me. I welcomed the chance to vent. You see, Linda and I were peers before she became my counseling supervisor. Our offices were across the hall from each other, and we were both program coordinators. We sat together in meetings and cracked jokes. We talked about the environment and politics and religion. We didn't always agree, but we always respected. So it was natural for us to blur the lines a bit when we were together.

Linda has moved on from the agency in response to vast changes in policy and philosophy. She walked straight into another job that has been pursuing her for some time. She will flourish, of this I am sure. I will be okay, too, but there is a hole. We promised to stay in touch, but you know how that goes when folks have busy lives.

***

Teaching, nurturing, testing, persevering. Leading. Loving only as women can.

Keeping the Peace

2008-05-27T08:54:00.003-05:00

I've spent the majority of my life trying to make others happy. In essence, I was raised to believe that my desires and needs are less important than those of others. This philosophy served me pretty well throughout my childhood, keeping me on the agreeable side of teachers and parents. As a dating teen it betrayed me and landed me in a heap of trouble.

99% of the time, I really don't have a strong enough opinion to find myself at odds with my compadres. I'll eat anything, see any movie, shop anywhere, travel to any destination, listen to any radio station. And I'll even manage to enjoy myself while doing it. This is no sacrifice - it is simply not important enough to argue about this stuff.

There are times when I will sacrifice my feelings to honor another's. For example, I feel dreadful in a swimsuit. I hate the way I look and am pretty much convinced that everyone who lays eyes on me in that attire will run away, screaming something about their eyes. However, my girls are part fish, so several times each summer I don the cursed lycra and sit patiently poolside and pretend that I don't care how I look. In those moments they are more important than I, and it makes me happy to make them happy.

The problem with being so damn agreeable all of the time is that in those rare moments that you aren't, others react as if you have lost your ever-lovin' mind. Every once in a great while I have a need that is significant enough that I speak it out loud. When I do, it always seems to find itself at odds with someone else's need. And if it was important enough for me to speak it in the first place, it is important enough for me to stand up for it, defend it, insist that it be met.

Conflicts arise. Arguments ensue. Feelings get hurt. I end up apologizing, restoring the homeostasis, returning things to normal. Sadly, I'm not sure I've learned a darn thing from these experiences. But I remain hopeful.

Rebound

2008-05-24T00:03:00.003-05:00

2 years in high school as the backseat girlfriend (the one good enough for THAT but not good enough to take out in public)

+

11 years of marriage to a man who wanted me to change everything about the way I looked

+

9 months of playing punching bag to an ex-marine

=

1 lousy self-image

For three months after escaping the terror of The Monster, I dated an honest-to-God hottie. I met him in an unconventional way. I had just finished a training ride and headed over to the local Wal-Mart to pick up a few personal items. I decided to peruse the book section, although I had no money and didn't plan to buy anything. I had on holey jeans, a faded t-shirt, glasses, no makeup, and had a bad case of helmet hair. I was not putting my best self forward.

I noticed him out of the corner of my eye - tall, slender, clean cut, young, and flashing those crystal blue eyes that always slay me. I was embarrassed that I was so sloppy, but there was nothing to be done about it but exit the area quickly. Too late - he was coming right toward me.

He looked me right in the eye, smiled ever so slightly, and softly pardoned himself as he sidled by. I don't think I babbled, but I'm pretty sure I swooned. He looked like he could have just walked right off a television set. He was out of my league.

I checked my items, navigated the parking lot, and backed out of my space. I looked in the rear view mirror in time to see those blue eyes gazing at me over the steering wheel of the vehicle behind me. I considered myself lucky to get one more eyeful of this young man.

It didn't take me long to realize that his car was traveling precisely in the same direction as mine. I took a few random turns to test him, and lo and behold he was following me. It was broad daylight, and I am as curious as a cat, so I pulled into an empty parking lot and waited.

He sauntered up to the driver's door while I lowered my window a few inches. I asked if I could help him. He asked for my phone number. I'm not a complete fool, so I suggested he give me his instead. He complied, asked me to call sometime, and drove off.

I held on the number for a few days, not really intending to call. I just wanted to have it. Sort of a burden of proof that I was desirable, to one so desirable himself, even if only for a few moments. I surprised myself when I dialed the number. He surprised me even more by actually being the one to answer the call.

We embarked on a whirlwind romance of the most insensible kind. We behaved badly, you might say. It was sheer animal magnetism, nothing of any substance. We had nothing in common. He was the wrong kind of guy - too young, too immature, too unstable, too poor. And.. I was having the time of my life. Never before had anyone stopped me in front of mirrored tiles in a mall to say to my reflection, "Do you know who that is? That is one beautiful woman, that's who. And she is with me!"

I know, I know. This wasn't a real relationship. Not the kind that smart, self-sufficient, honorable women embrace. Yet it was exactly what I needed at that time. It didn't last. I didn't expect it to. It was sad when we parted. I'll never forget him. And I'll never underestimate the value of the rebound boyfriend. I only wish I had thought to thank him.

Bouncing

2008-05-23T09:39:00.006-05:00

Have you ever had so many things bouncing around in your head that you wanted to write about that you knew you couldn't fit them all in one post and didn't know where to start anyway so you just resigned yourself to blogging about nothing all that important?

Oh... uh... me, either.

Okay, CAN'T WAIT to see the new Indiana Jones movie. I'm all a-tingle just thinking about getting to see a shirtless Harrison Ford again. Oh, yeah, and all that action and special effects and stuff, too. Yeah, of course.

And... CAN'T WAIT to see the new Get Smart movie. I loved, loved, loved that show when I was young. It was virtually impossible to wallow in my teenage angst when watching Maxwell Smart talk into his shoe.

Hey, go over to Amanda's blog, This Is How It Goes, and read about her cruise. And check out how hot she looks in her Little Black Dress. Easy, boys. Gotta get me a dress like that.

After that, go to Looky, Daddy! and read his "Flick" post. And then get on your knees and genuflect and beg forgiveness for taking pleasure in another man's pain. I'll meet you at the altar.

Speaking of another man's pain, get BB to tell you about jalapenos and milk sometime...

I finally sent off all of the paperwork to apply for my temporary counseling license. Man, they must really need you to be absolutely sure you want to go through with this, because they make you jump through a lot of hoops to apply for these licenses. And pay a lot of fees.

Our air conditioning went out at the end of last summer. We toughed it out for the remaining weeks knowing that eventually we would get a break from the heat. And, we just didn't have the money. So we have scrimped and saved and paid off bills, and the repairman is coming tomorrow morning to put it a new unit, to the tune of $1700.

It will be worth it to sleep in a cool house again. I'm one of those weirdos that can't sleep without some type of cover, and I can't stand to have anything blowing across my body while I'm trying to sleep, so you can imagine how little rest I've gotten these last two weeks.

I'm conducting a stress management workshop at my boss' church in a few weeks. Quit laughing. I can say this with all honesty - it will be like no other stress management workshop anyone has ever attended. Including me.

My office is on the second floor, and I have plenty of windows that offer a lovely view of the parking lot. I also have a nesting pair of pidgeons on the ledge. The babies (what do you call baby pidgeons - pidglets?) are getting pretty sizable and nearly have all their feathers. Which is good, 'cuz naked baby birds are not attractive. They don't mind me checking on them one bit.

Hey, one of my favorite songs is on the radio - Rock Me, Amedeus!

My brain is on fire, so expect some rapid posting in the next few days.

Gonna Fly Now

2008-05-15T09:47:00.001-05:00

Must get one of these:

Or some of these:

I Am Texas

2008-05-13T12:51:00.005-05:00

I was not born in Texas, but I got here as soon as I could. And Texas courses through my veins.

I am Texas.

I am larger than life, and I am shamelessly proud. I believe I am chosen by God and that He put me here for a purpose. And I can be humble when that is what it takes to reach you.

I will welcome you with open arms and happily give all I have to offer. And when I believe you are good and settled in, I will no longer wait on you. I will encourage you to make yourself at home and help yourself.

I will proudly show off all of my attributes and graciously accept your compliments, for I know that they are hard-earned and well-deserved. And if you decide that you no longer appreciate me, I will sweetly show you the back door and the highway that will take you back to wherever you will be happy. For I sincerely believe that no one should remain where they are not happy.

I am vastly diverse. I have hills to raise you up and valleys to draw you closer to me. I have changing tides and flowing waters to take away your pain. I have close forest glades to embrace you and spaces so wide you can see forever. I am language and color and movement and sound and taste and beauty and touch and aroma. To love me is to accept me in my entirety, for to separate any of these from the others would mean the end of me.

I am ever changing. Most days I am warm and sunny, beaming at you until you return my smile. And without warning I may be a fierce storm, speaking my mind and clearing away all that distresses me. I will test you with fire and still you with numbing cold. I can be windy if I believe I am not being heard. When you grieve I will whisper softly in your ear. And if life knocks you down and drags you down the road, I will cleanse you with a gentle rain.

I will drench you in brilliant color at the kiss of dusk so that you will have beautiful dreams. And I will light your way through the darkness with a million stars. My devotion, like my sky, never ends.

I am Texas.

Quick Update

2008-05-12T14:35:00.003-05:00

I had a very nice Mother's Day weekend. The Not-So-Little One attended a social at school on Friday while Mikel went to Daddy/Daughter dance rehearsal* and the Little One played at a friend's house, so I had a few hours of peace and quiet (translates to "napping").

Early Saturday morning I awoke with a killer headache, and Mikel worked some overtime, so I medicated and caught a few more zzzz's. The Little One and I went to Mommy/Daughter dance rehearsal* and had a really fun time.

(*These dance rehearsals are for recital numbers that Dads and Moms can participate in with a daughter.)

Took in a Fort Worth Cats game Saturday evening. The weather was great, the crowd was enthusiastic, and the score keeper was busy. The Cats won, but the Canaries gave 'em a run for their money. We ate burgers and ice cream and had a grand time. The Not-So-Little One was in charge of reminding me not to yell because I had a singing engagement the next day. She was diligent.

I sang in both services at church and, if I do say so myself, it was quite satisfactory. Everything I built into the song - dynamics, color, texture, emotion, placement - happened as planned. I hope the congregations benefitted as much as I did.

After church I was treated to a fine meal at Outback. It was crowded! I dined sufficiently, which is much nicer than saying, "I got full as a tick."

After a little more napping, we all plopped down in the living room with popcorn and sodas and the 2003 remake of Music Man with Matthew Broderick. The girls were reluctant, but I told them no self-respecting dancer can go through life without seeing a few musicals. Besides, it was my day, and I love me some musicals.

Speaking of dancing - the girls are going to be quite busy next year. They have both been invited to dance with the Junior Competing Company next year. In order to participate in the company, they will take a summer class, participate in three workshops, and compete in three contests. They will take ballet, tap, jazz, and lyrical. And they have also been invited to enroll in a pre-pointe class.

Only dancers who have proven a level of competence in ballet are considered to dance en pointe. Most girls don't stick with ballet long enough to earn this consideration, and it is no small recognition. We are all thrilled. I will cry like a baby the first time I see them en pointe.

What all this means is that I will have to keep the second job to pay for the classes and the eight costumes each of them will need. But it is worth every cent to know that they are happy, poised, focused, skilled, confident, and purposefully occupied.