Change

November 15, 2016 By
The Capitol. taken from our countries botanical garden.

The Capitol, taken from the United States Botanical Garden.

I haven’t done any writing except for making lists for the last week. Even my journal has been untouched. No, I don’t have writer’s block. There have been many times over the past seven days that I have wanted to write, but then something would change. Between hours of feeling little to no anxiety, waves of grief, fear, and depression came crashing through. I could be smiling and happy one minute. Then boom! One of those waves would hit. Words that had been gathering in my head would disappear in a sea of despair. I know I wasn’t alone.

I’ve needed time to wrap my head around what I believed would happen when I went to bed at 11 PM, last Tuesday night … that Hillary would lose. I had gone to the polls on Tuesday morning like most everyone else, and imagined the celebrations that would be happening that evening. When the first rays of light came through my window on Wednesday morning, my stomach started churning like a cement mixer. I didn’t want to hear the news. I wanted to close my eyes and fall into a peaceful slumber that would last forever. But being one who faces what’s ahead, regardless of what it is, I got up and listened and watched. It hurt. On my way up the street as I walked my dogs, a neighbor in tears, asked, “What happened? It wasn’t supposed to turn out this way.” We hugged, feeling each other’s pain, then moved on into the day.

I’ve been watching what’s been happening on the news. As in the rest of the country, there have been incidences of hate in this city. And sometimes it’s felt like the end of the world has come. And in a way it has. At least the world as I knew it.

But it’s not the end. It’s about change and the beginning of something new. It happens every moment of every day, as time slips through our fingers and a new moment opens up. If it’s good change, we celebrate. If it’s bad change, we piss and moan, and stubbornly march ahead insisting that life will remain as it was or … what? Half of our population is grieving and are in deep pain. The others are happy and celebrating. Some of us ask what can be done to make it like it was before November 8th.

Change. We can’t stop it from happening. But even when it’s bad, I believe something good always happens as a result. Pain will still be evident and bad things will still happen. But change is what all of us had on our minds as we went to the polls on Tuesday. Whether it was equal pay for women, gun control, or simply wanting recognition that we exist. We all wanted change of some sort. And now we have it. Whether we like it or not.

I believe that the good part of this change is that we are being forced to wake up. There has been a smugness and entitlement afoot here in America especially among those of us who have enough to live comfortably. What doesn’t affect us is somebody else’s problem.  It has kept us from really dealing with issues that have needed to be addressed … education, equal opportunities in all phases of life, and a way to come together to work on how to bring our country and world to a better place and serve all of its people.

It’s easier said than done, and I admit I’ve been just as blind as everyone else. But this is an opportunity to really change things up. We can become aware of the people who stand next to us at the cash register or on line as we all wait to cast our votes. It’s time to share our thoughts without fear of being judged. It’s time to be kind to those who disagree with us and/or scare us. It’s time for us to listen.

It’s also time to allow ourselves to adapt to the changes ahead without being told we’re not moving fast enough or are pushing ahead too fast. We each have our own needs and ways of addressing what is ahead. I need to have time to contemplate what to do and how to approach what could be a more than a difficult time, without being told how to go about it.

I believe that what’s ahead is about being mindful of my own feelings and what I believe in. It’s about learning to be a good listener and being aware of what others need. It’s about staying awake and not making assumptions. It’s about reaching out to those who are suffering and needing help.

There are lots of things we can do. We can run for office, donate to a cause, sign petitions, join a group with similar issues, march in protests, or wear a safety pin. A friend of mine collects gently used used hats, scarves, gloves, and socks to hand out to the homeless in our town at this time of year.

But what we really must do is to stay awake, pay attention, make noise when it’s called for, and be kind. The rest is up to what each one of us is most comfortable doing.

I have seen two films this week that should not be missed and have helped me sort through my feelings and these dreadful times. The first is Moonlight. The other one is Arrival. I came home feeling as though both movies were made just for us, right now, at this time. Don’t miss them. I don’t want to tell you anything about them but they both lifted my spirits and gave me an idea of where I stand in the dilemma we all face.

Things will continue to change as they always do. None of us knows what will happen next. For me it’s about being as positive as I can and taking in the light shining through the cracks.

Filed Under: Change, Kindness, Mindfulness, Navigating Through Life

Why In The World??

February 23, 2016 By

 

DSC02421Over the past few weeks I’ve heard and participated in various conversations about the dilemma of asking for help. If we’re sick and need to take time off from work and are our only means of financial support what do we do? If we’re living from paycheck to paycheck and have been working for someone for years and still aren’t getting paid vacations, why can’t we broach the subject with our employer? If we live alone and can no longer climb a ladder to change a lightbulb, do we live in the dark?

Being needy is a very embarrassing place to be. It brings out our shame. We should be able to take care of ourselves, right?

When I was a child I learned not to ask for help. My father trusted no one and wouldn’t even loan a hammer out to a neighbor. I was supposed to figure out how to solve my own difficulties. If I couldn’t find my own way, I felt like a loser in my parent’s eyes. One of the biggest elephants in my room is asking for help as well as accepting it when it arrives.

I know I’m not alone. I watch friends struggle with the same problem, hoping they’ll show me a magical way to get help without feeling like a failure. But they are no better at it than I am. We all sit together and ask, why can’t we do this one simple thing?  Especially when the help is there to be given with such generosity.

I’ve often blamed it on being a woman because most of us have been caregivers to our kids, husbands, needy relatives, or aging parents. I thought men never struggled with that kind of thing. In the old traditional way of thinking, before feminism came along, men were the superheroes who could do everything. They went to work to put food on the table, pay for the kid’s new shoes and the root canal his spouse needed.

But have you ever wondered why men don’t ask for directions if they are lost? Why don’t most of them cry openly? Women do not own shame. It belongs to everyone. Men, Women, the  young,the old and even the dog who just peed on that fine oriental carpet in the living room.

But why? Why aren’t we enough? Why do some of us jump in to rescue others who need a hand, but refuse to admit that we could use a helping hand ourselves? Are we all in competition of some sort that says we have to be the very best at everything? Do we expect too much from ourselves? There are various explanations for this phenomena.  I’m interested in hearing:

What you’re thoughts are about asking for help and the shame that often ensues?

I will be sending out another newsletter next Tuesday, the first of March.  If you haven’t already signed up to have it delivered to your inbox, go to the top of this page, on the right hand side to sign up.  It’s free and I never share your personal information.

Filed Under: Fear, Guilt, Kindness, Mindfulness, The Process, wonderings Tagged With: , , , , ,

How To Be Sane In An Insane World

September 21, 2015 By
Virginia Creepeer

Virginia Creeper

“All through our gliding journey, on this day as on so many others, a little song runs through my mind. I say song because it passes musically, but it is really just words, a thought that is neither strange nor complex. In fact, how strange it would be not to think it — not to have such music inside one’s head and body, on such an afternoon. What does it mean, say the words, that the earth is so beautiful? And what shall I do about it? What is the gift I should bring to the world? What is the life I should live?
Mary Oliver (from “Flow,” Long Life)

While beautiful and amazingly wonderful things lie all around us, we often forget to notice them, finding ourselves angry, depressed, grieving, living in fear, and unable to make a difference in our horribly screwed up world.

How do we stay sane while thousands of human being are turned back as they seek refuge from war, death, and destruction in their home countries?

Why must we worry about school shootings, bomb threats, and other horrific events that have become a regular new kind of normal?

What can we do about the political voices spewing hatred, prejudice, and racial slurs over the airwaves?

There seems to be no end in sight of things to fear and worry about … the economy, global climate change, finding work, and keeping our families clothed and fed. But instead of making our lives miserable and filled with angst, we can become extra mindful, notice the good things, and spread the gift of positivity every where we go.

Notice the way the wind tosses the autumn leaves about. Hear them as they drop and hit the ground, sometimes silently, other times with a crunch.

Watch the birds gathering together in preparation for their long migration to warmer climes.

Say, Hello, to people you pass on the street. Give them the gift of your best smile. They may be angry, sad or depressed. But knowing that someone has seen them and recognized them as a fellow human being may help them find respite from their troubles, at least for a moment.

Point out the glorious rainbow arcing over the mountains to those who are complaining about the rain.

It doesn’t sound like much, and it may seem like a losing proposition to those who can only see the dark side of things. But being positive amidst the mess we find ourselves in, can make a difference, not only in our own behavior, but in those around us. Laughter is the best medicine and if we can find the humor in a situation and begin to giggle, we’ll often find others joining us, laughing so hard they can’t stand up straight.

We need to stop complaining and when the time comes, go out and vote for those who respect humanity and the struggles we all face. We’re too taken up by the loudest voices who bring us down, rarely noticing the good things happening behind the scenes. Change takes time. Begin to trust that amidst all of the chaos, noise, speed, and destruction we see around us, things can change for the better.

Every day watch the sun rise and be grateful for new beginnings. Hope and trust is present in every moment. Be there to experience it.

These are the things I practice to keep myself from giving up and expecting the worst.  What do you do to keep yourself happy and sane in this maddening world?

 

My first monthly newsletter will be sent out on October 1st. Do sign up and let me know what you think.

Filed Under: Change, Gratefulness, Kindness, Quotes, The Journey Tagged With: , , , , , , ,

Book Review: Blush, A Mennonite Girl Meets A Glittering World

October 29, 2013 By

IMG_0804While away in London, I read and reviewed Aimee Wise’s, Of Human Clay. Having set the tone with her “spiritual” memoir, I was eager to continue my reading adventure with another: Blush, A Mennonite Girl Meets A Glittering World, by friend, Shirley Hershey Showalter. Having two women I know publish memoirs simultaneously is thrilling. And both authors have helped me to understand my own need for spiritual comfort and have left me wanting to know more about how spirituality and religion becomes part of our lives and how it effects those around us.

Though each of these women has a different story, a different religion, and culture to deal with, the frustrations and tensions apparent in both stories, are similar. Regardless of what church, synagogue, or temple one worships in, our struggle to be faithful to our God, while being human beings with wants and needs that may fall beyond what we are permitted, are universal.

While Aimee’s book brought back twinges of my early anger with the Catholic Church, I was charmed and delighted with Shirley’s memories of growing up in a conservative, Mennonite farm community in Pennsylvania. Her wish “to be big,” not in the sense of being tall, “but big as in important, successful, influential,” went against all that her church and family represented.  To be Mennonite was to be plain and simple: in dress, speech and in all behaviors.  To be female and wear a prayer covering on one’s head was to stick out like a sore thumb … part of a religious subculture that a good part of the rest of the world doesn’t notice or choose to explore. In large societies like our own, we’re all too quick to point fingers at and make sometimes cruel jokes about those who are different from the rest of us. Whether it’s our skin color, religion, political affiliation, or sexual orientation, there is always something to gossip and make nasty judgements about.

Reading through Shirley’s memories of her first eighteen years of life, I was struck by how “BIG” she was even when she was small. She seems to have had an intuitive side that brought her through difficult moments in a family and church that she went along with and believed in, despite having her own dreams and aspirations for something more. And though following most of the rules, she never became the expected Mennonite wife, wearing a prayer covering, raising a handful of kids, and helping her husband by doing whatever is necessary to run a sometimes not so profitable farm.  Shirley seemed to know, if only on an unconscious level, that she would be more, while still respecting and hanging on to the structural ideals of her church and family. She has done more than succeed as a past president of Goshen College and her work with the Fetzer Institute.

From the beginning, Shirley, named by her mother after the famous child star, Shirley Temple, loved to be with her dad, riding along with him on the tractor and helping out in the other innumerable daily farm chores. Later when her brother and sisters came along, she loved being their teacher, showing them the ways of the natural world, the church, their family and even perhaps the glittering world beyond her parent’s farm. She “blushed” her way through awkward moments when she could barely contain her urges to go beyond what was expected of her. Her parents seemed to understand her concerns and differences with the Bishops of the Mennonite community, allowing her to think for herself while guiding her with gentle kindness.

Of the many heart-warming stories in this memoir, one of my my favorites is when her brother, Henry, gets a “new” second-hand bicycle. Envious of her brother’s good fortune and frustrated by her own old and worn out  bike, Shirley, tries to paint hers in an effort to make it look better using odd cans of paint stashed in the barn. She never asked permission to do so and makes a huge mess that most parents would have a huge fit about. When Shirley tells her dad, about her misadventure, adding that “I think you must love Henry more than me,” he  purchases the proper paints, takes her bike apart, and repaints it to make it look almost like new. Though her mother reminds her about “envy,” her father doesn’t lecture her on what she has done wrong. This special love and Mennonite kindness, prevails throughout the book, making me wish at times that I had grown up as a member of her family.

Filled with interesting tidbits about the history of the Mennonite church, family stories, along with recipes, footnotes and a glossary of terms I had little to no clue about, Shirley’s book took me on a journey through her early life and who and what has influenced her to become the woman she is today. She says it all best in the final pages of her book in, “Why I Am (Still!) a Mennonite.”

In the complicated world we live in, reading Blush, was for me a calming and refreshing visit to a simpler, less thorny way of living.

Filed Under: Book Reviews, Compassion, family, Growing Up, Kindness, love, Matters of the Spirit, Memoir, The Journey Tagged With:

Not The End Of The World

August 20, 2013 By

DSCF0267It’s been one of those times ( you know them, I’m sure) when the unexpected happens and you’re left in the dust as the world moves forward and you’re left wondering how you’ll ever get back on your feet.  Emails and blogs I’m subscribed to are piling up and it seems like the only thing to do is hit erase and pretend I never got them.  And my writing?  Forget about it.

Two weeks ago I was hit with a pinched nerve in my left shoulder area.  The pain was sharp and intense in my neck, and shoulder. It ran all the way down my arm into my elbow and hand. The first two days I was here alone. Walking the dogs, getting a meal prepared for myself and driving were a nightmare. I went back to see my chiropractor, whom I’d seen just hours before the pain hit.  She readjusted me but nothing changed. The following day I had a two hour massage with one of the best world’s best. It felt better for a few minutes but went right back to feeling horrible. The day after that, a Sunday, Bill was home again. He drove me to Med-Express, one of those places that is open all the time with doctors who are available to help those who are ailing.  The funny doctor there took x-rays, noted that it wasn’t my rotator-cuff, four or five other things, and said, “Yeah, It’s probably a pinched nerve.” He called me “Poor Miss Joan,” and told me I’m not getting any younger but added that I look terrific for my age. He sent me to the pharmacy for a muscle relaxant and prednisone in a pack that you take for six days. Each day you take one less until they are gone.

Nothing much changed.  My stomach became a mess. I was bloated, had indigestion, and worse. I began to wonder if I had some fatal disease. I felt helpless and hopeless. I wanted to write but couldn’t bear the pain. I spent most days in bed. Moving around was just too painful.

I had silly, mini panic attacks. I worried the endometrial cancer I’ve been free of for three years was eating it’s way through my body, similar to the 17 year locusts that invaded the area this summer devouring oak leaves. They made love, laid eggs, and then died. Yikes! Being one with a wild imagination, I worried about what would happen if I did die. Would Bill feed the dogs on time and walk them as I always did the first thing each and every morning?  Would I be able to somehow finish the first draft of my book before I went, if I dictated it to a stenographer?  And would Bill know that I had taken several sweaters to the cleaners last week? And would he remember to pick them up?

If I wasn’t crying, I was trying to laugh.  Sort of.  Monday after seeing the doctor at Med-Express, I called to make an appointment with my own doctor.  She had a full schedule, couldn’t see me and was going out of town for the rest of the week. I made an appointment with her Nurse Practitioner for Wednesday. I called another doctor I’d seen over ten years ago for a rotator cuff problem and is considered the best in town.  He was booked ahead for months. But his associate could see me on the 28th of August.  I said, “No, if I wait tow weeks to see someone about this problem, I’ll probably be long gone to another world. “

On Wednesday with the pain worsening, I saw Nurse Practitioner, Alycia.  She is lovely and young. I felt like an old, worn out hag, getting ready to sit in my rocking chair for the next ten years, drooling and staring into space.   She told me the stomach problems were caused by the prednisone, that it is very unlikely that the cancer had spread to my shoulder, and no, I wasn’t dying.  She also told me that I had so much inflammation in my shoulder and arm that I needed to go back on the prednisone once I’d finished the pack I already had.  She also gave me a prescription for a stomach soother, told me to enhance the Prednisone with Naproxen, rest, and don’t do anything that hurts.

Well then, what could I do? Every time I moved it hurt. I’ve found that most things require arm motion of some kind.I decided I’d finish the two books I was in the middle of reading, watch something stupid on television, and take advantage of the time by having long afternoon naps. After a while the last two activities got boring.  I wanted to write, go for a walk, and stop hurting.

Very slowly, the pain is moving on.  Today I worked on the computer without my hand getting numb.  My shoulder and neck are still a bit tight, but hopefully that’s coming to an end. Yesterday, I baked banana bread and puttered around with laundry and all the stuff that sits undone as I spend my days not doing much.

Today, I’m reading the blogs I subscribe to, and emails, too. I still can’t go to Pilates, Yoga, run around the block, walk the dogs because they pull, or work in the garden.  But it’s coming. This whole little side-tracking adventure has given me something to cry, giggle and write about. I’ll start work again on my book tomorrow, if I haven’t burned out my arm and fingers writing this little jingle. And I’ll continue feeling grateful that my problems are no worse than they are.

As I send out love, healing light and prayers for my pain to go away, I also send them to all sentient beings every where. And especially to a friend who recently found out she has a brain tumor.

May you be well. May you be happy. May you live in peace.

Filed Under: Compassion, Fear, Healing, Health and Wellnes, Kindness, Navigating Through Life, Time Tagged With: , , , , ,
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