Water.....

Anyone who's close to me, knows if I could pick just one heart’s desire of the materialistic sort, it would be to live on the beach.  I should clarify that proclamation or the law of attraction might have me living “on the sand” along with my knapsack of possessions:  a beach bum in every definition of the word.  That’s not exactly what I have in mind.  A little two room cottage will do. Now that’s my idea of residential heaven on earth. From the time I was a young girl, I’ve run to the water; for answers, for healing, for balance, and most of all to connect with my Creator. On a smaller scale, nothing rejuvenates me after a bad day like a soaking tub bath.  Years ago, the hot tub did the trick. It lived in my backyard and was particularly enticing in the winter time. I have the fondest memories of being immersed up to my neck in the midst of the swirling white silence of a snowstorm. My hair, frozen hard with frost, and the rest of my body was enveloped in a blanket of warmth, caressed lovingly by the water.  In this setting there was this sense of profound peace as I silently stargazed.  The water slipped into the nooks and crannies smoothing out the wrinkles of the day.  Yet, water’s value is hardly just aesthetic. Water ensures our continued life.   We would only live a day or two, tops, without water. Our physical bodies are 2/3rd’s water.  We use water to cleanse ourselves and our environments of germs.  It doesn’t stop at our physical bodies either. Water is used in many religions as a symbolic sign of rebirth, purifying the spirit to make room for the holy.   Water itself is soft.... pliable, yet, generates great power in the science of hydraulics, bringing a natural form of energy into our world. To witness the effect of water’s subtle power, look at rocks eroded by a rhythmic, tiny droplet  continuously dripping onto a surface. Mountains are carved.  If water has that kind of authority in nature, in a human body, and cleansing the soul, why wouldn’t I be mystified by it and hungry for the lessons it could teach me?

It’s really more than the water itself. It’s what lies beneath as well. I became entranced with the sea as a teen. Living in Bermuda, the hypnotic pull of the beach sparked my interest in the nether world that lie below sky and earth.  I recall the first time I snorkeled.  I fell hard.  Hook, line and sinker- crazy mad in love.   Mask firmly in place, pressing into my forehead, tight around my nose and eyes, it all felt awkward at first... breathing through a tube.  Until, I stopped fighting what I was unaccustomed to, slowed the frantic flopping of my flippers and relaxed. I began to skim the surface of the water, breathing naturally, and drifted gracefully along,  awe struck by the delicate treasures hiding out from the harsher world above.  At first I felt like an intruder, illegally breaking into a beautiful gated community. The only noise I detected was the rhythmic breath of the sea, and the faintest of heartbeats. Time and space had no meaning; hours seemed like minutes and when I peeked up above the water I had drifted much farther away from the shore than was safe.  I had truly entered a new planet, a foreign land, far, far away. It was magical, like a first love, perfect in every way.   

This life below was full of color and movement. Undulating, gliding, and slipping by me.  The brilliant palette, enhanced by the deep blue of the sea, vibrated with energy, a gallery of uncommon Art in motion. Jellyfish sensually trailing their threads of pain. Starfish with their intricate underbellies, each swirl a one of a kind fingerprint. And, sea anemones, extra terrestrial flowers of sorts, bright, happy colors adorning the ocean floor.   Everything was gentle, unhurried and peaceful down there.  I felt serene, like  my life had been dialed back to the low setting.  The sea life kept drifting by my line of vision, impassively, as if they couldn’t see me, a ghost in the midst of all of this vibrancy.  The meaning in their movement challenged me to try to live my life closer to a state of mindful appreciation.  Slower, easier, gentler.. with flexibility.  The feeling of freedom was close to a near death experience.  Awe, well-being and weightlessness overwhelmed me as I moved towards the light of the sun reflecting deep into the blueness of water. 

This scrapbook of old memories about my deep love of the water and seashore, was revisited recently as I toured the phenomenal Monterey Aquarium in California. What happened to those big dreams of the thirteen year old girl, whose sights were set on a career in oceanography?   It set into motion a new resolve, a middle-aged dream.  So I pulled out the dream board, comitted to work harder, and began to share my secret yearning to live and write by the sea! I envisioned that little two room cottage behind me as I sat on the sand, pen in hand, writing the messages whispered to me through the waves; the sun and the sky touching in and inspiring my heart to really see and hear what longs to be described to those who struggle with an ability to really see.  

Yes, the water, above and below, is a fountain of life and wisdom.  Showing me how to slow down, appreciate what’s around me, and listen patiently for the heartbeat.  For it is there, I always find the answers I seek. Not far behind comes the knowledge that I too, a creation born on land, come from the same power as that droplet of water.  Because of that, anything is possible.    

For whatever we lose (like a you or a me), It's always our self we find in the sea. - e.e. cummings

(All photo's taken at the spectacular Monterey Aquarium- Monterey, California)

A journey is a person in itself; no two are alike. And, all plans, safeguards, policing, and coercion are fruitless. We find that after years of struggle that we did not take a trip; a trip took us. - John Steinbeck

Be Still and Know I am God......

I just returned from John Steinbeck country. This slice of the West Coast boasts some of the most scenic views in the world as well as rich farmlands bursting with fruits of the region. Fresh strawberries, lettuce, artichokes, avocados, and herbs are in abundance. The area oozes health of the physical, and spiritual variety. Temperatures are consistent year round, 65-75 degrees and the people seem to be grateful, simple, laid back, and friendly. Why wouldn’t they be? Essentially they are dwelling in Shangri-la.

Surreal views inviting us into another
world

Ice Plant - Don't let it fool you..
It grows despite the clay and rock and
takes over the cliff side.

Big Sur - Full Sun

Drives along the coast and Big Sur unveiled a painting:  layers of heather, azure, turquoise, and cerulean waters pulverizing into softness, smoky white sands.  In my travels, I have never seen sea water and terrain so diverse.  Venturing down the cliffs to the virgin beaches was a challenge, and commercially manufactured WARNING signs interrupted the sense of transcendence.  The cliffs too were a blanket of unlikely growth with hard, red clay surfaces unable to hold back the riot of dark green, aloe vera like plants known as Ice Plant, hot pink flowers sporadically peeking out from their tops.  Adding to the mystery and ethereal quality of it all, was a gossamer shroud of fog, like the sheerest of lingerie, sensually beckoning visitors to ignore the signs, throw caution to the wind and pursue her gifts.   Mesmerized by the seduction of the mermaids call, it was worth the risk to scale the cliff and drop into another world.  Charleton Heston when he lands on the beach in Planet of Apes came to mind.  This was an area where change could take place... if you let it.  The elusive feeling of oneness that we so desperately seek through literature, prayer, and human interaction just slipped in, with no effort on my part.  I became the sky, the sea, the land.  It took me. 

Sunset in another part of the world.

One evening, our fire logs, food, and blankets in tow, we trekked down to a more populated beach, Carmel by the Sea.  It was bonfire and cookout night!  Navigating the steep steps and climbing over mounds of rock to reach an alcove, my first thought was, “Good Lord, I hope we leave before dark.”  I knew we wouldn’t be because the sun was sliding slowly down the horizon when we arrived.  We started our fire, set up our grill and cooked our burgers.  By the time our bellies were full, the sun had been swallowed up by the sea, leaving our only remaining light to be a 2-3 foot perimeter around our tiny, blazing fire.   The air had taken on a nippy tone, and everyone gathered closer yet to the flames to stay warm.  And it got dark- pitch black. I looked for the moon.  It was nowhere to be seen.  There were a few other little campfires dotting the beach, and I could faintly see  black sillouhette’s outlined by the orange flames reassuring me that there was other civilization out there somewhere nearby.  The sound I heard off in the distance, reassuring me I was right where I needed to be, at the moment, was the intense crash of monster waves as they beat the sand into submission, the gritty granuales at the mercy of the whims of the water.  The cadence of the sound was like a repetitive mantra reassuring, in its sameness.  Hidden inside the noise of the water, a whisper, tickling my brain.  It said,  “I'm in charge. Enjoy this moment, for in this instant is all the wisdom you will ever need.” I felt every muscle in my body relax as I focused on nothing except the sticky sweetness of a melted marshmallow dissolving inside my mouth.  Time slowed and my mind felt like it had been shot full of Novocaine, all tingly, and devoid of man made emotion and thought. Just one sensation remained.  I didn’t think the word “awe”... I felt it with every cell in my body.  

The moon rose up through
the mist and clouds to
guide our way

Soon, the fire was just a few burning embers.  Our skin resembled the scales of a native Pacific salmon to the touch.  We had become truly one with the sea and it was time to slowly re-emerge into the reality, we weren’t of the sea, and we needed to get warm.  In that moment of recognition, the moon suddenly rose, our heavenly flashlight, illuminating our path.   Over the rocks, and up the side of the cliff.  It was as if God said, “See.  All you need to do is enjoy every moment of your life, second by second, with no thoughts for the future.  When its time to move forward, I will provide you with all the knowledge and light you need to get to your next destination.”  

A bonfire on the beach wasn’t in my plans particularly. I had no thoughts of indulging in its simplicity. I had a schedule of sights to see and things to do.   But, it was one of the best things about my trip.  We are constantly receiving gentle (and not so gentle reminders) we aren’t in charge of the Universe, and  the best laid plans, are no plans.  Go with the flow, and trust that the journey will take you where you need to be, to places purposeful and meaningful to your particular trip.   And the best laid lives are those  who allow their journey to take them.  The predictable, consistent, tides ebbed and flowed without my help.  The sun set beautifully over another day  and the moon rose just exactly when it needed to.   

Freedom and joy, pure joy....

Viva the end to struggle!

An Affair to Remember- Real Food

 I was born with a spoon in my mouth.  It wasn’t silver, but, that doesn’t matter, any old spoon will do.  I love food.  My affair with food began very early.  When I was four, we moved to Germany and a favorite family story, retold with a chuckle, was my bravery in indulging in steak tartare (raw beef) and escargot (snails).   Remember the Life cereal commercial with Mikey?  I was Mikey... I ate everything.  Maybe in a past life, I was a starving child.  I just know in this one, I love food.  My mantra was bring it on, I’ll try it.  Early experimentation must have honed sensitive taste buds that were head over heels in love with an epicurean lifestyle.  For me, eating was like a daily vacation into mine (or someone else's) kitchen paradise.   One of the highlights of my day was pondering what I was going to make, or, what I was going to have for dinner.  The blush of new love in my affair with food, surprisingly lasted well beyond the traditional honeymoon period: a good 40 years or so. 

Over the last decade our relationship, (mine and food) has changed.  I found myself eating alone more, and filling the void with fast fixes, serial eating whatever convenient quickie was available at the moment. The family size bag of chips on a Friday night was my tried and true companion, leaving me sprawled on the couch in a carb coma.  I noticed this was also about the same time the FDA began the mandatory labeling process.  It coincided with the low-fat/ fat-free craze.  I began to pore over labels as if smitten by the latest NY Times bestseller, mentally picturing those fat grams clinging to my thighs like frightened children.  The labels grew more explicit and I was now watching sodium, fiber content and doing an Internet search on the chemical make-up of all the ingredients listed.  There was some hesitancy when I saw words like phosphate, enzyme modified, conditioned, artificial and colored. A decade from now, would the same foods have a label plastered on the packaging warning against Red Dye #2 explaining my permanent sun-kissed skin pigmentation?  Some of my packaged meals professed a whopping 42 ingredients! I don’t think a Master’s degree in Chemistry could explain to me why these chemicals were sprinkled onto my food like fresh herbs over an exquisite French dish.  Yet, I continued to eat this light, half the calories, reduced fat, processed cuisine. After all, it was good for me.  The label and the diet industry said so.   Although, I seemed to be hungrier than I recall years ago when I indulged in real fat and unmodified calories.  I also began to notice strange happenings to my body.  Rather than getting smaller eating less fat, half the calories, and light, I was witnessing a midsection engaged in a heated battle of the pudge.  The other half of that missing fat showed up and invaded in droves, spilling over the top of my mid rise jeans. 

Then the low carb craze struck.  Oh, boy!  Now, it really didn’t matter that I cut back on fat, I just needed to give up carbs!   No more bread, beans, or fruit; a few of my food favorites, but people were dropping weight as fast as old baggage at a group therapy session.  So what if their hair was also falling out and they felt lethargic.  They were thin.   

A few years ago, I visited Italy.  I had envisioned Italians predominately like the picture in my kitchen; roly-poly, mustached chef, tossing a pizza in the air as his belly peeked out from a shirt that was way too small. I was wrong!  In my six weeks there, I saw two overweight people.  As I moved closer to them in the Gelato line at the corner stand, I  overhead their conversation, spoken in English, infused with a twang of Bronx.  The Italians ate like I used to eat years ago, only better.  They knew how to make a meal an event. Long leisurely sessions with 4-5 courses spent savoring bread, pasta, freshly prepared seafood dripping in butter, and pizzas with ingredients you wouldn’t imagine on top of homemade crusts.   I was in heaven again, and I even lost a few pounds during my time there. Perhaps there is something to be said for eating fresh, chemical free food and approaching it as a loving friend instead of an enemy that needs to be calculated and conquered.  Maybe food wasn’t meant to be modified and altered to fuel bodies that weren’t designed to ingest and process poly’s, pheno’s, and phospho’s. 

My dieting bottom came the other day as I pulled a teeny-weeny appetizer treat out of the freezer; low calorie, the box touted. As I opened the end, two miniature cups the size of Tinkerbell’s cereal bowl tumbled out on the counter.  Checking the cooking directions I was surprised to see the FDA (aka the food police) and the manufacturers have now stepped things up a notch.  The directions read: Remove dip bowel and pita bread from box. PLACE BOX WITH OTHER 200 SERVING PORTION BACK IN THE FREEZER!  As I debated whether the minuscule portion would be enough to satisfy my lingering hunger, I swear I heard sirens go off, lights flashing and a megaphoned voice say, “Lady, back away from portion two.  Move away from the dip bowel immediately.”     

It’s time to fess up to my love affair with good food, bring it out of the back room, into the light of day.  No more low fat, low carb, low sodium, or packaged meals that exercise secret mind control tactics. 

Article published in Gallon Inquirer October 2011

911 - Ten Years Later

All week the news has saturated us with terrible images and tales of “where were you” ten years ago.  For months the media has built anticipation into this upcoming anniversary.   Even locally, a church in my area is welcoming a filmmaker who happened to be in NYC on September 11, 2001 producing a documentary on the life of a firefighter.   When the first tower was hit, he turned his camera toward the terror in the skies and later on the ground as the firefighters he was there to film, responded to the biggest disaster and act of war in their lives.  Many of them lost their lives.  The posters promoting his visit, detailed the scenes of horror he witnessed as well as gave a cautionary note to parents about the authenticity of the film as bodies could be heard hitting the ground in the movie. The church was excited to be able to host this event and promoting it throughout the surrounding areas. I won’t be attending. Frankly, I was appalled.  

The idea of visually living that day again was enough to make my stomach turn. Everyone has their story of what they were doing on September 11th.  I can tell you, I was at work, tuned into a television in a student lounge with co-workers and a few students. I witnessed the plane hitting the second tower.  I heard the fear in the broadcasters voices as they relayed news of a plane hitting The Pentagon as well as one crashing in Shanksville, Pennsylvania.  The uncertainty of what would happen next was immobilizing and beyond frightful.  I recall spending my entire work day in that student lounge seeing images of the towers collapsing on the small television, replayed over and over again by the media.  Everyone just wanted to be in the arms of their families.  I remember thinking as I left work that day, my first stop would be a brief visit to see my daughter and son-in-law and give them a big hug. I wanted to hold my one year old granddaughter close and kiss her little face all over in a layer of gentle protection.  I remember the irony in the blue skies and bright sunshine of the day.  Yet, somehow even breathing in the air, felt menacing.  There was barely any traffic on the roads and this sense of the surreal, a hint of The Twilight Zone, surrounded me.  I don’t know how I got home, I think I was driving in a dream state.  I had this sense of the most profound violation; like someone had broken into my home, and destroyed everything in sight and was just lying in wait for me to arrive and take me out as well. Why would I want to dredge up those feelings again?  If I felt that way, living 500 miles away, how did everyone who was in NYC and DC  feel on that day?   What is it in our nature that makes us so inclined to revisit pain and suffering as a way to memorialize? 

There is this philosophy, we must never, ever forget.  For me that does not include rehashing the horror of the day.  I don’t have to visit Auschwitz to imagine what life must have been like during Hitler’s reign of insanity for those of the Jewish faith. Nor, do I need to see filmstrips of Pearl Harbor being attacked to understand what war did to our country’s innocence almost 70 years ago.  These heinous bits of our history are burned into the souls of every generation.  It’s not important that we never forget;  we won’t, nor could we.   It’s that we never, ever seem to learn.  Religious and political hatred is a thread that has weaved it’s way through history since the beginning of time. The solution isn’t to keep the fires of anger, terror, and fear stoked.  We attract what we send out.  You can’t educate or heal through images of bodies in mass graves or buildings collapsing, violent acts, and fear. The solution is never to keep the scab picked into a state of seeping sensitivity.  We can, and do heal through messages of rebirth, courage, hope, service and new beginnings. We heal by lovingly rebuilding, acts of kindness, and precious memories: focusing on the imprint those who died, made on the lives of the living.  The scar will always be there.  That is enough of a reminder of the suffering. Let’s focus on the stories of the survivors and families and how they’ve inspired others.  Let’s applaud the bravery of the children and spouses in going on and building meaningful lives,  making their contributions to a better world,  in honor of their deceased loved ones.  Let’s be in awe, and learn from their determination to not allow terrorists to define the remainder of their lives as children of 911 or 911 widows or widowers.  

My day will be spent thinking about the survivors, and their families, wishing them blessings for the rest of their lives.  My day will be spent silently honoring those that lost their lives.  My day will be spent praying for the politicians that are entrusted to make decisions that have an impact on history, to be guided in making choices that are conducive to the unselfish,  agenda free,  greater good.   My day will be spent asking God to continue to shed His grace on our beautiful country. Most of all, the prayer on my lips all day long, will be that somehow, in my grandchildren's lifetime, they won't have to witness or live with the aftermath of  intolerance and hatred. 

Oh, beautiful for heroes proved, in liberating strife.

Who more than self, their country loved

And, mercy, more than life.

America, America

May God thy gold refine

Til all success be nobleness

And every gain divine.....

Til selfish gain, no longer stain

The banner of the free. 

(excerpted from America the Beautiful- words by Katherine Lee Bates)

As you recognize your wholeness and worth, dysfunctional situations will evaporate like bad dreams exposed to the morning sun. - Alan Cohen

Many years ago I learned the power contained in the not so simple act of making amends to others for wrongs I had committed.  I was terrified the first time I stepped forward, looked another human being in the eye, and told them I was so sorry for the pain I had caused them. It wasn’t a pleasant experience to witness (or hear) the repercussions of my acts reflected back to me in their face, tears, voice, and body language.  Yet, somehow, the result of those humble confessions was the carving of a clear path for something mystical to slip in and build a bridge between two human hearts.  Through the years, having experienced this process many times, (I try to catch it early on these days when I hurt someone or am dishonorable) the result of this act has always been the same.  A peace that is indescribable and a conscience that is generally  squeaky clean. 

But, what do you do when someone has caused YOU harm and suffering?   How do you move beyond the episodic pain of the mistreatment, unconsciously revisited in your dreams, quiet times, or triggered by everyday events?  The wise ones tell us forgiveness is the answer.... our only escape.  What if you have forgiven, and still cannot forget?  What then?  This was a puzzle to me.  I had done all of those things, looked for my part in the great drama, prayed for peace and blessings for the other, and let go. Still the “acts” of mistreatment continued to wax and wane; sporadically images of neglect, dishonor, selfishness, and emotional abuse kept rising to the surface.  Granted, others did keep those injustices fueled by often revisiting them with me.  I know that was their loving way   of reminding me should I ever forget just how bad it was.  Its intent was to keep minimization away.... a coping mechanism we humans (ie: me)  seem to use for protection.    But, this kind of “never forget”  therapy also managed to keep the negativity alive. Additionally, it blocked any good memories that arose. And, there were a few hiding out behind the pain.   Worst of all, it kept others at a distance.   Everything I was taught and knew to be the antidote for resentment and anger was not working.  I needed to bring in some big guns to fight this battle, because I couldn’t even understand why the war was still raging within.    

I took things to a higher level and slept with the question under my pillow.  Dear God...  What do I need to do to be free from this self-torture and live in love again? I know it is not Your intention that I should continue rewinding this outdated movie playing in my head. Show me what I need to do.  Night after night the crumpled paper under my pillow produced few results. Months went by. I didn't give up my faith that something, somehow, someday, would be revealed, hopefully soon.  Honestly, I was beginning to see the ugly parts of the past like a passenger in the backseat of a vehicle riding away from the wreckage of a tornado.  It looked distant, but felt unfinished, like there was still a big mess that needed to at least be cleaned up; even if I didn't want to live there anymore. 


 A few weeks ago, I had a dream.  In it, I stood across from and looked directly into the sad, seeking, face of this loving, compassionate, worthwhile, woman.  Her eyes locked mine seeking answers. I told her I was sorry for not listening to her intuitions.  I was sorry for setting all her needs aside. I was sorry for not protecting her from others devaluation and harm. I apologized to her for believing she wasn’t worthy of better.   Most of all I was sorry for treating her time, aspirations and dreams as though they weren’t important. It was about time... Finally...  I made a heartfelt amend.... to myself.  I heard The Voice say to me, “Well, done.  It is almost finished.... Now.... forgive yourself.”

The air is clean and fresh.  There's space now for light to enter and cast a faint glow on the bits that were good-  that which was love. That  illumination is allowing me to now see, all connections are by design and purposeful.  No timeline in our lives, however dysfunctional, is without it’s own particular (sometimes peculiar) blessings. I am also reminded that the law of attraction tells me, I draw into my life, not necessarily what I want, but what I am.  I suppose I can see that now because I am looking at the big picture through the eyes of a strong, healthy woman who recognizes her value. A woman who now knows, you cannot dispense what you don't think you deserve or can give yourself.    

Making my amend, to the appropriate soul (mine), has given me the vision to edit the reel to reel, cutting out the horror flick and creating a human interest story about the only thing which is everlasting, love.  There was some of that there too. 

Touched by An Angel by Maya Angelou We, unaccustomed to courage exiles from delight live coiled in shells of loneliness until love leaves its high holy temple and comes into our sight to liberate us into life. Love arrives and in its train come ecstasies old memories of pleasure ancient histories of pain. Yet if we are bold, love strikes away the chains of fear from our souls. We are weaned from our timidity In the flush of love's light we dare be brave And suddenly we see that love costs all we are and will ever be. Yet it is only love which sets us free.

 

What a bargain grandchildren are! I give them my loose change, and they give me a million dollars' worth of pleasure. ~Gene Perret

My oldest granddaughter left me a message letting me know an essay I wrote recently, inspired her.  She wanted me to stop by to read and critique her writing of the day. I like it just as it is, unedited. She is a hauntingly insightful little girl who loves to read and has recently discovered her own writing voice. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.  This is her story, unedited, just as she gave it to me. English rules and grammar arrive along with further eduction.  Insightfulness, creativity, and sagacity- well, we just might be born with those.  

What a lesson she taught me.  I have humbly learned, when we follow our passion, it isn't about the money we earn, or the accolades we receive. What matters is, do we touch others or help to change lives?  This angel continues to influence my life. 

Abandoned Buildings

By Alexandria Eckert- age 11

Have you ever seen old abandoned buildings?  They can relate to life.  When you lose a best friend, family member, or a pet you may feel like not wanting to go on and just sit in your house and cry. Kind of like an old abandoned building.  When they are not used anymore they just sit there and basically rot.  They are always called the crap places in town and only noticed when they are called ugly but finally they are torn down never to be seen again or rebuilt.  Did you know that Brownella Cottage probably was abandoned for many years and look at it now. Its a historical part of town.  That just shows that if you give a abandonded building care and love and respect it can be beautiful.  So when you don’t want to go on remember don’t just sit there and rot. Rebuild your life and go on.  My grandmother has been through a lot but always seems to rebuild her life.  She lost her husband right before I was born and I was her angel sent to get her back on her feet.  So never give up on yourself. 

http://galionhistory.com/facilities/brownella-cottage/

The Big C - A Plea for a New Future

***My cousin Kelly, passed away after a short battle with cancer.  She was in Hospice for the last month.  Whoever founded that blessed organization deserves a Pulitzer Prize. Hospice has allowed people the freedom to die relatively pain free, in the dignity of a peaceful setting, or their own home, rather than the impersonal, institutional ambiance of a hospital.  I realize Hospice is not for everyone, but in my experience, it’s   an honorable recognition of the need that dying can be a highly personal process for the terminally ill.  Hospice allows friends and family to be together in a familiar, relaxed, gentler, environment while providing pain management and palliative care.   Kelly’s illness and death has been a devastating blow to so many of us who admire and love her.  I’ve walked this path many times before with other loved ones; helplessly standing by as my grandmother, mother, several aunts, a respected mentor, friends, and my beloved spouse, were stricken by this monstrous disease. In every case they all were hopeful and positive, willing to do whatever it took to beat their cancer. They all had so much life yet to experience and a positive attitude was already a part of their DNA.  Many in the medical community tout this as being a requirement for healing.  It’s not nearly enough. It’s almost an insult to those who fight so hard to turn their diagnosis into a success story. If positive attitudes were even a small part of the arsenal in battling cancer, both my cousin and spouse, would be here right now.  This is an insidious, powerful, disease, bordering on satanic.  As a society, we have not done nearly enough to eliminate it.  My frustration over the years has often consumed me.  I’ve donated my time, my dollars and enough prayers to lay a direct path to the gates of heaven.   The course of treatment used on my husband’s colon cancer, was identical to the approach, 30 years prior, in treating my grandmother.  The outcome, in both cases, rendered the same results; death within 18 months.   The suggested regime turned healthy bodies into poisoned, sickly ones unable to take in nourishment or function, as our answer to modern medicine, destroyed their immune systems more rapidly than the cancer invading surrounding organs.  Radiation killed tumors, as well as healthy tissue and drug my loved ones into an unimaginable bone crushing weariness. The chemicals injected into their bodies to kill the enemy cells, wiped every good one out as well, unlocking the doors and opening them wide to further invasion by rapacious, multiplying bad cells. I think the methods of treatment today are as barbaric and nonsensical as using leeches or the blood letting performed a century ago. I don’t believe it’s the best we can do.  Why aren’t we encouraging a more holistic approach as well: meditation, massage, and nutritional therapies? 

 We can communicate through a variety of amazing mediums around the world.... within seconds!   We can grow a human being in a test tube with a single egg and sperm.  We can translate a foreign language using the appropriate application, with a swipe of a smart phone.  Why can’t we figure out why a microscopic cell turns mutinous and coerces it’s fellow cellmates to overtake our good health?  Can we use some of the great minds blossoming in the laboratories of MIT and John Hopkins as well as other scientific institutions of higher learning to focus directed attention to the mysteries of cancer?  Isn’t this much more important than having the ability to use our smart phone to identify the best deal in the area, or the technology to interactively engage in Farmville with our thousands of Facebook friends?  I’m not minimizing the benefits and beauty of technology and social media here, but can we use the same genius that developed all of that, to find a cure for a single militant cell? Why can’t we globally pool our resources and develop one huge body of research, combining mega funds and the best minds in a central research location; a giant army of trained warriors so to speak, working as a team to loosen the grip of this biological terrorist?  Cynically, I used to think  the Big C is even bigger business and those that reap the profits would never allow for a cure.  These kinds of questions continue to arise in my mind, every time a beautiful human being is robbed of growing old. 

 I know my cousin and all my loved ones are in a better place.   Ironically, the night before she died, I received a gift. I watched a special on television hosted by Bob Woodruff, who suffered a life threatening brain injury and had a near death experience.  He reported his own story as well as several others, all different faiths and beliefs; even a young child.  The common thread weaving through every one of their narratives was their encounter with loved ones who had passed before and a feeling of the most indescribable peace they had ever experienced.  None of them wanted to return to their earthly lives. As they passed into this other place, they described  a sense of well-being, and wholeness; all suffering had completely slipped away.  Before I dozed off that evening, an inner voice spoke and said to me, “You can rest knowing this will be her experience too.  She will be greeted by her brother and grandmother.  She will feel vital and whole again.   Most of all, she won’t know suffering, anymore.”   

My hopeful wish for all of those who have walked the path of a cancer diagnosis as well as those of us who love them, is that we will encourage and support these great young scientific minds who have figured out how to make our daily lives easier, more productive, and social, to come together and figure out how we can simply live in a world that is cancer free.


Kelly J. Kurtzman Obituary: View Kelly Kurtzman's Obituary by Telegraph-Forum

***Article  written by Rebecca Mahoney for the Galion Inquirer, Saturday, August 13, 2011 Edition

The farther behind I leave the past, the closer I am to forging my own character.--- Isabelle Eberhardt

 

Photo courtesy of Meggie's inspirational farewell note.  May your
new journey and adventure build on the already spectacular chapters
in your life. Live the Present!  You are a blessing to all of us.

I like the idea of sending the past up in flames, ribbons of smoke spiraling skyward into the heavens and God’s hands.  The past is not mine to hold onto.  Not anymore.  It’s kept me trapped in a world of woulda, coulda, shoulda.  Instead of memories to enhance my days, it’s immobilized me and occassionally even worse, kept me walking around in circles.  Pleasant walks down memory lane, became extended pilgrimages to the land of what happened before when times were good.  I didn’t want to leave and so I stayed, while my life passed me by.  

Whether I focused on the good, or the bad, it never seemed to be in balance.  I let the good memories tell me I had so much... there would never be another as good as; my great job, my old home, a special time or a healthy, honorable, love.  These were the times I walked around in circles, consumed with my past abundance, leaving no room for all that was crying out to enter my life, if I just let it.   

Other times I spent way too long back there, trying to find answers.  Extended walks deeper and deeper into what had happened before would surely give me the answers to who and why I am who I am today.  Or, better yet, why someone behaved the way they did.  I hit the repeat button on the tapes in my head, over and over again, seeking answers to make sense of what usually ended up being nonsense, or unanswerable, because it wasn’t about me.  It was about them and the lessons they are here to learn.  

My character today is not my childhood, my losses, my hurts, my great loves.  My character today is so much larger than any of those things and is evolving beautifully.  It is through those things that I am beginning to make my own choices, becoming all that I want and am meant to be. 

Sending the past up in smoke, doesn’t mean it no longer exists. It’s just, today, I choose to reduce it to a small pile of smoldering ash. Every now and again I catch a faint whiff of smoke. Out of sight, not completely out of mind.  I have a choice to move away from those spots where the odor remains.   There is room now for forging character, peace of mind, and new adventure.  I don’t think I need to look back, or even look ahead.  There is plenty to see and experience, right here, in the Present.

Judgement blocks us from seeing the truth that lies beyond what the eye perceives - Rebecca Mahoney

A letter to me and those who open mouth and discover a foot....

I know better than to do this!  Early the other morning I was walking with my daughter and we passed a house.  The grass and the weeds in the front yard were a foot high, the front porch was caving in, and there were a few windows boarded up.  It clearly was abandoned and an eye sore to the neighborhood, although there were a few others nearby that looked empty as well.  The words ran out of my mouth as mindlessly as my feet were pounding the pavement.  I said, “Boy, that sure is a wreck.  Why doesn’t the city, or someone, do something about that.  No wonder everyone is moving out of town.”

Fast forward, two hours later, sipping my cup of coffee while perusing Facebook.  I see a picture that looks very familiar... why it’s my house!  The former residents who owned it sixteen years ago, must have paid a visit to their hometown and took pictures of childhood landmarks and memories. The caption under the picture read something to the effect: “Our old house.   It looks terrible!”  My coffee sputtered out onto the computer screen and tears welled in my eyes.   The next picture was a far better angle, and the obnoxious photojournalist added, “Looks better here.”  Perhaps, I was being “overly sensitive”.  In this mean spirited, narcissistic society, that’s evolved over the last decade, sensitivity, of any kind could be a positive quality. As a whole, this country seems to thrive on beating up and bullying others, saying what we think without regard. Are we really all that angry?  Shows like Shark Tank, The Bachelorette,  101 Ways to Leave A Game Show, Housewives of (pick your county) thrive, as the general overtone is to humiliate, reject, or one-upmanship others. It’s everywhere; in the schools, the workplace, and most profoundly, within the halls of the government.  

My mind spewed the most sarcastic, nasty thoughts.  A favorite quote of mine by the writer Anne Lamott, ran through my head.  “I thought such awful thoughts that I cannot even say them out loud because they would make Jesus want to drink gin out of a cat dish.”   Instead, I closed my eyes and breathed..... several times, deeply.  It really wasn’t just this one particular insensitive comment, but rather a series of smaller ones spaced out over a few weeks that had accumulated and touched some old wounds, healing slowly but still tender.  

Then, I thought about my deceased husband’s mantra, left behind for others to echo. I hear it so often sometimes, I want to say, puuulllleeezzzz, the man was not a saint!  Nonetheless, he was the most genuinely empathetic spirit I have ever known.  He said, “We shouldn’t judge others.  We don’t know their story.”  He clearly took the time to read from every genre.  He had the respect of the eccentric, mean spirited, local millionaire as well as a few social strays - inviting them to Thanksgiving dinners and welcoming them into his home.  He discovered the rest of the story often entailed profound hurts, tough times, bad luck, addictions, and loss.  He just took the time to see beyond the window dressing and learn about the human being.  He gave others the greatest gift.  Acceptance. 

So I let the retorts, sarcasm, and creative tongue-lashing play out for just a few moments in my head while Jesus patiently sipped on the gin and between gulps whispered to me, “You could BE the empathy you are seeking.”  

I decided I would say to the individual who questioned me about my lack of interest in obtaining a boyfriend... AND pointed out that I just was too persnickety.... AND if I continued to reject the advances of so many men, I would run out of options, because I am not getting any younger.... (Seriously)   “After so many years of using men to fill a void, escape the pain of bad break-ups,  stroke my ego, or get over someone by getting under someone, I had decided to try a new approach. Perhaps spending some time walking through the uncomfortable healing process of a broken heart might create a new result. Up to the last few years I have been stumbling along, crippled hand in hand, with yet another poor fit.   The discovery that I am quite entertaining and great company even by myself would be a refreshing change.  Just what would spending quality time, having fun with groups of likeminded people feel like, as opposed to the temporary high of a new hostage.   Being without a significant other does not for a miserable life make!  My ego is strong enough to now know, I have a lot to offer, but I am not offering it up for all the wrong reasons anymore.  That’s the rest of the story. 

I also decided not to spew sarcastic retorts such as, “ I am so pissed off having to go to work at my new part-time job because it messes with my daily pity party.”  After all, it takes a lot of time to feed those monsters in my head, previewing my life of poverty, spent pushing my grocery cart of belongings, through the snow."  Instead, I will kindly say, “Please don’t misunderstand me when I say I am ONLY working part-time.  It ‘s condescending when you tell me I need to be grateful that I at least have a job after almost two years.” It surprises me some, this  mostly comes out of  mouths of those who have never had a financial worry in their life. I struggle with feeling that their empathy is even close to being genuine.  I am so incredibly grateful.  If I wouldn’t be charged with harrassement, I would kiss my coworkers every single blessed hour I get paid for.  When I say to you, “I am working now, but it’s only part-time,” the rest of the story is......in order to support my habit for food and shelter, I need another part-time job and just maybe, you might know someone, who knows someone, who needs a dedicated, talented, loyal, grateful, worker.  

Finally, I view Karma (at least mine) as just a form of continuing education.   When I walked by that house with my negative comments about its appearance, I should have imagined the rest of the story might go something like this... Honorable lady, relatively frugal, who takes her responsibilities seriously,  loses her spouse.   Holding onto one of the things they shared, her house,  provides some stability and comfort where little exists,  while grieving his death.  Even though she knows it is far more than she can handle in upkeep and financially, it is still a great house and will retain it’s value allowing her to move on when she is ready.   Adjusting to a downsizing of her job, even before her husband died, and  the household income level decreasing by half, was a big enough change,  She had no idea what she was in for trying to live on half of that again, having the same obligations in widowhood. It was a struggle, but the house was a safe place to heal.  She was prudent, went back to school, worked two jobs, stayed responsible, all by herself.  Finally, a few years later, like a butterfly breaking out of her coccoon of grief, she was anxious to move on, in every respect.  She put her house on the market, had some serious buyers.  Uh-Oh.  As the economy shook in uncertainty and fear, the banks fists tightened around their money, restricting interested borrowers from purchasing this awesome family home.  Two realtors later, and the biggest financial crisis the country has experienced since the great depression, she decided to do her best, ride it out and stay put.   But in the height of the recession, she lost her job, experienced a few other major heartbreaks, and struggled to live on unemployment which equated to an income below the poverty level.  Daily attempts at seeking employment, proved futile.  Geographically, the rate of unemployment was markedly higher in her locale than the rest of the country.  Using any available funds to keep the roof over her head, heat on, and cell phone bill paid so she could receive non-existent offers of employment, she found it increasingly difficult to continue to live day by day, let alone consider paint, siding, new windows or landscaping.  Finally, in frustration and desperation she threw up her hands, jumped in her car, which fortunately had been loan free for a long time. With a few precious personal effects and some clothing,  she rode off into the sunset, where it’s warmer at least, and minimum wage jobs abound.  Her abandoned house continued its decline into disrepair as the bank couldn't even unload it and you know what they say about getting blood out of a turnip.... Touche'.  

May we always remember to hold our tongues and spend a minute or two exploring the rest of the story.