The sidewalks are filled with evidence of raw domesticity—this is what public housing looks like in one of the wealthiest cities in the world. There are living rooms under bus stop awnings, bedrooms made out of garbage bags and cardboard and open bathrooms in doorway alcoves. I walk down Ellis Street dodging mattresses, tents, Chinese take-out cartons, syringes and feces (likely not canine). A breeze brings an acidic whiff of pee that burns my nostrils. I hold my breath and walk faster hoping to find air I can breathe. This is the Tenderloin District of San Francisco, named after a similar historic neighborhood in New York City. Yes, that tender cut of meat—not because it’s precious or top-choice but because it’s the “soft underbelly” of the city. In the Tenderloin, humanity’s precariousness meets society’s mercenary tendencies, and the vulnerable become victim to our vices.
But he sees me. I’ve been marked. He’s tall and lanky and sways cool and easy in the Sunday morning sun. A black beret rests on top of a hairless head and his face is shadowed with stubby whiskers. In the 50’s perhaps he would have been a patron, or a musician, at the Black Hawk, one of the Tenderloin’s famous jazz clubs where greats like Dave Brubeck, Miles Davis, and Thelonious Monk played and recorded. But on this morning, in this time, he’s just another panhandler.
He shakes his Starbucks’ coffee cup as I approach, “Good morning, any spare change for breakfast?”
I’ve seen him before but of course I don’t know his name. My pace quickens.
“Come on man, how about a few coins?”
He follows me with a forced smile and the percussion of his cup and pivots with me as I move to his right. I’ve got to hand it to him; his marketing has good engagement. It’s not aggressive but it’s determined.
I am on my way to my church, Glide Memorial Church, a remarkable spiritual community that walks their talk, serves 2000 meals a day—breakfast, lunch and dinner. I consider inviting him to Glide but I remember getting cussed out by someone in the street a few weeks ago when I suggested he could get a meal at Glide. I’m in the Tenderloin every Wednesday for choir rehearsal and Sunday for church (called celebrations) because I sing in the Glide Ensemble—gospel music rooted in the pain of slavery—honest music that somehow made it possible for slaves to live through another day. The music still touches and moves broken spirits and inspires hope. But on this morning, in this moment, I don’t want to walk the talk or sing the songs.
At least look him in the eye, my inner voice reprimands. I was raised a preacher’s kid in a religion that mixed love and judgment in a cocktail that was sweet and yet burned when it went down. I think of Jesus’ parable about the righteous who neglects those in need, "Truly I tell you, whatever you did not do for one of the least of these, you did not do for me.” Matthew 25:45
I am surprised the man’s eyes are clear. I am ashamed that I assumed they wouldn’t be. The window between us opens and closes quickly. I’m on my way—I need to get somewhere.
“Sorry," I shrug my shoulders as an apology, "Not today."
I think it sounds like a nice no.
But before I can move around him he says, “You said that last week. If not today, then when?”
I almost trip over my feet. I thought this man was an obstacle on my way to church but maybe he’s the sermon. My breath gets small and I feel like a kid who has just been caught in a lie. I open my wallet, but not my heart, and put a couple dollars in his cup. If you do the right thing for the wrong reason, is it still the right thing?
I continue down the Tenderloin gauntlet, now carrying an unwieldy burden of shame that expresses itself as irritation, maybe anger, without a name or a destination. Who am I mad at? Him? Me? San Francisco? God?
I’m a few hundred feet from Glide and I see a woman sitting in front of a business that has not yet opened. She’s wrapped up in a sleeping bag with her head poking out the top. She’s looking down the sidewalk at me. I gird myself for another request.
As I pass she calls out, “Good morning.”
I wait for the “ask” but she just smiles. I take a deep breath and allow the air to be what it is. I feel something soften—it’s starts with my shoulders and moves to the muscles in my jaw. Her hair is wild and she looks like she just woke up. There is warmth in this new moment. Maybe I’m the first person she has seen today.
Without a Bible verse or a “should,” I smile back at her. “Good morning.” I’m surprised how good it feels to see her.
“Love your haircut.” She calls out again.
I start to chuckle and then mysterious tears well up in my eyes.
I pause and take another breath. “Thank you.”
Her smile is toothless, “You have a good day honey.”
I reach the intersection of Ellis and Taylor Streets and look up at the sun bouncing off the tall white bell tower of Glide Church. I'm ready to sing.
It’s hard to know what to do with this time between Christmas and New Years. Advent is known for its waiting and anticipation, culminating with the joyful arrival of a baby. And almost before I can change Jesus’ first diaper, I am consumed with the end of a year and the beginning of a new one. What went wrong last year? Did anything go right? Does it matter? What should I bring with me into 2019 and what do I leave in the discard pile? Do I even have a choice? And then the baby starts to cry. Is he hungry or just tired? He can’t do anything for himself. I don’t know what he wants but he wants it right now. How do I care for a newborn while making sense of the world and preparing for what may come next? Baby Jesus, is it too early for a miracle?
Earlier this month I spent nine days with my mom and siblings. It was the first time in three years we were able to take her out of the nursing home for an extended visit. Mom is a mixture of almost 95 years of lived experience and a childlike urgency for the present moment. She wanted us to celebrate an early Christmas and was obsessed with how we could bring the small two-foot artificial Christmas tree to the VRBO house we were renting. “Maybe we could wrap the tree up in a sheet? Certainly, the nursing home wouldn’t miss a sheet. Oh, but we don’t want to break any of the ornaments? I really want to bring the tree.” Ultimately we were able to talk her into waiting until we checked out the house. Turned out the house had 15 Christmas trees, one (or two) in every room!! Mom twinkled with wonder.
My sister slept with mom. When you look up “mother” in the dictionary, there's a picture of my sister. Mom needed mothering and as is typical for mothers, this meant that my sister didn’t get much sleep. Throughout the night—bathroom trips, restlessness, and questions, “When is Dan leaving? What day is it? How many more days before I have to go back to the nursing home? How long have I been here?” And perhaps most poignant, uneven breathing—soft snores, silence and then abrupt and ragged inhales. I think most mothers understand the anxious but tender relationship to a sleeping child’s breath. When the child is almost 95, the listening cracks open a truth that is almost impossible to bear.
Many of the roles mom operated within, wife, mother, preacher’s wife, are falling away and she is left with a profound sense of what it “feels” like to live in a 95-year-old body. Her beloved husband of sixty-six years has been gone for 17 months. Her grief about dad’s death is not something she understands—rather it is something she feels. It’s in her flesh and bones. She frequently says, “I’m so lonely that I feel like I can’t breathe.” Her awareness is stripped down to something naked. Like a child, she is so honest that the vulnerability makes me flinch. I’d be more comfortable talking about the concept of grief—it would be easier to figure out what I should do. But there are some things that just can’t be fixed; they can only be witnessed.
And then there’s me. In the midst of advent filled with poignancy, urgency and hope I’m struggling with my own imperfection and impotence in a world that is suffering. I’m inclined to focus on the things this year that have scared or hurt others or me. And with the speed and vitriol that new pain enters my inbox, it feels like habituated PTSD. I’m having my own “I feel like I can’t breathe” moment even as I type this. In all my defensive and reactive machinations it’s easy to forget about the baby. But as I take a deep inhale I feel this body settle a bit into the soft lap of presence, another breath, there you are—my neglected companion with many names, Jesus, love, grace, home. There is a glimmer of light in the form of the late, wise, sweet and strange neighbor, Mr. Rogers, telling us children, “Look for helpers.” I often forget to look within. I hold myself close like we have held mom when that was all that could be done. Just like this . . . if only for this moment. The miracle of the child breaks open my heart and reveals a sacred portal. Breathe, sweet child.
How do you “do” sick? Perhaps you make a special homemade soup, blend cayenne pepper, lemon, and honey (maybe even some brandy), take a warm bath, use the vaporizer with a hint of peppermint oil, drink herbal teas or take Western medicine, say prayers, light candles. Any and all of these things can be remedies and they all promote self-care. However, they usually come with the conviction or hope that they will work—you will get better if you “do.” What about when they don’t? Most of us, most of the time, respond to any kind of illness or distress with something that goes like this, “I don’t feel good. Something is wrong. I shouldn’t feel this way. What caused this? How do I fix it?” And then if our interventions don’t work, “What the #@*%, what did I do wrong? What’s wrong with me?!“ When we are sick we fight, we struggle, we feel ambushed, we resist, we wage war . . . can you hear the sounds of battle? There is a shadow side in our general orientation to fix what ails us. We are fighting against reality—we don’t hold all the control levers, life is impermanent, and of course the biggest shadow is death. So how do you “do” sick? It’s not so self-evident.
Last week I began to come down with a cold. I was such a good patient. I took my Yin Chow, made vegetable tortilla soup, drank lots of tea, slept, and every couple hours I did a mindful self-compassion practice—20 minute "pauses" where I practiced being in a kind and connected presence with what is. It was fascinating observing the body respond to illness, really taking the time to notice and be with those physical sensations. It was wild. My sore throat moved through and around my throat, sometimes throbbing, sometimes a raw rough rubbing, sometimes gone. I felt my sinuses sting, congest, unplug, and then release. Tiny tingles pulsated over my skin as my body temperature fluctuated. And when I felt myself getting hijacked by my desire to make my experience different, mostly, I remembered, paused, breathed, and brought some compassion to the wild ride of being sick. Just to be clear, I’m not saying I fell in love with my suffering but rather I was able to offer some love to the sufferer (me). When I went to bed that night, I had a profound sense of goodwill despite not feeling well. I had been a good companion. I had tended to my experience and myself with the kindness of a good friend.
It’s been awhile. Writing is like going to the gym. There are so many good reasons to take a break but then when I pick up the pen it feels like someone added weights when I wasn't looking. So here I am a little out of shape but I have missed you!
My last blog was about surprises. I think I’m still working on a variation on that theme—miracles. These days the world sure seems to be in short supply of miracles. I’m not talking water into wine miracles but the everyday kind that only require my attention. It’s easy to look in the wrong places or in the wrong direction. Rick Hanson Ph.D. calls this our negativity bias. Our brains have an evolutionary bias to pay more attention to things that go bump in the night. Our amygdala, the oldest and most primitive part of our brain, is made for survival. This limbic system is devoted to finding danger and storing it in our memory so that we can respond to future threats. Unfortunately, this part of the brain also has a very limited repertoire—fight, flee, or freeze. This is great when responding to tigers but not so good for miracles. When our limbic system is activated our prefrontal cortex goes off line and we don’t have access to positive things like creativity, compassion, and awe—the stuff miracles are made of.
The box had to be pried out of his clinched fist at which point he fell to his knees and did an ecclesiastical face plant to the ground and wept. Seconds later he was happy and content in someone’s arms. I had a moment of recognition, albeit buried deep in these old eyes, a time when life had less history, fewer lessons, and no conditioned responses. Oh, for the days when the loss of a magic plastic box was worth a tearful lament into the dirt, regardless of what I was wearing or who was watching. And oh, for the soft breeze of the next moment—dark storm clouds transformed into sunlight. I have lost something by becoming an adult. Sure, I have fewer outbursts but I also have fewer moments of awe. I guess I am safer or so my mind tells me with its constant review of past dangers and it’s preemptive planning for the future but there is a lot less that makes me go “wow.” Old eyes tend to see what they expect to see, not what they see. It saves time, leads to less disappointment, public spectacles and laundry bills but I sure do miss the miracles.
I'm trying something new. I'm including an audio file along with the text version in case you prefer listening to your content. Check it out. It's a work in progress but I'd love to get your feedback.
I had a birthday last month, fifty-nine if you must know. It seemed like a big deal. I went to Tucson and the Sonoran Desert to cogitate. I had the week all mapped out. I was going to write, see a few friends, and contemplate my belly button in the gilded glow of the winter desert sun and the venerable Saguaro Cactus. I landed in Phoenix and swaggered through the airport past all those travelers who had to look for signs to know where they were going. This wasn’t my first rodeo; I’d been to Phoenix before and knew the airport car rentals were off-site. I was first in line at the Hertz counter. However, as the agent scrolled through her computer, the creases on her forehead grew deeper. I had reserved a car at the wrong off-site Hertz! Breathe. She would be happy to get me a car at double my current rate. Breathe. I caught a Uber and rode cross-town to the other Hertz. This time I strolled to the counter with a little less swagger. The agent was young, handsome and sweet—one of those faces that feels like looking into the sun.
He pointed to his empty lot and said, “Sorry but I don’t have any cars.” Breathe. I told him my tale of woe and he brightened, “Well, I don’t have any cars but I do have a mini van and a monster truck.”
I smiled at the universe’s sense of humor. Perfect. I wanted to take the monster truck but settled on the soccer mom van and asked for a baby seat . . . just in case. The agent, who I decided was Apollo the sun god, laughed and said I could trade the mini van for a car once I got to Tucson.
As it turned out, Tucson was in the middle of their annual Gem and Mineral Show, the largest, oldest and most prestigious gem show in the world. You guessed it . . . every Hertz phone number attached to a live person said they didn’t have cars. Breathe. Regardless, I set off for the airport rental office in one final attempt to exchange my family bus for something more modest. I shuffled (the swagger was gone) to their counter. Yep, no cars.
This time my breath bubbled up into a chuckle, “Wow, what a journey. A mini van it is.”
The agent smiled in return. “Let me check something.” She looked through some papers and then said, “Well, if you want . . . I could trade your mini van for a black Corvette convertible.”
I laughed out loud and thought, wow, a muscle car . . . it roars and swaggers. My expectations for the week shifted and sifted through my fingers and I settled on a very different kind of intention—I would look for surprises.
I know what you’re thinking, who likes surprises—they’re scary. So why on earth would I go looking for them? Surprises are a blind date with disaster, right? The truth is, I do try to manage life with as few surprises as possible. Fear demands it. Like most of us, I have come to my fear honestly. Bad things have happened that I wish I could have avoided. Bad things might happen so I take preemptive defensive action. However, the nature of fear is that it reduces the scope of my awareness and everything outside of that narrow band of light is unseen. During real danger this focus is essential but sometimes I wonder if I have lost my ability to differentiate real danger from a pervasive orientation of fear. This is when mindful breathing is helpful. It’s like shaking an Etch A Sketch and erasing all the messy black squiggly lines. It creates the room to pay attention to what is rather than what was or might be. It gives me butterfly wings to land and rest lightly on the present moment without building a shrine or dropping a bomb. The late Zen teacher, Charlotte Joko Beck said, “Joy is whatever is happening, minus our opinion of it.”
Yesterday during my meditation my phone started to vibrate when a text came in. It fell off the arm of the couch and into my lap. I must have been in a butterfly state because the whoosh of the phone sliding off the couch and the thump into my lap reminded me of my little brother and the things he used to throw at me to get my attention. I immediately began a belly laugh—those ridiculous childhood fights and my nemesis who was incessant in his attempts to take me out of my head and into the present. I’m still not sure about the noble intentions of dirt clods but as I sat there and laughed, the essence of my brother warmed my heart with gratitude and love.
There is often something extraordinary in the ordinary if we give ourselves the gift of compassionate awareness. I’m experimenting with a new ritual in the morning. Before I leave the warm cocoon of my bed, I take a deep breath and say, “Surprise me.”
When faced with loss, I tell myself that there will be another chapter. I believe pain, although unrequested, is fertile ground for something new. Yet, I’ve been struggling with the fear that mom might not have another chapter in her. She is an amazing woman who has found grace through many challenges but it also feels like the veil that separates life and death is translucent. When dad was dying mom quietly asked, “I wonder what it feels like?” I believe she’s ready for her book to end. Yet, she keeps breathing. She is beloved and thankfully, she is in a good place with good people. At almost 94 she still goes to her activities—church, kickball (yes, kickball—they sit in a circle and swat or kick a beach ball when it comes their way. Mom told me once, conspiratorially, “Sometimes we hit each other in the head!” lol), sing-a-longs, drumming, bingo, and meals (even though she's never hungry or interested in eating). Is this enough for a next chapter . . . sans dad?
It’s a familiar question. What’s enough for a next chapter? For anyone in pain, the holidays make this question hang with melancholy silence. The illusion of universal holiday cheer is spiked with rum eggnog, social media’s, “look at my beautiful life,” and one-click, same-day-delivery “stuff” packaged like happiness. We make the holiday illusion believable and the inevitable conclusion painfully clear—everyone is happy except me. “Why is this happening to me?” Whether I tell myself that I don’t deserve this or conversely, I deserve this, the result is the same; it makes me unique . . . separate . . . alone. In Abraham Maslow’s hierarchy of needs, belonging sits just above the most basic need of safety. We humans are wired for connection and yet ironically we avoid it because it doesn’t feel safe. What a catch 22! The vulnerability that pain exposes is the most profound moment to connect and yet it is the one I avoid.
Kristin Neff Ph.D. author and pioneer in self-compassion research and practice, suggests another path. “Compassion is by definition relational. Compassion literally means to suffer with.” Mindful self-compassion creates a relationship between my experience and me, the experiencer. Dr. Neff says, “I am both the comforter and the one in need of comfort. There is more to me than the pain I am feeling right now, I am also the heartfelt response to that pain.”
I know next chapters take care of themselves. Usually we don't even know we are in a next chapter until we have the benefit of perspective. To be honest, I look ahead because it feels too hard, too scary, to be right here, right now. Yet, there is equanimity when I connect, when I stand in the midst of what’s uncomfortable without trying to avoid it or build a monument to my suffering. The contours of pain don’t make me deformed or special, they make me human—just like you. To use one of dad’s favorite Bible verses, “I will praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made.” When I soften the edges of my resistance and open my tender heart to what’s true right now, I hold mom’s journey and mine with a bit more compassion, more grace and more awe.
In a dissociated world that seems to rotate on fear, may you and I have a holiday of discovery through compassionate connection to ourself, others, and God.
“He’s not breathing.” I was the first to notice when we opened our eyes after the pastor said, “Amen.” I’ve seen enough death to know what it looks like—dead is so dead. My dad was gone—a foreign body lay where he once breathed. It was undeniable, yet inconceivable. It still makes me hold my breath with a mixture of disbelief and grief. It’s been a several-year journey of watching his decline and it feels like I’ve been breathing cautiously for a very long time.
The news cycle is unrelenting. Every day brings a new story, some action or inaction, or a sound bite that remind me of our manmade capacity for fear and hate. Like all of us my brain has a negativity bias so I watch and read the news like a moth to the flame. Ironically, the limbic system was designed to save my ancient ancestors and me from danger. Sometimes called the paleomammalian brain, it is the oldest and most primitive part of our brains. It provides a critical function—it allows me to learn from my experience and avoid pain. At the first sign of danger it gets me ready; fight, flight, or freeze. This is all well and good when a tiger or a bear is chasing me through the woods but when the same limbic system is activated by the news, it does not always serve me. I move into survival and my breathing gets me ready to form fists, run like hell or try to be silent and invisible. When my limbic brain is activated, I lose contact with the parts of my brain that give rise to compassion, empathy, joy, and wonder. Perhaps even more disconcerting, as bell hooks, author, feminist and social activist, recently said, “The monsters around us remind us of the monster within.” I’m breathing too hard. I’m barely breathing.
And then there were the fires of Northern California. Two weeks ago the air was filled with smoke and ash and I stopped writing about breathing. In the margins of the draft I wrote, “This is NOT what I want to write.” Full stop. I couldn’t imagine how I could write about breathing when the very air I breathed was dangerous and a reminder of unbelievable suffering and loss. But when I re-read what I had written, I realized I had it all wrong. I should have said, “This is not what I want to feel!” There is a connection between breathing and feeling. When I started this essay I wanted to tell you, “breathing making everything better.” It doesn’t. Sometimes it feels worse. The present moment is not always a sweet place to land. Sometimes I don’t like what I breathe. Sometimes I don’t like what I feel. Sometimes I don’t want to be “woke”.
A good friend recently told me that he feels thin. I think many of us feel thin—we don’t have extra, we have limited capacity. Many of us are having difficulty breathing. Some of us are taking small, careful, rationed breaths. Some of us might even be ambivalent about breathing. Ironically, most of us do all of this breathing while ignoring our breath. What if we practiced breathing?
Sharon Salzburg, author, Buddhist meditation teach and co-founder of the Insight Meditation Society, calls it "resilience training". Every breath is an invitation to begin again—continuous opportunities for do-overs. But here’s the deal—breathing requires taking it in. It takes courage these days to take it in. It runs completely against our limbic impulse to move away from pain. Let me tell you, this moving-towards does not wear rose-colored glasses. I don’t think pain is a gift. I prefer Sharon Salzburg’s reframe, “Don’t think of trauma as a gift but rather as a given.” Moving into a mindful relationship with the pain "that is” through conscious breathing creates the opportunity for the next part of breathing—letting go. Unfortunately, letting go ain’t easy either! I get attached to my stories of pain—they make sense of a world that is scary and crazy. Letting go requires something extra to follow my exhaling breath—forgiveness. This kind of forgiveness is not about judgment or shame. It’s generous and compassionate, first and foremost to my own sweet self. This forgiveness opens the space for the next breath. It makes room for something expansive and unexpected.The miracle of mindfulness is what happens after I exhale.
May my breath and your breath be our prayer.
Dad died August 6, 2017, eight hours before his 92nd birthday.
Dad’s death sends shockwaves through my being—vibrations that are shape shifters. I’ve started this post several times but it never seems right. I don’t know how to write about his death. My intention is to write what is true as best as I can know my heart. But I alternate between feeling that my heart isn’t in it or that I’m not being honest. I can’t see myself in any of Elizabeth Kubler Ross’ stages of grief. Mom asked me numerous times, “Do you think it’s strange I haven’t cried?” I should have said, “Yes, I am also walking in a strange land.” In the words of the Negro spiritual (but thinking of dad), “Sometimes I feel like a fatherless child. A long way from home.” This grief is heart breaking, busy, buried and confusing. For now, the only place I find home is in the wisdom of my breath. Here, truth blossoms with gentle hands and a soothing touch and the need for understanding or explanation is replaced by being. My tears are an ephemeral but profound visitation of a world beyond the wall.
Ripe droplets, no names
Waiting to be found
Longing for silence--
Enough space to fall
On a thirsty soil
Such small voices in
Holy places and
Some hidden from grace
Yes—but spaces like
Too little, too much
Stored in flesh and bone
Cells that could sing
If only held soft
Unlocked by own hand
With a sacred breath
I know what I know without even knowing I learned it. I come from a family planted in fertile soil, seeds surrounded by blankets of dirt, looking skyward for warmth. My family lives for the possibility of sprouts that grow into a summer meal—golden smells of sautéed onions and garlic, steamy clouds of gently boiled corn on the cob, blanched green beans and ruby tomatoes oozing sweetness.
* * * *
(1983. Dad and mom with monster tomato from dad's garden).
Dad didn’t feel like eating. Mom told the nurses, “We’ll eat when our kids get here.” This is a problem since we are scattered across the country. Dad has been in decline since his winter flu. He has lost what was left of his independence, needs help moving from his wheelchair to his recliner or bed and he no longer takes care of his colostomy bag. I’m pretty sure he’s depressed even though he claims he doesn’t know what depression feels like. I told him that depression isn’t always weepy; often it’s like trudging through ankle-deep mud on a cold and gray day. Everything takes too much effort—even eating.
My siblings and I were home last week. I hoped he would eat. I peeled back the bright green leaves and ran my fingers over the tender kernels. It was the first pick of Wisconsin sweet corn. On top of everything else, dad said it hurt to chew. Attempts to pinpoint pain were like finding Waldo—except Waldo was everywhere and nowhere at the same time.
If words had flowed more freely, he probably would have said, “Pain? As compared to what . . . yesterday? About the same. Compared to a time when it didn’t hurt? Can’t remember that far.”
I made sweet corn polenta and a zucchini, green bean ratatouille. I wasn't sure if it was fair but I hoped the tastes of summer would restore his imagination.
* * * *
(Oxlip, Minnesota, District 690 School).
I’m sitting at the table in the front of the one room country school with my fellow second graders. My brother and sister sit at their desks doing independent work—the fourth and sixth grades will work with Mrs. Erickson at the front table after lunch.
“See Dick run. See Jane run. Run, run, run.” My soprano voice rings clear and confident with the joy of letters becoming words.
Mrs. Erickson is a much-loved magician. She moves learning around the room like an elixir. Yet there is something palpable about being in the same room as those who know more than you and those who are learning what you already know, especially when they are your siblings.
(Me—front row with the paisley shirt (of course). My very blonde sister and brother in the row behind me).
We hear the front door open and close. Small stomachs begin to mumble as savory urgent smells begin to waft up the stairs and into the school. Mom has just delivered our hot lunches. All of our classmates have tin lunch boxes with cold sandwiches, bologna or peanut butter and jelly, their lunches wait silently in the hallway cupboard. We have something that smells like mom’s kitchen, maybe Sloppy Joes, or chicken broccoli casserole or roast beef and mashed potatoes, steaming their way to our desks.
* * * *
I stirred the polenta, creamy and rich. The ratatouille bubbled softly and released a medley of summer’s memories around our family 50's Formica kitchen table, feet barely touching the floor. But I am no longer a child and my offering did not fix this one. Dad only consumed a child’s portion. The food was pushed around his plate like lost treasure. Love is not always consumed. Sometimes it remains on the plate and bears witness to our intention, the offering of something ineffable. The cycle of life that revolves around the sun, begins where it ends and ends where it begins. It’s almost too beautiful, too painful, to eat.
It starts with a dog bite.
Note to self: I usually start these blogs because I think I have something to say but invariably I discover it’s something I’m supposed to hear.
The Wizard of Oz begins with violence. Depending on your perspective, Toto takes a justified nip out of Elmira Gulch, the mean and heartless neighbor . . . or . . . Miss Gulch stands up for her rights to have a garden without digging dogs and a feline world free of dog harassment. The moral questions and angst cause our adolescent Dorothy to wonder, “A place where there isn’t trouble—do you suppose there is such a place, Toto?” Cue Judy Garland’s iconic “Somewhere Over the Rainbow.” That was 1939 and the question and the rainbow wish are still asking and still wishing.
Where can I go in the middle of a shit storm?
I think Dorothy ultimately ends up in the right place even though it takes a bump in the head, a fool’s journey, and a peak behind a fake magical curtain for her to let go so she can get there. When Dorothy’s house is swirling through air as her people, places and experiences fly past unhinged and dissociated, she ultimately lands in Oz. It feels like a real place (spoiler alert for those of you who somehow missed the ruby slippers), it’s just a dream. Oz is her monkey mind (constant chatter) on overdrive.
Anything can happen in the Land of Oz—flowers become munchkins who can sing (sorta), beautiful witches travel in bubbles while ugly witches use brooms, and a scarecrow, tin man and lion decide to follow a pubescent Kansas girl with pigtails. Dorothy struggles and strives on the yellow brick road because she believes she can find the fix for the world. Ironically, in the end she discovers that her journey leads her back to where she started—home.
Home is in the eye of my shit storm. Like Dorothy, it’s smack dab in the middle of my mess. It’s my seeing place, my knowing place, where things are seen as they are. Against all instincts, when I turn toward my tornado, observe and breathe deep but gentle self-compassionate breaths, something changes—me. Of course, many times I get lost in the story and confuse it for the truth. I chase dreams. My mind does what the mind does. It’s happy to provide an Oscar worthy screenplay. Yet, before I knew I could dream, I was bone and skin, a heart that thumped and lungs that danced like oceans on sandy beaches—the steady inhale and exhale of life pulled and caressed by a moonbeam. With a kindness that surprises me, sometimes I am able to invite myself back . . . again . . . and again.
Words try to name this place, to enshrine it into memory so I don't have to work so hard. But my constructs are ripe dandelions in the middle of a sudden gust, fluffy puffs that fly away before I can hold them. I am left with the naked green stem and the smell of lost summers. And so I begin again. I was born with this capacity, the gift of breath. It aligns me with the Creator and my creation story. It always brings rain, fresh drops from untapped reservoirs, warm, salty, and sweet on wind chapped fleshy cheeks. In my brokenness with teeth unclenched and pain held in expansive rooms with gentle hands, I discover the dandelion seed set to flight—a gentle zephyr carrying a beating heart. In the middle of the shit storm, the eye of the storm, I watch my chest rise and fall. Hello good friend.
Daily Bites and Blessings
Welcome to "Daily Bites and Blessings." Pull up a chair. I’ve set a place for you at the table. These edibles are sometimes bitter, sometimes sweet and often they are both. This is a come as you are party. I invite you to bring your compassion, courage, and curiosity as we dine together on life's bounty. May our time together give us more light and more love.