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 |  Just play: don't look at your hands! |
What a dumb title for a person who never got a single star  on her piano lessons!Daily practice is the thing though: the practice of noticing as well as of writing.  However, I'd much rather play duets than solos, so hop right in! You can do the melody or the base part, I don't care.  Just play along--we'll make up the tune as we go. I'll try to write regularly and deliberately. Sometimes I will do it poorly, tritely, stiltedly, obscurely. I will try to persevere regardless. It seems to be where my heart wants to go, and that means to me that God wants me there too. See you tomorrow. ![Merit Badge in Journaling
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| The snow has been coming down heavily since last night, with a partial melt during the day to make the roads more calamitous. if that's a word. Fortunately I got to ride with a nurse in her Expedition as we made our way north to the Snake river, a fifty mile trip up on poorly marked and sparsely traveled country roads. It's a good thing she'd been there just a few days before or we'd never have found the place in this white out. All the little landmarks were obscured by snow, and later fog. Only the big grain elevators marked the way. The patient may not live the night, and I'm glad it's not my night on call. I'd hate to make the trip again in the dark. I'm procrastinating, and it's getting to the 11th hour, figuratively speaking. I have to get a memorial service planned tonight before I go to bed, and I'd like to get a good night's sleep. It's so hard to figure out what to say when you've never met the person and the family can only come up with a couple of general statements. "She was a good mother" is wonderful, but it doesn't take much time to say without some illustrations. Add in that they want a touch of religion for her mother's sake, but that no one in the family is religious. So that means they want the 23rd psalm, "because it's traditional, isn't it?" Traditional among families who aren't familiar with anything else in the Bible, but that's unfair. Other people like it too. At least they don't want the music that fits in the same category, songs they've heard at funerals before but that don't mean anything to them personally, like "The Old Rugged Cross" and "Amazing Grace" and "How Great Thou Art." Not that there's anything wrong with them, but if they don't fit the person who died, I wish they'd come up with something else. There's one hymn I actually don't like and might even try to talk a family out of: In the Garden. There's something just sappy about it to me. I once heard it paraphrased: "And He walks with me, and He talks with me, and He chucks me under the chin." That's the feeling it gives me. These folks at first had no suggestions other than, tongue-in-cheek, Black Sabbath and Led Zeppelin. Fortunately her mom had a list that included "Bridge over Troubled Waters" and "Let Peace Begin with Me." And Eagles Wings, another funeral favorite but such a nice song. All more contemporary and fitting for a 50 yr old. Well, I'd better get on with it. Bill called to say it was too warm for hunting today. He's in Indiana with his kids, pheasant hunting, while it's 17 degrees here and snowing. I'm glad he's having a good time, but I sure miss him these cold nights. Maybe tomorrow night I'll have time to actually read some blogs. That would be good. |
| Can't say why exactly, but I'm happier tonight. Bill came home a little after midnight for a few hours of sleep before it became light enough for planes to search for the downed aircraft. I'm not sure when he left, much earlier than I got up to go to work. The wreckage was sighted around mid-morning, no survivors. It was a single engine plane, a little older than the one we fly but comparable. The pilot evidently got into bad weather or something and crashed into the canyon wall. He was flying alone, but his siblings were among the ground crew searching, and they were the first on the scene. That's a grim picture. I had a new patient today, another grim picture, a woman 15 yrs younger than I am, dying from a brain tumor, unable to communicate. On the only positive side, her husband kept her house very neatly for her, and she looked lovely in her bed by the window. Felicia can't find her passport, and we're taking her and the kids on a cruise in December. So, see, there's no good reason to be in a better mood. Except maybe it's just good not to be that woman in that bed, and not to have that man in that crashed airplane be my man. And he just came in the door. So I'll go share a bottle of good merlot with him and go to bed early.  P.S. I'm thinking it was a better day because I was in a better space, thanks to my WDC friends' good listening. |
  I ran across an old friend from grade school on facebook. When I looked through the pictures she posted of kindergarten and first grade classes, I remembered the names of more than a dozen faces, even though I hadn't been in that class. Pretty good, considering how very many years ago I moved away from that little town. She filled me in on what had happened to a few, but she moved away too and hasn't kept up with everybody. Bill grew up in this town, and my kids don't live far from where they lived most of their childhood. I envy them that. They all know what their peers are doing, or have done. They can look around and see how well they've done by comparison, or how they aren't alone in this or that. Like marriage/divorce, or careers, or health issues. I don't have that perspective, and I wish I did. I wish I had some old friends to play "Remember when?" with. I wish I knew if anybody my age and with my background still goes to church, or lives is CEO somewhere, or wrote a book. Still, comparing oneself with others can be a pretty bad habit, no matter who comes out ahead. You can feel sorry for yourself, or you can feel better than other people; and neither one of those attitudes is good for you in the end.  I'm all alone today. Bill left at 3am to drive to Tacoma for the day, won't be back till midnight probably. I just came back from Portland last evening. I flew over there on Wednesday, rented a car and met my daughter at the airport to take her to her quarterly oncology appointment. This was the first one since she finished her chemo, and she might have been nervous about it, even though she had the DVD of her MRI and a letter saying that everything looked okay. No new growth of the remaining part of the brain tumor. Driving in city traffic, in a strange car, and on unfamiliar roads adds up to a major thing for me. I've done it three times now, and surprised myself that I could do it without a terrible tension headache. Or that I could do it at all. This time was the hardest, for some unknown reason. Maybe it was the rain, and the urgency of getting to the hospital from the airport in an hour, then later trying to find a particular restaurant where my son and his family would be waiting to meet us for dinner. In the dark, in the rain. My daughter's iPhone directed us, but she couldn't always get a connection, and you know how it is to follow Mapquest or any of those directions that are not always accurate or understandable. I made lots of u-turns, or at least round-the-blocks, heading back the way we'd come when the GPS re-calculated. When I left her at the shopping mall to be picked up by my son's wife, I headed back to the airport hoping I wouldn't get too lost or in an accident on the way. She knew I was anxious, and she said to call if I had trouble. I did have trouble finding my way to I-5, and had to disregard the printed out directions and find it on my own. When I finally got the car turned in at the rental agency and made my way to the private terminal I was flying out of, I was exhausted. I called her to tell her I'd made it and got the regular recorded message saying she wasn't available. I was pissed. I always am when I get that message, but much more so when I'd been counting on her at least being on the other end of the phone if I needed her. So I'm in sort of a grinchy mood, and I may continue this rant at another time to complain about the best friend who texts her continually, even in the middle of the night. The chime of the phone woke me but not her. I'm worried about her. Since she doesn't read this blog any more, since I haven't written it for so long, I may write about her and my concerns. I took her name off, along with the rest of the cast of characters I used to list at the top of blog. But for now, I've got to go to bed. |
Thanks, Alfred, for your good answer. I think your example is very similar, even though the subject matter and techniques are so different. I suppose there are several common points as well, I think. Nobody actually "gets" it immediately, if ever, not religion or musical ability. Both require faith that there's something worth going after, and both require practice. One of the famous old church writings is called "Practicing the Presence of God." You might look it up. It's very short and probably even available on line. You made me think a new thought there. I know I have very little musical talent. I played a horn in high school band and sang in many choirs, but I don't have a gift. I came quickly to diminishing returns as I practiced, not having the ear for what it should sound like and getting discouraged easily. My new thought is: maybe spirituality is equally foreign to some people's nature. I'm defining spirituality as finding meaning in life and being able, at some level, to transcend the material world, maybe with music for instance. Some of the folks I meet daily have never believed in anything they could not hold in their hands, or at least never thought much about it. Their world has been work and making a livelihood for for their families, and they have, of necessity and training, lived in the word of facts. They often distrust feelings and imagination. Maybe they have avoided religion because it was as unintelligible as algebra, or poetry to them, a different world. Well, I'll have to think about that. It's a good thought and worth some more pondering. One thing though, for you: faith is not a matter of being able to believe that all the God-stuff is 100% true. Maybe it's partly the willing suspension of disbelief, part hope, and part yearning. I can dismiss a whole lot of what passes for religion as foolishness. When I get to the essential questions like where did the stuff of the Big Bang come from, and is there a purpose to human existence, and how about for me?--then I can't just say "Hogwash." I'm stuck wondering, hoping and yearning. And I think I'll make this tonight's blog! Thank you very much! |
| I'm pondering retirement. In fact, I told my boss at the beginning of the year that I'd be ready to do it by, maybe, the end of March. I was committed to helping lead a grief group until then. I also told her I wouldn't leave the other chaplain stuck with no help, that I'd keep on helping out till they found someone else. (Chaplains aren't necessarily easy to find in small towns. There are probably plenty of ministers who'd like to stamp their own brand on the work, but that wouldn't do at all.) So when March came and went, I told the boss that I'd stay till summer. Well, here it is, and here I am. Why? For one thing, even though I'm part time, I make more than social security will pay me. For another, Bill isn't at all excited about the idea. He even asked me what I'd like to do instead of hospice, as if he thinks I'd be looking for another job. What it comes down to is this: I'd probably be doing something similar if not the same and not getting paid for it at all. So why do I wish nearly every day that I'd make up my mind to leave? Several reasons. One is, I'm tired of hearing one particularly tiny, sweet voice of a social worker effusing with sweet, affirming words to everyone, and in a limited vocabulary. She probably uses the word "amazing" thirty times a day, stretching it out like bubble gum, her shining eyes open wide in an attitude of incredulity. Maybe I'm jealous of all the attention she gets. I have to admit it. But why do people like that act so well? It's beyond me. More than that, because that is a really shallow reason, I get tired of rejection. It's not even whole-hearted rejection, more a luke-warm tolerance toward anything that smacks of religion. I know I don't play a very important role, hardly ever. Hospice patients and their families are usually either already connected to a church or indifferent. So what do I have to offer? Not much. I just came from meeting a new patient, and from phone conversations with his wife, I was not expecting much. She said she has her own faith, he does not, and that he sometimes gets very angry at strangers. It actually worked out fine. He didn't say much, and I felt like I was floundering around, potentially putting my foot in my mouth over and over. I don't like to do all the talking. I started by saying that only a handful of my patients are actually very religious, and a little more than half of the rest believe in God, or in heaven, or both. He said he fit in that group, but he did not go on and I didn't want to fish. I asked him to tell me about his life, thinking maybe I'd hear more. It was still like pulling teeth to get at his story, and after a while I thought I'd been at it long enough. I asked him if he knew of anything I could help him with, and he did not, but he said he'd enjoyed the visit and I could come back. (One piece of a story that he told was one his wife said she'd never heard before, about racing his dad's car when he was on an errand.) I told him one of the things I could offer would be prayer, but I wouldn't push it. He agreed, to his wife's amazement. It stumped him at first when I asked him what I should pray about; then he said he wished his care wasn't so hard on his wife. So we prayed for some help for her. When she walked me to the door, she stepped outside and told me she was really surprised, and pleased, that he'd let me pray. That's the other reason I haven't retired yet. Occasionally, just occasionally, I'm in the right place at the right time. |
| Nothing in particular in mind and it's past my bedtime, but I want to write something. The twins are with me for the week while Bill is gone, and Vacation Bible School is going on from 9-3 each day. Supposedly I could work at least 5 hours each day, more than I usually do as a matter of fact, but I have not. Yesterday I forgot my cell phones in the rush to get them out the door, and making the 22mi round trip hooked me into staying home and getting some other things done, like picking up after ten-year-olds. Today I actually saw two patients, but ran home for a bathroom trip and to check on the plumber who was supposed to come yesterday. Our irrigation water needed a mend. Bill had only recently turned it on, using a 'key', a long pipe with an end that fits the faucet that is 18" down. Unfortunately he'd left the key in the hole, not for ever but for too long. An old (88 yrs) friend of ours drove into the driveway and ran over the key, and now the cutoff valve to the irrigation water has leaked enough to fill the hole and make a puddle in the gravel driveway. So I called a plumber. The pump on the 16' above ground pool was running when we left this morning. (I sent Sophie out to check.) It was not running when we came home at 3:30. They had a good swim anyway, and I read a little while playing with the dog. Lola has decided it's great fun to drop her tennis balls into either the pool or the fish pond. She fell in the other day, we noticed when she was completely wet and came running inside. A slate had slipped into the pond, so we know what probably happened. Why that's fun, to drop a ball in and then try to paddle it back to grab with her mouth, we haven't figured out, but she'll stick her whole head underwater trying to get it. I read the kids three chapters of The Magician's Nephew, from the Narnia series by C.S. Lewis, before they went to sleep. Jack did the math and told me I'd have to read more than 2 a night if they were to finish before going back to Spokane. If we take them on Saturday, I'll have to read more than that. I suggested their mom might have to finish the job, but they said she doesn't ever read to them any more. She's too tired. This week, her chemo week, will certainly not be a good one for that. They could read the book themselves, but that isn't the same. It may be cooler and rainy tomorrow, and so maybe we could have a daytime reading session as well. Guess that's about it for tonight. I'm finishing a glass of wine as I write, but need to get to bed myself. Pleasant dreams to all of you. |
| I've run across two comments recently that left me laughing and shaking my head. The first was from a news commentator a couple of months ago when the 8.0 earthquake shook Concepcion, Chili, followed by many other smaller ones. These were in the wake of less powerful but more devastating quakes in Haiti two months before. "Is Nature out of control?" the newscaster began. Duh. This week a poster on Facebook, using a similar news commentator tone, asked, "Blind Faith - what is it? Is is real? Should we go with it? Should we avoid at all costs?" And someone responded, "i believe in faith if there is something to back it up....."  I think I'll leave it there. Maybe I'll address the issue of blind faith at another time, but for now I'm still shaking my head. |
| Our dog Lola is a barker. She is a "terrier mix" according to the vet, a "wired terror" according to Bill, and she loves to bark. She is alert to every dog sound within miles and joyfully does her part to spread the word, whatever word it is. She has occasionally been helpful, barking at a strange and nervy cat who tries to sneak in the house to get at our cats' food bowl. She does let us know if someone is headed for the door or even coming up the driveway. Hardly anything with four legs passes the house that she doesn't alert us, and she's particular diligent at informing us when a horse walks down our little street. There are two dogs who live behind us, and, thankfully, they are pretty quiet and mind their own business, as do the people of the house. Beyond them, past the orchards and the cornfield, are some larger, rowdier dogs who bay in the night. Lola pays all of that crew the most attention when they are coming down the alley on a walk with their owners. She is jealous. I'm sure that's it. Even if she and I happen to be in the back yard gardening, shoveling do-do, and playing ball--the necessary accompaniment to either of those other activities--it's still not as special as going for a walk. My mother used to have a couple of unkind remarks in her vocabulary. Occasionally she called people "bean counters," or said someone "likes the sound of his own voice." I've decided that Lola likes the sound of her own voice too. A couple of her tennis balls are better chewed than others, or maybe just made differently, but they are a little softer for whatever reason. She enjoys squishing on them, making noises. The other day the neighbor dog was headed out for his coveted walk with his master when she was chomping on a tennis ball. Rather than relinquish it, she barked around it. It gave her bark a very different sound, a grumbly, growly noise, not at all like her shrill little yip. She obviously liked the effect.She ran all around the yard, chomping and barking this gurgly bark, tossing her head for emphasis, as if she was saying, "and I mean it too!" She just ran out the door for another go round and came back in looking proud. She is delighted with herself, and she makes me laugh. As for the yipping, do any of you know of a way to teach a dog to stop? |
| First off, I try not to lie. Even my driver's license has my correct weight on it these days. (It didn't always.) There are some things I am tempted to lie about, some with good reason and some without. For instance, when I'm going to be late to a meeting, a frequent occurrence for me, a few ideas go through my mind. "The dog got out, and I had to get her back in. " "The phone rang just as I was going out the door and it was long distance from my son, daughter, a long lost friend, etc." "I accidentally locked myself out of the house and had to climb through a window to get back in to get my car keys." All of those things have happened at one time or another, probably not when I needed a good excuse though. And who would I tell as I slid into my seat? Would I interrupt the speaker to offer my alibi? I've heard many lines people use to confront unwanted phone callers and uninvited visitors on a mission, but they seem unnecessary. Why tell the anonymous pitchman on the other end of the phone that you have left your husband and this is the maid he is talking to? Or you can't stand and talk now, you've got an important meeting to go to? Why not just politely say, "No thank you," and hang up or shut the door, smiling. Now here's a harder one. When my ex-husband killed himself, only one person called me. Make that two, a friend and a clergy person. But weeks later, all sorts of people want to ask if he'd been depressed, if he'd ever done anything like that before, and if I have any idea why he did it. It doesn't offend me particularly that they ask, but it does surprise me. I too have been reluctant to call people and offer condolences under similar circumstances, although I never will be again. But I'd never ask them those questions. So far I've avoided telling everyone but the first person, the one who did call, and I probably shouldn't have done that either. She had some experience with the subject herself though, and I knew she could handle it. To everyone else I've said, "Yes, we know now pretty much why he did it, but I don't want to get into that." Or just, "I'd rather not talk about it." That's not a line I have ever used. I've either been open or made a little joke or somehow changed the subject. I think being direct is the best way, and it really isn't as hard as I thought. |
| I meant to go to work today. I don't have many patients who care about seeing a chaplain right now, so I don't feel pressed. Still, I thought I'd go to staff meeting at church and then show up at the office. I didn't. I just didn't get going in time. I kind of wandered from room to room swatting flies, watering plants, sweeping the floor, picking up things from one pile to put them in another. I thought about baking zucchini bread but didn't get it done. Too hot for baking anyway. Not a very productive day, but that's okay. I'm glad Bill didn't say anything about my staying home again. Nobody other than the priest who brought me the news in the first place and a retired priest have called. I'm sure they know. Several of them knew Hank. It's hard to do. People don't know what to say. I know that. I never knew either. But it sure feels funny not having anybody call. |
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