Sugar Overdose, Anyone?

"Ahoy Mateys! Set Sail with a Cap'n Crunch Milkshake!!"

Yes, it really said that on the reader board of a local fast food restaurant.

May as well just shoot ourselves in the head.

Near the Center of a Well-Lived Life

"We had it tested and it was so full of steroids that we never could have given it to athletes. They all would have tested positive." ~~ Frank Puleo, a caterer working for the united States Olympic Committee, after testing a 14-inch chicken breast purchased at a supermarket in Beijing, host of this years' summer Olympics

As shocking as the toxicity of Beijing poultry is, do we really know what's in our food these days? In the rush to conform do we sacrifice years of good health - even life - by eating dangerous food products which our great great grandmothers would not even recognize as food? Do we have the respect we should for the cycle of life, the importance of food - whole food - and the soils from which they are born? What roles do corporations and governments play in determining what's on the shelves of our grocery stores and what's in the stuff that is placed there? Who's minding the store? Who's minding our choices? Who cares?

Way too big a topic to cover in a simple blog post. But I am thinking about certain aspects of food and eating and health and choices. Many options remain available, if only we snoop around a bit. I believe there is a better way to approach the fueling of our bodies. I believe it can be done with panache or simplicity or both. I believe it can take a prominent place in the fabric of our daily lives, to our betterment. And I think it's about time.

Michael Pollan writes in his book, In Defense of Food: An Eater's Manifesto: "For most people for most of history, gathering and preparing food has been an occupation at the very heart of daily life. Traditionally people have allocated a far greater proportion of their income to food - as they still do in several of the countries where people eat better than we do and as a consequence are healthier than we are. Here, then, is one way in which we would do well to go a little native: backward, or perhaps it is forward, to a time and place where the gathering and preparing and enjoying of food were closer to the center of a well-lived life."

"Compared to the 9.9 percent of their income Americans spend on food, the Italians spend 14.9 percent, the French 14.9 percent, and the Spanish 17.1 percent." ~~In Defense of Food, by Michael Pollan

Pollan continues, "In order to eat well we need to invest more time, effort, and resources in providing for our sustenance, to dust off a word, than most of us do today. A hallmark of the Western diet is food that is fast, cheap, and easy. Americans spend less than 10 percent of their income on food; they also spend less than a half hour a day preparing meals and little more than an hour enjoying them."

"In 1995 Americans spent twenty-seven minutes preparing meals and four minutes cleaning up after them; in 1965 the figure was forty-four minutes of preparation and twenty-one minutes of cleanup...all of which suggests a trend toward prepackaged meals."~~David M. Cutler, Journal of Economic Perspectives

Pollan again: "Medicine is learning how to keep alive the people whom the Western diet is making sick. Doctors have gotten really good at keeping people with heart disease alive, and now they're hard at work on obesity and diabetes. Much more so than the human body, capitalism is marvelously adaptive, able to turn the problems it creates into new business opportunities; diet pills, heart bypass operations, insulin pumps, bariatric surgery. But though fast food [here again, food that is fast, cheap, and easy] may be good business for the health care industry, the cost to society - an estimated $250 billion a year in diet-related health care costs and rising rapidly - cannot be sustained indefinitely. An American born in 2000 has a 1 in 3 chance of developing diabetes in his lifetime...A diagnosis of diabetes subtracts roughly twelve years from one's life and living with the condition incurs medical costs of $13,000 a year (compared with $2,500 for someone without diabetes.)...Diabetes is well on its way to becoming normalized in the West - recognized as a whole new demographic and so a major marketing opportunity. Apparently it is easier, or at least a lot more profitable, to change a disease of civilization into a lifestyle than it is to change the way that civilization eats."

We have the choice to educate ourselves about our food supply and eating customs. We have the choice to take our health seriously, taking the matter into our own hands, to stop trusting those who profit off our ignorance.

Ultimately, I suppose, it comes down to what truly matters to us, for that is where choices are born.

I relish life. I really do. I enjoy finding full-flavored whole foods in my garden or community. I love to savor the sight and smell of each piece when I unload it from my shopping bag. Then, to cook it up with love for my family and friends, to present beautiful, life-sustaining foods, to savor the deliciousness of the meal along with the joy and laughter from those whose knees tuck under my table, whose hands are poised to participate in the mystery, knowing that I have done no harm, but provided goodness. Such is near the 'center of a well-lived life'.

Il Dolce Far Niente

Upon returning from Italy my friend shared an Italian philosophy he'd come to embrace, il dolce far niente, the sweetness of doing nothing.

He went on to explain that his time spent in the Mediterranean has, among other things, changed the way he approaches eating. Apparently on weekdays the Italians give themselves two or more hours for lunch. Cooking together, savoring the meal with one another, lingering with life, in the moment, fueling body and soul. Then, back to work for a few more hours.

In addition, the shops in Italy are not open long hours seven days a week as they are here. Family and friends are valued over ambition and material wealth. People take the time to live, to know, to enjoy.

In the United States where money is king and material possessions the measure of success there is no time for il dolce far niente. Well, for most people. Some of us seem to have the notion of savoring hard-wired into us, though that doesn't mean we live it. We just long for it.
Some of us thrive on the 'go go go', 'earn earn earn', 'buy buy buy' mentality. I wonder if for these the idea of switching to a more mindful - heartful - philosophy might seem like laziness. The Greatest Generation certainly values hard work, working hard, and hard work. Understandable given what they've been through.

I suppose there is a happy medium somewhere. I like to think Tom and I have found it - at least most of the time. It's easy to become caught up in the competing rush, to lose sight of our true treasure, to run with the frantic throng of the busy. But who's leading the pack?

Certainly not the Italians.

"Do not follow the ideas of others, but learn to listen to the voice within yourself." ~~Zen Master Dogen

Sick. Sick. Sick.

FINAL UPDATE: For you who have wondered...We are well!! Tom's back at work and nearly cough-free, Cassie is back to normal, so is Caroline, and I feel better than I have in a long long while. School is back on track, so are meals, the house is coming together. We are vital and grateful. Thanks everyone!
UPDATE, FRIDAY:: Good news for some of us! I woke up with some energy - what is this? - and it's wonderful. I'll be careful where I spend it. :) Tom's fever is gone, his coughing and lungs are unhappy, but he's feeling much perkier. (Though he's not going to work, he, being Tom, wants to do all sorts of things he doesn't have the strength to do. He gets up, moves around, then crashes.) Caroline is doing much better. Cassie is not doing well at all, but she has all of us doing what we can, and empathizing totally. In addition to Joe's pot of soup, which is almost gone, two kind, generous ladies brought us food yesterday and we were lifted by it. So good. We have enough for today as well. It's surprising the difference a good, hot meal - and lovingkindness - makes. Thanks to you both. You have our hearts. I will be posting a fresh post one of these days, something I've read during my 'down time.' (Oy.) Be well and thanks for the support both physical and virtual. You remain the BEST.

UPDATE: Tom has a low-grade fever but is making some headway. So tired, though. Caroline is coughing less, getting better. But, Cassie is getting headaches and is becoming lethargic and so am I. We're hoping we are just tired and strained and not getting sick. Being the healthiest at this point, she and I had to run errands today - kind of funny. Just putting our shoes on seemed like a big deal. Got the meds at the pharmacy and felt tuckered out by the time I got to the car. I look pretty bad, I think, judging from the looks I got. Again, sorta funny. I'm careful to keep any germs I may carry to myself as best I can. Our wonderful son, Joe, made a huge pot of chicken soup from scratch and brought it over with some hearty bread. I about cried. The soup tasted like love and perked us all up quite a bit. (Thank you so much, Joe. It was delicious!!) Thanks for all your encouraging words! We cherish each and every one! They really do lighten the load and help us feel less alone here in our isolated world of yuck.
~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~

Tom is hacking and snorting and tired on the couch.

Caroline is tired and using lots of tissues and on the futon.

Cassie is exhausted from being the well one for weeks and doing the brunt of the work. She's exhausted from lack of sleep having to share a room with a noisy-sleeping Caroline.

Me? I think I'm having a relapse, but I don't dare succumb. Cassie needs me. I've been making soup, cutting orange and apple slices, cleaning, sanitizing, shopping, making trays of foods for my two sickest, and dragging my tired self around. The concrete limbs are returning.

I remember our life in Myrtle Creek all those years ago. Tom and I spent our first seven years as a married couple there, with family nearby. Tom's mom would bring us her homemade soups when we fell ill. My mom would double the meals she made for Dad and herself and bring the leftovers to Tom, the kids, and me. Both moms brought flowers, and cookies, and games for Benny and Joey. Sweet friends and tiny ladies from church would bring us their time-tested nourishing foods.

The kindness and compassion lifted our spirits. I swear it helped us recover quicker.

When we first moved here, a place we've lived for over twenty years, we had a home-school support group. We made many great friends. When I had my first miscarriage the ladies outdid themselves bringing us complete meals for two weeks. Full meals of roasted turkey, enchiladas, pork chops, soups, chicken and rice and so much more. They brought entire meals setting them out for us on our kitchen table. Such humility we felt as we savored the work of these kind families, a different family each night. Invariably there'd be a lovely get well card presented along with hugs and kind words.

A second miscarriage, a vicious bout of pneumonia, and two healthy births replayed the scene over and over and over. I was pleased to know giving people such as these. Pleased to do the same for them when they needed help.

But people move on. Only a couple of these friends remain in our lives and they are so busy.

We've never found a church that embraced us. We've never fit in.

I miss the niceties. I miss the nourishing. I miss my mom. And Tom's mom. I miss the care.

I miss my health.

I am sad that we are all ill. Sad to see my kids suffering so. I am tired, not able to care for them as I'd like. I feel inadequate. And alone.

But this will pass. We'll be well again.

And when energy returns I'm going to send beautiful, sincere cards to our moms and thank them again for their compassion for us all those years ago. Then I'll get on my knees and thank God for the family and friends who showed me what being human is all about.

And I'll thank him for the contrast he has sent my way.

And I'll ponder these things in my heart.

You

"Love your neighbor as yourself is part of the great commandment. The other way to say it is, Love yourself as your neighbor. Love yourself not in some egocentric, self-serving sense but love yourself the way you would love your friend in the sense of taking care of yourself, nourishing yourself, trying to understand, comfort, strengthen yourself...."Mind your own business" means butt out of other people's lives because in the long run they must live their lives for themselves, but it also means pay mind to your own life, your own health and wholeness, both for your own sake and ultimately for the sake of those you love, too. Take care of yourself so you can take care of them. A bleeding heart is of no help to anybody if it bleeds to death." ~~ Frederick Buechner

Wrapping up the Week...

Caroline has had a full week.

Monday: To the doctor for a recurring rash on her pretty little hands which has Caroline paranoid. Ointment, assurances. Severely chapped, sensitive skin. She won't die from it. While running errands after the doctor visit, with Cassie at the wheel (driving like a pro, I might add), we three were nearly hit six different times, by six different stupid drivers. Cassie reacted perfectly, averting disaster every time. Divine testing, perhaps?

Tuesday: To a noon-time symphony at the Hult Center. Beautiful, wonderful! When we called Daddy to pick us up his phone didn't work. A dozen tries later we got through. In the meantime, we'd walked to the Mac Store, a good pick-up spot. What did we see while waiting? Disheveled, sleepy-eyed kids and adults dressed Goth-like in black or Medieval attire, back-packs sagging from shoulders, all filing toward a vague entrance as though beckoned by some Ancient Being. Before entering the building they silently, respectfully tamped out cigarettes, meeting our eyes with shy smiles. We smiled and nodded in return. After twenty or thirty people slipped up the dark stairway we decided they must have been Role Players. Gotta love this town. Caroline dubbed the mysterious glass door which swallowed them up, "The Weird Door of Oddness." (We have many role playing family and friends, so we did not judge, merely assessed in kindness. We simply found it odd in the middle of the day, in the middle of the week, in the middle of town.)

Wednesday: To the orthodontist. Will the braces come off? Is that last 12-year molar moving in? Braces still on. Molar about to erupt. Almost there. Patience. More patience. Good-hearted girl. Happily we had the tea party adventure afterwards - see previous post.

Thursday: To the optometrist for her first big-time eye exam. 20/20 vision, healthy eyes. The effects from the dilation of her pupils was "cool." The brightness of the day required funky-fun, plastic eye protection for the drive home. Seemed like an upbeat end to a long week of the ordinary and the unusual. But it didn't end there. Nope. Headache. Body aches. Yes, and a fever that rose a degree an hour until it peaked at 102 degrees. Caroline came down with my flu. I hate sharing bad stuff.

Friday: Her fever is broken, but she is weak. She is bummed. She missed all her tutored classes this week. She requests her favorite meal. Pasta. Things are looking up.

Tomorrow: On what note will Brave Caroline's week expire? We harbor great hope.

Valentine's Day

Why love, if losing hurts so much? We love to know that we are not alone. ~~C.S. Lewis

We don't like to be told what to do around here. Though life doesn't always afford our way, sometimes we get it anyhow. Because a blue sky day greeted us this morning, we declared today Valentine's Day.

I am like a falling star who has finally found her place next to another in a lovely constellation, where we will sparkle in the heavens forever. ~~Amy Tan

Moisture puffing along in the sky gave variation to the clear blue. It was a sign to expect the unexpected.

Love does not consist of gazing at each other, but in looking together in the same direction. ~~Antoine De Saint-Exupery

Choosing to forego the usual chocolates or chalky conversation hearts - 'U R 4 Me!' 'IM Me!' 'B Mine!' 'Hot Stuff!' Phooey! - I landed on a bright idea. To the whimsical tea house the girls and I would go after an orthodontist appointment. I'd been to the tea house with Pam and her mom, but was saving such an adventure for the girls until the perfect opportunity presented itself. Today would be the day. I wanted to give each daughter a Valentine to remember.

While I enjoyed a cozied pot of vanilla chai tea, the girls delighted in hot cocoa. Delicious, freshly-made tomato basil soup nourished already joyous spirits.Dessert? Morning-baked scones...

Love is the expansion of two natures in such fashion that each includes the other, each is enriched by the other. ~~ Felix Adler

...dolloped with Devonshire Cream...

Love doesn't make the world go 'round; love is what makes the ride worthwhile. ~~ Franklin P. Jones

...smothered in Oregon Berry jam. Oh my.

You are my beloved and you are my friend. ~~ Song of Solomon

Don't feel sorry for Tom. On our homecoming he was presented a bowl of hot soup, a large cup of tea, a special gift from me, and the scone you see in the photos. He smiled. Really big!

Love does not die easily. It is a living thing. It thrives in the face of all of life's hazards, save one -- neglect. ~~ James D. Bryden

Spring birds chirping, higher sun beaming, new grass growing. Love all around. Mushy, sappy, grinning love.

It's Bitter, Man! (A 60 Second Post)

True confession.

I feel the need to purge myself of this secret.

I hate coffee.

I've always hated the taste of it. It's bitter.

It stains teeth.

I do not drink it Sam I Am. Here or There. Anywhere.

Nasty.

There.

I said it.

I admitted it.

Stone me.

(Just, please, don't make me drink the stuff.)

Peeking Spring

Good news from the doctor today, warm shirt-sleeve weather, greenery perking up all around, fresh-faced flowers waking up their sleepy little heads, honking geese in overhead V's, buds on trees and bushes, the sun a little higher in the sky hangs around a tad longer each day, and I am coming out of my wintery hibernation.

I think I'm going to make it.

Yippee!

Rainy Thursday

"A mother is not a person to lean on, but a person to make leaning unnecessary." ~~ Dorothy Canfield Fisher

Case in Point

Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers at Half Time: A Class Act

Unbelievably fantastic though the game between the Giants and the Patriots was - and it was the best Super Bowl I've ever seen - the halftime was my place of joy. If you've been reading this blog for any amount of time you have figured out that I 'am a fan' of Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers. The music fits my world. So does the integrity.

I knew they'd deliver the goods on Sunday and sure enough, it was a class act all the way.

The meanest, nastiest flu I can recall hit me late last week, knocking me out of this world into that weird, head-swimming, delirious world of aches, pains, disorientation, sweat, chills, worry about my family not eating well and what's not getting done (bills to pay, school to teach, the tub needs cleaning, the dog smells houndy, Joe's car's been totalled - does he need help? - and wondering when my arms and legs turned to concrete.) My daughters are the best nurses ever, Joe a most attentive son, and my Tom does the best he can to hold it together. Still, the flu left me looking and feeling like I've spent a week dancing at the Zombie Zoo. Today I saw my reflection in the mirror, making the sight even worse by grimacing in shock.

All this about me to say that even though I had to be escorted to the living room couch with my small cups of gingerale and water along with the saltines that currently follow me everywhere, I was not about to miss Tom Petty in any way shape or form. Silence ensued at half time while two eager generations gathered around the tube to hear Tom and the boys do what they do so well. Fantastic! Flawless! Fun! The best half time in a long long while. No freaks jumping around, rising suddenly amidst smoke from here, sinking into oblivion there, no weird camera angles, no ridiculous pyrotechnics, no lousy music.

Quite the contrary. The boys were decked out beautifully, all handsome, talented, professional, exciting, energized, quietly confident, youthful eyes twinkling, and those smiles! How Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers can sing and play! And create fun. Honed by a decades-long wild ride these men know what works and how to bring it. They did.

Classy in that it felt like they did it for us instead of for themselves.

Tom seemed to be having as much fun as he did all those years ago when it was brand new. There seemed to be an amazed, boyish hint of, "Hey, man, I'm playing for the Super Bowl!" excitement in his eyes. How cool is that.

The arrogant younger stuff might wisely take notes from Sir Petty and his Royal Heartbreakers.


(In case you're wondering, my body is depleted of energy now that I've used what little I had this morning to post this entry - sheepish, foolish, pathetic smile - and I have a ways to go before I am me again. But I've got a few songs in my heart sitting with the worries of the 'undone', and the encouragement to listen to my little nurses: "Get back to bed!!" I'm going. I'm going...)

"Cool Runnings"

The climactic ending of the film, Cool Runnings, always chokes me up.

Four Jamaican bob-sledders experience equipment malfunction which causes a tremendous crash. Emergency crews rush to them, but slide to a stop on the ice when the team appears to be getting up. Picking up their bobsled, the four athletes, shaken and battered from the crash, lift and carry their inoperable sled over slippery ice to the finish line.

"We have to finish the race," says Derice, the one who is the heart and soul of the team.

It's all the more moving because of a quiet, conversational scene earlier in the movie, before the last bobsled race of the 1988 Olympics. Derice knows his coach was a U.S bob-sledder, an Olympian who'd won medals, and had two medals stripped away for cheating, for attaching weights to the front of his teams' sled for increased speed. He wants to know the reasons why...

Coach, pensively: "Why did I cheat? It's quite simple really. I had to win. You see, Derice, I'd made winning my whole life, and when you make winning your whole life, you have to keep on winning no matter what. You understand that?"

Derice, shaking his head slowly: "No. I don't understand, Coach. You had two gold medals. You had it all."

Coach: "A gold medal is a wonderful thing. But if you're not enough without it, you'll never be enough with it."

Derice: "Coach, how will I know if I'm enough?"

Coach: "When you cross that finish line you'll know."

Integrity intact, crossing the finish line, Derice knows. He is enough.

Finally, Real Snow!

Caroline enjoys the icy-covered pond.

Snow begins falling in earnest around seven in the morning and continues beyond two in the afternoon. Rare for our fair valley.



Tom's snowball just misses Caroline. Today's white stuff is premium snowball material. We end up thoroughly whited with snow, red-cheeked, and breathing heartily.

A blue heron takes flight overhead at the pond, large wings flapping like some ancient winged creature. (Click on this, and any of the other photos, for a better view.)

Cassie learns to drive in the snow in the Autzen Stadium parking lot, learning first hand the difference between two-wheel drive, and four. She counter-steers by instinct during slides and fish-tailing, tests the brakes, giggles,...and grins. Hmm, acorn doesn't fall far from the tree.
While she's an Oregonian, her mama is a native-born, shoe-scorning Californian. What can I say? Acorn, tree.

This is winter. We are content.

Relief

Snow gently falls.

Soft. Still. Illuminates predawn,

Blankets mud, vehicles, naked tree branches, the unlovely and the beautiful, homogenizes. White.

Feathery flakes, wide, irregular, contribute their individuality to the common.

Feels like peace.

Under porch shelter, blanket clutched around burdened shoulders, bare feet, lungs relax into deep, cold pulls and pushes,

Scent and taste of hope, renewal.

Arms of Mercy embrace, comfort, assure,

Good will conquer evil.

Have patience.

Look within, walk your path, steady, true, accompanied,

Break down, restore, break down, restore;

Such is the creation of wholeness.

Floundering

(Because my mind and emotions are still sorting through this topic, I'm not going to edit this post. It's out there, raw, rambling, and real. I want to remember how I'm thinking and feeling right now.)

I don't understand, and yet, I do.

Pockets of evil thrive behind closed doors, or out in the air for all to see. Beatings, rape, incest-rape, the torture of the innocent, of children, sometimes by family members - the protectors!? - catatonic drunkenness and drug abuse, violence of all types, unspeakable terror, murder.

Children born and raised in unsafe environments learn to cope, and yet they are haunted, twitchy, nightmare-ridden, and sometimes imprisoned. How to survive such horror, is it possible to rise above? Truly?

I've lived a sheltered life. That's the first time I've ever said it because I've found it embarrassing.

I'm not embarrassed anymore. I'm on-my-knees grateful.

A book has been teaching me just how fortunate I've been. (Yes, Angela, it's that book. I'm not enough of a drinker to find anesthesia sufficient to narrow my widened eyes and soften the shock. But it's good I am encountering such as I am. Still braving each chapter, hoping to make it to the end. Thanks.)

Decades ago, a woman I know of was raped by a total stranger while walking home from the library. A nice lady who had a kind husband and sweet young children, a safe home. Wrong place. Wrong time. Her violation changed her, took years to battle in her heart and mind, bruised a large portion of her soul, and became her identity. "Raped." Nearly losing her husband, distancing herself from her children for far too long, it was the grace of God and her still strong belief in him that carried her through to other side. Grace for courage. Grace to deal. Grace to forgive. That last one was the stickler.

Not to diminish the stark invasion of her life - physically and mentally - she was raped once. One time. She had an incredible support system. She was lifted on gentle, nourishing, tender-loving wings. Yet recovery was excruciating. Understandably so. An experience like that should happen to no one, ever, at all.

Like a phantom, this brave woman hovers in my mind as I read about Vonnie who suffered innumerable flesh-tearing rapes from the time she was four when Grandpa 'needed' her. Eventually so did cousins, classmates, men she met in bars (Why repeatedly return to bars, I keep asking myself? This I don't get except that old habits die hard, or the benefit outweighs the trauma.), strangers in the dark, cops, boyfriends, brothers, and yes, dear old Dad. And I'm only halfway through the book.

Her mom, sisters, and cousins know this is going on. It happens to them, too! They don't talk about it much, they say it's just the way of men, no support, nor organized rebellion except to fight back like wildcats. But men are stronger - most of the time.

And so are parents who hurt little kids, tiny trusting beings whose salty tears mean nothing to the possessed adults who inflict things better left unspoken.

While suicide is high among the abused, somehow quite a few of the persecuted survive, even know beauty in their lives. The birth of children, kindness, honest-to-goodness love.

The processing of such profound evil, a systemic violence so all-emcompassing it's considered 'normal' to its victims and perpetrators, is an exercise in confusion and disorientation. There are no pigeon-holes in my mind fit for raw ugliness of this capacity. I hesitate to create a bright, clean cubicle for slimy, gruesome behavior, the likes of which I'd rather not know.

But I have to put it somewhere. Otherwise it'll rattle around infecting my thoughts indefinitely. It needs a place to settle, to become a reference point.

Or maybe it should never settle. Maybe it should keep me stirred up because when I realize the devastation such behavior causes I wince, I writhe in my soul, and I consider that any person has the capacity to, under certain conditions, commit horrendous evil. Even me. I don't know if there is a hierarchy of sin, if little white lies are lesser and sadistically violent crimes are at the top of the list. It certainly would seem so. But I know that the source for them all is the same. The human heart. The same heart capable of enormous compassion and beauty.

I don't understand, and yet, I do.

Spiritual Acuity

A few weeks ago our computer began to crash so I backed up its contents.

After the re-installation process I ended up with a mishmashed, bloated photo library. Through a long, winding process, which I won't describe here, my nearly 6,000 count swelled to over 13,000. Better too many than not enough, but still.

Yesterday I began the tedious, time-consuming process of deleting the duplicates. Four years of photos and you know what I discovered for the umpteenth time? Life is beautiful. Imperfect, but beautiful. Interesting, deserving of my attention far more than the books I read, the movies I watch, or the blogs I enjoy - including my own.

With each series of photos I reviewed came remembrances, emotions. Bodies changing, scenery, too. But the fantastic thing was that these were not just photos of people, places, and events, no, these were memories filled with taste, touch, smell, hearing, and seeing beyond the borders of each frame. In my mind every photo came to life just as in Harry Potter's world. Love, laughter, pain, irritation, beauty, sounds and smells, breezes and heat, hellos and good-byes, the pleasures of life and its trials, too. The photos aren't fictional artistic renderings, they are pieces of my life, very real representations of my history, my forming.

Once again I was reminded that life is broader and more complicated than photos can depict or words iterate, than movies can portray or music evoke. We all know this. Literature and other artistic outpourings have their place in aiding our understanding and giving voice to our afflictions and triumphs. But it dawned on me that as we've become a sort of Wal-Mart world - where cheap and easy imitations are greedily snatched and exhibited as though they are the real thing - we have begun to lose the deep, the genuine. Imitation confuses us. Quantity bludgeons quality. Ambition conquers excellence.

While truth surrounds us always, too often it's the imposter who successfully lures our attention. While the mystery that is life beautifully carries on we look away, choosing instead to focus on the battering inferior substitutions which rain around us, drenching our cognizance, sapping our strength with their ever-presence. Writings of worth are buried under heaps of mediocrity or worse. The same is so of music, films, theater, dance, family, home, and more. Dazed, we accept the heaps and bemoan our loss.

My heart sighs, whispers to the human race, "Together, let us trade the Wal-Mart world of subpar books, demoralizing music, gratuitous movies, mindless television, and wasted, empty-calorie living for that low-ceilinged, fusty shop run by the gentleman with a heart and the too-small studio of the soulful artist. Discard the pointless and rude, repeatedly relish that which uplifts or gives reflection. Mourn with the crushed, lend a hand. Stop and listen to the life-battered street musician, or the teen victoriously getting it right on his saxophone. Leave a cold television set or that popular paperback for a night at the cultural center; a good play, a creative exhibit, awe-inspiring dance, or live, mood-altering music, all of which offer the element of 'oops'. Vigorously scrape off the barnacles of cheap, popular, and easy. Tenaciously seek under and throughout for the genuine. Awaken to love in your midst - embrace it. Pack essential gear, load family into the car, head not for a campground or an RV park but for the wilderness of beach or woods, desert or jungle. Submit to the elements. Thrill to survive. Learn a secret or two. Dare to discriminate. Pop soap bubble delusions, demand the genuine. Come to know the difference between the many and the few. Discover heart, discover life."

McKenzie River

A beautiful river, my favorite in Oregon, the McKenzie.

Tom had MLK Day off. We drove up to the Cascades to breathe in their frigid freshness.

Jolly burst of color in the midst of the startling - for us - cold. The temperature here was in the mid to upper teens.

Exhilarated sisters clown around.

Hard, crunchy snow, temperature in the single digits by this time as we were higher up, and these three began to hike around.

Beautiful moon casting its reflected light followed us home.

As we headed toward a wide spreading sepia sunset, the bright moon low and to our left, shadows and trees and cityscape silhouettes met us. Invigorated relaxation.

We made it home before the colder temperatures settled into our valley. Last night the moon was a clear, bright white I've never noticed before. Tom says it might be because there's no moisture in the air. The girls and I braved the chill, standing, hopping, gazing until our bare feet screamed to go inside.

Heading Home

One year ago this month we found a way to make our dream come true, to add onto our home creating room for our girls to have parties, for our sons to come visit, for our parents to recuperate, for future family members to spend time with us. Room to spread out, play, share. For over a year we have been making the dream reality.

In the process of finding the dream, I lost me.

Soul searching words, meditations, insights - gone. Beauty and pain overlooked, shoved down, 'Save it for later, too much to do.' Nose to the grindstone.

At the same time I am pleased with our material progress. The house is coming along. We'll be painting and carpeting before we know it, moving into new bedrooms. Cassie and Caroline, so patient and kind in their tiny room, no room for most toys - up into the attic they go - clothes jammed into too small closets, too tight drawers. Soon they will have a room fit for princesses. They deserve it.

And Tom and I will have room for a chair from which to read, or knit, or sit alone in the dark and think the thoughts that have yellowed with age and nearly died over the past year.

A hard, hard lesson was learned during this year of prioritizing the temporal. Tom and I are made of tough enough stuff to be ground down to the core - for 12 months - and yet survive. We beat the stress for a change, rather than have it obliterate us with remorse and hurt. Understand this, it was hard. Bickering ensued, disagreements and pouting stamped around. There was stress. And strain. Every single day. In our exhaustion we all but lost sight of the true. But we weren't overtaken. For the most part we managed to keep our cool, our patience, and our togetherness, knowing the ordeal was temporary, but we are not.

I am surprised. Awestruck, really. If you'd asked me a year ago how I thought this process would play out in the day-to-day I would have told you that there would be dozens of screaming matches, doors slammed enough to loosen the hinges, household items hurled and smashed, and regret aplenty. Rabid turning on each other would lead to guilt which would haunt for years to come. "Why do we do this to each other?" Such has been our normal reaction to prolonged, uncontrollable stress.

This time it didn't happen that way. Why? How can it be that I am so surprised, how can we have made it this far in our growth as individuals and as partners and not have noticed? Like Christmas in my heart I understand that God has given us this wearing down process to show us what we otherwise would not have realized. We are never so lost that we can't be found. Even again and again.

"God creates everything out of nothing - and everything which God is to use He first reduces to nothing." ~~ Soren Kierkegaard

Our lesson contains a nugget: The inner man is fragile and strong. Fragile in that neglect will dim it indefinitely. Strong in that sincere concern sparks re-ignition, eyes to see, to notice the starvation. Easy to dim the light, easy to become lost, for temporal things - though lousy substitutes - are great imitators. Inattention allows the fake to deceive, to mask the real, breeding a certain discouragement, for one senses that something is amiss, ill-fitting. Eyes to see, yes, to see and know that a precious thing is shriveling. Then, a heart to fight, a strong inner heart, engaged once again in the real.

For now the testing is over. Awake at last, Tom and I begin taking in our surroundings; we shake off the disorientation, look up and around, see one another, sigh. Smile. We made it. "Hello." Reaching hands, interlocking fingers, faces relaxed, feet walking toward the smooth path, for God knows how long. We begin to find.

It feels good under my feet, this fresh but known path.

I've missed us.

I've missed me.

A Retrospect

January 22, 1973. Roe v. Wade. Abortion laws overturned in the United States opening up abortion on demand.

I had to run my calculator just now to count the years as my brain couldn't wrap itself around the fact that this landmark Supreme Court decision happened thirty-five years ago.

Ten years into the abortion debate I found my life increasingly speckled with pro-life activists. Materials were given to me as I was pregnant with my second child, information that made me physically ill. Even as precious life grew inside of me I learned about gruesome procedures designed to terminate life within a woman's womb, about court rulings upholding the 'right' to do such things. I became aware of innumerable political activists on both sides of the issue marching, writing, and fighting.

I am a passionate woman. I am a mother. Babies have always been mysterious, beloved wonders to me. I didn't pick a side in the debate, it picked me. As sympathetic as I am to women who find themselves pregnant against their desire, allowing death is not something I support, barring life-of-the-mother type scenarios, which are extremely rare.

In 1983 I found my newly abortion-aware self invited to become co-director of our county Right-to-Life. When the woman who'd been director of the organization had to move out of state, my friend, Karen, agreed to take over, and she asked me to help her. I talked it over with Tom. Together we decided I should join the cause in this capacity.

It'd been awhile since this group had met, connections had shriveled along with communications. Karen and I jumped right in. In no time we created a Board of Directors which consisted of a doctor, a lawyer, pastors from two denominations, a couple of teachers, and the two of us. We talked. We educated ourselves. We planned. We organized. We got to work.

Both Karen and I had dabbled in journalism in high school and college so a newsletter was a natural step. From scratch we created a monthly six-page periodical filled with political and support information, medical news, book reviews, local events, opportunities for involvement, interviews with people of note on both sides of the issue, editorials, and more, all written and compiled by the two of us in our kitchens and living rooms. The response was huge. The mailing list grew.

Money came in without our asking, money we used to fund our printing expenses, pay for materials, and to support local crisis pregnancy centers.

Soon we found ourselves invited to speak to youth groups, study groups, churches, and schools. Our talks, coupled with films and guest speakers, led to invigorating question and answer sessions. A local radio station invited us for a lively on-air two hour interview complete with an extensive Q & A session with its radio listeners. We found ourselves repeatedly interviewed on television. People of all ages were thirsty for information and we were happy to help them sort it all out.

One moment vividly stands out in my mind. After one of our out-of-town speaking engagements I was approached by a gentle young woman in the parking lot as I made my way to my car. She carefully pulled a limp newspaper clipping from her wallet and handed it to me. It was a letter I'd written to the editor of the local newspaper she subscribed to, a letter stating my views on abortion and the reasons why. She said, "I just want you to know that I was completely, actively pro-choice until I read this letter of yours. It opened my eyes and changed my heart. I keep it here in my wallet where I see it every day. It inspires me to speak up for mothers and babies whenever I can."

My mind and body seemed to stop when I realized what she was saying to me. I had changed her life through my words. It took me a long time to grasp the implications of that. I am ever thankful that she took the time to tell me the impact I had on her for it taught me that no effort is too small to make a difference. As far as I know this dedicated woman remains a tireless champion of the unborn.

After more than two years of long days and nights spent writing, answering mail, keeping the books, lecturing, attending meetings, and taking long phone calls at all times of the day and night by people eager to learn from me or tell me their stories, I was pretty much burned out. I had two sons of my own to raise and a patient, supportive husband. They needed all of me. I resigned, leaving the organization in very capable hands, the baton successfully passed.

Each January 22nd I pause to size up the advances made in the effort to protect the unborn. I've always felt that most people will make the right choice if they know exactly what they are dealing with. Education is the key. As knowledge increases, abortions seem to decline.

A lump forms in my throat when I contemplate human beings rationalizing the killing of innocent life for their own convenience or reputation. I know it's not an easy decision for most, that those who abort often agonize over their situation. I am sympathetic, I am. But at the risk of sounding bland, two wrongs don't make a right.

It's my hope that one day we as a civilized people will look back on these days of women sacrificing their unborn children as a dark, dark era in the history of humanity; that human life will be restored to its place of honor and mystery.

"An Unfinished Life"

In watching the movie An Unfinished Life for the fourth time I was moved, yet again, with the beauty of the film, the story, the layers, the final words.

Two older men, Einar and Mitch, long-time friends, wounded by life, restored by truth, sitting on the porch of Mitch's cabin sharing words in muted, pensive tones:

Einar: You think the dead really care about our lives?

Mitch: Yeah, I think they do. I think they forgive us our sins. I even think it's easy for them.

Einar: Griff [young granddaughter] said you had a dream about flying.

Mitch: Yeah. I got so high, Einar, I could see where the blue turns to black. From up there, you could see all there is. And it looked like there was a reason for everything.