Month: December 2016

Back into Place

On By LisaIn Faith, The ChefLeave a comment

He said to just relax. An impossible request with the pain clouding all thoughts as I lay prone on the floor, hoping the beasts wouldn’t take this as an invitation to play. My pelvis had popped out of place again, several days of excruciating pain with any movement, inability to stand without a groan escaping meant I couldn’t hide my condition. With enough physical therapy sessions under my belt and a long car trip looming, I decided it was time to teach my Chef to do a correction on my tail bone. First I showed him, then I lay down. Relax, he said. But I never relaxed when the professional was working on my twisted body, how could I under these circumstances. And then he touched my tailbone and gasped. Yep, he felt that it was not where it should be, he felt that it was sticking way out.  He pushed like I taught him, he maintained the study pressure, it slide enough that I can walk again. Now I can relax.

I realized as I let the steam from the shower calm the muscles that had tightened and the tendons that were pulled the wrong ways, that I was actually relieved that he had felt the protruding bone. I was vindicated. The culture in my family of origin is one of distrust when I am ill. I didn’t put it all together until recently, how much the family needed to invalidate my truth. Our very existence together required that I not be believed. This story has carried on though into adulthood in ways that are harmful, a story that the family hasn’t considered whether is true, fits, works. It is supported by subtle comments and jokes. Thus my tailbone sticking out and someone in the family touching it instead of a paid healthcare worker pleased me in a sick way.

In the summer before high school, I contracted Stevens Johnson Syndrome, a rare compilation of symptoms that attacked my mouth, throat, and then my insides with blisters and sores. Rushed to the hospital as they fought to diagnose and then find a treatment, my mother was told I might not live through the night. They were preparing to do a trach, I was struggling to breathe. Something worked, some swelling reduced, I began to fight the infections. I was left though with vocal cords that respond to colds with laryngitis almost every time. I was left with kidney issues that have plagued me well beyond pregnancy. I was left with crazy symptoms that have been discounted almost as soon as I left the wheelchair and enter the car to go home. My family made fun of me for losing my voice, it became a thing in our family. The culture of distrusting what I said was so deep that even with this serious event, they all needed to fall back into the habit of invalidating my voice, or lack of one.

For almost 12 years I have been under medical care for an autoimmune disease that seems to be running along the lines of MS. This leaves me unable sometimes to join in, sometimes so exhausted to go to events, often without words by the end of the day. Seasons come where I lose the ability to walk, where I have tremors so badly that I can’t hold a cup. Still, this condition is not believed in my family of origin because that is our culture. Relax, stay stress free, sleep when you need, this is the advice of my neurologist. I have to take care of me. No longer worrying about whether I am believed, whether I am heard, I just carry on. Until today when Chef pushed on that bone.

Much has been written about life in families where alcoholism and sexual abuse occur, the need for secret keeping and the roles each member plays. My honesty was sacrificed every bit as much as my body, my voice had to be silenced. Discrediting me was our glue, an agreement unconsciously made to keep each of us together. With each joke, each jab at me, the whole of the family could relax while I tensed. Knowing now why they couldn’t believe me, that it wasn’t about me but about what else I might say, I can relax. And just like that, everything slides back into place.
Relax

Icing on Our Home

On By LisaIn Faith, Plum, The Chef2 Comments

We are iced in, an unusual December storm sealing our home into forced togetherness. A week before Christmas when the usual activities mean we have more of drive-by relationships, rushing through lists and completing projects and shopping. My Chef has always worked long hours, I helped out selling gift cards. While we were in the same building we rarely had more than 10 minutes to talk, maybe a shared plate of chicken and mashed potatoes hurriedly consumed. The holiday was measured in gift card numbers which equate to January and February sales first, the birth of Jesus in the back of our minds until confronted with truth on the 24th. We spent many years growing the business, years without the funds to purchase presents ahead, relying on that bonus check to finally come through to go shopping. Later years meant we were able to have some security, some savings, but still minimal time together. The restaurant ate up our relationship space, spit back money.

This year, we have time together and no money. Savings gone after 6 months of unemployment, dipping into stocks and no idea about our future, the adage of time or money never truer. With so much uncertainty hovering, tainting our days, still we are together this season. We are in the same room, in the same car, eating the same food at the table like normal families or what I have imagined all these years. I need no other gifts, I am working on learning to talk to my Chef again, recapturing the intimacy that drew us together initially. Like the dishes that are served in a professional kitchen and have to be delivered to the table immediately before they lose their heat, mine has cooled while we both were too busy working to notice. I got old, broken down, the deliciousness gone. I pray I am not thrown out like the stuff left in the fridge too long.

We are together, Chef has discovered Pinterest. The power saws I purchased last year are in full use, the garage now a worksite instead of a dumping ground. Besides helping my brother finish his basement, gifts are coming from Chef’s own workshop. While I snuggle on the couch reading, the sounds of hammering buzzing creating filter in to remind me I am not alone. A comfort, what I always imagined other families experienced, together time, even if they weren’t in the same room. My Chef has taken a huge hit to his confidence, to his sense of self during these last months, but also he is finding the him I have always loved. No concerns about being thrown back, I see the reason we were attracted to each other in the first place.

We are iced in and our Plum is here bringing another chance to feel like a family during the holidays, a Christmas card vignette actually in our home. Chef and Plum made gingerbread cookies, we played endless rounds of Uno, watched The Little Drummer Boy and read Christmas books. We never got dressed and we drank hot cocoa throughout the day. A beautiful golden retriever and a yellow lab lounging next to the reading child completed the Folger’s ad picture. Christmas carols played through Pandora, I found myself humming until Chef delightedly taught Plum to sing “Grandma Got Rung Over By a Reindeer.” Laughter and trash talk and gingerbread and shouts of Uno look like Christmas here. Pans of fudge and cookie cutters filled with bird seed hide kitchen counters. This may be the best year ever.

Every Christmas past has found Chef and I moody, frustrated, exhausted and distant. Gifts for the kids were always a shock to each of us, not a joint venture. How our marriage survived an industry that chews up most is a testament to God, not us. This year we are given the chance to thank Him, to put Him first and find our family again. Forced into togetherness that normally doesn’t happen until late January or February, I am not missing the message. I am fully aware of the gifts we are receiving, not to be squandered but cherished like that babe in the manger. We are iced in together, our own gingerbread home. Life is good.

Moody

Fishing

On By LisaIn Arrow, Faith, Stella, The Chef3 Comments

The Holy Trinity, the three wise men, faith hope and love, important trios that underscore my life. Bad news also comes in 3’s, celebrity deaths see to happen in 3’s, the Stooges numbered the same. Like a triangle that closes all the gaps, maybe one side longer but still all is contained within, I notice threes. When only two bits of news arrive, I grow anxious for the next hit. Even understanding disagreements which include not two sides, but yours, mine and the truth, I see threes. There is a symmetry in this number, welcome or not, throughout my life. I know that really I just stop counting at three, start over, but this is my own construct, my reality. So when I got some upsetting information two weeks ago, I new more was coming. I was right. Two more nuggets hit that have rocked my sanity, wormed into my world and just keep ricocheting with no safe place to land.

I have searched for evidence of my daughter online, blocked from her on Facebook and phone calls. I seek out any possible user names on reddit and twitter, looking for boards on Pinterest, trying out Instagram. A desperate fishing expedition that yields nothing, she is determined to hide. A skilled hacker could surely find her, just as a real fisherman knows the right bait, the best waters. But I am not trying to lure her home, that is beyond my current dreams, more like a tracker, who can sense where she is hiding, where she has been, where she is going. She doesn’t want to be found, I cannot get to her. Still, we maintain a connection that has not been severed despite all efforts. I knew, before I was told, her news. A mother knows. I told myself it was fine, I was okay, I already knew. Yet I am left with more emptiness that actually feels so much like horrible pain I might need a trip to the ER.

I also learned information that rocked my perceptions about my entire life, changed what I know to be true and shifted anger and frustration all around again. News that woke up old hurts and anger with absolutely no outlet, no resolution to be had. I remember one vacation as a child when my older brother was fishing off of a pier in Florida and somehow caught an eel. It snaked up the line and was coming towards him, he was screaming. This bad news is like that, I just want to scream and run and get away. Someone quickly cut the line, sent the eel back into the water. I can’t snip this line and send the monster back. I can’t figure out how to be free of this squirming ugly sliminess coursing through my soul.

Finally, I learned recently that bridges are sometimes rebuilt because pain just cannot be borne alone.  Fear like planks laid down one after another, reaching out towards the other side where hope and support will meet. The very act of joining means we carry some of that pain, hold up some of the worry and share our hope and faith. We built a bridge and now I have news that is scary and painful and out of my control. Like the time I caught a catfish, glorious on the hook but whiskers that pierced when touched, I got near and now I bleed from the encounter.

The three’s in my life are bringing worry and pain and fear. I thought I was managing this latest batch but have to admit I am floundering. I am twitching, I am teary, I am that fish on the bottom of the boat, gasping for breath. I have been caught, I need release. First step is recognizing the problem, then remembering that first trio, the Holy Trinity. Back to my ultimate 3. More healing than the ER, more accurate than hiring a hacker, the transcendent bridge builder. I cannot manage these new hurts alone, they are too big and too scary and bring more than I can bear alone. Father, Son, Holy Spirit, the 3 I am seeking today.
Fishing

New Coffeemaker, New Start

On By LisaIn Faith, Plum, The ChefLeave a comment

It was the kind of day I hate. I need plans, order, schedules. Control, you might say. From the moment I opened my eyes, reached for my phone to check the time and found a text requesting my assistance in just an hour, my day was a mess. I didn’t have time to ease into my morning, no hot coffee and quiet reflection. Rush, run, squeeze. It didn’t help that venturing downstairs led to the indications of very sick dogs all over my floors. What little time I had before heading over to Mama’s to get my Plum ready for school and on the bus was spent scrubbing, moping, awakening to the knowledge we had entered into the vet zone, a costly area I didn’t want to visit a week before Christmas or really ever when it wasn’t for well checks. No time for coffee, I got into my frozen car and set out to meet my pajama clad Plum. A very pregnant Mama had a list for me: shower the boy, take the dog out, drop medicine off at school. Nothing too taxing except I still had no coffee and I wanted a restart on my day. I wanted to offer services not be told. Cranky. Not very giving. Ugly a.m. attitude, worse than morning breath. I pushed through and every task was crossed off my list only to return home to find more mopping was necessary.  Vet appointment made. On to my small group with faith filled women who listen.

We talked, I tried to complete some tasks but was drawn into the rhythms of the voices, I let go into the moment. The “moment” only lasted for the hour and a half we met, back to reality. I called Chef who was out of town, I wanted him to come rescue my day, save me from the anxiety of too much. I kept that to myself, I rarely tell him when my heart is longing for his presence. I know I can’t have him near just because I cannot face what is looking back at me, I dig deeper and find my own strength. More coffee, on to the vet. I complain loudly about my beasts but felt maybe history was repeating, maybe I was losing one or both just like New Year’s Day just a few years ago when my black lab suddenly got sick and then was gone. This vet understood my anxiety and assured me some medication and a bland diet for 3 days would turn these guys around, she was confident we weren’t dealing with cancer and didn’t see the need for extra tests to confirm her diagnosis. They helped me load the boys back into the car, I didn’t fall on any ice trying to corral 200 lbs of beast. My heart felt lighter even if my wallet was crying.

Back home I tried to start my day again, get my home in order for a boy getting off the bus in just an hour. I needed more emotional time but that was no where on the agenda. I made cookies instead because coming to gran’s house requires the smell of baking and something warm from the oven. This I could control. My boy rushed in to tell me the biggest event of his day, not that the teacher had given him a gift, still wrapped in his backpack. He told of a child in his class who ran into a pole and got a nose bleed. My Plum said he began to pray. He climbed under a desk and talked to God.

Boom. There was the fix I had been seeking all day. If I had just paused before I had even reached for my phone and given the day to God, if I had reacted to the first text with a plea to guide my day, if I had searched for God in the moment instead of my own comfort, what would it have felt like? What would I have felt? My Plum said after he prayed he stood up and asked his classmates if anyone else was praying.  Three other children raised their hands. This child is absolutely bold. When faced with a scary situation, one he couldn’t control and his teachers couldn’t either, He sought God. He trusted that his Heavenly Father would sort it all out. He didn’t ask if it was okay to pray in school, he didn’t ask if the child wanted prayers. He reacted based on his soul, he listened to the nudge from the Holy Spirit and followed what he knew to be true: when in need, pray.

As we finished setting up our plates for dinner, he asked if we might say another prayer for his friend. He began. His words could heal the world, not just a bloody nose. They heal a gran. Praying can be a habit, as critical to my day as that first cup of coffee or the satisfaction of compiling my list. I need those actions to get me centered otherwise I am off, I get anxious and cranky and unpleasant to be around. I pray at night before falling asleep, I pray in times of trouble or when friends are experiencing distress. I seek God when an email comes across regarding a specific need or my newsfeed alerts me to a global catastrophe. My praying habits are well established just as my morning rituals are ingrained. I wonder if I could somehow make my phone send me a message each morning to remind me to begin my day seeking out God before I search for the coffee beans. I know without an intentional break in my pattern, I will keep forgetting to give God that territory first thing, just as I forget to take vitamins. I know it is in my best interest, I just haven’t added this into my coveted predawn turf. My Plum has me thinking though. How different could my life as a Christian be if I started out with Christ, dropped to my knees regardless of my surroundings or asked others to join me when I was afraid?

I have learned I need coffee as soon as I get up. I have learned I need to make a list for my day, create order. I am learning I could probably do away with all of the ways I try to establish control if I just gave up some soul time with the One who woke and handed me the day. Maddening how much I have to learn still, how much I fight to be in charge. Ridiculous that instead of leaning on God when I know my Chef can’t be near, I double down and congratulate myself on my own power. Like the coffee that I warm and warm again, never as satisfying as the first sip, without changing my prayer habits I am never going to find my day fulfilling. Thank God I have a six year old teacher to give me lessons so often. It is up to me pay attention and make adjustments. I hope there is an app for that. What if my coffeemaker came with a prayer reminder: please insert beans, add water, push grind, now pray. Absurd maybe, but I need help changing my ways.
Maddening

Fa La La Folly

On By LisaIn FaithLeave a comment

Christmas decorations have taken over my home. The dining room table is set with dishes we don’t use, glassware that never holds drinks. Angels collect on the hutch, an area dusted off just for their appearance. No less than 3 tress have sprouted up bearing lights and garland as well as some measure of ornamentation. The mantle is redesigned to hold nutcrackers and stockings, snowmen own another table. Nativity scenes in many forms are sprinkled throughout. I know the big day is nearing because I am ready to pack all of these intrusions away, I want my clutter free home back. The absurdity of it all, the folly of  changing my entire home for a season would seemingly show my crazy but I am not alone. So what does it mean?

Filling my home with signs of the season necessitates that I stow away other collections. I hide away my old bottles, regular dishes stay in the cabinet.  Regular things I want to look at on a daily basis, items that bring me comfort or stir up memories surround me throughout the year but get pushed out for Christmas creating discomfort. I want my stuff back where it goes. I want normalcy. Christmas knocks me out of my comfort zone. I have to make room for glistening glittering shining objects. Sure these all carry memories as well, ornaments created by little hands and the black tree I purchased on craigslist thinking I got a great deal. Still, this stuff all requires more of me, more of my home. The story of a child born in a stable, swaddled and placed in an animals manger has nothing to do with this excess. A lone star guiding the way, not hundreds outside on the gutters. How does my home have anything to do with the birth of that babe?

There was no room at the inn. I am forced to confront the truth that most of the time I don’t make room either. I have crosses and scripture written beautifully hanging on my walls but do I really see them as I wander from room to room? Years ago I wrote favorite biblical passages on the inside of all of my cabinets, thinking each time I reached for a glass or a can of soup I would pause to read and be enriched. Nope. I no longer even notice them. All of these pieces of my life become background, requiring nothing of me. No room at the inn, I am comfortable. But Christmas makes me adjust, change, allow the message to confront me with every turn. Maybe it isn’t the clutter I resist, it is making room for Jesus. The Fa LA La folly of the season wants more from me. Not santa, not stockings, just room in my inn.
Folly

Begin at the Beginning

On By LisaIn Arrow, FaithLeave a comment

Al Anon meetings were my after-school activities as a child, the place we went as a family to see friends, race around the old couches, drink soda from the can and eat cookies while the adults talked. Each of my siblings and I had scouts or sports but none lasted with the dedication of Al Anon, none involved full family participation. We were a family that knew alcoholism, we excelled in drinking and enabling and secret fights and covering up. I learned early the language of “elephant in the room” and “just for today.” I remember holding sweaty hands with other kids who attended, playtime drawn to a close as we rejoined our parents or grandparents and formed a circle to recite the Serenity Prayer. Knowing those words were important, help some special meaning to everyone in the room, I learned them early, I spoke with determination. Only later as I became a parent of an addict myself have I come to discover the true power and puzzle in these words.

God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can and the wisdom to know the difference. 

Twenty-seven words, my own mission statement. While friends tell of a favorite hymn, wistful eyes recalling Sundays at church singing with the whole family filling the pew, I have this prayer. Like a lullaby sung to send me off to slumber, this is my song. I have signs and plaques around my house in case I ever forget, I guess.  Still, the meaning escapes me, I can’t live it out on a daily basis. How can something so fixed into my DNA still be such a conundrum?

In moments of great distress, I recall these words easier than my own name, clarity and truth abound. I see what I can change, I find courage, I gain wisdom. Having the crises that come with an addicted child, opportunities are unfortunately frequent to establish what is his to fix, what is mine. Knowing I cannot make my child not want to use drugs anymore than he can make me okay with it means we just have some boundaries to work out, some accepting to do.  Walking away from your kid when they are begging to go home, promising to never use again, leaving the rehab, listening to that locked door click, this is the stuff of courage. Figuring out when the problem is his and when I am able to help and that help is really helpful and not saving him from his own stuff, that is wisdom. I have grown skilled at applying this prayer to this limited situation. But what about the other 99% of my life? What about when the crisis is over?  Why didn’t we recite the prayer over dinner or talk about it when we weren’t in that meeting hall? Like holiday lights that shine brightly only one season a year, these words glow when in use but then collect dust in my soul attic, packed away until needed.

What if I began each morning pouring my coffee and praying for serenity, for courage, for wisdom? Would I struggle less, would I understand more? Maybe the words make no sense because I am stuck in my own wisdom, determined to solve my puzzles first. Bottom up rather than top down, who starts a puzzle that way? Using what works with all the sudoku, all the crosswords, I can’t choose the last clue, the middle. Begin at the beginning, serenity.

Conundrum

Accepting Invitations

On By LisaIn Arrow, Faith, Mom, StellaLeave a comment

The old adage that the only certainties of life are death and taxes missed the another one we cannot deny, we all have a mother. Just as we may fight death or be well prepared for the end of life, hate our tax codes or welcome the loopholes, we may adore our mothers or conversely have horror stories to fill social media and hours of chats over wine. Yet we cannot deny that we all came into this world carrying the blood, the nourishment, the cells of one woman. What happens after the moment when we take our first breath and each one after, may create complications, still the truth remains. Without her, we are nothing, we literally aren’t.

I have dug into my relationship with my now deceased mother for most of my adult life, searching for the buried treasure, trying desperately to discover the mom I wanted, needed. Therapy, distance, boundaries, ultimately acceptance of who she was slowed the hunt, kept me present with her while she was here. I still wonder, I still search, I still wish.  Forgiveness changes the urgency though, twisting my random musing into the realm of what I would do with lottery winnings or how would I change if I moved to a 3rd world country, ideas I know are fantasy that require no emotional investment. I have mostly, probably as much as humanly possible, forgiven my mother for being the mom she was and not the mom I needed. I have learned to be grateful that she taught me to be the mom I am. So I miss her sometimes. I am no longer sure if I miss the real mom or my dream one but still odd moments of wistfulness appear, a desire to share some news, a bit of hurt or a wonderful joy. The dream rarely goes any further than that, I don’t play out the conversation. Yet at almost 53 years old, I can admit I want my mom in times of trouble. Death, taxes and mom.

I sat in the dining room of the apartment my Arrow shares with his fiancé this weekend, they invited Chef and I to lunch. A banquet of frozen pizza and delightful salad, prepared on their turf, at their table, their rules. The setting required that we acknowledge they are adults. We weren’t asked to leave our shoes at the door but it was unspoken that our parenting needed to stay there. We could be mom and dad if we accept them as closer to equals.  We agreed to the invitation for lunch as well as the other the invitations, the ones to build some bridges using new and old bits and pieces, to allow them to construct their side how ever they choose and meet in the middle. My Arrow has some little life changes, some big life events, some random musings he wanted to tell his mom. He decided that after distance and establishing boundaries that he would try again. We brought gifts of bread and grace, the opportunity for a fresh start.  Because everyone needs a mom, whether their own or a surrogate, they just need mom. I knew it was only a matter of time with him, that he would be back. I knew the ticking, the tocking would not last so long I would want to rebuild the whole bridge, compromise everything just to have that relationship back. I know my child, he knows his mom. Death, taxes and mom.

I accepted another invitation, the opportunity to bake cookies with an adult mother-daughter duo. Knowing the photographer for all of the amazing shots that show up on this blog would be there was an added bonus. The expectation was not that I really bake, more just that I could do as I needed, write in the other room, rest, find sanctuary. The mere act of issuing this invitation is mind blowing to me, sharing something that personal, opening your childhood up to another, offering your parents to one who is now orphaned, sharing your moments of new memories with another, this is holy stuff. Janet is like this with me. I still haven’t figured out what I have done to deserve her friendship, how I can possibly reciprocate. But she isn’t keeping score either. I didn’t write there, I tried a couple of times but felt drawn instead to be present, to be among them. If only I could go into all social situations with my laptop, I would be accepting invitations daily. Hiding behind the keyboard, observing, that is my safe place. Yet I felt pulled away, pulled into the kitchen, leaving the couch and blanket and cozy escape to enter into that kitchen. The thing is, these people have no reason to include me, they have no reason to trust me, they could have been more careful with me, more wary. Yet they exuded grace, real honest to God grace filled that home as surely as the sweet vanilla sugar goodness of the yeast cookies baking when we arrived. I listened, I watched, I devoured the interactions between them all even as I participated. At the table over a simple lunch of homemade soup that we brought from Janet’s home and cornbread quickly whipped up, the blessing softly beautifully lifted up by her father, we dined together. I lifted them up silently, joy too deep to express as we warmed our bodies with soup and my soul with this little stolen time of mom and dad, family. Shared recipes, a determined search for the one that reminds me of my own mother, dedicated time wandering through photo choices and fixing sizes to ensure they show up correctly, I absorbed. I ate cookies that from the moment they touched my lips created a memory I knew was a forever one. I experienced hours that will be in my “cherished moments” memory box always. Like that extra sprinkle of sugar that sends the cookies from good to great, I was given the gift of approval, the gift of affirmation in a quiet talk with Janet’s father after we settled the artwork questions. He spoke words to me that every child longs to hear from their father. His soft voice carried weight, sent me to tears, could he know how holy that moment was? Emmanuel, God with us, in that office, around that desk. Because they had invited God into the day as well, I wasn’t the only guest in the home.

I realized that they asked absolutely nothing of me, I brought nothing, I gave nothing while there. Maybe the first time ever, I went empty handed, open handed. I stopped being busy and giving and distracted, I allowed them to fill me. I cannot imagine a greater example of what God wants from me, what He longs to offer me. This taste was enticing, a complete surrender to the day, to open my soul and heart completely to the One who truly has grace like vanilla sugar cookies for me, all year long. To arrive broken enough that I accept sanctuary, no longer hiding along the edges, seeking warmth from a blanket instead of His glory. I didn’t have to build a bridge or establish boundaries, I just had to say yes and all of this was open to me. Death, Taxes, mom.  And dad.  Most certainly God.

As I consider the fullness of the day, I am struct by the need to consider how I extend invitations. When I welcome others into my home, do I offer grace and sanctuary? When I welcome others into relationship with me, is the same true? I think the secret may be to ask God first and then fill out the rest of the guest list. Holiness will follow, it will fill the air with cookies baking and no one will worry about death and taxes. Relationship established from conception with our mother, lived out with our Father. No need to search further.

 

 

 

 

 

test

On By LisaIn Faith3 Comments

test

Necessary Space

On By LisaIn FaithLeave a comment

I’m big on birds, in the sense that I feed them and watch them from afar. Slightly uncomfortably around them, I am not the one to hold the seed-dipped stick and walk into the house at the zoo filled with thousands of parakeets. Still, I am intrigued by birds. Beyond the “still a miracle” flight business because I am not a physics person, the incredible colors and feeding habits amaze me. Watching as smaller birds flutter to the feeder then rush away as a blue jay or a wood pecker come to dine, it is clear they understand danger, power, maybe turn taking. I’m sure bird watchers could educate me greatly on these behaviors but the thing is, I don’t really want to learn. I am a contented watcher, happy in my unknowing, in my wondering and guessing. This is a place for me to just observe without losing any of the magic with science, with explanation, with knowledge. For a naturally inquisitive person, I don’t ask questions about birds. I don’t look up information. I fill the feeders, they come, I watch. We have an easy relationship, the birds and I.

This really gracious gentleman takes photos like Picasso painted pictures. He makes art with his camera. When I began my blog he agreed without meeting me, without knowing what kind of nonsense I might write, to share some of his art with me. John Chaille has been supporting this blog with glory, with light, with grace through all of the photos that are actually worth looking at, nature photos that accompany most pieces and provide the extra layer of meaning to my words. I am honored yes, but so deeply touched to be entrusted with his work. Which brings me back to birds. Last night I received a new batch of pictures, ones taken during a recent trip through Texas. Struck by one in particular, a majestic heron spreading its wings, I realized quite possibly the basis of my bird fascination.

I have never seen, not to say it hasn’t happened, but I have never seen a bird spread its wings and knock into another bird. How do they know how much room they need, how do the others know when to back away? When the urge to stretch and wave those magnificent wings, do they venture far enough away from the rest of the group so as not to hurt any others? How do they get it just right? I haven’t noticed other birds around leaving because one needed to stretch. They all have wings, surely they all desire that extension of muscles, that loosing of crimped tendons, that great royal flapping before tucking it all back in. Just a momentary lapse into madness maybe, a temporary jaunt into jazz, then back to searching for food, swimming with the group. Dear God, what if all relationships allowed this bit of crazy, this time of wild flapping, then the welcoming back into the fold as if everyone has that moment? What if grace met the spreading of wings and the eventual tucking?

The older I get, the more I understand that Red Hat Society thing, the ladies group that just doesn’t care anymore what people think. They are flapping their wings. I understand all the memes and the comics about just letting go. They are encouraging me to flap my wings which are itching to stretch out. But the key is to not hit any other birds when I expand, to create no damage. My show of glory cannot be anyone else’s downfall, I can’t knock anyone else over. How do birds know the intricacies of relationships, to manage their own wing span and that of those around them? One heron extending its wings does not diminish the beauty of the others roosting around? Each is glorious, the camera finds them all in turn. Understanding the necessary space for all to survive, the safety in being close, the desire to move to the edges, this is the incredible wonder of all relationships. The birds already have it figured out. No wonder the bible uses birds to teach us about worry:

25Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or drink; or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothes? 26Look at the birds of the air: They do not sowor reap or gather into barns — and yet your HeavenlyFather feeds them. Are you not much more valuablethan they? 27Who of you by worrying can add a single hour to his lifespan? Matthew 6:25-27

 Who can add a single hour by tucking in his wings, playing it safe? Who can add a single hour, stretching out so much that others are hidden or knocked off balance? Birds intrigue me, they have it figured out, the delicate balance.  I could learn much from them, instead I just watch and wonder.

Ever Moving Shifting Tilting

On By LisaIn Arrow, Faith, Plum, Stella, The ChefLeave a comment

I have known my story forever, aware of the pieces and how they fit. I have categories and labels, every memory neatly organized. Like a puzzle with a thousand pieces, I sit back and look at the completed picture, admire how neatly everything fits, how well I managed to create something of beauty out of all the little random bits. Unlike the boxed puzzles though, I am not done, I keep finding more pieces, some that I would rather cast back, some that enhance the scene. Adjusting, scooting, shaving, rearranging, I am forced to make room. I gaze again. Get comfortable with the new arrangement, determine what it all means. Own my new story. Like the snow gently falling outside, more pieces swirl, my story changes again. My puzzle is ever growing, some days too large to manage. I want to be that person I was, back when I looked like, well, before addiction, before estrangement, before unemployment. But that means no Plum, can’t I keep those pieces?

Constantly allowing more into my story, owning truthful pieces with sharp edges that slice  as well as the sweet cottony sections that glitter with joy means my story isn’t done. I don’t get to sit back and admire. I am not that flat 1,000 piece boxed set that creates a scene to be admired, maybe glued in place and hung on the wall, maybe dismantled and put back in the box. Still that puzzle always go back together in the same way. Look for the edge pieces, find the corners, fill in the center. My story has no outer edges, I can’t find the corners. New information causes a complete readjustment, a tree is no longer brown and green, the sky isn’t filled with clouds. This is what it is to be a kaleidoscope, a shifting puzzle that changes with every movement. Finding that one glorious combination, it is next to impossible to share the view with any one else without a nudge or a slight tilt changing what they see. And just like that, they move the device towards the light and create more color combinations, find their own glorious stories. Who can resist a chance to find rainbows and joy in moving crystals? My story is secondary, only I know what all those pieces meant.

My story will keep changing, I get to tell and own my parts until my last breath. After, the telling will be handed off to those who choose which pieces are important, how they fit together, what it means, how it looks. Will they remember the section over here where we shared love and laughs, filled with light and or only the scenes that hold menacing clouds and monsters and caves?  This is the stuff of legacies, this is the stuff we can’t control. For now, I adjust my puzzle pieces, I make room for more of my story. I embrace the monsters and offer them cookies. I wait for more pieces to arrive, I tilt my kaleidoscope.