From dirt and cinders we come, and thus return

My family spread almost all of my father's ashes along with the remaining ashes of his father in mid-April. There was barely a plan.

I had always blamed poor planning on my dad, but now can see that we all contributed. At any rate, I felt that spreading his ashes would help provide some kind of closure, whatever that means.

After the chaos of his sudden death last June and the durecho (intense summer storm) the night after he was found dead, I have to admit that I was a little on edge the week leading up to this event.

It didn't help that we had a dramatic shift from winter weather to temps in the mid-90's just days before the family gathering. I know the weather isn't personal, but it was unnerving. This was barely April! What else could possibly go haywire?

Somehow, we managed in our messy, poorly communicated ways, to pull off something that felt like something meaningful in memory of our dad.

Ingredients included a medium-sized box of Dad's ashes, a "sippy cup" with the remaining ashes of his father, four living generations, two vehicles, the farm, two railroad stations, bubbles, a white weeping cherry tree, a dead log, and assorted readings. Of course, there was the obligatory family meal. Humor. Dry as the ashes.

In two vehicles, the generations piled in and went to the Point of Rocks train station. A dead hawk was in between the eastbound tracks. We walked closer to the iconic station and flung ashes.

Pap, his father, loved trains and kept track of time by which train whistle blew in the valley. In his youth, Dad got off at the Point of Rocks train station from Washington DC to visit his grandparents on the farm he would later live and die on. Passenger trains pricked Dad's consciousness as he saw how people were treated based on their skin color. Trains were powerful. They were his ticket to  freedom.

As my grandson shook out ashes from a coffee scoop (both men lived on stiff, black tarry coffee), he looked the part as if they were casting for the Little Lebowski. We all took turns flinging the remains of these old men across the track so bits and pieces might hitch a ride back "home" - to DC - where both men had been born.

From there, we took the back roads to Harpers Ferry, WV and spread a few more ashes. Just as we got there, the eastbound Amtrak train pulled in. All aboard.

Back to the farm, we had lunch where generations of both sides of my parents' families ate in the very same room with a view of Sugarloaf Mountain to the east and the Catoctin Mountain to the west. The day was beautiful and not too hot or cold.

After lunch, my brother-in-law had prepared the site for planting the tree.

We read original writings from Dad and one of my sisters, Wendell Berry's Manifesto: The Mad Farmer Liberation Front, the Quanglewangle Quee and verses from Job.

More ashes were dumped in the hole and around the tree. Bubbles were blown. An old tree trunk cut to sit on was placed near the tree with the "Crumpity Tree" written on it - a phrase of the childhood poem from the Quanglewangle Quee that every child who grew up in the family or farmed out to stay with us heard him read.

As I watched my grandson pour out the ashes, I couldn't help but think that he didn't really have a clue as to what was going on. But then, I wasn't sure I did either.

Except, I felt like I could finally let go and that he could finally rest in peace. He wasn't sitting in a box on a shelf indefinitely. It was spring and he was outside. Maybe now his sinuses wouldn't bother him. No more ongoing angst about where the money was coming from for the next crop or bill. No more worrying about when or who or how we would get around to putting this man's soul to rest. 

So this was closure.

After a lifetime of tending fires on that farm to keep the house warm, of tilling and planting the soil, and of his own inner turmoils that kept him bound to struggle, perhaps he was finally at peace under the weeping cherry. As I saw the great grandson he called Alex the Great-Great, I could only hope that this be so for all of us.

Hungry Ghosts of the Food Kind

Today I walked into a Weight Watchers center. I hadn't even put it on my "to-do" list or personal goals. In fact, I can't imagine losing weight at all. Yet, like an alcoholic who knows that the obsession with their favorite substance is ruining their life, I blindly made my way.

I told Partner at lunch that I thought I was going to go sign-up.

In the past, I had all kinds of reasons not to do it. Money. Time. Hormones. I already know about good nutrition and self-care. Don't I teach it myself?

Walking through the door felt incredibly scary. I was in the midst of wrestling with my demons, yet had enough sanity to continue walking and forced a smile. But deep within I felt shame. Deep shame and sadness. I wanted to cry. How did I get to this point?

My confusion has to do with food and my relationship to my self and the world.

My story line goes something like this: I grew up on a farm where "if we had nothing else, we damned sure had food." Another message: food is love. Survival at the physical and emotional levels seems to be the theme, even though I am about as safe as anyone could be at this time in my life.

I gained weight beginning in early childhood. I did my first Weight Watchers as a teenager. I've been teased about my weight from my earliest days. I've never been thin, but even when I was in a healthier range, my head was always in "fat girl" mode.

When I was in my 20's, I started to see a counselor to cope with the stresses of life. After several months into counseling, this brave person brought up my obsession with food. I worked at a health food store. Tried to fix healthy meals. Nutrition wasn't the issue. So, I was encouraged to study my eating habits.

A few weeks into self-observation, I found myself at home with two small crying children and feeling incredibly overwhelmed. I grabbed a pack of rice crackers, turned the rocking chair facing the corner of the room (as if to put myself into time out) and sat eating those dry, tasteless wheels as if they could somehow help.

This incident really helped me get in touch with my stress-eating response. It wouldn't be until just a few years ago that I actually felt a deeper connection to my condition. I lost weight and had a more balanced approach to eating for a while.

As I approached my 40's and now 50's, I simply didn't need as much food to live. At some point, I gave up trying to keep my weight down. Food brought me pleasure. At the same time, I felt like I was losing control of my own life.

I found myself overeating again and didn't seem to be able to stop. I was uncomfortable. I was aware I was doing this, but kept at it and decided to observe whatever arose.

One day in particular helped me gain understanding. As I ate and grew fuller, there was a point where the distention/pressure in my mid-section crossed over some kind of line. It was like an adrenaline pick-up. I experienced it as release. I could relax now.

Almost immediately afterwards, I realized that overeating caused some kind of relaxation response, I had a realization that this tight feeling felt like self-hugging. The bands of tissue, ribs, skin, or whatever else felt like tension, literally, held the "me" that was needing self-soothing or whatever I took for love.

It was an insight that, while useful, didn't really change anything. I did practice compassion for myself and others who use food to self-sooth. But, I continued to creep up the scale.

So why go to Weight Watchers now?

In trauma work, therapists talk about what happens once a person finally feels safe enough to "thaw" from their helplessness of the trauma. Is it possible that my life is finally "safe" enough or that I have enough pieces of a foundation for moving forward? Or am I just so miserable, that I feel that I cannot tolerate this self-abuse anymore? It just isn't worth the distorted pleasure that keeps tricking my brain into more eating.

Having a financial safety net that didn't exist earlier is helping me overcome the cost of paying for support. Then there have been the horrifying moments of seeing my naked self in the mirror. Or worse yet, after my father-in-law's death, I developed a crack in my skin under my belly fat. It took a week to heal. I was mortified. I was one of those fat people.

This is such a tender place. If you see me, don't scare the "me" that is afraid by talking too loudly or slapping me on the back for encouragement. Should I fail at this, it would just add to the shame. If I am "successful", then there are a whole host of problems around identity that worry me. And besides, what is failure or success when what I really just want is to live my life?

If you feel moved to share your hungry ghosts stories, whisper them to me - we don't want to give them any reason to stir up trouble.

Sounding out joy!

Gay Hendricks talks about how people often have upper limits on happiness and joy.

For the longest time, I told myself, “I wouldn’t know about that. There are too many painful things going on in my life. What I can do is take in the simple beauty of the stars on a clear night or the quick visit of a blue jay at the feeder.”

I didn’t believe that really good things were meant for me. They are for somebody else, more deserving.

So it is with shock and in trepidation that I share with my reading audience and closest friends the miracle of some good things that have all come together at once.

I had one of my stories published in a book. Other than having my work printed in high school, or some writing for a local weekly paper back in the early  90’s, or a few letters to the editor, and of course, lots of college writing, I haven’t really had anything printed as part of a larger writing project.

This feels really good. (Read in a quiet whisper so as not to scare oneself.)

Remember that fire in the last piece I wrote about. Well, Partner works for a wholesale building supply company that recently picked up a line of countertops and cabinets. We could replace the now-scorched countertop – which we had wanted to do when we bought the house several years ago, but couldn’t afford it – with his employee discount. Somehow, we could make this happen.

That somehow was really about a little money that came our way after all these deaths last year. If feels wrong to talk about it. But the mindfulness part of me feels compelled to talk about this as an opportunity to say that I am being taught how to manage heavy emotional baggage lightly.

Material things and money, as well as, life itself have always been pretty serious and difficult work in my life. We didn’t do anything to deserve this, but there it is.

Then there is the matter of taking a huge leap and buying a concert harp. Partner and friends kept encouraging me to go ahead. If there was ever a time, now is the time to buy the harp you’ve been dreaming about.

A few weekends ago, I went to a harp conference for old people. They don’t advertise it as that. Instead, it is called “Beginning in the Middle.” But participants were all older women with a few men sprinkled in. The Virginia Harp Center hosted this event and brought lots of harps for people to try out and buy.

The first day I just looked at the harps. I was too intimidated to try out any harps with other people milling around. I knew that they were better players than I. The second day I plucked quietly at the large harps, afraid to sit down and really play for sound. It didn’t help that a Celtic harp teacher picked on me in her class about how I was holding my lever harp and how classically trained harpists had it all wrong. I just needed to get on board with the Irish way. Her attitude and my vulnerability didn’t work well that day.

My body hurt throughout the weekend. Perhaps the Celtic harper was right. A pedal harp for a 5’2” woman was all wrong. It would be too much for me to handle. I imagined that should there be a nuclear war, how would I carry my pedal harp with me? What would happen if I got sick and spent all this money on a concert harp and it just sit in the corner of the living room?

But at some point, I remembered something. It was that I loved the rich sounds of the concert harp. The tones alone had been getting me through my practice, lessons with my teacher, and these past few difficult years. My teacher kindly allowed me access to her studio to practice on her large harp as often as I wanted. I’d gotten good enough that the lever/Celtic harp with its lighter string tension was getting me into trouble technically with my teacher. I was stuck. If I wanted to move on, I needed to get my own instrument.

I also remembered several friends who reminded me how much joy the harp brought into my life. It was like they could see what I couldn’t. They mirrored back to me in clear uncompromising statements about what they had witnessed. Their message: If ever you can find the resources to get a concert harp, do it. Keep at it.

Partner was particularly helplful regarding the Celtic teacher's comments. He reminded me that even though I was just over 5', that I'd worked with lots of creatures larger than myself, as he stood almost a foot taller next to me. I'd also grown up with a draft horse, who probably weighted a ton. I could handle a concert harp. His comment made me laugh.

As I write, a simple Lyon and Healy concert grand Chicago model stands in my living room where a recliner once sat. Partner calls it the Quaker harp.

My work is picking up, but every chance I get, I try to set aside some time to play. I love it. I pretend that one day I will be good enough to play for my friends, family, and use sound as a healing tool. I might even play schmaltzy harp music in public to strangers!

All the major religions talk about non-attachment to the material world. One day we will all die. As I work with this fact, I am reminded how this can be turned around to: How do I want to live with the time I have? How can my life be tuned in and used as part of the grand universal symphony?

Talk about joy!

Woman Scorches Kitchen Counter, Blames on Trickster

Phew. I'm back. Trying to show up to myself. This blog. My family and friends.

The Good News is that no matter what seems to happen, I guess we are here until we are not. I'm still here.

This afternoon while practicing the harp, I scorched the kitchen counter top. I've been burning Village Candles and have had good luck with those large scented candles. But this time, it went down to the very bottom of the jar and kept burning.

I smelled a plastic smell, but thought it could have been my odd sense of smell. Bleach water from cleaning out the moldy fruit bin in the refrigerator was still sitting in the sink. I thought it was that.

But then it got stronger.

I walked into the kitchen, saw the candle was now just a little liquid in the bottom of the container and blew out the flame thinking that everything was fine. Goodness it was smokey when it was out. I washed my hands and went to ever-so-slightly move the container (I know, bad idea). It cracked. Still, that wasn't the problem.

It was when the candle jar was moved that I saw the full extent of the damage. Not only had it scorched the counter top the size of a silver dollar or so, but it seriously raised the surface.

There was only one thing to do besides clean it up: I needed to call Partner.

I was working this evening when he would come home to find it. I could cover it with the coffee maker, but that seemed dishonest. Somehow a note didn't seem to be adequate. Taking the dog out, whether the dog needs to be fed, what was in the fridge for dinner, etc. Those were things I could leave on a note for Partner to read. Not this.

So, I called him at his very busy job and told him.

Given that his co-workers were dealing with the results of a recent house fire, he was pretty open and tender about this himself.

A local family lost two elementary school children to a house fire while the dad was burned trying to save them. An older child was still in the burn unit. Mom and infant were okay, but in shock themselves.

Partner initially told the story very carefully the day after the blaze. Several co-workers are EMT's and volunteer firefighters. They were in shock themselves. He was very moved, saying that his fellow fire and rescue friends were not easily given to tears.

Partner said the house was a hot fire and no one could get near it. There was nothing to be done except try to contain it and get it out by the time they got there. Then he added before breaking down, we are all parents and this loss was awful.

I'm sure I gave Partner a scare. Later the evening I'd burned the candle on the counter, we were in the room where I meditate.

He asked me, "Has that candle been burning all day?"
"What candle?" I responded.
"That one," he pointed to, "over there."

Sure enough, I'd left my meditation candle burning all day. It was now 9 p.m. Thank goodness he notice. Thank goodness I didn't burn down the house.

So please, if you burn candles, please keep an eye on them. And if you are like me and have days when you are might be foggy or forgetful, don't light the flame. Just carry the flame of compassion in your heart and let that shine.

Lost in Possibility

What was lost?
What remains?
What is possible?

A colleague offered these words after my dad's death this summer. With several more deaths since then and many more losses of hopes and plans, I keep coming back to these questions.

2012 was another hard year with more losses right up through the end of the year and into 2013.

Christmas Eve was very quiet with a surprise snow that kept folks home. This was supposed to be our big family gathering bringing together both sides of the family.  But, not this year. We'd cooked and cleaned and decorated with a new boyfriend and my mother showing up. Somehow, this was what was needed.

Christmas was a day with tender time knowing that there were several endings including my father-in-law's pending death and my grandson's last Christmas for the foreseeable future at our home, not to mention the experience of Christmas without those who had died this past year.

Father-in-law died on December 28. Family spent the last 20 or so hours with him to witness and pray him into the next realm. The funeral was on New Year's Eve at a church where the theology was not the loving God  - saved-by-grace - theology of my Lutheran father-in-law. Instead, the service got hijacked by a pulpit-pounding pastor who kept talking about a Soveign God without a shred of love in his voice.

During this time, Partner had a tooth that was dying. Partner's birthday is on Jan. 1, so no dental services were available since it coincided with a holiday. A root canal became a tooth extraction that went wrong. His root was "adhered" to his jaw bone resulting in oral surgery. These things took place over days. Somehow, his pain was my pain, too.

My grandmother's brother Sonny was hospitalized the day of my father-in-law's funeral. A friend of the family alerted me at the funeral of Sonny's decline.

His situation was complicated by an aging brain that wasn't so demented that he didn't have legal capacity. He'd been struggling for almost two years with hallucinations. So this time when he insisted a woman was in the house and pointed in the air with his bruised arms and hands to the sheriff, and kept calling the police back that day, they decided to emergency petition him against his will and took him to the hospital.

Within less than a week, Sonny would be dead at age 81. Another funeral book-ending Partner's dental trials.

A memory: Sonny bringing a rose to my grandmother weekly for many of those ten years of her post-stroke life. Often the roses came from his own rose garden. He always called her Tots or Tottie, even though he was a younger brother. They both loved flowers and a good laugh.

Sometimes, I think that I am not exactly sure what I lost, so how can I possibly know what remains, let alone what is possible. Death, illness, aging are all ordinary losses that we all will experience. So what's the problem?

Grief is sitting with me these days. It often feels overwhelming to sit down and write or play the harp. Loss is real. I can't wish it away.

My grandson helped decorate gingerbread cookies over his brief Christmas stay. We used some of the cookies to set out for Santa on Christmas Eve. My experience was a bit like the Catholic Church's idea of the sacred heart. A loving heart pierced by sadness. No more little child to share Christmas here. My daughter and he are developing new ways to adjust to their life closer to their home.

As a spiritual director, this kind of experience offers an opportunity where growth can take place - where all the cracks from the Great Fall break our hard shells apart and, as one Quaker put it, the light shines through.

I certainly can't put the pieces back together. Maybe I will find what is left and see how to re-thread the needle so that I can patch together something of an outer covering.

Perhaps, our Inner Light shines out from within?  For as long as there is breath, I sure hope I can breath in and out with compassion and lovingkindness, and a kind of beauty that encompasses what is.

Those gingerbread cookies are made with flour, sugar, Grandma's molasses, butter, and spices, fragrant spices. Smell the beauty. Taste the goodness. Revel in the colorful decorations. Feel the dough in your hands. Listen to the holiday music.

As Father-in-law took his last breaths, Handel's Allelujah chorus came on. What a year.

Sitting Meditation and facing death

A love note to my sangha - meditation group - on 12/28/12 - exactly six months after my dad was found dead:

Wanted to share the news that Partner's dad died peacefully this morning. It was a great honor to be in  the role of daughter-in-law during the last 24 hours with the family. 

One thing I learned: sitting meditation is good practice for those times when staying up overnight in a folding chair, or listening to variations of breathing until there is no more breath or stopping the second arrow. 

Newtown Shootings

It is the Monday after the shootings and the talk show folks are off and running. Gun control and an increased police state are on the table. Mental health is a sticky ball that no one seems to know how to deal with.

All of this posturing. All of this flapping of gums. The children, school faculty, mother or son cannot be brought back. And they aren't the first, nor will they be the last.

I'm thinking of a Sunday School teacher/mother who told me last year that her budding teenage children were going to the gun range and taking gun lessons. These were suburban kids. What did they need to shoot?

I grew up on a farm and knew how to shoot a gun. But I do not own a gun. I know the violence guns do. Probably about 10 years ago, two cousins were hunting doves on my parent's farm. The one thought birds had been flushed and instead blasted his cousin in the chest. By the time the ambulance got to that part of the farm, the man's peppered chest stopped breathing. He was dead to the horror of the cousin whom he considered his best friend.

Down the road from our farm, I can name several more accidental deaths from guns on other farms. One was when a farmer went over a fence and accidentally set off his gun shooting himself in the face. Another was when a farm hand was hit by a high-powered gun's bullet ricochetting off the barn wall, striking him dead. My own mother narrowly missed being hit by a high-powered riffle's bullet several years ago while putting up clothes on her clothes line behind the house. It drilled into the hillside near her.

Sounds crazy to my neighbors. What? No gun? It takes law enforcement 45 minutes to get here, and even then, it has to be for something urgent. Otherwise, we have had the police call back after 3 hours to see if they were still needed.

Four years ago, our home was broken into. A laptop was taken. But it was clear to the sheriff that what the thieves were looking for were electronics, guns, prescription narcotics, and cash. Only a laptop was taken. No guns, no drugs, no cash... because we didn't have any to steal.

We were advised to get a security system. This is a very expensive proposition and with law enforcement taking forever to get here, not really worth it.

A potentially rabid cat tried to make its final resting place here. But we wound up taking it to the animal shelter, even though a neighbor/Vietnam Vet came over to kill it. He couldn't do it because he knew the cat. Later we learned that running over it is a method suggested by some state health departments. There are other options besides guns.

I'm not saying that there is no roll for guns. But there is no need for high powered, multiple shooting rounds of guns for anyone besides law enforcement. Period. We are just escalating the war on ourselves.

Let's put our faith in something besides weaponry. Let's teach kids relational skills and ways of engaging positively in our communities.