This is My Heart

Rev. Dr. Diane Jacobsen was one of my profs at Luthersem. She gets it. She totally gets it. Diane has been writing the daily devo I subscribe to from the sem throughout March. I really hope she continues to do so in April. Anyway.

Her devos have touched my heart so many times as she’s written about water. Today’s especially touches my heart. I identify so closely with this woman. Here it is:

 

Luke 7:37-38, 44, 48, 50 (NRSV)

37 And a woman in the city, who was a sinner, having learned that he was eating in the Pharisee’s house, brought an alabaster jar of ointment.
38 She stood behind him at his feet, weeping, and began to bathe his feet with her tears and to dry them with her hair. Then she continued kissing his feet and anointing them with the ointment.
44 Then turning toward the woman, he said to Simon, “Do you see this woman? I entered your house; you gave me no water for my feet, but she has bathed my feet with her tears and dried them with her hair.
48 Then he said to her, “Your sins are forgiven.”
50 And he said to the woman, “Your faith has saved you; go in peace.”

A Woman Washes Jesus? Feet This story of the woman with the alabaster jar is among the most moving in the Gospels. A woman with a questionable past enters uninvited into a community leader’s house. She is so driven by her faith in and love for Jesus that she cannot be restrained. Her actions—from washing Jesus’ feet with her tears to drying them with her hair to anointing them with costly oil—are so lavish that she, this unnamed intruder, becomes the true host of the feast. With her tears and anointing, this woman foreshadows Christ’s death. Her hospitality becomes the rites of burial. I can think of no better model for us in our devotional lives. We too should be undeterred by false boundaries. Confession of sins and devotion to Christ, rather than respectability, are our preludes to the banqueting table. We could do no better than to gather up our past sins, regrets and tears and look to exchange them for service of extraordinary hospitality and welcome. Remembering and marking the death of Christ in the midst of life is a central part of our calling. Christ, our Lord, may our tears be put to your service no matter the cost. Amen. Diane Jacobson Professor Emerita, Luther Seminary; Director of the ELCA Book of Faith Initiative

The Four Old Ladies in the Front Row

Betty, Tyma, Addy, and Elsa.

 

They sat in the front row at First Lutheran every Sunday. When I got there in 2001, they were among the first to greet me. They were energetic and encouraging. They supported everything the church did. They were never the “blue-hairs” who sit in judgment and insist things must continue to be done in the Old Way with the red hymnal. Nope, they loved innovation. They loved it when the children sang in a rock and roll way. They enjoyed the African and Latin songs and hymns, singing with all the gusto they could manage.

 

Betty was the tallest, about 5′ 6″. Tyma perhaps didn’t quite make 5′. Addy and Elsa were a little over 5′ I think. They all had white hair and talked and giggled and elbowed one another in their pew. Sometimes Elsa dozed off, head back and mouth open. Betty was embarrassed by that. She glanced at me and rolled her eyes, shrugging her shoulders. Funny. She did that in the middle of the sermon! Sometimes Tyma poked Elsa to wake her up. I was always afraid Elsa would get whiplash from waking with such a jerky start! Great ladies. I told them I wanted to be like them when I grew up.

When I turned 50 I also hit menopause. One day before church when I sat down with the ladies for our usual Sunday pre-worship chat, I told them I was forgetting so many things! I was kind of upset about it. They laughed! With arched eyebrows Addy told me, “Just wait, it gets worse!” I got it. Don’t worry about it. Make lists, write everything down. They were telling me not let menopause slow me down, simply adjust.

I loved to sit near them at church functions, though I tried not to neglect the rest of my flock. They had such a good sense of the rhythm of life. They knew how to roll with the ups and downs, how to accept the bruises along with the bounty. They were such a blessing to me.

Elsa was the first to go. Her heart gave out on her one day. It had been coming as she well knew. Elsa had made sure to prepare us. Her funeral requests were simple, as had been her life. Her partners in crime were there for everything, including contributing wherever they could for the funeral. They shed some tears, quietly mourning one of their gang.

 

The first row was down to three.

 

Tyma followed several months later. On one of my visits she had offered me some of her famous Finnish yogurt. I ate it, though it was not a pleasant experience. I like yogurt, but not that kind, though I complimented her. She had insisted on sending some starter home with me too, along with instructions for making more. (No, I didn’t make another drop of the stuff.)

Tyma’s yogurt was a joke around town because no one liked it. No one ever told Tyma that. We shared fond laughter over Tyma’s Finnish Yogurt. Tyma’s merry laugh and twinkling blue eyes were gone. We all lost there.

 

The first row was down to two.

 

Betty and Addy clung closely to one another for a time. It’s not that they were fearful of death. They were broken-hearted, a deep melancholy sense of loss and the pain of surviving was there. As time passed, they got better. Their spirits, the spirits God had planted within them, were too strong to surrender to grief, though it was always present.

There was a nobility about Betty and Addy. There was a beauty about how they held their heads high; how they remained present in their community; how they responded to the blows they had received. Both were widows, and had also been a part of the deaths of cousins, siblings, parents, aunts and uncles, dear friends.

There is something especially gracious about hearts that have endured so much. There is something of immense value in people who’ve lost everything most of us hold dear, yet continue to endure. They had been broken, and truly were stronger at the broken places. They knew the essence of resilience.

I felt a strong desire to follow them around, learn at their feet. What is it, I wanted to say, that is in you that gives you a bravery most of us cannot imagine? What is it in your heart? How do you do this? I want what you have. I want the beauty, the grace, the serenity, the endurance that you two have. Tell me how.

But in reality, there was nothing to tell, nothing that could be articulated. I am still unable to articulate it now. But I know it when I see it. It is another part of the Great Mystery. It is God, acting in the flesh of those Four Beautiful Old Ladies in the Front Row.

 

Thanks be to God.

Dying – Linda & her sisters

The previous post and responses drew my attention to the topic of Life and Death. Especially I find myself thinking about Death, the greatest fear.

 

I think nearly everyone has a fear of death. Nearly everyone. I’ve received the gift of being with people when they die, and it is an incomparable blessing they’ve given me. They’ve taught me how to die, and I’ve been able to feel much more accepting of it. Like most, I want to die in some level of comfort.

 

Linda was 81 when she died. She had survived breast cancer in her early 70s. She was incredibly tough, growing up on a sheep ranch in northwestern South Dakota. When she was a child at home, they lived summers in a sheep wagon. (See the photos below.)  Mostly they slept outside, under the stars, or under the wagon if it rained, a very rare occurrence. Clearly Linda, second from the oldest, and her sisters were strong, resilient women.

 

When Linda’s breast cancer recurred, she decided she’d had enough chemo, enough hair loss, enough skin-burning radiation. She decided it was time. Never demonstrative or overly self-disclosing, Linda said she’d talked it over with God, and they were in agreement. I absolutely trusted her words.

 

As Linda grew weaker, she moved off the distant ranch, and into town with her daughter, Sue. Sue was of the same mind as her mother and God. The last time I saw Linda alive was the day before she died. She was lying in bed on her stomach. Her liver was done, and she knew her time was very short. Linda was so serene that I was too. Sue told me Linda had referred to herself as a real Golden Girl earlier.

Maybe there is something about the life and death struggles of life on a sheep ranch. Something about killing coyotes before they can steal a lamb. Something about droughts, pulling sheep out of holes, lambs living and lambs dying.

I buried the oldest of Linda’s sisters shortly after I arrived at that church. I never knew Ida, but her children gave me her Bible to help me get a sense of Ida. That Bible was heavily marked and underlined, pages dog-eared. On the inside cover Ida had written, “Thank you God, that all days aren’t like today.”

 

I’m still extraordinarily m

oved by that brief sentence. It provided the basis of her funeral sermon. I am so grateful to have met Ida in that special and profound way.

 

That experience with Ida gave me a sense of that family of hardy ranch women. Linda told me more.

 

I went to her bedside and knelt down with my communion kit and anointing supplies. Linda had a level of awareness, but I wasn’t sure how much. Sue told me that Linda had wanted communion and anointing. It was one of those occasions in which God’s presence was so palpable that I almost thought I could hear Her and feel Her. I was in the midst of the Great Holy Mystery. I couldn’t think about that too much, without being completely overwhelmed and crumpling to the floor in awe.

 

I anointed Linda, and reminded her that the cross of Christ, etched on her forehead in oil on the day she was baptized more than 80 years ago, was still there. After a pause, without opening her eyes, Linda responded, “Is that right.” It was not a question, more like a little nudge to remind her that I wasn’t telling her anything she didn’t know first hand. I smiled to myself. Yeah, at that moment Linda knew so much more about God and her relationship with God than I had any idea. To say that was humbling is to be guilty of an enormous understatement.

 

Linda died the next day and I will never, ever forget her. She gave me more than I can really evaluate. I just know that she changed my life profoundly.

 

That was in my third year at First Lutheran. In my 5th year, the third sister, Joan, became ill with pancreatic cancer. In 2004 pancreatic cancer was an absolute killer. Joan was well aware of that, and accepted it, but she did not give up. Joan believed that she could recover. It was not a denial type of belief, not a desperate hope, but a real possibility. Still, she was prepared to accept that she might not survive.

 

I continued to visit Joan regularly and be a part of her effort while being thoroughly blessed again through such a wonderful woman. She did indeed succumb to her disease. Well, her body succumbed. Her soul, her gift to the community and to me continues to live on.

 

Buddy was the last sister, the littlest sister, considerably younger than the others. In a short five years she had gone from the loving cocoon of her sisters, her partners for a lifetime, to become an only child. Buddy carried about herself an understandable melancholy. My heart went out to her, but I felt some relief knowing that she was formed of the same strong and faithful stuff as her sisters. (Buddy continues to survive today.)

 

There were a few deaths that were heart-wrenching because the individual died in fear and emotional suffering. They were terrible. I will never forget those either. They taught me that the opposite of faith truly is fear. My heart broke for those people.

 

There were several other deaths I witnessed, or played an intimate role in. There were several other people who taught me how to die. One was a 16 year old girl whom I taught in high school in 1980. Sue had developed bone cancer. She showed us all extraordinary heart and grace through her leg amputation, and gradual physical deterioration. She had loved playing basketball. When Sue returned to school after her amputation, I gave her a small award at the sports banquet. The inscription read: “The human body has limits, but the spirit is boundless and beautiful.” Her parents put that on her grave stone. I was blessed by Sue’s death.

 

Age was never a factor in any of these death experiences. Trust was the difference.

 

I don’t think dying is the worst thing that can ever happen to anyone. It can be, but it doesn’t need to be. I think, through the many blessings I have received from Linda, her sisters, and others like them, I will not be afraid. Really, thanks be to God.

Gordon, this one’s for you

I think theology of the cross and Christology are really important. Christ’s actions speak directly to the unbeliever, the disbeliever, the misinformed questioner. I think that whenever one speaks of these things, one ought not assume that listeners are hearing the same thing. Too much explanation and clarification is not possible.

I try to do that every single time I mention either one of those. As I write a sermon or teach a class or visit with someone, I always hear myself through the ears of someone who has been hurt. I see myself through the eyes of someone who has suffered. I cannot do otherwise. I believe that auditory and visual perspective is exactly what God wanted from me when She called me.

My reactions and perspective are determined by my experiences. That means not only the things I myself have felt, but also via the various contacts of my life. It’s much as you talk about Cuba. I know that you understand what I am saying.

My belief is that most of humanity is acutely aware of their sins, shortcomings, etc. Lutheran preachers are taught to emphasize Law and Gospel. Law, they say, is necessary to convict people of their sins. Gospel is to remind them that they are forgiven. I would also say that Law is the fire and brimstone part. I give only minor attention to law, and lavish my time instead on the knowledge that every individual is completely forgivable.

I think that only very few people feel blameless and sinless. (My guess is such people are psychopathic.) I think the worst behavior is usually an attempt to cover their personal sense of inadequacy and shame. Those folks might look the very best, and seem to have the very most, and their hearts may be the very most crumpled.

Again, it is clear to me, Gordon, that you know all of this. This post is in good part thinking aloud and explaining to myself my response to your post about the painting of Jesus.

Those little people, the people who have no one to speak for them, the people who live in shame, the big people who do great harm . . . every single one of them cannot be told too much that suffering, rejection and sin are not what Jesus was ever about. They need to know that they are lovable. (Sure as hell doesn’t mean I always love them!)

Well, I went all over with this post. I may not have been all that clear. But I was honest to the core. Thanks for asking Gordon, and thanks for sharing your honesty too.

Christian distortions/”Real” Christians

So I’m commenting on a SD blog. There is one right-wing pastor in the legislature, and another one has signed up to run. I went to their websites to see what kind of church they lead and what their beliefs are. Both of these guys said they feel it is their Christian duty to run for office and vote according to their Christian beliefs. Then I want to know – What the hell do they believe?

 

After reading the websites, which were not encouraging, I went back to the blog and wrote a comment asking about certain aspects of what I read. They Do Not Want to Answer. I mean they Really don’t want to. We’ve been going back and forth.

 

 

The one guy, Steve, wants me to go to his website and listen to hundreds of hours of podcasts, read his books, and take his class. He also questioned how I could dare ask him such personal questions and what about me? He wanted all kinds of information about me. So I responded by saying that I am not serving as an elected public official, nor am I running to be one, so my information is my business. I said again, will you answer my questions?

 

This time he said he was too busy and the answers were too complex. There were about 5 questions which were pretty simple. He is dodging his little heart out. Makes me curiouser and curiouser. It’s also making some others pretty curious too. All that is good, in my opinion. It’s good for voters to have more information.

 

The other guy, Scott, hasn’t responded at all. In the meantime, a right-wing Roman Catholic, Troy, who is very upset by my questions, has risen to the defense of these guys. Well, not so much defending them as attacking me. Several months ago on another blog several commenters, including myself and him, were having a conversation about the bible. There were several non-believers commenting, which I thought was great.

 

The conversation became fairly heated, with Christianity taking some good shots. (I think that’s great. Christianity can handle it and it’s a great way for people to learn.) I responded to questions by explaining how the bible was created and codified. I talked about theologians and varieties of opinions and theological understandings. Troy got really upset about that. He has apparently read some things his priest recommended to him. He has some good biblical knowledge, but it’s limited. The more information I offered on the blog, the more upset he became. He began writing long comments in response, with lots of capitals and exclamation points.

 

What seemed to offend him most was the idea that Christianity is not monolithic, the bible is not, and was not, always universally accepted in its present form, that there is a lot of jostling within the Christian community about faith and theology.

 

Troy did not accept most of the authors, leading theologians, I quoted. It seemed that was mostly due to what they said, rather than their research methods or accountability. I tried to give him some room by telling him that his reaction was understandable since he has never been involved in what can sometimes be a rough and tumble theological disputations. I tried to remind him that none of what I was saying was personal, and that I was not arguing that his beliefs are wrong.

 

He really did show himself as a layperson, though I think he would not like that. He seems to like to think of himself as quite well-educated theologically. For a layperson, he is. Troy apparently felt very threatened. The thread and comments went on and on. Many of the other commenters had lots of questions for me, and thanked me for providing so much information. I really enjoy offering information to the public, and dispelling myths and fantasies. But Troy just became more upset. Finally I told him that he has an absolute right to his beliefs and I wished him the best. I was done writing on that thread.

 

I feel like I handled it about as well as could be done via blog comments. Perhaps I should have stopped sooner. I’ll never know that.

 

 

Well now Troy is at is again. He is jumping at my questions again. I confess some guilt. I knew that he would rise to the bait, and I was baiting him, in addition to wanting some info from those guys. Guess what Troy is doing? Saying that if I were a real Christian, I would be nicer. Ah yes, that old standard. He says that I should “show some love” before I comment again. Yup, I am just not Christian enough. A real pastor would only be nice. A real pastor wouldn’t upset anyone. He says that I “claim” to be ordained. Hmm. Don’t see much addressing the issues. He’s pretty much sticking to his gauzy ideal of what a real pastor ought to be.

 

I remember when I first felt that I was going to have to go to that damn seminary and hang around with those awful, milquetoast religious people. Ickeeeee!!! So I made a deal with God. I didn’t want to go, it was patently absurd . . . but if I had to, I wasn’t going to turn into one of those namby-pampy, mush-voiced, ultra-bland, soft-spoken, perfectly controlled, very moderately and modestly dressed in neutral colors, religious people that I was used to. (I had next to no religious experience before the call, so I had my own stereotypes.) I was going to stay as edgy, outspoken, opinionated, critical, skeptical, profane, and occasionally outraged as ever! So there!

 

I’ll be damned if God wasn’t willing to go with that. Son of a bitch. That was not what I had in mind. But I had made a deal, so I had to keep it.

 

Now here I am, being myself in my blog comments there. I am sometimes snarky, sometimes funny, sometimes glad, sometimes encouraging, sometimes supportive, sometimes sarcastic, sometimes angry. All of the above. Troy is not going to silence me by trying to shame me. I know that God doesn’t want from me what Troy wants. God agreed that all of me was the package. That’s exactly what She wants, and that’s exactly what Troy and the others on the blog are going to continue getting, because that is the real me.

 

So suck it up boys!! I’m not done!! I’m just getting warmed up!!

 

(Wow. I just love how therapeutic this blog is. Really fun!)

Safe Places/Prisons?

I might be moving out of Prison, but still in a Very Safe Place.

Heart: Soft, squishy, vulnerable, pulsing, defenseless. So I must protect it. My heart is me and I am my heart.

Too much risk? Must be very, very careful!

Hardening of the heart? Becoming stiff, shadowed, dark. In prison?

 

Can’t say for sure, but I may be busting out.

(Wouldn’t be the first time I had to “bust out.” Probably won’t be the last.)

Retreat, forward. Retreat, forward a little more. Retreat, forward more again. Retreat, forward . . . . . . .

Oh well. Beats the hell out of Retreat. Retreat. Retreat. Retreat.

A badly injured heart requires a great deal of care. I don’t mind.

Following the trail of my day to The Beloved Community

What an interesting day. Curious.

I got a wonderful comment on my last post, which had a strong positive effect on me.

I read a blog post about cancer and death. I followed a link there to two poems about cancer and death. They were very powerful and honest writings. I felt more settled and thoughtful after reading them, difficult though they were. I can’t say for sure why that was.

I sent the links to my friend Mavis. She survived breast cancer with a double mastectomy something like 10+ years ago. Molly is hard to figure. She can be very guarded, intense and sometimes humorless. On the other hand, she loves language and has written some very good poetry herself. I prefaced the links in the email by telling her something about them, and saying that I didn’t know if she wanted to read them. Mavis replied by saying she didn’t want to read them now and included some explanation. There was something in her response that made me feel that we had just shared a level of vulnerability that is unusual for Mavis. It was a good feeling, tinged with sadness.

In the blog post and the poems there was such rawness, an honesty, a truth. . . It was nearly breathtaking. And so courageous! So bald, so heart-rending. Reading them was a rare experience that deeply moved me. I feel as if I have experienced a  gentle privilege, a naked trust. I feel humbled, and an integral part of the human race. I feel as if I were breathing with the same lung, sharing heartbeats, thirsting for the same thing and drinking from the same cup. It is as if we are sustenance for one another.

I think we are sustenance for one another. I think my day’s experiences are perhaps among the purest form of love that Jesus had in mind. “Bearing one another’s burdens.” That’s what people said about my tiny little country church. My congregation was like that. That was their strength. They willingly bore one another’s burdens. They bore mine too.

We here, on this electronic media, are bearing one another’s burdens. We listen to the pain; we enter into it; we shoulder a share of it. We love one another into existence.

Many years ago I learned of borrowing love. I learned that when I had no love for myself, when my supply was exhausted, I was exhausted; that my dear beloved friends would gladly loan me some of their love for me until I could rekindle my own. That is part of what we do for one another. The Beloved Community.

If I have not enough strength, you will give me some of yours. If you have not enough strength, here in my outstretched palm is enough of mine for you. Among us, we will always have enough. God will see to that. The Beloved Community.

I think I had forgotten that the Beloved Community exists. I think I forgot to let it be know that I had a need. Now that I have, many people have stepped forward. Some are friends and loved ones. Some are people I only know electronically. Some have no knowledge that they gave such a gift.

It is such a relief to receive the gift of love and support. It is such a gift to learn, yet again, that all I need is available. Grandmother God is slick.

I am so grateful.

And stuff about Jesus

I am feeling rather good right now. That’s a recent, welcome change.

 

I had felt as if I were screaming into a void, with no one hearing. I felt like I was the child, screaming for help, but no one came. I had felt alone and very, very afraid. They were coming for me, and I was at their mercy. But they were coldly merciless.

On a blog where the topic was abortion/birth control, the Men were going on and on about legalities and what was right and fair for the Roman Catholic Church and the Vaticans/Bishops religiosity. There I was jumping up and down, shouting, “LOOK OVER HERE! LOOK OVER HERE! WHAT ABOUT THE WOMEN?! WE COUNT! YOU ARE TALKING ABOUT US! SHUT UP ABOUT THE FUCKING RCC AND TALK TO US! ASK US WHAT WE WANT!!! YOU HAVE NO RIGHT TALKING ABOUT US AS IF WE WERE FURNITURE! WE’RE MORE THAN INCUBATORS! THESE ARE OUR BODIES, WE WILL DECIDE WHAT WE WILL DO WITH THEM!!!

What I got was ignored. There I was screaming in the corner, posting it on the blog, (in less angry terms) and comments kept coming. A couple of responses suggested they had noticed my screaming, and then they went on talking about everything but the women. I/we were invisible.

Some of those bastards want to forcibly shove a wand up women’s vaginas. MORE SCREAMING, SCREAMING, SCREAMING!!! NO! MAKE IT STOP!! LOOK OVER HERE! This time, before I even posted, many of the Men were roundly and repeatedly condemning that crazy law.

Oh. They heard me. They listened. They understood. They got it. Oh. Perhaps I am safe then. Or much safer than I felt before. I am not alone. I have people on my side. Big people. People supporting me. I am not alone. Wow.

Another blog, a good one, has a crucifixion painting and a poem about it. I am angry! Get that crucifixion stuff- oh how christ suffered! shit – out of my face! Don’t you know what those images say to people? Don’t you get how painful that is? So I wrote a comment. I felt safe writing that comment because the blogger had shown himself to be a kind and gentle man. I wrote.

I was right about him. He heard me. He believed what I said. He took me seriously. He addressed my comment.

I was heard again. He did notice my screaming. I am not alone. I matter. What I say and feel is important.

 

I think for the past couple of weeks I have been really struggling with maintaining presence and being mindful. It’s been very hard for me. All the anti-woman/anti-poor/anti-99% stuff that various legislatures have been pushing for the past two years has really been hard on me. I’ve been struggling with fear.

Do these big, powerful Men know that I, and millions of people like me, exist? Do they care? What is wrong with them that they would inflict such pain and suffering on us?

Yes, that terrifies me. And yes, there are people who do care deeply, who love me exceptionally, who believe that I am valuable, intelligent, precious.

I want to remember that Jesus died because he loves me that much! He died, not because I am so bad – but because I am so Good!!! Jesus was not trying to out-suffer me. It wasn’t the beatings or time on the cross that brings us together. It was the heartbreak and fear that he endured.

Friends lied to him. Turned their back on him. Wouldn’t listen to him!! People perverted what was beautiful to him! Humiliated him, shamed him. All of the things that have made such suffering in my life are the very things that Jesus got exactly, even if they weren’t just like his experiences.

The women who came to the DV shelters taught me so much about courage, strength and pain. They always said . . . by “always” I mean every single one of the them, without any exceptions. . . said the worst was the emotional pain. It didn’t matter if they had stitches, broken bones, permanent injuries. They always said the emotional pain was worse, and exponentially more difficult and time-consuming to heal.

That’s true in my experience too. Even the permanent injuries are easier to accept and cope with than the broken heart and shattered soul.

Jesus gets that. Get that trial/crucifixion crap out of there. Let’s spend our time talking about Jesus and the woman with the hemorage, the 10 lepers, the disciples trying to tell Jesus who he should associate with, the bent over woman. Let’s talk about his stories like the guy throwing the big party who ended up inviting the street people.

There is an empty cross, overcoming us, overcoming me, with it’s dazzling love.

Don’t Like My Eating……….

In one month I will be 59 years old. I don’t even know what that means. No idea. But one of those watermark years, a decade year. Hm.

I don’t like the way I’m eating. It feels pressured, panicky, necessary. I get scared if I don’t have something to put into my mouth. So what is scaring me? What am I trying to avoid?

My pets are great. I spent about 15 minutes this morning communing with Fuzz Butt. We laid on the bed together, she snuggled beside me, just being together. It was very sweet and relaxing. She is such a good little cat and I am so glad I have her. Next month she will be 70 in people years. She’s getting up there too. Unfortunately, I’ll probably out live her.

Hammy is rejuvenated. About 6+ weeks ago she couldn’t climb the stairs like she used to. I figured she was nearing her end. I’m not sure exactly when I got her. I think it was midsummer. This is her third summer. That’s the far limit for a hamster’s life span. I count every day with her as a bonus. Anyway, she is rejuvenated. Maybe she was sick before. Hammy is hauling ass up those stairs again, and she has learned where her room is. (Hammy loves her room and her cage.) I showed Hammy the route from the top of the stairs to her room about 3 times and she’s got it down now. She gets to the top of the stairs and tears off to the door of her/our room. So funny! Hammy is so adorable. I’ve written before about how special she is.

BTW, Hamsters age about 30 years for every human year, so Hammy is looking at 90! Gulp.

I love both my pets.

Gardening is fun. New adventure this year. I’m starting plants from seeds. I’ve worked out a pretty cheap way to do it with a heat pad, grow light, and pods to start the seeds in. I’m enjoying it all very much. And I’m sharing the experience with a friend and her two little girls. That makes it even more fun. So gardening is going well.

My psycho housies? Well, I know they are psychos and I think I’ve worked out a fairly reasonable way to live with them. Generally that means living without them. My home is my rooms. We have minimal interactions in the kitchen.

Money. I’m wondering if this is related to the money thing. I’m actually doing quite well at the moment. I got my tax returns and put $900 in savings. I haven’t had money like that since I had to quit preaching. The feelings I’m having now may be telling me something. My breathing has tightened, always a Red Light. I’m feeling some anxiety. Damm. At the least, the Money Thing is quite apparently important.

What is it that is Dangerous about money? Because Danger is what I’m reacting to, or feeling. There is something risky here, something I really don’t want to look at. Arrrrrrrgh! Stop this! I don’t want to feel this, don’t want to experience or look at this.

“Money makes the world go round, the world go round, the world go round.

Money, money, money, money.”

(Cabaret)

I’m afraid I’ll spend to much. I’m afraid I’ll forget to be frugal. I’m afraid I’ll fuck it up somehow. I’m afraid I’ll blow it and not be able to take a week off. I’m afraid. . . I’m afraid. . . I’m afraid. . . I’m afraid. . . I’m afraid. . .

And I really don’t like feeling this way. So I’ve been eating to avoid this feeling. Ta-dah!

Okay then, time to do a little factual exploration.

Fact 1:

I have received a total of $919 in tax refunds and have $902 in savings. I already had about $150 in there. I have $350 in checking.

Fact 2:

I have not made any rash purchases. I have paid bills and spend money of gardening supplies that ought to pay off in food and in mentally pleasurable and healthy activities.

Fact 3:

There is no outside threat to my money. Even though my next paycheck will be small, and the next probably smaller yet, I have taken steps to increase my workload, thereby my paycheck. My bank accounts give me a cushion. I have enough money to pay my bills.

Fact 4:

I am not in danger of losing everything and becoming homeless.

Fact 5:

My Social Security will continue to come into my account monthly.

Fact 6:

Fuzzy and Hammy will die some day, and before me. And they are still here now.

Fact 7:

I washed my car today and it looks good when it’s clean. That always makes me feel good about my car.

Fact 8:

Temps were in the 60s today! And that will continue for most of this week.

Fact 9:

I am good at my work. I have a wonderful pastor. My pros, Katy & Amy, are very good and meet my needs. I trust them.

Fact 10:

I am okay right now. I have what I need and what my pets need. There is no reason to believe that won’t continue into the near future.

Okay then. My goal is to keep all that in mind, focusing especially on #10.

Thoughts on My Body

When I look at my body, like I did this morning, I have a kind of fondness and sadness for it. Well, and an interest in it too.

 

*There was a time when I was terrified of the changes in it. That would have been puberty/teen years.

T*here was a time when I reveled in the changes in it. That would have been 20s and 30s when I was in my athletic peak.

*There was a time when I marveled at it. That would have been my 40s and early 50s when my body began another set of changes. They were pretty minimal though.

*There was a time when I was horrified of it. That would have been mid 50s to 57, when I became so obese.

There was a time when I was ashamed of my body. That would have been all my life, until about 3 years ago.

*Now is the time when I am most interested in it. My body is moving ever quicker into more changes. These changes are a deterioration of a sort. Somebody, a female writer, but I can’t recall who, said something about watching her body rot. Ick! I’m not thinking that way.

 

It is interesting to note the changes that are happening to my skin, musculature, joints. I have moments of melancholy for the body I used to have.

 

By that I mean, when my muscles used to slide effortlessly across one another. When my skin was darkly tanned from summer days spent in the field and on softball diamonds. When I was physically very strong. When I could sling bales into the barn and hit screaming line drives to the outfield walls. When throwing a hissing fastball to first to nip the runner by a step was second nature. I loved those moments. I loved the feel of playing.

 

I loved having trained my body until instinct took over and I just made plays. I loved being so good at it. I loved winning awards and patches. I loved that the opponents knew that they were in trouble when I came to bat. I loved that no one ever expected me to make an error. I loved feeling at home and known on the field.

 

I am grateful to have those fond memories. I am grateful to be able to smell the dirt and sand of the infield. I am grateful that I can see the dust rise gently, the sun beating down, the seeds of the cottonwood trees drifting over the field. There is so much to hear: Feet beating around the base paths, sliding across a base, sliding to a stop, skidding to catch the hit. Ball in mitt: Pop, slap, smack, thud. Bat connecting with ball: Bong The deep and solid sound of a good hit, the skrip of a pop up, skritch of a beaten down grounder, light thop of a bunt. The yelling – Two! Two! Two! I’ve got it! Mine! Fire one in there baby! Way to go, way to go! Run, run!

 

That is all good. Now is very different, but not in a bad way, just in a different way.

 

Now I love my body more than ever before. I have learned to pay attention to it. I have learned to appreciate it. I have learned to understand it and be grateful for it.

 

The arthritis is showing in my hands, in my knuckles especially. Mom always told me to stop cracking my knuckles! Sort of a sweet memory, but didn’t cause arthritis. Mom and Gramma and Great-Gramma did that. But my hands still look great, except for those moments when I notice just right, and realize my hands are starting to look like mom’s did in her 50s-60s. Argh. That’s kind of a shock. I have to remind myself that just because our hands are looking similar doesn’t mean I am just like her. I am like her in some ways, and not in others.

 

I have a significant amount of extra skin due to weight loss, but I’m curious about how my skin would be looking now if I didn’t have the extra. How saggy would it be? I don’t know, and guess I never will. Okay, guess I’ll have to live with that. Oh well.

 

I notice the skin on my neck, my arms, my legs. My butt! Hmmm. I understand how this body has fought for me, enabled me, freed me, for nearly six decades now. That is pretty impressive. I can still walk, run, ride bike, shoot baskets, whack a racquet ball. That’s all good. I can get into and out of chairs. I’m okay.

 

This body had done so much! Learning to walk, with all the attendant falling on my butt. Surviving horrendous abuse from a sadly crazy father. Being strong and capable still. I can carry a 50 lbs bag of potting soil – just barely.

 

 

Yeah, this body has done well. I am grateful for it. Never would have thought, even 10 years ago, that I would ever say that. I will be grateful for the rest of my life to the ones who taught me that my body is not the enemy. In fact, my body is more than a good thing. It is my best friend.

 

I love being able to say that. I am a very fortunate woman.