Fixed or Better?

Today I listened to a few men speak on how one might turn ordinary conversations into spiritual conversations. One man suggested the rather unique concept of listening. To preface his point, he said, "Women seem to already have a handle on the value of this . . . "

I try to stay away from generalizations about men and women and what one or the other group does or doesn't do. But I did have a follow up chat with a woman who heard the presentation and we made a distinction that I found interesting. (Again, this IS a generalization and I know it.)

Men seem to want to fix things. Women tend to speak more about "making things better." While a small distinction to be sure, the difference between whole and fixed and simply better is a pretty big deal, don't you think?

Bow Wow

He was angry . . . and therefore petty.

"I want the book I let you borrow back tonite."

Since he was dropping me off at my hotel at midnight and he was scheduled to be back to provide transportation to the airport in a matter of hours, I countered,"Can't you wait until tomorrow morning?"

"No, I want it now."

"Are you going to come up and get it?"

"No. Bring it to me."

And . . . God help me . . . I did.

On the walk back, I realized that the scene as it was transpiring had happened one way or another for far too many times in my life. My friends tried to point the behavior out as I moved in and out of relationships -- both friendships and more romantic encounters. But for the first time I saw it.

I didn't like what I saw. And I promised myself . . . never again.

This bitch is through with fetch.

What do you think?

My buddy told me before Christmas that he had a client he wanted me to meet. Seems this guy had thrown out one of those "don't you know anyone you can introduce me to?" after having finally come to terms with the fact that he and his former girlfriend weren't going to make it.

So Wednesday we all went out to dinner -- my buddy, his friend Christian that I had met only minutes before, me and The Guy.

The restaurant was good and The Guy picked up the entire tab.

Ok, that's the best part. It definitely goes down hill from here.

Wait . . . Christian was good, too. When he met me he said I looked fabulous and at least pretended to be shocked when he heard my age! Plus he rolled his eyes at all the right times when The Guy was on what he thought was a roll. He wasn't.

The Guy wasn't bad looking. In fact, I'm sure people tell him he favors Michael Douglas -- thinner, smaller frame but the hair and the angles of the face are similar.

He wasn't exactly rude either. He just never looked at anyone else at the table except my buddy -- the one guy he knew. He told long stories with no real punch line and he told everyone of them to my buddy. I can't emphasize this enough. It was as if my buddy's face had a magnet attached and The Guy's eyes were locked in some sort of force field.

When he left for a rest room break, we pounced.

"He's nervous! Don't you think?"

"He's gotta be. He can't talk to anyone but me!"

"Has he looked at you once, Karen?"

"That time he asked me what I did, then answered for me and began a new story which he proceeded to tell to YOU."

"Well, at least we know he's rich."

Dear Christian had to throw that in . . . after we'd heard about an Armani suit, a cashmere coat, a Mercedes, a condo in Houston and a place in Denver -- all details in various long stories with seemingly no real plot twists.

Once the boys left me alone with him while they took a "smoke break." He found the tabletop fascinating, asked about where I fell in my family birth order, told me I must be spoiled as a result of my status and then launched into a story about how his brother was one of the spoiled ones. He then wondered when the boys might be returning from what he deemed was at least a two cigarette break.

At least twice he touched my arm ... as if he was trying to let me know that he did realize I was there, or else checking to make sure I was.

So I'm left with choosing between "he's just not into you" or "he's really, really, really out of practice" or "he's socially inept." Which would you go with?

Trading in an Overcoat for that Swimsuit I Bought

The temperature is going to be somewhere around 20 degrees. I have two sweaters and a short coat. I'm crossing my fingers that my boots will keep me warm. But I'm still smiling because I'm going to New Jersey. Yep, New Jersey! Forget the movies you've seen, the caricatures that you probably default to. The people I'm going to see are great. The trip to NYC is a short one. At some point this weekend I'm going to hear jazz. And along the way, I'm going to do what I can to help a group of people achieve what they want to achieve.

Life is good.

Huh?

I spoke to an astronaut a few months back and asked how many other people in the world's history would be included in his ranks -- those who had found a home away from home for a brief time in space. He said about 500.

Imagine. You're one of 500 people in history and current times to do what you do. And one day you wake up and decide to throw it all away with a cross country drive that ends in disaster.

For love? Or was it more along the lines of the CNN headline -- Lust in Space?

Some NASA psychologist somewhere is hoping no one knows his/her name 'cause he/she's going to have some explaining to do.

Storytime or Maybe Not

I've often said, "It's all about the story." In the midst of a great adventure like hiking in Yosemite when you find your vehicle's tire is flat, that thought comes in handy and can put the experience in perspective. I've said similar things when I found myself walking alone in the rain on a dark street in Vietnam, arguing with personnel at a Thai airline counter that I could get into Turkey without a visa purchased in her fair city, discovering that it's less than ideal to take oversized luggage stuffed with missionary gifts through the Underground in London even if everyone is getting in a few hours of site seeing . . .

Recently though I've been playing with the lack of value in the "story." For every event there's what happened. Pure and simple. No added interpretation. No commentary. No assumptions applied. Just what happened.

And then there's the story -- the meaning and interpretation we give to what happened.

Apply this to relationships and some real healing can take place. My father didn't think less of me. He simply said, "If you can make As, do it." My friend didn't reject me. He stopped seeing me. The difference may be subtle but it's there.

And if you want a really good time take this thinking to the bible. Avoid interpretation and commentary and see what it leaves you. We did this as a staff this week and it was truly eye-opening.

Post Rejection Weekend

Driving to work this morning I heard Donna Summers sing, "Last dance last dance for love yes, it's my last chance for romance tonight . . ." I grinned, turned up the volume and sang along.

"I need you, by me, beside me, to guide me . . . " That's when I checked out the view . . . What was "beside me" was a fantastic view of the Houston skyline backlit by a cloud-infused sunrise color burst. And I thought, "not a bad way to be guided!"

By the time the song concluded I laughed aloud.

Which pretty much sums up how I feel about my post-rejection weekend. I'm laughing. I'm smiling. I'm singing. I have no evidence that things are better but I know they are.

Kinda of like what my little community talked about yesterday . . . We have no evidence. We sometimes don't have faith. And yet, we keep going. I left that group grateful that I'm "going" but certainly not alone!

Here's some highlights from the way I would always want to deal with life after having been rejected by someone who didn't really know me well enough to do so:

• I heard my favorite five year old play a violin before a crowd of 500 or more folks all supporting their Suzuki students.
• I dined with a friend from California who always challenges me to be better at my profession and gives me hope that soul mates do happen. (She's certainly a woman in love.)
• I exercised better and more than I have in a long time and could see the results.
• I prepped, shopped and cooked for 22 people and the meal came out hot, delicious and was every bit the birthday celebration of my best friend that I wanted it to be. Plus, I was surrounded and assisted by other friends who serve to remind me how blessed I am.
• I allowed myself to grieve, to rest.
• I spent time with a community who doesn't push answers but definitely has something going on worthy of my attention.
• I ushered at the theater.
• And I remembered that I can't wait to see what happens next.

Because I Can't Let It End There

If you read the blog post I just made (see below), you'll know that yesterday was not the most fun experience. And since I relish fun I can't let the weekend begin with that entry highest on this space.

Plus, you have to hear this one.

As soon as I got in my car I checked on who had called during the "dumping chat." Through the sobs (which I readily acknowledge were less about losing Mr. Right Now and more about the idea of having to start over, of losing what I had thought would be some great adventures ahead for us, etc.) I heard a voice from my past and my present but not my every day.

A few weeks ago, I had told this guy (the one on the voice mail) that we would have to re-negotiate a consulting gig I was going to do for his church in New Jersey because I was choosing to go on a trip. Yep, I chose Mr. Right Now over a job, over a commitment to a friend who I felt I'd always tried to accommodate and for once I wasn't going to. I offered several options to Mr. New Jersey but he would have none of them. We concluded our conversation with my resignation from the gig, his stated and obvious distaste for what I was doing, and my sense that I had tried to find the win/win and, though I don't like disappointing, I had finally chosen a "me first" option.

So to hear Mr. New Jersey's short message to call him was startling. The course of our friendship would have suggested that it would be months before we'd talk again and even then, I knew I'd be the one to have to call and make amends.

I returned his call immediately. The receptionist apparently remembered me from last year when I spent a weekend at this church and with great enthusiasm greeted me. When Mr. New Jersey answered, I launched into what had just happened in the dump chat.

He waited while I cried. He then asked all the right questions, tried to lessen the blow by doing a bit of name calling (totally not necessary but somehow cute), and, even started checking airline specials to see if I could hop on a plane and come to the city (he's a boat ride from NYC) this weekend so he and other friends there could console me with great food, great music and great theater.

I thanked him but told him that my weekend was already committed -- I'm hosting a kickass dinner party for my dearest friend at my other dear friends' house with all my wonderful friends and his surrounding us. Then I asked if the church would still want me.

"Absolutely," he said. And proceeded to book my flight for the gig I'd declined. Without knowing Mr. New Jersey and the fact that he has never been plagued with my dilemma of putting self last, you can't totally appreciate what happened next.

"So let's talk about what you want me to do there," I offered, sniffing loudly.

"Not now. We have time for that. Let's concentrate on you," he responded.

And that was enough.

So I got him to answer a few questions. We made some sketchy plans and by the time the phone call was coming to a close, I had a paying gig to make up for the lost weekend trip and the promise of some fun in Manhattan!

With plans in place, I started to conclude the call when I realized he'd been the one to first call me.

"Wait," I said. "You called me . . . What did you want?"

"Never mind," he replied.

"No really, what was it?"

"You won't believe me so it's ok."

"REALLY, what was it?"

"Ok . . . I called to check on you . . . . "

(I hope he didn't hear the intake of breath I offered up in shock.)

"I knew you would think that I'd be angry with you for quite a while about what you did and I just wanted you to know we were going to be ok."

"Well, you're right . . . I figured it would be months and me to make this right. I gotta give you credit. You're growing up, aren't you."

"Guess we all are . . . uh, Karen, you do know I love you, don't you?"

"Yeah, I do. Thanks."

A much nicer ending, don't you think?

I Got Dumped

I had been playing with a possible blog entry on how I wish I had an on/off switch for negative thinking. My sense was that something wasn't right with Mr. Right Now and I was ready to chat but he wasn't so I made up stories about why. My buddies were great in listening and most of them tried to steer me away from my doomsday prophecies.

Sometimes it's a bitch to be right.

We met yesterday for "lunch." But as we drove to the restaurant he was uncomfortable and rambling. When a break in his verbal barrier-building appeared, I inserted why I had come. I wanted to know what he'd been hinting at for a week but hadn't yet said.

"You want to know now or do you want to eat first," he said, still postponing.

"Am I going to get indigestion?"

"Probably."

"Then tell me now. Not eating will be good for my diet."

So he launched into how he had thought he could do "this" and now he knew he couldn't, how there was another woman who'd entered the picture and she was influential and could really help him meet the right people who would help his business grow, how his good friend had suggested that he needed to get past his distrust of women or he'd just continue to push the good ones away . . .

Then he offered me a second chance at doing lunch.

I declined.

While rejection is never easy, I thought I handled myself fairly well. I listened. I responded. I didn't try to persuade, convince, convict or anything else. I simply let him know where I was. Ok, I did insert a zinger or two but really, they were subtle and he would have had to really be paying attention to get them.

Strange that I didn't play the usual tapes in my head. I knew that this wasn't about my big hangup -- my physical attractiveness or the lack thereof. For the first time in my life, I knew that what I looked like had nothing to do with his decision. He made it clear throughout the drive away from and back to my car with comments, looks, touches, etc. that physical attraction wasn't the issue.

Guess I should be more upset that he was explaining it in such a way that it really sounded like he was "trading up." Since he's in the car business, it was hard not to hear it that way. But, truthfully, I was the best I've been in a long time with this guy. I had embraced my desire to have fun and adventure in my life and was living large with him. We had good times. And now he wanted those to end. I wasn't in love but definitely "in like." And, grieving for what could have been was already taking hold of me.

When we arrived at our stopping place and he looked me in the eyes.

"Wish I had a good exit line," I said with a not too forced chuckle.

"Think of one while I come around to open your door," he said, continuing to prolong the inevitable.

As I stood beside him, he looked a bit lost and asked if a hug was warranted.

I accepted the embrace as well as the light kiss and then I began the trek to my car.

"Wow," he said with obvious admiration at what lots of miles on a treadmill are netting my backside. "That looks so good to me."

And for the first time ever I tossed a line over my shoulder, "And it's walking away."

The end.

The Sun Is Shining, THANK GOD

Sounds Good to Me

"Madame Speaker."

We're Walking . . . We're Walking

Check out my AIDS Walk info. If you have already contributed, thank you. If you didn't know yet, the details are here. If you can't give money, send some good thoughts my way on March 11, ok? And, if you know someone I don't know that might be a supporter, feel free to pass along the link.

Not a Good Day . . .

Last night was not a good night.

Today has been less than wonderful.

So I'm using others' thoughts to shake up my own. I'm trying to remember to be the woman I want to be and not the one circumstances make of me. So I'm relishing others' words today:

“I would rather be ashes than dust! I would rather that my spark should burn out in a brilliant blaze than it should be stifled by dry-rot. I would rather be a superb meteor, every atom of me in magnificent glow, than a sleepy and permanent planet. The function of man is to live, not to exist. I shall not waste my days trying to prolong them. I shall use my time.” -- Jack London


And from a May issue of Newsweek on living a high velocity life (which is what I plan on doing):
"Every day you are confronted with new smells and tastes. Did you know what it tastes like to drink hot green tea in milk in February in Nara? Had you smelled the Namibian desert after a rainstorm? The high-velocity life not only rewards optimism, it demands it. If you get on each new flight thinking wherever you are going is worse than where you're coming from, then this life will empty you. And this is where a secret emerges: that the essential demand for a high-speed life is a kind of portable stillness. It's like that Taipei 101 skyscraper, which balances out too-frequent Asian earthquakes not by means of a deep foundation but through an internal damper that transmutes big shocks into small tremors. Stability comes from the inside."

Cup of Cold Water . . . well, it was lukewarm

I slept very little on Saturday night. The idea that in a few hours I would have to pull myself out of bed nagged at me even during sleep. After checking the clock every hour, the alarm finally sounded -- 4:45 a.m. The marathon would start in less than three hours.

Ever ready for a new experience, I'd said yes when Roger asked if I wanted to help at the water table Houston Community College had volunteered to staff during the run. The idea of watching 15,000 runners pass by in a matter of only a couple of hours intrigued me. So I layered up -- the weather was foggy and cool -- and we headed down to Studemont and Washington.

The assignment was fairly simple and the old hands were more than ready to tell us the best way to fill about 1000 cups of water that would be layered on our 8 ft. table. Three stacks high thanks to cardboard separating each layer. We filled ours a bit too much which meant handing the cups off took a little extra maneuvering but we were more than ready when the first runners started appearing.

The action was fast and furious so I really only remember bits --

• the questioning calls for "Water?" since Gatorade was at another table,
• the relentless responses of some of the volunteers as they took to simply repeating the word over and over again "water, water, water, water"
• the look of need in the runners' faces as they approached -- a need to grab the fluid without slowing their pace, a need to connect with my eyes to insure that I understood, a need to keep on going . . . no matter what . . . to keep on
• the countless "thank you"s that came from the grateful runners -- this thing cannot be done without volunteers and they knew it
• the incredible variety of body types and statements being made -- statements on health, battles against disease, friendships and more
• the feeling of inadquacy when the table it had taken an hour to prepare was emptied in minutes and then I stood with pitcher in hand for another hour or more filling cup after cup like some sort of neverending faucet
• the way those power packs of goo that runners love look so much like condom wrappers when they've been thrown on the asphalt and trampled
• thousands of cups that had to be scooped up (along with everything else that got dumped along the way) and bagged by those very same volunteers who had filled cups, offered them up and now would dispose of them
• and the best Mexican food breakfast I've ever had. Don't know if the follow up feast was so tasty because I was cold, wet and tired or because it was truly a great, cheap place to eat, but it was delicioso.

I did the half marathon a couple of years ago and felt afterwards that I had somehow been a part of something so much grander than a test of my endurance. This side of the excitement, I continue to feel that something more than physical tests were won that day. I love it when people prove we are not all out to surpass the next, but instead, we can run the race side by side and be grateful in the running.

Mark This Down

Tuesday night I created the possibility in my life of being adventurous, ready to embrace the moments that come my way as opportunities to live life to the fullest. And by Friday I already had . . . committed to pump up the volume on my AIDS activism, connected with two new incredible women who will most definitely add to my life, heard some kicking blues where the sax sounded like pure sex, planned a trip to the Bahamas, committed to working the Houston marathon this weekend and handing out thousands of cups of water, and stood up for myself twice.

I'm liking this possibility stuff!

Senior Moments

The woman looked her age today. The folds of skin beneath her chin were couched on her shirt collar. Her skin was pale and she'd pulled her gray (not white and not silver) hair back with a band exposing wrinkles and splotches she hadn't bothered to cover with makeup.

Her husband sat beside her at the meeting. He had a bit more color on his face, but his coat and tie in the casual setting suggested a link to days of old that he simply won't release. His bad arm hung loose at his side.

So easy . . . dismissing them as two old geezers would have been so easy.

Then she reached up. (His back was turned so that he could see the speaker.) And she rubbed her hand back and forth across his shoulders. Slightly startled, he turned toward her. She smiled. He smiled and, with his good arm reached behind to gently tug at her foot, the closest available appendage.

Married for 51 years, they still have moments such as these. And in those moments, they are beautiful.

Am I the Only One Who Thinks . . .

• If you're successful enough to be interviewed for an article on the status of something in your field you should come up with something better than "I'll be happy when we have more than just prom songs to Jesus sung by some effeminate guy on an acoustic guitar." Plllleeezeee . . . how much practice does it take to become that offensive? (see Relevant magazine's latest issue and certain Seatle pastor's response if you want details)
• If 1 comment is left on a blog shouldn't it say 1 comment rather than 1 comments?
• Rainy days should be deemed the same as snow days and everyone should get to go home early?
• The spam folks using scripture in their subject lines are playing with hellfire?
• No one has yet to replace the emotional impact (read that sex appeal) of Barry White singing?!

It's Juli's Fault

Juli tagged me. And only because I think she's an amazing woman am I fulfilling her request to tell at least five things about me that someone else might find amazing . . . (Since I sincerely doubt anyone who doesn't love me would give a hoot about what I'm about to say, I strongly encourage all mere acquaintances or friends who have not committed to longterm emotional involvement with me to skip this entry and read through my posts of the past or, better yet, link to some of my friends who are far more amazing and who you'll find listed on the right hand side of this page.)

1. I started working when I was 13 years old and haven't quit since. The Dairy Queen was my home away from home for five years and I spent many a late Friday night driving around Greenfield, TN with the windows down to try and eliminate the smell of french fries from my hair and clothes. I can still make that curly top on soft serve ice cream and practice any chance I get . . . usually at Jason's Delis and Chinese buffets.

2. I'm two degrees separated from the former pope. You know that six degrees of separation theory? Well, my former boss (in the 1980s) was a head honcho of a LARGE religious organization and she was invited to meet him along with lots of other head honchos. She went and did the meet and greet thing. Cool thing was the "souvenir" from the experience -- they sent our organization the chair in which she sat.

3. One book lists my name as an author. Another doesn't but was compiled and practically rewritten from other sources by yours truly. They are both rather boring pieces of curriculum and my own family (who own copies of the first) have acknowledged that they've never read them. Frankly, I don't blame them. (And having written this I think the so-called amazing part may not be that I'm published but that I can readily admit how boring an author I really am!)

4. I've gotten at least three standing ovations in my career. And, while I readily gave up that aspect of my work long ago and realize that I'm supposed to be humble and totally unaffected by such attention, I enjoyed every second of the experience.

5. I have incredible taste in friends . . . they are the best part of who I am. And "grateful" doesn't adequately cover how I feel to know and love them.

He Asked, I Answered, She Made Me Think Further

Him: Do you think pastors do what they do because of passion or is it just a job?

Me: Depends on the pastor. Most, I'd even go as far as to say most all, definitely get into it because of passion . . . they feel God has called them. But it can become a job. The good ones do what they can to keep the passion alive.

Him: Hmmmm (with a look of some disappointment on his face)

Me: You'd be surprised at how the work of the church drains the passion right out of them.

After recapping this exchange to my boss and friend . . .

She: I think passion is overrated. Commitment may not be as hot, but it's to be valued.

Happy Days!

I'm off . . . to Tennessee . . . to family . . . to listen to a friend going through the darkest of days . . . to bask in the joy that comes from teenage nieces who think I'm cool . . . to try and get to know a nephew that physical distance has equaled an emotional one as well for far too long . . . to help my mother cope with hostessing . . . to laugh with my sister as we share a stocking and several cups of coffee on Christmas morning . . . to remember once again that my brother is a gentle man . . . to check on Doc . . . to don an outrageous piece of Christmas head gear (I'm thinking the antlers), put down the top and give Greenfield something to talk about . . . to live in the expectancy that is Christmas.

Hope you have full and happy days as well . . .

Call Me A Lot of Things But Never 'Boring'

Moods shift at Christmas. So much expectation (both good and bad) hangs in the air Houston's humidity seems tame in comparison.

So on Friday night, I was determined to lift the spirit of a hard-working-rarely-playing-serious-student-who-is-over-50 friend of mine. We put the right mix of people in my car, put the top down on what I'm now seeing as my personal Christmas sleigh, donned amazingly tacky head gear (from an Elmer Fudd Seasons Greetings fake fur number to one girl's phallic symbol candy cane with attached misletoe to reindeer antlers) and stocked up on wrapped peppermint sticks. We then proceeded to some of the more festive areas of town and distributed the candy to anyone brave enough to accept it. We found the inline skaters who were out in mass in one neighborhood willing recipients!

My buddy deemed the night a smashing success and seemed restored enough to return to his retail-at-Christmas-omigod existence for the next week.

Yesterday my mission centered on showing a new Brit friend a proper Houston experience. We made our way by the Rothko chapel and found an appropriate balance of appreciation for both the contemplative space and the sheer audacity of covering humungous canvases with one color and deeming it art. Next we traveled to a nearby outdoor labyrinth for her first ever experience with this meditation device.

Did I mention it was raining?

When we got there the puddles were confined to the far outer circle. The drops were intermitent and seemed to be dissipating. I asked if she really wanted to risk the dampness and she was adamant that she was in.

Oh silly us.

By the time we finished, water was rushing down the bridge of her nose. She had nothing dry on her body. The rain had increased. We truly "walked on water" as we made our way through what was now a labyrinth puddle. And it was glorious!

Cranking up the heat and driving quickly but carefully back to my place we threw everything in the dryer and let hot showers and hot tea warm us. Lots of good conversation later we were once again toasty and ready for the evening.

Since my new friend is an actress I had wanted to introduce her to the theater scene in my adopted city but alas Monday night the lights are out on our venues. EXCEPT . . .

Houston's oldest dinner theater burned down last week and a group of former performers from there decided to make their Christmas cabaret act into a charity benefit for the waitstaff and performers who are now without work over the holidays. The Hobby Center even opened up (with FREE parking so you KNOW it was a charity experience) so that they could have a proper stage. So we had a nice meal made better by a really great waiter and sped downtown for the performance.

Having just told my buddy about my lack of enthusiasm for musical theater, she confessed that she had to smile when the entire show was a Broadway revue. I found that if I closed my eyes and tried not to concentrate on the forced smiles and canned choreography, it was a not too unpleasant experience. 'Cause you know . . .

"We need a little Christmas, right this very minute. We need a little Christmas now!" (and if you've seen as many Christmas variety shows as I've seen you can choose to pretend you just heard Donnie and Marie sing that or Andy Williams)

The night turned more pleasant than the day and we once again put the top down, tried to find the usual lights of Christmas downtown (what's up Macy's? you couldn't find Foley's massive light displays after you bought out the Houston mainstay????) and then determined that we needed to return to the blessed to bless neighborhood with themed streets.

And once again we found ourselves face to face with Gloria. She's the 59 year old woman who spends 32 days covering everything she can find with multi-color lights -- including a non-functioning cadillac which gets 4200 bulbs alone! She sits in her driveway with her neighbors who appeared to enjoy another reason to imbibe and greets the cars that drive by. Music blares from unseen speakers and she regales the crowd with stories of how she does what she does. After we made a small donation to her electric bill she even gave us a couple of photos so that my buddy would have something to verify the experience with.

A bit of wassail later at a friend's and I felt I'd done my elfing duty for the day.

Hope you and yours are having an equally exciting Christmas season!

Tell Me I Didn't Do This!

Nice party. Nice friends. I handled being the "host's date" with ease. We laughed. We danced. The night went well.

So having waited to the last minute to make my way across Houston to meet a girlfriend who will be staying with me a couple of nights, I'm in a hurry. The car seems to be on but with the radio blaring I'm not sure. I note quickly that I haven't got enough gas for the hour's drive. I'm checking dials and pretending to listen to his goodbye as he leans into the window for a kiss.

And then it happens . . .

I look up, wave, and say, "Ok, love ya! ... "

Of course, I then immediately move to "WAIT!!! No I don't. I didn't mean that. I ABSOLUTELY didn't mean that. Not now. Not ever. Really."

Sweet man that he is, he assures me that he's already recognized I'm a bit distracted and totally understands the miscommunication.

I drive away with the sinking feeling that I'm a total idiot.

After I fill the tank, I call.

"Ok, try this . . . 'loved the pary', 'i have a lovely time', 'loved meeting your friends' -- choose one and pretend I said that, will you?"

I Can't Get No . . .

Yesterday a friend asked me what I wanted for Christmas. We were emailing back and forth (because, argh, he has yet to get into instant messaging) and I replied with a tongue in cheek answer that was -- at the time -- supposed to be teasingly vague and intriguing.

Satisfaction.

I get points for vague but I think I was more intrigued than he with the speed in which I came up with this and later the actual truth of it.

Growing up in my oh-so-fundamentalist-but-I-didn't-know-it church, we sang "I am satisfied. . . . I am satisfied with Jesus." Today my little coffeehouse community will at times sing the song "Enough." But I don't sing that one. At least I haven't since I really considered the words, "Jesus, you're more than enough for me."

I don't sing it because . . . well, it's not true. At least not for me. At least not yet. OK, sometimes I allow for the fact that I want it to be true and so I'll sing in the hope of its reality in my life. But for the most part, I use this time to pray and ask God why satisfaction seems to be such an illusion for me.

Now, before some of you get out of sorts, let me clarify. Yes, I know that I have all that I need by way of physical comforts. The roof over my head may be someone else's floor but my humble abode is perfectly suited to my personality and the limits of my hospitality. The food I eat is beyond filling . . . even my snacks are exotic and luscious. My clothes are as stylish as I can push myself to attempt. I'm truly covered in every way. And believe me, "grateful" is with me all day, every day. I am absolutely grateful. But satisfied?

Satisfaction feels almost like an illusion . . . like smoke rising after the magician yells "abracadabra." I see it in the distance, exposed by the light, but touching it? Not really an option.

I know that greed makes many want for more. I know that addictions attempt to fill the hole. I know that many a religious fanatic would swear that Jesus has taken care of all that for them and (after saying a simple prayer with all heads bowed and eyes closed) will do so for me, you and whoever else we can grab as well.

But, I don't see it. I don't see satisfaction in those folks. I see striving similar to gerbils in a wheel, spinning without relocating to anywhere new. Even the ones that I know have some degree of peace . . . they're still "working at" this whole faith thing.

Peace . . . that's really what I'm talking about. You see that don't you? A peace that calms the want, quells the desire, caps the longing . . . now that would be satisfaction.

The angels told us it was coming -- peace on earth, good will, etc. But still we can't quite seem to get such satisfaction.

So . . . if you have some to spare . . . put a bow on it and send it my way, ok?

A Shitty Day

The title may get me blocked from any number of screens (though why everyone else's filters should work better than mine which allows 200 email offers for watches, stocks, and erectile dysfunction solutions each day is confusing me). But it's the truth. While the shit didn't hit the fan, it was everywhere else.

Roger and I were actually experiencing a slow day at Omega House. We had every intention of doing a major cleanup in the kitchen as instructed. Only four residents were on hand and one of them was heading to church so we figured after bed changes we were good to go on the whole kitchen thing.

Silly, silly us.

We rushed into the den when we heard one of the residents call out. "M" had fallen out of the chair. As we helped him back to his seat, we noticed his clothes were wet. Since he wore a catheter we knew what it wasn't. I, being ever the hopeful one, started looking for the orange juice glass he'd obviously spilled.

Roger, whose head was not as stopped up as mine, pointed out that it wasn't juice.

We helped the nurse get him first in the wheel chair and then back to his room. Roger assisted in there while I tended to disinfecting the den furniture. I arrived in time to see how bad the next few minutes were going to be. (For those of you who think I've already shared way too many details already, just skip this blog entry now.)

What we couldn't quite figure out was how it could be everywhere . . . thighs, calves, even his feet! And so very much of it. . . I swear nurses should get combat pay.

My hero, David, did the bulk of the cleanup with Roger assisting. I held the trash bag and made the executive decision that most of the soiled clothes were beyond rescue. As David finally cared for the wound that made this man's backside look like hamburger meat and had the diaper halfway taped up, Roger was the first to see. Seems "M" wasn't finished with his moving experience.

We started over.

Bed baths weren't new to us but working around all the soiled sheets and clothes and wipes and whatever was certainly ... uh ... interesting. I scrubbed on his feet for quite some time --somehow rationalizing that if his feet were cleaned that would wash away all that I'd just seen. We bathed him and bathed him again. David came to the door to tell us he had visitors and we tried even harder. We were determined to make his day new again.

"M" was fairly clueless we were even in the room. He's heavily sedated and doesn't really make sense when he tries to tell us something. But we responded to whatever he was muttering as if he were a Nobel Peace Prize winner uttering great bits of wisdom.

We gave him the bath. We gave him new sheets. We gave him new clothes. We gave him his dignity.

He'd had a shitty day, but his friends never knew.

And that's what volunteers do.

More Losses

Walker said "thank you" more than any resident I've ever worked with at Omega House. He once sent another volunteer to tell me his eggs that morning were some of the best he'd ever had. (I had tried a new approach to scrambling, something I'd seen on the Food Network, but really they were just scrambled eggs!). He seemed so troubled when he had to ask for extra help -- like could we keep the mop bucket down the hall rather than at his door since the Pine Sol scent was too much for his emphysema-wracked lungs?

Walker once traveled a great deal. He was a veteran. He was from Mississippi. He loved country cooking and swapping recipes. A few months ago, he gained the freedom he'd been lacking when he got a new laptop and wirelessly connected with people and places from his past. He often spoke of "travels" he'd made right from his bed.

I learned Walker had died on Friday night at the volunteer Christmas party. On Saturday, I went to his room first. The silence was almost overwhelming. For months, the steady flow of oxygen was the sound that hit you first as you entered the room. Now ... nothing. After remembering Walker, I walked to Miles' room and thought once again of him. In a matter of moments, I learned Robyn had passed away as well. He was my veggie loving partner in crime who had taught me how to cook spaghetti squash on my last visit.

So much loss . . . but that's the way a hospice works. We are there for the dying. I'm glad, though, when we get to know something of their living before they leave us.

Miles

The memory I cherish is Miles smiling broadly (with his brand new teeth that he'd been given that very week) and waving in recognition as we shouted his name from the sidelines of the Gay Pride Parade just two short years ago. He was finally leaving Omega House after more than a year of residency, leaving healthy -- a rare feat at a hospice -- and had been asked to ride in the car that served as the organization's parade entry. He had the "homecoming queen" wave down pat by the time he got to us. We all beamed.

Miles was self-care for most of my acquaintance with him. We love "self-care". No diapers, no baths or showers to assist with, actual conversation with coherent points connecting A to Z -- that's self-care. Usually, all we provided was a cup half filled with coffee and half filled with Ensure, a nutritional supplement that gave him a mocha lift with his cigarette.

Miles wasn't supposed to live at Omega House -- in the sense that he pretty much set up residency and everyone tended to look the other way when he continued to improve and his stay extended waaaaaaay beyond the six months usually allotted for folks who come our way. He had a shelf of bric-a-brac and plants that defied the decorator's impersonal lavish designs for the rooms. He had his cigarettes. He was home.

We almost felt a friend was moving away as we waved at Miles in the parade. I remember tearing up.

About a year later, Miles returned to us. The streets and poor choices had him back to the poor health that needs continued monitoring. I kept waiting for the famous "Miles comeback tour" to begin again. It didn't.

Miles died this past weekend. His body was truly skin and bones (in this case, I'm not using hyperbole). He'd long since stopped wearing the teeth. When I was last there, he didn't even make it to the patio for one of his beloved cigarettes.

But I'll not remember that Miles. My Miles is waving, smiling and waving, and this parade has no end.

World AIDS Day Comes Home

I'm wearing a pin today that has a red ribbon on it. Actually, the pin is a reproduction of a stamp . . . as in "Stamp Out AIDS".

My brother was a postal worker. He collected a few stamps through the years. When I see one that intrigues me, I think of him.

My brother died but not from AIDS. He was alive one March evening and then suddenly he wasn't. In my family, hearts are full but not always strong.

Today, I'm remembering a great many dead people because today the world is supposed to be coming together to say AIDS is bad and we need to be rid of it.

I agree and I'm wearing a ribbon. But I'm also thinking about Bart and wondering what he'd think of me now. I've changed a bit since we last chatted. We used to agree to disagree about many things -- politics, religion, the way the church worked or didn't. And though many people say they can do that and then don't, Bart and I did. We loved each other and that transcended discussions about ideas. I know ideas shape us and we are our ideas but, for Bart and me, we were more than that.

Brother, sister, family. God, I'm grateful I can remember that.

Today my prayer is that those living with AIDS have a family they can turn to that gets to the heart of the matter, that those living with AIDS continue to live, and that those families who don't yet get that nothing in life is guaranteed and have not yet embraced their loved one and that people can leave us in a moment . . . well, I pray that they go now and grab the hug that I long for.

3 Little Words, 1 Big Effort

3 little words
change everything
3 little words
filled with grace
3 little words
offering peace
3 little words

"You were right."

Once Again, Breathing Matters

I breathed. I listened. I stopped over-thinking.

Today is MUCH better.

Sad Today, Sun Tomorrow?

Disappointment sucks. I've invested some time into a relationship and have this gnawing feeling that the return on that investment isn't going to please me. What "pleasing me" would look like is a bit fuzzy but would definitely include choosing me over TV after my having been away for several days.

Some folks have suggested I tend to overthink things. I agree. But the evidence is in on this one and I'm left with . . . leftovers. While I'm a creative cook, I think I deserve gourmet.

So I'm backing off. The investment is already made. The dividends are going to mature or they're not. But I've grown too fond of the woman I now perceive myself to be to allow her to be hurt by someone's short sightedness.

This feels like a soap opera synopsis so . . . to be continued.

Quotable Quote #? (I used to keep track)

There's a helluva distance between wisecracking and wit. Wit has truth in it; wisecracking is simply calisthenics with words.

--Dorothy Parker

Meeting Musings (perhaps not poetry but lyrics?)

Paying my dues
Gripping and grinning
Biding my time
Keeping plates spinning
My “yes” is my “yes”
As well as my “no”
I’ll do what I can
To go with the flow

Looking the part
Playing the game
Working 9 to 5
Settling for fortune not fame
I talk the talk
Use the lingo
I’ll do what I can
To go with the flow

But when the clock sets me free
I’m free indeed
Free to be, to see, to say what I need
Free for the taking
And take I will
The glass I’ve been draining
I’m ready to re-fill
Of little I’m sure but this I know
By all means, let the good times flow

Beach Walking Wake Up

The drapes were blowing through the patio doors. . . . billowing actually . . . catching my eye and my breath with the grandness. But I was troubled as well. Open doors would make sense if we were in the heat of an Alabama summer. But this was a pre-Thanksgiving walk along an almost uninhabited beach.

Still one room and then another and another were all experiencing the breeze. A suggestion of normalcy existed. Furniture awaited fulfillment of function. Patio chairs sat empty.

Then I saw the upturned armchair, the broken window. And cold reality joined the wind.

The hotel was abandoned. Concrete cubes still contained the remains of what once meant comfort to castle-building kids, sun-scorched teens, and fished out men and women. But no soul would check in to this inn again.

Hurricanes bring both destruction and great change.

I had just been considering the exhilaration that is my life -- a sunny day, health to walk the sands with smile-filled energy, friends with whom to play and contemplate everything from Scrabble strategies to church planting. Yet moments before I saw the open windows I had allowed a brief moment of reality to sit in. One slight shift and the landscape would change drastically. One loss, one false move, one disappointment and the shell might remain but day-in/day-out would seem so empty.

Sooooo . . . I turned my gaze to the sun and kept walking, leaving reality for another day.

Definitely Grateful

Since we Americans feel the need to make everything "official" in order for it to truly be real (images of the Velveteen Rabbit just flashed through my mind), we've given ourselves permission, yea, verily even dictated that folks get grateful on this Thursday.

Thanks-giving has never been too difficult for me. I need no holiday to encourage me to look around a table at the bounty of friends who surround me -- the diversity of thought, culture, experience, humor, stories, beauty, grace -- and give thanks. "Blessed" sometimes feels like a word that's been hijacked by people with whom I no longer agree and I use it reluctantly because of those conotations but I truly feel blessed to be part of the God-given families of birth and choice in my life.

I am amazed at the life I've been fortunate enough to lead. While never knowing the extended belly poverty I've seen in parts of the world, I grew up very aware of my family's lack of wealth. Still, I never went hungry and the times I went "without" were few and far between. I complained the year I got a garage sale Barbie with homemade (actually crocheted, if you can picture that) clothes but, hey, I had one of those damn dolls, didn't I? And it sufficiently warped my psyche for years.

Today I travel. I know, enjoy, cook and delight in sharing good food with others. My home has people from all over the world enter its comfort. They may not have had their own bathroom or 350 count sheets ... they may not have even enjoyed a real bed ... but they were there, gifting me with their wisdom and tales of life journeys.

Today I know adventure. Each moment for me is precious. I've seen too many people leave this earth too early. I have no intention of wasting time. Some watch and wonder and quietly suggest that perhaps I should watch that proverbial candle-burning a bit more closely. But if there's a rock to climb, I'm climbing it; a river to cross, then I'm on the other side; a mountaintop to reach, then I'm there; I'm even good with a perfectly good plane to jump out of.

Today I love, I laugh, I cry, I experience freedom, I risk, I relish, I embrace, I enjoy. Today I'm definitely grateful.

"Serious" Games

Wondering if any of you have checked the idea of "serious games" out . . . and if so what you think? Here's a link to one called Darfur Is Dying.

Halfway to Nowhere (At least not yet)

I'm not sure.

I sound sure.

I'm sure I seem sure when others ask.

But overall

I'm not sure . . . and I hate that halfway feeling.

Undeveloped Thoughts

I'm sure I thought this scribble on an envelope might make a good post once it was further developed. I haven't developed it so maybe it should just be what it is and nothing more:

Makeshift meaning . . . patching in importance where it was never intended.

Wow! Has It Been That Long?

I'm tired today. I'm too weary to synthesize or summarize or theorize about all that's transpired in the two weeks since I last posted. I will, however, give you a sampling of the ingredients and if you choose to cook up an interesting story to go along with it -- true or only rooted in truth -- I'd be delighted to hear it.

airport runs . . . accents that amused me and put smiles on the faces of almost every Texan that heard them . . . friends coming to my rescue so that sweet kisses weren't entirely off my agenda . . . cultural divides and bridge builders . . . back rubs that found THE spot and made it momentarily better . . . networks and node runners . . . markers and flip charts and mindmaps . . . questions, questions, questions . . . pain revealed and pain hidden . . . a job interview that turned into an offer to volunteer and a recommitment to who I am and what I'm doing in this moment in time . . . King Ranch Chicken the way it's supposed to be made . . . young adults challenging older adults to live what they teach . . . laughter -- God, I love laughter! . . . hesitancy and surety . . . appreciation of the wisdom that comes with experience . . . honoring enthusiasm (and sometimes not) . . . Texas Two Stepping with my favorite 70 year old rodeo cowboy . . . watching the Brit's feet while line dancing and realizing he was soooo much better than me . . . the power of breathing brought on by occasional but much needed walks . . . the joy of seeing someone geniunely smile . . . fearing illness, finding I'm only human and tears happen . . . bad calls . . . grace . . . circular tables do make for good conversation around the dinner table . . . realizing once again my job is not to fix anything . . . or anybody . . . risking and failing, risking and succeeding . . . pioneers in space and time . . . saying goodbye . . . making people feel . . . making people comfortable . . . art . . . good food . . . a glass of wine at just the right time . . . heartfelt enthusiasm . . . stars overcoming the blackness on a rural farm then the turn toward day as the sun rises and I don't have to think . . . a much needed nap . . . a group of coworkers I respect . . . hard work, head work . . . massaging egos when I what I want to do is kick asses (and that remark has nothing to do with anyone with a foreign-to-Texas accent) . . . wanting to make the hurts better and realizing I'm helpless . . . wondering what God is up to or if God is even paying attention . . . deleting 600 spam ads not detected by my security measures . . . today, breathing once again and looking forward to more time with friends.

Depression is depressing ...

A friend of mine lives in China. She’s not Chinese by birth but she has a Chinese heart. She fell in love with the land and the people more than a decade ago and has even made a few sacrifices in order to live there. She uses an email newsletter to share some of her experiences and occasionally make observations regarding the people around her.

The tables turned on her recently when someone heard a story on U.S. radio about a Chinese situation and asked her about it. Seems NPR featured the tale of a man who saved people who were attempting to commit suicide by jumping off the Nanjing bridge into the Yangzi River. Chen is about 38 years old, a manager in a company, and he spends his weekends patrolling the bridge and talking people out of jumping, and sometimes manhandling them to keep them from going over.

She writes, “He started this mission (he isn't religious, but this is clearly a mission) during 2003 and has saved 102 persons. He seems to have a gift for knowing who is a candidate for jumping. . . . He has learned how to detect the clues of depression -- lack of purposeful direction, a vacant expression. He strikes up a conversation and tries to get people to connect with him emotionally; this often results in tearful confessions of depression, lack of money, illness, no job, marriage problems, and so forth. Sometimes he takes the people home with him until they are stable. His wife isn't too keen on this, but apparently she puts up with it and, when the person is female, takes care of her.”

After hearing the story and investigating, my friend connected yet another friend who teaches psychology to Chen. As a result, he’s getting some help with his ongoing bridge surveys.

My friend said that she’s learned nearly 250,000 people commit suicide in China every year, one every two minutes. Another 2 million attempt suicide each year. One shocking statistic she found is that 37 percent of those who attempt suicide consider it for less than five minutes, and 60 percent consider it for less than two hours. Suicide has become the main cause of death in persons aged 15-34.

Last week I heard that authorities had found the body of a pastor acquaintance of mine. He lived in another city. I’d done a consulting gig with this man. He’d shared his hopes for his congregation as well as his struggles with depression and alcoholism. I thought his vision was a good one and told him so. I doubted he was the leader who could accomplish it. I didn’t tell him that. He didn’t ask. My hope was that his hope for the future tilted the scales toward the positive in his life. Guess I was wrong.

Depression to the point of suicide is unfathomable to me. But then again, I’m not depressed. I’ve known this disease from afar and close enough to feel its hot breath on the back of my neck. I never see fun runs for it or Labor Day telethons but its victims are legion – those that leave and the hundreds they leave behind.

I don’t blame my pastor friend or my high school best friend (who we also lost to sucide)or all the folks I’ve known who have suffered the day to day life drain that depression brings. I am angry however. But I just don’t know where the anger goes. So for now, it goes here.

Yes! Yes! Yes!

Shannon posted this one and I thought it worthy of not just linking to, which I am, but also reproducing here . . .

“I will not die and unlived life
I will not live in FEAR
of falling or catching fire.

I choose to inhabit my days,
to allow my living to open me
to make me less afraid
more accessible,
to loosen my heart
until it becomes a wing, a torch, a promise.

I choose to risk my significance,
to live so that which came to me as seed
goes to the next as blossom,
and that which came to me as blossom
goes on as fruit”

–Dawna Markova

Surreality . . . My Life Is Full of It*

Hard to complain about an early morning doctor's appointment for my annual boob smashing when I spent my time in the waiting room editing a story that included references to Pol Pot's murderous regime in Cambodia.

*yes, I knew what you might think when I chose this title

I've Been Sick

For those of you who read this blog regularly, you may have noted that I've begun posting several in one day. For those of you who may be new or only peeking in occasionally, please note that several posts exist below this one and they are all new. Oh, and I've been sick so this is the first day in a while that I felt like typing.

Here's One for All the Theologians . . . Or Anyone Else with a Good Guess

So my friend and I are talking about the passage that says Jesus loved his disciples the way God had loved Jesus. And I got to thinking, "What exactly are we talking about here? What does that love look like?"

For instance, Jesus was born to a young unmarried woman insuring his status as a bastard in some folks' eyes. He lived the immigrant lifestyle in his early years (good thing there wasn't a 700 mile border wall south of his homeland, huh?). If he carried that same attitude he took with the temple teachers as a young boy into the schoolyard, I'm sure all his playmates thought the whole "God complex" he had going on was just ever so endearing. And Dan Brown assertions aside, he doesn't appear to have been intimately involved with anyone of the female persuasion as he traveled around with some of the smelliest, sweatiest, stubbornest varmits he could have found. All to get to die in way we all know wasn't pleasant.

For me, that's not exactly the "look of love." I doubt many of us would sign up for that kind of fatherly attention.

So what does the God's love look like that we're supposed to be reproducing?

Ain't that sweet . . .

Me: Sir, I gotta tell you that I find you to be a most interesting man.

Him: (pause) Well, you're gorgeous and obviously I need to spend a little more time listening to your stories because you've lived a fascinating life.

Me: That was a perfect response.

Deja Vu But Not Really

We rode the escalator to the ballroom level of the Hilton Americas. The last time I'd done so, I emerged to a view of 750 gay men eyeing what was available at the silent auction that would benefit human rights advocacy. This time the crowd was once again 750 strong but they were cowboys and their spouses and their silent auction proceeds go to scholarships.

Much to the chagrine of both groups, I'm sure, I smiled at their contrasts and similarities. Seems bad fashion crosses all cultural lines. Way too many people seem to lack full length mirrors in their homes or friends good enough to give them the "just cause they have it in your size, doesn't mean you need to wear it" speech. Alcohol consumption definitely boosted both groups' generosity. Seeing and being seen is a party game in either camp. The sweetest disparity I saw came when we stopped to examine one of the auction items at the cowboy table. Whereas the gay boys had a refrigerated wine cooler and a couple of cases of wine featured in a focal spot, these boys had a premium ice chest with all the acoutrements needed for a kicking fishing expedition.

To each his own indeed ....

Second Time to Quote this Guy

From The Week October 20, 2006 issue, column of the editor William Falk:

When I first noticed grown men ogling my daughter, she was barely 14. She hadn't started high school, and she was walking next to her dad, yet men in their 30s and 40s were checking her out with undisguised prurient interest. I often challenged these gawkers with a glare; they'd look back with no evident shame, as if to say, "Yeah, you caught me. So what?" Julia -- who's now 15, younger than any congressional page -- says that she and her friends run into this kind of leering everywhere. Men two or three times her age approach her on the street and try to engage her in conversation. She's grown afraid to go running in our suburban neighborhood, because so many men shout obscene comments out ther car windows. Not one of these men, I would venture to guess, is gay.

Of all the lessons being drawn from the Mark Foley scandal, the most laughable is that this is what happens when you put gay men in Congress. "Whether we admit it or not," said columnist Pat Buchanan this week, "many male homosexuals have a thing for teenage boys." I'd restate that sentence a bit more broadly. Whether we admit it or not, many men have a thing for teenagers -- and they no longer feel very guilty about it. Let us not forget that when she was the same age as Foley's page friends, Britney Spears was our culture's biggest sex symbol. Of the dozens of sex scandals in Washington's recent past, 98 percent have involved straight men with much younger women. So if we really want a Congress free of scandal and drooling predators, it's not gay men we should purge from politics. We should stop electing men. [his italics]

We Just Drove . . .

Saturday was one of my favorite days in Houston. I love living here most every day but on Bayou City Arts Festival Saturday, I feel like I do after a long afternoon in a bookstore -- like I've been to worship gathering where everyone accepts and no one blames.

I'm not so naive that I believe artists are without malice and envy. That's not it. I just love breathing in creativity, even when I don't like what I see, even when it hurts. Something mysterious is untethered within my soul as I walk from booth to booth and am reminded of greater forces at work than I can understand. Colors, textures, ideas and images wash over me and I'm clean again.

Definitely dealing with the metaphor here, given that we are talking Houston and even a breezy day like Saturday came with some high temps and the resulting sweat. Still, I thrilled at each encounter.

Yes, I bought a piece. Yes, Roger bought a piece. Yes, Stan did as well. We don't pay to get into the event since we serve as volunteers and offer relief to the artists in the form of booth sitting while they grab food or a spot in the Porta Potty line. . While our charity -- Bering Omega -- gets a portion of the gate for supplying volunteers, the festival also never fails to gain from our participation. Much of my home is decorated with festival buys.

But as much as I love this event, and I'm hoping you can tell that I do, what we did afterwards was even better.

We just drove.

Roger and I were hungry but we couldn't decide where to go. So we put the top down and started driving, agreeing that when we saw what we knew we wanted we'd speak out. We took the side streets through the city and around the wards. We ate supper in the Heights outside. We kept driving. I would sometimes make the choice of which road to take and sometimes just ask, "Left or right?" One or the other of my two favorite men would respond and we'd see if that street was going to include teens in the park declaring, "I'm feelin' ya" as we drove the VW in its red splendor or old men sitting on the bumper of cars seemingly permanently parked in yards. We saw crowds gathering for soccer games and football games and what was probably a drug deal. We smelled the richness of outdoor cooks prepping for the evening grease fix the drunks stumbling out of cantinas would need. We watched old women fold up closer to the card table to see the game in the darkness. We marveled at the sun setting behind the clouds and reflecting off the most beautiful skyline in America.

Well, the most beautiful on this Saturday, the Saturday we just drove.

If I Were In Charge of the World . . .

I wouldn't be. If I Were in Charge of the World is the title of a children's book I often used in workshops and speeches. Amusing and telling, it placed the author in a position of power she dreamed of and yet soon discovered wasn't for her.

I don't want to be in charge. I started my professional career with quite a bit of responsibility and for ten years climbed the ladder, adding more people to supervise, more zeroes in my budget and my salary, and more reasons to work late at night and on the weekends.

With every job change since that first decade, I've taken on less. Today, I'm a consultant. I don't even supervise an adminstrative assistant! And the only things I'm usually responsible for are fairly easy to produce.

At the moment, though, I'm working on details related to hosting a weeklong meeting in November. I keep trying to hand off bits and pieces of the decision making but much of it is still left to me.

I don't want to be in charge.

And yet, because I want this meeting to go well, because I want to either birth this thing or bury it, because people I care about are part of it, I'm treating this like a weeklong visit from family. I'm trying to find the balance between fun and progress, between structure and freedom. I'm answering questions and taking polls.

And just like those days when I was in charge, I could use a back rub and someone to tell me to shut it off, to let it go, to save tomorrow's worries until then.

If I were in charge of the world, there'd be more backrubs.

Rainy Days and Mondays . . .

They don't get me down. In fact, I relish hearing raindrops tapping at my picture window. Though I can't take a whole night of it, even the zydeco-reflective percussion of drops hitting my washtub/icechest housed on the patio stirs something within me. Someting in between want and waiting waits for me on a rainy Monday.

Yesterday, Houston wasn't alowed its usual denial that we are indeed a tropical climate, flat and without the necessary outlets for water to flow. After a deluge that reached into the teens, streets were now rivers, cars were boats, and people were . . . not always wise.

Having learned from my past experience when I floated down Shepherd in my Toyota, I took the new VW home as soon as possible. Then I spent the rest of the afternoon safe and dry.

Or at least as safe as my reflections and imagination would allow.

What is it about being confined that prompts thoughts of release? What is it in me that takes the gift of a free day and does little to redeem it? Why does being alone cause me to want the opposite?

I'm surrounded by people who would drop everything to come to my aid. I have no question regarding my status as friend. Yet, when given the perfect opportunity to ask for what I want, I hesitate. And then ask the one person who can't say yes.

Rainy days and Mondays . . . may not get me down but they do bring down a deluge of self-doubt. Glad the sun is out today.

I've Got to Stop Reading These Magazines

The ad features 18 photos of the hosts/speakers for an upcoming event addressing an "emerging Faith Forward movement". One woman's face appears in the snapshots. She's the wife of the senior pastor and, fittingly, considered a host.

The two page advertisement suggests the reader "Find your place . . . "

I think I have. But it's not at this workshop.

In Light of the News from North Korea

I propose that if a caricature would appear redundant, we refuse power to any would-be tyrants, rulers, presidents, kings or what-nots. 'Cause really, we're just making it too easy on the political cartoonists these days!

Dabbling in Dapple-ness

Gerald Manley Hopkins must have loved the word "dappled." He often used a form of it in his poetry. I think of him when I walk the path around Rice University on a Sunday morning. The overhang of the trees creates the most impressive illustration of dappled light on the crushed stone. I am always transported to a less heavy place within my soul as I imagine hopscotching my way from light spot to light spot.

For those of you who don't know Rice's tree-lined splendors or the joy evoked when Houston's heat is traded for breezey bursts of actual cool-ness, I invite you for a visit.

And may you all be splashed with dapple drenched delights this day.

Bargain Hunting

My hometown drew quite the crowd on Saturdays. Known for two things, Greenfield had a reputation for being the place to be on the weekend. Folks from miles away would stop at Allison's Restaurant for the pie -- before and, if they were smart, after as well -- a visit to The Factory Outlet.

Please note that this was in the day before outlet stores scored metal, color-coordinated roofs and determined that "outlet" had to in no way mean less expensive. No, The Factory Outlet truly was. Discards from the factory made their way to the crowded, soon to be disheveled aisles and into the hands of bargain hunters like my mom. A widow with four kids and a salary that barely made it out of the teens when I was still in mine, Mom had a way with a markdown. I truly believe that she can walk into that store even today (with its wider aisles and more attentive, or at least neater staff) and the exact two pieces that go together but are housed in separate sections of the store will leap off the racks and into her hands in her very size which she will trust without trying it on because, really, she can always return it. The woman always looked like she'd walked out of Goldsmiths (Tennessee's version of Foleys for all you Texans) but we who were in the know knew that the $200 outfit really only cost her $20.

The Factory Outlet celebrated its "outlet-ness." The pieces weren't quite good enough and instead of hiding the fact -- insuring that you'd have to win at hide and seek to discover that the material in the trouser legs were from two different bolts of cloth -- this store shouted its frailty at you. Colored tape on the flaw established exactly what the issue was. If you determined that the light would never be sooooo right as to highlight the color difference, then those pants could be yours at a fraction of what they'd cost you in perfection.

The labels had to be removed but you could always tell if you were getting a L--nd's E-- jacket. Logos are graphics for a reason, and no amount of creative cutting was going to remove the telltale signs.

Since everyone in town knew that everyone else shopped there, we had no sense of shame for walking around with our flaws showing.

I'm fairly sure this shaped me. I'm much more inclined to celebrate the flaws than pursue perfection. Recently, I encountered an individual who must have always purchased off the department store rack . . . and not on sales days. He just didn't seem to have a lot of time or patience for those who might have been slightly "less than" in his book. Education, money, position, power were all very much a part of his vocabulary.

That's when I remembered The Factory Outlet and longed for my favorite pair of corduroys with the indentation on the "tread." They fit me so much better than he did.

Go Tell It on the Mountain ... Or anywhere else, just not here

Today was a reading day. My seminary's alumni magazine had a cover story on evangelists. The local paper carried a piece on an evangelist that is taking over one of our city parks for the next couple of days to reach young people with the "message of Jesus" via music, extreme sports and feel good sermons. The state Baptist paper featured the Baylor University commissioned study that revealed God is viewed four ways: authoritarian, benevolent, critical or distant. Even the national weekly called (appropriately enough)The Week captured that story.

After a morning of "monitoring the pulse" of my audience, I had this need to go wash my hands.

Yuck! We've Christianized and Baptized to the point of t-shirt evangelism as fix-its for life. I can't be a part of this. If it works for others, fine, have at it. But I'm not into the asshole, buddy, judge or asteroid God of the survey, so I can't share the joy of "telling that story to the nations."

Twice this week I was asked my view on scriptures. For the first time -- out loud -- I answered honestly. If you too care to know, ask me. That's about as evangelical as I can get.

Aches and Answers

A's -- I never really had much of a problem with them. If you listen to what the professor is saying and you give it back, you get the A. You don't always learn, but you make the grade.

Aches -- Longing has been my longtime companion. When I was a child, I wanted nothing more than to be in the land of luxury "as seen on TV" rather than the rural reality imposed by Greenfield's city limits. In college, I missed my father. I used to hold my pillow tightly to my chest and weep at the loss of him (even though that loss had actually occurred ten years prior). Perhaps it was because I was on my own in so many ways and the idea of someone to take care of me was incredibly alluring. In my marriage . . . well, let's just say I longed for something I finally realized I'd never have. And now, I ache again. I'm angry at that because my life is so full. I'm reminded daily of people who support me, ideas that challenge me, work that satisfies me. Still the ache comes when catching a glimpse of what could be, when the image vanishes vapor-like and I'm left empty-handed. I want a hand to hold that can carry part of the load, who understands my language, desires, and delights. Yes, there are possibile candidates but thus far, the ache remains.

Answers -- For the most part, I'm ok with not having them. Questions regarding faith, life, the best way to slow cook a pork tenderloin and whether I should color my hair yet again ABOUND! Except for the pork one (I cooked it yesterday), I'm good with the waiting, even (as with the faith one) if that translates into eternity. In fact, with the faith stuff, I'm pretty well convinced that waiting is first line of defense. God doesn't appear to be in the immediate gratification business. However, I sometimes act as those God is. So recently, I prayed. An answer came. I celebrated . . . and then ached all over again. Why is it that doing the right thing doesn't always take the ache away? What makes us long for those things that too distant, too complex? Why isn't the here and now good and enough?

"Juxtaposition" is one of those words that suggests an education might be in effect. I got A's in English. I may have learned a thing or two as well. Seems I'm smart enough that the irony found in the juxtaposition of my answered prayer and the continuing ache isn't lost on me.

Purple Mountain Majesty

I realized I hadn't been in New Mexico in over a decade ... maybe even a decade and a half! Yet last Friday when the plane dropped closer to the ground and I caught a glimpse of the desert resting at the foot of the mountains, I breathed a pleasant sigh.

(A good last whole breath, too, since I was about to land in the high altitude that was guaranteed to take my breath away and constrict my stomach muscles into tight knots throughout the weekend.)

Once again New Mexico delivered ... a tram ride to the top of peak that overlooks Alburquerque, hot air balloons seen through the open roof of my buddy's convertible and chased from ascent spot to descent in the early morning hours, a tour of one of the oldest residential pueblos led by a chief, great food, horses (for looking not riding), and fun and games.

But the biggest intake of breath I reserved for the sun. Rising or setting, it commanded my attention. As the mountainside caught a glimpse of its splendor, it followed the lead and changed colors right before my eyes -- first pink and then a purple so rich you could almost believe the only true way to honor it was to bow before it.

I love this country.

I love that I have email conversations like this . . .

Him: "I see dead paradigms."

Me: "Night of the Living Dead Paradigms -- can you see the movie trailer?"

Him: "hmmm. a whole new genre: slasher-zombie-gothic-horror combined with agrarian-apocalyptic. man, i think i'm ready to ralph already!"

Places Everyone!

The mayor's name came before mine but mine was there. Page one of the program marking the Sing for Hope event which raises money for the AIDS hospice where I volunteer declared his status at the event -- honorary chair -- as well as mine -- member of the steering committee.

The first thought that came to me as I read the words was, "Who would have 'thunk' it? A girl from Greenfield, Tennessee sharing a page with the mayor of Houston!"

Then I smiled. Because what got him and most of the others page one recognition had a lot to do with power, position and money. I came to page one by way of cleaning toilets.

More than ten years ago, I began as a volunteer and in the first few years I was primarily a cook and cleaner at the house where essentially people living with AIDS go to die as a result of the damn disease. Some of my most calming meditative moments have been on my knees in front of the hospice toilets. It's quiet there. The fan drowns out the constant TV blare. You kind of face your own mortality in that you are gloved for a reason. And the experience is rather humbling. Pretty makes for a great atmosphere for prayer.

On Saturday night I rounded up a crew to work backstage for this event. We had teachers, folks from the medical profession, ministers, therapists and even a lawyer all ready to do whatever was asked of them ... in the quiet, in the dark, behind the curtain.

One of the ministers even acknowledged that on this, his first time, behind the scenes, he felt slightly strange and out of place. He was used to the light, to seeing the faces of his audience. I smiled once again. Because a decade ago, I made up my mind that I no longer had to say yes to every request for me to speak to the masses, that I didn't "need" the crowds, and that I was at my best making others look good. But I certainly understood his sentiment. We all need to find our roles and revel in them.

So Saturday in the dark, I spent a great deal of time smiling. Yes, I was on the front page but no one with money or power had a clue who I was. And if they'd scanned the well-groomed crowd of generous supporters, they wouldn't have found me.

But I was there ... exactly where I was supposed to be.

Birthday Wishes

I spent Saturday night with an adorable blonde. . . . And several of his best friends . . . . for his ninth birthday celebration.

I met up with the gang when they were playing flashlight tag in a park about a block from his house. His parents were in the throes of parenting, disciplining, and the usual party games. I offered to take the crowd home with the top down and the music as loud as we could get it given that we were in a residential area. No one seemed to have a problem with this idea.

We made the ride last a while. I was giving mom & dad time to make it back to the house and start the fire (yes, this is Houston and my sweat was sweating, but yes, they built a fire in the backyard for S'mores). Before we unloaded, we had snapshots taken.

Soon, I was staffing the S'mores "bar" preparing the graham crackers and chocolate to readily receive the cooked marshmellows. What I was really doing was getting as far away from that fire as I could. Wouldn't want the chocolate to melt prematurely, would we?

Tyler, who came to just above my thigh as one of the shorter buddies who were there for the sleepover, walked up to my makeshift bar and began a conversation. I looked up and then down to note that he was carrying his drink like I'd seen any number of men do at a cocktail party. Looking over the rim, taking a sip, he asked, "So what's your connection with this crowd?"

I tried not to smile at how by the minute he was becoming a schmoozer. "I'm a friend," I said.

"Oh, I thought maybe you might be the grandmother or something," he offered.

I'm only ten years older than the parents so I respond loudly so they can hear me, "No, I'm not the GRANDMOTHER."

But I'm smiling, actually almost laughing so I'm not sure that he's picked up on his faux paux until he says, with the determination I've seen many a man try to dig his way out of similar verbal holes, "Well, I just wanted you to know, you have a really, cool car!"

And with that he walked away to mingle with the other guests.

Later I judged the burping and arm farting contest and felt the need to insure he knew all was well between us so I declared him the arm fart king.

Again with the Tears ...

The play is called "The Normal Heart" and was written in 1985 by Larry Kramer, an initially reluctant and then in-your-face AIDS advocate, who portrays his own S.O.B.-ness quite well in the course of the 90 minutes it takes to recap the early days of what became known as AIDS.

A local theater group transformed an art gallery into their stage where an intimate crowd of about 50 could gather. When I attended only about 35 were there. The director explained in some opening remarks that several of his friends had applauded his acknowledging the 25th anniversary of the disease's discovery with this production. But that they had also told him they wouldn't be in attendance. Seeing what they'd lived was just too hard.

By scene 11 I was crying. At scene 16 and the close of the play, I was sobbing, shaking and wishing the intimate setting weren't quite so intimate. The bowing actors weren't three feet from my sniffing, snorting, napkin-blowing hysteria. I kept my head down but who was I kidding?

I sat still for just a few minutes to regain some composure and soon one of the actors came from backstage. He'd hurriedly dressed in order to make it to me. Asking my friend if it would be "appropriate" and then me, he hugged me long and hard.

"It's taken too long," he said in my ear as he continued to hold on and I began sobbing again.

He meant to cure this horrific disease. I agreed, but didn't have the heart to tell him that that's not why I was crying.

Yes, I have watched men & women die from AIDS. But I wasn't seeing their faces. Instead, I saw my friends and the bullying they'd endured through the years. I cried for the injustice, the insanity, man's inhumanity to man, and more. Not only did the government, the media, and the medical profession fail thousands in their initial unwillingness to acknowledge what the disease was doing, the homosexual community failed itself as individuals waged battles with one another rather than lead the way. I cried because bullies still exist and men and women still closet themselves away.

Quote of the Week

Referencing the continuing gaping hole that exists where the twin towers in New York once stood and the ongoing debate as to how to commercially use and/or memorialize in the space, William Falk says, "I've always admired how the Israelis and British cope with terrorist attacks: They clean up the mess, mourn their dead, and quickly rebuild what's been damaged. It's a statement of defiance: Do your worst. Our lives will go on, and we shall prevail. We've not been attacked again these past five years, and that is no small thng. But Osama bin Laden, the murderer of 3,000 people, remains free, and the pit his minions created as a mounment to nihilism still taunts us. We could, and should, have done better."

Wisdom – Just a Keystroke Away

The Week tipped me to a wonderful idea/resource. Elder Wisdom Circle is a web site offering insights into relationships, money, careers and other matters to thousands of young adults who want to hear what 60+ year olds have to say about their issues. Managed by 600 senior citizens from around the country, the website allows for questions to be answered for free. Here are just a few of the topics:
20 and Never Had a Boyfriend
4 Year Old Won't Eat
Accepting a Generous Offer
Afraid of Men After Assault
Against Daughter's Plan to Shack Up
Am I Too Picky with Men?
Become a More Patient Parent
Can't Tell If She Likes Me
Career as a Musician
Cheating on Husband, But I Still Love Him
Choose Education or Love?
Considering Adultery
Daughter Has Controlling Boyfriend
Explain Dysfunctional Family to a 3 Year Old?
Feel Like Mother Disowned Me
Feeling Trapped By Girlfriend
Follow Head or Heart?
Friend Not Repaying Loan
Handle Affairs for Aging Father
Having Trouble Getting Over Break Up
He Avoids Sex
He's Affectionate, Fun...and an Alcoholic
Help Mom Celebrate Wedding Anniversary
His Cursing Bothers Me
How To Deal with His Anger?
How to Tell Mom I Need Therapy
Husband Traveling Without Me
I Hate School
I Suspect Age Discrimination
I want a dog!
I'm terminally ill - How can I prepare my child?
Ideas for Spicing Up a Relationship
In-Law Wants to Reconcile After 20+ Years
Jewelry Gift Ideas
Keep a Confidence, or Tell Police?
Lonely College Freshman

I’m impressed with the responses I checked out. I didn’t do an extensive read of the site but I love the idea that (a) young adults are acknowledging there is wisdom to be had and (b) senior adults are willing to think thoughtfully and give their time and insights to others.

I've Lost that Lovin' Feeling ... Or Maybe Not

I'm on the email list of one of the pastors I work with and he wrote a piece on love that just came to my inbox. I'd connect you to the article but they seem to be having website trouble so let me just say that it did exactly what it was supposed to do ... made me think.

So . . . thinking about love brought me to this: I don’t know that I’ve ever felt loved by God or another human. And therefore, I don’t know if I can long for it the way that we often speak of that kind of longing. I don’t discount that God loves me. I believe/faith that to be true. I just can't say that I've felt it. And feeling is a large part of this picture. And while I know my mother loves me, for most of my thinking life (i.e. after my dad died when I was ten), I’ve often felt I had to care for her. Obviously, with that whole "dying" thing, I never really connected with a daddy’s love because he dropped out of the picture too early. And, no man has ever really made me feel that connected to him. I wanted to be "in love." I wanted to "feel love." But I can't say that I'd know what it looked like if it happened upon me.

My friends come close. And maybe I’m making more of it than it really is, but love is a tricky thing for me.

What about you? Felt it? Known it? Can you describe it?

*By the way, don't fret for me. This is not an anquished plea. I probably have some warped expectation regarding a feeling with roots deep within my past that me and a good therapist could unearth. I'm just curious if love is more an action for me than a feeling and if that's true for others as well.

So what would it look like? And what's my part?

Today's Chronicle carried an essay by Robert Jensen, a University of Texas professor who five years ago wrote a piece about 9/11 that outraged readers. Today's commentary was entitled "5 years later, still a voice crying in the wilderness" and he hasn't backed down. Here are the paragraphs that caught my attention:

Sept. 11 offered a dramatic moment in which the most powerful country on the planet could have led the world on a new course. U.S. leaders had a choice to either (1) manipulate people's legitimate fears and understandable desire for vengeance to justify wars of control and domination, or (2) help create a world in desperate need of more justice, not more war.

To choose the latter would have taken visionary leadership; a role for which, sadly, virtually no one in the Republican or Democratic parties appeared qualified, then or now. But there such voices -- not leaders but ordinary people, speaking out clearly and early . . .

He goes on to describe the thinking of the antiwar activists. What he doesn't do is describe their actions toward justice.

I think I'm ready for that article to be written. I want to do something. I want to act. But what's an ordinary woman to do?

Ann Richards died

I didn't know her yet . . .

She inspired me. She made me smile. She claimed a destiny worthy of her. I will miss knowing she's out there.

The Tear's Tale

The tear rolled down my cheek and I caught myself wondering if it looked as dramatic as it does when it happens on the big screen. The lone drop found its way to my upper lip and I licked it away, tasting its saltiness. Then I wondered if he would think that I was attempting seduction or tidiness.

The taste reminded me of the reality of the moment. I relished the onslaught of feelings -- something I hadn't allowed myself to do with this much intensity in a long while -- and yet I was pained that this moment was truly momentary.

Giving up something you want desperately but can't have is a very adult thing to do. And that tear carried with it the knowledge that the days ahead would not be fun, silly, and childlike as the hours had been previously. That tear carried with it horrible wisdom.

Afterwards, I reached out to someone else. The spontaniety of the act was welcomed but couldn't be met. Too busy. But instead of giving up, staying in my darkened room and enjoying the fruits of a fine pity party, I tried again. Second chances are so very rewarding, don't you think? And, in a friend/brother, found a companion for my post-yuck journey. We drove with the top down, taking in the sunset, the reflections off Houston's glorious towers of steel and glass, the right-ness of the two of us simply enjoying what we have. Dinner outside at a new place with all the right points for coolness and I was back at "me" again.

Today the tear's taste lingers . . . yet peace has found its way into my thoughts as well. So I'm smiling . . . and wondering what's next.

Oh My (fill in your favorite deity)!!!

If I had gone into this weekend with some sort of intentionality, this blog would be much more inspirational. Instead, for the most of the 72 hours that made up September 8-10, I was simply doing what people said. Of course, I still wound up having the time of my life so who cares!??

Last week my Toyota had another hiccup. I loved that car (hint: the past tense there is a clue as to one thing that happened). But this year, it's had several small things go wrong. When I started having to open my door by rolling down the window and using the outside latch, I had a rather strong reaction to the idea that my redneck roots might be showing. So I began to consider selling.

That "consideration" started on Wednesday and by Friday I was driving to Galveston in my new "salsa red" VW Beetle convertible. The coolest part of the experience was how my friends assisted in the process and, yet, I still did the negotiating (something I hate) and got a GREAT drive out price. (Note that I can now use the lingo!)

Friday night and Saturday were spent in a work gig that had me well outside my comfort zone but I survived and with less than 100 miles on the car, put the top down and drove down the Seawall with a smile on my face.

The next morning I drove to a nearby airport and prepared to JUMP OUT OF A PERFECTLY GOOD AIRPLANE!!

By Sunday afternoon I'd fulfilled a lifelong desire . . . skydiving. I jumped in tandem with a yellow-haired (and I don't mean blonde) pierced guy named Hoop who was more than happy to display his piercings and his passion for the parachute. He kept me calm with his deep Texas twang and his 12 years of experience. At 9,000 feet, I felt a tad bit of reservation but by 14,000 feet, I was ready to go.

Until I looked down. With nothing between me and the ground but puffy white clouds, I might have hesitated except for the fact that Hoop was counting and we were already on "Get Set" which meant "Go" was happening NOW!

I didn't so much jump as I simply fell out of the plane. I arched as instructed and began looking at the device strapped to my wrist that told me altitude. I smiled at the camera man who was being paid well to come along for the ride. We spun around for several seconds. And then at 6,000 feet we pulled the cord. WHOOSH! I was hanging in mid air. A couple of spirals which felt like free falling without the speed or as I described it to Hoop in what could only be called an exclamation, "We're dancing in the clouds!" and then I was stretching out my legs for the landing.

Which we did on four feet and not our behinds, thank you very much.

So in one weekend ... two dreams fulfilled.

What could possibly be next?

I Can't Keep Meeting Like This

The season premiere of Nip/Tuck (yes, it's unacceptable for most children and most adults and, yes, I watch it) the surgeons performed their 5,000th procedure and marked the event by using gold scapels embossed with the number and date.

I think I should get a gold plated something for my millionth meeting! A chair? A donut you sit on when you have "issues"? A wall to beat my head against?

Surely something is worthy of signifying that I've been there, done that and done it again and again and again for the last 20 years!

Acting Grown Up

When we challenged the pastors in the room, humor, experience and -- for him at least -- academics were our tools. But we excelled because of our guts. We just knew -- when to interrupt the other with just the right story, what experience should follow a particular anecdote, etc. We were best friends and we were great teachers.

Then life happened.

I divorced my husband. He got a job that demanded his full attention. The freelance gigs we'd partnered on dried up.

And he erased me.

We had not had an affair. We'd been incredibly intentional about defining boundaries for the on-the-road lifestyle our workshops demanded. We had simply been friends with a lot in common.

So I couldn't comprehend how suddenly we went from on to off.

I made up a lot of possibilities. I had to. He wasn't around to add to or take away from storylines. I tried phone calls. I sat across the table once and hinted I was having a problem with his behavior. I finally broke down in tears when we were two years into the absence. He'd dropped by my office while in the building and tried a caring tone when he asked, "How are you? Really."

I didn't answer. I couldn't. Later I sent an email. I spelled it out. He never responded. I learned later that he'd definitely received it but had simply avoided any form of an answer.

Recently, I've been hanging out with his students. They obviously respect him. They tell me he even quotes me. Every time they mentor his name I flinch . . . . They notice.

Then it hit me. We teach authenticity, transparency, even conflict management. The time had come to practice what we teach.

I called him and made a lunch date. He agreed. I told him the subject matter and that's when I learned he'd ignored the email. I tried hard to breathe.

We met. I started.

"I've been practicing my 'I feel' statements," I began.

And the list followed -- abandoned, lied to, invisible.

He listened and replied, "What you need to hear above everything else I'll say is this. I've been a shitty friend, the shittest. And I'm sorry."

I agreed. Then I forgave and then I admitted that that was all I'd come for.

He offered reasons which were among the scenarios I'd already conjured up. He apologized again. He asked me about my family. For a moment, I contemplated not asking about his because I wasn't there to pick up our relationship where we'd left off. But I knew that grown ups need not play such games. I asked.

We parted as old friends who would occasionally connect as professionals. That was enough for me.

I left smiling because acting like a grown up is sometimes better than being one.

Listen . . .

Sometimes it’s the sounds.

Ticking from a clock is that much more pronounced . . . and profound as you wait for chewing to begin again . . . the resident having momentarily forgotten he was eating a tortilla for breakfast. I pick the half eaten food away from his pajamas, note the ticking and continue to wait.

Sometimes they startle. Sometimes they soothe. The whoosh of the industrial toilets as we complete the daily cleaning . . . water on tile in the walk-in shower, where my partner is assisting the newest woman resident with a shower. We’re told she just needs help getting to the hallway facility. My friend discovers her weakness is more defined and becomes intimately acquainted with her new friend . . . who, by the way, is from Africa.

Sometimes they're necessary, even critical. Though we're a hospice and tend not to have the life-saving bells and whistles of most hospitals. One resident has both AIDS and a pre-existing lung problem. So he getst oxygen. The steady sssssss is reassuring. Not so the clanging of the mop handle on the floor as I rush to catch the ringing phone, unanswered because the nurse is attending to the Spanish-speaking young man who understands nothing of what is being told him and little of anything else that’s happening. He’s got brain cancer.

Sometimes the randomness attracts my attention. Jean zippers and buckles toss and tumble in the massive dryers. Click . . . click . . . We’ll be doing laundry throughout the four hours we here.

A walk down the hall reminds me of channel surfing. TV programs -- continuous and loud -- come from every room, even empty ones or where someone is sleeping. The medium is the massage. One resident admits to a science fiction interest as though it were a confession, but it provides us a connect to discuss while I clean his room.

The minute I arrive as a volunteer, I stop breathing through my nose. Occasionally, I recognize that I'm going through the motions without really seeing what's going on around me. After more than a decade at this assignment, it's easy to do. So much of my work is manual labor, so I can go for more than an hour and not say much of anything, especially when most everyone is sleeping.

The sounds are different though. They're normal, but amplified, like much of life at an AIDS hospice.