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.