No Safe Harbor

Thursday, October 10, 2013

Reset, reframe, re-post

I haven't been here in over two years. My last several posts, with long lapses in between, were vapid and a struggle to achieve even that level of mediocrity. But this is my original blog home, and I want to come back to it.

I have been keeping company with another blog, A Year of Living Baldly, which chronicles shaving my head and beyond. The following is reposted from that.

Being Bald for God's Funeral

My mother died on August 12. It wasn't unexpected. She was 97, and she'd been diagnosed with metastatic cancer in May. For most of my lifetime, our relationship had been cordial, but troubled. When I was a child, she was physically, emotionally, and sexually abusive. When she finally shed that skin, or became afraid of discovery, she improved by being merely dishonest, controlling, and manipulative. To anyone who wasn't her progeny, she was a sweet, Christian lady.

It was perhaps in the last year that I came to think of "Mother" as twofold: the Office of Motherhood, a position that is sacred, similar to President of the United States or the Dalai Lama—and the person who inhabits that office, who may or may not live up to the the holiness of the appointment. That helped me understand why some things were precious to me because they were gifts from my Mother, even as that person was someone for whom I had little respect.

There's also the twist that in the psychology of child mind, our parents are God—or so I've read—because they have been present throughout our personal eternity. I'm certain that mine is not the most complex set of feelings anyone has had to deal with upon the death of a parent; but I was nevertheless grateful that in traveling to my mother's funeral, I had my dog Emma and two thousand miles of driving for therapy.

I hadn't visited my hometown, Guymon America, since The Shave. I felt a bit awkward with my very un-Guymonish appearance, but not to the extent I had expected. When my sister Jo and I were at the Sonic drive-in, a lady rolled down her window to tell me I looked beautiful.

Mother's funeral was well suited to her. It highlighted good and interesting parts of her and her life without suggesting sainthood. As my sisters and I stood in front of the congregation, singing Amazing Grace, I briefly wondered about looking weird as the "bald daughter". My next thought was, "Who cares? This is so not about me and hair."

The best part of the service was the police escort from the church to the cemetery. With one squad car in the lead and one in the rear, both with lights flashing and a couple of policemen along the road directing traffic, our procession was carefully ushered the three miles to the burial site. Without exception, every car along the way pulled off to the side of the road, and some people even got out of their cars, took off hats, bowed their heads—not necessarily because they knew my mother, but because they have respect. I know that would have been Mother's favorite part of a send-off that was good throughout.

So now... the grieving. I was doing a writing exercise a couple evenings ago, and this was the result.

Sweet Spot

This is akin to admitting I still like someone I had a crush on in high school who had bad teeth, acne, misogyny in his heart, and no good on his mind. Except it's not about some bad boy from my past. It's about my mother.

There was a time—a relatively brief time—I really enjoyed her company. She was so proud of her job as an Avon lady and having her own money. My classes finished for the day, we would regularly go to the Pancake House and eat pie and drink coffee and visit. I liked her then—the mother who had abused me as a child and who would become such a disappointment in my adulthood. I treasure that sweet spot in our history. I liked her. And I miss her.

Sunday, March 06, 2011

Could I Get Just One BWHA-ha-ha? Please?

What is with the people who must end every emailed, texted, or posted sentence with LOL? Or even intermittently pepper LOL throughout the sentence? It's like some very bad laugh track in written form, and the people who use it typically aren't very funny.

Given the choice, I would choose Tourette Syndrome any day. The language has greater diversity and is certainly more colorful.

Friday, February 25, 2011

When Good Karma Goes Annoying

Recently I learned of a healing technique called ho'oponopono. It has been famously promoted by Joe Vitale in his story of Dr. Len, a Hawaiian psychologist, who cured a ward of criminally insane patients. Dr. Len accomplished this without ever seeing any of the patients personally, but by studying each inmate's chart, finding that unhealed part of the inmate within himself, and saying "I love you. I'm sorry." (That got expanded to "I love you. I'm sorry. Please forgive me. Thank you." I went one further and added "I love you. I'm sorry. Please forgive me. I forgive you. Thank you.") http://www.wanttoknow.info/070701imsorryiloveyoujoevitale It's a fascinating story.

I'd been doing a lot of ho'oponopono when people or situations weren't falling into line with my idea of a perfect world, and I found that it immediately made me feel less pissed off or frustrated. Sometimes the situation would change almost immediately. Sometimes the shift would be more gradual—but it would shift. It's free, takes almost no time, and has no negative side effects—gotta love it.

Until today. I had an uneasy feeling that I couldn't immediately identify. After poking around at that feeling for awhile, I realized that I was hopping mad—at ho'oponopono. It has completely taken me out of my comfort zone. I can't be mad at anyone. I can't blame anyone for anything—because it's me! (With apologies to my junior high English teacher: "It is I!") What fucking fun is that??? Yeah, it feels good when I get to the other side and I'm all love and forgiveness and light—but that's like how good it feels after running a marathon, and the pain and puking stop. I love you. I'm sorry. Please forgive me. I forgive you. Thank you. BAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH! Fuck that!

I want to blame and mentally point my index finger menacingly and be righteously angry (I want to be RIGHT!) and stomp around. I can still do that, of course, but it's not fun any more and doesn't feel so good because I know it's not true. I know that I'm pointing and angry at my own shadow, which points directly back at me. Now that I know it, I can't undo it.

The path to enlightenment and nirvana can be hell sometimes.

Sunday, June 13, 2010

A Year Unblogged

When blog becomes confessional: “Forgive me, Blogger, for I have sinned. It has been 369 days since my last post.”

On June 9, 2009, the last time I posted and my dad’s 96th birthday, he had a pulmonary embolism and never regained consciousness. Two days later he died. I knew I would feel enormous sadness; but I naively felt that would pass quickly since he lived a long and full life, dying as he would have wanted to—quickly and without suffering, while still mentally sharp enough to cheat at cards and physically able to take care of himself.

It took months to regain my equilibrium. I gained weight—never a great challenge for me, but the grief process seemed to invite extra tubbiness. I felt sad, depressed, out of it. I learned about accumulated grief and conscious grieving. The life and death lessons were valuable, and they sucked.

Last Wednesday was hard with the double whammy of it being my dad’s birthday and the anniversary of the day he functionally died. I talked to my sister, and we both boo-hooed together for a bit and then laughed as we reminisced about the funeral. (Ironic and maybe almost blasphemous, but it was a great funeral. Although plenty of tears fell, there was even more laughter in celebration of my dad’s love of life, his keen wit, and the happy memories so many shared.) There was something about that anniversary and sharing a final mourning with my sister that completed the circle.

It’s good to be back.

Wednesday, June 10, 2009

What Do You Say to Fate?

Yesterday was my dad's 96th birthday. and my oldest sister Ruth is in Guymon visiting for the occasion and the week. Yesterday afternoon she called from the hospital to let me know that just before lunch, Daddy collapsed. The EMTs said that in the ambulance he was talking, but they couldn't understand how that was possible because they couldn't get any vital signs. This was verified by doctors in the ER who experienced the same and kept trying different machines, because the machines were saying he was dead; and he was saying "Let me sit up." One of my friends commented, "If that isn't good old Oklahoma sticktoitivness I don't know what is." He's always been a tenacious over-achiever.

The doctors think it was a pulmonary embolism, but they still don't know for sure. That's how they're treating it.

My sister Jo and her husband Mike were on their way back to Guymon from a wedding in Arkansas, and got delayed in Oklahoma City with some RV problem. All very frustrating and they were afraid Dad would pass before they got a chance to say good-bye.

The doctors decided to heli-port him to Oklahoma City because they don't have the proper facilities in Guymon. (According to Jo, the Guymon hospital doesn't have the proper facilities to take care of the family pet.) So the fact that Jo and Mike got stuck there and were able to be at the hospital waiting for him is pretty amazing as Universal alignment goes.

I talked to Jo in OKC this morning, and our dad's stable, but shutting down. He has not regained consciousness since he collapsed yesterday, but there does seem to be a certain awareness and response when she tells him things.

He is 96 afterall. He's had not only a long life, but a rich and mostly happy one. We've been preparing for this time for awhile. But how do you prepare for it? I have read that psychologically we view our parents as God because they have been there through our personal eternity. How do I prepare for God to die?

Wednesday, April 29, 2009

At Our House We Have the Wisdom of Super Chicken

When you find yourself in danger,
When you're threatened by a stranger,
When it looks like you will take a lickin', (cluck, cluck, cluck, cluck)
There is someone waiting,
Who will hurry up and rescue you,
Just call—for Super Chicken! (cluck, awk!)

Fred, if you're afraid, you'll have to overlook it,
Besides you knew the job was dangerous when you took it! (cluck, awk!)

He will drink his super sauce
And throw the bad guys for a loss
And he will bring them in, alive and kickin' (cluck, cluck, cluck, cluck)
There is one thing you should learn
When there is no one else to turn to,
Call—for Super Chicken! (cluck, cluck, cluck, cluck)
Call—for Super Chicken! (cluck, awk!)

-The Super Chicken Theme Lyrics

Scott will be hitting the sexagenarian mark this August, and his job in the pharmaceutical industry is responsible and demanding. These and many other marks of adulthood and the biblical suggestion of "putting away childish things" have in no way diminished his enthusiasm for nor memories of Super Chicken, the short-lived 1967 cartoon series.

He can sing the entire theme song (with gusto); recount how he and one of his college friends had sweatshirts made with the hallmark backward F of Fred, Super Chicken's sidekick; and quote liberally from the 17 episodes. And then launch into another account about the nun who made him divide using Roman numerals.

Welcome to life with Scott. I knew the job was dangerous when I took it.

Thursday, April 16, 2009

Best Advice Ever

Years ago when Carrie was a 'tween, we drove past a gas station with a sign prominently displayed in the window: "Help Wanted: Inquire Within". Carrie pointed out the Zen qualities of that statement, and I still use it as a reminder of unfailingly good advice to follow.

Monday, April 13, 2009

Dogs, Orthopedic Surgeons, and Aggression Towards Baseball Caps

Periodically when I'm running with my dog Jazz, about three-quarters of a mile from our house two dogs come running from the house at 2810 Waubesa Avenue and give chase. One, which appears to be a Golden Doodle or Labradoodle or Snickerdoodle—one of those odd but highly popular breeds that purposely combines some largely decent yellow dog with a poodle—acts vicious, bares its teeth, growls, barks, and chases but has never actually attacked Jazz or me. So it probably won't. The other is a Yorkie, so that evokes little fear. But I am disgusted at having my run disrupted by these dogs, and it still freaks me out.

In years past I've been in several situations where I was running a dog, and it and/or I have been attacked and bitten by a free-roaming canine. Murray had his ear nearly ripped off by a Rottweiler in Sacramento, I have spent hundreds of dollars for multiple incidents in getting my dogs pieced back together, and I still bear dog bite scars on my leg. So when a loose dog comes at me and acts threatening, it's post-traumatic stress time. I freak.

Yesterday after going through the usual routine of trying to get away as fast as possible, I'd had enough. Jazz and I retraced our steps to the house from which these two dogs regularly spew forth, rang the doorbell, and a "gentleman" came to the door.

Me: Your dogs are running loose in the street. [I focused on staying calm and just stating the fact.]

Him: Oh, okay, I'll bring them in.

Me: This has happened too many times. I intend to call Animal Control. [Still calm, but somewhat surprised by his cavalier manner.]

[Pause}

Him: GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!!!

[I was stunned and just stood there on the porch.]

Him: YOU ARE ON MY PROPERTY.

[At this point he advanced, grabbed the bill of the baseball cap I was wearing, twisted it around to the side, and shoved it down on my head.]

Him: GET THE FUCK OFF MY PROPERTY!!!

[I turned around to leave and started walking down the steps. He followed.]

Him: EVERYONE'S SICK OF YOUR BITCHING! YOU COMPLAIN ABOUT EVERYTHING!!!

Me: Your dogs have chased me a number of times, but this is the first time I've complained to you or anyone else.

Him: WELL, SOMEONE'S ALWAYS COMPLAINING ABOUT SOMETHING. WE DON'T LIVE IN THE MIDDLE OF FUCKING MADISON!

[I kept walking and didn't engage. He kept following me as I turned to go back home.]

Him: YOU ACT LIKE WE LIVE IN DOWNTOWN MADISON!!! WE DON'T LIVE IN THE MIDDLE OF FUCKING DOWNTOWN MADISON!

I didn't respond, but it wasn't because I was unaware that I wasn't in the middle of downtown Madison. I was thinking "Yeah, but that doesn't mean animal control laws don't apply just because we're south of the Belt Line, and it's not like the housing density is any less, and we ARE still at a Madison address." Despite my thoughts, I had good reason to believe the guy had dropped a mental crankshaft, and there was no point in sharing my perspective. He didn't seem like someone really interested in someone else's counterpoint anyway.

By this time his Yorkie was running along with Jazz and me, and I didn't blame it. I wanted to get away from him too. From behind me, I would hear him bleat the occasional "Alvin!", assumedly at the Yorkie, which ultimately went about a quarter of a mile with us. At that point Mr. Teach You a Lesson By Jamming Your Baseball Cap Down the Side of Your Head finally started chasing his dog down rather than following behind me, and the Yorkie ran from him. It led a good chase, ran in circles causing him to run in circles after it. It was quite the spectacle and seemed fitting considering his implied contention that his dogs should be able to go wherever they damned well pleased.

Even though it was taking on sitcom proportions, I was still shaken and felt frightened of anyone exhibiting his type of threatening behavior, so I just kept going, kept my eyes straight ahead, and did not comment. But I did a LOT of internal belly-laughing. I passed his little circus with the Yorkie, and felt safe when I got home.

When I told Scott about the incident, his immediate response was, "Let's go pay him a visit." Oh great. No, let's not. We've had enough testosterone demonstrations for one morning.

This morning I researched the address and discovered that it's the home of a woman who, it would appear, is a triathlete and the race director for the Wisconsin Triathlon Series, which includes Lake Mills, Pardeeville, and Devil's Challenge. (Et tu, fellow triathlete?) I researched some more and under the Dean Health Care website found a picture of her husband and apparent co-resident at 2810 Waubesa Ave, and verified that he is the same person who expressed certainty that we don't live in downtown Madison, felt the need to re-organize my baseball cap, and followed me part way home—AND as a bonus, he is an orthopedic surgeon. My, my, what professionalism. I do not want his scalpel nor carpentry tools nor any part of his person anywhere near me.

I called Dane County Animal Control and left a full report this morning, and also asked them to call and educate me if I'm mistaken about animal containment laws applying on Waubesa Avenue.

Labels: aggressive behavior, Alvin, baseball cap savagery, Dane County Animal Control, dogs, fear, orthopedic surgeon, Rilling, uncontrolled animals, Wisconsin Triathlon Series

Monday, March 30, 2009

Cultural Differences Between Florida and Wisconsin

We just came back from a week in Bradenton. Some of the differences I noticed from our homeland:

1) Scott and I brought the median age down.

2) I could get in and out of women's public toilets while Scott was still standing in line for the men's.

3) There wasn't a single report of stolen snow removal equipment.

Monday, March 16, 2009

Follow Up

Today I interviewed an applicant who wrapped up by asking if it would help my hiring decision if his former boss, a poobah in The Universe as We Know It, called my boss.

Yes, it would. Just not in the direction he would hope.

Wednesday, March 11, 2009

Playing God is No Damned Fun

I will soon be interviewing and hiring for an available position in our department. One of the applicants is someone I have worked with and like and respect, but I won't know until the end of the process if he's the best person for the job. Hiring one person and turning down others always gives me the uncomfortable sense of influencing destinies. Knowing that in this job market my decision can have a particularly serious impact on the lives of job candidates and their families is a heavier weight than I like to have on my shoulders.

I can't hire based on who needs the job the most, which I consider fortunate. It's challenging enough to make a business decision based on the work I think each person can do and how I think he or she will interact with the team for the ultimate good of our department.

The other side of the Be a Manager/Play God coin is ending someone's job. Tomorrow one of my colleagues will be releasing an employee for non-performance among other issues. We have had several conversations about it, and I will be very surprised if he sleeps well tonight. It seems to be a good decision and based on sound business principles—but hard as hell to carry out.

I wonder if when I pray, God determines how to answer based on if it's good business. And if when making such celestial decisions, it makes Him itch when He has to say, "Sorry. Thanks for being on the show."

Monday, March 09, 2009

Medals 4 Mettle

A few weeks ago an email hit my inbox via the Fleet Feet listserv from Heidi Duss. I don't know her, but on behalf of the organization Medals 4 Mettle (M4M), she was requesting the donation of finishers' medals for marathons, half-marathons, and triathlons. M4M facilitates the gifting of these medals from event participants to children and adults dealing with chronic or debilitating illnesses who have demonstrated similar mettle—or courage—in bravely facing these challenges.

Gulp.

Some little kid inside me was jumping up and down protesting, "Mine, mine, mine! I EARNED those. I was a couch potato who couldn't run a mile, and those medals say that I ran 26.2 consecutive miles on five occasions and finished a half-Ironman distance triathlon plus others."

Yeah, so? A conversation came to mind I'd had with Scott shortly after we started dating. Prominently displayed in his office was a plaque awarded for community service in 1991 to him and his ex-wife, with both their names emblazoned on it.

Q: Why would you keep that on your wall?

A: It's work I'm proud of.

Q: Don't you know what you've done to be proud of without having to show off a plaque about it?

A: It's important to me.

Q: Isn't that kind of old news? So what have you done lately to be proud of?

A: Bitch... [He's too nice to say that but probably rightfully thought it.]

As I've quoted here before, I love Ralph Blum's statement, "We are not doers, we are deciders. Once we decide, the doing is easy." My self argument was blessedly brief. After running the Austin marathon last month to raise money for St. Jude's Children's Hospital and its bald-headed kids, as well as Scott's daily work with pediatric leukemia drugs and his stories of both heartbreak and triumph of patients and their families—it wasn't much of a stretch to envision one of those medals coming out its cigar box in the closet and finding a much better and deserving home around the neck of one of those kids.

A couple hours ago I went to Fleet Feet and handed everything I had that qualified for this program—5 marathon medals and 2 triathlon medals—across the counter to Jessica. Sending those medals to their higher good and relieving myself of that weight made me feel lighter than air, like I could fly through those events now. I don't need medals to remind me of what I achieved. My legs know. My head knows. My heart most definitely knows. And besides, those events are past. Done. Finished. May the mementos from those personal milestones go to bless someone else and inspire them further, and spur me to focus on what I have yet to accomplish.

What have I done lately?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

If you'd like to learn more about this program, read on. Have your Kleenex box handy.

Runners World story about how it originated: http://www.medals4mettle.org/pr_articles/M4M_Runners_World_9-08.pdf

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pEkk2_X__k0

Official website: http://www.medals4mettle.org/