Normal Days

"Normal day, let me be aware of the treasure you are. Let me learn from you, love you, savor you, bless you before you depart. Let me not pass you by in quest of some rare and perfect tomorrow. Let me hold you while I may for it will not always be so. One day I shall dig my nails into the earth, or bury my face in the pillow, or stretch myself taut, or raise my hands to the sky, and want, more than all the world, your return.” ~Mary Jean Irion

    To see today’s gifts as they were, are and will be without greed or need is challenging. The rhythm of our life inherently moves us forward. The ticking of the second hand reminds us that the moment we call “now” has passed us by. We begin to feel an inner drive to do more, have more, become more, and learn more, always fearing the “waste.” To learn to accept today as it is presented and stand in awe of its wonder is the blessing of a normal day.
    I pause to contemplate the gift of a normal day with no need of fireworks, notable events or epiphanies. As I ponder, I notice my hands. My eyes move across the raised veins, tiny scars and slightly arthritic knuckles and bent fingers. I read the map of my days in the contours of my hands. I can see the battles and victories, the clenched fists and open palms of surrender. I can see the closed doors they’ve encountered and doors they’ve opened. I can see the health of my body and even its abuse. I see flowers held, Gulf water splashed, fist pumps of victories when I’ve crossed a finished line and touches to say good bye. They have never planted a flag on Mt. Everest, accepted a Nobel Prize nor held a winning lottery ticket. Like the geography of the earth they are a slow accumulation of days and lives. Layers of experiences. Layers of highs and lows and layers of normal days.
    Normal days are like your hands. You don’t think about them. You don’t consciously wake up and celebrate them, Twitter or send emails about your hands. Put one of your hands in a cast, a finger in a splint or even a really gnarly paper cut and you suddenly realize just how precious your hands are. Normal day, let me treasure you through my hands. Through the contours and layers of my days, ingrained in and upon my hands, may I celebrate the simple touch of a flower or friend and the ability to reach out for nothing more than to say I’m here. May I see each jar opened as a victory and be filled with the delight of its contents. May each tap of the keyboard remind me of rain drops and mud puddles.
    Normal days, when the inner rhythm of life, its wants, needs, hopes and even greed push me forward and away from you, guide my eyes to my hands. Guide my eyes to their open palms. Normal days and open palms-signs of both surrender and receiving, as is and as presented.

Fragrance of Life

The breeze at dawn has secrets to tell you. Don't go back to sleep. You must ask for what you really want. Don't go back to sleep. People are going back and forth across the doorsill where the two worlds touch. The door is round and open. Don't go back to sleep. ~~Rumi

     I have only smelled a rose once in my lifetime, briefly. I have never smelled the rain in the air. I have never smelled fresh cut grass or spring flowers. I have never smelled homemade bread. I have never smelled the salt water of my precious Gulf. I have never smelled the pine trees on my grandparent’s land nor the Red Woods as I stood diminished in my awe. I have never smelled the clean air of the Rockies nor the Smokies. I have never smelled perfume, after shave, incense nor candles. Quite simply, I have never been lost in an aroma or fragrance.
    My nose has never worked – it captures neither fragrances nor the air I breathe. It has one function – to hold my glasses on my face so I can see. If you have ever had a serious cold where you could not breathe through your nose, food tasted bland and you could not smell anything, then you have experienced my everyday world. I do not inhale life. I have learned to taste life. Salt and sugar are the primary tastes that I experience. One seasons and preserves the other sweetens and comforts.
    Breath enters my body exclusively through my mouth. Cover my mouth, and my voice is not only silenced but I cannot breathe. Cover my mouth, or have a dentist put their hand in my mouth and I feel as if I am suffocating. To breathe is the same as tasting life. I taste life because the fragrances and odors that help to define its color and texture are my very breath. To breathe, to be alive, for me, is to taste life’s seasonings and sweetness that preserve and comfort.
    Not being able to inhale the fragrances of life has its advantages, for example, skunks. Although you’ll just have to trust me, as bad as skunks may smell, their taste is horrible. Not being able to inhale the fragrances of life has yet another very serious disadvantage. For example, there was the time I did not realize my apartment will filling up with natural gas. I could not smell the gas. I did, however, think my parakeet was acting odd. If friends had not dropped by and opened the door and windows, I’m not sure I would be here today.
    As with much of life, everything has its good and bad, its advantages and disadvantages and its limitations and endless possibilities. And though I am extremely grateful for the ability to taste life, I am limited to salt and chocolate. I know there must be more in between. There are days, like today, when I recall fondly a brief moment when I smelled a rose and wonder would I appreciate that fragrance as much as I do if it were part of my everyday life? I do not know.
    As I pause on the path I journey, I inhale and taste what is and exhale the breath of what might be. I recall a partial line from one of Rumi’s poems, “… until my soul takes on his fragrance.” A slow smile breaks across my face. I know that fragrance. It is the fragrance of hope, acceptance, love, laughter, roses and thorns, storms and rainbows, unmasked and vulnerable. I take a deep breath, remember a rose and inhale life.

Roller Coasters, Beach Balls and Butterflies

     Why do people ride roller coasters and rides that are designed to terrify you? I, personally, do not do rides. The last ride I was on was that apple shaped ride that spins around. Not exactly death defying. Knowing I don’t do rides, I wanted to join in the festivities with my friends. I paid my admission, sat down and felt my heart begin to pound. The carnival worker came by and locked the bar in place. As he made his way back to his station he passed by my little apple of terror. Pausing, he looked at me and unlocked the bar. With a friendly smile he took my hand and helped me out. “I don’t think so” said his smile. My apple companion howled with laughter as the carnival worker and I walked off the ride’s platform hand in hand. I was good with that. The holding of hands was actually quite nice and probably expedited the color returning to my face.
    To those I’ve questioned, they describe the thrill of being overwhelmed with fear and the adrenalin rush they get. Thrill and fear are not exactly two words I would put side by side. And then you add laughter and I’m totally confused. From all appearances – watching from the ground as a spectator- it is, as its name advertises, a roller coaster of emotions.
    Today began with me tossing a beach ball in the air. Not at the beach mind you. I was at work well before third shift clocked out. It had been a long week at work and sometimes you just need to laugh and play. Facing another eleven hour day, it seemed like a grand idea. Yes, I keep a beach ball on my shelf at work. I use it for stress relief and today, the beach ball, like I, had clocked in and began to work.
    It matters not the details of the day. Say to anyone that your day was a roller coaster of emotions and they immediately understand. Today was a roller coaster of emotions, beginning with the beach ball, feeling overwhelmed with laughter and smiles as the day progressed and ending with news from home that broke my heart. Unfortunately, there was no carnival worker to unlock the bar, take my hand and walk me off the platform.
     As I write, today is almost tomorrow. Reflecting on the day and its gamut of emotions which reminds me of the complexity and simplicity of life, I pause and give thanks. No, my heart still feels broken, for myself and others, but I have to give thanks that I can feel its brokenness. I can hear. I can see. I can feel. I am alive. The apple ride of human emotions needs no bar to lock me in and keep me safe. It is a ride that makes me human and alive grasping and releasing the depth of human emotions. The ride is not a “into everyone life a little rain must fall” attitude, no not that. The ride is one of butterfly wings that dance in twists and twirls often lifted or turned around by the wind. Butterflies are not meant to be captured and pinned to Styrofoam because of their colors. Their beauty lies in the elegance of color and movement.
     And so it is with the apple ride of emotions. I am not so wise as to understand it all but I do know if you mount a beach ball on Styrofoam the air will rush out leaving it flat and motionless. Like butterflies, the beauty and joy of beach balls are in their color and movement. The beauty of today, and all its emotions, vulnerability, joy and sadness lies in its movement and color. Knowing that, this is one ride I’ll gladly pay admission again and again. Movement, color, and texture – the feel and feeling of life. 
     Let the music of the ride begin. I lift my arms in the air ready to twist, twirl, laugh and dance and never alone.

The Heart's Prayer

     I do not want to be told I am a sinner because I failed to meet your expectations. I do not want to be told I am a transgressor because I pushed the bounds of conventionality. I want to know I am a sinner because I have seen the face of God.
     I do not want to see the gates shut to Eden. I do not want to see the burning bush. I do not want to see the Promised Land or Jericho’s fallen walls. I want to know that You alone are God because my heart cannot but kneel.
     I do not want to stand at the manger and think what an unbecoming throne. I do not want to hear Lazarus called forth and fear the dead walking amongst us. I do not want to eavesdrop on Gethsemane’s prayer and hear the sweat fall from his face. I want to know you are the Son of God because I looked through the eyes of the thief.
     I do not fear the hiss that I could be God I fear the venom that tells me I am a sinner. Maybe it’s time to leave Eden behind and forget the gate. Maybe it’s time to remember the garden is where God walked in the cool of the evening and called out to Adam and asked “Where are you?” Yes judgment was passed, there are consequences to actions, but the first question was “where are you?” Perhaps if the answer given had been from the heart and not deceit the story may have been different.

   “Where are you my child that you feel the need to hide? Where are you my child that you fear the very power that created you? Where are you my child that you see only your actions and not your heart?

Where are you my child tell me what has happened. You’ve eaten from the tree of wisdom but to understand you need your heart, my breath. For when I breathed into you, you breathed your life back into me. Where are you my child? You are in me. It is not a kneeling, it is not a cry of belief, and it is not judging eyes you seek. It is your heart, our breath. It is to know you are loved.“ 

      And when my heart rises from the altar within my soul, I smile. To love because you cannot not love is to understand the love of God. And when that path is taken, if I listen closely there is a whisper asking “Beth, how is your heart?”

Pet Rock

     Years ago I ran marathons. Note – please do not view my prior athletic prowess by my current body! I would easily log over 50 miles of running every week. I was not a sprinter. My body and my spirit were made for long distance running. I think that rhythm, that heart beat and breathing are part of my writing. There are times when I write that I can feel the movement of my legs and hear the tapping of my size two and a half sneakers giving high fives to the pavement. Sometimes, sorry, it takes me longer to warm up and get into the flow. Other times, I begin immediately with the muscles loose, the thighs burning and my breath in complete harmony with my legs.
     And then, one sees the finish line. A marathon, mind you, is 26.2 miles. Not twenty six miles, it is 26.2 miles. Do not forget those two tenths of a mile. When you think you see the finish line, believe you have made it, crashed through the physical and mental walls those two tenths of a mile taunt the last drop of reserve in your tank. The goal is visual and close. The race, truly a race against yourself not others, is almost over. You have mined yet another depth of your being to draw upon, when life becomes challenging outside the race, if you can but finish those two tenths.
     Other than the physical pain and mental fatigue, a runner’s worst enemy can be a stray pebble or over sized grain of sand that finds its way into your running shoe. A runner knows their body. However slight the grain of sand may be it dislodges their balance. Even worse, the mental concentration and physical rhythm are derailed. Will it become a blister? Will I be able to finish the race? Should I stop now and remove shoe and sock hoping to ward off a DNF (did not finish) or an injury that will side line me for weeks? What…no running? When I was running, I had friends who would throw my running shoes at me and tell me to go run, knowing that I always returned whole and healed. What if I could not run because of a blister?
     During the obsessive self talk and doubt, trying to find your stride once again, you see them. Neighbors from the houses lining the streets are sitting out in their lawn chairs cheering you on and clapping. Some have set up picnic tables with water cups to quench your thirst and douse over your head. They hold their offerings out to you so you don’t break stride having to stop and pick up the needed gifts. No, they stand and wait for you and as you approach their arms stretch out and they ask only to serve. I still remember my first marathon when I approached the first such gathering. I stopped dead in my tracks – almost creating a massive pile up, mind you. If I were a better writer perhaps I could help you see what I saw and what I felt, but alas, I can only say it was stunningly overwhelming. I tucked that cup behind my paper number pinned to my shirt and kept it for years. I do not remember that first marathon’s miles, they clipped away unnoticed as I pondered the tiny paper cup tucked against my body.
     I miss running. And if you have read between the lines above you know the depth of that statement. There are days when I find a pebble or over sized grain of sand has covertly found its way into life and my walk becomes a touch unbalanced. I will not say I handle this well, I don’t. But sometimes when something precious has gone, if you stop running, you might just notice the outstretched hand holding a tiny paper cup of water. They do not try to break your stride. They offer their cheers, support and are simply there because they want to celebrate your effort, your desire, your passion and your life in that moment. No, I don’t run anymore. I think, perchance, life is teaching me to walk, pause, sit and enjoy the company of the outstretched arms. To say thank you, ask their name and share my name not my runner’s number. And if that be the lesson of the pebble, then well done my pet rock!

Conversation over Time

     Late, as usual. I nodded my silent apology to Seth and took my seat. The video was already running. I backed into my seat, already drawn to the subject on the video. I knew the room where the video was taken, Seth, the chair and the position of the camera. The size of the room enhanced the camera’s zoom affect, focusing only on the young girl. Seth would have been to her left, out of sight of the camera but near enough where he could have easily touched her without leaning or shifting his position.
     The video setting oriented in my mind I now focused on the subject. She was probably in her early 20’s and very thin. The color of her eyes wasn’t certain until she looked up, they were blue. The stiffness of that upward head movement let me know that was not going to be common view. She looked fragile and pale and very stiff. Her blue eyes and dark hair were in stark contrast to her pale face.
     “How do you feel? Are you ok?”
     I smiled. I knew that voice, soft, gentle and deep. I quickly glanced at Seth but the recognition went unreturned. He was focused on the video, on her.
    “Fine.”
     My head snapped back to the video. She spoke. At least I think she did.
     “Do you want me to turn the camera off?”
     The head made a quick left to right movement.
     “What would you like to talk about?” Seth’s question received a quick shrug of the shoulder.
     In that brief instant she had unfolded her arms and glued them to the arms of the chair. I squinted to see if there was any color in her clenched fists. My first reaction was that Seth should have terminated this video interview.
     “Are you hurting?”
     “No.”
     “Would you tell me?”
     My face snapped at the thought that I caught a small smile.
     “Have you ever told anyone that you were hurting?”
     It was a smile and this time it lasted a bit longer. I waited for the silhouette to say “no.”
     “Janet.”
     Instinctively my eyes squinted and head tilted. That wasn’t right. Everything about her said she would never have let anyone know she was hurting.
     "Did she say anything?”
     "Not at first.”
     “What did she say?”
     This wasn’t right. Everything about her said she was a no talker. Granted, it wasn’t an elaborate conversation, but there shouldn’t be any conversation. Someone that tight, that walled and self protected would not expose her pain. Seth was good but not that good.
     “I cannot stop what you’re driven to be. I will not stop loving what you are.”
     The clenched fists now began to slowly and deliberately rub against her bent thighs as one would rub two sticks together in hopes of creating a fire. My mind continued to rebel against the image I was watching. It wasn’t right. I knew this was the third interview. Should not be at this stage. Out of synch.
     "Did she explain what she meant?”
     She can’t answer. To explain meant she understood. To understand meant she must have let her walls down for this person. That body, those eyes and those fists would never let anyone that close. Why was he focusing on this conversation? This line of questioning could go nowhere.
     For the second time the head looked up and turned to the left. She would have been looking directly at the bodiless voice. “Turn away,” I thought. She’s going to turn away. He’s gone too far too fast. “Turn away” I kept repeating, unsure if the mantra was audible.
     The face looked up and said, “ Janet said, One day I would see both who I was, am and will be and say yes.”
     “No!” I said looking at the face on the video looking at me.
     “What do you mean?” Seth said looking at me.
     “That was not what Janet said.” I replied glaring at Seth.
     “What do you mean?”
     “I don’t think that’s what Janet said. Janet would not have said that.”
     “That’s what you told me she said when we filmed your session.”
     “This is over. I said.”
     The chair fell back. The interview was over. My rigid body became fluid and ran out of the room.
     “Please come back!” The bodiless voice echoed down the hall.
     I grabbed the car door handle. His hand grabbed mine. I’ve no idea how much fear was in my eyes when he grabbed my hands. He knew from the first day I had clearly defined body space walls and never let anyone touch me. He broke the rules. Despite the night I could see every wrinkle in his face as well as his fear. He didn’t remove his hand. His grab turned into a gentle hold and his eyes remained fixed on mine.
     “Why wouldn’t Janet say that?” Seth asked. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know it would hurt so much to watch yourself on the video. Please come back in and I’ll erase the tape. His voice was slow and calculated knowing the risk of one false word or another false move.
     “I can’t.” My hand was permitted to slip out of his. I opened the car door and jumped in. He didn’t move as I raced the car out of the lot.
     Looking up into the rear view mirror to make sure he wasn’t following me, she stared back. The eyes were shallow but no longer fearful. Headlights from the car behind me briefly betrayed tears on her face.
     “That was what Janet said” the face in the mirror whispered.
     “That’s not what she said” I shouted to the mirror face.
     “You’re right. That’s not everything she said. ‘Love who and what you are first. The image you see in the mirror will be the eyes with which you see the world.”



Ain’t the world a beautiful place?

Flight of Truth

Sometimes my spirit and brain work together like a snow globe - no words, just images.

The Pearl Necklace Part 1: Steel Toed Boots Required

      My work shoes are steel toed boots. Not an easy feat when you consider the child labor laws in this country. I wear a size two and a half. I’m a Buster Brown kind of gal. In the old days, the clerk, no matter how embarrassed, was required to give me a balloon just like he gave the other customers – children under ten. Lest you think financially my shoe size is a bonus (cheaper), mind you the money you may save is offset by the choices of shiny paten leather pilgrim shoes with a giant bow, sneakers that light up when you walk and little kids, worse yet, their parents, staring at you when you stand alone in the children’s section of the shoe store.
      Alas, I have, as usual, digressed. My work shoes are steel toed boots. I love my little boots that look so grown up, so woodsy and earthy. They wrap your feet and ankles up in a well protected cocoon. They even make my five foot two inch frame taller by at least an inch or so! Double bonus. Who cares that to keep them on I have to wear really thick socks and lace them so tight I almost make my hands bleed. They are adult shoes. They’re real shoes. They’re work boots and I am a blue collar kind of gal who thrives in the sweat and oil of physical work.
      There is something magical or special when I put my little boots on in the morning that tells my spirit “work is to be done.” When I come home, unbind them and clomp them on the floor, with a heavy thud, my spirit knows my “work is done.” Technically, my job is an office casual shoe type of job. The sweat and oil one encounters in the office is trying to find the paper jam in the copier. But, as they say, I have ‘taken it to the street’ and spend as much time in the plant, walking the plant and talking to the shop floor employees as possible. It is for them and their voices that I can keep my sanity in a world of numbers and 50,000+ lines of Excel spreadsheets. Thus, my work shoes are steel toed boots.
     Until this week. My work shoes are size two and a half hiking boots from the children’s department. I can no longer wear my steel toed boots. The weight and steel plate are too much and have damaged my little feet. The doctor (and my feet) has said no more. Hiking boots are cool. Safety requires a thick sole in the plant and the hiking boots have been approved as an ok compromise for the steel toed boots. I am still in the plant zooming around like a little beach sand piper. But I miss my work boots. I miss the weight. I miss the stiffness. I miss feeling like I was one of ‘them’ and not an ‘office’ type. Maybe that was the real cocoon they provided. Perhaps they shielded me from a world, where at heart, my heart is not.

Today's Lesson Is

    Tonight, the snow on the evergreen trees looks like the walls of the kitchen the first and last time I ever used an electric mixer. I failed to turn off the power before lifting the whirling beaters covered in white frosting, correction, were covered. I didn’t know. Somehow the thought of licking frosting off the walls did not seem to offer the same delight as when I was a child and my mother would hand me the beater dripping in chocolate. 
    My mother never taught me to cook. She did, however, buy me a Barbie Easy Cookbook. Years later, after I’d left home, I stumbled across the book and told myself that cooking could not be that hard. Hours later, exhausted, I called my mother. I told her my frustration that not one single store in my city had Tisp flour. How was I to make the recipe when I could not get Tisp flour? I could hear her puzzled voice across the states as she asked me just what in the world I was trying to fix. I read the recipe to her word for word from the Barbie Easy Cookbook (emphasis upon ‘easy’). Silence told me what was about to happen was not going to be good. Slowly, even for a deep southern drawl, she explained that ‘TSP’ (translated Tisp) stood for teaspoon, not a brand. I didn’t know.
    I walked up to the stereotypical librarian, an older woman with gray hair and glasses dangling from her neck. I made sure my eleven year old body stood straight and tall and reflected my important mission. As polite as my excitement would permit, I explained to her that I wanted to know where I could find the book Ibid. Almost every book I read referenced this book. It had to be huge. It had to contain all the knowledge in the world. She put her glasses on her nose and looked at me. I could tell this was not going to be good. As gentle as one can burst the bubble of an enthusiastic child she explained ‘ibid’ was a footnote reference not a book. I didn’t know.
    Some days what I don’t know feels so much heavier than what I think I know. On other days what I don’t know feels like a five dollar bill discovered in my jeans while doing laundry. What is the connection of these disconnected musings that hold me hostage tonight? I don’t know. I do know when I eat frosted cake I glance at the nearby wall and chuckle. I know when I see a bag of flour in the store (on my way to the frozen food section) I smile. I know when I see ibid in a footnote my eyes feel sparkly. Drat, I don’t know how to end this but there is lesson for me here. It will be good. Ibid.

In-Betwixt

      I hit a wall today. It was one of those days when you feel like Jim in the old “Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom” TV show. You remember Jim. He was the one wrestling the very angry crocodile or rhinoceros in the mud or brambles while Marlin Perkins was safe in the helicopter describing the animal and what they were going to do with the truly irritated animal. Marlin always made it sound dangerous, but no big deal. You had to wonder if Jim ever yelled up to the helicopter “Hey Marlin, you come down here and do this!” Yes, today I was Jim trying to capture a very angry animal called month end results and poor performance while Marlin sat in the comfortable helicopter of “we’ve always done it this way” wondering what the fuss was all about. It would be so easy, when you bounce against the wall, to just walk away. You would give me way too much credit if you thought I did not consider that as a viable option. 
      As I slipped and glided across the ice between the buildings I pondered this option and this in-betwixt time of this week. The sacred holiday is over, the love and cheer have been celebrated and life has returned to normal. We’ve moved on to the anticipation of a new year, a new beginning and the farewell of the old and possibly shattering 2009. One down and one to go. In-betwixt. That is perhaps the wall I really hit. I may not be where my heart and vision say I should be but where I am matters. Tomorrow may hold my dream and visualization of being a writer or one who gives voice and hope to others but today’s experience, attention, willingness and rows and rows of Excel formulas are the paint that brush will need. Christmas on one end and New Year’s on the other end and in-betwixt is where I am. Do you think Marlin ever said “Hey Jim, you’ve got a bit of mud on your face”?