January 1, 2011

I have not read the book, but the quote makes for much thinking.

We ought to love each other so profoundly,
serve each other so aggressively,
listen to each other so passionately,
and respond to each other so humbly,
that the kingdom of God breaks in among us.
(from The Body Broken: Embracing the Peace of Christ by Jack Reese)

Friendship

There is an old saying: "In love, there is always one who kisses, and one who offers the cheek." Sometimes I've heard it applied to friendship also. And I have had many friendships where it certainly seemed like it was true there. On the other hand, there seems to be an interchange in love and in friendship--the people involved change places. At times, one may be the one who kisses, and at other times, the roles reverse. According to need/circumstances/strength/ability. Since my mother died I have been unable to be the one who reaches out to kiss. My friends who have reached to kiss me, so to speak, have been real lifesavers! I don't know what would have happened to me.
But I believe that I am becoming more able to extend myself. My cup is filling, oh, so slowly, but it IS filling.
Thank you to all those who loved me anyway.

BF

That time came for my friend's beloved brother. He passed on into eternity. His life will reverberate for many years to come--through his beautiful wife and two daughters but also through his siblings. And beyond even that, he worked for the Helen Keller Foundation. He was brilliant at his job and many, many of the programs he set in place for the deaf/blind will go on making their lives better.
I want to post about my friend later. With pictures. But I have to say here, I have never known another family with such intelligence. There are 5 siblings and they are all overachievers. Amazing people. As a teenager, I always felt that they were so much smarter, I'm not even sure how to describe it. And they have each become adults who use their intelligence--no wasted lives.
The funeral service was moving. His family were gracious and kind in the midst of their sorrow. I will carry loving memories of my time with them all for the rest of my life. His faith was strong. He finished as much as he could for his family and his work. He comforted them. His life will give them strength in the days to come.

My mother

A long-distance friend who is near and dear to my heart asked recently about my mother. She knew the one-year anniversary of her death was approaching. Because this friend and I have not seen each other very many times--and only twice in my home state, she never got to meet my Mama. I wish they could have met. So here is a picture of my Mama. This is one of the last taken. I sometimes look at it and wonder if I should have been able to see earlier indicators of the disease that took her. She was almost 83 years old but she was full of life and active.

This photo was taken at Mama's 80th birthday party. Those folks are her siblings. She and her sister to the right are both gone on now. And her oldest brother died several years ago. Fun looking group, aren't they?

My life will never be the same without her in it. I saw her at least once a week for the past 25 years--except for a few times we were sick and missed a week here or there. This spring our roses have been exceptionally beautiful--and it is bittersweet. Every spring we carried armfuls of roses to her to share. She's not there to share with now. She is beholding more beauty than I can imagine. But that does not stop us missing her.

Deep longing

Dawna Markova's book I will not die an unlived life really touched me in so many ways. She made me think. Made me see. I always know that I am not the only one feeling a certain way. I am not the only one going through certain things. But I am the only me doing so. Each person's experience of things is unique--even though shared by millions. I can only feel and see my own life. I may be able to see that another is in the "same place" but I can't feel what she feels, or even see what she sees.

Occasionally there will be a writer who has the ability to put down on paper what she sees and feels strongly enough that it resonates with many. I felt that way about Markova.

. . . For if we have been caught up in a really compelling story, the loss of an old identity will bring us into the trough of the wave, where all we can hear are rumblings of our sacred hungers--the need to be loved, to have someone be present with us, to be acknowledged as making a difference, to know, to feel peace and satisfaction.

THAT is what I have felt this year. For I was caught up in a really compelling story--the illness, hospitalization, and death of my mother. And my loss of identity when that ended. Not only the end of that particular short story but the ending of my life as someone's child. Odd things will come to mind. Because my parents and older brother are all dead, there is no one who remembers with me many things. What I have longed for, hungered for, was to be loved, to have someone present with me, to know I made a difference.

I will not die an unlived life

by Dawna Markova. I read this book in January. I was drawn by the title. Who wants to die having never lived? The subtitle is Reclaiming Purpose and Passion.


I sometimes wonder "what now? what next?" This stage of life has not been what I had imagined it would be. The need to be busy is constant. There is always laundry. Always yard. Always. Always. Some days are so full as to be totally exhausting--but without a core, without a reason. What am I focusing on? Too often, nothing. I do what has to be done because it has to be done for life to keep going smoothly along. Shouldn't there be a joy, a sense of accomplishment, a sense of meaning?


Markova wrote:


. . .By passion I don't mean sex or desire. . . I mean the natural life energy that exists inside each of us, urging growth. A deep and natural pulse that tells us to live from the inside out, to reach in and reach out for all that is possible to know, to contribute, and to receive. I may have lost the feeling of it right now, but I am beginning to think passion exists in the relationship between things, between the self and the rest of life, between forces in opposition to each other, between polarities and paradoxes, between and beyond the river of either/or that seems to divide so much of our world.


. . . I'm sure there are fierce yearnings of heart and soul under the smooth, flat surface of the frenetic life I was living. But for now, all I feel is empty. Under a vast and constantly changing sky, I'm surrounded by a natural dormancy where passion's spark is buried and has to be searched for.


I've found my way into this dormancy by asking questions that probably only God can answer, impossible questions that flap in my mind like sheets in the wind: How do we reclaim our lost fire? How do we remember that our love really does matter? How do we retrieve our leaking souls?


Anything capable of decay is also capable of regeneration. Passion is a given when we are young. As children we burn with it, unless it gets smothered or beaten out of us. But as adults, it becomes so elusive, as if there were thin ribbony veils of music playing someplace just beyond our everyday hearing, pale and near-transparent. How do we evoke the untamable in ourselves, that part that dreams and imagines beyond what is known? How do we open fully to what life brings us, letting it lift us and carry us?


I stumble forward in a dim light, finding my way to the vitality that is passion one step at a time. I come to four doors, closed at my heart: rage, denial, inertia, and loss. I believe most of us were taught to slam these shut, turn our backs, and lean up against them in fear. But I also believe that on the other side of these doors are passageways to our brightest fire, the choice to live fully awake and alive. (emphasis mine)





I think she is onto something. Something we know but fail to practice. We've always heard that if we do not feel great sorrow, we will not be able to feel great joy. We know there are times in life that are desperately unhappy. But how many of us feel exceptional joy at other times? Do we not, at those times, hold back a little? Afraid to feel that joy fully and completely? Various reasons, I think, superstition--if I am that joyful won't it invite catastrophe? Guilt--I don't deserve this kind of joy--I have done this or that or NOT done this or that. Fear--if I allow myself to feel so much joy, how horrible will be the aftermath. And more, as people are so varied.




I read. I read. Sometimes I think. But feeling. Well, that is not something I am comfortable with.

Very funny

Lest you think I am not having a good time ever. . .
Once a month my Daddy's family gathers for a potluck at one of his siblings' homes. Several of the cousins are also gathering with the siblings--for years it was our parents' thing. We always have a wonderful time--there are LOTS of stories to relive and things to laugh about. Several of us had quite exciting times as children--our own children lived highly restricted lives because WE knew too much!!
This past weekend--it is always the first Saturday of the month--one cousin asked if I remembered "smoking monkeys". I had totally forgotten them! They were toys. Came with little paper "cigarettes" which you lit with a match (yes, we had matches and most of us carried pocket knives too), then blew out the flame and the cigarette would smolder away. Very, very funny. I loved those crazy toys.
That particular cousin's husband came over and sat down and we asked, do you remember "smoking monkeys"?? And he said he didn't ever have one but he saw one. And we said which kind, how big was it?? He looked funny and said it was normal-sized!!
He had actually seen a REAL LIVE monkey that smoked real cigarettes!!! Cracked us up.
Someday we're going to hurt ourselves laughing.
Smoking monkey at eBay--a completed auction.