Category Archives: Memories

Mar15

Interstitial Anxiety

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Interstitial Anxiety

“Mattie sat at the table, obsessing, orbiting around herself. She was sick of her worried, hostile mind. It would have killed her long before, she felt, if it hadn’t needed the transportation.”  ― Anne Lamott, Blue Shoe

I could be having a sweet dream about Jude Law right now, but no. Instead I’m lying in bed wrestling with an unwelcome visitor, worry. I’ve about reached the grand mal hissy fit level-over things that will resolve without this trauma. I feel like I’ll spontaneously combust. There is no word in the English language that adequately describes how I hate this sporadic reoccurrence. Evidently there is a genetic predisposition in the Valentine clan for my reaction to this; it was also passed on to my eldest niece. When she was little Gramps bought her a tiny dapple Shetland pony whom we named “Hissy Fit” in her honor. Is it just me, or some manner of collective anxiety passed down to me through generations, or passed down to women, or to Americans?

Each time I wake in the night and worry myself into heartburn, headache and enough generalized anxiety to warrant a high dose cocktail of anti-anxiety meds I ask myself, why are you doing this? Again? What we give our energy and attention to grows, multiplies. If we study something we are interested in most likely our attraction to that subject will increase as our knowledge of it does. Similarly, if we dwell on problems they will take on lives of their own. Unless you are extremely fortunate and your life has been a bed of roses or you are the grand puba of peace and all things spiritual, you know what I mean. Worry raids our quality of life, steals our moments, makes us ill and complicates our relationships.

Even as a grade-schooler I had the worry cloud over my head at times. I remember our speaker at sixth grade graduation saying “The past six years probably went by very quickly for you. The next six will go by even more quickly and the six after that even faster.” I think I’ve obsessed about how I use the time I have on this earth since then. There is a condition that affects the bladder causing tremendous inflammation called interstitial cystitis. This occurs when the area between the cells becomes inflamed. I believe many of us have interstitial anxiety, worry that creeps in between the fabric of our lives, between our thoughts, between our moments.

But how do we move past this habit of worry? I use the word “habit” because I do think to some degree our brains become trained to worry. I know this because when I wake in the middle of the night unworried my brain seems to search the database to FIND something to worry about! Jesus, who was spectacular at cutting to the chase, said “Therefore do not be anxious about your life. . . but seek ye first the kingdom of God and all these things shall be added unto you.” (Matthew 6:31-32)

In 1998 through 2000 I gave particular time and focus to deepening my spiritual life; I placed this above everything else in my life. About this time I had a dream that I was seated upon a huge pile of paper and wondering what to do with it all. As I sat there I realized I was seated on a stack of worries! It finally dawned on me that they were just paper and I could burn them.

What do you think happened during this three year period? Worry just about ceased and life fell into place in astounding ways. I know this, lived this and still fall into old habits. I don’t mean to channel Pollyanna; my life has not been without tremendous struggle and this process is not easy. But if we heed the advice of Jesus and keep refocusing on God, the nights and the dreams can both be better. I’ll see you on the other side Jude.

Mar9

What’s Your Binky?

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What’s Your Binky?

“I took that smile and I put it right where the hole in my chest was. It was better than coffee, or chocolate, or a perfect pirouette. I clutched it and held it tight.” ― Cecil Castellucci, Rose Sees Red

Mom believed a hot bath could cure any ailment and ward off the most virulent pestilence. Newly diagnosed with a rare disease? Dale would say, “Go take a hot bath, you’ll feel better.” Get bucked off your Dad’s spirited mare and have eight new stitches in your chin? According to Dale, a hot bath was the panacea. Did your husband run amok with the girl next door? For heaven sakes take a bath; you won’t care anymore! The woman could take three baths in a day. The steaming hot tub soothed her achy arthritic joints, provided a place of solitude and rekindled her spirit as the worries of the day floated away from her.

For Gus, the wonder dog there is only one solace, T-O-Y. The moment he awakens he goes on house patrol to find the T-O-Y. Toy in mouth, he goes outside to do his business, never dropping the thing. When no actual toy is available, he substitutes anything he can find, acorn, pine cone, wallet or bra! Gus loves his toy like fashionistas love the garment district in NYC. He left the sane world of simple comfort long ago; he is now livin large in full-blown obsession. And he’s a talker, “Where’s my toy, where’s my toy, where’s my toy?” You don’t have to speak canine to translate. This is a guy who has his priorities in order; comfort first, the rest of the universe later.

The grand repository of all that represents comfort, however, is the man cave. Only the male of the species dares enter this grand palace of consolation. There one will find accouterments for any activity known to man! Into fencing? You will purr with content, fitted with the perfect sabre and mask. If you are a marksman, you can choose from any caliber including air pistol or rifle. Feeling weak and need resuscitation? Just grab a cool brew from the man cave refrigerator. Later you can try a round of Bocce ball or load your own ammo. Perhaps you feel more like golfing or snorkeling. And if none of this blows your fly fishing waders up, we can take you home on the Harley.

Cookies are my comfort. The pièce de résistance is the “Ultimate” chocolate chip cookie with extra brown sugar, pecans, a smidge of coconut, a bit crunchy on the outside and a tad chewy on the inside. I make a batch, cook a couple, and freeze the rest of the dough. This keeps me from eating fifteen at once and guarantees the warm elixir is available at a moment’s notice should I be curled up in the fetal position at the end of the day. You can’t eat a warm cookie and remain uptight. That first bite of warm melted semi-sweet Ghirardelli chocolate and browned to perfection cookie with crunchy southeastern Oklahoma pecans transforms me. A lot just from just a cookie, huh?

As Babe Magrath explained in “Crimes of the Heart” when asked what she did right after she shot that good-for-nothing husband of hers. “Well, as I recall, I went on into the kitchen and mixed me up a big ole pitcher of lemonade. You know, just like I love it, with lots of sugar.” Evidently, all the woman needed was a little southern comfort.

These simple pleasures ground us, comfort us, enable us to transcend the perils of everyday life, and sometimes help us remember who we are. They give us particular comfort people can’t. Whether it’s a page-turner that keeps us up till the wee hours, a magnificent cookie or a T-O-Y, we all have a binky to turn to for comfort. I can only hope that next time I relapse my stash of binky is safe and sound in the freezer!

 

 

Feb12

The Battle of Little Valentine

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The Battle of Little Valentine

I have a “carpe diem” mug and, truthfully, at six in the morning the words do not make me want to seize the day. They make me want to slap a dead poet. ~Joanne Sherman

Years ago my brother and I were having pizza at Promenade mall in Tulsa when he gave me a long curious look and said, “Sister, I’m not sure if I trust a person who can eat just one piece of pizza!” I understood our difference. Our fellow homosapiens exhibit behaviors that baffle and sometimes annoy us. WC Fields said he didn’t trust non-drinkers. The Sweetie looses it when he sees someone back into a parking space. For me, it’s the stupiddamnshitty morning people. Waking up with bright eyes, a smile on your face and feeling rested falls into that dodgy not-quite-human category as far as I am concerned. A roommate I had in my late twenties began chirping at 6:00am before her feet hit the ground! I wanted to slap her. The number of times I have awakened with enough clarity to make a complete sentence is about five.

My Dad is a morning person and so is my sister; I’ve wanted to beat them both a time or two also. In fact when I was a kid my Dad was hell-bent on transforming me into a morning person; he thought I was just lazy. We lived in a wonderful three story house in South Dakota (the tundra, not so wonderful) and my room was upstairs. Dad and Mom grew weary of trekking up and down the stairs in failed attempts to wake me for school so they launched a full blown tactical assault.

Dad’s initial campaign consisted of a slapping me on the butt and flipping the bright lights on. Yes, this did wake me at least for a while and pissed me off considerably, but I fell right back to sleep. It then escalated to threatening me with spanking, grounding, and loss of privileges. When I weighed my options, typically I chose to go back to sleep. The next strategic maneuver dad tried was a chicken. Yes, I did say chicken. No, it wasn’t live but may as well have been. It was this huge plastic rooster which produced an absolutely ghastly crow-which he placed right by my head. Yes, this woke me up, pissed me off and I went right back to sleep. Then he bought a cow, same principal as the rooster. Pumping the tail of the cow generated a blood curdling MOOOOO, which woke me, pissed me off and I was right back to sleep. We were at a stalemate until Mom and Dad bought walkie-talkie telephones- yep, just like the army. This was in the day before cell phones you remember. I had no efficacious exit strategy; I was disarmed. Dad kept calling me on the walkie-talkie phone until I surrendered and finally peeled myself from the warm bed. They did not resort to water boarding; the hateful walkie-talkie campaign was successful.

When a child has such strong aversion to waking up in the morning- parents please realize that they just have a vastly different circadian rhythm! God did not make all of us morning people!! Really. I actually used to put my clothes on for the next day under my pajamas so the getting ready for school process would not be so taxing. That is until Mom came in one night to check on me and thought I was burning up with fever because I had on so many layers of clothing. At this juncture I should admit that I have NEVER out-grown this aversion to mornings. Even my career reflects my inability to rise and shine. I’ve been an account executive in sales all these years for a reason. When you office in your home and set your own schedule you can start the day more or less as you want. There is still nothing shining about me in the morning, nothing!

But, I do recognize the gifts of morning; the fresh undisturbed air, the clean slate waiting to be written, the quiet uncluttered dawn, the sunlight beginning to glitter on the wet grass and the precious gift of one more day. The morning seems to take shape best when I consciously intend to have a good day. To set those intentions, I spend some time each morning in the silence. Somehow God finds me there, knows I’m dumb as a rock in the morning, speaks to me anyway, and loves my company.

Jan27

Gifts From the Road

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Gifts From the Road

Make your own rules or be a slave to another man’s.” ― William Blake

There is a song on Bonnie Raitt’s “Nick of Time“ album called “The Road’s My Middle Name”; it journals the joy and difficulty of a musician’s life on the road. I like this song because as I work and travel the state of Oklahoma it tells my story also. Back when I worked for Random House Publishing I traveled five states. I remember waking up one morning in yet another motel, and for a while I genuinely had no idea where I was. Finally I recalled that I was in exotic Camden Arkansas; I turned over and went back to sleep. Well-meaning friends and family member ask with concern “Don’t you want to find a job that doesn’t require travel?” What they don’t know, is that I not only love the freedom being on the road affords me, but I love the sights and the seclusion.

I’ve stood on the mountainside outside a tiny elementary school in Brushy Oklahoma, listened to kids on the playground and looked down the hillside at a magnificent stand of red and golden trees as fall leaves topple down the hillside. And, I swear I can actually see the hot harsh central Oklahoma wind on that stretch between Okarche and Kingfisher as the shafts of wheat wave back and forth on late spring days. Driving from Sand Springs to Enid on highway 412 I stop the car by the lake, roll down the windows and let the smells-and the allergens come on in. I pay for this later, totally. Working in an office I would see no horses and colts grazing in the spring, no cattle going to feed in the late afternoon, no buffalo actually roaming, no lamas and farm dogs. And I would miss the most beautiful sunsets anywhere.

The other thing I love about being on the road is enough time and quiet for contemplation. God will always speak to you if you actively listen and focus so you can see what you are being shown. Last week I came upon an eighteen wheeler headed east to Tulsa. It was pulling an unusually long flatbed that seemed to be carrying stacks of something like roofing shingles in flat packages. At first I hardly noticed the flatbed, the packages it carried only stood up a foot or so. But as I drove closer I saw that it was no ordinary load this trucker was carrying. You could see the pride he had in it before you even got close. Right in the middle of the flatbed was a brand new small shiny blue bicycle, the streamers on the handlebars riding high in the wind and the glittered fenders sparkling like crazy in the sunlight. He placed this tiny bike right in the middle of that huge flatbed and tethered it down on both sides; the bike was so small that it would have easily fit inside the cab. But no, this trucker wanted to make a proud statement and a treasured child would see immediately how important she was to the gift giver!

To the degree that we can, we should cut our own paths through this life; make conscious choices born of intention instead of fear. Boldness sure doesn’t come easily for this introvert, but shyness is such a sad place to reside! My niece Jessica took me to the Ballet recently. In amazement we watched a petite ballerina fly through the air as she was tossed back and forth by two male leads in the dance. She had faith in them! They made difficult maneuvers look simple because of her boldness.

“The key to happiness is to own your slippers, own who you are, own how you look, own your family, own the talents you have and the ones you don’t.” –Abraham Verghese, “Cutting for Stone”

Dec25

Life is Short

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Life is Short

“I could even feel how perishable all my moments really were, how all my life they had come to me begging to be lived, to be cherished even.” ― Sue Monk Kidd, The Mermaid Chair

The bed is warm and comfy, the scent of coffee has floated into the bedroom and the dream I’m in is fading. I begin to stir and slowly open my eyes. I stretch a little trying to wake up and start thinking about the day ahead when I feel it begin to cover me. It starts at the top of my head like thick Pepto-Bismol being drizzled over me, creeping down onto and into my entire body. I feel that sad sickening feeling coat my throat and chest and then settle in my gut. I recognize this unwelcome visitor, it is heartache. Then I remember; my Mom passed a few days ago. My Mom passed, with my sister Jan and me holding her hands. Heartache has come to settle in.

I want to be enveloped by God’s love so fully that I can’t feel this consuming pain. I also want some kind of assurance that I was a good daughter; I want to know that I did extend myself for my mother the best I could. I want to feel that I focused on things that mattered with her. When your heart is broken, any level of intuition or discernment you have been fortunate enough to have, to hone, to listen to and act on to goes right out the window. So for now I sit in the unknowing, sure of one thing only-that my Mom and I loved each other dearly.

Life is short. You tell yourself you have time, plenty of time. You don’t. My mom used to tell me she still felt like a girl inside, only now do I understand what she meant. Even though I just turned 60 I feel like I’m 35 or 40, not physically but otherwise. A lifetime will sneak up on you before you know it. One day you’re stealing kisses in the back seat of Bobby Joe’s car with his many octopus arms coming at you from all angles; you’d push one away and here came another. High school boys are just dreadful creatures. The next thing you know you’re 60 with a growing awareness that the ride will be over before your ready.

For me it’s like eating ice cream; no matter what size bowl I have I always want more when the bowl is empty-100% of the time. So I pick up the bowl and lick it clean just like an over stimulated six pound Chihuahua who wants more. I am aching for more of my Mom, more time with her, more laughing with her, more meals with her, more being her daughter. I suppose many of us also yearn for more when we too reach the end of life’s path. Most of us wish to live as long as we can with quality of life. And, some would actually choose more time without quality of life. There is trepidation for our departure for many. The wise old woman I am struggling to nurture inside would be ready. She would as gracefully as she could usher in the next phase of her spirit’s journey, releasing that tight hold on this life.

I will never look at our time here in the same way; I feel a strange oneness with the world I have not felt before. It’s a new awareness that most everything we do impacts someone else. There is also a renewed awareness that even though we are spirit, we are meant to experience fully this short stay in our physical bodies, the tastes, the touch, the sights, the wondrous sounds and love we are graced with. The time we have here is precious; we empty our bodies of youth and fill our spirits with love and lessons we need. My Mom has passed and her spirit has gone to what’s next and I know God was waiting to welcome her and is her biggest fan.

Dec2

Into the Woods

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Into the Woods

The Sweetie and I have escaped for a while, gone to the mountains for solitude and regeneration. He can go unshaven, practice what he refers to as his “manly survival skills”, hike around in the woods, fish, build camp fires and wear those sad, worn out khaki pants (so baggy the crotch sags to about mid leg) day in and day out. He confirmed his superior survival skills yesterday by catching trout, cleaning them and cooking them on the grill right after. Last night he made a really fine camp fire, which obliged me to stand out there with him in the freezing cold to admire his skills as a true mountain man. I attempted to make the most of the time by starting a substantive conversation. “What are your thoughts tonight as we enjoy nature” I asked him. He thought for half a second and replied “Don’t eat the yellow snow.” I went inside and stuffed my need for a soulful exchange with a hot double chocolate fudge brownie with Blue Bell Homemade Vanilla ice cream.

For me this is an opportunity to just be, no deadlines, nothing I must get done. I have my cell phone ringer turned off, as is the television. I can read to my heart’s content, meditate, write some, and walk the hills. This part of the country has suffered severe drought for two years now and my expectations for beautiful fall foliage were quite low. But to my delight nature did not disappoint, spectacular golden leaves shimmer in the unusually strong breeze and the reds from the maples are so striking I stop and try to capture them in a photo. This seldom works for me; it never translates, lack of photography skills I suspect.

There is no separation between our maker and nature; the closer I am to the earth, the more attuned I am to spirit. Before I started my walk I turned on my favorite mediation music and did my own 60 year old arthritic combo version of Yoga, Tia Chi and stretching. At one point I stretched my arms to the ceiling of the log cabin as far as my stiff muscles would allow and attempted to pull all the good energy into me I could gather. I remembered a phrase from one of my favorite prayers I learned from participating in the St Ignatius exercises. “Jesus, may all you are flow into me.” I said as I pulled my hands back down over my body, willing the wise old woman to take form. When God was at the sculpture’s wheel molding my life, unfortunately I think he finished with a square. But he must have sneezed several times because a couple of the walls are very crooked; I turned out more of a rhombus. That too defined structure did give me a good foundation for life, but sometimes flexibility comes at quite a price for me. Sweetie was more of a free form shape, a little lacking definition. He helps soften my square corners and I support his foundation some. Grace is a marvelous thing.

I love my country, but recognize our good old American work ethic as something we take to extremes; few of us take ample time for ourselves-for what really matters. I know many people who don’t take vacation time they have earned, for years on end! When I sold pharmaceuticals I generally worked six days a week. I enjoyed my work in the medical field; I started each day with the intention that I get the right medication in the hands of the right patient. I know what I did improved quality and perhaps longevity of life for thousands of people. But, total immersion in career to the exclusion of feeding our other very deep needs has become a societal sickness in this country. The effect it had on me was fatigue, inability to think creatively, lack of deep level bonding with friends, insufficient exercise, resentment for not having enough personal time, and anxiety.

The heart has tremendous capacity for love, but often we reject healthy self-love. I’m not talking about empty narcissism, but that grounded knowledge that we are worthy of self-care. The world’s greatest hurts are born of our inability to feel self-love; as individuals we don’t know how to love ourselves. “Inner pain can be a holy summons” (Sue Monk Kidd) that we are too callused to recognize. We are not still enough often enough to learn to know ourselves and when we do have private time we busy ourselves so we don’t have to see. The process is work and often painful but the yield is transformative. So this week Sweetie and I are in the woods, to administer some self-care and see what we can see.

Nov22

Meltdown, Faith and Fine China

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Meltdown, Faith and Fine China

You don’t just wake up one morning brimming with faith. That would be sweet, no? Typically I wake feeling like I’ve had a collision with a circus train. Fortunately I am married to a man who feels exactly the same. The morning mantra at our house is “don’t touch me”, “ don’t speak to me”, and “If you think I am picking up that Chihuahua poop in the living room floor at this hour you are sadly mistaken!” I suppose there are things about which faith does come easily. I have complete faith that any meal my husband, the chef, prepares will make my toes curl. However, even after following the recipe as carefully as my almost non-existent culinary skills allow, I have absolutely no faith the chicken marsala I’ve just spent hours agonizing over will be edible. To my credit, only three people who have tasted my creations have become seriously ill.

I joined a contemplative meditation group in 1994 that met each Tuesday for a couple years. Many were part of the same church congregation and very active members, me not so much. As the group started I thought to myself “My nieces were right, I’m not holy enough”. I am an introvert and not comfortable being part of a group, especially a potentially judgmental church posse. The theme that first night was “Be Still and Know God”. Although I “Knew” God, I was not on a first name basis with the ”Be Still” notion. Our weekly routine was to introduce a topic for the evening and meditate for 30 minutes. I felt down to my shoes that I didn’t belong and could no more be still for thirty minutes than I could cook a meal Julia Child would devour with gusto. I had no faith in the process or in my ability to meditate. The ONLY thing I could think of was Blue Bell ice cream. “Be still and know God.” I told myself. “Blue Bell Homemade Vanilla”, my unholy inner spirit shouted back. “Empty your mind so God can speak to you.” I pleaded with my wandering mind, “Blue Bell Dutch Chocolate” said my worthless little spirit.

Months later the group had a retreat in the country; one of the activities was to go out into nature and find an item that represented our personal spiritual journey. I only found a paper cup, which didn’t exactly spring from nature. It certainly wasn’t natural for me when I began meditating either. I saw that paper cup as my developing spirit; it was paper then but it would grow, evolve. I could see the evolution from paper, to thin plastic, to thick resin, to glass, and someday to fine china. From this, I learned faith can grow.

If ever something will teach you faith, it is most certainly marriage. There is nothing that will test your mettle like cohabitating for years on end with another human who has as many opinions, idiosyncrasies, faults and illusions as you-particularly if your partner is male. As my Mom says, “If it has tires or testicles you are going to have trouble with it!” For me, trusting a marriage partner has not come easily; I came by this through years of exposure to people I should never have given my trust to. My relationship track record prior to meeting my husband was dismal, in part due to the fact that my partners’ moral compasses were broken and they had become stupiddamnshitty dirt bags. I grow weary. So, my approach has developed into a periodic renewal of faith in marriage and in all things.

More than once in my life I have experienced the “dark night of the soul”. It proved to be more like the “dark two years of the soul”, a crisis of spirit so deep I didn’t have the strength for faith to materialize. Life was daunting and overwhelming, and I felt that little of what I did really mattered. When you are in the midst of this sad fatiguing time the things you typically rely on for guidance don’t work. Praying is so difficult you either cry or just mutter a weak “help”. Your intuition goes right out the window, if you are lucky enough to sleep you don’t dream, and you can’t focus on those things that are life affirming. What I learned from this cruel void was to look inward for God, to look to the Christ within, not out there somewhere in the heavens. I came to see that to have faith, we must choose to have faith.

This is not to say that life is hunky dory from then on. Take last week for instance. My laptop contracted a virus, the mother of all viruses just to be clear here. And despite that I had what my local computer Guru promised was the “best virus scan available”, my pretty pink computer that Sweetie bought me crashed and left this world, NEVER to return. This is the computer all my business records are on and more importantly the same computer the book I am writing is on, a book I have poured my heart into for 3 years now and cannot replicate. I did have a backup on flash drive but could not, even if Dr. Evil put a kryptonite gun to my head, find the thing! I am not saying I melted down, but my head did spin completely around according to the staff at Three Geeks and a Grump. To say I was a bastion of hope and light is not exactly correct. After two days of stewing, fretting and waiting, my data was retrieved by the Geeks. I hugged all of them repeatedly and promised to fund college savings plans for their children. I was once again reminded that where faith is concerned we don’t have to be able to see the future, just take one step and a time, turn the corner and take another. It takes practice. We commit to keep practicing and commit to keep choosing faith-our entire lives.