When I Dream of Her

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When I dream of her, the setting is always different, but the premise remains the same.

This time I am walking through a neighborhood, and as I turn the corner I see Mom standing on the sidewalk. She is pacing, trying to decide whether to cross. Immediately my heart swells with love, longing, anxiousness. And in that same moment, she turns and notices me. She is just as glad to see me. Her lip begins to quiver and I realize that she is near tears.

I rush toward her, suddenly overwhelmed with emotion too. I want to hug her. I don’t remember yet that she has passed away.

And herein is the premise that remains the same: I never remember in the beginning. All I know is that seeing her fills me with unabated joy and an undercurrent of desperation — terrible, terrible desperation.

I don’t recall if we talk, but we hug. And as we do, I notice two police officers nearby. They have been watching her and now they are watching us. I understand within seconds that they are wary of Mom because she has been pacing, maybe appearing a bit crazy. I want to protect her, so I take her by the arm and lead her away.

As we walk I begin to remember. She is sick. She is feeble. She needs me. My heart starts sinking. We arrive somewhere. There’s a room, and in it a bed. She lies down and I sit on the edge. I am looking at her face, really examining her face, for the first time. She looks scared.

It’s the same look I remember from real life, one morning back in June of 1990, when she woke up disoriented, not able to speak the right words even though it was clear she knew what she wanted to say. I remember the tone of her voice, a tone someone would use as if to say, “Well, this is curious, isn’t it?” But her eyes betrayed her. Her eyes were full of panic. Hours later I would be standing in a hallway at George Washington Memorial Hospital as a nurse explained to me that my mom had had a stroke. The following day I would be sitting bedside with Mom in ICU, watching her head rock from side to side on her pillow, her eyes opening and closing, involuntary movements repeating over and over and over and over. Her body was rebelling against her, breaking down, short circuiting. But her mind was still there. I remember her wailing when the doctor tried to raise her hospital gown to place the stethoscope over her heart because my dad — her ex-husband — was standing in the room. Dad said soothingly, quietly, “Bonnie, it’s ok.” And I think I saw something that looked like defeat in her unfocused eyes as the doctor raised her gown and continued with the exam.

She would slip into a coma the following morning, and two weeks later, she would be gone.

In my dream I am sitting on the edge of the bed, but we are not in ICU and she is not in a hospital gown. The surroundings are home-like and comfortable. But there’s an overall feeling of dread in the air and I now remember how it ends. I want to scoop her up in my arms and hold her close to my chest as if she were my child. I reach for her in a panic, but my arms will not move fast enough.

I wake with a start, bolt upright, my arms flinging out in the dark. For a second, I am confused.

But then I recognize my bedroom.
 
       I realize I am alone.
       
            I remember she is gone. 

                      And I will always be,

                                             always be,

                                   a motherless daughter.

Smoke and Mirrors (or "My Love Life As I See It")

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A friend once told me that being in a relationship is like having someone hold a mirror up to your face. Suddenly there's someone showing you how you appear to others when you say this or do that. In this "mirror," you see yourself from new angles—some flattering, some not so flattering. My friend—who travels frequently for business and purposely stays unattached—confessed to me that he worries about going so long without having someone hold up a mirror to his face. Is he putting himself at a disadvantage by not having this kind of personal reflection in his life? 

I'd never heard it articulated this way, but I understood my friend's concern.

Since getting divorced in 2002, I have been mostly single and mostly by choice. I knew when I left my marriage that I had a lot of growing up to do, and it was going to require some time in solitary. Simply put: I needed to learn how to be alone. I went from one high school boyfriend to another to one college boyfriend to another to a post-college boyfriend who then became my husband when I was 27 years old.

Let's keep my ex-husband out of this and fast forward to February 2002. I was entering my 30s and single for the first time in nine years.

My thirties were a time of substantial self-discovery. I went into business for myself. I bought a home. I traveled solo to places like China and India. I realized I no longer wanted to have children. I discovered that community work made my heart sing. I learned how to appreciate, support and rely on my friendships like never before. There were short-lived romantic relationships here and there, but mainly I got accustomed to living my life for me. I discovered my two feet—just my two feet—were strong enough to support me.

If the first couple years of my forties are any indication, I suspect this process of self-discovery—this rethinking, repurposing, deconstructing and reconstructing—is not a phase to get through, but a permanent condition of being human. It seems with every hard-earned answer, I gain the wisdom to ask more questions.

I write about this part of my life with confidence. I feel tuned in and full of possibility, wise in simply being aware and owning my life. I've grown comfortable out here on the edge, "living the question," as the poet Rainer Maria Rilke put it. The woman I am today feels strong, grateful, blessed, able to lead, willing to learn, full of love, connected to the pulse of life and passionate about serving others. Of course, there are times when I feel stressed and overwhelmed. I get tired. I get really lonely. I've thrown my fair share of pity parties and have been the last to leave. But I've learned to be patient with myself in those darker times. To trust that this too shall pass. I know to take a deep breath and reflect. 

However, this is what I see when I hold up my own mirror.

I've had three brief relationships in the past couple years, and the mirrors my partners have held up for me have reflected many of the positive qualities I named above. But also in their mirrors I have seen a woman who can be critical, temperamental and rigid. A woman whose feelings and words sometimes do not match. A woman who has trouble making time for another and projects her frustration onto her partner. A woman whose quickly drawn defenses prevent her from listening. A woman who can withdraw and disconnect without explanation. A woman whose expectations blind her from accepting or embracing what is. A woman who has more walls, rules and standards than anyone could ever possibly hurdle.

On my weaker days, I fixate on these unbecoming angles reflected in their mirrors and I see them as the absolute truth. I magnify these images at a blackhead-exposing level. I feel ugly and fucked up. I wonder what the hell my problem is.

A sweet man recently told me he could tell I was trying hard to make things work, to be patient, to stay open, to give things time. But he also could see in my eyes every time I was irritated or just not connecting with what he was putting out there, and it hurt him to see that because, really, all he wanted was for me to be happy. In the mirrors he and I held up for each other, we could see so many wonderful qualities between us, similarities too. But the hard truth was that there was a persistent disconnect in our interactions, an underlying tension, that prevented us from experiencing real intimacy. We had to wonder, especially so early in a relationship, should it be such a struggle to just get along? Probably not. I felt something like bittersweet relief wash over me as we agreed to give this budding relationship a rest. It was all so civil. So mature. So bereft of passion, actually, that I had to wonder: What the fuck just happened here? I mean, we did have something, right?

Or was it all smoke and mirrors?

In the years since my divorce, this scenario has played out more times than I care to count. And in the aftermath, I find myself asking the same questions: Have I forgotten how to love? Have I forgotten how to be a partner? Is it true what I sometimes see in their mirrors? Am I too critical and rigid? Do I have impossibly high expectations? Is something wrong with me?

In 2008, after a particularly hard breakup, I saw a therapist for several months. In her mirror, I saw a woman who simply knows who she is and what she wants. Forget being too critical of others; this therapist's observation was that I was being too hard on the relationships themselves. Why was I ladling such big expectations onto every new relationship that came to pass? And why was I so quick to beat myself up when things didn't work out? The way she saw it, most relationships aren't cut out for the long haul. "The thing is, true love—the kind of connection that can last a lifetime—is rare. I don't think it comes around that often, and that's why it's so incredibly special when it does happen. Do you think it's possible that none of these relationships have lasted because none of them were meant to last? Stop for a moment and consider the possibility that everything is unfolding as it should." 

I've thought a lot about that. It's true: Every relationship—whether it lasted weeks or years—has played a role in making me who I am today. And, for the most part, I like who I am today. I suppose none of these relationships needed to last a lifetime, but I needed them nonetheless.

So, as I move forward in this life, I continue to reflect upon the images I've seen in the mirrors of my past partners and in the way I see myself in my own mirror. Deep down, I feel my truest reflection is a melding of images from all of these mirrors. I'm a little bit of everything I see. I am multifaceted. I am lightness and darkness. I am strong and weak. I can be beautiful, and I can be ugly. I have good angles—and angles that could use better lighting.

I think the important thing is that I remain curious, that I remain willing to look in these mirrors that others hold up for me, no matter how disconcerting or reaffirming. Because in each reflection lies an opportunity to dispel the smoke and mirrors and gain a more holistic view.

At least that's how I see it.

Tossing vitamins and other ways to love yourself

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The other day I swallowed -- and then choked on -- a multivitamin the size of a horse pill. After coughing uncontrollably and rubbing my throat until the discomfort went away, it occurred to me that this happens EVERY TIME I take this "good for you" vitamin. Suddenly the $17.99 or whatever I had paid for the bottle didn't seem worth the guaranteed daily gag fest. I picked up the nearly full bottle, threw it in the trash and exclaimed "Never again!" for effect. (I can be a bit melodramatic when I'm at home alone.)

It felt good. Really good. Why had I not discarded those throat-scraping choke hazards sooner? Why was I continuing to put them in my mouth, knowing I'd choke on them every time? As I chewed on these questions my eyes came to rest upon a small tin filled with bobby pins. Most of the pins had lost their rounded tips so they pulled my hair and scraped my scalp when I used them.

I grabbed the tin from the shelf and dumped the pins in the trash.

A thought flashed in my mind: What else in my house hurts me? Annoys me? Causes me regular frustration?

• Good-bye, footstool! You're stylish, but I stub my toe on you ALL THE TIME. (I shoved the stool under a chair. If I want to use it, I'll pull it out.)
• Socks with holes: I deserve better. Out with you! 
• Can opener that's hard to crank and hurts my hands and makes me cuss: Adios!
• Jacket with sticky zipper that slows me down when I'm trying to leave: To Goodwill you go!

As I went about scanning and tossing and making minor adjustments in my home, I realized just how many little irritants I was willing to accept and live with on a daily basis. It was as if a part of me didn't believe I was worth the $2.89 it would cost me to get a new set of bobby pins.

The more I sat with the idea, the heavier my heart felt in my chest. Because, in a way, this was the truth.

In recent months I've come to notice how loud my inner critic can be. The smallest thing can set off a self-scolding that leaves me stewing for hours.

You're running late again? Really, Katie? Give me a break. Did you think there wouldn't be traffic at 5:30 pm?
Why did you wait until the last minute to address this? Your time management is for shit. 
How can you be low on money again? Ever heard of a budget? How old are you anyway?
You call this meditation? Looks like a bad case of monkey brain to me. You're wasting your time.

My inner critic can be relentless ... and exhausting. The good news is that I'm aware now how much she can color the way I see myself, others and the world around me. So these days when she starts in on me, I notice it right away and I remind myself that anger is really something else: fear in disguise. That acknowledgement alone takes the power out of the diatribe and makes room for compassion.

What exactly am I afraid of? Good question.

I (try to) meditate on that. I try to notice what circumstances make me particularly self-critical. I practice mental fitness in the gym to boost my confidence and self-image outside the gym. I sometimes see what it feels like to sit with uncomfortable feelings and not immediately try to "fix it." I take deep breaths and tell myself to relax.

And I toss out expensive vitamins. A small, but symbolic way of loving myself.

Discovering What I'm Made Of

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[Editor's note: Apologies for the length of this entry. This topic has been percolating for a while, and I only recently felt ready to write about it.]

I had a random, last-minute idea to attend church this past weekend. When the pastor began his sermon, he said he wanted to talk about grief and how people generally talk about grief as if it were an event with a start and stop date, when actually it can be a lifelong process that evolves as you evolve.

He also spoke of ways to cope with grief. Among his suggestions, he said to listen to your dreams. Snippets of my dream from the previous night suddenly flashed through my mind like a film in fast-forward. I got goosebumps. I felt heat in my ears.

He talked of Carl Jung's theory that dreaming was the body's natural mechanism for healing. And he referred to John Sanford's book "Dreams: God's Forgotten Language," which talks about the psychological and spiritual significance of dreams. Sanford points to the many cultures across the globe that believe God speaks to humanity in dreams.  

In my mind's eye I see my dream again. I am on the floor, face down in a lunge. I am leaning into the stretch when suddenly the floor turns to sand and a terrific and terrible wave comes crashing down on me. I feel the full weight and power of the ocean on my back; it is almost suffocating. I dig my fingers into the sand, trying to maintain my position, but the force is too great. The water rips me off the floor and hurls me through its murky blackness until I eventually land flat on my back. I open my eyes only to see that I am yards — perhaps miles — deep into the ocean. The light at the water's surface is so far above me, so unreachable, that it feels like tomorrow proceeding without me.

I realize this is death. I will not breathe again.

The pastor talks about the death of his wife, how he had studied the psychology of grief for years in academia, but none of it prepared him for what he felt when he lost his wife.

I feel the vast emptiness of the dark ocean around me. It is absolutely frightening and foreign, but I am doing my best to relax into it, trying to trick myself, keep my fear at bay. But then I feel another wave coming from miles away, like a tsunami on a radar screen. My heart is pounding sickeningly in my chest. I know how terrible it is going to be and I know I have no control over it. Instead of digging my fingers into the ocean floor, I go limp and the rush of the water sweeps me up like a ragged doll into a blurry, swirling blindness. I am not without fear, but this time I am one with the turbulence. Then another realization: I am being projected upward. And just like that, my face pops through the water's surface. I am floating on my back in the water. I am breathing again. 

I try to take in the expanse of blue sky above me. It is as grand as the ocean beneath me. But I can only see part of it from where I float. And that is when I suddenly find myself in the sky, looking down on my body.

Now I can see so much more than what my earthly body could see. This perspective is also foreign, but — unlike the turbulent ocean — it doesn't frighten me.

I don't feel any attachment to that body I see way down there in the water. I know I am dead. But from this viewpoint, it feels more like ... a renewal? A beginning? 

The pastor finishes his sermon and asks us to bow our heads in prayer. As everyone lowers their heads, I quietly gather my purse and head to the chapel doors. 

I walk outside into the bright sunshine. I get in my car. I drive in silence. No radio. Phone off. I drive and then I cry. Because I understand my dream now, and the divine significance of the vision, the comfort I find in it, breaks my human heart.


You see, back in January when I had a retinal hemorrhage, the eye doctor suggested that I get a physical exam because such hemorrhages aren't typical and it could be symptomatic of something larger going on with me. So I did, and my GP uncovered something new: I tested positive for anti-nuclear antibodies (ANA), and these antibodies show a homogeneous, speckled pattern. What does that mean? It means that I carry the same genetic coding as my mother. Coding that says I am genetically predisposed for autoimmune disorders — specifically lupus, Sjogren syndrome, scleroderma, polymyositis, rheumatoid arthritis and mixed connective tissue disease.

My mom was diagnosed with scleroderma at age 44. She died the day before her 45th birthday.

For a week I sat on this news about my genetic makeup without telling anyone — save for a friend who happened to call me only hours after I had read my blood test results via an email from the doctor's office. I was a bit of a mess and had no business answering the phone, but I did. I was sitting on my bed, mostly numb, hot with tears and acutely aware of everything, like I was watching myself in a movie.

I told my friend that I needed to see a specialist to fully understand what the results meant. It was wasted energy to panic and I needed to stay calm. I needed more information. He agreed. He told me to keep him posted. I could call him anytime.

Thanks to some personal connections, I was able to get in the following week with a highly regarded rheumatologist who stays booked months in advance. He examined me, interviewed me extensively, asked about other symptoms I might have and reviewed my blood work. Then he told me:

• I have Raynaud's disease, which is typical among those who have an autoimmune disorder, but Raynaud's can exist by itself too. Having Raynaud's does not equate to having an autoimmune disorder.
• I have a significant vitamin D deficiency, which is typical among those with autoimmune disorders because your body can't process it, but this deficiency is extremely common among the general population too because we now wear sunscreen and are mindful of sun exposure.
• Aside from being ANA positive, nothing in my blood work indicates an active autoimmune disorder. My numbers are in healthy ranges across the board.

The doctor said all of this in a cheerful tone, as if it were good news, but all I could think was: So, you're saying I'm OK now. But what about later?

As if he were reading my mind, the doctor squared his shoulders to mine, looked me right in the eyes and said: "Katie, I am looking at a very healthy 41-year-old woman who shows no signs of an active autoimmune disorder. And as far as scleroderma is concerned ... we know the least about it, but we do know that it's very rare to see two cases back-to-back within a family. If you were to develop scleroderma like your mother did, you would be an exception to the rule. I'm not saying it isn't a possibility, but it would be a departure from what is typical and expected of the gene's behavior."

What about the other autoimmune disorders? The doctor said that I'm "genetically predisposed" (read: at increased risk), but being ANA positive by itself doesn't mean I'll inevitably get sick. Autoimmune disorders are highly linked to environmental triggers. There must be a "perfect storm" of triggers to elicit an autoimmune response in my body. What are those triggers?

• Regular exposure to toxins (household cleaners, yard chemicals, highly processed foods, highly polluted air);
• Physical trauma (a serious accident, invasive surgery that's hard on the body, a serious viral/bacterial infection); and
• Regular exposure to emotional stress (no work/life balance, mental health issues, toxic relationships or lifestyle choices that cause long-term distress). 

The doctor went on to point out that I am already living ideally, given my genetic makeup: I work for myself and place value on work-life balance; I am passionate about physical fitness and being good to my body; I make good decisions about my nutrition and indulge in moderation; I have strong familial and personal relationships that keep me emotionally sane; and I have volunteer work that is emotionally gratifying.

"I couldn't prescribe a better lifestyle if you were a regular patient of mine," he said.

To further comfort me, we went over a list of symptoms that would indicate something could be going awry inside me.

"If you notice any of these things going on, come back and we'll talk," he said. "As far as I'm concerned, you can view yourself as a carrier of this gene. It meant one thing in your mother's body and I'm so sorry that happened to her. But it doesn't have to mean the same thing in yours. What your exam today tells me is that you're a healthy woman — healthier than many her age."

I walked out of that appointment with a strange mix of feelings. I could no longer hear the ticking of an impending death sentence, but I felt a new fragility inside me — a fragility that continues to color everything I think, see, feel or do.

This fragility, though, isn't a bad thing. I think it's a precious gift. It reminds me that I need to take care of myself — always. That I need to be gentle with my heart, patient with my mind, good to my body. It also furthers my conviction that the only thing I can control is what I do with my time today. I can still plan. I can dream. I can prepare. I can hope — all of which are ways to take care of my future self. But I'm learning not to bank on things unfolding a certain way, just because that's what I expected or worked toward. The only sure thing I have is the present moment.

Day by day, this is my journey to live out, and I feel incredibly empowered — genetically wired — to not waste it. I want to live it with arms wide open until that wave comes for me. And when it does, it'll be OK. Because I feel in my heart now that death is just as much a beginning as it is an end.

  

The Wonder of Witnessing

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In a modest dance studio, two preteen girls stand face to face, mirroring one another's movements in slow motion. The taller girl is leading. She circles her arms overhead, looking to the ceiling, and then bows forward at the middle, letting her head hang and arms swing at her sides. Her "mirror image," a Hispanic girl who's at least a foot shorter, keeps a watchful eye on her partner, trying her best to mimic every move in real time.

When the music started, the girls were suppressing nervous giggles. But now their faces have assumed a calm concentration. They are reflections of each other.

They see one another.

They are seen by one another.

This was just one of a handful of performance pieces I witnessed this weekend at a very informal recital of sorts at Cafe Dance in West Austin. The performers -- seven female adolescents -- were residents of The Settlement Home for Children, which provides housing, counseling, schooling and a multitude of support services for girls ages 7 to 21 who -- for one reason or another -- have no family or are no longer living with their families.

The recital was the culmination of a workshop hosted by Barbara Jo Stetzelberger, a licensed clinical social worker and dance movement therapist. For two days, Barbara Jo led the girls through a series of Interplay activities, which offer "embodied paths for self-discovery and personal healing." The recital I attended was basically a demonstration of what the girls learned in the workshop. As a group, they voted on what they wanted to perform for us -- us being about 20 community members sitting on folding chairs arranged in a semicircle. 

In Barbara Jo's Interplay workshop, there are no false or wrong moves. It is a safe, nonjudgmental environment where the young ladies are given permission to create, explore and self-express, using their voices and whole-body gestures and movement. They are invited to work alone and to work together at various points in the workshop, which creates opportunities to develop self-confidence as well as confidence in others.

I found myself holding back tears through most of the recital. The girls reminded me of how painfully alive I felt at their age, full of hormones and self-doubt, physically awkward, prone to throwing tantrums and wanting so desperately to shine, to be accepted. I watched the girls move about the floor, some with peacockish flair and some with trepidation and frequent looks toward Barbara Jo for direction. How much had they already suffered in their young lives? What have they endured? What have they been witness to?

Too much.

The rescuer in me wanted to know their stories and to "fix" all the injustices. I had to keep reminding myself that these girls are safe for now. They are surrounded by dedicated people who are working around the clock to ensure they have support and stability at the most fundamental level, as well as opportunities to learn and grow -- like this workshop with Barbara Jo.

Thank god for people like Barbara Jo, who are doing their part to bring hope and light to people who desperately need it. As I watched the recital, I couldn't help but think of the women I meet in my volunteer work at Lockhart Prison. Every semester I am witness to women mustering the courage to stand up and tell their life stories -- to remove all pretenses and defenses and speak candidly about the experiences they've had and the choices they've made over the course of their lives that eventually led them to where they are today: behind bars.

I don't have hard numbers, but it is my experience that the majority of the women in my classroom endured gross neglect and physical or sexual abuse as children. And as soon as they were old enough to discover a means of escape (alcohol; drugs; running away to the streets; inappropriate relationships with older, often abusive, men), they dove in headfirst, initiating a path of self-destruction that led them to lives of crime and ultimately prison. Along the way, many of them had babies, who then grow up in the same unspeakable chaos.

The cycle begins again.

Which brings me back to the recital and those seven girls in all their preteen glory, mustering the courage to remove all pretenses and authentically express themselves in front of an accepting, supportive audience. They didn't tell their stories, but I can take an educated guess. And it's my prayer that because of resources like The Settlement Home and people like Barbara Jo, these girls will have much different stories to tell in their latter years.

        

Dear Expectations

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Dear Expectations:

It has been duly noted that you show up in a timely fashion to all new challenges, encounters, events, conversations, and interactions of both the professional and personal kind. Despite your track record of perfect attendance, it has been determined that you do not add value to the operations within Katie Ford's HEADquarters. In fact, an internal review revealed that your worth has been on a steady decline for several years.

This is an official notice that you are no longer welcome at future engagements. If you decide to show up anyway, your presence will be acknowledged and then quickly dismissed without ceremony.

Signed,
Management

Stepping into the Sky

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June 28 and June 29 always inspire me to reflect because these are the anniversaries of my mother's death and birth, respectively. Instead of dreading these days as I have in the past, now I welcome them. I like the calm introspection that wells up inside me. I like walking around, going about my day, with eyes that see the delicate, temporary nature of things. I like getting a rush from something as simple as inhaling deeply and sitting back in my chair and just watching, noticing, everything.


Yesterday when I was training, I embraced the fact that my 41-year-old body was breathing hard, sweating profusely and straining to "stay in the fight," as my coach says. As my heart pounded and it became harder to catch my breath, I thought of my mom, who didn't live to see her 45th birthday because her body quit on her. I relished the feeling of my beating heart and I dedicated every breath, every step, every effort to her.


She can no longer, so I will.


I am of her blood and her bone; she continues to live through me and through my sister who has since given life to three little boys who will never know our mother, but will understand how amazing she was because we will tell them stories and show them pictures. And when they're old enough to have such awareness, they'll come to understand who she was because they will recognize her influence in the way their own mother and aunt treat others and embrace life. They will say, "She must have been a remarkable woman. I wish I could have met her."


My grief is bittersweet. More than anything, I just feel tender. My heart feels weighty in my chest with a sorrow that will always be, but it's also heavy with gratitude for having Mom in my life for 19 years.


Have you ever listened to a song countless times and then suddenly one day you hear the lyrics for the first time -- I mean really hear them? That's what happened to me this morning with this song that's been on my starred playlist for months. I looked up the song lyrics today and then found a homemade video on YouTube that serves as a perfect visual metaphor for how I often feel when I think about Mom. This lonesome, dark road I sometimes travel is also wondrous and beautiful. And even though I can't see what lies ahead and there are moments of total darkness, I always find myself back on solid ground -- the lines of the road clearly marked and beckoning me to keep moving. And so I do. Gladly.   

That Knot Unties
David Karsten Daniels

If you close your eyes
do you see any sky?
If you close your eyes
can you make out any skies?


Is there a sky when that knot
that knot unties,
as you close your eyes?


When you close your eyes
will you step into the skies?
As you close your eyes
do you step into the skies?


Is there a sky when that knot
that knot unties,
as you close your eyes?


When you close your eyes
I will resist
I will not cry.
When you close your eyes
I can resist
I will not cry.

I will not try
to know why
to know why


why all things die, die, die.

Inventory Of Events That Indicate I Am Not Present

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1. Cashier: "Debit or Credit?" Me: "Crebit."
2. Upon returning from a walk with my dog, I threw my house key in the gumby trash bin and then walked to the front door with Martha's bag of poo.
3. Halfway through shampooing my hair I realized that I had already shampoo'd my hair.
4. I noticed a woman in the coffee shop staring at me, and it occurred to me that -- for who knows how long -- I had been making facial expressions that corresponded with a hypothetical conversation I was having in my head.

Having a ball for Marbridge

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The first thing I noticed about Dan was his size. The guy is grizzly bear big; my hand disappeared into his like a ball in a glove as we introduced ourselves with a firm handshake. The second thing I noticed was that he is a good listener and almost always has something helpful or kind to say in return. I also noticed very quickly that he is a sure shot on the basketball court.

Adam, Dan and me.

I met Dan while participating in a 3-on-3 basketball tournament at the Marbridge Villas & Ranch, a semi-independent living community for adults who are developmentally disabled or mentally challenged. Marbridge is trying to raise enough money to construct a new gymnasium that will be known as the Victory Hall Athletic & Event Center. Marbridge’s existing gymnasium, built in 1959, is a 1,200-square-foot cinder block building that could pass for a sauna in the summer and a meat locker in the winter. The heavily worn equipment likely was the latest on the market when Arnold Schwarzenegger was considering a career in bodybuilding, and there’s only enough space for half a basketball court, which makes for an extremely tight and fast-paced game. When completed, the 19,000-square-foot Victory Hall Athletic & Event Center will not only be a place to host sports, fitness and wellness programs for Marbridge’s 240 residents, but it also will be accessible to the public for athletic competitions, workshops, performances, you name it! It’s a grand and noble vision that will benefit the residents of Marbridge, as well as the surrounding community.

So, back to the 3-on-3 tournament, which unfolded on the half court in the Marbridge gymnasium over the course of a Saturday afternoon.

The Rules

• Each team consists of two volunteers and a Marbridge resident.
• Each game lasts 10 minutes (with the clock continuously running).
• A coin toss at the beginning of the game determines the winner if the game ends in a tie. The loser of the coin toss in-bounds the ball to start the game.
• Any time you get the ball on the rebound or intercept a shot, you must take the ball back to the 3-point arc before starting your offensive possession.
• All baskets made from inside the arc are 1 point; any made beyond the arc are 2 points.
• I’m sure there are more rules, but I never understood them.

I volunteered to participate in this tournament upon the request of a client of mine whose son is a resident at Marbridge. My initial thought was that it didn’t matter that I’d never played basketball; it was for charity after all. Just showing up is good enough, right?


Enter 6’2”, goggle-wearing Mike, a Marbridge resident who embraces the game of basketball like I embrace my morning espresso – with intensity, mister! Joe’s arms and legs have no beginning or end. He had a freakish reach that enabled him to grab the ball away from anyone, anywhere. He was like a Go, Go Gadget Globetrotter. But wait, there’s more…


Joe was matched up with a quick-footed father-son duo that could communicate intricate plays with a slight raise of the brow or nod of the head. Oh, did I mention that the son plays high school basketball and that somehow I ended up being the one to cover him? And let’s be clear about this: When I say cover, what I really mean is “run in circles underfoot like an untrained, excitable puppy.”

But enough about the opposing team. Allow me to introduce the Park Place Piranhas. We had 5’9” Adam, my Park Place Publications teammate who knows his way around the court and can talk strategy like a pro. Adam and I were fortunate to be matched up with Dan, a point-scoring Marbridge favorite with fast footwork and a singular focus. He also plays on the Marbridge Longhorns Special Olympics basketball team. (I asked Dan how tall he was and he told me matter-of-factly: “I’m 5’11” but I play basketball like I’m 6 foot.”)

And lastly, there was me – very enthusiastic, occasionally spastic, mostly ineffective. I have to hand it to my teammates. Adam and Dan played really well together -- so well, in fact, that I often felt like a spectator who had a courtside seat that was really, really close to the action.


Court Highlights


I think the funniest thing about the game was my attempt to cover and block the high school kid. Wait. Am I even using the right terminology here? Do people cover and block in basketball? I’m suddenly self-conscious about my b-ball lingo. ANYWAY, you know what I’m trying to say.


Despite High School Boy’s speed, power and ability to change direction so quickly that I swear he was pulling a G-force, I did manage to stay in the near vicinity of him at all times. I mean, we were on a half court. I could have never moved and I’d still be within a few feet of him.

The only time I really got to handle the ball (which is a Court Highlight, thank you very much) was when the ref called “Piranhas ball!” and I got to stand on the sideline and throw the ball to Dan or Adam to start the offensive play. Yah, that was really cool. Sometimes I’d delay throwing the ball just to relish the temporary power I held over everyone in the Marbridge Gymnasium. Will I throw it to Dan? Will I throw it to Adam? It’s anyone’s guess, people! Only I know what will happen next! Bwahahahahahaaa!


It’s the little things in life, you know.


Other highlights include Dan making several amazing, crowd-pleasing shots from all angles of the court and Adam intercepting the ball and scoring several times too. At least I think he did. I know I should know these things. I mean, I was there and I was on his team, but I was so caught up in trying to be the best Piranha I could be that frankly many of the details of the game were lost on me.


Here’s what I know for sure: Whistles were blown, baskets were made, baskets were missed, passes were blocked, passes were caught, a ball was dribbled multiply times, there was gratuitous sneaker squeaking on the floor, High School Boy called me “mama” at one point (as in “Come on, mama! Whatcha got?”), and then suddenly the 10-minute buzzer rang.

Final Score

Piranhas          9

Hidden Talent 12

It was a nail biter, folks. You should have been there. Although we didn’t make it to the playoffs or win a trophy, Marbridge gave us medals and treated us to a Rudy’s BBQ lunch. Best of all, we got to meet some really sweet people who live and work at Marbridge. If you ever have the inclination to learn more about Marbridge’s dream of building the Victory Hall Athletic and Event Center, contact Michelle Levy at (512) 282-1144 or mlevy@marbridge.org.

A Teaching Moment

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I've written about it before, but it's my firm belief that God (or a Higher Power or The Universe or Whatever You Want to Call It) is speaking when the perfect written passage, conversation, person or experience is put in front of you to shed new light on otherwise hazy terrain. At least, this is how my higher power speaks to me; I'm a very pragmatic woman and I think God understands that I'd wig out and go crazy if burning bushes started talking to me.

But I digress...

This more subtle kind of "divine intervention" happened to me over the weekend when a friend of mine sent a piece of writing to me -- not because she thought I needed to read it, but because it meant something to her and she wanted to share her thoughts with me. Little did she know that this passage would resonate so deeply with me.

Have you ever read something or heard something and instantly felt your body relax, or your lips curl into a smile, or a deep sigh expel from your lungs? This is what I felt as I read this piece of writing. I'm pasting it here with the intent that maybe these words will hold meaning for someone else. (Disclaimer: This passage contains a reference to the Bible and is from a Christian author. I'm not a Christian, nor do I align with any manmade religion. But the passage still held relevance for me.)

When we are dissatisfied with things as they are, or suffer and know pain, we begin to imagine what the world would be like if things were different -- if there were no hunger or thirst and all tears were wiped away (Rev. 7:14). This creative imagination reaches toward God and glimpses a new heaven and new earth. The new reality has nothing to do with the present order. In fact, the one who responds to call seeks to put something more beautiful in the place of what she sees. This is where the friction and fight begin.

Martin Luther King was not killed because he had a dream. Dreamers are easily dismissed. He was killed because he sought to introduce into the political arena what he saw with his heart and mind. The same was true of Gandhi and of our Lord.

Those who say yes to the perilous vocation of implementing vision at each stage will find new resistances emerging in themselves, as well as in the society. Opposition to the new is very natural and should not cause any of us to be taken by surprise. The best way to understand it in one's contemporaries is to have named and owned it in one's self. That process is also some protection against the self-righteousness that plagues too many reformers as well as the pious.
 
Source: Cry Pain, Cry Hope

This spoke to me because I've been facing a fair amount of "friction and fight" in areas of my life where I'm trying to pave new roads. It seems that recently most every direction I turn, I encounter "signs" insisting that I slow down, rethink, wait and listen.

These are not activities that come naturally to me.

Take this retinal hemorrhage, for instance. My eyes have literally shown me that I do not have complete control over my environment. Ah yes, complete control. It's a beautiful illusion at which I love to gaze -- with only one eye, currently. Sure, I give my best effort at whatever I do (and this is good and healthy), but perhaps I could learn to be more graceful (and patient) in acknowledging the red flags that rise up along the way and announce: "Bet you didn't see THIS coming!" A very good friend of mine suggested recently that maybe it's a good practice to approach these red flags with child-like curiosity versus malcontent or judgment -- or even worse, taking it personally. I'm not saying I have to be happy about hemorrhaging in my eyeball, but what is this teaching me? As I slow down, what do I notice about my environment, about myself?

I feel friction in my prison work too. For the first time in 11 years, we're not gearing up for a spring semester because external forces reduced our time inside. This unanticipated roadblock frustrated me at first and a part of me wanted to take it personally. Are we not seen as valuable? Is the administration changing its mind about our program? But the truth is, I've been wanting to revisit some of my lesson plans, as well as do some personal writing, but never have had time to do either -- the whole "too busy working in the business to work on the business" dilemma. Maybe the warden inadvertently "made space" for me to grow.

Intellectually I understand that there's tremendous peace in letting go of the "it's supposed to look like this" vision. It's my heart that doesn't get the picture. My heart daydreams all the time, and it loves the idea that it all will unfold as I see it. My friends have told me that I'm the queen of carpe diem -- We only live once! Let's go! But underneath that passion is my most basic self: the self who gets anxious when she can't clearly see what lies ahead. The writer in me loves to cook up and live out adventures, but the editor in me would like to see a production calendar -- thank you very much.

My truth right now -- if I were to embrace this opportunity to pause and rethink -- is that I'm doing what I do best: I'm making light of and intellectualizing external circumstances that are uncomfortable for me at a gut level. It's my best defense mechanism and it works beautifully. The trouble is, this approach allows me to cruise through detours without ever looking at the scenery. If I were to be really honest -- like scary "I don't really want to go there" honest -- what I've been feeling lately is vulnerable. And I'm carrying around a sadness whose roots remain hidden from me at the moment.

What I am seeing right now is that there's a bittersweet beauty in feeling "at the mercy of" instead of "in control of" life. And as much as I don't want to examine this fragile terrain, I think my Higher Power is telling me to see it differently.

Bonnie Lu Ford, June 29, 1945 - June 28, 1990

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The thoughts in my head when I woke up this morning were: "My dog looks sweet sitting in the doorway" and then "Today's the day Mom died" and then "Tomorrow would have been her 66th birthday." To my surprise, instead of a heaviness falling over me, I felt warmth flooding my heart. I felt an overwhelming love for her and for my life -- the life she gave me (with some help from Dad). I looked up at the ceiling and in my mind I gave a supernatural, divine shout out to the woman who was in love with my Dad in the early 70s and made two babies with him. So many thrilling, heartbreaking and poignant moments have unfolded since then, and she was here to experience them with me for the first 19 years of my life.

It's amazing to me what time can do to one's heart. It can heal the deepest of wounds, make possible another day when once you were convinced that life as you knew it was ruined forever. If growing older has taught me anything, it's that time and being in the company of those you love are a surefire cure for an ailing heart.

How blessed my family was to have Bonnie Lu for the years we did. I face the anniversaries of her death and birth this year with an abundance of joy and gratitude, and only a smidge of sorrow. But it's the kind of sorrow that is bittersweet, because I've come to accept -- really accept -- in my heart that death and loss are as natural and inevitable as falling in love and high utility bills in the summertime. (My a/c is cranking as I write this.)

I want to dedicate this short essay to my loved ones who are still kicking it here with me on Earth -- to those who make me laugh, to those who make me reflect, to those who challenge me, to those who break my heart, to those who show me it's safe to be vulnerable. I'm also thinking of my friends who are trudging their way through losses at this very moment and mostly feeling the darkness of it all. My heart goes out to each of you in particular. Just know I'll come sit in the dark with you if you need. I'm no longer afraid it.

  

Eat Gravel and Rock the Hanukkah Bush

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This weekend was an exercise in sensory overload. There were highs and lows, laughter and tears (well, technically, I was whimpering), and everything in between.

It all started off like a General Mills International Coffee commercial circa 1980s ("Celebrate the moments of your life!") when my friend Rose and I met at the new bakery on South First and Annie. We talked and laughed all morning over espressos, flaky pastries and Oranginas. Eventually Rose announced she had some work to do and had to go. Because it was such a beautiful day, I announced that I was going to jog around Town Lake -- and by jog I mean walk. 

Enjoy your trip; see you next fall!

When I got down to the trail, I bumped into two buddies of mine. I ended up jogging (for reals) much farther than I had planned. It was OK though; I was enjoying the impromptu visit with friends. Georgia said goodbye to us at the Mopac bridge, and then Melissa and I continued running eastbound, chatting away about whatever. I remember thinking that it actually felt good to be running again. My legs were a bit tired, but I had my breath and I was feeling pretty solid and strong.

And that's about when I ate gravel.

I wish I could say that I was on the greenbelt, running intervals up the Hill of Life, or something hard core like that, but no..no..no. My downfall (literally) was stubbing my toe on the Zilker kiddie train track where it crisscrosses with Town Lake trail. As Melissa put it, I looked like a ball player sliding into home plate to win the game. I actually bounced on my belly (bounced, people!) before coming to a complete sliding stop. Oh, and I was wearing a tennis skirt. Awesome.

Once the dust settled, I rolled onto my back and sat up. Everything stung like a sum bitch. I had two bloody knees, two ripped open palms, and my left elbow was dripping blood onto my legs. I immediately knew that nothing was broken, or even sprained, but the sight of the blood and all the stingy and throbbing made me want to wail like a baby. I opted instead to quietly whimper as I picked the rocks out of my skin. Here's a snapshot of my elbow the following morning after I doctored it. I might have gone overboard on the doctoring materials, but I had zero first-aid stuff in my house and I didn't know what to get, so I got a little of everything -- gauze, hydrogen peroxide, band-aids, Neosporin, non-sticking wrap tape, and saline wound wash that squirts from a can. I actually feel safer now, knowing that I have wound wash in the house. Apparently, I'm a kiddie train wreck waiting to happen.

That's a nicely trimmed bush you got there

Saturday night I went over to my friend Ellen's house. She's half Jewish, so she hosted a potluck dinner and Hanukkah bush decorating party. A Hanukkah bush looks mysteriously like a Christmas tree. And by mysteriously, I mean exactly. The evening started off with a feast to die for -- a savory roast, yams, green beans with sliced almonds, gratuitous assortments of fine cheeses, potato latkes, a salad with roasted brussel sprouts and beets. It was YUM-MY. After dinner we decorated the "Christmas Tree I mean Hanukkah Bush" and commenced to oohing and aahing once the last ornament was placed. It occurred to me that every year there's a specific moment when the holiday spirit hits me, and this year it hit me at Ellen's potluck. Thanks, Ellen! You're the best.   

 

You have a call on Line 1. Some guy named God...

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With age, I've gotten better at perking up and listening whenever "The Universe" -- call it a higher power, God, whatever -- speaks to me. I know it's happening when the exact turn of phrase or unfamiliar name keeps turning up in conversations, on the radio or in something I'm reading -- and usually it's within a 48- to 72-hour period or a short string of days. By the second or third instance, I smile inwardly because I realize what's happening and that I need to investigate whatever is being put in front of me -- explore it, read more about it, take action.

The latest example involves Sufi poets, specifically the 13th Century poet and mystic Jalal al-Din Rumi. I'm sure many of my well-read friends are already familiar with Rumi, but somehow he has never crossed my radar -- until now.

I recently started taking a morning yoga class that always culminates with the instructor reading a poem from the same hardcover book that crackles with age every time she opens it. I'm picky when it comes to poetry (it can be so trite or so abstract and personal to the author that it does nothing for me), but every poem she has read from this book has felt comfortable and familiar or exactly what I needed to hear. After the second class, I went up to the instructor and learned that she was reading from "The Gift" by Hafiz, a Sufi poet.
 
Fast forward to a few nights ago... I was in bed and reading the final chapter of "A Geography of Faith: An Alter in the World." The last passage of this book is a quote with a footnote. The quote resonated with me because I had just spoken with a musician friend of mine who confessed to me that he was feeling disenchanted with his craft. The quote went like this:

Today like every other day we wake up empty

and frightened. Don't open the door to the study

and begin reading. Take down a musical instrument.

Let the beauty we love be what we do.

There are hundreds of ways to kneel and kiss the ground.

I looked up the footnote and saw that the author was Rumi (yet another Sufi poet!). I picked up my phone and texted this quote to my friend. Within minutes he replied and thanked me. Said it was exactly what he needed to hear.

The following day I was driving home from Thanksgiving with my family and halfway listening to NPR. I was a bit distracted and in a melancholy state of mind -- just feeling acutely aware of how random and fleeting life can be. In particular, I was thinking about how my life at the moment is going so, so well -- yet there are people close to me who are suffering - both in small ways that chip away at one's spirit and in big, horrible ways that make a person question God. As my mind was racing through this stream of consciousness, the radio commentator's words suddenly overrode everything and demanded my full attention. He was reading a poem called "The Guest House."

The Guest House

This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they're a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.

Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.

These words wrapped around me like a warm blanket. I had to know who this writer was. I turned up the volume on the radio, waiting to hear the author's name. It was Rumi. I looked skyward through my windshield and smiled.

A couple days later on Saturday morning I was curled up in a chair with a cup of coffee and a book called "Let the Great World Spin" by Colum McCann. It won a National Book Award, and I certainly can see why. McCann has a great command of the English language, describing very ordinary things in extraordinary ways. I've actually been reading the book with a pen in hand, just so I can underline passages that I think are particularly clever. ANYWAY, so I'm reading this one story about a hooker in the Bronx (McCann's book is a collection of short stories that take place in NYC; eventually the stories start overlapping and weaving together to form a bigger picture - I love that!) and this hooker is talking about this trick she had with a man who took her to a lavish hotel for an entire week. He didn't want to touch her; he just wanted her to lie naked and read poetry to him -- in particular, Persian poems that spoke of ancient Syria and Persia. 

So, I'm passively reading through this scene in McCann's book and then my heart leaps when I stumble across:

I left with eight hundred bucks and a copy of Rumi. I never read nothing like that before. Made me want to have a fig tree.   

Call me crazy or a romantic or whatever, but I'm 100 percent certain now that this is divine intervention. Apparently The Man Upstairs thinks I'd benefit from reading a little Rumi right about now. So, it's off to BookPeople I go!

Amen.