living on both ends - an exploration of best and worst

chi

My mom used to comment, a charitable word choice for sure, on my sister’s ability to be up for company despite her debilitating chronic illness. The prior two days, I had workmen in the house. I was up at six am to be ready to open the door and offer a cup of coffee at six-thirty.

And I was up. Not a conscious choice, not a grit my teeth and bear it choice, not a make it happen choice, a part of me believes my body simply chose to acquiesce to my minds insistence that now would be a good time for my own auto-immune chronic illness to be still. And still it was. Oh sure, I still perceived the awareness of an ankle joint stiff and painful in walking, of fingers that longed to immerse in hot soapy water, not only for clean lunch dishes, but also for a moment of respite from the awareness of tenderness. For me, life with chronic pain is not about a seven on the pain scale, it is measured in awareness of joints that for most people move silently and unaware. I ask my husband “How do your knees feel today?” And he can answer immediately “fine”. Because he knows, for today, he has not even noticed he has knees. They are silently effective.

But even whilst I was aware of my many and numerous joints, and the miracle of opposable thumbs, I was mobile and active and had energy to chat and interact. For a few days, I was very Anj-ish and it was very nice.

Today, the workmen are gone, the projects finished late yesterday afternoon. Today the weather changed, and today I sit in my grandmother’s chair and wonder where my energy went and why is my neck so sore and stiff? There will still be a dog walk, and there might even be a yoga practice at the yoga studio on the corner of my block, salmon curry will certainly be cooked for tonight, and the deck potted roses will probably be pruned, but the chi is not flowing as well. And I notice the difference.

It is as if my body has now replied to my mind “We gave you your two days, now we need a few days to to not be silent. “

And in the midst of this mind body dance, it is my need to check in with my heart and my spirit. Because my mind and my body rarely go silent, but my heart and my spirit often do. Connection with all is easy when I feel Anj-ish, I have done the work to be able to live full-bodied, open hearted, and spirit aware.

It is the days when my Anj-chi is lacking, that I need to stop and make room for the tasks that are naturally connecting for me. Gardening, writing, walking in a city I love, getting caught in the weather, allowing myself to be exuberant about the beauty of the Divine that is everywhere, and, sometimes, getting lost in a book.

In a different country, I learned to turn the loneliness of the non-working ex-pat spouse into solitude. Maybe it is a lesson I need to learn again and again as I learn to live well and faithfully with chronic illness.

rhythms of my street

Between 2:00 and 2:30 am, perhaps after last call at the bars on South Street, I hear the voices as they walk down our street to their cars. On Thursday, Friday and Saturday, they are a bit louder, a bit more slurred, and a bit less polite. Mostly, the timbre is deep, men walking home or back to the car, sometimes, there is a feminine tone. The dogs have quit reacting to these outside distractions; they are a part of our world now, just a normal nighttime occurrence.

Around 6:30 am, the engines start waking, and parking spots begin to open as neighbors leave for work. Sometimes, I walk down to the corner mailbox, my weekly correspondence in my hand, and I might stop at the Beauty Shop Café on the corner and queue with those in business attire and those in steel-toed boots.

Around this same time, the trucks start taking up the parking spaces. Some have construction permits, others get moved side to side every two hours to avoid the Philadelphia Parking Authority walkers, who take down the license of anyone without a resident permit and come back for potential revenue in two hours. Soon, the street is full again. There are two full rehabs happening in houses that had been abandoned for years on my block. And there are numerous small jobs; kitchens, baths, electrical re-wiring.

During the day, the pedestrian traffic under my window is comprised of dog walkers, carriage pushers, and tool belt wearers. The lucky ones who are retired, or semi-retired, haunt the front stoops in passable weather and fill me in on what the neighborhood used to be like, back when it was solid, and back when it was rough.

My neighbor’s people have lived here since 1932. He tells of sleeping in the front hallway, his dad or grandpa snoozing on the front stoop, during humid hazy summer days long before parking was a problem and long before air conditioning hummed all night. He progresses down memory lane, and now it is the layer of his 1957 Thunderbird, and his neighbors 1957 Chevy, and how they were, most days, the only cars that called this block home.

The other day, he told me of the woman who lived in my house, lifetimes before it was given to the Baptist church that used to be on the corner, before it was made into four apartments, before it was used for construction storage, before it was totally rehabbed and sold to those suckers from the NJ suburbs. The last bit unspoken, but implied with a wink and a smile of acceptance and inclusion. Or at least that is the way I perceive it.

Joe, from the other side of the street, reminds my neighbor how his mom and his aunt used to go the corner Beauty Shop, long before the hooded hair dryers become usable chairs and conversation pieces at the new-fangled coffee shop. Can you believe what people will pay for a cup of coffee? And they laugh, and we pause in silence for a moment as they remember loved ones and loved days gone and I honor their memories.

Around 4:00 o’clock, the parking spots open up again as the contractors finish up for the day and leave in preparation for their early morning run to the hardware stores to facilitate their early starts. Sometimes, the pups and I venture out now for a walk through the neighborhood exhalation. The sidewalks are usually open again, the barricades and construction cones and tapes and gates put away to be replaced the next day.

As we round the home corner from the park, or the river walk, or the longer walk down to Logan Square and the fountains, in which case the pups are drooping and lagging behind me instead of tails and heads up, surveying the changing territory, as we round that corner, the parking spots are starting to fill up again. The Scion, the Honda Civics, midsize SUV’s, a few Jeeps, and the odd Porsche or BMW. If we are late, sometimes the red smart is already pulled into its spot in front of our rowhome. But usually, there is an 8’5” opening held between the white smart and my neighbor’s handicapped parking spot in front of his house. Usually, by the time the red smart backs in, the block is lined with its nighttime denizens of four wheels and only a few small gaps remain.

When the windows are open, and the daylight remains strong, we are aware of those walking to dinner. After daylight fades, the windows are closed, and the blinds lowered, the cocoon of the house enfolds us and I forget the city walking by.

And then, 2:00 to 2:30 am hits, and I am reminded.

turning points

The living room is full of parts and mattresses for the bunk and full size Murphy bed waiting to be installed tomorrow. The beds are delivered, paid for, and the installer has been hired and money set aside for his work. For two weeks, I have been setting deadlines for the occupier of the bedrooms, the 18 and 21 year old, that they needed to be cleaned in preparation for the installation.

I looked in the youngest room this morning. Clean is not a descriptive word I would use for them at this point in time. Neither is in a state there the furniture can be moved to make way for the installation.

So I sit and try to distill my feelings. Disappointed? Of course, Angry? Oh yes. These two sons often make the statement “Let us help. Mom. You shouldn’t be lifting,/carrying/working in that way when you have able-bodied young men around.” Yeah, I buy that. And although I know the sentiment is there, the follow up sucks. I am at a place in my life, is it age? Is it need?, where I don’t really care about sentiment and statements of caring if promises given are not kept.

So, the youngest has a play off game today as his senior baseball season comes to a close. I let him know last night I will not be at that game if the room is not clean. That he will need to find his own way to the school to catch the bus if the room is not clean.

The oldest has work. He did spend his day off this week waiting for me for the beds to be delivered as only curbside delivery was available and I needed help carrying everything into the house. And I heard some noises from his room late last night, so maybe it is in better shape than I think. There is within a growing concern that I have not seen them clearly, that I have imputed motives to them like caring and integrity, that their word has value, and that they can be trusted simply because that is what I wanted to see, not because that has any basis in reality.

I am going to the community garden this morning, I am going to amend my new to me garden plot and dig to my hearts content in the dirt. I hope to see some worms, and I hope the tears that are so close to the surface for me right now will dissipate.

Never, never, did I think that when I was clear about my needs, that those needs would be so disregarded. Look, my sons are clear about how much they love me, how grateful they are to what I have done for them as a mom. Their words are beautiful, often, as are their hugs. The oldest took me out for a Mother's Day late lunch on Monday after the beds were delivered, and the youngest gave me a card that fit me to a T. And if they actually get their work done, they will tease me about my over-reaction to how they have procrastinated. Nevertheless, they have ignored my statements as to when I wanted the rooms done and they have taken my emotions down to the last wire. It feels as if it is careless behavior.

This saga has been a huge turning point in my relationship with them. I think I am through caring for two young men who would treat me so carelessly. And I can’t believe I would even write that.

commitment

When Josh was two, and my divorce from Russell was final, I set a goal. I promised myself that I would do whatever it took to spend as much time with Josh until it was time for him to go to kindergarten. It was a clear moment for me, and that goal determined where I worked, how I worked, and ultimately where I lived. I think it was the last simple goal I set. Simple goals gift me that sort of focus and determination.

When Josh started kindergarten, I started dating Len. In August of the next year, we were married. An international move, a move back to the states, home-schooling, the death of Russell, a chronic illness diagnosis, cancer, a spouses job loss, two high school graduations, the On Being A Spiritual Nurturer course through the School of the Spirit, a spouses new job, a move to Philadelphia, and now the third and last high school senior year.

This morning, I read Howard Thurman’s words in Disciplines of the Spirit: Thus, if a man makes his deliberate self-conscious intention the offering to God of his central consent and obedience, then he becomes energized by the living Spirit of the living God…This is part of the growing ministry of commitment. It places upon the individual a solitary demand that pulls to one point all the fragments of his life and makes him whole…The end sought, the want, that persists through all kinds of discouragement and reverses is apt to be what we really desire, at the central place of our spirit… The point at which he functions is crucial, and there must be reflected in each tiny thing he does the utter integrity of the whole. The dream to which he is committed must not be betrayed even in the little part he is called upon to perform.

I am thinking this morning about the spiritual discipline of commitment. And I think it is time to set a new simple goal for me. The questions in Thurman’s writing stay with me: Who am I? What do I want? How do I propose to get it?

carer of soils

Today, I went back to the old garden. Last year, I hired another to care for it. Grief at its loss was too close to the surface for me to be able to tend to its care. This year, I thought I would give it a go. It was overgrown, dusty, weedy and sad. The renter came out as I was exclaiming at how bad it looked.

“We can take the roses out,” I told him. “It would be easier to care for, and I can replace them with another specimen plant.”

“How hard are roses to care for?” he asked. A reasonable question for one who has never gardened, but who seems to love the impact and understands it is the form of garden the house needs.

“Roses are like women, “I horrified myself by saying. In truth, they are like people; a little care every day, sometimes thorny, sometimes stunning, always beautiful if our eyes are open. “If you want to learn, as soon as the clean up is done, I will show you how to tease and train them around the arch, how to lay the canes laterally so the blossoms are more abundant, how to prune out those that rub, and those that disrupt the plants breathing. “

“I’d like that,” he said.

So with breaks, for about five hours, I weeded, pruned, edged, raked, watered and pruned some more. I loosened the tightly wound roses, and invited them to shake their hair down, and relax for a week until I can come back and more gently and loosely, more laterally and less vertically, rewind their canes around my metal arbors, feed them, release some ladybugs, and then leave them alone to create their magic.

For the first time since we moved, there was no grief in me about leaving the garden. The garden belongs to the house, the house shelters another, and I am a gardener who cares for the soil, who facilitates the conditions that can create beauty. A gardener, happy to serve, and free of the need to grasp what is no longer mine.

seeing through a glass dimly

I was raised in a family that dwelt and still dwells in realms of mythology. Most of my adult life has been spent seeking reality, and unraveling those realms of mythology that so tenuously undergirded my living structure.

Some days, I get really angry about this winnowing. It is a day-to-day choice to live free of resentments for the cost of this realm of mythology in time, energy, money and well-being. I see how the ongoing family mythologies have impacted my children, and that causes me pain and anger also.

But there are times when those mythologies still carried by others try to impact my well being in the here and now. Sanity looks like naming them as lies, and refusing to give them ground again. Some call this boundary work.

Creating a new world based on reality of the here and now, and discerning the necessary ways to appropriately protect it and live with grace in it is an ongoing task. One in which I often misstep, need to pick myself up, dust myself off, and start all over again.

Offering grace to myself, and to those still immersed in the old mythologies, is key at this point. Humans only know what they are willing to know, and it is dishonoring to force light into another’s cage of myth.

Today, I am asking the Inner Teacher for guidance on points of contact when truth meets myth, and for how to stay in inner and outer peace when those worlds collide.

recoil

WORST

We shook on the bet last night. What was it about? How much was it for? Those immediately became inconsequential items. Because when L extended his hand to grab mine, the fit was imperfect, my fingers protested to the pressure, and I cried out in pain.

It wasn’t a full day, we went grocery shopping, finished up Christmas shopping, and cooked a bit. I was aware I was dragging, knew my joints were signaling that they were around, but I had no idea of the tenderness of my hands.

Neither did L. There are some who call autoimmune illness, especially RA and Lupus, invisible diseases. To look at me, you would not know that there days when it is hard to move, when the fatigue is thicker than molasses on a cold morning, when I hold my jaw a certain way and constantly remind my face to ease and soften.

The one constant about pain is that it causes an almost instinctive recoil response. People don’t want to hear about it, and when they cause pain they want to ensure they are never the agents of distress again.

I get that; I grew up with a sibling in pain. Memories of my toddler sons stumbling over her feet and the quick, sharp intake of breath to try and moderate the pain still grip my heart.

And yet L’s response of “I’ll never do that again” triggered another pain.

safe time

When they started showing up for dinner on a regular basis, I was pleased. They are lovely young women, open and fun, real and seeking what brings them life. They were intrigued by my 8 day silent retreat, not scared to ask questions, they seem interested by the honesty about the best and worst of life, love and relationships in which we try to live. And when the 17 year old comes down the stairs in the Philly rowhome and asks “Can they come over for dinner?" my want is to always say yes.

When one expressed her desire for us to have a Quaker moment before dinner a week or so ago, my heart took notice and I wondered what was happening in these times of connection, sharing and eating good food. Their presence, especially the presence of the one who is the girlfriend, creates space for the 17 year old to ask the hard questions about his dad. To ask for me to tell the hard stories. I am careful, listening deeply to that which is Divine in the room, discerning intently to stay with my Guide as I share both the hard and the good times again with a young man on the cusp of being an adult.

Yesterday afternoon, we spoke of “safe time”. The time when the boys could ask for us to listen without fear of judgment or punishment. Where they could share those actions or fears that are so hard to bring into the Light and oh so necessary to be bathed in the Light. The words fail me to be able to write of the need I see in their hearts and their eyes, to know of safe places. The desire is almost tangible, and when I named that safe places are necessary, she responded “But they are rare.” And we sat with that reality a moment before I started cutting the onions.

Then the other two friends came in, best friends to the 17 year old. They have named themselves the trio and the night is usually good when the trio is at our table. So we have the girlfriend, and the two best friends, and the family. And in the final dinner preparations, after the table was set, while we waited to pour the garlic lemon mixture on the cut up chicken bits laying on a bed of mushrooms, carrots, potatoes and onions, the namer of the trio looked at me and said, “Name the word or sentence you would use to describe each one of us.”

Whew! High risk high reward request, and I wonder in the moment if perhaps they see me as one will not lie, not soften my truth,. She wants realness and I see so much beauty and promise and longing. The room is full of ripeness and I hesitate.

“At the table,” she says. “Tell us at the table.” I smile, she will not give this up, and already I name her persistent in the best of ways.

Later, at the table, I name them all, along with my sons and L, my beloved mate. It takes a while, this seeking for the essence of who they are, and who they are becoming, in the context of our interactions. I make it through, and yet stumble on the one I know best. L how can I name your fullness to me in one word, one sentence?

Then the persistent pursuer goes next. We have all experienced that slowing of time, when the protective walls surrounding our hearts are pierced and, for a moment, we dare to be real. It is a terrifying and holy moment, akin to falling into the hands of a living God, saved only by the truth of a loving God. And when she finished, L and the others joined in the chorus “now our turn”.

So each spoke, each gave, each received. A sacrament of knowing and being made known, in a place of safety, cradled by Living Presence. And once as we paused, I jokingly said “We need another Quaker moment of silence.” And they agreed, without the jest. It is the awareness that God is present, when Friends fall silent. And they named that also, without knowing the all of it.

Afterwards, we played Charades and I could not, for the life of me, act out Cheltenham for a place. But L guessed the 17-year-old acting out, syllable by syllable, Requiem.

containers

Mondays. The day I often write snail mail letters to my two oldest sons. Usually, I sit holding them in God’s presence for a while and then I write what comes up. Sometimes a story, sometimes news of home, sometimes a tale of our walks, but often remembrances of how much I have enjoyed being their mom.

Early this morning, before our daily time of retirement, Len awakened me with a cup of coffee and the news of the evening and day. After our readings, and our Divine query for the day, and our sharing of afterthoughts, I sat with the news a bit. Ambivalent. Many conflicting feelings. Cynical about how those who don’t like President Obama would contort their integrity to not give his administration any credit. And yet also not happy that his administration carried out the assassination that former President Bush had called for. A weird place.

I read my oldest’s facebook status: You know if your kidneys didn't work, and you knew you didn't have long to live but you desperately wanted to take down an imperialist power I think manipulating it into an unfunded guerrilla war in Afghanistan has to be damn close to the top of the "Most effective ways to kill an empire" list.

I read many status updates of those who I know were against both wars and were, as American citizens, further saddened by the nights events. I read admonitions not to gloat and not to rejoice. I read “In Judaism we say upon hearing of the death of someone like Bin Laden:"Ba'avod resoim rinah!" (When the wicked perish, there is jubilation!)” and “As we say in Judaism upon hearing the death of someone: "Blessed are You, oh L-rd our G-D, ruler of the universe, the true judge." I listened to two interviews with American Muslims happy that this defiler of their faith was gone.

Then I watered my climbing container rose, my shade containers, and I dared to fertilize them because they already are full of buds. The bathroom shines now, the wooden floors gleam, and the kitchen tile is spotless.

My middle son, the 18 year old and college freshman, and I have had a text conversation about a question on his final “Which of the judicial philosophies most accurately reflects the the true constitution? 1) Strict Constructionist 2) Living Constitution 3) Framer’s Intentions."

And in the midst of my vacuuming, I thought of Jesus’s words to Peter “He who lives by the sword dies by the sword.” And I thought of George Fox, taking the words of Christ at face value, leading to his statement that he “lived in the virtue of that life and power that takes away the occasion for war and all strife.”

Somewhere during the day, I realized that since 2001, my sons had lived with the hunt for Osama Bin Laden hanging over them (well except for 2006-2008 when then President Bush dissolved the group who was hunting him). Half their life’s as a citizen of a country bent on vengeance and rigid self-protection. I thought about my tendency to avoid my own roll of emotions by wanting to tell others what they should do and how they should feel. Tears came to my eyes as I remembered the words of a beloved Friend, telling of her family running to the air raid shelter during the Battle of Britian, her small hand clutched to her younger siblings stroller, thinking “I never want to be the cause of so much commotion and fear.”

There is nothing in me that can know what it is like to order the assassination of an outlaw, a man who was responsible for many deaths the world over. Fear and chaos though, have been almost life long acquaintances. In that world of fear and chaos, there was no room for holding conflicting emotions. Life was black and white, rigid and self-protective. There are days I need to remind myself I don’t live in that world anymore.

the violence of spring

The dogs and I went for a long walk today. Up north to Rittenhouse Square, down to the Chestnut Street Post Office to mail letters to the 20 year old and almost 19 year old, then west and back south to 23^rd and South for perishables at the grocery. By the end of it, Lucy was dragging, happy to be home, ignoring our neighbor on his stoop because she was so intent on being spread eagled on the cool kitchen tile floor. I listened to violins from the open windows of the Curtis Institute of Music, east of the Square, practicing for upcoming final recitals in their classes. Elway tugged as we went past Metropolitan Bakery, nose identifying that place where I often stop for a chocolate croissant and free doggie biscuits. Halfway through the walk it was time to take off my hoodie. Halfway through the walk I started thinking about spring in North New Jersey.

Are the daffodils still blooming? Is the dogwood out? Did the columbines in my old garden survive the winter? Are the hybrid musk roses on the pillars ready to be wrapped and pruned? Is the clover lawn green and full of bees? And the ferns, have they unfurled or are they still wrapped tightly waiting for a more inviting climate to release their fronds? Did the borage self sow so that hairy borage plants line the walks?

Philadelphia is a lovely city. Yes, it is. But North New Jersy, Morristown New Jersey, is stunning in the spring. Today, I missed the beauty of where I used to live.

Tonight, L and I walked home from a meeting. The air was soft, the humidity level still tender. We walked past lit up windows, through full chairs placed outside pubs and restaurants. I said "hi" to a dog that looked just like Gable, the German shepherd mix I got my senior year in college and who lived until the year my divorce was final. The fairy lights were wrapped around the trees and my feet slowed as I walked past the chairs full of strangers. I don't know any of their names, once in a while, I recognize a face. But still they are neighbors here in the city of Brotherly Love.

Tonight, red and blue lights in my windows, rotating atop the black and white cruisers outside my house.