PHAT THAI
I am sitting in a family diner in my favorite Rochester neighborhood. I have always liked this homey restaurant, but I have become a more frequent visitor since the Vietnamese cook from the diner down the street became the owner here. Now, the menu includes wonderful Asian dishes, as well as the usual diner fare. Phat Thai is my usual order, with extra peanuts and a slice of lime.
I have chosen to sit at a table directly facing the small Buddhist shrine set up by the owner. The lights, colors, and shimmer of bronze make it a peaceful sight. I sit here as often as possible because it transforms how I feel.
I think of my dear Laotian brother, Bounchanh, as I sit here. Before he moved back to Laos, I asked him for advice on meditation. Meditation.. He had shared his own meditation practice with me. Every day he would ask Buddha to help him with the one thing that was most important to him.
I am asking Buddha to help me to stop being disappointed in myself. I want to see the beauty in myself. I want to discover the unique creativity and spirituality that has come from the unique life that is mine and only mine.
I have been unable to write for over a year now. At first, it was the flood of grief that engulfed me when Tasha, my beloved black shepherd, died so suddenly on January 21, 2009. Then it was the ever increasing fatigue and deepening depression that turned out to be symptoms of worsening diabetes. With the introduction of insulin into my health care in late December, the leaden weight of a body starving for energy lifted.
When I regained some energy and focus in January and February, I think I began to hope that it would all go away: not just the out-of-control blood sugar problems caused by diabetes, but also the Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, Fibromyalgia, and Neurocardiogenic Syncope. These diseases have disabled me for nineteen and a half years – one-third of my life. I have attempted to return to work seven different times, but each effort landed me back in complete bed rest for weeks and often months. There is no treatment or cure for most of what I have.
Every day this week I looked around at dirty dishes, trash, dusty floors, and papers that needed recycling. I had just returned from a nine day trip to see my eighty-eight year old mother in Maine. I had tried so hard to do things around the house there: helping with meal preparation, doing the wash – but each time I ended up collapsing in tears and exhaustion. I am ashamed of my life. It seems so limited.
Shame is a useless thing. Better suited for Bernie Madoff than me. Yet the irony is that I am sure this sentiment never surfaces in his consciousness, when he has wiped out the lives of so many people. On the other hand, I was working as a full-time parish minister when a dramatic onset of illness left me disabled. My whole life had been focused on helping others, both as a teacher and as a minister. I am constantly riddled with shame for being unable to continue this.
Shame keeps me from telling the story I need to tell. Shame prevents me from enjoying the life I do have. When shame comes to visit me, I am unusually caught unaware and with open ears, listen to its voice.
“You never reached your potential....”
“You have been ill too long....”
“You should never have another relationship. You have proven that you can't make them
work....”
“You weren't taught to keep house this way....”
“You embarrass your family....”
“You must have brought your troubles on yourself....”
I am so polite. I listen too long.
I see myself sitting on a rocky ledge high up the side of a mountain. In front of me is a spectacular panorama.
But I can't see it. Because shame is a giant. It blocks the view.
It is my turn to talk.
“Excuse me. I need to feel the silence and hear the breeze. I know you are tired from
carrying that burden.”
I suggest that Shame stroll down the nearby mountain path and sit beneath the shade of the old maple tree. I tell her that a neighbor will bring her afternoon tea and cookies.
I am by myself at last. I look out at the contrast of dark green mountains and Titian blue sky. I feel the happiness of it all.
I glance down the slope to watch Shame setting its burden down in the alpine grass. As the wind rustles in the leaves of the old tree, I catch another glimpse of the sitting giant.
When she thought that no one looking, Shame smiled.
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Comes The Night
Comes the night, the late midnight hours, and for just a while, I feel better than in any of my other waking hours. I lie on my bed, propped up by pillows and teddy bears. My mood is light. My mind is alert. My creativity is just below the surface.
For a few brief hours, I almost feel so good that I can pretend I am not extremely ill. I can just imagine that I am resting and readying myself for sleep after a day full of activity, the way life used to be.
I go to my nightly haunt, my time on Farm Town. Such a silly game, really. Seeding virtual crops. Constructing virtual buildings. Planting lovely flowers. Harvesting. Fishing. Milking the cows. Gathering the wool. Living a busy life, as I can no longer do. I am losing the ability to stand, and long ago, some 20 years ago, I lost the strength and endurance to do physical work.
I now have eight farms, whereas in real life I have almost nothing, not even a car. As my Farm Town friend from Turkey once said, "In Farm Town, the weather is always good.....never too hot.....never too cold. No problems. Everything is good in Farm Town."
Farm Town has an interactive element to it. It took me awhile to find it, but now, it has changed my life.
I take my avatar, Peggy-Sue, to the marketplace and get hired to work for other people. At least that was how it started. Someone hires me to harvest or plow or chop trees. etc. They take me to their farm, and I earn experience points which allow me to progress to a higher level.
When I first entered the marketplace, I was silly. I would have Peggy-Sue say silly things, usually singing snippets of songs......."Hi Ho, Hi ho, it's off to work I go" or "I whistle while I work...". One night another avatar said, "Well, I fart while I work." And here was a bunch of about 15 avatars with little cartoon shapes saying "LOL". I could not stop laughing.
Farm Town allows you to chat with people on your farms. Most people would just hire me and thank me when I was done. Then I timidly tried something new when I sense that the other person was friendly. "I am from Rochester, New York, USA. Do you mind my asking where you are from?" If they answered and added a little more, we would start to chat.
I am amazed at what happened in many of these "chats". I met many other people, mostly women, but not all, who were very sick and only felt well in the middle of the night. Most of these people lived in the United States or Canada or Jamaica, so our time zones sort of meshed.
But I also began meeting other people. Because I was up in the middle of the night, I met people from all around the globe: the teacher of autistic children in New Zealand who was just starting her day; the young woman in the Philippines who just got a job working for Coca Cola and who helped her father make cookies for his modest business; the artistic teenager in Vietnam who just celebrated her 17th birthday; the very lonely woman in Tanzania who struggles with no one understanding her fight against lupus; the single mother who is an amazing oil painter in Istanbul; the woman in Oslo whose second marriage was to her penpal in Scotland; the husband and wife in Brisbane, Australia who worked on rescuing animals from the zoo when they had the terrible floods recently; the teacher near Melbourne, Australia who wants to call me on the phone or talk to me on Skype so we can get to know each other better -- and tell jokes; my friend in southwestern Virginia who met her second husband, who lived in England at the time, through a word game on the Internet.
These are the ones I can think of at this moment. I know there are more.
There are other amazing friendships that have developed through Facebook. I am very close to a single mom in South Africa who is an activist like I was when I was a pastor of a church. She read an article I wrote about gratitude in the Gratefulness.org newsletter, and asked to write to me. Because we are friends and comment back and forth on each other's post, several of her friends have asked to be friends with me.
One of these is a young woman stuck without a job, living with her parents who are just barely getting through each day with no help, as her father is dying of cancer. One night, when I started chatting with her, she said she was very depressed. Then she went on to tell me she was thinking of killing herself. I kept chatting with her, while contacting my good friend who lives in the same city and knows this young woman well. My single parent activist friend ended up calling up the young woman who suicidal and finding a way to meet with her. How, how, how....is something like this possible? This was a deeply spiritual experience.
There is the young man in Chenai, India, who knows he should marry soon, but who dreams to be a filmmaker. I told him all about my summer in India as an exchange student when I was 17, so he knows I am very interested in India. He calls me Aunty and asks me for advice on life.
In the middle of one night, I was chatting with a woman whom I thought lived in California. She was having an asthma attack and could not get help. I spent two hours talking to her while she tried to get through this. Then she sent me a note. "It is wonderful to know that people really care about other people and that someone reached out to help me, even from the other side of the globe." It turned out that she lives in Australia.
I subscribe to the Dalai Lama postings, as I love to read his words and learn about his travels. One night, they showed photos of him in Sarnath, India. I visited Sarnath the summer I lived in Varanasi. It is the place where Buddha first preached. I wrote several comments about how happy it made me to see those photos and remember being there.
Within two minutes I had a friend request. I thought the name might be Hindi. I accepted the request. It turned out that this young man is from Nepal, has studied Sanscrit, and works in Katmandu. We chat almost every single night, sometimes about simple things, but mostly about the meaningful things in life: kindness, spirituality, acceptance, serving others......I could go on and on. We learn from each other. We always greet each other with "Namaste". He calls me "Madam Mary Lou" because he says he is "small" compared to me and not nearly so wise.
I do not have words adequate for these experiences. My friend in New Zealand, with whom I talk almost daily, is from Christ Church and has lived through the devastation of two earthquakes within six months. One of my friends in the USA is a truck driver's wife, who is taking care of a very sick father and an aging mother. My friend in northern California is dealing with her mother's Alzheimer's and comes on Farm Town and talks to me, as she talks to almost no one else.
There are two women in California who I met on Farmville, and with whom I became close. For one, it was that we had diabetes in common. Then when her good friend took his own life, I reached out to her, as I had been through this several times and tried to support her, as she supported his family. Last summer, she came to the next county to see her dying grandmother. My friend drove in here so that we could have five hours together. It was wonderful.
The other close friend in California is just a little older than I am. When we first became friends, I read through her profile, and noticed with great sadness that one of her children had died. I wrote to her about this, and she wrote back, saying no one had never even noticed it before. That beautiful young man had killed himself, and this woman was struggling. I learned about her pain, and she learned about the pain of my illness. We talk about faith and life and care very much about each other. We hope so much to meet someday. There is a spiritual bond between us.
Sometimes, in the wee hours of the morning, I can almost pretend that I am not physically ill. But it is in the middle of the night, when I chat back and forth with so many people from so many walks of life, that I feel most fully alive. I know God walks between us. I know that distance is a matter of measurement -- but in the heart, there is no distance at all.
Every early morning, when I finally shut down the computer, I almost always say goodnight to two women: the one in New Zealand and the one in southwestern Virginia. "Have a good night's sleep." "Cya tomorrow." "Sweet dreams".
These hours of grace are such a gift in my life. They have changed me. I am more at peace. I am more alive.
For a few brief hours, I almost feel so good that I can pretend I am not extremely ill. I can just imagine that I am resting and readying myself for sleep after a day full of activity, the way life used to be.
I go to my nightly haunt, my time on Farm Town. Such a silly game, really. Seeding virtual crops. Constructing virtual buildings. Planting lovely flowers. Harvesting. Fishing. Milking the cows. Gathering the wool. Living a busy life, as I can no longer do. I am losing the ability to stand, and long ago, some 20 years ago, I lost the strength and endurance to do physical work.
I now have eight farms, whereas in real life I have almost nothing, not even a car. As my Farm Town friend from Turkey once said, "In Farm Town, the weather is always good.....never too hot.....never too cold. No problems. Everything is good in Farm Town."
Farm Town has an interactive element to it. It took me awhile to find it, but now, it has changed my life.
I take my avatar, Peggy-Sue, to the marketplace and get hired to work for other people. At least that was how it started. Someone hires me to harvest or plow or chop trees. etc. They take me to their farm, and I earn experience points which allow me to progress to a higher level.
When I first entered the marketplace, I was silly. I would have Peggy-Sue say silly things, usually singing snippets of songs......."Hi Ho, Hi ho, it's off to work I go" or "I whistle while I work...". One night another avatar said, "Well, I fart while I work." And here was a bunch of about 15 avatars with little cartoon shapes saying "LOL". I could not stop laughing.
Farm Town allows you to chat with people on your farms. Most people would just hire me and thank me when I was done. Then I timidly tried something new when I sense that the other person was friendly. "I am from Rochester, New York, USA. Do you mind my asking where you are from?" If they answered and added a little more, we would start to chat.
I am amazed at what happened in many of these "chats". I met many other people, mostly women, but not all, who were very sick and only felt well in the middle of the night. Most of these people lived in the United States or Canada or Jamaica, so our time zones sort of meshed.
But I also began meeting other people. Because I was up in the middle of the night, I met people from all around the globe: the teacher of autistic children in New Zealand who was just starting her day; the young woman in the Philippines who just got a job working for Coca Cola and who helped her father make cookies for his modest business; the artistic teenager in Vietnam who just celebrated her 17th birthday; the very lonely woman in Tanzania who struggles with no one understanding her fight against lupus; the single mother who is an amazing oil painter in Istanbul; the woman in Oslo whose second marriage was to her penpal in Scotland; the husband and wife in Brisbane, Australia who worked on rescuing animals from the zoo when they had the terrible floods recently; the teacher near Melbourne, Australia who wants to call me on the phone or talk to me on Skype so we can get to know each other better -- and tell jokes; my friend in southwestern Virginia who met her second husband, who lived in England at the time, through a word game on the Internet.
These are the ones I can think of at this moment. I know there are more.
There are other amazing friendships that have developed through Facebook. I am very close to a single mom in South Africa who is an activist like I was when I was a pastor of a church. She read an article I wrote about gratitude in the Gratefulness.org newsletter, and asked to write to me. Because we are friends and comment back and forth on each other's post, several of her friends have asked to be friends with me.
One of these is a young woman stuck without a job, living with her parents who are just barely getting through each day with no help, as her father is dying of cancer. One night, when I started chatting with her, she said she was very depressed. Then she went on to tell me she was thinking of killing herself. I kept chatting with her, while contacting my good friend who lives in the same city and knows this young woman well. My single parent activist friend ended up calling up the young woman who suicidal and finding a way to meet with her. How, how, how....is something like this possible? This was a deeply spiritual experience.
There is the young man in Chenai, India, who knows he should marry soon, but who dreams to be a filmmaker. I told him all about my summer in India as an exchange student when I was 17, so he knows I am very interested in India. He calls me Aunty and asks me for advice on life.
In the middle of one night, I was chatting with a woman whom I thought lived in California. She was having an asthma attack and could not get help. I spent two hours talking to her while she tried to get through this. Then she sent me a note. "It is wonderful to know that people really care about other people and that someone reached out to help me, even from the other side of the globe." It turned out that she lives in Australia.
I subscribe to the Dalai Lama postings, as I love to read his words and learn about his travels. One night, they showed photos of him in Sarnath, India. I visited Sarnath the summer I lived in Varanasi. It is the place where Buddha first preached. I wrote several comments about how happy it made me to see those photos and remember being there.
Within two minutes I had a friend request. I thought the name might be Hindi. I accepted the request. It turned out that this young man is from Nepal, has studied Sanscrit, and works in Katmandu. We chat almost every single night, sometimes about simple things, but mostly about the meaningful things in life: kindness, spirituality, acceptance, serving others......I could go on and on. We learn from each other. We always greet each other with "Namaste". He calls me "Madam Mary Lou" because he says he is "small" compared to me and not nearly so wise.
I do not have words adequate for these experiences. My friend in New Zealand, with whom I talk almost daily, is from Christ Church and has lived through the devastation of two earthquakes within six months. One of my friends in the USA is a truck driver's wife, who is taking care of a very sick father and an aging mother. My friend in northern California is dealing with her mother's Alzheimer's and comes on Farm Town and talks to me, as she talks to almost no one else.
There are two women in California who I met on Farmville, and with whom I became close. For one, it was that we had diabetes in common. Then when her good friend took his own life, I reached out to her, as I had been through this several times and tried to support her, as she supported his family. Last summer, she came to the next county to see her dying grandmother. My friend drove in here so that we could have five hours together. It was wonderful.
The other close friend in California is just a little older than I am. When we first became friends, I read through her profile, and noticed with great sadness that one of her children had died. I wrote to her about this, and she wrote back, saying no one had never even noticed it before. That beautiful young man had killed himself, and this woman was struggling. I learned about her pain, and she learned about the pain of my illness. We talk about faith and life and care very much about each other. We hope so much to meet someday. There is a spiritual bond between us.
Sometimes, in the wee hours of the morning, I can almost pretend that I am not physically ill. But it is in the middle of the night, when I chat back and forth with so many people from so many walks of life, that I feel most fully alive. I know God walks between us. I know that distance is a matter of measurement -- but in the heart, there is no distance at all.
Every early morning, when I finally shut down the computer, I almost always say goodnight to two women: the one in New Zealand and the one in southwestern Virginia. "Have a good night's sleep." "Cya tomorrow." "Sweet dreams".
These hours of grace are such a gift in my life. They have changed me. I am more at peace. I am more alive.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Monday, June 21, 2010
Ireland's Child
In January, 2010, 15 year old Phoebe Prince, of South Hadley, Massachusetts, took her own life after three months of continuous bullying in her school. Some of this bullying was done via Facebook. We, the members of this group, pledge to work to end all bullying, but, in particular, bullying on Facebook.
For some time now, I have been working on a song in memory of Phoebe, whether it be instrumental or voice and accompaniment. For months, I had just the chorus, without the complete chording. Today, I sat at the piano and was given the ability to finish the song, with all the verses. If I can find a way to record this, I hope to post it on the Facebook site: A Promise To Phoebe, A Commitment To End Bullying On Facebook.
But for now, here are the words:
IRELAND'S CHILD
lyrics and music by Mary Lou Worster Anderson (c) 2010
dedicated to Phoebe Prince
CHORUS:
Oh, Ireland's child, what did they do?
They broke the golden heart in you.
And now you're sheltered in God's arms,
Where ne'er a soul can do you harm, oh.....
From County Clare, far 'cross the sea,
Your family left their ancient land,
They hoped to build a life more full,
To change their hand, oh....
The fairest flower of all the field,
With laughing eyes and beauteous smile,
Tho' lovely, is so oft by envy caught
And reviled, oh....
CHORUS
While nightmares cloud the skies of dreams,
They do retreat with the dawn of day,
Yet all her terrors did remain,
Not go away, oh.....
A cry for help, a mother's plea,
Fell on minds that would not bend,
And so with a scarf she held so dear,
She found an end, oh.....
CHORUS
oh.....,
oh....,
oh.....
Rest In Peace, dear Phoebe.
For some time now, I have been working on a song in memory of Phoebe, whether it be instrumental or voice and accompaniment. For months, I had just the chorus, without the complete chording. Today, I sat at the piano and was given the ability to finish the song, with all the verses. If I can find a way to record this, I hope to post it on the Facebook site: A Promise To Phoebe, A Commitment To End Bullying On Facebook.
But for now, here are the words:
IRELAND'S CHILD
lyrics and music by Mary Lou Worster Anderson (c) 2010
dedicated to Phoebe Prince
CHORUS:
Oh, Ireland's child, what did they do?
They broke the golden heart in you.
And now you're sheltered in God's arms,
Where ne'er a soul can do you harm, oh.....
From County Clare, far 'cross the sea,
Your family left their ancient land,
They hoped to build a life more full,
To change their hand, oh....
The fairest flower of all the field,
With laughing eyes and beauteous smile,
Tho' lovely, is so oft by envy caught
And reviled, oh....
CHORUS
While nightmares cloud the skies of dreams,
They do retreat with the dawn of day,
Yet all her terrors did remain,
Not go away, oh.....
A cry for help, a mother's plea,
Fell on minds that would not bend,
And so with a scarf she held so dear,
She found an end, oh.....
CHORUS
oh.....,
oh....,
oh.....
Rest In Peace, dear Phoebe.
Friday, May 28, 2010
Reflections On Memorial Day, 5/27/07
Dedicated To All Those From My Hometown Who Gave Their Lives To Protect Our Country
written on 5/27/07
Today is Memorial Day. For me, this day is one full of many images from my youth, experiences of young adulthood, and reflections on the world in which I live today.
I grew up in a village of around 3,000 people. It was a momentus occasion when there were special town events. The annual Memorial Day parade in Painted Post, New York was grand.
My memories of these go back to when I was very young. My brothers, myself, and all of my friends on Erwin Street would spend hour upon hour weaving red, white and blue crepe paper streamers through the spokes of everything from tricycles to adult sized bikes. For finishing touches, dangling streamers and little flags were attached to the handlebars.
Each family would load the bicycles and the children who would ride them into the car. They would take them to the starting point of the parade, in the middle of Painted Post. The bikes were the last part of the big parade, and we were so proud to be there.
Each year the parade was led by several large automobiles with very important people in them. I was young. I had no idea who they were. I just knew they were important. It might have included the mayor, veterans from our community, and perhaps, even a beauty queen. I, also, recall one or two decorated floats. Or was that Colonial Days? Or both?
What I remember most is waving to all the bystanders along the road, sitting in their colorful folding chairs, perched atop a father's shoulders, or sitting on blankets on the ground. Everyone cheered us on. I, too, felt important.
After the cars came the marching band. When I was small, this band was very small from the local village high school. When I was older, a condolidated school district had been formed. We had a large, new high school with a bigger, more impressive band. In my memories, both bands were wonderful. Oh, yes, and there were majorettes twirling those glimmering batons, keeping the beat ahead of the band.
The children waited a long, long time to ride those carefully decorated, patriotic bikes. We were excited. We were full of energy. We loved it when we could start. Each one of us was part of a magical band of color waving down the road.
The Memorial Day parade always ended in the same place: the village cemetery. A minister would say a few words, followed by a prayer. It took a lot of effort to be quiet. Then, one lone trumpeter would play "Taps." We could all feel the emotion in those moments.
When I was a young teenager, the soldier who had been the Painted Post star high school quarterback was killed in Vietnam. That was the year that war and the unfathomable loss of war became real for me. When "Taps" was played that year, I cried.
Many years later, I visited "The Wall", the Vietnam Memorial, in Washington, D.C. I searched and searched until I found that young man's name etched in an endless list of names: each one someone's son, someone's father, someone's sister, someone's sweetheart. I left a candle in the spot in front of Eddie's name. The sea of names was overwhelming. I cried then, as well.
Today is Memorial Day. I am so much older now, and my awareness of war has grown. The World War II Veterans are dying out. In Painted Post, they were my friends and neighbors. I will always remember them.
Over the years, many veterans have shared their services stories with me. As a pastor of a church, I tended to hear the most difficult ones: health struggles after exposure to Agent Orange, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, and the undefined disabilities of the Gulf War. Now the stories also include Iraq and Afghanistan.
Yesterday, the headline for our city newspaper was the news of the death of a young soldier from one of the communities in which we used to live.. He is survived by a wife and baby. It feels like Vietnam all over again.
On this Memorial Day, I pray that we honor the memory of all those who fought and died for us. This is not a day about politics. It is a day about sacrifice.
I often wonder if my hometown still has a Memorial Day parade. Should I return, would I see the grandchildren of my friends riding their red, white and blue tricycles proudly through the town?
Though the list has grown to a long one over the years, on each Memorial Day, I always remember that first one whose death changed my perception of life. Every time I visit Washington, D.C., I go to The Wall, and find his name. I touch the etched letters. And, each time, I cry.
written on 5/27/07
Today is Memorial Day. For me, this day is one full of many images from my youth, experiences of young adulthood, and reflections on the world in which I live today.
I grew up in a village of around 3,000 people. It was a momentus occasion when there were special town events. The annual Memorial Day parade in Painted Post, New York was grand.
My memories of these go back to when I was very young. My brothers, myself, and all of my friends on Erwin Street would spend hour upon hour weaving red, white and blue crepe paper streamers through the spokes of everything from tricycles to adult sized bikes. For finishing touches, dangling streamers and little flags were attached to the handlebars.
Each family would load the bicycles and the children who would ride them into the car. They would take them to the starting point of the parade, in the middle of Painted Post. The bikes were the last part of the big parade, and we were so proud to be there.
Each year the parade was led by several large automobiles with very important people in them. I was young. I had no idea who they were. I just knew they were important. It might have included the mayor, veterans from our community, and perhaps, even a beauty queen. I, also, recall one or two decorated floats. Or was that Colonial Days? Or both?
What I remember most is waving to all the bystanders along the road, sitting in their colorful folding chairs, perched atop a father's shoulders, or sitting on blankets on the ground. Everyone cheered us on. I, too, felt important.
After the cars came the marching band. When I was small, this band was very small from the local village high school. When I was older, a condolidated school district had been formed. We had a large, new high school with a bigger, more impressive band. In my memories, both bands were wonderful. Oh, yes, and there were majorettes twirling those glimmering batons, keeping the beat ahead of the band.
The children waited a long, long time to ride those carefully decorated, patriotic bikes. We were excited. We were full of energy. We loved it when we could start. Each one of us was part of a magical band of color waving down the road.
The Memorial Day parade always ended in the same place: the village cemetery. A minister would say a few words, followed by a prayer. It took a lot of effort to be quiet. Then, one lone trumpeter would play "Taps." We could all feel the emotion in those moments.
When I was a young teenager, the soldier who had been the Painted Post star high school quarterback was killed in Vietnam. That was the year that war and the unfathomable loss of war became real for me. When "Taps" was played that year, I cried.
Many years later, I visited "The Wall", the Vietnam Memorial, in Washington, D.C. I searched and searched until I found that young man's name etched in an endless list of names: each one someone's son, someone's father, someone's sister, someone's sweetheart. I left a candle in the spot in front of Eddie's name. The sea of names was overwhelming. I cried then, as well.
Today is Memorial Day. I am so much older now, and my awareness of war has grown. The World War II Veterans are dying out. In Painted Post, they were my friends and neighbors. I will always remember them.
Over the years, many veterans have shared their services stories with me. As a pastor of a church, I tended to hear the most difficult ones: health struggles after exposure to Agent Orange, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, and the undefined disabilities of the Gulf War. Now the stories also include Iraq and Afghanistan.
Yesterday, the headline for our city newspaper was the news of the death of a young soldier from one of the communities in which we used to live.. He is survived by a wife and baby. It feels like Vietnam all over again.
On this Memorial Day, I pray that we honor the memory of all those who fought and died for us. This is not a day about politics. It is a day about sacrifice.
I often wonder if my hometown still has a Memorial Day parade. Should I return, would I see the grandchildren of my friends riding their red, white and blue tricycles proudly through the town?
Though the list has grown to a long one over the years, on each Memorial Day, I always remember that first one whose death changed my perception of life. Every time I visit Washington, D.C., I go to The Wall, and find his name. I touch the etched letters. And, each time, I cry.
Monday, March 8, 2010
You Can Deck Me With A Whiff Of The Wind
I hate this disease.
Just when I begin to grasp some new chance to participate in life again, it rises up before me, like some mythical monster, mighty and high, wide and powerful. It leans its head downwards towards my frail body and blows a tiny breath, a poof, ever so small against my being. And once more I am slammed downward into my place on the couch.
"You dared to try something new. You grabbed a chance to have a small part in a play. You were sure you had it all worked out. Well, I will show you, once again, who is in charge!!"
I am here once again, discouraged, defeated, disheartened. Aches in every muscle and joint. Headache that nothing will ease. All concentration and memory gone. Sore throat and throbbing sinuses setting in. Battered back once again by a brutal master.
While the Centers For Disease Control continue their twenty-five year squabbling to discredit the validity of this disease as a real physical illness and and play out their political maneuvering to discredit any research that points to a cause or a future treatment, I enter my twentieth year of living with this modern plague. Chronic Fatigue Syndrome. Fibromyalgia. Chronic Fatigue Immune Dysfunction Syndrome. Myalgic Encephalomyalitis (yes, the rest of the world gives this a medical name). Dastardly Destructive Demonic Disease.
I will continue my valiant cause of outsmarting this illness. In the dark of night, where only shadows can guide me, I will find my own personal palace, a hidden cave where the wind cannot reach me. I will continue to whisper or shout my defiance: "You may knock me down -- but you may not have my life!"
Just when I begin to grasp some new chance to participate in life again, it rises up before me, like some mythical monster, mighty and high, wide and powerful. It leans its head downwards towards my frail body and blows a tiny breath, a poof, ever so small against my being. And once more I am slammed downward into my place on the couch.
"You dared to try something new. You grabbed a chance to have a small part in a play. You were sure you had it all worked out. Well, I will show you, once again, who is in charge!!"
I am here once again, discouraged, defeated, disheartened. Aches in every muscle and joint. Headache that nothing will ease. All concentration and memory gone. Sore throat and throbbing sinuses setting in. Battered back once again by a brutal master.
While the Centers For Disease Control continue their twenty-five year squabbling to discredit the validity of this disease as a real physical illness and and play out their political maneuvering to discredit any research that points to a cause or a future treatment, I enter my twentieth year of living with this modern plague. Chronic Fatigue Syndrome. Fibromyalgia. Chronic Fatigue Immune Dysfunction Syndrome. Myalgic Encephalomyalitis (yes, the rest of the world gives this a medical name). Dastardly Destructive Demonic Disease.
I will continue my valiant cause of outsmarting this illness. In the dark of night, where only shadows can guide me, I will find my own personal palace, a hidden cave where the wind cannot reach me. I will continue to whisper or shout my defiance: "You may knock me down -- but you may not have my life!"
Saturday, November 28, 2009
Seeing Through A Different Lens
I have not been able to write for a while. I began to get discouraged, not knowing whether or not anyone ever read my blog. Was I just writing for the wind? Did anything I perceived matter to anyone?
Shortly after, I learned that the pravastatin which I had been taking to lower my cholesterol can have side effects of causing and/or increasing depression, bringing on insomnia, anxiety, nightmares, etc.....
I stopped the pravastatin, and slowly, the lead blanket of depression lifted.
And then I received the note from a kind friend who had read almost all of my blog and found it terribly depressing. She was praying for me to feel better.
I almost abandoned this new project. Over the days since I last wrote something here, I have thought a lot about the writing and songwriting I have done since I was very young.
Somehow, I was born with a different set of glasses from most people. God gave me an ability to empathize with all the people I meet. I have always felt a connection with people whose lives were far different from my own. I find myself deep in prayer and meditation for friends and family, but the meditation leads me to new places. I do not steer the meditation.
One of the first songs I ever learned to play and sing was "There But For Fortune", written by the singer/songwriter Phil Ochs in 1963. I was so drawn to this song, as I believed that compassion should be the guiding principle of life. I should never forget that I am connected to every living being on this planet, and that it is only by the fortune of birth or experience that I have had certain advantages or escaped haunting pain.
Any child could be my child. Any poor person sifting through trash cans for food could be me. Any family torn apart by war could be mine.
I try to write about life as I see it. My adopted Laotian brother, Bounchanh, is a devout Buddhist and has even spent time as a monk in the temple in Vientiane. Many times we talked about spirituality. Buddhists accept that life is full of suffering. The greatest goal, therefore, is to be compassionate.
Compassion, love, faith, hope: these are the powers which carry us through the sufferings of life and which can transform our experiences into something of meaning and something which can be used to help another person.
So, to my dear friend who was so troubled by my writing, I have always seen the world through this set of glasses. I have always dealt better with the suffering in life by staring it straight in the eyes. My songs, my poetry, and now my prose reflections are all an extension of the pair of glasses God gave me long ago. I look for meaning in it all, and I try to express the deeper levels of spirituality and humanity that I see in the world around me.
Shortly after, I learned that the pravastatin which I had been taking to lower my cholesterol can have side effects of causing and/or increasing depression, bringing on insomnia, anxiety, nightmares, etc.....
I stopped the pravastatin, and slowly, the lead blanket of depression lifted.
And then I received the note from a kind friend who had read almost all of my blog and found it terribly depressing. She was praying for me to feel better.
I almost abandoned this new project. Over the days since I last wrote something here, I have thought a lot about the writing and songwriting I have done since I was very young.
Somehow, I was born with a different set of glasses from most people. God gave me an ability to empathize with all the people I meet. I have always felt a connection with people whose lives were far different from my own. I find myself deep in prayer and meditation for friends and family, but the meditation leads me to new places. I do not steer the meditation.
One of the first songs I ever learned to play and sing was "There But For Fortune", written by the singer/songwriter Phil Ochs in 1963. I was so drawn to this song, as I believed that compassion should be the guiding principle of life. I should never forget that I am connected to every living being on this planet, and that it is only by the fortune of birth or experience that I have had certain advantages or escaped haunting pain.
Any child could be my child. Any poor person sifting through trash cans for food could be me. Any family torn apart by war could be mine.
I try to write about life as I see it. My adopted Laotian brother, Bounchanh, is a devout Buddhist and has even spent time as a monk in the temple in Vientiane. Many times we talked about spirituality. Buddhists accept that life is full of suffering. The greatest goal, therefore, is to be compassionate.
Compassion, love, faith, hope: these are the powers which carry us through the sufferings of life and which can transform our experiences into something of meaning and something which can be used to help another person.
So, to my dear friend who was so troubled by my writing, I have always seen the world through this set of glasses. I have always dealt better with the suffering in life by staring it straight in the eyes. My songs, my poetry, and now my prose reflections are all an extension of the pair of glasses God gave me long ago. I look for meaning in it all, and I try to express the deeper levels of spirituality and humanity that I see in the world around me.
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