Tuesday, September 30, 2014
A couple weeks ago, I wrote about "the cross", the trials we have in life, and who we can turn to.
Today, I want to mention that our crosses are generally not contagious. Unless I have an easily-communicable disease, and you spend a lot of time with me, and we don't practice good sanitation techniques, you are most likely not going to 'catch' the things I have to deal with - or vice versa.
As an example of what I'm trying to say, when we see someone who is homeless, if we think, "That could be me," that thought might make us more compassionate; however, on the other hand, that thought could instead lead to fear that the same thing could happen to us, and fear sometimes turns into shunning or blaming.
"That could be me", can lead to: "What if that happens to me?", which can lead to..."Well, that won't happen to me because I'm careful with my money. That person obviously wasn't careful with his money." Really? Do we know that? No, of course we don't know that. It just somehow makes us feel better to think it...like, whew, I don't have to worry about that kind of suffering. You know what? Probably we actually don't have to worry about that particular brand of suffering. But we can be compassionate.
Or maybe it's an illness. Maybe we eat healthy and exercise, and maybe that person who is ill drinks too much and smokes. So, after all, it must be his own fault he's sick, right? So, now, I don't have to worry about getting that cross. But maybe it really wasn't anything he or she did (or didn't do).
You see, the deal is that we don't have to worry about getting each cross we encounter on someone else's shoulders. I can be really and truly sorry for what someone has to suffer, without worrying that it might happen to me.
And then there's our perception of choice. Have you ever looked at all the people who wait at bus stops, instead of driving cars? Why do they stand out in the heat and the rain? It's possible that person has no other choice. Or it's also possible they make that choice so that they can spend their money on something else, maybe to get an education, or maybe they have spent the money helping family.
Whatever the reason, it doesn't mean they enjoy it. Let's not rub it in by saying we 'couldn't do that!' And conversely, let's not ignore the fact that it's challenging for them, by reminding them of all the money they save on car repairs, or some other way in which it's really "a blessing in disguise". Let's let people find their own silver linings, if they wish. And just be there for them. In kindness.
And let's just keeping "being there", but if we've ever said anything that we think, now, wasn't very compassionate (and I know I sure have), guess what? We're human. And we're trying. Let's start each day anew, trying to be compassionate; and let's start with ourselves first, being compassionate to ourselves, and then reaching out from there to others.
God bless you, my friends, and may He hold and comfort you in all your trials.
Thursday, September 25, 2014
This is a bit of prose, written by my son Paul. I'm not sure what year he wrote it.
I hope you might like it.
The Glass Elevator
You will turn the knob slowly with your frail withered hand. Stepping into the hallway, you will take in the familiar mix of aromas as the door swings shut behind you. Chlorine, air fresheners and various cleaning products. Your ears will be tickled by the sounds of rushing fountains, the light buzzing of the younger people enjoying their happy hour and the screams of several children turning this oasis of luxury into a playground.
You will sigh and dig the tip of your cane into the thick carpet. Life just isn’t what it used to be.
You will make your way slowly down the hall gazing idly at the exquisite paintings on the wall. You’ve looked at them so many times. So many that it will surprise you that you still notice them. But they remind you of me, like everything here reminds you of me. You don’t cry. You never have. But it hurts, like a deep hollow in your chest, and you will try to avert your gaze and direct your attention to the distant lobby.
An attractive young cleaning attendant will roll their cart past you, but you only smile and nod. You were always faithful, yes, but in the past you would have looked. Imagined what it would have been like to indulge. Now you don’t care. They are not me. It is me that you miss.
As you turn the corner into the main lobby, you will hear the gentle coo of songbirds. Why would there be birds here? You will wonder. You will scratch your head, thinking you must be going crazy. You will adjust your hearing aid. The other sounds will still be there, but the birds will be gone. You will shrug.
You will walk lazily toward the elevator. You will not be sure why, but something draws you there. It will open. You will walk in and close the door behind you. Not sure which floor you want to go to, you will hit every button. You used to do that for fun as a child. Now you do it because you don’t know what else to do.
The elevator will begin to rise and you will be mesmerized as always by the view through its clear polished surface. The flowing fountains. The colorful flowers. The ivy that seems to climb as you do. The art and the architecture, some of the best in the world. You will salute the beauty of it all and smile as if saying goodbye. Again you will hear the cooing of songbirds. You will adjust your hearing aid, but they will still be there. You will take out your hearing aid. Every other sound will vanish, but the songbirds will still be there.
You will laugh to yourself. You knew you would go crazy sooner or later. The elevator keeps rising and you realize that you are no longer looking at ivy and famous paintings. You are staring at blue sky and puffy white clouds.
You will gasp in astonishment, not so much at the fact that the elevator is soaring through the sky, but at the fact that you aren’t more shocked by it.
The cooing of the songbirds will grow louder and you will start humming along with them. Clouds will fall beneath you as you rise higher and higher.
The light blue sky and white clouds will give way to a dark blue sky illuminated by thousands of bright twinkling stars of many different colors.
You will rub your eyes as if you can’t believe how beautiful it all is. The stars grow brighter and brighter. The coo of the songbirds slowly coalesces into a soothing hymn sung by a choir so sweet and lovely that it can only be angels.
The light will become so intense that you can’t see anything for a moment. You will blink. Then you will see me. Your beloved. Your spouse of more than fifty years. Reunited at last.
You will rush to my side and we will embrace. Then I will tell you that I want you to meet someone. You will look at me quizzically. I will smile.
When you see him, you will fall to your knees. You talked to him everyday of your life without fail. Even when you doubted him, you still talked to him. You wore his image around your neck. And now here he is face to face.
You will lower your head, not feeling worthy to look at him. But he will take you by the hand. He will fill you with his unbounded peace and love. He will tell you to rise and walk with him. He will welcome you into his home forever.
And I will take your hand in mine and walk with you. Forever.
(By Paul Myers)
Thursday, September 18, 2014
A moment occurred the other night when I realized that a picture which I treasure from my childhood - one of the few things I still have - might not be such a treasure, after all. Suddenly, it made me sad.
I lay on the bed in the guest room, resting for a few minutes, and in that quiet time, I looked at this silhouette, and I really appreciated, so much, what my kindergarten teacher did with that project. You see, she used some kind of projector (whatever they had, circa 1958), and she put each of our silhouettes on the wall; and then, somehow, she cut each one out of black paper, & she pasted it onto a white background. How much dedication she must have had!
Now, to warn you, this story becomes very sad. If you don't want to go there, you can stop now.
When I was in...oh, I'm not sure...maybe fourth grade, the "estranged husband" of the kindergarten teacher at my school went into her classroom, before any children had arrived, and he shot her, and then himself. He ran through our woods; so the FBI came to my house to question my mom, but she hadn't seen or heard anything. (Okay, that was it; the sad part is over.)
I remember being freaked out, not liking to go to the kindergarten room for group activities, as we sometimes did. I don't remember grieving. So the other night, I guess I finally grieved (by thinking about her, and by appreciating her dedication and love for her students, and allowing myself to feel sad). But what I didn't realize until I did some research today was that this woman was not my kindergarten teacher!
I had looked on the internet before, but this time I found something...only, what I found wasn't what I thought. I didn't find anything about a shooting; but what I found was an obituary for a woman whose maiden name was the name of my kindergarten teacher, and who taught first grade at my school "until her retirement in 1979"...and lived to 2002.
The teacher who was shot was not my teacher. (I know. I said that already.) The story of the shooting is still a very sad story, and I'm still sad for that woman's family, and for all those in the school who may have known about it, as I did. (And I still say that the violence in the world isn't new, only the knowledge is more widespread.)
But when I look at my silhouette now, I can think of my kindergarten teacher the way I learned about her in the obituary...married, from some time after she taught me, until her death; teaching first grade until her retirement; and raising eight children. Dedicated? I should say! But she seems to have lived a long and peaceful life.
Monday, September 15, 2014
We are now in a different apartment, and we did finally bring the piano home; but in the meantime, with the dining room table often full of papers, I never took the sewing machine out of its case for years.
And then, after one of our sons moved out, I was debating whether to keep an old vintage desk - a different desk (we brought a lot of furniture from Kentucky) - which we had moved from a basement to a storage unit, to someone's bedroom, to a corner of the dining room. Many years ago, my husband had used it for his homework in college. He wouldn't have minded giving it away, but I like it. So I asked him if it brought back memories he would rather forget; maybe he didn't like remembering all that studying. No. He just didn't have any attachment to it.
So I took the old desk for my sewing machine. And I moved it to the newly-vacated room. This way when I start a sewing project, I can leave the machine up for a few days before I put it back in its case.
Then, since I was re-arranging the holy pictures and statues in our home, I moved my lovely St. Therese statue to the top of the desk, a statue that someone had given away years ago, and that my daughter Mary had repainted for me. I added a plastic statue of my beloved St. Martin de Porres and a statue of Mary, the Mother of Jesus, as well as a little wooden Crucifix and a few other little resin statues.
The desk could use painting, but nevertheless, I think the dark wood makes a nice background, for now. It's so nice to have a little quiet spot to pray the Rosary or read the Bible.
Do you have a special place in your home that's all yours, where you can feel focused, and take a few moments of quiet?
P.S. In case you were wondering, yes, that is a plastic shelving unit to the left, with a Christmas tree stand, accompanied by a pair of two-pound weights, a stretch band, and a ball; and yes, I now have a focused place to do exercises, too.