Grateful

It is soooo easy to turn the pages of every day - anxious to get on to the next.  I want to experience days of activity. It has always been so for me. A "Doer."  I loved to do (whatever was at hand).  I even loved to clean!

Today is a "doing" day. A day spent with family and friends. A day of good food and good conversation.   But, mostly, it is a day I can do for others. 

So, today I want to do the following:

I want to thank those who have been generous in heart and deed. I am grateful for your example of love. 

  Dennis: for putting my needs first and foremost in your heart. 

  Shannen: for your love and tenderness; for your care; for thinking about me and how you can help; for your encouragement. 

 Sharon:  for loving Mom so completely and caring for her unselfishly; for being strong and gentle; for your insight; for your fierce love.

  Cheryl:  for your consistency; for always being there; for believing in me; for your high esteem.

  Michael:  for caring about Shannen, Samuel, Rosie, your parents, and me in your tender, thoughtful ways. 

  Alice: for your help and encouragement. 

  Jim:  for your sweetness. 

  Dan:  for your example of love in action. 

  Debbie and Bryan: for your shining love.

  Jean and Kari:  for your complete love; for sending notes of encouragement; for not forgetting.  

Collateral Damage

Recently, suicide has battered and bloodied three families in my circle of friends. 

The first loss occurred when a friend committed suicide by shooting himself in the head. He was organized and thorough:  he left typed suicide notes and had placed a call to the police immediately preceding the pull of the trigger.  Another family, another loss occurred when a young man's car careened out of control while driving drunk.  You might think that this is an example of a horrible accident.  However, he was drunk, he was not wearing a seatbelt, and he failed to take a familiar turn.  He sit a tree.  The tree survuved; he did not.  He was reckless and impulsive.  The third loss was a friend who died in his home. He fell down a flight of stairs in his home - after a three-month long drinking binge.  The police found him. Intervention had failed. He refused help. His behavior was a slow, deliberate act of avoidance of responsibility.  All three deaths were brutal, horrendous, and selfish.  Painful. 

All three left behind grieving loved ones who were committed to them. All three had other options available. Now, their children, spouses, parents, siblings feel abandoned and betrayed.  They carry a heavy weight of confusion and anger; bewilderment and sadness have become their forever companions. 

To choose death over life is difficult for most of us to understand. The self-loathing and deep depression necessary to commit the ultimate act of self-hatred is rarely experienced.  Yet, there is a subgroup of people who choose an early death by a more subtle, socially acceptable form of suicide: the smokers.

For more than 50 years, the medical community has clearly communicated to the general public that smoking will kill the smoker: a slow, painful death. Ugly and disfiguring.  What has been ignored is the collateral damage. Forget the air pollution and secondhand smoke effects for now. Smokers shorten their lives and bring grief to their friends and families.  

I call the question:  If you smoke, who is your collateral damage?  Child?  Grandchild?  Spouse? Me?

Trudging Along New Trails

Looking at him, I could see the wishful thinking. It was a look that penetrated deep within my being. I, too, knew that longing. For him, it was grief over no longer being able to participate as a member of the worship team. For me, it was grief over no longer being able to hike in the woods. 

My friend is facing life-changing, vexing physical deterioration. His heart is no longer his friend. Now it performs at 10% efficiency and he struggles for strength and breath and life. I, too, face a life-changing physical deterioration. My muscles are no longer my friends. They continue to weaken and I struggle for strength and breath. My situation is not as severe, I do not struggle to live.  Yet, we are kindred spirits.  We live with loss.

There was a time when walking in the woods was easy. It was just a matter of making the decision to spend my time among the majestic trees. Now, I need to trudge along a new trail - finding away to transcend my personal vexing physical tribulation.  

How? How can I?  How can I spend time with those wonderful, majestic trees?  The answer came to me. It was such an easy solution.  Pick up your paintbrush.

For him, for my friend, the solution is not so easy. 

Normalcy

Consistency. Predictability. Reliability.

Oh, how we love normalcy.  Even as little children, we feel safe when we know what to expect.  As we age, we find ourselves making connections with others who agree with us.  Conflicts arise when "common sense" behaviors are perceived as being violated by individuals or groups.

When we view a painting and we see colors and imagery that makes sense to us, our language to describe the image (in this example: peaceful, serene) betrays our underlying prejudice to live with equilibrium.  Even our language bleeds our need: normal psychology vs. abnormal psychology.  Societies exist and function when groups of people can agree on what is and is not normal behavior.

So, when life takes a sudden turn and we find ourselves no longer living a "normal" life, we experience a disorientation.  Our perspective changes and we start to really see our society, our culture.  We join a new subgroup.  Depending on what turn has occurred, we develop a new vision.  Our lens to see has been altered.  Our lives are no longer normal.

And, so, we stand outside, looking in, observers of normalcy.  We are the handicapped, the disabled; often, we are the forgotten.

Hope

On a recent trip to Chicago, I went for an excursion in my wheelchair. As is my habit before crossing the street, I always look both ways - even if it is a one-way street. As I looked to my right, I saw a man sitting on the curb. His head bent downward, oblivious to the world around him.  Sadness. Loneliness. Hopeless. 

On the other hand, I have learned that a friend's health is failing. He is struggling to breath, to live.  He  prays. He loves and is loved.  Faith is a constant companion.  Peace. Comfort. Hopeful. 

It seems to me that we start every day with the same choice, over and over. Do we choose to live life alone or with God? Without hope or with hope?

As I consider my life, I am acutely aware of time moving in its unceasing direction. It is winding down. Faith is crucial.  Love is essential.  However, to choose to live each moment with joy and peace requires Hope. 

And Hope never fails. 

So, Lord, what hope do I have? You are my hope! (Psalms 39:7)

Finding My Way Home

The morning was one of those warm, muggy, wonderful days of late summer.  Even though the sky threatened to drench those who ventured outside, the promise of sun lurked behind the clouds.

With the hope of sun and the concrete presence of warmth, I ventured to the local park.  The idyllic setting of park, flowers, and lake were perfect.  The pleasure of the moment was upon me.

Every day, the physical constraints of my disease pressure me to give up.  Knowing that my struggle is not limited to mobility issues, I am determined to live with a positive attitude.  Of course this determination is easier to express in words than it is to express in deed.  At times, in the midst of the daily battle to maintain, to keep going, to fight on, I get lost.  I lose my sense of home.

But, God's beauty and nature's profusion of flora and fauna are concrete reminders that life is worth living to the fullest.  Whatever the day's challenges bring, God helps me to find my way home.

"To learn the secret of victorious living has been the heart's desire of those who love the Lord, in every generation."

Hanna Hurnard - 

Hinds' Feet on High Places

Ouch!

Right now I am sitting in the waiting room of the Bronson LakeView Hospital's emergency room. 

One of my caretakers cut herself while preparing pico de gallo.  (She does make a mean salsa.). The knife slipped and cut her finger. We know that it cut through her nail. We do not know the extent of her injury. Although, I suspect that she now has a better idea since she has been with the doctor for awhile. 

Since she was bleeding profusely and in considerable pain, I felt the need to drive her. The struggle to get me down the stairs with my walker and then to get my walker into the car was time-consuming and exhausting. But we did it!

How quickly events can devolve. We all live on a tenuous edge - the edge of a knife. A slip can change our moments, our lives. 

Culture Clash

Normally when we think about cultures clashing, we consider cultures built around different ethnic groups, e.g., the Eastern Culture vs. the Western Culture. Our "common knowledge" understandings deeply embedded in our psyches hinder us from bridging the gaps - doable but difficult. However, there is  a more subtle culture that permeates our existence.

Recently, I had the opportunity to enjoy a visit by my grandchildren. We met at the pool of my big city apartment. For two mornings, the two little ones were able to have fun in the pool. Since there is no handicapped accessible stairs or lift, I was not able to join them in the water. 

At one point, my five-year-old grandson noticed that I was prevented from joining them in the pool. He wanted to know why there were no stairs or lift available for me. When his mother and I tried to explain to him that the apartment building management had refused my request because they were not legally bound to do so, he wanted to know why they wouldn't do it anyway.  Further explanation of the decision-making process involved finally resulted with my daughter saying that sometimes people just do not do the right thing. 

As our country moves away from Christian mores and "cultural understandings," we are left with a void. So, providing the physically handicapped with accessibility to "common facilities" vs. the legally-required accessibility is a difficult gap to be bridged.  I wonder, is it doable?

Standing in the Cold Rain

Well  intentioned. I guess that is my most generous assessment of her recent behavior.

The day had started gloriously. Finally, the rain had ceased and the sun was shining. First things first, I went to church. 

The church I attend is a terrific group of people. You would love them. Seriously, you would. 

As I was getting ready to leave the sanctuary, a visiting "musician" approached me. She said to me that God had more healing for me. Now, this is always good news to me since I live with the debilitating disease of myotonic dystrophy. But (it always seems that there is a but) the healing would come as I would open up myself to let God heal the scars of my childhood. Somehow, she was connecting childhood scars (and I use this word loosely) with the effects of a very specific disease. What? 

Yes.  Let us understand that it was not my fault. But she could see in my body how the trauma was taking its toll. I just needed to be willing to be healed. She was adamant and convinced. Oh, without a doubt in her mind, God had revealed this to her. She had special knowledge. 

This knowledge is so special that even I did not know. Somehow, I had scars that only she could know about. Let me tell you this, I do not carry scars from my childhood. What happened to me in the past, has been let go. I live a life of freedom. 

There is a fine line in the Christian world. We believe in the saving grace of Jesus. As I continue to live out my convictions, I find peace and joy. But, there is an "element" that makes the secular world look askance at Christians. It is when someone speaks for God and has not sought confirmation beforehand. God is not a God of disorder. 

Her words to me were dishonoring, disrespectful, and disquieting. I am left here: standing in the cold rain. 

Artist: Kate W.

Home

Fields of life.  Our spirits respond.  We long for home.  I long for home.  My wheelchair describes my days: outlining for me what activities are permissible, allowable.  Before . . .before my life changed, before I was imprisoned, I could wander. Taking long walks, Enjoying the freedom.  Color everywhere.  Nature's palette the most profuse.  The mystery of life.  My spirit responds.

 

LOST and FOUND

Near the end of my mother's life, she needed help eating. For unknown reasons, she forgot how to eat.  At times, she even forgot how to swallow.  It would follow that most of the time, she forgot who we were - her daughters.  She lived in her own world - an imaginary place.  She would talk about her work and what she had done that day.  The concreteness of her wheelchair never impeded her reality.  The fact that she did not know where she was never bothered her.  Her reality was her perception.  She was lost.

Nursing homes are warehouses for the lost.  Most of the elderly and sick in nursing homes are not visited by family members; they are not remembered.  Most of the elderly have lost and are lost.

 

But, my sister found a way.  Taking account of her life, she knew she could not abandon the sick, the frail, the lost.  Sacrificing her time and energy and money to care for someone who could not call her by name. The nursing facility provided what was required - legally.  My sister provided what was required - morally.

 

Caring for the lost is always costly to the caregiver:  thinking about others first; finding a way to supply.  Stories from World War II are abundant with examples of heroics efforts to care for the lost.  It is heart-rending to read about people like Oskar Schindler or Corrie ten Boom.  My sister should have a book dedicated to her: a book about sacrifices made, about battles fought, about tears cried; a book about the quiet, unacknowledged hero of the everyday.  My sister, Sharon, made her choices for reasons greater than you would think.  She fought for my mother's dignity not because she was our mother, but because my mother was a human in need and should not be abandoned.  My sister fought to find a way.  Even though my mother was lost, she was found.

May you never be lost; and, if you are, then, may you be found.

Carried Along

A year ago, my precious granddaughter arrived. What joy!

It is amazing to me that a child's child can stir within me a rushing river of love. If only I could live each moment with the same intensity of gentle love!

The physicality of life is demanding. As we age or struggle with illness and disease, the balance between mind and body totters. We fight through the fog that clouds our minds. I have seen it happen to those around me as they toil to eat or drink or breathe. I have felt it happen to me. 

I fight to live another day above the fog. As I look at her beautiful face and I feel that rush of love, I am carried along. 

Spending Spoons

One Saturday last month, the day started off hectic.

First, shower. Shower?  By myself, I wonder, "Can I do it?"  Slowly, I manage to get the water turned on. Gingerly, I step into the shower - clinging to the grab bars. Finally, I step back onto solid ground exhausted but clean.  I feel as if I have washed energy away as well.
 

Wet, I lie down on the bed, letting the towel absorb what it can.  Closing my eyes, I rest.   Then, time to get up and dressed.  More energy spent. 

Next, out the apartment door and down the elevator.  Riding my scooter to the car so that Vicky (kind, generous security guard)  can place the scooter into the trunk.  Precious energy spent on simple tasks. 

 

Two hours after my shower, I finally arrive.  As I wait for my son-in-law to retrieve my electric scooter from the car trunk, I try to rest - vainly trying to find my lost energy.  Everyone is gathering to watch my grandson play baseball. He is only 4 years old, but he has a natural, athletic ability.  Energy still oozing out of me.

After the game, it is time to gather over a meal. This is part of the ritual: first, watch the game other; second, eat and fellowship.  This is what matters.

I have spent all my energy (spoons). 

Time is sacred.  Family is sacred. Family time is sacred.

Walking a Straight Line

As I roll through the crowd, I call out, "I am right next to you."  The man hops a small step to his right.

 "I didn't see you," he says quickly. 

"No problem. I am short these days.  It seems I shrunk quite a bit," I quip. 

He chuckles at my lame joke as I roll pass. 

Commuting by wheelchair requires more attentive concentration than driving. The able-bodied are unaware of their environment as they walk along. Many are distracted with window-shopping, talking with friends, or listening to music. The most dangerous are those talking or texting on their phones. But, they all wander down the street. 

When I was a walker, I was a wanderer, also.  Never did it occur to me that I was not walking in a straight line. Not until I started to roll did I become aware of how often people really do a small weave as they walk.  They wander.  They wander and they fail to see.  The wheelchair rider does not exist to them.

If we fail to see God, is it because He does not exist? 

The next time you see someone in a wheelchair. . .

What About You?

A few days ago, I met a friend at the park near my place.  It was a typical warm June day.  The sky threatening to open up and send down another torrential outpouring of rain.   

She pulled a tissue out of her pocket and wiped away the water left over from the morning's rain. I had it easier; I just rolled my wheelchair over to where she had decided to sit.   We had arranged to meet at the park the day before. It seemed a good idea when the sun was having one of its glorious days.

She was distraught over a recent conflict that had developed between her and some family members. I hoped to provide some comfort.  A few days prior, another friend had emailed me the story of an argument that had broken out between two brothers.  The previous week, I had learmed of a daughter who would not talk to her father because of some unintended offense.  Lately, it seems that there is strife between family members. What is going on?  

Why are we choosing to live with strife? Every day we have the opportunity to make a new beginning. Whether we acknowledge it or not, we make a decision about the way in which we will behave.

One of the first things you might notice when you look at me would be the wheelchair. I am handicapped, but I am free. I live a life of blessings. The time that I have left has become full of love. Why am I out of sync?

 My handicap is visible. 

The Victor

FREEDOM

As you can imagine, my mom's passing has spurred me to do further consideration of my life.  These past several years, as I learn how to find a new life defined by muscular dystrophy, I had already begun a new search, a contemplation of the decisions I have made since a child.  Now, I am no longer a child.  For, I no longer have a mother.

For a long time, I was self-focused as I struggled to survive.  Moving from Chicago to New York to San Francisco to Cleveland and, finally, back to Chicago on whims of the moment.  Making friends and then moving on to new friends.  All pleasures were immediate as I hid from the past, from the child, from the victim.  Choices made were based on how they impacted me, only me.  Not realizing that many of my wounds were self-inflicted; letting myself to be victimized by my own decisions.

Over time, I slowly moved from Victim to Survivor.  Until, finally, with the birth of my daughter, I began to live for the future.  How glorious those years were (and still are).  The wounds healing a little more every time I looked at her and felt a surge of emotions - most importantly, love.  I wanted to do my best for her.  Yes; she taught me how to care for someone else; how to make decisions that took tomorrow into account.   Still a Survivor, but now broadening that circle; breaking down the hidden walls of my life; inviting love in so that I could give it to her.

Still freedom was an illusion: a dream to live unencumbered, free from childhood and adulthood demons.  How many of us have the same dream of freedom?  How many decide to self-inflict wounds?  How many continue to live as survivors?  I wanted more!

As a Christian, I began to search myself.  Digging through the layers of debris, I looked for the pearls.  Believing that God created me in His own image, I sought for His image of me.  Slowly, I healed.  Slowly, I found the Victor within me.

How tender are these years of choosing to be a Victor.  I encourage you: let the past be the past.  Whether that past was yesterday or 30 years ago, it is the past.  Hold no grudge.  Forgive.  Extend grace to all.  Love when it is easy and especially when it is difficult.  Smile.

The Driver's Side Door Closed for the Last Time

Recently, I fell out of the driver's side door of my car.  If truth be told, I did not actually fall out, but it felt as if I did.

My sister was there when I stumbled out - weak-kneed, looking as if I were incapable of driving - which I was.  Moments before, she had knocked on my car's window - letting me know that my wait was over.  The wait for my rescue.

The morning had started with some challenges: shower, dress, get to my electric scooter and out the door.  At least finding something to eat would be easy; the local coffee shop was around the corner and handicap accessible.  These activities alone had taken too many "spoons".  ( http://www.butyoudontlooksick.com/wpress/articles/written-by-christine/the-spoon-theory/ )

Still, after all these years, I overestimate how much I can accomplish in a day.  So, after all the morning's activities, I watched my grandson play baseball, then lunched with friends and family, and then into the car to visit my mom.

My mother is in a nursing home and has entered the last stage of her life - unaware of where she is and who I am.  One of my sister's is my mom's primary caretaker and advocate, but another sister and I had arranged to go visit my mom this infamous day:  the day that the driver's side door closed for the last time.

As I was driving out to the nursing home, a tightness started in my chest and my breaths came in short, shallow gulps.  I wondered, "Am I having a heart attack?"  "Oh, calm down," I scolded myself.  The tightness gripped my heart.  I started to pant.  "Oh no!  I am going to vomit all over the steering wheel!" "Relax! Relax!"  I spotted an exit ramp and headed straight for it.

I called my sister, told her where I was, and what was happening.  "No, no, do not call 911," I panted out and then waited.  Waited while the pain and nausea ebbed and flowed.  Laying in a sea of sweat, I waited.  Trusting my body to gain control of the autonomous system again, I waited while my sister drove to me. 

Slowly, my body did gain control.  Unable to talk, think, walk.  My only desire: get home.

That was the last time I drove my car.  As I stumbled into my sister's arms and she closed my driver's side door for the last time.



    

Pointing the Way

Yesterday was the day we gathered together for the "Cancer Walk."  Our team was called, "ILMO Julie."

As we walked the path, raising money for the local cancer support center, I noticed the names of other teams:  "ILMO my hero, Dr. Stone;" "In Support of my friend Randy;" and "ILMO Momy" was scrawled in crayon on the back of a four year old boy. 

The crowd was small, only about 300 or so. Yet, it seemed a vast ocean of representatives for those who could not represent themselves. Often, they carried more than one name of the fallen but not forgotten. 

These losses cut deep into our hearts. As the left behind, we understand our role as banner carriers. 

For me, I live to remember and hold strong. As I struggle everyday to find the energy to cling to the Hope, I remember Julie. At only 25 years old, she taught me the joy of hope. Hope learned through suffering. 

The day's activity ended with the balloon release. What hope when the balloons formed a "J" in the heavens. 

Slamming Doors

Remember, when you were a kid - a door slamming in the wind?  How startling!  Then, the wind would slam the door again.

Today, I heard a door slam.  The sound reverberating in me.   Taking a deep, calming breath, I told myself, "Everything will be okay."

These last two days have been quiet around the house.  My constant companions:  my two dogs.  Historically, it was easy to be by myself - easy to find something interesting to do.  Now, it is difficult to be by myself - difficult to find something interesting to do.  Oh, I still have plenty of activities that I find interesting:  I love to paint, read books, teach myself how to knit, practice my drawing skills, and even watch cooking shows.  But, it is difficult.  Counting the energy cost of every activity.  Every choice needs to be considered, for example: if I paint, what do I trade off in exchange?

Since December, I have had caretakers in my home.  They started off working a few hours a few days a week.  At the time, I could manage to cook an egg and make a very basic meal.  Now, I cannot: no cooking, no cutting, no opening cans.

One of my caretakers called in sick this morning.  "No problem," I thought.  "I am an adult.  I can take care of myself until 4 p.m."   At lunchtime, I heard the door slam.  As I tried to find something to eat that I could manage.  Any peanut butter in the house?  Nope.  Did not matter, could not open the jar anyway. 

The door slammed:  feeding myself is impossible - unless I eat cookies.  My refrigerator and freezer are stocked.  I am the problem in the equation.  Opening cans is not an option.  This morning, I struggled to open a Chobani individual serving yogurt cup.  Knives are unusable.  If the food is not already prepared and plated, I cannot eat.

The door slammed, "You cannot feed yourself.  You cannot be alone."

I am hungry.

Ready to Roll

Last night, i watched my 4 year old grandson on stage. It was grandparents' night at his preschool. What a delight to see all the children singing, playing instruments, and dancing (actually more akin to hopping and little girls swinging their dresses). Strong feelings washed over me: waves of delight, joy, and love. I wanted to hug each child and tell them how special they are.

The second part of the evening, we were invited to visit our grandchildren's classroom. Art projects were waiting to be viewed and sweets to be eaten. As I rolled into the refreshment area, I noticed one parent with three little children in tow. The eldest was probably 5 years old, the youngest was in his arms, and the middle child was sobbing. The dad looked frazzled: tired and worried, but not angry. He found a couch, put all three in a row, and dashed to the nearest display, grabbed some treats and handed them to his children.

Most of us can remember such events as we were growing up. Our parents sitting in an auditorium or visiting our classrooms. How different it felt to me when I was the child. It was a time of trepidation when it was my turn to be noticed. My mother had six children that spanned 13 years. With six children in tow, my mom's experience was akin to the dad with the three children. The reaction would have been different: my mom would have been angry. I learned to disappear.

Today, as I roll through the crowds I can no longer disappear. Children stare: I smile back. They are trying to process what they see. I am an anomoly. Adults carry their own experiences and apply them to me. It takes energy to deal with them. Even trying to just navigate from one side of the room to the other can be exhausting. Handicapped children are the best. They just come up and interact with me and my scooter. If they can ambulate, they manage to sit on my lap and are eager to ride around.

So, how does all this tie together? What doors are closed or should be? Which should be opened or are open? Everyday, we make choices. Everyday, I can choose to be like the adult: letting previous experiences define me. Or, I can choose to be like a child, especially the handicapped ones: open to the world and ready to roll.

Closed Doors

Closed doors:  they loom everywhere.  What coping mechanism can I use to effectively deal with all the closed doors? 

Closed doors: individuals who are not physically challenged see no obstacle.  Imagine: you stand outside a store, two doors before you, all you have to do is pull on one, just one, and entry is achieved.  But, wait:  you cannot pull on the door.  What options are available?  The easiest, a metal plate extended on a rail.  You look, hopeful.  There is none.  In fact, rarely do you encounter closed doors that have an extended metal plate.  Sometimes, you can find a button or plate mounted on the wall.  Even if there is a button, you need to reach - chancing a fall, and then move quickly out of the way of the door.  Most of the time, there is no button, no plate.  Another less desirable option: bang on the door.  Bang, knowing that the clerks are not positioned close to the door and will not hear you.  So, you must wait for someone to come by and open the door for you.

Closed doors: they need to converted into open doors - otherwise, I will go mad with frustration.  Opening a door to a brief encounter with the door opener.  Changing the situation to a two-sided exchange.  Finding a way that I can give them something in return: a kind word, a sincere thanks, a joke.

Closed doors need not stay closed.

Living in a Cage

Living with muscular dystrophy is akin to living in a cage.  It is as if am a bird whose wings have been clipped.  When I am seated, you may not notice my physical limitations.  Often, I hear the phrase, "You don't look sick."  It is true - until I try to get up and move.  Then, you will see the electric scooter and my struggle to move.

Every activity needs to be carefully considered before I embark on the journey of moving from one spot to another.  There are many elements that I need to take into my decision-making process; I need to count the cost of every action.  Taking a shower, for example, is so energy depleting that I need to take a nap afterwards.  Preparing my own meals is no longer feasible.  I dream of walking.

Opening Doors

I have decided to branch out and start including comment without artwork attached to each post.  The journey of creating an art piece take time to contemplate and execute.  Thus, too much time passes between each blog.

This is a decision to open another door to my life.

Hope in the Midst

 

Hope in the Midst

 

Hope in the midst of travail.  Everything around her is dark, except for the light that is emanating from her heart.  She refuses to be consumed by the oppression of her demons.  They seek to destroy, but she seeks to live.  Focusing on the light, she will make it through.  She has hope in the midst.

Trinity

TRINITY

 

Intense, burning love.  The spirit lives with complete expression.  Taking each heart, enveloping it - giving the soul what it needs.  Not providing the wants of life, for wants are subjective and fleeting - but providing the needs of life.  Each person needs love.  Love is the crucial ingredient of a satisfied life.  As each soul is loved, it then replicates that love.  How wonderful, how majestic! 

Reflecting

 

 

Reflecting

From ocean to lakes to ponds, water calls to us.  As I soak in the beauty, my body rhythms change: I feel my muscles relax, I take deeper breaths, and I begin to reflect:  what joy can be found when we take the time to live in the moment?  Each minute reflecting the beauty we find around us.  As we find comfort in our surroundings, we begin to reflect our nature.

The water and trees also find comfort in their surroundings.  How glorious!  The heavens declare:  God is here!  Nature reflecting her creator - reflecting light.

And, us?  Let us also reflect:  what are we declaring, what are we reflecting?
 

 

 



 

 

What About You?

The Basics

 

Toss some onions and garlic into a pan and let them work their magic.  The basics release their delicious aroma into the air; everyone who catches a whiff knows that a delicious meal is being promised.  For cooks, this is their foundation to preparing a savory meal: their basics.

 

What about me?  What are my basics?  To live life with honor and integrity, of course.  But there is more.  When I was younger, my basics were about doing things right, having order, being diligent.  Now, as I mature, I find that connecting with people is more important.  Love is the basics to living a life that has a pleasing aroma; everyone who catches a whiff knows that a promise is being made.

 

What about you?  What are your basics?

 

 



 



Glory Be

Glory Be

 

 

When I painted these flowers, I imagined how much flowers must love their world.  They gather together and proclaim their existence:  happy to be just where they are, content with whatever is going on at the moment, and proclaiming the Glory of their Being.

 

What a lesson to be learned:  be content, be grateful, be happy.  So often, we spend our time worrying about the past or future.  What great fun we could have if we just gathered together, raised our hands up as petals on a flower, and proclaimed the glory of our being. 


 

 



One August Day at the Farmer's Market

 

 

Farmer's Market

 

One summer day, as I was strolling through the local farmer's market, I stopped at one booth all the way at the end  and found these beautiful purple peppers.  They were gorgeous!  Next to them were these small, deep purple hued eggplants.  What a find!  A painting concept was born.  I bought some peppers, eggplants, and scallions and could not wait to get home.

 

Everytime I look at this painting, I am reminded of that day at the Texas Corners Farmer's Market.  It transports me to the image of me painting on my enclosed porch.  There I am: enjoying two of my favorite things: summer and painting.

 

Funny how the pepper that started it all is way in the back of the composition.  It holds the painting together.  Sometimes, we are that pepper: we sit in the background, helping others, keeping it all together.  

Sometimes, Don't You Just Feel Like Dancing?

 

DANCING FLOWERS

 

 

One summer day, I found these delicate, little flowers just swaying with the gentle breese.  What inspiration!  Be happy; enjoy the here and now.  The overused phrase, grow where you are planted, had new meaning to me.

 

Now, everytime I look at this paining, I smile.  It helps me to remember the times I danced.  I was never good at dancing.  I just enjoyed it.  Pure abandonment to gentle beats.  I loved to dance with my husband.  We even took dancing lessions for a year!  What joy!



RENEWAL

Living with a slowly-deteriorating, chronic illness requires me to reassess everything I do. All the time, I need to make sure that I am not operating under the wrong assumptions. For those of you who have not had this experience, it is difficult to fathom the process. One day I can open a container of yogurt, the next day, I cannot. Then, suddenly, a week later, I can again. Over time, the "I cannot days" out number the "I can days." Over time, the "I can days" might stop entirely.

It can be quite maddening - plans need to be conditional. Without notice, I rearrange my schedule to accommodate my body's demands. I have started to say, "If I feel up to it, I would like to . . .". Everyday, the counting of energy expended on any activity of daily living needs to be assessed. "Is it a good day for a shower? What else must I accomplish today?" I must find a way through the uncharted territory of my new life.

So the process begins: my new life is defined.

A MOTHER'S LOVE

Mother's Love

 

Originally, this painting erupted from me when a friend's two year old grandson passed away suddenly.  As a mother, I have felt the fear of the "what if . . ."  At times, that overwhelming, soul-searing fear still creeps in:  what would I do, how could I cope?

 

 

Now, my sisters and I are starting to face the reality of the loss of our mother.  The other end of the spectrum.  My mother's health and mind are failing.  She knows, too.  But, she forgets.  Recently, she told the primary care sister that she was ready to "walk with the angels."

 

This sister: the primary care provider has been and is doing an excellent job.  She has been devoted to my mom.  Providing the physical?  Yes. More importantly, she has showered my mother with emotional support.  Taking her out for boat rides in the pleasant weather.  Dining with her almost every evening.  Spending afternoons - just talking and laughing.

 

Showing love - a mother's love - in reverse.

THE GIFT

My friend - she reaches out to me, smiling.  For more than 30 years, her arms have always been there.  She hugs me, offers me a cup of comfort.  Always, saying, "I love you."

What did I do to have such a rich reward?  Nothing.  Unmerited grace.

What does she expect in return?  Nothing.  Unconditional love.

The Gift - of herself.

 

My Heart Aches for Julie

HEARTBREAK

 

A little over two years ago, Julie passed away from a brain tumor.  Even though she was only 25 years old, she understood.  See, she was originally diagnosed with the tumor when she was 4 years old.  Through medical breakthroughs, the tumor was reduced to a small lump in her brain.  Even though it left her with some paralysis, she lived an abundant life.

 

Then, in her early 20s the tumor began its deadly march through her brain.  The doctors told her that she only had a short time to live - 11 months.  Instead, for 2 1/2 years she battled the tumor and its effects:  more paralysis - more physical challenges.  She battled the other effects of living with a chronic disease - discouragement, frustration, fatigue.  Julie was not a saint, but she was courageous and happy and loving.  Through it all, she understood.  Life is a gift.

 

She is a saint, now.