I’m pretty sure I suffer from duplicitous kissing desires. Not that this is a medical term or anything. And, even though the word kissing is sandwiched in there, it doesn’t have anything to do with communicable diseases, although it could. It is actually about greetings.
The problem is, I didn’t grow up in a family that showed affection. Hugging and kissing weren’t really part of the daily repertoire. In fact, I can’t recall anyone ever hugging or kissing. I think I’ve managed, in adulthood, to develop a nice comfort level with platonic affection but I’ve never grown comfortable with giving cheek kisses as a greeting. I’m fine with receiving cheek kisses. In fact, I really love it when my friends kiss me on the cheek. It is a very warm and caring way to express affection and it sort of adds a bit of European flair to my day. I appreciate the breezy, nonchalant, flow of those who are proficient at pecking. But, if I try to offer a kiss of greeting, it just gets weird.
My friend, Debbie, and I have discussed our cheek kissing challenges. Really. We’ve actually talked about this. She, too, appreciates the gesture but finds it hard to reciprocate. So, we decided to practice on one another. Only, it loses some of its spontaneity when one of us announces, loudly, “Okay, I’m going to kiss you now.” The last time I was the kisser it was so outrageously stiff and unnatural that we both dissolved into laughter and Anna, as observer, shook her head and announced that she had just witnessed the most awkward thing ever.
I have a long way to go.
Friendly cheek kissing is part one of the duplicitous kissing desire. But then there is part two. The lip kissers.
I don’t have a lot of lip kiss greeting friends and acquaintances. Just a few. All men. And I’ve mastered the art of lip kiss dodging. When I see those puckered lips headed my way, I turn my head so that their lips land on my cheek. I’m pretty successful at it and have managed to avoid more than one unwanted smooch that, for me, just crosses the line from warm and friendly hello to, ‘hey buddy, back off.’ Those who know me well find the dodging dance rather amusing to watch, but they can laugh all they want. They aren’t the ones about to get a big wet one planted on their lips!
My biggest challenge to date an elderly man who lives in my mother’s retirement community. His name is Phil. Phil is a kisser. He is delightful to visit with, if maybe just a tiny bit unsightly. His mind is very sharp and his wit is terribly quick. He is blind for the most part so hair combing doesn’t seem to be a part of his daily routine. Or nail clipping. And then there is the slightly disconcerting sight of a good portion of his meals dribbled down his clothes. I know Phil can’t help those things and I enjoy seeing him from time to time. Because his eyesight is failing, if I get very close he recognizes both my voice and my face. He always seems to find genuine joy at seeing me. Or, sort of seeing me. One day, after not visiting with him for quite a while, I saw him in the hallway. If I hadn’t said anything he wouldn’t have known I was there but, I wanted to say hello and see how he was doing. When I got close enough he said, “Sue? Is that you?” I said it was and then, he loudly exclaimed, “Well Goddamn!” Which I guess meant he was happy.
For an old guy with a walker and a portable oxygen tank whose hands tremor constantly, Phil is deceivingly strong. Revivified by our greeting, he grabbed me in a bear hug and nearly squeezed the air out of me. And then commenced the dodging dance.
It is terribly awkward. But, honestly, I can’t be sure when those teeth last had an encounter with a toothbrush and frankly, the idea of it is just too upsetting. I try to be kind. But I’m not that kind.
I have, on occasion, asked myself what it would hurt. I mean, how bad can it be to receive a little hello kiss from Phil. I quickly answer. Bad. Really, really bad.
And then I remind myself that it is good to have boundaries and keep them. It is appropriate to know my own comfort level and honor it. Whether the concern is an informal greeting, how I allow others to treat me, how much others can impose their beliefs and values on me, or to what degree I let people make their problems mine. There is a point at which I have to say no thank you, set a boundary, and be at peace with it.
So…sorry Phil. Unpucker those lips.
Thursday, September 29, 2011
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
Who Am I Kidding?
I have a particular affinity for cowboy boots. I’m not really sure why since nothing else that falls into the category of ‘country’ appeals to me. I don’t wear belts with big buckles or shirts with snaps. I’m not into cowboy hats. And, truthfully, I find country music downright annoying. I might like country dancing except for the fact that my utter lack of coordination prohibits me from dancing in any form without looking like I’m having a seizure.
So, really it is just a boot thing.
Recently, I started thinking that I should try and find some boots in a more practical color. I have some that are pink and blue. Cute, but tricky to match with much clothing. I have some that are red and black; and another pair, embellished with big red hearts and turquoise arrows, that are just downright garish. Those are my favorite.
I also have a tendency to wear my boots with just about anything. On more than one occasion I’ve been ready to walk out the front door only to have a family member stop me to ensure I really do intended to leave the house like that.
I do.
Anyway, as I’m getting older and more mature I decided that I should find a less flashy pair of boots. That way I could still have the whimsy of wearing cowboy boots, but with an elegant, more subdued style.
I embarked on a quest. Okay fine, I embarked on an obsession, to find a pair of cowboy boots. I figured that the best place to start was Craigslist. I’m pretty sure I could muster up some philosophical reasons why ‘recycled’ clothing is good for the environment and produces less waste. But, the truth is…I’m cheap.
Sure enough, I found cowboy boots on Craigslist. Lots of them. But the ad that caught my eye included photos of scads of every color cowboy boot imaginable. Blue and pink and red and purple and white as well as the requisite black, brown, and grey. All those boots, there for the wearing. It got better. The owner was a former rodeo queen.
I’d never met a rodeo queen.
We arranged for a meeting place and I told her I only wanted to look at brown and black boots. But, the morning of our meeting she phoned and told me her plans had changed and it would be better if I could just go to her house. This was, of course, against my better judgement. But, after getting her address and looking it up on MapQuest, I told the voices of reason to quiet down.
I admit, I was a little excited. I’d never met rodeo royalty before! In fact, I had no idea what a rodeo queen did. Or, what made her royal. Or, if smelling like a horse caused her to feel slightly less regal. Nevertheless, I recognized that driving to the middle of nowhere, by myself, to the house of someone I’d never met, was a smidge reckless. So, I wrote her name, address, and phone number on a piece of paper and left it where my family could find it in the event I disappeared and was never heard from again.
But really, she’s a rodeo queen, what was she going to do, lasso me to death?
After putting my ill-placed trust in the validity of MapQuest directions, making several wrong turns, and performing a variety of miscalculations, I made my way down a washboard dirt road to the palace. Which, wasn’t a palace. I’m not completely sure what I expected but, whatever it was, neither the rodeo queen nor her house met it. Don’t get me wrong. She was delightful and pleasant; if a little scatterbrained. She definitely wasn’t wearing a crown. Or a cowboy hat. Or shoes. And maybe, just maybe she had the slightest little issue with being a hoarder. There was stuff. Everywhere. Piles and boxes and stacks of debris. I wasn’t able to ascertain why she decided the cowboy boots had to go. Based on what I saw it didn’t look like she’d ever gotten rid of anything. Ever.
She chattered away while she led me down an uneven and slightly treacherous brick pathway to what looked like a garage. I did have a moment of concern that, were she really a wrangling miscreant, my body might never be found simply because of all the mounds of refuse lying around. Instead, she led me into a lower section of the house and we entered through the backdoor. More piles. More boxes. More stuff. We finally arrived at the storage room which, frankly, didn’t look all that different from the rest of the house, and there were the cowboy boots eagerly awaiting new (and maybe neater) homes.
The rodeo queen left me alone to try on boots. Like Goldilocks, though, I couldn’t seem to find just the right pair of black or brown boots. This one was too big. This one too small. This one too worn. I started to feel a little discouraged about spending a huge chunk of my day and a half tank of gas on this pilgrimage.
And then, just like something out of a movie, I saw the boots. They weren’t perfect. The style wasn’t exactly what I wanted but, I knew these were the boots I was destined to own. My expedition hadn’t been for naught. The gods of used footwear had, indeed, smiled upon me.
I learned an important lesson through my quest for neutral cowboy boots. A lesson we might all take to heart. I learned that no matter how old I grow, in the words of Popeye, “I yam what I yam.” Regardless of the frivolity, I’ll probably always do impractical things just for the fun of it. No matter how much I plan for the sensible, I’ll probably always give in to the fanciful. And no matter how many pairs of brown and black boots are available.
I’ll probably always buy the turquoise.
So, really it is just a boot thing.
Recently, I started thinking that I should try and find some boots in a more practical color. I have some that are pink and blue. Cute, but tricky to match with much clothing. I have some that are red and black; and another pair, embellished with big red hearts and turquoise arrows, that are just downright garish. Those are my favorite.
I also have a tendency to wear my boots with just about anything. On more than one occasion I’ve been ready to walk out the front door only to have a family member stop me to ensure I really do intended to leave the house like that.
I do.
Anyway, as I’m getting older and more mature I decided that I should find a less flashy pair of boots. That way I could still have the whimsy of wearing cowboy boots, but with an elegant, more subdued style.
I embarked on a quest. Okay fine, I embarked on an obsession, to find a pair of cowboy boots. I figured that the best place to start was Craigslist. I’m pretty sure I could muster up some philosophical reasons why ‘recycled’ clothing is good for the environment and produces less waste. But, the truth is…I’m cheap.
Sure enough, I found cowboy boots on Craigslist. Lots of them. But the ad that caught my eye included photos of scads of every color cowboy boot imaginable. Blue and pink and red and purple and white as well as the requisite black, brown, and grey. All those boots, there for the wearing. It got better. The owner was a former rodeo queen.
I’d never met a rodeo queen.
We arranged for a meeting place and I told her I only wanted to look at brown and black boots. But, the morning of our meeting she phoned and told me her plans had changed and it would be better if I could just go to her house. This was, of course, against my better judgement. But, after getting her address and looking it up on MapQuest, I told the voices of reason to quiet down.
I admit, I was a little excited. I’d never met rodeo royalty before! In fact, I had no idea what a rodeo queen did. Or, what made her royal. Or, if smelling like a horse caused her to feel slightly less regal. Nevertheless, I recognized that driving to the middle of nowhere, by myself, to the house of someone I’d never met, was a smidge reckless. So, I wrote her name, address, and phone number on a piece of paper and left it where my family could find it in the event I disappeared and was never heard from again.
But really, she’s a rodeo queen, what was she going to do, lasso me to death?
After putting my ill-placed trust in the validity of MapQuest directions, making several wrong turns, and performing a variety of miscalculations, I made my way down a washboard dirt road to the palace. Which, wasn’t a palace. I’m not completely sure what I expected but, whatever it was, neither the rodeo queen nor her house met it. Don’t get me wrong. She was delightful and pleasant; if a little scatterbrained. She definitely wasn’t wearing a crown. Or a cowboy hat. Or shoes. And maybe, just maybe she had the slightest little issue with being a hoarder. There was stuff. Everywhere. Piles and boxes and stacks of debris. I wasn’t able to ascertain why she decided the cowboy boots had to go. Based on what I saw it didn’t look like she’d ever gotten rid of anything. Ever.
She chattered away while she led me down an uneven and slightly treacherous brick pathway to what looked like a garage. I did have a moment of concern that, were she really a wrangling miscreant, my body might never be found simply because of all the mounds of refuse lying around. Instead, she led me into a lower section of the house and we entered through the backdoor. More piles. More boxes. More stuff. We finally arrived at the storage room which, frankly, didn’t look all that different from the rest of the house, and there were the cowboy boots eagerly awaiting new (and maybe neater) homes.
The rodeo queen left me alone to try on boots. Like Goldilocks, though, I couldn’t seem to find just the right pair of black or brown boots. This one was too big. This one too small. This one too worn. I started to feel a little discouraged about spending a huge chunk of my day and a half tank of gas on this pilgrimage.
And then, just like something out of a movie, I saw the boots. They weren’t perfect. The style wasn’t exactly what I wanted but, I knew these were the boots I was destined to own. My expedition hadn’t been for naught. The gods of used footwear had, indeed, smiled upon me.
I learned an important lesson through my quest for neutral cowboy boots. A lesson we might all take to heart. I learned that no matter how old I grow, in the words of Popeye, “I yam what I yam.” Regardless of the frivolity, I’ll probably always do impractical things just for the fun of it. No matter how much I plan for the sensible, I’ll probably always give in to the fanciful. And no matter how many pairs of brown and black boots are available.
I’ll probably always buy the turquoise.
Monday, September 12, 2011
September 12, a Dog, and Hope
All of us who lived through the horror of September 11th, 2001 feel the collective sadness of that day. Our hearts broke. We felt violated. Angry. Afraid. And, of course, we will all remember the moment when we realized what was happening. Life truly did change as a result of that one day. We still suffer. And we still prevail. We still grieve. And we still overcome.
The work of healing began on September 12th, 2001. Grief, as a process, never ends. It simply evolves. Anniversaries generate healing and pain; both at the same time. At other times, our feelings ebb and flow. The process of grief begins at the realization of loss. On September 11th, we watched in horror and disbelief. On September 12th, we awoke to the reality of what had happened.
On September 12, 2001 we stumbled about in our pain and anger and confusion and tried to figure out how to live. How could we possibly ever feel normal again? Tucked into all that emotion was one simple experience that highlighted the need for normalcy when nothing seemed normal. It provided hope. It didn’t change the world or make the tragedy go away. It didn’t minimize any of the confusion.
It just simply was.
My oldest child, Charles, was nearing 13 at the time, and he was being home schooled. Part of that schooling experience included volunteer work. I felt strongly that giving to others was equally as important as geography or spelling. Even before the events of September 11th, I tried to teach my children that becoming a good citizen of the world is as important as knowing algebra. As part of his schooling, Charles volunteered at the local library one day a week.
His day to volunteer fell on September 12th. Charles had been deeply affected by the events of the previous day. Being a highly intelligent, sensitive, and emotional young man, the terrorist attacks on the United States were equally as devastating to Charles as they had been to any adult. But, since Charles was in the process of crossing that life-bridge from childhood to adulthood, the vulnerability of it all seemed even more pronounced. The loss of innocence was profound.
Charles kept his commitment to volunteer at the library and was assigned to work with the children’s librarian during story time. The focus of story time was a series of books by Norman Bridwell about Clifford the Big Red Dog. The children’s librarian planned to read a few of Bridwell’s books and have Charles dressed in a Clifford the Big Red Dog costume to entertain the children.
Adults lined the wall of the children’s library while their kids heard the stories. The librarian bravely read the stories as enthusiastically as if this were any other September story time. The children listened and then…TA DA…Clifford made his grand appearance. Children jumped and clapped and squealed and ran up to Clifford the Big Red Dog. Charles, as Clifford, engaged each child with a wave or a hug or a high five. The kids were delighted! Their laughter punctuated an otherwise dark day.
One by one, the adults who observed, started to cry. Quietly. Every adult stood by and watched as their child became lost in the joy of being a child.
The children’s joy was so simple. So easy. So natural. Too young to comprehend what had happened the day before, they likely felt some of their parent’s sorrow, even if they were unable to attach meaning to it. But there, on that day when it felt like the entire world had fallen apart, my son donned a hot, red, fuzzy costume and an oversized floppy-eared dog head and brought joy into the lives of a handful of children.
There was hope.
Hope in the librarian who bravely forged ahead with normalcy for the children who needed it. Hope in the adults whose tears fell as they knew life had to go on. Hope in a serious, shy, 12-year old young man who carefully attended to every child in the room even in the midst of his own heartbreak. And hope in a handful of children who still had time to learn love and forgiveness, even as the world would never be the same.
The work of healing began on September 12th, 2001. Grief, as a process, never ends. It simply evolves. Anniversaries generate healing and pain; both at the same time. At other times, our feelings ebb and flow. The process of grief begins at the realization of loss. On September 11th, we watched in horror and disbelief. On September 12th, we awoke to the reality of what had happened.
On September 12, 2001 we stumbled about in our pain and anger and confusion and tried to figure out how to live. How could we possibly ever feel normal again? Tucked into all that emotion was one simple experience that highlighted the need for normalcy when nothing seemed normal. It provided hope. It didn’t change the world or make the tragedy go away. It didn’t minimize any of the confusion.
It just simply was.
My oldest child, Charles, was nearing 13 at the time, and he was being home schooled. Part of that schooling experience included volunteer work. I felt strongly that giving to others was equally as important as geography or spelling. Even before the events of September 11th, I tried to teach my children that becoming a good citizen of the world is as important as knowing algebra. As part of his schooling, Charles volunteered at the local library one day a week.
His day to volunteer fell on September 12th. Charles had been deeply affected by the events of the previous day. Being a highly intelligent, sensitive, and emotional young man, the terrorist attacks on the United States were equally as devastating to Charles as they had been to any adult. But, since Charles was in the process of crossing that life-bridge from childhood to adulthood, the vulnerability of it all seemed even more pronounced. The loss of innocence was profound.
Charles kept his commitment to volunteer at the library and was assigned to work with the children’s librarian during story time. The focus of story time was a series of books by Norman Bridwell about Clifford the Big Red Dog. The children’s librarian planned to read a few of Bridwell’s books and have Charles dressed in a Clifford the Big Red Dog costume to entertain the children.
Adults lined the wall of the children’s library while their kids heard the stories. The librarian bravely read the stories as enthusiastically as if this were any other September story time. The children listened and then…TA DA…Clifford made his grand appearance. Children jumped and clapped and squealed and ran up to Clifford the Big Red Dog. Charles, as Clifford, engaged each child with a wave or a hug or a high five. The kids were delighted! Their laughter punctuated an otherwise dark day.
One by one, the adults who observed, started to cry. Quietly. Every adult stood by and watched as their child became lost in the joy of being a child.
The children’s joy was so simple. So easy. So natural. Too young to comprehend what had happened the day before, they likely felt some of their parent’s sorrow, even if they were unable to attach meaning to it. But there, on that day when it felt like the entire world had fallen apart, my son donned a hot, red, fuzzy costume and an oversized floppy-eared dog head and brought joy into the lives of a handful of children.
There was hope.
Hope in the librarian who bravely forged ahead with normalcy for the children who needed it. Hope in the adults whose tears fell as they knew life had to go on. Hope in a serious, shy, 12-year old young man who carefully attended to every child in the room even in the midst of his own heartbreak. And hope in a handful of children who still had time to learn love and forgiveness, even as the world would never be the same.
Thursday, September 8, 2011
Where is St. Francis When I Need Him?
I try very hard to be a gracious person. I’m not always successful but, I give it a good try most of the time. I try to see the best in people. Try to think about what God sees or what might have wounded that person such that they behave the way they do. Sometimes I even get so smug about how wonderful and gracious I am that I get downright self-righteous about it.
Which, of course, defeats the whole purpose.
The reality is, I’m not all that gracious, no matter how hard I try. And I realize that when I encounter stupid people, I just can’t seem to muster any grace. ‘Stupid people’ is a relative term, to be sure. I have my own definition though: anyone rude, cruel, entitled, and generally unkind.
I probably fit my own definition more than I’d like to admit.
Nevertheless, I encountered ‘stupid people’ the other day while at a garden center. With autumn and winter approaching I thought I should go talk to someone with composting expertise about what to do with my compost barrel through the cooler months. I walked up and down the rows of spindly trees sitting in large buckets. They were all tagged and for some reason reminded me of the elk in Rocky Mountain National Park with their tagged antlers. Anyway, I searched up and down the aisles for an employee and, at the same time, noticed a boy running up and down those same aisles. There weren’t very many customers around and he didn’t seem to be bothering anyone. But, I did wonder what he was doing.
He ran past me once and I saw what was happening. He had a dog on a leash, and a little bunny was running frantically to get away from the dog. But, the boy kept letting the dog’s leash out just enough to be right on the bunny’s tail. Boy and dog were happily chasing the poor terrified rabbit.
I found the scene disconcerting.
Granted, I am a pacifist and a vegetarian and believe we should hold all manner of life in high regard. I abhor violence. I don’t even like to kill bugs. To the degree possible I transport spiders and insects outside if they happen to end up in my house. Once this summer we had a fire in the backyard and a rolly-polly bug was on a piece of wood. I couldn’t be content at the fire until the bug was safely removed and placed back into the yard. And, once in a while, we have mice that try to get into the house when the cold weather settles in. I try very hard to encourage them back outdoors before we have to resort to setting traps.
So yes, I’m a bit of a freak.
Nevertheless, I can’t stand to see cruelty. Not to humans, not to animals, not to anything. So there I was witnessing a boy of maybe 11, terrorizing a rabbit with a dog on a leash. It didn’t set well with me. Although I was agitated by the scene, I tried to mind my own business and kept looking for an employee to discuss compost. But then the dog got too close to the rabbit and the boy yanked on the leash and the dog yelped out in pain and I’d had enough. I reproached the boy with, “Don’t do that. You are being unkind.”
At that point an older woman looked at me and asked what he was doing. I didn’t know who she was or what association she had with little Napoleon and his buddy Cujo but, I responded to her question. Then another, younger, woman said it didn’t matter, he wasn’t hurting the rabbit, and that the dog was on a leash. I really wanted to suggest that, maybe, is where the boy should be...but didn't. I was aware at that point I was dealing with mom and grandma. I’m not sure what would have been the right way to handle the situation. As it was, I shook my head and walked away. I wouldn’t have been able to speak kindly. Nor did I believe they would listen to my feelings and give them any credence.
But, if I had said what I was thinking I would have told them that it did, in fact, matter very much. I would have asked if it was okay for the boy to pick on someone smaller or handicapped at school, just because he could. I would have asked if it was okay for that same boy to verbally abuse his wife or kids when he is older just because he could. Maybe terrorize them a little bit without actually physically harming them. What would that hurt?
Granted, the boy was terrorizing a rabbit, not a person. But it does matter. It matters a lot. Terrorizing any living creature for the pure pleasure of it is troubling to say the least. Do we not have responsibility for the care of all living creatures, both human and otherwise?
I get that there are times when our lives intersect with creatures and we have to take action. If there is a rattlesnake or Black Widow spider in my house, yeah, I’m going to facilitate its demise! That isn’t what I’m talking about. I’m talking about a mother and a grandmother allowing a boy to terrorize a small animal for no reason aside from the glee in his eyes when he jerked the dog’s leash so hard the dog yelped and the terrified little rabbit kept running. Great kid you’ve got there ladies.
So much for grace.
Which, of course, defeats the whole purpose.
The reality is, I’m not all that gracious, no matter how hard I try. And I realize that when I encounter stupid people, I just can’t seem to muster any grace. ‘Stupid people’ is a relative term, to be sure. I have my own definition though: anyone rude, cruel, entitled, and generally unkind.
I probably fit my own definition more than I’d like to admit.
Nevertheless, I encountered ‘stupid people’ the other day while at a garden center. With autumn and winter approaching I thought I should go talk to someone with composting expertise about what to do with my compost barrel through the cooler months. I walked up and down the rows of spindly trees sitting in large buckets. They were all tagged and for some reason reminded me of the elk in Rocky Mountain National Park with their tagged antlers. Anyway, I searched up and down the aisles for an employee and, at the same time, noticed a boy running up and down those same aisles. There weren’t very many customers around and he didn’t seem to be bothering anyone. But, I did wonder what he was doing.
He ran past me once and I saw what was happening. He had a dog on a leash, and a little bunny was running frantically to get away from the dog. But, the boy kept letting the dog’s leash out just enough to be right on the bunny’s tail. Boy and dog were happily chasing the poor terrified rabbit.
I found the scene disconcerting.
Granted, I am a pacifist and a vegetarian and believe we should hold all manner of life in high regard. I abhor violence. I don’t even like to kill bugs. To the degree possible I transport spiders and insects outside if they happen to end up in my house. Once this summer we had a fire in the backyard and a rolly-polly bug was on a piece of wood. I couldn’t be content at the fire until the bug was safely removed and placed back into the yard. And, once in a while, we have mice that try to get into the house when the cold weather settles in. I try very hard to encourage them back outdoors before we have to resort to setting traps.
So yes, I’m a bit of a freak.
Nevertheless, I can’t stand to see cruelty. Not to humans, not to animals, not to anything. So there I was witnessing a boy of maybe 11, terrorizing a rabbit with a dog on a leash. It didn’t set well with me. Although I was agitated by the scene, I tried to mind my own business and kept looking for an employee to discuss compost. But then the dog got too close to the rabbit and the boy yanked on the leash and the dog yelped out in pain and I’d had enough. I reproached the boy with, “Don’t do that. You are being unkind.”
At that point an older woman looked at me and asked what he was doing. I didn’t know who she was or what association she had with little Napoleon and his buddy Cujo but, I responded to her question. Then another, younger, woman said it didn’t matter, he wasn’t hurting the rabbit, and that the dog was on a leash. I really wanted to suggest that, maybe, is where the boy should be...but didn't. I was aware at that point I was dealing with mom and grandma. I’m not sure what would have been the right way to handle the situation. As it was, I shook my head and walked away. I wouldn’t have been able to speak kindly. Nor did I believe they would listen to my feelings and give them any credence.
But, if I had said what I was thinking I would have told them that it did, in fact, matter very much. I would have asked if it was okay for the boy to pick on someone smaller or handicapped at school, just because he could. I would have asked if it was okay for that same boy to verbally abuse his wife or kids when he is older just because he could. Maybe terrorize them a little bit without actually physically harming them. What would that hurt?
Granted, the boy was terrorizing a rabbit, not a person. But it does matter. It matters a lot. Terrorizing any living creature for the pure pleasure of it is troubling to say the least. Do we not have responsibility for the care of all living creatures, both human and otherwise?
I get that there are times when our lives intersect with creatures and we have to take action. If there is a rattlesnake or Black Widow spider in my house, yeah, I’m going to facilitate its demise! That isn’t what I’m talking about. I’m talking about a mother and a grandmother allowing a boy to terrorize a small animal for no reason aside from the glee in his eyes when he jerked the dog’s leash so hard the dog yelped and the terrified little rabbit kept running. Great kid you’ve got there ladies.
So much for grace.
Thursday, September 1, 2011
Cha-cha-cha-cha Changes...
The first day of September. Time really does clip along at a pace far too speedy, in my opinion. And here it is, September 1. Summer is over. Well, okay, summer isn’t actually over until the Autumnal Equinox on September 23. But in my seasonal worldview; autumn has arrived.
While summer is most decidedly my favorite season, I do love autumn. But then, I also love winter and spring so, perhaps I’m just a little bit fickle. I’m fairly committed to attending to the things in each season that bring me joy. A lot of people say they love autumn because of the cooler, crisp days, lovely color spectrum of the trees, homey stews, and cozy sweaters. I’m pretty much just a fan of the word - autumn. I find it difficult to replace such a lovely and melodic word as autumn with ‘fall.’
But then I am also a person who has a list of favorite words. I might be a tiny bit anal retentive about language. My favorite word list is categorized. Some words are on to the list because they sound pretty. Some because they look attractive on a page. And still others because of their definition. Autumn fits nicely into all three categories. It is such a pretty word. Don’t even get me started on its fabulously inspiring counterpart, autumnal.
Words aside, some years I have lamented the first day of September. Not quite ready to let go, I’ve clung to the notion that I could squeeze a few more weeks out of summer. But, of course, the consequence is that I shorten autumn and then end up feeling cheated in December when suddenly it is winter and I haven’t fully appreciated the glories of autumn.
It can get a little complicated in my world.
This year, however, I feel as though I have fully engaged summer. I’ve been very intentional about enjoying it and appreciating it and not letting it fill up with activity. Consequently, I feel ready to embrace autumn.
The change of planetary seasons is a kind and gentle reminder to savor the seasons of one’s life as well. This year I do so with quiet and somewhat melancholy celebration. It is no coincidence that my mother’s failing health reminds me of the brevity of life and the need to savor and enjoy the days I am given.
Several years ago I lived in Southern California. There were lots of things to love about living there. Not the traffic, mind you. I did not enjoy the traffic. Nor the smog. That wasn’t so great either. And I really didn’t like the earthquakes. But… I had great friends and a fun job and there was always something interesting to do. What troubled my soul, however, was the lack of seasonal change.
To be fair, there are seasonal changes in Southern California. But unless you are very aware of them and really take the time to notice the changes, they are easy to miss. The temperature alterations are slight and the lack of deciduous trees blotted out the obvious reminders of autumn. As a consequence, the changing seasons blurred into one another. As did the years. I found myself longing for more intentional reminders of the passing of seasons. Moving to Colorado, I was able to, once again, experience the shift from one season to another.
Of course, the seasonal changes in Colorado can be a bit overzealous. We could just as easily get snow tomorrow as 90 degree temperatures. Colorado weather can, at times, provide its own reenactment of the Mary Jane Holmes story, Tempest and Sunshine. Regardless, there are definite seasonal changes and decided reminders that life moves quickly. How we live out each day is up to us.
How easy it is to get caught up in the busyness of the moment. How easy to forget to find joy in the little things. I’m always thrilled when I remember to notice something that makes me smile. Or, even to notice the things that tug at my heart. They are reminders that I am alive. And more and more I am reminded that life is short. It is up to me to live joyfully and mindfully.
So, on this first day of September, I choose to notice the subtle ways autumn is creeping in. By way of celebration, maybe I’ll make an apple crisp and make a party out of September 1.
After all, the way life seems to work is that we typically get a party when we arrive and a party when we leave. The rest of the time, the party is up to us.
While summer is most decidedly my favorite season, I do love autumn. But then, I also love winter and spring so, perhaps I’m just a little bit fickle. I’m fairly committed to attending to the things in each season that bring me joy. A lot of people say they love autumn because of the cooler, crisp days, lovely color spectrum of the trees, homey stews, and cozy sweaters. I’m pretty much just a fan of the word - autumn. I find it difficult to replace such a lovely and melodic word as autumn with ‘fall.’
But then I am also a person who has a list of favorite words. I might be a tiny bit anal retentive about language. My favorite word list is categorized. Some words are on to the list because they sound pretty. Some because they look attractive on a page. And still others because of their definition. Autumn fits nicely into all three categories. It is such a pretty word. Don’t even get me started on its fabulously inspiring counterpart, autumnal.
Words aside, some years I have lamented the first day of September. Not quite ready to let go, I’ve clung to the notion that I could squeeze a few more weeks out of summer. But, of course, the consequence is that I shorten autumn and then end up feeling cheated in December when suddenly it is winter and I haven’t fully appreciated the glories of autumn.
It can get a little complicated in my world.
This year, however, I feel as though I have fully engaged summer. I’ve been very intentional about enjoying it and appreciating it and not letting it fill up with activity. Consequently, I feel ready to embrace autumn.
The change of planetary seasons is a kind and gentle reminder to savor the seasons of one’s life as well. This year I do so with quiet and somewhat melancholy celebration. It is no coincidence that my mother’s failing health reminds me of the brevity of life and the need to savor and enjoy the days I am given.
Several years ago I lived in Southern California. There were lots of things to love about living there. Not the traffic, mind you. I did not enjoy the traffic. Nor the smog. That wasn’t so great either. And I really didn’t like the earthquakes. But… I had great friends and a fun job and there was always something interesting to do. What troubled my soul, however, was the lack of seasonal change.
To be fair, there are seasonal changes in Southern California. But unless you are very aware of them and really take the time to notice the changes, they are easy to miss. The temperature alterations are slight and the lack of deciduous trees blotted out the obvious reminders of autumn. As a consequence, the changing seasons blurred into one another. As did the years. I found myself longing for more intentional reminders of the passing of seasons. Moving to Colorado, I was able to, once again, experience the shift from one season to another.
Of course, the seasonal changes in Colorado can be a bit overzealous. We could just as easily get snow tomorrow as 90 degree temperatures. Colorado weather can, at times, provide its own reenactment of the Mary Jane Holmes story, Tempest and Sunshine. Regardless, there are definite seasonal changes and decided reminders that life moves quickly. How we live out each day is up to us.
How easy it is to get caught up in the busyness of the moment. How easy to forget to find joy in the little things. I’m always thrilled when I remember to notice something that makes me smile. Or, even to notice the things that tug at my heart. They are reminders that I am alive. And more and more I am reminded that life is short. It is up to me to live joyfully and mindfully.
So, on this first day of September, I choose to notice the subtle ways autumn is creeping in. By way of celebration, maybe I’ll make an apple crisp and make a party out of September 1.
After all, the way life seems to work is that we typically get a party when we arrive and a party when we leave. The rest of the time, the party is up to us.
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