In-between (second in a trilogy)

We spend most of our lives in-between.  Phases of our lives are marked by firsts and lasts, but we settle in to the security of the daily routines that make up our weeks, months, and years.  We each develop a rhythm for our normal in-between.  For some, it is a rushed pace, getting everywhere at the last possible minute, while others, at least outwardly, have a steady step-by-step life.  Sure, there are highs and lows, planned and unexpected breaks from the usual, but, for example, we know that a wedding does not make a marriage.  It is what comes before and after that one day, the in-between, that is important. 

This week we were brutally reminded about firsts, in-betweens, and lasts.  As a people we will soon see child and adult coffins symbolizing an end. Some will repeat words that have been said for centuries, words intended to comfort while experiencing a last.   For many, a new normal will contain a deep grief that has yet to arrive amid the busy-ness of the trauma, and families are beginning a yearlong journey of firsts – the first Christmas without, the first birthday date when the person is not there.

I was a kindergartner and had just gotten home from school for lunch when billows of smoke appeared in the sky and panic hit the neighborhood, and by the end of the first part of the story 15 classmates died.  So I know firsthand something about what is going on in Connecticut.   (you can Google Cleveland Hill School fire if you are interested or click here to read some of the gruesome event http://www.talkingproud.us/Culture/CleveHillFire/page84/CleveHillFireAftermath.html ). 

My trauma was in an era when there was no film coverage, no recorded emergency calls to be replayed over and over.  There were no busses of psychologists who rushed to help a community deal with disaster.  We simply put it behind us and never talked about it.  When classes resumed after the fire we did not talk about the part of the building that was rubble, about the smell, about the fact that we doubled up classes, and certainly we did not mention the names of those no longer there.  It was rare for friends who had been at the school to talk about that day.  When they did, it was about facts – we sang “Columbia, the gem of the ocean as we marched into the auditorium” – not about feelings. We know better today.  We know that drama and trauma need to be talked about, and even better, adults have resources on how to help the children as well as themselves process what they are feeling and experiencing.

We have all suffered terrible things during our life of the in-between.  Some of us had theirs played out on a more public stage.  And now it is the holidays, something that presents a challenge to many even without additional external stressors.  What we all have in common regardless of where we are on our journey in the in-between is that we are looking for hope.  Anne Lamott wrote, “Hope begins in the dark, the stubborn hope that if you just show up and try to do the right thing, the dawn will come.  You wait, and watch, and work: you don’t give up.”  This week as you put one foot in front of the other, as you try to do the right thing, whatever that means for you, may you find hope. When you do, take a minute to share it with a fellow traveler, for remember that for most of our in-betweens we do not need to be alone.

Marilyn

Firsts

My brother’s first word was “rrr-rrr” for railroad.  According to my baby book, mine was more predictable (“mama”).   We remember some special firsts.  That first kiss (George), first car (Ladybug, a red beetle), first plane ride (a propeller plane from Buffalo to Schenectady for my first all summer job at Camp Pinnacle).   For some reason I recall not my first day of school but my first punishment although I do not remember the infraction.  In kindergarten, Mrs. Engel made me sit in the kneehole of her desk during story time.

Many of us are at a time in our lives for a different type of firsts. This weekend I returned to Wheaton College for a holiday concert and entered Edmund Chapel for the first time in more than four decades.  Now, I’ve been on the campus several times over the years, driven through and seen new structures and the new crop of students, but had not been inside any of the familiar buildings. As I sat on a blue cushioned seat close to the front on the right side, snippets of memories of being in that majestic space played in my mind.  

I recalled orientation week and marching with all new students in the Parade of the World – me with people from New York, my roommate with those from Illinois and future friends under banners of Canada or Africa.  As I looked at the grand piano I remembered playing a Mozart concerto on it (well, more likely, a predecessor).  As the choirs marched down the aisles, I could summon up what it felt like to be walking up the stairs and settling on to the risers on stage and looking out at the audience.   

Going to Wheaton had been my first major step of faith based on what became of lifelong philosophy that continues to ground me today – if you do what you’re supposed to be doing, things work out.  I didn’t know anyone at Wheaton, but it felt right at the time to go there.  Three years later it felt right to leave.  It was a painful parting. I didn’t have the words then, but I sought social justice and, while others found it there, I no longer did.  There was also the practical issue of not wanting to take out another student loan when I didn’t know what I wanted to do after graduation.  So I stepped out on my own again and began my professional life.

While a ‘first’ may open a new door, it is how we handle what is behind that door that defines us.  Yes, there was a first piano lesson at age six, but it was the years of practice that led to being able to perform on that stage.  Yes, there was the audition the first week of college that led to a notice in the mailbox inviting me to be one voice among the selected many. Yes, Wheaton had been the right place for a portion of my journey.

So my trip to a Christmas concert turned out to be a pilgrimage. Walking through the big white door into the foyer and then the double doors into the chapel after all these years was healing.  In this Advent time of waiting, I encourage you to think about any firsts that may call to you.  Whether it is the first time you’ve jumped rope since you were eight, or the first time you’ve reached out to your best friend in high school since you parted ways, or the first time you tried to replicate grandma’s recipe for latkes, make a pilgrimage of your own.  Even if you trip on the rope, don’t hear back from your friend, or burn the potatoes, these ‘first time since…’ moments really can open a new door.

Marilyn

The Other Shoe

Do you ever wonder about the one shoe lying on the highway?  For years I’ve thought about the possibility of a coffee table book of photographs of that single shoe in the middle of the expressway, the sneaker on the side of the road, the Mary Jane in the gutter.  A part of that book would be stories to explain how someone loses one shoe out of a moving car, and how long it was before the owner discovered it was missing, and what the wearer did with the one remaining shoe.

Usually when we think about ‘the other shoe’ it is in the context of waiting for it to drop.  We’ve all had those strings of events in our lives where we sense the bad luck is not over and we wait for the next awful thing to happen.  Sometimes we even get jaded and shrug off the flat tire, the unexpected bill, the bad cold with a ‘of course, it was bound to happen’ and ‘poor me’ attitude.  You probably know someone who doesn’t truly enjoy a good thing because they believe that just around the corner is ‘the other shoe’ which will bring calamity, despair, and trouble, the guaranteed partner of a joy.

Yesterday was the first Sunday in Advent, a liturgical and personal time of waiting.  Most spiritual journeys and faith traditions have times of waiting and collectively we are currently waiting for more than a babe in a manger.  We long for and anticipate the peace that was proclaimed, the good-will-to-all about which we seasonally sing, the star to direct those seeking reconciliation.  What can we do – together and individually – during this time of waiting to ensure that when that other shoe does drop we can and do welcome it with grace?

Whatever we are waiting for – peace of mind, contentment, grace, the inner awareness of simple abundance – it will surely come to us, but only when we are ready to receive it with an open and grateful heart.
                …Sarah Ban Breathnach

Blessed Advent!
Marilyn

What Are You More Than?

Many years ago when visiting a new mom, my first question was about how she was doing and not about the baby.  She burst into tears.  “Thanks for remembering that I’m more than a mother,” she said while I merely nodded and tucked away two kernels of truth – we are more than our current headline and sometimes we need to be reminded of that.

My question was not intentional.  It was more that she was there and the baby was not and I had already seen and held the baby.  But obviously my question hit a needed note. 

You’ve been there yourself.  Whether your significant event was celebratory like a baby or a wedding, or a difficult issue such as a divorce or disease, your world, at least for the moment, revolved around that circumstance and you got used to hearing and answering the same questions from everyone in your circle.  This blog actually began as a series of weekly emails to my friends to keep them updated on my job search and later morphed into these musings.

The flip side of those common questions about our current situation is what we ourselves bring to social dialogues.  If all we talk about is our joy or our misery then we have allowed a tragedy or a happiness or a cause to define us. We can become so engrossed in our career we may not realize that our headlines consistently shout what we do, forgetting that what we do is not who we are. 

In those times in our lives when we are in-between dramatic headlines we become used to conversation that doesn’t require us to continually bare our souls or repeat the litany of the latest update.  This season of parties and gatherings, I’m going to try to remember that I am more than my current situation and so are those with whom I am breaking bread or sharing a drink.  So, if we meet and my opening question is, “What was the best gift you ever gave?” please don’t think I’m not interested in what’s going on in your life.  I’m just giving us both a conversation holiday.

Marilyn

 

A Bag of Groceries

The year that I lived in a boarding house I shared a bathroom with 4 people and a kitchen with 6.  My $10/week corner room with 2 windows was large enough for me to have a single bed against the wall to double as a couch, a desk and chair, a dresser, and a small stuffed chair with a side table and lamp.  Because there was no closet, it also held a $50 metal wardrobe from Montgomery Ward’s.

I was working fulltime and going to school fulltime.  Well, I went to classes when I had gas in the car to get there.  Money was scarce for me and the others in the house.  Everyone was busy, and while we were friendly we were not friends.  Since we were all going to be there on Thanksgiving we decided to have a potluck.  Hotdogs were on the menu. 

Wednesday after work I made Jell-O and as I was sitting down to play the piano in the parlor, the doorbell rang.  When I opened the front door no one was there.  I looked up and down the street but it was empty, and then noticed on the porch a brown paper bag with my name written on it in black marker.  I took the bag into the kitchen and started unpacking it.  In it were all the fixin’s for a Thanksgiving dinner.  My neighbors and I had a lovely traditional meal thanks to someone’s generosity. 

A couple of weeks ago I got the mail from my box in the lobby and as I was riding the elevator up to my condo, I thumbed through the envelopes.  There was one that I initially thought was an apply-for-a-credit-card type solicitation, but something seemed different.  Like opening the door long ago, inside there was a bag of groceries in the form of a gift card to Jewel for $100 from “a fan,” someone who knows that money is tight once again.

During the decades in between the two different doorbells of groceries I have done some things to pay forward such kindness and charity.   I’m sure not enough.  I have also tried to work on receiving such surprises with grace, since I’ve learned that for me, it is more difficult to receive than to give.

Winston Churchill said, “We make a living by what we get but we make a life by what we give.”  If you receive a gift this season, receive it with kindness.

If you have extra to share, I ask that you consider the organization for which I work.  By donating money that helps to provide entrepreneurs with needed financing, you support local small businesses.  Visit our website, www.accionchicago.org and click on Donate Now or check out our upcoming event, Taste of Accion, and purchase a ticket (half is a donation) and come and meet my great colleagues and taste and see firsthand the food, beverages, and products of some of our clients.

Why consider us?  Those we serve are unable to secure financing from traditional sources such as banks because their need is too small or they have poor or no credit.  Qualifying for a loan from us validates a small business owner’s confidence in their dream. Opening or expanding a small business gives the owners and families a sense of security and pride.  The businesses stabilize neighborhoods, and as those enterprises grow, our clients hire others.  Your donation of any size is like a bag of groceries for our clients.

In these days when, like me, so many are still struggling, and when we continue to see greed in so many places, it is nice to be part of a company that is doing well while doing good. 

Happy Thanksgiving!

Marilyn

A Taste of Home

When I was in college only those students whose family lived within a 2-hour drive were allowed to leave campus for Thanksgiving.   We had classes on Friday and rumor had it there once had been terrible accident involving students rushing to return to school.

For freshman that meant that this was the first holiday we were not with our families.  Conversations over Wednesday supper in the dining hall were unusually subdued.   Every dorm had its monthly meeting that night as soon as the doors were locked at 10pm. 

We were pretty quiet as we gathered in the main living area of Williston, the oldest dorm for women at Wheaton, a castle-like building complete with turret.  The agenda for that evening’s meeting included the usual business – reinforcing some rule, reviewing the calendar for the next month, etc. – and some holiday devotion.  As soon as the meeting was over and we returned to our rooms, the screaming and shouts of joy started.  During the meeting the Resident Assistants had put a package on everyone’s bed, a package from home.

Brown wrapping paper was quickly torn off and boxes opened.  “Oh’s” and “Ah’s” could be heard.  “Look!” a roommate would say as she lifted out a picture of the family, or a new pair of gloves, or a drawing from a younger sibling.  Enclosed letters were skimmed and set aside for later devouring.  The most common phrase, however, was “Try one!”

Almost all boxes contained a taste of home, some favorite cookie or pastry that meant family, good times, and holidays, treats that evoked traditions and lovely memories.  We gathered in hallways and lounge areas.  Conversations were lively as we shared stories as well as sweets.  Fashion at this impromptu party included new ski caps, fuzzy slippers, and, in my case, a brown and white silk scarf which remained in my wardrobe until just a few years ago. 

New types of bonds were forged as we discovered more in common and many worldviews expanded as we heard about diverse customs.  Sure there were tears and feelings of longings to be with loved ones, but the surprise taste of home made us realize that we were simply spending that particular holiday with a newly formed family. 

What would you want in your box from home.  Or, perhaps more important, think of a surprise gift you once received.  Anne Morrow Lindbergh said, "One can never pay in gratitude; one can only pay "in kind" somewhere else in life."  What would you send to someone who needs a reminder of a special connection?  It’s not too late to ship off a box or a card or extend an invitation.  And if you're concerned about people traveling, you could even follow the 2-hour rule.

Marilyn

 “Open your mouth and taste, open your eyes and see how good God is.” Psalm 34:8

Now, Where Was I?

Interruptions.  Distractions.  Detours.  Such things can break our focus, derail our plans, or take us off course.  Sometimes it is easy to pick up where we were, resume our train of thought, conversation, or task, but often a disruption sends us in a new and different direction.  Even a scheduled meeting can mean that we don’t get back to where we had been or what we had been doing before heading off to that appointment.  The brief hiatus this Monday Muser announced in September became longer because it took a while to regain my weekly writing rhythm.

The number of and variety of interruptions possible in our world today seems to be increasing.  Our phones, which no longer keep us rooted in one place, now notify us that we have email.  Even as we watch one news story a ticker tape runs across the bottom of the TV screen streaming with other headlines.  Ads pop up, robocalls sell and tell.  The outside world can bombard us and interrupt us 24/7.  I found a statistic reporting that the average worker experiences 50 interruptions a day and that seventy percent of them have nothing to do with work.

One result of this new norm of expected and accepted interruptions is the fact that we have become an immediate people.  We seek immediate gratification, answers or solutions, and think that we must act right away.  This is reinforced by movies that resolve complex issues in two hours and by the ‘call now to receive a bonus’ commercials that interrupt the plot.  In the middle of dinner we can ‘Google’ to look up the exact year that Tootsie Roll was introduced to prove our case and resolve a conflict.

Another by-product is that we are constantly in-touch and in-the-know both in our own circle and, through round-the-clock news coverage, with the world at large.  Those not by a computer or TV all day or who leave their cell phone turned off, may not realize how addictive a beep, vibration, or ‘this just in’ message can be.

Because of this immediacy norm, we have a generation that hasn’t experienced busy signals or a boss’s closed door.  It is easy for any of us to become our 3-year old selves, unable to understand the concept of ‘wait.’  Just monitor your frustration level the next time it takes longer for a website to open up.

Still one more result of our instant society is that we invent ways around the interruptions.  Record a show and fast forward to the end, use In-Demand and avoid commercials all together.  Missed calls go to voicemail.  We also find ways to reframe the inevitable intrusions into routine conveniences such as the ability to answer the phone with the touch of a button on the steering wheel. 

I rant about this today because tomorrow we finally bring to an end what has seemed to me a very long intermission.  I have not experienced this election cycle as a process that we are privileged to share.  Rather it has been a lengthy disturbance that has not energized, and from what I hear when I do tune in, I am not alone in this reaction. 

We all know that elections matter, that we should be engaged and informed, but it has become awfully hard to balance our immediate lives to the yearlong campaigning.  Whatever side of the aisle calls to our values and priorities, let us all exercise our right to vote, deal with the results, quickly adjust to whatever unfolds, and together find a path back from the detour of partisanship.   

Of course, the larger problem with all of this is summarized by C.S. Lewis when he wrote, “The great thing, if one can, is to stop regarding all the unpleasant things as interruptions of one's 'own,' or 'real' life. The truth is of course that what one calls the interruptions are precisely one's real life -- the life God is sending one day by day.”

I hate to interrupt a good rant, but, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go muse about that.