Update on my health and other considerations:

Sorry to have been so absent, but I have recently joined a discussion group based on the book, The Faith Club.

But, because a lot of people access my blog because of my problems with mold, I thought I would update with a little critical information.

First, I noticed that my hepa filter machine was contaminating the air in my room. Thinking that it must be the filter had gone bad after only three months, I bought a new one. But it didn't do any good. On closer examination with my trusty black light which reveals fungus, I found that the interior of the machine was contaminated. Naturally, I removed the air filter and examined it from the front, the area where the air would come through the filter, but there was very little contamination between the filter and the fan. After reassembling it, I began examining the outside of the machine. I found that all the seams around it indicated a small amount of air seepage, i.e., the seams glowed. But what was shocking was when I turned it around and examined the back, the manufacturer has put holes in the back so the unit can be hung on the wall. These little hook shaped holes were filled with dirt, dust and, yes, fungus. I took Q-tips and pulled out at least a teaspoon of contaminants from each hole. What the manufacturer hasn't done or even attempted to do is to maintain the integrity of the machine. Once cleaned, I could see that the Styrofoam insulation for the fan housing is completely open and exposed there allowing contaminates to work their way into the fan itself.

I began by trying to contact the company. They obviously don't care. Then I went to research hepa filters and I found that this is a known issue. I found good information on hepa filteration at The Allergy Buyers Club. Look below the air filters for a list of articles on air filtration and what all of us need to know.

As far as I'm concerned, even if I didn't have extreme allergies, I wouldn't want a machine that would allow dangerous and allergy causing contaminants into my room even if I were trying to just have better air. For those of us who suffer extreme allergies an industry wide rating system needs to be instituted. Machine need to be rated several different ways. Some are better for some types of contaminants than others, for example. More importantly because this little machine did do a superb job for about three months, the rating needs to be established after the machines have been in use for a period of time. In short, it matters not a wit that a machine is rated by the manufacturer to clean 99.97% of all contaminants from the air!

In short all that I had spent on that little machine is a waste of money! Now I need to find another air purifier/sanitizer and probably spend quite a lot more in order to buy a machine that is effective for my needs. For the record, I had simply gone shopping locally for the two machines that I did buy, same brand, and I bought what was available. Sadly, others might make the same mistake but like me suffer without realizing that the machine they are staking their lives and health on are their worst enemy. If I didn't have a blacklight and a contagion that shows up under black light, I might never have discovered this!

It is mind boggling that the company cares so little because sealing the seams and blocking the hook holes would cost little or nothing! Buyer beware!

Dry, dry hands! I was suffering from eczema and I spent money out the whazzoo to go to a dermatologist. His very expensive medicines were doing no good. In fact one of them seemed to make my hands worse. While shopping in Wichita, I ran across one of those little kiosks where they were selling Dead Sea Salt products. The very nice young woman who saw me putting on hand lotion called me over and she demonstrated her product. OUCH! I was telling her I have eczema! She assured me it would be good for me. I bought some other product from her, but not her salt! But then . . . my hands got so much better! In the next seven days my hands were much improved! I went back to the mall and couldn't find them. I'll admit it was terribly pricey but better than the cost of the dermatologist. She had told me they had a web site and so I went in search for it. However, I found other companies that sell Dead Sea Salt for considerably less. So, I bought some. Shipping wasn't cheap! But I'm using it once a week.

I simply scrub my hands with it. I also bought vegetable glycerin and I've added a several drops each of bergamot and tea tree essential oils to the bottle. I made it fairly strong. So, after using the salt, I apply a little of this--which is really intense moisturizing.

I'm no doctor. You can take my singular experience as my own testimony for what it is worth. You may find products by searching the Internet that are better.

The company that introduced me to the idea has several good products--as I said, I bought some--and they are Deja Vu Cosmetics.

And later--before I found Dead Sea Salt--I remembered a local bookstore sells Dead Sea products. I bought a lotion that I dearly love called AHAVA: Dead Sea Laboratories

All of these produce this silky feel to my skin and it can only be the salt itself. My hands are nearly completely healed now in just a few short weeks. I am so thrilled! And no, at this time I own no stock in any company that manufactures and imports these products. ;) But maybe I ought to!

I have not tried it yet, but my local health foods store claims that Himalayan Salt works the same way. They also sell the pretty pink salt for eating and she claims it is the best tasting salt and the only one that those on low sodium diets can eat. But I haven't tried this.

Both the Dead Sea Salt and the Himalayan Salt are low sodium and have trace minerals, btw. This is just a warning that I stumbled across--luckily--Sea Salt is not the same! There are no substitutions for these fairly pricey salts. I still feel that the discovery that has given me so much comfort the price seems low in comparison.

End of Year . . .

It is right and fitting that the year should end curled up with an excellent book, isn't it? I have just finished reading The Thirteenth Tale by Diane Setterfield.

It was an excellent book for those who like an old fashioned whodunnit, very British. I am serious when I say old fashioned because Ms. Setterfield tends to write in a style heavily reminiscent of the 19th Century greats such as the Brontte sisters. Since I tend to that style myself it was very comfortable. My only disappointment was the Thirteenth Tale when it was finally revealed, but, since that says nothing about the plot itself, it is a small thing.

I also began to read The Fire of Your Life, a book of meditations by Maggie Ross. There are meditations for each month of the year. I've only read one, November's. I think it is in for a reread. These are not meditations to be hurried through, but relished and contemplated. They are even the type of meditations that spawn more meditations. It may indeed take a year for me to read them all.

So, back to the whodunnit: I am reviewing the genre for the purpose of beginning to write the suspense novel that has been brewing this past year. Of course, that takes reading that style of writing or, as some would say, a study of the genre. I have always loved mysteries.

Sometimes I think I have an outline taking form and sometimes I feel as though I am still feeling my way. No matter where I begin, there will have to be more flashbacks than I care to use. Past tense is dead, lifeless, static. What POV shall I use? I think that is my big issue right now.

At any rate, should any reader accost my blog today, I wish them a reflective and safe New Year's Eve and a happy New Year! One should never party and end a year in drunken revelry! They should remain watchful as the old year ends, intent on the new beginning that is coming, the fresh start, rather than waking with a hangover and beginning the year on a bad and grumpy note.

Morning Pages:

It has been a number of years since I actually practiced a daily act of journaling, what Julia Cameron calls Morning Pages. I joined a group yesterday with the thought that it would do me good. Immediately, I saw some of the old familiar questions that haunted me so long on my now defunct Artist's Way* listserv. So today, here, I am going to give the advice I won't let myself give there. I'm just going to be a participant this time, a member of the group. Ideally, it is a circle, anyway.

My mind played with the immediate objective of releasing the creative person within. It sells the process. But, as I considered that somebody was asking if they should join the group at Chapter 5 because they joined late or begin at the beginning and I was considering my own advice--which I refrained from giving on the grounds that I am not the facilitator in this group--I would say to begin at the beginning because the process builds on itself and the first three chapters are crucial. What releases our creativity or unblocks us is, in actual fact, far more than a mere block. We are constipated or, to be even more harsh, crippled by the cumulative effect of these monsters that haunt us. The process heals us and releases us from a great deal of emotional baggage we've been hauling around. When I had my list, I was convinced that the process would be good for everyone, not just blocked creatives.

Those first three chapters release a tumultuous deluge of emotion. As I recall, and it has been ten years since I first worked through the book, it began with dreams--vivid, sometimes nightmarish, memorable. It began almost as soon as I began doing MPs. It brings the subconscious to the conscious. And as the process evolves and the book works on the various ways we have allowed blocks to form in our creative flow we begin to see that our mind has been attempting to protect our selves from destruction, but the ghosts of the truths it has hidden from us often turn out to be merely mirages, or mists. These are not real ghosts, they are laughably inept and powerless ghosts, to say the least. Some turn out to be rather inane, really. They are like the monster that hid under your bed when you were five.

Many drop out in these first three chapters. The third is the most difficult, if I remember correctly. Later, once through the book and through the process, it is difficult to figure out by rereading the book what caused so much tumult at the time. It seems so benign. I think it happened again in the seventh lesson, or so. If I recall correctly, I entered a desert--and we don't like deserts!--from lessons seven through nine. I used to work very hard at encouraging those who were dragging and I feared may drop out to keep struggling. To raise the ghosts that haunt us, if you will, and then not prove them to have no power over us--I think--is to do ourselves more damage than had we never begun the journey. They resuscitate the monster under the bed but never get out of the bed to look under it in order to see that it is little more than a dust bunny hiding there. My best advice to anybody before they begin the journey is to keep that contract by all means! Do not even begin or else finish.

This is oft repeated advice: Begin at the beginning. Come to the page every day. Morning Pages are best done first thing in the morning, but if they are forgotten before the habit is firm, do them later if necessary. Morning is important because we're looking for the biggies, not the daily grind. If you don't have time to write, try to make note of those first thoughts of the day and deal with them when you do get to the page. Try by hand first. Save them for six weeks exactly as you are told to do (I can't check this fact) and then read them--the garbage is so much more beautiful and more meaningful than it felt! Hide them, whatever, but use them to HEAL. Do your work and move right along. Don't fool yourself into thinking that you need to spend more time on a lesson! Make it in twelve weeks.

Note: I do not have my book in my possession in order to be more specific or double check my memory.

Back from Kentucky!

I hope that everybody had a happy, love filled, overflowing cornucopia for Thanksgiving!



If life is harsh from day to day; if we think we suffer want; if our hearts our broken; if our health is tipsy; if we think our food budget is overstretched and it is getting more difficult to pay the bills; if our home is destroyed; if we are divided--there is still a reason to celebrate our Thanks Giving for all that God has provided for us.

A few years ago, I did research on the first Thanks Givings and, naturally, giving thanks is the reason. Long before it was a scheduled holiday, people put on the best feast they could gather together to give thanks, but probably also to remind themselves that there is hope for the future, hope for a benevolent God that is, in the long run, looking out for us. They held an early thanks giving at Valley Forge. Nowadays, we want to pin down a particular "first" Thanksgiving. Traditionally, we think it was the Pilgrim's celebration of their first harvest. Official announcements recorded as history do not necessarily make an event the first event of its kind. The precedent had been set long before. When I attempted to actually track it, I found it somewhere in the old country first, a mention here and a mention there--but more of an event called at the spur of the moment, a sharing of abundance or the pretense of abundance, an excuse to celebrate, to lift spirits. Thank God for what we have! Yes, a celebration far more casual than our present tradition would imply, never mentioned as anything official--and how natural is that? Christians have always given thanks!

We thank you, Father, for all the blessings of this life.

###

I'm still reading Anne Lamott's book, Grace (Eventually). I am almost finished. It happens sometimes that I enjoy a book so much that I begin to read it sparingly, a few pages at a time rather than racing through it. Although I don't think this is her best book, by far, I always enjoy her honesty and she always inspires me. So my holiday was tinted by Grace (Eventually). It took on that hue of honesty. I wanted to try my own honesty, pry it loose from my reservations on the private page. But I had forgotten to pack my journal! I'd left it sitting on the corner of the desk.

I'm getting to the age that to think about doing something does not equate to having done it, even though logic tells me that if I am prepared to, as in having assured myself that my journal was handy to take with me, I surely would. So, it didn't get slipped into the bag with my book. I was so frustrated, I almost bought another notebook except that I have four in the works right now and reading my journal is growing complex if I want to keep things in the proper time sequence.

We had an interesting holiday. Elderson keeps things lively and emotional. To remember events is to chuckle--even if chuckling didn't seem to be the emotion of the moment in its original context. He is an idealist. If there is one thing I have learned in my life, it is that striving for the ideal envisioned is suicide for joy. It is very similar to being a perfectionist. I'm both by nature. I struggle to keep idealism and perfectionism from ruining my life.

To hint at his ideals: Money is something somebody else spends . . . Teenage boys need to be more rough around the edges . . . they should like to play poker, to master dominoes and to have a brawl for the fun of it . . . and, (worst of all) since he just broke up with his fiancé last fall, hope should equate to fulfillment . . . !

I can't divulge all of it as honestly as Anne would. I don't know how she does it. In short, I began to contemplate selfishness a lot this weekend. In a very loving way, of course.

We are all selfish and all our behavior stems from our individual world views, limited by our needs, hopes, goals and brain power. I noted how we all interact. I spent most of yesterday staring out the window as we progressed from northern Kentucky through Indiana, Missouri, Kansas and finally home to Oklahoma. I composed and recomposed what I would write if I had my notebook realizing all the way that if it weren't written at that moment and the effort made to reconstruct it later, it would be as stark as the bare trees in the misty landscape outside the window.

I was amazed that I could stare at virtually nothing but bare trees and the undulations of the wintertime landscape for so many hours while my mind churned away on the subject of loving each other unconditionally and the unity of the whole family. The lumpy, knobby knitting together of such diverse individuals and the hereditary similarities that are more cause for differences of opinion than for agreement.

Don't get me wrong, it was a pleasurable weekend and not a single major problem came up. But Ike was a little disappointed in his brother. I think he is finally old enough at 17 to see Elderson as he really is. He found some limitations in Elderson's knowledge of music, for example, and that was predictable. But Ike's own ideals couldn't conceive of the fact that he and his brother love different things about music and have a different focus. It was very difficult to forgive, actually. The hero image lost some of its gloss and Elderson couldn't wear it anymore. He was also slightly offended by a couple of near angry outbursts on Saturday afternoon when Elderson was more controlling toward me than he should be and didn't treat me as respectfully as Ike thought he should. A few minutes later, I observed, Elderson had said he needed some time alone, that he isn't accustomed to having people all around all the time. I took that in the way of an apology because apologies aren't always outright. I'm the same way, I need time alone, too, and so does Ike. So, we left him to himself for a while and went shopping and by the time we returned, Elderson was gathered back together.

But this is love and this is family. I know how much Elderson loves me, how he tells me his deepest most heartfelt feelings and shares his wounded self with me. And I will always love my son with all my heart despite the fact that he is far from perfect, far from ideal and equally as human as the rest of us. I disappoint myself all the time and worse than anybody else has ever disappointed me. That was my point to Ike--because we all are as undeserving of love as anybody else, or in other words, we are all equally deserving of love as anybody else, loved for our best despite our worst. Elderson is so sensitive, so wounded by the world--and always has been. He knew a lot about music, Ike just outgrew that knowledge and has taken on the burden now of being the most knowledgeable member in the family on the subject of music. Elderson has his own special qualities and owns his own turf. He is actually more of a writer/poet than a musician. I remember that Elderson was born so happy and greeted the world with high expectations and so, ever since, everything has been downhill, a disappointment . . . and we went to Kentucky--afterall--because he needed a boost and some companionship over the holiday that marked what would have been the weekend of his wedding.

That brings me to selfishness. The more needy we are, the more selfish we will be. But the converse is not true: the more secure we are, the less selfish we will be. As I said early on, we are all self centered and that is our world view. We suffer moments of unselfishness, even surrender ourselves for short periods of time to complete selfless generosity brought on by love--but even our generosity will spring from within that self centered framework in how we perceive each other's needs and how we can meet them. Families are knit together not from choice so much as by accident. We are a bumpy weave, a colorful weave, but we are warm and fuzzy and give each other the opportunity for moments of utter unselfish devotion. Ideally (and there I go with my idealism!) we balance each other, we smooth over life's difficulties. When he is weak, I am strong and hopefully the reverse would hold true. But sometimes we end up propping each other up, like a house-of-cards, trying not to shake and, holding our collective breath, try to put another support into place. Without each other, we would all be destroyed, lost and alone. So we don't judge, we just love. We look for the cause of our distresses and discontents and forgive them. We let the past flow away like a leaf on a stream. We relish the moments worth relishing and Thanksgiving was created for that purpose. It isn't the easiness of life we give thanks for! It is having eeked out a living against near impossible odds that arouses a need to celebrate and to give thanks. It is to build hope sufficient for another year of struggle, to drag out the plough, hitch it up to the oxen and begin a new furrow; hope for another year of surviving.

So, what did the Pilgrims and the men at Valley Forge have in common with us as we celebrated this Thanksgiving? The simple, powerful, overriding need to look on the bright side, to ignore our need and what we've lacked, build hope, share love and a toast--to next year, may we all survive! God willing!

November walk:

For a better look at these photos, click on them!



A sycamore in full fall glory at sunset!



The prairie



This was a great year for tallgrass prairie! It is as tall as my husband and he's 6'2" tall! And, yes, in case you are wondering, we were walking through it. We were hunting trees.



Photo taken from a low water bridge on Turkey Creek

This is the place that has been a game preserve of one kind or another since the 1930's when it was established by a local oil baron that we visited last week for the first time. We returned today ostensibly to locate trees for the owner to transplant near his home. The present owner runs elk and deer. What can I say? It is a beautiful place to walk and I could post twice as many photos and they are all equally beautiful!

Refocusing:

This has been coming on for a while now. I need to reconnoiter. Maybe not just reconnoiter! I also need to rebuild. I'm torn down. Tired. I've lost my way--sorta.

I was disappointed in myself when I didn't do the NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) this year. I had one great day of inspiration and I didn't write any of it down. Then I tried to sign up and, since I've changed my email address, I'd have had to get a new ID, lose my history and all that. So, it just never happened.

And Carolyn--especially Carolyn!--is always so steady. I hate to let her down. But the clincher is, I'm letting myself down, too. And so I hope that if I go back to the well, I'll take a drink and be refreshed.

My faith has been doing lots of strange things of late. Sometimes I simply flow with inspiration and sometimes I feel like a dried up old prune. I'm just not writing much of anything right now. I visited Ron's blog this evening and found some soothing thoughtful posts and rested for a while. I can always find peace on Jim's blog, too. Derek is challenging intellectually, but always gives me that same sense of peace and goodness that I need so much right now. And I've taken up a little more interest in Via Crucis--Jon's blog. Jon makes me think that I really ought to be in Washington! Ron's close to there, too. And Brother John (but he hasn't got a blog, I don't think!) There must be something in the air up there. Washington is a great place--it is where my Dad built his boat and I spent several happy summers. These places are comforting and good, warm and friendly. I want to renew my old friendships, or refresh them.

One problem I have right now is that I can't do very much. Maybe tomorrow I can manage to write down the heart of what is weighing on my mind. Or maybe the day after. I think it is time to heal.

kataphatic theology:

Humbly, I'd never heard of it before. Note that I did not capitalize it. I know about kataphatic practice. I understand the concept of negation--or at least I understand it in the way a book keeper differs in understanding the books from the way an accountant will. I understand its application. This morning I visited Maggie Ross' site again and she sent me on a tangent of research at the beginners level to try to understand. She is quite the intellectual. I began with Wikipedia!

She may help me make that leap I've never quite managed to make into a more intellectual pursuit of the mysteries that intrigue me. I had resented the introduction of psychology into explaining mysticism. Not that I resent science, but I resent tangling science and religion in such a way that the science seems to subtract from the experience of faith. Evelyn Underhill, in her famous work, Mysticism, was the first to assault my prejudices. Perhaps I am more receptive now to the idea. At least I don't mind using psychology to attempt to explain the phenomenon, but I have accosted those who tangle psychological terms and religious terms in such a way that the confusing muck that remains once they are done is sufficient to bog down any communication. I hate the misuse of the word ego as a substitute for soul. I think it is an injustice to both the science and the practice of faith.

I guess I am taking this two ways this morning. My first consideration is how to communicate concepts such as kataphatic theology. Maggie dislikes the use of the word spiritual. I recoiled because, quite honestly, I am such an ignoramus! I'd be ashamed to say to her, "I use the term, but simply because I haven't found a better term to express it."

Communication in my mind means to communicate to anybody--not just the limited few, but across boundaries, from catholic to protestant or Christian to Buddhist and maybe even educated to uneducated, although I fall into the uneducated in religion category. What good does it do to speak past each other or to mull over a theology that is so advanced in the way we have rendered it through our vocabulary that it can't touch the ground from the lofty heights of its ivory tower? If it is not going to help the masses, then it isn't worth the effort to think about it. Until we have overcome the language barrier and learn to speak to each other in a shared vocabulary we tend to speak past each other. How does a liberal speak to a conservative, or a Catholic to a Baptist? In the end she mentions using the word faith, since she likes it. I thought of all the baggage that I have found dragging along with the word faith. I have asked people to define the word faith and I get all sorts of responses. So, if I use the word faith, or spiritual for that matter, the baggage the person carries is going to define how they receive the message and it will tint their understanding. One reality, many religions!

It may occur to somebody that the current tendency to anti-intellectualism especially on the far right side of Christendom might just be a response to this phenomenon! If it can't be rendered into the common tongue, perhaps it isn't worth saying at all!

Going back to the original subject of theology, a word M.R. also claims to not like but must find necessary as she mentioned kataphatic theology. Another term that could apply is via negativa.

I like the idea of thinking in terms of what God is not. It battles the stereotypes of God that I am always battling. Let God define God. Negating is sort of like imagining infinity, a mind numbing leap into something that can't quite be quantified, qualified, so huge it can't be limiting, insistantly expanding, each barrier in turn vaporizing and vanishing; the vision begins to sweep a wide arc from peripheral to peripheral, a whole spectrum, like radar, alert to the blackness, the stillness and the void, with no expectations, dry of emotion, empty and unfilled. Open, waiting and not waiting, not even aware that the hope that a bright spot of light, a blip on the radar screen, can fill my understanding and leave without having defined itself.

Wikipedia has all those little blue lines! Each one is clickable. It is like looking up a word in the dictionary and finding five more that need to be looked up before the original word can be understood. I ended up downloading the complete works of Dionysius the Areopagite. I might as well begin at the beginning. At this rate, it will take 2,000 years for me to finally get a foothold on postmodern soil. So, now all I need to do is wrangle the theology into the practice so I can understand . . .

Sometimes I'm still the same old 12 year old kid:

I thought I'd just journal today. I don't do that often enough these days, do I?

The weather was windy, warm and gray all day. Ike has been gone all weekend to Kentucky for the Southwind banquet. So things have been ultra quiet . . . almost.

Yesterday my husband and I managed to work on the house a little bit. We never do too much. It is simply overwhelming. Then his friend called him to ask for help choosing trees from his own property to put around his new house. My husband asked me if I'd care to go with him. Well--it was simply wonderful! The man's land has been a game/elk preserve since the 1930s and is uncultivated with the exception of some crops planted especially for the game. Pure tall grass prairie and the tall grass this year is as high as I am tall and I'm close to six feet. A beautiful creek cuts through the land, steep sided with plenty of water. We must have walked a mile north and then a mile back--at least--with some side trips to check out potential trees here and there. At one point we crossed a low water bridge and looked out at what looked to be a glassy pond, with a huge sycamore, all bright yellows and browns, overhanging the still water. And all the trees and the sky reflecting back off the mirrored surface of the water. The whole place is a piece of history--as it was established by one of our great oil barons. Maybe when we go back I'll have my camera and I can take some pictures. I hope I get the chance before leaf fall.

Then this morning the bell choir played a beautiful piece called Prayer. It haunted me all day.

I'm so embarrassed! I'm shy. Most people don't realize it, but I am. The bells play right at the start of the service. I was alone today--no family. There was nobody waiting for me in a pew or holding a spot for me. Before we began to play, I'd pegged out two potential seats that I could scurry into as soon as the service began. W-e-l-l . . . by the time the bells finished playing, neither seat was open. I walked down the side isle and back. I hate wandering around during the service. You know how people act when they know you're there, they know you are looking for a seat, they have plenty of space--but they don't want to scoot over and invite you in? You know that stubborn way they twist their heads away so they don't have to looooook at you? Yeah, well, I might do the same thing in their shoes since I choose an end seat on purpose . . . So, I gave up. The procession had a healthy start, but the tail end hadn't started down the center isle yet. That meant that Father was still in back of the pews near the narthex. I slipped around the corner and into the narthex, hoping my exit wasn't being witnessed, opened the outside door and, as I stepped out and was just preparing to pull the door gently to, a GUST of wind TORE it out of my hands and it slammed with a deep and resonant THUD! I'll bet it shook the rafters! I'm sure that people in the first row could hear it.

And so, I cowered on out to the parkinglot where I met up with a friend, also skipping, who was telling me that she was going home to take care of her sick daughter. I was pressing against the side of my car, she was so close. I kept my mouth shut. It's embarrassing. Really it is! Thank goodness she didn't get any closer, I might have confessed! "I'm skipping church because I couldn't find a seat!"

The bells returned for Evensong at 5:00. We did this really cool and simple thing called, "Church Bells in the City Square" (I think). While we were gathering, Father managed to come and stop dead center in my direct line of vision so I could not avoid looking at him. If it was an effort to make me feel guilty--he succeeded. And indeed, he did rather have that look about him.

The piece went pretty well. One large bell starts it, one set of (8)high bells plays the scale from top down repeatedly; then the random ringers (myself included) chime in from a different quarter of the church; then two players begin playing Westminster Bells in another quarter of the church; each is quieted, until finally, in the silence at the very end one HUGE E bell bongs five bells to call people to evening worship.

Well, Ike was gone and so I volunteered to play his HUGE E. Practice had gone swimmingly even though it is definitely a tough bell to ring--very heavy, a two handed job! This evening, the first two bongs sounded great--but the third didn't happen! The clapper didn't fall, the move was a dud. I was standing smack dab in front of the congregation and everybody saw me glance fearfully up at the quiet bell, gather my strength for another attempt and finish all five.

The Tulsa Boys Choir were our guests tonight. They put on a wonderful service--I love Anglican chant! But as I sat listening to them, my mind tried to work on the bell scenario that had just failed--Ike's perfect bonging gone so bad in my weak hands . . . and I tried to figure out if an actual church bell could miss a ring. I imagined the large rope and the ringer grasping it, pulling it down, BONG, then riding the rope up, legs dangling, touching the ground and pulling the rope, riding it up and then--horror of horrors!--the hands slipping, the ringer falling, scrambling to get back up, chasing the wild rope as the bell swings silently overhead . . . and I laughed almost silently at the thought.

The service wrapped up. The boys filed silently out of the Church. I looked them over, smiling at them as if to say I appreciated their music. And then before I'd corralled my eyes, Father, taking up the rear as usual caught me. I looked away--but sneaked a look back and he was still looking directly at me. He had that knowing smile . . .

Uncertainty:

Originally posted on Beliefnet on October 23:

It was a crisp thirty-seven degrees as the sun rose this morning. I stepped outside with my dog for our morning outing. For the first time in seven months, I could see my breath steaming and rising into the early morning light. The dew frosted the tips of grass and made my shoes wet. Sun streaked across my yard and brightly lit the fronts of houses across the road. There is a brightness about the early morning sun that is barely remembered and almost mundane by midday. I have good associations with mornings like this. To be in it is to be vibrantly alive.

I haven't figured out where this is going, but from time to time I think about being present in the moment. I try to be. I try to savor what happens in everyday simple seconds. I'm prone to daydream, to be lost in my thoughts and anywhere but in the reality around me. So, to be present in the moment means calling myself back from whatever adventure I have created in my imagination.

Kahlil Gibran said something in the Prophet that has always haunted me--although I can't quote him right now because I don't have my book. It was something to this effect: That although we go forward slowly, we go not backward. So whenever I am present in the moment, that moment is tinted by this thought. We, and I think I can say this fairly, spend most of our lives going forward and backward. Or round and round. And if I go forward for a while and break the chain of my existence, I return again. Tonight will find me in the same place as I was in last night. And this is security and we like it this way. But this is also boredom and tedium and we don't like that at all!

It has been a year now since I noticed the first symptoms I had of this sickness that has unearthed my daily existence and has dislodged me from my old routines, robbed me of plans for my future I'd never identified, deprived me of most of the material baggage that has increased and clung to me through nearly an entire lifetime. Uncertainty is not something we like (again, I feel safe in saying this because most of us aren't comfortable with it). Depression has accompanied it. The effect is that when I need to be moving forward, I spend my time dwelling on what I can't do anything about, what I am probably leaving behind forever and what I wish I could have appreciated more before I lost it. And I spend an awful amount of time trying to be healthy.

So more than ever right now I am noticing how much routine pleases me. And how what tomorrow may bring can unhinge rob me of hope. I'm forced to dwell in the moment because my imagination can't find a solution for the unknown that lies ahead. A lot of things like my imagination have gained new purpose in this adventure. My imagination is a tool that could, I hope, find a solution. It would be so much better to choose which way to go than to be shoved one day at a time, unwilling, into a less-than-ideal existence. Allergies have had the same effect as they warn me away from what makes me sick.

I hate to say it, but I'm lonely. And I know that others go through this too. At a time when they most need their loved ones to share their lives, their loved ones have withdrawn, become angry at what they don't understand . . . It is very difficult to say that. Sometimes it hurts me so deeply! I feel judged, but for what? It isn't something that I did. I'd gladly dance right back from the fate that has me in its grips.

Where has God been through all of this? My faith has had its ups and downs. Because I am so slow about my duties, I don't take the time to be with him the way I used to. But for some reason, I feel that God has--shall I say "allowed"?--something to do with this--shaking up my old routine, changing me, moving me in a new direction. And is it optimism that makes me believe that in the end "all will be well"? I tread uneven ground now on the path up the mountain. At the top is the glittering city that I had seen from far away, the one that I was promised. I just have one last climb.

"The Great Unraveling"

Today marks the beginning of the annual NaNoWriMo. It is the first time in three years that I haven't participated, if I don't. I have nothing, no idea. Ideas didn't get me anywhere for the past two years--last year less than the year before. I had a pretty decent idea last year, but the push to get words on the page derailed it and I had to force it forward very uncomfortably. My "critic" gets started and she just starts screaming! By the end of last years NaNo she was a raving lunatic.

Above is a potential title borrowed from an online friend on a forum. It intrigued me. There could be so many different directions to take it. One of the ideas I had, and I had considered this in past years, was to write a spoof on schism in TEC. Not this schism, but a fictitious one. And perhaps where I stumble is in my desire to write it so that all Episcopalians could get a chuckle out of it. Yes, all. Sometimes it helps us to laugh at ourselves.

My big stumbling block is that I try to think of a controversy, preferably based on scriptural interpretation of the two (or many) sides. I've thought of revisiting the old slavery controversy, but I would like to have the Internet discussions be a part of the process because I think the Internet has exacerbated what might have otherwise been a ripple in the life of most congregations. I've thought of using St. Paul's Epistle to the Romans, 13-15. Vegans would have a secure hold on the scriptural debates. And it could be funny because few of us care what our neighbor eats--except that it might cause a ruckus at a potluck. I had three or four more good ideas, but today is November 1st and panic has frozen my brain. I considered Womens Ordination, but it is still a hot topic in some circles. I thought about the Great Commandment because it seems to be so overlooked. Pacifism might actually be a good one! And I have some great ideas where the war mongers have found justification for their point of view. And, I thought about Balaam's Ass. I like that story. Can an ass talk?

I attempted to brainstorm this idea with my friends, but they shut me down before I even begin. They wouldn't listen long enough for me to get to the spoof concept and my dilemma. It doesn't matter if it goes nowhere. I haven't published a NaNoNovel yet!

At any rate, I thought that a great way to write it would be to divide the month of November into thirty days. Yeah, I know! That's already been done. But bear with me here. I thought I could peg out thirty days during the past four--it isn't going on five yet, is it?--years and I could write a spoof journal entry each day, a recollection of what occurred on that day. So simple! Aim for my 1667 words per day and VIOLA NaNoNovelDone!

Late edition: As I've gone through the day I have grown more and more fond of Balaams Ass. I really like it!~ And just think how many times I could use the word "ass". I've always thought there was a deficit of cuss words in my fiction.

I am cursed!

I was beginning to suspect it. But now it has been confirmed by my AC/heater/washing machine/dehumidifier/refrigerator repairman!

I heard Mr. Dickens raising a ruckus by the front door early this afternoon while I was in the backyard cleaning the bird cage. When I opened the door I found Payne, my long delayed repairman who'd come to repair the washing machine he had loaned me seven months ago. Or, in other words, he came to repair his washing machine.

He dropped my dehumidifier, still dripping from its cleaning, into the sunshine on the side of the porch. "You want me to leave it here to air dry, right?"

"Sure." I responded, looking doubtfully at the water dripping from the vents and wondering if an electrical appliance should look as though it was just pulled out of a tub.

"It wasn't very dirty, you know."

"Yeah, it shouldn't have needed cleaning for a full year, but we'd found some mold behind the shower and we'd cleaned it out. You know all it takes is one spore . . ."

"Yeah . . ."

Sometimes you know the message wasn't lost on a person. Most people lose the message about mold spores, but Payne is obviously more intelligent than most.

"That's a neat little machine--you know that? Easy to clean, not much to 'em."

I could tell he was intrigued by it. "My sister has one in her basement." He launched into an explanation of how it works as he followed me through to the kitchen. I indicated the sick fridge. He took a look at it and not much of one either. "Might as well buy a new one."

"You mean you can't fix it?"

"Not worth it. It'd cost $500.00 or more. Might as well buy a new one."

He headed out in the direction of the washing machine. The refrigerator had been an unscheduled stop.

As he scanned the situation, my guilty streak kicked in and I said, "I really ought to pay you for those--they don't look like much, but they've been doing a great job." I'd hate to part with the $50.00 he wanted for them, but I really ought to. 'A month or two' is long gone!

"Yeah, good machines. They're really Maytags, you know?"

"No! I'd never even heard of that brand before."

"Sold by Sears." That began a discussion about how appliances used to be made and how differently their construction had been forty years ago, including the story of a friend's dad who has had a dryer for that long and it has only needed three small parts replaced in all those years. "Yep, 1968," he said as he bent down behind the washer.

He borrowed a flat head screwdriver and started breaking into the top of it. "You must be cursed," he said as the top plopped back revealing the strange looking works at the heart of the machine.

"Yeah, I think I am."

"You're having quite a streak of bad luck here."

"All year."

He became serious about the operation of the washer, replaced the broken part and replaced the framing. And then, as though the conversation about curses hadn't been broached before, he said, "I think you're cursed."

As soon as I had seen him out the door, I climbed into the car to go to Sears and check out the Whirlpool refrigerators he'd recommended. As though we can afford a new fridge! The old one was dated 1998, top of the line Amana. I'm not buying top of the line anymore.

Stunted growth:

This past spring a number of maples came up in the shady garden on the north side of the house. I chose the healthiest and largest and had my husband dig it up and transplant it to a large bare grassy area of the yard. As the summer wore on, I watered it and watched it, but it never grew. In the meantime, the ones we had left in the unweeded garden tripled in size. The other day, I puzzled over it and realized he must have cut off the tap root. I'm surprised because he knows trees and has worked with them for the past thirty years.

I think that a lot of us are this way about our faith, too. We cut off our tap roots. One of the lessons learned in my spiritual journey was the profound realization of how little I do know. I heard others say that too. It seems the inverse happens, the more I know, the more certain I am of the deficit in my knowledge base. It is in a state of uncertainty that I am most certain! It is in openess that I am ready to receive the message. My own measure of myself was to realize that I don't have the mind of God even though I make the mistake of feeling as though I do. And, so I test what I believe. I allow myself to be challenged by what I read or hear or see. It reminds me of Jesus telling the Jewish people who were in the crowd to "open their ears and hear." Their certainties were keeping their ears closed to his message. And so, in obedience to Christ, I listen with my whole self.

What inspired me in the idea of the tap root today was a discussion with some "mystics" who hate religion. They seem to be hoping to bring an end to the established religions and to teach people that they can be spiritual outside of the traditions and baggage of religion. I copied the definition of religion out of the dictionary and posted it for them to read. I attempted to tell them that even if they shun religion, they are practicing a religion. And given wings, it will develop all the ills of traditional religion. It will have its instruction, its taboos, its praxis and even its tradition. But more importantly to me is that our taproot is the tried and true! It is the centuries of knowledge and experience, success and failure, sharing and loving and hating together that makes our religion a rich resource for us to follow. I'm sorry to say that as I watched the conversation develop, I think their religion is hating religion.

My argument was and is that there is a body of knowledge about the way of the mystics in all the ancient religions. I felt surprised that I even had to point out that I believe religion springs from mystical experience and we gain by the preservation and repetition of it. The contemplative/mystical aspect of traditional praxis in the Christian tradition is often glossed over or misunderstood, rituals practiced without comprehending the full benefits--but of course, I finally came to see the spiritual value in them--so it awaits discovery by each participant one precious gift at a time. Once this is revealed, we look forward to it, joyfully sharing it with the other members of our community, generously encouraging others to come to our table to share it with us. Several times, I have met somebody who said that it was during the Eucharist that they first encountered the risen Lord.

My tap root is the means of being open to the leading of the Holy Spirit as a tap root brings up the living water to nourish the growing tree, so does the Holy Spirit bring me the living water to nourish my growing faith. It is trusting that if in anything I am remiss or I am mistaken, through the Grace of God, I will be set to rights.

I thirst . . .

Dread:

Predawn, up before the sun. Summer's end is heralded with the briskness of early fall. Summer's heat was freedom and health. I could spend all day outside. I could throw open a window and air out the toxins that make me sick--I can't tolerate any at all now, I think. I could open a window for the night or spend comfortable hours outside doing tasks normally done inside. My neighbors think I'm weird and I wish the yard was more private. I find any excuse to go out that door.

As I take in the still total darkness near 6:00 AM, I feel the dread of the coming winter and I'm afraid that fall will be altogether too short. My bare arms feel the chill and I think it is time to get my jackets and sweatshirts out and wash them. I rub my arms briskly to warm them as I look up at the dark sky and try to discern how cloudy it will be today.

I used to anticipate winter with the same joy and excitement that I anticipated every other season. But not anymore. The thought that my anticipation of winter will ruin my beautiful fall is almost as bad. Will that dread fill me every time I get a goosebump from a chill wind between now and December? Besides, I have a longer list of things to do before the weather becomes too cold.

Time does pass quickly. I drive Ike to school just as the first glimmer of sunshine breaks through the striated clouds on the horizon, tinting them a soft promising pink. As I drop him off and watch him carrying his horn to the football field, I think, 'One hour down! One hour passed so quickly. So much to do, so little time--before the cold comes in.'

Long Dark Night

(I haven't forgotten my Southwind project, but my Gremlin has absconded with my journal.)

This is just an effort to put words on the page.

The discussion of late has been on Mother Teresa. It seems that many can't comprehend her long Darkness.

I checked out the book from the library. It is lovely. Mother Teresa's words echo out of the past in a way that is very similar the more ancient mystics. She followed the classic faith and her sentiments were those of the classically trained Catholic. It was easy to read, interesting and moved right along.

I can relate well to her "Dark Night of the Soul." It is the controversial aspect of Mother Teresa's life that for forty years she lived in relative spiritual darkness, even claiming to not see Christ in the Holy Sacraments. I have a great deal of compassion for her in her extended Dark Night. I've been sitting still for a year and a half now and it takes a lot of patience. I feel sorry for her, but I also feel that she will be well rewarded for her persistence.

As I read the book I wondered what could have caused it. I realize that to wonder at the cause of a Dark Night is a strange occupation--how could I have the temerity to question God's will? My own Dark Night could have so many different causes that I can't choose one. What weakness is God weeding out? There are so many that I can think of. God might just leave me eternally in the Dark now. (Yes, I am chuckling!) So it is far more interesting to contemplate M.T.'s Dark Night since she was such a shining example of how best to follow Christ.

As for Mother Teresa, I noted that the editor commented on the fact that M.T. tried to hide her suffering from Christ. I can't help it--I keep thinking that there is no hiding anything and when we try to hide something, we end up hiding completely. I did that in the 70s out of fear of the spiritual world.

Another thought I've had is that her mind was so full of what she had to do that she couldn't listen very well and Christ was there with her all along. The reason I suggest that is that her success all those years, her tireless devotion and her inner strength had to come from somewhere. It was superhuman. And then there are all her beautiful quotes. Her insights are inspired. Her love of all people shimmers and reflects the love of God. And so despite her inner darkness, she was receiving the light somewhere all along.

Silly of me, isn't it? Well, Dark Nights can cause a lot of deep dark reflections that can be hard to admit to. That's my way of confessing that in the quiet that I've been sitting in, quiet is my all. Every now and then I still come up with some profound thoughts--gifts--that give me a little hope. But then I end up sitting quietly again. I gather that Mother Teresa had those same small flickers, too. She was better at admitting her pain to her confessor.

More seriously, (since the conversation got away from being serious somehow) Mother Teresa continues to be one of my favorite people. She led an exemplary life. I'm amazed at how brave she must have been when she launched her institute. The power of her faith and her determination to save those souls for Christ during those first few weeks. Such a small young woman seeking out the poor in their dark holes and taking Christ to them, all alone, in the meanest, darkest, most miserable places people live. And to her, at the time, the need must have seemed overwhelming.

The First Day of School:

There is something about this picture that says so much about the children, what they anticipate and how they feel. I told my daughter that it is photojournalist-esque. I didn't know what other way I could describe the moment that she has captured.

One of the writing challenges Carolyn of Skateboard (link on right) provided yesterday was:

1. Spend some time remembering how your family "tells time"--such as
'before the move', or 'after the accident' or 'when the baby was born.' Make
a list.

Yesterday I was completely stumped by this one. The only thing I could think of was that we so often date our lives according to losses, when somebody died. It seems that it is usually, "Before Grandma died . . . " or "When we still had Lindy . . .". Every now and then we might date things to where we lived when they occurred: "When we lived on South Avenue . . ." or "Before we moved here . . .". Because I am in exile, living in my old house where I never thought I would live again, this is a sore spot for me. I'm afraid it will become a part of our measurement of time and the thought makes me unhappy. I think the fear is that it may be a long measurement of time for my life, that it may be more permanent than I want it to be.

I hate to say it, but right now both subjects seemed depressing. But still, school has begun, I do have some time for writing, I do want to get back with the group and participate if possible and I think it would be very good for me. So it was important to me to try to do these challenges.

And that's it! That's the answer! School has begun. I always dated things that happened when I was child by what grade I was in. And when I relate stories about my older children, I remember when it happened the same way, by the grade they had been in when it happened.

In the picture above, I see my grandchildren beginning another eventful year of their lives. Hannah (not her real name) is obviously excited. She likes school, she is eager to get back to her friends and she is still at that age where enthusiasm for it can make her giggle. I can see her wriggling in this picture. She almost can't sit still for the photograph. While her brother isn't quite so excited. He is at that age where he has concerns and maybe some anxiety about what the day may bring. Maybe he is wondering if the class bully that bothered him last year will be in his class again. I don't know. At that age, I had begun to worry about everything. I would worry about the clothes I was wearing, who my homeroom teacher would be, if my lunch would look sufficiently similar to my friends. So, although I am sure he is excited, he isn't eager, either. And, so begins another year of their lives--a memorable one, an eventful one--one that they will remember and, like me, assign and date to it a cache of memories.

Day 1 continued: The Bounder

So, at approximately 9:30, I dragged my duffle to the Southwind caravan. We located the Bounder, the camper that I was told serves as the official home of cook staff, even though it became apparent that I was the only cook staff on it. I'd found my way by talking to strangers here and there, then faceless, busy but kind.

I stowed my suitcase against the back wall of the back room where six bunks had been installed. I noted that for the most part the bunks were empty and unmade, that no other gear cluttered any corner. I had to worry about everything. I'm a very insecure person and I clue in to what I am to do by what others do and this wasn't working that way. It was obvious that although there were six bunks, there were no other bags--nobody's luggage. Evidence suggested that I might be alone. Not only then, but even at other times later in the trip, I wondered if anybody else would be getting on the Bounder and even if the Bounder would be going on.

Then, because the Bounder was excessively hot, I went back out into the fresh air. Around the buses that were parked behind it the activity was frenetic. The quiet alongside the Bounder was disconcerting in comparison. I was feeling like a fish out of my fishbowl and as though the water had gone somewhere else. And wouldn't a fish bowl full of water have been nice at that moment? I wanted a bath so bad!

I meandered through the hyperactivity outside the buses and located Ike. I was the only person meandering. I seemed to be the only person without an agenda, without a task and with empty hands and slow feet. In the brief exchange we had before he ran off to do something, I wondered when we could shower. It was just a question! Disgusted, Ike looked down his nose and, in a nasal tone to add weight to his disgust, "Don't be high maintenance, Mom!"

I backpeddled. "I won't be high maintenance," my voice whined even in my own ears, "I'm just wondering . . ." I was left wondering for quite some time because he never gave me an answer.

We parted company and I returned to the dark, empty side of the Bounder to wait for its occupants. All the other vehicles were loaded, the members installed in their seats--but the Bounder remained dark and empty. Not a soul walked along its side, not a person sat on its couches, not a driver made an appearance. The engines of the buses and trucks hummed and the Bounder sat silent.

I sneaked the opportunity to brush my teeth, using my drinking water to rinse my mouth. Embarrassed, even in the darkness, I squatted low to spit into the underbrush at the edge of the parking lot. A few minutes later, I saw a woman next to the camper ahead of the Bounder brushing her own teeth and I realized for the first time that I had discovered a secret of grabbing the few minutes here or there for care of self.

Suddenly, people converged on the Bounder. I hadn't even see them come! And then it was crowded, every seat filled. I entered and plopped, or fell, into the nearest seat--which turned out to be in the middle of things to my embarrassment. I recognized Mike, the director, and Vento, officially in charge of brass and--maybe officially in charge of a great deal more that I am unaware of, but the rest were all strangers. I think there were eight people and there was only one woman besides myself.

It was just that quick and the lights were on and we were beginning to try to get off but blocked by a camper belonging to Pioneer (another corps). I don't know how they do it, but nothing blocks them for long! There I was, sitting between Mike and Vento and worrying that I had gotten into the wrong vehicle. Surely some mom-volunteer shouldn't be sitting between the big brass! I even suggested that, "Am I in the right place?" Mike assured me that I was, but I remained doubtful. And then the Pioneer camper rolled out of our way as if by psychic transmission of some sort and we were on our way.

Taking in my surroundings should have made me feel right at home! I'm a child of the 60's. I even thought of myself as a hippie at one point. The inside of the Bounder looked lived in. It seemed a bit shabby, cluttered and the couches were covered with bed pillows and sleeping bags. I realized to my horror that I was sitting on somebody's pillow. I tried to minimize the effort it took to wrangle it from beneath me and push it up out of the way. Even the crowdedness, the shortage of seating as Mike sat on an ice chest, added to the effect. The atmosphere, to say the least, was casual. I knew automatically that the Bounder gets little attention--there is so much more to do.

Every moment is an adventure with the corps. And, it seems, as I watched Mike, that every moment is a potential disaster and takes major effort. Not that Mike seems the least bit stressed--but it would for me and it would make me freak, scream, cuss, pull out my hair, and exhibit and suffer every stress related illness from ulcers to heart-attacks. And so I admire Mike and the staff tremendously and I observe them with the kind of wonder that comes from being mystified rather than with any hope that I could emulate them.

It was a narrow little parking lot for those buses. Beyond the Pioneer caravan, the drive narrowed to car lane width and then plunged down a steep driveway. It was too short for the Bounder. We scraped going through. But the buses! Even I could understand that the buses are long and low. So that was our first hurdle--getting out of the parking lot . . . and a bumper crunched behind us.

*I know that I am windy! And I hope I manage to get it written now that I have started this way.*

Reviewing my long week with Southwind Drum and Bugle Corps

Day 1, 7/18
This is the trip in review before I have forgotten. My journal, kept by hand, was spotty and incomplete.

Because I had no clue what I was in for, I'm going to begin here with that same mystery for my readers! What is a drum and bugle corps? Until last November, I didn't even know that they exist. I think it is a shame now that I didn't and that I've missed so many years, so much excitement and so many fine performances. Drum and Bugle Corps ought to be included as an Olympic event!

What I must say about the trip, in total, was that I have rarely come across such a fine group of hard working, self-sacrificing, goal oriented people. I would have to apply a great many superlatives in order to feel that I might have expressed all their qualities. Most especially, and I think this is rare in today’s world, I felt that each and every person involved, staff and kids, have found a sense of purpose for their lives in this strange competitive world that runs parallel to this ordinary world that most of us inhabit. It is so strange to say this, as later on in the trip I actually worried that the importance of items in the drum corps agenda take on a larger than life feel, an importance out of the natural order of things--an insanity caused by being so focused on the head of a pin! But keeping the real world in mind, the drum corps world is a wondrous place. So, I was taken aback, being somewhat of a religious nut, if you will, I had thought that the only place I would find this kind of devotion to an ideal would be in faith.

These kids have a dream! I say they are kids, but they range in age from 16 through 21 (maybe 15 through 22). And they are all exceptional, self-motivated and driven in a way that so few kids are--maybe two kids in a thousand. They are willing to suffer amazing deprivations, long hours on their feet in miserable weather conditions in the hope of winning (I have a story to tell about that later). At the same time, they are loyal to each other and to the corps, loyalty being a rare commodity in this world.

Of course these are generalities and sometimes what I have said above may seem like an overstatement–but when I stood a quarter of a mile from the football field late in the trip watching them practice beneath the broiling sun, which they did all day as the heat waves rose off the field, and I was profoundly touched. That shimmering image of more than a hundred young men and women, instruments glinting in the sun, at temperatures soaring over a hundred degrees came to symbolize all my admiration and to describe if only partly how great they all are. And, this goes too for all the adults who are committed to their success–who have made their own great sacrifice for this ideal they all share and for the love of music, for accomplishment of dreams, for belonging to something greater than the sum of its parts.

That all said, I’m just a mom–and could only observe and try to help what little I could. I felt very much like an outsider, an observer–like a fish in a fishbowl looking out at the greater world warped by my own confines. It seemed that every person I was with were long-term bugle corps devotees and most were alumni to either Southwind or another corps or to both. I was learning a new language, a new way of thinking, a new level of determination and a focus that was entirely on the corps, the kids and their dreams.

What probably didn’t work so well for me was that one thing that does define almost all of these good-hearted people is that they are competitive. I’m not sure that a non-competitive person fits in their filing cabinet. I went solely with the hope that I could be of help and that my health wouldn’t defeat me. The doctor had told me almost a month before that the trip would either kill me or make me stronger. Considering that Day 2 was twenty-one hours long and I felt that a good hard eight hour day would be my upper-limit, I was probably knocked out of the running for my zombie-like stare the first day.

I joined up with them in Fayetteville, Arkansas (that is Arkansaw for you Easterners). My husband drove me, my huge duffle and overstuffed shoulder-bag to the show–the very first Drum and Bugle Corps show that I had ever had the opportunity to see. I was entering a strange new world without having a clue about what was to come.

The day was hot! Sticky hot. The kind of hot day in Oklahoma when not even an air conditioner can make you feel cool. Naturally, we arrived early and parked in the stadium parking. Before the show was ready to begin we left the car and began walking in the vague direction of the parkinglot where the buses had been sighted. We finally located the set of buses and trucks that comprise Southwind's home on the road more than a quarter of a mile walk from where we'd started (it turned out to be the long way ‘round).

I did understand early on that they travel and sleep by night and spend almost every day in a new location. We found the caravan surrounded by a smattering of people as the kids were already mostly dressed and were warming up some way off. The first thing I checked was the cook trailer, by chance, but found it empty. We finally located somebody and I was told to find "James." I had no idea who James was or what he looked like, but the person who sent me in search of him seemed to think I should. And I thought Mike was the director! (He is, but James is the cook! So for cook staff, it would be obvious, wouldn't it?) So off I went hoping that somebody more motivated to get on their feet would help me in my search. Note that now I understand their reticence about putting their weight on their feet. And I also know now that James would not be easily found in his rare moment of freedom.

It took three tries to find somebody who had a clue where he might be before I finely located him. I found him back at the cook trailer standing on the ramp at the back. I'd come full circle. I introduced myself and felt immediately that I was a subscript in the script–a place I am unaccustomed to. Not that I'm complaining, but just describing the feeling. I was told that the corps would be leaving at 10:00 PM and I could bring my things after the show. I never expected the laid-back attitude. Regiments marched through my mind as I felt lost in the vagueness of the instructions!

After that non-plussed moment of introduction, my husband and I stopped for a while before returning to the stadium in order to watch the kids warm-up in a paved spot between two buildings. Initially the brass section was in a semi-circle and playing some part of the show–beautifully. The percussion section warms up separately and were out on a hill to the south, out of sight but, as I later realized, they are never out of hearing. The tattoo of drums is always in the background--even when the kids are supposedly at rest. The kids were wearing their white show shirts (an undergarment) and their jumper-like black trousers. A few other parents had gathered along a wall out-of-the-way to watch and we joined them. We sneaked to a spot and sat down as though we hoped the directors wouldn’t notice that we were sneaking a preview that we ought to pay for.

Ike managed to ignore us, as he should. He calls it "lock down." He keeps his eyes straight ahead and lets nothing distract him. I knew that! But I was thrilled. I secretly hoped that he saw us anyway.

It was the first sight I’d had of him since we’d left him in Kentucky at the end of May. I had heard from his older brother that he had grown, that his acne had cleared, that he was more mature. What I saw was the most beautiful kid in the whole world! Bronzed and blond by hours in the sun, strong from excessive exercise, a slight golden fuzz on his cheeks and glowing green eyes–I just felt so much pride in him. His jawline was more pronounced, his cheeks taught, childhood padding broiled away. And, yes, he had matured as it turned out, both visibly and emotionally a very different person in many ways.

(to be continued!)

Gosh! It has been nearly a month since I posted!

All is well--or better, at least. Ike is off at drum and bugle corps for the summer and the house is quiet for a change.

No trumpet. No melophone. No guitar. Complete silence. I really must complain.

The house is clean. The carpets are vacuumed. The bathroom isn't sweating from one of his long hot showers. His bed is temporarily disassembled and nobody cares. I dragged all his amps out of the living room and lined them up in his bedroom. *sigh*

We've also adopted another wee kitten. She hasn't got a name yet. Spunky . . . Loopy . . . Tiger . . . Tornado . . . I say that God sends me the difficult cases. She came to me half dead. Two days later people couldn't believe she'd been sick. She can fall asleep in mid-play. I thought about drawing a picture of my hand covered with bandages from all the play punctures she is giving me, but I'm not very handy with a mouse.

Mr. Dickens is depressed. Here he thought life was good, he ruled the roost for once. He is terrified of a six week old kitten! But he'll bark at full grown cats at a distance.

I've been thinking of going back to the daily entries where I dally with the fictionalization of my mysterious illnesses. Health has a tendency to become such a preoccupation, but I do have a great idea, I think.

A new appreciation for mold:

****If you have come here on a search for symptoms or observations I have recorded here, I have learned so much since it was originally published. I can tell when somebody Googles, but I have no idea who Googled. ;) Do leave any questions that you may have and if I know the answers, I'd be delighted to help you. In the last two days one person wanted to know if mold can be crystal like. Yes. Yeasts and possibly histoplasmosis which becomes a true yeast once it is established in the lungs. And yesterday somebody wanted to know about eyes. I have three spots in my left eye. So please do ask because I've had to figure out so much on my own! Wikipedia is also a great help.***

I have arrived at a new level of awareness of the capabilities of our hidden enemy. I realized I must be there when I began contemplating the number of mold spores per square inch in the refrigerator. My refrigerator may never be dirty again. Others opening my refrigerator door may be assaulted by a wave of the odor of chlorine. If it is possible for foods to absorb it, my cooking may take on a characteristic hint of chlorine.

Well, actually, this may be true for my whole house now. Chlorine is the enemy of my enemy and it is now my best friend.

New rules for the fridge: Nothing moist may remain in it for more than one week. Even so, all moist foods should be contained in airtight containers. No more green fuzzies in my fridge!

Seriously, mold spores are always present in air--all air. That means in the accumulated dust that settles on everything, there are a good number of mold spores that are ready to grab at any moisture. Opportunistic little nasties! I realize now that I used to have quite a number of bad housekeeping habits. I thought I knew the truth about my dirt! I had no idea. New rule: No moisture anywhere! No damp towels, no drying wash cloths, no water standing under a soap dispenser, no damp dirty clothes (this was always a rule but now it will be enforced without mercy). The plumber will roll his eyes when he hears I've called again. I'll freak for a leak! Dusting and vacuuming will take on a new intensity around here. Any spec of dust may contain within it one of those dreaded mold spores.

I went to see what my choices are in disinfectants. Time and again, I saw "Kills flu virus!" plastered across the front of the bottle or can. My response? It ought to say, "Kills mold spores!" I guess that a great many people are mistaken and place the priority on getting rid of bacteria. If only they knew that bacteria aren't the real germies. Products that I used to think of as disinfectants will no longer be found under my kitchen sink.

Otherwise, I'm thoroughly occupied these days with helping get Ike ready to go to drum and bugle corps. The list of things to do to prepare for him to be gone for three months is as long as my arm. I'm writing lists and checking them repeatedly.

Change under pressure:

On my blog rounds this morning, I visited Ron's blog and found this entry: emergence under pressure . . . in your church. Talk about sacred secular! This entry speaks to where I am in every aspect of my life right now.

Yesterday morning I came home from church reeling. It is one of those years--one of those bad years--where nothing in my life is going according to plan. If there is proof that we have very little control over our lives, the situation that I am in now proves it. All I know is that I'm in a pressure cooker that is about to explode. I have no idea where or when, but when it occurs, there is no telling how far the splatter will fly or how much. Or, in other words, I really don't know what is coming 'round the bend, but I'm craning my neck and ready for whatever comes my way.

Yesterday morning, sitting in the pew, a man who couldn't even follow the service handed me a filled out seeker's card to put into the collection plate. Every week there are new faces in our church. Shades of what occurred in Virginia echo here. People from other denominations are taking over the pews. The angry conservatives are going to make a move to steal the church. I've seen the writing on the wall for years now--I'm just waiting for God to open that window I'm always promised. In the meantime, I am sitting almost still, just waiting. Because through faith I do believe that God will show me what her will is and the direction she wants for me to go. Who knows where this will go or how it will play out in the end. Only God knows.

About that open window (if you will pardon cliches): I think God is preparing the furrow. For example, I have been leading a discussion group over a book on St. Benedict's Rule. I've never considered myself any sort of public speaker/teacher. Far from it. But--and very sweetly, as I have so often said that I am where I am because of the people I love--the women have been coming to me and telling me how much they have been enjoying the discussion. I usually tell them that is themselves--they take the ball and play with it, they make it happen. And yesterday morning I was pleasantly surprised by a similar compliment from a woman who had previously found the book daunting--and I was so happy! Her thoughts had been a concern to me.

Which brings me to another thing--love. I feel as though when the turmoil in the church begins to reach boiling, these wonderful women come to distract me, to bolster me, to hold me up, to warm me. There are no politics in it--their point of view doesn't matter. They are apolitical, faithful, spiritual and GREAT! (And maybe I shouldn't leave out the men who show their support, either. Thanks Z!) I don't need to say or do anything--they think of it all by themselves. I wish that I was as good as they are!

At any rate, what I'm saying is that perhaps I have a gift that I had never guessed at. Or, with God's help, I can do things I thought were impossible.

So, here I am at this juncture of forced change in both my secular and sacred life. Isn't it just exactly as Ron has just said in his blog? "There is something about looking ahead to a new horizon, not being able to really see what is ahead that causes fear... so much fear, we'll strain our necks, constantly looking back to the land of familiarity we just left." I'm trying to keep that new horizon in mind. It could be anything and it could be anywhere. I've been driven out of my charted course by winds that I hadn't foreseen. But it is done. Nothing is left but to box my compass straight and chart a new course.