O Christmas Tree, O Christmas Tree

I've had a strong reluctance to take down my Christmas tree this year. What does that have to do with death, and dying, and funeral directing?

Well, maybe absolutely nothing. I do LOVE Christmas and have loved soaking in the flickering magic of a lit tree since I was a little girl. I took an impromptu poll of friends, and while everyone has different excuse, I'm certainly not alone in my procrastination.

But also, maybe it has absolutely everything to do with death and dying. If being a funeral director does nothing else, it provides the constant reminder that life, in the sense we know it, ends. Sooner or later. For everyone. And this year, it has plagued me in a particularly heavy way that each of us, at some point, is living our last Christmas. We just don't know it. Most of us won't know it, either at all or until after the fact.

And while I'd like to believe that it's highly unlikely this was my last Christmas -I can't know for sure. Or maybe it was just the last Christmas before we lost ____________. Fill in the blank with your own pet, loved one, friend, family member.

I know, I know! These are super morbid thoughts right here at the New Year when we're supposed to be setting our goals for life and healthy living, but aren't we all a little motivated by our desire to stave off death anyway? It's there. Lingering in the depths. How lucky are you to have a weirdo friend like me to bubble it up to the surface?!

So, the bottom line is I'm leaving the tree up a little longer this year. Soaking in a few more nights of flickering magic and memories. If it was the last one, I lived it. I was here for it and I'll know I squeezed out every drop. And hopefully, as my grandmother used to say, "Lord willin' and the creek don't rise," I'll get to do it again next year!

Happy New Year RIPeeps!

Another First

I wrote several months ago about my first time dressing a body and how profoundly this affected me. I mentioned how I knew there would be other "firsts" that I would have to work through and I've gotten through many --first hands-on embalming, first home removal, and so on. This week's first came carefully tucked in a cherub casket lined in white with a tiny pink bow pinned to the pillow.

I knew this day, this first, would be hard. It was. I knew I would have to compartmentalize a lot. I did. But the thing that caught me most off guard was the battle between my maternal instincts and the logical reality of the situation. For example, the way that all of us ladies in the office had to talk through the fact that this is the one time it's okay to leave a baby unattended on an elevated surface when everything in us was screaming, "this is not right!" Or how, when touching the palm of her hand, I half expected a grasp reflex and for those tiny fingers to curl around mine. Or how the conversation changes.

Yes, the conversation. I talk to the dead. A lot. And I'm not alone in this. Many of us funeral peeps do it. For me, it's part of the level of care and dignity I think people deserve. It keeps me cognizant of the life represented by the lifeless form. Those (thus far) one-sided conversations usually include lots of explanations -just need to turn you to the side for one second, or descriptions - your girls picked out such a pretty dress for you, and sometimes apologies for the more invasive parts of the process. But it doesn't feel right, it doesn't sound right to say, "okay, sweet girl, let's get you swaddled so mommy and daddy can come see you."

But here we are. I have a friend who lost a child several years ago at about the same age as this baby girl. Having watched her walk this painful journey, I know that this poor mamma has a long, agonizing road ahead and my heart break's for her. And lending even the smallest of steps toward her healing is why we funeral directors will keep compartmentalizing, keep fighting through the cognitive dissonance, keep caring for these little ones.

I have a sneaking suspicion that this particular "first" will not be easier even when it's the thousandth.

RIP Little Miss Sunshine.

I have a midterm today for my Microbiology class. It is a lot of information to remember. A lot! So, how am I spending my time today? Bouncing like a wild devil between stints of studying, writing this blog, and cleaning the nooks and crannies of my house. Does my house need to be deep-cleaned today? Well, yes, it always needs it but today? No, not necessarily. So, why? Why when I obviously have another, much more pressing task, can I not fight the urge to reorganize the bathroom?

The answer is simple. You already know it and you've probably done it a million times. Because when something feels too big (like the names, virulence, symptoms, and treatments for 45 different bacterial infections too big), we humans tend to circle back to something that is manageable. We zoom in on whatever chore, project, or to-do list item will reinstate some small measure of control. Something with a clearly defined start, finish, and result is ideal. We need a little victory to remind us that we can do this bigger, harder thing!

It was in this moment of grasping for control, reciting the chain of infection, and scouring the sink that I remembered my own words regarding a family I recently helped with arrangements: "They seem to be getting bogged down in the little details." I wasn't mad at them by any stretch, but there was definitely that nagging implication of "this is not the best use of my time" built into the observation. And boy, what an asshat thing to say.

Of course they were bogged down in the details. This family had lost a dear member unexpectedly. Some of them were displaced, having traveled from out of state to be with their loved ones. They went in a heartbeat from whatever routine day they had planned, to a calendar full of odd and horrifying reminders like "Funeral home -3:00pm, bring suit and undergarments" and "Attorney's office @ 5:30" and "Call cemetery before noon." Their world was spinning out of control. Their heads and their hearts were at maximum capacity of "too big" and so they circled back and maybe spent too long discussing and deciding what order to sit in for the service -because that choice felt manageable. They needed a little victory to remind them that they can do this much bigger, much harder thing!

So, as I try to cram more knowledge into this head of mine between feverish bouts of sweeping and dusting, I will remember to find the balance between directing --moving the family along in the decision-making process, and waiting patiently while they find their equilibrium.

What about you? What's your go-to task for regaining your composure in the midst of chaos? Spice cabinet? Linen closet? Leave a comment on this page or on the RIPeace Out Facebook page!

Hillside Chat

I'm an approachable person. My friend says I have "one of those faces" that seems to say "hey, come chat with me" even at times I'd prefer to be left alone. Sometimes it's annoying, but it has at other times resulted in some very interesting conversations. This blog is about an occasion in which being a funeral director became more than just being a funeral director thanks to one of those approachable moments. It's a long chat but I hope you enjoy it!

About a month ago, I helped with a service for a family that included a three hour, one-way trip to the mountains for a burial in a family cemetery. After the service the family meandered around between the cemetery and a family member's nearby home. My boss left to go and fill up the hearse for the drive home while I waited for the vault company to show (we don't leave a burial until the casket is in the ground and covered with dirt). As I sat on one of the velvet covered chairs under the big green canopy, a young girl (we'll call her Olivia) came and sat in the chair next to me. It was quiet for a minute as she was looking intently at the casket still hanging over the vault and the hole that would soon envelope it.

Me: It's very shiny, isn't it?
Olivia: (nodding) Will it go in that hole?
Me: Yes. But first it will go inside another larger box. (I lift the curtain veiling the vault to show her.) Then the dirt will go over that box and it will look like all the other graves here.
(Another quiet minute passed.)
Me: Was (name withheld) your grandfather?
Olivia: (nodding yes) This is my first funeral.
Me: Oh. Funerals can be really tricky when you're a kid. (She gave me a quizzical look.) Well, sometimes you may feel sad because you miss the person who has died. But sometimes you may feel bored because, well, funerals are kinda boring. And other times you may feel happy but the people around you are sad and you're not sure if it's okay to be happy. (Olivia kept staring at me intently so I continued.) The important thing to know is that it's okay to feel all of those things. (She relaxed into her chair and threw her arm over the back so that she was mostly facing me.)
Olivia: My dog died a couple of weeks ago and that made me really sad.
Me: That is really sad. I'm sorry to hear that.
Olivia: Have you had any pets die?
Me: You promise not to laugh? (she nodded) Well, I had a really special chicken, named Sally, who died a few years ago.
(She let out a giggle and then quickly covered her mouth with her hand to stop herself.)
Me: (chuckling) It's okay to laugh. She was a funny little bird.

With that, she really opened up. Suddenly I knew all about her family, her school, her best friends, her favorite music, and most importantly, her older brother. She shared how much she loves him and how they get along and play together soooo well UNTIL his other third grader friends come around and then he treats her like she's a baby and he wants nothing to do with her because "those third graders think they're the coolest."

Me: Ugh, third graders are the worst! But...do you know who the third graders think are the coolest? (It was clear this question had never crossed her mind.) The fifth graders! (She almost gasped out loud.) And I don't know your brother but I consider myself a pretty good judge of character and Olivia, I think you are incredibly cool!

She gave me a sideways smile and about that time I noticed a little redheaded girl watching us from across the hill. I asked if they were cousins and Olivia wasn't sure but figured they must be related in one way or another. I shared how she reminded me of myself at that age -all red hair and freckled.

Me: Olivia, I'm going to give you a piece of very, very important advice. Are you ready? (her eyes widened) Always make friends with the redhead!

As if on cue, the little girl made her way over to us, looking as homely as ever with stringy red strands blowing in the wind and a mouth stained with grape Popsicle. She asked if Olivia would like to play. Olivia looked at her, then at me, then back to her and said, "Sure!" Off they went, exploring the hill, picking flowers, and laughing. Later, as her family was leaving, Olivia came running up to me, arms open wide and wrapped me in a huge hug. As she was skipping away, I called out to her, "Olivia, don't ever forget...you ARE the cool kid!" She smiled widely and ran to catch up to her parents.

So, there you have it. Funeral director? Or female empowerment coach? You be the judge. 😉

Beliefs

For those who know my story of transition from Christianity to agnosticism, there is bound to be some curiosity as to how I reconcile my aversion to religion with a job that is, at times, ministerial and often heavily religious in nature . The simplest answer is that (as it should be for anyone) my personal belief system and my ability to maintain professionalism are in no way mutually exclusive.

The slightly longer answer:

I've long been persuaded that all religion really comes down to is who you choose to list in the credits as the end of your life's movie. This job, in many ways, has confirmed that notion. Since my first funeral service in January, I have assisted with Baptist, Methodist, and Lutheran memorials, several Catholic masses, and a handful of completely secular receptions and ceremonies. The differences can be huge from a logistical standpoint, but the content? Not so much. Whether there's a  sermon/message/homily or just friends and family offering encouragement, everyone is saying the same things --"We are hurting. We are missing our friend/spouse/child/parent. We are hopeful that they are at peace. We need each other to get through this." The rest is just a matter of packaging it in the way that gives us the most reassurance.

Death, the great equalizer, doesn't care one lick which god you serve. It doesn't care where, how, or if you believe your loved ones exist after their departure. It neither favors nor spares the members of any religious affiliation. It takes without discrimination and distributes equal heartbreak in its wake. Recognizing this is in large part what allows me to do this job. Pain and grieving after loss are universal. So should our compassion be. Someday it will be our pain. Our loss. And we will want that compassion extended to us.

So, I see myself in this role of funeral director as a witness. I get to be a fly on the wall at the close of someone's story; to witness the moment that will forever divide life into "before" and "after" for those who remain. And I can respect, observe, and even participate appropriately in whatever comfort from religious belief or cultural custom a family leans into as they walk that path. That's how I do it. 💗


Thanks for tracking with me...

because death is a weird space to live in.

(Trying out a new tag line. Let me know what you think. =))

Firsts

I have lots of experience getting people dressed. I've been dressing myself, at least somewhat successfully, for many years now. I've dressed babies. Lots of babies. Oh.so.stinking.many.babies! I've helped dress a family member suffering from temporary paralysis, a grandmother in a nursing home with soiled bed sheets, even a complete stranger in a dressing room once while working retail. (Prom dresses can be a challenge.) Still, I can't say with confidence that any of this prepared me for my first time dressing a body.

Being around the dead doesn't bother me, so when Heather (my supervisor) said "let's go get Mrs. A (not her real name) dressed," I knew I'd be fine from a purely practical standpoint. We put on her bra and panties, her soft knit dress and matching sweater. We had to wet her hair and then blow dry and curl it a bit to get it back to her normal style. At one point, Heather had to leave and told me to go ahead and put a second coat of nail polish on her fingernails and as I did so, I made a deal with Mrs. A. I promised that I would keep her secrets if she would keep mine. (As far as I know, she's holding up her end of the bargain.) Everything went as it should and then we were done and went back to office stuff. And I was fine. Until...

I got in my car to drive home. I started crying. I cried all the way home. I cried as I told Tim about the experience and I cried some more as I texted Heather wanting to know "is it normal to be a big fat cry baby?!" I shared with her that, despite the fact I couldn't seem to shut off the faucet, they weren't tears of sadness -not like the ones her family would shed for her. I didn't know her. They weren't the kind of tears you might shed when something has traumatized you. I wasn't freaked out by it. I just couldn't get past the sheer overwhelm of the privilege, this truly intimate privilege that those moments held. So, I cried and I still cry when I think of her and I cry when I talk about her and yes, I'm crying while typing this blog to tell you about her. And maybe I always will because she was the first.

As time passes, it's highly unlikely that every encounter will have such profound effect on me. There will be lots of firsts as I'm starting this new career. First dressing, first embalming, first infant/child funeral, first... Eventually the firsts will become par for the course, I guess. But I'm writing this blog and bringing you on this processing journey with me so that I can always look back and remember these firsts and never take for granted the high level of respect and responsibility that comes with this intimate privilege.

History and Privilege

I posted a link on Facebook recently to an article written by Didi Delgado.  (A good read.  Check it out here.)  It is one of many articles I've read about the tension between current women's movements toward equality and the frustration of women of color.  They are difficult articles to read because like many of you white chicks out there, I find myself listing all the ways that they can't possibly be talking about me.  But they are.  And that HAS to be okay.  And I HAVE to sit in that uncomfortable reality and regardless of what I consider my "credentials" be willing to listen and learn and FOLLOW.  But if you're still confused by the controversies or wondering how to be part of the movement without unintentionally undermining minority women, I'd like to share some stories from history that may help.

(note: these are summaries of events that are well worth your personal research)

In 1961, on Mother's Day to be exact, a group of mixed race, mixed gender protestors formed by CORE (Congress of Racial Equality) began a journey from Washington on two buses.  Taking advantage of the 1960 court ruling which integrated intrastate travel, the Freedom Riders mapped out a path through and deep into the heartland of the south to challenge state segregation laws with non-violent resistance.  One bus is set ablaze just outside of Anniston, Alabama; its passengers narrowly escaping with their lives.  Meanwhile, the other bus is met in Birmingham by a mob of Klansmen armed with both weaponry and the assurance from authorities that they have 15 minutes to do as they wish with the passengers without any interference from local law enforcement.  The beatings were severe.  Post attacks and with many more obstacles from local whites backed by state officials, the group decided to give up and return to Washington.

Students in Nashville, led by a young woman named Diane Nash, heard that the Freedom Riders were ending their journey and immediately put plans in place to continue the rides.  Many interviewed referred to the fact that these "northerners" (the original group) had only gotten a taste of what life was like everyday for black communities in the south and they simply refused to let the cause die at the hand of the KKK. Several members from Washington returned to continue alongside the students, including John Lewis (the man Donald Trump referred to as "all talk, no action."  Yes, THAT John Lewis).

In this instance, when a group of outsiders (in a manner of speaking) "got a taste" of the injustices perpetuated against blacks in the south, their (completely justifiable) reaction was to give up.  Likewise, white women, under our current administration and throughout his previous campaign year, have "gotten a taste" of what our compatriots have endured for literal centuries.  And while the response has been overwhelming; the Women's March on Washington and sister cities across the globe was phenomenal, it stands to reason that minority women are wary of our stamina. They are rightfully suspicious of our staying power.  We've only gotten a taste. What happens if those scratches become deep lacerations across your back?  What happens if flesh wounds become soul crushing, dehumanizing weights of systemic oppression?  The kind that women of color and marginalized groups have been fighting alone for a very.long.time.

Fast forward a few years to 1964 and the Freedom Summer Project.  This initiative covered a mass of issues but their primary goal was to integrate the political systems of Mississippi through education and voter registration.  But before the program was officially underway, three project volunteers disappeared; two black men -James Chaney and Andrew Goodman, and one white man -Mickey Schwerner.  After nearly two months of little to no effort to locate the men by Mississippi authorities, Mickey's wife, Rita Schwerner, goes directly to Lyndon B Johnson demanding federal resources to aid in the search.  The three men's bodies were eventually recovered in a deep grave but through out the process, Rita Schwerner kept the focus of the search on the greater cause, voicing frequent rebukes that apart from her husband's whiteness, she doubted any efforts would have been made at all to find the volunteers.  And in a 2005 interview ("Freedom Summer" documentary aired by PBS) she explained that she knew if she allowed the media to make the story about "a poor white widow" it would have undermined and been offensive to everyone involved in the project.

This, my fair-skinned friends, is what today's movement needs from us.  This kind of self-sacrificing, shirking off of privilege, eyes open to the bigger picture commitment; an understanding that my grief is no greater than yours and MAY in fact be lesser because I have only "gotten a taste."  The last thing marginalized communities need to be expected to do is to pat us on our crocheted-pussy-hat-heads (yes, I have one and I love it!) while we lick our superficial injuries and say "there, there."  They need us to come out of our own pain, some of it absolutely legitimate, and see the mortal wounds being inflicted all around us.  We have to get over ourselves and stop thinking that we are the cavalry and become the support, the applause, the lifters of the fallen, the shoulders on which they stand -not so that we can be the hero but because we know that from within the fallen, the heroes will rise and we just want to have been part of the history, part of their story.

The Political Side of Football

Who knew football could be a platform for political activism?

Colin Kaepernick, that's who.  But he's certainly not alone.

Remember Super Bowl 50?  It was just last year, of course you remember.  It was also the year white people were shocked and dismayed to find out Beyoncé is black.  I mean, come on, we all knew she was black but we didn't think she was black black, right? 

(Side note: we did the same thing to Whitney and to Mariah and probably a dozen more.  Seriously, white people.  Stop it, already!)

But in 2016 Queen Beyoncé showed us in no uncertain terms that black is not only beautiful in straightened hair and ethereal sun glow (Halo, 2008) but in Black Panther throw back militant formation (and even wielding a baseball bat -Lemonade)

And then came Super Bowl 51.  Trump is president.  Executive Orders are flying out of the White House like those horrifying winged monkeys flying out of the Wicked Witch of the West's castle.  The whole world is on the edge when from the Edge of Glory (yeah, you saw that one coming) steps Lady Gaga. Perched quite literally on the edge of the NRG Stadium in Houston, Gaga begins a masterclass in arena-packed, all eyes watching, activism.

From an on-high proclamation that "this land belongs to you and me" to her Poker Face (which I believe was a sequin-studded wink-wink to the network executives who thought she was being compliant) she was saying it all and she was just getting started.

"No matter gay, straight, or bi
Lesbian, transgendered life
I'm on the right track baby
I was born to survive
No matter black, white, or beige
Chola or orient made
I'm on the right track baby
I was born to be brave"

Somehow in the midst of the lyrics being belted out of her golden throat, the conservative world took a collective sigh and said, "Oh thank goodness! She's just singing her usual songs and not getting political."  Maybe they were dizzied by dude's 360 degree piano (what?!) or maybe just confused by the all the pyrotechnics but she wasn't done yet.

There's no reason to think that "Telephone" or "Just Dance" were shrouding deeper messages, I suppose, but surely I can't be the only one who draws to mind this SNL sketch of world leaders handling Trump's phone calls when she sings "you're breaking up on me, sorry, I cannot hear you, I'm kind of busy..."

Then came those sweet, touching moments; those beautiful little daggers into the hearts of discrimination and ethnocentricity:  A shout out to her mom and dad and with it a nod to her lineage of Italian immigrants.  This followed by Lady Gaga embracing a young girl in the field audience.  According to all accounts, the hug was unrehearsed but for many watching, the act of wrapping her arms around a beautifully brown girl of unknown ethnicity to the rest of us while singing the words "why don't you stay" in the days of huge walls, threats of deportations and registrations, and disregard for refugees of a certain skin tone...felt like our heart's cry and it was downright moving.

And so it would seem that Lady Gaga would simply close the night on a classic.  Maybe that's all she did, maybe that's all she intended.  OR MAYBE she knew that as many of us have felt quite helplessly "caught in a bad romance" fraught with "ugly, drama, horror, psycho, revenge" whether we wanted it or not.  An anthem to America and it's bazaar Stockholm syndrome with the current administration.

Mic drop, indeed!

The first time I heard Lady Gaga sing, I was an uptight, religious twat who didn't "get it" and thought "if she would just lose all the weird stuff, she has an amazing voice."  I was right about one thing.  She has an amazing voice.  But that "weird stuff," that freak flag-inclusive-recognizing-accepting-celebrating-glittered-bombed weird stuff is what makes her an amazing human.  And made her half-time show an amazing political statement that could hardly ruffle any feathers because it was so consistent with who she has always been.  That's hard-core activism right there!

Labels

(Perhaps this blog should be called the bi-annual morph.  Change happens daily -writing about it?  Not so much.  Shrug.)


Labels are great! 

On food products, medications, chemicals, even in your pantry, bathroom, craft room, and other places you crazy label-maker lovers have been known to leave your mark.  (You know who you are!)  Yes, all of these represent useful, appropriate uses of labeling.  Go labels!

But what about labels we attach to people?

When I was a "believer" (label) I refused to put anything on my van to indicate such -no bumper stickers, no personalized plate, no little fish, no praying Calvin.  Nothing.  Partly because I just don't care for those things, but mostly it was because I knew that on any given moment I was capable of being more human than "Christian."  I was just as likely as the next guy to run a red light, or speed, or cut someone off in traffic, whether intentionally or not.  And you won't find anything on my van now indicating my beliefs or lack thereof.  I just don't think my life is easily summarized by a single word or symbol.  I doubt anyone's life is.

We use these labels against each other.  If you fly around me in a no passing zone with an Ichthus fish on your bumper, I'm probably going to think to myself, "Well, there you go.  Hypocrite!"  And likewise a Christian who gets cut off by some dude with a Darwin fish on his bumper may think, "Well, there you go.  Lawless baby-eater!"

The truth is Jesus fish dude is not behaving like a Christian.  Nor is the thinking fish dude behaving like an Atheist.  They are both acting like humans and well, really crappy drivers.  The labels perpetuate our assumptions, stereotypes, fears, separation.  You think the "caution: hot" warning on a McDonald's coffee cup is silly?

Now more than ever it's easy to get caught up --Republican, Democrat, Liberal, Conservative, Gay, Straight.  I'm guilty.  So are you.  Sucks doesn't it? 

At the very least, let's agree to try, TRY, to limit the labeling to one we can all agree on and none can escape: human. 

Selfishly selfless, lawfully rebellious, perfectly flawed humans.

Why is "death with dignity" so disturbing?

I opened the computer this morning to find that Brittany Maynard ended her life Saturday and I was awash with varying emotions.  I was sad.  Twenty-nine years old.  Dang.  Really sad.  I was proud of her and for her, and her family, for the end of the struggle not only with her illness but with the decision and the media.  And honestly, get this...
 
I was jealous.  Yeah.  Jealous.
 
And as I let myself sit with that feeling for awhile, I couldn't help pondering the possibility that some of the heavy backlash from certain groups may also be rooted in this weird emotion of envy.  No one, no one, wants to die a slow and agonizing death.  You hear people speak of it, "She went quietly in her sleep," with a hushed tone of thankfulness.  We all, ALL OF US, every last one of us, if given the choice for how to pass from this life into death would choose exactly what Brittany chose.
 
But here's the reality.  We don't all get to choose.  And I think, feel, believe that most of the naysayers, regardless of how they've packaged it to look more pious than it is, are really just two year-olds standing with red cheeks and stomping their feet because they got the short half of the cookie.
 
It's just not fair!!  Stomp. Stomp.
 
Some of us will die in tragic accidents, some in violent criminal acts, some in the throes of painful diseases, some of us will die from natural disasters with own houses crumbling atop us.  There are as many unpleasant ways to die as there are people on the planet and most of us will never get to make the choice that Brittany made because we won't even see it coming.  And I just have this sneaking suspicion that this is why it bugs us so much.  We are so. stinking. jealous.  Even though we all know and have probably quoted it to our children until we're blue in the face, that life isn't fair.  It's just not.  It is painfully, uncomfortably unfair.  In its living and in its dying.  Unfair.
 
We have to find a way to come to terms with this and I don't think the best method is by creating a religious system in which the deeper our suffering the more righteous and significant we become.  But this idea is strongly at play.  The fact that John Piper suggests that Brittany's family will have missed an opportunity for really nothing more than self-betterment by not enduring greater levels of suffering is ludicrous.

"And the grieving spouses and mothers and fathers and brothers and sisters and sons and daughters are not merely watching. They are serving, caring, loving. Yes, suicide spares them the pain of watching. But it also denies them the privilege of serving. There are moments in the tireless care of the dying beloved that are so intense with self-giving love that they would not be traded for any death."  (blog - www.desiringgod.org)
 
Serving the sick and dying is of tremendous value.  But there is a big difference between yielding selflessly to serve another during unavoidable suffering and choosing your own piety as a servant over the potential end to suffering.  "Shall we continue in sin that grace may abound?  God forbid!" (NLT -New Living Translation).  Shall my loved one suffer longer and more deeply that my own good reputation abound?  Hell no! (NAT -New Amie Translation)
 
And so, what if more people could be given the choice to die peacefully in their home with those they love?  Does it mean the world will be deprived of all suffering and us poor living souls will have no opportunities to serve, to extend ourselves for those in need?  Of course not!

It means that some of us, perhaps only a lucky few, will have the chance to avoid what all of us would if we could: the pain of seeing those we love suffer on our behalf.  As well as a chance to watch in awe as another actively embraces the last step of life with great composure and the dignity of choice.

Growing Pains

I wonder if the butterfly, after stretching her wings and taking to the air that first time only to be caught in the swirling vortex of a passing freight train, ever considers crawling back into her cocoon?

That's sort of the feeling I've had recently.  Not that I want to go all the back to the caterpillar days but maybe just a reprieve somewhere between transitions; somewhere in that anonymous space between who I was and who I am becoming.

When we were in the middle of Christianity, I had a lot of views.  One of those views was frustration because the church seemed to always be against things: anti-abortion, anti-homosexuals, anti-liberalism, anti-feminism, and so on.  Even when it tried hard to spin things toward the positive (pro-life, support marriage, family values) I always found myself thinking, "No one is buying this. Hell, I'm not even buying it."  And so, like many others have noted and proposed from within the church, I wanted my life to be defined by what I was truly "for" and what I truly supported, not backhanded compliments and slick semantics.

Now, I find myself on the opposite side of the coin but still struggling with the same issue.  I don't want to spend my days fighting religion.  I really don't.  And yet, I strongly believe there are tenants of fundamentalism which need to be shut down.  Permanently.  I believe that there are good people living in unnecessary fear and guilt, and children being dangled over the flames of hell for no other reason than that they were born, and people being condemned for their sexuality, and women being confined to antiquated roles, and, and, and...  And these things make me sad and angry and I find the late Christopher Hitchens and the current Richard Dawkins and those in their "aggressive atheists" camp to be of great value and justified in their logic that religion is a poison for humanity.  There are days when "live and let live" feels like a giant cop-out.

But I don't want to be the angry atheist either --in part because I'm an agnostic (I realize that this distinction means little to nothing in our particular geographic/Baptist inundated sphere) and also because religion consumed the first 38 years of my life.  I'd rather not hand over the next however many years I have left, even as its antagonist.  I worried my entire life about those who didn't know the "good news" and who were living miserable lives apart from God and would some day suffer eternal consequences.  I weighed every conversation in light of this belief and every relationship in light of this belief.  It was exhausting.

And I could easily exhaust myself again trying to dig out and expose every landmine that fundamentalist religion has left poised for destruction against humanity or, OR,

OR...

I can follow the lead of those who've tiptoed through before me and I can grab the hand of those behind me and we can weave our way through together taking steps FORWARD.  I may still stop and scream, "Hey dumbass!  You're blowing people's legs off over here!" in the general direction of the religious world now and then.  But I'm ready to stop spinning my wheels on spent arguments and to gain some traction on the things that matter to me now by supporting them, talking about them, linking them, celebrating them.  And if someone wants to throw religion out there as an argument, I may or may not engage with it, but I sure as hell won't let it suck the life out of me.

Life that is so. very. good. without it!

Freight trains be damned -this girl will fly!

Is Them Your Kids?

Is them your kids?

Standing in the checkout line at the grocery store.  Ordering burgers at a fast-food restaurant.  At the park.  At the museum.  The gas station.  My own front yard.  You name the place and I can probably think of a time that I was asked this question.  Of course, it’s not always this exact question.  There are plenty of variations.  Are you babysitting?  Do you run a children’s home?  Are they (shifting eyes and whispering)… adopted?

The whisperers.  Yes, the whisperers.  They entertain me.  While some would say that I should be grateful for their attempts at sensitivity and discretion, I prefer to have fun at their expense.

Thank you so much for mouthing the word ‘adoption’ because despite the fact that you are a total stranger and it only took you a nanosecond to see the difference, our kids are complete morons and have yet to realize that we are not all the same color.  Thanks for helping us keep it our little secret. Wink.  

Okay, I haven’t actually said this to anyone (because I am much nicer on the outside of my mouth than I am on the inside of my brain) but I have thought it.  Oh, how many times I have thought it!

Our culture puts a lot of emphasis on personal space and privacy.  “Never ask a lady her age” and “Don’t ask when a woman is due unless you are positive she’s pregnant” are bits of wisdom that have been around for decades.  Maybe centuries.  And though social networking has certainly challenged the notion of personal space and what does or doesn't qualify as "TMI" there are still some lines that aren't crossed and some boundaries which are respected, especially face to face.

We would never approach an all white, all black, all Asian, etc. family and say, er, whisper:

“It looks to me like your oldest child was born out of wed-lock, the next two are from a failed marriage, and the baby your holding is your current husband’s but the marriage is struggling because nobody likes their new step-father.  Am I right?”

We would not do this because A) it's completely inappropriate and B) aside from the clairvoyant, the prophetic, and the just plain freakish no one could tell all of that at a single glance. 

Ah, but this interracial adoption thing is a whole different story.

The very visible nature of our family’s design means those boundary lines are drawn with invisible ink.  I don't mean to complain.  Rant, vent, grumble?  Maybe a little.  But outright complain?  Nope.  We had a choice.  We made it.  We accept it for what it is but...we still shake our heads in wonder. 

Ultimately, people’s perception will be what it will be and I don’t always have the time (or energy) to correct misconceptions.  There will always be the young black woman who looks at me with scorn because I’m clearly just another white chic with “jungle fever”.  There will always be the proper southern white woman who looks at me with shameful glares because she assumes that I’ve been intimate with (in her archaic vernacular) a “culluhed” man.  There will always be those who think we have ruined these kids because in our whiteness, we can't possibly keep them connected to black culture, as well as those who think we have saved these kids who, without the presence of our whiteness, would surely grow up to be gangsters and drug dealers.

And that's just what we deal with as parents.  Can you imagine what my kids have to put up with?  It can be brutal but we try to instill in our kids a strong sense of self and a strong sense of humor.  It's really the only way to navigate this beautiful mess we call a family.  Maybe even life in general.

One of my all time favorite misconceptions came after our crew joined one of my dear friends for her family's annual reunion.  We’d spent the day getting to know people and enjoying some amazing food.  Everyone welcomed us and made us feel right at home.  It wasn’t until we left that one of the elderly aunts finally unloaded what was on her mind to my friend.

“Why do you think that poor man stays with her if she keeps having all those black babies?”

 Ha!  Yep.  It seems that in the world of interracial adoption a girl can fluctuate between sainthood and whoredom in the blink of an eye.  Poor, poor Tim. =)

Throw in a generous helping of people who ask about our kids with sincere curiosity and who appreciate adoption for what it is (no more and no less) and maybe you can see how this adoption life requires an extra helping of patience.

Are you babysitting?  Nope.  Parenting.

Do you run a daycare?  Yep.  24/7 without pay.

Is this a home for troubled kids?  Well, that depends on the day.

Is them your kids?  Why, yes.  Yes they are!

 

 

I Might Not Be Snow White

...but I am often surrounded by small, bossy people and I do occasionally talk to animals.

Last week, for example. 

It was Saturday morning and I was at the grocery store.  Not where I wanted to be but life, budget, blah.  So, there I was.  Our usual Saturday morning is having a big family breakfast with bacon, eggs, grits, pancakes...the works!  I was snatching up the last few items when Tim texted to let me know everything was ready and they would be starting without me. 

At the moment, it was no big deal.  I let him know I'd be there soon enough but whatev -it's all good.  Weird thing is, somewhere between that text and getting the groceries loaded into the van, it was not all good.  It was very bad.  I can blame it on some crazy hormone shift or too little sleep but regardless of the source, I was suddenly a flood of "big feelings" and a puddle of tears.

As I was driving home, it occurred to me that the children, who were enjoying their timely breakfast, would be disgruntled at having said breakfast interrupted in order to unload the van full of groceries and thusly the supply of their next breakfast, which made me less tearful and more ticked.  And though I admit that visualizing cartons of milk exploding against the backs of their selfish heads and butter grenades being launched with absolute precision made me feel better, I figured it was best to give Tim fair warning.

I pulled over into a nearby church parking lot to text Tim (because I do NOT text and drive -PSA at no charge).  The message read something to the effect of "if anyone complains, it will not go well for them."  Just as I hit send, I had the strangest feeling someone was watching me.  Like, at close range.  I lifted my head slowly and looked over my right shoulder.

Perched on the side view mirror of my van was a blue bird.  His head was cocked to one side and he made direct eye contact (as direct as any bird has ever made with me) and wore a quizzical expression.  I heard him in my head say, "Really?  That bad?"  I chuckled out loud which of course, startled him to a nearby branch.  I sat there for an extra minute, exchanging glances with my new friend and thought, "Nope.  It's really not that bad."

It all reminded me of the scene from "Ever After" in which Leonardo Da Vinci unrolls the painting of the Mona Lisa and Prince Henry says, "She laughs at me, sir, as if she knows something I do not." 

The blue bird was laughing at me as if he knew something I did not. 

I know it's much more likely he was thinking "hey, can I snag some cheese off that pizza in the front seat?" but I'll take a friendly and mildly delusional reminder that things aren't so bad after all over a yard full of grocery carnage. 

And lest you think this encounter was just a fluke and doubt my fairytale princess-like gift of animal interaction, there was another encounter just a few days later.  This one involved two red finches perched on the electrical wire over the sidewalk I was traversing.  I said to them, "Please don't shit on me." and they didn't. 

Gift.  There's no other explanation.  ;-) 

A Hard Pruning

I've been struck the past week at the similarity between my journey in gardening and my journey in life.  There seem to be lots of parallel lessons and that's probably a good thing since it often takes me two, or a hundred, practice rounds to get things into this hard head of mine.

I never considered myself a good gardener.  I could get plants to grow and for a short time they might even look healthy and beautiful but sooner or later, the blooms would give out and the edges would brown and shrivel up.  I watered appropriately.  I planted according to the directions on the labels: full sun, spacing, etc. but even if the plant lived, it just never seemed to reach it's full potential.  So, I chalked it up to having a "brown thumb" and continued adding varieties of things to my garden, enjoying them for the week or so that they were vibrant and ignoring them the rest of the time.

I wanted this year to be different.  A lot has changed for me -personally, spiritually, even physically so, I figured why not make some changes in the old garden, too.

One thing that has not changed is my love for learning new things.  I love learning new things!  I love learning!  It's why I read ridiculous numbers of books and watch ridiculous numbers of documentaries.  I love (and need) those little reminders of things that are important to me and values that I want my life to reflect.  Inputting new information keeps me constantly weighing my actions against my core and my convictions against my methodologies.  Learning is like a layer of fertile soil in my life.

But good soil alone doesn't make a garden grow and so I put my inquisitive brain (and the most important man-made tools in all of history -Google and Youtube ;-)) to work and got busy educating myself.  I quickly found out there was an area of gardening I had long since been neglecting: pruning.

I mean, I was familiar with the act of pruning.  Tim had spent hours upon hours researching the correct pruning techniques for our fruit trees but I had never transferred that information to my plants.  I would "dead-head" flowers here and there but for the most part I steered clear of the pruning shears out of sheer fear (chuckle) of killing my plants.  You know, the ones that were dying a slow and agonizing death anyway.


But pruning, my dears, is key.  And while there are better and worse times of year and such as that, what I've discovered is that you almost cannot screw it up.  Now, the pruning shears are my best friend in the garden.  After the blooms on my rose bushes began to lose their petals, I trimmed the stalks back, sometimes way back.

And do you know what has happened? 

They have bloomed again and again and again.  The more dead stuff I cut back, the more new life explodes from the branches.  Brown and dried out Carnations that could have easily been tossed in the rot pile got a serious trimming and are filling back in with beautiful green leaves.  I'm a pruning, thinning, trimming, plucking, pulling maniac and I am seeing the results.

Not just in my garden.

The past year or so was a time of heavy pruning.  And it was scary.  There were branches of relationships that I didn't think I could live without.  There were spent blooms that had at one time been fragrant and bright but were no longer drawing nourishment.  There were even sections riddled with the "disease" of old thought patterns like self-doubt, fear, anxiety, and judgment.  Lots that needed to go.  Some that will have to be cut back repeatedly because of their propensity to regrow.  Some are tough and hard to break off and leave knotty little wounds in their place. 

Scary stuff.  Because whatever comes next has to come from what's left, from this stripped down version of me, from the roots and fibers that are deep inside. 

And do you know what has happened?

I am blooming!  Again and again and again and again and...



How about you?  Done some hard pruning lately?  Need to do some?  I'd love to hear your life gardening story!  Feel free to share in the comment section.

In a Perfect World

If I had my druthers, this website would have been populated with lots of wonderful posts full of wit and wonder, life and love, dreams and drama, (ok, I'll stop now) before I released a book advertising the blog address right there on the back of it.  Timing.  Blah.  Unfortunately, I was sideswiped by so much life and drama that I was at my wit's end.  Things didn't go as I planned.

I love blogs.  I don't actually "follow" many of them because I'm way too busy hoping people will be following mine (and parenting and what have you ;-)) but I do in fact, love them.  And I want mine to be good.  It doesn't have to be great.  It doesn't have to generate income and have four thousand ads flashing and scrolling in the margins.  I like a clean page.  Minimalistic.  But I want the content to be good and the overall feel to be encouraging, inspiring even, in the midst of the huge doses of reality because inspiration that doesn't work in real life quickly becomes condemnation, guilt, depression.  I don't know about you but I can spiral myself into those nasty places just fine without the help of "perfect world" blogs, thank you very much.  They are my least favorite blogs.

And you have to wonder, too, are those perfect people in their perfect families writing perfect blogs with perfect pictures of perfect life really...perfect?  Of course not.  I know that.  You know that.  We all know it somewhere inside but... don't you find yourself believing they are?  Just a little bit?  Or maybe even a lot?  Like enough that if you unexpectedly met them in the grocery store you would find yourself saying, "Oh my god, I love your blog!" right before PUNCHING THEM DIRECTLY IN THE FACE?  Is that just me?

Even their voices are perfect. 

What's that?  Yeah, I know I'm talking about blogs -communication in written form but when we read, we give people/characters a "voice" in our heads.  And I know when I am buying the whole perfect blog thing because I tend to give those people the most glorious voices.  They are ethereal, soft but not timid, neutral in accent, and full of the wisdom of ages.  Perfect.

When they post a picture of a perfect meal they've prepared, I somehow think that every meal in their home must be this perfect.  If they say some profound thing about parenting, I unwittingly assume that they must do this thing perfectly every. single. time.  It's stupid.  I know it's stupid.  You know it's stupid.  But I (and by that I mean "we") do it anyway.

I saw a facebook meme once that essentially said stop comparing your everyday life to other people's highlights reel.  It's the beauty and curse of social media.  We can create the image we want to present and just omit the things that are less than appealing.  I remember watching my "best moments" video thingy that FB did last year and thinking, "Wow!  I had a fantastic year!  Why does it seem so different in my head?"

I don't want you to make any of those mistake where this blog is concerned.  So, let's get some things straight.  I do not live in a perfect world.  Some days, for one split second the sun is shining, the breeze is blowing, the birds are singing, and all my kids are safely occupied with some joyful activity that requires nothing but my adoring smile of affirmation.  BLINK!  The moment is gone.  Done.  Dead.  Obliterated! 

Some days barely register above tolerable but most are kind of like a bunch of white people at a wedding reception trying to do the electric slide.  One step forward, two steps back, and everyone is moving in opposite directions.  I've heard it called organized chaos.  Close.  A constant attempt to manage insanity?  Yeah, that's more like it.  

Some day I might post a photo of a delicious dinner that I've made from scratch using our homegrown farm fresh ingredients.  Something like this yummy butternut squash soup:

I love cooking and feeding my family good, real food BUT don't you think for a second there aren't nights (at least once a week) that look like this:

And I mean EXACTLY like this.  Shoot, my kids know how to use a can opener and a microwave.

Real life.  Not just the highlights.

Hopefully, the blog will fill up at a steady rate but if there's a lull -assume chaos is ruling the roost and spaghettio's are being served up a-plenty.  Oh, and if you must give me a voice, go for a lusty, southern, chain-smoker in drag.  It'll help keep your expectations in check and I won't have to fear being punched in the face at the grocery store.
 

TaTa's and Turning 40!

This was the year.  The big one.  Forty.

Honestly, it was no big deal.  Certainly not the tragedy of days which I imagined back when I was young and stupid and thought that forty was equivalent to having one foot in the grave.  Forty is not dead.  And it's way less old the closer you get to it. 

It's not that I don't feel old sometimes.  I do.  My body goes to great efforts to remind me that I'm not exactly young anymore.  A lot of days I gird my loins (read: suck in my stomach) and scoff with my fist in the air, determined to be "among the very young at heart" and undeterred in my conquest of life and happiness.  That's usually followed by noticing that I've pulled a muscle in my back with all that fist pumping and then I decide I'll just nap for today.  Tomorrow: the world!

As I said, my fortieth birthday was really no big deal.  Except in the way that it was a HUGE deal.  You see, as logic would have it, at this same time I was turning forty, my tatas were also turning forty.  I should start by telling you that I haven't always been a fan of my tatas.  They showed up to the party way late in my opinion and they simply refused to reach their full potential in what I believed were the most significant years of my tatas lives.  Too little, too late.  My boobs in a nutshell.

But over the years, the girls have taken full advantage of the extra pounds life has added to my person and have in the past five years or so become quite dear to me.  They are not in any way knock out bosoms the likes of such famed cleavage as Dolly Parton or Pamela Anderson.  I'm super okay with that.  They did manage, though, to nicely fill out to what seems more proportionately balanced to my body type.  I appreciate them for this while acknowledging that their slow awakening afforded me the time I needed to know that boobs aren't everything.  And whether you love 'em or hate 'em, wish they were bigger or smaller, I think we can all agree that they hold in their being the capacity to scare the absolute hell out of us.

Two days before the big 4-0 would hit, my 39 and 7/8 year old breasts were put on center stage.  The lump was not very big.  But it was there.

Our family doctor confirmed its presence and put in the necessary referrals for a mammogram.  She'd been giving me a head's up for several years that I would need to start considering a mammogram when I hit forty.  I laughed through my tears and said, "Well, you can't say I'm not a compliant patient."  Humor is my safety net.

If I can laugh, I can breathe.

Painful?  Yes it was.  Terrifying?  Yes it was.  The doctor in the radiology office read the mammogram and requested a follow up ultrasound.  I didn't know if this was good or bad but scary?  Yes it was.  A physical exam by the doctor and the longest hour of my life later, I was relieved to find out that it was just a cyst.  It has since disappeared and I'm good to go until next year's check up.

For those of you who have been down this path with less than good news -nothing but love and support for you and your tatas!  I don't pretend to have walked in your shoes but my perspective was certainly broadened.

Oh, and FYI, if you happen to see me out in public, let's keep the forty thing on the DL.  Boobies are one thing but I really don't want my vagina to know how old she is.  ;-)