the bottom of the ninth

O is for: Optimism

“Don’t judge each day by the harvest you reap, but by the seeds you plant.”  - Robert Louis Stevenson.

“I always thought of myself as an American, with all of the promise that America holds.  But suddenly last night, for the first time, I felt like I could put my suitcase down.” – Whoopi Goldberg, November 5, 2008.

The road to change is never straight.

It was in the seventh grade that I first heard the words “Yes we can.”  I was seated in the auditorium of our school, flanked on either side by Anne Mohan and Martha Hickson, my two best friends, as we watched a reel to reel film of Cesar Chavez and the United Farm Workers’ boycott of the California table grape growers.  I remember seeing Chavez’s weakened figure on the large canvas screen and marveling at his bravery, his hope and his dedication to his people.  I hadn’t been to California and sure didn’t know much about the agricultural lifestyle of the Golden State.  In fact, I didn’t know anything about migrant farm workers at all.  

But as we sat there in the dark, watching the black and white images flash on the screen and hearing the stories about the horrible living and working conditions of the people he was fighting for, their lack of adequate housing, food, safe work conditions and medical care, something stirred inside.  It wasn’t right.  It just wasn’t right.  

“Si′se puede,” the farm workers chanted as they marched in unison, demanding equitable wages and improved living conditions.  “Si′se puede.”  Yes we can.  

“Si′se puede,” Martha said, repeating the words of the workers as their chants grew to a crescendo.  

“Si′se puede,” said Anne, joining in. 

“Si′se puede,” I chanted, quietly.  “Si′se puede.” 

And then we began in earnest.  Three middle class white kids, chanting in solidarity with the California farm workers.  It was a pre-adolescent moment of transformation.  That is, until Mr. Woodward caught us and gave us detention.

“You can’t chant in assemblies,” he chastised us. 

Yes we can.

Almost 40 years later we have come full circle.

I watched “The View” on Wednesday.  I don’t usually watch “The View” and if I do, I don’t admit it.  But Wednesday morning I grabbed my cup of coffee and plopped myself on the principal’s recliner, raised the footrest and flipped on the television.  It had been an historic night and I was curious about how the token Republican, my fellow Boston College alum that had been so ardently campaigning for the other candidate, would react.

A new day has come.

"This is our time, to put our people back to work and open doors of opportunity for our kids; to restore prosperity and promote the cause of peace; to reclaim the American dream and reaffirm that fundamental truth, that, out of many, we are one; that while we breathe, we hope. And where we are met with cynicism and doubts and those who tell us that we can't, we will respond with that timeless creed that sums up the spirit of a people: Yes, we can." - President Elect, Barack Obama

He cannot do it alone.  This is not about blue or red, black or white, Democrat or Republican.  This is about all of us.

We are a nation.  It is time to come together.  There is much to do.  Let's get to work. 

Yes. We. Can.

I did. Did you?

N is for: Notice

"I think it pisses God off if you walk by the color purple in a field somewhere and don't notice it." - Alice Walker

Several years ago I was back in New Jersey visiting my parents.  No longer living in the house that I grew up in, they had managed to transfer most of our childhood belongings to their post-children house.  While the stage was different, the set was much the same.  Childhood bedspreads adorned the beds that we had spent our youth sleeping in.  The marionettes that had performed in many a basement puppet show hung from the ceiling in the “boys” room and my old “drum majorette” coat, covered in nearly 20 years of dust, still hung in the closet.  Sleeping in those bedrooms was always a walk down memory lane.

Every now and then curiosity got the better of me and I would go on a scavenger hunt, searching for a piece of personal memorabilia; a photo album, an old macramé wall hanging, a “One Way” sign, written in Italian, that I just had to have after we returned from a summer visit to see the relatives in Rome.  It was a personal treasure hunt and it was always a surprise to see what I might find.

On one such adventure, I rummaged through an old cherry dresser that had once belonged to my great grandmother.  The bottom drawer was a gold mine.  Buried deep under countless photos of several generations, was an old manila envelope, the corners creased and frayed from a lifetime of being moved from place to place.  Inside was a collection of my report cards from kindergarten all the way through college.  Wow.

I always hated report card time.  I dreaded the inevitable moment when I would present the report card to Dad for his signature.  I would sit at the round butcher-block table in the kitchen as he reviewed my “marks” and read the occasional comment from the teacher.  It wasn’t that I did poorly.  Despite an occasional “C”, I was, for the most part an “A” and “B” student, but Dad was a bit of a perfectionist and he demanded nothing but the best from all of us.

And my teachers played right into his hand.

“Suzanne can do better,” they would write.  “She is a very bright girl, she just needs to apply herself a bit more.”  Thanks a lot.

And so, I would.  I’d spend hours on homework and test preparation, on assignments and term papers and reports and when I would get them returned to me, I would march home and proudly present the graded paper to dear old Dad.

“A 97?  What happened to the other 3 points?”

I kid you not.  He actually said that.

It’s become a family joke.

About a week ago, the kids’ report cards came in the mail.  Holding my 16 year old’s in my hand, I felt just the slightest pang of trepidation as I tore off the perforated edges and pulled apart the computer printout. The word’s shot out of my mouth before I could even think about stopping them.
“You can do better than this,” I heard myself say, ignoring the 1st honors designation. Within a moments time, we were off and running down a path of no return.  What happened to the other 3 points?

One evening, later that week, we were in the car driving home from yet another late night on the football field.  I decided to try my luck again and revisit the conversation that I had failed so miserably at the first time.  After all, we were alone in the car, we had just stopped at Taco Bell for the post game meal and with a full stomach, a captive audience and the elation of win, I thought the odds for success were in my favor.

“You know Mom,” he said as I calmly tried to broach the subject one more time, “I wish you would notice what I’m doing well once in a while.”

Gulp.

I never said that to my parents although I certainly wanted to.  I wish you would notice what I’m doing well instead of always noticing how I could do better.

Apparently the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.

Why is it so easy to notice what isn’t working?  Why is it easier to see when things go wrong rather than when things go right?  Why do we focus on what we do not have rather than on what we do?  And how do we keep our expectations in check so we do not miss the gifts we are presented with each and every day?

There is nothing wrong with wanting to do better.  There is no harm in striving to improve.  Accomplish great things.  Be the very best you can be.  My father taught me that lesson, and for that I will be eternally grateful.

My son taught me another.  Take the time to notice what we’re doing well rather than always noticing what we could do better.

And for that lesson, I am eternally grateful.

Image from here.

Vote for our future, our grandkids' future

We all need something to believe in. Something to work for. That one thing that gets us up in the morning. When things are at their darkest, we need someone to light a candle and give us hope.

This election isn't just about today or tomorrow or next week. It's about 4 or 5 or 10 years from now. It's about our children and our children's children. This election, like Charles says in this video clip so eloquently, "is about all of our future... our grandkids' future."

Whatever else you do on Tuesday, vote.

M is for: Make a list of the things you love

"Thoughts come clearly while one walks." - Thomas Mann

It is a Saturday afternoon and I am sitting with a group of social work students in a rather stark classroom on the second floor of Stevenson Hall.  We are a diverse bunch.  Young and not so.  Men and women.  Experienced and as green as they come. 

It is their fieldwork seminar class, an opportunity for them to review their week “in the field” and ask the question, “What is it I want to learn today?”  Each week I ask someone to bring in an “ice breaker”, something to get the conversation started and the creative juices flowing.   The questions always amaze me. 

Knowing what you know today, what other career might you have chosen?

An invisible hand shot up in my brain.  I know that one.

A couple of years ago I was at a professional crossroads.  After 20 years of working in the mental health community, I was faced with the decision to close the non-profit agency I had run for over 10 years.  I was about to be laid off.  The economic climate had turned sour and it was just too hard to keep the doors open anymore.  For the first time in my life, I would be joining the ranks of the unemployed.  I was scared to death.

A friend referred me to someone he knew.  “She helped me,” I remember him saying, “I think she can help you too.  You really need to call her.”

I remember that first conversation vividly.  “I’m burned out,” I told her.  “I don’t love what I do anymore. I need to do something different but I don’t know what.  I can’t figure it out.  I’m not sure what I want.  And I’m tired.  Very, very tired.  I just can’t do this anymore.

I can’t.  I don’t.  I won’t.  Black cloud words.  She’d heard it all before.

“Make a list of the 10 most significant events or experiences in your life,” Bonnie assigned me in our first meeting.   And so I did.

Joining the Jesuit Volunteer Corps and going to Montana
Spending Junior Year Abroad in England
Going to Appalachia to volunteer
Being the Drum Major in the high school band
Meeting Anne Mohan in 7th grade…

The answers came quickly.  Within moments the list wrote itself and I sat back to look at what was there.  It was the beginning of a journey of re-discovery.  Just who was I, anyway?

That was just the tip of the iceberg.  There were lots of questions.  Questions about what I loved and what I didn’t.  What I believed about myself and what I did not.  Bright ideas, negative voices … and dreams.  Lots and lots of dreams.

I was surprised just how far away I had ventured from my heart, from what was really important to me.  Not big, obvious, detours down paths marked with warning signs and flashing lights.  Small ones.  Like tiny little forks in the road that had taken me farther and farther from what I really loved about this career in the first place.  It had happened gradually, over time.  So gradually, in fact, that I hadn’t even noticed, until the day that I woke up with that sick feeling in the pit of my stomach that I just could not make go away.  

So I started to walk. Like Bill Murray’s character, Bob Wiley, in “What About Bob”, I began to take baby steps.  One step at a time.  One. tiny. step.  Some days it was many.  Some days only one.  But every day there was a step. 

And gradually, I found my way back.

Recently my sister found herself in the same situation.  A gifted Special Ed teacher, she had spent years in the classroom and had come to the same conclusion.  She just couldn’t do it anymore.  I gave her Bonnie's number and she recently began her own list.

What I learned from that journey was to pay attention to those little forks in the road.  To make a list of the things that we love and make sure that we do at least one of them every day.   To ask the question, “Just who am I anyway?” and take the time to listen to the answer. 

And remember to keep walking.

Knowing what you know today, what other career would you have chosen?

Image from here.

Vote for hope

"Be the change you want to see in the world." - Mahatma Gandhi

I usually stay away from politics. It's one of the three things you never should talk about, right? 

But  we're ten days away.  Ten days from perhaps the most important election in recent history.  Certainly the most historic. 

What has continued to amaze me throughout this campaign has been the emotion it has awakened in all of us, the good, the bad and the very, very ugly.  There's been a lot of ugly.

But this is an example of the good.  This is a message worth listening to.  A message about hope and inclusion and connection.  A message about change.

10 more days.  A brighter day will come.

K is for: Keep your eyes up

"The question is not what you look at, but what you see." - Henry David Thoreau

You never know from where a lesson will come.

I picked my behemoth son up from football practice the other day.  It was the day before game day, which means "walk through" and team meetings and a hearty, carbohydrate and protein packed meal.  He threw his enormous, over-sized gym bag that always seems to smell like a locker room into the trunk and plopped himself down in the passenger's seat.  Within seconds of contact, the right hand side of the old brown sedan dropped a good 6 inches.

"How was walk through?" I asked, always hopeful that I'll get more than a one-word answer.  I'm determined, if nothing else.

"Fine."  Of course it was.

"What was for dinner?"

"Chicken."

I paused a moment, noticing that this conversation seemed strangely familiar. "Was it good?"

"Yeah."

So much for the warm up act.  What I really wanted to know was what went on in the team meetings.  Having never been inside a football locker room, I am really curious about what goes on behind that big red door.

"What's the plan for the game this week?"  I asked, knowing full well that I was venturing into triple top secret, if-I-tell-you-I-might-have-to-kill-you territory.

He glanced over at me with one of his "your not going to give up, are you?" looks.  I kept my eyes straight ahead as the slightest of smiles crossed my lips.

"Coach told us to 'keep our eyes up'.  This team blitzes a lot.  If we keep our eyes up, we can see what's coming and we’ll know what to do."

My son plays on the offensive line.  They’re a tight knit group, a team within a team.  They’re responsible for protecting the quarterback, allowing him enough time to initiate the play.  They read and react to the situation and their eyes are one of their most important assets.  The offensive line doesn’t get much glory, but if they don’t do their job, believe me, you notice. 

It’s funny how seeing clearly seems to be a life lesson these days.

I never was much for haunted houses.  As a kid spending summers on the boardwalk of the Jersey shore, haunted houses were always a must do.  We'd pile in the tiny cars, pull down the lap bar and sit back as the car took a big jerk and headed into the darkness.  Full of anticipation for what was to come, the screaming would start almost immediately, even before we reached the big metal doors that swung open at the exact second you were about to crash into them.

I ALWAYS closed my eyes.

I didn't like things jumping out at me.  I didn't like not being able to see what was coming.  I was OK if the lights were on, if I could see that the hand that was about to reach out and grab me was really nothing more than a collection of nuts and bolts and wires and plastic wrapped awkwardly on to a piece of PVC pipe, but with the lights off?  Without being able to see clearly?  Nope.  Being in the dark is just not my thing.

Some things never change.

We baptized a friend's baby daughter the other day.  I've been to quite a few baptisms over the course of my life and I am always struck by the baptismal vows, the part where the parents, godparents, and the entire congregation promise to look out for this new little member of the community.  To stand beside her parents and support them in the daunting task of raising a child in this often crazy world of ours.  To watch over them and take care of them.  To guide them and nurture them and support them.  To be a part of their team, protecting them and watching out for them.

To keep our eyes up, so we can see what's coming and know how to react.

And then, after all the baptismal promises were made, we lit a candle.

Apparently I'm not the only one who doesn't like the darkness.

J is for: Jury Duty

"A jury consists of twelve persons chosen to decide who has the better lawyer." - Robert Frost

It was 9:40 a.m.  I sat on the hard wooden bench in the hallway of justice.  I was late. 

“I would have been here earlier, your honor,” I rehearsed, imagining the chastising that was to come,  “But the kids had to be woken up and lunches had to be made.  The dog threw up on the carpet and my youngest couldn’t find his other shoe.”

Having arrived about a half an hour late, hair uncombed and still wet and clutching my county issued parking pass in my left hand, I drove around in circles in the parking lot for 30 minutes, searching for the one remaining, empty and very hidden space. 

The parking lot was like a maze.  I drove around and around, from lot to lot, never quite sure where I was and where I should go next.  I began to talk aloud to myself which is never a good sign.  I glanced down at the parking instructions, written in the tiniest of print, but as is typical these days, I couldn’t read them. 

What kind of welcome was this for someone who was here to do their civic duty?

I called the telephone number after 5:00 p.m. the night before, as instructed by the letter highlighted in bold red ink.  Sunday night I had gotten off easy.  I was on standby.  I liked standby.  I could do standby.  Standby was something I had perfected. 

Monday night my luck changed.

I found a spot next to a dented blue Dodge whose owners were reminiscing about the smell of barf.  A mile from anywhere, I began the trek to find the hallway of justice.  With a certain amount of trepidation, I managed to find my way into the Jury Assembly Room, 102J.  A mass of people awaited me, sitting in chairs and facing the blank white wall at the front of the room.  What were they looking at? 

The woman at the back of the room greeted me and instructed me to sign the slip and leave a daytime phone number. I fought the temptation to give her the wrong number, fearful that someone would notice.  Italian Catholic guilt is a powerful thing.  “You missed the orientation”, she said. 

“I was searching for a parking space for 30 minutes,” I replied, “Are there actually parking spaces out there?”

She was not amused.  “They’ll call you by name into the courtroom.  There are too many of you for numbers.  If no other groups get called in the next few minutes, I’ll let you all go on break.”

I could hardly wait.  I found my way back out to the hallway of justice and located about twelve inches of dark polished oak what would be my home for the next few hours, at least.

9:40 a.m.: The first 15 minute break begins.  “Now would be a good time to put anything in your cars,” she said. 

Yeah right.

10:00: The break must be over but no one said anything.  My butt was starting to hurt.

10:15:  A perky little voice came over the PA system.  What was it she just called us?  Victims?  The list began.  100 names.  Smith, Joseph 14350, Wilson, Ann 22456, McCourt, Jill, 33456.  My chair mates both got called.  I listened intently, as did the others.  She finishes this list.  I caught a fist pump from the good looking guy on the next set of benches.  We’ve escaped, for now.

11:00  “I’m baaaack!”  There she was again.  “The good news is, you are all on lunch break.  The bad news is that when you return from lunch you will all be reporting to Courtroom #1.  You are expected to be in the courtroom no later than 1:30.  If you are not there at 1:30, you will be held in contempt of court….. and that’s not a good thing”

To quote my 14 year old, “Ya think?”  Not only do we get to have lunch at 11:00 in the morning, but we have the pleasure of looking for yet another parking space as there is nowhere to eat within walking distance.  I can hardly wait.

12:45  I pass through security.  Getting to the checkpoint early was the key.  I set off the alarm, but after waving the wand over me from head to toe, the guard seemed unconcerned about the potentially lethal hairclip used to hold back my graying locks.  Who says homeland security isn’t working?  I made my way to the plush accommodations of Courtroom #1 by 12:50 and sat on the shiny dark oak benches in Judge Daum’s neighborhood.

Sometimes anticipation is better.  Before something happens, you can fantasize, imagine, and worry.  Nothing has occurred, and yet the impact of that nothingness can be exciting.  Shortly after 2:10 p.m., the nothingness ended.  As the 10 foot oak door swung open and the bailiff emerged, that nothing turned into something.

We sat like kids waiting to be chosen on the playground for kickball.  All lined up, looking fit and ready to go.  In grade school, not being chosen meant you were not popular.  Not being chosen meant you were not competent.  Not being chosen was an embarrassment. 

In grade school, no one wanted to be the kid who wasn’t chosen.

On this day, I was praying not to be chosen.  I wanted to be the unpopular one, the one that nobody wanted.  “Please.  Don’t pick me.  I can’t kick.  I’m wearing the wrong shoes.  My glasses fall off when I run.  Please don’t pick me.”

I is for: Inspiration

I love quotes.

On the shelf in my living room sits a teal blue hardcover book.  Its corners are frayed; its spine softened from the many times it has been opened.  The countless moments of looking back, remembering when, reflecting on a time long ago when we were just beginning to form who we were, to see who we might become.

When I graduated from high school in 1977, we were asked to choose two representations of ourselves to sit beside our traditional formal head shot, an informal photograph and an inspirational quote.

I knew right away what quote I would use.

Beneath the now faded black and white photograph of me holding my Wilson T-2000 tennis racquet and setting up for the perfect ground stroke, is a quote from one of my all time favorite children’s books, The Little Prince, by Antoine de Saint-Exupery.  “Remember always, it is only with the heart that one can see rightly, what is essential is invisible to the eye.”

It has long been one of my favorites.

I was a Girl Scout.  I did the whole thing, from that first moment in second grade, dressed in my brownie uniform until I became a CIT, a counselor in training at the annual summer camp at Hidden Valley in the Pocono Mountains of eastern Pennsylvania.  I loved being a Girl Scout.

Summer camp was the highlight of each year.  We’d board the bus early on a Saturday morning in the parking lot of a local restaurant and wind our way into the mountains for two weeks of camping, canoeing, swimming and singing crazy camp songs that still run through my head.  We made great friends at camp and as young adolescent girls just learning about our identity, we idealized the camp counselors.  They were our heroes.

We each had our favorites.  Mine was Mindy Lu, a perky blond with an engaging spirit, a twinkle in her eye and a smile that lit up her whole face.  She wasn’t a girlie girl like some of the others.  She could hold her own with an axe, carry copious amounts of weight in her backpack and would serenade us on her guitar with more camp songs than anyone has the right to know.

She was my mentor.  I looked forward to the times when I would see her, when we would meet for lunch at the mess hall or on a wooded hiking path or at the evening camp fire where we would sit and talk about life and dreams and all things philosophical.  I loved those moments and I learned a lot from her.

One afternoon I was called into the camp director’s office.  Closing the door behind me and shutting me off from the environment that I loved, she began to question my relationship with my camp counselor mentor.

Unbeknownst to me, Mindy Lu was gay.

I was young and naïve and it was my first experience with homophobia.  I didn’t understand.  What was this all about?  How could a friendship that I had come to cherish be something to be afraid of? 

The screen door slammed as I walked away from the long narrow wooden building.  I was angry and hurt and confused and it was all I could do to keep from running to my friend and tell her what had happened, but I resisted.  The camp director had made it clear that there would be no more of those conversations I had come to look forward to with great anticipation.  Somehow, someway, someone had decided that this friendship that had come to mean so much to me was dangerous.

The last few days of summer camp came and went and on Friday night the entire camp gathered together for the last final campfire.  As we broke for the evening to go back to our tents to pack up for the morning’s long bus ride home, Mindy Lu handed me a book wrapped in brown paper.  It was a copy of The Little Prince.

I sat on my bunk and opened the package.  Inside the front cover was a handwritten message.

“Dear Sue,

Because of everything… this is for you.  However, two very appropriate reasons stick in my mind.

One, because every camp counselor should have one in their own library.
Two, because this book is very special and should be given to a friend by a friend.  Remember always, it is only with the heart that one can see rightly, what is essential is invisible to the eye.

Thank you for all the caring, sharing, smiles and friendship we share.

Love, Mindy Lu”

I boarded the bus on Saturday morning and waved goodbye as the camp counselors stood in a line dressed in their “dress” gear, the tears streaming down my face.  After years of coming to this place and loving every waking moment, I was leaving with a life lesson I was not prepared to learn.

People do not always see with their hearts.

The book, to this day, is one of my prized possessions.  The jacket long gone, the pages dog-eared and yellowed.  I have read it to both my boys numerous times, sitting on the floor of their bedroom in the dark, shining the flashlight on those all-important words.  “Remember always, it is only with the heart that one can see rightly, what is essential is invisible to the eye.”

I never saw Mindy Lu again although we did exchange letters back and forth for a brief time.  The lessons I learned that summer, however, have stayed with me for a lifetime.

H is for: Hold the hope for someone

" True heroism is remarkably sober, very undramatic. It is not the urge to surpass all others at whatever cost, but the urge to serve others at whatever cost." - Arthur Ashe

Who do you believe in?

I’ve always had a soft spot for Don Quixote.

Many years ago, more years ago than I care to remember, we went to La Mancha, Spain, searching for windmills.  As youngsters, my parents tok us to see The Man of La Mancha, the musical based on the story of Don Quixote.  The book, written by Miguel de Cervantes, tells the story of an ordinary man, a flawed human being and his impossible dream.  It is a story of challenge and impossibility, of friendship and honor, of despair and hope.

Don Quixote is fascinated by stories of chivalry.  He reads so much that he forgets to sleep.  So much that he forgets to eat.  So much that he forgets who he is and jumps, head first, into his own fantastic and imaginary tale.  Accompanied by his friend, Sancho Panza, he battles imaginary demons (windmills) in order to defend the honor of his lady love, a local farm girl he names Dulcinea.  As Don Quixote slips further into his own madness, Sancho Panza and Dulcinea stand beside him even though they do not understand.

The reader goes along for the ride.  As Don Quixote falls deeper and deeper into his illusion, he captures our hearts and our respect.  His deep passion and commitment to his quest becomes the connecting point, the point at which we begin to admire and embrace his own unique form of truth.  We see the world through his eyes, not as the insane ramblings of a madman but as he sees it, a world of battling giants and defending one’s honor. A world of friendship and loyalty and commitment to a dream.

3 years ago a bus pulled up in front of San Quentin prison.  On the bus was a man who had just been released from prison.  His was not a pretty tale.  Years of incarceration, drug addiction and crime had all but ruined him.  As he stepped off the bus, his eyes drifted to the west in the direction of his hometown.  There, just a few miles away, was a life that was familiar.  His family and friends were there.  It was all he knew.

And in that moment, he made a decision.  He would not go back.

He could not go back.

He sat in a chair at the front of a classroom full of fresh-faced undergraduates.  The stark contrast of their lives was extraordinary.  He spoke in measured tones, slowly and clearly so that everyone could hear.  Telling his story has become part of his recovery.

At that moment, he tells them, he made a decision that would save his life.  Instead of going to the west, back to the life he knew, a life of addiction and violence and crime, he went north, and although he did not yet know it, in search of someone who would believe in him.

Inside the walls of the homeless shelter are men and women just like him.  People who have lost their way, fallen victim to their own brand of insanity.

There is a moment in The Man of La Mancha, when Dulcinea asks Sancho Panza the question that is in all of our minds, “Why do you follow him?”

Why do you believe in him?

“I like him,” replies Sancho.  “I really like him.”

His faith in his friend makes all the difference.

Sitting in the classroom with my students, I listen to the story that I have heard many times before.  A story that at this point through my work with him and the others like him, I now know intimately.  There are many Don Quixote’s here looking for their Sancho Panza, a person or persons who will go into battle with them.  Will fight windmills and slay dragons and defend the honor of their very own Dulcinea.

They are looking for someone to believe in them.

He tells the class of the changes that he has made.  Of the battles he has fought, the windmills he has conquered, the life his won back.  It has been hard, he tells them, but he is grateful for those who have stood by him, for his very own squire, his person who believed. 

And that, he tells them, has made all the difference.

Image from here.

G is for: Greatness

"Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate, our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, 'who am I to be so brilliant, gorgeous, talented and fabulous?' Actually, who are we not to be?” – Marianne Williamson

When I was 10 years old, I was in Mr. Oakley’s fourth grade class at Stony Brook School. I sat at my small wooden desk, stuck between John Acarose and Kenny Bacon, boys who used to tease me and pull my hair mercilessly.

At 10 years old, I entered the school spelling bee, served on the safety patrol and learned how to play the “tonette”, a small, plastic, introductory woodwind instrument that my kids call a recorder.

When I was 10 years old, I learned long division, did reading packets and learned New Jersey state history. On a class trip to the state capitol, I got car sick. Walking up the State House steps, dressed in a yellow pinafore that my mother made for me, I unceremoniously threw up at the feet of New Jersey State Senator Raymond Bateman. It wasn’t pretty. Fearful that it might happen again, I spent the remainder of the class trip attached to Mr. Oakley, holding his hand and feeling very foolish. Oh yes. I remember being 10 all too well.

When I was 10 years old, I wasn’t doing this.

Some of us embrace our greatness when we are very young. We have families that support us. Teachers that encourage us. Homes that give us shelter. Food that nourishes us. Lives that have enough.

And then there are those who are slow to come by their greatness. Slow to realize that they can … “be anything, create anything, dream anything, become anything.” There are those who must find their own path. Alone. Wandering in the wasteland of their lives, they have burned their bridges, lost their way. Unable to understand, families have turned their backs. Teachers have given up. For those who wander, there is no place to call home, their souls buried under years of drugs and alcohol.

And yet, they are in there, somewhere.

I didn’t know what to expect when I walked into the homeless shelter for the first time. Although I had dedicated the better part of my professional life in service to the poor and disenfranchised, this was different. Though I did not admit it out loud, there was a part of me that was nervous. Unsure. Worried about what I would find.

What I found surprised me.

A computer programmer. A nurse. A musician or two. A contractor. Mothers and fathers, husbands, wives and grandparents. People like you and me.  People who had lost their way.

Until they found someone to believe in them.

We all need someone to believe. To hold the hope. To see what we can become. To help us embrace our greatness.

We can be that someone. We are that someone.

“Here’s the deal… I can do anything, Be anything, Create anything, Dream anything, Become anything... Because you believe in me.” - Dalton Sherman

L is for: Live - with a capital “I”

What would you be doing if you only had 37 days to live?

(If you are checking in today expecting to see G, do not fear.  I am well aware that G comes after F.  It’s just that there are some times in life when you have to bust the rules and this is one of them.  Rules you say?  What kind of rules?  Why, the “Toast Rules”*, of course.)

If it is true that we all have a twin somewhere in the world, Patti Digh may be mine.  Patti is the author of Life is a Verb, 37 Days to Wake Up, Be Mindful and Live Intentionally, from skirt! Publishing.

I stumbled upon Patti’s most wonderful blog, “37 days”, almost a year ago.  It felt so familiar, like sliding into a pair of well-worn slippers.  Despite the obvious differences, (she was raised in a small town in North Carolina, is a natural red head and has the most wonderful southern drawl), I felt something strangely familiar in her words as I sat on that first day and read essay after beautiful essay.  It was like looking in the mirror.  I felt like I had known her my entire life.

The title of the blog, “37 days”, was inspired by the death of Patti’s stepfather just 37 days after he was diagnosed with lung cancer.  The time frame became a wake up call for her and she asked herself the question, “What would I be doing if I had 37 days to live.”  After the sudden death of my father last year, I knew that question.  I had asked it myself.

Those of you that know me know that I am prone to just the slightest bit of hero worship.  I admit it.  So in keeping with that tendency, I sent Patti an email.  This complete stranger.  From across the country.  Just something light and breezy.  I didn’t want to appear like a stalker…

“Dear Patti,

I have been meaning to drop you a line for a couple of weeks now.  I have been poking around on your site, reading some of the past blogs, etc.  The more I read, the more I discover so many similarities to my life.  Partly that is due to good writing on your part.  Your stories are so wonderfully written that they evoke wonderful memories for the reader.

Partly it is because I think you and I have been living parallel lives.  I'm not sure how old you are but the similarities of your experiences to mine are uncanny.  From your stories about high school to your English degree and experiences in that regard, to the essay about memory (my mother is struggling with a form of dementia), so many of them bring back many, many memories.”

And a strange thing happened.  She wrote back.

Smile.

Many years ago I was sitting with my siblings on the porch of my parent's home on Sanibel Island, Florida.  We were talking about growing up, laughing about things we had done together and reminiscing about our childhood.  What struck me about that conversation was that we had very different recollections of what had happened.  Despite the fact that we had all been through the same experiences, we interpreted them very differently from one another.  It wasn’t the stories themselves that mattered, it was the meaning that we had ascribed to them that made the difference for each of us.

We each look out into the world through our own unique lens.  We can’t help it.  It’s all we know.  And then we share those experiences.  It’s our way of connecting, of sharing who we are, of becoming a part of something that is bigger than us alone.

The effect of great writing is that it draws the reader in, brings us inside the magnificent canvas of the writer’s work.  Patti’s essays not only draw us in, they awaken a part of our souls that, for many of us, goes unattended as we maneuver through daily life.

The essays in Life is a Verb are about inclusion, integrity and intention.  They are about seeing things from a different point of view, about stretching out to parts unknown.   They are about giving yourself permission to love more.  To say yes when you would otherwise say no.  To be generous, not only to others but to yourself.  To trust yourself, and speak up.  For yourself and for others.

And perhaps my favorite message of all; slow down, because we will not be here forever.  Time moves quickly. Friends move away.  Jobs change. Children grow up.  Parents die.  We are not guaranteed tomorrow.

I spoke to Patti a few weeks ago in preparation for writing this essay.  She was warm and gracious and thoughtful.  I had scribbled some questions on a note pad, wanting to make sure that I asked her the important questions that I imagined I should ask, the questions that I might be expected to ask.  And I asked them.   And she answered them, every single one.

But when I sat back and reflected on that conversation, it was the in-between that mattered most to me.  Not the questions themselves.  It was what I hadn’t asked, what came up anyway.  It was the “yes” and the “I get it” and the “uh huh”.  It was the resonance that I felt, the connection that happened in those moments of conversation.

Life is a Verb is about that connection.  It is a collection of metaphors; stories about experiences that connect us to one another.  Patti wrote it for her daughters, Emma and Tess, to have something to leave behind.  The lessons that she had learned along the way.  It is beautiful, powerful and very thought provoking. 

It is a call to arms.

Life is a Verb:  37 Days to Wake Up, Be Mindful, and Live Intentionally.  What would you be doing?

* Patti's essay, "Bust Your Toast Rules", can be found on page 99 of Life is a Verb.

F is for: (well of course it is)

Football.

I have often said that I think I should have been born a boy.  Metaphorically, that is.  The truth is, I love sports.  I’m not a makeup, hairstyle, manicure and accessorizing kind of a gal.  Never have been and at just a year shy of 50, likely never will.  I’m a no makeup, un-coiffure-d, plain nails, and overalls wearing kind of a gal who reads the sports page first.  Period.

And God gave me boys who play sports.  Needless to say, He knew what He was doing.

I don’t suppose they had much of a choice in the matter.  When they were infants, their Nana and Grandpa bought them New York Mets “onesies.”   There wasn’t a Christmas that went by without some sort of sports paraphernalia under the tree and when the appropriate time came, we signed them up for t-ball and soccer and they took to it like bees to honey.

And I was happy.

I didn’t quite get soccer.  Despite the fact that my grandfather played soccer on the Italian national team in his youth, soccer didn’t grab me the way baseball did.  I’d drag my canvas folding chair to the soccer games and sit there with all the soccer moms and dads and cheer as my kids ran up and down the field like a school of fish looking for dinner.  And it was fun.

But not as fun as baseball.

Nothing quite beats baseball in my book.  Sitting in the warm sunshine, scorecard in hand.  Watching the pitcher bunt the runner over to second.  Seeing a shoestring catch in the outfield.  Hearing the crack of the bat and cheering as the home team pushes the go-ahead run across the plate.  Pure ecstasy.

A year ago my oldest came home from school and said, “The junior varsity football coach asked me if I had ever thought of playing football.”

Gulp.

“What did you tell him?” I inquired, my anxious resistance bubbling to the surface.

“I told him no, not really.”

Good.

“But he suggested that I come out for spring football and see what I thought.  So I’m going to do that, OK?”

Gulp.  Gulp.  Gulp.

“OK,” I replied, trying to convince myself that it really was.

Just to be clear.  I like football as much as the next guy (or gal, as the case may be).   I was the drum major of the marching band, for goodness sakes.  Friday night football games were a staple of my high school career and many a Sunday afternoon was spent watching Joe and Steve and Jerry and Ronnie dazzle us with more Superbowl performances than any team should be allowed to have.  Football is great fun, no doubt about it.  I enjoy watching people play it.  Other people.  Not my people.

And I was happy that my people didn’t play football. 

Until one day they did.

“But football is so dangerous,” I lamented to my unsympathetic husband who was weaned on the Green Bay Packers. 

“He’ll be fine.  Besides, he’s playing on the line.  Offensive linemen don’t tend to get hurt too much.  It’s the skill position players you have to worry about.”

“Are you saying our kid doesn’t need skill to play football?” I queried.  He just rolled his eyes.

“Mom, you so don’t get it,” shot back the football player to be.  “The skill position players are the ones that handle the ball.  I block.  That’s what linemen do.”

Got it.

Last night was the season opener.  I sat in the passenger seat as he maneuvered the car northward to the school to attend pre-game adjustments, walk through and last minute preparations.  “Are you nervous?” I asked him.

“A little bit,” he admitted.  “I don’t suppose I should be.  I mean, there’s only going to be thousands of people there and video cameras and the newspapers and …,” his voice trailed off, lost for a moment in the magnitude of it all.  “When you play a baseball game, you just get there about an hour before and get ready to play.  This is so much more…”

“You’re going to be fine.  Just focus on what is in front of you.  Don’t worry about the rest of it.”

And whatever you do… don’t get hurt.

He didn’t.

It was a great game and he did everything that was asked of him.  He blocked, because that, after all, is what linemen do and he did it well. 

And I sat in the stands, surrounded by moms and dads and brothers and sisters and grandmas and grandpas and even a newspaper person or two and did what I was supposed to do.  I cheered.  Loudly.

And it was great fun.

No, nothing quite beats baseball.  But watching my kid play football sure comes close.

E is for: Eleven things I am grateful for

On the morning of September 11, 2001, my cousin Diana woke up, got her two children ready for school and sat down to eat a bowl of cereal as she did almost every morning.  She flipped through the newspaper, glanced at the headlines and looked at the score of the Yankees game from the night before.  She glanced up at the clock in the kitchen and sensing time slipping away from her, she crunched on the cereal just a wee bit faster.  She was on her way to a meeting.

Diana is my first cousin.  Her father and my mother were raised as siblings.  Her father was one of my father’s fraternity brothers at Brooklyn Polytechnical Institute.  He introduced my parents to one another.   Her parents are my godparents.  

Munching away at her breakfast that morning, Diana heard a crack. A sharp pain shot through her mouth.  She had broken a tooth.  Annoyed at the inconvenience, she picked up the telephone and made an emergency dental appointment.  “Could she come in right away?” the receptionist asked.  “We’ve had a cancellation.”  So off she went to the dentist.  The meeting would have to be rescheduled.

On the morning of September 11th, the phone rang, waking me from a deep sleep.  “Turn on the television,” my husband’s voice shook as he uttered the words that morning.  “A plane just crashed into the World Trade Center.”

I ran to the living room, fumbling for the remote.  It seemed like an eternity as I waited for the images to come into focus, frightening, horrific images the likes of which I had never seen before.  Images that still, seven years later, I cannot forget.  Likely never will.

I was a young woman when the towers went up.  I didn’t like them.  I didn’t like the way they changed the skyline of the “city”.  The way they dwarfed my beloved Empire State Building.  They were big and loud and ostentatious as buildings go and they pushed their way into the sky the way a big black Hummer overflows it’s allotted parking space, forcing the other cars around it to adjust.

When I was a young girl, in the summertime we would go to stay with my grandparents in Yonkers.  They would take us into “the city”, to ride the buses and the subways, eat lunch at the Horn & Hardert or see the sights.  One day we climbed to the top of the Empire State Building.  We walked out on the observation deck and looked down on the matchbox sized cars and out to the East River, gazing through big metal binoculars, the kind you have to put a quarter in to see.  It was a magical sight.

The World Trade Center changed that view.

But after a time, I hardly noticed them anymore.  I, like the rest of those who resisted their arrival, grew familiar with those two loud ladies that reached so high into the sky.

Diana’s meeting that morning was at Windows on the World, a restaurant on the 107th floor, at the top of the World Trade Center.

Each night at dinner we say “grace.”  It’s not a formal thing.  We don’t recite a wrote prayer the way my family did when we were young.  Instead, we simply hold hands and say what we are thankful for that day.  Each day.  One small thing.

Or eleven.

Like the unforgettable images of those planes flying into the tower, today will always be a reminder of the people who lost their lives, of the day that our experience of the world changed forever.  The pictures that are burned into our collective brains are not pleasant images. 

But today is also a reminder to be grateful for life, as imperfect as it is sometimes.  For the teenager who needs to be driven to weight training at 6:00 a.m. and never quite manages to say thank you.  For  the house that gives us shelter and yet is always in need of repair.  For the phone calls from home even though they sometimes drive us crazy and the jobs that take up too much of our time.  For the grumpy bank teller and the guy who delivers the newspaper, even when it's late.  And yes, even for a broken tooth.

We can focus on what we lost that day or we can be grateful for what we did not.  We can make our own list, each one of us, of eleven things we are grateful for today.

Go ahead. 

D is for: Door

“There are things known, and there are things unknown and in between are the doors” – Jim Morrison

Many years ago I was working for a nonprofit organization in a nearby town.  It was my first job as a professional, having just completed my master’s degree in social work.  I loved that job.  I had the most wonderful bosses; kind, generous, dedicated people who were passionate about reaching out to those who needed help.  It didn’t feel like a job.  It was more like a great big, diverse, wonderful family.

We were men and women, young and old, gay and straight, rookies and seasoned veterans.  We loved each other deeply.  We learned from each other and pushed one another to grow, professionally and personally.  I was a young, newly married social worker and eager to throw myself into the work.  I was willing to do whatever tasks were assigned to me.  I was inexperienced and I did not yet know where my true passion lay.

I grew a lot during those years.  When my children were born, my work family embraced them.  For Christmas one year, when my oldest turned one, the staff got together and surprised him with a Red Flyer wagon, lovingly assembled by the executive director in his office late at night after everyone had gone home for the day.  I’ll never forget the look in my son’s eyes when John walked into the conference room pulling the black handle and guiding the wagon into the center of the festivities.

Social work is hard; heart wrenching, sometimes painful, soulful work that is survived only by careful attention and support.  We were fortunate to work for bosses who understood that and because of that, created an environment that not only allowed us to take care of the people we were committed to serving, but to care for each other as well.

It was a wonderful journey.

And as is often true with journeys, at some point, whether you are ready for it or not, they come to an end.

The days and weeks leading up to that unwanted ending were filled with anxiety and fear.  This was my home, my support system, my definition of who I was.  I was fearful, anxious and heartbroken.  I cried a lot and panicked, spending many sleepless nights perseverating on potential next steps.  Where would I go?  What would I do? And how would I do it?

One afternoon, in the midst of one of those tearful escapades, I called one of my colleagues who was in the midst of his own angst about the situation.  He wasn’t home but his wife answered the telephone.  “How are you?” she asked me, knowing full well the depths of what I was going through.

“Not so good,” I said to her, my voice breaking with yet another onslaught of tears.  “I’m really scared.”  I reached for the box of tissues on my desk and tried desperately to compose myself.

“Suzanne,” she started, her compassion poured through the phone line like a great big hug, “When one door closes, another opens.  Look for the open door.”

Important words.

I clung to those words, like a big, round life preserver thrown out to me in a sea of fear and they held me up.  And in time, I found the open door.

Nearly a decade later, I found myself back there again, walking through another door that was closing behind me.  Again I was anxious, fearful that I did not know what was next. There, in of the darkness of my anxieties came those important words once again, “Look for the open door.”

I grabbed onto those words as I had done before, chanting that mantra in the face of the blankness that stood before me.  It is here somewhere, I thought to myself.  I just have to see.  And once again, I did.

I thought about that story last week as I stood in front of my college students.  They are nearing the end of their academic tenure.  Many of them will be graduating this spring.  They have taken the required courses and they can see the end of the road.  For the first time in a long time, they have begun to think about what is next.

“What did you want to be when you grew up? “ I ask them playfully.  “I wanted to be an airline stewardess." and I tell them that I used to make my friends and younger siblings sit on the picnic table while I served them KoolAid in paper cups and handfuls of pretzel sticks to practice for what undoubtedly would be my future career.  "Obviously, I didn’t make it,” I finish sheepishly, and the sound of their laughter fills the room.  They share their childhood dreams with each other.

“And now?” I ask them.  “What do you want to do now?”

Silence.  They have no idea, comes the answer.   It all seems too daunting, too overwhelming and they are scared.  They looked at me blankly as if they, perhaps, thought I might be able to offer them just the smallest of clues.

“I get it,” I tell them, because, of course, I've been there too.  There are some feelings that are universal.  I can not tell them what will come next, where they will find their niche, discover their passion.  I can only share with them the words that I now know to be true.

C is for: Cheer in your own wonderful way

When you are the parent of an athlete, you spend a lot of time cheering. Sitting on cold metal bleachers in the driving rain, you watch as your son, a dripping wet muddy mass of cardinal red, barrels into a sea of green, blocking with all his might in an effort to give the quarterback time to throw. The ball is released and when the pass sails into the end zone, you cheer.

On a sunny spring day, pacing back and forth behind the dugout, afraid to look up, you listen for the crack of the bat, wishing, hoping, praying for the elusive hit that finally comes in the bottom of the seventh inning. You hear the crack. The ball launches off the end of the bat.  The game is tied. And you cheer.

On the sidelines of a soccer field in a county park, as the leaves in the trees begin to turn shades of reds and yellows and browns, the whistle blows, signaling halftime. The players, sweaty and tired, walk off the pitch and grab their water bottles. They are behind 0-2. The other team is having their way with them and, determined to encourage them to keep playing hard, you cheer.

I met Garrie a few years ago when our kids played soccer together. We sat in a circle in his living room, gathered together to learn about what was in store for us and our children in the upcoming season. I remember looking around that circle of uneasy strangers and wondering if there was anyone among them who I might connect with. My silent judgments began immediately. They were all too something; too old, too young, too experienced, too green, had too much money or not enough. My own personal anxieties of exclusion. In the hours spent sitting at parks and practice fields and school soccer pitches, who, among this group of parents thrown together through yet another kid related activity, would I cheer with?

It didn’t take too long to answer that question.

In the world of youth sport spectators, there are sitters and there are standers. The sitters arrive early, remove their canvas chairs and their coordinated umbrellas from their respective matching bags and find a perfect spot on the 50 yard line or out along the first or third base line at which to park themselves. They bring their coolers and no fat, double shot, caramel lattes and organic suntan lotion and set their claim to the perfect spot from which to cheer.

The standers, on the other hand, are a different animal all together. Standers pace the sidelines. They cannot be confined to the 50 or the 40 or the third base line. Standers go with the action. As the ball moves up and down the field, standers go too, matching the player’s movements from end to end.

Standers do not simply stand and watch, standers participate, swinging their arms and legs along with the athlete in a kind of virtual game. They corner kick the imaginary ball, apply the imaginary tag at the plate or block the imaginary lineman with as much body English as they can muster. They bring their lattes and sunscreen too, but the lattes go cold, the sunscreen unopened. Standers are too busy to be bothered with distractions.

Garrie was a stander. He’d arrive at the field just before game time in his khaki shorts, t-shirt and wide brimmed canvas sun hat, ready for action. He’d bring his big blue eyes and youthful enthusiasm and for two hours he would play alongside our kids, moving up and down the sideline in concert with the players. He’d swing his hips and kick his legs, blocking, passing and willing the shot toward the net. Cheering in his own wonderful way.

Garrie died the other day, falling victim to cancer. I hadn’t seen him in a while and the news of his death came as a huge shock to me. He left behind two wonderful children, a life partner and a whole bunch of people who loved him.

The news of his passing brought a host of images to mind. Snapshots of those two years spent cheering from the sidelines. I thought about his warm smile, those sideline conversations about soccer and kids and life. In a sometimes tumultuous season, I looked forward to seeing him and I was grateful for his friendship. And despite my fearful anxiety that day in his living room, I did find someone to cheer with, someone with whom I could connect. Someone who’s passion for sports and their kids was similar to mine, because, as you may have guessed, I am a stander too.

Rest in peace, Garrie Nicoll.  You are missed.

photo from here.

B is for: Be a part of something that is bigger than you

"Individual commitment to a group effort — that is what makes a team work, a company work, a society work, a civilization work." -  Vince Lombardi

Three years ago, my youngest son was chosen to be on the local Little League All Star team for 11 year olds.

Little League All Star selection can be a bit of a hornet’s nest.  It never fails that there are kids who are left off the team that belong there and kids who make the team that probably shouldn’t have. But in the end, it’s 12 kids playing baseball, dreaming about winning a championship.

The kids know who belongs there.  They’re pretty wise that way.  They look around the infield on that first day of practice and mentally review the resumes of the players to their right and left.  “Alex is a home run hitter,” he might think to himself.  “He had 7 home runs this year” or “Nate has a mean fastball.  He’s going to win us games with his arm.”   As each player stands shoulder to shoulder with his new teammate, his individual talent is measured and compared to the other 11 guys who stand beside him.  A pecking order is established.  There are the “big guns” and then there are the “other guys” and it’s the big guns that you want at the plate when the game’s on the line because those are the guys who win games for you. 

And sometimes they do.

But baseball is a team sport and a pitcher is only as good as the fielders who play behind him and a batter can only drive in a run if the other guys on the team get on base in front of him.  In baseball it is the team that competes, not the individual athlete.  There is no one player who is more important than the whole.  Teams win together and they lose, together.

The All Star season starts in early July, sometime around the 4th of July weekend.  It’s played as a tournament.  Teams are eliminated after their second loss.  Once they lose once, they head into a “loser’s bracket” and have to keep winning to stay alive.  In the end, only one team survives.

My son’s team lost their very first game that year.  It was a disappointing loss, but not entirely unexpected.  Historically, the teams from their league had never done particularly well.  The boys took it in stride and came out the next day ready to play again.

They won that day and surprisingly, the next day too.  And again and again until they met the team they had played to begin with.  The team they had lost to.  The team that was favored to win the whole thing.  The team with the biggest and brightest and most talked about players in town.  And they beat them too.

What was amazing about this experience was not that they had won.  There were, after all, some really good players on that team.  Rather, it was HOW they had won.  It wasn’t the “big guns” who had carried them.  Sure, they had made their impact.  They had pitched and hit and fielded just as everyone had expected them too.

But it was the “little guys” who surprised me.  The guys off the bench.  The kid who went in as a substitution.   The coach’s afterthought.  The kid who often got just an inning or two of play.    It was those kids that made the impact.  The kid that blooped the ball over the third baseman’s head, or who stole second on a passed ball or lay down a sacrafice bunt to score the lead runner.  They weren’t the biggest or the strongest or the fastest.  They weren’t the go-to kids on the top of the coaches rolodex.  These were the kids who would do whatever their coach asked of them.  And don’t think for a moment that they other players didn’t notice.  They did.

They won that first series and the next one too.  When the last out was recorded, the kids rushed onto the field and there, right in front of family and friends, they jumped into each other’s arms and collapsed in ecstasy right there on the dirt of the pitcher’s mound.   There was no more pecking order, no player who was more important than the other.  By the end of that series something amazing had happened.  That group of 12 boys had become a team.

That unlikely team of 11 year olds made it all the way to the semi-finals of the regional state championship that year.  On the wall of my son’s bedroom hangs a memory box from that wonderful season.  His jersey, medals and a souvenir bat all sit inside.  But his favorite piece of memorabilia is the team photo that was taken after one of those amazing wins.  It is a reminder to him of a magical moment in time and a lasting remembrance of what can happen when we belong to something that is bigger than ourself.

When the I becomes we.

A is for: Abundance

“Abundance doesn't follow giving until giving becomes its own reward.” - Jan Denise

In August, the tree in the back yard is full of fruit.  The branches hang low, heavy with lots of crisp, green, crunchy apples.  More apples than we can possibly eat, even if we made apple pie and apple crisp and apple pancakes and applesauce and apple Brown Betty and of course, ate an apple every day because, even though we like her very much, we do want to keep the doctor away.

And still there are apples.  So we give them away.

Many years ago, when I was in the Jesuit Volunteer Corps and living in Montana, I took a trip north to visit a group of fellow volunteers living in Hays, a small town on the Fort Belknap reservation.   One afternoon, my friend Linda took me with her to visit a family that lived on the outskirts of the reservation.  There were 6 of them in all.  A mother and father, their three young children and the father’s mother, a beautiful woman in her 60’s with long flowing silver hair, all living in a simple, one room house.

The house was a simple structure, made of sheets of plywood nailed roughly together.  The windows were covered in plastic sheeting to stave off the drafty winds that would blow through the cracks in the glass.  It was snowy and cold and despite the plastic sheeting, the biting wind found its way in.  There were no rooms to speak of.  Instead, where there should have been walls, tattered sheets hung, separating bedroom from kitchen from living room.  In the corner, a fire burned in the old cast iron wood stove that served to warm the tiny space.

We arrived in the late afternoon, the sun beginning to set on the red reservation soil.  The grandmother stood at the stove, stirring a pot of venison stew.  To her right, her daughter-in-law dropped rounds of soft, doughy fry bread into the cast iron skillet.  They greeted us warmly as we entered and the grandmother, who was the matriarch of the family, motioned to the table and invited us to join them for dinner.

“Oh no,” we said.  “Thank you.  We just stopped by to say hello.”  I glanced at my friend and smiled in an uncomfortable sort of way, the way you smile when you are unsure of what to do next.  These people have so little, we thought to ourselves.  There was no need for them to be polite.  We did not expect them to share.  We could not take what little they had.

But they insisted.

And so we did.  We sat down together and passed the bowls of rich venison stew and warm, crispy fry bread and we ate, together.  We sat for a long time, telling stories and laughing and sharing as a community of friends, new and old.  It was a wonderful couple of hours and on the ride home, as we chatted excitedly about this and that, a realization, an understanding of sorts began to percolate up from a place deep inside.  They had so little and still it was enough to share.

Many years later, the lesson of that moment stays with me.

Abundance is not about excess.  It is not about having too much.  Like the apples that fall from the tree because they cannot be picked fast enough, abundance is not waste.  To experience abundance means to embrace a sense of fullness, a richness of life, a sense of having enough.

Sitting at the table all those years ago, I received more than a warm meal and friendship. It wasn't about waiting for the right moment or hanging on to what we have in the hopes that someday we will have more.  No, this lesson was about sharing what we have.  Now.  Today. 

No matter how big or small, we all have something we can share.  Abundance lies within.