The Sticking Power of Sacrifice: How it can help you keep your resolutions

The seed sacrifices itself for the tree

Such a lofty title – and all I’m doing is trying to find some sticking power to keep my own resolutions.  Like making writing my first professional priority.  It’s already January 8 and I spent most of last week grading papers and exams instead of writing.  I did, however, “procrastinate” on the grading by writing a 19-page short story that just sucked me right in and wouldn’t let me go until I finished it.  Two days later, I had a first draft.

But the title of this post wrote itself too.  I have been thinking about sacrifice a lot lately.  The word has a bad rap in our culture.  It implies deprivation.  It sounds like “I gotta give up something, and it’s gotta hurt.”  We hear it used in expressions like, “I’ve got to sacrifice my lunch hour to finish this report,” or “He had to sacrifice some golf time to volunteer at the school.”  To many, the word is distasteful.  For me it was too, especially when I discovered that sacrifice should hurt.

But I read something recently and it kind of blew my mind and shook my world.  It was essentially that sacrifice means letting go of that which is lower for that which is higher.  For example, the seed sacrifices itself for the tree.  OK, so I’m attributing will to an inanimate object, but just stay with me here…The seed lets go of its form — even cracks itself open — to allow the tree to grow.  Another example I read helped me get this.

“The relation between food and the eater is usually considered from the standpoint of the eater alone.  But surely if the food could be consulted, its attitude would be quite other.  It has two possibilities for a standard of judgment.  It could be either that of resentment at the loss of its station of animal or vegetable, or it could be one of exultation over its change from the station of animal and vegetable matter to the station of the human organism, and the possibility offered it of becoming a working part of the muscle, nerve and brain of man.  We look upon the world of Nature and see it as the battleground between the weak and the strong.  But it is just as possible to view it as the field of sacrifice wherein lower or weaker forms of life become transformed into higher and stronger ones through self-sacrifice.  In fact, it is quite possible that one of the causes behind the slow evolution of species is this very principle of sacrifice.”

Now, Howard Colby Ives was writing this back in 1912.  But it applies in so many ways to my life today.  It puts things into perspective.  I’m not depriving myself of that cream puff, I’m giving myself better health.  I’m not depriving myself of the ability to speak my thoughts freely, I am gaining the virtue of tact.  I’m not giving up my “paid” work, I’m developing my calling, which in the long run, will make me more prosperous.

This was most profoundly applied to my perception of motherhood recently.  I was thinking about my children from my first marriage who haven’t spoken to me in over five years, though I have made every effort I know to reach them to let them know I love them no matter what.  I thought, “Do I need to sacrifice my relationship with my children for something higher?”

Ugh.  That thought kicked me in the stomach.

I walked into my husband’s office and sat in the chair next to his desk, and asked him the same question.

He looked at me for a while.  Then he asked me, “If you had to choose between your children becoming closer to you or closer to God, which would you choose?”

Well, that’s not a fair question, I thought.  My children should be close to both.

Then he made a triangle with his index fingers and thumbs, and said, “If your children are getting closer to God, and so are you, aren’t you getting closer to each other?”

God is at the apex of the triangle.  In any relationship we have, if we are constantly demanding, “Hey, I’m over here!  Pay attention to me!” so that the other person will face us, then we are asking her to turn her attention away from God.  I am certain that I have been emotionally jumping up and down, shouting, “Hey, I’m your mom!  I’m over here!  I demand acknowledgment! I miss you!”  But if I let go of that, and simply desire with all my heart that they become closer to God, and I continue to write to them and pray for them, as they progress in their spiritual development they will naturally grow closer to me.  But I let go not because I want that outcome, but because I want to be closer to God. I want to be more patient and forgiving and kind and truthful and…and…and.

So what does this have to do with New Year’s resolutions?  Resolutions are typically things that we choose to become better people, more prosperous, happier, healthier, etc.  I don’t know about you, but I find it easier to stick to something if I feel the gain immediately.  And I feel it immediately if I connect my response to what I am gaining rather that to what I am loosing.  For example, I have already lost my children in terms of communication and physical relationship.  When I try to get those things, it only causes me, and probably them, pain.  But if I let go of those and seek with all my heart a stronger relationship with God for all of us, I have attached my heart to a purpose that can only bring all of us joy.

Try it out.  Instead of “Loose 10 pounds,” how about “Become physically fit by running three times a week.” Do your resolutions feel more sustainable if you think and feel in terms of what you are gaining?  What are your resolutions, and how would you state them in terms of the nature of sacrifice – giving up “that which is lower for that which is higher”?

2011 in Review

The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2011 annual report for my blog.  It’s useful for me to know how my readers are coming to it, and what they’re reading the most.  It even suggests some topics I might want to write more about, because readers responded well to those posts.  See if you agree, and let me know!  Thanks.  And Happy New Year!

Here’s an excerpt:

A San Francisco cable car holds 60 people. This blog was viewed about 1,100 times in 2011. If it were a cable car, it would take about 18 trips to carry that many people.

Click here to see the complete report.

Angel on the Road

Katya Lensky at her desk at Focus on Dalian. She died December 15, 2012

Yesterday I experienced a China miracle.  It’s difficult to describe because I’m not really sure what happened.  It was rush hour, and traffic was bad.  I got out of the taxi half a block from the corner to walk the rest of the way to the restaurant where I was going to meet my husband for dinner.  Ten feet down the sidewalk, I heard some shouting behind me.  A policeman who was standing on the sidewalk  in front of me yelled back at the man, and I turned to see what was the matter.  It was my taxi driver.  He was shouting at me and pointing down the road.  I thought maybe he wanted more money, or he was angry with me.  I didn’t understand.  But the cop understood.  He walked over to a man on a bike at the corner, and took something from him.  It was my wallet.  How…? What…?  What just happened?  I told the police officer that it was my wallet.  He said, “It’s yours?”  I said, “Yes.”  And he gave it to me.

The whole thing took less than thirty seconds.  How did the man on the bike get my wallet?  I thought I had put it in my bag after paying the driver my fare.  Did the guy on the bike slip it out of my bag while I was putting on my gloves?  Did I leave it in the car, and the driver gave it to the bike rider to pass to me?  I don’t know.  I was so confused by the whole thing. If he had stolen it, why did he just hand it over to the cop?  And why did the cop just let him ride away? It really didn’t matter though.  I had my wallet, and nothing was missing!

I get so involved in my own stories.  What just happened to me?  What am I feeling?  What lesson do I need to learn.  And I am at the center of it all.

Last night at that lovely dinner with my husband, in a European restaurant at the heart of Dalian, I learned that my friend Katya died.  This past summer she was diagnosed with cancer, and she had a short battle because it was so advanced.

What happened to Katya?  What did she feel?  What lessons did she learn?  She took the time to tell us in letters.  The magazine she worked for, Focus on Dalian, published several letters from her in the latest issue after the community held a fund raiser to help her with medical costs.   She shows her spirit in these letters.  You may begin to understand why I am writing this post about her if you read those letters.  (It’s difficult to mark the specific article in this website, so look for “Letters from Katya”, twelve pages in.)

Katya was an extraordinary person.  When I first met her, she had just been hired by the magazine to help with media production.  When she was 21, she left her home of Ekaterinaburg, Russia to study new media in Indiana.  She worked for a short time in New York City and Moscow before she came to Dalian to study Chinese almost five years ago.  The magazine was lucky to find her.  I could tell immediately she was a person of great capacity.  Over the years of working with the magazine, I got to know her better, and her capacity astonished me.  She rapidly became the heart of the magazine, pumping energy throughout the organization and into the community.  She was production manager, office manager, designer, photographer, events planner, community organizer, trainer, encourager, peace-maker and good friend to all.  She was professional, kind, considerate, intelligent, had great common sense and always served others.  Things got done because Katya made sure they got done, no matter the obstacles. And there were plenty.  She held everything together through a turbulent change in management, working with inexperienced foreign staff and volunteers.  She also recognized the wealth of experience available in the local staff, and respected their expertise.  And the way she did it all was so completely selfless.  Even when writing those letters to thank the community for their support, she focuses her attention on being a light to others.  She writes, “My wish to you: Love each other, forgive each other, take care of each other, and be ready to help when your help is needed and nothing bad will ever happen to you.”  She was a woman who could offer such advice, because she was a constant example of this.

Katya told me while she was in the hospital that the only reason she was sad was that she had to leave the editor to work on the magazine by himself.    She also said, “I just have to ‘eat’ whatever God puts on my plate and not worry about it too much. I will be over with it sooner than later.”  She always kept a positive attitude, even to the end.  And she kept working.  She continued producing content for the magazine from her hospital room back in Ekaterinburg, managing the website and putting together the e-newsletter via Skype and e-mail.  She built this website last year.  It was the project from hell, but she eventually was able to pull all the chaotic pieces together and create a clean, well-organized, interesting website that is a useful resource to the expatriate community of Dalian.  And she did this during yet another tumultuous upheaval in management.

Part of me regrets that I was part of that upheaval when I chose to leave the editorship.  It was a difficult decision, in large part because I would have greatly enjoyed working with Katya.  I am trying to steer clear of the thoughts that go something like, “Maybe if I had worked there earlier, or longer, I could have encouraged her to get her symptoms checked out sooner,” or  “Maybe I could have made her life a little easier.”  These things might be true, but they live in the realm of “shoulda coulda woulda”.  Even worse, they bring me straight back to myself.  Katya always encouraged me to follow my heart though, even if it meant leaving the magazine we both care about.

I keep thinking about that corner on the road, where my wallet was returned to me when I didn’t even know I had lost it.  It was so surreal.  It had “angel” written all over it.  Katya was an angel for me when she was in this world.  I’m betting that she’s an angel to us all now that she’s in the next.  I want to be like that.

“You can’t get theah from heah”

The main (and only) entrance to the teaching building. Those other things that look like doors are only for show.

Gates and building entrances drive me crazy.  Here in China, movement sometimes feels quite restricted.  I hear that voice in the back of my head, that one with an Upstate New York accent that tells me, “You can’t get theah from heah.”  For example, when I get off the bus at the stop in front of the college where I teach, there is a gate and a building right in front of the stop. But the gate, with its guardhouse empty, is closed, impassable.  And even if it were open, the front doors to the lab building are locked with bicycle chains.  There is no way to get to the teaching building right behind it.   I have to walk to the main gate a block down the road, and cross campus to get that building.  And the teaching building, which has a perfectly adequate number of doors at each end of the T-shaped building, has only one real entrance, because all those doors except the main entrance are locked with bicycle chains too.  God help us if there’s ever an emergency that requires a quick egress.

Plus, there are the guards.  These are the guys at the gate whose job it is to make sure that only the right kind of people get on campus.  Or if there happens to be an epidemic, they make sure only the right people get out.  During the H1N1 virus scare several years ago, they had thermometers and were supposedly checking everyone’s temperature before they left campus.  If you had a fever, you weren’t allowed off campus.  But they never checked the foreign teacher’s temperatures.  I actually had a bad cold with a fever at the time.  But I  later found out that I didn’t need to worry about that.  Their thermometers didn’t even work.

The guards also watch the main entrance to the teaching building.  That’s all they do, watch it.  Quite the sweet job, if you ask me.  And every housing compound, commercial building and public facility has a handy guard to sit and watch the door.  Do they know anything about the location of it’s occupants?  No.  That’s not their job.  Do they know how to find any particular office?  No. Hm.

My novel has been limping along recently because of hindrances like these.  I had no way to really enter a part of the story because of my ignorance.  A significant part of my story is about a legal proceeding that, until today, I knew little to nothing about.  I know where my main character is, I know where I want her to get to, but “You can’t get theah from heah.”

I found out how true that is today.  I interviewed an attorney about the legal procedures of this particular area of property law. I found out that the timing I had planned was all wrong! But something else happened.  That part of my story completely came alive for me.  There are elements of the process that are fraught with intrigue.  And the timelines for the procedures create some intense suspense.  It is a much faster process than I ever dreamed. I also gained a huge insight into the nature of this kind of law.  All this, courtesy of my dear source, an attorney who gave me his time and resources.  Yes, a lawyer gave me time.  For FREE!  And he’s willing to give me even more!  I love my job.

Research can do that for our writing, bring it alive, and get our story moving to where it needs to go.  We may start out thinking our characters need to go straight from point A to point B.  But through our research, we find the twists and turns that enrich and liven the plot, and make it more real and meaningful.

I need to be more grateful to those guards sitting at the gate, and to the restrictions that prevent me from going directly from point A to point B.  It’s hard.  It seems so stupid to me.  It adds almost ten minutes to my commute.  But I could look at it as extra time to exercise and to contemplate the intricacies of and contradictions in Chinese culture.  I could use those extra ten minutes of podcast Chinese lessons.  Or, hey, I could use the time think about how to get my main character to win her court case!

How freezing toilets are like deadlines

When you've gotta go, you've gotta go

I had to go to the bathroom this morning, so I left my office and walked down the hall.  When I walked into the ladies’ room a blast of frigid air greeted me.  The windows were wide open.  It’s late November in northeastern China.  Whose idea was this?  Everyone’s, apparently.  All the windows were open in the bathrooms throughout the building.  Perhaps I should appreciate the “fresh” air.  If they weren’t open, that special sewage scent might be more noticeable. All the toilets at the college are the “squatty-potty” variety, with two places for one’s feet on either side of a long basin-like bowl.  It’s essentially a fancy hole in the ground.  And plumbing in China apparently hasn’t advanced the “u-bend” stage of piping.  Consequently, the out-gassing from everything that gets flushed makes its way back up the pipes and into my nostrils.  But the thing is, I had coffee this morning. And you know how it is.  When you’ve gotta go, you’ve gotta go.

Deadlines are like that.  They force action.  Rita Mae Brown once said, “A deadline is negative inspiration. Still, it’s better than no inspiration at all.”  I was thinking about that earlier this morning as I checked my students’ homework.  They had to do some internet research in English, and find three tips on time management.  As I reviewed what they had written, I was reminded of my former life as an office manager, when I had studied Stephen Covey’s principles, and clung to my Franklin planner as if it were my blankie.  I was working for a small but busy environmental law firm in Austin, and found that if I didn’t organize and prioritize, I felt constantly overwhelmed, and often dropped one of the many balls I juggled – professional, personal and community responsibilities to which I felt deeply committed.  But as I reviewed my students’ work, I realized I hadn’t used a planner in five years.

Coming to China has changed my life dramatically. I now live in a place where I am essentially illiterate, deaf and mute because I can’t read most of what’s around me, can’t understand what most people are talking about, and can’t express myself effectively in their language.  I teach at a local college and write.  I have domestic help, so my household responsibilities have been drastically reduced.  Both my children are in school.  And as for community responsibilities, well, they have shifted from mostly administrative tasks to building friendships and a stronger sense of community in this culture that is so very strange to me.  Still, I am very committed to these responsibilities.  But every one of them is now relationship-oriented rather than task-oriented.  Instead of having to manage budgets, equipment and staff, I teach.  Instead of procedures and memos, I write essays, memoir and a novel.  Instead of changing diapers and feeding babies, I talk with my children about their school days.  Instead of planning and attending meetings, I meet with my friends and we talk about how to make the world a better place, and how we can become better people.  We support and encourage each other in our troubles, and revel in the good times.

But I think it’s time to return to time management, especially because I feel I’m loosing sight of my writing goals.  My intention was to begin posting weekly on this blog, both to build a community and to increase the amount I write.  But I set no deadlines.  I also wanted to get into the habit of submitting my work for publication at least once a month, and keep the work circulating.  I haven’t submitted anything since September. I was supposed to get a writers’ group formed to generate support and some sense of deadline, but I’ve only sent one text message out into the world to get that to happen, and not followed up.  It’s about time to tighten the belt and get serious.

So I turned to my writing resources to dig up what I can find about setting self-imposed deadlines.  I found a fine blog post by Patrick Ross, which includes five tips to help make sure I meet those deadlines.  He suggests setting realistic goals, breaking down those goals in to bite-sized pieces, celebrating accomplishments and creating and accepting the consequences of failure.  One suggestion I find very helpful is: “if you track progress digitally, you should have an easily visible physical representation of it, so you have both the satisfaction of drawing a line to mark your progress, and reminders of your progress every time you walk by the display.”  My current time-management tool keeps everything hidden in my little iTouch.  Even though there are pop-up reminders, they are not as demanding a reminder as something that is in your face, and frequently reviewed.  Ross also mentions that he “changes [his] project tracking lines every few days so it simply looks different, even if the goals/deadlines haven’t changed.” This helps prevent the familiar sight from becoming invisible. The comment discussion that follows adds to the helpful insights and  practical tips.

Once I have some self-imposed deadlines set, I will create a calendar of submission deadlines for contests and requests for submissions.  Then I’m going to have to brush the dust off my Franklin planner and remember how to prioritize and set weekly and daily goals.  I hope it’s like riding a bike.  I have a feeling it’s not.  I have a feeling it’s more like forcing myself to go to the bathroom when I know there is a freezing wind waiting for my exposed tush.  But I have to do it.  I have a lot of ideas that need to get out there into the world.  And you know how it is.  When you’ve gotta write, you’ve gotta write.

What do you do to manage you writing life/time?

Murder in Oak Hills

Writer commits Murder in Fictional Oak Hills: Beloved character will be missed

I had to kill someone last week.  I dreaded it as much as I looked forward to it.  I wasn’t sure how to do it.  I only had vague ideas…with a candle-stick in the library?  I pondered the options.  Whatever I did, what was more important was the reason I had to kill her.  She had become too important, but not important enough.  Oh, the contradictions we  create when we write!  I knew the only way for this person to become important enough was for her to die.  So in the end she got it with a heart attack beneath the wisteria.

Writing the death scene was much simpler than I thought it would be.  I did my research, and learned the symptoms of a female heart attack (which can be significantly different from typical male symptoms).  I re-read what I had written about my character’s situation in the preceding scenes and was surprised to find the warning signs already there, before I had even decided on how to kill her.  This tells me I should trust my subconscious.  Long ago, I thought perhaps she would need to die in the story, but changed my mind.  Apparently, this bug never let go.  It became obvious that she needed to die.  She was a crutch, making life too easy for my main character, Suzanne. When I finally started to imagine this character dead, I began to see how her death would propel Suzanne, and the story, forward.  Indeed, writing the following scene, where she learns of the death of this person, my writing came alive like it hadn’t in a long time.  Suzanne did things I never expected, but it was fresh and alive and real.

A few other things surprised me, and taught me how to write the scene, and Suzanne’s reaction to it:

1.  From the beginning of the piece, write as if this character is going to live to the end.  Develop the character well, and make sure the relationship between her and the main character is strong and clear.

2.   If you have developed the character and her relationship to the MC well, details from the character’s life should come out more than the details of the death. Draw out the emotional reaction of the characters to those details.

3.  Avoid cheesy exposition.  Death often comes as a surprise.  Keep the description of the death spare, and let yourself be surprised by what happens as you write.

4. The reason for the death is usually more important than the death itself.  Focusing on build up (when the character’s death is expected) and/or follow-up (when it is unexpected) will help readers connect with that reason.  The reactions of the other characters to the death should be catalysts for moving the story forward.  For excellent examples of this, see J.K. Rowling’s Harry Potter series, which is replete with unexpected deaths followed with brilliant reaction and plot movement.

5.  Write to good “death” music.  Choose a playlist or a long piece that gets you into the right emotional space of the scene for that character.  The suicide death of a teenager in angst (think Everybody Hurts by REM) needs decidedly different music than a mother who is loosing a long fight with cancer (think Albinoni’s Adagio in G).  But really, use whatever works to get you feeling while you write.  I used music from the American Beauty soundtrack.  That story has nothing to do with my story, but the music was perfect for my scene – quiet, somewhat sleepy, private, with a definite tension.

It is ironic that I found so much life in my writing and my process while working on this death scene and its follow-up.  Perhaps that is another lesson.  Writing is often about touching the center of life, plugging into that electric Source that feeds us, creates us, and helps us create.  Death is one of the most profound ways we discover and interact with that Source.  I absolutely loved writing this stuff.  Maybe that’s why J.K. Rowling wrote so much death in her books.  She mentioned in an interview with Oprah that the writing of the series  helped her process her mother’s death.  And though my characters’ experiences and reactions are not similar to my reactions to loss, the writing of it has given me a new way to consider those losses. It has been cathartic!  I laughed.  I cried.  I’m sure my colleagues with whom I share an office think I’m nuts!

This is the first “murder” I’ve ever committed.  I sure hope it isn’t the last!  I love being a writer.

Playing Airplane

I want to tell you a love story.

I am three.  My family is visiting my grandparents’ home on Carlisle in Albuquerque.  There are always people there…my favorite Aunt Robbi, and her friends: the man I always call by his first and last name, Roger Coe, because it’s like saying “Roger Wilcoe”, which I don’t understand, but it sounds neat; Donny Thompson, with the crazy wild hair; Bill Larsen, the nice guy; and Joe, my aunt’s best friend, the lady with the man’s name.  These are the regulars, the ones I always like to play with when I go to see my grandparents.  Grandma and Grandpa are far too old to play with me.  My parents have nearly forgotten that children like to play.  My sister is too old, and my brother too mean.  But these big people, they still understand how to play with kids.

My grandparents always have someone new over.  I don’t understand why, but people seem to like coming to their house, even though it smells kind of funny and my grandma’s in a wheel chair, and my grandpa’s too old to hear very well.

Then one day there’s this new guy.  We play in the grass. Maybe there is someone else playing with us, but I only have eyes for this new guy.   He swings me up into the air.  I jump so high with his help, up and up and up.  Then he plays airplane.  He lies down on the grass and holds my hands while he gently lifts me into the air on his feet.  I fly like an airplane.  I look down at him and he sees me and we laugh and laugh.  He sees me.  The others, they all played with us together, and I was just one of the kids.  But this guy, he sees me.

The next time we go back, I hope to see him.  But he’s not there.  I look for him every weekend that we visit my grandparents.

“Where’s that guy?” I ask.

“What guy?” my  mom says.

“That guy who played with me,” I tell her.  “You know, the one with the sunshine in his eyes.  The one who played airplane.”

“What?” she says.

“The guy who plays with me…” I say impatiently.

“You mean Donny?”  she asks.

“No, I know who Donny is.  I mean that other guy?”

“What’s his name?” she says.

“I don’t know. The one with the sorta brownish hair. And the big nose.”

“You mean Bill Larsen?” she asks.

“NO!” I shout.  “I know who he is.  I mean the other guy!”

My mom gets frustrated and leaves me to myself.  I pester her every time we go to Grandma and Grandpa’s house.  She doesn’t know who I’m talking about. Neither does my aunt, or my grandma.

When we take the hour and a half drive home on weekends, we leave after dinner.  It is sunset, and the sky is dark blue at the mountains. Stars begin to poke out. It is pale above, and pink and orange and golden where the sun goes behind the mesa.  I listen to the radio while I lay in the back of the station wagon.  My parents want me to fall asleep on the ride home.  But I love to hear them talk. I watch the moon race along with us, its reflections wiggling like a zooming lightning snake along the train tracks.  I love to listen to the radio play mystery theater and love songs.  I always listen for that song.  Neil Diamond, my parents say.  “You are the sun, I am the moon, you are the words I am the tune, play me.”  I want to sing with this song, with this man.  How do I know what this means?  I am too young to understand, but I know this song like I know my own soul, and I want to sing this with him…him who?

And that man, the one who gave me the airplane ride, stays with me through the years.  I ask my parents, my aunt, whoever I meet who knew my grandparents at the time, “Who was that guy?” No one knows who I am talking about.

It could have been anyone.  My grandparents’ home had a wide open door with a “welcome” sign that everyone knew about.  It was like a safe haven, a refuge for the sad, lonely and the destitute. My grandparents taught me to see strangers as friends.  I grew up wanting a home like theirs, filled with people, and with laughter, and true friendship. The love was constant, like the air and the bologna sandwiches that fed the crowds.  My grandparents were not rich, but they gave what they had.

As I grew older, I would help make those sandwiches.  Then we would listen to Neil Diamond and Judy Collins and the BeeGees on the road back to Mountainair.  And I would pretend to be asleep when we got home so my dad would carry me in.  I loved being in his arms.  It was the only time I could get him to hold me like a baby.

But no one else ever played airplane with me.

Who was this guy, and why was there such a connection with him?  He touched a part of my soul that no one else had, or even could.  He saw me, not just some kid.  And I remember his brown hair, golden on the edges with the sun in it.  And his smile like a warm blanket in front of a fire.  I didn’t know or understand romantic love.  I was three.  But this was not an uncle or a brother.  And I loved him, and missed him, and wanted to see him again.

But I had a life to live and I had to grow in to a woman before love like that would be all right for me.  It would be many years before I sang those words, “You are the sun, I am the moon, you are the words, I am the tune, play me…” with a man, singing the same harmony I found while laying in the back of my parents’ station wagon, looking up at the billions stars of in the New Mexico sky, imagining myself flying like an airplane towards an unknown future.

Am I crazy to believe I had a connection with this man at the age of three?  Do you remember your first love?  Does it make you happy or sad to think of it?  What songs do you associate with that time?

This is the beginning of the story. Stay tuned for the next chapter…

Phoenix in the Ashes of 9/11

What beauty can rise from the ashes?

I am working on the re-write of my second novel.  Yes.  The first novel sits on the floor of my closet, waiting for its re-write.  But for now, let’s focus on the second one.  The main character, Suzanne, is an attorney.  She has worked in publishing for about three years, since she finished her law degree from NYU.  She took a job in Chicago so she could get away from the reminders that lingered in New York.   She was there during 9/11,  and lost her fiance, Evan, who was a consultant working for a small subsidiary of Marsh & McLennan, on the 95th floor of the North Tower.  She was in lower Manhattan when it collapsed.  A portion of the novel deals with the issues Suzanne has surrounding that experience, including post-traumatic stress disorder.

At least 10,000 people have met the criteria for treatment for 9/11-related PTSD.  Estimates for the number of people who may actually suffer from the disorder are as high as the hundreds of thousands.  Whether or not it the phenomenon is that wide-spread, it is, without a doubt, one of the most traumatic experiences our nation has had as a whole.  But it is only so because each of us has some kind of relationship to the events of that Tuesday morning ten years ago, whether it is watching the television in horror, being an eye-witness or first responder, or having a personal relationship with those who lost their lives.

I have a friend.  I’ll call her Sally.  When I met her, this tough woman truck-driver with bright hazel eyes and curly hair was suffering from a number physical ailments, but the thing she struggled with most was anger and guilt.  She came to my house with her fiance and a friend of hers.  They wanted to investigate having a Baha’i wedding, which consists of a simple vow, with no clergy required.  She and her fiance wanted to avoid the inevitable conflicts that came from the various religious options available from their families’ backgrounds, which included Lutheran, Catholic and Mormon.  But they wanted a spiritual, rather than secular, service.  I told them about the basics of the ceremony, but I wanted them to have  brief overview of the Faith,  so they could understand the wedding’s basic context.  I started with some of the basic teachings, and then moved into a brief history of the life of Baha’u'llah, the Faith’s Founder.  During the explanation of the teachings, she was very interested, and eagerly asked questions.  But when I started talking about the history, she became reticent and agitated. Finally, she said, “Wait a minute.  Are you telling me all these beautiful teachings of peace and justice are from over there?”  I asked what she meant, and she indicated, with some difficulty and emotion, the Middle East.  I told her that, yes, the Baha’i Faith originated in Iran. She then told me this story:

Several years before, she got involved in an online community with a friend.  In this community, a group of 20 to 30 people became very close to each other.  They even planned several gatherings in real space, and had a great time, both in small groups, and all together.  Then one of them had a great idea, to see both coasts of this great country of ours.  The plan was simple.  They would all meet in LA to see the sights, then fly to New York the next day for a night on the town.  Sally was psyched.  She coordinated the plan.  She helped people make their travel arrangements.

The day she was to leave on the trip, all hell broke loose with a soon-to-be-ex-boyfriend.  He had become extremely possessive and jealous, and told her that she couldn’t go on the trip.  She, being the tigress she is, told him where he could go.  He then proceeded to take her keys, drivers license and credit cards, and vanished.  Though she did go to the authorities to report the problem, there was no way she could meet the group in time.  She had planned to drive up the coast and meet a group of them traveling from Boston to LA to start the party.  She missed that flight.  Her friends did not.  They got on the plane, American Airlines Flight 11, that Tuesday morning.   A friend they were going to meet in LA called Sally that morning, panicked because she had just seen the news, and woke Sally from a sound sleep.  The friend couldn’t believe she had reached her.  Sally didn’t understand. She hadn’t seen the news.  When she found out what happened, something broke deep inside her.

“I used to not care who you were, black, white, purple, green.  You were a human being.  But after 9/11, everything from over there,” she said, choked up, “everything, became evil to me.  I can’t believe that something as beautiful as what you’re telling me is from there.”

She sat on my couch and cried, this gentle soul, so completely and personally hurt by what some mad men did to make their mark on the world.

But Sally couldn’t let go of those beautiful teachings.  Over the next few months, she asked question after question. There were times when she would rage, not understanding why people do such horrible things to each other.  Then she would watch her child show compassion to my three-year-old son, reading a book to him, or showing him how to be gentle with a kitty, and she would say, “We learn it, don’t we?”

I watched this angry and hurt woman transform into a beacon of tolerance.  Two months after I met her, we went to an inter-faith prayer gathering for peace organized by the local university.  Several priests and ministers from various congregations prayed.  A Baha’i prayer for peace was read. The mullah from the local mosque said a moving prayer for peace and inter-faith cooperation and healing.  Afterwards, Sally approached the man.  With tears in her eyes, she said, “Two months ago, I wouldn’t have been able to face you without a gun in my hand.  Today, you showed me how powerful love is.  Thank you for your prayer.”  Those were not just words to this woman.  It was absolute truth.  I don’t know if that mullah realized the miracle he had participated in, but I know what I witnessed.

There is a so much hatred in the world.  It is darkness, and it causes terrible injuries to our hearts and souls.  But there is also healing, and greater love, and light.  If you have story that shows the kind of transformation I saw in Sally, share it.  I’d love to hear it.  I also want to help my character, Suzanne, learn from your wisdom, so don’t hold back.  Show us how the phoenix rises from the ashes that still smolder in the hearts of so many broken hearts.

The Guilt Trap: Escaping and Embracing the Abyss

Last week, I was struggling.  My heart felt brittle, jaded and hard.  I could not understand what had changed.  For so long, I had rejoiced in the abundance of the universe, grateful for the lessons that the vicissitudes of life had given me.  Then suddenly, I was bitter, barely clinging to the knowledge that at one time I had faith.  It was as if, during the internal wanderings I have been doing over the last few months, I tripped over an unknown crypt in my heart, one made of cold, hard hematite.  Upon opening the lid, I found a deep chasm of despair.  I promptly fell in.

I shared my anger with a friend of mine.  I was angry with God, the Universe and Everything.  I didn’t want to hear platitudes or advice.  She asked me one question:  “Have you accepted this test?”  I didn’t really understand that.  What test?  Life sucks, and there is no purpose.  But, of course, there was still this voice inside me saying, “She’s got something there.  Hold on to it `til you figure it out.”

Then, finally, after weeks of “too-busy-ness”, my husband and I finally had some time for a date night.  I was ranting and raving, and he said something like, “It’s that feeling of not being good enough.”

“No!” I said.  “It’s not that.  It’s not about deserving.  It’s about the structure of the universe.  I am simply not meant to be happy, content, or feel pleasure completely.”

That’s when I hit on it.  I know, with my intelligence, that this statement is illogical.  But that is the belief that I have been combating, the one I have carried in my “programming” for a very long time.  It is the belief that if I am enjoying myself, someone else is probably not getting what they need from me.  It is the belief that makes me feel guilty even if I am lying in my bed with a fever, because I am not able to care for my children, the house, my grading, my writing, etc.  My husband is the most supportive man I know.  He willingly, eagerly takes responsibility for our children’s needs, even without being asked.  He sees when I need some time to myself and encourages me to take it.  And I do.  Yet, still.  I feel guilty.  What the heck is that about?

I put all these things together that evening with my husband.  After I said that I am not meant to be happy, my husband asked me if something happened to me when I was a small child.  I said, without thinking, “Yeah, I discovered I’m a girl.”  Suddenly, it all flashed together.  Guilt. Motherhood.  Sexuality. Love. Loss. Fear.  This little black bottomless sarcophagus yawned open and took me straight to its core.  I have this belief because I am female.

Now, maybe there’s a lot more to it than that, but hear me out.  I am reading a book called Rejoice in My Gladness: The Life of Tahirih, the account of the 19th Century Persian poetess whose last words before she was strangled to death were, “You can kill me as soon as you like, but you cannot stop the emancipation of women.”  I haven’t read much of the book yet, but I am enjoying the way the author, Janet Ruhe-Schoen, weaves the cultural and historical background into Tahirih’s story.  One thing that struck me is how her motherhood is hardly mentioned.  Tahirih had two sons and a daughter.  After a paragraph of mentioning her “ties” to the children, Ruhe-Schoen says, “We see here her tie to her children, and theirs to her; however, she had an overpowering sense of mission transcending motherhood, self-importance, and self-preservation” (pg. 83).  Several pages later, she writes Tahirih “knew  that, according to law, her sons were the concern of her husband–in fact, so was her daughter, but perhaps he had little interest in the girl….” (pg. 89).

It struck me that, in Tahirih’s culture, her children did not belong to her.  But in my culture, Western culture, children “belong” with their mother, “belong” to their mother.  I began to realize the implications.  Motherhood is almost deified in our culuture.  And according to this belief I have been carrying, if my children “belong” to me, but I am not caring for them, then I have abandoned them, regardless of the circumstances, according to the “letter” of this “law”.  It extends to all aspects of my life as a woman.  If am not meeting my husbands needs, than I am not a good wife.  If I’m not caring for the house, I’m not a good home-maker.  And these days, if I’m not pursuing a career as well, then I’m not successful and independent, and I’m not being faithful to the “sisterhood.” Failure in any of these areas results in failure as a human being.

I am in no way intending to belittle the importance of motherhood, wife-hood, home-makerhood, or “sisterhood”.  What I am trying to do is draw out the belief that supports the fallacies that make women, make me, feel guilty without reason. I see that belief now, though it is so hard to articulate.  It underlies so much of the programming I operate on.  But now, I recognize it when it rears its ugly little head.  When I feel like apologizing for being tired. When I hold back from my children just a little bit because I’m afraid of losing them, too.  Or worst of all, when I judge myself for falling into an abyss that is simply a root shooting down deeper into my psyche, preparing me for future growth. It was only through my acceptance of those feelings of anger and bitterness that I have been able to break through to this greater Truth.  I, like Tahirih, have a “greater purpose than motherhood, self-importance and self-preservation.”

Even in writing this, I feel resistance.  “What?!  A greater purpose than motherhood?  And what about self-preservation?  You need to keep yourself safe!”  But the truth is, my self doesn’t need any help.  She’s the little Ms. Scarcity I referred to earlier today.  And all my children will be better served if I am true to that greater purpose, which is to “love all people, be just and kind to every human creature.“  That includes me.

So as a gift to my husband, whose birthday is tomorrow, I am giving him a new me. (But it’s really a gift to me.) I will only apologize for bad behavior.  I will start a kindness campaign.  I will let my heart burn with loving-kindness for all who may cross my path.  And on October 1st, I will stop smoking and start the CouchTo5K program.  And whenever I fall into an abyss in the future, I will remember that it will all be ok, and that I’m just preparing for a growth spurt.  (If I don’t, just send me right back to this post.)

The Tree of Choice

In each moment I have a choice. Am I choosing Love or Fear?

At the core of my anger and fear
There is a lacking
Of faith
Of trust
In life
I am afraid
That Life
Intends me to lose
You can tell my I’m wrong
You can show me all the evidence
Of love
Of bounty
Of compassion
And I will agree
Saying “Yes, I know.”

But then this festering sore
Grappling with survival will
Spurn all reason
And show me its truth
Small, shivering, and weak
In the corner of my heart
But ferocious when challenged
Biting and scratching its way
Into consciousness

Who am I going to choose?
Who am I going to follow?
Madame Abundance or
Little Miss Scarcity?
Love or fear?
I look at each knowing
They are me
Who do I choose?

If I want to change my life
Perhaps the only real way to do that
Is to change the way
I choose