on blogging: Blog On!

Blogging, to me, is a spiritual exercise, both in the writing and in the reading. Maybe not always, but when it’s at its best, it is an authentic medium for people to reveal the deepest thoughts and yearnings of their souls. When I write my blog thoughtfully, I give voice to who I am and what has influenced me. I become a little more than I was before I wrote about it. It is a medium of actualization.

Sometimes I use my writing time to discover things about myself and my world that I didn’t consciously know. You’ve all done that. You’ve typed out something and found yourself saying, “Where did that come from?” You credit your muse. I credit my unconscious, and even the collective unconscious, the spirit within. Maybe that’s the same thing? Whatever it is, it is the source of creativity, and creativity is definitely spiritual.

PHOTO By oldcactuswren Backyard Tree Peony
I read once that an important value in having a spouse is that they are witnesses to our lives, as our parents were to our childhood. They can chronicle what happened to us, and how we reacted. They know us.

Even those of us who are fortunate to have loving spouses may feel that they do not always know our innermost being. They maybe aren’t even particularly interested in the wanderings of our minds when they aren’t directly interacting with us or profiting from what we’ve been doing. E.g., Bill is happy that I made bean soup yesterday, but he has no attachment to how enchanted I am with the look of a handful of dried black beans in their shiny, ebony perfection and their little white eyes. They look like smooth river rocks, and if I were building a sand castle, I’d want black beans to line the moat.

Now that’s a silly example maybe, but it’s what I meant. Our imaginations go off in interesting ways, unknown to others who don’t read what we write. There’s a depth in all of us that doesn’t surface in our ordinary conversations about our activities of daily living. Who else, except the person with a very attentive listener, has the opportunity to reflect on her day, with its puzzles and its delights, besides a blogger? Who else takes the time to focus the lens of his mind both inward and outward? Poets, philosophers, those who meditate—sure, there are people who do take those daily journeys. But how many of them share what they find like bloggers do?

Reading the blogs of others is like seeing the world through many more sets of eyes, feeling the pulse of people throughout the world as they view their own unique circumstances that are out of our sight. By reading, we have a little better sense of what it’s like to be the mother of a soldier, a greeter at Wal-mart, a woman who was raped as a girl, a daughter with the care of her parents on her shoulders. We find we have things in common with people who are gay, or who live in Africa, or who struggle with addictions. Blogging opens up the world of others to us, and it opens our own world to us as well.

Here’s a quote from Thomas Merton that brings all this into my frame of reference: “His one Image is in us all, and we discover Him by discovering the likeness of His image in one another.”

two kinds of poverty

There are a lot of different ways to be poor. Mabel told me about one of them today.

Mabel has had a stroke and can talk, but doesn't talk much. Maybe she never has talked much-- that's possible. She has a quiet voice and a way of smiling with her head down, looking over the corner of her glasses at you that makes me think she's a little shy. She does like to be visited though, and is content to watch her shows on the TV along with her visitors.

The program she was watching today, until her favorite quiz show came on, was America's Top Models. We talked about the clothes they wore and which dresses we liked best, and she said she'd love to wear the filmy yellow one if she had it.

I asked her if she remembered any favorite dress she'd ever had, and she thought a minute. "I remember one my aunt sent me from California. I think it was yellow too." She didn't look like she had a clear picture of it, and she went on to say, "My aunt had a girl who was older than I was and she sent me all her clothes. Otherwise I just wore striped overalls."

"You probably didn't have a lot of places to wear fancy dresses," I said, knowing she grew up in the country. "And you probably had plenty of work to do around the farm," I said.

"It wasn't exactly a farm," she said. "We didn't grow anything. And I didn't have any chores to do or any thing like that." She looked very sad. "There were just us kids, and our mama, and she had to work. " Suddenly I pictured an old house with a dirt yard and no parents around, and I felt sad too.

Then she remembered, "There was a blue dress I had, that Mama bought me herself." She didn't have anything else to say about it, but she was proud.

The house she lives in now belongs to her granddaughter. It is in a run-down part of town, but her family has done a wonderful job of remodeling. It has a big, airy kitchen with pots and pans on hooks and a big butcher block in the center. The walls between bedrooms no longer go all the way to the high ceilings, and there are ceiling fans to increase the air flow. Mabel has her TV in her bedroom, and a comfortable chair next to the window. She watched a magpie pick on a neighborhood cat and enjoyed their little drama in her driveway.

Another woman, Stella, in another town is dying, inch by inch, and will probably still be giving orders with her last breath. Her house is authentically old and far from tidy. They heat with a wood stove, and the living room where she holds court from her hospital bed is always cozily warm and smells of wood smoke. When I knock on her door, I am always greeted by no fewer than three small, noisy dogs who do what they can to protect Stella. As does everyone. Family members and neighbors are constantly in and out, and the respite between peals of barking is short. The most ferocious of the dogs, a Chihuahua, retreats to Stella's bed, walking all over her bony frame beneath the blankets.

The bed has been moved recently to make room for a slot machine with bells and flashing lights. Stella likes to watch people play. She has a glass candy dish next to her bed that someone gave her, and it's filled with what looks like sayings from fortune cookies. They are scripture citations, and she asks each person who comes in to "pull" one, look it up in the Bible and read it out loud. The social worker and I do the reading, because few of her family members are able to, for various reasons including illiteracy. The Bible was a gift also, along with the scriptures, and is a book that Stella is not very familiar with but loves.

On the wall are framed photos of family members from several generations, and Stella has a wealth of stories to tell about them. She was married to one husband twice, and shouldn't have married him the second time because he beat her; but she did so to keep him from leaving the state with their young son. The son is in his forties now, and looks as if he's had a serious head injury at some time; but he remains positive and works hard in a local restaurant, hopes to run one of his own some day. Stella's significant other has been taking care of her for years now, and he is devoted. He is kind and generous of spirit, and works hard to understand how to deliver her medicines and treatments. He is a dandy.

If poverty meant just a lack of money, this family is one of the poorest I've ever met, but their lives are rich with love.

festooned for Pentecost

The nave of St. Paul's is adorned in flaming colors for Pentecost. Assistant Rector Paula Whitmore, whose forte is liturgical art, had a team working hard last night and early this morning, due to a wedding on Saturday that prevented them from putting the decorations in place earlier.

We had two celebrations today: the birthday of the church, and the announcement that a new rector has been called, the Rev. Birch Rambo. He and his wife Kate and their two children are not expected until this summer when school is out and their responsibilities at their own diocesan camp are finished. We will certainly be looking forward to their arrival.

On an entirely different theme, Sunrise Sister tagged me to play the six word memoir game. I commented on her post with new patients, books, gardening, anticipation, contentment.

Then I read the link she left to the person who tagged her, and I discovered the six words are supposed to be the title to my memoir. So, after some revisions, this hospice chaplain, with many new patients coming and going quickly, would title her memoir, "Living, Loving, Dying-- with Good Humor." That may sound a little shallow, but it's important to me to keep some balance in my life.

Continually watching people you've come to like die can get heavy. What keeps me going is discovering the beauty in people's lives, celebrating the love I see in families, and laughing as often as possible.

Now I'm supposed to tag four other people, list their names, and link their websites. That part will take me a while, and maybe this will happen tomorrow. Peace.

life force

I called a new patient yesterday to make an appointment to come see him for the first time. His son answered the phone and, when I'd identified myself as a chaplain, he said they weren't religious. I assured him that was all right, that I would be coming to offer support. I've learned to avoid saying "spiritual support" when someone sounds that opposed. It tends to mean the same thing to most people, whether they're for it or ag'in it. I also try not to say, "That's not important," even though I mean it isn't important to me that he be religious for me to come visit. I don't want to go around saying religion isn't important, because that would be very offensive to many people, plus I don't believe that's true.

Anyway, after that short discussion he warned me that I needed to know the rules, that there were certain words they didn't use in their house. Well dumb me-- I didn't ask what they were! I thought he meant religious words, considering the rest of the conversation. I was pretty sure he didn't mean swear words, because it didn't seem likely that he'd think he'd have to warn me about those.

When I got there today it became apparent quickly, fortunately for me, that the patient is hoping to get better and that his son is fostering that hope by not using the words death, dying or the like.

I suspect the patient is not entirely fooled by this. When he told me how uncomfortable he'd been, how difficult it was to breathe (although he wanted to talk regardless,) I asked him if was good to be out of the hospital and at home. He was positive about that, but said he wasn't getting better. His son disagreed, said he was much better than last week, and at the same time made a gesture, hidden from his father, of a downward spiral.

I had noticed an restored old VW bug in the carport, and asked him if he did it himself. He began talking about it, and several others he and his son had done, and about other hobbies and jobs he'd had, which were many and varied. Several probably contributed to the asbestiosis that he's dying from.

The house they live in is small but immaculate, and very tastefully decorated with an up-to-date color scheme. The pots by the front window held, among other things, avocado and nectarine plants that they'd started from seed. The whole feel of the place, and the father-son relationship, was one of tender, loving care.

Later today I went to the office to preview a video about the need for caregivers to take care of themselves and some of the ways they can do it. The chaplains and social workers get together every Wednesday at noon to check out a video and discuss it.

We are a diverse group: two Adventists who have been there longest; me, an Episcopalian; a Methodist; and, the newest staff member, a Buddhist.

The film today was a good one and one we will purchase. Arlene, the social worker has been here longest, said she really liked it until the topics of Yoga and Qi Gong came up. She was sure many people would be offended by that, but thought there were several other valuable points concerning self care that came afterwards. She was afraid people would quit listening and miss them. I suppose she puts Yoga, Qi Gong, and "mindfulness" all in the fearsome category of New Age religion, and finds them, for herself, subjects to be avoided.

That she was actually offended by the Qi Gong, as she has been by several things the Buddhist has said, took me a little by surprise. It was the first time she has sounded defensive about her literal beliefs. She is probably offended by things I say too, now that I think about it. I did expect her, as a professional, to be open to other points of view, but I'm sorry if I've offended her.

The practicer of Qi Gong in the film talked about people getting in touch with their life force as she did the lovely, slow movements. She went on to talk about the importance of people becoming mindful of what they are doing rather than multi-tasking.

I asked Arlene if she couldn't visualize the Qi Gong as a kind of prayer, because, to a Christian, what else could it mean to get in touch with the life force? She seemed surprised by that, but thoughtful, and evidently accepted the possibility. She suggested we start a group for caregivers; but if we showed that film, she said I'd have to explain that part to make it palatable.

I think those two men I saw earlier were in touch with the life force, whether they know it or not.