Now I lay me down to sleep....

   I knew it was too good to last. I have been super chill for the last week. Gathering books and supplies. Washing my clothes. Packing my beach towel, hat and sunscreen.
   It hit me about an hour ago....nerves gone wild.
   At sunup tomorrow (Sunday), I leave for a week of Silence.             Alone.           In Silence.
Yes, I will be at the beach. Yes, it will be lovely. Yes, there will be a couple of good Fried Seafood Meals, Yes there will be other people around me, but did I mention the Silently Alone part?!? (I even have a sign that says "SILENT". One for my eating table, and one to wear around my neck in case I walk into a speaking area )?!?

    After my Mother died, I started having frequent, vicious panic attacks. The two worst triggers? Malls and driving on the Highway. Go figure. This continued well into my 20's. I have since   overcome the Mall part, and I do fairly well on short stretches of Highway with which I am familiar, but the last time I drove as far as I will tomorrow....well - let's just say it wasn't pretty....I was 22.

   At 55 years of age, I have to confess that I have NEVER been anywhere alone. My Mom was the strongest woman I have ever known. (My baby girl comes in a pretty close second....just sayin) But for all of that strength, she was terrified of being alone. When my Dad was out of town, she would bring me into her bedroom, lock the door, turn the key sideways so a burgler couldn't push the key out, AND prop a chair under the door knob.....her fear imprinted on me, and, well.....I am 55 years of age, and have never been anywhere alone.

   The Silent Part....that I am not too worried about. The unplugged part......YIKES! I mean, I have Graduated Boy soontobe PeaceCorpsBoy working at a camp in the Mountains, Baby Girl off in far flung England, Babiest Girl working and getting ready for Senior Year, and then John to keep in line.....I manage them ALL with the unseen interwebs and WiFi's......What if they can all survive and thrive just fine without me watching, listening and typing?

  Bags are packed. A week's worth of Seltzer sits in the back seat of the car. I have taken my "Natural Calm"...a magnesium citrate fizzy powder that aides in relaxation before bedtime. (John got it off of the Interwebs). I guess the only thing left is to go upstairs and put my head on the pillow.

Now I lay me down to sleep, I must be silent for a week.
Alone and nervous I will be - I'm asking you to pray for me......

You may call me Jasper.

   We have this cat - Jasper. He is HUGE. Part Maine Coon, Part everything else. A gorgeous Gun Metal Grey/Silver - regal and sometimes aloof,  he is a much loved member of our family. Crack House Puppy is his best friend. They sleep together, eat together, go outside together and play together. Sometimes, as you might imagine with a cinderblock of a dog and a behemoth of a feline, the play gets rather physical.....house shaking......fur flying physical. When Jasper has had enough, he will run into the den, and with one graceful leap, he will scale the antique china cabinet and land smoothly on top. He will then shake himself out, stretch and ever so gracefully recline - paws and head hanging just slightly over the edge, as to allow a better view of his kingdom. He  removes himself from the chaos and seeks out a perch where, in solitude, he might view the situation with a different, higher perspective. That is one smart cat. I have often wondered what thoughts he thinks, while taking his break - gazing down at where he has been...is he formulating strategy for the next game of chase? Pondering new and adventurous hiding places from where he might pounce on the unsuspecting bestie? Plotting innovative moves that will allow him to swipe even more food than usual from the counter when my head is turned?
    After more than 11 years in Children's Ministry, this summer I have been gifted with 6 weeks to "pull a Jasper". A time to find a perch, and a new perspective. A time of rest, study and renewal. A Sabbatical.
    I am on day 11. For the first 7 days, I was virtually catatonic. I truly had no inkling of the toll the last year had taken on me. I was exhausted, anxious, and stressed beyond what could possibly be healthy. I slept, cooked, ate, and then dragged myself back to bed......that would be about it. Then, on day 8 as I poured my first cup of coffee I realized I felt like myself for the first time in a very long time. Day 9 saw the return of my creative zest, and I have been making art and jewelry nonstop. I have also been reading in the last several days - something I have been unable to make myself do in the last year or so, but something I dearly love. I have been reading a book on Celtic Sprituality, I have been reading the writings of The Mystics...I have been ruminating on Pelagius and Augustine and how different were their views of the Christian Life   ( I am leaning towards Pelagius, if you were wondering)....I have read a tremendous novel, bought at our new local book shop....
   I am starting to pack. As part of my Sabbatical, I am going on a Silent Retreat....alone.....in silence. Long a dream of mine, it is just days away. A week of me - the ocean and the wind - my thoughts - my prayers - too many books and art supplies.... There will be  walking meditation and writing. There will probably be tears....and silence. Blessed Silence. I will unpack my life, and contemplate the best way to repack it. Like the cat, I will remove myself from the chaos. I will use this time as a perfect perch for perspective......You may call me Jasper.

I don't want to know....

I've been in bed all afternoon....I am heartsick...world weary, and truly baffled. I can not for the life of me understand the myraid viewpoints of hate floating around out there - all couched in "patriotism", "Constitutional rights" or "religious zeal" (using scripture to backhandedly justify this tragedy is NOT OK, on any level). People vomiting up the same old "If a car hits and kills a person is it the cars fault" rhetoric. If you know me, you know my mind on such matters as the gun culture, closed mindedness , bigotry/homophobia , fear mongering, and cherry picking scripture to support your particular brand of any of the aforementioned...so if you are peddling those, I don't want to know anymore.
Social Media is GREAT - it has allowed me to keep in touch with Baby Girl EVERY. DAY. that she has been on the Grand Adventure....it is also a bewildering, maddening window into the hearts and minds of friends, family, acquaintances and the friend of a friend of a friend. I don't want to know anymore.
I don't want to know that when Babiest posted a meme calling today's events the deadliest mass shooting in US History, someone snarkily commented that it was the deadliest "TERRORIST" attack in US History. I was proud when she quickly shut that down by reminding this person that a little something known as 9/11 might just hold that title.
I don't want to know that someone thinks that because the victims were gay they are somehow deserving of being gunned down. I don't want to know that this same person hates "them" almost as much as she hates those "damned Muslims".
I don't want to know that we have a candidate for President of the United States boasting of being congratulated for his being "right" about "them".
I don't want to know.

What I do want to know is how we got here. How did we turn into these people? Full of "us versus them" rancor - whoever the us, and the them might be. How do we not see that those biases and hatreds that we feed and stoke and stroke and tend are more dangerous than anything, except maybe for the "Me, Me. Me - Mine. Mine Mine" filter that is applied to every situation. How are "we the people" turning into "only we the people who look, think and act like me"?
I read of people praying for the death of our President. I read of filthy, vile messages sent to his young daughter on her birthday, and more of the same to his other daughter on the happy occasion of her acceptance into an Ivy League School. I read of aspersions cast against our Smart, Classy First Lady, yet barely a peep have I heard about the multitude of nude photographs of the woman that might one day hold that title. I read of state governments legislating hate and discrimination and the taking away of women's rights. How is this conceivable?

I don't want to know.....but I need to know. I need to know if the polite silence I try to maintain - the one that is respectful of the job I hold, makes me complicit....if I don't add my voice of outrage and mortification over the amount of vitriol from the "virtuous" - does my silence amount to furthering the cause of hate and hypocrisy?
I don't want to know......but I need to know.

Today, I have taken to my bed - because I am heartsick....and hatesick.....I just don't want to know.

My Little Minions....

I was standing in line yesterday, behind two young Mothers who were chatting about their weekends. The one to my left was lamenting a Sunday trip to Build-A-Bear, where her little fella chose to make a Minion...you know...the little yellow guys from the movies. Left side Mama wanted her son to choose a bear or a puppy -  something more in line with her taste. Right side Mama was in total sympathy over the recent shocking display of toddler independence.
                                 I hate to tell them, but it only gets worse.
Standing there, trying not to eavesdrop on the rest of their conversation, my mind drifted to a day last week. We were in FINAL PREPARATION MODE for Baby Girl's Gap Year European Adventure. (I have to come up with some pithy name for the next 8 months). I parked the car in the ever crowded Teeter/TJMaxx parking lot. I opened the car door, got out, closed said door, and turned to talk to B.G.    Ever since the kids were old enough to trust not to dart away in a parking lot, we have followed the same pattern - I stand by the driver side of the car, and they come around. We meet, and then walk together to our destination. Well...on this, the day before she flew off to lands unknown - she broke pattern....I waited.....looked back into the car to see what was taking her so long....No Baby Girl. Out of the corner of my eye I caught sight of her - striding confidently into the store - without.me.
    Later that day - new suitcase packed and repacked....and repacked, she stood with it in the kitchen. In the joy of the moment, she started twirling with the suitcase (which is equipped with 360 degree spinning wheels). Skirts flaring, hair splaying....she laughed in the freedom of the moment...She has found the gumption and courage to choose the Minion, when I would have chosen something cute and safe...like a teddy bear.
   In four short days, College Boy will have to be given a new moniker. He will become College Graduate Boy. He will spend his summer working at a Camp, and awaiting word on the final decision from the Peace Corps. He has made it through all of the eliminations and has had his final interview. If he is accepted, he will spend a year in Zambia.....sweet Lord in Heaven, I may have to call my first born PeaceCorp Boy....or Americorp Boy....or one of any other names that all have the same translation....FarFromMama Boy....He has chosen the Minion, when I sure as heck would have chosen the Teddy Bear.
    Babiest Girl, still has one more year at home....but I see that damn Yellow Minion gleam in her eye on a daily basis, and know what is coming.....no teddy bears for this one either.
  Through the weight of all of the unchosen TeddyBears sitting on my chest, and the tears of pride and grief, I see the bright shinning light of their futures....I hear the strains of that Lion King Anthem - The Circle of Life. I marvel at their courage and their hearts and minds wide open to the possibilities of life as a citizen of a world without borders....and I sympathize with the Mothers on my left and right....wondering how the three year old came to choose a Minion over a Teddy Bear.

Intersection of Life

   I know you know what I am talking about.....those sign people. The ones that stand on corners holding, sometimes twirling a sign advertising tax time, a sale, or a going out of business. After lunch today, I was stuck at the Main Major intersection in my town, at the longest light in history. It provided ample time for the following observation.
    Today, our corner held not one, but two sign people - very unusual in my experience. Both men were dressed for the cold - one holding a tax preparation sign and the other, a going out of business sign for a furniture company.
         The man holding the largest sign (going out of business) was hunkered down behind it, face burrowed down into the collar of his coat....hat pulled down to his eyes, his gaze planted firmly on the ground - one hand holding the sign, the other hand deep in his pocket.
      His compatriot was wearing the identifying Statue of Liberty costume - the fabric clearly screaming out "Let us do your tax returns!". Over the Green robe, he sported a gorgeous black cape, long with a white Aztec design woven throughout. Under the Lady Liberty crown, he sported sizable earmuffs . In all fairness, they could have been headphones, but I like to think he was moved by the music in his soul, because, Lord was that man dancing. Tribal and joyous, executed with the form and grace of a natural dancer. Every now and then, he would raise the metal flag that he held (in the hand NOT holding the sign) so that his eyes were just peeking over it. For a moment all would be still, and then he would start to move his head side to side, and shimmy it up over the flag, then the twirling and jumping would begin again with abandon.

   Two men. The same lot in life.

 One was hiding, shielding himself against the painful elements, as if to say " no more.....I am done.....leave me alone"

  The other had reached deep within himself to find that thing that caused him to dance in the midst of less than ideal circumstances....to explode in the bliss of being.

  Lately, I find myself siding with one of these men, and let me tell you, it is not the one working the gorgeous Aztec cape.

  I wanted to pull the car over....to sit at the feet of the dancing man. To catch the spark of his joy....to feel the beat of the soul tune fueling his dance.

"Shielded and Still" and the "Bliss of Being", sharing the same street corner - they themselves becoming the intersection of life. Two people, doing the same job. So close, and yet.....so far.
 

55 years, 7 weeks, 2 days

   55 years......7 weeks......2 days. Such a mathematical way to describe a life. That's how old my Mother was, when she died - at 10:30 pm on a cold December night when I was 18 years.....6 weeks....and 2 days of age. Around 10:00 on that most horrible of all nights, her death rattle became so loud it seemed to shake the very walls of the ancient hospital room. Frightened, it seemed like all of us keeping vigil pressed our backs to the walls as one. My Father, in a broken sob kept repeating "Breathe Honey.....Breathe....." I couldn't stand the thought that she might die without a touch, so I climbed in the bed with her, and curled my body around hers....one last time. My beautiful, broken Mama....my kindred heart....my touchstone....my best friend....my strength....my everything. She died in my arms. One last kiss, an embrace....I buried my face in her shoulder and breathed the last smell of a Mothers love, before my Father gently pulled me up and off the bed. I fled to the hall and searched out Sarah - my boon companion. She and her Mom had waited there all night, knowing I would have need of them. We stayed at the hospital long enough to see my Mother rolled away by the men from the funeral home, one of whom was my former school bus driver - a mean spirited boy that I detested.
   When Dad unlocked the back door of our house, we entered the darkness in a heavy silence. I went to the Silver Chest, lifted the top tray and felt around until my fingers found the letter. The one that had long resided there, nestled in the deep blue corduroy lining. The one whose envelope said "For Kelley Bell. To be opened in the event of my death". I kissed my Father and locked myself in my room and read that letter over and over again. The one that poured out a Mothers love and hopes for my adulthood - one that she had always known she would not see. Adulthood? Not possible. I was certain that I would not survive the night, that in my grief I would just stop breathing.  I slept in my clothes. On top of the bedspread. When I awoke, my eyes were swollen shut and my long hair was a clump of mats. The letter, still clutched in my hand. I read it again, hearing Mama's voice in every word...it closed with a blessing for the daughters I might have and the love I would surely find.
     How. Would. I. live.....through the day? through the week? Till the very day when I had lived one more minute, taken one more breath than my Mother? On the day that I was 55 years.....7 weeks....2 days and one minute.
   That occurred tonight, at 10:31. I am sitting in my kitchen, with a candle, a shot of fireball and Janis Ian keeping me company in my vigil. The little cedar box that holds my Mama's letter open - the letter read and cried over. The daughters my Mother prayed for me to have, both upstairs in bed. Every day of my life since I was 18 years, 6 weeks and 2 days old have been spent with my Mother in my heart, knowing that no one has ever or will ever love me as much as she did. We were lucky, she and I. To have had each other. From a young age I was aware of the blessing that was my Mama, and that our relationship was rare and precious. And, as neurotic as it might sound, many of those days have seen the thought, "How will it be when, God willing, I live one minute, one day longer than Mama?"
   And now 37 years later, I have arrived, and in this moment it feels.....cold, and empty, and sad. I had always thought I would feel relief, if I made it to this advanced, important age and milestone. It is not as old as I had imagined it would be....I still feel young (except for my knees....and my back....). Did Mama still feel young? I know the answer is probably not - her prolonged illness certainly took it's toll.
  In a few minutes, I will go out the front door and stand in the night. I will breathe in the cold air and look at the stars, and give thanks for my one of a kind Mama. I will go to bed and get under the covers. I will curl around the love my Mother envisioned for me, and I will wake as I did so many years ago, with eyes swollen shut from the tears I have cried. Tomorrow I will be 55 years, 7 weeks and 3 days. I will let my daughters read "the letter"....a legacy of love from the Grandmother they never knew....and then....who knows? Maybe I will cut all of my hair off. Or dye it blue - something slightly jarring to snap me out of this....I will drink coffee and look at the sky, and breathe in the air. I will pick up my last, almost grown daughter from school. I will herd and conduct a passel of excited kids, as they present the Christmas Program that they have worked so hard on...I will live the life that my Mother fought so hard to give me. But for tonight, I am both 18 years, 6 weeks, 2 days AND 55 years, 7 weeks, 2 days and one minute. Tonight, I am me AND my Mother....together again.

Color me Speechless....

So, last night at the beginning of Children's Choir (Better known as the Treble Makers), we had sharing time, as is our tradition. I went last, and shared that I had a big birthday coming up on Sunday. My compatriots clamored to guess my age. I was pretty pleased as they were all trying numbers in the 40's. To each guess, I shook my head no, until one little fellow jumped up out of his seat and executed a perfect "Sha Na Na" knee slide over to my chair. As he arrived at my feet he smiled and shouted "You are 36 and Beautiful". Seeing as how I am fixing to turn 55, he got a gold star and the first piece of candy!!
   This birthday is a tough one. I was 18 when my Mother died - at the age of - you guessed it......55. To say that I have been in a "bit of a mood" is akin to saying we had a "bit of rain" last week (You do remember those record rain totals and generalized flooding, right?). SO, the laugh those little guys gave me last night provided for a much needed lightening of the spirit......you know what they say....no good deed (or evidently no good mood) goes unpunished.
   The fancy pants school that Babiest attends in the next town over is on Fall Break as of 1:00 this afternoon. It has become our tradition to enjoy a nice lunch out on these early release days, so I was looking forward to the time. I got up at the hiney crack of dawn, did my chores (I wanted a clean house for my 3 day weekend - I even have Sunday off!), donned a snappy outfit, complete with red cowboy boots, and left a couple of hours early, so I could get in some good mall time before pickup.
   I made my usual rounds, looking at this and that....sampled the tea at Teavana, allowed myself to fall prey to the dream that is Pottery Barn, and then ended with some quality time in Sephora. While there, I doused myself liberally in Physiology's "Pure Grace" (my second favorite perfume), applied some new blush, a little eyeshadow, and some wickedly expensive neck cream. Hey - they ARE labeled "tester" for a reason, right? Looking at my watch, I determined I had just enough time to pass by the new skin care place where the girl outside the door insists you take a sample (It really IS good face cream), before I needed to head out to get Babiest.
   My only defense is that I was still in that Pottery Barn/ Pure Grace trance. I allowed the lovely girl to lead me into the store, for the purposes of demonstrating the miracle that is their Glycolic peel ....and what a bargain, at only 120.00 per teeny tiny jar. As part of her sales pitch, this beautiful girl asked me what I did. I told her I was a Children's Minister. The very handsome man at the counter, who turned out to be the Manager of the fine establishment, said "You? A WOMAN?" He drew close, and spoke to the girl in their native tongue (Something velvety and exotic). He then turned his mega watt smile on me and explained that they were not accustomed to a Woman having a job in a Church. After that - he was all business. He examined my skin with a fine tooth comb....turning my head this way and that, muttering as he did so. Asking my age...looking some more......he was distressed by my "advanced Rosacea" (which, I don't think is all that noticeable....just sayin)....finally, this Handsome man was ready to make his Pronouncement. "Dear Lady", said he....."you are looking pretty good for your age....really." (Please - to get the desired effect, you must be reading this in a really dreamy middle eastern accent) And then.....his eyes and hands left my face, and dropped a .....little lower. "But these wrinkles here......" He took a deep breath, and waving his hands dramatically over my neck and.....ummm....decollete (OK fine - my shirt may have been cut a little too low), pleaded - " I KNOW you work for God Almighty, but Please dear lady - you must DO something about THIS!"................color me speechless,and in search of a good turtleneck...it's WAY more frugal than the Glycolic Peel.