And the coming together

A friend comments,
"And I always had a quarter in my pocket, so I could always use the pay phone to call home in an emergency...."
Not too long ago we would find  glass boxes on the corner of gas stations, where we could insert quarters and make phone calls,  now replaced by cell phones.

Thoughts mix together, like nickles and dimes, that we used to buy cokes, that now won't buy a thing, unless you add coins  into dollars.
I was a child when I realized my Aunt was talking about going to Mars in a space ship, and calls were a nickle.  She bought a ticket, and was ready to live with the Martians.  Cokes were a nickle.
  I trusted adults, and She spoke to God, when cokes were a dime.  My Mom saw to it she went into a hospital, but She believed, and I believed.  She lived on the West Coast, far from us and we wrote letters to communicate.

It was when  phone calls were a quarter that she no longer called me. She no longer wrote.

  I spoke to her on the phone one day, and asked, "Why don't I hear from you anymore?"
"I know what you are doing and feeling.  There is a channel through my brain into yours, and I no longer need phones  to write you to know everything about you.  I communicate through my brainwaves and speak directly to you, Jesus, and God, and they speak back."

AS I age, I learn to speak the language of those who speak to God.  I do know the Bible.  Not completely, because the Bible was written, and translated by MAN, and is therefore NOT perfect.  We need to see beyond the written word for the meaning of each word into the heart of each man, to find the spirit of love, truth, and life.  I have studied languages, and understand the imperfection of translations, and the influence that the individual brings with each translation and the time of the translation(the era).  When you say "PHONE" do you bring the idea cell phone, glass box where you insert a nickle, or do you mean rotary phone?  ERA brings a new meaning to translation to any book, even the Bible.

A Wanderer comes to the house every few weeks, and we talk.  He speaks to me about his connections to God, his beliefs.  I speak the Bible as I know it. "By your works shall ye know HIM.."  I don't believe it is worDs...
He makes soup from street salt and rocks and drinks it.  I teach my children not to follow the worDs of anyone unless their heart tells them it is truth.
When someone believes, it is their belief that is catching.  But what worKs have we witnessed?  What good have we seen?
And let it start with taking care of themselves, having a roof over their heads, food to eat, a job to nurture themselves and others.

Holy Men in India wander,  a class of religious, beg for their daily subsistance.  They pray constantly and no one expects more of them.  Hermits in the woods of the Adirondacks or in Alaska have a hard life surviving off the land with the skills of hunting and gathering people generations ago were required to have.

A few weeks ago my son from Arizona came home, my son from New Mexico came home, I saw my son Jeremy, his daughter and Mother, a sort of "reunion" of seven of my ten children all together in one place.

The wanderers, from Iraq, being soldiers, leaving home, and returning adults, it was meeting different sons, while renewing  family bonds.

Each one individual, each one adult- I could write a book about each one- so very different.  One religious, one atheist, one the ideal father, one with a gay partner,  each teaching me a life lesson as they grew up.

The lesson I learned as I was growing up with my favorite Aunt, when phone calls were a nickle, was to test your reality.  When monks group together as a community, a church has a pasteur, or a family prays together, it is so that we test our reality, and can ask each other, "Is this true, or a figment of my vivid imagination?"
If I begin to drink soup of street salt and rocks,  maybe my reality should be checked with others in my community.

Our inner voices reach out, speak to the universe, but still we need to meet with reality checks, since we never know when we have been punked by Martians selling tickets to Venus, or the Lord Jesus showing us the path to heaven.

Afterall, it is by your worKs, not worDs, we will know HIM.









 

They Just Won't Listen

They think they know it all.
Those heads with puckered mouths, cute duck lips, big painted eyes.
Selfies in the bathrooms show you what they know.

Do they know the statistics of how many sexual assaults happen to women in this country?

AND THEY JUST WON'T LISTEN!

They think they know it all.

"Where will you be?  Who is driving?"

"Mom, you are smothering me!  None of the other moms are asking and you are TOOOOO protective!  I am 17 and can take care of myself!"

"I want to talk to the adult in charge," is my usual comment to each request for each event.  Each event comes from the open universe, no one is "IN Charge" and Everyone is "Invited".  We live in a stranger lead world.  It is frightening, and my children do not have any qualms about this.  They are concerned about...ME.

I only know about myself, sexually abused by a family member at age 4, which my Mother took seriously, and then made sure everyone in the family knew.  We were a tight knit German clan, and not too trusting of the police, coming from war ravaged Germany.

I knew of many cases of date rape during high school and college, many students were too embarrassed to report.  I knew of the times students dropped out of school with pregnancies because they were not allowed to continue(in my day you were not allowed to be pregnant at school).

  I recall it being a first when a teacher was pregnant at school, her husband also teaching at our school.  The school was considered quite forward thinking to allow this!  Using the word "Pregnant" was not allowed on television...let alone in school.

You can be in danger anywhere.  It is like guerrilla warfare, and a person is in danger when their guard is down.  The parental unit takes extra safety precautions because they are aware of the fact, that it is just when our own guard is down, that these extra safety cautions come into play, and not when everything is just fine.

The adult in charge is there when something goes wrong, not when all goes as planned.  Of course, we also know that they keep the festivities on track, as there are always some party goers trying to side-track the fun.

Knowing with whom they will go tells us the tone of the event.  We know how the relationship works, and thus can foresee if they will be able to navigate an event successfully.

What are you doing tells us that you have a plan and will not jump on anything radical or hair brain  some drug induced stranger off the street might suggest you do, like rob a bank, or paint a car, saying, "Well, we don't have anything better to do..."

Statistics also show us that large numbers of teens die each year of car accidents.  Activities that include driving around, sometimes aimlessly with a car full of other teens are dangerous.  Speeding and drinking are often involved.  When I ask  who is driving, how long, do they have a license, it is because  many teens have lost the driving privilege, but drive anyway.

It is a loop of questions that each person should begin to internalize for their future.  The red flags should go up, when the questions cannot be properly answered in a situation.  They should be prepared in all situations:

Know their safe transportation.  Do NOT depend on rides from phantom "cousins and friends" that may or may not exist or appear at a meeting...and then have cars with doors that don't unlock. (One friend of mine was assaulted in a car that way.)

Know their safety at  a party or get together. Check exits, fire escapes, doors, windows, and make sure you are never locked in.  When people smoke, burn incense, a birthday,  there is always danger of fire!

Check for alcohol and drugs.  If either is present, leave.  You are underage, and the adult in charge can be arrested if minors are served.

That is why I have told you I would always pick you up, no questions asked.  I do not want you in a situation, uncomfortable, tricky, hurtful, anyway compromising, that you need to leave, that you cannot call I would pick you up.  I will always be there to get you out of a mess.
Trust me.  I will come get you.
My Mother was there for me, always and I will be there for you.

and here I sit.

waiting.

and they just won't listen.

Invitation Surprise

Catherine's photos from the south of France are delightful.  Reminds me of the few times I traveled overseas.  Something in the countryside conveys a peacefulness that cannot be described, but I still feel it yet today, after all these years.  I see the pictures and feel the ambiance of the fields and the hillsides, the pleasant villages with the open air markets, the cobblestone streets, even the fences that delineate each property so cleanly.

Today a special invitation arrived from the High School I left forty years ago.  I was invited to their reunion.  In the invitation was a photo of the French club, and there I am, Advisor.  I loved studying, learning and teaching French .  Literature fascinated me, as did the cuisine, the art, and the theatre.  My best friend and I studied Ballet and French together, and she had the position before I did.

When she was killed in an airplane crash, her  parents talked to the school board to have me replace her.  They hired me, and that is where I taught until I decided to take maternity leave.

So much happened in the years I taught at the Middle School, the High School, and the Elememtary Schools in the Princeton School district.  Several years I also taught night school.  It was the time of my dating Jim, my marriage , and my becoming pregnant.

One of my star students was in a car accident with a train, and had a severe brain injury.  I spent months with him and his family tutoring him in language to help him relearn school subjects so he could graduate with his class.

Compared to my teaching job at Tarkio College, where most students were taking French simply for the credit, this was so different.   I enjoyed working with the faculty and the hardworking students who seemed to enjoy studying French.

It has been a LONG time since I have thought of Princeton, but I am going to the reunion.

The Other Side of Fifty

The Other Side of Fifty

The view changes from where you stand.  Take that phone, move it a little to the right or left, stand back a little, things look quite differently on the other side of fifty.  I don’t mind being called “old” by my kids.  It is a badge I wear proudly, considering all I have survived, when I read about those who have not made it to my age.

 I look and see things through the first fifty plus years of life before I respond to what is here now.  That is the reason I am a little slower.  It is not because I am old, it is just because there is so much I am reliving before I get to the present day.  Maybe I rethink which name it is I need to say (Thom, Jason Jeremy, John, Weslee?) I got it wrong again!I called him Chester(the dog) instead!

The files in my head are so packed, that often I have filed the information in the wrong spot, and  it is hard to find.  “Hummmmm.  What was that name (word, place, person…)  I seem to have forgotten…it is on the tip of my tongue…I will remember later…!”  Sometime later, often in the bathroom, or in bed in the middle of the night, the long lost item will just POP into my head suddenly, from nowhere… then I will not be able to forget it, like a sick song stuck in my head to repeat endlessly, mindlessly, over and over, to be lost again, until the next time.

But it is the renewed understanding that I now have of my Mother that surprises me.  She gave all for us as a young Mother in war torn Germany.  She survived through bombing and firestorms.  She walked with a baby carriage and two babies through Germany with the faith that she could survive.  We did.  She made a better life for us in America, and we had a great life.  She helped us with a great education, home and vacations.  We had good food, clothes and family.  And the teenagers we became, were not understanding of the personality of who she was.  She had to be strong and overpowering to achieve this.  We felt only the smothering of her ever presence, not the strength of her character to survive when millions died in Hitler’s Germany.  We became adults by separating from her, but not being close.  Tyll lived in Honduras, I lived in Cincinnati.

In one bombing in Germany, she volunteered out from a small village with a white handkerchief to show there were just women, children, and the elderly hidden in the bomb shelter unarmed and wanting the American soldiers to peacefully enter their town.  With a toddler at her side she was the only person brave enough to step out of the shelter, trying to get the shooting to halt.  When the soldiers moved toward her, she spoke in halting English, “Do not shoot, we are not fighting!”,  and she looks down to see she has a strange child at her side.  She does not know where her own babies are.

Her trust in the Americans allowed her to walk from Berlin across the lines of fighting, to the south of Germany where her parents lived, and then later find her way to America.  I am sure every mother knows how strong they feel, doing whatever they can to protect their child, so my Mother kept her two little ones safe.  And we did not really know then what I know now from the other side of fifty, because it just looks and feels differently.

As a parent I do all that I can for my child.  It feels awful as they leave, but it is my job to send them into the world.  I have done my job well, when they leave, yet it is the pain of separation and loss I feel, the lack of gratitude for what I have done, all that I gave, that turns me back to see  what my Mother did, and understand her.  I never really understood her, thanked her, or was grateful.  I left her and was glad to go.  I needed to go.  I did not look back.  I was quite angry at her for what “SHE” did to me, thinking of those times when I was not treated as I thought I should be.  Is any child able to view themselves in real perspective, with their youthful eyes?

They need to leave looking forward, not looking back.

We need to look back, and allow them to move on.  Holding them back hinders them.  Later they will come back to us with their husbands, wives and children as the adults they have become, and maybe, on the other side of fifty, be able to understand the entire progression of nurturing a child, launching it, letting it go, to let it find its way home again someday.

Sunday Morning February 2, 2014

We are not surprised to see a young person take a paint and brush to paper to paint whatever they imagine.  They are creating "ART", and we encourage them.  When someone begins singing to music, we encourage them, and they begin singing in church, or writing songs to plucking of a guitar.  The young musician takes piano lessons  or studies an instrument.  Learning notes, the student is able to read sheet music of all kinds, or even write their own music to expand their art.

When we see a budding dancer hop and sway in time to the music, someone will say,  "Why don't we let her study Ballet?"

The Art of Ballet is highly disciplined.  A Ballet is the creation of the choreographer, the work of the musician, and  the body of the dancer to create the work of art. The "Work of Art"  is a painting in progress in front of your eyes, and at times the art is not quite achieved.
Entering a Ballet class you are told what to wear, you hear music chosen by someone else, you hear French terms for the steps, a teacher tells you exactly what to do, you follow patterns of steps and combinations, and if you are in a Ballet, you are told what choreography to follow.  Practicing may take months, and after that time, if you do not do it just right , a temperamental directer may pull you from the production( I have seen this happen!)  You may be told what feelings to display, a coach may tell you whether or not you are doing them the standard way, how to follow your strengths, how to build your technique.  You build the Art of your choice by following directions, discipline and sublimation of your own ideas.  The dancer must create with the materials given:  the music given, the steps or combinations, the character or mood, and her own limitations or technique.

And that is why we have "Improvisation Day" at our studio.  We invite our students to choreograph to music of their choice, steps of their choice to a costume they create.  Each year the dancer becomes the canvas on which to paint their self-portrait.  Besides being an outlet for their creativity, they become more aware of the difficulties of the craft of dance choreography, the fabric of music, and how stories are constructed.
In a time where videos and replays are available, it is possible that dancers are more able to choreograph for themselves.  The ability to practice creating choreography as well as following set choreography of others may be the wave of the future.
One thing I know:  students LOVE watching this special event, creating and performing the
dances they create.