The other day, over tea, as these conversations seem to occur, I was asked what issue do I care about deeply,  why it matters, in what way does our society misunderstand it, and what I hope for. (I know, pretty heavy for tea, but indulge me.)

A scene comes to mind from the comedy film, Miss Congeniality. Sandra Bullock’s character, an undercover police officer posing as a beauty pageant contestant, is asked a similar question. After articulating her vision for criminal justice reform to an auditorium full of glazed-eyed folks, she realizes there is only one correct answer, and receives a resounding applause when she adds, “And world peace.”  

 

As much as I long for world peace, I find it difficult to find one answer to this question. I’ve spent much of my life seeking solutions to the many, and complex, issues of our societies. I care deeply about creating equitable access to basic needs such as safe and affordable housing, quality healthcare, healthy food and safe water. I also am passionate about ensuring everyone has opportunities for a strong early development, quality education, economic mobility and civic engagement. I feel strongly about environmental, social and criminal justice, and protecting the most vulnerable of our populations. And, I am committed to creating political and marketplace systems that operate with authenticity, integrity and basic human compassion. (Again, pretty heavy - but true.)

 

All that said, I think I care most deeply about how we go about addressing these challenges—the processes we use and the people we involve. Our society often views these diverse issues as discrete, and somewhat academic, in nature. Social initiatives often are created in isolation, from each other and from those they seek to help. This results in uninformed perspectives, conflicting policies, overlapping or duplicated services, strained philanthropic resources and ineffective approaches. 

 

None of these issues can be addressed in a vacuum. They are all interrelated and directly affect individual people and families, and must be addressed within that context. 

 

I am fascinated with the current discussion around social determinants of health. This new approach to economic and community development recognizes that the condition of our environment—where we are born, live, work and play—as well as the forces and systems placed on that environment, significantly impact our health, functioning and quality-of-life outcomes. I am hopeful that this new overarching perspective may serve as a foundation for future collaboration among social enterprise initiatives.   

 

Ultimately, I hope for a more informed, integrated and personal approach to creating social impact. And, of course,...world peace. 

Recently, I read an article in the New York Times about a young medical student, Allison Draper, who is bringing more awareness to a small campaign to change the anatomical terminology for female genitalia. The article chronicles the origins of the word ‘pudendum,’ the medical term for vulva, which comes from the Latin word ‘pudenda’ or ‘pudere’, translated as, and, I kid you not, “(parts) to be ashamed of.” According to the article, the term dates back to the 16^thcentury, and was used for both male and female anatomy up until the early 18^th century, at which time only the “pudendum femininum’—eventually simply shortened to “pudendum’—remained. 

 

Today, again according to the article, the term and its related cousin ‘pudendal’—as in the pudendal artery, canal and nerve—are found in medical textbooks and used regularly by practitioners all over. Recently, a couple of physicians in Wales were successful in removing ‘pudendum’ from an international dictionary of anatomical terms. But, the use of the word and related terminology remains—something Ms. Draper hopes to change. The article points out this is not about semantics, but about the impact of words on our society. In this particular case, it is about addressing shame as a factor in why women, transgenders and nonbinary people receive poor or delayed healthcare.  

 

Like Ms. Draper, I love words, and am fascinated by their origins. I, too, believe words matter—not only in their meaning, but also in how we use them. I am inspired by Ms. Draper’s desire to understand the origin of the vocabulary she will use in her chosen profession. I am inspired by her courage, as well as that of others, to challenge antiquated terminology—no matter how entrenched—that perpetuates sexist, gender-bias and harmful perspectives. Most of all, I am inspired by the author of this article to open an informed and respectful public dialogue on an important, yet potentially uncomfortable, topic. More of us must be willing to do so if we wish to be catalysts for social change. 

 

Source: Gross, Rachel E. “Taking the ‘Shame Part’ Out of the Female Anatomy,” New York Times, September 21, 2021 - https://www.nytimes.com/2021/09/21/science/pudendum-women-anatomy.html

Finding My Voice When There’s Nothing to Say

“I’ve lost my voice.”  “You haven’t lost your voice,” my friend says in response.  “You just don’t have anything to say.”  

Could this be true?  In today’s disconnected world, is it possible that I have not a word to speak out against the various assortment of struggle, injustice and fear, or even an utterance to recognize the abundance of miracles that bring healing and reconnection on a daily basis?  Is it conceivable that I, a woman who has never wanted for opinion, have no position to take on any of the controversial debates that plague our political and religious arenas, or the many commonalities where we may find agreement? I wonder, as I pray to God for guidance in serving my purpose, is the function he has for me a quiet one?  And if so, how will I, again, always the verbal communicator, fulfill that role successfully?  

It is a while since I spoke my piece - on anything.  Words do not come easily, neither in public nor private.  With friends and business associates alike, I sit awkwardly waiting for a spark of interest to light in me so that I may join in the conversation - a spark that rarely comes.  When I am expected to speak, or I am asked to defend a position, I find the simplest of articulation difficult.  I stutter through responses, and then berate myself later for the lack of clarity and surety with which I handled the situation. 

I try pen and paper. Yet, my futile attempts only result in illegible scrawling and a sore right hand. I purchase and install a dictation software. Yet, my laptops (yes, that would be plural) continually freeze up on me, as if saying “Don’t bother.” 

While seeking inspiration in a local bookstore, I find a mandala coloring book.  According to the author, and to my online Mirriam-Webster encyclopedia, the mandala, or circular diagram, is used by Buddhists as a meditation tool.  My sources promise that “by mentally entering the mandala and moving toward its centre” I will find clarity, focus and a sense of unity and connection with the universe. I am skeptical, yet drawn in by the name mandala.  Is it not the journal named for this very symbol where I first stepped out of my fear, and spoke words of authenticity and passion? Could it be that a coloring book could hold so much hope?

In reading past writings, I recall my emotions - of passion and enthusiasm and of grief and anger - that moved me to the words.  There is power in these emotions of extreme.  I believe the emotions in between are those that Dr. Seuss spoke of in his book “Oh, the Places You’ll Go!”  

The Waiting Place...
...for people just waiting. 

Waiting for a train to go
or a bus to come, or a plane to go
or the mail to come, or the rain to go
or the phone to ring, or the snow to snow
or waiting around for a Yes or a No
or waiting for their hair to grow.
Everyone is just waiting.

Waiting for the fish to bite
or waiting for wind to fly a kite
or waiting around for Friday night
or waiting, perhaps, for their Uncle Jake
or a pot to boil, or a Better Break
or a string of pearls, or a pair of pants
or a wig with curls, or Another Chance.
Everyone is just waiting.

While I am willing to concede to the plausibility that God has a more subdued plan for me, I suspect that he created me with the gift of gab for a purpose, and that my voice, as well as the function for that voice, will return to me in divine order.  Again, in the words of Dr. Seuss:

NO! That’s not for you!
Somehow you’ll escape
all that waiting and staying.
You’ll find the bright places
where Boom Bands are playing.

With banner fip-flapping,
once more you’ll ride high!
Ready for anything under the sky.
Ready because you’re that kind of a guy!

So, for now, I vacillate between boredom and contentment.  In the spirit of Dr. Seuss, I embrace my inner child, coloring the spaces of the mandala with the markers I purchased from Hobby Lobby (and attempting not to critic my choice of colors or inability to stay within the lines).  I release that which no longer serves me - including those old laptops!  And I practice sitting perfectly quiet, listening to the words of my heart, until I find the bright places where Boom Bands are playing and have something more to say.

 

Remembering

My father told me he took the Georgia Bar Exam with a fountain pen.  He said he did so because he thought it would be “cool,” and because he simply could not imagine using a pencil for such a momentous occasion.  He passed the bar in December 1964.  I was born the following March.  In a span of three months, a very young, and I imagine, an idealistic, twenty-three year old became both a lawyer and a father.

My father was a beloved man, and no less so than by his children.  Many knew him as a great champion of justice.  And, while he was indeed that, for four of us, he was just known as our dad. 

My father touched many lives and left great reminders of his time here on earth.   As his children, we were very proud of his accomplishments, and glad that he found a vocation for which he had such great passion.  But, truthfully, it didn’t really matter to us what he did for a living, who he was in the community, or how many wrongs he righted.  What matter to us was one simple thing – his presence – his presence in our lives. 

When I remember my father, I think of purple tricycles, tulips, and Jonathan Livingston Seagull.  I think of weekends and holidays, and awakening to a house filled with music and dancing.  I think of picnics and birthday dinners, playing the basketball game of HORSE, and its faster sister game of PIG.  I think of dining out, homemade omelets, and gourmet Chef Boyardee pizzas.  I think of Niagara Falls and Disneyland, cameras and photos of women’s butts.  I think of fall leaves, hammocks and swings, lofts and fire escape ladders, suitcases and pullout beds, Saturday night TV, and fireplaces and lazy chairs.

I see my father in each of his children – in the genuineness of Allison’s laugh, in the slow steady stride of Michael’s walk, in the affable attraction of Zachary’s personality, and in the ease at which I cry both in sadness and in joy. 

Grief over the loss of a parent is such an extraordinary process – it transports you to places in time you believed long forgotten.  It makes you sad and it makes you angry.  It makes you mourn for the person that’s no longer here, for the person that never was, and for the person that never will be.  Yet, time is a strong healer.  And with time comes the gift of gratitude and appreciation.

I am grateful to have called Fred Orr my father.  He was a kind and gentle man that loved us so deeply, that he sometimes found it difficult to be fully present in our lives.  Yet, when he was, it was, as my sister says, magic.

I miss his hug.  I miss his smile.  I miss his voice and the way he called me Sweetheart. 

Yet, two years after his passing from this physical experience, I feel his spirit remains with me.  While revered and adored by so many, I celebrate the man he was, not as a romanticized fictional character, but as a human being, in his totality of depth and complexity, strengths and weaknesses – in all his amazing spirit and glorious flaws.

Another “Fred” of my childhood, Mister Rogers, said, “It’s really easy to fall into the trap of believing that what we do is more important than what we are.  Of course, it’s the opposite that’s true.  What we are, ultimately determines what we do.”  At a very early age, my father naturally took on the role of protector and advocate.  He spent his life helping others in his own personal campaign to save the world.  In his last months, as he allowed others to help him, he found his own peace, healing from what he termed a lifetime of pressure and the illusion of conflict. 

My father was an optimist.  Daddy loved this thing called life, and believed that there were many opportunities to live it.  So, I end with a quote from one of my favorite authors, Marianne Williamson, who writes in her book, The Age of Miracles, of the passing of her profoundly charismatic father, and how in the “purity of spirit,” she felt that he truly could see her for the first time.  “My father’s dying didn’t end our relationship; we’ve simply entered the next phase of it.” 

Homesick

It is 4:00 in the morning and my thoughts are in East Africa.  It is only a little over a day since I arrived home, and five days, give or take time zones, since I and my fellow South Carolinians said goodbye to our new friends. 

It is noon in Nairobi. 

I think of the Box Girls. 

It’s been over seven hours since Iddah arose.  She is most likely sitting down for lunch.  I wonder if her mother had money to give her for a car ride this morning, or if she made the hour-long walk to school instead.  It’s been over 5 hours since Tabitha awoke, prepared breakfast, and made her 30-minute walk.  I wonder how she is settling into the two-room high rise apartment she and her parents moved into just a few days before our trip, and imagine that her personality is helping her make friends quickly at her new primary school. 

I wonder if Sarah has a boxing match this week, and if so, who she will be fighting.  I hope Jane is feeling better this morning, and that the comfrey salve I gave her is providing some relief to the pain in her knees, so that she may continue her training for this summer’s Olympics. 

I fiddle with the lovely soapstone bracelet on my left wrist, a gift from my dear African sister, Judy, and wonder if she is doing the same with my bracelet as she sits at her computer on the other side of the globe. 

I think of the Safari Simbaz – Jessy, Chege, Vincent, George and Boss.  I imagine that earlier this morning, David – their coach, mentor and role model – led them through some energy-pumped callisthenic warm-up and a training ride, before beginning their work for the day, and that he would laugh at my slow and lethargic morning routine.  I look at the seat and pedals lying in a pile on the floor beside me, and wish one of the Simbaz were here to help me put my bike back together.  I have difficulty imagining making it up the hill on my next ride without their assistance.

It is half past noon in Arusha. 

I think of the Arusha Cyclers.

As I write, I hear the washing machine in the room next door complete the final cycle of the filthy laundry from my trip.  I hope that the second wash took the Tanzania dirt stains out of my khaki pants.  I imagine Christina is in school, and know if she were here, she would show me how successfully to get them out by hand.  I wonder if she is sharing a few of her new English phrases with her girlfriends.

I miss Sophia’s dry sense of humor, delivered with a straight face in Swahili and broken English, and her brother Rajaba’s pleasant smile and attempts to teach me how to say “cow” in Swahili – “ng’ombe.”  (I dare you to try it.)  I hope that the wound on John’s foot is healing well and that someone redressed it for him.     

I think of our hosts with Summits Africa, and my daily conversations with Emanuel, Daniel, and Hussein.  I hear Ema’s Jamaican music in my head.  I think of my successful bike day with Boni and the exhilaration of speeding side-by-side down the long hill.  I imagine riding through the rural areas along side Dani, with him feeding me the appropriate Swahili responses to the crowds of lovely people that cheer us on.  I try to remember the names of the plants and animals that Hussein taught me as I relay specifics of my trip to my husband.  I yearn for the meal tent and Matthew’s breakfast, and think of his and the other Matthew’s morning greetings.  I hope they all slept well and are enjoying a few days off before the next group of tourists. 

It is 1:00 pm in Marangu. 

I think of the Kilimanjaro Initiative and the large contingency of the UN Women’s Group hiking up the great mountain.  I wonder if Bernard is still at the Marangu Hotel, or if he has made it back home to his wife and children.  And most of all, I think of Kennedy.  Did he make the Kili summit today with the globalbike flag?  Did he feel the spirit of all of us with him as he climbed?  How changed will he descend from the mountain, this gentle nineteen-year old man, who up until a few weeks ago had never been out of his neighborhood?  And where will this experience take him in his quest to better his community?

I do not know what the future holds for my new friends and me.  Through the magic of the Internet, I am able to keep in touch with some, while others have no such access or even mailing addresses.  Some speak very little English.  I speak even less Swahili.  I expect written communication will be more challenging without the benefit of facial cues. 

I am certain of one thing, this experience has changed me.  Their friendship has changed me. 

As the sun rises on my side of the world, I miss all of their smiling faces.  I miss sharing meals.  I miss my impromptu Swahili lessons.  I pray that they are all safe. 

www.boxgirlskenya.org

http://safarisimbaz.com

www.arushacyclingclub.org

www.kilimanjaroinitiative.or.ke

The Traveling Pin

I am touched by the impromptu generosity of strangers.

My trip to Tanzania begins this morning at 4:15 am — a time of day that I do not see often or usually care to. Yet, with the help of a strong hot shower (maybe my last for a week) and my early rising and punctual husband, I and my two Greenville carpool commuters manage to arrive 20 minutes early, just in time to watch the sun come up over the south side of Union Street as we wait for the rest of our group. I suspect both events — the sunrise and the waiting — are rare experiences for three out of four of us. So begins the first of our new experiences.

The bus arrives, we pack the multiple gear bags, suitcases and backpacks, and, after a quick stop at the Little River Roasting Company for a group caffeine fix (thank you Gervais!), make our way to the Charlotte airport.

Standing in the security check line, I meet Bob and Dale, a couple from Spartanburg who recognize our group from this morning’s Herald-Journal. They are heading to Canada to celebrate Bob’s father’s 90th birthday bash. “Wow,” I say, “I want to have a big party on my 90th.” Dale tells me that her father-in-law also plans to take his girlfriend to Paris next month to celebrate. “Wow, now that’s what I REALLY want to be doing on my 90th!” I say. Dale asks about our trip. I fill in some of the details. She asks “Do you have to be in shape to do this?” I say, “We’ll soon find out.”

For the 10 or 15 minutes in line, we chat. We pass through the checkpoint and are unloading our buckets. As I stuff the quart size baggie of liquids back into my carry-on, Dale removes a lapel pin from her coat and hands it to me. “Here, this will be a good luck charm for your trip.” I can’t help but hug her. We depart — without last names, but no longer strangers.

The glittery pin, with its blue jeweled flower center, is a great addition to my utilitarian khaki fleece jacket. The gift brings to mind two books — seemingly unrelated. The Blue Sweater – the memoirs of a woman who, while traveling in Africa, sees a boy wearing her childhood lucky sweater given away years ago on the other side of the world, and of her inspiration to found the Acumen Fund. The Traveling Pants – the story of a group of friends who share a summer apart through a traveling pair of lucky jeans.

As they call for our boarding, I wonder what’s in store for me. Where will this journey take me? What will I do with it? Who all will share this experience with me? How will it all connect?

For now, at least, I know my new lucky pin goes with me. And with that, I share my experience with one more spirit. Thank you Dale!

(This post was originally posted on February 24, 2012 on http://tanzania.blogs.goupstate.com/10046/the-traveling-pin/.)

New Year's Resolutions

I use to spend the week between December 25^th and the first of January consuming holiday leftovers, finishing off half-full bottles of wine, and contemplating that one critically flawed component of my life that I would resolve to tackle in the coming year. Almost invariably there were a few extra pounds on my bones that I determined to eliminate - join a gym, run a half-marathon, learn to rollerblade, eat better, give up alcohol, etcetera, etcetera. Then there would be some particular goal intended to improve the more creative and/or intellectual side of me – travel (somewhere), take classes (of some sort), write, learn to speak another language, etcetera, etcetera. And, of course, I felt compelled to work on those pesky little personality flaws that kept me from becoming a truly good person – mostly boiled down to – be less opinionated, speak less, listen more.

Come January 1^st, I resolved towards self-improvement and jumped into the mission with full gusto, inspired by the renewing opportunity of a new year. Over the years, I managed to meet many of my goals. I joined the gym, ran the half-marathon, purchased those skates, and said good-bye to all white “non-food” products. I walked the cobblestone streets of Florence in the rain, dived with the sea turtles off the coast of Roatan, and enjoyed safari in the Okavango Delta. I earned a post-graduate degree, started a blog (you’re reading it), and published an essay in a literary journal. And, I learned to say “Hello, how are you?” and “I am fine, thank you” in Setswana (“Dumela mma/rra, o kae? Ke teng, ke a leboga.”)

The rest of the story, as one would say, is an all too well known one. That gym membership lasted two years longer than I did. The half-marathon was my first, and my last. After two falls, the rollerblades were safely put away in their specially design backpack in a little used closet. I became over educated and underemployed and yearned for unvisited places. I remained ever committed to chocolate and wine, always had an opinion, and no matter how much I tried to listen I still talked more. Most interestingly, I remained forever self-critical – and instead of celebrating my wonderful experiences, berated myself for not fulfilling my expectations of perfection in achievement and timeliness. So, some years back, I decided to embrace the old adage of “no expectations, no disappointments,” and resolved never again to make New Year’s resolutions.

That is until a few weeks ago. As I sat with a group around a campfire, someone handed me a small piece of paper and a pen and instructed, “Write what you’re leaving behind in 2011 and burn it.” Caught by the element of surprise, seduced by the concept of burning something, and faced with no expectations to share with anyone but the universe, I momentarily forgot my skeptic approach to resolutions, quickly scribbled two words, and tossed the paper into the flames. Proud of my truthful declaration, no matter how quiet, I felt ready to face the new year.

Then a funny thing happened last week (not on the way to the Forum, but hanging around a kitchen island drinking wine and munching on snacks with friends). Someone asked, “Does anyone have a New Year’s resolution?” Without skipping a beat, I yelled “Twenty pounds!” I immediately felt I had betrayed myself. These were not the two words the flames had engulfed only a couple of weeks ago. Why had I resorted back to the old standby – back to the place of self-criticism and lack? Why, at a time when so many people attack themselves and others, did I find it so difficult to speak of my desire to be part of a healing world?

It took me about twenty minutes, while the rest of the group discussed exercise and travel goals, to summon the courage. Then in a quiet moment, I sheepishly, and ironically, declared, “I want to live without fear and doubt.” I’m not sure if anyone got it; but it felt good to say it out loud. Now, I am ready for 2012.

The power of one mind can shine into another, because all of the lamps of God were lit by the same spark. It is everywhere and it is eternal.

Look gently on your brother… Follow in gladness the way to certainty. Be not held back by fear's insane insistence that sureness lies in doubt. This has no meaning. What matters it to you how loudly it is proclaimed? The senseless is not made meaningful by repetition and by clamor. The quiet way is open. Follow it happily.

When you have felt the strength in you, which makes all miracles within your easy reach, you will not doubt. The miracles your sense of weakness hides will leap into awareness as you feel the strength in you.

And if you choose to see a world without an enemy, in which you are not helpless, the means to see it will be given you.

- A Course in Miracles

Blazing Trails

My husband is a hunter. He loves everything about the sport ­– the gear, the strategy, the outdoors, the camaraderie, and, yes, the throwback to a simpler, more primitive connection to mother earth and nature’s foodchain. Yet, among all of the aspects of the sport, his favorite part is being in a stand as the sun comes up and the woods come alive. He calls it the “changing of the guard,” when the nocturnal creatures move back into their little nests, burrows and caves and the creatures of the day stir awake.

Even twenty-five years into our relationship, hunting remains somewhat a mystery to me. Shooting loud guns, stalking prey, climbing trees, and sitting on boards precariously perched twenty-feet above the ground is simply not my idea of a “good time.” So, most of the time, I remain home and support my great hunter by providing congratulatory comments and enjoying the free-range, organic meat that he kills for us.

My friend Connie, on the other hand, embraces deer hunting so that she may spend more time with her husband with impressive vigor and, sometimes, seems to enjoy it as much as her partner. She says her favorite place to hunt is the Barber’s Chair Stand – a stand made from an old barber’s chair affixed in a big metal box high up in a hardwood on a South Carolina farm. The stand has many amenities making it uniquely comfortable. First, the chair still functions, allowing the user to recline, if so desired. The stand also sports a roof, in this case, made of old dumpster lids with grooves that allow rain to run off, and screening, again, in this case, old trampoline material attached with zip ties, that surrounds the chair to conceal movement.

One day, while our husbands are off on a hunt, Connie and I sit in her living room, sipping wine and speaking of our dreams. I say “I want to do something different, something which will be important for others.” I say “Sometimes I find it difficult to see through the dark, to blaze my own trail.” Without skipping a beat, Connie says “You need some bright eyes.” “What are bright eyes?” I ask.

And she explains, “That’s how you find your deer stand in the dark – bright eyes – small dots tacked to the trees. They glow a bright orangey-red when you shine a flash light on them – like runway lights.”

I am fascinated. "Tell me more."

"Well on the farm, you get up early in the morning – 5 am. You crawl out of bed, throw on your layers of camouflage, down a cup of coffee, make sure your backpack has snacks and water, and then head into the woods on your four-wheeler. Before you get to the trailhead, you stop, sequester your vehicle in a concealed location, and quietly… open your backpack and spray doe pee on the bottom of your boots."

What?

"To cover your scent, of course….or that of any other humans, dogs, or other smells you may have picked up.”

Again, I am fascinated.

Connie continues. “So, it’s pitch black. You walk the 100 yards where you know the trail begins – using a miner's light strapped to your head. You find the first set of bright eyes – the ones that mark the trail to the sand ridge. Then follow the trail for about 50 yards and cross over the sand ridge to a wood line – where the thick forest begins. From there you know the trail meanders."

"It can be confusing in the dark. You also know there are certain type of oak trees that will eat you alive if you get caught in them.”

"So what to you do?" I ask.

“Well, you stand at the sand ridge and look for the second set of bright eyes..But, it’s dark...And you’re a girl...and your scared. There are noises. And things that seem to be moving all around you,… even though there’s nothing there. And even though you have a rifle that is loaded, you’re still a girl… that smells like doe pee…during the rut, and all you want is to be in your stand 15 feet off the ground where nothing can reach you.”

“Unfortunately, the bright eyes are 20 yards to the right and you’re afraid to move. So, you stand there clutching your rifle until the sun comes up so you can make your way to the stand that is only 50 feet away from you. And you think, you dumb ass – you should have stayed in bed.”

I think of my conversation with Connie often. I smile when I think of my girly friend dressed in full hunting gear and imagine her newly-pedicured toes warm and cozy in those big clunky boots. I think of blazing trails and of bright eyes that help us find our way through the dark. And, I remind myself that when unsure of the next step, just to wait a little bit, and the light will guide us instead.

Thanksgiving in Botswana

This time last year, I was traveling with my sister in the amazing country of Botswana. As we prepare our dinner table for a day of thanks, I must admit that part of my heart remains in southern Africa. I am thankful for memories and look forward to my next visit. Meanwhile, as I attempt to stay grounded amongst the commercialization of the American holidays, I refer to this photograph of the simple life of two baboons in the Chobe National Park. It reminds me forever to remain curious, and never to take life too seriously.

Grief

I find grief to be like an old acquaintance that shows up at the most unexpected times. You know, one of those characters from a movie – the old college roommate that never quite grew up – a disheveled vagabond that travels the world, living off others’ generosities. The guy you rarely hear from that suddenly knocks on your door, unannounced, in the middle of night, disrupting the entire household.

You let him. You always do. Not because you enjoy his company or because there is any obligation to do so. No, you let him in because you don’t know how not to – and because, no matter how much he may irritate you, there is something familiar and comfortable about him.

He settles in. You never know for how long – an hour, a few days, or for an extended visit. He turns your world upside down – messes up your house, turns your day into night and night into day, interferes with your relationships, and, in his all consuming need for attention, completely drains you of your energy. He entices you with his tells of dark adventure; and for a while, you find yourselves strange bedfellows.

Then, as quickly, and as unannounced, as he came, he leaves. One morning, you sleep late and awaken to find him gone. You pull yourself out of the funk, take a shower, straighten up your house, and begin to reach out to those you have ignored. The air feels lighter, the energy more vibrant, and there is space to breathe once again. In your newly obtained freedom, you possess a stronger appreciation for the subtle joys of your day and a new awareness of the abundance that surrounds you. You return to the sync of life…

…until his next visit.

Boredom

I am bored. Not because I have nothing to do, but because I am not excited about what I am doing, or about doing something else, or about something someone else is doing.

I reference my favorite source – the dictionary on my computer. Bored – “feeling weary because one is unoccupied or lacks interest in one's current activity.” Hmmm. Weary? Again, I reference my favorite source. Weary – “feeling or showing tiredness, especially as a result of excessive exertion or lack of sleep.” Hmmm. Could it be that the term BORED is an oxymoron – a contradiction within itself? So, while I arose this morning after a good nine hours of sleep, and spent my day sitting at my desk typing (certainly, not what I would call an overly exerting activity), I am indeed tired.

Meanwhile, down the road, my father completes six weeks of radiation and poisonous chemicals pummeling his body. The doctors are pleased with their assault on the spot of my father’s brain. The growth is smaller and the inflammation reduced. Yet, today my father finds it difficult to remain awake for longer than a few minutes, much less the exertion to walk from his lazy chair to the bathroom. For almost two months, my father remains fully occupied with his healing process. And, while certainly not bored, he is indeed tired.

My father is given a month reprieve from treatment. I pray that his energy will return soon, as the doctors predict, so that he may enjoy a few days on the beach. And I take a few minutes to find the humor in my own contradictions and practice gratitude for a little boredom.

The Personal Spirit

I had coffee with an old friend yesterday.

In doing so, I was reminded of the remarkable connection that we as humans have with one another. It is this bond that allows two people to continue a conversation from many years ago as easily as one from this morning, to skip over the niceties of small talk and speak right to the spirit, and to support each other's dreams no matter how extraordinary. I also was reminded the importance of personal contact.

Sure, we communicate via e-mails, phone calls, and video chats, share our daily activities on Facebook, and keep up on our career transitions via LinkedIn. We use the modern technology to remain “in touch” across many geographic and social distances. We conduct business at any hour, instantly share our most recent vacation photos with hundreds of our closest “friends,” and divulge some of our most intimate thoughts with people we have never met.

Our contemporary society provides so many opportunities to become connected in ways that never existed. So, why, when we are so connected, do we concurrently feel so removed?

The answer is that there simply is no replacement for direct human contact. No matter how much we may IM throughout the day, or how many text messages we exchange, it is when we sit in each other’s physical presence that we truly connect. Call it the soul, life-force, inner self, chi – whatever is that energy that creates and surrounds us – it is most prevalent in person.

Over the past year, I take to spending more time at my computer – to work on my photography, research, write, e-mail, video chat, and stay in touch with my loved ones that are spread out across the globe. I am grateful for these conveniences. I also am grateful for the opportunity to sit across the table from an old friend and reconnect over a cup of coffee.

The Litigator

My father has a brain tumor. More specifically, he has a grade IV astrocytom called a glioblastoma multiforme, a star-shaped malignancy that, according to the doctors, is eating away at his brain cells. The tumor is located in the cerebrum region of the brain that controls communication. Due to the necrosis that has occurred, again according to the doctors, he sometimes finds challenges choosing the correct words to convey his thoughts.

My father is a litigator, a civil trial specialist, only one of a select group in the country of such distinction. His entire adult life, he has made a living with his communication skills. The curious thing is that for the first time in his life, my father is communicating, truly communicating, with his loved ones.

I inherited the gift of words from my father. I love the way words roll off the tongue, the irony of oxymoron, and the play of double entendres. Like my father, I chose a profession that utilizes this skill. I, like the litigator, use the verbal language to argue, to advocate, and to influence. Yet, in the personal arena, where my father has struggled, I have excelled. One always in touch with my feelings, as well as others, I have never failed to articulate them. Yet, as I process this journey with my father, I find words inadequate to express the experience.

My father says he manifested this tumor himself – to relieve his spirit from a lifetime of pressures, to allow a healing from what he terms “the illusion of conflict,” and to experience the true joys of this world. As I watch my father, in this moment of physical fragility, embrace his human experience with such honesty and strength, I realize miracles indeed come in strange packages.

Bald is Beautiful

How many of us would voluntarily, without having a nervous breakdown, shave our head? For many women, our hair is a symbol of our beauty, an external expression of our personality. My sister has the perfect hair, the kind that others spend many hours and dollars trying to achieve - perfect smooth, blond curls that look fabulous in any style.

 

At the age of 30, Allison was diagnosed with ovarian cancer. It was caught extremely early and Allison was told she had a great chance of recovery, with the removal of one ovary and by undergoing chemotherapy. She said “Hair or life? It wasn’t a difficult choice.” Instead of mourning the inevitable loss of her long locks, she took out the clippers and sported her first buzz cut before the first strand fell. Two weeks into her treatment, she was completely bald.

 

Although prepared for losing her hair, she wasn’t prepared for the reaction she received in public. Strangers, assuming that her new appearance was an “in your face” fashion or political statement, would stare, chuckle, and make snide and critical comments. Regardless, Allison sported her unadorned head, without hat or scarf, bravely challenging society’s notion of female beauty.

 

Twelve years later, Allison remains healthy and vibrant, enjoying her life as a playwright, wife and mother of two boys. This week, Allison, along with her husband and her nine-year old son, voluntarily shaved her head again, this time to raise money for children’s cancer research. She is working on a play based on her experience, and boldly walks around town sporting her new look, inviting comments from strangers with her lapel pin that says, “Ask me why I’m bald.” I’ve never seen her more beautiful!

Winning Essay for 2009 “Who’s Your No.1 Lady?” National Contest sponsored by HBO, YWCA and Botswana Tourism Board

 

To the Nourishment of our Bodies

I haven’t eaten in over nine days. Eat – A verb meaning to “put (food) into the mouth and chew and swallow it” (New Oxford American Dictionary). I am on a fast, a voluntary abstention from all food. Instead, I drink a concoction of lemon juice, maple syrup, cayenne and water that I diligently assemble six to eight times a day.

Eat – A verb that also means “consume, devour, ingest, partake of; gobble up/down, bolt down, wolf down; swallow, chew, munch, chomp; informal guzzle, nosh, put away, chow down on, tuck into, demolish, dispose of, polish off, pig out on, scarf down”…. as well as to “corrode, wear away/down/through, burn through, consume, dissolve, disintegrate, crumble, decay; damage, destroy, erode” – as in “acidic water can eat away at pipes (Oxford American Writer's Thesaurus).

According to the creator of the fast, while I am not eating, I am receiving nourishment. Nourishment – a noun meaning “the substances necessary for growth, health, and good condition” from the Latin word nutrire meaning ‘feed, cherish’ (Again, New Oxford). And, who am I to argue? In many ways, I’ve never felt better. I feel lighter, more energetic, and, yes, healthier each day as I cleanse all the toxins and crap (literally) out of my body.

But, I miss food. I’m not hungry; I just miss food. Food is such a huge part of our American society. We “do” breakfast and lunch meetings, take our coffee/snack breaks from our computers, commune with our loved ones as we cook and devour our evening meal. True to the meaning, we gobble up more than our share, more than is necessary, and we wear away at the earth and decay our bodies with overconsumption, processed chemicals and waste.

It’s summer, and my heirloom tomatoes are ripening and filling up the bowl on my counter with colors of orange, yellow, purple, and red. The Saturday morning’s farmers market is filled with the intoxicating sights and smells of freshly picked berries, figs, peaches, okra and basil. These other sensory aspects of these prohibited foods are my solace from shear boredom.

During this fast, I read Barbara Kingsolver’s The Poisonwood Bible, a heart-wrenching novel about the deconstruction and reconstruction of a missionary’s family in a war torned and poverty strickened Congo over a course of three decades. I am acutely aware of the luxuries of my life – that I have the indulgence of choosing to refrain from eating, while others refrain without choice. I also understand how little it takes to nourish the body, and how difficult that nourishment is to find for others.

Today, I am beginning my journey back to the world of the eating. I pray that I take this new awareness with me and seek to nourish my body and soul with a new appreciation for the meaning of food. I begin by drinking the freshly made juice of an apple. The most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted.

Earning Our Keep

I recently entered into a debate with a friend of mine regarding the importance of “earning our keep.”  As I reevaluate the way I live my life, I question this notion that we must prove ourselves to be worthy of our blessings. 

I looked up the word earn in the New Oxford American Dictionary on my computer. The origin of the word is the Old English word earnian, from a base shared by Old English esne, which translates as laborer.  The definition refers to “obtaining in return for labor or services, incurring deservedly in return for one's behavior or achievements, and being worth the time, money, or effort spent on one.”  One of the examples cited, i.e. use it in a sentence, and, I kid you not, is “through the years she has earned affection and esteem.”  Imagine, our society has trained us that we must labor to deserve the affection and respect of others!

I suggest that instead of “earning” our lives, more importantly, we, as human beings, seek to “contribute” to our lives.  The same source as above indicates that the word contribute comes from the Latin contribut, translated as brought together, added, and is defined as “giving in order to help achieve or provide something.”  It further defines a contribution as “the part played by a person … in bringing about a result or helping something to advance.” 

So, next time someone asks - “What do you do for a living?” - consider your response.  Maybe instead of explaining how you earn a living, or in other words, what you do that makes you deserving (of whatever it is that you desire), share how you contribute, the role you play in advancing whatever small, or large, part of this world you choose, bringing about results – often the many blessings of this life.  

What We Do

I find that when I run into folks these days, the conversation becomes the same.  First there’s the obligatory “How are you?”  To which, I usually respond “Very well, thank you” and then they say something about “being too busy, no time, just trying to keep up, worry about the economy, blah blah blah.”  Then follows the inevitable “What are you doing?” – typically the second question of the conversation.  “What am I doing?  I thought it was obvious – I’m talking to you.”  Of course, I understand that they mean what am I doing in the big scheme of things.  How am I contributing to society?  How am I earning my keep?  In what way do I define myself as having value?  A title – a clear understanding of who I am!

Deciding to take a sabbatical after 20 years as a professional woman, I search for these answers myself.  I haven’t really changed.  I’m still the same person, with the same experience, the same skills.  I still walk into a room full of men in black suits, look every one directly in the eye as I shake their hand and talk business lingo.  The only difference these days is that I’m not wearing the black suit, I don’t have a title, and I’m happy.

I have a great little book on my shelf - Life's Journeys According to Mister Rogers.  Page 44 says "It's really easy to fall into the trap of believing that what we do is more important than what we are.  Of course, it's the opposite that's true:  What we are ultimately determines what we do!"

So, what does a professional woman do on sabbatical?  She decompresses, she reenergizes, she has fun, and most importantly, she becomes herself.