My Eternal Optimist

The other day I get a hankering for some Thai food and call my favorite little eatery to place an order. 

“You hold. One moment, please…” comes a polite voice on the other end before the phone is dropped with a soft thud.   I can hear the raucous chatter of the cooks as they fill orders and the hum of customers in the dining room.  I can almost smell the sesame oil as I listen to the white hot sizzle of food frying over open flames.  I wait and wait— a full five minutes passes—

  “Hello is anyone there?”   I call out over the open line. I am feeling abandoned and not a little irritated by the neglect.  

 “Hang up and call them back.” My husband Frank advises. 

 I make repeated attempts but keep getting a busy signal, harkening back to the olden days before automatic voice messaging and call waiting.    A sense of righteous indignation kicks in.  I start in with the judgments—what is wrong with these people? I'm hungry.  How dare they ignore me?

After bemusedly watching me sputter with frustration, Frank calmly takes the phone out of my clenched hands.   “What do you want?” he asks as he dials the number.  

“It doesn’t matter what I want” I snort, “You won’t get through.” 
 
Immediately, someone picks up after the first ring and Frank pleasantly places the order.  He hangs up, grins at me archly and croons, “It’s all about love, dear.”   I glare at him before collapsing into helpless laughter.  He does this all of the time.   Whether it’s a parking spot magically appearing or the fastest check-out line in the supermarket, it seems the Universe is constantly conspiring with my husband to smooth out those annoying little wrinkles that threaten to ruin a day.
   
One time we spontaneously showed up in the resort town of Watertown Canada the day before Canada Day (the Canadian 4^th of July).  We managed to snag a room for one night but were warned by our friendly hotel proprietor that there was not a room to be found on the holiday.  Undaunted,  my husband cheerfully assured me that he would find us a room.

 “Yeah, right”, I grumbled, envisioning an uncomfortable night in the car, “good luck with that one.”
 
While my approach was to run around town in a panic, confirming the worst, Frank confidently walked into the Visitor Center and got a solid lead on what was probably the last room in town.    An hour later, we were settling into a charming Victorian B & B in a quiet residential neighborhood with a gorgeous view of the lake and surrounding Rockies-- the sounds of a cascading waterfall soothing us through an open window. 

It’s not like Frank receives special treatment from the Universe.  He has had more than his share of heartbreak and he has been known to stress out and worry, especially when it comes to the kids he teaches.   Yet my eternal optimist still chooses to walk on the sunny side of the street,  demonstrating time and again that when we meet life with faith and an expectancy of good, it returns the favor by opening up more possibilities than we could ever imagine.

Lessons come to us in all sizes and shapes.  Who knew that one of my greatest teachers would be the tall, lanky guy contentedly munching cashews and watching football downstairs in his man-cave? 

 

 

 

Is older really wiser?

 A patient I was visiting the other day in the hospital showed me a newspaper column written by a 90 year old reporter containing a list of 45 (!!) things she had learned about life.  It was all really cool and wise stuff. 

 What is it about growing older that compels us elders  to share our wisdom with everyone else? Maybe it's our way of compensating for the indignities of the aging process.  There has to be some pay-off for having lived this long.  But as I recover from the shock of turning 63, I remain unconvinced that wisdom is a requirement much less a measure of advancing age. Speaking solely for myself, I still seem to be grappling with those existential matters I was supposed to have learned way back in kindergarten.  As anyone brave enough to have lived with me will attest to, I'm not all that generous about sharing my toys and I have been known to impetuously plunge into certain situations before looking in both directions.  But I do love my afternoon naps.             

 I have learned a few things which (of course) I now feel compelled to share. For example,  after years of spending a lot of time and energy looking for “it” and trying to get “there” I’ve finally concluded that there is no “it” to find and there is no “there” to get to.   It took a lot of tortuous detours and dead ends before I figured out that everything meaningful I’ve ever searched for “out there” is inside of me and I am always right where I need to be even when I’m stumbling around in the dark. If that sounds suspiciously like the adage, "It's not the destination, it's the journey that matters" I offer no apology.  I'm not too proud to rip off other people's wisdom when it suits me to do so.    And I have come to believe that a certain amount of denial is actually healthy.   If it weren’t for my buddy Denial, I wouldn’t  be able to cling to the fantasy that I’m in charge of my life and I probably wouldn’t bother to get out of bed each morning.  I've also learned that failing eyesight coupled with denial is a definite advantage when it comes to looking in the mirror everyday. 


The truth is that the longer I live, the less I really know.  But the beauty of this age is that I'm less obsessed with the need to find answers to life's mysteries and am way more comfortable sitting with the questions.    Experience has taught me that if I’m willing to go with the flow  eventually ( albeit after some whining and self-pity) I’ll land on my feet.
  

 Maybe in another 27 years (I should be so lucky), I’ll have 45 nuggets of profound wisdom to share with the world should anyone care to listen, meanwhile, it's all I can do to remember what I had for breakfast. But sometimes the wisest thing of all is to laugh and unabashedly admit one's limitations. 

Dancing with the Gorilla

This morning, while I am suspended between sleep and awakening, I have the disquieting sense that something is out of whack.  It is eerily still with only the occasional melancholy wail from a passing train.  I finally realize that I am missing the sweet notes of a love sick robin floating thru the chilly pre-dawn hours.   Around the end of February, I begin to anticipate this annual rite of passage because it symbolizes the continual cycle of birth and renewal; the fulfillment of profound yearnings and promises kept.

Every spring, the robins bring me a special message assuring me that no matter what is going on in my life, all is well.    But this year, since they’re late, my over-active imagination suggests that maybe there’s a message in the silence.  Maybe it’s a reminder that rarely does anything in life happen on my or anyone else’s time schedule.

The longer I work as a clinical chaplain, the harder it is to buy into the illusion that we humans are in charge of much of anything, much less the timing of things.   Regularly confronted with the unpredictability of life, I have become all too aware that our human existence doesn’t come with a foreseeable shelf life.  It is all too common for a day to begin like any other and end in devastating tragedy.  The wife goes to the mall with a girlfriend and comes home to find that the husband, who has never been sick a day in his life, has suddenly collapsed and died.  On the other end of the scale, an infant is born and the first tender shoots of parental love take hold in front of my eyes.   To be sure, it can feel like a scary out of control carnival ride, which is not necessarily a pleasant sensation for those of us who are prone to motion sickness.    

In a lame effort to protect ourselves, we’ve collectively agreed that it’s really bad form to talk about the two ton gorilla sitting in middle of the living room-- i.e. our mortality.  Much as we'd love to ignore the furry beast, consider for a moment how our approach towards life would shift if we were to openly acknowledge the holy uncertainty of life. Would we go through a day with our eyes open and our senses alive?  Would we more fully enjoy the simple things we so often take for granted?  Would we tie up loose ends, forgive ourselves and others, and use up every ounce of love we have to give? Fortunately or unfortunately (depending on how you look at it), the landlord never gets around to issuing a notice with the exact date we’ll be evicted from these rented mobile homes we call our bodies.  I once met a veteran chaplain who was diagnosed with inoperable throat cancer.  When asked how it felt to be handed what amounted to a death sentence, she calmly replied, “I felt relief at finally letting go of the illusion of control.”   She didn’t live to be ninety, but once she started dancing with her gorilla, she waltzed through the time she had left with grace and joy.  

Life never makes promises it can’t keep but it does ask us to trust that everything comes to pass in its proper time, like it or not, accept it or not,  understand it or not.  The robins will get here when they’re ready, not a second before.  Meanwhile, the silent spring is bidding me to wink at my gorilla and cherish what I have in front of me now.          

The Perfect Wedding

When Frank and I wake up on February 13, 2010, neither one of us has a clue that it is our wedding day. It is, in fact, my niece Erica and her fiancée Steve’s wedding day-a supposedly perfunctory legal affair preceding her more elaborate destination wedding in Todos Santos Mexico the following month. Despite Erica’s insistence that the fuss over her civil ceremony in Colorado be kept to a minimum, nothing in my family has ever been done on a small scale. Family members and friends who can’t attend the wedding in Mexico have assembled from all parts assuring the usual raucous and chaotic Varela family goat rope. As I stand in front of my closet, contemplating the day's attire, I must know on some unconscious level  that something is in the air because I am as nervous as a bride-to-be.  After frantically searching for a lost earring, I have a complete emotional melt down. "What is my problem?" I sob to Frank's bemusement as he spies the earring on the floor and calmly hands it to me,  "It's not like I'm getting married or anything."

On the way to Colorado Springs, where the ceremony is to take place, Frank and I discuss our own fuzzy wedding plans, which have stubbornly refused to take shape, no matter how many times we visit the issue. After two happy years together, we are ready to take the next important step in our relationship, but when it comes to wedding logistics, we are completely stymied. We don't like the idea of the three ring circus that will  inevitably ensue if we involve my family so we're leaning more towards a private and intimate ceremony, but somehow that doesn't seem right either.

When we arrive at the elegant Southwest Studies building on the Colorado College campus (Erica’s Alma mater and also where Erica’s aunt, my oldest sister Maria, is an adjunct professor) we find one of the meeting rooms transformed into a warm intimate space, complete with candles, fresh flowers and yards of turquoise tulle framing a graceful fireplace. I grin at the family interpretation of ‘perfunctory’ because it is clear that Maria and her daughter Sabina have spent hours working to make this occasion anything but. There are bottles of champagne, fresh strawberries, a platter of wedding cookies and chocolate truffles. Three out of a possible four sisters and their husbands, Erica’s Dad, her step-mother, brother Gabe, his wife and two little ones are all present and accounted for. The groom’s parents, grandmother, aunt and a group of friends and co-workers have also assembled. Introductions are made, pleasantries exchanged and last minute preparations are completed. Frank has gotten hold of my great niece, baby Zae and is walking around gently cuddling and soothing her. The sight of Zae trustingly gazing into Frank’s eyes melts my heart. How many times can you fall in love with a big, goofy guy with a giant heart?
None of the chaos I have anticipated is forthcoming. As Ginger, the officiating chaplain  guides the young couple through the ceremony which will legally bind them together as man and wife,  a sense of the sacred quietly begins to enter the room. The bride and groom  appear to be surprised by the profound emotion that the simple yet timeless ritual is eliciting. There is not a dry eye in the room as snivels punctuate the promises that Erica and Steve are making to each other. Frank and I hold hands, totally resonating with the words that are being spoken-silently making our own promises to each other. When Ginger asks our small group to indicate willingness to support the couple in their marriage, a resounding “WE WILL!” led by my three year old great nephew Kai fills the room. I feel a pang as I realize that Frank and I will not have any family to witness the private ceremony that we are contemplating.

But, as so often happens, the Universe has a much better plan for us.  From the beginning there are clues, like bread crumbs leading to a hidden prize. Before the ceremony, my brother-in-law Clyde winks at us slyly suggesting that Frank and I ‘make it a double’. My sister Frances (Erica’s mom)  pays me kind of a weird complement when she tells me I look good enough to be a bride.  We find out later that Maria dreamt of a double wedding months before. Her husband Zuni will also claim that he has known all along what is about to happen.

 It’s as if there are individual notes floating silently in the air, but no one can hear the music until the very last minute. At some point after the ceremony, amidst the frenzy of congratulatory hugs and smooches that are being lavished on the newlyweds, a surprising chain of events begins to unfold.

Like metal filings drawn to a magnet, Frank and I inexplicably find ourselves sidling over to Ginger the chaplain, jokingly asking her, “Don’t suppose you would be willing to conduct two ceremonies for the price of one, would you?"

And she, being totally attuned to the silent music, takes us totally seriously and replies, "Of course, I would be delighted to perform another ceremony."

"But what about the license," I stammer, "wouldn’t we need a marriage license?" Ginger assures us that this is a minor detail which can easily be taken care of after the fact. My sister Dolores, who has been eavesdropping, begins to screech. Still not able to fully grasp the unexpected turn that our conversation with Ginger has taken, I shush my excited sibling, worried that we would be stealing Erica and Steve's thunder should we carry out this impulsive course of action that has suddenly become available. A quick pow-wow with them promptly disposes of that concern and we get an enthusiastic thumbs up.

“Do it!” Erica happily urges us with Steve nodding in vigorous agreement. My niece and I have always been close and she is obviously more than willing to generously share her special day with us.

My partner and I look into each other's eyes and silently ask, “Should we?”

As has been the case ever since Frank answered my ad for a hiking buddy on Craig’s list, the stars align into a single perfect moment and we absolutely know that we should. Suddenly, the din in the room ceases. It seems that everyone is hearing the symphony that has begun to play ever so sweetly. A quick thinking Sabina snatches a bouquet of flowers out of a vase and places them, dripping, into my shaking hands. Ginger calls everyone to attention and with a wide smile, undertakes the second wedding ceremony of the day.

Luckily there is still plenty of Kleenex left over from the first wedding and more tears are shed as Frank and  I take our own leap of faith uplifted by the love and support of the people in that room, some of whom we have only known for a short while. Months of planning could not have yielded a more blessed occasion than the one which is taking place on this particular winter afternoon, the day before all lovers are celebrated everywhere. Call it Divine Intervention, call it co-incidence or even sheer dumb luck.   No matter what you call it, I suspect that anyone present at this momentous event felt the invisible Something that gave Frank and I an exquisitely timed nudge into a wedding more perfect than anything we could ever have conjured up in our wildest imagination.

Words

Lately, I've been thinking that words are like money in the sense that we can either foolishly waste them or hoard them like misers. As a writer, I love to play with words but I admit that I am often guilty of using twenty words when a few would do just fine. I attribute that to the fact that I am the second youngest in a family of five girls and often got lost in the shuffle of my big noisy clan when I was growing up. You had to use a lot of words before anyone would pay attention to you. I did learn that funny words were acknowledged, so it didn’t take long for me to assume the role of the family clown. I could be pretty darn funny when I wanted to be heard.

When I hang around my two year old grand niece, Zae, I am reminded that sometimes less is more. She can fully convey a meaning and get all of her needs met with a few choice words.

“Bunny!” she commands when she wants me to read her favorite bed time story. When I make an animal noise to amuse her, she wrinkles her nose and levels me with an appraising stare before voicing her approval, “You bein’ funny!” Sometimes she will abandon words all together and simply grab me by the legs and push me towards the kitchen when she wants a snack. The loving adults in Zae’s life are constantly encouraging her to use her words, but personally, I enjoy her adorable though primitive communication methods. Soon enough, she’ll probably be using her words to argue and talk back.

Few of us realize much less appreciate the full scope of our innate creativity. Our words are the artist's tools that enable us to create a unique and authentic life. Just a single word can be incredibly effective.  The word “Yes” can open up new opportunities, just as the word “No” can block us from realizing our full potential. When Zae’s older brother Kai was two, he often used the time honored Socratic method to stimulate profound discussions simply by asking “Why?”

Words combined with powerful emotions can actually affect the molecular structure of water. (Check out Dr. Masuru Emoto’s groundbreaking work in “The Hidden Messages in Water”) Words of gratitude can  keep us focused on our blessings in the face of adversity while worry and negativity serve to bog us down in a perspective of lack. Careless words spoken in the heat of the moment have been known to cause long standing family rifts. Just as damaging are the unspoken words which so often can lead to hidden resentment and false assumptions. And let us not forget the power of those three little words that we all long to hear, "I love you!"

We are all taught to speak, but rarely are we taught how to listen. One of the most loving and compassionate things we can do is to give an individual the benefit of our full attention when he/she needs to be heard. As a chaplain working in a hospital setting, I’ve learned that there are some situations in which words are useless. At those times, an empathetic touch or a look can convey more comfort than a thousand words.

No matter what language we speak, the ability to communicate our thoughts and words is a huge responsibility and a gift which we mostly take for granted once we get past our early childhood. Learning how to use words is really not all that different from learning how to handle money. The trick is to know how to spend them wisely and when to save them up for a rainy day.

The Year of the Slug

One evening, shortly after New Year’s Eve,  I arrive at my fitness club only to find that virtually every life cycle, elliptical, treadmill and StairMaster has been commandeered by sweating Lycra clad fitness buffs all sprouting ear buds. There is a long line of people impatiently waiting for  the next open machine extending all the way from the locker room.  A frazzled staff member with a plastic grin tattooed on his face is standing at the head of the line in an attempt to discourage a stampede. I sigh and make my way past the grumbling crowd to the weight machines upstairs, hoping that at least I can get in some stomach crunches.  It’s this way every year. There seems to be a tsunami of people who might have indulged just a little too much during the holidays, then over-compensate by making well-meaning resolutions to get back into shape. By February, the numbers drop off, the gym gets back to normal and the regulars who have been working out all year get it back to themselves again.

 While I applaud the good intentions of those determined souls who are brimming with new resolve, I believe that it goes against our basic instincts as mammals to be so frenetically active during a time when we should be holed up in our caves. Speaking for myself,  I just don’t have it in me to introduce a new habit into my schedule when all I want to do is curl up in front of the fire and snooze with my kitties.  After the holiday frenzy, I normally feel sluggish and unmotivated but  justify my lethargy by making the case that I'm simply giving into a natural inclination.  When I look outside, the backyard  is brown and still  as if nature has hit the pause button until the warm breezes start encouraging growth and productivity again.   I reason that I am a human being, not a human doing and the long cold nights provide me with the perfect excuse to withdraw and just be.

 This is a time to be still-- to cultivate a nurturing internal environment in which the seeds of my dreams can percolate and flourish before beginning to sprout; it is a time to regroup, to replenish,  to reflect on all that has transpired during the last twelve months; the perfect time to spend a  leisurely morning or two in bed watching chickadees at the bird feeder while reading journal entries from years past to track how far I’ve progressed, or to detect any old patterns of behavior that I might want to correct.

 My hat is off to those individuals who ritualize the beginning of the new year with firm resolutions to become their  best and sleekest selves. I bow to anyone who finds the motivation to organize a closet or clean out the basement when I can only seem to find more excuses to put off taking down the Christmas tree.   Call me weird, but I prefer to make my annual resolutions in October, around my birthday, because it is so much easier to make a fresh start at a time of year when I imagine that the warm blue days and flaming autumn colors are applauding my resolve.