#The importance of being irrelevant

“Damn!  Where is it?”  muttered a fellow chaplain at a recent meeting as he frantically pawed through his briefcase.   From the degree of his anxiety, I thought he had lost his wedding ring or an irreplaceable document.

     He met my questioning look of concern with a sheepish grin, “I forgot my smart phone.  I just can't function without it.   I feel like I don’t have any pants on!”   

     While I felt for my beleaguered colleague, I couldn’t relate to his angst at being separated from a relentless barrage of e-mails for a few hours.

     However much modern technology promises to connect us and make our lives easier, that promise often goes unfulfilled.  We seem more stressed out and separate from each other than ever. I’ve observed people sitting around a table, obsessively fiddling with their tablets or phones instead of conversing with each other.  The nightly news regularly airs the latest video of someone getting shot in the back or beheaded. And while a cat playing piano on U tube goes viral, there are whole invisible populations getting quietly wiped out by genocide or starvation.  Apparently, as the movie Birdman so brutally points out, if you’re not trending, tweeting, hash-tagging, or posting, you’re irrelevant and don’t exist. 

       In a culture which grows increasingly dependent on the latest personal devices, I fear that the day of George Orwell’s Big Brother and the Machiavellian scheming of Hal the computer has finally arrived. I saw a piece on CBS Sunday morning that featured yet another “must have” gadget.   You wear it on your wrist—it tracks your every move—it tells you how many calories you burn and how many hours you slept.  It gives you motivational pep talks and vibrates every hour reminding you to get off your butt and move around.   The reporter wryly commented, “It’s like living with your mother.”  When it was demonstrated that this information can be made public for the whole world to see, she asked, “Does the need for this gadget reflect an unhealthy level of self-absorption?” 

     Good question, one I’ve been asking a lot lately because I suspect that all of these ingenious doodads are ,indeed, cultivating a society of inconsiderate boorish narcissists.

     Case in point, last week, my husband Frank and I treated ourselves to a couple of days at Ojo Caliente Hot Springs in New Mexico, which is supposedly a sacred and quiet place of utter relaxation and freedom from worldly distractions. Yet we noticed that the rule banning cell phones from the pool area went largely ignored.  On the way home from New Mexico we stopped for lunch at a small café in the mountain town of Buena Vista Colorado.  Not two feet away from our table sat a young couple loudly “face timing” on their computer.  We had no desire to eavesdrop on their conversation, but we were pretty much a captive audience, forced to listen to the intimate details of their lives intruding upon our lunch. The whole time, they remained clueless that they were bothering anyone.  I dread the day when air travel becomes even more of an affront to human dignity once they allow the use of cell phones in flight.    

      Call me old-fashioned, but I would prefer that people leave my face to their imagination during a phone conversation and I like to keep my conversations private (remember the days of private phone booths?).    Nor do I need to globally broadcast what I ate for lunch, not that anyone besides Frank  would be remotely interested in my diet.    I still like to navigate with a clunky paper map that doesn’t fold right after the first time you use it.    At least it doesn’t talk back and slyly insinuate what a dummy I am when I make a wrong turn.  And I certainly don’t need an expensive apparatus overseeing my daily activities, much less suggesting that I’m lazy for lying on the couch hours on end. 

     Back in the olden days, I traveled the world when Al Gore was only dreaming of the Internet.   I stayed connected with family and friends through Fax, snail mail or international calling cards. I managed to find my way around with a dog-eared Lonely Planet travel guide, or by asking people for directions.  Yeah, it was inconvenient and even scary at times to be all alone and thousands of miles from home, yet that was part of the adventure. 

     Just so you know,  I'm not blind to the obvious benefits of these technological advances nor am I adverse to incorporating some of them into my life.  Even if I’m only taking a walk in the park three blocks away, my “dumb” phone goes with me; I can’t imagine life without e-mails, especially when I’m traveling in a foreign country. I text, and of course, I’ll post this blog on my Facebook page.  But that’s as far as I’m willing to go right now despite the attempts of friends and family to shame me into keeping up with the times.  I've learned to ignore the bemused, slightly pitying glances every time I whip out my antiquated cell phone. When it finally dies, I guess I'll have to give in and invest in a smart phone.   Until then, I remain skeptical that a device smarter than me will enrich my life and enhance my relationships. 

The five stages of insanity

Nothing bugs me more than misplacing my things and lately, I’ve been losing a lot. Last week, it was a credit card and this week, a tiny plastic clip that holds my measuring spoons neatly in place.  The credit card has been easily replaced and the plastic spoon clip is practically worthless.  But I GRIEVE when I lose things. The smaller and more insignificant the missing item, the more obsessive I get about restoring order to my world. Ever since I was a child and lost my favorite stuffed lambie Zipper, I've never been good at letting go.  I remember crying for days until my Dad suggested that I pray to St. Anthony whose job it is to keep track of everyone’s stuff. So I did—and magically, the next day, I discovered Zipper lying on a pile of junk in the garage.  I’ve been a believer ever since even when I learned in later years that St. Anthony doesn't work for free and will move you higher up his list if you slip him a twenty.

But I figure St Anthony can’t be bothered with such a trivial matter as a plastic spoon clip, so  I’ve wasted hours and hours frantically pawing through drawers and cupboards trying to find it.    Fortunately, Frank puts up with my eccentricities and cheerfully moves heavy furniture, while I get down on my hands and knees with the flashlight (an endeavor which is about as fruitful as a snipe hunt). Patient as he is, he doesn’t get why I can’t just let it go, “Don’t worry, honey, I’ll buy you another one.”  But he is totally missing the point—as with any form of grief, I'm more upset about losing control over my orderly environment than losing the thing itself.    

For me, accepting the loss of a mislaid item is a process not entirely unlike Elisabeth Kubler-Ross’ well known five stages of grief:   denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. 

So here’s Angie’s version:

Stage 1-Denial-“I left it right here!  It can’t have grown legs and walked off—it’s gotta be somewhere!”  

Stage 2-Anger/ Blame- “Okay, who the hell took it?” (this is directed at anyone unlucky enough to be within hollering distance, including the cats)

Stage 3-Bargaining—“If I ever find the stupid thing, I’ll be more careful and I’ll never lose it again!

Stage 4-Depression—“God, I’m getting old and senile—won’t be long before independent living is a fuzzy memory.”

Stage 5-Acceptance—Well, let’s just say I’m not there yet.  I’m still looking for the jade stone that fell out of the ring Frank gave me on our first Christmas together.  And today I found myself combing through moldy coffee grounds in the compost bin hoping that the plastic spoon clip somehow landed there. 

Okay, so maybe I’m a tiny bit obsessive about maintaining control over my universe and I get somewhat overly attached to material things.   I’m no Dali Lama.    But he’d be the first to tell me to laugh and cut myself some slack.   

The Sand Dollars

On a late November afternoon, I am happily splashing around in the shallow clear waters of beautiful Las Palmas—a gem of a beach tucked away in a secluded cove near Todos Santos in Baja Mexico.     

After a fairly active week in Loreto by the Sea of Cortez, it hasn’t taken my husband Frank and I very long to fall prey to the soporific rhythms of the Pacific side. We’ve spent much of our time whale watching and sampling an impressive variety of beaches—all beautiful in their own right.  But we keep coming back to Las Palmas because it is one of the few beaches where it's safe to swim and also because it's one of the best kept secrets in the area, thanks to the almost impossible to find, rutted dirt track that leads down to the beach.    But hey, we’re from Colorado—back roads with rocks the size of giant ant hills do not phase us in the least. 

To access the beach, you have to hike through a shaded grove of elegant palm trees that remind me of Costa Rica (but without the monkeys).    As there are no amenities of any kind, we haul two backpacks crammed full of creature comforts, beach chairs and an umbrella.  Within minutes, we have gotten settled into our temporary encampment and contentedly sit back—anticipating a delicious afternoon of relaxation. As usual, there are only a half dozen or so other hardy beach-goers sparsely scattered along the half-mile stretch of sand making it easy to pretend that it’s ‘our’ private beach.   The waves are higher than normal today, so I am content with just dinking around in knee deep water, far from the reach of the pounding surf.    As I head back to our camp, I spot a sand dollar lying in the sand, right at the high tide mark.  I gasp in delight because it is so rare to find one intact.  I pick it up and examine the round surface which is delicately etched with five symmetrical petals—a slightly jagged eye in the center seems to be winking at me crookedly.     I carefully carry my treasure over to Frank, a wide grin on my face.   He, too, appreciates its beauty and comments on how perfect it is.  We handle it gently, like fragile Venetian blown glass. 

Encouraged by my find, I set off to hunt for more sand dollars.   Not too far down the wide beach, I find another one that looks like it’s been chewed up and spit out—the edges are ragged and the broken back reveals the empty chambers where its tiny inhabitants once dwelled.  Obviously, it has seen better days.  I quickly discard it as unworthy of any further attention.  

As I’m searching for the absolute best sand dollar I can find—I begin to wonder about my compulsive hunt for perfection. One of the benefits of my advanced age is that I’ve learned to accept my own little eccentricities and flaws—and in so doing, I’ve gotten a bit more mellow about accepting everyone else’s, too.   Yet here I am, scouring this wild beach in search of the Holy Grail of perfection-a ghostly skeleton that hasn’t been scarred and battered by what must certainly be a precarious existence on the floor of the ocean.    Where do I get off decreeing that one sand dollar is more valuable than the other?  I backtrack and find the discarded shell-examine it again with renewed interest. Both have lived out their brief life cycle, yet the first one is so perfect that it reveals almost nothing about its previous history, while the tattered shell’s appearance tells a compelling story about the natural forces that have shaped its destiny.    The sea, immune to any artificially imposed standards of beauty and perfection, has generously offered both sand dollars as a gift to the waiting shore.  Suddenly, it seems ridiculous to measure the worth of these treasures by my own shallow yardstick.   I decide that both shells are equally precious, each in their own unique way.  It is the deliberation with which they’ve been created, the unique purpose fulfilled, the lasting imprint they’ve left upon the soul of Life itself that matters more than their physical appearance.

I show the broken sand dollar to Frank.  “Should I keep them, do you think?”  Even as I’m asking, I know I shouldn’t.   The sand dollars are not mine to possess—if I take them home, they’ll end up in a drawer with other forgotten sand dollars I’ve collected over the years—they need to stay here where their life began. 

 I gently lay both sand dollars side by side—one perfect, the other misshapen--and before leaving, I scratch out “Thank You!” in the sand. 

Do It Anyway

Last spring when I was in Quetzaltenango, Guatemala to study Spanish, I befriended a ten year old boy named Andy.  Andy’s mom Dona Isabel would bring me a home cooked meal every day, often accompanied by her youngest son.   I found Andy to be a thoroughly engaging and bright fellow cat lover and a friendship between us quickly developed.  He would come over to my apartment in the afternoon and do his homework at my kitchen table or I would quiz him for an English exam.  He had an insatiable curiosity about my life in Colorado, so some afternoons, the schoolwork got put aside and I would patiently answer his tireless questions.  Conversations with Dona Isabel revealed that education does not come cheap in Guatemala, especially for a struggling family in a poor economy.  I decided to help Andy’s family with the cost of his tuition come fall.

So tonight, I trot on up to the local King Soopers with cash in hand intent on getting the money for Andy’s schooling sent off to Guatemala.  After circling the bustling parking lot in search of a parking spot, I patiently wait in line at customer service for what feels like an eternity (although it’s actually more like fifteen minutes).  Finally, I am beckoned forward to a cashier, who keeps me waiting for another ten minutes for some reason she doesn’t bother to explain.  Someone cuts in line and gets waited on before me to my major annoyance.  Eventually, I am brusquely informed that there will be no more Western Union transactions this evening because the machine is down.  I hold my tongue and march angrily out of the store, frustrated that my time and effort have been wasted.   

All the way home, as an added insult, traffic is terrible. So I sit and ponder the mysterious ways of the Universe. I guess I expected to be rewarded for trying my damndest to be a good person.  Instead, it feels more like I got kicked in the butt for no good reason I can discern.  I think of the cynical adage, "No good deed goes unpunished."  

Indeed.    


Before my pity party goes into full swing, I remember a poem often attributed to Mother Teresa called “Do It Anyway":

People are often unreasonable, irrational, and self-centered.  Forgive them anyway.
 
If you are kind, people may accuse you of selfish, ulterior motives.  Be kind anyway.
 
If you are successful, you will win some unfaithful friends and some genuine enemies.  Succeed anyway.
 
If you are honest and sincere people may deceive you.  Be honest and sincere anyway.
 
What you spend years creating, others could destroy overnight.  Create anyway.
 
If you find serenity and happiness, some may be jealous.  Be happy anyway.
 
The good you do today, will often be forgotten.  Do good anyway.
 
Give the best you have, and it will never be enough.  Give your best anyway.
 
In the final analysis, it is between you and God.  It was never between you and them anyway.

 ....Point taken (although I’m no Mother Teresa).

Age is just a number

My mom used to say that age is just a number and I believed her... up until yesterday when I applied for Medicare—a sobering process which pierced through a blissful fog of denial that I’m well into the fourth and final chapter of my life. 

Just because I’ve walked planet Earth for almost 65 years, some faceless, nameless bureaucrats have officially decreed that I’m old.  But five year old Angie isn’t buying it.  Most of the time, she feels like she’s playing dress up, trying to act all wise and grown-up when she’s barely out of kindergarten. 

 

You will never convince her that it’s undignified to climb the monkey bars at the local playground or cuddle with her favorite stuffed lambie. 

The truth is that my inner five year old is still very much in charge of my life.  She insists on her right to stay up just a little bit later on school nights.  There is no discouraging her from gleefully anticipating the first big snowstorm of the season, hoping upon hope for a snow holiday.  Decorating the Christmas tree with her favorite Disney plush ornaments is an annual ritual which brings joy to her heart.   She’s still waiting for the perfect gift—the pretty pony with a silky mane and kind brown eyes that she’s been dreaming of her whole life.  Even though it hasn’t materialized in 65 years, she is absolutely sure that someday, she will run into the living room on Christmas morning and there it will be.    A trip to Timbuk Toys in search of a gift for the kids in her life is an exciting adventure—hell, she is a kid who goes on overload at the tempting display of dollhouses, butterfly pens, and Hello Kitty coloring books.   She loves sparkly, shiny things. Pink is her absolute favorite color and she cannot resist buying garish socks with puppies or kittens.

 My five year old firmly believes that maturity isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.   Despite the occasional embarrassing temper tantrum and undisguised disappointment that the promised snow storm didn’t happen, I wouldn’t trade little Angie for anything.  She is the keeper of my innocence, she helps me to maintain a childlike sense of wonder and joy;  she’s the one who delights in the sight of a ladybug or gasps with awe when a double rainbow stretches across the darkened sky.  She still believes in magic and miracles.  Okay, so she can be gullible and naïve, at times, but isn’t this better than being a jaded old cynic?

Overall, little Angie is brimming with hope and optimism.  She persists in seeing the silver lining in everything.  She’s actually pleased that I’m about to cash in on old age benefits.  After all, it will free up more money to spend on toys. 

Failure Isn't Fatal

   The morning after the Super Bowl debacle, I texted my sister Dolores- a loyal Broncos fan- to offer my sincere condolences for the heartbreaking defeat her beloved team suffered at the hands of the Seattle “Sea Chickens” (as we here in Denver refer to them).  She was virtually speechless with shock and disappointment,

 “I could almost hate them” she spewed, “they are a disgrace to themselves and their fans.”

      I’m sure psychologists have a field day analyzing why people get so riled up about a game.  As anyone in my family will tell you, I'm not a sports fan, but even  I got caught up in all the hoopla preceding the big game (though I refused to wear orange).  Like most people,  I really wanted my home team to win and do Denver proud. I was amazed at how heartsick I felt when the Broncos fell flat on their face in front of the whole world.  The whole thing has prompted me to look at my attitude towards competition and failure and what it all means.  

        I speak with absolutely no authority when I theorize that a lot of fans pin their hopes and dreams onto these young players. Maybe that's why when they take it so personally when their team loses.   They believe that it somehow reflects on them.   I used to be critical of the ridiculous amount of money that professional athletes get paid for throwing a ball and getting banged up, but lately I’ve been thinking that they definitely earn their keep trying to fulfill the expectations of a society that worships at the altar of achievement.

     Let’s face it.  Everyone loves a winner.   My parents, bless their soul, were proud of all of their children’s achievements—I remember them carrying around a plastic bag containing newspaper articles and video clips touting our successes which they would show to anyone who demonstrated interest.    I used to be obsessed with winning awards, just so my parents would brag about me as much as they bragged about my very accomplished siblings.  In my mind, accomplishment could be used as currency which would win me love and approval.   I began to link success with self-worth—a gross misinterpretation that haunts me to this day.  

      I don't remember my parents or teachers ever encouraging me to get out there and fail.   Instead, I got the unspoken message that failure is a shameful humiliation to be avoided at all costs.   Fear of failure for me is like an unwelcome guest that periodically shows up on my doorstep to discourage me from venturing beyond my comfort zone.  I'll just bet I'm not alone in this struggle.   

     Last week, Peyton Manning’s Dad told the media that his son has always tried to maintain a healthy perspective on his career by focusing on his love for the game.   Win or lose, he remains at peace with himself. Personally, I find this attitude way more inspiring than any championship.  Consider for a moment how liberating it would be if we didn't allow any outcome to determine our self-worth; if we viewed victory and defeat as flip sides of the same coin—you can't have one without the other. 

 Some of the greatest men who ever walked this planet would probably tell you that their failures, excruciatingly painful as they can be, taught them how to become a stronger and better person.  Without a doubt, they disappointed and let people down but what made them great was that they refused to allow their defeats to define them; they had the grace to learn from their mistakes and  the courage to stay true to their dreams even in the face of public derision.   

       A very wise basketball coach named John Wooden once said, “Failure is not fatal, but failure to change might be.”   Small consolation for those fans who are still licking their wounds, but hey, there's always next year! 
   

 

 

Grace walks the halls

     One night shortly before Christmas, as I begin my shift at St. Joe’s, the Palliative Care chaplain asks me to check on one of his patients, an 87 year old man, who is dying from heart failure.  (For privacy purposes, we will call him David).  Nothing more can be done medically for David and the family has agreed to transition him to comfort care (meaning no further medical intervention other than pain medication will be provided to keep him comfortable).    My colleague briefly sketches the portrait of a World War Two veteran who has led a rich and colorful life.  He is the head of a well-known mariachi band, married with at least ten biological children and four or five more foster children.   On the elevator up to the Intensive Care unit, I meet one of David's grand-daughters and a great-grand-daughter.    I escort the young women to David’s room, where no less than twenty assorted family members are already gathered around the beloved patriarch’s bed.  I squeeze into the crowded room and quickly identify his wife, Edna, an exhausted looking woman who is steadfastly holding vigil by her husband’s side. Her mascara is smeared and her hair is in disarray.     Her hand is resting lightly on David’s chest.   Occasionally, she leans down and whispers soft words of encouragement in her husband’s ear.   I introduce myself as the chaplain on duty.  Edna requests a prayer, but asks me to wait until the last of her sons arrives.  While we’re waiting, I glean a little more information about the head of this very large family.   He is an active member of a Catholic parish and has been performing mariachi music for forty years in churches of all denominations in the Denver area.    A son in law tells me that horns were once considered unseemly instruments for Catholic mass, so David wrote to the Pope asking permission to perform with his band in a Catholic church.  Permission was granted and the rest is history.

One of the daughters suggests that we sing, and immediately, the cramped hospital room comes alive with the familiar lyrics of “Amazing Grace.”  After that, the family breaks into familiar Mexican folk songs, De Colores and Las Mananitas, followed by a few other Latin hymns I have never heard before. The dying man moves his lips to the beautiful music that he has brought to so many people over the years. 
 
Finally, the son we have been waiting for steps into the room, takes his father’s hand, and says softly, "Hola, Poppy, I'm here. "  He  begins to sing “The Impossible Dream” in a rich contralto voice.  He forgets some of the words and falters, so I quickly jump in and fill in with as many of the lyrics as I can remember.  

The music flows out of the room and wafts into the ICU—blessing anyone lucky enough to be within hearing range of this touching outpouring of family love.  The nurses all have tears in their eyes as they go about the business of caring for their patients.  

There is a hush in the room as the last poignant notes echo in everyone’s heart.  Edna asks me to lead them in prayer and our voices join together as we recite the time-honored words of the “Our Father”.     Shortly after we finish praying, I am called down to the Labor and Delivery unit to comfort a woman who has been abandoned by her family after she delivered a baby boy.    The nurse tells me that the woman’s husband and teen-aged daughter had gotten into a heated argument and stalked out of the hospital in anger. 
 “I don’t know what you can do for her,” says the nurse, “but I think it would help if she had someone to talk to.” 
 I find the upset mom sitting up in bed, her long brown hair carelessly gathered into a loose pony tail, lending her the appearance of a disheveled Madonna --the baby,  is sleeping peacefully in a crib by the bed. 
 I tiptoe softly over to the crib, "Have you named him yet?"
With tears in her eyes, she nods, "His name is Darren, after my husband." With that, she breaks down and begins to sob.

 The contrast between the loving family tableau upstairs and the lonely young woman down here in the delivery room is heartbreaking.    In between sobs, the woman, who I will call Ann, describes the turmoil which has plagued her family over the past year. The daughter is struggling with her sexual identity and attempted suicide last summer.  
“We’re a good Christian family and we're just having a hard time accepting that my daughter is gay”, she explains.  
Ann and her husband had briefly separated because of the tension in the home caused by the daughter’s issues.  When Ann found out she was pregnant, they reconciled, but their issues are not even close to being resolved.  Ann tells me that her daughter- an only child for seventeen years- has unfortunately reacted to her new brother’s birth with resentment and hostility, saying she feels 'left out'.   What should have been a happy occasion has been marred with the ugly drama of family dissension.  When I offer to bless the baby, she perks up and quickly gives her consent.  I hastily go online and research the significance of the name Darren and discover that it means 'little great one' in Irish. I don't know if the child has any Irish blood, but my hope is that he has come into the world to reunite the beleaguered family he has been born into.   I bless the little guy and hand him over to his mother’s waiting arms.   I fuss and coo and take pictures—in short, I try to do everything for Ann that her family should have done had they not left in anger and hurt. 

  As Ann gently lays Darren on the bed and inspects him from head to toe, she tearfully tells me, “I’ve been praying so hard for all of us—I want my baby to have a happy family!” 
 "Would you like for me to say a prayer?"  She nods and I begin to pray softly (so as not to wake the baby) for a peaceful resolution of this family’s problems.   Darren's eyes (which have been closed tight the whole time) suddenly snap open.    He levels me with a knowing stare that literally gives me chills.   I see the wisdom of an old soul who has not yet forgotten who he is and where he came from.  I imagine that he is reassuring me, “Don’t worry, I’ve got this!”  In that moment, there is little doubt in my mind that he is indeed a little great one--an early Christmas gift sent as a  symbol of the mutual understanding and love this family needs to bring them together. 

I leave Ann and her baby to rest and go back to the ICU where David’s family is softly singing Christmas carols at his bedside.  The nurse tells me that David’s blood pressure has stabilized.  It is her belief that the singing is keeping him alive. I ask the nurse to call me if there's a change.   With that, I head back to the sleep room in the basement, in awe of the incredible spectrum of life that I have been privileged to witness.

 You hear people bandy the word “grace” around a lot.  It is defined as God’s infinite love and good will, but never have I felt it as strongly as I have on this cold winter night one week before Christmas.  It has walked the halls of St. Joe’s hospital- a palpable presence, flowing gently in, through, and around all those whom I have met—touching their hearts and lifting their spirits.   It has come to escort a loving soul out of the world, and to bring an old soul into the world; it has brought comfort to the loved ones who will be left behind and filled the hurting heart of a new mother with promise, light, and hope.  Most of all, it has made me grateful to be a chaplain. 

Moonstone Magic

On Sundays, the happening place is the Farmer’s Market at Baja Bean in Pescadero— a small village about ten kilometers south of Todos Santos.   You can get locally roasted coffee that puts Starbucks to shame and a tasty brunch while listening to live music.  Local venders from all over South Baja sell produce, homemade jams and salsas, clothing and jewelry.  Last week, I spotted an exquisite moonstone ring in an elegant silver and copper setting, but I figured I didn’t need another ring and besides, it was too expensive. But all week, I couldn’t stop thinking about the ring.  There was just something about it that called to me.   When I mentioned the ring to Frank, he very generously offered to buy it for me as a belated birthday present.  So we went back this past Sunday and bought the ring. All the way home, as I admired the opaque qualities of the stone—the way it changes colors with the light, I couldn’t shake the feeling that my beautiful ring is more than a shiny bauble.  So I went online to research the significance of moonstone.   Apparently, since ancient times, moonstone has been revered for its connection to the magic of the moon.  It calms and teaches the natural rhythms of Earth.  Hmm, how interesting that the ring came into my possession on the very day when the moon is full.   I went on to read that moonstone is symbolic of an inward journey towards long forgotten pieces of the soul  which need to be brought to light. It's even more interesting that  I just happen to be in the business of helping people to recover their souls, in other words to remind them of the inner resources that will sustain them in the face of heartbreak, loss, and life-threatening illness.  Yet one of the drawbacks of being a chaplain (or anyone in the caregiving profession) is that, in caring for other people, it's really easy to lose pieces of yourself.  Sometimes, I get so caught up on a treadmill of working long shifts and recovering from long shifts, I neglect friends, family, and those simple pleasures that feed my spirit and sustain me.   

Normally,  Frank and I are active people, but down here we have been quite content to spend hours sitting by the sea. I’m not a naturally calm person, but there’s something about the ocean that soothes my often restless spirit.  I don’t think I will ever tire of witnessing its many moods and the stunning diversity of life that it supports.  Every day, we’ve seen the humpback whales as they drift south to Central America.   Sometimes, they slip stealthily past, like submarines on patrol, with only the tell tale spouts to indicate their presence.  Other times, they like to show off by breeching and slapping their gigantic flutes (tails) emphatically, or lazily waving to us like the Queen of England, if you can imagine her Majesty having sixteen foot flippers.  It’s an awe inspiring sight which never fails to delight and uplift us.   We’ve witnessed a couple of baby turtle releases and have signed on to “babysit” turtle hatchlings as they incubate in a greenhouse near our house.

It’s easy to feel connected to the Earth’s natural rhythms with the Pacific Ocean ebbing and flowing at my feet, so generously sharing its abundance.  It’s somewhat more of a challenge being attuned to these rhythms in the rush to meet all of my daily responsibilities at home.  But I have my spiritual practices and the Rocky Mountains to keep me centered and most of all,  I’m fortunate enough to have the kind of work which immerses me in the ebb and flow of life.  Odd as it seems, the hospital where I work is not that different from the ocean because it is so like a unique ecosystem containing the whole glorious mystery of creation.  One minute, a soul exits the planet and in the next,  a lullaby over the loudspeaker announces the arrival of another soul.   I can place all of the human judgments I want on the events that happen in a hospital (and some of them are unspeakably tragic and inexplicable) but in the end, I have to believe that there is an order and symmetry to all of it—just as there is so much more happening beneath the surface of the ocean than what my eye can see. 

I came down here hoping to gain some clarity and perspective on what my next steps should be because I always need to be working towards a goal (or so I tell myself).    I don't believe in coincidence.  Is it possible the moonstone ring came into my life to assure me that I'm right where I need to be, doing what I'm meant to be doing?   I just need to lighten up, restore some balance in my life, and be a little less goal oriented. 

 

 

More "tails" from Todos Santos

Our time in Todos Santos continues to flow seamlessly.  That niggling guilt  I initially experienced for being unproductive has come and gone.   Frank and I have succumbed to our natural rhythms, eating when we’re hungry, allowing the soothing surf to lull us to sleep when we’re tired, and getting up with the sun each morning (with the help of a strong cup of locally roasted java).   The only numbers we go by down here are how many shrimp tacos we snarf down for lunch or how many whales we spot in a day (more about that marvelous spectacle later).     

I am slowly falling in love with Todos Santos for its unique colonial charm and unpretentious authenticity.  Even though tourism is a big part of the economy, the town has nothing to prove and is more like the ‘anti-Cabo’.    No Senor Frog or Cabo Wabo here.  Rather than the frenetic activity and crass commercialism of a tourist town, there is a more a relaxed warmth.  People take the time to visit.   At La Esquina, a popular eatery which has become our favorite hang out, the local ex-pats are friendly and quite chatty.  There is Dave, a soon to be refugee from Los Angeles, who is planning his escape from traffic jams and a frenetic pace he finds intolerable.  He is having a house built so that he can live down here for seven months out of the year.    “Everything you need is right here,” he tells us, “I don’t need excitement, I’ve had enough of that to last me a lifetime.”    Dave points out that most of the ex-pats who flock to Todos Santos are on the south side of sixty, either retired or semi-retired-- in search of a more conscious and simpler way of life.   If you look around the restaurant, you do see a lot of grey hair—I’m betting most of the grizzled customers could probably tell you what they were doing when President Kennedy was shot. 

Anita from Vancouver British Columbia and her Mexicano husband are also building a home off the grid which is completely dependent on solar power.  A day without sunshine means a half day without power.  “I hate cloudy days” she grumbles.  But the unpredictable weather is a price Anita is quite willing to pay in exchange for the sense of community she finds here.   She plans to apply for permanent resident status as soon as the immigration laws allow.     When asked if she won’t miss her family and friends from home, it turns out that one of her daughters lives in Cancun and two of her brothers live in the Los Cabos area.    “My whole family will be here for Christmas,” she says happily. 

Abel, one of the local entrepreneurs who originally hails from Jalisco, Mexico,  tells me that he came here five years ago expecting Todos Santos to be a real city—instead he found a laid back little pueblo where there are no drugs (maybe some pot here and there) and little crime.   “You don’t have to lock your doors at night” he assures me in Spanish.

Todos Santos seems to attract individuals in search of serenity, simplicity, and a sense of community with maybe a little surfing thrown in.  We’ve heard many people mention the innate spirituality of the place where yoga, meditation, healers, and Tai Chi classes abound.  On Sundays, you have a choice of guided meditation or Catholic Mass at the Mision de Santa Rosa de las Palmas.

Personally, I’ve been drawing my spiritual sustenance from the ocean.  To be in the presence of this vast body of water is to be touched with a sense of the sacred.   For our Sunday “service”, Frank and I are drawn to a beach near town where we are treated to our first heart stopping sight of  humpback whales joyously leaping and cavorting in a stunning display of acrobatics.   Sea world could not have come up with a more magical show than the performance we are privileged to witness on this beautiful afternoon.   When one of the huge creatures explodes nose first out of the water as if shot from a canon, we hold our breath the second before its massive form arches and comes crashing down with a belly flop of epic proportion.   At one point, three of the whales gracefully vault out of the water, one by one, in what looks like a beautifully choreographed ballet.  It is an unforgettable experience which brings a sense of awe to my heart and tears to my eyes. 

Just before sunset, as if to remind me of the infinite abundance of the Universe, I spot a turtle drifting in the  clear turquoise waves and miracle of miracles-- yet another humpback emphatically slapping the water with its enormous flute.  Can it get any better?  Stay tuned for more “tails” from el Pueblo Magico. 

Just Another Shitty Day in Paradise….

       Frank and I are already ten days into our month long stay in Baja, Mexico.  It’s taken me this long just to empty out the mental garbage which has accumulated from busily hurrying through a  daily routine regimented by numbers:   how many shifts I work, how many patients I visit, how many minutes I spend with each one, how many meetings I attend, how many times I work out in a week, how many calories I burn.  So far, the days down here have been filled with a whole lot of nothing.   It's been a bit unsettling and I've had to overcome a niggling guilt for spending long unproductive hours napping and reading airplane novels.  


     Our excuse for coming down to this part of the world (as if we need one) was the destination wedding of Frank’s nephew.  We spent our first few days on the East Cape by the Sea of Cortez lounging around the pool of our resort by day and participating in wedding festivities at night.  After a brief visit to Cabo Pulmo, where we snorkeled at the only live coral reef in this neck of the woods, we made our way over the mountains to Todos Santos on the west side where we’ve rented a spacious two level house for the month.  Our new home, "Casa Gallo" comes equipped with a raggedy looking though friendly white cat and has spacious well proportioned rooms all of which overlook the Pacific ocean.  From the first night when our designated greeter, a pleasant young man named Chewy, merrily welcomed us, Todos Santos has gradually yielded its many charms.  Ever since hippie artist types "discovered" it in the mid-sixties, the once forgotten town has become an intriguing  mixture of ex-pat art galleries, expensive shops and restaurants, juxtaposed to taco stands and super mercados.   Less than an hour drive from La Paz to the north and Los Cabos to the south, Todos Santos offers amenities which have attracted a colony of full time gringo residents from all parts north--we've seen tons of South Dakota license plates.  And who can blame them for wanting to live here?  We've already experienced the friendly warmth of a close knit community and its natural beauty is truly unique--the kind that slowly grows on you.  The semi arid desert landscape rolls towards rugged mountains shrouded by clouds to the east  and pristine beaches stretch for miles along the west coast.

       The area is known for a stunning diversity of birds, turtles, humpback and grey whales that migrate from Alaska and come up to the shore so close, you can see their eyeballs.  The fact that powerful waves and deadly currents make swimming dangerous can be forgiven because there is not a single high rise hotel, a vender hawking cheap jewelry, or a jet ski in sight. 

      It hasn’t taken us long to institute what has become a precious daily ritual.   Every afternoon about an hour before sunset, we haul books and beach chairs down to the beach.  My husband and I are simple people.  It doesn’t take much to entertain us.    We are quite content to quietly watch the pelicans play chicken with the waves as the departing sun paints the sky and sea with bold strokes of rich color.    Last night we both agreed that we will probably never get tired of watching a capricious and unpredictable body of water which promises endless possibilities in any given moment.     Like children anticipating Christmas morning, we crane our necks and strain our eyes searching the horizon for the sight of a dolphin playfully leaping, a whale breaching, or a turtle’s head poking up from the waves.  Even if we see none of these things, we delight in the waves hell bent on self-destruction as they swell and form perfect turquoise arches before slamming into the shore and disintegrating into a chaotic jumble of froth; we are addicted to the delicious sea spray and the gently cooling breezes; we luxuriate in the spaciousness of having the entire beach to ourselves; we are simply in jaw dropping awe of the magnificence of each night’s light show—no two sunsets are alike, each one competing with the last for best of show.   Already I have taken dozens of photos in a vain attempt to capture the grandeur of each one. 

 

The great turtle escape

But we are most excited about the turtles. The beaches near Todos Santos are home to three different endangered or vulnerable species of turtles—Olive Ridley, Leatherback and Black Turtle.  Once considered a delicacy in this culture, the eggs are now collected by various groups of local “tortugueros” devoted to protecting these species. From October through April, the tortugueros  patrol the beaches at night, searching for nests hidden in the sand by the mama turtle, and then carefully transport the eggs to a hatchery where they can incubate safely out of the reach of predators and poachers.  After 45 days, the hatchlings are ready to be released into the sea, facing odds that are not exactly in their favor—only one in a thousand (a conservative estimate at best) will survive to maturity. But without the efforts of the dedicated tortugueros, the survival rate would be even more dismal.  On our first Saturday night in Todos Santos, we decide to see for ourselves what all the hoopla is about. We find that it is an unexpectedly moving experience.   To witness these little guys purposefully scurrying to their almost certain doom is to feel the wonder of the incomprehensible mysteries of nature.  Even after all of the years I spent photographing countless wildlife releases for the Colorado Division of Wildlife, it’s hard to overcome my inclination to interfere (can I take them home and feed them?) and withhold human judgment (poor babies!).  To witness the whole kamikaze mission definitely requires a certain amount of faith that there’s an order and purpose to it all beyond our limited understanding.

Brave little guys heading out to sea
 

    Despite the fate awaiting the hapless creatures, I root for them anyway as they valiantly scuttle headlong towards waves that will swallow them up and Fed-ex them to their destiny.   There is always the possibility that one of these brave hatchlings will be the very one who gets to live and thrive and prosper for two hundred years.       

Stay tuned for more tales from Todos Santos--el Pueblo Magico!    

Just another day.....or is it?

  On the surface, my 64^th birthday is just another day, beginning with a monthly meeting with my chaplain peers.  Of all days, it is my turn to present a case study for peer review.  I’ve been dreading it for months—it’s meant to be a learning tool to keep us chaplains on our toes, but sometimes it seems more like Monday morning quarterbacking.  In any event, I get through the verbatim account of a visit with a patient.  I am relieved when the criticism I've been expecting (and think I deserve) is not forthcoming from my supportive colleagues.   Gift #1.

After the meeting, I drive to the East side of town to meet with the daughter of a dear friend-Elizabeth- who unexpectedly passed away in June.   Between getting married and changing careers, I had lost touch with my old friend, kept meaning to call her, thinking that I had all the time in the world.  Turns out, I didn’t. A couple of weeks ago, I officiated at Elizabeth’s memorial service, a bittersweet honor which was far more difficult than I had expected.    After the service, her daughter Lee asked if I might want some of her mom’s things as a keepsake.  So this morning, I find Lee undergoing the heartbreaking task of dismantling Elizabeth’s home.  She is frantically trying to reduce her mom’s life to a few boxes that can be transported back to her home in Oregon.  I find many gifts that I have given Elizabeth over the years-souvenirs from my travels—a tiny bejeweled elephant from India, a miniature painting from Ecuador, a gold bracelet I gave her for her birthday. I am painfully reminded how close we once were.   We celebrated birthdays and holidays together.  We spent long evenings talking about important stuff—the meaning and purpose of life, our spiritual beliefs.  A few times, she accompanied me to the Bar D (my property in the mountains) for a weekend of luxury camping in the airstream.  I feel like a vulture pawing through her life, but Lee is intent on giving me as much stuff as I can fit in the trunk of my car.   I drive away crying-- the taste of regret bitter in my throat.  Regret that I didn’t spend more time with my friend.  Regret that I didn’t even know she was sick until I got a phone call from a mutual friend telling me that she was in the hospital—my own hospital, where I work as a chaplain.  Even after paying her a couple of visits and seeing how sick she was, I didn’t really think she would die.   With all of my clinical experience, apparently I am still buying into the pretty little fairy tale that says our dearest friends are supposed to live forever.  The lesson here is obvious.  Gift #2 

While I’m trying to find room for Elizabeth’s things in my own home, the UPS man unceremoniously dumps a package on the doorstep.  It is from my step-daughter Dawn.  I am touched she remembers my birthday until I find out that my ex-husband is moving out of the home we briefly shared almost thirty years ago.  Somehow Dawn got roped into cleaning out the attic and found artifacts from my past stashed away in a trunk.  The fact that the package has arrived on my birthday is mere co-incidence....or is it? The package contains an eclectic collection of memories—a high school yearbook, an issue of the underground newspaper I wrote for in college, assignments for a creative writing class, an Aspen Times article featuring  myself and a wet behind the ears  reporter--we were Channel 7’s West Slope bureau team back in the late 70’s.  I am suddenly reunited with my young tender self—the self that doubted herself and yearned for something unattainable.  She was passionate, impetuous, and conflicted.   Here she is, on my dining room table, a silly adolescent recalled in hastily written year book entries by long forgotten friends, "remember Latin One when a certain girl caused another certain girl to topple over her desk?"; here is the disaffected college student, testing out newly formed ideas and opinions on mimeographed and type-written leafs of yellowed paper, here is the budding writer, and the veteran photo journalist, jauntily wielding a cumbersome 16mm camera smiling back at me from a faded photograph.  How I love all of her.  Gift #3

Later that afternoon, after suffering through yet another meeting, my husband whisks me away to one of our favorite restaurants on 32^nd Avenue.  Over gnocchi in truffle cream sauce, Frank listens sympathetically as I try to process  the strange day I’ve had. I know there’s a theme to it all, but I can’t quite grasp it.   After dinner, he offers to drop me off at home and drive to a bakery on the other side of town to procure a slice of my favorite chocolate cake.    I end the day relaxing on the couch, greedily licking the delicious frosting from my fingers-- grateful for my best friend and husband who is giving me a vigorous foot rub.   Gift #4 

My 64^th birthday has turned out to be an extraordinary day after all. So maybe it hasn’t been the day of leisure that I would have chosen, but for sure, it’s been full of surprises.   I’ve gotten a perspective on how far I’ve traveled from the gangly insecure teenager to rebellious young adult to a somewhat wiser, less insecure elder.    I’ve been reminded that that no matter how many years I’ve walked this planet there is no end to the lessons I came here to learn.  When it comes to regrets, all I can do is keep the self-flagellation to a minimum and try a little harder to nurture those precious connections with my loved ones.

 I've come to believe that everything in life happens for us rather than to us.  Heartache and failure as well as success are all part of the whole glorious package meant to help us grow and evolve.   Most of all, I’m grateful for all of the people and experiences that have gotten me here and I've gotta say, here is pretty great.  

Life's Wrong Turns

 “So what do you want to do for your birthday, my love?” I ask my hubby Frank a few days before his 64th birthday.

 

  As we are both hiking enthusiasts, his response is no surprise:   “Lets go hiking!”

 

      Although Frank's birthday promises to be plenty warm, there’s still too much snow in our favorite haunts in the high country, so we choose Roxborough State Park as our destination. Located in the foothills outside of Denver, it is a beautiful area known for its stunning rock formations and diverse wildlife.  We know Roxborough and its trails well because years ago, I produced a video for the visitor center.  With Frank serving as my faithful grip, we spent many happy hours taking pictures of the park in all of its moods. 

 

       We decide to head towards Elk Valley, one of the few places in the park we’ve never been.   We know that the trail to the valley connects to the Indian Creek wilderness, another beautiful area we’ve hiked a few times.  We are curious to see where the two properties intersect and set off in a spirit of adventure.  As we climb the steep trail, we are rewarded with amazing views of the park, the city, and the plains.   Splashes of multi-colored wildflowers decorate both sides of the trail. We spot a handsome Bullock’s Oriole perched on a dead tree snag and hear spotted towhees scuffling busily through the dead winter growth.   We follow the contours of gently rolling hills blanketed with thickets of scrub oak and eventually come upon a lush green valley below which stretches into thickly wooded foothills to the West.    The trail gently slopes down into the valley ending at a gravel road.  After consulting the map, we decide to go to the left, believing that we are heading towards the wilderness.

 

    From the moment we enter the valley, we are enthralled with its unspoiled beauty.  We pass a crumbling old homestead and imagine what it must have been like to live here a hundred years ago.  Other than a few mountain bikers we have the valley to ourselves, a rarity especially on such a beautiful day so close to town.  Every now and then, a ruby throated hummingbird executes a noisy fly-by and several Monarch butterflies playfully brush past Frank, as if to wish him a happy birthday, or so we whimsically imagine.  The fragrant spring breeze induces a sense of giddy gratitude as we steadily climb up a steep incline anticipating a view of the wilderness once we get to the top.   Instead, we find that we are facing the plains instead of the wilderness. 

 

  Another consultation of the map shows us that we’ve gone in exactly the opposite direction of where we intended to go.  Duh.   We double back, laughing at ourselves for not knowing how to read a map.  But we so don’t care. We are together, doing what we love best and it is just too beautiful a day to worry about our questionable navigational abilities.   On our way back, I happen to glance up at a ridge above us and see what looks like a charred stump, about a hundred yards away.

 

  “That’s not a stump… is it?” As soon as the words are out of my mouth, the stump moves.   Instantaneously, we realize we’re looking at a pretty good sized black bear partially screened behind a scrub oak bush.  It is standing on its hind legs, ears quivering and black eyes watching us with an intensity that is somewhat alarming.   It sits down and then rears up again, obviously agitated by our presence. It occurs to us that this might be the female bear with a cub that has recently been sighted by other hikers.  Even though we don't see a youngster, we know better than to risk disturbing a protective mother bear, so after a last look through our binoculars, we slowly back away before inviting any more attention from mama. 

 

   On the way back, we excitedly go over every detail of our close encounter with the bear, which obviously has turned out to be the highlight of our afternoon.  Had we not stumbled off in the wrong direction, we would have missed exploring a gorgeous and remote part of the park and we probably wouldn’t have seen the bear. 

 

    Not only has our “mistake” yielded a memorable birthday adventure for my husband, but it has also served as a clever reminder that sometimes it’s those wrong turns in life which often lead us to exactly the right place.