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.  

Stranger in a strange land

     

My long-suffering maestra-Maria Luisa
at Casa Xelaju

 Greetings from Quetzaltenango  Guatemala—I’m back at Casa Xelaju, the school where I studied Spanish 18 years ago.  Time is passing quickly and I am already more than half way through my time here.   My head hurts from conjugating verbs and trying to grasp the subtle difference between por and para. Half the time, I feel like I’m picking my way through a mine field.   Every time I open my mouth, a verbal land mine is waiting to explode in my face.  One wrong vowel at the end of a word, one misplaced accent can earn me a blank stare or worse, the dreaded correction.  My very patient teacher Maria Luisa is gentle when she corrects me, nevertheless, my first week at Casa Xelaju is a real ego-buster.  

 Me:  “Er, donde es…

ML:  (slowly enunciating each word)”….esta, donde estaaaah…”

Me: “Oh, yeah, right, er, donde esta la ollo?

ML:  (again slowly) “La olla…donde esta la olla?”  She draws me a hole (hoyo) and a pan (olla) so that even an idiota like me can tell the difference.  Sometimes my long-suffering maestra has to get her point across with crude but charming little cartoons. 

Me: (gritting my teeth) “Donde esta la olla?”

Her:  (emitting a tiny sigh before flashing me an encouraging smile) “Muy bien, Angela!”

     There is no dignity trying to master the minutiae of the language I’m currently butchering. I cringe with embarrassment as Maria Luisa marks all of the dumb mistakes I made conjugating a long list of verbs I used to know.   I tell myself I’m so much better seeing the big picture—I’m just not a detail person.  

     The second week goes better.  I can now speak a sentence, maybe two without Maria Luisa having to correct me or draw a cartoon.  By the end of week two, I know I am making progress when I manage to enthusiastically describe the plot of the Wizard of Oz to my bemused teacher.

 “Como se dice munchkins?”  Of course, a lot of frantic hand waving goes a long way towards covering the considerable gaps in my vocabulary.   I even perform a few songs from the classic film much to Maria Luisa’s amusement.  Okay, so maybe I’m jabbering like a spider monkey, but I’m confident that I’m one of the more entertaining students at CasaXelaju.

     Why am I going through all of this brain damage? I’ve always had a love affair with Spanish ever since my Dad sang my sisters and me songs about stoned cockroaches and told us stories about the small village where he was born in the high desert plains of Coahuila, Mexico.  Twenty years ago,  I put considerable effort into learning my father’s native tongue by enrolling in two immersion programs—one in Costa Rica and the other one here in Quetzaltenango (better known as Xela).  But when I got home, I had few occasions to use it so over the years I lost the ground I gained.  When I started working as a chaplain in two urban hospitals I found that it was tough trying to effectively serve the many Hispanic families I regularly encountered there.   So I decided it was time to return to Xela--a funky colonial city in the Western Highlands of Guatemala--the place where I had such a wonderful experience so long ago.  

      But honestly, besides the obvious need for a repaso I think there is a deeper reason for being here.  I’ve come to realize that the real point of studying Spanish this time is to give myself permission to make mistakes; to be gentle and accepting of myself when I make them; to let go of the need for perfection.   The incongruity between my identity as a not too bright student prattling away like a three year old and my identity as an articulate well-educated woman with an alphabet soup behind her name has created a certain inner tension which frankly, is making me come alive.   Someone once said that the whole point of travel is not so much to explore exotic cultures as it is to explore ourselves while being immersed in an unfamiliar culture.   

      Being a stranger in a strange land can definitely be a challenge, but as I gingerly taste the unfamiliar words on my tongue, I am grateful for this precious opportunity which is stretching me beyond my comfort zone.   I can’t wait for tomorrow—maybe I’ll even be able to get three whole sentences out without a correction.  Bring it on, I say!   

All things made new

     “Hon, don’t you think it’s time to take down the tree?” Frank asked hopefully this past weekend.  It wasn’t the first time he dropped a not so subtle hint about dismantling our beautiful Christmas tree, but my inner five year old pouted and dragged her feet every time it came up.   Half way into January, even I had to admit that the tree was starting to become a fire hazard. 

       Operation Christmas tree is a big event in our household, carrying far more significance than merely prettying up the house for the holidays.  The annual ritual of decorating the tree is my way of honoring long-standing family traditions and cherished memories of loved ones.  Each year, as I unpack treasured ornaments and carefully hang them on the fragrant branches, I am reminded of the years I spent Christmas with Mom at the farm in Pennsylvania.  Every year, we would commence our holiday celebration with the same argument over whether we should have a tree or not.  It was the only argument with my mother that I ever won.

      I can still hear her voice in my head. “Oh Angela, it’s too much trouble, don’t bother” she would protest.   I would roll my eyes and over-ride her objections with a breezy, “It’s not that big a deal, Mom.”  Of course, it was a very big deal which involved a hunt for the perfect tree at the tree farm down the road, cutting it down with a rusty bow saw dulled with age, dragging boxes of decorations down from the attic and wrestling with a very old and cantankerous tree stand. But the the look of childish delight on my Mom’s face at the sight of the glittering tree decorated with the familiar ornaments I remembered from childhood always made it well worth the effort.

     Early on in our relationship, Frank learned to accept my Christmas tree fetish so he knows better than to debate the topic of “to tree or not to tree”.   He just cheerfully indulges me and goes out and procures a tree.  This year he brought home an exceptionally beautiful one. But as I unpacked the precious ornaments that represent virtually every chapter of my life, I found myself more nostalgic than usual.  Maybe because last year was filled with unspeakable tragedy and loss, forcing all of us to confront the fragility of life. 2012 may not have lived up to the end-of-the world hype, but it sure pushed us to the limits of heartbreak.  How re-assuring to find that my Christmas treasures remain the same from year to year, never failing to delight my five year old heart. There are the plush Disney ornaments that Mom gave me so long ago—Gus, Gus—the mouse from Cinderella, Dodger the street wise dog from The Lady and the Tramp and Sebastian the crab from The Little Mermaid.    There are angels of every size, texture and shape from my sister Maria; a frayed pink yarn mouse from my post-college hippy days when I made everything from scratch; there are red bows and the delicately carved wooden kiwi and sheep from the first memorable Christmas Frank and I spent together in New Zealand.   And the piece de resistance—Great Grandma Jake’s hand painted glass ornament—fragile and faded—well over a hundred years old.  For years, I kept it packed away in tissue because I was so afraid I would break it.  But what good is a memory if it’s sitting in a box where no-one gets to enjoy it?  So the ornament goes in a place of honor, high up near the top of the tree. 

     Now with the tree gone and the decorations stashed away in the basement, the living room seems barren and cold. When I said my good-byes to Gus-Gus and the Dodger for another year, I was so sad that I felt like crying much to Frank’s amusement.   But as difficult as it was to let the tree go, I know that my melancholy won’t last very long.  The upside to impermanence is that all things eventually become new again. For every old memory savored and put away, there will be lots of opportunities to make new, happy memories in 2013.  It won’t be long before it’s time for flour bunny tracks and Easter egg hunts.  

  

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.