All eyes on me, please

I have been tempted--is this even the right word to use?--for 2 days to post my status on Facebook.  It isn't that I have seen something provocative that must be shared or had a thought that might benefit someone else.  It is in order to get attention.

I have pneumonia.  And there is something within me that wants everyone to know how miserable I am.

What on earth for?  Is it because David isn't giving me enough attention?  For goodness sake, he is cooking gourmet meals to keep me eating.  He takes my temperature often.  He brings me fresh ice water constantly.  And he holds me when I start to cry.  (Start to cry--I catch myself from this absorption in my own plight.)

This has made me ask questions.  Why do people post what they are cooking for dinner?  Or how good their workout was this morning?  Or has fast they ran a mile?  Or that she had to stop in the middle of her run to eliminate her bowels?  (My words, I just couldn't type the word she used to describe what she was doing.)

Katie and I had this discussion last week when I was visiting her.  We never did settle the question.

Is it narcissim that makes us want everyone to know what we are doing?  Or a need for empathy, or praise?  Or are we just undisciplined in our thinking and, therefore, our posting? 

I will keep thinking about this.  Maybe later when I feel better.  Did I mention that I have pneumonia?

The Grand Life

I am in Wichita this week living the grand life.  Grand, as in Grandmother.  Coralie has taken to calling me "Grandmother" when she is in a certain mood.  It is always with a twinkle in her eye.  She told me yesterday that I would never be her mother.  OK.  I'm fine with that, Granddaughter.

Because Grand means getting to share makeup with one who is SERIOUS about its application.  I would insert a picture here of a 3-year old with a unibrow and brightly colored cheeks if I had taken one.

Grand means smoothies are for sharing.

Grand means making hand motions for the song "Wheels on the Bus" whenever one sees me enter the room.

Grand means reading books about things I don't usually ponder on a normal day--butterflies, fairies, and snails.

Grand means I get to do it all over again--play, sing, read, and share--with little ones.  The same, but different.  And I'm fine with that, Granddaughter.

Blind

I have a friend who was blind.  She did not have a conventional surgery to repair her blindness, nor did she experience a miracle.  She was punched in the gut.  Every day she sees just a little better than the day before.

She did not see the character traits absent from the one with whom she shared the most intimacy.  After her divorce, she now sees clearly what she could not see before.

Can 20/20 hindsight sharpen foresight? 

For theologians, the answer is yes.  John Piper wrote a fabulous book entitled "The Purifying Power of Faith in Future Grace" that brilliantly answers the question.

For the rest of us, the answer is sometimes, or maybe, or no. 

The often used quote to illustrate this is "The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result."

Putting the insanity defense aside (whether we should put it aside or not is questionable), what keeps us from seeing reality clearly in the moment?  It is clutter.

In the espionage world, they call it chatter.  Messages sent all around the world pointed to the 9/11 terrorist attack.  But the arrow pointed backwards, not forwards.  The sight came after the gut punch.

In the TV drama/criminal prosecutorial world, they call it punditry.  Everyone knew the verdict of a now all too familiar trial in Florida.  Until the jury came back in to the courtroom.  Now the commentators point backwards to rule of law and proof versus circumstance that was not seen before.  Gut punch.

I don't know about you, but I don't prefer to learn from the gut punch.  But there must be something about the adrenalin shock that gets my brain in gear to see reality.

If it is all the same to you, I had rather be gut punched than be blind.

Signs and rake-wrestling

 I know that if your palm itches, it means that money is coming your way.

I know that if your ear itches, it means someone is talking about you.

I know that if your nose itches, company will soon arrive at your house.

But what does it mean if your head itches?  I hope it means that a thought is sure to form.  With that promise, maybe it is safe to write something.

Well . . . nothing.  I guess that means there isn't any money coming, either.  I suppose that's the way it goes with signs. 

But wouldn't it be great if we saw signs that clearly told us the direction God wanted us to go?  I mean clearly.  Without the need for a pros and con sheet.  Without having to lie awake at night. 

I don't think God intended for it to be that easy.  He wants us to discern moral issues and wrestle with life.  Wrestle, like David did on Saturday.  With a snake.  David rake-wrestled him out of our garage, then gently took him back to the woods.  Appropriate.  Not easy, though.  If David had chosen not to wrestle, then we could have waited until the snake died to get into our cars. 

I am glad David wrestled the snake.  And I am glad that God allows me the freedom to wrestle through life without a magic wand leading me into the future.  And when I fail to wrestle well?  I think we can call that grace.

Why ask "Was it kids?"

Once I received a phone call that I was to be a guest on a talk show. I looked over at David to determine his culpability. He shook his head,took the phone and started asking questions.  Before long the pranksters hung up.  Not to be thwarted with his investigation, David pressed *9.  A woman (that I am sure looks a lot like Madea) answered the phone.  When David told her about our phone call, she asked, "Was it kee-ads?"  then turned away from the phone and yelled "I'm onna whoop yo a**!"

So shouldn't every investigation pose the question "Was it kids?" 

Nothing to fear, but fear itself? Or maybe enlightenment?

I love a good discussion about ideas, theories, motivations, well . . . just about anything. 

Discussion is what defines politics.  Compromise and diplomacy after the discussion is how we make laws and decisions.  After the discussion is when the progress is made.

Our forefathers made decisions AFTER the heated discussions that they put into words that we use today.  Words in our Articles of Confederation.  Words in our Declaration of Independence.  Words in our Bill of Rights.  Words in our Constitution.

Must I stress the word "forefather?"  There were no women in the discussions (except by proxy.  Thank you Abigail Adams).  Does this mean that women today cannot enter into the discussions?

No.  It does not.  The public forum has changed.  Women now enter politics.  Are they on the same playing field?  I am not sure.  But I do know that in some ways women are smarter than men.  Women bring ideas to the table that men do not.  It would be a tragedy to ignore the women.

This would be the perfect spot to mention Sarah Palin and Michele Bachman.  But I won't.  :)

My husband introduced me to the word "misogynist" last year.  I had no idea that there was such a person.  Of course I have encountered people who fit the description.  It is usually when I voice my opinion about something.  It seems crazy, I know, but this happens in POLITICS! 

Methinks the word that should be applied is "misologist:"  a hatred of argument, reasoning, and enlightenment.   Now THAT is a problem for us all.

The home of John and Abigail Adams in Quincy, Massachusetts. 

A walk to the post office

For those of you sweet, kind, encouraging people who want me to post more often, let me tell you about my walk to the post office this evening.

There is so much material there.  Like trumpet vine growing in a newly vacant lot. 

But sometimes I am not inspiring, just perspiring.  It is still 85 degrees outside, for goodness sake.  I walked to the post office because it was a good idea at the time--needed exercise.

And so is this post.  Needed exercise. 

After all, a waist is a good thing to mind.  And a mind is a bad thing to waste.

Having my cake, and eating too much

Birthdays are a wonderful idea.  Everyone should have one.  (The Pleezer in me wants that to be true--no more aborted babies!)

I remember the day I was born.  Well, not actually, but the stories are told so often that I feel like I was there.  You would think that it was a royal birth.  (Hmmmm?)  I have felt like June 5 deserved a national holiday.  Because I was such a beautiful baby?  Because my grandmother pronounced me her favorite immediately?  Because there was always a cake for me on that day?

Probably not.  It is because I was born thinking the world revolved around me.  Thank goodness my parents did not think the same thing.  My delusion was private.  Delusions are best that way.

For many years I hated my birthday celebrations.  I think I was uncomfortable that my delusion might be true.  Or maybe uncomfortable that it wasn't.  I wanted the spotlight, but could not stand the brightness of it.   Many years I muddled through the day.  Still I was given the royal treatment, but I was more a royal pain in the ass-embly. 

But if I cannot accept the celebration of a birthday, and all the attention that comes with it, then I cannot fully live.  To live is to receive with gratitude--relationships, wealth, pain, sorrow, reality, even life itself.   Holding back from a complete embrace of life means that my delusion is alive and well:  It is all about ME.

Which brings me back to cake.  I had two pieces yesterday.  By all accounts--my tummy, my appetite for good things (tanked), my scales--it was too much. 

It isn't about the cake.  It is about the Baker.  And he throws a magnificent party.

Knots and forget-me-nots

For years I have kept jewelry in my change purse.  That is, jewelry that I take off when out and about and don't have a "proper" place to put it.  Never have I lost anything with that method of safe-keeping.  When I get home, I remove the ring or earrings or necklace and put it away where it belongs.  I did not do that this last time.  I forgot.  I remembered when my coins were falling out all over my purse because I had forgotten to zip the pocket.  Shining up at me was one diamond ear stud.  One.  Just one. 

Of course I emptied my purse.  Nothing.  Took everything out of my wallet.  Nothing.  Looked again and again at the coins in my coin purse.  Nothing.  All the while a knot developed in my stomach.

I get knots sometimes.  Usually when I am uncomfortable about a situation--speaking up in a crowd, facing an adversary, or failing at something.  Like when I fail to keep up with diamond earrings from my mother.  Knots don't let me forget.  I falter.  I fail.  I fear. 

It is deeply satisfying to untangle a knot.  We don't have much opportunity nowadays in this velcro world.  But there was a time when only a mother could remedy a knot in a shoelace or hair ribbon.  I suppose stomach knots are no different.  Wisdom herself speaks perspective and knots ravel.  This happened to me today.  I had one earring.  From my mother.  I lost the other one because of my failure.  But it was going to be fine.  This world is passing away, and that earring showed me that yet again.  I had one less tie to this condemned world.  Victory over a knot.

And there it was.  The lost earring.  Tucked into a fold outside my wallet.  It was barely visible.  But it shone nonetheless.  Of course it did.  And it does still.

 My pants are actually the latest fashion--Joe's Jeans knee length shorts.  I don't know what you call them--low rise, hip huggers, or muffin holders--but they are mostly comfortable.  My grandmother did not wear pants.  Ever. 

She spent a lot of time writing letters.  She used notepads.  Many, many notepads, because her letters were long and frequent, and she wrote a lot of people.   Her "Send" button was a postage stamp.

For a time she had a job as an elevator operator.  Elevators were controlled by levers rather than buttons, so a trained person would drive the elevator to the proper floor and stop at the right place for people to emerge.  I don't know how much training she had, but she definitely was replaced by technology.

How frightening it would be to become irrelevant.  Or useless.  Maybe that is why grandmothers that I know have smart phones, twitter accounts, and iPads.  And it is probably why I am wearing Joe's Jeans.  I just hope that hot pants don't come back in style.

The difference between her and me

My daughter has a blog.  She is clever.  Consider the following that she posted today:


"1. Email is for spam and the occasional rogue authentic e-letter.
2. Facebook is for looking at other people's pictures and posting my own. Facebook is also for a very few status updates that are supposed to be relevant and comment-instigating.
3. Twitter is for practicing being clever and interesting. And for following my Internet Idols who are, by the way, clever and interesting.
4. My blog is for when I feel like waxing poetic or writing something longer or practicing my writing skills on people who already know me and therefore won't judge failed attempts."

I, on the other hand, would have said this:

1.  Email is for spam, offers to sell me things I rarely need, and work communication.
2.  Facebook is for looking at what everyone else is doing.  It is also for posting lame comments that are at least better than the ones I think of when I am in the shower.  Only my family members comment.  I think this is an attempt to salvage my post and make it relevant or funny.
3.  Twitter is for showing my followers that I am not clever nor interesting.  I can't even discipline my mind to be clever or interesting.  Uh-oh.
4.  My blog, which just started today, and which will probably not be written again, is an attempt to . . . well, it's not really an attempt at anything.  I just did it because it there was a big circle on the page advertising that I could have a blog of my own. 

I am a sucker for things like that.  See #1 above.