Aquiel's Tale

     When my kids were young, we went through an aquarium phase. Like procreation, it seemed like a harmless enough hobby at the time, but the responsibilities are enormous. Thankfully, the responsibilities, like the fish, are short lived. Goldfish funerals were a regular ritual at our house. Most of our fish were named for characters from their favorite tv shows "Star Trek, the Next Generation" or "Walker, Texas Ranger". I have no idea where the name Aquiel came from, but one of the common goldfish was given this uncommon name. We did not have Aquiel for long, but she turned out to be an excellent illustration of a spiritual truth.
     One morning as Reed was getting ready to leave for work, he noticed one of the goldfish zipping back and forth as though trying to build up speed. Odd behavior for a goldfish, it's not like they have anywhere to go.  Apparently, Aquiel did not understand that because I found her dry, lifeless form on the carpet in front of the aquarium when I got up. The short life and death of Aquiel became a memorable illustration for our family of the appeal and consequences of sin. Desiring, what she thought was freedom, she expended great effort to fling herself from what she thought confined her, only to discover her chosen path led to her death.
     Sin is like that. So appealing. Offering what looks like freedom but turns out to be destructive. Aquiel's tail led to her death, but Aquiel's tale lives on. 

Being an American

Being an American

It was an American time—

Finishing a satisfying dinner

to get in my nice car

to drive to a well-stocked grocery store

and spend, what amounts to, 

a small part of our income

to buy special food

to celebrate, for a time,

Being an American.

I know this is not true

for some in our country,

but it is the reality of many people,

the hope of many nations, 

and it is possible

for those who work hard,

 dream big, and appreciate

Being an American.

Depends on the Mirror

     I was shopping at Ross yesterday, which caused me to face one of my pet peeves--mirrors. It's bad enough walking by the store and catching, what I hoped would be my own reflection, instead I saw what appeared to be an upright blimp wearing my clothes. Inside the store there are many mirrors and, in most of those, for better or for worse, I looked like the person I recognize in the mirrors at home. However, in the changing room where I tried on a dress, that mirror made me look like a lumpy Beluga whale in drag. The problem is, the varying shapes and lighting of mirrors and windows can distort the reflection, kind of like in a fun house, minus the fun.
     Another, probably more significant, source of distortion is the viewer. Sometimes our reflections look heavier in the shop window because we know what we just ate inside the shop. This is guilt distortion, the fun house mirror that makes us look short and fat. Our cultural distortion is the mirror that shows a tall, thin reflection, setting that as the standard for all beauty.
     I am waiting for the GM recall of defective dressing room mirrors, the kind that may cause you to crash. .diet. Meanwhile I remember that believers are called to reflect the image of Christ to the world. Sometimes Christians distort that image by our own defects, sometimes it is distorted by the biases of the viewer. Wisely, God left his image in creation and the Bible, so reflecting Christ is not dependent on his flawed followers alone. Still, in many ways the impact of Christ's image within our culture depends on us--the mirror.

10 Signs You Might Be a Pessimist

1. If you look at a beautiful rainbow and think about homosexual activism, the questionable activities of the Rainbow Family, or an ugly tattoo, you might be a pessimist.
2. If you are always the first person to notice, and mention, dirt or odors, you are probably a pessimist.
3.  If you hear gossip about a good friend and, instead of speaking up for them, assume it must be true, you are a pessimist.
4. If your dire predictions about the economy, politics, gmos, climate change etc. don't come true and you just move on to a new dire prediction, you are an official pessimist.
5. If a woman announces her pregnancy and you begin telling her horror stories about sickness and labor (this happened to me), you are a pessimist.
6. As a matter of fact, anyone who feels the need to share horror stories when someone describes a health concern, is not only a pessimist, but a clueless pessimist. If you respond to a joke about some human foible, like memory loss, with a tragic tale of Alzheimer's, you are proselytizing for the pessimist movement.
7. Same goes for people who, when friends mention a name they recognize, feel compelled to share some sordid tidbit from that person's past, they are pessimists--and gossips.
8. If you chronically listen to news talk radio or television and chronically find new things to be upset about, you enjoy being a pessimist.
9. If you often complain about service in restaurants and stores that others enjoy patronizing, the problem is not them, it's you--the pessimist.
10. If you think of pets (or children) mostly in terms of mess and expense instead of affection, even though you claim to be a realist, you are actually a pessimist.

GriefShare

     In what may be good news for my readers, I have not been writing for a while. I have been working on another project, it is called GriefShare. GriefShare is a Christian based grief recovery support group. I had heard good things about it through BSF friends who had lost loved ones, but decided not to attend because I was coping well with my mother's death without any outside help. However, since I have never coped well with my emotions regarding my mother, I was willing to admit that there may be aspects of this complicated loss that I had missed. So I started attending GriefShare.
     At first, I felt out of place because most had significant, life-altering losses like death of a spouse or child. My loss did not change my life even one percent. I did not lose a companion, mentor or even just someone to talk to. My mother was, at the same time, a stranger to me. I began to lose her fifty years ago and I had already mourned that loss many times. But, even as I felt out of place, I realized that I needed a place where I could say that my mother was a stranger and be accepted. I needed to talk about her death without having to explain the complicated back story. I had prayed that God would help me mourn my mother and He had been faithful. GriefShare was another tool He had provided to help me.
     We met once a week. 20 people. 4 boxes of Kleenex. A workbook. A video. Small group time. Tears. Cookies. Chocolate. I discovered there is no simple grief. All relationships have complications, estrangements, even betrayals. At least, my mother left us involuntarily. She did not choose to be mentally ill. I also learned that grief is not optional. We cannot think our way out of it any more than we can decide not to bleed when we cut ourselves. It is as natural and inevitable as death itself. This was disappointing to me because my plan had been to think instead of mourn, to choose logic over tears. I learned there is no healing without mourning and that no one can do the work of grief for us. And despite our culture's instant gratification, microwave mentality, there is no time limit on mourning. Grief's expiration date is as individualized as the expiration date on life. Time does not heal all wounds. Time doesn't heal anything. It only lessens the intensity. Our lives will never go back to what they were before the loss, but life will be good again. There will be joy along with the sorrow.
     Now that the 13 lessons of GriefShare are completed, perhaps I will have the mental energy (although my writing shows little evidence of mental energy) to write again. And if I cannot be a better writer, perhaps I can be a better comforter for having opened my spirit to the healing sorrow of GriefShare.

100 Things

     Recently, for both personal and professional reasons, I have been attending Alzheimer's seminars at one of our memory care facilities. As a personal care attendant, I can count these seminars toward the eight hours of continuing education I am required to have per year. As the daughter-in-law of someone with Alzheimer's, I want to learn as much as possible about ways to help and relate to him in the years to come. One of the goals of Expressions Memory Care is to learn 100 things about each client so the staff can tailor its care to its residents. This caused me to think about what I would want someone to know about me if I were unable to care for myself. I promise not to list all 100.

1. A cup of decaf, black tea with cream makes me feel relaxed and content.
2. I am solar powered. Let me sit in the sun whether inside or outside.
3. Let me walk barefoot, especially in the grass. After knee replacement, I learned how much it stabilized my stride, soothed my inflammation, and improved my mood.
4. I sleep in nightgowns. I haven't worn pajamas since grade school.
5. I'm not comfortable wearing a bathrobe in public. I like to dress before I leave my bedroom.
6. I prefer music in 3/4 time, wooden instruments, one or two instruments to an orchestra.
7. I like to have my hair stroked.
8. The sound and warm feel of a clothes dryer relaxes me.
9. Because of many happy moments spent poolside with our kids, the smell of bleach relaxes me.
10. I love to travel. Talk to me about the places I have been.
11. Latin music gives me energy. I like to exercise to Latin music.
12. I love riding a bicycle. Not sure if a stationery bike would work though.
13. I have exercised all my life and am fairly flexible.
14. I am a writer and express myself better on paper.
15. I love to cook. Hospitality, feeding people makes me very happy.
16. I have a good sense of humor and love to laugh.
17. I sleep on my left side, sleeping on my right gives me a migraine.
18. I get more pain relief from ice than heat.
19. I get no pain relief from Ibuprofen or Aleve, Tylenol works.
20. Give me something useful to do. I am easily bored.

     No one wants to lose their memories or abilities, but knowing 100 things like those above can help those suffering with Alzheimer's keep, if not their identities, at least their essence until the end. 

Here's to You, Captain Kangaroo

      One of the greatest pleasures of my girlhood was riding my bike. I had to wait longer than most of my friends for that taste of two wheeled freedom because I didn't get my own bicycle until I was nine.  My older brother got his at six, but I got my revenge when my parents finally brought home a surprise in the back of the station wagon--my very own 26 inch bicycle. My brother's was a dorky 24. It was purple and white. I named it April because that is the month I got it. I didn't need much riding instruction because I had been practicing on my friends' bikes for years. I have not forgotten that first sweet sip of freedom--from home, from slowness, from feet. I felt like I could ride to the moon. April and I spent many years together, she was a good bike, but she was not a Schwinn. My morning mentor, Captain Kangaroo, pedaled Schwinn bikes and I thought they were so cool, especially the Stingrays with high handlebars and banana seats. What I would have given for one of those.
     I left April behind when I got married, but I always had a bicycle of some sort. In Denver and Billings I had a second-hand, three-speed which was sold because, in the 70's, the cool bikes were ten speeds. I still had that bike when we moved to Kalispell, but eventually got to replace it when my husband and I spent our $100 wads on new, cool mountain bikes from Shopko.  He seldom rode his, but I wore mine out, not because I rode it so much, I had three children by then, but because it was cheaply made. Britten later gave me her nicer mountain bike, which she had replaced with a much nicer mountain bike.
     There is nothing wrong with that bicycle, but there is something wrong with me. I am old.  Or at least my shoulder is older, and when I ride bent over low handlebars, my right shoulder knots up. The knot is not the problem, it is when the knot cuts off the circulation to my right hand and climbs up my neck to my migraine zone so it won't be alone in its misery, that is the problem. This wasn't an issue last summer because my new knee, Lefty, was still just figuring out walking, but this spring I have been bicycle shopping. As luck and Boomer targeting would have it, the new cruiser bikes are just our old childhood bikes revisited. Some are eerily retro, with flower decals and tassels on the seat. All they need now is an AARP card clothes-pinned to the spokes. The good news is, we finally get to sit upright and see where we are going, the bad news is, they cost more than $100. Way more, depending on what you get. Beach cruisers, with one speed, coaster brakes and no fenders aren't too spendy, but hybrids, where you can sit upright on a suspension seat to see that you are riding on a mountain, can cost thousands.
     So, when Reed found a suitable, sitable cruiser on Ebay for $180, he bought it for me. It arrived today. I wanted to ride it right away, but it was raining and I was afraid the box it was in would get wet.  It is purple and white. I'm naming it April 2 because that is when I got it. And Captain Kangaroo, wherever you are, it's a Schwinn.