Reason #37 to Not Let Your Child Walk on the Dining Room Table

Because, even if he doesn't fall off and severely injure himself, your two and a half year old might get a washcloth and figure out how to throw it into your bowl shaped chandelier (which he can just touch while standing on the table and likes to talk about Curious George swinging from vines as he makes the chandelier swing) repeatedly. So that when the game is over, and you forget to fish out the last washcloth, you turn on the light, and, unless you smell the smoke and figure out where it's coming from (not the dryer), there might be a house fire. Fortunately, I figured out where the smoke was coming from before the nice and toasty washcloth started to flame.

All this on the same day that my son started asking me why his sister doesn't have a penis.

Building a Nest for a Sankofa Bird

For the past several months, I have had a small feeling (perhaps an intuition) quietly bobbing in various places in my mind. This feeling resembled a flightly but persistent mosquito, and it was, specifically, a feeling that death was impending. Not my death, not anyone's death in particular. Perhaps just a feeling that something in my life was going to die.

Though I concentrated on this feeling like I would on a persistant mosquito - swiping it away when it got too close - I remember this feeling playing into a fear that one of my children or Michael might die, or interpreting it as the manifestation of fear and anxiety because my life was so unstable, or thinking that perhaps it was the creeping feeling that the casualty was to be my marriage.

Thinking back, the wierd superstitious part of me wonders that I didn't see that it was going to be someone or some animal that was to die because my mom, sisters and I have an unfounded belief that births in our family are closely preceded or followed by a death. In the generation following mine, for example, my nephew was born 6 months after my grandfather passed. My son was born 1 week after my sister's boyfriend was murdered. My daughter was born shortly after my stepfather's dog had to be euthenized. And so, with the impending birth of my niece-in-law on May 6, some part of me thinks that if I had been on the alert, I would have seen that death indeed was eminent. I am, though, only faintly superstitious, so I missed the signs (and, really, I can take myself off the hook because the belief is that there will be a close birth/death among those on only one my side of the family, not to cross the marriage bond).

Regardless, it was with a thud that I received the news that my dad had passed on May 10. He had been quite sick and was deteriorating from Huntington's Disease, but we expected him to live at least a year, at least another month so he could meet his granddaughter on our June trip to California. I had a dream the night after my dad passed about a four-year-old girl I know, B. In my dream, B's father, who is not and has a never been married to her mother, died in a gang fight. I held grieving B, after she told me the news, and nursed her until I fear that her mother will be displeased to see me nursing her daughter. I know there is some part of me that is grieving like little B over the loss of her father, even as an adult part of me is confused by losing an alcoholic father with whom I had a strained and estranged relationship. Together, these two parts of me need to exchange comforts and the deep intimacy like those that come with nursing.

I do hope for the day when I can really sit in the mud and muck with this loss. In survival mode, as I am, it has been a bits and pieces grieving as I have available mental energy. The week following my dad's death, M decided that our marriage should die. He changed the separation papers to divorce with the court.

In a leadership workshop on Friday, the African-American, female leader, mentioned an American symbol, the sankofa bird. I was intrigued. The sankofa bird is a mythic bird that flies forward while looking backward with an egg (symbolizing the future) in its mouth. In the Akan language of Ghana, "sankofa" is expressed as "se wo were fi na wosan kofa a yenki, " literally meaning "it is not taboo to go back and fetch what you forgot." The teaching is that we must go back to our roots in order to move forward, reaching back and gathering the best of what our past has to teach us, so that we can achieve our full potential as we move forward. Whatever we have lost, forgotten, forgone or been stripped of, can be reclaimed, revived, preserved and perpetuated (from www.duboislc.net/SankofaMeaning.html).

I don't know what this means exactly for me. It does resonate with the little, grieving girl part of me, knowing that it is not taboo to remember my dad - positive as well as negative - and to gather these things in my tree. It does help me to know that the disaster of my present life can in some unforeseen way be reclaimed, revived, preserved and perpetuated in the future. Presently, I am building a nest for a sankofa bird with twigs and other donations from fellow trees, from the tree of life, and observing what it is looking at, where it is flying and what the egg might hold.

Hot Dogs Are Inherently Funny

This post could also be titled, Why Alexa Has 1300 All Beef Hot Dogs in Her Refrigerator.

I'd like to make the case that hot dogs are inherently funny. Of course, I have recently had quite a hilarious episode with hot dogs, so I may be biased. While considering this episode, keep in mind that I am a vegetarian who partakes of fish but has had pretty much zero meat for over 15 years, and, really, hot dogs are a pretty lowly meat product.

So on with the episode . . . one of my co-workers chairs the Longmont Celebrates Cinco de Mayo committee. She has all the good insider knowledge on the celebration and committee gossip. Turns out, the celebration lost their hot dog vendor about two weeks before the event (I know, first question to ask . . . why is someone selling hot dogs at a Cinco de Mayo celebration? Apparantly, quite a few kids and some adults don't like Mexican food and would rather have a hot dog. Huh! Who knew?). Our little informational booth quickly turned into a hot dog booth after a brief conferring with my executive director, acknowledgement that I had absolutely no knowledge about selling hot dogs and handing over of a $100 check for our booth.

Fast forward to Saturday, May 5. After a one and a half hour health department briefing the night before in about 90% Spanish (quite the experience to be the only English speaking person at a meeting!), setting up and passing health inspection, we were ready to sell our hot dogs. The lovely Colorado weather forecasters predicted rain, rain and more rain with a scattering of thunderstorms for the day (point to note here, there is something mysterious about Colorado weather in that weather forecasters seem to be wrong about 75% of the time. Let's not get started on the wopping blizzard that never hit back in March). Turnout at Cinco de Mayo was good but not as good as expected due to iffy weather (but not the terrible weather predicted), clouds, rain just to the west of us and some sprinkles here and there. Sales were pretty good. Our lines were never as long as the Mexican food stands (for which, I was quite happy, disregarding our very slowly moving inventory). At 4:30, the sky started to look really bad. We lowered our prices and had a dollar dog sale. At 5:00, it started to pour and the celebration was closed up in about 30 minutes.

Overall, we sold about 300 hot dogs. You might think, not too bad for a first time out. But, really, it is bad if you bought 1600 hot dogs for the day, had a trail of four cars drive to your house after the event and unloaded 1300 hot dogs into your spare rerigerator in the pouring rain. You might also think, thank God you didn't buy the original amount you'd discussed - 3000 hot dogs (no, I'm not kidding. The weather saved us). I have spent about two weeks trying to think of ways to lucratively get rid of these hot dogs - dollar for dogs donation campaign, gifts to our volunteers and board of directors, a weekend hot dog stand, selling them to the Home Depot hot dog guy, hosting a hot dog eating contest. I have had some takers on buying packages. But, no doubt, if they are like me, they might be a little intimidated about buying a package of 40 hot dogs . . . that's 5 pounds of all beef tube steak.

Try telling people about my hot dog full refrigerator. Before you even get to the background story, people will no doubt laugh because I have to say there is just something inherently funny about hot dogs. Or, maybe, there's something inherently funny about having 1300 hot dogs in your spare refrigerator.

Do Not Fear

I remember one night several months ago when Michael left soon after Asher went to bed. It was dark outside. I locked the front door and heard his truck pull out of the driveway, tires crunching over the gravel. He would be out late. I probably wouldn't be able to reach him if something unexpected happened. It wasn't an unusual night, but something that night tapped into something deeply hurt. There was a wave of fear, a wave of understanding, a wave of recognition as a feeling of abandonment came over and around me. I knew then there was no longer one person for whom I was the most important.

John and Stacy Eldridge write in their book Captivating about the fear of abandonment that women have, an innate, shared experience for most if not all women - the fear of being left helpless and unprotected. It's illogical. As adult women, we are not helpless and unprotected. I am not helpless and protected. Does the fear arise from something in our childhoods? From an unspoken message about women that we grow up with? Or something much more ancient?

When the woman saw that the fruit of the tree was good for food and pleasing to the eye, and also desirable for gaining wisdom, she took some and ate it. She also gave some to her husband, who was with her, and he ate it. Then the eyes of both of them were opened, and they realized they were naked; so they sewed fig leaves together and made coverings for themselves. Then the man and his wife heard the sound of the LORD God as he was walking in the garden in the cool of the day, and they hid from the LORD God among the trees of the garden. But the LORD God called to the man, "Where are you?" He answered, "I heard you in the garden, and I was afraid because I was naked; so I hid." And he said, "Who told you that you were naked? Have you eaten from the tree that I commanded you not to eat from?" The man said, "The woman you put here with me—she gave me some fruit from the tree, and I ate it." (Genesis 3:6-12)

The Eldridges point out in their book that Eve's husband was next to her in the beginning of this passage. He was not off in another part of the garden while Eve was speaking with the serpant. He was "with her." Adam, though no doubt under the serpent's influence, abandons Eve to the serpant's deception, watches Eve as she holds the fruit, brings it to her mouth, and bites. Eve eats and then, for a brief but terrible, terrible moment, she is the one and only fallen being in the entire world. Absolutely helpless and unprotected, unaccompanied and forsaken, separated by the utterly world changing choice from all other beings, forlorn and desolate. No doubt Eve felt relief when Adam also ate of the fruit, fear that he wouldn't, and she would be left alone forever. Finally, Eve is abandoned once more, given over by the one she no doubt craved, like an addict for her addiction, to be reunited with when Adam betrays Eve. "She gave me some fruit from the tree, and I ate it." Adam was with Eve, heard the serpant, and denied his responsibility in his bite. What a scene of abandonment!

Studies indicate that in times of stress and crisis, women tend to gather. In times past, this may have meant that women gathered physically in a group, perhaps surrounding children to keep them safe. In modern times, gathering has become not only physically gathering but phone calling and e-mailing, exchanging and extending support in words and "just being there." We are reflecting pools for one another. We are the replies to the echoes in each others' minds. We are reminders to each other, strong shelterwoods, that though we think and feel it, we are not helpless or unprotected.

The dictionary reminds me that the word "abondonment" has a flip side meaning. There is the negative - left helpless and unprotected - and then the possibility of something otherworldly and wonderful, "giving onself over without restraint." In the negative sense, when we are hurt by abondment, it is passive - something someone does to us. Children are abandoned. We feel abandoned by someone. But, actively, even once abandoned, perhaps especially once abandoned, when our fears have been realized, and we survive and climb out of the hole and find we can still dance and sing and play and gather in each others arms, we can live with abandon, we can dance with abandon, we can laugh and sing and praise and utterly be with abandon. "Do not fear" for God never abandons.

Rain

Even more than trees, I love the rain. I love the sound and smell. I love the way it perks up plants, so much better than sprinkler water. I love puddles and mud. I love the break from sun and the clearing in the air. I sometimes think that just by thinking about rain, I can make it rain (I have a pretty good track record). My sister, Clare, reminded me that in high school I used to drop a lot of liquid on the floor before it rained. It started raining here in arid Colorado yesterday afternoon.

When it comes to difficult or just scary things, I have a great ability to charge ahead toward them step by step, logically, overriding the attached emotions until, generally, right before the event. Then I take the stage to read at Ruminate Open Mic night, and my hands start to shake. Then my water breaks unexpectedly, and I'm ready to throw up. Then I'm dressed and ready to drive to the courthouse to file separation papers, and I'm an emotional basket case. I sit on the toilet in the bathroom, hoping for God to speak to me (places with water are sacred), and I cry. "I don't want to do this," I tell Michael. "I don't know if I want to either," he replies, hugging me.

So it is that I went to work yesterday until 2:30. I drove home to drop off some pumped breast milk, driving under trees in amazing spring colors - neon green, purple, white - promising great things to come. I drove to Boulder to meet Michael to go to the district court house (little known fact that you don't want to ever have to find out, you can't file separation papers in Colorado at a county court house). We filed the papers.

And that was it. No sweeping soundtrack. No lightening bolts. No earthquakes. No fainting or "finally having the nervous breakdown I deserve." Handed over the paperwork, signed and walked out.

But last night, the emotions stole upon me again with no logical actions to intervene. It was done. In some sense, Michael and I are done. We are at an end, but, as the trees promised, no doubt also a beginning. It was raining when I was getting ready for bed, and I crouched on the back stoop, smelling the rain, letting cold drops fall on my head, letting wind fall across my face. And I felt God not only caressing me, not only beside me, not only holding me up, but, my Good Lord, crying with me.

"When Mary reached the place where Jesus was and saw him, she fell at his feet and said, 'Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.' When Jesus saw her weeping, and the Jews who had come along with her also weeping, he was deeply moved in spirit and troubled. 'Where have you laid him?' he asked. 'Come and see, Lord' they replied. Jesus wept. (John 11:32-35)

It is still raining today. I am fatigued as if I have run a long race. But there are smiles. Harper was lying on the living room floor playing. Asher was playing one of his forms of cowboys-pirates-Noah's Ark-firetruck-mountain climber. I left the room briefly and heard Harper start to fuss. I returned to the room to see Asher holding my coffee mug and coffee (cooled, fortunately) dripping all over sweet Harper's head. "Me give Harper gink coffee," Asher said. Apparently. To my surprised look, Asher responded, "Me want gink."

The Glass in My Foot

When I was in second grade in Saratoga Springs, New York, someone broke a Corel bowl in the hallway at home. My parents swept and cleaned up the shards. With all their efforts, I somehow ended up stepping on a stray piece of the bowl some days later. My foot bled and bled, and my parents couldn't remove the shard. They wrapped my foot in a towel and took me to the doctor. I don't remember the doctor's visit and glass removal, but I do remember my dad picking out my outfit and being mortified at school because my outfit was so embarassing (a red plaid skirt and top that I never wore).

I am a little obsessive about picking up broken glass in my home. I have a routine of picking up all the pieces I can by hand, sweeping and then vacuuming the entire room. To double check that I got all the shards, I kneel down so that my eye is as level with the floor as possible, scanning the floor for any bumps. More vacuuming, more kneeling, until I can call the kitchen cleared. Yet, try as I might, weeks later, I will find stray shards when I'm sweeping the floor.

As I was sweeping the floor yesterday, I found one of these strays in the dustpan, the glitter of glass catching my eye. How fortunate that my broom found it instead of someone's foot. A lie, I realized, looking at the contents of the dustpan, is like broken glass. Try as you might to clean it up, you never know if you got all the shards or when one will end up in your foot.

What I Did Today

I am trying to remember this time last year - the big ticket items. In April 2006, Michael and I were sorting out what we would do as a family because we had recently been told that our church, where Michael was on staff, was being closed by presbytery. I was teaching children's church regularly and part of the church's women's ministry team. I was a stay-at-home mom of a one and a half year old, seven months pregnant with a baby girl, and working from home as a grant writer, bookkeeper and executive assistant. I was soon to find out that my sister possibly had cervical cancer. My father had recently rented a limo and been driven about 3 hours to his brother's doorstep with no belongings, a brother he had not seen in approximately 10 years, and would be deposited at his departed mother's home with in-home care. I missed my husband who had two full-time jobs.

Such contrast today . . . I squeezed in about an hour and a half in the office where I am now a resource development director planning our organization's basketball tournament fundraiser. I am normally in the office all day on Wednesday, but my dear daughter, Harper, has ear infections, a continuing fever and much crankiness. My son, Asher, is spending the day at daycare, which he loves and has already improved his speaking ability. I spend what seems like hours on the phone speaking with the new bookkeeper about procedures, with a long-term care facility in California about finding care for my dad who is in the last stages of Huntington's Disease, with a lawyer, mediator and financial planner about options for filing a legal separation, with the doctor's office about Harper's health, and with Katy Snow, a friend of my friend, Megan, getting updates on Megan's surgery which resulted in the removal of an ovary, six inches of small intestine and part of her colon. I look forward to Michael leaving in the morning for his job at a shoe store and in the evening to Megan's apartment, where he is currently staying, after giving him copies of the preliminary separation papers. I settle in after Harper goes to bed to play army men, cowboys and airplane with my two and half year old.

My self of only one year ago can only ask, where am I? What alternate universe is this? I sent a package of mail to Megan, who has been away for a month now, a vacation that turned into a longer stay with her family due to health problems, with a card addressed to Megan Hyatt, c/o Crazy Train A, Alternate Universe. I am along side her on Crazy Train B. Someone stop the train!

I am blessed with God's grace, how He brought me through the trials of last year and promises to bring me through again. How good it feels to sit on the couch and put my feet up, let my mind wander from all the future questions and decisions to fluttering words.