Words from The Crone

It is painful to admit that my mother was right. I think the first time that I realized she was right was when I yelled at my daughter, “Don’t slam the screen door!” A phrase my mother threw out at me constantly. She knew slamming the screen door would weaken the hinges and eventually cause the screen to sag and need replacement. Or maybe, she just didn’t like the sound of the screen door banging shut forty-seven hundred times a day.

The older I get the more I realize how often my mother was right and how wise she actually was. Some things took longer to soak in than others. She always used to say about certain people that “Their taste was all in their mouth.” How weird I used to think, what in God’s name does that mean? Well, now I know that it doesn’t have anything to do with tasting something in your mouth but in your brain. I have even found myself using that phrase myself from time to time. How many times have you caught yourself saying things your mother said. Lots, I bet, at least I do.

There are a hundred ways my mother was right from which utensil to use when eating to how to dress like a lady not a tramp. But the one thing that keeps coming back to me time and time again was her admonition never to talk about religion, politics, or sex with friends, family, or anyone! I always thought that rather awkward because I’m a talker and if I can’t talk about those delicious subjects to anyone, I would be condemned to having those kinds of conversations with myself. What a bore.

Well, I have from time to time ventured into those arenas with mixed results. What I have found is that in general those are subjects you should avoid, particularly when talking to a stranger or someone you don’t know really well. They are also subjects you should avoid with folks you know really well and know full well that their views on those subjects are diametrically opposed to yours! That leaves broaching those subjects only with people you know really well and who agree with your views on religion, politics, and sex! A very short list perhaps. I have found that even when I discuss those subjects with my spouse (who generally agrees with my views) we often end up raising our voices at each other until we realize that we aren’t going anywhere and had better take a time out.

Upon reflection, I have to admit that my mother was right. You really shouldn’t discuss religion, politics, or sex with anyone. The weather is usually safe, or a discussion on the next family gathering, or perhaps some light chit chat about your health, or the latest addition to a family. Good things, not anything that could be considered controversial. Well, that certainly limits things! Guess I’ll go grocery shopping where I’m not likely to engage in conversation with anyone about those no-no subjects! Sigh, my mother was right.

There is so much mushy stuff out there about soul mates. So many folks say they found their soul mate, get married, and then five, ten, even fifteen years later, bye-bye soul mate! Off, I guess, to find another soul mate. Perhaps we don’t really stop to consider exactly what we mean by this soul mate thing. We romanticize this love of ours and hang pearls of perfection around them and envision this person as satisfying our every whim, desire, and demand. Thus, when those pearls break and fall all over the floor of our heart, this perfect soul mate vanishes and is replaced by some soulless mate with whom we can no longer live. Sigh.

I too found my soul mate. But he’s not perfect and I don’t expect him to be. I thought my first spouse was perfect and I idealized him to the point that when his pearls broke it was so bad that our marriage couldn’t withstand it. He’s a nice guy and we are still friends, but when I reflect back on our relationship I know he was not my soul mate and I never thought of him that way.

My second (and last) spouse, R, is my soul mate. But not in the romantic, you’re perfect way. He is my soul mate, and I his, because our hearts and thoughts and minds are in spiritual sync with each other. R says we are soul mates because our souls connect and I have to agree. It isn’t just that we are connected at the hip, it is deeper.

Well then, what does it mean when souls connect? Our first indication that we were soul mates came when we realized that we read each other’s thoughts. The most frequent sentence between us is “I was just thinking of that!” More often than not we both order the same food from a menu. We can also judge each other’s moods very well and empathize with them. We also bought the exact same anniversary card for each other twice and most of the time our cards to each other carry the same message. Our value systems never diverge and even our decision making process is the same. We don’t always make the right decision, but we at least agree on it! I also have a spiritual sense of R’s presence and when we are apart it is as if a part of my soul is away from me. I know he feels the same. After all, we’re soul mates!

When we hurt each other our connected souls bestow forgiveness that is deep and pure and honest. Thank God we have not set ourselves up on “Perfect Pedestals.” Our life is full of ups and downs, being good and being bad, doing right and doing wrong. We do not live on a flat plain, we live in a landscape of hills and valleys. And, it is our spiritual connection that allows us to soar and dip with each other in love and forgiveness in all things! Wow! We are so blessed!

This defining a soul mate is not an easy thing. It is sort of like defining God. You know it exists but our words fail us when trying to explain it. A friend once said, “How do you explain the unexplainable?” Right. You don’t. It just exists and our souls as soul mates dance together in a world all of their own.

Sometimes you just need to get away. Away from the iphone, the internet, the insidious interruptions that invade your space. Sometimes you just need to find some peace and quiet alone. Alone with nothing but you. Sometimes you just need to find that place where nothing happens and you can take a refreshing swim in your own thoughts. A place where you can imagine or dream or even dare to think of new things you never dared to think before.

I once had that kind of place. To a seven year-old it was a tree, but in actuality it was a huge overgrown bush. The thickest branch maybe measured six inches in diameter flowing out from a main trunk maybe eight inches in diameter. It was low lying very close to the ground growing out and up like an artichoke. The leaves were small and many giving the entire tree a feather-like appearance. And it was hidden between a row of thick pine trees and a grapefruit grove. No one but me even knew it was there – or so I wanted to believe. I called it my “Wine-dee Pine-dee” tree because the branches wound up around all through the tree and I guess the “Pine” part came because it was more or less surrounded by pine trees.

In my tree I would climb up very high, four feet or so off the ground (remember I was seven and that was high). At first I would just sit there and listen to the noises of nature; birds singing, crickets chirping, leaves rustling in the wind. It was so peaceful and it was all mine. I never ever invited anyone to join me in the tree. It was my alone place. Even my mother didn’t know it existed. If she called, I would creep down and run off to another place before I answered her.

Sometimes in my tree I would pretend I was someone else and close my eyes and live an entire life as this other person. Other times I would dream of things I wanted to do or places I wanted to see or just imagine who I would be when I grew up. One of things I remember doing often in my tree was reading. I loved to read books and in my tree I could read for hours and no one would interrupt me.

In some ways my tree was my little girl heaven-on-earth. I don’t have my Wine-dee Pine-dee tree anymore. I don’t even have a place like my tree where I can be alone and dream and think and well, just be. Life is full of people and places and particular things that need to be done. My calendar fills up quickly, and every so often I think about my tree and wish I was seven again and sitting there resting, restoring, and reassuring myself that life is good and all will be well. Hmmmmm…….I think I’ll go find myself a Wine-dee Pine-dee tree! If you don’t have one, won’t you join me and find your own? It has to be good for the soul.

“Could you hand me the clicker-dicker?” “Where is that thingy I just had?” “Would you please get me a pill from that squarish-round bottle on the shelf?” “It’s in the dark place where we keep the stuff we need.” That’s RitaSpeak, or so my spouse, R, says. Frankly, it is perfectly clear to me what I mean. In reality, it is probably part my short-hand (or long-hand) for stuff and the loss of memory that goes with aging.

For example, I can remember (now, of course) that once I could not for the life of me remember the name of the refrigerator. And so, RitaSpeak went something like this: “I’d like a soda, but not the ones in the pantry but one from the ???, place that is cold where we keep our food.” Have any of you ever done that or is this something totally unique to me? Sometimes when I forget a name I just keep thinking until it comes to me, but I’ve found that RitaSpeak works just as well.

Being products of corporate America both R and I use short-hand letters or acronyms a lot. We have two pantries and they are called “P1” and “P2.” Our upstairs loft/office is called the “L’office,” and our living room, dining room, kitchen, great room is called the “Groom.” I guess you might call that OurSpeak. We even have OurSpeak rules like rule one is “Keep the door to the bathroom closed,” and rule two is “Put the toilet seat down.” Saves a lot of words. I wonder if that qualifies as going “Green” with words? Does that lower our carbon footprint with less exhaled carbon dioxide?

The other day we were driving somewhere (doesn’t matter where) and the display lights on our dashboard were dim. R asked me if the round dial thingy for lights was up? RitaSpeak at its best! What that meant was “Is the dial that controls the dimming of the lights in the off position?” It was, and strangely enough, I knew exactly what he meant. R was astounded that he had even said that because he has never spoken RitaSpeak! I guess it is contagious. LOL.

My daughter thinks some of our RitaSpeak words shouldn’t be used like “Clicker-dicker” because it doesn’t seem to connect to anything. Well, I’m sorry, but “Clicker-dicker” is the remote control for the TV. Even I can understand the “Clicker” part, but where I came up with the “Dicker” part is beyond me. Or maybe not – it rhymes with “Clicker.” Oh, well, such is RitaSpeak!

We all have that “most embarrassing moment” in our life. You remember it, don’t you? I thought so. I have often thought about mine and wonder what is it about being embarrassed that etches such a deep memory in our brain cells. I can’t remember the balance in my checking account but I can sure remember my most embarrassing moment. You too, I’m sure.

Mine actually happened when I was six-years old, or 64 years ago. It was even in March of 1946 so you know I remember all too well. I was on the playground at the Isaac School in Phoenix, Arizona in Maricopa County. I have all these tiny details because I ripped off my science book and they are stamped on the inside cover. I love that book and don’t plan to return it. But, back to my “Moment.”

It was recess, a time when we are all supposed to have fun! Sure. Does anyone remember those things called “monkey bars?” They come in various sizes and shapes, but the one I was on was very large and very high and looked like the skeleton of a very big tent. It was so inviting to climb and climb I did. Up one level of rungs, up the second level of rungs, up the third level of rungs, and up the fourth level of rungs. Several of my classmates were climbing all over it as well and many of them were performing a myriad of movements, some swinging by one leg, others by a couple of arms, another by two legs hanging upside down.

I wanted to be one of them and so I decided that the two legs hanging upside down was easy. I didn’t stop to think that they were all boys and had pants on. I, like any proper little girl, had a dress on. Whoops – upside down I went and swoosh, over my head went my dress. I couldn’t see a thing. Obviously, this was not working. The boys were snickering of course, they could see my under panties! Good thing they weren’t from Victoria’s Secret! It was also obvious that I had to get out of this embarrassing position.

It got worse! As I tried to use my torso to lift myself up to grab an upper rung and get down off this monster, I got one gawd awful cramp in my left calf. It hurt so much I couldn’t lift myself up to get off. And so, I hung there upside down, dress over my head, with my not-so-sexy under pants showing. Talk about being mortified.

It got worse. The recess bell rang and all the kids ran inside. The playground was empty except for one little six-year old girl hanging upside down on the monkey bars. I was so embarrassed I couldn’t even yell or cry or whimper. I just hung there.

What seemed like a lifetime passed and finally, thanks be to God, my teacher came out and rescued me. It was really hard going back into the classroom, but well, we all know that we have to face our embarrassment whether we like it or not. And so I did. I learned a valuable lesson that day however. No one laughed at me or tormented me or scolded me. In reality, they couldn’t care less it seemed. They said, “Hi,” and back to our classwork we went. I learned to laugh at myself and recognize that while our embarrassment is very personal and ego-bruising to us, to others it is just another minor event in this huge event we call life! I learned to get over it – quickly!

Here is it twelve days since I’ve written anything on this blog. I feel like a blog blob. I’ve searched my mind for something relevant, or a least funny, to write about and all there is a blob of nothing. I don’t think it’s because there isn’t anything in my brain because I am usually full of words, written or spoken or even thought for that matter. I think it is summer laziness. Or maybe it is just plain laziness. Yes, that’s it, I’m just being lazy.

There are many things I am lazy about actually and many of them have nothing to do with summer. Like, why don’t I want to take out the trash? Why don’t I want to empty the dishwasher? Why does the clothes hamper get to massive overflow before I do the laundry? Why do the clean, unfolded clothes sit in a lump on the chair for days before I finally fold them and put them away? Why don’t I sweep that buggy porch, or get out the scrub brush and clean the lawn chairs of their bird guano?

Because I’m lazy! Well, at least that is what my mother would have said. I’m not really lazy because most of the time I am really busy doing lots and lots of stuff. But, when it comes to certain things, I just plain don’t want to do them. Really, who likes to take out the garbage? No one. That is why we relegate it to the pre-teens in the family, or the hubby. And, who really likes to empty the dishwasher full of sparkling clean dishes. No one. That’s why the dirty ones pile up in the sink until there isn’t any more room for the dirty ones and we are forced to empty the dishwasher. Furthermore, I have never in all my years found anyone who likes to fold (or even iron) clothes! No one. And who really likes to pick up the dog poop or empty the kitty litter box? Huh? Anyone?

I am certain that there is a list longer than both of my arms that I don’t want to do, or that anyone doesn’t want to do. But this blog is meant to be short because I just don’t want to rant on and on and on and you don’t want to read forever. So, there you have it. I may be lazy after all, but then don’t we all have some things we really don’t want to do? Come on, be honest!

It never ceases to amaze me at the number of people who want to hear about my calling into the priesthood. I often wonder if people ask that of doctors or lawyers or plumbers. It must be that there is a great deal of mystery about being called to serve God in this way, much like the mere mystery of God. What is more of a mystery to me, however, are the variety and diversity of those whom God does call. Having been ordained in my 60th year I really believe my calling is a deep mystery, and one I will never solve. To this day I often wonder why I was called. Others seem to know, but often I do not.

Most mysteries start out innocently enough. The mystery of my call started out with my returning to church after a seven year hiatus. A time when I ignored God and went about my life. My second marriage was to a life-long Episcopalian but he never asked me to return to church. It was something stirring in me that wanted to have this union blessed by the God I had ignored. It was like the atheist or agnostic that comes to God in the face of a tragedy. But my coming back to God was in the face of joy. And so, our civil marriage was blessed in a small Episcopal church.

In 1980 we started attending services and I wept throughout the entire first service. I felt that I had come home and something deep and mysterious was moving within me. For the first time in my life I wanted to “serve” God. And, so it started. Helping out here, being Treasurer, on the vestry, reading, lecturing, whatever I could do. R and I even taught a step-parenting dynamics class for two years because our pastor asked us to do it. Serve, serve, serve.

Somehow through all this serving it just never seemed like it was enough. There must be more I can do I would think. But what? What is it that you want from me God. WHAT? After I had done most everything there was to do in the church I was very frustrated. What could this inner urging, this sense of needing to do more, to serve more mean? And, then I found out.

In 1990 in a small Anglican chapel on the island of St. Bartholomew it happened. R and I had found this small chapel while shopping on a Saturday. We went in to pray as was our custom when we were traveling. And I wept and wept and wept. For an hour I wept and finally I just got up and left. The next morning we went back to that chapel for worship services. They were doing Morning Prayer because they had no priest for communion. During this service I had an overwhelming desire to walk up and preach and celebrate the Eucharist. Me a priest? Could this be?

Overwhelmed at the thought I couldn’t wait for the service to end. We finished our vacation and I went to see my own priest. I told him of the experience and asked him if God could be calling me to be a p-p-p-p-priest (I could hardly utter the word). “Oh, you’ll know someday,” was all he said. What kind of an answer was that? What should I do? I moved to Florida.

To make a long story short, as they say, after many lunches with my mentor and good friend, The Rev. GK, I could no longer keep saying “No, no, no, not me!” Again, in the context of worship as we sang the hymn “Take My Life and Let it be, Consecrated Lord to Thee,” I wept (I was getting good at this weeping thing) and my R practically had to carry me out of the church. I went to my priest and told him that I was ready to explore this mysterious calling to the priesthood. I still wasn’t sure why, but I really wanted to find out and put it to rest once and for all. I was certain that the church would somehow convince me that it was nothing but an old lady’s nightmare.

Hah! In 1996, after a year of discernment, the Commission on Ministry (they advise the bishop on things ordainable) and the Bishop affirmed my calling and sent me off to three years of seminary! Oh – my – God! Was this really happening I often asked myself. Yes – it – was! Three and half years later I was ordained a priest in the Episcopal Church. I was 60 and then some! I pray daily that God continues to know what to do with me! I’ve had a varied and diverse ministry all these years and I no longer get that mysterious urge within me to serve more and more. I finally have that contentment that I am serving God in all God’s mystery as I am called to do. And, I don’t have to figure it out anymore. I leave that to God. Thanks be to God.

The Memorial Day I remember the most occurred in Hoosick Falls, NY, the birthplace of my maternal grandmother. I think it was in 1954 or 1955 but I can’t be positive. At any rate, my mom wanted to see where her mom was born (my love for genealogy really may be in my genes). The trip was planned for Memorial Day weekend.

Now, Hoosick Falls is a small town in eastern New York State and consists of only a few blocks of what we old folks would call “downtown.” But, OMG, for its size they had enough banners and flags out to make any veteran or any American proud! And on the day of the Memorial Day Parade everyone and everything and every official and every official vehicle and every horse, tractor, and a few cows participated. To a young girl (as I was back then) it could have been a downtown New York City parade (okay, forget the cows and tractors)!

The roads were jammed with spectators from all over the area, and the parade went on and on and on. Patriotic music filled every corner of the air, people waved those tiny flags, and sang God Bless America, America, and any other patriotic song they knew. People cheered as each car full of veterans drove by and, in a word, it was amazing! This small town’s expression of a nation’s thanks for the service of those who protected our freedom was a microcosm of what was happening in hundreds of small towns that day. I felt proud because my Dad had served in the war and this was a big “Thank You” to him and to all those who contributed to all past wars in some way. I’m sure there is at least one from every town in America.

My Bishop published the following on Memorial Day which helped me understand how that day begun in a way I never did before:

This coming Monday is Memorial Day. It is a day we now observe as the beginning of the summer season. This national holiday has much deeper roots. The first Memorial Day was observed by formerly enslaved black people in Charleston, South Carolina. Immediately following the end of the Civil War these freed slaves exhumed the bodies of fallen Union soldiers from a large, unkempt mass grave outside a Confederate prison camp. They reburied the fallen dead, honored the graveyard with an entry arch, and declared it to be sacred ground. Their work was completed in only ten days. On May 1, 1865, a Charleston newspaper reported that a crowd of nearly ten thousand, including 2800 children, processed to the location for a ceremony including sermons, singing, and prayers.

Let freedom ring. Unfortunately, Memorial Day parades have fallen by the wayside. I Googled “Memorial Day Parade Delaware” and only two parades were listed. Sure, we’re a small state, but I’ll bet we have at least 30 small towns that fifty years ago would have had a parade. One town did report having a “Return of Summer” celebration. Memorial Day is now more about sales and shopping, beaches and barbeques! We aren’t remembering anymore. And yet, we have men and women now serving in wars in Afghanistan and Iraq. Not to mention the thousands of others serving in our military keeping our defenses up and running. Who will remember them? Who will parade and sing and show thanks for their service? Who?

If it wasn’t so serious it would be funny. Well, in retrospect, while it wasn’t funny, I can sense that it is going to be funny. Last Friday my spouse, R, had a partial complex seizure, or as the Doctor put it, a “brainstorm.” Essentially, his brain didn’t function properly and he lost motor control and had some weird thinking as he puts it, couldn’t walk in a straight line, lost depth perception, and was extremely tired. Unfortunately, he was out shopping alone and he took two naps (maybe blackouts) before he could drive home. He also had a minor fender-bender, thankfully in the parking lot, so no one was hurt. However, as a consequence, he cannot drive for at least six months to be sure he doesn’t have a recurrence.

So, our life changes as we get older and my daughter, K, and I will now become chauffeurs for a while. Also, R will be processing this change in circumstances so I pray that he will adjust graciously and his brain will not misbehave like that again. We expect him to be irritable and cranky for a while. Correct that…he IS cranky and irritable.

In fact, he was cranky and irritable from the get-go. On Friday when he came home in a foggy state I knew something was wrong. I had already started to worry because he was gone four hours on a two hour errand. He related his episode as we are calling it now (for those in denial, as is R, this sounds better) and I immediately got him into the van and took off for the emergency room. Yeah, sure.

For starters all the traffic lights were out in the town – really! So instead of a 15 minute trip it took 45 minutes. By the time we pulled into the hospital parking lot all of his symptoms had cleared up. He walked around the parking lot and refused to go in. “I don’t want to spend my evening in the ER for no good reason.” NO GOOD REASON??? The conversation was not what you would call polite, and I can’t repeat it in print.

After seeing the doctor, and not one hour back home, R is threatening to drive anyway, insisting that everything is fine, no problem, what’s the fuss, it won’t happen again – men! Then today he says he will drive in four months, not six. I remind him (not as gently as I should) that if he has a seizure and blacks out at 60 mph it might not only be his highness that he kills, but a van full with a beautiful family of handsome hubby, pretty wife, and gorgeous children. He was not amused, but then neither was I.

He is moping around the house telling everyone that he has completely lost his independence now that I am driving him everywhere. Losing his independence – him? If anyone is losing their independence it is me – I now have to keep up with his schedule and mine! Get real here. And, if his nagging about it keeps up I might be inclined to use a generous amount of duct tape to seal his whining lips. I must admit though that I did take his car keys away and hid them which, I guess if you are a guy, translates into losing your independence. I call it the “Vroom, vroom” syndrome.

So, all of you who read this please pray that the spirit of graciousness invades R’s brain and he settles into being chauffeured around quietly and without complaint or threat to grab my keys and drive away. I told him to pretend he is very wealthy and has a driver. Because, he does (at least the driver part)! And, while I am more than happy to do this, I’ll be praying for an extra modicum of patience!