Gratitude Monday: Grace

The term “grace” covers a lot of territory. It can mean anything from an elegance of movement—poise—to a state of permanent godly sanctification. (The latter concept has always manifested itself in my imagination as a kind of shower of light. Which, now that I consider it, may be what all those Medieval and Renaissance painters were getting at with the halos they attached to the heads of angels and saints.) But today I’m thinking of something somewhere between the two endpoints of the spectrum.

I’ve been grappling with the notion of grace for a while. And by “a while” I mean “years”. Grace lies at the heart of my gratitude practice—my conscious effort to actively seek out people and things in my life that spark joy in ways both large and small. If you click on the “Giving thanks” label to the right of the blog, you’ll find my weekly devotion to gratitude. Sometimes it’s something glorious, like the Women’s March, or the Supreme Court striking down laws prohibiting same-sex marriage; occasionally it’s a reflection on a friend. But most often it’s me stopping to notice and appreciate small beauties, like sunsets and flowers and rabbits and birds; or even latte art.

The latter category—small beauties—is the one I draw upon on days when I feel the absolute crappiest. When I have to make myself cast about for something—anything—that doesn’t suck to the max, and that therefore might constitute some indication that there might be a reason to want to wake up tomorrow.

So this post from a local Unitarian-Universalist church on grace definitely resonated with me. The writer speaks of the grace that I seek—the small, unexpected splashes of light in a life that seems almost entirely in the shade, if not in darkness. This is the part that struck deep within me:

“I don’t get to choose when grace is given to me, so I must be gracious in my life.”

And this is where I struggle. I get so wrapped up in fears large and small—from what’s going on in the world and the nation to what’s going on at work—that I fail to be aware of grace, which also exists alongside the fear. With eyes focused on the pavement, I walk past the flower that peeks out between bricks in a wall. My brain replays last week’s conversations on continuous loop, so I fail to hear the birds singing around me. The scowl on my face as I gird myself for another frustration at work, on the commute, wherever…prevents someone from greeting me with a smile.

And thus my own lack of graciousness thwarts the very thing I seek from manifesting itself in my life. I fail, in Caine’s words, to recognize the subtle blessings in life—in my life. This is a fearful realization.

The corollary to this—something I also frequently fail to recognize—is that I can be a grace in the lives of those around me, by being kind, by being attentive, by showing recognition and appreciation. By picking up the litter someone else has tossed. By making room for the baby stroller on a crowded Metro car. By letting someone merge into traffic.

When you feel you have little to contribute, it’s heartening to think that you can give grace. It doesn’t require great wealth or grand gestures; it only needs awareness and willingness. I don’t get to choose when to receive grace, but I can choose when to give it. And by giving it, I can choose to be it. That is within my power.

Life lessons

Loss. Man—it hangs out in the strangest, most unexpected corners to jump out at you with a shiv.

This was brought home to me yesterday, in the class we’ve been running at work; you know—the one meant to spark new business ideas. We’re at the point where it’s time to distil all the crack-brained concepts down to one that you feel will not disgrace you dreadfully if you pitch it to the greater world next month.

Over the next couple of weeks, the instructor told us, we should try various methods of running our ideas through reality checks. And one of them was to present a matrix of them to “two or three of your closest friends” and ask them which of these do they definitely see me doing or not doing.

The thing is—the person I’d automatically run something like this (or everything in general, tbh) past, in a laughter-infused conversation, is dead. She’ll never sort through my wild-assed ideas and tell me which would suit me and which I should douse with petrol and light up in the back yard. I’ll never get to have a conversation of any type with her, and that realization struck me yesterday like an icy fist to the chest, 21 months after she died. I nearly left the classroom, before I got my shit back together.

And because it’s so unexpected—because you were muddling along with your life without any massive tsunami of grief—it’s like being mugged in the lobby of a five-star hotel. It just comes at you wherever it finds you, and you simply have to let it wash over and ride it home.

So that’s all I got today.

Kind regards

Well, it’s been quite a month, hasn’t it? Some momentous things going on that either made you break out in hives or the happy dance.

Since I’m still getting used to my wrists in splints, I’ll make this one short. I came across this from a company I follow on Twitter, and it resonated the hell out of me:

And a variant on that theme:

Listen—if someone as cynical and cranky as moi can attempt to follow these precepts, why don’t you give it a shot your own self.

Pulled from the wreckage

It’s been one of those weeks—maybe the whole damned month. You know—you just can’t seem to drag yourself out of the Slough of Despond, and you start thinking that you’ll never get out because that Slough is endless.

So—I do what I can. One of my tools is music, and I’ll share one I’ve been listening to with you.

Here’s hoping it works.

Matters of the heart

Today being Valentine’s Day, I know you’re awash with pressure to produce demonstrations of undying passion for your significant (or even your somewhat-interesting) other. Flowers (better have a damned good explanation for that bouquet not being a fistful of red roses, at five times the going rate for other times of the year), chocolates (possibly more leeway there) and/or jewelry.

You do know that every kiss begins with Kay, right?

Well, forget about all that. Because I have something so much better than industrially-extruded conspicuous consumption that has the same ephemeral effect on the economy that it does on your social life.

It’s a great story in the New York Times, about photographer Lauren Fleishman, who was inspired by love letters between her maternal grandparents to embark on a project to photograph couples who’ve been together for at least 50 years.

Her grandparents married in 1944, and were together for 59 years.

Fleishman spent six years discovering and photographing the couples; her resulting book The Lovers was published last month.

The Lovers presents the intimate ties, of course. But the couples talk also about the much more problematic issues of long relationships—getting through rough patches, and overcoming those times when s/he just pisses you off beyond belief, without storming out for good.

That’s one of the characteristics of love that lasts beyond passion. Anyone can be in love, especially when you’re in your 20s or 30s (ish). It’s like one extended adrenaline rush, so you just power through the little hitches because you’ve got the incentive of the next romp to entice you. Fleishman focuses her lens and her interviews on how these couples managed to transcend the rush and turn it into a bond that has lasted for decades.

 Eric Marcoux and Eugene Woodworth. Portland, Ore. 

Fred and Fran Futterman, Brooklyn

 Yevgeniy and Lyubov Kissin , Brooklyn

I love the comment by Karam Chand, married since 11 December 1925 to Kartari in an arranged marriage. “My trick is to make. Kartari laugh... Being funny is my way of being romantic. I have been told laughing makes you live longer—my wife is still alive, so it must have worked. I love her, and I want to spend another 80 years by her side.”

Well—if that ain’t romance then I’m Maria of Romania.

Rush rash

I’m trying to understand the logic…erm, no. The reasoning…uh, uh. The thinking…

Well, I mean to say that I’m trying to imagine the ratiocination construct that lies below Rush Limbaugh’s recent verbal vomit about Sandra Fluke. You know, the Georgetown student who testified before a Congressional committee on why contraceptives should be part of any health insurance. I’m at a bit of a disadvantage, because I’ve heard neither Fluke’s nor Limbaugh’s full spiel, but here’s my understanding.

Fluke, a third-year law student, went before the committee to represent other women who depend on Georgetown’s health coverage, but have to pay for contraception out of pocket because the plan doesn’t include it. She pointed out that birth control pills can be prescribed for medical conditions outside actual prevention of pregnancy. (These include irregular menstrual periods, acne, endometriosis, Polycystic Ovary syndrome, amenorrhea and some others.) Refusing out of hand to cover any contraception means that women who are diagnosed with these conditions don’t have access to these therapies.

Ignoring that, Limbaugh went on the attack, claiming, “She wants to be plaid to have sex. She’s having so much sex she can’t afford the contraception. She wants you and me & the taxpayers to pay her to have sex.”

So, I have some questions about this. Maybe you can help me out with some answers.

Who’s the “us” he’s talking about? He objects to “us” paying for Fluke’s alleged sexual activities. (And, by extension, that of all women. But evidently he’s not opposed to men, you know, screwing. Except probably men having sex with other men. I’m just spitballing, here; but I’m guessing that as a conservative flag waver, he’s probably not down with that.)

But unless “we” are an actual, you know, insurance plan (or the employer that might be contributing to that plan’s costs), then “we’re” not paying for anything: not for treating the consequences of sex, smoking, skydiving or any other social behavior.

Could he be talking about “us” in the sense that “we” are also major shareholders in, say, GM? As in “we the taxpaying people”? Meaning “a single-payer health policy supported by our taxes”?

Hmm, I shouldn’t have thought so from the mouth-foaming tenor of conservatives' opposition to the Affordable Care Act. But I suppose I could be wrong.

Is he saying health plans shouldn’t cover pregnancy—since sexual activity is the most common cause of pregnancy and Limbaugh seems opposed to the price tag of contraception? I have to say that compared with pre- and post-natal obstetrical treatments, even a normal childbirth and a couple of decades of pediatric care, the cost of contraceptives is quite the bargain. I won ‘t go into the considerable non-medical burden of social services required to deal with children whose parents are ill-equipped to raise their offspring.

(Although, in fairness, it’s been my observation that conservatives’ interest in the moral imperative of protecting the sanctity of life pretty much stops, uh, dead at the moment of birth. They’re disinclined to fund anything that would help that creature so sacred in utero have a life of dignity outside the womb. So those costs wouldn’t figure in any cost-benefit analysis run by the right.)

And finally, is Limbaugh going to go ballistic about funding Viagra, Cialis and all the rest of the erectile dysfunction meds that big pharma can’t produce fast enough to meet the demand of middle-aged men? Since (as I understand it) men wouldn’t need Vitamin V unless they specifically intend to engage in, you know, sexual activity in the immediate future?

Or would the possible alternative therapeutic uses—for hypertension, Raynaud’s phenomenon or heart disease—be his ticket out. “Oh, get stuffed, liberal pinko scum. Men need these pills for very serious conditions. Not like birth control pills for women.”

Well, look—in Limbaughland, that sort of argument not only holds water, it’s a mainstay of all discourse.

Another staple of Planet Rush is the grudging, forced non-apology. (Forced, in this case, because several ad sponsors of his show have cut him off.) He’s made this to Fluke via a statement that said he never intended that calling her a slut and a prostitute would be construed as a personal attack.

I think his own meds are due for adjustment.

Saint Anthony Day

Saint Anthony of Padua is the patron saint of the lost, of the pregnant and of travelers; today is his feast day. And today I’m thinking about my BFF, her sons and her grandson.

A couple of months ago, on what would have been her youngest son Anthony’s 28^th birthday, my friend Leilah learned that the baby her eldest son and his wife were expecting was a boy. Juan and Elsa decided to name him Anthony Daniel, after the baby’s uncle.

Anthony died five years ago after a great and terrible struggle with brain cancer. He was a bright creature, a gifted photographer and a joy to pretty much everyone he came into contact with.

Anthony was born with health problems—my first meeting with him was when he was maybe three or four, getting off a plane with his mother and carrying the plastic cooler that contained his meds. But even then—while a bit shy in the new surroundings—he was just so self-possessed. Everything was interesting to him; he absorbed life-things like a beautiful brown-eyed sponge.

Although much of that was his force of character, I think a lot was also the utterly unconditional love Leilah gave him.

She gave the same to his older brothers. Juan and Joe started out with difficulty, too. Their birth family abused them and they came to Leilah with the sort of disruptive attitudes and behaviors you’d expect. Leilah never gave up on them. Through gangs and drugs and learning disabilities, she was the best mom she could be to them.

And since her then-husband is and has always been a malignant narcissist, with all the steadfastness of a junkie on the make, pretty much all the stability the three boys had, they got from her.

The MN has a short attention span; he went through hobbies (and jobs) like a drunk through gin. Bow hunting, photography, Alfa Romeos—one minute the be-all and end-all; then next, so last-season. He was that way about being a father, too. He lost interest in Juan and Joe because being a parent to them as teen-agers required actual, you know, work. When he moved away from Oregon, he left them behind and took only Anthony with him.

Anthony somehow managed to not only survive living with MN, but to grow into a bright young man, a truly fine photographer, a percipient intellect. He recommended challenging novels for me to read, agreed that B&W was at the heart of photos and had an exuberant sense of humor.

But all this was cut short when he died of brain cancer, age 23.

I don’t suppose a mother ever recovers from that, and I won’t talk about the special circumstances surrounding Anthony’s death. Moreover, she’s had her own health issues to surmount in the past year. So her joy on 1 April at announcing that on that very day Juan and Elsa discovered they were going have a son and were going to name him after Anthony was inspiring. Her delight made me feel like life was better, 500 miles away.

But only 20 days later, baby Anthony was born via emergency Caesarean section, much, much too early. That infant did his very best to stay with his parents, trying to breathe on his own, but in the end he had to let go. He died in his parents’ arms, opening his eyes to see their loving faces.

Anthony would have been 28 on 1 April, but died five years ago. Little Anthony lived 13 days. Not long for either of them; not long enough for either of them. But young man or premature baby—they both gave it their all. There are no small souls in that family.

Perhaps Saint Anthony looked out for them; I don’t know. I do not believe they qualify as the lost; but perhaps as travelers they would have fallen under his purview.

But today, on Saint Anthony’s feast day, I’m remembering them—the young man I last saw, with his older brothers, playing like otters in a motel pool on a summer night in Portland 25 years ago, and the baby I only visualized in my prayers.

Have a care

I see that Congresswoman Gabrielle Giffords is being sent to a first-rate rehabilitation center to begin the arduous treatment to recover from the gunshot to the head she sustained earlier this month. And that’s good—when you think about a bullet to the brain, you don’t ordinarily think “recovery”, so she deserves all the medical support she can afford.

Being a member of Congress, that’s going to be a lot, and first-rate. She’ll only have to pay a portion of the tens of thousands of dollars this will cost; we, the taxpaying people, will pick up the rest of the tab.

I wonder, though—what about the other six people who were wounded in the attack in Tucson? What kind of care are they getting? And how long will they be paying off the bills? What struggles are they having with their insurance companies (if they have any at all) to understand their coverage and gain access to the treatment they need?

Perhaps if our Congressmorons could be deflected from playing schoolground games of outshouting each other on topics that are the political equivalent of gaining fame for being famous, they might consider this idea that the microcosm of seven people injured in a single incident will have completely disparate experiences and expenses trying to regain their health.

Ah, hell—what am I thinking? These people just repealed the biggest attempt (albeit flawed) at reforming our healthcare system to expand access and bring down costs ever made on a national level—and are strutting around and preening their feathers as though they saved civilization like Christian soldiers marching to the foe.

Meanwhile, as long as I have my current COBRA coverage, I don’t have to worry about seeking out top-notch healthcare services, while my BFF has two fights on her hand: getting her tight-fisted HMO to pay for the life/death treatments she needs to survive cancer.

I do not begrudge Giffords seeking the best treatment available without having to worry about bankrupting her family. But Leilah should have the same expectation of quality and affordability of care.

Another one down

I’m happy to see that 2010 is winding to a close. It’s one of those—many—years I’d really like to forget. It’s hard to find much about it that’s worth keeping.

But perhaps I’m approaching this from the wrong direction. Maybe what I should be thinking about are the lessons I learned this year.

I learned that I should not try to override my core feelings, what you might call my instincts. Two and a half years ago, at my first interview for the job that took me to Seattle, I knew the hiring manager was crap at communication and that it would be damned near impossible to work for her. I was so besotted with how quickly a Fortune 50 company moved to hire me, I completely ignored that sense that it was not really right for me. Lesson: if there’s a Voice telling you something’s really, really wrong, listen to it.

I also learned that, if something’s innately wrong for me, no amount of effort is going to make it right. Lesson: square peg, round hole—just not going to work.

I learned that there are some locations that really wear on me. I knew that DC was as far South as I ever want to get (and I’ve lived in North Carolina), but I bought into the whole Seattle-is-cool crap. Lesson: I should have been more diligent about due diligence.

I learned that Fortune 50 companies can still have divisions that are dysfunctional, unprofitable and completely lacking in sense. And I do not thrive in such an environment. Lesson: pay attention when an interviewer describes the place as “like a startup with money.”

I learned that my self-confidence is much more fragile than I’d realized before, and that I need to figure out how to strengthen it. Lesson: like putting on weight and taking it off, letting a situation erode self-confidence is a lot easier than rebuilding it after it’s gone.

I learned that people I love can be taken away from me at a moment’s notice and that it’s a lot better to keep in touch with them no matter how miserable I feel about my life than to disappear into silence and then find out I’ll never be able to speak with him or her again. Lesson: being a friend means being there, regardless of what I have to offer at the moment.

I learned that a friend undergoing chemotherapy can look absolutely gorgeous when I do get a chance to see her. And that hearing her laugh at something I said is the best possible Christmas gift. Lesson: sometimes I get a reprieve at being a friend.

I learned that yoga does actually make me feel better. Lesson: some things just seem whacky until you actually try them.

So—assuming I can apply these lessons—2010 wasn’t a complete waste.

Crossing the bar

My relief and happiness that my friend Leilah came through surgery and has a positive initial prognosis has been tempered by receiving word that a friend from the UK died last Thursday.

Winston François was a wonderfully kind and generous man. I worked with him in sales support at Newbridge/Alcatel from 1998 to 2001. I never saw him in a flap nor did I ever hear him diss anyone—even when dissing was entirely called for.

I could go to Win for questions about customers or technologies and he always made time for me. He also cleared the way for me to speak with other technical staff.

When I first went over there in August of 1998 to go through the formal interview process, Win spent an evening taking me round estate agent offices in Reading to get an idea of what was available to rent. When I said the approach on this side of the pond was to go to an agency/landlord and state my requirements and ask what they have that meets it, he advised me (accurately, as it turns out) that over there you walk into an agent’s and ask, “Whatta ya got?”

I also remember him calming me down after one frustrating incident, telling me, “Horses for courses, [Bas Bleu], horses for courses.”

Win had a wife and five daughters. He built a conservatory onto their house by himself. He was one of the first to welcome me to the UK and one of the last to see me off. He was a terrific friend and I believe the world is darker for not having this smile in it any more.

Emerald City Blues

Life in the Third World continues.

I finally have a refrigerator in place, although it took four weeks and two vendors to manage it. Now to get the builder to touch up the delivery scuffs & gouges in the stairwells, which were clearly designed without imagining that someone would want to move anything into the house.

Next in line: get the Sears charges for appliances removed from my AmEx account. They shouldn't have been applied to begin with because Sears received the money from the builder on 10 June, but six emails and three phone calls still haven't resulted in any, you know, action. I've finally sicced AmEx on them by disputing the charges.

Also, despite four calls to Seattle City Light (including one from the builder), I still don't have my garbage/recycling bins, so I continue to make early morning runs to dumpsters. (And, BTW, yes--the light company also provides water, sewer and trash; although apparently not in a timely manner.) I'm not going to be happy about them when they finally arrive anyhow: seems the trash bin isn't a bin at all, but a box, which I'll have to carry to the pick-up point. Which is more than 100 meters from my actual house.

Seriously--when people assured me I'd love the PNW because "people are so laid back", they had to have been referring to service providers.

Don't have approved trash receptacles? Just hang on to the trash until we get around to it.

One more indignity (I was going to say "final", but I've no doubt that Seattle has many, many more in store): my final water bill ($172 for 60 days; in Virginia it was $25/quarter) from the City of Bellevue contains a $10 "additional charge".

It's for "final bill".

Pity I didn't bring the gelignite with me.

Swedish puzzles

I swear—moving hell just never ends.

I bought an IKEA six-drawer dresser a few weeks ago—I figured I might as well let the movers schlep it up to the third floor in flat packs and I’d put it together after I got in.

Well, that was the plan, anyhow.

I got the frame set up, finally. But when time came to assemble the drawers, I just lost the plot. And IKEA’s text-less “instructions” are about as much help as a chocolate teapot.

I’m just flummoxed. The bottom of the drawers doesn’t actually attach to anything. It slides into a groove at the front & back and that’s somehow supposed to keep it from sagging when you put all your socks in there. Then there are these white plastic screw-like things you’re supposed to somehow get into the sides and rear pieces. They’re screw-like, but there’s no slot or hatch on the head to insert a screwdriver.

And the text-less instructions only tell you you’ll need Phillips and slot screwdrivers and a hammer for the whole project. The particular picture just shows the screw-like things going magically into the holes.

I guess I’m going to have to make a run down to IKEA to see this thing on the hoof and try to extrapolate how I make it happen.

Meanwhile I have a bedroom full of IKEA pieces.

Deep joy.

Dem bones

If you’re looking for a return on your investment you might consider buying stocks in manufacturers of ibuprofen. I’ve been popping it like Pez ever since I moved into this three-story house from the single-story Rambler.

My right knee makes a crunching sound, like stepping on a bag of bran, whenever I go up stairs, which I do rather a lot—moving things from one floor to another. I saw some young woman out running today, with support bandages wrapped around her knees and I thought, “Hey, I want some of those!”

I’m hoping this is temporary—that it’ll wear off as I get used to being in multiple floors. When I moved to the UK and started driving a car with the floor shift on the left, my left shoulder got sore for a while with the unexpected workout. And when I returned here I had the same thing happen with my right shoulder until I got used to shifting with that arm. So I hope this is a similar situation.

But just in case, you should keep that ibuprofen shares thing in mind.

A piece of my heart

It’s been a week since my beautiful, pushy, loudmouthed mackerel tabby cat Aji was killed. She got out of the house last Monday night, and Tuesday morning my neighbor two doors down found her little body in her yard.

She was with me for just a week over three years—she appeared on my balcony the weekend before Labor Day 2005; simply announced her arrival and waited for me to do my part. Which I was happy to do—she was bright, affectionate, lively and curious, and she was much more entertaining than cable TV.

When I let her in, I informed her that once she joined the household she would henceforth be an indoor cat. She agreed, but of course she didn’t expect that I meant it. Besides—she was a cat. She was always trying to get out. And she was so fast—she could get through a door before it was barely open.

The thing about Aji was once she realized something was a portal—that there was an Other Side behind it—she just had to go through it and explore. Those clever little paws of hers could get so many things open—she’d open dresser drawers and pick out clothes onto the floor to make room for her to get in and probe. I had to Aji-proof closets with bungee cords. She once got the above-counter kitchen cupboard doors open and I caught her high-stepping among the Czechoslovakian crystal cordial glasses.

I once opened the hatch to the attic and made the mistake of leaving the ladder in place while I went downstairs to check on something. A few minutes later I returned to see her mackerel butt disappearing into the attic and I had to scramble to get her back out. I closed the hatch but left the ladder propped up in the upstairs hall, because I needed to do follow-up work in the attic. For days Aji would climb to the top and demand that I open up so she could go exploring again. She knew there was extremely interesting stuff up there and she wanted to see it.

She was also a leaper—no height was beyond her powers. From a standing start she could jump to the top of the lingerie chest (more than four feet high) without knocking over any of the perfume bottles. In The Rambler it didn’t take her any old amount of time to realize there was a two-inch wide ledge at eight feet around the living room. She got up there and pranced back and forth, looking out the windows and informing me she wanted to go out.

Of course I bought her bags of playthings, but it turned out she’d brought her own toy with her: she chased her tail. It was hysterical to watch that. Only a few weeks ago, in the corporate apartment we were staying in, she was on a window ledge with vertical blinds, whirling about with perfect balance, going in and out amongst the blinds after that pesky tail.

Perhaps I shouldn’t have moved her here—it was too unsettling, there were too many New Things to explore and The Rambler was just too small for her and made it too easy for her to get out. I opened the door and she shot out into the night. I’d hoped she was starting up a gang but would return when she found there were no bowls of kibble lying around for her. She’d done it a couple of times in Virginia, so I had hopes.

But this isn’t Virginia, and she didn’t last more than a few hours. And it took King County Animal Control three days to come pick up her little corpse.

My insides are sore—I feel as though my organs were scooped out and whatever’s left has been mauled. I keep doing the block-Aji dance—crack open the door, look around for her and get ready to shoo her away.

I know—I should have done a better job of that last week.

Turns out Aji was a big part of my support system here, and it’s just empty without her. There’s so little sign of her left—I didn’t take nearly enough pictures while she was with me; I thought I had years ahead with her. I've got a few paw prints in places where she wasn't supposed to be--the floors of the Rambler hadn't been cleaned in a long time before we moved in, and she left a trail of tell-tale marks on counters, the mantelpiece and other high places.

There’s still Pele, of course. But she’s not the cuddly extrovert Aji was. These days she spends most of her time under a bed because in her mind if she comes out I could scoop her up, stuff her in a crate and ship her somewhere. Fair enough.

I expect Aji’s poking into all the closets and drawers in heaven, and leaping up into laps and demanding pets from all the saints. She always knew how to make a place for herself wherever she landed. It’s a lesson I wish I'd learned from her while she was with me.