Levels, Shame, and Joy . . . Oh, my!

To Do List

Clean (really clean) the first level

Straighten the second level

Bank

Gas

Consignment Shop

Espresso Beans at A New Day Bakery

Drop note with tin of cookies at Blatters

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Blatter:

            I’m writing to apologize for the time last fall when I refused to let you use the bathroom in our house even though you had a long drive ahead of you (six hours, wasn’t it?), even though you  both really had to go.

            I spoke the truth when I said the second floor bath was gutted, but I wasn’t entirely honest when I intimated there was no other bathroom available. Remember? That’s when I suggested you try the Circle K down the street.

            If my friend Beth still lived close by, she could explain everything but she and her family moved overseas more than two years ago and her husband just signed a contract to work four more years Down Under. Beth’s the one who introduced me to the idea of levels.

            “Chances are,” she’d said, “most people will only see the first floor of your home so you should definitely keep it tidy. You know, for those folks who drop in when they’re in the neighborhood.” She’d made little scratch marks in the air when she said in the neighborhood.

            After her first visit to my house, Beth amended her theory.

            “Since you don’t have a half bath on your main level, folks will have to go upstairs to pee. If I were you, I’d keep the second floor moderately clean or, you could just keep the kids’ bedroom doors shut and straighten the TV room each morning.”

            “What about the third floor?” I’d said.

            She smirked. “Don’t worry about it. All that’s up there is your master suite. People’d have to be nibby to insist on going up there. Heck, if my bedroom was on the third floor, I wouldn’t bother to make my bed half the time.”

            So there you have it—Beth’s Theory of Levels—but wait, there's more. I have another theory for you. The other day I was on Facebook and I clicked on a link for one of those TED Talks. You know, lectures on Technology, Entertainment, Design? The one I watched featured this gal, Brene` Brown. I immediately loved her because she is hilarious and informative. Know what she talked about? Shame and guilt. Who knew shame and guilt could be hilarious? Shame is when you think I am bad (or, I am not enough, or, you wouldn’t like me if you knew X about me). Guilt is when you think I did a bad thing. Duh!
          Mrs. Brown’s talk made me realize I suffer from shame which made me think of you two. Allow me to explain. In the split second it took to decide not to take you up to the third floor, I determined you all would be appalled because a) I hadn’t made my bed and b) the last person who used the commode did not flush and c) there were not one, not two, but three bras cast hither and yon on the bedroom floor and that was just on my side of the room. I couldn’t bear for you to think I’m less than perfect. That's why I lied and shooed you out the front door. Do you think I'm awful? I hope not. I wasn't even going to apologize, then I remembered how Mrs. Brown said people who share their shame stories have more joy than people who suffer in silence. That’s why I’m here, so I can feel joy. Thank you so much for hearing me out. I feel better already!

            
            Sincerely, 
            Me

P.S. Also Mrs. Blatter, I wanted to let  you know, if you’re one of those people who was raised to always return containers with something in them, make sure you ring the doorbell when you swing by. I’ll make a pot of coffee to go with your cookies and we can have a nice chat. Then before you leave, with all that coffee, you'll probably have to use the restroom and I'll let you use either one, I promise.

Time with Ann

I must slow time. Or I will lose it. This a woman with twice my children tells me. And a three letter name to my five.

            “What?” I say. “I don’t just pray, ‘Teach me to number my days aright, that I may gain a heart of wisdom?’”

            “Well,” she says, “that and  . . . “  She pats the grass beside her. Leans back against the tree’s trunk. I lower myself. Pluck a violet. Twirl it.

            She watches the clouds, not me, as she speaks. “To slow time, you must love it. Appreciate it. Notice it. Examine your ankles and imagine minutes swirling all around. You stand firm yet they continue on. And on.”

            The key she says is thanks. And the giving of it. Over and over. All the blessings flow. They are given. Consider that. No randomness here. Only love. And generosity. A father extends an open palm, good gift revealed. A child grasps fingers around. Tight. The papa waits. For a corner of a mouth lifted. A word whispered. An enthusiastic hug maybe. The moment stretches out. Lingers.

            A thousand times a day. No, a minute. Maybe even a second. Everywhere. All over creation. In every life. Known and not. Presents proffered. Presence.

            If you acknowledge the giving, another offering appears. Many actually. Joy, not mere happiness. Awareness. A shimmering of the moment. A pause. You hear and feel your respiration. Record the realization on your heart or perhaps on paper. Resume breathing and discover another thing a blink later.

            Beauty (and bounty) is all around. Immanent. Constant. The living of life, the occurrence of another breath even, is gorgeous. Replete with what ifs. All the more lovely with gratitude. Magnified.

            Ann rises. Tucks her hair behind her ears. I roll my fingers as she moves away. Watch hers. Middle finger joins pointer. Then the ring finger. And pinky. Other hand . . .

Shot

Here it is again

Your going

Ginormous spans of time and distance

Echo in the gap between us

How is it

I am not mad with grief and fear?

It’s because I was shot

The last time you left on a jet plane

I was shot to the heart

The meds

Your arrival, your joy, your return

They still run through me

Like the waterfall you stood under

Eternal it seemed

Did you hear it?

Over the age old rush

Of hydrogen, oxygen, and gravity?

“This is my daughter.

Whom I love

With her I am well pleased.”

I did

Hear it

Something different

But still

“You there.

You are a modern day Mary.

You bore her, raised her, and when the time was fulfilled

You balanced her life and your punctured heart

In your trembling mama hands

Dripping with tears, not blood

You offered her as a live sacrifice

To me, to the world

Blessed are the hands that are open, not clenched

Palms without fingernail-shaped wounds

Extended

Freely, faithfully.”

The symptoms

The what ifs and will I ever

(Inhale her Pantene twirls again)

Didn’t present until 24 hours out this time

Burning eye syndrome, leaky gutter nose, shovel scrapes in the belly

They’ve only just now come

To be honest, on the pain scale, they’re a scant three or four

And then, only if I shut out everything else

Drill down

Attend the guttural jeer of she’s leaving you

For another mother

A different family

I flip my hair and anxiety, albeit lesser,

Behind me

Where I can’t see it

I almost yell at the mirror

You’re shot, remember?

Vaccinated

It can’t hurt you

The unblessed absence of assurance

Faith exists only in the invisible

Sight and knowing?

Where is the thrill, the miracle, the mountain top, in that?

I trust

I have to

But at least I can 

‘Cause I’ve been shot

Inoculated

One bout with loss, fear, and the unknown

(Then reunion and recovery)

Left me so much stronger

Able, if not ready

(And really, when will I ever be ready?)

To do it all again

This Is the Day

In the night
I made nests
Of Double Bubble pink cotton batting
To protect the bluejay blue
Eggs of my joy
I swaddled the orbs and whispered
"Don't crack.  Please don't break."
I would cry.  I would die.  Maybe.

I mounded the fluff over top the happy spheres
Making protection against disappointment
Delay.  Lost things.  "Dulles, we have a problem."

I pressed pink softness against my lips
Tamping, muting, containing
The raucous, ebullient spray of aqua Alka-Seltzer foam
It longed to projectile  from within to without
I spoke inside my mind.
"Not yet, my pretty fountain."

I imagine they, and she, fear the depths
And the altitudes of my emotions
Eighty-nine days ago they glimpsed a dropperful of my despair
Before I tamped, muted, and contained it
But joy?
Surely joy cannot be contained.