STB

A good cry. 

I'd always thought of that phrase as meaning "a hard cry over a painful event." But this morning it took on a totally different meaning for me. 

A good cry. 

"A cry from being touched by the Spirit."

And I realized I've been about that kind of a good cry for most of my life. It started with those AT&T "Reach Out and Touch Someone" commercials. And then on to the Hallmark commercials. And now all I have to do is see a video of a kitten and a crow as friends to have a good cry. 

It's all about Love, I now see. Sometimes gushing forth. Sometimes practical and quotidian. Sometimes absent. 

Here is one of my very favorites:  Hallmark's Required Reading commercial. Combine literacy (The Poky Little Puppy to A Tale of Two Cities), courage, love through service, missing my dad (8th grade education and one of the wisest people I ever knew), and the love-filled Orange Sky by Alexi Murdoch and it's a good cry. 

I've become more careful about who and what I expose myself to, sometimes feeling energy drain right out of my feet when I encounter a particular situation or type of person. Wisely, I have been careful to avoid all news stories about Jerry Sandusky once I read my first--to even find out who this guy is and why everybody's talking about him.

The first commentary I read on it was last night, written by Patti Digh. 

"You cannot abdicate the responsibility for your own humanity to others, or to the law, or to the system."

And that's just the beginning of her powerful and empowering words. They made me think about where my humanity is in this, if it's anywhere in it.

Scene Change:  After listening in on a call with Martha Beck and her world-changing life coaches for 90 minutes today, I was exhausted. I really needed to go lie down. Big things are happening in our world, indeed, and I'm seeing examples of that in my own life. Friday afternoon, I'm self-employed, a nap would be perfect. But suddenly, I felt like I needed to read the grand jury report. This is how my life goes. I get messages of one sort or another to do things that don't make much sense at the time, that I don't really "have time" for and, more often than not these days, I do them. So I did. I read it.

The nap can wait. Here I am. In this.

As a survivor of sexual abuse as a child (yes, me) and as the mother of a 6-year-old boy, I ask parents of school-age children to consider reading it too. Because what I read in there flies in the face of everything you think you need to teach your child about "good touches" and "bad touches" and where the boogeyman lives. Though it wasn't anything close to my experience, I have somehow been there. If you read it, you can see the progression. You can see how he "tested" his victims, drew them in so that by the time those boys (who were just a few years older than my son is) really understood something wrong was happening to them, they were shackled by their own guilt and confusion and fear. That's how this starts, and that's how it continues.

It doesn't start in the locker room shower, people. 

It's not the dirty old man in the Buick at the playground.

It's not the stranger hiding in the alley on the walk home from school.

It can be the one right in front of you. The one you trust. The one who seems like a friend. The one you look up to. It can be the one who takes something your 4-year-old curiosity found while your parents were busy, though right there at home with you, the. whole. entire. time. every. single. time. and turns it against you. It can be that one.

And so, honoring my own humanity in this issue, I'm just here to invite you to consider what yours is. There are many victims in the world. They're all around you. They might even be sleeping in your bed or living in your skin.

Is there someone you need to stand up for?

Someone you need to stand up to?

And, either way, if that someone is you, that's ok. The best place to start is with yourself. Be firm. Be kind. Act with love and the purest of intentions.

You might wish, hope, and pray that someone else will do it for you--put up his hand to your oppressor and say, "That's enough," or wrap you up in her arms and love you unconditionally for the beautiful soul that you are. I used to wish, hope, and pray. I spent years wishing someone else would love me enough to stand up for me. I'm over that now. And I want to tell you my secret, because there's a much faster way than the approach I took all those years. 

Ready to hear it? 

Do it yourself. 

That's it. Just do it yourself. Stand up for yourself. Stand up to yourself. 

Because when you do either, your world will never be the same.

And when you change your world, you change the world. 

Last night, we finished reading Little House in the Big Woods at bedtimes with Caden. Though I've owned them, I hadn't opened any Little House books in well over 20 years. It was comforting to read the stories again and especially to see the pictures. My favorite pictures in this first book of the series are Grandpa skimming the maple sap in that massive cauldron hung between two trees (I can't help but think it's a bit out of scale), and Cousin Charley wrapped up like a mummy after stomping on the yellow jackets' nest (served him right, the little twit).

I occasionally find myself extremely moved by something I read aloud in those times with Caden. It used to be embarrassing to suddenly be moved to tears while reading a children's book, but I'm in the company of an old soul. He's used to a mother who emotes freely, and he usually looks at me knowingly and then puts his hand on my knee or arm. I'm sure these passages are signs to me, touching something so deep inside that I cannot name it. I keep searching for whatever that is, and I've evolved over the last year or so to stop grasping for whatever it is. Instead, I live as often as possible with my heart open and wait for it to come to me. I know it will. It has begun to. 

It happened to me at the end of "The Wonderful Machine" chapter. A threshing machine had come to the Ingalls' homestead, and joining Pa with their wheat to be threshed was Uncle Henry, Grandpa, and Mr. Peterson (the Swedish neighbor). It was an exhausting day, but a very different one--in both productivity and social connection--than if there had been no threshing machine.

"He was too tired that night to talk to Laura, but Laura was proud of him. It was Pa who had got the other men to stack their wheat together and to send for the threshing machine, and it was a wonderful machine. Everybody was glad it had come."

Pa was a do-er, a community builder. That must be important to me. And maybe there's more there that I'll discover someday.  

What surprised me the most, though, was the tone the book took at the end. There is a deep respect for wildlife and the natural world throughout. There had to be, human lives depended on the animals for meat and for warmth from hides, depended on the earth to grow food. But the last chapter--"The Deer in the Wood"--was moving not only for the story itself but mostly for the tone of reverence and present-moment living. Pa comes back from late-night autumn hunting with nothing, which never happens. He tells the girls about how he woke from an accidental nap while perched in his tree to see a deer in the moonlight. "He looked so strong and free and wild that I couldn't kill him." And then a bear came along, but Pa was so caught up in observing him that he never even thought of taking that perfect shot. Finally, a doe and yearling fawn appeared.

"Then they raised their heads and looked at each other. The fawn stepped over and stood beside the doe. They stood there together, looking at the woods and the moonlight. Their large eyes were shining and soft."

"I just sat there looking at them, until they walked away among the shadows. Then I climbed down out of the tree and came home."

Laura whispered in his ear, "I'm glad you didn't shoot them!"

Mary said, "We can eat bread and butter."

Then Laura and Mary went off to bed, Ma sat by the fire knitting, and Pa sang "Auld Lang Syne" with his fiddle. That prompted Laura to ask what that means and Pa replied "They are the days of a long time ago, Laura."

"But Laura lay awake a little while, listening to Pa's fiddle softly playing and to the lonely sound of the wind in the Big Woods. She looked at Pa sitting on the bench by the hearth, the firelight gleaming on his brown hair and beard and glistening on the honey-brown fiddle. She looked at Ma, gently rocking and knitting."

She thought to herself, "This is now."

She was glad that the cosy house, and Pa and Ma and the firelight and the music, were now. They could not be forgotten, she thought, because now is now. It can never be a long time ago."

This is now.

Now is now.

Whether you're stuck in the past because of the hurt back then, or stuck there because you've not found such happiness since, now is now. The present moment is the gift, and you can always choose to see the beauty and order right in front of you. And the more you choose to see that, the more will appear to you.

It's here.

Now. 

There are so many ways to reflect, remember, and honor today as sacred. Sharing this is part of my small efforts. 

It's a powerfully moving video about an effort I knew nothing about, or maybe had forgotten about among so many other memories. It is a beautiful testament to those who answered the call in a different way that day, and a shining example of average people stepping into absolute greatness. 

I sold my truck last night. It was a 1993 Ford Ranger, and I loved that truck. Even more, I loved my dad who helped me buy that truck way back in January 1994. 

Just the summer before, I hit a deer in my 1987 Ford Taurus and totaled it. I’d loved that car, too. (Well, as much as a Taurus could be loved.) Just a week before moving back to college my sophomore year, I had to get something else quickly. And so I got a 1988 Taurus. Hated that car. It was like a rebound relationship of the worst kind. And so just a few months later, my dad and I began talking about what to do. He was the kind of dad who always wanted me to drive something reliable. He was so good that way.

I wanted a truck. And my dad did, too. He wanted a truck for two reasons, I think:  1) I was entering the stage of life where I moved a lot; 2) He wanted to use it to go to the lumber yard when I came home on weekends. And so we went to our lifelong Ford dealer and he began looking. He found a new Ford Ranger, black with tan, at a dealership in Des Moines (two hours away) and we bought that truck sight-unseen. It didn’t have cruise control and so the dealership installed that for me. “It’s either that, or keep a pocket full of twenty-dollar bills for when you get caught speeding,” Bill Pritchard said with a wink. 

And so on January 5, 1994 my dad, Bruce, and I drove over to Britt to pick it up. It was beautiful. It was the best thing to ever come out of Britt (ha, ha—huge rivalry). I’d not seen that color combination before, and I loved it. And so the three of us climbed in (pretty squashed considering my dad and Bruce were both tall; Bruce sat in the middle) and drove it home. Six days later, my dad died suddenly. 

I lost my dad. I buried with him a model of a Ford Ranger I’d built over Christmas vacation. He got to take that one with him. 

I had the real truck. 

I had the memory of the two men—one who had been the most important in my life and one who would become the most important in my life—smooshed together next to me as I drove that truck for the first time. 

And I drove it for the next 10 years. To two colleges, to internships, to summer jobs, to grown-up jobs, on vacation, for farm work, to hay fields in the middle of the night to pick up Bruce when he’d finished mowing. And then Bruce began driving it to work. 

And then, like the oldest set of potholders in the pile, or the box of crayons with no sharp ones left, it fell out of use. The Explorer—the one that’s so loaded that its options have options—accommodated the car seat that the Ranger did not. And then last December, the Dodge Charger became our “it” car. Really, there’s nothing like driving a Dodge Charger as a family car. I highly recommend it over a minvan. (And, mark my words, I will never own a minivan.)

It was time to sell it. And it had become just a material object, really. My dad has been gone for so long that nothing tangible can truly connnect me to him. Things are things. It’s what lives in the heart that matters. And so I sold it last night to a senior in civil engineering at Iowa State. Really nice guy, kinda reminds me of Bruce. I told him about my dad; he said he would take good care of it. Dad would like that.

I did ok emotionally. It is, after all, just a thing, and it had served us well for so very long. Caden, on the other hand, was a mess. The kid was sad, angry, confused about why we were selling the truck. The one that he couldn’t ride in anyway. “Mommy, I want to drive that truck,” he said before we delivered it. (I thought ahead 10 years to that time, and smiled when I realized he’ll probably be driving the Charger.) I drove it into Ames, while Bruce and Caden drove separately. Starting it up and pulling out of the driveway, Green Day’s “Wake Me Up When September Ends” came on the radio. (Thanks for that, Dad.) Money in hand, we headed back home and Caden was just beyond consolation. I have never seen him be so irrationally upset about something. It really made no sense to me. And then, through tears from the back seat, he said, “I just wish your daddy could play with me.”

“Oh, Caden, me too. Me too.” 

The first thing I wanted to do after watching Oprah's finale was to hug my son. Of course, I was feeling emotional and, well, he's five and always a good target for a hug. But why, exactly?

And then I realized that I was overflowing with gratitude for Oprah's influence on my life. Looking back through my journals, there are pages and pages of notes I took while watching her show and journal entries about what I learned. And then I'd talk about those concepts with friends and journal even more.

Those insights and discoveries--always taking me on an upward spiral--did so much to mold me into the person, especially the mother, I've become. I worked out a lot of shit thanks to Oprah!

So why wouldn't I want to hug my son after that insight?!

Thank you, Oprah, for mothering so many. For mothering me. The ripples will go on forever. You have truly changed the world.

Originally posted on my Obama '08 blog on September 4, 2007.

June 17, 2007

I met Barack Obama yesterday. I shook his hand. I thanked him for his work. His bodyguard picked up my business card from the floor, read it and put it in his pocket.

Curiously, none of those things were the highlight of my day.

The highlight of my day didn't come in one moment or one person. It came in the constellation that formed when so many moments and persons joined together in a small corner of space and time.

The constellation revealed itself because I had the courage to believe. It came because I had the courage to take a small step forward toward the person I used to be. Just before leaving home for this gathering, I voiced my fear of being foolish for believing in a politician, believing that an election can actually change the direction of this country, believing that whether I attended or not really mattered. I feared that I was foolish for being audacious enough to hope.

In two short hours, so many things happened to affirm my courage.

I was one of the first to arrive and was seated, watching others arrive. A spry, older woman entered the room, and I immediately felt as though I'd known her for years. After a few minutes, I introduced myself and found that to be true. I've read her letters to the editor in the local newspaper for several years. Her address revealed that she lived in senior housing, and I was inspired that she was still speaking out on social and political issues. I thanked her for inspiring me for all of these years and shared a bit of my story. She recently published a booklet of poetry and she showed me the signed copy she would give to Senator Obama. She stood up and told me that she would be back shortly; she wanted to get a copy to give to me.

As I read her poetry and waited for her to return, I smiled at how the universe was affirming my courage--my courage to attend that day, my courage to risk sounding like a lunatic as I introduced myself to her, my courage to hope.

When she returned, I shared with her my awe at the connection I felt and my earlier doubts about attending, about believing, about hoping. She said, "Some days it does seem hopeless, as though we cannot change anything. But other days, like today--when I meet people like you--I have hope."

She signed my copy, "We are not alone. -Marjorie"

As the room began filling with people, she introduced me to those around us and I found myself chatting with what felt like old friends. We played the "do you know so-and-so" game (surprisingly--or not--there were a lot of connections) and she named others in the community that I should get acquainted with.

And then Senator Obama arrived. He was sincere, easygoing, personable and extremely articulate. I wasn't foolish to believe. I wasn't foolish to hope. I wasn't foolish to attend.

I was wise.

I was courageous.

I was blessed.

I was reintroduced to the self that I had been before settling into a life with a mortgage and a child and more "shoulds" than one person can reasonably handle. The self that felt called to a life of service, of belief, of hope that there is a better day…and doing what I can to ensure it comes to be. The self that sought to be surrounded by people who inspired, who challenged. The self that inspired and challenged others. I found that part of myself yesterday. It had been lost for so long.

I didn't want this to end. It was as though I was dreaming and caught a glimpse of a long-passed loved one. As I reluctantly approached the door to leave, the young woman who had been staffing the campaign table spoke to me. She said, "I think I know you. You were my Sunday School teacher." She is an intern in Obama's local office. Think of it--one of my Sunday School kids interning for a presidential campaign. I was awed to see a circle complete itself right in front of me. She was the Me that might have been.

I went to meet Barack Obama. I ended up meeting myself, too.

At church last evening, as we sang "Amazing Grace," emotion came rushing over me with the words "Through many dangers, toils and snares I have already come. 'Twas grace that brought me safe thus far, and grace will lead me home." Indeed. Welcome home, Sandra. You've been deeply missed.

One person cannot change this country. He stressed that yesterday. But I wasn't foolish to look to him for inspiration. It is wise to look to others for inspiration and for courage. But, in the end, it will take many of us--most of us--working for change together.

And that's ok.

I am only one.

But I am not alone.

Originally posted on my Obama '08 blog on September 27, 2007.

When I decided to post my first entry to this blog, I knew I could be opening a can of worms. You see, I work in the online world, and potential clients Google me to check me out. (I do the same to them; it's good business.) 

I knew I was taking a risk by putting my support for Obama online for the world to see. And sure enough, the first day it was up, my blog post eclipsed all other Google returns for my name. So there, the can 'o worms was opened. 

And you know what? Only good things have happened since. It affirmed my belief that the only way to live my life is to do so within the fire--not outside of it just in case I might get hurt. ("Life is not tried, it is merely survived, if you're standing outside the fire." --Garth Brooks) I'm an ultra-sensitive person--much more so toward other people's feelings than to my own. And that makes me so careful--probably too careful--about what I say or do. Usually, it means I don't say or don't do. And in holding back that way, I know I've missed out on some great connections that should have been. 

I was watching my son eat his Cheerios this morning and had the tv news on. Barack's new ad titled "Mother" came on. Suddenly, there I was--the Smiling Onlooker in the Background of one of those great face-to-face photos. Now, it's only from seconds 10-12 and most people won't even notice me. But I'm there. On tv with Barack. How cool is that?!

Even cooler? I was at the event that day because my own mother had been asked to be part of a panel on health care for senior citizens. She'd had big problems with the red tape of Medicare, and Barack listened to her story. 

So I give thanks for my mom for helping me be there that day...in more ways than one. And to Barack's mom, too, for giving us the chance to witness hope embodied.

My guides, my angels, speak to me through thoughts and dreams. On Sunday, while in that deeply meditative practice of vacuuming the floor, I was thinking about this and how I need to listen more closely and pay attention to those messages and--at that very moment--the song Da Doo Ron Ron popped into my head. Freaking hilarious. My "people" are really funny. 

This morning, I was watching a TED video via Facebook. It was longer than I'd expected, continuing on past the spoken-word poetry in the beginning. I nearly clicked away but felt drawn to continue. And I found this gift at the end.

I can't get it to deep link to the starting point, so let it load and then head to 14:42. (Or watch the whole thing. It's all good.)

Something I learned from Martha Beck last Saturday...

Trembling can be the body's response to having spoken your truth. You took a risk. You chose to be vulnerable and offer a glimpse into your true spirit. You were honest. And you survived doing that! You're still alive!

Your muscles are just shaking out the adrenaline that served you. Your body is working exactly as it's supposed to.

So what?

This changes everything for me. Years of misunderstanding my body have been put behind me.

I see now that it's not weakness. It's pure, unstoppable power.

I don't have to be ashamed that this happens to me, not even that it happened just the day before while talking with Martha.

Sweet freedom! Welcome home!