Clouds

Sometimes I feel like a ping-pong ball, whacked back and forth from coast to coast by malevolent forces beyond my control.

Whack!   East Coast…100 obligations, events, and expectations…

Whack!   West Coast…hold on to your hat and hit the ground running!

Usually, I find myself somewhere over Texas.

Looking out the window, I stare at the puffy, white clouds. I imagine jumping on them…collapsing into them…resting in them. I wonder what they taste like. Soft snow? Celestial cotton candy?

Watching them makes me feel soft and malleable, like they are.

Slowly, imperceptibly, they shift and evolve into new shapes and forms.

As do I.

The tense and tension-laden me shifts and softens into the calm and peaceful me.

It helps to have a little perspective.

It’s all in the way you look at things. And the angle from which you view them.

There is a river of peace that gently flows above the frenzied anthill of the earth below.

I hope I can float it in after I land.

***************

Rows and floes of angel hair

And ice cream castles in the air

And feather canyons ev'rywhere

I've looked at clouds that way

But now they only block the sun

They rain and snow on ev'ryone

So many things I would have done

But clouds got in my way


I've looked at clouds from both sides now
From up and down and still somehow
It's clouds illusions I recall
I really don't know clouds at all.

Joni Mitchell

Detours

As I've mentioned, Katherine's friend Lauren Miller has started a blog called "Embracing the Detour." A few days ago, she issued a challenge to her readers to send in their stories of how they were dealing with the unexpected "detours" in their lives.

When I first heard the name of Lauren's blog, my thoughts went immediately to Katherine. I can't think of many people who've experienced such a dramatic detour in their life plans. The other ones that come to mind were fellow patients in Neuro-Rehab.

It amazes me now to think of how I used to respond to small changes in my plans, unexpected twists of fate, and little glitches in my schedule. I guess I thought I had more control over my life than I actually do. I fought against circumstances that thwarted my will.

What has happened to Katherine has taught all of us who love her that we are not in control. Life rarely turns out the way we envision it. The only thing over which we truly have control is the way in which we respond to our "detours."

Katherine has chosen to say, "I don't understand this, but I trust. This was not my plan, but I accept that it is Yours. Your plans are to give me a future and a hope. Because of that, I will choose to find joy in spite of the circumstances."

I think that, for the majority, 'happiness' is dependent on circumstances. That's why so many people are unhappy and dissatisfied. Circumstances are fickle. They can turn around and bite you in the back in a heartbeat.

At our lake house, there is a tiny lithograph of a woodland rabbit. Underneath him are these words: "Happiness is not a destination, but a manner of traveling."


As I continue down the path of this major detour, I pray that I can learn to travel more lightly...with joy in the journey....one day at a time.


It's all any of us really have.

***************

To read Lauren's sweet words about Katherine and learn more about her challenge, go to:

http://embracingthedetour.com/it-means-something-day-43/

Holding On While Letting Go

Baby steps.

Don’t try to do everything at once.

Just do one little thing.

Start.

Now.

Filing books away in our small library, I notice a handled basket hiding in the corner behind a chair. An overflowing basket. Full of letters and cards that were sent to me following my father’s death.

After he died, life got out of control. Not just because he died, but because life does that sometimes. One major life event followed the next in rapid succession. Good and bad. Blessings and curses. Then a mini-crisis followed by a major-crisis, chased by a middling-crisis. Topped off by a health-crisis. Or two. (Actually, three or four.) Bam bam bam. No time for recovery in between. Just catch-your-breath-and-strap-on-the-seatbelt for the next wild ride of events. Everything just sped up. Way too fast for me.

I suppose I’d saved those cards and letters because I never really had sufficient time to savor them. I wanted to sit down some day and really read them. Soak in the kind words honoring my father’s life. Giggle at the reminiscences of his adorable eccentricities. Be touched by the stories of how he’d touched the lives of others. How he’d helped people to heal.

Seven years have gone by since his death. That basket has been hiding in the corner of what our architect dubbed ‘Kim’s little book closet’ for seven years now, gathering dust.

It is time.

In a fit of energetic resolution, I grab the basket and carry it to the kitchen. I place it on the counter next to a large trash basket.

I start tossing.

But then, I notice an interesting return address. I take a peek at the card inside.

One peek leads to another.

I end up standing there for well over an hour. But I get it done. The letter basket is finally emptied into the trash.

As I start to close the lid, a card on the top catches my eye. Digging it out of the trash pile, I read the front cover: “When we lose a loved one, God gives us the strength that allows us to hold on while letting go.”

Holding on while letting go.  Obviously, an oxymoron.

What does that even mean?

How can one hold on and let go at the same time?

***************

I know people who are tragically imprisoned by the past. Attempting to re-clothe themselves with the tatters of a former life, they resist acquiescence to painful, but necessary, changes that might bring them freedom. They stubbornly hold on, even as the fabric of those non-existent lives unravels into nothingness. They refuse to move forward.

At some point, there must come a realization that one can’t go backwards. Some sweet times and places cannot be revisited. As much as we’d like for one to exist, there is no rewind button.

Life is forcefully pushing us all down the birth canal of transformation, and it’s impossible to climb back up into the warm, familiar womb. Its safety and comfort were just for a time. We must come out into the new, or be stillborn.

(Or die.)

In this sense, holding on is only holding back.

But, I wonder…

In which ways is holding on positive instead of negative? A blessing instead of a curse?

I think the meaning of the phrase on the card was “hold on” as in “hold on to your sanity,” “hang in there,” “keep on keeping on” during a time of grieving. But I’m examining it in other contexts. What is truly worth holding on to? Certainly, there are things that merit extraction from the garbage pile of discarded past experiences. Things worthy of a second look…one last, final, contemplation before the lid is closed on them forever. Even things to rescue and hold close. To keep the rest of our lives.

I find that they are mostly intangible.

Things such as the aura, the essence, the lessons, the evocations, the example…

of a person’s life.

The memories…emotions…

the words (their words) engraved upon my heart.

I want to hold onto these things with all that is within me.

As I want to hold on to the absolute certainty of reunion.

But I want to hold on to all of these things while simultaneously letting go of others.

Sometimes, letting go can seem like a wrenching away; a ripping and tearing. I envision hands being torn from each other’s grasp; I hear a splitting of skin at the start of a surgical procedure.

It can be is so very, very painful to let go.

Let go.

But then, there can be an intoxicating new freedom, like the way a good haircut can make you feel lighter…less encumbered…fresh and new. The way taking a load of junk to Good Will can make you feel absolutely euphoric.

Just as we must let go of the physical presence of those we’ve loved and lost, there are also intangibles we must release, or face deterioration and decay.

We need to let go...

Of the pacifiers of a ‘past perfect.’

Of expectations and assumptions.

Of resentments and bitterness.

Of burdens and bondages.

Of our crutches.

Of our grief.

Of control.

Finally,

of the very visceral need to

hold on.

Just as, one day, we will let go of these feeble, fleeting, ephemeral bodies in order to to grasp hold of…

…to hold on to…

eternity.

***************

Nothing

 I feel agitated.

Unpeaceful.

Anxious to the inth degree.

I am home.

As I’ve confessed, Time is not my friend.

Its artificial tyranny over our lives exhausts and disgusts me,

because it is manmade.

 (and temporary…

thank God.)

There is just not enough of it for some of us.

If we let it, every day can seem like the day before final exams.

There are too many things on my “To Do” list, and not enough spaces on the calendar in which to fill them.

Not enough blanks.

The urgency tempts me to agitation and a feeling of total inadequacy.  There is no way I can complete the tasks, meet the needs, achieve the goals.

So I do…

nothing.

The mere contemplation of the overwhelming demands causes a state of paralysis.

I get in bed and start writing this.

***************

The next morning...

I vow that I will achieve peace, no matter what.

I refuse to get out of bed until it arrives.

I try every artificial means I know.

Nothing works.

I pray, briefly… with my eye on the clock.  (“I’ll give you this much time in which to calm me down…then I’m on my own.”)

He accepts the challenge graciously and gracefully. Not because He has to, but because He can.

And because He wants to.

He is the consummate gentleman.

Peace comes suddenly, like a flood of liquid love.

I rest in it.

Sometimes doing nothing is the best thing you can do.

***************

“What does man get for all the toil and anxious striving with which he labors under the sun?" (Ecclesiastes 2:22) 

Happy Birthday, Katherine!

...28 years of love...

Throwing Tantrums

My otherwise angelic grandson has developed a charming new Terrible-Two habit.

Whenever he doesn’t get his own way, he takes whatever he happens to be holding at the time and throws it onto the floor (or ground) as hard as he can.

Then he spits. (Like a “Bronx cheer.”)

Unfortunately, the auntie that was babysitting him the first time the spitting thing occurred laughed uproariously at his little display of anger. So, of course, that reinforced the behavior like liquid cement.

Now it happens several times a day.

“I need a cookie!”

“I’m sorry, James, you’ve already had too many.”

Thomas the Train slams into the floor and ricochets against the floorboard.

A shower of spit comes my way.

“I wanna go Mimi’s house!”

“I’m not ready to go back over there yet. We’ll go in a little while.”

Smash! Shatter! goes the favorite DVD he’s clutching. “Pppppttt!” (Bronx Cheer.)

But this is the funny part.

After the spitting, accompanied by a defiant little look at me for emphasis, his gaze turns to the injured item. And he cries, “Oh noooooo!” Scooping it back up, he hands it to me and says, “Fix it, Mimi. Fix it.”

What a great tableau of a spiritual principle, acted out for my benefit over and over again. 

Until I get it.

***************

I know people who are really mad at God. They blame him for everything wrong in their lives. They become increasingly bitter with age and its accompanying disillusionment.

There’s a lot to be angry about down here.  It’s not hard to fall into a state of perpetual anger. Anger can become a reflexive reaction to anything or anyone that thwarts our will, destroys our plans, rains on our parade, or cuts us off on the by-pass.

Having tumbled into that treacherous trap on more than one occasion, I appreciate the unambiguous illustration my grandson provides for me:

Our anger hurts us more than anyone else.

It destroys the very things we hold most closely and value above all else…sometimes beyond our ability to repair.

And then we run to God and ask Him to fix whatever’s broken.

Whatever we’ve broken in our rage…

Even if it’s been directed at Him.

***************

 When James comes to me with the fruit of his anger, I request (require) an apology for the behavior. 

“I sorry, Mimi,” he readily admits. Then he hands me the pieces of Toby the Train’s broken Station House.

I easily snap the door back on its hinges and give him a hug to celebrate. Then I say, “Now, James, I don’t want you to act like this any more, okay?”

“Okay, Mimi, okay,” he assures me as he runs off to play.

But he probably will.

Just like his grandma.

***************

"My dear brothers and sisters, take note of this: Everyone should be quick to listen, slow to speak and slow to become angry, for man's anger does not bring about the righteous life that God desires."  (James 1:19-20)

Dear Friends,

Thank you for putting up with me. I don’t know how you do it.

I appreciate each and every one of you for taking the time to write and encourage me. I treasure your advice and support.

The past month has been hard. I’ve been feeling a little worn out and beat up. Doubts creep in. I begin to question whether the expenditure of time and energy this blog requires is wise under the circumstances. The goal of honesty to which I aspire compels me to admit it.

Your reassurance both comforts and inspires me.

There are so many voices out there.

Thank you for taking the time to listen to mine.

It is an honor.

An Audience... of One?

Several members of my family have a startling ability to mimic voices.

After the last couple of blog posts, I’ve been (mentally) hearing those talented ones imitating the rescuers in Titanic: “Is there anybody ouuut there…???”

(I guess you had to be there.  Had to have been there. Whatever. It was funny at the time.)

Ahem.

So, anyway, since I’ve already spilled so many embarrassing beans out onto the Internet plate, I guess I might as well come clean and admit that my feelings get hurt every now and then.

For now I’ve eaten the fruit and opened the box:

I’ve been looking at other blogs.

(And I am so glad I didn’t do it earlier.)

I am grateful that I didn’t have a clue what a “blog” was when I started writing. But I do now. And I want to go running home and cry, “Mommy, my blog’s not like the other girls’ blogs.”

Boo hoo.  Wanh wanh. (Really, how in the world do you alliterate that?)

The other girls’ blogs are pink and green and pretty. And monogrammed. Or they’re cool and minimalist and existential. There’s gut-wrenching reality. Navel-gazing raised to a new level. Or they’re shabby. Chic. Or they are purveyors of rarefied products. Or of “free giveaways!” They are repositories of coolness of every kind.

They have every bell and whistle and widget and gidget and gadget one can imagine. They connect to at least 10 different  “social networking” establishments. If desired, you can twitter and twatter and skitter and skatter the day away. (“In the bathroom now… let you know how it all comes out…”)

And they have thousands of “followers,” although I’m not completely sure what that means. (I realize that it is no longer cute that I have so little grasp of these things, but I really don’t know. Does that mean you get a notice when I post something new? I am very, very grateful to you for the show of support, in any case.)

Following a rabbit trail through a labyrinth of ‘known’ connections, I’ll find myself in someone’s post where the F-word is used multiple times…and it engenders at least 89 comments of affirmation, understanding, and approval.

That is why I’ve gotten my feelings hurt a little lately when I’ve gotten just two or three comments. Nobody else is on the same page??? Nobody else gets it? No one else can legitimately say, “Right on, sista? I know how you feel, where you are?”

I start thinking: Maybe I’m too worldly for the religious people; too religious for the worldly ones. Maybe I should just shut up.

(Plus, I’m a big, fat hypocrite because I rarely comment on other people’s blogs. There are days when I can’t even make it near my laptop to check my email. I suppose I feel that, in the name of fairness, I shouldn’t start commenting on one unless I’m ready and willing to commit to taking the time to comment on everybody’s.)

In a way, I wish I’d never started looking at the other girls’ blogs.

But I needed to, in order to learn and grow. It was research for the ultimate product…which is still yet to come.

Growth pains hurt.

As I type these petty words, a recent email I received from a friend comes to mind…

and I feel ashamed.

Something I quoted a few weeks ago was used in her life in a powerful way. (Not even my words…a quote.)

Sooo…

as much as I long for this to develop into a conversation, instead of a monologue; as much as I’d like to hear more of other people’s thoughts, ideas, and life experiences…   

that email alone provides more than enough incentive to plow on.

And I realize that it is a privilege to continue this sharing, if only for an audience of 2 or 3.

What am I saying???

It is a privilege to do it for an audience of one.

I need to keep telling of His goodness to a mess like me…

whether anyone else is listening or not.

...He’s listening.

Just a note to let you know that Katherine's good friend Lauren, who started this whole blogging thing for me, has started her own blog called "Embrace the Detour." Since today is her birthday, I'm inviting everyone who stops by here to visit her site:

http://embracingthedetour.com

Enjoy!

Kim

Changing Places

Sometimes…not often, but sometimes…the anger over The Atrocity is so great that we have nowhere to go with it.

So we turn it in the only direction we feel safe turning it:

on each other.

And then the defensive parapets quickly erect themselves, to guard our hearts from more hurt.

It is hard to storm a parapet.

(After typing that word twice, I decided to look up its origin. Parapet derives from the Latin meaning “to defend the breast.”  Hmmm…interesting that I just wrote “guard our hearts.”)

Protective parapets must be dismantled in order for there to be true peace in the kingdom.

I remember a conversation I had long ago with a very wise, but radical, friend. I suppose I was venting about some now long-forgotten (perceived) injustice.

As I ranted on about the offense, defensively self-vindicating along the way, she looked at me and said, “Yes, but Kim, He did not defend himself.” (Mark 15:5)

That stopped me in my tracks.

She went on, “I’ve found that when I keep trying to defend myself in a given situation, it only builds a bigger wall. So I’ve learned just to accept blame sometimes. Because even if I didn’t do what I’m being accused of, I know that I’m capable of it. Humility tears down defensive walls.”

I told you she was radical.

I’m not there yet.

Not by a long shot.

(But I’d like to be one day.)

It’s important to understand that this principle is not the same as being a doormat. (There are times when we have no choice but to fight for our rights.)

It is not a surrender; it is a victory. Well, actually, it is a surrender. But it is a victorious surrender. It is a volitional laying down of one’s rights. It comes from an understanding that there will be justice in the end.

The beautiful irony is that by then we’ll be over our need for it.

In the meantime…

We all struggle.

(Even perfect people aren’t perfect.)

We battle with ourselves and with each other. But it is imperative to keep in mind that “we” are not the enemy: The Enemy is the enemy.

And all of us are wrong very often, because each of us perceives the world through Me-colored glasses.

I love the exchange between the visitor from (self-chosen) Hell and the ‘Blessed Spirit’ in Heaven in Lewis’s The Great Divorce:

“Oh, of course, I’m wrong. Everything I say or do is wrong, according to you.”

“But of course!” said the Spirit, shining with love and mirth so that my eyes were dazzled. “That’s what we all find when we reach this country. We’ve all been wrong! That’s the great joke. There’s no need to go on pretending one was right! After that we begin living…”

Real life begins with a death.

We have so many opportunities to die daily. Laying down our wants, ways, desires, dreams, opinions…the need to be “right,” the lust for control… for the benefit of others seems like dying.   It is a type of death.

I believe that’s one of the reasons we’re here, though…to learn how to die. At the end of “Missing Katherine,” I quoted from the lyrics of a strange little Indie-ish song by Jon Foreman of Switchfoot. This refrain is the response to the lines I quoted there:

“She said, “Friend,

All along I thought 


I was learning how to take


How to bend not how to break


How to live not how to cry


But really 


I've been learning how to die


I've been learning how to die…”

I confess that there are times when I’m just not up to the challenge. When Self rears its ugly old head and refuses to die back down.

Two strong-willed Selves faced in opposition create an impasse.

And then round and round and round we go.

The only way to interrupt the cycle is to put yourself in the other person’s place.  Really. Try to get inside their head. Wear their skin for a minute. Feel what they’re feeling. Try to see the world through their eyes. (Maybe close your own in order to do it.) Use Method Acting techniques if you have to.

It’s not easy to do at first, because we humans are so blinded by self-interest and our own tightly-clutched opinions.

But then I remember that someone did put himself in my place…

and bore the consequences of being me.

That makes it easier.

Much, much easier.


***************

(Oh, if only I could take my own advice more often…)

P.A.P.S. (Pretty amazing post script):

A precious friend of Katherine's has a connection to the manager of the movie star mentioned in the previous blog. She forwarded her the link to the blog.


The manager sent back this message:

Funny enough, I knew all about her encounter with them. She called me as she drove away and said how she had met this incredible woman and her mother. Funny how the world works... Really wonderful story. I sent this to her. Thanks again. Xo 

Yes, it is so very funny how the world works, isn't it?

Shutters

My sister-in-law and nephew flew in from Connecticut and Virginia over the weekend for a visit. To celebrate, we went to lunch at Shutters, one of our favorite happy places in Santa Monica. A casually elegant hotel, it sits right on the beach. The restaurant is on the bottom level, providing easy access. We are especially fond of it because we can take James out for a run and a little sand-throwing while awaiting our order.

We had a wild, rollicking family lunch. Afterwards, my sister-in-law and I walked upstairs to have coffee in the cozy lobby…and there she was.

Framed by a large window, where the sun was finally beginning to shine out from behind the day’s clouds, was a Famous Movie Star.

She wore not a stitch of makeup. I guess it’s true…it’s not cool for actors to wear any when they’re not on set. And yet she was luminously beautiful, her high cheekbones accented in the harsh light, her translucent skin glowing.

She sat at a table with three men who were pitching a project for her.

I don’t know what it was, or whether she liked it or not, but she seemed to listen respectfully. She laughed a loud laugh…the kind our family laughs…several times.

I admire that in a Famous Person, who must be careful about Public Persona.

Our 'larger-than-life' family flailed around the scene…having one last coffee…trips to the Ladies’ Room…James throwing the cushions off the elegant furniture in the lobby.

We left by a side door, but I found myself presenting my valet ticket at the same time as she…who had evidently driven to the meeting alone.

I looked down into my wallet, pretending not to notice that I was inhabiting the same space as a Famous Person.

Then, I decided that was even dumber than acknowledging it.

When she looked up, I guess I kind of smiled at her. I said something completely inane like, “You’re even prettier in person.”

(My family ROLLED ON THE FLOOR…screamed… in embarrassment when I recounted this later. “Mom, you’re such a NERD.”)

But it was true.

And it was exactly the kind of thing I would have said to one of my kid’s friends, upon meeting her in real life, when I had only seen her on their Facebook page.

She was…

real.

A real, live, human being. Flesh and blood, like you and me.

She initiated a conversation.

She thanked me for my compliment. And then she began to ask me about me.

Was I visiting LA? Did she notice an accent from TEXAS?

(I put emphasis upon this because virtually every person in Los Angeles who has EVER commented upon my accent has assumed that I am from TEXAS. It will require a whole ‘nother blog to address this issue.)

I replied that, no, I was not visiting from Texas, but that I lived here (in LaLaLand) more than half the time now. But I am actually a Georgia resident.

“Where in Georgia?” the Famous Person asked, even though she easily could have ended the conversation at that point.

“Athens…where the University is…” (i.e., “We speak English there, not Deliverance-ese…”)

“Oh, yes,” she said. “Of course I know it. We have a place outside of Savannah.” Then she went on to tell me where she grew up.

My grandson was running around in the car circle now, chased by his great-aunt. When she looked that way, I told her, “But now I’m out here a lot helping to take care of my grandson. My daughter had a stroke.”

At that moment, Katherine and Jay walked out of Shutters. Jay helped Katherine get settled on a bench behind us. I turned that way, and said, “This is my daughter, Katherine.”

She immediately went over to Katherine and introduced herself. (As If.)

And sat down on the bench next to her.

They started talking away like any two young moms would talk. “How many children do you have?” “Where do they go to Preschool?” “How do you like it?”

She said to Katherine, “I guess you spend most of your time in Rehab now.” Katherine acknowledged that. She asked, “But you want to have other children some day?” Katherine may have given her TMI on that one.

Then Katherine said, “You probably don’t remember this, but we’ve met before. I was the presenter at an awards show a couple of years back. I got to hand you your award.”

Life is strange.

I wandered away at that point to check on James. He had mounted someone’s bike, and my sister-in-law was trying to keep him from falling off and starting a domino effect with the other bikes.

They pulled our car up. (Before the Famous Person’s, even though she had given them her ticket first.)

Neither Jay nor I had any cash for a tip. I ran back over to the bench and interrupted the conversation to ask Katherine if she had any. Instantly, her new acquaintance whipped out her purse and tried to hand me some ones. “Oh no,” I protested. In the meantime, Katherine had produced a five. “Okay,” she said, “I’ll give you five ones for that.”

Just like any girlfriend would.

I thanked her and told her it was great to meet her. I started to run for the car; but for some reason, I looked at her and said, “Take care.”

That night, I googled her to see what movies she’s been in recently. I don’t have a whole lotta time to keep up with popular culture these days.

But I didn’t read about the movies.

I read about the stalker.

He’s been terrorizing her for 8 years. He was finally arrested just two months ago, lurking outside her daughter’s preschool.

***************

Yesterday, a handy man was here hanging blinds on the windows. My new abode is very close to a busy sidewalk, so privacy is imperative. I got scared the other night, peeking out the window at someone standing on the corner for what I thought was an unusually long time. Paranoia.

Opening my new blinds this morning, I notice how efficient they are in shutting out things I don’t want to allow in. I want to shut out prying eyes…shut out danger…shut out the cold. Shut out things I don’t want to see.

The analogy comes: Fear can make us shut other people out. Those who lead an anxious, shuttered existence try to hide their true selves behind opaque blinds of self-protection. But in keeping others out, we also barricade ourselves away from the possibility of connection… communion…love.

I kept thinking about our new acquaintance in this context.

I can’t think of anyone who has more right to close herself up, yank the blinds shut, and whistle for the guard dog than does she. As if being stalked by a dangerous, delusional “born-again Christian” (per the press) weren’t enough, she is stalked 24 hours a day by greedy paparazzi, searching her trash bins for a scrap to feed the gossip machine. She can’t pick up her child from preschool without becoming a walking target. Every click of a camera shutter must feel like a bullet piercing the vest of her privacy.

I’d want to shutter myself away if I were in her place. Keep up my guard. Avoid eye contact with people.

But she opened herself up to be kind and gracious. Generous and compassionate. She put herself out there…cracked a little window into her world.

She even told Katherine where her child goes to school.

Her desire to be real was greater than her fear of being vulnerable.

That is true beauty.

***************

Her attitude toward us was inspirational. Two days later, I “paid it forward” to a homeless man.

Pass it on.

p.s. If anyone decides to take up this challenge...to open yourself up to someone you might not ordinarily open yourself up to...to allow yourself to be vulnerable...I'd love to hear your story.

Permission

I told Jay and Katherine that I was going to stroll James up the hill to the Public Park, but I just didn’t have the energy. My family sometimes wears me out. They were all around for Valentine’s weekend.

It was great, but I was tired. So we wandered over toward the main square in Culver City instead, where James might find an ice cream, and his grandmother might find lunch without having to fix it.

For some reason, there is a weird dancing lion in the center of the square, surrounded by randomly erupting geysers of water.

It was…at last…a warm, pretty L.A. day, so we were not disturbed by the lack of seating at Chipotle.

I sat on a bench in the square to consume my burrito bowl, while James stared at the big boys who flirted with the fountain. They were street-wise and savvy, and knew how to jump out of the way just before an eruption was about to occur.

I was glad that James was able to get a little dose of vitamin D from the recently-elusive sun. I glanced down at my burrito bag for a second to get settled. When I looked up, James had his little foot poised above the wet pavement. “You better not get wet, James,” I warned.

(If there’s a mud puddle anywhere in the county, that boy will find it and jump in it.)

I searched for utensils. When I glanced back up, James was getting a little spray.

“I told you not to get wet, James. Come back over here and finish your ice cream.”

He must not have heard me.

Suddenly, the playful 2-foot mini-sprays grew into Yellowstone Park eruptions.

The older boys jumped back just in the nick of time; James got soaked.

He looked back at me, astonished.

And died laughing.

I could sense the eyes of on-lookers waiting to see what my reaction would be.

I died laughing, too.

Then it turned into a free-for-all, with James as the ring-leader. The two older boys, who had stayed scrupulously dry before, saw how much fun James was having getting wet. They grew more and more daring. When they saw how James was reveling in the experience with complete abandon, it emboldened them to take greater risks. Before long, everyone was soaked.

The passers-by were astonished. I wish there had been hidden cameras somewhere. Their looks said, “Where are this child’s parents? Who is in charge here???”

The older boys were accompanied solely by their father, who didn’t know exactly how to respond to the situation. He made vague threats and admonitions, but it was obviously that he wasn’t terribly upset.

Then, their mother strolled up with a baby.

She didn’t think the scene was as funny as I did. She started yelling at the kids to get out of the water.

But they kept getting wetter and wetter.

And I just couldn’t stop laughing.

Outloud.

Loudly.

Like a lunatic.

Like someone who was completely losing it.

Maybe I was, but it felt

good.

I gave James permission to get absolutely soaking wet in the middle of downtown Culver City without a change of clothes or a dry diaper. I gave him permission to get the only shoes that survived the move…suede ones at that…totally, soddenly saturated. Eventually, I gave him permission to take his clothes off in a public place and just DANCE in the water. Slip-sliding away in the Land of Oz.

Because, or course, the weird lion was supposed to be the Cowardly one from the Wizard. But no longer cowardly.

Other little boys passing by were drawn like moths to the light.

One group consisted of three brothers with their three nannies. One nanny per boy. (Two were infant twins.) I thought, There’s no way those nannies are going to let Little Lord Fauntleroy get wet.

A beautiful little redhead, he lingered on the outskirts looking wistfully at the wild boys running and sliding and laughing. My heart went out to him.

A couple came strolling by with their 2 or 3-year–old boy. They watched from the sidelines for quite a while. I was busy multi-tasking…trying to capture the scene on my Iphone while eating my burrito bowl at the same time. When I noticed the couple again, the mother was trying to talk the timid little boy into the fountain. She got in to coax him, not wanting him to be just a side-liner.

By this time, the first mother and I had begun talking. She said something about my “son.” (Remember, 50-year-olds have babies in LA.) I explained that he was my grandson, and before long a very condensed version of our story came out. Being a neurotic from the South, I tried to make excuses for being a bad disciplinarian. I said something like, “Oh, you know, indulgent grandmothers and all that. Because of our family’s circumstances, James doesn’t have much of a chance to play with other kids. I love to see him having so much fun.”

Something changed in her.

She got out her Iphone, too, and started taking pictures of her little boys having fun in the sun and spray. She let them take their shoes and shirts off in a public square and get just as wet as James.

It was a joy-fest.

At last, I decided it was time to go home. James was starting to get cold. Packing up the stroller with drenched little boy clothes, I looked up to see a beautiful sight:

Those nannies finally relented. That gorgeous little redhead jumped into the water to join in the baptism of Joy.

Strolling home with James wrapped up in my jacket, I reflected on the phenomenon I’d just witnessed. I realized something.

The desire for freedom is contagious.

(So is joy.)

Sometimes you have to break a few rules every now and then; defy conventions a little. Make exceptions. Move beyond your initial response. Do the unexpected. Lay down expectations. Live in the moment. Let your hair down. Relax. Stop and smell…

And give others permission to do so.

I am so glad that I gave James permission to be free that day.

Maybe we should do the same for each other.

**************

“It is for freedom that Christ has set us free. Stand firm, then, and do not let yourselves be burdened again by a yoke of slavery.” (Galatians 5:1)

Missing Katherine

Hi Friends,

I have written a new post, but felt it was more appropriate to post it as a 'p.s.' on Katherine's Mom's Blog.

You can check it out here:

http://katherineawolf.blogspot.com/2010/02/missing-katherine.html

Love, kim

oh, heck, will somebody tell me how to do a link? In the meantime, click on the underlined address in the left column. (That was just for any other old lady technophobes who might be reading.)

Space Heaters

Please just look at this thing.

It is a little box, 7 inches wide by 9 inches tall.

I had no idea that something this small could make such an enormous difference.

It has changed my life.

I’ve been cold before, but I’ve never stayed cold for a week. After a while, your body registers the sensation as a vague pain. Contrary to what you might imagine, even numbness can be strangely painful.

I felt it most in my hands, so it made doing everything harder. The shelves I attempted to paint one night definitely have a “distressed” look that was unintentional. Oh well. They go with the rest of the cottage.

I was surprised that it even hurt to breathe sometimes. Cold air invading the sensitive nostrils stung like noxious fumes. Those were the times that it was best to just give in and curl up in a ball in a blanket cave.

Although the electrician strongly advised against it, I broke down and bought the above item on Day 7. If I perish, I perish. At least I’ll be warm.

I woke up in heaven. No sharp, biting intake of air with the first breath of morning. Just luxurious warmth. It felt good to wake up, instead of like a punishment. I almost broke out into “Zippy-dee-doo-dah.”

But I was chastened in my quiet time.

Oh, what a spoiled brat I am. Forgive me for viewing gifts as rights.

Inevitably, my thoughts turned to my former neighbors, the Bench People.

I wanted to rush back out to Rite-Aid and buy about a hundred of these little miracle machines and hand them out on Westwood Drive.

But the recipients wouldn’t have any place to plug them in.

It is stunning to me that such a small, cheap, insignificant thing could make such a world of difference.

It made me think about a couple of times when people have told me that some small gesture of mine had made a huge difference in their lives. In one case, even the difference between life and death.

I had hesitated in making the gesture, thinking I had too little to give. Not wanting to give ‘just an onion,’ as Dostoyevsky said, thinking an apple might be preferred.

A $19 space heater warmed up the whole house:

A subtle reminder that something simple, small, and paltry…not costly to me…might fill an empty space in someone’s heart with the warmth of God’s love.

***************

Good News Update: This was started several days ago. Since then, the Gas Co. has come, the heat is on (although not without other challenges), and we are feeling much more sane. The painting is finally finished, and Katherine, Jay, and James have spent the night in their new home. Alleluia! (Hallejuah! in Southern-Speak.) Thanks for all the support through yet another transition. Katherine and Jay have the most wonderful friends in the whole world. There is no way we can ever, ever repay. We love you!!!

Refugees

I’m not exactly known as the neatest person on the planet.

I’m probably in the lower 50% in terms of laziness.

…or should that be in the “top 50% of laziness”?

You get the point.

I’m not particularly anal about cleanliness and order.

However.

However, this is a bit much, even for messy me.

If Robin Williams were to visit, he would most likely go into one of his voices from Mrs. Doubtfire: “Yes, dahlings, we were going for the Tres Chic Cambodian Refugee Look here.” On dropping by unannounced, Martha Stewart might direct her fan club to “Note the faaabulous folding bamboo furniture that can be thrown on the back of a water buffalo at a moment’s notice.”

Or maybe we’re White Russian aristocrats in flight from the encroaching Communists. Camping out in someone’s attic with all of our remaining possessions massed around us in piles.

Stop being so dramatic, Kim.

It’s only temporary.

Still. I’m not as young as I used to be. Things aren’t as easy. I need a little order.

I can’t find anything.

It’s strangely unsettling.

Okay, that part was written as we were living through dismantling the apartment where Katherine, Jay, James, and I were all staying. Some of the stuff from their place at Casa Colina was stacked around the walls. Some of the youngest sister’s belongings that made it to California, but not into the dorm room, were crammed into nooks and crannies. It was a danger zone of random disorder.

Since then, we’ve experienced The-Never-Ending-Move. The bamboo is officially unfolded in it's new home. Katherine, Jay, and James are currently ensconced in the historic hotel where the Munchkins actually did stay during the filming of “Oz.” It hasn’t been renovated since. Still, it has its quirky charm. AND it’s better than attempting fit into the Munchkin Manor (my husband’s designation) with Mimi while the main house is being painted by Jay and the world’s greatest friends.

As my long-suffering son-in-law says, the past week has been a game of Tetris. The tenants weren’t out of Jay and Katherine’s house until the night before the official moving day. The lady who was renting the storage area that goes with the house wasn’t out until the night of the move. As a result, Jay had to fill up my storage area with their stuff from Westwood. I had the movers leave about half of my belongings in the back yard because they wouldn’t fit into the Manor. It’s been a fascinating exercise in creative storage. Fitting a lot into a little.

Then, The Pod was delivered. This was like opening a time-capsule from the day when Jay and Katherine’s picture-perfect life in Malibu was abruptly interrupted by tragedy. There’s also a storage unit somewhere that is yet to be unveiled.

So, during this past cold and rainy week, we’ve moved and moved and moved again. Sometimes it’s felt like we’re moving around in an unending circle.

Unfortunately, we’ve been having serious miscommunications with the Gas Company. For almost a week, I have lived with no heat, no hot water, no oven/stove, and no washer/dryer. Thankfully, I finally got TV and internet.

It’s been in the low 40’s at night. Bizarrely, it is much colder inside the house than outside. The first night, I slept in my Uggs, down jacket, and fleece bathrobe, with a pashmina around my neck, husband’s hat on my head, and gloves.

Now I’m getting tough and hardy. Pioneer woman. Last night I skipped the hat, gloves, and Uggs. I’m getting used to living in the 19^th Century.

Except for one thing: you have to really need to go potty, as it’s like sitting bare-bottomed on an iceberg. Still, I suppose it’s better than an outhouse.

I finally had a complete meltdown with the Gas Company yesterday. (Loud voice and dramatic crying on the phone.) But this morning, as I type with numb un-nimble fingers, I realize that this experience has been a gift.

For over a week, I have been given just a tiny tiny taste of what it must feel like to be a refugee. To be displaced, disoriented, disempowered. At the mercy of others. Continuously cold and dirty. Clinging to bags of meaningless belongings. Confused and lost. Longing to go back home.

It has been a good experience for me. I have taken so many things in my life for granted. I think it’s important to be shaken up every now and then. I realize how easily we become used to our little creature comforts, our neat routines, our ways of doing things. This has forced me to think about the people who don’t live the way I am privileged to live. There are so many who exist in the Land of Nightmares rather than living the American Dream.

The Displaced Ones.

Just look around.

I see them every day here in the City of Angels, carting their meager bags from corner to corner.

Looking for someplace warm…a refuge from the elements.

I see the Haitian people seeking refuge in tents because their homes and lives were destroyed.

But I also see the beautiful, smiling eyes of a little boy who arrived yesterday from Rwanda, country of refugees. Embraced by his new parents, he is welcomed into our faith family by a circle of love.

He is finally home.* 

It occurs to me that in many ways, we are all just aliens trying to get a visa…

nomads on a pilgrimage…

strangers in a strange land…

Refugees trying to find our way back home.

***************

* http://www.littlewats.blogspot.com/

“We are aliens and strangers in your sight, as were all our forefathers. Our days on earth are like a shadow…” (I Chronicles 29:15)

“And they admitted that they were aliens and strangers on earth… If they had longed for the country they came from, they could have gone back. But they were looking for a better place, a heavenly homeland. That is why God is not ashamed to be called their God, for he has prepared a city for them.” (Hebrews 11: 13-16)