Real Peace

 

                                       Antigua, Guatemala      Semana Santa              

I love my church.  I love it so much that I haven't been to it for a few years.  I didn't like the rector, or some of it's more pious members or the new construction or the lack of parking spaces or the whatever.  But, it's a new year, a new rector, and a new me, so I went to church today.  It was so nice to be back.  I was really looking forward to the peaceful reverence my church holds for me whenever I enter it's old familiar doors.  I love the quiet peace that will always follow.  

This being the new rector's first Sunday to spread the word, the eager parishioners  held a reception for him between services.  Not being a mingler at all, I immediately found an old friend in the kitchen and  went to talk to her.  I had planned on meeting the rector through his sermons.  As I was standing there catching up, I got a chill .  A real chill.  And, I couldn't concentrate.  Then I saw him.  The him I had made the wreath for last year.  The him who safely lived eight hours away.  So much for the peace and reverence the new me was hoping for.  The kitchen was small and we were the only three people in it.  The Big Chill walked right past me  and stood at the end of the kitchen with his back to me.  He hesitated.  He hesitated for too long.  He was waiting for me to call his name.  He was waiting for me to come to him.  With his name on my lips, I took a deep breath and said to myself  No need.  There was too much between us, but really not enough.

The new me.  I like her.  I like her  a lot.  And the blessed peace and reverence that she's finding.

Sacred Dung

This little guy showed up outside my window yesterday.  Right by my back door.  Just waiting for me to see him.  The picture doesn't show it, but he was the most beautiful shade of metallic green.  He sat? there, perfectly calm and very poised  while I took his picture. If I lived in Egypt, he would be thought of as sacred, because he'd probably be a scareb beetle, which the Egyptologists translated as what has come into being, to transform, to become.   But I live in Texas,  so that would simply make him just a plain old  dung beetle.   NOT sacred.  Not even close.  Just a pest.  I do think he's higher up on the beetle scale than the ordinary june bug.  Not being an entomologist and not knowing one, I'm just going to believe that maybe, just maybe, he really was  some kind of sacred beetle. 

 After all, he did come and visit the very day Debi's boyfriend decided to take the pool table.....

And  I am coming into being.  My own being.

Thank You God

Thank you God and Jesus and the Universe.  Thank you Pop-Poo and Ma Ma and Daddy and anyone else who helped bring everyone together in my life.  Thank you for sending Katie to me, who sent me to Debi, who has a boyfriend, who wants the pool table.  I had no idea it would all come together so fast.  Muchas gracias, merci beacoup  and last, but not least,  adios!!!!

My life sans the pool table has already gotten better.  I decided to look around online for what I might replace the pool table with.  A French farm table is what came immediately to mind.  It would be so great for projects.  When I googled it  and clicked on a link, this wonderful blog popped up.     euroantiquemarket.blogspot.com   Beautiful pictures.  Definitely an artful blog. There was a picture of an old French door knocker that's a very cool hand.  I happen to have one on my own front door, but mine is from San Miguel.  Hmmmm.......The quote underneath the picture reads:

When one door closes, another opens, but if we spend too much time concentrating on the closed door we don't notice the open one.   Helen Keller

Is that perfect or what?  Whatever it is that's on it's way is already in motion.  BIG motion!

No More

Okay.  Here it is; I'm just going to say it.  It has to go.  Now.  The pool table HAS TO GO.  It's the last huge remnant of my thirty year marriage.  I've walked past it oodles of times for the past four years.  I can't do it any longer.  I DON'T WANT TO.  It's a constant reminder of a lousy attempt to re-invent the already gone marriage.

Katie, yes Debi's lovely Katie, was here.  It needs to go, she said.  NOW!  Right now!  I've been thinking that very thing for several months, but I just needed for someone to say it to me.   Now I just need to figure out how to get rid of it.  It's heavy and it's big, and  it's making me sick.

When it's gone, I promise I'll never mention the crummy marriage again.  I swear!

The Scurriers

Lance says It's Not About the Bike

But, it's so about the bike.  Completely about the bike.

 

Because of several surgeries, even more of rads of radiation, and an IM rod in my right femur, my right leg is less than stellar, shall we say?  Depending on the weather, the shoes I'm wearing, the ground under my feet, whatever I've just done, the day of the week, or just about anything else, movement has been difficult for me, for about 30 years.  Especially FAST movement.  The doctor just replaced the IM rod with a new, spiffier model and it has taken me 10 weeks to be able to walk around the block, even  at a snail's pace.

My sweet friend, Rose Jayne, suggested that I get a bike.  A bike will help you heal.

  

With tremendous apprehension, I entered the bike shop.  So not sure of anything.......  when a cool-really-into-bikes young guy waited on me.  He spoke a completely foreign language to me. Gears, tire thickness, street riding, seats, and all kinds of other things I don't even remember because I was just wanting to get  a simple bike with regular brakes, kind of like my old Schwinn.  I was just praying I could get on and stay on the thing!  He was a good salesman and I wanted to heal, so I bought the bike.

I wobbled down the street and finally onto the trail at the Rose Rudman with Rose Jayne, who looked like Speed Racer to me. I was scared to death of every jogger, walker, dog, tree, rock or stick in my path.  Every one of them was a potential accident waiting to happen.  But, I did it.  I rode for 15 whole minutes.  I felt better than fabulous.  Until the next day, when Rose Jayne called and wanted to ride again.  Scurry on over, she said.  I was scared to death all over again. I knew it was so hard for me.  Scurry?  I could barely stay upright...and who says that anyway??

The rides have gotten so much better, and I'm now scurrying all over the place, both on and off the trail.  I like that whirrrrrrr sound the bike makes and all of that self-created wind  I make because I'm riding soooo fast.  Really fast.  We ride and talk, talk and ride.  We solve the problems of the world and catch up on everyone else's lives.  It is very healing.  The other day, I rode in my mom's retirement neighborhood.  Trying to look unconcerned, she stood in her yard, in the hot sun, and waited for me until I cruised back into her drive way.  Did she really think someone was going to snatch her fifty-four year old daughter? Probably not, but it was the sweetest.  I sort of felt like a kid again.

I've finally figured out  that moving moves me.  All of me.   It moves all of that stuff inside of me that makes me feel so stuck.  The bike is healing me.  It's moving me forward in my life without pain.  I have a renewed sense of self.  It's giving me confidence in ways I could have never imagined and it's allowing my body to feel the thrill of moving FAST.

It's very much  ALL ABOUT THE BIKE.

He's Back!

Sancho woke up and couldn't walk.  He cried and cried and cried.  I laid down on the floor beside him and just talked to him and loved on him, but nothing helped.  He just continued to whimper and yelp.  He's the most playful of the three boys and there was no play in him.   Sanchie has never been  a complainer, so I knew it must be bad and I also knew that  his being 11 was also not the greatest.  So, I took this picture of him just in case; the vet was impending.  This wasn't his usual hey baby kind of cool face; but was instead a new face, his help me face.    With a lot of coaxing,  I finally got him on a comforter and drug the comforter to the car.  We both cried the entire 15 minute ride to the vet.  They wanted to keep him overnight.  The drive home alone seemed much longer than 15 minutes.

They called the next day with good news, just arthritis.  When we rode home that day, he sat up very straight in the passenger's seat and smiled so proudly the whole way home.  He loved being the only dog in the car and having it all to himself.  When we got home, he wanted nothing to do with his brothers, who had missed him so much.  He was high on painkillers and I think he felt like he had just gotten home from a spa day.  When it was time for bed, he ran into my bedroom, because that's where he planned on sleeping (even though he never had before).  He was now better than his old self.  He was actually feeling frisky...

A Tale of Dos Hermanos

Yes, you're looking at a door with a HUGE hole in it.   A huge hole THE DOG chewed in it.

 I had a blind date with a man from San Antonio. I met him in Dallas and we had dinner.  I  spent the night  with a friend and came home the next morning.  To this.  This lovely new doggy door.  Oh my!  An anger management problem? Or maybe something much, much more serious.  A  fiber deficiency, perhaps??  A friend thinks the hermanos (Sancho and Finley) got into a fight, maybe over a chica?  and one dog threw the other dog through the door.  The hole is kind of in the shape of another perro and Sancho does have a big smile on his face!

I give up.  You decide.  All I know is - there is no longer a door there AT ALL, for whatever reason.  Oh and the blind date.....No bueno.

P.S.  Eleven years ago, both kids got to pick out their own puppies and  choose their own dog' s name.  My 11 year old son innocently chose a bubba dog and named him Finley.  My worldly 19 year old  daughter,who  had just returned from spending the summer in Mexico, chose a very  cool, suave, kind of ladies man dog, who she named  Sancho.  I was just glad she was using her Spanish.  I knew the painters always snickered when I called for Sancho to come inside and the the yard guy always had a big smile when I yelled Sancho! Come in!  It was the gutter man who finally  enlightened  me, with a smirk on his face.   Hey lady, who are you calling Sancho? Sancho (not to be confused with Santo - holy)  means a ladie's lover-on-the-side!  

Nuns on the Roof

I bought this picture on a recent trip to Guatemala with my daughter.  I've always been fascinated by these saintly women.  Who knows what they were doing on the roof??  Maybe searching for more....

Finding this photo again reminded me of another time, in the not so distant past, when I was soooo lost.  I thought my life was  over and I was grasping to find the NEW me. The me who would be bullet proof against life.  

Making the appointment with the very kind Fr Gus was the easy part. With the purest of hearts and with my eyes brimming with tears, I told Fr. Gus  I wanted to be a nun.  I want to join the sisterhood, I said with such CONVICTION.  After his eyes rolled back in his head where they were supposed to be AND when he regained his composure AND when  he was finally able to speak, he calmly and tenderly said, Oh...............................I don't think that's such a good idea.  What???  Hmmmm.  Oh!  Is is because I'm not Catholic???  Because I'll convert.  I'm Episcopalian!  I'm what y'all call Catholic-Light.  So, it's not a problem.  Not a problem for me AT ALL.  But you see, he said.  It is a problem for me.  I don't think the sisterhood is ready for you.  BUT FR. GUS, how can that be??  I'M SO READY FOR THEM.  He wisely suggested that I  wait one year and  meet with him again and then tell him that I still want to be a nun. 

I ran into Fr. Gus at the annual Knights of Columbus fish fry the following year.  He came and found me and I grabbed him and hugged him so tightly ( thinking, oh no! am I supposed to be hugging a priest, because I'm not really sure?).  His little mischievous eyes told me what was coming next:  So Sheila, are you ready to be a nun?  I laughed out loud.  Too loud!  I knew they would never be ready for me and I also knew I would never be ready for them.

I'm still fascinated by the Sissies, as my friend sweetly calls them.  Especially the Nuns on the Roof.  They are a constant reminder of the great time I had in Guatemala, when I took my daughter to celebrate a new decade of her life.  Her 30th birthday.  Thank you Sissies!

What?

The invitation said the dress was Snappy Casual.  Hmmmm.  Exactly what is that?  

There's White Tie for that oh so very special occasion, that over-the-top special occasion.  And then of course, there's your standard Black Tie.  You can wear a  short dress if it's Semi Formal, can't you?  Sometimes the invitation says Cocktail..... fun pants?  After Five.   A brightly colored halter top, for sure.  The serious Business means a jacket, right?   Business Casual.  Is that the same as Nice Church or is it just hurry up and get to church?  Casual.....shorts?  Costume.  The old pregnant nun.  She always works when you're in a pinch!  But just what is Snappy Casual??

I'm so perplexed.   I finally settle on a cute black dress with a fabulous black and white snappy blouse and bright red lipstick.  It's casual, fun and doesn't make my butt look big. Perfect!  Well guess what???  Snappy Casual just means jeans.   

Voila

This is my bedroom.  It's the most sacred space in my house.  We've earned this title.

In the beginning of the crap house, the room  was simply used for storage.  For only the special and fragile things....These pictures are from an email I had sent to my daughter in Chile.  All I was able to write to her was, "Isn't it horrible?  I can't believe I've done this to us."  That room was a fragile yet still still special jumble, just like me.

Because I was a sad, terrified, depressed, overwhelmed shell of a woman, I painted everything - the walls, ceiling, and all of the woodwork of my bedroom the same bluish-greenish color.  I completed the look with the exact same shade for the carpet and for the bedspread.  I had become a monochromatic 1-D person.  I needed to feel safe and blah.

I started to feel just a little bit more than blah, so I replaced the barely worn carpet  with a rich dark brown hardwood.  So racey....  

But then, I  started feeling exhausted in that supposed-to-be-sacred space.  I must have been feeling brave because  I branched out and bought  an all white bedspread.  Very clean and very sterile.  Definitely more than blah, though.  Maybe I was feeling 2-D now???

It must have been a particularly lonely day when  I walked in the LOOMING ROOM and crashed on the bed.  I had seen just one scoop in the mattress.  Oh no!  It was so obvious that I was alone.  I was  feeling just a hair more than blah, but decided  the bedroom represented me too, which meant that we needed to pick up the pace a little.  This time, I went for a still- all- white, thickly quilted, grandmotherly-looking comforter.  Yep, I was really coming along.

Last week, I walked into the bedroom and screamed out loud. So loud. No more!  This room is BORING.  Boring me to tears.  Real tears.  I want both of us to be more!  Sitting in the mailbox that day was a catalogue from Anthropologie.  And Voila!  There was the comforter that was living up to it's name.  A comforter.  So, this is it.  This is US.