I Can Not Be Thrown Away

      On the day before my discharge from Spaulding Rehabilitation Hospital, a clergyman came to call on me.  I recalled

agreeing to his visit three weeks earlier, when I was first

admitted.  Now, after a particular arduous stay, it seemed, well, irrelevant.  I had found my way without the particular religious salves he might offer: I was fine.  However, I did not banish him from my bedside.  We chatted about the fine work of the Rabbi who had called upon me when my first hip was replaced and I was rehabilitated at Spaulding.  The clergyman explained he was a Baptist, that

he and the Rabbi and the priest who served the hospital had a deep appreciation for each others’ work.  The message that God is present and moving in our lives, even in our darkest hours, is non-denominational.  It was a brief visit, and I felt I had weathered it politely without revealing some of the profound questions that have surfaced in my life recently.

As he was leaving, I saw how tightly the minister was clutching his clipboard – I thought he was clutching the list of faith-seeking patients he might locate by room number.  Instead, he pulled out a sheet from all of the others.  As he did so, he said, “I find we have a lot to learn from each others’ religions.  The Rabbi came to my church to address my parishioners last year.  I would like to leave you with a few words written by a Catholic Cardinal.  Please, when you have a moment, read this over and see if they mean something to you.” I folded the page in thirds and placed it on my blanket before shaking his hand goodbye.  

      As the minster was leaving the room, he paused to talk to my roommate.  The “privacy” curtain was half drawn between our beds; neither of them could see me. Without much thought, I reached for the paper on my bed and unfolded it.  My first thought was that the page-long prayer he left me was like an overly-adorned woman.  The ornate, ritualistic language typical of Catholicism almost managed to obscure the simple, beautiful and powerful message therein. I had no forewarning of my reaction. When I read Cardinal Newman’s prayer and translated it into a language I use myself in praying to God, something broke inside of me. I wept. I tried to do so silently.  I simply couldn’t imagine what was happening. With no Kleenex at hand, I buried my face in my blankets. I tried to restrain the shudders of grief and relief that passed through me. The whole time, I kept my face turned toward the window while I struggled to regain my composure. The message that I am not disposable and that I have a role to play was a powerful one at this time in my life.  I know that I must thank John Henry Cardinal Newman for starting this particular conversation with God.

I am created to reflect God’s glory. The design for me is to serve mankind in a way that is uniquely suited to me and my God-given gifts.  This is my life’s work.  I am uniquely created to do something or to be someone to serve others. My place in the world is one no one else can serve; whether I am rich or poor, despised, or esteemed by others, God knows my heart. I may not understand the role I serve. I listen to the quiet, inner voice that guides me and speak my truth, I can be certain that I am playing my part in God’s world. I am a link in a chain, a bond of connection between others.

I will trust God.  Whatever, wherever I am,

        I can never be thrown away.

God is with me. If I am in sickness, my sickness may serve Him: in confusion, my confusion may serve Him; if I am in sorrow, my sorrow may serve Him. My sickness, confusion, or sorrow may be stopping points on the path toward an end I can not imagine, but is part of God’s plan. God may prolong my life or shorten my life. He may take away my friends, throw me into unfamiliar circumstances, or leave my future clouded and uncertain. I may feel abandoned, desolate and alone.  Yet, despite these heart-wrenching trials, I hold fast to my faith in God’s presence in my life.

No matter my purpose or my work, I will trust in God, who affords all goodness, love, life and light. 

~John Henry Cardinal Newman as paraphrased by Dawn Elise Evans

The Secret

If what we read feeds our thoughts, it is pretty clear what I have been thinking lately.  I have books strewn about the house.  In a whirlwind blast to tidy up the house this morning, I gathered up some of the books I am reading currently.  When I saw the stack, I laughed out loud.  The pattern that emerged was pretty clear.  
One Day My Soul Just Opened Up  by Iyanda Vanzant
Mind Power into the 21st Century by John Kehoe
The Healing Power of Mind  Simple mediation Exercises for Health Well-Being and Enlightenment
              Tulku Thondup
The books have been dropped in the bathtub (where I often fall asleep reading them), highlighted and their pages dog-earred and torn.  These book have been well-worn and well-loved.

In a few days, I am going into the hospital for my second hip replacement in three months.  I have been working hard to harness the infinite power of my mind to bring about the best outcome.  For that reason, I must have pulled these books off my library shelf at different points of times.  These books are instruction manuals for enlightened thought; using different words, describing varied examples, their messages are all the same.
You are GREAT. You can do this!
I encourage anyone who is trying to find their way through a physically, emotionally or spiritually challenging period in their lives to seek out and read any one of these books. I will tell you honestly, however, that it's not about the books you read.  What I have discovered is that it is about the willingness to ask the questions.  The answers you seek will not be found in a single book nor in a single teacher.  If you are determined to find an answer and are willing to ask for help,  you will ultimately find the answer within yourself.  Just ask Dorothy ~ you don't even need ruby slippers.   The  answer  may not be the answer you want, nor even the one you imagined, but the answer is already within your reach.  So, that's The Secret.  Picture my hand cupped and curled as I lean close to you and quietly whisper,        "Pass it on..."

Living with Grief

May was Ehler’s-Danlos Awareness Month

For me, every month is Ehler’s-Danlos Month.  Living with Ehler’s-Danlos Syndrome*, I mourn daily.  I mourn the future I had envisioned before I had major medical issues.  I mourn the freedom to live each day without physical pain.  I mourn the many things I can no longer do.  I mourn the freedom to choose my activities without limitations imposed upon me due to issues of health. 

I believe that it was 1976 when I met Elizabeth Kübler-Ross at a seminar conducted for the newly- formed hospice agency on Martha’s Vineyard.  She introduced us to the idea that there were five stages of grief.  Originally, these stages applied to people facing terminal illnesses.  However, she realized that grief is laid bare whenever there is a catastrophic personal loss. This may also include significant life events such as the death of a loved one, divorce and the onset of a disease or chronic illness.

From Elizabeth Kubler Ross,The Five Stages of Grief

1. Denial — "I feel fine."; "This can't be happening, not to me."
   Denial is usually only a temporary defense for the personal. This feeling is generally replaced with heightened awareness of the  possessions and  the people that will be left behind.
2. Anger — "Why me? It's not fair!"; "How can this happen to me?"; '"Who is to blame for this happening to me?"
   Once in the second stage, the individual recognizes that denial cannot continue. Because of anger, the person is very difficult to care for due to misplaced feelings of rage and envy toward others.
3. Bargaining — "Just let me live to see my children graduate."; "I'll do anything for a few more years."; "I will give my life savings if..."
   The third stage involves the hope that the individual can somehow postpone or delay the loss. Usually, the negotiation for an extension is made with a higher power in exchange for a reformed lifestyle. Psychologically, the individual is saying, "I understand loss in inevitable, but if I could just have more time as it was..."
4. Depression — "I'm so sad, why bother with anything?"; "I'm going to die... What's the point?"; "My life, as I knew it is over, so why go on?"
   During the fourth stage, the person begins to understand the certainty of loss. Because of this, the individual may become silent, refuse visits from friends and spend much of the time crying and grieving. This process allows the person to disconnect from things that offer love and affection.  It  is an important time for grieving; these feelings must be processed.
5. Acceptance — "It's going to be okay."; "I can't fight it, I may as well prepare for it."
   In this last stage, the individual begins to come to terms with the impending loss or death.  They find peace.

Each new day presents me with an opportunity to move closer to Acceptance.  The funny thing is that, just when I am confident that I am at peace with my life and my diagnosis, I

rebel.  I plant the geraniums, paint the trim, go out to dinner.  The next day, I find myself in bed angry at myself and bargaining with the Powers that Be. I resent the price I pay for the simple pleasures of daily living.  It’s all up to me, however.   When I successfully break this cycle, I know I will be closer to achieving a state of grace. 

Go to www.ednf.org/  or you can watch http://www.ehlersdanlosnetwork.org/mysterydiagnosis.html

to learn more about Ehler’s-Danlos Syndrome.. 

The Cottage on the Vineyard

The first time I remember being in the Cottage was 1963.  The Johnsruds stayed there and my sister and I stayed with our parents down the street in the pink house behind the Wesley House.  That was the summer my Mom cut her foot so badly on the beach.  My sister and I were enchanted with the floor grates in our second floor bedroom -- they afforded us the ability to eavesdrop on the adults downstairs.

Mary K. guarded the Cottage with all of the possessiveness of a mother lion protecting her cubs.  The Johnsruds were careful to observe all of her rules and the Campground’s regulations.  Of issue was how to enjoy alcohol on the porch.  Cousin D and I were excited to be allowed an overnight in the room that later became my bedroom.  For lighting effects, he draped a cloth over the lampshade and nearly started a fire.  That was the summer of “The Cousin’s Photo” – the five of us lined up in Martha’s Vineyard sweatshirts. It is an enduring icon of our family history.

The Cottage became my lynchpin: while our family moved, uprooted and began again, to meet my Dad’s career moves, the Cottage was home.  When life in Rhode Island became overridden with conflict at home in April, 1976,  I escaped to the Cottage. I was seventeen. It was no coincidence that I married an Islander.  Six weeks after our first child, H, was born, I took her to the Cottage to begin to earn her status as a ”sort-of Island girl”.  Our daughter, K,was captivated by a place where her creative expression was rewarded; she won first place in the All-Island Art Show in the Children's Division.  C, my third baby was tagged our Beach Baby Beach Bum after spending day after day under an umbrella at the Beach Club.   
As our family contemplates plans for my father's long term medical care, the piece of the equation that is difficult to resolve is the future of The Cottage.  It is his asset, it is my heritage.  The Cottage and the Island represent family, home and tradition to me.  In the days ahead, I will do what I can to preserve it....for my parents, for my children and for their children.   

The Power of Forgiveness

 

It has taken over fifty years for me to begin to discover the power of forgiveness. A surprising corollary to that understanding has been that, whenever I stop assigning power to the person or event that hurt me, I am a happier person.  Every time I find the strength to forgive someone, something good rushes in to fill the space my resentment once occupied.  It’s as if condemnation, with its far-reaching and evil tentacles, tries to stifle goodness.  It takes persistence, desire and vigilance to achieve forgiveness.

Since Sunday-school teachers drilled it, grade-school teachers recited it, and high-school teachers demanded it, I have tried to live by the Golden Rule to “do unto others as you would have the do unto you.” I have done a fair-to-middling job in that practice.  Where I have been most deficient is in tearing up the list of misdeeds I have suffered. In self-indulgent moments, I imagine a long-robed judge sitting through my recitation of the wrongs I have endured.  Her head nods in silent encouragement as I pour forth with my sorry tales.  Finally, she sets forth her judgment, proclaiming as justified and warranted my feelings of anger and resentment. Her legitimization leaves me righteous and satisfied.   I am left with a twinge of disappointment when my fabricated Goddess fades from view.

                When we suffer an injustice or hurt by another, we rush to judge them and condemn them for having made us suffer.  That anger is pernicious.  Before long, it becomes the dye in which our world is colored.  Hard-earned experience has taught me that forgiveness is like an invisible contract we have to make between ourselves and the ghost of the person who hurt us.

To break it down, there are seven steps to practicing forgiveness.                                                                                                                                    

                                                

Seven Steps to Forgiveness

1.     Acknowledge your feelings of anger and resentment.

2.     Identify why you have these emotions.

3.     Allow yourself time to experience these feelings.

4.     Desire the release that forgiveness offers.

5.     Picture how things would be without this negativity in your life.

Practice blame-free living in short bursts.

Dig deep and offer light and goodness to the person or people who hurt you.  Repeat    “I forgive you, I release you, I am letting you go.”

6.     Repeat Steps 4 and 5 until you feel detached from the person or people that hurt you.

     

      7.  Accept that forgiveness is a process. Expect to go three steps forward and two steps back. Blame and resentment can resurface without warning.  Be prepared to renew your efforts.   

Forgiveness is an act that demands that we let go our sense of the injustice we have suffered.  When we release our judgments and seek understanding instead, we are giving

to others what we would ask for ourselves.  We must not forgive once, twice nor even seventeen times.  We must forgive until we find only love in our hearts; be assured that love comes back to us and multiplies.  Through forgiveness, there is redemption. In forgiveness, we are made whole.

Why Easter Means More Than Chocolate Bunnies

           Easter’s origins are sacred to those whose practice Christianity.  The holiday is sacred to me for wholly different reasons.  As a young child, Easter promised a litany of traditions that were strictly observed in our family:  a new dress, a new slip, white gloves, bobby socks, and shiny new

patent-leather shoes.  The most cherished addition to the Easter outfit was a “bonnet”; I was often able to choose a pert new hat to set off my dress.  There were Easter baskets filled with small gifts and chocolate bunnies that

helped the hour or so before church pass quickly.  Holding my mother’s hand, I loved stepping into the nave of the church buffeted by the triumphant musical offerings that heralded the Good News. Easter Sundays forced the minister to truncate his sermon in order to make room for the choir director’s choral arrangements. In my Protestant church, timeliness was never violated; the notion of running more than the prescribed hour for a service was anathema to the congregation.  Contrary to other Sunday services, I did not doze or scribble or play mindless games such as counting the number of bricks in the ceiling.  Instead, on Easters, I nibbled every so slowly on the one, foil-wrapped chocolate bunny I was allowed to tuck into my little purse along side my white hankie bearing the letter “D and a quarter for the offertory plate.

         When I was twelve, my knees frequently dislocated when I walked.  A renowned orthopedic surgeon in New Jersey advised us that I needed to have my knees repaired as soon as possible; beside the painful nature of this problem, I was doing irreparable damage to the cartilage. We would start with the right knee during Easter vacation.  In addition, I would miss another week or ten days of school.  Three to six months later, he would repair the left knee. 

My surgeon’s schedule dictated I arrive at the hospital the day before the surgery. I underwent lots of blood work and x-rays and a thorough scrubbing before being wheeled down to the operating room at 6a.m. the next morning.  The post-surgical week was filled with pain, glimpses of my parents and sister, morphine delirium and friendly bunnies hopping off the walls.  By Easter morning, my doctor deemed me fit for a daytime-leave from the hospital.  I was to be back in my hospital bed by 6 p.m..  Our traditions for the day were put aside to accommodate my condition.  For example, for my Easter outfit, my mother delighted me by making me a pair of flowing palazzo pants in a psychedelic pink fabric that I had admired.  The pants fit easily over my thigh to ankle cast. My flip-flops were the only shoes that fit my swollen foot. Our family had dinner in a dark, crowded restaurant.  Its wooden dance floor still haunts me as I remember crutching back from the Ladies Room and taking a clumsy spill on the somewhat forgiving surface. Fortunately, I more bounced than fell.  I was publicly mortified when my father scooped me up and placed back in my wheelchair.  However, those splendid palazzo pants gave me the confidence to be wheeled back to the car under the curious eyes of the other restaurant guests.

     I turned very quiet on the car ride back to the hospital.  I was faced with another painful week of physical therapy.   My mind was desperately trying to reconcile the meaning of Easter with the idea of spiritual resurrection and with the daunting tasks ahead.  I was faced with having to recuperate from the right knee surgery then return to repeat the entire process on my left knee. I remember the thrill when I had first had a glimmer of an insight; the only way through these challenges was going to be with the help of my family, my friends, and my faith.   

        

         Easter was all about the impossible. Easter that year had not included most of our traditional observances.  We didn’t attend church or enjoy the familiar music that always lifted my spirits.  The flowers, oh the flowers – lily’s and hyacinths and tulips and daffodils – all so integral in proclaiming Easter—were not in sight.  There was no Easter egg hunt.    However, a cataclysmic shift took place in my understanding of Easter.  The resurrection of hope could not be confined to one oft-told tale of of a young man’s sojourn to death and back again.  For me, Easter had come to have an enormous significance for anyone who believed in the possibility of new beginnings. Anyone who wished to could lay down the burden of their past and, instead, pick up the promise of the future. 

        

         In the last gasp of pre-teen awareness, I understood that Easter was not about the new hat, the new dress or the chocolate Easter bunny.  Easter was about the crocuses pushing their way up through the cool, dark soil to bring a spot of color to a spring day.  Easter was about the sunrise when the fingers of first light promised the dawn of a new day. 

          In the forty years since that Easter, nothing has diminished my belief that Easter serves to remind us that hope is a certainty; it is among God’s greatest gifts to mankind.   Darkened skies and  defeated spirits can not withstand the restorative power of hope….Hope, buoyed by love and a positive attitude,  always brings with it a better, brighter tomorrow.  

Charles Frank Film

This is a link to Charles Frank's trailer for a short he is entering in a film contest in Easthampton, MA.

http://www.youtube.com/user/charlesfrankfilm

While there, check out his film called, "Tag."  He won a prize for it last year.  This is a proud mother.