My Favorite Things

So I'm sitting here, at 10:42 pm, listening to the news.  The weather report comes on, and they talk about the impending freezing rain, and Hal starts to sing, "Raindrops Keep Falling on my Head."  I, on the other hand, begin to sing, "Raindrops on roses, and whiskers on kittens, bright copper kettles..."

Which led me to wonder, what ARE a few of my favorite things?  An incomplete list, at best, and in no particular order, but here goes:

Hal's arm sliding over me in bed when I'm having a nightmare, and hearing him say, "It's alright, I'm here."  Hal's arm around me, sitting on the couch watching a movie, my head against his shoulder.  Hal.

Laughing with my sisters.  Fixing dinner or cleaning up dinner with my sisters.  Playing games with my sisters.  My sisters.

Spending time with my nieces and nephews.  Particularly when I can embarrass my nieces by bursting into song at the drop of a word - and loving that both of my sisters and I will usually all three burst into the exact same song at the exact same spot.  I think we've only missed once.  And I love that Hal now also bursts into song at the drop of a word.

Getting to spend time with my stepchildren, daughter-in-law, and my grandchildren.   Having had a chance to build relationships with these wonderful people.

Singing a hymn or reading a piece of scripture aloud and having the words hit me in a way that they never have before, and being unable to utter a sound because I am so overwhelmed by the meaning of what should be coming out of my mouth, but cannot.

The dry humor of Hal and my brother-in-law Bill, although when they are together it can be dangerous for any and all involved.

Seeing the light turn on for someone during worship or Bible study.

Holding a book in my hands, particularly a book that others have read before me.  Reading words that someone has put together in order to make me think, to make me feel, to make me grow.

Music.  Listening, playing, singing, moving to it.  Although I know sometimes I scare Hal when I move in the car.  And with the amount of lyrics I know.  Ask him sometime about the night I suggested meatloaf for dinner the next night.

Cats.  Every sneezy, itchy, throat-scratchy, eye-watering bit of them.  Except for hairballs.  Hairballs are most definitively NOT one of my favorite things.

Creating things.  Yarn things, mostly, but also fabric things and food things and paper things and written things.

Taking pictures.  Capturing something that I see so that others can see through my eyes.  Capturing moments and emotions and silliness and beauty and even the dirt and the normalness and the mundane, the order and disorder of life in general. 

Chocolate.

A cup of hot tea, with milk and sugar.

The imagination of children before they learn that they shouldn't pretend.

The October Dress Project, Take 3

"The motto of the ODP is "anti-consumerism, pro-simplicity, anti-conformity, pro-creativity." How do you think ODP affected your thinking in these areas this year? The way you spend your money or think about your wants vs needs. The brain space and physical space you devote to what you wear and how you look. The way the fashion and beauty industry, peer pressure, or criticism and other's attention shapes your clothing choices. The ways you can express joy, beauty, values, or feelings through what you wear. All these different things and more can be affected by simply wearing the same thing for thirty-one days straight-- so how did it affect you?"

This was the question posted by Avery at the end of this year's ODP.  This was the third of the last four years that I participated in this activity.  One dress, thirty-one days.  Although for me this year it was one dress, twenty-seven days (two days that I stayed in jammies, and the last two days of the month when I was told by my doctor that I probably have a torn rotator cuff and I decided that it was probably not a good idea to continue to pull a dress over my head twice a day).  Here are my thoughts, not in any particular order.

The fashion and beauty industry have almost never shaped my clothing choices.  Except for a brief fling with parachute pants (it was the 80's, people, I could not help myself), I have rarely bought into the latest trends.  Perhaps that stems from having been the youngest of 3 girls and getting some hand-me-downs from sisters, neighbors, and older cousins, there was not a lot of choice for me in clothing.  If it was on sale and I absolutely needed it, I got it.

While I didn't, even as a young child, get into fashion, I had - and still have - a sense of what I like and what I don't like.  I still remember getting a sweater for Christmas one year, from an aunt and uncle now departed, that I thought was too childish for me.  It was too big, so we put it up for the next winter - by which time it was too small.  That did not break my heart - but I broke my mother's that Christmas day because I went behind a chair (I didn't want to cry in front of all those people at my disappointment in the sweater) and would not thank them.  I think more than my personal likes, though, that I was afraid I would be mocked at school for it; even though the size was too big, the image on it, to me, was far too "small."  This fear of criticism may have come from the teasing I had already gotten for wearing things that were out of style - whatever that meant to a 3rd-grader.  Peer pressure sucks.

Then I grew up.  Well, to a point ;) And my brother got a girlfriend.  Jane looked at me one day and said, "Fashion is for those who dare to be different."  And she's right.  Not that I haven't ever bought into someone else's idea of fashion to some extent (see former note on parachute pants).  I learned to take what I liked, and make it work for me, not worrying about what others thought about my combinations.  There have been times that I have had restrictions according to where I have worked, but I have kept my sense of who I am within the clothing that I am required to/restricted from wearing.

Part of the time now I wear a "uniform" - as a pastor, at times I wear a clerical shirt with appropriately styled slacks, skirts, or jumpers.  My shirts, my robes, and my stoles are purchased new(except for the cross-stitched stoles that I found at a thrift store), of good quality.  So, a lot of times, people will see me wearing the same things multiple times, even outside of October.  I like the simplicity of knowing what I will be wearing certain days.  When I don't have to think about it, it makes my morning a lot less frantic. 

When not in uniform, I am still mindful of the appearance I present, as I represent not only myself but also my church - living in a small town, EVERYONE knows who I am and what I do. Having said that, the second piece of wisdom I got about dressing was from a former seminary professor.  Asked by a group of female students what advice she could give us, Beth paused, thought, and said, "Always own at least one dress that your congregation would be shocked to see you in."  And I do.  I am, after all, a woman, was one before I became a pastor, and will be one after I retire (if I live that long) (not that I'm being morose, but none of us know when we'll come to the end of our life).  And, frankly, my husband likes to see me dress up.

Honestly, I don't know that anyone would have noticed I was wearing the same dress if I hadn't talked about it.  Which makes me wonder why so many people buy into the fashion industry.  Do any of us really pay attention to what anyone else wears?  I have gotten to a point where I look at my wardrobe much more critically, and doing the October Dress Project three times has helped in doing that.  I am much more likely to spend less time shopping buying than I used to.  I still like to look at clothes - but at yard sales and thrift shops.  And I'm more likely to donate as I'm buying - replacing instead of adding to wardrobe.  I have been buying fewer things of better quality, even at thrift stores.   When an item has worn out (save for crafting) or been outgrown (no, no, shrunk in the laundry, yeah, yeah, that's it)(donate!), I replace it - I generally don't buy something for the sake of buying it.  Except that I have been buying button-down shirts and cardigans instead of pullovers...but that's an age thing.

The biggest thing that I've gotten out of my three years of doing ODP is the sharing of creativity among participants.  I was never big on accessories, but I now own a number of scarves, belts, and jewelry that I have become fond of.  Again, mostly thrifted.  Looking at others' photos, I have become more likely to see different things that I can do that I had never considered before.

To sum up - I've always been anti-consumerism (perhaps because I've never had a lot of money with which to consume); pro-simplicity is growing on me; Marie anti-conformity is my middle name; and, through the community of ODP I have become more creative with my wardrobe choices.  Will I do this again?  Probably - with a button-down dress.  I will be paring my wardrobe down again, though, as I keep looking at things I have only worn once or twice in the last year.  Time to clear my space again, although more to simplify my options than to refill the space.  I am thankful for this community of women who share with and encourage each other.

Sacrificial Rams

Last night in our study/service, we watched the second session of The Story, which dealt with Abram/Abraham and Sarai/Sarah.  In the course of the video and discussion following, I realized something that I had never realized before.

In Genesis 22, Abraham is told, "...take your son, your only son, Isaac..." and go to Mt Moriah and offer him as a burnt offering to God. 

Wait, what? Isaac was NOT Abraham's only son.  Oh, yes, he was Abraham's only son with Sarah...but he had another son.  A firstborn son.  With Hagar.  Remember Ishmael?  You know, the one that was born AFTER Sarai gave her servant Hagar to Abram?  You know, Hagar, the one who Sarai then dealt harshly with after Ishmael was conceived?  Who left, then went back, and then was sent away with her child?  You know, Ishmael, who got the bulk of the inheritance circumcised at 13 (ouch!) and then after being sent away was laying under a bush in the wilderness where his mother put him to die, until God showed her more water so they didn't die in the wilderness?

It didn't please Abraham to put Ishmael out.  God told him to do what Sarah said (happy wife, happy life to the extreme???).

So here we are, back to Mt Moriah and the almost-burnt-offering of Isaac.  Abraham is told to take his only son to the mountain. Those of us who know the story, know that THE ANGEL OF THE LORD showed Abraham a ram caught in the bush AS HE HAD HIS HANDS IN THE AIR ABOUT TO BRING THE KNIFE DOWN AND KILL HIS SON.  So he didn't have to sacrifice his son.

But Abraham had, in effect, already sacrificed his first son, Ishmael - to the elements, to the kindness of strangers.

What do we deny because it's convenient for us?  You KNOW that Abraham could have kept Hagar and Ishmael around, but Sarah would have made his life miserable (yes, more miserable than  being circumcised at the age of 99).  What do we do wrong, then make others suffer the consequences of our choices? Sarai did not have to give Hagar to Abram - but when Hagar got pregnant, Sarai didn't want her around - even though it was HER FAULT (yes, yes, Abram could have said no - but then there's that whole saying no to Sarai/Sarah thing).

We are not asked to take our children to the mountain to give them up as burnt offering.  But there are things we are called to sacrifice.  Are we as willing to give up what we love, what we cherish, as we are willing to give up the things that are inconvenient?

New Normals

So remember that time I fell down back in June?  No?  Well, I do.  When last I wrote typed I had just gotten a splint - and a bad haircut. 

Splint didn't work.  Cortisone shot didn't work.  Third haircut did work. ;)  End of Oct, after almost 3 months in a brace, I had surgery on my wrist to cut the sheath around the tendon to the thumb.

Not going to go into all the gory details.  Let's just say that the brace has been off for 2 weeks and I'm starting to get my hand back...I think.  I don't know.  I've never had this kind of surgery before.  I've never had my hand and wrist immobilized for four and a half months before.  So I can't close my hand into a fist yet - and I can't squeeze a stress ball much (although I'm doing better than the first day that I tried) - and I can't really cut my meat yet - but I can butter bread and put cheesespread on a cracker.  My hand and the knuckles on all my fingers are swollen.  I can't carry a laundry basket upstairs, but I can use my good hand to drag it done, and can use both hands to handle the clothes.  I can fold clothes, and turn a doorknob. Hal had to put up our Christmas trees (yes, that's plural) and take boxes up and down the stairs, and a friend helped me decorate. 

What I'm saying is this:  if you know me at all, you know I'm not a patient person.  Ok, that may be an understatement.  I want "normal" - and I want it NOW YESTERDAY!  I am, though, learning to accept small advances instead of trying to force normal. 

That's so hard to do, isn't it?  We want to force things to be the way we want them to be - the way we are used to them being.  Sometimes we try so hard to do things that we don't allow healing.  Whether physical or emotional, we need to allow time to heal wounds before we move on to the new.

I lost my uncle yesterday.  Two of the people in our church lost family members on Christmas Eve, and a friend lost her grandmother on Christmas Day.  Just as my hand needs time to heal, so do my family and friends.  We think we'll not ever be normal again, that things we did with those loved ones will never be the same.  And we're right - things won't be the same.  But normal will come again.

My hand may never be the same, but as time goes I'll be able to do normal things - either with it, or I'll learn to use my left hand. 

Our lives are never the same after the loss of a loved one, but life will become "normal" again.  It must.  It will be a "new normal" - a different normal - that is, we will still feel the loss, but the memories will live on.  Rest in peace, Uncle Bruce; Rest in peace, David and Jon; Rest in peace, Wilma.  We will miss you, and we will see you again someday.

Hair today...

I hate getting my hair cut.  With a passion.  I don't know that I have ever had a cut that makes me happy, which is why I wear my hair long - I can not worry about how it looks.  Braids, buns, pony tails, or just loose.  And I love it.

Back in NJ, one time, I asked for my hair to be short, but not so short that they had to shave the little pointy areas that come down the back of my neck.  What did I get?  My hair so short that they SHOULD HAVE shaved the little pointy areas, but didn't. An inch of pointy hair stuck out - and didn't look good.  Once, I asked for just a trim.  Just a trim.  JUST.A.TRIM.  And the hairdresser cut TWO.FREAKING.INCHES off of my shoulder-length hair.

So remember that time a couple of months ago that I fell down, went boom splat?  Finally, after 2 1/2 months, xrays, being told my wrist wasn't broken and I should just live with it, I got to an orthopedic doctor.  Same one I ended up with my dislocated shoulder (same arm).  I have DeQuervain's Tendonitis.  So I'm in a brace that immobilizes my thumb.  No opposable thumb on my dominant hand.  Needless to say, really hard to braid, bun, or pony long hair with only one usable hand.  So I go to get my hair cut where I've gone before.  Except the stylist I've gone to is no longer there.  I show my brace, tell her I need it short enough to finger-comb, that she's the expert at what she does, and that I really just don't want to look like a man.  She repeatedly asked if I would be mad (my hair was past my shoulders) - I repeatedly told her that I could not care for my long hair and needed it short.  Repeat.ed.LY.  She tells me SPECIFICALLY that she won't make me look like the guy from the Three Stooges.  Seriously.  Then she makes me look EXACTLY like Moe Howard.  I guess she meant she wouldn't make me look like Curly.  She asked me what I thought.  I told her that I wanted some more layers above my ears.  She told me that she couldn't do that.  I cringed inwardly.  And, like the well-trained, polite woman doormat that I am, I not only paid full price but tipped her.  And then I went, 1 1/2 weeks later, I went to a different salon and asked for a cut to fix the cut.  I explained what I needed, explained why I was unhappy with their competitor's work, and asked for help.  Shown a pixie cut, I said, "YES!!  I couldn't remember what to call it, but that's exactly what I had asked for!" - and proceeded to get a pixie cut - which I am mostly happy with...except that one side is 1/2 - 3/4" longer than the other.  Why???  For the love of Mike (who is Mike, and why do we love him???), WHY?  And, again, I paid and tipped.  So in a couple of weeks, I will probably be looking for the third cut to fix the bad cuts.

Maybe I need to be less critical of how I look with short hair.  Maybe I need to find someone who knows how to listen better.  Maybe I just need to shave it all off and start over...

We all Fall Down

Those of you who follow me on Facebook know that I fell a week ago today.  I stepped on a small rock/piece of gravel, my foot rolled out from under me, and I fell.  Hard.  On my right knee (thankfully, on the knee that is already giving me problems, so I still have one good knee!).  Also on the heel of my hands; even though I know from karate that I should fall onto my forearms, I put out my hands instead.  I let out a little "ugh!" when I fell.  I knew that I was ok, but not ok.  I knew I needed to get out of the road, but I was enough on the side of the road that I really didn't want to move for a few minutes.  I wanted to wiggle toes and see if I had done more serious damage than I had.  My husband came to my side, got the ice that I asked for, and the people whose home we were in front of, on our way to get some information, came out and helped as well.  I got to the grass, laid my head on a cushion that happened to be in the car, and had my knee cleaned and bandaged.  Hal continues to clean it and dress it, because I can't reach it well am really useless with gross stuff. 

All it took was a small rock.  Not big enough to notice outright, but big enough to trip me up and lay me low.  A stumbling block, if you would.  Don't we all have stumbling blocks in our lives?  Some are physical, as mine was - addiction, sexual misbehavior.  Some are situational - the loss of a job, a promotion going to a lesser qualified (at least in our eyes) colleague, failing a class.  Some are temptations, things or ideas that get between us and God.  Food, shopping, alcohol...oh, just one more piece of pie...just one more drink...I NEED this new pair of shoes Incidentally, I was wearing a new pair of shoes when I fell - I told Hal to take them off my feet and THROW THEM OUT - thankfully he didn't (but they are still in the car).  It was not the shoes, after all, that caused my fall. But I was looking for something to blame, aside from my inability to watch where I was walking. 

Don't we all?  It's not MY fault that I weigh more than I did 10 years ago, it's those darn cookies.  It's not YOUR fault that you lost your temper, he made you mad.  And so rather than be on the lookout for those stones along the way, rather than land on our forearms so we can get up more easily, we look for scapegoats - like my cute new shoes - and eliminate them rather than get to the real problem.  And we fall again, and place blame elsewhere again, and...well, you get the point.

My knee is healing well.  My pride - yeah, that is healing too.  But I should not have fallen in the first place.  None of us should.  Let us look around at those things that make us stumble.  Let us keep our eyes on our path - not downcast, just alert.  Let us step well, let us step firmly, and let us step on solid ground.

Have You Been to St. Ives?

Remember the old rhyme/riddle about St. Ives?  "As I was going to St. Ives, I met a man with seven wives.  Every wife had seven sacks; every sack had seven cats, every cat had seven kits.  Kits, cats, Saxon wives sacks, and wives, how many were going to St. Ives?"

We were asked this in a class in elementary school.  So, I did the math.  (One of the few instances, in fact, where "doing the math" involves actual calculations.  You know, like, "So, I'm working in the restaurant, and Joey comes in with Anna Maria, and he pulls out a box, and he gets down on one knee, and she starts crying and nodding yes - well, you do the math" - see, no math involved)

And when I said that there were 2800 going to St. Ives, 2802 if you count your self and the man (because the riddle leaves out the man and the person speaking), I was told that I was wrong.  Because, you see, I was going to St. Ives, and I MET the others as I PASSED them on the road as they were coming BACK from St. Ives.  And I looked at the teacher, and argued about it.  Because that's who I was.  I have always questioned authority.  Now frankly, if I was carrying 7 sacks with 49 cats and 343 kits, as were the other 6 women I was with, we would have been walking slower than one person who was not as encumbered.  Logically, they could have passed us, walking in the same direction, because they were quicker than we were, and they could have met us as they passed us.  Or at a bistro (or rest stop).  The teacher was not pleased with my argument.  I think I saw my first adult facepalm.  The discussion, as I recall, was cut short .  Maybe I just shut down because I was told I was wrong, when, in fact, I was merely thinking outside the box and not giving the expected answer. 

Don't we do that a lot?  We're no longer encouraged to think for ourselves, rather to spew back "expected" answers.  Not just in education situations, but in the workplace, in political dealings, in personal relationships.  We're expected to fit into neat little boxes, where we can stay as long as we like, as long as we please the one who puts the box parameters in place.  It's when we begin to question, when we begin to seek alternatives, when we begin to question the status quo, that we are shamed, as that teacher tried to shame me, into leaving the box.  And that may not be a bad thing. 

It's messy outside the box.  Sometimes a little scary, too.  Outside, though, is where we are best able to find our own parameters, where we can test our ideas and see which work and which don't.  Where we encounter those who, like us, question "expected" answers.  I am thankful for people who have thought outside the box before me, and hope that I still have enough rebel in me to question things that make no sense - or, that make sense in more than one way.  Because, as my husband frequently tells our my felines, there's more than one way to skin a cat.  Let us always look for the unexpected.