The Bound Woman

At a party a while back I let someone read my Tarot cards. It was an experience that I found both interesting and oddly motivating.

I'm a skeptic by nature. I don't believe in ouija boards or crystal balls. I'm not sure about spirits from the afterlife or having my palm read. I think there's a definite psychological component to all of these things – as soon as the practitioner hits on something that makes sense to the person being read they react and the practitioner knows which direction to go.

Now that I've confessed my misgivings I have to say that it was one of the most interesting things I've ever done.

I did not know my tarot reader beyond his first name and where he had moved here from. He didn't know me at all. He laid out the cards and started talking. I was careful not to react very much. He was RIGHT. ON. THE. MONEY. Every single card.

I can't remember the significance of the placement of the up-turned cards, but they all had something to do with this bound woman – the Eight of Swords.

Lost. Alone. Blindfolded. Bound. Caught in a prison of swords. Wandering away from the security that is behind her on the hill.

I interpreted it to mean that I can sometimes feel restricted by circumstances that seem to be beyond my control. That there are situations in my life that make me feel confused and powerless. Help and relief seem to be in my past – far away and on a hill I can't climb back up.

But then I started looking closer. The bound woman has options. Her feet are not bound. If she chooses to, she can walk over to one of those swords and use it to cut the ropes that hold her back. She can throw off the mask that is restricting her vision and run towards freedom.

Why wouldn't she?

Perhaps the same fear that got her in her current situation is keeping her from escaping from it. Just a thought.

I don't think that I'm suddenly a Tarot convert. Like everything else, it's open to personal interpretation. I think it's much more likely that it was a message I needed to hear at this particular moment in my life and I'm thankful to have the opportunity to hear it. I've been scouring antique stores and flea markets since that party. I want to find the Bound Woman Eight of Swords card and frame it. Just to remember.

The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he has anointed me to bring good news to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives and recovery of sight to the blind, to let the oppressed go free.
—Luke 4:18

Can I get an amen?

Calling All Tree Lovers!

This gorgeous tree is in our next door neighbor's yard. I've never seen anything like it. For about two weeks every spring it is covered with these beautiful flowers. The branches cover our garage and carpet the patio and driveway with petals. I'm clueless as to what this tree is. I've consulted books on Ohio trees, to no avail.

Got any ideas?

Before you ask, the neighbors don't know either. It's the only one like it they've ever seen.

Words and Pictures :: Tucked Into Bed

Tucked into bed is the writing prompt this week. Go here to read more.

I sleep in the same bed I slept in as a child. It seems kind of strange sometimes. I've been falling asleep the same way for the last 44 years - right arm slipped under my pillow, right hand resting at the same spot on the wrought iron frame headboard. The iron feels cool when I wrap my hand around it each night, just like it has every night since I was seven.

The biggest difference is that now, my feet touch the footboard. And maybe I'm not so much into rainbows and unicorn sheets anymore.

My dad got my bed when he owned the moving company. It must easily weigh over 5oo pounds. I remember when he brought it home and set it up in the first bedroom that I didn't have to share with my sister. He and my mother painted the room the perfect shade of pink for my seven year old taste. My mother refinished the dresser and vanity from her childhood room for me in shades of pink and mottled green. My father painted my name* in big bubble shaped letters that arched over the wall and followed the curve of my bed.

It was as close to "princess-dom" as I've ever come.

Lots of families have inside jokes, secret languages and rituals that are puzzling to the uninitiated. Our was no different, especially when it came to getting tucked into bed. After teeth were brushed, faces were washed and school clothes were laid out for morning, my sister and I would climb into our beds. Each parent would visit us seperately. My mother always came in first.

"Don't you give me poppers!" I would command in my biggest, most authoritative voice and then excitedly try to dodge her good night kisses. Wiggling and giggling, trying to hide beneath the sheets and covers, my mother would eventually pin me down and kiss my cheek. When she finally managed to catch me I would giggle and scream, "You did! You did! You did give me poppers!!!"

Dad came in next and he followed the script that I had laid out for us years earlier. As he walked into my bedroom he would pretend to whistle. He would pucker up and blow, but the only sound that come out was the sound of his breath. I would follow suit - mimicking his actions with no sound. Then he would pucker up again, but this time he would make a single, monotone whistle. I would do the same. There was no talking, just the sound of a little bird mimicking her daddy bird. He would give me a good night kiss and tell me to sleep well.

Feeling safe, loved and comforted by silly little rituals I would turn onto my right side, sliding my arm underneath my pillow and feeling the cool iron frame warming to my touch - slip off to dream.

* My dad painted another secret word into the first letter A in Tanya. You had to look hard to find it. For the life of me, I can't remember what the word was. . .and I don't have any pictures of it. Does anyone who reads this remember?

dere mom

dere mom,

i was a very, very, very, very bad boy last nite. i want too say that i am very, very, very, very, very, very sorree. did i say enuf veries? i tried to say enuf so you woldn't be so very, very, very, very mad at me any mores.

usualy i realy like too go up the stairs at nitetime and get up on the bed and stay up ther like a big boy all by my self with out oliver. he some times bothers me and i like some peece and quite. but mom, last nite i didn't not want that so much. i heard oly down the stares with you. it sounded like he was eeting some sereal with you. and mom, i wanted some sereal too. and sense i couldn't not get off that hi bed by mysself i got a little bit mad.

see mom, ther was this little hole in the thing that covers the bed and it got my eye. and once it got my eye, it got my teath. oh mom, it relly felt good to rip that thing with my teath like that. it kind of maid up for not having sereal. kind of. im stil a little mad about it.

when you camed up those stares and you got all red in your face like you did and you keeped saing stuf like what did you doo and your a bad, bad, bad, bad dog you hurt my hart. when you sayed that i had to go get a job to pay for that comferter thing i did not like that ether. i thinked bout runing away but not rite now. i mite though. do you feal bad now mom? if you doo then you no how i feeled too.

ok mom. if you say your very, very, very, very, very, very, very sory for hurting my hart we can be freinds again becuz i am very, very, very, very, very, very sory for hurting yur hart to.

your luving, hungry, sadd, sweet boy,
samson rockefeller weising-pike

Little Old Ladies

On Saturday we got up early to begin our "backroads only" adventure. We were both excited to be getting out of town and wanted to make the most of a beautiful morning. We ran through McDonald's for Ali's favorite drink - sweet tea. I needed cash so we hit the Huntington ATM on the way. It was out of order. Of course.

After a little bit of grumbling we figured there must be a Huntington in Tiffin, our next destination. Onward.

Getting into Tiffin we hit the first McDonald's so Ali could relieve herself of her favorite drink – digested sweet tea. Neither of us is very familiar with Tiffin so we wondered where a Huntington bank might be located. Not wanting to waste much of the precious day driving aimlessly around, we spotted a table near the restrooms where two older couples were sitting. They were laughing and chatting, sipping their coffee, so I approached them and apologized for interrupting but wondered if they might be able to help us.

Immediately the two older gentlemen were smiling, jovial and eager to help. They made silly jokes and quickly told us we were out of luck. The two little old ladies acted as though we had asked them to mortgage their houses instead of simply asking for directions to the bank. They glared, stared and generally made it clear that we were interrupting their breakfast with our foolishness. I smiled and we both thanked them for their help, making a quick retreat.

Now, I dislike stereotypes and generalizations, but could someone please explain why, as a rule, little old men get cute and little old ladies get pruney and mean? I know there are a million exceptions for Aunt Petunia and Uncle Wilbur, but I can't help but notice that there are so many older women who do not improve and/or mellow with age. Why is that?

I can only come up with one theory that makes any sense. I can't help but wonder whether older women have come nearer to the end of their lives and they feel unfulfilled and dissatisfied, so they take it out on everyone else. Women of my grandparent's generation generally spent their lives tending to others – husbands, kids, farms, houses and animals. Their lives were hard and no one ever really nurtured them. The demands never let up. The kids might have grown up and moved away, but after their husbands retired these women's lives didn't really change all that much. They still cooked, cleaned, tended and were responsible. 

It's as if their horizons have never expanded.

It makes me kind of sad. It also scares me. 

Imagine it – the McDonald's on Tiffin Avenue, in the year 2044, a table with eight old lesbians, sharing coffee. Some young man dares to stop and ask directions to the bank. Because there are no men at the table - gay or otherwise - to mellow the response the eight little old ladies reduce him to tears. He slits his wrists in the parking lot and we just laugh. . .

God help us. Is there an intervention available now??

Junk Finds!

On our "backroads only" trip home from Norwalk on Saturday we found a barn sale. Need I say more?? For less than $20 we came home with the following:

We always thought an old school desk would look really nice on our front porch. We scored this one for $5 and think it looks awesome!

We found these old oil containers and knew exactly what to do with them when we saw they had the hen and chicks for a buck.

Ali fell in love at first sight with this old tricycle.

The colors on this 1950's cake carrier make me unreasonably happy! Now I'm off to bake a cake – we have a cookout to go to this afternoon! Happy Memorial Day!

Perfection

We had a perfect day yesterday. There's just something about a three day weekend. Maybe it's the knowledge hanging out there in the back of your mind that you have a whole extra day to get things done that allows you to just kick back and fully relax.

Maybe it was the good company and the perfect weather. Whatever it was, it worked.

Yesterday morning Ali and I took an Ohio map and routed the most "backroads possible" way to get from Findlay to Norwalk. Norwalk was hosting "The Great American Treasure Hunt" – just a big fancy name for a garage sale. We decided to take our time getting there, documenting in photographs the route we took. Somewhere near Attica – where neither of us had ever been before – we found Omar Chapel.

According to the Ohio Historical Marker the Omar Inn had once stood near the chapel and had been a stop on the Underground Railroad. As slaves were moved from the South into Ohio they were housed in the livery of the Inn before being moved on to the next stop which was near Sandusky.

The Omar Chapel had been built and shared by Baptist and Methodist congregations and abolitionist messages had been the theme for these two worshipping communities.

It's a beautiful little chapel with a cemetery behind it where some of those who were involved in the rescue of slaves are buried. We signed the guest registry and for a few minutes soaked up the atmosphere of the sanctuary. 

I walked to the pulpit to take a look at the old Bible that was still there. The verse in the middle of the page caught my eye.

Perfection.

Words and Pictures :: Careful

The writing prompt from Meet Me At Mike's for this week is "careful."

When I was younger I thought that the only consideration for the kind of life you were going to have was the choices you made from day to day. My dad and I used to say that life is what you make it and my mother would immediately counter with – no, life is what gets handed to you. A kind of circular wrangling that went on and on and was never settled.

Those words have stuck with me since childhood and I still wonder who was right, though as I've aged, one of the things I'm beginning to think is that this isn't the only way to look at it.

Maybe life is more like a long, long hallway full of doors.

When we are young we charge right in, throwing doors open without much thought or hesitation. We are curious, interested, intrigued. Drunk on our own power of choice, we don't really pay attention to where the doors are leading us and we follow until we get tired, bored or at a dead end before trying another and then another. More. Faster. Better. Different.

When we are idealistic visionaries there is no landscape of mistakes behind us. The cloth of our lives is just beginning to be woven. We have no hindsight, nothing to look back on and discern the patterns that we are prone to repeating. 

We hear words like choose carefully, be alert, your future is in your hands and we think that they must apply to someone else. Can't you see I'm being careful? And then one day we look back on all those doors we've opened and the hundreds that were behind those - at all the ones that slammed shut and locked and then we realize how few there are to still open and it dawns on us that we've hit middle age. 

It's a shock at first. And then something interesting happens. If we're lucky, we realize that the doubt that replaced the sense of excitement that surrounds choice is a blessing in disguise. As we age, we begin to slow down and think – Should I? What if? How? 

We relax a bit, hesitate just a second before opening yet another door – "Remember how that worked out last time?? Perhaps we don't really want to go through that again. . ."

And, just maybe, that's the difference between life is what you make it and life is what gets handed to you – the potency of memory. And the true power of careful choice.

Overcoming Evil with Good

I got out to my car this morning and this is what I saw.

Apparently the thieves had no use for Always Feminine Wipes, an old Christmas CD or a broken dog collar. The only thing that I know is missing is about 67 cents. Assholes. Too bad the canister of pepper spray didn't accidentally discharge when they were rifling though my stuff. . .

In an attempt to bring balance to this post and overcome evil with good I bring you this picture of Oliver's squirrel obsession. This is what he loves and it makes me smile. Notice that there is no grass under his little feet??

His ears resemble the flying nun and his little rear "thigh" muscles are ripped. As long as he doesn't figure out how to actually get over the fence we will all just sit, watch and smile.

Firsts

We had a weekend of the "firsts" of summer.

The first flea market of the season. We came home with a mint plant, some fresh rhubarb and some old children's books.

The first game of cornhole. We made our own set last summer. Girls + power tools! I think cornhole may be a Midwestern phenomenon. We decided to keep running track of our wins over the summer. As of Sunday evening, it was 1-1.

The first rhubarb cobbler.

The first summer tomato and the first sweetcorn of the season. Brinkman's has Tennessee tomatoes right now and they are really, really good!

Better hurry and get some rhubarb. It doesn't last long. Here's my cobbler recipe.

Fruit Filling
5 cups fresh rhubarb, cut in 1-inch pieces
orange zest (from 1 orange)
1 1/4 cups sugar
2 tablespoons cornstarch
1 tablespoon butter
1 dash nutmeg (optional)

Cobbler Topping
1 cup all-purpose flour
1 tablespoon sugar
1 1/2 teaspoons baking powder
1/8 teaspoon salt
1/4 cup butter
1/4 cup milk, melted
1 egg

Combine sugar and cornstarch; mix well. Add rhubarb, nutmeg, butter and orange zest. Let stand 10 minutes. Place in 9x9 baking dish.

Bake in 375 F preheated oven for 10 minutes.

Mix cobbler topping ingredients and drop "blobs" of topping on fruit. Bake for an additional 25 to 35 minutes. Serve warm – with vanilla ice cream if you're feeling decadent! Enjoy!

Your Opinion Matters!

Does the look in these eyes seem familiar to you?

Here's a hint. . .

Meet Frank – Oliver's brother.

Last December when we went to the Hancock County Humane Society looking for a dog, Oliver and Frank were there together. We brought Oliver home. For months we checked on Frank hoping that he would be adopted. Finally, he was. He went to a home where someone needed the incentive for a daily walk and they thought that Frank would be just the motivation that they needed.

Ali and I were so relieved. Based on Oliver's antics we were quite sure that Frank would certainly need a daily walk.

Today we found out that Frank was returned to the Humane Society. The exact quote is priceless if you've followed Oliver stories at all.

"My owners could not keep up with me so I was brought here because of my high energy level. I am a very friendly, energetic boy that loves attention. I enjoy playing, daily walks, and I need to learn basic obedience skills. I do great with other dogs! Please make sure that you have time in your life for a guy like me that NEEDS daily exercise."

So. . .this is where your opinion matters. . .would we be out of our minds to adopt Frank too? Would it be double the lunacy or might it just up the fun factor? If we can Dog Whisper Oliver into half-hearted submission couldn't we do the same for poor old Frank? Or would it be along the lines of all those irresponsible parents out there who say things like, "What the hell? It's just one more kid!"

Please, drop a comment and give us your sage advice. . .before we do something stupid!

The ABC's of Me

I was tagged with this on Facebook by my cousin Tracy. Want to play along? Cut and paste away!

A - Age: 44 (seriously??)

B - Bed size: Full - not nearly big enough for 2 humans + Samson

C - Chore you hate: putting laundry away

D - Latest Dream: I was at a garden center that had all the plants I had ever looked for all in one place and I had just enough money to buy everything I wanted!

E - Essential start your day item: coffee

F - Favorite color: orange

G - Gold or Silver: silver

H - Height: 5'8"

I - Instruments you play: maybe that should say "used to play" - clarinet, alto saxophone, tenor saxophone, five years of piano lessons that were useless

J - Job Title: graphic designer

K - Kids: two rotten dogs - Samson and Oliver

L - Living Arrangements: in a house I love that has lots of "character" with my partner of over two years with our dogs

M - Mom's name: Virginia

N - Nickname: T

O - Overnight hospital stay other than when you were born: a few days when I fell in college and broke my arm/shoulder

P - Place you would like to go before you die: to hike the island of Dominica

Q - Quote(s) from a movie: "Get busy living, or get busy dying." Red from The Shawshank Redemption

R - Right or Left Handed: right

S - Sibling(s): 1 younger sister, Cindy

T - Time you wake up: around 5 AM-ish

U - Underwear: yes! ; )

V - Vegetable you dislike: supermarket tomatoes in winter

W - Ways you run late: I don't. It's a pet peeve.

X - Xrays you have had: just on my broken arm

Y - Yummy food you make: I'm a pretty good cook but an even better baker!

Z - Zoo favorite: giraffes

Words and Pictures :: Remembering

I haven't participated in awhile but this is the prompt this week from Meet Me At Mike's.

Gram taught me to knit when I was about eight. She patiently taught me the long-tail cast on and then showed me the knit stitch. A little knowledge can be a dangerous thing as they say, and this little bit of skill was just enough produce ugly, trapezoidal shaped garter stitch clumps. But I was knitting! For some reason our lessons never included casting off, so when I got tired I just unraveled it and started again.

While I practiced, Gram knit a feather and fan afghan that she gave to me. Inspiration I suppose.

As I grew up knitting fell by the wayside for me. It did for Gram too. I didn't pick up knitting needles for another 35 years.

As Gram got older, dementia set in. The last time I saw her still active and vital, she didn't remember me. The house was full of family and she was standing in the dining room. I hugged aunts and uncles and she came towards me with a smile. Her arms were outstretched and she took my face into her hands. Her eyes searched mine - back and forth, back and forth. A long pause hung between us before she finally said, "Do I know you? You sure are beautiful."

It was tough. She was left without memories of the past but all of the things that used to trouble her were also gone. She was happy and appreciative of every little thing. I just smiled and hugged her.

At a big family dinner that evening she sipped wine from a tiny aperitif glass. "Oh," she would say, "That tastes so good! I think I'd like a little more!" and magically her glass would be refilled. She had on large jewelry that didn't match her outfit but was so excited to be "going to a party with such nice people!"

While waiting for dinner I took my knitting out of my bag. Gram watched the needles moving for a little bit before she said, "You know, I think I once knew how to do that didn't I?"

"Yes," I said. "You're the one who taught me."

She thought about this for awhile and I could see that it was painful for her. Her eyes searched my face again – back and forth, back and forth.

"I wonder if I could still do it. . ." Her voice trailed off. For the first time since I had been there, she looked sad. I thought about handing her the needles and wool.

"Would you like to try?" I asked.

She searched my face again – back and forth, back and forth. "No," she quietly said. "I just can't quite remember."

"It's OK Gram."

Then she laughed and all the traces of sadness were wiped away.

"I sure would like a little bit more of whatever that was in my glass though!"

Mother's Day

I belong to an online knitting community called Ravelry. We share patterns, stories and laughs on a variety of forum pages. In December, 2007 I knitted a shawl with the intention of sending it to my mother. As I knit it, I prayed for her since we had not been in communication for several years. After I finished it I wrote about it on a Ravelry board and asked the question, "How much power does knitting or prayer have?"

That shawl has been on my mind today because it's Mother's Day. Here's my original post and some of the very wise answers I received.

tmpike:

I recently finished knitting the Forest Canopy Shawl and am mailing it to my mother for Christmas. She has health problems and I treated the knitting of this as an exercise of prayer for her.

As I'm preparing to mail this it makes me wonder what kind of power knitting - or prayer for that matter! - really might have. My mother has not spoken to me, nor I to her, since September of 2002. As a lesbian, I'm a disappointment to her as a daughter and to her understanding of what a "christian" must be.

So, I knit. And I pray. And I guess we shall see.

I'm posting this here so that all of you who love knitting might send thougths of peace toward my mother as well. After all, isn't that what this season is supposed to be about?

billyqc:
I'm deeply impressed and moved by your kindness and generosity. This time of year usually leaves me feeling alienated and very, very sad since, like you, I'm queer and my family won't have anything to do with me; all the talk of holiday knitting and such leaves me cold and estranged. I'm going to try to remember your amazing gesture every time I start getting down, and pour the rest of my heart into finishing the small projects I'm doing for my constructed family.
Thank you, and peace.

jacttd:
It is a shame she cannot see what a strong daughter she raised. I'm sorry you feel like a disapointment to her. As a mother myself, the only time I am disappointed with my girls is when they do not follow their hearts. A mother's job is to equip their children for life, learn to let them live on their terms and remember their choices are not always a reflection of ourself.
You both have my prayers.

dharmarn:
I hope it occured to you, that by sharing this with us, you have done more than just that. Reading this touched my heart. I’m not gay, but I grew up with some really strange family dynamics that I’ve spent most of my adult life trying to make sense of. I, too, have felt that alienation from my ‘family’ and had to contruct a real family of my own.
I think it is beautiful that you shared this with us, because in some way, you just taught us all how much we truly have in common -not as knitters, or gays, or daughters with screwed up parents- but as humans who need to feel love.

I never heard from my mother. I kind of still wait. I don't really know what I feel any more about this whole thing. You can only be hurt so many times. Now I just kind of feel numb. 

I spent the afternoon with Ali's mom today. It was really hard for her to come to terms with Ali's sexual orientation. She's from the same fundamentalist Christianity as my parents. But, today she and I watched Ali play softball together. We laughed and talked and I didn't have to hide anything.

To all those who mother us, in the very best sense of the word – Happy Mother's Day.

My Feet

All around me people are rushing towards something – new places, new careers, new life.

I am watching. My feet are still.

It's OK just to watch right now. I'm mostly content to stand quietly for a little bit. Listening. Waiting.

There are a few days that I want to jump in and go, go, go.

There are a few days that I never want to move again. Never. Ever. Again.

So, here I stand.

Most days I want a blueprint: a very, very specific outline of steps to take. I want guarantees and backup plans. At the very least a money back guarantee.

On the rest of the days I just want someone to listen. And nod. And say, "You know. . .what's supposed to happen will happen."

Because, most days – I think I believe that.

Opening Day

Today was opening day for the spring centipede season. I have trouble accurately conveying how much I despise these things but let me try: I hate centipedes with the burning passions reserved only for the IRS, people who lie and throwing up. And that's just a start.

This morning Ali was in the shower and I headed upstairs to make the bed and straighten up the bedroom. As I got to the top of the stairs I glanced up to see a 2" centipede on the ceiling next to the light fixture. That may not sound that bad to you, so let me put it in perspective.

If you are vertically challenged you may not have noticed that our upstairs ceilings are only 7' high. I am 5'8" high. That leaves only 16" between me and that nasty, nasty THING. The fear that these things releases in my brain renders me unable to think clearly. The rush of adrenaline that courses through my body that is supposed to trigger the "fight or flight" response renders me nearly catatonic.

I was paralyzed with loathing and revulsion. And Ali couldn't hear me yelling. She was in the shower. I was in the bedroom and there was no f*ing way I was going out into the hall.

So, I stood in the bedroom shouting, "ALI. . .ALI. . ." knowing she would have to turn off the water sometime. Ideally, before my heart exploded from adrenaline overload.

Finally she turned off the water.

"What?" she yelled.

"You must COME. HERE. It's an E.M.E.R.G.E.N.C.Y." I waited until I could hear footsteps at the bottom of the stairs.

"I'm stuck in the bedroom. There's a 2" centipede on the ceiling in the hall. Go out in the garage. There's some bug spray on the shelf."

A moment later an arm appeared around the bedroom doorway and a can of spider spray was chucked towards my feet.

It took everything I had to aim that can towards the ceiling and spray. You know what happened next. That f*ing thing fell off the ceiling and started running across the floor. In slow motion I was forced to step on it, all while screaming from pure terror. It was not a cutesy, girly scream either.

"What the hell was that noise?? Was it coming out of YOU?" Ali asked when she came into the bedroom. "Half of Hurd Avenue is on the phone to 911 right now because is sounds like someone is getting stabbed to death in our house!!!"

I can only describe it this way – I screamed like Danny Gokey trying to sing the final note of "Dream On." Blogs described this note as "an elongated, inhuman screech...like watching a horror movie." Yeah. It was something like that.

I told you I hated centipedes.

It looked like this. Only bigger. And, I hate them SO MUCH that I almost can't even look at this picture without freaking out. . .or screaming agin. My throat still hurts from the last one, three hours ago.

Seekers

I have a friend who did not grow up going to church. It just wasn't a priority in her family. What she knows about the Bible is what you pick up from just being a smart person engaged in the world. She didn't know what the 23rd Psalm was until I started reciting it. Then she knew she had heard it at every funeral she'd ever been to.

She is at a point that many of us reach in our lives when we begin to feel the need to intensely search ourselves and the lives we have created for meaning above and beyond the simple answers we've always relied on.

It's not an easy place to be.

Wasn't it Socrates who said "the unexamined life is not worth living?"

I know a whole bunch of people who are perfectly content to live an unexamined life. I can't speak for my friend, but for me, the work of examination, wrestling with the questions and learning to live with my answers is very much worth the work it demands.

She has started going to one of those mega-churches in Colorado. They are mega for a reason. The music is top-notch. Every service is a production with lights, multimedia, precision and dress rehearsals. The sermons are funny, challenging and the preacher is self-effacing and humble – a guy you can relate to.

We've been talking a bit about her faith journey. Church "insiders" would call her a seeker. That's a word I love. With any luck, I want to be a seeker my whole life.

seek – verb

1. to go in search or quest of

2. to try to find or discover by searching or questioning

3. to try to obtain

4. to try or attempt 

5. to go to

6. to ask for; request

7. to make inquiry

Her new church is "seeker friendly" meaning it doesn't use a lot of churchy language, the context and content are relevant, the format is informal and you leave feeling good about having been there. She sent me a link to Sunday's sermon yesterday and I listened to it. We wrote back and forth for awhile about the central point of the preacher's sermon – What are you willing to sacrifice your life for? What cause, idea, problem or situation so gets under your skin that you are willing to sacrifice your time, your money or your energy to do something about it?

It's an interesting question. The sermon was about money and it ended with the offering plates being passed – much to the groans of many who were uncomfortable being trapped in a 50 minute (!) sermon about money. The twist was that when the plates were passed, they were filled with one-dollar bills. Each person was to take one and come up with a plan about what they were going to do with it to make an impact in the world. He encouraged everyone there to use it to make an impact that would last forever.

My friend and I bandied around some ideas. The preacher said that you could add a few of your own dollars or you could use a few of the dollars of those who were seated around you so I told her that my idea was to collect all the dollar bills from the people there who were interested in making some of the most wounded people in society feel welcomed in that church and start an outreach to gay bars. I also laughingly told her that if I could only get 4 or 5 dollars I would definitely see that as a sign!

I was being kind of tongue-in-cheek about it, but that's exactly what I would do with it. . .

Then I remembered another question that I have struggled with my whole life with God –

"What would you do right now if you weren't afraid?"

Ouch.

Friendship

We had been sitting at the table on the back patio for at least an hour when Ali decided to run to the store for more beer. Our guest had arrived in the early afternoon and as the shadows began to stretch across the yard we had been busy catching up on the twelve years since we had seen each other last.

There was laughter and some not so gentle reminders of our rapidly advancing middle age.

We met when Shelly was 15 and I was 16. That's a lot of water under the bridges of our lives. She lives half a continent away now and our lives just don't cross very often anymore.

It was a bit sobering for both of us when we realized that we had known each other quite a number of years longer than we hadn't known each other.

Ali's car could hardly have been out the driveway when she called my cell phone. "Did you offer her something to drink? What kind of friend are you?" she hissed at me.

"Hey, do you want something to drink?" I asked while Ali listened through the phone.

"Sure," Shelly answered.

"Get up and get it yourself," I told her with a laugh. Through the phone I heard Ali gasp. Then she laughed. The last thing I heard before she hung up on me was, "Real nice. . ."

It's a good feeling to have that kind of friend. One who you don't mind going through your cupboards or ransacking your refrigerator. The kind of friend, who, even though you haven't seen her in decades, can still finish your sentences. A friend who remembers your personality quirks and doesn't bat an eye because, if you haven't changed in the last 28 years why fight it now? Conversations with this kind of rare friend are easy because you don't have to fill in 30 years of backstory. She was there.

We laughed a lot this weekend. We also had some serious conversations. That's the good thing about such old friends – we've already seen and learned to accept each other's strengths and weaknesses. We already know how we have stumbled and how we've scrambled back up again. It makes it a hell of a lot easier to confess the current struggles and hear her assessments when you don't have to worry about making a good impression.

It's ironic – our advice to each other hasn't changed in 28 years. She told me I need to lighten up and I told her she needs to find some ways to relinquish the need to always be in control. We have both mellowed considerably over the years but some things just don't change.

Frankly, I hope some thing never do. I want to enjoy her company for another 28 years.

Free Range Chicken

I went to the Bluffton Farmer's Market this morning. It was wonderful! There were about 20 vendors selling their wares despite it only being the first weekend of May and not having too many fresh veggies to sell.

There were a lot of people selling delicious looking baked goods, quite a few stands selling plants and flowers and several vendors selling meats from locally grown animals. These meats are free of growth hormones and antibiotics.

I decided to buy a dozen brown eggs and a whole, free range chicken to roast with some root vegetables for dinner this week.

As I was wandering around my phone rang. It was Ali who was getting ready to take the kidling to a soccer game. We chatted for a few minutes and I told her about my purchases. "I got a free range, whole chicken and some eggs," I told her. There was kind of a pause before she replied, "OK," and we hung up.

About an hour later my phone rang.

"Honey, I have a question. . . "

"Yes," I replied.

"Where are we going to keep a live chicken?"

Apparently she had been pondering this for the last hour.

I thought I was going to pee my pants.

"Please don't laugh at me," she begged. "You said you were going to a farmer's market. . .I thought they sold live animals!!!"

In case you don't know, and apparently some people don't. . .here's the definition of a free range chicken - not necessarily one that's alive. . .

Free range is a method of farming husbandry where the animals are allowed to roam freely instead of being contained in any manner. The term is used in two senses that do not overlap completely: as a farmer-centric description of husbandry methods, and as a consumer-centric description of them. Farmers practice free range to achieve free-range or humane certification (and thus capture high prices), to reduce feed costs, to improve the happiness and liveliness of their animals, to produce a higher-quality product. – courtesy of wikipedia.com

Yet one more reason I love her. . . And rest assured, if you come to our house, there will be no live chickens living in the bathtub – or anywhere else!