Expectations

My friend Ruth tells me that people and experiences come into our lives at a time when we need them.  I suspect learning, growing opportunities are always at our fingertips.  We just don't reach toward what we can't yet use.
Most of you know that my husband, Jack, has mild dementia. You may also remember that I am taking a class at the UofA on Indian Philosophy.  You've got to trust me here.  I'll weave all this together before we're finished.
See, here's the thing -- I've been having a rough time dealing with the changes in my hero, my husband.  Yeah, I know.  He's been having a few issues with the new limitations too.  The thing is, it finally hit me, I've been making life more difficult for both of us by mourning for what-used-to-be instead of enjoying what is.
Buddhism teaches that we can never stand in the same river twice.  What I've come to understand is, while I'm in the river, at each moment, I can, and am in fact required, to find pleasure in this transitory experience. This enjoyment of the moment is only possible when I release all expectation.  Because with expectation comes dissapointment which blocks my joy.
It's hard to live in each moment.  Part of me, a big part of me, is surprised at each new change that comes along, wants to scream and rant and fight against the flow.  So, pray for me people.  Light the incense.  Whisper my name in the ear of Jesus and Buddha and the universe. 

Jumpin' Jehosophat!

A long time ago a Paulist priest told me an allegorical story about and an elephant and six blind men.  Yesterday I discovered that the legend originated in India among the Jainists. Funny how universal truth is not limited by creed.
Here's the story:
Six blind men stumble through the jungle and run smack dab into an elephant.
(Okay, may as well fess up right now.  This tale is going to be told in redneck-ese because, well, because I'm a redneck and I'm the one doing the telling this time around)
So.  Back to the hot, sweaty jungle and the six lost blind men.  Earl reaches up and runs his hands over the elephant's ear.
     "Jumpin' Jehosephat," Earl declares.  "This creature is like a leathery fan."
     "Not a chance," says Bubba from the back of the elephant.  "This animal is like a snake with a tuft of coarse hairs where its head should oughta be."
    "What's the matter with you two?" asks Billy Bob from his position at one of the elephant's back legs.  "This here critter is like nothing so much as a pillar."
      Beau, the oldest of the group, strokes the elephant's trunk and declares with authority, "This animal is sinewy and strong and it's movement is like that of a python."
      From the side of the pachyderm, Jimmy John exclaims, "When I lay my head against it's surface I hear the rumbling of a far away train."
      With his hands wrapped firmly around a tusk, Tiny, the largest of the group, insists, "The animal is like a sword.  Hard with a strong point at the tip."
      The six blind men begin squabbling among themselves, each insisting that the other's have missed the very essence of the animal and only they understand the true nature of the creature.  Before long, the elephant, bored with the process and one suspects a little sad too, wanders off.  When none of the men can convince even one other to see the animal in the 'correct' way, they resort to fists and teeth.  The six men roll on the jungle floor, do their best to show the others the true vision of the newly discovered creature.
      Finally a local priest or monk or, in this story, bartender comes along and finds the bloodied and broken men. 
      "Hey y'all!  Whatya fighting 'bout?"  he inquires curiously.
      The six blind men dust themselves off, wipe away the blood and explain to the newcomer about the animal they've only just discovered. The bar keep shakes his head and tell them, "That was an elephant.  And just 'cause you just stumbled on one that don't mean their kind ain't been around for the ages."
       When the blind men discover the bartender knows about this animal, they insist he enlighten them.
     "Settle our agrument," they beg.  "Which of us is correct in his knowledge of this animal?"
     "You are all correct," the sighted man tells them.  "And none of you is correct."
      At that the blind men fall upon the sighted man and beat him to death.
     Okay.  I just made up that last line, but given the current political environment in this country, that did seem the logical conclusion to the story.
    Here's my point.  We are too often the blind men.  What if Fox and CNN actually listened to each other?  Would our knowledge of the truth be expanded?  What if Christians and Muslims agreed that each of their religions had a small piece of the knowledge of God and that, if they listened to each other, they might all know a little more.  What if men stopped insisting on the strengh of the trunk and women quite criticizing the little tail and instead they came together to learn more about the relationship.
 Ah well.  I can dream can't I?
    
    

Censorship and Common Sense

    A romance writer friend of mine is now writing erotica.
    Ah huh.  I see you there wrinkling your nose, giving the little southern sniff of disapproval.  Any minute now you're going to be saying, 'Well, bless her heart." 
    Here's the site http://www.lunazega.com/  Dollars to doughnuts you're logged in within the next half hour.  And, once you've seen the site, you're going to be a secret follower.  Because we both know you're too worried about what your friends will think to be an open follower and because this is not your daddy's old playboy.  Lunazega is a cyberworld that celebrates female sensuality. 
     So, take a minute, click on the link and go to the site.  But come on back here because what I really want to talk about today is censorship and common sense.
     See, the friend who created this erotica webpage tried to take advantage of a small, free advertising space on facebook with a discrete and tasteful promotion of her new website.  As a result of this attempt, she was banned from that social networking giant.  Not told that, so sorry, but the advertisment is unacceptable. She can never again show her cyberface on facebook under the exact name she origianally used.  Gee.  I wonder how she'll ever get around that taboo? 
      So, in a world where a Disney movie is interrupte by erectile dysfunction remedies and the sleazy beer guy offers his stones to scantily clad young women, a website demonstrating that women are sensual, bless their hearts, even sexual being, that's not allowed on facebook.
     The thing is, censorship is a slippery slope.  We need to use a little common sense here.  Do I want my seven year old nephew purusing lunazega?  Well, no. Though I'd rather he spend his time looking at boudour photos than blasting zombies and ripping out the hearts of god-knows-who on some video game. But then, unlike the makers of violent video games, my friend doesn't market her site to children. 
    Another example of censorship jumped out at me this week.  The writer's critique group to which I belong meets in a church.  We writers bring food for their food bank, we get a place to meet.  Win/win.  Except that some of us in the writer's group do, occasionally use profanity in our work and we've been reminded to not read those offensive words out loud as this, if overheard, might create a problem.  Now writers, as a general rule, hate to be censored.
    However, this strikes me as less about censorship and more about common courtesty.  Do I think it's silly that we can read in a booming voice about a child molestor or a rapist or Bigfoot and that's all just hunky dory, but that some folks find it offensive to hear certain perfectly fine anglo-saxon words.  Well, of course I do.  And it doesn't matter.  Our group is a guest in this church and just as none of us, well most of us, wouldn't go to dinner at our grandmother's home and say, "Pass the fucking potatoes."  Just so, as guests in this particular house of worship, we're respectful. 
     So, is there a point to this tirade?  I think so, yeah.  If we could all just be a teensy bit more tolerant and understanding of each other, maybe the world would be a little better place.  If we could do our best to be a little more loving of ourselves and thus a little less quick to project our faults and repressed urges out there onto others, maybe God, in whatever name we call him or her by, would have a tiny bit bigger opening to pour her love into us.
     And to answer your question.  Yes.  I am fully aware that I started a blog about an erotica site and ended with God.  This ought to tell you something about me.

Wrong Word

I misuse a lot of words.  Not a particularly great trait for a writer. 
For instance.  The word lightening.  Well, see, for years I used this word to describe those bolts of electricity that flash across a dark sky.  But that word is actually 'lightning'.  Lightening is what you do when you add white to navy to produce robin's egg blue.  My bad.  I still get confused occasionlly.  Then I just write something like 'A flash of light lit up the night sky.'  I think I learned this trick from my mother.  A letter from her came the other day and she'd crossed through physician four times and finally wrote 'doctor'. 
An edit of Bigfoot Blues came back the last time I read at The NW Arkansas Writer's Group and four people had circled hyperthermia.  Evidently I meant to write hypothermia.  Huh.  I learn something at every one of those sessions.
The reason this contemplation of words came to mind is that I got an email from Ozark Writer's League asking for a form to be filled out in order to be listed in their quarterly magazine for having had a book, Redneck Goddess, published and a short story, Ozark Child, included in an anthology.  Well, this is all good and I'll eventually fill out the paperwork.  But the form is labeled Kudos and I'm easily distracted.  So I got thinking. 
See, I always thought kudos meant thank you.  Which, I now understand, it most certainly does not. It means congratulations.  So, all this time I've been using the word incorrectly.
So, when a friend went to the trouble to bake me a cake for my birthday, presented it to me with a smile and said "I baked you a cake!"  and I said, "Well.  Kudos to you."  I wasn't actually saying thank you, I was being an accidentl wise-ass. 
I get a number of expressions wrong too.  Like 'It's a doggie dog world."  That's not right, is it? 
Or, "I need that like I need a hole in my head."  Well,  I actually have a hole in my head.  Several of them.  The expression is supposed to be 'like I need another hole in my head.'  I'm pretty sure that's right.
The other day I told my husband it was raining cops and robbers.  Even I know that's not right. 
This kind of thing runs in our family.  My sister, atleast once in every phone call, tells me something is 'atypical' when what she means is 'it happens all the time.'  I find this hillarious because I love to laugh at others when I catch them in a mistake that I myself make a dozen times a day without realizing it.

Rain and Death

It's probably just me.  Usually it is.  But the timing was perfect and this image flashed into my brain. I 've learned to keep most of these little inside-my-head scenes to myself, but this one I'm going to share with you.
Our neck of the woods has had nothing but heat-washed blue skies for weeks.  A desolate, weak breeze occasionally rattles drooping leaves, birds hang their heads and pant through parted beaks, farmers pray for rain and cuss the local weather man.  In the city, lawns brown, air-conditioning units hum like giant cicadas, yard birds huddle dazed around dead, leaf-clouded bird baths.  No relief in sight.  We were hopeful for a time, expected relief any day.  Then we gave up all belief in rain, accepted our lot, taught ourselves to breathe shallowly and hug the shade.
This morning I'm on my way to the funeral of a friend's mother.  The lady was in her late eighties, and by all accounts, lived her life as fully as most of us.  This isn't a memorial to tragedy I'll be attending.  Still, her daughter, husband, friends will mourn.  They'll open thier eyes to morning light forgetful of their loss and be hit with the knowledge of her death again at full awakening.  They'll turn toward the phone to tell her some tidbit of trivia and realize, mid-stride, that she's gone.  Grief will overtake them for long, dark moments.
It rained last night.  Not the tease of a drop or two that evaporates before it can properly kiss the parched dirt.  No.  This was real, wind shaking the trees, moon racing black scrimmed clouds - rain.  Life giving water softening, penetrating, nourishing the good earth.
Pay attention.  Here's the tiny ephiphany for the day.
Might not death be to life, what that rain was to our thirsty land?  Is it possible that we go, day by day, year by year, until we grow accustomed to the hardship, until the longing for relief feels like foolish belief in a child's fairy tale?  Is not faith, whether in God, or rain, or Bigfoot - is not all faith - a choice we cling to, glory in, regardless of the last time our faces were kissed by proof?
I have a picture in my head of my friend's mother.  She's holding hands with Jesus, dancing on strong limbs in the warm rain, yearnings and hopes long forgotten, satisfied and fulfilled.

Change

I'm not good with change.  It seems that, with each passing year, I am worse.  With is unfortunate since the world is changing faster than ever before.  Or maybe life is like that calculus class that you get behind in for just one week and are, thus, lost forever unless you can double up and figure out that one equation the whole rest of the class seems to depend upon. 

But, probably I'm just getting old.

Most of you know by now that a month ago my first novel, Redneck Goddess, was published.  Go to www.authorpamelafoster.com for a gander at this humourous look at the struggles of  good, loving people to respond to change.

Lots of change in the world in general of course, and in my life in particular.  First, of course, there's the book.  I'm now doing book signings at retirement homes, libraries, the homes of lovely, generous friends - pretty near anywhere I can get people to stand still long enough for me to read to them for three minutes.  My husband is my secret weapon in selling Redneck Goddess.  So, that's good, I guess.  Though I am already nostalgic for the time when I could sneak to the store for a twenty pack of fudge bars, or wolf down a Braum's burger without him dragging people over to meet me and get my autograph on the book he just sold them.

More good change in my life.  I have a new grandson in whom I am falling more in love each day.  Y'all are lucky I don't believe in giving out personal information of any kind about my children on the internet.  Otherwise you'd already be looking at baby pictures.  He is beautiful and watching my son adore this child is an unexpected joy that I am lapping up with a spoon.  Of course, new love means new fears.  It's been a while since I've let myself be this vulnerable to loss.

So, this morning as I sip my coffee and pray the air conditioner keeps winning its struggle with this heat, I thank God for change and pray earnestly that He grants me the strength to enjoy every minute of it and not succumb to the desire to hide my head under the covers and pretend the world is today exactly the way it was yesterday.

Don't tell Ruth

A couple of weekends ago, four of us went to the Crescent Hotel for a weekend of escape and celebration.  Ruth Burkett Weeks was signing copies of her wonderful book Soldiers from the Mist on Sunday.  Claire Croxton had just signed a deal to have three of her books published. (That woman is SUCH a showoff) Jan Morrill had signed a contract with an agent who is delighted with her novel Broken Dolls.  And me, well, as you know, I am thrilled to have Redneck Goddess published.

Well, so we go up to Eureka Springs and stay overnight in this haunted hotel.  I mean, plaques  everywhere you look telling about ghost sightings, newspaper articles about hauntings, statues of the visiting dead, ghost tours on the half hour.  Seriously the place is old, gorgeous and slightly scary.  Now, I lean toward the prove-it-to-me side of the paranormal discussion.  However, Ruth is a true believer and I do think that she has a deeper connection with the mystical than most of us.  Plus, I love the woman and I'd never do or say anything to disrespect her.

That night we sit on the balcony under the stars and listen to the clop clop of horses hooves on cobblestone streets.  Ok, maybe it wasn't cobblestone, but it's my story and that's what it sounded like to me. Basically we're transported into the past while Ruth tells us about her encounters with ghosts while staying at the Crescent.

"That rocking chair right there, it moves sometimes with no wind and no living person in it."
"I felt something like a cold breeze pass through me when I turned the corner."

You get the idea.  So, between the atmosphere and Ruth's stories, I'm a teeny bit spooked when we go to the room.  So we laugh and talk and have us a grand ole time until we fall asleep.  Next day is Ruth's book signing.  I'm sitting in one of the high backed velvet chairs in the lobby, tickled to be part of Ruth's posse, feeling smug that I've not succumbed to fear of ghosts.  Right about then is when I have to pee. 

Now, here's the thing.  Ruth has told us a half dozen times NOT to use the bathroom in the basement.  Where the morgue used to be.  Where they found bodies walled up in the concrete.  Where ghosts walk freely.  Well, no problem, I'll use the bathroom on the lobby floor.  So off I go.  Except, when I get there, both stalls are locked.  No sound.  No breathing.  No tinkling of pee.  Nothing.  I stand way back and do that deal where you nonchalantly peek under the door of the stall to check for feet.  No feet.  I wait.  And wait.  And now I really do have to pee.

A sentence jumps fully formed into my head.

"The ghosts are chasing you downstairs.  To the morgue."

Well, too bad for them.  I raised three boys as a single mom.  What damage could a ghost do me? 

So, down I go.  The old morgue is now a fancy spa.  History's a funny thing, ain't it?  Anyway, the shop's open and filled with fancy soaps and oils, but there's no one there for me to wave a cheery 'Hello.  I'm going into this bathroom now.  Come looking if you don't see me come back out soon, eh?'  So I open the door and step inside.

And, just at the moment I open the door, the window air conditioner kicks on and billows the white lace curtain away from the window.  A funny coincidence.  Couldn't be anything more.  No reason for my heart to do a line dance in my chest.  Both stalls are empty and I go inside and do my thing.  A basement toilet in a very old building - when I flush the thing it sounds like a ghost is jumping up out of the swirling water and into my...well, the sound scared me is what it did.  Still, nothing has happened that can't be explained rationally. 

I wash my hands.  Admittedly it didn't take me long to finish this task, but still, no big deal.  It's those darned stories of Ruth's that have got me skiddish.  I hurry to the door and pull the handle.  It won't open.  Now.  It's humid and the wood has swollen.  No way it could be anything else.  Nonetheless, I struggle with the door for a good three seconds before it budges and during that tiny little lifetime, a chill like someone running an ice cube down my spine reminds me that we are soooo much deeper and complicated than rationality can explain.

I did not tell Ruth any of this.  I mean, that woman will twist and turn these perfectly logical events until she's convinced me that ghosts chased me downstairs and then ran a bony finger up my spine.  You know she will.