Monday, December 31, 2012
193/365 - The last of 2012
I close this year with a grateful heart and new intentions in mind...
"For last year's words belong to last year's language
And next year's words await another voice.
And to make an end is to make a beginning." ~T.S. Eliot
Monday, December 17, 2012
192/365 - Humbled
I am a hypocrite. After writing passionately about the dissension witnessed in light of Friday's shooting, I posted an article on Facebook about gun control. Not long after, a lovely man I know from church posted one about violence not being a gun problem.
You should know that he is one of the gentlest, most compassionate souls I've ever known. There was once a time I likened him to my dad away from home. If I didn't know him better, I might judge him for his politics, and I'm ashamed to admit that. I haven't seen him for a long time, but I know if I ran into him tomorrow, his face would light up with a smile, and he'd give me a big hug. He'd probably say he misses me, that he prays for me, and I would be grateful for his thoughtfulness.
I am so sad and frustrated right now, mostly at myself. I continue to engage in the politics I despise. I post articles and comments on Facebook and write this blog in hopes of communicating how I feel - others do the same - but this is not communication. This is many, many one-sided conversations. It's no wonder I'm disillusioned. I want to talk to people, I want to find ways to get along, to bring more peace into this world. Don't you?
Over Thanksgiving, I had a rather engaging discussion recently with my dad and my cousin, and it was one of the most meaningful and refreshing conversations about politics and religion I've had in a long time. Now, if differences in politics and religion aren't enough to drive a wedge between people, especially family, I don't know what is... It wasn't easy, but it was real, in-person communication. We disagreed on many things, but we voiced our opinions respectfully, we chose our words carefully, checked our tone, witnessed each others' body language, we listened, reflected, conceded, challenged, and in many cases, we still disagreed. And then, when it was time to move on with our day, we smiled and gave each other a hug and said, "I love you." And then we ate some pie.
Facebook doesn't make room for that - except for humble pie - there's plenty of room for that.
You should know that he is one of the gentlest, most compassionate souls I've ever known. There was once a time I likened him to my dad away from home. If I didn't know him better, I might judge him for his politics, and I'm ashamed to admit that. I haven't seen him for a long time, but I know if I ran into him tomorrow, his face would light up with a smile, and he'd give me a big hug. He'd probably say he misses me, that he prays for me, and I would be grateful for his thoughtfulness.
I am so sad and frustrated right now, mostly at myself. I continue to engage in the politics I despise. I post articles and comments on Facebook and write this blog in hopes of communicating how I feel - others do the same - but this is not communication. This is many, many one-sided conversations. It's no wonder I'm disillusioned. I want to talk to people, I want to find ways to get along, to bring more peace into this world. Don't you?
Over Thanksgiving, I had a rather engaging discussion recently with my dad and my cousin, and it was one of the most meaningful and refreshing conversations about politics and religion I've had in a long time. Now, if differences in politics and religion aren't enough to drive a wedge between people, especially family, I don't know what is... It wasn't easy, but it was real, in-person communication. We disagreed on many things, but we voiced our opinions respectfully, we chose our words carefully, checked our tone, witnessed each others' body language, we listened, reflected, conceded, challenged, and in many cases, we still disagreed. And then, when it was time to move on with our day, we smiled and gave each other a hug and said, "I love you." And then we ate some pie.
Facebook doesn't make room for that - except for humble pie - there's plenty of room for that.
Sunday, December 16, 2012
191/365 - Violent Blame
We are divided in our united cry of anguish. How can this violence be stopped? Clearly legislation must be changed. No, it has nothing to do with the 2nd Amendment; it's a mental health issue. How can God let this happen? We're a culture fixated with violent movies and video games. It's a result of divorce and absentee parents. It's bullying in school. It's autism.
It's your fault, not mine.
We can't even honor the fallen without taking a position on what heroism means or defend our duty to vote or uphold the right to bear arms. We argue our righteous positions until, at best, we ultimately agree to disagree. In the end, we merely pretend that contempt is a benevolent response, but nothing is gained, no understanding is reached, no grief is assuaged.
Perhaps contempt is the evil that most needs to be exposed in light of this tragedy. Perhaps the very violence we rebuke is perpetuated by every angry word spoken, every hateful diatribe written, every finger pointed in blame, every self-serving act justified, every injustice upheld, every atrocity unforgiven. My soul mourns for the lives shattered by this tragedy, but my heart breaks even more at the hatred and contempt cultivated in its aftermath.
“The ultimate weakness of violence is that it is a descending spiral begetting the very thing it seeks to destroy, instead of diminishing evil, it multiplies it. Through violence you may murder the liar, but you cannot murder the lie, nor establish the truth. Through violence you may murder the hater, but you do not murder hate. In fact, violence merely increases hate. Returning violence for violence multiplies violence, adding deeper darkness to a night already devoid of stars. Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that.” ~Martin Luther King, Jr.
It's your fault, not mine.
We can't even honor the fallen without taking a position on what heroism means or defend our duty to vote or uphold the right to bear arms. We argue our righteous positions until, at best, we ultimately agree to disagree. In the end, we merely pretend that contempt is a benevolent response, but nothing is gained, no understanding is reached, no grief is assuaged.
Perhaps contempt is the evil that most needs to be exposed in light of this tragedy. Perhaps the very violence we rebuke is perpetuated by every angry word spoken, every hateful diatribe written, every finger pointed in blame, every self-serving act justified, every injustice upheld, every atrocity unforgiven. My soul mourns for the lives shattered by this tragedy, but my heart breaks even more at the hatred and contempt cultivated in its aftermath.
“The ultimate weakness of violence is that it is a descending spiral begetting the very thing it seeks to destroy, instead of diminishing evil, it multiplies it. Through violence you may murder the liar, but you cannot murder the lie, nor establish the truth. Through violence you may murder the hater, but you do not murder hate. In fact, violence merely increases hate. Returning violence for violence multiplies violence, adding deeper darkness to a night already devoid of stars. Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that.” ~Martin Luther King, Jr.
Friday, December 14, 2012
Wednesday, November 21, 2012
189/365 - Episode Goal: Have a baby
There is a reason we have medication for pain. That's because it hurts.
When my dear friend asked me to be her coach for the birth of her first baby, I was flattered and honored and accepted on the spot. I'd had three kids, including twins, after all....how hard could it be? Later, when she told me she wanted to do it au naturale, I was a little more skeptical about my experience.
My first daughter was born under the calm, reasonable conditions of an epidural. My second pregnancy was twins, and I didn't have a choice - Midwives wouldn't take me, and every OB I called asked, "When would you like to schedule your C-section?" I settled for the doctor that required a mandatory epidural and birth in the operating room, just in case. Sadly, the anesthesiologist was a little busy when I finally asked for said epidural. I made it through transition and was in the operating room ready to push when he kindly showed up to administer a spinal - the only option at that point. According to procedure, I had to have either an epidural or a spinal in the event an emergency C-section was necessary for baby #1 or baby #2. Let me tell ya, there's nothing like straddling a gurney, your body wracked with the worst pain ever imaginable, and being asked to hold still while someone puts a needle in your back. Strangely, since then I've often thought I might like to have another baby without drugs, just because I had been so close to doing it naturally before.
After going through it with J last week, though, I can honestly say I no longer need that experience. The pain I witnessed in my good friend during her labor was unbearable. Much harder for her, I'm sure, but it was enough to make me recommend the pain meds to every expectant mother from that point forward.
But I probably won't. And here's why...
J's willingness to endure the pain of childbirth allowed for some incredibly amazing experiences to occur, not the least of which was the immeasurable counter moment of joy when J finally held her baby to her chest for the very first time. The change in J was not unlike the dramatic change I witnessed when my grandmother died - the body has a way of releasing life that transcends understanding unless you see it first-hand.
What was truly transformative, though, are two key moments during J's labor, when her pain was clearly the gateway to something more powerful...
The first was when J was in the jacuzzi tub, trying unsuccessfully to relieve the contractions she felt so strongly in her back. J's friend, Mary, and I were on either side of her, holding her arms and coaxing her through each wave of pain. The nurse had gone out to find a stool or towels or something - I don't remember now - but that might have been the first time we were alone with J since active labor had begun. Mary and I began praying for J, and all of a sudden, it was so clear that J, through her pain, was being given an opportunity to let go of her past life and all the times she had been told she wasn't strong enough, wasn't good enough, wasn't capable of handling what life dished out. Through her strength, she was entering into a new destiny being written for her, a sacred passage into a life of freedom to be who she was called to be - not because of the pain itself, but because she was willing to endure it.
And then, after another hour or more of that pain, she didn't have the strength to endure it anymore. She thought she was ready to push, but she was still at 8 cm, and the doctor suspected the baby was posterior. J just wanted the baby out, didn't want anyone to touch her, and she started crying every time another contraction came on...
This time, we asked J to pray with us, to articulate her trust in God's strength now that hers was gone. I remember lying down on the floor next to her afterward, in between contractions, and we revisited the "episode goal" cheerfully identified by her and her nurses 16 hours earlier. It was, very simply, "Have a baby." J was wimpering and asking for help to just get the baby out. I checked with the nurse to see if there was anything else we could try... She reluctantly suggested that meds might her help body relax enough to be ready for the baby to come.
So, I asked her, "Jess, what's more important? To have this baby, or to have this baby without pain meds?" That's when she willingly surrendered, and we called for the anesthesiologist. Half an hour later, J gave birth to a beautiful baby girl, without the assistance of any pain medication. Darn those anesthesiologists who don't get there in time!
Sometimes, we're expected to endure pain to demonstrate how strong we are. Other times, we're asked to surrender our strength and our will to a power greater than ours, even if in the end, we still get exactly what we were striving so hard to achieve all on our own. Life happens when we learn when to stay strong and when it's time to surrender.
When my dear friend asked me to be her coach for the birth of her first baby, I was flattered and honored and accepted on the spot. I'd had three kids, including twins, after all....how hard could it be? Later, when she told me she wanted to do it au naturale, I was a little more skeptical about my experience.
My first daughter was born under the calm, reasonable conditions of an epidural. My second pregnancy was twins, and I didn't have a choice - Midwives wouldn't take me, and every OB I called asked, "When would you like to schedule your C-section?" I settled for the doctor that required a mandatory epidural and birth in the operating room, just in case. Sadly, the anesthesiologist was a little busy when I finally asked for said epidural. I made it through transition and was in the operating room ready to push when he kindly showed up to administer a spinal - the only option at that point. According to procedure, I had to have either an epidural or a spinal in the event an emergency C-section was necessary for baby #1 or baby #2. Let me tell ya, there's nothing like straddling a gurney, your body wracked with the worst pain ever imaginable, and being asked to hold still while someone puts a needle in your back. Strangely, since then I've often thought I might like to have another baby without drugs, just because I had been so close to doing it naturally before.
After going through it with J last week, though, I can honestly say I no longer need that experience. The pain I witnessed in my good friend during her labor was unbearable. Much harder for her, I'm sure, but it was enough to make me recommend the pain meds to every expectant mother from that point forward.
But I probably won't. And here's why...
J's willingness to endure the pain of childbirth allowed for some incredibly amazing experiences to occur, not the least of which was the immeasurable counter moment of joy when J finally held her baby to her chest for the very first time. The change in J was not unlike the dramatic change I witnessed when my grandmother died - the body has a way of releasing life that transcends understanding unless you see it first-hand.
What was truly transformative, though, are two key moments during J's labor, when her pain was clearly the gateway to something more powerful...
The first was when J was in the jacuzzi tub, trying unsuccessfully to relieve the contractions she felt so strongly in her back. J's friend, Mary, and I were on either side of her, holding her arms and coaxing her through each wave of pain. The nurse had gone out to find a stool or towels or something - I don't remember now - but that might have been the first time we were alone with J since active labor had begun. Mary and I began praying for J, and all of a sudden, it was so clear that J, through her pain, was being given an opportunity to let go of her past life and all the times she had been told she wasn't strong enough, wasn't good enough, wasn't capable of handling what life dished out. Through her strength, she was entering into a new destiny being written for her, a sacred passage into a life of freedom to be who she was called to be - not because of the pain itself, but because she was willing to endure it.
And then, after another hour or more of that pain, she didn't have the strength to endure it anymore. She thought she was ready to push, but she was still at 8 cm, and the doctor suspected the baby was posterior. J just wanted the baby out, didn't want anyone to touch her, and she started crying every time another contraction came on...
This time, we asked J to pray with us, to articulate her trust in God's strength now that hers was gone. I remember lying down on the floor next to her afterward, in between contractions, and we revisited the "episode goal" cheerfully identified by her and her nurses 16 hours earlier. It was, very simply, "Have a baby." J was wimpering and asking for help to just get the baby out. I checked with the nurse to see if there was anything else we could try... She reluctantly suggested that meds might her help body relax enough to be ready for the baby to come.
So, I asked her, "Jess, what's more important? To have this baby, or to have this baby without pain meds?" That's when she willingly surrendered, and we called for the anesthesiologist. Half an hour later, J gave birth to a beautiful baby girl, without the assistance of any pain medication. Darn those anesthesiologists who don't get there in time!
Sometimes, we're expected to endure pain to demonstrate how strong we are. Other times, we're asked to surrender our strength and our will to a power greater than ours, even if in the end, we still get exactly what we were striving so hard to achieve all on our own. Life happens when we learn when to stay strong and when it's time to surrender.
Saturday, November 10, 2012
Thursday, November 8, 2012
187/365 - Legacy
“I always tell them that I do not care about the rating, only that they try their hardest and get the most out of the experience.” ~Bill Thomas
Funny, I've been saying this exact same thing about competitions to my own students for years, but I never realized that I should have been crediting Bill Thomas, my grade-school, junior high, and high school band director. Until today.
I started playing flute in 5th grade and was Mr. Thomas' student for eight of the twelve years he was the band director at Minster Local Schools. He was, by far, my favorite teacher. OK, I confess I had a crush on him in grade school - all the flute players did - but my naive admiration eventually grew into a truly collegial relationship, if not by the time I graduated from high school, then certainly during college when I came home to assist with some of his classes and a few summer band camps. Shortly after I finished my music education degree, Mr. Thomas even called to offer me a job - this was just after he had moved from Minster to take a position with a larger band program in the Cincinnati area. I was just about to start my graduate degree, though, with very different plans for my life. Honored though I was, I graciously declined. I'm sad to say we lost touch after that... Can it possibly be over fifteen years since we last spoke?
Today, reviewing applications for the U-M School of Music, Theatre & Dance, I saw the name "Bill Thomas" on the resume of a music applicant from Ohio. I wondered if it could possibly be the Bill Thomas who had sparked my own musical development so long ago... I looked up the girl's high school online, and when I found a biography that mentioned his tenure in Minster, I knew that it was indeed the same Mr. Thomas! His name showed up in quite a few posts about the school's band program, but when I went to look for his contact information, I couldn't figure out why he wasn't included on the school's directory.
That's when I found the article about Mr. Thomas' retirement earlier this year and the quote I posted above. I tearfully read about his thirty years of teaching and the incredible legacy he created for his students and colleagues. It's humbling to consider that I, too, am part of Mr. Thomas' legacy and that I have the privilege of passing along some of the wisdom he once bestowed on me.
Well, Mr. Thomas, I always try my hardest and continue to get the most out of every experience, with heartfelt thanks to you!
Funny, I've been saying this exact same thing about competitions to my own students for years, but I never realized that I should have been crediting Bill Thomas, my grade-school, junior high, and high school band director. Until today.
I started playing flute in 5th grade and was Mr. Thomas' student for eight of the twelve years he was the band director at Minster Local Schools. He was, by far, my favorite teacher. OK, I confess I had a crush on him in grade school - all the flute players did - but my naive admiration eventually grew into a truly collegial relationship, if not by the time I graduated from high school, then certainly during college when I came home to assist with some of his classes and a few summer band camps. Shortly after I finished my music education degree, Mr. Thomas even called to offer me a job - this was just after he had moved from Minster to take a position with a larger band program in the Cincinnati area. I was just about to start my graduate degree, though, with very different plans for my life. Honored though I was, I graciously declined. I'm sad to say we lost touch after that... Can it possibly be over fifteen years since we last spoke?
Today, reviewing applications for the U-M School of Music, Theatre & Dance, I saw the name "Bill Thomas" on the resume of a music applicant from Ohio. I wondered if it could possibly be the Bill Thomas who had sparked my own musical development so long ago... I looked up the girl's high school online, and when I found a biography that mentioned his tenure in Minster, I knew that it was indeed the same Mr. Thomas! His name showed up in quite a few posts about the school's band program, but when I went to look for his contact information, I couldn't figure out why he wasn't included on the school's directory.
That's when I found the article about Mr. Thomas' retirement earlier this year and the quote I posted above. I tearfully read about his thirty years of teaching and the incredible legacy he created for his students and colleagues. It's humbling to consider that I, too, am part of Mr. Thomas' legacy and that I have the privilege of passing along some of the wisdom he once bestowed on me.
Well, Mr. Thomas, I always try my hardest and continue to get the most out of every experience, with heartfelt thanks to you!
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