Namaste - Releasing My Ego to See the Divine

The other day I wrote a post on how I don’t think of God as an entity that can be defined but prefer to see the Divine as existing in each of us, no matter who we are.  The Hindu greeting “Namaste” has been translated as “the divine in me greets the divine in you.”  In other definitions it speaks of releasing one’s own ego in order to be able to see the divine in others, putting aside ones definitions of what is sacred and being willing to be open to that which is divine in others.  Some people may say that I am not “saved” or am in danger of going to hell because of what I believe.  I am not concerned.  That which gives comfort to others, whether it be a relationship with Jesus or adherence to the strictness of dogma, is not for me to judge.  (Though, to be honest, I am guilty of that at times.) Comfort is valuable and we should all be allowed to find it in whatever way serves us as long as it does not harm others.

I have been able to find great comfort in the words of Jesus and Buddha, in the writings of Jewish rabbis, Muslim clerics, Sufi poets, yogis, native shamans, and in the garbled words of a schizophrenic homeless man.  This has been proof to me that the Divine knows no boundaries.   What concerns me is when the religious set up boundaries that leave some people feeling that they cannot be a part of anything that even smells of incense. 

Today I choose to find the Divine in the world around me in hopes that it can help me find that spark in myself.  Here is where I find it (in no particular order):

1 - In great and sometimes not so great music.  I can be moved by Chopin and Saint-Saens in one moment and groove out to Carly Rae Jepsen  the next. 

2 – The kindness of others.  I am truly grateful for the food that is grown in my friend, Joyce’s, garden, but not only does the Divine exist in her garden, it exists in her and Roland’s hearts as they fulfill their mission of supplying food to the local food pantry.  I also know many people who choose to work in human service rather than finding careers that pay well.  And I know people who make good money and choose to be of service by volunteering or giving a portion of their earnings.  Kindness comes in many forms.  I have seen it when a car stops to let someone cross the street or when someone spends a full day Christmas shopping for children she will never see but just wants to know that a child in a shelter will have something to open on Christmas morning.    

3 – Laughter.  From baby to adult, the sound of true laughter is the expression of Divine joy.

4 – The beauty of nature – Divinity is found in great beauty whether you believe in intelligent design, the creation as told in Genesis, or evolution.  The desert landscapes of New Mexico, the mountains of New Hampshire or the Himalayas, the colorful creatures of island lagoons, and the beauty of a flower garden all contain the spark of Divine.  When I look at the stars  and hear Neil Degrasse Tyson (see below) telling me of how I am made of the same stuff as the stars I am in awe of that possibility.

5 – Patience.  Whenever I am able to be patient with myself, others, and animals, I am aware that the Divine exists in me.  It is in the breath that I take when I need to have a moment before I take action or say something that proves to me that there is something divine that works in me and keeps me from falling apart.

 As I said before, I don’t believe in a God that takes a personal interest in the day to day, minute to minute, goings on of my life.  But there is something that quickens in me when touched by the presence of the Divine in myself and others.  It has no judgment, no agenda, and no specific purpose.  It is just a presence that reminds me of my humanity and connection to others and the world around me.  It is the loss of that connection that I believe turns so many people to despair and harm of others.  I know that others may define this all differently and that is fine.

 Namaste!

Christmas Eve Musings Before a Nap

I would love to be able to write an inspiring message for the holiday season.  I don’t know if I even have it in me.  I am not a holiday person.  I am actually one of those “blue” people who find the holidays to be overwhelming and only serve to remind me of difficult Christmases past. 

It hasn’t always been that way.  I used to be the one who loved to string popcorn and cranberries for the tree and set up the crèche in a prominent spot.  I loved to sing Christmas carols at the top of my lungs, albeit slightly off key.  Then things happened.  Choices were made.  Some out of my control, some just seemed to be the least of all the evils.  And I stopped believing. 

Somewhere along the line I stopped believing that there is a God out there who takes a personal interest in my activities.  Oddly, it happened around the same time that I stopped doing the things that I would rather not have God witness.  It’s not that I don’t believe in God.  I just got tired of everyone claiming to have his ear, or his righteousness, or that God was on “our” side or that God has a reason for everything and it is not our job to question.  I prefer to believe that if there is any divinity it exists within each of us and most of us are able to touch it now and then and be better for it.  It is that piece of divinity that connects us to each other. 

I guess I see that when everyone has tried to define who or what they think God is, it has ended up separating us even more.  I don’t think God is definable.  I don’t think God is a he, a she, or an it.   I think as long as we continue to try to define God we are in danger of making God in our own image and forgetting that there is that piece that we can’t define that connects us rather than that definition we have created that separates us. 

Christmas has become another way to separate us.  It brings together like-minded people who celebrate together within their agreed upon definition.  Some folks argue every year that there is a war on Christmas, or that we need to put the Christ back in Christmas, and whenever I hear that I feel that those people don’t want me to be a part of their celebrations so I back away and I feel separated.   I wish there was a holiday that everyone could celebrate that would bring us all together in peace and harmony, no matter our beliefs, no matter what we believed our relationship is to that we call God.

These past few weeks have only reinforced that sense of separation I feel exists in the world.  There are people who are afraid of mentally ill people with guns who want more people to have more guns.  I don’t know anymore.  There are already so many guns out there that I don’t know if there is an answer.  I also know that people on both sides strongly believe that God is with them.  I think some people may have gotten the Ten Commandments and the Constitution and all its amendments confused.  At times they seem to contradict each other.  I just don’t know.  What I know is that I don’t want any more babies to die and I don’t want children growing up in a world where everyone they know is wearing a gun because there are other people with guns who are dangerous.  How do we know who is dangerous at this point? 

I also know that I am dealing with vicarious trauma.  I hear stories every day of awful things that people do to people that they claim to love.  It’s not necessarily the strangers with the guns who scare me.  As I well know, it could be the person sitting across the table from you at breakfast that could be the one who decides that your presence is an inconvenience, an annoyance, or that the coffee just wasn’t the right temperature. 

Yes, I am not the person who decorates three or more trees, throws a party, wears that Santa hat for the month of December, and makes bags of reindeer food.  There have been people who felt they had to lure me into their Christmas cheer, but, as much as I dearly love and miss those people, it didn’t really didn’t do anything but reinforce my sense that there of more us who would prefer to drink our nog alone than with others because that much jolly is best taken in small doses.  I always say I have about four hours of holiday cheer and I save that for my grandchildren.  Any more than that would just be me faking it and that would be cruel for all of us.

I will, however, look out the window tomorrow and hope to see snow.  I will look up at the sky tonight and think about all those children who are looking at the same sky in hopes of seeing the red flashing nose of a reindeer and I will think about those children who are not.  I will miss my grandchildren but also be grateful that they had the opportunity to go to Disney this year leaving me to spend the week with the granddogs who probably have more of the Divine in them than most people.    As much as I would like to believe that this is the holiday of peace and love, things will continue pretty much the same.  I may pray, but that is only to change me, not to change the mind or gain the favor of an entity.  I pray in order to have inner peace because that may be the only place I will be able to find it.  

Honoring the Vet, but Hating the War

From 1957 to 1966 there was a television show hosted by Walter Cronkite called The 20^th Century.  On Sunday evenings we all needed to be quiet in our home while my father sat in his recliner with his cigarettes and ashtray at his side, his eyes glazed over as he watched images of the World Wars and the Korean Conflict move across the screen.  When the show ended in 1966 my father was deep into watching the daily reports coming from Viet Nam. 

As I look back on this now, and knowing all that I have come to learn about trauma, I realize that my father was reliving his time fighting in the Korean War every time he turned on the television to watch the news.  He also watched every other documentary or feature film he could find that depicted men engaged in combat.  My father may have served in the Army on that cold northern Pacific peninsula for less than two years, but that war had a constant presence in our home.

Many people saw my father as a large caring man with a quick and raucous laugh.  He had a colorful sense of humor and a lack of social boundaries that was often an embarrassment to his children.  What a lot of people didn’t realize, however, was that there was a very tortured human being underneath the Santa Claus suit that people saw every December.  The Korean War added to the effects of extreme poverty and abuse that he suffered as a child and he carried the pain with him up until the very last years of his life.  When I look at pictures of him, I can see the pain in his eyes above the smile on which everyone else focuses.

During the Viet Nam War he ranted against the demonstrators and draft dodgers.  He felt that since he had done his duty as a man by serving in the military, others should not dishonor the memory of his fallen comrades by refusing to do their duty.  His devotion to the men with whom he served carried a large dose of survivor guilt.  Even though my mother spent long hours after their marriage pulling shrapnel that was rising to the surface out of his face and scalp, my father had refused to accept a Purple Heart.  He insisted that others deserved it more than he did. 

Dad had a quick and explosive temper.  Except for a very few occasions,  he did not hit a member of our family.  However, I remember seeing his fist going through a wall on at least two occasions.  He also had a “look” that all three of his children refer to even now.  It was a “look” that told us we had taken a step too far and that he was on the verge of doing something if we did not leave or change our attitude immediately.  In the same way that the Korean War was ever present, so was his temper.  I have no doubt they were connected.

My father was a man who had grown up poor in the Great Depression, saw men leave to fight in WWII and come back heroes, and then he fought in Korean War.  He believed that a man was to be honored for his military service and that his participation in protecting his country from the threat of communism warranted respect and he felt it was his due.  If one of his children disagreed with his viewpoint, he saw it as a personal attack on his right as a man, a soldier, and a father.  

He also struggled to be a father with no idea of what that meant.  His father was absent for most of his life and my father fell into the belief that as long as he was physically present in the home, worked hard at home and on the job, and brought home the paycheck, he was meeting all the requirements of being a good father.  He did not realize that his temper and depression alienated his children, made them fearful and resentful, and contributed to other issues in their lives.  Like many men of his generation, he also probably had an undiagnosed learning disability that made it difficult for him to read.  He was intelligent, and devoted himself to watching news and documentaries to fill in the gaps in his education.

Dad’s childhood and his time in the Korean War set the tone for our family without ever being discussed.  It was not until he was in his late sixties that he finally joined a support group for veterans.  For forty years he had not been able to talk about his experiences, but finally found a place for his feelings in a group of Viet Nam veterans who accept him into their space.  This group of men helped him find peace while also helping him understand how his experiences in Korea had affected his family.  He died peacefully in 2005, having made amends to his wife and children.

Growing up with presence of war in our home has made me a pacifist.  War creates more war and it just goes on and on.  Fighting seems to always be the first choice while peaceful means of resolving conflict are deemed traitorous.  When young people return from war having experienced extreme trauma and are not given the proper support and treatment they need, I am convinced that wars are created for the glory of those who do not fight and to the detriment of those who do. 

While not a Catholic, I agree with the Catholic’s just war doctrine:

The strict conditions for legitimate defense by military force require rigorous consideration. The gravity of such a decision makes it subject to rigorous conditions of moral legitimacy. At one and the same time:

·         the damage inflicted by the aggressor on the nation or community of nations must be lasting, grave, and certain;

·         all other means of putting an end to it must have been shown to be impractical or ineffective;

·         there must be serious prospects of success;

·         the use of arms must not produce evils and disorders graver than the evil to be eliminated. The power of modern means of destruction weighs very heavily in evaluating this condition.

These are the traditional elements enumerated in what is called the "just war" doctrine. The evaluation of these conditions for moral legitimacy belongs to the prudential judgment of those who have responsibility for the common good.

To this I would add that we, as a country, need to take full responsibility for the continued support of military personnel after they return from war, ensuring that healing is facilitated of not only physical damage, but also on the deeper and more far-reaching emotional and spiritual effects of witnessing extreme violence. 

Noble Eightfold Path - Right View & Right Intention

As my brain swirls with thoughts and I am enfolded the energy of the impending storm, I have decided to continue on in addressing the Noble Eightfold Path or Eight Limbs.  As I scanned the list I looked at Right View and Right Intention and felt some uncertainty.  How can I write about right view and right intention when I have no clue what those could be.  As I scanned other writings I was brought back to the Four Noble Truths that I wrote about in my first post of this series:

1.       There is the existence of suffering

2.       There is the making of suffering

3.       There is a way out of that suffering

4.       There is a specific path to restore well-being called

This teaching had significant impact on my life during the past two weeks.  My son had a health scare and our family had to wait for two weeks for the results of a lymph node biopsy.  It was during this time I had to evaluate what the Dharma teaches in regards to suffering and determine what my right view and intention were in this situation.

It was not easy.  I really wanted this problem to be taken away.  However, suffering is a part of life.  I worked on acceptance of that truth and reminded myself that I am not the only woman in the world who has experienced loss.  I asked for prayers but I did not ask for specific results of those prayers.  I knew that my Christian friends would ask for either healing (on many levels) or for God’s will.  I knew that others would be focused on sending love, light, and peaceful energy into the situation.  I do not believe in a deity that pays singular attention to the needs of one person.  I would never presume that a god would give me preferential treatment over another mother.  I did, however, believe that the energy that could be created through prayer, chanting, involving others in the intention of raising energy, would create a space in which peace could be created in the knowing that we are all connected in our suffering and acceptance of it. 

My son’s medical condition ended up being benign.  Some may say it was a miracle, a healing, a blessing.  Others may say that it was God’s will.  I accept that it is what it is and if it had been a different outcome, I would have endeavored to accept that, also.  This Zen Buddhist parable illustrates how acceptance is the key to right view and right intention.

Once upon the time there was an old farmer who had worked his crops for many years. One day his horse ran away. Upon hearing the news, his neighbors came to visit. “Such bad luck,” they said sympathetically.

“Maybe,” the farmer replied.

The next morning the horse returned, bringing with it three other wild horses. “How wonderful,” the neighbors exclaimed.

“Maybe,” replied the old man.

The following day, his son tried to ride one of the untamed horses, was thrown, and broke his leg. The neighbors again came to offer their sympathy on his misfortune.

“Maybe,” answered the farmer.

The day after, military officials came to the village to draft young men into the army. Seeing that the son’s leg was broken, they passed him by. The neighbors congratulated the farmer on how well things had turned out.

“Maybe,” said the farmer.

As the storm approaches and the wind begins to stir the leaves from the trees, I work to maintain the view that even when the world is in turmoil, there are still moments of peace to be found. 

The Noble Eightfold Path – Right Livelihood

Zen teacher Thich Nhat Hanh wrote,"To practice Right Livelihood (samyag ajiva), you have to find a way to earn your living without transgressing your ideals of love and compassion. The way you support yourself can be an expression of your deepest self, or it can be a source of suffering for you and others. " ... Our vocation can nourish our understanding and compassion, or erode them. We should be awake to the consequences, far and near, of the way we earn our living.”

The Heart of the Buddha's Teaching [Parallax Press, 1998], p. 10.

Right livelihood has held great significance in my life. I learned many years ago that working in a position that does express my deepest self can lead to dissatisfaction, depression, and loss of attunement with who I really am.

My first job at sixteen was working in the laundry at a nursing home.  My inability to fold fitted sheets soon led to a promotion to nursing assistant.  My grandmother and mother had both worked as nursing assistants in the same facility and were well-liked and considered to be caring and compassionate workers.  I like to think that I followed in that family tradition.  I enjoyed that job and had hoped to eventually go forward and earn my nursing degree.  My father, in a rare departure from his view of traditional roles for women, insisted that I go to a four year college and pursue something other than a two year nursing license.  There was no discussion and I rebelled by going to school for a year and then getting married.  I showed him!

It took many years for me to get back onto a career path that allowed me to express my desire to be of service to others. From 1981 to 1994, I worked for an outdoor power equipment company, first as an export clerk, then moving my way to executive secretary (major fail!), and then onto my ten year position as a production control specialist, scheduling assembly lines and support operations.  It was a bad fit that led to risky and unfulfilling relationships and addiction.  I was also aware that the products sold by this company were being used in ways that harmed the environment (loss of significant amounts of the Amazon rainforest) and production workers were being treated poorly.  I was often taken to task when I raised the issue of the impact that long periods of overtime would have on families and was told that I was not to worry about individuals but about numbers. 

I was able, however, to take advantage of the tuition reimbursement program offered by the company to finish my undergraduate degree and eventually use my retirement fund to finance my graduate studies in counseling.  When I finally was able to move from a job that only fed, clothed, and housed me to a career that fulfilled me, I was able to access that deeper part of myself that finds great satisfaction in being of service.  I knew when I left that job that I wanted to dedicate my life to helping other women through significant transitions in their lives, be it recovering from addiction or finding safety.   I find that I am at my best when I am in a role that allows me to support others in a way that encourages their growth and healing. 

At times, when someone asks if what I do is too traumatic or stressful, or if the possibility of funding cuts could impact my employment, and if I should find something else, I know that right now this is where I belong, that what I do is the right livelihood for me.

The Eightfold Path - Right Speech

This is the first in a series on the 8 Limbs, otherwise known as the Nobel Eightfold Path.  I have chosen to write about the ones that resonate with me the most and today I am thinking a lot about the path of Right Speech.

In cultivating right speech it is very important for me to release my attachment to being right.  That looks strange as I type it, but it is true.  Many times right speech is interpreted as only speaking the truth and exercising freedom of speech.  However, I cannot always be certain that what I say is true and it may only be true for me.  How I relate my truth becomes very important.  Sometimes it comes down to asking myself would I rather be right or would I rather be kind.  I don’t need to express my opinion every time I have one. 

During these highly charged political times there are plenty of people who are expressing their opinions and debating the issues of the day.  People who have the opposite opinions on matters of policy than me are not necessarily wrong; they are looking at the issues from where they stand, from where they live, from their experiences.  By speaking their truth they may seem in total opposition to my truth.  So what is right speech?

“Right speech is abstaining from lying, from divisive speech, from abusive speech, & from idle chatter.”— SN 45.8

Over the past few years I have noticed that the internet has given people the freedom to say things anonymously that they probably wouldn’t say otherwise.  I have stopped looking at comments on news websites because people are choosing to use the comment areas as a place to bully.  I have also heard speech, seen comments, and viewed bumper stickers that are not only offensive, but threatening to my way of life and viewpoint.  Freedom of speech is often used as an excuse by the person who makes the statement or by the persons who do not condone the speech but remain silent. 

The following criteria for right speech comes from the Buddhas teachings to Prince Abhaya.  (Tathagata is the word in Pali that Buddha uses when referring to himself.)

 [1] "In the case of words that the Tathagata knows to be unfactual, untrue, unbeneficial (or: not connected with the goal), unendearing & disagreeable to others, he does not say them.

[2] "In the case of words that the Tathagata knows to be factual, true, unbeneficial, unendearing & disagreeable to others, he does not say them.

[3] "In the case of words that the Tathagata knows to be factual, true, beneficial, but unendearing & disagreeable to others, he has a sense of the proper time for saying them.

[4] "In the case of words that the Tathagata knows to be unfactual, untrue, unbeneficial, but endearing & agreeable to others, he does not say them.

[5] "In the case of words that the Tathagata knows to be factual, true, unbeneficial, but endearing & agreeable to others, he does not say them.

[6] "In the case of words that the Tathagata knows to be factual, true, beneficial, and endearing & agreeable to others, he has a sense of the proper time for saying them. Why is that? Because the Tathagata has sympathy for living beings."

The main factors are three: whether or not a statement is true, whether or not it is beneficial, and whether or not it is pleasing to others. The Buddha himself would state only those things that are true and beneficial, and would have a sense of time for when pleasing and unpleasing things should be said. Notice that the possibility that a statement might be untrue yet beneficial is not even entertained.

I am not perfect.  I tend to be like Joe Biden, spouting off on issues, expressing my dismay at injustices, cursing when cut off in traffic, becoming angry when my truth is opposed.  I am trying to discern when to best keep my mouth shut.  That is not always easy.

There is another aspect to right speech that has become very important to me and that is how I talk to myself.  What I say to myself can be just as damaging as what I read or hear others say.  I am my worst critic and often my worst bully.  Right speech, therefore, becomes an internal process.  I need to pay careful attention to both, as how I express myself is a reflection of what is going on internally.

The Four Noble Truths

To help me organize my thoughts around the Buddha's Four Noble Truths and the Noble Eightfold Path I am starting a series of posts that outline what I have learned.  Take what is of value to you and ponder the rest with an open mind and heart.

The Four Noble Truths

1.       There is the existence of suffering

2.       There is the making of suffering

3.       There is a way out of that suffering

4.       There is a specific path to restore well-being called The Noble Eightfold Path.

 .

Avoiding Suffering . . . . .

There is suffering.  Who can deny it?  I have known people who have tried their hardest to avoid it, but truth be known it becomes even more difficult when one is trying to avoid it.  Whenever I got into trouble as a teenage or even as an adult, my mother would quietly say to me “I am not going to tell your father.”  The message I got was that the world would end if my father found out so therefore it is best to keep him in the dark.  This meant that my mother suffered in silence and I didn’t get any support from my parents when I was struggling.  When something happened that my mother couldn’t avoid telling my father, then, yes, all hell broke loose.  I often wonder if it was because he had been sheltered from so many of my past failings that he hadn’t had a chance to develop an understanding that I was a flawed individual who was going to disappoint him sooner or later.

I knew a woman who said that it was important to avoid “dark” things.  She only wanted to know about the good in the world, refusing to read bad news or talk about things she found disturbing, such as mental illness or violence.  I honored that in her, but found that I was not able to talk to her about a lot of things in my life.  I work in a profession where I am exposed to the impact of domestic violence, sexual assault, and child abuse every day.  Her avoidance of anything to do with the suffering in the world protected her but left me in another situation where I was unable to discuss the pain I felt when I heard a story or even the joy I felt when I was able to connect with someone with severe mental illness.

Embracing suffering . . . .

In our attempts to avoid suffering in the world we can forget that we are all inter-connected by virtue of our heritage as human beings and residents of the Earth.  We all contain the same elements and share the same experiences.  Our viewpoints may differ so it remains very important to remember that on a very deep level we are all connected and interdependent upon each other.  By exposing ourselves to others’ suffering we are also removed from the isolation that we feel when we experience our own suffering.  This is illustrated in Phillip Moffitt’s (2012) description of the Buddhist parable of the mustard seed in his book, Emotional Chaos to Clarity.

          “When a life has been lost or great physical or mental damage done, there is no going back; there is only going forward.  You hold on to a personal claim because of what you lost, you assume the identity of the victim.  It may see right and proper, but oftentimes it is just another form of self-imprisonment.  In the parable of the mustard seed, a distraught mother comes to the Buddha with her dead child in her arms, pleading with him to bring her child back to life.  The Buddha says he will do so if she can bring him a mustard seed from a household that has not known death.  The woman frantically goes from house to house, asking if they have not known death, until finally she realizes that all households have known death, and she is able to accept that great loss is a part of life (p. 253-254).” 

The Buddha teaches us that suffering is everywhere and that we need it.  Without it we cannot be happy.  I know that at first glance it doesn’t seem to make sense but it is true.  Would we recognize the light if we did not know what dark is?  How can we know happiness, if we have not experienced suffering? 

Before he reached enlightenment and became the Buddha, Siddhartha was living behind the palace walls not knowing he was happy.  He was in a state of comfort that was consistent and satisfying.  It was not until he left the palace and saw the suffering of the world that he was able to contrast his life and face the truth of existence.  Life is suffering and it is happiness.  They can exist apart and simultaneously.  It is like riding the waves of the ocean.  We can be on the crest and able to see clearly, grateful for all we have, and then we crash into the space between and despair the loss of the view and worry we will never come out of the dark trench. 

When I realized that my attachment to staying on the crest of the wave was causing me more suffering than being in the trench, I was able to view life differently and be more satisfied.  I saw both the hard times and the good times as temporary and my attachment to maintaining the good and avoiding the bad as causing more suffering.  A Buddhist teacher once drew a formula on the board that illustrated the point.  Suffering X Resistance to the Suffering = Pain.  The more I resist, the greater my pain. 

In his book, Dancing with Life, Phillip Moffitt, taught me that the best way to manage my attachment is to keep an eye on the flame of my emotions.  If my emotions flare up, I know that I am attached to an outcome, an idea, a viewpoint, or a person, place, or thing.  My intention becomes keeping my flame low enough to feel passion and compassion, but not so high as to flare up and burn myself out with the intensity of attachment.  I am not perfect.  Politics, injustice, and fear of loss can add fuel to my flame very quickly.  However, through mindfulness of my reactions I can bring that flame back down to a point where I may be less likely to engage in unhealthy behaviors that damage my health and peace of mind. 

Over the next weeks I will be writing on the Noble Eightfold Path.

                “Wherever the Noble Eightfold Path is practiced, joy, peace and insight are there.” (Mahaparinibbana Sutra, Digha Nikaya, 16.

                The Eight Limbs are:

                Right View

                Right Thinking

                Right Speech

                Right Action

                Right Livelihood

                Right Diligence

                Right Mindfulness

                Right Concentration

Crunchy Granola . . . . . Sweet!!

I love Greek yogurt.  I love it so much that I try to find as many things to eat with it as I can.  Today I decided I need to make some granola.  I searched around, reviewed some recipes, asked friends, and came up with the following.  It is very important that the song at the bottom of the page be played sometime during the making of the granola.  In fact, it is almost critical if you are over the age of 50.

I made this in two large batches.  You can cut it in half for one large baking sheet or 3.5 cups of granola.  I like to cook in bulk so I made two batches of 7 cups and added different things to each batch.

Preheat oven to 325 degrees.

Mix all the dry ingredients:

2 cups of rolled oats (Bob’s Red Mill)

½ cup of chopped nuts (I used pecans)

6 tbsps of pumpkin seeds

4 tbsps of sesame seeds

¼ tsp  salt

1 ½ tsps. Cinnamon

6 tbsps. Ground flax meal  (Bob’s Red Mill)

Mix the wet ingredients in a separate bowl:

6 tbsps of maple syrup

6 tbsps of unsweetened applesauce

1 ½ tsps. Vanilla ( I always use real vanilla – it is well worth it).

1 tbsp. of light oil (not olive)

Combine wet ingredients with dry and mix thoroughly.

Spread over two baking sheets lined with parchment paper.  The parchment paper is important because it soaks ups any oil and keeps your granola from oven frying. 

Bake for 20-25 minutes stirring every five minutes (you can clean the kitchen, vacuum, do laundry, and dance in the minutes between stirrings).  I knew it was almost done and all dried out when my glasses stopped steaming up each time I opened the oven.

Pour the granola into a shallow pan or bowl and let it cool completely before adding other ingredients.

I added dried blueberries to one batch (right) and a mix of dried cranberries, golden raisins, cherries, and blueberries (left) that I found at Ocean State Job Lots to the other. 

Yummy!!

Some Thoughts Reading and Writing on a Cool Sunday Morning

Cool Sunday mornings seem to lead one to contemplation.  There is crispness in the air that relieves a significant amount of brain fog and creates a desire to find something creative and inspiring to fill the day.  It may be finding just the right piece of poetry, an essay that touches the soul, or looking up to see where the sunlight hits the edges of the leaves as they are wind tossed.

I never know what these days will bring.  I want to do more than I feel capable of at the moment.  My spirit wants to climb a mountain, paddle down a river, or ride a horse across a field.  My body wants to crawl back in bed under warm blankets with a hot water bottle and a furry cat.  My travels these days seem to be limited to where books can take me.  Right now I am living in India during the time of the Buddha.  Last week I was in Albania, Syria, and Turkey at the time of the genocide of the Albanian people. For most of July I was in Boston and its surrounding areas solving crimes with Rizzoli and Isles.  This coming week I am planning on going to the mythical land of Westeros.  I will be coming late to that party.  I haven’t read Game of Thrones yet for the same reason I never did heroin.  I am afraid I would like it too much.

This next week I am physically traveling to New Orleans for a conference.  Unfortunately that means that most of my time will be spend in a hotel conference center.  I hope to arrive early enough to be able to take a walk along the river and maybe to the French Quarter.  The New Orleans I want to see doesn’t really exist, though.  I want to walk through graveyards and visit a voodoo queen.  I want to dress in red and attend a mulatto ball and walk the streets with the characters from Isabel Allende’s Island Beneath the Sea or see one of Ann Rice’s vampires in the shadow of a cathedral. 

Reading has been both a blessing and a curse in regards to travel.  I went to England in 2005 and realized the London I wanted to visit was long gone, the blood of Anne Boleyn and Henry IIIV buried beneath the double decker buses and Mark and Spencer’s.  In 2007 I was able to see enough of Tibet to get the feel of what it must have been like to live there before the Chinese occupation, but Lhasa was merely a ghost of its former self.  Alexandra David-Neel would be heartbroken to see the Potala palace surrounded by Chinese military and tourists shopping for Western goods in gated shops, as was I, and is the Dalai Lama.  I am so grateful to those writers who chronicled their experiences during those times so I am able to be there whenever I pick up a book.

What does that mean about these times I live in now?  Will anyone ever want to read about the experiences of a woman living in the late 20^th and early 21^st century?  Will they find my experiences so compelling that they would want to time travel here and be a part of this world?  I don’t know.  I can’t imagine why unless they are interested in a political environment that is so divisive that I only wish I could travel into the future to see how this all ends up.  Or do I?  It is frightening.  Or would that glimpse into the future give me the hope I need?  Would a poor woman, black or white, from the world of the American south in 1840 wonder at my complaints and tell me to get a grip and appreciate that I am able to make choices that they never had? 

I guess that is what reading does.  It gives another perspective.  It may be fiction, fictionalized history, or one person’s view and interpretation of an era.  There is no real knowing.  It is just the reality of the individuals and the expression through the lens of their point of view. 

On this Sunday morning, that is what I contemplate.  My reality changes from one moment to the next.  My history will only be known by me and may be interpreted by others, but no one will truly know my story.  When I do tell it, I will only tell what I want known, what I feel is of value, and I may leave out bits and pieces in order to make myself look better or tell it all in order to explain all of who I am.  But then who would really be interested?  It doesn’t have to be everyone, just enough people who want to know what it was like to be someone like me in this time, at this place.  But it will only be my story.  No assumptions should be made that my story is the same as any other woman during this time in history.  It’s just mine and even my viewpoint changes from time to time, making my story different on one Sunday morning than it would be on another.

Linda’s Stuffed Eggplant with Quinoa and Asiago Cheese

Today was the first day that I felt like starting up the oven and baking something healthy and delicious!

2 medium eggplants

3 tbsps of olive oil

Fresh oregano

One medium onion - chopped

4 large cloves of garlic - minced

1 large green pepper diced

1 medium bunch of swiss chard

1 can of Italian style dice tomatoes, drained

½ pound of Asiago cheese

1 box of Nature’s Early Choice Quinoa – mushroom and vegetable medley – cooked according to package instructions.

Cut eggplants in half and scoop out insides leaving a half inch wall.  Sprinkle each half liberally with salt on the inside and place skin side up in large colander.  Chop the remaining eggplant and place in smaller colander, sprinkle liberally with salt.  Leave for 20-30 minutes while starting the quinoa.

When the quinoa has about five minutes left to cook start the stuffing for the eggplant.  Rinse the eggplant shells and pat dry.  Place in a large oiled baking dish. 

Rinse the remaining eggplant.

In a large heated skillet place four small cubes of frozen oregano and extra virgin olive oil (or the equivalent).  As they thaw add the onion.  After two minutes add the garlic, followed shortly after by the green pepper, swiss chard, tomatoes, and eggplant.   Simmer for just a few minutes and stir in the quinoa.  Crumble all but four slices of the asiago cheese and add to the mixture.

Fill the eggplant shells and top each with a slice of asiago cheese.

Bake at 350 degrees for 45 minutes or until the cheese is bubbly and brown.  Let it rest for a few minutes after you take it out of the oven and then enjoy.

Flying Monkeys and the "F" Word

Denial is often a wonderful way to keep from facing the distasteful facts of life, and it can often also allow whatever one is trying to avoid to grow into something that can no longer be ignored.  Sort of like ignoring a small drip from a pipe until your basement is flooded.  It may be easy to do for a while but eventually you have to start bailing out the water.

That is what the past fifteen years have been like for me.  In 1997 I was diagnosed with fibromyalgia.  There were a ton of reasons I didn’t like the diagnosis.  First of all, the medical community at that time seemed to use the syndrome as a place to put things with which they did not want to deal.  Hey, neither did I.  Especially because of the second reason I didn’t like the diagnosis.  Fibromyalgia is something that has to be managed.  You can’t just take a pill for two weeks and it goes away.  Surgery doesn’t remove it or fix it.  It just hangs around like a crazy relative that decides to move in next door.

The biggest reason I didn’t like it, though, was that no matter what was happening to me it was attributed to the fibromyalgia.  Urinary tract infections, whole body aches, irritable bowel, exhaustion, poor sleep, depression, itching, and the list goes on and on and on.  I started to worry that something would start to happen in my body that wasn’t related to the fibromyalgia but it would be disregarded and put under the fibromyalgia category until it was too late.

However, now it is because of that second reason I have to put on my big girl panties and surrender to the diagnosis but not to the illness.  I need to really dedicate myself to managing it.  I don’t want to but I have to.  I am not one to manage.  I tend to let things happen.  I take pride in doing a good job, but I am one on whom the details often get lost.  It is a struggle for me to manage car maintenance and personal finances, much less a medical condition that requires that I listen to my body.  One of the reasons I don’t do diets well is all that counting of points or calories or grams or servings or whatever makes me anxious and I end up focusing too much on the food.  I am fairly mindless in my approach to life although I have been making attempts over the past few years to be more mindful.

Why am I now ready to surrender and face the facts about this?  Flying monkeys.  Yes, those minions of the Wicked Witch of the West that swoop down on unsuspecting scarecrows, pummel them to the ground and tear the stuffing out, spreading it hither and yon.  Those damn monkeys have become a regular part of my daily life and they really need to go.  I am still trying to figure out why they appear.  I had a ton of tests done in hopes that there was something wrong that could be fixed, but no.  Again, it is attributed to the fibromyalgia and most likely the related issue of adrenal fatigue. 

I know all the reasons behind why this is happening in my body.  It probably all originates from when I had third degree burns from a very hot cup of coffee I managed to pour on myself at the age of 15 months.  Some of the research on fibromyalgia says that the body does not handle pain messages well.  My neural pathways related to pain were probably screwed up when the accident happened.  Other life stressors probably haven’t helped either. 

Fortunately, over the past fifteen years there has been enough research done on the syndrome to gie it more credibility and I now feel more confident about it.  It no longer seems to be a catch all.  New information is coming out about it all the time.  I also have a doctor who knows what to do and she also manages the syndrome for herself.   I trust her.

I have just completed the first step - admitting that I have a problem.  It is not my fault, but it is my responsibility to do those things that help my body.  I need to rest when it tells me it wants to rest.  I need to exercise when I don’t want to.  And I need to eat better.  Rumor has it that sugar and white flour (why does this keep coming up?) are fuel to the fire and need to be cut out.  I also need to continue to follow through with massage and acupuncture treatments.  I can’t overdo or under do.  Moderation is a word that does not normally describe my life style.  However, it needs to.    Or else I will continue to be fighting off flying monkeys or wondering who has made a voodoo doll of my body and is poking it with needles. 

I didn’t want to share this journey.  However, I realize it is a big part of my life, but I won’t let it define me.  As I said above, I will surrender to the diagnosis, but not to the illness.  

Linda's Summer Slaw (sugar free)

1 medium savoy cabbage chopped
1 box of golden raisins (more or less if you prefer)

Dressing made in food processor:

1/2 cup of sour cream
1 cup of lite mayonnaise
1 tbsp plus a few drops of lime juice
3 tbsps of dijon mustard
pepper to taste

Mix it all up and let it chill!!

Making Transitions the Best Way I Can

I need to make some changes at work due to grant limitations and new projects.  In order to have time to do so I have to tell at least five people whom I have been counseling long term that they only have three more visits with me.  Not all of them know this yet and the ones that do are choosing to ration out those three visits in ways that mean I have no idea when we will actually be finished.  However, I hope to work with them in ways that help them know that they are strong women with plenty of support around them.
In order to make the transition a little easier for them I have spent the last few days making them each a painted rock that reminds them of something that came out of our visits together.  I had so much fun doing this that I plan to go to the river later today and find more rocks.

This first set of rocks was courtesy of my friend, Joyce, in Maine.  Years ago her children had gathered these rocks at the seashore and left them on a large boulder in the side yard of Joyce and Roland's mountain home.  Joyce graciously allowed me to pick as many as I wanted.  I thought it would be easy but thanks to a swarm of mosquitoes, I had to make a blood sacrifice in order to take these away.

After washing and drying them I covered them with Martha Stewart acrylic paint from Michaels.  I love the colors.  The red took two extra coats but the blue and green only required two.  This took me two days.

Yesterday morning I signed the bottom in order to have them ready for painting today.

I used Craft Smart paint pens, but mostly used Pigma brush pens.  The brush pens are perfect for fine lines and Sumi-E type strokes.  I think the bamboo one turned out quite well.  Next time I will use a darker background for the photos.  It was also hard not to get the glare from the camera.

You may not be able to tell but there is cabin at the bottom of the mountain and a dock and boat on the lake.  

Unfortunately, the Mod Podge coating did smear things up a little.  I may have been too eager.  But after a most excellent cello practice I found I could go back and touch them up with the paint pens and they look pretty good.  I have a couple of favorites and one that is not so much but I won't point them out.  I will let you decide which ones you like.  I hope the women I was thinking about while I made them like them, too.

Oh, and, of course, Boo helped by just being there.  She is my therapist.

Finding What's Missing

I just got back from spending a couple of nights and a full day in Maine.  I s.Spent most of my time sitting on the glider rocker on my friend’s sun porch getting my feet licked by Macie, one of the two dogs that provide companionship to Joyce and Roland.  Some people like to sit on the beach and stare at the ocean.  I like to sit on a chair and gaze at the mountains.  I was well rewarded with a beautiful sunset last night.  I also like to walk in the woods, but the mosquitoes in Maine are well known for being blood sucking denizens and the couple of times I ventured a few feet away from the house I ended up flailing my arms wildly in the air trying to keep them away.  We took the dogs down to the lake for a quick dip, but before I was able to take my sandals off and get in the water, one of those freakishly persistent insects had flown up my nose.  It was best to stay indoors. 

This past week was pretty hectic.  Besides the usual stressors of working with domestic violence and sexual assault survivors and their advocates, things had gone awry on a conference I am planning.  Thanks to team work it is going to work out, but for a few days I was feeling a little pressure.  At times like that I tend to think that there is something missing in my life and try to fill whatever that space is with whatever is available.  Mostly food.  Used to be beer, wine, cigarettes or unhealthy relationships.  This week, however, I stayed more present with my feelings and was able to keep from diving into a pint of Chocolate Therapy ice cream. 

I thought about how I had managed that while I was gazing at the mountain.  I realized that when I think there is something missing in my life, what’s missing is me.    Stress puts me in the past, the future, but rarely in the moment.  I was more in the moment this week.  I stayed the course through my feelings.  I didn’t push it all down with food. 

Sometimes I talk about the committee in my head and the difficulty I have in making decisions.  One of the committee members is all about the quick fix.  Another likes to structure me within an inch of my life so that I can’t mess up.  Then there is the committee member who doesn’t play well with the others and prefers to run rampant until things get too scary and then she defers to her best friend, the one who likes the quick fix.  There is another who resists structure and prefers to go with the flow.  Fortunately, I also have a wise inner woman who manages to get them all to compromise or allows them to take turns in appropriate ways.  None of these committee members are the real me.  That’s a good thing.  But they all exist and if I am not present, the wise woman has a harder time managing the malcontents.  That is when I feel like something is missing.  When I feel like that it is an alarm letting me know that the wise woman is about ready to let the wild things run amok because she can’t do it all herself.  Glad I was there to help her this week.  I think it also helps that I have friends who are available to keep me grounded. 

Some Thoughts on the World

I have not been able to stop thinking about a post a friend of mine put on Facebook yesterday. 

“When the Obama 2012 sign appeared on our street, so too did the Confederate flag in short order.”

This is just two miles down the road from me, here in New Hampshire.

I used to say that the racism here was subtle as opposed to the in your face racism of the south where I lived for 26 years.  However, it seems that the hateful rhetoric of the past four years has encouraged people to use their freedom of speech in threatening ways.  As a liberal pacifist, the last time I felt threatened was right after the start of the Iraqi war when everyone but a few were believing Bush’s claims that Saddam Hussein had weapons of mass destruction.  My values were considered traitorous at that time.  There were actually a couple of times when people tried to run me off the road and the only reason I could ascertain was that they didn’t like my bumper sticker that simply said “Peace.”

I feel more threatened now.  The far right wing has become more verbal, engages in less critical thinking, and has guns.  There are certainly many conservatives with whom I could engage in open discourse who have not been spoon fed their politics by FOX news and the Tea Party.  I think that we could agree that we are of different opinions and would be respectful of each other’s viewpoint.  However, when I see Confederate flags and hear of calls to do unspeakable things to our President, and see bumper stickers and comments on news items (i.e. the death of Andy Griffith) that are spewing hatred I retreat further to the left.  When did this minority of the far right become so loud? 

I was born a liberal.  How do I know I was born this way and not indoctrinated?    I remember early on questioning the teachings of the Catholic church I attended from first to fourth grade. Also, my parents did not discuss politics so there was little chance to be indoctrinated. My sister and I were dismayed to find out many years later that our father voted for Richard Nixon.  I think I understand his decision, though.  My father was a Korean war vet who firmly believed in the cause of fighting against communism even though a lot of his thinking would have fallen into the ideals of socialism.  Like many people of his generation, he did not grasp the difference between the two.  If he was alive today, I hope he would do everything he could to understand Obamacare so that he could defend it and would not be hindered by the socialist label that so many conservatives have tagged onto it in order to raise fear. 

That is where the dividing line falls for me.  Not between conservatives and liberals, but between people who choose to carefully study the issues and make their decisions based on fact rather than the sound bites of FOX news and the color of a person’s skin, the origin of one’s name or their immigration status, and whether or not one has a vagina or a penis. 

If you are willing to stop yelling at me with your rhetoric, I am glad to listen.  Those of you who prefer to wave your Confederate flags and hide behind your guns – well, you make me fear for this country.   It doesn’t matter, though, because you probably aren’t reading this. 

In the end, whenever I am feeling discouraged, I remember what Anne Frank wrote in her diary shortly before being found by the Nazis:

"In spite of everything I still believe that people are really good at heart. I simply can't build up my hopes on a foundation consisting of confusion, misery and death."

Summer Has Arrived!

Summer arrived this past week and it was hot.  It was almost 100 degrees for two days and in the 90s on the third.  I complained a lot!  It only lasted 3 1/2 days but I was miserable.  The cold front came through yesterday and it is now in the low 80s with blue skies.  I decided  to use the oven for a bit.  Just long enough to roast some sweet potatoes for a salad.  Here is what I did:

I peeled and cubed 3 large sweet potatoes and tossed with olive oil and chopped rosemary.  I roasted them at 400 degrees for 30 minutes, tossing halfway through.
While the roasting was going on I cooked one cup of lentils in two cups of water.  They were just about done at the same time as the potatoes.

While those cooled I sauteed a lot of garlic, some scallions (in lieu of onions), and a chopped large organic red bell pepper in the last tablespoon of garlic flavored olive oil that I had bought in New Mexico.  I am going to miss that oil.  I tore up three large leaves of kale and put those into the sauteed veggies.  I tore up the leaves small enough so that they would wilt but still have some crunch.  Most recipes call for spinach, but I went with what I had.

I tossed that all in with the potatoes and lentils and put in the fridge to cool while I made the dressing.

Dressing:  2 tablespoons of maple syrup, 1 tsp of dijon mustard, 1 tablespoon of olive oil, 1 tablespoon of balsamic vinegar *, and 2 tsps of lemon juice.  Salt and pepper to taste.

I mixed it all together with the veggies and took a taste.  Even slightly warm it was very good.  I couldn't wait until it was cold to taste it and I wasn't disappointed.  It can be served warm or cold.

* If you are ever in Keene, NH, stop in Your Kitchen Store.  The store has the best balsamic vinegar I have ever tasted.  You can buy a bottle and then return and have it re-filled.  If you aren't in Keene very often I would suggest buying a large bottle.  It is very good.

http://www.yourkitchenstore.com/

Looking Up My Back Door

I will be cursing at my mother for the next two days.  I will be suffering great indignities in response to my mother’s fears.  Yes, in keeping with my tradition of telling everyone my business, I am letting ya’all know that tomorrow I will be refraining from all solid food and drinking a nasty concoction that will require that I stay close to my own bathroom so that on Monday perfect strangers will be allowed to enter a place just north of that which cannot be named in Michigan.

Why do I blame my mother? I understand that I am being irrational.  It has less to do with blame than it has to do with being reminded of why she died.  If she had been willing to go through this same indignity she may still be here.  She may have been able to take that boat to Paris with my sister.  My mother feared, yes, feared, colonoscopies.   In 2006 she had a colonoscopy for which she had not prepared correctly due to her revulsion of the preparatory cocktail.  Combine that with the fact that her blood pressure skyrocketed during the procedure and they weren’t able to travel to the far reaches of her intestinal galaxy, they failed to find what eventually killed her. 

When she started experiencing abdominal pain, she refused another colonoscopy, stating that she had one the previous year (but we know how that went) and that she refused to drink the Go-Lytely (isn’t that the most ridiculous name for something that works like industrial strength Drano?).  My head still shakes at this.  Yes, I have issues.

My mother is also the same woman who let an ulcer on her leg go untreated for a year because she knew that it meant she had Type II diabetes and she didn’t want to deal with it.  I miss her, I really do.  I just wish she was here so I didn’t have to miss her.  Because of her refusal to get things looked after I don’t have a mother.  I feel jealous when I hear someone talking about their feisty 80 year old mother.  I miss the Sunday afternoon phone calls.  I wish she was here so I could fuss her out!

So, yes, I may sound like a hypochondriac at times, but having had four important people in my life die of four different forms of cancer in the past seven years, I get a little cautious about symptoms.  Three out of the four were women and they all died before the age of 70.  At 56 years old, that just seems a little too close to me.  Death doesn’t scare me.  I see that as a great adventure.  What I don’t want is cancer or any other condition that incapacitates, causes great pain, or reduces my ability to think, get to the bathroom, or take care of myself.  I don’t want my body pumped full of chemicals to kill something that shouldn’t be there and possibility destroy things that should be. 

If drinking a couple of quarts of nastiness and spending a lot of time reading on the toilet means that I can avoid all that, then I say pour me another and get me a another issue of People magazine (I think the bathroom is the perfect place for reading trash).  On Monday, I will be okay.  I like the drugs they use and I have an excuse to sleep for a good portion of the day. 

In lieu of photos of the event, I offer this video and song in honor of the occasion.

Thank you, Patricia Raymond and B.J. Liederman!!