Back to work!

OK. I'm committing to writing five days a week. It seems counterproductive to do this two days before Thanksgiving. Do I really have the time? I think I want to prove to myself that this can be done regardless of the times in which I live.

I was reading Lewis who was saying the importance of continuing on with one's academic pursuits of truth, even in the middle of a war. It would be so easy to excuse oneself when the world, and closer to home, the walls are crumbling around you, literally.

So, 4 hours minimum, 5 days a week. Lets' see if it can be done.

A second pebble...

From my war satchel of wisdom comes another thought:

I can not achieve the ultimate goal of life, which is, by the way, Life itself.

I used to think I could, should, and definitely would obtain that prize. I thought I deserved it for being so good. People adored me because I was so cute. And all good things would come to me since I was so unjustly mistreated.

When I was about nine I went to Gillespie Pool in our neighborhood of El Cajon, California. My siblings were with me, somewhere, but the pool teamed with all manner of swim-capped girls and buzzed-cut boys, so we were soon separated. Nothing is quite so lonely as a child in an independent crowd of children.

But, I lived many days alone in my mind and now, comfortably developed a game for myself. I would swim across the pool, without stopping, taking as few of breaths as possible. It was a goal. Not a life's goal, but a huge task since I was a new swimmer. I decided to swim in water over my head, since fewer children played there.

I swam hard. One breath, two, then three, then...someone caught me by the ankle. It must be my sister, but I turned to see a teenage boy. I smiled. Did he want to play? Then I saw his face cloud dark with anger. He spit water as he spoke. "Watch where you're going!" He twisted my foot in his two hands, wrenching my ankle.

Searing pain shot from my foot to my knee. Fear and confusion washed over me as I sunk beneath the water. I couldn't get my bearings at first and then struggled to reach the surface. What if he was still there, waiting to hurt me again?

I couldn't remember how to swim. I sunk again and choked on the water as I opened my mouth to cry out from the pain and the humility. I don't know how I made my way to the edge of the pool. I hung from the side,crying mournfully as children screamed with fun around me. I peered from time to time in each direction, wondering if the my attacker would return.

I don't know to this day what happened to that poor kid. Had I unknowingly kicked him in the groin? It was a crowded pool. Maybe someone else did and he thought it me--I can't say. He was too mad for me to think his fury wasn't based on some injustice or harm. But, at the time, I only knew I had been stomped by a big kid--even though I was cute and worthy of his long-suffering.

How quick we are to dismiss our own short-comings.

My efforts to perfect my swimming techniques were trashed. And oddly, no matter the fervency and sober righteousness of my training and goal setting, I actually brought about my own failure--I guess. I mean, maybe there is a man somewhere in the world who lost a testicle in Gillespie Pool that day! Maybe I kicked right by him, totally unaware of the grief I had caused.

Who knows?

But this I do know- We all fall short of the glory of God. And that truth, my dear walking friend,is why I know none of us will reach that ultimate finish line--not wihtout intervention.

Long Hand

I miss writing with a pen.

One time, many years ago, I told a friend that I could not think without a pen in my hand. I long for the days that the inspiration from a stick-in-hand could fill a page, or even just my head, with order and light.

Mrs. Alexander, my composition teacher at Grossmont Junior College, promised we undergrads that if we would order our thoughts on paper, we would benefit from the exercise with clear thinking. Tall, slender, and fashionably dressed, I believed her. As I recall, she would straighten giant-framed, Yves St Lauren glasses on her nose while changeling bracelets danced on her wrist.

I remember, in particular a pale pink dress with a white lace collar. You have to believe someone wearing a white lace collar, after all. And, she was right.

I chose to leave her class for a full-time job managing a sweater store. I hated to leave. She knew that. She asked me why I made that choice. I said my husband was in school and we needed the money. She nodded and said I was a good writer. Then she told me she wouldn't be there next semester as she had cancer.

I'm not sorry I left school to return to work full time, but...sometimes I wonder.

You were a beautiful woman, Mrs. Alexander. Thanks for the tip.

A few smooth, round stones

At Devil's Elbow, a cove on the coast of Oregon, a good-sized stream flows into the Pacific ocean. Drift wood and rocks washed to sea in the river form an apron around the sandy spread of beach. Black, grey and buff colored stones roll in the waves and sand--nature's rock tumbler--until the balls shine round and smooth.

I've often thought of the power of each of these stones. In the right sling shot...
As David walked through his stream, he picked up a few stones like these for use against the enemy.

I've picked up a few bits of figurative ammunition in life myself. Just a few for use against the evil one. Some may be of help to you as you walk, or perhaps be inspiration to gather your own as you wade through the stream. I don't know.

I don't know a lot of things. I prayed when I was young to receive wisdom. This, after I saw Solomon received all the wealth of the world on top of his request for wisdom. I'm guessing my childish motives weren't pure. Never are. Nevertheless I finger a few stones in my ammo bag.

I'll share one with you now.

Know the truth.
Yes, it can be known. No, it is not relative--almost never. Yes, the truth matters, and no, not knowing does not mean it won't hurt you. Truth is. Lies want to be. Time will reveal both. Count on it.

More on this later.

Everyone walks--until they don't

Did you ever see an infant ‘walk’? If a baby is held up with feet dangling and then is lowered until the feet touch a surface, a reflex causes the baby to push-off, as if walking. Of course, the little, curved legs could not hold the weight of the child until much later, but are programmed to walk at birth.

Recently, my elderly mother was given a prescription that requires for her to be in an upright position for her body to be able to able to absorb the calcium of the medicine into her bones. For this reason and others, bodies are made to grow strong when we walk.

From birth to death, we walk. In life one must walk, until one cannot. When this happens, the end of life is typically near. Like being thrown in a lake, one must swim or drown, in the same way, one walks or lies down to die.

I don’t mean to be obvious, and you must realize I am leading to the parallel ‘walks’ we have in heart, mind and soul. Also, and not to be obtuse, these walks don’t simply mimic the physical realm; they converge into one path, one effort, and to one end.

Do you remember many of your dreams? If so, you may regularly find yourself moving down a river or road. Maybe you fly through the sky. All of these symbolic movements typically represent life walk to the dreamer. I’m a civilized sort who began walking down a hall of a house sometime in my twenties (at least, that I can remember) and through the next forty years my dreams return repeatedly to that same house. It is huge and, if I know you at all, I’ve probably seen you in one of the rooms or concert halls. (I told you it was big!)

Our dreams tell us what I am saying; life is a journey, a path, a continuous, non-stop stream of existence. One must walk it since, even if we stand still, the path moves; like the moving sidewalks at the airports. I say this not to urge walkers to fervent strides, but to consider your walk. Either way, unconscious and curled in a ball or dashing through the days, you will reach the end of the walk.

To those who walk

A doctor told me after a knee surgery five years ago that my life now consisted of taking care of body. “It is a full time job,” he told me. I tried to listen, thinking this was advice more that prophecy. Soon I earned the reputation as ‘the ideal patient’.

A few months later, as my husband, Mark and I prayed, he made this petition, “God, please heal Shelley and remove her pain so she can think of someone besides herself.” I jerked my head up and almost laughed at what I assumed was an unintentional insult, and then I realized his prayer was earnest. He meant no judgment, but the fact remained, my life had become totally inverted.

Five years later, I still repeat the same prayer. Remove my pain that I can refocus on ideas of eternal matter and relationships of worth. However, mostly, I muddle about in the self-absorbed and pain-drug-induced musings of my mind. At the same time, I have come to savor and reflect on the nuggets I gathered when I could walk, literally and figuratively.

Oh, I still can walk a little and do, it’s just not a pretty sight anymore. I also know my inabilities will certainly overcome my abilities someday until I walk no more. However, I do not write with warnings to insure one can continue to walk. That is not the goal, if it were; the tree of life would have been left unguarded. (I’ll explain that later.) No, we will all come not to walk. The goal, then, is to gather gems of value as you do walk so that someday, you rest well. This I know.

Through incidents and recent conversations I am moved to write to those of you who still walk. I can’t imagine having the strength or mind to do so with my current limitations. However, yesterday, my son, Ian counseled me to set small goals, but to move on. This is the goal I have set for today. To write a journal for those of you who still walk.