Abandoning Ship

The plane landed in England where we were to disembark and spend a week sightseeing. Extremely uncomfortable with the idea of being herded around in a group, I got busy devising a plan of escape. As we claimed our luggage in the London airport, I went up to the tour director.

This is where we part, I said. Guess I’ll be seeing you later.

She looked at me in astonished wonder.

Oh, didn’t Mother tell you? We have relatives here and I’ll be staying with them now. I’ll catch up with you in Austria.

I had received a London address from my older sister for a friend she’d made when she was an exchange student in Denmark. I displayed the address with confidence.

This is where I can be reached if you need me.

The address was a good ten years old and I had no idea who lived there now, but I was like a horse too tightly reined, sensed freedom and was moving towards it. 

I waved goodbye as the others caught the bus from Heathrow. A great relief at being free washed over me as I stepped into a taxi and handed the driver my address. I planned to knock on the door, ask for my sister’s friend, visit and be off, exactly where I didn’t know. Or if I were really lucky, he’d be fun, handsome and interesting; maybe we’d have a night on the town.

The driver pulled over at the house. I reached in my travel bag to pay him, but he was not happy to see American currency and refused it. Payment became an ordeal as I convinced him to, first, find a bank that would exchange funds and then continue to drive around while I tracked down the missing resident. He reluctantly agreed; I changed my money and we drove from house to house to inquire. Turns out this fellow had moved some time ago, but it was a small village and everyone seemed to know someone who knew someone who might help. It became a rather expensive game.

Finally, I knocked on the door of a quaint English cottage. An older woman with carefully pressed curls, a plaid dress and flat black shoes stood in the entrance.

Yes that’s my son, she told me, but he moved away years ago.

I was becoming weary and travel worn; my adventure was wearing thin.

I bring regards from my sister, a friend of his from long ago.

That was all. I turned to leave.

Don’t go, she said. Come in and have some tea.

I dismissed the taxi at last and settled at a doily-covered table to visit.

I told her about my family, boarding school and being on my way to Austria to study music. She took golden framed photos from the fireplace, and dusted each one with her napkin as she spoke of her son and other grown children who were away at universities. When she asked where I was staying, I told her I didn’t know. I hoped she would offer her guest room and she did, but first she insisted we go to Western Union to wire my mother. When I wrote the telegram, I was careful to word the message about my safe arrival so my parents wouldn’t suspect my decision to abandon ship. 

That evening my hostess cooked one of the worst dinners I’ve ever had, which she made with great love, attention and care. I ate with appreciation, then excused myself and went to sleep – for twenty hours.

Food trays covered the floor when I woke. Plates and bowls were stacked on linen covered trays, which contained more unidentified dense, creamy, mushy stuff. They had been generously delivered for three missed meals for an entire day. I was recovering from the effects of travel vaccinations, jetlag and exhaustion.

The next day, I was introduced to people my age and asked to join them at political meetings, where they questioned me about the politics of my government, the Vietnam War and the recent death of John F. Kennedy. They wanted to hear my views, believing my thoughts represented the entire country. We had all grieved the death of the president, were alarmed by racial upheaval in the south, and wanted to get out of the war, but I had little knowledge of American policies, domestic or foreign. I wasn’t a watcher of television, and reading was no friend to me, so I came up disappointingly short, having known little more in my life than the interior of bedroom walls, mucking stables, music classes and boarding school. Government had been my favorite class in high school, but that was due to a hopeless infatuation with the teacher. Teenage sexual fantasies and exploding hormones had blocked the retention of any useful information. 

My hostess was proud of having a foreign visitor and openly announced my presence. This is my visitor from America, she said, like she was showing off a prize plant at the county fair.  Eighteen years old and traveling about on her own. She showed me off when we went in and out of shops, visited her friends, and met acquaintances on the street.

She was sweet and generous, but I became restricted by her good intentions and decided to head out on my own again. My brother had married a French woman and I had the name and address of her sister in Vincennes.  I thanked the dear woman, said my goodbyes and made Paris my next stop.

Lessons

 

I learned a lot from my residency as a therapist, but very little came from the books I read. It was the personal realizations that moved me to insight more than any training skills. Specifically, I learned that the judgments and criticisms of others that I was so quick to make in the privacy of my own mind were destructive and misplaced, saying more about my lack of development than anything else. 

I ran therapy groups at Clackamas County Mental Health Center with Rich Panzer, the resident psychiatrist. Our evening group was attended by a very angry, immensely overweight woman, whom I disliked immediately. She triggered me because she was the dark side of the compliant physically fit girl I had learned to be. Her manner was caustic and fiercely good at pushing people away. I secretly wished she would leave the group, and take her attitude with her. I felt she was standing in the way of real healing for others, but mostly she evidenced an uncomfortable place of judgment in myself that I had no skill to deal with. As months went by and her shell began to weaken and crack, I was able to glimpse the magnificence of the spirit within.  When she felt safe enough to tell her story, give up her secrets and release her pain, I felt shamed by my earlier thinking.

I saw the same thing repeated daily in my practice at the clinic, clients hiding their beauty and wisdom behind years of walled off pain, desperately needing to find a way out, and just as desperately determined to create a kind of safety that prevented them from doing so.

The spoken message was, please help me, my life is a mess and I can’t go on.

The unspoken message was, I’ve been hurt so much that I can’t let you close enough to know me.  I have to constantly guard from danger.

It took time to understand how to separate people’s defenses from their deeper essence, but I count it as one of the most valuable lessons of my life.

Debbie Ford wrote a book called, “The Dark Side of the Light Chasers,” which helps us understand how we project what we can not accept in ourselves onto others. If you haven’t read it and feel ready to look at your own shadow side, I’d give it a try.

Vespa

I was supposed to be studying music at the Mozarteum in Austria, but I couldn’t get myself to care. I had been sprung from boarding school in early June and boarded a plane for Europe shortly after. I was scheduled for a summer of study, before landing in another music school in Cambridge, but how could I study? I’d just been put in a cornucopia of new experiences and cultures. Why would I put my face in a book or run up and down musical scales in another academic world? 

The night clerk where I stayed was young and cute. He owned a red Vespa and offered to show me the countryside.

Show away! I said. 

I did show up for classes a few times, but when I walked into my German class, my instructor actually announced that he hated Americans. Well you know what, I hate ya back. You are just the excuse I need to get out of here.

Our group was watched over by Jesuit priests from Georgetown University. I found my favorite guy and told him a story about being overwhelmed and unable to adjust to a full academic schedule. He agreed to tutor me, so my class schedule was cut in half. The gates were open. I’d return home with half the credits, but didn’t care.

I still tell people I was in Salsburg when Van Cliburn won the international Mozart competition. He was amazing and wonderful, but the truth of my summer would be found more honestly in another place. I was the girl with hair flying free on the back of a red vespa.

One can never be too careful about the stress of academic overload.

A Moment

I’m working too much. I don’t stop because I love what I’m doing. I love being flooded with ideas, words and images. I love fashioning them like a seamstress to fit the page. I finish a piece of writing but there is no rest, my mind goes to the next and the next with excitement and wonder. I am a slave to the muse. I have kissed her face and eaten her ambrosia. I would follow her anywhere.

I stopped sleeping months ago. Midnight to three is typical, midnight to five is better. Today I slept from midnight to seven, which rarely happens. I envy the young who sleep for hours, needing to be called into the day. If I stay up past midnight my body decides it’s a new day and gives me a fresh burst of energy, then I’m really in trouble. 

Gib is working long hours as well. He plays tennis at eight, runs the pallet company until three, then leaves to coach at the high school. He comes home after dark with more work to do and too much on his mind. 

We live like spinning tops swirling in and out of the same circle, but sometimes as he lies on the couch looking into his laptop, and I make my way toward my own pile of work, I’ll pause near the edge of the sofa. His silver hair spreads out just enough to grab my attention; I remember, stop and touch.

I’ll run my fingers against his scalp, gently pull on his long hair and move my hands along his brow. That’s all it takes. His body moves to meet me, his eyes close and his expression changes from one of worry to a deep and welcome letting go. It’s only a moment, but it saves us. We remember and rekindle who we are together.

The moment is broken when I ask his advice, or shake my head in wonder as I glance into the kitchen.

You’re constitutionally incapable of closing a cupboard door, aren’t you?

He smiles, looking at the evidence of his absent-minded path. I never seem to learn, do I? 

My oldest sister, Mary Ann, once told me that men are like loyal dogs. I thought that was demeaning and offensive at the time, but the longer Gib and I are together, the more I take her point. A good scratch behind the ears and all is back on track.

Waiting for Mr. Right

We ate lazily, a sun warmed strawberry bursting with flavor for me, a sip of ginger tea for Kim.

Here he is again, she said, placing the chariot card in the center of my tarot reading.

He is still coming, getting closer.

Kim doesn’t read cards for anyone but me, believing she can’t really do it, but Kim can’t read tarot cards the way Michelangelo can’t paint the Sistine Chapel. Her readings have always been spot-on.

I listened getting a little angry. This guy’s been showing up for the past two years. Whoever he is, he’s taking his good sweet time. I wiped strawberry juice from the corner of my mouth, staining my napkin red. Don’t you think it’s odd he’s been showing up in the cards and not showing up in my life…at all?

She didn’t look up, busy placing a second card against golden patterns of grain on the coffee table. Patience is not your strong point Karen, he’s on his way or the cards wouldn’t be so consistent. You know that, you were my teacher!

The two of pentacles was the next card down, followed by the king, then the lovers. 

Seconds ticked, quiet moments as the cards lit in her eyes, revealed themselves and invited us forward. A gaping stretch of unhurried time.

He holds your dreams, she continued. He’s a traveler, well-educated, confident but weary. Looks like there is an entanglement he needs to free himself from first, perhaps another marriage but the two of pentacles, the change card, means he is close now, very close.

There it was, the image of the snake wearing a golden crown, making a figure eight by holding his tail against a purple and blue background. The word change printed boldly at the bottom.

Do you think he’s only a business man and not a partner? I asked, afraid of the answer.

She didn’t hesitate. No, not just a businessman. He is your husband, this will be good for you. Life changing. 

She drained the last drops of tea from her Staffordshire cup, the one I save just for her, wiped crumbs of chocolate from her lap, rose and carried her dishes to the sink.

My shift at the hosptial starts at 5 tonight, she said gathering her ample purse and notepad. I still have to get Dylan from school, so I’d better be off. 

She flung her arms around my waist, gathering me into her feminine presence, the same loving warmth offered to the babies on the lactation unit more than sixty hours a week.

My readings for Kim have been about working fewer hours, resting and the need to integrate her gifts as a singer and harpist into the fabric of her life. You must do more than work, I lecture through the medium of the cards.

Her readings for me have been about patience and good things coming in career and romance. Success is coming, believe it!

Kim and I have both made strides. I’ve had my man tucked into my life for five years now. He makes me crazy, but we’re well-suited. What does that say about me? I’ve given up my ideas of how marriage should be and have learned to embrace how it is.

 Kim is weaving a tapestry with voice and harp these days, as she becomes a medical music-thanatologist. That means she sings and plays for dying patients and their loved ones. Kim is a saint among us. She consistently turns toward the face of suffering and not away, as she opens her big compassionate heart to all of us lucky enough to know her.

Bird Woman

When the mailman demanded I come outside to receive a package a short breath ago, I found an orange and black thrush on the ground. It was male by its markings and quite dead. I have many floor-to-ceiling windows that birds mistake for an entrance, bang up against and break their necks. I brought him inside for closer examination. What a stunning fellow he was. The name thrush fell short in holding the splendor of his design. His colors looked like a blazing orange sunset against a black sky; the markings on his wings and collar were intricate. He had grace in his countenance even in death, or maybe especially in death. What a gift to hold him in my hands. I will save him for my granddaughter’s afternoon visit, then we’ll walk down the hill together and bury him.

Last year, while walking the library paths, I saw a Canadian goose flaying in the middle of the pond. Other geese were gathered around making a great ruckus. I feared he was caught in fishing line, so I waded knee-deep in February water to see what I could do. No one else was around. The others flew away as I gathered him in my arms without a struggle. He was gasping for air and panicked. I sang to him and lay his head against my shoulder as I walked back along the paths to my car. I was driving him to the vet when I realized his spirit had gone. He was suddenly cold, heavy and without movement. I pulled the car to the side of the road and wept at being too late to help.

Part of me felt I had stolen property from the park and wondered if I should return him, but decided it would only cause bureaucratic confusion, so I drove him home. I had a marketing meeting scheduled, which I had no time to change for. I brought the bird inside and put him in a basket while we did our business. Anthony, my marketing guy, kept looking over at him the whole time. He was having a little trouble concentrating on business with this large dead Canadian goose staring at him for a full hour; the unexpected is part of doing business with Karen. I took his body down the hill and buried it as Anthony’s car pulled out of the drive.

I believe I was a bird in another life. Birds are my people, my tribe, my feathered friends. I stop to collect their bones and feathers whenever I see them.  Others comment on germs and lack of wisdom, but I will always reach for them, because I remember - and because their flight reminds me of the freedom I’ll have once again after I leave this body.

Perspective

Money never went far enough when I was a single mom. Food stamps were quickly spent, a welfare check covered a few basics and the child support check, on the rare occasion it arrived, covered even less. I stood in lines for heating assistance, showed up for bags of government rice and cheese, and cultivated friendships with folks who liked having my kids to dinner.

It was 1980. I was going to school, worked part-time and had two kids. In third grade my daughter, Kristen, came home from school and announced that she no longer wanted the free lunches given to children on welfare, because the other kids were making fun of her for being poor. I sat her down in the rocking chair for a talk.

‘It’s very important that you understand the difference between having no money and being poor,’ I said.

‘Being poor is a state of mind that reflects a deep internal sense of lack. Being poor is when people believe they will always be deprived of the good things in life. They expect scarcity and get it, because they don’t know any different. Being poor is when you don’t understand how to use your creative skills to make ugly things beautiful. I don’t think you have the makings of a poor person. Not having money for awhile is different. That means that our financial supply is low, but it will get better, because we are not poor on the inside. We deserve good things and eventually we’ll understand how to have them, even if we don’t know how right now.  Money has nothing to do with self-worth or who we are as people. It’s just pieces of paper.  We are presently without money, so the government, the school and other people are helping us. There is no shame in that. It’s a smart thing to say yes to what we need. Let’s try an experiment; do you want to?’

She nodded her eight-year-old head in agreement and adjusted her weight in the chair. ‘Great, close your eyes and look deep inside yourself.’

She wrapped her little hands around the wooden armrests like she was bracing for a space launch. ‘You’re doing great, now relax a little. Her hands remained firm but she tucked her chin.’

‘Okay,’ I coached; ‘now tell me what you see.’

‘I don’t see anything. Everything is dark. ‘

‘That’s normal.’ I moved closer and lowered my voice.

‘Just keep looking. Go so deep inside that you can tell whether your spirit is rich or poor. Either way is fine, but it’s important to know; keep searching until you know. ‘

Her brow furrowed in serious concentration as she navigated the uncharted territory of her inner world. Finally her face softened, a smile crept across her lips and her eyes sprang open. ‘I’m rich inside. I’m not poor at all. I saw a beautiful princess.’

‘Ah, just as I suspected. Remember when we bought our panel truck and how ugly it was, and how we fixed it up and made it beautiful?’

She nodded, sliding from the rocker to a pillow on the floor. ‘Well, that’s  what I mean, because we didn’t leave it ugly. We made it nice. We can be rich in what we do, in the way we think, and the experiences we bring into our lives.  Get it? ‘  She smiled and I knew she understood.

Remembering August

My neighbors own Grossen’s Peach Orchard which goes on for miles in all directions. Standing in the midst of their trees makes me feel timeless and whole. Overripe peaches lie smashed against hot summer earth, green ones hide at the center of the tree, and perfect golden orbs bedazzle each branch ready to release into my eager hands.

Mr. Grossen runs up and down the lanes of his farm on a four wheeled tractor running errands and transporting neighbors who’ve come to pick. We bump over peach strewn paths and bounce beneath rows and rows of ripe fruit, as he smiles his good natured smile and points out the best picking grounds. 

It’s not unusual for the orchard to open to the public one day, then place a sign by the road that says  ”Closed for Ripening” the next. I respect that sign, but Gib doesn’t think he means it. The Grossens are an older couple who believe in being neighborly and kind. They should throw Gib on his ear when he walks past the sign, but they open their door and their orchard instead. That’s Gib’s Los Angeles pushy side. I would be mortified to do such a thing, but Gib has this golden retriever way about him that folks can’t seem to resist. Next thing I know, we’re scooting around the orchard looking for bounty.

We often pick with my daughter Kristen and granddaughter, Isabella. Juice runs down my arm and drips from my elbow as I wipe peach fuzz on my apron and plunge into the warm center of the fruit. Isabella’s chin is already sticky. There are juice spots on her neck and stains on her summer blouse, as she offers her nine year old opinion about the readiness of this year’s crop. We overfill our baskets in delight and greed. When we weigh our bounty, the bill resembles the national debt. No wonder they let us in. 

Canning equipment waits at home. We set up an extra table in the kitchen and become a production line. Water boils on the stove, one pot for sterilizing, another for plunging peaches to release their delicate skins. Isabella and Kristen lift them steaming from the bath, drop them into ice water and begin to peel and cut.

Gib and I pack slices into sterilized jars. His white chef’s apron is already stained, his belly is flush with the table where juices overflow and drip to the floor. I don’t look much better as I fill each jar with honey lemon glaze and lift them into their canning bath. We place rubber circles on the top, wait the allotted time, and listen for the familiar pop that ensures their seal.

The last two seasons at Grossen’s have been bleak. Winter lasted too long, spring was too wet, and summer was reluctant. Their crop was either green or cracked and fell uneaten to the ground.

How can you survive such loss, I asked standing in their field.

It gets harder every year, Mrs. Grossen confides.

When my thirteen year old granddaughter, Britan, came to visit from Los Angeles, I was determined to have peach time with her, but the orchard was damaged. Our yield barely filled one basket, but I was persistent. In the end, we did all the work of canning with only six jars to show for our effort. After a long afternoon, Britan looked at me with her clear blue eyes and said, Exactly what is supposed to be fun about this grandma?

Dyslexia

I was in my last year at boarding school before I picked up a book and read it from cover to cover. Before that, words were a collection of tiny line drawings in black ink, placed against a light background and bunched together in clusters of illegible form. Much of my childhood was spent alone in my room with one illness or another. School became a place I rarely went, so my mother hired tutors to keep me in the educational loop.  I didn’t fully realize that I couldn’t read, because I’d been taught the mechanics in school, I simply could not gain entry.

Tutors came to my bedroom and left stacks of books on the night table, with demands for memorizing and reciting to avoid failure. Bright pink markers guided me with clear certainty to mountains of exercises and reading assignments. I saw the tutors and the books as ugly intruders, the certain onset of a headache. I would look at the pages as one would look at a book of Latin or Greek, and put it aside. I wanted to comply but didn’t know how. Once, in my frustration, I copied the pictures I saw in pencil and ink. I made a great sweeping portrait of Mark Twain and handed it over instead of a book report. It landed in the trash with more threats and verbal lashings describing the dismal future I’d have if I failed to cooperate. If I had been brave, I would have torn the pages and filled my bedroom with paper airplanes, but I didn’t do that. I was not brave.

Reading was painfully slow, but I got better as I got older, better at faking my inability and better at recognizing words. I envied those who saw it as a source of comfort or escape into a better world. When we were assigned book reports in school I would ask others to describe the story or ask a librarian to talk to me about the book. I was able to slide by, but hiding and the extra effort made me weary.

When I was sent to boarding school to recover my health, my roommate gave me John Steinbeck’s  Of Mice and Men. She owned his entire collection which sat on a shelf between our beds. Here, read this, she said, as I lay in bed with a cold. It will help pass the time. I had never read anything that was not academic. I opened the book out of sheer boredom, expecting as ever to be turned away, either by dull content or its failure to allow entry. To my surprise and delight, I was invited inside. The words were easy and enjoyable. I could read it!  I went from cover to cover and wanted another. I was so proud of myself. I was 17 years old and it was the first book I’d read from start to finish. This Steinbeck guy didn’t seem so bad.

Unfortunately, the experience didn’t begin a love affair. I had too many year of seeing books as the enemy for that, plus they required holding still, which I didn’t enjoy either. After so many years of illness, I wanted to be out in the world, doing, not stuck in a room reading.

My character is not very different now. I do love finding a good book, but never suffer an author I don’t connect with immediately. I find beauty and comfort in language, especially in classics like Anna Karenina, and the well-met phrases of Shakespeare.  Dick Francis and his stories from being the jockey for Queen Elizabeth are other favorites.  And now, as miracles have it, I have my own book at Amazon and Barnes and Noble. Who would have thunk? Surely not the little girl lying miserable and alone in her room, starring at the towering piles of books near her bed,  and wanting to burn each and every one.

The Cosmic Fireman

My husband, Gib, is a crazy man. He is full out insane. I only have to be with him for moments before the quiet pond I live in is filled with crashing waves and turmoil.

I have read that the Gods protect children and fools. Gib does not fit on the child shelf, so you know what’s left.

The fool is an ancient archetype in the Tarot, his feet barely touch the earth, he is the embodiment of freedom and travel. The fool remains unhurt when stepping off a cliff. His essence is full of grace and an unspoken faith that calls the Gods to place a pillow where a cement wall might reside. His is a faith without words or structure, which summons unseen forces on his behalf.

Gib is the kindest man I have ever known. He lives without judgment or criticism of others, and will exhaust himself for a cause. His wood pallet company is crashing, a company he never wanted, a company he inherited from a family too broken to care. He has worked night and day to breathe life into it, going without pay and using his own funds, so the Mexican men who are employed there will not lose their jobs. When it was time to lay them off from lack of work, he decided to bring in an English teacher instead, so they could be paid to better their lives. I believe this company will die this month, a victim of the recession. It can not be resurrected on the back and good intentions of a single man. I will be delighted to see it go, but he will lose sleep worrying about the families who will suffer from lack of income.

He has coached tennis at Century High School for the past six years. They threatened to close the program if no one came forward to save it. And so he did. He gives of himself again and again in a million small and very large ways. I respect and admire that in him. He is supposed to be retired, but the concept lives in a different orbit than his deeds.

Gib is a cosmic fireman, running around throwing his time, love, and energy on every fire he sees. Sometimes, I get very angry about this, since I am not on fire. But in the end, it’s just as well. That is what he is here to do, and it allows me to go back to my quiet pond.