Waiting

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Sitting outside the open door to the dance hall, listening to romantic music drift by with quiet chatter and occasional laughter reminded her of falling in love. The gentle rocking of the ship as it pushed through the dark sea, brought back all the memories of being held in his arms as they watched the moon set when they sailed away on their honeymoon so many years ago. Occasionally couples would wander by holding hands or arm in arm, and one woman did a slow dance alone on the Lido. It was hard to be alone after so many years as part of a duo. At her age, it was expected that she would have lost her beloved husband. In some ways it had not seemed real until she found herself alone on the ship in the middle of the Caribbean sea.

The holiday was a gift from her children. It was meant to cheer her up after a long cold winter. Her best friend came along to keep her company. They were just two old ladies in a crowd of people. During the day, it was easy to stay busy with all the events on board. It was at night, when the soft, warm breeze blew across the deck and the stars seemed close enough to touch in the dark sky, she felt the shiver of loneliness pass through her heart. From the corner of her eye she could see him, standing so tall and handsome in his tuxedo, a cigarette in his hand as they stood at the railing of the ship watching the moonlight mark the way across the sea. Then, when she turned, she only saw the emptiness.

They met during a party at her best friend’s home when she was barely eighteen. He was just home from the Viet Nam war, wearing a regulation hair cut and an attitude. She knew he was only a few years older than she was, but he seemed so much more mature than the silly boys around them. When he looked at her with deep brown eyes that seemed filled with pain, then smiled at her, she forgot how to speak. Something in her whispered, “He’s the ONE.” They skipped out on the party and walked around the block a time or two, barely talking. After what seemed an eternity, he took her hand. It was a perfect fit, and with that simple gesture, she knew he was her future.

It was summer when they met. They joined in with the rest of their crowd of friends swimming at the beach, hanging out at the park, attending parties. It seemed to be the last days of innocence in their world. The music they listened to was changing, and so were a number of their friends. In their world, you married, had children, and grew old together. Suddenly, it was acceptable to sleep around, do drugs, and protest everything. But, that last summer, when things were still young and hopeful, they fell in love.

Romance was magical to her. A quiet, bookish girl, all she knew about it was what she had read, and what her imagination conjured up as lay awake thinking of his kisses and the deep yearning she had when he held her close. When he laughed at her silly jokes, listened to her opine on things she barely understood, or let her cry when they watched a sad movie without complaint or embarrassment, she felt like a queen. He was always tender with her, even the few times they argued. His gentleness only made her love him more every day.

That never changed, in all the years they were together. Good or bad, she loved him more every day. There were tragedies, triumphs, tears, and tantrums, but through it all, he was always careful with her feelings and with her body. When they were busy parents, he would remember all the important days, and sometimes, for no reason, would bring her flowers or a gift. And they would dance on summer nights like they had as young lovers.

Like all couples, they grew apart and back together, depending on life, kids, and stresses. Never did she doubt that he loved her, though there was that time when he was tempted by someone else. He never knew she knew, but he walked away and came home to his own bed without dishonoring either of them. As they aged, and the children left home, they rediscovered the joy of being a couple. Once again, they were able to sail on a ship like they had on their honeymoon. It became their practice to take a trip somewhere once a year. They cruised the oceans and seas of the world, delighting in the travel, the company, and always they danced in the summer nights.

One night, he woke her because he felt ill. Before the ambulance arrived, he was gone. That quickly she went from wife to widow. It was over. She stood at his grave, mind numbed and lost. As always, he took care of her, making sure she was set for life. No worries about money or where she would live, meant she had time to make choices for the rest of her life. What no one seemed to understand was that without him, she was so lost she couldn’t make decisions at all. Her heart simply wasn’t involved in anything she tried. She moped about her home, remembering him in every crook and cranny. Her sentences often began with “remember when” only to realize he wasn’t there to remember with.

So, her children gave her a cruise as a surprise gift and sent along her best friend as company to get her out of the house. She suspected they were painting and reorganizing it as another surprise in an attempt to get her to move along in her life. She knew they didn’t understand no matter what they did, he would always be with her, where she could just barely see him out of the corner of her eye. A summer breeze, the gentle rocking of the ship, romantic music, and couples holding hands would always bring him to her mind and heart. And just out of sight, he waited for her, standing tall in his tux, leaning against the rail, smoking his cigarette in the moonlight.

The Enemy

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The Enemy
by Karron Combs

I grew up in the years of the cold war. When I was a child, we lived in Germany. We knew that we could be asked to leave all we had at any time to get on a bus or train to be moved away from danger. I never noticed how stressful it was for my parents, I only knew that when my father was “out in the field” for weeks at a time, my mother was worried about him. As an adult, and parent, I realized how fearful she must have been for his safety. Word never came that we had to leave, the suitcases would be unpacked, and my father would come home to a huge meal while we children would be ushered out while he slept. The enemy wasn’t visible, but they were out there and we had to be ready.

As we came back to America on a ship, there was a sudden hush over the ship as the Capitan announced that President John F. Kennedy was dead. The men rushed into uniform and the entire ship went on high alert. When we landed in New York a few days later, the streets were empty, flags were and half mast, businesses were closed, and a sadness blanketed the land. It was a profound moment to me, an eight year old kid, that the President of America could be killed right here in one of our own cities. All my life, the President was the Commander in Chief, my dad’s big boss. I thought he was untouchable. His enemy was able to kill him, and we were all on alert, but the enemy could not stop America and her people.

When I was a young teenager, the country went to war. I lived through the times of Viet Nam. My parents tried to keep us from seeing the horrific news footage that played on the television on the nightly news. People protested, people burned draft cards and ran away, but the men and women who served went with a hope of making a difference. The government would not commit themselves, but they did commit the young men who went into that jungle, never to come home again. We may not have seen a lot of the coverage on television, but we saw enough to know that the enemy was evil, determined, and vicious. The men and women who served in that war, were treated disgracefully by the citizens in their own country when the returned. They did their duty, stood firm in doing what was necessary instead of running away, but they were spit on by their own people. Many of them never got over the things they saw or the way they were treated at home. We lost a lot of good people, but we knew the enemy was still out there torturing those we were forced to abandon.

I was a busy mother and wife when we went to Iraq the first time. I had no less than five friends or family members in that war. I was so proud of them and their willingness to volunteer to serve in the military. Then my brother went to Somolia with the Marines. He came home, but we worried every day. Most came home, but some gave all. They weren’t any different than those who served in Viet Nam, but they returned heroes. I remember being in an airport when a unit came off a plane. Everyone, to the last person, stood and applauded. The terminal shook with the noise, and you could hear it follow them through out the entire building. The men in that unit formed up and marched through that airport, heads held high. I cried tears of pride and applauded until my hands hurt. When they got to the baggage claim, everyone crowded around to shake their hands while their families hugged and kissed the men they loved so much. It was a joyous moment.

I am older now, with grandchildren. I lived abroad during the embarrassing years of the Clinton presidency. We were constantly barraged with jokes and insults about being Americans and having a cheating man for a president. But he was still the Commander in Chief, and held the office of the president. I could loathe the man, but respect the office he held. Shortly after we were able to vote for a new president, we were targeted again. When our country was attacked and the twin towers fell in on September 11, we were living in Hong Kong. I was watching television and the first photos of the attack were on Fox News. I was so shocked and appalled that I sat on the edge of the sofa and watched the horror unfold for most of the day. When the time came to pick my child up from school, I walked into a world that was as hushed and shocked as New York was when President Kennedy was assassinated. Only this time, there were thousands who died, assassinated without reason by the enemy who hated us. Not because we did anything to them, but because of who we are, Americans. Many who died in that senseless act weren’t even Americans, but that didn’t matter to the enemy that tore apart the lives of so many. They were a vicious and mindless pack of animals, with no respect for human life. Even worse they hide it behind religion, a religion that is supposed to be based on decency. Suddenly, the enemy was right here at home, in our own back yard. What else could we do but go to war? Our men and women lined up to volunteer to serve us, and, in doing so, sacrifice their own lives in the name of freedom. The enemy was hounded in his own land, and in a matter of time, he was found hiding in a hole like an animal. The head of the snake was dead, but the body kept moving. We are still at war, and our men and women deserve our greatest respect. They serve because they love their country. They stand proudly between us and the enemy. Many have come home within a flag draped coffin. Their families stand weeping at their graveside while guns salute them and the flag is given to them in thanks for the service and sacrifice their son or daughter made for our freedom. They fulfilled their duty to protect the Constitution that is the foundation of our country, and their eyes turned to the flag that represents us. The enemy is still running, but we will catch them, and we will overcome them.

Today we have a new government. One that I don’t understand. One that does not represent me or any of the people who serve and protect us. The enemy is no longer “out there’ they are here, in our capitol, and they are trying their best to transform our country. The enemy within wants to destroy our Constitution, and our Bill of Rights. The enemy wants to take away all that we stand for and transform us into something resembling the enemy I grew up with in Germany. They want to force us into their idea of government, and take away our freedom just like the enemy in Viet Nam did to their people. They want to push us into serving only them, not our own country, with their rules, not the rules of the Founders of our country. Our land, our traditions, our language, our beliefs, our very hearts are their targets. The enemy within will take until there is nothing recognizable in our world. The man who is president of our country wants to change our country to his idea of what it should be, not what we have always believed it to be. Our traditions will become illegal, our values and instinctive morals will be torn asunder. We will no longer have our right to love our country as it is, imperfections and all. The enemy within is insidious and uses pretty words to paint a pretty picture, but like the Portrait of Dorian Grey, the evil, ugly, and hateful acts will be hidden away behind doors. Always, in my life, I have respected the office of the President of the United States, now I abhor it and the man who holds that title. He is the enemy within, and his army of minions will harm all that we stand for.

Remember the song by Lee Greenwood, God Bless The USA? Those of you who love your country, take a moment to listen to it again. Search your hearts, take the time to listen to your conscience and see if you are still a proud American. Will you proudly stand next to the men and women serving abroad, or will you spit on them like the soldiers who served in Viet Nam? Will you stand strong for the Constitution on which our country was founded, or will you try to fundamentally transform all that we stand for? Will you work to stop the enemy within, or will you give in and let them force their laws upon you? Will you fight for your rights, or take the easy road to slavery? Listen to the song, and make a decision which army you will join. The one fighting for their rights, or the one who wants to fundamentally change America into a population of sheep.

Christmas Thoughts

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Here’s the deal, its Christmas and things are not going well in our world. People are worried about jobs, money, gas prices, house prices, wars, terrorists and general misery in the world. But it is still Christmas. And that has nothing to do with the worldly worries around us, it has to do with the miracle of a Virgin Birth, followed by the raising of the baby that became a boy, and then a man, who was the Savior of mankind, the Messiah for all. That is what Christmas was about. So, no matter how many presents are under the tree, or not, no matter how much food you have, or not, no matter how many worries are out there in the world, or not, the one thing we are celebrating that has unending meaning and purpose is the birth of the Christ child. That is one thing that never changes, he was born, he lived, he sacrificed himself, and he died.

Ok, you don’t believe in the miracle of Jesus Christ, but you still celebrate Christmas. For the peace, the traditions, the pagan festival that falls at the same time, whatever the reason, this is still a time for being introspective and peaceful. It is a time for family, friends, laughter, and joy. Stop the merry go round of life for a few minutes and take the time to allow yourself to be happy. Just BE for a moment and soak in the pleasure of the season. Let yourself be light, be joyful, be celebratory, for in our country this is the very time of year for those feelings to be shared.

Or, maybe, your a bah humbug type, all grouchy and grumpy when it comes to this time of year. Take a deep breath and catch a plane to somewhere warm and sunny, or cold and mountainous to ski, whatever. But go do something other than the same old grind. Maybe the grump in you will allow the happy out. Take a chance and maybe you will find something in Christmas after all. After all, a holiday is a day off from work. That is generally something to rejoice in. Generally, unless you like your grumpy puddle too much to take a chance.

I saw a little kid today in one of the big stores. All the decorations and flashing lights were mesmerizing to her. She kept turning in circles looking up as she gazed at the lovely, bright baubles and ribbons. Her mother, shopping and harried, snapped at her to stop turning around and to pay attention. The kid sighed and said, “I am mommy, see if you turn around you look big then little then big in the red ball.” I wish I could say her mommy stopped and payed attention to her, but she just grabbed her arm and dragged her off. So I went over and turned around and she was exactly right. It brought her joy, fleeting as it may have been, to discover how different things took in a rounded ball than they do in a regular flat mirror. I want to be like that little girl, finding new and exciting things happening around me during the Christmas season. I don’t want to be like her mother, harried and too busy to notice the beauty and mystery of the season.

I was listening to music in one of the stores when I was with my grandson. He started singing Santa Claus is Coming to Town along with the music. At first, I started to shush him, but decided to sing along with him. People stopped and stared, but they all smiled and a few even joined us. What a moment! Nick may not remember it, but then, he may because we got a round of applause at the end of the song and everyone laughed. Hey, it was a good moment in everyone’s day. And I have a new memory to store away and write about in my journal. Nick and Nana, singing in the store, who would have thought that would happen. When was the last time you sang along with the music in the store or elevator. Maybe now is a good time to start. How can you stay gloomy when singing Jingle Bells?

But, Christmas is about the Christ child and his birth. So when I see a Nativity, my heart softens a bit, and when I see the lovely lights on houses reminding us of the star of Bethlehem, I get that lurch in my heart that makes me feel peaceful. As I drive through my neighborhood at night, and I see the Christmas trees in windows, and the care with which the decorations are place on the houses and in the yard, I get a bit nostalgic. I remember all the years we spent without Christ in Christmas in my family, and I remember the way I felt after finding Christ and bringing him into my life. Christmas is much more meaningful to me now. It has purpose beyond presents and food. It is all about sacrifice, and eternal life now that I understand why I am here and what my purpose is all about.

So get out of your miserly puddle, take a deep breath, and start singing Jingle Bells. It is CHRISTMAS, a time to let go of the unhappy things in your life, set aside the worries and woes, and simply BE so that you can soak up the love, the joy, and the peace that comes this time of year.

driving I-40

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In the past three days, I drove on Interstate 40 for 14 hours through three states. Seven hours each way to my son’s house to take Nick home. I am a exhausted.

First of all, it is flat in Eastern Arkansas. Like a pancake flat. For miles and miles and miles, all you see is one ugly winter field after another. On the road, all you see for miles and miles an miles is one ugly semi truck after another, along with people who lose their minds when they get on the road.

You know the type, they all drive ten or fifteen miles an hour above the speed limit, whipping in and out of lanes like they are driving the Indianapolis 500, and their favorite gesture requires the use of one finger. Tailgating is to the point that their grill is so close to the back of the car in front of them, that the driver of the car can’t see anything else. Road rage takes on a whole new meaning if someone dares to get in front of them and they aren’t going as fast as the driver behind them thinks they should. Car, truck, semi, doesn’t matter, the road hog wants to take on all of them just to get up the road a few minutes earlier so they can be slowed down again by the next line of trucks and cars.

The wind blows in Easter Arkansas and in Oklahoma. Hard. It blows from the north or south, never from the east or west. So the driver spends a good portion of his or her energy keeping the darned car on the road instead of letting the wind blow the car off into the ditch or center median. And the radio may work, but getting any station besides some farm report or Mexican music isn’t easy. Even the FM stations seem limited to rap or hiphop or ten different genre of Country music. Note to self: NEVER forget the MP3 player again!!! Although, after a while the Mexican music can grow on you. . .

I have had boring six hour days before, but these past few days of driving were given shots of pure adrenalin when some moron would run up behind me at 90 miles and hour (I was doing about 80 to pass the semi’s at times) ride close enough to me to touch my bumper with theirs and honk, flash lights, and scream and cuss (I guess, from the mouth going as fast as the car) when I wouldn’t move over. Not that I could with 12 trucks in a row to the right of me and one in front who slowed down to 60 MPH. What was I supposed to do, drive under the semi to get out of the way? Like it would do him any good. The idiot went around me on the grass median at about 70 MPH. Ten miles down the road, I caught up with him because three big semi’s had penned him in. Boy was he ticked. I was a bit annoyed to slow down to 60, but it was satisfying to see the trucks stop him from driving like a bully.

I am going to have a few magnetic bumper stickers made for my car.

“Tailgaters are bullies with wheels.”

“I slow down for tailgaters.”

“If you tailgate, you will need:
Very good reflexes
Very good brakes
Very good lawyers”

I LOATH road bullies . . . and I hate windy roads, and I really hate flat boring countryside. . . really.

Family

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I think being a night person is genetic. Poor Nick seems to suffer the same affliction I do, in that the world doesn’t work on our schedules. This morning he came dragging into the living room around eleven. He climbed up on the sofa, heaved a huge sigh, scratched his head and looked around blearily, then said, “Well, I guess I am awake now” in the most disgusted voice I have ever heard a four year old use.

Then, later in the day, we were watching Polar Express for the umpteenth time since he got here, and I was starting to doze off. He wiggled over closer to me, pulled the blanket up, and said, “Go ahead Nana, take a little nap, I will watch over you.” When I looked down at him about three minutes later, he was sound asleep. So I napped too. When I woke up, he was staring intently at my face, and the second I opened my eyes, he said, “See Nana, I watched over you.”

It is lovely being a Nana. It is also tiring. But you know, I just want to make memories for my grandchildren that they will remember all their lives. Nick may not remember the particulars of each visit he has here when he grows up, but he will remember the love, and the fun we had. Maybe he will remember our chats, and all the stories he gets told at bedtime. And, when he is a Papa, maybe he will tell them to his grandchildren too.

Continuity in family is a blessing, traditions are a comfort, and love is never ending when you are a grandparent.

Same time every year.

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My son, always the adventurer, poet, free spirit.
My son, always the adventurer, poet, free spirit.

Every year the black days roll around. They drag me down into a bog of depression, sucking me under, dragging me into the lair of darkness, designed to suffocate every nuance of joy, drown every moment of peace. You would think after nearly 13 years, it wouldn’t be so difficult, and that I would be able to cope better than I do. I know that, in my brain, I am aware that the days are coming, I try to fight the darkness, I try to stay strong and overcome the feelings that slowly overwhelm me. But, like a cloud obscuring the sun before a storm strikes, the emotional storm drowns me.

I know it is useless to let the depression take over. During the dark days, that usually last a week or so, I am physically and emotionally exhausted. I become inconsolable in my sorrow, and prickly in my communication to everyone. At times I feel catatonic and others manic as I relive the anguish of losing my son. My bright, difficult, passionate son was murdered – gone in a millisecond. Taken by a madman in a flash of gunfire, he fell in a pool of blood and brains onto a cold kitchen floor. Days later he lay cold and still in a casket as his family and friends attended his funeral, and we buried him in the cold red clay of Oklahoma. It was a beautiful winter’s day, but my sorrow knew that spring would never really come again for my heart.

So, now that the years have passed, I keep thinking I should be able to cope better. His birthday is September 11th. So many others have reason to be sad on that day because they lost loved ones. I am sad on that day because it was the day of birth for my son. More than the anniversary of the day he died, his day of birth causes me to mourn his loss. I don’t know why that is, I wish I did so I could let go and move forward. I do try to do something honor his life that day. I write him a letter, or I work on his memory book, I have even had a birthday party for him, but the sorrow still drains all the joy out of me.

This year was particularly bad. I went to bed for three days and only got up when I had to take care of my family. I cried a great deal, but mostly I lay there and thought about my son. I remembered every moment of his life from birth to death. I even went over the awful years of his teens when he was so angry and violent. I tried to think of everything I could remember about his likes and dislikes, all the funny stories of his childhood, everything he told me about himself. I read all his letters that he sent to us over the years, and went through his school papers and awards. The last thing I did was to read both his birth and death certificates. I know, a glutton for punishment. Those two documents are the proof that he did live, and that he died – but the important part is the life he lived in between them.

When I think of him, I think of him as a young man holding his baby girl and telling me that she was the whole purpose for his life my heart softens. I hear his voice telling me he loved me and wishing me a Merry Christmas the last time I spoke to him. I see him playing soccer as a little boy, with a big cheeky grin on his face after making a difficult goal – and as a Cub Scout winning an award. I remember a small boy telling me he can dress himself – even if he got his shirt on backwards and his shoes on the wrong feet. As a baby he was the most determined child I have ever seen. And through all the memories, I relive the love I still have for my first born. All the wishes, dreams, plans, and desires I had for his future and his success a a person came flooding back. And the sorrow that he didn’t get to live past the age of twenty-one morphs into anger. The childish cry, “It’s NOT FAIR,” wafts through my mind.

No it isn’t fair for a young man to be brought down in the best days of his life. But he wouldn’t think it was unfair. Not him. Life was always about an adventure, and when it got boring, he would find a way to make it exciting. Dying, for him, was just another adventure. Although, I am sure he didn’t want to leave his baby girl, or his family and friends, I am equally sure that he couldn’t wait to see what waited for him next. Though, he may not have been a very religious man in the traditional way, he always believed there was something more beyond this life. I can see in my minds eye his cheeky grin and bright brown eyes filled with curiosity and wonder as he took on a new way of life. That’s my boy – forging on ahead, no hold barred, into a new existence. Sigh, I miss him so much.

Now it is time to swim my way out of the bog of darkness and press on with this life. The sorrow clings to me every day like whispers of fog floating around me. But the sun does come out and it burns the fog away more day by day. Until next year. I don’t think a mother who loses a child, no matter how old or young that child may be, ever learns to ‘get over it,’ but eventually we do learn to live through it. Even if it means staying in bed in abject sorrow for three days every year.

Tomorrow the sun will peek through my darkness a bit more, and maybe by next week I will be back to normal, but I still miss my boy, and I guess until I join him and he gets to be my guide on the other side of life, I always will.

Possibilities

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Do I think too much? I often wonder if I make life harder than it should be. Do I engage my brain instead of listening to my heart and spirit? Do I simply exist instead of living life fully? Am I letting stereotypical expectations of what I should be and how I should act stop me from being true to myself?

There are a number of pithy little sayings floating about in the ether of the internet or self help books that I could apply to my feelings to create a feel good factor, but how many of them really make any difference in the long run?

I guess we all need to stop and do an internal check to make sure we are staying on the right course. Allowing ourselves to buy into the popular ala carte culture of self analysis is the easy way out of negative feelings. However, if we don’t delve a bit deeper than surface feelings, we are wasting time. None of the quick fixes out there will last beyond the next critical meltdown in our lives.

Oh, I don’t mean we need to run out and spend thousands of dollars sitting in some analysts office talking about how rotten our childhood was and how our relationship with our mother was horrific. If that makes you feel better, go for it, but I am talking about is taking the time to get to know what we really want in life and why we aren’t doing something about it. I am talking about taking the time to really learn what we feel about our lives, and to know our spiritual beliefs and needs are fulfilled.

As I age, I have less patience for people who constantly look for reasons to be unhappy and unfulfilled. I want to throw my hands up and shout, “For heaven’s sake, get off your duff and out of your pity puddle and DO something about your problems.” Inaction is no excuse for failure to thrive. We can always play the unending blame game rather than change what needs to be changed in our lives so we can flourish. It takes courage and determination to actually take steps to transform our lives. If you don’t like what you live, then alter, amend, modify, convert, exchange, or replace the things about your life you don’t like with things that you want or dream of doing. As long as you are inactive or a non-participant in your personal growth and dreams, you will never achieve happiness. Learning to be proactive in all areas of your life will give you the ability to attain all that you desire.

I recently had a conversation with my husband about how fast life has gone by. It seems that just yesterday I was a mother of two young boys, and now I am the mother of grown men and a grandmother. The years just whizzed by without my noticing; it was shocking for me in a number of ways. He pointed out that if I broke down the years, I would be amazed at all I had done, almost without noticing. He was right, and I really had no reason to be feeling sorry for myself. I had accomplished a great deal in my life, and in doing so, became the person I am today. Bumps, warts, and all, life experience has helped to make me who I am, along with all the spiritual moments that strengthened me.

We can’t go back and redo the past. It is over, to paraphrase a song by Brooks and Dunn, “[Life] is like the Mississippi, when she’s gone she’s gone.” It is easy to fall into the trap of thinking “if only” we had done things differently or made a different decision our lives would be better, and we would feel happier. Nonsense, what is, is and cannot be changed just because we wish it so. We live with what we have earned through our life experiences. I can’t make any difference in my life if I spend all my time thinking ‘if only’ about the past. What I can do is move on from this instant, right now. I can mend relationships, ask for forgiveness, and try to make restitution for the hurts I have caused, but I cannot take back what I have done and relive the past. Despite what all the science fiction stories tell us, time travel is still just a fantasy.

We could waste time beating ourselves up over our mistakes, after all, misery loves to propagate and the best way to do that is to use our guilt or frustration as fertilizer. All we will end up with is a patch of weedy discontent. If, however, we have the courage to pull all those weeds of discontent and replace them with the ability to bloom in a garden of possibilities, we can enjoy our lives.

At one point, I was a young mother, and you know, those days were so full of things to do, teaching moments, and work, I didn’t know how fast the years were going. I didn’t have time to sit around and feel sorry for myself back then. I had two little boys who were busy and growing, and I needed to be there to support that growth emotionally, educationally, and physically. I was the home room mother, Cub Scout Leader, and Sunday School Teacher. I squelched through mud and muck finding ‘treasures’ for their nature project, stood knee deep in a pond teaching them how to fish, stayed up late helping them learn to saw, nail, and glue together Cub Scout Derby cars, and had more than one battle over math homework. It was what moms did without question or thought; it was simply part of the job.

As they grew, I taught them how drive a car, work hard on a job, hygiene, and dating manners. I struggled with them through their final exams and yelled about homework more than once, and I was still there for them when they came home after curfew and ended up grounded. I learned to let go and let them make their own mistakes, and to make them be responsible for cleaning up the mess they had made with those mistakes. And, I had more time to think, and to do things for myself. I was so lost I finally went back to school to have something to do when my nest was empty. And, I started the downward spiral into feeling sorry for myself because I was no longer needed so much.

I wasted a lot of time feeling sorry for myself, until I had an epiphany one day. I realized that no one was going to feel sorry for me but me. Sympathy was not forthcoming from anyone, and not one single person was willing to join me in my pity puddle. I sat in it so long I was getting pruney and soggy. No amount of whining or moaning made any difference, except encourage people to move further away from me as fast as they could without making a scene. So, without a real plan, I just stood up and walked away from that pity puddle and began to find a way to overcome self pity and my patch of weedy discontent.

The how isn’t all that important, because it will be different for each of us. What is important is that we take the step to over come what ever it is that is keeping us from being joyful and content in our lives. Not every day will we be able to overcome the discontent in life; we have too many issues in our lives for that to happen, but with practice and dedicated attempts, each of us can have joy and contentment more often than not. For me, the most important step I made was to consciously decide that I was going to be a feisty old lady someday, and to do that I needed to practice being spirited and determined. I had to stop allowing my inner fear of making a fool of myself stop me from trying new things and learning new ways of doing old things. I had to learn to speak up and state my mind. And, I had to learn to be willing to be wrong now and then.

The second most important thing I had to do was find something to be passionate about. My passion was teaching and through that writing. For someone else that passion could become politics, women’s issues, health food, diet and exercise, learning to sing, or learning to paint. The choices are endless. What ever it is that you choose, make sure it is something to which you want to dedicate your time and energy. And, if you find it wasn’t your cup of tea after all, then admit it and move on to something else. I started out thinking I would love to teach high school, something I quickly learned was not for me, so I switched mid-stream and decided to teach at a university level. That passion I had for teaching finally manifested itself in tutoring women who were learning to speak, read, and write English as a second language while we lived abroad. My point is, without something in our lives that we can be passionate about, we have no direction for our energy. We cannot be joyfully engaged in life if we don’t have something to be joyful about.

So that leads me back to my original question, do I think too much? Am I searching for a quick fix, or am I really engaged in life to the fullest? Am I still waiting to be rescued, or am I really out there making choices and mistakes as I give every adventure a chance to enhance my life? Life has changed for me in the past few years as my health has become an issue. I don’t teach any longer, and now I need a new passion. I guess its back to practicing to be a feisty old lady, after all, someone needs to help set a good example for the next generation of up and coming feisty old ladies. Why not me? I guess I had better go and explore my garden of possibilities.

Cinema Passion

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Some people go to the movies because they are bored. Some people go because the kids are driving them crazy and it is too hot to send them outside, or they refuse to go outside. Some people, especially teenagers, go to hang out with friends and to see the hottest, new movie. Not that they actually watch the movie with all the socialization going on between them. Some people go to the cinema out of habit, and some because it is a particular genre they enjoy. There are some people who actually go just to be entertained. There is, however, a breed of cinema goers who are in a class all their own.

These are the people who have a true passion for movies. Some of them are passionate about certain actors, making it their business to know all the statistics about each and every one in every movie they see. They can recite chapter and verse about all their favorite actor’s parts and quote, line for line, the dialogue from their favorite scenes. They are fanatic about every detail of the character, and will argue endlessly about what scene in what movie was the best scene for the actor they adore.

Another group passionate about the movies is the technical fanatics. They love to go to the movies and pick apart the special effects, point out the obvious continuity flaws, pour over the scenes and pick out tiny mistakes on the set, or, in some cases, huge flaws. In this group is the sub groups of Sci/Fi technical fanatics who have read every book in a series, like Lord of the Rings, and love to note what scenes have been left out, combined, or changed beyond all recognition. They are passionate about the story, but also the way in which technology was used to create the movie. They will sit and watch the credits to the bitter end to see who did what in the movie.

There are people who are passionate about the whole movie experience, regardless of the genre or the technology. These are people, of which I am one, who have grown up in the cinema all their lives. Going to the movies is as much a part of who we are as anything else in our lives. Some of us can quote favorite lines from movies, know every word to every song from the musicals of our youth, and have favorite actors, but aren’t fanatic about them. Children of the cinema love the ambiance of a large screen, dark auditorium, and the expectation of the movie bursting on to the screen with sound and color. We are the people who get annoyed at the whisperers, bag rattlers, ice crunchers, and crying kids because it ruins the show for us.

The children of the cinema have certain rituals that must be observed. Buying the ticket, the popcorn, the soda, and sometimes candy are an important part of the process. We can hardly wait for the previews of coming attractions so we can plan for future cinema experiences. We wait with excitement for a new movie to come out so we can find ourselves involved in a new story that will make us laugh, cry, jump in fear, or feel romantic. The cinema is an escape, a place where we can leave our worries of real life behind and live in a fantasy world for a few hours. Knowing, however, that soon we will be back to dealing with life as usual.

Even leaving the theatre is something of a ritual. Waiting for the final credits to roll, the last note of music to fade, we gather our detritus, and depart as the lights come up in the room, are all part of the encounter. Children of the cinema blink in the bright lights of the lobby as we make our way out into the real world, already dissecting the movie, and comparing it to others that we have seen as we plan the next sojourn into the magic that is our passion.

Serendipitous Day

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This was written just before Easter in 2003 when we lived in Karori, New Zealand, a suburb of Wellington.

Today was one of those days when the normal turns serendipitous without notice. I got up and decided today would be a good day to walk into Wellington to get the things I needed for Crystal’s Easter Basket. It is about an hour’s walk if I don’t get in a big hurry. When I got to the Botanical Gardens, about half way there, I sat down on a bench to rest for a minute. I don’t usually do that, but today I simply felt a need to sit down.

As I was sitting there, an elderly man came along at a good pace. As he passed me, he said good morning, and I responded the same. He stopped and asked me if I was from America. We began to chat about where he had visited in the US and general information that two strangers usually exchange. He sat down and that is where things shifted to serendipity.

We began by talking about the beauty of the gardens, then that shifted to gardening in general, and before I knew it, we were talking about the magical wonders of creation. One topic led to another and we wandered through comparative religion, the occult, historical fact versus fiction or oral misinterpretation of the Holy Bible. Then we went back to the topic of astrology and the modern day fascination people seem to have with things like earth worship and the odd factions of fanatics who can ruin an entire religious concept by being over zealous and pushy. We talked about the differences and similarities between many religions and we discussed our own spiritual paths.

During the discussions things came up that we used to illustrate our personal growth. I may have lost my son to a murderer, but John lost his wife to one, and the killer was his own son. Oh, the horror of that! John said that was when he began to search for a spiritual balance and meaning in his life. Because he loves his wife so much, he knew that she could not be dead. We talked about the spiritual visits some people have and how powerful dreams can be in our lives. We discussed how people have to find the right path for themselves and the first step is to begin searching.

During our talk, we found out that his friend’s daughter is in my granddaughter’s class at school, and they play together a lot. We found out that we know some of the same people involved in different things that we do, and he said he had a lot of respect for the Mormons because of all they did to help people find their roots with our genealogy programs.

But the best part of the talk was when we were discussing what different religions believe. We agreed it came down to several concrete things that seem to be innate to the human spirit.

1. Less is more. The less we have of material things, the more we learn to depend on God for help.

2. To accept others who believe differently means we must have an honestly open mind.

3. In all religions, it all boils down to this: If we give, we get much more in return. One must learn to give of self to gain spiritual enlightenment or growth. In all religions, that one precept seems to come through more than anything else. In sacrifice we learn humility and compassion.

We had a spirited discussion on the impact the Old Testament has on the New Testament and Christian patterns of belief. Then we had a discussion about my beliefs and how I came to that through the experiences of my life. We talked about how neither of us believes in coincidence. We called it-planned coincidence, because everything happens for a reason. I never sit on a bench when I walk into Wellington. He usually doesn’t cut through the gardens on his way either. Usually he doesn’t do more than say good morning, and I rarely talk to strange men other than to respond to a greeting. I guess we were meant to meet. He called it fate.

It was a wonderful, serendipitous morning that required me to think, laugh, talk about things that I often ponder, and share my inner most feeling about God. As we parted ways, he shook my hand and said that he hoped one day he would have the spiritual strength and balance that I possess. What a great compliment to get from someone I’ve only known a few hours.

I don’t know that we will ever meet again, but today was meant to be and I feel wonderful. My brain got a workout, my spirit got a boost, and I laughed a great deal. John is 72 years old, fit, agile in mind and body, and he is finding his spiritual maturity a very interesting path indeed. I am so glad I got to be a part of his journey.

Life As I Know It

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KJ Combs

There are a lot of things you must have to shop with a 13 year old girl. They are: a lot of money, a lot of time, a lot of patience, and a lot of willingness to bite your tongue on a regular basis.

School starts in a few weeks. It is time to revamp and recharge my daughter’s wardrobe from top to bottom. It doesn’t matter that it has only been two months since school let out for the summer and I just bought her the clothes she had to have to look cool, cute, or awesome for the end of the year. They are déclassé now because something else is in and she just can’t be out of step, or, if she is like my daughter, she doesn’t want to look like anyone else.

So, off we go, both girded for battle to the local shops. She wants to go to the newest IN place. It is, to my mind, filled with overpriced tiny scraps of fabric that leave my daughter looking like a cross between a low rent hooker and an extra in a low budget vampire movie. Besides, I refuse to pay that much for a pair of jeans that look like they have never been washed after being run over by a Mac truck. And she can just forget the ugly trousers covered with chains, weird metal bits that have no discernable use and cost nearly as much as a new car. She refuses to go to the local discount place because she will not, according to her, dress like a homeless person. The lines are drawn, the budget is set, and the limits of compromise are clearly defined.
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