Just like old times – a dinner party!

 

The serious golfer on a Sunday morning

Jordan and Christian hosted a dinner party last night, and I was invited! Only two guests, both of whom Jordan knows are following the quarantine rules though one goes to an office. Best of all she knows they are two of her friends I’m most fond of—Amye Cole, who went to high school with her, and David Barnes, her “brother from another mother.” I had seen Amye once when we were at the lake but have not seen David since quarantine began. Missed his wife, Kelly, who was out of town.

We began with drinks on the patio, but the mosquitoes were fierce. Jordan had even done what I frown on and sprayed Yard Guard. Temperature was pleasant, but we soon headed inside. We talked a lot about food and a lot about dogs and skirted politics. One of the guests is Republican, though I suspect not a trumpian Republican. Still we avoided the issue until I got up to leave and Christian said, “I thought we were going to have a hot political discussion.”

Jordan planned with quarantine in mind—she put enough leaves in my old dining table to make it so long that it barely fit inside the dining room. David and Amye sat at the far end, while I was in my familiar place at the end near the kitchen. A nostalgic moment for me, because I’ve sat in that chair and presided over countless company dinners—close enough that I could run to the kitchen if necessary, back when I could run. Jordan calls it my “princess chair.”

Jordan fixed a family favorite. We call it Doris’ casserole, but I have friends who call it American lasagna. It’s a meat and tomato layer topped by noodles, cream cheese, sour cream, and chopped green onions. Then you top the whole thing with grated cheddar and bake. We serve it so often that I knew both Amye and David have had it before. In fact, David asked, “Tell me again how you knew Doris.” But it’s always wonderful—and there are leftovers for tonight. Accompanied by a green salad and  brownies for dessert. I was still full when I woke up this morning.

I am a Zoom failure. I tried to join the after-church Zoom discussion this morning, but I was sideways on the screen and didn’t know how to turn it. I didn’t try the audio because what I thought was  to be a church discussion was several people talking about Santa Fe. It was a bit hard to just jump in. I have to master this, though, because I am to be on a virtual panel at a book festival in early October. That makes two tech failures on my part—I still haven’t been able to untangle my Instagram account and use it.

Thinking and praying today for friends and a family member in California and up the coast. I truly cannot wrap my mind around the extent and size of those fires. Someone posted a picture of a small Oregon town that burned completely down—no more town. Just gone.

Len Leatherwood, a California writer and friend, recently posted a poem, “Curled Up,” in which she expressed a feeling of being curled up, protecting her inner self while watching a world that she distrusts. Waiting for the time that she can uncurl, for a sign that it is safe to come out and live again. She caught my feelings perfectly—these days I feel like I am watching life but not really a part of it, and I’m waiting until I can once again pick up the threads of a life now gone.

This morning, as we recited the Lord’s Prayer in our virtual prayer service, my mind clamped onto the phrase, “Deliver us from evil.” I guess that’ too is how I feel—that so much evil surrounds us. Disease and fire and riots and a scary election. Yes, Lord, please deliver us so that we can uncurl and live lives filled with love, not fear and anger and hate.

Sleeping in the sun

Where are the good guys today?

This was one of those days that it was hard to clear your mind and go about business. For me, the most pleasant moment was happy hour. Five-thirty is Sophie’s  favorite time of the day. When she senses that we are about to go out to the patio, she runs in and out excitedly. If I am slow—getting my sunglasses or phone, for instance—she runs back in and looks at me as if to say, “Well, are you coming or not?” Tonight she seemed to know that neighbor Mary was coming, and she sat expectantly watching the driveway. I thought it made a cute picture.

My sisters and brothers in Sisters in Crime consider it gospel that you should never talk about religion or politics on social media. You might alienate readers, and heaven knows, we all want each possible sale. I’ve been thinking a lot about that today. I rarely if ever talk about religion, certainly never to suggest what someone should or should not believe. I may occasionally allude to the way my faith governs my beliefs and actions, but that’s it. On politics, I am more outspoken, compelled by my conscience to speak out. If you truly believe that the nation—or a particular person—is leading us to disaster and you can express that in calm and reasonable terms, I think you are morally obligated to speak out. Otherwise, we become a nation of sheep.

But the two—politics and religion—collided last night when the White House ordered Lafayette Square in DC cleared of peaceful protestors so that the squatting president could have a photo op in front of St. John’s Church. It was wrong on so many levels, all of which have been thoroughly explored on social media today—the unbelievable violence against peaceful protestors, the arrogance of a man who defies Christian principles holding a Bible (upside down and backwards), the hubris of trespassing on church property—and forcing church personnel to flee for their lives.

Did it gain him any votes? Not from anyone I heard. All I have heard and read today is scornful. Except from trump himself, who apparently tweeted, “Thank you, Mr. President” for clearing “violent” protestors.

Across the country, we are witnessing a terrible irony: some cops are using brutal methods to quell peaceful protests—against police brutality. They are making the people’s argument for them, their actions demonstrating the need for drastic and thorough reform of police departments, their education, government oversight. I haven’t yet heard much call for training in compassion, but surely that too is needed.

But increasingly, we are seeing examples of police reaching out, walking with protestors, kneeling and praying with them. These are the men and women who set the example we need. God bless them. I was proud of Fort Worth last night where an eight o’clock curfew cleared the streets, and the chief of police, among others, took a knee and prayed with protestors. We need more of that and less rhetoric about dominating the battlefield. Trump seems to want a civil war; we need to show him peaceful cooperation.

Does anyone else have the feeling as I do that the trauma in this country is building toward some sort of a climax? I don’t sense that these protests will stop as those after Martin Luther King, Jr.’s assassination did or the riots after the beating of Rodney King. Tonight the marches seem more peaceful, but I think the public won’t soon be distracted. I hope I’m right. But I wish I had a magic lantern that would show me the future. I cannot begin to think how this unrest will end, how the national will ever get back to normal or to a new and better normal. Still, I remain hopeful.

Me, Olive Oatman, and mr. trump

            Let me begin with gratitude. I cannot tell you how cheered and comforted I have been by the many caring responses to a blog I wasn’t even sure I should write. And I for sure had doubts about posting that picture. But so many of you have written with words of healing, some sharing your own falling experiences—yep, we all do it, and many offering healing suggestions and cures, from an MRI (my doctor/brother says my symptoms don’t call for it) to a magic cream that help bruises heal. You all make me feel loved, and I am grateful.

My bruises have spread, if anything. The right side of my forehead is now a faint purple, in contrast with the deep red around my eye. Most alarming, I have developed a deep red bruise (or blood leakage) that follows the natural downward line to the right side of my mouth, giving me sort of the look of a perpetual downturn to my mouth. It is not pretty.

I remind myself of Olive Oatman, an 1850s girl of fourteen when Indians in Arizona kidnapped her. They later sold her to the Mojave, who tattooed her face, around the mouth, with blue ink in vertical lines that almost match mine. She later was freed and made a name for herself telling the public about her captivity with as, one source says, artistic license. I don’t think I’ll take to the stage.

I went to nine o’clock church on my computer this morning, because I didn’t want to answer all the questions I was suree to get. During the pastoral prayer, the minister suggested we praise God with our silence. I bowed my head, tried to think appropriate thoughts, and waited what seemed an awfully long time for a moment of silence. When I looked up, the computer had frozen! Jordan was at the eleven o’clock and said she couldn’t help but giggling when the moment of silence came.

But what I thought during that moment was how weary I am of mr. trump. Yes, weary of his disastrous and impulsive decisions that are ruining the world as we know it, but more than that, I am weary of his domination of my life and thought. When I bowed my head to pray, my first thought was something to the effect of “Please, Lord, deliver us from this tyranny,” but then I rebelled. It’s as if he invades all the spaces of my life—and probably yours. Prayer should be private, an exploration of my place in the universe, and how I can help the world. Instead, I’m begging for help, and I’m not sure God wants to be the deus ex machina.

The sermon this morning was titled, “Curiosity,” but to me it was more about doubt. Dr. Peterman preached that doubt, and questions, are signs of a deep faith, while to have no questions is indicative of a shallow faith. I have always had doubts and questions and sometimes envied those who think they have the sure answers, but in my heart, I know better. I’d like to share that sermon—I even know several I’d like to share it with—but that strikes me as intrusive.

It’s a strange world we live in, but I guess if Olive Oatman could turn tattoos into fame, I guess I can turn lemons into lemonade. Or trump into triumph. Anyway I’m trying.

Where did the day go?

I planned on a lazy day today, but I had no idea I would be as lazy as I have been. I decided I wouldn’t try to write—might not till after the surgery—but I would read. I have a new Cleo Coyle coffeehouse mystery, and I want to get beyond page 1. But I frittered away the morning on Facebook and emails—plus a brief trip back to bed to ease my aching hip, The afternoon went the same way, and here it is almost nine o’clock. I haven’t read at all, and my bed is calling me.

Some nice things happened today. Christian fixed an Asian dinner tonight—cashew chicken with rice. Really good but a tad too much Siracha sauce for me. They brought dinner out to the cottage, and we all ate together. I don’t see much of Christian during the week when he’s busy with work, so it was a treat to have him here for dinner. Jacob has taken to coming to see me at least once a day but he usually doesn’t stay long, so it was nice to have him eat his dinner and take part in the conversation.

During dinner, I got an email from an old friend—I mean old; she was a couple of years ahead of me in high school and her sister was one of my best friends. She had read the newsletter I sent out a few days ago and was responding to the good news of my recovery which has begun even before surgery. I’ve had really good and satisfying response to that newsletter, and I am flattered and grateful. If you don’t get it and would like to, please email me at j.alter@tu.edu.

Sue and Teddy came by about 5:30, bringing with them their happy enthusiasm for each other and for life. We talked about dogs and kids and neighbors and a bit about politics. It’s uplifting to visit with them—happiness is contagious. People who find each other in mid-life deserve special joy.

Earlier in the day Cyndy Twedell, a minister from my church, came by to deliver my prayer shawl. My neighbor’s mother, now deceased, knit it several years ago, and I nearly wore it out wrapping it around me as I sat at my desk and occasionally rolling my chair over it. I thought with regret that I’d just have to discard it when it fell completely apart but it occurred to me to call Cyndy and ask if the prayer shawl group could repair it. They could, and she returned it knowing I’d need it at the hospital. She told me it been infused with renewed prayers. Cyndy stayed for a cup of tea and conversation, and we had a good visit talking about church, some of the people we’ve lost touch with, different choices in worship, and, yes, a bit of politics—the upcoming women’s marches. As she left, Cyndy offered a kind prayer, one that I appreciated.

To there you have my lazy day. Excuse me now—I’m going to read Dead Cold Brew.

Mindfulness

 Can you believe June is already gone? They say times flies when you’re having fun, but I sure didn’t know that I was having that much fun this month. Nonetheless, it’s gone. When we’re not paying attention, living in the moment, time does fly.

You hear a lot about mindfulness these days. Basically it’s the process of focusing on the present moment and experiencing it fully. A monk said that if you’re washing dishes and looking ahead to your cup of tea, you are missing the experience of washing the dishes. So when you get the tea, you’re thinking about your next chore and not fully experience drinking the tea. Makes sense to me, because my mind is always three steps ahead of where I am.

I’ve known forever that I live life too fast, so that it passes me by without me experiencing the best of it. I need to slow down and savor the moment. You can accomplish that through meditation.

My brother asked me if I ever meditated, because he believes I can envision my ankle healing. Truth is I pray but I don’t meditate, and I see the two as similar. So today I’ve been working on envisioning my ankle healing and talking to the Lord about it—seems the best of both worlds do me.

Jacob is back from the ranch, full of tales of the copperhead they saw—his cousin jumped on his back—and a visit to a neighboring ranch where they have an owl that the foreman has trained to follow him. He found it as a baby in a puddle, nursed it to health. Jacob said the ranch kids were really kind to him, but they shot and gutted a rabbit for the owl to eat. And Jacob was turned off by that. I told him we’d send him to the ranch more often so that he could toughen up. But he was so tired today, and has a baseball game until ten tonight.

My Tomball kids are mostly “hanging out” this summer, and I hope to take Jacob down there for a week—he needs to “hang out” and be a kid.

God as a masseuse

I was amused not long ago when a minister posted on Facebook her reaction to a man's comment that whenever he couldn't find a parking spot, he asked God to help him...and he found a spot. The minister's comment was that reduced God to a valet.
But then I thought about it and realized I sometimes make God into my own personal masseuse, though I don't think it's a reduction. Yoga has become a spiritual exercise for me--not so much when I do the poses. Then I actually have a hard time clearing my mind and turning off all the thoughts and concerns of daily living. But when I get to the relaxation/meditation phase, it instantly becomes prayer for me. A time when I talk to God and try my hardest to go one step farther and listen to God.
The yoga/meditation sequence I was taught and find oh-so
- helpful begins with sort of cataloging your body as you relax each area of muscles, and I have done it enough that I can feel some muscles give way--my temporomandibular muscles, for instances. So I begin my relaxation by asking God to help me relax, to feel his peace flowing through my body. By the time I get to the back of my neck. I can feel hands massaging the tense muscles...and to me they are God's hands. Same for my low back and hips which are giving me more trouble as I age.
After I am relaxed, head to toe, I discuss all kinds of things with God--family and friends, personal concerns (even the book I'm working on), the state of the union and the world (which I'm sure must make him weep), and I ask for strength to live my life as he would have me.
I was once in a brown bag lunch group where we discussed our faith, each encouraged to share only as much as he or she wanted. I liked the group and was sorry when it fell apart. But one woman said she would never think of asking God in prayer for anything for herself. I think I do that all the time, sort of like the man with his parking spot. "Dear God, where did I put my keys?" Sometimes he helps, sometimes he leaves me on my own.
But my yoga prayer is a different, more spiritual experience. I don't think God minds being my masseuse.