Tuning the senses

"Gratitude is the most fruitful way of deepening your consciousness that

you are... a divine choice."

~ Henri Nouwen

May we have the eyes to see all the ways - all the miniscule details of a day, the infinite intricacies of creation, the miracle of our bodies alive and breathing and pumping blood - we are sought after...

May we have the ears to hear the notes, the pitch, the melody, the tone, the tune, of a song that plays without ceasing, surrounding us...

May we have the tastebuds to distinguish the flavors of goodness toward us...

May we have the ability to feel the touch of grace wrapping around us, brushing against us, inviting us in...

May we have the noses to catch the scent - in the air and in the people and in the flowers and in the city and in the rain and in the desert and in the ocean and in the critters and in the workplace and in the home - of joy, of wonder, of the love...

Of the One who pursues us.

Of the One to whom we direct our gratitude, for making us a divine choice.

The wisdom of losing teeth

I miss the satisfying crunch of tortilla chips accompanied by my spicy homemade guacamole. I miss biting into fresh vegetables and crispy apples. I miss melted peanut butter on toast. I miss my tofu pho with steaming vegetables. I miss a fat veggie burger oozing with sauteed mushrooms and cheese. I miss looking in the fridge and knowing I can eat anything I feel like preparing out of those ingredients. Alas, I'm still eating the mashed sweet potatoes, yogurt, scrambled eggs, creamed soup and bananas.

The thing is, I never noticed how much the flavor and pure enjoyment of food is enhanced when chewed by the whole mouth, passing over all the tastebuds. Not just swallowed or gnawed on gingerly with the front teeth. I have a newfound appreciation for the process of chewing, one that will hopefully teach me to slow down and savor the experience of eating, thank God for my tastebuds and all my working teeth.

Who knew losing my wisdom teeth could gain me this wisdom? Well, wisdom only if I am able to practice it. Otherwise, it's just four useless teeth and a nice hunk of dough lost.

Nuts and bolts

People often ask, "What do you write?" I've long struggled with a concise, satisfactory reply. How to describe the concept of beautiful rubbish in something tangible? I settled on "redemptive stories" for awhile, but even that didn't suffice. Sounds fluffy with no substance, but I knew there was substance, just couldn't lasso words around it and pull it down to the everyday, practical stuff of life.

Until this daily practice of looking for the graces in life, to count them and say thanks for them. This daily, moment-by-moment learning to see, period. This is the nuts and bolts of beautiful rubbish. This is what puts flesh and flower and dirt and texture on the seemingly ethereal concept of seeing the beauty in the rubbish, of turning around and living that in the daily story. This is the redemptive story, in words that will turn into sentences that will grow into paragraphs that will develop, over time, into a book. A living book.

It keeps returning to my eyesight. This mysterious transformation of taking eyes that can see but have been blind and opening them wider.

The everyday art of learning to see, this is what I write.

I see to write and I write to see; I see to live and I live to see. Life - glorious, messy, beautiful, uncensored, fresh.

My daily work is this: To trust, and then, to see. And as I see, to trust deeper. A whole life of this, one day at a time.

Bird songs

The breeze is light and refreshing, an evening mojito in the air. Mom persuades me to come with her for a walk to the popular Golden Garden steps, where the sweat of many Seattle fitness enthusiasts, hardcore trainers or athletic wannabes mingle. Of course, it doesn't require much persuasian, after feeling in a near vegetable state the past five days on opiate painkillers. I could use the movement and she could use the motivational support.

We stroll. She's talking about concerns with her memory loss again. I'm immediately on edge. So quickly it happens, this rapid descent. It tumbles out in irritation, but I know it for what it is. Fear.

Ever since Papa died, I've heard the concern in her voice about memories lost. Simple things, and not so simple things. I hear the panic straining, pushing back. I want to brush it off. Reassure her, it's just grief. Stress, grief, trauma, they affect our brains. They can affect memory. I know this from my studies, from people I've worked with. But seeing it in my mom, hearing it in her voice, the fear niggles.

We reach the stairs, and I take the bench.

The thought finally materializes like a black vapor: But when? When will the next tragedy strike?

I sigh with the invisible elbow that lovingly pokes my side. I know. I know. I have to let go, have to live now.

I watch her back, heading for the stairs, until those red curls peeking out beneath her pink baseball hat disappear with each bounce.

I cheer her on as she takes on the steep flight of stairs, five times. She's on a roll tonight, and I smile. Our conversation home, I hear her voice cutting in and out of my thoughts. She just said "Lexus" or "Toyota" but I have no idea why. My thoughts are still on Alzheimer's or dementia. On what would be worse, losing her quickly like my dad or gradually watching her slip away over years, memories gone before her body?

I shake myself out of this dark cloud. I must practice another way to live than fear. Reaching for her arm, I remember. She is here, now. But I am not, and I can change that. I can choose trust.

"Listen to those birds," I breathe. "They sound so happy."

"They do what God created them to do and they do it so well." Mom doesn't miss a beat.

"Rain or shine." I envy them for that. I could learn a thing or two from the birds.

Flow of joy

I read it and stopped. Read it again. Why are the simple things so painful in truth? The few words that can pack a punch to the flesh?

"Only self can kill joy." It's Ann Voskamp again, throwing up one spark after another. I'm still not all the way through her book, the sparks fly too fast.

I say the words, feel them around in my swollen, wisdom tooth-less mouth: Only I can kill joy.

Work frustrations don't kill my joy. Relationship troubles don't kill my joy. Medical issues don't kill my joy. Rain and gray clouds don't kill my joy. Not being where I thought I'd be in life doesn't kill my joy. I, my friends, am the only responsible party for the murder of joy.

Harsh truth or endless freedom? Perhaps a little of both.

Accepting responsibility for my own joy is painful at times. Easier to blame something or someone else. Easier to feel frustrated, depressed, angry or down. Accepting responsibility for my own joy is also empowering. It means I am the deciding factor, the only one that stands in the way or swings wide the door to joy.

I'm learning in the counting of graces in my "Thank-full" journal that joy is to be found in going lower. The opposite of the flow of the world. The world wants to reach higher, stand taller and prouder, climb the ladders and the mountains. But joy, like water down a mountain to the valleys, flows lower and lower. I must stoop down to catch the joy and drink it in. Stooping low in the small things to see. Bending the knee in the hard things to drink. This is the path of joy, and I'm the one who controls the knees and opens the hands and lifts the eyes to see.

Thanking in the throbbing

Seeing clearly is a challenge this morning. I'm trying not to think of the pain pinching down from the base of my head to my left shoulder, the way I can only move my head about two inches each direction before the bulging knot in my muscles throbs, shoots a stabbing pain up my neck. Trying not to think of how it's much too early in the day to call for a massage appointment, how I called one number and it was the lady's personal cell phone and I woke her up and she sounded annoyed. Trying not to think of how I just ate the last decent meal I'll have for several days, how I'll probably be sucking down applesauce and pureed foods by this evening, looped out on painkillers after having all four of my wisdom teeth out this afternoon.

It's a struggle, turning my thoughts toward grace. See through to the joy, open my eyes to the thanks when all I feel is the throbbing. And I think of all the people that live with chronic pain, far worse than this, and I must try.

So I think of my mom. How happy she is she's my designated nurse. It's a blast from the past for both of us, but even thirty-year old kids still need a mom to take care of them from time to time, and she's an enthusiastic volunteer. I think of how she massaged down my neck and shoulder last night with my head in her lap for nearly an hour. And I give thanks for her.

I'm thinking of the stack of books I have to read, including Mrs. Piggle Wiggle and Pippi Longstocking, One thousand gifts, and Rooms (a suspense novel from a talented author I met at my writer's conference). And I give thanks for library books and memory-inducing children's literature and new authors and time to read, even if drugged up.

I'm thinking of my good friend, Naphtali, who offered to come on her day off on Friday to spend time with me. And I give thanks for her faithful friendship.

I'm thinking of sick pay and how fortunate I am to have it, and I give thanks.

I'm thinking of dental insurance, how I can afford all this because I have it, and I give thanks.

I'm thinking of vicodin and how I'll have some by this afternoon, and if my neck and shoulders are still throbbing, it will take care of them as well as my jaw. And I give thanks.

I'm thinking how the throbbing slowly fades away, into the background, as grace emerges.

And I give thanks.

An inch of elephant

Catholic, meet Christian.

How I’ve grown to dislike the taste of those words in my mouth, the sound of them in someone else’s. Nails on a chalkboard. I grew up with the impression that those were different sides of the fence. Neighbors that didn’t talk to each other, certainly didn’t cross into each other’s yard.

I’ve been dating one of these neighbors for almost a year.

He came in the backdoor of my life one evening. While I was dancing. Or trying to (I wasn’t that good yet). He took my hand, asked me to dance, led me onto the floor. Gently, decisively, he guided my turns, invited me to follow. His smile, so radiant, filling up his whole, dark skinned face with joy. His eyes, so deep and warm, sparkling, gentleman with a glint of mischief. Watching him dance effortlessly, feeling the music in his skin, I felt the tingle of joy in the movement of dance, washing over me. So much conversation passed between us without words, the mystery of dance.

All this before I knew he’s Catholic. And I’m not. We’re two different ends of the same spectrum. The enormity of God.

The struggle to understand God is a bit like two people standing in different places, staring at the same elephant. One notices the elephant’s long, curvy, wrinkled trunk. The other notices the elephants muscular flanks, extending to solid columns of leg. Same elephant, different angles, different eyes, different perspectives.

Any more, I question my previous assumption in life and relationships. That two people staring at the same square inch of elephant in intricate detail shows greater spiritual compatibility than one person seeing the head and the other studying the tail. I’ve wanted someone to see the same square inch of God as me.

True, this can certainly make for an easier relationship, and even here, no two people see with the same eyes. Yet, how small of me. Maybe it’s every bit as complementary for me to be with someone who gently tugs at the corners of my lens, stretching, stretching, always stretching, pointing to a different part of the elephant, helping me to see more.

When all is said and done, aren't we all seeing but an inch of God's infinite form?