I DO NOT KEEP A CHAIR FOR IT

"There will always be times when you feel discouraged. I too have felt despair many times in my life, but I do not keep a chair for it; I will not entertain it. It is not allowed to eat from my plate. The reason is this: In my uttermost bones I know something, as do you. It is that there can be no despair when you remember why you came to Earth, who you serve, and who sent you here."

Clarissa Pinkola Estes
American Author, Poet and Psychologist

I came late to the Clarissa party, she's been around forever, and I've only been grooving with her since last summer. She is it on a stick (another Terry Whitaker expression, along with, "Not enough has been made..." and many others that I've stolen from her outright).

I've been looking for a particular mantra, one that I can use to shut out the voices on the outside of me, that threaten to drown out my inner voice. This is it, "I do not keep a chair for it." When the noise starts to deafen I am going to acknowledge it, merely observe it, and let it go back from whence it came.

I do not need to make others wrong for me to be right.

I do not need to justify/explain/correct/set the record straight.

I do not need to keep a chair for anything I don't choose to, even if it would please others a great deal if I did.

I know why I came here, I think.

I know who I serve, pretty much.

I know who sent me here, kinda.

I will hold a chair for I Think, Pretty Much, and Kinda. I've got plans for them. I will entertain them and allow them to eat from my plate, freely, until I Think, Pretty Much and Kinda grow so big and so strong THEY entertain and feed ME.


*Photo from Monty Stabler Galleries

GRIEF

Grief's a strange beast. Sure, there are stages we've all been told about, but what we seldom hear is how these stages are fluid, and cycle, and seem to come back around on themselves with a random quality to them. And I think, too often, we limit our thinking of grief to only mean death.

Death is a relative term.

Lots of things die besides people.

Dreams die.

Plans die.

Friendships die.

We give birth to children that defy the "life" we thought we wanted, and we are forced to let "die" that aspect of our futures.

Marriages die.

The status quo dies.

Careers die.

Fame, prestige, social status dies.

But, as Eckhart Tolle says, life is not the opposite of death, birth is the opposite of death.

Things, besides people, are born.

New friendships are born.

New marriages, sometimes even from the rubble of an existing one, are born.

A sense of wholeness and purpose that defies status, fame and prestige is born.

True peace is born.

Acceptance is born.

Detachment is born.

Compassion is born.

Grief continues to cycle and sometimes grabs us by the throat when we least expect it, but we do not need to keep a chair for it. We can "touch it with gentle awareness" (another Eckhart Tolle-ism) and not resist, nor judge it, but simply say, "Well, hey there, grief! I see you've come to visit again!"

That's what we can do. I'm not saying that's what I do, but those are the chairs I plan to keep. A chair for birth. A chair for newness. A chair for hope. A chair for love.

PLACE OF NO CONCERN

A recent blog comment reminded me of this piece about fear, and keeping a chair for it. The post quoted Clarissa Pinkola Estes as saying:

"There will always be times when you feel discouraged. I too have felt despair many times in my life, but I do not keep a chair for it; I will not entertain it. It is not allowed to eat from my plate. The reason is this: In my uttermost bones I know something, as do you. It is that there can be no despair when you remember why you came to Earth, who you serve, and who sent you here."

My cousin Jane e-mailed with a P.S. to the Because, Try and Hard Elimination Diet discussion. "Since we know all emotions derive from either Love or Fear; when we feel we might be in a place of 'fear,' with worries, insecurities, low self-esteem, we could recognize that something is causing concern. Then we need to choose to go to the 'Place of No Concern.'"

I will hold a chair for Place of No Concern.

I might hold enough for a dinner party.


* Photo from www.theperfectdecor.com

SAND, SUN, AND NEW APPRECIATION

We spent the day here yesterday, Seaside, Oregon, just 1 1/2 hours away from Portland. The weather was a perfect 62 degrees, sunny, clear blue sky, and best of all, we followed Rojo's month-long plan for the exact execution of the day.

"We will leave at 10:55 AM and get to the beach at 12:25 PM. Then we will go to "the claw" at the arcade and you will grab a football for me. Then we will go to the sand and I will play CFL (Canadian Football League) for three games. And you will keep score. You will write in the sand. Don't forget. Promise you won't forget. You will watch three CFL games and you will not forget to keep score."

We left at 10:55, arrived at the arcade, where I promptly turned a $20 bill into 80 quarters, and inserted at least 40 of them into a hungry claw machine, until I successfully grabbed the 4" New England Patriots stuffed football (retail value? .99).

Delighted, we then proceeded to the beach, where STM was first instructed to create a "tee" for Rojo to kick off. Donning the hockey-turned-football helmet we brought from home, calculator in his right hand, $10 football in his left, the game commenced.

"Are you remembering to keep score? Remember, it is CFL. Don't forget to keep score. Promise you won't forget to keep score?"

I kept score.

I didn't forget.

We rented two sand bikes and STM, Woohoo and I took turns on them, spelling each other from Rojo, whom we renamed "The Barker" as he barked orders non-stop.

"I'll go on a bike ride with you, Woohoo, Daddy can stay with The Barker."

Rojo beams - loves being The Barker - loves that we are all about to lose it with him, but never actually do, because just when he's pushed us to the limit, he says or does something so funny, so endearing, we all laugh.

"Dad! Will you build me a sand TV? Will you build me a sand chair to watch my sand TV? Will you find me a stick remote to use on my sand TV?"

STM follows The Barker's instructions perfectly, and for a full 90 seconds Rojo is enthralled with his sand system, just long enough for me to get a photo showing his legs splayed in perfect recliner fashion, eyes fixed straight ahead at the "TV" and the "remote" poised straight at it, clicking it to channel 55, for "Seinfeld."

"Dad! I am watching George Costanza losing it! He is saying 'jack ass!'"

Woohoo and I pull our beach blankets away from the boys and try to read our books, but The Barker won't hear of it.

"It is time for salt water taffy! We will get a 20-pack! We will leave in five minutes and we will get salt water taffy, and you will pick out 20 pieces for me, because I really need a 20-pack!"

We'd been warned that he would need salt water taffy at 4:30, and at 4:25 he gave us our marching orders.

As we walk down to the candy store he grabs my hand, holds it while simultaneously trying to break free and clutching tightly.

"I like holding your hand, Barker," I say, "but I can't tell if you want to hold it or let go?"

That's it, isn't it, he's getting older, 12 now, and he can't decide either, which side of childhood he is on.

What I do know is in light of the incomprehensible loss of Vicki's son, Evan, I know which side I'm on.

My friend Toeless just sent this to me. It made this non-cryer cry. Get ready to have your whole life re-evaluated! Be sure to watch the 4 minute video! It will do you in!

Please read the attached story and then watch the video. So when you think things are tough realize that you CAN accomplish anything.
[From Sports Illustrated, By Rick Reilly]
I try to be a good father. Give my kids mulligans. Work nights to pay For their text messaging. Take them to swimsuit shoots.

But compared with Dick Hoyt, I suck.

Eighty-five times he's pushed his disabled son, Rick, 26.2 miles in Marathons. Eight times he's not only pushed him 26.2 miles in a Wheelchair but also towed him 2.4 miles in a dinghy while swimming and Pedaled him 112 miles in a seat on the handlebars--all in the same day.

Dick's also pulled him cross-country skiing, taken him on his back Mountain climbing and once hauled him across the U.S. On a bike. Makes Taking your son bowling look a little lame, right?

And what has Rick done for his father? Not much--except save his life.
This love story began in Winchester , Mass. , 43 years ago, when Rick Was strangled by the umbilical cord during birth, leaving him Brain-damaged and unable to control his limbs.

"He'll be a vegetable the rest of his life;'' Dick says doctors told him And his wife, Judy, when Rick was nine months old. ``Put him in an Institution.''

But the Hoyts weren't buying it. They noticed the way Rick's eyes Followed them around the room. When Rick was 11 they took him to the Engineering department at Tufts University and asked if there was Anything to help the boy communicate. ``No way,'' Dick says he was told. ``There's nothing going on in his brain.''

"Tell him a joke,'' Dick countered. They did. Rick laughed. Turns out a Lot was going on in his brain. Rigged up with a computer that allowed Him to control the cursor by touching a switch with the side of his Head, Rick was finally able to communicate. First words? ``Go Bruins!'' And after a high school classmate was paralyzed in an accident and the School organized a charity run for him, Rick pecked out, ``Dad, I want To do that.''

Yeah, right. How was Dick, a self-described ``porker'' who never ran More than a mile at a time, going to push his son five miles? Still, he Tried. ``Then it was me who was handicapped,'' Dick says. ``I was sore For two weeks.''

That day changed Rick's life. ``Dad,'' he typed, ``when we were running, It felt like I wasn't disabled anymore!''

And that sentence changed Dick's life. He became obsessed with giving Rick that feeling as often as he could. He got into such hard-belly Shape that he and Rick were ready to try the 1979 Boston Marathon.

``No way,'' Dick was told by a race official. The Hoyts weren't quite a Single runner, and they weren't quite a wheelchair competitor. For a few Years Dick and Rick just joined the massive field and ran anyway, then They found a way to get into the race Officially: In 1983 they ran another marathon so fast they made the Qualifying time for Boston the following year.

Then somebody said, ``Hey, Dick, why not a triathlon?''

How's a guy who never learned to swim and hadn't ridden a bike since he Was six going to haul his 110-pound kid through a triathlon? Still, Dick Tried.

Now they've done 212 triathlons, including four grueling 15-hour Ironmans in Hawaii . It must be a buzzkill to be a 25-year-old stud Getting passed by an old guy towing a grown man in a dinghy, don't you Think?

Hey, Dick, why not see how you'd do on your own? ``No way,'' he says. Dick does it purely for ``the awesome feeling'' he gets seeing Rick with A cantaloupe smile as they run, swim and ride together.

This year, at ages 65 and 43, Dick and Rick finished their 24th Boston Marathon, in 5,083rd place out of more than 20,000 starters. Their best Time? Two hours, 40 minutes in 1992--only 35 minutes off the world Record, which, in case you don't keep track of these things, happens to Be held by a guy who was not pushing another man in a wheelchair at the Time.

``No question about it,'' Rick types. ``My dad is the Father of the Century.''

And Dick got something else out of all this too. Two years ago he had a Mild heart attack during a race. Doctors found that one of his arteries Was 95% clogged. ``If you hadn't been in such great shape,'' One doctor told him, ``you probably would've died 15 years ago.'' So, in a way, Dick and Rick saved each other's life.

Rick, who has his own apartment (he gets home care) and works in Boston, and Dick, retired from the military and living in Holland, Mass. , always find ways to be together. They give speeches around the country and compete in some backbreaking race every weekend, including this Father's Day.

That night, Rick will buy his dad dinner, but the thing he really wants to give him is a gift he can never buy.

``The thing I'd most like,'' Rick types, ``is that my dad sit in the chair and I push him once.''

And the video is below....

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f4B-r8KJhlE

THE CHALLENGER

“You’d like 100 more ‘Freeze Frame’ posters for your Athlete’s Foot store? Got it! They’ll go out on Monday.” I hang up the phone, returning the beige mouthpiece to its base, eyes resting on the cord that is so stretched and kinked it now catches in the wheels of my rolling chair. That’s okay, I’ve only been at NIKE a few months and I heard our whole department is going to move. I’ll get a new phone then. Probably a new chair, too. Maybe even a new computer that will make it easier to enter all the posters that everyone is buying. This one is so huge it needs its own desk. I hear that someday they are going to get so small they can fit on your lap. That will never happen.

I don’t even know who any of the athletes are that are in the posters I sell all day, but it doesn’t really matter. I’ve memorized their information so when anyone asks me I can tell them about Ronnie Lott on “Lotts Lot” or “Dr. K,” Dwight Gooden, from the New York Mets. Some people even still buy John McEnroe’s “Rebel With a Cause,” but mostly people just want the two we have of Michael Jordan. His first one, “Air Jordan” is really why I even have this job. The posters were selling so well and so fast that they couldn’t keep up, they needed to hire a whole new person just to manage the Retail Poster Program, and that’s me. I take home $723.43 a month and Michael Jordan, who is three days younger than me by the way, probably takes that home every day. Or possibly every hour.

It’s kind of funny since I got my only B in junior high in PE and I don’t have an athletic bone in my body, that my first job out of college is working here – where everyone is young, in shape, and spends their lunch hours running. I am young – 23 – but that’s it. But here's the thing, although I am an unlikely fit, I like it here. I love my boss, I love my co-worker, and I love talking to all the vendors that buy the posters, and my friend at the warehouse that distributes them. It works.

They say it’s not what you know, it’s who you know, and that is true – at least for me. In this case I know Teri, the administrative assistant that works for my boss’ boss. We went to college together and ran into each other at a wedding.

“So, are you teaching?” she asked.

Staring straight into her bangs that looked exactly like a sausage roll, I answered, “Can’t find a teaching job in this entire metropolitan area, so now it’s just time to find a job, any job.” I caught an image of myself in the mirrored centerpiece and re-adjusted the bow I had tied around my neck – red, to go with my wide red vinyl belt I wear over my tight white, tea length skirt, and red patent leather flats. The DJ was playing Dionne Warwick’s, “That’s What Friends Are For,” I hummed along. I loved that song.

“Well,” Teri said, “you should apply at NIKE. Use my name. We’d get to work in the same department, it would be fun!”

And it was.

Then one day after we did move our whole department to another building, I drove up, turned off the radio that was playing Whitney Houston’s “How Will I Know?” parked and went in. There was a huge screen set up in the common area, folding chairs all around. I went to find Teri in the coffee room and asked, “What’s going on?”

Teri had her head in the frig, pulled out some whipping cream, poured a dash into her cup and turned to me, “Want some?” she asked.

“No thanks, I’m good,” I answered. I could hear Steve Winwood’s “Higher Love” coming from the speaker above our heads. “So what are all the chairs and that big screen doing in the middle of everything?” I asked, grabbing a package of hot chocolate and mixing it with a wooden stir stick in my Styrofoam cup.

“The Space Shuttle Challenger is going to launch this morning – you gotta come watch, they are putting the first teacher up in space, Christa McAuliffe – maybe you’ll be the second teacher up in space, wouldn’t that be cool?”

“Just getting a teaching job would be cool, but yes, doing something that had the whole world watching would be super cool.”

Later I pulled my chair up to Teri’s and we watched for 73 seconds and then all of a sudden the Challenger exploded. I was so shocked I felt nothing at all. No tears came. No words. No feelings at all – just disbelief. Don’t they test those things? I thought it was impossible that something that cost so much money and took so many years to build and plan, could just explode like that. Nobody knew what to do. We sat there in stunned silence. A woman that looked to be nine months pregnant began to cry.

Nobody got any more work done that day, we sat together, strangers and friends, Footwear and Retail Posters, afraid to turn off the TV, afraid to miss any details of the tragedy, afraid to go back to normal.


* photo from wikimedia.org

DAN SMITH

"WHEEEEEEEEEEEE" bellows the huge football player's voice from 100 yards down the high school hallway as I open my locker.

"WHEEEEEEEEEEEE" roars the giant pain-in-the-ass as I get out of the car in the morning, and attempt to walk into school.

"WHEEEEEEEEEEEE" harrasses the popular jock as he wheels his whole big body in his typing chair out of his classroom, taught by football coach #1, and into my classroom, taught by football coach #2, only a grey accordian divider between the two rooms. Not enough protection from the constant assault.

The harrassment begins when I get on school property, and continues all day, until I leave. It occurs at parties, dances, football games and basketball games. Everywhere we are together. Days, weeks, months, years of this.

I smile.

I "ignore."

I discuss this with no one. I do not tell my mom. I do not complain to the teachers, counselors or principal. I figure, "What's the use?" They all hear it too, they don't try to stop it, what good is it to complain?

I hate him. I hate Dan Smith and the horse he rode in on. I hate the group of jocks that follow him around, smiling at my misery. I hate the pack mentality that forbids any of them from saying, "Hey, that's enough. Stop." I hate the boy that I love, the one I have a crush on, for knowing I have a crush on him, and not having the balls to make this torture end. He doesn't have to like me back, but does he have to join forces with the enemy?

I cannot think of high school without associating this torture. I hated high school. Nobody knew. I kept that secret, along with all my others, well-kept. We children of alcoholics are the very best secret keepers. It's a trait that both serves us well, and serves to bring us down. We do not know when it is time to blow the whistle on bad behavior. "When" has been taught right out of us. We've tried, and we've been punished for our trying. We stop trying. We keep the secret. It's easier for everyone.

I finally graduate, leave town, never to live there again. Never. Too many bad memories in that town.

Ten years later I return for my high school reunion. Dan Jones, thick from head to toe and still thick in a group of jocks, starts in. He tells me I look better with the ten pounds on me I've gained since high school. He announces my weight gain for all to hear. I know it is his back-handed compliment, I was way too skinny in high school, and he is right, I've gained ten pounds, exactly. I hate him.

Eventually he's liquored up enough to leave the sanctuary of his pack, and come find me. He wants to talk. Confess. I am in no mood. I hate him.

"All those years I teased you? I really liked you," he confesses.

"I eventually figured that out, Dan, but that doesn't help much now. You ruined high school for me."

He tries to come back with something to say to that. There is nothing. Our true confession time is over. For ten more years.

At the 20th reunion he is re-married and his darling wife is heavy with his first child. He spots me right away, comes straight over, guilt and shame written all over his face.

"I'm so sorry for how I treated you in high school. Not a day goes by that I don't think of you, and hope you're doing OK."

I assure him I am more than OK now, I am great. I know that happiness is the greatest revenge.

"What can I do to make it up to you?" he pleads?

"That baby you are about to have? If it's a girl, teach her never to accept such total bullshit from a man. If it's a boy? Teach him how to treat women. It's too late to make it up to me, but you can help break the pattern."

He seems to be listening. Age, divorce, re-marriage, impending fatherhood have softened and wisened him. He is not the boy he was, he is the man he is choosing to become.

A couple more years go by. I decide a formal burying of the hatchet is in order. I seek out his e-mail address and write him of my intent. He responds within hours. He wants this more than anything.

Several e-mails are exchanged, friendly banter has replaced harrassment and shame. He tells me that baby his wife was carrying? Turns out it was a boy, a boy with a communication disorder. His wife works tirelessly to get him the treatment he needs. They want this child to have the ability to speak, to communicate, to relate in the world.

Hmmmmm... me too.

"THE YELLING GAME"

"Mom, come and see the 'alleulia' show," Rojo says, grabbing my arm and pulling me towards the TV. "That is my favorite show. I like the yelling."

With fixed eyes he watches televangelists do their thing for several days in a row, then decides to give it a try, Rojo style:

"Mom?" Rojo says, "What time do you want to play our yelling game?"

"Not until Woohoo wakes up," I answer.

"So, what time will Woohoo wake up?" he persists.

"Let's say 10:00, I will play the yelling game at 10:00."

"Great! Don't forget! Don't forget at 10:00 we are going to play the yelling game! Don't forget to play it right. Don't forget that when I yell something three times, you clap and cheer, and that will be every two minutes, and a real two minutes, not a pretend two minutes."

"Okay, we will play the yelling game at 10:00, and I will remember to clap and cheer."

"Every real two minutes," he adds.

"Okay," I assure.

"So you won't forget? You won't forget that at 10:00 we are going to play the yelling game and you are going to clap and cheer every real two minutes?"

"No, I won't forget."

9:55 rolls around and he's breathing down my neck, huge smile on his face, dimples that couldn't be cuter, "Mom? Are you ready to start our game? It is almost 10:00, and we need to go get ready for the yelling game."

I traipse after him, sitting in the denim covered Pottery Barn chair-and-a-half, he's crouched down at the matching ottoman, fingers flying all over "his" computer, "words" typing across the screen. He is a televangelist, and is providing his own closed-captioning.

"Ready," I say, and he turns from the computer towards me, puts him arms in "classic televangelist" pose and begins yelling.

"Denver is playing but they cannot PLAY! They cannot PLAY, because the Broncos are in Pittsburgh. PITTSBURGH cannot play, because they cannot play. They cannot PLAY, because they cannot PLAY!"

I am to keep my eye on my watch, and when he repeats himself three times, I'm to clap and cheer. If two minutes goes by and there has not been such a triple repeat, then I am to spontaneously break into thunderous applause.

"They have the ball, but they cannot have the BALL! They don't have the ball, the ball is there but they do not HAVE the ball! The New England Patriots HAVE the ball, but they do not have the BALL!"

My mind starts to wander, I forget my duties, all activity comes to a screeching halt.

"MOM! You are not clapping and cheering! You are not clapping and cheering every real two minutes!"

"Oh, sorry, right, okay..." I stumble through my apology.

"That's okay," he says, "but now you have to write a blog about this."

TOP 10 WAYS TO REALLY

PISS ME OFF

1. Don't call, write, e-mail, or in any way make an effort to contact me, then the minute I contact you, say, "Well, I wondered if I was ever going to hear from you again!
2. Take everything I say or do personally. Not everything is about you. Say this to yourself over and over and over until you climb off my ass!
3. Open 100 Otter Pops a day. Open each one in a different location in the house, cutting the tops off with scissors, leaving the oozy ends and sticky scissors scattered throughout the house and yard.
4. Ask for cinnamon toast. Ask that there be extra cinnamon on it. Ask that you can sprinkle cinnamon on your hand and lick it off. Walk all over the house with said toast leaving buttery, sugary grit on every surface of the house. Repeat this activity 10 x a day.
5. Remain in your upstairs bedroom with the door closed and your music on, while bellowing to me downstairs in the kitchen, "Mom! Mom! Mom!" , expecting me to not only hear you, but run immediately to find out the nature of the latest emergency.
6. Walk in the door and remove your socks. Place them RIGHT where you take them off, but never in the same place twice. Don't remove the socks. Don't put the socks in the laundry room. Stomp your foot and act pissed when socks get moved three days later when you're ready to carry out your convoluted plan for them.
7. Get the morning paper. Take off the plastic sleeve and drop it wherever you feel like it. Find the Sports, Business and Metro sections. Take them. Leave the classified ads and inserts in my chair like a little gift for me to deal with. Grunt when I ask if you are done reading the actual paper.
8. It is hot. Grab a swimsuit, run outside and get wet in the sprinklers. Grab a towel. Get cold. Run in the house, dripping, drop wet swimsuit and towel. Repeat activity every hour on the hour.
9. Call and don't leave a message. Why you are calling is not important enough to leave a message. Just keep calling every 10 minutes. You are sure I'll eventually answer. You are wrong. Now it's a war, and I will win.
10. Tell me I have anger and/or rage issues. This will send me to the dictionary to sort through the differences between the two, only furthering my rage and anger issues.

OLD DOG AND NEW TRICKS

I'm in a new city - never been here before, and that's not the only first - I'm staying in a hotel by myself. Just me. No husband, no friend, no group. Almost 46 years old and this is the first time.

I don't even know who I am anymore.

When I walked into the gorgeous room there was an inviting chair and ottoman near the window, but not in front of. I fought myself for HOURS before I said, "Screw it, I'm paying a lot of money to be here, it's okay if I scoot the flippin' chair and ottoman around to face the window. The world will keep turning.

And, by all accounts, that appears to be true.

I'm now facing the window in my newly rearranged room, watching the sunrise, and thinking life doesn't get much better than this.

I'm here on "business" and not enough can be made of how much I like saying that. Yesterday and today are all book-related. Tomorrow I fly off again to visit Terry, per my list of '09 intentions.

And then, because there are no accidents, I learned of another "school that gets it" and it's in Philly, and I was already going to Philly, and well, long story short, I will be on another fact-finding mission on Monday morning, before returning back home to "real life."

But until then, I am enjoying this life.

Really.





* Photo from www. jumperlumps.com

MORE FROM ROJO:

• Reduce, Reuse Re-psycho
• You are my mom 100%, now say yes to me 100%.
• You are so precious to me, Mother, you're like a son to me.
• I'm sitting in this freakin' chair, OK?
• Keep that up and you'll find some stars by your name!