Day 203

I went to see a nurse practitioner yesterday about my chronic sinus problems. She tried to be as efficient as possible. It was the end of the day and clearly she was running behind. Still she was patient and kind. I told her that my insurance coverage ends in a few weeks. She left the room and returned with a brown paper bag. Inside were inhalers, enough for 4 months. They would cost nearly $600 at the pharmacy. They were a gift.

I long for a health care system that meets the needs of all those who are sick and suffering. I wish for health care providers who have the time to really listen and understand and explain. As a patient I want to be seen and heard and nurtured and cared for. I want the same for my friends and family and neighbors. For now it is just a dream.

Because we have a system that is, for the time being, so broken and inadequate, the keepers of the system are called everyday to act with compassion. I know that it must be difficult. They must get very tired. Yet they do, so often, act with compassion. I know because I have been a witness and a recipient. Sometimes compassion comes in the form of time spent easing a fear...a look...a touch...expedited paperwork...sometimes it comes in a brown paper bag.

There is good in everything.

Day 202

I sometimes feel like Andy Rooney, "You know what bugs me..." I am, perhaps, a little sensitive to certain social proclivities. Blogging has given me a great way to process all of those thoughts about what's happening in my little world.

Take yesterday, for example. I am taking an online workshop for potential dissertation mentors (you can imagine how exciting that is). I found myself frustrated and angry over just how "phony" the other students were in the discussion forum. They were like little robots only saying what they were expected to say. There was little presence of mind or original thought.

This has been a "hot button" issue for me since I was a kid. Shakespeare (not to be confused with Sarah Palin) said, "All the world's a stage and all the men and women merely players." It seems to me that once they are given their scripts few people stop to question.

I suppose that my frustration over the phoniness I see around me is tied to my need for authenticity and honesty. I get angry because other people are reflecting back to me something about myself. I long to be honest and authentic, to act from the present moment, but I am often afraid. There is safety in acting my part and repeating my lines. It is hard to go off script.

Day 201

I was coming out of the grocery store today when I was approached by a middle-aged man who wore the marks of a hard life. He asked, "Can you spare a dollar for some gas?" This is an unusual occurrence in my small town and I didn't have a ready answer. Almost instinctively I lied. I said, "I'm sorry I don't have any cash."

Why did I lie? This was the question I asked myself all the way home. Perhaps I was scared of him although he didn't pose much of a threat in a busy parking lot in broad daylight. No, it was something else. I was embarrassed for him. I felt his shame and I wanted to distance myself from it as quickly as possible. If I gave him money, I might accidentally look him in the eyes. There would no doubt be a deep well of pain there. It was easier to walk away.

I was almost home when I decided to turn around. I went back to the parking lot and gave him a five. I did look him in the eyes. I didn't so much see pain as gratitude. He seemed sincerely thankful that another human being was reaching out to him in some small way. There was a little spark of connection - worth far more than five dollars.

Day 200

I had just moved to yet another new school and was feeling like am outcast, when something truly life-altering happened to me in the third grade. There was a local television show called Television Classroom that featured local students. I was selected to represent Campbell Elementary. At last someone recognized my unique star quality.

On the day of the show, I was escorted by the principal in his very own private car (I think it was a limo) to the television studio. I was placed on the set with two third graders from other schools and the Mister Rogers wannabe who hosted the show. He asked us the simplest of questions while we placed seeds on wet paper towels. Although it was exciting to be in front of the camera, this wasn't the best part.

The best part came after we were done filming when we were given a tour of the whole studio. The principal bought me orange soda out of a machine in the hallway. The sweetness lingered as I rode back to the school in the back of his car. I never felt more special.

This memory came back to me this morning as I was participating in an online workshop for perspective dissertation mentors at the online university I work for. We were each asked to post a short bio detailing our professional histories and interests. As I read the others and contemplated by own, I realized that I am, in many ways, ordinary, a reality I have tried to avoid since the third grade when I was crowned (by myself) queen of Television Classroom.

I am no more special than a wildflower growing alongside the road - special no, but beautiful none the less.

Day 199

It has sometimes been suggested that I "think too much." I think that this is a curious statement. How much should a person think? I taught a class once for high school students about metacognition - the class was focused on thinking about thinking. I loved it.

The mind is an incredible thing. It is like a magic carpet that can transport us anyone we want to go. If you can think it, you can be it. All things, aside from those in the natural world, begin as thought. Some religions even suggest that the earth and sky began as a thought in the mind of God.

And yet as powerful as our thoughts are they cannot bring us lasting peace. Peace only exists in the space between the thoughts. In order to live there we have to sometimes step off of the magic carpet.

Day 198

I was talking with a friend a few days ago about her relationship with her mother. It is a relationship that has caused her a lot of pain. She feels that she can never please her mother. She gets drawn in by this need to try to take care of her mother and soothe her gaping wounds. But, like a bucket with a hole in the bottom, her mother is never filled up, she never experiences a sense of wholeness.

My experience in the mother-daughter department could not be more different. My mother has always expressed her appreciation for me in so many ways. I have always understood that there is at least one person in the world who loves me unconditionally. What a remarkable gift. She taught me how to love which is amazing given that she had no teachers of her own.

My father, on the other hand, was absent from my life in every way. He was an alcoholic, incapable of loving anything more than the bottle. He taught me lessons that my mother could not. He taught me that I can withstand rejection and abandonment if I remember to never reject or abandon myself. He taught me about my own strength and self-determination. Perhaps most importantly, he taught me that there is a time for letting go and accepting what is.

I am grateful to both of my parents for very different reasons. I have heard it said that we choose our parents for what they have to teach us. I don't know about that. What I do know is that there is something to be learned in every relationship. The Rolling Stones said it best: "If you try sometimes, you just might find, you get what you need."

Day 197

I usually write about whatever is on my mind. There is plenty to choose from on most days. Occasionally I have a day when there is nothing on my mind. Perhaps I should celebrate that!

I dedicate this entry to the lazy days of summer when nothing else seems as important as reading a book and sipping ice tea. Suddenly a plan emerges...