Reaching the End of the Line

Finding My Place—At the End of the Line

 Lack of Kindness Has No Legs to Stand On

It might seem so, but this story is not about me. It’s about the me-first culture and how to get out of line and change it.

Quaint, rural Fellsmere, Florida is a small town a bit north and west of Vero Beach. It holds a place in Florida’s agricultural history and has some of the best bass fishing in the country at its Stick Marsh/Farm 13, but it’s not on most must-see lists.

Each January, however, the town jumps to the top of those lists when it holds The Fellsmere Frog Legs Festival. At that time, they serve up crisp fried frog legs that tumble to the edges of plates piled with grits, coleslaw, and hushpuppies. You prefer gator tail? It’s on the menu, too.

Sunday afternoon we set out to sample some amphibious delight. Rain all day Saturday meant the festival’s last day was packed, so when I spied a sign for shuttle bus parking I pulled in. At eight months pregnant and counting, I knew my daughter would appreciate the ride.

The shuttle bus left just as we arrived, so my daughter, her fiancée, his six-year-old daughter, and I snagged a spot about tenth in line for the next bus. We waited. We waited. The parking lot continued to fill. The line got longer.

Children aren’t great waiters. After 20 minutes, our six-year-old member got antsy, so I took her for a walk in the parking area and invented a game of count the Florida license tags versus the out-of-state tags. She tired of playing “tag” just as the bus approached, so we returned to the line.

But wait. We still had to wait for riders to disembark on the other side of the parking lot.

I looked away from the bus as an elderly couple approached from my right (elderly meaning older than my 60 years). The husband’s steps were tentative, and he took care to maintain his balance. We said hello and I saw them look toward the end of the line—the long line. It seemed too long, too far for him to walk, so I stepped aside and said, “Here, go in front of me.” In an instant, the man whose back I had faced the previous 25 minutes turned and glared. Aware he was going to protest, I flashed him a pleading look, and to avoid embarrassing the couple, mouthed the words, “They’re elderly.”

He sneered and demanded, “What about all the other people in line behind you?” I was stunned but gathered my wits and said, “I’ll go to the end of the line.”

Go to the End of the Line

I walked to that far-away end and took my place, last in line. As passengers far ahead of me boarded the bus, I worried I might not make the cut. I did and even got a seat, although several people behind me had to stand in the aisle. Our young charge sat in her dad’s lap, making us two for two regarding places in line.

After the shuttle dropped us at the Festival, we stepped into the land of fried amphibian parts, country music, and carnival rides. As we entered, I noted a couple making their careful way ahead of us. The woman turned. I recognized them as the folks to whom I’d given my place. She radiated gratitude and said, “Thank you so much.” I replied, “You are welcome.”

We had a great time. My system rebelled from the frog legs, gator tail, ice cream, cotton candy, and sweet pickled jalapeños, but I plan to attend next year. (I might skip the cotton candy and the jalapeños.)

What I will not skip in this intervening year is seizing every opportunity to do one small kindness. Too much of life as we know it requires lines, waiting, and a patience that can be difficult to muster. We often are crowded, stressed, and busied to the point of abstraction and certainly to irritation. Because we feel like we are just another number, another dot on a trajectory to we know not where, we sometimes stake a claim on our space, our place, whether it be a highway toll lane, a coveted parking space, a place at the deli counter, a place in line.

Staking that claim, the temporary owner declares, “This is mine.” Crossing the line, and in particular, cutting the line, regardless of the reason, is most often met with anger, scorn, and far too often, road rage being a foul example, violence that has even led to death.

And all that fuss is for a place, a spot, the tiniest dot that really matters so little in the grand scheme of what we call our lives.

Lines, Lines, Everywhere Lines

In our culture, we’re taught to toe the line and about a fine line. We are told where to draw the line and we are warned against the evil act of cutting in line. Sometimes, and those can be the best of times, we must pave a path of kindness and just get out of line.

The Fellsmere Frog Festival is held every January. You can find out more here: http://www.froglegfestival.com/

Fellsmere’s Salt Marsh is famous for bass fishing: http://www.imaginationbassin.com/About-Marsh.htm

You Might Be a Racist

You Might Be a Racist . . .

An Everyday Action That Is

Hurtful and Demeaning 

Some Things Really Are Black and White

You’re female—teenaged or older—and you’re walking, perhaps at an outlet mall, in the grocery store parking lot, on a sidewalk toward a restaurant, into a doctor’s office, to a movie, to a play, at an outdoor carnival or concert, on a downtown street.

You see a black man approach. He could be any age, but for illustration, let’s assume he’s a young black man, late teens, twenties. He’s walking toward you from the opposite direction.

You’re smart. You read. You know about personal safety. What do you do? If you aren’t already wearing your purse pulled over your shoulder and across your body (a rather dumb, dangerous thing to do), you tug that purse ever-closer because, after all, you see a young black man and you have been conditioned to be afraid—to be very afraid.

Until a few weeks ago, I was one of those white women. A young black man I know, and of whom I am not the least bit afraid, recently discussed this purse-protection measure with my son (who also is white).

“You want to know what is one of the most racist things white people do?” he asked. He then described how every time he sees a white woman, she hugs her purse closer to her body because she just knows he is going to try to steal it.

He then went on to say that if he wanted said purse, he could and would take it, no matter how tight the woman’s grip.

He does not want any white woman’s purse, but he has grown angry with the assumption that he’s itching to steal every one he sees.

My son and I discussed how this scenario makes his friend feel. Being guys, he and his friend go right to the testosterone-fueled emotion of anger. Stepping into my motherly role of armchair psychologist, I went to the root of that anger emotion—hurt. I know that in the seconds before this young black man—and thousands of others—feels anger, he feels the pain of being branded a thief (or worse) just because he’s walking toward a white woman carrying a purse.

I’ve never experienced that emotion, but I have experienced pain when confronted by negative assumptions people have about me. Even so, I cannot compare what I felt to what happens to these black men every time they cross a white woman’s path. I can only imagine that it’s gut wrenching. I can only imagine what it does to their self-image to have to deal with the thought “You might be a thief” directed to them on a regular basis.

I mentioned that pain to my son, and in typical guy fashion, he said, “No, it just pisses him off.” With a powerful sense of remorse and regret, I admitted to my son that I, too, was guilty of that purse-protection action and vowed to never do it again. He looked at me and said, “How about the next time you see a young black man you just smile and say hello?”

A simple smile and a hello—an action so ordinary so as to seem almost mundane, but how life-changing and how affirming that hello could be to someone who is accustomed to being feared. How affirming that hello can be to simply acknowledge the basic humanity inherent in each of us—young black men, too.

Time to Uproot Clichés--and Excuses

Uprooting a Cliché

“Bloom Where You Are Planted”

Clichés, clichés. “Bloom where you are planted” languishes in the nether world of clichés because of its ubiquitous presence on Mary Engelbreit notecards, artwork, and refrigerator magnets. (It is not an original Mary Engelbreit quote.*) I have seen it so many times, it’s rather ho-hum, “Oh, there’s that saying (cliché) again.”

Considering the saying, cliché or not, uprooting it so to speak, is, however, worth the tiny bit of effort it takes and I did just that.

The particular blooming process that sparked that consideration began months ago. After a busy night feasting on insects, my patio’s resident frogs again broke several pieces of my Christmas cactus. I am grateful they keep the pest population in check, but sometimes I wish they’d tone down their exuberance.

Frogs on my patio swing and jump from the hanging
plant chains, eating insects and leaving
broken plants in their wake.

With little thought and having no clue as to their color, I scooped up the broken pieces and stuck them in the closest pot with available soil. A few days ago when I spied the abundant cactus blooms brightening the pot, I said, “Yep. They bloomed where they were planted.”

Once broken, the Christmas cactus now blooms.

As a gardener, of course I know that if I planted crocus or snowdrop bulbs in my Central Florida yard, they probably would not bloom where they were planted without significant manipulation on my part. That’s not the point.

Spider Lily that took hold, grew, and bloomed--in a vacant lot.

Too often, I, we, do not bloom where we are planted. On this January day, still early in the New Year, it’s a sure bet that many of our blooming resolutions have already dried out and withered from lack of attention and commitment. Conversely, in this time of resolution and reinvention, the excuses/reasons we cannot bloom flourish.

Bloom 1: I can’t keep up that exercise regimen because . . .

Bloom 2: I can’t go there because . . .

Bloom 3: I can’t eat well because . . .

Bloom 4: I can’t ______________ (fill in the blank with your chosen creative endeavor) because . . .

Bloom 5: I can’t because I don’t:

Live in the right place

Have enough money

Have enough time

Have any support

Have a relationship

Bloom 5: I can’t because I have:

Too many children

Too many responsibilities

Too much to do

Too much weight to lose

Too much debt

A demanding job, family, schedule

We have abundant reasons/excuses for not blooming where we are planted. Refusing to bloom is a choice—we refuse because, after all, most of our reasons/excuses are more about choice than anything else. After we have met our basic needs (and I mean basic, not some consumer-culture-dictated nonachievable lifestyle), we have no good reason not to bloom, in whatever form that takes.

Toss those limiting “I don’t haves” and “I do haves” like so much weedy yard waste. Consider where you are planted and what you need to bloom and do so.

*The Bishop of Geneva, Saint Francis de Sales (1567-1622) was first to use the quote, “Bloom where you are planted.” Salesian spirituality is a practical path for life in the modern world. It provides a roadmap for the spiritual journey as people embrace the duties of their individual lives. Salesian Spirituality also is a universal call to holiness, to, in Sales’s words, “Bloom where you are planted.” This “spirituality of the heart” is as relevant today as in the time of St. Francis de Sales himself and is an all-embracing, down-to-earth spirituality. You can see more at: http://www.sfdsassociation.org/spirituality/5934-what-is-salesian-spirituality.html.

Dirt Therapy—Getting Grounded After Loss

Filling the God Hole—with Dirt

New life: purple salvia, yellow Tecoma, and Pandora vines

God holes—those empty places in our heart, our spirit, any hole in our lives that yearns for spiritual connection, for wholeness—are something we Americans, with our consumption-focused society, attempt to fill by shopping. A hole in my spirit opened yesterday at 3:30 a.m., when Rollin Raimer Smith, my former husband’s father and the grandfather to three of my children, died. Their dad and I have been apart for ten years, but I remain close to his family, so I, too, grieve Rollin’s passing, which has rent a hole in my life and the lives of many whom I love.

Putting aside my daily tasks, I decided to spend the day with two of my children who live close by. I felt an urgency to get out of the house, to put aside my to-do-list, so I asked my daughter to join me in a search for some things I hoped to get at area thrift shops—to go shopping, of all things. My son, who as a general rule does not like such excursions, joined us because he didn’t want to be alone with his thoughts.

Our shopping was far from enthusiastic. I could not find the curtain rod, shelves, or “new” wallet I needed, so we headed home empty-handed, with the exception of a colorful tin rooster for which I’d searched for almost two years. I was happy to find it after such an extended time, but even that feeling was subdued.

Once home, they settled in to watch a movie. I felt at odds, my energy level low, grief still pulling at the back of my psyche.

We had failed to fill the God hole. We had neither diminished the loss nor soothed the empty feelings we had. We failed to assuage our keen sense of lack—lack of a life we cherished. That hole could not, and will not, be filled, and I knew it before we even journeyed out. We all knew it; we had simply distracted ourselves. Back home, that much was clear, but it was easier to carry that loss with a simple Saturday afternoon movie and the slight sound of black beans simmering on the stove, their scent filling the air with garlic and cumin goodness.

While those beans bubbled toward dinner, wilting Pandora vine pieces beckoned to me from the patio. My daughter’s neighbor was gracious to grant my request for those few snips earlier in the day. My search of garden centers for a Pandora like theirs had been fruitless so I was grateful for the chance to start one of my own. Previous failures after procrastinating on rooting cuttings nudged me toward getting them in some dirt to give them a better chance at living.

Life and science, forever entwined

I’m no scientist. Gardening for me is pure pleasure, but even I know that biology and botany are involved, so I admit to gardening’s inherent science. I also admit that I feel like quite the scientist whenever I get out my bottle of rooting powder. The powder has growth stimulators and hormones that mimic a plant’s own rooting efforts. After giving the Pandora (and two others I decided to root—yellow Tecoma and deep purple salvia) stems clean cuts and removing extraneous leaves, I dunked the stems in the powder. Next, I placed them into moist dirt, where I hope they will form roots and grow.

Three pots are now filled with cuttings that will be plants in a month or so if the process works. I will be attentive, keep the soil moist, and remove wilting leaves so the new plants can thrive.

The planting process ended just as I heard the stove timer ping. The yellow rice to accompany the black beans was finished cooking. I still had to fry plantains and corn tortillas to a crisp golden brown before serving dinner, so I bid my plants goodnight and went inside. I felt enriched by green plant matter, fresh air, the last rays of the day's sun, black earth, and water. As I scrubbed the dirt off my hands at the kitchen sink, I knew that part of me was—is—still grieving, but I also knew that the God hole was not quite as deep. The part that holds the memories of Rollin will always have a bit of an open edge, but I had begun filling some of those other empty places by putting plants in holes in the dirt, by nurturing new life while at the same time mourning one that has passed.

Just Say "Yes!"

Just Say “Yes”

Saying “No” to the R-Word

I say “No” far too often, particularly when saying “Yes” interferes with the R-word—responsibility. Saying “Yes” doesn’t make the R-word go away. In fact, not much makes the R-word go away once we reach post-teen, early adult years.

That R-word was foisted on me at a too-young age, so I feel it keenly. It’s ingrained, too ingrained, and prevents me from saying “Yes,” even when Yes is reasonable and even warranted.

Earlier today, I said “No.” No, I would not spend some time with my son sitting at the Indian River Lagoon’s edge, even though as he said, “It’s such a beautiful day.” I said “No” to one R-word—River—and “Yes” to that other R-word—responsibility. I noted the disappointment on my son’s face, but feeling rather grown up, I went to my office and sat at my desk. I had no deadlines to meet. My objective was to write. Still thinking about the River, I wrestled with myself, and I recalled that prolific author Steven Pressfield says “No” to golf and pretty much everything when he’s writing. So I would write. I didn’t have a detailed writing plan, however, and I felt rather uninspired.

I then remembered that Pressfield also goes for a walk every day, whereby he recharges his creative batteries. I noted the charge on my personal creative battery was flashing, like my cell phone or my camera, just before it’s ready to die out and turn itself off.

R-word aside, I realized (another R-word) I wouldn’t get much writing done, or desk clearing, or paperwork accomplished in the hour I’d spend at the Lagoon. I also realized that an hour at the Lagoon would replenish (one more) those batteries as well as nurture my creative spirit and my psyche.

I tucked in the iMac so it could have a good “sleep” and told my son I changed my mind. He was surprised and happy, even though I had to define carpe diem for him.

Saying “Yes,” stepping away, stepping out, spending only slivers of time at the water’s edge revived me with a touch of salt in the air, shore sounds, pelicans diving for a late breakfast, blue sky, blue water, sunlight shimmering, sitting, talking, laughing.

Renewed—one more R-word—but that’s how I feel, also relieved I loosened the shackles of that not-so-great R-word simply by saying “Yes.”

Pause, for just a moment, the next time you feel the urge to say no. What might happen if you were to say “Yes”?

Sensory Delights on New Year's Day

Treasuring the Early Moments of 2013

Delights of the Senses on New Year’s Day

Making a Conscious Choice to Pay Attention

Moments to savor the awakening of the senses on New Year’s Day 2013:

Mint flavoring the air when the weed whacker hit the edge of the herb garden after nicking the wayward mint leaves struggling to break free of the boundaries of the bed. Cilantro piquing the olfactory nerves when that same weed whacker hits the other edge where the cilantro also has stretched free of its boundaries.

Spying a ladybug busy, ever-busy as they are, feasting on aphids and others that to me might signal blight, but bring her simple delight.

Being blessed by the beauty of an eggplant blossom. Anticipating the marvelous veggie to come.

Marble-rolling and Lego house-building with a child. Oh, the joy of crafting a sofa for three Lego people!

Collard greens cooked by a real Southerner, born in Georgia, rich with ham hocks, meat grease, and generous portions of the wild hog that also accompanied the meal. Corn bread, fresh from the oven, sweet, warm, and slathered with butter.

Snuggling and reading bedtime stories at day’s end: The Napping House, No Roses for Harry, and The Man Who Didn’t Wash His Dishes.

Rich, abundant joys of a full, blessed day.

Dancing with Love in the New Year

Love Like You Have Been Hurt

Dance Like Nobody’s Watchin’, but

Don’t Love Like You’’ll Never Get Hurt

Making a Conscious Choice About Love

“You got to sing like you don’t need the money

Love like you’ll never get hurt

You got to dance like nobody’s watchin’

It’s gotta come from the heart”

                                            From “Come from the Heart”

                                            by Richard Leigh and Susanna Clark

Dance like nobody’s watchin’? Oh yeah. Love like you’ll never get hurt? Not in a heartbeat. Or, as the French would say, “Au contraire.” It’s less than wise to approach love and loving like you never have been or never will be hurt. Loving with a sense of freedom, abandon, and a full heart—unconditional love—is a fine emotion. However, it’s a mistake to forget about that love that wasn’t quite right or was foolish, even dangerous. Disregarding such experiences and opening once again to love like you’ll never get hurt or never were hurt is not the best path. Doing so means your former hurt produced no knowledge, no realizations, that hearts broken, emotions tested, and even lives lost were in vain.

To love like you’ll never get hurt or like you’ve never been hurt means that the next time you hear that small voice, you ignore it. That’s the voice that speaks with wisdom and experience, the one that tried to steer you away in the past, saying, “No, not this one. Don’t let your heart go there.”

Loving like you’ll never get hurt means you continue to defy that voice and deafly, deftly, say, “Yes, this one.” It means any pain you ever felt following that defiance was for naught. Loving like you’ll never get hurt or you’ve never been hurt means that after the brokenness, you forget the voice that spoke your own inner wisdom.

I believe we ignore that hurt at our peril and invite yet more hurt into our lives. The better way, the wiser way, if you’ve loved and been hurt (and haven’t most of us?) is to use that experience. Go ahead and love, but love like you have been hurt. Love like you have been hurt, but don’t view love with fear. Love like you value love enough to listen to the voice of wisdom and experience.

The wounded heart, rightly so, realizes the cost of pain; yet when choosing a wiser path, the healed heart doesn’t close up or close off. Instead, it opens with tenderness and simple gentle care to caress what is most dear about life—love. Loving like you have been hurt means you realize just how precious is this thing we call love. Love like you have been hurt and you will know when the love you choose is the right love.