lost in translation

Talking is not the same as writing. But since more people talk than write, those of us who write have to adapt. So we try. When others take it upon themselves to try to communicate for us to someone just out of our reach at that time, everything we know--the already identified strength we possess to express ourselves well--is called into question. And suddenly it seems like the entire fabric of the universe has become unglued. Maybe it is just OUR fabric that becomes unglued, or more correctly--unraveled.

First, I have no idea what tone of voice or facial expressions are employed by the one doing the communicating on my behalf. Would the combination of these factors accurately represent me? The choice of words--a writer's pride and glory--seem to be casually tossed about and not obsessed over like a writer would do, leaving me to wonder EXACTLY which words were spoken. Are they the ones I would have chosen? Not bloody likely. But they are, nevertheless, an attempt to communicate and as a writer I know that to be a good thing. We writers try to hold onto the hope that maybe this is the time for a meeting of the minds, an enlightenment, a eureka moment. We somehow think this impossibility is likely, even though we are well aware that under the very best circumstances, it is not. We deceive ourselves again and again. But we are writers and we can't help it.

A debriefing between the writer who longed for a conversation and the person who actually got to experience a conversation, then becomes necessary. One needs to piece together moment by moment of the conversation one didn't get to have--an exchange of thoughts and ideas meant to resemble your own, though in the back of your mind you know it must have fallen short. The question you don't want to ask ultimately arises: was my message received or lost in the process? A positive best guess is, sure, yes, you were understood completely. You know that cannot possibly be true because even in the best of conditions that never happens. Ok, once in awhile, but very rarely. So the second best guess is, I don't know. And that is where the truth can be found or not found--in the great unknown universe of inferred meanings, looks that express more than a word ever could, and the ultimate resignation that it is as good as it is ever going to get so you may as well drop it.

Sometimes after a series of misunderstandings occur and I spend my time and energy thinking of how things may have happened differently, better, and that one chance for communicating something has passed and probably failed, I wonder if it would have been better to have remained silent.

communion

A friend offered me a portion of the large, flat sesame cookie he had just purchased from a Muslim family who makes them to sell at the market, and I wondered if this could be considered communion.

Growing up Catholic gave me the sense that communion could only exist in a narrowly defined reality. The small, white, circular "host" that tasted like paper somehow dissolving on my tongue was supposed to become the body of Jesus, according to the transubstantiation doctrine. Never wanting to over-think this, for obvious reasons, I never really gave it much thought. As the old, trusted organ music was replaced by folk singers playing guitars and bongo drums, the Spirit breezed through the church changing the way things had been done for a long time and ushering in new ideas. Pretty soon people were breaking off matzos, talking about how they were striped and pierced--like the body they represented--and later even started using bread that contained that little bit of leaven that leavened the whole loaf.

As wonderful as it seemed that we were all invited to share in this beautiful moment, there was always the reminder that only those who belonged to that particular faith were truly allowed to partake. All others were welcome to partake . . . elsewhere. So as I contemplate world communion Sunday, I wonder what it is supposed to look like for all of us to break bread together.

It seems like each culture has its own kind of bread--everything from tortillas to bagels, challah to pita. Bread made with yeast and without. Quick sweet breads, and breads that need time to rise. Crispy, fluffy, chewy and filling. Some crusty breads go really well with soup. Others work well for toasting. Few experiences are as satisfying as eating a slice of freshly baked bread, warm from the oven, with butter.

With all of these different people and these different types of bread, I wonder how it would look if we each just offered a piece to the next person we met, breaking it between us so that we could each share in the fellowship it represented. Though our belief systems differ and we may follow different traditions and doctrines, could we not extend human kindness, loving one another as God loves us all? Even if we couldn't speak each other's language, wouldn't reaching toward another with a piece of some sort of bread communicate the goodwill intended? What if we could experience a world-wide communion? What then?

old enough to know better

With age comes wisdom . . . in theory. In reality, I often just find myself repeating the same situation, always hoping for a different outcome--a definition of insanity. Where I continue to fall short is in holding onto this hope, that comes from some unknown place since I am definitely NOT an optimist, and continues to get me to believe that something good will happen. Let go of the outcome, I've been told, and do not have expectations about anything. How does one live without ANY expectations?

Do we not all expect to make it through the day? Do we not expect that our spouse and children will come back home at the end of the day and we can regroup and start over tomorrow? Do we not expect that our jobs will be there when we walk through the door? Do we not ALL have some basic expectations in this life? To say we are not to expect anything sounds very Zen, but the idea that I'm going to be able to pull this off in the midst of an emotional crisis is expecting too much.

Emotions surface when special events are made known. This is when I go into my default mode resembling an adolescent girl and I wonder who wants to be my friend and invite me to the party. I would like to think I'm not alone in this thought process but do not find many willing to admit their fears of being left out. No one wants to think he or she will be left off the list. Maybe to say it out loud will somehow jinx it. No one wants to be on the outside looking in, overhearing others talking about how much fun the party will be or how awesome it was.

And yet, after all of these years of living, I find myself retracing my steps and taking that very familiar path. I am somehow shocked that it is again happening to me. You would think I would learn, but I don't. Sometimes I wonder just how many times I can recover from a broken heart.

"Friend" is one of the most difficult words for me to define. "A person whom one knows and with whom one has a bond of mutual affection . . ." is the way one definition begins. It is the "mutual" part that trips me up. How does one know whether or not the other person feels the same way? Isn't that demonstrated by actually sending the invitation with the expectation the recipient will accept it?

Too many memories of these failed attempts at "mutual affection" clutter my thoughts. I think of being asked to come to a party--in order to be a servant, not a guest. I remember coming to offer a tribute to the guest of honor and being told that tributes were offered earlier at another party--the one I was not invited to. And then there is the, "See you at the party" comment followed by me swallowing hard and trying not to let the tears spill out of my eyes as I am confronted with the fact that I will not be seeing that person at the party because I am not even supposed to know there is a party. I am, in fact, supposed to pretend there is no party so that the next time I see the host of the party, I will bear that person no ill will, especially if that person is my "friend." It becomes my burden to deceive the person into thinking all is well when it is not, at least for me.

So what are my choices? If invited, I can go and enjoy the mutual affection of those I consider friends, and laugh, celebrate, dance and savor the moments of shared joy. If not invited, I can once again try to gather together all of the pieces of my heart and begin another long recovery especially reserved for those of us who are sensitive enough to truly love and to risk doing so in the midst of almost certain failure. What can anyone say to alleviate the pain? It is what it is. And it hurts like hell.

soccer mom tells all; story at 11

It was 1999 at the beginning of another school year. As all three of my boys have September birthdays, Gabriel was almost 7; Ariel was almost 4; and Joel was almost 1. I was as overwhelmed as I could ever imagine to be, and about to become a soccer mom.

Starting out on a recreational league, Gabriel was quick to learn the game and played to win every time. His preschooler brother, Ariel, could become interested in a dandelion, and sit down in the middle of the soccer field to examine it. As Gabriel would help to guide his team to victory, Ariel may decide to walk off the field if something seemed more interesting elsewhere. And though we tried to keep baby Joel strapped in the stroller for his own safety, he would often insist on getting out and doing the most obvious thing: kick a soccer ball.

As they grew to love the game we continued to take them, season after season, year after year, to their practices and games. By the time Joel was 4 he officially joined his brothers in their soccer way of life, going from recreational leagues to club soccer, as well as from the middle school to the high school teams.

With competition becoming more fierce, there were more opportunities for injury. Some of their injuries were even related to soccer. Ariel learned to play goal keeper while nursing a hurt shoulder while Joel played quite effectively with a cast on his foot. (Joel's toes were not broken while playing soccer, however, but after the rope his brothers were holding broke and he was sent flying into a tree on a swing. Ariel almost lost a toe but that had to do with running around barefoot and not with soccer either.) Gabriel broke his finger during a high school game and had to leave the field momentarily but finished out the game with a big smile on his face.

The worst injury happened during an end-of-season playoff game in which Gabriel was kneed in the chest by a goal keeper intent on not letting him receive the ball and score. The foul was called, the crowd went wild, but Gabriel did not get up. I could feel eyes watching me to see my reaction as I had already prepared myself in knowing that I could do nothing but pray. After an eternity in soccer time, which was probably about 5 minutes, he was helped off the field and then at the end of the game I could hear the trainer saying he was going to be fine, but I knew he was not. He would spend four days hospitalized with blunt force trauma to the pancreatic duct which the doctor said was consistent with a car accident. But he did not require surgery and would in time recover fully, to play more soccer.

And yet, soccer is a great game. It is great when a dad keeps yelling out, "Good idea" while another dad echoes, "Unlucky." It is great in the midst of wind and freezing rain that is coming down sideways and making us all wonder why we continue to stand on the sidelines. It is great in wind that is propelling the ball in every direction but toward the goal. It is great even if the soccer mom with the loudest voice thinks she should keep on trying to express herself. In fact, maybe there should be an award at the end of every season for the most obnoxious soccer parent based on how many times that person argued with the ref, screamed at his or her child to "win the ball," "gotta want it," "BOOT IT," or any other variation of what their unlucky offspring is desperately attempting to accomplish, though I remain uncertain as to who would be the judge for this type of contest. For there are times when we all find ourselves getting sucked into the drama of the bad call, the catcalls from unfriendly members of the visitor section, or worse yet, when parents make threats toward each other or the players. IT IS ONLY A GAME, PEOPLE!

I have been a soccer mom long enough to see all manner of strangeness played out before me, and yet I can still say that soccer is a great game. It is great even if the ref actually does need someone's glasses, as is usually suggested by some helpful spectator, or if he just plain does not see the opposing player intentionally trip our guy, in the box. It is great if red cards eject rowdy players or better yet if the boys can find it within themselves to act like gentlemen for a few minutes and play with class.

I have wondered about those who are naturally better at cheering, since they seem to need this vicarious outlet for their emotions. Known to be a quiet person for the most part, it may surprise some to know that my voice can be very loud at times if need be. I was even a cheerleader back in 7th and 8th grades and not because I knew anything about gymnastics. I prefer not to yell but to savor the moments and hope to be looking in the direction of one of my boys when they somehow pick me out of the crowd and make eye contact. Sometimes their eyes seem to say, "Why can't you do something about this miserable game?" while at other times it is more of a, "Did you see me do that?!" Whatever our sign language and eye contact communicates to each other, my boys know that win or lose I am there to cheer them on. Always.

birthday mysteries

Folded and almost flat lay the small flat rate box in my otherwise empty mailbox. For a moment I hesitated to take it out. My mind was quickly filling in the blanks the questionable package was presenting.

The return address was that of my sister who has been sharing my birthday with me ever since she decided to be born on the day I turned one. The label slapped unceremoniously across the top of the box had two of the little boxes checked: RECEIVED WITHOUT CONTENTS and RECEIVED UNSEALED AT 27406.

I would find out during our traditional birthday phone call to each other that my sister had actually made me a gift this year. I found this remarkable since I had decided to send her gifts I had made as well. This may not seem all that amazing to others but to us it is a strange connection we have that enables us to give each other similar gifts each year. One year we sent each other chocolates; another year, cookies. We have sent each other earrings and other accessories, but regardless of the gift of choice for that year, we usually have the same type of gift in mind.

Though not twins we were treated as such during our childhood years and were often expected to wear matching clothes and have our hair cut in the same way. I always had a difficult time with this as her brown hair and brown eyes were nothing like my red hair and blue eyes, and I wanted to grow my hair long. I also did not appreciate having to wear the same outfit in a different color. I was not allowed to wear red or pink for fear those colors would clash with my hair so I would be sporting the green or blue version of whatever it was she was wearing. This apparently entertained our mother as we would draw attention wherever we went as though we really were twins. But of course we were not. Irish twins, at best.

What my mother did get right was letting each one of us have our own cake. This was a good thing since my sister always chose angel food which to this day I have no desire to eat. It tastes bitter to me and no amount of whipped cream is going to change that. I would always choose devil's food, ironically, and could not understand why this would not win over my sister. Who does not adore chocolate?! I even proposed a compromise in which we could have white or yellow cake with chocolate frosting, but that was never acceptable. So we would pose for pictures with our two cakes and my parents would sing the birthday song completely out of tune as they continue to do over the phone to this day.

Back to the mystery at hand. At some point I wondered what the earrings were like that my sister told me she had made. Not wanting to belabor the point of the empty box, the amount of time and money with no gift attached, I did not continue my line of questioning. My imagination was left to wander to the exact moment that the package contents would have dropped out--maybe because she did not tape the box? She wondered if the glue was loosened because of the heat since we are both Southerners these days but upon further inspection I noticed it was not the side of the box that was sealed with the self-sealing strip that was opened but the ends that could easily be opened by someone wishing to investigate the contents of the box. Maybe that was it! Maybe my birthday earrings were stolen! And if so, by whom?!

Where do missing contents from small flat rate boxes shipped through the postal service end up? Is there a large lost and found in the corner of some nondescript room in the back of a post office? Do the postal workers go through the items and claim whatever looks good to them when there is no possibility of ever matching the items with the recipient? Are these renegade items, God forbid, thrown away?

Another birthday has come and gone. Remembered by some and forgotten by others, it is always a surprise as to who will end up in each category. It is a day filled with unexpected happenings that bring a measure of joy, undeniable disappointment and the ever present challenge it takes to truly celebrate the life of another. Like a box, emptied of its contents, my birthday wish is to go into this next year open to experiencing life with a joyful heart, an expectant spirit and enough love to cover over a multitude of disappointments.

personally

To take something personally means "to interpret a remark or action as directed against oneself and be upset or offended by it, even if that was not the speaker's intention" according to a dictionary definition. And though I have a firm enough grasp of the English language to comprehend the meaning of this statement, I often find myself confused by it.

What I do not understand is why being told to not take something personally is supposed to make me feel better. I want to take it personally because I want the conversation to actually have something to do with me! I would love to be talking with someone who knows me, loves me and has a sincere desire to communicate with me.

Of course I understand that when someone is rude because he or she is tired, having a bad day or going through a hard time that I am not supposed to become offended by the rudeness, and yet I often wonder why a little kindness cannot be extended, if for no other reason than to alleviate the doubt that a viable relationship still exists. If I am seen as overly emotional because I took something personally, what responsibility does the person have who said the words in question? Does warning me that I am not to take something personally really let the other person off the hook? Are there no repercussions for bad behavior that hurts another?

A friend called to tell me of the untimely death of her friend's daughter. I always wonder if something could have been said that would have changed the outcome. There is no one to blame at a time like this. There are no words to adequately describe the grief. It is an unwritten story with an abrupt ending--an obituary that will attempt to represent her truest self and yet not do justice to a life lost.

Did she take something someone said personally? Could she not find a way to get around someone else's issues that kept getting mixed in with her own? Did she try to find the words to describe how she felt as she lugged her oversized bundle of emotional baggage everywhere she went, not ever figuring out how to loosen the ties that bound her to it? Was anyone listening to the cry of her heart? Did her own lack of communication betray her in the end?

Life and death are in the power of the tongue, according to a biblical proverb. Is there a word that can begin to heal a broken heart, restore a lost perspective, or counsel a mind gone dark? Can we speak into existence newer and better versions of our lives? Do we dare make our messages personal, speaking the truth in love, and willingly walking alongside those we hope will understand our words? Instead of making excuses, will we ever risk it all and choose to love?

I don't know. But personally, I hope so.

language of love

The first day I walked into my new teaching position at the group home for adults with severe and profound developmental disabilities, I wondered what in the world I had been thinking when I had accepted this job. It had more of a nursing home/mental hospital feel to it than that of a classroom. And I was more of a preschool teacher than a personal care attendant.

Each day I would conduct three one-hour classes for 6 or 7 students at a time who would come to my room using walkers, wheelchairs or walking slowly with the assistance of an aide. The highest academic level I could ascertain was kindergarten, as I discovered one day when one of my students demonstrated that he could actually read--very slowly, in his quiet voice, with much coaxing on my part. And yet I had been hired to teach these students a curriculum out of a book that was being used to equip those with special needs to eventually be able to find work and live independently.

My students, however, would live out their days in their various group homes, always in need of assistance with the most basic needs in life. They somehow knew that being subjected to lessons I had to rework to fit their level of comprehension was a waste of time. The testing I had to put them through quarterly was an even bigger waste but because it was the one measurable component of the education program, it was necessary. What I came to discover early on was that no matter how many times we went over the alphabet, counting to 10, shapes, colors and other lessons I had borrowed from my years of teaching 5-year-olds in preschool, my students would not retain the information or ever improve their test scores. One man could list all of the mascots for college basketball teams though, and that was enough for him.

So we spent our days singing songs, making art and playing games. I brought out my preschool repertoire and taught them, "If you're happy and you know it, clap your hands" as they tried to clap with hands that could not go together. Some of them figured out how to tap other objects on the table to "clap" and others just waved their hands in the air. Joining in was the lesson we all learned.

Their favorite game was Bingo using large cards with pictures. Even then they struggled to find the matching picture on their card with the card I was holding. I found super large playing cards and we played War. I would pass out all of the cards, turn over my card and then run to each player shouting out which card they were holding. When I would find the card that beat mine, a man with Down syndrome would put his hands in the air and shout out "BINGO!" And we would all cheer.

Several of my students were older than I was and all of my students required a great deal of medical intervention for various disorders; most commonly seizure disorders. Somehow I would find peace while watching a student have a seizure, knowing there was nothing I could do. It was difficult going to work not knowing what I would face and I would go home exhausted, but while I was there, I felt a supernatural presence strengthening me for the task at hand. Knowing I was not alone was the lesson I learned.

The most profound turn of events for me had to do with an older woman with Down syndrome. She would try to run away from the aide assigned to her if she didn't feel like coming to class. When she couldn't get a piece to go into a wooden puzzle I offered her, she would nearly break it trying to force it in, yelling at it the whole time. She would run out of the room if she felt like it, forcing me to call someone to catch her and bring her back. I would warn her that she had better be good and do her puzzle and she would shake her finger at me in a mocking way, giving us all a reason to laugh.

When she became ill and was hospitalized, it was a typical scenario. But the last time she did not recover and I would write a short poem to read at the memorial service we held. Our class curriculum shifted from preschool to a daily discussion of the afterlife. Everyday we would sing "Jesus Loves Me" and talk about what it would be like to live in heaven. One of my students had been told that in heaven he would no longer need his wheelchair. All I could think was that in heaven we could have a real conversation! As I was getting dangerously close to completely abandoning the curriculum I was supposed to be teaching, this no longer mattered to me. I finally understood why I had walked into that group home.

I recently read an account of the life of Henri Nouwen, a Catholic priest who wrote about being "beloved" and spent his final days with those having mental and physical developmental disabilities living in community. At the end of this book there was a brief mention of how his special needs friends had come to pay their respects at the time of his death and it brought me back to this time when verbal or nonverbal, my students communicated to me daily in a language of love that transcended everything else. It is a spiritual union that is possible when the spirit within each one of us can awaken and bond with another. There are no words to describe it.