sharing space

Sitting next to someone at an all-day arts and crafts show can give one a glimpse through the window of a person's soul.

Yesterday a woman who seemed perfectly nice set up the two tables behind my table. I told her where I sat, the half-way point between her two tables, with the hope that she would choose to sit behind the table where she would bump into no one. She chose to bump into me instead. It promised to be a very long day.

As she sat on her wooden stool, she commented on how uncomfortable this would be by the end of the day. I agreed. I used to have a stool with a cushion that still left me with screaming back pain hours later because I could not lean back. Even though she had placed herself exactly in my way, which threatened my ability to remain charitable considerably, I decided that I needed to share with her a more adequate chair owned by a friend who would not be joining us for the show. After retrieving the chair for her, she immediately decided to change her seating location and I was relieved I had bothered to help.

No longer using her wooden stool, she allowed me to set it behind her other table across from an empty table and next to a stool left behind from a regular vendor who also would not be joining us. When a man in need of something to sit on asked if he could use her now available wooden stool, she looked at him as though he had just asked if he could take ownership of her car or maybe move into her spare bedroom. Her answer was an unequivocal NO! It was HER stool that she brought from home. Of course no one could use it but her, even though she would no longer need it until she took it home with her at the end of the day.

Having just given her someone else's chair to use, one that was HIS, I marveled at her answer. Quickly I motioned to the other stool and invited the man to take it. The woman sat comfortably in her newly found, much more comfortable chair with a back on it that was NOT HERS!

As the day wore on we interacted little as she tried to sell her wares and I mine. At one point she started up a discussion with me about my "primitive" style of art. Every time she spoke the word "primitive" she spit it out with such disdain I wondered how she could even bring herself to breathe the same air as I did. She smiled sweetly with her face but her words did not reflect that kindness.

Later when she accidently knocked another woman's glass sign off her table sending it to shatter on the concrete floor, I showed her where the brooms are kept with the hope that she could redeem herself by offering to clean up the mess she made, but I noticed it was the woman who had suffered the loss doing the cleaning. I hope the woman in question apologized. I'm not sure that she did.

About an hour before the show was supposed to end, this woman was already packed and ready to go home. I could have reported her to the coordinator since leaving early is an offense that can get a person left off the list for the next show since that sort of thing is not permitted, but I chose not to. I just said good-bye and went back to my work.

I don't think this woman set out to remind me of the parable in which the man whose debt was forgiven turned around and demanded repayment of the next man's debt, but she did. She received that which was not hers but could not extend that kindness to another in need. She could not offer blessings toward me for fear that it would somehow diminish her own creativity, and she would not take responsibility for her wrong doing in the accidental breaking of the sign. Love can cover over a multitude of sin. When we choose not to love, the emptiness of sin lingers and its sadness remains.

Though we may be tempted to think she is not a decent person, she is no different from any of us if we choose to live an unexamined life--one in which we do not consider the needs of those around us. We become her when we choose to be competitive instead of developing a heart of gratitude with generosity spilling over naturally. And in her defense, I do not know if she has lived a life in which her few possessions were taken from her or if she has suffered other abuses that have formed her character.

There is only One who rises above the pettiness which we all can succumb to. One who forgives us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us. One who not only gives us a place to sit, but inspires us to be creative and empowers us to repent. When we allow the Spirit to take us over, we are freed from even the perceived ownership of our very lives. We become his hands and feet, learning to love another more than ourselves, always aware that we can choose to curse rather than to bless. There is no guarantee we will do the right thing at the right time. But we will still be loved.

I hate jello

Every year my parents make their pilgrimage from their home in rural Michigan down to their Mecca--their winter home in Florida. On the way, they stop at the Cleveland Clinic for medical evaluations, eventually making their way to North Carolina where they take us out to dinner a couple of times before proceeding further south.

They have to close up their home on the farm since they will not be returning until spring, so my mother always cleans out her refrigerator and brings all opened food along for the journey. If she can get us to take some of it off her hands she will lighten her load and make room for more once she gets set-up again in her other house. Her goal is to market the food items to us so we will want them.

For reasons I cannot imagine, she always tries to sneak several boxes of jello in with the crackers, walnuts, sometimes cereal, once in awhile apples, and this time a honey bear with honey leaking out into the bag it is fortunately packed in. Not a fan of her low sodium, low fat choices, we are limited as to what we will accept as viable food offerings for our pantry. And yet, there it remained . . . the jello.

I tell her, like I do each time, "I hate jello." She says to feed it to the boys. I remind her that they do not like it either. She wonders why I have deprived them of this essential food. I tell her it is because I don't like it. She reminds me that I ate it as a child. I tell her I ate it because I had to. She points out that mixing jello with cottage cheese and Cool Whip will do the trick. I tell her we don't eat those foods either. She slowly puts the jello boxes back into her car.

Maybe it was growing up in the '60's and '70's, but jello seemed to figure prominently into every family gathering, church picnic, and school event. If there was a party of any kind, there would be jello. If a kid got hot lunch at school, there would be jello. If someone went to the hospital and the opportunity to eat in the cafeteria arose, there would be jello. It was the go-to-quick-fix for a busy mother. Clear jello, jello with fruit cocktail in it, jello mixed with cottage cheese and Cool Whip. Jello was the staple of everyone's diet. Its bright, primary colors would beckon to me as I would have to decide between the jello or the pudding. I would choose the pudding any chance I got.

I stopped eating jello when I stopped drinking Kool-Aid. I started to read books like Diet for a Small Planet and stopped eating red meat for a number of years as well. Nutrition started to matter to me as well as making ethical choices. I could not determine what health benefit could be obtained from eating jello. My mother said it was for our hair and nails. My hair and nails were fine. I wonder what health benefits could be derived from the processed, canned fruit in the sugary syrup that would often go into the jello, or the myriad of other artificial food products of the day, like Velveeta, but I digress.

Jello, with its vibrant artificial dyes, makes a great paint for preschool children. The candy-like aroma will enhance the artwork that will hang on the outside of the refrigerator as the yogurt, the "jello" for this generation of children will be ready for snack-time when the artist gets hungry. Greek yogurt that is high in protein with no artificial ingredients is my favorite snack of choice these days. It goes well with raw almonds or granola. Cool Whip not required.

rule breaker

Waking up later than I should have and feeling rather worn out, I decided to pull it together anyway for a Friday at the preschool. Getting a substitute is often more difficult than going to work, I reasoned, and I felt a whole lot better than I had the day before when I not only felt like I was going to throw up, but eventually did.

Walking down the hall toward the kitchen with my bleach bottles in hand, I was confronted by a coworker who asked why I was there. I had not drank enough coffee by that time to comprehend even the most basic of questions so I simply stated that I was there to work. She crossed her fingers at me as though I were some sort of vampire as I continued on with the task at hand. I always fill two bleach bottles about a quarter of the way full so we can spray toys, the changing table and anything else that needs to be kept germ-free, at least in theory.

Reaching the kitchen I heard others making comments about how surprised they were to see me at work and wondered why I was not observing the 24-hour rule, a rule that states that one is not to come to school until 24 hours have passed after one has exhibited signs of illness. I heard myself say out loud, "I didn't think this rule applied to me." I still have no idea why I said that.

My "illness" seemed to be no more than a fast-moving virus that created havoc with my digestive system for awhile until it tired of its game and moved on. It gave me a day off from eating, while I tried to remember how many years it had been since I had even gotten sick since I am not prone to this sort of thing. I remembered a food poisoning incident that left me begging for God's mercy while clinging to the coolness of the bathroom floor tile in the middle of the night years ago. I also remember getting the flu immediately after getting a flu shot one year, something I have refused to do ever since even though a well-meaning doctor insisted there is no correlation.

What seemed to confuse me more than anything else was why no one was asking me how I was doing. "How are you feeling, Mary Ellen?" was what I was expecting to hear. "We were concerned about you when you left work early," I thought they would say. But instead I felt like I would be held responsible for the next person making a quick retreat to the bathroom to do what I had done in the stall closest to the window the day before. If there was a sudden outbreak of sickness, it would be all my fault. Me--the instigator of disease, the culprit of a flu epidemic.

So in an effort to maintain order and not condone my lawless attitude, I was sent home to "rest." All peace would then be restored until the children would show up with their runny noses, persistent coughs and pale faces that indicate less than the picture of health as their parents hurriedly drop them off insisting that they are fine. A few parents over the years who have trusted me enough to be their confidant have admitted to me that their little darling actually threw up in the car on the way to school but were feeling so much better now that . . . well, the 24-hour rule just didn't have to apply to them, did it?

red

It seems we have a natural proclivity toward making comparisons with one another. Why we think we can measure what someone else has gone through with the same standards we use for ourselves is a mystery. Each one of us is different.

This concept has become abundantly clear during my recent unpleasantness with the dreaded root canal. It does not take me long to realize that in a conversation involving dental procedures, there are many interpretations for what-is-not-a-big-deal all the way to what-is-the-worst-pain-ever. And I tend to find my tales of woe heading for the worst pain ever category far more than others.

So I did some research and found out that there is scientific proof for my sensitivity to dental pain! It is because the mutation that provided me with red hair is the gift that keeps on giving and with it comes a different way of caring for my teeth.

Knowing what I know now about how a redhead requires more pain killers to mute the obvious pain of dental work explains a lot about how terrible my experiences at the dentist were when I was a child. I remember being given more than one shot to numb the pain which seemed to annoy the dentist who was already impatient that I was most likely crying. Not that emotional little redheaded girl with all of the cavities again, he may have thought. But yes, there I was, scared to death, knowing I had eaten too much candy and awaiting the pain that came along with it.

As my gums started to recede, exposing nerves that could not be touched with sharp, pokey sticks used by dentists, nitrous oxide became the answer to my problems. It allowed my chalk-like teeth to be filled and filled, and I would be warned again that coffee would stain them and I would smile and nod knowing good and well that I would never be giving it up. I had been warned as a teenager that because of my open bite, braces were recommended (I only have two teeth that actually come together for chewing) or else by the time I was 40 I would be eating my dinner through a straw. This of course never happened.

The day came when nitrous was not enough. It was as though I had become immune to its effects and it was too dangerous to give me more. So I was sent to a dentist who used pill sedation as his method of pain relief for those of us who needed it. This worked quite well at first. I would take one pill at home and the second one at the dentist office about an hour later. I would go into some kind of "twilight" zone and reemerge with cleaned, fixed teeth. After doing this about twice, I woke up in the middle of the procedure while the dentist desperately tried to administer more pain medication. Alas, I had become immune to it as well.

All that remained was IV sedation which consists of being strapped into a chair that becomes more of a bed with all of the seriousness of surgery. This dentist assured me that as long as I did not start shooting up street drugs like heroin, I would not develop an immunity. So far he has been correct.

Developing an infection in my crowned tooth as one root lay dying (incidentally, one of the teeth that I use for chewing) became an emergency situation as it needed immediate attention to relieve what I believe to be perhaps the worst pain I have ever been in, or at least second, after a breast infection that . . . I will spare the details. I knew that I would be able to endure as whatever it is in the IV started flowing through my bloodstream giving me a warm feeling that increased until the room began to spin and I would take another journey to a place where there is no tooth pain. I would then be escorted from the dentist's chair, helped into a vehicle and awaken in my bed hours later having no idea how I ever got there. I then would get into these conversations with people who do not require more than a simple shot for their dental needs and wonder if they think I am being overly needy, too dramatic, or something other than normal when I admit that my procedure is far more involved and way more costly.

But what can I do about it? I have red hair.

driving alone

I received a text from my oldest son about a week ago reminding me to pick him up from college to come home for fall break. Though I do not enjoy driving, I do look forward to bringing him home.

There are three basic ways to get to his university: the major highway route which is definitely not fun and does not get one there any faster though the vehicle is driven at a higher rate of speed; the combined major highway/minor highway route that is stressful until the exit onto the smaller highway; and the backcountry road way that, much to my delight, is the shortest, most direct route and even with a certain amount of meandering, not only gets one there faster, but the beauty of the countryside soothes my mind and allows me to think.

I am grateful that my college-bound son is only an hour away from home. Just far enough for him to have his independence and not so far that he has to worry about how to get home for breaks. I am reminded of how I, as an undergraduate student, would trudge down to the bus stop with my backpack and overnight bag, and get on a bus heading north--a trip that would take close to three hours. Never wanting to completely fall asleep on a bus for fear that I would miss my stop or perhaps awaken suddenly to a new less-welcomed seat mate, I would try to entertain my mind by reliving events so I would not fall asleep. Sometimes I do that when I drive. I often sing. I also like to practice what I would say if someone asked me a particular question. To remain alert I have to remind myself of my journey at regular intervals so as not to get lost in my day dreaming and drive into a ditch.

Once we load up the minivan with the laundry bag, computer, backpack filled with books and a duffle bag containing clothes, I then have a traveling companion who fills me in on what his life is like. We can discuss roommate issues, how difficult his classes are and what he is planning to do this summer. We can update each other on different family scenarios that have been communicated through email and texts. I can ask about Facebook posts, especially ones in which there are girls involved. We drive together through the countryside until we get home.

Several days later we put those items back into the minivan and take the drive back to college. We finish our stories and try to think of anything we have forgotten to tell one another. Thanksgiving is not that far away and given the amount of work we each have in front of us, we won't have time to even count the days. I help carry the items back into the dorm room, a place where I am not responsible for making sure the bed is made or the clothes are picked up off the floor. It is not where I live; it is my son's home--for now.

Soon I am in the minivan heading back to our house. I love the way the sun is setting and how beautiful the leaves are as they are turning colors. I see cars heading toward where my son is living and wonder if these are parents taking the same trip with their college-aged sons and daughters. I see people in cars in front of me and wonder if they already said good-bye and are hoping to get to their homes before dark.

Not sure why but I always listen to the same Harry Connick, Jr. cd on my road trip and it is just the right length to get me to the dorm or back home. It is a cue that I am going to see my son, or that I am on my way home to see the rest of my family. Either way, it keeps me from driving alone.

pen pals

I remember standing in a field, writing a note, putting it into a balloon and sending it up into the air to be found by someone who would then write a letter to me. As wonderful as this sounded at the time, the practical side of me would often wonder at what point the balloon would pop. Could it make it through a rainstorm? Would it land in a lake and never be found? How many miles could it travel before being discovered by someone who would follow the instructions and be curious enough to follow through? I do not remember any of these questions ever being answered.

As a child growing up six miles from a town of about 2,000, I had dreams of going to faraway places to see what life was like for those living elsewhere. Always looking for ways to make connections with people from other places, I would give my address to new friends I would make, especially when we were on vacation, in the hope of receiving letters. When one of my first best friends from school moved to a town about 40 miles away, we sent letters back and forth for awhile. In the days before our current technology, news traveled slowly. Very slowly for a little girl with big dreams.

The other day I discovered that on my business page, dream with m.e., one of my "likes" is from someone in India. Even given today's technology, I am amazed by this. I am equally impressed that people from the United Kingdom and Russia are possibly reading this post right now, according to the statistics on my blog. It is like my own little balloon of information has been found. My words are traveling to places I have only dreamed of going and though I most likely will never meet the people who have decided to make a connection with me even by clicking a key on a computer, I get excited that my childhood dream of making contact with someone in a different place has been realized at last.

tinkerbell

Today I had a conversation with a 5-year-old. Or more accurately, she decided to have a conversation with me. After I amazed her with my ability to guess that she was in kindergarten when she told me her age, we started to get to know one another. She demonstrated her ability to spell her name and thought it would be fun if we clapped out the syllables together. She was right.

Then she told me in wide-eyed amazement the story of how three wolves at a wildlife refuge came right up to the fence where she stood, her all-I-want-for-Christmas-is-my-two-front-teeth smile transforming momentarily into a look of intensity. I told her she was brave and she agreed. I asked her about going to the zoo to see chimpanzees and was going to tell her that one time one of them came right up to the glass where I stood and kissed it, but she was already telling me about how great her leopard-print tights were and showed me a small figurine of a leopard to prove to me she knows what a real one looks like. She went on to say that her birthday is after Christmas, a day or a month, she was not sure. All she knows is that she wants a cake with elephants on it.

We moved on from there to other important matters such as the fact that she was ditching the Cinderella costume she wore last Halloween in favor of becoming Tinkerbell this year. This story is her favorite anyway, she pointed out, and besides, there will be wings! She can then take on this new persona, having a certain amount of dramatic flair already as evidenced by her sparkly sequined hat and Hello Kitty shirt, while she goes out for a night on the town collecting treats.

I met a 5-year-old boy about a month ago who confided that though he looked and acted like a regular boy, he was actually a garden fairy, who came alive when pixie dust had been sprinkled in the general vicinity of where he had emerged. I guess he figured since we were going to be friends, it was appropriate to let me in on his true identity. This fascination with an alter ego of an other-worldly being intrigues me.

I wonder if there is inherent in each one of us a desire to not only be connected with the supernatural but to actually BE supernatural. That if we clap our hands and believe in something greater than ourselves, wonderful things WILL happen. I'm fairly certain that if I were to consult my 5-year-old friends on this issue they would skip happily away, with a look of joy on their sweet faces that would in essence say, "What are you waiting for?"