When we went kayaking on Sunday, the Barren Fork River was down at least six inches from last summer when I was last there. I know because the algae covered log in the photo above was submerged last year, but was high and dry this year. (It wasn’t as pretty this time; so, I didn’t take a picture of it.) The result of this lowered water level was predictable – my butt dragged the bottom far more frequently. There were even places where I nearly had to get out and pull the kayak over the rocks. That was suspiciously like work disturbing my lazy float down the river.

As it happened, I was able to ooch my way off the snags. (For those of you who aren’t familiar, “ooch” is the technical term for that half jump, half leap motion one makes while seated. It’s primarily used when positioning one’s chair at the dining table. Go ahead. Look it up if you don’t believe me.) While I was oh-so-gracefully ooching my way off of a boulder (I’m sure it was that big), I began to think about the water level’s effect on my movement down the river and the parallels between the river and my life experience these past 18 or so months.

Last year, the water was high, submerging most of the rocks deeply enough that we were able to float right over them. There were plenty of bumps underneath me; but, there was enough water to cushion me from any effects. Likewise, 18 months ago, I was working at a job I enjoyed, making a wonderful salary and enjoying every minute of it. There were plenty of regular life challenges and even the enormous one of my son leaving for college; however, my spirit had enough depth to cushion me.

Then things changed. Without going into the gory details, my spirit nose-dived, or to hold the metaphor, it shaoled; so, I had to leave that job.  Changing industries was easier said than done and I was unable to find a job for quite some time. My spirit shaoled further. I gained a little depth as I worked in the insurance industry; but, my failure in that endeavor took my spirit to an all-time low. The regular life challenges that were the mere pebbles I had ignored before became snags I could not navigate. I lost buoyancy. I got stuck.

It’s taken quite awhile and the help of quite a few people for me to ooch off those snags and get moving again. My spirit has deepened and is again providing me with the cushion I need to deal with life’s small challenges. I assure you that the challenges are still there, my renewed spirit is just letting me deal with them better.

There are many things that help keep my spirit full: writing, taking photographs, spending time with friends, hiking, kayaking, gardening among them. I have to remember to make time for these activities, for without them, my spirit just doesn’t have the depth to get me over the obstacles.

I have to mind the depth of my river.

Ugh! I had the WORST weekend!! First of all, I got only three hours of sleep Friday night. Then, on Saturday, I went to help some people move and they weren’t even packed; so, I wasted a ton of time and I got stung by a wasp! On the drive home, the clutch burned up on my truck and left me stranded on the side of the road. The fastest wrecker service couldn’t be there for two hours, which would have made me miss my flight – which I barely made, but stunk the whole time. On Sunday, I was running late to go on the river with friends, didn’t have any sunscreen and realized when I stopped at the drug store that I had left my wallet at home. So, not only did I get sunburned, but I also couldn’t do my errands after the trip. To top it all off, I had some sort of intestinal issue that sent me running for the bathroom every 30 to 45 minutes from 5:00 Sunday afternoon until 6:30 Sunday morning.

You’ve probably already seen most of Julian Beever‘s sidewalk art – the pieces that are on the internet, anyway. The man is incredibly talented and creates wonderful illusions; however, the illusions only work if you look at them from the right perspective.  From the wrong perspective the image is all out of proportion.

The same thing is true of many of our experiences, don’t you think? As you know, I don’t believe that happiness is always a choice (think mental illness, war, extreme abuse); however, more often than not, we have the choice on how we approach things – either positively or negatively. The account you just read is my weekend from a negative perspective. Everything in the account is true; however, the focus is only on those things that went wrong. Now here’s how I really feel about the weekend.

On Saturday, I helped some friends move. I didn’t have a whole lot of time to help and they weren’t quite ready; but, we got lots checked off the list and I had a great visit with Kristina, anyway. As I was leaving, I felt a wasp hit the back of my shoulder; but, thankfully, it just barely got me. Whew! On the way to go get cleaned up for a once-in-a-lifetime flight on an historic airplane, I found out that the smell that had been coming from the truck was the stuck clutch burning up! Ack! None of the wreckers I called could be there in time for me to make the flight. Distraught, I sat weighing my options when I noticed that I had broken down RIGHT IN FRONT OF A GARAGE THAT SPECIALIZES IN TRANSMISSIONS! Hurray! I didn’t even need a wrecker! The three Hispanic men were so kind and pushed the truck into the garage (I say that I helped, but I’m sure they didn’t really need me). The shop owner agreed to hang onto it and give me an estimate for repairs on Monday. I was close enough to the airport at that time that I could have made the flight (departing in an hour) if I walked at a brisk pace. So, that’s what I did. I set off on foot and called a taxi service, which found  me in time to take me home, let me wash some of the sweat off and make it back in time to take the coolest flight of my life! Then on Sunday, I got to go kayaking with friends! I was a little late leaving home and running through the list of things I’d brought when I realized that I’d forgotten sunscreen. Rats. To make it worse, when I stopped to get some, I realized that I’d forgotten my wallet at home! Ah, well. Mark had some that I could use; so, it was fine. I missed my left foot in the first round of application and I missed a few spots on my shoulders on the second round. Even so, nothing burned to a painful degree. It was a great day! Thankfully, the intestinal distress that I experienced all night didn’t start until after we were off the river! And, for the first time, I was really glad that I work at night. The attacks stopped at 6:30; so, I was able to get some sleep during the rest of the day.

If I look at the weekend starting from a negative perspective, it ends up being a giant trial where I would have done better just to stay at home. From a positive one, the days become one grand adventure with a few little bumps.  The positive approach put the magic into the experience just as it does when it changes the stretched out green thing to the giant grasshopper perched on a pole that the artist meant it to be.

I’ve always heard that you don’t gamble more than you can afford to lose. This is why, on those rare occasions I find myself in a casino, I usually take my little $20 in with me, play until it’s gone then pack it in. I’ve paid $20 to the casino for letting me hang around, slurp up watered down drinks, and watch the pretty lights. I’m okay with that. I don’t feel guilty about opening up my hand and letting that money go.

To me, a gift is similar in that it is something that I am willing to open up my hand and let go. Once I give it, it belongs to the other person and I have no say in how, when, or even if they use it.

I saw a video yesterday that reminded me of an exchange I had with my son in Philadelphia when he was about seven or eight. But, before I tell you about that, I have to tell you about our trip to the Holocaust Museum in Washington, D.C., about six months before the Philadelphia incident.

My mother was an avid student of World War II. She could tell you more about the Reich principals than she could tell you about her own neighbors. So, when we lived in Latrobe, PA, and Mother came up for a visit one summer, we drove over to D.C., for some sight-seeing that included the Holocaust Museum. Now, my young son was just as thrilled with that choice of venue as you might imagine. He asked why we had to go to that place. I responded, “Because all God’s children are precious until they decide not to be (pretty sure Ted Bundy doesn’t quality) and this is what happens when one group decides that they are more precious than another group. It’s really important that we remember this.”

You never know what children really hear and remember; but, he was okay to go through the rest of the museum on the promise that we would hit up the Lincoln Memorial (his favorite) afterwards.

Fast forward a few months to a visit to Philadelphia when my cousin was in town.

We were doing regular tourist things downtown, which included a visit to Reading Station and the market there at the terminal. We left there to walk to Chinatown because I was jonsing for some pork buns and on a mission to find some. We had left the station and walked a couple of blocks when I felt this tug on my coat. This is the exchange that followed to the best of my memory:

• Curious Son: Mama, why didn’t you give that man any money?
• Hungry Mother: What man?
• Observant Son: That man sitting by the station door. He said he was hungry and asked you for money.
• Clueless Mother: I didn’t see him. But I wouldn’t have given him any anyway.
• Absorbent Son: Why not?
• About-to-be-shamed Mother: Because he just would have spent it on drugs or alcohol anyway. (Which, I must admit, sounded lame even to me and even as it was coming out of my mouth.)
• Beloved Son: Well, you could have bought him a sandwich. Aren’t all God’s children precious?

Don’t you just hate it when your kids throw your own words back at you? They expect us to do something silly like live up to what we say, right? Dammit.

So, from thenceforth, we gave the homeless a gift of either cash or food that we were okay with opening our hands and letting go of. There are scammers, I know; so, the gift had to be something we were willing to let go of. To this day, I buy a Contributor from any homeless person I see selling one. I don’t read them all, but I buy them. And I am thrilled to say that at an adult, my beloved son still practices what he preaches working in food pantries and helping with other charities.

Kids. I knew I was supposed to help him become a good human. I had no idea he’d do the same for me.

On Sunday, I planned to go to nearby Monteagle, TN, to check out an arts and crafts fair. I woke that morning, got busy with other things and decided not to go. After all, what was the point? My budget doesn’t have shopping money in it right now; so, why make the 60-some mile drive over there? I decided just to stay home and read the Elvis Cole mysteries I’d checked out of the library on Saturday.

As the morning wore on, I kept thinking about the festival and how I’d looked forward to going. I finally kicked myself in the rear and got moving. There was no point in my going, but I went anyway.

The festival was a bust. It was very small and featured a lot of handmade soaps, wind chimes that were more like scrapbooks, and jewelry…lots of jewelry.  Even the homemade peach ice cream (my favorite) wasn’t all that great. I was disappointed; so, I left and went to a flea market down the road. Another bust. Rats. My trip seemed more pointless than ever. I was disgruntled and ready to go home.

Instead, I went to Sewanee and I discovered the point – joy.

Sewanee, TN, is home of Sewanee, The University of the South. I drove around and fell completely in love. As you may or may not know, I enjoy taking photographs – mostly architectural or close nature photos.  I love the detail of stone or woodwork, the play of light on bark and leaves, and the contrast of shadows anywhere the light plays. Sewanee is a delight. The stone buildings and careful landscaping will provide me with plenty to shoot and enjoy on another trip to the town. A trip I am already planning.

My heart and spirit were both much lighter on the drive home. It made me think of my flower bed in New Orleans.

I had this flower bed in front of the duplex where I lived there. My aunts Judy and Barbara had started it for me when I first moved to the city. I took it over, though, and it became my own. It had sort of a cottage garden feel – balanced, but hardly symmetrical. Full of zinnias, summer snapdragons, dahlias, petunias, sweet William and more, it was like a riot of wild flowers that all happened to be blooming at the same place at the same time. I weeded and watered it every morning and every afternoon. I fussed over it, met my neighbors over it, and took great joy in putting the little plants into the soil to watch them flourish.

Then Katrina came and there was nothing left of my beautiful flowers. I haven’t seriously tried to garden since. After all, what’s the point? I put all that work and effort into my little garden and, in an instant, it was all gone. Why go to all the trouble?

Because it was beautiful and I derived joy from it.

That was the point and that was enough.

People say the stupidest things at funerals and since I’m a people, I’m including myself in that list. At Leah’s funeral, I said to one of her sons, “It’s really good to see you.”

What?!

I opened my mouth, asked my brain operator to give me a funeral appropriate phrase; but, my message got rerouted to the “Things you say at a pool party” library. After I heard what I said, I was as bewildered as her son was. Having buried my own mother, I can say that I remember little of what was said to me that day; so, it’s possible that he either won’t remember it or didn’t hear me at all. On the other hand, I do remember many of the ridiculous things people said; so, he may have heard and shifted me into that category. At any rate, my gaff got me thinking about grief and what we say to the grieving.

I am a white woman of Scottish and Danish ancestry and always have been; so, northern European culture is really the only one I know very well. Based on that, I don’t think that the culture does a very good job of grieving. It’s the whole British “keep a stiff upper lip” thing. As soon as someone dies, we start vomiting platitudes like the emotional sheep we’ve been conditioned to be, telling the grieving things meant to comfort them and to get them over their grief quickly.

• She’s in a better place.
• He’s not hurting anymore.
• At least you had time to get used to the idea. (When the deceased has been ill for a long time.)
• She wouldn’t have wanted to live like that.
• He died doing what he loved.
• etc., etc., etc.

You know what? That’s craaaa-aaaa-p!

All of those plaaa-aaaa-aaa-titudes may be true (except the getting used to the idea thing), but when I’m in the moment of grieving, I. don’t. care. The fact is: I’m not grieving for them. I’m grieving for myself. I’m grieving that I won’t see that person I love again. I’m grieving that I can’t call them on the phone, go out to lunch, send a birthday card, get a text or just spend time with them. Sometimes it’s about hurting for the pain others I love are experiencing; but, most often, it’s about me, not them.

And I say that’s okay.

I think we should allow ourselves to feel that selfish grief for a time. If I am to heal and reconcile myself to this new reality, I must feel that grief. I have to feel that disbelief, that anger, and that sadness in order to be healthy myself. There is a certain order and defined steps to how humans grieve. My aunt Judy has a master’s degree in thanatology and can say it much better than I can; however, at the core of what she would (and does) say, is that we have to follow that grief order to avoid complications for ourselves. Our minds need to go through the steps.

I believe that we would all deal with death a great deal better if we took cues from some other cultures and wailed, keened and yelled out our grief at funerals. Instead, we hold it in. Historically, we’ve even hired mourners to grieve for us! That’s like hiring someone to heal my broken leg. They can sit around on the couch all day for weeks with their healthy leg in a cast; but, it’s my leg that’s broken and must be set, immobilized and allowed time to knit. It’s my leg and my heart that have to heal. And I’m going to take the time to let them do just that.

Also, I’ve had a talk with my internal operator about routing my requests to the right department. And to Mitch, what I meant to say was: Your mother was a fine woman and I am so sorry for your loss.