It’s a beautiful sunny Sunday morning, it’s going to heat up again today, but the morning is cool. It seems like a good day to finally go to the Minnesota Zen Center to see how they meditate. Even though I’m really happy with Terger as my new meditation center home, I’m still curious about this big beautiful Spanish style home on Lake Calhoun that houses the Minnesota Zen Center. So I go.
I walk up the paved path and enter into a porch-way that overlooks the Lake, and I could just stay here all day. I’ve been trying to imagine the home of my dreams, just for the sake of creating the intention of where I want to live next, and well, this, or someplace like it, is it. I’m greeted by Rosemary, who seems to be in charge here, and we wait, as we take off our shoes and for everyone who will arrive for this intro session, to arrive.
Once it seems that we’re all here, we are shown into the main meditation room on the first floor, and then led up to the third floor. Thin memories of playing with friends in houses like this come through to me, I grew up just on the other side of the lake, and the third floors, or attics of these homes were often play rooms for us kids. All the while I’m here, I’m getting the notion that this kind of meditation, Zen meditation, is different than Tibetan Buddhist meditation. This Zen mediation is much more formal. I’m getting uncomfortable by it, and trying to check in; am I uncomfortable because I’m new and alone, (the other new comers here are in pairs)? And I wonder, why am I uncomfortable with the formality?
Rosemary introduces herself as a priest, and this tells me that this woman likes hierarchy, and likes titles, fair enough. I’m a little disturbed by the catholic similarities, but staying aware of my bias, I sit still and listen. Remembering that I need to have an open heart chakra, that my meditation, right now for life, is lovingkindness and compassion. Not all meditation centers are for everyone, and who knows, maybe I’m resisting because I need more discipline, more formality in my life, maybe? She asks if anyone has had any experience with meditation, and I share that I have, and that I’ve attended a seminar with Mingyur Rinpoche.
Then after she talks about how they meditate here, in this tradition, and explains the importance of the formality and ritual, we meditate. Problem is, we’re on the third floor, where it’s hot, and so there is a fan blowing, right in my face. I’m dealing, but while meditating, this causes me to both sneeze and cough. I compose myself, meditating enough to calm the tickle and to assure myself I can sit quietly, even though I desperately need a drink of water. My mind is wandering, I want to live in this house. I want to make some friends, I’d hoped maybe I’d make friends here, and it’s not turning out that way. Is it my ego? It’s obvious they want donations, here, unlike Terger, where it’s free, both financially and emotionally. I want to go now, but I stay, I’m still trying to keep an open mind.
After we meditate, Rosemary calmly talks about how you should not move when you meditate because it disturbs others. Well, meditate on the pain, unless of course you just have to be rude and move, and well, then, you should bow to excuse yourself to the people around you. This is in direct contrast to Mingyur Rinpoche’s teaching, he says, meditate on whatever distracts you, then go back to your original meditation. Thankfully, she wasn’t bringing up that not only did I move, but I also sneezed and coughed.
She goes on now, saying that if you sneeze or cough, that too, disturbs others. I’m starting to realize that this is about me. I sit there, new, guilty, wanting to say, “It was the fan!” This is about me in more ways than Rosemary realizes, and my newfound awareness of competition in myself, makes me aware of this horrible competition that is going on with this woman, as she goes on to tell us all how she now longer sneezes or coughs whatsoever during meditation practice. Well of course not, she’s a priest now. This comparison between my sneezing and coughing and her ability to control it is not lost on me. I struggle to maintain my loving compassion for her in the midst of this. Although she seems to not have loving compassion for someone new in her center, I remind myself that I didn’t know her before she began her practice, and so for her, she may be closer to compassion than she was before she started, all those years ago.
She reminds us that they’d like donations at the end. I struggle with the idea of having to pay for this introduction to their center and my humiliation as a teaching tool. She is calmly unaware of any of this. I only have bigger bills, (when did this happen?) and put $5.00 in the basket. I’ve decided at this point to stay for the teaching, maybe this will redeem the Zen Center for me. It did not. The teacher read some poetry and talked a bit about the concept of intimacy, something I didn’t feel here. Something about having intimacy with your meditation pillow, then taking that out into your world. I went out into my world, with the feeling of someone attempting to shame me, but with an awareness that this shame didn’t belong to me.
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Saturday, August 28, 2010
Not Guilty
The thing that can happen when you learn new things is that you can think in a whole new way. This sounds exciting, and amazing and I’m the first one to tell you it is; but what also can happen when you think in a whole new way, is that you wonder how or why you thought in the old way, and if by losing the old way you might be losing something valuable, and it ends up being a lot to think about. The new stuff, the old stuff, comparing the relative worth and merit. Also, all the while this is going on, you are going about your life, people thinking you are who you used to be,when really you are a whole new you, or at least some new neural pathways are making strides in your brain.
Then the challenge becomes how to let people know, hopefully in a rather gentle way, that you are no longer the you you used to be, but instead, a new you. There is a practice in the Narrative Theory (of Marriage and Family Therapy) of sending out letters, or making a certificate, somehow documenting, that through therapy you have changed, and you can call these people witnesses, witnesses to your change. Cool idea, even though it does seem a bit contrived these days, when you could just post a message on Facebook or Twitter it.
Or you could blog.
Part of my change process has been and still often is, a journey alone. I don’t often find people who think like me, or understand my passion for learning and my desire and ability to deconstruct strongly held religious and cultural views. I’ve often been told that I take things too seriously, and perhaps I do, I’ll try to be up for more parties. Yet it is this seriousness that partly drives me.
This is a long introduction, I’m sure. But here’s the stories....
Yesterday I read about two court cases where Marriage and Family Therapy students had sued Universities over having to accept GLBT clients and their lifestyle, and the students argued that with their Christian belief system, they could not. The Universities said that they were not asking the students to give up their beliefs, but to ‘suspend’ them, while they were seeing GLBT clients. This brings up an interesting idea to me, that it is not working from your belief system, but actually suspending it that is then being taught as good therapy. To this I have to say, hmmm.To this I have to say, “Who then is the healthy one in the room? The one outwardly struggling with their identity and how this works in their and the world, or the one suspending their belief, their worldview, acting not in integrity but pretending to hold a different worldview so as not to harm the vulnerable client?"
This brings me to the next story, also based on something I read yesterday, but this brought me clarity, not confusion, like the story above. I’ve been struggling with what I’ve been crassly calling to myself and close friends, “dumping the baby out with the bathwater” when it comes to my former Christian faith. If you have a dark sense of humor, you can get a bit of a chuckle from it. For me it works, because as I’ve studied theology and history, I’ve found so much of what has passed for faith, or God’s word, is just a lot of socially constructed verbiage meant to control people, a static faith grid put over a dynamic life force that won’t be contained. The Christian metaphors that permeate our culture then link up and people believe that someone saying, “God has a plan” for the fourth time that day gives them a divine comfort, when really the comfort was from the person who reached out and said the words to you. That you share metaphors for life only reinforces the human connection. It is the dynamic human caring that helps and heals, not the forced grid of what your behavior should be. The bible, by the way, does actually say, “Mercy triumphs over justice.” We swear on a bible for court, but where’s that verse built into our justice system?
Yesterday, around 5:00 pm, when I’d wished I was home, or taking a walk around the lakes, I was sitting in the Southdale area government center waiting to renew my car tabs. Realizing that this might take a while, I clutched my number, making sure it wouldn’t get lost, and ran out to my car to get a book. One of a number of books I’ve been reading lately on Buddhist psychology. I grabbed “Brilliant Sanity: Buddhist Approaches To Psychotherapy” and started reading, and this is what I read:
I found these words comforting as I try to align my beliefs, values or passions with how I treat people and interact in the world. I too, came to find the belief in original sin to be stifling and horrible, and I find believing that I, and others, are whole and intelligent to be much more hopeful and suited to helping others believe that they can heal from life’s hurts. As I’ve been studying Buddhism, I’ve come upon many authors who claim that Buddhism (and/or meditation) is completely compatible with Christianity, and I would have to beg to differ. I find this a bit disingenuous, and an attempt to make everything palatable to those of us steeped if not in Christian faith, then in Christian tradition. The Christian tradition that makes pretending to be whole or holy or accepting, more important than aligning your intellect with your heart.
Then the challenge becomes how to let people know, hopefully in a rather gentle way, that you are no longer the you you used to be, but instead, a new you. There is a practice in the Narrative Theory (of Marriage and Family Therapy) of sending out letters, or making a certificate, somehow documenting, that through therapy you have changed, and you can call these people witnesses, witnesses to your change. Cool idea, even though it does seem a bit contrived these days, when you could just post a message on Facebook or Twitter it.
Or you could blog.
Part of my change process has been and still often is, a journey alone. I don’t often find people who think like me, or understand my passion for learning and my desire and ability to deconstruct strongly held religious and cultural views. I’ve often been told that I take things too seriously, and perhaps I do, I’ll try to be up for more parties. Yet it is this seriousness that partly drives me.
This is a long introduction, I’m sure. But here’s the stories....
Yesterday I read about two court cases where Marriage and Family Therapy students had sued Universities over having to accept GLBT clients and their lifestyle, and the students argued that with their Christian belief system, they could not. The Universities said that they were not asking the students to give up their beliefs, but to ‘suspend’ them, while they were seeing GLBT clients. This brings up an interesting idea to me, that it is not working from your belief system, but actually suspending it that is then being taught as good therapy. To this I have to say, hmmm.To this I have to say, “Who then is the healthy one in the room? The one outwardly struggling with their identity and how this works in their and the world, or the one suspending their belief, their worldview, acting not in integrity but pretending to hold a different worldview so as not to harm the vulnerable client?"
This brings me to the next story, also based on something I read yesterday, but this brought me clarity, not confusion, like the story above. I’ve been struggling with what I’ve been crassly calling to myself and close friends, “dumping the baby out with the bathwater” when it comes to my former Christian faith. If you have a dark sense of humor, you can get a bit of a chuckle from it. For me it works, because as I’ve studied theology and history, I’ve found so much of what has passed for faith, or God’s word, is just a lot of socially constructed verbiage meant to control people, a static faith grid put over a dynamic life force that won’t be contained. The Christian metaphors that permeate our culture then link up and people believe that someone saying, “God has a plan” for the fourth time that day gives them a divine comfort, when really the comfort was from the person who reached out and said the words to you. That you share metaphors for life only reinforces the human connection. It is the dynamic human caring that helps and heals, not the forced grid of what your behavior should be. The bible, by the way, does actually say, “Mercy triumphs over justice.” We swear on a bible for court, but where’s that verse built into our justice system?
Yesterday, around 5:00 pm, when I’d wished I was home, or taking a walk around the lakes, I was sitting in the Southdale area government center waiting to renew my car tabs. Realizing that this might take a while, I clutched my number, making sure it wouldn’t get lost, and ran out to my car to get a book. One of a number of books I’ve been reading lately on Buddhist psychology. I grabbed “Brilliant Sanity: Buddhist Approaches To Psychotherapy” and started reading, and this is what I read:
Coming from a tradition that stresses human goodness, it was something of a shock for me to encounter the Western tradition of original sin. When I was at Oxford University, I studied Western religious and philosophical traditions with interest and found the notion of original sin quite pervasive. One of my early experiences in England was attending a seminar with Archbishop Anthony Blum. The seminar was on the notion of grace and we got into a discussion of original sin. The Buddhist tradition does not see such a notion as necessary at all, and I expressed this viewpoint. I was surprised at how angry the Western participants became. Even the orthodox, who might not emphasize original sin as much as the Western traditions, still held it as a cornerstone of their theology.
In terms of our present discussion, it seems that this notion of original sin does not just pervade Western religious ideas; it actually seems to run throughout Western thought as well, especially psychological thought. Among patients, theoreticians, and therapists alike, there seems to be great concern with the idea of some original mistake which causes later suffering- a kind of punishment for that mistake. One finds that sense of guilt or being wounded quite pervasive. Whether or not such people actually believe in the idea of original sin, or in God for that matter, they seem to feel that they have done something wrong in the past and are now being punished for it.
It seems that this feeling of basic guilt has been passed down form one generation to another and pervades many aspects of Western thought. For example, teachers think that if children do not feel guilty, then they won’t study properly and consequently won’t develop as they should. Therefore, many teachers feel that they have to do something to push the child, and guilt seems to be one of the chief techniques they use. This occurs even on the level of improving reading and writing. The teacher looks for errors: “Look, you made a mistake. What are you going to do about it?” From the child’s point of view, learning is then based on trying to not make mistakes, on trying to prove you actually are not bad. It is entirely different when you approach the child more positively: “Look how much you have improved, therefore we can go further.” In the latter case, learning becomes an expression of one’s wholesomeness and innate intelligence.
From the Preface: The Meeting of Buddhist and Western Psychology, Choyam Trungpa, (p. ix-x).
I found these words comforting as I try to align my beliefs, values or passions with how I treat people and interact in the world. I too, came to find the belief in original sin to be stifling and horrible, and I find believing that I, and others, are whole and intelligent to be much more hopeful and suited to helping others believe that they can heal from life’s hurts. As I’ve been studying Buddhism, I’ve come upon many authors who claim that Buddhism (and/or meditation) is completely compatible with Christianity, and I would have to beg to differ. I find this a bit disingenuous, and an attempt to make everything palatable to those of us steeped if not in Christian faith, then in Christian tradition. The Christian tradition that makes pretending to be whole or holy or accepting, more important than aligning your intellect with your heart.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
The Lost Art of Leaving Room
When I was a child, I walked quite a ways to school, not miles, have you, like my mother did, but about half a mile. I was a small child, who was never in a hurry. I walked from 40th Street and Sheridan South to 44th Street and Washburn to St. Thomas the Apostle School, the school I attended starting in the second half of second grade. I walked past Lake Harriet public grade school, where the kids would tease me for being Catholic, and past the bakery on the corner of 43rd and Upton which is now a yuppie flower and accessories type of store across the street from the other flower shop which always was a flower shop. I have fond memories of the once was bakery on that corner, of stepping in on November mornings when I walked to school with my sister and her friends and one of them would buy me a long john with cream filling. Now, that was a way to start the day.
Most of the time, I walked alone, and I walked slow. I dawdled, and this made me perpetually tardy. The word and concept of tardy for me however, meant nothing. This did not seem like a fault or a detriment to my learning and basically, I guess I just didn’t care. How can you rein in time? I was told I was impolite, that classes had started and I disrupted the class when I walked in late, so I would try to hurry, but it just didn’t seem to be in my genes. I would be approaching the playground, walking up what seemed like an insurmountable hill on Upton only to hear the bell ring, and watch all the other little children file into the building. It would be quiet by the time I arrived at the playground, and I’d make my way into the big brick building and find my class and take my seat, trying by this time to be inconspicuous.
I even got a reputation; soon as I made friends at school who walked my same way, they would tell me they couldn’t walk to school with me because I made them late. My dawdling was a bad influence, I guess. Early on I was trying to stop and smell roses, or gaze at the sky, or walk slowly by the bakery and catch the smells. I’d stop by the hardware display case at the glassware they sold, glints of glass sparkling through the window and imagine the gifts I’d buy my mom on mother’s day.
Eventually, I learned to be on time. I learned to show up to keep people from bugging me. People bugging me became as annoying as hurrying. I learned to do well in school, and leave earlier. Soon, I was walking a long way to school, to high school, where being tardy meant more consequences than just a slight reprimand or an exasperated look. High school, as I was taught, was more like the ‘real world’ where you had to buck up, be prompt and above reproach, in every way.
I took a lot of classes and graduated high school in three years. It was a hell for me that I decided to finish as quickly as possible. I believed I wanted to go to college, and so if this was the only way, well, I’d plow through it. Crowded hallways full of pushing kids and teachers assuming we knew nothing was exasperating for me, but I didn’t get to have feelings then, especially about where I spent the better part of most of my life.
In high school I learned the art of skipping. Skipping was an unexcused absence that you somehow found a way to get excused (or not). I learned to fake acting sick for a few days early in the week, making sure the teacher was aware of it, maybe requesting to go to the office saying I wasn’t feeling well, and then skipping the next day, having a friend say they were my mom, or sister and that I was home sick. It was a whole day, a whole day to myself, and if a friend skipped too, a whole day to go shopping or shoot pool or whatever we could find to do. Really, the consequences were minimal, and my friends and I were good students so what was the big deal? What is the big deal with time? Now that I’m finding myself overly busy, I have to ask whose life is this? What are the consequences and who’s going to look askance or be exasperated now if I’m late, or if I skip a meeting?
For a culture that puts a price on everything and measures the amount of pennies saved or spent on ‘special deals just for you’ I think we are overlooking the cost we pay for being overly busy. There is no monetary value assessed here, so maybe we don’t know how dear a price we are paying, but I feel it in my bones. I feel that the price I am paying for being too busy is losing the beauty of each moment; I’m losing the ability to be present for each amazing person that I encounter, because I’m too tired and distracted.
This means I’m going to have to somehow pare down what I’m trying to do, no matter how wonderful it seems to be, and learn to say no to some of the things I’m doing that seem ‘so important.’ I’ll need to take some time to decide how to proceed, how to slow down and get my own unique rhythm back, the one that has the power to both exonerate and exasperate and keep me in sync with my unique path in the universe. The one that allows me to leave room in my life to stop and look at the beauty of the city scape, to smile at a child, or to smell a warm bakery smell and take me back to 8 years old, feeling the warmth of sugary softness, bite by bite on a cool morning.
Most of the time, I walked alone, and I walked slow. I dawdled, and this made me perpetually tardy. The word and concept of tardy for me however, meant nothing. This did not seem like a fault or a detriment to my learning and basically, I guess I just didn’t care. How can you rein in time? I was told I was impolite, that classes had started and I disrupted the class when I walked in late, so I would try to hurry, but it just didn’t seem to be in my genes. I would be approaching the playground, walking up what seemed like an insurmountable hill on Upton only to hear the bell ring, and watch all the other little children file into the building. It would be quiet by the time I arrived at the playground, and I’d make my way into the big brick building and find my class and take my seat, trying by this time to be inconspicuous.
I even got a reputation; soon as I made friends at school who walked my same way, they would tell me they couldn’t walk to school with me because I made them late. My dawdling was a bad influence, I guess. Early on I was trying to stop and smell roses, or gaze at the sky, or walk slowly by the bakery and catch the smells. I’d stop by the hardware display case at the glassware they sold, glints of glass sparkling through the window and imagine the gifts I’d buy my mom on mother’s day.
Eventually, I learned to be on time. I learned to show up to keep people from bugging me. People bugging me became as annoying as hurrying. I learned to do well in school, and leave earlier. Soon, I was walking a long way to school, to high school, where being tardy meant more consequences than just a slight reprimand or an exasperated look. High school, as I was taught, was more like the ‘real world’ where you had to buck up, be prompt and above reproach, in every way.
I took a lot of classes and graduated high school in three years. It was a hell for me that I decided to finish as quickly as possible. I believed I wanted to go to college, and so if this was the only way, well, I’d plow through it. Crowded hallways full of pushing kids and teachers assuming we knew nothing was exasperating for me, but I didn’t get to have feelings then, especially about where I spent the better part of most of my life.
In high school I learned the art of skipping. Skipping was an unexcused absence that you somehow found a way to get excused (or not). I learned to fake acting sick for a few days early in the week, making sure the teacher was aware of it, maybe requesting to go to the office saying I wasn’t feeling well, and then skipping the next day, having a friend say they were my mom, or sister and that I was home sick. It was a whole day, a whole day to myself, and if a friend skipped too, a whole day to go shopping or shoot pool or whatever we could find to do. Really, the consequences were minimal, and my friends and I were good students so what was the big deal? What is the big deal with time? Now that I’m finding myself overly busy, I have to ask whose life is this? What are the consequences and who’s going to look askance or be exasperated now if I’m late, or if I skip a meeting?
For a culture that puts a price on everything and measures the amount of pennies saved or spent on ‘special deals just for you’ I think we are overlooking the cost we pay for being overly busy. There is no monetary value assessed here, so maybe we don’t know how dear a price we are paying, but I feel it in my bones. I feel that the price I am paying for being too busy is losing the beauty of each moment; I’m losing the ability to be present for each amazing person that I encounter, because I’m too tired and distracted.
This means I’m going to have to somehow pare down what I’m trying to do, no matter how wonderful it seems to be, and learn to say no to some of the things I’m doing that seem ‘so important.’ I’ll need to take some time to decide how to proceed, how to slow down and get my own unique rhythm back, the one that has the power to both exonerate and exasperate and keep me in sync with my unique path in the universe. The one that allows me to leave room in my life to stop and look at the beauty of the city scape, to smile at a child, or to smell a warm bakery smell and take me back to 8 years old, feeling the warmth of sugary softness, bite by bite on a cool morning.
Saturday, August 14, 2010
Fabulous Fury
We hold both life and death in our hands
feel the flux of the current of life
when it jolts and when it wanes
Hear the cries of the baby
the moans of the aged and the tender heartbreak
of every single thing in between
Take quiet steps looking only to the morning
when your heart is heavy and dark
Look to the evening holding the sliver of silver moon
in your brain to illuminate the pathways safely to yourself
Hold onto to the knowledge that the rhythm will build
and your heart will once again swell pushing chemicals into your
feet and you will sprint
Wondering where the time is going
wind in your face not looking back
The current of life runs parallel to the current of death
they run together they burn together to create
the fabulous fury that is our lives
feel the flux of the current of life
when it jolts and when it wanes
Hear the cries of the baby
the moans of the aged and the tender heartbreak
of every single thing in between
Take quiet steps looking only to the morning
when your heart is heavy and dark
Look to the evening holding the sliver of silver moon
in your brain to illuminate the pathways safely to yourself
Hold onto to the knowledge that the rhythm will build
and your heart will once again swell pushing chemicals into your
feet and you will sprint
Wondering where the time is going
wind in your face not looking back
The current of life runs parallel to the current of death
they run together they burn together to create
the fabulous fury that is our lives
Monday, August 9, 2010
Easy to Get to, Hard to Leave
I am swinging to Ella singing All The Things You Are. You are the angel glow that lights the stars, the dearest things I know are what you are....
I am listening to Ella to drown out the song Love The Way You Lie, by Eminem that’s still playing in my head after listening to it, hmm, maybe 5 times this weekend. Angel glow dissipates violence, or so I’d like to think. I rode up North to Alexandria, Minnesota to my family reunion with my oldest daughter, Kathleen, and her two sons, Elliot and Max (ages 13 and 8); and they like Hip Hop. There’s not much music I don’t like, but I don’t like Hip Hop and I don’t like violent song lyrics. But there I was, in the front seat of Kathleen’s White Malibu Maxx, listening to Eminem sing about tying his love to the bedpost and burning down the house. Great. (Ella has now given way to Elton John’s Come Down in Time.)
I was grateful for my daughter to drive, but had forgotten what road trips with kids in the back seat were like. The poking, the bickering, even the exasperated cries of “How many more miles?” Especially on the way home, tired of swimming, boating and fishing; hungry because someone missed lunch due to too much fun. “I will die back here if I don’t get food in 10 minutes.” So we find a drive through Taco John’s, only to not get back on 94 and then get stuck in traffic going back to ‘the cities’ at 10 miles an hour.
At one point, I lost my temper, and swore at Max (the youngest), which resulted in tears (on his part). He had scared me when he opened the car door after threatening to ‘jump out.’ Fortunately, we were stuck in traffic only going 10 miles an hour. Amazing how fast one can lose their cool in the right (or wrong) set of circumstances. I think I was channeling my dad. This was after I’d turned over the driving to Kathleen who demanded her car keys back after I lost them (only briefly) having set them down in the restroom in a Best Buy in St. Cloud. I swore then, too, but only to myself. (Kathleen had promised Elliot we’d stop on the way back so he could use the gift card he’d been hanging onto since Christmas.) Someone had turned the keys in, and we were back on our way home.
Alexandria, Easy to Get to, Hard to Leave the billboard sign claims, on the way in on 94. Mostly true, we missed the mapquest directions for the first turn off, towards Osakis, and ended up all the way into Alex and then had to turn back. The reunion was at my brother and his wife’s home, on Lake Jessie, not exactly in Alexandria, but close. We drove through Alex, "Oh, look, there’s the AmericInn, but we’ll stop there after we get to the lake." Max was more interested in getting to the hotel pool than the reunion.
There were lots of choices for fun at my brother’s lake place. My brother had often invited me and my kids to his home, and I just never found the time before. I’m sad about that, the missed opportunities to have gotten to know him and his family better, to have shown my girls how to have some fun together as a family, back when it seemed like we were so isolated in Owatonna. Back when we could have used some family support and fun. Well, we were there now, with my grandsons in tow.
All my daughters came up, and that was amazing. At the last minute, my youngest, Megan, decided to ride up with us, and my middle daughter, Erin & her partner Andy with baby Audrey, drove up for the day also. Megan rode back with Erin & Andy. This was the first family reunion of only my family. We had a reunion last year, but that included cousins, and even second cousins (people I didn’t know). There are 8 of us kids, and only my mom now, since my dad died 8 years ago. 7 of the 8 of us showed up, with their kids and grandkids, and so there were plenty of people. The only sib missing was my brother who lives in Alaska. He had been in Alex in the spring.
My brother’s home is right on the lake, with a dock for swimming and fishing and three boats. There were small pools for the little kids, and yard games. Plenty of great food. Later in the afternoon, Erin and I took a long boat ride. I am not necessarily an outdoorsy type, but it was fun to be on the water, and when I confided to Erin that I got a bit scared when we went fast, she said, ‘It’s ok to be scared.’ We encourage and support each other as needed. That’s what family does.
This reunion was bittersweet, like life. My brother Steve, who hosted us, has cancer. He’s looking good, and is as sweet and kind and generous as he’s ever been. He and his wife Brenda have a wonderful home, this place on the lake. Beautiful kids, and wonderful grandkids. They’ve lived life the way most of us dream of. Brenda confided to me that she loved my brother more now than she ever did. That was when Brenda, Kathleen and I went to Carlos Creek Winery before we headed home on Sunday.
We tasted wine and walked around the pretty grounds and had a chance to talk. It was good. We talked a little about the things that Steve had shared with Brenda about how harsh my dad had been when we were growing up. It was true. My dad had mellowed with age, but he didn’t spare the strap when we were young. This painful past plays a counterpoint to the beautiful day and the wind in the trees. Brenda had hoped we could stay one more night, “Go home tomorrow, you’re not working tomorrow are you?” Hard to leave, but I had to. Even though I taken the day off, I had two meetings on Monday, and then a full week of work and trying to grow my private practice.
Alexandria, was easy to get to, and hard to leave, like much of life. Like hard and painful memories that get stuck, easy to get to, hard to leave. I am home now, Kathleen on her trip up on Saturday morning had returned my computer that I’d left at her house a week ago. Settling back into my familiar life. Thoughts still at the family reunion, with my sibs, all our lives in different places than when we were kids growing up together. Movin on again, to bluer skies, to ripples on the water. To Ella, singing, “You are the angel glow....”
I am listening to Ella to drown out the song Love The Way You Lie, by Eminem that’s still playing in my head after listening to it, hmm, maybe 5 times this weekend. Angel glow dissipates violence, or so I’d like to think. I rode up North to Alexandria, Minnesota to my family reunion with my oldest daughter, Kathleen, and her two sons, Elliot and Max (ages 13 and 8); and they like Hip Hop. There’s not much music I don’t like, but I don’t like Hip Hop and I don’t like violent song lyrics. But there I was, in the front seat of Kathleen’s White Malibu Maxx, listening to Eminem sing about tying his love to the bedpost and burning down the house. Great. (Ella has now given way to Elton John’s Come Down in Time.)
I was grateful for my daughter to drive, but had forgotten what road trips with kids in the back seat were like. The poking, the bickering, even the exasperated cries of “How many more miles?” Especially on the way home, tired of swimming, boating and fishing; hungry because someone missed lunch due to too much fun. “I will die back here if I don’t get food in 10 minutes.” So we find a drive through Taco John’s, only to not get back on 94 and then get stuck in traffic going back to ‘the cities’ at 10 miles an hour.
At one point, I lost my temper, and swore at Max (the youngest), which resulted in tears (on his part). He had scared me when he opened the car door after threatening to ‘jump out.’ Fortunately, we were stuck in traffic only going 10 miles an hour. Amazing how fast one can lose their cool in the right (or wrong) set of circumstances. I think I was channeling my dad. This was after I’d turned over the driving to Kathleen who demanded her car keys back after I lost them (only briefly) having set them down in the restroom in a Best Buy in St. Cloud. I swore then, too, but only to myself. (Kathleen had promised Elliot we’d stop on the way back so he could use the gift card he’d been hanging onto since Christmas.) Someone had turned the keys in, and we were back on our way home.
Alexandria, Easy to Get to, Hard to Leave the billboard sign claims, on the way in on 94. Mostly true, we missed the mapquest directions for the first turn off, towards Osakis, and ended up all the way into Alex and then had to turn back. The reunion was at my brother and his wife’s home, on Lake Jessie, not exactly in Alexandria, but close. We drove through Alex, "Oh, look, there’s the AmericInn, but we’ll stop there after we get to the lake." Max was more interested in getting to the hotel pool than the reunion.
There were lots of choices for fun at my brother’s lake place. My brother had often invited me and my kids to his home, and I just never found the time before. I’m sad about that, the missed opportunities to have gotten to know him and his family better, to have shown my girls how to have some fun together as a family, back when it seemed like we were so isolated in Owatonna. Back when we could have used some family support and fun. Well, we were there now, with my grandsons in tow.
All my daughters came up, and that was amazing. At the last minute, my youngest, Megan, decided to ride up with us, and my middle daughter, Erin & her partner Andy with baby Audrey, drove up for the day also. Megan rode back with Erin & Andy. This was the first family reunion of only my family. We had a reunion last year, but that included cousins, and even second cousins (people I didn’t know). There are 8 of us kids, and only my mom now, since my dad died 8 years ago. 7 of the 8 of us showed up, with their kids and grandkids, and so there were plenty of people. The only sib missing was my brother who lives in Alaska. He had been in Alex in the spring.
My brother’s home is right on the lake, with a dock for swimming and fishing and three boats. There were small pools for the little kids, and yard games. Plenty of great food. Later in the afternoon, Erin and I took a long boat ride. I am not necessarily an outdoorsy type, but it was fun to be on the water, and when I confided to Erin that I got a bit scared when we went fast, she said, ‘It’s ok to be scared.’ We encourage and support each other as needed. That’s what family does.
This reunion was bittersweet, like life. My brother Steve, who hosted us, has cancer. He’s looking good, and is as sweet and kind and generous as he’s ever been. He and his wife Brenda have a wonderful home, this place on the lake. Beautiful kids, and wonderful grandkids. They’ve lived life the way most of us dream of. Brenda confided to me that she loved my brother more now than she ever did. That was when Brenda, Kathleen and I went to Carlos Creek Winery before we headed home on Sunday.
We tasted wine and walked around the pretty grounds and had a chance to talk. It was good. We talked a little about the things that Steve had shared with Brenda about how harsh my dad had been when we were growing up. It was true. My dad had mellowed with age, but he didn’t spare the strap when we were young. This painful past plays a counterpoint to the beautiful day and the wind in the trees. Brenda had hoped we could stay one more night, “Go home tomorrow, you’re not working tomorrow are you?” Hard to leave, but I had to. Even though I taken the day off, I had two meetings on Monday, and then a full week of work and trying to grow my private practice.
Alexandria, was easy to get to, and hard to leave, like much of life. Like hard and painful memories that get stuck, easy to get to, hard to leave. I am home now, Kathleen on her trip up on Saturday morning had returned my computer that I’d left at her house a week ago. Settling back into my familiar life. Thoughts still at the family reunion, with my sibs, all our lives in different places than when we were kids growing up together. Movin on again, to bluer skies, to ripples on the water. To Ella, singing, “You are the angel glow....”
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