all of the selves we Have ever been
Maire was the last of my other-mothers. She entered my life when I was a young adult in my early working years. Maire was the mother of my friend Kathy. Kathy was new to Pittsburgh. At the end of a long work day, a fortuitous meeting on a city bus delivered Kathy and me to our adjacent apartment buildings and to a lifetime of wonderful friendship. We both worked in the same downtown office building and so shared office gossip and that long ride home. We also shared the same quirky sense of humor. As our friendship evolved, it didn’t take much to have us both falling over with laughter from jokes no one else understood. We vacationed together at the ocean. Having heard from others that the most surefire way to destroy a friendship is to travel together, Kathy and I talked about our plans. “As long as you don’t make me learn anything, I’m in,” Kathy said. And so, the word “relax” became our mission and our motto. And we were really good at it. Still are. From time to time, Kathy invited me to accompany her for the five hour drive to her parents’ home in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania. It was a beautiful home of modern design in the heart of Amish country. The blend of modern and traditional described Kathy’s parents as well as their home. Maire was a working woman, interested in style and current trends, but she was also a master of the home arts, maintaining a lovely décor, quilting, and cooking up delicious corn chowder. If hospitality is, indeed, a form of worship, than Maire’s home was a church. When Kathy’s parents visited her in Pittsburgh, I was often invited to join them. Sometimes the three of us gals would go shopping. Kathy and I could find plenty to bring us to fits of laughter. Maire’s puzzled looks indicated that she did not always get the reason for so much hysteria, but she was patient and never admonished us with more than an “Oh, you girls!” During eleven of the years that I knew Maire, she faced down five primary cancers. These were not minor episodes. Cancer invaded her breasts. It was the same cancer that had taken the lives of other women in her family. The cancer turned up again in her hip and then returned to occupy other organs. The treatments were long and painful. Throughout it all, Maire remained positive and determined. If she read an article that suggested eating five almonds a day was good for your health, then Maire made it a habit to eat five almonds a day and to encourage us to do the same. If she read about a new wellness community popping up somewhere in the country, she boarded the plane. Many years into her lengthy battles with cancer, I experienced a life-threatening medical emergency of my own, one that took me to the other side and brought me back. During my recovery at home, Maire phoned in a show of support. We chatted a bit about life, in general, and then Maire asked more specifically about my health and physical recovery. I had already learned that most people do not want to hear the painful details, but Maire encouraged me to talk openly about my experience. Then she said something that flabbergasted me: “Isn’t the hardest part the mental part?” I was stunned. Throughout all of her diagnoses, surgeries, treatments and periods of recovery, I never imagined that Maire went through “the mental part” that I was going through at the time. Maire had always seemed so accepting, so positive. As I inched forward in my own recovery, it did not occur to me that my suffering was the suffering of all who experience such brutal assaults on health and life. The mental part is the part that no one sees, and it is the most exhausting and debilitating part of illness. It is the cause of the great loneliness of being a patient. No matter how much love surrounds, no matter how many hands pitch in, recovery is about garnering the strength to climb out of the hole. No one can do it for you. You are alone. I did not realize Maire had been like me—waking up each morning feeling weak and terrible, checking for the signs that you are still alive. Then beginning the bargaining: “Please, God, let me make it to the toilet on my own.” On the toilet, the next round begins, “Please, God, let me make it back to my bed.” Then the next, “Please, let me keep down some food today.” Coaxing yourself: “Just one more bite,” or “Just one more step.” And on..and on..all day…every day…exhausting negotiations with God and with yourself. Maire’s words were like medicine to me. To know that this woman I so admired had survived the same dark hole, had entered into the same lengthy and daily negotiations was the revelation I needed to know that I could survive this too. I am sure I was not so classy as Maire, but she had thrown me a lifeline, an example of how it could be done. I trusted her, and I could hang on. Maire died a few years later. I have a fabric square from a quilt she started for my baby girl, a piece of her jewelry, and one of her cookbooks. Best of all, I have her own baby girl as my friend. Our shared memories of Maire will eternally cement our friendship. Maire was my other-mother. Along with the necklace and the recipes, I hope I inherited a portion of her tremendous strength and grace. And I hope that I can be as honest and as brave as Maire when someone else needs a lifeline, when the mental part becomes too hard.
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Soon after the start of high school, I met my best friend, MB. I am not sure how it happened that we became best friends. In that orderly, alphabetical world of an all-girls Catholic high school, I was a “B” and she was a “P.” That could be the distance of several rows. The differences in our make-ups were about as far apart as B and P are in the alphabet, but we were both smart gals in the changing and radical 1970s. We both had working moms which was unique for the times, and our mothers themselves were unique among the other mothers. MB’s mom, Jane, was a former MARINE which was entirely unheard of at the time. My mother received a Master’s Degree from Smith where she studied microbiology. A LADY SCIENTIST. MB and I had dads who were former military, men who grew up in the Great Depression and lived through World War II and Korea. They carried a certain temperament common to men of that era. MB and I came to high school without benefit of grade school friends in tow. Somehow, we found each other. Our friendship was sealed with the delivery of some free baseball tickets. I could not remember how we got started in baseball, but my friend assures me that there was a McDonalds promotion offering free baseball tickets to students with straight As. We got the tickets one semester, and so it began. Every chance we had, MB and I were in the stands at a Pittsburgh Pirates baseball game. Those were the years when the Pirates were red hot and included the legendary Roberto Clemente in the line-up. MB’s guy was outfielder Willie Stargell, home run KING. My guy was first baseman, Bob Robertson. He was no wimp at the bat, but he was also no Willie Stargell. I have no idea why I chose Bob Robertson. Maybe because Willie was already taken or because Bob was at first base and I could actually seem him from the cheap seats. But we each had our t-shirts, hers with Willie on the front, mine with Bob. One year we decided to go bold and skip school for the Pirates’ home-opener. On the day of the opener, the worst happened. The game was postponed due to snow! Even with the flames of hell licking at the heels of our saddle shoes, we had no choice…we had to skip school the next day to attend the game. All of this brings me to how I met another of my other-mothers, MB’s mom, Jane. While I would eventually attend Pittsburgh Pirates baseball games with MB and her parents, I first met Jane at an amusement park. Jane was our ride home that day. MB and another friend were detained by long lines, and so I ran ahead to meet MB’s mom and let her know the situation. Though I had never before met Jane, I knew her instantly. Whenever Jane left her home, she was attired according to the rules of propriety and fashion popular in the 1950s, a style that included salon-styled bouffant hair and white gloves. Not hard to spot in a 1970s amusement park. In the years that followed, I spent a lot of time in MB’s home and in the company of her family. Even after MB left Pennsylvania for North Carolina to attend college, I still came by to hang out with MB’s folks. Her dad, Odell, was usually in the living room watching a game of whatever major sport was in season. With elbow resting on the chair, he would raise one long forearm and extend his hand. “Hey, Buffin!” Odell would ask how I was, and then Jane and I would retire to the kitchen table. In her home, Jane was more casual about her dress, often shorts paired with a sleeveless white blouse and always bare feet. I never ceased to marvel at her petite frame. Without shoes and the bouffant hair, she probably came up to my shoulder, but she was a powerhouse, like the key microchip that runs the energy plant. Jane would light a cigarette, and we would get to talking. Jane had wildly expressive eyes and was prone to sudden bursts of laughter that heralded the delivery of a great punch line. She had a mischievous expression when telling stories that kept me on the edge of my chair. I would be breathless and would not have been surprised if she had confessed to being part of a jewelry heist at Tiffany’s. She never seemed old to me. We were both giggling school girls when together at her kitchen table. I adored her. We always had a lot to talk about. I had been around long enough to meet many members of Jane’s family. The ones I hadn’t met, I knew from the family lore. We caught up on births, deaths, marriages, divorces, financial troubles, graduations, and moves. During her working years, I was kept apprised of Jane’s duties at a local branch of an international firm. One story from Jane’s working years became a classic. Ever competent and prepared, Jane decided to teach herself Italian. She wanted to prepare for the arrival of the company’s native Italian big-wigs. These men came to the Pennsylvania office and participated in a meeting with Jane’s boss. At the end of the day, they asked for their coats. In her best Italian, Jane explained that their fur coats were in the toilet which, as you might imagine, stunned the visitors and Jane’s boss. There was a small translation problem in the use of the word “closet.” We have howled about this for years. Jane was good at taking a ribbing, and I became a party to a family joke. Later, I became the center of one of those long-running anecdotes. MB and her folks lived just off a weathered highway that was somewhere between the country and the suburbs. There were a few houses scattered on the hillside with a forking dirt road that made a path to each house. One evening while I was visiting, Jane said it was time to take the trash to the Y. I was puzzled and said so, “Why do you take your trash to the YMCA?” They howled with laughter again. They were talking about the fork in the road not the YMCA! I learned a lot about laughter and taking yourself lightly from my adopted family. Outside of a Keds’ manufacturing plant, Jane owned the world’s largest collection of those white canvas shoes. She was the first woman I knew who loved shoes of every style. Jane also had a most unique clothing inventory system. She recorded every outfit on a white, lined, 3 x 5 index card. Then she proceeded to wear the outfits in the order in which the cards were filed. I had never seen such a system. In my entire life, I’ve never met another woman who actually wore everything she owned and wore it in a precise order. Life moved on and Jane retired to Florida. I moved to Ohio. At first, we kept in good contact. She wrote me a beautiful note when I became engaged to be married. She attended my wedding in Ohio, and then, I visited her on my Florida honeymoon. Five years later, it was in Jane’s Florida home that my infant son rolled over for the first time on the bed in Jane’s spare room. And then everything turned upside down. The demands of life took hold on both ends. It was harder to visit and to stay in touch. Jane departed for the great shoe store in the sky. I still think of her nearly every day. I have her precious daughter as my friend and “sister of the heart” as she calls me now. I have learned that it is easier to be your real self away from your own family drama and in the company of other-mothers. But now that I am a mother of grown-up children, I realize that it was probably easier for my other-mothers to be more themselves with me. They could just enjoy my company. They did not have to worry about shaping my character or paying for college. They did not have to live with regret about life decisions that impacted my future or cross words that they could not take back. Our special “other” relationships were fresh air for each of us. We never know who will grace our homes and our hearts. Life is a meandering path. If my father had not moved us to Pennsylvania…if my mother had not enrolled me in a Catholic girls’ high school…if we hadn’t won those baseball tickets… I don’t know who my other-mother might have been. I am grateful for all of it and for the Ys in the road that led me to Jane. Last night I watched part of a Dateline program about the murder of a young soldier in Kentucky. According to its usual format, the Dateline investigator interviewed members of the victim’s family. No natural or adoptive parents were questioned for this segment. Instead, the mother of the victim’s boyhood friend was interviewed as a surrogate parent. This woman spoke of how she met the victim when he was a boy spending time in her home as a friend to her son. Tearfully, this proxy-mom explained how she had grown to love the young soldier as much as any child born or raised by her. Spending lots of hours in the homes of our friends can lead us to close relationships and family-like ties. In all of those hours together a comfort-level emerges along with a shared history. Sometimes these other families get to know us better than our legal families. Away from our own family dynamics, we can be more our real selves as opposed to the roles into which we are cast in the family drama. This can be especially helpful for children during times of family upheaval or the natural challenges of adolescence. That was certainly so for me. One of my first other-mothers was my Aunt Lillie. She had been a World War II Army nurse serving in Great Britain. She returned home from the war and settled into the family homestead, working in the family businesses and caring for my grandmother who had diabetes. I spent as much of my summer vacation time as possible with my Aunt Lillie in that family home. Even after I was grown and working, I used my vacation days to return to spend time with her. Aunt Lillie was multi-talented. In addition to being a nurse who had seen war, she worked in the family grocery store, helped out at the office of my uncles’ coal business, cooked like a three-star Michelin chef, and crocheted beautiful afghans that covered the backs of the sofa and chairs. One of her daisy afghans still graces my bed. Aunt Lillie also ran a tight ship. She once told me that she kept her home in a certain manner so that if she ever went blind, she could continue to live in the family home without assistance. Lil was also very wise about the family dynamics. One summer day when I was chasing a fly around the backdoor of the kitchen slapping away with a plastic fly swatter, Aunt Lillie, said, “Now don’t get that in the soup, or everyone will want one.” Lil was wise about other things too. The old Army nurse in her would not rest when Lillie required medical treatment herself. During the years she treated for Hodgkin’s Disease and would sometimes be hospitalized for days, Lillie would place a fifty dollar bill underneath her hospital bed to test how well and how often the room was being cleaned. Aunt Lillie once complained about the hospital room rates saying to the staff, “Do you know what kind of room I could get in Las Vegas for these prices?” Aunt Lillie is the one who taught me to keep house and how to make a bed with tight corners. I learned that housekeeping decisions are moral ones. Also, Lillie introduced me to Pepsi-Cola, Johnny Carson, and late-night Gidget and Tammy movies. During the final days of her life, I brought watermelon to her hospital bed. She liked only the “filet,” that smooth, crunchy center with no seeds or pits. Aunt Lillie never married, and she had no children of her own, but she was another mother to the 20 plus nieces and nephews that ran in and out of her doors. I would be only half of who I am were it not for the other-mother for whom I was named. It has been a rich life. I have had other other-mothers. But more about that tomorrow, I have some beds to make. I have come to understand binge watching. It feels good to get caught up on something. Life is a perpetual game of catching up…housework, homework, emails, bills, laundry. No matter how much attention we give to things, there is never enough time or energy to get caught up and stay that way. It is much more fun to crash on the sectional and watch all of the episodes of Mad Men or Grace and Frankie. Ah, to be caught-up on something—that fleeting sense of accomplishment. Better yet to be caught up and have it take nothing out of you. That’s like winning the daily double without buying a ticket! Most of our demands come from the necessities of life. If you don’t pay the rent or mortgage, sooner or later, you will get kicked out of your house. At some point recycling dirty clothes will not pass the sniff test in polite society. Parent-teacher conferences can be time-consuming and discouraging, might as well get that homework completed. A child’s future is a terrible thing to waste. But some to-do lists are entirely self-imposed. For me, the problem presents itself in the various forms of the printed word. I love books, magazines and newspapers. Not counting the books sitting neatly on their shelves, I have books and magazines in every room of my house. In my kitchen there are cookbooks on the counter as well as recipes torn from the newspaper that are held to my freezer door by magnets shaped like fruits. There are books on the table next to the front door to remind me to go to the library and to always have a book with me wherever I go. There are books on the coffee table and on the end table in the living room. In my study, there are books on the desk. Small piles of books are neatly organized on the floor according to their potential usefulness. In my bedroom, there is the novel I keep at my bedside, and the one in the basket of my recumbent exercise bike. Often, there are magazines in the bathroom. If not, I just read the bottom of the tissue box or the label on the shampoo bottle. I try to understand “the science of healthy hair.” (And what is stearamidopropyl dimethylamine?) Why waste time when you can read? That leaves the mobile units. I have to carry a purse with a large enough pocket to hold a book or folded-up magazine. I am a mother. I have spent a lot of my adult years waiting. Mother’s invented the motto, “Be prepared.” The Boy Scouts only borrowed it—from someone’s mother. I also keep reading material in my car in case I finish the book or magazine that is in my purse. From time to time, I wipe the slate clean. I finish every book and article that I started. I then swear on my honor that I will not get involved in more than one book at a time. But it doesn’t last. I have no honor. For me, saying no to a book, is like turning down a great conversation. If you had the chance to meet the people in the books or the ones who wrote them, would you turn it down? Could you? I am terminally curious. I will go to my death asking, "Why?" Books give me new ideas, revelations even. The words in books force me to re-think my old ideas. Books introduce me to new people and experiences I could not otherwise know. Stories offer a chance to feel deeply and to be surprised. From a book I can hold greatness in my hands and feel the call to action. When I am engaging with a writer, I do not have to yell to get a word in edgewise. I hear every word the author says and, in my mind, the author listens to me. When rebuttal is necessary, the author does it firmly but politely. Books balance my view and inform my opinions. Reading widely, I come to see the big picture. From David McCullough and his beautiful books on American history, I feel pride in my citizenship. I read Colson Whitehead and I have a deeper understanding of the unspeakable horrors of slavery. I realize I cannot be an educated citizen without appreciating both stories, both points of view. Both happened. Both are true. I read Where the Crawdad’s Sing, and I am transported to a marsh I likely never will see with my physical eyes. I am mesmerized by the sounds and beauty of that natural world. I can see it all clearly in my mind’s eye; I can hear the crawdad’s sing through the wonder and beauty of the written word. And I wonder how long the beauty of the natural world will be with us. Right now, included in my scattered piles of books, I have professional continuing education materials on mass shooters and murderers, a book on marital therapy, a memoir, another Colson Whitehead book, a book on women writers, and a long text on healthy aging. I hope I live long enough to finish it....Gosh, I have a lot to do today! But first, I think I will call a friend. We have a lot of catching up to do. Tonight I am going to see a production of the Music Man at a local high school. The film version came out when I was a little girl. I can still sing the words to most of the songs—“seventy-six trombones led the big parade,” and “there’s gonna be trouble, right here in River City,” and, of course, there was romance as well as trouble, “I love you madly, madly Marian, Madame Librarian.” The rhythms are irresistible. Every listener becomes a member of the marching band. Music is important to a happy life at any age. It releases dopamine, the pleasure chemical in the brain, improves mood, and helps new learning to stick, but we don’t need to understand the science. Experience tells us that music makes everything better. When I was young and my father was in the military, our family spent many long days traveling from one part of the country to another. My siblings and I saw a lot of the United States from the back of a Rambler station wagon. The interstate highway system did not exist as it does today. Much of the drive between California and Ohio took us through the middle of nowhere. There were no cell phones, iPods, or portable DVD players. There were not even cassette tapes or CDs. Radio reception was infrequent. We had to make our own fun for thousands of miles. My mom was great at keeping us occupied by conducting sing-alongs. The miles flew behind us as we belted out Doris Day hits like Que Sera, “what will I be…handsome or rich…?” And maybe everyone knows that an ant can’t move a rubber tree plant, but we knew otherwise, because, as Frank Sinatra told us, “he had high hopes, high apple-pie in the sky hopes.” We understood that ant because we had high hopes too as we moved from place to place. Fast food restaurants were not a thing back then. There was an occasional Stuckeys, famous for pecan logs and clean restrooms. I still love pecans! Those were special because most of our long journey was fueled by Spam and Premium Saltine Crackers. And we were starved and exhausted from all of that singing! My father enjoyed listening to the radio. He loved Patty Page and The Tennessee Waltz about a stolen sweetheart. I once caught my mother jammin’ in the kitchen to the Fifth Dimension singing Up, Up and Away. In my Aunt Addie’s house the stereo played while we made Christmas cookies in the next room. Addie loved Frank Sinatra who made us all love New York. Barbra Streisand was also on Aunt Addie’s play list. In later years, I introduced my aunt to Smokey Robinson and the Miracles. As I inched along in life, I became a devoted fan of everything Motown. When I was eleven, I got a portable eight-track tape player and a few Motown tapes. That was the best Christmas ever! Wish I still had that thing. Through my teen years, I grew a large collection of vinyl 33 LPs and listened to music up in my room, trying to teach myself how to play the songs on my guitar. As an adult, music continued to provide fuel for my trips here and there and energized my morning shower, beginning my day with a dose of joy. When my first child was born, a friend gave us a cassette tape, the Lullabies of Broadway. The beautiful music mostly comforted her father and I during long sleepless nights with a screaming baby, “nothing can harm you, not while I’m around.” The cassette tape wore out a long time ago, but I have a newer version. I continue to listen to the songs and relive that precious time when I was a new mom soothing a sweet baby. Later, that baby girl grew up to love music and introduced me to new songs and artists. One day in a card shop I heard a new voice singing old Frank Sinatra hits. I asked my daughter who was singing. She told me about a new star named Michael Buble. I’ve been to two of his concerts since that day. I love that he brought back the old music our parents loved and made it new for another generation. My son was the one who introduced me to Luther Vandross and the aching words of Dance with My Father Again, and "a house is not home if there is no one there to hold you tight..." My brother died suddenly in his sleep at the age of 37. The music of Dan Fogelberg brings my brother back to me. My brother introduced me to Fogelberg and The Innocent Age album. The music is so soulful and the lyrics so beautiful such a when he sings about his father’s “thundering velvet hand,” or “longer than there’ve been fishes in the ocean, …I’ve been in love with you.” I enjoy the voices of my favorite singers, but I also appreciate the voices of the instruments themselves, voices that can both reflect and change my mood. Sometimes I need a quiet piano, while other times I need the lively horns, or the heartbeat of percussion. Music enlivens and it comforts. And I love, love, love the earnest, joyful voices of children. Kindergartners are all rock stars! I appreciate the image that heaven will be filled with trumpets and horns and choirs of angels. How could a place be heaven without music? When it is my time, sing me home! I won’t be surprised if the angels look like Diana Ross and the Supremes, “Stop! In the name of love,” they will sing at the gate. Even if I’m wrong about who the headliners will be, I know one thing for sure--heaven has a hell of a band. The Righteous Brothers told me so. Often at the end of a news day, I find myself with the urge to weep. On those days, the world seems so dark, behavior so deplorable. On one such day, I confided in a friend about my emotions. She reminded me that we have lived through other dark times. I reflected on all of the years of my life. Indeed, we have lived through other dark times. There was the war in Vietnam and battles for civil rights, women’s rights, rights of the disabled. Young people were down on the establishment. A president was impeached for campaign shenanigans. HIV and AIDS, 09/11, Ebola…In the live action drama, the list of things that can go wrong is endless. In the still life of memory, everything turns out okay. It was a better time, we say. We long for the good old days. But the thing that makes the good old days good, is that they are over. Done. Finished. Complete. We know how that story ended. We can identify the villains and lay claim to the heroes. All of the story tellers may not have lived happily ever after, but they did live to tell about it. And with time and telling, they developed perspective. Things turned out okay. The worst that was in us fades from memory, while we glorify that which was best. The best that was in us is what stands the test of time. A revisionist history? Perhaps. The emergence of the coronavirus has us all worried. Right wing, left wing, center, we are all the same in this. The people we normally turn to for answers and for cures are as vulnerable as the rest of us. Uncertainty is the worst of feelings. Do we go left? Go right? Stop or keep marching? We don’t know how this story will end. Some days it feels as though we have been sucked into a science fiction novel where we are being transported to the dark past. We have visions of the plague. Though we don’t really know what that was like, we imagine the middle ages with bodies piled high on the streets. We forget that in other parts of the world, these types of diseases still ravage communities. We thought we lived in a better zip code, a more advanced time where and when these things don’t happen, but we are forced to face the fact that the world is now all one giant neighborhood. Mother Nature still keeps secrets. As I watched the news reporting on the coronavirus last evening, I thought about my mother and her brother, Toni. Both survived polio. My mother went on to re-visit her memories of that experience as she aged and struggled with post-polio syndrome. I try to imagine what a time it was, that period before the polio vaccine--the paralysis, death, disability, the fear that hounded people day and night for years. How the summer months we think of as a time of relaxation became a time of terror for families. Polio was a scourge on every land. Even a president was affected. FDR’s legs were paralyzed. Though he did his best to conceal his use of a wheelchair, it was from a wheel chair that he led us out of the Great Depression and through WWII. In his 1933 inaugural address, FDR was the one who said, “The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.” That story concluded with the end of the Great Depression. World War II ended as well. A vaccine was found for polio, and in the process people exhibited ingenuity and generosity. The March of Dimes was founded and went on to do many noble deeds in the world. When we look back, were those good old days? What should our individual and collective response be in times like these? Will fear reduce us to our worst selves? Will denial bring forth our most careless selves? Can we choose the selves we will become? History has shown that even through our tears, we are capable of harnessing our fear as fuel. Through calm, thoughtful, and deliberate collective action, extraordinary things can happen. At the end of the news day, when I am inclined to weep, I will try to think, instead, of the good old days. “The devil made me do it.” That was a line made famous by the comedian Flip Wilson. Another of Wilson’s personas was the Reverend Leroy of the Church of What’s Happening Now. When Reverend Leroy got to preachin’, it “wasn’t about how it used to be or how it’s gonna be in the future,” it was about NOW. So here’s what’s happening now. It is early March. As we prepare to spring ahead into daylight savings time, another fresh beginning, we become painfully aware of all of those resolutions we made on January 1st, all those behaviors we meant to change, do, or give up. My mother, like all parents, had a handful of often repeated expressions. Of course, there was the universal classic, “I hope you have ten children just like you!” But the one that is most memorable and frequently rings in my ears to this day is “the road to hell is paved with good intentions.” As a child this warning was conveyed to me at times when I whined, “But I didn’t mean to…” Perhaps I left the lid off a jar and the contents dried out, or I let the pot on the stove boil dry while I talked to a friend on the phone. Sometimes I was guilty of “meaning to,” like I meant to empty the dishwasher before dinner, but I forgot. Each time my mother would invoke the warning of eternal damnation. With so many youthful transgressions, I was surely parked outside the gates of hell by the time I was ten. No wonder adult life is so hard! Do any of us really intend to wreck our health or our finances? Let our homes and personal spaces deteriorate? Let down the people we love? The devil makes us do it; he gets us with a fatal dose of false optimism. The devil doesn’t hold out an apple. Heck, that could lead to healthy eating habits. No, the devil holds out the promise of LATER. We’ll get started tomorrow. Next year, we’ll take that trip or enroll in those classes. I am convinced that the devil’s day job is in marketing. He fills our heads with fancy advertising and new products. The devil convinces us that the road to our personal salvation is merely a matter of the right equipment. If I just had the right baskets, I could really get this place cleaned up and organized. My own treadmill would resolve the exercise deficit in my life. So we schedule future dates, and we buy stuff. All the while, the devil is licking his chops. The NOW is filled with a lot of repetition and drudgery. “Just do it” says the fancy advertising. If only I had the right shoes, maybe I could… If my mother was right, the line into heaven will be fast moving. Those will be the folks who acted on all of their good intentions. Per her predictions, I’ll be in the longer, slower-moving line waiting patiently as each soul ahead of me explains all of the things they meant to do… I did get away with one thing though…I did not have ten children just like me. But, then again, I did not intend to. |
AuthorLilli-ann Buffin Archives
April 2024
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