Sunday Meditation: Pearls in my Soup
Not a typical week. Highlights:
Meds tweaked. The good, the bad and the ugly: Hot-needle stabbing pain in my feet muffled substantially. Side effects? Yup. I’m weepy. Paranoid. Emotionally erratic. Plus, potassium down. Must take an additional football-sized, chalky-tasting pill each day (total, 3). Yuk.
Anniversary of Dad’s birthday: He died in ’79 at age 59. We weren't close when I was young, but I loved and respected him. Strong silent type: Like John Wayne. Construction worker. Handyman around the house. Eighth-grade education—but smart, wise and talented. Tough for him to have a son who liked poetry, read books and wanted to be a rock ’n’ roll star—but, when he got older, Dad read every story I wrote for The Tampa Tribune. That meant much to me.
Anniversary of Mom’s death: We were much too alike to really like each other, but we had some spectacularly interesting fights. Getting her approval was my Holy Grail, but I managed to disappoint her in every way possible. (I assume in Heaven we’ll get along just fine; I’d like that.)
Wife’s birthday: Love at first sight. She’s still the cutest person I know. Smart, too. That she puts up with me is one of my life's great blessings. Super Mom. Hard worker. Gentle and kind soul. Faithful companion. (Only mistake she ever made was marrying me.)
Plus other stuff . . .
To summarize: Bumpy-lumpy week, causing me to spend more time in the Bible than usual and much more time in prayer. The verse most helpful: Proverbs 3:5-6 (“Trust in the Lord with all thine heart, and lean not unto thine own understanding. In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths.”)
Sometimes ya gotta jump out of the plane and trust your chute will open; it did this week—thank God for that.
Sunday Meditation: Puppies, Lambs & God
Mercedes (a.k.a. Mercy) became a member of the Lamb family three years ago this week. She’s three-quarters Labrador Retriever, one-quarter Beagle. I named her after the German car because I’d always wanted a black Mercedes but couldn’t afford one.
Mercy has been a great dog: Barking aggressive and loud when someone’s at the door, going to the bathroom outside, and generally being well-mannered.
We’d had two Chihuahuas prior to Mercedes: Rio, who died of old age, and Coco (his son) who was eaten by an alligator. (Such are the hazards of Florida living.)
I like having pets, though my luck with cats has been better than my luck with dogs; Mercy is the exception.
Pet lovers know what I mean when I say Mercedes is a member of the family: Getting up with my wife and I early in morning, lazing around the house during the day, snuggling on the sofa at night, chasing balls, shoes, and squeaky toys at inappropriate intervals along the way.
In my mind’s eye, I sometimes project my relationship with God along the lines of how I relate to Mercedes. Since my last name is Lamb, you can guess how that plays out:
“The Lord is my Shepherd.”
Shepherds care for sheep, leading them to green pastures, so they can eat; making them lie down, so they can digest their food; protecting them from wolves, panthers, hyenas, and jackals, because lambs are ill-equipped to protect themselves; leading them beside still waters—because sheep are notoriously skittish around fast-moving streams/rivers, fearing they’ll get water-logged and drown.
I don’t know why Mercedes hangs around our house. For food? Perhaps. The occasional back-scratch? Of course. The playful tossing of toys? Maybe. But I like to think it’s because Mercy knows she’s loved—and that’s probably the reason I hang around with God, as well.
Perfectly Poetic Pets
Lizzy stands on my keyboard,
Bored.
Stormy bites the hand,
That feeds her.
Mercy rests at my feet,
Waitin’ for treats.
Joanna Newsom’s "Sapokanikan"
Plays in the background.
Two coffee cups into the morning,
I’m ready to write
Right.
About time.
Literally.
Figuratively.
Ready to write:
Tap-tap, tap-tap, tap-tap …
Enemies with Good Intentions
5-6 years ago, I used to live in a shitty apartment between unsteady relationships and working. On the first floor, I had a tiny garden in the back surrounded by walls and other buildings. And a boyfriend who knew about gardening a little, he helped me make a little garden. Just flowers and some fruit trees. He kept saying there wasn't enough space for a tree but I wanted anyway. I wasn't even going to be there in a year or two. Until then, I wanted to grow something. When we broke up, I thanked him for the garden. He told me to take care of it.
I don't smoke. I never smoked in my life. But I loved going out to that garden every night. Being there made me feel alone but surrounded with people, just what I needed. I could hear early sleepers snoring, TV noises, teenagers yelling their parents, people having sex. In the weekends, I'd mostly hear the lady living upstairs reading words, repeating, trying to spell them right.
One Saturday morning, she threw the book to my garden while I was listening to music. She pointed a line in the book she held. I got up and took the book, a first grade reading exercise book. She was reading it to me, asking me if she was pronouncing the words correctly. I corrected some of the words. She kept reading, I kept reading back and correcting. She thanked me and said she needed to cook, she left the book with me.
Next weekend, I was reading in the garden when she asked me if we could read again. I said yes, she kept reading, I kept reading back. Then she asked me "Where is the boy?" Their balcony could see nothing but my garden, I wasn't surprised that she noticed there was a guy and now he was gone. I told her that he needed to go. She asked me my age and why I was alone. I said 27 but couldn't answer the other question. She smoked, she smoked all the time. She told me she never learned reading. Her family didn't bother sending her to school, she got married when she was 15, travelled to a big city she didn't know with a grumpy old husband. Already 2 kids when she was just 18. I had nothing to say when she asked me why I was alone. She never knew how being alone felt like. I'm sure she would've liked it. She gave me a piece of cake she baked.
Next weekend, we read more. She was getting much better. She asked me if the boy was coming back. Women like her, women like my mom, people in my culture... They're always worried about lonely women. They never want women to be alone. They never say it to you directly but they'll keep asking. They'll never ask if you're happy but they'll ask if you have a man, if you'll have a man. Or if you had a man. You can't be angry at them for worrying about you, for hiding "you're old, you should have a man before it's too late or none will have you" in their questions. I could almost hear that but I smiled, said he wasn't coming back and I was ok. I couldn't ask her if she was happy. This culture teaches you to smile and nod even if they rub salt in your wounds. You learn to love the ones who judge you. You become the master of smiling, nodding to their worried questions mixed with judgement and doing what you want to do. In the end, she didn't know any better.
Most weekends, we read together. In a few months, she started reading short stories. I gifted her a La Fontaine book, wrapped and put it in her basket when she gave me stuffed grape leaves. She would ask the same question in different ways. This time it was loneliness. She always said that they were upstairs if I needed anything. To her, I wasn't whole. I had missing parts and she was offering help for me to be whole. I said thank you, once again like a good single woman. She asked "Aren't you scared of being alone?"
I said "it's quiet."
Suck it up, Buttercup
Tell me why
honey, cry on my shoulder
I'm here for you
don't worry, it's true
now toughen up
life is hard, we knew
I don't have it easy
and neither should you
so cry out those thoughts
come out of the blue
they say suck it up, buttercup
that's what you need to do
stay strong
and know
I'll stay beside you
and the demons I'll shoo
I love you, it's true.❋
