Tag: Reflections

When I’m 64

Published on by Marilyn6 Comments

Would you indulge me as I reflect and cry a little in this space?

I turn 64 tomorrow. Depending on where you live in the world, it means I’ve either far exceeded the life expectancy, or I have many years to go. Either way, I’m feeling and thinking about many things.

I think it began this morning as I listened to beloved children’s musician Raffi sing “Everything Grows and Grows.” 

Everything grows and grows
Babies do, animals too
Everything grows
Everything grows and grows
Sisters do, brothers too
Everything grows

This song is one of my favorites and as I was listening to it the tears came unbidden, and I let them. I had just finished scheduling some medical appointments online and my body’s frailty despite fairly good health was on my mind. We are immortal beings living in mortal bodies – bodies that face all sorts of indecencies and difficulties. From ingrown toenails to brain tumors, we groan and sometimes lose hope. At 64, the “to do” list on our electronic medical charts gets longer and makes us face reality – our bodies are aging. With this, we know we have some decisions to make, and a number of those have to do with acceptance and attitude. I don’t want to be someone who gives everyone around me an “organ recital” as I age. I don’t want to hate my body or blame the God who created me, and yet I see how easily it may be to go down that dangerous path.

I want to accept my 64 years and what they have brought and taught me with joy, gratitude, and a healthy dose of humor. Because let’s face it – the aging body and process can be funny. Perhaps the funniest is that you see yourself as 24 and all your 64-year-old friends as – well, maybe 84. You can’t believe how much they’ve aged! You pat yourself on the back and then you catch a reflected version of yourself in the blackout windows of the car and you clutch your heart thinking “I thought Grandma K was dead! What’s she doing in my car?!” You think about how you should maybe take an exercise class, get rid of some of those unsightly bulges – and then you think “Nah! I look pretty good. Pass the cinnamon roll.”

Getting older is almost like changing species, from cute middle-aged, white-tailed deer, to yak. We are both grass eaters, but that’s about the only similarity. At the Safeway sushi bar during lunchtime, I look at the teenage girls in their crop tops with their stupid flat tummies and I feel bad about what lies beneath my big, forgiving shirts but — and this is one of the blessings of aging — not for long.

Ann Lamott as quoted in The Washington Post

The physical piece is just the beginning. The harder piece is emotional, for in a society that loves beauty and youth, it is easy to feel irrelevant. It comes through subtly and consistently. Unless you’re famous, like Ann Lamott, your life experience, earned fact as it were, is not seen as important or relevant to our fast-paced world. When at a public event, you can see the eyes of younger people look over or through you. There are surely more interesting people in the room to talk to. You want to connect with people, but do they want to connect with you?

Ready to inhale a massive dose of self-pity, you suddenly stop yourself and think: Hold on! It isn’t about me. Life just isn’t. It’s about something so much bigger, better, and more lasting. It’s about loving well the generations that will follow me. It’s about making sure they know that they are beloved, that they are precious. It’s about showing grace even when faced with those who are not gracious. It is about forgiving when you feel misunderstood and hurt, about forgiving when you are not being forgiven.

What do I want 64 to look like beyond medical appointments and fear? Beyond irrelevance and unsightly bulges?

I want it to be a year of peace and joy, of smiling at the future. I want to invest in my kids and my grandkids – another coming our way in May. I want to love them with abandon. I want to see more of my girlfriends, to go out to breakfast and right the world. At our age, we should be able to. I want to learn how to decorate cakes and become a better communicator. I want to write words that are full of life and grace, that point the reader to something bigger and better than me. I want to walk through crowded bazaars in places I love and drink coffee in unexpected coffee shops. I want to go to a Bollywood exercise class and laugh at my mistakes. I want to love others well. I want to grow more compassionate and meet the unexpected hard things without fear. I want to honor the struggle – mine and others. Most of all, I want others to see the God I love, to witness his work and love his world.

64. It’s a lot of me and a lot of life. Will you journey with me on this? I sure hope so!

Peeling Pomegranates in Rania

Published on by Marilyn6 Comments

pomegranate

I wake to a sun-filled room in Kurdistan. It is Friday and we have slept late, still catching up from hours of lost sleep in the last couple weeks of packing and moving. Friday begins our weekend in this part of the world, and the mosque behind our apartment reminds us that it is a day of worship and rest for Muslims.

Our kitchen is mostly set up and I quickly navigate it, the unfamiliar space already showing signs of home.

We have enjoyed extravagant hospitality and I have not yet had to cook a full meal. This is extraordinary. I know visitors to the United States who have never been invited to an American’s home, yet every night we have been invited to enjoy amazing food, laughter, and conversation.

I head to the refrigerator. A bag of fruit was kindly purchased for us before we arrived. I look inside and pull out a small, perfect pomegranate.

Without a thought I cut it in half and begin peeling it. Peeling pomegranates is a skill I have had since I was a child and we would put fresh pomegranate seeds into fruit salad. It’s one of those invisible skills, seemingly unimportant. But once you begin to do it again, it feels like a gift from the past.

I chop it across the middle and all the seeds are intact. I slowly pull back and peel off the thin membrane, popping dozens of seeds into the bowl. The sun shines on my face, the work feels holy and reverent, peeling a pomegranate and popping the bright, red seeds into a bowl. As I peel I think about culture, about the past and the present converging together in a pomegranate. Most TCKs acquire skills that are useful in their childhood but often end up as hidden parts of their lives when they are older and living in their passport countries. Suddenly this ability to peel pomegranates feels important. Growing up in Pakistan and acquiring the skills that were not needed in the U.S. has uniquely prepared me for living here.

I think of the rich fruit, full of antioxidants, bright red, vitamin C laden – a gift to food, like different cultures are a gift to life.

I think about God and his creation – from pomegranates to people, his stamp on all of it. The beauty and wonder of peeling a pomegranate and the beauty and wonder of learning about a new culture intertwine in my kitchen in bright red seeds of hope.

Because I am who I am, and culture is what it is, there may soon come a day when all this doesn’t feel as wonderful; where culture clashes and peeling pomegranates feels like hard, hard work. But today I am not there. Today I feel hope and beauty in this act.

The pomegranate is ready and I add it to our fruit salad, an extravagant addition of memories, grace, and hope.

An End of the Year Reflection on the Page Called ‘Today’

Published on by Marilyn2 Comments

I’m looking out on a grey sky and freezing temperatures. Ice clings to branches and fences, winter embedded firmly in the outside world. We have been in Quebec City the last few days, a quick and delightful trip across an international border to what is arguably the most charming city in North America. Last night we got home to a cold house, a house bereft of light and warmth.

Quebec City was dressed in its holiday best, with lights sparkling off outdoor Christmas trees, and every window in shops and restaurants decorated with beautiful ornaments, lights, and greenery. Coming home I work to infuse the joy of yesterday into the melancholy of today.

Today marks the end of 2017. Tomorrow comes and brings with it a new year.

The end of the year brings out the melancholy in me, and I reflect as I sit by a still present and ever-lovely Christmas tree.

There are so many things I did not know as I began 2017. I did not know last year that my father would die in October. I did not know that I would face challenges as a mom and daughter that broke my heart and confused my brain. I did not know that I would watch friends across the world who have been in refugee camps get married and begin new lives. I did not know all the times I would laugh so hard it hurt or cry so hard that there were no more tears. I did not know that I would read new words, write new essays, make new friends, and hold tightly to old ones. I did not know the words that I would say that would hurt, and the other words I would say that would encourage.

I did not know that I would learn more about the difference between hope and expectations; that confusing the two can be dangerous and disappointing. I did not know that I would learn that you don’t quit living when someone you love dies; that instead you love harder and fight for what is lovely and good and true and right.

But if any one epiphany stands out from this past year, it is this: Faith isn’t about a particular outcome; rather, it’s about full confidence in one who already knows the outcome. It’s about trusting in the character of God as one who is good; as one who loves to give good gifts to his creation. Faith is belief that there is one who holds us when we can’t stand, who hears our tears when no one else is listening, and who whispers “I am with you” when all around us are asleep.

We don’t know, we can’t know, at the beginning of each year what will follow.  It’s a bit like picking up a new book, one that we have read no reviews on, one whose cover looked interesting but that’s all we have. We pick it up and we begin to read. We enter into a story. All we have is the page that is open, the page that is today. There is no page called tomorrow.

We enter the story in faith on that page called ‘today’. We enter and begin a rhythm that takes us from minutes to hours; from hours to days; from days to months; from months to seasons; from seasons to years with faith interwoven through all of it.

So today, as we close out 2017, I challenge us to walk in the faith of today. It’s all we can do, and it is enough.

“You mustn’t wish for another life. You mustn’t want to be somebody else. What you must do is this:
“Rejoice evermore. 
Pray without ceasing.
In everything give thanks.” 
I am not all the way capable of so much, but those are the right instructions.”*

*― Wendell Berry, Hannah Coulter

Sometimes What I Write is Just Dunderheaded

Published on by Marilyn8 Comments

Sometimes what I write is just Dunderheaded by Robynn. You can follow Robynn on Twitter

dunderheaded

As many of our readers know, this has been a difficult season for me. And now I find myself in that horrid spot of endless transition. We are moving but we’re not entirely sure when. The closing date on our new place hasn’t yet been established. Once we do close we’ll need to rustle us up some electricians, plumbers, wall paper strippers, painters, kitchen tweakers. Once that work is done we can set a date to move in. Thankfully we have willing friends and family that will descend on us from all corners to generously lend a hand. This move will happen.  Eventually we will be settled again in that new house.

In this dark no man’s land of transition and waiting I’m experiencing all manner of angst. I have sadness at the prospects of leaving our little blue house. I’m excited to move into a new space. I have virtually had to step back from everything in order to cope with all the changes. Most of those things will not be re-engaged. This next chapter includes becoming my mother-in-law’s primary care-giver. I will need to be at home more. I will need to move at a slower pace. My capacities have shrunk significantly as I’ve struggled to manage the place our extended family is at after the sudden death of my father in law two months ago. I can’t do as much. I’m distracted. I’m managing emotions and stability and decisions and details.  I’ve dropped all manner of the balls I was juggling. Some of those balls I’ve kicked under couches; some I’ve shoved under piles of papers; some I can’t even remember ever having had!

One of my friends is about to publish a book. I was highly honoured to be asked to write up an endorsement for the book. I dedicated time to it. It was one thing, outside of my things, that I was determined to preserve. I refused to drop this one. Somehow in all of the shuffle I wasn’t given a specific deadline. Imagine my shock and profound sadness to realize I hadn’t made it in time. The book is coming out and I will not be endorsing it. I cried. I was so upset. I sobbed. I felt so sad that I had missed out on this way to bless my friend. I felt angry at the miscommunication. I felt devastated that I had disappointed my friend.

Mostly I felt, what I’ve suspected is true, that I’m slowly disappearing.

This morning I woke early and was working on some writing. The house is yet quiet. The cool night air breezes by as I sit near an open window. Distracted, I started poking around in a file I have on this computer labeled, “Robynn’s Writing Blog”. I started reading some of my old pieces.

I read in one piece I published in March 2013, Boxes, that I found it particularly comforting to know that the boxes that I’m not currently rummaging through haven’t disappeared. They’re not gone forever. My dreams and plans, my longings to travel, the things I want to try my hand at—those are kept for another day, another season.  Robynn hasn’t been shelved…just some of my boxes are pushed to the back for now.

That’s dumb! I’m surrounded by literal boxes just now. I’m not even sure that metaphor works.

In a different article entitled The Gifts of Loneliness I wrote, Loneliness highlights my need. She gives me my emptiness. This is a good thing.

Seriously, Robynn?  A “good thing”?? What a heartlessly stupid thing to say!

But somehow it helped that I had already given God permission to embarrass me. I had let him off the hook. I said it’s ok for You to do things Your way. You are God. You can be in charge. I felt more relaxed. I felt my faith increase. Prayer is a vulnerable thing. Asking for prayer is risky. Letting God do His thing meant I could stand back. I didn’t feel the need to explain Him away, or defend Him in anyway.  God is God. He can be Weird and Wild; Awesome and at times, Awkward  (from Giving God Permission).

That’s just crazy talk!

Some of the stuff I’ve written is ridiculous.

Or it reads that way, when I’m knee deep in change and chaos. When I stop the sentences mid-paragraph and say them out loud they sound overly simplified and trite. I shake my head, embarrassed. Some of the stuff I’ve written is dumb!

However, when I let the paragraphs have their way, when I let the thoughts come to a close, when I remember the realizations, the end of the story, the resolutions, there’s some good stuff hidden in the blogs. It’s helpful to remember lessons I’ve learned. It gives me hope to see other difficult spots I’ve stopped in and then to see the ways I was gently led through. It’s heartening to see the greater context. Read the sentences within the paragraphs. Read the paragraphs within the blog posts. Read blog pieces within the greater context of Communicating Across Boundaries. There are bigger things at work. There is a higher source for hope and help.

And my friend forgave me for not getting my endorsement in on time. She entered my pain and penned me a precious message which included this, “You are not disappearing – I won’t let you disappear.”

I’m sorry if what we write here ever comes off as dumb, insignificant, overly simplified, dunderheaded. Keep reading. Read to the end of the piece. Read to the end of your paragraph, your chapter, your current story. See if any of it makes sense in the Broader Context. I think sometimes hope hides in the bigger picture. Hunt for it. But maybe wait for the end of the moment; the break in the story. 

What about you? Have you ever said or penned thoughts that you think back on and say – now that was just dunderheaded? But is it still dumb at the end of the story?