sometimes it's just about the shoes

Last summer, I bought my younger daughter, Samantha (now age 7), a pair of hot pink cowgirl boots for "back to school" shoes. On the Sunday before Labor Day, she carefully laid out her outfit for the first day, and tried on the boots. Alas, her feet had grown over the summer and they were tight. "I'll exchange them on Tuesday," I said, knowing that there were many more pairs at Target (pronounced, in our family, as Tarjey). "But I want to wear them on the first day," she said, dolefully. "But they're too small now, and if you wear them, I won't be able to exchange them," I replied. "But I'll have the worst day ever if I can't wear them," she wailed. Seeing a "teaching opportunity," I said: "Just imagine that you did wear them on the first day. How would you feel," I asked. "Great," she replied. "Now imagine that on the way to school, you stepped in a big puddle and your shoes got all muddy. Then how would you feel?" "Upset," she said. "But then when you got to school, you found some paper towels and were able to clean them off so they looked good as new. Then how would you feel." "Happy again," she answered, beginning to grow impatient. "But then, during art, someone spilled paint on them. Now how would you feel?" "Angry," she said. "And I'm feeling angry now -- mom -- what is the point?" I explained, "I'm trying to show you that depending on the boots to make you happy isn't going to work. Your happiness has to come from inside, and it comes from being nice to other people." She moaned. Looking at me with a combination of barely surpressed frustration and pity, she shook her head and said, "Mom, you don't get it. Sometimes it's just about the shoes."

She Loves Me!

On Wednesday night, after being home from the hospital for a while, my older daughter Mariel called me from Equador to see how the surgery went. Her group (she's there with Global Works) was on its way to dig irrigation ditches in the countryside, and the bus stopped at a gas station to re-fuel. I was so touched that she remembered that my operation was on that day. I don't think that I, at 17, would have remembered my mom having an operation. "She loves me," I thought, feeling blessed to have such a caring daughter. I gave thanks to her goodness, as well as compassion to my mom, who I have so often let fall out of my peripheral vision.

The Emptiness of Surgery

I had surgery on my rotator cuff on Wednesday. Through the admissions and waiting, I held tight to a small brass statue of the Buddha. Why? Because, as my holy teacher Kelly has said, in times of adversity, hold fast to karma and emptiness. Holding on to this small statue, which fit so nicely in the palm of my hand, helped me hold on to these two concepts. What does this mean? I held on to the idea that my karma -- the seeds I have planted by how I have treated others -- are what caused me to be in the hospital at that moment, and what caused me to have pain in my right shoulder to such an extent that I was willing to have surgery. The teachings advise me that by not taking care of others, I planted the seeds to have this injury. Lest this seem harsh, the teachings also advise me that by taking care of others, I planted the seeds to be covered by health insurance; to live in a world where this surgery is available; to have a caring husband and supportive family to help through healing; and to have the possibility of full use of my right shoulder.

After I woke up from the general anesthesia (not pleasant, I assure you), I held on to emptiness: the emptiness of my pain (after all, wouldn't I gladly have this pain rather than see someone else suffer through it?); the idea that this pain was the first step towards regaining full use of my shoulder; the idea that this pain is nothing compared to what people all over the world suffer; the knowledge that this pain was nothing more than millions of sensations which, in and of themselves, were not so bad. This is not to say that the pain was not real, and that I did not sink into self-pity from time to time, but holding this small statue helped remind me of the bigger picture -- all I have to be grateful for, and all I have to look forward to.

As the Trees Bear Witness

There comes a moment each summer when I feel connected to all who came before me and those who are no longer. The moment came last weekend when I sat with Samy on the bench called "Marvin's Gardens," while she read me a story. The book, "Morris the Moose Goes to School," is one of those beloved books we leave in our bungalow over the winter, and re-discover with delight the next summer. As Samy gleefully recalled her favorite parts, a breeze ruffled her hair and fluttered the pages. The peaceful, bucolic setting sent a comforting wash of contentment over me. "Marvin would really be pleased about this spot," I thought, recalling the long, dapper mand with the ready smile for whom the bench was named. As I looked across the lake, my gaze swept the trees, tall and magestic, that have born witness to so many generations. I felt them looking back at me, and saw the grassy spot where I sat transform into the beach it once was. I heard the kind, warm voice of my grandfather, telling me, as he did each summer, "once upon a time, the beach was right here, in front of the Social Hall." I saw him as a young man, nuzzling my grandmother as they sat in their circle of friends. I felt their joy and pleasure at all that Pine Lake has been and continues to be for eeveryone who summers here. I felt their happiness that I sat there, reading stories with my daughter, as my parents once did with me. She is a child of Pine Lake, as am I. No matter where we go, and what we do, our roots are here, like the tall trees that bear witness, and always will.

Before, After and Now

I almost never like pictures of myself at the time they are taken. The "me" that looks out of my eyes is in many ways the "me" from photos taken in high school and college, but with all of the wisdom of the 20 years since then. So I am always taken by surprise with the crinkles, wrinkles, and chronic fatigue that I see in new photos. I've noticed, however, that when I look at a photo from a few years ago, I like it a lot more than I did when it was taken. I think, "boy, I looked really good back then. How come I didn't realize it at the time?" And come to think of it, I wasn't that happy with myself in high school and college anyway -- always wishing I were a little thinner, a lot taller, that my hair was straighter, my waist smaller .... So maybe the trick is to always look at photos with the eyes of my future self. Because then, in hindsight, I'll look pretty damn good.