Body Language

Mikhail Baryshnikov said, “When a body moves, it’s the most revealing thing. Dance for me a minute and I’ll tell you who you are.”

Pelicans

Beyond the surfboard painted with brown sea turtles, beyond the Starbucks mermaid, beyond round sea grape leaves and pointy palm leaves bobbing in the ocean breeze, pelicans sun.

Miracle Cure for Valentine's Day Blues

Greeting card aisles of Walgreens … Walmart … Hallmark can be fun a week before Valentine’s Day. Or they can be heart-piercingly painful.

 

·         “Happy Valentine’s Day to the best mother a girl could ever ask for,” purrs a sweet tabby cat extending a pawful of daisies. Trouble is, your mother hasn’t had time for you, really, your whole life. You reach in your purse for a tissue to dab at your eyes.

·         “A mother couldn’t ask for a sweeter, more devoted daughter” says lovely script on a lace ribbon flowing round a bouquet of pink roses. Yeah, right. Your lungs tighten as you picture your daughter’s beautiful face contorting as she snarls cynical opinions at you.

·         “Happy Valentine’s Day to my soul mate.” These words form a heart shape around silhouettes of a couple embracing. By now you’re sobbing so much, you can barely see through the tears, but why bother looking for a different card for your husband? They’ll all be gushy in ways your husband doesn’t live up to.

Over the decades, that woman crying in the card aisles has been me on many occasions. Who doesn’t have relational disappointments? My goodness, who hasn’t been disappointed in me? I know this is part of life. I process disappointments, usually in a healthy manner, as they surface. And I can give grace to loved ones who have distanced themselves from me. But choosing greeting cards still seems especially painful sometimes. Maybe holidays happen before I’ve worked through my latest disappointment, I don’t know.

I’d like to share a secret for choosing loving cards when you’re in the throes of heartache; it is nothing short of a miracle. Twenty-five years ago, when I was a new Christian and still had so many broken relationships, I shed many tears in greeting card aisles. So many loving, admiring words on those cards, and I just didn’t feel them. It seemed wrong to let Hallmark lie for me. One time though, God prompted me to buy a card that expressed my deepest prayer for the recipient. I did, and when the person read the card, I saw her face soften and her heart blossom right before my eyes. For weeks afterward, she thanked me for the lovely card. I couldn't believe it. Before the next card-giving occasion, I chose a card that said even more loving things to her, based on my hopes presented to the Lord. It, too, became a healing balm.

I have followed that divine prompting ever since, always with the same results. This leading from the Lord has helped me accept and love “difficult” people as they are, give my wishes for the person to the Lord where they belong, and even articulate my prayers for the person. Most importantly, God helped me bless these people with words that express how He sees them. In so doing, we drew closer to each other.

Try this miracle cure for Valentine’s Day blues!

Ya Gotta Laugh

So it’s been a stressful week. I mean, really stressful. Mom in ICU, four days later blood counts too low to release her, no solution in sight. My days are dizzying: Visit Mom, try to remember what three nurses and two doctors said and all their names, decipher nursespeak like FFP and POA, determine which cellphone in the room is ringing, pick up sister from train, pick up Mom’s mail, visit Dad at nursing home, e-mail updates to family … you get the picture.

People use the word zoo to describe weeks like this, though every zoo I’ve ever been to is a sea of tranquility compared with this. An elephant languidly swinging its trunk and emitting the occasional bellow? Yes, much calmer than nurses, aides, orderlies, and doctors madly sprinting past each other, then sliding to Mom’s bedside for an earnest heart-to-heart. Mid-sentence, they fumble in their vibrating pocket to grab the cellphone whose ring has been programmed to ironically mellow Yanni-like keyboard riffs. Then they dash off, phone plastered to ear. I can’t help but think of scenes from the Jim Carrey movie Mr. Popper’s Penguins: Flippers flapping, penguins speedily slip-sliding on wet hallway floors.

Which brings me to Dad’s Alzheimer’s unit. Believe me, I mean no offense to dear folks with Alzheimer’s, but my visit to Dad right after the ICU zoo, struck me as funny. Their bubbly activities director had lined up some folks in wheelchairs in the sunroom to watch the Doris Day movie Please Don’t Eat the Daisies.  While Doris Day’s four mischievous boys dropped water balloons out a second-story window onto pedestrians below and tangled her phone cord and asked a million questions, a lady two wheelchairs down from Dad’s constantly repeated, “Hail Mary, Hail Mary, Hail Mary …” Maybe she was praying for Doris Day, who knows? In the middle of on-screen chaos, Doris Day’s doorbell rang. At the nursing home, bubbly activities director’s pocket rang, so she grabbed her phone and began to yell into it, which I suppose she had to do since the TV volume had to be loud enough for residents to hear the movie. Just then, the one lady in Dad’s hall who still walks hobbled to the sunroom’s aviary and began pounding flat-palmed on the glass to get the birds to fly around. Ten colorful little birds flitted and swooped but as soon as they lit on a branch, the lady pounded on the glass again. I laughed and thought, “Oh, this is perfect.”

But I was wrong.  On my drive back to the hospital to check in again on Mom, I passed a man riding a bicycle. On top of his parka hood was a beanie with a propeller whirring. He was too bundled up for me to see his face, but I’m pretty sure it would have looked like Alfred E. Newman’s of MAD magazine. A propeller beanie? Okay, now it's perfect.   

Lessons from Lucky Platter

Ah, yes, Lucky Platter diner with its homemade food and quirky décor. You slide into a crude wooden booth and while waiting for the hand-written menu, you gaze upward. Hundreds of round tin-foil wads stick like goofy spit-wads to the ceiling. Lighting the room are upside-down aluminum colander chandeliers rimmed with faceted crystal dangles As your eyes meander to framed art on the walls, you flashback to the fifties as you realize what’s framed are paint-by-number pictures you remember from your childhood.

Paint by Number. You fill in numbered spaces with paints corresponding to the numbers. Left-brained art. Imagined imagination. Do as you’re told. Nothing playful, mind you, just color within the lines.

Sometimes I feel my life is a paint-by-number kit. I do what I should do rather than what I want to do. Furthermore, I’m so used to staying within the lines, I don’t even know what I’d draw if I ignored the lines. What do I want to do with my life? I’m a Christian, so God’s desire for my life will guide me, but still, He’s designed me for something. Am I doing it? As I compliantly fulfill daily obligations, am I eagerly looking for His hand pointing to faith adventures?

One serious example of tiptoeing out, heart pounding, on stormy seas is telling the truth instead of not making waves. I am just beginning to color outside the lines on this one. Striving to always be nice is the paint-by-number formula for not showing your heart or communicating God’s heart to others. You’re just a mime palming the inside of a clear booth. To rip the sides off that booth and dance free, you have to risk people’s disapproval of you for speaking the truth.

A lighter-hearted example is figuring out what to do with your vacation savings this year. Of ten ideas on your bucket list, which will you choose? More importantly, why will you choose it? Because it’s easy, cheap, surfy, snowy, popular, pretty, familiar? Limited resources always make this a tough choice for me. I tend to stick with my favorite destinations and activities, which of course is fine. But sometimes I wonder what a vacation full of unknowns and new adventures would be like. Let’s see, shall I rappel or zip-line off this cliff into the jungle? Then I swish my paintbrush back inside the lines, glance at the number-color key, and once again, dare not dream.

Other life examples relate to creativity itself. I’d love to be able to draw and paint. So far, the classes I’ve taken have shown me to be rather timid facing a blank canvas and very unskilled at seeing shapes and tones in a scene. I finally know the sky is lighter closer to the horizon, but that’s because my left brain can memorize the principle, not because I can really see much difference. I’d love to dance, but I thank God during every Zumba exercise DVD that no one can see I’m just doing traditional jumping jacks to these high-energy, fun, dance-party salsa-flamenco-hiphop-reggaeton and other Latin rhythms, because when the instructors point at the TV audience and challenge, “Whatchoogot? Whatchoogot? Huh?” and I rotate my “booty” to show them, I feel like a flamenco hippo. Jump-by-number-jacks I can do. I gave up music aspirations decades ago, with no regrets from me or the listening world. Then there’s writing. How do I paint outside the lines on a word processor? As I explore that every day, I try to take my mind’s eye off the paint-by-number framed art and focus on flipping my aluminum colander upside-down, hanging crystal dangles from the edges, and shining light through the middle.

Cloth Napkins

Pride has been present behind every partition of the human heart since the Garden of Eden, so I do not pretend any historical era has been exempt from it. But I wonder if disposable paper napkins in recent years have perhaps helped fool us into believing we’re cleaner than we are.

I’ve used paper napkins as long as I remember. If I’m feeling particularly frugal, I might use a paper napkin two or three times before tossing it, but mostly I’ve been a one-napkin kind of gal. Wipe the mouth with it, wad it up, and wastebasket, here it comes. I hardly ever even look at the napkin I’ve just used. 

My niece and her husband, returning from a trip around the world with a resolve to be kinder to the planet by using cloth napkins, raised my consciousness about filling landfills with unnecessary napkins. In France this fall, my French friend chided me for using disposable hand wipes instead of antibacterial gel, and a Paris café’s napkins were imprinted with an urgent reminder that fewer napkins contributes to a healthier planet. These influences convicted me to use the cloth napkins I have, not just for company, but for everyday meals.

This seems simple enough. But it does involve an adjustment. Cloth napkins must be laundered. My grandma, born in the 1890s, told me she thought the greatest invention of all time was not cars, not computers, but paper towels. Paper napkins offer the same time savings. Going back to cloth napkins is less convenient—and not just because you have to wash them.

Washing cloth napkins forces me to see my messes. What are all these large, amorphous, yellow blobs? Did any of my yellow food even end up in my stomach? Good grief, it’s all over both sides of the napkin. And the small bright red dots, what are they? I’d like to believe this was my husband’s napkin, but nope, it’s mine.

I lay the napkin flat on top of the washing machine. … My sin is always before me. Against you, you only, have I sinned ... (Psalm 51:3,4) I brush brown crumbs from a sticky translucent spot. … A broken and contrite heart, O God, you will not despise. (Psalm 51:17) After squirting stain remover on all the spots, I toss the napkin in the washer to be renewed and reused. Create in me a pure heart, O God … (Psalm 51:10) This woman of unclean lips—in more ways than one—is ready for a fresh start, God’s new mercies to help me speak lovingly to and about others. Oh, and I might try to be a neater eater, too.

Through a Glass, Darkly

Two a.m. Searing pain in my right eye. Suddenly awake, I stagger to the bathroom mirror to see if a sword has pierced my head. Can’t see one, but then in the dark and only able to open my left eye, I can’t see much. After performing my usual migraine-mitigation routine, I return to my soft pillow with dim hope of sleep.

Eight a.m. Smoke stings my nostrils and still-aching eyes. Stumbling to the window, I see a dense lint-gray cloud lazily tumbling low to the ground from a mound of raked leaves. My husband can’t smell smoke but he turns on fans to try to suck it out of the house so my headache doesn’t worsen.

Ten a.m. Smoke hangs in the house. In our neighborhood, though smoke is no longer visible, its acrid odor is heavy in the air. I can’t breathe; I have to leave. I drive halfway across town, get out of my car, and am still surrounded by the smell. Mysterious Migraine Monster has mercifully removed sword from eye, but has now placed anvil on head. I drive to the far end of town—yup, smoky there, too—to have my glasses adjusted, which helps a little. Now, although every other inch of my face hurts, the bridge of my nose doesn’t. I ask the vision tech what’s up with the heavy smoke smell all across town. He shrugs.

Eleven a.m. All I want to do is go home and sleep and cancel my lunch date with a friend. But with a smoke-permeated house (and town), I can’t go home. I thank God for this empathic reminder to pray for two friends who currently face true homelessness. We are all homeless without God’s presence. My problem is so small. I have to get away from the smoke; I may as well drive south and muddle through lunch. Too early for lunch, I take refuge in Barnes & Noble. First stop: restroom. My pinched visage squints back at me through a hazy mirror. Are the bows of my glasses vise-gripping my temples so hard, my eyeballs have cracked like eggs? I take my red eggshell cracks sizzling around burning yolks out into the store, past Judy Collins’ blazing sapphires, past Candice Olson’s perky peepers, past Daughter of Smoke and Bone, past The Boy Who Harnessed the Wind—would that this boy could have blown away this morning’s smoke—past 1,001 slow-cooker recipes, past George Clooney’s minky orbs twinkling next to his political opinions, highly sought since he plays a politician in a movie—and finally trip into the B&N café. 

One p.m. My friend and I have lunch. She is in the most miserable throes of a cold and confesses she almost cancelled. That makes two of us who just want to be able to shut our aching eyes for a long, long time, until our owwies go away. 

When we part, we stand three feet apart and make hugging motions in the air between us. Though motivated by consideration for me, an air-hug seems somehow symbolic of this broken day when so many things do not work as they should. Despite my pain and my friend’s misery, I can laugh at our empty, robotic jerks, because I know the truth.

Although this truth looks blurry in today’s smoke and mirrors, my heart rejoices that a complete and clear day is coming …

1 Corinthians 13:12 Now we see but a poor reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known.