7. THE BEAUTY IN FORGETFULNESS

I’ve spent a fair amount of time with forgetful people. Between aging relatives, and relative aging, I am learning about if first-hand.  Add to that the time I spend singing in nursing homes, Alzheimer’s units and assisted living facilities.  It all clusters in a pile of charming and not-too-terribly-charming stories that are told and retold… and retold again. 

I have fond memories of visiting my aging aunts.  My Aunt Ruth, in her mid-nineties, decided to sing her conversations.  You’d ask a question, and she would respond with melody attached to her words.  She had a little ditty that my sisters and I still use one a regular basis.  She’d sing

“I used to could, I used to could re-mem-ber.  But now I can’t, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.”  The tune was similar to the melody of Come Back to Sorrento.

My Aunt Mae is a great storyteller, so the lilt in her voice, and her animated delivery make more pleasant the repetition of the story about how she gave her car to her granddaughter Krishna, because it wasn’t wise for her to drive anymore.  I started thinking about it as a song, her story about not driving anymore.  We all listen to pleasant songs over and over.

All of our aunts, and our beloved mother, remembered word for word each stanza of great poetry.  Poems memorized, and ones written by the women themselves.  Poems, and songs must deal themselves to our brains, because I have found this to be standard fare among residents at nursing homes.  They can recite poetry and they sing along with me one the old standards. 

Some people I love have deep seeded fears of losing their minds to forgetfulness.  I wish I could reassure them that this is nothing to fear, but our fears are our fears, and it takes a boatload of logic to try to talk us out of them.  Truth is, we don’t really get to control much of that.

There are real benefits to forgetfulness. The poor sisters who straddle me on our family tree have painful, ugly memories of our dad and the way he treated our mom, and the way he treated us.  I was blessed to have forgotten much of it. To my sisters’ credit they don’t dredge it all up to live over and over again.  Forgetfulness is bliss.

I have a flawed memory mechanism in my brain.  It can recall vivid details about some things; random and meaningless details, and then I outright forget major things -- like the fact that one of my closest friends had a heart attack our senior year of high school, or that so-and-so had died … and I actually sang at their funeral. I forget stuff like that. It’s really embarrassing.

One of the interesting things about that flawed memory; i.e. forgetfulness, is that the things I forget or remember are not determined by their weight of importance or the measure of my love.  I can love someone very sincerely and deeply, and forget their birthday, or that they have diabetes, or whatever.

I think part of my memory issues stem from my ability to dream in vivid detail, and to recall all those details after I awaken.  I carry dreams around with me all day sometimes, and continue them when I go to sleep the next night.  For instance, this morning I awoke with a very clear memory of having been to the library with some children I don’t know, where we worked on a craft project together.  I remember I wore a green shirt and my brown Dansko sandals.  There was a fellow there in the library who was rather quiet, with a pleasant demeanor, and he was reading a book over in a buttery leather chair by the bookshelves. He kept looking over at us. At some point when we were done crafting I grabbed my gig bag and walked out, looking at a large poster in the lobby that advertised a concert where I was headlining, singing the songs of Leonard Cohen.  The man in the library, who by the way looked rather like David Bowie, stood beside me and we struck up a friendly conversation. Turns out he was Leonard Cohen himself. I asked if he’d like to join me on stage…you know, Leonard Cohen singing Leonard Cohen, with Cori Connors? Anyway, that dream has been following me all day today.  So I wonder if the fine line between dreams and reality is extra thin for me, and I can’t recall things because I don’t know if I dreamed them or if they’re real, and they all sort of go to the same place in my memory bank.  Ah, me.

I don’t believe there is a soul alive, who had been blursed with a healthy body and brain, who does not carry evenly weighted bundles of good and bad in their lives.  It seems to me it would be just as good to forget as it is to remember.

I hope…I mean really HOPE, my kids will forget some of their history with me.  I hope I forget some of my own weaknesses that weigh me down in the category of self-worth.  There is so much about forgetting that is wonderful, I don’t know why we fear it.

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6. JOIN A CHOIR

Years ago, when we moved from New York to Pittsburgh, I had two babies and no friends… no one close by, at least.  So I pondered what I might do to feel like I was part of something, that I was not a pitiful loner, that I was useful for something besides changing diapers and feeding hungry mouths. I soon came up with an answer: I joined a choir.  The Community College of Allegheny County Choir, to be exact. I didn’t read music (still don’t) and they didn’t care.  That’s why we had practices.

On another note (pardon the pun) the news lately has been heavy on my mind. Last week U.S. Supreme Court Justice Antonin Scalia unexpectedly died. I am married to a judge, and am aware of the weight and power of the judiciary, especially on the Federal Supreme Court bench.  Scalia was a conservative thinker, a Constitutional Originalist,  and his moral bend was part of what kept the Supreme Court in balance, or at least leaning toward balance.  With a left wing president in office, the concern for many is that the selection of a third justice by our current president, Barack Obama, will tip the balance of the court disproportionately to a liberal side.  This news coupled with the excessive coverage of a rather bizarre presidential election year is just about driving me crazy!  I shake my head at how drastically we seem to have become a house divided here in America.

Add to all this my daily visits to Facebook, where I have friends who are atheist  publishing posts against religion, and religionists shouting Halleluiah back in their faces.  Rainbow overlays on profile pictures, and various Go Fund Me pleadings…all worthy on some level, but most uncomfortably self-serving. So many options.  So little brain space.

If I were a creature on some other planet, looking down on us in our present state, I think I’d shake my head in wonder. “Is there nothing on which they can agree?”

So, with that in mind, my HOPE for us, my suggestion, if you will, is to:

The thing about a choir is that you can have people of all shapes and sizes and colors, differing political and spiritual beliefs and varying levels of talent and skill; yet you all have one objective, and you’re working to create a nice blend, even though you do not all sing the same part or even the same words.

I personally think too many people believe they have to be a great singer to join a choir (which they don’t), so if singing is out of the question, then take a class, or join a team.  Do something that unites you with other people in a common cause.  And let that cause be apolitical.

That which unites us outweighs that which divides us.

Singing in a choir allows us to be rather anonymous, requires us to breathe deeply, which is healthy, and satisfies the aesthetic need for harmony.  Singing in a choir demands physical participation with some level of passion, but you are rarely singled out or put on the spot. Singing in a good choir insists that you learn to listen to each other, to follow the lead of a conductor, and to blend with the variety of people that surround you. You will not need to over-think, but you will need to pay attention. 

So my HOPE is this: if you can carry a tune, join a choir.

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5. BLURSE

The car stereo was heavy on the bass.  I remember this because it was the last thought I had before the car hit me.  I was on my way to a Utah Songwriters meeting, and the song on the stereo was my own.

My van was older, with no airbags, so when the car pulled out in front of me on the corner of Shepherd and Main, it was the seatbelt that kept me from flying through the windshield.  In the process of saving me, it caused a broken collar bone, cracked rib, bruised sternum and a lovely bruise all the way from shoulder to hip, then across to the other hip, like an upside down 7.

I remember standing in the shower, days after the accident, letting the hot water run over my aching shoulder, looking down at the dark evidence of injury and thinking to myself that it was ironic that the thing that caused me so much pain was exactly the thing that saved me. 

That’s when I started noticing how many curses are also blessings.  It became so common to me that I gave it a name: 

Blurses are everywhere.  Just ask someone who has experienced serious illness.  If they are using healthy eyes they will have seen beautiful things that have happened in relationships, in self-discovery, in quietude and introspection that often come with the curse of disease.  When I was forced to sit in my paralyzed state after being struck with Guillain Barre Syndrome, our daughter Sarah had just given birth to her first child; my first grandbaby. I was in such bad condition I felt like I could be no help to her.  And yet this child was one who would be cuddled; who could sit for long stretches of time and be read to, or watch a show, or just nap, our hearts beating against each other as one, his warm baby breath pulsing in sweet audible puffs against the skin of my neck.  His name is Timo, short for Timothy, and we started calling the time we nurtured each other my Timo-therapy.  It was a blurse to have been sick forced to stay home an be still when Sarah, in her second year of medical school, needed my help.

It’s a blurse when you don’t make the specialty choir so your school schedule is freed up to take an art class, after which you win the Masters Award in the state art competition and go on to earn a college degree in Fine Art.  It’s a burse when you are called to Hong Kong on a mission, when the only thing you prayed for in your mission assignment was that is was somewhere cold. Breaking up with that girl who played violin ( and was, you have to admit, a little odd) was a blurse because during that time you began a platonic friendship with another beautiful girl who would eventually become your wife, so you knew her as a friend before a lover.  That move to Spokane was a blurse, with all that green pine beauty calling you on Saturday hikes with your little papooses strapped to your backs, even though it is thousands of miles from home.

My HOPE for today is that we examine our curses, or at least step away from them far enough to see them with clear vision. In so doing we might see the shimmer of a silver lining around them. A hint of a blessing woven into a curse.  A blurse.

4. LOVE vs. LIKE

“It's a darn good thing I love you! “

I've said it many times through the years, usually to a disobedient child, or forgetful husband, or someone else close to me who has made some sort of faux pas. Truth is, you don’t have to like someone to love them. When I am frustrated with a person, and my head is on straight, and I’m not too tired or hungry, I beckon the forces of love and remind myself of the eternal nature of my relationships, because generally, for me at least, love is the easy part. Like is a lot harder.

After nearly 4 decades of loving and liking the same man I can say that it matters just as much that we like each other as it does that we love each other. I think of love as the failsafe, the back up, the thing that gets us through when we can hardly stand each other, which thankfully is not very often. I like Dave! I like him even more now than I did as an 18-year-old all those years ago. I like how he has evolved, I like how he has interests of his own and doesn't depend on me for entertainment. I like and respect his intellect and his work ethic. I like the way he interacts with our grandkids and his Primary kids at church. I like how kind he is to my family - of course to our children, but also to my siblings and certainly to my mother when she was alive. I like how comfortable he is with my friends. I like how Libby and he go walking and fishing and to the gym together. Two of my favorite people on the earth, and I have complete trust and adoration for both of them. I like that he scratches my back at night. And I like the way David laughs at me, how he thinks I'm kind of funny which I really am, but few people know it.

I am so grateful that I also like every single one of my children. Not every mother can say this. Most mothers would say they love their children, but like is another matter. When our children were teenagers there was an ebb and flow to the like aspect of our relationships. With four children who were teenagers at the same time, there was almost always a time when I did not necessarily like one of them. They took turns having this distinguished position. It seems as a parent that my kids took turns being obnoxious, disobedient, disrespectful … pick any term that can be applied to the transitioning teenager … and one of the kids was going to have it at some point or another. It was easy enough to love them. God put that in my heart when they were born. But it took a lot of discipline, a lot of prayer, and sometimes some distance to keep the like alive. Then, just when I thought that even the love was going out the window, my kid matured, or the Lord stepped in, or I calmed down and the figurative well of mutual appreciation filled up again.  If you can get through to adulthood, without addiction rearing its ugly head, then generally those kids turn into palatable, if not delicious, human beings with whom you yearn to spend time, space and conversation.  That’s where we are now.  I crave my kids.  And their kids.  Lucky me!

Let me add that it is also important in our relationships that we try to make ourselves likeable; that we at least entertain the possibility of enjoying some of the things our loved ones enjoy.  I remember the summer Dave’s mom, Helen, decided she was going to like the Pittsburgh Pirates.  Well, she already “liked” them, but I think she made the conscious decision to follow them, to get to know the players, and to “engage” when the games were on TV.  Dave’s dad, Don, was a Pirates fan (Dave and I both grew up in Pittsburgh) and those games were a daily ritual in the family room.  So I imagine that Helen’s sudden interest in the team was an effort to learn to like something Don liked.  I might be wrong, but it seems like a good idea.  Last year, when we subscribed to a cable channel that carried the Pirates, I felt a connection to Helen as I too learned the names of the players, and followed the team with Dave and Kate.  It became a bonding force, us cheering for our team.

My HOPE for today is that we recognize that there is a difference between Love and Like; that we use tenderness and consideration and good humor to make ourselves likeable.  And I hope to remember that when the like grows dim, we can turn to love.  I hope that we make a concerted effort in our relationships to nurture the Like as much as we nurture the Love.

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3. COMMAND MINUS

Once when I was in the recording studio I brought Mark, my engineer, a plastic button I had bought at a Staples Office Supply store.  I purchased it as a joke, for him to use after I spent two hours trying to record one phrase of a song.  Press the button, and a man’s voice says “THAT WAS EASY!”  Irony intended.

I should have bought one for my home.

I’m not the cursing type, though there have been times when a nice string of semi-benign farmhand curses run through my head, and occasionally when I am feeling extra human they will slip through my lips.  I have to be pretty agitated for that to happen.  Or maybe just sick. Or tired. Or sick and tired.

I suppose it was sick and tired that facilitated my last slip.  It was last week.

I had received by email a coupon for 50% off a blog to print book it had an expiration date.  When there’s a bargain in sight, especially for something for which I would pay full price, all else in my life falls behind. I know…it’s a disease. Since my Lent writing for last year included family recipes and stories attached to them, I thought I’d like to print that book for my kids and me.  I spent hours aligning, correcting, even adding new recipe card photos to the blog so I could use the coupon and get it printed.  You know, printing these things can be pricey, mostly because I am wordy.  Really, one of these years I am going to do one of those “say something in 6 word” exercises for my Lent Writing.

So, anyway, I had spent hours and hours adjusting things, and just before midnight on the day of the deadline (yup, that’s a disease, too) I went to upload the blog.  I filled out all the info and a little window popped up on my computer with some security sign-in stuff. The only problem in all of it was that there was no place to select “submit” or “next” in that little window.  I tried the return button.  No luck.  I tried scrolling. Same thing.  I signed out and signed in again. Nada. As the clock ticked away, my fingers smacked the buttons on my poor keyboard harder and harder. Like if it were a telephone I would be yelling into it.  I tried live chat. No response.  Called the phone number. Business closed for the weekend. Eventually I emailed them and using what I considered to be very Christian restraint, I asked why I could not upload my blog.

On Monday I got an email back, telling me they would extend the sale for me, and that they and uploaded it for me. Super nice, huh?  So I excitedly got on to look at it and once again, I couldn’t log into the stupid site. (Everything becomes stupid in these situations.) So I “live chat” with someone named Marcos at the company, and He/She tells me they have no idea why I can’t access the site but they already did the upload so….

That’s when the farm hand cursing made itself manifest.

Finally I asked my daughter Kate, who was working at the kitchen table, if she had any ideas for getting myself onto this stupid *&%#@ website. She asked a few details, then said, without even having to leave her seat: “Have you tried clicking “Command Minus”.  You know, the Command key at the same time as the minus key on the computer? So I clicked Command Minus and sure enough, the window magically opened and there was that sweet little SUBMIT button.

The juxtaposition of joy and relief against curse invoking frustration approaches what I might consider “divine”. I was stunned. Floored, actually, that it was that simple. It only took about 30 seconds for me to remark that the company was stupid for making it impossible to sign on without knowing something like that.

This all reminded me of the day we were up at Libby’s house and our niece Emily and her family were visiting.  Ten-year-old Ian was playing some sort of game with his sister on an iPhone.  I asked him to show me the app and he came over and sat on the arm of the chair beside me.  He took my phone and said, “We should close some of these programs first, you sure have a lot of them up right now. “ So he double clicked on the Queen of Buttons (I don’t know what it’s called, but it’s that big one on the bottom of the phone that sort of controls everything) then he took his ten-year-old thumb and repeatedly slid it up the screen, one by one putting the open apps to bed.  They had been awake on my phone for something like…oh, six months!

 Yes, I got this groovy phone, figured out how to do the basics of the basics, and have been using it all along without knowing what even a ten-year-old considers “basic”. Sheesh.  &%$#@!

It was really rather life changing to know this one simple thing about my iPhone.  Saved a LOT of power, to begin with. Now every time I close out of programs I think of Ian.

I am reminded, repeatedly in this era of ultra-modern technology (remember we had black and white TV with no remote control when I was a kid) that there are simple fixes to many or our issues.  Things that cause us to say, “Wow, that was EASY!

I got to thinking about it, and said to Kate, “I’ll bet when we die and get some of those answers we were looking for, maybe a thousand years from now, the answers will seem so logical, and so simple, we will lift our chins, exhale a puff of ignorance, and remark…Well, duh…THAT WAS EASY!”

I imagine heavenly beings up there in their celestial space shaking their heads at us as we curse and pound and lose sleep over matters we simply cannot understand.  If they were not divine, they would probably say something like “Stupid human, you think you know it all! “ And they would try to tell us that it’s really quite simple, we just need to click Command Minus.  But instead we curse God and tell him he’s stupid, and because we are so danged loud in our irritation we never do hear the quiet prompt of the angels.

So here’s my HOPE for today: I expect that there are solutions to very, very difficult issues that trouble my heart, not just my head; deeply spiritual matters that threaten my foundation and shake my testimony.  I would love to have them now. It may be that they are being offered now, only my obnoxiously loud cursing is overpowering them. When I feel this confusion and frustration, I hope I remind myself to think of Kate over there at her spot at the kitchen table, quietly asking me if I had tried Command Minus.  I anticipate that these simple solutions will make themselves manifest at some point…even if it is a thousand years from now.