Celia Juanita Baggett (1917-2005)

My grandmother passed away in 2005. June 16, 2005 to be exact - the same date as one of my best friends' birthdays. I live in her house now... and sometimes I think my mother's supposition (that I decided to live here because I could not yet let go of her) may have a ring of truth to it.

I still miss her very much. I used to cry every time I went into the linen closet because it still smelled like her closet - the one I had grown up with and grabbed towels out of every summer for as long as I could recall. Even though I use a different detergent than she did... the towels still come out of that closet smelling like Ma-Maw's towels. For the first year we lived here, I'd stand in the shower every so often, a towel pressed to my face, crying and dripping wet, until the wave of grief passed.

It still happens sometimes. I will think of her or see something in the house that belonged to her and it will all come rushing back. The finality of her absence and the way in which her death progressed will settle around my chest and my eyes will start to well up, and I'll try to think of something positive about her or remember something funny instead of focusing on the fact that I never got to say good-bye or that she will never know my daughter.

Death is. Undeniable, unavoidable. Natural, unquestionable. Circumstances may differ... and I know and love several people who have had to let go of family members much too soon.

I feel very lucky she lived such a long life. I had a tremendous opportunity to know her, love her, and learn from her. And now I live in her home... the one my grandfather and great-grandfather built and worked on throughout their lives. It breathes the life of my family - past and present - and unites my childhood and adulthood under one roof. We feel protected here. We love this home. For me, it felt familiar and like a part of me before we ever moved into it. And when I'm here, I can hear my grandmother's voice more clearly than from anywhere else.

And that's an incredible gift... one that will indeed be difficult to let go of.

10 possible mantras 8 days before spring break

1. Remember to ask for help. Then remember to accept it.
2. Breathe. Breathe again. You should probably breathe some more.
3. It's going to be okay. Really.
4. There is no right answer.
5. You are safe.
6. Don't panic.
7. Don't pre-worry.
8. Enjoy the present moment.
9. Keep it in perspective.
10. Everything changes, everything moves.

Night-night (a meditation on getting to sleep)

One of the greatest joys of my day is getting to put my daughter to bed each night, which does not happen every day of the week... but typically I put her down 6 nights a week. At least this semester.

It doesn't matter what kind of day we've had (we're in the "terrible two" phase after all), or how tired I am, or whether I go up there initially with the feeling that I'd like a night off or am feeling exhausted and want to just crash on the couch and relax.

As soon as our bedtime ritual begins, I'm hooked. I fall in love with her at the end of the day and everything is erased except for the power of holding my tiny girl and being completely present with her.

I relish each step of our evening custom from the time Daddy brings up the bottle and Ari's must-have stuffed animals (Mickey Mouse and two boston terriers that are both named Si-Si in honor of our actual dog, Simon) to the time I turn off her light and walk out of the room. In between, here is what we do:

• Turn on the elephant lamp, turn off the overhead light, turn on the sound machine, and sit down on our big orange ottoman;
• Hold the bottle with my right hand as Ari places her right hand on top of mine or plays with my thumb, and position my left hand so that she can grasp it with her left hand and play with my fingers (if I do not do this... she will wiggle around until she can find my free hand);
• Sing Rock-a-Bye Baby, Blue Shadows (from The Three Amigos), Summertime (why not throw a little Cole Porter in there?), Hush Little Baby, and then a final song of my choice that usually cycles through Somewhere Over the Rainbow, If I Had a Hammer, They Can't Take That Away From Me, or The Rainbow Connection (from The Muppet Movie)... at this point she will take the bottle out of her mouth and point to her crib;
• Put the bottle on the arm of the chair, stand up, kiss Ari approximately 3-4 times, say "I love you," and place her in the crib;
• Cover her with the blanket, make sure her water bottle is within sight, make sure Mickey, Mama Si-Si, and Dada Si-Si are all visible, and turn on her "fishies" (an acquarium crib thing with music and lights);
• Turn off the elephant light, grab the bottle, and head downstairs.

I love the ritual, I love how important it is to both of us. I love that we found this process organicially - following each other's unspoken suggestions and honoring one another's needs to find a common path that has become our special practice. It's an event that has moved beyond habit and become ceremony: predictable, significant, and sacred to us both.

FaithFull

I don't panic often... at least, not that out and out/total chaos/head spinning/chest collapsing panic that threatens to overtake all rational functioning and leave you a pointless limbotic mess in the midst of what feels like a major crisis.

Typically, I am good in a crisis. There is a concept used in counseling that focuses on a client's inherent and instinctive response to crisis and that emotional sense of overt panic. It connects back, I believe, to the limbic brain (my husband's second favorite topic - second only to the presidential election cycle)... this hardwired, primal, genetically encoded response we have to events in our lives that simply shake us to the core past the point of rationality.

Basically, the three possible responses are fight, flight, or freeze. I tend to be a fighter. I get highly analytical, methodical, and focused and try to move forward as efficiently and effectively as possible.

It is theorized you have no control over which of these responses you will use when experiencing a crisis. Apparently, it's just a part of who you are, much like your eye color and ability to roll your tongue. Coded in and hidden away to emerge on its own like an autonomic reflex designed to help you handle what feels blinding and overwhelming and all-embracing.

I have only panicked in a way that left me feeling truly unhiged twice. The first time was at LaGuardia as I was headed to London to study theatre for a semester and could not find my passport. I stood in the parking lot, saying "no no no no no no" over and over and beginning to succumb to a full-on panic attack. Luckily, my mother was there and stayed calm... talking me through it and methodically searching the trunk, my luggage, etc. until we found it and were able to head in to make my flight. (This was not an example of "fight" - it was more "freeze" than anything else. The only time so far I've done that.)

Today was the second major panic I've experienced... and oddly enough, it was because I was late for a class I'm teaching. I simply got it stuck in my head that we started at 11am instead of 10am and was happily heading home after taking my daughter to the mall when it hit me I had about 2 minutes to get home, drop off the baby, grab my books, pack my lunch, switch cars, and head to campus. Not possible.

I also realized in that moment I had left both my cell phone and my wallet at home. So there I was, panicking, worrying I was about to be failed in my class for a very stupid, simple, but careless mistake... and trying not to speed or drive unsafely because my daughter was in the car and I had no license on me. Dumb upon dumb.

I was able to stay calm, not go too fast, and get us home safely so that I could run inside, holler to my husband, and head back out with him in the driver seat as I frantically called everyone I could think of who might be able to cover for me until I arrived.

I made it to class only 5 minutes late and everything was fine. But it made me think about faith, and crisis, and our inherent responses and beliefs, which ultimatley affect our experiences within and reactions to the many variables we encounter in our daily lives.

Do you believe everything will be okay? That everything has a purpose? That there is someone looking out for you? That everything happens for a reason?

Do you believe you are unsafe? That nothing goes right for you? That you are doomed to fail again and again? That no one is going to help... you are alone and stuck and sure to get rained on no matter how hard you try to stay out from under that little rain cloud?

Because, here's what I'm thinking. We may not be able to change that hardwired response, the one that kicks in automatically, right away, and becomes the beginning to the rest of our story. But we can change how we think... how we process and prepare... what we innately feel to be true with regard to our own capabilities, the altruism of those around us, and the way in which we are connected to this vast, complex, and intricate journey we call life.

Faith is a choice. Faith is a conscious effort to tell ourselves it will all be okay even when our cells are screaming and our solar plexus feels like a supernova. Faith is the blessing of reason with a nod toward the sacred as we seek to expand our view in understanding the limitations and infinite potential of ourselves and everyone around us.

heart v. head

The heart says GO FOR IT
sings out loud
like a hyper two year old
and shouts for you to listen up
because something important has happened -
everything has shifted;
clarity has landed squarely on your nose
(sitting, waiting to be noticed,
acknowledged and squeezed)
so you may stop feeling so alone.

The head says STOP. THINK.
Be smart about this...
sounds like jumbled voices
of motherbestfriendteacherego
that whispers tales of wrong choices
and poor parenting
and sagging marriage
and frivolous wastings of time and money
because
come on now
let's be practical (at least).

The truth is probably
buried
somewhere in the middle;
stuck between the two
like a child between arguing parents,
trying to make the best of it and
holding out faith that
everything will be okay...
playing with dolls in the corner,
acting out scenes of reunion,
singing songs under its breath
and dreaming at night of
gutsy intelligence:
courageous and realistic in its reaching.

Ode to Bach

Unfortunately, it's too late in the day to tackle a literal ode; however, you may consider this a metaphorical one and (hopefully) forgive my tiredness and lack of creative spark as bedtime quickly approaches.

Bach seems to me inherently and unarguably connected to the divine. His music is transportational... transcendent. I don't know what he was channeling or how... but, for me, it's like the chords of my soul are struck by the complexity and beauty of his music to create a harmonious vibrational frequency so that I may resonate with every single molecule and atom around me and ultimately feel one with everything.

Which is one way in which I understand God.

Another way is through connection to others. Adler would call it social interest. A Buddhist might think of it as compassion. I see it as a kind of commitment to strive toward seeing (feeling, knowing) the intrinsic worth of my fellow human beings in order to provide (and ask for) help with openness and kindness and without fear or judgment.

My take is: Social interest and compassion are linked to purposefulness and meaning, which are linked to centeredness and peace, which are connected to enlightenment and the divine, which links back to social interest and compassion... and on and on. One might even say they are interconnected, because - let's face it - linearity in this world is rare and truth tends to be woven into a more holistic and systemic pattern when you look at it from far enough away.

Bach is my ticket to a bird's eye view from which, for a few precious moments, I can see the intricate webbing of my singular life and begin to appreciate the multiple connections binding me to an infinite and interconnected world.

An angel by any other name

One of the things I find most fascinating and exciting about Unitarian Universalism is its distinction as a covenental faith, rather than a credal faith. The way our local Reverend, Bill Sasso, explains this is, rather than being united around a set of common beliefs, our Fellowship (and other UU congregations) is united by a core set of promises we make to one another. And this covenent is firmly grounded in what we feel is essential to living authentically and working toward being better human beings and serving our local, national, and global community in a way that moves us forward together. At least, that's how I understand it at present.

Thus, I think it is sometimes hard for those who were not raised in (or have decided to eschew) a more credal type of faith to use words that carry a strongly religious connotation: church, angels, prayer, God, etc. Everyone has different comfort levels with particular words... and everyone has their own language and way of understanding their commitment to the Fellowship and its purposes and principles.

Well... today I wanted to focus on the concept of angels. Specifically, how - on certain days in given moments - people within our own lives can act in the capacity of an angel or guide when we are feeling our most lost, sorrowful, helpless, or scared. Maybe it's a random act of kindness, maybe it's being a good friend, maybe it's being in touch with the divine enough in that moment that you know just waht to say or just what to do to make someone else feel better.

My angel today was my friend, Rebecca Chambers. She was a sounding board when I felt tangled in self-doubt, fear, and confusion. She allowed me to be vulnerable long enough to uncover a very important truth, and her gentle support led to a moment of clarity and resolve that I will likely tuck deep inside my core as a treasure I may dig up when insecurity and fear threaten to overtake me again.

I never doubt things cross my path for a reason.

My husband and I were watching television tonight and caught a story on 20/20 about a little girl with congenital insensitivity to pain with anhidrosis (CIPA). According to msnbc, there are only 17 known cases in the United States. Those with the disease cannot feel pain and have no sensitivity to temperature (cannot feel hot or cold). This means very young children who suffer from the disorder injure themselves constantly as they navigate things like teething, learning to walk, etc.

As a parent, I cannot imagine how terrifying, stressful, and heartbreaking it would be to fight to keep your child safe because they have no way of knowing when they are in danger in even the seemingly simplest of circumstances. It's also difficult for me to fully comprehend how many adjustments and adaptations must be necessary for those who live with CIPA. The bravery shown by the children and parents profiled in the few stories I read was truly inspiring.

It was a great reminder to be thankful for all of my blessings. To remember how lucky we are to have a spirited child who is healthy and innately happy. And to challenge me to continue to consider and explore ways I might help to alleviate suffering in the world - in whatever forms it may take and in whatever way I can.

Ice. Ice. Baby.

We had our second ice storm today within a little over a week. SIUC was closed, again, which is a very rare occurence (prior to last week's storm, they had not canceled classes for 20 years). The plus side of this was I got to spend a day with my daughter - instead of teaching, working, and attending supervision.

However, we were stuck inside - and that can be a major challenge for Ariana, who tends to get a bit cabin-feverish when trapped indoors too long. Ice and sleet means you can't even play outside. What to do?

Macaroni necklaces! A little bit of twine, a bag full of ziti previously used for children's crafting projects with the LEAF program through Asian Human Services in Chicago, and some crayons for color. Simple... a wee bit fragile... but thoroughly entertaining for a child of almost 2. Seemingly magical even.

It became the anchor around which our day was centered. We returned to it multiple times to ooo and ahh and giggle and display. Her delight in such tiny things is astounding and inspirational - a good reminder in the middle of stressful weeks with wintry weather.

She is my angel, my elf, my muse. My little baby girl who is equal parts challenge and insight. (And the brand new owner of a green, blue, pink, and purple crayon-colored ziti necklace approximately 26 inches long.)

A little red flash of brilliance on a bitterly frigid day

Maybe cardinals were created to remind us that virbrant, colorful, quick, and playful beauty is possible in the midst of cold, nasty, SAD-prone, seemingly-unending winter weather. To encourage us to hold on a bit longer for the blessed arrival of spring... to coax a small smile from under coats-buttoned-to-chins and scarves wrapped tightly around necks to close out the icy, scratching fingers of Midwestern windchill factors. To remind us color is possible - bright like finger paint primary red - and the dull, achy, damp, plodding, grey sighs of February will soon enough come to an end.

Maybe.

Twisters and tumbleweeds

I read a story today about a little boy who survived a tornado after being ripped from his mother's arms by the storm and thrown approximately 500 feet. His mother did not survive, and he was found, face-down, in the mud by a police officer searching the area.

Living in an area that - according to City-Data.com - has an historical tornado activity average 105% higher than the U.S. national average, this story stood out to me quite a bit. We just had a storm recently wherein the tornado sirens went off just as I was putting our daughter, Ariana to bed. Here's what you know when you hear those sirens blaring and a tornado warning has been in effect: A tornado has touched down in your area and you have approximately five minutes (or less) to get to safety.

So... I ran down two flights of stairs with my daughter in tow as Andy tried to convince the dog to join us in the basement, and we frantically tried to get the weather channel tuned in on our hand-cranked radio while avoiding multiple pools and streams of water running across the floor.

I grew up in Illinois, which meant tornado drills every year all through elementary school. Single file line marching out the classroom and down the hallway to crouch, head-facing-lockers, upon the floor... our arms thrown over our heads to protect us from hypothetical debris. It reminded me of the atom bomb drills done during the 50s with my parents' generation. A knowingly lacking exercise that would fall short of actual readiness and adequacy should a disaster indeed occur.

The little boy is going to be raised by his grandparents. He was less than a year old when he lost his mother... so he will not remember her... will not remember how she shielded him from the storm in the bathtub, hiding and praying underneath a mattress. The storm was too strong. The roof, the mattress, and the people within the house were all blown apart and tossed into the wind. One landed safely, one did not.

Perhaps we fight against feeling powerless. Perhaps we fight to feel prepared in the midst of true chaos - the kind only nature can conjure up. Unpredictable, unforgiving, and often unfair. True disasters, and their aftermaths, can simultaneously convince us of the absence and the existence of God.

I wonder which side of the argument this little boy will fall on when he can finally understand the full extent of what happened in that storm.

Happy Presidents' Day

My day began with a story about a Pakistani man whose counsin had been shot and killed the night before the elections held today. Several other men running under the same party were murdered as well.

This man, whose counsin had been shot, still went out to vote today. His mother begged him to stay home... but he felt the best way to honor his cousin was to make his voice heard. He chose to vote, even though violence leading up to the elections had escalated tremendously and many polling stations were hit by suicide bombers.

I thought about that story, and the many others we did not hear, all day - which is ending as I half-watch/half-listen to CNN (my husband's most favorite station during the presidential election cycle). All the political pundits are garrulously and disputatiously discussing the incredible circumstances surrounding the Democratic primary. The race is very close; a black man and a woman are running; mud has been slung, race has been an issue, gender has been an issue; and - because of the current state of the country - people in America feel very passionately about the election and what is needed to move us forward in a positive way.

And although security has been important for each of the candidates and there are concerns that some people have been disenfranchised with regard to casting their votes... I don't think there is anyone in this country who fears they will be wounded or killed in the process of doing their civic duty and exercising their rights as citizens. Over fifty primaries and caucuses leading to what may be a brokered convention... and at some point, we will have a new president and we'll do it all again four years later.

It's an incredible privilege and hopefully something those in the U.S. appreciate when looking at the struggle for democracy, safety, and justice which occurs in other countries around the world. Although we may still fight for freedom, for justice and equity, for greater safety and cooperation... the ideals upon which this nation was predicated are embraced and celebrated in our democratic process and the vision of our forefathers continues to unfold and evolve so that every voice may be heard, every vote may count.

Attempted haiku in celebration of less snow and ice

Snow and ice have gone
Water fills the basement still
Spring is coming near

One of my favorite stories

A man sits in his kitchen, listening to his favorite radio show when an emergency announcement comes on warning of an approaching flood. The announcement recommends all residents leave their homes immediately and seek higher ground.

The man immediately falls to his knees and begins praying to the lord for safety. He prays and prays and after a while, he hears the water rushing toward his valley home and opens his eyes to see water quickly filling up the first floor of his house. The man makes his way to the roof, continuing to pray for safety, and spots a helicopter overhead. The helicopter operator gets on the loudspeaker and tells the man to grab onto the ladder so he can be taken to shelter.

"That's okay," says the man. "The lord will save me." The helicopter operator begs the man to climb on, but the man is steadfast in his conviction and the helicopter flies away. Seconds later, the man's roof begins to give way, and the man calmbers into a tree just as his home crashes into the water. As his grip begins to slacken and his arms start to severely tire, a policeman comes by in a boat and calls out to him. "Climb aboard!"

The man again refuses, insisting the lord will save him. The policeman tries to move the boat closer to the tree, but the man's grip finally fails him and he falls to his death. Upon dying, the man meets the lord and, with sincere confusion, says to the lord, "God... why did you forsake me? I prayed and prayed for you to save me, but you never did. Why?"

The lord smiled and shook his head. "My son, I gave you a warning over the radio, but you did not leave the valley. Then I sent a helicopter, but you did not climb aboard. I even sent you a boat and a policeman... what more could I have done?"

Today my helicopter was a small boy in the grocery store. An infant of roughly eight months, with bright eyes, dark hair, and a beautiful, joyous smile that lit up his whole face. He looked at me as if he knew me - an excited grin and a sharp focus that locked onto my face, after which his mouth exploded into a huge smile and he seemed on the verge of happy giggles... like old friends greeting each other after a long absence in ecstatic reunion. He interrupted a flood of worries and helped shift my perspective just as I was feeling most alone.

DINER love

One of my most favorite shows right now is Diners, Drive-ins, and Dives on the Food Network. My husband and I love diners. There are two here in town - one that has a more rural, greasy-spoon feel and one that has a more college, funky, awesome-breakfast feel. They are both amazing, and what is wonderful about them is how authentic they feel. The wait staff at the greasy spoon, Mary Lou's Grill, consists of high schoolers, undergrads, and career waitresses. The older ladies dote on our 2-year old daughter... and the homemade pies create a happy little dance party in your mouth. Phenonmenal.

Harbaugh's - our funky, artsy, yummy breakfast goodies gem - has a faster feel, a more adventurous menu, and a waitstaff that looks like they moonlight as bartenders at the local college hotspots. Everyone is nice, but very busy... and the line on weekends requires an early start to beat out the sleepy and/or hungover students who arrive around 10:30 to 11:00am to begin their Saturday with a dash of deliciousness.

Diners are fantastic to me because of their simplicity, their casualness, and their ability to look ugly and dingy and just not care. They remind me of the best friend who doesn't even notice if you come over in your nastiest sweatpants with your hair unwashed and your teeth unbrushed. They're the partner you've been with so long you no longer have to hold in your stomach or hide your bodily fluids. They don't care what you did last night, who you did it with, or for how long. They love you - whether you're at your best or worst.

Give me a good diner any day of the week and I'll make room for homemade chocolate cream pie and ask for a second serving of fresh brewed ice tea. Joy, joy, joy.

Violence on our doorsteps

I woke up this morning to a story on NPR about the most recent bombing in Iraq. The part of the story that sticks with me: a 7 year old boy escaped. I wondered about the rest of his family, whether they were not so lucky, whether he had siblings who did not escape, what will happen to him now. Where did he go? How is he feeling? What happens next time? How have these events shaped his development, his personality, his beliefs and values? When does he feel safe? Does he ever get to feel safe again?

I then entered my day and got wrapped up in the normal chaos of my life... trying to remember how lucky I am when facing random obstacles. The roads are snowy and icy, but I am lucky to have a car to drive to and from campus. My assistantship is often exhausting and dull, but I am lucky to be working, to be able to attend grad school, to have so many opportunities to advance my education and occupational pursuits. Our sink is broken and the hot water turned off, but we have plumbing, we have a home that we own, we have heat and hot water. There are so many things to be thankful for.

This was emphasized even further when I left school today. I ran into a colleague who was visibly upset and stopped to find out what was wrong. Her mother works at NIU and her father had called to let her know there was a shooting on campus. She had not been able to speak to her mother because the campus was on lockdown; she did not know any details about the event, the shooter, her mother's location, or whether the crisis was still going on. And she felt like she was overacting because she was so upset and shaken.

Luckily, her mother was fine. The family will be able to reunite this weekend and take solace in one another, and they will probably all have to deal with the emotional aftermath of feeling so vulnerable.

I think of this event, so close to home and connected to someone I see nearly every day of the week, and I wonder how we would all feel if violence was a part of our everyday living... a possible and likely occurance that would follow us like an ominous, dark stranger... a heightened sense of anxiety, a growing paranoia, an ever-present alertness.

Over time, perhaps that would lessen and the constant sense of fear would subside... but the losses would always hurt. We would always be taken by surprise. The truly devastating events would forever alter our sense of self and shape our concept of the world.

Even if we escaped.

The paradoxical nature of parenting and toddlerhood

My daughter is amazing: beautiful, smart, insightful, playful, funny, passionate, independent... I could go on forever. She is also what one might call a "spirited" child. She's willful and constantly on the go. Her energy level is astounding... which can be incredibly challenging at times as a parent.

She is our first, and one of the most difficult things I have struggled with during these first two years has been my sense of my own failings as a parent. I am not a natural mother... at least, I don't feel I fit the stereotype of glorious nurturing provider who is playful and fun and always has ideas for how to stay busy even when trapped indoors during two straight days of icy weather and dangerous temperatures. I need peace and solitude to recharge, and so I find myself often feeling overwhelmed by how much attention and focus she requires.

And this makes me feel incredibly guilty. And sometimes discouraged. And often disappointed in myself.

And I think of my other friends who have kids: Noelle, who also has a spirited daughter and manages to continue working as a writer/performer and to provide a sense of humor and flexibility while being loving and patient; my friend Diana, who is raising two children and makes time to create memory books and plan these amazing family events; Dana who is raising twins and chose to stick with nursing despite intense physical pain because she wanted to do what was best for her kids. Each of these amazing women gets down on herself, feels guilty at times, and has shared a sense of insecurity about her abilities and her worth - her identity as a mother.

I think sometimes we are able to be kinder to others than we are to ourselves. We can see strength, passion, and commitment more clearly and are more apt to commend the effort made instead of focusing on errors. We see their hearts, and we honor their endeavor.

Why is it so much easier to throw stones at ourselves?

Consider all sides...

NPR played a story this morning that has stuck with me all day. It focused on renters and landlords in Maine who have been affected by the skyrocketing oil prices we've likely all been struggling with (and impacted by) over the last few months.

Apparently, some landlords have neglected to keep up with the heating needs of their tenants; hundreds of renters have contacted the state in an effort to acquire adequate heating for their homes in the midst of a hard winter, and many of those affected are families with small children.

Easy to villify the landlords and to feel anger, outrage, and sadness when initially listening to this story. We can think back and remember our own experiences with similar injustices... to think of past landlords who treated us unfairly, to think about our own financial worries and the resultant anxiety in the wake of a recession-tinged economy, to remember a time when we were in trouble or jeopardy and feeling no one was there to help.

What was nice, however, was the reporter covering this story also interviewed some landlords and found they were struggling as well. Rising costs have forced many landlords to sacrifice their own heating needs, and many owners who occupy their buildings are facing unreasonable mortgage costs in the wake of the recent housing fiasco, as well as rising oil costs that threaten to make it impossible to keep up with their expenses. They are feeling scared and doing all they can to take care of their own families and make ends meet.

It's a difficult situation for everyone. And what struck me in listening to this story, aside from feeling a deep sadness that so many people are struggling to meet their most basic of needs, was a sense that most people are doing the best they can. I believe most people are not out to hurt others. We may be selfish at times in our pursuit of what we deem important, but usually the hurt we cause is a side effect of a myopic and singular drive to succeed in our plans. What's more, those who are purposefully hurting others are often doing so because their own experiences have necessitated the development of coping techniques and personality changes integral in ensuring survival.

Compassion can be a tricky thing. Especially when we're feeling scared, anxious, or helpless. Asking for help can be hard, and responding with love to those you see as oppressors can be even harder. But what a lofty goal to hold in one's heart and mind each day.

Compassion embraces frailty and beauty in the potentiality that is the very best of humankind and allows us to see the connection and commonality among us. Everyone has a story. Everyone has a history. Everyone has fears, hopes, hurts, and transgressions. We're human. We're imperfect. It's what is so lovely and impossibily frustrating in seeking to make meaning of the highs and lows of life.

Epiphany at the UU

I have been lost, it might be safe to say, since around 2002. It may have been connected to being laid off from a great job with an e-learning company in Chicago. It may have been several years of simultaneously defining myself as an actor, writer, arts instructor, choreographer, director, journalist, and manager. Whatever the reason... this sense of searching has been with me for so long that it had begun to feel rather familiar and less than transitory.

Jump cut forward to Sunday, February 10, 2008. I am sitting in the UU Fellowship in Carbondale, IL where I currently reside. It is unusual that I am attending the service, as I am normally in the nursery area watching my soon-to-be 2-year old daughter, Ariana, play... helping out with the other children as needed. I had switched places with my husband on this day to attend a service in which one of my instructors, Dr. Kimberly Asner-Self, was going to speak. She, however, was not going to make it. And so there I was, feeling a little torn as to whether I should relieve Andy (the hubby) from being caught in the nursery or should stay for the rest of the service, when I was hit by a very gentle yet strong revelation: I should become a Unitarian Universalist minister.

Now, mind you, I am apt to make rash decisions... I tend to plan big and invest passionately and to sometimes move from one grand idea to another quickly and with little warning. Yet, this felt very different. This suddenly brought together the seemingly random pursuits of the last 10+ years in a way that made sense and had purpose. I suddenly understood why the various occupations I had considered over the last 5 years (including my current pursuit of a M.S.Ed. in Educational Psychology) did not make sense when taken separately, but - when taken together - created a lovely, intricate, very simple picture of a life that would align my self-concept on both an inner and outer level.

I had been planning to begin this blog before my Sunday epiphany; however, the "ah ha" moment acquired that day led to a clarification and focus for my posts which again brought everything together while moving me forward.

There is a section of the service of the Fellowship during which members are invited to come up and share a joy or sorrow with the rest of the congregation - the idea being that our collective experience of the happiness and sadness in each of our lives is more powerful and more connected to the divine than when taken individually (this is my interpretation at least). It also allows members a chance to pray for or celebrate in the momentous happenings of others... a very essential component to that which is sacred or divine in our spiritual experiences and the potential we are capable of when we choose to focus our collective, creative will together.

So... this blog will explore one sorrow or one joy each day. My task is to identify a joy or sorrow each day - it could be mine, it could be someone else's; it could be local, it could be national. My hope is that, in sharing these stories... these observations, I can provide an opportunity for reflection and connection that will hopefully serve as a positive event in the lives of others.

My first joy to post is personal. I feel so very lucky to have had this revelation... to have been in the right place at the right time... to see with hindsight that all of the chaos and seeming limbotic qualities of my daily life did indeed have purpose and direction. I can see the larger picture now, and I am amazed at its beauty and simplicity.