HALLOWEEN? SCARY!

Elizabeth Willis Barrett………………November 1, 2015

I need to add to my list of disliked holidays.   I have made it very clear that I am less than a lover of Christmas.  I’ve said it so much that people who I didn’t think were aware of my idiosyncrasy, have become a bit confrontational.   I will probably have to write more on that subject since we’re now in November.  But today I will talk about my least favorite of all holidays:  Halloween.  For many, Halloween is their all time favorite holiday, even embracing it more than Christmas.  I don’t understand it, but I realize it.

Last night I HAD to go to a Halloween party.  A HUGE one.  Probably about 1500 Young Adults in an unsuspecting park.  We couldn’t even go late because our car was used for Trunk or Treat and had to be decorated. At least I didn’t have to do the decorating.  Plus, we figured we’d have to stay until the bitter end because of the same dilemma—our trunk was needed.  Young Adult hours are considerably later than Old Adult hours, so I was bracing for a late night of wandering and schmoozing.  Brad is a great schmoozer.  I am not.

Since we had just returned from a two day outing with some of those Young Adults and hadn’t slept the long and peaceful sleep of the undisturbed, I was anxious to give up Halloween all together and crawl into my own dependable bed for a long hybernation.  But no, I had to quick get into some kind of Halloween costume and hurry over to yet another gathering.

I have one go-to Halloween costume that takes no elaborate preparing, makeup or clothing.  Well, two.  I was going to wear a gray sweatsuit but I must have packed it when we crazily got the notion of selling this house and moving—more on that another time.  So I just wore black pants and a black shirt and safety-pinned socks all over me.  I went as “static cling.”  I don’t know who first thought of that as a costume.  Probably someone else who hates Halloween and wanted to get to some party with the least amount of preparation.

It is a little hard to “static cling” yourself, but Brad was busy trying to get ready and I didn’t want to ask him to stop and help me.  He has a floppy hat and some fake glasses that hold a fake mustache so he thought he was in great shape costume-wise.  Unfortunately, he had packed his glasses at the same time I was packing up my sweatsuit so he had to scramble for a costume.  Quickly he chose my second go-to costume: a ham sandwich.  This was a little difficult to create since I had also packed up the construction paper that would have provided all the colors we needed to turn him into a memorable ham sandwich.  But I hadn’t yet packed a roll of butcher paper and thankfully found a roll of green plastic table covering that hadn’t yet been included in the packing frenzy.  I cut out two pieces of bread from the brown butcher paper and two lettuce leaves from the green plastic and quickly safety-pinned them to Brad—a piece of bread and lettuce leaf in front and a piece of bread and lettuce leaf in back.  At least the ham was authentic.  He would also have made a believable bologna sandwich.

 

We finally got to the party.  Once again I found myself climbing to the side of the minority.  Of the 1500 gallivanting through the park in their very clever costumes, most looked like they had a love affair going on with my un-beloved holiday.  Halloween was well honored and celebrated.  And to be fair, I had a very good time visiting with friends and commenting on superb creativity.

I like my life.  I like what I do.  I have always considered time to be a very precious commodity and I’m heading to the scarce end of it.  The thought of taking valuable time to decorate the house with ghoulish specters or to dream up time-consuming costumes just doesn’t sound very inviting.  I’d rather take the time to practice photography, or practice writing or practice my “just the right size” guitar.  And now that Halloween is over, it will only be minutes before the need to prepare for Christmas will be hollering at us from every direction.  Aaaaaaaaaa!

I give thanks for the welcomed holiday in between—Thanksgiving.  My favorite.  I’m with my family—the absolutely most important people in the whole world—for an un-pressured  day of good food and gratitude.   And all Thanksgiving asks of me is some beautiful fall leaves and one huge, delicious meal……Plus lots and lots of thanks.  I’m up for that.

 

 

CLIFF NOTES

Elizabeth Willis Barrett………….April 2015

“Stay away from the cliff,” Mama called to Charlie for the 426th time, but Charlie didn’t listen even though he pretended to.  He’d heard those words so many times that they just bounced off his hard reward-centered brain like a ping pong ball and got imbedded in the walls with all the other words he didn’t like hearing.

“Don’t go near it or you’ll fall off!”  Mom’s voice got hysterical as it always did but Charlie grinned and promised again that he’d never get close enough to fall over its edge.

“Silly Mama,” he nearly added as he put a slight shake in his head and continued his exit through the kitchen door and out into the inky blackness.  As usual he called back:

“Just lookin’, Mama.  Just checking it out.  Trust me.  Don’t worry.”

Those words: “Trust me” and “Don’t worry” had become for Mama a red flag that was heaved and waved and blazed with the words “Don’t trust me, Mama, and you’d sure as heck better worry.”  The flag waved so close to her in her waking hours and as she tried to sleep that it was hard to see anything else—-the pride of Marie’s straight A report card, the thrill of Margo’s piano recital.  “Don’t trust me, Mama. Worry.” had become an unwelcome and constant mantra.

It was a dangerous place to live Mama knew, but they had tried other places.  And those had had their own cliffs and dangers.  Was there anywhere in the world that didn’t have a unique set of perils?  The four other children didn’t have a problem with the cliff.  They stayed away and found activities that kept them from even looking in the cliff’s direction.

But Charlie was different.  For some reason, known only to the Creator of all mankind, his focus was riveted on the cliff and no matter how many times Mama told him to stay away, there he was just teetering on its edge.  Mama begged and pleaded and bribed but it didn’t make any difference.  She might as well have been attempting to teach math to a cougar.  It didn’t stop her from trying though.  Somewhere in her vast vocabulary, there must be just the right words she could say.  And in all of her abundance of great ideas there must be one that would finally illuminate Charlie, make him see the error of his ways and get him back on the path leading far from the edge of the cliff.

On a particularly terrifying night Mama heard Charlie calling from a distance and knew at once what had happened…finally happened….inescapably happened.  Mama jumped out of bed and grabbed the rope she kept nearby for this anticipated emergency and ran out into the night barefoot and nightgowned.

“Charlie,” she called.  “Charlie?” more insistent.  “Charlie, Mama is here.  Tell me exactly where you are so I can help you.”

Mama ran along the edge of the cliff forcing her eyes to slide away the darkness so she would know where to throw the rope.

“Here, Mama.”  Finally a faint call and she heaved the rope over the edge.

“Grab it, Charlie.  Grab it.  I’ll pull you up.  Grab it, Charlie.”  Her voice was choking.  Her eyes were streaming.  What if she wasn’t strong enough to pull him up?  What if her hands slipped?  What if he was too heavy for her and he pulled her down over the cliff instead?

And that’s what happened.  Mama gave one futile tug and  Charlie’s weight—bloated with defiance, selfish arrogance, stupidity and disregard for her well-being and safety—pulled her down over the cliff and she landed with an agonized crumple on top of him.

“I’m sorry, Mama,” whispered Charlie when he could finally speak.  “I’m sorry, Mama.  I won’t go to the edge again.  I won’t.  You’ll see.”

Hope eased into Mama’s battered limbs.  “This fall was worth it,” she thought. “At last he will stay away from the cliff and we can all pay attention to other things.”

After Mama and Charlie were ceremoniously and painfully rescued, Charlie kept his word—for a time, a short time.  Then the old pattern blasted back ready for battle.  Charlie spent even more time at the edge of the cliff and Mama spent even more time trying to keep him away.  The other children felt neglected.  The Disneyland fund was spent on a protective—but ineffective—wall.  The money set aside for a new bathroom was spent on classes for Charlie.  In them he was supposed to learn ways to stay away from the cliff. But he didn’t learn them and he didn’t stay away.

Mama never ventured far from home since she needed always to be ready to save Charlie from himself.  She was missing out on a lot of things she had planned on doing at this stage of her life.  But isn’t that what mothers do? Sacrifice? She adored Charlie.  She’d give her life for him.

Her saving attempts forcefully wrenched her over the cliff so often that she had lost count of the times and the bruises and Charlie’s whispered and insincere promises ceased to make the fall worthwhile.

One night while lying in the muck at the bottom of the cliff with Charlie’s assurances rattling around in her despairing mind, other words came to her that she had heard over and over:

“You have to let him go.”

“You are as addicted to Charlie as Charlie is to the cliff.”

“He will never stay away from the cliff if you keep rescuing him.”

At last those words made sense to her.  Here at the bottom of the cliff, wallowing with her beloved son, those words finally made sense.  And something happened.

It had tried to happen before but Mama just hadn’t been desperate enough.  Perhaps she hadn’t hit the rock bottom that all the experts raved about.  She had thought the rock bottom analogy was for Charlie’s necessary change.  But maybe rock bottom applied to her, too.  And she had hit it.

“No where to go but up,” she thought.  And saying nothing, she walked away, ignoring Charlie’s calls of “Mama, Mama.  Where are you going?  You’re not going to leave me down here all alone.  Mama?”  At last Mama found a way to climb out of the gloom and home again.

After that, Mama lived her life.  After all, if she didn’t, who would?  And Charlie lived his.  It wasn’t the best life to be wished on a son, but it was his life and little by little it started getting better.  When Charlie finally understood that Mama wasn’t going to be his savior anymore, he started reaching down into his own rescuing options and found that he had a few to choose from. With tedious effort, he eventually turned from the cliff and explored paths that held greater promise.

For Mama, life became doable again.  Joy invaded the cracks made by everyday happenings and peace left its calling card much more often.

The cliff, the looming hated cliff,  seemed to dissolve into the horizon and Mama, just like Charlie, gladly turned her back on it and followed safer paths.  Sometimes she even followed Charlie—but not too often and not too close.

ANOTHER AGING VENTILATION

 

ANOTHER AGING VENTILATION

Elizabeth Willis Barrett…………..March 2014

 

The other day Brad and I drove separate cars to a detailing shop so Brad could leave his car there to be detailed.  There was a slight problem owing to the fact that  Brad hadn’t brought the shop’s address or phone number and thought he could just find it.  But he couldn’t.  It was sort of my fault that he couldn’t find it because there was heavy traffic on Baseline.  Because Brad knows how much I hate to turn left when there is even a moderate amount of cars whizzing and honking by, he turned right which was very thoughtful since I was following him.  But that put him in unfamiliar territory as far as the detail shop was concerned and he couldn’t remember if it was closer to Broadway or Southern.  The lack of knowing made for several turns and backtracking.

Finally I called him (thank goodness, he remembered to bring his phone which isn’t always a given) and said I would just park somewhere and he could tell me where to find him after he knew exactly where he was going.  Trying to follow him in tight circles behind the wheel of a potential weapon didn’t seem like a very safe thing in my opinion.

“No,”  he said.  “It’s here somewhere.”

Finally he did find the detailer after stopping a couple of times and squinting at the road sign to see if it said Broadway or Southern.  And, by the way, which comes first—Broadway or Southern?  It’s funny how things like that escape your mind at times.  Again, I will take some of the responsibility for getting lost.  No, I will take a whole bunch of the responsibility, since my left turn phobia made him come at the shop from a different angle.  What’s a little more guilt added to the great weight of guilt that I insist on carrying everywhere I go?

When he finally left his car with the attendant and got into mine he was very frustrated.

“I don’t want to be old,” he said.  “That’s what an old man does: wanders aimlessly and slowly and shuffle-y looking for things.   I don’t want to act like that.”

“Neither do I,”  I said as I pawed through my purse, forgetting what the object of the pawing was.

“See,” he said.  “That’s what your mother used to do.”

“What?” I asked.

“The rummaging.  The rifling through your purse. That’s what your mother used to do.”

He was right.  I felt just like her as I pawed with seemingly no purpose.  A definite sign of aging.  What a pair we are, Brad and me!

“Aaaaaaaaaaa!

The drawbacks of the aging process  hit me once in a while and I just have to vent.  I feel like Diane Keaton’s character in the movie And So It Goes when she splays her arms and says with an emphatic grimace, “I’m sixty-five.  Uuuuuuuuuu!!!”

I do not like growing old.  There must be a better way.  I know, I should be glad to still be here on this fabulous earth and I should enjoy every minute and relish the now.  But aging is a big deterrent to relishing the now.

The other day I found a hair on my chin.  A dark hair!!! What was that doing there?  I have always been blond.  How long had it been growing?  How many people saw it before I finally did?  What would make a hair grow on a chin that has never had a hair before?  Weird things happen as you grow old.

Another sign of my own aging happened when I bent over to pick up something off the carpet.  I couldn’t tell what it was and I turned it over and over until I felt my mother slipping into me again.  She had done that action often in her old age, turning something over and over in slow motion trying to determine what treasure was indicated by a scrap found on the carpet.

Slow motion is becoming more of a companion to me and not an amiable one.  What happened to my drive, my focus, my hitting the deck running?  And weight that used to roll off without much trouble has become attached to my middle and it seems to delight in giving me a backache.  Arthritic thumbs add to my annoyance.

If age was honored and respected and not snickered at, it would help a little.  This might be a good time to move to old-people-loving China.  Hopefully, Brad will go with me.

NAPOLEON DYNAMITE??

NAPOLEON DYNAMITE??

Elizabeth Willis Barrett………..January 21, 2015

The first time I saw the movie Napoleon Dynamite was in Rexburg, Idaho, with my husband Brad, and my two youngest—Kyle and Allison—who were in Rexburg going to school.  We had traveled all the way from Arizona for a short visit and had some hours to kill.  And they were definitely killed in my opinion.  Shot through.  Kyle and Alli had seen the movie already and couldn’t wait to watch it with us.  There had been so much hype about it that I was ready to have a great experience with half my family.

It turned out to be a very slow day at the movie theater.  We got in our seats after the film had started and since we were the only ones in that particular theater, they started it all over again just for us.  Kind.  If they had started from the ending and played the whole thing backwards, it would have had the same effect on me.  I was completely unimpressed and once again my lack of humor sense was made manifest.  That was truly the dumbest movie I had ever seen—up to that point.  I think Nacho Libre would create a very close race if the two should run a 1/2 marathon together.

Kyle and Allison kept looking at us to see our reaction to this very unorthodox film.  Most of the time they could hear Brad’s reaction because he was laughing uncontrollably.  If there had been anyone else in the theater they might have asked him to keep it down.   But I must have seemed like a matronly Queen of Hearts at a quilting bee.  Not a guffaw, not a snicker, not a smile escaped my pierced lips.  I think my left eye brow was raised during the whole pitiful showing.  The movie wasn’t funny.

Again, as I have been made very aware of on many occasions, I was most likely in the minority.  I think I am in a perpetual minority.  I would be standing practically alone in a group of 1000 people if we were to choose sides of a room according to our likes and personalities in a variety of categories.

“All those who like chocolate go to the right side of the room.”  I’d be left alone on the left.

“All those who prefer Barbra Streisand to blue grass music go to the right side of the room.”  I’d be left alone on the left.

“All those who love to stand outside and chat rather than clean out a closet, go to the right side of the room.”  Again, I’d be left on the left.

This would not be a good thing to do on a boat.  The weight wouldn’t be balanced.

As we came out of the theater at the end of N.D., the sweet girl at the candy counter asked how we’d liked the movie.  In answer, I turned around and waved a bemused hand at Brad.  He could barely walk because he was bent over in hysterics with Kyle and Allison laughing, too, mostly at him.  He loved Napoleon Dynamite.

When attributes were being handed out in the pre-earth life, I believe Brad was first in line at the Sense of Humor counter.  He can roll into a belly laugh quicker than anyone I know and at the slightest provocation.  I was probably queuing up for other qualities (I’m not sure which, at the moment) and totally missed out on the Humor distribution.  My Dad and sister are wonderful at seeing the funny side of things.  They must have been in that humor line.  You’d think they would have let me have cuts or something since I probably wasn’t patient enough to wait behind 4,376,000 other humor wanna-haves.

I wish now I had put in more effort to obtain a sense of humor because laughter can imbue the soul.  Maybe a little humor blew off the counter in my direction, though, because I do love to laugh with friends and family.  And even though Napoleon Dynamite did nothing for me, I once laughed right out loud in Three Amigos.

GET OUT OF MY MORNING!

Elizabeth Willis Barrett………….January 13, 2015

I love mornings.  Not that I have gotten up early enough lately to claim their full benefits.  When I’ve had to catch a very early flight to Seattle or Salt Lake or take someone to a 5:00 am job appointment, I realize how much I am missing by not getting up at 5:00 every morning.  Getting to bed in a timely manner to allow a 5:00 am reveille hasn’t happened for a while.  But it really is a shame to miss those early hours when the sun is beginning to stretch and blaze its promise across the sky.  It is so beautiful and renewing.  To me, morning is when the vital doings of the day must be done. As the day moves along toward sunset, it seems to collapse and press down on all the remaining minutes leaving them rather unproductive.

If I had my way, I would wake up to an empty house with all other occupants hard at work somewhere else.  I wouldn’t need to help anyone find a missing phone or satchel or point out that the peanut butter is right where it has been for at least the last 10 years.  I wouldn’t hear the radio blaring out heart deflating accounts of kidnappings and murders and political sniveling.  My psyche is so fragile that an overheard bit of bad news acts like a stiff scrubbing brush to my good humor and sense of well being.  And although I really love to hear new insights on religion and the way of the country gained by deep spousal study, morning is not the time to pour any new found truths into my brain.  In the morning, the mixer of my cerebrum is whirring with other ingredients and extra bits and pieces are likely to get flung aside, my congeniality with them.

In the morning, I’m trying to concentrate on my weekly list.  It is a very long to-do list that I usually write out during Church on Sunday. I want to get on with the day and that list without any interruptions.  That is probably a very selfish desire.  But I’m just trying to put on my own breathing mask first so I can help others put on their breathing masks, so to speak.  And to me, that means getting certain things done in the morning.

For instance, if I don’t “stretch with Jane” before 8:00 am, the opportunity for that particular get-it-done item will be gone for the day. Without this stretching (which I have tried to do every morning for about 30 years since I discovered the wonderful DVD of Jane Fonda called “Start Up”) my aging body will just quit moving all together, and what help would I be to anyone then?

Next, I need to be totally ready for the day—showered, dressed, blown, curled, contacted, made up.  It is very deflating to look in the mirror at mid-day and realize that several of these points didn’t get addressed.  Of course, by then even the addressed items must be re-addressed.  If someone wants me to do something—after my morning, of course—I want to be ready.

There are about ten things I really want to get done each day and morning is the best time to do them.  Without distractions, I could easily get them all done by ten or eleven and then I would be eager to get on with the interaction and saving of others.  Not that anyone will need saving by then or want to interact either.

Again I find that I am not only thinking outside the box but outside the universe of my family and friends who are ready to engage way before I am.  Maybe they’ve already secured their own breathing masks and they are trying to help me with mine.  As usual, I could use some help. That universe has tried for years to teach me that warm, wonderful people are far more important than crossing items off my lists. So, come back into my mornings and my days and my nights and I will try to be more discreet as I’m making a list and checking it twice.

IN DEFENSE OF SARAH’S MOM

Elizabeth Willis Barrett…………Oct 14, 2014

The other day I watched “This is Life with Lisa Ling: Inside Utah’s Struggle with Drug Abuse.”  She showed that even though Mormons have a strict health guide, they are still falling in high numbers to the addiction of pain pills.  I felt that she was very compassionate in her interviews.  She attended a Mormon Addiction Recovery Program meeting, spoke with a Mormon Bishop and in addition to others, met with a very candid girl named Sarah.

I didn’t learn about the danger of prescription pills until my son was in high school.  He went to a friend of mine who worked in the school’s bookstore and asked her for one of her pain pills.   Very responsibly, this friend called me before giving him one.  She told me that Jeffrey had come to her saying that his back really hurt.  As a football player, Jeffrey had many reasons to have a hurting back.  I told her it was OK to give him one of her pills.  Unbelievable, I know.  Looking back, I am astounded at my naiveté.  I had no idea that I had just given my consent to an addiction that would become so full blown that we wouldn’t see the end of it for fifteen years.  I knew nothing about addictions and, of course, nothing about the role pills play in dependency.

Drugs were so out of my realm of consciousness.  I had five nearly perfect children.  It was very interesting to watch the Ling program because it stressed the obsession we as Mormons tend to have with perfection.  We don’t want anyone to know that our family might be having problems, so disasters like drug addiction can be swept under the rug of denial for years.  Although that’s probably not solely a Mormon dilemma.

Lisa showed how easy it is to get addicted.  Many start innocently with prescription pills given by a well-meaning doctor.  When pills get too scarce or expensive many turn to heroin and other illegal drugs.  Addicts need their next hit just like everyone needs their next breath of oxygen and they’ll do about anything to get it.

When Lisa Ling was interviewing Sarah—a full blown heroin addict—she asked her if she wanted to quit.  “More than you’ll know,” said Sarah.  Lisa also asked Sarah what she wanted.  Sarah’s answer was that she just wanted a hug from her Mom.

Sarah’s Mom, who was never named, might have sounded like an unfeeling woman, one who wouldn’t even hug her daughter.  But not to me.  I have been that mom to some degree and I praise her for her courage.  It takes a lot of courage to divorce your addicted child and let her determine on her own that she is ready to pay the price for sobriety.  I would guess that Sarah’s Mom has already spent years hugging and encouraging and saving Sarah from the consequences of her disastrous choices.  After all, she is raising Sarah’s child which is a difficult thing to do after raising your own children.  I would also assume that Sarah’s Mom has been lied to and stolen from because that is what addicts do—they lie and they steal.  Enough is enough.

Brad and I have had many couples sitting in our living room trying to absorb any advice we can give them about dealing with their own addicted children.  We tell them all the same thing that a recovered addict told us:  “There is nothing you as a parent can do or say that will change your child.  They are the ones who have to decide when they are really ready to walk the difficult path of recovery.”  We also tell them of helps that are available to parents and meetings that would strengthen their resolve.  Most parents don’t like our advice.

I am assuming that Sarah’s Mom finally arrived at the point we all must come to: we are not helping our children by enabling them.  We are not helping our children by giving them a nice place to live and driving them places and paying for their needs.  They will never recover until it is harder to be an addict than it is to be sober.  When we make life easy for them,  addicted children continue farther down that destructive path and there is no retrieving them.  Our son wasn’t willing to get ultimate help until he had been homeless for about a year—living behind dumpsters and on the canal bank in a bush, panhandling for money to get more drugs.  We couldn’t coddle him anymore.  We couldn’t bring him home.  We had to go on with our lives and let him go on with his even though his path might lead to death.

So to Sarah’s Mom I would say that there are many imperfect Mormon Moms who are behind you right now, wishing you the best and saying, “Hang in there, Sarah’s Mom.  You are doing the right thing.  The only right thing!”

I wish I could tell Sarah that although she wants to be clean she didn’t sound like she was quite ready to throw herself into a program where she’d have to give her all into getting well.  With the nation watching, I imagine that many would step up to help her into a rehab if she had said that she was ready and willing to go right now.  But when she is done, truly done with her addiction, there is help for her.

Our son finally got the help he needed in a 24 month program that changed his thinking and his life.  It is called the John Volken Academy . It was started by a wonderful philanthropist and costs next to nothing. Two years seems like a very long time to be in a program, but the many expensive thirty day and three month programs worked only for a little while and then the addiction returned.  When you are deep into addiction, a few months isn’t going to pull you out. Thanks to John Volken we have our son back—our wonderful son.

And one day, Sarah, if you are willing to make recovery your first and only priority, your Mom will get you back .  And, I promise, the hugs won’t stop.

PRAYER?

Elizabeth Willis Barrett

I heard the other day that a very determined woman pointed her shaking finger at a school group demanding that prayer be allowed in the schools.  I used to feel that it was a huge mistake when prayer was deleted from public forums but I have a different feeling now.

I‘m for prayer, but I’d want the prayer to be my kind of prayer.  I wouldn’t like it very much if I were required to kneel to the east several times a day because the one in charge worshiped in that way.  And I don’t suppose those of the Jewish faith would like to be prayed for in the name of Jesus Christ at every secular meeting they go to.  I love the Savior.  I wish every religion accepted, loved and worshipped Him.  But they don’t and we can’t assume that He is in everyone’s life.

Once our family made some people very uncomfortable by insisting that they pray like we pray.  We had associated with a born again Christian group for some time because they were trying to help one of our children, for which we were very grateful.  In the process, we had been preached to and prayed for and blessed over and over by them as they waved their hands in the air and quoted scripture and treated us as lost souls who needed much spiritual guidance.  Since we feel that we have quite a good grasp of scripture and spiritual things ourselves, we were a little resentful.

So, when we had them in our home, Brad thought he would return the favor by having them pray like we do for a change.  We all knelt in a circle and Brad offered a prayer.  That is how we have family prayer in our home.   I feel that it made them uneasy and I’m sorry we were so adamant about them joining us.  Brad just wanted them to know that prayer was not foreign to us and that we definitely loved and worshipped Heavenly Father, too.

Prayer is a very personal thing.  Those people in our home loved God.  They had dedicated their lives to His service.  We didn’t have the right to make them worship in our way.  And we don’t have that right in the schools either.  There is so much diversity, so many ways to talk to God.  Maybe a moment of silence would be more appropriate where each could reflect or pray in his or her own way.  Our kids certainly could use some spiritual help.  We all could.

I rejoice when friends of other faiths say they’ll pray for me or for one of our kids.  Those prayers are so welcomed, heard and felt even if they have a different way of reaching Heaven.

As I went to a Mormon Temple dedication with a wonderful Catholic friend, she said in reference to the numerous religions, “We’re all trying to go to the same place; we’re just driving different cars.”

If we want someone to ride in our car, we’d do better with kind invitations.   We ought to make sure that our car is driven by and filled with happy, loving and accepting people.  Or who would want to join us?  Those with angry pointing fingers will have no passengers no matter how much they promote prayer.

SPILT GUILT

 

 Elizabeth Willis Barrett

Morning comes and I rise with the basket already molded to my head.  As usual it is full—so full that its contents flutter out and wiggle down my neck to keep me from forgetting what I carry. It isn’t visible to anyone else.  No one knows what it contains.  Just me.  I need to do something about it because it is very heavy and it squeezes out the joy that each day should hold.  I don’t think I’m the only one carrying a basket like this.  Not many  men would carry one, I’m sure.  But women would.  Women who are trying to do their best but always seem to find themselves wanting.  And thus the basket, the heavy basket.  It is filled with guilt.   Not major guilt but lots of little feelings of guilt that get quite heavy when added together.  I’d ask Brad to take a turn at carrying this basket but I know he’d be neglectful and just set it down somewhere and forget about it.  He doesn’t feel a need to carry guilt on his head throughout the day, any day, every day.  But someone has to—right?

Today is the day I should do something about lightening its load, though.  It’s getting unmanageable.  And my guilt for not diminishing my feelings of guilt adds to the guilt already in the basket.

So I take it off my head and begin to sort its contents like I do the papers and mail that pile into hefty guilt-producing heaps around the house.  I seem to be a Pied Piper for paper and a Pied Piper for guilt.

Where to start?  I shuffle through the culpabilities.  Aww.  Here’s one.  Not fixing breakfast for Brad.  Perhaps that can go in the needless pile.  Isn’t he a capable adult?  And shouldn’t he applaud me for allowing him to become self-sufficient.?  Yep, get that one out of the basket.  Why have I left it there so long?

I find scores of guilty words I’ve said, some formed into nasty criticisms or idle gossip.  And some I didn’t mean to say.  At times I was just making conversation and the words came out wrong.  Any explanation would have made the situation worse so I just shoved guilt into my basket and left the scene.  I think I can get rid of them now.  I start a word pile.

Some of the guilt I carry is for not meeting my own self-imposed expectations.  For instance, I feel guilty that I let my Christmas Experiment Blog down by not writing on it every day.  It would have been so easy if I had just done it.  And I feel guilty that I didn’t get 5000 hits on this blog by February 17th which was my goal.  That means I didn’t write as much as I wanted to this year and you can hardly ask people to read your blog if you haven’t written anything new for a month or two.  I extract those guilts out of the basket and start a self-inflicted pile.  There’s lots more to add to this one.  I pull out my exercise neglect, my cookie snarfing jags, my slightly over-indulgence of Excedrin—5 a week is excessive for me, and my under practiced guitar playing.

I give up sorting and just start pulling the guilt out piece by piece.  I let each fall where it will.  Guilt for staying in the shower too long morning after morning and wasting time and hot water.  And in honor of showers, I find guilt for missing some bridal and baby showers, some receptions and funerals and kids ballgames, too.  Here’s guilt for not having friends over more, not answering a letter, not writing a thank you note, having too much stuff and not enough gratitude.

I am working myself into a frenzy as I take new and old guilts from the basket and let them stack up around me.

Guilt for letting the front flowers wilt and the back garden become only two empty grow boxes containing worn out dirt and a few scraggly pea plants.  And guilt for an over burdened addict (whoops—I mean attic!) that needs to be organized and depleted.  And, yes, guilt for my addict, too, who possibly could have avoided that spirally path had I been aware of drugs and their pernicious tenacity.  That guilt makes me pause and I feel the need for a Mountain Dew Voltage before I continue…….  Ahh!…… .Since I only drink caffeine when traveling or in crisis, its effect is swift and I can continue.

I pull out the guilt about never hosting a neighborhood party.  Hey, that’s not my guilt alone, I reason. And I’m not carrying this one by myself.  I put on my running shoes—like I ever run (another guilt)—and stop at five houses in my circle.  With the help of Ziplock bags, I distribute some of this guilt and I can almost stand up straight.

Back to the basket.

Here’s guilt about choosing to stay inside to work on projects rather than stand outside to visit with friends and neighbors.  And guilt about sometimes walking past people that I know so I won’t have to talk to them.  And guilt about listening to books too much and guilt about my wanting to listen to books too much.

I find guilt for not knowing much about politics, although I do vote due to some expertise tutoring.  And guilt for letting the delicious oranges growing on our four orange trees go to waste even though we eat as many as we can and tell people to come pick them.  And guilt for not having a complete and workable years supply.

The basket is full of my spiritual guilt, too.  So many things I should do more of: studying, praying, serving, genealogy.  Mistakes I’ve made in leadership positions that can’t be undone.  Selfishness, procrastination, lack of charity, envy.  It’s all in there, not to mention the things I can’t mention.  And there is always guilt about not spending enough time with kids and grandkids.  I pull all that out of the basket.  I turn it upside down and shake it hard in case I missed something.  Shake…shake…shake.  And…it…is…finally…empty.

Whew!  I am exhausted.  But just for a minute because something happens.  Something joyful.  I am lifted.  My soul is free.  Even Heaven feels closer.  I close my eyes and take it in.

Peace.

Before I am tempted to put even a tiny guilt back into the hungry basket, I vacuum away the piles and take the empty basket outside.  Into the big black garbage bin it goes, breaking and splintering as I press it to the bottom.  It is finished.

And I am beginning.  Lighter…happier.  I float to the kitchen, take out the fry pan and make Brad some bacon and eggs.  He can be self-sufficient tomorrow.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

ORCHESTRATING CHRISTMAS

Elizabeth Willis Barrett………January 2014

Enjoying Christmas with twenty-one family members takes a bit of orchestration.  And that means that someone has to be the conductor.  I look around for volunteers but there are none.  So, I stand upon the podium, baton in hand and raise my arms for the down beat.  Ah, I see that not everyone is ready.  I tap the music stand to get their attention.  I tap again.

“Ready?” I ask.  There are no dissenters.  Down come my arms and from the first notes, I realize with dismay that we are not all playing the same song.  Some are attempting a waltz, others a dirge and still others are tooting away at what must be a new Miley Cyrus original.

“Wait, wait, wait.” I whack the baton and take precious time to see that we are all playing the same piece–a happy, march-like tune that if Sousa didn’t write, he should have.

Another down beat and the improvement is palpable.  It helps to be on the same song on the same page.  Hope glimmers.   Several measures have promise.  Then….

“Cellos, [the young fathers of our family who seem to be constantly riveted on football] I think I’m only hearing one note from you.  Could you look a little more closely?  I think you have other notes besides B [which stands for ball, which usually means football] in your score.”

And…

“Flutes, [the little girls] I really appreciate your ability to dance all over the music, but we have to make everything fit together.  Keep with the rhythm, OK?”

And…

“Trombones, [the teenage boys] this is a happy part.”  I whack the baton against the stand a few times until the trombones look at me with a “What?” lurking in their faces.  It’s a good thing I like myself well enough or I just might crumble under one or two of these looks.  “Play it with joy,”  I say.  “Yes.  Yes you can,” I add to their objections.   This job is exhausting.

“Come on, you guys.  Now we have to start all over.  OK, once again.  All eyes on me.  Good.”

I hear a slight improvement.  Things are looking up.

“Oh, oh.  Everyone pause for just a minute.  Piccolo [the baby] is screeching.  Now, now.  It’s going to be all right, little Piccolo.  No one lose your place.  Hang on.  We just need to guide Piccolo over a few rough measures.”

“Violins, [the young moms] I know you have more notes to negotiate than anyone else, but you’re so capable, so dependable, so lovely.”

“Bass, [my other half, the Grandfather] we haven’t heard from you in awhile.  Oh, I see why.  Wake up!  Wake up, Bass!  We need you.  Your deep tones are our foundation.  I heard that, Bass.  Absolutely no grumbling.”

“Ok, once more from the top.  A one, a two a…….”

“No, Snares, not yet.  Bells, hold it.  Cymbal…..The whole percussion section [the little boys] is trying to race us through to the next century.  Patience.  Read your notes.  You don’t come in yet.”

“A little loud there, Trumpets [the middle boys].  I know you have lots to say.  Blend, just blend.  This is not a trumpet solo.  Every part is as important as the next.”

“I think we’re all a little keyed up at the moment.  Let’s just pause,  slow down,  catch our breaths.  Let’s work on this march, but if it ain’t “baroque” we won’t need to fix it.  Ha, Ha.  Just a little humor.  Thought we could use it.  Never mind.  You will all have a chance for solos, but right now we are trying to create a masterpiece together.  A musical harmonious masterpiece.”

We play and we play.  Intermittently the baton comes down–whack, whack, whack.   They’ve heard that sound so often that they don’t pay attention anymore and I let them continue–stray notes intersecting at the corner of Common Time and 3/4, pianissimo always succumbing to forte.  We are into the music.  And though we miss some notes and sour others, there are times, many times, when the music we create is superb.  Soul reaching.  Beautiful.

After we have performed and regrouped and performed again–made mistakes and repented of sorts–we look back on our orchestration of Christmas.  There are no words but “Bravo! Bravo!” and “Encore! Encore!”  With all our imperfections we have outdone ourselves.

I reverently put down the baton, wipe away a joyful tear and vow to make someone else do at least some of the conducting in the future.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE TEENY TINY HOUSE

Elizabeth Willis Barrett………………..December 2013

The other day I was lingering again too long on Facebook and read about a couple who built a tiny house because they wanted to reduce the imprint they made upon the earth.  I’m not sure what that means, exactly, but I am guessing that it means they didn’t want to buy into materialism and the stuff-ness that we all get into.  As I walked through my five bedroom “castle” overloaded with this and that, thinking about that tiny house made me feel over indulged and rather selfish.  Then I started thinking, which is a very good thing to do.  Here are some things I thought about:

If you live in a house that small, where do you put a washing machine?  Of course, you could always take your laundry to a Laundromat which they must do if they don’t infringe upon one of their parents.  But since they live on 5 acres out in the country, it must be rather far to drive to a Laundromat which would use up the precious commodities of gas and rubber and whatever else a car needs to function.  That could somewhat increase one’s imprint on the planet.

In a house that small, you could never have guests over, which could be good or bad depending on the guests.  If they came, they’d have to bring their own chairs (BYOC) and sit outside since there would be no room inside for extra chairs.  And what if it were raining outside?  You would have to rely on a benevolent Heaven for good weather.  In fact, continual good weather would be a must since you would have no room to store heavy coats or scarves or umbrellas or sweatshirts.

You could delete all hosting responsibilities from your life.  No baby showers here.  You would definitely have to delete any thoughts of children unless you wanted to build another tiny house for each tiny child.  You could also delete any rousing “Honey, I’m home!”s from your vocabulary since that would be an overkill of one’s presence in such a small space.

Animals could be deleted, too, which is a plus in my eyes.  There would be no place to keep dog food and no place for the pet to get out of the occasional inclement weather that is bound to come in spite of Heaven’s benevolence.

If you lived on five acres, wouldn’t there be some outdoor things you’d need: a lawnmower maybe? Some rakes?  If you had that much land, wouldn’t you try to grow some food?  And you’d need to preserve that food.  Seems like you’d need a pressure cooker, Mason jars, large pots, extra shelves, a freezer.  Can’t fit all that in a tiny house.

Doesn’t she ever bring work home from the office?  Doesn’t he ever bring papers home to grade?  Where would they put that stuff?  Or even an ice chest for picnics?

One thing I’d really miss is a piano.  No room for that in their house.  Not even room for a violin.  No room for sheets of music or sheets to rip and crochet into a rug.  No room for the crochet hook, much less a sewing machine or a Cricut to create with.  Creativity would have to be limited to the computer.  Maybe that’s enough for them.

Every important paper would have to be scanned into computers.  But where would they keep a printer to print them out when needed?  And how many outfits could possibly be hung up in such a tiny house for two people.  They’d have to wear the same things day after day after day.  Maybe they never go to company parties or plays like “Wicked.”  And where would they keep extra toilet paper or soap or shampoo or shaving cream?  Do they have to go to the store every day just to keep supplied?

Pretty soon, wouldn’t you go crazy out of your mind just sitting in that teensy weensy space with another person?  It would be a prison of your own making.  I can’t see love and affability continuing indefinitely in these tight quarters.  I go nuts when I have to walk around Brad in our comparatively large kitchen.  What would I do if there was only one place for him to stand and that place was in the center of everything?  There would be only one thing to do–slip into an UN-retractable decline of insanity.

Maybe this tiny house business is only for weekends or perhaps a prelude to a large dream home on their to-be-coveted five acres. If so, this couple shouldn’t give the impression to the world of Facebook believers that living in a tiny house year after year is going to bring peace and serenity as they smugly “make a smaller imprint on the planet.”  I for one don’t believe it is possible.  In fact, I give them three months–tops.

Maybe living in a space no bigger than a rabbit hole without being burdened with life’s overwhelming stuff sounds good in theory.  But theory and reality are so distantly related to each other that they’re not even third cousins twice removed.