grace

#FrecklesFriday: Reciprocated gifts

To the vast blue ocean, I offered a single rose,

and whispered a simple prayer about gratitude and grace.

It was ushered into deeper waters by the outgoing tides.

The ocean swaddled it in velvet,

And sang to it sweet lullabies and old, familiar hymns.

Time passed. The tides rolled in and receded.

I waded in the shallows, watched the rosebud sink and rise again.

A deep peace washed over me, and when the tidewaters dipped to their lowest ebb, I discovered these treasures from the sea.

Is it any wonder that Freckles likes to lounge here, in Treasure Island Cove?

 

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Outspoken courage and quiet grace

I did something yesterday that was so completely out of character that it left me shaking–and smiling, just a little.

It all started when I emerged from a framing store, rummaging through my purse for my errant keys as I headed for my car. A woman glanced out her driver’s side window, staring straight past me as she put her poshly appointed, yacht-sized pickup into reverse.

CRUNCH. She ran smack-dab into the family van that was parked behind her. An older model, with oxidized paint and a couple of missing rims. Someone’s trusty mode of transportation, marred further now by a shattered tail light and back-end damage.

She wheeled around to see if anyone had noticed. When I caught her eye, she lifted her hands in a shrug, as if to say, These spots are so darned small. What are you gonna do?

Suspecting her intent, I made the motion of someone writing their insurance information onto a piece of paper.

She lifted her middle fingers, tires squealing as she returned to her emptied parking stall.

I waited patiently by the driver’s side door, listened quietly when she positioned herself as the hero in a made-up story about a little girl running loose in the parking lot, venturing dangerously close to her oversized tires. “Thank God I hit the van instead of her,” she said.

“Maybe you could explain that to the owners,” I said. “But you should definitely leave them a note.”

In a flash, her demeanor went from faux-concern to fierce anger. “Who do you think you are? God’s policeman?”

I met her eyes with a leveling gaze. “You hit their car,” I said in a calm, quiet voice that camouflaged my growing unease.

“I’m a Christian,” she screamed, about two inches from my face.

Confused eye blinks. “That’s irrelevant,” I said.

“You think I don’t know right from wrong?” she asked. “F*** you.”

“Look, I don’t know anything about you. I’m just a witness to an accident. Please…leave them a note, so we can both get out of here.”

She flipped her hair over her shoulder, came at me with flailing arms. “Go f*** yourself,” she said.

A woman wheeled her shopping cart past us, made a U-turn, and situated her purchases in the small space between me and the truck driver. “Are you okay?” she asked me.

I nodded, just slightly, without dropping the truck driver’s gaze. “I’m okay,” I said, with an appreciative smile. “We’re just talking about hit-and-run accidents, that’s all.”

At this point, the truck driver decided it might be a good idea to inspect the damage she’d caused.

“Look at this van,” she said derisively. “They must be very poor.”

Where was she headed with that comment? No telling, but I didn’t want to go there.

“You hit their car,” I repeated. “Just leave them a note.”

I think she finally realized that I wasn’t going anywhere until she did just that.

She hoisted herself into the jacked-up truck, retrieved an envelope from her designer handbag, and scribbled something onto the flap. It wasn’t with a cheerful heart, I can tell you that. She was dropping verbal carpet bombs all the while, and wiping spittle from her mouth.

She then waved the scrap of paper under my nose, flounced over to the van and jammed it under the windshield wiper.

“Thanks,” I said sincerely. “You did the right thing.”

She answered me with screeching tires; left long, dark skid marks at the stop sign.

As I watched her tail lights flash red, I melted into a puddle of relief. My good intentions could’ve gone terribly wrong. But in hindsight, I doubt I would’ve have done it any other way.

In retrospect, I’m just now realizing why I did something so totally out of character, so completely out of my comfort zone.  It came of feeling helpless to affect any positive change, especially after the House voted to repeal the Affordable Health Care Act last Thursday. Despite the effort I’d put into convincing our legislators to do the right thing, they chose otherwise– stripping good-hearted people of their right to quality health care, and separating ordinary citizens like me from their hard-earned dollars. If this triumph of meanness isn’t stopped in the Senate, millions of Americans will suffer very real, extremely dire consequences. The “least of them” especially, while the wealthy stuff yet another tax break into their Louis Vuitton handbags.

So if I were to guess my deep-seated motives, I’d describe this situation as a one-off opportunity to set things right again. For one family, at the very least.

Make no mistake: I don’t feel one bit heroic about any of this. But as a spiritually minded optimist, I see this as an affirmation of what I’ve always believed to be true: Speaking up for the causes we believe in, and standing our ground in grace–that’s how we turn bad choices toward the good.

Each in our own way(s), giving thanks

We stood at the railing together in reverent silence, watched the sun hover above the chapparel-covered hills before sinking into the ocean. A shoulder’s distance away, a stooped old man was mumbling to himself. He wore a plaid shirt and tan slacks, hitched at the waist with a belt several sizes too large, and his gnarled fingers were folded into a knot of resignation. Or prayer, maybe. It was impossible to read his face because his rheumy eyes were fixed on the horizon, somewhere far beyond the pewter clouds and the sun’s fading brilliance.

In the slope of the old man’s shoulders, I sensed a heavy presence. It hung in the air between us: an unspeakable grief.

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I wanted to lift his spirits somehow, wanted to ask, maybe, if he knew the name of the sweet little bird who sang from the brush as the shadows grew long and the gentle breeze turned chilly. I wanted to bridge the silence, searched without success for the just-right words to cheer him.

The streetlights flickered on, offering light but no insights. Tears welled up in my eyes when we left. In the quiet car ride home, above the sounds of the motor and whirring tires, I grew increasingly uneasy. I placed my hand on my husband’s arm, said “Turn around,” and he responded instantly. In the shared silence, we’d heard (and answered together) the call for grace.

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We found it in the twilight, but not in the form that we’d imagined. A smallish dog was bounding between a pair of gawkish boys and the lonely old man–a furry bundle of unbridled joy, with flappy ears and a trailing leash. Grace, in the shape of an ungainly mutt, who erased all traces of misery with his swishing tail and exuberant barks.

Grace. It’s the unseen hand that stitches several characters together into a greater story and reminds us of the ties that bind. It’s expressed differently for everyone, perhaps, but it’s very essence of Thanksgiving…a shared table around which we pass generous portions of love and laughter, cherished memories and favorite foods.

An unfortunate series of events and a call for grace

Via Salon:

On Wednesday evening, the National Book Foundation held a ceremony to announce the winners of the National Book Award, one of the most prestigious literary awards in the country. Jacqueline Woodson, a black woman, won the award for young people’s literature for “Brown Girl Dreaming.” It was the first award presented that evening, and Woodson’s earnest excitement was contagious. Then Daniel Handler, author of the Lemony Snicket books and presenter at the ceremony got onstage and made a troubling misstep.

The outrage was palpable, instantaneous and ongoing. It's a good thing that grace isn't meted out in nonrefillable, thimble-sized portions, because Handler clearly needed to draw himself a good long drink from the well of humble apologies. Some suggested he was a little slow to accept that cup, but he eventually took to Twitter, to apologize and make amends:

My job at last night's National Book Awards #NBAwards was to shine a light on tremendous writers, including Jacqueline Woodson… and not to overshadow their achievements with my own ill-conceived attempts at humor. I clearly failed, and I’m sorry. My remarks on Wednesday night at ‪#NBAwards were monstrously inappropriate and yes, racist. Let’s donate to #WeNeedDiverseBooks to #CelebrateJackie. I’m in for $10,000, and matching your money for 24 hours up to $100,000. -DH

'Ill-conceived" seems to me an understatement. "Monstrously inappropriate" comes closer. But I'm not here to parse his words because here's the thing: Each of us is imperfect, by virtue of the fact that we are human beings–irrespective of color, creed, persuasions, orientations or any number of outward/invisible differences. We suffer self-inflicted wounds & are injured at the hands of those who do us harm. We gain favor; we fall from grace. It's impossible to know anyone else's heart, but we can certainly see and feel the after-effects of one others' words & actions. And so it is that this deeply affecting, ugly incident helps illustrate the lessons we're all learning–not just Daniel Handler, all of us. We're flesh-and-blood creatures, not so much in need of garment-rending and gnashing teeth, so much as grace, freely given and received.

Kudos for the swift, shunning response to a series of "troubling misteps." Applause, too, for the intelligent conversations that are unfolding even now. And through it all, this additional grace note: Readers and writers everywhere are lifting Jacqueline Woodson above the fray, giving the award-winning Brown Girl Dreaming the full credit it's due. It's a soul-stirring, heartwarming memoir. I hope you'll buy a copy for yourself. Maybe also pick up a couple extra books to share.

BrownGirlDreaming

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An afternoon with Anne Lamott

We spent Mother's Day afternoon with one of my favorite nonfiction authors, Anne Lamott. She was the featured guest at a “Food For Thought” event hosted by Westwood Presbyterian Church.

Ticket-holders sat shoulder-to-shoulder on long wooden pews, flanked by stone walls and arched doorways in the cathedral-style sanctuary. We’d dressed for the occasion in our Sunday-go-to-meetin’ clothes–which, translated loosely for SoCal residents, means anything on the fancier side of beachwear.

In walked Anne Lamott, instantly recognizable for her scarf-tied dreads. Her eyes twinkled when she smiled. “I tend to talk about myself a lot,” she began, with the barest hint of an apology. “I’ll share myself in a way that’ll make you feel comfortable… but not for long.”

Sunlight streamed through stain-glass windows. Heads nodded, and shoulders relaxed. We smiled back at her, as if to say: We’ve read your books; we’re ready…

Anne read a selection from her latest book, SOME ASSEMBLY REQUIRED: A Journal of my Son’s First Son, which was co-written with her son, Sam Lamott. It was disarming in its honesty, at once spiritual and irreverent…the inimitable writing style she’s known for. [Note: You can read the passage at this link, but if you’d rather watch a live performance, click here.]

Then she shared some loosely braided stories from her own life. She talked about dancing and sobriety, the writer’s life and faith. Each experience was a teacher, Anne said; the lessons, interchangeable. [See also: The miracle of “Me, too,” below.]

I’ve paraphrased much of what she said about writing, and I’ve also included a few Grace notes. Hope you enjoy these gems as much as we did!

ON WRITING:

You say you want to live a richer, deeper, childlike existence. Guess what? You get to do that!

Stop the train of unconscious living and mindless multi-tasking. Ask yourself: How alive am I willing to be?

Do what you’ve been putting off, what you’ve been dreading for so long. Be afraid of not finishing the work.

Silence your self-loathing. Transform it into a thing of beauty and service. Hook yourself to something bigger–that’s the path to world peace.

You can fill your mind with stuff: acre upon jumbled acre of rusty car parts, and/or alphabetized rows of planted vegetables. Or you can simply wade into the tide pools of Breath.

A good time to write is never, so begin at the next available time slot. How about 10:00 this evening?

Progress comes of rough feet and rage, of boredom and a butt gone numb because you’ve sat so long in your writing chair.

You need friends who’ll tell you, “I’m going to love this. It’s not perfect yet, but it will be.” And you also need that One True Friend–someone who’s willing to say, “This isn’t going to work,” even (especially) when all you want them to do is clap and pet you.

When you're writing from a place of consciousness and intention, your work becomes a source of light and truth–a remedy for despair and isolation. That’s the miracle of “Me, too.”

ON GRACE:

“I don’t understand the mystery of grace,” Anne said, “But absolutely all I need to know is that it’s an unmerited gift…the unexplained help that gets you out of extreme stuckness.”

Grace is the sliver of light that peeks through the redwoods. It’s a glass of cool water from the flow of the Beloved. It meets us where we are, and does not leave us where it found us.

Grace is fresh air that sneaks through the cracks of our imperfections. It’s WD-40, a solvent for things that grind against each other. And grace is water wings, made available to you at the very moment you feel yourself sinking.

Our afternoon with Anne Lamott was grace, personified. She met us where we were, and did not leave us where she found us.

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My byword for 2009

T’was grace that brought me safe thus far,
and grace will lead me home.

Amazing Grace, a hymn 

 

Harmony helped set the tone for me in 2008. This year, I’ve chosen a related word: Grace.

 

Grace is one of those words with a multitude of definitions. Here are some commonly held meanings:

 

Grace

Noun

  1. Elegance and beauty of movement, form, or expression
  2. A pleasing or charming quality
  3. Courtesy or decency
  4. A delay granted for the completion of a task or payment of a debt
  5. The favor of God shown towards humankind
  6. A short prayer of thanks; gratitude

Verb

  1. To honor or favor
  2. To decorate or make more attractive

This word has special significance for me, within and beyond the confines of my childhood experiences. And for this coming year, I’ve broadened my interpretation even further. In all humbleness, I’ve reshaped it into a verb and a noun—an action plan and a state of being:

 

When my thoughts are in harmony with my highest ideals and aspirations; when my actions are in synch with the rhythmic order of the Universe; and when I conduct myself in a way that honors the Creator and all creation, I am living in a state of grace. May it be so—may I work every day to make it so—in 2009.

Photo Credit: Amazing Grace rose 
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