Bearing Gifts

In the rush before Christmas, I took some time to seek out a gift for my hair stylist.  I'm not sure when I became the sort of customer who remembers certain folks during the winter holidays.  I tip fairly well when provided with a service during the year.  Somewhere along the way, I started looking for gifts for the hair stylist and the massage therapist and some other folks.  Maybe it is because I am running out of people for whom to shop.  I love Christmas time and the giving of gifts.  I used to shop for my parents and some friends and later for my husband.  There was a time also that I used to take my nieces shopping for their own gifts.  The kids in the family are growing up.  The younger ones (in their teens and early twenties) still get money from me, but there is not much fun for me in writing a check. This year my husband and I finally acknowledged that we can buy our own stuff throughout the year.  At work, the agency encouraged everyone to contribute money to charity instead of buying each other presents.

I suppose that is why I still delight in buying gifts for some people in my life. I enjoy saying "thank you" with a gift that shows I took time to think about the person and that I actually set foot in a store to purchase the gift.  Although it is rare anymore, I love when someone surprises me with an unexpected present, something that I didn't have to hint about or suggest or list.  Those are the gifts that tend to stand out in my memories.

This year, I bought a glass tree ornament that looked like a smug cat (is that redundant?) in top hat and spats for my hair stylist.  Whenever I go in to have her work on my hair, we talk about cats.  Cats have always been part of my life, but they have only been part of hers since about the time we first met, years ago.  When I stopped by to give her the ornament, we acknowledged that it has been too long since we've seen each other.  (My last visit was for a permanent, so my hair is now growing long and wavy, not needing frequent trims.)  That's when she told me she is getting a divorce.  At our last visit, she had told me of suspicions that were now obviously confirmed.  She opened the gift bag and gave me a hug.  Because of the divorce, she is currently living at her mother's house and has yet to reclaim her belongings from the house where her husband lives.  Little did I know when purchasing the gift that I would be giving her one of only a very few tree ornaments that she has this year. Of course, she also does not have custody of her cats yet either.  She told me she loved the gift and appreciated that I thought of her.

Why do I like to buy actual, physical Christmas gifts for special people?  Because sometimes the choices we make about what someone needs is not entirely our own decision.  I believe that sometimes we are simply the carriers of glad tidings.  The true message is intended for the recipient in ways that we can only imagine.

Merry Christmas!

Drop It

We have a young dog who insists on carrying things around, refusing to give them up, and not responding when someone tells him to "drop it" or to "leave it."  I wonder how often we are exactly like him in our own ways.

Waking the Zebra

I woke up about 20 minutes ago as a human. My head was already full of thoughts for the day ahead. What do I need to do today? Will I be in the office or traveling? Do I have any meetings? Can I dress down to relax or do I need to dress to impress? Should I pack lunch or catch it somewhere? What is today? Is the boss in or out? Oh, yeah. This is the day the boss will have some information about my program and will probably call me in to discuss upcoming changes. How can I find room for breakfast when my stomach is full of butterflies?

Twenty minutes of waking had already become a day of dread. It was time to wake up my inner zebra.

I smiled at myself. What a silly human. What does a zebra think when he opens his eyes to the morning light? (Okay, in my case this zebra is opening her eyes to clouds and a morning rain shower, but it is notably lighter with my eyes open.) My zebra should wake and think about right now. I am grateful for a peaceful night and a restful sleep. I am comfortable. The only immediate need is food (and coffee, however un-zebra). The day will present itself later. Right now, there are no dangers, no discomfort, no lions.

Wake up and smell the grasses on the plains. We are at peace this morning.

Breath of Air

You wonder and worry
if you have done enough,
if you have made a difference,
if you have mattered.

You are like a breath of air,
fleeting,
one after the other;
yet, without you,
all would be lost.

(Message through B.A.B. at Friends' Meeting, 9/4/11)

Wisdom in the Palm of Her Hands

I stopped by the pharmacy yesterday to discuss my estrogen (or lack thereof) with the staff.  My bottled hormones would not be ready for another day, the pharmacist told me.  I was purchasing another prescription and started chatting with the sales clerk around whose head the pharmacist and I had chatted.  As I handed my money to the young blond, I remarked, "I had my ovaries and everything yanked out in December, so menopause hit me all at once at age 45."

The girl rang up my sale, replying, "I've just been diagnosed with R.A. at age 18."

I stopped fumbling with my wallet and made eye contact with her as she proceeded to tell me how it took a while to figure out what was wrong.  The beautiful, young woman with honey-colored hair held up two hands that looked like they belonged on someone else.  Her hands were red, swollen, and slightly misshapened.  I imagine they will be worse in years to come.

"I was about your age when I was diagnosed with endometriosis," I told her.  I felt compelled to share a life lesson with her, hoping that it might help somehow.  "If there is any silver lining in being diagnosed with a chronic illness at a young age, it is maturity," I offered.  "When your friends are still being silly and thinking they're immortal and taking their health for..."

"... granted," the sales girl finished my sentence. "I know," she said.  "I was never really into smoking or drinking or anything anyway. Now I know that I have to take care of myself."

"That's a blessing," I confirmed.  I could see it in her eyes that she was already aware.

As I returned to my car, I thought about her hands and prayed for her.  I wondered what challenges she will face in the years ahead.  Somehow, I myself felt blessed that I only had to fight with endometriosis and the aftermath of the war it raged on my girl parts.  After all, I didn't need ovaries or a uterus every day of my life.  As my child-free existence proves, I really didn't need them at all.

How does a person fight the battle with inflammation throughout her whole body?  I cannot even begin to imagine the strength that she will know and the maturity that will grow within her.  She will definitely leave her friends in the dust on this trip.

Words in Action

When I was in a high school, a very wise friend gave me some advice.  I didn't realize that my friend was so wise until much later, after we had grown up and apart.  On one occasion, my friend and I were sitting around philosophizing about life and faith and love and all things of utmost importance to an adolescent.  (Mind you, this fellow was a boy and a friend, but not my "boyfriend.")  I complained that my parents never discuss major life issues and that all they ever talk about are mundane, household things.  My friend said, "They don't have to talk about life.  They probably have done that already or don't bother you with it.  Besides, your parents are in love.  They show it instead of talk about it."  I didn't believe him at the time, but now I live it. 

At some point early in my marriage, I realized that we were wasting money on food that would spoil.  My husband loves to drink orange juice, which led me to believe that he must enjoy the whole fruit as well.  If I found a good sale on oranges and bought a huge bag, I couldn't eat them all and I never saw him take any out.  This happened a few times, and occasionally I would remind him that he should eat some of the fruit.  He would agree in theory, but not in action.  I don't remember when it happened, but somewhere along the way, I asked him if he would eat an orange if I peeled it for him.  He consented, so I tended to the fruit on his behalf.  The memories rushed back.  When I was growing up, my parents would often buy grapefruits.  Dad would sit at the kitchen table and peel grapefruits, doling out sections to small bowls.  My sister and I would help ourselves, covering the grapefruit sections with honey and devouring the treat.  As a child, I never gave one thought to the labor that my father poured into that offering.  Peeling a grapefruit without eating any of it can be a tedious task.  So, there I was as an adult, administering a similar attention to peeling, separating, and freeing the orange sections for my husband.  Years later, we can easily share a bag of oranges, all of which are painstakingly and lovingly peeled by me.  Sometimes I ask him in advance, but often I just go ahead and peel an orange for him as a surprise.

I don't want to leave you thinking that ours is a relationship without balance. This winter, when I was at home recuperating from surgery, my husband had filled a kitchen cabinet with cans of hearty soups to keep us warm and nourish me back to health.  (If I had been feeling well, I would have been making homemade soups.)  One afternoon, I was looking for something to eat for lunch and my husband said, "We have a whole cabinet of soup."  My response must have sounded ridiculous: "I don't like soup if I heat it up from a can."  Somehow, I managed to explain that I like homemade soup and I like soup that is served to me, but the magic is lost if I look at the soup in the can.  "What's the difference?" my husband asked.  I just looked at him and said, "You know how you like oranges, but you won't peel them yourself? That's how I feel about soup."  Without any further discussion, my husband picked out a can of soup and poured it into a small pot on the stove to heat it up for me.  He did that again for me several times over the following weeks.

My classmate was absolutely right. You don't have to talk about love and life if you live it.

Puppy Love

Our dog is 1-1/2-years-old and 75 pounds of pure exuberance. He doesn't know how big he is, since we brought him home when he was smaller than our two cats and grew up thinking he was one of them. In planning for my surgery last month, we opted to have the dog stay at a kennel ("bed and biscuit") for the first three weeks of my recovery. The time away from him was difficult for me, not just because of my physical pain, but because I missed my comic relief. We were certain, though, that he would not miss us quite as much because he was scheduled for daily playtime with other dogs, so that unique excitement would certainly make up for our separation.

When our boy rejoined the household, I could tell that he understood that his Mommy was not quite the same. I shuffled instead of played. I stayed home instead of disappearing to work each day. I must have smelled differently as well because of the operation and the change of hormones. During the last month, I have realized that our dog now sits against me often and follows next to me constantly, even if I am just walking through the house. I am not sure if he knows I am still recovering or if he thinks we will again be separated.

In the six-and-a-half weeks that I stayed home, I rarely went outside. Doctor appointments, of course. A couple of errands with my husband. One quick shopping excursion with a friend. I simply was not going outside for fear of slipping on the little bit of snow and ice we have on the ground.

The other day, I started to get organized for my return to work. I was repacking my tote bag and pocket book. I was distracted and had not really paid attention to the fact that the dog was following me in my little circles from room to room. At one point, I needed to take a couple of items out to the car. I stepped outside and carefully made my way across the snow patches, while also noticing the sunshine that I had rarely enjoyed over the last few weeks. Back into the house I went, passing the dog, who followed me to the closet as I hung up my coat.

Suddenly, I realized that my audience was paying fullest attention to me. His beating tail signaled rapturous applause. His toothy grin revealed his joy. His body swayed and swooned. I had been gone for a mere moment, maybe two minutes at most. There was no mistaking that my dog absolutely adores me and wanted to let me know how incredibly much he had missed me while I was away... outside... for less than two minutes.

I stopped moving, looked at him, and said aloud, "Everyone should know what it feels like to be loved and missed that much at least once by someone."

I am not sure if I was talking to myself, to my dog, or to Grandfather Great Spirit. All I know is that in that one moment of thrill-filled puppy glee, I was absolutely, undoubtedly, completely loved. If I had a tail, I would have wagged it too.