Mourning @ MindSay

I'm sure some of you have seen this before. It has passed through my email box once or twice, but today when I read through it again ... I mourned. Perhaps you will, too.


'Today we mourn the passing of a beloved old friend, Common Sense, who has been with us for many years. No one knows for sure how old he was, since his birth records were long ago lost in bureaucratic red tape. He will be remembered as having cultivated such valuable lessons as:
Knowing when to come in out of the rain;
why the early bird gets the worm;
Life isn't always fair; and
maybe it was my fault.


Common Sense lived by simple, sound financial policies (don't spend more than you can earn) and reliable strategies (adults, not children, are in charge).

His health began to deteriorate rapidly when well-intentioned but overbearing regulations were set in place. Reports of a 6-year-old boy charged with sexual harassment for kissing a classmate;
teens suspended from school for using mouthwash after lunch; and a teacher fired for reprimanding an unruly student, only worsened his condition.

Common Sense lost ground when parents attacked teachers for doing the job that they themselves had failed to do in disciplining their unruly children. It declined even further when schools were required to get parental consent to administer sun lotion or an Aspirin to a
student; but could not inform parents when a student became pregnant and wanted to have an abortion.

Common Sense lost the will to live as the churches became businesses; and criminals received better treatment than their victims.

Common Sense took a beating when you couldn't defend yourself from a burglar in your own home and the burglar could sue you for assault.

Common Sense finally gave up the will to live, after a woman failed to realize that a steaming cup of coffee was hot. She spilled a little in her lap, and was promptly awarded a huge settlement.

Common Sense was preceded in death, by his parents, Truth and Trust;
his wife, Discretion
his daughter, Responsibility
his son, Reason
He is survived by his 4 stepbrothers;
I Know My Rights
I Want It Now
Someone Else Is To Blame
I'm A Victim

Not many attended his funeral because so few realized he was gone. If you still remember him, do something bold in his remembrance.

Author Unknown

"Live the parable of the talents!" Throckmorton exhorted, as assistants handed out hundreds of red envelops stuffed with crisp $50 bills and stunned church members did quick mental calculations, wondering where all the money had come from. There are about 1,700 in the congregation, though not everyone attends each week.

The cash, Throckmorton explained, was loaned by several anonymous donors.

In her regular pew at the back of the church, where she has listened to sermons for 40 years, 73-year-old Barbara Gates gasped. What kind of kooky nonsense is this, she thought.

"Sheer madness," sniffed retired accountant Wayne Albers, 85, to his wife, Marnie, who hushed him as he whispered loudly. "Why can't the church just collect money the old-fashioned way?"

In a center pew, Ann Nagy's eyes moistened as she considered her ailing, beloved father, his suffering, and the song she had written to comfort him near death. She nudged her husband Scott. "Give me your $50," she whispered. Nagy knew exactly what she would do.

Throckmorton wrapped up his two morning services by saying that children would get $10. And he assured the congregation that anyone who didn't feel comfortable could simply return the money. No consignment to outer darkness for those who didn't participate.

Throckmorton is warm and engaging and approachable, as comfortable talking about the Cleveland Indians baseball team as he is discussing scripture. At the Federated Church, he is known simply as Hamilton.

But as church members spilled into the late summer sunshine that morning to ponder their skills and their souls, there were many who thought: Hamilton is really pushing us this time.

"There was definitely this tension, this pressure to live up to something," said Hal Maskiell, a 62-year-old retired Navy pilot who spent days trying to figure out how to meet the challenge.

Maskiell's passion is flying a four-seater Cessna 172 Skyhawk over the Cuyahoga County hills. He decided to use his $50 to rent air time from Portage County airport and charge $30 for half-hour rides. Church members eagerly signed up. Maskiell was thrilled to get hours of flying time, and he raised $700.

His girlfriend, Kathy Marous, 55, was far less confident. What talents do I have, she thought dejectedly. She was tempted to give the money back.

And then Marous found an old family recipe for tomato soup, one she hadn't made in 19 years. She remembered how much she had enjoyed the chopping and the cooking and the canning and the smells. With Hal's encouragement Marous dug out her pots. She bought three pecks of tomatoes. Suddenly she was chopping and cooking and canning again. At $5 a jar, she made $180.

"I just never imagined people would pay money for the things I made," Marous exclaimed.

Others felt the same way. Barbara Gates raised $450 crafting pendants from beads and sea glass - pieces she had casually made for her grandchildren over the years. Kathie Biggin created fanciful little red-nosed Rudolph pins and sold them for $2.50. Twelve-year-old Amanda Horner pooled her money with friends, stocked up at JoAnn's fabric store, and made dozens of colorful fleece baby blankets, which were purchased by church members and then donated to a local hospital.

And 87-year-old Bob Burrows rediscovered old carpentry skills and began selling wooden bird-feeders.

But it wasn't the money; everyone said so. It was something else, something far less tangible but yet so very real. For seven weeks an almost magical sense of excitement and energy and camaraderie infused the elegant red-brick church on Bell Street, spilling over into homes and hearts as the parable of the talents came alive.

In her sun-filled studio on Strawberry Lane, Shirley Culbertson felt it - a joyful sense of purpose that she had rarely experienced since her husband passed two years ago. Culbertson, 81, is a gifted painter and watercolors fill her house. But she discovered another talent during this time - knitting whimsical eight-inch stuffed dolls with button noses and floppy hats. She raised $90.

Zooming down country roads clinging to the back of a leather-clad biker, Florence Cross felt it too. For the challenge, Barry Biggin had parked his 2006 Harley Davidson Road King outside the church, offering 12-mile rides for $30. Cross was the first to sign up. Never mind that she is in her mid-80s, had never been on a bike, or that her husband of 60 years had to hoist her up.

"Oh, it was such a thrill!" said Cross, her face glowing at the memory. Her friends now call her "Harley Girl."

Martine Scheuermann lived the parable in her Elm Street kitchen, transforming it into an "applesauce factory" for several weeks. The 49-year-old human resources director would rise at 6 a.m. on Sundays in order to have warm batches ready for sampling at church services.

In his origami-filled bedroom on Bradley Street, Paul Cantlay lived the parable too. Surrounded by sheets of colored construction paper, the 9-year-old crafted paper dragons and stars and sailboats. He set up an origami stand at the end of his street, charged 50 cents to $5 depending on the piece, and raised $68.

Talents began multiplying at such a rate that the church held a bazaar after services on two consecutive Sundays for people to display - and sell - their wares.

The pretty little village on the Chagrin River falls had never seen anything quite like it. Everyone seemed to be talking about the talent challenge: over the clatter of coffee cups at Dink's restaurant, at the Fireside bookshop on the green, sipping drinks at the Gamekeeper's Taverne. Even members of other churches weighed in: Have you heard what's happening at Federated?

"Anyone can open their wallet and give cash," Kris Tesar said. "This was just an extraordinary process of exploration and discovery and of challenging ourselves. It became bigger than any one of us or than any individual talent."

Tesar, a 58-year-old retired nurse, discovered her talent in buckets of flip-flops for sale at Old Navy. She stocked up on yarn and beads and made dozens of funky, fluffy decorative footwear that were a huge hit with teens. Tesar raised $550 for the church, is still taking orders and is thinking of starting a business. Now even her children call her the "flip-flop lady."

People also got to know the "hen lady" - Gabrielle Quintin, who took to raising chickens on a whim 23 years ago when she moved into a 180-year-old house with a barn. Her "ladies," as Quintin calls her backyard flock, provide a welcome distraction from her nursing job in a cancer center. Quintin decided to put her brood to work for the church. For $10 church members could "hire-a-hen" and get three dozen fresh eggs complete with a photograph of the "lady" who laid them.

"It wasn't exactly spiritual, but I had a lot of fun," said Quintin, whose husband, Mike, made glass birdfeeders. "And it was just this great way of bringing everyone together and connecting with the church."

Kathy Wellman quilted. Mary Hobbs knit shawls and penciled portraits. Cathy Hatfield auctioned a ride in her hot-air balloon. Norma and Trent Bobbitt pooled their money with another church member to hire a harpist from the Cleveland orchestra and host an elegant evening dinner party. Folks paid $50 each to attend and the Bobbitts made over $1,200.

And physician Peter Yang took over shifts from other doctors in his partnership (he used his $50 for gas to get to the hospital) and raised $3,000.

The deadline to return the money was Sunday, Oct. 28. Nervously, some church council members suggested posting plain clothes security guards at services that day. But Throckmorton would have none of it. He insisted that the spirit of the challenge, which had already inspired so much goodwill, would carry them safely through. And it did.

Organ music filled the church as people silently filed down the aisle, dropped their proceeds into baskets, and offered testimonials about what living the parable had meant to them. Throckmorton thanked everyone for their generosity. Then he started counting.

A week later he delivered the joyful news: They had more than doubled the amount distributed.

The initial take was $38,195 over the loan, but the amount is still growing. Some people didn't make the deadline, or extended it in order to finish their projects.

The final sum will be divided equally between three charities: One-third will go to a school library in South Africa where the church is involved in an AIDS mission; one-third will go to micro-loan organizations that provide seed money for small businesses in developing countries; one-third will help the Interfaith Hospitality Network in Cleveland, specifically programs for homeless women.

Throckmorton is asked all the time if the talent challenge will become an annual event, but he is doubtful. It was a special time and a special idea, he says, and he is not sure it could be re-created or relived.

Yet in a very real sense, it lives on. Church members who never knew each other have become friends. And orders for applesauce, flip-flops and Rudolph pins are still rolling in for Christmas.

There are other, more poignant reminders. Like Ann Nagy's haunting tribute to her father, who died of brain cancer on Oct. 11.

Nagy, 44, has always been a singer with a clear lovely voice. It wasn't until her father grew ill and moved into a hospice that she started writing songs. She found solace in the music and a way of communicating that was sometimes easier than spoken words.

At hospice, patients are taught five simple truths to tell their loved ones before they die: I'll miss you. I love you. I forgive you. I'm sorry. Goodbye.

Borrowing from that theme, Nagy wrote a farewell song for her Dad. She pooled her $50 talent money with her husband's share and cut a CD to sell to church members. Ironically it was finished just an hour before her father passed, on Oct. 11. Nagy stood by his bed and sang it for him anyway.

On Nov. 11 - her father's 72nd birthday - Throckmorton preached a sermon about dying. He invited Nagy to the altar. There, accompanied by a cellist and a pianist she sang "Before You Go."

Josh's sister-and-law and I found this inscribed on a gravestone yesterday afternoon.

Do not stand at my grave and weep.
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamonds that glint on snow.
I am the sun on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
I am the birds in circled flight.
I am the stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry.
I am not here. I did not die.

  Howdy Howdy all!

 

Drastic Measures to give the mood a boost!  Blue Moods do not suit me.....maybe these will push down the lump in my throat.

 

 

 

How about some poetry...here goes...(I think perhaps I have said too much too much too much doll)

 

Without Warning

Without warning
as a whirlwind
swoops on an oak
Love shakes my heart --Sappho

 

Goddess Bless

All too often we underestimate the power of a touch, a smile, a kind word, a listening ear, an honest compliment, or the kindest act of caring, all which have the potential to turn a life around.

                                                                                                                                         L. Buscaglia

 

Today is a very sad day for me. A client, one that worked so hard for a year of sobriety, had made amazing strides in recovery, was coming to a place in her life when parts of her journey were filling with light, became overwhelmed by the reality of what she had to face in her past, her pain, her history of childhood abuse, and her depression. She was 27, and she took her own life.

 

I mourn, and I am angry. I am angry at the evil power of drugs and alcohol that does so much damage to the brain that it leaves a person in pain, even after such hard work. I'm angry at the people that hurt a child so much that running away into a life of more suffering looked like a better option. I'm angry at a system that let her go from a hospital after a few days because they wanted to use the bed. I'm angry that those same mental health workers, my colleagues, still don't understand the tradgedy of addiction and mental illness together. I'm angry that we couldn't do more, that "I" couldn't do more, somehow, to have made a better outcome..

 

I'm sad, very sad, that this beautiful woman lost this battle. I'm sad the world won't truly know how much she gave it, how much she struggled, how tender her heart was. I'm so sad that we won't see her blue eyes shining again on a Friday afternoon. I'm sad that her positiveness and the encouragement she gave others won't be felt again. I am sad that she didn't have a little longer time to celebrate her sobriety and get past the inevitable emotional pain that comes as one reaches further layers of the causes of their addictions deep where it all began..

 

I mourn that this world has lost such a beautiful soul, that her light is diminished from our conciousness. I pray that she has peace. I know all of the ideas about her being "in a better place", and I hope that is true. Right now I choose to feel selfish and allow my regrets to be, without judgement or dismissal from myself or others.

 

Tomorrow will be another day, and yet another new person will walk through our doors with another set of problems that has been answered by nicotice, alcohol, drugs, and gambling. We'll start the healing journey and maybe they will get a start on the road, or maybe not.

 

Friday I'll celebrate the life of the individual that died. I will go to Prince Edward Island, plant some of my garden, and name the section after her. I'll meditate awhile and remember the lessons she brought into my life and my work and see how I can be sure to apply them so that her recovery, her work, and her light get passed forward.

 

For now I'm going to temple to sit and allow all this to process as it needs to, remembering my breath, and remembering my connection to everything.

 

Namaste'