The Gilded Cage

There's an old song my father used to sing as a joke when I was a little girl -- "She's only a bird, in a gilded cage..."

"She's only a bird in a gilded cage,
A beautiful sight to see.
You may think she's happy and free from care,
She's not, though she seems to be."

I thought of that yesterday, as I stared through one of the windows of one of the two bird habitats that live in the main lobby of our hotel. The birds in there (you can sort of see them on the branch in this picture; they're fluffy and gray with bright orange beaks) have lots of charming little homes to choose from, and a beautiful plate of cucumbers and strawberries every morning, all carefully arranged arranged in a circle.

But in the end, safe though it may be, this is the only world they know, and it seems somehow wrong that they never get to fly further than a foot or two. There are lots of us, I'm sure -- especially in times like these -- who would love the safety and security of such a life, of a tidy home with a daily cleaning and delicious food, provided free of charge.

But such coddling always comes with a price; a loss of freedom. We Americans get so hooked on creature comforts, but -- at what cost? In order to support our families and our wealthy lifestyles, we work long hours at jobs we don't enjoy, or perhaps, in order to continue in the lifestyle we've chosen, we stay in unfortunate marriages or other unpleasant situations...

Last night we were treated to a long presentation from our younger daughter on the subject of "why I shouldn't go back to college next term." And though I remember well saying that to my parents, and remember equally well being told that leaving would not be an option for me, I was pleased to see that both my husband and I chose to be a different sort of parent. We don't want our children to be birds in gilded cages, and we both understand college can feel like a gilded cage. We are encouraging her to explore her options -- within some fairly strict parameters (including a promise to finish her degree within the next year or two) -- because there will be time enough later on for her options to narrow down.

Now is her chance to fly away from the safety of her familiar nest, to go up and away and get the big picture. What other nests might be out there, and which might prove to be the most rewarding? Or might she prefer a different environment altogether -- perhaps she's not the flighty little bird we thought she was, but rather a lion, or a puppy, or an elephant. Each has his unique abode; what would be the best for her?

It's a little scary for all of us, I suspect. But a little experience of living hand-to-mouth can go a long way toward clarifying our values -- and the gilded cage might eventually seem a lot less trapped if she knows what lies beyond it. Or perhaps she'll build her own unique nest in someplace completely different; who knows. But we've decided to encourage her to explore and trust she'll make good choices. It's a risk, to be sure. But we'd like the choice to be hers.

Perhaps that's how Free Will works: God knows what's best for us, but prefers for us to choose -- and hopes we make good choices. It's in the act of choosing, I suspect, that we become most aware of who it is we were born to be.

Happy Turkey

After yesterday's rain there are puddles everywhere; I had the luxury of spending a little alone time out on a neglected patio above the pool with my camera, and loved what I found there.

We are all here now, all three generations, and all the relationships are shifting and renewing as they do every year. I am an only child, so it's particularly intriguing to me to watch my husband and his siblings cope with each other's successes and failures, and with their aging father -- and their own aging, as well.

It's fun, also, to see their family traits echoed in my daughters and my nephew; to see all the ways they cope with their genetic predispositions. So many bits and pieces of personalities have a way of reflecting in other family members, modified always by their own unique internal surfaces...

But mostly I am aware today of how grateful I am to have been moving in this particular family circle for all these years. Our mothers died within nine months of each other, in '96 and '97, and we've been gathering, the 12 or so of us, every Thanksgiving ever since, through divorces and deaths and marriages and engagements and illnesses and operations, always coming back together to re-establish those ties. It hasn't always been easy, but we persist. As my newest brother-in-law (we like to call ourselves the "outlaws") said last night, Thanksgiving, this way, with these people and the way we all spend our time drifting in and out of conversations together over the course of these few days, is a lovely alternative to the often challenging rituals of Christmas.

I'm grateful for lots of other things today as well: for Dana's repeal from surgery, and for the end of his treatments; for Nan's successful surgery; for Connie and Mike who are watching over our animals on the other side of the country; for J&J, the best neighbors we've ever had; and for all the blessings of friendship and faith that have carried us safely through another year. I thank you all for staying with me in the blogosphere, and wish you a joyous Thanksgiving.

A Flash in Time...

So here I am, cavorting around Sunny Florida (NOT: we were awakened by thunderstorms this morning and its been pouring cats and dogs most of the day), mostly making trips back and forth to the airport to pick up late arriving family members while my dear friend Robin slaves away in the chilly midwest attempting to overcome the Flash-related challenges of the exhibit we are trying to mount online.

AND IT'S HER BIRTHDAY TODAY.

Even though this is what our hotel phones look like, there IS Wi-Fi here, but since I did NOT get to meditate today and have been on the run since I crawled out of bed at 8 this morning (you do realize that's 5AM west coast time) and the TV is going in our hotel room, I cannot even begin to promise a thoughtful and introspective blog, or any words of wisdom.

I am therefore dedicating today's blog entry to Robin, in support of her Herculean efforts and in enormous gratitude to her because she listened to my whining last night when my daughter threatened not to get on a plane because of the imminent thunderstorms. In the midst of her Flash struggles Robin took the time to send prayers and encouragement our way, and I am very grateful. It amazes me, these friends of mine in the blogosphere; women I have never met -- Robin, Maureen, Kim, and Joyce, who I only knew for two days -- who always seem to know exactly what I need to hear... I have been very blessed in my family and friends.

So THANK YOU -- and HAPPY BIRTHDAY, ROBIN!!!

A visit with a gargoyle

I found this little gargoyle while wandering around our hotel this morning; isn't he interesting? And don't you wonder why anyone would create something like this and build it into a hotel? He makes me think of ego, forever trapped inside whatever body he was given -- and not very happy about it!

But we, free spirits that we are, can bring light into his existence; we also have the luxury of climbing the stairs and leaving him behind; he becomes just a sort of stationary guardian on a much more interesting path.

Hmm. Something to think about. But not right now; gotta run. Enjoy your day!

Oh, goody.

I realized this morning that my negative focus this week (which is apparently why I chose this picture, another imperfect attempt to capture the beautiful umbrellas of San Antonio) may well be due to something someone said to me a week ago. I had made a flippant remark about my mom, and a friend suggested I might need to let go of my anger.

My immediate thoughts were all defensive: What anger? I let go of that a long time ago! And I THOUGHT I had let go of her remark, but in reality it planted itself inside me as a sort of niggling guilt that my shadow was showing and I had failed again; so all this negativity began leaking out in other ways.

With all this self-criticism, I must have been aware at some sub-surface level all week that there had to be some truth in her remark, or I wouldn't have felt so defensive. So reading David Richo's chapter called "People are Not Loving and Loyal All the Time" really rang a whole bunch of bells with me this morning. On the off chance that they might be helpful for you as well, I'm going to share some of his observations here.

The first is about the FACE of ego -- I mentioned this earlier, but here's more on how it affects our relationships:

Fear: I am afraid that I will not survive if everyone does not love me, and this is how I am a source of suffering to myself.
Attachment: I am attached to a very specific version of what I am owed, and this is how I am a source of suffering to myself.
Control: I need to control others' reactions to me, and this is how I am a source of suffering to myself.
Entitlement: I believe I am entitled to love and loyalty from everyone, and insist on it, an this is how I am a source of suffering to myself.

(Note: in this case, fear and control seem to have been my major issues). Thankfully he goes on to tell us how we can work with this stuff:

I am letting go of fear by showing more love and finding excitement in life's challenges.
I am letting go of attachment to my version of how others should act, and I accept the given of life that not everyone will be loving, truthful, honest, caring, or loyal to me all the time.
I am letting go of control and let others love or dislike me as they choose.
I am letting go of my insistence that I be loved and respected by everyone, and I choose to focus instead on being loving and respectful toward everyone I meet.

Here's what Richo has to say about acceptance:

It is a given of relationships that the five A's (attention, acceptance, appreciation, affection, allowing) may not consistently come our way and certainly not to the extent we would wish. An unconditional yes to this fact about our partner upgrades us from a fairy-tale mentality to adult realization. As we kindly accept the reality of others' inadequacy, our own needs begin to change. We no longer need what cannot be had: "I let go of wanting what isn't here now." We align our needs with the available resources in our partner. Paradoxically, as we reduce our unrealistic expectations, our partner feels less pressured and actually stretches so that more need fulfillment comes our way after all--sometimes the acceptance of reality can help reality to change.

And here's a random observation -- one of the "givens of adult relating" that Richo lists over several pages -- that really struck home for me:

If you are sensitive to abandonment, it is natural to become terrified when you are criticized or when someone shows disappointment in you. This may be because it feels like a serious or permanent rejection, a severing of a desperately needed bond: "This criticism means she doesn't like me, wants to leave me, and won't love me anymore. When people don't like me, it is my fault."

Or, in the immortal words of Liza, the Darling children's maid, whom I play in our upcoming production of Peter Pan, "I suppose you are mad at me. I suppose I should be leavin' 'ere now. I suppose it's all my fault." (at which point she bursts into tears).

It was that last one that helped me see why I reacted so intensely to that chance remark I mentioned above. Hmm -- I thought I had laid all those old rejection issues to rest, and, damn, here they are, surfacing again in another guise. As Captain Hook says sarcastically to me (in Peter Pan, when, in my other role as Gabby, the pirates' cook, I sidle up to him and say "I've made a SPECIAL dessert fa YOU")

"Oh, GOODY."

Hear the disdain in his voice.

Hear the resignation in mine. Okay, I guess it's time to go back and revisit this one. Again.

Oh, goody.

You don't know what love is

I grew up in a musical family: my mother was a classical pianist, and my father was an active member and sometime president of both the Swedish Glee Club in Chicago and the German equivalent group in Austin, Texas. My earliest memories of church all revolve around choir practice, and at the age of eight I served as page turner (with my own special choir robe) for the organist in our church.

I, too, sang; I also played the piano, though not particularly well. I learned clarinet in grade school and was asked to play bassoon in high school (primarily because I was the tallest clarinetist). I met my first husband in the pit band for Music Man -- he played saxophone, and quietly covered for me for that opening bassoon line (boomp - ta - doodly, boomp - ta - doodly) in the song "Marian the Librarian" -- and for a long time we thought it was fate that we ended up together, because for all the years of our marriage I was a librarian and he was (and still is) a jazz musician.

I spent most of my spare time outside the library, from the time I was 20 until I was 31 and we divorced, lugging musical instruments around and sitting in bars and rehearsal halls listening to music -- an interesting challenge, since I didn't (and still don't) drink much. But when I got divorced, I pretty much quit cold turkey. I continued singing in choirs and small groups, but I rarely went to concerts and never to bars.

Last night, however, was an exception: my friend Anne (and isn't it curious that two of my closest friends on this island are extraordinarily gifted jazz musicians) gave a concert in our Grace Church sanctuary to raise money for our local food bank, which is really stretched this year. So because it was Anne, and a good cause, I went.

The music -- much of which she wrote and arranged -- was absolutely heavenly, and the performances of all five of the musicians were just flawless (and trust me, after all those years surrounded by musicians I am VERY picky about this). And yet at first I found myself thinking, I hope this doesn't go on too long, I don't know how long I can sit here: I was definitely out of practice for listening. But as the evening wore on, I was gradually transported into another space, filled with joy and gratitude -- for the music, the musicians, the composers, for my community, for that particular sanctuary... and ultimately for life itself; eventually it was as if the room and the audience and the musicians and the music and I were all one.

Near the end of the concert they did a wonderful rendition of that old Billie Holiday tune, "You don't know what love is" -- a tune that also happened to be on the CD my ex-husband sent of his music after he and his wife visited us this past summer. I remember being very moved by his performance of the tune, and was moved again by Anne's; her style is actually quite similar to his, though she has a lighter, more feminine touch.

The song -- even if you don't know the lyrics -- is just achingly beautiful. And the theme of it is that you can't really understand love until you know the pain of loss. I thought of that, sitting there, in that room, with those people, and that music, and realized that the love I was feeling for the whole experience was enriched and deepened by the intensity of the losses that brought me to this place -- the loss of my parents, the loss of that ex-husband and the community of musician friends we shared, the loss of that music (I rarely if ever listen to jazz these days) -- even the loss of faith and church, though all have been returned to me in some new form: I have a different husband now, a random collection of "parents" to advise and love me, a new community of friends, a new and different faith and a renewed connection (if much more tenuous) to church.

It was yet another reminder that there are seasons in life, seasons of love and loss, and that spring and summer will inevitably return, bringing with them a deepened awareness of the blessed treasure that is love.

It's all good.

You don't know what love is
Until you’ve learned the meaning of the blues
Until you’ve loved a love you've had to lose
You don't know what love is.

You don't know how lips hurt
Until you've kissed and had to pay the cost
Until you've flipped your heart and you have lost
You don't know what love is

Do you know how a lost heart fears
The thought of reminiscing
And how lips that taste of tears
Lose their taste for kissing

You don't know how hearts burn
For love that cannot live yet never dies
Until you've faced each dawn with sleepless eyes
You don't know what love is

When the table is set...

I realized this morning that if I do end up going back to work some of my book projects will probably fall by the wayside. So I decided to turn the project that is most important to me -- my illustrated guide to The Gospel of Thomas -- into a blog. (I've written to Lynn Bauman, whose translation of Thomas I am using; he approved the book project so I'm hoping he'll be okay with the idea of the blog.)

Because most of the work on this project has already been done, it should be a simple matter of a few minutes to mount one of the Logia each day. Of course, the nature of these blogs is that they'll be mounted in reverse order, with the first at the bottom, but I think that will be okay. So I set it up this morning; you'll be able to access it from the link on the left of this blog.

So why this image? I came across it this morning; it's from a set I did for a local store. The owner was a friend, and she wanted my photographs to put on her website. But it actually turned into a rather awkward situation: the website designer was himself a photographer, and wasn't happy with any of the images I shot, so in the end none of my work was used.

She did, however, pay me for my time, which was very sweet. And, sadly, the store eventually closed. So in a way this photo could be a symbol of failure. But mostly when I looked at it I heard the words of the 23rd psalm: Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over. It seems to me to be a picture full of blessings: the peace, the colors, the light...

And I loved the sort of tippiness of the perspective (this is actually two images combined; same scene shot from two different angles): it made me feel that, even though my table isn't overwhelmingly full at the moment, there's a sense that there's a lot of stuff getting ready to land on it. So I like the thought of enjoying the rich blue peace of that interim period, for as long as it lasts.