No, not that one.  The other “F” word.  The four letter word that is much worse than saying “fuck”.  The other four letter word that does more damage to the human cooperative existence than using a swear word.

Fear. 

Our fears hold us in uncomfortable patterns of resistance both on an individual level and a collective level.  Fear of driving keeps us from exploring new places the same way fear of failure does.  For some, it may be the fear of success, or at least the responsibility that comes with being successful.  Fear of rejection keeps us from striving to obtain a goal.  For many, the fear of appearing weak prohibits the forgiveness of others their wrongs.  Fear of forgiving only leads to holding grudges and like the classic example of the Hatfield’s and the McCoy’s, nobody wins when grudges are held.  Everyone is hurt in the process.  It’s a silly waste of time.  I think Christ, Himself, told us to forgive 70 times 7.  I don’t think this was a literal “you only get 490 chances and that’s it, buster”; rather Jesus’ answer to Peter, “seventy times seven” means “always”, “continuously”. Jesus has always stressed the importance of brotherly admonition and forgiveness of sins in accordance with the law of mercy.  I’m sure you can think of your own examples.  The one thing that we are all acutely in touch with is our fear, whether we realize it or not.

I have a not so healthy dose of fear that I continue to battle day after day.  It’s not so much any one thing that I’m afraid of.  I’m pretty trusting and usually up to try anything once.  I’m not really afraid of snakes, or mice, or spiders.  Although I don’t care much for heights, I can deal with them when I absolutely have to.  No, what I’m afraid of is more emotional in nature.  One of my really big fears is that of vulnerability and abandonment. 

It’s a pattern that keeps repeating.  I’m often afraid to reach out a friendly hand to others because I’m afraid that the hand will not be taken, or if taken, dropped too soon.  I’m often afraid to open up and share from my experience because I fear that if others saw the “real me” that I wouldn’t be embraced.  My defense, then, is that whenever I feel an attraction to someone else, I sabotage it.  I’ll push, and push, and push and probably poke an eye or two just to make certain that the very thing I fear is exactly what happens.  Rejection.  Chances are good that if I’m pushing every last one of your buttons to the point of frustration, then I probably like you a lot.  This is what I mean when I say I wear people out.  I mean, really, who likes to have their buttons pushed all the time?  I sure don’t, but it’s what I do.  It’s a silly, stupid defense mechanism that doesn’t serve me very well at all.  And what’s even sillier than doing it is the way I beat myself up all the while.

This is a pattern I'm trying to correct.  This is the fear that I'm trying (somewhat successfully) to get rid of.  It's too bad that for some of my relationships, it's just too late.   

I’m sorry, I really don’t get this. 

I understand the whole maternal urges and emotional pulling thing that happens to women in the presence of a baby.  I think this is a very good thing.  Otherwise newborn babies wouldn’t have much of a chance at making it.  I get that. 

I also understand the whole maternal showing off that happens with a newborn baby.  I do get that too.  You’ve just had a child, or grandchild and you’re proud and rightly so.  You want to share the joy.  Great, share a way, but leave me out of it.  It’s not that I don’t like babies, it’s just that.. . . .  Well. . . . . . . 

Okay, I don’t like babies, so I probably wouldn't make a very good mother.  When ever I'm assulted with baby pictures like a perfume saleslady in Marshal Fields, I try to be kind.  I do.  I really do.  But no.  I don't think babies are cute.  Not the newborns anyway.  They look more like monkeys to me and no, I don't like monkeys either.   But I do try to be kind and say, "that's SOME baby!"  This usually causes the mother, or most usually grandmother to claim another victory in the 'whose got the most absolute cutest baby in the entire world, not counting Istanbul, contest".   

But HERE is what completely baffles me.  Why, in the name of all that is holy, why would you bring your new born child or grandchild into the hospital to be shown off in each of the departments and passed around like a football?!?

“Oooh, let me hold her!”

 “Ahhh, she’s such a sweetie!” 

“Here, let me rub her all over my dirty scrubs!” 

“Wait, let’s wrap her up in a dirty lab coat!” 

“Ooooh, look how cute she is when she puts that contaminated rectal probe in her mouth!” 

They obviously are not thinking about the best interest of this child.  Problem is, they seem so hell bent to show off their new little bundle of joy that they just aren’t thinking at all.  I was actually called a “spoil sport” when I asked them to leave the biohazard level three laboratory. 

I mean, really!

This house is no longer haunted by memories of the past.  Memories of a shy and timid young man catching your furtive glance for the first time.  The exciting spark of recognition even before realization that would soon find you wrapped around my body.  The memory of your breath at the back of my neck.  Safe.  Secure. 

This house is no longer haunted by images of your tanned and sinewy body glistening with sweat as we work the garden.  Rugged, calloused hands that after plunging into the soil again and again, now hold an icy cold beer while resting in the shade of an ancient maple tree.  The smoke of your cigarette encircling your head like a halo.  Shared laughter and silliness.  Comfortable.  Content. 

This house is no longer haunted by your silhouette framed by the screen door as you greet your new neighbor.  A potted iris held in your soft and delicate hands.  Your soft, blond chest hair peeking out from under your shirt.  That coy smile that could melt glaciers.  Those lovely lips that would kiss me softly and tell me lies.  Heated passion that burns red hot, but only for a time.  Flattered.  Failed. 

This house is no longer haunted by the soft glow of a new computer screen and late night longing.  A new form of communication that bridged the gap of the Atlantic.  Raw and real conversations where you shared your inner most self that would someday lead to walks on the cliff tops high above the raging ocean below.  Unbelievably life changing.  Affection.  Ardor. 

This house is no longer haunted by false promises of friendship and camaraderie.  A rugged, handsome face with dark eyes that I could drown in.  Beautiful images painted with sweet, smart, funny words that promise a closeness that cannot happen.  An unusually brilliant man keeping familiarity at arms length.  An alliance that too soon disintegrates into animosity.  Disappointed.  Discouraged. 

No.  This house is no longer haunted.  The ghosts no longer lurk behind the curtains.  The whispered memories are silenced.  This house has been exorcised. Self supported.  Self reliant. 

So, I wonder.  Whose house are you haunting now? 

Want to know a little secret?  Of course you do.  That's one of the reasons why we read each other's blogs.  Here is a picture, albeit not a very clear one, of my office space.  Notice all those pictures on my bulletin board?  That's you all.  You keep me company when I'm reviewing charts, lab results, QC, etc.

So, onto today's haiku:

Pictures of you all

My office sanctuary

Surrounded by friends

Now, if you don't see yourself, don't have hurt feelings, I couldn't fit the entire board into the picture.  You're probably behind the monitor!

Have a great weekend, all! 

Ah, the Lenten season; the time between Ash Wednesday and Easter when all good Catholics ponder the ultimate sacrifice made by Christ to save our souls and bring us closer to God.  The time where we eat fish on Friday’s instead of some sort of meat.  The time of year when we go to Church each Thursday to pray the Stations of the Cross, or if you're  one  of the  "in crowd"  it's just refered to as  "the Stations".

Already?!?  Didn’t we just do this last year?

So I ponder.  What to give up?  I’ve already sacrificed scrumptious fatty meats, carbohydrates, and slothful evenings sitting on the sofa watching the TV for the sake of a healthier body.  What to give up?  What to give up? 

I suppose I could give up beer?  Nah. 

Or perhaps internet porn?  I don’t think so. 

Ice cream?  Just try and make me.

Maybe give up masturbation?  Yeah, right.  Like THAT’S ever going to happen. 

I suppose I could consider changing my thought patterns and strive towards becoming more loving and gentle with my inner child, but that’s way too much work as well.

I got it!

I’ll give up fish.  Yeah, that’s the ticket.

Fish.  

I’m giving up fish for Lent. 

Problem solved.  Now, off to Church. 

I would like to state something for the record:

Tom's of Maine Natural Mint Flavored Toothpaste - brilliant!

Tom's of Maine Natural Orange and Mango Flavored Toothpaste - disastrous!

Really, there should be a law.   

Disastrous.  Simply disastrous. 

When I was a kid, after all the chores were done (which seemed like it would never end) I would often grab a towel and head off towards a smallish pond that was located past the barnyard, through a wooded section of acreage, and around a bend.  That's not a picture of it above.  Sadly, I couldn't find one, but ours looked similar.  After my daddy taught me to swim by throwing me into the water again and again, I spent a lot of time there.  I remember walking on the banks of the pond with cool mud squishing between my bare toes while I tried to skip stones.  I also remember swinging on a rope far out over the surface just to let go and plunge into cool water.  I would swim out a little bit and then turn to float on my back and drift for a while. 

It was peaceful.  I would look up at the blue sky accented by pale green leaves of ancient trees and listen to bug music.  It was an escape where I could be all alone and sort out childish problems that belonged to a child.  Sometimes, my favorite dog, Alice, would swim out to great me carrying a stick in her mouth inviting me to play fetch with her.  She loved the water and I would oblige her again and again. 

When we both grew tired, we’d make our way back to the bank, dry off with the towel, and settle down into the tall soft grass to look up at the clouds some more.  Sometimes, we would drift off to sleep together; Alice’s head resting in my lap.  She was a true friend. 

I mention this memory as a metaphor to my current situation.  Mentally, I’ve been drifting.  Now, don’t get me wrong.  I don’t think it’s a bad thing at all.  Sometimes those quiet periods of self reflection over childish problems that belong to an adult are good.  It helps to sort things out to just drift for a while without any set plans or agenda and reassess where you are and where you wish to be.  Sort out what is right and what isn’t quite so right. 

I was chatting with a new friend last night.  At least I think he’s a new friend.  He’s quite an interesting fellow.  One of those rare old souls with a young mind.  During our conversation, he touched upon one of those childish problems I’ve been stewing over.  And just like Alice, he gently reminded me that it was time to make my way back to the shore.  It’s time to quit drifting.       

For my sixth birthday, April 28 1971, I received school supplies that would be used some months later in preparation for my enrollment in the Holy Spirit Parochial School.  I received a plaid canvas book bag with a double flap, handles and strap, two marble colored theme books with the Avoirdupois table in them.  I was only to learn later in high school that Avoirdupois means “to have some peas” – really, look it up.  There was also a black alligator pencil case with three Dixon Ticonderoga #2 pencils, a Scripto lead pencil (the kind where you could see the mechanism inside of the green plastic), and a double eraser with pink on one side and grey on the other.  It was only until the 4^th grade when we would use the grey side when we were allowed to use pens.

A few months later, I accompanied my mother to the downtown shopping district of Columbus to be outfitted with my school uniform, variations of which I would wear until only later when I would attend public school; a navy blue jacket, maroon tie, white shirt, grey wool trousers, black socks, and black shoes.  I was dressed for success for Catholic education. 

The wheels for this adventure had been put into motion a few years earlier when desegregation finally hit the grade schools and my parents had no intention of having me bussed across town to go to school.  Before school started, I had to learn how to say the ‘Hail Mary’, the ‘Our Father’, bless myself (although not always with the correct hand), and genuflect (although not always on the correct knee). 

On the Wednesday after Labor Day, I found myself lined up with 108 children and their parents, all wearing matching uniforms except the girls had Gordon plaid skirts, maroon tams, and white socks.  There was a bit of weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth.  Someone at the end of the line vomited.  I was a little nervous, but I tried to make my mother proud and show no weakness, so I didn’t even hold her hand.  As we were waiting lining up, we were startled by a loud ringing bell.  In the entrance of the school stood the most imposing woman we had ever seen.  She was dressed all in black with only her hands and her face showing.  In one hand, she held a big clip board with all the names of the children listed my class and in alphabetical order.  In the other, she held a big brass bell.  She called out our names and we lined up one by one.

Once in the school we made our way to room 1.  The first thing I noticed was that for 25 students, there were only 12 desks which meant all but one of us would be sharing two to a desk.  My desk mate was a girl named Cynthia Tomlinson.  She had hair just like Judy Garland’s in the Wizard of Oz; but I was certain we weren’t in Kansas anymore.  I was glad that the lady dressed in black at the head of the class didn’t have a green face.

She turned to the black board and wrote three words.  Then she turned back to the class and pointed to the three words as she spoke.  “Good morning Children.  My name is Sister Virginia Mary.”  We all said in unison, “Good morning, Sister.”  A boy from the back of the class raised his hand.  “Yes” (Sister looked at her role book) “Master James Wright.”  “Sister” he said “is Mary your last name?”

“Well” she said, “it is sort of like a family name.  All of the Sisters of Mercy have the name of Mary somewhere in their names.  When we enter the convent, we give up our names and take the name of our Patron Saint.  We also celebrate their feast days instead of celebrating our birthdays.” 

This means that Sr. Mary Edward would now celebrate her birthday on October 13^th , Sr. Frances Mary - October 4^th , Sr. Mary Joseph - March 19^th , Sr. Mary Patrick – March 17^th , and Sister Mary Jude (also my Patron Saint) October 18^th.  Sister Virginia Mary, by taking the name of the Blessed Mother could receive presents not only on August 17^th, but on any of the feast days for the BVM as well as the entire month of May.  She was one smart Sister! 

Sister told us that since we would be sitting two to a desk, that we must always allow room for our guardian angels.  I’d seen pictures of guardian angels and they were magnificent winged people who were always hovering over two children on a wooded path keeping them from falling off into a ravine.  I wasn’t really sure how they were going to fit.  I supposed that they made themselves really small or something.  Besides, Sister Virginia Mary didn’t have to worry too much with me because I already knew that all girls have cooties and scooted to the furthest edge of the bench. 

“Now children,” she said, “I’m going to call the roll.  When I call your name, stand up, curtsey if you are a girl, bow if you are a boy, and say ‘present sister’ before sitting back down.  Until I call your name, you are to sit quietly at your desk, hands folded and placed on the edge of your desk.”  “Understand?”  “Yes sister”.  “Good, let’s begin”. 

I folded my hands and thus started what would later become the callous that is on the outside of my left pinky finger as Sister began the roll call. 

“Kimberly Adams” Kimberly stood up, made a curtsey, and said, “Present Sister”.

“Jonathan Anderson” Jonathan stood up, made a bow, and said, “Present Sister”.

“Wayne Bartholomew”, Wayne stood up, made a bow, and said, “Present Sister”. 

My surname begins with a “T” so I knew it would take a while before she got to my name, so I thought I’d take a look around the room.  Of the many intriguing items around the room, I suppose the two most fascinating were on the wall behind the mammoth desk at which Sister sat at the front of the room.  These two items would be in every classroom that I attended before going to public school.  A Crucifix and a box covered in black cloth from which a voice would be broadcasted from time to time. 

I looked around the room some more and noticed the big cupboard that writing paper (two thick lines with a dashed line in the middle), books belonging to the Diocese, paste, molding clay, and crayons with a flat edge to keep them from rolling down the desk which we were only allowed to use on Friday, and only then if we had behaved during the week.  And finally the big bank of windows from which I would be doing a lot of day dreaming over the course of my education.  Story telling is what a day dreamer does to moonlight, did you know? 

“Kerri Reading” Kerri stood up, curtsied, “Present Sister”

“James Snyder” Jim stood up, bowed and said “Present Sister” 

Oh no, she was almost to my name and I panicked.  I started to practice under my breath.  “Present Sister, Present Sister, Present Sister, Present Sister,” 

“Curtis Thomas” it was my turn.  I got up. I made a bow, and said, “Pressure System”.  I couldn’t believe it.  I immediately got very hot and uncomfortable. 

I heard a few giggles from the other side of the room.  Sister stared at me blankly for a moment, scribbled something on her clip board, looked back up at me and knitted her brow before saying, “Thank you Curtis, you may sit down now”, and continued the roll call.  It wasn’t the first time when a Sister of Mercy would overlook me nervously blurting out something inappropriate when I was nervous and felt like everybody was staring at me. 

It's Friday!  You know what that means - time for haiku!

 

Meetings, chart review

At the scope, examine slides

Just another day

You remember the rules?  5-7-5 syllables of silly bull.  Why not play along? 

I have to share this with you all.  I just hung up the phone with a lady who used to be a member of my staff.  She quit her job some two years ago to open a candy shop with her husband here in town.  It was their dream, and like many, they grasped hold of their dream and made quite a success of it.  Although I was so sorry to see her go, I had no hard feelings about her leaving.  After all, it was their dream.  They make home made candies that are absolutely brilliantly wonderfully good, although not a bit good for you.   

Her husband died a few months back.  I wrote about it.  It was so sudden.  He died at their kitchen table one morning.

Being a Floridian native, he was buried in a tropical shirt, kaki shorts, and Birkenstocks.  I thought it was quite fitting, even if he was buried here in Missouri. 

I called tonight, later than I should have, just to see how she was getting along.  We had a very nice conversation.  Actually, she ministered to me in such a wonderful and profound way by asking me how I was doing and how things were going in my life. 

God bless her soul.  What I meant to do was to give her support and what turned out to be was that she gave me support.  Words cannot express what I’m feeling right now. 

I know, I know – we all have our little dramas and miscommunications and times when we don’t understand each other and times when we are angry or unforgiving or selfish – but sometimes it would do us well to step back and remember what is important and what is not.  She reminded me of this tonight. 

God bless her soul.

Maybe I’m just feeling a bit vulnerable, but why not take a moment or two and re-evaluate where you all are.  Maybe take a second look.  Perhaps take a moment just to thank God for all of your blessings.  Perhaps take a little bit of time to tell those who support you and love you that you love them right back.  We might not ever get a second chance.  

It’s a thought.  

God bless all of you all too.  You all deserve to shine because you are all wonderful, beautiful friends for whom I am so grateful. 

So grateful indeed.