Susan George Is Gone.


Susan George is gone. I don’t know if she’s dead or if she was taken somewhere, but she’s gone. Susan was my neighbor. I met her in November of last year when we first moved in. She watched from her back porch as we loaded in furniture and boxes and placed Esther’s bicycle and outdoor toys by the towering tree in our common yard.

 

Sometime in the afternoon of our move-in day, she stopped by and introduced herself. She told me her name was Susan. She looked at the bike and toys and asked if we had a boy or a girl. I told her about Esther and she smiled saying she hoped I’d bring her by one day so she could meet her. Before heading back to her apartment she told me to please let her know if there was anything she could do for us. She was neighborly like that.

 

It made me so happy to meet her. I didn’t know then just how old she was, but was told later in the week by the neighbor who lives in between us that she was 102. I couldn’t fathom it. She was more lucid than my 78 year old mother, and more agile that most 60 year olds. Wow. 102. I told my husband over dinner and we were incredulous together.

 

The next time I saw her was in December. She had just returned from taking out her garbage and was beginning her morning ritual of watering the plants on her back porch. She was a spry thing; up early taking care of things. I was trying to organize some stuff on our back porch and she wandered over. She told me the small wispy stalks in our own undeveloped little patch of dirt were actually seedlings from the giant Pepper tree that towered over us and that we’d better get them removed or they’d grow into full fledged trees before too long. She then said she remembered when the big Pepper tree was that size. I asked her how long she’d lived here at Park La Brea and she told me 47 years. Wow. That’s how old I am. She had lived in this little one bedroom apartment on Burnside Ave. as long as I’d been alive. I asked if she had any family and she shook her head no. She’d never married, never had kids, and everyone else in her family – siblings and parents – had passed on a long time ago. I wondered just how long she’d been alone in this world, but I didn’t ask. I never saw friends over at her house and well, any of her close friends had to have passed long ago too. I got an empty, sad sort of feeling in the pit of my stomach and thought to myself, I have got to have this woman over for tea and pie or something. I figured anyone who had lived that long has got some interesting stories and would probably like to tell some of them again. For a reason I couldn’t quite articulate, I just wanted to sit with her at my kitchen table. I suppose somewhere in there I was projecting my own loneliness onto her, but who cares the reason. She was my neighbor and I ought to get to know her.

 

Christmas and the New Year came and went, as did a spot of cold, rainy weather. Everyone got sick at our house, so we’d pretty much been laid out for the whole holiday season. I got really busy with work after the 1st of the year and the couple of times I saw Susan I was rushing to my car. I would wave and think to myself I have got to have her over, or go take her some mulch for her plants. She had told me back in November she needed some and I couldn’t imagine how she might get to a gardening store.

 

I don’t know why but I found myself paying particular attention to Susan’s back door one day last week. I was standing on my porch smoking an illicit cigarette in the late morning, and my eyes wandered over. There was a note on Susan’s door. I walked over to her back porch landing and peered closely through the screen door to read it: Estate Sale. May 8,9. Everything must go. Artwork, clothes, furniture. Free stuff. 393 Burnside Avenue. That was her address. Oh my god. I had a terrible hope that she might startle me by pulling back the mini blinds on the door with her arthritic hands and flashing her grey, horsey teeth at me. But it didn’t happen. The plants on her porch were brown and withered, except for the fake calla lilies she kept in a big green pot in the corner close to the window. She had loved this one other plant, which she earlier confessed with great pride, was a weed. It had grown right out of a crack in the concrete and she nurtured it to life. I remembered telling her a weed is anything you don’t want in your garden, so if she liked this plant she didn’t have to call it a weed anymore. She must be gone, because even her precious weed was dry and lifeless. I felt a cold breeze float across my arms and travel up my spine, and the dried leaves of Susan’s plants sounded like the quiet crackling of Rice Crispies in milk. The smoke from my cigarette gave the air an old dusty smell, and I thought about putting it out, but didn’t. Ash flew off the tip and dusted the sleeve of my black t-shirt. There was nothing on her porch but berries and leaves from the tree branches that hung above, and Susan’s plants; no patio furniture, no place to sit down. Maybe Susan never sat down. Maybe that’s what kept her alive for so long. She was always busy, taking care of things… Maybe that’s what happened last week. Maybe she sat down for a rest. I wonder if she knew it would be eternal. My cigarette burned down to the butt and I tossed it away from Susan’s porch.

 

I don’t know why I never had her over for tea and pie, but I know I should have. I know better at my age. At 47 I know time passes too quickly, and when you’re 102 there is no more time. No more time to put off ‘til tomorrow what might please you or make someone else happy now. I should’ve stopped for 30 minutes and just invited her in. I sometimes think that doing so might’ve alleviated some of her loneliness. But if I’m really honest, I think it would’ve alleviated some of mine.

 

I’m writing this for you Susan. I imagine you finally reunited with all those who loved you over your long life, and it makes me smile a little bit. I will remember you Susan George, and I hope one day we’ll meet again. I promise I’ll invite you in. We’ll have a nice long chat over a cup of Earl Grey and a slice of cherry pie.



Past Ara


Past Ara*

April 2009

 

I have always known I was tied to the sky by some invisible umbilical

through the clouds to an immeasurable somewhere with no boundaries

where my voice is singing much larger than myself.

I’ve had moments of remembering, echoes in my chaos,

glimpses of daring where I couldn’t help but let go.

I’d find myself soaring and suddenly

I knew more and saw more and had more in my heart to give.

Flashes, glances, brief and still

faded photographs from a childhood lived a million years over,

a million years past.

 

But someone, something, wants me grounded,

on the earth, in the dirt,

planted and packed hard in a garden of their choosing.

But I don’t want my feet planted, I say,

and I don’t care how dark and lovely with minerals your mud may be.

I don’t want to grow your life. I want to grow mine.

I want to grow back to where I came from:

suspended by stars,

breathing blameless air,

flying the silky-stringed trapeze of my highest hunger,

lapping up raindrops before they ever fell to slake your dusty earth,

chanting songs in my native tongue before music ever reached your recollection,

leaping one beam to the next, past Ara, drenched in the mist of my own curiosity,

back to rope swings by star light and hula-hooping Saturn’s rings,

Laughing again in the glow of my once lost moon

 

 

*Latin: altar. A southern constellation. In ancient greek mythology, it was thought that the Cyclopes orginally built the altar as a place to sacrifice to the Olympian gods. The altar was identified as the altar of Lycaon. Lycaon sacrificed a child to Zeus on the altar on mount Lycaeus, and immediately after the sacrifice was turned into a wolf. In other greek tales, Ara was identified with the altar of the god of wine, Dionysus.



Prayer and Pulling Weeds


In July of 2008 an old and dear friend of mine was diagnosed with his third round of cancer, his “7 year bitch” he calls it, as it has shown up in his life every 7 years or so since he was 30. The first two times the cancer was localized and relatively easy to tackle – as cancer goes. Surgery was all that was ever required and prognosis for recovery was always excellent. This time, the bitch is back with a vengeance. With symptoms of congestive heart failure, my friend went to see his doctor where an ultrasound of his heart showed a tumor the size of a baseball. Subsequent body scans showed tumors virtually everywhere – in his lungs, his abdomen, and bone.

 

My friend is a stubborn and determined sort of fellow and not one to roll over easily. He is also methodical and meticulous, especially when it comes to designing the war of all wars against this most unwelcome intruder.  So, after a lot of research on traditional and alternative approaches to battling cancer he opted for a multi-faceted treatment plan than includes everything from acupuncture, traditional chinese herbs and essential oils, to prayer, meditation, and working in his own vineyard; from sleeping in a tent on the ground outside and playing music, to chemotherapy and a radically altered diet.

 

Somewhere fairly early on in his journey he posted a progress report on his blog titled “Report From The Battlefront”, and gave himself a “C” in the prayer and meditation department. Now, I know virtually nothing about cancer treatment, which is quite frustrating when all you want is to be of some help to a friend in need. But I do know a little about prayer – as a lifelong student of it  and a continuous though haphazard pursuer of its benefits. As such I was compelled one night to post on his blog a reply  to what I felt was his unnecessarily critical grade of his  own efforts. Following is what I wrote:

 

When I first glanced at your post today, I saw the title as “Report From The Butterfly.” Then I saw it said “Battlefront”. Ah. Of course. But I like “Butterfly” better. It’s way more poetic, way more Zen…


I’ve been thinking about your prayer/meditation grade of C. Hmmmm… I feel a sermon coming on…


In my 25 years of practicing Christianity as an adult (more or less, give or take) I’ve been on many meditation and prayer retreats (some of them silent) from monasteries to mountain tops and everything in between. There were very few times that I ever felt like I got it “right” until, sometime later in my life, a couple of things came together for me. I guess the first and most obvious thing that got through is that there is no”getting it right” or really, there is no “getting it wrong. “

 

Hence my first prayer/meditation realization: It’s helpful to set your judgment aside.


Another rather disturbing realization was that God – all knowing, all powerful – already knows everything about me and so already knows my need, my longing, my frustration, my sadness, my failure, my fear, my hopes, my desires, and my joy. So, if this is true, why pray? I’m going to tell God something God doesn’t already know? Please. God already wants the best for me, so why go begging for it like Oliver after a second helping of porridge?

 

Prayer/Medidation realization number 2: Perhaps prayer is designed to change MY mind, rather than as a tool for me to try and change God’s…


Another thing is that meditation, (which IMO is listening for God, as opposed to prayer, which is talking to and asking of God) was virtually impossible for this mind of mine which is chattering incessantly and working overtime to find any gray area where I can sit uncomfortably and just be ambivalent… As such, I discovered that I could hear God’s voice when my hands were busy and my mind detached; that is, when I was engaged in some sort of physical labor or activity. This is most definitely when God talks to me and when I am most able to hear.

 

Prayer/Meditation realization number 3: You don’t necessarily have to sit cross-legged like a yogi to meaningfully meditate.


All of this is to say, that from my perspective, weeding the vineyard is both an act of prayer and an act of meditation on your part, as is sleeping in your tent, as is breathing in essential oils, as is seeking any and all treatment that you somehow “know” in your “gut” that you need. What you are asking God for in all of these activities is healing. Weed is to vineyard as cancer is to your body, my friend. Every weed you pull is imploring God to pull the cancer from your body. Every night you lay on the ground underneath the stars is a request to be reminded of and returned to what is real. When you breathe deeply, whether from a 3 mile hike or inhaling frankincense, you are asking, insisting really, that Spirit and Life enter your body, infuse every cell and reside there. And I can tell that all of this is happening because I can see the desire of your heart (prayer) written in your posts, as well as the wisdom gleaned (the fruit of meditation) from your daily experience and the conclusions at which you arrive. I see proof of the asking, and proof of the answers you’ve been given. 


So, what is left but the granddaddy, the pièce de résistance, the biggest realization of all: Gratitude

 

That’s the key. Offering up to God, the Universe, your Higher Power, or whatever you’d like to call it, your gratitude. This is what changes us. This is what opens our hearts and frees us,  and what makes healing and wholeness possible. All it takes to get started is a pen, some paper, and 30 minutes maybe to sit on a bench in your backyard (looking out on one of the most truly beautiful views in the world) to offer up everything you’re grateful for on a daily basis. Big and small stuff. All of it. The hard part will be finding within yourself the will to be thankful even for your trials and tribulations, even for this cancer. You touched on it briefly when you said how much you loved working in the vineyard and how it took cancer to get you off your ass… Isn’t that just another way of saying that you have cancer to thank for getting you out into your own vineyard? I would like to clarify that being grateful for cancer doesn’t mean you want to keep it around. You can also be thankful to see it get on the first bus out of town and never return.


In all my time and years seeking to know the will and see the face of God via prayer and meditation, I’ve only gotten glimpses, and brief ones at that. But they were fleeting moments of bliss and contentment that I wouldn’t trade for the world. They’ve kept me on the path in pursuit of more…


So, my friend, I pray peace for you. I pray love and healing for you, and I leave you, again, with a favorite scripture that provides great relief to me when I have nothing left in me with which to pray:


“Likewise the Spirit helps us in our weakness; for we do not know how to pray as we ought, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us with sighs too deep for words.”


The Spirit intercedes for us… With sighs too deep for words… Too deep for words… Too deep for words…

 

 

My friend has had a number of setbacks over the months, as those battling cancer often do, but he is finding a modicum of success with a trial chemotherapy drug called Trabectidin.  I hope he continues his attempts at prayer and meditation, frustrating and fruitless though they may appear. My experience is that the bounty of the practice comes randomly and unexpectedly as glimpses of light in the darkest and most despairing of moments – just when all appears lost – as proof of the promise that we are never really lost. Of course, prayer provides no assurance of a cure, and we all know this because prayerful people succumb to cancer and disease every day. But practiced faithfully it has been known to heal hearts, change dispositions, and provide hours if not days, months, and lifetimes of inner peace – and that is something most worthy of pursuit.



First things first…


 

Hello and welcome to the first post on Sometimes Life..doesn’t turn out like you planned.

 

So, I am not a psychologist or a self-help expert. I don’t have any special degrees or any particular field of expertise. I am just another person like you – someone with plans and dreams, someone who worries about the future, and who’s made a lot of mistakes; someone who has had a few successes, but far more failures, and who’s had her fair share of slaps in the face, some quite rightfully deserved; someone with a growing number of gray hairs, a little too much weight around her midsection, and an exasperating, perpetual case of adult acne. I am writing this blog because I believe our lives are meant to be shared, and that our burdens are often made lighter simply by seeing our story in someone else’s. At pivotal points in time I have been left confounded, disappointed and even infuriated by the realization that my life isn’t what I thought it would be, and I’m betting you have felt the same way.

 

You should know that you won’t find any sure-fire formulas or any step-by-step instructions in these posts on how to make all your plans succeed, nor will you find a quick and easy way to overcome your disappointments. There are lots of books and blogs available on those subjects if that’s what you’re after. But I do hope you’ll find some assurance and comfort in the fact that you’re not alone in your travels along this wacky road of life.  Perhaps you will also come to see that it actually might be in your best interest that some of your dreams and plans don’t come true, or at the very least, that there is something instructive to be gleaned from every trial you face. I have found this to be the case for myself.

 

You should also know that, while I’m a Christian,  this is not a religious blog, and whether or not you are Christian makes no never-mind to me. I simply mention this little fact because my faith guides, informs, and influences just about everything I think and what I say. I have been a Christian as long as I can remember and my faith has gone through many transformations. I can say without equivocation that I’ve been nurtured and healed by it, but I’ve also spent many years doing battle with and running from it. Sometimes I feel like I’ve run from it and to it at the same time, and perhaps that’s exactly what I’ve been doing… No wonder I’m dizzy.

 

There are a couple more reasons I mention this faith thing: All of the genuine solace I’ve found for my struggles has come from begrudgingly acknowledging and/or implementing some little piece of truth or wisdom found in the marvelous nooks and too often untapped corners of the Judeo-Christian Gospel. Yes, that’s right my friends. I am, ultimately, a Believer – in mystery, in miracles, in transcendence and serendipity, and in the big fat truth that shit happens to all of us, sometimes for no good reason and at the very worst time. The best part about being a Believer is knowing there is Something Bigger in the universe than the mind of Kay Bess or (insert your name here.) Now that is a big load off my shoulders. Can I get a shout-out for that little piece of good news? Being the daughter of a preacher wasn’t easy for a rebellious girl like me, but it’s had its benefits… Having been spoon-fed the stuff from an early age, Scripture has followed me, stalked me, knocked me down and bit me in the ass so many times that now it just runs through my veins like a benevolent virus, showing up willy-nilly as answers to my random queries of life. So, I’m just telling you, it’s bound to bleed out occasionally into the words and on to the pages I write here. Come to think of it, the whole premise of this blog is based on the First Testament proverb “You may make your plans… But God has the last word.” That one tumbles around my head quite often… Anyway. You’ve been warned.

 

Each writer hopes her writing wields some sort of influence on her readers, otherwise, why write? Yes, I know, we creative types need to express ourselves… bla bla bla bla bla bla bla… But if that’s all it is, then why not just give a speech in the living room attended by overstuffed pillows and the family pet?  So, I admit that I hope to influence you – your thinking, your feeling, your perceptions. But if my writing doesn’t do any of those things, then I hope it will just put you to sleep. If you’re anything like me, you need more sleep, and really, I just want to help in any way I can.

 

Thank you for reading. Please don’t hesitate to leave a comment or send me an email. I’d love to hear from you.

 

Kay