Archive for June, 2011
Shot Karma
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My husband Brian likes to remind me that life is like a karma credit card — it’s far better to add as many credits as you can to your card of life because the debits will inevitably come along. Having been the recipient of thousands of injections through many years of surgeries, medical check-ups and blood draws, I knew what it was like to get a shot, to feel the anticipation of a needle prick. As time went on, I’d become queasy at the very thought of a needle and grew accustomed to looking away while some kind nurse or practitioner went about their business of sticking me. It takes practice to be the patient and I thought I’d become quite good at it. I never wanted to be on the other side.
But this week, Brian told me that he had a procedure on the horizon and as a part of it, had to have twice daily injections. He pulled out a plastic bag of pre-filled syringes and handed it to me, intimating that I become chief injector. My stomach turned somersaults. There was no way I could do this.
As my yoga teacher Cynthia has told me, life has a way of touching you on the shoulder when it’s your turn. As I examined every angle of how to get out of giving Brian his shots, I realized there was no way out. The karma of shots had come my way. For many years I had taken them, adding debits to my karma credit card. Now it seemed, it was time to add some credits to that card.
As the moment approached,I over-thought my new role. Then, I remembered a passage from the book, Surfing the Himalayas: A Spiritual Adventure (www.himalayas.com), “Thoughts should have a place in your life of course, but it should be a very small place. To really know something, in order to see its perfection and to become part of that perfection, you must become the action that you seek to perfect.”
Brian handed me the needle. As if I’d done it all my life, I took it, flicked the tip and watched droplets of fluid fall out, then plunged it into the folds of stomach Brian gathered with his hand and depressed the plunger, feeling the tension of liquid pouring into his body and out of the syringe. We both exhaled.
From nursed to nurse. Karma isn’t always supposed to come full circle in a single lifetime but it felt that way. I’d repeat the same anticipation, the same motion for three more days. I didn’t want to perfect this action by any means. Still, I found a way to become one with it. If nothing else, I felt it was my turn to do it.
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Karma (survivingmiddleage.wordpress.com) Karma From A Buddhist Perspective (thinkingfromtheheart.wordpress.com) The law of Karma. (mediumsworld.wordpress.com)
Sister Mary Pastry and the Virgin Mary’s Appearance
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As regular visitors to Chesterton, Indiana‘s European Market (www.chestertonseuropeanmarket.com) on Saturday’s, we’ve seen the pastry stand for years, nestled among the fruit and vegetable stands and directly across from the cheese stand. It’s a curiosity in the heat of summer, staffed by a nun in full black habit and displaying an array of delicious French pastries, brioche, croissants, fruit tarts and the like. When we passed by the stand and my kids asked, “Who is that nun?” I said the first thing that came to mind, “Oh, why that’s Sister Mary Pastry,” and immediately felt the heavy burden of Catholic guilt for making fun of a nun in full habit. The name stuck.
When we visited the market last, I brought Mack my older son who usually prefers to sleep in on Saturday mornings. As we passed the pastry stand, he paused to inspect the goodies and that’s when we realized that Sister Mary Pastry was French but spoke English well. Excited, Mack turned to me and said, “Mom, speak to her in French.” I hesitated, not wanting to pull out my limited French from study abroad in Paris and Aix-en-Provence from years ago.
“Oh, you speak French?” Sister smiled and we began a conversation in mixed French and English. “How did you come to sell pastries at the market?” I asked. Sister’s story unfolded. Fraternite Notre Dame (www.fraternitenortredame.org), a French-based order with a mission of serving the poor, has its mother house in Chicago’s underserved Austin neighborhood. As a way to raise funds for the order, the nuns began baking pastries to sell in the Chicagoland area. The proceeds support their soup kitchen and other ministries for the poor.
Jean Marie, the order’s bishop, is a mystic with internal stigmata. Sister told me that in 1977, the Virgin Mary appeared to Jean Marie with spiritual messages to pass along to the faithful. Now, on the 14th of every month, the Bishop celebrates the Mass of the Apparition at 5 a.m. at their Chicago church, 502 N. Central Avenue. During the mass, Virgin Mary appears to the Bishop, delivering messages, graces and often miraculous healings.
“Would you like to come to our mass?” Sister asked me. “Please come. You would like it.”
The next mass is July 14th. I plan to attend.
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Paris Pâtisseries: A Guide to Paris Pastries (thekitchn.com) Recipe – Raspberry & Almond Tart (frenchleave.wordpress.com) Sweet! by mary elizabeth (livinglightinternational.wordpress.com) Gandhi Makes Unlikely Appearance on Mars (blogs.wsj.com)
Silly Good Writing
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When I think of writing, stories always filled my pen.
By 5th grade, my teacher Mrs. Brunmeier told me my stories were too avant garde for class distribution. In 8th grade, I wrote the definitive, imaginative story of our class in a final report format. In high school, I became the editor of the paper and won a first-place award in the Wisconsin Newspaper Association’s contest for writing, an expose of the National Honor Society. And the list goes on.
But the stories I remember best were the ones I wrote with my friend Donna.
As high school students at all-girls St. Joseph’s Academy (now Notre Dame Academy in Green Bay, www.notredameacademy.com), we yearned for life experiences yet to come. We dreamed of prom dates and life successes far into the future. We wondered about the diminishing quantity of nuns who taught us and what would happen to their order, the Sisters of St. Joseph of Carondelet, as more lay teachers entered the fray. We imagined life in big cities and created imaginary all-knowing and all-powerful alter-egos while suffering through the realities of study hall.
For all those things that didn’t yet exist, we’d pen hand-written stories instead of dissecting frogs in biology class to make these lofty dreams come true. Of course, we’d write each other as main characters and every wish, however small, would come true. Oh, there would be conflict but ultimately we’d emerge the victors.
When Donna had a crush on J, I created a lengthy narrative for her full-bodied hair flowing in the wind, her wily charms on fire, and her witticisms dazzling a high school party crowd. J could only hope but to fall prey to her charms. Twenty pages later, Donna would have her man.
A week later she’d hold the pen, my success held in limbo by her imagination. Would I crush an opponent or merely lob an ace every serve in a tennis game? It mattered not. We would persevere and win. We’d howl in delight, knowing we’d always be the heroines of our own stories.
Donna moved to New York. I moved to Chicago. When I’d least expect it, a hand-written note would appear in my mail, continuing my high school story line. No explanation needed. It spurred me to continue her tale, jetting her from country to country, adventure to adventure.
When I found an old letter buried in a tangle of papers the other day, I quickly picked up my pen ready to resume the quest. Donna died of colon cancer several years back. Silly good writing had put her in a multi-million dollar home, lavished her with furs and jewels, and made her insanely happy. She would have been pleased.