Change

October 6, 2011 by scillagrace

Today I tagged along with a group of 4-6th graders as they participated in a program called “Let’s Go Climb a Moraine”. The staff naturalist gathered them all at the beginning of the hike and said that he hoped they would remember one important word from the day’s experience. “Glacier?” they guessed. No. CHANGE. Everything on the planet is changing. Even the land. For example, Wisconsin was once underwater at about the equator, back in the days of Pangaea. The glaciers shaped landforms. A beaver changes the landscape by chewing down trees and creating dams. People are making all kinds of changes to the earth as well. Naturalist Howard also asked the kids, “Why do we bother to study and learn about the earth? The more we know about the earth, the better we’re able to do what?” Protect it. Take care of it.

And change? Why do we bother to look at change and be aware of it?

So we won’t be so afraid of it, perhaps.

Change is inevitable. Eventually, everything changes. Some changes take a long, long time and are not even noticed in a few lifetimes. Other changes happen in an instant. Does change make you feel unsettled, anxious, frightened, panicked? Are you comfortable with change? Do you delight in change? “Depends on what the change is.” Sure. That’s a fair question, but would you be able to accept every change eventually? Are there some changes that you would never accept? What do we teach about change?

New colors on the trees

My children are going to be living quite differently from the way I did. There is change in the air. Our economic situation seems like a popcorn kernel about to burst. Something’s gotta give. And I think that will be a very good thing. I think that the older I get, the more open I am to change. You might say the opposite would be more typical, and perhaps it is, but the longer I live, the more changes I see and the more I get used to change.

Steve really enjoyed our hike and remarked, “My life’s been good to me.” It made me think of John Denver’s song, “Poems, Prayers and Promises”.

The days they pass so quickly now Nights are seldom long And time around me whispers when it's cold The changes somehow frighten me Still I have to smile It turns me on to think of growing old For though my life's been good to me There's still so much to do So many things my mind has never known I'd like to raise a family I'd like to sail away And dance across the mountains on the moon

I have to say it now
It’s been a good life all in all
It’s really fine
To have the chance to hang around
And lie there by the fire
And watch the evening tire
While all my friends and my old lady
Sit and watch the sun go down

And talk of poems and prayers and promises
And things that we believe in
How sweet it is to love someone
How right it is to care
How long it’s been since yesterday
What about tomorrow
What about our dreams
And all the memories we share

I’ll always have a place in my heart for Henry John Deutschendorf, Jr.

Righteous Depression

October 5, 2011 by scillagrace

Ya know, in general, I think I’m a pretty happy, positive person. I want to be like that. Also peaceful, calm and occasionally insanely silly. I did have a wicked period of postpartum depression after my first child was born and a bout with post-traumatic stress syndrome when Jim had heart surgery at 31. Okay, but I’m a pretty happy person, I think. I’ve noticed now that since I’m a widow, if I get started crying about something, I can go on leaking for hours. Now, could this be due to my new agenda of trying to face the reality of the world honestly? The truth is the truth hurts. Suffering exists in the world. Various coping strategies and religions exist primarily to soften the blow of that blunt piece of honesty. I am trying to be open, and it leaves me vulnerable. Ouch. It felt better to be Polyanna.

What to do about the responsibility and challenge to look deeply into the suffering of the planet, to become aware of the failures of systems and cultures, of relationships and communication from the large-scale to the intimate? I feel sad about the truth. Can I call this righteous depression? Is this deep or simply pathological?

I am suddenly reminded of one of my life stories. My sister and I were in a car accident when I was 17 and she was 20. She was driving, and flipped the car at 80 miles per hour on the Interstate. We were transported in an ambulance together to the Lincoln, NE hospital. I was aware that they had been doing CPR on her the whole time with no response. I had seen her covered in blood slumped next to me in the car before I was extricated from it. I was in shock, but I was able to comprehend what was going on. The hospital has policies about who can release information to patients, though, and everything must be done according to protocol. So I found myself in an examining room with a nurse. I had been checked out and aside from a bump on the head and some cuts, I am fine. I know that my sister is not fine. A nurse comes in and sits in the chair in the corner and says something about how they’re also examining my sister. “It’s very bad,” she says, looking worried and vague, but directly at me. “It’s just very bad.” I felt like she was trying to talk to me in code or something. She wanted to say something specific, but she couldn’t. Instead, she just kept repeating how bad it was. Was this supposed to prepare me for something? Or was it supposed to fill me with a sense of doom and dread? I realize she was probably a very sympathetic woman who felt terrible at being in the position of not having more comforting things to say or even more authority to speak the truth. The result was just….awkward. What do I do with this? I suppose I could put her out of her misery and say, “It’s okay. I’ve guessed that she’s dead. I will deal with it. I have a plan.” Honestly, this is what I want to do in these situations. I want to take responsibility and make everyone around me feel better. Then I suppose I can feel righteously depressed. It’s bad; it’s very bad, but I am going to try to do the right thing.

There are some very seriously bad things happening around us. Global climate change, deforestation, greenhouse gases, ozone depletion, drought, famine, economic devastation, war, oppression and domination, political atrocities, nuclear poisoning, chemical poisoning, racial hatred, bullying, on and on and on. How much of this can I be open to? What if I bit off just a tiny portion and tried to chew on that only, to save myself from being overwhelmed? What if I tried to absorb the totality and sank into a dark depression? What do we do with deep sadness? Share it? Ignore it? Fight it? Meditate? I’m open to suggestions.

Juxtaposed on a Planet

October 3, 2011 by scillagrace

Last night I wondered why I’m not an insect. There are only 4,000 species of mammals on the earth and over 100,000 species of insects. There are even more microbes. I was thinking how simply one of those animals lives in the soil, a short life with clear intent. My life as a human seems so much more complicated. Even so, by human standards, my life is pretty simple now. I don’t have a job, and I’m done raising kids. Today, I walked to a restaurant to have breakfast with Steve and his mom, then walked to the grocery store to buy vegetables. I am making soup and working on the computer. I made a phone call to my mother and left a voice message. Pretty uneventful, you might say, but still involving a lot of decisions. How did I impact the planet today? Why did I buy that item? Why did I use electricity? Why did I throw that in the garbage? Where did I spend my time and energy and why? How did I get here, where I am today?

Yesterday I felt pretty exhausted by my busy week. Socially, I had spent time with all my family and Steve’s plus met strangers on our camping trip. Geographically, I had covered over 500 miles. Physically, I had hiked some but sat in a car more. Psychically, I had given a lot of energy to my most important relationships. When I’m with my kids, I feel nameless parts of myself going out to them. I look at them, all 4 together with full-grown energy, and I feel spent in some way. I wonder about insects who live to reproduce and then die in a matter of hours. That seems pretty simple. What do I do with the years I may still be living?

The web of interconnections on the planet is unfathomable. I feel like I dabble my foot in here and there, watching ripples emanate and then wonder what I did. What was the meaning, what will be the result, was that responsible? I have awareness but not full understanding. I have appreciation and take action based on my best intentions, and may never even know the impact. I am not in control. I wonder if simplifying my life is really an effort to have more control. I suppose I act in faith, as does everyone, in the end.

Sometimes the things that I see connected here on earth don’t make much sense. How did we get giraffes in Madison WI?

Barn, windmill, maple tree, giraffe. One of these things is not like the others.

My human brain wants to separate things and put them into tidy, little boxes organized by my own way of thinking. I want a rational world, everything doing its job in its place. Then, all I have to do is figure out what my job is and what my place is and do it. No more problems, no more conundrums, no more philosophical issues. Neat. Ah, but as Alan Watts says, the world is “wiggly”. Lines are blurred. Connections are made, broken, re-made, detoured, disappear, and appear willy-nilly. Is there something I must do? My energy is spent just thinking about it sometimes. I suppose there is another way, a Middle Way, a way that has to do with finding the flow of energy and going with it. I found a website today that talks about our ecological thoughtprint. Before we place a footprint on the planet, or maybe as we place our footprints on the planet, we have a thoughtprint. Learning about how we think about our connections and using that knowledge to help us to make better connections is a valuable lesson. Education doesn’t begin with an A, but I think it belongs in the ‘awareness, appreciation, action, attitude, activism’ list.

How are you feeling today?

September 19, 2011 by scillagrace

Last night I read a play that really impressed me. It is a piece of writing that satisfies on many levels. It’s called “W;t” (or “Wit”) by Margaret Edson, and it won the Pulitzer Prize for drama in 1999. I recommend it highly, especially to the Approximate Chef and Memma. You will love the protagonist, a 50 year old professor of seventeenth century poetry, specializing in John Donne. She has stage 4 ovarian cancer, and the action is set entirely in the hospital. Her understanding of life, of living from your wits, is rigorous, exacting, detailed, intelligent. Being treated for cancer puts her in a situation that is painful, humiliating, and collaborative. The script is brilliant and suddenly tender at the end in a way that doesn’t degenerate into sentimentality, but strikes firmly at the heart. If I were to see this live in the theater, I’m sure I would be unable to rise from my seat for a good half hour after the curtain fell. I’d be savoring every emotion. Read it and you’ll see what I mean. One of the “running gags” is that the intern keeps reminding himself of the “clinical” practice of asking the patient how she is feeling. The question may seem moot, or insensitive, or humorous, but it points to self-awareness regularly, which for most of us is sorely needed.

I am noticing the subtle changes of aging. I hear popping and cracking in my joints whenever I get up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom. I feel stiffness in the morning from sleeping on our rock-hard futon. I have never been very flexible, and today, I tried to do yoga along with a DVD. I found myself mesmerized by the instructor’s body and thinking of my sister Dharam, who has taught yoga, acrobatics and dance for 30 years. It is so beautiful to watch, and I feel like my body will never be able to do it. Memma can do it; she is fluid and flexible and of a completely different body type. I wonder if all bodies can if they practice regularly. The problem is fear. I am afraid and mistrust my own body. The way to dismantle fear is with understanding. I had a massage a week ago, and as each muscle was touched, I felt as if I were being introduced to it for the first time. “Oh! That’s my muscle going from there…to…there. It feels a bit tight and tender; I wonder if I can relax it? Breathe….” I am trying not to think things like, “Oh, my god! I am so stiff and creaky! There must be something really wrong with me. I probably have bone cancer!”

I keep reminding myself that I just had a full physical, mammogram and pap, and blood work done, all with normal results. If I hadn’t, I could probably convince myself that I had one foot in the grave. My hypochondria is fully actualized. I’m sure part of that is due to living with Jim throughout the stages of his illness and death. The vigilance we developed became a blessing and a curse. The trick is finding balance, finding the Middle Way. As I stand with my toes and heels together, arms at my side, breathing deeply through my nose, I remember this. Balance. Breath. Practice. Love myself. Ask myself compassionately, “How are you feeling today?”

Feeling fine, thanks!

Dear Prudence

September 16, 2011 by scillagrace

Last night, we watched the movie “Into the Wild” which tells the story of Christopher Johnson McCandless, who walked into the wilderness of Alaska to live off the land and do battle with some personal demons. After 113 days, he died of starvation. The story brings up some very interesting questions about society, “prudence”, and responsibility.

“Society! So – ci – e – ty!!!” yells Vince Vaughn in a bar scene. His character is bonding with Chris in a less-than-articulate but heartfelt acknowledgement that we fuck each other up regularly. Parents and children, systems, administrations, organizations, rules, protocol and expectations. It’s all pretty neurotic when you step back and look at it. Some days, maybe most of us would like to walk to Alaska to get away from it all, to experience the freedom and dignity of making our own choices and engaging with the world head on. After 100 days of complete solitude, Chris writes that he is lonely. I think of that Life of Mammals scene with all the baboons on an African mountain. We are social animals; it’s in our DNA, and we can’t walk away from that. Maybe that’s another part of life to engage head on.

The first time my mother met Steve, she made a comment about him being “prudent”. He denied it immediately. To him, ‘prudence’ has to do with conforming to the cultural norm for being sensible. However, other definitions indicate “wisdom, judiciousness” as its characteristics. Chris had no desire to conform to any cultural norm; to him, the culture was hypocritical and dishonest. It wasn’t sensible at all. His personal wisdom and judgment seemed pretty embryonic, which is probably why he wanted to challenge it and gain maturity through experience. He was certainly intelligent. But why didn’t he take the time to prepare more thoroughly for his wilderness adventure? Why did he choose not to use a compass or a map? Why didn’t he tell anyone where he was going or make any emergency plans? Those decisions bring up the question of responsibility.

It seems that most people assume that our primary responsibility is to survive. Many people held Chris responsible for his return from the wild. The fact that he didn’t return led many to suspect that he was basically suicidal. Are the oldest people in our society the most “responsible” ones? Is cheating death for as long as possible the mark of wisdom? If we’re all going to die some day, our success in survival is simply an incremental one. It seems to make life about quantity. What about quality and the way we live? Would it be responsible to sacrifice your life for something you value highly? Some people believe that Chris was doing that. They think he was a hero. Others think his adventure was “a pointless fuck up”.

Prudence in Death Valley: wear a hat, bring water

This judgement about what is responsible is the stuff that made me a neurotic mother. Am I “responsible” for navigating the waters of life for myself , my husband, and all my children? How much responsibility do I take? Which risks are worth it? Do I allow my kids to walk to school alone, to learn to drive, to travel? Do I ‘allow’ my diabetic husband to eat ice cream? If someone in my family dies, does that mean that I have failed? We’re all going to die; does that mean I’m doomed to fail at life? You see – this can start a very vicious cycle of paranoia and dread. Is it wise to live with that?

I think that I used to abdicate that issue of responsibility and pass it on to God. I figured He was responsible for my life and my death, and I was off the hook. That was useful for a while. My grandmother used to hedge her bets by saying, “Trust in God, but do your homework.” I suppose that’s useful advice as well. I find that Buddhism gives a useful perspective, too. It says simply that life and death is what we’re given, and that we can choose how we live. Jim used to say, “I can be sick and miserable or I can be sick and happy. I choose happy. Pain is inevitable; misery is optional.” All good stuff to think about.

Taking Action, Stepping Out, Making Meaning

September 10, 2011 by scillagrace

My husband was diagnosed with diabetes after his first heart attack when he was 31 years old. He died 16 years later from coronary artery disease, kidney failure, and other complications of diabetes. He was sleeping in bed next to me and never woke up. I unplugged his dialysis machine, his CPAP machine, and his insulin pump that morning and set him free. That was 3 and a half years ago. My eldest child got the idea the next year that she wanted to do something to honor her father and take action to support diabetes research. She and 2 of her siblings participated in a fundraiser called StepOut Walk to Stop Diabetes. I was really impressed by her initiative and her civic action. I joined her the next year with Steve; the siblings had moved west by then. This year, we are all going to participate together. All 4 siblings and mom with a few significant others alongside. Our goal is to raise some money, to honor Jim, and to be involved in positive action as a grieving family. (If you want to donate money on behalf of our team, go to http://main.diabetes.org/goto/pgalasso)

Team Galasso 2010

Do I expect that our participation will cause this disease to be eradicated? Well, not really. Do I imagine that Jim will feel honored and bring some good fortune to us from the spirit world? Not exactly. Do I hope that our sorrow will abate and our self-esteem will soar as we pat ourselves on the back for “giving back” to the community and “fighting” for a cause? Actually, I don’t. All of those things are ego-based and not very realistic. What am I really doing, then? Well, I think of it as “pointing the canoe” again. I see that people suffer from this disease. I see that certain kinds of medical technology and education have been used to ease that suffering. I want to paddle my canoe, make some effort, toward helping those who suffer, not because I believe that I can rescue someone, but because it is how I want to live. I want to honor Jim and remember him because that’s how I want to live. I want to work with my family’s grief because that’s how I want to live. I don’t know if any particular thing will result; I don’t expect to become noble or perfect or anything. I do know that paddling in that way lets me choose a purpose and work toward it. I suppose it helps my mind to be directed toward meaning.

So, why are we humans always looking for meaning? Inquiring minds want to know…

That Steven Colbert report clip from the Approximate Chef suggests that we want to feel safe about the ending of the story. We tell ourselves, “It’s okay, because it turns out this way; I know it does”. That gives us, what, control? Last night I had a dream about meeting “the woman who owned the house” of the estate sale I went to yesterday. I don’t even know that a woman lived there. In fact, it was quite a masculine log cabin, with a boat and a mounted moose head dominating the decor. What was my subconscious trying to figure out? Well, I was trying to assure myself that this family was okay. They were selling all their stuff. They were letting strangers into their house to buy their belongings. There has to be a story there. I just went through the sale of my family home. I had emotions about it. I had a story. I imagine that there are people behind these things with an emotional story, and I want to be told that they are okay. I want to be satisfied that there is some meaning to the sale of these possessions. Ultimately, I want to know that I’m okay, that my story has a happy ending. (Steve always tells me that everyone in your dream is really you.)

Man’s Search for Meaning by Victor Frankl comes to mind. I read parts of it. Is this how we keep ourselves sane in “stressful” circumstances? Is it just a game? If it works, does it matter? If I am not dogmatically asserting that my actions are ultimately meaningful, just saying that I find meaning in them and that is useful to me, does that make my position more authentic? Can I make up a satisfying story about the family in the cabin and then say, “I know it’s not ‘true’, but I like to tell myself this story to calm my neuroses” and still be considered ‘sane’? Do most of us do this anyway? Does that make it ‘normal’ then? I suppose I could give that up and face the fact that I won’t know every story. Perhaps I would be far more sane to learn to live with ambiguity and uncertainty and meaninglessness. What do you think?

Favorite Memories of Jim

August 26, 2011 by scillagrace

In the Galasso family, we have a birthday tradition. When we are all gathered together for the birthday meal, we go around the table, and each person relates his or her favorite memory of the birthday person. When I was with Emily last Sunday, she wouldn’t let me leave until she had told me her favorite memory of me. I had almost forgotten this ritual, and I’m so glad she didn’t. Today would have been Jim’s 51st birthday. We would be celebrating our combined 100th birthday. (We went to a couple’s 100th birthday party once…huge affair with fireworks and everything!) Well, in Thich Nhat Hahn’s words, it is another Continuation Day. Jim continues in all kinds of ways on this earth. Ripples of his deeds, his attitude, his progeny, his molecules and other whatnot are still around.

Jim Galasso

So here is a favorite memory of Jim that came to me on my birthday this past Sunday. Steve and I were at the Ravinia music festival in Chicago. We had what they call “lawn seats”, which means we were picnicking on the grounds around the pavilion where we could hear the music on the loudspeakers and see the band (Lyle Lovett and his Large Band) on the jumbo screen. In other words, the cheap seats. It’s a great family set up. People bring their kids, their food, their lawn chairs and everyone picnics in their own style. Right in front of us was a family with 2 daughters and a newborn son. I watched the father lie down flat on their picnic blanket and place his little squirming boy on top of his chest. His daughters were hovering around touching the baby, but it was clear that Dad was not giving up his position of baby bed. I looked long at them. I thought of how obvious it was that the father was enjoying having a son, although he might have been just as proud and affectionate with his infant daughters. And, of course, I thought of Jim. With little infant Josh on his huge barrel chest, he looked just like that. Happy, comfortable, proud, protective.

Daddy moments

Why is that one of my favorites? Because I loved seeing him take deep pleasure in his life, in things that wholly involved him. In these moments there is suffering, there is sacrifice, there is emotion and responsibility and joy. He didn’t often have words to articulate all that was stirred up in him, but he would look up at me with a tear in his eye, and I’d know what he felt. I think that was when he was closest to touching the water, to experiencing the ultimate dimension of reality.

So now it’s your turn. What’s your favorite memory of Jim?

Claiming Rights of Passage

August 24, 2011 by scillagrace

St. Luke’s columbarium

A few years ago, I went to an exhibit on mummies at the Milwaukee Public Museum. It was fascinating. Listening to the whispered comments and questions of other patrons was fascinating as well. We have a very scattered cultural approach to death, with so many various ways of marking the rite of passage, including not really marking it at all. Our American culture, as a whole, has been dominated by technology to the point that important parts of our lives are relegated to “experts” and taken out of our hands completely. My mother fought against this trend in the late 50s when she insisted on breastfeeding her babies instead of allowing the “experts” to convince her that artificial formula on an artificial schedule was better for them. Birth experiences have become sterilized, institutionalized, and anesthetized as well in the mainstream. My 4 were all born in a hospital under the HMO system (but not under any pain killers!) because in my 20s, I wasn’t brave enough to seek more creative options. However, my sister birthed one of her children at home, and I once assisted a friend who had a home birth. It’s not impossible to choose to take full responsibility in this event. Death is another part of life that more and more people deal with by proxy. Of course, the hospice movement is a wonderful example of the purposeful effort to maintain the grace and dignity of this stage of life by bringing it back into the home, away from institutions. I recently watched an Ingmar Bergman movie set at the turn of the century, called Cries & Whispers (well, it’s actually called something in Swedish, but that’s the English title). This intense family drama deals with the death of a spinster sister from cancer. The action all takes place at home, in this case an elegant manor. The doctor’s largest role is in an affair with one of the sisters, in flashback. When I think of the family drama of my husband’s death, experts and technology played a huge part. Unfortunately, that became a distraction from entering into the rite of passage, from experiencing the more intimate aspects of the dynamics that were changing my family. What I mean to say is that it enabled denial.

The last photo of Jim; coming out of surgery Feb. 5

What does it mean to choose to take responsibility for my life? Not to delegate the more painful or complicated bits to an “expert”, not to live by proxy or by representative? In which situations do I most often abdicate my ability to decide a course of action? Financial, political, medical, social, spiritual, emotional, physical. I am only beginning to wake up and ask myself these questions. Steve often puts it to me this way: in every situation, you have at least 3 options. 1) Run away and hide 2) Try to change the situation 3) Change yourself.

This is a good time for me to think about aging, about how I want to live and address the changes that are happening now and will continue to happen. What do I want? I want to experience life in a more authentic way, not behind a duck blind or a proxy, not behind a curtain of denial or dogma, not by avoiding discomfort or hard work. I want to make decisions about who I am and how to live proactively. How do I embody this? At this point, I am still figuring out who I am and want to be and recognizing places where that has been dictated and I have responded without looking deeper. My father and my husband took great care of me. I want to learn to do that myself. I often dream about Jim returning as if he’d never died. Last night, I had a powerful dream about him, set in the house I sold, with my young children around. My consciousness struggled with it; I knew that the house was emptied and I’d moved. I couldn’t understand why the furniture was back and the place looked so “lived in”. I couldn’t understand why Jim was there. He told me he was going out to work because he wanted to support me and the kids. In a choked whisper, I closed the door behind him and said, “Don’t come back.” I woke up crying. Talking about this dream with Steve, I realized that I do want him to come back and float through my subconscious and consciousness without confusing me, without affirming me or correcting me, just visiting. I suppose when I gain the confidence to affirm and care for myself, my dreams will change.

Priscilla Means Ancient

August 21, 2011 by scillagrace

On August 21, 1962 at about four in the afternoon, my mother gave birth to her fourth daughter and named her Priscilla Grace. That was me. Imagine growing up in the cool and hip 60s & 70s with a name like Priscilla. Well, Mrs. Presley may have helped me out a bit, but since I was born in Massachusetts, my name sounded in my ears with all the Puritanical pizzazz of a rusty shoe buckle. It wasn’t until I was naming my own children that I bothered to find out what the name means. Of course, I knew it came from the Bible. I knew it was Latin. I didn’t know it meant ‘ancient’. How flattering. I am ancient in a dead language. And my middle name, Grace, is intentionally theological but also implies 15 other definitions in dictionary.com. For a little kid, it was a lot of name.

Well, I am no longer a little kid. I am beginning my 50th year of life and will be celebrating it daily in this blog until its culmination, and possibly beyond. I am thrilled to begin with naming a blog and a domain. My parents never gave me a nickname. I didn’t acquire one until a 3 year old who lived at a camp where I was employed as a college student started calling me “Scilla”. It sounded so much more like me than “Pris” or the cringe-inducing “Prissy”. So this blog is dubbed scillagrace to symbolize ancient elegance of manner, action, form, motion and moral strength. It is my goal to post entries worthy of the name. It is my goal to avoid being dogmatic and prissy. I want to challenge myself to go deeper into subjects that explore the ancient grace of life. It is a lot of name and a lot of subject, to be sure. We’ll see how it goes.