Thank you, Jackie

I don't know Jackie but she has greatly impacted my spiritual development. My friend, Annie, worked with her at one point in her life and told me bits and pieces about Jackie: she was in a miserable job with an oppressive, bullying, tyrant of a boss. She had no choice but to stay in that job. Annie would say that Jackie seemed to handle her burden so well. She'd sing her religious songs while working. It makes me think that those who sung those old traditional "negro spirituals" knew something about coping from which we can still learn.

Often when I grumble about something, I think of Jackie-- a faceless presence in my mind-- who I imagine would sweetly scoff at my "struggles." Then, I wonder "what would Jackie do" and sing out loud (if I'm alone or just have my child trapped in the car with me) or I hum. I intentionally stick to singing only religious and spiritual songs. I usually have to make up some of the words which is always worth a good laugh.

And so, I'm with my own burden, but not. Even though my feet and hands may be situated in an old, mired gully, when I sing my spirituals I am lifted out of that gully. Another part of me gets to flow to a better place.

Thank you, Jackie--- whoever or where ever you are!

This is IT? THIS is my life?

This year I would have choked to death if it weren't for my husband, who thankfully was not away on business, but happened to be next to me. I had gotten up to comfort my son in the middle of the night, went back to my bedroom, put a square throat lozenge into my mouth to quell an annoying cough, and the square slipped down my throat and cut off my airway. I woke up my husband who tried to perform the Heimlich maneuver but performed it incorrectly: he did it using open hands instead of making a fist with one. I tried to tell him but he didn't understand. Over a minute passed with his failing efforts. Since I wasn't helped quickly, I had to wonder if "this might be it."

It actually wasn't my first near death experience (the other being a bad car crash years ago), but it was the first time that in the midst of it, I had time to think in surreal, slow motion. An odd and very sad thought came during this suspended moment. I thought incredulously, "This is IT??! THIS was my life?"

I hadn't made my mark, left my legacy, made a difference. My life was dull, mundane, average. To cut it off at that moment would have been akin to pulling the plug on the television during just some inane commercial for hemorrhoids. That was IT? No "on the verge of greatness?" No crowds left behind to wail and mourn? My life was like a tiny light switch that Fate was about to randomly flip to the "off" position. No big deal.

I've sat with the unsettling experience for a few months. It subsided, but now resurfaced with a vengeance because I'm hitting my first, official midlife birthday. Apparently, approaching midlife raises those questions all over again. What is my life about? Is this it? I revived my old panic again because midlife is in some ways a continuation of that near death experience. Once again, I get to think in surreal, slow motion about my life as it takes a turn toward the end.

Before I depress anyone, let me state this quickly: I have come to peace with this haunting fear about my little life being totally insignificant in the large scheme of things. Of course, my spiritual panic ought to have been quelled by doctrinal, religious assurances, but instead I find my comfort in something practical, utterly this worldly, and ironically mundane.

I am no longer undone by the utter averageness of my life because I realize that an average life is a deeply privileged life. Millions of people wish they had "just an average life." Is my life just about cleaning and cooking? Oh but how many wish they owned a vacuum, or a washer, let alone a home? How many wish they had food to cook every day? Is my life just about engaging in an ongoing power struggle with my child? How many bereaved parents wish they had just one more day to hear their child's voice? Is my life's excitement just a good book, an interesting conversation, a scenic drive, or a new bud on a garden plant? If I could have asked my parents when they were growing up in Europe in World War II, they, like many others, would answer that they could certainly appreciate the luxury of a completely quiet, uneventful life.

And so, is this it? Is THIS my life?

It is.

This is my life. . . and I am lucky to have it at all.

I'm Glad It Happened to Me

I believe it may have been a good 15 to 20 years ago, when I glimpsed on the news a woman who was being interviewed due to the rare but fatal illness she had. She was older, but not old. She had wild gray curls, was a bit chubby perhaps, and had a young smile. While my memory fails to recall the details of her name, location, or even what type of disease she had, I explicitly and clearly remember one thing:

In response to the question about what it's like for her to have this disease-death-sentence, she earnestly said, "I'm glad it happened to me and not to someone else who couldn't handle it like I can." To this day, her response stuns me into humbled awe.

A clinical cynic might say, "Well, she clearly had processed through the stages of denial, anger, and grief and simply accepted her condition." I'm sorry, Cynic, but it is one thing to accept your horrid situation and quite another to be glad of it for altruistic reasons.

Whoever she was, she stands in my memory as an inspiration. I share the story, so that perhaps she can continue to be an inspiration for others as well.