I'm Back From My Unintended Hiatus

We were discussing how things were going and how I'd felt during the month between acupuncture sessions. Allyson had been on maternity leave.

Me? I'd been on a self-imposed merry-go-round of billable work; reviewing galleys for my new book; reading galleys of friends' books; contemplating the mess of a front yard inherited from previous owners of this townhouse; recruiting for the #chsocm chat moderator team and scheduling that through July.

Add the predictable, inevitable fibromyalgia flare-up that knocked me down, out, and supine on the couch whenever I could stagger there from bed. This, in turn, led to binge-viewing all five seasons of "Mad Men," sometimes until 2:30 AM.

No blogging. No writing. Barely any praying beyond, "God, let me know and do your will" and then being too distracted or otherwise out-of-it to read the signs.

I trotted all this out to Allyson before, during, and after she was checking my pulses. "You know," she said, "you could schedule a hiatus instead of collapsing into one."

Wow, what a concept!

Flu Efficiency

I declare myself eligible for a very high Flu Efficiency rating. Yes, that's "flu" and not "fuel."

Fibromyalgia, which I've endured since the 1980's when it was still called "fibrositis," feels exactly like having a low-grade flu that never clears up. So when I woke up yesterday at 3:30 AM with intensified body aches, I figured it was a fibro flare-up.

Changed my mind midway through the "What the Hell Did I Eat with Wheat" inventory. A swift descent into chills and fever tipped me off. Do I rock as a diagnostician or what? I took two Tylenol, drank lots of water, put on more layers and curled up into a shivering ball of misery.

At 7:30 AM, I awoke drenched in sweat because the fever had broken along with morning, so I removed a few layers and went back to sleep. By 10:00 AM, I was recapping this adventure to a West-coast based healthcare colleague who said, with what seemed like admiration, this meant my immune system was working well.

I think she was admiring the wrong thing. Isn't slamming through the flu in four hours a sign of efficiency?

Exorcism Conference in Baltimore!

Oh, how I love the lede on this recent story from Catholic News Service: "U.S. [Roman Catholic] Bishops are looking for a few good men to become exorcists." How could I not keep reading?

Apparently, there's a national shortage of trained exorcists and so 56 bishops and 66 priests are attending ─ as I write this ─ a Conference on the Liturgical and Pastoral Practice of Exorcism. Where? Here in Baltimore (aka, Charm City).

Conference attendees would probably think I'm possessed because right now my eyes are rolling, I'm gnawing on a hangnail, scratching my head, and muttering.*

Why, in the name of all that is holy, are they limiting this training to a few "good men"?

I say they should be recruiting a few good women, especially those whose teenagers have clean rooms and whose husbands always keep the toilet seat down. Exorcism is clearly woman's work.

Lord, have mercy.



*All kidding aside, for a fine social history, I highly recommend American Exorcism: Expelling Demons in the Land of Plenty by sociologist Michael W. Cuneo

And then there were none...

I'm telling people that Louise decided to leave this mortal coil within six months of Thelma and Itty Bit because living alone with me was too boring.

That's right, I'm cracking jokes because my alternatives seem to be either going numb or wailing. Everyone keeps reminding me that losing three cats within six months is too too much. I know. Cognitively. I prefer not to feel all of the loss all at once and all of the time.

I want my grief in manageable slivers as defined by me. Lord, have mercy, I'm still checking the front window for Itty's face as I pull into my driveway and wondering why Thelma isn't making sure I'm flossing my teeth.

The fact is Louise was either 17 or 18 years old. She had already communicated that her back legs hurt. In addition to not being able to breathe very well, she had started missing her jumps and falling.

I called our blessed vet on Wednesday after it became odoriferously clear that Louise could not get down the stairs to use her litter box. And Louise, being the ever-considerate people-pleasing Louise, chose to take a huge steaming dump on a floor mat rather than the broadloom.

Louise was characteristically such-a-glutton Louise by chowing down prodigious amounts of cat food during her final month of life. I thought it was equally likely that she might explode, but that didn't stop me from letting her eat an entire bowl of cat treats before the vet arrived.

And Louise was characteristically low-maintenance Louise by finding a patch of sunlight away from where Patti and I were sitting. Turning her back toward us, she lay down. (Itty wanted to be held close by me the entire time. Thelma stretched out between Patti and me so we could both pet her.) Out of my need more than hers, I wandered over to rub what I always called her "bunny belly" as Louise drifted into unconsciousness.

Louise's death brings a significant period of my life to a close, one that I probably would not have survived had I not been ministered to by these three fur angels every stumbling step of the way. My tears find their source in gratitude as well as grief and I thank God for that.

The vet returns, this time for Thelma.

"Please don't call me for awhile," said the veterinarian as she left with Thelma's body cradled in her arms.

I don't yet have the energy to clean up the bathroom where Thelma had to be sequestered for the night. Nor do I have the energy to put away extra kitty bowls. All I want to do is write and eat chocolate. I know Thelma would meow "amen" to that.

In the late 1990s, Thelma was featured in an article about pets because of her remarkable paws-on healing ministry. No joke, during flare-ups of my fibromyalgia, she'd gently knead my trapezius muscles. She'd drape herself across my chest if I'd been crying.

Thelma hurled up bloody bile the evening Itty Bit died nearly two months ago and was tested the next week. Although there were treatment options, Thelma was not keen on any of them. During a consult with animal whisperer, Dawn Allen, Thelma could not have been more clear about her end-of-life preferences. Louise could not have been more clear about wanting more wet food on the menu.

So I bought wet food for Louise and let Thelma be Thelma, which she promptly proved to be by slaughtering her first, only, and last chipmunk of the summer season and leaving the carcass on the deck for me to admire. Her health declined rapidly after her last stand as a Warrior Tabby

Today, we said our goodbyes for this lifetime. Since Thelma was on my desk, the veterinarian administered sedation there. I don't know about Thelma, but both the vet and I noticed she was curled up over a copy of the Julian of Norwich icon created by Robert Lentz.

Contemplating September 11, 2001

I thank God that it's raining today, that the sky isn't the expansive gloriously clear blue it was eight years ago, that bird song is silent, and that today's wind sounds like Spirit's deepest sigh.

Serenity Prayer, P.S.

I'm delighted by the response to yesterday's post about the second section of the Serenity Prayer. Both publicly and privately, people have written to thank me for introducing them to the rest of that prayer. I have some thoughts about why the second section might come as illuminating news.

My guess is that by the time Alcoholics Anonymous decided to adopt Niebuhr's prayer, those in leadership had noticed some resistance to "God language" in Twelve Step materials. Maybe Bill Wilson et. al. figured adding "Jesus" to the mix would make recovery even more challenging for non-Christians as well as atheists and agnostics. Certainly, the presence of Chapter Four, "We Agnostics," in the 1939 (and each subsequent) edition of the "Big Book" would indicate such an awareness.

For a wonderfully readable account about how the Oxford Group (aka, First Century Christian Fellowship and Moral Rearmament) influenced the principles and process of Alcoholics Anonymous, I recommend Bill W.: A Biography of Alcoholics Anonymous Cofounder Bill Wilson by Francis Hartigan.

In it, Hartigan writes about Bill Wilson's weekly meetings in 1947 with Reverend Monsignor Fulton J. Sheen and speculates about why Wilson eventually decided against converting to Roman Catholicism. Pretty fascinating stuff, especially if you're interested in the sociology of social movements.

If you're interested in the basics of Twelve Step recovery for addiction in general, or have a loved one (or colleague) you wish would get interested, I recommend my book, Staying Sober: Working a Twelve Step Program of Recovery. I wrote this after deciding it was not-high time for amusing and up-to-date materials. It's my only book that pays royalties, something I find somewhat astonishing given who the audiences are for all my other babies.

Given the choice, I'd choose veterinary care.

It's mighty quiet around here these days now that Itty Bit is gone.

She had a punishingly loud and extraordinarily insistent meow, probably because she was hearing impaired (aka, deaf) and could not hear herself. But everyone else could and for the past nine years, it was not unusual to have callers exclaim, "Aw, Itty!" and then crack up laughing at the other end of the phone line.

Itty was always yowling for something -- food, kisses, food, head scratching, food and food, mostly. Of course I noticed she was getting more frantic about food, yet losing weight. I noticed other changes. I've been adopted by many cats over the years and know when a cat is dying. I knew this was the case for Itty.

The veterinarian came to my home. She examined Itty, explained options, and listened carefully to me. She let nearly thirty minutes elapse between administering sedation and the injection that stopped Itty's heart. She sat with me the entire time and then went quietly about the business of taking stuff out to her van before coming back for Itty's body. The vet arrived at 6:30 and left at 8:30 PM.

If I become terminally ill, please call my veterinarian.

Photo of Itty Bit by Michael Mancuso

The God of 2nd Chances: Church Choir

While we may grow weary from granting one another yet another chance to get it right, I believe our God does not. There's plenty of scriptural evidence of God getting annoyed, but as the psalmist reminds us, God's love and mercy endures forever. And so I've come to believe -- and have seen in my own life -- how God always grants divine do-overs.

I've especially noticed this happening for me in the domain of church choir, starting last Advent and Christmas and then carrying forward to present time. I really shouldn't be surprised. The music ministry played a significant role in my faith formation as I considered entering into full communion with the Catholic church.

These days, my Inward Ho adventures continue at a venerable parish where I, a relative newcomer, have finally joined the choir. This morning, the guy who collects the music after Mass actually smiled, possibly because I waited patiently instead of shoving my hymnal at him or leaving it on the piano. Usually he seems exasperated, something I noticed because I was perpetually perturbed when it was my (volunteer) job to collect and refile hymnals and octavos.

Big deal? Surprisingly so. The way I see it, God is giving me another chance to be in harmony on oh-so-many levels.

JOTTing right along...

Using voice activation technology, JOTT transforms spoken content into emails and text messages, will generate a list and organize appointments. It's free and does indeed "get simple back" as promised by the company's tag line. I've been using Jott for several weeks and love its convenience and ease-of-use.

But I did not anticipate how getting email from me to me would tap into memories of years in the personal growth and self-discovery industry. Specifically, I've been reminded of the quasi-spiritual practice that involved writing affirming love letters -- to self.

This exercise was usually assigned to participants of self-esteem programs -- after they'd learned the difference between kombu and wakame as well as negative and positive self-talk. The handwritten letter was supposed to be from Self to self. It was usually composed in a mediative state induced by the scent of Nag Champa and the taped sounds of distant wind chimes and pan-flutes.

At the end of the session, letters would be stamped with reverence and sent on a journey through the U.S. postal system. As a result, they'd arrive long after participants had returned to their esteem-depleting and soul-sucking lives. Theoretically, receiving a letter from Self would remind recipients of lessons learned, at least more tenderly than the retreat center's Visa charges. I both wrote and, as a program assistant, handed out hankies and postage for these things.

My last such letter was written and posted on November 15, 1995 while I was working my way through The Artist's Way. I found it tucked in my well worn copy of that book. (Looks like first class postage was once 32 cents.) And having reread the thing, I see that many of my hopes and dreams have come to pass. Very affirming. Thanks be to God.

So now it's the 21st century and I spend most of my time online. I use Jott. Get where I'm going with this?

The Healing Power of Sacred Arts

I'm back in front of my computer after a weekend visit to the 12th century. I was at a workshop with Jed Gibbons. Jed is a Chicago-based designer and craftsman who specializes in illuminated miniatures using historic pigments and techniques.

Years ago, I noticed his workshop at the St. Michael Institute of Sacred Art at Enders Island. This island of sanity is where I first studied iconography with Vladislav Andrejev and then Peter Pearson. I never made it back for the week-long workshop in illuminated miniatures. As it turned out, I wouldn't have to.

This fall, I discovered Jed would be teaching this sacred art form at a nearby parish. There was a weekend option. How could I not register for it? Never mind the convenience factor, I've known for months that it was time for me to get back to spiritual basics. This always means returning to regular prayer and Eucharist, as well as opening myself up to the healing power of sacred arts. I had returned to making music during Advent. Clearly it was time to reenter the sacred through visual arts. (Factoid about me: I studied Art & Design at Rochester Institute of Technology from 1969-1971.)

Jed characterizes his workshop as "transforming the mystery of color into the color of mystery." It was all that and more. It was prayer. It was meditation. And it was community built, in part, through the grace of painting sacred images under a magnifying glass with a 20/0 round brush along with twenty-two other faithful souls. And an over-the-top wonderful potluck lunch.

I had the unexpected blessing of sitting next to a Biblical Studies professor and Coordinator of the Great Spiritual Books Program at the Immaculate Conception Seminary School of Theology at Seton Hall University. We yakked almost nonstop about Scripture, Catholic publishing, Catholic-Jewish reconciliation, the Catholic blogosphere, and myriad other topics which, as far as I am concerned, more than made up for how much I goofed up the landscaping around the depiction of St. John on Patmos.

Prayed Upon

Approximately two years ago, I started telling people about another significant part of my life. For two years before that, only a few trusted friends knew I worked four jobs and that one involved providing personal assistance to someone with quadriplegia. What began as a part-time job has become a core feature of my life -- and identity. I'm still sorting through why I decided not to talk much about this until relatively recently.

With the exception of one published piece, I haven't written about it, either. For one thing, I've been busy writing about other things, but I suspect the really real reason is that I just wasn't ready. Hearing from Elizabeth has prompted me to start writing about disability issues from my perspective as a PA, and with the blessing of the person I assist.

Elizabeth is a smart cookie. She figured out I'm a PA and after reading some of my blog posts, asked that I comment on the following:

Christians tend to pester me about not praying for healing enough or they stop talking to me because my life now is so different from what it was, but say, "I'll pray for you" which sort of sounds like "see you later....like never" because I've heard it so many times. Several have gotten quite angry because I say that I believe that God's hand is doing this -- that I believe in many ways that God has prepared and strengthen me for becoming disabled. Can't say I know why! But many seem very frustrated that there are not exact answers, that I get sicker or that I am in more pain and there seems no meaning to it.

You mean "some" Christians, yes? I offer this to start: I'll pray that you meet good Christian folk who won't pester you about "not praying for healing enough." Good Lord. If you have the energy the next time this happens, please consider asking whether the person is talking about you being healed or cured. While you're at it, try asking whether they're talking about disability or illness. These are not the same, although illness may indeed lead to disability. In either event, it's possible to be healed in mind and spirit while the body is disabled -- or even terminally ill.

I write this with confidence, based on my experience providing hospice care in the past, my current role as a PA to one of the most spiritually healthy people I've ever met, as well as my own 20+ year dance with a chronic, incurable-but-not-life-threatening and sometimes debilitating physical illness.

In my own situation, a turning point came at a retreat when, during Mass, in response to reciting, "Only say the word, Lord, and I shall be healed," I heard the Holy Spirit whisper, "You already are healed, you just don't know it." That I didn't also hear, "you idiot," proves it was the H.S. My overwrought psyche would have engaged in such negative self-talk.

Your ability to see God's hand in what's happening as you become more sick and disabled is not only evidence of grace but of your own spiritual maturity. I'm not surprised that you have trouble explaining your deep knowing (e.g., God's hand). Mystery defies easy explanation.

As for interpreting, "I'll pray for you" as dismissive, you may be correct. But not always. Sometimes, saying "I'll pray for you" has about as much authenticity as asking, "How are you?" Having caught myself doing this, I vowed to write out my prayers in a journal so I could see if I had, in fact, prayed as promised. Very illuminating or, as some Christians would say, convicting!