Unconditional struggle

Unconditional-- not conditional or limited: absolute, unqualified


Easter. The sermons center around resurrection. Around overcoming death. Around spreading the news of a messiah resurrected. But when I read the Easter stories, I read a story about forgiveness, about unconditional love, about hope.

That’s what I get from it anyway. You have the story of someone who is betrayed by his closest friends. His own father allows the execution. He is left alone to die next to thieves. This would be someone who could easily be justified in a little bitterness and anger and probably some hatred toward those who have wronged him.

But instead of a story of hate and anger, the story of Easter is a story of forgiveness and love beyond all measure and understanding. A story of that unconditional love we strive for but never seem to attain.

According to Christian tradition, Jesus demonstrated an outpouring of love and forgiveness for those who betrayed him. Instead of being spiteful, he showed love, a love so pure that anything, even betrayal and crucifixion can be forgiven. He is supposed to set an example by which we should all live our lives, right? After all, unconditional love and acceptance is the ideal for which we all strive.

It’s even clear right there in the Lord’s Prayer, recited day after day in churches everywhere: Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us. Think about it – we ask for and offer forgiveness together. We can’t expect forgiveness if we ourselves cannot offer it as well.

Archbishop Desmond Tutu recently wrote:

“Perfect love is not an emotion, it is not how we feel. It is what we do. Perfect love is action that is not wrapped up in self-regard, and it has no concern with deserving. Instead, perfect love is love poured out. It is self-offering made out of the joy of giving. It requires no prompting. It seeks no response and no reward.”

That sounds wonderful, doesn’t it? And some days it seems so easy to love someone unconditionally, accepting that person with his good and wonderful qualities, and the joy that he brings to your life. But other days, it’s a struggle to remember that unconditional means just that, absolute, unqualified. It’s on those days when the cruel words are exchanged, and the tempers flare and the ugly side of people come out that unconditional is the hardest. I think on those days it’s the most important.

I know I try each and every day to live a life of forgiveness, not necessarily out of Christian faith – those who know me well know that has long been left behind. But rather, I do it because it seems right. It feels right to love someone so unconditionally that nothing that person does can shake that love.

Yet while it can feel so right, some days it can be downright painful to maintain that notion of unconditional. It’s on those days that I wonder, at what point does that continual forgiveness and understanding and patience become detrimental? Or if it is real, would that even be a question? And if it’s really unconditional, shouldn’t we still practice an unconditional love even if those around us do not?

I’ve been thinking a lot about that lately, and even more so since reading Archbishop Desmond Tutu’s “Made for Goodness,” the book he wrote with his daughter, Mpho, about living the life of goodness and love that we were intended to live.

In this book is story after story about some of the worst betrayals, some of the most heinous of crimes against fellow humans, and yet in each story is a story of forgiveness. He tells the story about a woman whose daughter was brutally murdered, and how that grieving mother works with her daughter’s murderers to promote the message of peace and love. She works side by side with the men who killed her daughter because each and every day she practices forgiveness and an unconditional love.

How many of us could do that? Most of us find it challenging to forgive the little indiscretions of daily life – the small hurts that pile up on each other into larger hurts. If a mother can work side by side with the man who murdered her daughter, shouldn’t we at least be able to forgive the harsh words said in moments of anger, or the mistakes that make for more work in our lives?

I look at my dogs as the ultimate example of living that life of unconditional love, a life of total forgiveness, a life of complete and pure love. Sure, dogs might not be able to love the way people can, but they offer what they can and they offer it without hesitation and without the expectation of anything in return. They are appreciative of what they receive, but it is never a condition of the love and faithfulness they exhibit.

So during this Easter season, wouldn’t it be a grand thing if we all continued to strive for that unconditional outpouring of love? Love those in our lives without the expectation of anything in return. Forgive the trespasses against us, no matter how often or how many, and love unconditionally.

"..The pain cannot be unmade,
The life cannot be unlived,
The time will not run backward,
You cannot un-choose your choice,
But the pain can be healed,
Your choices can be redeemed,
Your life can be blessed,
And love can bring you home" ~ Archbishop Desmond Tutu

“Just as you are.”

There’s a pivotal line in the film Bridget Jones’s Diary where Mark Darcy says to our fair Bridget “I like you very much. Just as you are.” And women everyone sighed, for it is that simple line that I think we all want to hear at some point in our lives. It’s the single most important aspect of being loved by someone that we hope to achieve. Or at least that’s my opinion on it. I know it’s my number one quality I seek in a man – the man who will like me just as I am.

Girlfriends and I were talking about this the other day, and we all agreed. How challenging is it in this world to find that one person for whom nothing about you needs to be changed, the person who takes you just as you are, flaws and all. It’s the root of the unconditional love so many of us seek.

I look to my dogs as the finest example of unconditional love you can find. No matter what, my boys are there for me each night and are there each morning as I wake. I can scold them for doing something bad the night before and by morning, all is forgiven and they offer affection without the expectation of anything but appreciation in return. Every so often I wonder, why can’t people do the same?

Instead, we look to change people to fit our needs, to fit our wants, to fit this image we’ve conjured in our head. It sounds so easy to let go of all that and just accept who we love as the person we love. I’ve tried doing that, and in some cases, it’s hard. It’s hard to look past those characteristics that make you question why on earth you even care about this person at all. Yet when you stop to think about it, you can find all the reasons you love someone have very little to do with these things about them you’d like to change.

Or so is the case with me I’ve found. Unfortunately, I’ve not yet found that person who can return that love unconditionally, without want of some change in me – be it physical appearance, personality or some other aspect of someone’s daily habit or character, whatever it might be. So as we approach another Valentine’s Day, a holiday dedicated to sharing our love for one another, I ask these questions: Is love ever really unconditional? Can we ever say to someone “I like you very much. Just as you are.”? And shouldn’t we at least try? I'd like to think I do.

To begin anew

“For last year's words belong to last year's language And next year's words await another voice. And to make an end is to make a beginning.”
~T.S. Eliot, Little Gidding


A friend posted that today and I like it. For me, that is what this evening is about. New Year’s Eve – it marks both the end and the beginning, a chance to leave the past behind and welcome a new start.

Most people who know me well know I’m not big on setting goals. (It goes with that whole commitment thing you know) If you don’t set a goal, you can’t be accused of failing to meet it. I prefer to have a general idea of where I might like to end up and then just follow the course that is set in front of me. That’s not how I always looked at things – after all, I knew in third grade exactly what I’d be when I grew up and took every step from that point on to make that a reality. I set that goal and I achieved it. And then I changed.

There were other goals along the way that were not met. Other dreams unfulfilled. And that’s OK. That’s life. Not everything is meant to turn out how we imagine it to be, or how we want it to be, or how we try to force it to be. Sometimes it’s better to just let life be life, whatever that might be.

But without fail, New Year’s Eve comes along and with it the recaps of the previous year, ad nauseam, and the undeniable urge to resolve to make the next year different or better or whatever your resolution might be. I, too, find myself doing that now, just as I do every year around my birthday. These anniversary and milestone dates signal a chance for that fresh start, a chance to do or be something different.

So, for 2010, I resolve to challenge myself to let life be life, to return to living in a sense of reality instead of trying to make reality into the fantasy I might have conjured in my own imagination.

I resolve to keep myself first, as I tried to do last year. Not in a selfish way, but in the way that is good for me. My needs must be my priority. So much depends on it.

I resolve to be honest with myself and stop trying to justify, rationalize or otherwise make excuses for whatever is happening in my world.

And finally, I resolve to let go, to keep my past in my memory, and to leave the words said last year to last year. May really, finally letting go be the ending that brings the new beginning that is so long overdue.

The real meaning of Christmas

A friend recently asked why I decorate for Christmas. What is Christmas all about for me, one who doesn’t go to church, who isn’t religious? Why would I celebrate an obviously religious holiday?

It was a good question and at first, not easily answered. But when I stopped to think about it, Christmas for me never has been about the religion, or the great commercial spectacle either. For me, Christmas is about all the goodness I remember growing up. It’s the culmination of all of my childhood memories, rolled into one season. It represents all that I grew up to become.

Christmas has always been a big deal in my family, even though we never really did the Christmas church service and never put a “he is the reason for the season” sign in our yard. But year after year, we’d decorate the house, bake our Christmas breads and cookies, and come together as a family to celebrate a magical season.

It is, after all, a magical season. It is a time of the year when people perhaps find a little goodness in their souls. Be it out of guilt or obligation or some mysterious moment of generosity, people tend to want to be kind and help others at Christmas. This season can represent the very best of humanity.

Granted, it also can be a picture of the worst in humanity with the rude crowds pushing forth through the malls and shopping centers fighting over the last toy, the last parking space, the first place in checkout line. But when we stop to pause and breathe, in the end, the goodness of people shines through this season.

That’s why I celebrate Christmas. To honor that goodness in people.

Growing up, Christmas wasn’t about the presents, but it was about giving. Giving of your time, your love, and yes, finding that perfect gift to give someone. But it was never a gift of obligation, it was a gift of joy. I try throughout the year to give gifts as I see them, and to perpetuate that spirit of giving 365 days a year. The best gift I remember is the gift my parents gave me year after year, and that was the gift of being generous with myself.

I watched with great pride and joy as my mom and dad called on their inner Mr. and Mrs. Claus and delivered toys to kids. When my dad’s office adopted a family at Christmas, he took the mother shopping because it wasn’t about the gifts, it was about the joy in selecting them. And no parent should be denied that joy just because they are without means, he thought.

I celebrate Christmas to honor the compassion and joy of giving this season brings.

Decorating the tree as a child was a treat. Each year, we’d unwrap the ornaments and hang them on the tree. Carefully selecting just the right spot for each ornament. This year, I decorated a small tree in celebration of my first Christmas back in my very own house. My collection of ornaments is small. As with so many things, the Christmas ornaments of my childhood washed out with Ike’s water. The few I managed to save are stained and smeared, and still have a hint of that horrible smell. But still, as I hung them on the tiny tree, I remember the joy that came each year they were unwrapped from their tissue and placed ever so carefully on our family tree.

For that is a big reason why I celebrate Christmas – to revisit the memories of Christmas past and relive the joy that each season brought. Christmas is about the tradition, the connection of one year to the next, the continuous theme in the story of my life. It is as much a part of who I am, and represents the very best I can be. It’s about spending special time with those closest to you, those you spend your days with throughout the year. You might fight a time or two, say hurtful things a time or two, take each other for granted a time or two, but in the end, no matter what, they are still the people who mean the most to you in good and bad times. And Christmas is the time to erase the bad memories, make room for the good ones and carry that feeling of joy from year to year. It’s a time of renewal in the midst of winter. A time to remember and celebrate all that you love and who you love. And a time to give, and love, unconditionally.

Think of the words of our favorite holiday stories. Charles Dickens’ A Christmas Carol – “I will honour Christmas with all my heart, and try to keep it all the year.” Or Dr. Seuss’ How the Grinch Stole Christmas – “Maybe Christmas doesn't come from a store. Maybe Christmas...perhaps...means a little bit more!" And who could forget dear old George Bailey, who when surrounded by his friends and family is toasted as the richest man in town.

Those are the sentiments of Christmas. The spirit I choose to celebrate year after year, and the real meaning of my Christmas.

When the Day is Done

I read the news this morning that Mary Travers died yesterday and my first reaction, my gut instinct, was to think I need to call dad and tell him. How strange that feels that almost five years after he died I would think “I need to call dad and tell him.” But I did. But why wouldn’t I. He was the reason I knew who Mary Travers was.

As a kid, I grew up listening to primarily three performers in the house. One, I hated at the time, but have grown to appreciate – Bob Dylan. The second, I didn’t think much about but eventually realized the talent – Simon and Garfunkel. The third, I loved from the first time dad put on one of their albums and have continued to listen to them well into my adult years. Peter, Paul and Mary. I probably wore out my Peter, Paul and Mommy album. I could sing along with every song and giggled out loud at “I’m being eaten by a boa constrictor” and thought “Mockingbird” was written just for me.

Growing older, I listened to more and more of their songs, and like they did for my father’s generation, they helped shape my world view. Or perhaps it’s because of my world view that I could appreciate the music they sang. It’s hard to tell which came first – the revolutionary or the folk music.

Even through my punk and New Wave years, I’d always have a Peter, Paul and Mary album close at hand to listen to, to keep me grounded.

Several years back, they came to Houston and I surprised my dad with tickets to the concert. I took my parents to see them at a small theater in Houston. It was an amazing show. Watching these icons of American music perform live was incredible. But watching the crowd, including my father, was even more incredible. It brought tears to my eyes to watch this generation sing along with every word, to be so moved by the music, to be remembering where they were when they first heard the song or to remember a time when that music inspired them. To be remembering their youth.

The music of Peter, Paul and Mary would later inspire my dad through the early stages of the illness that would eventually kill him. During those seemingly endless days in the hospital, he’d sit in his room with his headphones on, listening to Peter, Paul and Mary sing into his ears and then he’d insist everyone else listen, too.

So maybe it’s not strange that I think I need to call and share the news with him. Instead though, I think I shall go home tonight, dig out his albums, play a few songs for him and remember, all will be well when the day is done.

But I don't want to remember...

This will seem odd coming from a woman who for the last three months has helped plan this city’s commemoration events surrounding the anniversary of Ike coming ashore. But I really don’t want to be remembering where I was or what I was doing this time last year. Yet, it seems virtually impossible for my brain not to wander to those thoughts.

By this time last year, mom, Barkley, Rocky and I were in our room of the house of a friend of a friend, trying to sleep yet none of us able to. Not even the dogs could find the peace to sleep. We didn’t sleep the night before either. You’d think we would have been so emotionally and physically drained we’d have no choice but sleep. But that wasn’t the case.

I lay in that bed that night wondering what the morning would bring. We had left our houses that day and I remember it really hitting me in a McDonald’s somewhere between Galveston and Gonzales. A woman who worked there was complaining about her day, about how she had already worked 5 hours and was ready to go home. How she was tired. All this I got when I asked if they had more napkins or something like that. And I snapped. At that moment it hit me and the only words I could utter back to her were, well I left my house this morning and I’m not sure it’s going to be there when I get home. Her head sank and I turned and walked away. I felt terrible for playing that who has it worse game, after all, who knows what she had going on in her life. But it was at that moment it all sank in. I left my house uncertain of the future, uncertain whether it would be there when I got home, whether Outside Kitty would survive and where, and whether anything would be the same again.

That next morning when we finally gave in to the insomnia and turned on the television to a very snowy picture of KHOU, I realized, it wouldn’t be for a long while. We sat glued to the picture as newscasters waited, like us, for sunrise to see what Ike had left.

I remember the images from the seawall. The pictures of waves crashing against the palm trees at the San Luis. The pictures of debris scattered everywhere. And I wondered, was my house still standing?

On the afternoon of Sept. 13, mother and I and the menagerie of animals moved into the La Quinta in San Antonio and there we would be for the next 3 weeks. The first week was by far the longest of the three. It was in that first week I awaited word from anyone who could tell me whether my house had water. I knew deep down it did. I had been hearing reports from people throughout my neighborhood about how high the water reached. But until I heard it for sure, I could go on the hope that maybe my house was on this hill I wasn’t aware of and that I had escaped the damage. Oh was that a fantasy.

Then word reached us that yes, I did have about 3 to 4 feet inside the house. I remember getting the pictures in my email with “I’m so sorry” attached to them. It was my water line, above my electric meter, nearly filling my garage.

I remember mom trying to comfort me, telling me it would be OK. We’d take it room by room, she said, and we’ll get it clean and better. Then, we were completely overwhelmed upon walking in the house for the first time, boots, masks and gloves on. There is no other way to describe it than overwhelmed. You look around and wonder, where do you start? How do you start? I grabbed what I could find to save and left the rest for a demo crew to contend with, people who wouldn’t get bogged down in the sentimentality of every little object lost to Ike’s muck.

I still smell that smell from time to time and it triggers such awful memories, such awful images. I don’t look at those pictures from the damage too often, only if I need to, which isn’t often since the images are engraved in my memory.

Then the coming home to uncertainty still. My house was gutted, but I was now left wondering whether I still had a job or for how long. It was Thanksgiving before I went back to work.

So much has happened in this past year and I just want to be able to go about life without the constant reminders and near daily thoughts of life since Ike. I no longer want Ike to be my measure of time on this island. I used to measure time by life at the newspaper and life since the newspaper. Now, it seems you can’t help but measure it in terms of Ike.

I don’t want to be sitting here tonight remembering all of this, but how can we not? You’d think with all the progress we’ve made as a city – and we’ve made a hell of a lot of progress in this year – that the memories of Ike would begin to fade for us as they have for those not directly affected by the storm, for those who come to our island and wonder if we even had damage from Ike. I wish I could look around at our busy downtown and full beaches and wonder when was that hurricane again?

But I guess that’s not possible. I told myself if I could just get through this year, it would all be OK. And if I could just get through this week, it would all be OK. Well here we are. One day of events to go. And while tomorrow is the big anniversary date, today is really the anniversary of when it hit me. So if I can just get through this, it will all be OK.

I will continue to hope for the day when Ike is not in the daily conversation. When Ike is not referenced in every topic. When Ike is but a distant memory, a challenge in my life that I faced and conquered with the strength I always knew I had.

So until then, I do as I did at this time last year, and simply persevere.

Counting down to 1 year

Today marked the 109th anniversary of the 1900 hurricane, and the start of a weeklong series of events to help us get through this first anniversary of Ike. We’re celebrating how far we’ve come, reflecting on the past year and letting go once again.

For me, this week began with a visit from an old friend. Twenty-something years ago, we were in high school band together. We reconnected a year or so ago via MySpace (although we’ve both progressed to the more grown-up world of Facebook). This weekend, he and his family came to Galveston for a visit. While reconnecting with one old friend, I let go of another.

Both of us were trumpet players and he’s probably the only person who inquired about my old trumpet after the storm. In our conversations, I told him that the trumpet had been in the garage, which had some 6 or 7 feet of water in it, and I had not been able to open the case.

I’m sure if I had persisted, I could have gotten that case open. But more than the physical obstacle, was the emotional obstacle. I had a crew clear out and gut my house after the storm and they left me a small pile of things to sort through the garage – stuff that might be salvageable as it were. But in sorting through, I saw things in conditions I should never have seen. I saw the Madame Alexander doll I put out at Christmas with her head in pieces. Just walking in my house after the storm was enough to see – my piano smashed, mold growing in my books, my furniture falling apart. It’s an image no one should ever have to see and one that is hard to get out of my head. Granted, it’s nothing compared to the atrocities some see every day, but in my world, it was heartbreaking.

So the thought of seeing yet another thing I had such good memories of in some unknown state of horror was too much. But I could never bring myself to toss the trumpet in the trash. I just couldn’t. For a year, it has sat on a shelf in my garage. Until my friend and his family came to visit.

He was a trumpet player - still is. And he wants to teach his children to play as well. So we agreed that the trumpet would have a good chance at a new life with him. He took the trumpet home, opened the case and saw a horn in relatively decent condition. Part of the valves disintegrated in Ike’s waters. But overall, it’s definitely in better shape than I had imagined.

I have many fond memories with that horn, and I am delighted that it will have a chance at a third life.

Seems fitting that the trumpet found its new home this week. One year later. Just another reminder that Ike didn’t take everything away with it. Life just got a little tarnished and this past year seems to have been about polishing that tarnish away.