Lila ~ May 31

 

I have another friend of mine who is involved with the deaf world.  My friend T.  

I first met T when I started nursing school at DCC.  I remember sitting down next to her husband, R. in class.  We struck up a conversation and got to know each other.  He was a Christian, and I was a new believer, too.  He wanted to introduce me to his wife, and so he invited me to his church one morning. 

He could tell that I was a little lost.  I’d been attending a Mainline Protestant Church in town, one with a female pastor.  He felt that I’d benefit form a more Biblically sound church, so he invited me to meet him and his family at CC. 

R and T had been through a lot in their life.  T had grown up in the Bronx. Her parents divorced with she was a child.  Her father remarried quite quickly, and her mother had a boyfriend. 

She experienced sexual abuse at the hands of her mother’s boyfriend, and later, was almost gang raped by a bunch of guys on the streets.  As a young adult she jumped into a terribly abusive first marriage, and also became involved in the occult.  

She’d been a devout Catholic and always wanted to live a good Catholic life, but was easily drawn into the occult, because of the parallels between Catholicism and paganism.  

After leaving a terribly abusive first marriage she met R in an online chatroom.  They got to know each other, and she drove to Alabama to meet him.  Her first divorce was barely finalized.  But R was a good man.  He believed that women should be treated with kindness and respect.  They eventually married and had children of their own.  T left the occult and became devout Christians. 

Like me, T had OCD.  Much of it was trauma related.  But T's OCD simply latched on to her Christianity.  Her intentions were good.  Zeal for God’s house consumed her, and really the both of us.  One of her dreams was to reach deaf people with the Gospel.  She hoped to bring the gospel to them.  She’d had a deaf friend when she was a child, and knew some sign language.  She always had a heart for deaf people, and to reach into their world. 

For a while, she searched for opportunities to do this with local churches, possibly as an interpreter in a church service.  But she was very concerned about this.  If the pastor taught in error or said something unbiblical, she would be complicit in transmitting false teaching to a deaf person.  Or, even if the pastor did teach correctly, she might mistranslate it and be guilty of falsehood.  

Obviously the JW’s were a no-go as they are not technically Christian and preach false doctrine.  

The Catholics were a no-go because, well, it’s Catholic, and while they do ascribe to the central doctrines of the Christian faith, there’s lot of extra- biblical traditions and superstitions there. 

I suggested that she try some local Bible based churches that have deaf ministries and interpreters.  She looked into one church, Grace community Church, But when she researched them, found that there was a co-ed Bible study, led by a woman. 

T is very against women in any form of church leadership, even as lay person leading a Bible study with men.  This church couldn’t be Biblically sound.  

I suggested that if she wants to do deaf ministry, she should be certified as an interpreter.  

“No, but that’s trusting in man’s credentials, not God’s.”

“But if you get certified, if will give you more credibility within the community.”  

“Oh, yeah, you’re right, I see.”

I find this to be a common trend amongst evangelicals and charismatics.  They want to avoid “The system” and human institutions and depend solely on God.  Rather, than seeing God work through the system, through the formal pathways of doing things. 

I had to wash my hands of this.

I loved my friend.  But her excessive scrupulosity about everything having to be “Biblical” has really hurt her faith and the faith of those around her.  Worse yet, her scrupulosity rubbed off on me.  

 

 

Joe ~ May 31

 

May 31st

 

This month has passed by so fast. I am so grateful to fulfill the thirty one days of writing. Of the 31 days,  I wanted to stop on 15 of them. I’ve written a good deal on personal change going happening in my life. It is a noble effort. I’ve probably should of thought twice about doing it during the month I turn 70 years old. Change is difficult to face. In my case, loneliness, low self-esteem and a boost to my usual levels of depression. I bring up the depression subject because I take my medication and I am very conscious of my feelings, but, still. It can make a tough situation that much tougher. I must tell you that the anchor to my shaky emotional state has been this writing group. When faced with letting it go because I was down in the dumps it was the one point in my day where I could rally and detach myself from the negativity that rears it’s ugly head at the most inconvenient times. I rarely made comments on your writings….at least on the blog….but, plenty of gratitude and amazement was being experienced when reading your insights and experiences. So well done and I could not have continued on without them. I have attended many recovery meetings in my life and most of the time I would sit on the periphery and just listen and take it all in and do my best to relate on what others were going through. As you can see, I tend to hide in this same fashion. Especially now that I’m opening myself up to what’s inside  making me tick. Allowing me to explore and get beyond the characteristics that I’ve maintained for a lifetime. I know that the baby can’t be thrown out with the bath water. So, I’m filtering the real me from the crusty exoskeleton that has served me well but has become heavy and cumbersome and constantly has me playing catch-up….along with the other 56 varieties of dysfunction….ba..dump…bump…..So please know that your wonderful expressions have made a profound mark on my soul…I hope we can do this again….very soon…and Thanks for keeping me in the ballgame.

 

Tirza ~ May 31

 

Well it’s now or never…the zoom will take up a much needed evening to pack and prepare for the trip early tomorrow.

It’s been a good month, and I want to thank everyone for creating such a tightknit group of fellow writers and readers.  Being read and reading others’ pieces was far more important to me than I had expected. Thank you.

I’m wondering whether I’ll be able to keep it up in June.  I expect that I will falter some days, and other days really try and overdo.  But we shall see. There are always either good reasons or excuses we know for not doing what we aim to do, and the accountability, the need to show up is so important.

I’ll see if I can show up for myself.  Whether I can use some time for retooling old writing too, freshening it up, finishing the unfinished, deciding what I want to focus on.  There’s a freedom in not being read daily too.  Finding the balance between prior writing and new writing.  Watching what emerges. Being more playful and adventurous.  Zany and deep. Surround all writing with a glow, a reverberation of aliveness. Like a flower that waves after the hummingbird feeds from it, or my heart after B.’s embrace.

That’s all I have time for.

 

Gloria ~ May 31

 

SIGNS

 

Went out to the backyard this morning and heard the new and improved neighbour's dog barking behind the fence. Took a peek through the slats and saw two pretty white fluffy puppies and one spotted black and white cutie. 

 

Came in to tell Ron and I signed “dog” to him, and he asked if I had learned that from my father…if he had ever signed that to me. And I said no…I learned that sign in my ASL class. Ron asked again…as he has asked many times…did my father ever sign anything to me…did my mother ever sign anything to me.

 

The only sign I learned from my father was when he pointed to his watch and said: Time…Time short. I think he signed “short.” That was when he was trying to get us up because we were leaving for vacation and my parents had been up since before sunrise and my mother was in her usual pre-home-leaving panic mode.

 

I  know I learned some signs just watching them when I could catch a word that went with the sign. 

 

But my brother and I never signed back to them.

 

I didn’t realise till I met Ron how astonishng that would be to someone raised with deaf parents. Especially someone like Ron who is on the far edge the other way…with parents who only signed and were not verbal.

 

He will ask with astonishment while giving me a sign…not even this little sign at the end of a sentence?!?…. So natural to him and so incomprehensible to me.

 

Today we are going to a graduation party for Jack Moore, the hearing son of two deaf parents…good friends of Ron. 

 

The TEDx talk I wrote was all about that family. How when we all had lunch together I watched as Jack signed and easily communicated with his parents and spoke intelligently and easily to myself and to Ron.  He is graduating high school  with honours and accolades, his education assured early by his deaf mother who not only taught him to sign but took him to the children’s library where they read stories to them.  So he both signed and learned how to read and heard the stories  so he knew how words sounded.

 

He really had it all. And to his credit and to his parents credit…made good use of it all.

 

And he and his older brothers and sisters and their parents…and someday all the grandchildren…they will form a true family unit. United in both love and most important to hold that all together…a common language.

 

That is both beautiful for me to see…and at the same time painful and difficult.  

 

What could so easily have been…and because of circumstances at the time …was denied.

 

All I can do now is to write about it…and educate as best I can through my story and my show.  

 

And the gift I get back is to have a life companion with the blessing of both sign and speech. A truly common language not only of love...but understanding.

 

 

Marta ~ May 31

 

Early morning. Favorite time. Especially when air so clear, greens lit with sun, sky as blue as a picture book. 

 

I am back from the walk with Bird who insisted, as usual in the morning, that instead of the woods we peruse the streets, bounded only by the two bridges she will no longer cross. She used to cross them, but no more. They house hidden spirits with whom she will not dally, making us turn back when before we used to keep going. Still, we twist and turn and find a new path each day. 

 

We passed Lauren and Rosie, Lauren happy about yesterday's conviction, Rosie, at the end of her leash, indifferent. 

 

Coming home, I feed Bird by hand because she has been almost refusing to eat the last few days, and I am sure it's because she's over-upset with cat presence. Earlier, I shooed Patrick off her bed, and will keep an eye out and not allow cats on her bed anymore. She is such a bundle of nerves, my little Bird, always has been, but at least, after 9 years, I begin to understand. 

 

Yesterday in the city accompanied by a small headache that popped up in the train going down, so unexpected on such an otherwise up-tilted day. The train had been late and I had not minded at all, sitting on the platform in the cool sun, facing the river, listening to the lap of its waves, munching cheese and apples. "Bring snacks!" my sister had reminded me and so I had crammed in one more activity into those last few minutes of dashing "I'm going to be late!" minutes, packing a couple of plastic bags instead of the nicer papery ones because it was faster, leaving the dishes, dishes that are still there, not many, it doesn't matter. I'll catch up. 

 

Today I go slow. Headache in the back seat, purring but not shouting. Mostly, I can just let the day take its own beautiful course. 

 

 

Gary ~ May 31

 

Portrait of the Artist as an Old Man

 

"...the artist can fashion a beautiful thing; and if he does not do it solely for his own pleasure, he is not an artist at all."  - Oscar Wilde

 

 

I've come a long way, baby, or at least I think I have anyway.  From the March Minuet (was that what it was called?) to the May Mazurka, I think I have been transformed into a real artist, at least from Oscar Wilde's perspective anyway.

 

In March, I was new to the 30-Day writing workshop game.  I was young, artistically speaking, and eager for applause and hot to please my audience.  I succeeded in gaining some kudos and some enthusiastic thumbs up and it went straight to my head.  I soon found myself crafting my pieces to appeal to my new audience and eagerly waited for the returns to come in.  The rave reviews, or at least good reviews, came pouring in and I was riding high and mighty and ready to go out and conquer the writing world, not knowing I was a second-rate Don Quixote at best.

 

It was a trap. While I was elated by the good reviews and enthusiastic comments, my mood would plunge on days when my submission only garnered one comment, even if it was very complimentary one. Though I am certainly no Buddhist, nevertheless I know full well just how "evil" and destructive attachment can be.

 

I fell into a trap that I never want to fall into ever again: the snare of attachment to, and dependence upon,  other people's opinions, judgements, preferences, and biases.  This is the road to perdition if there ever was one, imo.

 

March was a very heady month for writing, and I came away feeling that I scored well and made a good impression on the 30 day group, but I didn't realize that I was setting myself up for a fall.

 

And I'm glad it came in May and not in December or next January.  The May Mazurka has been a real wake up call for me and now I think I am on my way to becoming the artist of Oscar Wilde's dreams.

 

My recent 5 minute stand up comedy routine at Open Mic Night at the Phoenicia Playhouse is a good illustration of what I am talking about, and highlights the very point I am trying to drive home.

 

I leaped up on the stage when my name was called and wanted to KILL, just like all comedians want to slay the audience and leaving them "rolling in the aisles" and wanting more.  But fortunately for me, I realized within the first two minutes or so that I wasn't attached to it.

 

I think my routine was mediocre at best, and certainly didn't knock anybody out and was received with polite applause at best.  I got not one big laugh and logged perhaps 2 or 3 snickers.

 

But the good news, while I was up there, was that it really didn't matter how my shtick landed with the audience because I knew that I wanted and needed that experience, no matter how it played out.

 

It was the experience of  getting up there before a strange audience that was the main thing, and not how my performance was received.  I felt I took a big step forward that night on my journey to true artistry, in the Wildean sense at least.

 

It's the same with the May Mazurka.  I no longer submit my piece and then eagerly look for kudos and applause. If they should come, that's great, but I am not in the least dependent on rave reviews to enhance my sense of fundamental well-being, or my self-esteem and feelings of self-worth.  I don't need approval and encouragement to be a real artist.

 

What I do is now mainly  for my own enjoyment, my own satisfaction, and that is the main thing and my #1 concern.  How my writing or my comedy act lands with others is out of my control, so I can't really get too worked up about one way or another.

 

The main thing is to forge ahead, without attachment or clinging or striving to please any particular person or persons.

 

Now that the May Mazurka draws to a close I am definitely looking forward to the July Jungle Boogie, if that's what it will be called.

 

No matter what it's called I think I'll be an even better artist by then.

 

Christina ~ May 31

 

Finally. Finally, piece number 31, the end of my sixth month of writing these everyday pieces for Marta’s blog. I never think I can make it through the month at some point (at many points, actually), but then I do. This piece is a bit of cheat I suppose since I’m writing about feeling like I can’t write. As I have mentioned at least once during these six (non-consecutive) months, writing every day isn’t new for me. I’ve kept a journal in a Word file since 2006, one file for each year, so I’m on my 19th year of daily journal writing. I wrote in journals before 2006, but by hand, in bound blank journal books, but they were very hit and miss. I’d write for a few days, then stop for months, then write a bit more. Most of the paper journals are only half, at best, full. But (and again, I’ve written this before in an entry in some other month), my journals are very different from the writing I do here, full of notes for things to do, obsessions about my weight and health, accounts of difficulties with my son, financial worries, that sort of thing. They are very private and I would never show them to anyone. I actually don’t even consider them writing, more a kind of morning ritual, like reading the New York Times or doing the crossword puzzle. The writing I do here for this blog is written to be read, wouldn’t exist without you all, my fellow writers and readers.