Still Struggling

Still Struggling

Well it seems that I have a slight fracture of the hip in the groin area - no wonder it hurts so much. What does this mean? I need to learn patience since I won’t be able to walk the way I’d like to for some time. I need to spend more time at home, inside, quietly. This really drives me crazy since I am an outside person. I am always ready to escape: to the Botanical Garden, to the city, to the mall, to the movies, to see friends. Anywhere but home.

What do I need to learn from this experience? More empathy with those who are challenged and cannot get around easily. I marvel at how people get around the city on wheelchairs and walkers. I’m afraid to cross the street at my new slow pace.

Maybe I need to learn to be quiet and meditate more, to explore that deep dark scary “inner me” that I try so hard to shut out. Maybe I need to learn new things: new tricks on the computer and internet? Maybe I need to work on my presentation for next Fall’s Wisdom Wednesday Workshop that I will be leading. Anyway, I can’t say I don’t have the time. Time is all I have right now. Time to learn, time to get well.

Spring Challenges

It’s been a challenging Spring for me. Busy with happy things: my granddaughter Sierra’s First Communion and grandson Chase’s Confirmation in May. Plus all the May birthdays: Sierra - 8; Marina - 17; and Chase - 14 years old! A big party on May 1st to celebrate all of the above plus my husband’s 70th birthday.

And then I was struck by a persistent cough, tickling in the throat, and hoarseness. Went to the doctor several times but it would not go away. They attribute it to the terrible pollen season we’ve been having but I - true to my nature - began to worry. In the meantime my back went out and I pulled a groin muscle (like A-rod!). I had to get a cane and I could not do my usual hour walk each day; in fact, I could hardly walk at all. This was awful since walking is my main exercise and helps me work off stress.

I became so frightened and my imagination was working overtime. Thankfully, I trust my doctors and they were very reassuring. In fact, everyone was being so nice to me. My friends were concerned and full of stories and helpful hints. Angel was wonderful, doing all the housework and shepherding me around.

I learned a powerful lesson from all of this. My independence, which I value so, is fragile - as it is for all of us. Learning to lean on others, to accept their help is difficult. Through all of this challenging Spring, one thing pulled me through. Prayer. I do remember to pray and even when I pray in darkness, without much hope, the answers come. In the form of doctors, friends, loved ones. A lesson I needed to learn indeed.

Happy Mothers Day

This month I’ve been attending a discussion group on Joan Chittiser’s book “The Gift of Years”. Yes, it’s about growing old and it is very positive. Here is a quote from the chapter on “Productivity”. “When we go on giving ourselves away right to the very end, we have lived a very full life.”

My Mom lived to the very end, despite her illness, being herself to the last. Her final “work”, hours before she died, was to order gifts from the Avon catalog for those she loved. This is how Mom expressed her love; she wasn’t a touchy-feely, huggy-kissy person. She loved to gift.

She was also a fighter, outspoken on issues she felt strongly about. Mom went down fighting, fighting cancer, even fighting the doctors who woke her that night to do a “procedure”. She was a lesson in living to the very end.

Thank you Mom for your courageous example, your generous spirit - a gift to me and to the world! Happy Mothers Day in Heaven and Happy Mothers Day to all mothers everywhere.

A Poem for Spring

It's Spring! And I get inspired just strolling amidst the fresh new green of the trees. The feel of Spring this year brought back a memory of a park near where I grew up. When I was a kid, I was convinced there were fairies and woodland creatures in Forest Park, it felt so magical. And a poem came to me, which I share with you.

Along for the Ride

Who rides inside of me?
This fine Spring day
When trees blush
Prettily in pink
And grin frizzy green.

Who rides inside? My Dad,
His love of nature
Rooted deep in me.

Who rides inside? My
Grandfather’s garden
Where once I dug in delight
And now each bud and bloom stir
Smiles inside my heart.

Who rides inside
My deep dark woods?
A Forest Park elf
Behind an old stone wall
Up to some sweet mischief.

I feel the brush
Of fairy wings
Dusting me with mystery.
I hear the hidden creatures
Call from some faraway
Place … or time …

Spring takes the stage again
With a trumpet blast
And a drum roll.
Winter’s dead dread is
But a distant dream.

Spring ignites the great
White Way of my life
And makes her abode
Deep inside … for the ride.

© E.M. Ramos 4/11/2010

Secrets and Psalm 139

Secrets and Psalm 139

In light of my aversion to having my “secrets” revealed, I wonder that Psalm 139 is my favorite. “O Lord you have probed me and You know me.” It does not disturb me; rather it comforts me to know God knows “when I sit and when I stand,” that He understands “my thoughts from afar.” Maybe it reminds me that I am not alone, that God is aware of little me, that He cares about me.

“Where can I go from your Spirit? From your presence, where can I flee?” Rather than fear being found out, these passages raise some deep down gratitude. Why? I am not sure. It is a paradox. But I trust the feeling. And my prayer “Sacred Heart of Jesus I place my trust in Thee” has gotten me through so many dark moments, how could I not be hopeful when His hand guides me and holds me fast!

On this glorious Easter day, it is no secret that I feel grateful to have the gift of my faith and l wonder at the mystery of the Resurrection. How blessed I am! Happy Easter to all!

Mysteries and Secrets

Mysteries and Secrets

I love mystery novels. One of my favorites is the Victorian Mystery series by Robin Paige, which takes place in late 19th century England. Kate Ardleigh and her husband Sir Charles Sheridan are amateur sleuths. What is so interesting and educational are the real historical characters they encounter during their adventures: the Prince of Wales, Arthur Conan Doyle, Rudyard Kipling, and Chas. Rolls (of Rolls-Royce).

All sorts of new inventions and technology are explored in these novels: fingerprints, the camera, the motor car, etc. And the reactions of the people of that time to these new inventions and developments in crime detection. Change is difficult for people to accept. New technology is not always embraced at first. New ways of doing things are not trusted. Some things never change across the centuries! Like people’s attitudes.

One passage that set me thinking was Sir Charles’ explanation of how X-rays work to incredulous listeners. You can actually see inside the body, he says. Imagine the implications for medicine, says a local physician. We may one day even be able to observe the heart beating. And Kate replies: “And soon we will have no secrets at all”.

No secrets at all. That’s how I sometimes feel in the face of 21st century technology. All of these new wonders are robbing us of our secrets. Google anything, including your own name, and chances are you’ll find out more than you ever wanted to know. And when I go for a medical check-up to be scanned way beyond X-rays - blood tests, CT’s, MRI’s - discovering secrets I did not even know I had. Well, no wonder I and so many others distrust and fear these new fangled investigative devices. They take away our last illusion of control, shine an all-revealing light on our nice safe dark corners. No more secrets.

Running to Nowhere

For some time I have felt so impatient. Like I want to hurry everything through and get on to the next thing. No matter what it is. If I’m reading, I want to hurry and finish the book and immediately start the next. I call it “Chain Reading”, much like chain smoking except it‘s not destroying my lungs. I read 57 books last year. If I’m walking I want to hurry and get to some destination, usually the café or some other place to eat. If I’m eating, I hurry to finish, hardly noticing the taste, never savoring.

I want the movie to be over so I can go on to the next thing. At work, I enjoy the planning but my goal is to finish and proceed to the next project -right away. I can’t stand to be without motion, to be still, to meditate, to focus, to pray. I want everything to be over and done with. Instead of breathing and delighting in where I am right now. And where I am right now is in flux. PS I hurried to finish this.

Memories of Dad #5

Memories of Dad continued (See Memories in earlier blogs)

Dad was not as much of a fighter as Mom. He was resigned to a lot. Like living in the city. I asked him about that once and he said he loved New York because he had met Mom here and because we kids were here. When he was demoted (today it would be downsized) in his job after years of hard work, because of all the layoffs, he took it quietly but I know he was hurting inside. Life is not fair - Mom hated that and ranted and raved against injustice. Dad just sat and took it. Maybe it built up inside him, boiled, festered. Maybe that’s why his temper explosions were so scary.

Dad was conservative, too, in his politics. He was very patriotic. He loved America and he believed in everything this country did. He would have gladly fought in any war and died for his country. In fact he tried to enlist in WWII but was refused because of his age and his job at a defense plant. I wonder what would have happened had he lived through Vietnam. Would we have had terrible clashes about that war which I opposed? I wonder.

I appreciated that Dad could listen to me and share my problems and even confide in me about his own personal conflicts. Many times we walked and talked quietly. He listened and told me his problems too. He didn’t solve any but it was so good to be comforted and to know that he had problems too.

Born in Erie, Pennsylvania, Dad was the second child in a family of four boys and three girls. He grew up speaking Hungarian. When his older brother Joe started school at Sacred Heart Parochial School, Dad missed him so much that the nuns let him come to school, too, at age four. But he spoke no English and Uncle Joe had to translate for him. Dad remained bilingual all his life. Dad told me once that no one could trace the roots of the Hungarian language; it is not related to any of the Indo-European tongues. I was fascinated by the strange-sounding and mysterious-looking language that I heard him use with my grandparents and that I saw embroidered on the wall hangings in their home.

Young John or Janos (his parents called him “Yanch”) was an altar boy at the Hungarian church. He would go to two churches every Sunday, first to serve on the altar in the Hungarian liturgy, then to Mass in English.

Dad did not like high school at all and dropped out after two years. He would always be defensive about his deficient education; perhaps that was why he valued learning so much and like Mom, encouraged his children to get as much schooling as they could.

Aunt Elizabeth remembers walking home from the store when she was six or seven years old. She met Dad (he was 16 or 17 at the time) and he told her he was leaving, to say goodbye to Mom and Pop. He would up in Ohio and came home a few years later. Once again he encountered his sister Elizabeth , this time on the train. He was very ill with the flu. Later he went to New York because Aunt Anna and Aunt Helen, my grandmother’s sisters, visited Erie with stories of how it was easier to find work in New York City. Dad lived with Aunt Anna in NY. This was the time of the Great Depression and finally Dad took advantage of one of the programs of the New Deal; he joined the Civilian Conservation Corps (CCC) and traveled to Idaho and Wyoming to fight forest fires and plant trees. This experience shaped his life immensely and enkindled a great love of nature that he passed on to all of us.

Memories of Dad #4

Memories of Dad continued .....

My Dad was the quiet, observing person who loved nature and sunsets and clouds and trees. He would rise at 5 a.m. and drive hours to a lake or river and fish quietly all day. He liked a buddy with him, whether it was Uncle Bill or his cousin Gene or a friend from work or me or Kathy or one of the boys.

He was also the one who couldn’t watch a sentimental program on TV or hear a beautiful song on the “relaxing” station WPAT, without tears coming to his eyes. I’m like him in that way, the least thing gets me all choked up and teary eyed. Mom never cried at a movie; at least she never let me see her cry.

Dad was concerned with our education but not in the same way as Mom: he was proud when we brought home good marks but I think it was more of a vindication. Dad was a high school dropout, while his oldest brother was a college graduate. Dad never got over this and would always let me know if he thought I was getting boastful or conceited about my academic achievements. And when I was in college, he resented my “know-it-all” attitude and took it personally. He must have “hurt” from his relationship with his older brother. So our marks must have proved in some way that Johnny Lovas was not so dumb after all!

Dad was a powerful teacher in his own quiet way. He taught me a lot about faith and beauty and constancy. He was the ultimate responsible person. He was the cool head in a crisis. He never panicked, you felt so safe with Dad. He could fix anything - around the house, and more importantly, when Jeff had all his accidents and Mom was hysterical, Dad knew just what to do.

Dad never missed Sunday Mass but he would go himself to the early Mass. He didn’t like crowds and often shared that he thought worship should be a private affair. Every night, he sat on the edge of his bed, head bowed, and said his prayers silently before going to sleep. His favorite spot to think about God was out in God’s creation. Dad had a picture of a Mass being offered on the shores of Jackson Lake in the Teton Mountains when he was in the CCC’s. That was the perfect church for Dad.

Memories of Dad #3

Last Tuesday, February 16th was the 45th anniversary of my Dad’s death. I think I will continue my memories of him by starting with the basics.

My father, John James Lovas, Jr. (12/28/1909 to 2/16/1965)

Dad was tall, about six foot, well-built until middle age when he got a bit flabby around the middle. But he was so-o-o handsome, with his wavy dark hair (later silver at the temples), his piercing gray eyes that always seemed to be squinting, his long nose and perfect mouth. The pipe, perennially perched at the side of the mouth, was the final touch. It gave him a peaceful look and comforted me greatly. I thought he would never lose that terrifying temper while he had that pipe in his mouth.

Dad was the opposite of Mom in many ways. While her walk was hurried, her appearance a bit disheveled, her manner spontaneous, my father’s actions were slow, deliberate, carefully organized and planned, never in a rush.

His walk was slow, with long powerful, unhurried steps. The only time I remember him running was to pull Kathy and me from the lake when we almost drowned. I used to wait for him to come home from work - he’d walk, straight and powerful, up the block. I would run up to him, but he never altered his pace.

Mom was always in a rush, always last minute, often late. Dad was early to bed, early to rise, probably never late to anything in his life, absent from work only twice - for severe poison ivy and a burst appendix. He was on his way to work the day he died of a heart attack.

Dad went about his work on the job and at home in an organized, cool and deliberate manner. He planned a project at his workbench, which was always neat, clean and impeccably ordered. Everything in its place. Even the screws and nails in the baby food jars whose caps were nailed to the workbench so he could unscrew the right jar as he needed it. I think the only one of us kids to take after him is Kathy.

His appearance was always just right. Not a hair out of place. Well-groomed. He never left a piece of clothing on a chair - everything was hung up, in its place.

His speech was reminiscent of the Pennsylvania twang of Erie where he grew up. I didn’t realize this till later in life when I heard some people from Pennsylvania talk and realized how much their accent sounded like Dad’s. His voice was a deep bass, very masculine. He usually spoke slowly and calmly but that temper would cause a roar that could be heard “all the way down the block”.

That Hungarian temper was the tragedy of this gentle man because it could flare up so suddenly and unexpectedly. It made me fear him, which is sad because I loved him so and because he was really such a teddy bear at heart.

In fact, I often compared Dad to a bear. When he hugged me (till I thought I would smother) it was truly a “bear” hug. He was a big old lovable bear, ferocious at times, funny, lumbering, overwhelming, dangerous, but oh, so cute.

TO BE CONTINUED ---