FANTA-SEE?

The other day, noonish, when Ed and I were sitting quietly on our couch, he said, “Your lips are moving and your brow is furrowed. Who are you talking to?”

I flushed, I’m sure, embarrassed, and started to say, “Nobody,” but I knew Ed wouldn’t buy it. I’ve told him about my imaginary conversations, when I internally berate and set straight, say, the speed freak who almost drove me off the road or the rude salesclerk or the writer of a nasty Facebook post. So, a little pink-faced, I told him my current, recurrent fantasy.

I’m feeding six guests, national political leaders I admire, at a table on our deck. Jill and Joe Biden, Kamala Harris and Doug Emhoff, and Michelle and Barack Obama are soaking up the soul-filling sound of the rushing river and telling me their shoulders are falling. As the sun goes down on one of those stunning Pacific Northwest skies, they tell me they’re more relaxed than they’ve been in a while.

And the food that’s spread out on the table? Well, they love it. Shrimp ‘n grits and jambalaya and peanut butter pie, and my guests are so, so happy to be someplace where they don’t have to be “on”, and they ooh and aah over it, and wine flows for some of us, and iced tea flows for others, and I know this is the way the world should be, happy mouths and happy hearts and the easy camaraderie of people fond of each other and glad to be right where they are, with not a thing to prove.

Growing up in a household where we ended one meal with a discussion of what we’d be eating at the next one, it’s no wonder my fantasies often involve food. When I was eleven and lived in Tupelo, Mississippi, home of Elvis Presley, I fantasized every night that I cooked and served The King fried chicken and mashed potatoes (Movie magazines had listed those as his favorite foods), and that he fell madly in love with me. I didn’t get far in terms of what that love looked like—I’m not sure Elvis and I ever kissed. I just knew he couldn’t resist me and my mouth-watering food.

Ed smiled through my description of the heavenly dinner on our deck, and when I was finished, he said, “That’s a great fantasy. Full of love. Full of you, Carol Jane.” Then he kissed me, such a sweet kiss, and then it struck me that maybe my silly fantasy was not so silly after all.

I do love to feed dinner guests and our kids and grandkids and neighbors and the folks at the homeless shelter and my book club and my husband. “Feed me, Carol!” is Ed’s response if I ask him what he wants for dinner. I believe it’s hard to feel bad when your mouth feels good, and I want so much to bring some light and some love into this crazy, hurting world. Maybe, imagining love and comraderie keeps me aware that love and comraderie are possible, that they’re real, that there is power in feeding each other’s mouths and hearts and souls with the best we got, and that the best we got can be pretty darn fine. Maybe my fantasy is a form of prayer.

Fantasy. Fanta-see. See what I’m capable of. See how I want to love. See it. And then, take that imaginary something into the kitchen or the church or the office or the blank piece of paper, and cook up something deliciously healing—and real.

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THANKS

I grew up hearing Doris Day singing, “When you’re worried, and you can’t sleep, count your blessings instead of sheep”, on my parents’ radio. Later on, in my wild and crazy thirties, when I finally went to AA, I must have heard “Change your attitude to gratitude,” at least fifty times. Blunt. No nonsense. Change it! When I remembered, I’d change my attitude and count my blessings, and it helped me stay on track. And though I don’t generally like platitudes nor simple remedies, that phrase has been sounding in my head as I look out the window of the casita next to our children’s and grandchildren’s California home.

We live here half time now, as our daughter continues treatment for brain cancer and the pandemic rages and the world seems tilted askew, and I am sometimes not one bit thankful and have no kindness in my heart.

“Change your attitude to gratitude.” So…

Here’s a dozen for starters. I am grateful for:

… my ginormous box of Refresh eye drop vials, delivered to me by a Costco shopper friend.

…the milk foamer just like the one I have at home, that turns my coffee into a white peaked marvel.

…the bottle brush tree out my window, alive with mockingbirds and hummingbirds and bristly red blooms.

…my 73-year-old body that still loves to walk in the sunshine.

…a husband who still finds that body beautiful.

…enough ground turkey, tilapia filets, chicken breasts, and shrimp in my freezer for six meals for six and enough money to take our grand kids out for poke bowls.

…a southern mama who taught me how to love food and treat it real good and not waste anything!

…a novel in progress, that, though somewhat delayed, is still alive and kicking.

…grandchildren I adore who call me “Granola” and love me back.

…hair that transitioned so well to super long during the pandemic that I’ll probably keep it this way.

…Everything electronic I need to binge watch The Queen’s Gambit or dance the Cupid Shuffle or listen to old Van Morrison songs with Ed while we cook, or watch Cinema Paradiso with our grand kids, or attend church service and study group, or take life-sustaining voice lessons, or stay in touch with friends via Zoom or Facebook.

…Jesus, whose teachings keep me from making snide responses to people on Facebook and later being sorry I did.

My Yeti cup runneth over, and so doth my pantry and my fridge and my Kindle library, and so does the love that’s everywhere if I only remember to remember to count my blessings and be grateful.

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THE FOUR A’S

I learned St. Julian of Norwich’s Body Prayer in March, right before Ed got every parent’s worst nightmare of a phone call from our son in law, telling him that Sigrid, Ed’s daughter and my stepdaughter, had been diagnosed with brain cancer. Two days later, we drove to our family in California, where we stayed in the casita next door to their house till early July, held by the seriousness of Sigrid’s condition, the family’s need, and fear of traveling during Covid.

“Surreal”, I told people when they asked how I was doing. “It’s all surreal and then it’s too real and then it’s surreal again.” I said that because it was true and because it was easier than talking about the fears and feelings that collected and competed inside me, so that I could be, at any given moment, heartsick and exhausted and confused and pissed off and grateful and ungrateful and aghast at myself for being such a mess.

I needed grounding. Something to keep me from going over an edge I imagined would not exactly benefit our kids, our two teenaged grandkids, nor each other. So I tried the Body Prayer. I practiced it in the mornings, standing at the window of my tiny new home looking out at the bottle brush tree with its bristly red blooms in the yard instead of out at my beloved river. I’d bow my head and say the first A, “Await,” my hands cupped, waiting.

After a minute or a few when I’d settled into the Awaiting place, I’d raise my arms to the ceiling or the sky and say the next A, “Allow,” and then let it flow into me–Sigrid’s debilitating cancer, Ed’s excruciating pain, the latest Covid statistics, this frightening administration, and the dangers of the deep divide in our country. I’d allow it and allow it some more, and then I’d breathe and allow God’s strength and power to flow down into me too.

I’d press my hands over my heart, then, and bow my head and say, “Accept,” and try to stay open to it all till I felt ready for the final A.

Arms down then, palms out, head up, open eyes. “Attend,” I’d say, and I could feel it, more calm, a sense of purpose, and some faith in my bandwidth and my ability to keep on keeping on. And then I’d do the next right thing.

I’d cook dinner for six, envisioning my grandson gobbling it with the gusto of a fourteen-year-old climber. I’d clean up, do laundry, walk in the California sunshine, oohing and aahing at the orange and yellow and red and purple foliage and the gorgeous, green succulents. I’d talk to friends about how much help is help and how much is interference when you’re a grandparent. Ed and I would shop for furniture and appliances for the uncomfortable, inefficient, 375 square foot casita, making it comfortable, efficient, and downright cute.

I’d watch an episode of Encore with my granddaughter, blown away at her knowledge of Broadway musicals. I’d talk books and movies with my son in law, Todd. I’d cook some more. And some more. I’d hold Ed in my arms when he broke down. I’d cry a little myself. Or a lot. I’d tell my new online therapist that we were all traumatized and she’d say, “Absolutely. Yes.” I’d practice the Four A Prayer.

We’ve been back home for three precious months. Next week, we’ll be driving back to California to care for our family for three more months, and we expect that time to be precious too. I don’t want to go, and I’m so glad I get to be there, and it’s too much, and it’s not enough, and I’ll keep practicing the Four A Body Prayer.

No wonder people have used this prayer for centuries. Await. Allow. Accept. Attend.  It helps.

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