Love

With its jaws unhinged

It came up from underneath

Seized me away into its deep waters

And  drowned me, blissfully, in thoughts of you

                                                                                                                                   Mona McPherson

"THIS MAN HAS A UTERUS!"

The above statement was actually uttered during the last volunteer orientation class I was teaching but popped into my brain today while I was reading a rather thought provoking book about Christianity. My knee jerk reaction was to laugh, but, instead, I became perplexed. Why on earth is such a statement at the same table with a delicious morsel of thought challenging me to revisit my ideas about Jesus?! And then I remembered the pain meds I took a little bit ago! Yes! I’m sedated! Now it makes sense! It only took three hours at the dentist to unhinge my TMJ issues securing me a spot in bed for the day. The dentist also did a smashing job of evacuating my savings account of a substantial amount of loot (I actually wrote evacuwaiting by accident…LOL!). I suppose if it were a word it would mean a person who does not leave when told to do so. But I digress, I find the uterus statement to be horrifically funny so decided to slice through this rather dense medically induced high and self-imposed isolation to share it with you.

Please understand in this sharing that my mind feels like a Slip and Slide slathered with jello; I thought a healthy rant, or tangent, or squirrel chasing authoric cleansing might just be enough to keep it off the ledge the rest of the day. YUP! I said AUTHORIC! Making up words is coming to me rather easily right now. The official definition of Authoric = A person who has an overwhelming compulsion to slip and slide through the mental jello of their words and invite friends, family and countrymen to come along for the ride. In my world today, because the world is revolving, rather wobbly, around me; you ALL care about this man with a uterus. How do I know? Cause you’re still reading. I shan't leave thou hanging from the Shakespearian branches of wonder over this statement any longer. WARNING! This is not as exciting as a man with gender identification issues whose dealing with phantom body part delusions. DANG IT! That would be much more interesting!!!!! We could make him John Wayne and dress him in hot pink mini skirt, oopps, hold that thought—I gotta go shave his legs. The Duke, with shaved legs, is wearing a hot pink mini skirt with a plaid (white, pink and black) flannel shirt. The shirt is tied in a knot at the waist and nicely matches his shiny black Dingo boots. He’s untying Beau (his horse not his partner) and then does a prissy walk—bum leg and all-- to the barn. No one knows of his obsession over uteruses except Beau (his partner not his horse). You didn't see that coming?! It makes it more interesting to know that John Wayne named his horse Beau when he first fell in love with Beau, but, wasn’t out of the closet yet. John and Beau met at the feed store where Beau works (the horse not the partner—John rents him out to give little kids rides). Beau (the partner not the horse) was driving by one day in his delivery truck…he works for Lovely Loo delivering portable restrooms all over the state. When Beau saw Beau he had to stop because his grandfather used to have a horse with the exact same markings on his legs. John’s heart fell out of his mini skirt (it’s complicated; no, he wasn’t out yet, but, people around the dusty town of Ambiguous, TX suspected due to John's affinity for mini skirts).  It all started when Beau’s hand (I think you know which one) brushed against John’s as he reached for Beau's (again) reins and that’s when John Wayne realized that he had waited his whole life to fall in love with Beau.  

Sorry, I got twisted around in my saddle. The REAL story of the man with the uterus. He was a simple fictitious John Doe who lived a quiet fake-life with a made-up family in a coal-mining town of Bratty Hollow Kentucky (there is no such a place). John (Doe not Wayne) was out shoot'n at some food when he started feeling bloated. His fictitious daughter, Ellie Mae, suggested he see a doctor, and, regrettably, that was when he was diagnosed with end stage uterine cancer, AND, found out he actually had a uterus. Yes my friends, a diagnostic errr may or may not have occurred in this story (not error—I’m in my Ozark dialect to pay homage to John which is harder than it looks when using words like Shakespearian, shan't and thou together in the previous paragraph). Shan't feels a bit bigender to me, like it could just as easily slip into a smoking jacket in the halls of Stratford or wrestle around in daisy dukes deep in the belly of any black lung mine in Kentucky. Hmmm, I didn’t realize bigender wasn’t a word until just now (let me add that to my Monictionary). Back to my real story. We were using John (Doe not Wayne) as an example of the kind of paperwork our volunteers would be receiving about our patients and what they were to look for. It was at this time that one of our brighter students (the politically correct way to say she has OCD) raced ahead of the class-- true to her condition-- and ran aground at John’s unfortunate uterine cancer diagnosis which prompted her to bellow out, “THIS MAN HAS A UTERUS!” The class erupted. I’m sure fictitious John (Doe not Wayne) would have had a belly laugh over that had he not succumbed to his disease last August, may John (Doe and Wayne) rest in peace.

By now you’re probably wondering WHAT drug is this woman on!! I don’t know! But if it gives me words like: Monictionary, Authoric, Evacuwaiting, Bigender and lets me shave The Duke’s legs all in the same story … IT’S SOME REALLY HIGH END STUFF!

Mona McPherson

The Gift

The church sits at a skinny beach town corner resting nicely against its unassuming frame; I’ve passed by it before never realizing it was there amid the moss covered trees and leaning neighborhood. The United Church of Christ in New Smyrna Beach was my destination this morning for no other reason than a clear desire to hear a friend preach. Vonshelle and I have worked together for over a year and have recently discovered another level to our friendship which involves thoughtful conversations and an affinity to personal growth. There are so many joys in new and old relationships but what I most appreciate in the beginning is the layers of the story that bring the personality to life one page at a time. My appreciation for resonance with others matters, deeply; below the day in and day out of our lives is where the excavation of meaning begins. People who share their being-ness as completely as Vonshelle are as treasures to collect for sacred places that relax the soul with depth and intentional thought.

The parking lot was filling up with faithful members and I wondered about the last time I had even attended a church service; flashbacks to how deeply rooted I was in the Southern Baptist church took notice of my fleeting apprehension but my companion, Kathy, another friend of Vonshelle’s, and, another one of the treasures in my life, pulled me into soft introductions. The smiling faces of this church family all emoted a sincere welcome and I found myself letting go of the initial tenseness that shadows me when I step into new experiences. The analyst in me can get overwhelmed when all the information breaking through is new. Everything and everyone commanded the space we were in as we walked between the Chapel and its counterpart building that was reserved for socialization. But my eyes raced ahead of our gait once they saw the images lifting from the etched glass doors and they traced each line carefully. Being a visual person my tendency is to seek out the beauty in  everything surrounding me and these doors that led into the Chapel were certainly framed in beauty. They opened deeply and poured themselves over my soul with a warm awareness of the creativity that is lacking in my life. As we stepped through them into the foyer, the walls and the wood breathed the sounds of worship so sacred that I was tempted to take off my shoes as the Native Americans do when needing to connect fully from sole to soul. My attempts to ignore the embrace of this space as I wrote my name on the visitor label,  were in vain; so I welcomed the surge of gratitude that was building inside me and managed to keep my shoes on.

Kathy and I were settling into our place when a child appeared with a post-it note pad and tearing two pieces off instructed us to write down what the word peace meant to us. She went on to explain that we’re going to affix these post-it notes on a cross sometime during the service. Kathy secured a pen from her purse and then paused in mid air unsure and debating between using one word or a litany. The seriousness of her gaze caught my attention so I poked fun of her over-thinking until she stated that my note contained as much thought as hers. Peace? What does peace mean to me?! I now found myself couched on Kathy’s dilemma and struggling just the same with a perplexed gaze. It suddenly became harder than I realized to think of what peace meant to me but I managed something mildly profound and set the post-it down next to me as I began to bring my heart into stillness. Vonshelle’s significant other, Lissette, joined us as the service began. She is the newest person on the scene in my life and has quickly gained an honored spot due to her unique ability to bridge the gap between many theologies, and along with her affinity to study a broad stroke of topics; she is a dynamic conversationalist.

“Just Peace.” Vonshelle quickly made the point that the “JUST” was to signify “JUSTICE.” She went into her sermon with a degree of sincerity that is truly refreshing. She spoke about the injustices facing the world with violence against, and the targeting of, specific communities of people with so many police shootings of African American males, and, too, by civilians like what happened at The Pulse Nightclub. Her words were not collecting in a stagnate pool of separateness, but flowed unencumbered by such an idea into the greater understanding of our oneness. She was cherishing the fact that ALL LIVES MATTER! Injustice, however, cannot be tolerated if we are to have true peace in our communities and our lives. The silence of justice is condoning the very acts that are costing lives. Vonshelle challenged us to be the voice of justice—to be the peacemakers but thoughtfully so. We can create change but not with our silence. We must bring the voice of justice into each dark corner of our life no matter how small the encounter we face.

At the closing of the service the members of this church line the walls holding hands and sing, “Let There Be Peace on Earth.” Although I didn’t know the words to the song; I joined hands with my friends and watched a whole congregation do the same. The moment brought in old feelings of hope that the world is still housing those quiet souls who desire unity, peace and love. After the song, Kathy and I made our way into the line to greet Vonshelle on our way out. A small group of three was before us speaking with her about how welcomed they felt as I silently nodded in agreement. My eyes wondered aimlessly around the Chapel as we were waiting and began taking in its cozy warmth and friendly faces. It was then that I realized the degree of my own gratitude for coming and how blessed I was for the new friends in my life.


It was a simple wish, to hear a friend preach, but, I didn't realize; I was actually giving myself a gift. A moment in the Kindom. Kathy would enlighten me today about this new word I learned. She said that it was about family (kin) connections. We often use terms like the Kingdom of Christ but this word feels more appropriate, the Kindom of Christ. I LOVE the word! We all need avenues of connection and fellowship with others to grow in our service and love. It is my belief that the greatest growth of the soul occurs in relationships and that making time for fellowship, friends and community is paramount to your spiritual well-being and personal growth.


The whole day was my gift to me.


Mona McPherson

 

 

Why

They are stacked 5 bins deep in my front room, my mother’s clothes and shoes. Cindy and I were summoned by dad a few weeks ago to help clear out what she can no longer use and make room for other necessities that end of life care requires. I’ve tried twice to go through them and separate the ones in the best condition to donate. My mom, however, was meticulous about what she wore so much so that she made all her clothes until just a few years ago. It was no surprise that I’ve only found a shirt and a pair of pants with bleach stains that have my dad’s name written all over them; his struggle with the technology and my mother's care has made for several hilarious moments between me and my siblings. 

I can’t seem to let them go. It’s as though I’m being watched by eyes that reach across my memories and pull from their closets the visions of mom in each item. I’m becoming a professional at refolding and replacing them right back where they had rested. My thoughts have wrestled me to the ground again this early morning and sit across the width of my reason wanting to know why. Why can’t I let go? She will not return to my world and reclaim them. Each day brings evidence that barring a miracle this woman who now wears adult diapers and cannot do anything for herself is not going to hop out of bed one day and throw open her closet door and yell, "WHERE THE HELL ARE MY CLOTHES!" Still, I stare at them with wishful eyes-eyes that no longer remember how she was unless a weathered photo pulls its windows open and blows her through my mind.

There have been justifiable moments when I wished she had gone quickly and unannounced. Instead, the invitation to her decline came stamped with my RSVP and even though I didn’t want to attend this event, I'm here. This new role of caregiver is the hardest role I've played in the relationship with my mom. End stage dementia has cleared the roads of her memories out of her mind and left her with broken words and sporadic thoughts. There actually was a recent day that made me severely question my desire that she left sooner. The day she threw me a curve ball when she laughed and called me Charlie Brown. It was the nickname she bestowed on me at such a tender age that I was thoroughly concerned when starting First Grade how long my name might be on the page (Ramona Ann Charlie Brown Willis). It’s funny to me now but it was very serious business at the time. One day I marched up to my mom to share my angst at possibly being laughed at for such a long name, not to mention the extra time I had to carve out to write it correctly. My mom laughed and then explained that it was a nickname and not my real name. As relieved as a 6 year old with a normal size name could be, I went outside to enlighten my playmates about how nicknames aren't real.

“Why mom?” I caught myself asking and asking again. “Why did you choose that nickname for me?” She mumbled something about green sheets and cucumbers that some man had lost indicating that my answer would not be coming around the corner to meet me that day. Cindy thinks it might be because of my brown eyes but I’m not satisfied with the simplicity of that reason. I’m a person fixated on the complicated and hidden meaning in everything. There must be some great life-altering reason she was so compelled to call me that. If I could only crack the code. It can’t be because I lacked the ability to punt a football. Paul and I played with the neighbor kids for hours and I was always his first pick … except for the time he picked Alan first, but, we were all tired of Alan being dead last, especially when it made him teary. It can’t be because I had a beagle dog, I had a silver tabby cat. It can’t be because I was a boy with a big head who didn’t like to change shirts, I obviously wasn’t. But that nickname stuck with me my whole childhood. When I reached Middle School, thanks to my brother’s coaching methods in football, I began to excel at other sports. Mom told me once that she felt like a celebrity after my games because kids and parents would come up to her and ask if she were Charlie’s mom.  By then the nickname wrestled itself free from needing two names and tied itself to the back pocket of my life. It stayed there until my first crush. At that point the need to untie the boyish nickname became paramount and I regained my given name.

I’ve not thought about that nickname in decades. When my mom said it, I fell straight through a trapdoor and splashed into the pool of my inner child. It took me back to that one short season in my childhood when my mom and I were close. It was her father’s suicide that took her away from me the first time, and, now, it's the strokes that are killing off her brain one inning at a time. The reason behind this nickname has become yet another item I should have secured from her memories before she left the game. 


I'm left to sort through her clothes and it just dawned on me that maybe it's really the memories contained in their fabric that still smell like her that will not allow me to let them go.

Mona McPherson

 

 

On Being a Writer

Writers live in the wilderness of their own minds, a world where the thickets of words becomes the most delightful entanglement of all existence. They walk for hours past streams and brooks turning over ideas that others hurriedly pass. The world out here stands as Pompeii with its shadows and ashes, but, the world within a writer peels away a delicate warm truth; writers were born to brush the soul’s heart with the quills of thought. Some go on to leave a legacy for the world to read and reread while others get stuck in this silent forest and its purposeful steps.

It's not that they desire to write volumes of thoughts to store up in bottles that need dusting or casting out to sea. It's more that their blood would atrophy and break off in their veins if they didn't. Writers write to live, thus, live to write. The non-writers in their lives do not understand this dichotomy. They thoughtlessly throw stones at their solitude and rush to haul them back into the real world. The balance isn't easy. Most days are spent on a tightrope grasping to the pole of reason barely keeping their feet in one world or the other. It would be a more harmonious existence if writers chose writers in relationships. Gone would be the need to explain why writing a couple of pages took half the day or that eating was optional. It would be common knowledge that it's not polite to poke a writer when he or she stares off into space to make sure they’re still breathing. Writers would be free to climb the inner trees and leisurely watch their ideas break off and float down onto the page. Yes, they also might forget to go to work or pay the mortgage but that kind of reason would be lost in a relationship between writers.

Writers do not waste their words in conversations; they fold and tuck them into safer corners but do not take their scarcity for lack of love for you or an unwillingness to share. You would be overwhelmed at the David their words would sculpt of you from the white stones of this inner world. It's out of compassion that they hold back and not risk your believing that they’ve stepped over sanity's ledge into hyperbole. Be kind to them. Give them ample moments to wander into these woods for their pens are dipped in the ethereal and they scribe a braille wind blowing through a blind world. They desire to share what they have heard when they can capture your full attention.

Mona McPherson

Jenga Ninja

Another dinner out with Cindy proves informative and conversationally stimulating. We had been discussing how in the past she would know a roommate was a match for her and it centered on the scientific calculations of spacial adherence. Cindy was compatible only with a person that allowed her the freedom to move about the planet unencumbered by expectations, and, that said person, must agree to abide by the division of space never once to encroach upon hers without permission. This prompted her to suggest there should be a specific word for the kind of anger that is elicited by space invaders so we kicked around a few generic ideas before landing on space-gry. As Cindy spoke of her conditions, I imagined those negotiations with potential roommates lasting months because, like Moses, her commandments were carved in stone and just finding a mountain in Florida for her do any needed rewrites would be problematic. As her first roommate this took me back. 

Inclinations of her condition were unearthed in my formative years when we shared a room; I’m using the term “shared” loosely because, to share, would imply equal agreement on the utilization of space availability. This was not my experience as the youngest. Our room looked like a drunken bamboo quartered off a spec of land east of the north window on a single tile and stuck a flag in the ground with my name on it. Like a Jenga Ninja; I was expected to stack and pack my belongings within that tiny space while hers sprawled out leisurely across the vastness of the rest of the room daring to throw snarky looks at me. So complicated was her construction of this your zone vs my zone division that my dad had to install a pulley system to the ceiling so that not even a foot of mine would touch the sacred ground of her real-estate. Anything belonging to me that dare cast a shadow onto the Queen’s abode would be tossed into the River Styx never to return from purgatory. Space-gry indeed, just ask my Jane West doll whose left boot spur eked unintended over the imaginary perimeter. She was snagged, bagged and tagged and on her way to level one as the rest of the carefully stacked items looked on in terror and admiration. Cindy’s strategic excavation of Jane, whose position was middle left center on the tower, was most impressive.  Without even a wobble Jane was gone. My only solace to her greedy takeover of “our” room was to scale my tiny tile tower and perch myself atop dreaming of the day when I were free from my tile cell.

 The things that jar the memory into the shuttle back in time are often the most unexpected; a simple conversation at the Chicken Pantry and my childhood bubbles to the surface.  Although I can look back on this time now understanding that firstborns have all the power in childhood, and, can appreciate the lesson of hierarchy; I’m sure this first brush with privileged society lodged in my psyche and made me unconsciously strive for better conditions in life; it makes the study of birth placement and personality a very interesting topic. My roommate now has no such requirements of me and I enjoy my spoil of our room. Rest assured, however, I shan’t retire my Jenga Ninja outfit hastily. In secret I still feel the need to practice the unique skill sets I learned from childhood. God just might have the last laugh by sticking Cindy and I in the same room at an Assisted Living Facility and I insist on being prepared this time.

 

A Change of Heart

Last night was my first World AIDS Day celebration. I was invited by my co-worker who has fast become a wonderful new friend. Her name is Kathy and her brother’s coming out many years ago changed the landscape and direction of her life. She is now a leader in the community co-founding a group dedicated to the education of friends and family of the LGBT community. Her story is just as inspirational as she is; the more I get to know her, the more depth she brings to my own understanding of the meaning of compassion for alternative lifestyles.

The celebration was stationed at Our Lady of Lourdes Catholic Church in Daytona Beach. It was there that we joined a tide of people in front of the image of Mary standing in cave like structure, a child at her feet praying to her. The night was lit by candles which became part of the theme of one of the speakers who equated the light of each candle to represent the light of God on the canvas of ignorance. This speaker was a woman who has been living with AIDS for 25 years. Her courage to give an audience to her struggle was more than admirable; “the stigma still remains,” she said! Although it is not as raw as it was in the 80’s when just the word could have people in a fear frenzy. Kathy shared with me her own concerns about her brother during this time and how she could understand those concerns. Her words made the night more personal for me.

After the speakers were finished the priest walked us to the Halifax river, the waves of moving candles flickering down the sidewalk as we walked were impressive and had me thinking about the many people around me. So many lives touched by this disease, still. We ended up at a large gazebo out on the water with everyone packed around each other. Kathy’s name was called out several times as she knew many people there who wanted to say hello. One man walked up to her and gave her a big hug and when she introduced me to him, he scooped me up in his arms as if we were long lost friends. His name was Jeff Allen. At that point there was an invitation for anyone there to speak about a loved one who passed from this disease. Many tossed their loved ones names gently out into the crowd with stories that made it easy for me to imagine that they floated out to sea as each family shared. Other names remained close to the vest; the loss too new or too powerful for them to untie to be let go of just yet. The Rabbi then gathered us up again for the walk back to the church.

Once there we found a seat and waited for the panel of interfaith speakers and a gay man to begin. The gay man was Jeff Allen who turned out to be instrumental in the church's outreach program to the LGBT community. The most touching moment was when Jeff spoke about his parents and how he knew so many families that disowned their children when they came out; his voice cracked with emotion as he spoke of receiving nothing but love from his mom and dad. My heart found itself weeping for those so harshly cast aside, and, thankful that Jeff had such a supportive family.

The night brought my life full circle. Being raised a Southern Baptist steeped in extreme conservatism; I was front row to many services throughout my life that spate out just how this wickedness was ruining our country; the sermons were always laced with the caveat, “love the sinner but hate the sin,” yet, the words were tight with hypocrisy. Love cannot contain judgement ... it is inclusive and compassionate.

Kathy would tell me later that the gentleman who hugged me, Jeff, had Aids. I’m thinking this morning that Jeff has more love and compassion in his pinky finger than most Christians I know today.

It was a beautiful night with a beautiful friend and I received a beautiful hug from an HIV positive gay man named Jeff Allen. This is a memory I won't soon forget.

Mona McPherson