A Holiday Gift

Holidays are interesting phenomena. So routine and at the same time so special. By routine, I guess I mean predictable. Each holiday, from Halloween to Christmas to Valentine’s Day, comes at the same time every year, is identified by the same ceremonies and/or activities, inspires advertisements for the same kinds of food, and provides similar shared memories for members of the groups (families, towns, national cultures) who celebrate them. I have never understood why people are so fond of all this sameness.

OK, maybe “never” is a more than slight exaggeration. After all, I was a kid once, many long years ago, and back then I certainly loved the sameness of Chanukkah – lighting the candles every night for eight nights, followed by a different small gift each night – and was never bored by the same annual Purim carnival at the synagogue with all of us kids dressing up as our same favorite characters from the Book of Esther and boisterously shaking the same gragors every time the evil name of Haman was heard in the megillah reading.

Our family even had a small Christmas tradition. I don’t know why. We certainly didn’t believe that Jesus Christ was the Son of God. In fact, judging from my Sunday School and later Hebrew School lessons, it seems we didn’t even believe He had ever existed, since despite the major part Christ played in Jewish history, He was never mentioned.

Still, Christmas permeates the season so completely that hardly anyone can be immune to it, belief or no belief. Apparently my mother thought we should do a little something to mark the day. No tree, of course. (Already told you that story.) No big gift opening ritual. No strings of lights or Christmas dinner. But yes to “stockings hung by the chimney with care.” Since we didn’t have a chimney, she would hang stockings from a table in the living room and fill them with nuts and chocolate and oranges. And yes to Santa Clause, at least the department store Santa Clause. We have several photos of my sister and I sitting on Santa’s lap. The two of us looked so much alike that in one of those old pictures we are not sure which one of us was the subject of the moment. My super curly hair should have given it away, but the little girl in that photo is wearing a concealing hat, and the coat was one my sister inherited after I outgrew it, so it could be either one of us. And of course, there’s no clue in the photo’s other subject. Santa always looks the same!

That was the only non-Jewish holiday we observed in any way, except for holidays not tied to any particular religion, such as Mothers Day and the Fourth of July. And I definitely did not mind seeing the same fireworks year after year.

You might recall that I ranted on about the evils of sameness in another blog a while back. In response, a good friend offered an alternate view. “That is the real beauty of tradition, that it gets us to thinking about the past and all we have to be grateful for, the large crowd of witnesses that went before us. And if we are thinking about such things it gets us off of the American obsession with self, which has to be a good thing.”

And you know, I think he’s right. There is a value to creating a comfortable space for celebration and observance of important days. I think my problem is more accurately with advertising, with the huge role marketing plays in promoting and creating our national sense of what is right and proper – and expected -- for each holiday. All those advertisements on TV and in newspaper inserts practically mandate how we should feel and what we should do for each holiday, whether it’s eat hot dogs or sip champagne, celebrate indoors or out, rush to the nearest store to buy straw baskets or strings of colored lights. It seems, at least to me, that our national holiday celebrations have become externally imposed to the point that many of us feel compelled to follow the established program and reluctant to try anything different.

There I go, ranting again.

The catalyst this time around came from all the lovely Facebook entries posted by Bahá'í friends about what they were doing to celebrate Ayyám-i-Há, our end of February gift-giving, party-throwing, charity-offering holiday that precedes a fasting period and the start of our new calendar year on March 21. I read about an Ayyám-i-Há pancake party in one friend’s status, an afternoon spent delivering gift baskets in another, a children’s party, a masquerade ball, an interfaith dialogue and dinner, and a celebration concert. One posting included a sample of Arabic calligraphy as a gift to other FB friends, another offered a link to a video and article about a gallery opening. Diversity to the max!

It would actually be much easier for me if we did have set patterns for observing Ayyám-i-Há, because I’m not very adept at coming up with ideas or even, some years, remembering that a holiday is on the horizon. This was that kind of year. During December, influenced by Christmas frenzy, I had grandiose intentions for big doings this week. However, when February actually arrived, my attention was totally absorbed in a couple major projects, and since the world-at-large wasn’t helping me along with a barrage of Ayyám-i-Há commercials and Ayyám-i-Há advertisements and Ayyám-i-Há TV shows and Ayyám-i-Há street decorations (what an image!), my good intentions fell flat.

Heck, I almost forgot to get presents for my grandsons!

And now Ayyám-i-Há is almost over – it ends at sunset on March 1 – but it’s not too late yet. I have one special gift ready to impart: a big, brightly wrapped box of GRATITUDE to all of you steadfast (but hopefully not too long-suffering) friends who read my blog, week after week, even the not-so-hot efforts. Blogging is, after all, a rather self-indulgent endeavor, and it’s pure delight to be able to ramble on about one’s own interests and find an audience of kindred souls who are willing to spend a few minutes reading all that rambling, and often even responding to it with insightful comments and shared observations.

I’m also grateful for all the overwhelming encouragement many of you gave me when I applied to graduate school. Starting tomorrow, I’ll be watching the mail for the promised March decision to tell me whether I’ve been admitted. I’m not holding my breath. That’s not a statement of pessimism, I just know too much about the grad school admissions process after working with it for almost nine years. Even the world’s most qualified applicant – which I can guarantee you I’m not – can be rejected, for a variety of reasons: because her preferred advisor isn’t currently taking new students, or because her academic goals don’t fit well with the department’s program, or because her reference letters aren’t strong or specific enough, or simply because the competition is too stiff. Whatever my letter says when it comes, it’ll be OK. The experience was a good one regardless of result, and not the least because of your confidence and support.

Julie Powell, author of “Julie and Julia,” coined a name for her blog readers. She called them “bleaders.” So to my own wonderful bleaders, let me just end by saying …

Happy Ayyám-i-Há to all. And to all, a good night.

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Out of the starting gate at last

Saturday morning, February 20

TODAY’S THE DAY.

Today’s the day that echoed through my prayers almost three years ago, prayers for guidance about what to do with my life now that I had it back. Now that energy would start replacing the chronic exhaustion caused by daily radiation treatments and chemicals dripping through my veins 24 hours a day. Now that I could get off the couch and make plans, execute plans, turn plans into actual activities.

But what plans? During the Summer and Fall before the cancer was discovered, with my class work for my 44-yeear bachelor’s degree almost completed, I had dived back into the theatre world with a vengeance – acting in two plays, producing an experimental workshop performance about racism, and directing an original one-act for a university group. So as I looked forward to the end of treatments, at first I assumed that now I would head back to that diving board and jump into those same waters headfirst.

Maybe not jump exactly, since the cancer center doctor had cautioned against impeding my body’s healing by doing too much too soon. But at least put a toe in and wade a little away from shore. So the question wasn’t what I would do -- I knew what I wanted to do -- it was how soon and how much.

Until a little voice, or sense, or feeling, or whatever it is that niggles its way into our thoughts, surprised me with a most unexpected message. It went something like this:

No.

That was it, just No.

No, I should not start auditioning again. No, I should not channel my now cherished time and energy into traditional theatrical endeavors, into the immense time commitments necessary to put myself on stages. Stages that gave me tremendous ego satisfaction but were not likely to help society progress in ways that seemed significant to me. That’s what I was hearing, though it wasn’t anything l had expected to hear.

I think that having spent many more hours in prayer and meditation during the last few months than ever before, my spiritual antennae had become a tad more sensitive. And those antennae were waving around and picking up new signals that reminded me service was my purpose, the reason I was still on the planet. Service. Not ego gratification, not applause, not theatre simply for the sake of theatre.

Nothing was wrong with any of that, it just – and I recognized this with certain if bewildered clarity – it just was not for me, now, at this moment. And that was when the mysterious little voice-sense-feeling whispered children’s theatre and spiritual education, and I caught the first faint scent of Today,

Theatre connected to spiritual education? I liked the idea. In fact, it was a good description of a project that I had long considered my absolute favorite theatre experience. This goes back 30+ years ago to a time when I was performing with New Day Chatauqua, a repertoire troupe that combined art with mission. A small group of friends with diverse talents produced shows that artistically presented spiritual themes. That was the one time in my life when the demands of theatre work did not detract from other priorities, but instead combined with and supported them. And I had always wanted to have that experience again.

But a children’s theatre dedicated to children’s spiritual education. Come on, little voice, get real. I don’t know anything about dealing with children. One on one, sure, that’s OK, after all I had raised a child. But one kid is not the same as a group of kids, a noisy, energetic, irrepressible, sometimes even intimidating bunch of young’uns. Never been any good with that. Too bad, said the voice. Do it anyway.

My only model for the kind of children’s theatre concept that was tiptoeing around my brain was a New York City project that I had read about, a group that teaches kids from a variety of racial backgrounds and economic levels to produce award-winning theatre while expressing spiritual values and making important social observations. That was all I knew about it, but it was enough to define a vague goal to start a similar group here in little old Champaign-Urbana.

Initially, though, some preliminary steps would be required. Step one, get to know some kids. Step two, start a neighborhood virtues class, something a lot of Bahá'ís and their friends were doing but that hadn’t yet happened in this community. Such a class would give me some real experience teaching and dealing with children, plural. Step three, morph the children’s class into a theatre group.

And that is what happened. Not exactly in the easy three-step path I had envisioned, but “close enough for government work,” as the old adage goes. A couple years and a couple virtues classes later, when the time seemed right to re-visit my original goal, my daughter (and former performance partner) agreed to join me. We started by contacting the founder of the aforementioned New York City Children’s Theatre Company. She was generous with her knowledge and willing to help. Through many long phone conversations (hooray for cell phones) we learned that the NYC project was much different, much better, and much more profound and complex than we had ever imagined.

If we followed their model, we would offer Saturday afternoon sessions that coordinated a virtues class with acting, music and dance classes which also served as rehearsals for a couple of relevant end-of-term productions. Sounded good. We could do that, right? Sure. No problem.

We decided to call our group Soul Miners, inspired by a quotation from Bahá'u'lláh -- "Regard man as a mine rich in gems of inestimable value. Education can, alone, cause it to reveal its treasures, and enable mankind to benefit therefrom" – which succinctly describes the educational philosophy, spiritual focus and social purpose that is the basis for the project. We had a name, we were off and running. Well, maybe not exactly running.

More like lurching forward in tentative baby steps and almost stalling out completely two months ago because we both felt overwhelmed by the tasks at hand. We eventually figured out that we had to reduce the plans for our first effort to manageable proportions before we could move on. One small group of students, one production. That hurdle scaled, we set a date and raced out of the starting gate.

The next few weeks became a dizzying dance of find-virtues-class-teachers-recruit-students- plan-curriculum-make-decisions-hire-theatre-arts-teachers-select-show-material-make-more-decisions-set-up-an-administrative-system-get materials-make-still-more-decisions-etc.-etc.-etc. And now, today, the planning phase is about to give way to the execution phase. Because this is it, the day of our first “building character through the arts” session. In just about 4 hours.

Yikes!

We have students and parents (some we know already, some we will meet today for the first time) who have committed to be actively involved in the endeavor. It’s a small group and we will be producing a small production. But it’s a beginning. Another beginning in a string of beginnings that came from that little whatever-it-was whispering a very definite NO, thus steering me toward a new and unexpected YES!

Time to get dressed, get crackin’, lots to do yet today before we open the doors. More later.

Sunday, February 21

DONE!

It happened. It really did! Students came, teachers taught, parents met, papers proliferated, snacks were eaten, songs were sung, prayers were prayed. A dream came true. A goal was met. End of planning, beginning of doing.

I’m sorry I can’t provide more specific description, especially to all of you who have supported this effort month after month with your prayers and your encouragement and kept hearing “soon, we’ll be starting soon” every time you asked until you probably thought “soon” was a synonym for “do what???” I’d like to vividly describe yesterday’s inaugural session but the details are too close for objective narrative, and the eventual result is too far away for subjective speculation. So all I can safely and honestly do today is express how grateful I feel that Day One actually happened. And that now we really are off and running.

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Surprise! (No, thanks.)

The guy on the phone spoke in the condescending and threatening tone that is typical of professional debt collectors. I should know, I’ve certainly heard from enough of them. Not lately, though. The last time was many, many years ago, before I discovered Debtors Anonymous.

That happened in August 1992, at a time when my life truly had become unmanageable, as DA’s Step One says, and I was totally ready to “admit that [I was] powerless over debt” – or really, to be more specific, over a lifestyle based on debt. I didn’t know how it had happened or how to stop it, I only knew that somehow, despite a modest but adequate income, I couldn’t seem to pay bills on time or in some cases pay them at all, and every week I ran out of money before payday. Virtually every Wednesday evening I wrote a check for cash at the grocery store, then raced to the bank at noon on Friday to deposit my paycheck in time to cover the Wednesday deduction. If my boss was a little late handing out paychecks, or for any reason I couldn’t get to the bank on time, I had another bounced check and more charges to add to my debt load.

Not a fun way to live.

Thanks to Debtors Anonymous, I don’t live that way now. I pay bills on time or early, have an emergency fund, keep a detailed record of all expenditures, always follow a current spending plan, and never, ever get calls from collection agencies.

Which is the reason my first reaction to the unexpected call a few weeks ago was complete bewilderment. Second reaction was a faint sense that the amount he claimed I owed -- $95.00 – sounded a tiny bit familiar. Third reaction? Explosive, defensive anger: my pre-DA mode of dealing with collectors. It just popped right in, as if all the intervening years and healing experiences had never happened.

Especially when he kept insisting that I had been receiving and ignoring collection notices. Either he was crazy or I was. That was my view. His view was that I was blatently lying. THAT really made me mad! My days as a habitual financial liar were long gone. How dare he not know that!

I calmed down long enough to get the name of the oral surgeon’s office where the debt originated and a few minutes later learned that yes, I did owe $95 after insurance, and yes, they had been sending me notices, but I hadn’t been getting them due to an address error. $95 had a vaguely familiar sound because several months earlier I had seen it on a statement and asked the oral surgeon’s office about it. The clerk said they were waiting for an additional insurance payment and that when they received it, if I owed anything they would send me a final bill. No bill ever came. No closing accounting with payment due clearly listed. No pink or blue or yellow demands for money. No notices that the bill had been turned over to a collection agency. Nothing. Until the dreaded phone call.

The next day I mailed a $95.00 check directly to the doctor’s office. A week later I called to confirm they had properly recorded the payment and cancelled the collection agency, and that was the end of that. Except I really wanted to call that smarmy man back and make sure he knew that I hadn’t been lying about not receiving the bills. I wanted to, but didn’t, because he wouldn’t have believed me anyway. And I would have become defensively angry with him again. Not a good feeling.

The part of the whole experience that stays with me is how quickly my emotions snapped back into pre-DA mode. Because the source of my anger was mainly guilt. Despite the fact that I had never received those statements and hadn’t even been aware the debt existed, even though it had been more than a decade since the last time anyone had called me about an overdue bill, and no matter that I knew I could just simply pay the $95 that very day … regardless of all that, here came the guilt. Just a couple minutes of it, but enough to be unsettling.

Which greatly increases my delight at knowing that maybe as early as next month I’ll be debt-free for the first time in roughly 40 years. The only debt I have now, other than a secured mortgage, is a home equity loan from the credit union. It’s secured, too, but it feels like an unsecured debt, and it still demands a chunk of money every month. I’ve been paying ahead on it whenever possible and there’s not much left, so between my state and federal tax refunds (which are already in my bank account) and a three-paycheck month (if you have ever been paid every other week, you know what that means), and barring any unexpected major expense (are you listening, car?) it looks like the loan might be completely paid by March 31. If not that soon, within the next couple months. And then when I make my spending plans not one penny will have to be allocated to the past.

That is a great lesson I learned from Debtors Anonymous: how to live in the present instead of the past. In DA vocabulary debting means having to focus energy and dollars on paying for items bought in the past, or for former services rendered, or for financial assistance rendered at an earlier time. Consistent compulsive debting means always looking backward. Recovery in DA meant learning how to look forward, to trust that plans made could actually happen, to pay ordinary living expenses as they occur and have actual discretionary money left over ….

And to never again be afraid to answer the phone.

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Long run, short blog

90 days. That’s what the email said, 90 days. And since that email had been sitting unopened in my inbox for a while, by this morning it was more like 85 days. 85 days until May 1, the second Illinois marathon.

I ran my first and so far only half-marathon last year when Champaign hosted its inaugural marathon event. Before that 10K (6.2 miles) was the longest I’d ever managed, and that was many years ago.

Unlike ice skating, I didn’t start jogging accidentally. It was a conscious decision, a strategy to help me quit smoking by replacing a harmful addiction with a healthier one. My idea was that I needed to develop a routine that would be threatened by a return to cigarettes. Fortunately I discovered that jogging in 5K and 10K runs was fun, even at my slower-than-a-turtle speed.

If six miles is a hoot, 13.1 miles would be euphoria, right? Close, actually. Finishing that half-marathon course last Spring provided an amazing sense of accomplishment, one I definitely wanted to repeat. It’s easy to get out of the habit of regular jogging though, so I registered for the May event in October. I figured that making an early commitment would ensure that I would keep running all through the winter. The weather hasn’t been very cooperative, however. Too messy too often. Too many unexpected ice patches and inconvenient snow mounds.

So instead of jogging I have been doing interval training on the treadmill, which is supposed to be a good way to pick up speed. Interval training means alternating a couple minutes of slow walking with a couple minutes of sprinting at one’s highest possible speed. I can keep going like that for 30 minutes, max. Since it takes me a whole lot longer than 30 minutes to run 13.1 miles, that kind of training is not going to be enough. Hence my determination tonight to head for the indoor running track.

My goal was six miles. I was only able to manage four. Pretty good, actually, considering how boring it is to run round and round the same track like a mouse in a maze, and also considering that I was jogging at the end of the day instead of the beginning. My body strongly prefers to exercise in the morning, as early as possible. I know that, and usually don’t even try to run or work out at night. That email about the marathon inspired a brief temporary insanity, however, which is why I was at the gym this evening instead of sitting at my computer. And why I didn’t finally begin to write until 9:00 p.m., have only been able to manage a short and very boring blog, and am now going to sign off and go to bed.

My apologies to all. And a promise of better reading next wee …zzzz….zzzz….zzzz…..

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