A Legacy of Touch

A mother's arms are made of tenderness and children sleep soundly in them.

- Victor Hugo

When I was a little girl I would rise early in the morning, far earlier than my mother desired.  Longing for another hour or two of sleep, she would place me into bed with her.  There my mom would gently caress my face.  With her soft fingers she would tenderly stroke along my brow, down my nose, around my lips and up my cheeks to my brow and begin the cycle again.  Oh, what pure joy!  How quiet I would be as I delighted in my mothers loving touch.  Soon I would be sleeping, cuddled safely in the arms of my mamma.

On November 1, 1996 my 59-year-old mother was diagnosed with 4th stage metastatic lung cancer.  The cancer had metastasized to her bones, affecting her left hip and right shoulder.  Because it was in her shoulder joint she had a great deal of discomfort.  One thing that relieved the pain was when I massaged her head and face.  Over and over again I would gently caress her face in the same way she nurtured me as child; and like me, she would relax and fall asleep.

When my mother was dying, I sat at her bedside and lifted her limp hand to my face.  I moved her soft fingers around my face tracing the old familiar path. It was the last time I felt my  mother’s soft warm touch upon my skin. 

Her touch left an indelible imprint upon my life.

Musical Inspiration:   Her favorite song

"As a mother comforts her child, so I will comfort you; and you will be comforted ..." -   Isaiah 66:13

A Winter Season

In Loving Memory

Joseph Anthony Nolla, Sr.

December 3, 1932 - November 13, 2006

"... the leader of the band is tired and his eyes are growing old, but his blood runs through my instrument and his song is in my soul ... "
Leader of the band - Dan Fogelberg

Winter has finally come to Pittsburgh. Sometimes at the beginning of a new season I think perhaps it might be possible to avoid the adverse conditions of that season... a winter with no frigid temperatures or snow... a summer with no humidity ... spring with no mud ... autumn with no loss of foliage. But, alas, no matter how long it may delay the new season will surely come, there is no avoiding it.

The season of death came in 2006. On November 13th, my dad died. I watched him change from a robust and active person to a frail, sick man in a matter of 8 months. At the beginning of such a season, it is normal to deny it, "he won't die"... "he can kick this"... (perhaps it won't snow). But slowly the reality of a season shows itself .

Saturday night, November 11th:  Four children are called to the hospital: "internal bleeding"..."respirator" ..."off the transplant list" ... "24-48 hours".

Two daughters spend the night in the hospital with their dying father. The younger tried to keep him from removing the tube.. He cried, "Please let me alone"... "I want to go home"... The older said, "Ok, Dad, we'll take you home"... they let him pull the tube out.

Sunday, November 12th, 11AM: He was home: his music, his chair, his garden... a hospital bed, hospice, medications to make it easier....grandchildren, brothers, sisters, nieces, nephews... Great Aunt Marge... good-bye dad, grandpap, pap-pap, Joey, Joe, Uncle Joe.

Monday, November 13th, 7AM: A phone call, "Dad is gone"... a son's lament, "Oh, my dad, my dad!"

Tuesday &Wednesday, November 14th & 15th: The funeral home: Sinatra plays... photos.... faces from the past, so many swirling faces.... "your dad was a great guy".

He looked like himself again. The hospital gown was gone, replaced with the red shirt and red tie he bought for himself (and was quite proud of) after his wife of 40-years died. His derby was on his chest along with his sunglasses. The bruising on his hands was less evident.

A tiny little red bud from one of his rose bushes managed to defy the season. A grand-daughter placed it on his lapel. A gift from his garden.

Thursday, November 16th: A funeral: one last glimpse ... his face ... his hands ... good-bye daddy ... his four children huddle together in a group embrace... no mom ... no dad ... orphans.

A funeral mass: a young grandson wearing his grandpap's hat and sunglasses leads the procession... a son's tearful story of a relationship reconciled ... a daughter recounts a joke her dad always told... the crowd laughs through their tears.

The gravesite: taps... a flag is folded and placed in the arms of his grieving little brother...  sobs.

Good-bye my father, Joseph Anthony Nolla. Sr., my root. 

I will always remember your sacrifices... your loving... your laughter... your generosity... your jokes ... 

your food ... your song.

The Call of the Heart

Oh, the places we'll go...

 

Pismo Beach, California

Follow the hands ...

When I was studying to be a massage therapist I had a wise instructor who encouraged her students to "make the massage their dance" - fluid, flowing, and rhythmic movement.  With these five words, she encapsulated for me the "how" to do this work. There have been times when providing massage I have gotten lost ... lost the rhythm - dancing with my two left feet, or should I say hands.  The way I find my way back into the flow is to stop thinking and simply follow my hands.  Though we learn physiology and pathology in order to provide safe and effective massage, it is not a brain-led modality.  Massage, at its essence, is heart-led via our hands. 

Follow the heart ...

I have been reading a fascinating book this summer about the heart written by a psychoneuroimmunologist (long word, I know!!) In his book, he proposes that  in our science-based, brain-oriented western world we have underestimated and devalued the capacity of our hearts.  Seen primarily as the body's pump by western medicine, we have yet to realize its full capacity.   By providing scientific research and anecdotal information gained through interviews with heart-transplant patients and their families, the author proposes that the heart, not just the brain, is actually capable of thought, emotion, memory, and communication with other hearts.

As a Christian, I am familiar with the concept of a knowing, feeling, and perceiving heart. In scripture the words spirit and heart are often interchangeable. Much of my spiritual devotion is geared toward discerning the rhythm of my heart - the inner man, as Paul refers to it, where the Holy Spirit makes his abode.  Jesus taught us in John 16 that the Holy Spirit would teach us and lead us into all truth; a truth which encompasses our unique design and purpose for life on earth.  Listening, sensing, feeling, and learning to be led by the heart/Spirit's movement is the pathway to life, the mark of Christian maturity, and the channel through which heaven comes to earth.

However, we humans live among the clatter.  The clatter of the world, of our own inner conflicts, and that of other voices ... all in competition for our attention.  Yesterday, I set my intention to write this missive.  As I unpacked my computer in a local cafe, I realized that I forgot my ear-buds.  Seated at a nearby table were a group of women discussing marketing strategies for their business.  As I tried to concentrate on the voice of my own writing, it became impossible to filter out the one voice in that group that rose above the others.  This is a picture of how the Spirit's voice, that still small voice located within the depth of the human heart, gets drowned out.  So loud is the world that we lose our heart's rhythm and find ourselves living life with two left feet! 

I have to confess over the past years, I have often felt my life out of sync.  At times following the rhythm of my heart and others trying to "figure" it all out.  My western brain fretting, thinking, and running on high octane.  Even though I make regular time for prayer, scriptural meditation, silence, and journaling, the disconnect between my heart and my life has at times been torturous.  Somewhere in my life, perhaps rooted in my Catholic upbringing, or due to being raised in an alcoholic family culture, or perhaps enduring a dysfunctional marriage for over 20-years, I built a high tolerance for suffering.  I believe there is a legitimate theology for suffering - Jesus taught that we would suffer in this world (it is after-all, a fallen world.)  However, there is another type of suffering ... the type that is toxic, the type that comes from a false story we tell ourselves to help us cope and make sense of the pain in our lives. This story placates us for a time, but like a band-aid over an infected wound, it offers no true end to suffering. 

For the past 15-years I have had a longing in my heart for community.  Since the death of my mother, the dissolution of my marriage, and my children's launch into adulthood, I haven't had a true sense of home or belonging.  Even though I moved back to the neighborhood I grew up in after my divorce to live near my dad and raise my son, my heart has never been here.  I dislike the noise, the litter, and the carelessness in how people live.  I have tried over and over and over to fit in here, to be content and find purpose, but my heart .... 

Those who are my closest companions and keepers of my heart's secrets could testify that my prayers have been to be a part of a larger community of believers, in which my heart could thrive and my gifts  welcomed.  I haven't found that here, even though I have sought for it like the woman in the parable searching for her lost coin. 

So, I made a decision this summer.  A decision to follow my heart.  To lay aside my plans and human reasoning and to trust the Spirit of God is leading me through my heart's desire. I have applied and been accepted into a 9-month leadership program with IRIS Global.  Heidi and Rolland Baker are the founders of this powerful mission-oriented ministry head-quartered in the African nation of Mozambique, but with bases throughout the world. 

Heidi is often considered a modern-day Mother Teresa.  When I first heard her speak in the mid 1990s I was struck by her deep compassion and corresponding faith.  She  literally picks up starved and orphaned children from the dumps of Mozambique and provides them with food, faith, nurture, and love.  This petite blonde-haired woman from Laguna Beach has become my hero in the faith.  In my hospice work as I would walk the halls of the nursing homes, seeing our forgotten elders, I would hear her voice, "Stop for the one, would somebody, please stop for the one??"

Called to compassionate/healing work, I know that I must locate myself within the greater body before I can reach my full potential.  I need a network, I need my tribe. 

So, at the beginning of September I am leaving for IRIS' Pismo Beach base in California.  There I will spend 9-months immersed in study, prayer, and ministry. 

As when I get lost in my massage work, I regain my rhythm by following my hands ... so with my life, I am endeavoring to follow the rhythm of my own heart.

Musical Inspiration :  California, Joni Mitchell

You can never truly go home ...

I live in a haunted house ...

Yes, haunted ...

But not in a bad way ...

There are no jangling chains ...

No items flying through the air ....

No apparitions of scary monsters ....

There is no fear.

Yes, I bought a haunted house last year ...

It belonged to my parents.

My son came to visit two weeks ago and remarked on how the kitchen smelled like Grandpap's Italian cooking.

My niece came to visit and peeked in the broom closet marveling at how she used to hide in there.

They laugh when they point to the baseboard heater at the bottom of the steps, which was the cause of bumps on toddler heads, a trip to the emergency room, and a remaining scar or two.

Yes, this house is haunted with people, scents, and sounds from long ago...

In the living-room, I see a recliner with a teen-ager who immediately vacates that seat when her dad enters the room!  I see a grandmother wearing a Santa Clause cap while her grandchildren squeal in delight as they unwrap the mounds of presents placed under the tree.  I see a wall lined with shelves full of knick-knacks and photos of graduations, weddings, beloved parents and grandchildren.

In the dining-room, I see a table fully open so that it almost spans the length of the room.  I see aunts and uncles seated there nibbling on pistachios, pepperoni, cheese, and crackers.  I see the white-haired grandmother seated at its head telling a tale or two or three.  There is a family of six gathered there every evening for dinner, each in their own chair.  There is an old-fashioned phone stand in the corner and when the phone rings, I hear the father say, "Whoever it is, tell them to call back, we're having dinner."

Phone stand, now a book-nook

In the kitchen, I see the mother bent over the oven basting a Sunday roast.  I see the dad grating cheese for  lasagna and home-made hot sausage.  I see sisters squabbling while one washes and the other dries the heaps of dinner dishes.  I smell the aroma of garlic, basil, and oregano.  

On the porch, I see chaise lounges where teen-agers sleep on hot summer nights.  I hear Pittsburgh Pirate baseball games and Sinatra serenading loud enough for the neighbors to enjoy.  I hear a bug zapper fry a mosquito before it's able to take a bite out of one of the occupants on the porch.  

Porch Living

In the yard, I see American flags dotting the walkways and waving softly in the breeze. I see a rose-covered trellis, a grape arbor with its clusters, and a statue of the Madonna surrounded by flowers.  I see a toddler hiding under a pine tree.  There is a small garden with huge red tomatoes on the vine just waiting to be picked for sandwiches and salads.  I smell green onions and see the tops of the ripening kohlrabis.  I see teen-age boys mowing and weed-whacking under the supervision of their dad; a man who is proud of his flourishing green patch of ground in the city.

After years of being pruned to the ground, the roses are blooming again

Yes, this house is haunted ...

Haunted with memories that have a way of messing with me on certain days.  Memories that fill with me nostalgia and longing.  

Though I am officially listed as the owner, I will never truly own this house.

This house belongs to another era.

It belongs to ...

my dad...

my mom...

... and their family.

The Way We Were, Barbara Streisand

Engraved in it, heart & soul.

Lets Get Real...

Pose - assume a particular attitude or position in order to be photographed, painted, or drawn.

I am late to the blogosphere.  Though, I've run this little blog for several years, I haven't really grasped the immensity of blogging until the past year.  I've discovered a few favorites that I follow.   At first, I was swept off my feet by the life-style ones.  The gorgeously decorated homes, the mouth-watering meals prepared each day with the fresh vegetables from their gardens, and the stylish outfits, even when painting!  And the children! Athletes, actresses, dancers, cheerleaders, honor-rollees, all fashionably stylish with impeccably clean bedrooms!  As mothers, these women are the fountains of wisdom:  never a scream escapes their lips, and if they cross the line into "bad-parenting," (which would be considered giving unwarranted advice), they quickly catch themselves and amend their  ways!  Oh, and the husband?  He is referred to as MrHandsome, MrHandyman, or MrBlueEyes, you name it.  He has immense patience, talent, and major power-tools.  Not only does he have a job that produces BIG money to fund all of the home-improvements, vacations, and expensive clothing, but he spends his week-ends turning ordinary trim into timeless architecture!

These blogs have tens-of-thousands of followers.  They are the women we emulate.  Why?  Because they seem to meet the criteria of the American dream, some even have the white-picket fence!  Most are professing Christians - they are the Proverbs 31 women.  Theirs is a world of prosperity, where the flaws are few and beauty abounds. 

Sigh.

I am glad that blogs weren't there when I was young.  How could I have reconciled my life with these images of perfect?  Though, I love the home-arts and have always worked  hard to create warmth and charm in my homes, it was always on a shoe-string budget. My husband had no interest in spending his week-ends engaged in home improvements, nor was there money for costly renovations. My oldest son was hyperactive and was the one who bit the other children.   Our honest attempts at gardening were generally overtaken by weeds, deer, and bugs by mid-July. 

How I longed for that picture-perfect family, only problem was my son would never stay within the gilded frame and I was usually seething, rather than smiling at my detached husband.  Life happens that way.  We raise our children with certain values and they grow to disregard them.  We marry with dreams of ever-after and wind up divorced.  We dream of the house with flowers and a white-picket fence and end up in fore-closure.  Age brings perspective.  We all reach that age where our dreams meet reality ... when what we hoped for becomes "what is" or "is this all there is?"

I had a long conversation recently with a young man who is defining his philosophy for life.  His goals are noble and I admire his clear-headedness and ambition.  As he talked I heard the optimism of his youth, his belief that life is linear;  he believes he will reach his goals by doing A-B-C.  Sometimes that works, but most often, it doesn't.  There are many impediments along life's path.

Working with the dying has allowed me a stark glimpse into life.  I worked with a 19-year-old, whose dream was to become an engineer, he had his A-B-C plan, as well.  The only difference being that he was diagnosed with osteosarcoma during his freshman year of college and died a month after turning twenty.  Then there was the young mother of two preschoolers.  Her life seemed much like the ones in the blogs.  She was beautiful, an artist, married to a doctor, and lived in a stylish home in an affluent neighborhood.  She was diagnosed with a brain tumor and died at the age of thirty-six leaving her young family devastated. 

I still read some of those blogs; however, they've become portraits of fiction to me, much like reading a novel or watching a movie.  I still hope, somewhere deep down for that type of life, where everybody is happy and life is as it should be.  However, I am tempered enough to know that I will only experience brief times and seasons of it in this world.

Life is so temporary.  Eternal life beckons.  While here, we are called to partner with God in the work of redemption and restoration.  That can't happen if we are posing.  We have to be real.  He desires truth in our inward parts.  We have to be willing to show our messy rooms, our marital woes, our children's less than stellar performances, and the weeds that grow among our herbs.  James told us to "confess our faults to one another that we would be healed."  Healing occurs when the truth is told in the context of trust.

My prayer is that rather than striving to emulate perfection, we strive to have honest hearts. My prayer is that the less-than-perfect woman in the less-than-perfect marriage with the less-than-perfect children know that hers is what real life looks like.  This is what Christ came to redeem.  This is why we need a Savior.

Selah

Musical Inspiration:  Broken Spirit, Psalm 51

Beauty for Ashes

Beauty for Ashes

My mentee and I recently went to see the new movie, Cinderella.  I enjoyed the new take on this classic tale that is told from one generation of girls to the next.  What is its appeal that draws the female's attention and never seems to get old or outdated?  What is the common thread that weaves itself through the hearts of girls, both young & old?  What is it about the story of an orphaned child left in the care (or lack thereof) of a cruel stepmother that resonates within us?  What makes a young woman subjected to daily beratings, forced servitude, and life among the ashes, with rodents as her only companions, our hero?

Well, I think in short she is US.  She is me, she is you, she is every girl, and every woman since the creation of Eve.  Females with tender hearts living in a cruel, cruel world, often discarded to the ash-heap of life.  We want so terribly for her to win, we want to see her rise from the ashes and claim her rightful inheritance in her father's house.  We long for love to find her, we want adoring eyes to see her value and worth hidden beneath the smudged face, the calloused hands, and the tattered clothing.  This is a story that goes deep to the heart of our feminine wound, the deep soul injury created by our first mother's act of disobedience in reaching for that forbidden fruit. 

Each year I eagerly awaited this Rogers & Hammerstein version to come on TV

One thing I liked about this new movie is that it gives the audience more background information.  We are introduced to the little girl, Ella (her name before life in the cinders), who lives with her wealthy parents on their beautiful estate.  She is a carefree child who is warmly nurtured and loved by her parents.  From her earliest memories, her mother's words to her were to always be "kind" and have "courage."  When Ella is 12-years-old, her idyllic world comes crashing down when her beloved mother dies.  On her death-bed, the mother calls for her child and asks her to promise to always be "kind" and have "courage."  The child, with tears streaming down her cherub face, promises.

As the story progresses, it tells the tale we are all well acquainted with.  There is the wicked stepmother, the evil step-sisters, their cruel behavior, and the humiliating nickname they bestow upon her out of jealousy, Cinderella.   We witness the young Cinderella stay true to her promise.  She remains kind in the face of indignity.  As hard as they try, they are not able to break her spirit.  She courageously continues to believe in goodness, love, and in dreams come true.

During one scene, as the stepmother lashes out at Cinderella in a fit of envious rage, she reveals her own heart wound.  The deep disappointments that she has experienced through the deaths of not one, but two husbands.  She fears her waning beauty and her financial future. She expresses displeasure at the lack of natural beauty and feminine charm in her own two daughters.  As she vents her bitterness, you come to understand that Cinderella represents everything to her that she had hoped for and lost. 

Of course, the ending of this story is a happy one.  Cinderella experiences a transcendent moment with a fairy-godmother and is transformed into the princess who wins the prince's heart.  All the girls and women in the audience let out a collective sigh as they rise from their seats with a smile, all is redeemed and as it should be.

This movie provides us with the portrait of two women, each deeply wounded, and how they respond to the cruel blows life inflicts upon them.  The one becomes full of rage and bitterness.  She is defensive and full of jealousy.  She is hard-hearted and cruel; and in the end, she is never heard of again.  The other responds to her loss with "kindness and courage."  Courage to keep her heart open and to continue to hope, even in the midst of her own suffering.  She is somebody whose own pain enlarges, rather than diminishes her capacity to love and feel compassion.  She lives happily ever after.

On the way home, Markita and I had opportunity to talk about the words, " kindness" and "courage," and how we might apply them to our own lives.  How do we respond to hurt?  What does a vulnerable feminine heart look like?  What of a courageous one? Actually, I think the lesson was more mine than hers.  Life has been tough on my feminine soul and at times I've caught myself raging in response.

This movie serves as a metaphor for the Kingdom of Heaven; and therein lies its appeal.  Written into the very fiber of our DNA, we know something terrible has occurred.  We have lost claim to our inheritance and are living in a world ruled by an evil authority.   We are all longing for the embrace of a true love, for the restoration of all things, and for the dream that really does come true.

"Will love ever find me beneath the soot?" The question that reverberates throughout the hearts of all women throughout all ages.

We long for thy kingdom come ...on earth as it is in heaven.

He has come, the prince has come and all has been restored!

The Spirit of God, the Master, is on me because God anointed me. 

 He sent me to preach good news to the poor, heal the heartbroken,
Announce freedom to all captives,  pardon all prisoners.
God sent me to announce the year of his grace, 

a celebration of God’s destruction of our enemies—
    and to comfort all who mourn,
To care for the needs of all who mourn in Zion,
    to give them bouquets of roses instead of ashes....

  

Isaiah 61:1-3:  (The Message Bible)

Oh, come, great Prince

You who sees beauty beneath the soot

Come and quench the longings of our heart

With your great love

Beauty for ashes 

You restore all things.

Musical Inspiration:  Beautiful Things by Gungor 

Period

For the past 5-years I have been very busy.  I have driven thousands and thousands of miles.  I have provided thousands of massages to hundreds of hospice patients.  October 31st was the last day of my contract.  Complimentary services were discontinued due to financial constraints imposed by the new healthcare law.

 In November, I moved and spent the next month cleaning, repairing, painting, and creating a space that fits our lifestyle.  Then came Christmas.  Boxes that were just moved into the basement were lugged back upstairs as we "decked our halls."  Last week the last of the glittery adornments were again put away.

Its January.  Its winter, the temperatures are frigid and the skies are gray.  What now?

The book-nook I created in the living room

The period punctuation mark is the most used in the English language.  It indicates that a complete thought has been expressed and the reader is to stop.  I remember as we learned to read out loud in grade school, the teacher constantly needed to remind us to stop and pause when we came to the period.  As young children, we were prone to run all of our sentences together resulting in a jumbled mix of words, which muddied the meaning and message of the author's narrative.

When God devised time, he structured it with a natural rhythm of starts and stops. Genesis tells us that he placed the lights in the sky to separate the day from the night.  The rising of the sun awakens us and invites to engage the outer world; while the setting of the sun, like a period at the end of the sentence, indicates that it is time to stop. 

The Genesis account of time also tells us that God placed a period at the end the week.  After six days of creating, God stopped on the seventh day and rested from all of his work.  The seventh day was called the Sabbath and was the day specifically blessed and sanctified by God, indicating the value he places upon stopping.

We are also told in Genesis that the sun and moon mark and delineate the seasons. Four seasons of the year, each bearing forth distinct characteristics that shape how we live and engage our world. The full days of sunshine in summer beckon us to activity from morning to night. Winter, on the other hand, by its very nature imposes upon us a stop. 

Metaphorically, our lives are referred to in terms of times and seasons. When we are young, we are in the spring time of our life, and when middle-aged, autumn.  When new things occur, it is a "dawning" and when they end, the "dusk".  When we are in prolonged periods of confusion or depression, it could be referred to as the "dark night" of the soul.  When we are in transition, our "season" is changing.

Winter is the season that beckons us to turn inward.   Winter, who invites us to life under the blankets with a good book and our journal, or in front of the fire with a bowl of soup.  Winter, who only allows us short periods of time in the outside world.  Winter, whose harsh winds and snowfalls say, stop!

Out my window on a winter morn

 Though we moan, complain, and feel a bit blue, there are gifts that this season brings to our lives.  It provides us that break in time which allows us introspection. We can examine our path, are we headed in the right direction?  Is there anything we should change?  What are the subtle messages our hearts have been trying to convey, but we've not heeded because of the demands of the outer world?

We are responsible to discern the seasons of our hearts and lives.  Unlike the clear signs of the natural seasons, understanding the times and rhythms of the inner movements of life is far more mysterious.  What does this sense of restlessness mean?  This anticipation, for what I don't know?  What of the persistent sadness?  Or, the exhaustion that is not cured by 8-hours of sleep?

I have had many people on my massage table who were unaware of the pain they were carrying in various parts of their bodies until the touch of my hands brought it to their attention.  The busyness of their lives did not allow them to "feel."  They were just a bundle of "doing."  Living entirely for the outer world, rushing to meet deadlines and to fulfill the myriad of the obligations that had their schedules overflowing.  Once on the table, experiencing a period/ a pause, they were finally able to pay attention to the message their bodies were trying to convey.


When we don't comprehend the pauses in life, like the reader who does not grasp the importance of the period, we are apt to run-on and on, jumbling and obscuring the message and meaning of our lives.

This is where I am at right now.  I am at a period.  I am pausing at the end of a complete work season to discern where to next.  I am celebrating the stop.  For I know that as the world turns, we shall not be in any one season for too long.  Before long, spring will call and I will douse the embers in my hearth and turn outward once more.

"What a severe yet master artist old Winter is ...

No longer the canvas and pigments, but the marble and the chisel."

- John Burroughs, "The Snow-Walkers"