Nanny, Rose, and I

Last night I was down in my basement hunting for some family photo albums, and I came across this print of a painting I'd framed and had hung in my office many years ago. It is one of my favorite pieces of art.  When I first saw it, I would have sworn it was a photograph because of the incredible detail.  The 2nd thing I noticed was the smile on the young woman's face.  I am probably not the first to immediately think of the Mona Lisa when I saw it the first time, but that's who the woman reminded me of.  She has that same look of self assurance and satisfaction -- as if she's either just had sex or is about to. (I think the former).  The third thing I noticed was the energy and patient contentment the golden retriever is emoting.  Like her owner.   

Finally, the three subjects of the painting — the woman, the dog, and the artist… I have the feeling the artist and easel are right there, part of the scene. I can almost put myself in his place, noticing the small intimate details he is seeing and recording, and I can tell he and she are very much in love, knowing each other in ways only a married couple can. The dog, too, is one with them. I was just falling in love with someone who looks a bit like Nanny, but we were missing the dog.  I knew then I wanted a golden retriever.  I fell out of love, but Grace happened...  

It's a summer weekend morning in Northampton, Massachusetts, with the sun streaming in through the screened porch from above the house next door. The dusty screen needs a good wash. There's a hydrangea tree (not a rhododendron -- too far into the summer to be in such full bloom) down the street, and the grass around the house is turning brown and needs cutting. It's going to be hot again, but right now there's still a coolness that requires a flannel bathrobe.  The house next door needs a paint job, the old paint chipping and flaking off in places, and the white trim on this porch could stand some touching up. There’s a stray leaf or two on the newly painted floor. She has begun a list of things to do on the small pad of paper under the spoon on the folding table. But there’s no pen.  The light and shadows fascinate me, especially the sun coming through the wash of the screen.

The painting is titled "Nanny and Rose" and is by the American artist Charles Prior.  The woman is his wife, Nanny Vonnegut (Kurt's daughter), and the golden retriever is Rose.  The painting hangs in the Museum of Fine Art in Boston, where I first saw it many years ago and bought this print.

So this morning, with my own cup of tea in a green mug, I'm leafing through this month's issue of "Yankee" magazine, and flipping over a page came across Naomi Shulman's wonderful article, "Nanny, Rose, and I" about her own first encounter with the painting, and then -- blessed woman -- years later meeting the subjects (including the artist) when she and her husband moved to Northampton. The subtitle is: "A painting showed a young woman what love looked like, And then it came to  life.”   

I will have to give some thought to the grace-filled synchronicity of these two happenings within 12 hours of each other….What does this mean? 

Gracie

Grace

5 July 2000 - 23 November 2011

As most of you know, Gracie died on 23 November 2012, the day before Thanksgiving. Having to put her down seemed at the time to be the most difficult decision I've ever made, and it took about three weeks of agonizing anticipatory grief and three visits with her to the vet before I realized that in letting her go I was giving her a pain-free death.  If I'd waited any longer, she would have been miserable. 

Gracie's Last Swim

As it was, neither of us had much of a life those last few weeks.  She was lethargic most of the last two weeks, with some respites when she got some of her old energy back.  But even those days weren't perfect.  Her arthritis was bothering her, she couldn't run very much at all, and her hips seemed to give out once or twice.  The last time she went swimming at Converse Point -- about three weeks before she died -- she was eager but slow.  

Waiting for the ball

Last Swim

I could tell she was hurting, even though swimming  was what she loved best.  She did her usual thing though:  swam after the yellow tennis ball, which I threw only a few yards out in the water, brought it back to the beach, dropped it in a pile of sand and seaweed, and then rolled over on it with all four dripping legs flailing in the air.  

Really weird dog!

 Then she rolled over and placed the ball protectively between her two front legs. A classic Gracie position she'd maintained from puppyhood. There was no way anyone was going to take that ball from her unless it was to thrown it out in the water again.

 This is how I'll always remember her -- age 3. 

After the 2nd swim, I stopped, let her rinse off, and then took her up on the lawn to walk and dry off.  I knew it was her last swim and last walk on the Point, and that's really when the grief began for me. 

Diagnosis

A few days later Gracie seemed tired and lethargic, and wouldn't eat. 

Not the usual exuberant Gracie

I took her to her vet, Jean Pitcairn at Chase Farm Animal Hospital in North Dartmouth, who diagnosed her with inoperable cancer of the spleen.  We put her on some medication, including some homeopathic stuff that sometimes can slow cancer down and extend life up to a year.  It didn't work. 

At the next visit, a week later, I asked Jean if this was my fault.  Was there anything I'd done wrong?  Why so young?  Jean said, first of all, the average life expectancy of a golden retriever is 11.6 years.  Grace was just shy of that at 11.3.  So she's in the ballpark.  (Somehow I'd gotten it into my mind that golden lasted 14 years, so this seemed much too soon.)  

Second, even if I'd fed her organic dog food, vegetables, vitamins, and supplements, it wouldn't have helped.  She told me of a yellow lab whom she had to put down recently at age 7 -- because of cancer.  That dog's owners were fanatics about health, including their pet's -- making sure the animals ate healthy, organic, natural foods, drank bottled water, and got plenty of exercise.   None of it helped.  This dog died much younger than he should have, and no one knows why. 

So no, I was off the hook. Grace got good food, enough exercise, and a lot of love.  It simply was her time.

Gracie's Last Day

The cancer must have been spreading rapidly. Within two weeks, she had almost stopped eating, had days of lethargy when she wouldn't eat at all, with a day of grace between them.  On one of those days, I asked my cousin Annie, who is a professional photographer, if she would take some pictures of Gracie and me together, and some of Gracie alone.  So we traipsed out to the Point one last time, and Annie took some wonderful photos of the two of us, as you can see.  

 These six photos and the last one below, 
taken on 13 November 2011, 

are by Anne T. Converse, copyright 2011.
http://www.annetconverse.com/

Meanwhile, my heart was breaking because I knew this is the last time Grace and I would be together in that favorite place of ours. We went for a short walk too down to the pond and back.  Gracie, of course, headed right for the pond to swim, but I held her back.  Not today, sweetheart. 

The next day, I took Gracie back to Jean once more, adjusted her meds, and went home.  But a day later, finally I knew it was time to let her go.  She was getting worse by the day.  So, I put her in the car -- in the front seat for once, which she liked, since she'd been allowed there only once before -- the day Judith and I brought her home from the breeder as a puppy and she sat in Judith's lap.

We drove over in the late afternoon the day before Thanksgiving -- I recall it being cloudy and threatening rain, but not too cold -- and went in to see Jean.  I was hoping she'd have some magic cure, that there might be another medication that would help so that we could go home together. 

It wasn't to be.  Jean looked her over, and then took a sample of the fluid in Gracie's abdominal cavity.  It was cloudy with blood.  She looked at me with tears in her eyes, and shook her head.  You know things aren't good when your vet weeps.  We talked about it, with Jean not recommending anything one way or another, and I looked at Grace lying there.  She looked at me with those brown love-filled eyes of hers, as if to say, "It's ok.  I understand.  It's time to go.  But I'm sorry I'm letting you down." 

So I said to Jean, "It is time.  I don't want her to suffer.  And I'm suffering too. We better go ahead now"  -- even though I wanted so badly to take her home one more time.  But I knew it would be putting off the inevitable and just creating more suffering for both of us.  I realized I was being unfair and selfish to Gracie to postpone any longer. Jean agreed, and said I'd made a good decision.    

Jean explained carefully what she was going to do, saying it would take about 20 minutes.  So I got down on the floor with Gracie and put her head in my lap, stroked her gently, and thanked her for...being Grace. 

God's grace, coming to me though this amazing, love-filled, forgiving, funny, intelligent, mind-reading, mood-altering companion of 11  years and three months.  Thanked her for loving me so completely and unconditionally.  Thanked her for the joy she gave me.  Thanked her for always being at the door, so glad to see me  when I came home. Thanked her for her patience and forgiveness when I was late. Thanked her for allowing me to love her with no barriers.  Thanked her for always being there when I needed her.   Thanked her for the gift she was to me. 

And just before she closed her eyes for the last time, I kissed her and told her I loved her.   She died gently in my arms a few minutes later, at 5:25 pm.  May she rest in eternal peace.   

 Gracie's memorial stone

After Gracie

I drove home with her empty collar and leash -- numb, empty, drained. As I opened the door and she wasn't there waiting, then the tears started, and I wept and wept.  Hours later, I wept again in the kitchen when I saw her dish with its uneaten breakfast.   It was a difficult night, and I must have cried myself to sleep.  I honestly don't remember.

The next day, after a suggestion from a friend who has been through this many times with her goldens, I picked up all her toys, tennis balls, dishes, and towels and put them in a box for the Dartmouth Humane Society.  I took her leashes of their hooks and put them in too.  I threw away her bed under my desk, along with whatever food and meds were left.  And I vacuumed the whole house, so that no trace of her could be seen.  

The house seems so empty, so silent without Gracie. There is no other living presence here.  I know that as soon as I walk in.   I still expect her to be at the door waiting for me. I expect her to come lift my hand off the computer keyboard to say it's time to go out. I am surprised to find 6 pm has arrived because at 5 she always would let me know it was her dinnertime.

And yet... late one night a week after she died, I would have sworn I felt her put her head on my knee while I was at the computer, as she would sometimes.  In fact, I hardly took note of it and said absently, "In a minute, Sweetheart."  Perhaps it was her spirit, come to coax me up and out and then to bed.   God, I miss her, even three months later.   But I also know today is the last day I will cry for her. 

I admit that an upside exists.  Gracie's transition to her next form of energy, whatever it may be,  and absence here isn't all bad for me.   For one thing, I don't have to go out in the cold and snow and ice late at night anymore (though for a while I thought I missed not doing that!). I don't have to get up at dawn to go out either.  I can stay out as long as I want on a date and not worry about getting back to Gracie to feed and walk her.  I can even go away for the weekend if I want to.  I'm saving money on kennels for that, and on food and medicines.  I am also now free to go sailing!  And sometimes -- only sometimes -- it's nice to sit quietly to meditate or pray and not be interrupted by a cold nose in my praying hands.

Before Gracie died, in those last fearful days, I swore I would never have another dog.  For one thing, no other dog will ever be able to replace Grace. For another, back then it seemed disloyal to her and her memory. And I didn't think I could go through such pain again, and I don't want to watch someone I love go through that last part of life again, knowing she'll be gone soon.  Now, that seems selfish.  And unrealistic.  Death is part of life.  The Buddha says "Life is suffering."  He's right -- part of life is suffering.  That's just the way it is.   But part is also joy, and Gracie gave me much joy -- far more joy than suffering, for sure.  
I wonder now, why it's so easy for me to be with my dying hospice patients, why I feel so blessed, when I know how much the family sometimes is grieving and know what it feels like. I suppose it's because it's their pain, not mine. Good boundaries, I suppose a psychologist would say.  At least I can now empathize much better, knowing what they go through.


I certainly am not ready to have another dog.  Friends keep sending me emails with notices about poor abandoned dogs in shelters who are going to be euthanized in 24 hours unless I adopt them!   Sorry, pooches.  Someone else will have to take you to be theirs.  I am just not ready,  yet.  When, or if,  I am, I suspect the right dog will present herself -- perhaps in a surprising way.    

My friend Carol lost her dog a while back -- last Winter I think -- and she reports having gone through much the same as I have.  Carol kept saying she wasn't ready for another pet.  Last week, however, she and a little dog named Miss Molly found each other, somewhat serendipitously.   Molly's a scared little dog about a year old, and of very questionable background and breeding.  But she has love in her eyes, and I think that's what finally made Carol realize she is ready to love again and be loved. 

I know they will be good for each other.  Carol will quickly coax Molly out from her shadows, and perhaps let Molly do the same for her.   Molly's already been on Joy, and no doubt Carol will be teaching her soon how to tail a sheet.  (Sorry.  I just had to get that in.)  

If I do get another dog, I know she won't -- can't -- replace Gracie.  I've had other dogs before, including Astra, with whom I grew up.  I loved her dearly, and Gracie wasn't a replacement for her either, could not have been.  Astra was important to me back then, more so than I realized at the time.   

But Grace.  Gracie is without doubt the best dog I've ever had, and for that reason alone another dog  is unlikely to take her place in my heart. That part of my heart will always be hers.  

That awful gray and cold afternoon,  just before I left Grace to drive home alone, Jean said with a little smile, "Someday she'll meet you with joy on the Rainbow Bridge." I didn't know to what she was referring, but knew immediately what she meant.  Later, I looked up the reference and found this.  It's a little hokey, but I imagine it vividly in my mind today.

Just this side of heaven is a place called the Rainbow Bridge. 

When an animal dies that has been especially close to someone here, that pet goes to a place called the Rainbow Bridge. 

There are meadows and hills for all of our special friends so they can run and play together. 
There is plenty of food, water and sunshine, and our friends are warm and comfortable. 

All the animals who had been ill and old are restored to health and vigor; those who were hurt or maimed are made whole and strong again, just as we remember them in our dreams of days and times gone by. 

The animals are happy and content, except for one small thing: They each miss someone very special to them, who had to be left behind. 

They all run and play together, but the day comes when one suddenly stops and looks into the distance. Her bright eyes are intent. Her eager body quivers. Suddenly she begins to run from the group, flying over the green grass, her legs carrying her faster and faster. 

You have been spotted, and when you and your special friend finally meet, you cling together in joyous reunion, never to be parted again. The happy kisses rain upon your face; your hands again caress the beloved head, and you look once more into the trusting eyes of your pet, so long gone from your life but never absent from your heart. 

Then you cross Rainbow Bridge together.... 

And I will, with Gracie.  

Grace, 
5 July 2000 - 23 November 2011

Rest in peace.

Tsunamis, Earthquakes, and Nuclear Power

Video of tsunami hitting Japanese coastal towns

Some thoughts on what's happening in Japan after watching this video...
I cannot begin to imagine what it must have been like to hear and see this wave approaching and not be able to do anything to escape it. The sea's power is simply overwhelming physically and mentally. Even watching this footage, it's incomprehensible. It makes me feel, selfishly, relieved to know such waves are extremely unlikely on the East Coast. (Most of Marion would be inundated and destroyed in minutes, of course, to give it a local perspective.) 

But those poor, poor, frightened people…moments of terror and then, nothing. It is, again, incomprehensible -- and terrifying just to think about. For those who survived, shock and grief.  How on earth Japan is going to recover from this, and the nuclear problem, is hard to imagine, but they will in time and with help, at least economically. But is that what's so important? Emotionally and mentally is another matter. Life is dramatically altered for thousands of people now and for generations and lifetimes to come.

Though obviously God had nothing to do with this event, just watching this small portion of it, one can easily understand how earlier peoples with no knowledge of geology would see the hand of God in it -- and be terrified. For us, though, who supposedly know better, how do we approach this spiritually? How do we bring meaning to it? What are the moral and ethical issues this event raises? 

On the other hand, I'm sure someone will see the hand of God in it, so let me anticipate their cretinous reactions:

God did it as punishment for…choose one:

A.  Pearl Harbor

B.  The Martyrs of Japan

C.  Being an unChristian nation

D. Toyota and Honda outselling Ford and Chevy

E.  Buying Rockefeller Center

F. The Bataan Death March & POW treatment

G. The Gay liberation movement in Japan

H. Simply being Japanese

I. Whatever wacko reasons Glenn Beck, Pat Robertson, et al. can come up with

It occurs to me, looking at a photo of our Earth from space, that from that perspective, the earthquake and resulting tsunami  weren't much of an event actually.  The wave hit only a very small portion of Japan's coastline, and only a tiny percentage of all our coastlines. It's effect was localized to that part of Japan, at least physically. It was just Gaia, mother Earth, doing her thing. It is only because we are here on this planet that the tsunami takes on significance.  I know, I know…If a tree falls in the woods…

The nuclear problem is another issue.  If we weren't here, it wouldn't have happened. We did it. Good old American know-how.  Companies our retirement plans invest in built those reactors. We paid for them and made money from them. I know Derek will disagree with me, but what's happened in Japan is exactly why we need to come up with alternative sources of clean and safe energy -- and close all nuclear plants ASAP.  That's the intelligent ans reasonable thing to do, but will we?  Probably not. We never seem to learn.  The almighty dollar always comes first in our capitalistic corporatocracy.  Like Mother Nature, human nature seems to stay the same…until the 100th monkey washes her food.  So there is hope for us perhaps…

Hospice Chaplaincy

In an email tonight, someone said she tends to hang out with hospice employees at lunch in the place where she works because, as she said, "...they were the most heart felt people there, genuine, and they 'get it'....whatever 'it' is." She also asked me what my days are like, and this is how I responded:

 As for hospice people, I think they do "get it."  I've never worked anywhere else in my life where fellow employees are so supportive and caring of each other.  I've never felt so appreciated by them -- never mind the patients and families.  I think the whole concept of hospice feeds into that.  In my office, there are no other men, so I feel like I'm surrounded by a bunch of sisters who just love me!  It's amazing! (I have three younger brothers, so didn't experience sisterly love growing up, except from a few older girls with whom I rode horses.) Hospice is all about compassionate care -- for patients, for their families, for nursing home staff nurses and aides, and for each other.  So I understand why you would want to hang out with them when you can. 

 My days…are split between the office, nursing homes, and private homes, so there's a lot of driving about sometimes. At the office I'm currently rebuilding the hospice's bereavement program, which has never really gotten off the ground. So we're completely redesigning it, figuring out systems, setting up schedules for calls and visits, putting all the forms on the computer, making sure everything is Medicare-compliant, and at the same time making the phone calls and visits to surviving family members and friends.  We currently have a census of about 70 patients, with maybe up to 5 people dying every week, so it's a lot of work.  Once everything is up and in place, I'll be able to concentrate on the visits and counseling, which is the part I love.  (I am NOT an administrator!)  And there are the inevitable meetings. 

As for the nursing homes and home visits, after doing an initial spiritual assessment, I simply am there.  We call it "a ministry of presence." I sit with patients, listen to them talk about their lives (if they don't have dementia), answer as best I can their questions about death and dying, grief, God, heaven and hell (no such thing except that which we create for ourselves, I think). If they don't want to talk about any of that (and many don't), we talk about whatever is on their minds. (On Thursday I was with a retired army colonel, and we talked about his years in army intelligence during and after WW2, which was fascinating to me -- and exactly what he needed to talk about.) Sometimes I hold their hands and hold them while they cry over all the people and things they're being forced to let go of usually against their wills.  I let them rage against the unfairness, if that's what they need to do. I laugh and celebrate with them over the joys of their lives. I pray with and for them.  I read to them -- prayers, the Bible, or anything they are interested in.  I sing with them -- hymns, Broadway melodies, the American Songbook, and even Beatles!  I bring my iPhone with me and play music as we sing, or just to listen to.  One woman loved Cole Porter (as do I) so I played Ella Fitzgerald's album of his songs, and we sang along.  Oh, Cath!  I have the most wonderful job in the world. 

The hospice I work for believes that none of its patients should die alone:  Someone -- family member, friend, aide, or volunteer -- should be with them as they go.  One of the things I love to do is to "sit vigil" with them at night (remember, I'm  a night owl?).  Almost always they are asleep or very nearly so, so there's not much to do.  I may hold their hand, I always pray -- sometimes silently, sometimes out loud.  I use the BCP a lot, no matter the patient's religion, because the prayers are so beautiful, especially in the Compline service.  I might read passages from the Bible silently or very quietly. Sometimes I simply meditate.  As I said to someone last week, one of the most wonderful things about the job is that I'm spending much more time with God than I ever have before. That seems selfish, but I hope it also makes me a better minister and chaplain. 

I had one patient, an elderly woman, who was nearly blind and had Alzheimer's.  Her daughter told me that one of the things her mother used to love to do was take her and her siblings to the beach.  She'd teach them about the horseshoe crabs, seaweed, birds, sea grass, dunes, and sea shells.  So one day I brought in a shallow box I'd filled with sand and then added shells and some seaweed, and periwinkles, a conch shell, and even part of a horseshoe crab.  You wouldn't believe what happened…She started talking about each thing she was feeling as she picked them up. With tears in her eyes, she talked about her kids at the beach and how much she loved showing them these things.  It was as if for a moment she got her memory back…just from the touch and feel and smell of the beach.  I wept myself.  Her daughter…well, she likes me a lot for the gift of her mother she had back for a few minutes.  But it wasn't me.  The idea came, I am sure, from God.  I just delivered it.  

It's not always so sublime.  I was with someone on Thursday afternoon, again an elderly Roman Catholic woman with dementia, partially bed-ridden, though the staff does get her up in a wheel chair daily if she's strong enough.  She's also got very high anxiety, which is apparently one of the  things that can happen sometimes with Alzheimer's patients.  The nursing home hasn't been able to find the right drugs to help calm her down, so she's almost constantly yelling, "Help me!  It hurts! I'm dying!"  Over and over again.  She can be belligerant too.  When I tried to calm her with platitudes about God being with her and there's nothing to be afraid of, she yelled at me:  "God's not helping! You're not helping! Get someone who can! You're useless!  Go away!" 

She drives everyone crazy, and no one has been able to help.  I was supposed to do an initial spiritual assessment for her to see what her religious background is and what her spirituality is like -- does she believe in God, does she pray, what she needs in terms of pastoral care, etc. -- so we'll know better how to help.  I just couldn't do any of it, and had to later call her son to get as much of the information I needed as he could provide. 

The only thing that seemed to help a little was to get very close to her, hold her hands, and give her a hand massage.  That seemed to calm her down for a while, but it wasn't long before she was off and running again. Finally, because I didn't know what else to do (and knew I couldn't finish what I was supposed to be doing with her), I called in an aide, who got her up into her chair and took her out to the nursing station where there's a lot of activity she could watch.  I think seeing all the nurses and aides nearby reassured her. 

It's times like that when you feel pretty helpless. I just didn't know what to do, and wasn't getting any inspiration from the Almighty! Calling for help from the aide was my best idea.  Sometimes, you just have to let go and turn it over, I guess.  I hope they figure out what medication will help, because -- hate to admit it -- nothing I can do will ease her mind.  

Still, this ministry is such a gift. I also feel I've been called to it, that it is exactly what I am supposed to be doing.  Now, if I can find a full-time position, I will be very happy. 

Ironically, one of the really nice things about being a hospice chaplain is that all my patients are going to die. I know that sounds strange, but being the caretaker I am, and having worked for many years as a therapist and counselor, my goal was to help my clients get well.  My job was to fix them!  If they didn't, I felt like I'd failed (and with alcoholics and drug addicts, unfortunately, there are  a lot of failures, including some who die). I don't have that goal here.  I know they won't get well, and it's ok.  It's the way things are.  It's life.  My goal is simply to help make this last important act of their physical life as easy and comfortable as possible for them and their families.   

I can't even empathize with my patients. How can I?  I haven't the slightest idea what they are going through (nor do they) because I've never died before -- as far as I know.  It's unsettling sometimes, but I'm learning that simply being is enough.  Being present is enough.  All I can to is try to be as open as possible so that God's grace can flow through me to my patients. "Lord, make me an instrument of thy peace..." 

The ministry of hospice chaplaincy has also, not surprisingly I guess, given me the chance to think and read more deeply about death, my own included, and what it is and what it is not. At the moment, my take on death is that it is a transition from one stage of being to another --  the soul leaving the physical body it inhabits and moving on to...what?  Or returning to...what?  Some kind of spirit world?  Merging back into a larger whole, like a drop of water into the sea? Going to heaven (whatever that is)?  Lots to think about, and no conclusions will come until I find out for myself.   It's a mystery I'll live with.      

So, that's what I'm doing, and I absolutely love it... 

And Can it be That I Should Gain...

Several people have asked where this hymn came from, and I apologize for not including the credits when I first posted it last August (see below).

It was filmed by the BBC as part of its "Songs of Praise" series on 21 October 2007 in Wesley's Chapel in London. The author is, not surprisingly, Charles Wesley himself, who wrote the verse based on Acts 16:26. It was first published in 1738 in Wesley's Psalms and Hymns. According to the United Methodist Hymnal, the tune is "Sagina" by Thomas Campbell (1835).

I lifted the video from someone who had posted it on You Tube, also without the credits.  It took a bit of digging to track down the video's origins.  Apologies to the BBC also!

On Advent

“The season of Advent means there is something on the horizon the likes of which we have never seen before….What is possible is to not see it, to miss it, to turn just as it brushes past you. And you begin to grasp what it was you missed, like Moses in the cleft of the rock, watching God's back fade in the distance. So stay. Sit. Linger. Tarry. Ponder. Wait. Behold. Wonder. There will be time enough for running. For rushing. For worrying. For pushing. For now, stay. Wait. Something is on the horizon.”

            --Jan L. Richardson, Night Visions: Searching the Shadows of Advent and Christmas

I wrote the following reflection several years ago after trying to buy a pair of shoes at the North Dartmouth Mall on the Saturday before Thanksgiving.   

Getting ready for Christmas in New England used to be great fun, a time of anticipation for the coming of family, gifts, Santa, and in some circles, the most important coming of all: the annual celebration of the birth of Jesus.

No more. Malls are jammed with kids and parents. The kids, 90 percent of whom I am convinced are suffering from ADHD, race around stores, demanding expensive toys. We used to call them spoiled brats. Now it's a syndrome to be treated with drugs.

Parents are frantic, frustrated, angry, trying to do too much in too short a period of time Wanting to give the kids what they want, and not able to afford it. Or not knowing how to tell the kids that their demands for immediate gratification are unhealthy and inappropriate.

Advertisers start gearing up to take advantage of this situation well before Halloween now, enticing both children and parents with promises of happiness, fulfillment, joy, and piles of the most wonderful toys, gadgets, and software known to humankind. I actually saw Christmas decorations going up at the Fairhaven Wal-Mart on September 24th this year!

While I was at the North Dartmouth Mall on Sunday, a week before Thanksgiving, hordes of overly excited kids were dragging parents in from the jammed parking lot, laughing, shouting, crying, pleading. Santa was due any minute. The mall had arranged it, including what looked to be a pen for reindeer, for God's sake, on the main concourse outside Sears. I took one look and left, thinking I'd find another, calmer place to buy the shoes I needed. It was total insanity, the world gone mad for a season.

Can't we please remember what this time of year is all about?

It isn't Christmas yet. It's Advent, and Advent is a different season -- very different. 

For one thing, Advent marks the beginning of the Christian liturgical year, a time of newness, a fresh start. But more importantly, Advent is a time of preparation as we anticipate the coming of Christ once again into our hearts, minds, families, workplaces, lives. 

The preparation is both external and internal. Yes, we get out decorations, we clean the house, prepare for guests and family. We bake, shop, and perhaps start going to church again if we've let that slide for a while.

The most important preparation, however, happens within each of us, or should anyway: We are preparing to welcome anew the Christ child into our hearts and minds. Thus Advent becomes a time of self-examination, of meditation, of prayers for healing and forgiveness. We ask for forgiveness from God and each other. Perhaps there is penance we can do to prepare the way. We also forgive those who have perhaps hurt us recently.

Finally, and sometimes hardest of all, we forgive ourselves. We cleanse ourselves by doing all this, an internal housecleaning while we're dusting the furniture and putting clean sheets in the guest room. We also, perhaps, might make some promises to ourselves and God — to be more compassionate, understanding, forgiving, loving. Our Christian New Year's resolutions.

Advent anticipates eagerly as well. The most wonderful guest in human history arrives in our hearts and homes on Christmas. Imagine the gifts He brings! Not Nintendo or a new pair of skis or a model train set or the latest version of Barbie on an iPad — or whatever this year's marketing miracle is. What Christ brings lasts forever and ever, doesn't break the day after Christmas. He brings that love we all so desperately need and want -- and only rarely find under the tree.

That's why Christmas sometimes is a time of terrible letdown and disappointment. It's because we've the nagging feeling that we've given the wrong gifts, and because we are looking in the wrong place for the wrong gifts for ourselves.

The Christ Child brings a love so overwhelming and unimaginable, and gives it directly to each of us. We don't even have to unwrap it!

How does this love come into our lives? In many different ways: through lighting that fourth Advent candle,

 through baking brownies for a hurting friend, through prayer and meditation, through sending Christmas cards to long-lost friends, perhaps through a Christmas Eve service that's so beautiful it makes you weep, and through family gatherings, like my Aunt Sheila's annual Christmas Musicale.

It may come through delivering gifts to children in New Bedford who have a parent in prison.

That's Christ's love flowing into us. It comes through the gifts that we give to others, both tangible and intangible. Christ's love arrives in our hearts when we love others, forgive others, help others, support others, take time for others, listen to others. It also comes when we take time for ourselves, away from the noise of the world.

And Christ's love also arrives in our hearts through the gifts we receive — the delight of a new grandchild's smile as we lift him into our arms. The love in the eyes of a husband for a wife, a wife for a husband, a dear friend for a dear friend. A small token of love left for us under the tree.

Those are outward and visible signs of an inward spiritual gift: the love of Jesus Christ, God incarnate: In each of us for those around us — family, friends, co-workers, acquaintances, and even (especially) enemies.

We have much to prepare for, and so much to be grateful for. Christ's love. It leaves one in awe to remember, once again, what God does for us.

Anticipation. Advent is supposed to remind us of exactly what it is we are anticipating, and I promise you, it's better than anything you'll ever find in the insanity of the mall. This year, can we do it the way it was meant to be? 

Prepare ye the way ... and make the rough places plain.   

_______________________________

“The house lights go off and the footlights come on. Even the chattiest stop chattering as they wait in darkness for the curtain to rise.

In the orchestra pit, the violin bows are poised. The conductor has raised his baton.

In the silence of a midwinter dusk, there is far off in the deeps of it somewhere a sound so faint that for all you can tell it may be only the sound of the silence itself.

You hold your breath to listen. You walk up the steps to the front door. The empty windows at either side of it tell you nothing, or almost nothing. For a second you catch a whiff of some fragrance that reminds you of a place you’ve never been and a time you have no words for.

You are aware of the beating of your heart…The extraordinary thing that is about to happen is matched only by the extraordinary moment just before it happens. 

Advent is the name of that moment.”



— Frederick Buechner, Whistling in the Dark, pp. 2,3

Ocean Conservancy International Coastal Cleanup Results for Upper Buzzards Bay

We had a great turnout for the Upper Buzzards Bay area beach cleanup on September 25th and 26th.  45 people from Marion, Mattapoisett, Wareham, and surrounding towns swept nearly seven miles of beach and shoreline and picked up a total of 2,660 pieces of trash -- everything from cigarette butts to plastic bags to car parts to a sofa (not sure how that got on to a Mattapoisett beach!).  It all weighed over 550 pounds (excluding the sofa, which we had to leave there).

This is a view of upper Buzzards Bay and the three areas we swept. 

The photo is of a wonderful model of Buzzards Bay and its 

watershed at the Coalition for Buzzards Bay's new headquarters 

on the New Bedford waterfront. (If you haven't been there yet, I highly recommend it. 

The model and other exhibits are fascinating and educational.)   

Led by Barry Denham of the towns Highway Department, four people from Mattapoisett --Patricia and Carl Sharpe, David Olney, and Judith Titus -- covered almost all the inner harbor beaches and some others out toward Strawberry Point (on the left in the photo above).  

In Marion, at center above, 27 people -- including teachers and students from Tabor Academy -- cleaned up Silvershell Beach and all of Planting Island. Nicole Long, spouse of a Tabor staff member, once again organized the school's effort on Planting Island, with help from Jane Pucello, who runs the school's Community Service program. 

Over in Wareham, on the right above, Karin Osmond led 14 people as they swept Little Harbor Beach (just to the left of the Canal breakwater), and a family covered the beautiful beach at Onset (just off the photo on the far right).  

Marion:  Tabor Academy sweeps Planting Island
The biggest group of people was from Tabor Academy in Marion.  Two faculty members (with their children) and 15 students -- some from as far away as Vietnam, Taiwan, and the People's Republic of China -- made it a truly international event, and the kids were interested to learn that people in their countries were doing the same thing on their shorelines and beaches on the same day.  Together, they picked up detritus from the public beach at the Planting Island causeway and worked their way all around the island -- about 1.5 miles. All in all, the students and faculty (and faculty kids) picked up 977 pieces of trash weighing 220 pounds.


Nicole Long organized the Tabor effort, which also included faculty member Mary Kate Moniz; Nicole's spouse Eric; who works in the admissions office; and a parent (Bob Benner, father of Nora, who drove down from Concord to be with his daughter for the day).


Here are some pictures of the Tabor group:

Standing in back row:: Eric Long (faculty) with daughter Grace, Nick Boynton, 

Mary Kate Moniz (faculty), Peter Teague, Hsing-Han (Hank) Huang, 

Asa Smith, Nora Benner, Robert Benner (parent)   

Standing in 2nd row: Hieu Nguyen, Ivy Helena Torres, ZiCheng Lin, 

Peinying (Helen) Huang, Charlotte Williamson.

Front row: Lucas & Paige Long (faculty children), Holly Francis, Zinu Fu
Missing is the instigator, Nicole Long, who apparently doesn't like limelight!      

Spanish teacher Mary Kate Moniz with student Asa Smith

Holly Francis of Marion

Nora Benner with her father, Bob

Some students taking a break half way through the morning.

Nick Boynton and Hieu Nguyen collect trash 

blown into the beach grass on Planting Island causeway

Peinying (Helen) Huang and SiCheng Lin  

Hsing-Han (Hank) Huang and Peter Teague 

check the Planting Island Cove side of the causeway

Some of the Tabor students also spotted many chunks of what looked like tar with sand and pebbles embedded in them, some of which they took back to school to analyze in the chemistry lab.  These chunks, they learned from teachers at the beach, were left over from the oil spill on 27 April 2003 when a barge ran aground off Fairhaven and spilled 98,000 gallons of #6 fuel oil into the bay. The oil polluted more than 90 miles of coastline, killed at least 450 federally protected birds, and temporarily shut down about 180,000 acres of shellfish beds. Seven years later, we are still finding evidence of that disaster on all the beaches of Buzzards Bay. Parts of the Bay may take decades to recover, especially the marshes. 

Marion:  The Silvershell Beach Crew

In addition to Tabor, a number of people from Marion and the surrounding towns picked up 774 pieces of trash -- over 90 lbs. -- on Silvershell Beach. 600 of those pieces were cigarette butts.

It isn't that beach-goers smoke so much.  Many  of those probably came from street run-off, which eventually goes into streams in the area, which lead to rivers, which lead to Buzzards Bay.  That means if you throw a cigerette butt out your car window on I-495 in Middleboro (15 miles inland, but still in the Buzzards Bay watershed area), that cigarette will eventually end up in Buzzards Bay and possibly on the beaches of Marion like Silvershell. It's also very possible marine animals will eat the butt, causing death or illness.  

If you want to read more about ocean trash and its effects on the marine environment and its creatures, see the December 2010 issue of Cruising World magazine. It's horrific. 

Here's the Silvershell team:

 Eunice Manduca, who for years has made it her vocation to pick up 
trash every day  as she walks around Marion 
and patrols the waterfront as Wharf Master, 

brought the wooden trash collector she designed and built. 

That's a Sippican Lands Trust hat she's wearing. 

 Sue Maxwell Lewis of Marion is pretty certain what she did that 
beautiful morning is important and makes a difference.

 Claudia and Josh Bender came all the way from New Bedford 

to help pick up trash in Marion.  Good for them!

Daughter and mother team of Leora and Ellen Mackey -- 

all the way from Natick -- were a huge help, picking up 15 lbs. of trash.

Mattapoisett: A small and very thorough sweep

Barry Denham, who runs the town's Highway Department, led four others as they cleaned up a number of the town's public beaches. Together, they collected 326 pieces weighing 45 lbs. from about three miles of beach. They won the award for the most unusual thing found -- the sofa noted above.  

Judith Titus of Mattapoisett, seen here at the town beach on 

Water Street,  picked up a LOT of stuff, including 

some unidentifiable metal building materials.  

She's also the one who found the sofa. 

Wareham: Little Harbor Beach Crew

Finally, over in Wareham at Little Harbor Beach Karin Osmond led a team of 11 people, plus a family of three who drove over to Onset to pick up that secluded beach. Between those 15 people, they picked up 593 pieces of trash weighing about 190 lbs.  

Little Harbor Beach looking south toward the Canal.

Little Harbor Beach in Wareham sits at the very NE end of Buzzards Bay, right next to the west entrance to the Cape Cod Canal.  Thus, during the summer with its prevailing strong southwesterlies, the beach is a collection point for tons of seaweeds (including much eel grass) and trash that blows up the bay with the wind and current flowing toward the canal. Unfortunately, much of the detritus gets mixed in with the seaweed 

and is therefore difficult to find and extract.  It was blowing very hard (25 - 30 kts.) from the SW the day of the cleanup, and had been for several days.  In the photo above, you can see the result.

Karin Osmond (left), Wareham Coordinator, with friend

 Two of the Little Harbor crew sweep through some of the 

beach grass immediately behind the beach.

Some of the Little Harbor crew: Karin Osmond, Carolyn Patterson, 

Lisa Jacques, Jim Seamans, Barbara Crouss, 

Gary Osmond, and Richard Mathis

(I don't know who is who in the photo.) 

It's a wrap, for now

We don't know yet how the cleanup effort went in the rest of Massachusetts or around the world.  The Ocean Conservancy (www.oceanconservancy.org) will probably issue its final report with all the numbers sometime in March of 2011. 

If last year is any indication, we ought to expect over 400,000 people from 104 countries around the globe to have participated.  Together with them, last year we picked up over 6.8 million pounds of trash. It sounds like a lot, but it isn't -- only a tiny percentage of what's still out there. Will we beat those numbers this year?  We hope so because all of this human-made throw-away stuff has a major negative impact on the health of our oceans, bays, sounds, rivers, lakes, and ponds.  We put it there.  We ought to pick it up.