Supporting Folks We Believe In

Last month, I featured a post with this same title about a friend and client who's work I believe is important to our community - and to the well being of community in it's larger sense. Collaborating with one another and positively supporting one another's endeavors in quiet as well as public can make a huge difference for everyone's success.

This is a snapshot is of Stella Lyn, an incredible village herbalist and doula. Sadly, she is soon to leave Southern Oregon, so our particular community won't have simple access to her attentive, practiced and excellent skills as a birthing doula. Thanks to the internet; however, she will be accessible for herbal care and consult. I'll be sure to put up a brief post when her website (www.stellalyn.com) is complete, so that you all can explore her work.

For now, take a look at the front panels of a recently created trifold brochure for Stella's doula practice. If you're from Palmer, Alaska, you're in luck - she's coming home! If you're from the State of Jefferson and having a doula is something you're interested in for the birth of a child in your life, call Stella and ask for local recommendations.

 



Red Pushpins

Twenty-seven years ago tomorrow, I witnessed the birth of my nephew, Jarrett.

It wasn’t pre-planned that I should have the honor of being a part of his arrival. I was home from college for mother’s day weekend, merely doing the dutiful May visit, when my sister went into labor. Like a red pushpin in a map of significant places one has visited, I can point back to that Sunday afternoon and say, “That was a defining moment of my life.”

It was one part - seeing courage in my beloved sister that I’d never seen before; it was one part the wonder of generations squeezed into a very warm, very small bedroom for a birth in the home I had grown up in; it was one part the gift of observing love’s commitment between my sister and her husband, and it was one part the miraculous itself: a perfect, dark-haired, squirming-with-life baby boy.

I returned to college in a state of pure joy and huge desire to tell friends back at school what I had seen, how it felt and why I was changed. Sadly but truly, I was greeted by people who either listened for two minutes before shrugging and turning back to their accounting 301 textbook - or worse, those who said, “Oh yeah, I saw a movie in high school health.” I knew it was alright. I mean, I understood that I really couldn’t expect someone who has never eaten an apple to understand it’s taste and texture, but I also knew that my change was going to create ripples. Namely, I now knew beyond a shadow of a doubt, that I could never ever have children with the young man I was engaged to. And if I could never ever have children with him, I knew that I could not marry him.

That moment of birth became the first of nearly three decades of decisions I have made wherein my “mother self,” out of the many selves that reside within me, took charge of casting the final vote for all major life decisions. My “mother self” has been strong, resilient, determined, fiercely protective, very loving - and has always (sometimes to a fault) put her children first. While my other personae have occasionally disagreed with her choices over the years, they’ve let her drive the ship -- until recently.

With Mother’s Day upon us, the day that I do not consider a Hallmark-induced experience, rather - the day of my nephew's birth and the beginning of how motherhood would define my life, there are changes underway. Worn by joy as well as grief, my “mother self” has resigned - not her duty - but her post, and while she remains diligent she has definitely passed the baton. Someone else is at the helm. Now, if ever I didn’t quite fit before, I will surely shatter any June Clever mold in which I might be expected to conform.

As my wise friend Katie said to me last spring, “I know that you still have mothering to do, but the tide has shifted. You get to look forward and envision what’s next in your life - with work, artistry, in finding a partner, where you go next and why. Now, you can choose what’s best for Martha. It may be scary, but it’s also exciting.” Damn straight, Katie.

So, in honor of the ever-changing continuum of motherhood and the strong women who embrace it, and in celebration of my children whom I love more than any single thing in the world, I’m placing a new red pushpin on the map and changing course. And last, but not least, happy birthday, Jarrett. I love you very much.

 

(to my children)

I do not doubt you would have liked

one of those pretty mothers in the ads:

complete with adoring husband and happy children.

She's always smiling, and if she cries at all

it is absent of lights and camera,

makeup washed from her face.

But since you were born of my womb, I should tell you:

ever since I was small like you

I wanted to be myself -- and for a woman that's hard --

(even my Guardian Angel refused to watch over me

when she heard).

I cannot tell you that I know the road.

Often I lose my way

and my life has been a painful crossing

navigating reefs, in and out of storms,

refusing to listen to the ghostly sirens

who invite me into the past,

neither compass nor binnacle to show me the way.

But I advance,

go forward holding to the hope

of some distant port

where you, my children -- I'm sure --

will pull in one day

after I've been lost at sea.

by Daisy Zamora ~

Khaki-colored Halo

I was lying by the pool at the Furnace Creek Ranch in Death Valley, California. The dry heat felt wonderful against my skin and combined with the the lazy conversations unfolding around me, I was being lulled to sleep.  Sound snippets of children laughing in the water, mothers calling out and friends engaged in small talk floated past me. I heard a deep baritone voice behind me inquisitively address someone in my vicinity, “I see that you are journaling. Is that something you do daily, or is it an exercise for this trip?” “Well,” came the response from my left, “if you assure me that you’ll keep this to yourself, I’ll tell you.” 

‘Hmmm, secret journals?’ I pondered with eyes closed. I pulled my consciousness forward and slightly turned my head to squint at the second speaker. The journaler was sitting in the shade of the pool deck veranda.”You see, Diane goes away for three weeks each summer to a work conference,” he began, (I’m thinking about who Diane might be - his wife? Co-worker? Friend?) “and she misses the kids and I terribly each year when she goes. She can hardly sleep at night. Last year, I had the kids writing her letters constantly, which I sent off every other day.”  

I felt myself smile at the image of kids bent over lined paper writing sweet kid-like descriptions of summer activities, and I inwardly nodded with approval at how I imagined it would feel to receive such a letter from a child of my own. 

     “Well, I found this old journal of hers that was empty, and I thought that this year I would take time to write in the journal every day until she has to leave, and then I’ll slip it into her suitcase before she goes -- so that when she unpacks, she’ll be surprised by it, and - you know - have something to read from home.”
    “How nice of you, “ observed the friend who had climbed out of the pool by this point and was drying off with a towel as he listened to journal-man’s story.
    “It’s just bits and pieces about the kids and their adventures, stories about special times I remember, and of course - some sharing about my feelings for her. Just that sort of thing.”

By now I had turned my entire head and was using my hat as a sunshade. I gazed at this unusual man. Now, I wanted to look at this person. I wanted to see with my own eyes, what outward appearance is worn by someone who clearly has such a large, tender and giving heart?

Nope. There were no outer visible signs on this average looking, slightly overweight middle-aged man wearing a navy-blue short-sleeved shirt and crumpled khaki trousers. There was no special birthmark, tattoo or unusual tribal marking. There was no halo or sign inscribed with the words: “I pay attention to my beloved. I care when she is lonely. I practice compassion. I observe the small but beautiful acts of daily life in my family and make note. I am willing to give of my time, care, creativity and present moment for the benefit of others - especially those whom I love.”

    “Wow,” I said under my breath and turned my face back toward the sky. On my right, my daughter heard my single word. Something about the short exclamation made her look up from the book she was reading,  “What?” she pondered. So I quietly described the conversation I had just overheard.

As I explained this man’s journal to my daughter, I felt a welling of emotion. Whereas the details of his life story were minimal, who he was inherently was largely apparent and very impressive. He was a good man and a loving person. The situation reminded me of times I’d read literary passages to students and asked them to tell me what they’d learned about the main characters based - not on their physical descriptions - but on the character’s very actions and dialogue.

What do our actions reveal about us? What, among the day to day exchanges that we have, might be considered “small” on the surface, but are actually very big? What little things do you do that can ease another’s heart? Which simple acts demonstrate steady and reliable devotion and kindness?  What secret journal are you keeping that whispers “I love you” in it’s quiet reflections and might forever change a reader’s life?

Careful Out There!

One of my all-time favorite photos courtesy of the very talented Jim Schlight

Did you know that April is “Children and Nature Awareness Month”? I didn’t. In my world, and in my children’s world - every month is Children and Nature Awareness Month. I realize, however; that we are a rare breed of family these days.

As a mother, teacher, artist and poet  I have very strong feelings about Nature and its roll in the lives of children. I strongly hold the opinion and belief that Nature is at the root (no pun intended) of creativity. Nature is grounding, healing, humbling, miraculous, inspiring, frightening, beautiful, vividly honest and a teacher. Nature is an equalizer. I feel that this all applies to ALL of us - of ALL ages.

It wasn’t so many decades ago in our country that when some children were released from school for the day (if they went to school), and they headed home to work on their family farm or, if they were of an age, some other part time afternoon job. If they did neither - they were loose and rambling. In cities, they rambled in and out of doors in a cityscape. In less populated areas, there were woods, fields and beaches to explore.

As anyone who  is paying attention or has kids today knows, the after school and summer vacation-time lives of American children has changed radically - definitely since I was a child forty-odd years ago - but even in the last ten years.  In our relatively small community alone (and granted, this is a fairly affluent community), there are programs galore. There are languages to study, toys beyond belief, waaaaayyy too much electronic stuff, music  (which is wonderful), lessons – lessons – lessons…sports, groups, clubs and so forth. If you look at the calendar hanging in the average Ashland kitchen that tracks the movements of our “average” American children, it truly is incredible. Hopefully, there is gratitude for all of these opportunities, and yet - I’m feeling a bit of melancholy as well.

I’ve a fond childhood memory is of sitting in the apple tree near our family home on Oregon Street. The tree grew in a vacant lot (now there’s a term infrequently used lately), and ones main objective was to get up as high into the branches as possible and eat the tart apples while throwing the wormy ones down the adjacent street. Picture it: the arching, spinning toss of a bright green apple against a pale blue afternoon sky and dangling bare legs and pavement dirty feet hardly visible through the leaves. Hear the laughter and cry of delight at the “Pop!” of the fruit striking the ground; the skin bursts and viridescent flecks go flying, white flesh and seeds explode and scatter across the dark asphalt. Breathe in the too sweet fermenting aroma of windfalls which are composting slowly in the leaves and dirt below, and grin with delight at the mischief and poetry of this simple pastime…sitting in an apple tree.

We have to wonder, in our present busy lives, how many children have spent even ten minutes in an apple tree, much less picked their own tart Granny Smith from a heavy branch? How many backlot spy games will transpire this afternoon? Walks down spring rain dampened dirt paths?  Contests among friends in an open field without a whistle or a score keeper or a clock - where the rules evolve as the sport unfolds and officiating occurs by consensus and fair play?

How many of our children know how to hang out in Nature? How many of YOU know how to hang out in Nature?

It’s really not that complicated and definitely no big deal. You do not have to go camping or hike some steep mountain. Just step outside a few extra yards today. Leave your agenda (and your iphone) behind. Whether the place in nature is a window box, a back yard, an apple tree or the deep woods – when Nature and humans are brought together peacefully – there is positive alchemy that feeds imagination, curiosity, intelligence, relationship with self - and thereby others, and one’s very soul.

Careful out there. If you do it everyday, in some small way, even for just a moment or two - you will change. For the better.

To explore the very real phenomenon of Nature Deficit Disorder, check out the incredible work of Richard Louv, author of Last Child In The Woods.

To read up on how other communities are pursuing No Child Left Inside, start here with a fantastic article from Orion magazine.

To change your mind and your heart, the only link to click is the off button on this box. Try it for a bit, and take a walk in your neighborhood.

Tardy Due to Detour

I’m running a tad bit behind this morning, but what the heck. It’s Friday, after all, and the sun is shining in truly glorious ‘queen of the heavens’ fashion, and I’m my own boss-lady; so hey, what’s a few extra minutes? See, this is one of the perks of having a home studio.

Having been a public schools teacher for sixteen years and then an “in the office - in the field” park manager for another decade, I think I have a thorough understanding of the schedule many working parents keep. I know about early (and late) staff meetings, punching in by a certain clock time, being unreachable all day long, sprinting to do my banking between work’s end and the bank’s close, squeezing the household and garden chores into evenings and weekends, that panicky feeling one gets in their gut when the alarm clock doesn’t go off, showing up even when ill, giving my kids every spare moment and giving my friends the meager leftovers. Of course, I also remember the regular paycheck, the decent benefits, the community of co-workers, the measured successes that could be seen and appreciated, the uninterrupted flow of the days, the clear boundaries between work and home, the clear boundaries between “on” time and “off” time, and the rhythm of the calendar that gave me a sense of balance and calm.

I remember both sides of that particular and very special coin.

Now, I have a different coin in my pocket. It’s a little foreign to me, so I’m still learning it’s value. On the one hand, I can work any time of the day or night. If it’s a beautiful morning like this, I can opt to take a walk right now - and work on my client’s website after sundown. But of course, if I choose to work in the evenings, then my children get a little less of me when they need my time and attention. So when interesting weather beckons, I choose carefully.

Scheduling my days requires a precise, mildly uncomfortable-at-times discipline known as “keeping on track,” wherein there are constant neon sign-like distractions winking and flashing at me. Friends and family know exactly where to find me and in loving, uninhibited fashion sometimes drop by to say “howdy.” Those who do it too often or stay too long have suffered my impatience, as I truly don’t like being interrupted when I’m “in the zone.” Neither do I always answer the home phone, even though it’s ringing only a few feet away from my desk. After all - if I were “at work,” I couldn’t answer it there, so why should I do so here - “at work?”

But the wonderful flip side is that there are many occasions when someone will call first (what a concept!), and I’ll be able to take a coffee break with them down the street at the Roasting Company, or we’ll go for a quick power walk, or I’ll sit on the stoop with them for fifteen minutes and hear the latest news. It can be lovely and rejuvenating, and often helps stimulate fresh ideas for my next wave of industriousness.

The importance of keeping the place tidy is greater now, for client visits, so I’ve learned to juggle some of my chores at the same time I’m operating in my office. Starting the washer or dryer is a walk down the hall, taking out the recycle is three minutes of fresh air, and sweeping the kitchen gets tacked onto lunchtime (which I also get to share with my fourteen year old most days, when she walks home from school for a quick bite).
The home-based cubicle offers multitasking at it’s best, which says a lot - since I personally think multitasking with anything other than domestic chores is a bad idea, but that’s a topic for another day!

I absolutely miss my professional community and the sense of being a part of a greater good that one can sometimes attain in a cooperative environment. I definitely miss the regular salary and benefits, but have learned a lot about faith, hard work and creating abundance. I sometimes miss the respect and understanding that others have for more easily defined careers, but I have huge gratitude for those who take the time to acknowledge and encourage me to continue pursuing work that I love.

So this morning after dropping off my youngest at school, as I drove through town, I saw an elderly man in a bright tropical shirt standing in the very very brisk 30 degree morning sunlight with his thumb out for a ride. I pulled over. My hitchhiker climbed into the warm car, smiled broadly at me and introduced himself. “Walter” had just missed the bus and was on his was to an AA meeting on the opposite end of town. I asked him if there weren’t closer meetings to his home, and he replied that there are, but he just loved the community of friends he has at the further location. I drove him all the way to the meeting while we talked about Ashland, her people, about how times change and how grateful we both felt to be where we are on such a fine day. He was kind and hopeful and reflective. The drive was simple to make. As I dropped him off and shook his hand, I said a little prayer of thanks for many many things.

This too, is one of the perks being the CEO of Martha Phelps Studio: on my way to work, I can choose to make a slight detour, and it can make a little difference.

May you all have a wonderful weekend, and may your schedules afford you an opportunity for a detour or two. ~ mlp

P.S. Thanks for the tardy pass, AJ! See, I wasn't just putting on my lipstick!

Supporting Folks We Believe In

One of the most enjoyable aspects of design arts projects in the studio is getting to help spread information about people whose work I believe in.

Take Karen O’Dougherty, for example. Karen taught for a decade at Lincoln Elementary School in Ashland, Oregon where - among many things - she created a powerful “body changes awareness” program as a part of her 5th grade curriculum. After leaving the public school classroom to raise her three daughters, Karen was encouraged by parents of former students who had younger kids, to begin teaching and sharing the program again to interested youth and families. Body Basics I was then developed in the form of private group lessons and has been empowering girls throughout Southern Oregon since 1998.

My two elder kids (one male and one female) attended Body Basics classes during their eleventh years and learned to safely and openly discuss issues of puberty and sexuality as well as gained clearer insights into who they were then as developing  individuals and amongst peers. I look forward to my youngest daughter being among Karen’s students sometime this next year, as Body Basics has become one of our families’ educational rites of passage.

When Karen recently asked me to develop some flyers for local distribution, I was eager for the project. The flyers, one aimed at preteens and the other for teenagers, came together intuitively with images that worked well. This is a bit of the magic that happens when working on something I believe in, like the Body Basics Program.

If you'd like to see fuller format versions, check the Design Portfolio on the studio's website.

Contracts and (Re)negotiations

renegotiate |ˌrēnəˈgō sh ēˌāt|
verb [ trans. ]
negotiate (something) again in order to change the original agreed terms : the parties will renegotiate the price | [ intrans. ] she asked to renegotiate after signing the contract.

If memory serves, the attached note was composed by a seven year old Reid. One day at summer soccer camp pick up, the young YMCA director - with a firm hand gripping my son’s shoulder - approached me with a “concern.” My boy had not only been side-talking while coaches were instructing, but Reid had declared during a match that the officiating "sucked." Clearly this kid was a trouble-maker, and if he intended on returning to camp the next day, a letter of apology would be necessary. The terms were non-negotiable.

Sitting in the car together, Reid explained all of the reasons he was not at fault. He declared that, despite his obvious innocence, he would “write the stupid letter,” but only because he really wanted to keep playing soccer and not because he was admitting guilt.

As a still-novice mother at that point in time, I’m sure I was bugged by Reid’s seeming lack of willingness to accept responsibility for his actions. Now, I look back on the incident with amusement and appreciation for the way he “sucked up” (pardon my language, Coach) and re-negotiated within his own heart and mind so that he could stay in the game that he loved (and  continues to love) so much.

Sometimes, in order to get what we want - or serve the greater good - or make amends - or simply make a shift, we have to accept different terms and conditions. Every day - from business to personal, from political to spiritual, from children to adults - agreements change and new contracts are drafted. It’s maddening in many many ways (just ask any attorney), but it’s part of the human condition. Sometimes the easiest way to accept something that is non-negotiable, is to work a little inner renegotiating and healthy surrender.

This morning, my desire to stay in the game is so great, I am about to back down from the covenant I made with myself to blog continually for ninety weekdays in a row. Since I am the creator of my blogging contract, my own boss - so to speak, this renegotiation has not been a simple or necessarily peaceful process. I’m a tough boss to myself. In the end, I had to call out my inner mediator to successfully seal a new bargain between Martha, the writer and Martha, the hard-assed boss lady. True story.

The result of these new terms: I am taking the next two weeks off from public journaling to make a couple of geographic trips and hopefully, a multitude of creative intangible journeys. There’s essential business and play to attend with my kids and myself during this break, and I want to give each moment my undivided attention. I will return to this written account of my wild untamed life on purpose on Monday, March 29. Meanwhile, I’ll be out there living in it, and I invite you all to do the same!

All will be well ~ m.l.p.

Sick Days

I have a kid home sick today, so I'll keep this brief.
Assuming that most of my readers are over thirty, do you remember sick days as a kid?
I do. In a word - they were, besides bearing all the trademarks of typical childhood illness's (low grade fevers, puking, sore throats and horrid head colds), BORING.
In my family of origin, staying home sick from school meant sleeping, reading, pretending the lines of the quilt were roads, drawing pictures and occasionally, if one had an exceptionally bad headache, and if one of my parents had stayed home to adhere to those lines in the unwritten contract of parenting (Section II, article IV: "When your kid runs a fever over 101.5, you are required to take a day off of work.") - then we might get read out loud to for 20 minutes. By the time I had done all of those things, I only had another six and a half hours of feeling lousy and bored until one of my siblings came home from school. By the time I was a teenager, the sick day repertoire expanded to listening to records or sometimes being allowed to bring the 18 ton "portable" black and white tv into my bedroom to choose between three channels of daytime television.
The beauty of sick days back then were that they were so horrendously mind-numbing, the motivation to get well soon was very very high. Anything at school (except for the cafeteria food) was better than being stuck at home with a snotty nose.
Here at my house, in this grand new year of 2010, being physically ill is no less of a drag, but the stay at home perks are abundant. First off, I work at home - so Mama is on call all the time. Since 7:30 this morning, I have delivered tea, pancakes, re-warmed the tea, whipped up an egg and toast, administered children's ibuprofen and opened a fresh tissue box. The many voices of Jim Dale (brilliant reader of all the Harry Potter audio books) is drifting down the staircase into my office, and I know that when I go to check on my rosy-checked girl, she'll be contentedly snuggled down in the blankets in a Hogwarts induced stupor.
She's already asked for the laptop and Netflix, to which I replied with a firm negatory. An order for the next in a series of books she is reading will hopefully be filled at the public library. An art pad awaits when she feels ready to sit up, and the kitchen won't close all day long. She'll be amused, but not too; we'll both be grateful that I work at home, but I'll surrender much of the day (in accordance with section II article IV). She’ll whine a bit, sigh a few hundred times, and her healthy little body will race through this with nary an issue. All will be well.

 

My gal on a feeling great day, not so long ago!

The Hippocratic Oath of Parenting

Okay. So the truth is, I am a horribly flawed parent. I get exasperated by my youngest’s unwillingness to wear anything other than brown or....darker brown, and down right angry at her nightly resistance to going to bed. I frequently guilt-trip my middle kid about the cost of violin lessons vs the amount of practice time I judge to be lacking, and I’ve been known to tell my eldest that he’s acting like an ass when his choices don’t meet my approval.

Every day - in many ways - I fall down on the ice rink of parenting. I slip into officious bossiness when the conditions of the ice aren’t up to snuff. I flounder ungracefully on the blade’s edge between attempting to control and offering to guide, and am sometimes more absorbed in my own needs than those of the skaters I brought here to coach.

Someone asked me after my son’s cancer diagnosis whether I now found myself wishing I had made any different parenting choices or - to put it plainly - whether or not I was wrestling with any regrets in my relationship with my boy?

While considering one’s regrets can be a daily activity (or obsession), this has not been a pastime of mine in the parenting realm despite my plethora of flaws. Oh sure, there have been moments I’d like to have done things differently (done a bit more deep breathing, counted to a hundred - fourteen more times, put myself in “time out”), but for the most part, I’ve stayed out of contrition’s ruts on my metaphorical rink. And as I’m sure even those of you who have never known cancer personally can guess, I am now a hundred times more committed to living life fully and with as few regrets as possible -- especially where my kids are concerned.

In our humanness and varying degrees of personal evolution, and for those of us who are parents - where so much is trial and error -  a certain amount of “small stuff” remorse is inevitable. But here’s the crucial piece: Regrets are not the result of a “shit happens” experience like leukemia. Regrets are the progeny of choices poorly made that cannot be undone.

Wait. What? True this: Many regrets are in fact, the result of choices.

Examples of serious, real life and harmful parenting choices include: deliberately and knowingly using one’s child as a pawn in a failing marriage; teaching your children to be fearful or intolerant of those who are different than or don’t agree with you; fostering judgment and meanness by example; teaching children to act like and become victims rather than embrace and practice honesty; modeling running away rather than accepting responsibility; teaching your child to throw away relationships like broken cars rather than invest in the healing process. The list goes on.

So how as parents, can we make decisions that will reduce potential long range damage to our kids caused by regret? We can try to keep one particular phrase of Hippocrates’s famous oath in our hearts and minds at all times - even and perhaps most especially when - we, the parents, may be the very perpetrators of the injury. The phrase is:“I will keep them from harm and injustice.”

As a parent who has learned the hard way what it feels like when the power to keep your child safe from harm has been taken out of your hands, trust me on this one. If you have the opportunity, intelligence, compassion, good sense, love and CHOICE to keep your child as safe, whole and happy as you possibly can, do it. Don’t be selfish; don't wait. Do it. Now. There's no excuse not to, and you won’t regret it.

To Do or Not To Do

Not long after Reid’s leukemia diagnosis, someone felt it essential to “remind” me that Reid’s stepfather of eleven years (from whom I’ve been separated nearly a year) has no legal obligation, responsibility or requirement toward Reid or his care. If I recall, the honest but insensitive observation was: “You know, Reid’s not his son.” 

It was one of those moments when “just the facts, ma’am” are unnecessary and uncalled for, and the abruptly delivered statement felt especially gratuitous because, despite absence of legal onus - my son’s step dad had been generously and lovingly going above and beyond the call of duty to be present for and help his stepchild.

Clearly, the initial shocking days following a child’s cancer diagnosis are hardly emotionally suitable circumstances to cite custodial provisos. Nonetheless, weeks later the statement's intent and implications continued to rattle around and raise questions in my mind, like: What exactly are our obligations to anyone or anything? and When do we accept responsibility - not because we HAVE to, but because we choose to?

Imagine a world where people adhere only to their own private “to do” - or rather “NOT to do” list: 

• It’s not my fault there was an Earthquake in Haiti; I don’t have to send money there.
• 
I’m not driving one less car because of some melting ice cap a thousand miles away; after all, I’m no polar bear.
• 
I’m not gay, so it’s not my concern whether they can marry or not. Why bother voting? 
• Hey, that person didn’t have the good sense to get health insurance; I’m not paying for their prescription. I look out for me and mine; so should they.
• My children are grown and gone; I don’t need to help the local schools any more.
• 
He’s not my kid by blood, so I’m not responsible to help if he has cancer.

A list like that makes you feel a little sick, doesn’t it?

Granted, I’m exaggerating, or am I? The sad fact is -- there are many moments in the human experience where we behave as though we are actually separate from one another and the world we live in. The sadder fact is that we don’t only behave this way; we sometimes even believe it. We then use that warped belief to excuse ourselves from taking responsibility -- not only for large acts of humanity and service, but small deeds that cost us nothing yet could yield extraordinarily positive results.

Committing one's self to a high level of personal responsibility empowers us to stretch and accept greater degrees of moral and social responsiblity. When we take authority for ourselves, our actions, choices and behaviors, then we also understand that - like the stone landing on a flat pond creates ripples, so do each of our words and deeds. This sort of mindfulness opens our eyes and heart, right from the moment we accept the invitation and act beyond our own private “to do” list.

So, to address the rattling questions: What exactly are our obligations to anyone or anything? And, when do we accept responsibility - not because we HAVE to, but because we choose to?

I once asked a wise person what was the “honorable thing to do” around being culpable (at risk to nothing other than ego) for a situation where both the other party and I felt equally righteous and wronged by the other. The reply was “That’s between you and God.” Our obligations - or lack thereof - may be dictated by a court order, signature or contract, but adhering to one’s moral imperative is an instant opportunity to be a better human being.

When we reach beyond ourselves, beyond the bare minimum or the basic requirements, we’re doing more than being responsible - we’re being compassionate.Theologian, Thomas Merton said, “Compassion is the keen awareness of the interdependence of all things.” With such awareness, we can integrate compassion into our whole selves. It progresses from being something that we only think, something that lives only in our minds (along with fear) and merges into our very fibre -- living in our hearts and taking shape through intentional and loving action. 

Nope, Reid’s not his son. That is, in fact, a fact. What is also a fact is this: love took hold and became the mandate.

"Oh My God...How Risky."

The wind and rain did some serious window rattling last night. My youngest - despite her own awareness of the mountains rising protectively around our hometown - asked as she was surrendering to sleep, "Are you sure we can't have a hurricane here?" It was a concern I remember having myself as a child in this very same town, and I cherished the sensation that we lived in such a remarkably safe place.

Ashland, Oregon is a sweet-natured, semi-conservative, attractive to big city refugees, feels-slightly-metropolitan but is actually a fairly-small-town -- that is tucked into the foothills of the Siskiyou and Cascade mountains. It's not geographically conducive to tornadoes or tsunami's and it's been a long time since the last volcanic eruption. I happily settled here, in part, to give my own kids the same nurturing and sheltered childhood that I experienced.

While social and economic times and ways of the world have grown and shifted, Ashland, Oregon has been fortunate to keep crime and calamity to a minimum. But it's not a utopia, so occasionally bad things happen to this good community. Most recently, a couple incidence of sexual assult. The response throughout Ashland has been swift and vocal. Newspaper articles, police warnings, a composite sketch, internet messages with safety tips, announcements at the University and local high school, and even a "Take Back the Night" march to raise awareness. It's good stuff. When alone it's smart to tune in; be familiar with one's surroundings; take off your ipod and listen to the world around you; practice "wide angle vision" (a tracking term for seeing and intuitive awareness  much further than the distance between self and screen, steering wheel or Wii);  walk with a "don't mess with me" confidence. They don't always stop the worst, but employing these tools and others will definitely increase one's odds of well being.

So, here am I, finishing today's blog so that I can -- go for a walk, in broad daylight, in the rain, ALONE! Oh my god...how risky. 

Let's face it, we can spend our whole lives being afraid or cautious - or even equal and intelligent parts of both. We can employ every measure of safe living and behavior that we are taught. We can stay in, lock the doors, filter the water, "green" the house, eat organic, take our vitamins, put on our coat, walk with a buddy and carry pepper spray, but in the end, we have no control.  Huh? Nope. Nadda.

Sometimes, no matter what you've done "right," a monster shows up. Shit happens -- in spades -- right in your own living room. 

Having recently lost so much of the freedom I treasure so dearly and the sense of safety -- for myself and my loved ones -- that I have always prized, I will not relinquish a simple act that brings me joy. I will take walks.