No One On The Line

Billy Collins, a long time favorite poet of mine, is "famous for conversational, witty poems that welcome readers with humor but often slip into quirky, tender or profound observation on the everyday." This piece is a gem and particularly thought-provoking and apropos to some of the comments I occasionally hear regarding people's willingness staying in touch with their "friends."

Just as in the horror movies

when someone discovers that the phone calls

are coming from inside the house

so too, I realized   

that our tender overlapping

has been taking place only inside me.

All that sweetness, the love and desire—

it’s just been me dialing myself

then following the ringing to another room

to find no one on the line,

well, sometimes a little breathing

but more often than not, nothing.

To think that all this time—

which would include the boat rides,

the airport embraces, and all the drinks—

it’s been only me and the two telephones,

the one on the wall in the kitchen

and the extension in the darkened guest room upstairs.

"The Breather" by Billy Collins

"If the phone doesn't ring, it's me." Jimmy Buffet

 Photography and design by Martha Lee Phelps

Hanging In

This blogging stuff is an interesting business. What started as a cathartic process to help ease the long days of my boy’s chemotherapy treatment, then evolved into a creative palate and idea platform, and has occasionally merged into community-level public relations spots for clients of my studio.

Turns out my blog page, An Untamed Life On Purpose, has a small following. With the number of daily visitors ranging between 20 and 40 folks, I am grateful for your time and especially appreciate your thoughtful comments. Mainly though, who you all are is a mystery to me, and I enjoy the surprise when someone unexpected reveals that they are a reader!

The other curious wonder about this blog is which posts elicit more attention and responses than others. I was convinced back in mid April, that what people most enjoy are short thought-provoking quotes accompanied by photographs, like “A Simple Quote.”  Nonetheless, the last three entries in April (the three part letter, A Lifetime Love Affair, to my daughter) and May pieces such as, “Standing Fast” showed me that audiences are equally enthusiastic about reflective writing. Other May favorites have included “Supporting Folks We Believe In” (thanks to all Stella’s friends in Palmer, AK for dropping by), the whimsical and mildly interactive “Summertime Checklist” and the purely visual “And Later That Day.”

When I started actively blogging, on Monday, January 11th, I committed to post on weekdays for ninety entries. Today marks the 93rd blog post for Martha Phelps Studio since that day.

Thoreau said, “Things do not change; we change.” I know this wisdom to be true.  It’s no coincidence that as I approached my benchmark of ninety, I was offered a part time job that will, among many things, encourage me to tap into my skills as a writer and creative thinker. It’s part time, which is just right for this juncture. It’s for a local company I respect and admire, which makes it easy to be passionate about. My new “boss” wants me to learn and grow, which makes me feel very happy. And my schedule still gives me freedom for m.l.p. studio clients and the art-making that occurs here during the summer months.

Outside of taking time off to travel every now and then, I’m going to hang in with this blog for as long as it makes me happy. I hope that my readers will hang in too, as well as share it with friends. If there’s something you’d like more of, please let me know. I like a good healthy challenge on occasion! 

All will be well, mlp

For any and all you who may be interested, I have a public Facebook Page whose purpose is positive, unusual and thought provoking quotes and the subsequently interesting exchanges inspired by said quotes. Please visit and become a "Friend" to the page!

Feeling First

The only time I have ever heard someone say “I don’t make you feel that, you choose to feel that way” has been when the speaker was defending themselves, or trying to let him or herself off the hook for words or behaviors that created an outcome that was uncomfortable for them. In other words, they used it as an excuse and a foil rather than accepting responsibility for their part in a situation that evoked emotion.

Human beings, especially those who are in touch with their feelings in a mature and healthy way, tend to respond to outside forces and situations with their emotions first, and their minds and intellectual reasoning step in soon thereafter. Those who, for a myriad of reasons, are very private or guarded in their reactions, can often adeptly go from step A (feelings) to step B (thoughts) in seconds. Note the distinction: “mature and healthy.” I don’t consider someone who flies into a rage or into hysterics at the drop of a pin to fit this description.

When my son was initially diagnosed with cancer, I supposed I could’ve “chosen to feel” something other than shock and grief, but in my human condition, I went directly to the place that any mother who loves her child would go. It was through time, necessity and giving myself opportunity to process some fairly raw emotions in safe and supported ways - that I stepped into the second phase of both the emotional and cognitive journey.  His process has been different, of course - influenced by age, life experience and his uncanny ability to stay in the now. I think that life threatening illness or loss are extreme examples here, because when we grieve it takes longer to go from initial reactions to consciously “choosing how to feel.”

On a day to day level; however, there are many instances. When your playful cat does something silly and you laugh at his antics, you don’t stop - make a carefully thought out choice - and then “feel joy.” You simply feel joy. Now. It’s a beautiful and spontaneous synergy. When you are listening to exquisite music and the sound and vibration of inspiration, tone, rhythm and harmonies evoke deep sadness and tears, you don’t pause - considered your emotional options - and then select “weep.” You just surrender. Now.

I could offer example upon example of situations and experiences where perfectly intelligent and sensible people DO NOT stop to hold a consult in their mind, rather they allow themselves to fully FEEL FIRST. And thank god that we can do such a thing. Thank god that we can trust the deep knowing of our hearts on occasion as it is with our hearts that we can often see and understand most clearly.

So here’s the deal: What we have DO HAVE A CHOICE IN -- is determining how - after we’ve felt the laughter, cried the tears, burned through the fury or known the heart ache  - how and who we will BE NEXT.

If you’ve been one of those folks who likes to say “Oh, you’re choosing to feel that way.” I would strongly urge you to stop saying this. Stop sidestepping the reality of the human spirit, for to feel is to know that you are alive! Stop placating your own fears by shutting out emotions, and stop disrespecting the heartfelt (not “mind” felt) spontaneous joys and sorrows experienced by others.

No matter how messy or weird or too real it may appear to the nay sayers, those who know the emotional landscape of their inner selves also know that if they allow their feelings to surface, they can then begin choosing what comes next in a nourishing way. For me these are the choices that matter so very much and may actually make me a better person. This writer’s now-open heart, despite my mind’s desperate attempts to make it choose occasionally less messy responses, has the first and last say.

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?

A Lifetime Love Affair (Part I)

Okay. Fair warning dear blog readers. This is a long post. It's so long, in fact, that I'm splitting into three parts. It's essentially about expression of self, but it's also a story that I realized I wanted to give my kids. Partly so they can understand their mom, and partly to encourage them to pay attention to the things in life that feed their souls. So....read on, or tune in next week for a change in topic! ~ mlp

Dear Sarah,

We had a pretty good row this morning about...well,many things I suppose. It was about socially acceptable behavior and who defines what’s right and wrong, it was about judgment of others and ourselves, it was about boundaries and it was about taking a stand for what you believe in. That’s a lot of big stuff to cover in just a few minutes at a fairly heated level of exchange, and I hope we can revisit all of it in a more leisurely peaceful fashion in the near future.

But for now, my darling, I want to talk to you about what started the argument: poetry. I offered you an e e cummings poem to take into English class, where you are currently studying poetry and cummings, and you blanched about taking the poem to your teacher. I then, got more than a little upset with you and the rest is - as they say - history. In fact though, the rest is the story about a lifetime love affair with poetry and how pursuing what you love, will change you forever.

I first declared that I wanted to be a poet “someday” in the fourth grade. A local poet by the name of David Zaslow, came to Lincoln Elementary School to teach us how to "be a poet." His opening reading was the William Carlos Williams’ piece, “This Is Just To Say” 

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold.

I was mesmerized. David went on to teach us about metaphor and simile, about onomatopoeia and alliteration. He coaxed haiku and small rhyming bits from us, and read aloud from a collection entitled “Reflections on a Gift of Watermelon Pickle” that held 114 treasures about topics ranging from hunting to loneliness, old dogs sunning themselves to biscuits, arithmetic to baseball games. In short, wonderful snippets and stories bound into a few graceful lines - about anything and everything in life. I learned that no topic was off limits, a few key words could speak volumes, and a truly good poem would reach into your gut and momentarily take your breath away.

Mr. Cummings (or shall I say "mister cummings") showed up in my life a couple years later, when I was given a wonderful introduction at about aged twelve by Joe Dubay, a dear family friend. Joe pulled a volume off a shelf in my parent’s house, and asked me if I ever read poetry? I said yes, but confessed that “that guy’s stuff was hard for me to figure out.” Four readings later - together and out loud - and I was hooked. The poem was  “in Just”

in Just-
spring    when the world is mud-
luscious the little
lame balloonman

whistles    far    and wee

and eddieandbill come
running from marble and
piracies and it’s
spring

when the world is puddle-wondeful

the queer
old balloonman whistles
far    and    wee
and bettyandisbel come dancing

from hopscotch and jump-rope and

it’s
spring
and
    the

        goat-footed

balloonman    whistles
far
and
wee

We also had a long discussion about the license that cummings took with his punctuation and suddenly, everything I knew about conventionality and creativity changed. I began to surmise that to be completely daring - one must be comfortable with putting down the manuals and rule books, step off the edge of the writer's cliff and never look back.

At fourteen, with the help of my very hip ninth grade English teacher, Terry Wells,  I fell in love with the lyrics of Paul Simon:

“Time it was and what a time it was,
A time of innocence,
A time of confidences,
Long ago it must be,
I have a photograph,
Preserve your memories,
There all that's left you...”  (from Old Friends)

and declared that despite that fact that Simon was disguised as a musician, he was actually one of the greatest poets I’d ever encountered. And as I merged into the fast lane of adolescence, I began regularly writing my own poems which were, by the way, very very bad. They were full of teen aged angst and sorrow and filled with yearnings for true love and devotion; in a nutshell, they were schlock.

It was in high school that things turned a little sour. For the first time, I encountered teachers teaching poetry who didn’t understand it, didn’t like it and definitely didn’t want to teach it. You see,  Americans, in general, are uncomfortable with poetry. Because of the poetry education that adults once had, or lack thereof, they've been left with the sense that poetry is a subject rather than an art, an experience, or a source of pleasure. However, since I hadn’t drunk the Kool Aid, I was unlike my teachers and classmates who abhorred the required annual poetry unit. My writing continued, and I learned to quietly curb my enthusiasm until my senior year. 

That year, named one of the Oregon’s top young poets through a state contest, I was awarded the honor of spending a full week studying with three very distinguished Northwest writers. More importantly though, I was offered the perspective-changing experience of sharing time with a dozen other kids from around the state who loved writing as much as me. And trust me when I assure you, we weren't a bunch of horn-rimmed, pocket protector geeks. Writers are crazy, imaginative, spontaneous people - at any age, they are passionate about life,  know how to have fun and are fairly fearless when it comes to expressing themselves!

The poet and essayist among those writers, was Kim Stafford (son of poet laureate, the late William Stafford) who further nurtured in me the idea that poems could be found everywhere and in any topic. Whole themes could arise from a single phrase or word overheard on a city bus, read on a billboard or awakening one in the middle of the night. Kim advocated for carrying a notebook to jot ideas, and whether he learned it from his father I don’t know, but like Stafford senior, he was adamant that writing daily was as essential as breathing for a poet. Then, and now, his convictions about writers are strong, “Writers have a place in this essential work -- to question, listen, and tell the connecting stories of human experience, the quiet voices of local life everywhere.”

Soon after, I started university and turned eighteen. If it hadn't happened significantly enough by then, that was the year my dear Sarah, that the work and words of one poet in particular changed my life.

(End of Part I)

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.

No Proof Required

Happy Monday...and week leading up to Valentine's Day. Valentines may be a lot of hooey to some (probably not Hallmark Cards), but it does offer a great excuse, which I may take advantage of these next few days,  to write a bit about Love....

Conveying Love “is when you reveal yourself nakedly and honestly, at any given moment, for no other purpose than as a gift of what's alive in you. Not to blame, criticize, or punish. Just ‘Here I am, and here is what I would like.’ This is my vulnerability at this moment. To me, that is a way of manifesting love, “ says peace teacher Marshall Rosenberg.

On it’s veneer, one assumes that any expression of love is nonviolent, yet the Nonviolent Communication method (NVCM) created by Rosenberg suggests that simply saying the words “I love you” doesn’t necessarily create connection or harmony. In fact, “I love you”  is viewed as often a rote, and at its worst, manipulative phrase rather than an expression of true gratitude.

As in “To Do Or Not To Do” where I explored the verb-like qualities of responsibility and compassion, I agree with Rosenberg’s stance that Love isn’t merely a feeling. Love is an action, and a truly nonviolent expression of Love is something we manifest, something we do, something we have. It involves giving of ourselves in a certain way that is a truthful, caring and positively intended expression of what's alive in us in that moment.

So merely saying “I love you” can miss the mark - due to the senders’ intention (when the words are said in perfunctory fashion or they are expressed with expectations) or due to the receiver’s ears (wanting “proof” or attempting to assign some sort of measurement “how much do you love me?” rather than joyfully receiving it).

When Love is an action, it is a gift of your Self to an Other with no ulterior  purpose other than to reveal what's present or alive in your Self because of something that that Other did which made life more wonderful.

So, what might such an exchange of Love look like?

Years ago when I was a junior high school English teacher, I started each class by reading aloud. I believed that, even at the ripe old age of thirteen, kids deserved the nurturing act of being read to, especially since many never received this kind of attention at home. The practice was one of devotion toward my students, and I read with enthusiasm to rapt listeners.

One day, unbeknownst to me, a fellow teacher stood just outside the classroom door observing me perched on the reading stool and watching the engaged expressions of the young audience. Later, my friend came to me and said, “I want you to know that when I watch and listen to you reading to your students, you are beautiful to me. I am inspired by what's happening between your and your students, and it feels wonderful!”  

Wow! I had never heard - nor felt - the words “I love you” spoken more powerfully in my life. 

Over the years, when the infamous “three little words” have fallen short of some invisible emotional mark - due either to the speaker’s (lack of) intent or my own inability to receive, I’ve longingly recalled the profound heart connection I felt with my friend - not only that day, but ever after - for the gift they shared. They weren’t complimenting or praising my appearance or teaching style, they were acknowledging “I see you and feel your passion, and I like the way my heart feels as a result.” 

Rosenberg says that in order to joyfully give and receive, we need to make three things clear when we express love or gratitude: 1) What specific action I want to celebrate in you that made life more wonderful. 2) How I feel now as I recall this action. 3) What needs of mine were fulfilled.

Expression of Love in this fashion frees us from the burden of proving our feelings and requiring proof in return, removes the emotional obligations in which we often tangle ourselves, and offers us opportunities to truthfully express how we are and what we need.

So here’s an early "Valentine" to my kids ~

Dear Reid, Gracie and Scout, When you reach out to me - inviting me to play; gently poking holes in my endless worries; eating countless experimental meals; patiently waiting “just one minute” for the tenth time; sharing your grand schemes, do-able dreams, biggest fears, quirky stories and silly jokes; revealing when you don’t understand and shining out when you do; looking me in the eye and speaking your truths -- I am awed and honored by your generosity. You teach me every day to never stop reaching out to others, to keep reaching in to the heart and to remember to reach up in faith.

How will you manifest Love today?

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.

What NOT to Say to Someone with Cancer

When presented with the opportunity for a new life experience, many of us  take anywhere from a few moments to a few days to “bone up” (study) on what we may need to know for the greatest success, pleasure, reward and impact when we have said “new experience.” The internet is an incredible resource for quick studies on damn near everything. So as I sat considering today’s blog, I started with a simple search engine query to find out what others have had to say about: “What not to say to someone with cancer.


There were 52,100,100 search results. Wow. Why bother with today’s blog?

Maybe the real question is: why have there needed to be 52,100,100 posts, articles, videos, newsletters, ezines and statements about this topic? Clearly, people aren’t getting the memos being sent out over and over and over and over. While no one denies the good intentions that friends and community may feel deeply toward a cancer patient and their family, nor the gratitude that a cancer patient and their family feel in response to the care and concern extended to them, there truly are things that one SHOULD NOT SAY to someone with cancer.

Lori Hope at care pages has written a short and clear piece about this issue that I highly recommend, while pink prozac’s blog relates “41 Things Not To Say To Someone With Cancer” in a very direct, non nonsense, language colorful manner. Wild Roses has both a “what not to say” entry as well as a “what TO SAY article” that is very well informed and positive.

Should I attempt to be the 100th monkey on this topic? The one that ultimately tips the proverbial balance so that there is an awakening of compassion and understanding in how to talk with cancer patients? The answer is yes. Because if you want to have the greatest success, pleasure, reward and impact in the life of a friend battling cancer; if you want to be a part of their HEALING journey, then you need to study up on how best to communicate and be present for that person and their family.

I won’t recreate a list of 41 things (but please, click the link and see for yourself). I am going to touch on things I hear about eight times a week (unless I happen to be at a social event, in which case - I hear them eight times in an hour).  For each of these, I offer an alternative thing one might say instead.

1. “What’s your (son’s) prognosis? “As Lori Hope says, this word reminds us of mortality. Hearing it challenges one’s ability to remain present and positive. 

Try this: You are in my thoughts and prayers.

2. “I saw your son, he looks great for someone with cancer.” What is someone with cancer supposed to look like? My son looks like himself. He cares about his appearance in the world, even when he feels like shit, is completely exhausted, frustrated over having his nineteen year old life ripped off and has just weathered an hour long nosebleed and a three hour blood transfusion.

Try this: I’ll bet this sucks. Would you like to talk?

3. “I had a (fill in relation) who had cancer.” Stop. Just stop. Don’t even think of telling the story unless it is positive and the outcome is LIFE.
Try this: Say nothing. Offer a hug. Say I love you. Talk about something besides cancer.

4. To me, the caregiver/mom: “You’re so lucky you don’t have to work right now.” Good grief. First, I’d take ANY job over having my boy have cancer. Second, this IS work. My son is working harder than he’s ever in his life - for his life; I am working very hard also - to support him, his sisters and myself. Third, I’m unemployed and while the timing (as if there were such a thing with cancer) allows me to care for my son, this is anxiety producing on multiple levels.
Try this: I’ll bet this is hard work. or - I have a lead on a part time job for you that will allow you to keep taking care of your son.

5. Again, to me: “I just can’t imagine having my child die before I do. Where do you find your strength and positive attitude?” Guess what? I can’t imagine such a thing either. What parent wants to imagine such a thing? Our family is moving through stages of grief and loss. Dealing with depression, anxiety and panic is very taxing. I am doing this because I love my child. I find strength in my love for my child - just as any true parent does in times like these.
Try this: I’m here for you. So there you have it.

Now the search engine will read 52,100,101 results. Hopefully this one will help teach.

A Facebook Break

Social networking sites have become the quick, easy and relatively painless way to communicate personal information with many, a communication shotgun, if you will. One post and BANG! you've hit 100 people. The "keeping in touch with friends" aspect of Facebook has a huge appeal to me. I enjoy and appreciate the glimpses of their lives - adventures, senses of humor, social awareness raising efforts - dropping onto the screen in front of me, like so many ripe and ready to eat cherries. It's quick, simple and relatively painless.

Of course anyone who imbibes in FB or MySpace or Twitter also knows the flip side to the yummy cherries: the drivel, the seemingly random yet frighteningly targeted ads, the time-draining quizzes, and the "fluff, " that we neither want nor need. I think of these cherry counterparts as the trash that our kids bring home from the county fair - the crappy stuffed toys and plastic inflatables that always end up in the trash.

I've noticed of late that the shiny thrall of the Facebook sound byte has worn off. There are so many other things to do: work, family, creative projects, books, music, life in Real Time. All of these alternatives require more focus and energy yet also yield far greater and longer lasting positive results than a profile post that is like to be gone within 24 hours. As it turns out, sound bytes are fun for awhile and on occasion, but I'd like my relationships to delve deeper too.

My current profile post reads, "Martha Phelps will be taking a break from Facebook for awhile - maybe a week or two, maybe a year. Email me if you miss me too much: mlp@marthaphelps.com - or better yet, give me a call and let's take a walk." My break could be indefinite, or it could be periodic, since I still have a fourteen year old daughter to be "friends" with. Point is - I'm going to redirect myself for a spell.

What works - or doesn't about social networking in your life? Does it support you or get in your way? Drop me a sound byte - or much more.



PS Hat tip to the blog Evolution for the perfect profile post as well as the nudge I needed.