Knowing, Understanding, Accepting, Allowing

"A friend is one that knows you as you are, 

understands where you have been,

accepts what you have become, 

and still, gently allows you to grow." 

— William Shakespeare

The Inside Cusp

You went away on the inside cusp of springtime,
just after the last,
hard frost surprised us and killed the young tomato plants
that I had already put into the heavy damp earth.

The morning that you left,
the snow line pushed clear down
into the foothills one final time
as if to say, “Fuck your human calendar, I’ll do what I please,”

and it rained, cold and hard
for two full days -

soaking my heart in the grayness
of your new absence.

You went away after scoffing any fond farewell
or tender sigh -
refusing even the smallest nod.
And you knew you were hurting me, as
you slammed your suitcase abruptly.

It was easier to study your plane ticket
than look into my eyes.

And now it’s been a month.

And summer is drawing herself
like a chalk game on the neighborhood sidewalk

and the only evidence that spring ever was, is
the way the buds,
that once held themselves in tight protection against the chill,
are eagerly open and hungry for heat

and I can go for hours without remembering you.

The Inside Cusp © by Martha Lee Phelps

95% Bullshit Free

Here’s the truth of it: some days just kick my ass. I get scared, lonely, tired and overwhelmed, and then I sort of wade around in it for a spell trying to remember how to stand up straight and move forward.

This is not a confession, because anyone who reads between the lines probably already knows that I am not as strong as I profess to be (nor as confident). In fact, the sole brilliance I may possess (outside of making very tasty pies) - could very well be my ability to act as though I have all the confidence in the world.

In some circles this is also known as “bullshitting.”

For years and years, I sharpened my bullshitting skills. It wasn’t uncommon for me to leap before looking, raise my hand first (even if I didn’t know the answer), get mad rather than show pain, and generally act as though nothing could frighten me. The bad news about all this behavior is that, over time - I liked who I was pretending to be less and less.

Now, the funny thing about traits that we practice for years and years, whether they’re good or bad, is that they take can take root deeply. To really and truly dislodge one’s negative roots can be very very difficult. It requires not only awareness and practice...but maybe even a life changing event - or two - to shake you to your core and start mixing things up.

A year ago I was plodding along, considering the pros and cons of being just a tiny bit less of a bullshitter. I wasn’t much liking myself, but change felt like an awful lot of work. I suspect that I may have even been attempting to bullshit myself into believing that happiness and connection and forgiveness and faith - were perfectly attainable - without requiring me to make too many adjustments in my behavior.

Enter life changing events: a career unfolds, a marriage ends, a child becomes ill. Family falters, relationships are tilted on their axis, 2 A.M. takes on the gray streaks of loneliness and creativity has flown the coup. Nasty shit. Sort of like copper cleaner. It stinks; it’s poison; you really ought wear protective gloves when using it, but man oh man - with just the right amount of rubbing and attention to detail - it sure does make the metal gleam like sunlight.

So, what I said in the beginning - about “some days” ??  Right. Well, I had one of those today. I was tired, frightened about a simple thing, didn’t like being alone and feeling especially sorry for my sorry little old self. Compared to some of the days I’ve weathered, it really was NOT that tough of a day, but for some reason, maybe because my bullshit tools are growing rusty from disuse, I not only allowed myself to honestly feel, but I also asked for help. (And guess what?) Help arrived in spades!

I was assured, treated with respect, reminded to keep a sense of humor, shown kindness, offered love - and even told that I really AM strong (without pretending).
 
So, at the end of this day that I was pretty convinced I couldn’t be done with quickly enough), I am now savoring.

Sarah, thank you for making sure I ate breakfast  and getting me to smile. Roanna, thank you for letting me be grumpy and still being my friend. Carlos, thank you for calling me all the way from Spain - twice - to reassure me. Steve, thanks for being a boss who supports learning and for making me laugh at the small stuff. Aidan, thanks for starting and ending my day with your care. Carolyn, thanks for checking up on me. Maylee, thank you for catching me with tenderness and for the beautiful flowers! And all my friends paying attention out there - you twinkling points of light and life - thank you for reading and posting and asking great questions and making honest observations.

Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. From the depths of my much happier, much more vulnerable and 95% bullshit-free heart - I thank you. ~ mlp

Standing Fast

“I do not wish to treat friendships daintily, but with the roughest courage. When they are real, they are not glass threads or frost-work, but the solidest thing we know.”

~ Ralph Waldo Emerson 

It’s been one hell of a year.

Every single day when I awaken, I try to concentrate on the unexpected joys that surround radical change and practice counting the blessings that are so abundant in my life; however let’s face it, I’m a flawed human being. There are days I get mired in some of the sadness that change has imposed.

This morning in particular, I’m thinking about the unwritten guidebooks for surviving things like, being laid off from one’s job and long term unemployment, or having a marriage come to an end, or having a family member diagnosed with cancer. Specifically,  I’m wondering why there aren’t operating instructions for dealing with the loss of friends one once had, yet who drop away when life’s terrain gets bumpy and the view from the windows is less than scenic. Fair-weather friends, my mother used to call them: those who are most likely to appear when they are in need or, at best, when you are not in need. Because, let’s face it, friendship is sweeter when life is fun, right? A lot more work is required to remain present to someone who’s world has been turned on its axis.

Mind you, I’m not questioning WHY it happens. It happens for a myriad of reasons, such as:

1. People don’t know what to say or do. Keeping a safe distance allows them to watch without touching and very little extra effort is required.
2. Hard situations sometimes remind folks of their own problems - past or present - and they often don’t have the stamina for more.
3. Sometimes it’s about inability to pay attention to a story that isn’t a Hollywood action flick but a slowly unfolding real life documentary. People bore easily.
4. Folks get scared. They don’t want to admit it, but they’re afraid that if they get too close they might “catch” the problem. Like witnessing a friend’s divorce might cause one in their household, or knowing the reality and pain of cancer might cause a cell mutation in their family. Their fear takes on more meaning than their friendship.
5. They just can’t be bothered. They don’t want to take the time. They’re over it - even if their friend isn’t.

Initially, I was hurt and angry knowing that friendships were evaporating for reasons that, in my judgment (with the exception of #2) were pretty messed up and selfish. But in classic Kübler-Ross movement through the stages of grief, I’ve come to realize that what I mainly feel now is a deep sense of sadness and believe it or not, a bit of gratitude.

Relationships may be sweeter when they’re only fun, but they’re not nourishing.

As this big year of changes continues to catalyze and the guidebooks write themselves along the way, I grieve the loss of those I thought I knew, and celebrate the unwavering true.

In the long haul, I’m grateful to know and love a few well-rooted old friends as well as some amazing new ones. I am honored by these full-hearted individuals who have courageously reached out across the rough scenery and despite my grief to stand fast. Ambose Redmoon said, “Courage is not the absence of fear, but rather the judgment that something else is more important than fear.” 

Choosing love is that “something else.”

“When we honestly ask ourselves which person in our lives means the most us, we often find that it is those who, instead of giving much advice, solutions, or cures,  have chosen rather to share our pain and touch our wounds with a gentle and tender hand. The friend who can be silent with us in a moment of despair or confusion, who can stay with us in an hour of grief and bereavement, who can tolerate not knowing, not curing, not healing  and face with us the reality of our powerlessness, that is a friend who cares.”  ~ Henri Nouwen

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 II)

(This is the second installment of a lengthy post. Part I was published on April 28.)

If your eyes were not the color of the moon,
of a day full of clay, and work, and fire,
if even held-in you did not move in agile grace like the air,
if you were not an amber week,

not the yellow moment
when autumn climbs up through the vines;
if you were not that bread the fragrant moon
kneads, sprinkling its flour across the sky,

oh, my dearest, I would not love you so!
But when I hold you I hold everything that is--
sand, time, the tree of the rain,

everything is alive so that I can be alive:
without moving I can see it all:
in your life I see everything that lives.         ~Pablo Neruda


My first book of Pablo Neruda's poems were given to me on my eighteenth birthday. I had little life experience to filter his exquisite writing through. Roger Housden says in the opening of his book, Ten Poems to Change Your Life, that good poetry has the power to start a fire in your life, and I think that’s what happened for me with Neruda. I mean, I had already been exposed to good poetry. But it had all come to me at someone else’s behest. With the arrival of Neruda’s love sonnets and odes, I now began seeking new poems and their writers on my own accord. A fire had been lit within me that felt so marvelously untamed and warm, I wanted to stoke the flame with more fuel.

Fortunately, an English major in college is in the perfect spot for foraging. Barbara Clark-Mossberg gave me an education in the fireside poets and the likes of Emerson, Whitman, Dickinson, Melville and Thoreau that had my mind and senses overflowing. Ed Coleman, my beloved adviser, baptized me in the African American poets: Gwendolyn Brooks, Paul Lawrence Dunbar, Claude McKay, Langston Hughes, Nikki Giovanni and others found their way into my marrow. Gloria Johnson stood, with her open Riverside collection of Shakespeare's plays and sonnets, and read aloud in class in lilting iambic pentameter that made perfect sense - nearly all the time! I read, listened to and wrote prose and poetry in an environment that inspired more exploration and discovery than I had previously known. This is, of course, one of the beautiful aspects of going to college and studying what you are passionate about. There is plenty of encouraging support around you.

When I graduated, with a bachelor’s degree in English and minors in creative writing and folklore and ethnic studies, I began to make my way toward being a teacher. I hadn’t forgotten that my ten-year old self had a different career goal, but I figured that instilling a love for literature, poetry and writing in children would be a worthy way to make a difference in the world. And it did. Poetry study in my LA classes were NOTHING like what I had encountered in high school. We learned the language, read contemporary works, listened to rock, pop and rap music, threw out the rule books, wrote constantly, shared daily - and had fun. Imagine that?

At home, in my carefree life before motherhood, poetry was present daily. Your dad wooed me in fairly romantic fashion with a piece called “A Late Aubade” by Richard Wilbur, not long after I met him - 

You could be sitting now in a carrel

Turning some liver-spotted page,

Or rising in an elevator-cage

Toward Ladies' Apparel.

You could be planting a raucous bed

Of salvia, in rubber gloves,

Or lunching through a screed of someone's loves

With pitying head.

Or making some unhappy setter

Heel, or listening to a bleak

Lecture on Schoenberg's serial technique.

Isn't this better?

Think of all the time you are not

Wasting, and would not care to waste,

Such things, thank God, not being to your taste.

Think what a lot

Of time, by woman's reckoning,

You've saved, and so may spend on this,

You who had rather lie in bed and kiss

Than anything.

It's almost noon, you say? 
If so,
Time flies, and I need not rehearse

The rosebuds-theme of centuries of verse.

If you mustgo,

Wait for a while, then slip downstairs

And bring us up some chilled white wine,

And some blue cheese, and crackers, and some fine

Ruddy-skinned pears.


...and perhaps this poem even had something to do with why I fell in love with him? I certainly remember the sound of his voice as he read to me, as well as the light in the room and the texture of the ripe pear he had placed gently in my hand.

You see, Sarah, the right poem can change not only the way you see yourself, but it can change the way you see the world. At the least, it entertains us with images and rhythm, at the most though -- it gives us permission, welcomes forgiveness, dares us to push pass the edges of the safety net that we live so much of life within and sustains us when the of life territory feels new, scary, raw and wild.

By the time your older brother had arrived, a decade after Neruda was born into my heart, I had come to realize that one of the biggest reasons I loved poetry so very very much, was because the truly gifted poets - somehow, some -inexplicable- how, seemed to be able to put into words my exact feelings about certain things and experiences - when even I could not. How was this possible? I couldn’t explain it, but felt it deeply and truly. 



(End of Part II)

A Simple Quote

"MAY YOUR LIFE

BE CROWDED

WITH UNEXPECTED

JOYS!"

Quote by H. Jackson Brown, Jr.
Photos by Martha Lee Phelps

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.

The 63 Word Decade

Two days ago, I was contacted via Facebook by a woman who was one of my dearest high school companions. We shared some incredible adventures thirty (oh lordy, I hadn't done the math lately) years ago. Sometime when I'm plowing down memory lane, I'll post a story about skipping econ class my junior year to go drink black coffee with Pat in her always sophisticated high heels. At seventeen, she claimed that a woman wasn't truly complete unless she wore pumps, but I digress...

This morning I get a perfectly-Patricia message. It is brief, witty and delightfully demanding. In her message, she encapsulates her life since we last saw one another (1997), into sixty-three words and then challenges me to do the same "speed catch up."
 
Ack! Those of you reading this blog or knowing me for any length of time know that I can't do anything in 63 words. Nevertheless, I've given it a go.
 
Before you read on; however, indulge me. First, this exercise was sobering. To reduce a decade that I believed was significant, changing and full of dimension into a quickie paragraph rather brings one up short. It feels as though there are several thousand words missing. Then there's the reality that my life, after re-reading the allotted statement, I judge to be somewhat...shall we say -  humdrum? I don't know what I expected. I mean - I'm perfectly clear that the last thirteen years have not included the long dreamt of retreat to Greece, the Grand Canyon trek, a published collection of poetry, learning to play the banjo or even the purchase of  a new television (my kids have been offering to pool their savings -- it's actually that bad), but I digress...again. Needless to say, the life of glamour that we envisioned all those years ago while delinquently sipping bad coffee transformed into something all-together-else.
 
So, Patricia Rae, I’m digging in the recesses of my brain trying to recall how old my kids were when you passed through Ashland with a very big, rambunctious dog and a bottle of vodka in your trunk. I’m pretty sure it was 1997. Had I run the Portland marathon yet? Sarah, then my youngest, would’ve been two years old. Reid David was seven, and I was still a brunnette. Yikes! Thirteen years chronologically in the space of a classified ad. Ready? 
 
“Single mom, English teacher, met man, took risk, married man, millennium delivered Virginia, stopped teaching, worked non-profit foundation, kids thrived, eldest child graduated AHS-moved out-started college, continued my art & writing, began dabbling in photography, separated from man, middle kid started AHS, youngest in 4th grade, working freelance studio, eldest child fighting-surviving leukemia, now very different strong-loving single mom.”

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.

Roses

“This is love: to fly toward a secret sky,
to cause a hundred veils to fall each moment.
First, to let go of life.
In the end, to take a step without feet;
to regard this world as invisible,
and to disregard what appears to be the self.” ~ Rumi

It feels only fitting to round out my pre-Valentines week of blog posts with a mildly evocative poem about...love? passion? sensuality? heart connection? (you decide). My currently single (and very romantic-in-spirit) teenaged daughter has been declaring repeatedly the past several days that "Valentines Day is stupid." It may be that. My own single cynic self can relate to her sentiment. Commercially speaking, however; someone struck on a damn fine idea. 

But the stuff of love, passion, sensuality and heart connection - no, these feelings and experiences are far, far from stupid. 

Take Rumi, for example. Jalāl ad-Dīn Muḥammad Rūmī was a 13th century poet, theologian and Sufi mystic. His poetry has been considered some of the greatest mystical and spiritual poetry ever written. Rumi writes as the lover of God. His poems can be read merely as love poems, but they must also be considered as symbolic of the relationship of man to the divine.

And then there's Chilean, Pablo Neruda, the poet, diplomat and political figure who was once referred to as the greatest poet of the 20th century in any language. While some of his works are about political and social issues in South America, he is most dearly known for his love poetry. If you haven't yet purchased a gift for your Valentine, I highly recommend Neruda's Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair. (Note: Best read aloud in a private setting.....) In my experience, Neruda's words come closest to capturing that exquisite and deep soul place that we all have such a hard time articulating about matters of the heart.

"I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where, 

I love you simply, without problems or pride:
I love you in this way because I don't know any other way of loving

but this, in which there is no I or you,
so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand,
so intimate that when I fall asleep it is your eyes that close." 

~ Neruda

So in the spirit of something far, far deeper than Hallmark could ever imagine, and with the utmost respect and gratitude for all of the humble writers of love throughout the ages, here is my small token ~

roses

When she leaned into

the roses, 

her face poised

at the edge of a deep red blossom,

he watched her mouth

(wanting to run his tongue

along the inside rim

of her damp lower lip)

which was slightly

parted, like the petals

before her, 

as if tasting

their perfume.

(to linger there

savoring each 

warm

flavor

in delicious prequel)

and so perfect was

the flower’s essence,

it lingered 

underneath her eyes

when she looked into his gaze

(of lovemaking.)

~ May you find your beloved within yourself. See you Monday ~ m.l.p.

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.