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How Do You Be So Brave?

Hope, Stamm Camp Guild
Posted on 16 Comments on How Do You Be So Brave?

Inside Passage, British Columbia
photo MDessein
These kids work hard every day just to stay alive.
To live, which I take for granted each day when I get up, dawdle, feed my cats, do some laundry, and never think “What do I have to do to stay alive today?”

These kids have medically complex issues that I cannot begin to explain, like having heart surgery for birth defects within 48 hours of being born then five more surgeries over the next three years, being paralyzed, having a brain injury, childhood onset of scoliosis; these few examples do not touch on the myriad of illnesses and challenges these children and their families face.

Yesterday, I was fortunate to attend the 11th Annual Stanley Stamm Camp Guild Fashion Show, a fundraiser for a summer camp founded by Dr. Stanley Stamm for kids ages 6 – 14 connected with Seattle Children’s Hospital who could not otherwise attend a summer camp due to all their medical care needs.

A Fashion Show, you ask? Yes, fifteen of these children came on stage modeling outfits donated by a large retailer. Many of them came on stage alone and did the stroll around it twice, some had help. Some in wheelchairs, some having their hand held, a few of them sashayed by themselves, a couple others had a volunteer or staff member walk beside them. Miranda, who was too shy to talk with one of the MC’s, did a lap around the stage by herself. Matthias waved, did a couple thumbs-up, and shook his booty in the course of his two laps. From his wheelchair with the huge wheels, Tucker had witty responses to questions. Serafina sang a song she wrote. And Joseph.

Joseph is about 12 years old, tall and slender, blind since birth, he walked with his taller-than-he-is walking stick in his right hand and a volunteer guiding him by holding his left elbow.

How many times did I get teary-eyed watching these children be so brave? Couldn’t tell you, as I lost count. Before each child came on stage, one of the MC’s, a longtime volunteer at Children’s, gave a brief synopsis of the child’s medical history and some of their favorite things. The things these children have done to get through another day, and then do it again the next day is remarkable to me.

Such young ones to work so hard to be alive.

Stamm Camp allows these kids to be kids: paddle-boats, pizza, tacos, fishing, swimming, horses, arts & crafts, archery, games, being outdoors, campfires, music… and freedom from many of their daily concerns. The Stamm Camp Guild is a special guild that raises money solely for the Dr. Stanley Stamm Camp. (If you are interested, donations are gratefully accepted: 206-987-2153.) In addition to the medical staff, there are 200+ volunteers who make this camp happen each year for these kids. Some of the volunteers are now adults who were in the camp in their youth.

Dr. Stanley Stamm photo by MYNorthwest

Who was Stanley Stamm? I’m glad you asked. Dr. Stamm founded the pediatric cardiology department at Children’s Hospital as well as pioneered treatments for kids with cystic fibrosis. When he died last year at age 93, the Seattle Times quoted his son-in-law who called Dr. Stamm, “the Mr. Rogers of pediatrics.”
Treat kids like people, not patients was one of his primary tenets.

After the Fashion Show and a few minutes of closing chat from the MC’s, there was the Fashion Models Finale – all the kids came on stage with some volunteers and helpers. We audience members cheered, clapped, hurrahed. All those on stage waved and clapped back at us.
Joseph was front and center. He handed his walking stick to his helper and raised both his arms in a great open V for victory and smiled.

Did I cry? You bet I did.

Toothpaste and Survival

Byron Katie, Hummingbirds, Living fully, Montreal, Personal growth, Searching, Story
Posted on 18 Comments on Toothpaste and Survival

Sheep Rock, OR. photo by Mary Dessein
Most people would throw it away.
I take the seemingly empty toothpaste tube, cut it open, and get every bit of toothpaste out of it, easily five more uses before I throw the absolutely 100% empty tube away. The stick of deodorant is seemingly empty, the container is flat across the top of the stick. No… I scoop out the remainder inside the stick, clearly a couple weeks more deodorant still in there.
And the lipstick tube? Why it has a good 1/8th of an inch of usable lipstick in the bottom. I thought these were normal practices, until it was brought to my attention that not everyone does these things.
We won’t go into Christmas bags and bows…

I was born a good twenty-five years after the Great Depression. Yet my parents were raised during those years.
It appears my, shall we say intense, frugality was carried forward from them.

Another belief that I have struggled with since I was a teen is ‘men are authority figures and are to be obeyed.’ The struggle was that the belief was firmly implanted, yet my intuition resisted all the time. Looking back as I recognize this falsehood, I am lucky to be alive as being obedient included backseats of cars, saying yes when all my insides shouted No, getting in a VW bus and driving to Yugoslavia with a stranger from the Venice train station, not asking questions when dicey situations were presented, allowing abusive behavior to go on yet saying nothing.

Here’s one for you: food is solace and comfort for whatever troubles you. Oh my. I have dealt with overweight since I was young. Something that tastes good will make the problem and uneasy feelings go away, right? Related to that, here is another recipe for life-long eating issues: “There are starving children in China – you must eat every morsel on your plate whether you are hungry or not.” These over-rode a child’s natural response. Kids are truth-tellers and instinct-followers: they make candid reports (“You smell funny. You have a big nose. I don’t like that.”) to avoiding people and situations they are uneasy about.

So who’s stories were those? Old stories happening through me? If they are not my stories, what are mine? I have a right to my own stories don’t I?

In thinking about my parents this morning – my mom, Josette, gone three and a half years and my dad, Kenney, gone thirty-three and a half, I wonder what they would tell me now that they’ve had a long distance view.
Then a mental shazaam followed: what would my sister tell me? She died fourteen and a half years ago at the age of forty-nine and four days of “undetermined causes” as there was no clear explanation for why her heart stopped. What would Rosie tell me? Was she living her own story, or someone else’s? I have often wondered since that difficult time, was she looking for her own path, what was her dream? She had drifted along, trying various occupations such as working on fishing boats in Alaska, photography, office work, and was in optician school when she died.

Virtuoso pianist in Montreal playing Bohemian Rhapsody

What I am learning about my own story and my own path is that I create it, albeit standing on the shoulders of those before me. I watch the magnificent thousands of geese arching above me and the hummingbirds flitting about my porch at the feeders even as it is snowing. True to one’s self, true to one’s heart really is survival. The ‘shoulds’ are falling away as I recognize them. Byron Katie’s work is reflected here on being with what is.

Being true to myself and true to my heart’s calling is my survival and the path to writing my own story.

A Gentle Whisper in Flight

Geese, Hummingbirds, Searching
Posted on 14 Comments on A Gentle Whisper in Flight

Hundreds and hundreds of geese flying overhead in chevrons, lines, and groups which were morphing into other formations, lines, and multi-layered chevrons as I watched. Speechless, I saw the seemingly endless intersections of birds squawking as they flew. The cascade of thousands of honks sounded like a multitudinous chorus of squeaks so far above me.

Geese Photo by Mary Dessein

I had initially looked up upon hearing the first few and thought, “It’s early December, late for geese,” as I stood there in the parking lot on that late afternoon, getting near dusk. The black bodies of the geese in flight clearly visible against the soft grey sky. Then I saw the zillions of birds in the distance, wave after wave of them, coming from different but analogous directions to swoop together, then diverge into another chevron while still others melded into the massive movement.

Fluctuating, reforming constantly.
Captivated, I watched for at least fifteen minutes until just a few strands of birds straggled behind the swarm.

The glory of being in the right place at the right time. And taking the time.

A couple weeks later, between Snohomish and Monroe, were again thousands of geese. This time, white snow geese. They were flying, swirling like a magnificent tornado, their wings catching the pink-tinged, golden light of the late afternoon sun. The distant sound of their honking a gentle whisper that I held my breath in order to hear.
Looking for their evening settlement, their safe place. Yes, I know that search. I bet you do, too.

In the last few days of sub-zero weather, I’ve watched the calypte anna hummingbirds zip around the feeder on my porch, then land on the clothes-line, or on the near naked fuchsia branches in the hanging basket. The calypte anna is the species of hummingbird that does not migrate. It seems 12 degree weather does not slow them down any. Interestingly, hummingbirds cannot walk. Their tiny feet are made for perching.
Imagine that: flying at near lightening speed, shining like a jewel in the sun, and not being able to walk. Yet not knowing any of those things, as the hummingbirds are simply being who they are.

Being in the right place at the right time and simply being who you truly are.
My search goes on.

Who’s Garden?

Angeles Arrien, Belonging, Living fully
Posted on 12 Comments on Who’s Garden?

Kenney & Josette 1944
Last Thursday would have been my parents’ 74th wedding anniversary. This coming February will be my grandparents, Marguerite and Alfred’s, 96th wedding anniversary. My mother has only been gone three years; her dad, Alfred, died eighty-one years ago.

My, oh my, where is my place in time? Now, for sure. At least I like to think so. This is an abundant time in my life as I reach out to friends, new friends step into my life, my creativity has moved to the forefront of my priorities. It was a luxury before, now that I admit how quickly my earthly clock is ticking, I realize it is now or never to write that novel (and the ones in the idea pipeline), ruminate and publish these blogs, choose the gigs I want to accept, and get my next award-winning CD done!

I am learning to release the things I wish I had done: been more present for my Mom when my dad was dying, then later when she herself was dealing with a cancer. When I did not follow up with a friend, who died before I got out to visit her. Talk about my, oh my: the times I did not protect my children. My son at a young age had to do many things on his own, including as a first-grader to ride a bus to daycare with older, mean-to-little-kids kids, and later, catch the bus way early a quarter mile down the country road we lived on.

Actually, that ‘what I failed at’ list is getting pretty long, so the things I did right is the list I’m thinking about now. And even better, the above to-do list. If I had known then to be more attentive, to ask more questions, to be more compassionate… famous last words.

“Commitments that are broken are those where there is non-alignment among mind, heart, and action, when one or more of these parts are not willing to participate fully,” Angeles Arrien.

I have come close to that understanding by saying when someone, including myself, didn’t follow through, it was because they were not ‘invested’ in whatever the project or commitment was. Dr. Arrien gave me a deeper understanding of this. And my commitment to others has often taken precedence over a commitment to myself.
This path of finding my place in time interests me more all the time. This is a path most of us revisit over and over at different stages in our lives.

Alfred & Marguerite 1923

The 74 year anniversary got me thinking. I have kept so many things, linens of my great-grandparents’, paintings of my grandmother’s, and keepsakes of my mom’s that I have no specific attachment to, however I think I am obligated to keep them because of my attachment to the people who were precious to me.

Surprise! Guess who was keeping all these things before me? Bonus prize: you’re right, it was my mom.
I am coming to realize what is mine and what is not. Big light-bulb for me. The precious part of those people is within me, which I can’t lose. It seemed the cardinal sin was to forget someone. God forbid I do something I am not supposed to do. Mary always does what she is supposed to do.

Sure, I have done well at lots of those things: my boss, Marcia, thought I’d do well in Drug Court. She was right, I did great. I also was a good optician, a good receptionist, a good office manager, a good counselor and advocate. I enjoyed doing those things, and know I did my best to help others; every now and then, a voice from those times will find me. I love that. Yet, those jobs were usually someone else’s idea. Even as I bloomed like a rose, which helped me learn and develop, it now seems I had been planted in someone else’s garden. If that was my apprenticeship – I’m good with that. Where is my place now?

In my own garden – of friends, stories, music, novels, CDs, and blooming again as my true self. The richness of all those previous experiences will deepen my creativities. I am learning to say Yes or No without worrying what others will think. I am learning to take nothing others do personally (oh yeah, this is ongoing!) I am learning to listen more deeply. I am learning to release judgments (okay, this is ongoing, too.) I am learning to trust and follow my heart’s calling.

Where is my place now? I’m not sure, however, I am delighted to follow the path. You are so welcome to come along~

A Mysterious Thread

Living fully, Oregon, Trees
Posted on 13 Comments on A Mysterious Thread

Peninsula College photo by Mary Dessein
It is the most gorgeous fall I can remember.
Now that could mean this is the only fall I can remember. It could mean I am truly amazed by the flamboyant oranges, golds, yellows, russets, ambers, corals, titians, hennas, coppers, and saffrons I see across the park in the one hundred foot tall cottonwoods and maples.

It could mean I have been so focused on going, doing, finishing, scheduling, herding, supervising, parenting, balancing, cleaning, and meeting that I did not take time to look around me. No matter how the wind blew or how high the tawny maple leaves piled up in the corners of my carport, I had tasks to complete, dawdling in wonder was not on that list.

In the fall that I started first grade, I could hardly wait for the first day of school. My mother bought me a dress. It came in a plastic bag, was folded neatly and flatly like the shirts on tables at Penney’s. She probably got it there actually. I clearly recall the pale steel blue background with little gold and dark blue pinwheel designs in an orderly pattern of rows, similar to a chain link fence. I kicked through the leaves as Mom walked me the nine blocks to Central Elementary School, delivered me to Miss Winan’s first grade classroom, then took my little sister’s hand and walked back home.

In driving southeast on I-90 through Sammamish, by Preston, over Snoqualmie Pass, alongside Keechelus Lake, and past Cle Elum a few days ago, I again thought, “This is the most gorgeous fall I can remember.”

How much have I skimmed by without taking the time to really see? Oh my, I don’t think I want to start a list. What I do want to do is start anew. Hear the Canadian geese flying over head and stop to listen to their honking.

Ritter Ridge, OR photo by Mary Dessein

See the jagged edges of ice along Camas Creek, white against the dark creek bed; watch the fuchsia leaf dangling below the hanging basket on my porch by a mysterious thread twisting in the breeze; watch a toddler pulling at the handles of a paper grocery bag and laughing in delight while she sits in the shopping cart; pull my car off to the side of the road of Ritter Ridge and gaze into the forever distance over the hills at the gathering soft pink and orange dusk; play fetch-the-stick with my grand-puppies and be in their joy, not my to-do list.

Indeed, this is the most gorgeous fall I can remember.

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