Slouching Toward Bethlehem

At first, I planned to post a Christmas message in my blog.  It would be one of those you-always-manage-to-make-me-cry messages that my daughter loves to complain about.  There would be plenty of nostalgic references and allusions to my favorite Christmas songs.  I would have invoked Dickens--or at least Karen Carpenter--in my original post!  But this year is different.  This Christmas calls for reality, not fantasy.  For now, not then.  For fresh, not stale.  For Linda, not Karen.  So instead of a traditional Christmas message, here are some great photos.  They are some of my favorites from this year, this Christmas, this week.  They remind me that life isn't a picture at all.  It's actually a movie, a reel of film that plays until it's over.  There are no second takes, no edits, no redos.  These are the people and the things that I love, the life I have made for myself.  I love the tree, even with the needles falling each time someone walks past it.  I love the dusty curio cabinet that holds my family of owls.  I love the scratched and dented, the worn, the imperfect. I love the taste of slightly burned ham rolls, the sink full of dishes, the bundles of wrapping paper that was carted to the dumpster hours ago. I'm not especially bothered by the empty checking account or the stack of bills on the table.  For these few days in December 2011 I have managed to pause, to listen, to notice, to taste, to see, to breathe.  I have tried to let go the useless fear, the worry, the aggravation.  I have tried to focus on the peace of this season, a moment at a time, with all the exuberance I can muster in my imperfect body and soul.  It is a gift, an incredible present, to simply be alive.  What a gift!

Going Home

I believe it was Thomas Wolfe who warned You can't go home again. Thomas Wolfe was right. Once we leave that proverbial nest, it's never the same when coming back.  But we still try, don't we?  My own most recent attempt was last week-end, a trip to my old parish church.  I attended Christ the King until I moved out of state a few years after I married.  So many important life events were celebrated in that little church, so it's no wonder that I have longed for many years to visit it once again.  When I was growing up, my parents were always heavily invested in their faith.  Missing mass was never an option, even in bad weather or tough times.  When the church burned and mass was moved to a nearby mission church, we traveled the extra 15 miles each way, even though the mission church had no heat and snow was on the ground for most of that winter.  Rosary rallies, Holy Name Society, spaghetti suppers, Altar Society, choir practice, church picnic, CYO, Bible school, baptisms, funerals, weddings.  The Church had us covered--spiritually, physically, and intellectually.  And we were always ready to give back.  Mom sewed curtains, drove us to CYO, prepared meals, and taught CCD classes.  She did it all while taking excellent care of four growing and demanding daughters. Dad's job was to raise money for projects, set up chairs and tables for all celebrations, organize the Church picnic, pass out the bags of fruits, nuts, and candy to all the kids at Christmas, take up the collection at mass, and do just about any other job that he was asked to do.  Their friends had surnames like Zando and Kappa, second generation immigrants from Europe who had originally come to work in the coal mines or in other industry.  We learned the old ways--no meat on Friday, fasting before Communion, and prayers on hard, wooden kneelers.  We prayed the rosary and chanted Latin verses that we didn't understand.  When I left that small Catholic community in the early 1970s, there were two Sunday masses and one mass on Saturday.  Almost 40 years later, there is one priest shared by four parishes.  One mass is celebrated on Sunday for  fewer than 30 faithful, and there is serious talk of closing Christ the King permanently.  At one time, the Church fed us, consoled us, and educated us.  Now there is the distinct possibility that the little church will disappear completely.  Its influence, its high moral standards, its beacon of hope.  All will pass away.  Like burned votive candles in an empty church.

Christmas Wish

Mom at Christmas, early 1970's

I have thousands of photographs, slips of Kodachrome in squares and rectangles. Faded black and whites with crinkled edges.  Polaroids whose images appear more ghostly with each passing year.  There are hundreds of sharp digitals and videos. Albums of archived memories that I've organized by year.  I spent the better part of one summer sorting and numbering negatives into neat drawers of cataloged envelopes.  And though my production of hard copies has slowed a bit with the advent of my digital phase, it's fair to say that my habit is a true obsession. Yet among all the pictures in my wide collection, this one is my favorite. It's a picture of my Mom.  It was taken at Christmas, sometime in the early 70's. Time for a story. It was almost Christmas. Mom had been away for four weeks, leaving the day after Thanksgiving to answer an important call of duty.  Though we missed her, we knew it was our responsibility to carry on until she was able to come back home.  Someone had to clean and decorate the house, string the lights, bake the cookies, wrap the presents.  It helped us to stay busy, and there was plenty to do to get ready for the big holiday!  Finally, it was Christmas Eve.  We all spent the entire day in completing the final preparations for Mom's homecoming. Surely she would be here in time for Christmas!  The tree lights were sparkling, the ham was glazed, and a delicious cake sat on the counter. Darkness fell early in the small community.  But still, no Mom.  Finally, in the waning hours of Christmas Eve, the family Plymouth pulled up in front of the little house.  When the back door opened and Mom rushed in, we all knew our Christmas gift had just walked through the door. Though she was tired and it was late, she had this beautiful smile on her face.  A smile that said simply, I would rather be right here, right now, than at any other place in the entire universe.  A happy homecoming.  A special Christmas.  Whenever I look at that picture, I remember that wonderful feeling we all had that Christmas.  I don't remember much about the gifts or the food, who else was there, or what we did.  But I do remember very well the feeling that things were right.  I remember the love.  And I remember the smile on my Mother's face.  As Christmas this year approaches, I want to enjoy every minute.  Not at the usual frenzied pace. And not the super size holiday that exists only on the set of a Martha Stewart show.  I find myself wishing for a simple celebration. For fewer gifts.  For less stress. For time to appreciate one another. For happy faces that tell me I would rather be right here, right now, than at any other place in the entire universe. 

Small Change - A Vegan AND Heart Friendly Recipe

Whole-wheat Tortillas

Let's be honest. No matter how you slice it, change is hard. And changes in diet and eating habits can be some of the most difficult to work out. Giving up most of the foods you love, all at once, can send any of us over the edge.  So try to make small changes instead.  Introduce more fruits and vegetables into your daily diet.  Try at least one new vegetable each week.  Lose the salt shaker.  Try a heart healthy recipe on a day when you have a little extra time to enjoy your food.  My family and I tried a wonderful burrito recipe this week.  Not only is it heart healthy, it's also Vegan and Vegetarian friendly.  Try it and let me know what you think.  Better still, tell me how you changed it to make it your favorite. Don't forget that small changes add up to big results.  

Black Bean Burrito               Serves 8


1 tbs olive oil
1 yellow onion, chopped
1 green bell pepper, diced
1 large tomato, chopped

3 cloves garlic, chopped
1 bay leaf
1 tsp ground cumin
1/2 tsp oregano
3/4 c fat-free, no fat added chicken broth
3 c (about two 15 oz cans) black beans, rinsed and drained
1 tbs red wine vinegar
1 tbs cilantro
1/4 tsp salt
1/2 tsp black pepper
8 whole wheat tortillas


Directions 

Saute the onion and bell pepper in the olive oil until soft, about five minutes. 


Add tomato, garlic, bay leaf, cumin, oregano, salt, pepper, and cilantro.  Cook until tomato is soft, about three minutes.


Add broth and bring to a simmer.  Add black beans and cook over low heat until beans are heated, about six minutes.  Stir in vinegar and simmer while you warm the tortillas.

Microwave tortillas individually between two damp towels, about 10-12 seconds each.  Lay a heated tortilla on individual plates, and add 1/8 black bean mixture to each tortilla.  Roll up burrito style or see package for directions.  


For variety, add 1 tsp low-fat sour cream and 2-3 drops of Texas Pete Hot Sauce. These burritos are very filling so you won't need more than two per person. The filling can also be used as a side dish to grilled chicken.  


Filling/One serving - 99 calories, 5 g protein, 195 mg sodium, 0 cholesterol, 16 g carbohydrates, 4 g fiber, 3 g sugar, 2 g total fat (<1 g saturated fat).


Tortillas - Choose whole-wheat for lowest calories and highest fiber.  See label.

Recipe Source:  AMA Healthy Heart Cookbook:  Delicious Recipes for Healthy Living.  

A Matter of the Heart

Most people have "defining moments" in their lives--people, events, circumstances, something that changes everything after that moment.  That event for me was Thursday, September 15, 2011, at approximately 10:00 in the morning.  I was teaching British Literature in my senior English class when something was suddenly not right with me.  A feeling of squeezing and tightness came across my chest as I walked around the classroom.  I immediately walked out of the door, into the hallway, and across the hall to my department head's classroom, leaving my students to wonder what was going on.  I stood in that doorway, hot all over, finding it difficult to catch my breath.  I simply said to him, "Something's wrong with me."  The moments after I spoke those words are clear to me still.  Others were on the scene quickly--the school nurse calling 911, the assistant principal phoning my husband, the sound of feet running, of my pulse in my ears, of moans from my own mouth.  "I'm thirsty," I moaned.  "Can't breathe," I whispered.  "It's so hot in here," I said, or thought--not sure now.  Soon I was aware of someone helping me, of being wheeled down the hallway to the elevator and then into the ambulance.  A teacher at the door called out,'Praying for you, Linda..." and then the doors closed.  "How old are you?"  "Do you take any medicine?"  "I'm giving you an aspirin--open your mouth."  In my head, I was saying This can't be happening to me.  But it was.  I know now that I was having a heart attack, for which the medical term is myocardial infarction. Weeks before my 61st birthday, in a heart that had never failed me before, the blood flow had been interrupted in a portion of my heart.  I would be told later that it was likely a spasm in the artery, that a small piece of plaque had broken off and caused a blockage.  During the next 16 days, I would undergo two heart catheterizations, a heart echocardiogram, a computerized tomography angiogram, also called a CT scan, numerous EKGs and chest x-rays.  I would be given injections of blood thinners every twelve hours.  I would come to dread the regular visits by phlebotomists who would draw blood from my hands, arms, and wrists.  I would also have a second heart attack nine days after the first, and a third heart attack two days later that would result from a 100% blockage.  My diagnosis would be given to me incrementally, perhaps because it was not yet clear what had caused this unlikely event.  One doctor asked how long I had been a smoker.  “Never,” was my morose reply.   Finally, I would be told that my small vessels were too small, and that the disease was diffused in many small vessels throughout my heart.  It was not the news I wanted to hear.  And yet, throughout this time, there would be hope.  Hope was in the faces of the people I loved--my precious husband, my two wonderful children, my loving mom, and my three beautiful sisters.  Hope was in the faces, the smiles, the prayers of those who visited.  Hope was in the hands that brought communion to me, the voices that prayed with me, the ears that listened to me.  Hope was in the cards, little notes, flowers, phone messages, and emails.  There were tears, but there were also hugs and laughter, kisses and smiles, and hands that would rub my arms and shoulders, fluff up my pillows, raise my bed.  Two young women, ICU nurses, stayed beside me throughout the night and into the morning when the pain finally subsided from the last heart attack.  They were bold, confident, and compassionate.  When the nitroglycerin drip failed to take away the relentless pain during the last attack, they pumped morphine into my body to give me relief from the crushing weight on my chest.  Many days later, I was moved from ICU to a room on the third floor, a good sign for sure.  That night, my precious family surrounded me in a true celebration.  We shared pints of delicious raspberry sherbet, raucous laughter, and pure joy.  It was an amazing night!  Two days later, I came home to begin my new life.  My life is so precious to me.  Each day is truly a gift, a second chance, and an opportunity to give back in some way all the love that was poured out on me.  It’s true.  Love lifts the broken-hearted and heals the deepest pain.  Love’s healing power is indeed a kind of wonder drug.  Love is eternal, mysterious, and magnificent.  Though love is not complicated, it can fix complicated problems.  Love is simply a matter of the heart.           

Snipping Those (Almost) Empty Toothpaste Tubes

A few weeks ago, I was watching some Oprah reruns on the tube, relaxing with a cup of joe and some oatmeal cookies.  Oprah let it drop that she routinely cuts open her old tubes of toothpaste instead of trashing them, just so she can get every last drop out of each one.  So I thought--Wow!  That sounds like something I would do.  I can't stand waste.  When I throw out perfectly good food that was left on the supper plates, I envision some child going to bed without nourishing food, and there I go, throwing scraps down the drain that could maybe save a starving person.  I feel guilty. Really guilty.  There's a lot of suffering going on in America these days.  Fewer jobs, higher costs, uncertainty.  It makes me think that we could do better than we are doing as a nation, and so more and more, I've been looking at things that aggravate me because there's so much waste involved.  Lately, I've noticed that the packaging designs of some products actually encourage waste.  For example, the liquid laundry detergent that I buy has a huge pour spout fitted tightly into the container's neck.  The force of gravity will not cause the remaining detergent to move through that spout.  So after the detergent seems to be all used up, I throw away that big plastic jug.  I got curious one day, and just as I was throwing away an empty, I noticed a pair of flat-nose pliers on the shelf right next to the clothespins.  I took the pliers in hand, clamped them firmly on the pour spout of that big jug, and yanked it real good one time.  Off it popped, and detergent sloshed all over me.  Now wait a minute.  I was about to throw away that jug, and at least a cup of useful detergent with it.  From then on, I always used pliers to remove the pour spouts, and I would always be able to wash a load or two more with what detergent I had been throwing away.  I guess that next step engaged my devious mind, so I started to notice all the packaging problems in other products.  One make-up product I use has a pump.  Efficient, you might say.  But sure enough, when I pulled off the pump which was affixed to the jar as part of the design, at least 1/4 of the entire contents was still in the bottom.  A tube of foot creme, very expensive, was next.  When I finally emptied it, and was wondering how much more the next tube would cost, I cut the container across the middle with some scissors.  Sure enough, there was lots of creme left--enough to delay another purchase for at least a month.  Hand lotion, loose face powder, dish liquid, shampoo--all the same.  I began to research, looking for packaging designs by large companies, thinking that I could contact a corporate website and complain.  Hey, I'm a consumer and I have a voice.  I discovered something amazing!  Giant filling stations for products like laundry detergent, bottled water, shampoo, cleaning products, and so many others.  The concept already exists, and is catching on in some parts of the country.  That's phenomenal!  All those plastic containers don't have to end up in landfills, at least not immediately.  What if you could go to a laundry detergent dispenser in your favorite grocery chain store, bring your almost-new containers with you, and refill them numerous times, much like we do propane gas for our grills.  Then, take them to recycling centers, so that new refillable containers are made.  We could end the need for new packaging in a short period of time as this sustainable product becomes more and more popular and well-known.  Pause.  Hang on.  Now wait a gall darn minute--What if all this unnecessary packaging, these design features that appear to make products more convenient or attractive, are actually a ploy to force consumers to buy more products more often.  I'm saying that the design is sometimes flawed, by design.  That it's intentional.  That the big corporate bosses might think they are pulling the wool, so to speak, over the eyes of the consumer, all in the name of convenience and product improvement.  And if that's the case, I'm just angry.  So I'm still researching, still evaluating, and still snipping my toothpaste tubes.  Who knows.  Maybe I'm on to something big.    

Write a Letter Today, PLEASE

Recently, I found some old love letters.  It was last Saturday, and I was trying to get a very messy garage cleaned out when I found an old jewelry box.  Inside were many treasures.  There was my class ring--shiny gold, its green stone hardly changed in all those years.  There was an old black rosary, some Indian Head pennies, and a gold, delicate ring--its onyx stone cracked and lost long ago.  When I reached the bottom of the box, I took out a stack of letters, all from my sweetheart, the man I married, my husband.  The letters were postmarked Falls Church, Virginia, and were from March to August.  The year was 1969.  He had lived there during the months before our wedding, working at several different jobs, waiting for the draft, and saving money for our September wedding.  I got a letter at least once a week, maybe twice.  The price of a stamp was six cents, and the United States Post Office was the only mail service around.  I slid off the frayed, pink ribbon that held the stack of letters and opened one.  There were six pages, each one lined, each one written in the same blue ink.  I pictured him at twenty, sitting at a kitchen table, probably at the end of a long day of work, patiently writing the loving words that would eventually bring me to this epiphany.  People simply do not write letters much at all anymore.  And even more tragic--they probably never will again.  Most of us text or post or tweet.  How ironic that I am even defending this archaic practice in a blog!  Besides, why should people write something down that is already old news when the recipient receives it?  That's a waste of time, right?  Well, no.  The discovery I made in reading those old letters was a genuine realization that letter writing should not be dying.  Words have tremendous power:  to persuade, to express feelings, to change the world.  Letters are a history, a record, an account.  Written letters require a commitment.  They require the writer to risk something of himself.  They are a tangible reminder that thoughts of a loved one, an account of an experience, or the mundane happenings in the life of a twenty year old might cause tears to fall on blue ink pages 42 years after the words were first written.  So letter writing doesn't have to die unless people allow it to happen.  And if it does?  Well, the joy in opening a treasure like I did last Saturday will be lost forever.  If I may, I'll suggest that you go out and buy a nice pen in your favorite color.  Pick up some linen paper and envelopes.  And go ahead and buy a few stamps while you're at it.  Make someone's day.  Write a letter, PLEASE.

The time is right

It's only August 9 but leaves are falling.  Tonight's low will be in the comfortable 50s.  My school's first home football game is two weeks away.  And so the cycle continues and the world is set upright once again.  Now this is not the way I would handle things.  No, if I had the power, I'd do things a little differently.   Summertime would be the only time, and sunny would be the only weather available.  There would be no snow, no cold, and only warm showers to make the flowers grow.  Pools would be open year round and stores would only sell pastel shorts and sun dresses.  There would be no brown or grey--and no wool, for that matter.  Occasional fluffy white clouds would shade the sun and light showers would water the flowers.  Cities would never budget for snow removal and city playgrounds and pools would never close.  It's easy to imagine such a world, isn't it?  Now, just as I am turning over on the chaise to tan the backs of my legs, my mind travels back to the first pleasant days last spring.  I see again the first redbuds as I drive along the road from school one March day, so breathtaking that I named it Redbud Lane for its thousands of voluntary blossoms.  I recall the first brave crocus, mindful that one brief burst of color is all they were made for.  Red and yellow tulips tipping their heads in fierce March wind...anyway.  Green lawns and meadows that were brown just days before, voluptuous and sensual, inviting lovers to their soft beds.  Like a great awakening, the spring is here and will live until she dies to summer.  Then summer will die to winter, and spring will begin the cycle all over again.  I'm cycling too, these days, and there seems to be a great awakening within me.  Having lived inside a dark place for far too long, I am like the first crocus, bravely sprouting out of the snow.  Though it is both frightening and joyful to be in this place, it feels right.  Maybe, just maybe...the time is right.