Destiny

I quote from a recent DailyOM: There are those of us who believe that our lives are predestined and that we should resign ourselves to our lots in life. Yet the truth is that it is up to each one of us to decide what that destiny will be. While each of us is born with a life purpose, it is up to us whether or not we will say yes to fulfilling it. And just like when we choose what to eat, who to keep company with, and whether to turn right or left when we leave our home everyday, choosing to say yes to your destiny is a decision that can only be realized when you take action to make that choice a reality. 

For some reason I wasn't able to read this horoscope and delete it. I got to thinking, "What is my destiny?" I am not sure if I believe in predestination but I guess I do believe, as the quote presents, that we either arrive in this life with a purpose and choose to accept it or as we live our lives, we decide what we want to accomplish in this life, what we want to be remembered for. Some people probably just live their lives and don't think about such things, but I do. Is that at blessing or a curse? I do not know.

On reading the above DailyOM post, my first thought was, "I have already met my destiny." I thought of that in terms of my role with Gregory dealing with Alzheimer's, I thought of the successful Michael's Museum: A Curious Collection of Tiny Treasures at Chicago Children's Museum on Navy Pier. I thought of my two self-published books of poetry. I thought of all the young people I hopefully influenced during my teaching career although one never knows the details of those successes unless you are lucky enough for students to let you know many years later. I have had maybe a dozen positive feedbacks and one negative feedback out of some several thousand students over my career.

Then I got to thinking about the possible future accomplishments like the path the Alzheimer's Documentary may take, having my Alzheimer's manuscript published, the "currently on the shelf" concept for a second museum of small things, my Flea Circus, more traveling when Gregory has left, and who knows what else might come my way.

After thinking about "destiny," both past, present, and possibly future, I have decided that I can more easily select one word that would address my destiny and which defines it. I am a Nurturer. It gives me great joy.

This is what the dictionary says about nurture - noun -

1. the act or process of promoting the development, etc, of a child

2. something that nourishes

3. (Biology) biology the environmental factors that partly determine the structure of an organism

4. to feed or support

5. to educate or help others train themselves. to 

So I am a nurturer by way of being an educator. Hopefully I am a nurturer by sharing my positive outlook on life, my even temperament, my easy smile, my willingness to be open and honest with people, my willingness to take the time to stop and help someone or to listen to them and empathize with their need, to just sit with someone and hold their hand.

I am amazed at what JOY being a nurturer brings, at basically no cost to me in the giving of myself. And it only took seventy (70) years to figure all this out. 

On Being a Nun

I have always wanted to be a nun. Not a priest. Not a monk. But a nun. A Catholic Nun. An old fashioned nun at that. With the flowing black habit, the cross around my neck, a wimple and most of my face covered in the highly starched white headpiece with its black veil. My hands are held together in what I interpret to be a holy, pure, loving way. But boys cannot be nuns!

I remember having had this desire since I was a young boy of eight or nine. I would go shopping with my mother at the grocery store in our neighborhood. I can see it to this day. The store must have been near a convent as most often there would be a nun or two pushing a shopping cart through the aisles. I watched them, thinking how special they were. How loving and kind and giving and helpful. How close to God. Maybe I was right, maybe I was wrong.

I wanted to say, “Good morning Sister,” but held back from embarrassment. I thought that by greeting her, I would be able to tap into that beauty, that purity, that love. But I held back. I watched from a distance and in my child’s mind fantasized about being a nun.  I didn’t really understand what being a nun was really about, the ideal as well as the mundane, but somehow I had a “feeling” of what it meant to be a nun and I wanted to live that feeling.

As I grew older, I was able to displace my desire to be a nun into the behavior of “being like a nun.” In my fantasy, a nun is trusting of God. Goes where she is told to go and does what she is told to do. Obedience. Doing good works. The order of her life was intriguing to me. The simplicity of her life was appealing. Being provided for was comforting. But most of all it was her being a good person, not having “bad thoughts” or doing “bad things,” whatever bad may mean. 

There is beauty in accepting life as it comes and being joyful for it. There is contentment in carrying love with you and passing it out where ever you go, whenever it is needed, and under what ever circumstances might present themselves. This was my understanding of “nun-ish-ness.”

I realize that part of my desire to be a nun was my unhealthy need to be “the best little boy.” Good at everything I did. Loved by everyone. Respected and admired. Able to make all bad into good, all sad into happy, all difficult into easy, all pain (emotional or physical) go away for everyone, especially for my family. 

I also realize that part of my desire to be a nun is my healthy ability to be nurturing towards others. As an adult, I can be all those things I wanted to be when I wanted to be that nun-boy, I don’t need the habit, just the habit.

Originally written in 2009

Musings on an old wooden fork

This post was inspired by and in response to a post by my friend Jan (I could not have said it better :•) Click here to see Jan's post: Musings on an old wooden spoon

The fork pictured here is at least 40  years old. Almost as old as my relationship with Gregory. I purchased it when I moved into my first apartment in Chicago. It is the utensil of choice when I am baking. 

The tines used to be straight, but because I am right-handed, the pressure from mixing cookie dough has gently curved the center tine toward a soft "crooked man with a crooked house" shape.

Just this Christmas season, as I was using it to mix dough for over 25 dozen cookies of six different types, I found myself admiring this forks heft, stains, history, and shifting grain.

This fork is, of course, a warm reminder of my life’s nurturing and baking — for friends, for family, for self. It is aging like I am and I am quite sure it will outlast me. 

One day it may find itself in an old cardboard box at a garage sale and when not purchased, which it certainly will not be, will be tossed into a garbage can where it will become part of a landfill somewhere.

If lucky, it will slowly decompose into the earth, still with so much function left to stir, blend, and agitate. I am sure that everyone can describe a spoon or fork of their own. 

Thanks Jan.