I had a similar experience the day before mom died. I was being revoltingly grouchy about my exam the next day, and mom offered to take me out for a milk shake. I refused her most ungraciously, and now I am drinking my tears. :’(

It makes me think of your wonderful idea you posted on the 2 August, about the faraway tree:

Here’s a grown-up’s version of “The Folk of the Faraway Tree”. Imagine if, at the end of every month, we could climb a ladder into just one day from a past chapter of our lives. The people who were there would be there, the place would be the same… but we might choose to live the day differently. Oh, how we’d live it…, knowing with hindsight how precious it was. And then we’d come down the ladder and spend a month thinking very carefully about which chapter we’d want to revisit next…

http://www.facebook.com/home.php?#!/group.php?gid=171319450526

I will try to translate that into the way I live today – 22 August 2010!

Yes, it was James’ party yesterday, and what a party! I will post more on my fb page. xxx

An aging professor in Athens taught me something I am only now beginning to use. Before entering
a room, the space of another, ‘collect oneself’. Stand still, listen, be patient.

“Create an attention that does not consist in riveting itself to the presumed but consists precisely in not presuming anything and avoiding inattentiveness.” – Ortega y Gasset

I still can’t forgive myself for that haunting moment when Leonardo wanted to come inside, and because I was being otherwise, instead of asking Michael to come out of his meeting and open the door for the two of us, I battled with a stick, trying to open the gate. Leo looked at me with his sweet expectant eyes. And then I think he lost interest. By the time I’d opened the gate and gone inside, he had decided to go elsewhere. That moment at the gate was the last time I saw him alive. If I’d been more open and asked for what I wanted, despite the “business protocol”, my beautiful kitty might still be alive today. This is still so painful to me – because I can’t go and find him and tell him I’m sorry, let alone rescue him from the nightmare to come.

Your honesty is brave. I think it encourages others to look at themselves, too.

Is it James’s party today?

Love to you all,

Debbie

I had a similar experience the day before mom died. I was being revoltingly grouchy about my exam the next day, and mom offered to take me out for a milk shake. I refused her most ungraciously, and now I am drinking my tears. :’(

It makes me think of your wonderful idea you posted on the 2 August, about the faraway tree:

Here’s a grown-up’s version of “The Folk of the Faraway Tree”. Imagine if, at the end of every month, we could climb a ladder into just one day from a past chapter of our lives. The people who were there would be there, the place would be the same… but we might choose to live the day differently. Oh, how we’d live it…, knowing with hindsight how precious it was. And then we’d come down the ladder and spend a month thinking very carefully about which chapter we’d want to revisit next…

http://www.facebook.com/home.php?#!/group.php?gid=171319450526

I will try to translate that into the way I live today – 22 August 2010!

Yes, it was James’ party yesterday, and what a party! I will post more on my fb page. xxx

Your honesty is brave. I think it encourages others to look at themselves, too.

Is it James’s party today?

Love to you all,
Debbie

You’re afraid of your own selfishness. But there’s a point at which your psyche will rebel, if you don’t “feel” when you are called upon, and when you are not. A man who did some painting for us came and stood at our gate, about six weeks before we left Jhb for Cape Town. He slept on the pavement. He was the nicest man, and I hated the thought that he was sleeping outside. He asked me for R100, which I gladly gave. And then he asked Michael. And then me. After a number of days, we realised that our money didn’t seem to better his situation. He continued to ask. Eventually, out of desperation, I had given him an amount which I won’t disclose. And… he still came back, asking for more. I stood across from him, through the gate, and began to shout at him, crying and begging him to leave me alone and not to come back again.

My giving was usually genuine and “guided” or “inspired”. It felt “right”. It allowed me to develop some amazing relationships. But you can’t feed 5,000 people! If the planet can’t, you can’t. And you can’t love 5,000 people either, without having less to give to those close to you. I think that just occasionally, I found myself trying to “buy” a certain freedom from guilt, so that I could go into the haven of my home and enjoy it. I don’t think we’re meant to feel that way about ourselves and the world.

If you feel, genuinely, that you were unloving in a moment that you were being called to be loving, then you’re the one who knows best. But you can’t give to everyone you see, all the time. Johannesburg can exhaust you, in that way. I allowed a similar thing to happen to me earlier this year when I gave myself full-time to trying to get treatment for that young girl with kidney disease. At a certain point I thought I was going to crack. And then I realised that it had taken a terrible toll on Michael. Fortunately, at that point, a friend offered her time and energy, out of the blue, and I was able to let go quite a lot. But it was all-consuming. We cannot give enough to fulfill the demands of a situation. So we need to have insight into what is being asked of us, and what is not.

There’s a season, and a time. A time to give, and a time not to give. Don’t beat yourself up.

Here’s something you might think of considering…

Do you think your quest for perfection might, sometimes, come from a place of personal pain? To see the perfect way means that your eyes are open and that you are listening. But to torment yourself when you don’t live up to that standard, maybe, is being too harsh on “you”. Divine discontent pushes you to new levels of growth and grace, I am sure. But I do remember you as a little girl asking me to hit you with a ruler every time you made a mistake on the piano, instead of enjoying yourself. And I remember, when we told you that your pictures were lovely, you’d burst into tears and shout at us that they were not. Is “little Candy” lurking somewhere in Candice the grown woman and mother?

Xxx