After the Spirit

Be kind whenever possible. It is always possible~Dalai Lama

Thank you to all my twitterers, facebook friends and friends and family for you kind act suggestions ~ We CAN do this!

I meant to post this yesterday, on the U.S. celebration of Thanksgiving ~ but alas, way too much turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, cranberries, green bean casserole, pumpkin pie, etc… I was grateful to spend time with my family and decided that the 140 days of kindness could wait until the day after.

So today is the today to begin living from kindness ~ during this 140 days, daily kindness will become natural and automatic.

Below is just the beginning of the list of 140 acts of kindness. In the comment section, make suggestions of your acts of kindness and I will update the list regularly ~ leave your name or twitter user name if you like.

Then if you want, take the 140 Acts of Kindness Pledge and help make our world a better place . . . kindness is contagious.  Simply state in the comments that you commit to 140 days of kind acts ~

#1 @cupcakes5 Rake the leaves from an elderly neighbor’s yard. #gratitude

#2 @afathersheart2 BE AN ORGAN DONOR

#3 @lizisaacslwc Do something special unconditionally for someone without them kn owing it. Be anonymous. It is the greatest form of kindness

#4 @TheQuantumCoach Place a note under a random windshield wiper that saying, “You are loved and you are worthy.” #gratitude

#5 @JCOblessed Be all the love & joy U know how 2 B.

#6 @azcactusflower out to dinner pick a table and annonymously pay for their meal.

#7 @jonitchr How about crochet or knit hats/ blankets for preemie babies? Does that work?

#8 @amgoth2000 Mom & I r knitting/crocheting hats 4 homeless 4 Lion Brand Charity

#9 nannette1094 Scrape the snow off a stranger’s windshield & “draw” a smilely face on the hood of the car

#10 nannette1094 print off hopeful quotes & place on others’ windshields at grocery store

#11 nannettee1094 pay for person’s coffee behind you at your fav coffee shop (this will inspire them)

#12 @JasonEscape: feed the meter for a stranger.

#13 @LunaJune: it is those little things that make the difference.. had a guy a couple weeks ago come up and pay .09 cents for me

#14 nannette1094 #kindacts pay for a couple of dollars of groceries for the person behind you

#15 nannette1094 purchase food and put into the bin at the front of your grocery store for those in need

#16 nannette1094 Offer to gift wrap for an elderly friend or neighbor

#17 @lele647 actually what we have here are like coupons you choose at the end of your grocery trip and all money goes to food banks too

#18 @JasonEscape Another good one, Jason! #kindacts Toys for Tots.

#19 @lele647 everytime I go I grab a dollar which ends up about 3 dollars a week. Kids take canned foods to school

#20 @JasonEscape: @nannette1094 Visiting a hospice. Performing, reading or just being present. #kindacts

#21 @JCOblessed: @nannette1094 Spend time with & listen to the stories of that elderly neighbor who lives alone.#kindacts

#22 RT @P10S: I enjoy #kindacts which are anonymous like leaving a small, thoughtful goodies on a desk or doorstep with a note of well wishes

#23 RT @P10S: likethoz Ferro rocher chocolates http://bit.ly/6qnyAg orAndes mints http://bit.ly/8UDM83 I think were made 2 hug ppl #kindacts

#24 @JasonEscape Visiting a hospice. Performing, reading or just being present. #kindacts

#25 @JasonEscape Standing up for someone who needs it when nobody else will.

#26 RT @JasonEscape: @nannette1094 Big Brother, Sister, etc. #kindacts

#27 @azcactusflower we hv extra Christmas lights elderly neighbor’s son used to put theirs up, he died We r going 2 surprise them w/lights up.

#28 @azcactusflower volunteer and a children’s hospital to rock sick babies..never enough hands for that. #kindacts

#29 @JasonEscape: @nannette1094 Telling a stranger that they have something in their teeth. #kindacts

#30 RANDOM KIND ACTS…crochet or knit a lapghan for a nursing home patient ..someone you don’t even know.

#31 Feed the feral cats in your neighborhood. (Neuter them, too, if you can!)

#32 @djdabblin I shared my extra water filter pitcher with my neighbor because this past week her water filter has been on the brink of not working properly. Everyone needs healthy water!

#33 @journalwriter7 #kindacts Sincere compliments with a smile can always brighten someone’s day; they are apt to remember, giving them a boost of confidence.

#34 @nannette1094 Shovel the snow off your neighbor’s walk or driveway ~

#35 @radiate I’d say the FIRST kind act ANY One can DO is LOVE SELF – it exponentially affects ALL of WE Positively & is the one place we..have complete control/direction/power/CHOICE…..from there….”ask what LOVE would DO, how LOVE would BE” in ALL situ’s positive energy this has BEen of assistance Sweet Angel, humbled and honoured YOUr request Big Hugs of LOVE to YOU

#36 @JhhR Smile at babies.
#37 Send a card to someone you haven’t heard from in a while – just to say hi and remind them they are special to you.
#38 Look the cashier/teller/etc. in the eye and say thank you after your transaction.
nother idea: When you’re walking kids to school, help keep the sidewalk clean by picking up any trash you find.
#39 At a cafe, pay for the coffee of the person next in line
#40 Another idea: listen without judgment when you hear about a different opinion or a choice that you wouldn’t make. Just listen.
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#41 @kaboogie have your kids write their teachers a thank you not #kindacts

#42 @DrJackKing Let me encourage you to visit @Foyble_org ~ “for all the good we do and all the good we will do” #kindacts #payitforward

#43 @faraway67 My #kindact for every day – smile at least to 10 people that look sad…simple but it works
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@angels510

#44  Do an errand 4 a homebound elderly neighbor or acquaintance; or offer 2 drive them 2 appointments. #kindacts
#45 Visit a homebound elderly neighbor or acquaintance; bring a small present to cheer or meal 2 share. #kindacts
#46 Send HAND-WRITTEN note 2 someone who needs a little cheer. Nowadays, handwitten notes R rare, so this is special. #kindacts
#47 (Have done this 3x recently) – offer to gas-up for some1 who can’t go anywhere bcoz out of gas & out of money. #kindacts
#48 Pay the bridge toll for the 1 or 2 motorists behind you at a toll booth. #kindacts
#49 I’ve written anonymous notes & left them on windshield of cars 4 random #kindacts. Sometimes I insert a $-or-2 to surprise.
#50 I’ve written anonymous notes & inserted them in cards @ Hallmark, card shops. Sometimes insert a $-or-2 for fun. #kindacts
#51 This is common: VOLUNTEER @ a local homeless shelter or other charitable orgs. #kindacts
#52 This is less common but very kind: Actually ENGAGE w. the homeless. Talk to them, spend time listening 2 them. #kindacts

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#53 RT @dmbrown111: RT @NurseBevW: ♥Granted!♥ #crafterslove Wish Upon a Hero – I wish for 15 dollars to get medicine: http://bit.ly/5qp86s via @addthis

#54 @KamaainaInOC Red Cross is sponsoring Holiday for Heroes.Cards can be snt to Holiday Mail for Heroes PO Box 5456 Capitol Heights MD 20791

#55 @KevyK4life #kindacts ~ Say hello with a smile to everyone you meet..start a smiling revolution

#56 Jennifer Rogers Cummings When you are at the store & hear that someone has forgotten their discount card, offer them yours ~

#57 Eileen Munzo Let the person/people (depending on how kind you want to be) go ahead of you in line…

#58 Leave a kind/inspirational note in a library book on a post-it…

#59 When you leave a tip at a restaurant, leave a note or speak to a manager telling about the great service you got…let people’s bosses know how great they are doing.

#60 Colleen McBride smile at someone!!!

#61 Zari Pirasteh start the day without expectation from ourselves:)

#62 Steven Parker There’s always leaving coupons next to corresponding products in stores.

#63 Colleen McBride say thank you and tell people to have a nice day! it’s amazing how many people out there disregard those in customer service/service industry!

#64 Krysta Banke I learned this one at RIT – hold the door and wait for the person who is next to pass through.

#65 Irene Allievi You don’t need to go to Africa you can help to people you see everyday. Just to talk to them, be interested how they are today , greet them happily. E.g. I am a teacher if one of my students is stuck I spend some overtime to help them. I’ve got an eldery mother, may times I’m tired I just do things for her. Her nurse is sometimes short of money I … See More, try to help, her. What I mean see to people who are around you every day and give them a happy day. Make them laugh and feel loved. It works. Try to be happy to make make people around you happy. Once you incorporate it, it becomes a habit.

#66 Irene Allievi Don’t give money to the street boys. Just take them into a coffee shop and feed them or buy them clothes, if you have time.

#67 Rachel Hale Drew Buy a bottle of your favorite hand lotion and leave it in the ladies’ room at work.

Keep adding more in the comment section and I’ll keep adding to this post ~

Family traditions counter alienation and confusion. They help us define who we are; they provide something steady, reliable and safe in a confusing world~Susan Lieberman

With so many of us financially strapped and the holidays upon us, maybe it’s time to start a new family tradition.  This won’t cost you a thing, but will provide lots of smiles, laughter and memories.

About twenty years ago one of my brothers, Ben, was about to have a garage sale, when my parents asked if they could give him a few things to include in his sale. “You can keep any money you make. You’re doing us a favor by getting this old stuff out of here,” my father said.

Naturally, my brother took the items over to his house and began to go through and price them. One of the items was a large brown, ugly vase that Ben made in grade school for my mother. My brother called me laughing that our mother had passed off this elementary art project for sale in the own artist’s garage sale! We laughed and laughed until I said, “Wait. Don’t you dare sell the vase!” Ben said, “It’s ugly. Nobody is going to buy it anyway.” I agreed on its unattractive look and said, “Wrap it up and give it to Mom for Christmas. We’ll write a poem, place it inside with instructions for the family “ugly.” Again, we laughed.

Several months later on Christmas morning, all seven of my mother’s children, with our husbands, wives, our smaller children and my father looked on as my mother began to unwrap her present from Ben. My siblings and I knew what was coming. It took my mother forever to peel off the wrapping as we all tried to hold back our excitement and laughter.

As my mother pulled back the tissue paper and saw the vase, she and my father burst out laughing. “I got rid of this,” she managed to squeak out between gasping for her breath.

“There’s something inside. Read it,” I said.

After my mother reached inside and pulled out the piece of paper, she read:

Ode to the Family Ugly

To you we pass on this cherished ugly.
It’s been part of the family for years.
Do not take this passage lightly or smugly.
Or you may be foiled in future careers.

Let me tell you the story of this pottery’s latest travail.
This past summer Dad handed Ben old things in a box,
Ben’s school days brown vase inside must be allowed to prevail,
And honestly upon hearing this news the family felt shocks.

No. No. Not this. Anything but this.
This piece has history, memories and use.
To get rid of this treasure would be absolutely remiss.
Mom, how could you perpetrate such nostalgic abuse?

Take this torch and guard it with respect.
For this is your present for Christmas celebration.
We know you’ve wanted it and wont object.
Shame on you, Mom for attempted abrogation!

However, with this gift do not plunder.
Do not now become overly attached.
After all this ugly may appear as a blunder.
And it must, in the future, be re-dispatched.

We laughed and laughed until we cried. Over the last twenty years this ugly vase has been gifted and regifted to various family members for weddings, graduations, birthdays, house closings, Christmas, Easter, Valentine’s Day and even one Groundhog’s Day.

The “ugly” has seen some wear and tear ~ one year it was dropped and broke into seven or eight pieces. It was promptly super-glued back to its near original shape.

It has become one of the most delightful family traditions we have. And whenever this “ugly” is gifted, a note which includes the date, the occasion and both the giver’s and recipient’s name, is folded and put inside with all the other notes. To further the tradition, all the notes are reread as the next recipient unveils his/her turn with the “ugly.”

(If I were in possession of the “ugly” currently, I’d post its picture~but right now it’s in the hands of one of my siblings…but not for long.)

Don’t wait to make your son a great man – make him a great boy.  ~Author Unknown

One night when my now 15 yr old son was 6 or 7 we we’re having dinner, just us, when Dixie Chicks song “Godspeed” came on the radio~Casey stood next to me at the table and put his hand out and asked me if he could have this dance. We danced all around the living room & when the song ended, he said to me, “Mom, when I am a very old man, I will never forget this dance with you in the living room.” I held him close & cried with joy. If you have a son, please give this song a listen~I love you Casey~

Without forgiveness life is governed by… an endless cycle of resentment and retaliation~Roberto Assagioli

Jump ahead six years to when I visited my cousin Gail in Pennsylvania.  For no other reason than proximity and lack of spare time, we had lost touch with one another for over fifteen years.  She called one hot July day out of the blue and suggested I come out to visit her.  After little more than a twenty minute “reuniting” phone call, I made airline reservations and two weeks later flew to her hometown about an hour south of Erie, in a small town called Meadville, Pennsylvania.

Gail picked me up from the airport—we recognized each other immediately.  We hugged, kissed, laughed and cried.  Once in her car she burst out, “I hope you don’t mind, but I made appointments for us with a psychic-spiritualist-medium up in Lilydale, New York.  It’s a whole community of psychics and new age people.”

I’d been to a  psychic or two in my life years earlier.  They were okay experiences, but nothing which compelled me to begin seeking out psychics on any kind of a regular basis.  Edgar Cayce, in my opinion, was blessed and an anomaly.  What was I going to say?  Gail had already made the appointments.

On the drive to Lilydale, Gail and I talked non-stop about our similarities.  We shared much in common philosophically and spiritually.  She had become a doctor of naturopathic medicine and I, while having finally graduated, had gotten married and had three children, was back in school working on my master’s degree and still reading tons of spiritual material.  Nonetheless, nervousness flowed through every vein about this psychic appointment.  I kept looking out the window, staring at the gray sky “snake oil, fortune tellers and crystal balls and eyes of newt.”

For the last few minutes of the trip there, it began to rain and I planned my approach.  Under no circumstances would I offer one ounce of information during this reading other than my name.  No way would I let any facial movements show this person any sort of approval/disapproval or agreement/disagreement with anything said.  The closer we got, the more these thoughts took on a mantra-like quality.

We pulled into the gated community, parked the car and began walking, with out umbrellas, up a hill toward rows of small Victorian homes, one right on top of the next.  The rain was cool and falling hard.  We turned on to a sidewalk leading up to one of the homes.  A sign hung on the outside door “Session in Progress.”  Wet, we sat on a covered porch in rocking chairs, mine moving at quite a clip, and chatted about how the other members of our families were doing.  A moment later the door opened and a woman of about forty held the door for the previous client.  Then she asked which one of us wanted to go first.  Gail insisted I go in first.

I followed the woman into a small room, sat in a chair noticing the frayed purple scarf wrapped around the woman’s neck.  She shook hands with me, placed a tape in a cassette player and began with a prayer.  After the prayer she quickly explained that she would do all the talking and only asked that I nod if anything made sense.

Within five minutes my jaw dropped, tears ran down my face and I was in a constant state of nodding.  The third right-on-the-money piece of information she gave, “A man is here.” The psychic turned her head as though she was listening to someone in the room.  She nodded her head.  “He is very sorry, very sorry.” I watched as she continued to listen.  “His initials are W and C.  he took his life in front of you?  He wants you to know he is so very sorry.”

By the end of the hour I was dumb struck.  My cousin Gail had no prior knowledge of the things this woman told.

After the session, I stepped out side, sat in the chair on the porch and wept the entire hour Gail had her session.  It came to me:  Warren was afraid to die alone.  I forgave him.

Incidentally, Gail came out of the reading disappointed that very little the woman had to say to her made any sense.

~ ~ ~

A year and a half ago in 2008, a young twenty-six year old woman named Vicki Van Meter, known for piloting a plane across the United States when she was 11, died from a self-inflicted gunshot wound.  My cousin Gail lived next door to the Van Meter family.  Gail found Vicki dead.

Gail phoned me after the incident, rattled, shaken, in shock and saddened.  She told me how hard it was to find some one who really understood.  “And, where is the gift?” she asked me.

“You may not know for some time.  I’ve just discovered another one of mine~to be the someone who can truly hear and understand what you’ve gone through.”

After an hour or so of listening to Gail’s story of what had happened, Gail said, “You know, thank God I found her and had her body taken away before her parents got home from out of town.  What if they had seen what I saw?”

“Gail,” I said, “there’s your gift.”

This story began in 1986 with the self-inflicted gunshot death of Warren.  Over the years I’ve written this story in several forms~none of which seemed to say what I wanted to say.  During the writing of this recent version, I stopped in the middle to search for the journal of letters to Warren.  I looked and looked and have decided there must be some reason I cannot find the journal (and this coming from someone who rarely if ever throws away a list, let alone a journal).  I believe the reason probably is that I don’t need to relive this story at the level.  That part I have let go.  No, it is not something I will ever forget, and sometimes I still move my head when sitting at a stoplight, but I will remember the gifts.

nannette

Forgiveness does not change the past, but it does enlarge the future~Paul Boese

The following Monday I sat in the Registrar’s office on campus and arranged for full time summer school.  I’d already put in my notice at the restaurant to drop back to a twelve hour week.  After I’d finished the registration procedures for the classes beginning that day, I walked over to the student center, grabbed a cup of coffee, lit a cigarette and sat at a table by myself.  I opened the textbook for the speech class I’d later attend, and another non-traditional aged student sat down at the other end of the table.  I could sense that he kept looking at me, and given my recent experience, I felt an extreme heightened awareness of everything around me.  This guy made me feel uncomfortable.  Just as I was about to pack up and leave, he spoke.

“Nannette?” he said.

So much for my heightened awareness—it was Marty, a guy I knew from a philosophy class I’d taken.  “Hey Marty.”

He moved down to my end of the table.  We small-chatted for a moment or two and then suddenly I felt like I was suffocating.  I grabbed my throat.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

After shaking my head, Marty helped me outside where I dropped my backpack and sat on the ground.  “A guy shot himself Saturday night at the restaurant.”  I gasped for more air.

“I read about it in the paper.”  He shook his head in a pitiful way I’ll never forget.  “I’m a card carrying nut from all the shit I saw in Vietnam.  Breathe.”

Marty and I talked for over an hour when he recommended a post-traumatic stress counselor he knew.  A week later, at twilight, I sat in the veteran’s administration office—a hundred year old house turned into offices that smelled stale and looked more depressed than I felt.  It was dark, but not dark enough to hide the maps of Vietnam on the walls, or the pictures of local men who never made it back.

Apparently, the work day had ended for most workers in this office as the unnatural quiet screamed its presence.  While I waited to talk to Doug Mark the therapist, I flipped through an entire magazine—it could have been upside down for all the attention I paid it.  I returned the magazine to the stack on the table next to me and decided to leave.  As my hand turned the doorknob, I heard a gravely sounding, distant voice, “Nannette?”

“Yes?”

“What can I do for you?”

What kind of therapist talks to you when they can’t see you?  I leaned around a corner as I answered, “I’m not sure.”  Papers rustled and a chair scooted across a hardwood floor.  I still couldn’t see anyone.

“Marty tells me you saw an ugly the other night.  That right?”

I poked my head into another room, and through that room toward the back in a smaller room, I saw the voice.  “I guess you can call it that.”

“Come on back,” he said.  “What can I do for you?”

I walked toward the unseen person.  “Make me forget I ever saw that guy shoot himself.”

A rounded body stood from the desk.  His face was hidden with a graying beard and thick mustache.  He still didn’t look up at me as he placed a file in a drawer.  “Go ahead and use the front door.”

“I’m sorry?” I stood two feet from him.

“Can’t make you forget and if you think I can, might as well leave now.”

I turned to leave.

“Easier than staying.”

I was not happy.  “All I can think about every day all day is what I saw.  I’m so scared that somebody is going to shoot me, that every stop light I came to on the way here, I made sure to keep my head moving so that I wouldn’t be an easy target.  I can’t go into the grocery store or a bar or restaurant because somebody is going to have a gun.  And so many people come into my restaurant and want a ‘guided tour’ of where it happened.  If I’m going to have to think about this everyday of my life, I’m going to lose it.”

“Stay and I might help you to live with it, let it go.”

“Might?  Let it go?”  I raised my voice.  “What’s with let it go?  I have no idea what that means.  Isn’t that the same thing as forgetting about it—which is what I want to do?  You know,” I raised my hand, made a small circle with my thumb and forefinger.  “I had this one small innocent spot left and this jerk took it from me.  I did not need to witness this.  He could have done it in his bathroom or car or drive into the mountains.  He stole part of me.”

Doug motioned to the overstuffed, worn chair.  “Sit.”

I sat, crossed my legs and folded my arms.

“Hear me out for a couple of seconds?”

I nodded.

“Good.  Figure out if this might help.  Go home. Write this guy who offed himself a letter.  Say what ever you want.  Tell him you’re pissed off.  Tell him you’re scared.  Tell him whatever comes to you.  Don’t worry about the order of things.  Just let him know how you feel.  See if you can talk to him about forgiving him.  After you’ve written a good long letter call me back.”

With all the books I’d read, lectures I’d attended, coaching I offered to others, I knew I had the tools to move forward, but couldn’t wrap my hands or my head around any of them.

Eventually, I did write.  I wrote letter after letter after letter for almost a year.  I wanted answers to why I couldn’t let it go, why, why, why, would anybody take their own life, why was I there?

For the time being the gift, as I saw it, was getting out of the restaurant business and going to school.  But forgive Warren?  No.

conclusion tomorrow

To forgive is to set a prisoner free and discover that the prisoner was you~
Lewis B. Smedes

Did you ever wonder, in the midst of a crisis:  Where’s the gift in this?  Many of the people I know, even though well traveled on a spiritual path, have asked this question.  For reasons of anger, disbelief, traumatic incident, fear ~ in circumstances such as these, the question is automatic for me; at least I’m aware that a gift will appear when I’m ready to open it.

In my late twenties (over twenty years ago), I “happened” into a “new age” bookstore where my path took a sudden and steep climb.  Books like The Case for Reincarnation, Strangers Among Us, Journeys Out of the Body, The Road Less Traveled, The Way of the Peaceful Warrior, Out on a Limb, Past Life Regressions and anything to do with Edgar Cayce flew off the shelves and into my hands.  I read through these books at a remarkable pace and found myself back at this same book store in a week filling my arms again.  There was no turning back, nor did I want to.  Much of what I read resonated with me more than anything else I’d ever perused or heard before.  My proverbial tool box with dozens of new philosophical and spiritual tools overflowed.

Around this same time I was diligently moving my way through the seventeen year plan to an undergraduate degree in English Literature at Colorado State University.  During this period I also helped manage an up-scale restaurant—part of the reason for the remedial pace of school.  An average work week consisted of seventy hours.  So, it was two classes here, two classes there.

Three years later on a beautiful Spring afternoon, Warren, a regular customer, entered the restaurant before any other patron.  I, along with all the other employees of the restaurant, hurried around preparing for a very busy Saturday night—prom night for every high school in town. Warren nestled up to the bar, ordered a beer and a shrimp cocktail.  Shortly after Warren’s arrival, the restaurant filled to maximum capacity, and the bar overflowed with dozens of dressed up and corsaged teenagers.

Forty-five minutes into the evening, Warren had moved to a table, pulled out a .22 pistol and started to wave it around and ordered the teenagers who waited for their dining tables to get out of the bar.  He fired several shots into the walls and ceiling.  I picked up the phone and dialed the police as I watched one of the bartenders approach Warren to try and talk him down.  Within six minutes the police arrived, yet not in time for Warren.  A few seconds prior to the police entering the building, Warren jammed the gun below his right ear, pulled the trigger, and slumped forward onto the table.  Gone.  Just like that.

At the instant that Warren slumped forward, even though I stood only feet from him, I had the physical sensation of zooming out hundreds of yards away from him.  Slow motion followed as I thought “alive, dead, alive, dead.”  While in this out and away fog, I clearly remember saying indignantly to myself, “and the gift in this would be?”

The police bolted through the double doors with guns drawn asking everyone to raise their hands.  I couldn’t quit staring at Warren and the blood.  One of the police, a woman, repeated to me to raise my hands.  As I did, the woman explained the protocol, that she understood the situation.  After six or seven police canvassed the area, they told the handful of employees nearby that we could “stand down.”  A team of paramedics rushed in, pulled Warren to the floor and began CPR.

Draped in what I now understand to be shock, I turned and looked into the filled dining room alive with the hum of conversation, silverware against plates, laughter and background music.  Only two heavy glass doors separated normal and crisis~No one in the dining room seemed to have a clue of these two different worlds.  I began dragging huge potted plants and trees to create a visual barrier between the dining room full of customers and the bar where Warren lay with paramedics pounding his chest.  “What’s the point?” I wondered.

I turned, motioned to two bus boys and asked them to move the podium from the front door to the emergency exit as we would need to reroute incoming customers.

Kevin, another manager working with me that night put his hand on my shoulder, “I don’t think we will stay open.”

I stared at Kevin blindly for what seemed a full minute.  “Is everybody all right?” I asked.

“Physically.”

“Ma’am, I need your name,” a voice floated in from miles away.  “Ma’am?”

“You all right?” Kevin asked me.

“I need to make sure everybody is okay.”

The policeman bowed into my line of sight, “Ma’am, I need to get some information from you, first.  Your name?”

I spelled my name, “May I please go check on the staff?  I’m not going anywhere.”

Two hours later, after filling out police reports, giving interviews to other officers, and going through a critical incident debriefing, the building was empty of all patrons, paramedics and police.  The music was off and the lights were turned up.  Only managers and a handful of employees remained.  I had already shoved all the money and receipts into the safe and made my way back toward the bar when I heard the un-oiled wheels of a mop bucket cross the parquet floor from behind me.  Steve, the general manager, steered the bucket with the handle of the mop.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Cleaning up the blood.”

I thought, a crew of people came to take care of the floor, walls, ceilings and tables.

part 2 tomorrow

I huddle, hidden in the darkness on the staircase and hear Nat King Cole sing “Unforgettable” and between the balusters, I watch the party below, like it’s a movie scene unfolding just for me.

Two fluted floor lamps light the room, but mostly the ceiling.  The only other illumination comes from five flickering tapers on the coffee table.  Sophie, a woman my mother has hired for this occasion, places a crystal platter filled with miniature slices of rye and brown breads, and meats, cheeses, sweet pickles, cherry tomatoes, and hot peppers next to the candles.

I look across the room and see Uncle Ted, who isn’t really my uncle, remove the white orchid from my mother’s black hair.  My mother leans her back against his body and lets a quiet laugh and for a moment they look like two loosely curved S’s pressed together.

As my father stirs another pitcher of martinis with the long glass wand, he smiles at my mother.  Mr. Carry brags about his golf swing while Mr. Johnson and Mr. Ryan look at his imaginary nine-iron, and chortle, smoke, and rattle ice cubes in their drinks.

Mrs. McGinnis fingers her pearl necklace and jokes about the stupidity of her cleaning lady to Mrs. Logan, who has on the tightest, shimmeriest black dress I have ever seen.  Her bosoms heave close to her neck like two half moons every time she puffs her cigarette.

Smoke rings rhythmically pulse from Mr. Logan’s lips and then he winks at Mrs. Johnson and her red-belted, small waist.

Across the room, Mrs. Carry stands next to the Hi-Fi, holding a martini in one hand and a fat green olive with a bulging, juicy red pimento in the other.  Her eyes are closed and she sways just slightly to the music.

Mr. McGinnis shoves another proscuitto and Swiss cheese roll into his mouth, and then licks his fingers, walking toward Mrs. Carry.

Over on the couch, my Aunt Irene, who isn’t really my aunt, sits alone, her eyes unblinking and focused on nothing in front of her, and rests a dripping drink on her right knee when her head suddenly tilts back, eyes still open.

I hear my mother’s quiet laugh again; Uncle Ted is tickling her throat with the stem of the orchid.

“A fifteen year old doesn’t belong mingling with the grown-ups,” my mother’s voice still echoes in my mind from earlier in the day.

I wonder what Father John will say to my mother Saturday afternoon, how many Hail Mary’s it will take.  I wonder what Father John will say to me.

On a ceiling
in Florence
fingertip
reaches for fingertip
to unclothe
the Divine Encounter.

Upon contact
faces evolve
and unwittingly
drop
their identities.

Hands cease
wringing
and meet sweet
Palm to Palm ~
a mirror
gesture.

In an unmarked
passageway, Time
dissolves in the Disappearance
of the Self.

And in an instant
a whisper in the Soul
bursts the notion of
“I” and “alone.”

Absolute awe
washes the mind
and at once
understands
that just as White
foaming Waves
cannot separate from the Sea
neither can the Soul
uncouple itself from God.

Fingertips
extend for the contact
to reveal and translate
the Divine Encounter:
We are One.

nannette rogers kennedy

The next morning, Sunday, I had an eight-thirty seminar. I didn’t care. I was going to the rosary instead. At 6 a.m. my eyes opened without the use of the alarm. I showered, dressed, had a cup of coffee, pulled the rosary from the bottom of my computer bag and headed off to the lobby. I couldn’t find Immaculee anywhere. Instant disappointment. I scrambled my way to the front desk and asked about it. Nobody knew anything. They referred me to the registration desk for the conference. I asked the women at the conference registration desk who all looked at me like I was some kind of nut. I explained that this was an impromptu sort of thing arranged late last night. One of the women got on a walkie-talkie and someone radioed back that Immaculee was meeting with some people in the bar. I took off running and laughing at the fact that this rosary was taking place in a bar.

When I arrived there were about fifteen women sitting on couches and chairs around Immaculee. There was one space left on one couch. I promptly sat. Immaculee was answering some questions regarding her experience during the genocide. Then she passed out copies of information about the rosary. By now it was eight-thirty and the group had dwindled (people left to get to their seminars). Immaculee explained the rosary itself, holding up her rosary. My eyes almost popped out of my head. Other than the fact her rosary was clear crystal beads (mine are blue crystal) our rosaries were identical, same crucifix—an unusual crucifix—and everything. While I’m fairly certain this rosary I held came from my mother’s home, I’m not sure just how it came to be in my computer bag.

When the prayer/meditation of the rosary eventually got underway, Immaculee interjected throughout the meaning of the sorrowful mysteries. From the time we made the sign of the cross at the beginning until the sign of the cross at the end I wept. It was like someone turned on a faucet. I wasn’t heaving or hysterical, but tears kept a slow steady trickle down my face. The small space we sat in had such an incredible spiritual energy that it is beyond any words. As we prayed I noticed we were now down to eight, the exact same number of women who spent 91 days in the bathroom in Rwanda together. It was so powerful. I had no Kleenex with me and at one point I stood and walked over to the closed bar to grab a napkin or two—no napkins. I’d asked the women on either side of me if they had a Kleenex and they did not. Consequently the dress I was wearing served as sponge. When we finished the rosary, I hugged and thanked Immaculee. I bought a cup of coffee, walked outside, and sat by the pool. It was Sunday morning, early still, and I was the only one there. The following is my immediate written response:

November 13, 2005

Chills surround me from my feet to my head even though it is probably seventy-five degrees out here. I’ve just said the most powerful rosary with Immaculee from Rwanda. To feel in my heart even the secondhand pain this woman has endured and her glowing energy of forgiveness is so much for me to take in and accept that the emotion has risen to the point which my body cannot contain it. My cry comes from deep within and cannot help from spilling down my face and on to my breasts, where I can feel my heart pounding beneath. I have no Kleenex now, nor did I during the rosary. The tears are so deep. Immaculee has suffered so much, spending 91 days in 3 x 5 bathroom with seven other women, going in weighing 120 pounds and leaving the tiny cubicle weighing only 65 pounds. Her father, mother and brothers were hacked to death with machetes—ethnic cleansing. I do not understand this hatred. She said the rosary everyday, several times a day, with the rosary her father gave her when she fled into hiding, and she knows that her love of Christ and God are the reason she survived. Every time she got to “forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us” part of the Our Fathers, she stopped as she says she always does whenever she says the rosary because she doesn’t know how she could ever forgive those that trespassed against her family, but she knows she did. How powerfully beautiful for her to be able to say the rosary at all, but to say it with an honest knowing of those words, and to be reminded each time she professes this part of the prayer that she does know the true meaning. It’s beyond my scope of comprehension. She begged and prayed for God’s favor and had a faith that willed it so. While she led the rosary with the seven of us, every one of us cried. I have no rights to complain. Just before the sorrowful mystery of Christ carrying the cross, Immaculee said, looking into each of our eyes, “What we must remember is that Christ carried His cross under such painful conditions,” she paused and began to cry. “What we must remember, is that God, Christ, do not want us to cry, but rather remember that Christ died for us, and that all of us make sacrifices, and that we are very connected. We are all one as is evidenced by our tears.” I will never be the same person as I was yesterday, never. And here I sit beneath a gorgeous blue sky, bathed in sunlight, sobbing into a pool towel. Oh my God, thank you, thank you, thank you. Immaculee, bless you and thank you.

Not one day has passed since this event that I haven’t thought about it. The Prime Mover conducts such extraordinary symphonies. While I know the music is ubiquitous, it is in hearing each note and listening for its significance to the entire piece which creates the spiritual encounter. I am forever grateful, blessed and fortunate.

My daughter is still talking about her experience at the conference. She too, believes she has had a true awakening.

I have shared this experience with a dozen people. I even bought the recording of the night’s lecture and transcribed it so I could read parts of it to those with whom I have shared my story. The beauty is that everyone has thanked me for sharing and I feel I have made a positive impact on their lives. One elderly gentleman, that I didn’t really even know with whom I shared the story, wept and told me that I was the best thing that had happened to him in a long time, and that that in itself was a gift I must carry on: be the best thing that happens in some one’s life every day for the rest of my life. That’s a good goal, don’t you think?

While I’ve written a thank you to both Dr. Dyer and Immaculee, the best thanks I can give to them, is to tell this story and attempt to spread the inspiration. I hope it inoculates you with just a fraction of the spiritual energy it gave me.

Nannette Rogers Kennedy
Fort Collins, Colorado