By Debra Basham, on June 2, 2017 (If you are signed up to receive blog updates by email, remember to follow the link at the bottom so you can see the photos. These are ones you will not want to miss!)
I was riding my bike to yoga at the Y on Tuesday when a driver failed to grant me the right-of-way. I ride a lot and am usually sufficiently aware, but this time I took a nasty spill.
WARNING: graphic photos!
I am so grateful to the two drivers who saw what happened and stopped, and to “Doctor” Kathy Zerler and fellow students for patching me up and helping me get through class. I was able to ride my bike home and see a client before I knew I needed emergency trauma treatment.
I had major road rash on my right elbow and wrist, and although I had little visible damage there it was my left elbow that was in excruciating pain. Words cannot express how much I appreciate Leah Ke at Lakeshore Acupuncture for staying at the end of her day and treating me. One needle going in to my right knee to treat my left elbow resulted in a scream that she said could have brought down the roof. “That is the point,” she calmly said, as I sobbed. I was shaking inside from a full adrenaline rush. Leah sent me home with herbs and I fell into bed exhausted from the day. During the night it was difficult to turn over, to get down or up, and I hurt all over. I could not get myself up from the toilet seat, so I just straddled the bowl.
Wednesday morning I struggled getting dressed with only one arm, could only use my right hand to brush my teeth and hair. I could not get my left hand to my face, and just carrying my arm was a challenge when I went for a walk. Through all of this, waves of compassion for those who have lost an arm or lost the use of an arm would wash over me. My heart felt raw with a sense of the blessing that I had no broken bones and the knowing my bruises and scrapes would heal.
As I walked along with my left arm in the makeshift sling of my fanny pack, a past-life surged forth in full-blown cellular memory: My father was a senator in ancient Rome. We were in a balcony overlooking a courtyard where below a Christian was being persecuted. I raised my arm and yelled out in protest. My behavior brought shame to my father, so to save face he was unable to prevent my being punished. The punishment? Having my arm crushed!
Last week I was reminded of a past life where my brother and I physically fought over the inheritance of our father’s kingdom: I cut off his arm and he cut off my head, we both died.
Instantly, I felt the connection of these events to this current injury. “All time is in all time,” I could hear Angel Gail Konz saying. No past, no present, no future, just this eternal moment. You may have heard the saying everything that ever was is, and everything that will ever be also is. I knew the truth in my core. Karma was being released through this experience.
Now, this is the most amazing part.
I slept comfortably Wednesday night and Thursday morning I was able to use my left arm!
The acupuncture and herbs administered by Leah were a key component to my rapid recovery but I also recognize the trauma that was released when I screamed out during the acupuncture was not just the current trauma. It was ancient….
Three days after the bike accident, the bruises on my hands are totally dissipated and I have absolutely no residual injury in my left arm.
The scrapes and the bruises on my knees and legs are still healing. I imagine we are all healing on all levels for all time. I was so blessed we can see that clearly this week.
By Debra Basham, on May 23, 2017 “In the deep end, every stroke counts.”
“Best not flirt with disaster, lest it decide to commit.”
“Take two opposites, connect the dots, and you have a straight line.”
These are a few of the pithy wisdoms included in Where Epics Fail, an upcoming book of aphorisms from Egyptian-American poet Yahia Lababidi, who also said, “Poets, thinkers and artists do not really teach, but remind us of what we already know.”
This was certainly the case on Sunday, May 21, 2017, when I was honored as guest minister at St. John’s UCC church in New Buffalo, Michigan. The title of the sermon was, “The Light that is You.”
I opened with a story from way back in the days of full-service gas stations, about a minister who waited in line to have his car filled with gas just before a long holiday weekend. The attendant, a member of the church, worked quickly, but there were many cars lined up ahead of the minister.
Finally, the attendant motioned the minister toward a vacant pump. “Reverend,” said the young man, “sorry about the delay. It seems as if everyone waits until the last minute to get ready for a long trip.”
The minister laughed and responded, “I know what you mean. It’s the same in my business.”
In the perfect style of aphorisms, the sermon was summed up by this wonderful image on the bulletin cover, selected by Sandy Orange:
I was blessed to share the work of some wonderful writers, including Zan Lombardo’s poem “EVERYTHING IS INDEED REACHING OUT TO EVERYTHING ELSE” that is done in calligraphy along the bottom of her amazing 30-foot watercolor (See: Three Sylables), and “Social Ethics,” a poignant opinion article by Kathy Zerler which had recently been published in our local newspaper.
Confessing that I have already created my own eulogy so I can feel honored while I am still here living this life, and to save my loved ones from having to work to do it when I transition, from that I shared “When I’m Gone,” a poem by Mrs. Lyman Hancock, and “Do Not Stand At My Grave And Weep,” written in 1932 by Mary Frye.
Kathy, my sister-from-another-mister, was with me at church on Sunday, so she got to hear me read her piece. Following the service, Kathy blessed me with the most delicious lunch at Pierre Anne Crȇperie. An authentic French restaurant in a charming Victorian home has been there for 19 years waiting for me to discover it. I am still feeling the lingering effects…
From the sermon:
Our lives live on. Our lives are important. Children watch how we live. And children watch how we deal with death. We can live in ways that teach children death is not the absence of goodness, nor the absence of beauty. Perhaps life and death can each be seen as the place where true beauty can be known.
Death is the only inevitability we all face.
It seems only fitting to close this blog with another powerful aphorism that reminds us of what we already know—this one found on the St. John’s UCC web page:
Never place a period where God has placed a comma…
Can I get an AMEN to that?
By Debra Basham, on May 15, 2017 It was Mother’s Day as I grabbed a sufficient amount of time to sit with the deeply personal, and profoundly honest Dramatic Dialogue poem of a writer/colleague/friend. This poem was her response to a recent hurtful encounter with her husband after the tip of his favorite fishing rod was broken off when she accidentally shut it in the car door in the pouring rain.
As is so often the case, I did not yet know how relevant the words I wrote to my friend would become for me later in the day.
My heart reaches out to both of you. For you, the value of taking responsibility for your own emotional safety, and for your husband his ability to recognize the larger value of a “person” over a “possession.”
This has been a learning for me in this lifetime, too.
For years I had a favorite ink pen at work. It was very unique. This pen didn’t have a round barrel like others, this one was shaped like a hexagon. The barrel was yellow, and the logo from Turtle Backs (garments) was worn nearly completely off.
I had purchased many refill cartridges for this special pen.
In a culture where people walked off with other people’s pens all the time, I liked this one especially because it was obviously “mine.”
I still remember the day my special pen was lost.
I was out to dinner on a Friday evening with my husband, his four adult brothers and their spouses and children, and my mother- and father-in-law. I know the exact location of the restaurant and the occasion for the gathering. And I remember it was my brother-in-law who borrowed my pen to sign the check.
It wasn’t until Monday morning that I realized my pen had not been returned.
My father- and mother-in-law are no longer in body. My brother-in-law is going through treatment for stage-four lung cancer.
It was many years later before I would realize I held myself responsible for not thinking to get the pen before I left the restaurant.
One of my spiritual teachers compassionately expresses the truth that all anger is essentially anger of the self.
Some days I still miss that pen, and when that feeling comes, I let my own tender underbelly soften. Today I shed a few tears for all the other times and other circumstances where we fail to forgive ourselves sufficiently to have compassion for another.
Just hours after this sincere reflection and sharing, the pattern showed itself in spades. My grandson popped some leftovers in the micro. I snapped, “NOT in that container,” as I grabbed it out, putting the contents into a proper bowl. I could see the emotional pain in his whole body. I apologized, but also had to make my point about other people in the family doing the same thing.
A few stressful words with my son-in-law were the rapid-fire result of my critical comments.
For that one moment I knew I had put possessions first. Fortunately, I also knew that is not my true value. I was instantly disappointed with my unwholesome behavior. The cost? Rather than enjoying time with people who are so precious to me, I had to give myself a time out.
Have you noticed that as your awareness increases, old patterns often show up in your life again so you can appreciate your progress? What a powerful Mother’s Day this one has turned out to be!
Tonight, I hold back the tears, but tears the overflowing love and gratitude for those in my life who forgive me when I am not at my best so I can forgive myself, too.
I am profoundly thankful to have had a sweet text exchange with my son-in-law earlier this evening. We were both able to affirm our affection and appreciation for one another. I signed off with the gospel truth, “I love you guys. You mean so much more than any stinking old Tupperware!”
By Debra Basham, on May 12, 2017 We almost won money at the Trivia night at Bob’s BBQ in Murfreesboro, Tennessee. Our grandson, Brad, is the MC for the Thursday evening game. The play-off question was when Mother’s Day had become an official holiday. I guessed 1923. The other team guessed 1922. It was really 1914.
I am not at all sure why 1923 popped into my mind, but the moment I said it, John said, “That is the year my mom was born.” Is it possible her spirit influenced my guess? I am not sure, but I do have those sorts of connections happen often.
A few weeks ago, I met with a couple. He asked me if I thought I had some sort of gift beyond what I have been trained in. My response was, “I hope I do.”
Every day we have opportunity to decide what we are going to believe about life.
John and I were on our way to Tennessee late Wednesday evening. We were just north of Nashville, driving South on I-65, when we saw a line of taillights strung across all five lanes. John began to slow down when he realized what was going on. “They are about to do a race!” Sure enough, those drivers were lining up to run a quarter mile.
Right in the middle of the thoughts about how dangerous, careless, and selfish a choice to do that on the highway was, I heard those car engines peal out. I was transported back to my adolescence and could only speak the truth, “There was a time when that sound was more pleasurable to me than an orgasm.”
One thing I know for sure, right in the midst of whatever difficult, dangerous, or despicable event that is happening is something more. As my brother-in-law goes through cancer treatment he is surrounded by family and friends who care. Many contributed to a fund-raiser. Most say prayers. Some visit.
Ryan Jon knows he was adopted. He posted an amazing video on FaceBook to his birth mother thanking her for making the difficult choices to give him his life. He wanted her to know he appreciates her and wishes her a happy Mother’s Day.
Whatever Mother’s Day or drag racing means to you personally, take some time to reflect on the gifts right in the midst of any rough spots. What are the odds we would be at that exact spot on the highway at the exact moment those cars were lining up to race…. Chances are the chances are very slim, but we were at the right spot at the right time. Knowing that moment to moment is even better than an orgasm!
By Debra Basham, on May 5, 2017 Listening to a podcast titled “Empty Out the Negative” by Joel Olsteen this morning has my process stirred. Of course, that stirring began before today. A few days ago, as the sorting, purging, packing and staging continued here on Lincoln Avenue, I found the following penciled-in note in the back of my first NIV bible. A bible gifted to me by my friend Rick, who has since died of AIDS.
My precious notes are barely legible but an internet search attributed a significant quotation to Dr. Ray Anderson, published in Proclaiming the Scandal of the Cross: Contemporary Images of the Atonement, page 147, by Mark D. Baker:
Shame is the perceived loss of our place with others. Those who have the power to create our history have the power to make us feel worthy or unworthy at the core of our being. Since our being is dependent upon how others view us, we feel shame as loss of being. It is this deep sense of shame, which seems to deprive us of our very right to exist, that drives many over the edge of guilt to suicide.
Shame is a sense I have been all too familiar with in this life. Many of you know the story of my conception and birth and teenage pregnancy (Loved and Wanted: Listen to Your Mother Southwest Michigan 2016). The idea of our need to empty out the negative in order to enjoy the positive is what I appreciated most in Olseen’s podcast.
If your life is filled with frustration, anger, sadness, resentment, guilt or any other unpleasant emotional states, little space is left for life to fill in all the good stuff. Olsteen offered the metaphor of a catheter draining the body of toxins to our need to release stored toxic emotions through forgiveness.
I agreed wholeheartedly with Olsteen that forgiveness is something you do for yourself, not for the one thought to have done you wrong. However, him saying we don’t have to seek vindication because God is the judge drew my heart back to a line at the bottom of the page of penciled notes: “Remember Christ died for my sins, not because of them.”
While releasing toxic emotions, best to let go of any stubborn toxic theology, too.
By Debra Basham, on April 27, 2017 I love organization. I enjoy cleaning, sorting, packing. For me, it is the same process as putting together a jigsaw puzzle. It takes time, observation, and patience.
We are getting our home ready for putting it on the market. It has been a wonderful home with a beautiful yard. We would like to downsize, preferring to not have an acre to take care of. To help us, we had an amazing woman walk through and make suggestions and share tips.
Since you end up packing things you want to keep, she suggested using clear totes to see what is inside. I chose ones with a strip of foam in the lid for keeping out moisture (and critters). This was especially important for books and important papers, including almost 50 years of journals!
Thinking ahead to living in a potentially smaller home, I have been using a process of mindfulness in determining what to keep, what to pack, and what to keep out for staging. It is a time for casting off. Boxes of books have been taken to the local resale shop. Papers so important at some time in the past have filled the recycle bin to overflowing. Significant trinkets are now being given away.
A woman was being moved out of her home into assisted living due to what was then called memory problems. Pointing to a beautiful painting of the Lord’s Supper that had been hanging in that dining room for two generations, her daughter asked if she wanted to take it with her. Her mom waved her hand and shook her head no, saying, “I am sure at one time I knew all of them, but I don’t recognize a one of them anymore…”
I still remember.
I could not stand the thought of packing away what has become a life-altar, gifts and representations of special people and places and ideas I value. (See my recent post: Treasures)
I was inspired by a beautiful pottery piece gifted to me by my sister Janis recently for time assisting her settling in to their new home. This pottery was special, made by her dear friend, Louie, in the gallery Janis had in the home that had belonged to our parents. His pottery was a perfect foundation for all the messages of love, inspiration, healing. Elements of rock, shell, wood, gems, and paper—all harmoniously gathering!
It was pure joy to witness each finding space. And best of all, the doors can be closed, allowing privacy for my treasures and an appropriate simplicity to welcome the new owners!
By Debra Basham, on April 20, 2017 Untitled
by Ryōkan
It is not that
I avoid mixing
with the world;
but I do better
playing alone.
This poem was excerpted from Sky Above, Great Wind: The Life and Poetry of Zen Master Ryōkan (page 2). It was translated by Kazuaki Tanahashi.
What I found most fascinating about Ryōkan (1758-1831) is not that he lived much of his life as a hermit and a beggar, or that in spite of never heading a temple or monastery, he is considered one of the three giants of Zen, and has become one of the most popular poets in Japanese history.
Something inside me was moved by his words because I understand them. Some days you’d like to tell your boss off, yell at your beloved, or run away from it all. That’s when you have to take a breath and remember what you truly want.
Because April is National Poetry Month, our Pine Island Poetry Meet has no specific assignment for 27 April. We are inviting our muse to have fun. As a tribute to my knowing I am the only barrier to my own happiness, I am sharing “Laid to Rest,” an Insult Poem.
NOTE: AN INSULT POEM OFFERS A WAY FOR THE POET TO EXPRESS ANGER WITHOUT ENGAGING IN A TOTAL SNARK FEST; THE MAIN HALLMARKS OF AN INSULT POEM ARE HUMOR AND EXAGGERATION. INSULT POEMS DO NOT GENERALLY DEAL IN UNIVERSAL THEMES—THEY ARE PERSONAL AND ARE DIRECTED TO A SPECIFIC PERSON OR GROUP. HOWEVER, THESE POEMS ARE ARTISTIC IN THAT THEY EMPHASIZE THE POET’S VERBAL SUPERIORITY WITH WORDS (AS OPPOSED TO DOWN AND DIRTY FIGHTING AND NAME-CALLING).
Laid to Rest
You think you’re so smart
You think you’re so wise
The truth is your blindness
Can be seen in your eyes
You hide behind intellect
Totally failing to feel
Cast your net of blame
Miss the chance to be real
You open your mouth
And close down your heart
You wax eloquently on
Playing your part
Someday maybe
you’ll see
Beauty so near
lurking in me
But whatever may come
As the years pass us by
Too swiftly for most
Gone in the wink of an eye
For now I forgive me
for not giving you
the space to be
the freedom to do
Our past is now gone
a shadow at best
too soon, my dear friend
we’ll both be laid to rest
Debra Basham 3-21-2017
I recall the day I stood in my kitchen and spat out an announcement: “I wish I could just run away!”
My husband looked straight ahead and calmly replied, “What keeps you from doing that?”
Tears filled my eyes and spilled out onto my cheeks. “I cannot think of anywhere I can go that I will not be there.”
I loved reading that as an old man Ryōkan fell in love with a young Zen nun. She became his student and the poems of his later period are influenced by his affection for her.
I’m glad he recognized there is something better than playing alone. I am glad he chose love and affection….
By Debra Basham, on April 12, 2017 
Would anyone recognize the importance of these treasures? Without my providing a guided tour, might they just look like useless items delinquent on the trip to the trash?
Might my sweet spirit whisper to anyone who was willing to listen how significant each really is?
The round tuit—such a valuable reminder!
A simple wooden acorn that allowed me to recognize my spiritual calling to healing work.
NONME stamped right into the material by the manufacturer of a piece of PVC pipe, found in the garden at a Sangha silent meditation retreat on no-self.
The shaman’s medicine bundle from the back-yard blessing provided by a beloved Carmelite Sister.
Yet, even right now I realize these items themselves are of no significant value.
I welcome awareness and learning slipping into an ease of being much like pulling on your favorite pair of slippers…
By Debra Basham, on March 31, 2017 It was 1:53 AM when he got up to pee. Faint shadows from the streetlight danced lazily on the wall. It had been almost midnight when she got to sleep, but she forced her eyes to open sufficiently and adjust to the darkness. He expected it, and she predictably said, “It is 2 o’clock. We might as well get up and get on the road.”
They never think of themselves as leaving their winter paradise. Nor do they think of themselves as going home. They think of themselves as going to see the kids.
Two days ago a good friend died. He probably didn’t think about himself as leaving or as going home either. I can imagine him thinking of himself as going to see the dogs.
Traffic was pleasantly light, obviously one of the benefits of their 3 AM departure. More than a few vehicles passed, bicycles obediently following behind. Ontario license plates. Wisconsin license plates. Michigan license plates. A few Florida license plates, but mostly snowbirds driving north.
A snowbird is a person who moves from the higher latitudes and colder climates of the northern United States and Canada and migrates southward in winter to warmer locales. Snowbirds think they have the best of both worlds…
While nonsnowbird friends, family members, and colleagues scrape ice from the windshield, shovel snow from the drive, and brace against the cold wind, snowbirds ride bikes, play shuffleboard, watch Eagle chicks grow and fledge, play music, and go out to eat dinner at five o’clock in the afternoon.
Some snowbirds write poetry.
From a source of poets and writers poetry prompts “Creative Guidance for Writing Poems and Experimenting with Forms” comes a great exercise:
If you’re having trouble starting a poem, begin at the end. Take a single collection of poems and make a list of the last two words from each poem. Then write your own poem using only these words. Be vigilant at first utilizing just the vocabulary from the list. After a couple of drafts, stray from the limited words to help bring the poem to its full realization.
Here are two words from a collection of 9 poems by Mary Oliver:
could save
something better
of things
a star
to pray
your life
morning light
the universe
of dust
This poem, written on 3/3/2016, is dedicated to Joseph, now reunited with his beloved dog,Tramp.
Of Dust—Version One
Your life, of dust; of things?
Something better?
To pray…
Could save the universe; morning light, a star.
A Star—Version Two
Longing for something better
Pray to the universe—celebrate a star—dance in the morning light
These are some of the things worthy of longing for
Turning longing into loving could save your life
From dust we come, and to dust we return. Farewell, Joseph, we celebrate a star! Enjoy your reunion.
By Debra Basham, on March 26, 2017 Every day I hear about somebody having surgery. Some of those surgeries are major, some are minor. I understand the definition of “minor” surgery as something someone else is having….
Almost every day I hear about the death of someone I know, someone I love, someone I’ll miss. So much dying.
This too shall pass. Living with impermanence is at once both gratifying and terrifying.
Imagine standing on the seashore. As you watch the waves roll in and break, what has rolled in? What have you seen break? Are not the waves continually a part of the ocean?
My friend, Rabbi Rami Shapiro asks what happens to an ice cube when it melts in a glass of water—he says dying is like that.
Elisabeth Kübler-Ross (the famous “Death and Dying” lady). Elisabeth had suffered 19 or more strokes and was completely paralyzed on one side, yet she continued to live alone.
Author Melody Beattie came to her home and did an interview at bedside. Melody asked Elisabeth if she really believed in life after death. Wasn’t she the least little bit afraid?
Elisabeth laughed. “Didn’t you read my book, dear?” she said. “It’s not about believing. I know there’s life after death. Dying is the easy part. It’s life that’s hard.”
Melody leaned over and whispered in Elisabeth’s ear, “Thank you. And have a safe trip home.”
Rabbi Rami says that life is like a giant rope, and we are all connected to one another before birth, during life, and in our life-after-death. Rami says birth is like the tying of a knot in the rope. Dying is like the untying of that knot.
This is my farewell writing for this winter’s season. Thursday morning I’ll be heading north with many other snowbirds.
May we each have a safe trip home….
Debra Basham 3/21/2017
WC 301
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