“In the final analysis, it is between you and God. It was never between you and them anyway.” Do it Anyway —Mother Theresa

Greetings Dear Ones!

Normally, if I want to embrace Humility, I just sit down with my fiddle and attempt to play tunes in the key of F major without actually knowing ahead of time that they are in F major. But this week I have had a variety of other ways to supplement my spiritual growth. Humility—that which returns us to the hummus—(you know, that yummy stuff made of chick peas, tahini, and guilt) or maybe Latin for “earth.” It’s a return to the ground, a fall of sorts. My inner Snacker, who loves hummus, pauses with the loaded carrots half way to her lips.

“Wait,” she says uncomprehendingly, “We’re falling?”

“Yep!” shouts Prudence, petticoats tumbling as she goes arse over tea kettle, “Someone thinks she can handle a bunch of stuff she can’t handle.”

Things I thought I could handle this week:

a.) Using the front bucket of the tractor to plow the driveway after we got over 12 inches of heavy snow. (In addition to having several temper tantrums over my inability to know “up” from “down” on the tractor levers, because the subsurface was soft March mud, I have unintentionally relocated much of the surface of my driveway into the front pasture.)

b.) Spending $1800 on car repairs only to discover that my vehicle it is still not road-worthy. (Apparently driving it twenty miles to the repair shop with the front tires pointing in opposite directions means I am now required to purchase four new tires.)

c.) At a “Celtic Bells” school show, standing up in front of 175 Boston-area kindergarteners and singing “Charlie on the MTA.” (I completely blanked, couldn’t source the first note, word, or chord, while it dawned on me that the guitar was in Drop-D tuning instead of standard. Thankfully, my brilliant music partner saved the day with a blistering fiddle solo that had all the kids clapping and cheering while I frantically re-tuned to Standard and concentrated on not doing a tiny poo in my pants.)

“Don’t forget to mention the scamming,” says Prudence, from her jumble of tangled undergarments. “That’s the best of them all.”

Indeed.

So! Last week, I attempted to post my blog on Facebook, as I usually do, only to discover that I was locked out. I tried multiple times to log in, only to receive the reply that my account had been deleted for illegal activity. I was so confused. What illegal activity???

“You are such a natural criminal,” says Prudence with authority, “You do bad stuff you don’t even know is bad.”

“But I hardly post on Facebook these days!” I protest, “It’s just blogs.”

“It doesn’t matter. They KNOW. They know how naughty you are. It was inevitable,” sighs Prudence. “Besides, those blogs are awful. Except when you slack off and don’t do them at all, which is also bad.”

Of all the darling internal characters I deal with, not one of them is handy with technology. Party girl thought we should just take the night off and not worry about it. The inner Librarian just wanted to read some new books a friend sent. Hermit Granny wanted to knit. But some earnest (UN humble) lesser staff member decided she could “Fix” everything with a few clicks of her mouse. She googled “fix deleted Facebook account.” Right away several sites popped up. She clicked on one that looked official and boasted “speak to a representatives” 24/7. It only took three rings before “a representatives” answered, which was the first clue something was amiss. (Everyone else on the planet, apart from MY naively ambitious inner techie, knows you can’t just call FB reps!) Let’s just say that things went swiftly from bad to worse and I wound up having to file disputes and crime reports through my bank, in addition to having to change every flipping password I have ever had on every device I own. (I didn’t remember any of them anyway so it took two days to do all this.) It’s been a nightmare.

And I am permanently locked out of Facebook. Facebook has yet to realize this yet, but it is permanently locked out of ME too! I won’t be back. I am appalled at the lack of help available to us innocent hermit grannies with no techno skills who are left vulnerable to the likes of these scammers. If there IS genuine help available from their organization, it is not readily identifiable…nor the least bit “helpful.”

So! I have eaten my share of dirt sans tahini this week. (Sady, not quite enough to recoat the driveway though!)

I’m feeling low.

On the bright side, I know that if I go down hard enough, I usually bounce. And on the way up, I focus on what’s really important. These things are just tests. I realize that true Love is the only way to go.

I gather all the beloved and not so beloved parts of myself together for a group hug.

“I’m sorry I gave that scammer all the information I shouldn’t have,” weeps the incompetent techie-wanna-be.

“We love you anyway,” we say.

“I need to practice more,” admits the slacker musician.

“We love you anyway,” we say.

“I wish I was good at things right away,” says the person who mauled the driveway.

“We forgive you,” we say. “You’ve never plowed deep snow over mud before.”

“I wish we didn’t make so many expensive mistakes,” says the inner accountant.

“It’s ok,” we say. “Let there be Learning. Let there be laughter. What is money but a useful translation for energy. You have plenty of energy. Our beloved and talented seamstress can turn that back into money with a bit more work.”

And there’ PLENTY of work—for both the fingers and the soul. There are jackets needing zippers, prom gowns needing hems, and customers needing compassion and forgiveness too (like the one who insisted I send some discarded trimmings and fabric scraps back, insinuating that I had somehow stolen them!). I let my inner crybaby have a darn good cry, put myself to bed early, and got on with things. And I got a lovely visit from Mother Theresa through the gift of her poem “Do it Anyway.”

“She’s really made a mess of things!” Prudence, acting as Mother Superior, rushes to inform Mother Theresa.

“Love her anyway,” says Mother Theresa.

“I’m too trusting,” I cry. “I helped the scammers scam.”

“Trust anyway,” she says kindly.

“Her communication style gets her into trouble. She’s actually TOO honest,” accuses Prudence, “as if there is such a thing. She just doesn’t need to say all the things she says, especially to certain people.”

“Be honest anyway,” says Mother T, smiling directly at me.

“Sometimes my kindness gets rebuffed or misinterpreted,” I say, thinking of the male customers who return to ask me if I am single.

“Be kind anyway.”

“My writing…” I start to say

“Write anyway,” she interrupts. “Give the best you have and it will never be enough. Give your best anyway. The good you do today will often be forgotten. Do good anyway.”

On the BRIGHT side, there is a new day, a fresh start, available to us all, any time we want. Sure, some weeks really test us. Along with our nourishing servings of dirt, we get some tasty Grace gravy. It’s a relief to know I don’t have to BE the best, I just need to DO my best. That’s enough.

As we watch the cold, uncertain light of March fall on the faces of those we love, we know that Loss awaits us and we love all the more defiantly for it. We trace tenderly the thinness of skin or fur or wool that separates us from hidden bright bones beneath, knowing each moment is a GIFT and that nothing really can protect us from Living except knowing who we are, knowing whom we love, and getting our priorities straight. And still, the inevitable scars and scrapes of us bumping into each other, ourselves, or a perhaps a substrate collapsing under melting heaves of frost give us opportunities for humility and Grace. We may get bogged down, spinning our balding heads and tires. We lose our money, our sleep, our tears, our faith…

And then… the Good News! We can rise from the mud we have bitten. We can MEND, Dear Ones! Let there be Mending. Sometimes our Good Work doesn’t feel good at all. Let’s Do It Anyway.

With Sew Much Love,

Yours aye,

Nancy

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