StoryWorth: Higher Power

Do you believe in a higher power?

Not really, no. At best I believe in a greater power, some kind of collective consciousness, or sustained zeitgeist. Mostly I’m deeply agnostic. I think that we do not have the perspective to understand existence as a whole. And I think that we are pattern-creating beings, so any pattern that we claim to perceive without hard data is suspect. We see pictures in the stars and clouds and can enjoy them and find meaning in them, but that meaning is intrinsic to ourselves, not an external reality.

That said, I have deep respect for the religious faith that sustains and nurtures many people. I tend to understand it as a metaphor for an underlying reality that we do not have the tools to comprehend directly. It makes sense to me that many people find the metaphors they were taught as children to be powerful and meaningful. I haven’t found one that gives me any sense of certainty, or that can be sustained on a universal scale.

The story I like best is The Egg, by Andrew Weir. In it a person discovers that they are every human being that has ever existed and that our world is a process of becoming. When we truly grasp that there is no “other,” that all human beings are ourselves, then we will attain a different level of awareness and transcend to a different level of existence. I don’t really believe that, but I see no downside to trying to behave as if it were true.

In the meantime, I don’t see that it really matters. Watson was shocked to discover that Sherlock Holmes doesn’t know that the Earth orbits the Sun and Holmes points out that he has probably known it at some point, but discarded it as information that makes no difference to his life. I do not think I would live my life differently if I believed in a divine spirit and since I don’t think we can ever truly know, I don’t spend a great deal of time focusing on it.

StoryWorth: Sleeptalking

Have you ever sleep walked or sleep talked?

Oh, yes! I’ve never sleepwalked, that I know of, but I talk in my sleep all the time. Roommates and bedmates remark on it from time to time. Beckie swears I used to play basketball in my sleep when I was in middle school.

Two of my favorites happened the same week, shortly after we moved to London. Jason was actually going into the office while we waited for our net connection to be set up and would wake me up before he left. One morning he sat down on the bed next to me and I said “You look beautiful!” He was amused, since my back was turned toward him and my eyes were closed. He made me roll over and look at him and I said “Oh! You’re not wearing the double-breasted navy blue pinstriped suit!” I have no image of what I thought he looked like in my dream, but it sounds very fine!

The other one went like this:

Him: Time to wake up, sweetie.

Me: Who are you going to tell?

Him: Tell what?

Me: Aren’t you going to tell them?

Him: Tell who? What?

Me (actually waking up): Oh! You’re probably not going to tell anyone that you’re secretly the King of Armenia.

We agreed that was probably best kept to ourselves.

I’d love to remember more of the stories people have told me over the years of my sleep talk, but those are the ones that I can recall at the moment.

StoryWorth: Mother's Work

What do you admire most about your mother?

My mother strove all her life to be of service to others. She was raised on a tobacco farm in rural North Carolina during the Great Depression, but thanks to her father’s value for the education he never got she went to college and became a teacher. As the wife of a smalltown minister, she was his professional partner, working alongside him to care for their congregations. She taught Sunday School, ran the women’s groups, served church suppers, hosted events, and listened to everyone’s problems with a patient smile.

She was an amazing housekeeper, eking nutritious meals out of a meagre budget and keeping us all clothed in handmade clothes and hand-me-downs. She saved everything that might be of use and knew how to clean anything and how to fix and reuse everything.

Beyond the scope of home and church, she volunteered as a member of the Women’s Club, serving as local, district, and state president. In 1978 she became the first woman on our School Board and served for eight years. After Dad retired and they moved to Clifton Park, my parents spent a decade working as an interim ministry team, finally recognizing the joint nature of their ministry and even putting her in the pulpit occasionally. When my father’s health had them sticking closer to home she joined the Friends of the Library where she ran their enormous, semi-annual book sales and was instrumental in their campaign to build a new library.

She suffered fools with remarkable grace, often adopting as her special friends the people that no one else could stand. She had high standards of behavior and could give a set down with admirable firmness, but was never rude, or cruel—to strangers, at least. She was a very political animal, remembering names and key facts to make others feel recognized, remembered and known. She wanted to be respected and admired and cared deeply about the impression she made and the reputation she built.

Mom really wore herself out downsizing and moving to Arlington. But even in her last community she became an integral part of yet another church, working on their rummage sales and showing up regularly to the weekly women’s coffee group. She adored Alice and loved to have her come to spend the day with her, or stay overnight, especially after my father passed away. One of the hardest things for her about aging was accepting others’ service and not feeling bad about herself for needing their help.

In January of 1990 she wrote me a letter and opened by saying that it seemed so strange to write the new year, like something out of science fiction. It seems like there ought to be a whole new way to be, she wrote, but I don’t know any way to be except pouring myself into service to others, which is its own kind of selfishness. May we all be so selfish.