dancing in the beat of god's heart

Becky Olson
3 December 1952 - 24 April 2021

I first saw Becky Olson at the Dorchester Conference in Seaside, Oregon in the mid-1980s. Her husband Bill had just defeated one of the more-powerful members of the Oregon State Senate, and he was surrounded by a crowd of well-wishers.

As charismatic as he was (and still is), it was his wife that I noticed first. She was more than just a supportive wife (though she was that, as well). She had a glow and strength of her own that made her a step above just another political wife. In the next forty years I would discover just how true that first impression was.

Becky was the embodiment of hope. No matter how dire circumstances were, she firmly believed that circumstances could not erode her Christian faith -- that circumstances could never snatch her from peace at the center.

I befriended Becky and Bill in my professional capacity in 1988. She was as heroic as any biblical heroine during the process, and I learned a lot from her about facing adversity. From our first meeting, the three of us became trusting friends. I knew I could contact either of them at any time when I just needed someone to give me a little more hope in my day.

Becky was an Alaska girl -- because she was also a child of the military. She eventually landed in Seattle where she started a career in film, married and gave life to two children -- Tanya and Joshua. Her life then took a different turn. But let's hear how Becky described in her own words:

She went to college in Seattle, which is where she met her husband on a boat, as of course you do in Seattle.  Becky was technically on a date with another guy when her future husband spotted her, but that didn’t stop him from introducing himself.  They fell in love, settled outside of Portland, Oregon and raised five children.

The three additional children were from her marriage to Bill -- Elizabeth, Elijah, Micah.

She was one of those people that succeeded at everything she did. Certainly she was talented, and that always seems to be true with successful people. But, with Becky, there was something else. She faced the same problems we all do in her professions. To her, though, they were not stumbling blocks, they were opportunities to learn and to pivot.

The largest of those blocks was cancer. Breast cancer. The first diagnosis in 1996 came as a shock, but what it did not do is hinder her hope. She founded Breast Friends, a non-profit organization, to focus public attention. In 2004, when her doctor diagnosed breast cancer for the second time, she quit her job and devoted all of her time to Breast Friends.

Well, that is not quite true. She focused her professional career on Breast Friends, writing The Hat That Saved My Life and becoming a motivational speaker, podcaster, and radio show host -- and being an inspiration to thousands of people who suffered with various physical inflictions. There was still too much life to live to do only one thing.

She was always a supportive mother and wife. She ramped up her game because she was not going to push down the people that mattered most in her life simply because of her condition.

And she lived life to its fullest. She traveled to places she always wanted to visit: Spain, France, Italy, Iceland, Israel, and, of course, Greece. We both shared a love of Greece, and I re-lived many happy moments there listening to her recount her experiences. Especially about food. The mere mention of roasted lamb would send both of us into reveries.

Nothing better symbolizes her underlying hope than her dancing and singing talents. For her, life, with all of its possibilities, was a banquet.

Last night, I thought of Becky while I was humming a tune. I could not not think why I had drawn the connection until I paid attention to the lyrics. It was Graham Kendrick's "Teach Me To Dance."

Teach me to dance to the beat of your heart
Teach me to move in the power of your Spirit
Teach me to walk in the light of your presence
Teach me to dance to the beat of your heart

So, like a child in your sight
I dance to see your delight
For I was made for your pleasure

When the end came, after six diagnoses of cancer that bit by bit worked its destructive way through her body, she was still full of hope because she had spent her life moving in the power of God's spirit.

And always dancing in the beat of His heart.

futile gesrtures

It is a big category -- the things we do in hopes that the result will not be as we know they will be.

Voting probably tops the list. Or hoping this time that your mother-in-law's peanut butter casserole has improved.

This morning I was up early to drive to Cihuatlán in what proved to be -- well, a futile gesture. It was still dark enough that I could not tell whether the sky was overcast or if the sun was close enough to rising that it had blotted out the starscape.

It turns out that it was just overcast.

That is notable because we have not had rain here since early winter. And that fact is unnotable because our winters and summers are normally bone dry. The hills here are showing the lack of water. What was jungle green in November is now Sahel brown and gray.

Our local Facebook pages were achatter last week about a weather formation that was building up off the coast of Central America. A large contingent, including me, were looking forward to the possibility of our first rain of the year.

Whenever these discussions get started there is another group that will state with almost mathematical certainty that rains here never start before 15 June. Or 20 June. Or 2 July if there has been a waxing gibbous moon two days before. The group is certain there is a specific date. They just do not agree what that date is.

As it turned out, the weather formation did not result in a storm, and what activity there was decided to go vacation in Hawaii rather than visiting locally. The clouds this morning were nothing more than a seasonal tease that rains are on the way -- some day.

And they will be. But not today. The clouds have already broken up to give us another sunny morning and afternoon. If the plants in the patio want water, Dora and I will need to bring the hose to them.

Like everything in Mexico, we will just need to be patient for the arrival of the rains. But, when they do arrive, we will undoubtedly be overly-blessed.

Until then, there will be other futile gestures in which I can indulge.  

it's always something

It was one of my favorite comedic catch-phrases.

When Gilda Radner would transform herself into Roseanne Roseannadanna, back in the days when Saturday Night Live was actually funny, you knew that after a list of personal woes, she would sum it up with her father's favorite adage -- "It's always something."

That could be the house with no name's motto. It seems that whenever one task is done and has not yet had time to cool to room temperature, another pops up to take its place.

Last week's task was screen doors. Today's was screen doors. I like variations on a theme.

As some of you know, my house is built around a central courtyard. All rooms lead into the patio. None lead into another. The walls facing the patio are glass. Some stationary, but most in the form of sliding glass doors. Because of our heat, the doors are permanently open. That allows the breeze to do a good job of cooling the rooms.

It all sounds very pleasant. But Barra de Navidad is the home of all sorts of insects -- including several varieties of mosquitoes. To keep my friends, family members, and myself from being involuntary donors to the mosquito blood bank, the rooms are protected with a series of sliding screen doors.

And that arrangement worked well until a certain golden retriever puppy named Barco Rubio came into my life several years ago. Screen doors were no barrier to him. He barreled right through them pulling the screen material out of the grommets. Eventually, the screens look like something on a single-wide in a Mississippi trailer park.

Upon Barco's untimely death, I had the screens repaired. I wanted to replace the screen and grommets with new material. But, most of the Mexican handymen I have hired have a very practical streak. If something can be repaired, they see no need to buy new. So, I gave into a plan that used the same materials siliconed in place.

That worked fine for five years. Until the silicone wore out. Dora cleans the screens twice a week. When she finished, all of the screens had popped free and were flapping in the breeze.

Three weeks ago, I saw Tracye Ross, a local contractor, at church. I told her my tale of screen woes, and she arranged for her aluminum guy to fit me into his schedule. In one day, he had cut new screen material for the doors and had anchored them in place with new grommets.

The house now looks as spiffy as it did seven years ago when it was new. Or, at least, I imagine it does. I wasn't here then.

I was prepared to repel the summer invasion of mosquitoes. Or, I thought I was.

When I woke up this morning, I was not alone in my bed. Several mosquitoes and assorted other flying insects were flying about in my bedroom. The culprit was my screen door. It had popped open in the night.

I tried to close it. It wouldn't.

It turns out the latch had given up the ghost of seven years of snapping open and close. The bottom had given way and gravity had its way with the spring and ball bearing that once kept my screen door closed. Reposing on the floor was not their assigned task.

A quick attempt at repairing the latch proved to be beyond my skills. I actually do most of the minor league repairs around the house. But I lacked the talent and tools for this one. So, I handed the job over to Tracye -- along with replacing a hose that provides water to my patio sink.

I long ago learned that local handymen have greater skills than do I. They are almost always available. And the price is always right.

Every homeowner knows the constant battle that time has on houses. Eventually, we lose and the house falls or is pulled down. Just like each of us. But, until then, we do what we can.

On these two new projects, the repair or replace debate will undoubtedly arise. I almost always opt for replace because it is the better investment. I have one big exception to that rule -- the toilet float arm that controls the water level in my pool. It will still be replaced every six moths because other considerations often trump efficacy.

And that just proves once again that there are no true rules in retirement.

what are you going to do when you retire?

It is sometimes difficult to keep retired life in perspective.

At least, it is for me.

Yesterday, after church, five of us wandered over to Rita's, a local restaurant, for breakfast-lunch. I had never been there, though the surroundings were familiar. It sits on the same laguna in Villa Obregón where I lived for five years. Proving once again that I am as subject to bouts of nostalgia as any doily-tatting grandmother.

At one point in our conversation, someone asked a question I often hear here: "What do you do with your days? How do you spend your time?"

We all dutifully answered the question like True Northerners by ticking off our favorite activities. Reading. Watching movies. Writing. Researching. Every answer indicating that we were doing Things With A Purpose. That we were not simply idling our time away in the sun.
 
I had encountered the same question, or its distant cousin, when I told friend at work fourteen years ago that I had decided to retire. Two friends, both renowned for their industry as attorneys, asked: "But what are you going to do in retirement?"

The question contained that same Calvinist seed that if I was not being productive, I was somehow letting down the effective side of society. I would simply be dead weight rather than a puller in The Great Tug of War that is life.

I told them they had the question turned around backwards. It was not what I had to do, but what I could do whenever I chose -- circumstances willing. I was done with all The Doing that drives our lives.

I wish I had remembered that yesterday because I knew the people well enough at the table that their days were not consumed with The Doing of Things.

My friends Lou and Wynn are masters of retirement. Certainly, they read and watch movies. But their life is much more. More often than not, you will find them out and about town enjoying the day -- like Saturday night's sunset. Or resting at their favorite isolated beach watching for whales this time of year. Simply relaxing in the midst of what this part of Mexico provides daily. For free. 

My friends at work would not have considered either of those activities as being worthy of their "what are you going to do" question. The subtext of the question was that unless I was going to research a cure for cancer or write the Great American Novel that I would just be wasting my time in retirement.

As I was sitting by the laguna yesterday listening to the conversation, I realized that I often get myself tied up in a routine that may be an attempt to prove that I am Doing Something. Each morning, I open Facebook to wish people a happy birthday, read the newspaper, study my Spanish, pick up the leaves and flowers that the vines slough off during the night, and then write my Mexpatriate essay.

When the tasks get overwhelming (and they do now and then), I know that I am failing in my attempt to do what I like in retirement -- because I have slipped into a Have To Get This Done mode. When that happens, one of my Mexican friends will inevitably stop by to ask me if I want to go for a walk or a ride. And the world is restored.

Billy Collins's latest book, Whale Day and Other Poems, has been sitting on my night-reading pile for a month. His introductory poem, "The Function of Poetry," sums up perfectly what my life is like when I put it in perspective. 

Let me share it with you.

I woke up early on a Tuesday,
made a pot of coffee for myself,
then drove down to the village,
stopping at the post office
then the bank where I cashed a little check
from a magazine, and when I got home
I read some of the newspaper
starting with the science section
and had another cup of coffee and a bowl of cereal.

Pretty soon, it was lunchtime.
I wasn't at all hungry
but I paused for a moment
to look out the big kitchen window,
and that's when I realized
that the function of poetry is to remind me
that there is much more to life
than what I am usually doing
when I'm not reading or writing poetry.

It is a great reminder for me that there is truly "much more to life" than The Doing.    

school daze

Omar and Yoana are part of the Great International Education Experiment.

As a result of the virus, schools around the world have shut down. And, even though scientists had provided guidelines to re-open schools months ago, politicians, teaches unions, and some parents set aside science in favor of a certainty that never came.

One of the worst effects of the virus has been the effect that it has had on providing education to youngsters. Everywhere, children are at least one academic year behind in their learning. A large portion, having lost the skills learned before the virus, are now at least two academic years behind. In some poor countries, students, especially girls, have left school. Most of them permanently.

Mexico has been equally affected. Locally there was an attempt to teach remotely. But most of the parents I have talked with  tell me their children either have not learned much or they quickly stopped watching televised lessons and submitting their homework.

The loss is great, but not unexpected. Studies have shown, during the shutdown of schools, remote learning is  not a substitute for in-class learning, at least not for primary, elementary, and high school students. At the college level -- where students have more skin in the game, it is far more effective for college students. Online colleges have existed successfully for decades.

And that brings us to Omar and Yoana. Both of them have been accepted at the University of Guadalajara at Autlán. And one day, they will be spending their college months up there. But not today.

Like the rest of the education system in Mexico, in-class learning is extremely limited. Almost all classes are conducted online.

For several hours each Monday through Friday, Yoana and Omar sit in front of the computer listening to lectures and watching badly-constructed PowerPoint displays. Because she is studying to be a lawyer and he is studying to be an accountant. thet do not share classes. But it does mean they spend the full day schooling in his bedroom.

I watched a brief portion of a lecture on Marxism as part of his Economics class. The lecturer was a good teacher. She made Marxism as interesting as anyone can without once displaying her personal views. That is an art.

Omar says that not all of the teachers are that skilled. As would be expected.

His class-load consists of classes in Economics, Administration, Principles of Accounting, Mathematics, Political Concepts, History of the Twenty-First Century, and Technology. In none of those courses does he have a textbook. What he learns is what the lecturer reads. But that is not new. In highs chool he had no textbooks; only workbooks.

I was curious how homework was accomplished remotely. His homework consists of written essays, practical activities (such as, completing spreadsheets), and other exercises. He has an app on his telephone that coordinates all of this. When he completes an assignment, he scans it with his telephone and submits it to his teacher or assistant for grading. Apparently, from what I read, similar systems are used in other remote-learning countries.

The university has announced that classes will resume in-person later this summer. That means a trip will soon be in order to find living accomodations and taking care of the details every parent in the world needs to contend with when sending a child off to college.

Until then, the house with no name will continue to be an adjunct campus of the University of Guadalajara.

 

patience and service

Color me astounded.

I have been having a minor wrestling match with Banamex since last month. Not a full-blown lucha libre spectacle complete with identity-disguising masks. More like an arm-wrestling bout at the local botanero.

I received a letter last month informing me that because I had no activity in my checking account with Banamex for the past three years, my bank account was frozen. The announcement held out the prospect that merely withdrawing pesos or making a deposit would have a Lazarus Effect on the account (moving to mexico -- banks).

Like most easy promises, that one turned out to be not quite true. Instead, I had to talk with Sergio, the always-helpful customer representative at our local Banamex branch, who copied my bank card, immigration card, and passport, and filled out a series of documents requiring the signature of the bank manager.

I thought my account had been thawed -- if that is the opposite of a frozen bank account. But, when I returned two weeks later to deposit funds, the teller told me I needed to talk with Sergio, who dutifully went through all of the same steps one more time (moving to mexico -- banks part 2).

At the end of the process, he told me he would send the set of documents and copies to headquarters to determine if my account could be re-opened. When I asked whether the amount of money I had deposited with Banamex would still be in the account, he could not offer any reassurance.

Because I had not yet heard any word from Banamex on the account, I decided to stop at Banamex for another conversation with Sergio. Normally, going to Banamex on a Friday is the ultimate exercise in patience. But not this Friday. I was ushered to Sergio's window with no one in front of me.

I handed him my bank and immigration cards. He asked for my passport, but, of course, I had irrationally not brought it. Nothing can be done at the bank without one.

He clicked away on his computer and told me he could not tell me if my account was unfrozen because I did not have my passport, but if I went to one of the ATMs and conducted an account balance request, I might be pleased.

I did. And I was. My account is now open -- and, better yet, all of my money is there.

After reading several horror stories on Facebook about people who have encountered similar problems, I am pleasantly surprised at how quickly this little episode has come to a fairy tale ending. Or similar to a fairy tale. After all, I do not know how much "ever after" I have to live happily.

But today was certainly a good start.      

smelling up the place

The worst effect of my bout with the virus last year was the loss of my senses of smell and taste.

All of the other symptoms (the fever, the mild cough, the severe fatigue) disappeared within two weeks. But I still could not taste or smell. Anything.

For me, that was quite a handicap. Those two senses dominate my life. Far more than any desire. Any.

That is why I was almost ecstatic when, five months later, both senses returned home like prodigal sons. One day none of my food had any more smell or taste than flour paste. The next day gastronomic fireworks were exploding in my mouth. I was content.

I was content, but I was also confused. In their absence, my ability to taste and smell had been altered. The most obvious example was cilantro. Before the virus I had traversed a journey from loathing the detergent-taste of the herb to simply being agnostic about its use.

Now, I crave it. I put it in almost everything. It came close to being added to last night's spicy corn meal porridge (comfort food as home remedy).

I have been putting off a trip to Manzanillo for over a month. I had planned on picking up my dry cleaning before Semana Santa arrived. But I kept delaying -- primarily because I do not like the drive between Barra de Navidad and Manzanillo. This morning I set aside my reservations and headed southeast to The Big City.

A trip to Manzanillo would be wasted on picking up one hanger of dry cleaning, so I stopped at my two usual shopping spots -- La Comer and Sam's Club. La Comer for ground lamb and some frozen goods. Sam's Club for the usual paper trifecta (paper towels, toilet paper, and Kleenex), along with boneless chicken thighs and some tomatoes.

I then headed home. About three blocks from Sam's Club, I stopped at a Kiosko to buy a bag of ice to slow down the decay factor of the frozen goods. When I opened the hatch lid to put the ice in a storage box, I noticed a strong scent.

I was then off to Monkey's to buy some fried chicken. Monkey's is another example of how my senses of smell and taste have changed. I have always enjoyed the chicken there, but I must have been getting bored with it (even their piquante variety) because it just did not interest me anymore.

With the return of my smell and taste, the chicken is now completely new. Either Monkey's changed its recipe (not very likely) or my taste has shifted to another level.

When I brought my to-go order (for Yoana, Omar, and me) to the car, the smell in the SUV had increased. It smelled as if someone was currently smoking in my car. Not that stale cigarette smoke that lingers for months, but that "someone-is-having-a-coffin-nail-at-the-table-next-to-me-in-a-restaurant" smell.

That was obviously not the case. Unless I had taken up smoking and had completely forgotten about it, I was not the culprit. And there was no one else in the car.

I took a deeper whiff with the hatch lid open. It was the perfume that Cottenelle adds to its "soft" toilet paper." I usually never notice the scent roll-by-roll in my bathroom. But herded together, the cumulative smell was almost overwhelming.

I am certain the good folks at Kimberly-Clark never intended their toilet paper to smell like a cheap strip club in 1970s San Francisco. Perhaps it is part of the Nostalgia Collection.

I find it a bit ironic that the lingering effect of the virus has affected the way I smell the scent in the toilet paper -- considered the rocky relationship toilet paper supply had with covid.

My altered senses have been an advantage in my quest to never prepare the same dish twice in my kitchen. Everything tastes new. And that is great.

There is only one downside. Almost everything that contains tomato now tastes extremely bitter to me. But I have discovered that combining various seeds in my tomato dishes tames the bitterness.

I just need to experiment more. And there is nothing to complain about in that.

But I may need an ash tray, instead of a wastebasket, for my toilet paper.