Blog Archives

The dance of life....

11/29/2014

by Gwendolyn Plano

I grew up in the deserts of Southern California, where flowers struggle to survive and cacti thrive. While dad worked in the nearby fields, mom focused on her children -- and her flowers. She planted a row of roses at the far edge of our yard, beyond which wheat stretched deep into the horizon. These multicolored beauties captivated me and elicited dreams of places not so hot, not so dry.

I was recently reminded of my youthful imaginings through the photographs of Louie Rochon. His close-ups of individual flowers brought me back to my secret: I would carefully open a rose bud, petal by petal to peek at its center. I tried to wait for the blossoms to open, but sometimes I was just too impatient.

Finding photographer Rochon's work online was like finding a piece of myself. Though I did not know why I had to see the center of the flower when I was a child, I have a better sense of it now. Hidden within the folds of color is its heart. Precious and pulsing with possibility, this heart awaits our discovery.

Rochon writes: I dance in the dark with a solitary flower, soft music playing in the background, and a camera in my hands - lost in subtle light and vibrant translucent color with my emotions. This can go on for hours, which sometimes results in my flower allowing me to reveal its essence and share it with my friends. That’s what I do. They call it Macro Fine Art Photography. I call it ‘The Dance.’

Don't we all dance with life? Whatever our vantage point might be, when we pause...we see just a little more deeply, and dance a little more ecstatically.

http://www.louierochonphotography.com
Twitter: @louierochon

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"Nothing of any benefit results from destructive acts..."

11/26/2014

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by Gwendolyn Plano

For more than 30 years, I taught and was an administrator in colleges and universities across the United States. Most of my work was in Student Services, which is to say that most of my work dealt with problems—intoxication, rape, fights, racism, dating violence, etc. I heard stories from these 18-25 year olds that would surely break your heart, for it did mine—many times over.

This age group of young adults does not have the experiential base that older adults have, and they make mistakes—sometimes big mistakes. My role was to unravel the mistakes and provide direction, often through the college’s judicial system. Hundreds upon hundreds of young adults have sat opposite me to explain why they did what they did.

I mention the above because when I try to understand the Ferguson situation, my focus is the 18 year old who wrongly reached into the police car. Why did he do this?

Whether Michael Brown was impaired or not on August 9th, he was not thinking clearly. He angrily responded to a dark-skinned store owner and then a white officer, both of whom had given a command. Did he react because of race? Or, did he react because these men were ordering him to do something?

Though we will never know what Michael was thinking, I offer my opinion:

I believe Michael (a child wrapped in the body of a very large man) was asserting himself. He was declaring that no one was going to push him around. On that fateful day, he was focused on his experience of power or self-worth.

We may never know what preceded Michael’s actions on August 9th that led him to assert himself as he did, but we can know the environment in which he lived -- the struggle and the poverty.

President Obama has declared that “nothing of any benefit results from destructive acts,” and I too hold this as true. Though I understand why people are protesting in the streets, for me Michael’s untimely death is an urgent call to address the needs inherent in impoverished communities. The most important element, I believe, is education.

We have a collective responsibility to ensure that our youth grow up knowing how precious they are. If we can better provide them with the tools they need to navigate life (a sense of personal dignity, an experience of their gifts and talents, a means to find a job), we will transform our country--and maybe we will not have another "Ferguson."

May you rest in peace, Michael.

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Thanksgiving for life's gifts....

11/13/2014

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Br. David Steindl Rast is a Benedictine monk known for interreligious dialogue and for his writings on gratefulness. Years ago I was fortunate to attend one of his retreats. His peacefulness brought all of us to a place of reverence; and during this week-long seclusion, we re-discovered awe.

Through simple exercises and reflections, he helped us see who we are separate from titles, education, salaries, successes or failures. And as we set aside our distractions, gratefulness emerged. He explained that, “The root of joy is gratefulness...It is not joy that makes us grateful; it is gratitude that makes us joyful.”

When we are faced with a crisis--be it health, relationship, finance or otherwise, it can be difficult to be grateful. But when we pause, it often emerges. We notice the sunset in all its splendor, a child's smile innocent and free, an invalid's determination to move forward, a mother's tenderness towards her young. We see more deeply--when we pause.

I often think of Brother David and his reminders about appreciating the "little things of life." He had asked me why I hurried so, and just as I started to say, "because I have to do this and this and...", I looked into his eyes--and fell into his silence. There was nothing I really had to do--except I needed to learn to be.

I'm reminded of Ralph Waldo Emerson's poem on Thanksgiving, perfect for this season:

For each new morning with its light,
For rest and shelter of the night,
For health and food, for love and friends,
For everything Thy goodness sends.
~Ralph Waldo Emerson

Indeed...for everything...gratitude...

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What a wonderful world.....

11/7/2014

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A beautiful reminder for all of us...of the wonderful world we live in....

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We teach our youth about love....

11/6/2014

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by Gwendolyn Plano

The sun had not yet risen when the call came. It was campus police, informing me that a female student was found unconscious on the floor of a dormitory, a lifeless newborn by her side. I dressed quickly and rushed to the hospital to help in any way I could.

The hospital staff knew me by name, as I was the substitute mother for those students who lived far from home. At the university, I was in charge of student services, and as such was brought into the after-classroom life of students. Many nights I had left the comfort of home to sit bedside with a barely conscious scholar—someone who had drunk too much, fought too fiercely, or had done something else foolish.

Mary knew who I was when I walked into her room, but I had never met her. With tubes of medications flowing into her veins, she whispered she was sorry that I was awakened. Struggling to speak, she explained her story.

She thought the baby was due the end of December, and had it been born then, only her boyfriend and his family would have known. He wanted the baby, she explained. He beat her, she added. She was afraid of him and was terrified that he would soon be at the hospital.

Mary had told no one of the pregnancy—not her parents, not her friends, not medical personnel, not anyone at the university. For eight months, she hid her condition under layers of clothes. Everyone thought she was just overweight.

Suddenly there was shouting outside the door. Three women rushed into Mary’s room and demanded the baby; nurses were in pursuit and tried to get them out—explaining that the infant was in the morgue. They would not accept that this was the case. They threatened Mary; they threatened the nurses; they threatened me. And, then the police arrived and removed them.

I always think of Mary at this time of the year and wonder how she is doing. After she recovered, she sought counseling, left her abusive boyfriend and graduated from the university. Maybe she is an attorney now—or a doctor, a teacher, a social worker. Whatever her profession, she is a remarkable human being, a survivor who surmounted difficulties that most of us only read about in the papers.

Mary was not the only student I met covered with bruises, though she was the first student I knew who carried a baby through her secret travails. Sadly, one-third of adolescents in America are victims of dating abuse. One-third. And though schools have a role in educating students about healthy relationships, it is we—the public—who shoulder the primary responsibility.

It is we who teach our youth about love.

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The season of giving--perhaps a way of life?

11/1/2014

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by Gwendolyn Plano

It’s Christmas in Branson, MO. November 1st marks the opening of the season, and all businesses and homes decorate meticulously for the occasion. The goblins and witches of Halloween are nowhere to be found; they have been quietly replaced by trees adorned with brightly colored glass bulbs and tiers of garlands.

Burly Santa Clauses and wispy angels now stand guard at front doors, where just the day before pumpkins and stalks of corn were displayed. And, all the local theaters have changed their programs—to renditions of the Little Drummer Boy, the Dance of the Sugar Plum fairy, and so much more. It’s an amazing overnight transformation.

I wonder, what if we could do the same? What if we could shed our ghoulish fears overnight and discover joy the next morning? How incredible would that be?

While carolers now walk the downtown streets of Branson, strangers will often join in to sing. Who doesn't love the old Christmas hymns, the smell of hot cider, the bright reds and greens. My senses go wild during this season of giving, but so does my heart.

The bell ringing of Salvation Army draws me to its red kettles; I want to help—the hungry, the homeless, and the alone. Was I as generous the day before, or was I just preoccupied about having enough candy for the Trick-or-Treaters?

Do I need a reminder?

I recently read an article by Maria Konnikova in the Scientific American that focuses on the effect of generosity on humans. She explains that thoughtful generosity, where our focus is on someone else, can actually help us be happier people. Not so surprisingly, it is also one of the top three predictors of a happy marriage (after sexual intimacy and commitment).

The process of giving something of value to another person actually changes us neurologically and personally.

I am reminded of an experience I had shortly after we moved to the Ozark Mountains. My husband and I went to a crafts fair held in the historic downtown area. As I wandered from booth to booth, looking at woodwork, paintings, stitchery, and jewelry, I noticed an artisan throwing clay on a pottery wheel. When he saw me looking at his ceramic bowls, he introduced himself and then asked, “Where are you from?” His question was one I had been asked many times since I had moved to the area. Branson is a tourist site, and most of its occupants are visitors.

“Originally from California, but we live here now,” I responded.

“That’s great!” he said, smiling. “I moved to Branson eleven years ago from Ventura, and I’ve never regretted it. So tell me, have you gotten involved yet?”

“We’re just settling in,” I explained. “Most of the boxes are unpacked now, so we’ll soon be free to participate more.”

“Well, when you’re ready, you’ll find there is something for everyone to do. We all volunteer,” he offered. “Maybe you’d like to help at the hospital, or perhaps you’d like to tutor children after school. What’s your interest?”

I shared my past experiences of working with Habitat for Humanity and several different inner-city soup kitchens. I told him about my training in counseling and in education. And I thought, What an unexpected conversation. The potter was smiling; he could see my excitement. Then he added, “We take care of each other here. We’re like a big family. You’ll see.”

I understand his statement now: we take care of each other, and after reading Konnikova’s article, I know why folks are so happy in this area. Even with their hardships and sorrows, their focus is someone else—the persons they are generously serving. Maybe Christmas is a way of life in these beautiful hills.

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