The Bob Dylan Experiment:

Day One: Introduction

Friday afternoon was a stormy afternoon. The rain came down sideways pulling bright yellow leaves from the trees making a sunny blizzard outside of the coffee shop where I sat at a small table across from IB, my mentor.
We started out talking about our week, and ended up talking about a blog he was writing.
"It's good," I told him, taking a pull from the mug in my hand. I was referring to to his blog, not the coffee.
"You don't think it's too self-serving?" He asked.
"Nope; it's professional, inspirational, and has a call to action... I wonder, though," I said, pointing to the printout of IB's blog, "why do you always quote Bob Dylan? Who is he anyway?"
*Silence*
"What?" IB said. I could have sworn he lost some of the color in his cheeks. "You're kidding, right?" He asked me, incredulous.
"Well, no... I mean, I know he's a singer or something. Is he still alive?" I asked.
IB was silent across the table; he looked a bit ill.
"So...?" I said. He was looking at me as though I were a foolish little girl.
"I need a moment to process," he said; he leaned back in his chair for a second, and then leaned quickly toward me leaning his elbows on his knees.
"Okay," he said, "who is most influential in literature?"
"Easy," I said, "Henry James, Nathanial Hawthorne, Hemingway, a few others."
"Henry James; English author, hard to read, but highly influential, right?" IB asked.
"Yes; that's all true." I said.
"Now take Henry James and put him up against Salinger." IB said, tucking in for a true teacher/student session of education.
"There isn't a lot of depth to Salinger; his writing is what it is; each sentence means exactly what is written." IB is speaking passionately, still leaning toward me, his eyes shining.
"Sure," I agreed.
"Henry James wrote meanings within meanings; there was always something layered underneath." He said.
"Right, definitely!" I said. IB took a sip from his water glass, raised an eyebrow, and continued:
"That's Dylan!" He exclaimed. "Bob Dylan is one of the most meaningful and prolific songwriters in the world. He wrote meaning on top of meaning, and layered it with depth not seen in any other music or poetry!" He sat back in his chair again, seemingly spent.
"Wow," I said.
"Rebecca, I can't believe you are an author, and you don't know. You should know Dylan's work. As an author, you should study his work." IB said. He ripped a piece of yellow paper off of the legal pad he always carries with him and murmured bits of songs as he feverishly wrote:

It's alright Ma, I'm only bleeding
Forever Young
Lay Lady Lay
Blowing in the Wind
Positively 4th Street
Tangled Up in Blue
Just Like a Woman (he scribbled a star next to that one)
Gotta Serve Somebody
One More Cup of Coffee Before I Go
Shelter From the Storm
Maggie's Farm

IB looked up, satisfied, and slid the paper across the table to me.
"These will get you started," he said. "This is your homework; I'll bring you some CD's to borrow."
"Wow," I said again. I took the paper and folded it in half, and in half again and slid it into my notebook.
"I'll do it!" I caught his excitement, and I was suddenly resolute.
"I will do an experimental study on Bob Dylan; this will be fun!"

That, my friends, is how it started. "The Bob Dylan Experiment" is underway; I will be on a lyrical, musical journey for a while, and I'll let you know how it goes!

Live a great day!
~RR

Sometimes I don't even have to leave the house for the best dialogue gathering...

After the longest, most frustrating Sunday in history, I was getting Grover's uniform ready for school the next day...

Undershirt, polo, slacks, socks, check!

Backpack, check!

Shoes... shoes... where the heck is the other shoe???

Me: James! Have you seen Grove's school shoe?

James: Just one?

Me: Yes, just one, so you've seen the other one?

James: I saw you with one...

Me: Nevermind... Grove, where is your other school shoe?

Grove: Dunno

Me: You just wore them to church today, where did you take them off?

Grove: Dunno... (noticing the lone shoe in my hand) you have one, where'd ya get that one from?

Me: What does it matter where I got it... Where is the other one?

Grove: Dunno... Guess I can't go to school tomorrow.

Me: NO! You will just be going to school with one shoe... How about that?

Grove: Was that shoe in the bathtub?

Me: Um... No.

Grover: Maybe the other shoe is in the bathtub...

Me: Why is it in the tub???

Grove: Dunno...

The missing shoe was, indeed, in the bathtub, along with two soggy socks, and the business card of our family friend... What where they doing in the bathtub?

Me: Dunno!

My Mama Said...

Tomorrow will mark the five year anniversary since I lost my mom suddenly to cancer. While this is always an emotional day for my, this year I have decided to make a compilation of some of the wisdom that she gifted me with when she was here.

I am actually amazed at how often I think, say, or do something that I realize came from her. Even when I wasn’t actively listening to her, I was aware. I feel blessed to be able to share some of her with you.

The world was a better place when she was in it, but I am the woman I am because she was here. I wish I would have listened to mom more when she was alive; but I am surprised to find that some of her best stuff is still floating around in my head...

On Common Sense and Incredulity

“What onion truck do you think I just fell off of?”

Once, my sophomore year in high school, my mom and I were on our way to Lloyd Center on I-5 in Portland. I had skipped a class that day, and of course, mom knew (stupid automated school calling system!). She asked me where I had been during Political Science that day, and of course I lied… badly.

“I dunno.” Great! If I had been in class, wouldn’t I have stated that?

“What do you mean you don’t know?” Mom said.

“Well, I mean, maybe Mr. Beck just missed me during role call.”

“Becky, what onion truck do you think I fell off of?” She said.

No joke, there was a Walla Walla Onion truck on the freeway just ahead of us.

“That one?” I said, pointing.

We both laughed… and I was grounded for the weekend.

“When your potential is obvious, you just look irresponsible when you don’t live up to it.”

I think of this statement often when endeavoring to do things. I think I sometimes have the bad habit of pretending I’m doing all I can, and even convincing myself that I am, but this statement (which came from her the day she got my report card that included a big, fat “F” in biology) comes to me, and I really take a look at my task from a realistic perspective. What is my potential, and how conducive is my effort vs. ability?

On Love and Relationships

“We should, out of respect for ourselves, and our future husband or wife, work diligently to guard our heart. Whoever you are with will guard theirs and yours as well; if they don't, they aren't the one.”

This lesson came up again and again over the years. It’s funny that mom never really said to wait until I was married to have sex (although it was strongly implied). By “guarding my heart” she explained it as being careful not only how much of yourself you gave physically to another, but also how much you gave in emotional intimacy. It was a “heart-on-your-sleeve” lesson. As I learned (more than once) that what I reveal to others can often be used in hurtful ways later.

“Be careful who you trust with your heart… but when you choose to give your heart to someone, give it to them fully.”

This gem came after my divorce. Mom and I were talking about my marriage, and I told her how I felt that I had not really been open about who I really was with my husband. The truth was that I didn’t really trust him; that was my problem, not his. Trust is a choice. Love is a choice.

“Keep your eyes focused upward [on God], and if your future husband is doing the same, and you both keep moving forward, then you will eventually run into one another!”

This was one of the most comforting, and most logical pieces of advice she imparted. It helped me to take my focus off of looking for a mate, and on to making my own life better… She was right, and here I am!

Out of everything mom told me, the one statement that made the most impact was simply:

“I love you.”

Foster moms don’t have to love… Not to would have been inconceivable for her.

I loved her too…

~Rebecca Reece

The Scent of Grief

"Sorrow makes us all children again - destroys all differences of intellect. The wisest know nothing." ~Ralph Waldo Emerson

After helping James prepare for work on top of getting both myself and Grover ready for church, we are late. I hurry Grover to his Sunday school classroom and find a seat in near the back of the sanctuary. The first song is over by the time I am settled; the music ends and immediately the guitar changes key and the introduction to the next song begins. I take a few deep, calming breaths to prepare to sing to God; not two minutes earlier I was cursing under my breath for being late to church... again.

I take a breath in and open my mouth to join the song; a wave of grief swirls around me in an invisible shroud of vanilla. The sweet, musky scent of "Vanilla Fields" fills my senses for a moment then fades. The words of the song halt in the back of my throat, and for a moment, they block my breath from leaving my lungs. I swallow quickly against the words, the lump they form in my throat, choking me, the familiar scent of my mother's perfume pressing into me.

I close my eyes tightly and wait for the scent of grief to fade, and for a moment, it does, but then returns warm and sweet, yet acrid; it burns in my eyes, in my chest. This time, I cannot stop the stinging tear from escaping my eyelid; it runs down my left cheek, hot and painful, it burns a path to my chin and lingers there.

I don't know whether or not to wipe it away. I am about to, and lift my hand to do so when I feel a hand on my shoulder. The women next to me holds a tissue out to me, on the woman's face is a knowing smile, she assumes my emotion to be religious. I am, at the same moment both touched and frustrated by her kindness; I want to be alone in my struggle. I receive the tissue with what I hope to be a grateful look. She turns back toward the front, singing in a sweet, clear voice.

I touch the tissue to my cheek, to the corner of my eye. Grief once again swirls in on a wave of vanilla and takes its' permission from the arrival of the tissue to rise again. Anger, confusion, hurt... Pain. Grief sits on my shoulder and beckons me to embrace it. I can't breathe; my stomach seizes and I excuse myself to the ladies room. I am grateful for the small miracle of an empty lavatory. I slip into an empty stall and slide the latch into place. Grief, tired of waiting for me to invite it in, punches its' way into my stomach and I vomit into the lidless toilet.

Spent, heaving with sobs, I sit down and give into grief as it grabs on to me in a suffocating embrace releasing tendrils of sadness that wrap like cold fingers around my neck. I sit down on the toilet and finally succumb gulping for air, the tears flow as my breath is stolen from me.

Why does Grief take liberties where Peace, Love, and Joy are afraid to? How long will I be blindsided by the ugly beast of Grief, or perhaps it is as I fear: There is no end to the pranks Grief is allowed to pull at its' own cruel timing.

~RR

September will mark four years since my foster-mom, my mom, was taken from us by cancer.
Jan Schmitt 1944-2005

Guide to Perfect Parenting *(no actual guide exists, such a guide is a falacy of people who don't, in fact, have actual children)

There are two things that I have realized about myself:

1) I want to be a perfect parent

2) I am not a perfect parent

Trying to be the perfect parent can be a destructive process; since there is no such thing, it is a goal that can never be reached and as such I would either have to lie to myself, or I would have to beat up on myself for my inability to be perfect.

I have to wonder what my biological mother wanted when she was younger. Before she had children, what kind of parent did she want to be? I find it difficult (if not impossible) to believe that she wanted to be an abusive, tyrannical parent. Who grows up looking forward to parenting as being in total control of your own child so you can do whatever you want to them? No one, I would hope; and yet, how does one get to that point?

This past year, my son has come into the age that, were he my mother's child, would begin to get regular beatings and verbal abuse. I watch him grow, and learn, and I just can't imagine striking his face or pulling him by his hair. I have been frustrated with him to the point of putting him in his room so that I can have a time out, but I just can't fathom doing the things to him that our mom did to us.

I am so thankful that God blessed me with a child. Nearly daily I remember his birth and what a beautiful day in July it was when he came to be my son. That smooshed face with those big brown eyes were the most precious gift that I have ever received. I hope that I will be who and what he needs, and that God will, in the end, be as glad that he blessed me with my son as I am glad to have him.

Signs of a perfect parent:

Hmmm... I'll let you know if I ever see them.

Signs of an imperfect parent:

1) Too many toys

2) Too much tv

3) Ice cream before dinner

4) Jelly in the peanut butter jar

5) Happy, well-balanced children with great memories of childhood

The best thing I can remember when I try to be "just so," is that Grover thinks I'm pretty great! (At least for now, I may have to edit this when he is older!)

Happy Mother's Day!

~RR

Dominick the Runaway Soul

1

When the time came for a woman to bear a child, God would send a little soul to become that woman’s child. God had a favorite small soul, whom he lovingly called Dominick, which means “belongs to God.” This is the story of Dominick.

Dominick would eat his meals at God’s table, and partake of the best foods in heaven. He would spend time with God each day near the throne, entertaining God with his antics, and soothing God with his beautiful clear voice. God favored Dominick as much as Dominick favored God, and they were rarely seen apart.

One day, God decided that it was time for Dominick to fulfill his purpose to go to earth and be born as a baby. Dominick dearly loved God, and did not want to go.

“Please God,” he said, “you are my parent, I want to dwell with you here, for I have seen through the clouds the ways of the world, and I am afraid.”

God dearly loved Dominick as well, but He felt that it was time for Dominick to go for it was selfish that God should keep the best from his people on earth, whom he also loved greatly. God told Dominick this:

“It is time Dominick. You must go to earth now. You will grow into a boy, and then a man. You will learn much about life on earth, and then, one day, when your years on earth have been many, I will welcome you back to live with me forever, but first you must fulfill your purpose.”

Dominick was saddened. Part of him was excited to go to earth. He saw many things when he peeked through the clouds, things that looked exciting and fun. But he loved God so much, that he was sad too, and afraid to leave. God took the little soul to a place at the edge of the sky, a place where God liked to look down and watch the goings on down on earth. He pointed a great finger to a place in the city. Dominick saw a young woman sitting beside a tree. She was a beautiful woman, as God had created all of the women on earth with a beauty all their own. The woman was crying, and Dominick heard her wishes for a child of her own.

“She is who you must go to, Dominick. See her tears, and feel the heaviness of her heart? You can make her happy, and that right now, is your place.”

Dominick stared at the woman little while longer, and then turned to God. “I love you God,” He said bravely “and if that is where you want me to go, then I will go, but I will long to come back to you every minute that I am away.”

God smiled at Dominick, and was proud of him. “You are a good soul Dominick. I love you greatly, and I will welcome you back when you have finished.”

With that, Dominick gave God one final embrace, and leapt off of the edge of the sky and went to join the woman.

2

When Dominick had been inside the woman for a few weeks he became sad. He missed God so much, and he longed to be near him again. It was cramped and dark in the small space of the woman’s womb, and he longed for something better than the nourishment that entered him through the cord in his belly. Dominick kept reminding himself that he would be able to return back to heaven one day, and tried to entertain himself with the thoughts of dancing and singing before God again. He passed his time in the womb by counting off his favorite heavenly dishes that he would eat at God’s table again one day. He tried to dance inside the tiny space, but there was no room for that. He began to thrash about in anger, kicking hard at the sides of the uterus. The woman felt the quickening inside of her, and was overcome with happiness. Dominick could feel the pressure of the woman’s hands on her belly, feeling the places that his feet had kicked. He could sense her love for him, and was calmed by her touch and quickly fell fast asleep.

While Dominick was sleeping, an idea came to him. He dreamt that he could leave the woman, and get another soul to take his place! He could be back in heaven and eating from God’s table much quicker than he would if he stayed on for a human lifetime. Dominick woke with a start. He could nearly taste God’s dinner on his tongue and he wasted no time escaping through the umbilical cord, and out of the woman’s belly.

Dominick hurried back up to the sky. He was thinking of things to tell God about his return. He was worried, but he knew that God was always forgiving in the past, and hoped for that same forgiveness again. On his journey back to heaven, Dominick came upon Sara, another young soul. Sara greeted Dominick with surprise.

“I thought you had been sent on your earth-journey.” Said Sara. “You have been missed, God longs for your completion every day so that He can welcome you back. He has even been planning for your return feast since the day you left.”

Dominick was happy to hear this. He was certain that God would take him back early, but he still needed to fill his place on earth.

“Sara, it is good to see you as well. I have missed being in heaven, but I have done something wrong. My time on earth hasn’t finished, but I couldn’t stand it any more Sara! I want to be here with God.”

Sara looked pensive. She too knew of God’s favor of Dominick, but she also knew how much God hated to be disobeyed. “I don’t know Dominick,” she said. “He may be angry, what are you going to do?”

Dominick had been looking down when he replied to Sara. “Well… I could… I mean, if I were to find someone who would go in my place, to earth I mean, maybe God wouldn’t be so angry.” When he finished speaking, Dominick looked imploringly at Sara, he was pleading her with his gaze. Sara knew what he was asking her, and she shook her head, but without conviction.

“Please Sara. Go to earth for me. It really isn’t that bad. Just a little lonely in the darkness of the womb, but it is warm, and it only lasts a few earth months, then you would be free, and could live on earth for many years.”

Sara looked doubtful, but she had wanted God to send her soon, and she was growing excited that she could go now. Finally she nodded.

“I’ll go,” she said “show me the woman.”

With that, Dominick pointed out the woman who was walking in the same park where Dominick had first seen her. Sara jumped down to her, and entered her through the belly, crawling through the cord the way that Dominick had escaped.

3

God was angry at first when He saw Dominick, but could not stay angry long, for He had missed his favorite small soul. God agreed that Dominick could stay for a while, but that Dominick would have to go back to earth and fulfill his calling. It was well in heaven. Dominick again ate from God’s table, and danced and sang at God’s throne.

When God felt that the time had been long enough, He decided that it was time for Dominick to return to earth. Again God showed Dominick a woman who was ready for a child, and again Dominick left with sadness. It was only a few weeks before Dominick was overcome again with the loneliness and boredom that had plagued him before, and he escaped the womb for a second time. He found a replacement, and went back to heaven.

Again and again this happened. Sometimes though, he could not find a soul to go in his place, and the baby would be not be born as a live child. Often, Dominick would escape after only a few weeks, but sometimes Dominick would make it for as many months as it took to grow a baby on earth, but escaped through the cord at the last minute. Often, his hasty escape would cause the cord to become entangled around the baby’s neck. If Dominick was able to find a replacement, the baby would live, but that was not always the case.

To this day, the struggle has not been resolved between the will of God, and Dominick’s own will, much like the struggle between a parent and a child here on earth.

Many times, when a woman loses her child, she thinks that she has done something wrong. But as likely as not Dominick, the runaway soul, has probably been there, and then… gone.

My personal struggle with multiple miscarriage over the past 12 years has been a difficult one. There is nothing like hearing a baby's heartbeat, your baby's heartbeat, for the first time, and weeks or months later being faced with a horrible, yet deafening, silence. "Dominick the Runaway Soul" is my way of dealing with a the loss of my son at 4 month gestation in 1999.

If you or someone you know has dealt with the pain and grief of miscarriage, you can find out more here: American Pregnancy Association. ~Rebecca Reece

Becky's Beans

I didn't start gardening until I was twenty-nine, actually, my husband started gardening when I was twenty-nine; I became "gardening support." It all started with one sad, wilted tomato plant that spring, and ended with a freezer full of garden-fresh tomatoes, zucchini, and beans that fall.

"Look!" My husband, James said. He had just come in from work, he was holding up a black, plastic pot with a wilted tomato plant that hung limply to the side; James was smiling like a twelve-year-old boy with a huge toad bulging out of his fist. I eyed the tomato plant, and didn't say anything.

"It's a tomato plant!" He said, thrusting it toward me. I reached my hand out toward it, then changed my mind, instead folded my arms across my chest. Our two-year old son, Grover, plowed into my husband's legs at that moment, and the tomato plant flopped limply from side to side.

"I can see that it's a tomato plant; what is it doing here?" I asked, as though the plant had followed him home like a stray kitten.

"We're gonna plant it! We'll get more, and we'll have a vegetable garden this year," he said.

He knelt down on the floor to show Grover the plant, "look, Grove, tomato plant," he said to the toddler, who promptly grabbed at the limp greens; James pulled the plant out of Grover’s reach.

"'Mato pants,” said Grover. "'Mato pants... Mato pants!" He chanted, dancing a jig around my husband.

That was the beginning of our garden. Plots were dug and the soil was prepared, gardening books of all kinds started showing up around the house. Nearly every day brought James home from work with some new plant, or more seed packets. Vegetables, fruits and herbs were planted, and started to grow in our back yard garden.

James was thrilled with each new sprout, and I was indifferent. It wasn’t that I disliked gardening; I had not been enthusiastic about anything then; my mother had died unexpectedly from a ruptured tumor in her lung a few months before, and nothing I did held much pleasure for me. Gardening just seemed like another chore to do, something else to be “gotten to,” during the day. I kept Grover out of the garden, watered it when it was hot, and just continued to muddle through my days, reminding myself to get up each morning and breathe.

It was a Tuesday evening when James brought home a packet of bush beans, and I finally began to garden.
*****

“Mom!” I shouted, running into the house from the school bus. “Mom, where are you?” She answered from her room, so I toss my book bag on the sofa and hurried down the hall to her door.

“Becky, what are you shouting about?” She said. She saw at what I was holding in my hand and furrowed her brow. “You’re getting dirt all over the carpet! Get that thing outside!” She walked toward me and shooed me down the hall, and out the back patio door. The plastic baggie in my hand had sprung a leak sometime between school and my front door, and I left a trail through the house.

“Sorry mom, but look, can I plant them in the back?” I held up the baggie toward her with its treasure inside; three small bean plants peek out of the top of the leaking bag.

“What are they?” Mom asked her brow still furrowed.

“Beans!” I say.

“You’re a sophomore in high school and you are growing beans in a baggie? What are you learning, kindergarten botany?” Mom said.

“I don’t know; I do what Mr. Thomas says. Anyways, can I plant them in the yard?” I said. I was still excited; I had visions of Jack and his beanstalk climbing beyond the clouds.

“Fine. That’s fine I guess. You’ll need to make a place,” Mom said. She reached for the caddy that held her gardening tools and ushered me down the deck steps toward the back of the yard. “Near the fence will be best. There,” she pointed to a spot by the fence, far from the tall tree that sits in the corner of the yard.

“Why not over there, by the tree?” I asked her, gesturing toward a tall evergreen with my baggie of bean plants.

“They need sun,” she said. “I had better give you a hand or they will be dead by the weekend.” Mom let out a sigh meant to be exasperation, but she was enjoying herself. She knelt on the ground next to the spot she had pointed out, and instructed me to pull up all of the weeds and stones in a small patch. Less than an hour later, we had prepared a place, planted, and watered the beans. While we worked she explained how to care for them, and then we settled into relaxed silence with sound between us beyond the rings on her hands softly clicking together. When we were finished, we both had dark patches on our knees, dirt on our cheeks, and smiles on our faces.

A few weeks that passed school ended for the summer. Mom and I would go out often to see ‘Becky’s Beans’, as she had named them, and we watched them grow together. With three other foster girls in the house, there had never been enough time alone with Mom; our little bean patch brought us together. We shared conversations, some of our talks were about growing beans, but even those conversations were about more than gardening. Some of the things we talked about were important, and some were not, but the things we shared were just Mom’s and mine.

When the beans were finally big enough to pick and eat, Mom sent me out with a colander, and I gather beans for dinner. When we ate that night, she bragged about what good beans they were, and she said all of us girls should plant a garden together next year. We never did, though, and I was glad. That year, Mom and I didn’t grow a garden together, we grew together.
*****

I planted my own patch of bush beans in the sun last year, and I watched them sprout and grow. When I tended to them, I would think about ‘Becky’s Beans’ from all those years ago, and recalled the conversations we had together over my little patch of garden. She would encourage me when I was down, and laugh with me about something else. I weeded the rows of beans with the sun on my back and remembered mom’s laughter and wisdom accompanied by the comforting clicking of her rings.

When we harvested our crop last year, and ate fresh beans for dinner the day we picked them; I was glad that I had finally taken her advice about growing another garden, even if it was fifteen years later. I didn’t just find a love for gardening; instead, I remembered my love for my mother, and found her in the dark, rich soil that just like her life, and then her passing, fostered new growth.

*This is the final edit of "How I Lost My Mother to Cancer, and Found Her Through My Garden"