3, 4, 8

10/23/2010

 
This column first appeared in the 10.17.10 Covington News.
Sorry for not posting it sooner.
Sometimes, I'm just One Forgetful Mama! ;o)

I’m a spazzy, ADHD kind of girl. I fully embrace my nerdy-can’t-sit-still personality and use it to fuel my never-ending stream of brilliant ideas. This is like having a live-in muse and a Starbucks inside my head. Being in a constant state of fabulous can be exhausting, so about two years ago I started meditating daily. This is not to be confused with medicating daily, which I’ve tried as well and with less satisfying results. The benefits of daily meditation are phenomenal. I often describe meditation as the ability to sit inside a whirlwind of tangents and carefully pick things out for examination. The better you get at meditating, the easier it is to identify and explore those items you pull from the constant stream of thought. Meditation is an opportunity to simply be still for someone who has an acute case of ants-in-the-pants-itus.

I also keep a dream journal. I know this sounds very Sandra Dee circa 1962, but it helps me sort through the vivid storylines populating my head every night. I think my dreams are larger than life, Technicolor affairs that lend themselves to what I’m trying to process and learn, so it’s important to me to remember them. I often go back to my dream journal before I meditate each morning.

Still with me?

I dreamt I was on a beach. I couldn’t see the water, but I could feel it just touching my toes. I was making infinity spirals with pink shells. My two Littles called to me, giggling. I walked over to see what they drew in the sand. They dug with their heels the numbers 3, 4, and 8. Really big numbers formed from trenches like the SOS of ship wreck movies. They were laughing and running around me. Their giggles became those deep down belly laughs that just touch my soul and make me happy. I didn’t get the joke and they knew I didn’t. As they ran ahead of me down the beach, my middle-Little turned and yelled to me, "You’ll see!"

I jotted this down in my dream journal and decided to focus on those three numbers as I meditated, see if anything popped out of the whirlwind for closer examination. Focusing on numbers was a new thing, like repeating words in a foreign language. Where words and I have always been play-together friends, numbers and I have always been wave-at-each-other friends. Nothing struck me as special,, but that dream and those numbers were powerful. They stuck with me long after I started my day.

A friend sent me some information on a Tybee Island trip for homeschoolers later that morning, a three-day stay at the 4-H center with science classes and a dolphin cruise. It’s a very good deal, but more than I thought we could afford so close to Christmas. I had the overwhelming sense that this would be wonderful, a Good Thing, so I added up all of the costs quickly in my head just to make sure it wasn’t out of our reach financially. It came to $348.

The numbers made me so still. The whirlwind just stopped. My Littles on a beach, digging those exact numbers into the sand... I could feel everything slowing down enough for me to catch up. I called my husband and told him about the trip to Tybee Island, but not about the dream. In our 18 years together, I’ve learned that crazy dream talk is best delivered in person, so he can look into my eyes and remember all the reasons why he loves me. We decided that with a little frugal ingenuity, we could manage it. I sent our $50 non-refundable deposit in the afternoon mail.

The phone rang at 9:01 p.m. The exact time is only important because you should know that if you call our house after 9 p.m., I expect you to be in trouble or hurt and in desperate need of our assistance. Anything else can wait until tomorrow.

The caller was not having car trouble, at the emergency room, or in jail, but she felt compelled to call after nine just the same. She was a woman representing a church for whom I had done some grant work months ago. This group couldn’t pay me my fee at the time so, as often happens, my payment was not in cash, but in the knowledge I had done something positive for the Greater Good. If you’ve ever tried to pay a bill with such knowledge, you know that those funds are nontransferable. Well, that group of folks was settling their books earlier in the day and this late caller had a check for me. The amount? $348.

I think, sometimes, we need to see the beginning and the ending of a thing, a thing not monumental, but a thing bigger than who and what we are. Sure, we’re still part of those things, but certainly we’re just moving pieces in the whirlwind. We need to understand something powerful is at work around us. Some people might call this God or maybe Allah or maybe Buddha. Whatever name you choose, it’s nice to pull something as abstract as the numbers 3, 4, and 8 from the whirlwind and see how meaningful they can be.



Beth McAfee-Hallman lives in Covington and can be e-mailed at mamabee@onefabulousmama.com.

 

The Creative Journey: Artists in Conversation with the Dalai Lama about Spirituality and Creativity

10/20/2010

1 Comment

 
Picture
Richard Gere, Alice Walker, and His Holiness, the Dalai Lama
The audience stood together before His Holiness entered the room and I had this overwhelming feeling that I wasn't there with just my Teenager and my middle-Little. I knew I had managed to smuggle in all of the McAfees with me from back and back and back. Sitting inside my soul are the brothers and sisters I've known on this journey as well as the countless others that came before me. This is a new concept to me and one that took me by surprise with its clarity and right-ness. I always have my connections (the Circle of soul sisters, my husband, and my Joe), but this was something entirely new. I felt proud to have carried us all to such an auspicious occasion, to hear such learned people. I realized I am representing my people.

Going into this very casual discussion of spirituality and creativity with the knowledge that I had unofficially become the ambassador for my biological family was a little emotional, but I focused on the moment. Shelby slipped her hand into mine as we all took our seats again. I could feel how excited they were even through my own anticipation. Bailey gave me a smile and a wink. The hush that embraced the crowd was filled with reverence and kindness. I think if I had stroked the air, I would have felt the sincere wish of four thousand people to learn and grow at that very moment in time.

The next two hours were a blur. With one astounding insight after another, I realized I'd never remember everything and just rode the entire conversation through with bits and pieces of epiphany falling around me like so much confetti. I remembered to check the faces of my Teenager and middle-Little every so often. I could hear them laughing as the Dalai Lama laughed. I could see them leaning in for better understanding. I could hear their applause and exclamations. Checking their expressions though, I was able to see the wonder in their eyes, sometimes their smiles, and even a few times, their tears.

Alice Walker told us to know our joy. Richard Gere told us to embrace the collective. The Dalai Lama laughed a good many times and mumbled "I don't know" in such a deep, curmudgeonly tone that I was reminded of my Pop Pop. I was surprised by how engaging Richard Gere was and how childlike the Dalai Lama seemed. Alice Walker was as noble, as awe inspiring, and as strong as I thought she would be. I was delighted; despite my poor vision, I could actually see them and did not have to stare at the large screens.

Discussion turned to suffering as a motivation for truly great art. Alice Walker said, "Most of us were taught that joy comes at the end of this journey, but we wised up to that pretty quickly.”  Collectively, four thousand voices rose in agreement and applause rang through the room. She followed up with a smile and said, “I can see there are a lot of recovering Christians in this room.” My girls and I pulled into one another and just giggled. It was so wonderful, so gratifying to have someone we all admire tell us it’s alright to walk our path when it isn’t like the path of our Christian brothers and sisters.

As they were wrapping up, the Dalai Lama reminded us all that the United States is the role model of democracy and freedom in the world. He reminded us that no matter what was happening here, we have to continue to be this role model. The Dalai Lama said, “When you are in turmoil and strife, the rest of the world feels this as well.” I was so humbled by his words and so inspired to do all that I could to secure the rights of my minority brothers and sisters. I will continue to do all I can to make sure we are a role model for freedom on this wonderful planet.

Afterwards, we drove into downtown Decatur for some supper. The girls had questions about and reflections on what we had just witnessed. We were sharing some appetizers when Shelby said, “I think Buddhism is closer to what we believe than Christianity.” Bailey and I agreed with her that yes, because we accept the idea of reincarnation & karma and the benefits of meditation, Buddhism is closer than Christianity to what we subscribe to as Truth. Bailey was quick to point out that Buddhism has its own dogma and doctrines though, that it wasn’t all Hallmanesque in its practice.

Shelby considered this for a while as we continued munching on chips and salsa. Bailey and I waited for her to gather her thoughts. We could see her trying to process through everything that seemed right and good and true about today and everything that felt a little off.  She smiled and said, “Well, I guess we’ll just have to keep learning and growing until we each know our own Truth.”

Yeah, I guess so, my middle-Little one.

Peace, B.
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I'm Not from Here, but Love My Sweet Tea

10/06/2010

 
http://www.covnews.com/news/article/14703/

Friends, I was making a pitcher of sweet tea this morning for the Hallmans. This is usually the teenager’s job, but we don’t sit well in the absence of sweet tea in the Hallman house, so sometimes, I have to make it. We have a very particular way of making our tea and it’s something I know each of my girls will take with them into their own grown-up lives. Standing in my kitchen, making sweet tea got me thinking about the time my birthright slipped away and my own unique Southern heritage was born. I was having supper a few years back with a group of folks whose accents had them from places otherwise known as "Not from Here." We were all attending the same conference in the hopes to return to our communities ready to help build strong families. This swanky Savannah restaurant had me right on the river and I was feeling mighty fine about our big old table, the exposed brick walls of the historic building, and the starched white aprons of the smiling staff. Everything was a picture perfect postcard of Southern hospitality until I ordered my drink.

I asked for sweet tea the way we do here. We say it almost as if we don’t have to really, because what other beverage would a Southerner drink with supper even if that Southerner is in a big old fancy restaurant? The waiter, whose accent told me not only was he born and raised in Savannah, but his mama and his daddy’s people were too, looked at me with what I know had to be shame in his eye and said, "We don’t have sweet tea, will un-sweet do?"

The hell you say?

No, that’s what I said. Out loud. Right there in that big old fancy restaurant along the river in Savannah. Every person at my table turned and looked at me, appalled by my lack of decorum. The man next to me who wore a jacket not meant for Southern humidity, one he wouldn’t remove even for supper, said, "I bet they have some sugar. You can sweeten it yourself."

Now, I’m sure that man meant to be helpful, but I looked around the table, searching out My People who would understand how shocked and appalled we all should be that a restaurant in Savannah did not have sweet tea brewing by the barrel. I found them, of course, but it was the utter confusion of those Not from Here folks that just got me to laughing.

I explained to them all that we’d have a third tap at the kitchen sink just for sweet tea if we could. You just don’t add sugar to un-sweet tea and make it sweet. That’s not how it happens. Those people were mystified, hooked; leaning in and wanting to know more. I found myself almost lovingly describing the process of making sweat tea to folks who had been deprived of this truly Southern elixir their whole lives.

I have to disclose to y’all now, just as I had to then, that I’m originally Not from Here too. All the McAfees are not only Not From Here, we’re from New Jersey. (FYI: If you’re born in New Jersey and raised in Alabama, that’s like telling people you’re from Mars.) I didn’t grow up drinking sweet tea by the gallon. My mother never once whipped up a mess o’ grits or a plate of center biscuits or any other uniquely wonderful Southern delicacy. I might have grown up in Alabama, but I was planted in a decidedly Northern household.

So, there I was in Savannah, explaining the steps to making sweet tea to a captive audience. The trick, I assured them, was not just having a pot dedicated to the Making of Sweet Tea, but also in the Art of Dissolving the Sugar in the still hot tea. I used my hands and acted out the act of straining all the liquid from the bags and stirring in the sugar. Every word brought me closer to understanding that the South had adopted me at some point in my journey. I realized it was by some mutual and decidedly happy agreement that I had become a Southerner.

As I’m having this geographical epiphany, friends, and weaving this love story of sweet tea, the waiter has returned with our drinks. He hesitantly placed a glass of unsweet tea in front of me and a delicate little plate with packets of sweeteners all laid out in a pretty fan of pink, yellow, and white. The helpful man beside me who desperately needed a lesson in seersucker accoutrement took up that dainty glass of unholy tea and announced to the group, "As God as my witness, I will never drink unsweet tea again!"

The Scarlett I always knew was deep down inside could not have said it better.



Beth McAfee-Hallman lives in Covington and can be e-mailed at mamabee@onefabulousmama.com