Here in the US, we often take our water quality for granted. Except in case of dire emergencies, we simply walk to the closest faucet to turn on the tap for fresh, clean drinking water.

I first learned about the challenges of getting clean drinking water in the developing world in 1967 (at age 17) during my first of several visits to Nicaragua. For example, we had to use bottled water for drinking and brushing our teeth. When visiting in a Nicaraguan home, we were told to request a bottle of soda whenever we were offered a beverage to drink. Strange by today’s standards, but a sugary soda was healthier to drink than water!

During a 3-week stay in a rural district in northwest Nicaragua, we had to haul water from the river to fill barrels in the outdoor shower stalls (unless we had a drenching rainstorm). Eating lettuce-based salads were out of the question because of the high risk of intestinal illnesses. So, instead, we scalded cabbage in boiling water–which we then cooled down with chunks of ice (a foolhardy and risky shortcut, since we later realized that the ice was also made with contaminated water!).

Several years ago, Rotary International launched the BioSand Water Filter project which has helped to provide point-of-use water filtration units to villages throughout the developing world. These economical, low-tech units are remarkably effective in removing most bacteria and parasites from contaminated water, making clean drinking water more readily accessible.

I just learned about another intriguing project: PlayPump which focuses it efforts in sub-Saharan Africa. There are several really great videos on YouTube that describe the project–which uses children’s play-power to operate water pumps from village wells.

Such creative projects and remarkable ingenuity!

(note: The title quote is from Silas Marner’s Rime of the Ancient Mariner)

(note: image from Foxypar4 !!! on Flickr, some rights reserved)

Today’s lesson came in the form of my monthly telephone bill. As I briefly scanned the bill, I felt (and then heard) the sudden gasp escape from my throat: the amount due was TRIPLE its usual cost!

As I looked further, I discovered that the additional charges stemmed from a business call I had placed last month to the Bahamas. My colleague and I had experienced several delays in making scheduled appointments–due in part to interruptions in her internet-based telephone service, plus we had dismissed her cell phone option as too cost-prohibitive. So, when she gave me a new land-line number to use, I didn’t even think twice. I made the call and we had a productive 60-minute conversation. What I didn’t know at the time was that the call was being billed at my phone company’s “primetime overseas rate.”

Yikes! But also, DUH! I’m so spoiled with my unlimited long distance service plan that I didn’t stop to think that it only covers the US. Plus her phone number “looks” like a regular US number (that is, it doesn’t have any international code prefix to the number).

Once upon a time, I probably would have reacted with anger, frustration and tears, punctuated with feelings of blame and self-loathing for having made such a “stupid” and costly mistake. I might have then railed against the telephone company for what I believed to be exorbitant rates, and/or harbored a lingering, unspoken sense of bitterness toward my colleague for not having “protected” me from my ignorance.

Instead, this morning, I chose to take a deep breath and quietly pay the bill. And, without shame or blame, acknowledged my simple (albeit costly) error in judgment, that was based merely on my not knowing that which I didn’t already know. And then pondered some lessons to be learned from my experience–to help me and others not make a similar mistake in the future.

There are days in life in which we learn costly lessons. And some days in which our lessons simply cost us money.

Learning how to avoid the first type altogether while also minimizing the second is perhaps one of our most important lessons in life.

(note: image from Patrick Q on Flickr)

The lyrics from the old standard, I Won’t Dance have been stuck in my head the past several days.

I won’t dance, don’t ask me. I won’t dance…with you. My heart won’t let my feet do things that they should do.

This past weekend, I received a couple of requests for charitable donations:

• An organic food retailer whose business I try to support was under “house arrest” as part of a non-profit organization’s annual fundraising drive, and so was soliciting “bail” funds to earn her release from jail.
• A dear friend sent an email inviting me to join a walk for another non-profit organization that serves individuals who have the specific disease her son has.

Especially in these hard economic times, it’s difficult to say no to someone in need. As a matter of fact, when I heard that a family I know (with 3 children), who lost all of their belongings when the apartment complex they lived in was destroyed by a (3am!) fire last week, I couldn’t get my checkbook and email notifications going fast enough.

And it’s really not so much about the money or even about turning down an opportunity for a lovely walk with people whose company I would no doubt enjoy.

So what’s the difference–and why does my heart stop me from participating in one instance and not another?

I’m like an ocean wave that’s bumped on the shore, I feel so absolutely stumped on the floor.

Over the past several years, I have come to the decision to stop contributing money or participating in fund-raising activities to disease-oriented organizations. It’s not that I don’t care about the individuals who are affected by any of these specific diseases. It’s more about the fact that we live in a culture that tends to identify and label individuals more by their disease (or other “shortcomings). So much so that we often lose sight of the wondrous being that they are (and continue to be) in spite of their personal challenges.

Ring-a-ding-ding, you’re lovely.

Over the years, my focus has shifted elsewhere. For me, disease is but a “context”, a sub-text in a person’s life. Instead, I try to focus my life and my work on what can be lovely (even if it means looking underneath and around what’s not obviously so).

So now, when someone asks, here’s what I am able to offer (with a light heart and gracious step): a gift certificate for a Basic “Barebones” Stresswell™ Appraisal plus a complimentary coaching session.

You know what? You’re lovely….you’re so lovely….and that’s why I won’t dance.

(note: image from liltree on Flickr)

In our media and commerce-driven world that equates material gifts with a measure of true love and interprets “being alone” as a desolate fate, such words could have wreaked havoc in my soul. However, while I’m not currently “in relationship” with another, I’m neither desperate nor lonely.

I had spent the day fondly recalling stories about my late husband and his annual ritual of sharing handmade valentines with the women and children in his life. Alex had abhorred commercialized holidays, and preferred to bestow gifts at times of his choosing, but his annual valentine sharing adventure remained a nearly lifelong habit. He’d scour the stores in mid-late January for lace doilies, heart-shaped stickers and other intriguing decorative materials.

Some years, he’d feel lazy and grouse a bit if he felt that the recipients of his treasured creations had not shown adequate gratitude and/or recognition of his artistic efforts. Then one year, we heard about our god-daughter, who had treked out to the curbside mailbox every afternoon for 2 weeks, in anticipation of the treasured envelope that would bear her name, scrawled in large red marker. In 2006, he struggled to complete the task, yet cheered our hearts with his pink and red concoctions even though they arrived closer to mid-March as our minds had begun the shift to St. Paddy’s green.

By Feburary of 2007, he was too ill to complete the task one last time and steadfastly refused any assistance. While his tradition was ending, his teacher-artist daughter sent him a handmade valentine mobile, which we hung over his hospital bed in the living room. A fitting tribute and gift of love, to this gentle man and caring father, who–in an earlier career as a math teacher–had shared his fascination with the work of Alexander Calder while teaching mathematical principles by creating mobiles in the classroom. And in the wee hours of the morning of April 7 2005, that delicate heart-shaped mobile cast candle-lit flickering shadows on the living room wall as Alex bade a reluctant farewell to his full and complex life.

Nostalgic thoughts and loving memories of a man who sometimes seemed larger than life, and who continues to dwell in my heart as the “silent partner” he promised to always be. Understandably, he’s a lot more silent than before, yet I continue to feel his love and support each and every day, but especially this Valentine’s Day.

And in the way that fortune cookies often provide a gentle reminder of oft-hidden truths, I feel myself comforted anew by the gentle validation: I am my best valentine–my first and most constant friend. And the more that I care for and nurture myself, the better friend and valentine I can be for others each day of the year.

Much of that time (except for several business and family-related trips sandwiched in between), I was again with mom–coordinating the move to her new home within the retirement community in which she’s lived for the past 8 years:  from her 3-room apartment on and independent-living floor to one room on the assisted living floor.   Following a fall (and a broken hip) last May, Mom had spent the summer and fall shuttling back and forth between rehab/skilled care, respite and the hospital.  All in all, about 6 transfers within a 5 month period.

So it wasn’t surprising to have her wonder aloud at one point in August:  “When do I go HOME?”  Of course, the question became even more poignant as I invited her to clarify what she had meant by “home.”  Had she meant her 3 bedroom apartment (which I had begun to realize no longer held her “aura”–although it still contained her furniture and belongings)?  Was it the family home on Edison Road–where she had lived with Dad for most her marriage and raised her family?  Or did she mean she was ready to die (to go be with Dad, who died nearly 20 years ago)?  At that moment, she wasn’t able to offer a distinct answer to my question–except that she found herself getting confused when she tried to picture and/or remember where various mementos, furnishings and other belongings were currently located.  However, she also added that “no, I don’t think I mean that [i.e., going to be with Dad].

In light of her responses,  I found her description of dream she had had of my dad the night after our conversation to be particularly fascinating.  She reported that Dad had appeared wearing a long white robe (like a priest’s alb) and that they sat together on a park bench talking for a long time.  Then, suddenly, Dad moved quickly away from her–as if he were in a hurry.

November 8–her 93rd birthday was also the day we moved her into her new 1-room home, having accomplished the physical consolidation and move of her furnishings and belongings the week before.  I had been intrigued that her new room–filled with her most meaningful things and decorated with a wealth of photos that summarize her family life–already contained her spirit, even though she had not yet set foot inside the door.

Throughout the months of November and December, I suspect that she has struggled (in her spirit) with her own sense of home.  Caught between the losses inherent in the downsizing process and the stability offered by our promise that she would not need to fear another transfer, I expect that she’s needed to decide on at least one level whether she has “enough” to continue on.  Is there enough to make her life meaningful and purposeful?

My month with Mom was fascinating and inspiring, to say the least.   I was privileged to serve as witness as she apparently made the decision that she could and would salvage what’s left of her life to keep on.

And now, as I prepare to return home, I find myself exploring what “home” means to me.  My friends have assured me that my aura remains strong in the dwelling that I’ve called home for 18 years.  I’ll be spending some time however, inviting a sense of curiosity about the sense and concept of home.

I’d love to hear what it means to you.

Was it stressful?  Well, in a way, yes.  Actually, I’d prefer to view it as a time filled with ripe opportunities to be present in the moment.  Moments where time often compressed or expanded in the blink of an eye.  A month of rich experiences, thoughts, feelings, insights, new relationships, healing within lifelong relationships, finding meaning, and all those things that make life worthwhile.

And the icing on the cake?  Or the ribbon on my Christmas-time present?  The fact that mom is still with us–with all her glorious one-liner-laced, common-sense, steadfast approach to life.