This may seem odd ... why would I have given any thought to this whatsoever. However, I just this morning (as I was cleaning the bathroom) became aware that I have spent a good portion of my adult life trying to like Bond. James Bond. It seems I should like him. I mean what's not to like of the adventuresome debonair fellow. But it has not only never clicked with me and James, I have actually had an aversion to him. I thought that with Skyfall I might have my chance to finally like him ... and I don't mean the premise, or the films, or the books, but the real person of James. I'd heard reviews saying this James is introspective. He's human. He has a few failures up his sleeve with all the other cards.

But after watching the Skyfall James, I am no more in like with him than ever, and our relationship may have taken a serious turn for the worse. Yes, he's more introspective, but seemingly only toward himself. It's all about him, what he has lost, what he has given up. I did not see any introspection toward whether he should continue with his license to kill or find other ways of ... well, negotiation, shall we say.

What really disturbs me, though, stems from a comment I made last night to my dear husband after we watched Skyfall. "I find it interesting that in this day of slave trafficking awareness, that Bond's girl was a victim of that. And instead of finding a way out for her, he used her sexually, too." And, I guess we think it's ok ... I mean, it's Bond after all. What woman would not want an encounter with him? And, with that, the sex slave business seems all the more appealing, sexy, alluring, desirable even. And it is not. A huge disservice has been done to the victims by the very gift to woman himself.

And therein lies the problem.

Somehow I ended up in Turkey just now on the internet and was enjoying the blogs of several travelers with photos of just remarkably beautiful and historically vital places and structures in a country of crossroads for many different cultures. I dreamily perused the photos, inspired at every click on "next photo," and imagined that this might be the trip of a lifetime. One click of the mouse and I was in Instanbul ...  click - Ephesus, click Pamukkale, click - Hierapolis ... click - but wait, go back to Hierapolis. Didn't the theater at Hierapolis remind me of something familiar? Ah, yes, the theater at Merida, Spain that I had experienced with my sister and daughters as an unexpected treasure of a find on a drive between Barbate and Madrid. Hmmm, and on further thought those theaters looked an awful lot like the theater at Ephesus ... incredibly beautiful works of art, but, could it be somewhat "cookie cutter?" That led me to realize that the arena at Nimes, France looks a lot like the big boy of them all, the Colosseum in Rome. And, upon further exploration online, I see that the top 10 arenas and theaters around the world are remarkably similar and are in Tunisia, Italy, Croatia, Libya, Jordan, France, and Syria ...  major presence in all of what was the Roman Empire.

Which leads me to this question: were these fantastic works of art, these Roman arenas and theaters, these centers for games and art and culture, well, were they the Walmart of that era? Wiped out the mom and pop theaters for the Roman colonnades, and the Route 66's for the Appian Way? The landscape of vast areas of the Roman Empire becoming indistinguishable from each other with the cookie cutter forms perched on every hillside?

So, now I've become a bit disturbed by this syndrome in which I used to stand amazed. I'm not quite as impressed as I was. It truly was the shock of seeing the photo of the theater at Hierapolis, Turkey and realizing it looked oh so very similar to my photo from the nose bleed section of the theater at Merida, Spain that set me in such a disappointed mood. Instead of grandeur, I felt I had beheld the "Little boxes on the hillside, Little boxes made of ticky tacky, Little boxes on the hillside, Little boxes all the same." I had beheld the attempt to make everyone and everything the same. Over time it failed, though, and I hope our own attempts to make everyone and everything the same are no more successful.

I pride myself on not being a pack rat. And, again, the proverb proves true once again ... pride goeth before a fall. The fall occurred just this morning as I sat tending the repair and refurbishment of a raggedy clown doll that my husband had as a child 58 years ago. The arms are tiny in my hands as I make tiny little handsewn stitches. And that reminds me - oh so reminds me - of the Barbie clothes I received for Christmas the year we lived in Elizabethton TN and I was in second grade.

The text on the box as seen camouflaged through the wrapping paper led me to think I was getting something else. The ruse was secure. My mother, in a clandestine move that could have impressed the CIA, had sewn me an entire wardrobe of Barbie clothes! Circle skirt dresses! a Wedding dress with veil! Coats! A-line dresses! Princess style dresses! A dream of heaven opened up as the contents of that gift poured out into my lap. Those clothes were treasured. They were my one big bragging point with all my friends, always, always all the way through ... well, when? I guess most of my life.

I thanked my mother profusely year after year. I thanked her even more profusely as I grew up and started really noticing and thinking about the hundreds of tiny stitches required to piece these garments together ... most done on machine, but countless others by hand where the tiny turn or hem could not have been made otherwise.

And, I am thankful that I voiced my admiration, appreciation, and gratitude for that wardrobe, because sitting here this morning making similar tiny stitches, I've thought I'd call her again and tell her wow, thanks again! But, those days of making a call, having a conversation are gone forever. That makes me sad, but also affirms the rightness of saying thank you when we have the chance.

The fall occurred not when I grieved the loss of my mother, when I found myself missing her. That's all good in its own way. The fall occurred when I wondered where those clothes are now? Oh dear. My daughters played into their adulthood with the same Barbies and clothes. After that succession did we (I) pass them on to another generation out there somewhere? That seems so like me. And I have prided myself on that. But, now I wonder. I really wonder. And I wish. And, uh-oh ... I am very sad.

Old things creep me out. I free myself easily from things. However, I now have to confess that I wish I still had a few things. Alas, we just go from where we are, so "onward." But, a lesson has been learned. Treasure things from the hands of those we love.

Stephen Colbert needs a co-host ... a Republican looking, rich white women in her mid-fifties who is not what she seems. Boy, paint up the spider veins in my legs, put me in a cute short skirt and let me sit there on a stool beside him. Could I ever confuse the waters and ride sheriff extraordinaire.

I look so much like I am not.

That I realize when I think on the fact that parking is not a problem where I attend church because most people do not have a car. In fact, most of them do not have home. Yes, you heard me ... most of them do not have a home. I have found a church home (all blond tinted, bejeweled, sharp dressed me arriving in my cinnamon colored Volvo wagon) with people who are homeless. I have found them to be the least judgmental of Christians. I ended up at this church of no judgment when the "First (fill in the blank) Church of Huntsville was suspicious of my inquiries about the sanctuary when my daughter was looking for a place to be married. Yes, I was of that denomination. Yes, I have attended church at this church this summer upon my return to Huntsville after a flee as a widow. Yes, I am a CHRISTIAN!!!!!

I look like I should be for values of faith and marriage and all that is right with the Republican party. I look nice and sweet and within the box of acceptability. However, I have experienced want and need. I have lived divorce. I have had cancer. I have lost my hair. I have lost my breasts. I have been widowed. I have had failed reconstructive surgery. I have recognized that others in life are "just trying' to live." I have watched my mother suffer and die from Alzheimer's. I see my father challenging Parkinson's. I see brother and sister living their lives along side the life of a caregiver. I see Hispanic contributors to our community who desire a life of hope and opportunity for their children that is available only in the USA. And I care. I have thought about it.

And this church of mine. It is called Grateful Life and is that ever appropriate. I love Grateful Life. We have to call down the talkers in the back of the room. We have to awaken the snorers. Sometimes, we have to clean up vomit. But, we are all there. We are mixed. And we are praising God together. Thanks be to God.

Stephen Colbert ... just try to figure this one out.

How can we get back to simplicity? How can we get back to a time before American Idol where louder, and bigger, and better is the norm? Before half time shows that are vulgar and demeaning but are heralded as show stopping? Before times where expectations lead to dissatisfaction? Where normal equals or is interpreted as insufficient? To a time where the noble and honorable is valued? Why are we stopped and silent when presented with something that matters?

Coffee Life

If only life were coffee colored. Then the coffee stains would not show up.

"Ms. Mitchell." The phlebotomist calls the name without any emotion. I get up from the waiting area and enter into a room with 9 stations. "Go to Chair #8," the phlebotomist tells me. I sit down in said Chair #8, and my gaze falls on some photographs on the wall across from me at Chair #2. How seemingly innocuous. How seemingly random. Yet, my visit for my six month oncology check up is further rattling me by one of the photos. Across the room, directly facing the anonymous "Ms. Mitchell" is a photo of my late husband.  A former and beloved patient of this same facility. In the photo he is conducting the University of Alabama Million Dollar Band in the National Anthem at the Alabama/Tennessee game of 2005. This is 2013. If anyone in the lab were to know me as the "wife" of the beloved man in the photo, the waters would part and people would become more engaged and highly sensitive and respectful of me. The photo is still there. And so am I.

2005, the same year of the photo on the wall, was the year this journey began for me. I strive to do no complaining, because I have life. When I step into CCI I go dragging fear of what might be revealed and the interruption this visit brings to my life as I have ordered it around living beyond that disease. I also step into CCI with gratitude that I am walking in healthy and robust, with my hair on my head (instead of down the drain) and more to my liking than ever before in my 55 years. I am not struggling to live. or to breathe. or to hope. or to think. or to walk out of CCI and get on with the life of my dreams.  I step in with a few extra pounds on my frame that I never fail to see as a great gift because my body is receiving and processing nutrition ... every six months I am reminded that many face the nightmare of food or drink refused by a body that can no longer coorperate with such "luxuries." I have no complaints.

I must be careful with the gratitude that I feel. It could be seen as haughty and prideful and insensitive to those patients there whose disease so defines their every moment and which is visibly seen by others. I am aware that as I step into CCI I look more like one attending and assisting a family member or friend who is a patient. The only visible indicator that I am "one of them" is the stretchy arm bandage covering the IV site and the lab work vein stick that I wear on my way out of the building. I feel myself wearing it almost like a badge or a war wound as I exit the building. With the visible sign that I, too, call oncology a familiar acquaintance, I feel camaraderie with those who more visibly suffer, and I feel more received by them. I feel authentic in that place.

And, yet, I am not authentic there. "Mitchell" is the name on the insurance card, but not the new name on the driver's license. It's the name on the chart. Dare not change for fear of confusion. It's a conflicting place to go every six months. I don't go easily. I know when I go there I am seen but not seen. I am known but not known. I am free but not free.

But, I AM alive and I AM alive. I AM healthy and I AM healthy. I WALK out and LIVE the life of my dreams. And I know life must not be measured or lived six months at a time.