2025.11.23 I REMEMBER. Lyn Brakeman, Spiritual Lemons blog post

On this date in 1986, I stood facing my intended chosen one to whom I would plight my troth—  pledge my whole self, body and soul and yes, my freedom to enter into a second marriage in which I felt wobbly. It wasn’t about loving this lovely man who stood before me, but about my freedom—my troth, which according to ancient wisdom means TRUTH.  

I felt a bit like a toddler debating her next step, without holding onto a steadying hand or a walker.  Could I, would I do it right this time?  (Honestly, if I had been one of Jesus’s disciples he would have kicked me off the campaign trail!)

Of course I would, could, and did plight my troth and have no regrets. Happy Anniversary, beloved troth partner of forty-seven whole years! I love you, dearly—all-in,  trothfully. 

2025.11.16 NEBULIZATION. Lyn G. Brakeman, Spiritual Lemons, blog post

Over the last however many days, I have been engaged in the search for a nebulizer, prescribed for me by my wise doctor of pulmonology. Arriving to announce the about-to-appear nebulizer was a large box of vials filled with a mysterious liquid solution. 

But what is a nebulizer? 

I laughed and thought about this old joke we used to tell when I was in grade school. A bunch of kindergarteners puzzled over how a thermos worked. We all knew a thermos kept our milk cool, and our soup hot, yet only one small kindergartener risked asking the obvious: “Yeah, but how does it know which is which?” 

*  *  *  * 

Do you see how easy it is to get lost, or hide behind collective ignorance, blaming or shaming just about anyone else when you also are secretly afraid?  

I tried to blame my poor husband for not knowing exactly what this nebulizer thing was and how exactly it was relevant to my condition, my official pulmonary condition —a whole big wordy diagnosis. Oh yes, I did call the pulmonologist who instructed me to contact the prescriber, who instructed me to call the company, who instructed me to hold. Even google went blurry!  It was no one’s fault, but when you are afraid, anything feels worse than it actually is. 

I was on a merry-go-round of fear and shame—not fun.

You all know this process, and likely we all know how the search for answers leads to more questions and more, yes, fear. I should know this!! The only thing worse than naive, forgetful ignorance is pride, because of course pride is like starch—stiffening.  

So yes, I cried. Then I blamed and shamed, even poor old God who just loved me, which I thought was really dumb!  Then I forgave my poor husband who didn’t know exactly what the hell a nebulizer was either.  Then I remembered the silly joke about the “ignorant” thermos and laughed.   

The bursting energy and pressure of laughter alone completely, yes, “nebulized” me. I exhaled and inhaled in a burst of moronic joy—just enough to help me call and ask, and remember what the nurse had said!  I’d already ordered and paid for my nebulizer—seriously it IS in the mail. 

2025.11.09 WISDOM FOR ALL CREATURES ALL THE TIME. Lyn G. Brakeman, Spiritual Lemons, blog post

As we approach Veterans Day on 11/11/ 2025 and move towards Thanksgiving on November 27th, may we please remember that in all religions, in all lands, for ALL living things, at all times, there is only one truth wise enough to be universal: that of LOVE.

                            *  *  *  *

Henri-Frédéric Amiel (1821-1881) was a Swiss moral philosopher and poet living in Geneva, Switzerland. He  had mystical experiences yet never tied himself down to any single one. He wrote the above words when he was 59—young by today’s standards. On Amiel’s tombstone there is a quote from Galatians 6:8. In this small parabolic story, St. Paul articulates a great truth from a small and familiar story.  Here it is, according to The Inclusive Bible. First Egalitarian Translation— the latest, and only one among many translations of the Bible. 

“If you sow in the field of indulgence you will reap corruption. 

If you sow in the field of self-indulgence you will reap corruption.

If you sow in the field of the Spirit you will reap the harvest of eternal life.

Never grow tired of doing good.”  (Galatians 6:8-9) 

2025.11.02 ALL SAINTS? Lyn G. Brakeman, Spiritual Lemons, blog post

I woke up this week with a question on my mental screen. Am I really who I say I am, or am I a phony? I’m not racist. How did I learn that? Certainly not in school where everyone was white, and not on the neighborhood streets where I grew up in NYC, and not from any lectures from my parents. No, I learned how not to be racist from the very ones I was supposed to fear—black-skinned people. 

While having my haircut yesterday, I tried to articulate what my latest book, WHITEOUT is about without this belly-deep fear that I was actually a social snob and even racist myself. Obviously racism, alongside many other -isms, is deeply embedded in the culture I live in, even in Alabama where I lived for a brief time. 

*  *  *  *

I learned to love and live free of racism from Dinah, a black-skinned laundress and her daughter Lou, and sometimes a visiting cousin. They showed me how to love myself without guilt, and how to be loved, how to be free. They did not care what color my skin was or wasn’t. I played wildly and freely running about the basement, playing hide and seek around the luggage and storage items of wealthy white people.

I learned not to be racist from black people!  From them, too, I learned how to be white without shame or fear, how to be free and beloved at once. How to look at myself without shame or judgment. I learned how not to be racist from the race I was expected to hate and fear and reject. Dinah and Lou taught me not to be racist, without doing a thing but being themselves. They were the way I learned NOT to be judgmental of blacks OR whites. I learned to love people as human beings without noticing or reacting to their skin color. It might be analogous to Jungian psychology insisting on self-love as the base of being able to love others as you love yourself. 

I learned how to love myself and whoever my neighbor turned out to be from the very ones I was trained to hate and fear.  

2025.10.26 I KNOW NOT WHAT TO SAY. Lyn G. Brakeman, Spiritual Lemons, blog post

One of my sons called yesterday to tell me that one of his frat brothers had just received a fatal diagnosis. Nothing to do? Nothing more to do? No more treatments?  No more specialists. 

Nothing? 

Nothing.

I lost my voice and envisioned my son with all his frat brothers gathered round their brother, all crying together. They got together every year to laugh and catch up. This year they cried. 

I called my husband to tell him, and we cried on each other's shoulders and remembered sleepless nights of worry. 

I remembered.

My son called back to say: "Mom, also pray— just in case. . . . ."

2025.10.18 BIRTHING AND BLOOMING. Lyn G. Brakeman, Spiritual Lemons, blog post

When I was born it happened to be Sunday BUT there was a silly rhyme about being the “SABBATH CHILD” who is “blythe and bonny and good and gay”.  My mother was sure I was just like that. She nearly ruined my life with her projections, so I struggled greatly AGAINST being blythe, bonny, good and gay”…………   I grew up OVERobserved!

BUT there was nothing I could do about being born on a Sunday—nothing! Oh well, there might be something I realized after some time of playing the game of  NOT ME. 

I went church shopping to see if this Sabbath god could make me not be me. There I found some success, because no religions or their sanctuaries wanted me as me anyway!  No women, no vaginal bliss, no sex, and no ME, except for my uterus. 

To be over-observed as a child is terrifying, but for me it helped, because it drove me to spend so much time finding ME, bearing children especially SONS, and then getting ME to stand right up behind the altar saying prayers that turned simple elements into holy food, so they said. The Sabbath was MY day! I had to steal it back for myself, my maternal, mothering, sexy, authentic self—womb and all, standing behind the altar 

* *  * *

I married a man because I needed one to complete my image. Also, I loved  him and he loved me and we had children we loved. But he too had to struggle to live up to expectations to make money and make sons. What got lost for us both was the ability to know, yes, who you are as YOU. My second husband also was over-observed as an only/boy-child. He was “saved” by the faithful company of his mother, and the respect he received from the Episcopal church where he sang in the cathedral choir, and was eventually ordained priest. 

*  *  *  *

Oh yes, I know all about dysfunctional families, and as far as I can see ALL families are. We waste valuable yet necessary time to, yes, get real!  What anyone learns in time is how to be a self, while managing to sort out all kinds of emotional pain along the way.  (It amuses me to recall being a family therapist and witnessing one family session at which a young boy dashed into the room and announced: “I am issue-free!” I recall congratulating him and telling him he could always return whenever he wished. He did.) 

Never mind that this kind of self-authentication process is common to us all. It’s damn near as impossible for Divinity as it is for Humanity.  (No, Christians, you don’t get the last word here either!) 

CREATING AN IMPRESSIONIST PAINTING. Lyn G. Brakeman, blog post, spirituallemons.blogspot.com

WHO? Some 50 “painters” of varying ages from 50 to 99. Some in wheelchairs, others on their own feet, all seated, all with bright eyes awake, alert.  I was privileged enough to moderate this process—lightly.  The principal “painter” was a daughter. 

WHAT?  A portrait of one woman named Ikey who had recently died, one we all knew and loved in our different ways, familial and professional. She had resided in all the different areas of care here. Some of us knew her well and some only a little. STILL, if you ever met her even just once, you came away with a brilliant multi-sensory portrait behind your own mind’s eye, of the clear tones of her standout laughter ringing in your ears, perhaps the scent of her last meal, and definitely the vibrations of her whole lively personality stirring each and all into life.

WHERE?  In the Chapel, a beautiful mid-campus space used spottily by varying groups from outside. OUR group were all insiders, some by residence and some by familial ties or through friendships. 

WHEN? From 10:45-11:45 a.m. Imagine creating such a painting in such little time. COLLECTIVELY!  AND ACCURATELY!

WHY? Because we all knew and loved Ikey.  And because it was NOT a religious, church-sponsored event, even though I moderated it, BUT NOT from a pulpit and NOT in a clerical collar. 

*  *  *  *

I know this is hard to believe, and yet I promise it happened!! It could be like pointillism, the method of impressionist painters, like George-Pierre Seurat and Paul Signac, who did NOT mix their oils on the palette first, as was customary, but instead dotted the canvas with distinctly colored dots—until slowly, slowly the apparently meaningless dots formed an image—dots formed by unmixed oil colors—unmixed! When applied, the dots are separate. BUT soon an image emerges from the array of dots. LO and BEHOLD.

This we did today as we gathered to remember our friend’s vibrancy. I told about the hilarity of going shopping with Ikey at the cheapest places we could find and returning with new earrings, or a new sweatshirt or some other cheesy “treasure”.  Also the time we snuck out for pizza following a craving and breaking curfew rules. We brought Ikey back LATE 8 p.m.to face a very annoyed  nurse who came to open the door to let Ikey in. I laughed hysterically recalling college days when we all had to be back in our dorms by curfew or else! I understand the need of such rules. I also laugh uproariously at such rigor at the age of 100! OK I know all about liability. Laughing is more fun. 

Who would have thought that this small community of Ikey fans could share so many varied impressions of her and come up with a perfect portrait in an hour!!!???

May we all always walk together in peace, bound together in LOVE, the only universal force strong enough to hold us—all at once.