2025.12.14 MEMORIES—PROMISES OF WARMTH, Lyn G. Brakeman, Spiritual Lemons, blog post

These glasses were painted by my late mother. Each one has the picture of a horse each with its name painted under its portrait. These glasses are beautiful mementoes to honor the times our family spent at the Sommer-Hof in Ancramdale, N.Y.  

There is of course a long story behind this beloved array. It started on June 7, 1935, or so, when my newly married parents cuddled up against each other, unable to get warm even with body heat and a tiny blaze in the fireplace. A knock—a life-saving loud rap— sounded at the door. My father rose to see who was there. There stood a farmhand inviting my parents to come to the main house, up the road. A heated house!! Without trepidation, my parents wrapped up in blankets, and coats and followed.   

Thus began a friendship that lasted over many years between my parents and the Sommerhoffs  in Ancramdale, N.Y. a place our family came to call THE FARM. I remember subzero snowy weekends when my dad trudged out on Friday at dusk to retrieve our old Buick from an underground garage rental space we were lucky enough to afford. I would be bundled up—unreasonably but thrillingly. I knew we were going to THE FARM, a nearly two-hour drive There I would cuddle up with my friend, a good giggle partner, listen to her Pop play his lookalike accordion, feel the blazing fire’s heat as it spit tiny sparks onto the hearth, and let myself drift into sleep. I dreamed of the next day’s sleigh ride, giving my pony a nose-kiss, and imagined myself as blessed and holy as the real baby Jesus in his own manger, all his own warmed in hay.     

2025.12.07 The Advent of What? Whose? When? Whom? Why? Spiritual Lemons, Lyn Brakeman, blog post

Most small children think that Santa Claus is a real person who will appear in the night to leave them gifts. It’s a hooker as huge as any traditional fairy-tale opener:  “Once Upon a Time”.  What? I hold my breathe still.   

Is it fair to raise a child’s expectations that you have already made unmeetable, like bring Daddy back, or tell Mommy not to tell lies about miracles, such as me. I won’t easily forgot my own experience of finding my wee baby tooth in the medicine cabinet wrapped in a tissue. Some tooth fairy!!  Not to mention that we lived in a NYC apartment and had NO chimney, not that I once caught my mother sneaking in to remove the milk and cookies we left, making sure she scattered a few crumbs and left the milk glass empty with milk on its rim. 

Even the classic Christian answer, about a sixth century Bishop, Nicholas of Myra, who actually did go around and leave small gifts and food at the doorsteps of homes he knew were impoverished.  That was true gift from a real ancient bishop from the far east who really did distribute gifts to children at Christmas time. There is definitely some holiness in such a tradition but few acknowledge it any more.  

There is such a thing, however, as on-the-ground fact, and there also is truth, often called Myth.  A Myth is not a lie.  It is simply a different perspective, a slant, on a common scenario. Most so-called fairy tales are social commentary on cruel situations turned upside down. Cinderella was a girl (beautiful blonde of course) forced into slavery by her Mistress, the “evil stepmother” (aka dad’s new wife) who is driven by jealousy and grief. Truth or fact?  Likely truth. 

Little mice scheme to rescue Cindy by chasing down a handsome prince to rescue her and carry her off to live in the castle, marry her course and thus legitimize her justification, her worth, her lovability. Truth? Possibly. Fact: proposition that does verify her hopes, her dreams, her worth as a woman her marriage-ability—for now.  Myth: Cindy’s happiness lasts forever and ever. Truth: maybe. 

A fact in time does not tie down any event or circumstance forever and ever. A myth makes us feel better, yet it is temporary beauty, never forever and ever for everyone, amen. We have hope and each other—gifts all. 

Grace is a gift free of charge and charges. Fact: God knows. Truth: we are free to choose, also to choose again.  Process: Tell it all and tell is slant!  

Wisdom from Emily Dickinson, a reclusive poet who lived in Amherst Massachusetts (1830-1886). Here below is her take on truth-telling:  Tell all the truth but tell it slant—

Success in Circuit lies

Too bright for our infirm Delight

The Truth’s superb surprise

As Lightning to the Children eased

With explanation kind

The Truth must dazzle gradually

Or every man be blind—

 

2025.11.30 TURKEYING. Spiritual Lemons, blog post, Lyn G. Brakeman

According to writer and Orthodox Rabbi Avi Safran, the Hebrew word for “turkey” can be interpreted to be the same as the Hebrew word for “turkey" and possibly connect us with “thanksgiving.”  However, it has nothing to do with the fact that the bird itself, in all its magnificence, is traditionally part of American Thanksgiving feasts. That association is, rather, the result of Christopher Columbus’ famous blunder. You remember the one about discovering America, the “promised land” he reported to his monarchs, when all the time it was just a navigation error—alas! 

Such blundering or blunder-busting is inevitable. That’s why we pray and ask forgiveness so much. But don’t run away, and don’t overdo your explanatory confession. If you do  need to say it out loud, say it to yourself softly and just between you and your god. Or one simple sentence once, like I’m sorry I hurt you.

Forgivingness is the point of life, really. We all make blunders, which are mostly inevitable. No need to overdo it and shame yourself. As a slogan used in Twelve Step programs puts it:  Keep it simple, stupid. I say: Keep it simple, sweetie.  

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.