Every once in a while an opportunity arises that makes me jump into it without regret. It occurred recently on a trip to the Southwest. I was powerfully drawn to walk upside down and fill my brain with unpasteurized life, to be shaken awake.
This I learned from Dan in the spring of 1976. A young Australian traveled from there to here to ask for my hand. All this way he came without knowing my feelings for him, all this way because of one evening we spent in Fiji that captured his imagination.
He was so sure, so confident, so ready … and the moment passed for this young college co-ed who was none of those things. He said he had no other choice but to try.
I’ve thought about him through the years, wondering how different the color and texture of life would have been if I had just taken his hand. I can’t imagine it, really, stepping off the curb, away from my studies and family and friends. If I had known how rare those moments really are, would he have flown home alone?
Memories are everlasting, but so are regrets. So in many ways, when situations arise, I feel more compelled to go, to know and feel and look and see, to draw the conclusions into my life. It is thrilling and companionable and invigorating.
Sometimes it is altogether different than I think it will be, more than I imagine but less than I hope. I want to draw into that world, loving it, savoring it, joyfully knowing it for myself. My heart restlessly seeks a safe harbor. There is wisdom in the risk, excitement in the knowledge that for me there is no other choice but to try.
Life is good when I step off the curb.
Mar 28, 2007
Mar 27, 2007
The Parade
This online parade of personalities is an awesome place to see, learn, try. One size fits all: we are one dimensional, body-less voices and thoughts that exist through photos in a stranger’s album. We wade through the words to gather meaning and depth, to make connections and seek relief.
The salesmen are here, the comedians and the looky-loos; the intellectuals, the Christians, and those that are false. There are moments of sweetness that make our teeth ache and hazards we learn to avoid. It is a playground in which to stretch and run and imagine does not require a body or a tether. Here, we are healthy and whole. New faces, new needs, new rules.
With great fanfare and a brassy show of color, the parade sweeps down the street and around the bend. Good friends are coming: lovers and seekers of truth, people of incredible warmth and insight, they are all here. They are everywhere we seek them.
And for that, I march on.
The salesmen are here, the comedians and the looky-loos; the intellectuals, the Christians, and those that are false. There are moments of sweetness that make our teeth ache and hazards we learn to avoid. It is a playground in which to stretch and run and imagine does not require a body or a tether. Here, we are healthy and whole. New faces, new needs, new rules.
With great fanfare and a brassy show of color, the parade sweeps down the street and around the bend. Good friends are coming: lovers and seekers of truth, people of incredible warmth and insight, they are all here. They are everywhere we seek them.
And for that, I march on.
Mar 18, 2007
You Don't Say
I spent an inordinate amount of time yesterday discussing relationships. Some friends are aching for a beginning; some feel over their heads and are wondering how things mushroomed out of control; some are happily padding along in a slippershoe fit that shows the good kind of wear; some, like me, have all of those things going on at once.
You know, it seems to boil down to communication. Relationship communicators have a real skill that is undervalued in this world. Most of us think we're pretty good at communication until we try to talk the same language without knowing the dialect. Communicators learn as they go: sometimes they triumph and sometimes they don't but they work very hard on the goal of a more meaningful relationship.
Active communication sometimes churns the waters as it works the muscles of honesty, courage, and self confidence. They need the heart of a lion to step courageously forward and articulate true needs. There is great risk in learning they may not be respected, or understood or have their feelings reciprocated. Sometimes it feels less risky not to say.
Diving comes to mind. Lots of preparation precedes a dive, like certification, practice dives, site research, knowing the equipment, but by far the most critical element is choosing the right partner. If you've ever watched really great partners in action, you know what I mean. Active communication is direct and clear: they place their lives in each other's hands while they explore the depths. Their proactive communication, a common goal, and a load of trust ensures they make it safely home.
Wow. When you don't speak up, your needs can't possibly be met. Poor communication harbors assumptions, suspicions, and disappointments for people unable to read your mind. Active communication that is honest, trusting, compassionate and clear directs us somewhere together while sweeping clean those dark little corners where scorecards and guilt reside. I'd rather feather my nest with that.
You know, it seems to boil down to communication. Relationship communicators have a real skill that is undervalued in this world. Most of us think we're pretty good at communication until we try to talk the same language without knowing the dialect. Communicators learn as they go: sometimes they triumph and sometimes they don't but they work very hard on the goal of a more meaningful relationship.
Active communication sometimes churns the waters as it works the muscles of honesty, courage, and self confidence. They need the heart of a lion to step courageously forward and articulate true needs. There is great risk in learning they may not be respected, or understood or have their feelings reciprocated. Sometimes it feels less risky not to say.
Diving comes to mind. Lots of preparation precedes a dive, like certification, practice dives, site research, knowing the equipment, but by far the most critical element is choosing the right partner. If you've ever watched really great partners in action, you know what I mean. Active communication is direct and clear: they place their lives in each other's hands while they explore the depths. Their proactive communication, a common goal, and a load of trust ensures they make it safely home.
Wow. When you don't speak up, your needs can't possibly be met. Poor communication harbors assumptions, suspicions, and disappointments for people unable to read your mind. Active communication that is honest, trusting, compassionate and clear directs us somewhere together while sweeping clean those dark little corners where scorecards and guilt reside. I'd rather feather my nest with that.
Mar 15, 2007
Pay to Play
It's a remarkable thing to hit our stride. There we are, walking along and suddenly realize it's just the right weather, just the right gait, we've got what it takes, we're alive and on the move. Wow, what a rush.
I think most of us operate on a level just below that, where we make out pretty well by filling our days with the skills we've got. Not all are fortunate enough to intertwine our jobs and our passions, so we infuse our private lives with meaning: we're athletes or artists or volunteers, spiritualists, or musicians. Separateness is a part of life we've come to accept because that's just how it is.
I was recently advised that in order to find true happiness, we need to narrow the gap between what we do and who we are. Sounds simple enough. What do you think it would feel like to be paid to play?
Why it would be grand, I say! Imagine operating in an environment that draws from us exactly what we are suited to do. Look at how we'd move seamlessly from thing to thing, never again having to fight that uphill battle as we transition. We'd hop out of bed in the morning and race in, so excited were we to have another day to give it our all. Why, we might even have to stop calling it work!
(Smile)
It wouldn't be like that, of course. Even in a perfect hand to glove world, problems would arise. Narrowing the gap between our careers and our passions wouldn't eliminate obstacles or peril because in life not everyone wins. As hard as we work at the things that bring us joy, artists cannot always produce the beautiful piece they envision, nurses lose patients, and comedians are not always funny.
But it would shift us into high gear, energize our attitude and tap into our natural talents and instincts. It would add spring to our step, because loving what we do always does that. We would have a deeper sense of satisfaction in ourselves and our contributions. It's a win-win.
NMcC
I think most of us operate on a level just below that, where we make out pretty well by filling our days with the skills we've got. Not all are fortunate enough to intertwine our jobs and our passions, so we infuse our private lives with meaning: we're athletes or artists or volunteers, spiritualists, or musicians. Separateness is a part of life we've come to accept because that's just how it is.
I was recently advised that in order to find true happiness, we need to narrow the gap between what we do and who we are. Sounds simple enough. What do you think it would feel like to be paid to play?
Why it would be grand, I say! Imagine operating in an environment that draws from us exactly what we are suited to do. Look at how we'd move seamlessly from thing to thing, never again having to fight that uphill battle as we transition. We'd hop out of bed in the morning and race in, so excited were we to have another day to give it our all. Why, we might even have to stop calling it work!
(Smile)
It wouldn't be like that, of course. Even in a perfect hand to glove world, problems would arise. Narrowing the gap between our careers and our passions wouldn't eliminate obstacles or peril because in life not everyone wins. As hard as we work at the things that bring us joy, artists cannot always produce the beautiful piece they envision, nurses lose patients, and comedians are not always funny.
But it would shift us into high gear, energize our attitude and tap into our natural talents and instincts. It would add spring to our step, because loving what we do always does that. We would have a deeper sense of satisfaction in ourselves and our contributions. It's a win-win.
NMcC
Paying Attention
I think I'm probably the worst type of witness. If anybody ever asked me to identify someone by their hair or height or facial characteristics, I'd be hard pressed to come up with anything good. I wonder if I'm that way because of my dad.
To say his appearance was incidental is a ludicrous understatement. I wasn't trying to be a good person, forcing myself to look beyond at the person beneath. My father's spirit completely transcended the patched up old vessel he occupied.
Don't think I didn't pay attention. I can expound in great detail about the smell of his shirt in a warm embrace and the beautiful sound of his whistle or his fingers flying over the keyboard. Press your hand to my heart and you will feel how it skipped a beat when I opened the door to him as Santa Claus. Watch my face and be drawn into knowing how he gently got to the nut of a topic and brought it to light. Watch in my sons the affectionate display of earned devotion as they recollect being treated as unique in a cluster of twelve.
At the place where memories are formed, we learned how to catch his spirit and love and keep it for ourselves. We carry his torch forward.
To say his appearance was incidental is a ludicrous understatement. I wasn't trying to be a good person, forcing myself to look beyond at the person beneath. My father's spirit completely transcended the patched up old vessel he occupied.
Don't think I didn't pay attention. I can expound in great detail about the smell of his shirt in a warm embrace and the beautiful sound of his whistle or his fingers flying over the keyboard. Press your hand to my heart and you will feel how it skipped a beat when I opened the door to him as Santa Claus. Watch my face and be drawn into knowing how he gently got to the nut of a topic and brought it to light. Watch in my sons the affectionate display of earned devotion as they recollect being treated as unique in a cluster of twelve.
At the place where memories are formed, we learned how to catch his spirit and love and keep it for ourselves. We carry his torch forward.
Mar 11, 2007
An E Ticket Ride
When I sat on the lawn at the corner house at Princeton and Dent on a blanket with my Barbie dream house and all my friends, I ambitiously wanted to be a mom. Not just any mom. I wanted to be the most wonderful mom in the world.
I would redefine the term Mother, make it into something for all the world to envy. I would never be too busy to lay on the grass and play house, climb through bushes pretending to be in the jungle, and make blanket forts in the livingroom. My children would never know the sting and uncertainty of divorce. They would always have enough food, enough adventure, enough intelligence, enough imagination to thrive. They would be perfect, these children of mine.
Well I don't suppose that childhood dream turned out exactly the way I planned, but I gave it the old college try.
We played hide and seek with their duck-toed tennies peeking out from beneath the sheer curtains in the window. I would jump out from behind a door and they would leap in surprised glee. We swam and flew and ran and somersaulted our way through their childhood. I hid pennies under lamps when they dusted; we laughed and snuggled our way through a thousand repeats of Arthur the Anteater and beestings and disappointments. I would find them on the refrigerator or in hampers and cabinets, or under the cushions of the couch. We chased down and tackled their friends who honored us by toilet papering the house. Life consisted of neverending sleepovers and treasure hunts. We camped, explored and studied.
As things turned out, life did encroach. Imagine my surprise at learning the boys weren't perfect! They sometimes floundered and struggled. They fought for their right to be stubbornly obstinant, to take the harder, more circuitious route. We did come to learn the heartache of divorce, despite my best efforts to keep it at bay; they did come to know a mother with too many work responsibilities to be home after school with a snack; they figured out how to get themselves to practice. We learned love helps us survive adversity.
It's nice to learn that reality can surpass dreams. I couldn't imagine how much better it would be, how much harder the lessons, the magnitude of the risk, the immeasureable joy.
I'm grateful my sons grew through the limits of my imagination and into the men they were meant to be. I am amazed by their insight and encouraged by their compassion. They take me on adventures I never would have explored without them. They test and stretch me beyond where I thought I could go, make me better than before.
It's been an E ticket ride.
NMcC
I would redefine the term Mother, make it into something for all the world to envy. I would never be too busy to lay on the grass and play house, climb through bushes pretending to be in the jungle, and make blanket forts in the livingroom. My children would never know the sting and uncertainty of divorce. They would always have enough food, enough adventure, enough intelligence, enough imagination to thrive. They would be perfect, these children of mine.
Well I don't suppose that childhood dream turned out exactly the way I planned, but I gave it the old college try.
We played hide and seek with their duck-toed tennies peeking out from beneath the sheer curtains in the window. I would jump out from behind a door and they would leap in surprised glee. We swam and flew and ran and somersaulted our way through their childhood. I hid pennies under lamps when they dusted; we laughed and snuggled our way through a thousand repeats of Arthur the Anteater and beestings and disappointments. I would find them on the refrigerator or in hampers and cabinets, or under the cushions of the couch. We chased down and tackled their friends who honored us by toilet papering the house. Life consisted of neverending sleepovers and treasure hunts. We camped, explored and studied.
As things turned out, life did encroach. Imagine my surprise at learning the boys weren't perfect! They sometimes floundered and struggled. They fought for their right to be stubbornly obstinant, to take the harder, more circuitious route. We did come to learn the heartache of divorce, despite my best efforts to keep it at bay; they did come to know a mother with too many work responsibilities to be home after school with a snack; they figured out how to get themselves to practice. We learned love helps us survive adversity.
It's nice to learn that reality can surpass dreams. I couldn't imagine how much better it would be, how much harder the lessons, the magnitude of the risk, the immeasureable joy.
I'm grateful my sons grew through the limits of my imagination and into the men they were meant to be. I am amazed by their insight and encouraged by their compassion. They take me on adventures I never would have explored without them. They test and stretch me beyond where I thought I could go, make me better than before.
It's been an E ticket ride.
NMcC
Mar 10, 2007
Calling Our Bluff and Paybacks
I took the dogs out to a beautiful and remote spot in the Gold Country on a Dog Adventure. You can imagine the beauty of green rolling hills with cows grazing, trickling streams and hill after hill of well kept vineyards in the shadow of the Rancho Seco nuclear power plant. Makes you kind of want to give up wine, and beef, and water, and air! I'm just kidding ... it's been decommissioned for years, but the towers stand as an idiotic testament to man's stupidity.
Anyway, we were enjoying this early March day in California with temps of 65 degrees, sunny and clear and still. The dogs tore around the grassy areas I'm sure are crammed with people barbecuing in summer, enjoyed a dog snack, when all of a sudden they noticed a flock of geese on the other side of the grass.
BAM! Just like that, Sophie the boxer took off pell mell towards them, her leash flying behind, obviously intent on a good, old fashioned chase. She loves to chase - cats, squirrels, laser lights...
So why was this flock of geese casually milling about, seemingly unconcerned about the fast approach of a 60 pound muscular animal? They obviously knew something we did not.
And so they did. The largest goose stepped forward, fully extended his enormous wings and flapped vigorously while making a loud, sharp honking sound. And just as quickly as it began, with gravel flying in all directions, fearless bulletdog skidded to an abrupt halt. Wise choice!
Sophie was clearly embarrassed: big ol' tough house dog being bested out by a kept goose at the lake. But then she began vigorously sniffing the ground about 25 feet from them, maintaining the distance but not giving up ground. She had one eye on them and one on the ground, acting aloof, but her body moved in a clipped and deliberate way. She had an IDEA.
She sniffed at some very interesting prairie dog holes and had some very satisfying tree sniffs, as she quietly closed the gap between herself and the flock of about twenty birds.
They were not amused. They postured, flapped and made noise, let her know she was encroaching on their turf, but she kept her nose to the ground, ignoring them completely. As her circles began to tighten, the flock began to move, slowly and gently until every last goose had been herded into the lake.
She pranced back to me for a long satisfying drink of water. Sweet!
Mar 8, 2007
Sponges
I enjoy people watching. People watchers have their favorite spots to do it: at concerts or parks, at train stations, or in a cafeteria filled with anxious parents before a music concert. For me, I like watching friends talking intently over a cup of coffee. I like people that are so immersed in conversation that I can figure out by their expressions what they are talking about. It's a pretty good bet that somber topics have them fingering the rims of their cups and involuntarily drawing down into reflective expressions; joyous topics spark a smile between friends that is visible all the way to their hearts. Do they realize the way they mirror each other? I wonder if everyone, everywhere is a sponge.
There's a lot of advantages to being an emotional sponge. When a sponge loves, they love big! People gravitate to them because they have loads of empathy. Sponges drink up the success when a friend gets a big promotion or the family has a banner year: every birthday, milestone, marriage and anniversary lets them repeatedly relive the best things in life. It is a hopeful place to emotionally reside, drawing happiness from cousin Johnny's big fancy house on the hill without having to afford the payments.
But when things are not so good, how 'bout that old sponge! They're busy sopping up ten times their weight in misery, so accustomed they are to living vicariously through others. They even take up armor to defend against issues that are not theirs to fight. Sponges give away emotional resources and leave little for themselves. They don't know when it's time to squeeze themselves dry, or how to.
What I mostly think is that we all have spongelike parts of ourselves which we need to carefully manage. We can be supportive and maintain our separateness. We can love others without taking responsibility for the cause or the cure of their misfortunes. A filtered peripheral spot is a good place to live our life and let them live theirs, to celebrate and support and balance our love.
NMcC
There's a lot of advantages to being an emotional sponge. When a sponge loves, they love big! People gravitate to them because they have loads of empathy. Sponges drink up the success when a friend gets a big promotion or the family has a banner year: every birthday, milestone, marriage and anniversary lets them repeatedly relive the best things in life. It is a hopeful place to emotionally reside, drawing happiness from cousin Johnny's big fancy house on the hill without having to afford the payments.
But when things are not so good, how 'bout that old sponge! They're busy sopping up ten times their weight in misery, so accustomed they are to living vicariously through others. They even take up armor to defend against issues that are not theirs to fight. Sponges give away emotional resources and leave little for themselves. They don't know when it's time to squeeze themselves dry, or how to.
What I mostly think is that we all have spongelike parts of ourselves which we need to carefully manage. We can be supportive and maintain our separateness. We can love others without taking responsibility for the cause or the cure of their misfortunes. A filtered peripheral spot is a good place to live our life and let them live theirs, to celebrate and support and balance our love.
NMcC
Mar 6, 2007
The Move
Moving is hard.
I sat with my mother today, holding her hand as we talked with the social worker about really hard things. She settled into the chair, into the topic. I closed my eyes and listened to the cadence of her voice, her inflection as she struggled to gain a foothold. I felt the magic of witnessing a juncture like this with someone I love.
Even for the most vigilant, our homes, our retreats, our bodies decay. Those who have carefully tended their spiritual gardens understand and prepare for the day when the move will come. There is enormous comfort in an unwavering belief in Jesus and God's kingdom but we know, too, that getting through the move can be rough.
There's nothing like being snapped to attention and forced into the present moment. Life has a way of charging up on stage and taking control, encapsulating us and forcing our hands together. We are transformed by it: we notice the intricacy of fluted daffodils in the garden on this beautiful spring day; we notice that seventy nine 4th of July barbecues have garnered some amazing time elapsed memories to replay as we pack for the move; we notice we breathe in the same air and imagine not doing that.
All of my life, my mother has walked alongside. Now it is my turn to lead, to walk alongside, and to reflect back the qualities she instilled in me so long ago.
I am grateful for that.
NMcC
I sat with my mother today, holding her hand as we talked with the social worker about really hard things. She settled into the chair, into the topic. I closed my eyes and listened to the cadence of her voice, her inflection as she struggled to gain a foothold. I felt the magic of witnessing a juncture like this with someone I love.
Even for the most vigilant, our homes, our retreats, our bodies decay. Those who have carefully tended their spiritual gardens understand and prepare for the day when the move will come. There is enormous comfort in an unwavering belief in Jesus and God's kingdom but we know, too, that getting through the move can be rough.
There's nothing like being snapped to attention and forced into the present moment. Life has a way of charging up on stage and taking control, encapsulating us and forcing our hands together. We are transformed by it: we notice the intricacy of fluted daffodils in the garden on this beautiful spring day; we notice that seventy nine 4th of July barbecues have garnered some amazing time elapsed memories to replay as we pack for the move; we notice we breathe in the same air and imagine not doing that.
All of my life, my mother has walked alongside. Now it is my turn to lead, to walk alongside, and to reflect back the qualities she instilled in me so long ago.
I am grateful for that.
NMcC
Mar 4, 2007
Real Hugs
A widower friend was recently celebrated his wife's birthday alone for the first time. I heard the catch in his voice as he struggled with her imprints: a kitchen table where life ran its course, a favorite holiday meal, an undisturbed comforter. I was reminded how important memories are and how much despair there is in the stillness of being left behind.
He needs a hug. Not one of those wimpy one-armed hugs we get from acquaintances or co workers. I'm talking about a real hug, where you grab hold and melt into each other, feeling warm and safe and connected. The kind of hug where nobody wants to let go first and so it lasts and lasts. The kind of hug that when it finally ends, people around you are looking on with embarrassed envy because it's been so long since they've had one.
Hugs like that etch the details somewhere deep: the smell of their skin, the feel of their arms, the sound of their heart, the warmth of their stance, the depth of their care. Real hugs condense life down to one harmonious moment where our spiritual, emotional, intellectual and physical selves are made whole.
Real hugs are our greatest expression of love, hope, and compassion. Lies, dishonor and deceit cannot prevail on the hallowed ground where we offer up the most tender parts of ourselves to one another.
I stand still in the embrace of this, feeling my love and support trickle into them and renew their spirit. It feels good and helpful to honor them and lend a hand. And then an amazing thing happens: I feel the enormous power of their gift to me, filling me with all that they are. Their transfusion of love fills my heart and spirit to etch a memory, too. This is what connects us together in our humanity. This is what we need on the arduous journey ahead.
NMcC
Mar 1, 2007
Nothing Ventured, Nothing Gained, 2/28/07
I had a recent opportunity to see Chaco Canyon on my travels to New Mexico. It is a stunning cluster of archaeological ruins believed to have been the cultural center and spiritual gathering place of the Anasazis.
I was cautioned that traversing the road was questionable in the winter. The last eight miles of the two hour journey is a rutted, washboard dirt road that might be too icy or muddy for safe passage. We might be unable to negotiate the washes that look deceptively shallow and hide deep sandy bottoms. But we still wanted to try.
We set out on a bright wintery day, driving nowhere, past adobes and coyotes and distant mesas freckled with snow. The wind blew a hazy glaze of snow across the expansive valley. I took pictures of the etched landscape as we turned toward Chaco and made our way miles along paved road, past the Visitor's Center and Museum, and onto the dirt. No one had come.
The truck groaned and swayed as we struggled to gauge the road ahead, aligning the tires to catch hold of whatever was there, ice or mud. We would slow down and speed up, turn sharply, readjust, bump and slide in the mud. We fought to keep the tires on the best part of the road, not getting bogged down in the ruts of those that had gone before.
The mud splashed over us, covering the windows and hood, condensing our view to where the wipers had been. Everything else dropped away but the solitude of our thoughts as we snaked along this dirt road into the horizon.
We celebrated dry, smooth patches and maneuvered the rest, gaining confidence with each passing mile. When we came upon a cautionary sign to not ford a running wash, we studied each other as we gunned the engine and forged ahead. As the ruins came into view, I saw what I know no Anasazi had seen: a completely solitary view of this magnificent place.
Chaco Canyon. This is a reverent place, a place where a developed civilization worshipped the glory of their god. Here, I walked among the ruins and touched the resting place of gigantic boulders that had long ago encroached in their world. Here, my feet walked their paths and I witnessed a few smaller rocks breaking free from the cliffs and crumble to earth. Here, I stood in their world for a while, imagining and celebrating their lives, wanting to know them.
Looking out as far as the eye could see, I thought about the ruts in the road. There is great worthiness in pushing on past difficult passages that arise to discover undiscovered places. Taking the rough road draws depth and meaning we would otherwise miss. We discover that, as we adventurously travel back roads, we savor the effort to get there as much as the beauty we find. What better way to be reminded of this than by feeling the warmth of a hand who helped me rediscover the magic of that.
NMcC
Dog Fun, 2/27/07
When my eyes opened this morning to angry skies, I grabbed my shoes and jacket and headed out in it. I love a great downpour, a solid curtain of hard rain that drips down my back and makes my shoes squeak.
The rain was steady but soft when Sophie and I started out. I hoped we would linger long enough for it to earnestly rain. We breathed in the fresh scent of growing things made new. She found interest in the scent of wet clean leaves and I fingered the tender shoots of spring bulbs lying weakly in the mud. We became part of the rhythmic quiet of water tapping the roofs and pavement as we padded along on this solitary walk.
I paused once to close my eyes and turn them skyward, letting the drops slide down my face and into my open coat. Icy cold fingers and damp ears felt wonderfully good. Sophie shook ten or so times before realizing it didn't much help keep her ears dry.
I jumped in puddles with both feet. She dashed down a path among the reeds with the mud squishing between her toes. I led her in a dance in the park as the clouds opened up and pelted our skin and hair. She made me stop from time to time to investigate an enticing smell. It ended the way we both knew it would: with Sophie setting the pace, drawing me onward, urging me home.
NMcC
The rain was steady but soft when Sophie and I started out. I hoped we would linger long enough for it to earnestly rain. We breathed in the fresh scent of growing things made new. She found interest in the scent of wet clean leaves and I fingered the tender shoots of spring bulbs lying weakly in the mud. We became part of the rhythmic quiet of water tapping the roofs and pavement as we padded along on this solitary walk.
I paused once to close my eyes and turn them skyward, letting the drops slide down my face and into my open coat. Icy cold fingers and damp ears felt wonderfully good. Sophie shook ten or so times before realizing it didn't much help keep her ears dry.
I jumped in puddles with both feet. She dashed down a path among the reeds with the mud squishing between her toes. I led her in a dance in the park as the clouds opened up and pelted our skin and hair. She made me stop from time to time to investigate an enticing smell. It ended the way we both knew it would: with Sophie setting the pace, drawing me onward, urging me home.
NMcC
Hiding in Plain Sight, 2/22/07
There's nothing better than feeling valued. Camelot moments, where spirit and intellect, opinions and contributions merge into a glorious vista at the top of the world. We belong, we're secure, we're happy, we're loved.
But the world does not still for us. It is not always kind. The sting of a dismissive gesture or pinch of undeserved gossip draws us back in surprise. When it happens, a dear friend disconnects, processes and regroups. To the casual observer she dutifully goes about her daily business and quietly attends to her responsibilities. But for those who really pay attention, they see she has drawn in the venom and is fighting off the numbness and pain. She hides in plain sight.
Look at how self medicating our society has become, trying to soothe our battered spirit. Somewhere along the way, we've handed the reins to strangers who dictate our self worth.
Don Miguel Ruiz in The Four Agreements cautions us about internalizing external opinions, that it reshapes our sense of value. We should not take things personally because the only true judgment is our own. Whether it be accolades or criticism, our internal compass is the only accurate way to project outward what our contributions really are.
An interviewer once asked Della Reese about rumors that she was a difficult woman. Her reply was exceptional. She asked in return, what could it possibly matter what others thought? Their opinions were not her issue. God made her exactly the way she is. Her job was to be the best version of what she was made to be and give her gifts joyfully. The rest was not her concern.
RIGHT ON! Our knees do not need to buckle under the weight of criticism and callous disregard. Only we can fling wide the doors to our spirit and pull forth from our hearts what is locked inside. By shedding the confining skin of opinion, we close the gap in finding our way. If we nurture ourselves, protect our spirit and viciously fight to protect it, our legacy might very well be a cluster of Camelot moments we make for ourselves.
NMcC
In Someone Else's Head, 2/21/07
While wandering with a friend through an Oregon summer, we happened upon a little town with a plethora of covered bridges. The Chamber of Commerce armed us with a street map clearly marked and interesting facts about each of the bridges we were to see. What a great diversion to the rather long and tedious drive, a chance to get out and stretch our legs and take some pictures.
This was a quaint little town, the streets meandering the way they often do, nicely kept homes in a humble and functional way. Along our trek, we saw some interesting sights, some bridges in desperate disrepair and others renovated for posterity. The brochure listed one rope foot bridge that I particularly wanted to see.
The wooden planks felt worn as I gingerly stepped along and felt the sway of the ropes under my weight. I gripped the railing and tried to adjust to the feel of walking on unsolid ground. The bridge spanned a lovely stream that pooled in a wide arc beneath a precipice with a lone house near the edge.
There were two men quietly leaning on the handrails near the center, companionably enjoying the view. As I made my way towards them, I overheard the man with the ball cap explaining to his friend how important a role the bridge played in his youth. Living at the edge of the bridge in that house on a cliff over the water made him the envy of the neighborhood. The bridge was his.
Neighborhood kids had to traverse this bridge on their way to school and town. Rapid fire stories began to emerge and I watched as vivid recollections took hold of his face. He and his friends would strategically position themselves along the bridge and wait for girls to get about halfway across before swinging the bridge hard enough to enjoy their terrified screams. He would run pell mell from the back of the property right off the edge and into the deep pool and what it felt like to drop. He remembered the bridge during storms, trusting his old friend would stand but knowing that even ropes can weaken and fray.
His features opened into a mischevious grin as he reached out and gripped the ropes. With well practiced movements he pushed and tugged, this way and that, and the old bridge groaned and came alive. I snatched a support and held on, being carried back in time, watching his memory come alive. For just a few moments, as the bridge rippled and swayed, I was a present part of his past.
NMcC
This was a quaint little town, the streets meandering the way they often do, nicely kept homes in a humble and functional way. Along our trek, we saw some interesting sights, some bridges in desperate disrepair and others renovated for posterity. The brochure listed one rope foot bridge that I particularly wanted to see.
The wooden planks felt worn as I gingerly stepped along and felt the sway of the ropes under my weight. I gripped the railing and tried to adjust to the feel of walking on unsolid ground. The bridge spanned a lovely stream that pooled in a wide arc beneath a precipice with a lone house near the edge.
There were two men quietly leaning on the handrails near the center, companionably enjoying the view. As I made my way towards them, I overheard the man with the ball cap explaining to his friend how important a role the bridge played in his youth. Living at the edge of the bridge in that house on a cliff over the water made him the envy of the neighborhood. The bridge was his.
Neighborhood kids had to traverse this bridge on their way to school and town. Rapid fire stories began to emerge and I watched as vivid recollections took hold of his face. He and his friends would strategically position themselves along the bridge and wait for girls to get about halfway across before swinging the bridge hard enough to enjoy their terrified screams. He would run pell mell from the back of the property right off the edge and into the deep pool and what it felt like to drop. He remembered the bridge during storms, trusting his old friend would stand but knowing that even ropes can weaken and fray.
His features opened into a mischevious grin as he reached out and gripped the ropes. With well practiced movements he pushed and tugged, this way and that, and the old bridge groaned and came alive. I snatched a support and held on, being carried back in time, watching his memory come alive. For just a few moments, as the bridge rippled and swayed, I was a present part of his past.
NMcC
How I Spent My Summer Vacations, 2/19/07
A lot of my childhood was spent trying to hurry it along, so anxious was I to grow up. Life was brimming with unlimited possibilities and time stretched endlessly over middle school summer vacations. I don't think parents realize the learning curve of idle summer vacations. There's plenty going on.
I spent an entire summer rocking out to KFRC on a blanket on the front lawn of Janine Richey's house waiting for that hunky pizza parlor guy to get off work and stroll by. We'd call the DJs and request songs and listen all day for our favorites. An entire summer, to explore the power of being an emergent woman and to forge a friendship based on peacock blue ink journaling and our common interests in music and poetry.
One summer, I joined the Reader's Circle at the library and kept a chart on my bedroom closet marking off the number of Nancy Drew books I could read in 30 days. During that Summer of Industry, my goal was to buy orange and yellow accessories for my newly painted teen room. So lofty was my goal, I subcontracted my services to adults in desperate need of a break from bored youngsters on hot summer days. I went into business by putting up handwritten notes on houses and church bulletin boards. Imagine these days seeing a young girl's name, age, full address and phone number taped to your screen door.
I once babysat for the babysitter who was hired for a month. She said she needed 'alone time' with her motorcycle riding boyfriend, whatever that meant. She swore me to secrecy and promised a big tip if I did a good job. During those very l-o-n-g eight hours with five closely spaced children, they broke a bathroom window and crawled through it, had 3 neighborhood children in to jump on the furniture and a feverish infant who I could not lay down without crying. I cleaned the house and made meals and kept the children in sight. Since I begged for reinforcements partway into the day, I split my day's earnings equally with my best friend, Louise: $2.50 each, including tip. That summer I learned that secrecy is never a good thing in business dealings, tip or no, and when you're in a jam it's important to know who to call.
The most profound middle school summer was spent stretched out in a bikini with my best friend Lisa until we fried like pieces of bacon, and then skinny dipped in my pool. We danced and dabbled in drugs and played with the popular crowd. It was the summer the most inspirational teacher I've known discovered in me the writer I am. It was the summer my father left for good. That summer, I learned that sometimes things happen when you've done nothing wrong. I felt childhood slip away and adulthood begin its slow descent.
I reflect on those times, again feeling life smooth over my warm skin and seep inward. The experiences let me glimpse how really wonderfully complex the world was going to be. Those summers, more than any others, shaped who I became.
NMcC
I spent an entire summer rocking out to KFRC on a blanket on the front lawn of Janine Richey's house waiting for that hunky pizza parlor guy to get off work and stroll by. We'd call the DJs and request songs and listen all day for our favorites. An entire summer, to explore the power of being an emergent woman and to forge a friendship based on peacock blue ink journaling and our common interests in music and poetry.
One summer, I joined the Reader's Circle at the library and kept a chart on my bedroom closet marking off the number of Nancy Drew books I could read in 30 days. During that Summer of Industry, my goal was to buy orange and yellow accessories for my newly painted teen room. So lofty was my goal, I subcontracted my services to adults in desperate need of a break from bored youngsters on hot summer days. I went into business by putting up handwritten notes on houses and church bulletin boards. Imagine these days seeing a young girl's name, age, full address and phone number taped to your screen door.
I once babysat for the babysitter who was hired for a month. She said she needed 'alone time' with her motorcycle riding boyfriend, whatever that meant. She swore me to secrecy and promised a big tip if I did a good job. During those very l-o-n-g eight hours with five closely spaced children, they broke a bathroom window and crawled through it, had 3 neighborhood children in to jump on the furniture and a feverish infant who I could not lay down without crying. I cleaned the house and made meals and kept the children in sight. Since I begged for reinforcements partway into the day, I split my day's earnings equally with my best friend, Louise: $2.50 each, including tip. That summer I learned that secrecy is never a good thing in business dealings, tip or no, and when you're in a jam it's important to know who to call.
The most profound middle school summer was spent stretched out in a bikini with my best friend Lisa until we fried like pieces of bacon, and then skinny dipped in my pool. We danced and dabbled in drugs and played with the popular crowd. It was the summer the most inspirational teacher I've known discovered in me the writer I am. It was the summer my father left for good. That summer, I learned that sometimes things happen when you've done nothing wrong. I felt childhood slip away and adulthood begin its slow descent.
I reflect on those times, again feeling life smooth over my warm skin and seep inward. The experiences let me glimpse how really wonderfully complex the world was going to be. Those summers, more than any others, shaped who I became.
NMcC
Evolution, 2/20/07
It's interesting being in the company of someone who has found his niche. Life is less of a struggle and more of a joy. I have never met someone who has synchronized what he loves with what he does. He is in a constant state of development. He knows that even the bedrock of life is evolving and we are transient witnesses. He grabs opportunities that arise because there is no reason not to.
I like that he can appreciate the subtleties of life but be bold. I like that he believes the journey is the destination and can enthusiastically explore new territory. The more he does, the more he gains. He draws from his experiences direction, insight, and mastery. He evolves.
I sit in my little home among thousands of others with manicured lawns and organized neighborhoods and I imagine what it would be like to be somewhere like that. How do you stop seeking a destination and begin seeking the journey?
He has shown that a new mindset doesn't require a new place. What an exciting thought. Whether rooted in the wilds of New Mexico or the urban sprawl of California, the journey can be as big as we make it. We map our own course.
So as soon as I'm ready, I'll hang tight to my sense of wonder as I run along little flat rocks to the other side of the stream to see what's there. I can't wait.
3-D, 2/16/07
Words keep waking me up. Lying in bed this morning, I look around at the unfamiliar surroundings of floral wallpaper, oatmeal soap and someone else’s name on the door. I feel the altitude of this learning curve, the acute tug of being someplace so far afield.
What once was a cluster of pixels and a disembodied voice now stands before me teaching a class in some dot on the map. This face feels the textured weight of day-to-day life among mesas shaped by metal spatulas and ruins that share a companionable intimacy. Life has gathered depth and breadth among the wildflowers and cottonwood trees, the roots drawn down through fissures in the rock, seeking water. It seeps into me as I dawn a new day.
A heavy silver watchband with chunks of turquoise sits on the wrist of my friend the Geologist. He took me to the pawn shop where it was bought, told of the artist who made it and his untimely death in Phoenix. I wear a small bracelet with silver, coral and turquoise and imagine the skillful hands who crafted mine.
I have stepped into a world I thought had long since given way to urban sprawl. Life unfolds here in an understood balance of community tolerance and raw self management. A man's word is the only marketable measurement. Life is boiled down to its basic elements of cultural respect in the less tamed world of northwestern New Mexico. Locking doors is an afterthought; warm greetings and familiar stories are told with longstanding intimacy.
Life is dynamically shaped by living among the ruins. They are not unique in gathering together in this place to celebrate, grieve and share life season after season, generation after generation. Some still live in adobes in which their great-grandfathers were born. Others are here because they have discovered that to know and be known is a remarkable thing, that an imprint left here will be a lasting one.
I watch this man in real time pay attention and listen intently to the cadence of others as he walks his own path. Step by step, he indelibly weaves himself into the heart of this community and both are forever changed.
Rainstorms, 2/20/07
I awoke to the sound of a storm pounding the windows and skylights so I lit a candle and watched the sky teeming with raindrops. Again and again, the gusts of wind angrily thrashed around. It was a successful rainstorm, if a label like that can be used. Through a complicated series of environmental factors, its only intent was to lighten its load and I was in its path.
Storms are teachers. It takes from us and gives to us and challenges us to learn. Sometimes what we have built is unmercifully torn from our grasp, and we are spared to learn humility as we rebuild. Storms are saviors, too, filling our lakes and watering our crops. Without it, we would not survive. Sometimes it slides in gently as a whisper with a rainbow for dessert. Sometimes it hits with a thunderous roar that makes us run for cover. It gives us a chance to dance in the puddles and carries us down a swollen river in a terrifying ride.
The teacup warms my palm in the dawn light and I feel the blanket tucked around my feet. I think how unaccustomed it is to feel the sensation of being brought to heel. Rainstorms are beautiful to enjoy by a fire but not so if you are standing wet and alone. Where we are in our lives defines what we learn.
Strings, 2/10/07
I've always liked taking calculated risks. Putting a few dollars in the weathered hand of a homeless person gives hope to both of us: hope that it matters and hope that it helps. I do not judge their circumstance nor tell them what to do. By focusing on the gesture and not the outcome, it becomes a moment of shared humanity. What I give away, I give away.
String free relationships: I love those kind. On a leap of faith, without a guarantee for reciprocity, we open our hearts to the possibility. Profound events usually begin with a simple hello, a funny quip, a helping hand. Before we have memorized the sound of their voice and favorite flavors of ice cream, before they have come to know the warmth of our embrace, we were just faces in the checkout line, like strangers at a reunion.
No one knows when the right elements of timing, spirit and energy will forge a lifelong bond. Is the gesture a waste of time if we don't get what we want? The potential is there but we have to take a calculated risk.
How could that little boy know how important his baby sister would be as he sits in the crook of the couch waiting for her to be gently placed in his lap? Can he imagine he will someday fight off a dog to protect her on the lawn, tease her to distraction, cheer for her on stage, show her the world and dance at her wedding?
It all begins somewhere. Let's extend our reach outward and see what we find.
Memories, 2/9/07
Standing at the counter, I am watching this elaborate rail system weave up, around and through the warehouse dry cleaners. Neatly pressed and bagged clothes are in clusters, tagged and identified for pick up. Corresponding tag numbers are on our ticket, because those are our possessions and we want them back to reuse.
Memories are like that. Every once in a while, the sound of a baritone voice in a restaurant or someone whistling while they work or the sweet scent of skin on a tshirt sweeps me up and whisks me along fast moving rails to a memory. In that instant, I pull forward those long tucked away moments to feel them again in real time.
I grew up in Silicon Valley long before somebody, somewhere made it into something it's not. My home was at the cusp of apricot orchards and involved all day bicycle wanderings into the foothills and to the percolation ponds for pollywogs.
Back then, the days were long. Back then, a little girl could wander and explore. Sometimes I was so lost in play it would startle me to realize the day was darkening and street lights were coming on, and I was a ways from home.
My dad would begin his nightly walk, cigarette in hand, up and around the neighborhood, in a leisurely stride and happy whistle. That was my call home. I would dash out from under a bush and fall in step with him, taking his hand. Even when darkness had fallen and dinner was warming under a tent of foil in the oven he waited on me, asked about my adventures, and led me home. How glad I am to have these claim tickets now that he's gone.
NMcC
Memories are like that. Every once in a while, the sound of a baritone voice in a restaurant or someone whistling while they work or the sweet scent of skin on a tshirt sweeps me up and whisks me along fast moving rails to a memory. In that instant, I pull forward those long tucked away moments to feel them again in real time.
I grew up in Silicon Valley long before somebody, somewhere made it into something it's not. My home was at the cusp of apricot orchards and involved all day bicycle wanderings into the foothills and to the percolation ponds for pollywogs.
Back then, the days were long. Back then, a little girl could wander and explore. Sometimes I was so lost in play it would startle me to realize the day was darkening and street lights were coming on, and I was a ways from home.
My dad would begin his nightly walk, cigarette in hand, up and around the neighborhood, in a leisurely stride and happy whistle. That was my call home. I would dash out from under a bush and fall in step with him, taking his hand. Even when darkness had fallen and dinner was warming under a tent of foil in the oven he waited on me, asked about my adventures, and led me home. How glad I am to have these claim tickets now that he's gone.
NMcC
Not It, 2/9/07
An opportunity arose to vacation in Hawaii. In addition to the normal things to see, the waterfalls and restaurants, the culture, hiking the scenic trails and exploring plantations, we discovered there was a nesting ground for green sea turtles. I dearly love turtles.
With great anticipation to witness something profound, we headed there with swimsuits beneath our shorts and snorkel gear in the back seat. Reading about this place on the short drive, we learned it was the last remaining black sand beach on the island, that all the rest had been covered by lava flows by the nearby active volcano, and that green sea turtles had been returning here for years, although their numbers were diminishing.
The gray black sand was gritty as we dashed towards a beautiful cove. Where were the tour guides and vacationers with their digital cameras? How could this be, an empty beach save a lone sign cautioning us not to touch the turtles but not prohibiting us from swimming there. There, on the rocks where the sand met the sea, were three enormous green sea turtles, taking the waves and the seaweed in stride.
We put on our gear and gently eased into the water twenty feet away. I dipped my mask halfway in, watching them maneuver the rocks with their flippers to balance and turn. They were magnificent.
I slowly snorkeled the cove, stopping to investigate and explore, when I noticed one of the turtles three or four feet below the edge of my toes. He glided by and drew away, returned to gently sweep a safe distance away, checking things out.
On one such glide, in the most deliberate way, he looked right at me, as if inviting me along. I snorkeled above following him, watching him closely, he swimming below and just ahead, setting the pace, every now and again incrementally glancing in my general direction.
We toured the cove that way, my guide and I, playing follow the leader. Eventually though, I noticed how far I was from shore, and reluctantly turned to head back. At one point midway along, I glanced back towards where he had been, and was shocked to find him right on my heels, below and behind, following me back to shore. He was letting me lead in this merry game.
And so began a most amazing game for 'Not It' and I. We gently let each other take the lead, never getting closer than 5 or 6 feet away. He led me past the warm water fissures in the cove, and where the coral reefs harbored a living sea. I led him past my son and showed him my best flipper glides. On that day of sharing, we learned what laughter sounds like through a snorkel.
NMcC
With great anticipation to witness something profound, we headed there with swimsuits beneath our shorts and snorkel gear in the back seat. Reading about this place on the short drive, we learned it was the last remaining black sand beach on the island, that all the rest had been covered by lava flows by the nearby active volcano, and that green sea turtles had been returning here for years, although their numbers were diminishing.
The gray black sand was gritty as we dashed towards a beautiful cove. Where were the tour guides and vacationers with their digital cameras? How could this be, an empty beach save a lone sign cautioning us not to touch the turtles but not prohibiting us from swimming there. There, on the rocks where the sand met the sea, were three enormous green sea turtles, taking the waves and the seaweed in stride.
We put on our gear and gently eased into the water twenty feet away. I dipped my mask halfway in, watching them maneuver the rocks with their flippers to balance and turn. They were magnificent.
I slowly snorkeled the cove, stopping to investigate and explore, when I noticed one of the turtles three or four feet below the edge of my toes. He glided by and drew away, returned to gently sweep a safe distance away, checking things out.
On one such glide, in the most deliberate way, he looked right at me, as if inviting me along. I snorkeled above following him, watching him closely, he swimming below and just ahead, setting the pace, every now and again incrementally glancing in my general direction.
We toured the cove that way, my guide and I, playing follow the leader. Eventually though, I noticed how far I was from shore, and reluctantly turned to head back. At one point midway along, I glanced back towards where he had been, and was shocked to find him right on my heels, below and behind, following me back to shore. He was letting me lead in this merry game.
And so began a most amazing game for 'Not It' and I. We gently let each other take the lead, never getting closer than 5 or 6 feet away. He led me past the warm water fissures in the cove, and where the coral reefs harbored a living sea. I led him past my son and showed him my best flipper glides. On that day of sharing, we learned what laughter sounds like through a snorkel.
NMcC
The Waltz, 2/9/07
Loving people is remarkable. A friend and I were lamenting the fact that the busy pace of life has taken us in different directions. Her business and community outreach activities root her close to home and my personal journey, writing and family responsibilities lock me down here.
We were wistfully reminiscing about our life together, laughing and building story upon story the way people do when they have a rich shared history. Early on, we knew each other's wardrobes, schedules and issues. We were a fingertip away when difficulties arose or parties were planned. We were never on the guest list because we were never a guest. Our tables have always been set for each other. Hers was the first face I wanted my children to see when they took their first breath. Her husband and mine were best friends.
Life has tugged us this way and that. We've struggled to grasp hard lessons and transitions. We've been blown about and bruised. We've been exhilirated and overwhelmed by the beauty of life. Our fingertips no long touch like they did, standing in that kitchen with checkered wallpaper, with our arms opened wide.
To me, it's like a waltz. I stand in the center of a parquet floor, the people I love watching and smiling from the sidelines as the music plays. She steps forward to take my hand and we move to the music we hear. I can feel the brush of my skirt in a dip or a twirl, the warmth of her hand in mine, the smile in her eyes as she studies my face. We share this moment, this journey, to go somewhere new. Once we have shared this small part of my dance, she squeezes my hand and releases her grip, steps back and hands off to somebody else.
We can't always be center stage. Sometimes we dance and sometimes we watch but we know in our hearts we will always be there.
NMcC
We were wistfully reminiscing about our life together, laughing and building story upon story the way people do when they have a rich shared history. Early on, we knew each other's wardrobes, schedules and issues. We were a fingertip away when difficulties arose or parties were planned. We were never on the guest list because we were never a guest. Our tables have always been set for each other. Hers was the first face I wanted my children to see when they took their first breath. Her husband and mine were best friends.
Life has tugged us this way and that. We've struggled to grasp hard lessons and transitions. We've been blown about and bruised. We've been exhilirated and overwhelmed by the beauty of life. Our fingertips no long touch like they did, standing in that kitchen with checkered wallpaper, with our arms opened wide.
To me, it's like a waltz. I stand in the center of a parquet floor, the people I love watching and smiling from the sidelines as the music plays. She steps forward to take my hand and we move to the music we hear. I can feel the brush of my skirt in a dip or a twirl, the warmth of her hand in mine, the smile in her eyes as she studies my face. We share this moment, this journey, to go somewhere new. Once we have shared this small part of my dance, she squeezes my hand and releases her grip, steps back and hands off to somebody else.
We can't always be center stage. Sometimes we dance and sometimes we watch but we know in our hearts we will always be there.
NMcC
Unexpected Gifts, 2/7/07
A friend and I were out recently on a beautiful crisp Sunday in California and wanted to explore somewhere new. We stopped at this banged up old rag tag of a place that we've heard serves the best burgers in town. Here the booths have words carved into the wood, the bars are heavy with layers of varnish, grimy and rustic and real. I'd walked by here plenty of times but I'd never been inside.
The place was noisy. There were easy conversations going on between booths and the bar, music playing, people bent forward in concentration as they worked the paddles on pinball machines, the kitchen announcing orders were ready. The main floor was full of folks who had ridden together, their bikes in neat rows where the uneven wood sidewalks meet the street. Men lingered just outside with leather jackets emblazoned with motorcycle affiliations, their boots propped up on the side of the building.
We ordered through a slit in the kitchen wall and meandered up the stairs to discover the artifacts of this interesting place: a turn-of-the-century buggy, desilvering mirrors, sculptures and books and a compass, swiped road signs and dark wood worn glossy and soft. Long ago, this place took from its owners any hope of being dusted or cleaned.
We were nearly alone on the third floor when a young couple joined us. They were hauling a couple of big bags with them and set themselves up at a table at the far end of the room nearest the empty, dark bar. Their friend trailed along behind holding a beautiful toddler, maybe two, and a camera.
The woman captivated me. Her skin was luminous and pale, blonde hair framing an angular face with light clear eyes. She positioned herself in front of the bar, turned in profile, and tucked her black shirt under her breasts to reveal an enormously pregnant belly. The photographer friend adjusted his camera, checked the lighting and began the shoot. She quietly repositioned herself as he recommended adjustments to her look or stance or where to place her hands.
I was riveted in the moment, unable to break my gaze, unwilling to lose the recaptured connection to my pregnancies so long ago. She looked up and locked eyes with me, smiled and when asked if I was intruding, she invited me in.
Her husband then knelt before her and tenderly cradled the twin babies just beneath her skin and brought his lips to her belly with a touch as light as butterfly wings. The whirr of the camera was all I could hear, so taken with this moment that all other sounds had faded away. His reverence at her gift and hers at his love as she gazed downward were captured on film. And that sweet little boy, in tennis shoes that would fit in my pocket, toddled over and on tip toes stretched his hand as high as he could towards his mama's belly and gently said baby. His father's hands, low on his wife's abdomen, guided the tiny hand the rest of the way and shared the moment of a lifetime.
NMcC
Oxygen masks, 2/4/07
When someone we love is in trouble, we can't help but want to step up. Maybe they are adrift from a recent loss or transition. They may have laid their compass down on a rock and journeyed ahead, not missing it until night began to fall and the terrain was unfamiliar. Maybe, like me, they became lost in the busy world of being so many things to others that they forgot to be something to themselves.
Man, I love helping out. There is nothing more fulfilling than being able to lend a hand when it's really needed, to know what it feels like to make a difference.
It brings to mind a trip last winter to West Virginia. I was traveling alone and contemplating the emotional meeting ahead with my son and half listening to a flight attendant explain the safety features of the aircraft: 'In the event of an emergency, if the oxygen masks drop from the overhead ceiling compartment, adjust your own mask first before assisting others'...
Hey, wait up.
We assist ourselves first? What an amazing concept. In the simple gesture of adjusting the mask over our nose and mouth and taking in fresh air, we increase our chances of helping others. Could it really be that simple?
When we nourish and focus our bodies with exercise, stretch our hearts with compassion and humanity and sharpen our minds with education, travel and philosophy, we gain a foothold in solid bedrock. What a great spot from which to toss a line just within someone's grasp and haul them ashore.
NMcC
Man, I love helping out. There is nothing more fulfilling than being able to lend a hand when it's really needed, to know what it feels like to make a difference.
It brings to mind a trip last winter to West Virginia. I was traveling alone and contemplating the emotional meeting ahead with my son and half listening to a flight attendant explain the safety features of the aircraft: 'In the event of an emergency, if the oxygen masks drop from the overhead ceiling compartment, adjust your own mask first before assisting others'...
Hey, wait up.
We assist ourselves first? What an amazing concept. In the simple gesture of adjusting the mask over our nose and mouth and taking in fresh air, we increase our chances of helping others. Could it really be that simple?
When we nourish and focus our bodies with exercise, stretch our hearts with compassion and humanity and sharpen our minds with education, travel and philosophy, we gain a foothold in solid bedrock. What a great spot from which to toss a line just within someone's grasp and haul them ashore.
NMcC
A Cry of Objection, 2/3/07
I once watched puppies being born by C section. The Bassett had been struggling with seven oversized pups and needed a hand. She was in serious distress by the time she was brought in and the Vet wasn't sure the pups would survive.
I stood with the others, towel between my hands, ready to help. One by one as the amniotic sac was slit open, little squirming, messy bits of newness were passed around. One of the smallest, one of the last, was entrusted to me.
I began to vigorously rub and wipe her, drawing her out of her world. There were so many perfect little puppy details about her: markings so pretty they seemed painted, a tiny pink nose with carefree crinkles, paws that would fit on the tip of my finger. But she had no breath.
My massaging continued, head-back-sides-belly-legs-face, faster and faster. I held her wrapped and dry in a towel and swung her between my legs, back and forth, as fast as I could, to clear her throat and stimulate her body. With my heart full of hope that this puppy would catch her breath, the swinging went on: rub, touch, swing, check. I wanted more than anything to feel her first breath in my hands. .
It's hard to wait for things we love to take hold of life. We feel anxious and afraid as they flounder and gasp. We might lose them, we think; there is too much at stake, we need to step in. But that little bitty she-pup in the palm of my hand taught a great lesson: I am only the stage crew in somebody else's life. It isn't my job.
All those years ago in the surgery room of that Veterinary Clinic, that little pup who came to life let me enjoy her cry of objection and welcome her home.
NMcC
I stood with the others, towel between my hands, ready to help. One by one as the amniotic sac was slit open, little squirming, messy bits of newness were passed around. One of the smallest, one of the last, was entrusted to me.
I began to vigorously rub and wipe her, drawing her out of her world. There were so many perfect little puppy details about her: markings so pretty they seemed painted, a tiny pink nose with carefree crinkles, paws that would fit on the tip of my finger. But she had no breath.
My massaging continued, head-back-sides-belly-legs-face, faster and faster. I held her wrapped and dry in a towel and swung her between my legs, back and forth, as fast as I could, to clear her throat and stimulate her body. With my heart full of hope that this puppy would catch her breath, the swinging went on: rub, touch, swing, check. I wanted more than anything to feel her first breath in my hands. .
It's hard to wait for things we love to take hold of life. We feel anxious and afraid as they flounder and gasp. We might lose them, we think; there is too much at stake, we need to step in. But that little bitty she-pup in the palm of my hand taught a great lesson: I am only the stage crew in somebody else's life. It isn't my job.
All those years ago in the surgery room of that Veterinary Clinic, that little pup who came to life let me enjoy her cry of objection and welcome her home.
NMcC
Catch and Release, 1/31/07
There's the potential to trivialize people online. After all, they aren't really part of our 3-D world. We get to set the timeframes for including them in our lives, we can click out of a conversation without any personal consequences. We have all the time in the world to be selective and choosey, our ammo is the click of a mouse. How much more depersonalized can we get than that?
We all know that profiles are one minute advertisements. They are reflections of what we perceive ourselves to be. We put on our best outfit in our best environment, take twenty shots, pick the best, and to the world that's who we are. We fantasize without our sensory filtration system. Who are we, really? No one knows we are late to appointments or fight with our children or let the laundry wrinkle in the dryer because we are too lazy to put it away.
Sometimes we swing the other way. We rake up all the hopes and dreams and wishes for a mate and bundle it so tightly that even if we are someone's dream come true, they'd never be ours. The bar we've set for them is impossibly high. In our zest, we discourage good matches from even trying us on. ALL the guys like getaways to Tahoe, have a Harley, love cuddling and communication, know their way around a good back rub. Pulllleeeease! Any man like that would be blissfully married to a woman who knew what she had and held on with both hands. This isn't a gender specific problem, though. We're ALL part of the Catch and Release program!
But what if the potential in ourselves is what we gravitate to when we begin rebuilding our lives? Isn't there enormous hope in the best of ourselves resurfacing to catch the next big wave? I like believing we are all worthy of a do-over.
The online world IS part of the 'real' world. Online journeys do not insulate us from sliding in from time to time to places we did not expect to go. Just like in 3-D, using a sturdy walking stick and guided by our senses, we will tap into our 6th sense and be cautious in finding our way.
I need to always remember that tucked behind the electronic gizmos on our desks are people with hearts and minds and souls, all hoping and wishing and aching for a connection. So before I delete that email without responding, before I judge without exploring it further, I will pause and imagine the touch of an open hand gesturing towards mine. I will feel the slight tremor of nerves as a connection is made. That humanity, on its most fundamental level, should be recognized and acknowledged.
Perspective, 1/31/07
I'm reading An Open Heart based on the teachings of Buddhism and the Dalai Lama. It's been an interesting read. I've studied Eastern religions in the past and enjoy the common elements with Christianity. What has been particularly interesting is the global connectedness that he promotes and the intellectual drawing down into the deepening relationship to the teachings. It is a spiritual and intellectual awakening as step by step the layers are revealed and referenced to life experiences. It is a process, not a destination. Practice, practice, practice.
As I sat on the plane from Salt Lake, looking out the through the window, I was treated to brilliant sunshine with a cloud layer just below. White wispy cotton candy strands of clouds, through which I could glimpse the earth. It was glorious: the mountainous terrain resembled strewn fabric whiskered with trees. Snow draped some but not all surfaces. This is God's view, I thought. How pleased He must be. It was so serene and beautiful.
How much difference perspective makes in the journey. The hiker who is lost on that quiet and majestic peak does not share that view. The bird views a simple and beautiful world of possibilities. It does not know to ask more. Even the people in the rows ahead are focused on their drink or their book or listening to music and are turned away from the window. The moment slips by. Does it really matter? No. The sky will still sparkle above the clouds, the north side of the mountains will still have snow, the river currents will still run, even if no one is there to gain from it. But it matters to me. Me being there is incidental to those things, but it opens my heart and sets my imagination afire. I want to attain and maintain a perspective that includes appreciation and humility from the inside out. I want to try perspectives on for size, walk around and stretch myself, explore.
Note to self: focus and be present. Lean into the sharp part of the stick, as Pema Chodrin describes, to see/try/do. Transition through an issue and emerge with the lesson in hand. Save myself the heartache of the same issue popping up in continual loops. What lesson will I learn today, I wonder, and what perspective will I take?
NMcC
As I sat on the plane from Salt Lake, looking out the through the window, I was treated to brilliant sunshine with a cloud layer just below. White wispy cotton candy strands of clouds, through which I could glimpse the earth. It was glorious: the mountainous terrain resembled strewn fabric whiskered with trees. Snow draped some but not all surfaces. This is God's view, I thought. How pleased He must be. It was so serene and beautiful.
How much difference perspective makes in the journey. The hiker who is lost on that quiet and majestic peak does not share that view. The bird views a simple and beautiful world of possibilities. It does not know to ask more. Even the people in the rows ahead are focused on their drink or their book or listening to music and are turned away from the window. The moment slips by. Does it really matter? No. The sky will still sparkle above the clouds, the north side of the mountains will still have snow, the river currents will still run, even if no one is there to gain from it. But it matters to me. Me being there is incidental to those things, but it opens my heart and sets my imagination afire. I want to attain and maintain a perspective that includes appreciation and humility from the inside out. I want to try perspectives on for size, walk around and stretch myself, explore.
Note to self: focus and be present. Lean into the sharp part of the stick, as Pema Chodrin describes, to see/try/do. Transition through an issue and emerge with the lesson in hand. Save myself the heartache of the same issue popping up in continual loops. What lesson will I learn today, I wonder, and what perspective will I take?
NMcC
Green on Being Green, 1/30/07
The Ecowood Team invited me along to help out with the Outdoor Retailers Show in Salt Lake so I hopped on a plane in Sac and headed over. A friendly rep from Gregory and Vasque gave me the lowdown on what to expect. Sure seemed like a lot of people on the plane were headed this way. They were easy to spot by their comfortable patina gear and ready smile. I got the impression these people love what they do.
I arrived to inversion air smog issues in Salt Lake, BUT the booth was well under way. Cool. There was still a lot to do, so I earned my keep helping with product assembly and crawling around behind the booth. I am living proof of these products’ ease of assembly.
Ecowood’s booth this year is new. Made of 98% recycled and reclaimed wood, it is a modular design of posts and cross bars that combines environmental passion with functional design. The banners, too, are recycled materials and made of recycled yogurt containers. This display breaks down into boxes which fit in the back of an Expedition and assembles in minutes (operator error excluded). It is new to their list of innovative products and has become a show favorite, after the laborious task of set up by other exhibitors. All that and a green statement, too.
On break, I took a little walk around the expansive Salt Palace. The booths run the gamut - some so elaborate that scaffolding had to be assembled to hang walls and ropes and lighting fixtures and some with minimal set up. The big outfitters are all here, but what I wanted to learn about was the small business ventures whose bread and butter is made from contacts at the show. Fashion designers, natural fiber manufacturers, backpacks and jewelry, safety equipment and all the support industries for them: it’s all here.
The Outdoor Retailer’s Breakfast preceded opening day. As an outsider, it was a fascinating view into the dynamics of conscience and responsive creativity that keeps things fresh and new. For me, listening to the winners of the Innovation and Ambassador awards speak to their vision of the expanding market and their struggles was well worth the 7am wake up call. Jill Bamberg, keynote speaker, addressed relevant and transitional issues for small to medium businesses. I was moved by her recognition of this group’s potential to solve clean water issues on a global scale. The people in this room, I thought, might very well do just that. The green theme of this year’s presentation was pretty interesting given Ecowood’s planet-friendly mindset.
The show has been fun. It’s filled with smart, innovative, niche market small businesses, people who have adopted a philosophy in an industry that celebrates that spirit. Here are people clustered who support and understand the process, who want one another to thrive. The camraderie among the buyers and exhibitors is longstanding and supportive. A lot of laughter, easy talk and comfortable business takes place. They look each other up, keep in touch, try to find ways to work each others’ products into their growth. They know each other’s voices, if not their faces, and want to genuinely connect. Visitors to our booth stopped because they know the value of lean and green recycled wood products that make a statement and promote a lifestyle.
In a broader sense, what I come away with from the Outdoor Retailers Show, Salt Lake, is that people here live what they sell. They consciously and compassionately celebrate the process, the people and the product. Over and over, they shake hands and offer advice and share their stories and thrive because they know the journey is a shared one.
Love what you do. And they do.
NMcC
I arrived to inversion air smog issues in Salt Lake, BUT the booth was well under way. Cool. There was still a lot to do, so I earned my keep helping with product assembly and crawling around behind the booth. I am living proof of these products’ ease of assembly.
Ecowood’s booth this year is new. Made of 98% recycled and reclaimed wood, it is a modular design of posts and cross bars that combines environmental passion with functional design. The banners, too, are recycled materials and made of recycled yogurt containers. This display breaks down into boxes which fit in the back of an Expedition and assembles in minutes (operator error excluded). It is new to their list of innovative products and has become a show favorite, after the laborious task of set up by other exhibitors. All that and a green statement, too.
On break, I took a little walk around the expansive Salt Palace. The booths run the gamut - some so elaborate that scaffolding had to be assembled to hang walls and ropes and lighting fixtures and some with minimal set up. The big outfitters are all here, but what I wanted to learn about was the small business ventures whose bread and butter is made from contacts at the show. Fashion designers, natural fiber manufacturers, backpacks and jewelry, safety equipment and all the support industries for them: it’s all here.
The Outdoor Retailer’s Breakfast preceded opening day. As an outsider, it was a fascinating view into the dynamics of conscience and responsive creativity that keeps things fresh and new. For me, listening to the winners of the Innovation and Ambassador awards speak to their vision of the expanding market and their struggles was well worth the 7am wake up call. Jill Bamberg, keynote speaker, addressed relevant and transitional issues for small to medium businesses. I was moved by her recognition of this group’s potential to solve clean water issues on a global scale. The people in this room, I thought, might very well do just that. The green theme of this year’s presentation was pretty interesting given Ecowood’s planet-friendly mindset.
The show has been fun. It’s filled with smart, innovative, niche market small businesses, people who have adopted a philosophy in an industry that celebrates that spirit. Here are people clustered who support and understand the process, who want one another to thrive. The camraderie among the buyers and exhibitors is longstanding and supportive. A lot of laughter, easy talk and comfortable business takes place. They look each other up, keep in touch, try to find ways to work each others’ products into their growth. They know each other’s voices, if not their faces, and want to genuinely connect. Visitors to our booth stopped because they know the value of lean and green recycled wood products that make a statement and promote a lifestyle.
In a broader sense, what I come away with from the Outdoor Retailers Show, Salt Lake, is that people here live what they sell. They consciously and compassionately celebrate the process, the people and the product. Over and over, they shake hands and offer advice and share their stories and thrive because they know the journey is a shared one.
Love what you do. And they do.
NMcC
Open Space Corners, 1/24/07
Today I was reminded of corners in open spaces, and how we gather people in our hearts and tenderly place them one by one in our large wicker basket. We carefully nestle them as a treasured gift to honor and tend. But we don't know the whole story.
Everyone has their own basket. Family members, and beloved pets, places and experiences, treasured friends and colleagues, they are all there. Some baskets are relatively light or empty, some are perfectly balanced and in harmony, and some are filled with such weight that it stresses the handles and the basket begins to fray.
What a surprise to discover some people weigh more than we think because we tuck their basket into ours. How tight the corners of open space feel now, as we struggle to widen our embrace to carry the unexpected weight of their lives.
NMcC
Everyone has their own basket. Family members, and beloved pets, places and experiences, treasured friends and colleagues, they are all there. Some baskets are relatively light or empty, some are perfectly balanced and in harmony, and some are filled with such weight that it stresses the handles and the basket begins to fray.
What a surprise to discover some people weigh more than we think because we tuck their basket into ours. How tight the corners of open space feel now, as we struggle to widen our embrace to carry the unexpected weight of their lives.
NMcC
Pedal, Coast, Pedal, Coast, 1/23/07
A friend today was telling me about the biking trails along Lake Natoma where it intersects the American River. It's a beautiful spot, where paddlers enjoy peaceful pleasures and runners can hear their feet hit the earth.
He was telling me why he likes to ride out there, and that on the return he has one challenging hill. Every day, he tries and every day he has to get off the bike and push it up and over. He trains so he will be able to one day scale that hill on the tires. He loves cycling because he can pedal, coast, pedal, coast.
We all love that.
Hills are hard. I admire the spirit of knowing it takes time to feel the tread of those tires as they grip the crest of the hill, to feel the muscles taut and anxious to succeed, the heart wondering if it will happen. I remember knowing what it's like to coast down the other side, resting back on the seat, body relaxed and joyful, savoring a long awaited moment.
Pedal, coast, pedal, coast. I want to walk the hills that make my calves burn and my breath come in short tugs. I want to lean into the heart of the matter to really see what's there, even when what I learn isn't what I want to know. Some trails have a lot of pedaling with no coasting at all. And when we encounter them, we pedal some and walk some and sometimes even lay the bike down and sit on a rock and rub our sore calves. But we all make headway ... and when the terrain flattens out to a smooth ride, we know to savor it.
Pedaling is engaged, controlled progress, where gravity and balance and personal effort mingle to propel us forward. But coasting is where real learning takes place. For in those unexpected moments, in those short exhilirating sensory rides when we take our feet off the pedals and hang on tight, we let life give back. With the wind in our face and the sun on our hair, we steer and laugh and live in the moment. For we learn all too soon the bike begins to wobble a bit and we know it's time to match our feet to the fast moving pedals and start again.
NMcC
Connecting the Dots 1/22/07
Today I will celebrate a life well lived. A quiet and spiritual gatherer of hearts, bright eyes twinkling from beneath the crinkled roadmap that let us glimpse how good the world had been. With style and grace she tenaciously thrived. She was a mender of scraped knees, developer of memories, careful tender of lives, a precipice of solid bedrock for her grandchildren and other people's sons. She was a warm and trusted friend.
As thieves began their heist of golden memories, hers became a continual loop through the disconnected space of present day. The smiles for the faces that reflected back to her the curve of her own face and her wonderfully playful sense of humor, became unknowns. She did not realize the moist eyes as they glanced away were for her.
Our lives, sanded by her laughter, warmed by her heart, improved by her spirit, enriched by her embrace, are precious keepsakes. And now at peace, this beautiful lass can throw her head back in the sunlight and dance.
As thieves began their heist of golden memories, hers became a continual loop through the disconnected space of present day. The smiles for the faces that reflected back to her the curve of her own face and her wonderfully playful sense of humor, became unknowns. She did not realize the moist eyes as they glanced away were for her.
Our lives, sanded by her laughter, warmed by her heart, improved by her spirit, enriched by her embrace, are precious keepsakes. And now at peace, this beautiful lass can throw her head back in the sunlight and dance.
Mutability, 1/19/07
Reflecting this morning, as I am prone to do, I am thinking of mutability and my many efforts to hold it at bay. If the only thing we can count on in change, why is it so hard to embrace? A moment comes, it captures me, I notice each subtle detail and think to myself, this moment right here, I am happy, I have arrived. This moment in time, right here, is where I want to stay suspended like a drop of water as gravity stretches it to let go of the branch. And the moment passes. If I'm exceptionally lucky, my memory crystallizes that moment because I have recognized its value in my memory.
The Faerie Queen (Edmund Spencer) was the first place I had read about mutability - the Mutability Cantos. Of course it is a theme weaveing through all good literature, but Spencer talks of us being SUBJECT to mutability. It is what it is, we adapt to it. If change defines life, does it not offer untapped flexibility and exploration by its very nature? Taking a step forward into uncharted territory - the excitement of trusting and not knowing the challenges ahead, isn't that the best of its offering? That good or bad, mutability promises varied experiences and a new horizon? I think that the life I've led has been the framework for the life I'm heading towards and all of the steps will take me somewhere wonderful and new. There is great comfort in that.
NMcC
The Faerie Queen (Edmund Spencer) was the first place I had read about mutability - the Mutability Cantos. Of course it is a theme weaveing through all good literature, but Spencer talks of us being SUBJECT to mutability. It is what it is, we adapt to it. If change defines life, does it not offer untapped flexibility and exploration by its very nature? Taking a step forward into uncharted territory - the excitement of trusting and not knowing the challenges ahead, isn't that the best of its offering? That good or bad, mutability promises varied experiences and a new horizon? I think that the life I've led has been the framework for the life I'm heading towards and all of the steps will take me somewhere wonderful and new. There is great comfort in that.
NMcC
The Journey
A little while ago, I stepped into my life in an entirely new way, knowing the road ahead was obscured by underbrush but being compelled forward.
We all redirect our course from time to time. Education stretches wide our wings as we gain perspective; parenting thrusts us into an unknown journey of abundant love; divorce and death makes us desperately cling to our built-in-bookcase lives to survive the lesson.
But this time was different. This time I had no warning, no map and no compass as I travelled at night, disoriented and alone. This journey began when my troubled son let drugs be a cave and no one else would venture into the depths. There, trembling in the shadow of his claustrophic life, I learned I could not pull him free. There, frightened and cold, love forced me to let go, to let others intercede, to give away what I held most dear.
I learned so many things from the shocking fallout of that. I learned there is nothing sweeter than the feel of feet as they again touch solid ground. I learned that holding the line and being bold leads to places we did not imagine were there. But mostly I learned that when we have the courage to face our fears, love returns to us what we need most.
So here we stand, my son and I, feeling the warmth on our shoulders and gratefulness in our hearts, here in this moment with our connection intact. Our journey has just begun.
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