Honest Lens Alert

I have had recent experience with friends/family 'coming out', and there being a flurry of activity right afterwards, calls and emails about the 'situation'. 

People seem all upset and wringing their hands, and praying to God for the young man's deliverance.
I think it reflects how uncomfortable they are to receive information like this. Sexual topics are generally not discussed in families. Someone has just shared an intimate truth about their life choices, their sexual choices, and allowed family and friends to know a profoundly personal part of their lives. They are not seeking permission. It is their statement of self.

It is a courageous thing to do.  A risky move.  I can't think of one heterosexual couple that has ever purposefully opened themselves up to the opinions and ridicule of others. We guard our intimacies, and believe what happens in the shadows of that is only our business. So why is a person coming out perceived as a call for action in some families?

On the flip side, I also don't believe it is newsworthy.  News reporters would never say, this heterosexual man was just indicted on Racketeering charges ... but they do typically mention if the person is Gay or Lesbian.   (Is that you, Prejudice?)   Unless it is a matter of unequivocal equality and the country needs to fight for their rights, I know that we will never truly embrace it until it is not considered noteworthy.

I believe that living according to the teachings of Christ means that we should try to be like him, and in that not to pass judgment when faced with values that are at war with our own. 

Except for Jenner.  It galls me to no end that he has achieved celebrity status. I have no quarrel with him wearing a dress, but do we really need to act like a bunch of immature 13 year olds snickering over finding a nudie magazine?

Coming to Class Having Forgotten it is Exam Day

A week or so ago I chatted up our mortgage company about the hazard insurance and property taxes they collect each month as part of our payment. PITI. Principal, Interest, Taxes and Insurance. I was just curious, really, why our tax collector had just informed us all of last year's taxes had not been paid.

They didn't get a bill?  They didn't notice on their end of year reconciliation statement it had a zero next to taxes paid? They had $3200 extra dollars sitting in impounds with nothing to do?

The mortgage company at first tried their traditional pass the buck stuff, but what turned up is that they utilized the impounds for cleverly double paying for hazard insurance with two different insurance companies (old and new). They also took it upon themselves to pay for FEMA flood insurance which had been prepaid and a copy of the invoice sent to their impound department to verify coverage.

We had a sticky wicket. I was transferred around past two or three people before resting in the tax department with a really young-sounding person who quipped: Oh no biggie! We will just refund you when all this sorts out. 

That would be fine except for the small matter about the taxes. Oh I don't know anything about taxes, let me transfer you ...

I was connected with an equally pleasant and useless tax specialist who chatted for a while about the curious situation with the impounds, and that she actually notified me the loan was not collecting for taxes.

We chatted a bit about the T in PITI.  I was getting nowhere fast, so finally asked, what do you suggest we do about the $2800 due by June 30th?  Well, she smiled through the phone, since we wouldn't be able to pay the taxes anyway through impounds, I suggest you pay it.

Just like that. $2800. Like it's sitting in the side drawer of my dresser.

In the meantime, she continued in her most professional, soothing voice to counteract the boiling blood vibes coming through the phone at her, I will call for an audit on the account to evaluate what happened. That can take up to 30 days to complete. We will be in touch.

In touch, they were.  A couple of days ago we received a somber form letter notifying us that our mortgage was going to jump $150.00 a month and did we know we are short on our impounds? 

No words.

Show Me Some Skin

By and large, I've had a boringly healthy life. My mother was a strong and healthy woman through her 70s. Gratefully, I am a chip off the old block. No heart/joint/diabetes/blood pressure issues like many of my friends. Doctors still comment on me being nearly sixty and on no regular medications.

So when I was diagnosed with Melanoma in 2006, I was shocked.  Shocked by the shell cracking open, but also by the speed at which I justified it. I have fair skin, this damage was likely from all that time on the Santa Cruz beach when I was a teen, or maybe the years under the Arizona sun in my 30s.  It was removed the day it was diagnosed and no follow up radiation or chemo was necessary. I was assigned for quarterly visits for a couple of years. In other words, a pass.

I'm a cancer survivor who doesn't feel like I earned the spot. I didn't have to suffer through treatment. The lesson I failed to learn is the only reason it went down that way was because it was caught early.

Fast forward to 2014, and again a suspicious spot that looked similar to the one that had been on my arm. It looked like a cluster of freckles: no raised areas, no red edges, no center dot. It was biopsied and sure enough, it was a melanoma - and quickly removed. I am now a high risk which means, for now, quarterly visits for life. Another pass.

When I got home, and the Hubs and I were talking things over, he showed me a spot on his forearm and went in for a biopsy and it, too, was a melanoma. He has Italian Mediterranean good tanning skin, and never worried much about time in the sun.  Skin cancer affects all skin types.

There are a lot of types of skin cancer but Melanoma is the most deadly.  An advanced melanoma can move quickly from the surface to the lymph nodes and invade internal organs such as the liver and kidneys. It is as deadly as other forms of cancer if not caught early.  My Doc's rule of thumb is to have any changes in your skin checked out.  Melanoma won't always look like the photos online. 

For me, the gift of Melanoma is its visibility. It lets me actively participate in my health by monthly self-checks, the way I do breast checks.  We get the choice to intervene before it becomes life threatening. As for all those sun worshipper times as kids? Let's make sure our children and grandchildren understand the advantages of sunscreens and cover-ups for a long and healthy life. As it turns out, wrinkles aren't the biggest worry that's out there.

Buying Admission

One of the best parts of getting older is to be in the position of lending a hand now and again. It is an equal blessing. Luck and circumstance have a lot to do with being able to say and do this, and it is a good reminder how extraordinary it is to be part of an all-in family. 

Being in a position to help the kids from time to time is one of my greatest joys. Everyone needs a hand, and growing up I certainly did.  But my lessons about borrowing money involved people who had an agenda to the gift, and the fine print that bought them extra privileges in my life.

Some loaners use money to buy admission. It usually happened with a bigger loan for a down on a car or money to finish school. All of a sudden they have opinions about your life and expect to see you whenever they want. They feel they have paid to have a more impactful role in your life. By the time you realize there were terms to the loan, it's too late.  

Things come up like, "Oh I understand, I set aside the whole day for you but that's okay, you go ahead and spend it at your cousin's house. How's the car running with the new engine?"  Or, "You don't seem very grateful for all the things I've done for you. I'm not asking much for the family to spend Christmas day with me again this year."

Anyone borrowing for debt consolidation forever are advised and judged on the things they buy and their lifestyle choices.

Ours is more of a co-op style with helper loans. The kids have to match funds and have some skin in the game.  They are asked to repay when they can. So essentially we are partnering with our adult children to empower fiscal responsibility. There are so many good lessons for a family who focuses on gratefulness. Win. Win.

Physician, Heal Thyself

I've read that when a person feels in crisis, it's because they have not yet adapted to what is happening.

Not always. I wonder where the lesson could possibly be with our news media which knows the impact of spewing negative trash on internet news and television, and does it anyway.

We are barraged by examples of brutality with a never-ending supply ~ adults against animals/children, children against other children, animals against other animals, adults against other adults, parents against children, children against parents, coaches against athletes, students against teachers. OKAY. WE KNOW.

Our News Media has cultivated an entire culture of addicts, intentionally, like cigarette company does. They expose us a thousand times a month to news that makes us fearful and distrustful, and they say, tune in so you will not be next. And so we do so, eagerly, turn on the news or log on our computers to learn the horrible things that are happening right outside our doors or across the world. We openly pray for them and secretly feel grateful it's not us.  It doesn't really matter to the new terror-driven Media, just so we lock our doors, put the dog in our laps and tune in. They have gained market share and made their millions off us: why worry if we are left feeling helpless and afraid?

Local interest stories are ridiculous anecdote to the young girl who torched her family's home because a fictional internet character told her to do it. Media has won the day even for those like me who turn it on only for weather and traffic, and turn the sound down and look away for the rest. I look around at a country of manicured lawns where children can't safely play and wonder where the hell America has gone.

I have heard it said imitation is the sincerest form of flattery and I guess so, when all the networks provide 24 hour coverage for seven days in a row for a child who turns the gun on his school and goes out in a blaze of glory. Take the ratings, boys: the next school shooting has been brought to you by Network XYZ.

I am so grateful to have grown up when our country knew better, when journalists and stories were about strengthening American values and exemplifying integrity and service. There absolutely were difficult stories to cover, and yes they covered them. But it was balanced news, not sensational, not shock jock news - and the kind of news we needed to know.  I most remember is Walter Cronkite weeping when the President was shot (don't ask which President), and when we landed on the Moon. It was a genuine and impactful response because Walter Cronkite had integrity and patriotism and honesty, and the news he presented reflected those esteemed values as a citizen first and newscaster second.

It was not in the best interests of the country to feel the world has become bitter and cold, and we are victims in wait unless we keep tuned to the news that will inform and protect us. They are making themselves our drug of choice.

I say no to all of it, the arming and looking around as I step outside my door expecting evil to be there. It is worrisome that our country does not push to the top of its agenda the good and the decency and kindness most of us encounter every day, for that to be the daily diet.  What of our children, I wonder, who grow up with nothing but grim news, who do not know there are many ways to look at the same issue? Who never listened to a news broadcast by Peter Jennings?

If they just looked back at their own history they would see an excellent blueprint of integrity and social conscience to inform and enlighten, and I'll bet still capture market share. Just say no to drugs.

Powell's of Portland

Imagine a place that draws scores of people inside to linger on a sunny, bright holiday weekend in Portland. People sipping on a coffee with a book open in their laps, and wandering around in packs discussing political science and international travel.

The building has interconnected rooms of eclectic and well marked categories, and used book sets for sale, but mostly the books are new.  The rooms are color coded and themed, I'm sure to guide you towards the exit, although that was a bit too subtle for me.

On the walls are huge chalkboards listing local authors and their books and locations in the store, a list of Pulitzer Prize winners, and earthy, cerebral staff to help as directional guides and problem solvers. There are Powell's t-shirts for sale, mugs, backpacks and postcards.

On the shelves were staff recommended bookmarks, like a fancy wine store that offers helpful tips on picking a good vintage. 'This is a complex and fulfilling mystery, well written, and a thoroughly satisfying read.'  Pair it with a weekend at the beach, brie and water crackers.

This IKEA-esque store has rooms within rooms, some up 1/2 a flight or down a flight that you move through vaguely aware you have transitioned. There are main paths and shortcuts, but what we ended up doing is enjoy being carried along by the crowd that enjoyed being here as much as we did.

It was a joy to be in the children's section and watching them talking and tucked into corners with books spread out in front of them, covers open, and taking in the texture, scent and feel of them. I'm not a fan of ebooks. The adults were the ones with their iPhones out, trying to corral their group into an arranged rendezvous point. 'How about the coffee bar in 10?' 

I thought of my father and hoped for his books. I was told that two of his titles have resided here previously but they were currently out of stock. I was informed the Transportation section is in Building Two.  Building. Two.


At one point we spied a bathroom, and the conversation resembled a vacation abroad:  Hey! There's a bathroom. Want to go?  Maybe we'd better, just in case. Who knows when we'll have another chance.

There are benches along some aisles and circling the support beams and in corners where two bookcases meet. Everything is wood and everything was occupied, so I went on a brief quest to find a seat and ended up utterly lost in the Russian Language section. 

There's a gallery upstairs we didn't see, but there was a glorious pillar at the entrance of a stack of books with some of the world's most influential titles. The Mahabharata, Hamlet, War & Peace, Psalms, The Odyssey, The Whale (Moby Dick), Tao te Ching, and 1000 Nights.

Welcome to Powell's Books of Portland. Can't wait to return.

http://www.powells.com/citytour.html

Robin William's Last Gift (Peter Coyote)

Robin Williams died this week at the age of 63. 

 

He was the supernova of comedians, and a brilliant actor and humanitarian. He seemed to do life very well, a home in Tiburon, friends on every continent, and compassionate enough that when an acquaintance's daughter who didn't have a parent available to go to Career Day asked if he could come, he showed. He had a wife. A family. Specials on HBO. Stellar and memorable roles in some of my favorite movies. He changed the face of America in many ways.

 

He died of his own choosing, at his own time. Looking in from the outside, it is hard to believe that the things we strive for as Regular People -- money, acceptance, comfort, purpose, and a lasting legacy -- weren't enough.

 

Well, maybe enough of the outward trappings of success and not enough of the things many of us take in stride: being comfortable in our own skin, moving through life with a sense of peace and contentment, knowing God, and that no matter what, we are part of a divine plan and never utterly alone.

 

I turn from the overabundance of articles and news programs about the gruesome details of his death because it is None Of My Business. Knowing them won't make him any more or less dead.  I want to process his life so I can understand what happens inside a successful and talented, humanistic man to bring him to an unimaginable moment where the only option left is death. I want to learn the lesson he was trying to teach.

 

Peter Coyote, also an actor and a good friend of Robin, wrote this essay which I saw this morning. It lit up the sky for me, and I hope for you, too. RIP, Robin.

 

-Nanci

 

Robin William’s Last Gift

Robin and I were friends. Not intimate, because he was very shy when he was not performing. Still, I spent many birthdays and holidays... at his home with Marsha and the children, and he showed up at my 70th birthday to say “Hello” and wound up mesmerizing my relatives with a fifteen minute set that pulverized the audience.

When I heard that he had died, I put my own sorrow aside for a later time. I’m a Zen Buddhist priest and my vows instruct me to try to help others. So this little letter is meant in that spirit.

Normally when you are gifted with a huge talent of some kind, it’s like having a magnificent bicep. People will say, “Wow, that’s fantastic” and they tell you, truthfully, that it can change your life, take you to unimaginable realms. It can and often does.

 

The Zen perspective is a little different. We might say, “Well, that’s a great bicep, you don’t have to do anything to it. Let’s work at bringing the rest of your body up to that level.”

Robin’s gift could be likened to fastest thoroughbred race-horse on earth. It had unbeatable endurance, nimbleness, and a huge heart. However, it had never been fully trained. Sometimes Robin would ride it like a kayaker tearing down white-water, skimming on the edge of control. We would marvel at his courage, his daring, and his brilliance. But at other times, the horse went where he wanted, and Robin could only hang on for dear life.

In the final analysis, what failed Robin was his greatest gift---his imagination. Clutching the horse he could no longer think of a single thing to do to change his life or make himself feel better, and he stepped off the edge of the saddle. Had the horse been trained, it might have reminded him that there is always something we can do. We can take a walk until the feeling passes. We can find someone else suffering and help them, taking the attention off our own.

 

Or, finally, we can learn to muster our courage and simply sit still with what we are thinking are insoluble problems, becoming as intimate with them as we can, facing them until we get over our fear. They may even be insoluble, but that does not mean that there is nothing we can do.

Our great-hearted friend will be back as the rain, as the cry of a Raven as the wind. He, you and I have never for one moment not been a part of all it.

 

But we would be doing his life and memory a dis-service if we did not extract some wisdom from his choice, which, if we ponder deeply enough, will turn out to be his last gift. He would beg us to pay attention if he could.

 

Fig Waits for No Man

It has been busy enough not to be able to blog, and that makes me unhappy.  Work has some new assignments and training, and I come home mentally exhausted and ready to rest. 

Fat chance.

When you're raising food you work on its timeline. The 2nd harvest, 1st pick of figs happened a couple of weeks ago and from them we made jam. Last weekend twelve more quarts of figs were picked, which became whole fig preserves along with fresh munchies and a bunch brought to work.  And by the looks of an inspection last night, the last of the figs should be ready today. 

Garden Chili Verde sauce

So in spite of intentions, I was canning and preserving continually after work, fell into bed, and was up and at it again the next day.

We have enjoyed a bumper tomato crop - and yes, Heirloom makes a difference in the taste and quality of the fruit - and also the garden has done well with salsa peppers, green peppers, Japanese eggplant and Armenian cucumbers.

We've put up quite a few quarts of Gardineira and dilly beans, plus a jalapeno/wax/green/salsa/garlic medley that looks interesting. It was another disappointing yield with zucchini, and I'm inclined to skip it altogether.  Our tomatillos are fruiting but they are small - we will trellis them next year and see how they do. They made a really good chili verde sauce base, along with some of the green tomatoes and salsa peppers - and we like knowing it has no preservatives.

Garden vinaigrette salad

 The full sun artichoke cannot tolerate full sun. It leaves me wondering why local nurseries sell it with those tag recommendations when they know better.  Seymour is too big to transplant, so I took cuttings and planted his offspring under the shade of the olive trees, where they seem to be doing well. He'll be coming out in the fall.

That little spindly leggy Pomegranate out back turned out to have the only beautiful pomegranate of the season: the other big tree produced a lot of small and dry fruit that opened months early and spilled out for the birds. Nothing gets wasted but we were disappointed.

Pickled raw veggies

We received a 13 gallon kitchen garbage bag of fresh basil and made pesto to share - how easy and delicious to whip that up with a Cuisinart, fresh garlic, olive oil, s&p, fresh parmesan and pine nuts. We traded it for a couple of pickled veggies and a bowl of tomatoes.

I am looking into a good salsa recipe now that we are quickly exhausting the tomato options with spaghetti sauce, freezing them whole, eating them in Caprese salads, and in vinaigrette salads. 

Garden Pesto

I mean, there comes a point ... hey, maybe a bbq sauce ...

These days, I am still tired, but canning seems to relieve some of the day's stress. Now if someone would just clean up my mess!

Retirement Sim

My brother retired yesterday.

I can't imagine that. It's not a cliché when the previous generations cautioned us to take our time and enjoy the ride, because you arrive at retirement age in an instant.

The hubs and I both are committed to work, at least until we figure out the medical insurance thing. That provides plenty of incentive to keep our feet in the stirrups. I am noticing a little bit of panic beginning to form around the edges as we approach the concept of retiring, not knowing if our choices will sustain us safely and comfortably in old age.

The financial planners hawking a million dollars in the bank drive me insane. Who ARE those people? So we got to thinking, how do we really know what retirement transitions will be? How much will be enough for a middle class hard working couple without much of a pension coming in? Short of a debilitating disease that wipes us out in the first year, how have we done with our retirement planning?

That is what hatched the idea for a little pre-retirement-readiness simulation for the next couple of months. The goal is pretty simple: by living on the budget you think will be there, what will you learn about money handling and lifestyle choices and learning a different way to live? 

To prepare, we are exploring our budget in depth. We are categorizing expenses into hard and soft - rigid expenses like mortgage, insurance, trash pick up, life insurance - things you can't alter month to month; and pliable ones like food, gas, electric and water use, shopping, gifts, entertainment - that are adaptable.  We are looking and charting our expenses and what percentage it uses of earned income.

For the next two months we will live on a budget based on earnings through Social Security and my little school retirement. We'll calculate earnings based on retirement at 66 because no way can we deal with the medical piece without Medicare.  Other income we receive will be stowed in savings.

I know that in *real life* there is the underlying confidence of having the WorkerBee there's-more-where-that-came-from mindset. The simulation won't create the anxiety of loss of earning potential that I imagine is part of retirement. But I hope it will show where we are with what we've set up for ourselves.

Insight goals.
--about modifying what we're doing to achieve an even greater quality of life
--about our current money habits of pulling from savings and how quickly we'll deplete the nest egg without adapting
--about the gaps we find and whether we can rush to fill them before we retire

Simulation dates will be September 1-November 1, 2014.  We will keep you posted.

Yes and No: Powerful Words

JULY 15, 2014 The Most Nonfrantic Woman I've Ever Met LYSA TERKEURST "A good name is more desirable than great riches; to be esteemed is better than silver or gold." Proverbs 22:1 (NIV) She was knocking at my front door trying to balance her paper coffee cup, her purse, her cell phone and a stack of papers. She was also trying to fix something on her shoe. She hopped a step or two when I answered the door. I smiled. Her imperfect posture delighted my mind that had been feeling a little off-kilter all morning. She smiled back and hopped one more time. Finally whatever was bugging her with her shoe seemed fixed. She stood up and smiled with an apologetic smile that made me adore her before we'd ever had our first conversation. And with her first step over the threshold, it was as if the shoe issue never happened. She was noticeably focused on the project ahead of her. She spent all day with my family and me. She was a reporter doing a story on our sons adopted from Africa. Even though she never alluded to another title she had, we knew. She was the daughter of a former president of the United States. As in ... she and her sister called the White House their home at one time. Her mom had been the first lady, which made her part of the first family. But being the daughter of a president wasn't her role that day. She was a reporter. She was at our house to do a story. She stayed present in that role alone. Her questions were honest and unassuming. Her demeanor kind. Her laugh delightfully loud. Her paperwork messy. But her focus was clear. She was there to uncover a story. So she stayed focused on the task at hand. She wasn't encumbered with a thousand other things pulling at her. She didn't try to multitask too much. She wasn't distracted by her cell phone. She wasn't running late or from one thing to the next. She said no to everything else pulling at her. So she could say yes to the story. She gave it her Best Yes. This woman who demonstrated a Best Yes that day left a lasting impression on my family for sure. Later at dinner my husband, Art, asked the kids to go around the table and say one word to describe the reporter. "Nice." "Humble." "Classy." "Elegant." "Humble." Then there may or may not have been a less than delightful exchange from an older sibling to the youngest child, "You can't say humble. I just said humble. You always want to copy what I have to say!" I love family bonding. But ... I really did love the collective experience of meeting this nonfrantic woman. And the words my kids used to describe her. Art went on to ask the kids to explain what she did and how she carried herself that led us to use such great words to describe her. Then he turned the conversation on each of us. "If you want people to use such great words to describe you, think about the decisions you are making. How are they leading people to describe you?" This question made me think of our key verse, Proverbs 22:1, which says, "A good name is more desirable than great riches; to be esteemed is better than silver or gold." We often encourage our kids with this truth when reminding them of the weight their decisions carry. Yes, great descriptions are birthed from great decisions. And there it was. A small beginning of a big thing to ponder. A clue that better decisions help make better lives for the souls of women caught in craziness. Snagged. Worn out. Worn down. Ragged. The decisions we make make the life we live. So if we want to live better, we've got to decide better. Yes. No. The two most powerful words in the English language. They can run us if we don't intentionally run them. Guard them. Guide them. Use yes and no to work for us. Can you imagine how great life would be if you didn't dread saying yes and felt completely empowered to say no? Then and only then will our best selves emerge. And maybe you and I can start to be a little less frantic.

Be The Ball

There's something new on Facebook and I am a total fan. Little quizzes.

How long will you live?
What President are you?
What Country should you live in?
What Heroine are you in a classic novel?

They're seemingly mindless ways to pass the time and I've done a lot of them. I don't play other types of games, but I'm hooked on these little two minute quizzes.

Maybe I did secretly hope to get JFK when I took the Which President Are You quiz, but by telling them my favorite color and political affiliation, I came away feeling pretty good being matched up with Lincoln. I mean, Lincoln is my ultimate hero.

What did I just say? People happily answer all sorts of personal questions without batting an eye, things we would guard from sharing on the net otherwise. How we spend our time, and our money, and with whom: we share all of the details through a game that harvests and records the people we are. Marketing brilliance, if you ask me.

They ask questions like ... Are you the kind of person who ... gets what they want at all costs; stands back and lets things play out before making your move; not interested in the drama and ok with however it turns out.

Or ... On a quiet evening would you rather ... be out on the town with friends; at home with a good book; be part of a girls weekend shopping trip in Tahoe. 

I feel a little self image manipulation coming on!  If your animal spirit is an Owl, you are wise and thoughtful; a Hawk is a purposeful and patient leader; an Eagle is majestic and intelligent.  Everyone has amazing qualities, and this little game reminds us just how special we are. Now go! it says: out into the world and Be The Ball.

You'll never get the, oops, loser, you put nothing into life and you get nothing back. There is a participation trophy for those who play -- and never a worry about getting matched up with Herbert Hoover.

I like being told I'll live to be 100 and am considerate, courageous and kind.  But I don't wonder how a little computer game  can 'know' so much about me.  I've posted I am from Illinois and my political postings are all Democrat. I have shared where I live, what I love, how many children I have, how many years I've been married, where I work, and pictures of our yard.  Lincoln is a no brainer.

There's not much mystery about a buddy at work getting a boy and a girl on the How Many Children Is Right For You quiz, because that's what she's got. When I clicked on the link it went right to 3 sons - I didn't even have to take the quiz! Everybody knows I have 3 kids, and now also a computer in Palo Alto.

Smile for the camera.

DC FazMcBush

Today I am full of wonder as I remember my second son's birth and the joy he has brought every day since. His middle name is Charles in honor of my dad and brother, but also from that night in labor when I danced the Charleston with a good friend and coach to speed things along. 

I should have known this kid would be amazing, when a crazy-haired doc showed up in the middle of the night in a Berkeley sweatshirt with sawed off sleeves and announced, Let's get this show on the road.  Not long after, I met my son for the very first time.

There are so many captured moments that run through my head each birthday. If truth be told, there wasn't much to do other than the usual keep him clean and out of trouble stuff. He seemed to be born with a complete set of instructions on how the world works and the navigational tools to get around.

As a small child he completely mastered the concept of money. I taught him the basics, but he wanted to spend some and have some for later. By six, he was in charge of our travel expenses and meals on a trip across country. He had a little ledger and we'd talk about the budget and he'd offer sage advice, like, well we spent a lot on gas and food: can we just sleep in the car?  {No, no honey, let me tell you about Credit ... }

He taught me about the courage necessary to live with a generous heart. He is an interesting, inquisitive, smart, daring person. Like McGyver, he figures it out with just a toothpick and a pocket knife. He imagines and tries, zip lines through the trees, persistently grabs for what he wants, parasails, loves, works around obstacles, and is the first to put out a hand to help another up. 

I used to wonder as I lay quietly feeling him kick my ribs: What will he look like? Who will he be? I couldn't imagine how great it would be.  Happy Birthday, son. Love, Mom

Okay By Me

Can I be blunt? I think it's patently unfair for life to be going along well and all of a sudden loop back to the same old crap you just left behind.  

I've been enjoying a Renaissance period these past 4 years. Gossip and opinion have kind of fallen off the radar. Maybe it's my age and experience that can take the pinch in stride because I have finally, finally learned that In Life, you don't win everyone over, and you don't have to try.

It's a good solid place to be most of the time, focusing on things that are important like living honestly and compassionately. I have an amazing amount of love in my life and a man that fills my heart with gratefulness every single day. I don't ask anyone to walk the walk for me, or approve or disapprove of my choices, although it is apparent people still think it's important to weigh in. Whatever.

It was a What's Up kind of week. I just came out and asked a couple of people how things were going.

I am drawn to moments when relationships find a depth beyond the Facebook Time and we actually communicate.  You've been quiet: is everything alright? Usually it's a happy conversation -- oh man! I've been so busy, but let's set up a time to get together next month! Really miss you!

And sometimes it's not a happy conversation at all.  Like when you don't get a straight answer and you get nowhere. Or when a whole lot of crap tumbles out from left field. 

I come away wondering what the hell is wrong with me:  Did I not see that brick wall? And did I not still ram into it? There's an impossibly awkward response needed:  so you do you say, gee, thanks for letting me know ... when you really aren't thankful at all?

Back in the day I'd have owned it, both sides of the relationship and even the vague and remote criticisms from people not directly in my circle.  In my heart, I believed them, even if it was undeserved. I wasn't worthy. I needed to change.

I'm happy to report those days are gone. I love myself, and so it's easy to put criticism where it needs to be: their issue, not mine. I don't have to do anything, own it or even be responsible for it. If they want to, go right ahead and haul around all that weighted opinion: I'm traveling light.

At the end of the day I'm still heading west. Will I still ask what's up if friends and family get especially quiet? I will. It's always nice to know who your traveling companions will be, and who will be a no-show.

Way to Go, Pop

So, good old 2013 just had to squeeze another one in before the 31st. Yesterday we said our goodbyes to my father in law 'Pop' who passed away after a massive stroke.

It's been said that people come into your life for a reason, and I believe it. Pop was a spry, energetic leader of the pack when I met him at the tender age of 78. By then he'd worked a lot of jobs to make ends meet, had 7 children, and spent the better part of his life as an Ironworker in San Francisco. He had an unimagined challenge with raising six wise-cracking,  rambunctious boys.  Pop was able to maintain control without squelching their sense of self, which is evident in the boys bearing a resemblance to each other but completely unique otherwise. 

Pop was a great guy. He loved woodworking and made beautiful hand carved toy boxes, mantels and other useful things like trivets and shadow boxes. There are stories about his generosity and helpfulness with everyone in the Parish, and about him being the first one out the door if someone needed a hand.

Pop didn't go far in school and yet he provided a good home for his family with an open door to friends especially around dinnertime. The neighborhood parties at their house were legendary. St. Gabe's people all knew them, and all the big families socialized, with the kids downstairs and the adults up.  One of the Aunts once said you knew better than to put anything on the table with the boys around, because it'd be gone before you set out the meal.

Two of my sis-ins lost their dads early and Pop filled that gap for them for upwards of 40 years. The time I had with him was short but we developed a deep bond by both starting life again with new partners. Pop was the greatest.

What I will most remember about him were his eyes. I would watch them dance when he teased and laughed, or scan the room contentedly when it was full of his boys and their families. Maybe it was a long-ago promise to keep everyone near, but I tend to think he was happiest when the house was exploding with kids all talking at once, food on every counter, and joking together, just like in the old days.

So I found it fitting for the family to cram into the hospital room and spill out into the hall, with food to eat and Frank Sinatra tunes up near Pop's ear. Everyone kidded around and reminisced. And when Pop decided it was time, he opened those beautiful eyes one last time and smiled a big smile, before heading on his way.

A Watched Pot

I watched a downy woodpecker peck at the opening of the birdhouse we anchored to a 10 foot pole after moving in last summer. The one with the old Ohio and Arizona license plates covering the roof, that has been hauled around waiting for the right family of birds to discover it. It sits just outside of an upstairs window in a room we are converting to a guest room and should be a treat for anyone wanting to share the life cycle of our little woodpecker family.

That birdhouse has been waiting for this for a lot of years, for a life it was meant to live. Sometimes we have to wade through the jumble and lost to awaken one day in peace.

Anxiety is high as I say goodbye to colleagues who are heading out bravely into retirement, a new job or unemployment. I wait for the tap on my shoulder and the news of what it will be.

Life has calloused me up, but today I am nine again, in gym class, waiting to be picked for a basketball game. Sometimes the team captain is a friend and picks me. I want to be valued for the incredible things I bring to my job everyday. I want to be the one to decide - yes! I want to retire!... and mark off the days with anticipation and excitement. I want to be asked questions like what are your plans? and, what will we do without you? over a parting lunch.

Our little office is 25 strong, a dedicated group that works closely and genuinely gets along. We know each other's birthdays. We are friends on FB. We know what makes each other tick. We bring too much food for pot lucks and share pics of our pets for the annual office calendar. We all chip in on deadlines if someone is behind the 8 ball.

And that is why I cannot sleep. Even after a long strategy session with the Hubs about the what-ifs, and knowing I'm covered either way, I get an average of 4 hours a night. It is a heartbreak.

For those who take care of themselves and apply for a dream job, how do they step over a colleague to occupy their space? Where do they put that in all the friendships and donated lunch hours to gift wrap their families' holiday packages?  And for those destined to not go forward in a job,  how do they soothe the hearts of people they have come to know and love to help them find peace?

I will try and hide the tears in my eyes, but I am very tired.

Not Keeping Score

I've lived in Transition's Pocket this summer, and am in the midst of great change about what it means to me to love and let go.

These are skills I have let get stiff and rusty. The House is off on a new adventure, and I watched the family home get smaller and smaller in the rear view mirror. The last time I was there, we said our goodbyes, the house and I, and I thanked her for the indelible memories, and accepting what is.

It seems silly to me not being able to let go of what the house represents, but the summer of reflection has helped. I will take up the anchor and place it in the center of my house and let it be the place everyone comes, because they are connected to the traditions and laughter and love of family. I don't feel old enough to be the Matriarch, but the idea has taken root.

When I was about 8, I was brought a baby bird that had fallen out of the nest. I was cautioned that most baby birds do not survive, but I was excited and started off focused. The rules then were to feed it every hour with an eye dropper - a complicated combination of water and protein that had to be mashed up by hand. I started off great but as my eyelids grew sleepy,  the next thing I remember is the morning came and the little bird was cold.

My mother said not to feel bad, that I had tried my best.  But I knew that wasn't true. If I had only stayed awake the baby bird would still be alive. What my mother wisely let me discover was that in life sometimes we have good intentions that fall short, and sometimes we don't get our way. We carry on, we get over it, and that is life.

I am exploring how to be a new kind of matriarch, and apply that to love and my key relationships. We don't always get the endings we want, but without acceptance there is no hope for balance. I have been exercising my heart muscle and exploring open handed love, that is, putting my head in a place where my heart can express love and support, empathy and kindness without the expectation of anything in return.

It still feels lop sided to give not expecting to receive, to give even when nothing comes back time after time. The want is still there. But as my heart limbers up and gets into practice mode, the want is replaced by a new landscape. I still straddle those disappointing feelings but that is my hard work ahead, to find a rise on the hill where no matter what my conduct can be true to open handed love.

This summer, I realized with a capital R that I was wrestling with and internalizing other's devotion to me and using that as a markers of self worth. As I adapt to emotional altruism, it becomes more apparent that the more I give open handedly, the Hows and Whys and Whens melt away. What is left is the love itself, expressed in an unconstrained way.  No pencils required.

Seriously?

I'm just fed up today. Just fed up.

I know we've always been a little addicted to following people in the news. Public figures are held up to a higher standard, especially when luck and talent have landed them somewhere with a lot of visibility and fabulous salaries. We kind of wish we were the ones with all the luck, and think they ought to be darned grateful for their good fortune, and they should be a role model of humility and hard work for the kids.

Especially athletes, I suppose, although the *rule* is the same for artists and performers, and even those accidentally swept up in the public eye for things like winning the lottery or getting some big inheritance from a chance meeting with someone rich.

But more and more the sad fact is the media plays it both ways, and it doesn't matter which is going on - the upswing or the pathetic caving in from too much PublicLife.

It is not entertainment, the rags to riches to rags story. And then there's the double whammy of letting it play out on the social media sites where they are publicly ridiculed and the basis of fights.

These kind of journalists are a new breed, although they've probably been skulking around in the background when I was young. Turning away in disgust at dog fighting rings and human trafficking, and then living off the misery of others - what would you call it?

Back in THE DAY, when reporters had honor and integrity, yellow journalism meant a journalist or paper that presented little or no legitimate well-researched news and instead used eye-catching headlines to sell more newspapers. Oh but look for the symptoms while reading your online daily news or watching your main station broadcaster. They're there: the exaggeration of minor news, scandal-mongering, wide eye sensationalism, scare and misleading headlines, lavish use of pictures, false info from so-called experts, and even siding with the 'underdog' against the system.

500 year flood in Colorado!
Time To Build That Ark!
No, it's a 1,000 Year Flood!
No, no, a Flood of Biblical Proportions!

Journalists that treat news in an unprofessional or unethical fashion aren't in the rags at the check out stands anymore, like they were when we were kids. I remember laughing like crazy over the big headlines ~

Two Headed Woman Marrying Twin Men!
Proof At Last of Martian Invasion!
Reverse Stripe Zebra Found in Africa!
Houdini's Love Child Found in Chains!

It was silly and fun. Everyone understood what it was.

But not now. Now it's in reputable national papers who put the junk food right alongside a legitimate story by a reputed journalist. Not on the funnies page, or in the entertainment section. Don't worry about being right as long as you're first.

It's such an important thing, what we are fed as a diet of news. It creates a foundation for national ethics. I really question how self-reliant, intelligent, thoughtful and informed citizenry can possibly be critical thinkers on a diet of pizza and beer. And our examples in the news of drug addicted, wife beaters and cheaters who make 10 million a year, and entertain us with sexually explicit performances on national tv during an awards show aired in prime time. 

Miley Cyrus On Verge of Mental Collapse!

Who gives a shit.

The Shiny Penny Syndrome

This is how it went when my kids were small.

 

I'd get to working in one room, spot a little project like organizing pictures, pull all of that out,

and realize I needed tape,

 

So I'd head into the office to get that - and notice it needed dusting, and would dust and vacuum and pull stuff away from the walls to clean along the baseboards,

 

and right about then need to go to the bathroom.

 

The bathroom would need a little straightening and I would start reorganizing the shelves,

 

and then see it's time to pick up the kids ... dash off to get them ...

 

and come back into a house that looked like we'd been robbed.

 

The rest of the afternoon involved retracing my steps and cleaning up the disaster.

Why You Never Stop Being Needed

Sometimes the most beautiful things cross your path on Facebook. This is one of them.  Thank you, Ann, for sharing your family and the moment of transition we all face as parents.  -Nanci
***
 

The plan was supposed to be that we would take him west.

That he’d turn 18 and go west.

That we’d pack up his room, his dog-earred G.A. Henty books, that thinning and scratchy red wool blanket of my grandmother that’s laid at the foot of his bed, the oiled painting that he was given from those mothers up in the mountains of Haiti, and his fading jeans and plaid shirt.

And his dad and I would drive him 4,000 arrow-straight miles west to the ocean and drop him off at a university none of us had ever laid eyes on in our life.

He’d be our first arrow shot. My heart would be pierced.





He made his down payment.

And I laid down my quaking heart and this ridiculous hope that he’d stay close. The kid was crazy pumped. Yeah, so my mama-heart was drained. You still gotta smile brave.

Nobody knows it but – Parents wear Purple Hearts: the brave who are wounded and die a bit more everyday – and only get braver.
But then it was his younger brother who went east.

Right to the opposite side of the country, right out to the other coast. He goes with my brother, drives through Quebec through the night, past the farms lined up along the St. Lawrence River, following the aging river where Cartier and Champlain sailed, follow it right out to the ageless ocean and it’s endless lapping waves. They serve for a week at a Bible camp for native kids.

Joshua mops floors and gets dishpan hands and does kitchen duty and crawls into his bunk after midnight. My brother emails me in the middle of the night to tell me how happy he is to be there with our boy. At the end of the week, we pack up the sagging van with the 7 of us and head east to go bring him home.

Our only road trip ever.

And the last road trip before the first boy leaves.


Apparently —

Our youngest boy breathes too breathy and close for our daughter’s liking when packed like sardines into one van heading east.

This may or may not have led to blood curdling screaming fits replete with tears and blankets thrown over heads.

There were flat out World Wars over euchre, pillows and, seriously — the last of the grapes. I may or may not have threatened missile strikes and food sanctions and late night diplomatic negotiations for global peace – or at least van peace.

The Farmer smiles thinly and just kept his eyes on the road and us heading east.

Somewhere in the woods of New Brunswick, when they all blessedly fall asleep but the last stubborn kid, she calls out to her Dad: “You just keep driving and I’ll read to you, ‘kay?”

He wearily nods, leans forward over the wheel, battling sleep-deprivation and father-with-little-peace-deprivation.

And there in her small voice it comes — Psalm 102. She’s reading the Bible to him.

Apparently, right in our messes are where the miracles happen.


“A Prayer for the Afflicted….” She begins slow.

The Farmer grins: “Appropriate.”

“The Lord looked down from his sanctuary on high, from heaven he viewed the earth…“

And we’re all a bit crazy and we’re all a bit afflicted and we have a God who sees every bit of it and takes all of us. We have a God who sees hearts like we see faces, a God who hears ache like we hear voices, and we have a God who touches wounds like we touch skin.

God sees it all — and He will see to all of it. No one’s crazy can change God’s crazy love.

And after we get Josh, and there’s a tight 8 of us shoehorned into the van, we drive by this mountain stretched up like this sheer dare over the ocean and we make a U-turn and because we have these unrelenting boys who are determined to climb –and one girl who needs to use every single roadside washroom facility spotted– and really, you can make a u-turn anywhere.

The girls go looking for the vented outhouse.

I sit in the grass and watch the two oldest boys begin their ascent. The Farmer distracts the two youngest boys from their own climbs with one fierce and sweaty game of tag.

I keep watch at the base — as if that’s really going to help if something goes wrong. Stones roll. There’s hardly a breeze.

The boys keep hauling higher.











“Hey Josh?” Caleb calls over his shoulder. “What’s that rattling sound?”

Both boys stop, cling to some stone.

“Crickets? I don’t know — Tree frogs?”

“You sure?”

“Sure, I’m sure: crickets or tree frogs or something else.” Joshua shakes something out of his shoe. “Definitely not a rattler. Come on already, Cale…” Joshua’s already pulling higher.

I’m listening to the rattle in the sun. Cale’s back to reaching and stretching and climbing. How many times have I mistaken more than a few metaphorical crickets in my life for bona fide rattlers?

How many times did I think these boys would stay little and close and safe?

How many times have I thought safe mattered when Jesus died to save us not to make us safe. No one ever got saved unless someone else was unsafe.

“You going higher?” Josh is calling to Caleb and their mother’s watching from the bottom – Purple Heart, Parents live purple-hearted.

“Yeah — higher!” Cale’s man voice echoes down the mountain.

“Hey, Josh?” One brother’s calling over to the other.

“Can Mom see us doing this?”

And I hear that. The old mother at the bottom of the mountain, she hears her boys men hollering that and I nod and smile slow.

Yes, boys – right to my end, I will be your witness.

God as my witness, I will be your witness, and you can climb and you can take risks and you can go east and you can go west and distance never stopped love from being a witness.

Go ahead, sign me up to witness the launchings and the beginnings, witness the dares you take, the challenges you rise to, the heartbreak you don’t want anyone else to see and the crazy you wish you could hide. The Lord looked down, from heaven He viewed the earth in all it’s crazy and God sees it all – and He sees to it all – and He doesn’t turn away. God is your witness: You are seen and known.

Who will be God’s witness? So He is seen and known?

Be brave. In all your crazy, be brave, boys. And I’ll be there, in heart or in body, to witness the first dates and the failed dreams and it’s okay to cry, boys, your tears are safe with me.

Because the truth is: Life’s a trial and everyone needs a witness — someone on your front row, someone on your sidelines, someone to clap you across the finish line when everyone else has gone home.

Everyone needs a witness – someone to testify you were really here and you really tried, someone to witness your wounds and believe in your worth, someone to say even your crazy can’t stop you from being crazy loved. Everyone needs a witness who will stand and not hold you back because if we all only lived safe, no one would ever get saved.

Everyone needs a witness — and I’ll be yours.


You don’t become a parent by bearing a child. You become a parent by bearing witness to his life.

The boys wave.

And I swallow hard and memorize them.

And I wave back —the witness willing to always bear the weight of all their glory.

Red Sky in Morning

The sun is low and red on the horizon this morning as September rolls into view. The last holiday weekend of the summer marks a shift, and we now are looking to the promise of Fall. I noticed a couple of leaves fluttering down to the drive yesterday. We are surrounded by large, stately deciduous trees and remembered our maiden voyage into fall. Oh, but the leaves!

We witnessed a PowWow on Sunday with the bunnies and ground squirrels: a bunny had the floor and the ground squirrels were intently listening. They're probably discussing the best way to divvy up the land for residential use. The last flare-shaped poison that was dropped in the holes was found days later rolled back out and waiting for the trash. I can't help but admire their fortitude but we are still seeking a compromise.

It was a cooking weekend after a stressful August. The house up north is on the market, and our agent began getting calls a week or so ago responding to an ad for rent. It quickly became apparent that a hacker had taken the info off the MLS and advertised it as his own home and hoping to gather up rental deposits and run off with it. That took a lot of the week to unravel, working with the PD and Homeowner's Association, posting signs on the house and talking to the neighbors. The renters who sent in money feel entitled to occupy, and we are hearing stories of those who find a way in, believing they are entitled to be there, which causes a great big headache for the police and the property owners to get them out. Fortunately for us, the fraud was discovered when a victim did not have the code for the gated community. I'm sure there are others, and it is disappointing to know that.

The renters are settled into the house down south, and hopefully happy for many years to come. It was a chore and half getting the house ready, after a promise left unfulfilled by the exiting tenant. But all is done now, thank goodness, which is doubly why it was fun to watch August slip away.

I was praying this morning for a couple of friends handling more than their share of challenges, and thought about the sun on the lawn, and how most of my prayer is in the form of thanksgiving when life is going well. Gratitude. Appreciation for life's bounty. I shy away from praying for myself, other than a desire for a deeper well of knowledge and a largeness of heart to forgive and forget.

I have lost many things and failed miserably at others, but I have been given more courage and humanity because of it. When I am judged and ridiculed and ignored, I can look into the faces of those badly dressed and see faces whose smiles are waiting for you to acknowledge them. I can tell you the name of the badly burned homeless man at the corner of Howe and Alta Arden, and his story. I pray gratefully for peace and faith during hard, painful times, and for God's grace eventually resolve them. May it always be that way, hard and rewarding and a life full of astonishment when life resolves itself.

It is not the easy road, but it's the road that has been chosen for me. May I never forget to be grateful.