Ever get tired of all the bragging in Christmas letters? Well, you're in for a treat.
Dear Santa,
Thank you for the many surprises you have provided in the last year. You obviously have a sense of humor.
It was a year of challenges. The two younger boys earned money for two gasoline powered go-peds and they enjoyed some short-lived but exciting adventures. The rear wheels on both vehicles collapsed in the first month and the go-ped dealer asked to display the tires as a cautionary tale for misuse of the equipment. Son #3 was apprehended by the police in August for driving a motorized vehicle without a license on the sidewalk. The fact that he had a passenger might have influenced the stop. All was resolved, but not until the judge had an opportunity to look down his spectacles at me for my son being in Juvenile Court at the tender age of 12. I want you to know he was wearing a helmet. Good news, though: we knew everyone in the audience since I work at the high school. Shortly thereafter, the problem was solved when one go-ped was stolen and the other was sold for the more legal and, I'm sure you will agree, less dangerous sport of SKATEBOARDING. So Santa, if you don't mind, I am hoping for a bubble suit and priority parking space in front of the Emergency Room. Don't worry: they have already red flagged the file and are expecting us.
In July, my eldest bought an '85 Chevy Stepside truck, the vehicle of his dreams, which gets about 8 mpg. While driving it to the coast, since my new Honda CRV was having the driver's door repaired from said boy backing it out of the garage with the door open, I was stopped twice by police. Once it was due to driving 12 miles over the speed limit, apparently due to the oversized tires that affect speedometer accuracy. Tailgating the cop might have contributed to his decision to pull me over. The second stop was due to a mixup in registration tags that didn't match the registration card, a detail my son didn't notice when the DMV gave us a June instead of November sticker. The officer and I spent an hour by the side of the road while he waited for his office to verify this detail, giving him ample time to lecture me on the rules of the road and incidentally making me over an hour late to the Management Retreat in Monterey.
Driving the truck on two 3 hour trips in one month required 6 tanks of gas, not counting rekeying the lock which I accidentally broke off in the driver's door. The fuel pump also gave up the ghost and took two men an entire day to change out. My son's only question to me was, "Are you paying for the fuel pump? After all you were driving it at the time." So Santa, I would appreciate gift certificates for gas and Kragen Auto Parts stores and also a Human Resources class in interpersonal communication.
From August--October, we were consumed by football. My son plays on both the offensive and defensive line, so you can imagine the condition of his uniform after a game. This is where those long barbecue tongs come in handy when you have to get it from the garage floor into a tub of Simple Green. The pads remained in the yard where they doubled as a crime deterrent and pest control device.
My son visited the ER this year due to a self-inflicted injury. In the heat of the moment and on a winning play, my son head-butted a fellow player. Unfortunately for him, the other player was wearing a helmet. But he did win Lineman of the Year clearly awarding his dedication to the sport. All I can say is it's a good thing he took his SAT's in June.
In October, #2 son also bought a car to fill up that big slab of concrete next to the driveway. He wanted to sleep in it the first night but I intercepted him. He has his permit. Always humble, my son is buying his younger brother a bank for Christmas since he infiltrates all known household banks and discovers the combinations. Imagine our surprise at finding the little one's money spread across his bed with his bank open and a smiley face drawn on a scratch pad. The youngest has solved the problem by spending every cent he earns, sometimes before he earns it. A mathematician proof bank would be a good choice this year.
Also in October, I discovered that one of my high schoolers snuck out of the house during Homecoming Week. I discovered his plan when his alarm sounded at 1:30 am. You can't say my children aren't punctual. When he returned and was startled my steady stare over the rim of a teacup at 4:30 am, the best mental calesthenics my honors student could muster was the excuse that he had been at school.
On a recent excursion to the mall, my youngest added cologne to his holiday list called Pimp. He wants only Parent Advisory music and talks an average of 2 hours per day on the phone with a variety of girls. I have learned not to ask their names or offer suggestions like, "Is this Ashley? NO? Oh... " Now I understand why people have houses with basements. I could sure use eyes in the back of my head for Christmas.
In November, we maneuvered through college applications and complex negotiations. An 18 year old with a willful attitude and a steady girl are formidable allies to the put-it-off-at-all-costs senior plan. This has been an emotional time for me: the thought of him remaining at home draped across my sofa like a boneless chicken has me on the brink of tears.
The college selection process seemed to be inversely triggered by well considered recommendations by family and friends: instead of applying to the thoughtful and well regarded schools like San Diego State and ASU, he chose Montana Tech. I don't think any of us knows where in Montana that school is located. Is it a 4 year college?
The youngest is diagramming his brother's room to rearrange the furniture and is sleeping in the hall as college bags are being packed. No pressure, though. The youngest's room will be converted to a broom closet if there's enough space. Son #2 needles the eldest that he had his own car before he even got a license. The eldest is asking for a gun rack for his truck.
I am going to pick up a bottle of brandy before Christmas.
Boy am I looking forward to the new year. Can we just get on with it?
Christmas 2000
May 30, 2007
Passing the Baton
I just spent nine days in
How strange to be nobody’s child, nobody’s daughter. Who will regale us with stories about the early years or the great Aunts who hovered, or a certain Christmas morning when a rumored offspring (who shall remain nameless) opened and resealed gifts to avoid prosecution? I had grown bored of hearing those worn out stories I knew word for word, but crave her voice now that the chance to hear them again has passed.
I called her number to be told it is disconnected. I wonder how many times I will need to do that before it sinks in. In the blink of an eye, I have become the new ‘old’ generation, yoked and entrusted to be the guardian of our heritage. There is great responsibility in that, I realize, as I sit on the veranda of a beautiful turn of the century home in Colorado Springs, not knowing the family whose portrait hangs in the foyer but am sure they could not have imagined a California girl sitting here savoring their legacy.
I am the keeper of the melody that played between us when I sought refuge in her support. Her voice was sometimes like staccato notes dancing along ivories that could soothe my battered spirit. I wonder if that song will fade as time plays on. It is the love of a parent that I will miss: the last bastion of childhood is now laid to rest.
I will continue to strengthen the family nest with some of her feathers and lots of my dad's but mostly with mine and Don's. My sons will take refuge and learn by heart the melody we create. I will regale them with stories which they will grow tired of hearing but will listen to, as I did, because they will know how treasured they will be when life presses onward.
Fish and Chips
Eileen is from Scotland, that wee country where friendliness and a fiesty spirit are bred into its people. She is an articulate, dynamic, outspoken 4-foot-something, loosely contained bundle of energy with flaming red hair.
It was a long day yesterday. After a fabulous breakfast and long chat with a couple from Philadelphia who were heading back today, we ascended to the summit of Pike's Peak, a staggering 14,115 feet. The guide shared funny questions posed by people whose minds were affected by the thin air, such as 'How much farther up does the mountain go past the summit?' (answer: blank stare) and 'When do deer turn into elk?' (answer: at 12,000 feet).
The altitude did affect us, too: we had 'sealegs' and a touch of a headache. Two miles from the summit were whiteout conditions and, upon our descent, we had missed a dramatic thunderstorm below. You know what they say: if you don't like the weather, wait a bit and it'll change. We particularly enjoyed the young woman being photographed in a snowstorm wearing bright pink hot pants and flip flops. The COG Railway is definitely the way to go.
After a leisurely saunter around Old Town Colorado and Manitou Springs, Eileen was reminiscing about this great Fish and Chips place back home. Right then, we happened to spy a business called Neptune's Realm with colorfully painted windows. They were even open!
Eileen dashed inside, exclaiming to the purveyor in that lilting Scottish accent of hers, 'This is wonderful! If we had known you were here, we wouldn't have eaten lunch earlier!'
I trailed in behind, looking at a colorful aquarium and dim lighting and an obviously confused young man. Something didn't add up here. The purveyor gaped at her with a shocked expression and, as her words hung awkwardly in the air, it dawned on me that we were standing in a pet store that sold salt water exotic tropical fish.
Sushi, anyone?
It was a long day yesterday. After a fabulous breakfast and long chat with a couple from Philadelphia who were heading back today, we ascended to the summit of Pike's Peak, a staggering 14,115 feet. The guide shared funny questions posed by people whose minds were affected by the thin air, such as 'How much farther up does the mountain go past the summit?' (answer: blank stare) and 'When do deer turn into elk?' (answer: at 12,000 feet).
The altitude did affect us, too: we had 'sealegs' and a touch of a headache. Two miles from the summit were whiteout conditions and, upon our descent, we had missed a dramatic thunderstorm below. You know what they say: if you don't like the weather, wait a bit and it'll change. We particularly enjoyed the young woman being photographed in a snowstorm wearing bright pink hot pants and flip flops. The COG Railway is definitely the way to go.
After a leisurely saunter around Old Town Colorado and Manitou Springs, Eileen was reminiscing about this great Fish and Chips place back home. Right then, we happened to spy a business called Neptune's Realm with colorfully painted windows. They were even open!
Eileen dashed inside, exclaiming to the purveyor in that lilting Scottish accent of hers, 'This is wonderful! If we had known you were here, we wouldn't have eaten lunch earlier!'
I trailed in behind, looking at a colorful aquarium and dim lighting and an obviously confused young man. Something didn't add up here. The purveyor gaped at her with a shocked expression and, as her words hung awkwardly in the air, it dawned on me that we were standing in a pet store that sold salt water exotic tropical fish.
Sushi, anyone?
May 23, 2007
Travelog: Colorado Springs
While exploring Colorado Springs, we stayed at The Cheyenne Canon Inn, a B & B at the base of Cheyenne Mountain where NORAD is tucked deep inside. It is a beautiful 13,000 square foot estate operated and tended by a self-proclaimed former ski bum who turned real estate agent and grew up just down the block. This is Ground Zero on a number of levels.
This grand old gal has worn many masks in her 135 years: as a family home, a casino, a meeting place and speakeasy, a brothel, and now a squeaky clean B & B. Its floors contentedly groan out a lively heritage, accessorized by claw foot bathtubs, stained glass windows and period antiques. The Inn survived a devastating flood only later to be taken by fire and in an amazing stroke of luck was rebuilt to its original grandeur when the architectural plans turned up.
We comfortably roamed the house in our embroidered bathrobes in the evenings, watched a movie from their library and leafed through historical books of Colorado Springs. Local chefs prepared the most wonderful gourmet breakfasts as we learned from the Innkeepers a lot about the town and its inhabitants. Wine and h'ors d'oeurves were served each afternoon in a glorious sitting room as large as my home with ceiling to floor wood and glass that drew the outside in. What a relaxing way to end a day of sightseeing at Garden of the Gods or shopping in Manitou Springs or experiencing the 'breathtaking' vistas during a visit to Pike's Peak. It'd be a challenge to take a bad picture here.
Innkeeper Nancy assured us, in those low tones women use when they promise a real treat, that the masseur was excellent. And so he was: skilled, friendly, a massage therapist who was also a graduate from the Culinary Institute of America, refreshingly honest with a great sense of humor and warmth about life. After the massage, we luxuriated with champagne and strawberries dipped in chocolate on the front veranda as we waved to passerbys.
Great local restaurants abound, with ample variety and style. We particularly enjoyed The Blue Star but the Broadmoor is just minutes away for a five-star dining experience and a round of world class golf.
GO. The Cheyenne Canon Inn, Colorado Springs, CO. And when you do, we hope you'll remember us to our friends Kevin, Nancy and Craig.
This grand old gal has worn many masks in her 135 years: as a family home, a casino, a meeting place and speakeasy, a brothel, and now a squeaky clean B & B. Its floors contentedly groan out a lively heritage, accessorized by claw foot bathtubs, stained glass windows and period antiques. The Inn survived a devastating flood only later to be taken by fire and in an amazing stroke of luck was rebuilt to its original grandeur when the architectural plans turned up.
We comfortably roamed the house in our embroidered bathrobes in the evenings, watched a movie from their library and leafed through historical books of Colorado Springs. Local chefs prepared the most wonderful gourmet breakfasts as we learned from the Innkeepers a lot about the town and its inhabitants. Wine and h'ors d'oeurves were served each afternoon in a glorious sitting room as large as my home with ceiling to floor wood and glass that drew the outside in. What a relaxing way to end a day of sightseeing at Garden of the Gods or shopping in Manitou Springs or experiencing the 'breathtaking' vistas during a visit to Pike's Peak. It'd be a challenge to take a bad picture here.
Innkeeper Nancy assured us, in those low tones women use when they promise a real treat, that the masseur was excellent. And so he was: skilled, friendly, a massage therapist who was also a graduate from the Culinary Institute of America, refreshingly honest with a great sense of humor and warmth about life. After the massage, we luxuriated with champagne and strawberries dipped in chocolate on the front veranda as we waved to passerbys.
Great local restaurants abound, with ample variety and style. We particularly enjoyed The Blue Star but the Broadmoor is just minutes away for a five-star dining experience and a round of world class golf.
GO. The Cheyenne Canon Inn, Colorado Springs, CO. And when you do, we hope you'll remember us to our friends Kevin, Nancy and Craig.
Apr 30, 2007
In Memoriam: Mom
I have been reflecting on my mother during the last few days of her life: the woman she was to others, the woman she was to me.
Life has been an amazing trip through the formative years, adolescence, maturity and adulthood. The week before she passed, she carefully showed my son Tim and I how to trim her beloved roses back to the fifth leaf to ensure more buds. A gardener to the end!
One of her favorite sayings when Don and I were growing up was, 'We're a team! We just need to pull together!'
And so we have. When time was short, the family pulled together: we gained strength as we walked with her as far as we could and gently handed her off to God.
Her pastors and church family, Red Hatters and Walking group, neighbors and friends pulled together, swarming to her side, providing meals and desserts and hugs and stories.
Life has sometimes been compared to a ship sailing on the horizon as it drifts out of sight, only to be visible to the people awaiting its arrival at its destination port.
But I like to think of it more as a journey. We hear the crunch of our feet as we meander along the path, past wonderfully scented bushes of honeysuckle, morning glory, carnations and -- of course --roses. We add walkers as their paths intersect with ours and enjoy the company, the warm sun, the breeze. Walkers come and go, each on their own journey. If we are exceptionally lucky, some people fall in step with us and head towards the same point on the horizon for most of our lives.
My mother walked with most of us in this room. Some of her friendships lasted over 60 years. Many of you have shared your gratefulness for sharing her journey. We are soothed and honored by that, by her faith in God's kingdom. Her church life brought forth a depth and breadth to her serving others. She visited those in need and the infirmed, not just once but over many months and years.
In the last weeks of her life, we had a lot of good talks. She told me that she doesn't think children ever really grow up. I smiled at that, thinking she must not have felt grown up or particularly brave, even at 79. I wondered if she wished we wouldn't grow up entirely, so she would always feel needed in the way she was when we were young.
I love that we live the legacy of our parents' lives. She is her mother's daughter, and her father's too. Parts of them are embedded in me, although I cannot know in what ways. She is visible in her family here today, in our giving natures, in the laughter and love of her grandsons who were the loves of her life.
She so wanted to see my boys marry and someday hold her great-grandchildren. But I know this: Before they are mine in this world to hold, my mother will know them in Heaven, rock them gently and sing, tell them funny stories about their fathers, and feel their smiles clutch her heart.
She won't miss a thing.
Apr 17, 2007
Angels
Some moments are just too extraordinary for words.
I was in a wicked travel schedule: from home (Sacramento County) to work (San Joaquin County) to Palo Alto (Stanford hospital) and back home every day. My dad had gone in for a pretty serious operation and had experienced a general system failure, was in the hospital for weeks on all sorts of machines.
Some days, it's as if the car drove itself there. Life became a blur of gas stations and freeways. I had my favorite stations where I'd always stop, the most convenient ones along the route. It seemed that 'jet fuel' (coffee) was the only way I was functioning at this point, so I always headed inside for a cup.
This one particular day my regular station in Tracy had yellow caution around all the pumps and appeared closed, so I headed down a mile and stopped somewhere new. I started the pump and went inside. An elderly woman stood beside me pouring herself a cup. I greeted her quietly and busied myself with filling my cup, hunting for cream, adding a sugar substitute, when I heard her quietly turn to me and ask, "Who in your family is sick?"
I stopped cold. I turned to her fully now, looking down at her round and beautiful face. She had dyed dark brown hair, curly and thin, was about 4' 11", with the most kind brown eyes. "My father," I replied, barely able to speak as my eyes brimmed with tears. "He is gravely ill."
She studied me for a moment and asked, "What is your father's name?" Tears now spilled down my cheeks as I said, "Charles." I choked it out, as she gave me a tender embrace.
We stood together in the check out line, our coffee cups in hand, and she turned to me one last time as she gave her money to the clerk. "I needed your father's name so I can pray for him." I felt a rush of relief as she gave me one more sweet hug before heading into her day.
I paid for my coffee, thinking I should have asked her name. I rushed outside to see if I could catch her, but she was gone. How did she know, I wondered. I thought of how unlikely it was that our paths crossed.
I hopped in the car and got back on the road but before leaving town decided to drive past the gas station I normally use. There was no caution tape anywhere. Cars filled the pumps just like any other time I've been there, nothing like it had been 15 minutes before.
A chill snaked up my arms. Angels are everywhere.
I was in a wicked travel schedule: from home (Sacramento County) to work (San Joaquin County) to Palo Alto (Stanford hospital) and back home every day. My dad had gone in for a pretty serious operation and had experienced a general system failure, was in the hospital for weeks on all sorts of machines.
Some days, it's as if the car drove itself there. Life became a blur of gas stations and freeways. I had my favorite stations where I'd always stop, the most convenient ones along the route. It seemed that 'jet fuel' (coffee) was the only way I was functioning at this point, so I always headed inside for a cup.
This one particular day my regular station in Tracy had yellow caution around all the pumps and appeared closed, so I headed down a mile and stopped somewhere new. I started the pump and went inside. An elderly woman stood beside me pouring herself a cup. I greeted her quietly and busied myself with filling my cup, hunting for cream, adding a sugar substitute, when I heard her quietly turn to me and ask, "Who in your family is sick?"
I stopped cold. I turned to her fully now, looking down at her round and beautiful face. She had dyed dark brown hair, curly and thin, was about 4' 11", with the most kind brown eyes. "My father," I replied, barely able to speak as my eyes brimmed with tears. "He is gravely ill."
She studied me for a moment and asked, "What is your father's name?" Tears now spilled down my cheeks as I said, "Charles." I choked it out, as she gave me a tender embrace.
We stood together in the check out line, our coffee cups in hand, and she turned to me one last time as she gave her money to the clerk. "I needed your father's name so I can pray for him." I felt a rush of relief as she gave me one more sweet hug before heading into her day.
I paid for my coffee, thinking I should have asked her name. I rushed outside to see if I could catch her, but she was gone. How did she know, I wondered. I thought of how unlikely it was that our paths crossed.
I hopped in the car and got back on the road but before leaving town decided to drive past the gas station I normally use. There was no caution tape anywhere. Cars filled the pumps just like any other time I've been there, nothing like it had been 15 minutes before.
A chill snaked up my arms. Angels are everywhere.
Heroes
I've been thinking a lot about recent conversations I've had with my mom and her perception about devotion and support. She has a very giving and kind heart, my mom; whenever anyone is in pain or ill or in need, she is the first visitor, first caller, first offer for a helping hand.
When life throws a curveball at someone we love, we all react differently. Many of us hide for fear of saying the wrong thing or, at the very least, withdraw slightly, trying to grip the issue and gain solid footing before offering our aide. We allow ourselves the 'out' by thinking we've got to be stoic and strong for their sake.
How easy that reaction is to misinterpret as not caring. The loved one who is struggling through the life crisis notices the phone is still. Wouldn't an outpouring of support in whatever form it comes be preferred, the front doorbell constantly ringing with the comfort of those whose lives we have touched and bettered?
To step forward, unafraid of the hard stuff, is to realize that life is all about the connectivity of spirit and humanity. If your heart is full, the moments you spend holding hands will help you find the words. It's a love thing.
Maybe that's what my wise mother learned about life so early on. Our society calls people like these nurturers, but I disagree: I think they're heroes in the truest sense of the word.
When life throws a curveball at someone we love, we all react differently. Many of us hide for fear of saying the wrong thing or, at the very least, withdraw slightly, trying to grip the issue and gain solid footing before offering our aide. We allow ourselves the 'out' by thinking we've got to be stoic and strong for their sake.
How easy that reaction is to misinterpret as not caring. The loved one who is struggling through the life crisis notices the phone is still. Wouldn't an outpouring of support in whatever form it comes be preferred, the front doorbell constantly ringing with the comfort of those whose lives we have touched and bettered?
To step forward, unafraid of the hard stuff, is to realize that life is all about the connectivity of spirit and humanity. If your heart is full, the moments you spend holding hands will help you find the words. It's a love thing.
Maybe that's what my wise mother learned about life so early on. Our society calls people like these nurturers, but I disagree: I think they're heroes in the truest sense of the word.
Apr 9, 2007
Tech Support
The Easter Sunday sermon was about the role the angels played in helping the witnesses understand the events surrounding Jesus' resurrection. The pastor likened them to a technical support team for God.
I like that analogy. What else is technical support than an external resource to help make sense of what we see but don't comprehend?
At work and play, the skills we've picked up along the way sometimes lands us in this role. We can program sprinklers and build fences, sail, sew, do taxes, teach and fix cars, run electrical lines, have a strong spiritual undercurrent, invent cool stuff. Everybody comes along nicely when we share our knowledge and expertise. It's not possible to know it all ourselves.
What a welcome relief for technical support when problems just won't solve themselves! When things loom large and we don't have the tools we need for the task, God's team is always at the ready. We just need to ask.
NMcC
I like that analogy. What else is technical support than an external resource to help make sense of what we see but don't comprehend?
At work and play, the skills we've picked up along the way sometimes lands us in this role. We can program sprinklers and build fences, sail, sew, do taxes, teach and fix cars, run electrical lines, have a strong spiritual undercurrent, invent cool stuff. Everybody comes along nicely when we share our knowledge and expertise. It's not possible to know it all ourselves.
What a welcome relief for technical support when problems just won't solve themselves! When things loom large and we don't have the tools we need for the task, God's team is always at the ready. We just need to ask.
NMcC
The Vigilant Gardener
Spring is a time of birth and rebirth, when nature wipes the slate clean and gives us a new beginning. Plants draw forth tender new shoots, hyper sensitive to the warm sun, the gentle breeze, the weight of the rain. They grow strong and purposeful in the fertile soil and climate.
Sometimes I feel myself growing that way, new gentle shoots opening to strengthen and beautify what is already there. My garden has had a grand show of tulips and daffodils, stately trees casting graceful shade, colorful verbena growing wild and plentiful, breathtaking rhodedendrons.
Yes, weeds, too. They begin like all the others as small green shoots, needing no tending, no special vitamins or care, no pruning. In a wild garden, the gardener does not know what the shoot will become: plucking it too early may uproot a beautiful rose or azalea. So we water it along with the rest, and watch it grow.
Those we love are drawn similarly into the garden of our heart, rooted deeply with enough sun and fertile room to flourish. The flower beds of our friends and family occasionally are marred by people who vie for nutrients and attention but diminish the garden. It's so hard at first to tell, isn't it, if they'll become a bird of paradise or a ragweed, so we welcome them in and tend to their needs, waiting to see what they become. A vigilant gardener will know when it's time to till the soil and pull up the roots of what doesn't belong.
Sometimes I feel myself growing that way, new gentle shoots opening to strengthen and beautify what is already there. My garden has had a grand show of tulips and daffodils, stately trees casting graceful shade, colorful verbena growing wild and plentiful, breathtaking rhodedendrons.
Yes, weeds, too. They begin like all the others as small green shoots, needing no tending, no special vitamins or care, no pruning. In a wild garden, the gardener does not know what the shoot will become: plucking it too early may uproot a beautiful rose or azalea. So we water it along with the rest, and watch it grow.
Those we love are drawn similarly into the garden of our heart, rooted deeply with enough sun and fertile room to flourish. The flower beds of our friends and family occasionally are marred by people who vie for nutrients and attention but diminish the garden. It's so hard at first to tell, isn't it, if they'll become a bird of paradise or a ragweed, so we welcome them in and tend to their needs, waiting to see what they become. A vigilant gardener will know when it's time to till the soil and pull up the roots of what doesn't belong.
Apr 7, 2007
Laugh Lines
My mother sat small in her chair as Hospice gently explained the support they will provide as we walk this path together. In one section of one of the myraid of forms, she was asked her age. Seventy nine, she answered. I saw her countenance change and her face draw into what I could not help but articulate in words. 'How'd THAT happen?' I exclaimed, and we all laughed!
That's really how it is, you know. What seems like infinite time when we sit cross legged in the sun playing Fish or Sir Hinkle Finiduster, during endless summer days of swimming and mosquito bites, and leisure time of learning how to shave our legs and wear stockings, is the blink of an eye.
The face reflected back at me is what I have gradually come to know as it has weathered and changed. To her, it is barely recognizable as the girl she knows herself to be.
The girl I am is here, too, as I study my reflection. I lean forward and draw my skin smooth. My mind jumps to staccato memories of finding a live lobster in the sink in the kitchen; my first love, first real job, first graduation, first home; catching a fish, horseback riding, scubadiving and snorkeling, kayaking, riding in a hot air balloon and playing a Native American drum, mothering. I close my eyes and feel all the hugs through the years of people long gone. Like the whip of a tail, life spins us around and snaps us ahead of ourselves.
I watch my mother's face come alive: her blue eyes sparkle as her face draws into well traveled laugh lines. She's earned these, I think: life has etched these, piled up moments of celebration and tenderness. She has lived.
That's really how it is, you know. What seems like infinite time when we sit cross legged in the sun playing Fish or Sir Hinkle Finiduster, during endless summer days of swimming and mosquito bites, and leisure time of learning how to shave our legs and wear stockings, is the blink of an eye.
The face reflected back at me is what I have gradually come to know as it has weathered and changed. To her, it is barely recognizable as the girl she knows herself to be.
The girl I am is here, too, as I study my reflection. I lean forward and draw my skin smooth. My mind jumps to staccato memories of finding a live lobster in the sink in the kitchen; my first love, first real job, first graduation, first home; catching a fish, horseback riding, scubadiving and snorkeling, kayaking, riding in a hot air balloon and playing a Native American drum, mothering. I close my eyes and feel all the hugs through the years of people long gone. Like the whip of a tail, life spins us around and snaps us ahead of ourselves.
I watch my mother's face come alive: her blue eyes sparkle as her face draws into well traveled laugh lines. She's earned these, I think: life has etched these, piled up moments of celebration and tenderness. She has lived.
Apr 1, 2007
Under Construction
I was stuck in traffic today, the kind of slowdown on the freeway that limps along at a snail's pace. I started out listening to music, switched to reading something from the glove box, and eventually gazed irritatingly at the sea of cars ahead. My mind wandered into imagining there was a significant hold up, say an accident requiring a dramatic rescue or an overturned big rig that had spilled its load of lima beans. I felt better, even noble, while I waited, thinking Hey, no problem: that can't be helped! The delay is totally understandable!
The belly crawl continued mile after mile, toward what eventually became three people on the side of the road in orange safety vests, one in the truck, one watching and one filling a little hole in the road on the shoulder. Excuse Me? When I had the chance, I put real ATTITUDE into dashing past with a sour look on my face. I wanted to scream: Hey there, you... yes you, look alive! Grab a shovel! Don't you see the disruption you are causing? Why isn't the guy sitting in the cab out there with the team, working to get it done? Tempis fugit.
Why are we so irritated by these kinds of things when we know everywhere in life is under construction? I worry that the modern pace of life has condensed situations and people into pixels that we have lost our compassion to know.
In news articles and online, I get a kick out of the 'Click here for complete story' prompt. How ridiculous a concept is that! Stories don't end: they, like us, begin small, as phrases, and mature into paragraphs, then into chapters which eventually transforms into a bestseller. Life comes as a full length feature with sequels, as life builds on life, family on family, holding the world. There are no cliff notes for it, no chance to read the last page to see how it turns out. Until the obit is written and the last page is penned, until the world comes to Parade Rest, it's all up for grabs.
Thank God for that.
The belly crawl continued mile after mile, toward what eventually became three people on the side of the road in orange safety vests, one in the truck, one watching and one filling a little hole in the road on the shoulder. Excuse Me? When I had the chance, I put real ATTITUDE into dashing past with a sour look on my face. I wanted to scream: Hey there, you... yes you, look alive! Grab a shovel! Don't you see the disruption you are causing? Why isn't the guy sitting in the cab out there with the team, working to get it done? Tempis fugit.
Why are we so irritated by these kinds of things when we know everywhere in life is under construction? I worry that the modern pace of life has condensed situations and people into pixels that we have lost our compassion to know.
In news articles and online, I get a kick out of the 'Click here for complete story' prompt. How ridiculous a concept is that! Stories don't end: they, like us, begin small, as phrases, and mature into paragraphs, then into chapters which eventually transforms into a bestseller. Life comes as a full length feature with sequels, as life builds on life, family on family, holding the world. There are no cliff notes for it, no chance to read the last page to see how it turns out. Until the obit is written and the last page is penned, until the world comes to Parade Rest, it's all up for grabs.
Thank God for that.
Mar 28, 2007
Step Off The Curb
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.
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 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
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