Relay

When I signed up to be a committee member for the American Cancer Society Relay for Life, I didn't really know what to expect. Oh I was passionate enough. Trust me: Mom's cancer, and dad's, and two grandmothers, friends, and even a near miss myself was plenty of incentive.

As we poured over the details each step of the way, committee members scurried around so that walkers would be fed and hydrated and entertained and appreciated. There is great tedium in the shadow of something great and we tired of the process but we pressed on.

This year was a scorcher. Saturday to Sunday, for 24 hours tents of cheerfulness fought off the brutal 100 degree heat and transformed the football field and track into a collaboration of sights and sounds all working towards a cure. We had water balloon fights, squirt gun fans, we tossed cold water bottles to walkers on the track, cheering one another on. And we raised hundreds of thousands of dollars for cancer research along the way.

Neighborhood groups sang and danced and the DJ kept up the momentum. The Rotary and Lions fed us, teachers and students, businesses, city workers, churches, and survivors. And oh, when those Luminaria bags were lit, all decorated with the names of those who didn't survive, in honor and remembrance, it made me weep.

I love the hopefulness of Relay, the grassroots feel of committing a moment, a day, to making a difference. As I stood there in my Relay hat from 2002, with all the names of those I've loved and lost to cancer -- Mom and Dad, co-workers and friends -- I realized that all we have is this moment to be heard. We matter, all of those names and faces on the bags and all those faces that smiled back as I served them water or cleaned up their trash. And for that, we fight on.

Owning the Moment

The plan was to spend time with an intelligent man. We agreed to meet for dinner on a week night, and I was running late. I spotted him first, while dodging cars trying to park. He was seated outside, looking nervously first left then right for the spark of advantage, but the advantage was mine for having a few undiscovered moments to size him up. We disagree now on whether he had a beard (he didn't) and what I ordered at Borders (Chai tea) but not about the mutual surprise at our companionability. Sushi, books, and ideas: pretty potent stuff.

That evening - and hundreds more - have confirmed our suspicions, but it was that first night, standing by the car amid busy shoppers, where he gently rested his hand on my hip and owned the moment.

Now he tills the soil and I plant the blooms. His eyes twinkle in a tease and I try in vain not to finish his sentences. We punctuate our conversations with lyrics and discover places only two can go but haven't been. I love his laugh, that he still calls even before I get home, just like he did the night we met. That's just the way it's going to be, he says.

Thanks, babe.

AD

His daughter and I were playing around today with one of those silly questionnaires you get over the internet, you know the kind, what color of Crayola would you want to be and how far have you been away from home. When we got to the question about favorite smells, I offered up brownies, but she countered with the scent of her mother's perfume, even on clothes she wasn't wearing.

Oh those kinds of smells! My father's clean soapy scent is what I most loved, wrapped around me in that hug that went all the way around twice. His chuckle would reverberate though his chest and all the way to my toes. He'd gather us around and auspiciously push his spectacles down his nose as he read, his deep baritone voice booming with emotion as he'd glance up directly into our eyes, like a schoolteacher wanting us to listen. Oh, and we did.

It's 5 AD (After Dad), although it seems longer. I would give anything to sing another duet with him, live another day hearing his footsteps down the hall. I was at a crossroads once, the way she is now with her mom. How I hope she will someday look back without regret for finding the courage to chop on through to the clearing. It was worth it for me.

Breaking News

Funny: with all kinds of thoughts tumbling around, why is it so tough to write about the things that are most important?

The kindest, most loving person I've ever known announced his engagement last week; the guy I always knew would make a wonderful husband and father is taking the plunge! He taught me all about unconditional love. When other guys were torturing their little sisters, he was nice almost all the time. When life took a serious detour for my boys and me, he stepped up to the plate in a world where that's more an exception than a rule. It wasn't easy but it made all the difference in our lives that he did.

Engaged. This is World News Tonight News. Even for an explorer such as himself, he's in for quite a ride. Of all the remarkable memories in life, nothing compares with the Technicolor moment of giving your heart away.

It does seem like skipping over dinner by inheriting two daughters and sons-in-law and four grandbabies without being a father. Then again, I'm a long-time fan of dessert first.

Love and Congratulations, Jami and Don.

xo Nan xo

The Quiet Room

I recently came upon a half hour massage gift certificate from last year. Perfect! After checking in, the salon staff moved me to 'the quiet room' with a glass of water before meeting the masseuse. It really was nothing more than a darkened hallway of wraparound cushy chairs with a waterfall focal point and flute music playing softly in the background.

The chair made me think of being at home in my favorite writing spot. My barrel chair sits low to the ground and wide enough to fold my knees up to rest the computer. It's so low, in fact, the dog claims me on her turf and rests her head on the edge of my knee as I stroke her ears and write.

I've tried to write other places, and sometimes do, in coffee shops or at my home away from home, but it's better here.

There is great peace in the perspective of surveying my home from down low, a straight view end to end all the way to the front door. After dusk, I sometimes light candles and turn the lights down, listening to logs crackle in the fireplace or rain tapping on the skylight. During the day, light streams in the windows onto abundant houseplants. Appliances hum and walls creak, sounds as comforting to me as those in the spa.

'The world is too much with us', Wordsworth wrote. But in my quiet space, life stills, rebuilds, rebalances my spirit. I wish the dentist's office had that.

Mattering

She's a part of my life, this woman wrapped in a shawl that has holes and stains, as she looks out at traffic on Franklin Boulevard.

Her hair is brown, I think, as she sits nestled in the crease of a closed business with garbage bags guarding her space. No smile is on this wide and earnest face, as she studies traffic, facing the day. She does not notice that I drive a different car.

Sometimes she wears a beanie and other times, when the frost lingers on the windshield, she pulls the bags up around her to break the wind. I look in her face as I pass, slowing to make a turn onto 5th, noticing her not noticing me.

One day I will touch her hand and make her less invisible as I come to know her story. She is part of my world.

Bouquet

I planted bulbs over the weekend, cheerful red tulips trimmed in yellow, that had come in a beautiful glass vase where they sprouted indoors. Like things out of their element, they didn't last long: a few weeks they brightened the kitchen before pulling back into themselves.

Now in humble modesty they sit forgotten but to the gardener whose hands gently tilled the soil and buried them like gold in the yard, beneath summer verbena, cyclamen and orange crush that has claimed center stage.

The forward push towards heat, with slip-and-slides awash in daisies, dahlias and azaleas in rock gardens, promises hearty and prolific blooms. Beauty is everywhere and is joyfully carried along in our grasp, in vases, in lapels.

We too burst with energy, texture and color, only to acquiesce to the next blooms, knowing we all deserve our turn in the sun. Tulips nap and nourish themselves to be ready when their sturdy stalks must peek through to prove that the world will awaken. Being reminded that each of our contributions make the bouquet glorious is one of the best things about spring.

On the Way Home

Sunday began in the easy way it does with people close knit. Through the always-open front door marched family and friends, neighbors, kids and dogs, all with boisterous greetings that filled the house. Food was everywhere: on the table, the counter and sideboard, the stove. Spring dresses and hair bows (shoes, even) and guitars, coolers with icy beverages, a kiddie pool and bags of water balloons. It must be spring in a life of a young family!

Before jumping into the day, I took a little walk around the neighborhood, watching it bloom with families laughing and double parked, waving to neighbors in their small town way. Every single yard was ablaze with flowers of yellows and reds and blues and violets. Would life be like this every day if families weren't separated by freeways? I remember when life had this pace and the washing machine constantly ran.


Family clusters, we see it less and less. Life pulls us every which-way, and have come to think that only by striking out on our own can we truly become self reliant.

Multi-generational life would, I'm sure, focus our commitment more on the virtues and standards of the family unit. Knowing people that way, my sons and his daughters engaged in their lives - not just when the house is dusted and the fridge is full - would require a more developed interpersonal skillset. There'd be none of this no-talking feud business tolerated. I expect squabbles would be unilaterly handled in the same way children's squabbles are: toss them into a room together until they fight their way to peace.

How great that recitals and honor roll ceremonies would be attended on Wednesday afternoons and that the Vice Principal wouldn't strike terror in the hearts of our teens as much as fessing up to it at the dinner table.

Grandpa would be there to tuck a $20 into the palm of a kid heading off on a date, or pin a corsage on his granddaughter's Confirmation robe. Our natural treasures would know by heart the way to Grandpa's house because it would always be on the way home. Now that would be Heaven.

Percolating

The first day of spring always makes me think of birth. No, not as a metaphor: a real birth! I was in a labor room on this very day a short twenty three years ago, in the middle of the night, dancing the Charleston with Colette and awaiting David's leisurely arrival.

My doctor wasn't on call. The doctor hadn't been on call with my first son, either, so this time I met everyone in the practice. I mean, if they're reaching into my nether regions, I ought to have met them on a prior occasion right side up.

Well one must have been on errands, because about 3:30 am, this hippie guy breezed in wearing a sleeveless UC Berkeley sweatshirt, sweatpants, big hair and a dazzling smile. Let's get this show on the road! Was this an intern?

After hippie Doc explained his holistic approach to childbirth, he took my hand and gently talked me through it: slow and easy, and before I knew it a beautiful little boy was happily peeking at me through half closed eyelids in the crook of my arm. The only thing missing for Doc was a catcher's glove.

With a start like that, I should have figured my son would be amazing. He was the most naturally joyous and loving child I ever saw. His tender, inquisitive nature took life by storm. A natural athlete, statesman, banker, and friend, he thrived everywhere. Sensitive natures have ample challenges, and he was no different, but he kept at it, forcing himself forward, surrounded by the smartest and most dedicated friends, finding a way.

Personalities percolate over the years and become stronger, more robust. The wishes I always wished for him were to have a dream to pursue, a happy life to live, and be a good man in word and deed. Since he's already doing that, I'd better just wish him a happy birthday and remind him how much he is loved.

Keeping Score

I watched a boys basketball team recently compete for the state title. In a sea of purple movements, we bore witness to life choreographed in wild cheers and discordant sighs. On a sunny afternoon on a gleaming court, the tangible results of extended fingertips and thundering shoes boiled down to eighteen years and now-or-never seconds.

Our hearts beat just as hard in our chests as those young men striding the court. We, too, leaned into the action and leapt anxiously to our feet with flawless layups by the enemy team. We rallied with each swish of the basket and felt the prick of discouragement with each bad call.

How clear these moments are, when we are catapulted toward - or away from - the grit to press on. One way or another, life draws us to our knees in prayers of thanksgiving or humility.

Home.

An essential spot, here in this place where I know all its faults. Latte colored walls and unopened mail gives rest and contemplative time for things otherwise. The homecoming is all the more sweet because I pull away.

There are secrets. Daffodil bulbs jump the gun with a few warm days in February and get pummeled by spring downpours each year. They were planted just left of center so from my favorite chair I could watch them find the strength to survive. Under bed covers on chilly November days, the tree flames crimson before it scatters across the lawn. Westminster chimes echo through the house and it awakens me at two, but wondrously not at three or four.

Kitchen chair legs are just the right diameter to grip with my toes as I lean into a game of cribbage or wrestle with a passage of text. In the background, the rhythmic whirr of the dog's breathing inventories the comfort of being somewhere that knows me best.

Sparklers

A lost spirit fills the house with joylessness. Where is his sparkle, I wonder, the crackle missing as I watch him in repose. Seeing Kaitlan and he tucked into a movie on the sofa wraps itself around the quiet lonely struggle to yield to what is.

Fallout. Reconciliation.

I hear and know that love means adapting -- changing -- metamorphizing. Forward and back, it draws me between the me-ism world and balance. Sustainable, endurable, transcendable love is the culprit. is it also the cure?

March 3rd

She would have been eighty today, I mull over as I get ready and head off to work. I put out the dog and notice daffodils from bulbs she bought me two years ago are in full bloom, obviously confused by a few wintery warm days.

I'd have called her first thing, wrestled with a gift idea, marshaled the forces for a strong show for a get-together. She'd have repeated the mantra -- 'I don't need anything, just all of you here' -- as if that wasn't a feat in itself with grown sons immersed in their lives.

It's strange to have March 3rd come and go without her. I thought this day was only for her. Happy Birthday, Mom.

The Pencil Can

Tonight I noticed a button-covered pencil can that my son made in cub scouts. I remember that art project with 9 second graders on the portable table in the garage. They had just run themselves silly with a game of freeze tag and had settled into the task of making a Christmas gift for their moms. They were hunched over a thousand buttons as they glued them to their cans and a reward of warm cookies when they were through.

When my wonderful mother-in-law died, I acquired her button collection. She used to say, you never know when you'll need a button, so she saved them all of her life. While everyone was diving for the sterling and jewelry, I was happy to dump the box on the bed and spread it out in a wide arc.

It was glorious. They were every color of the rainbow, thousands of them, all shapes and textures and sizes. I set to work sorting by color, then size, then shape, then fabric. That didn't work! There were glass, metal and plastic ones, too, and matchless ones. I'll bet she was the only person to keep those little plastic extra buttons bags that come with garments bought at Macy's ...

I rolled the barrel shaped wooden buttons around in my hands, imagining them on 1950s car coats or Irish cardigans. I visualized her in red lipstick, a total knockout on New Years Eve in a red cocktail dress with those red satiny teardrop shaped buttons up the back. The gold fleur-de-lis designs were from scout uniforms and I carefully examined the uneven holes bored into abalone shell buttons.

This is Rina's vapor trail. And here, on the desk in my bedroom, signed in wiggly penmanship by my 7 year old son, it pulls a smile to my lips.

Own It; Fix It; Learn from It

I had a conversation this morning with a friend who said he didn't like the elitist idea of a charter school and that we essentially toss students into a failing public school system that is powerless to help itself. You know, I've worked in public schools a really long time - for 14 years - and now in a charter, and I don't see that at all.

Admittedly, public schools are struggling under the weight of trying to become more effective. The current system is successful with a lot of students, but not all. To adapt to the growing diversity of our culture, honors programs, and Title I programs, ELD, and academies have been added to the curricula.

Within the walls of every school, whether private or public, are thousands of talented, creative, committed staff who knock themselves out every day to provide opportunities for students. All the training in the world will not help a child who consciously chooses to fail, and there are many of those.

I get that our country feels the enormous impact of an undereducated workforce, but the hard truth is schools are only a part of the overall problem. The nuclear family has eroded. The family that used to cluster and collaboratively raise a child is less common now. Financial concerns pull adults out of the home and family time is in shorter supply. Religious influences are less evident, and kids are making choices for themselves that are hard to undo.

What this is about is taking responsibility for our choices, whatever they are. If a student chooses to fail, in an environment where tutoring help and caring, devoted teachers are present, that's on them. And if a student wants to learn, but can't in the environment they're in, that's where a charter school comes in. Charters are public schools that offer a free, alternative academic environment. They are all unique. Where I work, there are no boundaries keeping students away. Neighborhood kids and those from across town are welcome as long as they have a desire to work hard and honor the school culture. There are other places to go if they do not.

Schools were never designed to tackle the social ills of our society and yet can't help but be influenced by them. I see absolutely no reason why we can't ask our children to learn the lesson we were taught, namely You Reap What You Sow. They'll make mistakes along the way -- join the club! But they have to own their choices and behavior before they can fix it and learn from it. That's just as important as math as they prepare themselves for life.

The Be Anything Box

I'm pretty far along in life to feel a sense of beginning, but there you are. The laughter of life has preceded this moment, watching the blur of childhood that still energizes the air anytime it whizzes by with high pitched voices in the midst of play. The voices of my children resonate in quieter baritone and bass now and I wonder if it's really possible that I am fifty something and in love.

We mid-life couples have a tall task as we find a niche in a fully formed unit. It requires a suprising amount of tact and patience! We've got all this life experience and know our own minds, so there seems no reason to dally, but that's not entirely how it works for the family. They need to be gentled to the idea, over countless humid and lazy summer afternoons on the back porch, sipping mint juleps and watching honeysuckle bloom.

Playing in the 'Be Anything Box', we find it hard to wait.

You haven't heard? The BeAnythingBox is in a corner of the house and is stuffed with everything you imagine would be there: prom dresses, feather boas, cowboy hats, tool belts, mortarboards, word searches, magnifying glasses, military uniforms, chef aprons and executive briefcases. It is chock full of art and books and music waiting to be set free. You can be a footsoldier one day, an International photographer the next, and after that a Queen...

Kingdoms are built with sheets draped over the dining room table. After a tiring day of discovering Shakespeare and stars, excavation dirt during the archaeological dig in the garden would need to be scrubbed off to be ready for story time and sweet nighttime hugs.

And when we have outgrown it, the BeAnythingBox lives on in our hearts. It's in the amazing world of college and trips to pyramids and the Sistine Chapel. It's in the burst of excitement with diving a shallow wreck or standing in the foyer of Westminster Abbey or lying on a sunny beach in Fiji. It's in the warm embrace of those we love most and holding a newborn in our arms. It is the music of our lives and -- like love -- is sweetest when we savor it tender and slow.

The History of Aprons

This is one of those emails that comes along anonymously but has great wisdom and heart. I hope you enjoy it. Let me know if you learn who wrote it!

The principal use of Grandma's apron was to protect the dress underneath, but along with that, it served as a potholder for removing hot pans from the oven. It was wonderful for drying children's tears, and on occasion was even used for cleaning out dirty ears.

From the chicken coop, the apron was used for carrying eggs, fussy chicks, and sometimes half-hatched eggs to be finished in the warming oven.

When company came, those aprons were ideal hiding places for shy kids. And when the weather was cold, grandma wrapped it around her arms.

Those big old aprons wiped many a perspiring brow, bent over the hot wood stove. Chips and kindling wood were brought into the kitchen in that apron. From the garden, it carried all sorts of vegetables. After the peas had been shelled, it carried out the hulls. In the fall, the apron was used to bring in apples that had fallen from the trees.

When unexpected company drove up the road, it was surprising how much furniture could be dusted in a matter of minutes. When dinner was ready, Grandma walked out onto the porch, waved her apron, and the men knew it was time to come in from the fields to dinner.

It will be a long time before someone invents something that will replace that "old-time apron" that served so many purposes.

Tortuga Sea Return (by Marcie Barr)

Well every trip always has that special moment ... there is always a story.... and it just had not arrived yet.

As we stayed at the Tree Tops beach cabanas, we heard about Ernesto, a Mexican man that lives down the beach caretaking a casa for the owner who lives in Rome. He and his wife live in a very small living quarters in the bottom of the house. Jeffrey, the owner of Tree Tops, had been hatching sea turtle eggs from the beach and returning the small turtles to the sea.

Ernesto had arrived on the beach one day with a bucket of turtle eggs to try and sell to Jeffrey and he said he would buy them everyday, and in this way the two became friends. In a small portable plastic pool sea turtles were raised to return them to the sea. Each morning Ernesto would walk at 5AM to get the eggs before the poachers got to them. As friends do, Jeffrey taught Ernesto how to care for the turtles.

Jeffrey, after many years, could no longer give time to the turtles, for it meant changing the pool water with many 5-gallon buckets suspended from his shoulders from a stick. He passed on and entrusted the task to Ernesto and his wife. This man, who once gathered the eggs to sell to feed his family, now brings them to his small turtle care area and nurtures and protects them until it is time for their return to the sea. For this act from the heart they receive no monetary compensation. His family lives on $80 per week.

Well, as the story goes, we received a phone call that turtles were going to be released the day before we were to return to the States. Hurriedly we went down to the beach to the funky blue plastic swimming pool and there were small little sea turtles everywhere swimming around.

We slowly counted them out, as is required by the license Ernesto has, and placed the tiny turtles into buckets. We then walked out to the beach and, standing in the pounding waves, we carefully placed the tiny turtles into the sea and watched them as they eagerly swam out to the open sea saying, I am sure, "Now this is a BIG pool!" The sunset was fire red as the little turtles disappeared into the surf.

It was a magical, experience of a lifetime to enable these small -- someday to be large -- creatures a helping hand into the sea. My heart soared as their little flippers moved so swiftly. What a gift to experience nature at such a level.

The next morning I returned to their humble home and thanked them for their work with the turtles. I told them how important their mission was and I appreciated the fact that they wholeheartedly embraced their choice, their task. I gave them a small amount of money to help with this cause and I was grateful to this man and his wife for contribution to the regeneration of the sea turtle.

Last year they released 20, 000 turtle back to the sea.

My wish is to find these people a Quad that Ernesto could use to search for turtle eggs. My hope is that this would be gifted to them in some way. This is the story of one man's effort to make a difference and it is the story of coming full circle. And so I will search the Internet for turtle foundations and I will share this story hoping it will hit a heart string and by some miracle this man will receive help to continue his cause.


Our lives are really one long story .... and I always love reading the next chapter....

Para Vida

Marcie

In Capable Hands

It seems like folks talk with such discouragement when the topic of the future generation comes up. They criticize their selfish, lazy need to be entertained. They say the youth of today lack sticktoitiveness.

Really.

A friend's daughter asked me to write her a letter of recommendation for her high school English class. As I was preparing the letter and reflecting on her accomplishments to date, it became apparent that Sara's life has not been privileged or struggle-free. She wrestled with ADHD and had great difficulty in school until she matured. Her hard-working single mom couldn't afford the typical perks of teenage life: disposable income, a car to drive, cool vacations. She had an in absentia father.

So for all those Chicken Littles who think the sky is falling, this little exercise left me feeling encouraged about the new generation.

I have known Sara for seventeen years, watching her grow from an inquisitive toddler into the fine woman she is today. She has persistently worked to develop the study habits to succeed in high school. She is curious, intelligent and an independent thinker. Her broad interests include the Japanese culture and language, medicine, music, and dance.

Sara is a leader. It has been a joy watching her challenge herself both in and out of the classroom. Sara naturally gravitates to challenging coursework and excels at things she finds interesting. She is currently taking two AP courses and intends to sit for exams in those areas in the spring.

Socially, Sara has participated in the UOP summer music camp during the summer after 8^th grade, followed by a stint with the Sacramento Junior Symphony for French Horn, followed by teaching herself clarinet so she could be in the high school marching band.

Sara spoke before the Japanese Consulate in San Francisco in 10^th grade, memorizing a speech she wrote and delivered in fluent Japanese. She and her family have hosted two Japanese foreign exchange students and she will participate in the Osaka/Elk Grove Cultural Exchange Program this summer. Sara is taking Spanish this year, in addition to Japanese 4, because she believes a working knowledge of Spanish is particularly helpful in our multi-cultural state.

It’s hard to imagine Sara would be able to maintain a 3.9 grade point average with all of these outside interests, but she does. She also finds time to participate in the Japanese Club (as club President for two years), the Medical Careers Club and the Anime Club (as club President for two years).

Probably her most compelling focus is in the area of medicine. She enthusiastically studies and grasps complex medical terminology and procedures. She has been a volunteer at UC Davis on Thursday nights since April 2006. She is particularly excited to have developed a rapport with the nursing staff that allows her to assist the doctors during her shift. It is her desire to attend the University of California, San Francisco, to study medicine and specialize in trauma surgery.

Is there anybody out there who really thinks she's not going to achieve her goal?

Three Hundred and Sixty Five Days

It's the new year now.

Last year was 'The Year of Change' if you think it's possible to pin a theme on a moving target.

In 2007, I stepped out of the workforce and into a writer's world. I wrote and schemed and reflected every day. I explored the online world as friendships flourished and I discovered writers and other intellectuals traveling their own journeys.

But back on Earth, some family and friends worried and wondered what had become of the practical girl with workaholic tendencies who seemed to have just stopped short. They assumed depression or discouragement was the cause of such idle time. Why wasn't I volunteering or something? Others knew what I knew, that time on a journey is always well spent because time is more of a noun than a verb.

The last year, I traveled to Utah and Colorado and New Mexico to discover unexplored parts of myself. I cast off self-imposed boundaries and flew free, finding courage and insight in places I had to see to believe.

I shrugged off disappointments and patiently waited for God to lead me through helping my mother make her way from life to afterlife. He gave me the amazing gift of being able to throw my whole heart into my mother without her throwing it back. It brought a deeper, abiding love for my Aunt and Uncle, whom I admire and adore.

It brought a friendship with Texas Tim and his spirituality that deepened my faith. It brought Susan's friendship to an entirely new level, one that has enriched my life and challenged me. It brought me the knowledge that Colette's depth of love and friendship is more profound than I could have ever imagined.

It smoothed the transition from daughter to woman with a clearer perspective and balance. And all of these things together opened my whole heart so Randy could become the keeper of my dreams.

There is no doubt 2008 will be the joyous next chapter in the journey of three hundred and sixty five days that changed the course of my life.