Type Cast

I'm not his type, so I'm told.

I can see that. I'm a Democrat so we can't discuss politics (you know how ex-Democrats can be). I run late and am forever getting lost except when I'm with the Human Garmin. It creeps me out he knows where I am when I'm lost in downtown Sac and he's sitting in the pool in Woodland with a Scotch.

Life is entertaining. Much to my chagrin, I'm a natural straight man for his bad puns and wicked wit. We talk passionately about history and literature, play cribbage cross legged while we sing 1960s songs. Sometimes I remember both the lyrics and the name of the group, but he always does.

My dog hairs up the place, swims in the pool, licks him awake. He likes Shakespeare and I'm thinking about liking movies. We saw Executive Action on TV the other night and talked about it for the whole next day. (Sorry, not you, Batman.)

His 'carefree' yard takes an hour a day because we went hog wild with container plants that now need to be watered and tended. We talk incessantly about how they're doing, our little plants that we fuss over like children, and gripe at each other about over- or under-watering as we drag them around the yard. The man uses a 5 gallon bucket to water, for crimeny sake.

We stroll around big issues a while before coming back to decide. There's no big past drama to haul out and beat. Disagreements seem to dissolve in the hot tub along with the rest of life's stresses (but God Help You if you wash two-day-old shorts draped over the bench ...)

Needs are small, dreams are big, and time seems long and leisurely. Come to think of it, he's not my type, either.

Frequency

When I close my eyes, time floats away. Life presses down these days, responsibilities and commitments fuzzy in the gray areas where I reside. How do I answer the echo?

I know lots of things, like compromise means meeting halfway and the spirit has to be fed; like church is good and hope is great; like honoring separateness strengthens both; and life boils down to trusting someone to know your heart and do right by it.

A Double-Yolked Egg

I work with an amazing group of people. For a multitude of reasons, we've all found our way to this place where we spend most of our time. We talk about that sometimes, how we landed here and why, but mostly we just appreciate that we did.

Each school has its own rhythm and sound as it gathers inertia to begin the new year. I find it funny that working in a similar environment led me to think the process would be similar. Hardly! There is a fluidity to tasks and roles here, a results-driven focus without speed limits or white lines. I sit in meetings with excitement - and terror - at the road ahead.

This is an academic Galapagos, where the only thing you can count on is change. The model by its nature constantly adapts and evolves with the changing needs of achievement. We do whatever it takes as long as it takes for student success.

There are long odds for a lot of our kids, who come from environments eroded by poverty, violence and academic failure. A good many don't live with their folks or family members and are several grade levels behind. They come to us not daring to believe they will achieve a high school diploma let alone go to college. But they soon discover there is no great mystique about college: it just takes their hard work, with our support and resources. College is in the cross-hairs every day and over time they empower themselves to view a world much bigger than they thought. College becomes an attainable goal.

So many changes are happening at work. There is so much to do to support and assist the school now that we have compressed jobs and responsibilities. I am disheartened by the enormous tasks, all critical, all requiring 150% effort. How will it not shove my life out of balance?

The students must feel this way at times. What gets them up every day to make it to school is the knowledge they are investing in themselves. They work hard, struggle, slip back, press forward, and we nurture and nudge them to 'Own It. Fix It. Learn from It. Thrive.' It's not easy for them, either.

So I've decided this year to let THEM motivate ME. If they can do it, so can I!

Aging

This: anonymous, sage.

Old Age, I decided, is a gift. I am now closest to the person I have always wanted to be.

Oh, not my body! Often I am taken aback by that old person that lives in my mirror but I don't agonize over it for long. I've become more kind to myself, my own friend. I don't chide myself for not making my bed or for buying that silly cement gecko that I didn't need, but looks so avante garde on my patio.

I will dance with myself to those wonderful tunes of the 60's & 70's, and if I wish to weep over a lost love, I will. I am at times forgetful but some of life is just as well forgotten.

Yes my heart has been broken, but that gives us strength and understanding and compassion. I am blessed to have lived long enough to watch my hair turn gray and for laugh lines to etch into my face. I've even earned the right to be wrong.

Age has actually set me free.

Look

I had an interesting thing happen this week. A conversation with one of the girls brought up some vivid memories of my past, some 40 odd years ago, and something similar to what she is experiencing now. My eyes instantly welled up, and I was flat amazed at how modern life could be so unrecognizable and at the same time so completely unchanged.

I know it seems like a shock when big things hit our lives, like it's come out of the blue. But maybe it's more that we haven't looked hard enough to see life moving along the whole time, quickening the pace between leaves raked up in piles. How could I not notice my dog sleep more of the day as her muzzle turns gray?

What I say is what I know from where I've been, that years of trial and error, loving and losing, risking and winning train the eye to see past the glitz and twirl of life to the constancy beneath. Our feet reach for it, to anchor there and find the best of ourselves and a sense of place.

Lava to the Sea

Last night, there we were, all squeezed into a little waiting room, working a crossword orally -- Say, does anyone know a 4 letter word for an African beast with the 3rd letter a U?

Kids were strewn around, making joyful noises as they played, adults reading and teasing one another with a childhood familiarity that was repeated on down the line. One strummed a guitar and before long everyone was humming and singing and remembering five different songs all at once.

It went on and on, this crecendo of life. No one came to scold us for being noisy in the middle of the maternity ward late on a Sunday evening. I enjoyed the ritual, the celebration. And when he arrived, our littlest guest, we crowded around the window in awe of his weight and length, joyous to be the welcoming committee for the newest person on earth.

Four generations in the room but the circle didn't feel complete. My heart was sad for those I have come to know and love. As closely as I identified with the experience, remembering the first touch of my babies, learning their scent, wondering about the magic tucked inside, I knew I wasn't the right mom. Where was the matriarch?

What came to mind was a trip a decade ago to the Kilauea volcano where it was making land from sea. It was a fiercely beautiful sight to stand on the hard, black lava that stretched its wrinkles of new land in all directions. Last night, I again experienced the sensation of utter desolation that accompanies change, wherever it's found.

Unabridged

It's been over a year now. Movies and lively conversations are as natural as if that's all it's ever been. I sit cross legged, singing along with Robert Preston's Music Man, feeling the uniqueness of an unfenced world.

Like a beautiful, warm shawl laying gently on my chilly shoulders at night, I dip my feet in the pool and watch the stars, free to say and do as I please, looking down from the hilltop at an unabridged me.

Where It's At

We were a little early yesterday. I don't like being early to parties because when I'm giving it, either me or the house isn't ready on time. No sooner had we pulled in under the tree then the screen door flew open and a little granddaughter hurled herself into my arms in a welcome hug. Talk about melt.

The Bucket List is out on DVD now, have you seen it? Great movie, that will carry you along, laughing, celebrating, rooting them on. Rob Reiner sure knows how to tap into the deepest, richest parts of the human experience.

We spent the entire weekend with family. Saturday for a funeral, followed by a birthday surprise party, and on Sunday a Father's Day BBQ for Dad and his sons and their families. The Bucket List kept coming to mind, the part about giving and receiving joy.

It's easy to fill a life with owning stuff and making money in a country like ours, where so many believe it measures success. But looking at the family together, laughing, loving, tossing water balloons, the footprints we've made in each other's hearts is what really matters.

I'm new to this family, so the hug felt especially wonderful as it washed over my heart.

Finish Strong

Someone once said he felt like a spectator in his own life. He'd been plenty of places, interesting ones, but he hadn't learned how to push off from the edge of that high wall where he dangled his legs, and into life.

Half a century of travels, building hearth and home, exploring parenthood, working hard, trying to fill the hours and days with joy and purpose, and in the stillness of my thoughts I still struggle with transitioning into a life now that my sons are grown. Can I really feel out of place in my own skin?

Life is waiting. Just lean forward and push off the wall and fly feet first into the stream, it says. The water will be cold and invigorating, so float with the current awhile, get the lay of the land, acclimate. Rapids and rocks litter the way but look for the beautiful coves with beaches and waterfalls just around the bend. The melody is enchanting, offering up a chance to swim strong against the current and change direction as you will.

Do you hear it? Push off, it whispers, push off.

Doves

Yesterday I found a Dove outside the bedroom window. She had evidently hit the glass and broken her neck. Her mate sat cooing in a nearby tree and watched as I carefully tucked her inside a plastic bag. He trailed along behind, tree to roof, calling to her as I walked to the front yard and discarded her body.

I really like Doves. A few years back, a Dove made a tidy nest on a shelf near our back door. It had a deep overhang and looked to be an ideal spot. We gave her a wide berth, using other doors to get to the back yard, and watched her dutifully sit on her nest. Her mate came and went, sitting on the three eggs while she fed herself, sharing the responsibility of parenthood.

One afternoon, without warning, a hawk flew under the awning, slammed into the kitchen windows and snatched the Dove right off her nest, scattering eggs and nesting material everywhere. It paused on the fence momentarily to gain a better grip of the Dove before flying off to enjoy its prey. Her mate returned each day for a week, searching for her, because he expected to find her -- because she'd always been there.

Partners for life! I wonder with human partners if they ever stop worrying about dangers before they happen and build on the moments of their lives believing in each other like that.

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.