Hallelujah

Hallelujah is a richly beautiful song, words and music written by the very talented writer, poet and musical artist, Leonard Cohen. Recently featured in the animated film, Shrek, I became aware of the song as it served as an emotional backdrop in an episode of The West Wing called Posse Comitatus.

So many artists have performed or recorded this track...Sheryl Crow, Bon Jovi, Sammy Haggar, Rufus Wainwright to name a few. My personal favorite is the performance by KD Lang that I happened upon while perusing YouTube. Deeply interpretative, each artist infuses a great deal of emotion into their performance of this song. Many honoring it's beauty in the interpretation and revealing a part of themselves in the process.

Not having the benefit of reading Leonard Cohen's account of his own meaning in the lyric, one still cannot miss the range of emotion present in the melody. Add the lyric and layer after layer of beautiful emotional challenge washes over me as I listen to it

At the heart of the track is the seeming presence of a higher power, at least I think so. When I listen to it I feel my own Maker's presence, silently wondering, sometimes painfully, how I came to be on the road I travel and whose choice put me there...His or mine.

The thought is a humbling one and I find myself giving over when I listen to the piece. Giving over to accept, albeit begrudgingly, my Maker's will. I'm reminded by the music to accept what things I'm given, things that are not mine to choose but nonetheless are mine to live. I surrender to it, accept it as my fate. His will. Thy will be done.

So it is in this particular song, in this beautiful and rich confessional, that I find myself free from resistance. I will lay in the dark, the music serving as my own personal emotional backdrop , and I make my examination. I look at all that has gone wrong, I look at all that is wrong and all that I want so badly to not have as mine to endure and I let it go. I let this music wash over me and take with it all of my resistance, I accept. Thy will be done.

There's a blaze of light in every word

It doesn't matter which you heard

The holy or the broken Hallelujah

and even though it all went wrong

I'll stand before the Lord of Song

With nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah

That's my own personal interpretation Mr Cohen

Hallelujah

Indeed

Still Have't Found It

Tonight I was delighted when a friend reminded me to tune into HBO's 25th Anniversary Rock and Roll Hall of Fame Concert. In all of the comings and goings this holiday weekend I had forgotten about the show. I tuned in midstream but didn't think about what I missed so much as what I saw. Oh what I saw.

I love music, all kinds of music, but most of what was featured prominently in this performance was the very powerful and especially influential music I grew up on. There was a lot of old school, social conscious, envelope pushing, anti-establishment artistic beauty that I so love to listen to....even today.

Of course the artists have aged, significantly, from their most glory days. Patti Smith in black leather hot pants was a rather interesting sight truth be told. Ozzy Osborne's F-bombs seemed so uneventful and deadpan due to the over exposure to such things these days. Mick Jagger's swagger and strut was less sexual than it once was and it took me a while to realize that Lou Reed was, in fact, Lou Reed.

The themes have evolved significantly as well. John Fogarty's Fortunate Son had a very different meaning on it's first run. Instead of the Fortunate Son evading service in Vietnam, that Fortunate Son got us right into the thick of things the last eight years. Of course Everyday People would have been spot on appropriate considering, but alas Sly and the Family Stone were not in the house. It seems the rock and roll establishment doesn't really want to speak on that one too much.

For me, however, the moment that I enjoyed most was Bruce Springsteen joining Bono for a duet of sorts on I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For. Now Bono makes my knees weak to begin with....always has. Let's face it, an Irish Rock and Roller singing about love, using heavy religious metaphors, makes me practically swoon. Rebellious, yet faithful. The belief in love but doubtful of it's existence...simply exquisite for the Catholic in me to behold. Add Bruce Springsteen's throaty rasp singing the lyric and I was transported someplace I haven't been in quite a while.

The entire exercise reminded me of why I like music so much, why it's always playing in my background. Songwriting is musical poetry, words crafted to express the heart of the poet and meant to make us explore our own heart as well. Words that pushed and pulled at my heart over the years. Words that made me look deep and look hard...at myself mostly. Words that reached in and pulled out feeling and emotion that would have laid silent if not for their existence. Words that remind me of my life, my past and my future. Words that after all these years I still listen to.

After all, as Bono says, I Still Haven't Found What I Am Looking For.
Indeed

Searching For The Draw

One of my favorite films is a little known work called, Searching For Bobby Fischer. It's the true story of child chess prodigy, Josh Waitzkin and his parent's journey to find balance in accepting his phenomenal gift while allowing him to experience a normal childhood.

I have seen the film several times. There is one exchange in particular that I always enjoy watching it's unfolding.

"Josh", in a championship chess match against another budding chess master, realizes that he's out-maneuvered the boy and extends his hand. He simply and quietly whispers, "Draw". His opponent is perplexed at first and then irritated. He came to win the tournament, not settle for a draw. That is what he's been taught.

The boy says, "Draw? You've got to be kidding." and Josh replies, " You've lost. You just don't know it." The boy is exasperated now and he says, " I've lost? Look at the board." Quietly Josh says, " I have. Take the draw, and we'll share the championship....Take the draw." He says it because that is what he's been taught.

Later, in a tender moment with his Dad, Josh tells him softly, "I tried to give him a way out". Josh's Dad hugs him close and says, "I know you did".

Beautiful exchange. Josh's parents want him to realize his potential but at the same time want him to embrace humility. They want him to understand his gift but not have it define him. He is so much more than his gift.

This wonderful exchange reminds me of the importance of offering a draw sometimes...even when we have clearly won. I like to think that I can offer that draw, that I can reach beyond my need to be right and not have to knock back a person in order to feel strong. I like to think that I am strong enough to not win sometimes.

Giving another person room to step back and regroup can make all of the difference in the world in a relationship. Giving them room to step back and come to terms with their position, having the grace to be still and quiet and let them arrive at a place that they are able to retain their pride, retain their dignity, is a position of incredible strength and compassion. For it is in this moment, in this time, that two people can face each other and one can acknowledge that it isn't about which one of them that wins, which one is right. It is in this moment between these two people that one of them understands that it's simply about offering a draw. One of them is strong enough, loves the other enough, to offer a draw.

One of them might just be strong enough.

You just don't know it yet.

Indeed.

I Never Needed It More...

I had another birthday this week. My birthday is the one day I truly sit back and revel in my good fortune. The one day I count my blessings....every single one of them. Unabashed and unashamed I let the good wishes and love my family and friends offer drench me from head to toe. It feels so good, I need it so much.

I have always felt rich in family and friends but it was ever so evident this week. I appreciated every card, note and gift I received. I cherished every gesture no matter how great or how small. They told me something. Told me that I am cared for, appreciated, loved.

These last months have been challenging for me. So many things have been out of balance and often I have felt out of sync. So it is these gestures that lift me and sustain me. They remind me that I do not walk this path of mine alone. It's not often that I flounder as I have been. It's unusual for me to show a proverbial hair out of place. So I am ever more appreciative for having those who take time for me, take time to make sure I know they care. Take time to celebrate a day that is special for me.

I never needed it more....
Indeed

Fumble!

My youngest had a bad night Friday. He got into the Varsity football game for a few minutes at the end of the 4th quarter. The team had a comfortable lead and the coach was playing the younger kids. The trouble hit when he snapped a ball to the quarterback who bobbled it and dropped it. The fumble turned the ball over and my youngest was back on the sidelines.

He was uncommunicative on the ride home from the game. He simply did not want to talk and stared straight ahead. Apparently he'd been beating himself up over the fumbled ball and had decided it was his fault that the quarterback dropped it. He was embarrassed, he felt badly. He knew everyone saw it. One of the few things he said... was the thought that everyone saw it made him feel so stupid.

When we pulled into our driveway I had had enough. I felt badly and didn't think he should be so hard on himself and told him so. I told him that he was going to fumble many more balls during his playing years. I told him everyone fumbles, the best players fumble. It's a mistake but it's going to happen. No one means to fumble. I know he's heard this all before but I still needed to say it. Don't be so hard on yourself.

The truth of the matter is that, in life as well, everyone fumbles....not just football players. We all do. Later that night I lay in bed thinking about all of the things I had fumbled in my life. It's not easy to look back at some mistakes. Sometimes the memory is as painful as the event itself. I felt some familiar stings as I recalled particularly troublesome fumbles I'd made in the past. Things I wish never happened, things I wish I could forget, things I wish no one else knew about.

Fumbling isn't so bad when no one knows, no one sees. We can retreat and recover privately. We can take a shot at redeeming ourselves with no one the wiser. No one waiting and watching to see if we fumble again. Private fumbles can be brushed off and we can move on with no one but ourselves to face.

Public fumbles are quite another matter. Sometimes we see the grimace on another's face, hear their disappointment as we bobble and drop our "ball". We feel that white hot burst in our stomach as we struggle to keep our composure. We try so very hard to keep our head up as we walk on, as our faces burn with the thought of feeling so exposed. We beat ourselves up because we know people saw us. People saw us fumble.

Sometimes just remembering the fumble, brings back the shame, brings back the embarrassment. Remembering that someone saw it is difficult to bear. Sometimes there are people who can't resist reminding us of our fumbles, reminding us that they saw it. Some people just can't resist taking a measure of pleasure from another's mistake, another's misstep. They watch and judge as if they never have made a mistake themselves. As if they don't know the feeling.

Unfortunately not everyone fumbles under bright lights with a big crowd watching....but they should. Everyone should. Just so they know what it feels like.

Indeed.

Who Wrote The Book Of Love?

I saw one of those online Q&As this week that travel through the Internet. This particular one listed a series of partial statements like I wish, I want and I am, and the exercise was to complete the statement. One of the statements was I wonder and the response I saw that interested me was ... Who wrote the book of love.

I found that response both clever and interesting. Clever because it was a nod to the 1950's hit by the Monotones, I Wonder Who Wrote the Book of Love. Interesting because it made me think about who it was that wrote my own book. Immediately in my mind I thought ... I hope there is a sequel.

I have read many books over the years and, often as I read that last sentence at the ending I would wish there was more to the story. I wish for more if the ending was not a good one because I usually want things to work out for the characters. I want them to end up happy. I wish for more when the ending is happy...because I want to experience that happiness with the characters for a time. I want to see evidence that things can and do work out...even if it is in just fiction. I like it when a writer will leave that door open just a crack, just enough to allow for possibility. Just enough to allow for something more. I like to believe there might be more to come. More to come... someday.

I have the same wish about life and about love. I hope there is a sequel because I always want things to work out. I hope the possibility of a different ending is left open. I hope that there is another story that hasn't yet been told. A better story, a more satisfying story. A real love story.

Who wrote the book of love?

I didn't write it but I do hope there is a sequel.

Indeed.

Getting Out of Your Own Way

Get out of your own way.

If I had a dollar for every time someone has said that to me I'd have a stash of cash worthy of any smart mobster's wife. I digress.

I think the reason certain individuals have had occasion to tell me to get out of my own way is because they seem to think that I am standing in the way of my own success, standing in the way of my own happiness. That I am holding myself back from achieveing the things I want in life. That couldn't be further from the reality that is my life. Couldn't be further from the truth.

One does not necessarily need to run at full throttle toward what it is they want. Sometimes good sense and wisdom cautions a slow step, an almost snail's pace, in order to temper reason and validate the direction one's path might travel. Sometimes standing stock still, directly in ones own path, assures a mistake-proof journey at the end of the day, assures that the path will continue. When one stands still the chance for missteps, the chance to fall off of cliffs, the chance to be derailed decreases exponentially. At least I think so.

Then again...there is something to be said for getting out of your own way. Sometimes you aren't the only person you are holding back. Sometimes there is someone standing with you, someone by your side, someone who walks the journey with you. Sometimes the kindest thing a person can do is get out of their own way and let the other keep going, let the other pass by. Let the other reach their own happiness and contentment.

Sometimes the greatest act of love is a simple sidestep that allows another a clear path, a smooth journey of their very own.

Getting out of the way either clears the path for them to move on, or gives them room to turn back and say, "come with me".

Sometimes you just have to get out of the way.
Indeed

Puddle of Love

A Puddle of Love. I was immersed in a Great, Big Fat Puddle of Love this weekend.

My daughter and her fiance hosted an engagement party at their home this weekend. It was a semi casual event with approximately 85 guests in attendance. The party was held outdoors under a tent with tables elegantly decorated in whites and silvers and purples, tall white pillar candles, and white rose petals scattered about. White twinkly lights sparkling here and there on a crisp night made it all the more magical.

The reason I was in that Puddle of Love was because love was everywhere I looked. We came together to celebrate this next step in the lives of this couple...so dear to us on many levels. My daughter's housemates from college, all five, drove from New Jersey to be with her. Each one took a moment to talk to me and express joy at her choice of husband as well as relief that she didn't marry the boy we were afraid she would have. They love her so they were worried then, they love her so they were here this weekend.

The Puddle was there from watching my Dad, just out of the hospital. He was enjoying spending time with his family and especially his sister who drove up from Virginia because she loves her brother... and she loves us all as well.

Watching my Dad sneak into the house to watch Notre Dame football on TV with my sons who love him so much...more love puddling between them. Setting out the food, most of it catered, but with special dishes that my daughter's girlfriend cooked for her because she loves her. Puddles.

Sitting outside watching some of the neighbor's children join the party made more puddles. They love her and call to her when she's outside so she was gracious and invited them to come over. Most people who meet my daughter love her, she's just a sweet soul and you love being near her. Watching my future son in law glance at her with an unmistakable look of love when they opened their gifts. That Puddle grew.

The biggest Puddle came at the end of the evening. My husband was marveling at the size of the party and the amazing job our daughter did to bring it all together. We were talking quietly, discussing how the event went. He leaned close and said, "she's just like you...look at her". He put his hand on my back and squeezed my shoulder. That Puddle of Love grew deeper from the happy tears that started to flow.

Puddle of Love

Indeed

Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep...

Now I lay me down to sleep
I pray the Lord my soul to keep.
If I should die before I wake
I pray the Lord my soul will take.

Matthew, Mark, Luke and John
Bless this bed I lay upon.

Mother Mary, full of grace, watch me as I sleep.
Amen

This was the prayer I recited each and every night from the time I was about four years old until I was a grown woman. My three children recited the same prayer as I had taught them.

I can recall lying in bed, tucked into the soft cocoon of blankets, with only a strip of light visible from the tiny crack my mother would leave my door ajar. She kept a night light on in the upstairs hall and it projected a soft and low glow in the room. I liked being able to see the statue of the Blessed Mother I kept on my nightstand. It made me feel safe knowing she was right there. Especially since I asked her each night to watch over me.

As I grew older my prayers evolved. I never wasted a good prayer on frivolity. We're Irish and if nothing else we're practical about such things. One can dream about a great many things but I never could bring myself to ask God for something so frivolous as the red crushed velvet coat in the window at the Boston Store. Nor did I ask to pass tests, get picked for cheerleaders, or other good fortunes. I figured God would not award selfishness so I kept it simple. My prayers, practical as they were, revolved around my family life. I was manic that we would all be safe and sound and far from harm.

Growing up in the sixties even the most vigilant parents could not keep dreadful news from tender ears. Our country's leaders were assassinated, three Mercury astronauts perished in a fire on the launch pad at Cape Canaveral, a war in Vietnam was raging and young men from my town were killed. I had a lot of worry swirling around me so I prayed that no one in my family would be shot, die in a fire or be sent to war. I thought that covered it.

Then in the fifth grade my grandfather passed away and I prayed that my family would all live a long long time....longer than me because I didn't want to lose anyone else. In the sixth grade a girl in another Catholic school was followed by a man and killed on her way home from school. I started to ask God to keep me safe. My prayers were getting even longer.

In the 9th grade a boy in my high school was killed in an auto accident so I prayed no one I cared about would be in a car crash. In 10th a boy I had a crush on died from Hodgkin's Disease and I prayed no one in my life would get cancer. That same year my best friend's mother went to sleep one night, shortly after Christmas, and never woke up again. She had an aneurysm. Around this time I was praying for my friends now along with everyone else. That prayer grew and grew and grew. So many things worried me and I prayed about them all.

Much later, when I married, I prayed for my husband. I prayed that he would be safe, prayed that he would always love me and I prayed that I would pass away before he did because it was unimaginable that I would be without him. I prayed incessantly when my children arrived, sometimes to the exclusion of all else. I prayed, and I prayed..."Don't let anything bad happen to us".....

In that bed, in the dark, I said my prayers each night, faithfully. "Don't let anything bad happen to us". I never missed.

I still don't miss but my prayers have changed. I have learned to stop praying for things not to happen. They happen anyway. They happen no matter how much we pray. God doesn't give you a pass because you call dibs on safety. No one, no matter how hard they pray, is exempt from the reality and heartache of life. What I have learned to do, what I have learned to pray for... is help. I lay in the dark and pray for help. Help me get through this.

Help me get through this covers just about anything that can be thrown at me. Help me get through this allows me to accept what happens and not be frightened. Help me get through this doesn't make me feel overwhelmed at what I need to get through. Help me get through this makes me believe that I can...get through it. Help me get through this leaves me with a feeling that, when it is all said and done, I will still be standing.

Help me get through this.
Indeed
Amen.

Underneath The Stadium Lights

Friday night was my youngest son's first varsity high school football game. It was an away game and on the 30 minute drive to the opposing team's stadium, my husband and I shared some thoughts. This is a new journey for us with our last child. A journey we both had hoped would be possible. A journey we will enjoy as much as possible.

My husband was an athlete, a gifted one. I say was only because both of his knees and one shoulder are shot from his own athletic pursuits. His time has passed, painfully. He is proud of our son and understands better than I do what it's like to play on a football team. He understands better than most people actually.

As we sat in the stands I could see my husband's mind had gone off to a place I know nothing about....and mine went to my own personal and private one. The lights in the stadium were turned on, blazing and blinding, up over a grey and pinkish sky about to fade to black. It was a gorgeous late summer evening, warm and clear. I sat there thinking about other football stadiums I had sat in over the years when my thoughts were interrupted. The teams were ready to take the field. We stood, the national anthem sung and we settled in to wait for kickoff.

That's when it hit me. The band began a cadence to punctuate the kickoff. I sat there frozen in time...it was the same cadence I can remember from 1975, my senior year in high school. I shut my eyes and I was there, sitting in the stands, with my friends on another warm September Friday night. Waiting for the whistle to blow, waiting for the game to begin. With my eyes shut I hear the cheerleaders, I hear the band and I hear the excitement in the crowd. I was right back there in an instant.

I opened my eyes and came back to the present and saw my son was lined up, waiting for the whistle. I wonder if he could hear the crowd or did his pounding heart drown out the noise. I wonder how it feels for him, under those lights, in place waiting for this chapter in his life to begin. I wonder if he knows how lucky he is, if he knows how quickly this chapter will pass. I wonder if he knows how special this will all be someday.

I wonder if he knows that his father's big hands are balled up tight and his jaw is clenched. I wonder if he knows that every muscle in his father's body is clenched and tight waiting for that first contact. I wonder if he knows he's not alone out there on that field. I wonder if he knows that his father is right there beside him.

I wonder if he knows just how much his father loves him, how much he worries about him. I wonder if he knows how proud his father is at this moment and how overwhelmed he is with emotion. It isn't the lights in the stadium that has his dark brown eyes glittering. No it is not.

If my husband were to glance in my direction he would see that my eyes are glittering right along with his.

Right along with them.
Indeed.

The Highs and the Lows

There are some songs that no matter when you hear them or where you are when you hear them....you stop and let the song wash over you. One of those songs, for me, is Desperado written by Glenn Frye and Don Henley. It's a song with a hauntingly lonesome melody but the lyric is what stops me cold. It's a guy's song of sorts but I have always identified with it. The lyric's message has always made me think of those times in life when we are alone by choice. Those times when we separate ourselves from friends and loved ones because it's just too hard to be around people, just too painful.

One phrase is the heart of the lyric for me. The one bright spot, the redemptive moment that always stops me and reminds me about how to live a life worth living.

You're losing all your highs and lows
Ain't it funny how the feeling goes away....

Life is hard, living is hard and walking life's journey can hurt with every single and solitary step. When we separate ourselves we attempt to insulate. When we insulate we stop feeling. When we stop feeling I think we stop living. It's a place I never want to be. For as much as we want to protect ourselves from hurt when we insulate we also can't feel the highs, can't feel the good, can't feel the wondrous happiness that can be found in life. If we wrap that insulation around us too tightly the feeling really does go away. We end up feeling nothing.

This was a week of highs and lows for me. I felt buried under a weight I could hardly bear. I insulated, I separated from friends and was quiet. I was fearful of losing a very special part of my life. I was also fearful of life's changes and what they would mean to me. Then....out of nowhere the high came swift and sweet. I was a witness this week to my daughter's life as it begins a beautiful new chapter and my father's as it begins to end. I was a witness to how little in life I can control and how desperately I want to do just that. The insulation does protect but it doesn't let us feel. It doesn't let us live.

Ain't it funny how the feeling goes away....

Highs and lows.

I pray it never goes away. For my sake, I pray it never goes away.
Indeed.

My Bronx Tale

My husband and I took a day trip this past week. We both took a day off from work and drove into New York City. We make many trips of the sort, usually to Manhattan, at various times of the year. This week our destination was The Bronx. My husband was in the mood to feel his ethnic roots.

The Bronx is home to Arthur Avenue, a wonderful strip of retail shops and restaurants which comprise what many consider to be New York City's real Little Italy.

Several of my husband's Aunts and Uncles hail from the Bronx. When he was a child, his parents packed up the family and spent many happy trips there. He still talks about going to Mass Sunday mornings and on the walk back to his Aunt Jeanette's apartment Uncle Al, her husband, would take him to a pastry shop for a treat. Happy memories for him, certainly. Memories he likes to hang on to.

I get a kick out of how happy he gets as soon as we start the trek across the George Washington Bridge. We talk about what we are going to buy, where we might eat. We talk about our past trips and we talk about the trips he took as a child. This week was no exception. It was a welcome relief after the period of tension and discord that had descended upon our household. A welcome relief to be sure.

My husband comes from a very traditional Italian family. A family, sadly, fractured and decimated by a bitter divorce between his parents. A divorce that occurred nearly forty years ago. One that tore the family apart and the estrangements, rifts and pain still exist to this day. I am always saddened to think about how that divorce affected him, how it still affects him and our life together.

The trip into NYC was pleasant. We arrived early and found our parking on 187th St.. My husband called ahead, on the drive in, to place his order with Chris at Borgatti's (15 dozen cheese ravioli and 10 pounds of angel hair pasta). We planned to peruse the shops around the neighborhood for a few hours and have lunch at a favorite spot. I found a sweet espresso set and a wine decanter with glasses I could not live without. We stopped in Addeo's for pani di casa and bread crumbs. We bought soprasota, mortadela and capicola. We bought a chunk of locatelli cheese, shredded and parcelled into containers. We bought the things we can't get here at home, things that are not quite as good as they have for sale up on Arthur Avenue. Most of what we bought was for our family and friends who give us "orders" to bring such things when we visit. Of course we are happy to oblige.

The ride back home was more subdued, my husband continuing along on his mental stroll down a painful memory lane. I do my best to be understanding. I do my best to understand when he checks out and gets lost in his own head. I haven't had the experiences he's had nor have I dealt with my own family trials in the manner he does. We're different that way. Thank goodness.

Different because for all of the years that have passed and all of the sadness he's felt, he remains entrenched in a past that won't ever change. A past that won't, for all the world, come back. He longs for a family that once was while I watch and wonder if he fully appreciates the family that is. The family I have given him. We're different because I live in the here and now. I look around and see what I have. We're different because I look ahead at what is to come for this family, my family. The family we created.

If he isn't careful he could someday find himself looking back with longing at that family as well.
Indeed.

Meatloaf and Maggie

My Dad is in the hospital. Again.

I can't even count the number of times he's been hospitalized in the last year. So many things seem to be going wrong inside him and it feels like the doctors are now just putting out fires as they start up.

It's difficult for me to watch his decline. My Dad was always a big, ruddy Irish man. Tall, athletic, funny and larger than life to me. Black hair, blue eyes and a wit as sharp as a razor yet joyful at the same time.

My Dad is known to a fair amount of folks around here. He was a coach, he dabbled in politics and was active in several social organizations. So much of that has changed. These last years he's been famous for having such a keen interest in his grandson's sporting endeavors. My boys grew up with him the way I did, watching college football on Saturday afternoons and the big leagues on Sundays. When ABC's Wide World of Sports came on we both half sang/half hummed the opening theme during which Jim McKay recites the famous line...The thrill of victory and the agony of defeat. Punctuating the agony of defeat was footage of an Olympic ski jumper who falls and careens off the end of the jump, invariably causing my Dad to mutter, the poor bastard.

That's my Dad. Irreverent at times, silly, smart and sensible. Watching him change has been painful. Waiting for him to return even more so. It's been a long wait for me to be sure.

I called his room at the hospital last night.. He was asking if Maggie his Pug put on any weight since he's been there. Mind you he's only been admitted two days. He said, "You know your mother will stuff her until she chokes the poor girl". As if he never gave her any extra treats. To change the subject I asked about his dinner to which he replied with a note of blandness, "It was meatloaf". Then I asked him if it was good. His reply... "Oh yes and it barked at me".

That's my Dad. I know he's trying to return.

Trying

Indeed

Love Lost and Pink Elephants

Sadly I bore witness to tragedy this week. Real tragedy, real human loss and irreparable heartache. Two perfectly matched, perfectly suited people were separated, for all time, by the untimely death of one, leaving the other to drift along with nothing but nothing at all now.

Love was lost. A great love between these two people, a part of perfection we all wish would touch us.

Those who knew them feel cheated, feel robbed, feel angry. We all got to go along for the ride and see up close and personal just what real passionate love is. We sailed along vicariously, we applauded their vigor and wished on lucky stars that we would someday have what they did.

And now a great big pink elephant has plopped itself down near me and has been staring quite intently in my direction. I know I need to acknowledge it and talk about what it so persistently seems bent on pushing me toward. I know I need to address, and put a voice to, a more subtle tragedy that I pretend isn't there. A tragedy in the making if I allow it to be. Ever since the dreaded news reached my ears I felt the cold grip of fear grasp firmly, attaching itself to me, and I have no way to shake it. No way to shake it unless look at it squarely and say out loud just what it is that I am so afraid of. Only my words, only my honest admission will send that pink elephant packing and release me from that gripping fear. Release me from the fear that tightens my throat and chokes the words that I really need to say.

Words I need to say.

Indeed

Somewhere In The Stratosphere

My son left a CD in my car, one by Shinedown. It's a favorite of his and we have been listening to it while I drive him where he needs to go. One song on the CD in particular catches my ear. It's called Second Chances.

I like the melody and the sentiment of course but one verse has always stood out for me...

"I just saw Haley's Comet, she waved

Said, "Why are you always running in place?

"Even the man in the moon disappeared

Somewhere in the stratosphere"

Somewhere in the stratosphere.

In my life I have had this habit of looking upward, up to the sky, whenever I felt a need to address my Higher Power. I was taught that heaven was up there so naturally that's where I directed my attentions. If I was headed for trouble or upset about something I would look up and ask for help. If I needed help getting out of a jam I was sure to look up and whisper, "Please...I promise I won't ever do this again". Certainly during the very dark times I have been through I have cast my gaze above to humbly ask, "Why is this happening?".

As I grew and matured I started to look upward for many more reasons. When something good happened to me I would look up and whisper a quick thank you. As time went on the smallest of occurrences had me sending all sorts of comments upward. I realize now that those small things that work out, those lucky breaks we get, might also be worthy of a thank you. You know those little breaks like an empty parking spot right in front of a building when we are late for an appointment, rain that suddenly stops right before we leave the house for an outing and starts just as suddenly the minute we get into our garage or the dress we can't really afford and we discover is on sale when we get to the store register. Little things that make me look upward, happily and thankfully.

Lately it's been people that have me offering up my thoughts. Friends who have appeared when I needed them most, kindnesses and gestures that touch me, giving souls who fill me with what I need. I never miss a chance to send up a thought even when I am flat on my back and ready for sleep. In fact I do this every single night....I send my thoughts up somewhere in the stratosphere.

Over the years I have sent up lots of honest thoughts and careful prayers. I have sent desparate pleas and loving thanks. I wonder where they really go, these thoughts of mine? I send them off, into the sky and trust that they reach their destination. I trust that not only my requests are met with understanding but my appreciation arrives with the intended sincerity.

Each thought, each request, each wholehearted thank you, that started in a tender young girl's heart and is now sent from a very grown up woman's, they're all up there, every single one. I hope it wasn't for naught, wasn't wasted breath, wasn't an exercise in futility.

I hope there really is something up there.
Somewhere in the stratosphere.

Indeed.

Catching Perfection

I cannot believe I am about to post a blog about baseball...but yet here I am....

Chicago White Sox pitcher, Mark Buehrle, pitched what is called "a perfect game" this week. A perfect game is one in which 27 batters come up to home plate to have a bat and none of the 27 batters gets on base. Not a single one. They are all retired.

According to MLB.com this has only been accomplished 18 times. 18 times! That's astounding considering the caliber of pitchers that have graced the mounds of each MLB franchise over the years.

So much has been written about Mark Buehrle this week and rightly so. He takes his place in Baseball History. I thought about Mr Buehrle, I thought about what it must feel like to now be part of history, to be among this elite group of 18 pitchers. I also thought about Dewayne Wise....who is in his own sort of elite group I think.

Mr Wise is a reserve outfielder, not particularly well known, but talented at his position. The Sox manager put him in the game in the ninth inning to cover center field. The ninth inning. Gabe Kapler hit a long drive off Buehrle and Wise exploded off of his feet, making an amazing leap. It as a near bobble but Wise snagged the ball, preserving this perfect game for the moment. Buehrle had to retire two more batters before it was in the bag...and he did. Astounding!

Having watched all of this my thoughts went to perfection, perfect games and being perfect ourselves. Is there really such a thing as a perfect game? If not for Dewayne Wise this one would not have been perfect. His effort, his commitment to team and his desire to assist made that play perfect. Then it was up to Beuhrle to finish the job.

So on I thought...is there such a thing as a perfect life? If not for those that surround us, if not for those who love and care for us, no life would be perfect or anything near to perfect. If not for those willing to put forth effort for us, if not for those committed to us and if not for those who stand by and have that desire to see us do well....we would not have very much at all. So it is in that partner, that friend, that lover, it is in that person who has our interests at heart, that helps us succeed. It is in that other person that we find our perfection.

It was not merely pitches that made Beuhrle's game perfect. It was also the desire of a reserve outfielder to make a literal leap of faith and grab at perfection for a teammate...and hang onto it for him.

Oh that we all could have that reserve outfielder standing behind us when we need them.

Indeed.

Faith or Foolishness

I had an interesting conversation with a co-worker this past week. We happened upon a discussion of aunts in our families, both married to men who fought in WWII. Both having to endure the frightening separation from the men they loved. Both strong and enigmatic women, certainly apprehensive and unsure of their futures, both unafraid to face them.

In my friend’s case, her aunt had married a mere two weeks after meeting her future husband. He had to ship out to the Pacific just weeks after they married, days after he deposited his new bride with his parents, in another state. In, by all accounts, a figurative other world.

This young woman, a southern lady, adapted to life in the northeast. She adapted to life as a woman newly married, newly separated from a husband who just happened to be halfway across the world, fighting in a war. Their communication was nothing more than an occasional letter. Affirmations of love and a promise for a lifetime together, contained on onion skin pages, written in the shaky hand of a 20 year old Navy signalman.

We marveled at how they shaped their marriage in this way, through letters, a marriage that lasted 55 years. My coworker, a woman who has never been married, commented on the foolishness and folly of her aunt. The foolishness of marrying a man, two weeks after she met him, knowing that he was going off to war. In fact, her comment was…what was she thinking?

What was she thinking? She wasn’t. It wasn’t thought that propelled her into this situation but faith. Faith in this young man, faith in herself and faith in their future.

Later I thought about that conversation, thought about my coworker’s aunt. I thought about her faith and my own faith. I thought about what it’s like to have faith in someone else, someone you hardly know. I thought about the fact that time spent together does not guarantee knowledge in and of a person. Sometimes you cannot truly know a person even after twenty years together. Sometimes you can truly know a person after two weeks.

Either you know them or you don’t.
It’s faith.

Indeed.

Life Jackets

My daughter and her boyfriend have a boat they take out on the water. They wear life jackets as required by law here when they water ski, ride tubes, etc. Still, I can't help but worry sometimes. I wonder if, in an accident, she would be strong enough to hang on until help arrives.

Early this spring, four young, healthy, strong football players were fishing in a boat in the Gulf of Mexico...a boat that capsized late in the day. All four were wearing life jackets and, according to news reports, three of the four had taken theirs off at some point. They let go, they gave up, they stopped hanging on. The lone survivor, found clinging to the overturned hull of the vessel after two days, was still wearing his life jacket. He was still hanging on. He never gave up, he never let go.

Recently I had a conversation with a friend that made me think about those life jackets. It made me think about hanging on. Sometimes life piles things on us that wears us down. We get tired, we lose focus, we drift. If we're smart, if we're lucky, we have a "life jacket" in our life to help us remain afloat when things go awry. We have someone who will urge us to hang on and not let go. We have someone who, when we are tired and worn down and ready to let go will say, ..."Hold on tight and don't let go!". If we are lucky we have someone who understands that holding on is the only way to fight for what we want. Fight for what is ours. If we are lucky we have that life jacket.

Sometimes that life jacket is more useful on land than it is in the water. Sometimes we can't live without it.

Life jacket .... Indeed!

An Independent Woman

Years and years ago, when I was reading paperback romance novels with voracious abandon, I read An Independent Woman by Candace Camp. It was your average story, penniless girl, well born aristocrat, they cannot marry, but after the requisite twists and turns do marry and everyone wants to ruin it for them. They prevail of course in the end. Julianna, the lead character, was an Independent Woman by virtue of bucking the system and not letting anyone tell her what to do.

Often when we think of an independent woman we think of that woman who bucks the system. We think of a woman who lives alone, a woman who doesn't need anyone, a woman who would rather be alone than compromise. We think of a tough cookie, one who has the last word, one who will not be told what to do under any circumstance. Of course if you asked me I'd say that was a foolish woman. That's just me.

Some of the most quiet and docile women I know are fiercely independent. They have gaggles of children, even grandchildren, who take up the time they so lovingly give leaving little for themselves. There are women who spend their time in the service or care of another, their needs put aside for someone with a greater one...also independent. There are women who pass on careers and stay at home tending to families who are independent. There are woman who pass on family life and surrender their needs to a climb up a corporate ladder, independent. These woman are independent not because of their chosen path but because they have, in fact, chosen it. Chosen it for themselves.

I have always thought of a woman's independence in terms of thought and attitude and not necessarily action. One need not slam a door to make a point, get up and exit a room with a flourish to be noticed. Independent in thought, mind and soul are what makes a woman independent. Her choice, her conscious decision to live the life she chooses marks her independence. Sometimes that means having to wait for what she's always wanted, sometimes that means taking what she wants right then and there. Sometimes that means forging a new path in life dramatically different than the one she set out on. Sometimes it means staying the course, no matter how difficult, because that is what she wants. That is her choice. Her independent choice.

Independence in any form is cause for celebration, it's worth noting, worth honoring. A woman who chooses her course, not because it's what someone else wants of her, not because it's what someone else wants for her, not because it's what is expected of her but because it is exactly what she wants is worth celebrating as well.

Happy Independence!
Indeed.

Straw Bags and Library Books

This morning I picked my mother up as we had appointments to get our dogs groomed. I smiled and shook my head when I saw my mother. She is a very young 70 years old, dressed in a pair of jeans, lime green T shirt, chambray blouse, unbuttoned and huarache sandals. Slung over her arm a gorgeous barrel shaped straw bag that she wore when I was a young girl, one I have been trying to get her to give me for as long as I was carrying a purse.

Having left the two dogs in capable hands I drove us "to town" otherwise known as the downtown area of where I live. There is a lovely department store, a throwback, that I like to visit on occasion. I didn't tell my mother what I had planned and I thought I would surprise her. I thought my mother would enjoy having lunch there and perhaps do a little shopping.

When I was a little girl my mother would take me to town on Saturday mornings. She would put on a pretty dress and heels, dress me similarly but with Mary Janes, and off we would go. We would stop at all of the department stores and specialty shoppes, restaurants and other places that dotted Main Street and the Square at that time. She would buy her stockings at Lady Oris, pairs in individual flat boxes and nestled in tissue paper.

We would go to the Square Record Shop to purchase a 45 rpm record for me, one she approved of, and if I was lucky it would be one by the Beatles on the Apple label. A stop at Woolworth's would produce thread or buttons or whatever odds and ends she needed and then we would pick a restaurant for lunch.

My favorite was The Overbrook Tea Shoppe because they had delicious hot chocolate that they served in a porcelain teapot and I liked the blue patterned dishes they used. My mother liked The Spa for their club sandwiches. Sometimes we ate at the lunch counter at Woolworth's and sometimes in the restaurant in the department store I planned to take her to today.

We already had done some shopping, a pair of shoes for her and two sun dresses for me. We rode the escalator down to the lower level and she saw the restaurant. She smiled when I asked if she wanted a little lunch. We settled in, placed our order and sipped coffee while we talked. I looked at my mother across the table and tried to remember her as she sat there nearly 40 years ago and compare that woman to the one seated across from me today.

My mother is a tough cookie, she ran a tight ship at home. She expected a lot from me, held me to a high standard, demanded my best. I spent the better part of my lifetime trying to please her, to make her proud of me. I was never quite certain I had succeeded. We butted heads a lot. We did not always agree on my direction, my choices, my attitude. There were times that I don't think we could have gotten any further apart emotionally. We are both very stubborn and very private women.

She's mellowed however, softened her stance, let up on letting me know I am capable of more. She eased up on the pushing and prodding. Two summers ago we went through a family crisis that I think made her realize that it didn't matter what any of us were doing, it was enough to just be here with each other. It was a revelation of sorts I think and a relief ...for both of us.

So today, after lunch, we walked past the town library. Tents were set up on the lawn and the annual fundraising book sale in full swing. We picked up our boxes to hold the books we found and walked past table after table making selections. In my box I had a novel about Sally Hemmings, a memoir by Lillian Hellman, Marcia Clark's The People v Simpson and Jimmy Carter's retrospective, Palestine Peace Not Apartheid. My mother looked into my box as we were walking and she fished a book out of her box and plunked it in mine. It was The Bridges of Madison County. She simply said....."you need something romantic in there....now go find something fun".

Still pushing, just a bit, but relaxed. So different than she was once. Now If only she'd part with that straw bag.

Indeed

I Swear

My youngest son and I took a little road trip recently. We drove to the beach for a long weekend, just the two of us.

I put him in charge of music for the road and he made a few CDs for us to listen to. He had everything on them from Boys II Men to The Beastie Boys. We sang along all the way to the beach.

Somewhere along the way the song, I Swear, performed by All 4 One came on the CD player in the car. It's a touching song, the lyric written by Frank Meyers, and recorded earlier by country singer, John Michael Montgomery. The lyric is a sort of vignette of vows and promises made.


I swear by the moon and the stars in the sky
And I swear like the shadow that's by your side

My youngest child (what child he's 15!) loves music, all kinds of music. While his favorite bands are The Foo Fighters and Shinedown and a bunch of others I have never heard of, he also likes the music I listen to. He steals my mp3, lifts CDs from my collection and visits my Imeem page. He has an uncanny knack for memorizing song lyrics quickly and can sing along with most anything.

I'll stand beside you through the years
You'll only cry those happy tears
And though I make mistakes
I'll never break your heart

So as we were singing along to I Swear I'm thinking about what a special kid he is. He's a big kid, athletic, the Center and a Linebacker on his Freshman football team. He plays a lot of playground basketball lately, has a girlfriend and a wicked sense of humor. He's a budding man, growing up right before my eyes and so sweetly sensitive he takes my breath away sometimes.

I'll give you every thing I can
I'll build your dreams with these two hands
We'll hang some memories on the wall

As we sang I started to feel the song, the lyric started to get to me. My voice had a catch in it from the tightness that gathered in my throat. I missed a line, lost my words and couldn't cover so quickly as I would have liked.

And when (and when) just the two of us are there
You won't have to ask if I still care
Cause as the time turns the page
My love won't age at all

He reached over the console and covered my hand with his. A hand now bigger than mine, a hand I held not long ago to cross a street, to walk through a schoolyard, to walk to a playground. A hand that looks suspiciously like a man's, the man he will soon become. He smiled at me and kept on singing. My voice returned and joined his. We kept on going and I kept on thinking, thinking abut this almost man seated next to me.

I swear like the shadow that's by your side
I'll be there
For better or worse
Till death do us part
I'll love you with every beat of my heart

Sometimes he's the tie that binds, he's the bridge over certain of my gaps. Sometimes he's my saving grace. Sometimes he's the reason that a lot of things make sense to me. Sometimes he is the sense in my life. Sometimes he's the reason I am sure of the direction I am going.

I swear.
Indeed.

Speaking Cooking

When I was younger, much younger, I had a sort of Sunday morning ritual. I cooked, cooked big. My husband would be out running his Sunday 10 miles. Two of my children (the last was not yet present) would be peacefully watching television. I would be in the kitchen, Aaron Neville cranking in the background, and me presiding over a pasta machine making that week's Sunday dinner. The spaghetti sauce would be bubbling, I had the freshly made noodles all laid out on the table and I would be working on a dessert. The scene was one of domestic bliss. This was a weekly event for me having learned to cook this way from my mother-in-law. It was my way of giving my husband a part of his childhood he loved so much. It was a way to recreate a happy time for him and create that same existence in our life together.

I was up early this morning, standing at the counter in the kitchen, and my mind went back to those days. I thought about how different my life is now. My husband was out on the deck drinking coffee. He no longer can run with his bad knees. He was out there talking on the phone in preparation for his day of work. He wasn't particularly chatty with me before the phone call, something that seems all to common lately. My two older children are both moved out of the house and my youngest is still at a friend's having spent the night there. The pasta machine is in a closet collecting dust and I am standing in silence, no music is playing anywhere, in a house quiet and still. I pulled out a large pot and started boiling water. I would not be making homemade pasta today but I would be making something nice.


I started boiling lasagna noodles to make a rollentini that I will stuff with ricotta cheese mixed with some egg. parsley, mozzarella & Romano cheese. I chopped some zucchini, red onion and tomatoes and tossed in olive oil & balsamic vinegar, oregano and shredded mozzarella. I sliced some strawberries and drizzled them with Marsala wine. I made a vanilla pudding. I stood back after putting everything back into the refrigerator for later and thought about what I had done. Thought about why I had done it.

While I was cooking my husband went out the door. He had a quick goodbye for me and a kiss on my cheek that was mostly in my hair. I watched him go and studied his face, trying to gauge his expression. He seemed to have a hint of longing on his face. I think he thinks I am going to serve all of this for dinner today and he will miss it as he won't be home until late tonight. He didn't say anything but I suspect his thoughts. That put a wry smile on my face as the door shut behind him. There's no one here to eat all of this food.

I don't cook because I like doing it. I don't feel a passion for it. Cooking is something I could happily give up and not miss. Despite this feeling I cook almost every day and I cook well. I cook with my heart. It's my language, my love language. It's my way of showing love and care for those I love and care about. The passion is not in the cooking but in what I feel for the ones I am cooking for. That's what that wry smile was about as I watched my husband go out of the door. After all of these years and all of that cooking ....I am not entirely sure my husband really understands the language I speak. The language I have spoken all of these years.

I am not entirely sure he even speaks the same language that I do.

Indeed.

Love Your Body

The Love Your Body Campaign is an integral part of the NOW Foundation. It is so very important for all women to Love Their Bodies. So many do not.

It has taken me a very long time to love my own body. God blessed me with a pretty decent model and early on I had some knowledge of how attractive I was to others. I didn't appreciate the strength in having that knowledge, in fact it irritated me. I thought it a shallow quality, one I was gifted and hadn't earned. I was more about substance and intelligence than physical attributes. I wanted to be taken seriously and not patronized. How easy that notion is to embrace when one is nice looking and suffers no poor images of ones own body.

I watch my stunningly beautiful daughter struggle with hers. She's twenty five years old, educated, professionally successful and drop dead gorgeous. She's reed thin, she has waist length silky blonde hair and a 100 watt smile. She's funny, she's sweet and she can tell you off in the blink of an eye. I can't believe I gave birth to this wondrous creature. It pains me to watch her displeasure with herself...but I know, like me, she will get to that place where she loves her body in time.

The place I am now.

I love my body. I know it better than anyone. I know what it can and can't do. It's been explored, pleasantly, sensually and in depth . I have been among the explorers. I look in a mirror and am met with instant recognition. I look at my face, unlined and unwrinkled and thank heaven for Grandma Irene's good genes. I look at my scars, trace them with my fingers and remember the reasons life carved itself onto my body. I look at my breasts, once so pitifully small compared to what I saw in movies and television, now lush, beautifully formed and a truly individual mark of my own womanhood. I see the "pooch" left behind from the last c-section and let vanity pervade my sensibility and wish I had money to have it removed. I look at softened planes once taut, I look at curves more generous than they once were. I look at creases and crevices, hills and valleys, folds, mounds and special places....my personal topography. I love my body ...every last inch of it....pooch and all.

So it is for my daughter, for your daughters and for any woman at odds with her physical form that I say this. Love your body. If you find something you want to alter then do so if it makes you happy, if it makes you healthy, but never do it to make someone else happy. Don't discount it's form because of something you might see in a print add, in a film or on television. Computers enhance images and they are unrecognizable even to the subject themselves sometimes.

Love the vessel that was given you to traverse this lifetime. Honor it, respect it and revere it. It is you in the truest sense and there is not another just like yours on the entire planet.

That in itself is cause for celebration!

Indeed.

Memorial Day

A few weeks ago I happened upon a box of old photographs. I was looking for a specific photo of my mother and me when I came across this treasure trove. The photos belonged to my grandmother's sister and came to me when she passed on. My aunt, and her husband, were childless and I was her godchild.

The photos were old, taken a very long time ago and long before I was born. They were photos taken during the time my uncle served in the Air Force during WWII. Serving in the military was not uncommon among the males in my family. My dad served in the Navy, his brothers in the Marines and the Air Force. Lots of my friends had fathers and uncles who served as well. What was uncommon was talking about their service. Other than the occasional humor filled story about a "buddy", these men didn't discuss their service much. I never even knew my uncle spent any time in the Pacific during WWII until I saw the photographs. In fact neither my father nor his brothers discussed this time in their lives.

My Uncle Mickey was a quiet, gentle man. The only job I ever knew him to have was one in the library of a college in our town. He was sweet, a good cook and especially liked to bake. He tended a vegetable garden each year and was manic over doing crossword puzzles. He was dependable and full of good advice. He and my aunt lived a quiet, happy life together.

These photos made me wonder about him, wonder about the time he spent so far from home. It was obvious from their content that he saw action. The photos were of barracks and planes and of young men making the best of the situation. Fresh faces that did not reveal the turmoil surrounding their world. Fresh faces serving their country in a way that most of us will never understand. I am proud of my Uncle Mickey. Proud of what he did as service to his country, proud and grateful for his sacrifice. I wish he had talked about it to me, wish I knew something of what he experienced. I wish I could tell him what I feel about his service, tell him that I am grateful that he and all of those other young men in the photos had the courage to serve their country.

One of the photos in that box was of the First Marine Division Cemetery in Okinawa, Japan. Neat white crosses lined up tell the story. A story I am remembering this Memorial Day. So to all of those fresh faced young men....and women, who served then and who are serving today, I offer my heartfelt gratitude for their sacrifice. I thank them for providing me with a tangible example of duty and honor. I thank them for returning home and continuing to live lives of honor among us. And to those who didn't return, those who gave all in the ultimate sacrifice, I pray for their soul and that they are peacefully at rest.

Thank you....

Indeed

I Wish It Would Rain

I was up early today, walking the dog around 8 this morning. I couldn't believe how heavy the sky seemed. Walking along the air was humid and full of moisture but it just hung there, in suspension, over my head. I kept thinking how I wished the sky would just open up and be done with it already. I wished it would rain, I wished for that heavy sky to let go and release it's burden.

While I walked along I thought about burdens, my burdens. I thought about things that have been hanging over my own head, like that heavy sky, things suspended over me now. Burdens, weights, heavy feelings that hang like low clouds not quite touching me but their presence undeniably felt. Things that are pressing and things that give me pause. Things that cause me worry, things I am powerless to control. Things that seem to just hang there, things I can see every time I look up.

Just like I was wishing the sky to open up, I am wishing for all of these things over me now to just open up. Open up and rain down on me so I can see them, so I can deal with them. Above my head they are foreboding, burdens that I can't measure and can't touch. I want them out in the open where I can see what I am dealing with. I want them released and relieved. I want them gone.

I want it to rain. I want these things to wash over me, flood me, surround me so I can deal with them, If I can deal with them then they will be gone once and for all.

How I wish that it would rain.....

Indeed.

For Monica

The photo you see is one of my mother and me in November of 1958. This was the first photo taken of us as she had just brought me home from the hospital after I was born.

I love looking at this photo, I am held so tenderly, so lovingly and looked upon with such joy. All of my other childhood photos are those of a display, a pose for presentation for relatives to see. Stiff, unnatural and in some a little absence of emotion I think. It's hard for me to miss the feeling, the maternal love and pride at work here.

Rarely do we think of our own mothers this way, at least for me it's rare. I tend to focus on her more matured persona. She was about twenty then and living far, far from home and family. She was a new mother, unsure of so many things and trying to figure them out by herself. I've only really known the version of my mother that she let me see. The strong willed, private, determined, resolute guide. I grew up with her expectations clearly defined.

I never saw this woman, the one in the photo. This wisp of a beauty with glossy black hair pulled back. This delicate creature cradling a child she only just came to know as her own. What a lovely feeling for me to see a soft side of this intensely private woman. So private that she endured three sorrowful miscarriages following my birth, events I was never to know but for an old woman's slip of the tongue in later years.

I see her vulnerable side, I see her hesitant wonder, I see that she really didn't know everything....at least not at this point. Perhaps this photo captures the moment she looked at me and decided that over her dead body would any harm come to me, Perhaps this is when she filled with hope for what I might become...if she was to be a good mother.

Perhaps this is the moment she realized she loved someone more than herself, loved me so much that she would never fail me, let harm touch me or hurt break me. Perhaps this is when she stopped being that wisp of a girl with glossy black hair....and became my strong and fearless mother.

The mother I have become despite repeated recitations that I would never be like her. No matter how I deny it...I used her blueprint, I followed her to my own path to motherhood. I held my children and made the vows she made to me. I looked at them and promised them the moon and stars, I fell in love with them and for as many times as they have broken my heart...I hand it right back to them again because that's what mother's do. That's what my mother did.

So on this Mother's Day I will quietly thank my mother for looking at me that way, for falling in love with a tiny child that she knew nothing of except that I was part of her. For loving me no matter what simply because I was hers....and always would be.

Always would be....

Indeed.

Happy Mother's Day

The Question of Betrayal

I recently answered a questionnaire about Betrayal. The questions prompted some deep thinking.

How does it make you feel?

A very long time ago my Dad taught me to make sure a person earned my trust and for me to not give my trust to another capriciously. He told me that mostly people don’t have our best interests at heart and can’t be counted on to stand with us in all things. He told me that some people can’t be counted on at their word and that their deed would have to tell the tale. In other words…. they had to walk the walk and not just talk it. But he also told me that when I met the person who would stand with me, who would hold my heart in their hands like the precious gift that it is…the smartest thing I could do would be to give them my trust. Because having that person to count on would help me travel the bumpy road through life.

In my trusting I am opening myself, laying myself vulnerable, allowing access to places most everyone else never gets to see. I have given over myself, the sum of all the parts, for you to have. Having that disregarded tells me you care nothing for what I am as a person, care nothing for who I am in your life and certainly care nothing for the investment I have made in you personally. All that said…. betrayal to me is serious business. If I have given my trust and you have betrayed it…I am done with you. Done. Period. I won’t give you a chance to do it again.

Do you feel differently being betrayed by a lover vs. a friend?

No…. trust is trust…but my reaction would be different with a lover. If a friend betrays me, and although it hurts me, I will move on. I don’t care for drama nor will I indulge in yours. I’m firm, I won’t want to rehash the nonsense because frankly…what is there to talk about. Did you betray me? Yes? Goodbye then.

A lover…a lover not only has my trust but the relationship is more complex than a simple friendship. When you love someone beyond the friendship and beyond the trust....your heart has been given. The loss of trust to me, then, is immeasurable and the pain of the betrayal will stay with me for a very long time. I’ll be mad at myself for being so foolish, foolish for having trusted, but I won’t regret giving over my heart to someone I love. I will be mad that I didn’t see it coming but I won’t be sorry for caring, I won’t be sorry I loved. I will be sorry what I had given wasn't appreciated and valued as it should have been. My exit from the relationship will be quiet and composed but the angst will linger on inside. I will carry it and it will serve as a reminder and will make me think twice the next time. I'll make sure the person is worth it.

Are you more likely to take time to organize your thoughts & feelings, or more likely to confront the issue head on?

I look at betrayal in simple terms so there is no need for me to organize thoughts. It’s pretty black and white for me. Did you lie to me? y/n? Did you repeat something I asked you not to? y/n? Did you make a fool out of me? y/n? Did you use me? y/n? Did you disrespect me? Disrespect the friendship? Disrespect my love? y/n? What’s to organize really? These are my limits...and I doubt anyone in my life doesn’t understand them.

Once the betrayal is revealed I don’t need to confront the issue in any way. I’m done. If the offender hasn’t figured out what happened…and let’s face it we mostly know when we screw up…. then I will happily have that conversation. Otherwise…. just walk on by and keep going. I don't need closure....I had it when you betrayed me.

I realize how harsh this sounds, how cold it seems, but I have a more firm resolve than most when it comes to how I deal with such things. Those who have had a relationship with me in friendship and in love will attest to my warmth and soft nature in a personal sense. I have a big, roomy heart, but I am careful who gets in it. Once inside there is nothing I won't do for you, won't give you, My love, friendship and fealty is true and everlasting.

What types of betrayals are you willing to forgive?

I forgive everything…even the unforgivable. Let me just say that I have endured the "mother of all betrayals" at age 20...and while it took me a long time to forgive…I did. I look at it this way...forgiveness is totally under my control. I get to decide when I forgive and on my own terms. It does me no good to hang on to old hurt, carry around bad feelings, wallow in self pity and regret. It's not only unattractive but this behavior holds a person back from moving forward. It's a roadblock to my life to come. So I let go of it and keep on going.

Forgiveness is a release. We really are held prisoner by old hurt. It stunts our growth and our ability to go forward. It's a heavy load to drag around and I'd just as soon not do it. I also think that in forgiving I acknowledge the care and I acknowledge the love I had for the person and I also acknowledge their inability to be a true friend, be a true love to me. Their loss, to me, is far greater than mine is...for they lost the person in their life that would not ever do to them that which was done to me.

Indeed

Breaths of Fresh Air

This morning I woke up and headed straight for the coffee pot. It was early and I had to have my youngest dropped off for a fundraising event his football team was participating in today. In those minutes that the coffee was brewing I walked over to the patio doors and stepped outside. The sun was shining, the temperature was still crisp but it was a glorious morning. I stood outside in my nightgown and robe, lifted my face to the sun and took a deep breath.

I dressed, took my son to his event and on the return trip home I was stopped at a red light. I had the sunroof on my car open, I lifted my face again and took a deep breath.

Once I arrived home I took our dog outside and ran around the yard with her. Tired from running in circles around the pool (she's a chihuahua) I dropped into a chair and did it again. I lifted my face to the sun and took a deep breath. This time I thought about what I was doing. Thought about how each of those breaths this morning filled me with life. They energized me, made me feel good, made me feel happy. I felt new, refreshed and ready to take on whatever the day had in store for me.

It was air, fresh air that did this.

Later I got to thinking about an expression. The one we use to describe a person by saying....they are like a breath of fresh air.

It's wonderful to have someone in your life who is that breath of fresh air. A person to fill you with life. A person who energizes you, makes you feel good, makes you feel happy. A person who when with you....will take on the day right along with you. A person who can breath life into a dull existence. A person who can raise the level of joy within simply by being near. A breath of fresh air.

We all need that breath of fresh air. It's nice to stand outside and soak it up. Even nicer to stand near someone special and soak them up.

indeed.

These Are Mine....

Three times this week I had occasion to talk about something that has been on my mind. It's not been the best of times for me lately in a personal sense. Lots of things have challenged me, family health issues, job stress and a few other things have weighed on me heavily.

I was on the phone with my friend Sara and she heard something in my voice that made her ask what was wrong. She was the first to hear what's on my mind. I told her...The first fifty years of my life were consumed by either my parents, my husband or my children...and I would like whatever years I have left to be...mine. We laughed and joked about what I said and that was it. She didn't grasp that I was serious. Then in an email exchange with a friend I said virtually the same thing. This time I got a whole hearted agreement from a woman who both knows me and understands me. Late this morning I told my daughter about both conversations and reiterated my thoughts on my years left. She responded with her usual...Oh Mother.

Oh Mother is the verbal equivalent to an eye roll. She's twenty four and I will excuse her innocence and naivete. She does not know what it's like to look back and see the bulk of one's life behind them and already spent. See the bulk of one's life devoted to family and obligation. She does not know the desire one can have inside to be free of obligation, be relieved of duty. She does not know what it's like to wish to not have to answer to anyone, not have to make sure all is right and where it belongs at all times. She does not know what it is to feel caged and kept. She simply does not know. I dearly hope she never does.

I say these things without regret and without qualms about how I spent my time. I am not wishing to turn back time, time that made me the woman I am. I am simply musing of what time is left on the books. What time is ahead for me to enjoy and I would dearly like to be able to say....this is my time.

My time.

Indeed.