Live Life In Minutes

Go To The Head Of Zumba Class

2012-01-21T21:24:00.000-05:00

Last month I started attending Zumba class. This is a new experience for me and one I wish I would have gone for sooner. I love everything about it...the music, the movement and the feeling I get when the two combine. There are times that I get caught up in the music and the rhythm of the steps and I feel so good and am without a care in the world during class. It makes me feel powerful. It makes me feel strong.

Then there are times it makes me feel like I'm in high school again.

I can't say that I noticed it right away, but I have come to the realization that some of the behavior of certain women in our class mirrors some of the behavior I encountered in high school. There is the obligatory clique, the class clown, the clothes horse, and of course the queen bee. There are the kids who hide in the back row of class hoping not to be noticed and so is there the teacher's pet front and center. There is also that annoying specimen of female that I tend to dislike. The girl who liked to play the girlie card in gym class when a softball, volleyball, soccer ball or basketball came her way.

You know this girl. She's not unattractive. She shows up with hair done and in full make up for occasions that call for casual naturalness. She pretends to be uncoordinated but never really tries to find out what she's capable of athletically. She'd rather stand and giggle as a ball zooms past rather than exert herself and try to hit it. She thinks she's cute. The rest of us do not.

I encountered a pair of such specimens in Zumba class last week. With a class nearly filled to capacity this duo sauntered in late and hastily squeezed in a spot where there really wasn't room. It's not that newcomers aren't welcome, but this pair was clueless and incapable of taking cues from the other ladies. They giggled their way through each segment with one actually dropping down to the floor in a fit of giggles when the two of them collided. Neither of them exerted themselves to any extent, likely so as not to mess the long, flowing, curled hair they left untied, mostly hanging in their faces, as they attempted to follow the movements but not really making any real effort. In between songs they primped and restyled their hair. They complained at the tempo of class while sharing a bottle of Snapple and even reapplied lip balm after drinking.

During class I stayed focused on the instructor but would from time to time glance at them with amusement. I found myself thinking back to my high school gym teacher and what she would have made of this pair. My high school gym teacher was an exceptionally interesting woman, far ahead of her time. We called her "Coach". She rode a Harley to school, she wore sweats, she dropped curse words. She was attractive and well dressed outside of class. She coached the basketball and track teams and was very successful in her career. Her approach was tough but she cared deeply about her girls and preparing us for the future, believing that physical education was just as important a component of a girls' education as any other discipline taught at school. She took the position of role model seriously and never missed an opportunity to make sure we knew that her door was open to us always.

She wanted us to understand the need to be physically fit but more importantly she wanted us to test ourselves and find our strengths both physically and mentally. This was the early 70s and she wanted to see us to learn to redefine femininity through athletics and to dispel the notion of "dyke" as a label applied to girls interested in sports. She showed us how to develop good self esteem by challenging us to push ourselves beyond what we thought we could be capable. She didn't want to hear excuses, she didn't want us to quit on ourselves before we had tried our best. She had no patience for giggly girls who would not participate in class.

I was intent that my own daughter not become one of those giggly girls. I signed her up for ballet class and basketball camp. She took piano lessons and was on a swim team. She's always been physically fit. She's not exceptionally athletic but she has never not made time for physical activity. She's feminine and stylish. She's delicate but she's also strong. She runs, works out and is in the same Zumba class as I am. In fact she's the one who asked me to join her, gently reminding me of my own lack of interest in physical activity as of late. I've been neglecting and she's been lecturing. She's been pushing me to get back to the gym and not accepting the myriad of excuses I can produce for my absence. She understands the need to be physically fit but more importantly she knows the importance of testing ourselves to find our strengths both physically and mentally.

Coach would be so proud.

Indeed

It's All About Me

2011-12-31T17:01:00.000-05:00

Last week my daughter had shown me a blog written by a girl she knew in high school. She was poking a little bit of fun at it because she felt the girl had never really changed since high school. She remarked that all this girl was interested in back then, and apparently now, was how she looked and the clothes she wore. The blog was chock full of snapshots of this girl in various combinations of attire and had some details about the clothing itself. Some of her posts simply discussed a pair of sweet shoes she scored or how she pulled off a look at an event she attended. It was a steady stream of fashion in excess and she reveled in it.

I'll admit that on the surface it was fluff and I have always felt a slight irritation over women overly concerned with their appearance and attire. My thinking being that efforts toward more substantial concerns got a person further in life. My daughter has adopted this logic as well. She said, "Mom ... who writes a blog about themselves that way!".

I thought to myself, I do.

My own blog has served as a place for me to examine myself and what is happening in my life. Like this girl, I prattle on and on endlessly mostly about myself and the things about myself of which I am most proud. I write about my children and other good things in my life that I think are pretty special. I suppose a person may get the impression that I'm self possessed and self centered reading such things. I suppose that I am.

There is a method to the madness. We all need positive reinforcement. We all need affirmations and validations. I choose to use my blog as a place to keep a record of the wonderful things in my life, to write about things that I have that make me feel equally wonderful. Perhaps that's the purpose of my daughter's classmates blog. Maybe it's her place to express her pride in herself. Maybe it's the only place where she can see and feel that pride.

It's easy to forget the good things about ourselves and our lives when life is not particularly kind. We get mired down in self doubt and loss and often struggle to see anything good about current situations. We get wrapped up in negativity and those things we wish we didn't have to face. Some days, no matter which direction we look, something has collapsed on us.

We have to have a way to battle back the darkness we have fallen into...at least that's how I feel. When I look at my past blog posts I come face to face with the incredible joys in my life. I'm able to count my blessings because I can see them in my words. I have a record of my successes that isn't overshadowed by perceptions of failure. For every loss I feel I can still see the evidence of incredible abundance that I've been blessed with simply by reading my own words. It's proof, living proof, of what should be my reasons to feel a sense of accomplishment every single day.

My life is filled with things I wish I didn't have to deal with. I'm surrounded by countless reminders of things I wish never were. I have pain in my life ... and loss. I ache for things I'll never have. I hurt just like anybody else. Maybe more. So for having acknowledged these truths, having accepted that none of it, not one single part of it will keep me from also acknowledging that I am indeed living a life worth living. This acknowledgement keeps me reaching toward what I want and what I need for myself. It keeps me moving forward and doesn't stop me from traveling life's path even when riddled with bumps and falls. I have too much, I have far too much to ever let a little pain and heartache get in the way of living what is, by my account, a pretty good life.

For some people it's looking at how they present themselves to the world that makes them feel accomplished, for some it's sharing how a person triumphs over life's challenges and for others it's looking back at day to day life and the ways their children have grown into their own that does it for them. Whatever it is they can look to on a tough day for comfort doesn't matter. All that matters is that they are wise enough and committed enough to create something for themselves that serves as a comfort as well as an everlasting inventory of what they have.

If I ever need a reminder of how much I have...I know just where to look.

Indeed.

Days Of Torches Passed

2011-12-11T00:18:00.000-05:00

During my son's football season this year, I had begun a sort of game day ritual for him. Each Friday I would create a mini poster that I would email to him during the day as a way to psyche him up for that evenings' game. These posters were a mix of humor and love and my special way to support him.

The posters started off as fairly simple projects and then progressed to more sophisticated offerings complete with photos of him in his younger days and catchy plays on words. He loved them.

A few weeks ago saw the end of my son's high school football career. On the day before Thanksgiving, he played in his last high school football game on a team comprised of regional all stars. The very same all star team his father played on 33 years ago. In keeping with my ritual I had one last poster to send for game day and I wanted it to be a special one.

I had unearthed a photo of my son and his father taken at a practice right around the time he first started to play youth football. My son couldn't have been more than 11 or 12 years old at the time. The two of them are facing each other and my son appears to be taking his helmet off and his dad's hands are positioned in a way that tells me he was ready to help him if necessary. My son is barely reaching my husband's shoulder in height and his arms and legs look so small to me. He was just a boy.

That boy, just a few months shy of eighteen, played his last high school game on the same all star team and on the same field as his dad. Father and son. What a lovely way to conclude what was an exciting and emotional high school football career. The caption on that final poster was "The Torch Has Been Passed"

It has. That torch, and as I realize, many others have been passed in our recent past. This morning I took my son's daughter, my granddaughter, to her soccer match. Watching her warm up, I was thinking about how sad I am that my son's football days are over. I thought about how much I've enjoyed being involved in both my son's athletic pursuits and how much I will miss it. Without realizing it, when a ball got past her at goal, I found myself shouting, "Shake it off G!". I saw right in front of me another of "my own" to cheer on and support. I have the family's next budding athlete to encourage. Torches passed.

Thanksgiving Day, as my husband and oldest son stood in the kitchen carving the turkey while everyone else was getting seated at the table, my daughter whispered into my ear, "that used to be Dad and Pomp". Pomp being my late father and yes just a few years ago it was the two of them, my husband and father, who carved and brought that turkey to the table. Now it is my son and my husband. Torches passed.

Christmas Eve dinner will be at my house this year. All my life my parents held the dinner, replete with pieces of my mother's eastern European heritage. All of the generations in our family were present at the table, all four of them. My children always looked forward to this special night with wonderful anticipation. We exchanged gifts, sang and simply celebrated the best day of the year for us. Since my father passed my mother hasn't wanted to host that dinner. Sadly, it fell by the wayside the year he died but this year will be different. This year we will gather, all four generations, and celebrate together. We'll take part of our past and we'll turn it into something to look forward to in our future. Torches passed.

Things come and go in life, they're here and then they're gone, we're involved and then we're not, and sooner or later it's someone elses turn to do what we had once done and to be what we had once been. That doesn't mean what we have done and who we are has ended. That doesn't mean our time is over. That doesn't mean we're done. I think it simply means that it's time to allow someone else to step in and step up, time to allow someone else to add to what is now. Time to let someone else turn whatever it is into what will be.

Time to pass the torch.
Indeed

Of Mice and Women

2011-11-27T14:44:00.000-05:00

One evening, a few weeks ago, my doorbell rang. At the door was my next door neighbor, Jackie. She had come over to see if my husband was at home. Jackie appeared unsettled and agitated. I asked what was wrong and if she needed help. It seems she had heard a noise in the house and was concerned. She thought there might be a mouse down in the lower level where the family room is located. A mouse or another “critter” was how she put it. She was hoping my husband was home to go over and take a look.

My husband wasn’t home. He’s never home, but I was. I asked her if she wanted me to come over to take a look and she seemed surprised at my offer. She said, “you’re not afraid?”.

I can become irritated with women who look to men to perform functions they are perfectly capable of performing for themselves. Looking to see if you have a mouse in the house is one of them. Opening jars, killing bugs, lifting things, climbing ladders, replacing the gas tank on a BBQ grill, changing the water jug to the water cooler … all things women are perfectly capable of doing yet they seem to always want a man to do it for them. No woman has ever lost a uterus from having to exert herself by twisting open a stubborn lid on a pickle jar or by changing the water jug on the water cooler dispenser. No women was ever killed by a mouse in her basement. Seriously.

Jackie is an accomplished woman. Single, middle aged, professional, she bought the house next door to ours a few years ago. I liked her immediately. She’s friendly, sensible, not intrusive or nosy. She doesn’t gossip. She’s helpful, polite and always has time to say hello or offer a kind word. She’s a perfect neighbor. In August, while she was away on a vacation, her house was burglarized and vandalized. Her laptop, credit cards and other personal items were found strewn about neighborhood. In fact my husband found her laptop discarded in one of our hedges. It was upsetting and both my husband and I sat with her while she spoke to the police the day she discovered the break in.

She reacted with such aplomb after the burglary that I was amazed. She seemed hardly fazed, dealt with police and insurance folks with ease and packed up and went to a hotel until the police were done with their investigation and the cleaning crews cleared the damage. She subscribed to a security service to monitor her home and that was that. Every conversation we’d had following the burglary showed a woman perfectly comfortable living alone.

So when Jackie appeared to be too freaked out to go see if she had a mouse in her family room I paused before passing judgement. I wondered if the burglary, or rather some residing fear resulting from it, may still be floating in her mind. She assured me this was not the case and that it was just a mouse that had her nervous. Still I thought she was being silly, grabbed a broom and a flashlight. and off I went next door to investigate.

We didn’t find a mouse, a critter, or so much as a dust bunny in that family room. I looked in the laundry room, the mud room and her garage all the while with Jackie huddled behind me peeping over my shoulder. Pronouncing the place clear, we went upstairs and sat. While she was in the kitchen pouring us each a glass of wine (it’s hard work searching for mice!) I thought about how fearful she had been. I thought about how paralyzed she seemed. How incapacitated and how far removed from her normal self she’d been. I thought about how she’s lived alone for all of these years, many of them next door to me, and how I never knew her to be afraid of anything.

I also thought about my own fears. I thought about how I like to say that very little scares me. In truth there are very few things that scare me but that doesn’t mean I don’t feel fear. I’ve been in situations, like Jackie, where I’ve felt paralyzed and afraid to face something by myself. I’ve become removed from my normal self. I’ve been nearly incapacitated. The only difference has been is that I never went out to find a man to help me get past the fear.

The difference is I make myself face the fear.

Indeed.

The Hand That Gives, Gathers....

2011-11-04T08:48:00.000-04:00

The Hand That Gives, Gathers. I have a small piece of art containing that phrase hanging in my kitchen. It’s a reminder I have found to be helpful when I’m feeling I’ve been taken advantage of or feeling as if I’ve been “used” by someone. It also reminds me of what it really means to give … and what needs giving.

My hand does indeed give. It always has. From an early age my parents impressed upon me the christian notion of “loving thy neighbor” to the extent that I needed to do more than love them, I was to also help them if I could. I was to give of myself, give my time or share what I had if that’s what was needed. I’ve done my best to impart the same value to my own children and from all appearances I would say I’ve been successful. I believe I’ve provided them with an example of a hand that gives rather than just words in a frame hanging on a wall.

Interestingly, the less I have the more I seem to want to give. About five years ago my husband was very reckless and foolish with our money. His actions created a domino effect of declining cash resources to the point where we lost things that cannot realistically be recovered in our lifetime. We have found ourselves to be financial newlyweds in a sense and are figuratively starting over. A daunting attempt to say the least and his efforts to recover have created absences from home and family. His over compensation has divided us and there is a distance there that no amount of money will ever fill. There are needs that cannot be met with cash. Quite frankly I’d rather do without than be without his presence in our home. I rather he give than gather.

Whether I’m giving from my pocket, or my heart, I feel good doing so. I need to do this. Quite honestly both my pocket and my heart have taken a beating over the last few years but I remain undeterred in my giving. Losing what we did has not made me desire to accumulate more or to have more. What it has done is make me want to share more. I don’t need rental properties, frequent vacations, gifts and other such excess to feel secure. Having a financial cushion did not help me sleep better at night. Material things will never be important to me because I’ve never attached any real significance to mine. I’m the same person with … as I am without.

I don’t miss things when they are gone from me. I never did. I miss people, I miss affection, I miss knowing a person is true to the relationship we share. What matters to me, what has always mattered to me, comes from a place that cannot be had for having money. A point my precious husband cannot get into his thick skull. The only thing I’ll ever want in life is … the people I want in mine.

It will never be the loss of money, the loss of material things, that will hurt me. It will only ever be the loss of what my heart has given … or what another heart has given me … that would ever do me real harm. And it will be the hand that gives, my hand that gives, that will heal. For it is in giving, it is in my giving when often so little is there to give, that I will always gather. And what will be gathered will make me truly rich beyond my wildest dreams.

Indeed

Sex Toys, Pastina, What's the Difference?

2011-10-25T22:56:00.000-04:00

Last week my son was feeling a little under the weather. He was nursing a cold and was sluggish. The damp, rainy weather wasn't helping. He was also in a funk about some personal stuff and was just having one of those days. I thought I'd make him a pot of chicken soup which magically always seems to cure what ails him. His favorite kind of chicken soup is something we simply refer to at home as "Pastina" for the teeny tiny star shaped pasta that goes in the soup. He loves it.

As is usually the norm for me, I was busy and trying to do a few things at once while making the soup. I over cooked the Pastina and it was gloppy and pasty. Mad at myself, I spooned it into the soup nevertheless when I should have pitched it and started over. When my son came out of his room and spooned up a bowl, he adopted a tone only the truly injured can conjure when faced with more injury on top of what they've already been forced to endure. 'Mom!" he wailed, "How do you screw up Pastina!”

He was crushed. He was a mere spoonful away from comfort and it all disappeared. After a few wise ass remarks about my putting mashed potatoes in chicken soup, I made a box of Mrs. Grass soup and sent him off fairly satisfied considering. Still, I felt badly for having ruined the Pastina. He needed it. Pastina is comfort food. It's comfort. It's a warm embrace that occurs from the inside. It warms and soothes and relieves some of what ails a person. It's something we need once in a while when we're down. It's a cure. One he needed.

So is sex.

I was watching a reality television show and in an attempt at humor, one of the female participants made a joke about one of the other participants needing a sex toy because she was in a funk. After a couple of snickers and knowing looks, the comment was approved by the rest of the ladies present in the scene. They nodded in agreement while giggling. I sat there muttering under my breath... she doesn't need a sex toy...she needs comfort.

How difficult it is to need comfort and not find any. How unbearable to reach out for some and find that you come up empty handed. We all need comfort. Even the strongest of us need some TLC from time to time. Life can be hard and unforgiving. So can the people in our lives be hard and unforgiving as well. Once in a while we need to reach out and get some comfort. Sometimes the comfort takes the form of a person. Sometimes it's a bowl of Pastina. Sometimes it's a sex toy. Does it really matter how we get it when we need it? All that should matter is we get the comfort we need.

One way or another.

Indeed.

Swan Feathers

2011-10-13T08:33:00.000-04:00

All of my life I have had the benefit of encouragement and support from the many female role models I've been fortunate to have in my life. My mother, her friends, grandmothers, aunts, friend's mothers, teachers, club counselors and one amazing college professor in particular, impressed upon me the incontrovertible fact that I had within me the ability to be who and whatever I wanted and that they were there to help me to figure out what exactly that was. These wonderful women dispensed sage advice and wisdom on relationships, friendships, education, work ethic and on the struggles women face, each from the differing and diverse perspectives of their life experience. Their invaluable wisdom remains with me to this day.

I felt fortunate to have come of age at the height of the Feminist movement. I bore witness to an exquisite part of American history as one after another of previously male dominated arenas became inhabited by women. It didn't happen overnight, the process often travelled long and incredibly winding roads, but it did eventually lead us to the place where women not only could touch even the most conservatively built ceilings, but could reach up and shatter them, opening the passage for those women who followed behind.

Feminists that followed never stopped shattering those ceilings. While Billie Jean King beat Bobby Riggs in three straight sets on national TV in 1973, it wasn't until 1980 that the first class of cadets at West Point included women. It wasn't until 1983 that Sally Ride was given a mission as the first woman in space and 1984 when Geraldine Ferraro became the first female candidate for the vice presidency of the United States. The all women's Catholic college I had attended had finally integrated men my sophomore year, punctuating the end to a time when one could make an argument for the segregation of such institutions by gender, but the Citadel did not admit women into it's hallowed halls until 1996.

Growing up during the '60s, my mother made it her business to cultivate my love of reading and later wisely diverted my teenage attention away from my bedroom mirror and toward more substantive and reflective worthy thoughts about myself and others. Her hand pushed me past celebrity driven magazines and reigned in my youthful fascination with the entertainment industry by reinforcing the notion that having a meaningful life for myself was far better than spending my time reading about someone else's. I took the same tack with my own daughter, and similarly shared these thoughts with her friends, my nieces and the daughters of my friends. I wanted to honor the women from my past by emulating their generosity and guidance.

My daughter's generation knows little of what life was like for a woman before the "women's liberation movement". Her contemporaries have no idea what it meant to be a female athlete before dawn of Title IX. They would never be told that a college education might be a waste of money because they would be stay at home mothers. They would never thus be asked, during a job interview, if they planned to have children.They would never work a job that paid one salary for a man and a different, lower salary for a woman. They would never come under scrutiny for choosing to be childless. Nor would they be judged unfavorably for having done so.

So it is with much dismay that I have observed some disturbing activity at iVillage recently. iVillage is a subsidiary of media giant, NBC, and a so-called women's website. I joined the site in 2006 because I become involved in the wonderfully diverse communities of message boards they had there. I found these communities reminiscent of the time spent with other women in my life growing up, women who have given me good advice and guidance, and I saw an incredible mentoring opportunity and a way to pass the proverbial torch on to a new generation. So much so did I immerse myself in this wondrous place of women's voices, that I have been a community leader there for nearly three years now.

Much to my displeasure and purely as a business decision to increase revenue and divert traffic to maximize the effect of ad placement on the iVillage website, namely certain message boards, iVillage has deliberately taken all of the content relating to the category of Love and Sex and placed it solely and exclusively underneath the category of Pregnancy and Parenting. A trick, a draw and a trap designed to get women to see the ads purchased by companies selling baby products and parenting wares. While a heading and a tab for Love and Sex still exists on the site, there are no links to any of the content to be found. The tab is a shill, a ruse and nothing but virtual lip service to those, myself included, who raised the alarm when we first saw the proverbial writing on the wall. All content related to Love and Sex, a topic so important to all women of all ages and stages of their lives, is now solely contained within the Pregnancy and Parenting area. On a so-called women's website no less!

The Women's Movement came about as a way to break women out of preconceived roles as wife and mother. We fought hard to be recognized as women first and foremost and not be defined by our ability to reproduce and iVillage appears intent on trying to single handedly unravel this vital part of women's history by categorizing all things "woman" under Pregnancy and Parenting. This lumping of the Love & Sex content under the category of Pregnancy and Parenting may seem like a good business decision and a way to "guide traffic" to a place perceived to generate the most revenue, but is a slap in the face to any woman who stood up and fought to be seen as something separate from these roles society foisted upon us for generations. It's like we're back to viewing women as brood mares again at the whim of a marketing strategist. A misguided marketing strategist.

I am a 52 year old healthy, vibrant, intelligent woman who is married, the mother of three children and grandmother to one lovely precious six year old young lady.The fact that I can reproduce (or rather did at one time) is not my sole function and therein does not lie my value nor the key to unlock spending my net wealth. To categorize and funnel all content relating to Love and Sex, and drop it beneath Pregnancy and Parenting on a women's website, by a major corporation, is nothing short of insulting and chauvinistic. Their message is a confusing one and a foolish one.

When I joined iVillage in 2006 the site billed itself as "the first and most established media company dedicated exclusively to connecting women at every stage of their lives". That's what caught my eye and drew me in but now this vibrant and thriving community of women is sadly dying a slow death for lack of diversity in its future membership. Unless a woman has an interest in Pregnancy and Parenting, she will never discover there is a world of content associated with Love and Sex on the website because it's hidden in a place most woman would never look. Women are all but blocked from adding their voices to the communities there unless they have an interest in Pregnancy and Parenting.

iVillage has undercut a valuable and vibrant resource on their website, removed the presence of so many wise and diverse women, women in a position to give invaluable advice and offer leadership by their presence, by their intelligence and by their life experience. What an incredible loss.

Last Sunday I took my granddaughter out to visit an apple orchard and dairy farm. While we walked along a creek bed we saw some swans on the water. We stopped and sat on some rocks, talking as we watched the swans. She stood suddenly and reached toward the water's edge and grasped a swan feather that was floating there. Handing it to me she said, "Nonni, make a wish!". Apparently one makes a wish on a swan feather and upon it's return to the water the wish will come true ... or so says this wondrous young lady. My wish was simple. I wished for her health and safety, for her happiness and her opportunities, that she always has the capacity to love and be loved in return and that she finds her purpose in life and her own fulfillment.

I'm thinking now that perhaps I should have also wished that places like iVillage would not set women back generations in the name of marketing strategies and site traffic and that my granddaughter never be perceived solely for her reproductive value for any reason whatsoever. Our girls deserve better than that.

Indeed.

She Can Finally Rest

2011-10-01T21:04:00.000-04:00

On August 7, 2011, a mere seven weeks ago, I’d written about a co-worker and her illness. Following a diagnosis, surgery and treatment for lung cancer, my co-worker did not seem to be able to bounce back and resume her life even after her doctors assured her she was in great shape and in a good place. I had written:

She seems to have given up on herself. She’s not following her Dr’s advice to strengthen her resistance and body by eating better and making sure she gets proper nutrition. She’s late for work most days, saying she can’t get started in the morning. She’s miserable, snappish and short tempered. She’s frustrated with her job and openly derisive of the work involved. She’s in a bad place. We don’t know what to do for her.

I couldn’t understand her attitude and I wasn’t alone. Our other office-mates felt much the same. We spent a lot of time, since last November, trying to figure out how to help her. We joined forces and brainstormed. We made a list of her favorite things, foods, scented candles, candy, music, things we could bring to work and share with her during the day. We ordered out for lunch and sat with her, coaxing her to eat things we knew she liked. We kept up a steady stream of positive conversation, careful to not dump any of our personal angst in her vicinity. We tried to keep her work stress to a minimum if possible, running interference when she seemed tired or not at her best. We made sure to compliment her when she dressed up a bit more for work and tried to do all of the things we could to try and boost her in any way we could find.

We remained frustrated nevertheless. We could not understand how she would allow herself to sink so low and not try to be positive for herself. Why she wouldn’t drink her protein shakes, why she wouldn’t take her vitamins and why she wouldn’t eat the meals we dropped off for her. We were all fighting for her but she never seemed to join us in that fight for her life. A life cut short because three days ago her life came to an end. Her fight was over.

Following a procedure, three weeks ago, to address a lingering fever, some additional “hot spots” were discovered and the awful realization that the cancer had returned was upon us. After a collective “now what” we all started right back trying to envelop her with positive energy. Phone calls and email fluttered back and forth keeping us connected and involved. Even the most optimistic of us struggled to ignore what we knew was likely inevitable. Still, when she was admitted to the hospital last weekend we thought she’d get some beefing up with good drugs and be able to go home and have her next round of chemo. On the phone she seemed a little spacey but sounded like herself. That was the last any of us spoke with her.

Her son called us early Monday morning, telling us that she was slipping away. The medical staff at the hospital told her family that her death was immenent. Inconceivably, her time had come and they were going to spend these last hours with her at the hospital. Her last hours. As incredible as it would have sounded to us seven weeks ago, somehow we understood and accepted it. We accepted it, we prayed and we waited.

During that wait, I realized that she had indeed been fighting. While previously we didn’t think she was fighting, while we didn’t think she was doing enough to help herself to get better, perhaps on some level she had come to understand that she was not in the clear and would never be. Perhaps she knew what we didn’t … perhaps she knew her time was ending and her difficulty, anger and derision about certain things was her response to having been cut so short in her life. Maybe that was the way she fought.

For in her inability to fight the cancer she found that she could fight and resist those things she didn’t want to have to deal with. She could fight us, she could fight our intentions and she could fight against the things we wanted her to do. It was a mighty fight, right to the end. Her doctors gave her a few hours on Monday morning but she never left until late Tuesday evening. I like to think she left when she was good and ready and not when the medical staff said she would.

One of the comments left on that blog I wrote seven weeks ago said:

From what you wrote, it sounds like everyone has gone out of their way to be helpful and supportive–but I must ask, has anyone just listened to her? Maybe she doesn’t need anything other than someone to just listen; listen to her fears and concerns, her feelings. Cancer is scary. Chemo is scary too. Chemotherapy can also cause something called “chemo brain” where it changes a person’s cognitive abilities, their demeanor, maybe their personality. For some people it is very temporary, for others, it may last much longer.

We did listen, We were supportive. We were constant. We were there for her. We just didn’t see that she was fighting something we couldn’t possibly have understood. She was fighting a personal battle, the most acutely personal battle a person can fight. We can take comfort that we stood with her during this time. We can be satisfied that while what we did for her did not change the outcome, what we did for her allowed her to feel our love. Allowed her to know she had us by her side. Allowed her to see how much we were behind her. Perhaps what we did somehow made it possible for her to fight her own personal battle just a little bit harder. I hope so.

So now it is, with our prayers spoken, beneath our tears, behind our anger and frustration at the senslessness of it all, that we will continue to be by her side, pushing and hoping that she will arrive at her place of peace. That she will arrive at the place where she can finally rest now that her fight is done..

Godspeed Maur.

The Captain of My Soul

2011-09-05T15:03:00.000-04:00

My youngest son is a really great kid, he loves to be social, he's incredibly funny and has lots of friends. He's fairly popular at school and is the starting center on his high school's football team this year. He's on top of the world, happy and fully immersed in his life.

Football has been part of his life for the last eight years. All he wanted was to be a good athlete and play on the high school team. On the line. Each year he got bigger and stronger and seemed headed in the right direction . Each team he played on he found himself starting both ways and was always highly praised by his coaches. That is until last year when he lost his starting position. His coaches thought him to be undersized and told him he didn't grow as they expected. He wasn't aggressive enough and relegated him to the bench to see a few minutes at the end of the game if they had a big lead going and he was lucky.

It was hard on him, his self esteem took a hit. It was hard watching his friends play out on the field while he stood and watched all year. It was hard hanging out with them after the games when they all talked about how they played while he had just watched from the sideline.

He didn't start varsity but he wasn't to be deterred, he chose to drop down and play on the JV team. While he took a hit to his self esteem, he still wanted to play. Instead of Friday nights under the lights with a big crowd, he played on Mondays in front of mostly parents and with a different set of friends, younger ones. He missed the Monday pizza and film sessions provided by the booster club because he wanted to play more than he wanted to watch the varsity films and eat pizza with them on Mondays.

He worked hard all during the off season, dedicated to hard work and committed to giving his best. He lifted hard, he ran, he worked. His effort earned him a starting position at center at team camp this summer as well as some time on defense now. I started to hear good things from his coaches. I started to hear even better things from some parents. I discovered a few things I didn't know about him as well.

Apparently one of the freshman players, a younger brother of one of varsity players, a boy still chubby and not yet in his athletic stride, gets razzed about his weight by the older kids. His mom stopped me to tell me that when school started my son invited him to sit with him at lunch ... at the senior table. She said he's the only one who doesn't tease or poke fun at this boy's size and that he talks to him about school and what he's interested in.

I noticed his spare pair of cleats were missing. I asked about them, I wanted to know where they were. He said they were in his locker. He got them for team camp but his Dad then bought him a second pair for games as a treat because he had a good couple of weeks at his side business. Turns out the spare cleats aren't in his locker. He gave them to a teammate who needed a pair and couldn't afford them.

And yesterday afternoon, watching the recording of their season opener which was televised, I saw something I didn't see during Friday night's game. After several penalties on the offense the film shows my son, pulling aside a boy who was struggling with jitters, talking to him, walking back to the line with his hand on the boys back, appearing to reassure him before then taking his own position to get ready for the snap.

I'm so proud of him. My son isn't the best player on the team. He won't be getting any letters from recruiters to play next season because nature didn't bless him with the size he needs to play at the next level. Football ends for him this year and he knows it. He plays at a position that most don't pay any attention to at all. There's no glory in it. His name won't be mentioned in game highlights. But he's managed to distinguish himself nonetheless. When the team came together at the last practice before the season to vote for it's captains my youngest received the most votes out of any player on the team. He has indeed distinguished himself.

A few years ago my youngest and I saw the film, Invictus, directed by Clint Eastwood and starring Morgan Freeman and Matt Damon. It's a story of struggle and unity and William Ernest Henry's poem, Invictus, figures prominently in the film. Watching the film gave my son and I a chance to talk about a great many things, including the meaning behind Henry's work as it related to the film. We also talked about how one can endure so much and remain undefeated, remain committed to themselves and what they hope to accomplish as an individual. I recall emailing him the poem to read. I thought he might see the meaning in it for him. I thought he might find the words to be inspiring if he faced a difficult situation down the road.

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears

Looms but the Horror of the shade,

And yet the menace of the years
Finds and shall find me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,

How charged with punishments the scroll,

I am the master of my fate:

I am the captain of my soul.

I found that email tacked up inside his closet when I was looking for those spare cleats.
The captain of my soul.
Indeed.

It Hurts Like a Mother

2011-08-29T14:33:00.003-04:00

We've all felt the sting of love that ends. Felt the pain that is associated with the sometimes disillusionment delivered by Love's delicate hands. Felt the pain of love lost abruptly and love lost without warning. We get disappointed, deceived and deflated from the realization that what we thought was ... really wasn't. The realization that what we once had ... is now gone.

I'm not talking about the love that springs from a crush. I'm not talking about surface love. I'm not talking about infatuation and neither the love for Love's sake kind of love. I'm talking about the steady, know it deep in your bones kind of love. Mature love. Grown up love. Real love. The kind that settles in and quietly takes root, intertwining thought and feeling on a deep and abiding level. Intertwining friend and lover into one person, one being and one soul. Love that wraps around us in entirety but doesn't choke or limit. Love that envelopes with steadiness and comfort. Love that is rooted in friendship, fed with mutual respect and grows into the most incredible experience imaginable.

Love that, when it ends, hurts like a mother..

One day we wake up. Everything seems as it should be. All is right with the world and with us. Everything proceeds as planned and suddenly ... POOF.... something happens and it's gone and we don't know what happened. Nor do we know how to begin to understand because there's no one to ask, no one to provide us with an answer. The proverbial rug gets yanked out from underneath our firmly rooted feet. We feel blind sided. We feel foolish. We feel used. We feel cheated. And we are. And we have been.

Foolish, blind-sided, used or cheated whatever the feeling that doesn't mean we have to be defeated. There is a line from the novel, Jazz by Toni Morrison. It's one that I've always loved and thought of as representative of how I feel about falling in love. The line is: "'Don't ever think I fell for you, or fell over you. I didn't fall in love, I rose in it.'

Falling in love doesn't have to mean literally falling. It doesn't have to mean we lost our footing, lost our balance or lost our control. I like to think that I rose in love. Rose up and rose in it. Grew up and grew in it. And to whatever end, however the end, I can rise and stand firmly rooted and knowing that it hurts like a mother but I didn't fall.

Nor will I

Indeed.

Lost in Mitigation

2011-08-17T14:09:00.000-04:00

A Baptism announcement ran in our Sunday newspaper last week, the child was the daughter of the student teacher my daughter supervised in her classroom this past Spring. This student teacher had gone back to school for a second degree and he and my daughter had a very good classroom experience, they are close in age, worked very well together and had a lot in common. Our families are acquainted.

The announcement was like any other found in social sections of newspapers all over the country. A sweet photo of an angelic looking baby and the names of parents, godparents, siblings and grandparents were listed. A family party was mentioned as well. What struck me when reading about the party was that I knew that it was probably the last time they were able to be together as a family.

Last week this sweet baby's grandfather, her mother's father, was sentenced to serve 28 years in a federal penitentiary for having been convicted as part of a corruption scandal that made the national news. It's a fairy high profile crime. The sentencing was featured on CNN and HLN TV. Books will be written about the crime and I'm sure some misguided fool will try and make a buck and turn out a poorly made TV movie "based on actual events".

I know the price the family of this man has paid for his crime. He was guilty as charged, period. His actions betrayed the public he was elected to serve and his crime inflicted unmeasurable suffering on the weakest and least represented faction of our communities. Kids. He deserved his sentence...every single day of it. His family does not.

This man's home, income and pension are gone. The boat, the vacation condo and whatever savings is gone as well. His wife of over 35 years has moved in with her daughter and has picked up a part time job at a strip mall photo studio in a neighboring town. The children, all grown, are now left to piece together a life in the wake of the scandal. Their name is mud here. They are treated with derision by association. They've done nothing wrong and never were connected to the case in any way....but they will also have to serve out the 28 years, each one of them.

The man's wife was at one time an enviable figure. Pretty, socially connected and gifted with a lovely personality. She raised great kids, all successful professionals in their own rite, happily traveling life's journey with their own spouses and children. By all accounts she had everything a person would want. Life was good. At a time when a woman can sit back and enjoy the fruits of her hard work, enjoy the family she worked hard to build just about everything came crashing down.

My heart goes out to her. I can't and won't join the chorus of those passing judgement. I've seen her around town and her transformation is incredible. TV footage of her reveals a face that cannot hide the suffering she bears as people shouted terrible words as she walked past a crowd entering the courthouse. I bristle when I hear a person mock her change in fortune. Her husband may have done something terrible but having married him does not make her terrible.

I wonder if those that judge her could ever understand the pain of betrayal she must feel at the hands of her husband? Regardless of the public face of the crime....her relationship with him is personal. This is a personal story, her story and her life with her husband has ended. He betrayed her terribly, his actions, sprung from selfish greed, have hurt her and destroyed everything they had built together. The handsome young man she fell in love with and married is gone. The man she paced floors with, worried with and struggled to raise a family with is gone. The man who occupied the other side of her bed, the man who knew her in the most beautifully intimate way a man can know a woman is gone. It's all gone.

How do you move on from here? From a life spent with a man you've loved, cared for, struggled with, committed to? How do you say goodbye to a life lived together, a life you thought would continue until there were no more days left? How do you get past the realization that the man you trusted threw it all away with a nod and a handshake, and made a deal that ended the very life you worked so hard to create?

It's possible to serve a life sentence without ever stepping a foot inside of a jail. I hope for her sake someone releases her for time served. I can't think of anyone more deserving.

Indeed.

Go Home and Be Joyful!

2011-08-06T22:38:00.003-04:00

Go home and be joyful!

That's what my boss said to a coworker yesterday. Go home and be joyful. I've been thinking about these words ever since

My coworker has had a rough year. She had a cancerous tumor removed about nine months ago and a full round of chemotherapy followed. Her body healed, her cancer is gone, but her mind and spirit can't seem to get back on track. She's lost in this negative place and doesn't appear to want to leave it.

I'm baffled by this, so are many others who know her. She's incredibly lucky in many ways. She had the best doctors possible for her kind of cancer and was able to have her surgery at a premier facility in a major city and she had the health insurance to cover every last dollar. Dozens of coworkers, some who have never even met her, donated vacation time, from their own benefit banked accumulation, so she could be paid all during her medical leave. Money was collected to help her with the extra expenses she might incur. She had so many family members and friends who took care of her pets, cleaned her house, cooked her meals, drove her to appointments and sat with her while she slept. She had dozens and dozens of people praying for her and giving her the positive thoughts she needed. All of this and she will still tell you her life is ruined and she can't stand it anymore.

She seems to have given up on herself. She's not following her Dr's advice to strengthen her resistance and body by eating better and making sure she gets proper nutrition. She's late for work most days, saying she can't get started in the morning. She's miserable, snappish and short tempered. She's frustrated with her job and openly derisive of the work involved. She's in a bad place. We don't know what to do for her.

Yesterday she had an appointment with her oncologist. She was urged to do so due to her inability to bounce back and resume her life and routine again. She was convinced that the cancer was back and had already made up her mind that she would refuse treatment. She was defeated before she even got to the appointment and had given up completely.

When she left work for her appointment a few of us talked privately about the situation. We're worried about her mental state. We think she needs to see a therapist. I can't understand not wanting to fight for myself, not wanting to get as far away from negative thought as I can. When given the gift of another chance....why spit in it's face and not try to do whatever it takes to be better?

So when she called in, to tell us how it went, my boss told her to go home and be joyful. My boss told her that she got the best news she possibly could, she told her that there is no reason to remain caught up in the negative because she got a clean bill of heath. She told her to go home, pour a glass of wine and be happy about all that is right for her. Feel happy for the things she has to be happy about.

God I hope she does. I hope she sees that she was given a second chance. I hope she does something to make it count. I hope she sees that her life can be good. I hope she finds she can live without being afraid. I hope she gets strong mentally and I hope she will let us all help her to get there.

Indeed.

Face Down and Naked

2011-07-31T13:52:00.001-04:00

Last Friday night I partook of a recently acquired annual ritual of swimming butt ass naked in my pool. The stars need not be aligned for this particular event to unfold. I need only privacy and a warm summer evening.

A few years ago I took my first naked dip. That first one was unexpectedly interrupted by my daughter who had returned from a concert earlier than expected. Not to be deterred, I informed her of my intentions and after she picked her jaw up off he pool deck she sat in a chair while I swam.

Last Friday I found I had the house to myself and no interruptions loomed. We’d been caught in an unusually intensive heatwave and the night perfect for a swim. The pool temperature was akin to mild bathwater all week. The night was gorgeous, clear and calm and very warm. I’d undressed in my room, slid on a terry bathrobe and padded my way through the house and out the back door. Leaving off the outside lighting, I scanned my neighbors back decks to be sure no one was sitting outside. All was quiet and dark and I walked the short distance to the pool.

I loosened the sash of my robe and walked to the ladder. In one deft movement I dropped the robe, descended the steps and slipped into the water quickly and quietly. The water was far too warm for any sort of initial shock of temperature to register. Once immersed, enveloped in near darkness I immediately felt that wonderfully relaxed and free feeling I get when I do this.

Warm water sliding over my bare skin felt wonderful. I felt strong and powerful. I felt youthful and lithely supple. Stretching out my arms to begin to swim I felt long and lean. Slow strokes followed and I slid through that water feeling incredibly graceful and fluid. I felt sensual and alive. I felt fierce. I felt the way I have always felt when I was at my best.

Eventually I reached for a small tube, slipped it over my head and began to float, bobbing the the wake of waves I’d made from swimming. I lay my head over my arms, pitched forward and face down, the tube keeping my face out of the water. Prone and relaxed in that dark pool I settled in and started to think. So many things were on my mind these last weeks and I turned them over and over, one after the other, while I lay there floating.

I thought about my daughter, who was on vacation with her husband, celebrating her first wedding anniversary. I thought about my oldest son, hoping his house hunting will unearth a jewel he can afford. I thought about my youngest, headed toward his senior year of high school, wondering if I will figure out how to be the support he needs.

I thought about a friend who is dealing with a husband failing in health, who needs so much herself and never asks. I thought about a friend whose own health supplants itself front and center, never giving her rest, hoping she gets a reprieve from the latest occurrence. I thought about a coworker, having come out of an experience with cancer, who is sadly falling victim to her own emotional bondage.

I thought about a dear and special friend who’s absence feels like a slap in the face to me. I thought about my own absent husband and how our situation no longer seems to bother me as it once did. I thought about the corners I’ve turned lately and realized that having turned them actually makes me feel better. In fact, floating on that tube, in the dark, face down and naked, all of the thinking I’d been doing had me feeling pretty good. I felt anything but exposed. I felt fierce.

I felt exactly the way I have always felt when I was at my best.

Indeed.

Five Hundred Twenty Five Thousand Six Hundred Minutes

2010-11-07T19:14:00.000-05:00

My youngest sings in the shower. He sings the most unusual songs for a kid his age...his latest favorite is a tune written and composed by Jonathon Larson from the Broadway musical Rent, Seasons of Love. He sings in a sort of rich but high pitched falsetto and with great enthusiasm. The entire exercise is quite comical as he's an athletically built football jock who has a very endearing personality. You just can't help but love this kid.

One day this week he was still singing walking up the hall, towel around his waist, and I stopped and listened ...

Five hundred twenty five thousand six hundred minutes
How do you measure, measure a year....

In daylight, in sunsets, in midnights,
in cups of coffee, In inches, in miles
in laughter in strife,

I have been thinking about that song all week. My birthday was this weekend and the step toward measuring a year in my life was an easy one to take. All last year I was full of angst over the many things that were wrong in my life and at the same time trying to enjoy the incredible joys that were taking place. I was all over the place emotionally and trying so hard to nail it all down and not let anyone see me sweat . Everything was out of balance and I couldn't stand it. Nothing seemed to be under my control and I felt helpless and insignificant. I lost so much, had so many things taken from me that I was filled with so much anger and bewilderment some days and deep and abiding joy the next. I've never felt more unlike myself. I have never been more thrown off and ungrounded in my entire life.

I realize now that in my own self absorption I neglected to see the compete picture, I failed to see what it was that made what I went through bearable. I failed to see what carried me along and kept me in check some days. I failed to see what I have and have had all along, deep in lockstep with me, as I traveled the road that is my life. I failed to see those incredibly special parts of my life who, both near and far, walked the road by my side.

So on this birthday, how do I measure a year, measure my year? In people. In friendship, in kindness, in care, in encouragement. In tenderness, in whispers, in touches and in love. I can measure my year in this life in the things given to me, in the things done for me and in the things I carry with me now. The gifts I was given by sweet and dear friends, picked me up and carried me on days that I stumbled. They calmed me, made be feel stronger and amazingly sometimes even made me laugh at myself for having to admit I was faltering at all.

I just may start singing in the shower myself'....

Five hundred twenty five thousand six hundred minutes
How do you measure, measure a year....

Its time now to sing out though the story never ends
lets celebrate remember a year in the life of friends...

Indeed

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AZ-4ikcohCs

Beautiful Minds

2010-10-17T13:44:00.000-04:00

A Beautiful Mind is an Academy Award winning film loosely based on the life of Professor John Nash, mathematical genius and Nobel Laureate in Economics in 1994.

ABM is an extraordinary love story, one that I have had an affection for since I saw it for the first time and every other time after that. It's difficult sometimes to conjure romantic images of a brainy mathematical wonk and a lovely and similarly brilliant woman but John and Alicia Nash’s love story is by far, to me, one of the most beautiful I've ever encountered.

John Nash is a mathematical genius who suffers from schizophrenia and whose story I’ll not trivialize in the little space I have available to tell it. Rent the film, read his biography, he’s an incredible human being.

Schizophrenia causes John Nash to see and hear people who aren't there. He sometimes can’t distinguish between real people and those imaginary ones his mind has created. His self described delusions put his family in danger and at a point, where he was incapable of any differentiation between his real and imagined worlds, his wife had to make a decision whether or not to permanently commit John to an institution .

At their most desperate moment, when they stood at the edge of their own personal abyss, Alicia and John face each other and he asks her...How do I know what's real?

Alicia whispers with amazingly loving conviction, You want to know what's real? This is..... as she places her hand on John's heart. Then she takes his hand and gently places it on her face. Looking deeply into his eyes, so very softly she says....This is real. This, is real.”

Such a profound moment. Alicia, in the madness that surrounds her and envelopes John, manages to disconnect him from all of the noise his world has become. Stopping time for a moment, she is able to show him the only part of his world that is real. Despite the danger and frustration and burden of living with John’s schizophrenia, Alicia chooses to believe in their love rather than logic. She fully understands the impossibility at that time of overcoming a mental illness such as John's...but she looks past conventional wisdom and medical opinion and believes that together they can find their own solution similarly extraordinary as those mathematical equations that John’s beautiful mind had discovered. While John and Alicia Nash lived an unconventional and complicated life, their love remained longlasting.

I've always thought of that moment in film to define the truest and simplest example of love. Real love. I like to think about having such a belief in love over logic. I like to think about what it is to have such conviction and belief in something that for most doesn't exist. I like to think about conventional wisdom and extraordinary equations. I like to think about slipping into a place of quiet peace amidst life's chaos and asking, How do I know what's real?

I also like to think about not really needing to hear a reply because I already know.

I already know.
Indeed.

A View From The Clouds

2010-09-20T13:33:00.006-04:00

"Get your head out of the clouds!"

Sister Mary Leocadia had occasion to bark that command to me repeatedly when I was her student in the 7th grade. I was a dreamer in her estimation and her mission, it seemed, was to bring me back down to where she thought I belonged.

Sister Leocadia was a no-nonsense, hard-nose, brass tacks kind of woman. I suppose my perceived dreaminess was a source of irritation to her. My propensity to see the possibility in all things grated on her nerves such that she availed herself of any opportunity to knock me back to reality... or rather hers.

The funny thing is that I am very much a realist and always have been. I always will be. It's my nature combined with an upbringing rooted in practicality. My parents didn't so much spin Fairy Tales for me growing up. They always presented the truth to me but in the gentlest of terms and with comfort. I was taught to face situations, accept news head on and squarely and to accept these situations with grace. I learned to see things as they were but I could also imagine what they could be. I learned to not just see endpoints but to see room. Room for possibility. This gift has turned out to be one of my greatest strengths at this stage of my life.

That grace to accept situations is a godsend. For even in news we don't want, in situations we would rather have be different, have them be more of what we'd hoped for, that grace lifts me. It lifts me all the way up into where Sister Leocadia saw as the clouds. But you see my feet are always planted firmly in reality, with my head and my heart residing above it all... seeing the possibilities. The possibilities I believe to be there.

Guess what Sister Leocadia...you may think my head is still in the clouds ... but you know what... I think the view is pretty great from up here.

Indeed.

Bright Baby Blues

2010-09-02T21:32:00.005-04:00

"I'm sitting down by the highway...Down by that highway side...Everybody's going somewhere...Riding just as fast as they can ride"

Those are the opening lines to one of my favorite songs by Jackson Browne, Your Bright Baby Blues, from the album, The Pretender released in 1976. Last night I went to see Jackson Browne perform with one of my oldest and dearest friends.

The performance was outdoors. The night was beautiful, warm and clear, and our seats were good ones. We'd had some wine and were feeling mellow and talkative. Our conversation was deeply personal as it usually is when we get together. We've been together as friends a long, long time.

Midway through the show I hear the first chords of the intro to this song that I like so much. I know it well. I turn to her and tell her it's my favorite. She knows this already and she knows why as I've told her before. Her hand goes to my arm and squeezes. She knows.

The song is part of my past and it connects me in a very nostalgic way to someone I used to know. Someone I used to love. Memory fades detail, time fades emotion but it's the prevailing reminiscence that still touches me pleasantly. I can close my eyes and hear him sing it to me:

...Baby if you can see me...Out across this wilderness...There's just one thing...I was hoping you might guess...Baby you can free me...All in the power of your sweet tenderness...

I don't make it a habit of looking back at the past, in fact I really never do. I certainly do not look back to that particular time and person. The past is behind me where it belongs, where it shall remain. My present is what I'm interested in, what I hold dear and those with me in it are who I care about. Still...that song makes my mind wander and drift. It drifted last night.

I can see it in your eyes....you've got those bright baby blues...You don't see what you've got to gain...But you don't like to lose...

My mind may have drifted but it didn't drift to what I had then, it drifted to what I have now. It didn't drift to what I was then, but to what I am now. It didn't drift to where I was then, but to where I am now. Right now.

My friend knew I wasn't thinking about the past. Her hand on my arm told me she's not looking back either. The song doesn't tell a story of my past, but of my future. It tells the story of what's ahead for me...or rather what I want for myself.

Like the songs says....I can't help feeling I'm just a day away...From where I want to be.

Where I want to be.

Indeed

The Measure of a Mother

2010-08-03T23:42:00.006-04:00

This past year I have been immersed in my daughter's wedding planning. From the moment she became engaged, I was on my way. It started with the engagement party and the next ten months were filled with all manner of bustle and planning.

My daughter chose a destination wedding at a resort in the Caribbean. On top of the bridal shower I was hosting, helping her with her nuptial preparations for a wedding at a resort complete with 42 traveling family members and friends, I had to plan a major trip out of the country for my own household. It was a "to do".

All along the way, and when I would grouse or fuss about some detail, I would say...I have to get this right...it's my measure as a mother.

My measure as a mother. I felt it so important to pull off whatever I was responsible for with all of the grace and aplomb I could muster. Each undertaking, each decision was predicated on my notion of elegant perfection as it related to the bride. Simply stated...I wanted her to have the very best. My very best.

A lot was going on for me during those ten months. A lot of life was happening. I underwent a major and unexpected job change, a decision that was made for me and left me with no choice but to accept it all. I was dealing with my dad's illness and the toll it was taking on my mother. I was also suffering a lot of loss in my life, deep financial stress, my precious husband's increasing absences and practically raising a teenager by myself.

Then, a mere four weeks before the bridal shower my father passed away. It was a devastating blow and while the entire family struggled with the loss, it cut me to the heart in a very personal way. I lost my safe place.

In the days leading up to the shower I was frantic to be sure I had done my best, distracted and stressed, I kept myself in check by reminding myself...this is your measure as a mother. The same went for the time preceding the wedding. Each detail I helped with, each task given, I pushed all that was dragging at me out of mind and focused on giving her my best. Still I worried...had I done enough? Had I forgotten something important?

It wasn't until the morning of the wedding that I realized that I had done the best job any mother could ever do. Sometime during the night my daughter had slipped something under our door... a note addressed to me and one to her father. I sat on a chair near the open glass doors to the patio, warm Caribbean sun on my skin, the sounds and smells of the sand and surf for company and I read her beautiful words. Tears falling unabashed and uninhibited I read,

...When I was a little girl I wanted to be just like you. I saw that being smart and strong could make any dream come true.

And … I learned that my value in this world is more than looks and beauty...

And ...you showed me through example, the most valuable lesson, to always trust myself no matter what life may bring...

And finally … I will see you sitting and waiting for Dad to walk me down the aisle. I will realize that I am proud to be just like you as I hold you in my heart while all of my dreams come true.

That's my measure as a mother. Not the flawless planning, not themes and table arrangements, not perfect parties and happy guests. Not silly white Jordan almonds in white silk bags. My measure as a mother was realized in this wondrous creature who may not know it yet ... but is so much more than I will ever be in this life. For that I am most proud.

My measure as a mother indeed.

Go For It!

2010-07-02T13:37:00.008-04:00

I had occasion recently to direct my husband toward something I wanted. We found ourselves at a jumping off point and he was hesitant and in my desire to have him move forward I simply said, "Go For It".

He didn't.

I've not had to push him like that in our life together. In fact our dynamic was such that he would be the one pushing and pulling me along as I was the one who hesitated and was unsure. Not this guy....he always went balls out, hair on fire and fast. It wasn't always a good thing, but it was "us".

I was happy to go along. Happy to be pushed a little. It helped me grow. It was exciting sometimes, scary and often delightful. I needed it.

Now, after all of these years, it's me pushing and pulling but he's not moving. It's me leading him as he hesitates at most everything and mostly stays right where he is. I'm struck by the shift in our dynamic, the reversal of our roles that we seemed so comfortable in. Perhaps comfort need not remain but continuity should. I can't help but see this role reversal as another way he's stopped growing, stopped moving forward. The only growth happening in our lives is mine.

So I stand at my own jumping off point, wanting to keep moving, wanting to push ahead and wanting to grow. Wanting to Go For It. I jump...but I don't know what comes next, don't know where I'll end up. It's not that I'm afraid. I just I hope it doesn't hurt like hell when I land.

Indeed.

When a Father Gives to His Daughter....

2010-06-20T13:56:00.003-04:00

I read a wonderful piece in today's Sunday newspaper insert of Parade written by Harlan Coben. In a lovely, poignant tribute to his father, Mr Coben left me with tears and warm thoughts about my own dad.

I knew at some point today I would "go there". I was approaching Father's Day in a low key manner, subconsciously hoping to forget it altogether. In fact I did forget it as far as my father-in-law was concerned. I forgot to send him a card and for that I will apologize later this evening.

Mr Coben describes an emotional moment in his piece, a breakdown he has when he happens upon a long ago taken photograph of himself and his dad. He was just a small boy in the photo and his dad looked young, vital and full of life. His commentary so touching, especially so when he writes, " I would give anything to kiss that cheek just one more time." Having lost my own dad just three months ago...I would give anything for that one last kiss on his cheek as well.

I have a photo that I can't look at without welling up. It's one of a bunch of photos I have of my dad and me that I've been looking at often since he passed. Trying to reach back and feel something other than loss, I look at the photographs hoping to touch something. This one is of my dad walking me down the aisle on my wedding day. It's a personal moment for me, one I look at now with a twinge of regret. You see I didn't want my dad to escort me to the altar. At the time I was full of feminist notions and found the whole idea of being handed off from father to husband both archaic and insulting. I thought about walking down that aisle by myself as a show of independence. My dad left the decision to me and I chose tradition because I knew it meant something to him to have the honor of escorting his daughter to her marriage. How gracious of me.

What a fool I was and that's why regret pokes me when I look at that photo. My dad knew I didn't want to be escorted and I regret that he knew I even considered otherwise. For as much as that man had given me, I was willing to take something from him to satisfy my own pride. Sadly, it wasn't until he was gone that I felt that regret, regret I will feel from here on out. Regret I feel when I look at that photo. And rightfully so and I would give anything now to kiss his cheek and tell him that I am sorry. Sorry for being so foolish.

Back to Coben's piece in Parade. He ties it up almost perfectly by writing, "As the old proverb says, “When a father gives to his son, they both laugh. When a son gives to his father, they both cry.” Almost perfect because the proverb leaves something out. It's not just fathers and sons who give with laughter and tears. For you see ... a daughter, this daughter, will not ever forget what she was given. She will always hold the hope that she gave enough. Gave enough indeed

Happy Father's Day dad.

Survive Life In Minutes

2010-05-28T14:02:00.003-04:00

Survive Life In Minutes.

It took a friend to turn my Blog name around to get me to see what I should have.

For some reason the Cosmos has decided to test my mettle and has been lobbing round after round of tough stuff my way. Contrary to what some think, I have never lead a charmed life to begin with. I have, however, been blessed with the ability to take things in stride. Weather the storm if you will. At least I thought so until recently.

Now the Cosmos wasn’t just sending things my way, sending me things to deal with. No…the Cosmos mostly took things away from me. Things I wanted, things I need. I think that’s what disturbs me most. How much I lost. How much I’m still losing.

Setting aside my only child notions of “this is mine!”, I still am reeling from just how much is gone. I’ve lost significantly in just about every area of my life. Work life, Family life, Personal life…you name it…something or someone is gone. Some of the loss is visible to others, some of it came from places only I know about. No matter the source…it’s gone and it hurts.

I can rebound, I can recover…I always do. What’s been the struggle is getting hit with so many things coming from so many directions...and seemingly all at once. I used a metaphor of ocean waves to describe how I feel. One can wade into the water and everything is just fine. Then a sudden wave hits and knocks you off balance. That’s fine because you recover, you get your legs under you and you are back to standing again. Then comes another wave, one you didn’t see approaching and this time it's water in your mouth, and you are wobbly but still able to stand. The next wave hits and wham…you’re down and choking. Halfway to standing you get hit again and this time you get knocked flat, skin raw as your knees scrape on the sand. Now you can’t see from the salt water sting in your eyes, you are disoriented and starting to feel a bit frightened. You know you have to get up because by now you know another wave is coming. As my friend said, “You'll have to crawl to the shore - as hard as that seems”.

As hard as that seems. And crawl I do…because I want to survive. I want to get up and get on with life. Live life as it should be lived. The way it should be lived.

As I choose to Live My Life In Minutes … so must I accept the stormy seas. I'll accept those stormy, raging and unforgiving seas, I'll accept them, I'll stand up to them and I'll survive them. One minute at a time.

Survive Life In Minutes.
Indeed.

I Say A Little Prayer....

2010-05-08T23:16:00.005-04:00

My daughter's Bridal Shower was held a few weeks ago. I read a prayer before the meal. I spent quite a lot of time searching for one that would appropriately express the tone I was hoping for. No matter what prayer I looked at it just wasn't right.

The shower was for my daughter and I wanted the prayer to be personal. I wanted it to mean something. Then I decided to use one that was less emotional, easier for me to read in front of the gathering, and one that struck the right cord. Then I sat and wrote the one I wanted to, the one that I will give to her someday soon. One that came straight from my heart to hers.

It's my prayer for my lovely daughter.

Heavenly Father, we thank you for the blessing of family and friends who are here today in celebration of "their" upcoming wedding.

I thank You for not taking me that day, for allowing me to remain with her and be the mother I so wanted to be.

Be with them now as they prepare their hearts for the gift of marriage, and be with them always as they grow in their unconditional love and face the ups and downs of life together.

Life is so hard, so many obstacles get thrown at us, help them to reach for each other when things go wrong. Walk along beside them and gently nudge them back on the path when they go astray.
Protect them physically, mentally and spiritually. Help them to accept one another as they are and leave any changing that needs to be done in Your hands.

Help them to see, in each other, the things they can draw strength from, the safe place they can provide the other and the acceptance that only comes from pure love. Let them see in each other what they are rather than what they want the other to be.
Finally, in your time, please help them to offer the world a tangible symbol of their love and commitment.

Help them to remain absolutely silly in love, head over heels, full of infectious joy, such that others will feel when they are near.
We thank You, Lord, for this meal prepared today. We thank You for all of the wonderful women present, who took the time to be here with us today.

Let her see the successes, the fruits from the labor of commitment that some of these women grew in their own marriages. Let them be the example to her, proof that it can be done.
We thank You for giving us all joyful and happy hearts as two sets of families and friends come together to celebrate the new life they will begin together.

Let them draw support from us, let us always encourage them as a couple, as a unit, and not look at the other family as "them" but as "us". Help us to show the true meaning of strength in numbers and help us to stand with them when they need us.
We ask that you give us grateful hearts as well. Make us mindful of the needs of those who are without the love we are celebrating today.

Help us to show a positive example of love whether we have it ourselves or not. Help them to see that what they have in each other is a delicate treasure and to treat it as such. Help them to cling to what so many never catch a glimpse of and to hold tight when they hit the bumps that inevitably come through living in this world.
Help them to clearly see the road ahead as a journey to be traveled ... hand in hand. Help them to understand that when one stops the other is to reach back and not keep going until the other is ready. Help them to see that neither of them, alone, is perfect...but together, they can be perfection.
And finally, for my daughter, for this lovely young woman I cherish. Let her future husband see how special she is, let him see what he has in her, how she has added to his life and how she has made him the better man for loving him the way she does. Help him to let her inside and keep her there, close to his heart where she belongs. Where she deserves to be.

Help them to succeed where so many fail. Help them to keep trying no matter how hard, no matter how angry, no matter how much hurt has been inflicted. Help them to see that in You all things are possible.
AmenIndeed.

Grown Apart...

2010-04-06T22:01:00.004-04:00

I received a lovely letter from a woman who was my best friend all through school. We met for the first time in the first grade in Sister Josita's classroom and have been friends ever since. She sent the most beautiful message last week, offering her condolences to me. It was a very personal message. One that touched me in a way that only a person who has known me practically my whole life could send.

We have not spoken in a very long time, have not seen each other as she only comes home once a year. "Maureen" lives all the way across the country from me and, with five children of her own, does not get to travel East very often. It's been a while.

While we live different lives now, while we don't know everything that is going on with the other, I still feel just as close to her as I did when I was a young girl. Maureen was a solid friend, dependable, and the kind of friend you want around because she says it like it is. I love that about her.

We spent hours and hours either in her room, or in mine, laying around and sharing heartbreaks, nervousness, teenage angst. We talked about what we were afraid of and what we wished for. We talked about things we were unsure of, things we feared and things we loved. We grew up together.

She had a family I always wished I was part of. Her five brothers were overwhelming to an only child, but I enjoyed their brotherly attention when I got it. I longed for a sibling growing up and they fulfilled that role for me occasionally. When Maureen and I were together they tormented and teased us within an inch of our lives. They chased us and plotted to spoil our fun every chance they got. We loved every blessed minute of it.

After I read her letter I recalled one especially fun summer we had in particular. We discovered boys...or rather discovered we were interested in them. We set out to attract one boy in particular and schemed to find ways to run into him around the neighborhood. We primped and preened and practiced smiles and walks all for a boy who, as I recall, didn't know we even existed. Finally we set up a lemonade stand hoping to entice the attentions of this legendary neighborhood heartthrob who was named "Freddie". We crashed and burned...he never even walked past us.

Many, many years later Freddie would have a hand in my husband and I meeting each other. In fact if not for Freddie my husband and I may never have met in the first place. The night I met my husband I was to have met Freddie. All of these years later he finally realized that I indeed existed and wanted very much to see me. Through a series of miscues he was unable to meet me that night. Later, when I discovered why he wasn't there, it didn't matter. I met my husband to be. The rest is history.

This particular memory always makes me think of Maureen and our friendship. This week, more than ever, I wish I could just ride my bike a block down the street and ring her doorbell. It makes me wish we could go up to her room and lay on the yellow carpet that was next to her bed and stare up at the ceiling while we talked. It makes me wish she was here so I could tell her some things, things that have happened, things I wish for, things I'm afraid of and things I love. Things that have happened since we grew up and grew apart.

Grew up.
Indeed.

For My Life To Come

2010-03-27T23:00:00.002-04:00

I lost my dad this week.

After a long and difficult illness, one that was so hard to watch him deal with, we had to say goodbye.

I will never, for my life to come, forget what that morning was like or how it unfolded. We were called to the hospital as dad had taken a turn for the worse. He was unresponsive, and sadly, never regained consciousness. After several discussions with the nurses and his doctor, it was apparent that his life was winding down and his release was imminent. A priest was called to administer The Last Rites and my youngest child was brought from school to be with us.

Sitting there, watching each labored breath he drew, my mind was all over the place. I worried about my children and how they were handling this. I worried about my husband who was so uncharacteristically weeping openly. I worried about my mother who seemed so childlike and lost and unsure of what was happening. I worried that dad might be feeling some distress as well. I worried about how I would react when the time came and would I hold up as he would want.

With my mom holding one of his hands and me the other, with my husband and children holding each other and dad's legs, I was so fully aware of how special this moment was and would be for us all. Dad was not alone. As the last moments in his life were passing, he was surrounded by everything he loved in life. All of the pain was gone and he had us all there .. just the way he loved, together. As the time ticked by, each of us praying, each of us trying to hang on to something for later, each of us settling what was in our hearts with this man we cared for so deeply. They were the most beautiful and frightening moments I have ever experienced. Beautiful in their simplicity and frightening in their brevity. Moments that I will never let go of.

As his breathing slowed, as the sound quieted, I focused on his face. I don't quite know what I was looking for but I looked at him this way until he took his last breath. His face, amazingly, showed nothing but peace. The peace in which he will sleep forever.

It occurs to me that my dad died a very rich man. His pride and joy was his family. His grandchildren, young adults that they are, gave him riches beyond any he imagined. They filled him with joy. They filled him with pride and they were as crazy about him as he was them. He lived for them and they know it.

As for me, in my own way I added to those riches. All this week I thought of the ways I had made him proud and the joy I had given him. I thought of funny, silly things that make families what they are. The inside jokes, the laughter and humor that was a constant in our lives. Even in pain, even while failing he wanted that laughter. I like to think it made his time easier, made his discomfort less so. For in that laughter was love expressed. In that laughter was the familiar affection of a father and a daughter. In that laughter was the tie that bound us to each other. The tie that will remain for my life to come.

Indeed.

Keep Your Pants On

2010-03-21T10:57:00.003-04:00

I was at the Orthodontist Office with my son this week when I saw a TV blurb about Rielle Hunter's spread in GQ magazine. If ever the term spread was applicable it was in this case.

Ms Hunter, to those who don’t know already, is the infamous ex mistress of John Edwards. John Edwards, who claimed he didn’t, then decided that he indeed did, father her out-of-wedlock child. John Edwards, who was in the midst of a presidential nomination run when he decided to diddle with Rielle, while his trusty campaign aide ran interference, all while she was a "campaign videographer" on the payroll.

Rielle seems to have a knack for dropping trou, repeatedly. She admits she dropped them within a few hours of meeting Edwards. Dropped them a bunch of times during their affair. She even dropped them for a private video session with John, preserving for posterity her proclivity to show her posterior. That video was ordered to be turned over to the Superior Court of North Carolina pending some eventual litigation, thankfully.

The most recent dropping is the one that gets me. She’s a grown up, she can drop her drawers wherever she pleases. If she pleases to drop them with a married father of three, whose wife is battling terminal cancer, who was seeking the nomination of the presidency of the US, that’s her business. What gets me is the spread in GQ.

Rielle can loosely be called a member of the media based on her work as a videographer. She can also be loosely called an actress for having appeared briefly in the movie, Overboard under the name Lisa Hunter. (she became “Rielle” sometime in 1994) I can loosely call her foolish based on her behavior both before the exposure of the affair with Edwards and after her child’s birth came to light. The GQ spread being the most foolish.

I can understand wanting to tell her side of the story. I can understand her need to rehabilitate her reputation and improve the public’s perception of her. Although I’m not quite sure what her target audience was in choosing GQ. GQ’s readership can hardly be thought to be a group that would condemn this striking woman... especially knowing there’s a sex tape out there. She’s intriguing and almost fodder for fantasy. I don’t think the readership at GQ cares if she “really is a good person” or not.

Now that the spread is out there on newsstands everywhere, and the folks are less than enamored with Rielle, she’s chosen to come out to the public as “upset” and “angered” at the photos GQ used. The photos of Rielle once again dropping trou. The photos of her looking rather "come hither" sans a pair of pants. The photos she knowingly and willingly posed for.

Hey Rielle….when you walked into the shoot and saw the bed…that was your first clue as to the intentions of the magazine. When they said, “here, take off your pants and wear this white man’s shirt and pearls…oh and unbutton the top three buttons”, you should have made haste for the door. It didn’t matter how respected you thought the photographer was, GQ was calling the shots here. Once the lens of the camera captures your image you no longer control it. Surely you must have known that being a "campaign videographer" and all. Right?

If your reputation wasn’t already in shambles when you walked in to the shoot, dropping your pants during it clinched it for you. Next time try and get a magazine like Vanity Fair to talk to you. Wear something befitting a woman who wants to be taken seriously. And while you’re at it apologize to Elizabeth Edwards. If you think you are upset at those “oops I dropped my pants” shots….imagine how she feels about them.

Better yet...borrow a page or two from Elizabeth's playbook and learn how a woman conducts herself in public.

Indeed.

2010-03-13T11:20:00.004-05:00

"Let me tell you something you already know. The world ain't all sunshine and rainbows. It's a very mean and nasty place and I don't care how tough you are it will beat you to your knees and keep you there permanently if you let it. You, me, or nobody is gonna hit as hard as life. But it ain't about how hard ya hit. It's about how hard you can get it and keep moving forward. How much you can take and keep moving forward. That's how winning is done! Now if you know what you're worth then go out and get what you're worth. But ya gotta be willing to take the hits, and not pointing fingers saying you ain't where you wanna be because of him, or her, or anybody! Cowards do that and that ain't you!"

I love this speech. It’s from Rocky Balboa, the latest , and likely the last, of the Rocky films. Written by Sylvester Stallone, it's my favorite of all of the Rocky films I have enjoyed over the years. In this scene Rocky is attempting to impart some “school of hard knocks” wisdom to his son. For as rough and unsophisticated as Rocky Balboa appears, I felt the speech was worthy in comparison to some Shakespearean soliloquies.

I take from it some words of wisdom for myself. The heart of what he is saying speaks to me at this moment in my life. The world is mean, it is nasty. It’s also cruel. I have been trying to find my balance for having been buffeted and pummeled on several fronts for some time now. Some days I wonder what else can happen, what else I can get hit with. It’s exhausting and can defeat me if let it.

I had a conversation with my longtime best girlfriend today, a woman who has been similarly pummeled as of late. We shared what things have gone amiss since we last spoke and spoke of just how much we have handled in our lives. We have few secrets from each other and it is in that knowledge, of what each of us has lived, that binds us so closely.

She asked me if I ever wonder how much I could take before I snap. I asked her the same right back. It seems we both can take quite a lot. We both can and will take much more. I know this because we both keep moving, moving forward, moving ahead. I also know that when one of us slips behind, the other reaches back and pulls the other forward. Neither of us will let the other fall back, neither of us will let the other fall. We'll make sure we are both on our feet and moving. Later, when we look back, look at how far we've come, we will revel in the fact that we did it together.

“…it's about how hard you can get it and keep moving forward. How much you can take and keep moving forward. That's how winning is done!”

As Rocky says at the end of Rocky Balboa…..Yo Adrian, we did it!

We did it!
Indeed.

My Own Blonde Moments....

2010-03-06T23:20:00.002-05:00

Blonde jokes get on my nerves, I simply cannot abide them. What can possibly be funny about a lame and witless joke that diminishes, demeans, ridicules, belittles and insults a woman, who by nature of genetic disposition ( or who just wants to be pretty), is fair haired?

I just don't get it. The blonde is always, pretty, beautiful even, thin, long haired and wide eyed in these jokes. She's never homely, heavy set or cross-eyed. The joke always has this blonde bumbling along hapless and clueless. I find it curious that these jokes are directed toward a sort of ideal, a standard of beauty for many and they serve no other purpose than to tear this ideal down while laughing at her. I find that particularly interesting as it smacks of something very high-schoolish. It's as if someone who has been blessed with fair hair and beauty can't possibly possess intellect and sizable gray matter on top of it. The inference being she's a pretty blonde and that's all she gets from the genetic gods. She can't be blonde, beautiful and have brains. A notion I continually refute as I have given birth to one such wondrous creature.

I am a feminist at heart. I will always stop a person when they try and tell a blonde joke to me. When I hear a woman say, "I'm having a blonde moment"...I set her straight post haste . I'm having none of it. I will not propagate the stereotype. Women (and men) behave stupidly on a daily basis and it has nothing to do with hair color, natural or otherwise. Case in point...pick a Kardasian...it really doesn't matter which one, any of them will do. Better yet how about a professional athlete who brought his gun into a locker room or better yet a football player who shot himself in the leg walking up to the VIP room in a club? Let's not forget a certain southern Governor who told aides he was hiking the Appalachian Trail when in reality he was flying, commercial, to spend time with his paramour. Hapless? Bumbling? I'd say. It has nothing to do with hair color and everything to do with plain old stupidity itself. It comes in all shapes, sizes and colors..

This week I was present for a blonde joke telling. Not just one mind you. After the first was told friends casually mentioned that it wasn't a great idea to tell one around me. Not to be deterred, this precious jokester (who I am very fond of) proceeded to tell two more. Adding insult to...well insult.

Now some might say to me...be a good sport. Laugh with everyone, lighten up...it's just a joke. I'm not buying that. I am a good sport and it's not just a joke. Anytime a person, anytime a man, tells a joke that diminishes a woman, depicts her as inferior, demeans her as less than, it isn't just a joke. Telling the joke to me personally, telling more after you know I dislike them, hurts me. It tells me the joke teller has no respect for me, the joke teller thinks so little of me that he enjoys the insult enough to keep it going. I am not going to be smiling at someone as they insult me, as they tell me that I am stupid and then laugh about it with those nearby. I'm simply not standing for it....nor should any one else.

Truthfully, the only dumb blondes that exist are the ones who stand by and listen to these jokes without saying a word. The ones that tell them are just as clueless.

Indeed

The View From Halfway

2010-02-27T21:27:00.003-05:00

I had a conversation recently, at a luncheon with friends, about reaching that place in life where you realize that you have gained a certain amount of wisdom. I'd say I am well past the half-way point in my life as I don't expect to live beyond 100 years. In the 50 odd years I have been on this earth, I have learned a thing or two about life. While my kids often roll their eyes when I wax philosophical (I let them think I don't see them), I know a few things.

As I started to tick off some of the things I learned, my friends said, "you should write these down!"....

So I did....

People can still surprise you.

Old dogs can learn new tricks and the tricks are far more interesting at this point.

Forever means different things to different people.

Don’t worry about the skinny little thing on the elliptical next to you at the gym. You were once her, she will one day be you. It’s a sort of symmetry.

Start being yourself. Don’t you think it’s time?

Don’t look back at memories. Be the memory for someone by what you do now.

Fall in love if you get a chance…. it’s so much better when you are older. Without the drama and the hair trigger from the teenage years, it could be a lot of fun.

Say what you think at all times. Miss Congeniality is over-rated. Not to mention the fact that she didn’t win the contest now did she?

Save yourself. The white night is not coming for you, his armor is rusty by now, his trusted steed has long been shipped off to the glue factory.

If you don’t have a good, close friend to share life’s ups and downs…you yourself aren’t a good friend.

Don’t be the reason someone leaves you. Be the reason they were a complete idiot for not staying.

You can have adventures without ever leaving the house.

Be selfish now. The other way hasn't worked so far has it?

The Desiderata makes perfect sense at this age. Hang it back up…. today.

“I am too old” is a self-fulfilling prophecy.

Stop asking why. No one is going to answer you.

Don’t take a leap of faith unless you are sure you can survive the fall.

Have a care with what you give. Be generous with those who deserve you, and stingy with those who don’t.

Bucket list shmuket list. What on earth are you waiting for?

Be Careful What You Wish For....

2010-02-21T14:57:00.003-05:00

When I was a little girl, and being particularly pouty or sour, my mother would take issue with some of the facial expressions I would adopt. As a way to break this habit she would say, "if you make that face for too long...it will freeze that way." Certainly not a page taken from Dr Spock, it worked just the same. Once I imagined myself sitting at my desk in class, walking down the block, going to Mass looking as if I'd sucked a lemon for an hour, I lightened up on the scowling.

My mother's methods, while unorthodox, got the job done. She had all sorts of expressions, half-proverb, half-threat, to keep me in line. Pride goeth before a fall was regularly recited. Do unto others....Take the high road....Look before you leap were some others. I heard them every day. I can still hear them now...in my head.

The one that stayed with me the most was ...Be careful what you wish for. It's negativity is what strikes me. As if the things I might wish for would be a disappointment. As if I didn't understand what things I wished for. As if having what I wished for would not be in my best interests. My mother did not mean for the message to limit me, lower my expectations. What she meant was for me to think through the things I wanted out of life. To make sure that I understood what getting some wishes would mean for me.

Still, over the years, I have found that notion to creep into my mind, usually after something went awry. After something I wanted was realized. A promotion that cost more in family time than I had imagined. A friend I needed distance from who left me completely. Wishing to be closer to another friend only to discover that the closeness choked me. Wishing to be left alone only to find what loneliness really is. Sometimes I wondered if the Cosmos were trying to tell me something. The same thing my mother tried to tell me in her own way.

The thing is....life is full of serendipity. Unexpected and accidental delights that balance what goes awry. Things that I never imagined would come to me have done so and in the most unexpected ways. Good things, things I want, things I need. Things that far exceeded anything I could have wished for.

So I keep on wishing, keep on reaching for stars. Mortal soul that I am, I keep my wishes rooted in simplicity. I know exactly what it is that I want. I am fully aware of what I might get as well. For it is in my wishing that I put a voice to my heart's desires. A voice that is deliberate, clear and full of well deserved expectation.

I am careful what I wish for.
Because I know exactly what I might get.
Thank Heaven for that.
Indeed.

Somebody To Love

2010-02-14T19:22:00.002-05:00

Somebody to Love is a wonderfully complicated song, written in 1975 by Freddy Mercury, and recorded by Queen. It's one of my favorite songs from the band. The lyric covers a great question many ask...and it asks it of God. Perfect for Valentine's Day I think..

Valentine's Day forces the issue of love, forces us to look at love in our lives and sometimes does so with a sort of uncomfortable pressure to root out and point at what may be missing.

Over the years I have had some Valentine's Days that were picture perfect, some that were sad truths. Others were unremarkable and some remarkable in their existence. They are what they are. When I was much younger I recall feeling inadequate should a Valentine's Day arrive with me not having a boyfriend to fuss over me. I can also recall feeling terribly conflicted for having been the object of affection for someone I had no feeling for at all.

I recall years that despite being married and having a "built in sweetheart", I wanted to skip the day altogether and not have to acknowledge the fact that other women would be having a much better day than I. I have also spent many February 14ths, drifting off to sleep, thankful for my husband and what we have in life.

On all of these occasions, all throughout my life, I have had one constant ....a wonderful capacity for love and a desire to express mine. Unabashed, unapologetic and unwavering. Nothing stops it, nothing prevents it, nothing gets in it's way. I will love regardless.

It doesn't matter in the least if I am showered with affection, nor does it matter if the day passes without an ounce of it directed toward me. That is not to say I don't want reciprocation, that is not to say I don't need it because I do need it. I need it more than I can sometimes express. What does matter, however, is that I can give and will give my own affection and love, sincerely and truthfully, independent of what may be expressed to me. I consider this a remarkable blessing.

I have never, in my life, not had somebody to love. For that I am most thankful.
Most thankful Indeed.

Happy Valentine's Day.

Hallelujah

2009-12-24T00:26:00.015-05:00

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

2009-11-30T00:11:00.003-05:00

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

2009-11-21T21:50:00.003-05:00

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...

2009-11-07T22:14:00.004-05:00

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!

2009-10-11T23:59:00.004-04:00

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?

2009-10-04T19:10:00.003-04:00

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

2009-09-27T15:18:00.003-04:00

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

2009-09-20T21:41:00.003-04:00

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...

2009-09-14T00:22:00.003-04:00

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

2009-09-06T20:29:00.005-04:00

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

2009-08-30T22:23:00.003-04:00

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

2009-08-23T10:52:00.002-04:00

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

2009-08-16T21:47:00.003-04:00

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

2009-08-09T21:07:00.002-04:00

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

2009-08-02T00:17:00.005-04:00

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

2009-07-25T18:03:00.008-04:00

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

2009-07-18T17:13:00.003-04:00

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

2009-07-11T23:43:00.005-04:00

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

2009-07-05T20:42:00.006-04:00

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

2009-06-27T20:26:00.004-04:00

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

2009-06-20T17:55:00.004-04:00

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

2009-06-07T15:11:00.005-04:00

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

2009-05-30T15:47:00.005-04:00

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

2009-05-24T00:12:00.005-04:00

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

2009-05-16T23:17:00.002-04:00

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

2009-05-09T13:03:00.005-04:00

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

2009-05-02T22:49:00.004-04:00

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

Draft Day

2009-04-26T00:33:00.004-04:00

For those who may not know it Saturday, April 25 is the day the NFL draft is held. In my house this day is akin to a holiday. My youngest child, a fifteen year old budding Center, has been gearing up for this day for months. He watched the TV coverage of the NFL Combine and watched the players showcase their skills, their athleticism, their speed and strength. We talked about who performed well, who was fast, who was strong. He followed many of the incoming draft prospects online and in print while they played at their respective schools. He watched endless analysis on TV of each college player's potential. He happily discussed what positions NFL teams needed and who might fill that role.

He reveled in all of the preparations up to this day. The day was spent at a friend's house, at a draft party, watching it all unfold live. He called me throughout the day telling me what was happening and asking what I thought. He moaned terribly over the Raider's first round pick, his favorite team, confounded by their choosing a lesser running back than the two that were still available.

I love his enthusiasm and commitment to this sport. It's a passion for him and I encourage his immersing himself rather than embrace the trappings of a bored teenager. He cares how it all plays out, he has a lot of himself invested.

I thought about this draft day tonight while I sat outside enjoying a lovely spring evening. I thought about all of the time and effort each team put into researching these players, how much of their own analysis was done. I thought about the science of it. The recorded sprint times, agility drills and strength tests. I thought about the Wonderlic. I thought about all of the results extrapolated ad nauseam and conclusions drawn. I thought about these teams who think they can project what a college kid will do, based on analysis, when dropped into the NFL.

I thought about my own projections and analysis of people in my life. People who I've known and thought I knew. Can you really know what another person is going to turn out to be? Can you watch them, follow them in their life and really be able predict how they will develop over time? Is there any way to know for sure what a person is capable of, is there a way to measure if they are what you think they are? Based on good, solid analysis can we really predict if someone will reach their potential? The potential we hope they will reach?

I'm not so sure. I'm not so sure that there is a test, a measurement or a scoring method in existence that will accurately predict if a person reaches their potential, reaches our expectations of what they will be for us. What I am sure of is instinct and good old fashioned common sense. Mine is a better measure of a person's nature and potential. Mine is a better predictor of what a person might turn out to be. My gut is my indicator, my predictor. Sometimes you just know. You just know.

My case in point....Brian Bosworth. I just knew he would turn out to be a bust. I knew it in my gut. I just knew.

Indeed.

Breaths of Fresh Air

2009-04-19T00:18:00.003-04:00

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....

2009-04-11T21:22:00.005-04:00

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.

Glass Houses

2009-04-04T22:43:00.004-04:00

People living in glass houses shouldn't throw stones.

I read something on a message board yesterday to that effect and it got me thinking. Thinking about those old adages and sayings. Proverbs that guide us. I was thinking of something quite different however. A different sort of glass house.

The glass house I imagine is made of walls that are transparent, transparent to allow light in, to allow the outside world to see inside. All that is inside is in plain view as there is nothing there to be hidden. Nothing to be ashamed of. Nothing that anyone would not be allowed to see. The glass is sparkling and clear, no dark corners to hide secrets. No hidden passages to hide hidden deeds. What you see is what you get.

The walls are sturdy and the house set on a strong foundation. Built on honesty and truth. Built with an eye on strength of character. The glass is not as fragile as one might imagine. The house stands tall and proud, ready to withstand whatever might come it's way. It knows there are those who like to throw stones. Those who could not live in a glass house themselves. Those who would like to see this house come down.

If by some chance someone should come along and lob a sizable rock and aim for this glass house....there is a chance the glass could shatter, could break into a million pieces. The structure might come crashing down but all that was inside would remain intact and standing strong and tall just exactly as it was before. Exactly as it will always be. What is left standing looks exactly as it did behind those glass walls and will remain exactly so without them.

I love these old adages, proverbs, wives's tales. One that comes to mind now is.....Pride goeth before a fall.

Sometimes when you launch that rock at someone's glass house....you end up falling flat on your face.

Indeed.

What A Fool Believes

2009-03-29T15:16:00.004-04:00

April 1 will be here on Wednesday. I have a distinct Love/Hate relationship with April Fools Day. I love it because I am a practical jokester and save my best stuff to unleash on April Fools Day. I dislike it because falling for the joke always reminds me of what it feels like to, in fact, be a fool. To feel a fool.

I am not the sort of person who fools easily. I am quite intuitive and generally can see a liar and a cheat from miles away. I can spot a poseur and don't suffer them kindly. It's not the liar and cheat I refer to here. I can deal with them with relative ease. The one that has the ability to fool me comes wrapped in decency and kindness. Presented to me in humbleness and affection. Fools me for what I believe them to be. Not because they've lied or misrepresented....but because of what I saw, what I believed.

Kenny Loggins and Michael MacDonald wrote a song called, What A Fool Believes. In it lies the truth of why some of us allow ourselves to be....the fool. One phrase lingers in my memory...

But what a fool believes he sees

No wise man has the power to reason away

What seems to be

We have all been made a fool. We have all been fooled. It hurts like nothing else in life.....at least that's what I think. My first experience as a complete fool changed me forever. It changed how I looked at life and at people. It made me better and it did not ruin me. In fact it made me smarter and more equipped to deal with life, helped me to make good assessments. Still, it happens to the best of us. We are fools because we believe. It's that simple.

Despite this ... and in order to have anything at all in life ... we have to risk being that fool. We have to let go and say... let it come to me and I'll believe. We have to stand still and wait for it with our eyes open. Stand tall and see what happens.

What a fool believes is what they see. What they see is often what they want to see, what they wish for, what they wish it to be. Sometimes it's necessary to be that fool, necessary to not reason away what we see or what we believe. Sometimes we have to be willing to be that fool in order to have what we see. Sometimes what we see....is exactly what is there.

Sometimes it's exactly what seems to be.

Indeed.

I'm Detaching!

2009-03-21T23:46:00.002-04:00

During last week's episode of Big Love, the hit HBO original series, a main character blurted those words during a rather contentious family discussion. Apparently she became so exasperated with the way the conversation was going that she essentially threw up her hands in frustration and said, "I'm detaching!" and she got up and left. All during the remainder of the show my mind kept going back to that one exclamation. I'm detaching.

The word detach, as a verb, means to unfasten and separate; disengage; disunite. The definition doesn't sound very promising. A detached retina is bad news. To become detached from society a problem, a tragedy to be perfectly honest. Yet as I watched that scene and let those two words sink in...I saw nothing negative about them. In fact I liked how the character said them, I liked her tone and I liked the fact that she said them and got up and left.

I saw her detaching as a sort of triumph over drama. She had enough and was not going to let the drama control her. She refused to give in and become part of it. I think I liked that more than anything else. I see myself detach that way...I just never put those words to my actions.

I find myself, often, not wanting to get caught and dragged down by negativity. I will walk away from a group at work who are in a full blown gossip fest. I detach. I will ignore a less than kind comment my husband might make in favor of a peaceful dinnertime. I detach. I bite my lip, my tongue and the inside of my check and stay perfectly quiet when my mother is mid-rant about something she read in the newspaper. I detach.

I detach, it seems, in order to preserve my mood, keep my composure, maintain and even strain. It is a skill I think, one I wish some others around me would adopt.

Unfasten, disconnect, disengage? Not in my mind. I'd like to add diffuse, disarm and dismiss to my personal definition of detach.

Dismiss!

Indeed.

Release

2009-03-14T17:25:00.005-04:00

Please release me let me go
For I don't love you anymore
To waste our lives would be a sin
Release me and let me love again

I have a memory from childhood. One of my mother, sitting in our parlor, in the dark, listening to a song play over and over on the stereo. The song was Please Release Me and it was written by Dub Williams, Eddie Miller, Robert Yount. Many artists have recorded the song but the album she was playing that day was one by Jim Reeves. Every time I hear that song my mind goes right to that memory.

I can still see her now, sitting there in the dark, on a club chair with her legs tucked underneath her. The only light in the room the glowing tip of her burning cigarette. I can still hear the sound she made as she inhaled, paused, and then slowly exhaled the smoke through her lips. I am standing in the front hall, having just come down the stairs. I know she can't see me so I remain there, watching, for a very long time.

Please release me let me go
For I don't love you anymore
To waste a life would be a sin
So release me and let me love again

This memory has been with me for nearly forty years. An image of my mother in what was, I'd imagine, a very private and painful moment. It was a rare glimpse for me, into the life of an extremely private woman. One I find myself more like as each year passes.

My mother is an attractive and interesting woman. She never seemed to be like my friend's mothers. She had a simple style, she was quiet and very private. She never called attention to herself yet one couldn't help but notice her. She made the other mothers seem pale in comparison. At least to me they did. To this day so much about her is a mystery to me, a mystery I am recognizing in myself.

I wondered then what she was doing sitting there like that. I couldn't possibly conceive of what might have been on her mind. Not at that age, but I can now. I can wonder now...was she at a crossroads? Was she struggling with her marriage, her life? Who did she need release from? My father? Another man? A past love? Someone she may have wanted a relationship with but couldn't have? Clearly she was working through something, having a moment within herself. A very private moment. I'll never know what she was thinking that day. I'll never know if she found her release. I do know that I hope for her sake that she did. I dearly hope she did.

Please release me can't you see
You'd be a fool to cling to me
To live a lie would bring us pain
So release me and let me love again

I understand that sitting in the dark, having done it myself. I understand struggling, understand a need for self examination and a search for direction. I understand private thoughts, a private life. I understand beyond her mystery, I understand my own mystery.

I understand.

Indeed

A Little Seasoning....

2009-03-08T17:19:00.003-04:00

A good friend of mine sent me one of those lovely Power Point presentations this week. The message, conveyed with breathtakingly beautiful photography, was a simple one. It was a message of seasons, each one separate and distinct, each one flowing into the next, each one to be seen as part of a whole and not in and of itself. The message stressed the importance of not isolating one single season. By itself one season can be a disappointment, so seasons must be looked at in their context to the others, the sum of all the parts if you will. The whole.

I made what I thought was a witty comment remarking that, "If you think about it...the seasons also "season" us." How true that statement is, they do season us. How very seasoned are those who have lived through and experienced many trials and triumphs over the course of their lives. I know I am seasoned, certainly.

We all go through difficult times. We face difficult situations, encounter difficult people. Thus making me think about another set of seasons entirely. Seasons we taste. We taste both the bitter and sweet of each season, the bitter and sweet life has to offer. We savor and relish the sweet times, the pleasant and idyllic ones. The bitter, pungent, hurtful ones are quite another matter. We hasten to cleanse our palate of such bitter taste, look to wash the remnants from our consciousness lest it linger and become a heavy aftertaste. We look for something sweet and light to take its place. Something soothing and gratifying to replace the sourness. We don't forget what was unappetizing and distasteful as it become part of us. We do focus on the pleasant, the savory and enjoyable tastes of life we find, but never do we forget the others less appreciated.

That's the season, the seasoning best remembered. The sum of all tastes, the delightful and sweetly satisfying ones along with the salty ones. While all our lives are a contrast of taste, a palate of balance and diversity, in the scheme of things it is the combined taste of all the seasons and all the tastes that I want. I want it all, not just one morsel, one mouthful. I want all the varied tastes of my life combined to make the whole picture.

My friend had a comment worth remembering I think. It was, "Our experiences should make us better and not bitter".

Better to have tasted all of life, tasted all the tastes, and not found it just bitter. Found it better.

Better indeed.

Dandelions and Wishes

2009-03-01T17:42:00.002-05:00

I was talking with a friend the other day and sharing a nice childhood memory. I was reminiscing about laying, flat on my back, in the back yard eyes closed, feeling the sun wash over my skin. I swear I can close my eyes now and take myself right back to that yard, that grass and that feeling. I can still see the effect the sun made turning the inside of my eyelids "red" as I kept my eyes tightly shut. I can still feel the picky grass beneath me, still feel warm breeze rustle my dress, still feel that lovely, safe place. That lovely, safe time.

I can also recall picking the dandelions from the yard and making "bouquets". I would pretend I was a bride, and march down the little stone path in my yard, listening to the music in my head as I floated down an imaginary aisle. I loved those dandelions, sunny and yellow, bright and cheery. I would pick them and my mother would give me a juice glass to use for a vase and I would set them on my nightstand.

Sometimes the blooms would dry and become wispy white creations. I would pluck them from the grass, make a wish, and blow the puffy white seeds into the air... sending my wish along with it. My mother told me that if the seed travelled far enough the wish would come true. I would puff and puff ,at flower after flower, watching the seeds float away and imagining that they travelled on and on and on. Imagining that my wish would come true. Someday.

Nobody ever told me they were weeds.

Nobody ever told me that one day I would own a house, with a lovely yard, and that I would pay someone to come over and make sure I never had any dandelions in my grass. Nobody ever told me that my life would be so full that I would never take the time to lay in the grass, flat on my back, and feel the sun warm my grown up skin.

Nobody told me that all of the wishes I made on wispy, floating dandelion seeds would be all for naught.

Then again....maybe they weren't all for naught. Just maybe one, single wisp of a seed traveled someplace nobody even knew about. Maybe one lone seed did make it and grew to a bloom that is now a wish come true.

It's best to leave the dandelions be. You never know.

Indeed.

Everything.....

2009-02-21T22:48:00.003-05:00

This week the news cycle was full of stories about a Connecticut woman, Sandra Herold, and her chimp, Travis. Travis nearly fatally mauled Ms Herold's good friend. The police eventually had to shoot Travis, killing him. Ms. Herold made a comment following Travis's death. I can't seem to get it off my mind. She said...He was my everything....

Her everything.

The simple fact that her "everything" was a chimpanzee notwithstanding, I thought about her life. A life such that she made her "everything" hinge on one single individual, albeit a chimp, but one single individual nonetheless.

Can a person really be everything in life?

I wondered if one person could so greatly impact me that I would make that complete and total emotional investment. I wondered if one person, at the exclusion of all others, could mean so much that they would in fact be my everything. I wondered, when all was said and done, if it was reasonable, I wondered if it was prudent and I wondered if it was perhaps essential.

Perhaps having someone be my everything meant that this is the one person who understood me, loved me, accepted me and delighted in me. Perhaps this person would impact me so deeply that for all time I would be changed. Perhaps I would be better for having known them, wiser for having allowed them access in so complete a manner and stronger for having such a combined force at my side.

Perhaps having one person be my everything is truly the secret to having it all.

I still think it was a shame Ms Herold looked to Travis to be her everything. She deserved more in this life than a chimpanzee.

She deserved everything. As do I. As do we all.

Indeed.

Who Loves Ya Baby!

2009-02-14T23:00:00.005-05:00

Telly Savalas coined the phrase "Who Loves Ya Baby" on the 1973 hit TV series Kojak. The phrase was rhetorical in nature as it was used by the character. I like to think of that phrase in a literal sense. Who loves you?

We give a lot of thought to the object of our own affections, the ones we love. We think in terms of how we feel about the person, how much they mean to us and sometimes we wonder what we would ever do without them. We love them and our time is spent lost in wonderful sweet memories encapsulated in these moments. We simply think about how much it is we love them.

But what of those who love us? How often do we give a passing thought to what it's like for that person who loves us? What is it really like for them to love us?

We don't often realize our impact on another. We don't realize what our words mean, what our touch can evoke. We don't always recognize our importance to someone in a visceral sense, we can't feel it, can't feel the depth of emotion they have inside borne of love for us. We don't see them pause and break into a smile because they've thought about us, recalled something we said, remembered the last shared embrace, last shared kiss. We don't hear them sigh when they miss us. We don't hear that sharp intake of breath when they find us. We don't know when they whisper I love you's before they fall asleep. We don't feel how their heart pounds with delight or aches with worry for us.

Perhaps we should. Perhaps to truly appreciate the weight and measure of another's love for us we should think about their expressions and offerings as the remarkable gestures they are. Perhaps we should think about all of those things that occur out of our line of sight. Perhaps the next time we hear them say "I love You" we should pause and imagine all that lies behind those three words. Imagine the scope of their emotional investment, imagine the enormity of their risk taken. Image the breadth of feeling that follows those three little words from their lips to our hearts.

Imagine what it took for them to offer all of that to us. Offer all of that.

Indeed.

Shades of Gray.....

2009-02-07T17:17:00.005-05:00

I am not a big fan of Country Music, but I am a fan of a good songwriter no matter what their chosen genre. The words to a song, a good song, rise up and away from the melody and embed themselves inside me. They stay with me only to be pulled out, and examined over and over, until I settle on what the writer said and how it spoke to me.

It seems every time I tune to a radio station lately I hear a song called, "In Color" by Jamey Johnson. The song was co written by Johnson, along with James Otto and Lee Thomas Miller.

The song carries a simple message that becomes apparent quickly. It's not the message that gets me, but the power behind it. The song has a grandfather showing some photographs of key moments in his life. In order to explain the significance, weight and importance of the moment captured in the photo he says, "you should have seen it in color".

Isn't that exactly how life's moments are? We try to capture life's moments on film for posterity...but what we really have is a piece if paper with an image on it. An image in shades of gray. An image that doesn't come near to defining that moment. That doesn't come near to expressing the myriad of emotion present within. The real importance, the life, in a photograph is the memory attached to it. Only the individuals who lived that moment truly understand what took place. The photo captured the image but the individual captured the memory. They look at the photo later...and they see it in color. The color that lives in the memory.

I looked at some old photos not long ago, wanting to scan them and share with a friend who didn't know me when I was young. I had photos of my childhood, me in the dorm at college, my wedding. Photos of me with my children, with my parents, with my husband. Photos, now that I think about them, really don't tell my story at all. The photos show images, happy faces, pleasant poses, fun times. What they do not show is what was going on inside me at the time, They do not show what I was feeling, what was behind the smile. They don't show that I cut my knee and tried to look happy on my grandmother's porch. They don't show the sadness I swallowed, and capped by a smile, the day I left college and came home. They don't show the struggle, from the day before, surging between my husband and me. They don't show the worry I had inside for the child standing next to me. They don't show the near tragedy brewing inside me just four days before becoming critically ill. They show happy, smiling faces, but you should have seen them in color.

The song's refrain, so beautifully crafted goes....

A picture's worth a thousand words
but you cant see what those shades of gray keep covered.
You should have seen it in color.

I'm leaving the photos unscanned. I'd rather tell the story than show the picture. A story told in my words. A story told in color.

Indeed.

Just Like Peas and Carrots

2009-01-31T21:36:00.003-05:00

There is a great line from the film, Forrest Gump. Hearing it always makes me smile deep down inside. Forrest is talking about his very best friend, Jenny, and he says...Me and Jenny goes together like peas and carrots.

Peas and carrots.

The reason I always smile when I hear that line is because I love thinking about having just such a friend. A friend to have wonderful, delicious closeness with. A friend to share secrets, hopes and dreams. A friend to share joy, good fortune and personal accomplishment. A friend to share heartaches, disappointment and hurt. A friend to admit fear, admit failure and admit defeat. A friend to experience the deepest level of conversation, the deepest level of connection.

A friend to show the part of you no one else has ever seen. A friend who doesn't turn away when they see it. A friend who will not run from a tough time. A friend who will be there, day after day, without fail. A friend who does not fail you.

A friend to trust with everything....a friend to trust with yourself.

Some of us are lucky enough to have such a friend. Some of us are smart enough to treat them with the care they deserve. Some of us are blessed with the knowledge they feel the exact same way about us.

Peas and carrots.

Indeed.

Unrung Bells

2009-01-24T12:03:00.004-05:00

When I was a child, my mother would tell me to think before I spoke. She stressed that a person could hurt with words just as much as they could with fists, maybe even more. Bumps and bruises heal, words resonate in our minds for as long as we allow them.

We all have one, one resounding word or phrase someone has spoken to us in anger. Something someone has said that knocked us off our feet, took the wind from our sails, struck a direct hit at our core. I know I do. There are few things that can break my spirit, few things that can shake me, shake me hard. Few things that will make me walk away and close the door behind me, for good. Words spoken in anger, aimed at my heart, will do it every time.

They say you can't unring a bell. What a perfect way to put that particular thought. You can't. Once the words leave your mouth, the bell is struck, the sound travels to its intended target. The words have a potential to pinch, to hurt and to maim, over and over, as they echo on and on.

This week I was sent an interesting quote buy Chris White,

Lord, keep Your arm around my shoulder and Your hand over my mouth.

Immediately I whispered the words to myself, like a prayer, and added them to the signature portion of my personal email. I want to keep these words at the forefront of my thoughts. Oh that I could have had that hand over my mouth at times.

I never again want to wish an unrung bell to silence. Nor do I ever want to watch someone recoil after I have spoken. I want to always pause before I speak lest I hurt someone with my own words. I don't ever want to do that as I know exactly how it feels, how it hurts, how it keeps on hurting. I hear them now, those words spoken in anger, that bell still ringing and feeling the sting from each slow peal.

I wish I never had to hear it again.

Indeed

That's The Way Of The World

2009-01-17T23:54:00.004-05:00

This week marks a momentous occasion in our country, the United States of America. The first African American in history will be sworn in as the 44th President of this great nation.

Whether you voted for Barak Obama or not...matters little now. He is our leader, our Commander in Chief, and our nation will come together to celebrate this mark of time in our lives. We always do.

That's the way of the world. We march on, move forward, keep going. Despite all that is amiss, all that worries us, we keep moving, one foot in front of another. We keep moving.

That's The Way of the World is a beautiful song written by Maurice White, Verdeen White and Charles Stempney and recorded in 1975 by the group Earth Wind and Fire. It's a beautifully soothing and uplifting song with a lyric that has stayed with me all these 34 years. It is a perennial favorite, one that touches my soul.

We've come together on this special day

To sing our message loud and clear

Looking back we've touched on sorrowful days

Future pass, they disappear

You will find peace of mind

If you look way down in your heart and soul

Don't hesitate cause the world seems cold

Stay young at heart cause you're never (never, never, ..) old at heart

The lyric always made me think about change, handling change. Transitions. Things we might look back upon, things in our past. Things that might have sorrow attached vanish in the morrow. In future days they do indeed disappear. We forget, move on, move ahead, move forward. That's the way of the world.

All of our life is a series of changes, one after another. The change might be good, or it might not be. It's beyond our control entirely. So we get up, face a new day. We let the future arrive and the past disappear. We let dawn a beginning and say goodbye to what was. We keep continuing on in life, getting up each new day, one after another, no matter what life has handed us. That's the way of the world.

Find your peace of mind and let it happen.

Just let it happen.

Indeed.

Bookshelves.....

2009-01-08T21:48:00.006-05:00

I was in a Barnes and Noble store when I was on vacation in Florida over Christmas. I took my son so he could sit in the cafe and email a few friends at home he was missing.

While I was waiting for him I thought I might peruse the shelves and see what I might have been missing since my last visit. I wandered to the Relationships section and found some very interesting titles stacked like soldiers in neat rows. Soldiers in the fight to save our relationships from peril.

Here is my own compilation of veritable must reads for those serious about getting their relationship back on track:

1. Eat Chocolate Naked, and 123 Other Ways to Attract Attention and Spark Romance by Cam Johnson.

Interesting. A man is always interested in sparking romance with a partner gorging on chocolate, giving her attention as she packs on the pounds rendering her unpalatable to him in the end.

2. Love Is Letting Go of Fear, Gerald G Jamposky

Hmmm...if you are afraid of him....you shouldn't be loving him now should you? Oh....it's not him you are afraid of....you have a fear of Love? Well...why are you afraid of love? I think those issues should be addressed before you go and love somebody. All your issues may make HIM afraid of YOU.

3.Love In 90 Days... *or Less, Diana Kirschner PhD

An expiration date for Love, how precious.

4 & 5. How Can I Forgive you? Janis Abrams Spring PhD and Self Hypnosis, Chereth Powell & Grey Forde.

Now you know these two simply must be read as a pair. I'm just saying....

6. Men Who Can't Love, Steven Carter & Julia Sabol.

Tell me again why we want these men?

7. It's So Hard To Love You, Bill Klotte MSW., Kate Thompson.

Then why are you even bothering?

8. Too Good To Leave, Too Bad To Stay, Mira Kirshenbaum

A conundrum if there ever was!

9. The collective "Dr" Laura Schlessengers faux works on brainwashing...I mean suggestions (to send a woman back into the time before indoor plumbing) to have a successful union.

I'd ask for a refund. She's qualified to expound about her doctoral dissertation, Effects of Insulin on 3-0-Methyglucose Transport in Isolated Rat Adipocytes, not the marriages of thinking women.

and finally....

10. If Buddha Dated, Charlotte Kose PhD.

What does one say about Buddha dating? I would, however, like to see his profile on Match.com.

I did not chose anything from this stellar array for myself. Instead I wandered to the sale bin and made my choice, Meditations From a Course In Miracles, Inspirational quotes of universal wisdom, from materials by Dr Helen Schucman
If I may.....

I found this pearl in the chapter labeled Meditations on Love and Relationships:

On Love

Love is not learned.
It's meaning lies within itself,
And learning ends when you
have recognized all is not.

Love is not learned,
because there never was a
time when you knew it not.

Indeed!

The Final Accounting

2008-12-31T09:42:00.003-05:00

The time between Christmas and New Years is always a time of reflection for me. It's a period of time when l turn especially introspective. I like to look over what I've done and where I've been. For me, the final accounting is before me. Time to add things up.

This year my thoughts were centered on changes, changes in my life. Changes that I made by myself, changes I made with help and those more challenging changes that came about in and of themselves. It's one thing when we set out to accomplish something, with intent and purpose and quite another when the change is dropped in our lap, unceremoniously and unexpectedly. A change we have no control over.

So it is that change I am thinking of now, that unexpected, unwanted and unavoidable part of life we cannot help but wonder about. Wonder if a different course of action would have made a difference, would have produced a different outcome. I think about what responses of mine were good ones, the right ones. I think about the accidental responses, the ones I didn't give any thought to, the ones if I had thought about what would they have produced. Where would I be then, where would I be going now?

It doesn't matter, really. The exercise in "what if" is an exercise in futility. It's a game to play, one that doesn't matter in the least. It's interesting to ponder but for all of my wondering what is...is.

What matters is what I've done and where I am right now. What matters, in my final accounting, is how do I feel about this year's journey, how do I feel about the changes I made? My responses to changes that were made for me? Am I satisfied with myself? Am I willing to move on from what has disappointed me, move forward with what has delighted me? Am I able to add it all up, look at it clearly and objectively and be happy with the end result?

You better believe it.

Indeed.

You live a life worth living... and you love with all your heart.

2008-12-20T00:22:00.007-05:00

My daughter is at the jumping off point, the brink of permanence, in a relationship with a wonderful young man. I couldn't be happier for her.

I look at her and see what lies before her, if she is willing to reach for it. I see what lies before her if she allows herself to be reached for. What I see is her life, the way a life ought to be. The way a life ought to be lived.

You have to know how special I think the connection between a man and woman is, the connection between a man and woman in love. We are meant to be part of a pair, a couple. We are meant to have partners. We are meant to, along with another person, live life in such a way that we discover every last thing about ourselves in the process...but can only do so with that other person as part of our journey. Not just any person, but the one you are meant for, the one who matches you. The one who was literally made for you. The one you love and the one who loves you.

A person can know themselves inside and out, know their own feelings right down to the last letter. Still, there is always a part of us, a part left undiscovered, until which time we meet the person who was meant to help find it, help us uncover those things we never could have found by ourselves.

So it is my wish, my desire, for my daughter to have this partner in her life. Have this person who is not there to complete her or change her. She's a fabulously complete young woman in her own right. My wish is that she have the partner who will add to her life, add his voice to hers in order to make a new song between them. Have that partner to help her uncover all that is inside her. Make a new life blending all they have as individuals, taking all they are made of, and all that they find in each other, and together making a life.

You see ... you live a life worth living....and you love with all your heart. There is no other way to live, truly live. No other way to love.

My wish is my gift to you my love. Let's live that life.

Merry Christmas

Indeed.

Bearing Gifts

2008-12-14T10:21:00.002-05:00

I went Christmas shopping Friday evening in a local Department Store in the downtown area of my community. It's a wonderful store, timeless and traditional. The sales staff are older than those in most stores and they know the merchandise. The store has six floors of shopping, escalators and even a restaurant complete with a lunch counter. It's a dream, a throwback, a wondrous place and, to me, it does not feel like Christmas until I have gone there shopping.

After making a few purchases I stopped by the fine jewelry counter. While waiting for the salesperson to show me something from the case, a man standing next to me seemed restless, almost fidgety. He was my age, or perhaps a bit older, and appeared to be dressed in his work clothes. He wasn't dirty or disheveled but he must have stopped in right after working. I smiled at him and went back to waiting for a clerk. About a minute later he came closer to me and wanted to know if he could ask my opinion on something. My opinion is something I give often, without having been asked, so naturally I was willing to oblige! He had made his choice but wanted to know what I thought. He had chosen an exquisite Venetian glass shaped heart with 24k gold swirled inside. It was a beautiful piece, any woman would appreciate such a gift.

Apparently he had only been dating the woman he wanted to give this gift to for a short time. He didn't want to appear too pushy but he had feelings for her. He said he intended to tuck a little note inside the box before he gave it to her. The note would say..."You captured my heart". What a lovely gesture and I told him so. He was happy to discover I agreed with his choice of gift....as well as how he wanted to present it.

This woman is lucky. Lucky to have someone put such care into a gift for her. Lucky to have someone want to make sure the gift was special, thoughtful, make sure it was perfect. Later that night I thought about the gifts I have received over the years. Mostly the ones from my husband. When we first met he was a great giver of gifts, thoughtful and imaginative. The element of surprise was a strong theme. Over the years he has given me a wide range of offerings, each and every one appreciated.

Over time the gifts seem to have changed as has his dedication to choosing them. He has a hard time now finding something for me. He'll tell me I am hard to buy for, that I have everything. He'll sometimes want me to tell him what I want, or better yet, go out and pick it up myself. He'll say that this way I'll have what I want. I always decline that one.

It surprises me that, after all of this time, he does not know me well enough to understand that it's not the gift to me ... but the thought behind it. I don't need to be wowed. He doesn't have to "out do" the previous gift. Simply put I just want to be thought of. I don't care what he gives me. The smallest gesture is always the best with me. A tiny offering that says...this made me think of you.

The best gifts, for me, are those that don't cost very much but are priceless. They reflect the heart of the giver. They reflect their intent, their care. They reflect what I mean to them. They mirror the givers feelings for me. The gift, over time, can be taken out, again and again, and the lovely sentiment returns. Each time I would look at it I would know the loving thought behind it and the genuine spirit in which it was given. It's the gift that keeps on giving.

It can't be any simpler.

Indeed

When You're Fast Asleep

2008-12-06T14:22:00.006-05:00

A dream is a wish your heart makes...

When you're fast asleep...

In dreams you lose your heartaches...

Whatever you wish for, you keep ...

What a sweet, lovely verse, part of a song written by Mac David, Al Hoffman and Jerry Livingston for the Walt Disney animated classic, Cinderella. Dreams. I like to think about dreams. I like to think about my dreams.

Dreams keep your sanity intact, or at least I think so. Dreaming is something you sometimes do until the crisis passes, until the heartache ends, until the drama subsides. Dreaming is something you do until things are better, until things return to normal. Dreams are a way of fooling yourself, if only for a little while. Without them life could be far too harsh, far too barren of joy and humor, far too serious. Far too much to bear. Dreams are a place to wander until it's safe to return home.

Mostly I like to think of dreams as self fulfilling prophesies. Not in the sense that a fantasy would come to be, but rather the dream of a life as we intended it to be. We all want certain things in life and sometimes they are just beyond our reach. Through no fault of our own sometimes, these things remain elusive, at our fingertips but not within our grasp. Dreaming, having a wish our heart has made, keeps those things right in front of us. We see them in waking moments and perhaps have them in the ones when we are asleep. Dreaming keeps them front and center. Keeps them in our sight and on our minds until that time that whatever you wish for....you keep.

So until those days that my own dreams come, I will keep wishing, keep on believing that ....the dream that I wish will come true.

Indeed.

A dream is a wish your heart makes

When you're fast asleep

In dreams you lose your heartaches

Whatever you wish for, you keep

Have faith in your dreams and someday

Your rainbow will come smiling thru

No matter how your heart is grieving

If you keep on believing

The dream that you wish will come true

A Thankful Spirit.....

2008-11-28T23:47:00.005-05:00

"In everyone's life, at some time, our inner fire goes out. It is then burst into flame by an encounter with another human being. We should all be thankful for those people who rekindle the inner spirit." Albert Schweitzer

Go figure a scientist, and not a poet or lyricist, would so profoundly present the true nature of the impact another can have on our lives.

With Thanksgiving upon us it seemed the focus over the last week or so was....what are you thankful for? Naturally I am thankful for a great many things not the least of which are those individuals who, by the nature or their relationship to me, have enriched my life, my attitude, my spirit. I am fortunate to be blessed with friends. Lots of friends. Wonderful, caring friends. I always have been.

I spent some time thinking about these friends, thinking on what it was about them that I am thankful for. I came up with a host of reasons why I was thankful, why I felt blessed. Lots of people have drifted in and out of my life over the years. For better or worse they have all affected me in some way, left a mark on me, left a part of themselves behind. Of the many mysteries to my own inner spirit, one I have spent a lot of time contemplating, is the effect people can have on me, have on my life.

I am pleased to have kindness extended me from these friends, especially when it wasn't deserved. Too often I don't hold up my end, keep up and keep in touch. Still...these friends are there and just a phone call away. They are dependable and true. They are steady and solid in a world that is shaky and suspect. They have my best interests at heart. Something I am thankful for, certainly.

Then there is the friend Dr Schweitzer so eloquently names. The one who relights the fire from damp embers, the one that bursts into the soul and turns it upside down from the laughter alone. The one who rekindles what has faded, what has been lost, what has gone dark and quiet. The one who wants nothing and gives everything. The one who for all the world would never hurt you. The one with the map and directions you trust. The one that makes you stand still, so still that all you can hear is what you might have missed.

The one you remember in prayer each and every night just before sleep.

The one you are most thankful for.

Rekindled spirits....

Indeed

If The Shoe Fits...

2008-11-22T23:33:00.004-05:00

If the shoe fits, wear it.

Who has not heard that idiomatic proverb? I first heard it as a girl told to me by my mother countless times. My mother's way of making sure I held myself accountable for thought as well as deed I suppose. If a proverbial shoe fit...I did indeed wear it. I wanted to be accountable, wanted to take to heart the things I did, felt.

Of course if just about any shoe fit me....I would wear it. Shoes...I love shoes. I love how certain pairs of shoes make me feel when I wear them. I will buy a pair of shoes and put together an outfit around them. I love shoes but I digress.

So as not to appear shallow...I must say it is not this particular kind of shoe I refer now. Not the pretty and sexy shoes I often try on and buy. It is the shoe that many who struggle wish we would all try on. Try on for size.

I'm talking about walking a mile in someone else's shoes. We often look at others, size up their lives and make a judgement. I wonder what the judgement would be having stepped into their shoes for a while, walked their paces, felt the pinch from a long day on their feet? We see a seemingly attractive person with a nice house, nice car, nice spouse, nice kids and we think...what a nice life they must have. We might even feel a little jealous, a little envious, wishing such niceties for ourselves. We would be making an egregious error in assuming that the nice we see equates to the nice they live. Those shoes might very well cause blisters, aching blisters they endure day in and day out.

So before you judge, make an assumption...try on those shoes. Try those shoes on and see if they fit. If they fit take a walk in them and find out what it feels like to wear them

What it feels like to wear them in their life...blisters and all.

Indeed.

Move On

2008-11-16T11:10:00.003-05:00

MoveOn.org is an organization, a liberal organization, created to bring Americans into the political process through advocacy, political action and civic action. Borne following the Clinton impeachment hearings, it's founders sought to move the country, move Americans, "on". The idea was, for the good of the country, to Censure the President and be done with it. Move on!

We have all heard those words before. Many of us have said them as well and with the best of intentions. Move on.

It's not so easy to move on is it? Sometimes we're involved in a series of events that make us want to do anything but move on. We can't conceive of not being in that particular situation, being with that particular person. Moving on would be anathema to us, out of the question, unfathomable. We seem to want to stay right where we are and who we are with. Despite being told by countless friends, in countless ways, we stay. We remain fixed and immobile. Stuck.

Now the "staying" I refer to is a mindset, a thought process, a mental place. I have a girlfriend who went through a divorce after twenty five years of marriage. She had a terrible time dealing with the end of her marriage and we would spend countless conversations with her asking why this was happening to her and me telling her to move on. I'd say we had the same conversation for about two years. Two years! What I found interesting was the fact that she was the one who left, she was the one to bring an end to the marriage. In a physical sense she did, in fact, move on. Not in her mind however. In those two years of telling her to move on I would get frustrated. I couldn't understand why she was unable to move forward with her life. It was certainly for her own good. She knew this, she would tell me each time we talked...."I know I have to let go but it's just so hard".

It is hard. This experience with her serves as a reminder for me. There are many things in my life I have had to move on from, had to let go of. Some simple, some more complex. Some dispatched with ease like the loss of a favored political candidate or a change in jobs. Others more difficult like the loss of a loved one, one who sometimes remains in your life. Like the loss of friendship, one that has gone sour and irreparable. Of course the loss of friends and relatives to illness, death. For me...and the most difficult of all....the loss of a dream. The loss of something I may have put all of my faith in, hung all of my hopes on. Something I might have been counting on, wishing for. Something I may have set my heart on. Gone.... and with no way to bring it back. How frustrating, how hard to deal with, how difficult to move on.

Yet I have. I have and so will I continue to do.

Move On

Indeed

The Party Continues....

2008-11-09T16:16:00.003-05:00

I celebrated a birthday this week...a big one. A milestone. One I had mixed feelings about.

While no one would ever say that I am not vain, vanity had nothing to do with my mixed feelings. Aging has not really bothered me, not in a visual sense. I'm curvier than I once was, yes, and not quite as svelte. I have the same angst most women do at my age but I am without the telltale wrinkles and crinkles that land on most faces. I really don't look my age.

I have been mulling this milestone quietly and introspectively for some time now. As the day drew near my precious husband would stop and exclaim, "I can't believe I'll be married to a 50 year old". He's younger than I am by nearly two years, his turn will come. Last weekend he regaled me with the tale of a dream he had had. As he told it....he dreamed of me standing in our kitchen. He said, "you were young and you had your long hair. You were so pretty and you looked so thin....like when you were twenty. You had on a nightie and looked so sexy, you looked so good to me". As if that wasn't enough he said, "what happened to you?". Bless his heart.....he's lucky I didn't injure him.

I'll admit his words upset me. One glance in a mirror confirms my own satisfaction with my appearance. Still I was perplexed. You see in his wondering what had happened to me....I wondered why he didn't know the answer to that question. That's what bothered me.

What has happened to me is that I have grown. Simply put but accurate...I have grown. I am all kinds of wiser than I was back then, when I was twenty like in his dream. I'm smarter and I am eons more worldly. I have the maturity of one who has been there, the good sense of one who has done that. I know so much more about people and their nature. I know so much more about my own nature.

I have never stopped growing. Never stopping learning about myself. I am so beautifully familiar with my mood and temperament. I'm never confused by what I might be feeling. How could I be? I know myself better than anyone. I have learned to let go of things that are useless and a drag on my optimism. I have learned to excise people who seek to hold me back, malign my growth. I have opened my mind to a world of possibility....not the least of which are my own desires and wishes.

My body does not cause me grief now. Despite it being far less aesthetically pleasing than when I was twenty, I love the look of it now. I'm familiar with each nook and cranny, have fine tuned each sensual response and forgiven it of any perceived shortcomings I had initially thought were there. I am comfortable in my own skin. Confident and uninhibited. I love how I turned out so far.

What has happened to me is that I have developed into the woman I had always wanted to become, the one I worked hard to become. It is in this place, this place that I am so comfortable, this place in life that I am at, that I see what has happened to me. I see what I have become....but I'm not done yet. Not nearly.

My daughter had decorated the house with the appropriate party decorations. She had chosen a theme that made me smile. The decorations were tagged "The Party Continues". How perfect, how perfectly the thought dovetails with where I am right now in life. For all of my growth, for all of my desire to learn more ....the party continues...and my growth will continue. As I navigate this wonderful path, this road that I travel, I will continue to seek out those things left for me to know, left for me to learn. As I continue on in my life, I cannot wait to see what else I discover along the way.

The party continues

Indeed.

Edelweiss

2008-11-01T23:30:00.005-04:00

I have a lovely music box that plays the tune of a sweet song written by Rogers and Hammerstein for the musical, The Sound Of Music. It was a song called Edelweiss. I sang it to each of my children, as I rocked them to sleep as babies, it's melody sweet and soothing, calming and tender.

Edelweiss, Edelweiss, every morning you greet me

Small and white, clean and bright, you look happy to meet me

Blossom of snow may you bloom and grow, bloom and grow forever

Edelweiss, Edelweiss, bless my homeland forever...

In the film, Captain Georg Von Trapp (played by Christopher Plummer) sings this sweet song to his children as they look upon him completely immersed in the moment, full of love and admiration for this man. From that time I have considered Edelweiss as a love song. Singing the tune to my children was an expression of love. The words making me imagine, metaphorically, my children the small blossoms, the small blossoms that needed tender care, needed my tender care. Needing my tending.

Love will do that to a person, fill them with a desire to tend those they care for. It creates a tenderness that comes to life through small loving acts of caring and devotion. Most of us have had this feeling, this experience. Most of us have tended, nurtured another person and not only our children but our love partners as well. It's natural, instinctive really. It is in this tending that the purity of the love we feel is expressed, the emotion given over, the heart opened wide. This is where action speaks louder than any word ever could.

How nice to feel that tending, to be the one tended. To feel the caring, nurturing, touch of another. As children most of us knew this beautiful feeling. But what of the tending, the tender care we feel once we've grown? The tending given us now, as adults, and at this stage in life? It's a stronger touch, a more satisfying feeling certainly. To be handled with such great care, to be encouraged, to be accepted and to be loved as an equal. To feel the warmth of affection, the embrace of respect. To be seen and beheld as something rare, something precious. Something worth holding on to, not tightly, but with open hands that do not confine or limit. To be tended in the truest sense.

To able able to bloom and grow. To bloom and grow even now...

Indeed

False Faces.....

2008-10-25T23:54:00.005-04:00

Halloween is less than a week away. Around my house there is some anticipation about costumes and trick or treaters rapping at our doors. This has me thinking of my past Halloweens...the ones from long ago.

I always loved dressing up. In my world we didn't use store bought costumes. My mother would either sew a costume for me or we would put together something from what we had in the attic. Over the years I have been an array of all manner of imaginative characters from Aunt Jemima to a Radio City Rockette, from a Beatnik to an Alien. Dressing up was fun and great effort was made to conceal identities. We were brazen in our subterfuge, hoping to fool our friend's mothers. We we so bold we even tried to trick the nuns at our church convent by assuming other identities when asked who we were. It was silliness, good fun and healthy mischief.

We always sang songs when we trick or treated. Of all the songs we would sing on doorsteps one was always my favorite....

Who's behind that false face
Nobody knows but me
Who's behind that false face
Nobody knows but me
I won't tell you
You will have to guess
If the guess is right
I will answer yes!

A simple song for a child to learn certainly. My children all sang it. Well perhaps not my youngest....he was a bit shy and would just stand there with his bag held out. Sorry.....I digress.

The song is simple, yes, but it belies something I think about often. False faces, masks if you will. Personal masks, private faces concealed from others. We all have used them at one time or another. I consider them a sort of defense mechanism, protection actually. A sort of armor. We wear a face in public and sometimes it is not our own.

Now I am not talking about people who hide their true self from others, people who claim to not feel comfortable showing their "real selves". People who "act" one way in front of people but claim to be very different on the inside. I am talking about people who do not care to show the world at large what things they are feeling at that moment. People who have control, show restraint, have strength. I was raised in a home where I was taught to keep my emotions in check in public. I might be upset or hurt or angry but I was taught to wait until I was at home, in the privacy of my room, before letting those feelings register and spill out. Nothing was ever repressed, just postponed until I was in a suitable environment for it's unleashing. My parents were big on the concept of .... never let them see you sweat.

For some this goes against human nature. Certainly for my husband who's every thought is displayed on his face in vividly glorious detail. One only need look at him to gauge his mood. He's not one to keep it in check certainly. He was sometimes confounded by my lack of visible emotion early on...thinking I was cold. I am anything but cold....I just don't like to display my thoughts. He'll often point out this oddity to me, interpreting my blank face as a worry of what someone might think of me. The funny thing is I don't worry what someone thinks. I just don't want them to see what I am thinking.

The face I want them to see is my own. The face I want them to see is my calm, cool, collected self. The face I want them to see is one of my choosing. I'll be blowing my stack once I get in my room at home.

Nobody knows but me.

Indeed.

Going Home

2008-10-18T20:31:00.004-04:00

You Can't Go Home Again is a novel by Thomas Wolfe. Published after his death, this novel deals with a small town man's search for his identity out in a great big world. Who Says You Can't Go Home is also a song written and performed by Jon Bon Jovi and Richie Sambora refuting the point. I have heard the phrase, you can't go home again, used as a way to illustrate one's passage, a marking of time, leaving one's childhood for a grown up life and the inability to return to that "home" again. Many think it can't be done.

Today I took a little road trip with my Dad. My son was playing in a football game against a school about 75 miles from home and I drove him to the game. Initially I had planned on taking some CDs of stand up comedy acts, some favorite comedians of mine, to listen to on the long drive. I thought it would both pass the time for us and I also thought he would enjoy them. It's been a long time since I spent that time alone with my Dad and for some reason I felt I needed to fill it with something.

Today was a beautiful fall day in the Northeast. The sky, cerulean and crisp, the leaves in various colors and stages of yellows, greens, reds and oranges. The route travelled was a two lane country road for the most part and there was little traffic along the way. We set out and I was about to put the CDs in the player and Dad simply said. "Leave them". He said, "It's a beautiful day kiddo...let's just talk".

So we talked. We talked about national politics, the election. We talked about our local taxes. We talked about our health care plans. We talked about my satellite radio. We talked about his buying a new car and that he wanted a Nissan this time. We talked about being pro choice vs being pro life. We talked about SNL. We talked about the Redskins. We talked about his sister's season tickets and making that trip to see her in Virginia a reality. We talked about Adam (Pacman) Jones and Maurice Clarett. We talked about John Madden as a football commentator, Troy Aikman, Terry Bradshaw and Tony Kornheiser. We talked about how much we dislike "Jaws" and "the Playmaker". We talked about how much he wanted Penn State to lose today (they didn't) and that thankfully Notre Dame would not lose as they had a bye week.

We talked about our church. We talked about his health and my mother's health. We talked about his doctors and his newly diagnosed anemia. We talked about my health. We talked about my children, his beloved grandchildren. We talked.

Yesterday I had remarked to a friend that this drive with my Dad made me think of the good old days....the days I lived at home. Days I had time to spend with my Dad. Days I remember fondly. I said that sometimes I want to go "home" again and revisit that part of the past that feels good. Quiet times, simple times. That part that feels like home to me. Today I did just that. For in that car, all along those 75 miles there and back, my Dad and I talked like we did when I was at "home". It was like Sunday nights, sitting at the kitchen table, and playing gin rummy and talking. It was like car trips to his bothers' homes on holidays and talking. It was like sitting out on the porch on a summer night and talking. It was like those calls in the afternoon, between my classes, when I was away at college. It was like old days, good days, days gone by. The words never stopped, they never waned and they flowed from us both in abundance and with purpose. We picked up right where we left off...at home. We talked...my Dad and I. We talked.

Who says you can never go home. This afternoon I went there....and back.

Indeed.

43 Questions...

2008-10-12T15:53:00.003-04:00

Twenty Questions was a one-time popular game in which one player is designated as the "answerer" and this player chooses a subject that the other players attempt to reveal by asking questions. If twenty questions are asked, and the subject remains unrevealed, the "answerer" wins the round. At least that's the twenty questions game I know and have played. One variation is playing the game with the "questioners" asking personal questions of the "answerer" and increasing the degree of difficulty with each round. When the "answerer" gets through twenty questions without balking at an answer they take the round. The game unearths lots of information about the players involved. This game also becomes quite interesting when alcoholic beverages are flowing. I digress.

Last week my daughter sent me a forwarded email called 43 Questions. A list of forty three questions to answer and forward on to friends. Surprisingly this email did not come with the usual disclaimer warning of all manner of doom and pestilence should you not forward the email to at least nine friends. I promptly answered the questions, sent it back to her and also sent it along to a pile of my friends. I am still getting responses back in fact one came in this morning. I caught a giggle or two when I received the email from people I hadn't sent it to initially. It made the rounds, certainly.

While I loved reading all the responses that came back to me, loved learning new things about people I have in some cases known for a very long time, I especially loved reading my daughter's responses. It was somewhat eye opening for me. It wasn't that I learned something new about her, her responses held no real surprise in content. She's my daughter, I know her favorites, her preferences and her likes and dislikes. What surprised me was her tone, her wit and her humor. My daughter is a smart ass! I couldn't be more pleased.

My daughter is a beautiful girl. There really is no other way to put it. She turns heads, a lot of them. When she was a child I worried she might become vain, become too concerned with her appearance, too focused on something she didn't do anything to achieve herself having simply been born that way. Being born pretty is not always a good thing in my opinion. It can limit a person's dimension certainly.

Reading her responses to the 43 questions introduced me to the many delicious layers of her personality. Layers I had not seen before. I was delighted and I laughed out loud at her beautiful sarcasm. I saw so many things in her responses, thoughts and attitudes I did not know she had developed. I saw how her mind works, the turns it is capable of taking. I saw the sheer fun she has in poking fun at herself... a quality I find to be very attractive. A quality I find to be a lifesaver at times. She's witty. She's funny. She has grown into a bright, lovely, young woman and is everything I could have hoped for and more.

#28. Would you be a pirate? Only if I could have a parrot on my shoulder.

Smart ass.
Indeed.

On A Clear Day....

2008-10-04T16:08:00.007-04:00

Fall days can have a certain sparkling quality that I love. Crisp and clear, the colors vibrant, strong and true. Summer's haze disappears, the air is light and one can see for miles. Sitting outside this afternoon, looking off into the distance, I was thinking about clear days and a line from a song I knew long ago....on a clear day you can see forever.

On A Clear Day You Can See Forever was the name of a musical that opened on Broadway in 1965. Barbra Streisand starred in the film adaptation and recorded the soundtrack in 1970, the lyric beautifully written by Allen Jay Lerner. I was thinking about clarity recently, the clearness of vision, so important for a person to possess. I thought about that lyric, thought about the words to that song, and went back to it for another look.

On a clear day
Rise and look around you
And you'll see who you are

Could it be any simpler than that? Look around you and you'll see who you are. How often do we look around, look at other people, look at their lives and see everything but who we are. We see what we want, we see what we think we need. We see what we wish for, we see what we hope for. We can be shortsighted, seeing only what others have, what others are. Often we do not see what we are, what we have. We look with a flawed vision. Perhaps through a filter that clouds things ... making them appear fuzzy, blurred. Obscured.

Taking a clear look, sharpening our vision, removing that filter, reveals something quite different I think. On a clear day we can see possibility. We can see a path, a future, a road to what we want. If we look with clarity we can see solutions, we can see progress, we can see alternatives. On a clear day we can see what we are capable of, what we can become, perhaps what we were meant to be. Certainly we can see what we want to be. On a clear day.

I love to have those clear days, that clarity of vision, to help me navigate a clouded life. The clarity to sidestep the mess, avoid the pratfalls and overstep the potholes that can distract and take me out of myself. Clear days to take a long look and regain my stride and focus on a point in the distance, a point where I want to be. A point where I can be...if I look clearly.

And on a clear day
On a clear day
You can see forever and ever and ever and ever more.

Indeed

Eternal Longing....

2008-09-28T20:10:00.004-04:00

I am an eternal optimist. I always have been. I believe in certain things. I believe things will always work out in the end. In fact I expect them to. I believe good things will happen for me, to me. I believe I deserve them. I believe wholeheartedly in someday.

Each morning I wake up knowing that the day's possibilities are endless, full of promise, full of new hope. I also know that if somehow today falls short of wonderful, tomorrow will be along soon and it might turn out just so. In fact it probably will.

Eternal optimism.

Eternal optimism lends itself to a little indulging in eternal longing. Longing, that wanting, that desire, that yearning for something one wishes for so deeply within their heart. That something I have always wanted, I have always hoped for yet somehow it has always been just beyond my fingertips, just beyond my reach.

I am not talking about a sort of lusty longing, something that might spring from a protracted affair with a frivolous notion. Or the longing for something a la mode, something everyone wants. Or the longing for something that glitters before ones eyes and is borne from an earthly desire.

No, the eternal longing in my mind is something quite different. The longing I have is for something real, something I know, something I've seen. Something I know to be true, something I know I can have, something I believe I will have.

It's not a romantic notion but visceral reality. It's real and I will optimistically wait for it. My longing will remain hovering blithely above, reminding me to be patient, reminding me to reach and to believe that one day it will be in my grasp. My longing pushes me forward with a tender momentum. Propels me to stay the course, believing, eternally, that my wish, my unrelenting wish, my heart's most precious desire is soon to be in my hands. To have and to hold...it will be mine.

Eternally optimistic am I.

Indeed.

Mirror, Mirror

2008-09-21T15:26:00.003-04:00

Last week I wrote about some advice I received, good advice actually. I related a story of sage advice given me, advice to not spend life looking back in a proverbial rear view mirror, looking forward instead.

Of course having written that .... I've done nothing but look back all week. I'm honest if anything. I will also be the first to admit that I am full of advice but have a hard time taking my own sometimes. So I threw aside the advice and looked back. Looked long, looked hard and looked back.

I saw what I always do. Precisely the reason the priest told me not to keep looking. I saw what things have hurt me, what things have changed me, what things I wish I could forget.

A few comments about that blog made their way to me this week....reasons that looking back can be productive. One person suggested looking back was a way to learn from mistakes, learn from what went wrong. Another proposed that we have far too many good things to view in the rear view to completely ignore it. I do have so much in my life, so many good things to look back on, it's almost a sin to not acknowledge that. So I will agree, agree with both notions....a look back once in a while is a good thing.

I'm still stuck on what I see when I look back, however, the things I don't want to see. So I thought about it for a while, thought about what I see and why it bothers me. Who wants to remember being hurt, being lied to, being betrayed? Who wants to dwell on loss, mistakes made and opportunities squandered? Failures, regrets and disappointments? Certainly not me.

What to do? What to do?

In the end I decided to take that look.... but to look at myself....in that mirror. I can hold a mirror up to my face and see the person I am, see the person I have become. I can see the sum total of what has happened in my life to this point, good as well as bad. I can see the pleasure and I can see the pain. Most of all I can see that for all that's back there, all that has happened, I have stood up, dusted myself off and kept going. I can look in that mirror and let my eye wander to the background, let my eye wander to what's behind me. Then I can look at myself again, look at this wonderful work in progress and see that I am moving forward with my eyes focused on the road ahead.

Smiling to boot.

Indeed.

Rear View Mirrors

2008-09-13T00:05:00.005-04:00

A number of years ago I was struggling with a personal matter and sought some advice from my Parrish Priest. He's roughly my age and very easy to talk to. We sat and he listened intently as I started to unfold my story for him. At issue was my trying to reconcile my faith against what was going on in my life. Simply put I wanted to know why bad things happened to good people.

After letting me go on...and on...and on....he said he wanted to share some very sage advice he received from someone at a personal crossroads of his own. He told me that I shouldn't live life looking through a rear view mirror. He told me that I needed to keep my eyes on the road I was traveling, looking ahead and not behind me. He said that if I kept on looking at what was behind me, I would not see what was in front of me and I might even go off of the road altogether. He said, finally, that there is nothing much behind a car on the road anyway. Nothing more than dust. Dust settles and what doesn't settle always blows away.

He's a wise man.

I was talking with a friend recently and I shared this story. After our conversation ended I sat and thought about how often I have mentioned my Priest's words to others, how often I have shared his advice. I also thought about how many times I did not take his words to heart, my own heart, continuing to frustrate myself in the process. I also thought about where I am right now and where my eyes are.

I am not looking in that rear view mirror now, no I am not. My eyes are fixed on the road ahead. They are focused, clear and intent. I see the road as it unfolds before me and when I am unsure of what to do, what direction to go, I do not look in the rear view mirror for guidance. I stand still. I stand still and watch the road ahead until I know which way to go.

And now, when I get the urge to look in that rear view mirror.... and I do get that urge... I think of my Priest's words. I think of that dust he said was there, that dust left behind me. The dust that eventually settles, eventually blows away. The dust I have left behind.

Left behind.

Indeed.

This Morning....

2008-09-07T09:09:00.007-04:00

Children's poetry author, Eleanor Farjeon wrote the lyric to a beautiful song called, Morning Has Broken. It was recorded and released in 1971 by Cat Stevens on his album, Teaser and the Firecat. It has long been one of my favorite songs, a soothing one certainly. The lyric full of promise, full of hope for the day ahead. All of the darkness that had accumulated, all of the dread and conflict, all of the turmoil and trouble that had built up over the previous day....vanishes in this sweet, bright morning. Whatever thoughts roiled in sleep, haunted in dreams, is broken in the truest sense. If we allow it, if we choose.

Morning is new. It's a beginning. It's a start, a jumping off point. It's fresh and rife with possibilities. It's set out before us to do what we will. Whatever was there yesterday is gone. We make today what we will. If we choose.

Eleanor Farjeon wrote the lyric for children. It's lovely words penned to inspire, to soothe and encourage. I wonder if Ms. Farjeon ever imagined a woman fully grown, one who first listened to Cat Stevens' rendition of her work at thirteen and saw the possibilities. One who thirty seven years later still listens and now sees the promise. One who has embraced her words and made them her own.

It's a new day. Let's go live it.

Indeed.

Morning Has Broken

by Eleanor Farjeon

Morning has broken, like the first morning
Blackbird has spoken, like the first bird
Praise for the singing, praise for the morning
Praise for the springing fresh from the word.

Sweet the rain's new fall, sunlit from heaven
Like the first dewfall, on the first grass.

Praise for the sweetness of the wet garden
Sprung in completeness where his feet pass.

Mine is the sunlight, mine is the morning
Born of the one light, Eden saw play.

Praise with elation, praise every morning
God's recreation of the new day.

Full of Grace....

2008-08-30T00:51:00.006-04:00

Each year the date August 26 commemorates the passage of the 19th amendment, ratified by the states in 1920, giving women in the United States the right to vote. 144 years after the men in the newly formed union were given the right.

I got to thinking about strong women. How strong women had to be to have to wait 144 years to have her voice heard. Waiting in silence.

I have always thought that a strong woman, a truly strong woman was not particularly loud. You know the type, noisy, brash, outspoken. A woman who intimidates like a force of nature. An angry woman of sorts, full of all manner of histrionics, albeit a passionate one certainly. Not at all strong to me, the outburst showing a fear, a weakness. The noise a cover for insecurity. To me a strong woman's steely silence was absolute, impregnable, indestructible.

I have always found strong, silent women to be the ones I wanted to emulate. When I was a young and impressionable 14 year old I watched the Watergate hearings on TV and was mesmerized by Maureen Dean, wife of Nixon White House Counsel John Dean. She sat a few rows behind her husband, a vision of calm collectability as her husband was roasted on a spit before the House Judiciary Committee. Later I marveled at Pat Nixon's composure and grace as she walked with her husband as they left the White House cloaked in disgrace. She was silent and remained so despite what vile and cruel things she endured on account of her husband. She was strong and I wanted to be just like her.

Through the years I have admired a number of women, the strong silent ones. Thinking of them as mentors I worked at perfecting my own quiet dignity. Handling adversity with grace and dignity, to me, is the true test of a woman's mettle.

You see, to me, it isn't about being the loudest, having the last word. It isn't about beating down your adversary in front of everyone. It isn't about writing a tell all book and airing all of your dirty laundry to vindicate yourself. It isn't about striking out, striking back. It's about composure and silent conviction. It's about showing grace under fire, calmness when all that surrounds you is chaotic. Standing still, silently defeating what rises against you. Gracefully diffusng the adversity.

It's been said people suffer in silence. I think some of them find their strength there.

Indeed

Fealty

2008-08-23T00:40:00.004-04:00

I am a word nerd. I love them. I love how certain words sound rolling off ones tongue. Some words that I am especially fond of are incandescent, conflagration, malcontent, nomenclature, serendipitous and fealty. Fealty.

I have a reason for my fondness for the word fealty. Not only do I like how it sounds when I say the word aloud, I rather like it's meaning, By definition, fealty is faithfulness, fidelity. Loyalty, devotion. A perfect word if ever there was.

The word suggests a sort of allegiance . I prefer to think of it in terms of personal pledges of faithfulness. Honorable expressions of fidelity. I want a person to pledge me their fealty. Those closest to me should be devoted, loyal. It's a rough place out here, at every turn we encounter backstabbers and connivers. A person with fealty is a welcome sight. A treasure to be held dearly.

I thought about myself in these terms. Do I exude fealty? I think so. I am faithful to those who have earned my trust, devoted to those who prove worthy of my fealty. My dad used to tell me that it didn't matter what I did when someone was watching....but it mattered most what I did when no one was. That was the true story of my character. I always remembered his words and looked at those close to me...looked at how they behaved when I wasn't watching. That told the story.

I find no greater honor than being given a person's fealty. Their pledge, their fidelity. With it I can relax, be myself. With it I can trust. With it I can give without reserve, holding nothing back. With it I can grow, stretch, thrive. With it I find the freedom that eludes most. With it I am my most authentic self. How could I not be.

Without it....the relationship is a shell, an empty one at that. It's a relationship in word only, not deed. It's window dressing, something for show. It has no substantial worth, weight or value. Without it ...quite frankly....I don't want it.

We thrive in acceptance, grow when carefully tended. We wither and collapse when betrayed. Feel a fool, feel used. We seek fidelity often having to feel the swipe of betrayal over and over as fealty is a precious commodity. One not so freely given, not so easily found.

Fealty, devotion, loyalty...it's all there if we know where to look.

It's all there when they don't know we are looking.

Or at least it should be.

Indeed

Quality Time

2008-08-16T00:11:00.006-04:00

I was thumbing through a book called the Five Love Languages by Gary Chapman this week. A friend suggested I read it so I bought a copy and thought I'd give it a try. I am not a fan of the self help genre usually.

As I flipped through the book a page of a chapter caught my eye. Quality Time. Reading further I came upon the statement, "...we are giving each other twenty minutes of life. We will never have those twenty minutes again; we are giving our lives to each other. It is a powerful emotional communicator of love."

That statement got me thinking.

I have friends that I don't get to spend a lot of time with for a number of reasons. Dear friends, valued friends, friends I love. My life, my family, take most of my time and don't allow me as much time with some that I'd like.

So I started to think of quality time. I remarked to a special friend recently that we do an awful lot with what little time we have. We squeeze so much into each conversation, cram in so many thoughts and feelings into a very short space of time. We have to, it's unavoidable. Reading that statement I realized that in that short expanse of time ... I am giving my life.

I think when you don't have a lot of opportunity to spend time with someone, someone you would very much like to spend a lot of your time with, you create an atmosphere that concentrates on what is important to both of you. Focus narrows, each word spoken important, each thought conveyed with sincerity. Small talk is pushed aside for deep conversation. Care is taken to make sure the other understands their importance, their place in your life.

Committing to friendship, investing emotionally in another person is, in fact, giving of ones life. In opening up, sharing and becoming involved personally with another we give from our lives. We give a precious part of ourselves, a small piece of a life lived.

How nice when the other person returns this in full measure.

Then it really is Quality Time.

Indeed.

A Reunion....

2008-08-09T11:22:00.008-04:00

I attended my husband's 20th High School Class Reunion in 1998. My husband and I did not know each other during our high school years. While we grew up in the same city, we attended different high schools and had a completely separate circle of friends. I am older than my husband as well. There were perhaps a handful of people I would know at this reunion, most of them males.

This would be the first time his classmates would meet his wife so I was interested in making a good impression. My husband's class was a small one and it was part of a very close knit community. He was the captain of his football team, very popular and well liked. When you meet my husband you are immediately drawn to his personality. It's a big personality, it fills a room and people like to be around him. I knew that I would be spending a lot of this evening watching him enjoy his classmates and they, him. I would need to amuse myself as I wanted him to have fun and reconnect with old friends.

After cocktails, small talk and a lovely dinner the reunion found it's legs and people started to dance and reminisce. My husband, who hates to dance, was repeatedly drawn to the dance floor much to my amusement. When he wasn't dancing he was sitting and talking with someone. Where was I in all of this? Sitting at our table and smiling. Of course the classmates were friendly and polite but wanted to spend time with each other and not with me, someone they didn't know.

Sitting at the table, doing my best to not look bored (I was), I was approached by a petite, pretty brunette with eyes the color of dark chocolate. Her name was Ann Marie and she introduced herself and told me that I would know her older sister, Barbara. It was an ice breaker and a welcome one. She sat and we talked a while. I liked her immediately, she was such a genuine individual. We decided we needed drinks refreshed and went off to the bar. She turns and said...."Let's get the girls out dancing" and collected a few ladies along the walk to the dance floor. She introduced me around. Even though my husband had performed his perfunctory duties at cocktail hour, Ann Marie's introductions were more intimate.

After dancing off and on for a while, she took me around the room making sure I met all of her friends. I had such a fun time. My husband kept coming over to see if I was enjoying myself and Ann Marie would say to him..."Go back to the jock table"... and we would all laugh. I would have to say I had never expected to have that much fun in a roomful of people I hardly knew.

A few weeks after the reunion I received, in the mail, a photo someone took that night of the two of us, Ann Marie and me. With it Ann Marie enclosed a lovely note and wanted to stay in touch. She touched me so sweetly, of course I intended to keep in touch. We did keep in touch.

Ann Marie passed away last weekend.

She succumbed to a particularly aggressive form of Breast Cancer that had metastasized. She battled her illness for several years, bravely. When we got the news my mind went right back to the reunion. In the ten years since Ann Marie and I had seen each other, enjoyed conversation, parties and laughter... it was that reunion that my mind seems to have chosen to be the note that will play within me when I think of her.

I want to be remembered this way....in the way I will always remember Ann Marie. As soon as I think of her a smile appears...I remember her kindness, her sweet personality. I remember those beautiful eyes that betrayed her inner warmth. I want to be remembered as a generous soul, someone who extends herself first, someone who gives, simply gives. Just like Ann Marie.

These are the very words I wrote in a note to her daughter this week, and similar ones to her two sisters. Ann Marie was a special woman to a lot of people. I had the distinct privilege to have been just one among her many friends.

So to Ann Marie, I close my eyes and whisper....Rest well my friend. We will talk again dolce', we will talk again.

At the next Reunion

Indeed.

A Little Rain

2008-08-02T10:50:00.004-04:00

Into every one's life a little rain must fall. That's what I was thinking this morning when I woke. It was a slow roll of thunder that woke me. I lay in bed , near an open window, listening to this thunder build and come closer and closer. Shortly afterward came the rain. A nice steady, slow summer rain.

Into every one's life a little rain must fall. I lay there thinking about the rain that fell on mine this week. Amidst the raindrops falling outside my window I thought about the ones that fell inside, inside of me. We all have weeks like this, I am no exception. Despite my usual 100 watt smile and happy demeanor, a little rain falls on me from time to time. Sometimes this surprises people.

I worked with a woman who once said to me, "I can't imagine anything ever goes wrong for you" I laughed and asked why? She said, "Because you're always so happy". She said it not with any kind of admiration, but a sort of accusation. You're always so happy. I almost felt I needed to apologize.

I am an incredibly happy person and mostly it's self generated. I choose to be happy, choose to not get mired down in the muck of bad feeling and unhappiness that life drops on us each day. That doesn't mean I am never feeling badly or unhappy. I means I don't let it get to me, bring me down. I rise above it, I let go of it and I smile. I always smile.

This week was an exception. I was not at all sad or unhappy....just a little bit blue. I felt something missing, felt an emptiness. You know this feeling.....I didn't know where to put myself. I was at odds, off center. I was not myself. Something just wasn't right.

It didn't intrude on my day to day comings and goings, It didn't keep me awake at night or distract me from my work. It did not stop me from enjoying a single thing...but it was there if I paused and let my mind wander. It was sitting there ... right at the edge of my consciousness.

If my friend from work saw me I'd have said to her "See? Into every one's life a little rain must fall". I would have then opened up an umbrella and went about the day smiling. Smiling because when the rain stops, and it always stops, the sun returns and shines down on the world. Making everything right once again.

Making it right once again.

Indeed