A Bit of the Best

October 30, 2015


I found this picture today in that drawer we all have with pictures piled up, no rhyme or reason to how they all landed there. As some other photos parted and this one emerged, I grabbed it and sank down into the floor. I will admit that I stared at it for a while with a fat smile on my face and eyes that threatened Lifetime Original Movie tears.

It took me back to those days. I can almost smell my little blonde guy. I look exhausted. But I remember that brand of exhausted: from chasing little ones and playing and (from the looks of it) swimming or frolicking in some capacity in view of the sun. 

Time is running out, but I'm happy to report that my boy and I can still be found in somewhat similar circumstances on the big red couch in our basement. He hasn't grown too old to sidle up next to me, except I tend to be the first one to nod off these days. It's just a matter of time until it's a) not on his list or b) weird.

I hold on tightly for now. I did then. And hey, I will always have the memory of that arm around my neck and a picture to prove it.

The crazy thing is I never thought I wanted to have kids. I was afraid they'd end up like me :). I was afraid I'd screw them up. I was afraid. 

Turns out it is just...it is the best.

That's all there is to it. 

The Power of the Grave

October 25, 2015

It's been a rough few days. The enormity of some of it hits me in fits and starts. During one of the fits, I decided to head to the cemetery to visit my peeps. A cemetery is one of the few places where it's acceptable to cry in public or stare at the ground wordlessly, uninterrupted. 

So I did that for a bit.

Then I tooled around with appropriately melancholy piano melodies floating through the air. What surprised me was that my mood was unexpectedly lifted by the gravestones in my midst. I first drove by the adjacent marble slabs honoring the deceased "Cockings" and "Breesawitz." I laughed out loud. I was concurrently enjoying a text exchange with a dear friend who has been part of the roller coaster of my recent days. I shared with him the surnames of the dearly departed by which I was so amused. His response was this:  

You wonder how many times their eharmony profile was skipped over due to having an untakable last name.

I laughed again.

I rolled on to see another grave decorated with a scarecrow. I did a double-take. Then I started scanning for jack o' lanterns or snaggle-toothed witches on brooms. Tis the season...but a scarecrow straddling a gravestone? Hey, whatever works.

I made my way to the west side of the grounds and stumbled onto the dual-gravesite designated for the husband of a saintly lady I used to work with and her husband. He passed away five years ago, but she is still going strong. Their full color pictures, however, are part of the face of the gravestone. SHE IS ALIVE. But when she visits Larry, she sees her OWN PICTURE ON HER OWN GRAVESTONE. It's too much. It's just too damned much.

On my way out, a sketchy-looking guy on a 3-speed bike made his way diagonally across a patch of graves. On top of the graves. I took that as a sign it was time to go.

As I soldier on through my current reality, these two little guides that follow seem equally apropos. That's the nature of the beast: laughter in a cemetery. Life goes on...even if you sometimes have to fake it to make it.

And I also like this, although this has no relevance to this post. It just makes me laugh:

I do know this:  I'm vertical, I'm above ground. One of the dearest people I've ever known always reminded me that's the most important thing. And so it is.

Eating the Cheerios

October 22, 2015

“People, in general, would rather die than forgive. It’s that hard.”

—Sue Monk Kidd

There are a handful of people on the planet who hate me.  Hey, there could me more than a handful.  But the confirmed cases could definitely fill up a hand.  I’m not a big fan of the word “hate” or the emotion. But sometimes it is what it is.  

The thing is, I deserve plenty of contempt from a variety of directions.  I’m made mistakes, I’ve opened my big mouth too many times, I’ve hurt them or someone they love, I live my life differently than they do or deem acceptable.  I can be terribly cynical, critical, sarcastic. My favorite hobby is to make fun of people.  (And only part of the time is it malicious.) These are not endearing qualities.  Well, they can be.  But not all the time, and especially not to the handful.

I know my shortcomings intimately and I know how deeply flawed I am.  In some cases I’ve asked for forgiveness.  In some I’ve hoped for it.  In some cases I’ve tried to “be better” or “do better.” In some cases I’ve given up completely out of broken-hearted despair and the realization that nothing I could ever do will make it better.  I shat in my cheerios, so to speak, and I will have to eat them…forever.

I can’t come up with a tidy end to this nugget.  I suppose that’s fitting:  without forgiveness there is no tidy answer to the brokenness.  I just wish…I really do wish…there could be.

“People have to forgive. We don't have to like them, we don't have to be friends with them, we don't have to send them hearts in text messages, but we have to forgive them, to overlook, to forget. Because if we don't we are tying rocks to our feet, too much for our wings to carry!” 
― C. JoyBell C.

No Regrets...the Recipe?

October 22, 2015

A dear pal of mine who battles severe, debilitating MS every day posted this. She is smart, sassy, hysterically funny and tough as nails. As a result, I took the time to read the article. I suggest you do the same:

http://www.upworthy.com/here-are-5-things-you-may-regret-at-the-end-of-your-life-from-a-nurse-who-works-with-the-dying?c=ufb3

Works for me :).

What If I Had Never Met You?

October 20, 2015


"What If I Had Never Met You?"

Carrie Bradshaw asks this of her three best friends at the end of the remarkable series "Sex and the City." I was watching that episode just now and I've never made it through the scene without a lump in my throat.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bENLqv61AR8&sns=em


For Carrie and her fictitious friends, their friendship is real, meaningful, soul-mate-worthy. As she looks at each of them and dares to imagine a life without them, I dare to imagine my life without the special host of characters who have populated my heart in my lifetime. It's a mind game I cannot bear to play.

There is no end to the superlatives I could use for my friends. My dear life-preservers. Most of them read my words here, and they know who they are.

So to my dear pals, I say this:

What If I Had Never Met You?


By the grace of God, it is the question gratefully unanswered. I don't want to know.

Key players in my cast of heroes. Thank God I met you.

Quiet Noise

October 18, 2015

There is no louder silence than that which hangs in the moments between question and answer; between text sent and text response; between dispatched email and the ding of the inbox. 

It is what it is, but the palpable void where words should be is weighty.

We all live in this medium now: old-fashioned conversation is delicious but secondary to the thumbs and key strokes of our electronic lives. There is excitement in the anticipation of exchanges such as these, but when "send" sits idle things can get dicey.

I'm sure when Alfred Lord Tennyson penned "the quiet sense of something lost," smartphones weren't on his radar. But it's an accurate description of those moments hanging loosely out there, isn't it?

I don't have the answers, but I do suppose I will take these words and hit "publish." No response awaits. And maybe that's ok. Sometimes they just need to be written.

Unpack Your Bags

October 15, 2015

It's the gift that keeps on giving.

Of all the comings and goings of emotions in my life, the one constant has always been guilt.  

Guilt has its place, don’t get me wrong:  it keeps me from eating too much (usually), it gets me off my ass and into my running shoes or on my bike daily, it forced obsessive studying when I was a student and endless hours of driven work as a teacher.  It can be an excellent motivator.  But even then I’m not sure it’s the best tool in the shed.

Of course, guilt SHOULD be the appropriate response when one has misbehaved, right?.  I SHOULD feel guilt-ridden and repentant when I’ve sinned against the good Lord or His humanity.  Isn’t that what conviction is?  Isn’t that the conscience in motion?

Unfortunately for me, guilt has been a weapon more than a conscientious objector or motivator.  It was THE way I grew up: be good, do what you are told, do what you should so as not to disappoint ____________, do what makes everyone else happy or feel REALLY bad about it/yourself. REALLY. And please, beat yourself up if everything isn’t peachy keen.  The result?  I spent the first few decades of my life doing what I had to do to keep from feeling guilty for not making happy those who needed me to behave in such a way as to make them happy.  That’s a mouthful. 

That seemed to roll on with seeming success for a while.  The trouble is, though, that a life governed by guilt is unsustainable.  In my case, I ran out of juice.  

When I had my children, I vowed not to use guilt on them.  For the most part, I’ve been successful.  Or I’ll say this:  when I’ve slipped and tried to guilt them into some behavior I see fitting, it hasn’t worked.  They are immune.  It is a potion that I’m happy to report bubbles right off them.  I’m glad.  They are well-behaved kiddos.  But their behavior isn’t based on avoiding feeling like shit if they make me (or another power player in their lives) upset.  That might be a side effect, but it’s not the guiding principle.

As I’ve developed a resistance to the destructive brand of guilt this past year or so, I’ve discovered a power in making choices based on what is best, what is healthy, what is productive, what is right…not on what will avoid the judgment or disapproval of people I love (or even those I can’t stand).  That doesn’t translate to behaving selfishly. On the contrary:  It translates to being happy.  I don’t have to disregard the happiness of others to be happy myself; but I sure as hell don’t have to be so consumed with everyone else’s happiness that I’m too miserable to breathe.

So I’ll pass on the guilt trip.  Been there done that.  I have better journeys to take and destinations to seek.  And you know what?  The view is much better from here.

The Yellow Climb

October 14, 2015

I love yellow. It's always been my favorite color. Even when my Auntie Grace made me a little yellow polyester suit when I was five that I was forced to wear against my iron will, its one redeeming quality was its color. Yellow was all that kept that flammable fabric and one of Nanny's stolen well-lit cigs from becoming intimately acquainted. 

It makes sense, then, that I am unabashedly addicted to the sun. If it's out, so am I. Unfortunately, my skin is likely up for harvest for some charming purses and belts in another ten years or so. I can't help myself. 

Several years ago I discovered yellow climbing Black-eyed Susans. It was by chance that I stumbled onto them; and a miracle that they flourished under my watch (my thumb is NOT green). For nearly a decade I have planted these suckers each spring and they have spread, climbed and, in my humble opinion, made beautiful their corner of the universe. What I love most is how they will climb through, around, on top of anything. And they wind around whatever they can find. They just need a sparse amount of attention and the return is exponential.

And then the first frost comes and my heart breaks.

I'm not wading into a big ol' metaphorical pond here, but there is something to be said for a living thing that keeps reaching. Something to be said for something beautiful that wraps itself around and over weeds and rocks and keeps blooming. Something to be said for yellow.

Last year I let my Black-eyed Susans die long before the frost. It was a difficult summer. I couldn't see the beauty of life--least of all in the flowers in which I had taken such pride in summers past. And I didn't care.

My flowers have thrived this summer, but I know the temperature will soon claim them yet again. Not a day goes by that I don't take a good look and savor that which I once neglected. There are clumps of them all around the drive, the mailbox, the yard. I love them.

Wherever I go, whatever I do, these patches of yellow will be planted by me where I am every spring. They do my heart good. And hey: When all is said and done, we all deserve the chance to bloom, don't we?

October 11 Nugget

October 11, 2015

I took a deep breath and listened to the old brag of my heart. I am, I am, I am.

Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar

For Love of the Game

October 10, 2015

In St. Louis for Cards baseball. The game has never captured my heart like it has those of my Pops and my boy, but there is something about a stadium of almost 50,000 fans all devoted to their team that stirs up something in me. 

And--more than anything--it makes me happy when my people are happy :).

PS-- I %#*^@&$ hate the Cubs.

The end.

My Gut

October 5, 2015

There are many "gut-check" moments in life: moments when the blood rushes only to vital organs, when you have to decide who you are, acknowledge what you've done or NOT done, and likely face consequences of this or that or escape a noose that belongs not around your particular neck. At such junctures in life, my dad always observes, "there comes a time when everybody has to take their clothes off and show what you got."

I love Dad.

Of course, he has also wisely quipped that, "it's like the skunk making love to the squirrel: I've not had all I want, but all I can stand."

Interestingly enough, both of these Bill Rowe-isms can apply to the check of the proverbial gut.

I told a pal of mine the other day that a scene in the Julia Roberts movie "Notting Hill" sums up said experiences when the sketchy bloke who plays Hugh Grant's roommate warns him, "I'm going to tell you a story that will make your balls shrink to the size of raisins." That's about right.

In the past couple years, I have experienced a plentiful and unique combo of "put on your big girl panties" realities. I've been at fault, I've been relieved, I've been wrong, I've been resolved, and a few times I've been right. Last year I faced a "big girl" moment and I crumbled. Nah--I didn't just crumble. There was crumbling, then stomping, then smoldering piles of ash where Nance used to be.  As I searched through the rubble for my jock strap and/or spine, I learned plenty. Mostly I learned that I NEVER wanted to be weak like that again.

So far, so good.

Since that time, I've grown up and I've grown in. Turning to smoldering ash can do that to a gal. In the past couple of months--today included--I have held onto my gut, checked it, and rolled on when my former self might have caved. Gratefully, I still have the oxygen I need.

What was it Churchill said? "We have not journeyed across the centuries, across the oceans, across the mountains, across the prairies, because we are made of sugar candy." I didn't help lead the Allies to victory in WWII, but we each battle every day to survive, to love, to be happy, to make it to the other side...even when the clothes are off, the balls look like raisins and the skunk is mercifully off the squirrel.

And one more thing...

"But even when the moon looks like it's waning...it's actually never changing shape. Don't ever forget that."

Ai Yazawa, Nana, Vol. 14 

I keep looking up.

October 4 Nugget