I Celebrate Me

I am not the same person I was a year ago. Of course, I am. But yet I'm not. I embarked on a fabulous journey of excavation and introspection, quieting and forward action. I've unearthed many insights, from the seemingly slight to the profound. One tidbit I learned is this: most of my life, I've searched for, and expected, validation from eternal sources. When I accomplished something, I looked for grades, raises, flowers, praise and/or presents from others. I think this is partly societal. But I can't blame it all on our ever-powerful society because I believe it is also just inherently me.

So, outwardly I looked. Seeking accolades from my parents, teachers, friends, bosses, boyfriends, strangers walking down the street. I placed the fulcrum of my happiness under the lever of other's unpredictable cadences. Understandable, I guess, but in retrospect, not very smart. Not really smart at all.

One random smack or capricious whim could easily crumble me.

When I accomplished something, or reached a big goal, I looked to others to celebrate me. Not too surprisingly, looking for validation in exterior places littered my life with many disappointments. And ultimately left me empty. Because I so busily looked (and looked and looked and looked) for acclaim, I forgot to look within.

So. With careful recalibration and awareness, I stopped. I now rejoice and celebrate my wins and successes. If others want to join in (and bring presents), I'm certainly not going to stop them. But I own the celebration. It's critical for me...and I've realized, critical for my children. I want their compasses to encourage inward celebratory introspection rather than outward validation.

Recently, I met a huge goal of mine. So, after much mental high-fiving and giddy excitement, I drove myself to the store. I walked (maybe even strutted) into the jewelry department and located the necklace. The one I've coveted. Simplistically gorgeous, perfectly commemorating my success.

I bought that necklace. I wear it proudly. Everyday. It will forever remind me of my accomplishment. And, it will act as a talisman of this truth: that looking frantically for things outside ignores the wealth and bounty within...and leaves me with. out. anything.

Every accolade I want and need comes from within.

Remembering A Dear Friend's Baby

On this day, seven years ago, a baby was born. Three short days later, he died.

Today, like many days, I remember him.

At his funeral, one of his aunts read this excerpt from The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry:

In one of the stars I shall be living. In one of them I shall be laughing. And so it will be as if all the stars were laughing, when you look at the sky at night... you, only you, will have stars that can laugh!

When I look at the night sky, I see you shining in the stars, sweet boy. I see your bright light and your sparkle. I wish we'd had more time together. Please continue to shine for us. Your mom and dad, your sister and brothers miss you. Your whole family misses you. I miss you.

Thank you for the laughing stars.

A Sign Post of Reflection--20 Years

I graduated from high school 20 years ago and recently attended my 20th High School Reunion. In the weeks leading up to this milestone, I felt as if an odd time warp descended in which past, present and future intersected.

My thoughts swirled: Who would be there? I can't wait! Would I remember everyone? How would everyone look? WHAT SHOULD I WEAR? Would this combination of faces and personalities throttle me back to my less-evolved 18-year-old self? Like a yard stick, the weekend begged me to measure and analyze the last two decades of my life. So, I did just that. And I was pleased:

In the last 20 years, I've learned as much as I've forgotten. I gained confidence and sure footing. I now know that I don't know--especially when I think I do. I didn't in high school and I don't now. I do not hold the answers to the indefinable future. I've learned that as the years push on, hair grows in funny places on your face (damned chin hairs).

In 20 years, I've lived. I watched snow flakes melt on my childrens' hoods. I inhaled the intoxicating scent of the first autumnal fire. I experienced dark days...dark years. I felt the exhilarating rush of bright, happy days. Sometimes sunlight frolicked on the fringes of my days and others, it boldly blinded me. I questioned many things. I fell in love--and stayed in love--with Hubby, the father of my children. I felt and watched life grow inside. I cherished the chubby weight of my own flesh and blood against my chest, hearts beating Morse codes of truth and connectedness. I held the hand of a man who loves me, just as fiercely as I love him.

I returned to center. I redefined my truths--sometimes slowly, sometimes at the force speed of light--and created my own, personal dogma.

************
I realized, during this maelstrom of remembering, that when I tried to eek out memories of high school, wide, gaping holes existed. The frayed edges of my memories become more fragile and mailable as I continue living. I did not inherit my mother's razor-sharp memory; I live knowing the past happened and that I had a place in it. But the details escape me.

But then I remembered my blue Tiffany box. The box of stuff holding decades of faded keepsakes. I pounded upstairs, skipping two and three steps at a time.

The box sat in the corner of my closet. Its corners crushed, its creases and bends filled with decades-old dust. I opened the lid and piles of papers, cards and photos--along with the scent of old--met me. My fingers began deftly sorting through my personal time capsule. The contents of this box--the piles of notes, cards and paper--helped fill in those blanks. I sorted through the momentos, happy with my younger self for saving these bits and pieces:

- Animated notes from a high school pal which we traded between classes (we now pass notes through Twitter and meet at each others blogs, instead of the locker-lined hallways of our past)
- Signs that decorated my locker, announcing to the world the arrival of my 18th year
- My very official-looking (but not sure what it is) Presidential Academic Fitness Award, which seems to be signed by George H. W. Bush (geesh--the things I save).
- My senior-year weekly calendar, outlining long-forgotten tests, papers and assignments

Other memories formed from the haze: the day I found the perfect black velvet dress for Heart Hop. The confounding nature of Shakespeare. Dime-sized zits. Individuality mixed with conformity. Wanting to be asked out by boys who did not want to ask. Ended friendships. New ones. First boyfriends. The realization that sometimes, marriages must end. Searching frantically for the perfect pair of worn-in Levi 501s. Laughing so hard I cried.

I recalled the first time I stepped foot on that high school campus, half-way through my junior year of high school. Coming in part-way afforded a new beginning. But it also commanded a crash-course in ranks and politics. The startling juxtaposition of these two realities--my gratitude for the fresh start and my intense desire to be steeped in this community's history--remind me, 20 years later, that emotions deliver complex messages in sometimes confounding packages.

In my blue box, I found conciliatory cards from friends during sad times. As I read the loopy, girlish notes of encouragement, this thought grounded me: life's brilliant dichotomy plays out one moment at a time, throughout each life. Each day comprises of ups and downs, sadness and celebration, losts and founds.

**********************************

The magical weekend of the reunion has now passed--my intrinsic curiosity about the future satisfied through the predictable passage of time. I now hold new memories, tucked away for future examination and introspection: A slow drive past my last childhood home. The embrace of friendships now 20 years old. The cocktail party filled with distinguished accomplishments and the years worn well by my classmates--and the fabulous delight in not worrying about our parents or, gasp, the police, breaking up our party. Leg air guitar (and, to my dismay, photos to indelibly capture my participation). Discussions about the best hair straightening techniques (since gone are the days of big, big hair and curls to match.) The joy of seeing familiar smiles. Saturday's football game: old hellos, bear hugs, the cracking of football pads, cheering fans. Fire-burnished air, fringed with a pre-winter chill. I viewed it all through my seasoned eyes (complete with well-earned crow's feet). The lake littered with the yellows, oranges and crimsons of fallen leaves. The pounding of the metal bleachers, the air reverberating with cheers. The slow descent of a single leaf. Laughing until I cried.

Yet at certain times, all tenses converged again. Sometimes the past's presence was so palpable, I felt as if I could whisper sage wisdom back over the years and through the ether to my 18-year-old self:
You are beautiful.
You are loved.
Everything in this moment is perfect.
Be easy on yourself.
When you see beauty, stop and embrace it. Savor it. Taste it.
Live. Now.

I hold with reverence those 18-year-old's experiences, which all add up and equal me now. I can tell you that I wouldn't go back to relive high school. But I can also tell you with conviction that I wouldn't change a thing.

From the Heart: A Collection

Above is a picture. It's a picture of an essay of mine which is part of a great charitable book, From the Heart: A Collection of Stories and Poems from the Front Lines of Parenting. I just got my copy and I'll admit: I'm a bit excited. This is the first book in which I've been published. Opening the crisp pages, feeling the weight of the paper and seeing the contrast of black words against white paper made my stomach take a giddy tumble. I'll also admit that I want to tell everyone I know, "I'm in a book! My writing is in a book!"

I cannot wait to settle down and read all the essays from the other contributing authors. 100% of the proceeds will be split between Children's Hospitals and St. Jude's Children's Research Center. Won't you consider supporting them? (And, sorta me, too, since...(did I mention?)...I'm in the book!)

Gray Sky and Gray Mood

Henry and I took a walk today. Because he's sick, he agreed to ride in the stroller and I got some much-needed exercise. As we headed down the wet road, Henry wisely noticed that fall was "really here". A wet kaleidescope of leaves marked our path. Reminding me that something existed here before us.

Moments before our walk, a twisty, tumbling mood descended about me like the stippled rain clouds above. The dappled, molten, gray sky mirrored the toppling malaise within. The sadness frayed the edges, heart aching just so. I didn't understand it. Yet, in a fairly nuanced step for me, I didn't judge it; I embraced it and let it be. I let myself be. Be sad. Angry. There.

Henry and the leaves provided the brightness and levity. I looked down as the dark, wet and slightly-pitted road jumbled along beneath my feet. The leaves still beautiful, my son still, my mood still. I watched Henry's blond hair curl in the damp afternoon. I deeply inhaled the emerging autumnal essence--bold and sweet--and reminiscent of days past. Shaded memories hiding beneath recently fallen leaves. The scent signaled endings, beginnings and the always-present now.

The gray sky comforted me. The spinning wheels of the stroller lulled me into the current moment, filled with dampened beauty. My son, the wise sage, front and center. Now. I realize I am ensconced and interwoven with all the elements--I am not I and they are not they. We are we. (Thank you, Karen Maezen Miller, for this timeless, peaceful reminder.)

My nascent attempts to sit in this moment--regardless of any discord that moment may serve--propel me through to a new reality. Just like the vibrant blue bits of sky that persevered and peeked through as the weather front passed. Just as they always do. Just just as I always do. Just as we do.

Grandma

To a dear, dear soul whose weaknesses I now see as strengths. Whom I will always miss, yet who I know is always, always with me.

Torrid secrets dancing
in the purple, dark
smudges beneath her violet eyes.

Dying to escape
her truths. Diabolical men,
serving disrespect on cowardly,
tarnished platters.

Damning demons masquerading
as a husband, brothers, self.
All throwing salt into
her invisible wound.

Dementia numbing
the edges of her jagged past.
Eyes remaining still hopeful,
a tenacious testament of
human endurance.

Resilient love thriving,
(past be damned!)
on the precipice of faith;
love warming like baked bread,
constant like oxygen. Like the sun.

A white flag offered, illuminated
by faith, dutifully woven with forgiveness
and imagined insurance
for her legacies.

Relief spilling
out of violet reserves,
she blissfully resided
in the few, dusty, happy
corners of her dwindling mind.

Plunging in Boston

I traveled to Boston this past weekend to Karen Maezen Miller's Mother's Plunge Retreat. I went, not truly knowing. And I returned. Knowing...that not knowing is fabulous. Raw. True. And ok.

Karen discouraged us from taking notes. Being an ardent note-taker and writer, honoring this request challenged me. How will I remember? How will I return to these truths without the permanent talisman of Karen's words, etched into paper? She said that whatever we need will come to us, whenever we need it. And that in order to be present, here Now, I, needed to have my heart in hand, not a pen.

Karen filled the room with her ancient truth, heralding the knowledge we all have but sometimes miss. Or misplace. She introduced herself, and shared that an introduction is a beautiful way to start. She is beautiful, warm and wears the sun on her face.

The day, the weekend, the shimmering strands of the verity, lighten and fill me. I am, for the first time in months, able to introduce myself to myself, and recognize who I see.

I see me.

Right now.

I got to see some friends, Corinne and Lindsey, too.

I'm pleased to tell you: I consider myself one of those friends, too.

And some new spirits I am so glad to have met. Jenna. Katrina (and when Katrina read, oh my did I cry). And my sitting neighbor, Katrina. And Tracy.

With the resonance of a mystic secret and the levity of a child's laugh, I am full. And I look forward to the awakening of all the truths and I embrace knowing that I don't know when they will unfold. I'll have faith that they will enlighten when they should. I will breath in. I will exhale...and let go.

Beginnings and Endings

A fine, almost imperceptible, veil exists between some beginnings and endings. A slight shift here, a leaf dancing on the nuanced edge of the wind there.

Then, others present boldly, loudly, waving and flailing their arms, the moment seems to scream, "Here I am! See me!"

As if he had a bold Sharpie in hand, Henry marked a clear line between this school year and the last. Last year his pudgy, full cheek would press into mine as he attempted to morph us into one, cleaving and willing himself into me to ensure that when I left, he would too. This morning, Henry, in his second week of school, informed that he would like to continue to walk into school by himself. He is four. I said yes.

We got out of the car and he told me to stop. So I said, "I love you. Have a good day". I wondered if he could hear my heart, which said something that differed just a smidge,

Don't go. Come put your cheek to mine and let me inhale you. Let me lock your essence into my lungs...

I watched him wind down the brick-lined path. Out of our moment and into another. He did not turn. He did not need to turn. He had it. He got it. He owned it. His moment. One folding into the next.

*********************************************

As my seconds passed and morphed into the next now, I reflected on the bold swagger of this particular beginning with Henry and mourned the end of the end. I drove away from school and toward here. I wound down the road and passed a small cemetery, one I pass every day on the way to and from school.

This morning, a woman stood at a grave sight with her head bowed reverentially. No fresh dirt, damp with the morning dew. No black clothes. Just the sun on a beautiful autumnal morning. And a long-standing tomb stone, cloaked by ancient grass and her. She stood with her thoughts and memories.

I cried for her and her loss and for her gains. I cried. I cried for my own beginnings and endings. And I remembered with dizzying clarity: they are the same. Some bold, some tenacious, some insidious and others crazy. But they are all the same, leading me down the hobbled, smooth, winding, straight path to now.

A Girl Walks Into a School With a Cookie

My sweet, multi-faceted, complex, intelligent, lovely, warm daughter had a no-good-very-bad morning. So sad sad sad. She cried. She bawled.

After pulling herself together, she started crying again. You see, being the oldest child and therefore predisposed to pleasing the world, she crumples when she realizes I am not pleased. And this morning, I was calm, but definitely not pleased. I calmly explained why her behavior (screaming) was unacceptable. And then, I calmly asked her to go to her room. When she responded by screaming and slamming her door as she retired to her room, I calmly explained that she just lost a privilege (which, by the way, undoes her).

(An aside about me here because, at the end of MY day, it is all about moi: I went through a screaming phase lately. And I didn't like it. My anger flared quickly. I was constantly astonished at how little my children listened to me and so I started making my voice loud and my face ugly...maybe now they'll listen, I'd think. I mean, really, I was like one of those people who talk more loudly to someone who doesn't speak their language, as if increasing the volume of the words would magically translate them. I felt the wheels falling off my bus--the carnage in the aftermath of a yelling rampage is, ummm, bad. So, I recalibrated and returned to calm. As my good friend G says, "take the emotion out of it". It's one of the best things I've ever done for me and my kids. Also one of the hardest.)

With a blotchy face and red-rimmed eyes, Abby finished readying for school. And as I watched her, something happened. Instead of being angry and frustrated at her behavior, empathy started oozing from my heart. I think my calm meditation actually broke the hardened shell that started to reside around the outer chambers of my heart. The chasm, large and vast, healed. Both me and Abby.

She sat in my lap for another round of tears. I had all the time in the world. Nothing was more important.

And then everyone got a cookie.

Henry declared that this was a really, really good thing.

Apparently, sugar and chocolate sprinkle light and frivolity back into people's eyes...Abby began to shine once again.

We climbed into the car and drove to school. Abby requested Miley's Party in the USA. We listened, noddin' our heads like Yeah and movin' our hips like Yeah. I watched chocolate stained faces (and one tear-stained one) in my rear view mirror. Gratitude rumbled in my belly and poured out my heart.

I dropped Abby at school. She still wanted to walk in by herself. I pulled to the side to watch her entrance into the building. Even from a distance, I could see her sniffles, the swipe of her eyes with her sleeve, and I thought I could see her last bite and swallow of cookie. I sent her mental hugs and kisses and warmth for a good day. Her belly was full of cookie. My stomach lurched, my heart hurt and I realized, with absolute certainty, that she got my telepathic message. She turned and waved.

Us

These days, my daughter and I travel divergent paths. I am keenly aware of the granularity of our nuances, like oil and water. Our moments, both episodic and fleeting, etch our polarity into the ether.

She tries on audacity like a rare jewel, sparkling yet hard edged, challenging me, my answers, my experience.

"No, you haven't been unloading the car for minutes. It's only been seconds."
"No, Mom, you said..."

Even though we are both attracted to the strengths of our individual bonds, and even though we are tethered by our shared gene pool, we now separate. Me, heavy with experiential knowledge, often times missing the purity of her wisdom. She, a metaphorical and physical a light-weight, skimming the top and wondering what the bottom holds, secure in her formative assumptions of the world.

The whys of this (now) obvious insight elude me. However, the knowledge now settles around me, warm like an old friend, helping me pick through the prickly path of our days.

*********************************

When I shake a bottle of salad dressing, I try to pour it on my leafy greens immediately, before the oil and vinegar separate, bursting away from each other once again. But you know that exact moment when the two elements hang together, suspended in time, beautifully?

That happened last night. Before we scurried and dispersed into our individual spaces, we connected.

Bedtime arrived. I breathed. Abby breathed. We talked. I didn't exacerbate her. She didn't annoy me. We met, in that fleeting, magical moment where time suspends worn habits and molecular structures. Her freckled nose crinkled while she giggled. Time did not push me out the door. Affinities abounded.

Our hearts filled. Oft-giving and oft-refilled vessels, buoyant, once again, with the bliss of this shared time. An endorsement of all the variances which make us both us.

The One Where My Heart Walks Into a School

This morning, the first day of preschool for Henry, he told me he'd walk into school by himself. I told him that with today being the first day of school and all, that I'd walk him in. He acquiesced. Even though we walked in together, he still managed to walk by himself. So unconcerned about where I was....we didn't even hold hands. Whole families filed between him and me on the path into school.

He entered his classroom, chatted up his teacher and settled in.

I had to ask for a hug. He hugged me happily, briefly.

I found myself standing there, watching him, the other kids. And realized I was the only parent doing so. I felt the familiar tug, the swirl of hot tears threatening their escape.

I turned to leave. No one noticed.

With the lump in my throat, I watched Henry through the window. He emulated contentedness, peace and calm.

Perfect.

I walked back down the path. Alone.

Perfect.

Lessons Learned, Forgotten and Relearned.

I find the great thing about life is that it keeps teaching me things until I learn them.

I find the annoying thing about life is that it keeps teaching me things until I learn them.

Before the summer began, my expectations rose, grand and proud imagining the bevvy of symbiotic togetherness with my kids. I was almost sanctimonious in my aspirations and hopes for the always-enjoyable time we'd spend. Apparently I was delusional. Because this summer, we've been trudging through the mud. After all the tantrums, mediations, huffy exchanges, screaming, emotional outbursts and punishments, I'm exhausted. And deflated. (And, for the record, I feel self-indulgent even thinking this, never mind writing this and publishing it here. I feel like a whiny, selfish snot. My life shines like a bright light--so full of warmth, grace, love and good fortune.)

Of course, our summer presented many fabulous moments. Dear friends and family visits, vacations, multiple beach trips. Our week-long family beach vacation presented tiny gifts in the form of undivided attention, which I drizzled and poured on my children. They rose, stretched and thrived.

But...

The rest of the summer...well, the rest of the summer, I've frankly felt flat. I've now realized, I really haven't been with my kids, despite the fact that we've been together day after day after day. I've been....elsewhere. Submerged in my thoughts.

My children felt this, because they house fabulous intuitions. They inherently know. They know that they've haven't really had my attention, save those rare moments during vacation. They see me nod, clap, hug, kiss and cook but they know that I'm going through the motions, even though they don't own the words to articulate it.

Their behavior reflects the knowledge of their mommy-deficit. As my mother-in-law wisely noted during her week visit: when children can't get their parents' attention by behaving well, they resort to getting any, even negative, attention. Even if it's the form of firm words, time-outs and lengthy lessons about "the right choice". I left my children starving for me.

So, when Abby or Henry throw a rock of yucky behavior into our mud, it splatters. Their negative behavior brings me down, and I then bring them down, and then they bring me down. Splat, splat, splat. We all spiraled down together and I, as the adult, did not remain calm, nonplussed. I tantrummed along with them.

I've suffered my guilty thoughts, my nagging doubts and self-disappointment somewhat silently, save for the rare explosion to Hubby, or the text to dear friends, which could usually be summarized in four letter words.

We're all worn from the summer months of continual togetherness.

And, in a not unusual, ironic turn, we're all richer for the continual us-ness.

As I shake the metaphorical mud from our boots and wipe my brow, I look up from our trench of learning. I see the sun, brightly illuminating my lesson, once again: ups and downs, Denise. Ups and downs.

I don’t quite know why I force myself to reconcile these two realities because that’s what they both are: realities. Clean boots and muddy boots. Some moments blissful and others reproachable. The other day, after a long string of yuck, I sat in the driveway watching Hubby teach Abby how to play Lacrosse. The shade danced around me as the wind lyrically rustled the leaves. Henry played quietly. Abby’s and Hubby’s full laughter punctuated my thoughts. The sunlight illuminated Abby’s golden curls. I admired her long, lean muscles and quest to learn something new. My mind quieted and suddenly, I was exactly where I was. Thankfully, aware and still enough to realize this was an Up. And I'd better pay attention. I did.

Voiceless

I'm still here...just a bit wordless. A nasty cold took residence in my body--and vocal cords. Experienced horrible laryngitis. And that voicelessness seemed to creep into my brain, rendering the part that creates, connects and strings words a bit useless. So, instead of saying nothing, I'll say this:

on this day, I said yes. The cowgirl and the ninja in my car asked if we could turn around and go to the park. I said yes. As I turned the car around, jubilant squeals reverberated, swirling up into the stratosphere.

They bounded toward their favorite park as the cool, late August breeze welcomed them.

ps: The upside about not being able to talk: actually listening.

Right Now

My right nows fill my days with unexpected tidbits.

Early this morning's now found me grimacing from the demands of my darling children. Clingy, tired and needy, they seemed to want to suck me dry. Panic descends when my beautiful children, (whom I thought I was supposed to enjoy at all moments (ahem)) swirl, nip, demand everything at the exact same time and drive me up and down the wall again...Truly, their needs this morning were benign and normal...my lack of sleep and cold removed my coping skills and patience. These moments, the ones where I'm bitchy and crabby and intolerant, I wish that a large pink eraser would allow me to edit that moment away....

But.

I know, as I've reflected many times before, that the splendid nature of the next moment would be lost, merely beigey-blending into all the other nows.

I jettison my past beliefs that all nows need to fit a prescribed mold.

As other nows, past and future nows, intersect and meet, I gasp at their brazen ability to deliver such vastly different experiences. Other nows hold wafting of yummy cooking smells as hubby prepares tasty morsels in the kitchen while I fling pounds of wet clothes from washer to dryer, peacefully folding, flinging, repeating. Henry and Abby playing happily (no screaming, no one-upmanship, no mediation required). We suspended in the bliss of that moment's bubble.

This now, the one I embrace as I write, arrived on the wings of a cool, dry breeze. The house sits quietly and I sit with it. The weather--crisp with a side of early fall--allows me to wear my fall uniform of faded gray cargos, Woodstock t-shirt and it's-seen-better-days black, fleece vest. My sunglasses sit perched on top of my head. Yesterday's eye make rests smudged under my eyes. Open windows invite the smells and sounds of late summer into my office.

I breathe. In and out. Relishing this now.

Devouring Dani

I still remember the brilliant summer afternoon that I cracked open my first Dani Shapiro memoir, Devotion. The sky, cobalt. The air, dry and cool. I sat on the back deck with the warm sun pounding my face and arms. I had no idea the fabulousness that awaited me...nor did I know that I'd fall in love with Dani's writing. She is now one of favorite authors, EVER.

The only good thing about just discovering Dani is that she'd already published many other books; huge, glittering gifts, just waiting to be devoured.

Dani writes...no, she creates such transcendent phrases and sentences that I felt as I'm being led by a skilled dancing partner. Her talent and tenderness are phenomenal. From the first sentence of Devotion, I was in love. I sat the book down and ran into the house to grab a pen because I desperately needed to be able to highlight her words that spoke to me, that whispered to me, to parts of me that are dark and hard to reach.

I almost find my own words inadequate...as if I cannot do her words justice. Dani Shapiro hypnotized me as she took me through her spiritual quest to live now, and to live the questions. Dani writes,

If I opened myself-as an adventurer, an explorer into the depths of every single day? What if--instead of fleeing--I were to continue to quiver in the darkness? It wasn't so much that I was in search of answers. In fact, I was wary of the whole idea of answers. I wanted to climb all the way inside the questions and see what was there.

She elegantly cracks open her inner-most self and through her honest reflection, her words acted like a salve...as I nodded through her story, I felt normal. And whole.

This book came to me in my nascent journey and attempts to live within my moments and as I read,
I tried not to lean so far into the future that I squandered the present, my pours opened and I exhaled. I've often wondered how I can manage and plan the necessities of the future while being present and appreciating what this moment gives. I felt as if she articulated my insecurities, my challenges, my spinning worries with laser accuracy. But, when faced with the spiraling angst, Dani wrote that she gently reminded herself that she was, always, held in the infinite arms of the present. And I, therefore, felt as if she reached her hand out to me, handed me a flashlight bearing her words, and illuminated the next steps on my path.

I am tempted to fill this post will all of the passages I've marked from Devotion. But then this post would be really, really long...and there would be the issue of copyright infringement....so, I will leave you with one of my favorites:

Sometimes I want to run away: have a few drinks, take a sleeping pill, but those overpriced stiletto heels. Anything to sedate myself--to mute the endless loop of stories. And sometimes I give in, and do exactly that. The clarity is too painful, and I want to forget. The problem is, it doesn't work. Not in the long run. There is no permanent forgetting. Though the world of things is persuasive and distracting, the stories always come back, circled in neon. They are all the more alive for having been hidden.

I've had many neon colored forgotten bits in my life. The colors definitely fade once thrown into the bright, harsh light of honesty. Through Dani's journey, I realize that with careful attention, and with wide open arms to the infinite possibilities of now, I will learn. And grow. Thank you, Dani, for this gift.

ps--After telling my friend Lindsey that I feared Dani Shapiro had ruined me for all other books, she urged me to read Dani's other books. So, I've started devouring them. I finished Black & White (fiction) in two days. It is amazing. Next on the list are Family History (also fiction) and then Slow Motion (another memoir)...I wonder if I should start a Dani Shapiro fan club...

Stay With Me

The past couple days I've felt as if I'm moving through a mental mass of molasses. With slow synapses and a foggy head, I've pushed through my recent days. Nothing bad, or serious, just a let down of sorts. A sadness accompanied this mental haze, one which I could not define or corner. So I decided to just sit with it.

As I prepared to leave the kids with their adored babysitter, Henry walked up to me, wringing his hands.

"Mommy?"

"Yes Henry?"

"Mommy? Mommy, are you weaving now?"

(Brow now furrowed over worried eyes, hands wringing rapidly, white-blond tresses falling into his brilliant blues.)

"Yes, babe."

"Oh. Mommy?"

"Yes H?"

(Now hugging me...) "Please don't go."

But I did. I left. And I drove. I love the solidarity and peace of being in my car by myself. I submerged in the hauntingly beautiful, powerful lyrics of Pearl Jam's Just Breathe. It's one of those songs that takes my hand and seems to know exactly where to lead me. Each time I listen, it's about someone else. Some days it's Hubby, others it's my mom, or the kids. Yesterday, it grabbed my jugular. It was about Henry.

Just as Vedder sang, Stay with me....you're all I see...., I passed a soccer field filled with young, male teenagers. Shirts off, they proudly displayed their newly acquired muscles and body hair, bold against the vibrant green of the field. I'll bet those young men barely deposited absent-minded kisses on their mothers' cheeks before escaping in a testosterone-filled cloud.

My tears collect and start to fall.

The ricochet of emotion shook me. Stay with me....You're all I see....how many moments before Henry barely notices that I'm gone? The tangled pull between my needs and my children's needs still waxes and wanes, dances through my days. I'm not doing it right. I'm failing them. They're driving me crazy--the endless questions and talking and physical demands exhaust me. Am I enjoying it way I should? Are these the moments I must embrace, no matter how taxing? When the dance ends....our lives will be juxtapositioned and flopped. It will be they who want to, need to go.

Did I say that I need you?

I realize, once again, that I fear that I will get to that inescapable end, with college-bound boxes and milk crates piled high, with that once sweet round boy who hung on my leg now angular and antsy for his parents to leave. That I will arrive in that moment and ask, plead, beg for a do-over knowing full well that the gentle, yet inevitable, answer must be No.

I imagine after hours of unloading carefully selected college necessities, we'll hug and begin our goodbye. I'll beg, Stay with me....you're all I see.... and my pores will bleed and my heart will severe and he'll start to walk into his dorm building. Reading my mental telepathy, he'll look back, blond hair falling into his brilliant blues, smile and maybe wave, and then walk into his new life. And I will finally understand, with every pore, that every chapter, of every life, must end.

Pearl Jam--Just Breathe

Yes, I understand that every life must end, aw-huh,..
As we sit alone, I know someday we must go, aw-huh,..
Oh I'm a lucky man, to count on both hands
the ones I love,..

Some folks just have one,
yeah, others, they've got none, huh-uh

Stay with me,..
Let's just breathe.

Practiced are my sins,
never gonna let me win, aw-huh,..
Under everything, just another human being, aw-huh,..
Yeh, I don't wanna hurt, there's so much in this world
to make me bleed.

Stay with me,..
You're all I see.

Did I say that I need you?
Did I say that I want you?
Oh, if I didn't I'm a fool you see,..
No one knows this more than me.
As I come clean.

I wonder everyday
as I look upon your face, aw-huh,..
Everything you gave
And nothing you would take, aw huh,..
Nothing you would take
Everything you gave...

Did I say that I need you?
Oh, did I say that I want you?
Oh, if I didn't I'm a fool you see,..
No one knows this more than me.
As I come clean, ah-ah...

Nothing you would take,..
Everything you gave.
Hold me till I die,..
Meet you on the other side.

Like Sea Shells, I Collected Thoughts

*****************
1
Gray clouds spitting. White capped, charcoal green waves spraying. Sunglasses covered in rain drops. Refuge sought under the strained beach umbrellas, usually poised to block the sun. Four adults, crouching for warmth and dry.

Four lone children, oblivious to the inclement with the empty expanse of the beach their canvas. Architects, city planners, politicians, mayors. Navigating the perils of childhood--anarchy and disappointment, lines drawn in the sand. Compromise and resolution follow and copacetic rhythms return.

Raw weather beckons powerfully--pulsing and yelling. Daring us to stay, daring us to leave, to seek shelter under roof and within four walls. Gulls cry, warning of the storm's arrival.

We ignore them.

We stake our beach claim. Kids play. We observe. Souls settle into the space, the calm, the yield of beach vacation.

******************
2
Sand. Prehistoric, jumbled particles of recycled rock and shell, shifting between toes. Adhering to body parts. Building beaches, play places.

Round rumps, saluting the sun. Busy hands below, engulfed in the sand. Digging. Building. Nothing and everything, small cities, leaning castles, shifting alphabets.

Long arms of the ocean, like white ruffles, pounding and dancing, creating my beloved beach. Past physical moments journeying to this point, my point, our point. Meeting and moving together.

Stepping into the ocean, I feel like I'm entering another's home. At the door steps of the magnificent sea. Benevolent, brutal, beautiful--hosting one and all, visitors, inhabitants and herself.

How long have these sandy crystalline, beautiful specks traveled to get here? Much longer than I. Intensely understanding the smallness of my life, as microscopic as those pieces of sand. Yet unlike those sandy bits, I am fleeting, impermanent.

Intoxicating, hypnotic and banal, the ocean sings to me. With a sand-embossed invitation, she implores me to be. Begs me to watch. Insists that I ponder, wonder.

And I do.

**************************
3
Stretching shadow of western sun elongating my smudge on the sand. Communing with the raw, pure ocean while the evening ritual unfolds back at the beach house--
shake and hang the towels
remove the sand
shower the body
climb into softest cottons
pour cocktails

I sit, solo, with her. The ocean. And her symphony. I've missed her. Reunited, my heart now swelling, tide-like, spilling into my chest, legs and arms.

Painful trepidation surrounding tomorrow's departure. But now, I'm here. Full. Salt-soaked. Sand covered. Wind tousled. Damp bathing suit. Crazy hair. Now.

The patterned randomness of the pounding Atlantic, simultaneously rhythmic and sporadic. An artful cornucopia of vastness and dichotomies. She sings to me again. Syncapatic melodies traced with the undertow of dissonance.

Scattered sea weed. Resilient piers. Taut flags. Stalwart gulls. White caps far onto the royal blue horizon, meeting the robins egg blue above.

I am captive.