Q & A

My pal Lindsey posted a fun Vanity Fair questionnaire yesterday with her responses (as she said, "Vanity Fair has two questionnaires every month – the famous Proust Questionnaire (meaty questions, back page) and the lighter list in the Culture section in the middle of the book."). Lindsey and I delved into the lighter fair and because I love the trivial not-so-trivial, here are my answers. Would love to hear your answers, too!

LIVING
Where do you live: New Jersey
Favorite art: Picasso (a new addition after seeing his work in Spain), Georgia O’Keeffe, My daughter's paintings, Monet
Pets: Not now...but still miss our big red dog Ruby
Favorite neighborhood restaurant: Oh, if only there were restaurants in my neighborhood....
Favorite cocktail: dry Cabernet Sauvignon
Who inspires you: Those who choose to smile. Musician/songwriters: not only do the write the words but also build the entire song?...crazy. Gifted writers. Strength in the face of diversity. People who share their experiences with raw honesty.
Necessary extravagance: My life coach.
Favorite place in the world: Can't pick just one. Driving in my car, music blaring, singing like I'm with the band. Snuggled in bed with Henry. Laughing with Abby. Cozy-movie watching with hubby.

CLOTHES
Designer: J Crew, Tory Burch
Jeans: Ummmm....new favorite? Brace yourself: Faded Glory, WalMart. Curvy Bootcut. $12. You're welcome.
Underwear: Hanes
Sneakers: Adidas
Watch: Swiss Army
T-shirt: Gap Supersoft
Day bag: since I don't have enough space to bore you with my multitude of purses, let's just say there are many.
Evening bag: Dark green patent leather croc clutch from Forever 21
Favorite city to shop: Chicago

BEAUTY
Lipstick: Lip gloss (currently love E.L.F. glosses from Target. $1!)
Mascara: Max Factor 2000 calorie (no longer made so searching for replacement)
Shampoo: Pantene
Moisturizer: Cetaphil at night, Olay spf 30 at day
Perfume: Winter: WISH Sugar Pastille. Summer: Bath and Body Works Cucumber Melon
Toothpaste: Colgate
Soap: Lever 2000 and Unscented Dove
Nail-polish color: IF my hands are painted, super neutral or a new fav, Sally Hansen Complete Manicure, Commander in Chic. Toes--anything dark and fun.
Who cuts your hair: Right now, me. Had so many bad hair cuts in the last year I'm utterly petrified to have anyone else cut it.
Who colors your hair: Brenda. (What's that? You're shocked to hear that I'm not a natural blond? Thought so.)

Writer's Block and the Wind

Last night, I lay in bed, ridiculously tired, but not sleeping, listening to the howling wind. From my red flannel cocoon, I watched the now-bare trees, just outside my window, take a beating from the wind. And I got giddy knowing the empty branches provided the outline for winter snow and ice and frigidity. I LOVE winter. I LOVE inclement weather. Abby and Henry share this winter embrace; we all highly anticipate the first snow fall...typically with noses pressed up to cold windows, willing the first fluffy flakes to take hold.

Anyway, as I lay there, not sleeping, my mind coursed with rapid thoughts. Mostly about writing, or, in my case lately, my lack thereof. My mind, like an empty chalk board. Clean. Void. Vacant. I've been fretting over the lack of creative sparks. I'd settle for a light smolder. With the aid of slanted light cast from evening lamps, I stared at the stack of reading on my nightstand. The lime green cover of the 1998 edition of The Best American Short Stories edited by the uber-talented Katrina Kenison, and Garrison Keillor). Then my eyes traveled down to Gail Caldwell's gorgeous A Strong West Wind. And then to the magazines and the papers sitting in the "I-read-it-and-thought-it-was-worth-dog-earring-and-then-ripping-out-and-placing-in-this-pile" pile.

Beautiful words, sturdy covers, deliciously sitting, awaiting my attention.

The books, usually inspiring and warm like old friends, seemed instead to taunt me. Sitting there, full of talented writing, published writing, interesting writing. The books lamented my lack of writing discipline, my disregard of the truths I know to be true: write everyday. No matter what. But at this moment, 10:29 PM, I exactly didn't feel inspired by other inspiration. Instead, the bound pages of beauty reminded me of everything I'm not doing. Writing. Word after word after word. In this particular hobbled corner of my writer's block moment, these books illuminated the depths of my desire to write, write, write and forced me to question why I just don't do so.

At this point, the wind took a vicious turn. 50 mph, blowing straight at my bedroom window. Blowing straight at me and, it seemed, straight into my contorted brain. And then it whisked me to a flat plane...a new moment. Perhaps a sign from the writing gods. Perhaps just a powerful jet stream. Or maybe both--it wouldn't be the first time the elements delivered a divine slap in the noggin.

I stared at the trees, watching as they allowed the wind to mold them into complex yoga poses. I felt as if I could see the wind. And the words, well, they slipped in on the edges of those winds. In a true effort to practice, I will write. I'll see that clean, blank chalk board as a vast, endless canvas of opportunity. And I will remember these words of Natalie Goldberg's, which I've applied like a salve to my wordless wounds:

"...have a tenderness and determination toward your writing, a sense of humor and a deep patience that you are doing the right thing. Avoid getting caught by that small gnawing mouse of doubt. See beyond it to the vastness of life and the belief in time and practice." (Natalie Goldberg, Writing Down the Bones)

Yes. Vast indeed.

Please, tell me, how do you deal with writer's block? Do you have any inspired questions to ask me or prompts to share?

Gratitude, Tumbleweed and Flannel Sheets

Lately, I've been sputtering about, grasping and searching for words. Words to describe my journey, my days, my thoughts. Words, brief sentences and vaporous phrases visit. But they blow in on the edges of a jagged tumbleweed. They tease me, and then depart, more swiftly than they arrived.

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

Last week, Henry got sick. A raging ear infection took hold and he couldn't tolerate food or water for 36 hours. (The upside to a kid throwing up in a different spot every hour: house, couch, family room, bathrooms and bedrooms (and all linens) are now very, very clean.) After watching Henry writhe and throw up for more than a day, we bundled into the car, with bucket in tow, and headed to the ER. An expertly administered IV coursed Zofram, antibiotics and saline into his limp little body. Henry and I curled up in that tiny little ER bed and he lay limply on my chest.

Just six hours after we returned from the ER visit, Henry migrated from his gray-faced, listless heap on the couch to standing. He chased Abby. He laughed and pleaded for food. A satisfied smile played at the corners of my mouth. After 48 hours of his palpable misery, I gave thanks for the return of his health.

As our family came up for air after a very minor, but painful 48 hours with Henry, I paused. I saw the strains of order and regularity begin to gently resurface. I am pleased with how freely calm coursed through my veins, just like the magic drugs that coursed through Henry, delivering him back to health. In the past, I feel as if I sputtered and choked through challenging times, with a prevalent feeling of discord instead of gratitude. This time, no discord. Just peace.

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

Saturday afternoon, I sat in front of a fire (well, a nascent fire) which tried desperately to burn and produce licking flames to warm our cold, tired, post-sick bodies. All it could churn was a warm glow. It was enough.

I went upstairs to put clean sheets on my and Hubby's bed and the flannel sheets made their debut. I pulled the red flannels from their quiet resting spot in the linen closet and spread them out. I took solace in their tightly lined creases, whispering promises of a cozy, warm November slumber.

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

That evening, I stood in our laundry room. As I folded the heaps of sick laundry, I smiled to myself. Our faithful washing machine carried us through the maelstrom of sick and yuck. Despite the layers of tired and dark circles orbiting my eyes, the gratitude swelled from my heart and soul during, especially during, a bad sickness.

Both kids bathed. I could hear the strains of their individual chatter and singing. Peripherally, I spied a stripe of resting sun peeking through a frigid, charcoal-stippled evening sky. One of Abby's watercolor paintings cheerfully beckoned from the laundry room wall. I stood, surrounded by the sturdy solace at the final curve of sick days. Alive with the evidence of life: warmth generated from the constantly spinning dryer. The click click clack of a zipper hitting the sides of the dryer drum hummed to me. I folded the five sets of clothes Henry wore yesterday. I folded many well-loved pajamas.

I garnered incredible solace handling all of their laundry--knowing what each stain represented, what each of their days held, and knowing that they returned to me at the end of each one. I stood, saturated in the almost primitive workings of my home, my family. I stood, steeped in peace. Because I knew, with clarity, that these days will pass. My future holds many days of not knowing what they wore or where they were or what stained their clothes. My relationships with them will grow and morph, mirroring the children themselves. I know that when I look back on these years with my children, I will miss the complexity, simplicity, sureness and uncertainty of these times. And know that our current rhythms will be replaced by other shades of unrest, growth and certainty.

The kids exited the bathrooms. I dried Henry's body, pink with re-emerging health. I doused him with lotion and pulled fresh, still-warm jammies over his wet hair. He chattered away, describing how he'll detail his ER adventure to his teachers on Monday. I threw a pair of clean PJs to Abby, who ran stark-ass naked down the hall. Hubby would soon pull into the driveway, enter the house and bring with him a warm, delicious pizza.

Full. Contended calm. It was enough.

Malaise over past moments, when I didn't feel this calm, tried to sneak into and shatter my contended bliss. Tried to scold and condemn me for seemingly wasting away moments wrought with frustration and annoyance. At needy kids and heaps of laundry and little time. But instead of acquiescing to this judgmental chatter, I felt indebted to the past. For the evolving changes. For the grace of thankfulness. For the learning I've garnered as I traverse this life of mine. My steps surely delivered me to this moment of gratitude, for everything, as is. Enough.

Check List

1. Change my sheets yesterday. Check.

2. Make prediction to hubby that Henry is getting sick. Check.

3. Enjoy fresh sheets while sleeping last night. Check.

4. Wake up to pathetic, sick little boy whose tummy huwt and ear huwt. Check.

5. Proof of huwt tummy all over sheets. Check.

6. Strip previously fresh sheets, my pajamas and his pajamas for washing. Check.

6. Wash Henry and me. Check.

7. Repeat. Check.

Addendum:

1. Grateful we possess health insurance to go to the doctor. Check.

2. Grateful I have a working washer and dryer to clean up said messes. Check.

3. Grateful that I am here, caring for my sick son. Double check.

Dearest Baby Brother

Dearest baby brother,

Today, I celebrate 31 fabulous years of you. The night and day of your arrival defy my usually horrible memory. It was late night, October 28, 1979:

I was seven years old. Mom and I slept on the family room floor (yes, she slept on the floor even then), under a garish, muli-colored afghan. (Maybe Grandma knitted it to match our rainbow shag carpet...ahhh, the 70s). Suddenly, Mom bolted up because her water broke.

(Side note: I know that most guys don't really enjoy thinking about exactly how they entered this world, so I won't dwell here. But it bears mentioning because I'm profoundly moved, even 31 years later, to know I was there when you decided it was time to arrive.)

Someone drove me to a pre-appointed friend's house. My senses continued on high alert: the cold of the red, vinyl Chevy seats seeping through my pajamas. The craggy branches of the emptying trees boldly stretching into the dark October sky. The palpable anticipation--and my sense of co-conspirator in the whole event--fluttered wildly in my belly. It seemed as if the entire world pulsed in chorus: The baby's coming! The baby's coming!

The next morning, I sat in my second grade class. Suddenly, the PA system crackled and the principal called me to his office. (Thank you for that, dear brother, for that was the only time in my entire goody-two-shoes life that I ever got called to the principal's office. But, I digress...)

And then they told me. My baby brother had arrived.

I could hardly wait to meet you, to hold you. To see you. In honor of the occasion, I chose a super special outfit consisting of one red and blue plaid wool kilt, tights, pig tails, a toothless-smile and brownish-tanish cork wedge sandals. Absolutely smashing.

I remember walking through the long, antiseptic hospital halls which seemed to stretch on forever.

And then, finally, you.

You. You're such an amalgamation. I've so many swirling memories of you bringing laughter and tears. You gifted your first smile of your life to me. You, at two, wearing my doll's tiny straw hat, while riding your Crayola crayon bike. You, also at two, throwing a temper tantrum because I wouldn't let you play in the drinking fountain (by the way, dude--Mom's rule, not mine.) You, at 10, wildly independent. You, at 12, visiting my sorority house in one of your black Megadeath tshirts. (A unique juxtaposition to my circa 1992 Laura Ashley floral print dress with a peter pan collar.) Your talent and love of drawing: if you didn't have a pencil and paper, you drew imaginary pictures in the air. You, at 30, preparing to marry a beautiful, intelligent, warm woman whose love of you rivals mine.

Sometimes the polarity in our personalities confounds me:

You: stoic (Me: not so much)

You: long black eyelashes (Me: blond eyelashes...WTF?)

You: let's say, not as concerned with putting things away (Me: Type A neat freak)

Your crazy intelligence. I always knew you were smart, but will never forget the time I figured out that you were wicked smart. You and I visited with some of my friends at a bar. You were an undergrad. Someone mentioned religious theory and you calmly interspersed details and themes of all worldly religions like you were just talkin' about the weather. Totally a "how 'bout them apples" moment.

I admire your integrity. And your solid moral compass. And your knowledge of self. You knew, with absolute certainty, how you wanted to craft your career--you refused to take any job unless it filled your soul and made your heart sing (ok, those are my words, not yours, but you get my drift).

You're an amazing uncle. Remember when Abby was about four-months-old and we were at Mom's? I ate salt and vinegar potato chips near her and you worried about the crumbs getting into her tiny eyes; you were concerned that the vinegar could harm her. Honestly...what 20-something guy thinks about those things? And you still have some amazing karmic gift coming your way for babysitting Abby, just 13-weeks old, when you got doused with breast milk. (Dads don't even like that. Sorry man.) You last winter, playing in the snow with Abby and Henry for hours.

You cried when I asked you if you'd walk me down the aisle at my wedding.

I am honored to have you as my brother and my friend. The sureness of our bond, the intricacy of our roots, well...as they say, run deep. I love knowing that I've got you in my corner. You are one of the most upstanding, strong men I know. And, in case I have't told you, you restored my faith--kept my faith--in the male persuasion when others did their best to tarnish that faith.

I love you, baby brother. Happy Birthday.

Blessings

Today, I am part of the From the Heart Guest Author series. So, if you'd like, head over to their site to read my post, Blessings. (And while you're there, consider purchasing a book...all proceeds go to Children's Hospitals and St. Jude's Research Center. And then, not only will you support those amazing causes, you'll have a book with my first published book essay in it--and that is SUPER cool.)

And a sincere thank you to Katrina Kenison--whose words spoke to me from the deep, eternal wells of truth--for inspiring me to take the time, on an ordinary Tuesday to let my dearest friend know, in no uncertain terms, just blessed I am to have her on this journey with me.

Autumnal Gifts

The raw beauty of this year's autumnal display squeezes the air out of my lungs to prepare for the inhalation of the vibrancy of the next breath-taking display.

Hypnotized and spellbound by the crimsons, goldens, purples, brazen oranges and firey yellows, I stay still. Struck by the stark newness of the trees' ornamentation, a rumbling of nostalgia washes over me.

Humbled by the ancient, predictable yet always glorious dance.

(Thank you, Lindsey, for frequently reminding me to take a look up at the sky.)

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.