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.

Following the Road

I'm preparing for two fabulous trips. Yesterday, I made my final list and plotted the points on my crazy errand run. Made sure each stop made the most sense, yielded the least amount of driving time, yadda yadda schmadda. Despite my best, type-A planning, the numbered, ordered stops jumped out of their spaces on my list (gasp). They became sporadic, like atoms heated from below. A slice...

I drove to two destinations (one of which included a divine Diet Coke from McDonalds). Then I drove to stop three. I forgot the gift card I needed. I drove back home. I drove back to the store, even checking to make sure there wasn't a more convenient location to the other stores I needed. I'd driven to the wrong store. I drove to the right store (which was adjacent to the aforementioned other stores). Ugh. Then I doubled-back to another store....

As this chaos mightily tried to unnerve me, I surprised myself.

I breathed. In. And then out. (And repeated many, many times.) My pre-trip nerves (unfortunately ever present and usually quite persistent) exhaled along with me. I blasted my iPod. Then, I allowed the spirited chase of uncertainty to be my guide. I let the unknown to settle in. And then...I smiled. I enjoyed a glorious afternoon of relinquished control.

Sometimes, I think I know where the road is supposed to go. And then, the road twists, throwing curves, blinding me with its unpredictability...while taking me in a new direction, a different direction and, I dare I say, the right direction.

Random Meanderings

One day you finally knew

what you had to do, and began,

though the voices around you

kept shouting

their bad advice--

though the whole house

began to tremble

and you felt the old tug

at your ankles.

"Mend my life!"

each voice cried.

But you didn't stop.

You knew what you had to do,

though the wind pried

with its stiff fingers

at the very foundations,

though their melancholy

was terrible.

It was already late

enough, and a wild night,

and the road full of fallen

branches and stones.

But little by little,

as you left their voices behind,

the stars began to burn

through the sheets of clouds,

and there was a new voice

which you slowly

recognized as your own,

that kept you company

as you strode deeper and deeper

into the world,

determined to do

the only thing you could do--

determined to save

the only life you could save.
- Mary Oliver, The Journey

I've been absent from my writing, from my on-line life, for about one and half weeks. I'm here this week, and then will be gone again the next. Such is summer. It's both wonderful and somehow melancholy. I feel a bit disjointed from myself. And I've been torn between my desire to enjoy the languid days that summer lies at my feet and my desire to return to the normalcy that the fall brings. I'm craving the smudged edge, hazy memories of summer--lake days, sand days, play days, moments unfolding onto the next--yet dreading the schlep of shit and stuff that makes those memories so. When we go to the lake (which necessitates bringing chairs, food, boogie boards, towels, umbrella, toys and children, I look like a walking freak show. I get indentations on my shoulders (lasting for hours) from the straps of the laden beach bags.) Does this make me a slightly tanned, summery-bitchy Grinch?

And then, I judge myself. The pounding of the judgments reverberate like the gavel in a courtroom. Bad mommy for not liking the trek through the parking lot. Bad mommy for not wanting to spend every moment with my children. HELLO? I know how that drama ends... beating myself down is so very counterproductive.

A dear friend said that maybe this particular summer heeds me to slow down. Lollygag. Putter. Hmmmm. I suspect she's right, yet, I'm not always that good at that. Clearly my uncharacteristically prickly response to the loveliness of summer and the tons of togetherness with my kids hints at something... and I think, after rambling along here today, that it's fairly simple: I need more time for me. I want to traipse by myself for awhile. I want, as Mary Oliver beautifully writes, to allow the stars to burn through my clouds. I've gotta find quiet to be able to go deep, deep, deeper. And when I journey to save the only life I can...I hope, that after my inward trip, I will deliver myself to the present. And my kids.

I get the sense that I sit on the precipice of a metamorphosis. That I will shed some layers and shift. Tears and thoughtful contemplation will be involved--it will be transformative. I must continue to listen, heed my soul and the laziness that summer brings. I've gotta be open...and be there to appreciate the change--and it's catalyst--when it comes. Even if I'm wobbling down to the lake with teetering beach supplies strapped to my head. Even if I'm swearing under my breath. It takes all moments to save the one life I can.

Blink

Did I blink and miss the last several years? How is it that my baby girl, once round and plump and baby-breathed, will be seven in one short day? A mass of sharp edges and muscles, she exists in a divergent plane, so severely different than where she began. I swear I just closed my eyes for a one-Mississippi and now...I am the mother of a four-year-old and an almost-minted-seven-year-old. A mother to showing-rib-cages and complete sentences. To long, lean angular lines.

Every night, I stealthy steal into their bedrooms to plant long, smothering kisses on their cheeks--the too-long kisses they shirk during waking hours. But as I pad into their rooms, I stop abruptly when I see those long, lean masses in their beds. Didn't I just lay a swaddled baby into a crib here? Didn't I just change that diaper and check to make sure no strings or blind pulls were near that crib? Wasn't I just frantically placing light switch covers? And wasn't I just rubbing chubby wrists, padded hands and succulent, rotund thighs?

When did my children stretch and lengthen and become so lean and sinewy? And when did they start to look so old? When did their round bellies give way to sculpted rib cages? Where did their treasured baby fat go?

Today, in the parking lot, Abby walked beside me as I pushed Henry in the cart. (No small feat, by the way, to get Henry in the cart since he's a 41 pound chunk of little man.) I looked down at Abby. But not too far down as she is, in her own words, as tall as my breasts. (She'd better hope she's measuring when I'm wearing my superduper lifting bra which restores me to my pre-breastfeeding glory...if you call a 34B glory, which I do, so there.) Anyway, I asked Abby, as she elegantly walked beside me, how she got to be so old. It was not a rhetorical question. I hoped that she might provide an insight into how we arrived at this point, with her blond curls casually pulled into a hair tie, with her hip, effortless outfit swaying as she walked, head high, scanning the parking lot for cars.

She shrugged and said cheerfully, "I don't know."

Exactly.

Me neither. With each shift, a moving smorgasbord of passing delights and newfound joys entice me. While I say goodbye to the chubbiest wrists, an eloquent metamorphosis greets me. Angular cheeks and long muscles usher in sweet independence and brave, new territories. Eye rolls, yes. But also intelligent questions which track my line of thinking. Lovely conversations. All at once symbolizing the final chapter and the first words of a new phase. The babies are gone. In their place live children. Sitting in open spaces and sprawling those long, lean legs.

That fierce, fire-in-my-belly love morphs, too. Deeper. More...connected. Seriously humbled. Amazed at how little I truly knew when I started this parenthood caper and how much knowledge I have yet to gain. With each passing day, I morph into a more accepting version of myself. I become less sure, but sure that less sure is okay. I learn from these little, or not-so-little, souls--and revel in their gracious ability to teach me.

And the love grows. Abby will be seven tomorrow. Seven. We all grow, apart and together, sometimes merely co-existing. I'm growing, too, while once again, trying not to blink.

Five Fabulous Bloggers

A belated thank you to Courtenay at IASoupMama for sharing The Versatile Blogger award with me! The guidelines for accepting this award require me to (1) thank the person who gave it to me; (2) share seven things about myself; and (3) pass the award on to 5 bloggers whom I've recently discovered and think are fantastic.

So, here goes:
Courtenay, you humbled me with your kind words about my writing. I enjoyed your Piddling at the Pool post--highlights your frank and funny style. Thank you!!

Seven things about me? Well....
1. My hair is really curly--it's like having a built-in barometer on my head. Sweet. (And, for the record, try as I might to embrace my crazy mane, I still want Sienna-Miller-Gwenth-Paltrow-silky-straight-always-predictable hair.)
2. I adore my navy blue minivan, aka My Living Room on Wheels.
3. I still struggle with self-confidence. I find it interesting that I'm trying to instill inherent confidence in my daughter while my own seems to waver and plunge so easily. I guess we teach that which we need to learn.
4. Many days I don't wear my engagement ring.
5. I know I've got a book in me...one of my biggest dreams is to get it out of me and into book stores...
6. Every time I see the ocean, she throws up her arms and we embrace.
7. I have a Life Coach. She is one of the best investments I've ever made in myself.

And now for Five Fabulous Bloggers...
1. Christine at Coffees and Commutes. I adore reading about her journey and exploration of self. Her writing is exquisite.
2. I found Stacey's Is There Any Mommy Out There through a tweet. I read this blog post and it will forever be with me. And once I read that one post, I was hooked.
3. Lindsey at A Design So Vast. Her writing helps me realize that which I, too, need to savor, figure and enjoy. Her words are powerful and motivating. She doesn't like me to say so, but she's one of my idols (in her humble graciousness, she'd prefer me to think of her as a friend. Which, of course, I do).
4. Jen and Sarah at Momalom. These two sisters host this amazing writing extravaganza called Five for Ten. Five for Ten inspired me to write in ways I hadn't yet AND it connected me to some wonderful bloggers. And they can both really, really write. (And they host the !!! Project...which I keep meaning to join...And BTW, Jen and Sarah, I know you're each your own person--sorry for the lump together here...)
5. Launa at Wherever Launa Goes There She Is. I met Launa through Five for Ten. She gently takes my hand and leads me through her thoughts and stories.

Sand in My Toes

Yesterday I took the kids to the local lake. I sat, on the beach, and watched them swim, splash and play. (This, by the way, is a privilege seven years in the making. I remember being at the pool when my kids were tots, while Henry tried desperately to pull my bathing suit top down and Abby yelled "watch me, momma, watch me" every ten seconds. I longingly watched the moms of older kids as they sat in lounge chairs, reading or just being. Yesterday, I was them. That was me. For a solid 15 minutes. Ahhhh.)

As Abby and Henry played, I studied them intently. I watched their golden hair submerse in the water. I, now an outsider to their twosome, curiously wondered about their games and ideas. I had that sense that mothers of young kids rarely get to savor...the ability to observe my kids and not be immediately, intimately, physically connected to their actions.

Awash in the fabulous frivolity of their frolicking, it struck me that I got to watch the creation of memories. And I marveled at how easy it is to absorb someone else's "now" because of my ability to see it unfold. And then I chewed on why I didn't include myself in that now just a bit more. Because I was there, just in a slightly different physical space. Not merely a spectator, but an engaged recorder or historian of sorts, perched on my chair, sand in my toes, capturing the memories of my children. Watching the culmination of our years and minutes into now.

Yup. I was there.

Thank you, Mr. Bellows

You know those times in life when something unexpected happens? Or rather, when someone unexpected happens into your life? The summer of 1999, a plain-clothed angel graced my path.

I was single and kicking it up in Chicago. My friends and I decided to escape the city heat and replenish up in Glen Arbor, Michigan. Mr. and Mrs. Bellows, the parents of a friend of mine, graciously opened their doors to us. My bedroom held exquisite views of the lake which sang to me at night. The bedspread (crafted out of t-shirt squares capturing moments from their childrens' camps, universities, fraternities, lives) cradled me in my sleep, surrounding me with softness and memories.

The days yielded a perfect cadence of hot summer sun with undercurrents of cool breeze. Water and sky created a rhapsody of blues--a kaleidoscope of azures, royals and ceruleans. Clear lakes. Perfect evenings--open windows and crisp temperatures. Blazing stars. Burned shoulders cooled during night swims.

After enjoying several days on Glen Lake, I planned to drive to Traverse City to visit another friend. Mr. and Mrs. Bellows graciously loaned me their car. With the open road, a borrowed SUV, a bathing suit and my baseball cap, I headed east. Another sunny, lazy, fabulous day ensued with my dear friend and her family on their heavenly slice of Lake Michigan.

I hopped back into the Bellows' car and headed back to Glen Arbor. I sang. The wide-open windows brought fresh summer air. I glanced down to change the radio station so I could continue my one-woman karaoke show. Two and a half seconds later, when I glanced up, I realized much too late that the pick-up truck ahead of me had stopped moving and lacked the convenience of working brake lights to alert me of its stop.

I slammed the breaks.
I crashed into the pick-up.
Air bag deployed.
SUV totaled.

After pulling myself out of the embrace of the air bag, I checked to see if the other driver was O.K. The SUV's once smooth and gleaming body was now a twisted, crushed mess. I hope I gave thanks for my working legs and continued life. But throughout those motions, this one thought coursed through my mind: "That isn't my car. That isn't my car. Holy shit, that isn't my car."

Someone called an ambulance. I luckily had enough of a reserve to call the Bellows to let them know I'd wrecked their car. (So thoughtful of me, I know. "Hi, remember me, the girl you just met whom you graciously lent your car? Well, I just totaled it.") I don't remember what they said, but it was wonderful and they said they'd meet me at the hospital.

The ambulance arrived. Super-kind EMTs strapped me and my bathing-suit-clad, still-sandy body onto the back board. They thought I was in shock. They were right. (When I smacked into that pick-up, I impacted at about 35 MPH.)

After I arrived at the hospital, the first person I saw was Scott, one of my dear friends. He looked so worried and his eyes radiated sympathy. Love him. Then I slept. When I came-to again, I opened my eyes and stared into the warmest, bluest, most-compassionate eyes I believe I've ever seen. The eyes belonged to Mr. Bellows. (Just a refresher--the car, that I just totaled, also belonged to Mr. Bellows.)

I started crying. Tears pushed down my sunscreened, beachy face. His lovely blue eyes streamed. I tried to apologize, inadequate words tumbling over words, "So so so sorry for wrecking your lovely Ford Explorer, Mr. Bellows." He wouldn't hear it. He kindly, dearly, so tenderly shushed me, his wise blue eyes full of concern. He took my hand in his and a calm enveloped me. I felt like one of his children. I felt safe. And forgiven.

With my hand still in his, Mr. Bellows explained that the only thing that he and Mrs. Bellows wanted was for me to heal (I'd acquired a mild concussion). He told me to rest.

He cared not about his SUV. Nor did he care about the pain-in-the-ass of arranging to have the car towed from the middle of State Route M72 back to Glen Arbor, nor did he fret over the cost of any of these inconveniences. Nope. Not Mr. Bellows. He fixated on the the well-being of a practical stranger. They took me back to their home, wrapped me in that t-shirt comforter and put me to bed. Mrs. Bellows tenderly mother-henned me, checked my eyes and smoothed my brow.

His lovely demeanor wound itself around my heart, opening and warming it. And showed it a path of selflessness, compassion and depth. I fondly remember Mr. Bellows--an angel in disguise. A classic. Emulating class and empathy always. A consummate gentleman whose kindness I will forever remember. Because of his example, I've extended compassion (instead of revengeful anger) in challenging and tough situations. I've remembered what it's like to be the wrecker...and what it's like to receive forgiveness and love.

Thank you, Mr. Bellows. You eased my path and lightened my burden. I've always worried that I didn't adequately let you know just exactly how much your sincerity and grace touched me. Hopefully, now you do.

Love,

That-Sweet-Girl-Who-Wrecked-the-Car-the-Summer-of-1999

xo

Is there someone you want to thank for a wonderfully selfless act? Do you always remember them? Has their graciousness changed the way you've treated others?

What She Said

one step / one step / i stop / i take
one breath / one breath / warm sun
above / white snow / below
i breathe / i take / one step / one step

- Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer, "Climbing the Ridge"

Snippets

I just received a sleepy, long hug from my nephew. He found me at my computer (shocking) and slipped his sleepy, pajama-clad body into my arms. "Aunt D?", he asked through his still bed-heavy voice, "I'm firsty. May I please have some water? With ice?" He could've asked for anything and at that moment, steeped in perfection, I would've gotten it. Anything.

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We woke to a splendid, crisp, cool morning. I readied myself to get bagels (REAL bagels) and traded my PJ bottoms for shorts. Hubby said he would come, too. With just a wallet and sunglasses, we left solo (kids safely home with our dear company). We hopped into our open-top 1976 Land Cruiser. Oh the morning that greeted us--just. so. beautiful. Wind took charge of my crazy bed-head hair. Joan Jett (and I) belted I Love Rock 'n Roll. My love sat next to me. We didn't talk. The truck hummed its rustic, loud purr. As we drove, the palpable promise of a holiday weekend stretched and embraced the town.

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

Last night, we lived on the deck. After the kiddos were snuggled in bed while visions of fireworks danced in their heads, the adults converged. Only two candles illuminated our late-night, adult conversations. That flicker, that dance, that simultaneously innocent and seductive lure of the flame highlighted our tapestry of words. Some of the threads that still weave in my mind:

"My mother went to Julliard...."

"Have you heard Pearl Jam's Just Breathe?" (I hadn't, and laptops were produced and it was played and now I will download to my iPod and play it often.)

"Always remember that you were loved."

"Mom, remember when we were in Vegas...."

"You made me part of your tribe."

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

And now, I hear: the clicking of my keyboard, another nephew "Da da da da-ing" himself to sleep, threads of new conversations drifting in and out of my consciousness, a morning movie, discussion of the days plans.

A swell in my lungs, riding the crest of the splendor that sits in each of these nows.

Happy Birthday, America

I'm enjoying the company of dear, dear friends so I'm posting one of my old favorites from last summer. Happy Fourth of July!

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Hubby, the kids and I are vacationing at my in-laws lake house. We're here with my mother- and father-in-law, sister-in-law, brother-in-law and their three children. We've entered summer nirvana--pure summer bliss. On the Fourth, we journeyed on the boat to the most spectacular fireworks display I've ever seen.

Through the heavy summer twilight, the kids traipsed onto the dock and climbed into still-wet life jackets. We all piled into Poppy's boat. The clouds and the rain, which had hovered for the last 48 hours, parted. A hot pink and royal blue sunset emerged. Captain Poppy allowed each of the grandkids a turn at the helm as we traveled through the night, scouting the most perfect firework-watching perch.

We found our spot and anchored the boat. Waves kindly lapped the sides. The fireworks began, exploding overhead in a spectacular national birthday celebration. A perfectly orchestrated show ensued, brilliant reds, vibrant blues and gorgeous golds. After Abby patriotically whooped it up with her cousins in the bow of the boat, she sought me out and climbed into my lap. We had a primo spot which allowed us to practically recline into the night. She rested her freshly bathed head next to mine. Her body still. At times we discussed our favorite fireworks but mostly we lay hypnotized by the display and the rhythmic dance of the boat. To date, it is one of my favorite moments with my daughter.

The show ended. Abby left my arms and reolocated to Hubby's lap, drifting to sleep with his strong arms wrapped around her. Henry took advantage of the vacancy at my lap and dove into my arms. He curled up and promptly slept. As we navigated the nautical traffic back to the lake house, I was once again lulled by the scent of a sweet child's head and the heavy weight of a small, solid body. I whispered my love to Abby and Henry in their dreams. The lake whispered, too, and wished everyone a good night's slumber.

Good night, Abby. Good night, Henry.

Good night, lake.

Good night, America.

Searching for Grace

Sometimes, the words don't come. Sometimes, they seem too heavy to write or speak. They ruminate and congest. They parade and stomp, elephant-like in my mind. Like lead ingots. So heavy. But then, I realize those unspoken words weigh much more than those that are set free.

So the words finally came. They stumbled out awkwardly, falling sporadically. Despite their rough-edged rigidness, I welcomed them during their sporadic, capricious arrival.

The last weeks, I've been low. Yelling at my children. Not enjoying, but enduring. Tense, terse and rigid. The whining, the sass, the crying, the constant needs, the kids fighting--all pummeling through me and throwing me over a jagged, steep cliff. Every minute of every moment filled with demands and unease, camouflaging any remaining simple joys. I precariously balanced there, my needs teetering with those of my children. I felt as if I successfully failed all, my only resounding certainty was my uncertainty.

One rough morning this week, Abby screamed in Henry's face. Appalled by her behavior, I screamed in her face (under the guise of showing her how not to treat her brother, fooling no one.) She (understandably) broke down and bawled. I resisted comforting her because I self-righteously and resolutely sat in my anger: "She should know better than to yell at her brother like that."

Then, my tears began their cathartic descent, achingly releasing the bottled weeks of angst. Yes, my children's recent behavior was maddening. BUT that did not give me permission to relinquish my usual deep-breathing, patient ways. Abby yelling at her brother in disgust? Well, not surprisingly, my sweet daughter mimicked me, yelling at her brother as I, lately, have yelled at yer. I never used to yell before. Now I'm yelling frequently. Daily. Hourly. And just seven hours into summer break, I already ached for fall and school.

My life consists of a continual series of seismic waves, up, down, falling, climbing. Sometimes the falls loom steeply. My recent residence in the dredges of the bottom curve leave me traversing between anger and frustration. And, despite my awareness of the necessity of the lows, I've been so mean to myself. Judging. Frustrated. My true thoughts ricocheting against my shoulds, a battle of wills ensuing. The gnawing, unfair supposition that I should be feeling something other than what I did wasted me. I hated that I allowed my children to annoy me. Harshly judging my reality and emotions, I left little room for the essence of my feelings to take hold and lead to a brighter spot. I wished that I could extend myself the same kindness, compassion and patience I freely and easily dole out to the others I love in my life.

And now, with tears streaming as I remember that morning and the malaise of the last several weeks, I grasp tightly to the power of the low, promising a forthcoming brightness. My shoulds and agonies parted and the words flowed, comforting like a linguistic salve. With a renewed peacefulness in my soul, compassion, joy and understanding returned for my children. And, gratefully, and maybe most importantly, they returned for me, too.