universal grit

A New Home

2011-09-28T12:27:00.002-04:00

I have a new home for my thoughts and my words.

As it is with moves, I find myself experiencing a mishmosh of emotion. So excited for my new home, complete with all the things I wanted in a new, updated space. Then, suddenly nostalgic for the old home, complete with virtual pencil marks on the walls measuring my growth.

Consider this your invitation to come visit my new place. I can't wait to see you there: Universal Grit

Peace,

Denise

Wisdom From Trees

2011-09-27T04:00:00.001-04:00

The steam rose out of the sink, holding my hands and the dish they washed. The dish and I were in a warm cloud of the water's vapors while my hands deftly cleaned the bowl. I placed it on the white, waffle drying towel and picked up the next vessel to wash.

As I cleaned, I breathed. I slowly inhaled and luxuriously exhaled. I felt the fingers of oxygen infiltrate my mind, my legs, my arms. The air, laced with steam, filled me. I encompassed that moment so fully. It was so decadent. Simple.

*****

Lately, my mind noodles the concept of balance. Ah, the ethereal life Balance. I've often mused that balance is a lot like the steam that surrounded me at that moment with my dishes--vaporous and impossible to sustain.

Last year, I frequently felt rushed. I often unknowingly held my breath, switching from one To Do to the next, harried and somewhat frazzled. Like time just passed through my fingers. Definitely not peaceful or balanced. I often thought,

If I could just do it all better, more efficiently, I'd feel better and have more time. IF I could better balance my responsibilities and desires, I'd be like those other people who get So. Much. More. Accomplished. Than. Me. I'd have more air. More space.

So, I tried moving faster, but instead of registering balance, I found scattered and not-present. I know life doesn't have to be either-or, but I kept feeling as if I wasn't doing any one thing well. When I was trying to eek out some writing, I should've been starting dinner. When I was putting my sweet kiddos to bed, sentences, aching to be written, danced temptingly in my head. My desire to enjoy my writing career chaffed up against my desire to manage my family, our home and our lives.

My truest desires were at odds with each other.

*****

As this school year began to churn to its own cadence, I listened to my own beat. One rhythm dominated and repeated: Balance. Balance. Balance. It chimed as frequently as the Yoga beats I heard this summer. I quietly challenged myself to find a different way. This different way has manifested in: decluttering closets and my calendar. Cleaning and organizing work spaces. Planning meals and actually cooking them (don't laugh). Sitting in the red andirondack chairs in the driveway while watching the kids make chalk dust, and listening to their aimless chit chat.

An easiness that has been missing started to soften my edges. But. I wasn't writing.

I've been thinking about writing. A LOT. And I've been writing in my notebooks, spinning pitches, thinking on paper. But that fodder isn't making its way into posts here, in this space.

*****

As I stood at the sink, with my steam and my dishes, I suddenly thought of one of my favorite yoga poses, Tree (or Vrksasana, whose Sanskrit name I include because I'm trying to learn the beautiful words for these poses). When I am in Vrksasansa, I feel the grounding of my foot on the earth. I stretch up, body in unison and totally balanced. I focus on my my body. My breath. THE MOMENT. From the not-very-shocking department, the minute I mentally leave the pose--when my brain wanders to dinner, to writing, to cobwebs--I fall. Balance gone.

Balance.

The definition I used to attribute to balance was something like:

I will achieve balance when I figure out how to do it all well and effortlessly.

I just need to try harder.

Uh, no. I'm finding my way to a new definition:

Balance is not proficient multi-tasking. It. Is. The. Opposite. Balance is doing one thing, whatever THE thing is, well. Fully and wholly. Balance is acceptance of the current moment. Balance is being there, foot and mind firmly planted in the present.

*****

I put my last dish on the dish towel to dry. I dried my hands on the soft, faded green hand towel, noticing the ridges of my prune-like fingertips. Outside my kitchen window, a small brown leaf drifted from a tree. Thoughts for this post percolated. I turned to my next moment, and my children, and smiled.

Limbo in September

2011-09-06T15:20:00.000-04:00

Such is the passage of time

Too fast to fold

And suddenly swallowed by signs

Low and behold

(Eddie Vedder, Rise)

One morning last week, I found myself in a pissy mood. For no obvious reason, I felt agitated, annoyed and cranky. The mood would not abate. So, I sought refuge in the trees. I pulled on my hiking shoes and forced the kids to the forest with me. They wanted to stay home and play on the iPad.

We got to the hiking spot and pulled into the nestled parking spot. Often, just the crunch of the tires on the gravel of the parking space will ricochet me from any funk into the woods, into the present moment. Not today. Nature immediately swallowed Abby and Henry, however, and engulfed them with her magic. They transformed, high from just being there, surrounded by vast stretches of oak and maple, ferns and the pungent smell of the earth. The iPad was long forgotten. I, however, wasn't so easily swayed. My persistent crankiness held on with a firm grip. No matter how hard I pounded the ground, feeling my feet contact the Earth, I could not escape the nagging swirl.

The kids found inspiration at every turn--mud from the hurricane rains! Downed tree trunks became draw bridges carrying us from one side of the muddy trail to the other. Bridges allowed us to safely cross a coursing stream, her water's path carrying tinctures of conversation and bubbling laughter.

As we neared the end of our hike, Abby asked that we all give thanks. In her beautiful eight-year-old voice, she spoke clearly and purposefully,

Thank you for our oxygen, for the trees, for the ground and this beautiful day.

Her words softened me. I felt like I was finally able to leave my head and join the hike. Her words allowed me to offer my own less-gracious but just-as-sincere silent supplication,

I am grateful to be. Be full of everything and anything that I bring to this moment, even this annoyance, this mood. I am open.

I softened just a bit . I opened.

*****

The morning was warm. And although the sky still held the summer sun, the first traces of autumn hid in the shade of the tall, tall trees. I stopped. I inhaled the scent of fall. I looked down and noticed the first colored leaf of fall:

My funk began became less random and began to make sense. I realized that I was in limbo. Straddling a bridge between two seasons, two parts of the trail, two intermingling realities, two different, yet overlapped, scenes of life.

Summer and fall. Tan lines and backpacks, filled to the brim with crisp notebooks and unsharpened pencils. Beach chairs crusted with white sand and a soft rain of falling leaves. Children home and children gone. Euphoria about once again having time to myself (craving it, able to taste my need for it, counting-down-the-days-until-I-have-it) co-mingling with a creeping sadness about Abby and Henry's return to school. The cold rush of realization swooshed in, time's swift passage lingering in its shadows.

Such is the passage of time

too fast to fold

Swallowed by opposing emotions. Hooray for the start of school! But if school starts, it's another year. A sign that Abby and Henry are one year older. Swallowed by signs marking the constant growth of my children and my constant desire to slow. it. the. fuck. down. All highlighted by my sudden, unexpected tears, also swallowed, surprising me with their force.

*****

Last week, I volunteered at Welcome Night at Abby's elementary school. This is a night for new students to visit and become more comfortable with the school's layout. I was stationed at the front door, welcoming families as they came in. Most of the visiting families came with starting Kindergarteners. In their faces, I saw timid smiles. I found searching, nervous eyes. I saw white-knuckled hands of parents holding soft, still-pudgy hands of their babies. I found jubilant skips and boisterous, barely-able-to-contain-it excitement. More than once, I saw myself.

Sun and Corn

2011-08-30T08:35:00.002-04:00

I snapped this photo after the kids husked the corn before dinner one night. It's rare that I appreciate anything that looks messy or unkempt--but this site of summer stopped me. I love how the late afternoon sun angles in on a summer tradition. Strewn husks, hundreds of pieces of corn silk. An unspoken promise of deliciousness.

Soon, that sun will be long gone at this time of day.

A Letter from the Tooth Fairy

2011-08-24T15:35:00.012-04:00

P(re) Script: Abby, at 8, still amazingly believes in the Tooth Fairy, Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny. I am shocked, as I think she's sat on the precipice of NOT believing for a year or more. Today, she lost another tooth. Last week, she asked some tough questions. I believe that along with the Tooth Fairy loot, tomorrow morning she will also find this letter under her pillow.

August 23, 2011

Dearest Abby,

I know you've been having some questions about me--about whether or not I'm real. When you asked your mommy if I was real, or if she and your daddy were really the Tooth Fairy, your mom asked you if you believe that I'm real. You answered,

I believe the Tooth Fairy is real because you said she is ... and you always tell me the truth.

I understand your questions. Let me tell you a little secret:

I ask parents all over the world to help me make childhood more fun and magical for their kids. My goal: help young kids learn about faith. Faith is believing in something or someone even when you cannot see or touch those things. Sometimes, we believe in things, feelings or people without having proof that those things exist. Faith is a powerful, important force in our lives.

Think about Love, for example. You believe in Love, right? You can't see it, yet you know it's real because you feel it in a beaming smile, in a safe hug, or in whispered hushes when you're sad. You're surrounded by it, from your dad, your mom, your family, your friends. Those things that are real? They live in your heart, give you goosebumps and make your stomach tingle with hundreds of beautiful, quick-winged butterflies.

Please always remember that life is full of magic if you choose to see and believe it is so. And understand that your mom and dad didn't lie to you. Quite the contrary. They merely followed the pledge to help make your life beautiful.

Now, that you're so wise and mature, will you take the pledge? If so, please raise your right hand (the one you write with) and say the following out loud:

I promise to keep alive the magic and spirit of the Tooth Fairy

for Henry and younger children everywhere.

*****

My memory will always be flitting about on gossamer wings, spreading magic and faith to kids. Now, I invite you to believe. Listen to your heart to find the best ways to continue the beautiful faith in magic, and magic in faith.

Keep up the great brushing,

With love,

The Tooth Fairy

Post Script: My heart feels a bit heavy with the realization that Abby is here. I remember when I figured it out--I was devastated. And I know that after she reads this letter, which she is more-than-ready-to-read, Santa will be next. When did she get so old? I will just continue to reinforce:

I still believe.

Like Sea Shells, I Collected Thoughts

2011-08-21T10:24:00.002-04:00

*****************
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.

******

I'm at the beach this weekend. I wrote this almost exactly a year ago, at the same beach. I am still captive.

Vacation Views

2011-08-10T10:52:00.006-04:00

I am in one of my favorite places, EVER. Rocky Mountains, Colorado. Vacation bliss. Some of the things I get to set my eyes on every day, every morning, every moment.

*****

View from Fionna.

*****

Abby contemplating life. And how to talk her parents into riding lessons.

*****

Colorado wild flowers.

*****

Nine years ago, my hubby and I met on this road just before our wedding.

*****

Reward after day of hiking. Or sitting. Or horseback riding.

Where I Am

2011-08-05T04:00:00.005-04:00

Strong, slanted afternoon summer rays reached into my water-spotted kitchen window and threw themselves across my kitchen table. As the sunlight rested on this wooden surface, it highlighted the crumbs of a previous meal and old swirl marks of many aggressive wipe-downs. Various diluted paint stains--magenta, blue, green-- mingled with the crumbs.

Hubby and the kids worked on their rockets (a project that all three love--I love my husband for thinking of it and doing it and carving out a special space with the kids). I watched them and watched the sunlight dancing in their space. I took air into my lungs and held onto it for just awhile. I released. I lazily unloaded the dishwasher and meandered to the couch to finish reading a magazine.

Slow.

Deliberate.

Lazy.

Another afternoon, I climbed into a cushioned chair on the deck, shaded by the thick leaves of the wisteria. The cool breeze tickled the edge of the leaves and I read. The words from the magazine began to blur and my head began to nod and sleep sneaked up and caught me in her arms. My magazine rested precariously my rising, falling, rising chest. I felt like I heard a swoosh of words, faintly whispering: Yoga.

Summer.

This is the summer I hoped for and imagined. Family happily moving through their days. Copacetic moments rolling one into the next. Deftly prepared dinners of grilled meats and fresh veggies served with lingering conversations. Spying ruby red tomatoes on their emerald green vines and plucking them off.

Aside from the expected rough day here and there, the days have unfolded pleasantly. Last summer proved challenging. Very. And this summer, I've wondered why our moments are different than their predecessors. And then, I realized that finally, finally, Abby and Henry are old enough.

*****

The last months I've been dealing with some health issues. I've been in tremendous pain from endometriosis and suffering symptoms from what just might be Celiac disease. As I've researched both conditions, the information I read continues to tell me what I've long suspected:

1. I need to stop eating wheat

2. I must practice yoga

3. Not Knowing is groovy and I must relinquish my white-knuckled grasp on my irrational assumption that I can control things, people, and the tidiness of the kitchen counter.

Yoga.

I reached out to friends who study yoga and asked them what resources they'd recommend. (This, by the way, was hard for me to do. The asking-for-help part. But I did it. And although it felt rough and unnatural at first, I settled into the innate knowledge of opening myself to the wisdom of others.) My friend Katrina wisely emailed me this:

My advice is to embark on this new path with a spirit of inquiry, and trust that you will find everything you need to know along the way...and savor even these first small steps. Just learning to bring your awareness to your breath, to come into a place of stillness, to tune in to all the physical and emotional sensations in your body is a good beginning.

I got goosebumps reading her sage, salve-like words. I kept coming back to this phrase: bring your awareness to your breath, come into a place of stillness. Yes. Yoga. Everything about this resonated with me. At times, I will find myself just holding my breath. For no reason.

I reached out to Pamela, too, who offered kind words and insight. She suggested poses and this section on YogaJournal.com. When I read this particular part about chakras, and the second chakra which is associated with endometriosis, more goosebumps arose:

Trying to influence the outer world is not the province of the second chakra. Instead of demanding that our body or a relationship be different, the second chakra encourages us to feel the feelings that arise as we open to life just as it is. As we allow ourselves to accept what is, we taste the sweetness (and bittersweetness) of life.

Huh. Controlling. What don't I try to control? My mood. My children. The mess. My hair. The house. Our schedule. Other's reactions. The older I get the more controlling I realize I am. My futile attempts at control remind me just how much I rail against the polarity of life. The bitter. The sweet. The vitriol. The kindness. The life. The death.

I know that I must relax into it all. Open-armed.

Yoga.

With spaces.

With breaths.

With awareness.

With bittersweet life swinging with wild abandon.

Apparently, my own evolution and awareness led me to this summer with Abby and Henry. Their maturation and my evolution delivered us to this easier now. Their age, combined with my loosened grip, allowed these days to articulate themselves. Materializing in their own time.

I let go. I let go of my need to control it all. Released the need for constant order. And allowed space for my children to be.... (wait for it....) children. And space for me to be...me. Every bit of me.

*****

I unrolled my yoga mat for the first time this week. The purple padded rectangle thwaped as it hit the basement carpet. I started with the base-level yoga poses that I know. Downward-facing dog. Thoughts came along--negative judgments about my body. Gosh my knees are wrinkly at this angle. Tree. I wish my stomach always looked like this, like it does when I'm stretched to the sky. Shoulder stand. Head-to-knee bend. Look at that stomach flab. Geesh. Cut down on the sugar, lady. Child's pose.

Those negative, snitty thoughts tried. But instead of quickly nodding my conspiratorial agreement, I took note of their editorial quips and let them slide. Which each long-held stretch, I relaxed into the beginning. Not knowing. A fledgling acceptance of the bitter and sweet parts of my body started to swirl. I heard a faint swoosh, maybe a whisper. Be open. Try.

I found an uncharted map of possibility and growth.

A start.

A Visit With Christa

2011-08-03T18:20:00.000-04:00

Something really, really cool happened. Christa, from Carry It Forward asked me if I would like to guest post on her blog.

Like To???? Hardly.

Thrilled To is more accurate.

And so, today, my post is up at her lovely space. Go visit. I always leave inspired. Or filled with patience for life. Or holding a new question. Or with a refreshed sense of connection. I hope you do, too.

Montage

2011-07-28T04:00:00.000-04:00

As summer continues to amble along, I continue to amble with it. My mind is rich with thoughts and ideas, but they're not making their way onto paper (or blog post) much. So I'll share with you some images from our vacation--the lake leg of the trip. Hope summer is treating you well.

no. 1: the path to the lake

***

no. 2: contemplative slide perch

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no. 3: carnival ferris wheel holding waving daughter and niece.

***

no. 4: my perch at the lake, aka: bliss on weathered wood

(yes, there's wine in that plastic cup)

no. 5: self-portrait

***

no. 6: newt gingrich waving at 4th of July parade

***

no. 7: ron paul supporters

(love their panache)

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no. 8: seen the next day, titled bull-headed

(my attempt at political humor)

***

no. 9: my camera lens was dirty (thanks, Coppertone) but

I love the way the smear reflects the sun off their brass

***

no. 10: cows divided

(also-known-as my second attempt at political humor)

***

no. 11:

PS: What would Don Quixote make of these power wind mills in Iowa?

Would he fight them? Would he win?

Travels

2011-07-13T08:00:00.000-04:00

We drove and drove and drove west. 1,270 miles to be exact (and that's just one-way). Wide expanses of black, yellow-dashed interstate stretched out in front of and behind us. The first 17 hours of the trip I drove solo, just me and my kids. Although I felt trepidation about the driving before we left, the time in the car ended up being quite peaceful. The hum of the tires. The whir of the DVD player. The long, long playlist of songs on my iPod. Outside my windows a moving meditation of diverse landscapes unfolded at 72 MPH. My own personal wonderland.

I watched as the mountains of western New Jersey gave way to the slope and rolling interstate of Pennsylvania. And as I drove west on I-80, Pennsylvania yielded to Ohio. Western Ohio still held the slight hills of the previous state but I knew, because I lived my younger years in northern Ohio, that the paths of the ancient glaciers would soon make their journey evident as we traveled into the flatest of flats.

I still find it strange to be an adult where I used to be a kid. And, for the record, I find it strange that I find this strange. Since my family moved so often when I was growing up, a different place is home now than it was when I was young. I moved five times before I was in Kindergarten. I moved in 7th, 9th and 11th grades. I went to college. I moved eight times since I graduated from college. I've so often craved a familiar, physical home--the place I can navigate with my eyes closed. But. Instead I have a cornucopia of homes, places I hold dear sprinkled with memories of living. I can see them like red push-pins dotted all over a map.

*****

It's funny where some memories reside. Some live in expected places--for me, in the scent of garlic and onions sauteeing in butter. In the arms of my husband and in the sleeping bodies of my children. In the coolness of my mother's hand. Memories sit in the smell of chlorine and old photographs, boxed and filed in the basement.

But others reside in complex, unexpected places. As I drove through Ohio, I began to see the inky tails of memories, zipping by, their traces like car exhaust in the cold of January. Pungent. Nearly invisible. Daring me to see them.

These memories lurked under concrete underpasses. In the accordian fans of corn. In the flat expanse of black highway. They congregated on the low-hanging power lines, like black birds. Memories lived here. The ones that I don't often visit. It makes me wonder: are they really memories if they don't reside in my brain? Or are they blips, nascent experiences just waiting to be reclaimed, ready to graduate to memory status?

*****

When I used to travel these roads, I rode as a passenger. In the back on a red, vinyl bench seat with a lap belt holding me safely in place. My parents consulted a map to determine their direction--I can still see my mom's hands and arms folding a map of Ohio into submission. Now, I drive. Airbags and car seats fill my minivan. I consult my phone and my navigation system for directions. Straw wrappers litter the floor mats. My kids watch movies and slightly scuffed DVDs join the wrappers on the floors. I send up a mother's wish that the little-finger smudges and scratches don't prevent the DVDs from playing. When I look down quickly at the steering wheel, I can see a pair of hands that would pass as my mother's. But they're mine.

Now what used to legitimately be called laugh-lines are well-deserved wrinkles covered in a shroud of SPF 70 trying to undo years of sun damage garnered in the 70s and 80s. When I used to live here. When these roads were home.

*****

Now I'm driving my kids to my dear friends' and family's houses and I brief my kids before we arrive:

The last time you saw Myles you were both in diapers and you stole toys from him.

You last met this family two years ago. Remember--she was pregnant? Well, now that baby is

almost two.

She was a bridesmaid at Daddy's and my wedding. Yes, I was one at hers, too.

We stop. Many times. At houses we've stopped at many times before. Familiar driveways and strong, safe, knowing arms greet us. These people know all my nooks and crannies because they lived a lot of them with me. At each predetermined stop, we gorge ourselves on hugs and kisses and so many stories. Told in person, instead of over the phone. Complete with live facial expressions and shiny eyes. We share stories of our families. Of challenges and triumphs. Of life. Of children's successes and, shall we say, quirks. And of ours.

I get to hold and squeeze the little bodies whose sweet faces fill my Christmas card stack.

I remember...

I hear these words emerging from my mouth, directed lovingly toward my friend's children, just as I heard my mother say before me.

I remember when I held you in my arms and you were only this big

I remember the last time I saw you and you were a bump in your Mama's belly.

I kiss their sweet heads and enjoy highly fractured conversations with their moms.

Suddenly, hours and days have passed and it's time to go. Again. We exchange teary, long-held goodbyes with many repeats. We try to shove two years of living into days, hours, lunches.

Each time the kids and I walk into the driveways and climb back into the blue minivan, we hug our friends again.

They say,

Oh, take this kettle corn

and

Here are some snacks for the road

and

Do you need any other food

and

Text me when you get there

and they love through their outstretched offerings of food stuffs, through their outstretched arms, as women do by mothering and nurturing and caring. At each stop, we pull out of the driveway loaded with teary goodbyes, more food than we could possibly eat and a strong reserve of hugs. Physical reminders that friendship perseveres miles and 365-day-stretches-of-days.

My heart and stomach lurch. We pull out of the many driveways, windows open to the Midwestern summer air. Our tanned arms waving, tears regathering, horn honking.

We see their hands waving back, waving so many simultaneous wishes. Indentations of our memories bind us, holding us together, connected until we met again.

And we move on. Our four wheels carrying us to the next state, the next stop, the next set of welcoming arms. Home.

Road Trip

2011-06-20T17:48:00.004-04:00

Well, my friends, the time of year has come when my writing and blogging slow to a crawl. It's a bittersweet time: bitter because I adore writing, blogging and this on-line space we all inhabit. Sweet because it's summer and we have nothing but Time and we're preparing for a nice long, old-fashioned road trip. (I put those words like nice and old-fashioned in there to trick myself into believing that 23 hours in the car will be nice. And old-fashioned? Well, Will from Will & Grace once said something like, "Why is it that when you put the word old-fashioned in front of anything, it becomes wonderful?" )

I will miss our connections. So I'm hoping (fingers crossed tightly) that we'll reconnect where I drop off. And I'll still post occasionally. I know I won't be able to stay away for too long from this space that I love.

So happy trails to you (and to me--please, please let me have happy trails) and enjoy the summer solstice.

Into Focus

2011-06-15T04:00:00.002-04:00

I can't remember when I first visited Christine's blog, Coffees and Commutes. But I can tell you that now, I can't imagine a week when I don't seek out her words, rich with truth and insight.

Christine writes candidly about her life as a mother, her career and her life with depression. We both unfortunately walk this life of depression. But gratefully, after reading her posts, I feel human. Normal. Not alone. Her words are like a hand, stretching through my screen and into my soul.

Today's guest post is by Christine. Please read her powerful words and if you don't already, visit her wonderful blog. I'm sure you'll be so glad you did.

Into Focus

I felt a flash of optimism today. Actually it announced itself like a flash, but steadied itself quickly into a flickering light. There it was, dancing calmly in front of me, small, but resolute and strong. With it comes clarity, the kind of clarity that comes with a new set of glasses, my life finally vibrant and crisp.

Because I wasn’t expecting it, it felt delicious and wondrous.

When you start to come out of a dense fog, the glint of transparency seems to sparkle brilliantly. You reflect and realize how overcome your life was by sadness and despair. The new clarity stands completely juxtaposed to the more familiar grey oppression, tantalizing with the freshness of a sunny spring day. For a short time, I reveled in it and was reminded how good life could feel.

When I first fell into my personal abyss and realized that I would need medication to help me out of the sludge of my mind, it wasn’t long before I started to feel better. Within a week the haze started to life, my energy slowly rebounded, my heart’s cadence slowed to a more manageable rhythm.

Now, many weeks later, I believe I may actually be getting better. I’m more myself than I have been in a very long time. It feels like the return of an old friend who you didn’t even realize you had missed, the familiarity bringing a new sensation full of ripe possibilities.

It’s very difficult to describe how pervasive my depression was. Now with clarity, comes the benefit of hindsight and a feeling of sadness for the self who was lost for so long and all that was missed because of it. I feel like whole pockets of the past couple of years have been taken from me, particularly the last 5 or 6 months.

I’m told this is common, that when people begin to feel better they recognize that the struggle was there far longer than they ever knew. The slide was gradual of course, but it was deep. I think that’s the true horror of this illness—how it squeezes a person’s wellbeing in the most secretive way, so that it’s not obvious to the one who matters most—yourself.

But here’s what I now know. At the beginning of this year I set out to find myself. In the process I completely lost myself. Now I believe this is exactly what was supposed to happen.

Until recently I fought it, refusing to allow myself to be lost. That is precisely where the sadness and confusion came from. I was afraid to let go and just be. I thought self-understanding came like an achievement, something to reach. Like a place of souls. When all along it was inside me—right now—right here.

It seems cliché, but I really did need to lose myself before I could truly find myself.

I was so blind I almost missed itI floundered and sputtered and practically snuffed out my own breath in a desperate attempt to discover something that didn’t exist.

A self beyond myself.

So here I am, trying this realization on for size and reminding myself to breathe in the simplicity of a live lived each day. This very moment. Consciously reminding myself, as I do so often with my children—stop, breathe, focus. I feeling my thoughts and allow them without judgment. Testing it out, learning it.

Simple, and yet so hard. Practicing.

Acknowledging that what I feel is real and okay. And then moving on. Deeper. But within the self who I already am.

Ties That Bind

2011-06-13T12:45:00.003-04:00

We pulled into our driveway and parked. I got the grocery bags and made multiple trips into the house with them. In and out, up the stairs and down, open and close the door. I got back to the car and found Henry, still sitting in his car seat, staring into the air. I stood just outside the door of our blue minivan. I bit my tongue. My usual strings of sentences ached to pop out, Come on, Henry, get out of your car seat. Come on, hurry up. UNBUCKLE. Get your things. Come on, come on COME ON!

But.

This time, my words stalled, dissolving on my tongue. I don't know why I was able to stop. Typically, when the mental list of To Dos swirls, I cannot stop its throbbing beat. Maybe, on this day, I was able because we had no pressing plans. Or maybe I just got lucky. Instead of issuing my usual litany of instructions, I surrendered and slowly lowered my head to rest it on top of his. Striations of dappled, warm sunlight danced around us, holding us in a sling of suspended time. A dry breeze blew, capturing Henry's boyish scent and distilling it around us. His blond hair tickled my forehead. I rested. He rested. Henry was still. We were still, together.
The light, stippled through the variegated cornucopia of green leaves, made silly designs on our bodies. The sun poured warmly around us. I felt the shift--the shift from mental minutia to this life, this now. I felt the swell of the sacred and its enormity caught in my throat. Our connectedness felt primal and familiar--like we'd been here before. And of course, we had.

*****

Our very first connection was an umbilical cord which gave life and oxygen and nutrition. Just five years ago, the contractions racked my body, coursing in synchronicity with the Earth's pull. Just five years ago, Henry was born.
I planned to have an epidural--the anesthesiologists merely awaited the word from my doctor and nurses, and my doctors and nurses awaited the word from me. Hubby went to get a huge shot of caffeine and I lay in my hospital bed, contractions rushing me like tidal waves. As the pain ricocheted through my body, my finger sat poised to push the button to call them. But I waited. Something stopped me--a primal urge to connect with my body, the inherent power within me to grow and deliver a life. I hadn't been able to experience this when I delivered Abby so this time, I waited. My body coursed with the primitive synchronicity of life. I felt at that moment more connected to a bigger world than I ever had before. I was plugged into it all. There. Participating in his arrival.

I finally asked for (and gratefully received) my epidural.

When he arrived, time stopped. It was him and me. With the umbilical cord cut, we experienced the first severing of our first bond. A first of many partings and meetings. I didn't know then, on the day he arrived, that our relationship would morph and reconstitute so many times.

The shift from nursing to formula. From milk to solids. From my feeding him to him feeding himself. To now, when I'll be upstairs and hear him in the kitchen below, food bags crinkling, while he rummages for his own sustenance. I know one day, when he lives his own life, I will yearn for the crinkling of those bags.
The bonds of our physicality change and morph daily, coupled with conjugations of emotion to continually tether us. This evolution of the relationship between mother and child, particularly thismother and these children, forces me to ponder the future. I reflect on my adult relationship with my mother. The physical distance between us now makes my heart ache for that inexorable, future parting of my children.

I know that the shifting occurs, in small, almost transparent bits, daily. I live within these evolving parameters of our life. First nights in their rooms. First sleepovers. First weekends away. And then, firsts of their young-adult lives will barrel down upon us. I know that our future points of connection are unpredictable but when these blissful blips come--10, 20, 30 years from now--I will lean into them with a fierce gratitude and faith that they will continue.

*****

The night before Henry's fifth birthday, I sat on my deck. I sipped my gin and tonic (double lime, please and thank you). The winds played their melodies on the leaves, each different green and shape yielding a rapturous, natural cacauphony. The sound was reminiscent of waves rolling onto the shore. And I'm reminded of the powerful waves that signaled the arrival of Henry. These waves of wind signaled the arrival of this now. On the undercurrent of those winds flew vestiges of time past, five days ago when Henry and I sat in the driveway, locked in our moment. And five years ago, when Henry joined me on this journey. Together.
On that evening, the world felt so big. Carbonated gratitude bubbled through my veins. I peered out into the western sky--the palest robin's-egg blue tinged with the silvery promise of twilight. The silhouettes of trees, leaves, pine needles and branches punctuated the horizon. The wind continued to roll, playing the symphonic hush of night. The decadent scent of a neighbor's bonfire hopped onto one of the wind streams.
Right above me, in a room on the second floor of my home, a still-four-year-old Henry slept. Almost five years after his birth, our physicality still continues to shift, to roll, to morph. On the eve of his birthday, bricks and wood separate us only physically. Our lasting ties permeate, radiate.

Far off in the west, an airplane heads east, glimmering in the last remaining rays of daylight. A soft hush of supplication leaves my lips. A whisper of contentment. A nod to the extraordinary union of all that is. Henry. Me. The world around us. I relaxed into the tapestry of it all.

The sky slowly lost its pigmentation and deepened in its simplicity. Charcoal swirls of night formed where the sun left its vacancies, giving billing to the delicate silver crescent moon, subtly glowing. I got up from my perch and walked through the night into my home.

*****

Before I go to bed each night, I always check on my children. This night unfolded no differently. I padded down the hall in my socked feet, guided by faint strains of night lights spilling their glow onto the hardwood floors, groaning at my late-night intrusion.

The night arrived cool--in the 50s--and our windows were open to the night. First I kissed Abby, cozy and zonked in her hot pink bed. Then I opened Henry's door. I lay down in his bed next to him. For the thousandth time, I studied his blond-tousled hair. I cupped his round cheek, I stared at his long lashes.

An achy pit of not being able to remember this moment grew in my stomach. Maybe missing something before it is even gone is a good thing--a mark of reverence and insatiable gratitude. So I did what all mothers do--made myself an empty promise that I would remember it all. His scent. His quirky word choices. His heart.

I knew that now matter how I tried that these details would one day fade. I knew that despite my noble efforts I might not be able to conger the silkiness of his skin. They would escape my memory like fog. I awoke, an hour later, to Henry's face just inches from mine. He slept. My arm was flung over his chest, rising and falling with the cadence of his breathing. His knees were tucked into my stomach. Together. Connected.

I kissed my four-year-old one last time. Reluctantly, I got up and padded back down the hardwood hall to my cool, crisp white sheets. The memory of Henry at four already fraying at its edges. I slept.

The next morning, I awoke to Henry's beaming face inches from mine, proudly holding up five fingers.
I'm FIVE!, he smiled.

I reached over to him, and held his free hand. It was still silky. I breathed a sigh of relief. I know, I replied, I know! Happy Birthday, sweet boy. I brushed his hair from his eyes and returned his smile.

Parallels

2011-06-06T17:32:00.004-04:00

As the school year wraps, I'm keenly aware of the merging presence of both the end and the beginning. The end of the school year and the beginning of the summer, mingling in the same space.

Yesterday, I walked the halls of Abby's elementary school.

What is it about the palpable, tangible energy during those last school days? The students and teachers all wear a mix of exhaustion and anticipatory joy on their faces. As my feet moved me down the hall, I recalled organizing all the shiny, crisp school supplies into Abby's backpack for the first day of school. Now, I peeked into classrooms and saw children haphazardly shoving old, worn folders, well-loved crayons and papers into their packs.

I inhaled the school unique essence of school: tempera paint, paper reams, glue and sweaty gym shoes. The scent of freshly-cut grass wafted in through the open windows. Blank hall walls, which just last week proudly displayed students' work, now looked so stark, punctuated with the occasional ripped corner of some well-thought-out project, pierced with one stalwart thumbtack. I could almost hear the scuffed, well-traveled floors saying, I thought they'd never leave... while simultaneously trying to commit the kids' beloved footsteps and hum to memory. As if they could sense the impending, inevitable solemn quiet of summer and were already yearning for the freshness of fall. I know how they feel.

Endings end and beginnings really begin, meshing and paralleling each other. I suspect the edges are always gray, frayed and ambiguous. Like those hallowed halls, like those worn school supplies. Like me. Simultaneously yearning for quiet and embracing the noise.

A repost from June 2010.

Carry On

2011-06-02T11:27:00.013-04:00

I'm so persnickety--a bag of contradictions and nuances. So many thoughts rush, stop and course through my head lately. Nothing too notable, nothing too monumental. Just idiosyncrasies and minutia rolling like waves through my brain.

And so, in no particular order, I give a partial list of Me:

1. I am a neat freak. Clutter and messes can actually paralyze me. And since Murphy's Law likes to prevail, I live with three, lovely, wonderful, lovable NON-neat-freaks. (This morning, hubby called and asked what I was doing. I told him I was cleaning so I could write. He was definitely not surprised.)

2. I compare myself to others too much. Wondering why they can get so much done in a day, or write so many blog posts (ahem) and I can't. Wondering how she manages life with four kids so effortlessly and calmly while I stumble and bumble with two. I know that in the comparison game, there is no winner, just a stressed-out, paralyzed me haggardly sitting on the side of someone else's life. But it seems I like to torture myself. I am trying to stop.

3. When I get too caught up in my own thoughts (which happens more than I'd like to admit), I try to stop and say to myself,

All is well.

Breathe in. Out.

Observe.

Absorb.

Just be.

I become grounded in the now.

4. Sometimes I am as slow as a drip of molasses. Ideas and questions must be left to simmer in my brain before I can give answers or direction. I find this infuriating! I see my friends (again, with the comparisons) who make rapid-fire decisions and I flood with envy. Why can't I??

5. Often I have to do push-ups before I can write.

6. I still struggle with depression. When in a depressive episode, I feel like I'm in a well. Sounds and actions waft down into my small space. It takes awhile for my thoughts and responses to form--my words travel slowly back up the damp, dark well walls. Normal synapse activity slows to a low boil, trudging through viscosity of my brain.

6. My children's art work adorns many rooms in our home. Always makes me way-down-in-my-soul happy.

7. My idea of a heavenly afternoon: surrounding myself with boxes of old photos, sifting through them all. Laughing and crying as the moments hop out of the photos and into my memories. (When at my mom's house, sometimes I'll disappear. My mom will find me, in the basement, hunched over and pouring over old albums.)

8. I go to bed each night with a huge tumbler of ice water.

9. I adore old items with memories attached to them. For instance, my wedding band was created from my husband's great Aunt's wedding band. When I rub my finger over the small, pave diamonds, I love the feel of their unsymmetrical, imperfect topography. It seems like I can unlock years of lingering real history--the stories untold--which each pass of my finger tip. Fights. Hopes. Reconciliations. Sunscreen. Dinner. Tears. Sunlight.

10. Some random things that make my heart sing:

The melodic rustling of the wind over leaves

McDonald's French fries and magic diet coke

Just-out-of-the-tub hugs from my kids

A crisp flag on a slight breeze

A sunny perch to contemplate whatever begs for contemplation

12. I am an imperfect, average mother. Each day, I try to embrace this. Each day, I try to see the good in what I do. Each day I fail, and succeed. This gem greets and grounds me each time I leave my office:

So I'm off. Keeping calm and carrying on.

Seen

2011-05-25T06:27:00.010-04:00

A path, leading. Like any other path, road, walk, drive. Leading somewhere. Anywhere.

Pure decadence.

*****

I stopped. I finally stopped and pulled over. Camera poised to

capture the dogwood

Resting her image

so certainly on the stream below.

*****

So small. So tender. Pushing through the rough facade

and topography of its environs

Surviving. Reaching up.

Growing.

*****

Another storm rolling in. Charcoal layered on

rumbling thunder. The air held the pungent

familiar scent of impending rain.

*****

My dear friend's rockin' yellow rain boots.

*****

Blowing some magic bubbles into the air.

*****

One day, maybe two weeks ago, we finally had a day

of sun and cornflower blue sky.

I took this photo through the sunroof

of my car.

It makes me smile.

Practice

2011-05-16T14:38:00.005-04:00

This day

This moment

the connectedness

builds to crescendo, filling me to

blissful overload

I sat

I hugged

the little boy

who

will surely shun

my affections

some day,

some moment

Hitting pause

Hitting stop

Feeling the weight of our time

laden with winged bricks

poised to depart

without notice

Present.

Full.

Moments stringing together

a chain

between now and then.

Heavy body

Full heart

Holding onto everything.

Long spindly legs with

stretching bruised legs

amidst

Bits of conversation

falling to the grass blades and

popping like soap bubbles.

I Remember

2011-05-10T04:00:00.013-04:00

I Remember....

I remember the way my mother’s feet tanned in the summer, except for that tiny dry patch just below her ankle bone.

I remember my first crush--a blond, tanned life guard and tennis pro at our club. He always wore a white swath of zinc oxide on his nose. I asked him if I could be his ball girl. He said yes. I was eight.

I remember the hypnotic morse code of Henry's heart beating through his chest and into mine as we snuggled in the light blue glider. The well-worn arms were stained with spit-up and baby lotion. I remember that I didn't care.

I remember when I was in seventh grade and Josh asked me out. I remember my answer, Yes!, escaping my lips as I heard the snickers and laughter from the mean girls who put him up to the task.

I remember that in elementary school, I could close my eyes and know, based on the heady scent of freshly cut grass, that the end of the school year lurked imminently.

I remember the rusted hole in the trunk of our car that acted as a portal for runaway groceries.

I remember the first time Abby looked up at me and furrowed her seconds-old brow.

I remember my first designer tennis shoes—leather Nike’s with a sky blue swoosh. (Important: They were most definitely NOT the generics from JC Penny.)

I remember the first time I took my husband's hand; I figured I didn't really ever want to let go.

I remember a summer night, lying on the itchy blanket in the backyard with thick, summer grass tickling my ankles and mosquitoes feasting on my legs. I stared at the stars and felt pleased that they sparkled their ancient glow for me. I felt like I took part in a vast secret.

I remember watching in amazement as my brother's wrist hung limply from his arm. I remember my stomach churning because I loved him so much and just wanted my love to fix him, just like that.

I remember stuffing the jump rope into the top of my one-piece white terry cloth romper. The red ties strained at my shoulders. I also remember my mother taking me back to the store and every bit of my body shaking as I returned the stolen jump rope to the store manager.

I remember squinting at the stick, willing the two lines to appear.

*****

This weekend, I got to spend three days learning about writing memoir from one of the greats,Dani Shapiro. Not only did I get to delve into the writing craft, I was flanked by dear friends. More on this phenomenal experience to come.

One of the many thought-provoking writing exercises that Dani gave us was to write (without stopping) for 10 minutes and to begin all sentences with "I remember." (An exercise inspired by Joe Brainard's Classic, I Remember). My friends, Lisa, Lindsey, Christine and Sarah and I all found this both fun and surprising - we discovered that we wrote down both long-cherished memories and ones percolate that we hadn't realized we remembered.

We think this is a powerful and revealing exercise, and wanted to share a few of our "I Remembers" as well as invite you to participate. Please join us - either by writing a post on your blog about what you remember or by adding a few of your memories to our comments. Start with five "I Remembers" and if you get a good rhythm and flow, keep going! If you write your own post, please come back and link it here - and we look forward to reading and responding to your memories. And please be sure check out Katrina Kenison's beautiful I Remembers, dedicated to her mother.

I Am Enough

2011-05-03T12:17:00.001-04:00

I first learned about Tracey Clark's I Am Enough Collaborative last year. I was smitten. Through her encouraging collection of shared stories, she encourages us all to realize that today, right now, we are enough. That's right. With dark circles, dusty floors, sick kids, bills to pay and word to type, I Am Enough. So are you.

I'm honored today to share my I Am Enough story at Tracey's I Am Enough Collaborative.

When you're there, please take some time to read the inspiring stories of other women, all of whom are Enough.

In the Interim

2011-04-28T14:20:00.004-04:00

I've been off in my own world, taking a bit of blogging break. I've been periodically working on my book (!!!!) and also just taking a breather.

I've been on a poetry kick lately. Rilke. Dickinson. Oliver. One of my new favorite finds: Dean Rader (you can visit his blog here.) I learned that one of my high school friends married a writer. Then I learned he was a poet. I bought his book, Works & Days. So. Good. (Side note: he was the Winner of the 2010 T.S. Eliot Prize.)

So, while I'm on my little hiatus, I give you one of my favorite Dean Rader poems:

Einstein

The universe (which others call the Library) - Borges

by Dean Rader (Works & Days)

He hated tomatoes

And was afraid

Of the noises in the

Desert at dusk.

At times, the numbers

Thumped across the brain

Like horses or bad sentences.

Just a second of peace,

He would say to himself.

A moment

To see images, music, colors.

The calculus of the visible.

_____

What does it mean to see light

And think of a poem?

To see numbers

And arrive at heaven?

To look at stars

And picture a river?

What does it mean to know time

The way one knows a language?

To say that centuries or seconds

Are the letter t in a poem of infinite metaphors?

_______

If you divide the present by the past

You arrive at perception.

If you see light as wave,

Your hear the word silence.

If you see light as particle,

You hear the word wind.

Is the opposite

Of darkness, darkness?

_______

Einstein thinks:

I know that what we are,

We have become, and what

We have become we turn

To shadow, and what the shadow

Touches, the present forgets.

Memory is the shadow of the present

Stretching backward

Forming the equation

To prove Borges was right:

God is a book.

The translator: me.

The language: desire.

Not Almost Seven

2011-04-20T10:12:00.009-04:00

Abby and I were in the kitchen recently talking about the upcoming summer. We talked about next round-up of family birthdays, including hers. I told her that I couldn't believe that she would be seven this summer.

Because I busied myself washing dishes as we chatted, I couldn't see her incredulous stare. Her stare finally cut through my dish washing and I caught it, peripherally. I looked up from the sudsy sink.

"Mommy?"

"Yes, sweets?"

"Ummm, I'm going to be eight this summer."

Five little letters. One small word. Eight.

That little word smacked me and left a stinging swath. That five-letter-word sucked all the air out of the room. Abby continued to watch me. The drop in my gut validated that what she said was true.

Eight.

I looked at her, unable to disguise my slight confusion--and luckily, she seemed to get a kick out of my mental lapse. I really, truly thought she was turning seven. Interestingly, I didn't think she was six. She's seven, turning seven. Of course! Seven turning seven makes all the sense in the world.

My mind had reached over and hit its own little pause button.

But my mental pause didn't reach any further than my mind. Time spinning, spinning, spinning. Recklessly this time. Time, moving with her own motive, laced with her own prerogatives. I stared at Abby. Blond, wind-whipped pieces of hair escaped her pony tail and framed her transitional face. Angularity had crept in and replaced once full, round cheeks. Adult teeth crowded her mouth. Her questioning blue eyes sparkled while showing that their particular shade of innocence had shifted just a tinge.

This permutation of time's passage left me reeling and raw. The usual questions surfaced, as if their rhetorical repeat would magically make my mental pause button effective:

When did this happen? Eight? Didn't I just rub Desitin on her diaper-rashed tushy? How did I miss the culmination of moments leading us here?

No longer a little girl.

Almost Eight.

Stigmas

2011-04-15T09:36:00.003-04:00

As a result of Catherine Zeta-Jones' statement regarding her Bipolar Disorder, the news media and internet are a flurry of commentary. I adore Zeta-Jones for her brave admission which helps to destigmatize depressive disorders. I have many dear friends who've battled their own depressive episodes. My friends Christine and Lindsey each write beautifully and openly about their dealings with depression. I find all of these women inspirational and sheroic (I totally stole that word from someone and I can't remember who they are so I can't give them credit. Apologies to that inspired person).

Yesterday morning, as I sat with my lap-top and read my Twitter stream, I read these two tweets from another shero, Jane Roper:

janeroper Jane Roper, writer

Yes, that's right. I just overshared in a big way. But it's part of my ongoing mission to destigmatize depression/bipolar disorder.

3 hours ago Favorite Retweet Reply

janeroper Jane Roper, writer

Forgot to take my meds last night. Feel like junkie in first hours of withdrawal. (I think?) Oy.

Brava!, I thought. Good for you and everyone who does their part to normalize this disease. HIGH FIVE. I applaud anyone who does anything to destigmatize depression because each time we share our struggles we extend air into another's lungs and normalize the human experience.

But my elation quickly retreated as one of those sneaky "uh-oh" feelings wrapped around my lungs. I realized--with gut-wrenching clarity--that I hold onto old, worn beliefs about my own depression which contribute to the very stigmas I wish to see obliterated. (But, luckily for everyone else, I reserve all my vitriol for me.)

My continual self-flagellation and judgement of my disease actually perpetuate the stigma. Damn it!, (shaking fist at the sky) I hate when that happens! This insight didn't fully crystallize until yesterday morning--I am so disappointed that I still suffer from depression. I thought, that by now, that I'd be able to manage this disease without medications. Or that, by now, I'd have sent this dark monster packing. My disappointment dances through my days while jeeringly mocking me. And frustratingly, the bitchy self-critic is actually a symptom of the very disease against which I rail. I feel that I'm weaker, somehow, less-than, because I've haven't mastered depression.

My logic denounces this silliness. Even as I see the words on my screen, I cringe at the ridiculousness of them. However, I realize that the maniacal stronghold of depression works into the dark recesses of my being--and my thoughts. I hope that by sharing these thoughts here, I can begin to jettison these cramped, toxic untruths.

Depression runs through the intricate tributaries of my heritage. Many different variations of the disease clog my genetic pool. Bipolar ebbing here, depressive episodes rising there. It'd be quicker to list those relatives who do not suffer some form of mental illness than to list all those who do. Unfortunately, because of those aforementioned societal taboos, no one discussed the depression epidemic in our family. The malformed DNA strands responsible for this unwelcome disease were brushed aside and ignored. Until recently. Now, it's discussed with a bit more candor. But, in my very humble opinion, not enough.

I hope to change that in my own family. I hope to find the wells of strength to do just that. Smash open that damned taboo. Today, I start. With this post.

I've always held hope in my palm, like a penny at a wishing well, hoping that with further self-actualization and maturation I would step out of the inky depressive rivers. Over 15 years later, I still take anti-depressants and occasionally I take anti-anxiety meds. I still need them. And this pisses me off immensely. I recognize the irony in this bitter pill--I know the drugs help me--I KNOW they allow me to function normally. But...that but still lingers....

*****

I remember the first days after I received my diagnosis of depression, roughly 15 years ago. I'd known for months that I was very depressed and finally found a doctor with whom I felt safe, comfortable and heal-able. She prescribed an anti-depressant and lots and lots of therapy. I embraced the thought of therapy. But the drugs? Nope. I wasn't ready to take them. Fear perched in my gut and heart--I was so, very, very scared.

Would the drugs numb me to life? Would I still live fully? Would I still feel? Would I become a zombie-lady, bumping aimlessly through life?

The first day, the foil starter pack stared at me from my Formica bathroom counter. I stared back. I didn't break the foil--I didn't take a pill. I proudly breezed off to work thinking, I don't need those things. I'm stronger than this. The second, third and fourth days that pill pack sat, untouched. I saw it each morning and each night, those tiny little pink pills that would supposedly make me feel better. That would lessen the caustic, damning views of myself. That would allow me to get healthy. Geesh, I thought, as IF.

Day six day came and I belligerently grabbed that now water-stained foil pack of pills. I sat on my gold, wide-wale corduroy couch and stared down the pills. The late, Saturday afternoon sun spilled into my tiny apartment; dust speckles danced on my grooved, faded hardwood floors. The sounds of my Chicago neighborhood, usually audible in a constant din, faded completely. The only two sounds I heard: my throbbing, questioning heart and the crinkle of the foil pack beneath my fingers.

One of my tanned legs swung over the edge of the couch, the other sat tucked beneath me. Disappointment flooded me, almost drowned me. My defeat inundated the room and thwarted the noble efforts of the tenacious sun beams. My failure owned me--depression was stronger than I. The foil pack glinted and fought with the sun, casting funny patterns on the ceiling. I turned the pack over and over, mentally volleying my decision. As much as I grappled, the answer was clear--continue through the caustic, grappling days of my depression, or give this foil-wrapped life--line a try.

I grabbed a glass of water. I pushed a pill through the foil wrapper. The foil crinkled. My heart thumped. I pushed through the inky, low-lying clouds. And I swallowed that pill.

I have more to say. So much more. But for now, I have some questions for you: what stigmas, if any, do you hold? Are you open and caring with others while judging yourself? Have you ever dealt with depression, or helped someone through depression?

Married? Married. Married? Yes, MARRIED. Geesh.

2011-04-12T12:38:00.015-04:00

The most alive moment comes when those who love each other

Meet each other's eyes and in what flows between them then. - Rumi

This weekend, my brother got married.

My brother. And his new wife.

They. Are. Married.

My baby brother is nearly 8 years younger than me. As a much older sibling, and with no siblings between us, my relationship with my brother never embodied sibling rivalry. I remember the day he was born. I loved spending time with him, and he with me. But because I left for college when he was just 10, I didn't live at home while he morphed through the daily transformation of boy to young man. Despite this distance, we always enjoyed a close, warm relationship, albeit unfortunately infrequent at times. I always have, and still do, love him fiercely.

Now that we're both adults, we enjoy the erasure of the years that, at times, frustratingly distanced us. We've crossed the age bridge and we're not older/younger anymore, we're friends.

Last weekend, he got married. The two celebratory days rose and swirled with love, contentedness and joy. I rode the current, soaking up every last bit of the wonderfulness that was their wedding. Visions of days past and decades-old memories rose up for their moment in the spotlight. Strands of the past and hopes for the future embodied this space, this celebration of two. Each juncture of their wedding radiated grace and love; each moment a mirror, reflecting the inner, steadfast commitment and love between them.

***

On Monday morning, with the grace and flurry of the weekend behind me, I finally sat alone with my thoughts. The magnitude of their union forcefully smacked me. Tears gathered in my eyes and emotion clogged my throat as I reflected on the moments, some blurry, some crisp, swirling and rattling through my mind.

So I called my brother, and his wife (my sister-in-law!!), and through my sleepy-hoarse voice, I inarticulately choked out how fabulous they were. And how honored I was to be there. And how proud I was of them. And how much I loved them.

***

I want to share so many details with you. The careful tutelage that my brother and his bride took with all their guests. The exquisite details of the bride's dress and how it served the perfect canvas for her gorgeous, contagious happiness.

She. Was. Stunning.

The clear, yellow, late afternoon sun that chased away the fog and clouds that had lingered for days. The seriousness with which Abby and Henry took their wedding duties as Flower Girl and Ring Bearer. The exquisite views of the city. The rugged, confident handsomeness of the groom. The joyful tears that brimmed in the bride's eyes as my brother said, "I Do." The giddy elation rivaling the bubbling champagne as they publicly formalized their union. The high-fives that Hubby and I gave each other because we partied with the young folk until 2:30 am (3:30 am Eastern--which is notable because to us East Coasters, it was an hour later ... and we're almost a full decade OLDER).

But more than anything, I want to share this: this weekend, I fell so much more in love with my brother and my sister-in-law. The gussets and shades of love constantly amaze me; it's so expansive, so broad. Just as soon as I think that it would be impossible to trump the amount of love I feel for someone, the love bubbles up and multiplies, exponentially filling my heart and my life.

These two people? My brother and my sister-in-law? They are so upstanding. So gracious. So damn cool. Is it possible that this chiseled, loving, intelligent, accomplished, handsome man--who is, and will forever be one of my favorite men on the planet--used to be the round-cheeked boy with soft brown curls? And his new wife, well, she's spectacular; intelligent, accomplished, kind, funny, fun, (did I mention intelligent), caring, warm and beautiful. I cannot wait to fill my years knowing her more and more.

As I watched the two of them say "I Do", my breath suspended. I clasped my manicured hands. An exposed, red-brick wall served as their backdrop. Abby sat next to me, legs swinging her ballet-slipper clad feet. The suit-clad Henry sat next to her, his expression a delicate mix of curiosity and happiness. From my seat, I could only see my brother's silhouette. But I had a clear view of the bride's face. I watched all of her unspoken words and sentiments shine from her eyes, magnetically attached to my brother's own eyes. It's like they spoke their own relationship Morse code.

Now, I get to watch them settle into this next phase of their life. Together. Married.

***

That evening, I hung out with their friends. For the first time in a long time, I chilled with my brother and his contemporaries (point of reference: the last time I "hung out" with him and his friends, I was 18 and they were 10, running through the house doing what 10-year-olds do). They are now cool, accomplished, 20- and 30-somethings. Their friends' stories of them lit up the night, sparking laughter, tears and broad smiles. So many of their pals took the time to tell me how much they loved each of them. I learned so much about these two--and about how they love those that they love. I got to see each of them through a wider lens. As a result, I floated around like a helium balloon, riding the high of their fabulousness.

And now their life continues. The downs. The ups. The middle. And everything in between. They're ready. I know it. And more importantly, so do they.

Drunk on Fresh Air

2011-04-04T05:00:00.007-04:00

Sunlight finds her muse in

Winter's protected luminosity

Resplendently opening arms to

abundance

She's come again

Kissing their cheeks

Tousling their hair

Spring weaving warmth and chills

April's shade held firmly hostage

by winter's embrace

Stalwart, returning on twilight dusk

Buoyant youth rejoicing on

Repeat

Heralding the retreating

Vestiges of winter

Tipsy from the sweet nectar

of Spring's perennial promise

Running, screaming, laughing, sliding, swinging coats

scarcely hanging on

A blurred kaleidoscope of

Frenetic, pent-up aspiration

Barely perceptible green hues

Secretly whispering

Her return yielding

Warmth

Light

Life

A Trip to the Museum

2011-04-02T05:00:00.008-04:00

Earlier this week, I chaperoned Abby's class on a trip to the Field Museum of Natural History in Manhattan. I'd never visited before. I snapped photos along the way and once we returned home, several quotes found their way to me which provided a perfect caption commentary for the photos.

*****

After entering the museum, this bronze-cast moon grabbed my attention.

And once home, these words of Rilke illuminated:

Once the realization is accepted that even between the closest human beings infinite distances continue, a wonderful living side by side can grow, if they succeed in loving the distance between them which makes it possible for each to see the other whole against the sky. Rainer Maria Rilke

And then I found this ethereal gem from Rumi:

Who could be so lucky? Who comes to a lake for water and sees the reflection of moon. Rumi

*****

The graceful neck bones of the dinosaur below directed my eyes up to a beautifully designed ceiling. I love how the light plays on the hexagons. Each individual cut creates a shape which creates a pattern--like each individual moment crafts a day which crafts a life.

As I saw each exhibit, I pondered the devotion, time and patience it took to unearth each bone. Breathtaking, really.

*****

Then, from the third floor of the museum, I gazed out onto Central Park, complete with her Spring-ready trees and nodding daffodils way below. I'm always amazed at how quiet and calm the city appears from above.

*****

I adore wrought-iron windows. Their graceful bends and intricate patterns seem secretive and archaic.

Any device in science is a window on to nature, and each new window contributes to the breadth of our view. Cecil Frank Powell

(I found it a bit ironic that I contorted myself into one window to take a photo of another window. I did this once before, while at the Vatican. As I leaned out the window, snapping away, everyone thought that I must be photographing The Pope himself. Imagine their disappointment when they learned I was merely photographing a lamp post and a wrought iron window. See below.)

*****

After leaving the museum, fresh, cool air and Teddy Roosevelt and a Native American guide greeted us. They looked handsome and regal against the glorious periwinkle, cloudless blue sky.

*****

After seeing the natural and intricately beautiful displays of Mesozoic dinosaurs, moose, elephants and ancient rock structures, I felt as if I could hold in my hands my finite, infinitesimal life. When Abby and I stole a few moments to ourselves, we marveled over the incomprehensible concept of Trillions of Years. (As we talked, she leaned her lithe, long body against mine. That connectedness was blissful.) We sat, mesmerized by the vastness of time, stretching so far in each direction. Simultaneously, I acknowledged the pulsing knowledge that although our lives are but a swift blip, they are not futile.

And then I found these words:

No individual exists in their own nature, independent of all other factors of life. Each has the totality of the Universe at their base. All individuals have, therefore, the whole Universe as their common ground...Lama Govinda

This planet, this universe, providing a home to all. I love trips to museums and the variegated screen of perspective which lingers long after I shuffle the lengthy exhibits, pull on my coat (corral 100 2nd graders) and leave. An opportunity to remember:

For small creatures such as we the vastness

is bearable only through love. Dr. Carl Sagan

Home

2011-03-25T11:46:00.004-04:00

Really, what is home? Four walls, a collection of memories,

a soft place to land. At times, its edges sharply contrast

its soft perches.

A canvas, twinged with, and housing shadows of the past, creating

the future.

A place of

comfort, yes,

and pain.

Of all life's intricacies.

Beyond the structure of walls, floors

furniture on which to rest,

home parlays into our being.

A contradiction--a place to flee,

a place to return.

To arrive.

To be.

To start the day and

to set down the day,

your things,

your thoughts.

A new life.

A trance of expectations, met and forgotten.

A folding of laundry,

of ideals,

of traditions.

Mittens, snow covered

drying by the radiator.

Beach bags filled with half-full SPF 50 and

grains of sand.

Stories of fallibility and success sunken into

rafters and worn wood floors. Varied, shifting, dark, light and warm.

Wherever I am. Yes. Now is home. Does each past moment inhabit

a support beam, a concrete foundation,

a beloved painting?

Do new moments wait in the dust-bunny filled corners?

A long embrace,

a birthday celebrated,

a phone call answered.

Lives created,

hurts tumbled with their apologies,

soaring gratitude.

Bandaids and meals shared.

Reverberations of doors slammed,

equilibriums restored.

Open wine bottles and intimacies

recorded by the flickering warmth of the

candle light.

At times, confining, others comforting.

Home.

The embrace of familiar scents,

the embrace of lithe bodies once pudgy.

An echo chamber of words, hopes, fears, questions, dreams, detours.

Home.

Views from my Windows

2011-03-21T09:49:00.008-04:00

As those of you who've been reading here for awhile know, I adore snow. And winter. I love the solitude. Crackling fires and wind-pinked cheeks. I heed the call to go within to slumber.

However.

As much as I've declared my love of snow, I am very ready this year.

For Spring.

And yesterday it arrived (ummmm.....)

And, as ready as I am for the imminent arrival of our next season, I cannot ignore my primal, guttural call to enjoy the profound beauty in a heavy, surprise snow.

The intricate intertwining of those branches, circuitous and varied, carry their share of the snow's girth. Their complexities send waves of comfort to me, standing below, in awe of their stature, their strength. Their stoic branches presenting a three-dimensional, suspended map. A garbled tangle of possibilities and questions.

Showing me, with their own labyrinthine of black, wet branches, crossing and twisting in unison, how each life shares beauty. And confusion.

And peace.

Some Thoughts.

2011-03-15T14:36:00.002-04:00

After weeks of life that needed to be lived in different ways, with different routines to accommodate sick days, I finally sit perched at my desk, in my office. Today feels more predictable and usual. Comfortable. I feel good sitting in this space that I created. The calm hue of the buttery cream walls, the simple furniture, smiling faces of those dear, a framed copy of my first published article. My windows providing unobstructed views of trees and their nascent, fragile buds promising that Spring will in fact come. And my thoughts.

My thoughts seem to meet me here.

*****

I love opening books of beloved writers and seeing what words the page delivers. Today I opened A Year With Rilke (translated and edited by Joanna Macy and Anita Barrows)--it is an exquisite book, rich in Rilke tidbits and wisdom. These words greeted me:

Let us be complete in ourselves. Let us drink ourselves empty, give ourselves fully, extend ourselves outward--until, at last, the waving treetops are our own gestures and our laughter is resurrected in the children who play beneath them... (Early Journals)

and then...

Here is the time for telling. Here is its home.

Speak and make known: More and more

the things we could experience

are lost to us, banished by our failure

to imagine them.

Old definitions, which once

set limits to our living,

break apart like dried crusts.

(From the Ninth Duino Elegy)

*****

A time for telling indeed. I will offer this: two very divergent set of thoughts interspersed as I lived the sick days. I realized, quite disappointingly, that a nagging sense of embarrassment resided just below the surface of my exterior. A self-critical judge issued verdicts of:

I should be doing a better job of keeping us all healthy.

If I kept my house cleaner then we'd stop getting sick.

If I could get my kids to eat leafy, raw vegetables, they wouldn't get sick. And they'd heal faster!

(Apparently, during these moments of self-flagellation, I choose to ignore the informed opinions of doctors and schools that this has been one really sick winter. Really sick. And that as much as I'd like to think I can control the germs and keep them at bay with hand sanitizer, Clorox and Lysol, I cannot. Sometimes the germs win.)

I shouldn't feel sick for so long. I should bounce back quickly and return to the gym. Start writing my book! I should be a superhero!!! (Alas, I do not yet feel fantastic. I feel a hell of a lot better than I did last week at this time, but my brain still synapses slowly. Small jaunts to the grocery store leave me needing a nap and laughing makes me cough.)

Should. Should. Should.

The divergence came from this epiphany, seemingly from another reality: As I trudged through the various infections and illnesses that comprised the last month of our life, I realized that I was exactly where I needed to be, sitting in the mess. The pain of bruised ribs. The tears of middle-of-the-night ear infections and rubbing of fevered brows. The mess of cancelled outings and play dates, missing a dear friend's wedding. The stress of asking for help continues to rankle me; I'm still working on doing this while jettisoning the guilt and antiquated belief that asking for help equals weakness. (Geesh.) Sitting with the piles of laundry and antibiotics, the realization dawned that I was indeed living. Right then. The strep throats, coughs, the multiple dashes to the doctor's office, bronchitises, fevers and runny noses forced my hand, expertly navigating me to right now. A messy concoction in flawed abundance.

And so, I sit with the conflicting tides of my epiphanies and try to calmly, lovingly and sweetly tell the self-bitchy judge, and her old definitions, to take a hike.

I try, with varying levels of success, to understand my many realities and be complete within myself. Sometimes, I belabor the very dichotomies that define and assure my place in this life. Others, I gingerly hold these nuanced, shadowy gulfs with amazement, desperately hoping to comprehend.

I try to let the old, stale beliefs and shoulds break away and fall out of my reality. Their very departure creating space for the new. Creating space for consideration. For living. For dreams and possibilities. A place where my imagination runs freely--encounters fear and proceeds anyway, marching right up to a future of possibilities.

This is life. Acceptance transcends the bubbling dichotomies--the confounding and conflicting emotions--and the variegated grace sits, patiently awaiting me.

*****

I'm glad to be back here in my space. Where my words meet me. And I, them, as we go forth together.

The Witching Years

2011-03-11T05:00:00.005-05:00

You know how it is when you read a piece that so resonates within? That's how I felt the first time I visited and read Amy's fabulous words at The Never-True Tales. She's a talented writer and an on-line community builder. She writes, "Blogging is many things to many people, but for me, it's about writing. It's about the meditation between the mind and the fingers on the keyboard, the puring of thought and feeling in a way that becomes organic and good." Is it any wonder that I so enjoy this new-found connection?

Then I learned about Amy's awesome creation, Won't You Be My Neighbor--which she hosts so writers can connect and discover each other's incredible words. And this community is so important to me...a virtual life-line. Today I have the honor of hosting Amy as my neighbor. (And as luck would have it, I'm guest posting as her neighbor today, too.) After you've read her fabulous words below, won't you go visit Amy? Maybe you can slip off your suit coat, pull on a wool cardigan and climb into your slippers first....

*****

The Witching Years, by Amy of The Never-True Tales.

It’s staying light a bit longer each day, but we still have a long way to go until spring. I can tell because I still have to switch my car headlights on driving the kids home from the karate studio or the soccer fields, still have to flip the porch light before calling them in from the neighborhood streets. In another lifetime (which wasn’t too long ago), I’d sit out these winter evenings indoors, the kids too young for unsupervised neighborhood roaming, my own motherhood too new to risk a public toddler meltdown or unscheduled nap after nightfall. From my kitchen window, I’d watch the sun disappear behind the city long before dinner was served, and something heavy and panicky would rise in my chest and sink in my belly as the outside darkness closed over me like a blanket, locking me into a fate of 5 pm until 7 pm with only my babies for company.

It would have been so easy to switch on Backyardigans and switch off myself, but most days, I resisted the lure of the TV. Instead, I’d play cars on the mat in the boys’ yellow-walled room, listening to thevrooom-vroooom vibrating against their lips, then to the bubbles blown in the bath, the run of the water from the faucet as they brushed their tiny, pearly teeth. I’d find Hidden Pictures, change diapers, press playdough between my hands. I’d pause to find blankies and binkies before scraping the dinner dishes and setting them on the sideboard to dry.

I was on my own most evenings back then, Charlie working late. Every weeknight. Every weekend. (I still can’t believe we ever got used to that, but we did.) As I waited for 7 pm, I’d finish the forgotten loads of laundry on the bed, each t-shirt and burp cloth and OshKosh overall cooled and wrinkled in the heap. I’d stare out the blackened windows and wonder how I’d make it another hour. Another twenty minutes. Another ten.

This was my Witching Hour, but what people forget to tell you is how the hours add up, strung together end-to-end, day-to-day to become Witching Years. They commence in those first black nights of nursing a newborn, and they roll on and on until all your children are old enough to take the bus to school. Or at least old enough to wish they could.

And some mothers are great at it–love it, even–but not me. I floundered. I immersed myself in my boys: their needs and their wants, their meals and their clothes and their toys. I waved the white flag and gave myself over to them completely, and this was how it had to be. On the surface, I even looked good at it. Underneath, I was drowning. (Needing. Wanting.) I spent my days sinking and my nights kicking my way back to the top, to where at least the waves slapped me in the face instead of swallowing me whole, arms stroking upward through the dark. I stopped writing. I stopped exercising. I stoppedthinking, truth be told. I think maybe, there wasn’t enough oxygen to my brain.

It’s clearer here, on the other side. In the light. With kids who brush their own teeth and do their own homework and get their own snacks. I know now that being a mom of young children, staying in the house day after day, parenting solo 80% of the time…well, it is what it is. (Oh, is it ever.) I know that I did my best.

I also know I’ll never get those years back, as much as they often make me shudder: those years that passed so slowly as to nearly grind backward. Those years so long I measured my children’s ages inmonths instead. And that’s a travesty, because I left a piece of myself there. Something raw, and unmeasured, and instinctively maternal. Something sacrificial.

It was that something in me that gave way, that moved to the rhythm of my children’s sleep cycles, to the sunrise and the twilight, to the stirring of the oatmeal and the snapping of the car seats and the hefting to the hip, to the breast, to the mouth to kiss the lips.

It was that something that laid down arms. Set aside dreams. And that something was…there’s no other word for it…bewitching.

Thank you, Amy for your beautiful words, so honestly and eloquently woven together. It's great having you as my neighbor, and guest, today.

Sitting With the Mess

2011-03-08T11:23:00.007-05:00

(Kids and I have continued our fairly sick winter. And now I am under-the-weather, again. Ugh. I'm trying to stay positive, but must admit that this sick business is getting old. So, I've been posting here less frequently but hope to be back more once I perform the germ exorcism, scheduled for this evening.)

Lately, I've been thinking very much about a brilliantly simple phrase, shared with me by my dear friend and Life Coach Rita Hyland. "Sometimes, Denise, you just have to sit with the mess." As someone who has always liked nice neat corners, tidy rooms and clean resolutions, when Rita first said this her words bounced off my belief system. it did not compute. Sit with the mess? No way. Figure it out, fix it, clean it and move on.

Luckily, Rita's words permeated and infiltrated my old beliefs. I've shifted, knowing that she's brilliantly correct. In the dark, messy spaces sit nuggets of insight and growth. My friends and I, all churning through different complex parts of our lives, have been chewing on this wisdom. It calms. It fits. It helps. It intuits wisdom to deal with the inevitable mess of life. It gave me permission to sit, get dirty and grow.

*****

I sit, watching, wondering.

Perplexed by the intensity of force of

Dark, surging waters.

Gray.

Muddled.

Pounding.

Shallow eddies crescendo to a delirious, towering walls of water.

Waves pummeling. Water penetrating.

At times, I sense a disembodiment,

watching from afar

But I know am the water; she sits within me.

Feeling each white-capped slice of wave

As an extension of my soul.

I dive in, into myself.

Into the uncertain mess.

I want to know what she knows. What I know.

I don't wish for calm,

placid waters and blue skies.

I don't force the return of tranquility.

I don't paint a sunny day on my salt-water

strewn, disheveled face.

I sit. With the

Angst.

Pain.

Uncertainty.

Sensitivity.

Decades old hurts, now expired.

Possibility creeps in, holding hands with the

faintest rays of the sun, breaking through charcoal clouds.

I sit with the mess. And the power within.

I stop silencing it, and myself. Voices released,

swelling majestically over the briny, gray squalls of the ocean,

flying away with the mist.

(Note: This type of writing is a huge departure from my norm. I'd love to get your input--constructive (really!!) or positive--so I can continue to get better. I'd also like to thank Christa and Alita for they each recently wrote beautiful pieces about the water and their words inspired mine.)

Kindred

2011-03-01T04:00:00.002-05:00

Maybe we ...have the same single and fundamental task: to make peace with the roads we have travelled, as straight or winding as they have been, and to trust that we are up to the task of what lies ahead, whatever it may be.

E.L. Doctorow’s quote comes to mind: “You can only see as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way.” Maybe now my job is to stop squinting past the headlights. It’s only causing me panic that I can’t see, hurting my eyes, and taking my attention away from what is right in front of me.

Lindsey Mead, A Design So Vast

Every once in a while, life throws me a spark, a connection. And every once in awhile, I'm aware enough to heed the light and follow it. I don't know what cosmic force led me to Lindsey and her beautiful blog, A Design So Vast, but now I will publicly thank that cosmic force for I am so very grateful. Her beautiful prose both inspires and comforts. I often find myself holding my breath as I read a string of words she's artfully woven together--about her journey to now, her experiences as a woman, as a mother. A reverential place of comfort and kindred connection, her blog is one of my must reads. She will humbly deflect this compliment, but, let me just say, that, in twenty years, when I'm being interviewed (yes, after I've written all my best-selling memoirs and novels) about which writers informed and influenced me, her name will be on my list.

We began our friendship through our blogs and emails. And now, Lindsey is an in-the-flesh friend whom I adore. As I've told her, I first fell in love with her writing, and then I fell head-over-heels for her. Today I'm featuring Lindsey as my first-ever guest blogger. (And the crowd goes wild....)

The Dark Blooms and Sings

Lindsey Mead

To go in the dark with a light is to know the light. To know the dark, go dark. Go without sight, and find that the dark, too, blooms and sings, and is travelled by dark feet and dark wings.

- Wendell Berry

These Wendell Berry lines have been banging around in my head for a few days. (fighting – or harmonizing – with Annie Lennox and the omnipresent Willy W, of course). I so agree with what he implies, with the notion that to really know the dark we have to surrender to it. We have to let our eyes adjust, which means we must go in without any external light. And that, in that darkness, there is a beauty that we never imagined.

Berry’s words make me think, first of all, about internal darkness. Of what it takes for us to really know the darkness there, to gaze into the ragged hole that exists in the center of all of our souls, to push on the bruise, to feel the wound. Perhaps ironically, for me, I have often described the feeling of that intense darkness as staring into the sun. It has been the focus of the last months of my life, for sure: relenting in my frantic white-knuckled attempts to control, accepting the way it is and in so doing releasing my desperate focus on the way I wanted it to be.

It has only been when I have really let myself lean into that darkness, accept that my deepest wound is the profound sadness of impermanence, that I’ve started seeing the gifts that are there. As I sink into the way my life actually is, everyday I find unexpected gems buried in the mundane. Sure, I also cry a lot more. Every single day I face the truth that this is the last day that my baby will be 5, the last time I’ll have a Beginner, thelast, the last, the last. I grieve and mourn constantly, far more than I imagined possible.

But there’s also beauty here. Surprising, staggering, serendipitous beauty. Divinity buried in the drudgery. Dark feet and dark wings.

***

Thank you, dear friend, for honoring me with your words today.

I Can Still Carry Him Up the Stairs

2011-02-25T12:15:00.000-05:00

Last night, I cooked. I so enjoy cooking but I don't do it often, and often I wish I could sequester myself in a private kitchen where no one could find me whilst I cooked. Sigh.

Anyway, last night the evening air hung cold and damp. The kids and I co-existed in this warm, kitchen cocoon. Heavenly scents hung heavy in our space. I made lemon chicken, and it sizzled in the big stainless pan. I got to the part where I juice the lemons (the kids adore this part) and Abby yelled,

"Mommy, can I help you squeeze the lemons?!?!"

"Sure."

"Mommy, can I pwease have a wemon I can cut?"

"Sure, H, sure. Go wash your hands."

So, Abby squeezed lemons and Henry cut his lemon half in preparation for eating. He used a table knife. Suddenly he yelled,

"I cut mysewlf!"

Boy howdy did he. With a table knife, he sliced right into his sweet, plump finger. Blood drip, drip, dripping. Henry is fairly stoic, but this cut freaked him out. So I mothered, cleaned, washed, bandaged, wiped tears. Rebandaged.

Then we ate, the kids and I. Abby frantically shoveled in her favorite meal before leaving for a school event. Henry, wearing his favorite silly monster pajamas (which are beginning to seem ill-fated), wasn't hungry. His finger "huwrt". He retired to the couch and covered up in the family-favorite fleece sherpa blanket. I finished furiously cleaning the kitchen and Abby left.

The house was silent.

"Henry?"

No answer.

I found Henry, half-way to sleep under the sherpa blanket, already drooling. His blond hair already bed-heady, his cheeks flush with pending, interrupted sleep. It was only 6:30 pm. He wakened slightly, enough to ask me if I remembered the time we had caterpillars that turned into butterflies, which we released into nature. Then he mused that the butterflies were probably dead now. (As I've mentioned before, he is the King of the Non-Sequitur.)

As I perched on the side of couch, I watched him. I rubbed his head in that way that a devotee rubs a worn talisman or good luck charm. I hoped by physically handling the brief moment that I could indelibly brand it to memory. Before the inexorable sweep of the second hand took it away.

I offered Henry a cozy bed and an endless basket of bedtime books. He raised his arms, intonnating that he'd like a ride upstairs. I abliged. The house sat silently, the padding of my wool clogs the only exception. Henry then sleepily chattered about his "fingwer" and how well the advil was "wuhking". He held the offending finger high, like a beacon to the sky.

I carried all 42 pounds of him up the stairs. We entered the dark bathroom and stopped. His fuzzy monster jammies, which have glow-in-the-dark stars, faintly lit our space with their luminescent glow. We stood, heads together, in the dark, gazing at our private garden of stars. The combined concoction of warmth, peace and Henry's intoxicating scent kept me still. With Henry, in my arms. Forehead to forehead, soul to soul.

We climbed under flannel sheets and I began to read. Henry nestled so tightly next to me, our breaths existing in unison. I made it halfway through the Velveteen Rabbit and stopped. Henry slept. The night light, like an evening sentry, cast its own soft, watchful halo across Henry's cheeks. Oh those cheeks. And those lashes, resting just above. I stared. I stayed. I soaked him up.

As I padded back out of his room, the coldness of the house slowly enveloped me. I turned back, once more, took one last look and finally, closed the door.

I know that these fleeting moments...flee. Being able to fully experience them sits intrinsically in knowing I'll never be able to replicate them again. I just don't know when an everyday occurrence, which I might not appreciate, will suddenly become the last. The last incorrectly spoken word. The last time I can easily carry his solid body up the stairs. The last time he thinks I hung the moon in the sky, just for him. The last time we star gaze together. Lasts. My anticipation of the lasts may indeed crack my heart open, exposing a vast plane of apprehension. A mixture of subtle grief surrounding the recognition of time's passage.

Perhaps it is this inky awareness that provides the very canvas by which I can distill these moments into my soul. A dark canvas which beautifully exhibits the tenuous relationship between remembering and being. Between darks and lights. And I offer this platitude: I must have the darkness of lasts to appreciate the light. The light of the forward movement of time. Of firsts.

Today, I've indelibly imprinted the following: the scent of lemons, glowy stars and a sleepy body, close to mine. All while precariously straddling the tightrope between lasts and firsts.

Metaphors and Roadsides

2011-02-23T12:22:00.005-05:00

Yesterday, Henry and I drove to the grocery store. Periodically, I'd pull over to the side of the road to snap photos. Henry said,

Mommy, why do you keep puwwing over and taking pictures?

Because, I answered, I keep seeing beautiful things.

Things that used to speed by but lately, I've slowed. I took photos of the rustic beauty: of trees. Of light. Of shadows. I feel interwoven with the stalks, the snow, the chipped bark and barren, regal branches. I'm reminded that I'm just one part of this majestic, pulsing world. I sit in wonder as I consider the seemingly barren tree, bubbling with spring and fecundity just below her winter's casing.

Winter landscapes inexorably mesmerize me; while I absorb their beauty, I feel a carbonated gratitude bubble through my being. Nature demonstrably exhibits resilience and fragility--one of life's paradoxical metaphors. One which I identify with so, so much. Strong and weak. Driven and lagging. Inspired and flat. Up and down.

Just like life.

Just like me.

Almosts

2011-02-15T08:30:00.003-05:00

Sunday morning. 9:45 am.

Locals filed into the bagel joint. The air sat heavy with the scents of just-made bagels, bacon and hot coffee--a warm respite on a biting February morning. Hungover 20-somethings, young families, older couples, and our clan.

Our weekend had been filled with the familiar and comforting company of old friends. We decided on an impromptu breakfast out and half of us were still clad pajamas. Abby in her Merry Christmas PJ bottoms and Henry in his silly-monster-footy pajamas. Both sported their slippers--a very special treat, indeed. We settled into the comfortable din of the morning, enjoying decadently delicious bagel treats. (Is there anything better than a bagel made on-the spot?)

Suddenly (as it always seems to be), the kids expressed their immediate need to leave:

I'm so firsty, Mommy. I weally need some to dwink. Fidget, jump.

I'm sooooooo thirsty. Spin in a circle.

I'm ready, Mom. Mommy???

Mommy, can we go now?

Drinks were gone and it was time. Since my friends still ate their meals, I asked them to stay and enjoy their tasty bagels while I took the kids to the car. Hubby ventured to pay the bill. The kids waited for me by the front door. I grouped butter-soaked napkins into a neat pile. I adorned my Nanook-of-the-North floor length down coat and began to gather our strayed belongings from the dinged, Formica table:

A half-eaten cinnamon raisin bagel wrapped in its crumpled foil wrapper

My coffee cup

Markers

A notebook

A hand-drawn picture of a man "with weally, weally long hair"

My huge bag hung over my elbow, opened to receive each item. Plunk, thud, thud each fell in, joining the crumbs, receipts and cluttered subculture of my purse. The restaurant continued to hum.

Peripherally, through the smudged restaurant windows, I saw it. A blurry flash of very familiar silly-monster-footy pajamas. I saw the blond bed head. In the parking lot. Running. A car approaches. A dark, salt-covered, winter-dirty car is driving. Right. Toward. Henry.

The din of the diners fades. I hear only the deafening, maddening thud of my heart.

I can't quite breathe. A black time warp threatens to swallow me away from the parking lot. I'm moving but I feel as if the tiled floor suddenly became three feet of wet sand. Time speeds and stalls. I'm moving in slow motion. I'm flying.

The car?

Henry?

Their momentum continues, my eyes glued to the unfolding scene in the parking lot. Outside my reach. Outside my control. Outside.

I finally reach the door. Through the glass, I see his face, cheeks bitten red by the wind. His eyes cheerful, he and his silly-monster PJs obliviously run toward his sister. As I whip open the door, the cheap, metal bells crash against the glass, colliding with each other. The wind whips and rattles the local advertisements taped to the door. The wind holds the restaurant door open a bit too long, chilling the watchful patrons. Cold air crashes against my face.

Henry now safely stands next to his dumbfounded sister. Abby stands next to Henry in stunned silence. Terrified. Her pink cheeks flaming against her pale, frighted face. She understands the significance of what just almost happened. She's now old enough to comprehend. Her eyes and hands tremble. Her eyes tentatively search out mine.

The car sits in the middle of the drive--its driver and passenger also dumbfounded by a pajama-clad four-year-old frolicking, alone, in the parking lot. My eyes meet the driver's eyes. I sent my silent thanks:

for paying attention

for driving defensively

for seeing him

Thank you. Oh, thank you.

Large, lazy snow flakes fall around us. I turn to Henry and crouch to the salty, snow-stained black top. My long parka splays out around me. It's bright blue color in jolting contrast to the black hole I just left. I shake with terror. Pulsing relief, anger and desperate sadness threaten to swell into a tsunami of raw emotion and hot tears. I grab Henry's arms.

Our eyes lock. His blue eyes stare into my bulging, raw eyes, decoding all emotion simmering there. He wants to look everywhere but at me. He knows. My words, staccato and sharp, puncture our silence:

What you just did was so incredibly dangerous.

You CANNOT ever leave ANYPLACE without Daddy or me.

Why in the world did you think you could run in the parking lot?

Do you know what would've happened if that car hadn't seen you? Do you? I clench his arms in a desperate attempt to physically imprint my words into his being.

I am very upset. I am so sad because if that car had hit you...

Oh Henry.

My heart threatens to surrender to the almosts. The what-ifs. Alternate, dark endings clog my brain.

Henry rings his silky hands, working one over the other. His silly-monster-pajama-clad body safe. His blond bed-headed hair tousles ever-so-slightly in the raw February wind. I exhale. A shallow, slow exhalation, jagged and raw. Like the wind. The tears, they come. The murky, dark pit of almosts and what-ifs in my stomach? They stuck around. Heavy and leaden. For days.

In Flawed Abundance

2011-02-10T20:32:00.000-05:00

The last weeks I've slowed the pace of life, allowing time for gratitude, being, and total occupation of a moment. This deliberate, languid pace quieted the cacophony of thoughts and actions usually clamoring for my attention:

Rush. Do this. Do that. Orchestrate. GET IN THE CAR!!! Must do...Should do... Hurry! Oh shit. Hurry faster. Whirl, swirl, rush rush rush.

It's easy to continue to speed along, living on the facade while not delving into these inky, vital, churning masses. My new awareness makes the practice of being present easier and softer. More natural. I've seemed to step off the maddening swirl, creating a tapestry deep in rich nuances and emotions, allowing me to do the living and exploring that needed to be done.

As I've cultivated this slower cadence, any previously ignored or brushed-aside parts needing attention percolated to the surface. A collection of assorted subcutaneous themes (which, for me, usually reside just below the frenetic pace of life) actually gained voice and traction.

*****

At any given time, I help and guide my children. That's a given--I am their mother. Conflicts come and go. We talk, resolve, hug and regroup. With my newer, slower approach, however, I've quieted long enough to truly explore feelings and nuances where before I didn't necessarily allow enough time to delve.

Currently, my sweet daughter Abby is unsettled. The underlying, inky source of her conflict? Moi. More specifically, her perception that she isn't getting enough of me. She's been temperamental and short-fused. Sassy. Traces of disappointment and unease shadow her usually clear blue eyes. Luckily, she's started to master her ability to articulate her frustrations. While I applaud her ability to express herself, I must admit some of her observations are fairly biting. Like...

Mommy, I feel like all you do is text and tweet.
Mommy, you're always on your computer.
Mommy, when you're always on your phone, I feel like you're not taking care of me.

Ouch.

And you know what, she's right. My phone is my constant companion; it blings and pings and I slide that baby open, reading the current tweet/text/blog/email de jour. As a result, I'm only giving her part of my attention. I've created a situation where she feels she needs to vie for my attention. She's starving for me. And competing with my phone.

This is not okay with her. It's not okay with me. She wants and deserves solid, undivided, full eye-contact chunks of my attention. Her perception IS her reality. And therefore, mine. Her disappointment is palpable--her emotions raw. As for her perception that I'm not taking care of her--well, my first reaction was, That's preposterous! I mean, who does she think puts all the clean laundry in her room, the laundry fairy? And prepares the meals and drives to school and activities...,

but then I looked beyond her words and soaked up the message infused between them: I haven't been fully present in my moments with Abby. As a result, her foundation suffered hair-line fractures and I needed to patiently repair the damage. With patient explanation and gentleness. And time.

Luckily, I had it. This slower cadence I've cultivated allows time. Time to excavate and explore the ruins of a parental mistake. Time to create a cavernous space of possibility--allowing the dissonance to sharpen in brilliant focus. The priority? My daughter.

The steps I took to address Abby's concerns were neither novel nor inspired. Merely obvious footholds of problem-solving. I mentally created computer- and phone-free time. I let her be the one to end conversations. I allowed her be the first to end a hug. My epiphany lay in the novelty of my approach--I allowed space for the clamoring discord to have its rightful spot in the bright spotlight. Traces of Abby's doubt still linger, holding to the edges of her newly bolstered belief in her mother's love. Gratefully, I now see a returned brightness in her eyes.

*****

A woman, a mother, must stoke the fires of her own life. She must craft solitudes to fill her parched soul. I do this. I've gotten really good at this. But in the process, I've created an imbalance. Probably because I left myself thirsting for so, so long. And now, I must restore equilibrium--that precarious balance between my needs and theirs, constantly recalibrating, tweaking, stepping-back-to-analyze. The elusive balance is never easy; and it is forever shifting. I know that if I completely plunge into their lives, I lose myself. If I immerse completely into mine, I lose them.

*****

I read a glorious poem this morning and the following words resonated with salience:

Stripped of causes and plans and things to strive for, I have discovered everything I could need or ask for is right here— in flawed abundance.
(From Mark Nepo's poem, Accepting This)

My deliberate cadence allowed my flawed, cracked abundance to shine through. For this, I offer supplications of gratitude. For in the quiet magnitude of a moment, I learned the simplest, most profound lesson. Slow. Down. Listen. My hope: that the brilliant, humbling clarity will carry me through.

My Sick Lair

2011-02-03T13:08:00.004-05:00

I got smacked with a great winter bug. Sore throat, feverish/hot/cold and total and complete lack of brain synapse. Yesterday, I lay on this couch all day long.

Today: second verse, same as the first.

Instead of pretending (like I'd do in the past, I'd keep going, all-martyr-like, until I made myself really sick), I spoke the truth. I. Feel. Awful. (And look pretty awful, too.)

And my real-time angels keep offering the most decadent support:

"I'll pick up Henry from school and bring him home for a play date".

"I'm going to the grocery store. What do you need?"

"Honey, you go to bed. I'll put the kids down."

"Mommy, can I do anything for you?"

When I returned from driving the kids to school this morning, I found a treat bag full of magazines, chocolate, vitamin drink and sunshiney-yellow, we're-here-to-cheer tulips.

Instead of resisting the love and support of my friends and family (I'm fine, I can do it all), I fell, open-hearted into their healing sustenance. I said,

"Yes, thank you, I'd love that and so would Henry."

"Would you please bring me a pint of Hagan Daas chocolate and a rotisserie chicken?"

"Thank you, love, I'll do just that."

And I did. I went to bed. And slept, A LOT.

And even though I'm still sickly and curled up in my sick lair, interestingly, I feel lifted as I lounge, supported. Saying Yes to help is a really, really good thing. Saying Yes to support is as healing of an action as I can imagine.

My lack-of-power brain and I are signing off now. Cough. Sniffle.

Like a Warm Hand

2011-02-02T10:43:00.001-05:00

I procrastinated. The words ached to get out but I told them "not yet", "just a minute". I ran the washing machine. I put away toys. I made myself a sandwich. Now the washer has stopped, and begs me to take out the wet clothes and transfer them to the dryer. I ignore her pleas.

The winter scape sits patiently outside my window. Aching to be lauded and appreciated. I watch the gorgeous everything, begging for my attention. I turn inward, back to the bubbling words.

I gain a sense of order and calm when things are....orderly. And calm. But those words, in my head? They started hopping like overheated atoms. Pushing against my brain, spilling out, whether I had the foresight to place them onto the paper, or not. I ignore the washing machine and the winter white wonders so I can stay here, with the words, with the security of my computer to capture the words as they tumble and fall.

***

In a myriad of conversations with friends (both spoken and written), their words, salve-like, normalize my human experience. As I live this life of mine, I yearn for connection and solace in a story shared, a communion of experience. Whether it be a friend sharing the spirals of a rocky day or me submerging into an article or book, nodding as the writer eloquently shares her story, their contributions shine lights on my own wobbly, imperfect, human path. I bathe in the comfort of knowing we all share the sameness of humanity: perfect imperfection. Their words delivering their own unction, unifying me with others.

I read Katrina's beautiful piece sharing the bumps in her path.

I read Amy's incredibly liberating piece about The Witching Years which so tracked my emotional feelings I thought, perhaps, she'd tapped my first five years with my children.

I read Lindsey's words about the conscious presence and acceptance of life's everyday gifts, packaged in unassuming wrapping. And about Grace.

And Christine's constantly inspiring posts about her journey through depression.

Like a warm hand, slowly and lovingly extended, the words of these brave women sprinkle grace into my life, easing the pain of experiences by knowing I am not alone.

Again, I say: this sharing of life normalizes the human experience. Today, as I was gearing up to write (yes, procrastinating), I decided to read Dani Shapiro's latest blog post. Predictably, her words resonated with insight. I happened to look down and see that she'd responded to a comment I'd left on a previous post, one she wrote about Exposure-- writers sharing our intimate details. I commented that even though they make me nervous, I find that my grittiest posts are the ones that seem to resonate most with readers. Dani replied,

"Sometimes, what we think of as the "grittiest" may well be the most universal part."

Yes. Oh my yes.

With all of our varied chapters and moments, we all share in a common experience. Being human. Once I lifted the shroud of secrecy from my experiences, I found peace. And acceptance. The liberation in sharing and finding kindred souls along the way, also living their own versions of this universality, delivered grace. And connectedness. The beginning was so scary; peeling back my protective layers of perfection, and stopping the masquerading forced vile to bubble in my stomach. It felt like a powerful vise gripped my lungs. I felt the fear and did it anyway.

I can now look back and see how much fuller my experiences could've been if I could've only fully felt the extent of what was really happening. If I could've embraced my realities instead of cohersing, editing and hiding behind the mask. And I try, while embracing this lesson moving forward, to not judge my younger self. I know she did the best she could.

As I sit with some parts of my life still ensconced within me, I know that more words and other memories beckon, aching to be released. My hope that I can soon share the fullness of my story. And I sincerely hope that in that parlaying my heritage, those very dark, inky reaches of my history, I will ease the path of another. I know with certainty that I will ease my own. Baby steps. I've still so much to share--sharing that will undoubtedly further connect me to this pulsing, kinetic human experience. I'm working up to the day when I share my entire story. All the grittiest parts.

What's in a Name?

2011-01-28T14:08:00.002-05:00

Lately, I've been thinking a lot about my blog's name. Musings de Mommy perfectly suited this space when I started writing here years ago. But I sense that my words and posts are evolving, changing...they're not just about motherhood. Yes, that's still a big part of my life, and therefore it shapes my writing content. Technically, I'll always be a mother who muses.

But.

I think I'm ready for a new name. One that more broadly captures what I do here, in this space. I have some ideas. Inspired by Aidan's post asking for name suggestions for her soon-to-arrive baby girl, I'd love to hear from you. If you were going to name this blog...what would you call it? Would you help me?

A few words about my blog:

I write about my daily journey. About the unique paradoxical nature of life. I explore the triumphs and challenges with my children, and sometimes, if he's really lucky, my Hubby. I write because I have to...it's become as necessary as breathing. I write about my challenges as I try to stay present in this moment, the very one I inhabit, right NOW. I write about my emotions. About trees and shadows and the seasons. I share my thoughts about the ebb and flow of life...the darkness that necessarily, predictably precedes the light.

(P.S. I must admit that this whole name-change notion makes me nervous. How will people find me? Is it silly to change now? Will I change my twitter account? Will people know that it's me??? If you've been through this process, I'd also love to hear your advice and strategies. Please?? And Thank You (in advance).)

Betwixt the Bewitching

2011-01-24T16:59:00.011-05:00

Finally, I realized it. Fancying myself a quick learner, I'm continually amazed at how long some things take to soak into my essence and become obvious. But, finally. I understand.

Why I want to slow down.

Why I want to nestle in next to my children for hours.

Why I want to cuddle under covers, warmed by multiple bodies, while I watch the steel gray winter sky threaten to sink so low that I could reach out and touch it.

Why I want to submerge into hearty recipes, warming my kitchen with the fragrant grace and bounty of stews and soups.

Why I crave slow, languid hours of quiet solitude.

Because I stopped long enough to hear it:

the combined whispers of my soul and winter and the earth, mingling in quiet harmonies:

Slow down.

Go within. Hibernate.

Release yourself from any guilt, remorse or shame. Do not push.

Rest. Recuperate. Relax.

Do so deliberately, and allow yourself to be thrilled by the quotidian, imperceptible passage of moment into moment.

Marvel at the winter's bewitching light, allow the mesmerizing power of the tree's intricate tapestry of branches to hypnotize you.

Stop.

All is well.

Trust your instincts.

Trust your path.

Trust.

I hear it. The occult, soft singing. So, so soothing. And I figure, since I'm lucky enough to sit betwixt the lullaby-like harmonies of soul and earth, I may as well join in.

Shadows and Light

2011-01-18T14:28:00.000-05:00

I lay in bed. The clock read 11:03 pm. Emotions, hot and raw, bubbled inside, clawing to get out. Nothing terrible--just one of those emotive passages of life. The rather unfortunate timing of this particular outlet: it was the evening of Hubby's 40th birthday. (And I adore birthdays. They are sacred days of homage to the special birthday person. Not days for emotional outburst and catharsis.)

I tried. I squelched. I pretended. I even told those emotions to take a hike. To avoid spilling my emotional beans, I vanished into the kids bedrooms, tears brimming and falling down my face, hoping that my dear Hubby would be asleep upon my return. I watched those sleeping angels and kissed, kissed kissed them through teeming emotion. I sat on the precipice of release--the great, freeing feeling of cleanse that descends once the emotions are freed. Once they're allowed to do their job.

I padded back to my room. Hearing the soft snores of Hubby punctuate the dark, I thought I'd succeeded. I didn't ruin his birthday with tears. I climbed back into bed and through that same darkness, I heard,

"How are the kids?"

Shit.

"Fine," my voice wavered in response.

"What's wrong, honey?" he asked. I thought, No, no no not today not on his birthday.

Too late. Once released from the feeble confines of my controlling grasp, the emotions gasped for air. I gasped, too. He wrapped me into him. Game over. I offered up, through my tears, a silent supplication of gratitude for this wonderful man who is my husband, with whom I get to traverse this life.

***

Life's mystery comprises in its complexities: dark, then joyous; despondent, then brilliant. I know I am not the first to delve into life's intrinsic paradox. But comfort and sure-footing sit within this paradoxical equation. When I sit in my moments of emotional catharsis, settling into this knowledge and understanding yields comfort. Remembering helps--remembering the cyclical, idiosyncratic pulse of life, the thread that connects all of us, each of us, helps.

As I sit on the precarious perch of my life, sometimes smiling, other times crying, I ground myself in the knowledge that the predictive flow and ebb continues. Even when in the inevitable seat of growth and catharsis, the brilliance and joy of life linger on the edges of the shadows and sadness, promising the inexorable return of the light, and the giddiness in my soul.

He Dreamed a Dream

2011-01-17T07:58:00.002-05:00

A repost from January 2009.

*******

This morning, Hubby and I talked with the kiddos about Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. When I asked Abby if she knew who MLK was, she said yes; she saw a picture of him in her classroom. I asked her if she knew why we celebrate his life. She answered that he helped the “brown” children and the “peach” children go to the same school.

We discussed the many gross inequities in our country’s history and how Dr. King’s goal was to have people judged “not…by the color of their skin but by the content of their character”.

We watched moments of his powerful, goose-bump giving 1963 speech, “I Have a Dream.” We talked about the significance of the inauguration of our country’s first African American president, Barack Obama.

After we wrapped our impromptu history lesson, I asked Abby what she now knew about Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. She answered,

“He dreamed a dream that everyone would be safe.”

Oh, a child’s perspective. Simultaneously innocent and wise.

I often reflect on the history of our country. Living in Little Rock, where one of the most notable Civil Rights moments occurred, I often take note of the currents. For instance, I could’ve done cartwheels when we first visited Abby’s new Kindergarten class and saw all the beautiful, diverse faces sitting around that room. My heart still skips each time I visit her classroom and see so many different faces smiling at me.

Dr. King also dreamed that, “one day right there in Alabama, little black boys and black girls will be able to join hands with little white boys and white girls as sisters and brothers.”

Well, Dr. King, we’re not in Alabama, but just a little west, here in Arkansas. I see those children holding hands daily. The little “brown” boys and girls, the little “peach” boys and girls, the little Hispanic boys and girls, the little Asian boys and girls…they all hold hands.

We still have a lot of work to do. But it gives me hope to see one small iteration of your dream, realized. Thank you, Dr. King.

(And thank you, Abby, for getting it.)

Its Constant Passage

2011-01-11T14:44:00.005-05:00

And the winds of time will take us, with its sure and steady hand,

where the river meets the sea. - John Denver, John Denver & The Muppets

Each and every time I hear these lyrics, my eyes glisten. Even though it's technically a Christmas song, when it pops up on my iPod, I listen--regardless of the season. This morning, the song came on and the familiar tears stung my eyes. These lyrics, confound me, stop me. I find them simultaneously true, sad and hopeful, always urging reflection. These words remind me, as if the wrinkles and the lengthening of my children weren't enough, that time knows no stop signs. It does not nap. It proceeds on its continual, immutable journey.

Time, moving me through challenges and complexities. Time, delivering me to hard-earned moments of grace. Constantly in flux. Dependable. Maddening. Sure.

Today, as I drove to pick up Henry from school, I passed the cemetery. Cars lined the snowy street. People gathered to say goodbye to one of theirs. A cloud passed through my heart, aching for the loss of life. I sent up a wish for the departed that their life had been what they had wanted it to be.

Time, in certain moments, hypnotizes me with it's certainty--the hush-like descent of twilight, always followed by the promising glimmer of sunrise. At others, it's rash, steadfast passage smacks right up against my heart.

Snowflakes and Seconds

2011-01-07T10:46:00.013-05:00

The last two days, the forecasters have promised me snow. I awoke with a start at 4:13 am this morning and peered through the blinds, anticipating my beloved snow.

No snow. Luckily, I entered sleep-land again, despite my nagging disappointment.

But when Abby came in at 7 am, asking if there'd be school, I quickly scanned outside. White. Everywhere. Ahhhh. The snow came, as promised. I exhaled deeply.

Now, the snow falls, falls, falls, steadily and patiently. Snow alters me on a cellular level...a panacea of sorts. It simultaneously calms while invigorating and awakening some part of my soul, lying dormant, heralding the arrival of the blankets of fluffy white. I love the way the air smells when it snows. I love the trappings of snow...fires, fleeces, red-cheeked faces. There's hope in that snow. A promise of sorts.

The graceful flakes hypnotize as they descend to my world. The gradual layering of peace...so achingly beautiful to me. I imagine the slumbering earth below. It seems as if Mother Earth pulls up her blanket of snow over her layers of mulched leaves and acorns, burrowing in for her winter slumber.

Tall, bare trees reach starkly, boldly into the low winter sky; their roots holding steadfastly to her frozen bed. I see the trees as the Earth's sentries. Guarding the hibernating land through the harsh, pounding winter, then, months later, gently alerting everyone of spring's imminent arrival.

The trees, they never cease to inspire wonder and awe in me. So stoic. So tall. So graceful. Today, laced in muted whites.

I stand outside, and look up at the sky and allow the snow to fall on my face, my hair. I feel small--wonderfully small, aware of my microscopic place in this life. Yet full of appreciation for the opportunity to fulfill it. My own little perch--a place to observe, learn, retreat and replenish.

***

The last several days, I purposefully observed my interactions with my children. I took more deep breaths. I found little gems hiding beneath snarky comments and tired eyes. I sense a softening in me; a welcome shift, for sure. I feel more tender, more open to the experiences as they present. And I suspect that my appreciation--amidst another tantrum, another pair of urine soaked pants, a barley squelched dramatic interlude--starts with the rekindled awareness that these moments are finite. As my friend Lindsey beautifully writes, these moments show "tangible evidence of the wheeling forward of time, inescapable proof that our moments on this planet are numbered. On the whole time’s movement seems an odd combination of quixotic and inexorable, some moments stretching endlessly and others passing with blinding speed."

Blinding speed. Blinking and years are spent. Yes. But in this quiet moment, fueled by the snowy tundra outside my window and the (thankfully) happy chatter of my children, time slows. The ethereal grace of this moment prevails. The seconds fall softly and slowly. Like snow flakes. I sit, satiated by the prevailing tenacity of our connectedness. Warmth from the fire. Abby, Henry and me. Together. Enjoying the endless stretch of this moment.

New Year

2011-01-04T15:00:00.015-05:00

The dawning of the new year and new decade have me feeling introspective. My acute awareness of freshness glints and reflects off all the new moments of 2011. As I feel the pulses of the new year, I realize that each and every moment in life hold the same promise and power as the arrival of a new year.

I must admit that this epiphany feels a bit obvious, elementary. I even feel a bit silly sharing this non-profound insight. I mean, last year, I wrote and wrote and wrote myself hoarse about the beautiful power of Now. And that I finally embraced the beauty of living in this moment--and showed up in each one--instead of living in passed moments or those that have yet to come. Because, not surprisingly, in living that way, I missed moments that I wish I could now reach back and soak up.

Anyway, as with all lessons and epiphanies, another iteration and layer of this evolving knowledge awaited me. I don't need a new year, a new month, a new decade on the calendar page to infuse me with an appreciation of the possibility that exists all the time. Yes, of course, calibrating with the pomp and circumstance of a new year certainly helps.

But. Now, I sit with this newfound knowledge--each moment holds freshness and possibility--all year long.

***

Yesterday I stood in the checkout line at Marshalls. And a woman stood in line behind me with the tiniest baby all snug in her car seat, coozily nestled in her stroller. The mom looked down at her baby and smiled--you know the smile. The one where all else ceases to exist and the hearts and souls of that mother and baby twine together, satiated in love and togetherness. I love you. I adore you. You are my world.

I remember some of these moments with Abby, and even fewer with Henry. Yet sadly, there are many more that I don't. That phase of my life, those nows, have passed. Now I'm at Marshalls, by myself. Just me, my purchases and my purse. I love these moments by myself (and looked forward to them for a looooong time) and yet...I'm longingly staring at this new mother behind me, craving my own tiny baby to share a smile with. In unsuspecting moments, like this one, the realization slaps me--my children are no longer babies. Hubby and I will not have any more babies. No more pregnancy tests, nursing, rocking, awake-all-night, mustard-seed poop diapers, binkies, tiny onesies and heavenly baby smell. I've graduated to solo-trips to Marhshalls, independence, 8 hours a night and a new set of joys and challenges I never could've imagined.

What I do know is this: now that I'm living presently, I savor the moments of youngness with my children. I notice, peripherally, the mother of teenagers smiling longingly back at me when I'm walking through the parking lot, tightly holding both of my kids' hands. The teenagers of that other mother walk ahead, heads lowered as they engage their iPhones, Northface fleeces pulled low over their quickly moving fingers. I turn back to the blond heads of my children. And smile down at Abby. Then at Henry. You know the smile.

Sigh.

I embrace the moments of our current reality. Nighttime spooning with Abby. Henry's silky hand in mine as we walk up the walk to his preschool. The complete and utter chaos of mornings. The gentle, steady beat of their voices--needing me, calling for me. Those moments are numbered. One day, they won't call out for my help. They'll send secret teenage-smoke signals that I'll need several books (and bottles of wine) to decipher.

So, we move forward, marching along into this Now, and the next, and the next. Goodbye babyhood and toddlerhood. A bittersweet lump forms in my throat, tangled with emotion. Bitter because I realize with the passing of each, we will never return to the splendor of those moments again. Sweet because many other unknowns await. Bruised ego moments. Holding hands moments. Even the crabby bitch moments (Abby and Henry can confirm). ALL of them. Even when I'm redirecting and reprimanding Henry, AGAIN. Pissed off moments. Blah, joyous, sad, soaring, slammed-doors moments. Toy-story reenactment moments. Mitigating. Celebrating. Living. Holding tight, fingers and souls twined together.

Now.

Happy Hew Year. Happy New Now.

King of the Non Sequitur

2011-01-03T12:11:00.002-05:00

Henry has, at the tender age of four, mastered the non sequitur; he utters so many non-related tidbits he keeps us in stiches. But I don't think anything demonstrates his agility and prowess more than the following photo. I walked into the family room this morning and found this:

Yes, Denise, There IS a Santa Claus

2010-12-19T10:27:00.014-05:00

...There is a veil covering the unseen world which not the strongest man, nor even the united strength of all the strongest men that ever lived, could tear apart. Only faith, fancy, poetry, love, romance, can push aside that curtain and view and picture the supernal beauty and glory beyond. Is it all real? Ah, VIRGINIA, in all this world there is nothing else real and abiding. No Santa Claus! Thank God! he lives, and he lives forever. A thousand years from now, Virginia, nay, ten times ten thousand years from now, he will continue to make glad the heart of childhood.

- Francis Pharcellus Church, September 21, 1897, The New York Sun

I remember the Christmas that I decided that Santa Claus wasn't real. I remember it clearly as if it happened just yesterday, yet it was 31 years ago. It was a very, very sad moment, when the brilliance of faith and belief were temporarily snuffed.

I was seven. It was Christmas Eve, 1979. That afternoon, I played over at a neighbor's house. My friend and I created this fun activity where we jumped over the couch in the basement. On my last trip over the couch, instead of landing on my feet, I landed on my chin. And my chin landed on the marble floor.

My parents were called; my chin was inspected. They made the executive decision: to the ER. So my mom, dad, three-month-old baby brother and I piled in the Impala and drove to the ER. I received seven stitches in my chin. My chin hurt. A lot. That evening, I sat in the family room. The multi-colored lights of the Christmas tree cast a magical glow across the rainbow shag carpet. I looked at my Mom. Tears streamed down my face.

"Mommy?" I said.

"Yes, Denise?" she replied.

"Is Santa Claus real?" I asked.

Her calm reply, "I believe in Santa Claus."

"Yes," I persisted, "but is he REAL? Do you and Daddy put the presents under the tree? And in the stockings?"

She looked at me, with crestfallen pain in her eyes. "Yes, we do."

Through hot tears, I choked out, "And what about the Easter Bunny? The Toothfairy?"

She sadly shook her head. "But. I believe, Denise. Faith is believing in things you can't see or touch. I have faith. I believe."

I went to bed, chin and heart throbbing, stitches bulging under wrapped bandages. The next morning, Christmas morning, felt dull. Numb. My heart ached. I remember my dad saying to me, through his own sheen of tears, "You know, Denise, I will always believe. Santa will always live inside my heart." And he invited me to continue believing, too.

That moment, I decided. I believed. And would always, always believe. To this day, I believe. I have a built-in talisman, the scar on my chin, to forever remind me that belief and faith are choices. Ones that I consciously choose every day. Now, in 2010, Abby sits on the precipice of her very own Christmas of 1979. She straddles the innocence of pure, blissful belief and the more arcane equation of faith. I can see the lightening bolts of uncertainty knit themselves into her eyebrows.

She's seven.

And when she asks me, as I know she will, "Mommy, is there a Santa Clause?" I will answer, with conviction,

"Yes, Abby. There IS a Santa Claus. I believe. I believe in Santa, magic and power and an abiding force larger than any one of us. I believe in forgiveness and wonder and love that swells larger than the largest ocean wave. I believe in faith--I choose to believe. I believe in a spot that simultaneously resides in your body, and tethers to a universal symphony and cadence of the human experience. I believe. I believe in Christmas, Santa and the mystic twinkling of Santa's sleigh bells. Santa will always live in my heart, and yours. If you so choose."

And I will invite her. Through my own curtain of tears, I'll invite her to believe.

(from newseum.com)

Henry and Me and the Drive

2010-12-17T15:14:00.002-05:00

I drove Henry to school the other morning, like I do most mornings. The road holds an eclectic mix of houses--small, quaint, farm, colonial, suburban, dilapidated--and a distinct New England air that I adore. This road opens to a cemetery, a pumpkin and Christmas tree farm, as well as a soccer field. The road curves, dips and moves with abandon. Old, distinct trees border the road--tall, stretching sentries lining our way.

The drive usually fills up a part of my soul that I often didn't know needed filling. This road provides a moving sanctuary for Henry and me--it's our quiet time, our alone time. For us. After the bustle of lunch boxes, hats, backpacks and shoe-tying, H and I enjoy our drive, when we co-exist, watching the wonder unfold outside our windows.

The car is usually quiet. I alternate between watching Henry and watching the evolving landscape. Although I've memorized the dips and topography of the land, it still manages to grab me each and every day. I admire the slope of his nose, the rose of his cheeks, the swath of his eyelashes.

Typically, Henry clasps his hands and he peacefully rests his head on his carseat. He absorbs everything. The creek. The horses. The trees. The cows. The birds. My heart usually soars and repeats this silent song: I love you I love you I love you. We sit silently together, yet alone.

"I love you, Henry" I tell him, finally out-loud.

After a thoughtful pause, he says, "I love you, too, Mommy." Our eyes meet for a moment in the rear-view mirror. Sometimes I reach back and hold his still soft, still (but-not-for-much-longer) pudgy hand.

Then, the world continues by. And we watch. Together. And alone.

5 Minutes

2010-12-15T16:54:00.000-05:00

I haven't Reverbed in way too long. So today, I did.

Reberb10, December 15 – 5 Minutes. Imagine you will completely lose your memory of 2010 in five minutes. Set an alarm for five minutes and capture the things you most want to remember about 2010. (Author: Patti Digh)
*
The enlightenment spreading through Abby's eyes as I finally shift the way in which I explain something, and she finally shifts the was she receives it.
*
When Hubby and I first started dating, we lived in two different cities. Surprise visits were the best. thing. ever. The other night, the kids and I had dinner at one of dear friend's homes while Hubby had a work dinner. His dinner finished before we got home, and he came over to our friends' house to surprise us. I didn't hear the doorbell, but as I passed from one room to the next, I peripherally saw Hubby waving wildly in the front door's side windows. The giddy delight that bubbled up seemed to come from 1999, the year we first started dating, and the time of many surprises.
*
Bear hugs from Henry.
*
Forgiveness leads to brightness, enlightenment and freedom.
*
My children's love, at times, crushes my lungs with its power and force.
*
New kindred friendships bless my minutes and days.
*
This lesson: when I focus my energy on something, it grows.
*
(Oops. That was 6 1/2 minutes.)

Suffused With Peace

2010-12-08T09:40:00.008-05:00

In the meantime, the answer to every question really does seem to lie in letting go, settling into the long, spacious days and restful nights...and trusting that, for the moment, anyway, we are exactly where we need to be. Whenever I manage to do that, when I can give myself over to the moment at hand, I am suffused with peace. - Katrina Kenison, The Gift of an Ordinary Day

The last weeks have provided much fodder for my mind. A normal time, but not an easy one. Periods of change and transformation aren't necessarily my shining moments. Big swings of life's pendulum tend to render me weary, with uncertain footing. My kids change and therefore I, too, must change. Adaptable, pliable, flexible. I have to work hard to embody these things because often, I'm just curmudgeonly and happy in the ways of yesterday.

Katrina's warm, wise words above remind me. Guide me. Provide a beacon during this somewhat melancholy time of consideration and personal growth:

giving myself over to the moment can suffuse me with peace.

Especially the quotidian moments, the pedestrian moments, that pad my life with meaning:

During last's week deluge of, ummm, parental growth for me, this moment wowed me. There it was, patiently awaiting my attention. No bickering. No jockeying. Just peace. Peace, a fire, a book and a moment, predicated on the always-underlying connection and love Abby and Henry share.

***

Henry loves paper hats, made in the style of Pilgrims (I mean, didn't all Pilgrims wear hats made out of The New York Times?). His teachers made him one in school for Thanksgiving. He wanted one for his Orange Dog. So I said, "Sure, I'll make Orange Dog a newspaper hat." Henry was so overcome with happiness that he took many pictures of me making said hat.

***

As I continued to make Orange Dog's newspaper hat, Henry continued his photo shoot of many things. Peripherally, I watched him take up-close photos. Simple photos. Blurry photos. This one, of his snowman snow globe, well, its simplistic beauty and pure composition just threw all my bottled emotion into my throat. Tears gathered into the corners of my eyes. The snowman seems resolute. Strong. A bit lonely. Moving forward. Maybe even a bit sad. A metaphor of me.

And I remember. That melancholy moments can be tinged with grace, suffused with peace, sprinkled with seeds of possibility. I must give myself over to each moment. Every one. And the grace will await me.

***

(An aside: my Mom recently said to me that she senses an overriding theme of sadness in my posts. I believe that she's right...I do often write about the complexity of sadness, or of melancholy days. And I believe that I do so because although I experience many euphoric, joyful, happy and peaceful moments, those are easier to comprehend. It's the others, like those I dissect above, that sometimes confound and confuse me. And so, I write. To understand. To make sure, like Katrina says, that I give myself over fully to each moment. xo)

Wonder

2010-12-06T17:27:00.001-05:00

Reverb10, December 4 – Wonder. How did you cultivate a sense of wonder in your life this year? (Author: Jeffrey Davis)

*****

My year has been littered with wonder, laced with exquisite luminosity and ordinariness. I love the myriad of ways wonder arrives...in gallant leaps, in gradual steeping, with practiced patience, like a seasoned parent. Wonder dipped and bounced throughout each day, frequently sprinkling its stop-you-in-your-tracks splendor.

The juxtaposition of 2010 against past years made me realize that in the past, I didn't tap into wonder as much as I could've. I felt it--the wonder reached me--but I know that many moments passed, carrying wonder in its midst, when I could've experienced more but did not. Thankfully, wonder can hide under layers and layers of expired, antiquated beliefs. Unforgiven grievances. Road blocks.

Wonder's tenacity permeated the finicky caverns of my sometimes fearful, or negative, mind and allowed for wonder cameos. It radiated through melancholy and doldrums. Wonder provided the pinnacle of belief and the tenacity of hope.

*****

Wonder sits in the midst of explicit ordinariness. For me, there exists an intrinsic relationship between wonder and gratitude. The more I give thanks, the more awe and wonder I experience.

So, I've contemplated wonder. Why has this year been so laden with wonder? I believe it began with forgiveness of decades-old hurts. And a purposeful cultivation and prioritization of self. Wonder--a splendid, phosphorescent jewel, just waiting to wow me. (I do wonder (predictable pun intended): do I cultivate it, or does it cultivate me? Carefully plodding and awaiting my recognition of its power?)

And so I sit, in wonder. Of each day I wake and stretch. Of the evolving complexity of my seven-year-old daughter. Of the constant progression of time. Of the smell of baking cookies. Of the power of the wind. For the much-needed embrace. Of forgiveness. Of darkness. Of the multitude of permutations of the sun's light.

One Moment

2010-12-03T12:38:00.005-05:00

Reverb10, Dec 3 – Moment.

Today's prompt: Pick one moment during which you felt most alive this year. Describe it in vivid detail (texture, smells, voices, noises, colors). (Author: Ali Edwards)

A solitary blanket of snow, a 40-foot pine tree and me. Cold punctuated my cheeks, blazing red--yes, from the northerly winds, but flush predominantly with unbridled joy. My black parka camouflaged into the inky night, steeping me further into the raw now. I peered from my hood, my eyes belying my calm exterior: my soul bubbled with giddy delight. Giant snowflakes, laden with hope, steadily fell. The pine tree soared, all-powerful, intoxicating with it's delicious scent. I stood, mesmerized, at the base of the pine tree. I was alone. Pores open, awareness heightened, alive. Just me, the tree, the night and the snow. My legs and feet buried in the gorgeous white accumulation. The genuine, mystical beauty quietly whispered promises of possibility--of this, of anything, of everything.

In these moments, I feel a kindred connectedness, like historical synapses, or strings of white twinkle lights, linking to the magic and possibility of the millions of brilliant moments preceding this one. Time moves, moments flee but magic always returns. I keep company with this knowledge, heeding its comfort.

(Luckily, I had my camera in my pocket, and snapped this photo.)

You Don't Love Me

2010-12-02T14:28:00.012-05:00

This morning started out cheerfully, as most mornings do. Breakfast proved a bit dicey, as it always does. I should just record myself and hit play:

"Sit down. No, I will not cut the crust off of your toast. Don't touch your sister. A touch is not a hit. Sit down. I'm not serving candy for breakfast. I don't care that your brother looked at you. The next person who removes their hiney from their seat will enter their schools hungry. Now SIT DOWN."

(I'm pretty sure that I have an amazing opportunity for improvement here, but...I'm so ensconced in the cadence of our rituals that I'm finding it hard to feel the rhythm of a new way.)

Anywhoo, the morning proceeded as usual. I asked them to please just get along. And to get ready for school. Kids went upstairs to brush, comb, wash and dress. Arguing began. Luckily for me, from my perch at the breakfast bar, the floor between us muffled the actual words. Abby then appeared in the kitchen to announce the following transgression:

"Henry stuck his tongue out at me."

As I chewed my cereal, I sat in awe. And chewed on this thought: Really? She's tattling on her four-year-old brother for that? (Side note: I've been encouraging my children to work through these arguments on their own. Another side note: You can see how successfully I've deployed said encouragement.)

So, I told Abby that I thought she was being ridiculous and tattling.

Folks, that's when the wheels fell off the bus.

Her voice went up two octaves. And the rampage began:

"You don't love me as much as you love Henry. (Sob, sob.) Everyone likes him more. (Drip, drip.) You don't love me. No one in this house loves me. I'm going to run away from EVERYONE and from this house."

And my lovely maternal response? Silence.

And Abby screamed, "Why aren't you answering me?!"

So I said,

"Are you done? Cause if you're not, could you go somewhere else and cry?" (Another aside: Does my response seem harsh? Mean? Well, let me tell you, it may have been. But it was better than the response running through my head. Yup. Much better. I am just SO done with the wha wha wha whining. Every morning I'm asked to mitigate some grievous, outrageous event that is neither grievous nor outrageous. Usually totally benign. And I'm done. I'm toast. DONE.)

"NO!", she hollered. "I'm telling you HOW I FEEL!!!! You don't love me and aren't even saying that you're sorry I feel this way." Huge tears continue their descent.

And I responded, "I'm sorry you feel that way." (And I then thought that maybe I should actually feel sorry that she felt that way. But it all seemed so nonsensical to me. Henry's tongue sticking out to nobody loves me? Huh? Maybe this is how hubby felt when I was preggers. Huh. Spinning head. Check. Crazy irrationality? Check. Hormones? CHECK.)

Where does she pick up these theatrics?

The good news? I stayed calm. The bad news: I stayed calm. She saw my actions as insensitive, uncaring and mean.

The storm clouds passed. I offered a conciliatory hug with these words:

"I love you."

When she got out of the car, I told her that there was one thing she needed to remember today: That I love her.

I've spent my quiet hours today digesting her outburst. A ploy? Displaced emotion? Her truth? I'll excavate, gently, trying to find clues providing insight and tender awareness. I'll try my best. I'll look for that different rhythm, a new synchronicity to guide us through. And I'll love her. Whether she thinks I do, or not.
********************************************************

Encapsulating 2010

2010-12-01T12:20:00.002-05:00

Reverb10, December 1 One Word.
Encapsulate the year 2010 in one word. Explain why you’re choosing that word. Now, imagine it’s one year from today, what would you like the word to be that captures 2011 for you?
(Author: Gwen Bell)

Trying to choose one word to describe and encapsulate my 2010 proved a difficult challenge. But, since I am completely smitten with the Reverb10 initiative, I bit. (In summary, they serve up a writing prompt each day to inspire reflection "on your year and manifest what’s next. The end of the year is an opportunity to reflect on what's happened, and to send out reverberations for the year ahead". Perfect.)

As I reflected on 2010, I cringed, I cried, I giggled...a small smile tugged at my lips. Many fabulous and descriptive words danced and shouted in my mind, cajoling and begging for selection.

I can best describe your year! Choose me! they yelled.

Shhhh, I told them. You're all lovely, but I can only choose one of you. (Ummm, yes, I just admitted that I talked to words.)

Finally, the most appropos, the most singularly accurate word came to me:

NOW.

In past years, I skirted the edges of living presently. Although I physically attended each moment, I didn't mentally inhabit each moment. Many moments I spent thinking about the past or the upcoming, and in so doing, I missed the Now.

But in 2010, I inhabited Now. The ugly nows. The epiphany nows. The blah nows. The euphoric nows. The grieving nows.

There are so many wise people and objects whom I wish I could thank for this awakening. The writers I read, the books I inhale, my children, the trees, my friends. I must especially thank Karen Maezen Miller. During her Boston Plunge Retreat, she welcomed us to Now. And then asked, "Have you ever been anywhere else?"

Yes! I wanted to shout. Many times, too many times, I wasn't in the Now because I was There, rehatching, rethinking, redoing...or I was There....planning, worrying, wondering. Not Now, but Then.

Her words reverberated with truth, and acted as a catalyst, a spark of sage connectedness in which all the messages and reminders culminated, returning me to my Nows. I was in that moment. And this one. Now. Wicked winds. Hypnotic candle flame. Classical music. Warm glow of my favorite lamp illuminating my white desk top, littered with cookie crumbs. Words flowing. Fingers typing. Now.

As for the future, in 2011 and beyond, well, I'd like live presently, in each Now that each of those years delivers. Perfect, on time and satiated in the present.

Not Like Before

2010-11-23T06:15:00.001-05:00

In my past, when I gave thanks, I always expressed explicit gratitude for the explicitly good stuff:

The job. The love. My husband, my family, my kids. Money. The big win. My health. Kindred friends.

********

As years and wisdom started inspiring my gratitude, new layers and permutations of thanks began. I started a new practice, one in which I offered thanks for the less flamboyant, but equally powerful:

Sunlit, spring-breeze dried clothing.

Still pudgy toes resting on a dusty baseboard.

Raw, barren wind chapping my skin, pulsing like life itself.

Muscles in legs that carry my body through each step.

Chocolate chip cookies (and the dough. Especially the dough.)

A laugh shattering a once-tense moment.

A pile of dishes representing a warm meal, time together and full bellies.

A stranger, smiling warmly and gently.

********

And as I continue to practice, and become more seasoned, I implement a twist on my tradition of thanks. One which I hope will provide freedom and more space in my lungs, more room for the flux of life: there is a gift in each phase, each moment of my life.

In piles of snotty tissues.

In a broken HVAC system.

In a parent's divorce.

In panicked sadness.

In a dead car battery.

In an argument with Hubby.

In stomped feet, slammed doors, eye rolls and picky eaters.

In messes.

I recognize, although nascent in this discipline, that it all unfolds, exactly as it should. In each, a reflection of myself. In each, growth. In each, grace. In me, gratitude.

Where I'm From

2010-11-22T06:15:00.004-05:00

I am from Midwestern sensibilities, frugality and Spanish ocean breezes.

I am from a Bicentennial celebration of the Liberty Bell, a brick ranch, a Georgia colonial, and the wafting scents of sauteed garlic and onion. I am from everywhere and nowhere, from many sturdy oak-lined streets with well-traveled sidewalks.

I am from zinc oxide and a plethora of satin swim team ribbons.

I am from the red tulips of Maine, the blizzard of 1979 and countless grains of white sand lining the blissful shores of Lake Michigan.

I am from homemade cinnamon rolls, ingrained curiosity and an English teacher. From Three Dog Night and the Muppets. From unchaperoned games of Ghost in the Graveyard, and parents who rang a cow bell when the time arrived to come in from the dark.

I am from the the incense filled vestibules of Cathedrale Notre Dame de Paris, lit prayer candles and and an unwavering cadence of strength.

I am from a family who staunchly believes in Santa Claus. From a love of shoes, Waterford crystal and twisted corkscrew willows.

I am from devout Catholics, an almost-nun and baptized atheists. From the intoxicating scent of crisp sheets line-dried on a sunny day and Shel Silverstein's Where the Sidewalk Ends.

I'm from the oldest of five and the oldest of two, from him and from her. From chicken paprikash with handmade spatzel, countless potatoes and a staunch love of college football. From metallic foil wallpaper and gold, wide-whale corduroy couches.

From a woman who worked for the Red Cross in Korea, wearing crisp white uniforms with quaint hats. I am from nurses, pilots, dentists and electricians. I'm from careful, faded love letters, intricate unions and complex dissolutions.

I am from monogrammed sweaters, Bermuda bags and a well-read copy of The Preppy Handbook. I am from hippies, Republicans, Democrats and Vietnam vets. I am from a myriad of exhalations, sacrifices and shoveled walks. I am from a raven-haired, violet-eyed homecoming queen and hearty immigrants. I am from each experience of my many families, and profound belief in something more profound than me. I am from each step to now and the hum of a faithful dishwasher. I am from them all; I am me.

Thanks to Lindsey, and the many other bloggers whose execution of this exercise inspired me to write my own. You can go here to find the Where I Am From template. The original poem, Where I Am From, by George Ella Lyon, is beautiful and can be read here.

Q & A

2010-11-20T06:45:00.001-05:00

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

2010-11-19T06:15:00.004-05:00

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

2010-11-08T11:34:00.002-05:00

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.

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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.

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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.

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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.