here comes the bride

a woman fell down hard on the way out of the movie theater yesterday. she was embarrassed and in pain and crying. her daughter was beside herself "mom mom are you ok are you ok?!" we tried to get help but the response was slow to put it mildly. outside theater #8 there were 6 young people in red amc theater jerseys holding walkie talkies, looking confused and frozen and helpless. mouth breathers all of them with big wide eyes bursting with fear and we said "please get help, call 911, get a manager" but they all just stood there with their hand held communication devices poised in mid air, not doing anything.

damn kids! i grumbled (to myself). millenials -- can't think for themselves, no initiative, how rude but they don't know any better.

i was thinking about that at breakfast when a young woman only slightly older than the ticket takers caught my attention. she was having breakfast with her soon-to-be-family and could not have been kinder to the three little girls around her. she was enjoying them and talking about important things like how fun it was to have a whole year's supply worth of chewing gum, and which lip gloss did they want her to put on? they wiggled and cocked their little heads and gathered around this lovely woman with perfect pink skin, shiny blond hair, black velvet t shirt and stretch jeans. the girls were enchanted as they watched her apply it. makeup is so much fun when you aren't old enough to wear it yet.

she was so sure of herself in a gentle way. she described how she was going to wear her hair on her wedding day and they wondered if she would wear a crown. they bobbled and cooed and one of them handed her a baby doll which she began stroking and rocking without missing a beat or calling attention to it.

when i was 7 my big brother brought his fiance home. when i met her i was just like one of those little girls. my new big sister was glamorous and funny and oh those times sitting on the bed, watching her back comb her hair and line her eyes. she was my very own princess diana.

in remembering that i knew exactly what those girls were feeling. the rest of the family laughed and chatted and i loved the whole scene. there was something so precious about the way they were just being together. just being. these were good people.

i came very close to slipping them a scrap of paper with this blog address on it, asking them to check it out tomorrow, as i was planning to write about them and would they like to see it, but then thought how weird would that be. i might upset them.

then again maybe not. what would it be like to know that a stranger had taken a literal snapshot of you and your possey, just hanging out together on a saturday morning. kind of like when someone hands you a photo you didn't know was taken. you look at yourselves and remember that moment, just an ordinary moment, but realize how profound it is to see that it had been captured. you just being you. enjoying someone. listening, talking, smiling, paying attention. no one is posing or waiting for the flash, you are just being. and that photo you were just handed quickly becomes one of your favorite pictures of all time.

i think too much. i notice things to a level of detail that drives me crazy sometimes. but that's what i do. i get worked up over little things, and then put back in my place by other moments as they happen next to me.

whether or not any of them come across this blog,

one thing is for sure,
she will be a beautiful bride.

done, and undone

two years later i am still trying to sort out my mothers death. her affairs were settled long ago, although there was not much to do. i tucked her safely into the earth next to my dad, left some flowers and smiled as rolls were served at the reception after the service. i sent her clothes to goodwill, gave her furniture away saved a few of her things i will cherish always, and sold the rest in a garage sale at bargain prices.

lady barbara, who was born of no significant means -- less than that --grew up to be a stunning talent, she went on to college and starred on the radio, married a naval commander in a fairytale wedding, and devoted her life in service to god.

why then why then why then did she die painfully, thin and aching in a dark and stinky room at a nursing home in west st paul? at the last they did not even dress her in her own nightie, but in a hospital gown with nothing at all of hers around her, except a big clock on the wall, and me by her side.

everything was gone. all the reminders and comfort of her life had disappeared. photos and magnifying glasses, familiar linens, her tv and slippers -- all gone. i have been angry these two years about her passing, as why would a woman who spent her life worshipping and serving god die in this lonely place with nails in the wall? how disrepectful of god to allow this. she should have died in riches and comfort. she just should have.

i saw a movie today and a line from that is with me still..."we come into this world alone and with nothing, and we leave it the same way."

now it makes sense,

or at least

more sense.

we slide into life with a big push and hopefully love, but there is nothing more than that, and we spend each year building and aquiring and collecting things and people and that create what we are meant to be. but at the last, we begin to let go, and so things disappear, one at a time.

sometimes room by room.

she left with nothing more than she arrived with -- clean white sheets, a warm bed, and someone to love her and wish her well.

we get everything done eventually, we just do. and then as we slide out again breath by breath, it all comes undone.

and that, i see now,

is as it should be.

when the time comes

we are done.

eve

normally i am not one for crowds. they suffocate and irritate me, but on this bright and perfect christmas eve i decided i wanted to be out there, among the flurry of last minute scurrying.

i loved the splashes my boots made in the parking lot at lunds, and all of the squeaky fights for parking spots. the absence of carts as they were all being used, the smells of cheese and pine and smoked meat. i smiled at everyone and everyone smiled back.

christmas eve. home now with a fat ham roasting and a fussy custard firming on the stove. presents are twinkling and creatures are peaking to see if one of those wrapped things might be theirs and of course they will have surprises in the morning too.

merry christmas my friends, my loves, and all of you who are missing, though you may not read this i hope you are knowing magic and love this evening.

peace to you, miracles too.

happy eve!

christmas weary

there was a man behind us in line at the wine shop today and he had his arms full of bottles and mom and dad at his side. mom opted to visit the basket shop while the boys paid for good spirits and when they scurried to a newly opened register i could not help staring and wishing and tearing.

i thought of holidays with moms and dads and wanted to tug mr. good-son on the sleeve and tell him "cherish this time with your mom and dad, will you? are you? oh please do."

happy holidays are such a gift, and through sadness they are always happy somehow, and this one will be, too. it's been a hard week with knee felling surprises that are not to do with the likes of kindness, but let's get past all the disappointment and missing and have some wine. roast a beast. sleep under twinkles. hot coffee and eggs in the morning. and maybe a surprise or two of the christmas sort. and lots of flannel, of course.

there is no such thing as sadness today, the eve of eve. only latkes in the oven, and an old hound snoring on the couch. he twitches in his dreams of bunnies and soft things that go squeak.

and he reminds me

what more is there? little things for smiling.

little things, big wishes, hot coffee, and sweet dreams.

big fat loser

my favorite reality show started a few months ago and ends tonight. this season, rather than individual inconspicuous contestants -- we met tubby fat families. husbands and wives, mothers and daughters, fathers and sons. all of them big and i mean really big!

i have so enjoyed this journey. i have taken it with them, every
tuesday-night- step- of -the -way. they sweat and cry, whine and climb and sink and crawl. i love their courage. i love their tenacity. i love those fat people.

on tuesday nights these last many weeks i have sunk into the middle of my big bed, tv on and candles lit. a little meatloaf here, a baked potato there -- it has been tremendously satisfying to see them struggle and shrink as i lick the ice cream off my spoon and smile and sigh.

they have claimed their lives! their time is now! they have found the courage to face all those chub chub dragons and drooled at the idea of winning a cash kitty equaling thousands and thousands of dollars. sometimes the scale humiliates them and sometimes it shuts up and bows in respect.

god they inspire me.

pass the whipped cream will you?

i am watching the season finale and i don't recognize most of them. they are showing before pictures through which the "afters" crash onto the stage in their new bodies. the men swagger down the steps in flashy trousers and smart loafers. the women come next, and it is wrenching in a good way to see these former fatties bask in the spotlight atop a funky staircase. the music swells and they raise their toned arms high up way high up, then place their french manicured hands on slim sexy hips and descend the staircase.

awkwardly. as if they had rubber bands around their knees, and as if they had never navigated a downward sloping runway in 3 inch heels....as if!

the point is, they do look terrific and they inspire me. i have every intention of striving to work the business end of a shiny pair of stilletos sometime after the first of the year.

meanwhile the ham and hashbrown hotdish tastes great with a california chardonnay.

tostito's on the side.

save room for dessert.

walker nazis

brother jim, who lives in a small finnish town in michigan had his hip replaced yesterday. a blessed procedure for a tall strong man who hasn't been able to live up to his 6 foot 4 stature for some time, as the pain in his old hip has kept him crouched for ages.

he and his lovely wife, dee, left their cozy home at the onset of a great plains blizzard the night before last armed with clean underwear and a walker which the lion's club of kaleva graciousl loned him. he will need it for a month.

tsk tsk

the pt lady told him.

this walker won't do. no wheels. you need wheels. perhaps you would like to purchase a newer model - here's our catalogue. for $120 you can have state of the art contraption with wheels.

no thanks,

they said.

we'll rent one. after all it is only for a month.

two hours later after a snowy drive across town, dee left jim comfy in the car while she went into the rental palace for just a sec. be right back. won't be long.

it would have been simpler to take out a second mortgage. miles and piles of paperwork asking for everything from insurance info (insurance was not paying for this) to next of kin to favorite colors and two copies of his fifth grade report card, dee was ready to grab the walker and run.

i'm sorry

the rental czar said,

i need his signature on these forms. could you ask him to come in?

no, he can't come in, he can't walk. he needs the walker.

well i can't give you the walker till he signs these forms.

lady impossible finally got the bright idea to take the paperwork out to the car, where jim was sighing in anticipation of agony as the pain killers started to wear off.

sir, we just need to go over a few things. terms and conditions you know.

jim held his ground.

NO he said, i just had my hip replaced and i am OUTA here.

he signed the forms and off they went with their walker with wheels.

no sooner home than the phone rang. it was the walker nazi again.

sir we need a social security number and an emergency contact. preferabley a child or sibling.

you can't have my social security number for a $20 rental, lady, i have no children and my brother lives in minneapolis.

we'll take your brothers contact info, sir.

all for a $20 rental.

jim is napping peacefully in his own bed about now, and dee has her feet up with a glass of wine.

the fancy walker with wheels is ready for action.

getting old is bad enough.

who knew there would be so much paperwork?

i do hope the walker nazis call mike in case of a walker emergency.

they've got our number.

funny thing is

we've got theirs. too.

your current options

our staff meeting was a bit gloomy today, what with the worst financial forecast in the history of state government. we talked about worst case scenarios, and then we brainstormed ways we might face it with our heads up and hopefully above water.

later on one of my staff counseled all of us that it is always a good idea to think about our options.

if there are layoffs, what's our next move?

very good advice.

i have a lovely old wooden desk with a glass top in my office, it is a vintage state issued piece that no one wanted but me. everyone else has sleek modular countertops, flipper doors and lateral file drawers. very efficient and space-saving. but i prefer to sit behind something solid and strong that could tell me stories of hard times and good times from many years past, and it will tell me those stories if i would just listen,

which of course i often do.

so there i was pondering the state of the state late this afternoon, watching the snow and thinking about that forecast. and then i noticed my telephone.

it is a fancy phone with lots of groovy features they told us we would love, and some of them really are useful, especially the ability to customize your ringtone. i do enjoy that. there is a little grey screen on the front that tells you who is calling, or if you have messages, or if you have missed calls.

but what i noticed today was the standard menu on that tiny grey screen. funny how we often miss that which is right under our noses.

the screen says

your current options

and underneath that it says

redial. new call. forward all.

in our office we have 7 flipchart pages filled with ideas about how to face this challenge, PowerPoints, pie charts and wiggly graphs. we have lots and lots of information to help us make choices.

turns out, the best answer is right in front of us.

these are our current options:

redial: go back in time and think about what didn't work and how bad it was the last time. complain some. gripe a little.

new call: recognize the opportunity every crisis creates.

forward all: keep going.

what is it they call that thing?

oh that's right

a smart phone.

a place for everything

i hate putting things away. i realized this last holiday season and immediately felt relief after all these years of believing i was shamefully lazy. i'm not lazy, i just know what i like and what i don't like and i try to stay away from things i don't like.

and i don't like putting things away.

so most often, i don't.

i don't mind loading the dishwasher but i don't like emptying it. christmas decorations are fun to haul down and unpack but when april comes and they are covered in dust they make me mad. i like the smell of laundry detergent and the steam that comes out of the house from hot clothes tumbling in the dryer, but when those same clothes wind up in a basket on my bed, it seems useless to fold and sort them as i will wear them all again soon anyway.

this seems to explain other things too, like why so often i live in the past, thinking about places and people and old feelings, good ones and bad ones. i can't seem to put any of you away.

there is word called "closure" that i find rather distasteful and silly. a final conversation, a tearful funeral, closing night parties. these things don't end the experience we were having, they just change the process of our lives and push us in a different direction.

but i cleaned my room today anway and put all my stuff away. looks really nice in there. neat and tidy.

bet it won't last long.

52 words for snow

some people say that eskimoes have 52 different words for snow. it's a matter of opinion, debate, and legend but i like the idea of it.

i like the idea that i can express one feeling with more words than one, depending on the circumstance, the recipient, my mood. how perfectly freeing it is to choose just the right combination of letters coming together to help me say what i need to say.

there was a homeless man on the parkway today. he was sitting on his backpack in the snow, and his hands were shaking as they gripped a sloppy piece of cardboard that said "hungry homeless vet please help". we pulled around the corner and i rolled my window down to call him over but he was weak and feeble and had trouble getting up, so i jumped out of the car and handed him two dollars. i always give them what i can and didn't use to believe it helped much, but an article in last week's citypages turned me upside down on that one. every penny counts.

his face quivered and his glasses got a little foggy and with a toothless expression he looked me right in the eye and with all his heart said

thank you, thank you so much, god bless you.

and i said god bless you, too.

the right words to say,

though i was sad to hear and say them.

as we pulled away we saw in the rearview mirror that someone else had stopped also, and maybe he got another dollar.

i could hear him say the same thing

thank you and god bless you

and i knew that 4 dollars might last him a week if all goes well.

4 dollars can last a week,

words last forever.

peace.

sometimes you have to get out and push

there was a blizzard in january of 1981 that shut down the u of m for the first time in 20 years. the snow was 2 feet deep and i was 16 blocks from home. every step was a high step, no sidewalks were shoveled and no streets plowed. i sweated into my scalp and the scarf around my neck and froze my nose and toes at the same time.

when i finally got home i found out i needed to trudge back up to dinkytown to pick up a prescription at grey's drugstore. i turned around and waded 16 blocks back and then 16 blocks forward and finally i was home.

it was a third floor apartment in an old brownstone with a gorgeous view of the world, and it was especially perfect on a night like this - snow swirling around streetlights, cars tiptoeing down southeast 4th street.

best of all it had a great big claw foot tub and i loved that tub. that night i filled it full and hot. i had plenty of bubbles and a cold martini,and a black and white tv featuring a great espisode of m*a*s*h. i sunk into that tub glad the trudging was over, munching on a gin soaked olive and feeling grateful for rest and soothing gentle bathtub waves.

twenty seven years later it is thanksgiving eve and the pies are done. so is the cranberry sauce and

all is well.

we've been trudging for a long time. illness and death, broken hearts, nursing homes and broken bones, so many funerals, too many good byes. surgery all around, sign up now. keep going, just keep going.

mike's dad, who grew up in deep snow used to tell us

"kids, sometimes you just have to get out and push."

we've been pushing. pushing hard and worrying just because there was nothing else productive to do.

the pushing and pulling and breaking is done for now, and we are so grateful as we sit here sniffing those pies.

storms pass and snow melts and cars start.

ya gotta believe, right?

happy thanksgiving

a piano in the woods

last weekend a woman was taking a long walk in the woods near cape cod when she came across a piano. in perfect condition and tune, the piano sat in a clearing near a footbridge, a matching bench placed carefully next to it as if someone had just played it, or was about to.

the mysterious placement of this piano has confounded police -- they can't figure out how it got there, and the fact that it took 6 strong men and a truck to remove it adds to the mystery. no footprints, no tire tracks, no broken keys or smudged wood. but there it sat. waiting to be discovered,

or not.

when was the last time a pleasant and unexpected surprise appeared in your path? walking towards nothing you find something. something that doesn't fit with where you are or what you are thinking about, but there it is, waiting for you just the same.

and when you find it you take a deep breath, smile and wonder...

when a piano sits alone in the woods, does it make a sound?

when a wish sits alone in the deepest part of your heart,

will you hear it

when it plays?

and who will play it?

you. after all, it was yours to find.

don't walk away.

you've got mail. but not all of it

not that i am obsessed with mail carriers, but a delightful story caught my eye this morning about a mailman who refused to deliver junk mail for the past 7 years. it was excessive and heavy, and he had diabetes and a heart condition. so he lightened his load and protected the nice folks on his route from circulars advertising oil changes, chinese food, pizza, and neighborhood grocers. he stacked it all in his garage and on occasion buried his stash in his backyard.

a federal offense. lucy ricardo noted the same thing this morning when nosy ethel read the ricardo's mail. that's just wrong! until a letter from the war department came addressed to ricky and lucy just had to read it but that is another story entirely.

when mr. mailman got busted, not one customer complained. in fact, they cheered. they wrote glowing letters on his behalf, offered to pay fines, celebrated his decision not to deliver stuff they would throw away anyway. they said he should get a medal, not a jail sentence. he could have gotten 5 years in jail and a $250,000.00 fine, but the judge gave him probation and a much smaller fine and off he went.

the law is a funny thing. it is meant to protect our rights and ensure justice, but sometimes it has a narrow mind of it's own that angers me in its inflexibility and stubbornness. a mailman does something that is illegal but appreicated none-the-less. the woman who has been stealing stuff from my neighbors was released on a technicality. and most offensive of all -- two people of the same gender who love each other with all the desperation and joy of heterosexual love can't get married because, well,

it is against the law.

how stupid is that. americans glue themselves to the television to see which inarticulate bachelorette will be given a rose, but true love in some cases is not to be recognized with the same rights and benefits of contestants on a reality show.

anyway, good for you mr. mailman.

sorry the neighborhood grocer is mad at you.

taking the fall

i had a conversation today with 30 extraordinary people who have been identified as high potential leaders in state government. every month i spend two days with them, and continue to be amazed and inspired by their commitment to make a difference in the lives of all minnesotans.

one of their homework assignments each month is to interview a respected leader and to report back on what they learned.

one person interviewed her rabbi, and what struck her most about this fascinating woman was her theory on the importance of taking a fall, even when it isn't yours to take. rabbi pointed out that when things go wrong, we as humans are quick to assign blame so as to get on with things.

but sometimes our intent is darker than that.

sometimes we toss blame and point fingers to safeguard our own sense of self and to avoid sleepless nights and potential danger.

it wasn't me, it was he, it was she. what a shame that someone else screwed up. really surprising.

that is wrong, rabbi said.

the right thing to do is step up, own it whether it is yours or not, and leave people to get on with their work. most people can't seem to get on with things if they can't point to the source of the mistake or conflict. thus, we swirl around in circles of anger and paranoia and get stuck in the muddy trenches of deceipt, invisible bloody knives pounded squarely into the backs of our colleagues and former friends.

leadership is about doing the right thing. it is about having such a deep faith in the mission that you are willing to fall on a sword that was thrown by someone else, call it your own, and allow people to get on with things.

my fault, my bad. ok?

now let's get back to work.

bad day monday

i've been up since 3 this morning tossing and turning with a malady i won't name. i prodded into work looking like hell and found my keycard to enter the building wasn't working, and i should have taken that as a sign.

things went downhill from there. i lost things and stumbled, ruined everything i touched, was told i looked awful and worst of all my cute new red wallet broke.

they say this too shall pass and i know it will. tomorrow will be better but in the meantime...

recovering from a bad day is like cleaning up after a storm. it is wearisome. the skies are quiet again but you can see the damage that was done, and you feel devastated by the work in front of you. it tires you just to approach it. but you dig in and sometimes neighbors help and at some point you recognize not that which was normal, because it never will be the same again, but you face and recognize the new normal and try to get some sleep.

maybe it wasn't that bad, my monday, compared to others who have challenges a million times sadder than an expired key card.

but today is today for a few more hours, and it is all mine to consider and decide how to feel about it.

in any case

i guess i am just glad to have another go at it

tomorrow.

the tears don't stop

sometime next spring i am planning a pilgrimage to my hometown. barrington, rhode island is where we landed in 1962, after my dad retired from the navy and mom was ready to take center stage again.

mom was a star at barrington college, and dad was the retired navy man who came in as superintendent of buildings and grounds but after a few years was the campus security manager. i saw him go off to work in green janitor clothes when i was 3, but when i was 14 he was wearing suits and ties when he dropped me off at school each morning.

in the early 70's dad was forced out, but he perservered and got a job as the executive director of the warren housing authority. he built an apartment complex for seniors, and was affectionately known as "the commander". he worked with the architechts, designers and craftsmen, reviewed applications for residence, changed lightbulbs and planted bushes himself. everyone loved the commander.

he had a beautiful secretary named ann and she looked like sophia loren and audrey hepburn and they loved each other in the lovely way that workplace partners do. respect and awe, the freedom to give opinions, an offer of a hot cup of coffee, a solid "good morning" and "good night" every day for so many years.

so i am planning this trip and i googled "kickemuit village", the place that dad built, and who's name should appear as current executive director

after more than 30 years

ann.

then i thought about dad, my precious dad, and how much after all these years i miss him. i still cry but not in the desperate way i used to. now the tears just come when i think about his blue shining eyes and funny laugh, and the tears just come and come.

they don't ever stop, those tears, they are just different.

but bless her -- ann is still there, steering that ship after 30 years.

when i visit in april,

i think i'll look her up.

miss you, dad.

love's embrace

i read a story on the internet today about a man in washington who saved an eagle with two broken wings. he nursed her back to life, often willing her to live, as she was weak and sad with a flatness in her eyes that told of her pain. she came around eventually, and two became great friends.

after a miraculous recovery from cancer, the fellow took the eagle out for a walk on her teather, and she spread her wings and put them around him, pushing hard into his back. she has done it with others as well, one man who was terminally ill, and all report feeling an amazing power surging through them when enfolded in eagle's wings.

i've never hugged an eagle but i know that feeling. arms around you strong and soft at the same time, the love from one coursing into the veins and heart and spirit of the other.

the essence of all healing

love's embrace.

after 50

i learned today that many people seem to relax in a more profound way once they reach the age of 50. seems that once you get there, you no longer feel like you need to make a mark, leave an impression, or prove anything. having crossed over to the second part of life, you find it easier to let go and just be. certainly this is true for boomers - as a hallmark of our generation is our need to have an impact, make a difference. i wonder if this theory will prove strong with xer's and millenials, and only time will tell.

it is such a comforting thought, to feel settled, self-actualized, less stressed about what to do and be, and to enjoy the ride the rest of the way.

a comforting thought i do not have.

at 49 i'm still trying to figure it out. typical of those in my age group, it is important to me, too, to do and to be all i was meant for, and i wish i could say i've achieved it, but the struggle of the search continues. there is something in there that needs expression, needs to be shared, needs to come out, but damned if i know what it is.

but i'm still only 49.

4 months left to figure it out, and become one with the statistics of my generation.

go!

get well soon

seems to me the more we go to the doctor the sicker we feel. your enzymes and blood pressure are too high, you've got lumps and bumps in places your shouldn't, and what's up with that freckle? we'd better make another appointment for a month from now so you have plenty of time to work yourself into an incoherent and terrified wreck and that's why we can't see you sooner.

and then you come on back and we'll cut and dig, scrape and remove, take photos and use lots of plastic. and then we'll smile and tell you that you did great! and hopefully everything is fine, we'll let you know in a few days, so it's ok to keep on worrying if that is what you need to do. meanwhile eat more fiber, take some folate, don't drink and exercise every day for a really long time.

didn't people used to live to ripe ages like 75 or more having never heard of folate? who invented cholesterol anyway? this afternoon i'm missing dear old friends and relatives who lived long lives, worked hard, laughed harder, drank to their fill and smoked 'em if they had 'em. and they didn't worry much. nothing was in place to scare them to death in those days. eventually something came along and got them, but up till then they lived how they lived and that was that. all in god's plan.

meanwhile as you are watching tv in the middle of the night next time you are worrying about your own mortality and whether your insurance will get you through the next abnoral finding, just remember that

sleep deprivation can be deadly, too.

creating comfort

sphinx is a tiny old white cat, with boney hips and a runny nose. if he were a little human boy he would be the one with tape around his glasses and ink stains on his shirt pocket. i'm beginning to think he is also part parrot, as when we are watching tv in bed together he always sits on my shoulder.

this morning he was bugging me just a little. my right shoulder was sore for some reason and i didn't want him perched there. i asked politely if he would please move -- several times -- which he did, but he knew he could sneak back if he was patient and quiet, and maybe this time i wouldn't notice.

i noticed. finally he agreed and opted for the pillow next to me, the one that was propped up at a steep slant against several others. seeming in defiance of gravity, he snuggled up almost vertically on the slope of that pillow, never slipping or sliding, only sleeping.

the other two cats who live here are also insistent on comfortable places to snooze, but aren't picky about the venue. i can certainly understand curling up in a basket of fresh warm laundry, or on the towel shelf in the linen closet, but on top a 6 pack of gingerale? or a cordless drill? or a cold iron? these are the things that are sometimes left on the corner chair on the backporch, a favorite nesting place for all. it has a soft cushion under there someplace and a perfect view of the birdfeeders out back. a favorite spot. they don't seem to mind or care if some thing was tossed and left there - that is where they want to be and so they will be there.

we all can choose where we want to be, and sometimes there are things in our way that we need to either ignore or work around. maybe the barriers will vanish on their own and maybe not.

but if we truly want that spot,

we will snuggle down regardless, knowing it is where we need to be.

i think they call that faith.

dragonfly love

she's a like a dragonfly, he said. she never lands. she makes love in the air but she never lands.

we sat in the garden on a perfect fall afternoon, leaves from the grapevine stunning shades of gold over our heads, talking about love lost and found. our friends inside were laughing over eggbake and mountains of fruit, hot coffee and bloody marys. salad with apples and walnuts, bread with butter and brie.

these people, my friends, we have all been dragonflies at one point or another. what an odd start we had in that dark little theater with the garage floors and spooky wiring. some of best moments of all our lives were spent under those lights, surprising the audience as much as we surprised each other and ourselves.

through these years we've each taken off and landed, sometimes posing in mid air to make love or stop short for whatever life had to teach us in that select moment of hovering.

today we hovered around kevin's table and ate chocolate cake and pumpkin pie, catching up on babies born and the ones soon due, on how the surgery went and what the score was. and we checked out the new guy, too.

for this afternoon we all hovered, knowing if we haven't landed yet,

we will soon.

ask a mailman

chapman is a long and tall standard poodle, black with a little salt. we met him when we saw him wandering up the parkway all by himself. not right. mike pulled over and i jumped out of the car and greeted him. lovely so lovely, with a fresh pedicure and perfectly groomed coat. so soft you could lose your hands in him. a good dog. a good dog who smelled like bubbles. a good dog with a blue collar and no tags.

we were worried about him, so we invited him to "go for a ride?!?!?!", which delighted him. a moment later he was lounging on the backseat of the explorer, sometimes sticking his head out the window, but mostly lounging.

we drove around and around and asked everyone we saw -- "do you know this dog?" no one did. finally mike spotted a mailman and made a quick u-turn to meet him square in front of a house in 32nd avenue.

excuse us sir, might you know this dog from your route?

why that's chapman -- hey boy! lives at 54th and parkway - 5409.

sure enough, chapman jumped out of the car at 5409 and we rang the bell, dad came out and rubbed his head.

second time he has escaped today. thanks for finding him guys.

they know everything about our lives, those public servants. they know our names and our dogs names, and where our christmas gifts are coming from and what magazines we like to read. they recognize the patterns of life as they turn up in the u.s. mail. they know that they are bringing you birthday wishes when two cards arrive for you in a certain month every year. they know that when cards show up addressed to "the family of" that you have lost someone. they keep these details private as they walk up and down our streets every day, but they know.

they know so much about us,

what do we know about them?

my guy,

his name is jeff.

congratulations, graduate

for years i have been having math anxiety dreams. or history or french anxiety dreams. i show up a day or two before graduation realizng i haven't attended class all year and the final exam is tomorrow and surely i will fail. i blew off class, i didn't study, i didn't care.

usually i wake up in a shaky sweat reminding myself that i DID graduate, that it is all okay, and then i roll over and go back to sleep.

last night was different. finally after 30 years of that same damn dream, i marched myself into the principle's office, and told him everything. i needed that diploma, goddamit, but i've been awol for thirty years.

he was a nice man. ,he opened the top drawer of an olive green file cabinet, flicked his fingers through rows of manilla folders, and found my records.

well linda, he said, as you know, only 164 credits are necessary for graduation, and you have 171. it doesn't matter about those classes you missed. you are entitled to your diploma. congratulations!

he asked me to sit in the lobby while my diploma was being prepared, which i did. i sat with my legs crossed and my feet bobbing, waiting waiting for this to be over.

a pretty secretary with red hair and a white blouse found me on a used leatherette couch. she handed me a stiff white envelope with a gold Barrington High School seal on the back, which i immediately tore open.

inside, on a piece of parchment, i finally had documention that

Linda Louise Blocksom

has fullfilled all academic requirements for receiving a grade twelve diploma at Barrington High School, 20 Lincoln Avenue, Barrignton, Rhode Island.

it was signed in real ink by the principle AND the superintendent of schools.

what an accomplishment, after all these years.

but the question remains

will the dreams go away?

vote!

i was walking back from class on this lustrous fall day, when i ran into the mailman who was coming to fetch the outgoing correspondence from the box in the lobby of the admin building. he was very tall in his mailman uniform, with minty breath and a white plastic US MAIL carton tucked under his arm.

oh man! he said. i was just listening to the news -- all this acorn stuff is crazy!

with insistent gestures and full scale animation he danced around the lobby and continued

if obama wins, oh man! the government will be so corrupt! it is already but you know how we got here, corruption! you know it will even be worse if that guy wins.

i thought we could end the conversation there, but he followed me inside the building and up the hall, with an evident need to visit the men's room.

i smiled and said well it certainly has been an interesting campaign!

he leaned towards me and went on

that obama, he's gonna cook the books. he has no experience. wouldn't make a good chauffer. but macain, now there's a hero who has served his country - that's the guy we oughta vote for.

well i told him, we'll see what america decides, won't we?

funny how people hear what they want to, and when they believe what they hear it is because they believed it to begin with. and what they are hearing defends, recommends, supports, and validates. people like that. feeling good about their beliefs.

but the point is, people are believing this campaign season. they are believing in change or believing in sameness and comfort, but people are listening and believing. there is energy instead of complacency. interest instead of futility and indifference.

people are believing. they are listening to their own hearts and searching for leadership in one party or another. or another.

we don't know exactly how it will all turn out

but at least

we are believing.

seven days, thirty bucks

danny came to me in a dream and i can't get him out of my head. he was in his very late teens and was looking for one last chance. he sat in front of me and the judge in his jeans and stained tan jacket, waiting and wishing for hope. waiting and wishing for anything.

danny had nothing except dead parents, a criminal record, and a rough haircut they gave him at stillwater. he'd commited almost every crime and was headed back to four small walls for the rest of his life, unless he could try just one more time to make it.

the judge told him

son, i am sick of seeing you. you need to go one way or the other. here's a check for thirty bucks. come back in seven days and tell me what you did with it.

with no where to go and no one to ask, danny went down hard. he grabbed the car keys from my purse, dove into the front seat of the lincoln, spun the engine and started smashing everything he saw. the challenge was too great, the offer too little, and too late.

i got to wondering: if you, yes you, were at the end of your rope with no where to turn and nothing to stop you, what would you do

with seven days and thirty bucks?

i'd like to know.

wish i'd gotten you a pineapple

ted is home! ted the friend, ted the neighbor, ted the soldier, ted the dad. this was his fourth deployment since 9/11, and we hope the last. when he left a few months ago, friends gathered together on a breezey afternoon to say godspeed,

and to celebrate the first birthday of baby lucy,

and to express condolences for the sad passing of sasha the hound.

talk about a mixed bag.

i meant to stop by again the next morning to say good bye once more, but he had left before dawn and was well on his way to afghanistan by then.

while ted was gone the neighborhood experienced several changes: a series of robberies, constuction at the corner grocer, leaves that turned and began to fall.

best of all, lucy learned how to wave hi

and bye bye,

and lucy learned to walk.

this evening, when i saw his truck in his driveway as i pulled into mine, i knew all was well. ted was home.

there is a tradition in new england of putting a pineapple outside the front door as a sign of welcome. when sea captains came home after long tropical voyages, they would put a pineapple outside to signal an invitation for visiting and laughter. christopher columbus started this practice in the 1400's, and through the centuries the custom has been pushed forward by the spaniards in one part of the world, and the whalers off nantucket in another.

i wish i'd gotten you a pineapple, ted! what a nice way to say "welcome home", if only i had thought of it in time.

but then i realized that when ted touched soil, little girl lucy ran up the runway waving and laughing, something he had never seen.

oh, how our hearts are made for melting.

so my friend, sorry i forgot the pineapple but i don't think it bothers you. you received a welcome

you will never forget.

welcome home, neighbor.

the scallops are covered

it was my third wedding day, but not really. the second wedding day never really happened because i halted steadfast at the top of the aisle with my arms clenched around those of my two brothers. my knees buckled and i screamed

i'm not ready.

a few years later it was time again to get married. the flower arrangements for the church were lined up in the living room, each as tall as the mast of a ship - lillies and lilacs and roses and stephanotus, and i wondered how much we were paying for these things?

how much are we paying for all of this??

a kind but urgent voice told me,

you guys are only paying for the scallops at the reception, the rest is covered.

upstairs with my bridesmaids i wondered how i should wear my hair when one of them sent my gown sailing down onto the king size bed -- a floating and lovely mass of pink and ivory toille, so elegant.

but when it landed we noticed the stains. oh god, too many to count.

quick!

someone said

hit the closet!

miraculously there were several gowns in the closet, one of which was the perfect size and did not need ironing.

but by this time, we were 10 minutes away from the walk to the altar. no time to shave my legs or even shower. the black socks i was wearing would have to do.

along with the birkenstocks.

i am not the elegance i had imagined,

but i do love a good scallop.

the fairgrounds

twice a month i drive through the state fairgrounds because it happens to be a shortcut to get to where i am going. i take a left on dan patch avenue instead of heading north on snelling and i drive through the green gates all by myself with no one to stop me because there is no one there.

sometimes there is an event there in the off-season, like there was on thursday - the beef expo. but mostly the park is deserted except for the constant and permanent things. the dfl building, condor fireplace and stone, the kool 108 booth, the skyride sitting empty without it's cars -- winding around on overhead cables, and various chainsaw carvings of eagles and bears.

something about driving through there in the only car on the roads of the fairground feels naughty and illegal, like running through the halls of high school at night in the dark. lockers gleaming against the glow of security lights, running fast up and down the corridors and stairs. no one should be here, no one allowed right now, we're closed.

but the state fair people don't seem to mind that some of us have discovered this sacred shortcut. no cheese curds today, no strollers, no horses or rides, just the place.

place is important. the ones we go to once a year, the ones we leave each morning and return to at the end of weary days. place is a setting that changes with time and yet it doesn't.

the state fairgrounds is such as this, just a place.

and in the offseason, it's all mine.

hot till you're not

the young lady who greeted us at the little italian place on the corner last night was hot. i mean hot. late 20's i'd say, with a perfect body and stunning smile. her dress was a clingy taupe with a ruffle at the bottom as if her slip was showing. we used to worry about that when i was younger - slips showing. seems now it's a sign of fashion instead of poor planning.

her neckline and backline plunged deep on both sides, creamy golden skin, luscious breasts and a slender neck. her movements were so graceful and relaxed - i remembered what it was like to move that way when i didn't have to hold anything in. everthing in perfect proportion, to the delight of various and subtle onlookers.



the women at the table to my left were hot at some point i guessed, they had the markings of former hotties. now they were in their 50's and 60's with smart turtlenecks, safe hairstyles, updated eyeware and nice manicures. very sensible women, these. and seemingly very comfortable with themselves.

i watched them order cosmopolitans, left hands lightly resting on their husbands' wedding bands, and then i glanced back at the gorgeous young woman and tried to visualize that span of time between the hostess stand and the dinner table. i thought to myself - i know i am now seated closer to the pretty ladies, but i remember that heat, a long time ago. when did we all go from hot to not? a gradual process i supposed.

it's all about getting older, and being fine with where we end up. if we don't like how we are turning out we certainly can take charge and change things - a few less desserts and glasses of wine, more trips to the gym.



how boring is that.

and anyway, if i am no longer hot, at least i'm still charming.

charming is hot, too, isn't it?

sadding

i was sadding earlier today but am feeling better now. sadding is different than just feeling sad, and quite the opposite of feeling grateful. when you feel grateful you collect all the beautiful things that have blessed you and pile them up into one overwhelming feeling of peacefulness. when you are sadding you do the same thing, only with regrets and disappointment and things and people you miss.

it started with a defeating ache of tiredness, one that kept us home from the north shore, which, after 30 years of living here, i still have never seen. a note from a friend said "bummer you aren't feeling well, i hear that the colors on the north shore are peaking this weekend." that started the sadding, a rolling over in bed with tangled sheets and wet pillowcases. and then like kindergardners marching out to recess the sad things lined up and bowed. or smirked. memories of friends who once held tight in loyalty, but who decided at some point that their lives would be better lived without me in them. thoughts of things left unfaced or done wrong, and mostly the sparkling presence of parents who drank champagne and shared photos at my wedding reception twelve years ago. a perfect fall day that was.

much like this one.

sadding is something not to be gripped too tightly, nor should it be disallowed. sadding comes and goes. and gratefully now,

it's going.

church is no place for widescreen tv's

the boys were talking religion over poker the other night. interpretations from the bible, christian theology, and worship in general. the conversation soon turned to church. churches themselves, and the evolution of the place where people go for fellowship and acceptance, to feel god, to pray for hope and salvation, and celebrate the promise of eternal life.

one of the guys at poker is shopping for a new church. he said he tried one of those fancy new places you see on sunday morning tv. comfy padded folding chairs, wide screen tv's pumping up the pastor's image, ornate podiums, high tech microphones, electric guitars and clean cut choirs. the congregation is a mix of cultures and ages and backgrounds, eyes glistening with tears inspired and bred by the holy spirit. they sway alot and wave their arms alot and they are wrapped up in the love of god.

i see nothing wrong with this, but i admit it makes me a little uncomfortable. church should be about stained glass windows with images of lambs and the crucifixion, heavy wooden pews that hurt your back and your butt (reminding you of the importance of pain and sacrifice), and the seats are filled with tiny old bent ladies who miss their husbands and feel the pain of sin, even though they haven't committed too many themselves. the choir is all dressed in crimson "gowns" with white flowy tops, and their sheet music shakes as they hit the high notes. which some of them can get to but some of them can't.

the pastor is a smiley guy with a nicely pressed suit who is delighted to remind us all of about cookies and coffee and punch downstairs after the service and let's all pray for myla's loss, and saturday the youth group is sponsoring a car wash so come on down and get a good deal and clean hubcaps too.

we all choose how to worship, and where, and most importantly

if.

a friend of mine recently told me story after story of how god guides her every move, and how satan visited one lonely night when she was feeling vulnerable and scared. but her friends came by and prayed with her and she made it through and praise god praise god. and that is all good, very very good.

as for me, my prayers are directed to the universe, all of it, of which god is a part. but the depth of my belief in a greater power extends beyond god to the angels, and to my moms and dads and old friends and late hounds who are watching and believing in me, and in my happiness. fire, water, wind, and earth -- the power of all of these things freshens my spirit in the miracle of their constancy. these things we can depend on. these things bring comfort because of that, and for that

praise god.

however you define it, and whereever it leads you

praise god.

the go ahead run

the tigers scored in the 6th inning making the score 2-1 detroit. as the boys were running off the field the announcer said "and they got the go ahead run".

oh i like that. one cracking swing, a visible score, a good deed, a spectacular performance. the go ahead run.

when was the last time i got one, a go ahead run? surgery i think. the heart is fixed so go on linda, go ahead. do more. do it strong. do it well. do it in love.

go ahead.

run.

stories

the train was crowded yesterday, standing room only. but we were all going to the same place and we were all so excited. twins and kansas city, second in a three game series. the twins were in first place, half game ahead.

a hansome man in front of me was leaning on a grab pole and chatting with his grown up son when his phone rang. "hi dad, we're on our way to the game." his son smiled and asked how is grandpa after the call had ended. i wondered if my dad ever took my brothers to a game. i doubted it but made a note to ask johnny next time we speak.

sitting on kirby pucket plaza with a corn dog and some curds, i noticed a young couple on the opposite bench. he was gnoshing on some ribs and she sat quietly next to him. she wore a long simple dress, pastel striped searsucker. her hair was up and her bun was covered with a small filmy fabric, neatly pinned up close to her bundle of pretty brown hair. on the another bench, two small girls waited patiently for mom to come back, when she did, she was toting hotdogs and cheeseburgers in silver foil, nestled in a paper boat. one of the girls popped up and clapped when she discovered a bag of chips hiding in the pile of steamy baseball food.

the couple in front of us at the dome had 2 small boys, one a smiley infant, the other a red headed 4 year old named evan who liked to draw. he had a tiny spiral pad with a scary scull on the front, and he drew and drew on those pages inches high, with a black ink pen. after a while he drew on dad's hand, too. they had their hands full with the boys and the supply bag - formula, diapers, a zip lock bag filled with blue green and pink cheerios. it seemd like a lot to manage but they were a calm and happy family, a solid team.

the guy to our right took a call in the 5th inning from his girlfriend who was walking around drunk in munich. she was happy, he was worried.

but the most intriguing of all was the tall man with the twins jersey who sat one row in front of us, a season ticket holder who knew exactly where his seat was without even looking at the silver and black numbers on the backs of the blue seats. his hair was the thickest white with silver lowlights, and he wore horn rimmed glasses and snakeskin cowboy boots fthat peaked out from the hems of his long levis. he looked like gregory peck in his older days, and i couldn't stop staring at him.

his twins jersey had a "40th anniversay" patch on the right sleeve, and on the back was the word "omer" over the number 666. he wore a sterling cuff bracelet with turquoise on his left arm, and next to that was a rope bracelet - the kind that shrinks to fit after just enough showers, the kind the cool hippie kids wore in new england when i was growing up. on his right hand, more silver and turquoise, and on his right arm, a glorious and fascinating tatoo. it looked as if someone had spilled ink all over his arm, but i pictured a man in candlelight at a desk with a scotch and some art, and piles of paper and as he went to light a cigarrette a small pot of black paint tipped over and splashed his arm, and there it sat still, a splash of memory. a statement. body art.

i wanted to climb over the row and ask him about that tatoo - and about him. was he an artist? a writer? an activitist? he was someone. he was definitely someone, something. i wanted so badly to know, and when he left at the bottom of the 6th i regretted not making that move.

most people show up as we walk this earth, but some show up with something important to say and they say it without saying it. a number on a back, an ink stained arm, turquoise and silver.

fascinating.

twins lost, 4 - 2.

yes, that's me

i walked past her on my way into the clinic. she was leaning hard on a walker with day-glo tennis balls on the front legs and she was slowly heading up the sidewalk to the same place as me. after i checked in and found a chair in the waiting room, i saw her again. but this time i realized that i knew her.

heleanor (not helen, and not eleanor ) was a counselor in the campus office where i worked as a student nearly 30 years ago. she had a thick patch of short silver hair and pronounced her own name "heleana" because of a swervy southern drawl that she was born with and never lost. she wore flowery blouses, plain trousers, and sandals. always sandals - even in the winter (with socks). she said she didn't like to feel confined, right down to her toes. she must have been close to 60 or more when i knew her back then.

she had an office which impressed me. anyone with an office, by virtue of those four walls and a real door and ceiling commanded my respect. she was important, knew her stuff, and had a need for privacy for confidential conversations and detailed work requiring focused concentration. the office itself was a mess. stacks and stacks of papers and files, procedure manuals and various dictionaries, and one small picture of a smiling woman; her partner.

heleanor was a lesbian and while she didn't talk about it much, it wasn't something she hid, either. she loved flowers, enjoyed poetry, was passionate about travel, and had a lover. as progressive as we all thought we were in 1980, there were still gossipy undertones about her being gay. funny, we could smoke at our desks and drink at 18, but being out at work was somehow odd. she retired shortly after i started working there, and i never saw nor heard of her again, until today.

she slid up to the desk in her white orthopedic socks, white pants, bright orange shirt, and black sandals. she still had that same shock of silver hair, and a wooden necklace of carved african animals swung heavy on her neck. her partner came in next after parking the car, and lightly rubbed her back during the check-in process. then, all checked in, she started towards the waiting room.

i looked at her straightaway and noticed that her lipstick, brilliant orange, matched her shirt. i smiled at her, she smiled back. i didn't introduce myself. i didn't think she'd know me.

she sat for a moment but only a moment, then popped up without her walker and started rummaging through the magazines to keep herself busy until she was called. she and her partner chatted sweetly, the love between them almost glowed.

30 years ago she looked old to me, today she looked beautiful.

"heleanor?" a nurse with a clipboard asked.

"why yay-us, that's me."

nice touch

11 hours after surgery i was sweating wet on the sheets, my head ached and my chest burned from the burning that was done inside my chest. my groins and neck were swollen and throbbing from catheters, and i coudn't breathe. but worst of all, my heart was racing and beating out of control. why was this happening? didn't i spend 5 hours in the operating room earlier today to fix this? is my heart bleeding? did they burn the wrong thing? the monitor said 103 beats per minute. that's too fast. and those lines i see are not sinus rhythm. something is wrong.

a woman dressed up in a nurse costume came to my room soon after the bell rang and peered around the curtain, then tugged at it and twisted it in her hands. "you look like you are having a rough time". after a resume of my complaints, she offered "wow there really isn't much i can do. do you want another vicadin?" i asked about the rhythm - why was it doing that? "i hear that happens sometimes but i'm not sure."

and this is the finest cardiac care unit in the country?

a few minutes later i heard a gentle knock and suddenly next to my face were the deepest espresso eyes on the loveliest young woman. she had her hands on her knees and leaned in close and said "you poor thing. what's going on honey?"

she sat down and patted my leg as i cried hard and told her everything.

"first of all honey, you ARE in sinus rhythm. it's a little fast but it's steady, just an extra beat once in a while. it's really normal to have this happen after an ablation, in fact it's a good sign. it means that the healing process has already begun."

heart rate 92.

she presented various meds like flowers from a magicians sleeve, and once that was done

"you're all slumped down there. let's scooch you up. how about some cold water? vaseline for your lips? here, let me wet a washcloth and wipe your face. by the way i love your overnight bag. did you get that at an estate sale? (yes). ok sweetie, close your eyes and i'll check back in a few minutes to see if you are snoozing".

heart rate

83.

south bitch diet

this is the longest night of my life. one second i am dripping sweat and the next freezing, so cold. blankets on blankets off. feet out feet in. my head aches i am so tired, and sleep would pass the time so nicely.

i had that thought at 2:2o and at 2:41 i was wide awake again, what just happened? what had i just been thinking? oh that's right, i was thinking about laughter. must have drifted off.

we were in an office, my girlfriends and i, and we were looking at books and making notes and all were very excited about trying this new diet. this one was really going to work. oprah said so. and then a man in a white coat came in to give us orientation and he said

"now the most important part of this regimine, ladies, is that there is to be no humor - i mean none - for the first 14 days. no laughter, no jokes, no sitcoms, no sarcasm, nothing. you are to remain calm and stern. that is the only way this will work."

that is SO not funny.

no wonder the dream only lasted a few minutes.

i can't stop smiling

it's really going to happen this time. the last two times i thought the same thing until it turned out to be a false start, twice, but this time, i know that on monday

they will go after my heart.

i can't stop smiling.

it is really going to finally happen! bless my heart (if i may be so bold).

for so many months i've paid attention to the way my heart beats, monitored meds, learned about biofeedback and acupuncture, contacted long lost friends and loves, finished what i could, and then it all came to a screeching halt.

oops! sorry, equipment problem! sorry! let's do it three months from now.

and three months later this unpredictable heart has lived up to it's reputation and presented conversations i never dreamed of having, and connective situations that could only have come from god.

karma is good.

there is a woodfire burning in the backyard, a huge vase of mike's fragrant pink roses in front of me, and a small taste of red wine beside me. oh, and a basset hound.

and mike.

and to you,

thank you for the peace you are sending. it is working. and like i said

i can't stop smiling.

hair club for men

the man at the table across from me at lunch had barbie hair. tiny bundles of blond had been poked into neat pin holes in perfect rows and he had the whole thing shellacked to a rock hard finish. his sneaky eyes were small and close together and he had a forehead the size of a drive-in movie screen. the woman he was with was tall and sleek and lovely, with a messy copper do, a pencil skirt and 3 inch mary jane heels. poor thing was bored to death.

clearly these were co-workers, commrades, cubemates, business associates. they were out on a sunny friday to catch a bite and catch up generally.

she couldn't get a word in edgewise.

i wondered how his poor wife could stand his ramblings, or maybe she doesn't let him talk at home so he is taking it out on everyone else?

every buzz word and phrase from business and industry today were stuffed into longwinded sentences spoken between crispy bites of chicken:

"metrics...six sigma...what's in your bucket...expense managment...generic dollars based on source code...ya gotta watch the trend needle...enterprise solutions...."

the woman was patient with him, yet overjoyed when her salad arrived. she listened attentively and chewed voraciously and blinked very hard when, in describing a young colleague he said,

"she reminds me of a young me."

oh dear. i wondered why.

perhaps "she" needs hair plugs, too.

i'd rather be in the morgue

most of the women in the waiting room at dr flynn's office had no breasts and no hair. some wore scarves, some baseball caps, and one carried her fuzzy head right out in the open. she had loud dangly earrings and couldn't have been more than 18. iwas here to get some blood work done, they were here for the fight of their lives.

it was hot and crowded and i felt ashamedly uneasy, upset. so much illness and would they recover? but doctors offices being what they are, i had plenty of time to study and observe, listen and learn.

many of them had a partner or a husband or sister or daughter or mom, and they took all of this in stride as if they were waiting to have their teeth cleaned instead of waiting in line for checkups and ct scans. the couple across from me were busy chatting about their winter plans, and when are the boys going on their ski weekend anyway? how about if we invite the pattersons in february? continuing to plan as if all is well and then off they went to their chemo class.

after they left another duo sat down. a tall and very hansome young man who was puzzled about the article he was reading in vanity fair until his mom pointed out that that issue was a year old. they both laughed and she handed him a magazine called "farmers" and he said "that's better." she was tall and amish looking with a silver topknot, long black skirt, black sweater and black sensible shoes. as he read, she pulled out her white notebook with the pink ribbon on the front and made notes about thoughts as they occurred to her. planning ahead, making lists, moving forward.

and then there was bebe. i'm sure that was not her name but that is what the silver sequins on her black ballcap spelled out, bebe. she wore a floral print blouse and black pants that were much too short - not in the name of fashion but probably because of a dryer that was too hot. fancy fuzzy white lacy socks, and black pumps. her face was grey and her lips thin and and crimson, and she was pissed.

"i hate it here! they are always behind. it's like a big cattle call. i can't stand this waiting. it's ridiculous the way they stack us up. i'd rather be in the morgue."

she unscrewed the cap of the the bottle holding a thick white liquid, poured cup after cup and winced with every gulp. "last time i spilled this stuff all over the inside of my purse. what a mess." and after a long pause she said

"i tell ya, i never thought this would happen to me."

so there i was feeling uncomfortable with the possibility of death and there they were living. doing what they needed to do and saying what they needed to say and being where they needed to be, and looking at them i thought

none of them is ending up in the morgue

any time soon.

i want to live in my girlfriend's purse

the other day i asked my girfriend if she had any hand lotion and she said "sure honey, in my purse, right over there."

oh, this purse, or any purse of my friend jo's. the purse itself is always exquisite, and lucky us, sometimes she tires of them and hands them down to her girlfriends who have no problem at all nabbing a gently used coach, louis vuitton, or kate spade.

but the inside of the purse...oh the inside!

a photo of the inside of this purse should become an album cover. it's not necessarily what is in there, it's HOW things are in there. the leather cosmetics pouch is snuggled next to a tiny pad and pen, the breath mints stand tall with their cheeks pressed up against a tube of lipstick, a smart and snappy wallet finds comfort relaxing upon a clickity tin of credit cards, the small hairbrush is lying face to face with hairspray...this purse has every thing a woman could need or want and every thing has it's place and every thing fits; fits perfectly.

and that is why i want to live there. first, having a home desingned and constructed by gucci, prada or dolce & gabbana would provide fashionable reassurance that this home would last forever. only the finest materials and shiniest gussets are considered and used. no skimping on quality.

second, i envy the idea that everything in there has it's place, and leaving for a moment or longer won't compromise that spot upon return. imagine having your own little silken pouch that you slip into and out of, just like a cell phone. it's your spot all yours and always will be.

weird metaphor, isn't it. but as september 8th comes closer hour by hour i find myself haunted and intrigued by lots of odd things, and i wonder about my place, and if i will come back to it in the same way i left it.

and i want wonder if my spot will last forever.

goodbye again

mom died at 3:15 in the afternoon on friday, september 1st, 2006.

the funeral director at the cremation society said she died at 3:30 when i met with him the next day. i argued briefly, insisting it was 3:15. i knew, because i was there. he seemed oddly uncomfortable that i would protest this point, and oddly uncomfortable with the whole situation. his name was warren and he smelled like carnations and old closets. he looked nice in his proper dark suit, but he was colder than i had expected as he ushered me into the conference area and told me to have a seat, that were just a few things we needed to go over regarding the death certificate and her cremation.

we sat at a gothic dining room table in a sun drenched room with a large box of tissues in the middle. out the sides of my eyes i saw sample urns, burial tombs, flag cases and memory books, all on display as if in a hallmark store. i felt so tight all in my core, breathing only deeply enough to get breath and nothing more. just enough to get through this.

warren handed me a tiny yellow envelope with a ring inside and said "she was wearing this, would you like to have it?" i took the envelope and clutched it in teary hands but did not open it.

he then explained that the time of death was recorded at 3:30 because the attending physician at the nursing home was the one who “called it”, and apparently he didn’t get to make that call until he answered his page and arrived in room 305, bed A, where she lay dead and that was at 3:30 p.m. on the 1st of september. warren didn’t understand why it mattered, as this piece of information was only for the death certificate.

but it mattered a lot to me.

it mattered because if she really had died 15 minutes later than she did, i am sure i would have acted differently at her passing. if there had been another 15minutes, i would have tossed off the awkward discomfort and terror of watching her die, and instead i would have leaned in said all the things i am thinking today, 2 years and 26 minutes to the moment she left.

we were a great team mom, you and me. quite misunderstood by the rest of the family but it hasn't mattered, has it, not in the four years since you moved from delaware to 8 miles from me. we understood each other most of the time, frustrated each other some of the time, and as hard as it has been to help you live, i am here to help you pass. i will love you always and please mom, don't ever leave me. love to dad, so much love to dad. have fun and promise to watch over me. i am sure there is pepsi in heaven.

that is what i would have said in an extra 15 minutes, but there were no extra minutes when the last words of her life were written. and when 3:15 came all i could say was

i love you mom.

and off she went.

a broad idea of normal

in class the other day we were talking about coaches and mentors - who was that person for you, what about them made you want to follow, and what lessons were you given? one woman described a mentor who was patient and brave, gracious and funny, but the strongest fiber connecting her all together was her broad idea of normal. she knew that often times there are several right answers, more than one way to understand a situation, and countless possibilities in facing life, if we just blur the lines between what we think and what we feel and what we know. and so the length and depth of normal can be applied with comfort to anyone who needs it.

and after class i went home and finished preparations to head north for the 12th time in as many years with my best women, my best friends. we plan this trip all year long, making lists and spying perfect gifts. finally on the day of departure we load up an oversized vehicle with oversized fun: food and wine, gifts and magazines, music and two small dogs, and off we go.

the best parts of the weekend are clearly the candlelit moments spent on the screen porch, with evening breezes and we all in our places. we tell stories and offer advice, and we laugh so hard we can't catch a breath. sometimes we take turns feeling hopeful or helpless, lost or found, and i always come out of those conversations feeling better about myself, because after all they see me better than i do. whether we feel crazy or stuck, the rest of us lean in, or sit back, and offer our views on how normal we really are; and of course that idea is broadly defined. as we continue to be.

my best women, my best mentors,

and no one has better friends than i do.

except for the three other women on the porch.

breakfast with the guys

cap's is a neighborhood barbeque joint that was called a "mecca" of pleasure and taste in a recent local magazine. on the weekends, they do a fine breakfast and i go there most every saturday.



there are many things i can count on at breakfast...fluffy short stacks with sweet maple butter, hash browns cripsy and luscious, thick slices of smoked ham, hollaidase sauce speckled with paprika ... but also,

the guys.

not the same guys, always, but sometimes of course, but guys. two guys, four guys, six guys...all chatting over coffee and it is so nice to see. today there were two sets of guys who hadn't planned on seeing each other but there they were. a table of eight, and behind them, a table of four.



eggs were ordered, coffee poured, and the guys talked. ages from mid 30's to mid 60's, all nicely dressed in neat and colorful polo shirts and plaid or kakie shorts, one with a grey goose hat. they talked about golf and their daughters, politics and sports. they wore pretty watches and all were tan and seemed so happy. arms were folded and jokes were told and some of them went back and forth from table to table, catching up and visiting generally.



good friends. good food. a good day.

the words around the water

in a book called "the hidden messages in water" a very wise japenese man tells stories of his experiments in speaking with water. masaru emoto begins with the premise that "learning about water is like an exploration to discover how the cosmos works", as after all, we as human beings are at least 70% water ourselves.

using music, words, cool temperatures, a good microscope and a fine camera, he discovered that clear water responds to the messages we offer it. among his many experiments, he wrote words on paper and taped the messages to the bottle (words facing in), froze them, and then photographed the crytals that emerged. words of thanks, love, gratitude and hope created perfect jewels of amazing clarity and beauty, while harsh words or images created only tumultuous images, or none at all.

the lesson we can learn from this experiment has to do with the power of words. the vibration of good words has a positive effect on our world, whereas vibration from negative words has the power to destroy.

we know about the tremendous power of words, don't we? we do. we wander though our days speaking our minds, sharing our stories, reaching out to communicate. if we could freeze our words in water and reflect on the crystals at the end of the day, what would we see? would we find perfect but temporary crystals that sparkle and express the contents of a happy soul, or chaotic images that form nothing but confusion?

water teaches in a very clear way how we must live our lives.

i wonder what the words i spoke today would look like if i could see them cold and still.

i hope for crystals.

a stunning achievement

in the opening ceremonies at bejing yesterday, 2008 masters of tai chi swirled around and around in perfectly choreographed circles in the glowing center of the birds nest. each one bathed in white cotton and delicate blue light, each an equadistance from another, arms and legs rising and falling in defined unison. matt lauer called it a stunning achievement, and went on to explain that they find their place for the next moment based on where they are in this one. and to do that, they look to their neighbor, a mirror, a guide. how far is my hand from yours, how high is my head next to yours...when i understand and see the place where you are, i can find my own place.

funny the journeys we endure to find our place in the world. we travel to places on the globe, we hide in places in our hearts, we do it with someone else or we do it alone. those of us who are truly alive will keep asking ourselves, "where is my place? have i found it? if this is not it, i must keep looking until i find it."

perhaps it's not an individual quest afterall. maybe the place i need to end up is not up to me to define, but instead i can rest into it by

looking at you.

need help out with that ma'am?

the trouble with the carry-out service at some grocery stores is the carrying out part. i'm sure that the intent behind all those tidy aprons is service (1st), insurance (2nd - cart corales don't always work so well, besides those carts that go missing up the block and down lake street can get kind of expensive).



it's so uncomfortable though, isn't it? someone following you, FOLLOWING you, to your parked vehicle so as to tuck your parcels snuggly into the backseat or trunk. so, on that long journey from check-out to keyless entry, do you talk with them?

sometimes you can, talk to them that is. you can always chat about the weather, or the twins if they are playing, the holidays sometimes, or the vikings if you absolutely insist. but there is always something. except for the ones who don't talk. uncrackable nuts, those are. they shuffle behind and you can hear their silent mockings "yes mum, fast enough for you mum? anything ELSE mum?"



if you feel like i do, then i know something else about you. two things, really. first, when you go to those fancy carry out grocers and you need a lot of stuff, you circle and circle that lot to get the closest spot, thus shortening "the walk".



or, you only go there when you need just a couple of items.



and you carry them out yourself.

balloons in the dumpster

balloons in the dumpster, what an odd thing to see. a swollen archway of green, orange and white balloons, tethered tightly together are stuffed in a dumpster down by the lake. i imagined that they had marked a finish line, or a welcome station; a festival or celebration of some sort. something colorful and joyous and playful. lots of planning went into whatever it was, there must have been tents and folding tables and people with specially made t-shirts wandering around shaking hands and passing out flyers. people trying to prove a point, make a difference, and do it in a way that showcased their friendships and passion. hot dogs sizzled and a there was popcorn being passed in little white bags. kids were getting their faces painted and you could not count the lawn chairs.

and after they had raised as much money as they could, or celebrated the cause in a manner fitting the intent, the tables were folded up, the tents came down, and the balloons went in the dumpster.

the image struck me, balloons in the dumpster. a remnant of fun, or of hope, or of celebration, winds up in the trash.

is it sad? or delightful?

haven't decided.

look, and see

it felt sacred and calming to sit in the presence of beulah jodrie. scary too, just a little. i respected her fiercely and wanted so badly for her to notice me, or more correctly my writing. when she received her phd in creative writing from brown university in 1978 she opted for no pomp and circumstance, but we in her 3:00 class decided to mark the occasion anyway, a single red rose from each of us, 7 in all. she was quiet and humbled and we didn't say anything more, we just moved on.



dr. jodrie was a small woman with a thick silver topknot and glasses that made her blue eyes look bigger than they were. easily in her 60's, she wore skirts with the waistband riding high on her belly, crisp white blouses, a brooch at her neck, and always a shawl. kneesocks or dark green tights and a faithful pair of wallabees completed her outfit . she spoke with a sway in her words as they all do in the white mountains of new hampshire.



one of her standing assignments for all aspiring writers was to keep a journal that she would read every so often, and return with red notes in the margins, in perfect script. for the first two semesters she struggled to teach me "STOP writing about YOU and about what you think! look around and write about what you SEE, and tell us what you think about that. not the other way around!"



two black men in black shirts stood waist high in the water of lake nokomis this afternoon. they smiled and beckoned to the people on shore - some of whom wore flowing white scarves. others held hands as they watched, or held each other, or babies and children, and they were all smiling. a few waded into the water with hands folded in prayer. "i baptize you in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. amen"



on the other end of the lake 4 blue school buses were parked on the street and half on the curb. tiny flags and balloons of all colors were jumping in the breeze, and children were everywhere. the most lovely thing of all, 6 little girls in burlap sacks, lined up in a tidy row, and when the guy in the white shirt say "GO!", they started hopping backwards towards the finish line. one tiny girl with a pink shirt hopped into first place. she had a thousand perfect black braids, each fastened with small white ribbons and as she hopped and hopped her hair flounced like a cheerleaders pom pom.



oh dr. jodrie, it has been more than 3o years. but when i write, i often think of you and of the last notes you left in my journal. you had tried for 2 years to get me to see things that were not about me, but about how life is,and about how life looks when you stop to notice it. you said



"bravo! you have finally got it!"



i feel your spirit still.

Why?

rosie is my neighbor and she is two. when you ask how old she is, her big brother fletcher chimes in to say "she is two. one year for each eye." she weighs 28 pounds and has big blue eyes and white blond hair. her favorite phrase is "i love you". and she has become my dear friend.



rosie and i spent last saturday together. there was a garage sale going on in her driveway and mine, but the best part of the day was talking to rosie. and better than best was what rosie taught me about life, conversation, and relationships.



tell rosie something and she usually responds with "why?" and then you offer more information and rosie says "why?" i understand this is a two year old thing.



but i got to thinking about it. what if we used that question more often, "why?". think of what we would learn when we gently force the issue of why someone is thinking the way that they are.



"how are you?" WHY? (are you making conversation or how much do you want to know?)



"what time will you be home?" WHY? are you planning a special surprise for me or do you need to throw the dancing girls out)



"i love you." WHY? ok now we are getting somewhere.



rosie and her family are moving soon, far away but not that far. i shall miss seeing her tiny feet grow into the next size of slippers, i'll miss her long lashes and how they brush her cheeks when she blinks them.



but you go on rosie, keep asking why. and next year when i see you again, i can't wait to hear what you've learned.

bus fare

i was talking with terri today about debit cards. about how it took so long for she and i to get used to using them. neither one of us trusted them at first; we preferred writing checks. but then terri observed that "kids today," (she has two millenials), 'that's all they use. they don't know "cash".'

debit cards are much different than our old-fashioned cash cards. those shiny plastic cards don't know if you have cash and frankly, they don't care. if you are who you say you are once you swipe your card, it's all yours. paper or plastic, would you like some help out with that? have a nice day. if it turns out there is no money to back up this purchase, you'll find out later lady. heh heh heh.

remember when we knew cash? real cash - as in green and wrinkled, or inky and crisp? mmmm...real cash made of government manufactured paper. cash. we knew it by name and number, arrival and departure dates. we fanned it and felt it and folded and smelt it. cash. a roomate that came and went in a way we could never count on. the expression "living from paycheck to paycheck" does not describe the fear and frustration of "living by scraping and searching". we needed milk or tampons or both...so in the heat-included basement apartment with the gold shag rugs we scoured and crawled. check all jacket pockets, check the junk drawer. check the laundry room - maybe someone dropped a quarter somewhere.

at 4:45 on a frigid january evening when i was barely 23, i buttoned up my $24 dollar down coat, pulled on my leg warmers, and boots. yanked my fake wool hat over my ears and headed for the cash machine in coffman union on the east bank campus of the university of minnesota. i needed to withdraw $5.00 at my friendly ATM, and exhange if for quarters in order obtain 75 cents for the bus ride home. insert card, boop boop boop...

INSUFFICENT FUNDS

black fireworks swirling around my sweating head. weak knees wrapped in wet polyster knit in the cavern of an 80 degree lounge of young rich upstarts. i am fainting and dying and they are enjoying french fries on mismatched divans. and there i am, me, with barely a cent and no way home.

i found a dime, and called john, who was working the nightshift at a cable tv station in fridley. "wait right there" he said " i made a deposit yesterday and i'll call you right back -- what's the phone number of the pay phone you are on?"

20 minutes later after a clunky, wet and desperate run across the washington avenue bridge and the east bank campus, i stumbled into a recently closed branch office of tcf in dinkytown. most of the lights were turned off and all the staff had gone home. all, but for a nice young woman named trish (my age at the time but much farther ahead in the world than i at 23) was waiting for me. her head was pressed up against the steamy glass door, wating for me. a nine inch ring of keys at the ready to let me in. she gave me $5 worth of quarters and said "you guys still have $37.00 in your account. have a good night."

i made it home on the #5 that night, after transferring from the #4. unwrapped my wrappings in blessed relief and the rest is a blur.


gives paper or plastic a whole new meaning, doesn't it.

prickly

sometimes i think i am part cactus. or porcupine. except porcupines seem to find affection, don't they? otherwise how could there be other porcupines?

but a cactus, now there is something that feels like me today. prickly. sharp. unloveable and untouchable. i had several questions i needed answers to this afternoon and even the internet could not help me. perhaps i was looking in the wrong places (probably) but why i can't just tell it what i want to know and it should be intelligent enough to flip up a site with answers. that is how we have been trained these days, and when it doesn't work it's annoying.

how do i move things around on that new blog? your answer is stupid, and that button that says "help" does not understand my question. and what is the name of that little bird that has been visiting me, hopping around my feet and winking at me? ok ok her name is puff, as i have determined but is she a wren or a finch or a sparrow or what? she is one of a kind and she likes to hop hop hop when i'm sitting by the fountain. she cocks her head and comes very close and peeps at me. i have never seen any bird like her and i want to know what she is.

she's a bird. she's a little cute fuzzball who seems to be lost, but she does like it here so perhaps she will stay. why can't i be happy with that answer?

maybe it's the warmth of this july afternoon, maybe i am just tired. maybe i am missing something or feeling like i should be farther ahead in all things life-wise.

i suppose prickly is ok. just the same, i would suggest that you keep your distance.

till tomorrow.

everett's

everett's market is on 38th street in south minneapolis and i had driven by there 1000 times before last spring. i only stopped in after kevin served a perfect lamb roast on easter sunday and where did you get that roast, darling?

"everett's. they are the best. haven't you ever been there?"

mr. everett grew up a block away from this shiney piece of heaven, and he never imagined that after 49 years there he would be creating an iconic legacy in the same hood wear he played stickball and snuck smokes behind his dad's garage. the same block that waited for him to come home from the war and raise a family and open a market.

the best thing about everett's beside the green and white linolem floor is the meat counter. usually there are 12 hansome butchers of all ages in white paper hats and string tied aprons and they can't do enough to tell you how glad they are to see you, and if you don't see what you want let them know and they'll fix you right up. they stand at the ready and seem like royalty to me.

the meat case is a mile long, squeaky clean and sparkling. at the west end there are luscious mounds of everything sausage: polish, italian, bratworst, coarse and fine wieners, spicy, sweet and smoked...links and links of perfect piles of all things plump, fresh and pink. the cold cuts are next -- olive loaf - the kind mom used to serve at picnics and open houses. salami, bologna, turkey, roast beef, sliced fresh ham (three kinds). cheese cheese and cheese comes next, and then containers full of fresh potato salad, ham spread, and baked beans. moving east are the roasts and ribs and chops and chickens. a continuem of hearty goodness from end to end, no preservatives, carved, chopped, sliced and wrapped with love. in white paper with masking tape of course.

aside from the meat counter all necessities are on hand. fresh produce, soy milk, sweet martha's cookies, frozen white fish, pet supplies, even wasabi sauce, capers and olives. everything you need, really, all under one small roof called everett's.

it's the kind of place that makes you feel good just being there. a little family dream that came true and is solid, strong, and sincere. two weeks ago i got chatting at the checkout about the terrible loss of tim russert, and said "what will i do on sunday mornings from now on?"

one of the hansome butchers who had come out to help bag looked at me with deep brown eyes and answered simply "go to church".

recently mr. everett and his little market were featured in two twin cities magazines and if you ask him about that he smiles from ear to ear.

"only took 49 years for this place to be discovered", he says with his hands on his hips.

that's a matter of opinion, sir.

by the way, we're having ribs for supper tonight. st. louis style. and homemade baked beans.

keep breathing

who needs to interrupt a perfectly fine summer with a pulmonary vein ablation?! what a dumb idea. early fall is much better for heart surgery - every every every one knows that!

september 8th, i am thinking of you often. can't wait to see you.

faulty equipment

there's a metaphor in here somewhere. or a reason at least. we tell ourselves there is a reason for everything. or at least i do, being one who is is frustrated when things don't make sense on the surface.



june 30th has turned itself into july 2nd, as some piece of equipment meant to fix my wires has gone bad and needs fixing, in order to fix me.



my countdown is ruined! everyone will pray on the wrong day! it was supposed to all be over by july 2nd! i do not like this change in plans!



oh hush. get some sleep. have some wine. plant something.



counting down to july 2nd...

it's a wonderful life

my favorite part of my favorite movie is when george bailey realizes he is alive after all, and screams his gratefulness, he can't wait to get home. problems are still tucked tight in his belt (along with zu zu's petals), but the important thing is, he has not missed out on having his life touched by so many, and likewise, he sees the way he has touched theirs.

dear george. there he is with his arm around mary in the living room, as friends and angels come forward one at a time, tossing dollar bills into the basket on the wrapping table, a flood of goodness that rose out of goodness.

i feel like that. all of your good wishes are pouring out of you and into me, into the creaky laundry basket that holds my heart, and i feel like i can't wait to get on with what is important, and take you all with me.

did you just hear a bell ring?

oh, everything will be fine!

as lady barbara would say, "next week at this time it will ALL be over!" she said that about holidays, visits, surgeries, weddings, graduations, and any other event that is circled in red on the calendar. events that we plan for, look forward to, and dream about; as well as events we worry about, dread, lose sleep over. i here her voice in this anxious mind of mine, that next week at this time it will all be over.

i am touched by so many who are thinking good thoughts and tell me they will pray for me (note: i know some of you aren't prayers, so cut that out). but at the same time, the fiesty impossible me thinks to herself

"quit it! you don't know that it will be fine! what if i have a stroke on the table? or bleed out? or they nick the back of my throat with that electrode such that i can never breathe or swallow comfortably again?!" these are all possibilities. remote, but stated, and therefore, real.

baby brat, worry wart, negative nellie -- say what you need to say, call it like you see it, what a grumpus. this is all true, all these words describe me this day. i embrace my gloominess, at least for today.

meanwhile, please keep telling me that everything will be fine.

because next week at this time it will all be over.