sinus rhythm

I Favor Walking

2011-03-27T12:13:00.001-07:00

I thought I heard Temple Grandin. Her voice was loud and strong, and each letter rolled out in perfect formation into a string of fast words. Her sentences were tightly connected with soulful inflection, syllable by syllable, word by word.

I was browsing at candles when I heard her from across the store, and quickly made my way to the jewelry counter so that I could be near her, and see her, and admire her.

Probably in her 50's, she wore a long, black wool coat, the back of which had been a resting place for a cat or dog. Her hair was long and clean, dark brown, dark red, shiny but matted in some places. Her lipstick was bright red and had been hastily applied, and her black suede Ugg boots were salted from winter.

The woman behind the counter was patient with her, smiled at her, as she spoke of her latest projects.

I am working on a new novel, it's historical, a historical novel, I love history and historical novels, it's historical. Did you ever read the book called The Girl with the Pearl Earring? They made it a movie it was a movie starring Colin Ferth. Do you know him he is a great actor, great actor. You know that movie the King's Speech was about the Queen's father, the real Queen, the one we have now, he was her father King George. She's pretty amazing. I have a client who is almost as old as she is and she still drives. I think it's ok to talk about my clients as long as I don't tell you their names, you know, confidentiality is important. But she drives and she is 81. Can you believe that? She is 81 and she drives still. I hope I can drive when I'm 81 still, because I CAN drive, I just favor walking. But that's an accomplishment, driving at 81.

I leaned on the counter adjacent to her, and looked at delicate silver jewelry and pretty things that sparkled, and enjoying myself listening to the woman with the wonderful mind.

The clerk politely excused herself, she had to get to work, and I liked that clerk. She was kind and giving of her time. She turned away from the cash register, looked at me, smiled, and rolled her eyes.

I didn't like her any more.

I got hurt the other day and it was on purpose. When that clerk rolled her eyes it reminded me how hard it is to trust the kindness of others, and what it feels like when a kind face turns on you to roll their eyes.

Luckily, the woman with the wonderful mind didn't see that part. She just asked, as the clerk was walking away

Would you mind if I browse for a while?

Math Paper

2011-03-11T12:54:00.000-08:00

Mr. Urquhart was a fat man who had two suits which he rotated throughout the week and by the end he was a little stinky from fat man sweat. Not the smell of sweat like after you work out in the same clothes time after time, but the smell from the way you sweat when you get just walking around when you are big like he was. He wore white shirts and boring ties that were never quite knotted properly and I wondered how he could tie those wide scuffed up shoes. Maybe someone else did it for him. I had heard he had a wife and 2 sons but it grossed me out to think about that.

He had a wide swagger when he walked into math class each day, the kind of wide swagger you have to adopt when your thighs are so far apart from each other. He had very thick dark hair, caterpillar eyebrows and heavy glasses framed in black plastic. He also could have used a manicure at any time. Serious hangnail issues.

Everyone loved Mr. Urquhart, except for me, mainly because he didn't like me back, and that is what you get when you dislike a 13 year old girl. He was loud and told jokes and paid special attention to the bad kids and the popular kids. This was his way of getting attention and being popular, himself, because the bad kids and the popular kids liked him right back.

To me he was just plain suspicious and mean.

For me, math was bad enough as it was. I didn't understand it and I still don't and he was quite wrong, I am doing just fine without a secure place in my brain where simple functions are performed with out the use of a calculator or dinner partner (for figuring out tips, of course). I had him twice, in 7th and 8th grade math, back to back years of confusing digit hell with the Fat Man.

One thing I did like about math, was the pad of paper they gave you at the beginning of the year. Math paper, they called it. It was a very light greyish brown bland color, with tiny, very tiny flecks of brown sprinkled on it, and it had a texture that loved a good Number 2 pencil.

I did alot of figuring and erasing and failing on the paper on that pad, but I did enjoy the pad itself. I liked the way lead pencil marks looked on it, and the feeling in my fingers when the pencil scratched at it. It made me feel like a scientist or a discoverer, even though I had no idea what I was doing. And so I used that paper for other things, too. I drew pictures and wrote goofy poems and once used it to start my first novel, "Mr. Huffininkle", which was intended to be a biography about my pet turtle of the same name. The cover came out pretty well, and so did the first chapter (well, paragraph), but it has yet to be published.

When Mr. Urquhart gave tests, he passed out the questions on freshly mimeographed sheets, cold and fumey, with purple typing. We would have to hand those sheets back in at the end, of course. Then he told us to take that math paper and fold it down the middle, making two columns. In the left column, you would do your figuring, and in the right column, record your answer. I suppose this made it easier for him to grade the papers without having to review the method of those kids who he knew would get the answers right anyway.

I failed one of those tests, and I was so upset and embarrassed, that I laughed and laughed and whispered to my friends directly to the north, south and west of me what I had done. They smiled uncomfortably, but I was determined to show everyone how brave I was, how cool I was to not be upset about this.

Mr. Urquhart called me out. He looked down at me, over those greasy glasses sliding his chubby nose :"It's really not funny, Linda. There is nothing funny about this."

Laughter quickly gave way to a hot red face, tears rimming my eyes, and feeling as if I had been locked in the stocks, up front, for all to see and make fun. God I hated that man.

Two weeks later, after a great deal of study and effort, we had another test. It was given on a Friday morning. On Friday afternoon, during Study Hall, I asked for a hall pass to check my test score in the Math Teachers office, and when he told me I had received an A+, he delivered the news with the same patronizing tone as he did when I had failed. I was thrilled for one moment, and sick the next when I realized what was going on.

He thought I had cheated.

I don't remember my final grade that year, or any year for that matter, until my freshman year in college, when my final grade of D was granted only because dear Mrs. Logan let me gain extra points by writing a math paper (her husband was my writing instructor, admired my work, and I believe he had a hand in this). The paper was about games you could play with numbers, though I never really understood the games, I told about them and it was well written.

Many of us think back on teachers who touched us, motivated and inspired us, but I really did not have too many of these. How messy to help an already awkward young teen to feel bad about herself, shame on you.

I think about that pad of paper every once in while, though, and while it was useful to some for solving problems, it was useful to me as a canvas for anything, anything other than

MATH.

I didn't believe this would happen to you

2010-12-16T16:51:00.001-08:00

i kept looking at her face in the picture. i kept thinking about who she was. i kept thinking about how what they said and who she was didn't match for me. the obit talked her age, mother of 4, wife of someone, but they didn't macth. my interactions with her included a fan that she needed to have fixed and various work order passed from her to me. i thought she was fine. i though she was ok. she worked the program she walked out the door.

i was in the supply room checking my mailbox,. paycheck, ok cool i pull d it out and looked up and i saw her obituary. i pushed my check back in the slot and i looked at her face and i thought what happened? does that make sense? nothing you can do about it.

iam happy to be here and sometimes it is like gosh you are my friend, don't go away. what it always means to have my friends, and to my friends, please always come back. just know you can come back . i know you may not want to but there are worse places to go you know?

there's my dog. you are my good dog. thank you my friend.

three fly masks, two old dogs and an unwelcome stomache flu

2010-09-12T14:36:00.000-07:00

My last morning here in the valley started out before I did. It was early and I thought I was snoozing and then the pain came and I won't say what else happened. I rolled and wretched,took a shower and packed, and then thought about the two and a half hour drive to Nashville, the final fun stop on my journey here. Oh boy! Sights and sounds! Music and beer and then a plane ride! And then a three hour layover and then another plane ride!

Oh my dear God.

A couple of phone calls and $59 dollars later I was opening my suitcase and pulling out a pair of shorts to nap the afternoon away on the porch. I don't like changing plans, and I want to go home, but why don't you just admit that sometimes things change, and that is ok. Got it, Draze?

After a snooze, I took a walk around the pastures with two old dogs and three lovely horses, all of whom are now friends of mine and I am their friend, too. I have learned a lot about old dogs and horses these last few days, and while the brown eyes of those tall babies melt my heart, they do get bothered by flies, and so that is why today they are wearing masks. They didn't seem to mind when my girlfriend put them on them (god she knows her stuff about horses!), and they were instantly calmer, even though they look a little like bank robbers.

I rode one of them yesterday, he is my favorite. He is a Tennessee Walker and a worrier like me, and so we get along very well. He loves to snuggle and gave me neck nuzzles after our ride. And so I will excuse the lite bruise on my left cheek where he gave me a little nip as I walked away....

You have to groom a horse before you can ride him. We don't want any crusty dirt on their coat where any of the straps or girth will be - that will irritate their skin. Grooming involves a hard curry brush first to loosen the mud, a soft brush next to brush off the dust, combing out the mane and tail, and finally, digging the mud out from their hooves. I did not do that part, but I did all the rest. It is important to let them know what you are doing all the time, where you are, what your intentions are, and what comes next, and then they happily oblige, and will follow you, and trust you, and maybe even love on you.

I have learned a lot from these boys, and as in every new learning, look for the lesson that is hiding behind the moment.
Maybe my stomache flu is a flu, and maybe there is a bit more to it than that. And that is all I will say about that for right now.

Home home home, I am on my way to you. I thought I had left all anxiety behind when I started out last Tuesday, but today I find I am wrong, but perhaps a good grooming will dust you away when I get there.

I miss you!

Waking Up

2010-09-09T04:47:00.000-07:00

I can't remember the last time I saw a surise but I did this morning and I can't stop thinking about it. It was a cool morning, dark and peaceful in the Valley, the best time of day for sleeping. I was waking up thinking about several delightful adventures I had just had, and relieved that my head had been full of dreams again,instead of dust and misery as it seems to have been lately when I slept. Country air clears the cobwebs, I guess.

There are two old dogs that live here, and by old, I mean OLD as in 16 or so years each. One is a cartoon character and other is a giant panting bear, and he is the one who I heard in the hallway. He pants a lot. Like Darth Vader. I opened the door and there he was wagging his butt and asking me to open the french doors to the upstairs porch for him, but when I opened them I realized he was asking me to open them for me, not for him.

Good dog.

Pink and blue and gold and orange and salmon and grey, all of these colors squirted and splattered over the mountains. Fuzzy clouds of silver mist floating over the pastures, and horses horses. Two of them across the way were lying down, snuggled like cats, and when they sensed my presence (although at least a hundred yards away and way up high), their heads shot up like two kids who just got caught making out. Everyone around here has horses, you can't look and not see them, and they are strange and peaceful beasts who sleep standing up with one hoof cocked and both eyes open.

So much for this being the best part of the day for sleeping. On the other hand, now that I have seen this painted sight, perhaps it's time again for bed, and dreams.

Big Truck, Great Friend, and a Lemon Tree

2010-09-08T13:27:00.001-07:00

I wasn't sure exactly what I was getting myself into, only that a lovely friend needed someone to ride shotgun as she drove a truck towards nashville, and I was selected as good company and someone who needed to get out of town. Cheap vacation to a place I had never seen, and that is about all I knew.

After a late start, due to a missing and necessary prescription that needed filling, my partner assured me we would be there shortly after midnight. Ahhh, the romance of a road trip -- great tunes, light traffic, and a heavy engine to roll us through the Wyeth painted Iowa cornfields. Beautiful! So many cornfields! Wow, look at all those cornfields. Really, there are so many cornfields...

Indianna finally crept up, and with it, more cornfields along with a casual remark from my partner that maybe we should have take the Wisconsin route after all, as were now about 253 miles away from half-way there. We oughta make it my 3, she said.

THREE?! IN THE MORNING AS IN TOMORROW MORNING? Hmmm. Approach with caution. I am the guest here, after all. Mustn't bite the hand that feeds you, or in this case, the hand of the gracious hostess who got me into this in the first place. A few choice words were politely exchanged, including a some that intimated that if our "departure time had not been delayed due to a medication situation" that we could have gotten there by at least TWO not THREE.

By that time we were laughing so hard we could barely breathe, and 253 miles flew past us into the dark, and by midnight we were singing along with Peter, Paul and Mary as we admired the sparkling night lights of Louisville, Kentucky.

Lemon tree, very pretty, and the lemon flower is sweet
But the fruit of the poor lemon, is impossible to eat.

Four more hours to go.

In the early morning hours the semi trucks - hundreds of them, kept us company for miles of kentucky and into tennessee. I had never seen so many! Huge beasts of steel and lights and shiny panels, loud and determined and very polite as they made their way to whereever they were going, and just as many cozied up next to each other in oddly poignant scenes by the side of road, dozens of big loads who decided to catch a snooze before sun up. It was a slumber party for PeterBuilt, tires tucked under massive rigs like sleepy paws pressed into tired bellies and dimmed headlights like sleepy eyelids.

Finally at 10 to 3, eastern time, we rolled into the valley (as they call it) to the sweet smell of hay and the welcoming tunes of crickets and frogs. There were horses out there somewhere, we will see those tomorrow, but for now, a glass of wine and then to bed.

In the morning I found myself a guest in a gracious southern home, with one refigerator filled with wine and the other , food, and a note about chores and "please make yourself at home". My darling traveling partner is happy tending to outdoor chores, and I am happy to sit and read and write and nap and find something useful to do with some fresh tomatoes, fettucini, and plenty of garlic for our dinner.

In my 50's I am finding that so many things that never used to feel like me are defining everything I truly am in a way I could not have imagined. Where are we going? South. When will we get there? In "several hours". Where are we staying? Someplace nice. How am I possibly going after an adventure like this with so little information? This is SO not like me!

Surprise on me! Yes it is.

And it turns out that the fruit of the poor lemon may indeed be impossible to eat, but squeezed on a little fresh pasta and argula, it is quite tasty, especially with a Biltmore Pinot Grigio.

Cheers.

Use Plenty of Caution

2010-07-04T15:09:00.000-07:00

Ella was a handful. She was born on a farm in 1843, but didn't pay much attention to farming, or even to domestic chores that young ladies were prone to do in those days, so as to ensure their future. She was a beauty and a flirt, a terrifc horsewoman, and always had her way. She had long, thick, black hair, black eyes to match, and a contra-alto voice that sent men swimming. Her curves were soft with strong muscle underneath, and she stayed out late most nights. She went to parties and sweated eggs in old haunted houses, then fell too deeply asleep for much too long, and had to tiptoe her horse into the barn, making certain there were no snorts from him nor creeks from the stall door. Her practice of this came in handy many years later when she advised her favorite grandson, Roland, how to sneak in the house after curfew.

She married a very hansome and well-loved man named Robert Wilcutts, of the Kent County Wilcutts. He was sweet and much more of a gentle soul than she, and many wondered why she left the gaity she loved for this kind man.

Perhaps she fell in love with him.

He was a farmer but also worked at odd jobs in the off-season, things like oystering, carpentry, logging and store keeping. They had two baby girls, and named them Laura and Annie, but soon there was so little work that Ella and Robert sent the girls off to live with relatives, who could better afford to raise them.

Soon after, they decided to take in a border to help with their situation, and a young doctor named Blocksom took the room. He was new in town, just setting up a practice, and found himself quite comfortable in the home of the Wilcutts.
He especially enjoyed the excellent care, attention, and affection Ella offered. And of course he never refused her hospitality.

Mrs. Tucker was a neighbor on one side of the Wilcutts and Mrs. Buckson was a neighbor on the other side. Being generally curious about the neighborhood, they habitually peeped in to the windows of their neighbors as necessary, just for the good of all. It was not long before they reported seeing Ella and the Doctor in "situations of closeness" clearly meant for married people.

Oh My.

Baby Robert, named after the man Ella swore was his father, died shortly after he was born. It was common in those days, for infants to die, so no one thought much of it, save to express sorrow.

Except those neighbors, of course.

Suddenly Ella announced to Robert that she needed some time away, and off she went to keep house for a retired widower in Willmington. Coincidentally, the Doctor also had freqent business in town. Robert knew this, and became very depressed, and starting keeping more and more to himself.

One afternoon, Mrs. Buckson and Mrs Tucker were concerned that Robert had been so quiet. No opening or closing of windows, no trips out to the back house, nothing at all. They peeked in the dining room window and saw him collapsed on the floor, chair upturned. The Doctor ordered them all out of the room once he'd arrived and broken down the door, but of course our ladies were excellent peekers, and so they peeked.

Robert had taken some poison whether by fate, intention or accident, but he was still alive. The Doctor leaned over to work on him but the peekers could not tell whether his hands were intending to strangle the man or help him to vomit.

To drown the accusations, the Doctor moved almost immediately to a new town, and married a woman named Sally Fisher.

Ella never married again.

But she was never alone again, either.

Cape Myrtle

2010-06-28T16:01:00.000-07:00

When Dad used to tell us stories, he always included a description of the landscape in which the story took place. The woods were very dense, and very dark. There was an english robin who nested in that magnolia tree each year. There were three large crepe myrtle trees on the back of the property.

Crepe Myrtle -- I imagined an old southern lady, named Myrtle, wearing a cape as she rocked in the breeze on her front porch in June. I knew it was "crepe" not "cape", but perhaps Myrtle wore a cape MADE of crepe, which would suit the playfulnees of the breeze. Her crepe cape would wisp up and into those breezes with elegant little puffs, and she would wave a Chinese paper fan across her rose petal skin as she greeted tpassers by.

Myrtle had lived in that plantation styled house for 84 years. She was born there, grew up there, and ,even as frailty started to test her old bones, she was there for the rest of it, the entire rest of it.

Her father had been a captain in the Merchant Marines and spent the better part of each year at sea. Sometimes she went along, but mostly she stayed home and loved her gardens and tended to her studies and friends. She married a dashing sailor at 17, but he died in the War some years later, and she never loved again.

She sat rocking in smart white shoes with dainty strings, and enjoyed the feeling of chiffon on her hosiery. Her hair was radiant silverwhite and perfectly coiffed and she loved this time of night. Neighbors with ice cream crusted children would pass and wave. The final deliveries of groceries and mail and ice always meant a chance for a wink from a hansom horse, or even a nice young man.

That was Myrtle and I have always wondered what happened to her, and I realized recently that I have never actually seen Crepe Myrtle, that is until i walked into one.

Well, drove into one. No, drove past one, in the parking lot of an outlet mall in Orlando. I had never seen one!! Delicate lilac blooms on long thin bowing branches with bright green paintbrush leaves.

Perfect!

That tree did look like my Myrtle after all, face to the sun and arms swaying in the breeze

So now I know what happened to her, and it is a lovely ending.

6 Weeks and 70 Years

2010-06-27T13:26:00.000-07:00

Six years into the beginning of the last century, a baby boy was born to a delicate little lady with bright blue eyes and a Captain of the sea. The baby boy grew into a strong man who commanded the ocean himself, and navigated the deep waters that became his life. He loved three woman, and lost the first two before the the third one lost him. Two boys came along, and later, two girls, and we all belonged to him, because he was our Dad.

He told us stories about the first time he saw an electric lightbulb ("Don't look at it son, you will go blind"), and about building a radio out of a 5 cent crystal and an empty container of Quaker Oats. He went to war and sank a Japenese submarine, ran from an angry tribal chief on Papua, New Guinea, was the first to navigate the waters of the China Straits, at night, with nothing but a map from the 1800's. He loved Gunsmoke and always had a garden, he fed the birds and shot squirrels and told great stories and loved us all, each differently, each in a way that only belonged to he and each of us.

I heard a song today called "Closing Time" and part of the lyrics tell us

Closing time
Time for you to go out
To the places you will be from.

Closing time
So finish your whiskey or beer.
Closing time
You don't have to go home
But you can't stay here.

It was closing time in our family, and it closed slowly more than 30 years ago as one by one we went off to the places we are now from. Through the decades we came together in bits and pieces when someone died or another married, but always because of something and not because of us. Some of us raised families and some of us changed families and most of us have found our way and are enjoying the content of our own lives, and as for me, I am struggling a bit, and searching to find something I haven't yet found, but I am looking and I am getting closer, especially after

Last week.

Brother John, the second of the four, was the brilliant creator of a week like none of us has never known. We arrived in Orlando two by two and four by four, and when all were counted there were nearly 30 of us. One of us was 6 weeks old and the oldest almost 70, and in between we were were 2, and 4, and 5, and 7, and in our 20's, 30's 50's and 60's. We poured over Dad's papers and photos, pieced together stories, and remembered things that others had forgotten. We decided the life of Roland should really be told, it should be a book or a movie. I was nominated to take the first crack at this but I am not certain I am up to it, and anyway where would I start?

Maybe I should start with Orlando. We drank wine and swam at night and cooked and dined and laughed and laughed. Big cousins tossing little cousins in the pool, talking about Star Wars and princesses. Sisters and brothers and nieces and nephews and great nieces and nephews, meeting for the first time and hugging and smiling. Every day was more fun than the last and every morning the phone would ring and even without caller ID, I knew the person on the other end was someone I loved, some one of my family, and someone I would spend at least part of the day with. And at the end of the day, the family swim in the moonlight brought more stories and songs and conversations about Tom Waitts, faith, and baseball.

And so, we are a family. Most of us have experienced the enormous joy that is a family, but each in his or her own way, with their own kin, but I have not. I have loved them one at a time, but have truly felt for so many years that I really didn't have a family, and felt sad and envious of something missing from my life.

It is not missing any more.

Last week was the perfection of hope realized and the probability of our arms around each other forever. It was comfort and rest, and common blood realizing the spirit of our family.

We are the Blocksoms, and we have finally

Come home.

you know what daddy would say...

2010-03-16T20:18:00.000-07:00

i don't like putting things away. i like getting them out, but i am not very good at the follow-up. loading the dishwasher is fine, unloading is boring. the thrill of christmas decorations being dug out of boxes is so much fun, but the manger scene loses its' magic sometime in march. so to manage that, i find it is best to leave things be, not bring them out, shhhh! stay there.

on mondays for four years, i would pick up mom's groceries and take them into her apartment kitchen and do my best to put things away. it took her a while to wheel and waddle out to the table, she in her crinkly sleepy robe, all out of plans and opinions except for one: "linnie, are you going to close that cupboard? are you done in there? oooo you know what your daddy would say... you are going to hit your head on that door if you don't close it.....oooo you should shut that cupboard door, linnie.

which is why i left it open.

daddy was there when nightmares appeared and he chased away those bad cupboard monsters. he just did, he was brave that way. today i learned that monsters and nightmares show up in more places than dreams, they show up in your waking times, too, just as scary and just as threatening if you dont' happen to be looking. just like a kitchen cupboard door left open while you prepare a grilled cheese sandwich for your mom....raise your head and smack your eye on the corner of that faux wooden door...yes, just like that. bad dreams show up in broad daylight and slam you good, only because you raised your head at the wrong moment. you should have been looking but you were not, and now you have a black eye whether you deserve it or not.

my head is aching and so are my eyes and so is the rest of me.

hey daddy, will you close that cupboard door for me, please, so i can sleep?

ok fine, i'll do it myself.

but only if you promise to chase all my monsters.

really?! deal. sweet dreams.

this is why we live here

2010-03-14T14:24:00.000-07:00

oh the things we find when all the windows are open for the first time in 7 months. the dirty snow finally gave up and disappeared into the march mud just like the wicked witch of the west. hey there is my other garden clog! that dirty wet candle reminds me of a warm night long ago and i hear us laughing and smell the fire. oh and a broken and trampled string of lights, but weren't those pretty on the fence last Christmas?

in minnesota we live for this. we know that the shortest season of our growing up and old is only a few months long, and when the first day dawns we go a little crazy. we see how big the kids up and down the street have grown, we raise our faces to the sun and think about what to grill and where are our shorts? it's 55 degrees ladies! time for a pedicure.

dear today, thank you so much for being the most perfect day, even though it is one hour short. i am so loving the way you look today.

great job, linda

dear heart

2010-03-13T13:30:00.000-08:00

a friend suggested i might enjoy a website she found, because of the whimsical writing. the website is thxthxthx.com and it is filled with tiny thank you notes that a woman writes to somethign she is thankful for every day. today she thanked a yellow highlighter for keeping her focused in her reading and she also commented on the pretty color. once she thanked her pounding headache for reminding her that whiskey before bed is not such a good idea. and once she thanked london for being easier to fly into than paris.

gratefulness was trendy a few years ago, wasn't it? books like simple abundance encouraged us to keep a "gratefulness journal" and add to it every day. oprah swore to us that it would improve the quality of our lives. it would give us a way to call attention to the good fortune we have through friends and loved ones and good food fresh air and clean water. and i used to do that, either in writing or before falling asleep, and the gratefulness experts are right, it does focus one's perspective for the better.

and yet i really think Leah, in thxthxthx is on to something much smaller and much bigger and grander. she points out the little things that play a role in her day, things that tease her or test her or help her or hate her, and she finds something that each thing or experience pointed out to her or taught her or reminded her of.

here i sit in bed on a fragrant march saturday, waiting for my heart to settle down after a long, long time of it being steady and dependable. i can't blame it for feeling confused because i have done a great job lately of confusing myself.

and so my thank you note today is this

dear heart, thanks for reminding me that letting things get to me the way i have is not moving me towards anyone i hope to someday be, and i must work on that. so you just go ahead and flip around a little longer and that is ok with me.

you are terrific! xox, linda

silence is blue

2010-03-05T07:46:00.000-08:00

why do they say silence is golden? day 2 of my retreat and i am finding silence to be much more than golden. silence is blue like the lake and the astonishing peaceful sky above it. silence is crackly maple logs popping in the fireplace, tiptoe-y like the little drips of coffee making their way into the pot, silence is a smile from a stranger, a hot cup of soup, a long night's rest.

yesterday at the lemon wolf restaurant in beaver bay, i sipped my soup wine and watched three old best lady friends celebrating something or nothing over lunch. "she'll have a chardonnay and i'll have a cabernet and she'll have coffee cause she is driving - haw haw haw!" she instructed the waitress to put the wine on one bill, the food on another, and the dessert on a third, as that is how they decided to split things up.

they had on pretty pantsuits and bright lipstick and they talked about wi fi and someone's neice in colorado and how if anyone calls you up and you don't know them and they ask for your credit card information, why that is a scam and you better run!

it feels so good to be quiet and observe, take notes in my brain and just rest rest and rest.

today's adventure includes a long walk at gooseberry falls, a hot bath, long nap, and more observations

about silence.

dreaming north

2010-03-04T05:45:00.000-08:00

i wonder where the words have gone, i think i know but i still miss them, and i am spending some time up north trying to get them back. they used to tumble around like puppies and eventually straighten themselves into pretty patterns of thought, and sometimes they even meant something.

snuggled in bed on a gorgeous morning, smelling coffee and looking out on lake superior, wondering if the quiet i am finding here will stir something up and bring me back to earth, or to home, or at least to some place normal and familiar so that i can get on with things. there has been no getting on of late, only getting by, getting sad, getting tired.

today i am going to try again for the millionth time to ice skate - a simple thing but something i am bad at, and have always wanted to be able to do. i took lessons once (what a disaster), but i have never been able to relax enough to glide. sometimes i can scoot a little, but no gliding. so many things i want to do but i don't believe i can so i give up and put my head down and forget about it.

i think all of that is about to change, and very soon, and i think it will start with a nice skate.

or a broken hip,

we'll see.

think inside the box

2009-12-27T15:32:00.001-08:00

it's a business term, "think outside the box". we all know what it means - be open to new ideas, be fearless, creative, daring. it is a metaphor i understand, and try to honor, but i am weary of it.

a ride across the river today made me think of a big box, a great big box that always came down from the attic or up from the basement soon after thanksgiving. and when it was dragged dusty into the living room, the christmas season had arrived. everything necessary for a festive season was inside - lights and ornaments, garland and bubble lights, the sparkly green rotating tree that spun on a tall needle with the help of a 25 watt green bulb. there was a creche and some stockings, and tinsel and old fashioned reflectors.

my sister and i loved that box and everything it in it. at the end of the season when it came time for a new year, we would pack christmas back in there, carefully very carefully. sometimes we would write a note to ourselves and leave it on top, so that when the box was opened the following year we would find a piece of paper wishing merry christmas to us, with love, from us.

that particular box was one to think inside of, not outside. the box held tradition and memories and always hope, all disguised in purples and greens and reds. it smelled like dried pine and ancient cardboard and it reminded us that no matter what else was happening christmas would come and it would go and it would come again. the box held hope, old surprises ever new,

and promise.

i feel short on those things just now, short on hope, and short on promises. short on patience, short on sleep, short on energy, fascination and perserverence.

and so as i remember that box, i am also reminded that thinking inside could be just the tonic i need.

remember that no matter how the world is spinning out of control, sometimes crashing like a an agry wave on a frozen shore, that there is always hope and always promise, all tucked in and waiting for whenever the time comes that i am ready to receive them again.

so a wish and a hope

for happy new year,

and several of them.

thanks for visiting come back soon

2009-11-28T15:42:00.001-08:00

i hadn't traveled for a holiday in a long time. in the past few years the places i used to go were not there any more. there were new places but i was too sick or overwhelmed to go there, so plans were cancelled at the last minute or never made at all.

a crisp blue sky had been shaken out like a bedspread over scenic highway US 31 today. resorts and gingerbread houses, shops and docks and supperclubs and bandshells. sweet summer homes with a view of lake michigan buttoned up for the winter, tinsel lollipops and wreathes and candles fastened on the light poles, up high. in one small town there was a balsam in the square in the middle of town. it was 60 feet tall and covered from tip to its' final bough in shiny paper plates - hundreds of them. it looked like an activity the whole town had been on, as some were ornately decorated with patterns and textiles and ribbons, and others had simple smiley faces or crayon scrapes. they all swayed in the thanksgiving breeze, each dangling in their places by a length of red yarn.

people must be happy here. look at all those families wandering around with smiles and coffee and bags. and a couple dressed exactly alike, in black paints and orange jackets with black stripes, laughing arm in arm as they walked their two black labs.

people must be happy here.

a few miles down the road afther the miles had flown fast under the truck, the scenic highway changed it's mind. every half mile or so, another small broken house with its' eyes shut tight. torn shades and sheets in the windows, plastic over most of one side, no front step and a few beaters in the yard. the houses were not worth much, nor did the lots they were on, i imagined. and i wondered what kind of a holiday unfolds in those kitchens and living rooms?

and whether or not people are happy in there.

2009-11-15T15:07:00.000-08:00

something hit me in the grocery store today, something sad. i was reaching for a bottle of capers and it was like an emotional hot flash. suddenly i felt quieter and kinder and like i was missing something or someone, missing badly.

this is my favorite season, this beautiful fall, and it is also a season of loss for me. mom and martha died in september, dad in october, jim in december. i lost forever the freedom of never having to think about my heart in november. the weather is blessedly cool, even cold - which i adore, the colors are crazy spilled paints on even the most depressing canvas, everything that is dying is beautiful.

i went to an art show yesterday. my darling cyndi was showing her mosaics and 3d collages at a place called the casket arts builing in northeast minneapolis. they used to make caskets - for people, not for wine) there years ago, and now it is 4 floors of warm stone walls, planed and polished wood floors, skylights and comfortable cushions, and 4 stories of artists.

cyndi's art was the best of course, and how pretty she was in her blazer and black skirt! she fixed a round of vodka pomegranite cocktails on the rocks, and, after visiting with her, i went off to explore.

the artists, all siting in studio, seemed very far away from me, even if they were happy to have visitors, which most were. there were a few that seemed to be slathered in their own pain, so as to have a greater impact on the viewer. after all, if you want to be an artist you have to be afraid of something.

i felt out of place. even the pieces i loved the most could only hold me for a minute, because it hurt to look at them. where does this come from? the ideas for the color, texture, content, medium? how do they think this stuff up? it makes me feel like i am missing something. i gues this is the appropriate season to feel that.

i want something. i want to be something like they are, do something like they do. i don't understand any of it, and it scares me.

on the other hand, like i said, you have to be afraid of something, right?

that guy's not amish

2009-09-26T16:01:00.000-07:00

on a perfect, perfect, early fall afternoon, i noticed an ad in a magazine about Amish mantles. it is a two page spread and it talks about the miracle heaters that slash bills and look so real it's amazing. the portable "Roll-n-Glow Fireplaces" are a home decorating sensation, it says. Good Housekeeping has given them a thumbs up. you will save money: each unit only uses about 8 cents an hour; so turn down your thermostat and never be cold again~!

these babies are handmade in the heart of Amish country USA, and there is a limit of two per household. you know those amish handcrafters, they would hate to overpromise.

my eyes wander back to the photo of the Amish factory where these are made and i say to myself, hey, that guy's not Amish!

the "Amish guy" in the photo has nice cheekbones, a fake beard, and a belly. everyone knows Amish men don't have bellies.

a lass behind him has on a crisp green frock and a pastry cap nesting on her neat coif as she lovingly massages oiled cloth into the swirled wood surface of a handmade mantel.

she's fake too.

i feel like i know more about what is real and not real today, this luscious fall afternoon. because last night i went back home and found my real.

i played comedysportz from 1990 - 2002. i was an orginal member, i was funny, and i could sing. after my first 10 years there i realized that in the past decade everything about my life had changed...my job, my career, my marriage, my circle of friends, my family...so much evolution! the one thing that remained a constant through all those changes was comedysportz. a troupe with a big heart and a lot of determination and we had 6 opening nights because when we got kicked, we got up. and sometimes we were kicked pretty hard.

i left 7 years ago because i felt too old, too fat, too unfunny, and too unwelcome. perhaps those things were not true, but that was how i felt when i walked out for the last time. it was after an 8 o'clock show on a Friday evening in October, 2002.

last night i cashed in my invitation to play again, after 7 years, to celebrate the 20th. nervous, so nervous!!!!

i had the time of my life.

my friends and i have all grown up and we have all turned out so well! we felt honored to see each other, we each wanted every other each to have a great time and that happened, that did happen because of us!

for so long i have worn myself out thinking about how i should be, just how should i be?

Like this!

just like i was with my friends on stage last night. i felt more real in the imgaination of the evening than i have for a very long tie. art imitates life after all!

and they say you can't go home again.

i've died and gone to dayton's

2009-08-20T16:05:00.001-07:00

the name has changed three times in the last several years but it will always be daytons to me. thirty years ago when i was new to minnesota i had heard about this department store temple, mecca, icon...i had no money back then and my college debt was mounting, but i could share a cup of wild rice soup with a girlfriend in the skyroom. it came with a free popover, cold ice water in thick glass goblets and service that made us both feel fabulously wealthy. all for under ten bucks.

in my early 30's my best friend, frank and i would go to daytons and breathe the perfume, play with cosmetics and browse the sale racks. we would usually end up in the men's department where my darling frank would buy smoothe new packages of white polo briefs (easier than doing laundry). we would look at the jewelry and choose a new scent for him so he would smell good for his new boyfriend. and on our way out, even though i was still strapped for cash, he would pull me to the clinique counter and insist i purchase something because it was give-away-time.

and then we would walk down the center aisle, flanked by lancome and estee and chanel and we would feel so rich under those magnificent fairy tale chandeliers. his boots and my flipflops slapping on the white marble, with beautiful people in pastel smocks behind glittering counters smiling at us; have a great day!

frank and i thought we should design a logo that said

i've died and gone to dayton's

dayton's!

no one did christmas like dayton's. decades ago, the window displays were temporarily given over to puppets and holiday scenes. shiny dollmaker elves tapping a smile onto a doll in one motion, and placing it in a box the next. mrs santa taking cookies out of the oven, then winking and putting them back in. fluffy snow and tiny brass bands -- a wonderland of windows at 8th and nicollet.

i bought my first pair of contacts at dayton's. and pair of faux snake pumps when i could wear that kind of thing. a pink silk suit for a keynote presentation in front of an international audience; and the best little black dress that ever was.

it was a thick jersery material, off the shoulder with a belt and circle skirt -- i looked at it and looked at it and looked at it and it was finally 40% off and in my closet shortly thereafter. we went to the theater together, that dress and i, and out to dinner, and to weddings, and it was that kind of dress that fit me no matter what and looked almighty every time.

it was a sleepy at dayton's today, when i stopped in to pick up a few things for vacation. i wandered all over the 4th floor (lingerie, women/children's apparel, better dresses, bridal salon, beauty shop), choosing items here and there. as i packed up my things in the third or eight dressing room i noticed something was missing.

my purse.

the sales associates who caught me as i blasted from the fitting room went into immediate action.

where were you? which department? did you use any other fitting rooms? let the other sales associates on 4 know that a purse is down! for the love of god, call security!

and most importantly

OMG it was a COACH - we have to find it!

we found it. a very nice woman in one of the fitting rooms picked it up and told me she was going to bring it out to the desk after she finished trying on this one blouse, but she heard me so "OH SHIT". she peeked out the door and said "lose your purse?"

i was so relieved, i thanked her profusely and told her that color looked great on her (which it did).

walking out of daytons up the center aisle i smelled citrus and musk, lilacs and roses, clean linen and pineapple. i had my purse, i had some new shorts and a new bra.

but i can't remember what ever happened with the little black dress.

the devil is in the details

2009-08-17T14:14:00.000-07:00

i have long envied those people you see sitting at coffee shops in the middle of the day. they sit there with iced lattes and italian sodas and chat or read or facebook or write or just sit. how can those people be so lucky to be sitting at an outdoor cafe on a gorgeous august day in shorts and straw hats? don't they work? maybe this is their day off or maybe they are on vacation or unemployed or rich.

i was one of those people today. after several weeks of thinking i would be one of them sooner, i finally felt well enough to take my place at the neighborhood coffee shack, order up a tall cold one with lots of ice and put my feet up in the shade. ah, this is living!

there were plenty of tables next to mine but the two friends who were there to catch up with each other chose the one right next to mine, and it was RIGHT next to mine. there was plenty of room for me to slide my table over or for them to, but i did not want to appear rude so kept on sipping and faking a good read.

they were in there early 4o's and a bit hippie-ish, maybe i felt that way because i spent 4 hours watching woodstock this weekend, but he did have a very long ponytail and she, a mass of long curls. they wore simple t-shirts and shorts and rugged sandals and her toenails were too long and painted mauve. he sipped a hot beverage and nibbled on cheesecake, she had a root beer and they both smoked marlboro lights.

being a sometimes smoker myself, i would not have expected to be annoyed by their puffs but i was. it wasn't just the cigarettes, she was loud and i mean loud and did i say loud. they talked about being unemployed and possible job opportunities, they shared bar gossip and then he talked about the new book he was starting to write. evidently it will start in a coffee shop. there didn't seem to be much to the plot but she was oo-ing and wow-ing over every phrase, leaning and and telling him how proud she was of him.

they each had cell phones and who doesn't these days, and i wondered if cell phones are partly responsible for people being so public about all of their their conversations. voices are louder and bigger than they used to be. it feels intrusive to me, and a little bit rude. no more quiet tones and private sharing, just lamplified sentences colliding over coffee.

there was a woman in the grocery store yesterday who stood within an arms reach of the spice aisle with her cart and she was having a long conversation with someone about this and that who would be at the party and did she really say that? she was standing solidly and did not react to an excuse me as i tried to get in front of her in search of a good rib rub. spice i mean, i was not interesed in rubbing her ribs although i suppose we were close enough.

last week it was a jewish man with long grey curls cascading from his yamaka, standing so close to the dvd's at half-price books i could not see the middle of the alphabet. excuse me...no reaction. pardon me...nope. he talked about who was picking up which kids and how did that all turn out and what time whatever whatever.

i'm an observer. it is what i love and what i do best and i am still trying to figure out how to make money at it. i remember useless but sometimes interesting details -- and even so, it annoys me that i can't just ignore these people and their details and go back to my browsing or reading.

in the meantime, human beings are so much more intimiate with conversations they have in public with people they cannot see than they are involved in what is happening in their own space in each moment. what is it about being able to connect with anyone any time that washes away any self consciousness we used to feel when we called people from a phone booth? a booth! a whole tiny private room!

but here we are chatting up everything from the mundane to the most serious comparisons of the human condition, and we do it on the lightrail, or on the sidewalk, or at gate 35 on the green concourse or in the spice aisle. privacy does not seem to matter, and with that, good manners sometimes disappear, too.

oh well, like i said

this is living.

it's a johnny bravo world

2009-08-05T15:48:00.000-07:00

you remember that episode, don't you? greg brady thinks he is getting his big break and will be a hip rock star. they give him this groovy pantsuit - elvis inspired - lots of sparklies and he thinks he is the coolest cat ever! all that talent wrapped up in polyester and sequins...what a dream come true. but after his recording session he is so confused -- "hey that doesn't sound like me at all!"

well of course kid. we don't really care how good you can sing, cuz we can make it sound however we like. point is, you fit the suit.

my new friend and i were talking on the phone the other afternoon, she 5 weeks further into her recovery than mine, so each of us trying not to laugh but making each other laugh anyway, and bonnie pointed out that people seem to get famous for no apparent reason these days -- case in point, paris hilton or the kardashians. the suit fits and it looks great on camera so AFTER that, they figure out how to move around in that suit and how to talk and what to say and how will it play on camera. in some cases it does not matter who you are or what you have to say in the first place - if the suit fits everything can be changed around to satisfy the designer.

lately i have been obsessed with the beales of grey gardens. i missed the hbo movie but got my hands on the orginial documentary, thinking it would be interesting to see how those two crazy broads justified what seemed like outrageous behavior to the rest of the world.

oh my, was i surprised.

we all are characters of one sort or another, but some of us are much better at it than others.

nothing was really crazy at grey gardens, in fact it was refreshing and touching to see two women who were so unashamedly authentic. big edith sits sunning herself naked but for a towel in one scene and later sings old songs in a strong voice from her bed. little edith wears turbans with brooches and marches to a dance number in the hall. she chose her outfits with such care and orginality that she inspired a layout in Vogue magazine. several cats and piles of piles might not be something most of us would call "homey" but these two women were as real and true to themselves and to the world than anyone who creates a persona only after finding out what it should be used for.

it is a good and valuable lesson.

edith says it much better than i....see what you think, and thanks ladies!

http://http//www.youtube.com/watch?v=vWEeJbuF3bM

where everybody knows your name

2009-07-31T20:59:00.000-07:00

even thought they know your name, they ask you all the time anyway, and then what is your birthdate, just to make sure you are you but they all know your name. hi linda hi linda good morning linda how are you linda...

there is much to do in pre-op, lots of questions and a new outfit with vacuum cleaner hose holes and fuzzy socks with treads, a cap for later. i was uneasy and nervous when the double doors outside my cube burst open and a gigantic man with big blue jeans, a black polo shirt and a worn out canvas brief case barreled his presence into pre-op. he tried to sneak by my bed but nice nurse tammi nabbed him and there he was towering over me grabbing at my right hand. he was the pillsbury dough boy crossed with an old ray bolger with a little bit of jack nicholson attitude.

the nurse said "we were just going to find a good vein but then we saw you and you are so much better at it"... and without even saying hello he flicked the top of my right hand hard with long knockworst fingers and then smacked it again and within a second the needle was deep in my vein and i was iv ready. this big old grumpy grampa in a black polo shirt did it almost with his eyes closed, taped it all down and that was that.

off he went and nice nurse said "he just happened to be on his way in and i grabbed him, he's the best. he will be your anesthesiologist"

uh oh.

i was crying when they wheeled me into the operating room which has become my habit and it comforts me that no one notices or is bothered by it. there are so many of them and there is so much to do and they each have their special tasks. the way they took charge of every piece of me was so comforting. i had no idea what was happening, but to them, it was just a wednesday morning.

ok linda we're going to slide you over, put your bottom right above that hole. we're going to wrap you up and tuck your arms under you. now we are wrapping your legs with these these pressure cuffs to keep your blood moving nicely and we are going to put lots of stickers on you, sit up just a little honey, ok lie back down linda now you are going to start to feel relaxed...

bring it on dr b.

many hours later, in the middle of the night, a storm rolled in over downtown minneapolis and i was so glad it was all over. time for a check of vitals and a dose of an iv blood product, which of course required the nurse to ask me my name again.

what's your name honey?

mariah carey.

:)

eviction notice

2009-07-25T16:43:00.000-07:00

i can't believe i ever called her my friend. that bitch. she showed up when i was 12 and terrified me. i didn't know who or what she was but there she was, in front of me, a part of me and i have never liked her. my sister told me who she was and how long she'd be staying and then finally gave me her copy of "growing up and liking it" which she had received when she was a girl scout. i never received my own copy, having never made it past one season of brownies.

i have had it with you, old maid. we have spent approximately 2,736 days together these past 38 years and i haven't enjoyed one of them. not one!

remember the time you showed up unexpectedly when i was just starting to teach a class on leadership in st cloud? it was my birthday and i drove through the thickest scariest fog to get there and you followed me. i wasn't ready for you but you SO didn't care. i was already so stressed but you just laughed out loud and made me feel self-conscious.

or what about when you marched your ass into the dressing room opening night of "into the woods" at theater in the round? you didn't peak around the corner this time, or give me a coy little poke and wink saying "here i come...i'll be with you soon..." no -- this time you fell from the sky in a heavy drunken thump and freaked me out because again you were not expected till next week and dammit my costume - my GOWN-- it was white and you almost ruined my evening.

so you old hag, a couple of weeks ago notice was thereby issued that i am to be rid of you once and and for all and i told you there was nothing you could do about it.

but you, in your tenacious, stubborn, SNEAKY way, decided to have one last hurrah, didn't you. you tangled yourself up at 4 this morning and then you twisted and punched at the tangles and woke me up to torture me one last time. bonus for you -- i can't take ibuprofen for the next few days because of you know why, and you are delighted! listen ragsucker, that is a super mean trick.

i'm trying to think of something nice to say about you, and about the time we have spent together but, sorry aunt flo, nothing is striking me. instead i am remembering the days before over-the-counter medication that actually worked was available. those days of lying in agony with a hot pad on my stomache and the only thing that that did was burn my skin and make my hair sweat. you made me cry and you made me ache and i have hated you and you need to GO!

wait a sec -- there might be something. give me a minute.

ok, here's one: whenever you visited in the seventh grade, you were my "no questions asked" excuse not to have to take a shower after gym class. i hated that ritual and i was never sweaty anyway but those mean old coaches with pleated skirts and tanned varicose veins insisted we get nude and rinse off. god i was glad when you were there!

and you know what? nobody craves a better feast than you. today, in preparation for our parting, you drove me to porters for a gigantic cheeseburger and fries and two cold beers. midafternoon you lured me into the bedroom, presented me with a pile of fresh pillows, a glass of wine and a great chick flick, and you gave me permission -- no! a directive -- to lounge for a couple of hours even though so many things needed doing.

and what about those times that i paced the floor waiting for you - sometimes for days, and i worried i might not see you -- not for several months! those were crushingly tense days and nights. but you always did arrive, and when you did i cried my eyes out, so relieved that you decided to come and only sorry about the pain after my joy had subsided.

OK OK, we've been through a lot together. but listen cousin, time for you to go. we are getting along worse than ever these days and it isn't good for either one of us.

wednesday is the day, so be sure and say everything you need to say before 7am on the 29th. go ahead, say what you need to say.

by the way, thanks for ordering up spaghetti and garlic bread for dinner, my friend,

and brownies for dessert.

if there is anything else, i am listening.

edna's dreams

2009-07-21T17:05:00.000-07:00

to eliminate any confusion, "edna lizard" is an annagram (spelling?) for my real name. some of you know that....

even still -- she is a real someone, that edna - a switched up mixed up, more enlightend me, and i adore her. and her lessons.

in the entries here, i typically try very hard to make sense out of an observation, a thought, a conversation, a fear...

but on edna's blog, she just describes what she sees and smells and feels when she is dreaming.

love that about her. edna says

"things don't need to make sense right now. patience child! just keep observing. the meaning will come if you don't try to make sense of it, so stop trying".

ednadreaming.blogspot.com

madonna in the poop

2009-07-17T15:37:00.000-07:00

a young hispanic man went outside to wash his truck yesterday and noticed some bird poop on one of the mirrors. miraculously, the poop had drizzled itself into a perfect vision of the virgin mary (they super-imposed mary over the poop spot on the news and i mean i totally saw the holy mother in that poop!!!!!).

it has become quite the spectacle! people are stopping by and kneeling in front of the rearview mirror shrine and praying and crying. one woman who was interviewed at the scene said "when i first saw it, i started shaking. it is such a miracle!"

i'm fascinated in learning about what people believe in. in the book "the magic of believing" claude bristol talks about his studies of various religions, cults, and spiritual practices around the world. he found one common denominator in all of them -- and that is that every person believes. some believed they would be safe and unharmed walking across fire, and for others it was commiting their souls to heaven, others still, praying for rain -- whatever it was they were believing in...

it worked.

is this an example of the power of our minds to accomplish things? the power of the connection between our hearts and the universe? the tendons stringing our mortal will to our own destinies?

belief in itself is a mystical thing. it brings comfort, assurance and quiet. in it's purest form, it eliminates all doubt from the things we hope for and dream of...all of those thingsthat we know are right and true and necessary.

the guy who owned the truck said he has removed the mirror and will preserve the stain so people can continue to stop by and look at it

and believe.

what are you trying to prove?

2009-07-16T16:29:00.001-07:00

i had an idea last night that combines my fascination for three things i have been studying for a little time or a long time: creativity, mindfulness, and self-awareness.

i got the idea from an article in "O" magazine so of course that means once i make a pile'o dough my "product" will be one of Oprah's favorite things.

kathie helped me bat the concept around this afternoo. kathie has such a great mind for this kind of thing and maybe i see that because we think so much alike. when either of us sprouts a new idea, the other looks into her brain as if it were a mirror but we each are looking at different elements of the image.

she is brilliant.

anyway, this process, this "kit", i have created will give the bearer of it the ability to record an idea, thought, moment, or conversation instantly -- and no technology allowed.

after some time passes, we shall look back on our musings reflect on why we chose them, how we represented them, where they came from, and why they were worty of documentation...

and that will tell us a LOT!

kathie said "what? what will it tell us? what do we expect might happen or what we might find, or what might this experiment prove?"

these are very good questions. however,

hush! i don't know what will happen yet! it is just an experiment.

and it starts tomorrow.

oops!

tonight!

michael jackson

2009-07-07T18:14:00.001-07:00

i'm watching a recap of michal jackson's funeral with barbara walters, a glass of wine and my own broken promise - "no cigarrettes allowed in the bedroom".

when michael was alive i was one of many who called him a freak, a sad case, a crazy disturbed man. what did he do to those kids and why so many surgeries? freak!

now that he is gone the world is joining in a celebration of the talent, the genius, the gift that he was, and that is what we are remembering.

turns out the bad stuff was conjecture. never proven, no factual evidence that held up in court. all hear-say from people much less rich and perhaps more vulnerable than michael. but we are not remembering that now, now that he is dead we are feeling sorry for him, and for ourselves.

true or false, it reminds me that there are so many more sides than one to each story, and how we as humans tend to latch on to the worst side -- the alleged bad behavior, the things that someone said that someone said. we forget the talent and we forget the genious and we forget the goodness and are not aware of the legacy

until someone is gone.

and then we forget all of that gossip and feel thankful for what he or she was, gave us, and aren't we better people for forgiving him. oh forget all the bad thoughts we had -- what a great loss!

as it happens, he doesn't need our forgiveness, not any more, he's dead. but we forgive and celebrate to make ourselves feel better and hopefully he will hear us now because we were silent when he was with us and now we have changed our minds. some of us anyway, others believed in him all along.

i am feeling a bit ashamed of myself, to have judged a man who had such a sad and tortured life. rather than try to understand, to believe in the gift, to just let him be in my imagination, i joined the gossip, shook my head, and muttered about the tragedy of what he had become, all the time turning my back on the greatness.

to be human, and to cling to the human response of scandal is something many of us do, and i only hope there is a lesson here.

some stories are never truly told. lies become reality and truth lives in darkness.

rest in peace michael jackson,

my profound regrets for not truly honoring your life

till now,

now that you are gone.

S & H Greenstamps

2009-06-22T17:18:00.000-07:00

the s & h greenstamp redemption center in west barrington, rhode island was a magnificent place, a long time ago.

when i was a kid they gave out s & h greenstamps at almacs, the grocery store in downtown barrington. i don't know what the ratio was between dollars spent and stamps issued, but after the total purchase amount was determined, the cashier would tap in the dollar amount of our purchase in the fancy stamp dispenser on top of her register, spin the wheel, and like magic strings and strings of tiny green stamps would swirl around her hands and into ours (mom's).

in the very olden days the stamps came out like teeny tiny green rectangles, all in perfect sheets of perforation-- red-"s" stamped splendor. in the nearly not so olden days, an innovation resulted into larger green stamps worth 10 each. so instead of filling an entire page with tiny stamps you could lick one column of the tenners for the same value. genius!

when i was ten and less, big sister susie and i would spend rainy saturdays in front of the tv. small dishes of water with scraps of clean sponges in them...empty "books", and plastic bags filled with stamps as we sat on the couch with tv trays licking and sticking.

the monkees and hr puffenstuff and katherine hepburne entertained us as the stickly sweet smell of glue filled those pages and turned our tongues green.

you could get almost anything you needed or wanted with greenstamps. electric blankets, silver plated candleabras, tiny backyard grills, stuffed animals, tablecloths, china and flatware, an amazing array of household goods -- all for a price. 10 books, 150 books, 3 books...

just before 6th grade i turned in my books for a floppy stuffed dalmation with a bell in his ear and i named him floppy. a few weeks later i came down with an odd and scary case of bronchitus, almost died. i spilled orange soda on him during a coughing fit and stained his left hind rump. felt bad about that. not sure what happened to him.

years later, when i married the first time ,my mom turned over a basketful of greenstamp books to me and my groom and off we went, my new husband and i. we selected stoneware dishes (service for four), an electric blanket, flatware with woodgrain handles, and, of course a toaster.

all the things i thought you were supposed to have once you became a grownup.

all my work paid off, those saturdays. i had everything i needed to be a true grown up.

all from the redemption center in west barrington, rhode island.

turns out (30 years later) that s & h didn't have quite everything i needed to be a grown up.

but there might be another redemption center someplace,

i'll keep looking.

fresh clean scent

2009-06-20T16:25:00.000-07:00

there was a woman in front of me at the target check-out this morning. she had short silver-pepper hair and a firm stocky build, supported by two artificial legs. the waistband of her black jersey sweatpants was crooked, and both of her ankles looked different. one was a metal contraption pushed into a white tennis shoe, the other was white plastic and it was also pushed into a white tennis shoe.

out the corner of her eye she saw me plop my brand new celery green garden boots on the belt, followed by a matching two gallon watering can. she cocked her head a bit to get a better look at my selections

and i said

"i've always wanted garden boots, and today is the day!"

"good for you!" she said, and then "look! they match your new watering can. since you will be so color coordinated, i guarantee everything will bloom perfectly."

"serious?"

"call me if i am wrong."

as her items were being scanned i continued to place all of the things i didn't come in here for on the counter... three new t-shirts, citronella candles, and a small box of fabric softner sheets.

i asked her

"have you heard that if you stuff a fabric softner sheet in your pocket when you are gardening, the bugs won't bother you?"

"does that work?"

"i have no idea. i'll find out this afternoon."

"in your new boots!"

i thought about her later as i poked tiny begonias into a brand new flowerbox. i had my boots on and a fabric softner sheet stuffed in my pocket. i wondered how she lost her legs. was she diabetic? had it been cancer? was she a soldier? born that way?

i wondered what her life was like and who she loved and what she knew and if she hurt and

then i noticed,

no bugs.

cash in her bra

2009-06-18T16:40:00.001-07:00

i had lunch the other day with my new friend, joan. she told me about her recent speaking gigs, connections she is making, and books and articles she is reading. joan is always striving to power up her content as a motivational speaker. she takes excellent care of herself and goes to the gym every day to walk the track. she has now decided she needs to add weightlifting to her regime.

joan is 87.

how we met is another story entirely, but the two of us have gotten together twice for lunch, and we plan to do it every month. i give her ideas for new contacts and she gives me advice.

"what do you want to be doing in five years?" she asked me.

"i want to be a writer. well i kind of am a writer but i would like to be published."

"what are you doing about it? are you in a writing group? have you researched magazines that would carry your essays?"

"well, no."

"Action! Action! Action! Make a plan! Set a goal! It won't happen if you don't maket it happen! DO IT!"

this is a woman who has reinvented herself many times, and will never be finished. when a divorce left her needing income, she put on a skirt shorter than she was used to wearing and walzed into dayton's to apply for a job in the fashion department, which of course she got. she was thrown out of the palmer house in chicago in 1972 because she was wearing pants. not just pants, sleek trousers with a floorlenght silk vest - an outfit that would bring Mary Richards to tears in envious grief.

last weekend, joan read a book about power -- feeling power and turning that feeling into a reality. the guy who wrote it had $5000.00 in total sum for a graduation or some such thing, so he took part of it and purchased a $1000.00 suit. he put it on and tucked another $1000.00 in his pocket, and just walked around to see what it felt like.

it changed his life. he believed he could accomplish anything - and hey guess what -- he is published!

then my friend told me she is planning a trip to chicago sometime soon. she will ride the train and and enjoy the scenery and she will go alone. several people have asked to go along but she has told them

"no, i want to go alone. i want to have conversations and enjoy dinner in fine restaurants and experience all of it! i don't want any distractions."

and, while she is there, my friend joan is planning to purchase a $1000.00 suit, and pin $1000.00 in her bra

and walk the miracle mile just to see what it feels like.

how i would love to go with her, but she does not want any distractions.

never the less,

she'll tell me all about it at lunch

and i'll keep you posted.

his gentle spirit

2009-06-07T12:23:00.000-07:00

he was taken away from us much too soon, but now he is with god, and flying with the angels. he lit up every room with his beautiful smile, and was gentle and kind to everyone. everyone wanted to be around him, and his wonderful laugh. he will be dearly missed by all who knew him.

why do all obituaries sound the same? just once i would like to see a different kind of truth.

what a selfish bum. he was a mooch and a meanie. his mind was filthy and he was always watching out for himself at the expense of everyone else. he used people, stunk, and was basically an ugly excuse for a human being. we are really glad he's dead. wish it happened sooner, took longer, and hurt more. good riddance, loser.

i mean, come on! can all dead people be that nice? there must be a bum in there somewhere.

otherwise all the wrong people are dying.

planting wishes

2009-05-31T15:26:00.001-07:00

i planted a wish today. actually, it was a small strip of something pink and compostable that was magically filled with tiny wild flower seeds and on it, it said "wish". it was attached to a birthday card i received on my 50th from some ones dear to me. i soaked it in a clean red clay dish of water and then dug a tiny tiny trough, soaked it some more and then covered it with an inch of potting mix, then gently swept the cedar chips back in place. i don't know what kinds of flowers they are, or if they will come up, or if, when they do they will have the proper amount of sun, or if they will be too tall for the front part of the garden. i don't know anything about them except they told me to wish and that is what i am doing. what am i wishing? i am not sure but whatever my wish is, what a perfect idea to tuck it into something cool and warm and safe, and let it reach it's tiny roots down as it pokes it's tiny head up and then we shall see what we shall see. so my wish is snuggled in and i believe in it, even though i am not exactly sure what i am wishing for. when it comes up, and when i see it, then i will know.

the proper gardner

2009-05-24T15:21:00.000-07:00

yesterday afternoon, a tiny old lady was sweeping the sidewalk of her tidy home on minnehaha parkway. i was happy for the red light so i could sit and watch her for 2.3 minutes. she must have had her hair done yesterday - little old ladies do that on saturdays, and it was silver white, puffy and perfect. she was wearing a short sleeved white blouse and light blue capri slacks, both crispy clean with neat creases where creases ought to be. sturdy sensible shoes helped her bend and balance, balance and bend as she swept some flower dust and helicopters off her front walk with her O Cedar angler broom and pale yellow (perfectly spotless) dustpan.

in line at the garden store there were three old people behind me in the long long line. one man in a nice shirt and casual pants, leather belt and walking shoes. two women with perfect hair (of course), one darker than the other, and both wore comfy pants and bright sweaters, one red and one light green. jewelry? of course. dangly chains around their necks and matching earrings.

being the curious person i am (read: snoop), i listened in on their conversation which trailed around from topic to topic -- betty's new hip and the crackpot who did the surgery, what a whack job he is! betty should sue but she won't but she should. they wondered about the plants people around them were purchasing and marveled at the money being spent...these three with their shopping cart containing three small pots of pink petunias.

next to the check out lines ther were piles and piles of every kind of dirt and soil you can imagine...topsoil, sterile garden dirt, potting mix, moisture control...all by Miracle Grow. one said

"who owns that outfit? look at all that stuff! we oughta buy stock in that outfit!"

old man answered "scott - it's a scott company"

"well we ought to buy stock. look at all those piles. people buying it up like crazy. who ever thought we would see the day when people are paying good money for dirt?"

and finally this afternoon at garden store number 2, another pretty old lady with a fresh do was carefully placing one medium sized pot of bright red geraniums in the back seat of her car, but only after being sure the towel in the back seat was in place so as not to soil the apholstery. denim jacket, black pants (the backs of which were covered with white cat hair), large shell earrings, and again, a good pair of shoes.

when i shop garden stores and when i garden, i try my best to make sure my t-shirt is not stained and my shorts aren't too tight. it's ok to be sloppy when you are considering dirt, yes?

what a shame for me, how embarrasing for me. oh dear -- what i look like!

the proper gardner cares about his or her appearance at all times. it is the respectable way to choose plants and care for them.

and don't forget

the sensible shoes.

wanting what we don't have

2009-05-20T16:39:00.001-07:00

spring comes finally, and summer close behind. we have just begun to dig in dirt and lay our heads back on tall lawn chairs under cool night breezes and smell the lilacs and then

97 degrees. hot winds. twisty sleep.

i am resisting air conditioning with all my might this year. someone in print recently compared the hot hot summer to the cold cold winter - in either case we settle in and forbid the elements from affecting our senses and our comfort. in the frost of winter we light candles and fires and cover up toasty in blankets, watch movies and fall to sleep early.

in the drenching sweat of summer we light candles (watch out for the effect of ceiling and floor fans), cover up in blankets (we like it cold), watch movies and fall asleep while the sun is still up.

funny this minnesota proposition of how well we fare in the event of extreme temperatures, and i realize that as for me, i close myself off to very cold and very hot, so that in very cold i can feel quite warm, in the very hot i can feel quite cool. even chilly.

the grass is always greener, the snow is always whiter, and the woman in front of you at the grocery store always always has way better hair than you.

always.

wear a helmet!

2009-05-10T16:12:00.000-07:00

i bought a new bike last weekend, a stunning and comfortable machine i hope to have forever. everyone i told said in return, "good for you, wear a helmet".

i used to think helmets were a good idea but kind of nerdy for less-than-racer types just out for a leisurely roll around the lake. but there are many who are much smarter than me who kept saying "wear a helmet".

$38 later i was delighted with my helmet, shiny, sleek and stylish. god i looked hot in that helmet. even though i'm just riding around the neighborhood...

"let's head for lake harriet, ok?" neighbor ted said with great enthusiasm as he admired my new bike and helmet. baby lucy was snuggled in the burly and i thought that sounded like an awfully long ride but i said

"ok!"

off we went. 16 miles later i am back home and loving the memory of that ride. gorgeous paths, fragrant blossoms arching overhead, and a sweet lemonade between there and here. lucy had crackers and learned the word "seagull" and we did see one unfortunate woman who crashed on the sidewalk and was taken away by lifelink.

she wasn't wearing a helmet.

ok everyone, lesson learned. enjoy the paths of this magnificent city, there is so much to see that i have never seen in my 30 years here. so much to explore.

and

wear a helmet.

the sound of silence

2009-05-09T14:56:00.000-07:00

i spent my day today with several other people and we all were silent. the only thoughts i could hear were my own, and even some of those i pushed away in an effort to

just be.

silence is a lovely thing and we all were mindful as we slipped into various states of calm. we meditated on those we love and those we don't. we meditated on mountains and flew gently like eagles and windmills. we pushed and pulled the ocean, rowed across the big lake, and held the sun and moon in our outstretched hands.

when the silence was broken, we spoke very little. all of what is inside of us is still in residence there, but we have had a better look at it.

still, it is hard to describe.

may you have peace and love, health and strength, care and protection,

and may you live your life

with joy and ease.

namaste.

dana

2009-05-07T16:22:00.001-07:00

a young attorney at 24, she tried cases wearing mini-skirts. she played bass guitar in a country western band. she is an accomplished chef, musician, pastor, intellectual, counselor,

and a good friend.

she worked at our place a decade ago, and when i heard she was coming back i wrote to an old friend and asked "what should i expect from this person, this leader? what advice do you have?" and my friend told me

"she will ask you hard questions, things you have never thought about. she will want you to do well. never lie to her, and most of all, appreciate every moment you can spend with her. she will amaze you."

that she did and that she does.

this afternoon amidst a throng of good people wishing good things, we sadly said farewell. eloquent tributes, funny stories, cake and flipflops - all were a part of the celebration of her. she will be truly missed but there is an organization out there so lucky, so lucky to place her at their helm. they don't know how her presence will change them,

as it changed me.

it was hard to say goodbye, it made me cry, so i gave her a hug and left her a card and hopefully i said what i needed to say but there are not enough words to tell someone who has lifted you up so many times how much they have meant to you. loss is hard.

i was poised at a stoplight on my home on this perfect spring afternoon. straight ahead and up high and out of no where, a balloon shaped like a gold star, with a sparkling curly string attached flew and blew over the cathedral of st paul. it twirled and danced and flew higher and higher and i watched it as long as i could as it flew out of sight.

beautiful things touch our lives, and then they fly away.

the best to you always, my friend

i thank you with love

for everything.

rituals

2009-04-27T16:01:00.000-07:00

i keep wondering which way to go. a different direction is completely necessary but what happens when i find yourself lost in a new neighborhood? how do i get out? how do i find my way home?

aha! you don't get out! you make a new home! or fit differently in the one you come back to, in a warm and pleasant way.

there is a canadian tribe of indians who place the shoulder bone of a caribou over a hot fire to find out where next they should hunt. when the bone cracks, they take it off the fire and use it for a map. they may not know exactly where they will end up but their belief in the ritual brings the caribou there. if they went back to the same place where they had success the first time, eventually the herd would be gone.

in this case belief replaces convention, belief is bigger than hope, belief in something important is a means to survival and a way of life.

believing is a good ritual.

sometimes nothing is good enough

2009-04-26T16:27:00.000-07:00

i dreamt last night of trying very hard to get someplace and never arriving. there were too many things in my way that i had to step over, so many problems that snuck up on me - like lost keys and soda that was much too warm, children toppling over store displays, and a sprained ankle.

all i wanted was to have a glass of wine on the porch, some porch, some porch that was home and there were people there who loved me. for some reason i didn't love them back but they made me feel welcome, and i finally got that glass of wine, but it was pink.

a moment or two after i awoke this morning the thunder started, then the rain, and i smiled so hard as i turned into the pillow, fluffed it, sat up, and prepared for a perfect sunday in the rain. plenty to do but nothing will get done today, because today nothing is a good enough thing to be a part of.

i watched "the three faces of eve" and i loved all of her faces. especially when they all came together. all the parts of her that didn't make sense lay quietly down to the strong part and she lived happily ever after with a hansome guy and a curly headed child. and they had ice cream cones just before the credits rolled.

in real life the real eve did not experience such a happy ending, her search for one face went on for another 18 years and i am not sure she ever found peace and wholeness and that is sad.

i wonder how many faces i have and i know that they know each other but they don't always get along. and i wonder when one of those faces will be stronger than the others, and show us all what for!

someday she will. but not today, because on this rainy sunday we are celebrating

nothing.

please sign here

2009-04-05T15:10:00.000-07:00

we met each other head on but gently at the top of lane 3. the neighborhood grocer is one i try to avoid, but sometimes you are depsperate and just totally need a package of whole wheat tortillas and a people magazine.

we both turned into the check out lane at the same time. it seemed to startle her, but i was in no hurry, and so told her

'"no, you go ahead".

she was surprised at this kindness, almost suspicious, as i had two items and she had more than that, but when i smiled and said - please you first, she smiled back and started placing her items on the belt.

a bag of tortilla chips, a bottle of welches grape juice, some fresh celery, and a few other things. an odd assortment of flavors that don't go together but sometimes you get a ferocious craving for things you want because you have not tasted that particular thing for a very long time.

perhaps the was the case and perhaps not.

she looked familiar, so familiar.

i noticed her outfit and everything about her, there was something that asked me to look at her and so i did. a half-cowl turtleneck, long denim circle skirt with tiny zipper accents, and brown boots. her hair was full and soft red and tossled; blue eyes, silver earrings.

her total was $21.13 and when he told her that her eyes widened and she panicked for a moment - "do i sign or not?" she hovered over the card scanner and twiddled the electronic pen as if she had never done such a thing but wanted you to know she knew all about this machine. she seemed to want to do everything right.

i know her, i am sure i know her

or at least i know about her. we all do.

is it really her? thinking back to photos of a weary face deep with wrinkles, white hair and sad eyes...but who wouldn't look like that? who wouldn't look like that?!

she took her groceries outside to her van, her light brown van, and i wondered if it was pleasant or mournful to be in that van. She climbed into that brown van with her brown paper bag, and then she drove away.

i had read so much about her these past few years and weeks, easy to form an opinion when one side of the story is printed in black and white while you enjoy coffee and pajamas and freedom.

seems to me we all do our time, in one way or another.

surely she has done hers.

and on this saturday afternoon, here she was alive in front of me, vulnerable, awake, and frightened.

not a story in a newspaper.

a lovely breathing woman, just buying some stuff

and wondering how cash cards work.

the nail is up

2009-03-22T14:32:00.000-07:00

It isn't a nail, it's a spike. A big rusty nail-like spike. It was pounded into the patio many years ago as it connected to a piece of tough vinyl that was an anchor for a screen porch. Val and Roy Engstrom lived here for 49 years before we did, and they loved their screen porch tent thing that they set up on the patio every summer. We've heard stories of excellent drinks and scandinavian jokes and great steaks and hot nights and so much to laugh about. All of this in the screen porch tent thing.

There is one spike left and every spring it pops up out of one of the pavers. It pushes it's way up from the mud underneath the patio as if it were a fern or hosta or daisy - waking up, pushing up, time to get up.

The first year I saw it in it's popped up position I panicked. That spike was flush with the stone a day or so ago, and now look at, we are sinking! Oh my god the basement will be filled with mud in no time.

The real reason the spike was above ground was explained to me but I can't explain it to you. Something about frost and cold and warmth and expansion but anyway.

It's just so me to jump to conclusions in the worst possible way. If someeone doesn't email me back they must hate me or be mad. If someone doesn't answer their cell phone when I call I wonder how bad the accident was and what hospital I should go to. The reason I get headaches is because of a tumor, it's just bound to be the truth.

In this case, nope, the house isn't sinking, not at all. The spike is up and it's telling funny stories, promising spring will be here soon, and it was a waste of time to worry about it.

so spring is coming and the patio is not sinking.

I think.

Spring fire

2009-03-15T15:35:00.001-07:00

Ice and snow are still on the ground in the backyard but a warm fire calls me to sit close and be warm and smile at the remains of this long winter. I am looking at muddy leaves that were never collected, a still frozen pond - stinky underneath, and imagining a green and colorful spread of lawn. I know on this warm cold March Sunday that it is within reach.

On my way to the Y today I drove past a dog who had just been hit by a car. The driver pulled over and stopped, but poor pup was hit so bad that he lay in the right lane of York Avenue in Edina shuddering and convulsing. His buddy, a tiny yapper ,was beside himself, running to and from the crime scene, screaming and crying. I knew I couldn't help but I turned around anyway.

On my second pass the good dog was clearly dead on the pavement. Three kids stood by with their hands in their pockets looking at him all curled up in death. They didn't know what to do but they didn't leave. They just stood, looking at the poor dead dog.

At home this evening after a long work out I can't help thinking about the family on York Avenue, and the sadness they are feeling. Good dog ran into a busy street and then the world will never be the same for those nice people, nor for the little yapper best friend, it is such a sad thing, losing a best friend.

The days are getting longer and my patience is growing shorter. Things change in an instant but on the other hand we sit on potential changes for decades and is that good or bad? Are we wasting time or honoring it? Are we procrastinating or enjoying? Avoiding possibilities or celebrating the comfort we know?

Dear family in Edina I am sorry for your loss, good dog.

Fire needs wood in the chilly March backyard, so off I go.

I'm sure it's nothing serious

2009-03-11T17:27:00.000-07:00

At 2 o'clock this morning I noticed an unusual pain on the left side of my chest. Breathing was uncomfortable and the more I concentrated on it to really FEEL it, the worse it got. It sneered at me and then crept over my shoulder and down my back and so of course by now I was wide awake.

By 4 AM I had pretty well determined that I was not having a heart attack. It wasn't a sharp pain, and I wasn't nauseous, no lightheadedness, no numbness or tingling. Although I admit that I did feel a momentary flash of each of those things as my eyes crossed over the words on the screen.

I've always been like this. I'm not sure I'm a hypocondriac, but I can talk myself into almost any pain or illness, quickly and with an exceptional sense of panic and urgency. Once when I was less than 12 I was watching Marcus Welby, m.d. one summer evening, and the sicker the patient got, the worse I felt. Every time a new symptom appeared, I found I had exactly the same thing. Headache, stomache cramps, heavy sweating, dizzyness...Dr. Welby was really stuck for a diagnosis, scratching his pretty grey head and tapping his clipboard with a ballpoint pen as his patient slowly began to expire in front of him.

By now I was sobbing, I was much too young to die but there it was in front of me, my tender young life was coming to end, probably after the next commercial. My soul was in agony.

Turned out the patient had contracted a parasite when swimming in the Nile on his last trip to Egypt.

I praised God! I had never been to Egypt! I did not have what that guy had! I would live to grow up and have a period!

This afternoon I called Dr. G's office just for reassurance, but nurse Jane must have been very busy because she never returned my call. I sat with the phone in my hand for two hours, but she never called. I thought perhaps she had seen the message and decided what I was experiencing wasn't serious, no biggie, she'd call me tomorrow. She probably had to dash off to do something totally fun with her best girlfriends as soon as her shift was over. Gotta run!

After consulting various other internet resources, I decided it was probably leukemia or something just as dire -- even WebMD sprang up an urgent message telling me to SEEK MEDICAL ATTENTION IMMEDIATELY when I described my symptoms. The "Ask A Doctor" website tantalized me with a promise of a quick response because 10 real doctors were waiting to talk to me NOW! After I described my symptoms and hit "submit" I got a dialoge box asking how much I was willing to pay for a response. People on a budget could get a quick anwer for $9, while those with greater means could receive a full diagnosis for $25. Will that be Visa or Master?

Finally a nice young on-call cardiologist named Dr Wang called me back when he saw he had been paged by the answering service. I was reading his bio on-line just as the phone rang.

Rest easy, it's not your heart. If it's still bugging you tomorrow, contact your primary care doc and maybe get a chest xray, but from what I was describing there was no need to head to the ER, and certainly nothing to worry about.

Took the good doctor less than 5 minutes to set my spinning mind at ease.

Took Dr. Welby a whole hour.

Lady Barbara

2009-03-08T12:53:00.000-07:00

Barbara Louise Skinner was born on March 8, 1920, in Northwood New Hampshire to a chicken farmer and a housewife. She had a younger sister named Blanche who smoked and drank and ended up in jail after a car accident resulted in the death of the driver of other vehicle. Blanche was flat chested and had psoriasis so bad that it ate up all her fingernails. Yet, Blanche was the favorite child. Her parents were resentful instead of proud that their eldest not only graduated high school but went on to attend Gordon College of Theology, and even less interested in her unsolicited celebrity status as a radio star in Boston in the 1940’s.

Lady Barbara was the head brain behind a popular radio show, called "The Childrens’ Gospel Crusade". The three page article that was written about her in the Moody Monthly magazine described how she had been handed the task of putting a show together, and how only a short year later there were countless diners and truckstops in the Boston area that shut their grills down at 11:00 every Saturday. They turned on the radio, and turned it up loud, so that everyone could listen to Lady Barbara coax the little kids to sing. Best of all, they loved to hear Lady Barbara tell her famous stories. One year for her birthday she received over 1,200 cards from kids all over northeastern New England and Ontario.

My Mom was a star.

During the same time, there was a hansome Commander in the US Navy who fell in love with her, and who also happened to be a recent widow with two young boys. Mom always told us that the two boys approved of the marriage because she made good brownies and maybe they would get a baby sister. Which they did - two of them, my sister and me.

Dad retired from the Navy in 1962 when I was just three years old, and most of the family packed up and moved from Philadelphia to Rhode Island, where Mom had a job as Director of Christian Education waiting for her at a small Christian College. As part of the deal, Dad was offered a position as Superintendent of Buildings and Grounds.

Even though she wasn’t on the radio anymore, it still felt to me like Mom was a celebrity. She was the center of everything, a gracious hostess to countless wedding showers and receptions for the college kids, and always in charge of the many Sunday school classes at one or two churches at a time. Vacation Bible School was a big deal - hundreds of kids, most of them city kids who’s parents were grateful for a place to keep there youngsters the first two weeks of summer vacation, and it was free!

But that is not why they came. They came for Lady Barbara.

Each morning for those first two weeks of summer, she would line us up outside Woodlawn Baptist Church in Pawtucket, Rhode Island, and march us into the sanctuary to the tune of Onward Christian Soldiers. We would salute the US flag and the Christian flag before enthusiastic renditions of He’s Got the Whole World in His Hands and Fairest Lord Jesus.

And then, oh and then! After several songs and a prayer, Lady Barbara would stand in front of us and speak her famous words:

“Shoulders back, deep breath. It’s time for a story.”

The last night of VBS was a spectacular event - kind of like the Baptist Oscars. All the kids and teachers would dress up and they and their parents would attend the Final Program. The festivities began with classroom tours, where parents could review the workbooks about the Bible stories we had studied. And the crafts! Two weeks worth of beautiful artwork on display! Baskets made of popsicle sticks, piggy banks made from Clorox bottles, coffee cans decorated with masking tape and brown shoe polish! It was remarkable. Then, everyone gathered in the sanctuary for THE PROGRAM. Each kid had some kind of little piece to say, and every class sang a song or two, and Lady Barbara was the beautiful MC.

She was especially glamorous the year I was seven. She had made time that afternoon to get her hair done, and wore the same beautiful mint green gown that she had worn for my big brothers wedding. It had a scoop back, with layers of wispy chiffon that shimmered when she walked, and thick ribbons of green satin around the cuffs of her sleeves. Her shoes were Cinderella meets Naturalizer - sensible silver flats that glistened when they caught the light.

A city kid sitting next to me that night asked me who whispered to me how pretty that lady was. “that lady? I said. She’s my mom.” I was swelling with pride and feeling almost as famous and as important as I knew she was. Supreme happiness. That was my Mom. She was famous and beautiful and after this we were going to Howard Johnson’s for chocolate ice cream.

Hey Mom today I am remembering the glamour of you, the celebrity of you, wishing to be only a small bit as lovely.

Happy 89th Birthday! I am missing you.

twist and shout

2009-03-03T19:07:00.000-08:00

rosie and fletcher are my neighbors and in 27 days fletch will be 6 and rosie will be 3. they were born on the same date, 3 years apart. in spring and summer i see them most every day, in the fall just occasionally, but in the winter not much at all. we share a driveway, those dudes and me, but even so when the cold weather comes they disappear to play inside and eat noodles inside and do most everything inside.

i have been missing my buds, so when scott sent a note asking if i was busy tuesday night, i said no and agreed right away to "sit". sara was teaching, and scott had scored a night out with fleetwood mack, so at 6:00 tonight i trudged across the driveway, took off my jacket, flopped between two cute blonds on the couch and had my first lesson about doodlebops.

i learned lots of things tonight, some things i already knew but good reminders none-the-less. for instance

nazis are bad and if you see one you should kick his butt - HARD (thank you sound of music)
it is only ok to say bad words if you are in a private room
don't show your privates to just anyone - and if you think you want to, you should ask them first if they would like to see them. unless the person is bad, then you should never ask and instead yell very loud and kick their butts.
the cartoon channel is on 42

with fletcher poking at pokemon on the couch, rosie and i went upstairs to see their room. i asked rosie which bed was hers -- the bunk on top or the nest underneath? she pointed to the nest and said "that's where i sleep" then pointed to the upper bunk and said "but that's where i pee."

we three watched some videos and ate cheetos and drank cold milk and played a game that involved secret doors, bouncy balls, tiny cards, and a secret treasure. rosie calls it the coffee game because the name of it is "caribou" and we played it several times. like 50. or maybe more.

when sara came home they squealed and hugged her and fletch said goodnight and rosie said "NO" when i tried to leave.

thanks for a great evening. hope your dad can fix the dvd player.

oops.

mama mia! papa pia! baby's got diareah!

later dudes.

a note under the door

2009-03-01T15:46:00.000-08:00

sometime in the middle of the night a white piece of paper was slipped under my hotel room door. i saw it half-in, half-out as i padded my way to the bathroom at 3:15 in the morning.

delicious! the hotel knows i am celebrating my birthday and they have given me a card! or maybe it's from those nice gals with whom i shared a giggle at check-in. i picture a note that says

"hi! we think you are super fun, can we buy you lunch or a drink tomorrow to celebrate your birthday? let us know! signed the girls in 307."

i am sleepy but smiling and can't wait to see who is writing to me!

it's a bill. it's just a bill. it has my name and address and how much it costs and it does not even say "thank you" or "we hope you enjoyed your stay" it just says "sign here".

when the front desk staff answer the phone they say "we wish you were here thank you for calling us" and i think that is corny but also kind of cute, and those nice young people are so pleasant and welcoming.

they didn't send this note. not them. no not them.

there is a creepy little man who emerges from his basement office in the middle of the night to make his rounds. he looks like Mr. Burns with a skinny hunched back, a nose nearly as pointy as his shoes, sweaty hair (what is left of it) and clothes that smell like an old closet.

he tiptoes around pushing a tiny cart that holds his files, several pieces of white paper, a pencil and pad, a calendar and a calculator. he slithers up and down the hallways folding each bill in half and sliding it half-way under the door and making a note of the amount he is assigning to the sleeping people or person on the other side of that door.

at the end of his rounds he adds up the accounts payable and turns bright red with joy as he ticks up the total. "GOD DAMN THE PUSHA MAN" he sings in an awkward tune under his breath as he dances the cabbage patch on the elevator. he goes back to his office and puts his feat up on his
gun- metal grey desk and lights up a cigarello. another good night.

but for me standing there in my donut pjs basking in the light from the bathroom looking at what i owe i feel a little intruded upon.

oh well, we all have to earn a living and after all it was a lovely stay.

and if i bet if i called them right now they would wish i was still there.

me too, a little.

Bellissimo!

2009-03-01T09:47:00.000-08:00

i am not sure what that word means but it sounds joyful and it is italian just like the restaurent where i had dinner on friday.

it turned out to be a day with some dark spots. i almost went home, that anxious feeling biting me all morning. i tried venturing out for a time, and the morning was beautiful and bright and very cold, but soon wandered back to the hotel and had a good cry.

a good hard cry can solve so many things. for me it brought up memories of all the times i have let anxiety and the unknown ruin my vacations. like stressing about finding a camping spot every day for a week, when the 34 four foot motor home we were traveling in could have sat by the side of the road and provided all the refuge and comfort we needed. or the time the car broke down in canada and instead of thinking "we'll have breakfast and then it will be fixed" i found myself sick in the bathroom agonizing over the probabiliy that it was unfixable and we would have to dump it and then how would we get home and what about the title and we were a foreign country...

they fixed it.

and then it felt like i was looking at that ugly bundle of dust that you know is under the bed but you don't know how odd and big and horrible it is until you are down on your knees with the vacuum cleaner (which i rarely am).

this hunk of anxiety that i keep bundled up in my head and stomache seemed to be sitting there and i was looking at it and thinking it through and wondering why i keep it.

the point of this trip was to find out what i am really like and how i respond to things calling me, and so, what, i'm going to sit here in front of this fire and fear it? let it steer me back home instead of exploring and smelling and tasting and smiling?

not this time.

lunch at a lovely place on north shore drive, much walking in the kind of crisp cold that sinks it's teeth into your forehead, browsing in antique stores and chatting with artisans

and dinner at that place who's name sounds like Belisimo but it wasn't. warm and welcoming and oh so delicious.

i saw another man dining alone. he was proper and happy with his salad caprese and glass of wine. no novel nor notebook beside him. i read once that when you bring "something to do" to dinner alone it looks like you are afraid to let people know you are alone.

he was good at this.

and i am learning more and more.

anxious to be alone

2009-02-27T08:44:00.000-08:00

after all, that was the point of this whole trip. to spend some time byself just to see what would happen.

being alone makes me feel anxious. i am not one for adventure as much as i would like to be, so this is a test. it was a restless and mostly sleepless night, in spite of a heavenly bed and comforting fire. today the sun is blinding on thick sparkling snow on lake superior, and i spy a walking path.

instead of hopping out of bed to seize the day, i kept the curtains closed till almost 1030, just wondering if i truly want to be alone today. i think my sense and desire of order and predictability have set a routine in my soul that is hard to challenge.

one of the things i did to prepare for this trip was to purchase new socks. i have given up on ever wearing matching socks again - you put 2 in the wash and only one comes out, or sometimes three. tie them together or put them in net bag and still they make a break out the back of the dryer just like andy dufresne in shawshank. lately i've felt like a big risk taker in not caring whether or not my socks match. the other day one was a christmas sock and the other brown stripes. seems to be in fashion now, but for me, it's REALLY living on the egde, baby.

off i go to see where that walking path leads. i have a brand new pair of hiking boots that were made for walking and walking's what i'll do.

with one white sock and one purple, with dots.

clear up north

2009-02-26T13:16:00.000-08:00

the liquor store was buzzing at 10:00 this morning. mark, the owner , commented that "everyone is getting their wine before the storm comes". when i told him i was headed up north for the weekend and that i would miss the biggest storm of the season, he raised his eyebrows and said, "holy cow you're going to drive right into it. be careful."

silly mark! i had been watching the weather for days and days, and this morning the latest radar showed snow coming in from the west, headed straight for the cities and south to the iowa border, but it was clear up north.

with a bottle of cold water and a new cd, i fastened my seatbelt and headed for I35. it was cloudy but dry, and i coudn't stop smiling. i was going on retreat. all by myself!

i turned 50 a few days ago and was disappointed to find that when the clock struck midnight on february 23rd, nothing happened. no moment of clarity, no divine thoughts, nothing. i had so hoped 10 years ago that i would have everything figured out by now - what am i meant to be and how will i get there? but here i am 10 years older and a few pounds to the right of the dial and holding steady with nothing new.

a retreat! that's what i need! i found a cozy room in a lodge 50 miles north of duluth, packed up my writing and drawing things, my beautiful guild guitar, a few good books, and off i went.

the cruise was set at 70 and "miss celie's blues" was like a joyous banner swirling around my head. "sista! i' keeping my eye on you"

i noticed fog up ahead. funny that we have fog this time of year.

30 miles south of hinckley with 200 miles to go, i sliced through a thick curtain of february snow.

bummer.e

i thought about stopping at hinckely but was so sure i would outrun this storm (callback - there is no snow up north!!), but kept going. the first accident i saw involved a truck with a trailer that had jack knifed into a green suv. that reminded me -- how does 4 wheel drive work, anyway?

keep going draze, this is your adventure. you wanted to see what it would be like to be alone so here you are and you are 50 and you can do this! think for yourself bitch! yippee!

i was calm but terrified. and fascinated to learn i could feel both at the same time.

next crash was someone who had careened off the highway backwards and smashed through a chain link fence. cars were in the ditches everywhere.

the lane i was traveling in was still pretty dry, and visibility was ok most of the time. it was a very long stretch of road with few options i could see for stopping for the night, and besides, duluth was only 60 miles from here and it is NOT snowing up there! keep going. you can do this you are a grown up you can do this you are a safe driver DAMN it how does 4 x 4 work? a grown up would have thought to ask about that before leaving minneapolis.

shit.

an hour later with a bladder the size of lake superior, duluth was getting closer. and then i saw it "highway 61, exit 2 miles". that's my exit and only 50 more miles to the lodge!!!

except i couldn't see the exit. it was buried in snow.

next sign: "duluth, 13 miles".

DULUTH! i have always loved duluth the two times i've been there!

an hour later i am tucked into a huge and lovely room with a fireplace, king sized bed, a lakeview deck (yeah right), and a view of a massive snowstorm pounding the frozen great lake.

the wine is open, the internet is up, and i am writing again for the first time in so many weeks.

when the storm passes tomorrow, maybe i'll just stay put for another night instead of traveling further. the wind is howling outside which is a pretty and spooky sound. calming yet terrifying. sounds of longing, energy, and flight.

plus, the nice young man at the front desk (jake) saw my birthdate and said

"this room is normally $139 for the night but i'll let you have it for $89."

i like it here.

cheers!

take the stairs

2009-02-02T16:11:00.000-08:00

the other night i dreamt of a staircase. it was wooden and deck-like, on the second floor of somewhere and i loved looking at it. it smelled sweet like a summer evening and each piece of wood was swirling with designs from the inside of the tree it came from.

at the bottom of the stairs and across the way there was a house i had been curious about for a very long time. it was a sweet tidy cottage shut up tight and no one was ever home. this time, the front door was wide open. i looked in and saw pretty couches and fancy lamps but i was too afraid to go inside

so i just looked.

i have since found out that dreaming of a staircase means that some sort of inner awakening is occuring - that the dreamer is coming into an as yet hidden "self-understanding" and, evidently, clarity is close behind.

turning 40 was comforting. it felt like i had 10 more years to figure everything out.

almost 10 years later i am 49 and still figuring. still trying to figure myself out . still looking for some direction.

maybe the dream was a hint. need to know which way to go?

take the stairs.

pantookas and wuzzles

2009-01-25T11:09:00.000-08:00

I like nonsense, it wakes up the brain cells. Fantasy is a necessary ingredient in living, It's a way of looking at life through the wrong end of a telescope. Which is what I do, And that enables you to laugh at life's realities. - Dr. Seuss

maybe that is what is wrong with me. i am looking at life through the wrong end of the telescope and up until just this moment i haven't thought any of it was very funny.

lies are told and surprises are scary instead of fun and things i can't reach are missing. important things are being scooped up and out of my control and the can of folgers is getting down there. no budget for more, though.

so is any of this funny after all? absurd certainly. i try to be the one who sees the humor in odd things so perhaps i should enjoy all this.

nothing else is working anyway.

nonsense yes! it's all nonsense!

so perhaps i am in whoville and bartholamew cubbins is my best friend and i should ask horton to listen extra close to hear all of the things i can't. might be fun to gossip with that big ol' cat over lunch sometime this week.

and of course, you know what we are having.

please hold

2009-01-22T15:37:00.001-08:00

the woman i was sitting next to in class today apologized for the fact that the articles she was to read for homework last month were wrinkled and stiff. she explained

i take a bath every day after work.

when she was relaxing in her bath last night, reading provactive articles about the art of leading quietly, her telephone wrang.

she has a 15 year old son with downs syndrome named keith.

hello this is keith. no, she's naked in the bathtub right now.

she panicked, dropped her papers, splashed and shouted from a clenched throat but before she could get anything out...

i'll put you on speaker and take you in there.

she told me about the lecture she gave him -

what you did was NOT ok! you need to respect mom's private time! you must never embarass someone like that!

she was exasperated.

but it made me laugh. i told her

that is the most adorable story i've ever heard in my life.

she burst into a smile and said

i know, right?!

depression hurts

2009-01-21T15:44:00.001-08:00

i'm in slump. a deep one. the country has a chance to heal, the sun is up a bit longer each day, my windshield washer system is working great and i have a perfect manicure.

what the hell.

maybe it's about turning 50, maybe it's about work, maybe i need a new dog or a fancy sweater, several days off or some cake.

i am not liking this slump. being in a slump used to conjure images of late night piles of blankets and television, justified apathy and comfortable messiness. after all who can do laundry, dust, or put stuff away when you are in a slump?

but this one feels uncomfortable and fat. like the pants that are too tight after the holidays or the depressing light in the kitchen when the bulb over the sink goes out.

something is not right about this slump all right, but the wrongness of all it brings up is worse than the not right part. i am not enjoying this slump at all. it is definitely not what they described in the flyer.

FREE SLUMP!

enjoy an undetermined amount of time feeling really sorry for yourself and wallowing in your uselessness! cradle your worthless soul in the cool flicker of late night infomercials! buy incredibly stupid products that you will never use but are too lazy to return!

clean pajamas, sheets, and hair not required.
join now and receive ceaselss encouragement to eat as much of anything you want all the time.
call in the next five minutes and we will call in sick to work for you every day for as long as the slump continues.

CALL NOW!!!!

now seriously,

who could resist that?

i should've

2009-01-14T16:39:00.000-08:00

an injured pigeon was hunkered down on the G level of my parking ramp last monday. it may have been a dove, it had a beak more like a dove, but anyway there it was. i was in a hurry to get home and had my hands full when i almost tripped on it. poor thing was trembling and terrified and in the path of a car that hadn't come yet. but a car would come soon. it would careen down the ramp and not see that pretty crying bird and that car's front right uniroyal would end things.

hopefully quickly but maybe not.

i stopped and talked to it

hey buddy, you don't feel well do you? listen you need to move or else...

at that moment a blue yukon going way too fast roared down the ramp

and missed the bird by about an inch.

ok dude that't it you have to move.

i leaned down and it panicked, which was a good thing because it started to hop and hop and hop -- it hopped out of harms way, off to the side, to a dark safe spot.

on the drive home i felt guilty. the bird was out of the way but it was going to be cold that night. oh well, i am sure she'll be fine.

and then i thought

how long would it have taken me to go back up to my office, put some shredded paper in a box, and at least place her there, if not drop her off at the raptor center which was on my home anyway.

but i didn't do that.

she froze to death over night

and she was just a bird,

but i am disappointed with myself any way.

lesson?

i am too old to be regretting things i didn't do and should have.

so if my heart tells me to do something...

well then there you have it.

here comes the bride

2008-12-27T14:06:00.000-08:00

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

2008-12-26T16:50:00.000-08:00

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

2008-12-24T14:38:00.000-08:00

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

2008-12-23T16:23:00.000-08:00

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

2008-12-16T17:52:00.000-08:00

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

2008-12-10T16:16:00.000-08:00

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

2008-12-08T15:55:00.001-08:00

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

2008-12-07T13:03:00.001-08:00

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

2008-11-30T15:43:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-26T15:34:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-24T16:03:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-23T14:57:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-20T16:04:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-17T15:50:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-15T16:03:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-14T14:54:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-13T15:09:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-11T13:59:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-08T13:37:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-02T13:30:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-01T14:09:00.000-07:00

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

2008-10-30T16:30:00.000-07:00

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!

2008-10-29T15:58:00.001-07:00

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

2008-10-23T15:42:00.000-07:00

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

2008-10-22T15:57:00.000-07:00

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

2008-10-20T16:25:00.000-07:00

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

2008-10-18T15:03:00.001-07:00

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

2008-10-12T14:07:00.000-07:00

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

2008-10-10T14:44:00.000-07:00

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

2008-10-02T15:43:00.001-07:00

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

2008-09-29T16:05:00.000-07:00

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

2008-09-28T15:39:00.000-07:00

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

2008-09-15T15:17:00.000-07:00

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

2008-09-10T08:23:00.001-07:00

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

2008-09-08T01:09:00.000-07:00

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

2008-09-06T16:24:00.000-07:00

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

2008-09-05T15:33:00.000-07:00

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

2008-09-04T13:20:00.001-07:00

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

2008-09-02T11:01:00.000-07:00

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

2008-09-01T13:21:00.000-07:00

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

2008-08-25T14:57:00.000-07:00

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

2008-08-16T14:21:00.001-07:00

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

2008-08-14T15:36:00.000-07:00

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

2008-08-09T13:09:00.001-07:00

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?

2008-08-04T16:17:00.000-07:00

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

2008-08-02T13:42:00.000-07:00

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.