The Moment Just Before the Honey

“Well," said Pooh, "what I like best," and then he had to stop and think.
 Because although Eating Honey was a very good thing to do, there was a moment just before you began to eat it which was better than when you were, 
but he didn't know what it was called.” 

― A.A. Milne, Winnie-the-Pooh

Okay, so before I begin let me just take a moment to appreciate the Christmas miracle here. Are the lights in the picture of my Christmas tree twinkling? Because they are as I write this and I don't know how they're doing it! I took the picture with my phone, I uploaded it to this blog, and all of a sudden the lights are twinkling! ... It's not quite a virgin birth, but you gotta admit it's pretty cool. 

But I digress. I was visited by the ghost of Christmas past tonight. -- Magical photographs. Literary apparitions. Some of you are wondering if I may be hitting the eggnog a little too hard, I can tell. -- Maybe it was the "Twilight Zone" episode Miles and I watched last night. It was called "Walking Distance" and it was about an unhappy guy who wanders into his own childhood, a happy childhood he longs to return to. That's not what this is about, but it is about childhood and happiness and anticipation and presence. 

Christmas Eve: Lying in the "way back" of our VW Square Back looking at the stars and singing "The Twelve Days of Christmas" as we drive to my uncle Hal's house,  my great aunt Leta's Chex Party Mix, my Nana's dinner rolls and sweet tea, the dinner blessing which always ended with, "We thank you for this food and we pray that you'll bless it to the good of our bodies. In Jesus' name we ask it. Amen," the abundance of blond little kids in the house when you added my sister and me to the cousins, the smell of evergreens and the twinkle of lights, Uncle's Hal's light blue leisure suit, and my sister and I in matching dresses. And the anticipation. There is nothing like the painfully sweet taste of anticipation.

Of course it was not all tinsel and candy canes. Later there was listening to my step father argue with his ex-wife over who would see their girls when on Christmas Day. My own parents spared my sister and me that fight, but we were still shuffled around plenty during the holidays. Sometimes I felt like I was watching other people have Christmas while I was bustled from my mom's house to my dad's house to my grandma's house to my step grandparents' house. I remember just wanting to BE somewhere. But it's okay. I don't want my mom and dad to feel guilty as they read this. Because mostly I felt loved on Christmas. Mostly I felt warm and well fed and surrounded by the most important people in my life. And I am grateful for that. A lot of people don't get that. I grew up with parents who adored me, two sets of grandparents who couldn't get enough of me, lots of aunts and uncles and cousins, holiday traditions and comfort food. I grew up with an abundance of what matters.

I was going to write about anticipation, about the difference between that moment before you eat the honey and the taste of the honey on your tongue. I was going to talk about how Christmas is often more about anticipation and expectations than acceptance and presence. Instead I wandered into my past, a history that I have come to love and accept in spite of, or maybe because of, its imperfections. 

The holidays are sparkly and lovely, especially on the surface. When you unwrap them sometimes you find they are not what you asked for. They are too big or too small, too gaudy or dull, broken maybe. Then again, sometimes they surprise you with moments of joy and love so big your heart could burst. You just never know what you're gonna get. Usually it's a mixed bag. And so I'm offering this little reminder for all you kids from one to ninety two: Show up for the holidays. Be present for the moment before the honey AND the moment it drips onto your tongue. And if you end up covered in a sticky mess, be present for that too. Notice who shows up to help you clean up. There are gifts in all of it. I dare you not to find one.

Don't Bother Reading This

"If you really want to do something, you’ll find a way.

 If you don’t, you’ll find an excuse."

~ unknown

Several weeks ago, my friend Peter told me that he could only assume that my life must be flowing along smoothly, all my problems solved, not a care in the world. However did you get that idea, I asked. I mean Jeeze, I'm going through a divorce, I'm a busy single parent and, as the saying goes, there's too much month left at the end of the paycheck.  Heck, I can't even get the dog walked every day. Whatever gave you the impression that I had it all together? Well, he said, you haven't written a blog post in a long time. 

Oh. That.

You probably shouldn't bother reading this. It's really just my feeble attempt to get back up on the horse I fell off of. This is me keeping my butt planted on this chair until there are at least three paragraphs on the screen in front of me. For a year, I found a way to post something almost every week. But now, I'm not finding a way to do that. I'm finding excuses. They're really good excuses too: Divorce, extra jobs to make ends meet, a new relationship. This is meaty stuff. These are not your run of the mill I had-to-clean-the-bathroom kind of excuses (no one who knows me would believe that one anyway). In the end though, they're still excuses. "If you really want to do something, you'll find a way."

So, don't read any further. You're really just wasting your precious free time. Come back next week and see if I'm still around. If I've posted something for three or four weeks, then maybe it will be worth your time. I'm stiff and rusty right now. Your time would be better spent watching an episode of "Orange is the New Black" on Netflix. That's what I'd be doing if I were not demanding my butt to remain in this chair. 

Writing this blog was a life raft for me for a year. Taking the time to reflect on my family and friends, my history, my ordinary day was so healing, so grounding. And my ordinary stories seemed to resonate with a few folks. It turns out I was not all alone on my little life raft on the open ocean. I had my people with me. We helped each other bail out water and patch up holes. We told each other we were good enough. Writing my stories helped me lighten the load by throwing some guilt and shame overboard and it taught me the futility of perfectionism. It also helped me be present for the things that really matter. Writing really is a spiritual practice. That's what my friend Ken told me a couple of years ago. He was right. And I've missed that practice.

Wow. If you've stayed with me this long, thanks. I said in one of my posts last year that I wanted to model imperfection for people. I want to be the spokes-model for being good enough, no airbrushing my flaws. I have found a million excuses not to write and I might find more. But today I wrote something. 

I Wanted To Write Today

"My daily affairs are quite ordinary;

but I'm in total harmony with them."

~ Layman P'ang

I wanted to write today, but first I had to sit in the backyard on a warm September morning and drink a cup of coffee. I exchanged gratitude and sweet text messages with someone I adore. I read my email. I learned that a friend was sharing a reflection on his year with cancer at a Yom Kippur service this morning. And it was being live streamed. So I listened and cried a little.

I wanted to write today, but I had to make cinnamon swirl French toast with raspberries and powered sugar for my kids. And we needed to talk a little. About stuff. Then I caught up with a dear friend who does not get the attention she deserves from me. Oh, and I sent a message to my friend with cancer to tell him how moved I was by the hope, love, gratitude, acceptance and life in his words. And I tried to atone for my absence in his life.

I wanted to write today, but every dish in the house was dirty and piled up on the kitchen counter. So I listened to my new CD by "The Civil Wars" and washed them all, one plate, one pot, one fork at a time.  And I swept up the little dots of paper from the hole punch my son used 3 days ago, scattered like snow flakes on the dining room floor. There was laundry in the washing machine that had been waiting for its turn in the dryer for over 24 hours. I helped it find its way. Then I needed to hustle the kids. They had pool parties and soccer games to get to.

I wanted to write today, but I had to go to Costco for a case of beer and birth control pills, doing my part to advance the reputation of single mothers everywhere! Then I hurried to the soccer fields to watch my son's team play an exciting come from behind match, relishing the sunny afternoon and the exuberance of 12 year old boys. And I went to the grocery store to buy eggs and mushrooms, Swiss cheese, heavy cream and frozen pie crusts, ingredients for the quiche my daughter needed to make for a youth group fundraiser in the morning.

I wanted to write today, but I had to walk the dog on the bluffs above the ocean by my house before dinner. I had to watch the sun begin to sink toward the horizon. I stopped to  watch and experience awe and wonder. There's a law that says you have to do that when you come across a sunset. I think there's a law that says you have to share a photo of it on Facebook now too, but I didn't do that. I watched the shadows lengthen and felt the air grow chilly. Then I walked home and my kids and I got  big, fat burritos from Chipotle. After dinner we dished out bowls of mint chip ice cream before settling down on the couch together to watch a movie. We are exploring science fiction these days, questioning reality.

I wanted to write today, but life happened. And I decided to show up for it.

New Terrain

"If you do not change direction, you may end up where you are heading."

~ Lao Tzu

September is upon us. My kids are getting back into the routine of wearing shoes, packing lunches, doing homework, rushing to soccer practices, and hitting the pillow worn out from a full day. The circus has come to town and I have begun my juggling act in earnest. Most days I can  get everyone where they need to be sort of on time, walk the dog, get dinner on the table prior to bedtime, make sure homework is getting done, and keep the house from descending into total chaos. This is all old hat after all.

But this Fall is different than previous years. With my son starting 7th grade, we have left our beloved little elementary school behind for good. We are now fully immersed in junior and senior high school. There are no more playgrounds and cute class productions of The Hobbit or The Lorax to look forward to, no more class trips to Monterey or Yosemite with parents I have come to call friends. I am no longer on a first name basis with my children's teachers. In fact, I don't even know the names of all of my children's teachers and would not recognize them on the street.  We have entered a time of increased responsibility and independence for both kids. I am learning to loosen my grip on the reigns a little, and trust that they have the necessary tools to navigate this new world.

This Fall is different from others in another big way too. For the the first time, I had to check the box "child lives with mother" on the school emergency forms and enter a separate address for their father. It gave me pause. I was the one who put the wheels of divorce in motion, but it still made me sad to check that box. It was a box my mother checked on my school forms from 5th grade on, a box I swore I would never check for my own kids. And yet this Fall I did: "Child lives with mother."

My kids are private with their feelings. They do not say much about the divorce and are uncomfortable when I bring it up. So I watch them. I see them using computer games and the Internet as an escape more than I would like, and I worry about that. I tell them I worry about it and they respond with a perfect teenage eye roll. But I see other things too. I see them meeting the challenges of new schools and divorced parents with acceptance, strength and grace. They have not been toppled by this sea change in their lives. They have risen to meet it.

My son Miles is working hard to stay on top of the demands of junior high. He is taking responsibility for himself in new and unprecedented ways. He brings me every form that needs to be signed. And he gets straight to his homework after school or soccer. He is warm and affectionate with me and will even let me read to him sometimes. He keeps his sister and me informed on the latest scientific research and always asks me to turn on NPR in the car.

My daughter Frances is so responsible with school work that I rarely have to nag her about it. She has a maturity and solid inner standards that she works hard to maintain. She has a strong sense of self and does not cave to peer pressure. She is moving out into the world, focused on friends and activities outside the family as is appropriate for a fifteen year old. And yet, she still enjoys the company of her family from time to time. She's always available to share an episode of Star Trek with us, or a good dessert.

This summer in the Eastern Sierra Miles, Frances and I hiked a trail we've hiked many times before -- the Lundy Canyon trail. We were with some of our favorite people. We took pleasure in the familiar beauty of those majestic mountains. We found comfort in knowing just how far it was to the rest stop where we could take off our shoes and cool our feet in a cold stream, take a dip in the pool at the beaver dam, and eat a snack in the shade. We love this trail.

This year there was no snow as we climbed higher up the canyon so we were able to hike farther than we ever had. Gradually the trail became less familiar, and it was hard to even see among loose shale rocks. When the switch backs gave way to a near vertical climb through those loose, slippery rocks our party paused, unsure if we should go on. My kids were among those who wanted to press on. And so we began to climb, using hands and feet, taking care with each step to find a rock solid enough to place our foot. It was best not to look too far ahead. If we looked too far up that steep trail, fear would rise in our bellies (well, in mine anyway).  But if we concentrated on the next secure spot to put our foot or grab onto with our hand, we could do it, one step at a time.

At the end of the week I asked the kids what their favorite part of our vacation was. Without hesitation they both said, climbing Lundy Canyon. I had to agree. There was something about accomplishing that difficult climb that built our confidence. And doing it together gave us a common bond.

The shape of our family is shifting, the terrain unfamiliar. But I know my children have what they need to navigate this unpredictable trail. They have two parents who love them more than anything. And they have the strength and the confidence to climb up the loose rocks one step at a time, especially if we climb together.

We're going to be just fine.

All the Angels I Know Have Bad Hair Days

"I've seen grace manifest as spiritual WD-40, as water wings, as ribbons of fresh air in tight, scary rooms. And I've witnessed the intervention of goofy angels,

 the poor short-straw angels who seem to draw me."

~ Anne Lamott

It's easy to spot the angels in Wim Wenders' 1987 film, Wings of Desire. They're the ones in the black trench coats. They wander around West Berlin, unseen by the residents, listening in on the thoughts of people in distress and comforting them. Ever since I saw that film in 1987, that is how I have imagined angels; no wings or halos, no white flowing robes, just invisible people in trench coats with a gentle touch that comforts those in need.

I'd like to imagine there is a trench coated angel watching my back. But even if there isn't, I'm not hurting for angels in my life. They just happen to be of the more garden variety. I've got angels who can coax a laugh out of me on a bad day, who bring me presents from the thrift store, pick up my kids from school, walk dogs with me and listen to me yammer on about my life; angels who will drink a beer with me, sing with me, or send me a card in the mail just because; angels who take care of my pets when I leave town and always make me laugh; angels who have been with me through all my hair colors, fashion adventures, and relationships and yet somehow know the real me; angels who tell me they adore me and bring me flowers and sweet kisses; angels who never stop being huge hearted parents to look up to and admire, or the most generous sister ever, or a daughter and son who make me smile and watch Star Trek and play Trivial Pursuit with me at the end of the day. I even know a couple of angels with four legs and the ability to wag their entire bodies.

None of my angels are angelic 100% of the time. They get grumpy sometimes and have bad hair days. They don't always eat right and they drink unhealthy carbonated beverages more than they should. They work too hard and feel overwhelmed sometimes. At times they watch too much TV and don't read enough. They have messy houses and smelly dogs. They have been known to yell at their kids and complain about their spouses, although their love for them is always evident. The four legged ones are prone to fleas. 

Aside from the lack of cool black trench coats though, I wouldn't trade my rag tag choir of angels for any number of white robed, beatific beauties. My angels teach me how to be generous and kind, patient and forgiving. They teach me how to offer and accept help, and to give and receive love. I'll take grace that's down to earth and gritty anytime.  As singer Gillian Welch croons, "I'll take a red clay robe, red clay wings, and a red clay halo for my head." ... Trench coats would be pretty cool though.

The Next Right Step

“Every time you take a step, even when you don't want to. . . . When it hurts, when it means you rub chins with death, or even if it means dying, that's good.
 Anything that moves ahead, wins. No chess game was ever won by the player who sat for a lifetime thinking over his next move.” 

~ Ray Bradbury, 

Farewell Summer

My friend Brenda is walking the Camino de Santiago this summer, a 550 mile religious pilgrimage from St. Jean Pied de Port in France to the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela in Galicia in northwestern Spain, where tradition has it that the remains of the apostle Saint James are buried. "The Way of St. James" or "The Way" has been walked for over a thousand years, by thousands of pilgrims every year. Along with her carefully packed backpack and her broken in hiking boots, Brenda takes with her a big, loving heart and a wide open mind. She does not know what she will find on her journey or what she will leave behind. But her openness will draw people and experiences to her. And Brenda will welcome all of them. I am confident she will find what she needs and leave behind what she no longer has use for. 

Like every pilgrim, Brenda's journey will begin with a single step, followed by another, then another. She will be walking about 20 miles a day, a daunting undertaking if she allows herself to think of it that way. But a single step followed by another? She can do that. With her exuberance and depth of spirit, Brenda will walk The Way with grace and joy. There will surely be rough days, but her wisdom and faith will guide her through them. I know this because her wisdom and faith have helped guide me these past few months. 

Brenda is one of the first people I told about my divorce. She has been present for my relief, sadness, anger, and joy. She has offered comfort, irreverent humor, and the wisdom of someone who's been down this road. When I was feeling particularly overwhelmed by fears about my children, my husband's anger, jobs and money, she stopped me and said, "just take the next right step, and have faith." 

Just take the next right step, and have faith. I can do that. It means I don't have to have everything figured out right now. And taking the time to consider what the next "right" step might be prevents me from blindly crashing through the bushes just to escape my fears. Now, when anxiety wells up in me like a wave, when the path ahead grows steep or is choked in brambles, I ask myself, what is the next right step? And usually I can see a clear spot to place my foot.

Brenda doesn't know what she will find on her spiritual journey. Who ever does? She will walk the camino with open hearted love. And she will find what she needs by taking the next right step, and by having faith. I will too.

Buen Camino, Brenda. Buen Camino.

Michael

"No one tells their friends 

that they want to be a step parent when they grow up."

~ Unknown

He moved into our suburban tract house and hung Japanese scrolls on the living room walls and antique swords above the fireplace. Leo Kottke and Taj Mahal records started spinning on our turntable. Soon curry dishes and stir fries began showing up on our dinner table. He rolled cigarettes or lit a pipe after dinner, and he often reached for his guitar. With a mischievous smile and a twinkle in his eye, it always seemed like he was about to let you in on a private joke.

I wasn't too sure about Michael at first. He was sitting in my father's chair at the table, after all. And his 1961 gun metal grey Peugeot replaced my dad's VW bug in the garage. Fiercely loyal to my father, I held back from this guitar playing, pipe smoking man my mother had brought into our lives.

For awhile.

It was hard to resist Michael's easy warmth and love of life. I had to let him in. He had no intention of trying to replace my dad. He knew that role had been filled by a leading man that would never need an understudy. Besides, Michael had three daughters of his own. My sister and I were just part of the package when he fell for my mom. But Michael enthusiastically accepted the whole package. And so we began to craft another kind of family. We figured out what it meant to be a step father, a step daughter. Over time, we created something special and lasting.

When he was a young man Michael traded his first car for a Martin guitar. His friends all thought he was crazy, but I think he ended up with the better end of the deal. That Martin became an extension of him for the rest of his life. And it became an important part of my life too. From that guitar I learned to love old folk songs, sea chanteys, and bluegrass music. Accompanied by that Martin, we sang around countless campfires. Michael's playing always drew other campers to our fire. Like I said, it was hard to resist his love of life. And that love was never more evident than when he was playing music.

I still find comfort in songs I first heard played on that Martin. When I sing or hear "Goodnight Irene" or "Louise" they are always accompanied by the smell of a campfire, the sound of Michael's raspy singing voice inside my head. When it was time for me to get a new guitar a few years back, there was no question that it would be a Martin. Though I play nowhere near as well as Michael did, his influence is all over the music I love, the music I write, the musical lifestyle I aspire to live.

Michael would have turned 77 this month. I am sad that he's not around to play music with now. I would love to join him in a duet of "Louise." Sometimes I get angry at him for drinking and smoking too much, knowing full well that heart disease was in his genes. Michael never really faced the demons of his addictions. Sadly those demons got the upper hand in the end. 

We didn't really need each other at first. I had a father. He had daughters. But in spite of that (or maybe because of it) we crafted a special relationship. He was not my dad, but he was family in the deepest sense. And he was a mentor to me, opening my eyes to a broader world, taking me under his wing and instilling in me his love of music, especially music that is meant to be sung in the gathering of friends and family, under the stars, the smell of wood smoke in the air.

Milestone

"If you really want to do something, you’ll find a way.

 If you don’t, you’ll find an excuse."

~ unknown

One year ago I found a treasure of a book at a used book sale. It was called A Small Heaven by Jane Ranney Rzepka, a slim volume filled with short reflections from the author's life. Each story, whether it was about getting locked in the attic with her son or a comment made by a shoe salesman, was a snapshot of an ordinary moment in an ordinary life. And from these snapshots Ranney Rzepka drew insights and made connections that we can all relate to. I loved it. More than that, I was inspired by it. A few days after I got the book this blog, Postcards From Tuesday, was born. And a year later, I am happy to say it is still alive and kicking!

Now if I were a person with a good track record of follow through on my ideas, this milestone would be no big deal. I mean, it's not like I decided to write a book. All I set out to do was write a few paragraphs every week. In terms of scope, it's not even up there with my fourth grade New Year's resolution to read the entire Bible!  

I am not a person with good follow through though. I am that person who joins the gym on January 1, full of promise and resolutions, only to find excuses not to go come February. I don't even think I made it through Genesis in fourth grade (or ever for that matter). So a year of blogging, 44 posts to be exact (there are vacations and the occasional rough week after all), is cause for celebration!

I LOVE writing this blog. It's given me a new lens to view my life through. Everything from a walk with my grandma to the pain of ending my marriage is worthy of reflection. And every story, no matter how small, has something to teach me if I spend a little time with it. That's the gift of reflection. We have this one life full of big stuff and little stuff. The big stuff is hard to miss. But most of our days are not spent graduating from college, getting married, having babies, losing loved ones. Most of our days are spent with the small stuff: going to work, walking the dog, making dinner, sharing a beer with friends, washing dishes, driving our kids around town, driving ourselves to distraction with too much to do and not enough time to be. Writing this blog reminds me to stop and look, to be present for my life.

That's not what keeps me writing though. I could accomplish that with a private journal, which is of course a great place to go with feelings and ideas, with raw, unedited thoughts. What keeps me writing this blog is that people are reading it! YOU are reading it. I'm enough of a diva that I bloom in the presence of an audience. I am addicted to the page hit counter on my blog site. It makes my day that you are taking a few minutes to read this. I am really quite flattered!

But even that is not what inspires me to keep this up week after week. What truly inspires me is when someone tells me that a post helped them not feel so alone in their struggles or gave them a different perspective on something in their life. I write about what I am moved by or struggling with. But I know that my life is not that unique. We are all connected by our shared humanity. I find that connection incredibly rich. So when you tell me that something I wrote moved you, know that I am moved right back at you! We're all on this journey together, my friends. And I am so grateful to have you all to walk with. 

Thank you for keeping me going!

Remember to Look for Whales

“Your true home is in the here and the now.”

~ Thich Nhat Hanh

Several times a week my dog Zeke and I walk on the bluffs by my house. We always take the trail closest to the edge for the best view of the ocean. Okay, I'm the only one who cares about the view really. Zeke is more interested in looking for small rodents in the grass and “trail snacks” left by the horses that walked the trail before us. Dogs are gross. I tell Zeke this all the time, but he is not easily offended. And he makes it clear that he does not plan to change for me. I respect that about him. He says, look. I like to roll around in dead things and eat horse poop. This is who I am. If you're gonna love me you gotta take the whole package. Oh, and I have fleas too.

At this time of year you can see whales passing off shore as they make their annual migration through the channel. Last Spring I was obsessed with looking for whales on my walks. Friends started to tease me about my near daily Facebook posts about whale and dolphin sightings. I walked with my eyes glued to the ocean, not wanting to miss a water spout or a tail rising out of the ocean. I saw a couple. Once I even saw a humpback whale fully breach. I literally gasped. The whole thing was over in a matter of seconds, but it was truly awe inspiring. Zeke missed it of course. He had his nose in a rodent hole at the time.

Earlier this week I was walking along the bluffs and I caught a splash out of the corner of my eye. I looked out at the ocean and saw a dolphin leap out of the water. Of course it was a beautiful sight. What struck me though was not the beauty of the dolphin, but the fact that I had been walking with my head down. I had barely noticed the ocean on my left and the sea of wild mustard on my right. In fact, I couldn't remember the last time I had seen a dolphin or even thought about looking for one. For the past several months my vision has been turned inward.

My husband and I are ending our marriage of seventeen years. It's a hard and painful time, separating the many strands of our lives that have been woven together in marriage and family. Of course we find knots that are difficult to untangle and try our patience. And the challenges we face moving forward are so daunting that some days I just want to stay in bed and pull the blankets over my head. Anxiety, an old unwelcome companion, has returned to walk with me through my days. I keep trying to shove him away, but he has no plans to leave anytime soon. Anxiety is mainly what causes me to walk with my head down and curl inward, trying to protect myself by rolling up like a pill bug.

When I raise my head and take the long view, I am optimistic. My husband and I both want to part as gracefully as possible. We want to remain cooperative parents for our children, and we are even hopeful that we can be friends when the wounds heal. He is a good man, and a good father. I want him to find happiness. We're in the thick of separating our lives right now though and it ain't easy. In this process of untangling the threads I sometimes forget to look up at the beauty that is all around me. I need to be nudged and reminded.

A couple of days ago Zeke and I were walking on the bluffs again. We came upon a young couple looking out at the ocean. “Hey,” the young man said. “Did you see the whales out there? We saw like twelve spouts in the last five minutes.” I thanked him enthusiastically and sat down on the edge of the cliff. The sun was low in the sky so I had to shield my eyes. The water was sparkling. And then I saw it: A spray of water shooting upward like a geyser. And then another. I sat for about fifteen minutes watching the water spouts, occasionally catching a glimpse of a sleek body before it slipped back under the water. Zeke even stopped rustling around in the grass and sat with me. My shoulder muscles relaxed and my breathing slowed. Anxiety walked away down the trail for awhile as I just waited and watched for whales. I remembered that there is a lot of beauty in my life, even now. And that in the winter the Monarch butterflies will return.

Up In the Air

" Everything was rewritten when he was up in the air. 
New things were possible with the human form.
 It went beyond equilibrium.
He felt for a moment uncreated. Another kind of awake."

~ Colum McCann

Let the Great World Spin

The garbage disposal is broken. So is the dishwasher. But I can still get the dishes done. By hand, making sure food doesn't clog the drain. My car needs a new battery too. Twice in the past month I have had to jump start it. But I have learned not to run the air conditioner when I'm parked, and to turn off the radio when I'm waiting to pick up my daughter from high school. And so the car keeps running. 

I'm a little broken too at the moment, but I am still functional. I am in the middle of huge transitions, and I have to be careful not to expect too much of myself right now. It's been hard to write the last few weeks. There's so much to say, but it's too soon to say it. That's the downside of writing and sharing personal essays. Sometimes the things you need to write about are too raw, too close. There has not been enough time to reflect, not enough distance to take the long view. But it is possible to stop for a minute and just see what's there. Right now.

It's a time of change. And I feel like I'm walking a tightrope, putting one foot in front of the other, not looking too far ahead, trying to make each step purposeful. One of the most incredible things I see right now are all the people standing by me, ready to catch me when I slip (and I have slipped!). Every Sunday before the offering in my Unitarian church, we recite an affirmation of gratitude and giving. The last line has been playing over and over in my head like a mantra: "Let us be grateful, even for our needs, so that we may learn from the generosity of others." In every corner of my life I am being met with love and generosity. It takes my breath away.

Another thing I see is that glass, you know, the one with the water that just reaches the halfway mark? It's half full. Even on the scariest, saddest of days I can see that it is half full. This is huge for me, a glass half empty kinda gal for so much of my life. That I am able to find what writer John O'Donohue describes as "a diamond-thought of light" on dark days is an incredible gift. It reminds me that I have all I need to navigate this strange time.

And finally, there's the tightrope walk itself. Some days I can't feel the ground beneath me, and much of the familiar landscape is fading away. What lies ahead, when I dare to take my eyes off the wire for a minute, is possibility. In times of transition, it is tempting to reach for the nearest guidepost and cling to it. But as my friend Ken reminded me the other day, transition is a time of great opportunity if you can sit with the uncertainty for awhile. It's a time to explore and reinvent. When everything is up in the air, there can be incredible moments of feeling "uncreated." What will I create now? 

I'm feeling a little broken, but I'm remembering what Colum McCann writes at the end of his beautiful novel, Let the Great World Spin: "The world spins. We stumble on. It is enough." It IS enough.

The Mammoth 6

"Each friend represents a world in us, a world possibly not born until they arrive,

and it’s only by this meeting that a new world is born."

~Anais Nin

We pile into the minivan, the six of us, with duffel bags and books, snacks for the car, favorite CDs, and bottles of wine for the weekend. There can only be six of us because that's all the minivan can hold, and we must ride in one car. It wouldn't be right to split up. After all, we're in the car for six hours each way, driving from Santa Barbara to Mammoth in October. We don't want to miss a single drop of the invigorating elixir of each other's company. We're giddy to be away from the responsibilities of parenthood, marriage, and jobs for a few days. We relish each minute of just being women together. This is our 2nd annual trip. We know in our bones there will be many more to come.

When we arrive at the condo, we unload our luggage and choose our beds. Most of us will be in one room, a room with two bunk beds and a double bed. This is a ski condo after all,  set up for maximum sleeping accommodations. We're not here to ski though. When we've settled in and changed into our pajamas, a bottle of wine is opened and we snuggle up on the large sofa or stretch out on the floor and talk more! You'd think after six hours together in the car we'd have run out of things to say about our kids, our husbands, our jobs. But there's always more. We're just getting started. As the weekend wears on, we will laugh over shared memories, tell stories from our past, and dreams for the future. We know each other well. A lot of short cuts can be taken in our conversations, a lot needs not be said at all.

In the morning there's the smell of coffee made by the earliest riser to greet the rest of us as, one by one, we stumble downstairs. We are in no rush. There is no place we have to be, and we savor the luxurious gift of time slowed down. The first morning's breakfast is a simple one: yogurt with fruit, nuts, and flax seeds, muffins and juice and lots of coffee. But there will be dinners to prepare together, happy hours to relax into, dessert of course. Nothing feels like a chore here because everything we do, we do together.  

Half the fun is in the planning. How should we spend this day together? There are walks and hikes to take, movies to watch, a soak in the jacuzzi, and the all important trip to the Mammoth thrift stores. (Most of us share an addiction to thrift store shopping. Those that don't enjoy this annual binge.) Even grocery shopping is a treat. We break up into meal teams and wander the aisles of Vons, selecting ingredients for warm vegetarian chili, smoked salmon and fresh berries for breakfast, tasty cheeses for happy hour. 

On our first Mammoth trip we were treated to an early snow storm. We rented snow shoes from an incredibly handsome and very young man we named "Jake." Though we were old enough to be Jake's mothers, we enjoyed many a delicious fantasy about him for the remainder of the weekend, laughing when one of us suggested we ask him if he'd ever seen the movie, The Graduate.

Mammoth is quiet in October. The throngs of skiers have yet to ascend the mountain. We quickly fell in love with snow shoeing, enjoying having the mountain virtually to ourselves. The sun sparkled on the fresh snow and every view was majestic and awe-inspiring. Of course when six women are doing anything together, there is rarely a moment of silence. But on this walk I demanded we take one. We spread out, each of us finding a rock or log to sit on, and we did not talk for 15 glorious minutes. I felt the silence envelope me like a soft, down comforter. There is nothing quite like the silence of a snow covered mountain.   For 15 minutes my mind ceased its' endless chatter and I melted into that healing embrace of silence.

We have a ritual that we share on the last night of our trip. There is a gift bag and a card for each one of us. Over the course of the weekend we write what we appreciate about each woman in her card. We all bring small gifts, six of the same thing, one for each person. And on the last night we take turns slipping our gifts into the bags before gathering together to open these gifts and read the precious words each woman has written about us. There are shouts of delight as we open hand-made earrings and bracelets, delicious smelling coconut oil to soften our skin, CDs with thoughtfully chosen favorite songs, prayer flags and poetry. 

I am blessed to have these women in my life. And I am further blessed because they are not the only women I walk through my days with. There are the women in my book club who nourish me every month with their company. Perhaps we don't spend a whole lot of time discussing the book, but that's not what I'm there for. I come for the company of these amazing women. There are the women I make music with, blending harmonies and inspiring each other to create and sing, to risk. There are the old friends who have known me forever, some since I was fourteen. They're the ones who've seen me through bad boyfriends, multiple hair colors, drunken adventures (and misadventures). They keep me honest! And there are the brand new friends I keep on meeting, each bearing her own unique gift.

There is not a minivan big enough to hold all of these amazing women. But every day I am grateful to be traveling through life in their company. They are my life raft, my inspiration, my confidantes, the ones I can let my hair down with, knowing they will love me no matter what. Wow! I am the luckiest woman in the world!

I Want To Be Like Her When I Grown Up!

"I thought of that while riding my bicycle."

~ Albert Einstein, 

in reference to the Theory of Relativity

In 2012 she rode her bicycle over 8,000 miles. She rides everywhere, even doing her grocery shopping on a bike, pulling her groceries in a baby trailer she once used to transport her grandchildren. She and her husband have participated in organized rides across many of these United States, riding and camping out along the way in all kinds of weather. And about a dozen years ago they spent a couple of months riding coast to coast, beginning by dipping their bike wheels in the Pacific and ending by dipping them in the Atlantic. She has ridden countless centuries, and once even toughed it out through the Davis Double, a 200 mile bike ride in one day!

Who is this woman? Well, she's my mom. And today she turns 70 years old. She is an amazing woman and I am lucky to have her peddling along ahead of me through life, blazing a trail of possibility and joyful living.

My mom loves to talk about cycling almost as much as she loves to ride a bike. If you ask her about a recent ride, be prepared to sit down and open a beer. You're in for a long story with lots of detail. And while you might not hang on to every word about what gear she was in for which hill, you cannot help but be captivated by her enthusiasm. It's infectious. When she tells you how much she loves to take the downhills super fast, feeling the wind on her face, the thrill of speed, you feel it too. When you listen to her talk, you want what she's got! You want to love something, anything, as much as she loves being on a bike.

Now, my mom's not perfect. It took her three tries to find a husband who could match her energy and enthusiasm. But the third time was definitely a charm. I won't reveal Owen's age, but when it was time for his 50th high school reunion a few years back, he rode his bike to the festivities ... from Oregon to Wisconsin! They are truly a perfect match. She talks. He listens enthusiastically, no matter how many times he's heard a story. And they both ride through life with joy writ large across their faces.

When I turned 50 last year, it didn't scare me. How could I be afraid when I have a role model who shows me every day that opportunities abound, as long as you remain engaged as a full participant in life? My mom is the epitome of the strong independent woman, embracing challenges, living life on her terms. And she can kick my butt on a bike any day. I guess I'd better start peddling, because when I grow up, I want to be like her.

Happy Birthday, Murder!

I'm proud of you.

Divine Surprises

"Creative living is full of encounters with the unpredicted.

 Divine surprises. Revelations that will take your breath away,

 and give it back again, time and time again."

~ Karen Hering

It's 10:15 PM. My son and my husband are asleep, my daughter is finishing up the last of her homework, and I finally have time to myself. I am both tired and exhilarated, pulled to do three things at once, all of them creative, all of them guaranteed to feed my soul. There's this blog to write, which I look forward to every week. Tuesday mornings I wake up and actually think, I get to write tonight! But tonight I am also pulled to finish putting together the 15 minute worship service I will be leading tomorrow night. No writing for this one, but still the careful selecting of readings, the choosing of hymns, the arrangement of all of the elements of the service. Where is the best place for a moment of silence? Should the hymn go before or after the reading? And if that isn't enough, I also want to work on a song I started writing while on a walk earlier this week!

To be honest, I'm not sure where this deep pull to create is coming from. It's like I'm making up for lost time, the creative impulse accelerating for the past couple of years with no sign of slowing down. Maybe it's mortality's cold breath on the back of my neck, the realization that I will not live forever so I'd better get to it! Maybe it's self confidence growing like a snowball as it picks up speed down a hill. I'm certain this creative urge is fueled by the warm acceptance I have received from the beautiful community of friends and family I have shared my creative efforts with. 

Last Sunday, Aaron, my amazing minister preached on living whole-heartedly. He shared two questions that guide his life, questions he reminds us of a couple of times a year because they are that important: What do you love? And, therefore, how will you live? This sermon filled me with joy because I actually feel like each day I am living more and more whole-heartedly, growing into my life. This is such a recent phenomenon for me that it still has the power to surprise and delight me. I am really living a life I love. Someone pinch me. I must be dreaming.

Lest you feel the urge to do more than pinch me, remember what I wrote about in my last two posts. My life is far from picture perfect. I am struggling with heartache and frustrations big and small. There are things that make me cry regularly.  But what's different now, is that these emotions don't consume me. They walk side by side with joy, gratitude, and love. They are related after all, cousins in the family of human experiences. And all of these feelings bring offerings to the table that feed the creative spirit.

It's getting late. I've finished preparing my worship service. I wrote this post in record time (and it's good enough). ... Can I squeeze in a little time to work on my song before sleep demands that I turn off the light? ...  Why not? I can sleep when I'm dead, right?

Tell Your Stories

"Stories are the creative conversion of life itself into a more powerful, clearer, more meaningful experience. They are the currency of human contact."

~ Robert McKee

My seven year old daughter Frances and my four year old son Miles sat at the breakfast table crying as they watched their mother throw a full blown tantrum. First I yelled and screamed. Then I began slamming cupboards and drawers, slamming one drawer so hard I broke it. I picked up a wooden spoon and threw it with all my strength against the kitchen wall, breaking it too. I knew this was wrong, but I couldn't control the impulses firing in my brain and body to yell and throw things. Finally this wildfire inside me ran out of fuel.  I stood in the kitchen shaking and crying, staring at the fear in my children's eyes.

I gathered Frances and Miles up and we sat on the couch crying together. Feeling the rub of a hair shirt of shame and guilt, I held them close and apologized. I told them there was no excuse for my behavior. I said that sometimes adults have tantrums too. I felt like I was the ugliest person in the world. I felt like a witch, complete with warts and claw-like hands. I did not deserve these beautiful children.

We managed to pull ourselves together and get to school. With a  heavy heart, I said goodbye to Frances at her first grade classroom, hugging her and apologizing yet again. Then Miles and I drove to the co-op preschool he attended. I was grateful I did not have to say goodbye to him too this morning. 

By the time we arrived at Starr-King Parent Child Workshop, Miles seemed to have pretty well recovered. He made a bee line to the yard and began maneuvering earth movers and dump trucks around the safe, contained world of the the preschool sandbox. It was my work day at the co-op, and I was supposed to begin chopping vegetables and fruit for the children's snack. But before I could pick up another kitchen utensil, I nervously sought out Yolanda, the preschool director.

I did not want to tell her what I had done, but that rough cloth of shame chafed with every step. I knew I had to. I asked Yolanda if I could talk to her privately. I said I needed help. And when we went upstairs to a private room, I told her every horrible detail of that morning. She responded with unwavering understanding and acceptance. Without a trace of judgement she helped me sort through what happened and forgive myself. And she gave me tools to help my children understand too. I will always be grateful to her for being there for me. I shared one of my darkest failings with someone I trusted, and I was  redeemed. But redemption is only the beginning of this story.

Starr-King has a parent education meeting one evening a week. At the following meeting, Yolanda was explaining to parents how to handle a variety of difficult situations with children: tantrums, stubbornness, aggression. She has a way of making these interventions sound so easy, so artful. The room was silent. This was my fifth year at the co-op. I had heard this lesson many times and had had both successes and failures with these guidance techniques. But I remembered being a first year parent and feeling certain that everyone in the room had mastered the art of guidance except me.  So I raised my hand and said, Yolanda makes this all sound so easy, but none of us is perfect. Sometimes we really screw up. And when we do, it helps to share it with someone. I can tell you from recent experience that Yolanda is wonderful to talk to when you need help. 

Yolanda was about to continue her talk when my friend Patrice spoke up.  I want to hear what Charla did, she said. I shot her a look and then I looked up at Yolanda and said, Okay.  I'll tell.  And so I did. And when I finished recounting my story of yelling and breaking of kitchen items, you could feel all 50 parents breathe a sigh of relief. People began sharing difficult scenarios in their own families, and Yolanda helped us all sort through them. It was a lively discussion. For weeks afterward, parents thanked me for sharing my story and told me some their own shameful tales of parenting gone wrong.  

That was when I knew how powerful personal stories are, my stories and yours. Sharing them provides both storyteller and listener opportunities for insight, comfort, inspiration, healing, growth. Words are powerful tools. Tell your stories, especially the painful ones. The people who will listen are probably the people who need them most. 

Striving For ... Good Enough

"If you wait for perfect conditions, you will never get anything done."

~ Ecclesiastes 11:4

Before we walked on stage to sing together, my friend Mari would say two things: "Loud and Proud" and "Wrong and Strong." She would shout them out and we would laugh, releasing a lot of tension.  They became mantras for us, reminding us that we didn't have to be perfect; we just had to go out there and give it our best shot. Of course we were never perfect, but we were always good enough. And if we were having a good time and could laugh at ourselves, people loved us.

Loud and Proud and Wrong and Strong have become more than just mantras for performing. They've become life mantras for me. My house is a mess, I am chronically late, my kids spend too much time on the computer, I don't exercise regularly, my husband and I have unresolved marital issues, I procrastinate, I have poor money management skills, the dog has dreadlocks from lack of proper grooming, and I don't floss regularly, just to name a few of the many ways in which I fall short of perfection. BUT, I am good enough.

I have decided to make it my mission to model imperfection. I've wasted a lot of time not doing things I love out of fear that I would not be good enough. I am done with that. Life, as they say, is too short. I'm not planning to take up skydiving anytime soon, and I won't summit Everest in this lifetime. But I would like to have people over for dinner, even though the house is far from spotless. And I am going to perform my newly written songs at an open mic even though my guitar playing is mediocre. I just want to try to live a little more authentically, doing the things I love and sharing them with other people imperfectly. As my hero, Anne Lamott says, "Perfectionism is the voice of the oppressor, the enemy of the people." If I can help just one person take one small step out of their fear and into their dreams, my mission will be a success.

I am going to publish this post. It isn't perfect, but if I wait for perfection I will never write another word. I'm going to bed now. It's good enough.