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.