Pleasure

I adore some things. Adore.

Walking near any body of water.
Picking produce from a garden for dinner.
Mary Oliver's poetry.
Misty mornings on the Oregon coast.
The colors, sights, sounds, and smells of a farmer's market.

Lots more, but that's enough to make my point, which is that simple things make me solidly, thoroughly happy.

My sister went to the farmer's market with Mom and me this morning. Never been before. Probably won't go again: The produce department at the local store is easier. When I pointed out a stall with a particularly beautiful display, she looked at me blankly. "They're vegetables."

She's right, of course. And she couldn't be more wrong. They're vegetables. They're also colors and textures and smells and tastes. They're the fruits of someone's hard work. They're the potential for delicious, nutritious meals. They are simple beauty.

No matter how much my family makes fun of me for it, I am deeply grateful for my ability to take pleasure in simple beauty. It holds me to the Earth when I might otherwise fly off into complete panic over the friends who are seriously ill; my daughter, who is shopping for an engagement ring; my favorite aunt and uncle, who are facing Parkinson's (her) and advancing Alzheimer's (him) without a younger generation to help (their only daughter died at 38); my father, who must have a bronchioscope on Thursday to check out a "narrowing" on his airway.

These are hard things, and when there is anything I can do about them, I do. When there is nothing left to do, I revel in picking fresh basil and composing a beautiful tomato mozzarella salad.

If that makes me simple minded, I'm okay with that.

Rough All Over

At a coffee shop the other morning, I watched a man repeatedly shuffle papers in a notebook and dial his phone then snap it shut with a grimace.

Despair. I was watching despair.

Someone he knew approached and asked the man if he was all right.

"I have to find some work. Today. I have to find work today."

A story tumbled out, one of a man willing and ready to work but unable to find a job. Mentioning his wife and children, the man's eyes welled and his voice shook.

This morning I edited an article about the relationship between the rising cost of health insurance and poverty. 62% of bankruptcies relate to health care costs. Of that 62%, more than 70% have insurance coverage. Inadequate to be sure, but coverage. Insurance rates are rising at more than five times the rate of inflation.

At this moment, I am well. I have everything I truly need and most of what I want. The sun is shining on my little house, my doggie is snoring beside me, and I am headed to another full day of work.

Rumi's blossoms of blessings are falling all around me, and I am grateful.

Not a Triceratops

Katie was complaining about something this morning, something silly. I laughed into the phone.

"Oh, Babe. You so 2000 and late."

Her screech nearly gave me the new cartilage piercing I want.

What did you say?

"You know...I'm so 3008; you so 2000 and late."

Again with the shriek: How do you KNOW that?

"It's from Boom Boom Pow. The Black Eyed Peas. I like Will.i.am."

But....but...that song is on the radio NOW. It's....it's...from.....TODAY!

And apparently, I am not. From today. Or supposed to know anything current.

"I'm not a dinosaur, Sweetie."


Mom and Dad were talking about something this afternoon, something silly. Mom laughed when I mentioned Alec Baldwin's SNL skit, Schweaty Balls. She knew what I was talking about and thought it was funny. I could barely believe it.

"If you think that's funny, you've got to see this." I pulled up Alec Baldwin doing an SNL skit about playing Wii on Hulu.

Very little could have surprised me more than seeing Mom and Dad laugh hysterically over that skit. They got it. And they thought it was funny.

Um...guess they're not dinosaurs, either.

Dumpster Diving

We do not have curbside recycling here in the Land that Time Forgot (also known as Where Democrats Fear to Tread). In the last year, many churches have set up paper recycling dumpsters in their parking lots as a way to generate revenue. (They sell the paper.)

Yesterday I was working away when my vision became so fragmented I couldn't read the screen—my body's way of telling me it's past time to take a break. I took a cool shower, closed my eyes for 10 minutes, and decided to take the paper to the recycling dumpster at a nearby church.

I have a weird fear of locking myself out of my car so, as usual, I pulled the key. When I finished loading my bags and boxes into the dumpster, the key was no longer in my hand. It was not in or on the car. It was not on the ledge of the dumpster. I thought I remembered putting it on the pavement beside the dumpster, but it was not there, either.

The champion of fools and little children was on my side once again, and it turned out that I had an extra key in the glove compartment. I drove home, got a step ladder and returned to the dumpster. The lid was so high that I had to stand on the ladder to open it.

And then I climbed into the dumpster.

Yes. I did. I climbed a ladder and dropped myself down into that enormous dumpster full of paper. (Those remote key things cost over $100.) I cleared a corner and shook out every envelope, bag and newspaper insert. I sifted through the shredder litter. I methodically sorted what I had checked from what I had not. It was hot outside and hotter inside the metal dumpster. For part of a minute, I felt a bit sorry for myself but found perspective. It's much easier to search for a $100 key in a recycling dumpster than a million dollar mattress in a garbage dump.

And Then I Came to the End (my apologies to Joshua Ferris). Time to give up.

When I turned and looked at the opening, dawn broke. A dumpster that required a ladder to climb into was not going to be easy to climb out of.

Oops.

I could reach the opening but could not haul myself up to it. The walls were smooth--no footholds, no way to climb.

(Much helpless laughter.)

Inspiration! I cleared the space in front of the opening and stacked folded newspaper in two steps. When my newspaper ladder got tall enough, I threw myself out of the opening to the stepladder waiting below.

(Please God, don't let them have surveillance cameras on that parking lot.)

Completely mystified, I went on to run a couple other errands. On the way home, I couldn't help myself. I went back to the dumpster.

Getting into the dumpster was easier the second time. I had a stepladder on one side and the newspaper tower on the other. I cleared the opposite corner and worked my way through all the paper again. 40 minutes later--Bupkus.

One more time through the opening. (Really, God. No cameras. Please?)

Hot and frustrated, I got in the car to head home, when the only logical possibility struck me. What if I put the key of the pavement and unknowingly kicked it under the darn thing?

I laid down on the pavement and peered into the darkness. A suspicious lump in about the center held potential. I happened to have a long quarter-inch dowel in the car, which turned out to be the perfect tool.

After a couple tries, I fished out my $100 key. You would have thought I'd struck gold. I danced. I hopped up and down. I shook the key at the sky and said Thank You. I cel-e-brated.

And then I went home and took a long, hot shower.

My Life in Ruins

Went to see My Life in Ruins on Friday. Loved it. LOVED it.

It's a simple, good natured tale. I'll bet critics label it predictable. But that's okay. Like the main character, I have lost my keffe and want to believe I can find it again. Watching Georgia find hers made me happy.

I've never done a bus tour like that, but I've done several hiking and biking tours and it's always gone like the movie: a mess, a problem, people you're not crazy about until you get to know them.... Something crazy or dangerous happens and the dynamic changes in an instant. Before you know it, you're smearing blue pore-refining mask on your faces and performing African tribal dances in hotel hallways (my experience, not the movie's).

Here's what I love about Nia Vardales: She's a never-so-die kind of girl. No one writes parts she's right for, so she writes 'em for herself. After a 10 year struggle with infertility, she adopts a toddler from the foster care system and becomes an advocate for waiting children. No one's green lighting movies for and about women, but she finds a way (with the help of Tom Hanks and Rita Wilson).

In the movie, Richard Dreyfuss's character tells Georgia she's seeing the obstacles instead of the magic. It's a valid point.

Both are always present. Why not see the magic?

More More

So, here's what I've learned about holding what you want.

It's very difficult to make choices that lead you away from what you want when you're holding it firmly, leading with it.

With the exhilaration of that 4th of July singing through my veins yesterday, I said no thanks to chocolate without a second thought, took a break and went for a walk, and danced as I brushed my teeth. Simple. Inevitable. Real.

I don't know from vibrational attraction, but I know this. When I dwell on how fat I am, it's easy to think nothing matters, so I might as well give myself a treat. When I concentrate on the feelings I want, they're like the Pied Piper, leading me down the path of righteousness.

Okay. Maybe not righteousness. Maybe just a little better than usual. And maybe that's enough.

More Holding What I Want

The 4th of July weekend, 1994, a bunch of friends gathered at a friend's lake home. Someone mused about how much fun it would be to try out a wave runner. Everyone nodded and murmured in agreement and the idea floated off across the lake, just one more pleasant thought on its way to oblivion until I snatched its little tail and jerked it back across the waves.

Why not? Why can't we try one? Someone must rent the things out.

All my life—40 years at that point—I had waited for other, more powerful people to make decisions, to plot my course. For the 16 long years I was married, I waited and hoped and subtly influenced my husband's decisions but made virtually none greater than what to fix for dinner. Now the divorce was weeks from final and the idea that on my own I could make this simple thing happen felt like a cosmic doorway swinging open, inviting me to step from shades of Kansas gray into a technicolored Oz.

After an hour on the telephone, a few hundred dollars, and signing my life away in case of accident or injury, I turned the key on a three-person Seado—bright green and purple and all mine for 24 hours. I screamed across the lake toward Ed and Sandy's house with no real idea of where I was going beyond a vague explanation from the bored hunk-o-boy at the marina.

White Bear Lake covers 2,500 acres—10 square miles of water. I had never driven a boat. I had never been on a lake alone. I had never driven or even ridden a wave runner.

I did have a good life jacket, five summers worth of Red Cross swimming lessons, and faith in the kindness of strangers if I got lost or something went wrong.

Finding the house wasn't all that hard. Hunk-o-Boy's explanation got me to the right cove with only a couple of slight detours and the shouts of my friends' children led me to their dock. (My children were with their dad for the weekend.)

We hooked up tubes and floaty toys and I pulled those kids around the lake until they begged for mercy. In wide swings across the water, we jumped the wake and played crack-the-whip. I turned corners so sharp and leaned so hard I got water in my ears as I laid the Seado on its side. I was brave and daring in ways I had never been. We stayed on the water until darkness gathered and even one more minute invited a visit from the sheriff.

All afternoon, I was both the good girl and the bad boy as Tom Petty sang in my head, I'm free....freeeee faaaalllin.... I screamed out loud with him, falling free through the white spray and the pure blue joy of being alive in the red hot summer sun on what was, in all ways, a Day of Independence.

I want more of that.

Holding What I Want

I spend a lot of time angry with myself about my weight. Not a day passes without a fair amount of time criticizing myself for my food choices and the shape I'm in. Truthfully, an hour rarely passes.

Barb and I watched Abraham: Secret Behind the Secret last night. On the way home, I recognized how much time I spend focusing on what I hate about my body and how I do not control my eating and all the times I fail to exercise. According to Abraham, these vibrations attract more of the same.

Um.....no thanks.

So last night before bed and the first thing this morning, I spent 30 minutes visualizing times in my life when I felt trim and strong and attractive. I stepped back into a pair of darling brown shoes worn with ankle socks and a flowing blue dress and walked down Fallbrook Road to Terie's house. I smelled the tree blooming in Cathie's yard and waved to Debbie and Bruce on their front step.

On a picnic bench in Door County, Wisconsin, I shaded my eyes against the sun to have my picture taken, aware that it was one of the rare times in my life I didn't mind the camera. I felt the rough lumber of the table and listened to the clinks of lines on masts in Egg Harbor.

Other runners greeted me as I crossed the finish line at my first 10K. I flopped on the curb to eat my orange and felt the orange zest beneath my fingernails.

My date thanked me for an experience he'd longed for all his life. "I've always wanted to walk into an important party with the most beautiful woman in the room. Tonight I did." Granted, he said this while saying goodnight at my door and probably hoped it would get him beyond the door, but whatever. We were at an awards ceremony at a gorgeous resort in Lake Geneva, Wisconsin--my gown was white and kind of Grecian. After the dance, we walked out on a dock on the lake and strangers stopped to tell us what a pretty picture we made in the moonlight. I felt like Cinderella at the ball.

Wearing a long brown velvet skirt and tennis shoes, I mowed the front lawn on Fallbrook Road. I had a little time between activities and didn't care what anyone thought. I felt those tennis shoes flop on my feet without socks.

Wearing nothing at all, I floated down the St. Croix River on a rainy 4th of July afternoon. The rain ruined the picnic but not the adventure. I got goosebumps from the cold water and the thrill.

Who knows what this will lead to, but it feels wonderful to start and end the day with strong, positive thoughts. It can only be a good thing to hold what I want.

And I want more of feeling like that.

All Creations Is Asking Me to Dance

I am sitting in the dark on my deck, pretending to work. What I'm really doing is listening to birds and frogs and bugs tweet and twitter and croak and chirp. They're singing harmony with the deep melodic bass of a wind gong somewhere in the distance.

After a long day of replumbing the water line to my parents' deck hose bib (the copper pipe froze and burst last winter) and replacing landscape fabric and mulch in their landscaping beds and planting some veggies in an old wheelbarrow for Mom, I am tired in that pleasant way that makes you thankful for a place to put your feet up. The breeze off the pond whispers secrets—stories that are nobody knows how old and as new as the yellow blossoms unfurling on my tomato plants.

The moon has a halo. I see it through the arbor roof and feel its glow in the marrow of my bones. It is exactly half a moon--light and shadow in equal proportions.

The same old challenges of my life are present tonight, but God is making music and asking me to dance. What can I do but twirl like a child at the farmer's market?

Farmer's Market Morning

The Independence Farmer's Market is 5 miles from my house. The Overland Park Farmer's Market is 24 miles from my house. I drive to Overland Park nearly every Saturday morning.

The vegetables are the same—asparagus and lettuce and spinach right now. Herbs. Spring onions. Beets. But the Independence market is set up in a parking lot in a derelict part of town. Some people smoke and others drag their oxygen canisters. I rarely see anyone else under 60.

The Overland Park market has a lovely green shed roof and the vendors line both sides of a boulevard in a lovely part of town. Smoking is not allowed. Hanging baskets sway in the breeze. On a ivy-covered brick plaza nearby, musicians play jazz or zydeco or folk songs. Old people in lawn chairs watch small children twirl til they fall down. Young mothers smile indulgently at their kids and the old people.

It's hard to justify adding so much to my carbon footprint each week. (Living alone in a house the size of mine puts me deep in a carbon hole as it is.) But I do it anyway. The music and the atmosphere and the sights and sounds and colors feed my soul. This morning, a small old woman made the trip worthwhile. Her dandelion-fluff white hair stood out against the red canvas lawn chair she sat in, and the red-and-yellow piping on her t-shirt stood out against the prominent blue veins on her neck and arms. Her smile was a living thing, growing with each child who joined the dance in the center of the plaza.

In exchange for the drive, I get musicians sharing their talents, the smell of fresh basil filling the warm car, a warm cherry-and-almond scone.

Yesterday, my neighbor angel, the dear, dear friend without whom I would not have survived the post-divorce drama, was told the cancer has spread from her breast to her lymph nodes. She will have to undergo chemotherapy.

There is nothing I can do but pray and take joy in all things, no matter how small. As our visor-wearing friend the Dali Lama says, the purpose of the life is to be happy. That's not always as easy as it sounds. Or else it's much easier than we think. I never can quite decide which.

Maybe both.

All blessings to you my dearest Cathie. My prayers are with you today and always.

All you need is love (and some damn good drugs).

Riding the Tail of the Kite

A dear friend called yesterday, at the end of her rope. She told me an amazing story of surrender and how the Universe responded.

I knew exactly what she was talking about--the feeling that you simply and absolutely cannot move, cannot pick yourself up and start again one more time, cannot. Cannot. Cannot.

But I also knew what she meant about the spark of connection to the Divine and how it lives inside us. I sometimes feel so far from it, but know that the spark has not moved. It is constant. My ability to perceive it shifts and changes. I miss feeling that connection the way I miss my daughter at college or my parents when I lived far from them. I miss it as the source of my strength and the nurture of my soul.

No feeling I know comes close to the feeling of being in the flow--riding the tail of a kite flown by God alone. It's free and effortless: simple joy in doing.

I sometimes feel the spark hovering behind me, just out of sight and reach. I whirl, trying to catch it, but that's no good. Maybe the only answer is to throw myself at the feet of God and surrender.

WOOOHOOOO!

My doorbell rang late yesterday afternoon. Doesn't happen much--people who know me just come right in and people who don't know me rarely show up at my house.

I glanced through the glass to see who it was and noticed that the person was standing freakishly close to the door, as if she didn't want to be seen. Odd.

When I opened the door, it took at least two full seconds to realize it was Katie. Right there on my front step. She's finished with school and has a few days off, so she hopped into her car and drove to Missouri.

Happy dance. Happy dance. Happy dance.

Inside Out

Went to my brother's house for a weekend of shopping and gardening and bird watching. Jeff's wife Nancy maintains a bird paradise in their back yard, which is now home to blue jays, cardinals, gold finches, Baltimore orioles, orchard orioles, indigo buntings, chickadees, nuthatches, and two varieties of hummingbirds. In the early mornings we drank coffee and watched birds. In the early evenings, we drank coffee and watched the birds. Lovely.

Sunday morning I weeded the strawberry and rhubarb patches and put down weed shield around four raised beds. When noon rolled around, I reluctantly rolled the two-and-a-half hours home.

30 minutes from home, a small convertible passed me on a country road. The top was down and from quite a distance, I could see the bright white hair of a woman in the passenger seat. It seemed incongruous with the zippy little car.

When the car got past me, I realized that the white-haired woman was my sister. Then I looked in the rear-view mirror and realized other people probably think the same thing when they pass me in Paula (my VW Bug convertible).

I'm 55 now but don't feel a bit different than I did at 40. This morning, my knees are sore from hours of kneeling in the garden, and that surprises me. I rarely look straight at myself, but when I catch an unexpected glimpse in a mirror somewhere, I don't recognize that person as me anymore than I recognized that white-haired woman as my sister.

Time marches, but my vision of myself runs in place.

16 Kinds of Different

Visiting a new hair stylist last Friday, I got an honest appraisal: "You don't need to look so old."

Whoa.

And then he cut 5 inches off my hair. Maybe 6. No one in my family noticed. Over the next three or four days, we had my niece's graduation and party, Mother's Day, and quilt night. No one said a word. Finally, I mentioned it to my mother and asked if she was being polite by not mentioning it because she didn't like it.

She looked straight at me and said she hadn't noticed. "It doesn't look that different, does it?"

Um. Yeah. 5 inches is a lot of hair.

On Tuesday, I walked into Barb's house and the first words out of her mouth were, "You cut your hair!"

I burst into laughter. When I explained why, Barb said, "Oh, Jerri. They don't see you. In all the time I've known you, your family has never really seen you."

And like someone flipped a switch in my head, I no longer needed to win their approval. The truth is, I'm never going to win that struggle. They don't see me. I can't be good enough or kind enough or loving enough to make them.

Freedom lives in the converse. If no amount of effort is going to change the circumstances, I'm free to make the amount of effort that serves me rather than others.

That looks sixteen kinds of different, from where I sit.

Freedom sang inside me all day yesterday. I went for a walk with Barb. Worked at a lovely little coffee shop and, later, a picnic table in a park. Ate sensibly. Listened to music. Best day I've had for many, many months.

Getting Better All the Time

Evan and I went for a walk on Mother's Day. He brought me a card and everything. (This walking thing is catching on with him. Yesterday he called to ask if I'd like to go again today if it doesn't rain.)

Katie sent a Mother's Day card that knocked me out. The printed message was about how mothers and daughters are each other's best friends. Forever. Nothing can change that. The note she wrote used words like "courage" and "selflessness." Adult words. Adult thoughts. 

Having babies and young children was one of the great adventures of my life. Having adult children turns out to be just as great. In some ways, better. No Cheerios in my hair and no one cries at the door when I take a shower. 

Kicking Fear's Ask, Part 2

After my meltdown at the Hallmark store,  I decided to invite N to lunch for Mother's Day. We met on Saturday, at a Cheesecake Factory on the Plaza. We sat outside, with one of KC's gazillion fountains behind us and bright sunshine all around. It was cool enough to be thankful for the big cloth napkin on your lap but warm enough for us. Both of us like to eat outside, even when we're pushing the season.

Out of the 100s of possibilities, we both ordered small veggie pizzas and Cesear salads and glasses of pinot grigio.

We talked about Katie. We talked about our respective work lives. We talked about how our families are doing. N told me some stories about Paul's family that I could have listened to all day. Completely fascinating. We laughed. (A lot.) We cried. (A little.)

N brought Kleenex to share. We used them.

I brought pink Gerbera daisies and a card for N. Inside the card I put a wallet-sized version of every one of Katie's school pictures.

Deciding to include the pictures was not easy. The idea popped into my head and wouldn't leave, but I couldn't decide whether it would be wonderful to see her grow (kind of like a flip book) or a painful reminder of the missing years.

My dear friend Barb was aghast--not for N's sake, but for mine. "I don't know N and I don't care about her part of this. I love you. I care about you. You can't make it right for her. You don't have to try, Jerri. Don't give yourself away."

Not giving myself away is kind of a theme in my life, so I took Barb's words seriously. But still,  moments before I walked out the door, I slid the pictures into the envelope and sealed it.  I did for N. I did it for Katie. Mostly, I did it for myself. 

The look on N's face as she thumbed through them seemed to be far more pleasure than pain, which is good. For me, it is good, too. Up close, it's easy to see that N and I are more alike than we are different. 

In our similarities and in our differences, we are bound by universal truth: When you share, you end up with more.  Always. 

Love abides.  And it kicks fear's ask.

Happy Mother's Day

The other day I read or heard someone say you always love your children more than your parents.

New idea to me, but I think it's true. Your relationship with your parents is built on love and gratitude and memories, but your relationship with your children includes responsibility and fierce protectiveness. 

I met each of my children in the same plain, small room. The same maple rocking chair stood waiting in the corner  both times. The same linoleum floor caught my tears. For each, the first time I held them is etched crystal, sharp relief, clear and smoked. 

Evan was wearing a little sailor suit, tiny cloth blue-and-white shoes. He was, at once, impossibly tiny and the biggest thing that ever happened to me. I wrapped him in a blanket, sank into the rocking chair and became—thoroughly and forever—his mother before my butt spread across the hardwood. 

Katie was wearing a mint green and white dress and had a tiny mint green bow taped to her head. Looking at pictures now, I know she was funny looking, but to me she was beautiful. We brought a blanket my mother had knitted for her, and as I wrapped her in that blanket, she wrapped me in the joy of having a daughter. 

These memories are clear. It's the how of it that's carved so deep it looks smoked. How does merely holding a child for the first time make you love him so deeply? How does it make her yours for all time? The only answer I can come up with is that along with the baby, I was handed the responsibility and privilege of raising a child. 

The children became mine through the simple, complex, magical, mundane, overwhelming process of mothering that began in that moment and will continue until my last breath. 

Like anything, mothering changes over time. In the beginning, you're 100% responsible for this human being of the tiny variety. Over time, the job is to help your child take responsibility for himself, to make yourself redundant in her life. You work for the day you're not needed, only wanted. It's a tough job: alternately complicated and painful, fun and funny, completely terrifying.

Today, as every year, my thoughts turn to my children's birth mothers. To Evan's, whom we do not know, and to Katie's whom we now do. To Evan's mom, I send my love and thanks and prayers for peace. I had lunch yesterday with N, Katie's birth mother, to thank her. She, too, has my gratitude and my prayers. 

Happy Mother's Day to all mothers of all sorts and all women who help children grow and thrive. A big thank you to my own mother and to the women who made me a mother. 

All you need is love.

Cognitive Development

Edited a piece on cognitive development in infants yesterday. Had a good laugh over all the things I did right without knowing it. Just loving my babies. And I did (and do) love them so.

I remember...

Evan's weight on my hip as we walked outside, finding birds and trees and animals. After mama and dada, "Whazat?" "You right!" were his first words.

"What's that, Evan?"

"You're right! It's a robin."

"You're right! It's a daisy."

"You're right! It's a caterpillar."

The smell of the top of his head when we danced and sang together. Every word of every song on every album by Raffi and Sharon, Lois and Bram and Disney Kids. Sesame Street. "One of these things is not like the other...." Schoolhouse Rock. "Conjunction junction, what's your function?"

His weight in my lap and the warmth of him as we read Pat the Bunny and Good Night Moon and Green Eggs and Ham.

Again and again and again.

"Throw me the red ball."

"What does a cow say?"

"Which one is the star?"

You're right! You're the star.

Happy Birthday to you, my love. You were the greatest birthday gift I ever received.

"Little Evan came from Heaven one day. Little Evan came from Heaven one day. From Heaven came Evan, from Heaven came Evan. Little Evan came from Heaven one day."

Dream a Little Dream

My dreams have been incredibly vivid lately. Saturday night I dreamed Katie was pulled away from me by a tsunami. She was 6 in the dream, but Evan was his actual age. He told me he'd stay with me and help me until we found her, and the gratitude I felt to him was overwhelming. No one else would listen or help, but Evan did.

Last night I dreamed I took the kids to Target. (They were both 5 or 6, which is clearly impossible since they're 5 years apart, but whatever.) I got so involved in finding everything my parents needed that I started home without the kids, driving a golf cart. When I realized what I'd done, it felt like the Universe was conspiring against me getting back to the store to find them: terrible storms, the golf cart broke and so on. You know that feeling of running in molasses? It was like that--tremendous urgency inside and no movement outside.

Got to try Carrie's "part of me" interpretation on these dreams. Lord knows I've lost parts of myself in the last couple of years. Hmmm.

Very busy weekend--farmer's market, starting new quilt, dinner with friends, birthday dinner for niece, baking 6 cakes for Meatloaf Monday today.

Fell asleep with the tv on in my room last night. When I woke in the wee hours, I thought I was dreaming.

The woman who owns the production company I'm working with was on tv. I opened my eyes just as she was introducing herself. She's a former anchorperson in Minneapolis, but hasn't been doing the news for years and even then it was local news in Minneapolis, 500 miles away.

Last week The Man asked some questions. When I supplied the answers, he said he'd forward them to this woman. Now I'm awaiting her answer.

And there she is, on my tv in the middle of the night. Can't wait to see what happens next.

Not long after Evan's accident, I was spinning in the night, trying to figure out what to do and how to find help. I left my room and went to the family room, where I eventually fell asleep on the sofa with the tv on. Woke to find Denny Green, then the coach of the Vikings and not a man I admired at all, doing a spot for the Epilepsy Foundation, which I did not know existed. I wrote down the phone number and called the next day. They led me to doctors who truly knew how to help and did, in a thousand ways.

I never saw the commercial again. Just that once. Just when I needed it. Just God speaking to me through the voice of Denny Green.

Mysterious ways, people. Mysterious ways.

Tapped Out

Today I woke to a manageable To Do list, the first time that's happened in weeks, maybe months. The stickie on my desktop is pleasantly—rather than overwhelmingly—full.

So here I am with time to post and not a single story worth telling. Probably because all I've done for days on end is work.

(sigh)

Maybe I can find some trouble to get into today. : )

Walking on Air

Evan and I went for a walk along the river last night.

Let me repeat that: Evan and I went for a walk.

I stopped by his apartment before he left for work that morning, bringing a few goodies. When I asked if he'd like to hit the trail with me, he said he'd call after work if he felt like going.

Driving away, I laughed at myself for thinking he might call. And yet, he did. And we walked and talked and laughed for an hour. When we started, he said he hated walking. Along the way, he complained a few times but not much. When we got back to our cars, he asked if I'd like to go again on Monday (today).

Color me pink, as in tickled.

Entwined in Ivy

I planted cuttings of English ivy last week, hoping to train them to grow up a small white trellis between the posts of a second-story deck. The cuttings came from planter boxes around my sister's pool, where it thrives despite getting absolutely not one bit of nurturing or care. 

Yesterday I read a book about a woman named Ivy. In her childhood, she got very, very little nurturing. As an adult, she sometimes threw it away with both hands. And still, she thrived. Fair and Tender Ladies is a series of letters, all written by Ivy. Lee Smith

bends and shapes the story much the way I plan to train that ivy on the trellis: gently tying small pieces to a framework and letting story find its own shape.

Turns out that Ivy is a bit invasive. It's been a long time—years—since a book took over my head the way this one has. Strangely, I didn't like the first few chapters much. They're full of a child's misspellings and the odd cadence of the language of Appalachia, which is too close to the Ozarks for my own pure comfort, a first-generation flatlander, don't you know.

About a third of the way through, I fell into the book and haven't really found my way out yet. I think about Ivy and what happened to her the way I might think of things that happen to a real friend, worried over some, jubilant about others. The language evens out a little about the time Ivy moves off the mountain, but it no longer matters. What matters is the truth of the story: the longings that lead a woman up and down a mountain, the way you can become a bit player in your own life, how it feels to "walk in your body like a Queen."

Reading Ivy's letters is like remembering.

Bad Breaks

My mother's foot is broken. She didn't exactly break her foot—no particular injury, anyway. A small bone just gave up and broke in two. She's in a walking cast, but the doctor restricted her activities for at least two weeks.

Her first question? "Can I cook at the shelter next week?"

Although she's been walking on a broken foot for days now, the only time she cried was when the doctor said, "No, I'm sorry. You can't."

Meatloaf Monday is a week away. I'm hoping we can find something Mom could do sitting down. I've never seen anything that made Mom as happy as making 110 pounds of meatloaf and stirring up vats of potatoes and baking cookies for people who don't usually get homemade cookies.

Last month, we went a little crazy with the cookies. 150 Rice Krispie-bar nests filled with pastel M&Ms; 10 dozen chocolate chip; 10 dozen peanut butter; 10 dozen oatmeal. We ended up leaving an full ice-cream bucket's worth home because we were afraid it seemed like too much. When we got to the church, people were scurrying around trying to figure out what to do because they didn't have enough cookies. 

"How many do you need?" I asked. 

At least 20 dozen, came the answer.

"Oh. Um...That's no problem. We have more than that in the car and even more at home. We'll go get the other bucket."

When we started unpacking the cookies, someone opened a box of Rice Krispie-bar nests. (We had filled shirt boxes with Easter grass and then nestled the nests into it.) "Oh, the kids would love these," the woman said. "But we can't put them out if there's not enough for every kid."

"How many do we need?" Mom asked, her voice and eyes filled with concern.

"At least 60."

"Then there's enough for each kid to get two." You could have saddled Mom's satisfaction and ridden it to town.

Mom not only kept up with every step of making dinner for 500 that day, she stayed to help serve the meal. She proudly set three cookies on each adult's plate.  The children are served in a separate room, but she heard reports of how excited they were about the nests.

Mom didn't stop beaming for two days. She smiled in her sleep, even. 

It would break her heart to miss a meatloaf Monday. That would be far worse than a broken foot.

Ira Glass vs Star Trek

Barbara and I went to a movie event for This American Life last night. I arrived first, saw an enormous line and made a beeline to the ticket window. Darn it. I should have bought tickets online.

Relieved not to see a "sold out" sign, I bought two tickets and started toward the end of the line. "Ma'am....Ma'am," the ticket clerk's speaker croaked. I turned. "You can go right in. That line is for Star Trek." It was 6:30. The Star Trek movie didn't open until midnight.

When Barb arrived, we sailed past people reading on Kindles, a young man knitting with hand-spun yarn, couples and other groups standing together texting or Tweeting distant friends and acquaintances.

By the time TAL started, our theatre was almost two-thirds full. It might seem that a radio show wouldn't translate well to a movie screen, but this is Ira Glass, a consummate storyteller. The theme was returning to the scene of a crime. Each segment was excellent (except for a strange, sad cartoon about a mouse in love with a cat's head) and the segments were arranged like a musical score. Mike Birbiglia told a simple story quite simply. Running from angry to funny to poignant, it still had Barb and me talking an hour after we got home. Starlee Kine did a piece on the Hoffman Institute, my least favorite piece of the night and still quite good. Dan Savage did a piece about Catholicism and his mother's death that left us all laughing through tears. There were other bits—four minutes from the TAL television show, sort of a trailer from Dr. Horrible's Sing Along Blog, and that strange cartoon.

Collectively, they made up something well worth $20 and 90 minutes of your life. (Here in MO, it also offered the opportunity to sit in a room with a lot of other Democrats, something that doesn't happen all that often.)

The show will be rebroadcast in theaters on May 7.


On another front: I'm very happy to say that N accepted my invitation to lunch on Mother's Day weekend.

Kicking Fear's Ask

Last night I stopped by a Hallmark store to pick up wrapping paper for N's birthday present. It was 8:30pm or so and I'd been working since 5:30am. I was tired and at least a little grumpy, but basically fine.

Until I walked in the door of the Hallmark store.

One moment I was simply running a quick errand, and the next, I was sobbing, bobbing in a sea of manufactured sentiment, wrestling all-too-real fear and grief and the monkey on my back.

Scittering along with four or five things on my mind, I only half noticed the display at the front of the store. Still don't know what it included, except a large pink sign: Mother's Day, May 10.

Mother's Day.

This Mother's Day, I will share my daughter not with the idea of another mother, but the living, breathing, cake-baking, diet-Coke drinking, tooth-shape-sharing fact of her. And truly, we could not be more fortunate. Katie's birth mother is a lovely, loving woman—everything I could have hoped for for my daughter. Well, everything other than that she belong only to me.

(This, of course, is beyond ridiculous. No one's children belong to them. They belong only to themselves. It's a cliche, but it's true: our children are on loan to us, all of us, no matter how they came to be our children. They grow into their own lives, as they should. My children can no more abandon me as their mother than they can un-live the lives we've shared.)

I tried to keep walking, keep moving toward the bright pink gift bags on the wall, to walk away from my own ridiculous overreaction. Breathe, Jerri. Keep breathing. I wiped my eyes on the front of my shirt.

A clerk walked up and offered me a box of Kleenex (always with the Kleenex, no?). Like with the police officer that day, the story poured out of me. The essential me was up in the rafters somewhere, watching a much crazier version of myself tell a kind young woman things she did not need to hear five minutes before closing time, when all she wanted was to count the change drawer and go home.

I managed to pay for my purchases and thank the bewildered young woman for her kindness. The display lights were out before the door closed behind me.

Driving home, sobbing and berating myself for my own ridiculousness, I made up my mind. Rather than live in fear, I'm going to live in gratitude. Home again, I emailed N, inviting her to lunch on Mother's Day weekend. I hope she accepts. I'd like to take her someplace special, someplace where we can talk and laugh and hear and tell stories of our lives and our daughter. I'd like to thank her.

Given some light and air, I'm pretty sure gratitude will spit right in fear's eye. Maybe even kick his ask.

Trusting Belief in Transcendent Reality

Do you ever see a new-ageish character on tv or in a movie and cringe? Some of the things I believe can seem pretty silly when they're exaggerated and presented in a certain light. But maybe that's true of faith in anything. Faith: trusting belief in transcendent reality.

Yesterday the Universe lifted its skirts and let me peek at the ankles of transcendent reality.

You all know I've been trying to "chill" regarding my tv project. After all the work and worry, once again I'd been thinking it might be dead in the water.

Then Katie asked about a present for N, and I suggested something my friend Catherine had shown me last time I was at her house. Katie loved the idea, so I sent Catherine an email, thanking her for helping me be a "cool mom." We exchanged a few quick catch-up emails because we hadn't talked in 4 or 5 weeks.

Five minutes after her last email, Catherine called. She had—just that moment—received an email from an LA producer, someone she contacted on my behalf back in January.

Catherine forwarded the email. I clicked in to open it and found the forwarded message sandwiched between TWO messages from The Man. Nearly three weeks without a word, and two messages show up AT THE SAME TIME as an alternative path.

Some people would call that a strange coincidence. For me, it's serious evidence of things unseen. But that's the thing about faith, isn't it? "Trusting belief" doesn't ask for evidence.

And Both Are True

Katie's birth mother's birthday is this week. Katie's had a really nice card for quite a while but has struggled with whether to send a gift. She wants to, but doesn't know what it should be. Talking with her this afternoon, I came up with an idea she liked, something she could order on line. When the shipping turned out to be outrageous, I offered to pick one up and deliver it. Katie's 500 miles away. There's no reason for her to spend a fortune on shipping when I live 30 minutes from N's house.

I want to do this...I truly do. I am and always will be incredibly grateful to N. Not just the gratitude I've felt throughout Katie's life--now I'm also thankful for how kind and loving she is to our daughter. I can only begin to imagine what it will mean to N to receive a birthday gift from Katie for the first time. I'm glad to be a small part of that.

And yet, there are no words for how scary it is for this mother to make space for that mother.

It reminds me of my favorite Rilke quote about learning to love the questions themselves so that some far off day, you can live your way into the answers. I'm looking forward to the day when my insides match my outsides.

A Hand to Hold

Sunrise was incredible on the pond yesterday--bands of magenta and purple across the sky, brilliant green grass on the banks, every color in the rainbow reflected on the water. I sat down in my favorite red leather chair and soaked it in for several minutes.

The thing is, I don't remember the last time I noticed the sunrise. It's been months. Many. That's what led to yesterday's post about progress. You get numb to things, you know? Good, bad or indifferent, you just get used to things.

So, yes, it's certainly good that going out to eat alone no longer fills me with shame and fear. It's good that dead animal removal no longer freaks me out or requires a biohazard suit and a scalding shower after. But I'm not sure it's good that I no longer need others. If I were more in touch with how good it can be to share my life, I might do more to make that happen. I don't want to ignore glorious sunrises or give up on having a hand to hold through life.

I would really, really like a hand to hold. Even if I can throw away my own dead birds.

Flying Solo

A bird ended up dead on my front porch this weekend. I got a plastic sack and a scrap board to use as a (disposable) dust pan. Took care of it, washed my hands, and went back to pulling dandelions in the yard. What would once have been unthinkable barely required a second thought.

This weekend I went alone to the movies and to church. A friend had planned to go with me to the movies but didn't feel well enough when the time came. I went anyway and enjoyed the show. Another thing I once could not—or would not—have done.

The first time I took the children out to dinner after B decamped was incredibly difficult and painful. My insides burned, my skin crawled, I shook, sure that everyone who saw us knew my husband had just left me for a younger, prettier, thinner woman. It was like I had REJECT stamped on my face. Sitting in that chair required an incredible act of will—the memory still feels sharp and hot this morning, 15 years later. Now I can go out to eat alone as easily as I can dispose of a dead bird.

Is that progress?

Farmer's Market

Despite the low gray clouds in the sky, it's sunny in my world this morning. I'm meeting a friend at the first Farmer's Market of the season. Not much I enjoy more than Saturday morning at the farmer's market—the colors and textures and smells make me pure-lee happy.

This morning I'm going to buy basil and rosemary plants for my herb garden and wallow in green and growing. A friend read yesterday's post and wrote to tell me to "Chill." He may have used the word more than once. More than twice, come to think of it.

He was right, and I can't think of a better place than the Farmer's Market.

Do the Right Thing

Two weeks ago or so, the production company agreed to go forward and asked me to take the next step. I did. I did everything they asked and more--made some valuable connections that surprised even me.

After reporting back to the production company with my results, I've heard nothing. Complete crickets. I find myself anxious and even a bit angry. I did what you asked. I did the right things. Why isn't that enough?

This could be my theme song, folks. When am I going to get over it? If not now, when?

WoooHoooo!

Evan came over Tuesday and did a couple small jobs in my yard. He knew I wanted to get these things done and simply showed up to do them. He did a good job and cleaned up his tools afterward.

Hardly said a word. Just "Thought I'd get this done for you" and "Is this what you wanted?"

It is. It really, really is.

Great News

A screenwriter friend called yesterday with the news that he's gotten a fantastic opportunity to write for a well-known television show. I could not be happier for him or more proud of him. He got this chance the old fashioned way: he earned it.

Some of this young man's friends try to believe his successes are merely luck. It is true he's gotten some big breaks, met the right people at the right time, capitalized on connections. But he has been ready. No one I know works harder than this young man. Despite challenges, despite set backs, despite bouts of near-crippling self doubt, he keeps his butt in the chair and his fingers on the keys. He researches, he analyzes, he writes. And then he does it all again.

When the door opened this time, he had spit polished his resume and his portfolio. He had watched dozens of episodes of the show in question: mapped them, dissected them, and figured them out. He had studied the software used by the production company—read the manual, even. He had given up coffee, for goodness sake.

And then he got lucky.

All blessings to you, my friend. May the road rise up to meet you.

Not in My Song

As I long suspected,
They believed that strange was a word for wrong
Well not in my song....

It's been many years since I've heard Barbra sing "The Woman in the Moon," but I remember every word. In Whole Foods this morning, I found myself singing them. Out loud.

I've spent the past 4 years feeling wrong. Here in the land of W lovers, in a place where pick-up trucks rule and processed food is king, I just don't fit. During the primary season, I was the only Obama supporter in any crowd. Even my family, Democrats all, thought I was WRONG and never hesitated to tell me so. I did not waver but spent a lot of energy not responding to comments that I was "stupid" to believe Obama could be as good a president as Hilary could be.

After 28 years in Minnesota, land of Lunds and Byerly's and Kowalski's, after visits to the lucky lands that are home to Trader Joe's, the grocery stores here are the very worst part of the move to Missouri. The. Very. Worst.

For example, at my local grocery store, there is no organic yogurt. None. Nothing but over-processed, over-sugared, fruit-on-the-bottom, whipped, can't-tell-it-started-out-as-food yogurt. One serving has more sugar than three candy bars, according to Men's Health. When I asked where to get the good stuff, lots of eyes were rolled. You know Jerri. Always has to be different.

Turns out the closest Whole Foods—the closest store that carries much of a selection of organic food period—is on the Kansas side of KC, more than 30 miles away. I don't go often, but this morning was one of those times. Surrounded by dreadlocked, backpack-wearing, organic-yogurt-eating, yoga-loving, Obama-voting souls, wandering the aisles felt like coming home.

Sure I'm strange, but that doesn't make me wrong.

Just in the wrong place.

Wave the White Flag, already!

You all know how weird I am about my excess facial hair.

This morning I was, once again, on the hunt for two stray whiskers I've been picking at for days. With my glasses, in bright light and a 5X magnifying mirror, I could not see them, but I could feel them.

Must. Eradicate.

It took four or five minutes, but I got those suckers. True, I now have a small bloody hole on my chin, but the hairs are gone.

How many times, I wonder, have I turned a harmless nuisance into a bloody hole? We don't need to talk about the time I put the hose of Mom's Electrolux on my chin to suck out a pimple. Or the time I reused wax strips until the skin over my lips was bleeding. (The scabs were lovely in the vacation pics.) Actually, that was no worse than the time the esthetician burned my face with wax the afternoon before my first ever match.com date.

You'd think those hairs would just give up already. Or maybe I'm the one who needs to give it a rest?

Micah Monday

I worked all day Saturday and Sunday, starting at 4:30 am each day, to get enough done that I could go make meatloaf for the homeless today. I'd love to claim some noble motive, but my determination to go isn't about what I give others. It's about what they give me.

Hanging out with my meatloaf-making buddies is like filling my tanks with high-test jet fuel. Their spirits and their Spirits lift me up. Their laughter carries me for days. These people live out the advice of St. Francis: Preach the Gospel at all times. If necessary, use words.

They use very few words.

In a commercial promoting tourisim in Michigan, of all things, a syrupy male voice says something about how easy it is to be yourself with people you don't know.

The simple truth of that has stayed with me for days now. With family and friends, I round off my edges to fit the Jerri-sized slot they hold for me. But with strangers, it's easier to be my messy, sloppy, imperfect self. I can say what I truly think or feel. I can dance and sing out loud without embarrassing anyone. I can laugh too much, too loud, too long.

I miss traveling. I miss the woman I was on the road--the one who jumped into glacial lakes and danced on tabletops, the one who sat on rocks in rivers and drank champagne on an Oregon beach with a strange man and his late wife's ashes. The one who lived out loud.

Maybe I should look for her in Michigan.

One Word

Before dinner on Thursday night, I asked everyone to think of one word for their handprint for diabetes. Dad and Uncle Bill looked mildly confused. "What word?" Dad asked. "What's it supposed to mean?"

I explained, but neither Dad nor Bill seemed to fully understand. Mom said, "Don't worry about it. We'll come up with something for them."

A few minutes later, I was making chocolate pie when Dad called out, "Jerri, come here! I know my word!"

When I got to his side, he whispered from behind his hand, "Can it be a word and a symbol?" When I nodded, he whispered, "Your mom has diabetes. She's my word."

One Touch

The fam gathered at Mom and Dad's last night to lend me a hand.

One Touch, a manufacturer of blood sugar monitors, has an interesting program going on. You write a word on your hand, one that describes how diabetes touches your life. Then you take a picture and upload it to diabeteshandprint.com In return, they donate $5 to diabetes-related charities.

After dinner we got out face-painting crayons and glitter and buttons and got busy. It was really fun. Lots of laughter and silliness, as you can see

Good Works

On Monday, Walgreens announced an amazing program. For the rest of 2009, they're offering free visits to their Take Care Clinics for unemployed or uninsured people.

Free.

After March 31, if you lose your job, you and your spouse and your children can go to a Take Care Clinic between 11:00 am and 3:00 pm, and pay nothing for the visit. Their lab service, Quest Diagnostics, will provide free tests for strep and UTIs.

To qualify, you need an unemployment check stub or a federal or state unemployment determination letter. That's it.

Walgreens is gambling that the people who use the free services will tell others about the clinics--others who have insurance or can pay the $59 a visit usually costs. I'm guessing they're also banking that the buzz about the program will generate interest in the clinics and support for their stores.

It worked. I need some eyeliner and hand soap, and I'm going to Walgreens to get them. I don't even know where the closest Walgreens is, but today I'm going to find it.

Hal Rosenbluth, chairman of the Take Care Clinics division of Walgreens, says this is an experiment. They have no idea what the program is going to cost or how it might impact their business in other ways.

Please, if you get the chance, shop at a Walgreens. And tell the store manager you're there to support their Take Care program. I'd bet my last Advil they're tracking comments on the program. Let's convince them that good works.

Pants on Fire

I am a liar.

I lie to my daughter.

Every day.

She calls to tell me her birth father covered her car with balloons on her birthday, and I say, "That's really funny." and "How nice of him."

She calls to say she's meeting her birth father's family, and I say, "Wonderful, Honey. I'm excited for you."

She calls to say her birth mother's parents are going to be in town and want to have lunch but she has class, and I say, "See if they're staying overnight. Maybe you could have breakfast the next morning."

When she calls to say it worked out for breakfast, I say, "Great! I'm so glad."

These are the things I want to think. They are NOT the things I DO think.

When she tells me her birth father said he's going to pick up his kid from school, I think, "No, you're not, buddy. You're going to pick up MY kid from school."

Here's what saves me: at 54, I don't think as fast as I once did. It's like having my own little 7-second delay. By the time I organize my thoughts to speak, reason sets in.

Every day, I lie.

Every day, I pray for the grace to keep on lying until I believe what I'm saying.

Finding Our Way

A tiny crescent moon smiled at me last night, but there's something ugly in the air these days. Some of my dearest friends are struggling.

One, a woman who has maintained an upbeat attitude despite long-term serious illness, hit the wall yesterday. She's tired and sad and scared. All the light has gone out of her bright sides.

Another, a talented screenwriter with endless enthusiasm for working and reworking his scripts, can't find the way into any of his stories right now. He doesn't know what to do with himself, and I suspect he's afraid that whatever "it" is, it has abandoned him. (It hasn't, of course, but every writer knows that fear.)

Facing the dark side of the economy, a third struggles to carry the weight of every member of the band of creative (read half-crazy) folks he leads at work.

I believe in these people the way I believe in sunshine and sea breezes. I love each of them as family. There's essentially nothing any of us can do except be present for one another, but that's the deal with true friends. We show up. We hold vigil. We lead each other home.

Awakening

Anyone who reads here much knows that I've been lonely lately. Might sound strange after being divorced for nearly 16 years, but I've begun to notice—and not in a good way—that I live alone. Of course, I've actually only lived alone since Katie went off to college, but that's been nearly four years now. And although he never lived here, I was dating Pink Boots Guy some of that time.

Whatever. I want to be in love and want to share my life with a man who loves me.

Enter Pink Boots Guy, who's been emailing again lately, carefully leaving a trail that would lead me back to him if I picked up even the first crumb. Even one.

I do not pick up that crumb. It's not a road I want to go down.

My mom loves Pink Boots Guy and can't understand why I won't cooperate. I explain over and over, but it's not what she wants to hear, so she doesn't. Yesterday, she found out about the recent flurry of email and nearly begged me to pick up the damn crumb. I explained—for the thousandth time—why I won't do that, and—for the thousandth time—she told me I'm wrong. "I don't want you to be alone," she said.

It's what she always says. And yeah, I'm not too crazy about that part, either. As always when this comes up, I reflect on my reasons and wonder deeply whether they're realistic or neurotic. As always, I realize they're both. As always, I fret. My folks think I should be with him. My sister and brother-in-law think I should be with him. Why don't I?

Last night, I picked up The Book of Awakening by Mark Nepo. You know the day's lesson was exactly what I needed to hear, don't you?

"...there are many feelings peculiar to human beings that prevent us from shedding what has ceased to work, including fear, pride, nostalgia, a comfort in the familiar, a want to please those we love. Often we give up our right to renewal to accommodate the anxiety of those around us."

Got it. I can't go back to a relationship that made me feel like I was suffocating just to make my mom feel better. Glad that's settled.

For now.

Lessons from Strangers

Over the past few days, I've been feeling ignored and overlooked by my family. Unappreciated at the best...slightly abused at the worst.

Right now I'm at a coffee shop trying to work, but the conversation at the next table is all too familiar. A middle aged man and woman are discussing in minute detail all the gifts and time and love being given to one of the woman's siblings while she, who has "truly earned" those things through her devotion, is overlooked by her parents. Check that. Not overlooked. Instead, counted upon for extra effort when it comes time to help others and then not rewarded. She actually got out a calculator to compute the dollar value of the time her mother devoted to making bedding for the nursery of the child (or maybe it's a grandchild) her sister is expecting.

Not a pretty picture.

Not hers, of course--my own. This stranger is reflecting to me the ugliness of my own attitude. Mind you, I don't get out calculators or say such things aloud. Not often, anyway and never in public. Instead, it's the constant sound track inside my head. Why don't they.... Why do they.... Why....

In the midst of this great adventure I'm on, I'm not truly appreciating and enjoying the ride. Any time I'm not working, I'm stewing in my own juices, feeling bad about other people's actions and choices. In this stranger's complaints, I hear the acid eating away at my own soul.

Time to get over my bad self, to let go of expectations of others and live happily with what is.

But first, I need to go get a gallon of milk and take it to my folks. The weather's too bad for them to be on the roads.

Drum Roll, Please

Finally!!!! I can tell you more about the-project-for-which-I-have-such-hope.

I'm working with a production company to develop an unscripted series for television (read: reality tv). The production company has done a lot of tv work, but the show most people would recognize is Bizarre Foods on the Travel Channel.

We're now working on a pitch to take to the networks, and you guys can help. I need to find interesting families where several generations live in one house, anywhere in the country. The bigger and more colorful, the better. Diversity is good. Strong personalities are good. Challenging living situations are good.

Here's what I'm posting on Craig's List:

Multi-generational Families for TV Show

We are developing an unscripted tv show and need families where several generations live in one house, anywhere in the U.S.

If you have a big, colorful family—grandparents, parents, aunts and uncles, siblings, kids and pets coming out your ears—write and tell us why you should be featured on the show. 


Please feel free to post, forward, or copy this anywhere you think might help. Interested people can respond to: onerooftv@gmail.com.

And...guys? Thanks for all your encouragement and support. We've got a long way to go before this is a reality (!), but the long way I've traveled to get here would have been a much, much tougher road without you.

The Wait Is Over

The waiting ended. Not with a bang but a whimper, really.

The Man emailed yesterday. They want to take a slightly different tact, but they want to move forward.

I should be jubilant.

I'm not.

I am grateful for the opportunity. I am excited about trying something new. I am anxious to get started on whatever comes next.

Mostly, I am tired. I've got to meet a lot of other deadlines before even starting this next phase. Time to suck it up and put my fingers on the keys. If you haven't heard from me in a week, send food and water. Maybe a margarita.

The Eyes of the Beholder

This weekend, I met one of the former husbands of a much-married friend. The stories of this marriage and its demise have intrigued me throughout our friendship, and I've always wished I could be a mouse in a corner somewhere to see him. Friday night, I was.

Whoa!

The idea that this gorgeous, talented, wise woman ever pined over that man is beyond ridiculous. Beyond. RIDICULOUS. Granted, she says he hasn't aged well, but....

After we were safely away from the crowd, I said to my friend: "You cried over losing him? That man cheated on you? He should have been on his knees to Jesus every night, giving thanks you let him touch your panties in a drawer!

"Oh, Jerri," she sighed. "I quit wearing panties a long time ago."

See what I mean? On his knees to Jesus.

Baby Steps

Baby steps always sound like such a good idea. Crescent Dragonwagon talks about "radical incrementalism," which also sounds terrific. And it is, when the motion is forward. The thing is, sometimes the motion is going the wrong way but you don't notice it, one tiny step at a time.

My internet's been hinky for the last several months. Many months, come to think of it. It runs slowly all the time and flakes out entirely from time to time. I reset the modem, reset the router, reboot the computer, wait it out. I've called Comcast customer service several times and gotten nowhere, so I learned to live with it.

Until Thursday. That's when it died and wouldn't come back no matter what I did. I had to pay Sprint 49 cents a minute to call Canada for interviews instead of 1.5 cents a minute to Skype. That motivated me big time. Two 30-mile trips to the Apple store later, I was sure the problem was in the cable modem. More Comcast customer service BS and then a service person arrived this morning to rescue me.

Turned out my modem finally hit EOL (end of life), which precipitated the total demise. But the age-old hinkiness was from a messed-up wiring configuration from when the lines were installed almost four years ago.

One tiny step at a time, the service slipped from semi-reasonable to unworkable and I went along for the ride. This isn't the only time I've done that, but it's sure got me thinking. Only a baby step, but....

Wait. That's how I got in this mess in the first place. Hmmmm.

Love Is Where You Find It

After a long, frustrating day yesterday, I stopped at a local restaurant to treat myself to dinner out. Not surprisingly, I was seated in the bar at a high top. No telling whether hostesses think I'll be more comfortable sitting there alone or whether they don't want to waste a big table or booth on one person, but it happens a lot. I never mind, and last night it turned out to be a blessing.

At the high top next to me, closer to the kitchen, sat a silver-haired man with a salt-and-pepper gray haired woman. They had three trays of appetizers on their table, but neither of them ever took a bite. Instead, a series of servers stopped by the table, helped themselves to the food and chatted with the couple. They discussed one young woman's upcoming hair appointment and whether she should cut off her beyond-waist-length ponytail. They commiserated with one young man about his car problems. Another young man stopped to ask what they thought of the new girl he's dating.

Tattooed and pierced, cheerleader-types, and faux-hawked young toughs paraded by, pausing as long as they could without ignoring their customers. A cook came from the kitchen to lounge and chat. A young man came by in street clothes before his shift started. The older gentleman leaped to his feet, held out one hand to shake and grasped the young man's shoulders with the other. The young man returned the embrace with enthusiasm.

Finally, I asked my server about the couple. "Oh, they're just the nicest people in the world," she said. Turns out this couple has been coming to the same restaurant every Sunday and every Thursday night as long as this young woman has worked there--four years. She doesn't know when it started. Every employee in the place loves them. These grandparent-ish folks make toys for the staff's children at Christmas, know details of their lives and provide counsel when needed.

Apparently, these folks don't have kids of their own, so they found some young people to love at a neighborhood restaurant. It's as good a place as any, I guess.

Blessings, Natasha

Natasha Richardson's death feels personal somehow. I do not know her, of course. I don't even know anyone who knows her. But she came into my home roughly 10 million times via The Parent Trap, one of Katie's all time favorite movies. We saw it at the theater and then over and over on cable. Katie can't pass it on the cable guide. For her, it's like a bell for Pavlov's dogs: she sees the words and clicks.

Natasha's death also reminds me how incredibly blessed I am. When I was her age--45--I hit my head with such force it could easily have killed me. On a beautiful spring afternoon, I was rushing to mow the lawn even though the grass was too wet. On a hill, my feet flew from beneath me and life dropped into slo-mo.

The lawn mower flew up and away from me, the blades whirling as it fell within 6 inches of my legs. I fell flat and the back of my head hit the ground with stunning force. A split second after that blow, my brain sloshed forward and hit the front of my skull so hard I saw cartoon stars.

I had no idea our brains could move within our skulls like that. Even today, almost 10 years later, I remember the eerie, fuzzy, recognition that such a thing really should not happen.

My whole body shut down for what felt like ages but could have been seconds or hours for all I know. When I finally gathered enough strength, I crawled around the house to a point where my neighbor angel could hear me yelling through her sewing room windows. She came down, helped me into my house and kept an eye on me. By morning, I was fine.

Natasha hit her head and died. There is no explanation for her fate. Or mine.

Blessings to the family and friends of Natasha Richardson. Go with God, my dear.

ZZZZZzzzzzzzz

Monday night's middle-of-the-night hours felt like bonus time, so rather than work on paying jobs, I put the time to use on an adjunct to the-project-for-which-I-STILL-have-such-hope. When daylight broke, I sent off a bright and breezy note to The Man, asking whether he'd like to see the new material.

Now, considering that I haven't heard a single word from The Man for more than two weeks and that it's been five weeks since we last met, I felt pretty brave. Also, pretty vulnerable.

When a response arrived from him an hour later, I couldn't open the message for several minutes. Instead, I stared at his name in my inbox and tried to gather mental strength to accept bad news.

The news was not bad. It was not good, either. In fact, it wasn't even news, just more of the "I'm very busy but I like this and want to work on it as soon as I can." Trying to be realistic and objective, I'm actually happy with that response. It would be easy to tell me to go away, that he isn't interested or can't take time to deal with this. A few keystrokes and I'm out of his hair forever. Instead, he keeps the door open and I keep knocking and flying paper airplanes in over the transom from time to time.

Made it through the day just fine yesterday, but about 6:30pm, I felt my brain shut down. My eyes were open and I was functioning, but I could literally feel my brain powering down non-essential activity to conserve energy. It was weird: I didn't feel sleepy at all, just like everything dropped into slow-mo. We were gathering at Mom and Dad's for corned beef and cabbage when it happened, and my sister told me my eye lids suddenly fell half way. Hard as I tried, I couldn't get them fully open.

The human body is an ongoing miracle, and I've got to be kinder to mine. Gonna need plenty of energy when The Man finally says Yes.

Sleepless in Independence

I didn't sleep last night.

Not 'I didn't sleep well.' I did not freaking close my eyes all night long.

First, I hit a groove with a writing project about 11:30 and worked on that til 1:30am. Then, when I tried to go to bed, my brain would not turn off. It bubbled like a putrid a stew of fear and worry and fretting. By 2:30, I gave up and went back to work. Before I knew it, it was 5:00 am and too late to try to sleep--a new day is upon me.

Saturday night I dreamed I'd borrowed a UPS truck and hit a car with it. I drove off without reporting the accident or calling for help. For hours on Sunday morning, I couldn't shake a strange sense of unease and serious disappointment with myself.

On the way home from my brother's house Sunday night, I brushed my hair off my neck and felt one of those damn whiskers I write too much about. Feeling around, it seemed to me I had practically a full beard. Seriously, I grabbed a sandwich from a drive-through on the way home because I didn't want to go in anywhere with all that hair on my face.

Monday morning I brought out my strongest glasses, my five times magnifying mirror, and my super-duper tweezers. Couldn't find a thing in the bathroom mirror. Brought my gear out to the sunroom windows and found two barely-there dark hairs. Two!

Perhaps...just maybe...I could be over-reacting to things a bit.

Maybe some sleep would help.

La la la de de da

As I think of this, I hear Billy Joel singing quietly...

It's sad and it's sweet and I knew it complete
When I wore a younger man's clothes.

For the last few months, Dad has been trying to get Mom to go to church.

That might not sound radical, but it is. Long before "spiritual but not religious" made its way onto match.com profiles, Mom and Dad lived a deep but quiet faith without Sunday morning services or Wednesday night prayer meetings. They've always been suspicious of people who declare themselves to be Christians but behave in very un Christ-like ways.

And now, Dad wants to go to church. Mom gave in last Sunday and they went together to the church that sponsors the program where we cook for the homeless. The people there welcomed them warmly, and Mom and Dad were both glad to have gone. This morning, Dad was feeling well enough to drive a load of blankets from the church to the shelter.

I asked Mom why she thought Dad wants to go to church now, after all these years.

"He thinks he's going to die," she said.

"Well, yes. But what does going to church have to do with that?" I asked.

"He doesn't want to be buried...."

"No, Mom. That's not it. He's doesn't care where he's buried, and he's at peace with God. Dad doesn't want to go for himself. He wants you to have a community after he's gone. He's making friends to carry on for him, to take care of you when he can't."

(pause)

"Oh...oh.... He is, isn't he?"

Yes, he is.

It's sad and it's sweet, and incredibly complete, the love this man has for his wife. How many of us can say the same?

Goose Wars

Honk! Honk! Honk! Squeeeeeeeee. Crack!

Ahhhh. The sounds of spring here on the pond.

Spring is getting ready to sprung, and geese are looking for places to nest. My neighbors are determined it won't be in OUR back yard. Once again, their campaign includes flares and gunshots at dawn and intense lights in the night. My poor little doggie is a nervous wreck. If she hears a goose honk, she runs for the closet. She knows what's going to happen next.

When I moved here, we had 6 or 8 semi-permanent geese, one resident pin duck, a heron, and a muskrat to entertain us. A neighbor shot the muskrat under cover of darkness and the crazy campaign has driven off the heron and the pin duck. A few Canada geese are stubborn enough to keep trying to land, but that's a tough gig here on the pond.

Not long ago, a neighbor sent around a warning to every house: don't feed or encourage those dangerous wild animals. Now, I ask you--why buy a house on a pond if you don't want to be exposed to "wild animals"?

Strikes me that humans are the wildest animals of all. We create situations bound to distress us and then fight against the things we perceive as problems or threats.

If you don't like geese, don't buy a house on a pond surrounded by cornfields--whatever the geese or the cornfields may be in your life.

Fear Factor

We're having one hell of a spring storm this morning: thunder, lightning, pouring rain--even a little hail now and then. My little dog Cassie is huddled in bed beside me, panting and shaking. Her heart is beating like a munchkin's jackhammer breaking up the Yellow Brick Road after Dorothy returned to Kansas.

For humans, the chances of being struck by lightning are 1 in 280,000, according to the National Lightning Safety Institute (who knew?). For dogs, I'm guessing it's even less. And yet, she's miserable every time a storm blows up, which happens approximately every day and a half from March to October here in the mid-est of the MidWest.

How much of my own fear is just as pointless? Again, this is just a guess, but I'm thinking nearly all of it.

It's a good thing if fear keeps you out from under trees during a storm. Sure: Put down the aluminum bat. Set the golf umbrellas aside. Refuse to carry metal extension ladders upright across open spaces. But after you've covered common sense, there is exactly squat you can do. If a lightning bolt has your name on it, you're going to sizzle. Fretting just prolongs the pain.

I've been fretting a lot lately, but I'm going to try to stop. Check that. I'm going to stop. (Can you hear Yoda saying "Do or do not. There is no try." right now, or is it just me?)

The world is in a hell of a storm right now. We'd all be smart to put down any big metal objects we're carrying but after that, we might as well go out and dance in the rain. We may get fried, but it's better to go out having fun than huddled under a musty old towel in the back corner of a messy walk-in closet with a frightened little doggie who doesn't know better.

Time Passes By

Can we talk about how fast time passes?

Big Saturday night here. I'm sorting a box of filing I set aside for "later." In December 2006. "Later" took more than two years, but I remember putting the box aside as though it were last week. Last month, tops.

The tv is keeping me company as I sort. The movie "Click" is on, and get this—Henry Winkler is playing the grandfather. Fonzie is a grandpa! Last year (or something like that), Henry was the epitome of teenage cool. Now he's a gray-haired grandpa doing lame magic tricks for a pretend grandson.

Jeezus Squeeze Us. Fonzie as a grandpa.

Mom and Dad invited me to go out to dinner with them tonight. (They're worried about how much time I've been working lately and used a dinner invitation to get me out of the house, bless 'em.) Anyway, we were talking about renewing license plates, and Dad said something about when he last renewed their plates.

"Dad," I said gently. "You didn't renew the plates this time. Remember, last week? I took the Jeep to be inspected and Mom went to license bureau."

Dad looked confused. Mom did, too.

"Jerri? Honey? That wasn't a week ago. It was a month ago."

For Dad, a year faded to let him still live in a time when he managed the details of their lives. I've lost a mere month.

Well...maybe more than a month. Last time I looked, Henry Winkler was wearing a black leather jacket. Now he's sporting orthopedic shoes.

Telling Stories

Came across youtube of Ira Glass talking about storytelling. All you writers out there, do yourself a favor: Watch all four segments. He's talking about broadcasting, but his ideas on story are simply brilliant. Last night I read every interview I could find with him and learned approximately 3000 useful things. Give or take....

Monday Means Meatloaf

Monday was our day to cook for the homeless. I truly did not have time this week, but I put that problem aside and dragged myself (and my laptop) to the church. While the other volunteers had lunch and later when they took a break, I banged away on a magazine article due the next day.

It was so worth the effort.

Just hanging out with these people lifts my spirits. The joy they bring to their work is so pure and so real you could wash it with the other dishes. The loudest, most frequent sound is laughter.

Mom and I are the group's bookends: I am the youngest and Mom is the oldest. I try to do jobs that involve heavy lifting. So does Mom. She doesn't want anyone to think she can't pull her weight. Believe me: no one would. That woman is indefatigable. You want a five-pound meatloaf mixed? She's your girl. Got a washtub full of mashed potatoes that need stirred? Step aside. She's got it covered.

I love these people and I LOVE watching my mother work and laugh with them. Wearing a purple baseball cap, a green apron and a smile, she sparkles. I've rarely seen her so happy as she is when up to her elbows in a vat of hot, sticky potatoes she's making for total strangers.

Monday means meatloaf, and it is a good thing. Even when you're on deadline.

Unbelievable

An attorney, the most gracious man I've ever met, once said to me, "I'm not going to tell you what he's up to now. If I did, you'd have no choice but to pick up the nearest heavy object, go upstairs and beat that son-of-a-bitch to death."

He was speaking of my former husband.

I had dinner with Evan last night, and if what he told me is true, somebody better batten down the heavy objects, because the time has truly come.

Let me be clear: I am not threatening the man, not physically anyway. But if he tries again to hurt my son, I will hound him to the gates of Hell, if necessary. Hell hath no fury, people--not even a woman scorned--like a mother whose child is being cheated by a father who knows better.

Just saying...

Food with a Face

I like vegetables. I don't care much for meat. My family has always found this troublesome, if not downright dangerous. When they urge me to eat meat at a family dinner, I laugh and say, "No food with a face."

Now I'm beginning to think we all lost something important when our food stopped having a face. Not an animal's face, but the face, the image, of the farmer who raised it.

When we all knew where our food came from, we could pronounce all the ingredients. We didn't need a seal certifying milk as organic because we knew what the farmer fed his cows. The government didn't need to define "free range" in terms of how many inches wide the door to the chicken coop needed to be—their range was the yard.

Last summer Katie and I froze gallons of blackberries we picked with my mom. This morning I thawed some berries to put on the waffle I toasted for breakfast. (Yes, I made waffles this weekend, too.) Each bite had not only the flavor of real blackberries, but the memories of them. I tasted sunshine and laughter and dogs barking and cows mooing and bees buzzing. I tasted the sweetness of life.

Very few calories. Tons of nutrition. Food for body and soul.

Simmering

Still waiting. Not patiently.

Yesterday I busied myself with baking, starting with blueberry muffins. By 9:00am, I arrived at Mom and Dad's, warm breakfast in hand. Then I trudged through the falling snow to the grocery store to gather 6 bags full of vegetables.

For the next three hours, I simmered and sauteed and roasted vegetables. I made dough for pizza crust and let it rise. Then I assembled a dozen individual pizzas with toppings like oven roasted eggplant, tomatoes and red peppers, caramelized onions, garlic infused spinach, artichoke hearts and mushrooms.

Later, I whipped up a double batch of corn waffles and a tasty black bean salsa. All of it went into the freezer for quick meals on busy days--some for Mom and some for me.

I'm still simmering, but at least the freezer's full.