Simple--And Not So Simple--Abundance

A dear friend pointed out that I've focused on lack a lot recently. Following principles in which we both believe, she suggested I focus on abundance instead.

Yesterday was the first Monday of the month, the day I help cook meatloaf and mashed potatoes for the homeless. It was a cookie month, and I started the day baking cookies at 5:00 a.m. When I pulled the staples from my pantry--flour and sugar and brown sugar and chocolate chips and M&Ms--the jars lined up on the counter created in me such strong feelings of abundance that I had to stop and take a picture.

I thought of my grandmothers, raising their children during the Depression. They could not count on having enough staples to bake whenever they felt like it. Sugar was rationed. Flour was expensive and butter hard to come by. Today, my pantry holds everything I need to bake cookies--or nearly anything else. Simple abundance.

Paula--my little VW convertible--has been having indigestion. (Her "check engine" light came on last week.) I avoided driving until yesterday, when the mechanic could check her out. Meantime, I fretted mightily, imagining enormous and costly repairs. The problem turned out to be with the light itself, and the bill came to $65. Simple. I have $65 to spare. Abundance.

Sunday evening, Crescent Dragonwagon emailed, offering me a partial scholarship and payment terms for her Fearless Writing workshop--the one I hoped to pay for with the grant I did not get. Turns out I have just enough frequent flier miles for a ticket to Hartford, CT. Meals are included in the workshop fee. All this makes it possible for me to go. After a brief struggle with ridiculous, stiff-necked pride, I decided to accept Crescent's incredibly generous offer. I will be spending Labor Day in Vermont in the home of a woman whose history has been distantly entwined with mine for 39 years. Not so simple, but definitely abundant.

Plowshares

Karen Walrond is an incredibly talented photographer and writer whose upcoming book, The Beauty of Different, was introduced to me by Michelle O'Neil.

Over the weekend, Karen saw a CNN report about a church in Florida planning to hold a Quran burning in September. She's asking people to send her prints of peaceful images. Her plan is to pack up the photos and send them to the church. Her only rule is that the photos and messages written on them must focus on peace. She refers to this as a "photobomb."

Peace is a broad concept. I checked my photo files and found dozens that would work. I'm sending five or six later today and hope you'll join me in supporting the project.

Karen plans to beat their swords with peaceful images. Plowshares anyone?

No Grant

The grant I applied for was awarded to another writer, one whose work knocked me on my butt. Brilliant. Funny. Imaginative and wise. Today, not even a sliver of any of those things feels available to me. While I honestly celebrate for her and with her, I am bereft. Not about not getting the grant--I always recognized the realistic odds of that. It's the comparison between the best I can offer and the piece she wrote that pains me.

Today, the gulf between where I am and where I want to be feels so broad, I am mired in fear and doubt. But these things I know: comparisons are not helpful in any way. The sun will rise tomorrow and if I'm still spinning on and with the earth, I'll still have opportunities to learn and grown and try. I'll keep breathing in and out, and my breath will mingle with all that lives and breathes.

I can focus on the pain of not being what I want to be or having what I want to have, or I can focus on those opportunities to learn. The Universe did not grant me that grant, but it always offers serenity. Accepting it is up to me.

What I need is a good wisdom teacher.

More Love.

Love, Period

Art Therapy

I've been working on a logo for my 100 Things to Do Before I Go list. To tell you the truth, working on it feels a little self-indulgent, like I'm wasting time. But the thing is, playing with color and texture and shapes is like a deep breath for my brain, and, like mercy, I could use some of that right now.

Now that I've got the basic collage in place, I want to add wings to the heart and give it a title in Photoshop. I've been playing with ideas, but so far I haven't come up with anything I like. That could be because Photoshop remains mostly a mystery to me. But, like my Life List, I'm working on it.

Mercy Now--Life List Update #3

Mary Gauthier came to me through the 100 Things to Do Before I Go--one of my 100 new-to-me musicians. Had to listen to this several times before I got through the whole thing. The first stanza left me sobbing the first few times.

Every single one of us could use some mercy now.

Hard Rain

Dad had a CT-guided biopsy on the spots in his good lung on Tuesday. Well...he didn't quite have it. When the doctor inserted the needle into his lung, it collapsed.

Specialists were called--I imagine the scene as something out of "Grey's Anatomy," with doctors calling for instruments and nurses scurrying to "get the cart." I hope that's my imagination running away with me. In any case, they inserted a chest tube and reinflated the lung.

Yesterday, they removed the chest tube, and Dad's doing well--considering everything. He's home, playing with his doggie and letting Mom fuss over him. He says he feels much better "now that they took the 6-inch spike out of my chest."

We don't yet know whether they are going to try the biopsy again. The radiologist told me he sees no reason to put Dad through the procedure again, considering his age and general health. Apparently, knowing Dad has one fatal disease is enough for this doc. He sees no reason to go searching for another. For one thing, their treatment options are very limited, so how would they act on the information? The radiology doc believes the growth is very slow growing and not likely to compromise Dad's health further than it's already compromised.

The group of doctors who gathered yesterday at the removal of the tube don't seem to share the radiologist's view. They're going to discuss the matter and get back to us. I guess we'll discuss their recommendations and get back to them. At length.

When I left the hospital Tuesday, a storm was gathering. By the time I got on the highway toward home, it was raining like nothing I've ever seen. Biblical rain. Rain that made you forget the sun exists. Rain that clogged the storm drains and ran like rivers in the streets.

Hard. Rain.

Silver Eyebrows

Heather usually waxes my eyebrows when she trims my hair, but we both forgot last week. Thursday, I lit up my 10X magnifying mirror and settled my strongest reading glasses halfway down my nose. A shock awaited me: three silver eyebrow hairs.

Three. Silver. Hairs.

At first, I was completely bummed. I am so freakin' old. Headed for the long dirt nap. Subject to creeping decrepitude. But...wait.

I have now officially entered the "I Shall Wear Purple" years. I am going to wear what I like. Say what I think. Do the things I've always wanted to do. If not now, when?

Three silver hairs in my eyebrows give me all the permission I need.

Observations from this Weekend's Adventure

Best license plate, seen on an Audi A6: HAudi

Best Signage, seen on commercial building in Clinton, MO: Dull and Lowe, Attorneys at Law

This is the "Great Wall of Tomato," supported by a trellis Jeff built from timber he cut on his property.


Tomatoes like this are the reason Jeff built the trellis. Anything less couldn't support these monsters.


Jeff grows 9 different varieties of peppers. We had some of each in our dinner Saturday night. Whooooweeee.


Watermelon is the perfect desert when temperatures hover near 100. We gathered the seeds from our slices--this is an heirloom variety and Jeff returns the seeds to the seed company.

Hearts on Stony Ground

Jeff (my brother) lives on a small hobby farm about three hours from KC. His garden is a thing of beauty, especially when tomatoes are in season. I'm headed down there today to weed and pick and putter. Wine will be involved. And great food made from just-picked produce. (sigh)

On the drive down, I plan to stop at several creeks to search for heart-shaped stones. I do so love heart-shaped stones. I took this picture in a stream bed in northern Arkansas in 2008, when I went to the Outhouse Races and Bean Festival in Mountain View, AR.

Pictures to follow. Have a wonderful weekend!

Caro Mia

When my plans for last night fell through at the last minute, I decided to invest the unexpected free evening making one of my 100 lovely things. Although I love the Astrid sweater and look forward to making it, with the heat index hovering at 105, even the word "sweater" made me sweat. So, I decided to floof up a favorite white T-shirt.



The fabric is cotton batiste. As it's laundered, the edges of the trim will fray a bit more--at least I hope so. The ruffles actually are a series of individual heart shapes, sewn down randomly but strategically. I decided on heart shapes because the curves and points would create interesting shapes when the fabric curled up after being washed. I sewed them down one at a time, twisting and turning the pieces to fill space and create the effect I wanted. I'm really pleased with the way this turned out--especially because I had no idea whether it would work.

It did.

If anyone is interested, I can make a tutorial for the process. It took about an hour and a half, but probably wouldn't take as long without the experimentation required for a new idea.

Eggscellent

Even my breakfast was happy today.

Mighty List

Maggie Berry, also known as Mighty Girl, introduced the Life List concept to Karen Walrond, whose blog introduced it to me. Maggie calls her list the Mighty Life List. I made my list less than a week ago, but already I can tell you, making a life list is mighty.

Yesterday, Teagan stayed with me for several hours, which I love but means working earlier and later to keep up with deadlines and responsibilities. The weather was miserable--high 90s with humidity over 90%. By the end of the day, I was hot and tired and cranky. I had planned to go hear Audrey Niffenegger speak, but when the time came, all I wanted was a glass of wine and my comfy sofa.

I flopped on the sofa, ready to blow off my plans, but my list nagged at me. "If you're going to 100 author readings before you go, you have to get off your butt," she whispered. "It's hot. You're tired. This means you should not live your dreams?" (She's a sarcastic bitch, but I like her, this mighty list whisperer of mine.)

Audrey was a revelation: smart and spunky and...well...a little odd--in the best sort of way. She dyes her hair a shade of red definitely not found in nature and her skin is ghostly pale. She answers questions with her tongue firmly in her cheek. She chose the setting for Her Fearful Symmetry--Highgate Cemetary--because she personally loves the place and wanted to spend time there. She has not seen the movie based on The Time Traveler's Wife because she doesn't want the actors playing her characters to supplant her imaginings of those characters. She can, she says, always decide to see it. She cannot unsee it. So...not never, but not yet.



Niffenegger worked on Her Fearful Symmetry for five years. Five years: two of them before the success of TTTW. This woman believes in her self and her work so strongly that when 30 agents passed on TTTW, she kept going. So strongly that when the character she planned to build HFS around couldn't sustain the story, she invented a whole new cast of characters and a whole new story arc. So strongly that she continued to research and imagine and write for five years until the characters in her head fell silent. That's when the story is finished, she says. When the characters stop appearing on the radio channel in her head, the one set aside for a particular book or story, the book is complete.

Audrey was inspiring and entertaining and fun. I'm glad I went, and without the list whisperer, I might have missed her. So, thanks, Maggie and Karen. And Audrey. I can't wait to see what happens next.

Life List Update #1

Journaling my Life List has reminded me how extraordinarily blessed my life has been.

For example, #16--Visit All 50 States. I started the journal with a brief memory of each state I've visited. Turns out I have clear memories of all but three states. Unlikely though it is--having lived in Missouri and MN most of my life--I cannot recall visiting Oklahoma, North Dakota or Nebraska. This weekend I plan to knock Oklahoma off the list.

And #55--Visit All the Great Lodges. Turns out I've already hit eight of the 16. These grand old buildings and the stories of their creation are fascinating. I look forward to learning the other eight.

The journal leaves a map for my children to follow--through my life and their own. This--having a plan, taking risks, creating and honoring memories--this is how you make a life, my dear ones.

I leave you with a message from Teagan.

Mothers of the Bride

N (Katie's birth mother) and I had lunch yesterday. After some small talk, I asked what her dreams are for Katie's wedding. Her answer makes it official: She is a real mother, too. Her dreams, you see, are for Katie to be comfortable and joyous and surrounded by love. She doesn't want to cause a stir. She wants to be present but not intrusive. She wants to do whatever makes things right and good for Katie. Real. Mother.

Together, we cooked up the beginnings of a plan. She's going to attend the showers and the parties and the events leading up to the wedding. The goal is for her to meet everyone in all the families--Bill and Kathy and Kevin and Julie (Craig's parents) and all the kids and stepkids and grandparents and aunts and uncles and cousins--before the wedding. If she meets everyone before the big day and takes part in the celebrations, everyone will accept her as simply part of our family. As she is.

Here's an example of N's generous spirit: I asked if she would like to be escorted down the aisle immediately before the ceremony. She would.

I asked if she'd like to sit beside me in the front row (after I walk down the aisle with Katie). She would not.

That place, N said, is for me--the mother who raised Katie. She is thrilled to be recognized as special and important but wants to honor my relationship with Katie and the life we built.

"I gave her breath," N said. "You gave her life."

We are the mothers of the bride. And we rock.

Karen Walrond's book trailer and the premise of her book, The Beauty of Different, fascinate me. Both the trailer Michelle posted and a second one available on Karen's blog show many people who would not, at a casual glance in a crowd, seem beautiful in the traditional sense. But in these photos, each is beautiful. Truly. Beautiful.

In the clear focus of Karen's work--close up, shown in the best light, beauty emerges. If you look closely enough, everyone is beautiful. Deep attention creates beauty. Or, maybe recognizes is a better word.

Also on Karen's blog, I discovered a TED talk by Chimamanda Adichie about the danger of a single story--the problems that arise when we believe the one thing we know about someone or something is the entire truth about that person or thing. It never is.

And so, I ask myself whether everyone is ugly, just as we all are beautiful. This might sound uncharacteristically negative, but I hope it's true. I know for a fact that I am ugly--inside and out--at times. If everyone has ugly moments, it's easier to accept them in myself. I don't mean it's acceptable to behave badly or to be unkind. Not at all. But I find it comforting to believe everyone has dark moments, times they have to talk themselves off the ledge, times they don't make the most loving choice. I even find it comforting to think that--like me--everyone has moments when the dark circles under their eyes resemble caverns and their hair looks like a rat's nest.

Capturing and reflecting beauty is a worthwhile endeavor. The reminder that we're all beautiful is welcome. But how reassuring might it be to remind ourselves we're not alone in our occasional ugliness? I'm not sure how that could be accomplished, but it would be equally fascinating.

100 Things to Do Before I Go

Blogging not only rocks. It rolls.

I introduced Michelle to Laura Munson who led Michelle to Karen Walrond. Michelle posted Karen's book trailer, which left breadcrumbs to Mighty Maggie and her life list.

This idea grabbed me and wouldn't let go. As both Karen and Maggie note, the point is not that you have to do all 100 things before you die. The point is that writing them down forms a commitment with your soul to reach further. To live bigger. And smaller. To remember that we all go. To recognize the time is now.

My list kept me up until 1:00 am and woke me at 5:45. I haven't finished, but I'm posting it here and now. I am committing to my self. I am committing to others. I am saying yes to life.

In no particular order...

100 Things to Do Before I Go

1. Fall in love again.

2. Ride my bicycle across Tuscany.

3. See the Grand Canyon.

4. Visit Yosemite.

5. Walk my daughter down the aisle.

6. Teach my granddaughter to swim.

7. Write a book from my heart.

8. Stomp grapes at a vineyard.

9. Attend Crescent Dragonwagon's Fearless Writing workshop.

10. Fly a kite on a beach.

11. Take a barefoot sailing cruise.

12. Return to the Bay of Fundy.

13. Spend a weekend in Kinsale, Ireland.

14. Drive the Pacific Coast Highway.

15. Learn to bake good bread.

16. Visit all 50 states.

17. Take dance lessons.

18. Sleep at the Beagle motel.

19. Meditate at the Joshua Tree

20. Take a barge trip down the Seine.

21. Learn photography.

22. Make jam from strawberries I grew myself.

23. Volunteer for Habitat for Humanity.

24. Take a moon bath in the full moon.

25. Bike Mackinac Island.

26. Finish or give away all unfinished projects.

27. Make the Astrid sweater.

28. Take painting lessons.

29. Make 100 lovely things.

30. Sleep in a treehouse.

31. Get an essay accepted by the NY Times

32. Spend a summer in a small house by the ocean.

33. Spend a summer in Bayfield, Wisconsin.

34. Volunteer with a theater group.

35. Make pasta from scratch.

36. Find a spiritual home.

37. Hike in a fern glen.

38. Drive the Going to the Sun Road.

39. Stay at the Plaza when I visit my publisher.

40. Ride the Katy Trail from one end to the other.

41. Take my granddaughter to Disney World.

42. Learn 100 new words in English.

43. Waterski again.

44. Try 100 kinds of tea.

45. Donate 1000 books to a library.

46. Hike Kitchen Mesa.

47. Create a comfortable, funky workspace for myself.

48. Read 1000 more books.

49. Attend 100 local festivals.

50. Dance from dusk to dawn.

51. Watch the Leonid Showers from a desert or forest

52. Attend a concert at the Sydney Opera House.

53. Listen to 100 new-to-me musicians.

54. Make giant bubbles with my granddaughter.

55. Visit all the Great Lodges of the National Parks.

56. Spend a long weekend in Mendocino, CA.

57. Record my father's carny calls.

58. Attend 100 author readings.

59. Learn to stand on my head.

60. Recycle at least 50% of all garbage I create.

61. Hug a redwood.

62. Learn Tai Chi.

63. Meditate 100 days in a row.

64. Buy a book at Over the Transom in Fairhope, Alabama

65. Get a story published in Glimmer Train.

66. Attend the Erma Bombeck Writer's Workshop.

67. Read 1000 poems.

68. Post a YouTube video.

69. Make an illustrated book of my favorite quotes.

70. Swing for 30 minutes.

71. Write a six-word novel.

72. Write a 10-word personal ad.

73. Take fly-fishing lessons.

74. Make 100 angels.

75. Make my own Pandora radio station.

76. Find 100 heart rocks.

77. Make my blog look like me.

78. Donate 100 warm hats to Micah Ministries.

79. Can really good salsa.

80. Journal my progress on this list.

Edgy

I've slept 5,739* nights since the divorce, most of them alone. And despite my efforts to switch sides or move to the center, I cling to the edge. Of my bed.

Last night I stirred, started to turn over, and realized that if I moved even a hair, I'd fall off the bed. I had to move the dog and my pillows to adjust myself in the slightest. This morning, I woke on the edge again.


One of the things I do for my major freelance client is review the work of the 110 editors assigned to me. Writing each review is a laborious process that often involves making retroactive corrections and emailing various people on various matters. When I started in this position, my manager explained what needed to be done and how. I had no idea how many reviews I was expected to complete each week. I did some calculations and came up with what I thought they would expect. I've stayed up half the night, night after night, meeting this expectation that I made up. Earlier this week I discovered the rest of the team had been given a target. And that target is exactly half what I'd been driving myself crazy to accomplish each week. Half.

For this same company, I sometimes edit when the backlog gets too big. I'm not required to do this, but things get complicated for everyone when the system backs up, so I pitch in when I can manage it outside my usual hours. In an attempt to encourage editors to catch up, the company promised a bonus to the top 50 editors in terms of volume for a 30 day period. Yesterday I received auto-notification that I would receive the bonus. My "help when I can" habit put me in the top 50 producers out of 1200 editors--for a job that is not mine.

So often, I plug along, trying to keep up, only to discover that what seems normal to me appears excessive to others. Could this be why I've slept alone for 5,739 nights? The reason I'm on the edge? It's truly something to think about.




*No worries, folks. I don't keep track--I did the math just for this post. I'm working on my writing, and 5,739 says so much more than "a long time."

Teagan Day!

It's remarkably difficult to take good pictures of a baby by yourself. You really need someone to hold the baby while you take her picture. Out of the dozens I took yesterday, only these reflect any portion of her gorgeousness.


My darling granddaughter, ready for our first walk together.


My darling granddaughter, after our first walk together.


My Teagan is coming today!!!!

I get to take care of her for a couple hours this afternoon. Pictures to follow.

Stopping

Today is Ringo Starr's 70th birthday. Seriously. RINGO frickn' STARR turns 70. Today.

I was 10 years old when Ed Sullivan me to introduced the Beatles. Sure, I knew the lads from Liverpool were adults and I was a child that Sunday night. But somehow I'm shocked to discover Ringo is closer to my father's age (79) than to my own (56).


Last night I took part in an open forum on Laura Munson's blog. Laura, the author of This Is Not the Story You Think It Is, led a discussion of "stopping." As in stopping to notice, stopping to celebrate the beauty around us. As in stopping to buy lemonade from a child's stand.

The conversation included talk of surrender. It evolved to a discussion of saying yes to the Universe. Now that I've had time to think about it all, I don't think we drifted from the topic.

Stopping is surrender. Surrender is saying yes to the Universe. Something inside us--that spark of God that connects us all--wants us to notice the glorious gifts we're given. Every single day. Jack Gilbert wrote, "The treasures hidden inside you are hoping you will say yes."


It feels like a few years ago that Ringo Starr was a skinny, mop-haired boy launching a musical revolution. Today, he's 70. And still on stage. Still saying yes to the gifts he was given. He still can because he still does.

Ringo has asked that everyone stop at noon today (each in his own time zone) and wish the world "Peace and Love."

Please say yes to that.

Open Sesame

Managing daily tasks on the computer and Internet requires user names and passwords and secret phrases. Transferring money from one account to another--within the same bank--means I have to remember a user name and three passwords. Getting online to work requires two. Paying my utility bills requires three more. Secret words and phrases fill my brain, and accessing them at the right moment gets more and more complicated.

I've been waking in the night again. Words circle me in the dark, phrases begging to be written down. I want to tell these stories. I want to be a disciplined person who writes 500 words every day, no matter what. I want to step forward, believing the path will appear. I want to plug into the current that flows through me when I write from my heart.

Part of what holds me back is the idea that I have to find a magical combination of words that will open all doors. Anne Lamott believes in "shitty first drafts."

Maybe that's the password.

Fearless

Some of you may remember my fascination with Crescent Dragonwagon, about whom I have written several times, including here and here.

Dragon, as she calls herself, briefly attended the same high school I did, although I can't say I knew her. Tremendously colorful and mysterious, she remained my most unforgettable character for decades. In the mid-80s, I ran across her work via the suggested reading list for a curriculum product I was editing. In 1993, she popped up again in various articles about Bill Clinton's inauguration. In 2002, my brother-in-law gave me Passionate Vegetarian as a Christmas gift. In 2008, I came across her blog, Nothing Is Wasted on the Writer.

Her presence is a recurring theme/dream.

Crescent runs a workshop called Fearless Writing. For years now, I've longed to attend one. I'm finally back at work on a "real" project these days. My biggest issue, as always, is the uncertainty, the not knowing where the story is going. Thus we circle back to Crescent and her workshop and fearlessness.

My major freelance client offers a monthly grant to help writers realize their dreams. I am not working today. I am not playing. Today, I am writing an application for the July grant. If I receive it, I will immediately sign up for the Labor Day edition of Fearless Writing. I will go to the Green Mountains of Vermont and meet Crescent again, for the first time. (She's changed. I've changed. We never really knew one another.)

In one way, this seems an impossible dream. In another, it feels like destiny. I can't know which is true. I can only write the best grant application possible and turn loose of the outcome.

Wish me luck.



* Green Mountains in fall. Photo from University of Vermont website

Planning a Lunch and a Wedding

N (Katie's birth mother) and I are having lunch next week. We haven't seen one another since Mother's Day 2009, which is far too long. She's a lovely woman.

As the wedding planning ramps up, I realize how complicated this could be. My nephew and his bride-to-be are going crazy trying to mollify two two-parent families. Katie has four sets of parents in addition to her extended family, step-family and birth families.

Danger, Will Robinson!

My dream for Katie is that her wedding be peaceful and joyous. She will be at peace only if her families are. The night she asked me to help her find her birth mother, she said she wanted to know her well enough to have her at the eventual wedding. The eventual has become the actual. She has the dress, the guests, the cake, the whole darn thing. We're supposed to sign a contract for the reception location today.

I want to know Nancy's dreams for herself and the wedding. All final decisions are Katie's, of course, but I can influence the course of our ship of dreams. Knowing what N wants gives me a sort of star chart to work with. Katie is careful to be respectful of my feelings, and I appreciate that more than she'll ever know. Even so, I don't want the two of them to miss out on things they'd like to share. If I know enough to make the right suggestions, Katie won't have to worry about hurting my feelings, and she won't have to worry about disappointing N.

And so, I've asked N to lunch. My hope is that we'll talk and laugh and share our dreams for our daughter. My job here is to compromise. To make room. To live my love for my daughter. Come to think of it, N's job is pretty much the same.

We have a lot in common.

Grandma News

After saying they wouldn't be there, Evan and Kristin and Teagan came to the shower yesterday. I was thrilled.

The highlight was carrying Teagan around, introducing her to friends and family. Teagan is, of course, a particularly beautiful baby, and she looked darling in a little yellow dress embroidered with tiny cupcakes. I even got to give her a bottle. (Kristin had expressed milk so she wouldn't have to breastfeed during the party.)

This grandma thing is a good gig.

Finding My Grateful Heart

As Dad tells stories, one of the things most present to me is how blessed we--his children--have been. Through intelligence and hard work and love and loyalty, he and my mother transmuted our lives. The timing of my nephew's text about the limousines was ironic, to say the least, and I couldn't stop thinking about the metaphorical distance between the childhoods of my father and my children.

Those of you who've been reading a while know that my former husband can be...difficult. And loyalty is not his strong suit. And...well...you know. But the challenging things about him are not the whole of him. The truth is, he is part of the reason our children will never live in a boxcar. His intelligence and hard work have contributed to our family's journey.

Thursday morning, after a night of fitful sleep and constant thought-loops about all this, I called him. Very briefly (he hates to hear me talk) I outlined the story of the boxcar and the limo. And then I thanked him for his part in the safety and comfort our children enjoy.

He did not say a word. I waited a moment, and then said, "That's all I need to say. Just 'thank you.'" More silence. "Good-bye."

In a voice so tight you could feel his vocal cords vibrate, he choked out, "Thank you for calling."

We hung up without another word.

Friday, he called to ask me to find a way to get Evan fitted for a tux for a wedding in his step-family. "If I just ask him to do it, nothing will get done. Can you help?" After receiving the emailed measurements on Saturday, he called to thank me. He was gracious and kind.

We've exchanged more pleasant words this week than we have in some years since our divorce.

Now, I've been down this road long enough to know this isn't a storybook happy ending. We will not ride off into some rosy sunset. We will not hold hands around campfires, singing Kum Ba Yah. But it is a crack in the wall of bitterness and anger between us, an opening in my own heart as well as his. Because, as much as I've worked on forgiveness, as much as I've tried to let go of resentment, the best I've ever managed is a shaky kind of inner detente. I may not dwell on the old anger, but I certainly leap to new irritation when his present actions confirm my beliefs about him. And the thing is, Anais Nin was right. We see things not as they are, but as we are.

A grateful heart is a fine filter through which to see the world. I'm working on it.

Photo courtesy of Haiyen

Buster Brown Gets Busted

So, get this. Grandpa and Uncle Forest were driving their truck through a small town in Indiana when some sort of incident stopped traffic. They were sitting in a railroad crossing, waiting for the problem to be resolved, when they heard a train in the distance.

Uncle Forest (not known to be a tactful sort) jumped out and screamed at the driver of the truck behind him to back up. The driver, who must not have heard the train coming, took exception to Forest's language or his tone or his attitude. He backed up, but only a few feet. Forest backed the truck as far as he could, trying to maneuver around the other truck. When the other driver recognized what was happening, he leaped from his truck and ran for cover.

Forest was still trying to get his truck off the tracks when the train hit them. Grandpa, snoozing in the sleeper, was oblivious to the situation until the train hit the cab. After that, he was oblivious to everything for a while. Family legend has it that Grandpa's habit of sleeping with one pillow beneath his head and another over his face was the only thing that saved him. I have trouble seeing how a pillow protected him from a 150-ton locomotive, but maybe that's just me.

Anyway, Grandpa sustained a concussion and an impressive assortment of bumps and bruises. Shorty, Forest and Grandpa's guard, was not seriously injured. Forest was trapped in the burning truck. Good Samaritans finally managed to free him, but his body was broken and badly burned. After a week or so in a local hospital, he was transferred to a larger hospital in Indianapolis, where doctors amputated his leg to save him from the gangrene that set in.

Here's what I want you to picture: Grandpa and Forest were carrying a load of Buster Brown shoes. The train dragged the truck nearly three-quarters of a mile before it got stopped. The impact ripped the canvas cover off the back of the truck and scattered shoes for almost a mile. As darkness gathered, townspeople scuttled over the tracks and through the ditches, trying on shoes.

That just knocks me over. There, in middle America during the heart of the Depression, some of those people probably hadn't had new shoes for years. A shower of Buster Browns must have seemed like manna raining down from Heaven.

Can you see it? A crumpled truck. A derailed train. Flashlights dancing on the ground like fireflies as people searched for matching shoes amid the smoking wreckage.

Damn. Somebody ought to write a book.



photo: Jeremy Brooks on Flickr

From Boxcars to Limos

Working in the basement again last night, Dad was telling me stories of his life. Some I knew. Others I'd never heard.

Before Dad was born, his mom and dad and two older brothers lived in an abandoned boxcar for a while, probably during 1929 or 1930. Grandma baked pies and made sandwiches that Grandpa and his brother sold to men working in the train yard. Grandpa must have rigged up some kind of metal box Grandma could bake in over a campfire, because she sure didn't have an oven in the boxcar. Or a sink. Or a bathroom.

Eventually, Grandpa got a job driving a truck for Globe Cartage, and they were able to rent a small house. Times were so desperate that driving loads of valuable cargo--cigarettes and liquor--required two drivers and an armed guard. Grandpa and his brother Forest took turns driving/sleeping in the sleeper cab, and their guard Shorty slept in his seat with a shotgun in his lap. They once were highjacked, a story I'll write in detail later. That job ended when the truck got hit by a train, badly injuring Grandpa and costing Forest one of his legs. Grandpa used his $700 insurance settlement to buy a house, the first he ever owned.

While Dad was telling this story, my nephew sent a blast text to the 116 people coming to his Caribbean-themed wedding shower on Sunday. Not enough parking is available in my sister's neighborhood, so they've arranged permission to park at a nearby school. Limos will carry guests from the parking lot to the catered party, which is being held poolside.

He has no idea about the boxcar. His is a limousine life.

Come On In

As we were growing up, Dad sometimes sang while he worked around the house. More often, he "barked," in the sing-song, cajoling tones of a carny. "A winner every time for only a dime. One thin dime, a winner every time. Come On In."

Dad's father chased success from the bottom of an Iowa coal mine to the hills of Snohomish County, WA and back across the hills of Missouri and the farmland of southern Iowa. His favorite book was Think and Grow Rich. He never stopped believing his next idea would be The One. Handsome and charming, he could have been successful at most anything if only he'd stuck to it long enough. But no matter what he was doing, when some other idea glittered in the distance, he chased its sparkle, with his wife and five children bumping along behind him.

Dad was 15 when Grandpa dragged the family from St. Louis, Missouri to Bothell, Washington, where he started building houses. They nearly starved for a year or so, but Grandpa built good, solid houses, and his reputation got around. In 1946, babies and houses were booming. The family loved Washington, and they had a little disposable income for the first time in their lives. Until....

Grandpa came home one day and announced that he'd bought a cookhouse and some game booths and committed the family to traveling with a carnival. Dad and his brothers argued. His sister and mother cried. But in the end, they packed their belongings into a 1.5 ton 1941 Ford truck and struck out for the MidWest. For two years, they lived in that truck, cooking over a campfire and bathing in ponds or creeks. "Hot and Good and Good and Hot. Come On In."

Grandma and Grandpa cooked hamburgers. Well, to be more accurate, Grandma fried hamburgers inside a steaming tent under the summer sun of Iowa and Missouri. Grandpa stood outside, luring people to the counter. "Half a Cow on a Bun for One. Come On In."

Dad ran a string game. "Oh, these strings. These lucky strings. One thin dime. A winner every time. Come On In."

After that first summer, Grandpa rented a dilapidated old house and garage in Exline, Iowa for the winter. The garage gave him a place to work on the equipment he was building for the new and improved carnival he would roll out the following summer.

Mom lived in Exline. She and Dad met in school. The rest, as they say, is history.

Cleaning out the basement yesterday, Dad picked up a worn wooden stool. It had come, he said, from the carnival cookhouse. When they finally quit the carnival, his mother wanted nothing from it, so Dad gave the little stool to my mother's mother, whom he adored. Mom's mom used it in her kitchen and on her porch until her death, and then Mom's dad continued to use it. Dad claimed the little stool from the junk pile when Mom and her brothers and sisters cleaned out their father's house after his death.

And now it's mine. "Every Time You Play, You Win. Come On In."

Unlikely Angel

Walked into Mom and Dad's house yesterday and followed the sound of the shop vac to the basement. Found Mom on her hands and knees, sobbing as she sucked up sawdust from under a large piece of woodworking equipment.

"What are you doing, Mom?" I asked.

"I've got to get this cleaned up. Your dad's got someone coming here tomorrow to buy all this stuff," she answered.

I asked what stuff she meant, and the whole story tumbled out. Over the last few months, Dad has asked each of us if we wanted any of his woodworking stuff. Each of us has answered in some vague, "I don't know what I'd do with it" manner. What we meant was, "We want your stuff in your shop where it belongs."

Dad, you see, is a woodworker. Through the years, he has built tables and chairs and cabinets for Mom and for each of us kids. But the real treasures that emerged from his workshop were the toys. Each of his grandchildren has toys the likes of which most people have never seen. Each girl has a handmade miniature Queen Anne dining table and chairs along with a matching china cabinet. Both boys have drop-leg desks. Each child has a rocking horse. Each child has cars and trucks and tractors. Evan has dinosaur pull toys. Katie has a dog pull toy. Now adults, the kids have pieces of their grandfather's love to share with their own children. And their grandchildren after that.

Dad has not been able to work in the shop for quite a while now, and it's been on his mind. "I am not leaving this mess for your mother to deal with," he said yesterday. "It took her brother five years to take his wife's robe off the bathroom door. What in the world would she do with the tools I collected over a lifetime?"

And so, Dad placed an ad in a woodworker's forum. Someone responded immediately, of course. Dad made arrangements to sell all his equipment--the table saws and the band saw and the joiners and planers and the drill press--for mere pennies. More painful to me and to Mom, he planned to give the man all his hand tools. The big equipment I could stand, but not the Jorgensen wood clamps, daubbed with glue and stain from decades of use. Not the brace and bit--one of the first tools Dad owned. Not the hand plane or the chisels or the calipers. Not the things he wrapped his hands around as he worked his magic. Not the things that the bear marks of his living and his loving.

Just before I arrived, Dad had run to the store for a bolt. Mom was in the shop alone, vacuuming and sobbing. She did not want to let these things go. We talked and cried. I promised to keep this thing from happening, grabbed my phone, and drove home to make calls in private.

My brother doesn't want the tools and didn't have time to talk about it. My nephew got defensive. In desperation, I called my former husband.

"Don't let him sell his tools to a stranger, Jerri," he said without hesitation. "I'll buy them. Whatever the man offers, I'll pay more. I'll drive down and pick them up. I'll come whenever he wants. Please, don't let your dad's things just disappear. At least, if I have them, they're still in our family."

We've been divorced for 16 years.

Bill has a full shop at his home. He has no actual need for a single one of these tools. For him, as for me, it is simply too much to think of Dad's things in the hands of a stranger.

When I thanked him, and Bill said, "I love your dad. I always have. And I respect him as much as anyone I ever knew. I don't want strangers to have his tools."

When I told Mom and Dad that Bill wanted the tools, they both broke down in tears. Dad called the man to cancel the appointment. He sobbed as he explained that his kids wanted his things to stay in the family.

Mom picked up the phone twice yesterday afternoon to call Bill to thank him. Both times, she ended up crying so hard she hung up before she could finish dialing. She plans to try again today.



The growths in Dad's good lung are growing. He's having a PET scan on the first and we'll get the results from that as well as a battery of other tests on the 12th. He's known this for a couple weeks but didn't tell anyone until yesterday. All this flurry of activity, this press to get rid of his things is his way of trying to soften the blows headed toward us all.

Please pray or hold him in the Light or simply hold space for the great heart of this good man.

Goose, Goose, Grey Goose

The noisiest goose in the world has lived on our pond for three years. The goose wars drove off all the Canadian geese, but this lone grey goose stayed. It honks at all hours of the day and night, the loudest, most plaintive cry I've ever heard from a fowl.

Seven weeks ago, her silence woke me in the night. Her cries had waked me at least once a night for three years, so her silence was palpable and a bit alarming. A few days later, a glimpse of her at the edge of the pond reassured me. In the last two or three weeks, I've neither seen nor heard her. Yesterday, my neighbor happened to be outside when I was out with Cassie, and I asked her about the goose.

"Oh, she's here," Carolyn said, pointing to the corner.

That poor goose has been sitting on a nest of eggs for seven weeks. She's now rail thin and cannot manage even a bleat. I got fairly close to take this picture. Her beak opened. Her tongue fluttered. No sound came out. She is literally dying to become a mother.

I recognize her desperation.

This Is Not the Story You Think It Is

Laura Munson is one of us--a seeker and a thinker; a wife and a mother. She is a writer, one who had not found her way to being published despite 20 years of dedication, 14 completed novels and reams of "good' rejection notes in her office.

And she decided to stop suffering. Just in time, too. When her husband announced he no longer loved her and may never have loved her, she was given an opportunity to practice non-suffering. A big time opportunity.

Munson says, "It is possible to commit to non-suffering in a time of crisis. To let go of outcome. To truly live in the moment as a way of survival, not just as spiritual preference or practice. When we are living like that, we are living in freedom."

As a writer, Munson did the only thing she knew to do in this uncharted territory: She wrote her way through it. On August 2, 2009, her essay "Those Aren't Fighting Words, Dear," was published in the NY Times "Modern Love" column. The response almost crashed the paper's servers--they had to shut down comments to slow the overload. Within 48 hours, Munson had a contract for a memoir, a book she had written as the story unfolded. "This Is Not the Story You Think It Is" was published in April, 2010.

Munson's book is worth reading. And rereading. And reading again. She is a woman who lives her belief in people and principles. Despite her husband's "dis-affection," as she calls it, she loves and believes in him. Despite 14 unpublished novels, she believes in herself as a writer. Despite the tidal pull of anger and bitterness and reactionary choices, she believes in the freedom of choosing not to suffer. She doesn't paint this as easy or herself as a saint. She simply keeps putting one foot in front of the other on a path to peace.

Her path did lead her to peace and to being published and to living the life she imagined.

Long may it wave.

Unexpected Pleasures

Driving home from MN yesterday, I stopped in Des Moines for lunch and wifi to catch up with work a bit. Settled in with my ice tea and an electrical outlet, I zoned into the rhythm of work correspondence.

Katie called, just to check my progress on the drive, to make sure I was safe. When she makes the drive, I ask her to check in at the quarter, half, and three-quarter points. I feel better knowing where she is on the road, knowing she's still safe. She now asks the same of me. This slight shift in our relationship brings tears to my eyes. She feels protective of me, too.

Just before the three-quarter mark, Katie calls. She is at her second job and struggling. For the last two months, she has worked noon to 4:00 at her new corporate job and 4:30 to 11:00 pm (or later) at her old room service job at the hotel, four days a week. Fridays she works only at her corporate job. She is tired beyond tired.

She is, she says, thinking of turning in her resignation at the hotel. When I ask what the benefits are, she breaks into tears. "I just can't do it anymore," she says. We work through the list of "pros" and then the list of "cons," and she makes a decision.

"I knew you'd help me think clearly," she says.

20 miles pass before she texts: "Thanks for the guidance, Mom."

At dinner with just the two of us last Friday, I reminded Katie that I am, always and forever, radically on her side. This sometimes means telling her hard truths, but mostly it means helping her hear herself, helping her accept what she already knows.

I wanted babies and children so much. I looked forward to all stages of my children's childhoods. I looked forward to being a grandmother. What I didn't anticipate was the pure joy of being a witness to their emergence as adults.

It is monumental, this joy. And all the sweeter for having been so unexpected.

A Very Good Day

We bought Katie's wedding dress yesterday.

The wedding dress store is housed in four older homes in a beautiful part of St. Paul. We had a dressing room and an assistant to ourselves. The assistant pulled a curtain across half the room while she and Stephanie (Katie's maid of honor) helped Katie into each dress. When they were set, they pulled back the curtain to reveal the loveliness.

I cried every single time.

The sixth dress was THE one. Everyone in the room--Katie's prospective mother- and sister-in-law, Stephanie, me, the assistant, and Katie--knew we'd found it. And wonder of wonders, it was within my budget and available in plenty of time.

In the evening, we were invited to Craig's aunt and uncle's house, a truly gorgeous home on Crystal Lake in Minneapolis. Their yard is so beautifully maintained it looks like a park, and their house is stunning. Not enormous exactly, but spacious and gracious and comfortable. We had wine and rustled up some simple food. We talked and laughed and cried.

Dianne, the aunt, recently lost her mother. When we talked about her mother's death, Dianne told a lovely story about Katie and Craig. When they heard the news, the kids showed up at Dianne's and started getting ready for the activities that were sure to follow. They went to the grocery store and liquor store and Target. They got ice and toilet paper, two things you always need when a crowd gathers. They ran errands and answered phones.

"I feel bad that I've never written them a thank you note, but how do you thank someone for that?" Dianne sobbed.

Later, I pulled Katie aside and told her how proud that story made me, how much I love her. She hugged me and smiled, and we went back to the group. Later, as we were clearing the table, Katie stepped close and put her arms around me.

"I didn't think anything about the things we did that day. You show up. You do what you can. You help. That's just what we do. That's who you raised me to be, Mom. It's what you taught me and showed me all my life."

All in all, it was as good as day as any one could ever hope to have.

Love.

Navel Gazing

Got to hold the baby for a little while yesterday. She's so beautiful. Evan and Kristin were squabbling and tense when they brought her over. For me, all that disappeared the moment I pulled T from the car seat. We walked and rocked and sang. I read Good Night Moon. It was all good.

And can we talk about what the miracle of the belly button? Both my kids had belly buttons before we met, so I've never watched that transformation. T's stump kind of scared me when she first was born. It was black and had a weird texture. That clamp looked fierce, and I didn't know what to do with the top edge of her diapers when I changed her.

Now she has the most beautiful little navel. It's amazing to me that belly buttons simply right themselves over time.

Lots of things work out unto good when we give them enough time, light, and air.

Something I need to remember.

No Answers

At 6'4" and nearly 300 pounds, his body is not built for blending in. His clothes do not help: a Mizzou golf shirt with bright gold stripes from his underarms to his waist. From the moment he appears in the cafe area of Barnes and Noble, he seems to be trying to fade into the background.

Mizzou-guy doesn't bother with coffee or even a cookie. He picks a one-person table and shifts the chair to position himself behind a nearby column, facing the back of the store. He takes off his glasses and sets them on the table, then opened the hot-rod magazine he carries. He can't see the magazine with the glasses and can't see the object of his attention without them, so he reads a moment, puts the glasses on to check whatever it is, then takes the glasses off to read. Periodically, he leans a bit more to the right, putting more of his body behind the column, and then peers around it toward the back of the store.

Fifteen minutes into this peculiar dance, Mizzou-guy leaps to his feet and practically runs toward the back of the store, abandoning his magazine. His belly, hanging down at least 5 inches over his belt, ripples from the sudden movement, something like the water in a pool after a teenage boy's cannonball.

What or who was he watching? Where did he go? Why is a tired looking, middle-aged man hiding in plain sight in the cafe of a suburban bookstore?

I'll never know, but I've got the itch to make up a story for him.

When the Rainbow Isn't Enough

At a coffee shop the other day, I met a lady dressed--head to toe--in yellow and orange. From her feet to her ears, she matched and coordinated: yellow and orange caftan, orange earrings/necklace, yellow bracelets and watch, amber rings, orange shoes, orange and yellow purse. She seemed to be 80 or so, and the vibrant colors washed out her pale skin and hair. She looked like she was wearing a "costume" instead of an "outfit."

She saw me observing her, so I smiled and said, "You have such an eye for accessories."

Thrilled, she explained that she saves time by choosing a color theme for each week. On Sunday morning, she enters her walk-in closet, which is organized by color and laid out like a rainbow, and picks the week's theme. Then she selects her accessories for the week and the week's first outfit. For the next six days, all she has to do is choose an outfit from the right section of her rainbow--she wears the same accessories until she "resets" the following Sunday.

I wanted to hear more. Not just how she does this, but why. What is the story of an 80-year-old woman who can't go outside her bedroom without perfectly matched jewelry, shoes and purse? What chaos is she holding back with her rainbow? Does she see herself or only all the colored plastic?

She was meeting a friend, who arrived while we were talking. Otherwise, I might still be sitting there, asking her questions.

Photo: Photo-Fenix.com

A New Song Waiting

I saw Letters to Juliet last night. The story was just as predictable as expected, but I loved the movie. I may go see it again today and will surely buy the DVD. Not for the story, but for the chance to see the hills and valleys, the trees and hillsides, the golden glow of Tuscany.

I am meant to go to Tuscany some day. I'm interested in many places in the world, but only Tuscany calls to me in the night. Something waits for me there, and when the time is right, I'll find my way to it. This, I know.

On Thursday, I worked from 6:00 am to 2:00 am Friday. I did go to a local coffee shop for a few hours of the marathon, but mostly I sat in a chair with my nose pointed toward the screen of my laptop and the deadline in front of me. This is of no particular importance other than this sort of leaden lumpiness is the exact opposite of the feeling I have for Tuscany.

As I knew it would, the scenery of Tuscany lifted me, gave me a frisson of my favorite feeling in the world, that of being in alignment with the Universe. It has happened to me a handful of times, always when I've stepped beyond my normal boundaries and risked something, always when I've followed my heart to places my head would not lead me.

Maybe it's because being in alignment is about vibration and sound is a vibration, but every one of these experiences has a sound track, a song so present I feel as much as hear it. I've written here about the 4th of July I rented jet skis and screeched across White Bear Lake, screaming along with Tom Petty's voice in my head...and my bones and my heart. "I'm free...free falling...."

Lindsay Buckingham and Fleetwood Mac reverberated through the Wrangell Mountains, telling me to "go my own way" as I meditated on a rock in the middle of an honest-to-God tundra during a break from a bike ride across Alaska.

Kenny Loggins boomed from my radio early one morning, assuring me I was right where I belonged as I rounded the curve down to the harbor of Duluth, MN. The man I was dating was running Grandma's Marathon, and I got up that morning wishing I could see him cross the finish line. The kids were at their dad's house for the weekend, and I rattled around the house a bit, vaguely dissatisfied and sad. As though my fairy godmother touched me with the wand of understanding, all at once, I realized I could go, I could just get in my car and drive there. It was a revelation, a recognition of freedom.

I had only the vaguest idea of where Duluth was (north), and no idea where the marathon was actually run, but I followed the highway signs 154 miles, got off on an exit that "felt right," and parked in a church parking lot. The first person I passed was kind enough to explain that the path of the race turned for the finish line about two blocks away. "Right where you belong," Kenny echoed in my head.

Everyone I passed smiled broadly and went out of their way to be kind and helpful that day. It might have been because I was the only woman in the crowd dressed for a tea party: a beautiful steel blue linen dress with buttons the color of old pennies, ankle socks and shoes to match the buttons of the dress. Oh, and a flower on my lapel. And a copper-colored straw hat. Even so, I think it was because they could see or sense that I felt at home in my own skin, sure of what I was doing. Free. Holding the tail of a cosmic kite.

I didn't recognize my love crossing the finish line--not consciously, anyway. But I did cheer and hoot and holler for strangers accomplishing this tremendous thing. And I made friends with a family sitting next to me on the street. Together, we wandered the street fair down by the harbor and ate snow cones. It was one of the most wonderful days of my life.

The scenery of Tuscany in "Letters to Juliet," evokes sense memories, a phantom hum throughout my body. Not Tom or Lindsay or Kenny, but a new song waiting to be heard, a new adventure waiting to be lived.

My jar is open. Time to fly. I can't swing Tuscany right now, but next weekend, I'm going to Duluth.

Point of View

Read an essay in which a writer describes writing the same story from several different points of view, just to get down the details. Then she actually writes the story.

Umm...wow.

The story I submitted, the one I've been obsessing over, is the story of the day I met Katie's birth mother. Most of it was posted here at the time. It's written in first person, as it was lived.

By that, I mean--I didn't give a thought to what was in Nancy's mind as she walked up to or through my front door. I wrote about my nerves, my self-talk. I did not mention hers because I couldn't. I have no idea what it was.

What an exercise it would be to write that day in third person, to put on the hat of omniscience and imagine the view from the far side of the mother equation. Of course, it would be pure fiction. But, in its own way, so is the story I wrote, which kind of presumes that mine was the only heart breaking that afternoon.

Damn. AFGO*



*another freaking growth opportunity

Glimmers of Hope

Since mid-May, every morning, I've logged onto my account at the literary magazine where I submitted my story. Every morning, I steel myself for what I will see. So far, all I've seen is "In Process." I choose to see it as very good news that they've had the story for over a month without rejecting it.

Last night I read an interview with one of the magazine's editors. She says she reads the first page of every story submitted, right off the online system. She responds right away to the immediate "NOs." She marks others for continued reading, and then weeds out a bunch more from that stage. Some, she prints out and reads in full. From that group, she passes on a smaller number to her co-editor, who winnows down further.

From this, I deduce that my story was not an immediate "NO." I base this on nothing but supposition. And ego. Let's not forget ego. But seriously, it seems likely, after five weeks, that she surely has read at least the first page and judged it worthy of further consideration.

Evan and Kristin went home Sunday. Kristin is not supposed to be doing the stairs yet, but they were very anxious to get home. They actually stayed here only a few days, and then Kristin went to stay with her grandmother. We had no drama, and no cross words. They just left. I haven't seen Teagan since Saturday. Katie drove 1000 miles to be here for the weekend and saw the baby for a total of 30 minutes.

Teagan has not yet worn even one of the outfits I made for her. In fact, Evan and Kristin haven't taken a single piece of it home with them, not even the quilts. When I tried to pack those pieces up for them, they said, "No. She's going to need some things here." I choose to see that as positive, an indication that she will, in fact, spend some time here.

Every day, I log into the magazine's system and see I haven't been rejected yet. Every day, I am relieved and happy for an instant before reminding myself not to get too comfortable. Just because I haven't been rejected doesn't mean I won't be.

And so, I wait to see what will happen.

In process.

Learning From the Past

My darling granddaughter should be here later this evening. Evan and Kristin will be staying with me until Kristin can navigate the stairs to their apartment--probably two weeks.

I am thrilled. And I am scared. Most of you probably remember how difficult Evan finds it to be around me for long stretches of time. He didn't speak to me for several months after he moved out a couple years ago. I'm hoping things go better this time.

I am a slow learner. Bill was here for a few hours the day after the baby was born. I made a special effort to take pictures of him with the baby and to give him lots of time to hold her and rock her. He was his most charming self, joking and laughing. I thought we might finally be learning to make all this work.

The next day, Bill called. Without preamble and in his fiercest, most demeaning tone, he demanded: "Where are my photos, Jerri? I checked both my emails and I have nothing. Why didn't you send them like I told you to?"

His voice transported me from the fairy tale I'd constructed--the one where we're cooperative grandparents and get along well enough to do major celebrations and holidays together--and dropped me smack into reality. And the reality is, he does not want to co-parent or co-grandparent with me. He is no kinder and no gentler than he ever was.

Forgiving is good. Forgetting is not.

That's as true of the situation with Evan as with Bill. Meeting him halfway is the goal, not turning myself inside out.

Wish me luck.

So Much to Say

I am a grandmother.

Strange to say, but this is one of the things I wanted most while struggling with infertility all those years ago. I wanted to be part of the great Circle of Life. I wanted children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren--the whole messy, imperfect, loud, beautiful, loving, crazy lot of it.

My son's arrival was the beginning of a miracle. The moment I took Teagan in my arms, I felt a "click" within me and throughout the Universe, another piece of my miracle snapping into place.

Our lives are not without challenges. I didn't ask for perfection. I only asked for the chance to tangle myself with the lives and loves of a tribe I could call my own.

Yesterday, I unfolded Teagan's blankets to change her diaper for the first time. She caught one of my fingers and wrapped her little fist around it. Blinking away tears, I realized this little soul had joined the band of folks for whom I would unquestioningly give my life.

And so it goes.

Meet My Granddaughter

OH, BABY!

Teagan Michelle

8 lbs. 2 oz.
19 inches long

Haven't seen her yet, but we've seen pictures, and she's beautiful. BEAUTIFUL!

Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

T Day

At the hospital, waiting for the surgery to begin. Evan is pacing like the proverbial caged tiger. Kristin remains unflappable. They packed every newborn outfit they have for Teagan, which is dozens.

I have a book and magazines and my computer and phone. All I can do is pray.

48 Hours

I'm wound so tight these days, if you bounced a quarter off my brain, it would rebound higher than Bango, the Milwaukee Bucks mascot.

My heart beat sings, "Please. Please. Please."

Less than 48 hours until my granddaughter arrives.

Over the weekend, I went to Springfield to watch my 48-year-old cousin graduate from college--summa cum laude--after eight years of night school. Laura is living proof it's never too late to be what you might have been.

Miracles happen. One is scheduled for 7:00 am Wednesday morning.

No News Is Good News

Kristin is scheduled for a C-section on May 19 at 7:00 am. She's holding her own and the doctors say the baby is fine. She will go to the doctor again Thursday, and I'll post any news that comes from the appointment.

Kristin is amazingly brave and incredibly calm. Evan is not quite so calm. He's counting the minutes.

Holding Her Own

Teagan refused to turn--she's still breech. Kristin had a lot of contractions following the procedure, but after two shots of terbutaline, it looks like things are under control.

The doctors plan to do a Cesarean, probably on May 19.

Stay tuned.

Thank you for your prayers.

An Even Shot

The odds are about 50/50 that my granddaughter will be born today.

Teagan is breech right now, and Kristin will undergo a procedure meant to turn her later this morning. We've been told that about half the time, the procedure ruptures the waters and the baby is born with 24 hours.

Please take a moment to hold my girl in the Light. Her mother, too. Although I'm anxious to meet her, I'm not exactly hoping for her to be born today.

The word "safe" thrums through me like a heartbeat. Safe. That's all I ask. Just keep them safe. Whenever. Whatever. Just please, keep them safe.