The Count...

for the morning:

Miles ridden: 10

Indigo Buntings: 3



Wooly Caterpillars: 5


70-year old woman wearing giant sombrero: 1

Rain, Rain, Go Away

Rain kept me from riding last night, and you'd think I was a kid who didn't get to go to the park. If a tantrum would have helped, I would have thrown one.

It's still raining now, but I may put on rain gear and go pedal anyway. Just don't want to let this feeling slip away.

Hair Raising

Cutting off my hair changed my life.

No, really.

I'd been struggling for many months: depressed, overweight, working too many hours, feeling terrible nearly every day. Every day started with a battle with my hair. I've let it go gray and every day I revisited that decision. Several times. Along with the color, the texture and bounce left my hair. Every morning I washed it, filled it with mousse and gel before blowing it dry and setting it with Velcro rollers. Then I'd add hair spray and touch up flat spots with a flat iron. Finally, wax and more hair spray.

Within minutes it was completely limp. Completely.

On June 21, I came home from somewhere and walked into my bathroom to brush my teeth. When I caught sight of myself in the mirror, I knew something simply HAD to change.

By noon the next day, I was in a chair, explaining my dilemma to a guy who nodded sagely, lifted pieces of hair and watched them fall, and put a new blade in his razor cutter.

Then he hacked my shoulder length hair to about 2 inches long all over my head. My hair is now fringy and spiky and a little edgy, something I've wanted since the day I met the irrepressible Deb in Portland a couple years ago. I've never been brave enough to risk it. Then I hit the wall and knew that even if it didn't work, it would be better than what I had going on.

It worked.

For days, every time I got near a mirror, I marveled at having cute hair. I put on make up, even to stay home and work. I bought a new outfit.

Four or five days after the hair cut, I took my bicycle to the shop for a tune up. I rode 5 miles the day I got the bike back. Since late June, I have ridden every day--as much as 15 miles at a time. In every way you can think of, I feel better than I have in years.

I've lost weight and gained perspective. My dad's still sick. Several dear friends and loved ones are still facing health challenges. Publishing is still in a tailspin and making a living as a writer and editor is still tough. BUT I feel more capable of facing each day. I"m stronger physically and mentally. I'm happier. When I wake up in the morning, my muscles throb in a it's-good-to-be-alive way.

It is. Good to be alive, I mean.

Especially when you've got cute hair.

Seasons of ....

Driving down to my brother's house at 7:30 this morning, I had Paula's top down and the sound track to Rent cranked up. The sun was bright but cool and skating the curvy road was pure pleasure.

Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes....

Cruise control freed both my feet to tap along as I danced in my seat. Coasting down hill, I raised both arms to the sky and felt the wind's resistance against my open hands..

Live in my house, I'll be your shelter....

My body felt full, from the center out to the surface of my skin. I could feel my blood circulating, thrumming in my veins.

Seasons of love...

I remember this.

This is joy.

Dead Skunk in the Middle of the Road

You see things up close from the back of a bicycle. Take roadkill. (Please.)

The first day you see a dead skunk in the middle of the road, it's like a recently vacated auditorium. The essential skunkness is gone but you see plenty of signs it existed only moments before.

The second day the body has begun to deflate a bit. By the third it's quite flat and the luxuriant black-and-white coat is a faded memory. On the fourth day, only teeth and claws and a few odd bits rise above a puddle of nothingness. In another day or two, you may see a greasy shadow, but maybe nothing at all.

Vibrant to vacant. Powerful to powerless. Here to gone.

It's all such a mystery.

Into the Storm

"Chuck gave his life to Christ a long time ago as a young Marine in a railroad car on the first leg of his deployment to Korea. In his family, there's been some confusion about whether he was baptized as a child, and he wants to be sure. He comes to his baptism today a long time member of the family God, a man who wants to mark that membership. We're delighted to be here with him as he does."

The minister's tan, bald head bobs a bit as he stands in a water-filled glass tank behind the altar. Red and purple and blue light plays on his white robe as flashes of lightning illuminate the stained glass windows behind him. The organist plays a background melody accompanied by the snare drums of driving rain on the roof and the bass line of occasional thunder.

Dad appears at the steps on the side of the tank, wearing a white robe made for a much larger person. He hesitates, takes the first step, then walks his hands down wall as he makes his way into the water one halting step at a time. His robe billows, which makes him look like a balloon in the Thanksgiving Day parade—minus the guide wires, of course. He flies with nothing but faith to tether him to the earth today.

The glass front of the tank allows the congregation to see everything. The minister asks if he accepts Jesus as his savior and Dad replies in a firm, clear voice that even the deafest old woman sitting in a back corner of the church can hear. He crouches a bit so the minister can reach his head to guide him backward into the water. Dad, who does not swim and has a pathological fear of being under water, falls back willingly. His cheeks puff as he holds his breath.

When Dad stands, the wet robe clings to him. The folds of his belly and the outline of his shorts are visible. I don't know whether they're visible in fact or only in memory, but I see the shadows of scars from repeated surgeries on his lungs and abdomen and shoulder: a map of the world with no key. He wipes his face and gasps for air. The congregation claps and Dad nods, then struggles back up the steps.

The congregation sings several hymns as the minister and Dad change: "Nothing Is Impossible," and "Now We Thank Thee All Our God," and "Rejoice, Ye Pure in Heart." The minister emerges, wearing a black robe and hand-woven sash. He announces special concerns and prayer requests and celebrations. Dad slips back into the pew, dressed again in an oxford shirt and khakis. Mom takes his hand and he leans over to kiss her fingers.

Mom turns to Dad and he wraps both arms around her and kisses her full on the mouth for two or three seconds, a we're-in-this-together kiss, a you-are-my-world kiss, an I'll-love-you-in-the next-world-too kiss. Envy sparks in the eyes of two gray-haired women behind them. Each turns and wipes away tears. Neither Mom nor Dad seem to remember there's anyone else in the room or maybe even on the planet as they hold each other close.

Finally, they turn to listen to the rest of the service, but their hands remain as knotted as the veins crossing their knuckles. Mom's left hand rests on top of their intertwined hands, holding the part of Dad's fingers she can reach beyond that first grasp. She rests her head on his shoulder and he rests his head on hers. Nothing about it is unseemly, but it is almost too intimate to bear.

After the service, Mom and Dad stand with the minister, shaking hands and accepting congratulations and welcome. Their joy burns like a flame, even in the bright light of the narthex. When the last hand has been shaken, they thank the minister, join hands, and walk out into the storm. Together.

Attention Span of a Tsetse Fly

I saw My Sister's Keeper last night, bought the book and find myself outraged by the ways the producers changed the story.

Walking to my car from the movie, I deeply felt the heat of the day and a poetic description of it riffled through my head.

Katie's car was vandalized yesterday in retaliation for her choice to have a car towed from her parking spot.

My 77-year-old father is being baptized this Sunday.

And what am I posting this morning? Pure fun.

Bitchin'

If you've been reading along for a while, you know Katie and I have an ongoing thing about calling each other bitch. For Christmas, she gave me a nightshirt with a picture of three dogs and the words "Bitch. Bitch. Bitch" embroidered below the pictures. (Pay attention--the embroidered part is going to be important in a minute here.)

Yesterday morning I woke and rambled into the bathroom to get ready for the day. I pulled my Bitch nightshirt over my head and faced the mirror to decide whether or not to wash my hair. My reflection made me laugh so hard I spit all over the mirror.

Must have been sleeping on my stomach, because sleep wrinkles of "Bitch. Bitch. Bitch." were impressed across my midsection. It looked like I'd been branded.

When I told Katie, she asked if I still believe in signs from God.

Bitch.

I mean that in the most loving way possible, of course.

A Bunch of Sew and Sews

Heard about a group of women who gather once a month to make quilts for kids in hospitals and signed up to participate. Made the 45-minute trek last night and what I found was more than worth the drive.

For seven years now, a rotating group of women has gathered in the back room of this quilt store once a month. They cut and sew and talk and laugh for hours. Most of the fabrics and supplies are donated. The laughter is free. Anyone who wants to help is welcome.

Worked all evening and came home with a stack of quilts to finish binding as well as a stack of fabrics to make into weighted blankets for children with autism. Somehow, these women found out that weighted blankets help some kids on the spectrum sleep better. They came up with a pattern and instructions and started recruiting people to make the blankets. The need is great—the waiting list to receive one of the blankets is many months long.

I love to sew, particularly for kids. But what I love even more is being in the company of women united for a cause. The collective spirit and energy and creativity in that room could power the rotation of the earth if need be. I left so full of enthusiasm you'd think I'd been mainlining adrenaline.

Can't wait to go back. I wants me some more of that.

Only Now

The family gathered at my sister's house on Saturday, along with friends we've known for more than 25 years, among them a young family with two boys: 5 and 7 years old.

After dinner, we convened in the front yard for a few fireworks. The little boys were ecstatic--they ran in circles, shouting "Best 4th of July EVER!!!" These little guys are so well behaved and polite, so much fun to be around that I stayed until the last popper popped, despite other invitations. Their enthusiasm was contagious, their delight so real that the sparklers sparkled brighter, the crackers cracked louder and the fizzes whizzed faster. Watching them transported me to the time my own children were equally thrilled with small things.

Yesterday was Meatloaf Monday. Mom and I reported for duty, as usual. Before I could start mixing and measuring, I had to take set up shop in a corner for a minute, using my computer and cell phone to run one last detail to ground and get a magazine article submitted. As soon as possible, I packed up my laptop, turned off my cell phone, and headed to the kitchen.

My mother was standing at the counter, lit up like a Christmas tree. Wearing a pink baseball cap, a lavender t-shirt, khaki capris and her brand-new tan Crocs with white ankle socks, she could have been any age at all. Actually, she looked ageless: so dear it's impossible to believe she's 75.

Several people were on vacation, so five of us produced meatloaf, mashed potatoes, corn, and salad for more than 500. The kitchen was hot and the work fairly heavy for so few. Mom more than held up her end of the deal, slinging 10-pound sleeves of hamburger and 3-gallon containers of corn like they were nothing. She laughed and told stories that made others laugh. She wrung every bit of possible enjoyment out of the experience.

Neither those little boys nor my mother would describe what they were doing as "being in the moment."

No mantras. No meditations. No chants.

Only joy. Only love. Only now.

Growing a Pair

On Friday, I got an email telling me I am being recognized as a top contractor (among more than 6000) for an organization for which I freelance. The email asked me for a bio and a photo to be used in the newsletter and provided the bio of the other person who has received this recognition in the company's three-year history.

Kind of cool, right? Not if you're me. I skipped past the "good for me" part, directly into the "I don't have enough education" and "there's not a single picture I can send." From there, I leaped to "who are the other people if I'm among the best." Like Groucho, I kind of wonder about any club that would have me as a member.

Katie called as I was fretting about the bio and pic. Picking up on my distress, she asked what was going on. When I explained, she said, "Oh, Mom. Grow a pair. You're smart enough to get the award. Surely you're smart enough to write a decent bio."

When I grow up, I'm going to be as pragmatic as my darling daughter.

Hallelyur!

The pathology reports are back. The abnormal growth in Dad's lung is not malignant.

Let's aks Jesus!

Now that we know what it is not, we need to find out what it is. He'll have a PET scan next week to figure out what's next. The growth can't stay there--it's causing his lung to collapse and fluid to collect, which results in repeated pneumonia. But that's a problem for next week. Today, we sing and dance and give great thanks.

Thank you for your kind words of support, your prayers and remembrances. It all means more than you can know.

Love.

Commando

After I recovered from the divorce, I fell in love. Hard. That courtship and the years that followed remain some of the happiest of my life so far.

My new love and I took a canoe down the St. Croix River on the 4th of July. It was a memorable day, one where our picnic got rained out and I skinnydipped for the first time in my life. When I got back to my car to change out of my swimsuit, I discovered I’d forgotten to bring panties to wear with my dress for the dinner portion of our adventure.

With no other choice available, I went commando--the first time in my entire 40 years on the planet I’d stepped outside my own home without a full complement of underwear. It felt daring and dangerous, another step toward the new woman I was becoming. It became something of a theme: Over the next few years, I “forgot” my panties in a variety of memorable ways. (Once I let a pair sail out of an open convertible speeding through the night down Highway 1 in the Florida Keys. Always wondered who found them.)

And every single time I thought, My mother would absolutely die if she knew I went outside without panties. Die or Kill. Me. Dead.

Last night, Mom and I went over to swim in my sister’s pool. Deb showed up about an hour after she was supposed to meet us, just as we were getting out of the water. We got back in with her for a while, and by the time we left, Mom and I were both pretty well fried.

Changing in the little guest bath, I looked at my pile of clothes, thought, “Who cares,” and slipped into my running pants and a t-shirt sans undies. Just easier. I folded my panties and carefully tucked them into the bundle with my towel and wet swimsuit, thinking, Mom would die, but if I’m careful, she’ll never know the difference.

As we walked to the car, my 75-year-old Mom danced a funny little jig on the driveway. “Whatcha doing, Mom?”

“Well, I thought I lost my panties in Deb’s bedroom. I found ‘em after I got dressed, but I was just too tired to bother. And now…,” she lowered her voice, “I am outside without my panties. It feels kinda good.” She waggled her butt at me and laughed.

Shocked the pants off me. Or…it would have if I’d been wearing any.

Sheep vs. Goats

On the way to the farmer's market last week, Mom and I passed opposing factions demonstrating on opposite sides of a street in front of a Bible college. On one side stood a group of people waving signs like "God Hates Jews." These people were screaming and gesturing wildly.

On the other stood a group of people whose signs said things like "God Is Love." These people were standing quietly, firmly.



Dad and I had a long talk about God and heaven this weekend. He's worried about whether he's a sheep or a goat. Frankly, this makes me boiling mad. To imagine that you are or are not acceptable because you were or were not circumcised or were or were not raised in a particular faith or did or did not have water sprinkled on your head as an infant--any of it, all of it strikes me as well beyond absurd. It pains me that lessons from his childhood haunt Dad now.

After a lot of discussion, I finally told him this: Anything that creates an "us vs. them" scenario is from humans, not from God. We are all part of God's family, and God accepts and loves us all. As humans, we choose actions or attitudes that take us closer or further from God, closer or further from peace and love. But, as Carl Jung believed (quoting Desiderius Erasmus), "Bidden or unbidden, God is present."

There is no reason to scream or carry on. We can stand quietly in the sure and certain knowledge that God is love. For all of us. For each of us. Doesn't really matter whether we're sheep or goats: All are acceptable in God's sight.

Many paths. One God.

Heading Home

Waiting Room B. VA Hospital. Kansas City, MO

Dad lies on an exam table 20 yards from here, sleeping lightly while a pulmonologist searches his lungs. Lights. Camera. Action.

Mom sits beside me, stitching down the binding on a quilt she’s making for great-grandchildren she does not have. A TV drones directly above our heads, some faux-court parading the drama of the lowest common denominator—questionable paternity, trading sex for car repair, destroying the windshield of a cheating boyfriend's car.

A tiny black woman sitting opposite us contributes to the sound track.

"Girlfriend, if your son curses, he learned it at ho-o-o-me!"

"Ah...he won't give her no mo-o-on-ney!"

"I hear you, child. I KNOW that one!"

Her smile reveals as many gaps as teeth. Her delight in the program is entertaining. The show is not. Mom stitches. I type, trying to work on a magazine piece due this week.

A small Indian man appears at the door. “Farris?” he asks quietly.

Mom and I go into the hall with this man we do not know to hear news we do not want. The doctor faces Mom but turns his warm brown eyes to the wall. A large mole on the end of his nose mesmerizes me, a bouncing ball to follow for these terrible lyrics.

A slight slump in her posture tells me Mom hears his words and understands their import, but she says nothing. I wait for her to ask, but she doesn't. Tears glisten on her cheeks. Her eyes beg the doctor for mercy.

I put an arm around her and step into the breech, asking the necessary questions and clarifying a few things. The doctor negotiates this sea change without a ripple. When he sets up a follow-up appointment, it is me he consults. When he finishes this consultation, it is my hand he seeks to shake. I'm shaking, all right.

Back in Waiting Room B, Mom makes 10 or 12 tiny, even stitches on her quilt, then drops her thimble and her head. She sobs silently. I put my arm around her again. She wipes her face with her hands, retrieves her thimble and makes two more stitches before her head drops to her chest again.

The gap-toothed lady in the corner jumps up and leaves the room. Nine people in a 12 by 12 room—everyone has a front row seat for everyone else's drama. I'm afraid we've made her uncomfortable with ours. A few moments pass, and she reappears. Nodding toward Mom, she hands me a stack of Kleenex. "I saw her head go down," she says.

Her simple kindness overwhelms me. I thank her through a flood of tears. Mom nods in thanks as the woman returns to her seat. She's not talking to the TV anymore, but any time Mom or I look up, she speaks to us. "Yess-um. I pray for you. Take it to God, yes sir."

I smile at her and she comes to stand in front of me. "Let's aks Jesus," she says. For a few seconds, she's motionless, praying for a man she's never even seen. Sincerity radiates off her the way heat shimmers in the desert. Send me an angel. Send me an angel. Right now. Right now.

The fellows, whom we met before Dad's procedure, appear at the door. We step into the hall with Mark and Raj, our new best friends. Their explanations are more direct, their language more open than the doctor's. Honesty has not yet been trained out of them. Raj is a small man and the white doctor's coat he wears looks like something he stole from his father's closet. Mark looks more the part—his coat is embroidered with his name and he wears it over a layer of confidence. He tells us Dad has lived beyond anyone's expectations and that he knows many of those unexpected years have been good. "I guarantee you there will be more good times," he says.

Back in Waiting Room B, more drama plays out over our heads. The television "judge" says to a troublesome woman, "Thank you for coming here today. Seeing you makes me so grateful for my own life."

When the nurse summons us, we go to the Recovery Room to collect Dad. He's sitting on the edge of the bed, dressed and ready to go. Mom helps him gather his things while I get the car. It's half a mile and several large hills away, and by the time I pull up to the entrance, Mom and Dad are seeking shelter from the merciless sun under a pitifully small tree. They walk to the car holding hands. Dad opens Mom's door and helps her get seated, then gets himself in the van.

"So what's going on?" he asks as he puts on his seat belt.

"What do you mean, Dad?"

"Well, what's got your mother so upset? What did they find?"

The fellows told him, but they mentioned he may have been too sedated to understand. Apparently, they were right.

Dear God. Not this, too.

I face Dad but turn my wet brown eyes to the road. "Part of your left lung is collapsed. They found an abnormal growth obstructing an airway."

Let's aks Jesus.

I stop the car and look into my father's eyes. "About 2 centimeters, as far as they can tell. They did three biopsies. We'll get the report next week. You have an appointment next Wednesday to discuss the pathology reports and select treatment options."

"Oh."

I put the van into "Drive" and, ever so slowly, we turn toward home.

Round and Down

2:00 am, my parents’ house.

Terrible storms tore through the area last night, terrible in that Midwestern, end-of-the-world way that turns the sky green and sucks the last molecule of oxygen from the last breath of air left in the entire state of Missouri.

No electricity and thus no machine to help my father breathe through the night. No air conditioning. Not even a fan to stir the air above his bed. Until tonight, that fan hadn’t stopped in two years. Its skeleton dangles from the ceiling like a phantom limb, blacker against blackness.

The whole neighborhood hums with the generator at the fire station two blocks away, its low whine accompanied by the manic jangle of wind chimes. People in retirement communities love wind chimes. Maybe they like to hear what they no longer go outside to feel. You never see anyone outside here. They stay inside their houses, their doors closed against death. Do they know death doesn't need a door? Any crack will do.

I lie in bed, waiting to be needed. A magnetic ebb and flow pulls me down a perfect Fibonaci spiral—a nautilus shell of night. Round and down…round and down…round and down it drags me into the vortex of this stillness.

I meditate. I repeat a mantra, humming with the generator. I beg for release from this prison built of my own fear, but I can’t sleep. All I can do is listen for Dad’s next breath.

The Day of This Father

My father's day is passing.

The whole family (most of it, anyway) went to my brother's house for Father's Day. I rode with Mom and Dad. To be accurate, I rode for 30 minutes of the 3 hour drive. It quickly became apparent that Dad should not drive, so I chauffeured the rest of the way.

To me, it was no problem. I was happy to drive. For Dad, it was difficult—another marker of the end of the era when he was the strongest, most capable member of our family, the rock on which we all stood.

Dad was once 6'4". He now stands less than 6 feet. He once could eat anything and everything he wanted without gaining a pound. He now eats a bowl of oatmeal without sugar for breakfast, Slimfast for lunch, and a small dinner. He once carried concrete blocks like children's toys. Now he struggles to carry himself.

Far more important than those things, though, is the loss of the feeling we all have had, all our lives together this time on the spinning blue marble, that Dad could hold up the sky. He could build anything, fix anything, make it all better somehow. Now he often says, "I used to know how to do that...."

Watching his body fail him is one of the harder things I've done in a life that's included plenty of challenges (as well as more than my share of joy).

When he laments some new loss, I often tell him he's done for us all our lives and now it's our privilege to do for him. The gallant knight in him, the one whose armor is rusting, the one whose lance is no longer sharp--that knight replies, "But I'm supposed to do it."

The knight on the white horse gets a lot of glory, but that glory comes at a terrible price. The Piper has enormous patience and a very long memory. The day has come to pay him.

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.