Happy (??) Fourth of July!

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I have a stressful job. I work in the legal system and my cases involve abused and neglected children. Sometimes it’s stressful. One of my favorite ways to unwind is to take our camper to a campground with no wi-fi and very spotty cell phone coverage. My husband and I stay for 2-3 nights. We typically take the smaller of our two dogs (the other dog prefers sofas and air conditioning). Poppy is a medium-sized tri-color short hair mix of unknown origins. The (allegedly) has some Australian shepherd and border collie in her heritage, but I think that’s pure speculation.

Poppy takes long hikes with me. Between our forays into the wilderness, she is content to find shade under her dad’s chair and occasionally reluctantly offer a paw in exchange for a treat.

I have a favorite camp site. It has a sunny pad with lots of grass in the front (that’s where we park the camper) and in th eback, it has a large clearing in the woods. The clearing is surrounded by tall trees with overhanging branches. It’s shady on the sunniest day. The first time I was here, the clearning was filled with gold finches and rays of sunlight. I dubbed it “the cathedral,” and I reserve it whenever i can. Unfortunately, it’s a popular spot, and it’s often bookd out for several months in advance.

I was lucky enough to secure ”the cathedral” for this past 4th of July holiday weekend. We arrived on Saturday morning and got the camp set up. The campsites on both sides were still empty. We grabbed some lunch, and Mike decided to nap. I took my journal and some drawing supplies back to ”the cathedral” for a short time. I should have stayed longer.

I decided to spread a mat out on the grass and stretch out on the ground. Poppy joined me (actually, we wrestled on the ground as she burrowed under me and I tried to stop her). Eventually, we both found a comfortable position and snoozed.

A short time later there was a commotion as two cars pulled up to the camp site on the north of us. Two adults and three children poured out of the vehicles. The adults began hauling tents and coolers out of the cars, and the children (approximately 9-11 years old) screamed ”it’s a dog,” and interrupted our nap.

The woman screamed (yes, screamed) ”you have to ask before you pet the dog” and the children started petting and then asked, ”can we pet your dog?” Poppy likes children of this age group, so she allowed herself to be smothered with pats and offered a few kisses. One of the girl declared Poppy to be her ”new best friend.” After a short time, the children were (loudly) summoned back to their camp.

Poppy and I went for a short walk. When we returned, the camp site to the south was occupied by a young couple and their two-year-old daughter, who we will call Hattie (not her name). Although ”the cathedral” was clearly not on their camp site, they had set their tent up on the outskirts of my sanctuary. The clearing is large, so I decided to ”not sweat the small stuff,” and share the space. That was a mistake.

I took a seat outside the camper (the side away from Hattie’s family) with a book and a cold glass of water. Poppy was clipped to a cable that kept her well within the limits of our camp site. She wandered a bit and came to sit by my chair. Moments later I heard Hattie shriek ”doggy” and she appeared around the corner without a grown up. Mom made her appearance a few seconds later and said, ”Hattie loves dogs.” Poppy is not used to tiny people, and I told Hattie’s mom so. Hattie’s mom assured me ”Hattie’s grandparents both have dogs, she knows how to be nice,” and proceeded to try to ”help” Hattie pet Poppy. I told Hattie ”that’s enough,” doggy is tired.” A melt down followed.

Hattie ”visited” another 3-4 times in short order. Poppy and I finally went inside for a while. We had really both had enough.

The next morning, I looked outside and saw that ”the coast was clear.” Hattie was nowhere to be seen. Poppy and I headed for ”the cathedral” for some quiet time. We had just made ourselves comfortable when Hattie screeched ”doggy” and came out from her tent. Mom said, ”she wants to relax. Let here relax” but little Hattie was on a mission.

Hattie was wielding a bag of gold fish snacks. Poppy loves gold fish snacks. Hattie waved the snacks at Poppy. Poppy thought it was a game and snapped at the snack bag. Hattie shrieked. Poppy jumped into my lap and the next several minutes were filled with me turning away from Hattie with Poppy in my arms and telling Hattie (and her Mom, who had finally arrived) that Poppy wanted the snacks, and this was no longer safe. Mom again assured me that ‘Hattie loves dogs and her grandparents have dogs” and I told Mom, ”Poppy doesn’t have experience with little people and she is afraid. Please take Hattie back to your camp” Mom reluctantly dragged Hattie back to her camp site and another melt down commenced. I may or may not have been called a rude name loud enough for me to hear.

The afternoon had turned very sunny, but my shady spot in the forest was unsafe. Poppy and I walked several camp sites down the road to a picnic table that was (partly) in the shade and far enough away that Hattie wasn’t likely to appear. Poppy missed her Dad, who was comfortable in his favorite spot at our camp site, so we ventured back to our own camper and hoped for the best.

On Sunday, Hattie appeared during Poppy’s breakfast and again during her dinner. She appeared again around dusk, and I told her “doggy is going to bed” and closed my faithful dog inside the camper for the night for her own protection. By this time I had lost track of the number of times that Hattie had walked from her camp site and around to the other side of our camper without an adult intervening.

Although we carted in enough fire wood for two nights’ camp fires, we never lit one, as Hattie was sure to appear. Poppy and I did spend lots of time walking (away from Hattie) and managed to have a nice weekend. It wasn’t the weekend that I had planned and hoped for, but it was still a nice weekend away from most responsibilities.

I hope that little Hattie grows up still loving doggies (and with all of her fingers intact). I hope that Hattie’s mom gets a rash somewhere uncomfortable.

Once upon a time she lived happily ever after

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My life has not been a fairy tale (quite). There have been ogres and witches and perhaps a giant, though.I have been the wicked stepmother. I have worn the red riding hood, but never the glass slipper. I have been awakened by a kiss, but never poisoned by an apple (at least not yet).

My life has not been a fairy tale.

The domain for this blog recently renewed. I almost allowed it to expire, but I wasn’t ready to let my workds die. Perhaps some day someone will remember me and run across my words.

I’m well beyond once upon a time, but not quite to happily ever after. After all, those are the words that end the story, aren’t they?

I Wear Pink When I’m Happy

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If you ever see a dog with a yellow ribbon on its leash, give it some space. Perhaps it was traumatized, or perhaps its old and sick, but no matter the reason, if you see a yellow ribbon on the dog’s leash, give him a little space. He needs fresh air and sunshine, but for whatever reason, he’s not likely to enjoy the head pats you want to give him. He can’t tell you himself, so the yellow ribbon is a message so the owner doesn’t have to be quite so diligent in protecting the dog’s boundaries.

Sometimes I wish we humans had signals that we could wear, too.

Some days I’m really, really super happy. When I’m super happy, I wear pink. Pink has become my favorite color. If you want someone to sing show tunes with you on the walkway between the office building and the courthouse and I’m wearing one of my pink blazers, you can bet I’m game. If I’m wearing pink, and you need cheering up, I have extra smiles to give away that day. I’ll listen to your worst jokes and laugh. Sometimes I’ll even wear my pink raincoat. Not even the rain can bring me down when I’m wearing my pink raincoat and carrying my rainbow umbrella.

I’m not always happy. I try my very best to keep a smile on my face, but sometimes I’m really sad and my heart hurts. I don’t have a dress code for sad, but I suppose if I’m wearing my green blazer (the drab one – not the lime green leather one with ruffles), I’m probably somewhere on the sad end of the spectrum.

In centuries past, we wore black to show that we were in mourning. A widow grived anywhere from a year and a day to two and a half years! Black was the color of mourning. I gave that some thought this morning. I thought perhaps that wearing the black was to remind people that you had suffered a loss – to remind them to give you some space, but it seems that perhaps it was to keep the grieving widow from finding her happiness too quickly.

I’m not very good at asking for what I need from other people. I’m not quick to say, “I’m hurting today,” or “I can’t believe my good fortune today, I want to celebrate!” Sometimes I wish I could let people know how I feel just by choosing a shirt.

Imagine if a gray tie / shirt / jacket meant, “I’m really busy today. I wish I had time to chat, but I really need to get this project done,” and people would just smile and nod and let you get your work done without feeling badly.

Perhaps a blue dress / scarf / blouse would mean, “I’m feeling blue – I’m in need of a little cheering up,” and people would stop by my door just to check in. Perhaps they’d touch my shoulder when they talk to me, or drop a chocolate heart on my chair when I’m away from my desk.

Revisiting that “wearing black for mourning” might not be a bad thing. My mom has been gone for two years now. During those first months, there were days I couldn’t talk about anyone’s mom – or about death – or anything that reminded me of Mom, or death, or loss. I couldn’t communicate the need that I had on those days to talk about something else – anything else. I didn’t want people to stay away. I just wanted them to know that if they saw tears rolling down my face for no discernable reason, then maybe then could just hold some space for me. It’s hard to tell people, “I really, really want some company, but I cry when anything at all reminds me of my mom.”

Purple could be for problems we’d rather not discuss. Oh, dear. I think I’d run out of colors well before I run out of emotions.

I’ll still wear pink when I’m happy, but sometimes I cry a little on my way to work. Life’s complicated sometimes.

When you believe it, you’ll see it

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“Watching for things” is one of my favorite leisure activities. When we’re driving through Florida, I watch the roadside ponds and ditches for signs of alligators. When I’m at the beach, I watch for dolphins. I excitedly point and take photos when the ‘gators and dolphins make their appearances. My family is rarely as excited as I am, but they humor me by participating in the excitement.

I’ll admit that I may, from time to time, watch for ‘gators and dolphins here in Ohio, even knowing that such creatures would not survive here in Ohio. My husband will see me, apparently deep in thought, looking out the window on a long drive. “What are you thinking?” he will ask. He just shakes his head when I reply, “I’m looking for alligators.”

I stop on my run to watch the waves on Lake Erie for signs of dolphins, too. I have yet to see one, nor a mermaid, but a girl can dream…

It wasn’t so many years ago that bald eagles were unheard of here in Northeast Ohio. I’ve lived here nearly my entire life. The first time that I saw a bald eagle in nature was in Alaska in 2007. It was a remarkable sight. I saw them again, a year later, on a trip to Florida (and I saw ‘gators, too!) Several years ago, I heard that several pairs (of eagles, not ‘gators) had established nests in Ohio. I began to watch the skies and the trees for eagles. I had a long wait.

One day, on a drive from Cleveland to Toledo, it happened. I saw two bald eagles perched side by side in a tall tree by the side of the highway. I could hardly wait to tell my husband that it had happened, at long last. Once I saw them that first time, I began watching in earnest. Now, several years later, their population has grown, and I see them at least weekly, and often more frequently, on my daily drive near the shores of Lake Erie.

Now, I watch the birds soaring overhead for white heads and tails. I can differentiate between a soaring hawk and a bald eagle by the shape of the head, or the angle of the wings when it is too high overhead to see the color of its feathers. Eagle spotting is one of my favorite ways to pass the time on my commute. I know I’m going to have a good day when I see an eagle on my way to work.

I recently told my husband that I see eagles often now, and it makes me happy every time that I spot one. I learned that he rarely sees eagles. I asked, “do you watch for them?” He told me that he doesn’t look for eagles, and I have decided that’s why he never sees eagles!

Last year we rented a pair of kayaks and took them out on a beautiful fall day on a nearby reservoir where there were dozens of other people in kayaks and small boats. As we paddled back to the kayak return, a young man in a boat with several other “youngsters” playfully asked, “did you see any alligators out there?” I quipped back, “Not yet, but that doesn’t mean they’re not there,” and gave him a knowing look.

Now that I’ve learned to like kayaking, I’m not sure that I want to see alligators in Ohio. As far as I know, there’s nothing local that will eat me, and I rather like it that way.

You do not succeed by picturing yourself failing. It’s been four years since I last attempted (and finished) a half marathon. On my first attempt, I started the race with a belief that I couldn’t do it, and I proved myself right. On my second attempt I took a different approach. I envisioned myself crossing the finish line every time I finished a training run. I saw myself (in my purple and black tutu), crossing the RunDisney finish line, and when the time came to run the race, I never believed that I could fail.

Diamond Dallas Page (DDP), started me on a voyage that gave me the strength and confidence that I needed to shed 130 pounds before crossing that finish line says, “whether you believe you can, or believe you can’t, you’re right.” With that in mind, I believe that I can cross the finish line in a full marathon. I will do it. Failure is not an option. That said, I’ve chosen one without a time limit.

Once upon a time, I never looked to the sky believing that I would see bald eagles, and alas, I didn’t see them, even when they were probably there. I will probably stop looking for alligators outside of Florida, because I really don’t think I want to encounter one at Old Woman’s Creek or Sheldon Marsh. I saw a mink running across a log on my last run, though, and I don’t believe that I’m likely to be eaten by a mink, so I will start watching for them, as well.

There could, one day, be fresh water dolphins, and as I’m not likely to be eaten by one, I believe that I’ll keep watching the waves near shore for them, whether I’m in Sarasota or Vermilion, watching the ocean or Lake Erie because I believe that when you believe it, you’ll see it.

Sunrise and Solitude

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We are camping just off the beach, about 1100 miles from home. The husband has a cold, and is being a good sport about it, but needs all of the rest that he can get. My other companion for the week is a teenager whose natural tendency is to sleep until noon. He received the majority of his Christmas gifts early, so there was nothing driving him to awaken before dawn with me.

I began waking early in the morning when the children were still young. That hour between 5 and 6 am was often the only time that I had to myself. While I love to be around people, I also love my quiet time – time to reflect, read, write, or just sit quietly and perhaps scratch the dog’s ears.

I woke today around 6 am and made a cup of coffee, pulled on my hoodie and stuck my feet in a pair of flip flops and padded off in the darkness to the beach. Sunrise was “scheduled” for 7:10 a.m. When I made it to the water’s edge, there was another 40 minutes to wait. Although daylight had not yet arrived, a hint of rose-colored light brightened the night sky. The ocean glowed. The sand sparkled. Seagulls and sandpipers pecked away at specks washed in on the waves.

I thought that I was there all alone, but as the sky brightened, I saw us, the dozen or so people who were there to greet Christmas morning before it was truly morning. There we stood, each alone, but all together, watching the sky from the wet sand.

A man in a Santa hat walked along the water getting some exercise. We wished each other Merry Christmas resumed our silence. The water began lapping at my toes, and I moved back a few steps. I encountered my artwork engraved on the sand from the morning before. I found the short stick I had stowed in the rocks. I moved a few paces and scratched some words into the sand. In a moment the water rose up and washed them away completely, as if they had never been there in the first place.

I sometimes wonder what will happen to all of my words when I am gone. The blogs, posts and half-finished novels fill volumes of paper and unknown number is bits and bytes in cyberspace. They say that once something is on the web, it’s there forever. That doesn’t, however, necessarily mean that anyone will ever read it.

A heavy layer of clouds sat just at the horizon. The sun would not be peeking out just above the sea on this morning like the ball of fire that had appeared at precisely 7:09 am yesterday.

Eventually, we solitary sunrise observers were joined by couples and families. We were all there to welcome another day. I sang quietly to myself, “silent night, holy night,” believing that the waves and the gulls would mask my voice, but I heard a voice join mine, and then another. We sang our carol, and the clouds turned pink. It almost looked as if there were a city skyline just at the place where the ledge of cloud met the water.

We stood in silence then, watching as the light rose and the sky turned blue. Pink clouds streaked across the sky. Eventually the ball of fire emerged from its cloud blanket. My coffee was gone. My companions were leaving, one by one and two by two. We had witnessed the dawning of Christmas Day there on the beach, mostly alone and mostly in relative silence. I turned and made my way back “home,” where the menfolk were still sleeping.

I’d received my gift from my little family early, so there were no packages for me to unwrap. Instead, I watched as a brand new day was born. As they say, “every day is a gift – that’s why we call it the ‘present'”.

Joyous Christmas to each of you,and for those whose holiday has been dimmed by loss, may you find comfort with those who love you.

Always,

Be

Good tidings of comfort (and joy)

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Happy Christmas Eve from the beach. The husband, the man child and I decided to make the 1100 mile trek from Vermilion, Ohio to Cocoa Beach Florida for Christmas for the second year in a row. For them, it was merely a chance to catch some sunshine and play in the sand. For me, it was personal. I had an important visit to make.

Last year, the loss of my mother was very fresh. I spent more time in tears than enjoying the sunshine. I couldn’t bear to allow myself a peek of happiness. It just didn’t seem right. I got up before the sun every morning and sipped my coffee and watched the waves lap at the sand and wept.

I walked the beach and picked up seashells – but only the broken ones. I told myself that they were more interesting, but I think there was a part of me that believed at that moment that I didn’t deserve the perfect beautiful ones.

On our last morning at the beach, I found a spot just above the high tide line. I sat in the sand and imagined my mom beside me there, sitting in a low sand chair in her homemade red bathing dress with the white jacket with a beach blanket pulled up over her legs and her feet buried in the sand. I don’t think she was ever here at Cocoa Beach in her life, but I imagined her here in death – sitting in her chair and watching the waves, the gulls – the children with pails and shovels. Contented smile on her face. I went back at sunrise day after day and talked to her here on the the beach. I said all of the things that I couldn’t say in the last weeks of her illness when the very sight of me, for reasons I will never know, would make her angry. The angry old woman was gone, and Mom was back, sitting there beside me.

On our last morning, I had to say goodbye. I drew a heart in the sand and burned the location into my memory so that I could find it again, and there I set up her chair, in my mind, for the last time. She wanted the chair close enough to the water that the waves would wash over her feet sometimes. As I turned to walk back to our campsite, I saw her give me a little wave. “Go have fun,” she called. “I’ll be right here waiting. I’ll be just fine.” As I made my way up the stairs over the dunes, the hot tears spilled down my cheeks.

It’s been a year, today, since I left Mom’s memory there on the beach. I’ve pictured here there in the sun many times over the past year. The memory of that imaginary scene has given me great comfort. When it came time to plan this year’s vacation, I knew that I must return.

We arrived Saturday evening after dark. I woke up the following morning, planning to watch the sun came up, but I burrowed deeper into the covers instead. When I finally made it down to Mom’s spot later that morning, there was a family there, catching tiny crabs in the rocks. I didn’t talk to Mom. Instead I joined the hunt for tiny crabs, and then I walked along the beach and picked up the most beautiful sea shells I could find. Some were broken, but mostly they were intact – whole and beautiful – a far cry from my ‘haul” last year.

This morning I finally made it to the beach before the sun rose. It was magical. I ran 4 miles. I ran along the tide line. A wake surprised me and got my shoes soaking wet and I didn’t even care. I was having a wonderful time. I kept running in my squishy shoes, singing along to my music and telling every passerby “Good morning,” or “Merry Christmas.”

My favorite song came on my playlist and I danced a little. I made it back to “Mom’s spot.” I took a reed that I found in the rocks and drew a picture in the sand and took a photograph. I told myself that my year of grieving was over. I sat in “our” spot, ready to talk to Mom and tell her that I was okay and then, like the wave that had soaked my running shoes, a rogue wave of grief hit me. It was the knock you on your butt, throat-punch kind of grief that hits out of nowhere and it left me a little breathless for a moment. I sat on the big rock and just let the tears flow. I felt a tingling on my right hand, and I heard my mom tell me, “I told you I would be just fine.” I smiled through hot tears.

Just as the wave that soaked my running shoes receded back into the sea, the rogue wave of emotion slipped away. It ebbed and flowed as I sat there, listening to Mom. She told me, “I’m still Mary Christmas, and now Franny Claus is here too,” referencing nicknames that she and her sister, who just joined her in Heaven last month used during the holidays.

I know that Mom’s not on the beach in her chair anymore. This next year I imagine that I will think of her trying to roller skate on streets of gold and fishing in a beautiful lake in Heaven’s version of the Swiss Alps that she always wanted to visit and never had the chance.

I made my way back to the campground where husband and man child were waking up. Husband saw me and asked if I was okay. The answer was “I’m fine. I’m happy sad.” He knew what I meant.”

When I drew “Joy” in the sand, I set an intention to live more joyfully. I had no way to know that seconds later I would be weeping. I read somewhere that grief is a gift. In order to grieve, we must first have loved. Oh, how I loved.

Although I’ve cried intermittently since that episode this morning, my heart is not sad. I’m smiling through the tears. I got the distinct feeling that when I go back to the beach tomorrow, it’s going to be just me and the seagulls and the other “morning people.” I don’t have to drive 1100 miles next Christmas to talk to my mom.

To my friends who are hurting this Christmas, “you are not alone.” Honor your loved ones in the way that gives you the most comfort. There’s no right way to grieve or wrong way to grieve. Grief has no timeline.

I’m still intending to live the next year joyfully. Joy and grief can co-exist. They play together quite nicely. I still love Christmas at the beach. Maybe by next year, I’ll learn to do a cartwheel in the sand.

12/5/2018 – A Christmas Card from Home by Way of Heaven

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This morning began with a series of text messages.  Texting is not my preferred mode of communication, and I don’t use it often, so when a series of “dings” occurred in rapid succession, it was a sure sign that something was amiss.  Indeed, My Aunt Fran went to heaven this morning.

I sent a short message of condolence to my cousin and read the same from other cousins as they came across my screen.  I brewed a cup of coffee and sat in the quiet living room, not quite sure how to feel.

I grew up with many loving aunts and uncles, but Aunt Fran was a favorite. She taught Sunday School and Children’s Church.  She had a room in her basement full of little toys that she would give out as rewards for good behavior. For many years, she regularly cut my hair while I sat on a chair in her basement and she even allowed us to roller skate on the concrete floor.  Sometimes Fran would “kidnap” me for a day. Friendly’s Ice Cream Parlor was a short walk from her home, and we would go together and she would buy me a sundae that was so big that I couldn’t finish it.  Aunt Fran bought me my very first tea set, long gone now, but I remember it well.

Aunt Fran was a talented story teller.  Whether the story was from the Bible or from her youth, Fran had a rare talent for making even the ordinary exciting.  I particularly remember her re-telling of the story of David and Goliath.  She played each role, picking up smooth stones and putting them into a pouch for her imaginary slingshot, and then carefully fitting each one into the pouch to slay the giant.  A day with Aunt Fran was magical.

Mom and Fran were constant companions during the years that they shared at the Apostolic Christian Rest Home in Mansfield.  Each had her own small apartment just across the street the other.  Fran couldn’t see, and Mom had a hard time walking.  Mom was Fran’s eyes, and Fran was Mom’s legs.  They were a good team.  They complemented each other; they needed each other.  Even when Mom’s illness had progressed to the point where she could no longer truly care for herself, she wouldn’t leave Fran.

When cooking a big meal became too much for Mom several years ago, I began cooking Christmas dinner and transporting it to Mansfield, where we would serve up a feast in Mom’s small apartment.  We always invited Aunt Fran, and she always came down the hall, usually bearing gifts, which were often treasures from her own apartment that she no longer used for herself.  I use one such gift – a cast iron skillet – daily, and the lamp made of pink Himalayan salt glows in my study.

In the final year or so that Mom and Fran spent together, Fran’s hearing was failing, and her mind wasn’t working as before.  Last Fall, I was staying a few days with Mom prior to bringing her home with me because Mom had grown too weak to get herself in and out of bed.  She became very sick the night before we were to leave for my home, and I had to call an ambulance.  I called Fran’s apartment, too, but there was no answer.  Although I asked other family to let Fran know what had happened, she was convinced that I had stolen Mom away in the middle of the night without even letting them say goodbye.  No amount of persuasion by myself or others involved could ever convince Fran that I had, in fact, wanted her to know what was happening and even had tried to reach her.  As far as I know, Fran never forgave me.  I had never known Fran to be angry, but angry she was.  That night, I not only knew I was going to lose Mom, I lost my Franny, too.

Forgiveness is a lesson that took me more than 50 years to understand.  I’m doing much better with it, but I still struggle with forgiveness regularly.  It’s easier to understand it than to master it.

I struggle often to let go of the hurt that I cause myself with other people’s words and deeds so that I can just love them – unconditionally – regardless of if they apologize or even feel bad for their “wrongdoing.”

I struggle to forgive myself for the times that I fail – whether it’s the dumb thing I did in second grade, or one of the times that I failed so completely that people I love won’t forgive me even though I’ve apologized.  I struggle to let go of that pain, too, and just love them – unconditionally – regardless of if they return that love or even acknowledge my existence.

When I am having those particular struggles -the ones where I struggle to forgive myself – I slip into a mindset where nothing I do is good enough.  I don’t write because “who else would ever want to see it.”  I don’t post pictures of my knitting or of my teacups because “people will just think I’m looking for attention.”  I don’t play the piano because I’m rusty and I make a lot of mistakes, and I struggle to get on the treadmill because I’m slower than I was in 2016.  Forgiveness is the key to happiness, if you ask me, because letting go of pain frees up so much energy to just enjoy life and to just enjoy living.

This morning I forgave Fran for being angry with me, and I forgave myself for not foreseeing that my failure to reach her myself would cause hurt so deep that it would destroy a 50-year bond.  I allowed myself to weep, and to imagine Fran and Mom, reunited.  I believe that Fran, moments after her death, was restored to perfect health with perfect hearing and a sharp mind, and that she understood perfectly when Mom told her that I had, in fact, tried to phone her.

I made it to the office this morning a little late, but pretty much on time.  All day, my memories have kept spilling out my eyes and down my cheeks.  I’m not one given to loud crying generally, but my eyes have grown very leaky since I reached “a particular age.” It’s one of many reasons why I don’t bother with makeup.

When I arrived at the office, my mail was piled on my desk.  On the top of the pile was an envelope with a handwritten address.  A bright red cardinal appeared on the postage stamp in the upper right corner – a lone pop of color on a black and white document.  It’s said that the sighting of a cardinal is a message from a loved one in Heaven.  I saw a post to that effect on Facebook yesterday, so it must be true!

I looked at the return address and saw Dalton, Ohio 44618.  Home!  No matter how long I am in Vermilion, which I love, my heart screams “home” when I think of Wayne County.  In the envelope was a beautiful letter from a beautiful lady who has always been special.  We haven’t seen or talked in more than 30 years, but today, just when I needed a lift, her letter landed on my desk on a morning when I was down, not only because my aunt died, but because the stubborn needle on the scale just won’t budge no matter how strictly I diet or how many miles I run right now.

She shared some of her memories of my parents which I had forgotten about, but which flooded back.  She told me how much she’s enjoyed reading the little blog posts that I share.    She talked about my writing about struggles and transparency and told me that I make a difference.  She put a smile on my face.

I keep coming back to that cardinal on the stamp, and the idea of a message from a loved one in Heaven. The letter left Dalton, Ohio, a mere 50 or so miles away, on November 28th and arrived here on December 4, a day when I wasn’t in the office.  I didn’t personally receive the letter until I got to my desk on December 5- six days after the letter left “home.”.  The pony express would have been faster!  That dear lady closed her letter with “God’s grace and blessing on [my] journey.”  In God’s perfect time, a letter landed on my desk at least 4 days late, carrying with it a message of love and hope and friendship.  I feel like it also carried with it a message of forgiveness from Fran, and perhaps a “hi, I miss you,” from Mom, stuck to the letter with the glue on the cardinal stamp.

My friend from back home had no idea what I would be struggling with on THIS day on the day that she mailed the pretty Christmas card with the beautiful letter inside.  She simply listened to the call she felt to reconnect.  In doing so, she made a difference.  In this day of instant messages and texts and emails, it is such a thrill to open a card or letter and read a message meant just for *ME*.  Had she emailed, instead, I never would have received the message with the red cardinal at just the moment that I needed it.

It is possible to smile through tears.  I know, because I’m doing it right now.

Love,

Be

Common Ground vs Middle Ground

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Common Ground and Middle Ground aren’t the same. Common Ground is the set of things that we share. We’re humans, we’re parents, we love coffee, or we love dogs. Finding common ground is a strategy used for team building and conflict resolution. It is a form of connection that builds bridges.

Middle Ground is compromise. If your land is on the north bank of the river and my land is on the south bank of the river meeting in the middle of the river is somewhere between your camp and my camp.

Nobody has to win or lose to find common ground. We may share the common ground of loving dogs but be on different sides of a political issue. Nobody loses a thing to find common ground.

Middle ground involves loss. If you stay on the south bank and I stay on the north bank of the river, we have not moved to middle ground. If we both wade out into the river, we both leave our camps.

Middle ground is not always right. Sometimes it’s downright dangerous. Sometimes, if we wade into the river to meet half way, we’ll both drown.

Finding common ground is rarely wrong.If we’re going to heal the divide in this country, it starts by finding common ground – finding out where we are alike and where we agree. After we’ve found common ground, we may have issues where we can find middle ground. There may be issues where we will never find middle ground, because there is only right and wrong.

five hundred twenty five thousand six hundred minutes

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Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes.  That’s one year.  I buried my mom a year ago today – right about now.  I have known a lot of loss and pain in my life.  I’ve lost pregnancies, been divorced, buried a husband and my father.  I’ve been through plenty of tough times.  I thought I had a pretty good handle on grief.

I had the bright idea to start blogging my journey through grief on a day by day basis – I thought that I could somehow write a primer that might help others through coming to terms with the loss of their parent.  I was so arrogant as to sit down and write out a timeline of topics that I would write about – the lessons that I would teach myself about grief on my timetable.  I can laugh at the audacity now.

I didn’t write all of those blogs.  I didn’t write many of them.  I found the list not so long ago and threw it away.

When you are grieving, sometimes the minutes creep by so slowly that you think morning will never arrive.  Sometimes you open your eyes and realize it’s Friday and you haven’t finished the Monday to-do list.

The only way out is through.  I made it through five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes.   I made it through a year.   I’ll make it through the next one, too, and the one after that.  Such powerful lessons of love I have learned.

I didn’t write those blogs, but I filled journal after journal.  One day, perhaps soon, I’ll read them through.  Perhaps there will be something of value to share. Perhaps they’ll make good kindling for next summer’s campfires.  Only time will tell.

Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes, for me at least, has been  a time to process the changes.  I’ve let go of so many ideas that no longer served me.  When something irritates or annoys me, I ask myself if it would matter in a year.  If not, I do my best to let it go and use my energy for something more productive than worry.

I’m back to singing silly songs at inappropriate times (but not in court).  My smile isn’t a mask hiding sadness or depression – it’s real these days.  I no longer have to stalk joy like it’s a rare animal in a dark jungle.  Joy sits on my shoulder and sings again.

Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes – measure in love.

Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes
Five hundred twenty-five thousand moments so dear
Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes
How do you measure, measure a year?
In daylights, in sunsets
In midnights, in cups of coffee
In inches, in miles
In laughter, in strife
In five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes
How do you measure a year in the life
How about love?
How about love?
How about love?
Measure in love
Seasons of love
Seasons of love
Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes
Five hundred twenty-five thousand
Journeys to plan
Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes
How do you measure the life
Of a woman or a man?
In truths that she learned
Or in times that he cried
In bridges he burned
Or the way that she died
It’s time now to sing out
Tho’ the story never ends
Let’s celebrate
Remember a year in the life of friends
Remember the love
Remember the love
Remember the love
Measure in love
Measure, measure your life in love
Seasons of love
Seasons of love
Songwriters: Jonathan D. Larson
Seasons of Love lyrics © Universal Music Publishing Group

947 lives

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I sat down to write a blog about something that happened yesterday.  I clicked on a different URL than I usual, and it took me to the “reader” side instead of the “writer” side of the portal.  There, I was invited to join 947 people who follow this little blog.  947.  That’s nearly 1,000.  It’s a pretty big number.

I know that some of those “follows” are people hoping that I will “follow” them back – and they’ve never read a word.  Other people may read a post when I link to it on Facebook or LinkedIn or twitter, but not “follow.”

I don’t know what I may have written that has helped someone else.  How would the world change if each of us could reach 947 people and give them some love, some hope or simply make them feel as if whatever emotion they are experiencing is normal – that they will get through it.

Some of these 947 people have reached this page because I tried and failed to run a half marathon at Walt Disney World (the FIRST time) and they, too, wanted to know what happened if the balloon ladies pass you (click here to find out).  That post has by far the most views.

Speaking of views, as of the writing of this little article, my posts have been viewsd 6,456 times.  It’s not a big, big number, but that number is larger than the number of people who I have interacted with in real life since 2014, when I found the courage to begin writing on the internet.

I’m reminded of the first time that I ran the 10K race at the Cleveland Rite-Aid marathon weekend.  As I crossed the finish line, a woman asked my name and said, “you’re the woman who lost all that weight, aren’t you?”  The connection I shared with her at that moment were more special than the shiny medal I received for finishing.

Another time, I wrote about finding painted rocks at the beach, and how happy they made me, and the woman who let them in secret saw me running and became my friend.

My third grade teacher has read my words and continued to make me feel as loved and supported as she did 43 years ago.

Years ago, I had a small circle of friend online with whom I shared poetry.  My profile said, “I am an artist.  I paint pictures with words.”

When I logged onto this site, I was given 947 gifts in an instant.

Write on.

love,

~Be~