Socks

The other day I put on a pair of Dad's old argyle socks, and I wondered out loud (aka to the internets) about how it's funny what matters to us.

When Dad died I very deliberately saved a few of his things: a big, fleecy green shirt that I have been known to wear as a jacket in the fall; a red wool Pendleton shirt with camel-colored suede patches on the elbows that he would wear in the winter.  And these socks - navy blue, periwinkle and maroon argyles, a little worn in the heels but still serviceable.  I really couldn't tell you why I saved the socks.  I don't have any great memories about them, and it's not like my dad was much of an "argyle man."  But there they were, in a drawer full of brown and blue and black work socks and so I took them.  And now they sit in my drawer full of brown and black and grey work socks, rarely worn but always still there.

There are a lot of great things I could say about my dad, and sometimes, on lucky days, I still get to hear other people tell me about what they thought was great, too.  But Dad was human and not everything was always so great.  He was flawed like the rest of us.  There were times when those flaws made life hard for him and for me and for a lot of people, and sometimes, when things were at their worst, it was all I could see of him.

But all of those flaws evaporated the moment he died, almost as if they were carried away with his last breath - a gift of sorts, I think.  And what I'm left with now are good memories, a green fleecy jacket, a red wool Pendleton shirt, and a pair of argyle socks.

Part 2: My mother, the tomboy

There is another Sara in my life, and she was my mother.  The fact that I named my only child after her probably says a lot, but maybe not what you think.  Certainly not what I thought.

The story of my mother’s life is not completely known by me, and sometimes I suspect it was never fully known by anyone, even by my father.  What I think I know is that it wasn’t always very happy and it was often times very hard.  Her father died when she was just two or three.  When I look at the few scattered photographs that we have of them together I like to imagine that it was the happiest of times, when they were all young and the world had not yet gone to war.  My mother had an older sister, too, the beloved first child who I recognize as the girl with the sweet smile and finger curls that I’ve seen in pictures.

Mom’s sister died of polio when she was only 14.  I think I learned this when I was in elementary school and I was given an assignment to do a report on a famous scientist.  I came home and told my mother, and she said I should do it on Jonas Salk.  I had no idea who Jonas Salk was, or why Mom cared who invented the vaccine for polio, a disease I hadn’t even heard of.  But now I do; now I know that the regret and grief and loss you feel when someone you love dies never goes away.  It doesn’t suffocate you or render you numb forever but it does play constantly in the background, shaping your thoughts and beliefs, always subtly sculpting you into the person you are perpetually reinventing.

With so much loss so early in life, during an era when there was so little certainty in the world, I can only imagine that happiness was a sweet  but fleeting thing.  We work so hard to build happy lives for ourselves today, and as I get older I wonder what it is doing to us.  It’s certainly not natural, but why would we opt for pain when we can manufacture glee?  But isn’t that what we’ve been doing since the dawn of time?  Always finding new ways to make life easier, safer, happier?  But maybe there is something to be said for making room for a little pain.  Maybe pain hardens the stone so grief can’t reduce us to a broken pile of rocks.

Though she lost her own little family she gained another, and this new family brought a brother and a sister, a pair whose own mother had died too soon, and eventually a new baby brother as well.  These relationships were frequently tenuous, and while I know that Mom had great love and affection for her new-found siblings, and they for her, the circumstances of their lives didn’t allow for the kinds of alliances and confidences that one might hope to have in a brother or sister.  

I sometimes wonder if my mother felt rather alone in the world.

I didn’t grow up hearing very much about Mom’s childhood.  War stories, mostly:  helping to refurbish the big house at 43^rd and Illinois, most memorably how the kids’ small hands were enlisted to reach the narrow spaces under and around the radiators where the floors had to be stripped and sanded and varnished.  How the house was filled with borders to help pay the bills, and so she and my aunt had to share a room on the sun porch.  Peeling potatoes for hours on end (or so she said) and the stacks and stacks of dishes they had to do each night.  How she got histoplasmosis when she was in high school and missed weeks of school because of it – and blind spots in her vision for the rest of her life.    How they would eat baked bean sandwiches on Sunday nights, because that is what they had.

But there were good times, too.  She found joy in what to me were the oddest things:  taking in hockey players as borders while the teams passed through town; having pear fights with her brothers, and always looking for the hardest, greenest pears to launch at them; and even still to my amazement, playing semi-professional softball (much to her own mother’s chagrin).

Mom, as it turns out, was a tomboy.  She loved to be outside, hitting a ball with the boys, walking the mile to the pool so she could swim away her summer days.  My uncle has said that, if she had just been born 50 years later, she would have most certainly earned an athletic scholarship.  She had a good arm, a good eye, and a natural talent that made it easy for her to pick up most any sport and succeed – often times outplaying the boys in her neighborhood. 

As a kid I would have short bursts of interest in sports, mostly softball.  I wanted to be able to toss the ball up into the air and then swing the bat, sailing the ball across the yard and out into the gravel alley at the other end.  Mom made it look effortless.  Even with blind spots in her eyes she could chuck the ball up, pull her arms back and take a smooth, easy swing, lightly connecting with the ball so it would skid gently across the lawn.  Over and over, never missing, telling me to just keep my eye on the ball.  And then she would hand me the ball and bat and let me have at it, but inevitably the ball would land with a thud at my feet, or lob off to the side forcing her to duck to avoid a hit.  Eventually she would just smile and shake her head and say “Amy, I just don’t know what to tell you.”

My mother, the tomboy whose athletic talents came easy, was always very comfortable in her own skin, even when she was the middle-aged mother so different from the others that I knew, the ones with painted nails and long, braided hair, the ones who wore high heels and earrings.  She wasn’t apologetic about it – and shouldn’t have been.  She didn’t know any other way to be, and I wouldn’t have wanted her to be anyone else.

Mom was entirely herself, in her quiet and easy way.  She was honest about who she was and who she wasn’t, and though we weren’t alike in many ways I like to believe we are a very much alike in that.

Part 1: My daughter's body

When I was pregnant with Sara I prayed for a girl that would be healthy and strong.  Smart.  Good-hearted.  Kind.  And thin – I so wanted her to be thin.

And she is all of those things.

Even when she was a newborn, Sara was thin.  Not unhealthy, never underweight, but never one of those chubby babies with plump, squishy thighs and lips that permanently pucker from the flushed pillows of their cheeks.  She always had a neck, unlike those sturdy babes whose heads seem to sit directly on their shoulders, and she was born with a strong body that allowed her to lift her head, just the slightest bit, on her second day.  I know the soft focus of her eyesight didn’t let her observe the details of that cold, quiet hospital room, but I still remember thinking She’s taking it all in.

Sara’s baby body was soft and pink.  Her head was covered with a fine smooth coat of sandy hair – I had not thought to pray for the head full of thick, wavy hair I always wanted – and she had a small, round nose.  Her lips made a perfect kiss, rosy and full with a perfect Cupid’s bow.  And she had the most perfect chin I had seen.  I don’t know why I was so taken by that chin; maybe it was because, unlike most other babies I had known, you could actually see it.

Her arms and legs had small, shallow folds, what would have been deep fleshy creases on other babies.  Most people love a big, fat, baby – and I do, too – but I found relief in the sight of healthy but lean limbs on my sweet girl.  I remember my father, when Sara was about five months old, holding her one day and worrying that she was trying too soon to support her own weight.  “She’ll be bow-legged,” he said.  But I wasn’t worried.  I knew she was strong already.  She was born that way.

In time the sandy hair lightened to a burnished gold, a twist this mousy brunette never would have predicted.  Her lips stayed full and issued quick, wet kisses any time you could catch her long enough to beg one.  And her body stayed slender.  She had a force, was a force, that I didn’t expect.  She never stopped moving, from the minute she woke to the minute she fell asleep.  She crawled, cruised, and climbed her way through the first seven months, until the eighth when she pulled herself up and began to walk.  We were at my dear friend’s house, and I remember standing in her kitchen watching in happen.  Elaine looked at me and said “Sara’s walking, Ket.”  I think she was telling me because she knew I wasn’t convinced it could be happening.  But it was.

It wouldn’t be accurate to say that I’ve worried about Sara’s weight over the years.  There’s been no reason, really; she was blessed with her father’s build and metabolism, and she is so active that there is no time for the calories to convert to the fat that my own body hoards.  Even when I was pregnant, and going sleeveless in November from a heat I couldn’t escape, Rob joked about the fusion reactor I had growing in my belly.  As she grows we still fuel the machine, sometimes endlessly, but the tank, it seems, is never entirely full.   She has that magical mechanism, hidden somewhere deep in her developing brain, that tells her when she needs more and when she has enough – just enough, and never more.

That must come from her Papa, too.

She is seven now.  Still deep in childhood but always changing, in small but incessant steps, from a little girl to a woman.  I’ve had these seven years to get to know her body:  when it’s hungry, tired, or sick; how far it can climb up a tree; how soon it will need a new size; how long it will glide through the water (until you pull her out - wet, happy and exhausted).  I’ve had years to study it and I suppose I know it better than anyone, but I’ve come to realize that I don’t, and will never, truly understand it.

Sara is altogether comfortable in her skin. She uses her body in ways I’ve never been inclined to do, and understands how it works in ways that I, at 35 years her senior, will never know.  I’m convinced that she has understood, almost since she could walk, that her body is a means to an end, a vehicle to all kinds of experiences – “Adventure!” as it is known in our house – that are only open to those who can do.  And so she does.  Her body is strong and she knows it.  There is nothing she will not allow it to do, and there is no fear in trying.   It is a complete trust in her body not to fail her, a trust I have never experienced in my own.

I am glad that she possesses this confidence, and I’m comforted in knowing that it is paired with enough sense, usually, to keep her out of harm’s way.  (And where her sense leaves off, there is Mama’s overly cautious nature and Papa’s commiserative understanding of Sara’s.)  But I’m troubled, too, because I don’t know how to teach her about this kind of body, one that is both lithe and athletic, lean but powerful.  Where Sara is all hard angles and strength, I am soft curves and weakness.  She is sturdy bones and muscle where I am heavy and weak.  The girl is strong; I am not. 

I have no experience with the body she is building.  I don’t know what will soothe it when it’s fatigued from over-exertion.  I don’t have advice on how to move it in a way that is easier, or more difficult, or more fluid; I certainly can’t demonstrate a perfect cartwheel or a feminine carriage.  I don’t know how to dress it in a way that flatters rather than hides.  Her body, in many ways, is a complete mystery to me, and when it is all said and done I’m afraid that my ignorance is somehow going to fail her. 

So I suppose all I can do is ask:  Lord help me understand this answered prayer.

For Sara: Thoughts about Newtown

Sara,

You are blessedly unaware of the senseless and brutal events that happened in Newtown, Connecticut last week.  As a sweet, innocent, loving and hopeful seven-year-old girl, this is how it should be.  

All of the beautiful children who were killed last week are just the same age as you - six or seven, an amazing time when you are really starting to reveal who you are and who you might become.  Twenty beautiful boys and girls, just like you, taken from their families.  We will never know who they might have been.  We do know who their teachers were:  brave, selfless, loving women.  It is all such a horrifying tragedy.

I have not tried to make sense of what happened.  It's not possible.  I know that if I allowed myself to really play out the grief that those parents feel I would come undone.  You would find me hiding in my bed, weeping for their loss.  Here's a truth about parents, Sara: our children have forever changed the way we view the world.  It's impossible to see those sweet faces without also seeing yours, or to hear their names without hearing yours.  We know that today we are the lucky ones and that there are no guarantees about tomorrow.  It's terrifying.  But it's a small price to pay for having you in our lives.

The news broadcasters can - and do - spend hour upon hour offering up every detail they can find, trying to piece together what put that man in that place on that day.  They can search forever, but our hearts will never be satisfied with their answers.  Our souls demand more.  We want justice that will never come and peace for those families that will, in all likelihood, always elude them.  But I think what we want most of all is reassurance that this won't, can't, ever happen again.  That it won't, can't, happen to us.

In our efforts to come to grips with the death of 26 innocent women and children, a lot of people are engaging in debates about what we need to do to prevent something like this from happening again.  All over the internet you can find gun-rights advocates wrapping themselves up in the Second Amendment, and proclaiming that guns don't kill people, people kill people.  They drive their point home by displaying jarring pictures of weapons that I can only assume are meant to shock us into believing them.  Your mother has no problem with the Second Amendment, but she does have a problem with the insensitivity of plastering the internet with pictures of guns and rifles and all manner of firearms that, in the end, are designed to kill.  Now is not the time for this.  Can't we at least grant these families a reprieve from those images until they've had a chance to bury their loved ones?

Of course there are those on the other side, too, who are clamoring for gun control.  They are just as right about the need for greater oversight as are those who are advocating for responsible gun ownership, but they are all shouting so loudly at each other that they can't possibly hear what is being said.  Sadly, maybe that is the point.

There are still others out there who are turning this into an opportunity to advocate for healthcare reforms.  I suppose it goes without saying that the man who did this awful thing was not well.  He most certainly suffered from one or more mental illnesses that drove him to the point of madness.  I would like to believe that, had he received ideal treatment, this might have never happened.  But I'm not convinced of that.  Mental illness is a long, hard road.  It carries with it a stigma that a cancer patient never has to endure, and successful treatment often takes years of work and dedication on the part of not only the patient but also their medical team and support system.  Insurance companies and healthcare systems certainly have work to do in order to help make identification and effective treatment a viable option for people facing mental illness -- but that alone will never be the solution.  The government simply cannot regulate us into wellness.

I think these debates flare up so furiously because people are afraid.  Do you want to know what I'm afraid of, Sara?  I'm afraid that Americans have become too sure of themselves.  I'm afraid that the gun-rights advocates and the healthcare reformers are both so sure that they are right that they won't - or can't - listen to one another.  I'm afraid that we have come to take our liberty so much for granted that we've forgotten that we also must be responsible -- for ourselves and for one another.  (Just because you can, Sara, doesn't mean you should.)  I'm afraid that goodness and justice have become mutually exclusive ideals.  I'm afraid that compromise and compassion are viewed as weakness, when in fact they are the backbone of strength.

I'm afraid that we are too far-gone to save ourselves from future tragedies like this one.  And more than anything, I am afraid that someday you will suffer because of it.

Yesterday our President went to Connecticut to attend a vigil with the community in Newtown.  The grief was raw.  President Obama was wise to say that "mere words cannot match the depths of your sorrow, nor can they heal your wounded hearts."  He is right.  But here is the thing:  I truly believe that mere words will be the only way we can turn ourselves around.  No new laws, no radical reforms, will spare us from another Newtown.  It will take conversations, listening and learning and stretching to understand one another.  It will take faith in the fundamental goodness of people.  It will take trust that we rarely allow ourselves to feel.

It will take a miracle of sorts, but we are blessed because God does not run short on them.  I pray He grants us one soon.

Psalm 84:6-7

It feels like I'm finally on the other side of the valley and I have no idea what took me so long to arrive.

Long ago - or really, not so long ago - I remember saying to myself that I just wanted to feel content. I didn't need to feel exhilaration or bliss or even "happiness," at least not the shiny version of it. Just content. I'm pretty sure I had no idea what that looked like or felt like but it seemed like a reasonable and very adult goal.

It also seemed to be a million miles away.

Well, it wasn't - but it certainly felt that way. I don't know if I'm alone in this (that seems unlikely) but I tend to mark the time in my life by the circumstances of each period. "When I was a kid" or "when I was at Butler." Grad school. Before Rob and I married. When Mom was sick. After Dad died.

And here we are at Now. Now has been a long time coming, it seems to me. The time from when Mom was sick to after Dad died was a slog, an exhausting, numb slog that I sometimes believed would never really end. Despite marrying and giving birth to our beautiful, loving daughter, creating a home and growing together as a family, it always looked to me as if there was a shadow cast on everything good in life. I guess you could call it sadness, or mourning, but whatever it was was slow and deep and stifling. I got to know that terrain well and it would be easy to find my way back there again. But I'm in no hurry to return.

Now is where I think I have found out what contentment means. It's not perfect; there are still frustrations and arguments, and the cats still really hate the dog. My laundry still piles up. The dust, though it hardly seems possible, appears to accumulate even faster than before. My daughter, my sweet, smart, loving, gorgeous daughter continues to leave a trail of destruction in her wake. Money is tighter than ever. I'm still overweight and mourning's long, slow slog wasn't kind to my youthful glow. But I am content, and able to rest - truly rest! - in the knowledge that life actually is good after all. We are healthy. We are happy. We are together. The long slog is over and I know that the bumpy, turning road ahead is passable. And promising.



When they walk through the Valley of Weeping,
it will become a place of refreshing springs.
The autumn rains will clothe it with blessings.
They will continue to grow stronger,
and each of them will appear before God in Jerusalem.

The Stuff of Life

I've officially dived head-first into a long-held dream.  It's awesome and terrifying and exciting and satisfying.  But like most dreams that finally come true, now that I'm here I find myself looking around and thinking "Holy cow.  Now what?"

For most people moving from a full time to a part time job might not be such a big deal, or it might be a move in the wrong direction.  For me, and for my family, it's a dream-come-true.  This isn't a story about why we've made this change; I'm really tired of that story and I'm ready to start a new one.  Thing is, I'm not sure what the next one is about just yet.  I know it's about my family, and the time I want to spend with them and the ways I want to care for them.  And I know it's about me, too -- but that's the stumbler.

What I'm feeling, deep in my bones, is that before I can move forward I've got to get a lot of stuff out of the way.  And I mean that literally:  I am drowning in stuff.  Right about now someone on Facebook would call this a First World Problem and they'd be right.  I hate to complain about being blessed with too much, but here I am.  I'm surrounded by things that require my time and energy to handle.  To figure out where it all goes, keep it all clean and in good repair, remember that it's there when I need it.  Honestly, I don't want the next chapter to be about stuff-maintenance.

The idea of purging, really purging the ish in my life is so appealing.  A calm environment that has what we truly need, and little more, seems like a blank canvas to me.  More time to do what we want to do, less time corralling The Stuff.  More space to live and play, less of The Stuff to argue about.  More resources to spend on what matters, less time worrying about how to pay for all The Stuff.  Freedom, really -- it feels a lot like freedom.

And that brings me right back to this dream which, at the end of the day, was all about freedom for me. My work was anything but freeing, but it would be foolish of me to replace a good-paying (but stifling) job for an unpaying (and stifling) life.  I've got to be free of the stuff that's in my way if I'm really going to be free.  But here are my obstacles:

• I struggle with the guilt of poor decisions.  It's hard to give away a perfectly good (fill in the blank) that I've hardly, if ever, used without kicking myself for wasting the money in the first place.
• I struggle with placing monetary values on things.  I wonder if what I'm about to donate is actually worth something, and with our new budget...  well, we could certainly use whatever money we might get for it.
• I struggle with the people who live with me.  I love them, and I don't expect them to feel the same way I do about ridding ourselves of stuff.  At the same time, it's hard to swim upstream.  
• I struggle with emotional attachments.  This is becoming less of a problem for me actually, but it's still an issue with everyone in the house -- especially the six year old, who somehow finds deep and binding ties to anything and everything she has ever touched.
• I struggle with what-if syndrome.  As I'm trying to think more frugally, I always wonder "what if we will need this next week/spring/year?"  I worry that I'm going to part with something I might need, someday...  even though I clearly haven't needed it up to this point.  (And boy do I come by this honestly, as I was raised by parents who felt the effects of the Depression and were very slow to part with anything, even an empty cardboard box, because they might need it...  someday.)

I'm convinced that pruning away the excess is something that needs to happen.  I'm even looking forward to it, despite the pain of the process, because I just have this feeling that the rest of the story lies somewhere on the other side.  The purging is the preface.  Can't wait for Chapter 1.

Just breathe

It has been over a year since I’ve written anything meaningful (to me, at least). Life was full of too much stuff, a lot of it frustrating, burdensome, impatient stuff. There wasn’t room for me to think or dream or breathe.

But we’ve got to breathe. It’s so important that God built these bodies of ours to make the very act of breathing automatic. To stop the rhythm of inhalation and exhalation takes real effort and is wholly unsustainable, as our bodies will ultimately override our stubbornness. So why do I find myself – driving to work, lying in bed, making dinner – holding my breath? (Hmmm. That sounds like fodder for prayer, or therapy. Or both.)

Today I am feeling my breath again. How good it feels to fill up my lungs, the relief I feel in my shoulders when I exhale. Breathing gives me room to think and dream again. I’m so ready for it. My mind is racing with possibilities.

Breathing also, quite literally, gives us a voice. The air that rushes out of our lungs allows us to engage our vocal cords, vibrating like the string on a violin, to produce our voice: a unique frequency and resonance that is ours alone. But you can’t have a voice when you hold your breath, as the very act itself locks your vocal cords together, sealing off the airway and tightly holding back the air that urgently wants to escape – and the words, too.

I’ve spent the better part of my life being trained in the mechanics of breathing. Whether it was learning to swim, singing in college, examining the voice in graduate school, helping the voiceless at work, or studying the practice of meditation, the constant thread has always been the simple act of breathing. Inhaling and exhaling, again and again and again.

It’s feeling pretty weak but I think I’ve found my voice again. And wouldn't you know, all I needed was a little more room to breathe.

Most random post, ever

Let's start with this acknoweldgement: I know next to squat about Twitter.

Agreed? I admit, own, and fully recognize that I don't really get Twitter. So, OK? We can all accept this and move on?

OK.

But that's just the thing... I don't really get Twitter. And I think that I'm the kind of person that maybe really ought to. I'm not savvy enough to build a website from the ground up (are you?) but I'm savvy enough to use the interwebs to find my mother's long lost family -- and that was 10+ years ago, when the interwebs were still... webby. So I'm no Steve Jobs (God rest his soul) but I'm no idiot, either. I can keep up with the kids these days. I can Facebook and YouTube and Pinterest with the best of them.

But Twitter? I just never caught the bug. I don't use Twitter because I can't buy into anyone or anything in 70 characters or less. (Is it less? I wouldn't know, I don't use it.) I don't use Twitter because it's like walking into a room full of 20 different cliques, each with their own language and inside jokes and interests, and none of them particularly interested in having me join in. I don't use Twitter because I don't think anyone is really listening, so much as they are vomiting whatever comes to mind about the lastest trending topic. I don't use Twitter because it seems like the worst part of blogging - every idiot has a platform, just like this idiot does right now - has been given an express pass and a front row seat to my mind.

And I just don't need that kind of mental clutter in my life, you know?

So why should I use Twitter? Obviously it's the current Next Big Thing, but for the life of me I Just Don't Get It.

#anyonecaretoclearthisupforme?

I don't have colon cancer

I had a little scare a week or so ago.

Now it's safe to say that it doesn't take much for me to have a little scare. When you've lost both parents (not to mention far too many friends and colleagues) to cancer, you tend to scare easy. Plus I work in a hospital where any and every freaky thing becomes suddenly and completely plausible: A head injury from hitting the rafters as you fall from the top of a barn? Steel rebar through the brain by way of the mouth as the result of a car accident? Second and third degree burns to the inner thighs, chest and face due to a fire in the cockpit of the plane that you were flying your mail-order bride around in?

All true, my friends. All true. (Sometime I'll have to tell you about Casey, the oppositional teenager who played Russion roulette and didn't exactly "win," if you know what I mean. Oh, Casey... you taught me a lot, buddy. Like how you shouldn't put a plastic spoon in the mouth of a boy with a tonic bite reflex, and how it's OK to tell my patients not to call me a bitch.)

Anyway, I've seen a lot. Nothing really shocks me anymore because anything, and everything, is totally possible. So when I started to have some concerning symptoms it was completely rational to conclude the inevitable:

I must have cancer.

But I don't! I don't have colon cancer! The good doctor checked it out yesterday with his very own eyes (and his very long endoscope) and even in my Versed-induced fog I heard him say it: Totally normal. Everything is fine.

HALLELUIA!!!

I feel better today than I have in weeks. Maybe the celebratory doughnut(s)and the good night's sleep had something to do with it, but mostly I think it's the knowledge that I don't have colon cancer. It's not just an amazing relief, it's energizing. It makes me feel like everything is possible, maybe even if it isn't. More than possible, actually -- like I owe it to myself to try. Try what? Try everything.

As I was thinking about this today I started wondering if my reaction is disproportionate to the situation. After all, it's not like I've had questionable blood tests or inconclusive scans. No, I've just got a bad family history, one scary episode, and a catalogue of tragedies that belong to other people. So maybe my elation isn't justified? Or maybe it's just out of scale? I don't know. Would my relief/excitement/joy be greater if there was "real" cause for concern? Certainly. And what about if I'd actually had cancer and beat it? I can't imagine the jubilation.

Seriously, I can't imagine -- and fervently pray I never know.

Here's what I do know: Right now, today, I DON'T HAVE COLON CANCER. And that is super-fantastically amazing. Phenomenal. Blessedly wonderful. A cause for my most favorite prayer of all:

THANK YOU, THANK YOU, THANK YOU!!!

Amen, amen, and amen!!!


And as a little PSA, let me just say that if you are 50 or older, or have a history of colon cancer in your family, you owe it to yourself and your loved ones to HAVE A COLONOSCOPY. Yes, the prep blows (literally and figuratively), but you won't be sorry. Early detection can save your life -- and your colon! Take care of yourself! Lots of people out there love you... and if you're actually reading this, I'm probably one of them.

Ch-ch-ch-changes

It is already August 9th. That may seem like no big deal to you but for me it was Independence Day about two hours ago so you can see how the freaking rapid progression of time has me reeling a bit. Mom always said that the older you get the faster time passes, and she was right.

Sara starts school next week. REAL school. Can't-be-late, no-calling-out-for-a-quick-trip-to-Vegas*, gets-to-eat-peanut-products-again REAL SCHOOL. On the one hand I'm in a little bit of denial about this. I am not really ready to hand over my sweet little girl because I'm pretty sure what comes out on the other side of REAL SCHOOL is an independent young woman. And God help me, I am so not ready for that.

But honestly I'm also a little excited about it. It thrills me to watch Sara learn something new, catching that precise moment when she makes a connection and another whole world opens up for her. Hearing her first cry, watching her first step, and seeing her face light up when she realized that "thpot begins wif an eth, like Thara!" were all equally gratifying for this Mama who wasn't entirely sure she could gestate the girl without thomehow thcrewing it up.

It helps that I am truly, deeply, madly in love with our new school**. I'm not joking, I kind of want to have another kid just so we can send him there. It is a safe, lovely place that gives me faith not only in the promise of education but in the power of people banded together for a common cause. It's tremendous. I'm sure you'll hear more about it in the months and years ahead.

And then, of course, there is this: Autumn -- God's reward for a summer well-sweated -- is but six short weeks away. There are those of you out there who shudder at this, and to you I say I'm not even the tiniest bit sorry. Summer in Indiana, and particularly this summer in Indiana***, is a beast. I do not miss it when it's gone although, admittedly, by mid-February I do find myself full of false memories of the glory of fireflies and tire swings and fresh juicy peaches and I while away hours and days pouring over the Burpee catalogue convincing myself that this will be the year I perfect my garden. (Sadly, this was not the year.) But autumn! Autumn brings clear crisp air to wash away the oppressive heat and trees blazing with color to brighten the hazy sky. Football. Naps in a sunbeam. Walks through crunching leaves. Comfort foods. Costumes and parties and plans for the holidays, apple-picking and pumpkin-carving and popcorn with cider. I love fall-time.

Mom also used to warn me about wishing my time away, and the older I get the more I understand what she means. In all honesty, I'm a little superstitious about even thinking "I can't wait until..." So I'm going to hedge my bets a bit and say this instead: I'm so excited about what's to come. There is so much to look forward to that instead of finding the time rushing by I intend to savor it. To enjoy every minute of it. And then, when the time has passed, to look back with a thankful heart on a long, sweet season blessed with growth and change.

Surely Mom would approve of that.


*OK not really Vegas, but maybe a trip to Uncle CJ's lake house.
**Name withheld on the off chance that you're a stalker.
***And we didn't have anything on the poor folks down South.

9

Today I am thankful for:
Sand-covered five year olds
And their Papas who build sand castles with them
Rest
Sunshine
Cooling breezes

8

Tonight, I am grateful for
Dodging the storms
Witnessing Sara's achievements
Grace, grace - amazing grace
Rob
Possibilities

7

Tonight I am grateful for:

• a new office (with a window!)
• air conditioner repair guys (even when they're late)
• Rob's new schedule
• an enjoyable project at work
• icy cold water

6

Tonight I am grateful for:

• productive conversations
• happy kids
• a new routine
• online grocery shopping
• exercising my body

An attitude of gratitude

You may have noticed a trend on this here blog lately.

I've started an admittedly cheesy but entirely worthwhile habit: Spending a couple of minutes every night recalling a few things from the day for which I am grateful. This is not an even remotely original idea and if you really must know I got it from someone I heard on Oprah.

That's right, Oprah. I mean the woman must be doing something right, don't you think?

So anyway -- it seemed a good idea to me, this notion of purposely reflecting back on the good rather than the bad. I mean dwelling on the negative is a no-brainer, something I can fall into like a soft leather easy chair: comfortable, familiar, inviting. My mind lands there almost in spite of itself but I really have to wonder why, because it certainly doesn't do the rest of my body any favors. Knots in my stomach, a clenched jaw, tight shoulders, and a headache every night are not exactly the way I like to wrap up my day. But that's just what I've managed to do on more nights than I care to remember.

The interesting side effect is that I find myself a lot more mindful all day long of the many small things for which I truly am grateful. A particularly funny response from a three year old, puffy white clouds morphing across the sky, a freshly swept floor, an unexpected note from a friend -- all of these things really are fantastic if you think about them. All those little joys there for the taking, but only if you take the time to appreciate them.

Right now I am filthy, covered literally from head to toe in dust and dirt and pollen, but I couldn't be happier. It's my merit badge for a day well-spent, enjoying the sun and the breeze with my family and working the earth to finally realize years of dreams for this home of ours. I'm hungry after a day of working in a way that my desk job doesn't allow, but I'm thankful. The physical effort is a gift to my body. I'm tired, but I'm content. These weary bones have a cozy bed and soft pillow to crawl into tonight and are sure to get all the rest they need before another day begins tomorrow.

I'm filthy and hungry and tired, and couldn't be more grateful for it. What a blessing.

5

Tonight I am grateful for:

• a new visitor to our feeders
• beautiful new flowers in our landscape
• an unexpected sunny, cool day (perfect for planting!)
• an entire day spent with my family: Rob, Sara, Pants
• living in a neighborhood where I can hear church bells ringing
• good neighbors with great kids (perfect for Sara!)

4

Tonight I am grateful for

• cooperative hair
• successful new recipes
• tiny green leaves in the garden
• glimmers of teamwork
• the gift of another day

3

Tonight, I am grateful for

• a peaceful day at work
• easy laughter
• long-awaited answers
• peanut butter and crackers
• five-year-olds, especially the crazy one I live with

2

Tonight I am grateful

for music and how it moves me

for the end of this very long day

for sunshine, no matter how brief

for the excitement that (still) comes from watching (yet another) front roll in

for the chance to learn a little more about living, every single day

1

Tonight I am grateful for:

time set aside to breathe

laughing under a blanket with Sara

a simple dinner

my warm bed in a chilly room

the sound of the rain on the roof.