Think

The first thing I do every morning and the last thing I do every night is pray. It is a rote prayer, and sometimes I find myself laying in bed repeating it over and over and over – I’m not really sure I’m always aware that I’m doing it, to be totally honest. Many times I’ve even wondered if I can actually call it “praying.”

But I think I can. For me, this kind of prayer is like a soft-worn spot on a child’s blanket, that place they mindlessly rub against their cheek each night as they go to sleep. I imagine they do it because it provides some sort of comfort, a self-soothing technique that becomes ingrained in their bedtime routine. And if I think about it, that’s what my prayer times are like for me: they quiet my mind at night and prepare my mind in the morning.

There’s more to it that that though, isn’t there? I’m just not sure what it is. Like most things in my belief system, I take prayer on faith. And let me be clear: I don’t have a problem with this. I don’t require answers for everything (though I have certainly spent many sleepless nights crying for them), nor do I think we would be capable of understanding all the answers if we had them. So I will continue to pray because I am taught that it is right and good to do; I just know that it is more powerful than I understand.

I don’t want to be a desperation prayer – you know, the girl that begs and promises and pleads for some outcome that, at least to her way of thinking, seems right. I’ve done that. It doesn’t work. If it did I would be skinny and have three kids by now, and my parents would be here to see them grow. None of those things seem like particularly selfish things to ask for, but I’m beginning to suspect that I’m asking for the wrong things. Or maybe I shouldn’t be asking for “things” at all.

There’s a saying: Did you think to pray? And for me, 99 times out of 100, the answer is a regretful “No.” I wonder why that is? I wonder why the ritual of morning and evening prayers hasn’t translated into something more mindful and powerful? Why don’t I think to pray, before the prayer becomes yet another plea?

This business of belief… it’s a tricky thing. I’m just glad there is grace enough to usher us through the confusion of it all.

Name Game

I have a thing for nicknames.

I blame credit my father (aka Papa-San) for this gift, a man who bestowed names upon nearly every one of our family members. And while this was always done with love {always} it was rarely appreciated. Punkin (that was me), Ceasar (my brother), and Spook (the sis) got off easy, considering my mom got stuck with Poopie (I don't even want to know). There was also one for Sara -- Silly Sally -- that's still known to be heard around these parts from time to time. I'm sure lots of you had your own, too (Eloise, Lainzo, Riot and the Wizards, I'm looking at you).

Historically my nicknaming habit was pretty much limited to the male of the species*: my brother, my husband, my guy friends, there were monikers for all of them. Blue Coat Man**, Spark, Jaybird, Estuarte, Tony Bologna – you all know who you are.

Then Sara came along. Sara Bear, Sara B, Bear, Beetle Bug, Bug, B, Huggabunch (I know; I don’t know where that last one came from either); she answers to them all. This is not to say she always likes them, as I was informed one evening while putting her to bed that she is NOT a bug, Mama! But what are you going to do? I am a nicknamer; she is the nicknamed. And so it goes, and so it will be.

But the king of all nicknames, the one who leaves them all in the dust, who earns new titles on what seems like a daily, if not hourly basis?

That would be this little fella right , here:



This is Tigger. Now that I think about it, my mom (aka Mama-San or, less fortunately, "Poopie") actually gave Tigger his name. And because you really have to know the guy to appreciate the accuracy of his many aliases, a little history is in order.

Tigger was one of four kittens, along with their feral mother, that Rob and I rescued several years ago. Because Fancy Mama (aka Fanciful One/Fantastic, the Fan Dancer) was feral we – OK Rob – had one heck of a time trying to round up the lot of them, as Fancy was hiding near a steam vent and we couldn’t exactly see them. Did I mention it was the dead of winter? In an ice storm? Under some sticky juniper bushes at work? And that she was actively birthing the kittens at the time? Ah, yes – well it was and she was, and it was quite an evening for everyone involved.

But luckily for all of us we could hear them, because Tigger started mewing… and never stopped. Thanks to this Rob was able to find them, rescue them, and save them from what would have been certain death given the elements that night. Tigger’s proclivity for mewing was actually quite handy over the coming weeks, too, since I used it to lure Mama out from wherever she was hiding to make sure she was eating and using the litter box. That Tigger, he had quite the reliable meow!

In fact, he still does. Except over time it has evolved into more of a robust whine than a meow, a grouse that we find more humorous than helpful these days.

Despite this, or maybe because of it, Tigger is our much beloved, incessantly mocked, most relentlessly nicknamed pet. In fact, he will respond to any of the following:

• Tigger
• Tigs
• Tiggy
• Tiggly-Wigs
• Wiggles
• Mr. Wiggles
• Wiggler
• Red Wiggler (the Cadillac of Cats)**
• Wiggly-Woo
• McFly
• Lookin’ at the world through McFly’s eyes
• Señor Rojo
• Little Ginger-cat
• Gingy
• Butterscotch Puddin’
• O.K.
• The Riddler****
• Chardonnay
• Merlot
• Rosè

and my all-time personal favorite:

• Charles, the Prince of Wails.

We couldn’t be happier that Fancy, Tigger, and his sisters -- Daisy (Daisy Doodle, may she rest in peace), Maisy (Moo/Moodle/Maisy McMoo, the Mayor of Mootown/Mooses/Mooses Malooney Bird/MooYou'reNotSoSmart), and George (Sweet Georgia Black/Ubergator/Ubes/Dangler) -- came into our lives. They joined Pete (Peetle-eetle-eet/Pete’s a Pie/Sweet Pete/The King of All He Surveys) and turned our house into a fur-infested home. We just wouldn't have it any other way.

Whining... it's Tigger's super-power. (Pete's is halitosis/search & rescue, Mama's is shedding, George's is hissing and Moo's is, well... Moo is a sturdy girl.) What? Your pets don't have super-powers? I don't believe it. Cause our kitty's powers have saved them from many a scrape, and it all began with Tigger's very powerful whine.

Oh – and did I mention I make up songs for everyone, too? No? Well, then… maybe next time.


* Though not entirely, as my niece D/Bo Deedley/Deedles would be quick to point out.
** This one is so old I’m not sure I can take credit for bestowing it, though I was an avid user to be sure.
*** You’ll understand this if you, like me, are a fan of WKRP in Cincinnati.
**** By way of his ridiculously long tail, often curved into the shape of a question mark.

This post is dedicated to Aunt Pants, Spacy-Gracie-Rat Head, Sweet Georgia Black and Reginald*****, who have so graciously allowed our 22 collective feet to take up residence in their home for the last way-too-long. Never fear – the nicknaming won’t stop after we leave. I promise.

*****His actual, and only, name.

When she comes back down

It's been a long week -- and yes, I realize it's only Wednesday, but I am tired. There is just not enough of me to go around (and this really is saying something). I have been behind on things at work, behind on things at home, too tired to be much of a wife or a sister or a friend. Definitely too tired to be much of a mother.

And I hate that. The irony is that the less of a reserve I have for mothering, the more Sara demands of me to dig deep & find a way. She's always been sensitive to the emotional currents running through our house, so I don't know why I'm always surprised when this happens, but there it is. I am tired; she requires more of me. What is there to do?

I don't know how this will all work out. Every day I can feel her becoming even more herself (as children have a habit of doing), pulling away from the four-year-old rhythm of "us" and creating her own syncopated beat. This is challenging, and hard (for both of us I would imagine), and comes at at time when I wish I was more available to give her the space and security to work it out. But that requires time and patience, and a thoughtful discipline allowing her to navigate new boundaries. All of that is hard work. And have I mentioned that I'm tired?

When Sara was a baby I used to sing to her all the time. Not really the traditional lullabies but the songs that I loved: Dixie Chicks, Nickel Creek, Alison Krauss, India.Arie -- like I said, not your traditional lullabies but they carried messages that resonated with me. This one was a favorite, and when I sang it I imagined our lives so many more years down the road; but I see that it's beginning even now. And I can't believe it.

So there's no time for tired, Mama. We've only just started.

When You Come Back Down (Nickel Creek/O'Brien & O'Keefe)

You got to leave me now, you got to go alone
You got to chase a dream, one that's all your own
Before it slips away
When you're flyin' high, take my heart along
I'll be the harmony to every lonely song
That you learn to play

When you're soarin' through the air
I'll be your solid ground
Take every chance you dare
I'll still be there
When you come back down
When you come back down

I'll keep lookin' up, awaitin' your return
My greatest fear will be that you will crash and burn
And I won't feel your fire
I'll be the other hand that always holds the line
Connectin' in between your sweet heart and mine
I'm strung out on that wire

And I'll be on the other end, To hear you when you call
Angel, you were born to fly, If you get too high
I'll catch you when you fall
I'll catch you when you fall

Your memory's the sunshine every new day brings
I know the sky is calling
Angel, let me help you with your wings

When you're soarin' through the air
I'll be your solid ground
Take every chance you dare

I'll still be there
When you come back down
Take every chance you dare,
I'll still be there
When you come back down
When you come back down

The long ride to preschool

I'm not sure how my mind got there.

I was just driving from work to Fairview last week, undoubtedly thinking great thoughts -- so great, in fact, that I can't recall a single one of them. Most likely it had to do with work and some things that I expect to come to pass over the next 18 - 24 months. I'm not looking forward to these changes. In fact, they might be deal-breakers for me.

And this is where the memory of my great thoughts becomes quite clear. I remember coming to that conclusion -- that if what I expect to happen actually comes to pass it could be a deal-breaker for me -- and thinking "Boy, do you have a lot of nerve." How many people lost their jobs last year, and along with them their savings, their possessions, even their homes? How many people would fight tooth & nail for a good, secure job today? How many people are scratching to make ends meet, thankful for the paychecks they bring home to their families? And here I am, suggesting that a change in my work environment just might cause me to kick my career to the curb? Boy, I do have a lot of nerve.

I know all of that. And while I often grouse about my job I am thankful that I have a certain set of skills and talent that someone is willing to pay for. The income that my job provides is vital. I'm not going to chuck it all because I don't like the new logo or am irritated by the new company line.

But here's the rest of the story: Economic crisis aside, it has never been in my makeup to imagine that there could be something else beyond what is laid out before me. I work in a setting where, with my particular background, there are not a lot of different career paths to choose from. Early on most of us decide on educational versus medical tracks; once you've established yourself & developed certain areas of expertise, that's pretty much your professional lot. At least this is how I have experienced it and how I have observed it in the lives of my colleagues.

It never occurred to me that maybe I had options.

It never occurred to me that other people had already figured this out.

By now, I was out of the car and walking the path up to the church. The significance of my epiphany wasn't lost on me. It's pretty liberating to realize that it really isn't crazy to think about chucking it all. Lots of people have done it and been incredibly successful in the process. There must be a way, a method of getting from A to B to C that people follow. It's different for eveyone, I'm sure. But there have to be common threads.

But it wasn't until I got to the door that the bigger lesson (yes, bigger than the freedom to change your life's work) hit me: I have to make sure that my daughter doesn't get caught in my trap. I have to make sure that she isn't snagged by the fear of change and failure that has left me blind to the fact that I can reshape things. I have to figure out what it takes to be able to do this, and I have to be sure that Sara knows that her path is not a long road without turning, but a winding, hilly journey -- and the joy of life is in the bends and turns of that journey, not the comfort of a smooth, straight, uneventful path.

I'd say it's about time for me to buckle up and enjoy this ride. Wouldn't you?

Pour les oiseaux

Rarely to I appreciate that walk into work on Monday morning, particularly when it is a frigid grey morning with the promise of more snow to come.

Actually, it’s fair to say that I never appreciate that walk into work. But today was different.

I have this thing about trees and birds – really, about all the things my mother and I spied outside our kitchen window. Birds, trees, plants, squirrels (except, of course, when they were on the feeders), the garden… we loved them all. Mom was no expert but she had logged hundreds of hours staring out of those kitchen windows and cultivated more than a passing interest in the life that was buzzing around our little microcosm of a backyard. We had the binoculars and the field guides, and plenty of time on our hands.

Now I’m the one with more than a passing interest. As I’ve been dreaming about our home and how it will look and feel, over and over again I am drawn to these things. I imagine crafting a boot bench using the sturdy, fat trunk of a tree we took down from the back yard, the rough texture and nutty color of the bark so appealing in its familiarity. I found this nest last summer that I have tucked away to display on our mantle, miraculously saving it all these months from destruction at the hands of my sweet girl. And every Pottery Barn catalogue I find in the mail these days seems to know that I’m eagerly preparing for our long-awaited move home, as page after page offers rugs and pillows and dishes and sheets that feature birds and trees and flowers. I could - without a doubt - go crazy if left to my own devices.

Luckily I got a freebie today, some performance art put together by God (I am convinced) just for me on this cold, weary Monday. I saw it as I approached the ED entrance at the hospital, a flurry out of the corner of my eye that seemed a bit out of place at that moment in time. A small, ornamental tree I’ve grown so accustomed to seeing that I can’t even tell you what it is – but on this morning, it was alive with dozens of robins, hopping from branch to branch and feeding on the small dark berries it produces. The bird's russet breasts looked just like those last leaves of autumn, stubbornly clinging to the tree; the fluttering of their grey grey wings caused the tree to sway like a late fall wind was blowing, though the air was almost still where I stood. And then, when I had decided that the sight of it was as perfect as I could hope for, I saw a squirrel perched on one of the slender branches, his body plumped by fat and fur and his tail pulled up along its back to help brace against the cold.

And with that, it was perfect.

If there weren't patients waiting I would have stood there and watched this picture unfold in front of me in spite of the bitter weather, and if I could have reckoned a way to capture the moment and bring it into our new home I would. But it was fleeting, as all the best things in life must be, and so I’ll just have to look forward to the next time that God supplies an unexpected joy like the one I stumbled across today. With open eyes I suspect I can find many of these small masterpieces. He does have quite a canvas to work with, after all.

Maybe that’s why Mom spent so much time looking out that kitchen window.

Garden porn

I've spent hours (no, seriously) pouring over the seed catalogues: Burpee, Jung, Territorial, Johnny's. After dreaming about all the possibilities, then paring it down to something more realistic, then paring it down to something that actually might be realistic, I've landed on the following line up for this summer's garden:

• Asparagus: Jersey Knight [in truth, this is still a maybe - not sure I have the space to dedicate. YET.]
• Pole beans: Malibu [probably no bush beans, but if so: Soleil]
• Carrots: Purple Haze and Baltimore
• Popcorn (yes, popcorn!): Calico
• Cucumbers: Diamant and McPick
• Lettuce: Petite Rouge, Jericho (romaines), Victoria (butterhead), & Microgreen mix
• Watermelon: Petite Treat
• Onions: Copra
• Spinach: Olympia
• Tomatoes: San Marzano Gigante, Golden San Marzano (paste), Chocolate Cherry, Yellow Pear (cherry), Brandywine, Pineapple, Kellogg's Breakfast (heirloom)

With some obvious exceptions (lettuce, melon) these were selected with both fresh eating and storing/preserving for winter in mind. Depending on how things pan out I'd also love to try some potatoes. We've never done them before but it would be fun to grow some fingerlings to have around next winter. I'm also hopeful that we can do some swapping with a certain fabulous gardener friend that I happen to know.

If we have a successful year or two (or three or four), then I'm hoping we can branch out and try some other favorites: beets, broccoli, cauliflower, winter squash, cantaloupe, sugar snap peas... obviously, I could go on & on. But I won't.

Oh! And then there's the herb garden...

• Basil: Aroma 1
• Chives: from my mom's original stand
• Dill: Dukat
• Lemon Verbena
• Sweet Marjoram
• Oregano: Greek
• Sage: Grower's Friend
• Thyme: French

Hmm. That's still quite a list. But I have no idea what I'd be willing to part with.

We've also got some strawberries that we need to get a better handle on, and I'm dreaming of red & black raspberry bushes and blueberries as well, and who wouldn't love blackberries and grapes and an apple tree or two?

Some day...

Getting ahead of myself

Today is Monday, December 21.

Just four days until Christmas.

I am not done with my shopping, and haven't even thought about wrapping, and have just a bit of baking/cooking to do. You might think that I would feel a little overwhelmed by all of this.

You would be wrong. The thing is, I have seeds on the brain.

More precisely, I have next year's garden on the brain. This is a phenomenon that usually sets in a week or so into January, when the dust of the holidays is long settled and that mid-winter funk starts to set in. The seed catalogues begin to arrive, and I spend hour after hour leafing through them, planning gardens and scheming about canning and freezing and preserving.

We will never have a big enough yard to fulfill these wild dreams of mine. (My dear husband should take some small comfort in this.)

I've been doing my best to stave off these cravings. After all, it's the holidays! I have a little girl who is VERY excited about Christmas, and Santa, and carrots for Rudolph! 'Tis the season! And while on the one hand I am not as overcome by the holidays as I have been in years past -- with the traditions and the merriment and the warm-fuzzy feelings -- on the other hand I am not as overcome by the holidays as I have been in years past -- with the rushing and the stressing and the why-didn't-I-start-this-in-October panic.

To me this feels like a year of transition, at least holiday-wise. This will be, to say the least, a Christmas like no other. The vestiges of the season spent so often with my parents have all but completely fallen away, and let me be quick to say: I'm alright with that. The traditions that are dearest aren't going anywhere. But still, it's all so different. A little freeing even.

Free to dream about seeds, and planning, and a summer spent working and playing in the garden with Sara; remembering how my father tended the plants and my mother put up the harvest, and then making our own way ahead. Maybe ultimately, that's really what I'm looking toward: time in the garden with Mom and Dad. A new season to celebrate with them.

Birthday blessing

Happy birthday, Dad.

Today would have marked 75 years.

We mourn that you're not here for us to celebrate, but the truth is this--
you are happier where you are:

No tears or pain or sadness
No cancer to rob you of your independence
or grief to weigh on your heart.
There is only love and peace and joy and health for you now.
The pain and sadness is left for us
But we accept it, knowing that it will pass away from us one day, too.

Today would have marked 75 years.
Instead, you have eternity.

A birthday blessing.

Should you ever forget

An editorial piece from the September 21, 1897 edition of New York's Sun, written by Francis P. Church. (You can also view it here.) It never loses it's relevance, and I look forward to re-reading it every year. I hope you'll enjoy it as much as I do.

I'm a believer -- how about you?

----------------------------

DEAR EDITOR: I am 8 years old.
Some of my little friends say there is no Santa Claus.
Papa says, 'If you see it in THE SUN it's so.'
Please tell me the truth; is there a Santa Claus?

VIRGINIA O'HANLON.
115 WEST NINETY-FIFTH STREET.

VIRGINIA, your little friends are wrong. They have been affected by the skepticism of a skeptical age. They do not believe except [what] they see. They think that nothing can be which is not comprehensible by their little minds. All minds, Virginia, whether they be men's or children's, are little. In this great universe of ours man is a mere insect, an ant, in his intellect, as compared with the boundless world about him, as measured by the intelligence capable of grasping the whole of truth and knowledge.

Yes, VIRGINIA, there is a Santa Claus. He exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy. Alas! how dreary would be the world if there were no Santa Claus. It would be as dreary as if there were no VIRGINIAS. There would be no childlike faith then, no poetry, no romance to make tolerable this existence. We should have no enjoyment, except in sense and sight. The eternal light with which childhood fills the world would be extinguished.

Not believe in Santa Claus! You might as well not believe in fairies! You might get your papa to hire men to watch in all the chimneys on Christmas Eve to catch Santa Claus, but even if they did not see Santa Claus coming down, what would that prove? Nobody sees Santa Claus, but that is no sign that there is no Santa Claus. The most real things in the world are those that neither children nor men can see. Did you ever see fairies dancing on the lawn? Of course not, but that's no proof that they are not there. Nobody can conceive or imagine all the wonders there are unseen and unseeable in the world.

You may tear apart the baby's rattle and see what makes the noise inside, but there is a veil covering the unseen world which not the strongest man, nor even the united strength of all the strongest men that ever lived, could tear apart. Only faith, fancy, poetry, love, romance, can push aside that curtain and view and picture the supernal beauty and glory beyond. Is it all real? Ah, VIRGINIA, in all this world there is nothing else real and abiding.

No Santa Claus! Thank God! he lives, and he lives forever. A thousand years from now, Virginia, nay, ten times ten thousand years from now, he will continue to make glad the heart of childhood.

Standing outside the fire

I was chatting today with some friends from work about a girl I went to school with many years ago. The details of her story aren't really relevant, but the bottom line was this: She's doing something she's just not very good at, but she does it proudly and without any trace of doubt.

And at that moment I realized how that would never, ever be me.

I am my own worst critic. My dreams never seem to get off the ground because I'm convinced I'm not good enough to do whatever it is I imagine. There is always someone better, or more creative, or more talented, or better suited, or more experienced, or luckier, or prettier, funnier, faster, smarter -- whatever. Some of this self-doubt is in the genes, I'm convinced, but most of it is just me. Me & that shitty little voice in my head that is incessantly reminding me of my mediocrity.

Sad.

Sadder still is that I'm not really sure what to do about it. I guess it's some small thing to at least recognize it for what it is. But even as I praised my old classmate for doing what she loves, critics be damned, I silently reminded myself:

But I could never do that.

Remembering

This morning while I was making breakfast I looked out the kitchen door & saw the year's first snow. I could not have been happier.

Four years ago this very day I looked out of my hospital room window and saw the year's first snow -- but that's not why I was so happy.

This is why I was so happy.



What a difference four little years can make.


Happy birthday, big girl. Thank you for an annual reason to remember the very best day, ever.

Tonight I started writing

I've thought about writing a lot, and here's the funny thing: Thinking about writing doesn't make you a writer.

Profound, right?

Like most other things I do and enjoy, I don't consider myself an especially gifted writer. I don't dream up stories of suspense or fantasy and I can't imagine why anyone would want to read my thoughts or opinions or recollections. I share those here mostly for the benefit of my daughter, because I don't want to leave her with all the unanswered questions that my mother left me.

I spend a lot of time thinking about Mom. In May she will be gone for five years. It seems unimaginable. Even though those days feel like they have only just passed, the truth is that life has been impossibly full for my bother, sister and me. Mine alone has experienced Sara's birth, Dad's illness and death, a new job, hard lessons in marriage, and a soul-crushing home renovation that I swear I might turn into a Wagnerian opera one day. (I think I'll start wearing the Brünnhilde horns around the house for a little inspiration.)

Time was supposed to be the thing that helped me make peace with Mom's death. But here I sit, four and a half years later, reliving the night that we said goodbye to her while tucking my daughter into bed. It's just as real now as it was that evening -- and let me tell you, I wasn't all that wild about it the first time around. Death, my friends, is for the birds.

So I'm going back to an old technique that someone suggested to me several years ago, one I've tried before with a fair degree of success: I'm writing it out. I'm going to take it out of my heart and put it to the page, where it can stay forever safe but not rise up to choke me when I least expect it. Death and dying may have a grip on me, but to be honest in many ways Mom's final days were more than most people could hope for. She was surrounded by so many people that she loved and died holding the hands of her children. We were all so lucky, really.

But lucky is not how I feel when I am in the throes of remembering it all. "Feeling lucky" is actually probably way too much to ask for. Maybe I can aim for "grateful," or "at peace" or even "OK." I will happily take any one of them.

Through this process I hope not only to get the sharpness of grief out of my system but also to gather together my memories of her so I never forget that Mom was more than just her death. I don't want to forget who she really was because I want Sara to know her namesake. She has big shoes to fill, my little girl -- and I don't just mean Mom's size 10s. Our mother, though she never would have recognized it, has a story to tell and I think it's a good one. And so, I'm going to try and tell it.

Tonight I stopped thinking and started writing. For me and for Sara, and for the story Mom had to tell. I hope I can do it justice. And who knows? Maybe this will make a writer out of me yet.

Christmas flowers, lilacs, and marigolds

Rob took Sara out to Shades State Park today, just because it was Thursday and he could. They love their T-days together and the adventures that ensue.

As they were driving home they passed a cemetery. Sara said "That's where we take flowers to Grandma," remembering our occasional trips to Mom and Dad's condos over the years, clearing away the old blooms and leaving something new.

Rob corrected her, saying that yes, we take flowers to Grandma -- but not there. Some other little girls had taken flowers to their grandmothers at this cemetery. Sara thought about it for a second, then announced that she wanted to take Christmas flowers to Grandma this year.

And then, "I miss Grandma."

He called me at work, right after this conversation, to tell me what she had said. And of course I cried. (Of course I did.) Not so much because I miss Mom -- though I do, every day -- but because Sara never got a chance to know her. But even so, she loves her. She misses her. And I believe she misses Mom every bit as much as I do, as much as her tender little free-and-a-half year old heart will allow. I can't wait to pick out those Christmas flowers with her and remember Mom together, telling her how Christmas was Mom's favorite time of year, and how flowers were one of her most favorite things. Somehow in the remembering, there is a little less missing.

Sara went on to talk about all the things she wants in her garden next year, sounding very much like her namesake. "I am going to plant all the flowers I love like lilacs and marigolds, and Mama will plant veg-uh-tuh-bles, and Papa will plant fruits."

Mom would just love this girl. Love her. They would be peas and carrots, those two. I'm just so sorry they had to miss it.

Long time, no blog

I've been derelict in my blogging duties. It's true.

Why is that? Well, let's see...

Sara: She's busy. Like, crazy busy.

Halloween: Never more fun than this year. NEVER.

Work: It's been a bitch lately. Ugh.

New obsession: I might be a wee bit dreamy over my photo shoot last weekend. Too fun.

Not the flu: I don't know what it was, but Sara was down for the better part of a week.

Bejeweled Blitz: OMG. It's like Facebook crack.

The other crack: Photoshop. Dovetails nicely with my new obsession.

Falltime: My favorite season never fails to disappoint.

Not a very long list, now that I look at it. Ah, well. Perhaps a few photos to make it up?

Romans 8:26

In the same way, the Spirit helps us in our weakness.

We do not know what we ought to pray for, but the Spirit himself

intercedes for us with groans that words cannot express.

Tonight,

rather than dwell on all the things I want (but don't need),

or recount all the things that I have (but don't deserve),

I am setting aside my mind's idle chatter

and praying for a family that has shouldered more grief than I can imagine.

I don't have adequate words for them. Thankfully, I don't have to.

Cancer sucks, and that's why you should help

One of the upsides (and believe me, I look for them) of my job is that I get notifications about all sorts of interesting medical research. Every now and then one really catches my eye -- and this is one of them.

The American Cancer Society is doing their third Cancer Prevention Study (CPS) and wants you to participate. If you're between the ages of 30 - 65 and have no personal history of cancer go over and check this list for the 2009 locations, then call your local office to make an appointment or see if you qualify to enroll (I'm looking at you, Indiana!).

If you don't meet the requirements you're not off the hook, because it's your job to let someone who does qualify know about this opportunity to help. Right now over 70,000 people are enrolled in the project but they're hoping to eventually have 500,000 thousand people from across the country participate. Previous CPS studies have demonstrated the link between cancer and smoking, obsity, nutrition, and lifestyle. This time around the ACS hopes to learn even more about the factors that may lead to - or prevent - cancer.

You can go to their website here to find more information about this project, or go here to get the number of your local ACS office.

This matters, people. You all know someone whose life has been rocked by this disease, so make the call.

I will... how about you?

It's all about the fabric, friends!

How about a little giveaway?

OK! Head on over to Lila Tueller's site for a chance to get your hands on some very cute fabric she's got coming out for next spring. It's lovely!

Bottle it up

There are lots of things about being Sara at the age of three that I'd like to bottle up and save for another day because I know they would come in handy:

• Her boundless energy. (BOUNDLESS.)
• Her uncluttered honesty.
• Her insatiable thirst to know everything. (EVERYTHING.)
• Her frequently issued hugs and kisses.
• Her drive for fun and adventure.
• Her soft, smooth, clear, creamy skin. (I SO WISH.)
• Her innocence.
• Her optimism.
• Her propensity to make up words that are just right.
• Her abs of steel. (OR MAYBE TITANIUM.)
• Her infectious sense of humor.
• Her sweet heart.
• Her simple problems.
• Her ability to forgive.
• Her fearlessness. (SOMETIMES OFTEN TIMES TOO FEARLESS.)
• Her honest, undeserved, pure, unfiltered, endless love for her family and friends. (AND KITTIES AND NEIGHBORHOOD DOGS.)

I'd also like to bottle up her fashion sense. Because the girl likes what she likes, and she isn't afraid to work it.

I guess we can consider that bottled.

Totally wish...

...I could go to this.

TOTALLY.

It's true

The squeaky wheel DOES get the grease.

Maybe I need to squeak more often.