Category: life stuff

Published in The Ferndale Record and The Lynden Tribune, January 30, 2013

Grave and inhumane acts occur every aching minute all over the world. Injustice and inequities, agendas both hidden and blatant seem to cover the sun, and it’s easy to wallow there, to get stuck.

I decided to think hard for just a few minutes (any more than that is a stretch for me) about what’s good and right in my world. There’s plenty, and if it’s happening to me, something similar happens to everyone, in every culture, in every nation, in every family. The consensus? In the muck, there are tender mercies and flashes of light. The trick is to grab and remember them.

Last year delivered some brilliance. I found out that I get a granddaughter this coming June, the Olympic Games rocked my world for a couple of weeks, I was the recipient of stunning acts of kindness and generosity, and I got to spend a solid week on the beach in Oregon.

Any of those items alone would have been enough to call it a fantastic year. But there were a few other things that stood out. Here are my top five shiny moments for 2012 – in no particular order, except number one, which is in its rightful place at the front of the line.

5. I sold a home. It’s my first time doing this as a single person. I had stellar help from a rock star realtor and advisors who knew their stuff. I was never alone in the process, but in the end it had to be my decision. I felt like such a grown-up.

4. After downsizing with reckless, joyous abandon, I moved into an apartment. Visitors are welcome. But I love the peace, relative quiet, and the ability to do, be and wear (or not wear) whatever I want, whenever I want.

3. One night I went out to dinner with my teenage son at his favorite eatery. We munched and laughed our way through conversations about video games, our favorite TV and James Bond, and then it was time to go our separate ways. We stood to leave and right there, in front of God and all the diners at Red Robin, he leaned in and kissed my forehead. I felt goofy and grateful. Months later, the sweetness of that unsolicited, public display of affection from my boy still lingers.

2. I ran a mile without stopping. This is not likely a huge accomplishment for many other people, but for me the experience was giddy and life affirming. In my world it’s one of those “If I can do that, I can do anything” kind of moments.

And, a tiny speck of brilliance ended my 2012 a week before the year was officially over:

1. On Christmas Day, six of our family members went to a movie together. I sat next to my daughter who, like me, appreciates music on a cellular level. It sears our souls. It speaks to the core of who we are and never leaves us. I knew the movie would be almost entirely sung, but was surprised at how the story and actors combined to make the experience so personal. During one especially fragile scene, my daughter gently laid her head on my shoulder, took my hand and started to sob. The connection and belonging of that brief instant will live in me forever.

I could write a column about all the bad things that happened last year, and there were more than a few. But why? Light always prevails. Always.

Published in The Ferndale Record and The Lynden Tribune, January 2, 2013

A long time ago I decided to stop making a big deal out of New Year’s—both Eve and Day. I’m happy with this decision and here’s why: Less pressure.

I used to like the hoopla. When I was a child and a teenager it was all about socializing and usually I had lots of fun. But the year I was 16, I found out, quite by accident, that my boyfriend had been at a New Year’s Eve party in another town with another girl. My heart ached and for a long time anything associated with New Years was off my radar.

I moved into adulthood ready to enjoy this renowned party night again. When my children were little, I reserved baby sitters months in advance. That’s right—months, just so my husband and I could go out with friends on New Year’s Eve. We must have had a good time because we kept doing it. But for all of the feverish anticipation, specific wardrobe selection and carefully detailed plans that were involved, I’m thinking, was it really that great?

The December 31^st that I was expecting my fourth child, I couldn’t stay awake until midnight. Boom. There it was. That was the year I realized it was OK, maybe even better to do what I really wanted (which, in this case was go to sleep), as opposed to what felt mandated by the masses.

Even more years passed before I got out of the biggest end-of-December-first-of-January rut of all—New Year’s resolutions. I stopped making them, and here’s the kicker: No repercussions and no guilt! January 1st came and went without the seas boiling, and my inner rebel was saying, “See? It’s no big deal!”

Exactly. While some people view the midnight hour from December 31^st to January 1^st as magical, granting them super powers upon which to cruise into the new year, I do not. If I want to exercise more, lose weight, read more books, eat more bacon, learn to spot weld or shake it Gangnam style, I can begin my new project on March 3^rd or July 14^th.  Too many deals I’ve made with myself have been broken in the name of a new year. Never again.

So now, if I look back objectively, which of course we all do, I can see how this time of year used to be fun, and it still could be if I choose. I can also see how in the past I tried too hard to make it something it wasn’t—ground breaking, forever-beginning, first day of the rest of my life-ish. I can do that any day I want.

Freedom can be a by-product of hindsight. A good party, small get together, Times’ Square in New York, these things all appeal to me at different times. But so does skipping December 31^st altogether. Yeah, that’s it. Let’s jump right to, oh I don’t know, January 2^nd maybe?

The thing is, I really want to like New Year’s and look forward to it sometimes. But I don’t want holiday revelry to be required by law (or others who see me as anti-social), and I intend to feel just fine when someone asks “What are you doing for New Year’s?” and I can say with confidence, on both sides of the calendar, “Whatever I want.”

Published in The Ferndale Record, September 26, 2012

I’ve recently become an apartment dweller, and please excuse my bold assertion, but I think it looks pretty good on me. After gradually letting go of things both tangible and not, my pared belongings and I reside under a much tinier roof. Someone else takes care of the maintenance, and life is simpler. Living lean has considerable advantages.

The move from big house to small-ish digs, and everything that came with it has become a metaphor for my life. The shedding involved was cleansing, even purifying.

I reveled in all my stuff. It represented my history and I felt a level of comfort surrounded by it. My desire was to maintain a large enough home where children and grandchildren could gather, spend holidays, and comfortably stay for days at a time, and I, of course, would be the unchanging hub of this universe, doling out nourishment in the form of food, love, acceptance, support and clean sheets. I would be there for them.

So, even though selling my home and donating items was cathartic, it also stung a little. Because of the downsizing, things would not turn out like I’d hoped. But in the process, I stumbled on what I value most.

I get to keep the memories. Like the time my former husband and I bought a behemoth, oak roll-top desk so I would have a place to write. We spent more on it than any piece of furniture we owned. I adored that desk, the way it looked, smelled, functioned and held my stuff. But it was just that—a ‘stuff’ holder. It went to the kindest of friends, who, because she’d done some research and loved me, insisted upon paying twice what I was asking for it.

A lot of the shedding wasn’t so obvious. Somewhere along the way I also let go of the need to be right all the time, and to check my whining when things don’t turn out like I want.

I saw myself become more patient, ditching the need for a quick fix, learning how to wait. Expectations fell away and outcomes, as unexpected as they may be, were seen for what they are—blessings. I fret less about everything in general, and many things specific.

As a little girl I had a Magic 8 Ball, and by the way, who didn’t? I asked it lots of questions, usually concerning boys I liked or what we were having for dinner. Not approving of its answer simply meant giving it a good shake, trying the same question and hoping for the mystical, floating triangle in the inky substance to show up in the bottom window and tell me what I wanted to hear.

Back then the questions were simpler, and I could pretend. Among other things, not pretending anymore means opening up to what could be, not just what I think I want or need.

All things considered, my singular apartment life is not awful. In fact, it’s quite lovely. And I’m learning that being there for my family has nothing to do with a big house. It has to do with my heart, which made the move with me.

Published in The Ferndale Record, February 8, 2012

This weekend, some of the people I love most are gathered in another state at a memorial service celebrating the life of my former mother-in-law, and I’m in front of a keyboard trying to make sense of my thoughts.

When someone dies, it’s common for family and friends to practically bestow sainthood upon the deceased, often choosing to conveniently, and respectfully forget the uncomfortable, or dicey times shared with that person. We do it because we feel bad for not always liking or agreeing with them, and in the absence of unvarnished honesty it’s our way of making nice, feeling better about our own dark feelings.

She was a person who stirred my emotions. Ironically, in the few weeks before her unexpected death, I came to a quiet resolution about the role she’d played in my life.

Dorothy could be difficult and moody, relentless and rigid. I know this because these are the exact qualities I recognize in myself sometimes. She could also be exceedingly thoughtful and generous, loyal and wise. I was a recipient of her wisdom, but usually didn’t appreciate it in the moment.

When our firstborn was six weeks old, she and my adored father-in-law came to visit. In my stellar first month of mothering, I’d figured out a schedule for the baby. We put him to bed at night, he cried for exactly one hour, and then snoozed for eight hours. I don’t know why, he just did. And for a sleep-deprived new parent, those eight hours were platinum.

I told our guests before bed how this would happen—the baby would cry for an hour and sleep for eight. But no sooner had he commenced his nightly sobbing, than my mother-in-law crept out of her room, picked him up, and began rocking him.

I was furious. I knew what would happen. She’d put him back to bed in awhile, and he’d cry for an hour and then sleep for eight. She was prolonging the inevitable, and I was in charge of the baby, not her. I laid in bed and seethed.

I was right. Things played out exactly as I suspected they would. What I couldn’t see through my blinding rage, and only realized years later is, she was the one who was right. It was a triumph of her hard won experience over my confident youth. Babies should be held and rocked, even if it takes all night to soothe them—and it often does.

Each of us, although it may be unintentional, will cause hurt and pain to another human being. At the time, we might rationalize, justify, and maybe even feel a little smug about our stand. The trick is for others (including ourselves, when it’s our turn to be burned) to get over it.

We can’t ever really know why someone says or does something. But we don’t have to let it harsh what could be our peaceful existence.

So, thank you Dorothy, for those soft, green walls in your home you dubbed “Yummy.” Thank you for teaching me how to take fun road trips with young children, for letting me sleep in the blue room when I came to visit, for showing me how to make piecrust, and raising a boy that would become a kind father to my children.

I harbor no darkness, no awkwardness, only gratitude for what I learned from her—and that includes all of it.

And with that healing thought, I choose to remember the good things, and lay all others to rest.

Published in the Ferndale Record, December 14, 2011

We’re in the middle of what’s been called the season of perpetual hope, which often brings out greater kindness and generosity in people than they normally exhibit. This phenomenon produces delight in a dismal world. Even if we require nothing else, we need hope—and a whole bunch of it, please.

Within recent weeks, a friend was diagnosed with breast cancer, a married couple I’m close to separated, a friend’s home is just a tweak away from foreclosure, someone else has ongoing serious health concerns, and another’s child is involved in a destructive relationship.

I remembered something written by Anne Morrow Lindbergh: “My life cannot implement in action the demands of all the people to whom my heart responds.”

That’s it. Within my small reach, there’s not enough time, resource, energy, or ability to meaningfully assist everyone I care about. Starving children and abused animals shown on TV make my heart ache more. Our troops, keeping us and other nations safe, veterans suffering from post-traumatic stress, missing children, the mentally and physically disabled, the elderly—the list continues.

Apathy broods. It all feels so immediate. I can’t take care of everything now, so why help with anything at all? I know of people who just sort of go away somewhere in their minds while in the middle of circumstances that don’t concern them. Sometimes, I wish I could do that. The ability to turn numb or a deaf ear could be useful. On the other hand, being fully engaged at every moment would be exhausting and futile.

What I can do is create hope and tiny bits of light in my own corner. Today, I can’t build a hospital in Haiti, or send clean drinking water to a third world country. But I can visit a sick friend. I can send $20 to a struggling student. I can share my experience with an aching soul that might help them look forward to a brighter day.

I know this is true. Not so much because of what I’ve done, but because of what’s been done for me. A contribution of very small consequence by the world’s standard has, more than once, provided me with hope to get up another morning.

Here’s the deal—we all have hard luck stories. Every single one of us. And if we don’t have one yet, we will. It’s not just because we’re bad tempered, poor money managers, unlovable, flaky, were born under a certain sign, or didn’t vote in the last election (although some of those could apply at any given time). It’s the nature of life.

Anyone who reads what I write knows that I believe in God. I also believe that we’re here to help each other, and that doesn’t necessarily mean emptying my 401K for a worthy cause. It does mean more listening and less talking, a little more sacrifice and patience, a little less instantly getting what I want.

If we stop blaming others and ourselves, and keep moving ahead, no matter how slowly, hope will seep into and fill up the pockets and pores of our lives like maple syrup in thick, earthy pancakes. I promise.